“Things have been pretty busy here lately. Do you think it could mean anything else?”
“Maybe he wants you to buy your brother a lamp for his birthday.”
* * *
Feeling unsettled after disconnecting with Mom, I decided to shove Dad’s message to the back of my mind and to focus once more on what brought me home in the first place, information about Frank’s financials. I found Grandma in the laundry room sorting whites into the washer. Laundry isn’t anyone’s favorite task but our laundry room is one of the demonstrations of Grampa’s love for Grandma.
Before they were married he offered to hire help for all the housework, including the laundry. Grandma refused, saying as soon as they were married she expected to be the only woman to ever get her hands on his underthings. So, he got the ahead-of-his-time notion to move the washer and dryer to the second floor to be closer to all the clothing and thus most of the laundry. He and his own father converted a bedroom into a laundry room extraordinaire.
He added oversized windows for light, custom cabinetry to hold the soap and other supplies, and pull-out wooden drying racks for those days when you want to air-dry but it is raining. There’s a pair of rockers and a braided rug and a counter for folding. The ironing board pulls out of a cabinet in the wall and an upright steamer sits in a closet in the corner. Everything is neat, tidy, and well thought out. Grandma always says that so goes the laundry room so goes the rest of the house. Hers is always shipshape.
“Do you know anything about Frank’s wife’s life insurance policy?” I asked as I picked through a basket of clean laundry to help match the socks.
“There wasn’t one.”
“Are you sure? Phoebe seems to think there was.”
“No. Frank was in rough shape when Iris died. He had a devil of a time keeping Phoebe and himself fed. His name appeared on the annual report for people whose property taxes were in arrears for three years in a row. I thought they were going to lose the place for sure.” Grandma measured soap into the washer, the emerald in her engagement ring sending sparkles of light bouncing around the room. Grandma’s nails were beautifully manicured and even though she was only doing the laundry she wore lipstick and a dress most people would think was too formal for church these days.
“That’s terrible.”
“It was. And the whole thing was made worse by his total refusal to accept any form of help. He qualified for assistance for heating oil and even for the local food pantry but he wouldn’t hear of it. I don’t know how he managed to make it.”
“How did he turn things around?”
“I guess the biggest difference was that Phoebe got old enough to stay on her own after school. Frank had only worked at jobs that provided mother’s hours so Phoebe wouldn’t be a latchkey kid when she was very young. You can imagine how that cut down on his ability to produce enough income. Once he started working full-time they got back on their feet just fine. It never seemed like they had a lot of extra, but they had enough.”
“From what I’m hearing from Phoebe, his financial situation had changed drastically. She says he lent one hundred thousand dollars to Byron for his vintage-auto restoration business.” Grandma dropped one of Grampa’s holey undershirts into the washer and gave me her complete attention.
“That’s a great deal of money. Are you sure?”
“I just heard it from Phoebe. She says Byron and Frank had a verbal agreement about the loan.”
“I’m sure I never heard about it if they did.”
“Phoebe says she thinks no one else knew. You know how private Frank was about his life. He wouldn’t have been inclined to tell anyone about a thing like that.”
“I suppose you’re right. But I can’t imagine where he could have gotten the money in order to lend it.”
“Phoebe said the syrup business was doing well and also that they had money from her mother’s life insurance.”
“Unless Frank’s trees are producing a lot more sap than is normal, I’d be very surprised if he could make that kind of money from his operation.”
“That was my thought, too. And if there wasn’t any life insurance, how can it be explained?” I asked.
“I don’t know. You said the agreement with Byron was verbal. If he doesn’t repay the loan now that Frank’s dead, Phoebe may be right back where she and Frank were when her mother died.”
“That makes it sound like Phoebe has less of a motive to murder Frank.”
Grandma paused thoughtfully before saying, “But it puts Byron right near the top of people who might have had a very good reason, now doesn’t it?”
* * *
I hated to ask Byron anything that might get his back up before he finished rehabbing the Midget but the paint job on my car seemed like it ought to take a backseat to murder. I managed to track him down at Stems and Hems, the local florist and combination bridal-tailoring shop. Not that it’s much of a trick to find him. Every Tuesday Byron heads into the shop to pick up a bouquet for his live-in girlfriend, Luanne.
At first it seemed like the shop was empty. With my lack of height I couldn’t see past urns full of flowers and mannequins modeling the latest in wedding dresses. I paused for a moment in front of a dress draped with enough lace to make a mosquito net for a king-sized bed. Even if I ever found myself in the position of shopping for a wedding dress, I couldn’t imagine I would choose one that looked at all like that. Besides, my mother would be crushed if I didn’t allow her the pleasure of creating one for me herself. Mom always made all our special-occasion clothes.
When Celadon and I were small she made us matching dresses for all the major holidays each year. At Easter she even made bonnets, too. I never liked getting dressed up but I had liked matching my big sister, especially since I knew it drove her crazy. I squeezed between two more voluptuously frothy gowns and ran right into Priscilla Martin, the shop owner.
“Should I assume from your presence here that you’ve decided to follow the game warden home for sausage every night?” Priscilla loomed down at me and winked in a way that made me wonder if she had taken lessons on lewdness from Mindy.
“No. I’m just here looking for Byron.” I did my best to keep a smile plastered on my face. Priscilla had been trying to get me to put a deposit on a wedding dress ever since Celadon had, of course, asked Mom to make hers. The whole family had tried to make up for the slight by purchasing flowers year-round, even when our gardens were bursting with blooms, but Priscilla was never truly appeased.
“I should have known. Well, once you finally need a dress come back in and see me. Not only do we have the most beautiful dresses you’ll find anywhere, we have undergarments to fix anything. Say, for instance, your topographical map looks like Kansas. Our patented line of bustiers will resculpt your meager assets into the Rocky Mountains.” Priscilla stared at my nonexistent bustline and gestured disturbingly with her hands.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I hurried deeper into the store, hoping to locate Byron. Even asking him about his loan from Frank seemed like more fun than talking fashion with Priscilla. I caught up with him at the glass cooler case reaching in for a mixed bunch of calla lilies. He was humming to himself and I hated to throw a damper on his good mood.
“Has Luanne said yes yet?” I asked, chickening out and delaying just a bit longer.
“Not yet, but I haven’t given up. One of these days I’m going to wear her down.” Byron had been asking Luanne to marry him once a week for the past four years. He thought the flowers would help but I wondered if maybe Luanne worried he was a spendthrift. Perhaps that was the way to introduce my questions about the loan.
“Maybe she’s worried about all the long hours you work. Between your animal control duties, the garage, and now your restoration business, you’ve got to be stretched pretty thinly. Have you thought about cutting back?”
“No need to do that. Luanne
understands. She realizes the business is important for our future.”
“Maybe it’s money. A lot of women think seriously about their financial future when they consider settling down.” I felt bad even mentioning it but it if Phoebe was telling the truth, Byron was in over his head.
“Money’s not a problem.”
“Is that because with Frank being dead you think you don’t need to repay what he lent you?” I asked. Byron squeezed the lily stems and I heard the cellophane crinkle.
“What loan?”
“The hundred thousand dollars Frank loaned you for your restoration business. You know, the loan you were having so much trouble paying back.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“From Phoebe. With Frank dead, she says the money you borrowed will be owed to her instead.”
“She says that, does she?”
“She does. That’s a lot of money. And it’s been a bad time to start up what most people would consider to be a luxury business.”
“I don’t have to talk to you about my business.”
“That’s true. You don’t. But Phoebe is in the hot seat for Frank’s murder and she is sure to want to put someone else in it instead. Right now you look like a good substitute.”
“Phoebe can say anything she wants. But can she prove it?”
“I don’t know. But she can certainly cast a long shadow of doubt. Are you sure there isn’t anything you want to tell Mitch before Phoebe gives him her side of the story?”
“I don’t want to talk to Mitch about anything outside of the Patriots’ chances at the Super Bowl.”
“So you weren’t up at Frank’s arguing with him on Saturday night about not repaying your loan?” Byron’s face went white then red.
“Dani, if you want me to work on your car before you reach retirement age, you had better change the subject.” Byron stood up a little straighter and loosened his grip on the bouquet. One calla lily flopped limply against the bouquet wrapper.
“You know, I’ve had just about enough of being threatened. I’ve put up with it from Frank and his dog, from whoever wants to stop the cooperative, from Bob Sterling, and now from you. I don’t think I’m going to take any more. I’ll have the Midget towed off your property and I’ll find someone else to handle the repairs.” I was so surprised at myself it was like having an out-of-body experience. I heard the words coming out of my mouth but it was hard for me to believe I was forming them. The events of the past few days were giving me a crash course in assertiveness. Even though I should have felt powerful and proud of myself for not biting my tongue and making peace, I didn’t. I just felt crummy.
I think we were both surprised by what had just happened. Byron had been my mechanic since my father died and I took over driving his favorite car. It had been hard for me to trust someone to work on my father’s car since he had always done it himself but Byron had risen to the challenge. When you think about crime you don’t necessarily think about all the little ways it will tear things up. If you had told me a week earlier I would have been looking for a new mechanic, I would have laughed in your face.
“If that’s the way you want it.” Byron stood up even straighter, turned on his heel, and marched out of the shop. A break in my friendship with Byron wasn’t what I had wanted at all. I wished more than ever that Lowell would get back and put things right but at that moment it felt like some things were broken beyond repair.
* * *
Bingley raced up to the Clunker as soon as he heard me pull in. I stepped out into the driveway and the smell wafting off the dog hit me from several feet away. Bingley smelled like low tide and death. He pounced on me with his filthy front paws and I gagged. Bingley and I have had a longstanding relationship that has included ear rubs and two-handed belly scratches. But not today. When it became clear to him that I wasn’t going to give him any physical affection he ran off behind the sugarhouse. Determined to see what he had gotten into, I followed.
It was no surprise, considering the smell to find one of the Shaws’ trash barrels overturned, the lid removed and trash spilling from a ripped bag. Bingley gave me a goofy dog grin then turned back to rolling around in the pile of stinking refuse. There, amid the plate scrapings and plastic wrap were a couple of lobster carapaces.
“No wonder you smell so bad,” I said to the cheerful dog. “We can’t just leave this for Kenneth and Nicole to come find.” I left him to his fun while I went into the sugarhouse in search of a new trash bag. My stomach fell again just like it had the last time I was here listening to Kenneth blaming me for the vandalism visited upon his property. I looked over at the wall where the antique sap buckets should have been and was relieved to see the red paint was gone.
I looked all around the main part of the sugarhouse and found no trace of trash bags or cleaning supplies. I walked to the back of the building and tried the office. Kenneth’s desk, his chair, and bookshelves were all neat and tidy. I tried a door in the back of the office and found it led to another, much larger room. It looked like a storage space for finished syrup and also for supplies.
This room was not on the official tour of the sugarhouse during New Hampshire Maple Weekend. It was far too functional to be interesting and was certainly not used for the production process. The Shaws prided themselves on having the prettiest, quaintest sugarhouse in Sugar Grove for the festivities each year and this room wouldn’t have helped with that image.
Very little light filtered in through only a small window. I felt along the wall for a light switch but managed to bark my shin on something big and cylindrical before locating it. My eyes searched the room for supplies but instead noticed barrel after barrel hugging the perimeter of the room and crowding all available space on the floor. The Shaws must have had a phenomenal year of sugaring or were hoping to in the future.
Each barrel would hold forty-five gallons of the sweet stuff and I estimated at least fifty barrels. I had no idea the Shaws were making so much syrup. With the amount of supplies they must need, the cooperative would really benefit from their participation. I felt even more strongly that I needed to convince them to stick with it. Maybe pitching in with their stinky dog would help get me back in their good graces even if I never located the vandal.
I squeezed through a narrow corridor left between barrels and made my way to a metal shelving unit that looked like it held cleaning supplies. As I drew closer a heavy, chemical smell filled my nostrils almost as intensely as the rotting lobster outside had done. Sure enough, a cardboard box of trash bags sat next to a package of paper towels and a bottle of glass cleaner.
I pulled out the box and was reaching into it for a bag when I noticed a milk jug with the top hacked off. A length of wire, like you might cut from a coat hanger, spanned the top of the jug. The wire was threaded through the hole in a paintbrush. My grandfather did the same thing when he wanted to clean a brush but didn’t have time to take care of it right away. The jug was filled with a reddish liquid.
I moved the jug aside and spotted a quart-size can of paint. I slid it forward and checked the label. It was the same kind they used at Village Hardware and looked brand new other than a few drips of crimson clinging to the side of the can. Where better to hide the paint used in the graffiti? No one could trace it to the vandal if it was left at the scene of the crime.
Dean was climbing even higher on my list of suspects. He never mentioned anyone buying red paint at the hardware store when it came out that the Shaws had been hit by a vandal with red paint. My mind roamed its way over to Chelsea and her baby and I didn’t really want Dean to be guilty, at least not for their sakes.
I pushed the paint can back onto the shelf where I’d found it and moved the milk jug back into place. I even abandoned the thought of tidying up the trash. Kenneth would care more about me getting to the bottom of the damage to his sugarhouse and the theft of his valuable items than he would ab
out a bit of a mess in the yard. I hurried back out and climbed into the Clunker with every intention of confronting Dean.
Twenty-one
I pulled in at the Hayes place hoping to find Dean. His Jeep was gone but Jill’s car was there. Jill answered the door before the second knock landed. Her coat was zipped and her purse perched on her shoulder. She clutched a ring of keys in her gloved hand.
“Hi, Jill. I was hoping to find Dean at home.” I didn’t think it likely but there was no harm in asking. After all, if anyone had expected not to find me home because my Midget wasn’t there, they would have been wrong most of the time for weeks.
“Sorry. He’s over at Piper’s. He said there was something he needed to tell her.” I wondered if Jill had any more of an idea about Dean’s baby than Piper did but it didn’t seem like my place to ask. “I’m just on my way out myself.” Jill stepped out onto the stoop and pulled the door shut behind her.
“I wouldn’t want to hold you up. While I’ve got you for just a minute though, I wanted to ask, have you had any more damage to your trees?”
“I haven’t bothered to check since Frank died. After all, he’s the one who was causing all the problems, right?” Jill pushed past me and started down the steps. “I’ve really got to go. I’m late for an appointment with the bank to talk about my mortgage. Wish me luck.”
“I hope it goes well. Do you mind if I check your trees myself?”
“Knock yourself out. I can’t imagine there will be anything to find but it never hurts to look, I guess.” Jill climbed into her car and putted off. I fished around in the back of the Clunker and found the pair of extra snow boots I always take with me from November until tax day. You never know when you’ll need to walk through the snow and it’s always easier if your feet stay warm and dry. I pulled them on, checked that my cell phone was charged up, and yanked my hat down around my ears. The temperature had been low all day and the wind was starting to pick up.
Maple Mayhem (A Sugar Grove Mystery) Page 20
