Candy Canes & Corpses

by Abby L. Vandiver

  Guess he didn’t like the miracle idea.

  “On what?” I asked.

  “There is this new breakthrough in the treatment of dog cancer—specifically lymphoma—that’s had some very promising results.”

  “Okay,” I said, not really following where he was going with his news.

  “Yeah,” he said lost in his explanation. “So, what happens is that the T-cells of a blood sample are expanded.” He gestured with his hands like he was pulling something apart. “As you know, the white blood cells are critical for fighting infections and controlling cancer. Then the dog gets chemotherapy and the T-cells are infused back into the dog’s system.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said and nodded, just so he’d think I was following along. I didn’t have the faintest idea what T-cells were or how they’d get infused in anywhere.

  “This procedure has increased the survival rate in our little canine friends by five times.”

  I squinted my eyes. Maybe I was following where he was going after all. “So, do you think that’s what happened with Bean?”

  “Not unless Macklin Greely was a geneticist,” he said and chuckled. “The procedure is still going through the clinical trial phase. Greely couldn’t have gotten his hands on it. And remember who we’re talking about. He probably wouldn’t have understood any of it.”

  I know I didn’t.

  Doc Nance shook his head. “It’s just that I can’t . . .” His voice trailed off and he seemed lost in thought again, just as he had when he ran into me.

  “You can’t what?”

  He drew in a breath. “It isn’t possible,” he said.

  Okay. I didn’t think I was going to get any more out of him. “I came to pick up my dogs,” I said, figured now was a good time to get away. “Molly has them.”

  “Oh no,” he said. “I have them. I wanted to have another look at Bean. It’s amazing.” His eyes came back into focus. He looked at me and smiled. “Simply amazing.”

  I got my dogs and headed back to the car. “I don’t know about Doc Nance,” I said to Bean. “I would think his use of amazing was the same as my use of the word miracle. Tomāto, tomăto.”

  We all climbed back in the truck and headed back up the ridge. I had given up on seeing Clark Bingham and Doc Nance had my head spinning.

  Who cared what happened with Bean. I looked at her, her head sticking between the seats. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” I leaned over toward her. “However it happened, it’s okay with me.”

  We road back home with the sounds of Christmas music filling the car. I pulled into my driveway, shut the car off and opened the door. I gathered up the box with the seeds and bent over to collect the wrapper from the passenger’s seat floor where it had fallen.

  Bean jumped over me and out the door.

  “Hey, can’t you wait?” I called out after her. “You’re waiting for me, aren’t you, Mopsy?”

  She let out a bark.

  “Good girl.”

  I got out of the car and let the seat down for Mopsy. “Go get Bean,” I said. “Tell her it’s time for a snack.”

  I went to the front door and tried to open it. “Oh. I forgot.” I fished out my keys from my purse. Once inside, I hung my jacket on the stair railing, and put my hat and gloves on top of it. I laid Richard’s gloves on the console table and put the plastic bag with the seeds in it on top of them. I walked through the house and to the kitchen, stopping to throw away the trash from the present before going to the back door.

  “Mopsy,” I called out after opening the door. “Did you find Bean, girl?”

  She let out a bark and ran to the edge of the cut grass. There she stopped like there was some sort of invisible fence.

  “What is it?” I said. I stepped outside and wrapped my arms around me to try to stay warm. “Where’s Bean?”

  Mopsy let out another bark, and I followed her eyes.

  “Did she go that way, girl?” I huffed. “Maybe she went home.” Mopsy looked at me, seemingly questions filling her eyes. “Her old home,” I said. “How about we go and get her?”

  I took one more look the way Mopsy said she’d gone. Bean was nowhere in sight.

  “Okay. I have to get my coat.” I walked up the steps. “May as well get Richard’s gloves, too,” I muttered.

  I gathered up my coat and accessories, picked up Richard’s gloves, folded them in half and stuffed them in my pocket. I left back out of the front door. I went around back and got Mopsy who was still standing where I’d left her.

  After putting on my hat and gloves, we headed across the back of my land toward Mr. Greely’s property. A section of his land abutted mine. From what he’d told me, that part of his soil was alkaline, too. But I’m sure that didn’t matter, he never tried to grow anything on it anyway. I wasn’t even sure why he owned so much land.

  I guess he had his reasons.

  The long walk across the back acres was cold, there was nothing blocking the wind coming down from the north. As we walked, I called out for Bean, but she never answered.

  “I don’t know where she could have gotten to,” I said to Mopsy.

  We walked another fifteen minutes before I saw her. Right at our property line. She stood looking my way, like she was waiting for me. Like she wanted to show me something.

  She stood among a small grouping of trees.

  Christmas trees.

  Chapter Twelve

  I wandered over—confused, amazed, in disbelief. “Where did you come from?” I said. “And how are you growing here?”

  I looked down at the ground, still mostly covered with snow and kicked at it with the toe of my shoe until I upset some of the dark brown soil underneath. Then I turned around in the one spot and took it all in.

  Mr. Greely hadn’t been so good with mending fences. I guessed there had been one up to delineate my land from his at one time, but not so much now. Still there were remnants of it that I could see in the distance meaning that I was exactly where I thought I was. Right smack in the middle of Alkaline Country aka my backyard.

  “This isn’t possible.”

  Bean let out a woof, woof.

  I looked at her and smiled. “The second miracle in two days, huh?” I said. “And did you have something to do with both of them?”

  “Woof!”

  I laughed. “C’mon you two, let’s drop off these gloves and go home.”

  We walked another ten minutes until we got to the bright orange door. This time I knocked.

  “Hi.” Richard Young greeted me with a big grin. “What brings you here?”

  I pulled his gloves out my pocket and held them up. He chuckled and put out his hand. I gave them to him.

  “Come in,” he said. “All of you.”

  The dogs bounded in, coming around me, they headed over to the kitchen. Bean snooping around that whelping box. Mopsy at her heels.

  “We didn’t really come to stay,” I said. “Bean got away from me and I found her over by a patch of Christmas trees right at the edge of my property.”

  “Christmas trees?” he said. “I thought nothing grew on your land.”

  “Technically, they weren’t growing on my land. They were growing on your father’s. Right where my land ends and his starts.”

  “He’s got different soil than you?” Richard scrunched up his face. “Maybe you bought the wrong land?”

  “That part of his land is the same as mine. At least that’s what he told me,” I said.

  “I thought you guys didn’t talk much,” he said and looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “We talked about my land,” I said. “Remember, I told you he said he was going to . . . Oh!” I snatched the gloves from his hand.

  “What?” he said.

  “The seeds.”

  “The seeds?”

  “Yes. That was my present from him. Seeds.”

  “Really.” He said it like he thought it wasn’t a good present. “That was your present?”

  “Yes!�
� I took the seeds from where I had enfolded them within the gloves and wagged the small plastic bag in front of him. “I don’t think they are just any seed.” A wide, beaming smile igniting across my face. “They are a good present. I think that this is what he was talking about.”

  “What who was talking about?” he said.

  “Your father. He said he could help me. I think these seeds are what he meant. And,” I said, excitement spilling over in my voice, “outside is proof.”

  “Proof?”

  “That he could help me grow Christmas trees in alkaline soil. Somehow . . .” I looked at my plastic bag. “He did it.”

  “He’d have to be Gregor Mendel to do something like that.”

  “Gregor . . .” I drew the name out and let my voice go up like it was a question.

  “You know, the German-”

  I held up my hand. It hadn’t been a question. It was a realization. “I know who he was,” I said. “He was a geneticist. I’m thinking just like Mr. Greely who might have something to do with curing cancer in dogs . . .”

  “What?” he said, confusion etched in his face. “What are you talking about?”

  That made me remember that picture from a magazine that had lined the whelping box. I still had it in my pocket.

  I pulled it out and read it.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “Oh my,” I said.

  “What?” he said.

  “I can’t believe this,” I said.

  “You can’t believe what?” he said.

  “I think your father was a geneticist.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “No. That’s just not possible.”

  “Why isn’t it possible?”

  “Because from what I’ve heard, my father didn’t even comb his hair or wash his clothes.”

  “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t smart. Right? I mean geniuses do crazy things. Like Van Gogh. He cut off his ear.”

  “My father had both of his ears.”

  “Listen to this: Dr. Macklin Greely is known for his extensive genetic work, said a spokesman at the Albany, New York law firm, Bracken & Stone, who represents him. According to their spokesperson, he is the leader in the next phase of canine T-cell project.”

  “They’re talking about my father?” He put a hand in front of the paper so I couldn’t read it.

  “Yes,” I said and pointed at the picture. “That’s him.”

  “He was some sort of genius?”

  “Yes! He also created seeds that grow trees in alkaline soil,” I shook the bag, “and dogs that go into remission due to being infused with expounded,” I shook my head, “or expanded or something T-cells. He was some sort of genius.”

  “Okay, stop!” he said holding up his hands. “What is going on here?”

  “We’re discovering who your father really was.”

  “I-I just can’t believe what you’re trying to say here.” He tapped his hand on the magazine article. “Or what you think my father may have accomplished. He didn’t mention anything like this to me when he called.” He shook his head. “What does it mean?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “But if it’s what I think it’s saying, and it’s true, the world . . .” I looked at him, “and us have really lost someone that was valuable to life itself.”

  “Whoa . . .” he said and went and sat on the couch.

  I thought about what I was saying and who I was saying it too.

  Money is a universal motive for murder. Getting in on what Mr. Greely must have been worth would be a good reason to kill him. I looked at Richard, sitting there holding his head in disbelief. But was he truly stumped by all of this, or had he already known? He had come out of nowhere claiming to be the man’s son. And now, with Mr. Greely being dead, this man was his only heir.

  Is that why he was still hanging around? Is it the reason he came in the first place? To kill his father and get his money?

  “C’mon girls,” I said and patted my legs. It was time for me to go.

  “Are you leaving?” he asked, looking up from where he sat.

  “I think I better,” I said. “I’m not really sure who you are or how you fit into this whole thing.”

  “Wait,” he said and popped up off the sofa. “You don’t think I killed him, do you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Did you?” I was backing up toward the door and wishing that somehow one of my two dogs secretly had the attack instincts of a Doberman.

  “I didn’t kill him,” he said. I wasn’t sure if it were a grimace or a smile on his face—perhaps even a sinister one.

  “I didn’t say you did,” I said. Suddenly feeling a little anxious. I stared into his eyes trying to anticipate his next move and get out of his way.

  “But you’re thinking it,” he said walking up on me. He licked his lips and nodded at me.

  “Mopsy. Bean. C’mon,” I said trying not to show the fear that was rising in my voice. Richard Young grunted as I called my dogs like he was trying not to laugh. “Nothing’s funny,” I said not taking my eyes off of him.

  “You thinking that I killed my father, whom I’d never seen before in my life, is kind of funny.”

  “Why does your car have a Pennsylvania license plate if you’re from Arizona?” I asked.

  “Uhm . . . Because I rented it and that’s the car they gave me.” He shook his head as if he thought it was silly of me to think anything of that. “It was actually the second car they gave me. The first one broke down soon as I got up on the ridge.”

  “Broke down?”

  “Yeah. And you know what? I’ve been thinking, if it hadn’t, I might have been around when my father was shot.”

  “Wait.” I stopped, the fear I had fizzling out of me. “You’re the person that had the car break down and had to have the deputy come and help?”

  “Yeah. I am a person that happened to, don’t know I was the only person that happened to.”

  “That happened the day your father was killed?”

  “The same morning. For all I know at the same time. I even told the deputy that I had heard two men arguing, not knowing at the time that it might have been my father.”

  “Deputy Pete?” I tilted my head to the side. “You told Deputy Pete that.”

  “Yes,” he said, and shrugged. “But he didn’t seem to think anything of it.”

  “Arguing about dogs?” I asked. “The two men were arguing about dogs?”

  “Arguing about dogs?” He scrunched up his face. “No. I said that I had heard a dog. Not that it was about dogs.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  I scratched my head. “Were you with someone?” I asked. I remembered hearing it was a couple, and also that it wasn’t a couple. Maybe I could get a clear answer from him.

  “No. No one was with me.”

  I flapped my hands. Deputy Pete was right. I needed to steer clear of the rumor mill.

  “What?” he asked. “Don’t you believe me?”

  “I don’t know what to believe,” I said. “First I heard about your car breaking down-”

  “Which it did,” he interjected.

  “But then I was told that you heard Joe arguing with Mr. Greely.”

  “Who is Joe?”

  “Then I heard there was a hitchhiker causing trouble on the ridge.”

  “Hitchhiker?” he repeated.

  “Yeah, a hitchhiker that turned out to be a hiker and a lawyer and evidently not causing any trouble.”

  “The guy in the plaid jacket?” he asked.

  “You saw him?”

  “Him who?”

  “The hiker.”

  “I saw a guy who was a hiker. Saw him while I was sitting there waiting for help.”

  “And he had on a plaid jacket?”

  “Yep. What do they call those jackets? Uhm . . .”

  “Lumberjack jackets.”

  He snapped his finger. “Yep. That’s it. A lumberjack jacket. And he
had on new looking boots. I remember that. Didn’t really look like an experienced hiker to me.”

  I shook my head and started to pace in circles. My mind was in a whirl.

  I walked back over and looked at him. “Had it snowed yet when you saw the hiker?”

  “Uhm . . . No. It hadn’t.”

  “But if you saw him before the snow fell, how did he get all the way to Cutters Trail and back by the time Bobbi was on her way to Albany? He told us he’d left before day.”

  “I don’t know,” Richard said. “I don’t know where Cutters Trail is.”

  “And there was lime on Bean and on the passenger’s side of Bobbi’s car. Right where he would have been sitting when she picked him up.”

  “Don’t know Bobbi, either. Or anything about lime.”

  I went and plopped down on the sofa in the same spot Richard had just vacated and mumbled, “But why would he kill Mr. Greely?”

  “Who?” he said, he came and sat across from me.

  “Clark Bingham,” I said. “The lying hitchhiker.”

  Epilogue

  It turned out that Clark Bingham was an attorney at Bracken & Stone. He was also the legal overseer for the trust that a Dr. Macklin Greely had set up when he decided to disappear from the scientific world and come live on the ridge in seclusion.

  That estate—the one set up by Dr. Greely with the law firm he had retained and assigned to Attorney Bingham was worth millions of dollars and one, Clark thought, didn’t have an heir in the world who would contest it if he stole from it.

  That was why he had killed his client. He had let his greed overrun his duty to his client.

  What Clark Bingham didn’t count on was the lime collecting on the bottom of his boots. Or how the falling of the snow would set an indelible timeline marking the impossibility of him having gone on a hike at Cutters Trail. With those facts, he no longer had an ironclad alibi.

  But no one knew that it would be a golden retriever, that old Bean, who would provide all the other evidence needed to catch her owner’s killer.

  The usually composed Bean, once she saw Clark Bingham again, made an undeniable positive ID of him. Her growl and aggressive nature toward him would make anyone know she’d seen him before, and what she’d seen hadn’t set well with her. Neither did we know that Bean could lead the sheriff right to the rifle Clark had used and then buried, but she did. Too bad for Clark he hadn’t wiped the fingerprints off the murder weapon. They were a positive match, as was the ones on the whiskey tumbler at Mr. Greely’s house.