by Ellen Parker
Her gaze returned to the stone wall — a feature sure to attract village children. She jotted a liability question to her growing list before taking a closer look at the sturdy back steps.
Brad unlocked and opened a plain door. “Basement’s dry with only the basics. Water heaters, furnace, storage lock … ”
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Her heart stuttered and restarted in tandem with the powerful downbeat climbing out of the basement. “What’s that?”
“Water pump,” he called from the last step. “Village has individual wells and pressure pumps. Like the farm.”
“Ten times louder.” She willed her hand to loosen from a clench to a touch.
A full minute later, she approached the machine as the rhythmic pounding reverberated on raw concrete walls. “How old?”
“Twelve years,” he called back.
Silence surrounded them with the same suddenness as the thumping ended. A quick swallow and she adjusted her intended volume. “Can we have a professional look at it?”
He pulled a pen from his pocket and jotted a note on his listing. “Decent plumber works out of his house at the other end of town.”
Her nerves floated back from the far corners where the pump had scattered them and she started down a mental inspection list. She settled for a visual check of the back wall for evidence of water and pulled out the furnace filter.
“Want to join me?” He stepped into the empty storage pen built from raw lumber and threaded his fingers through the taut chicken wire.
Smiles that inviting should be illegal. She placed one foot on the bottom step. It was time to go upstairs and make a counter offer on lease terms. “You claimed to be one of the good guys. And now you put yourself in jail?”
“I’m looking for a Goldilocks smile.”
Chapter Three
Laura parked on the wide shoulder of Back Street and remained in her car for a minute to study the Old Lady. That was the family name for the house beside her. Uncle Daryl lived in it now. Family history chronicled great-grandparents purchasing it in the early nineteen twenties, about the time their first child arrived. Her own grandfather moved his bride into the upstairs apartment after he returned from the army. Other than between upstairs and down, the couple never moved again. Her Frieberg relatives had called the two-story Victorian on the corner home for the better part of a century.
The house and garden behind held an abundance of warm memories for her. The majority contained her grandmother and namesake. Laura Frieberg remained a vigorous, alert woman until mere months before her death six summers ago. Only a few fragile imagines included Grandfather sitting in a leather recliner, an oxygen tube giving him a plastic mustache that girls didn’t understand at age five.
You’re looking fresh, Old Lady. Clean white paint, sharp black trim, and a new light gray roof advertised that Daryl carried through with his plans to take care of his inheritance.
Move, girl. Lunch and conversation wait inside. She lifted a pie carrier from the back seat, slammed the door, and picked her way across the yard where a few patches of snow persisted in the shady places.
Uncle Daryl opened the door as she lifted the black matte knocker a second time. “Welcome, Laura.”
“Mincemeat pie. Courtesy of Sharon.” She presented the squat plastic container with a bow and playful smile.
“My sister knows the way to my heart.”
“She’s had all your life to figure you out.” She straightened, ready to comment that retirement from the Secret Service appeared to agree with him when she glimpsed the living room furnishings. She stepped inside and forced her mouth to stay closed. What happened?
Floral wallpaper, the green drapes, and an extensive cat figurine collection were gone without a trace. All the warm, familiar clutter of Grandmother Laura’s place retreated. Reason told her to expect it. Her heart didn’t believe the transformation could be so complete. She stood in a room that could have been a set in a black and white ultra-modern movie of nineteen fifty. “Wow.”
“Do you like it?” He accented his asymmetrical smile with one raised eyebrow.
“Different.” She scanned the room looking for something familiar in the clean lines of a black vinyl couch, glossy black lamps with white shades, the textured white walls. On the second pass, she found the wooden butler. Painted in formal black and white, he stood two feet tall next to a white wing chair. Today his hand held a dish of wrapped mints instead of Grandfather’s unlit cigar.
“Mother and I always did have opposite taste in decorating.”
“This,” she gestured wide to include the entire room, “makes me realize I’ve never been in your house before. You always came to visit us.”
“I didn’t have room for guests in the post office box.”
She released a laugh at the old family joke.
“It certainly made getting the mail easier. For a while there I changed apartments as often as your father traded cars.”
Average length of car ownership with Dad was six months, maybe less. She turned her attention to a large skyline print hung behind the sofa. The landmark buildings of Washington DC were rendered in fine, black lines reminding her of St. Louis artist John Pils. “I didn’t realize you moved that frequently. Did the job force it?”
“More than I like to remember in the early years. With a little seniority it settled down. Part of it was my stubborn nature about paying high rent and refusing to put down roots. Pardon me, I got so caught up in your reaction my manners went on leave. I’ll put your coat away and we can adjourn to the other room for that late lunch I promised you.”
Laura accepted the change to neutral colors without comment in the large square room where the half wall separated the kitchen from dining areas. The change didn’t seem as complete here with the familiar black upright piano in the same place. Or it could have been the view from the windows where the maple tree stood watch over one end of the sleeping garden.
“Grandmother’s?” She touched a delicate Christmas cactus blossom. The generous plant spilling over the rim of the white pot on a black plant stand looked proud to be the single splash of color.
“I rescued it from Sharon.”
“That sounds drastic.”
“My sisters are fine people. I love them both. But Sharon has a knack for neglecting houseplants until death.”
“But … ” She stilled her lips. Now that she thought about it, the garden and flowerbeds that thrived around the farm buildings were all outside plants. Interior decoration of the farmhouse stressed family photos, a large mirror in a gaudy frame, and candles. Not a single plant currently waited for her attention. “Do you want help?”
“No, thanks. You’re the guest today. And I did learn enough cooking to warm soup.” He centered a trivet on the round dining table. “Are you settling in on the farm?”
“Chores are simple. I guess that’s why they trusted a city girl like me.” She drifted over to the piano and thumbed through the music. “Yesterday I went for a walk with the dogs. Fresh air and pine trees cleared a batch of urban fog from my brain.”
“The dogs haven’t been a problem?”
“We hit it off from the moment I got out of the car. They figured out quickly that I control the kibble. And I’m a softie when it comes to all the petting and fetch games. The steers on the other hand … ” she recoiled internally at the memory of an Angus chorus close to her ear as she fumbled with the gate latch this morning, “let’s say that we’re still building a relationship.”
“Confidence, girl. Show them more confidence than I ever managed.”
“Easy for you to say. By the way, I heard shooting yesterday. Roger mentioned a possible poacher. Should I worry?”
“Odds favor it was one of the neighbors taking a little target practice. I’d not be concerned unle
ss you wander into the woodlot dressed in brown carrying a set of antlers.”
She matched his smile. “Thanks. I thought I might be overreacting. Guns in the city frighten me. And since … ”
The black cat novelty wall clock swished its tail once … twice … three times in the silence.
“Enough,” she drew a deep breath, exhaled, and steadied her voice. “Today is the start of my future.”
“Sit down. The soup’s ready. You can tell me about your morning while we eat. Did you find a rental?”
Between mouthfuls of vegetable beef soup and thick slices of venison sausage, Laura reported on the properties and peppered Daryl with questions about all three buildings. She learned that the former senior center had been a grocery store for many years and then hosted a consignment clothing business, followed by a martial arts studio with long periods of vacancy between.
“Are there any security or alarm firms in the area?” Laura set her empty soup bowl aside and poured another glass of water from the pitcher.
“Kennel south of town raises shepherds.”
“That’s the answer I got from Brad … er … Mr. Asher.” Laura’s neck warmed.
“Go ahead, use first names. From what I understand, the two of you have a history.”
She stood and began to stack empty dishes. Until the introduction at the party the other night, she’d not thought about him for years. Did she look forward to seeing him each of those childhood summers? Or did she merely accept his presence, like the gully dividing the front and back of the farm? “Depends on your definition, I guess. He was the boy down the road, a pest in Vacation Bible School, and extra help during haying.”
“So give me your perspective of a young Brad Asher. My time in Crystal Springs was limited to a week here and there most of those years.”
“Out of range we called him ‘Big Ears Brad.’ He had these Dumbo-sized ones that he wiggled to get attention.” She placed her thumbs near her ears and demonstrated the movement before cutting two large wedges of mincemeat pie. “He pulled my braids every chance he got.”
Daryl waited like a statue with live eyes until she found her tongue again.
“Once … no make that twice, he chased me across the church yard waving a snake.”
“How old were you?”
“Ten. Maybe eleven.” She pictured them now like a scene from a Disney movie racing across the grass with half a dozen other kids laughing and shouting encouragement.
“He liked you.”
She managed to refrain from rolling her eyes at him as she set his pie down. “It didn’t seem so at the time. Then again, I attempted to get him back, so maybe I wasn’t any better.”
“How?”
“One afternoon while we were waiting for our ride home from the church, I managed to catch a toad. I stashed it in his empty lunch box. I never asked if he or his mother opened it later.” She laughed at the image of a young Brad opening the latch and having the bumpy skinned amphibian hop onto a kitchen counter.
“Exactly the sort of thing a young boy appreciates.”
She balanced a bite of dessert on her fork and considered the mysterious ribbon of little boy that threaded through all the men in her life. Scott, for example, sang silly camp songs and advertising jingles while dressing until the day he died. Did she keep a portion of the impulsive child under her surface? “While we’re on the topic, what happened to his arm?”
Daryl carefully chewed pie. “That’s a story best told by Brad. I’m surprised you didn’t ask him over breakfast.”
“It didn’t seem right.” She’d definitely detected an almost shyness with his hook in the café, although he slowly lessened those efforts to conceal it when her gaze lingered on it too long during the showings. “Maybe next time.”
“Then it’s my turn for questions.” He licked the last crumb of crust from his fork. “Has Detective Wilson kept in touch with you?”
“We had coffee together a week before Christmas. Did you contact him? I’ve asked you often enough.”
“I won’t interfere with the police investigation.” A mask of official business and emotional detachment descended over his face.
“And here I thought you would know how to phrase a question to get an actual answer. I certainly haven’t found that key yet.” She tended to ask Detective Wilson straight out about the people she considered suspects. While she trusted the policeman, she wondered at times if he wore a question-repellant suit. “Barbara, the woman doing all of the secretarial work at Browne and Associates, retired in November. Did you ever meet her?”
“At the funeral. Did the retirement surprise you?”
“She’s sixty-three. At first I assumed she’d developed a health issue, but she seemed as active as always at her party.” Laura moved her empty plate to the side. “Neither Gary Browne nor the new partner attended. The production workers and drivers organized it. That struck me as odd to the point of rude.”
“Scott carried the bulk of the charm and etiquette for management. At least that’s how it appeared from my humble vantage point.”
And the secrets? She hesitated a few heartbeats. “Last spring — the end of April — I found a flash drive among Scott’s socks. Now don’t lecture me on not cleaning out his drawer before then. Mother gave her opinion without reservation.” She squared her shoulders and looked straight into his eyes. “I peeked before I turned it over to the authorities. Near as I could tell, it contained financial statements for Browne and Associates going back five years.”
He moved his fingers along the edge of the table as if tapping out a measure of music on the piano.
“Why would Scott hide them? Did they get him killed?” Her fingers mimicked her uncle.
Daryl continued to study her face for a long moment. “Are the police doing forensic accounting?”
“What will that show? Cooked books?” She looked away the instant she recalled that Daryl’s work with the Secret Service included uncovering money-laundering operations. I hope he doesn’t need to see them. I only transferred a few pages to my laptop. “Scott would never … ”
“Fix the balance sheets? Or commit suicide?”
“Either. Neither.” Her hand found the rings under her blouse. The man she married had been honest to a fault, the sort of person who counted his change at the counter and handed back an overage in his favor.
“Fits my assessment of the man to perfection. And relax a little, Laura. I’ve been in touch with your detective.” He poured more tea for both of them. “He’s a good man.”
“Without time to follow a cold trail.”
• • •
Brad frowned at the computer screen. Two hours ago he’d locked up one twenty-four Front Street, lingered while Laura walked into the bank, and returned to the Springs Press building. It’d only taken a minute to leave a message for Mrs. Schmitt, Laura’s potential landlady.
Since then he’d tried to concentrate on the Carlstead case. A new account, on the surface it should be a straightforward search for a man behind on his court-ordered child support. Joseph Carlstead didn’t break new ground when the monthly check didn’t arrive. But when his ex-wife visited what she believed to be his employer, they’d had no record of the man. The court that ordered the support sent out stern warnings, returned as “unable to deliver” by the post office. A few days ago, the court attorney and the senior Mr. Carlstead met with Daryl. Now the agency was tasked to find the young man.
“My boy developed a fondness for the craps table.” Lloyd’s voice emerged measured and rehearsed from the recorder. “I tried to convince him that was the wrong way to provide for his son. Guess words weren’t enough. Can you get into his tax records or something and find him?”
Brad sighed and stared at the results from the search on Joseph’s Social Security number. No payments
showed for the previous fourteen months. The money orders for the final support payments came from a shipping and mailbox store in downtown Chicago.
He keyed into an obituary database and entered the last name only. One by one he eliminated the recently deceased by age or sex. Another blind alley. That’s my pessimist trying to surface.
He stood, began to pace in the technology stuffed rear office, and muttered.
But Joseph Carlstead didn’t want to stay on his mind. Every dozen steps an image of Myles Wilcox — not at the café but at the airport — marched in, demanding an explanation. Where did Myles, the local insurance agent, spend December thirty-first?
Brad’s opinion of waiting for baggage at the end of a trip ranked lower on the desirability scale than standing in line at the tax office. He’d already spent too many hours observing his fellow passengers on the flight. Add a late arrival hour on New Year’s Eve, and family and friends meeting those same travelers thinned to a handful. It didn’t take long for him to start walking off accumulated energy by wandering the claim area. On the first pass, he memorized the airlines and flight numbers of the other three active carousals. On his second circuit, Myles walked past. The insurance man carried a black duffel bag across his shoulder and headed straight toward the exit. Brad raised a hand, opened his mouth to call out a greeting, and changed his mind when Myles glanced in his direction and then quickly away.
Why wouldn’t he acknowledge Brad’s presence?
Early this morning, before Laura arrived, he’d dropped a casual question to a couple of the café regulars. The always-active — if sometimes inaccurate — Crystal Springs grapevine didn’t have an opinion. Facts the three coffee addicts agreed on included Myles closing the office at noon on December thirtieth and re-opening this morning.
After three full years working and living in the community, Mr. Wilcox still kept a distance from the locals. He belonged to all the right organizations and contributed to neighborly causes. Yet he appeared more as observer rather than participant, and his personal information remained behind a tinted window. No one could remember family visiting or even much mention of parents or siblings. The trophies from the target shooting association displayed in his office were the only sign of a hobby.
