Starr Tree Farm

by Ellen Parker

  “Neutral colors,” a strong female voice accompanied a worn index finger searching the paragraph headings in a two-page lease on the table.

  Laura jotted a note and attempted to concentrate on her new landlady, but not without risking a glance at the man to her left. Brad fills a room. His right arm rested on a copy of the lease. A slim black pen between his fingers wagged in slow motion, a color and texture contrast to his pale blue dress shirt buttoned at the wrist. He hadn’t uttered a word for several minutes. His most recent complete sentence seemed ancient history, during a short discussion of locks and keys.

  At the moment his prosthesis rested on his lap, out of sight but clear in her memory. How many hours ago had they sat together trading comments about their former lives? Twelve?

  “What do you think, Brad? Would three shades of beige in swirls get attention in the sales area?” She braced for a reaction.

  “Morning sky blue.” He turned his gaze a few degrees to meet hers. “The walls should match your eyes.”

  Her body hung between breaths for a long moment. Most men in her acquaintance seldom got past blue, green, or red to name a color. What sort of minor went with his journalism major? She pressed her lips tight to stifle another half-formed question more suitable for a private conversation than a lease signing.

  Would they have future secluded meetings? Her heart stuttered at the realization this morning signaled a change in their budding friendship. She gathered her attention and reminded herself that in Crystal Springs they were certain to cross paths often. And he lived only half a mile from the farmhouse. Maybe we’ll have more snow.

  “Is that your final item?” Mrs. Schmitt called her back to the business at hand.

  “Yes. We’ve covered everything on my list.” She studied the signature area and stalled at the space for a notary.

  Brad moved, digging into a jacket pocket. “Brought my stamp along this morning.”

  “Another hat?”

  “You’ve been talking to Amy.”

  “Do you have a problem with my choice of friends?” Laura avoided settling her gaze on any one portion of his face.

  “Not at all. Go ahead and be friendly with my family. Sell them books if you can. For that matter, make customers of every old and new acquaintance in the valley. Plus the farmers on the surrounding hills, too.” He lifted his prosthesis to the table and shifted his smile to Mrs. Schmitt. “I want Mrs. Tanner to be successful after her radical move.”

  “Absolutely,” Mrs. Schmitt signed the paper with bold, black strokes. “Do well and when the time comes, buy the building from me.”

  “I can’t think that far ahead this morning.” Laura signed on the designated line and passed the paper to Brad for the official stamp.

  Radical move? His word choice implied daring and courage. She viewed her actions as cautious, taking the safe path with an inherited plan. Strong, painful memories of Scott in St. Louis drove her relocation to Crystal Springs as much as the pleasant memories and cluster of relatives at this end of the road. And now, with her city job dissolved, circumstances forced the issue more than an active decision on her part.

  Fifteen minutes later, Laura unlocked her car and gave a final wave to Mrs. Schmitt. The lists of errands and cleaning supplies to purchase nestled in the bottom of her tote, shrinking in importance as the magnitude of the morning mushroomed into clear joy.

  “Mr. Asher,” she called before he could get into his truck. “I want to celebrate. Where’s a good place for lunch? My treat. Offer good for today only.”

  “Wrong day.” He rested his whole arm across the top of the door. “I’ve another appointment to keep.”

  “Is she pretty?” Where did that come from?

  His mouth straightened. “Compared to who?”

  She drew in a breath of winter air, attempting to cool her hasty words before tipping her head to invite an explanation.

  “I like my women blonde. With braids. Your status is secure, Goldilocks. Now you take care. I’ll see you around.”

  “Yes, Mr. Park Ranger.” She snapped her boot heels together and gave a salute.

  • • •

  “I’ll have the roast beef special.” Laura handed the laminated menu back to the server. She checked her watch — she was satisfied with her decision to do her shopping before enjoying her solo lunch celebration. As one thirty approached, many of the day’s patrons at The Rest Stop shrugged into winter coats.

  Outside, traffic paused at Wagoner’s single light at the end of the block. Another glance toward the courthouse and the thin line of people ascending the steps made her smile. The crowd included a table of diners wearing juror badges that filed out since her arrival. What sort of cases did they hear in this rural corner of Wisconsin? Would Scott’s murderer ever stand trial? She closed her eyes at an image of sitting beside her mother, squeezing her hand in a courtroom audience.

  A clatter of silverware from another table chased the fantasy away. With a tiny shake of her head and determination to enjoy the day, she raised her coffee cup. Savor today. The present only comes this way once. She sipped her drink and thought of the signed lease and her shopping list of cleaning supplies with neat check marks by the purchased items. One more list of errands to begin back in Crystal Springs waited for the afternoon hours. I should have time to rent the post office box today.

  “May I?”

  She startled at the voice and blinked at the too familiar face, but she nodded permission for him to join her. “Good afternoon, Mr. Wilcox.”

  He pulled out the chair across the square table and gestured for the server. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

  Her shiver went all the way to her fingertips and she stared at the resulting ripples on her mug. Engrained good manners enabled her to find a fake smile. “Are you in Wagoner for business or pleasure?”

  “Business. And you? Do you miss the bright lights and bustle of the big city?”

  She relaxed a fraction and released a small, genuine laugh. Wagoner boasted four times the population of Crystal Springs and enough traffic at the intersection of a state and federal highway to necessitate a traffic signal. St. Louis outer suburbs were more urban than anything within this Wisconsin county.

  “This morning I signed a lease for a shop in Crystal Springs. My bookstore found a home at one twenty-four Front Street.” She smoothed her napkin and waited for his reaction. It would be best if they remained friendly. The village’s size made it imperative for business owners to avoid holding a grudge or ignoring each other.

  He offered polite congratulations before ordering coffee and pie. “Will you be offering anything in your store in addition to books?”

  “I’ll be stocking basic office supplies. The core will be a mixture of new and used books.” She managed to keep her voice even by limiting herself to glances at his face. The balance of the time she watched the employees clean up after the lunch rush or concentrated on her meal. Time after time she pulled her thoughts away from memories. How many meals had she shared with Scott at a similar table? “What line should I stock for you?”

  “Sorry to say I’m not an avid reader. Why did you pick Crystal Springs instead of a larger town?” He tore two packages of sweetener open and emptied them into his coffee.

  “Family,” she replied without hesitation. At Sunrise Café he added syrup to his mug. She rested her fork on the plate to hide her hand’s sudden unsteadiness. Scott and his brother joked about an addiction to maple flavor. They tucked it into all sorts of things, including coffee. “I happen to have a higher concentration of relatives here than in any other county.”

  “That can work both ways.”

  She paused at the hint in his statement. Her family, at least the immediate portion of it, knew when to give a person space and when to close ranks. “We get along. My father’s career p
ut us in Missouri, but according to some experts a bit of geographical distance can be good. We’re not the feuding type.”

  “Didn’t mean to imply you were.”

  “So tell me about Mr. Wilcox.” Laura put the final bite of roast beef on her fork. “I don’t remember the family name from my visits. Where did you work before buying the insurance agency from Mr. King?”

  “Call me Myles.” He repeated his request from earlier before running his tongue once across his upper lip. “Lived so many places I couldn’t remember them all if under oath. Figured it was time to settle down and Crystal Springs opened up with the old gentleman’s retirement.”

  “Simple as that?”

  He nodded, “Nearly.”

  “Somehow, Mr. Wilcox, I feel that nothing is simple with you.”

  “Oh, let me.” He waved her hand away from the money she removed from her wallet. “I promised you a treat.”

  “I understood that as an offer for coffee; this was a full meal.” She ignored his frown and laid her payment and tip on the table. With one firm motion she stood and removed her coat from the back of the chair. “Until next time, Mr. Wilcox.”

  The fine hairs at the bottom of her circled braid warned her that Myles stared at her back every inch of the walk to the exit.

  Several minutes later, Laura pulled onto the highway the locals called Old Federal and turned toward Crystal Springs. She sighed, releasing more tension than she’d known her body could hold.

  Try as she might to concentrate on the remaining errands for the day, her thoughts kept returning to a side-by-side contrast of Brad and Myles.

  The entire time she sat near Brad’s elbow this morning and discussed lease specifics, the few memories of Scott had been brief and warm. Her most difficult task proved to be fighting the urge to reach over and cover Brad’s wrist during the natural, brief lulls.

  Myles prompted the opposite responses. His presence tensed her spine and put her tongue into extra cautious speech. Each time she’d looked at him longer than one blink, her final image of Scott attempted to intrude. Did she need a reminder that her husband’s murder remained unsolved? The nightmares did a more than adequate job of refreshing Scott’s features. She’d never ever forget his head at an unnatural angle in his office chair. His still heart. His cooling body.

  What now? Laura checked the rearview mirror to see a police vehicle with lights flashing. A hundred yards later she pulled off onto the shoulder.

  “License and registration, please.” The uniformed officer made his request at her window and continued to the front of her car.

  “What’s the problem, officer?” She fumbled her Missouri driver’s license out of her wallet and laid it on top of the registration papers.

  “Missing rear plate. Wait here.”

  Where would I go? She struggled for a steady breath as he returned to his patrol car. If she understood the scene in her mirror, he used a mobile computer to retrieve information. He wouldn’t find tickets or warrants. Her fingers rubbed the clear plastic over a picture of her and Scott. Her mind finally processed the officer’s words. Missing plate?

  “It was attached this morning,” she muttered while continuing to watch the scene in her mirror. “I didn’t notice anything wrong when I put the bags in the trunk.” She reached for the door handle, considered the officer’s words, and waited.

  Chapter Ten

  Brad tapped on the door of one twenty-four Front Street and peered through the glass. No movement inside. The lights shined and Roger’s pick-up truck sat at the rear of the parking lot, pointed at the back porch. Where was Goldilocks?

  “Hey. I’m not open for business, sir.” The woman in question approached from the hardware store with long, confident steps.

  “Good morning. Do you always leave the lights on?” His heart rate doubled as she approached in the soft light of a cloudy late morning. Today her braid swung free against a red St. Louis Cardinals sweatshirt. She appeared younger, innocent, in need of protection from a dangerous world.

  “When on a short errand next door the answer would be, yes.”

  “May I?” He held up the key from the lock box. “I thought you might need help.”

  She sent a silent question.

  “Didn’t you mention cleaning?” He handed her the store key and pushed the lock box into his coat pocket.

  “Do you expect me to believe you need another hat? How many will that make?”

  “Don’t have time for the math.” Stepping around an aluminum ladder he halted near the former serving counter and sought the ceiling for advice. Already Goldilocks claimed the space, filling it with her energy. He looked at her now and smiled. A mere five minutes ago, he’d walked out of Springs Press to the sound of Daryl’s voice in its protective uncle mode uttering the phrase “careful young man.” He intended to be very careful. For all sorts of reasons. “I heard a rumor once that variety made life worth the effort of getting out of bed in the morning.”

  “Personally I prefer the smell of hazelnut vanilla coffee.”

  “It figures you’d pick the gentle side. I’ll remember not to wake you to incoming mortars.” Truth be told, he didn’t want that alarm again either. Recycled in quiet nights it overwhelmed him with helplessness. How do you shoot back at a mirage?

  In slow motion, as if hesitant to startle her, he removed his jacket and draped it to share a folding chair with her parka. For sixteen years he’d been spinning fantasies about this woman. If he could hold onto his patience well enough, he’d nurture their current neighborly friendship into something more. Whether she acknowledged it or not, her painful loss had given him a second chance to pursue his first and clearest infatuation.

  “I may not look like your typical maid, but if mother didn’t teach me how to clean it, the army did.” He glanced over the former serving counter and tipped his head toward washed vegetable bins drying on faded towels. “I see you attacked the source of one foul odor already.”

  Her eyes flashed with laughter. “It refused to be ignored.”

  Like you in any room we share? He swallowed back an explanation for his hasty departure in Wagoner yesterday. He didn’t owe her words for going to conduct an interview related to an investigation. The disappearance of Joseph Carlstead stood unrelated to the murder of Scott Tanner one year and six hundred miles away.

  “Volunteer? I don’t have room in the budget to pay you.”

  He grinned and let his heart soar that they would share the building for a handful of hours. “What’s first?”

  • • •

  Laura refreshed her sponge and leaned into the oven another time. Footsteps and an occasional bar from an old Alicia Keyes song seeped through the adjoining wall. She pictured Brad, sleeves pushed up to elbows, removing years of dirt from the bathroom.

  She’d taken a break after wiping the oven the first time. A protein bar, a short conversation, and a long look at Brad in motion did more to warm her toes than the thick socks in her sneakers. Within a blink, she pictured his shoulder and back muscles moving under a turtleneck smooth against his body. The mere sight of him tempted her to delay cleaning chores for forbidden fruit.

  When did she revert to thinking like a teen girl? It would be better for all concerned if she remembered their true roles. Volunteer labor. A neighbor. A friend.

  Church bells announced the noon hour. This was only the second time she’d actually heard the call to prayer St. Mathias issued three times a day, but already the sound rounded the rough edges of her problems. This particular small town tradition comforted her.

  Keep your mind on the work. If she concentrated perhaps she could conjure Scott’s voice clear enough to blot out the man in the next room.

  “Hey, Goldilocks.” He declared from close behind her.

  She backed out of her metal cave, turned, and bl
inked up at him. “May I help you?”

  “How goes things in the kitchen? I’ve reached a good stopping point.”

  “Progress,” she tossed the sponge into a pan of water and pushed to her feet. “Once more with clean water and I’ll be done with the oven.”

  “Lunch? My treat at Jack’s.”

  “I brought a sandwich.”

  “Figures you’d be prepared. Want to save it for supper?”

  “Mr. Anderson will be coming over to change the locks. It would be rude for me to be gone.” She understood how small town grapevines worked. Odds already favored quiet comments about her evening at the Ashers’. Once she entered Jack’s with Brad, half the town would consider them a couple. Her loyalty and heart remained with Scott. Hadn’t she whispered a promise not to forget or betray him?

  “In that case,” he stepped toward the door. “I’ll be back in a few. What flavor pop?”

  “Sprite.” Her lips blurted the word before her brain could stop it.

  She waited until he crossed the street and entered Jack’s Village Tavern before releasing her sigh. He stirred up foolish flutters unsuitable for a widow. She didn’t need emotions forming whirlpools every time he looked at her with a wide smile, as if he knew a secret. It drained energy she needed to set up the bookstore and prod Daryl to search for Scott’s killer.

  Dirty water swirled before vanishing into the sink drain. She filled the pan again and attacked the final traces of oven cleaner.

  “All done?” Brad announced his return as she inserted the final oven rack.

  “Almost.”

  A few minutes later, Laura eased down beside him and claimed her own portion of serving counter base as a backrest. She unzipped an insulated bag and began to pull out a sandwich, apple, and cookies. “What did you get?”

  “The Tuesday special. Brat with kraut.” He opened the foam “to go” box on his lap and picked up a packet of bright yellow mustard. “Want a packet? I brought extra.”