Starr Tree Farm

by Ellen Parker

  “Our chariot awaits,” he opened the passenger door of his truck and extended his arm to assist her into the tall vehicle.

  Laura tossed her bag on the floor, gripped the assist bar, and drew in a quick breath. His hand supported her elbow while she entered. Through layers of parka and sweatshirt her skin tingled. She found her tongue after too much silence. “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure.”

  She snapped her seat belt and hunted for a witty remark as he stowed his bag and settled behind the wheel. She recalled the boy reaching for controls on the tractor with a cocky grin. One more glance and she decided the adult beside her with his quiet control and confidence suited her need for a friend better.

  “I plan to take the Ridge Road home. Any objections?” He maneuvered out of the school parking lot.

  “You’re the driver.” I’m drifting again. I need to reclaim active participation. “Is there any particular reason?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Let me guess. It takes twenty seconds less.” She blinked herself to greater attention and studied his hook on the steering knob.

  “I’m curious if your neighbor is home tonight.”

  “Which one?” Neighbor enjoyed a wide meaning in the community. He could be referring to any of a dozen or more homes visible from the road.

  “Myles.”

  She shivered with the heater blowing full force on her feet. “I didn’t know he lived on the ridge.”

  “He rents at the second Rice place. First house north of the tree farm.”

  “Does he … ” she paused long enough to let her mind get ahead of her mouth. “Does he have a shooting range?”

  He turned his head for a brief look at her before he returned concentration to the road. “He does. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, I’ve seen the trophies in his office window.” Her attempt at casual failed in her own ears. How could it make a difference who practiced within earshot? Yet. She shook away an image of Myles, Scott’s double, aiming at a target. “I’ve heard gunshots when walking with the dogs. Twice now.”

  “His target area is one possibility.”

  “There’s more?” She stared out the windshield, trembled at the memory of a snub nosed revolver. A forced breath sent it away.

  “If the wind and weather’s right you can hear mine.”

  Recent ex-military and private investigator were in his hat collection. She shouldn’t be surprised, yet the certain fact of it twisted something inside. “Do you shoot often?”

  He adjusted in his seat. “Enough to stay competent. From your hesitancy, I’m guessing firearms and you don’t go well together.”

  “We don’t. It would take a lot for me to even touch one after … ” She banished the remainder of her non-relationship with guns. “Is that part of your job with Daryl? Toting firearms around?”

  “We don’t carry.” He slowed for a curve. “Keep permits in case we need to. Hence the gun rack behind you. But most cases need more computer than shooting skills.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. I never really liked them. And then … ” Her voice faded as an image of blood drenched dress shirt swam before her eyes. She swallowed, licked her lips, and stayed in the present. “Scott was shot.”

  “I heard.”

  Heater, engine, and tires on frozen gravel swelled to fill the cab. She counted posts in the passing line fence. Assume every farmer keeps a loaded rifle in the house. Advice from Roger during one of those childhood summers surfaced. She knew where the keys to the gun safe at the farmhouse were kept. She’d seen them in the milk glass dish on the dresser yesterday when making up the master bedroom with fresh sheets.

  Brad drew her attention when he cleared his throat. “Have you ever been snowmobiling?”

  “It’s not a big sport in St. Louis.”

  “As soon as we get another couple of inches, the fields will be good. I could give you an introduction. There’s a nice trail network for a winter tour.”

  She glanced at him the same instant his gaze darted her direction. They immediately broke the connection and each looked straight ahead. The uncertain light made it impossible to identify mischief, humor, or sincerity in his eyes. “Um … I’ll think about it.”

  “And here’s our reception committee.” He turned into the driveway where Taffy and Cocoa romped in a noisy welcome.

  “I found him.” Laura leaned back and closed her eyes before her voice replaced the noise of the heater. “Ten or fifteen minutes after it happened. When I searched for a pulse, his wrist was still warm. Almost normal.”

  • • •

  I found him. Brad held his breath while Laura’s words ricocheted in his skull. Almost normal. He knew about the tricks of the recent dead. In civilian life he wanted to lock that knowledge in a box available only to medical personnel. A spouse didn’t deserve the nightmare sure to follow.

  His introduction to close up death came on his first deployment. His soldiers had placed Garcia on a makeshift stretcher. Brad gripped his section as they scurried to the relative safety of an abandoned house. Only after they set their comrade down did Michaels, the best medic in the squad, release his pressure from the wound and whisper, “He’s gone.”

  Yes, he knew too much about the mass of flesh and bones without life. A tremble attacked his torso at the image of Garcia and others leaving with their eyes open and lips pleading to stay.

  “I’m sorry. You didn’t need to know.” Laura fumbled with the seat belt on the other side of the cab.

  “You needed to say it. Therapy. The shrinks get a few things right.” The dusk to dawn light on the high pole put her features into soft shadow. He captured more determination than defeat in the set of her chin and her posture. Persistent Laura, the girl who practiced cartwheels on her grandmother’s lawn, was still buried somewhere in the cautious adult beside him.

  Did she consider him a safe person to speak with? As a girl, Laura held her words until they gathered meaning. He opened his hand, rubbed the palm against the familiar steering wheel. “A professional would ask one of those open-ended questions without an answer.”

  “Psychology is over-rated.”

  In one well-worn phrase, she’d distilled more than two years of his personal experience. “Well said. Maybe neither of us has found a practitioner with the right life experience yet.”

  “How would you advertise for that? Wanted: amputee counselor with combat experience and murdered spouse?”

  “I see you want to share. I appreciate that.” An instant later, his good arm surrounded her shoulder and pulled her close, across a gap he’d nearly closed without being aware.

  She fit into him perfectly, her check against his chest and one arm relaxed across his waist. He wanted to keep her close, safe from the outside world. He lowered his chin until it gently rested in a nest of hair at the base of her braid. Would she allow him past her defenses again? Or would tomorrow bring regret that she’d shared? He closed his eyes and listened to his heart pounding.

  “Brad.”

  “Hmmm. Thinking deep thoughts?”

  She rubbed her head against his chest, even her negative gesture stirring his body to a new tempo.

  “Don’t tell,” Laura eased away, adjusted her torso until she sat upright and they touched side by side.

  “Have you told the important people?”

  “The police know. And Daryl. Half a dozen others.” Her phrases came spaced, gentle, disconnected from normal conversation.

  “I understand.” Sympathy. Pity. He’d seen so much of it from well-intentioned people. Grief took a million forms. Wounds healed one cell at a time. He pictured his own invisible ones wearing thin, fragile scabs apt to pop off at an inopportune time to damage him and anyone standing close.

  “Do you … ” She reached out and t
ouched his hook with one finger. “Does this haunt you? Nightmares?”

  “It has.” He won a skirmish to keep his voice steady. They came less frequently now, skipped a night or two in special circumstances. His parents claimed not to hear them but he figured it came down to their way of giving him a bit of adult privacy. He lifted his prosthesis until it hovered across his chest. “Go ahead. Touch it all you want.”

  “Wounds.” She slipped one hand under the metal and inspected the smooth clamp in the soft light. “Scott lost two fingertips in his dad’s woodshop. I miss … his unique clasp … and … Am I rambling?”

  “I like the sound of your voice.” The feel of you. All of you.

  He watched her fingers against metal across his lap, delicate, as if playing soft music on the piano. If he closed his eyes could he feel it? He breathed deep and captured a trace of floral shampoo. “Let’s get you inside.”

  A few minutes later, he lingered on the back porch, mesmerized by her simple action of removing her coat.

  “Do you want a cup of coffee? I found a jar of instant decaf. It wouldn’t take long at all.”

  “Laura.” He stepped forward and caressed her cheek with his thumb. Coffee wasn’t on his mind. “May I?”

  He didn’t hear any objection from her over the rush of his own blood as he leaned the final inches to her lips. Salt and promises greeted him. Could he ever get his fill?

  She shifted and he backed away from the edge of an invisible whirlpool.

  He glanced at the tiny space between them to see her hands wrapped in the open portion of his jacket. With one finger he touched her chin, urged her to look at him. “I’ll never hurt you. Can you believe me?”

  “I want to.”

  He forced the next kiss to be soft and brief. “I’ll be there when you’re ready.”

  She released his coat and nodded.

  Brad walked to his truck with patience and lust facing off inside his chest.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Mail call!” Brad stepped into The Sunrise Café five minutes after the scheduled closing time, prepared to set today’s mail next to the cash register. His gaze skimmed over a young brunette at the counter, returned to her, and halted. “Beel?”

  “In the flesh.” Kimberly Beel slid off the stool and met him in the center of the empty dining area. “You should keep better track of your friends, Asher.”

  He blinked at the familiar voice. Four years of her distinct blend of Swedish German Midwest American accent swept into his ears with pleasant memories. Her presence brought images of ROTC and engaging discussions in tiny cafés along with the guilt of broken promises to keep in touch. “I got busy.”

  “I heard.”

  How much? Who from? He gazed into her eyes but didn’t see pity, and he smiled.

  “Before you two get cozy could I have my bills and advertisements?” Amy stepped past with the condiments she collected at the close of business.

  “Did you handle introductions?” Brad separated the café mail from the two pieces for Frieberg Investigations.

  “Affirmative,” Kimberly replied. “Turns out I selected the right place to inquire about you. And your sister makes good coffee, too.”

  “She does.” He nodded to buy a little time. The years since graduation looked kind on her. Her smooth, cheerful face contained eyes that looked back at him in a serious but friendly manner. “Sorry about dropping out of the loop a few years back. Did you come to the thriving metropolis of Crystal Springs for vacation?”

  “I stopped in to check out a rumor.”

  “Any particular one?” He skimmed through a mental list of mutual friends who may have been passing her information.

  “Can we talk in private?” Kimberly glanced around the deserted dining area.

  Running water, the clink of stoneware plates, and rattle of silverware from the kitchen area confirmed Amy and her husband, Jim, were cleaning up after a business day.

  “Yes, ma’am. I share an office two doors down.” He picked up his insulated mug of coffee from the end of the counter and pointed to her “to go” container. “Follow me.”

  “Better step lively. I beat you four out of five in the three mile run.”

  “Ancient history.”

  Four minutes later, Brad waved her into one desk chair and settled into the other. The years without contact shrank into days. Her comments on the lack of personal touches in the office prompted his simple reply. “It’s a male thing.”

  “Am I trespassing then?”

  “Negative. You’re exactly where you should be.”

  She set her coffee on the edge of Daryl’s desk and plowed her hands through a purse large enough to be an overnight bag. She tossed a matchbook in his direction. “Remember this place?”

  Brad glanced at the logo. “Good times. We shared a lot of conversations over their pizza. How many usually? Five? Six? Couple of times the staff ran us out to clean up.”

  “The group of us solved the world’s problems numerous times on State Street.”

  He handed back the matches and lowered his voice to a confidential pitch. “So, Ms. Beel, what necessitated an in-person visit to Crystal Springs?”

  “Do you remember my stories about Uncle James in Kenosha?”

  He nodded, tucked his prosthesis close, and dangled his hand off his knee. “He sounded like the sort of lighthearted character every family should have. How is he?”

  “I’ve come from his funeral.”

  He closed his eyes and dipped his head in shame. Stepped in it all the up to my knee that time. The soft hum of multiple computers became obvious as the only sound. “Condolences. Can you excuse my clumsiness?”

  She sighed. “That’s why I’m here. His death. Not the funeral.”

  “Sudden?”

  “He drowned in his hot tub New Year’s Eve. Early evening. The police are calling it an accident.”

  “And you don’t believe them.” He pulled a legal pad close.

  “Uncle James built apartments. He wasn’t above greasing palms to speed permits and that sort of thing. I’m ninety-nine percent sure he cheated on his taxes.” She sipped coffee and took her time to fix her gaze on his face. “It’s the nature of his business to collect enemies. I don’t know if he gathered any capable of killing him. Actually, I don’t have much.”

  He waited until she turned her gaze to the door as if re-considering the entire conversation. “Tell me what you have. In certain circumstances we’ve more flexibility than the police.”

  “The day before yesterday my parents and I went through his house. Something … the atmosphere … the tone … it was off.”

  “Anything missing? Tools? Jewelry?”

  “A box of candy,” she laughed. “The police inquired and inspected for all the usual valuable things. My parents are working on an inventory of James’ antique cuff link collection but the rooms weren’t tossed.” She tilted her head as if questioning her word choice.

  “Go on.”

  “Uncle James always took candy as a hostess gift to parties. He was due at a party an hour or less after the official time of death. He’d told Mother a few days before his gift would be maple sugar candies. Not a sign of the box.”

  “Did your mother happen to see it earlier in the day?”

  “Negative. Her phone conversation wasn’t enough to override the accidental drowning finding.”

  “Business partner?”

  “Questioned by the detectives. Solid alibi, in meetings with several witnesses.” She pushed one hand through sculpted mahogany hair. “Am I delusional?”

  He ignored her question and pulled a case intake form out of his desk drawer. “Let’s start with the basics. I need names, dates, addresses, and everything you ever might put in an ‘after action’ report.�
�

  A few questions sent her searching in the depths of her bag for addresses and phone numbers but for the most part she sat calm and alert, the same demeanor valued in a soldier.

  “My partner will make the final decision if we can take your case. And it won’t come cheap.” Brad figured they’d take it. Their only complicated case — Carlstead — finished off clean before noon yesterday. The man was in custody and facing a list of charges by two states and the federal government.

  “Sooner is better than later.” She fumbled once more in her purse and handed him a business card. “My parents have keys to his place and promised me they wouldn’t move anything out for another week.”

  “We’ll get back to you within twenty-four hours.” He took a second glance at her card, tucked it under the clip holding his notes together, and pushed to his feet. “Hotel management in Bemidji. Do you like the far North?”

  “It’s good.” She stepped through the front area of the building. “My fiancé works with Minnesota Forestry.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  She shook her head and launched into a brief description of when and where she’d met Benjamin Larson.

  They stood in front of her car, the years without contact evaporated. Brad could still picture her at the end of an exercise keeping up with the best.

  “Call me.” She reached up and pulled him into a warm hug. “Don’t lose any more body parts.”

  “Tried it. Didn’t like it.” He wrapped his good arm around her for a farewell squeeze.

  Her hands held his face for a kiss before he could blink.

  • • •

  “One more trip might finish this project.” Laura eased down one end of three long metal shelves to the pile already on the tarp. “You’ve saved me a lot of time.”

  “Avoiding strained muscles was one intention. Although I’ll be quick to admit the chance of legal action reduces with moving inanimate objects instead of patients.” Kathy Miller released her hold and stood. “Have you met your upstairs neighbors yet?”