EVERYTHING BEGAN WITH THE barn, so I drove back to the farm. Neglect was becoming more apparent. In late March, after the month roared out as a lion, I'd had some shingles replaced. They gleamed light gray against the much darker older ones.
Around the side steps, tall dandelions were ready to spread to the rest of the yard. They were almost as tall as a pile of flagstones my father had planned to place near the back porch.
In prior years I'd asked the people who mowed the lawn to put down some weed killer. Since I had a few weeks of unemployment earlier this year, I hadn't done that yet. I had meant to ask Ambrose to take care of it, but kept forgetting.
I had a quick image of my father's face as he picked me up off the short sidewalk after I skinned my knee when I was about six. Tears prickled, and I looked to the barn. I needed to focus on it.
The pickup sat in the hot sun, so I put down the windows before I got out to walk around the barn.
There were a bunch of broken stalks of corn behind the building, but sheriff's deputies clomping around could have done that. The leaves on the stalks were withered, so they'd been down for at least a few days. The killer could easily have trampled them.
"But no one thought to look," I murmured.
I had hoped to find tire tracks, but the soil hadn't been moist. I saw vestiges of tire marks, but the tracks were broken by footprints and what looked like – maybe – broom marks. Had someone tried to cover vehicle tracks?
I slid open the back barn door and inhaled the stale air. I imagined I smelled the mix of the cows Dad had kept there, tractor oil, and rotting hay. He never let it rot, that was only in the months after his death, before Ambrose and I had it hauled out and shut the barn. Or thought we had shut it.
"None of those things are here," I said. "I want to know about now."
The light Syl had found was gone, and someone had made white circles around all the pieces of Velcro on the walls. I needed to ask Sheriff Gallagher what he made of the lights. Surely it buttressed the idea that someone had been in the barn. A lot.
With the front door closed, the dim light and stuffy air oppressed me. I walked through the barn and slid the front door partly open, reminding myself to get some kind of lock.
For some reason, I usually walked to the left to get to the back of the building. Probably because Dad always did.
Left was closer to the road, right nearer the corn field. For now, I walked right.
Bunches of tire tracks littered the ground, but I remembered that sheriff's cars and the coroner's van had parked on this side of the barn.
I felt so frustrated. No one had cared to hunt for tire tracks or anything else. They were so sure Ambrose had killed Peter Frost.
I circled the barn and then stood facing it, from the back. In irritation, I kicked at the dirt.
I almost missed the thin piece of string. Or was it string? I stooped to pick it up and smelled it. A mild mix of black powder and sulfur emanated from it.
A firecracker fuse, which must have been overlooked as the murderers packed up after they killed Peter Frost. I felt confident in thinking this, but a fuse wouldn't convince Gallagher.
That settled it. I had to make Nelson and Harlan tell me what they knew.
BUT I WOULD HAVE TO find them first. With only 7,500 people, River's Edge isn't too spread out. I drove through downtown and a couple of the more modest neighborhoods. Nelson's car wasn't in sight.
They were supposed to call me to arrange a time to meet at the hardware store for delivery of my fireworks. I didn't feel very patient.
Waiting wouldn't go any faster if I sat in the diner or moped somewhere else, so I headed for the Chamber of Commerce office on the square. I heaved one of the large pots, two bags of topsoil, and some delightfully smelly organic fertilizer from the back of the pickup. It felt good to work.
After about twenty minutes, I realized I still hadn't bought any bedding plants.
I stuck my head inside the office and said I'd be back in a few minutes. Then I drove toward the hardware store. Tomorrow – no ifs, ands, or buts – I'd head to the greenhouse outside of town and buy several flats of annuals.
For a change, good fortune appeared. Before my keys were out of the pickup's ignition, Nelson pulled into the parking spot next to mine.
I walked to his car, and he got out with a white plastic bag that sported the hardware store logo. Smart. Anyone seeing him would think he had something to return.
"So, Mel, make sure you don't leave these in a hot car."
I looked in his car as I took the bag. "No Harlan today?"
Nelson grinned. "He's doing business in another state."
It took me a second to realize he meant Harlan was buying fireworks in Missouri to sell in River's Edge. "Ah, inventory replacement."
Nelson looked momentarily confused, then asked a question of his own. "I heared you told the sheriff you found some black powder in your barn."
I felt like adding "and a fuse," but didn't. "Can't be sure why it was on the floor, but my dad hadn't kept anything like that in the barn for years. Seemed odd."
Nelson got back in his car. I shifted the bag of fireworks to my other hand and looked toward his open driver's side window.
"I appreciate the goods." I hoped he'd say more. When he didn't, I asked, "You have any ideas about how the powder got in the barn?"
"Kind of quiet out there, isn't it?" He stared at his steering wheel, one hand on each side of it. "At your parents' old place. Seems somebody would be noticed, they was in your barn."
If I had scripted comments for him, they would not have been these. Nelson seemed to have signaled that he hadn't been in the barn. Would an innocent man bother to do that? Or maybe he wanted to figure out if our barn was now a good place to stash his illegal products.
"It is quiet. In fact, I'm going to stop by the Donovans' this afternoon to see if they noticed extra traffic near our farm."
Nelson nodded and started his car. "I don't think Ambrose done it."
After he left, I walked into the store feeling confused. Had Nelson tried to say he knew Ambrose hadn't killed Peter Frost? Or had he been fishing to see what I thought about the barn and the murder?
As I entered the store, Andy's voice had its usual whine. "Stooper said you might need more plants, so I set a few aside for you."
"Gee, that's really nice. What do I owe you?"
"If you want all of them, fifteen dollars."
I took a twenty dollar bill from the pocket of my jeans and handed it to him.
Rather than ring up the sale, he walked with me toward the back of the store. "I'll point 'em out to you and then give you your change."
The lawn and garden supplies and plants are in a large room with a door that leads to the outside of the hardware store. All seasonal products are kept in it in their turn, so Andy had no need to guide me.
I figured he planned to get five dollars in change from the cash drawer and ring up a sale for less than fifteen dollars. A tidy profit for five minutes' work. More accurately, theft.
The plants showed signs of past dryness, but the now damp soil made me think the plants wouldn't die. I picked up a tray of geraniums, daisies, and a few marigolds that I'd thought were sold out. I'd definitely have to get better plants from the greenhouse.
I stopped at the cash register counter, and Andy handed me a five-dollar bill. "You still plantin' the square?" he asked.
"Doing my best." I began to open the glass exit door with my hip, but turned toward him. "Thanks for letting Nelson know about me."
Andy's brow furrowed. "You hush about that."
I INTENDED TO HEAD to the square, but before I reached it, I pulled over to call Sheriff Gallagher. He took my call. I'd half expected him to tell me he would only talk to Charlotte Dickey.
"Thanks for talking to me. I wondered if there were any fingerprints near where the lights were hung in our barn."
At first I thought he had hung up. Then, he said, "Melanie, now that Ambrose has been arrested, it's a very formal process. A process you are not part of."
"I understand, but…"
"No buts, Melanie. Now, you want to tell me something, you can call. But I won't be passing information to anyone except Ambrose's attorney."
I managed to thank him before I hung up.
I FINISHED PLACING planters in front of the pharmacy and Mason's diner, and then I went home to clean up a bit and tend to Mister Tibbs. She has caught onto my schedule and does not like short visits that are simply to let her potty.
We finished her business and started toward the stairs to the apartment. She strained to go toward the truck.
I stopped. She sat on the ground and thumped her tail expectantly.
I tried to frown at her, but couldn't. "Okay, you can ride in the truck while I visit the Donovans' place."
Her leash was fastened, so I knew she wouldn't wander too far. I ran up the steps, retrieved my purse, and grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge. When I came down, she stood from where she had been lying on cool dirt and began walking to the truck.
I spoke aloud to her as we drove. "How long do you think it took Peter Frost to die? That's the crux of it all. If someone stabbed him at about nine in the morning, maybe he bled internally until right before Ambrose got there."
Mister Tibbs yawned and made a sort of squeaky sound. I turned my head slightly so she and her blanket were in view. She lay on her back with her feet in the air.
"You aren't going to sleep, are you? You wanted to come."
We were nearing our farm, so I slowed and stared as we went by. It looked maddeningly calm. There should be a big sign that said, "Ambrose didn't do it."
I turned into the Donovans' driveway. Their barn was behind the house instead of across from it, so they had a front lawn with shrubs and flower beds. Three beds overflowed with day lilies, daisies, zinnias, petunias, and hostas. I hadn't remembered them as flower people.
I had considered calling, but if they said I couldn't come by there would be no alternative. I'd known the family all my life, though their children were quite a bit older than I. Whenever a neighbor needed help and several families came together, Mrs. Donovan always made a huge vat of mashed potatoes with a lot of butter and milk.
The front door opened as I started up the steps.
Mrs. Donovan looked serious for a couple seconds, and then she broke into a broad smile. It showed perfectly spaced teeth, not what I'd remembered, so probably dentures. "Come in Melanie. I thought we'd see you before now."
I didn't want to say I'd been told she knew nothing, so I smiled and said, "I hated to bother you."
The living room was unexpected. Gone were dated shag carpet and overstuffed furniture. The floor sported blue and white tile, and the walls were a bright yellow. The style imitated magazine-perfect country chic, complete with a replica of an old washstand with a white bowl and pitcher.
"This is beautiful."
Mr. Donovan walked in from the dining room. "Should be. Cost two arms and four legs."
They were in their late seventies or early eighties. I remembered them as a bit overweight, always wearing faded denim complemented by flannel shirts.
Today they were both almost slim, and Mrs. Donovan wore a pale blue shirtwaist with a chunky navy blue necklace. Mr. Donovan had on newly pressed jeans and a collared beige shirt. Neither would make the cover of Vogue, but they had been transformed.
When I said nothing, they both laughed. Mr. Donovan said, "We won twenty thousand on a scratch-off ticket."
Mrs. Donovan continued as she gestured to a dark blue armchair, one of two by the window. She took its mate. "All our lives we saved for a rainy day. We decided to spend that money as if it was a sunny day."
"Course, I wouldn't've done pastels," he said, pulling an oak Windsor chair around to face his wife and me.
I sat. "It's lovely."
"Every afternoon, well almost," Mr. Donovan said, "we get out of our farmin' clothes and into something nice."
I smiled. "It suits you."
Mrs. Donovan stopped smiling. "Listen to us go on. You're here because Ambrose is accused of killing that ill-tempered Peter Frost."
"Yes. The sheriff's people said you didn't notice anything that day, but I wondered if you'd seen anything odd in the days preceding his murder."
"Since we know Ambrose would never have done that," she began.
He interrupted, "Unless Frost attacked him first."
Mrs. Donovan leaned toward me. "Don't interrupt dear. We couldn't come up with anything except noticing more traffic sometimes."
"After dark," Mr. Donovan said.
"Mostly," she continued, "we thought people started down the road and realized they'd missed the turn that would get them back to the Henry's place. She's got honey bees now and, oh my, do they make some good honey."
"Lip smackin' good." Mr. Donovan recognized that he'd cut in on his wife's story, and winked at me. "Thing was, it was usually after dark. We thought they were turning around in your folks' driveway."
"But you didn't notice any activity in the barn?" I asked.
They shook their heads, and she added, "Course to really see over that rise, you have to go upstairs. We never had any cause to look."
"And we have that new big-screen TV in what used to be the breakfast room, off the kitchen." Mrs. Donovan nodded sideways toward her husband. "One of us needs it turned up loud."
I sat back in the comfortable chair. "Right after Mr. Frost filed suit against Ambrose and me, he'd stop over at our farm. You probably remember I asked the county attorney to tell him to stay away."
"Far as I know," Mr. Donovan said, "he mostly did. I saw him by the barn 'bout a month ago. Guess he'd walked over. I pulled in. He said he'd seen a green car there, but when he walked up, it left."
"A green car," I mused.
"Now that I think about it," Mr. Donovan added, "I didn't meet it coming toward our place, and I didn't see a lot of dust ahead. You know, heading into town."
Mrs. Donovan frowned. "You mean you think he lied?"
He shrugged. "Can't say. If there was a car, it had headed into town at least two or three minutes before. It was right dry, and no car was kickin' up dust ahead of me."
"Odd that he would walk down there," I murmured. "At his age."
"Pish posh," Mrs. Donovan said. "Ask me how far we walk when we go to the very back field."
I grinned at her. "Point taken." I sobered. "If he walked over there, especially if he stayed off the road, he could've gotten to our farm without being noticed."
"But why?" she asked.
"I keep thinking someone had stuff stored in the barn, maybe entering it through the back after dark. Maybe Frost was, I don't know, checking because he'd seen someone. Or maybe he watched the barn to be sure the sheriff didn't get tipped off."
Mrs. Donovan said, "Oh, my," as her husband said, "Wouldn't put it past him. Ornery SOB."
I sat quietly for several seconds, staring at the pretty flooring.
"Drugs, you think?" Mr. Donovan asked.
"My working theory is fireworks."
"Well, dad gum," he said.
"We did hear more firecrackers than in other years. You know how it is around July. Kids set them off. Although," Mrs. Donovan paused, "I don't think we've heard them the last week or so."
I refused an offer of lemonade, which Mrs. Donovan lamented she should have offered as soon as I arrived, and drove back to town. I hadn't thought of an absence of something as important, but if the barn had stored fireworks, there certainly wouldn't be any to shoot off now.
The more I thought about it, the more certain I became that Peter Frost had earned his extra cash working with whoever used the barn. But what did he do to get himself killed?