I SLEPT FITFULLY and finally got out of bed at eight Thursday morning, late for me. Mister Tibbs and I went down the steps for a quick potty trip. I forgot to feed her when we got back upstairs, that is until she tripped me as I walked toward my bedroom.
I showered and dressed, thinking about what I'd found in Frost's house and wishing I had someone to talk to about it. Even though Sandi said she hadn't written the nasty piece about Ambrose's hearing, I didn't feel too friendly toward anyone at the South County News.
Ambrose would howl louder than Sheriff Gallagher if I told him about the bank statements. That left Stooper, maybe. Or maybe Syl. He was some hotshot analyst.
I had no more work to do at Syl's until he thought of another project, but that didn't mean I couldn't stop by. I put on jeans, but wore a light blue cotton top rather than one of the various tee shirts I usually sported.
He's a friend, I reminded myself. You aren't going to his place for a date.
Syl's shiny pick-up sat in his driveway, and I pulled in behind it. His office was on the opposite side of his house. Unless he looked out a window, he'd know I was around only if I rang the doorbell.
When he hadn't answered in thirty seconds or so, I sat on one of his porch chairs. I knew from past experience that he talked on the phone a lot. Sure enough, after another minute he opened the front door and gestured that he would be out when he was off the phone.
I stared at his lawn, trying not to pay attention to a spot that really could use some reseeding. My mind went back to our farm.
The idea of someone using the barn to store fireworks was so firmly rooted in my brain, maybe I had overlooked something. Same thing with Frost being paid to not snitch on whoever used it. That was my idea. Maybe it was stupid.
I reminded myself that the two men who carried tubs out of the cornfield had been very real. But the contents didn't have to be fireworks. It could have been cigarettes or marijuana.
I didn't think there was much profit in anything else so easily transported. Well, jewels or gold coins, of course, but I hadn't heard about any burglaries.
Nelson and his cousin sold fireworks, but I still thought them too dull-witted to have used my parents' barn without detection. Besides, lots of other people in South County could use extra income. Almost every farmer had taken a hit the last couple years because the price of corn was down.
I couldn't think of where to go with a list of suspects based on needing money. Though, the more I thought about it, there were lots of options.
Starting pay at the meat packing plant was twelve dollars an hour – not a lot, especially if you had kids. Sandi and Ryan barely got above minimum wage. Shirley probably made more than they did. I smiled. Shirley could be a good source of ideas about who was in a big financial pinch.
Syl's screen door opened, and he came onto the porch carrying two bottles of water. "You don't usually just visit."
I held out my hand for the cool drink. "True. I'm hoping you won't charge me consulting rates for a conversation."
He sat across from me and smiled wryly. "You did fertilize my tomato plants for free."
"Ah, yes." I took a sip of water. "I have a theory about what brought Peter Frost to our barn, but no way to prove it had anything to do with getting him killed."
I laid out my Frost-as-extortionist theory and mentioned the cash deposits.
Syl frowned. "Damn, I hope those bankers aren't so loose-lipped about my finances."
"I, um, think it was a combination of Frost being dead and Melissa Martin knowing Ambrose pretty well."
"Sure. Not the point, anyway. Those deposits weren't big enough to make anyone pay attention to them. Still, you can tell your brother's lawyer you heard Frost had more cash than usual."
"I can ask her if she's subpoenaing Frost's financial records. Charlotte Dickey, that's his lawyer, might ask why I know that. I can say I heard it in the diner, and the person doesn't want their name brought in."
Syl thought for a few seconds. "We aren't talking about hiding the kind of money you don't want the IRS or Drug Enforcement to know about, but Frost could've gotten more than he put in the bank."
"You mean he might have some hidden?"
"Worth looking for more."
I hadn't planned on going back to Frost's place, but what Syl said made sense. "Hmm. I'll have to think about where to look."
Syl pointed his water bottle in my direction. "I would've expected you to jump up and run out there."
I smiled briefly. "I usually schedule forays after dark. Besides… Oh, I forgot one thing."
"Only one?"
"Last night, as I left Frost's place, two men pulled onto our property."
Syl sat up straighter. "What time was that?"
"About twelve-thirty this morning."
"And what? Did they get out of their car?"
"They did." I described their run into the cornfield and retrieval of what seemed to be heavy plastic tubs."
"Damn." He stared at one of the trellises for a moment. "Car? Truck? Did you recognize it?"
"Car. American, I think, four door, not an SUV. Dark color. I thought black or dark green, but…" I stopped. Why did the idea of a green car seem important?
I looked at Syl. "You know the Donovans? They live just east of my parents' place."
He shook his head. "If I didn't see you and Stooper or grab coffee at the diner, I could go two weeks without talking to anyone in River's Edge."
"Farmers, of course. When I visited them a few days ago, Mr. Donovan said he saw a green car in our yard once, but it was gone when he went down to see who drove it. Frost was there, too, and I guess Mr. Donovan thought Frost was checking on the car, too."
"Might be a coincidence."
"You can kind of tell the place is vacant. Could've been someone driving by, who stopped to see if it was for sale." I half-shrugged. "Or maybe whoever drove into the barn from the back used that car. I've been thinking truck, but it could have been a car."
"You said it looked like boxes or something else flat had been stored in there. Did it look like a lot of them? That might take a truck."
"Good point, Mr. Insurance Analyst."
"Mr. Insurance Data System Designer."
"Seems the same to me." When Syl frowned slightly, I said, "I more or less know the difference."
"You might just pass on the information about the car and big tubs to your friendly sheriff."
I snorted.
"I'm serious. They probably have pictures of cars of varied models. Or online links, nowadays. Maybe something will look like the car you saw."
"Something to think about. I figure it's fifty-fifty he'd arrest me for being on Frost's property, which is the only way I could have seen the guys without them seeing me."
"You don't want me telling you what to do, but I wouldn't be much of a friend if I didn't tell you to stop looking into this. Guys who come at midnight to retrieve what's probably stolen goods? You don't need them looking for you."
"I'll be careful."
Syl shook his head and made to stand.
Then I remembered I hadn't told him about Hal's book. Hadn't talked about it with anyone, since I was avoiding Sandi.
"One more thing." I outlined the plot, which only an obtuse local reader would not recognize as similar to my parents' accident.
Syl was silent for several seconds. "Does it matter? It does if it's true, of course, but how would you prove it? And don't those pages seem to be a motive to murder Frost?"
"Oh, crud." My stomach roiled. I decided not to tell Syl that Granger had read those pages.
WHEN I LEFT SYL'S, I felt marginally better for having talked to someone. Especially since his point about Hal's book might be a reason to low-key talking to people about it. Marginally better, but still unsure how to prove Ambrose's innocence.
I drove to my place to get Mister Tibbs and then toward our farm. I rolled my shoulders, hoping to shake off my sense of melancholy. Not that looking at the house and barn would be a cure for melancholy.
I had no desire to make another trip to Frost's the day before the Fourth of July. I tried telling myself that, if Ambrose and Sharon were having a barbeque on the Fourth, I should try to relax, too.
As a kid I'd celebrated in the park by the river all day on the Fourth. The Rotary Club had a Pancake Breakfast, and the Lions Club sponsored games.
Ambrose stopped letting me play opposite him in the water balloon toss when I deliberately broke one on his head. At that time, I hadn't appreciated that teenage boys wanted to be cool without having water dripping down the back of their shirts.
I pulled into our farm yard and looked from the house to barn. Nothing appeared any different in daylight. Maybe I'd trek into the corn to see where corn had been trampled from storing the tubs.
I pulled to the back of the barn. If someone from the sheriff's office came by or, God forbid, reporters, I didn't want to announce my presence.
Mister Tibbs jumped out of the pickup. She circled herself and looked at me as if to ask "are you sure I'm not supposed to be on a leash?"
I smiled, and she took off.
Until finding her, I'd been around tons of dogs, but none was truly mine. The closest was a German Shepherd that followed my dad from chore to chore for years.
I'd reached the front of the barn and shut my eyes. That dog's name was, appropriately, Buddy. He died about two months before my parents did. People can move on, but Buddy would have been lost without my dad. Still, I wished I'd had Buddy after Mom and Dad died.
I opened my eyes and looked at the house. It hit me that I hadn't gone in because of Ken Brownberg's advice to stay mostly off the property until the hearing about Frost's claim on the farm.
Frost was dead. Before I looked in the corn, I would go inside my parents' house.
Since turning in my key to the South County News when Hal fired me, I'd had only three on my ring – my apartment, the pickup, and my parents' home. I had planned to enter in triumph, with Ambrose of course, when Frost's lawsuit was tossed out.
Who needed a judge's decision? I felt almost lightheaded as I walked up the steps.
As soon as I went in, I knew something wasn't right. My ears went on high alert, but I heard no one.
The smells. Cooking smells. Not baking, maybe hotdogs.
I stood in the door and looked at the living room and into the kitchen. Ambrose and I had moved out all the furniture when Frost filed his breach-of-contract suit. Sitting in the corner on the right, near the hall leading to the bedrooms, was a chaise lounge chair.
I wasn't afraid. Or so I told myself. No one would be in the house, the place had had too much law enforcement around recently.
I let my eyes slowly rove the room. No dust balls in the corners. There should have been. No spider webs graced the corners of the ceiling.
Mister Tibbs pawed at the screen door and I opened it so she could join me.
She padded behind me as I walked into the kitchen. A camping burner with a can of Sterno fuel sat in the sink.
Someone is living here.
On the far end of the Formica counter was an open coffee can. It was full of cigarette butts. My mother would have had a fit to think of someone smoking in her house.
I ignored the door to the cellar where my mother had stored preserves, and walked through the living room and into the largest bedroom. Two blankets sat under the window, neatly folded. Mister Tibbs bounded onto them and sat, wagging her tail.
From the hall, a voice said, "Don't turn around."
I stood still. From the window I could see my pickup and part of the barn. No one would know if this man shot me and ran.
I felt certain it was a man. He seemed to be trying to disguise his voice by speaking so low his voice sounded like a growl.
He cleared his throat. "That closet on your right. Go sideways. Don't turn around! Don't even think about it."
I couldn't think about much. My heart was beating so hard and fast I almost felt dizzy. In my peripheral vision, I saw Mister Tibbs cock her head. She was looking at the man.
What if he hurt her? My surge of anger was so strong I almost wheeled to face him, but I stopped myself just in time.
Think, think. Even if the man left now, I knew nothing to identify him. I shut my eyes, and a cigarette popped into my brain. He smelled like cigarettes.
After the few steps to the door, I said, "Now what?"
The person backed up a step or two. "Open the door, and get in there. Don't look back! Pull the door shut when you're in."
"Don't hurt my dog."
"You do what I say, and I won't."
I opened the closet door with my right hand, sidled into the small space, and pulled the door shut. As it clicked shut, Mister Tibbs barked several times.
"Quiet, girl."
"Shut up! Both of you."
I stayed quiet. I heard Mister Tibbs' nails on the hardwood floor. She must have jumped off the blankets.
"You stay in there 'til I tell you to come out."
The man left the room, and I heard him in the kitchen. He made no effort to be quiet. When I heard metal clank on metal, it occurred to me that he was packing up his supplies.
Mister Tibbs sniffed near the base of the closet.
I whispered, "It'll be okay, girl."
Even if the man removed all his things, there had to be fingerprints around the house. I hoped I'd be alive when the sheriff found them.
The sheriff! I slid my phone out of the pocket of my jeans. Whoever this was, he had the brains of a newborn calf. Leaving me with a phone marked him as a total amateur.
But amateur what? Fireworks seller? Burglar? I shivered. Murderer?
I ran my fingers over the phone until I was certain which buttons were for 9-1-1. Then I covered the receiver with my thumb so no one could hear the sheriff's dispatcher talk to me.
"Nine-one-one. What's your emergency?"
I said nothing. From having accidentally butt-dialed the dispatchers a couple of times, I knew they had to call back if you disconnected.
"Sir, ma'am? Can I help you?"
The voice was that of a woman. I tried to picture her face. She'd been hired only last year. I pictured someone in her mid-forties with a severe bun and very starched uniform collar.
"Please say something."
I blew into the phone.
"Do you need assistance? What is your emergency?"
If only I were a Star Trek telepath. I realized she'd have to be, too, and almost giggled.
I pressed the end button.
Oh, crud! I needed to mute the ringer! The light of the phone let me start the process. Just before I finished, the phone gave half a ring.
Running footsteps came from the kitchen.
"You bitch! You have a phone!" He stopped outside the closet.
"Yes, but I didn't answer it."
Mister Tibbs had apparently left the bedroom while I dialed. She now followed him into the room. She didn't bark. He must have made friends with her. Would it be harder to kill a dog you petted?
He had forgotten to lower his voice, but did it now. "I'm standing behind this door. I'm going to open it an inch. You keep your eyes shut and slide that phone out on the floor."
I pushed the phone's Off button, so he couldn't see my last call. "Okay. Whatever you say."
The door creaked as he opened it. I needed to put oil on the hinges. Who gives a damn about hinges?!
I stooped and pushed the phone out. I leaned over, hoping to see the guy's shoes, but all I saw was thick tread. They must be boots. So, probably not an accountant or doctor.
Mister Tibbs gave a small yip.
"Hush, dog."
"Her name is Mister Tibbs."
He pushed the door shut and walked out of the room.
I sat on the closet floor. Maybe knowing a dog's name would keep someone from killing it.
My phone let someone see my number if I called them. My big hope was that because the nine-one-one call ended, someone at the sheriff's office would come to the farm.
First they'd probably go to my apartment. Then they might call the diner. They had to call until they found who made the emergency call, right?
The man walked back into the room. "Stay in the goddamned closet." He left.
The front door slammed. It didn't make sense to come out so quickly. He might be back.
Within thirty seconds or so, he came up the back steps again. Slowly. It sounded as if he pulled something heavy behind him.
What would he be pulling? If he was clearing out of the house, he wouldn't be bringing more in.
I hadn't seen a car. Where had the guy been? The door that led from the kitchen to the cellar popped into my brain.
He came back into the room, still tugging something behind him. Something coarse.
Nuts! Just to the right of the outside steps was that pile of flagstones. Damn, he wants to block the closet so I can't get out!
I got on my knees and looked out the crack at the bottom of the door. Sure enough, I could just barely see the bottom edge of one of the heavy stones. They probably weighed twenty-five pounds or more. It had to make a long scratch on the floor.
"If those are my dad's stones, you're paying to refinish the floor." What a stupid thing to say.
"Shut up, bitch. Stay in there!"
Even if he continued to stack all the stones, I could probably get out. It'd be well more than one-hundred pounds, but I was tough.
When the man left the room, I blindly touched the closet walls to gauge its exact size. The closet was too long for me to brace my feet on the back wall to push, but I had on my boots. A lot more traction than sandals.
He made four more trips, each time breathing hard. Mister Tibbs wasn't with him for the fifth. Maybe she went outside. That would be good.
I didn't notice the cigarette smell as much. Could he have taken off a jacket? Or maybe I was getting used to the odor.
In the low voice, he said, "Listen. You stay in the damn closet. I got some stuff to do, then I'm going. You come out, I'll strangle your dog."
"I'm not coming out."
Strangle! If he'd been nice to Mister Tibbs, she'd go right to him. I'd have to stay in the closet until I hadn't heard him for a good while.
How would I know when he left? I hadn't heard a car. Duh. If it had been parked well down the road, I wouldn't have seen it. One thing for sure, it wasn't in the barn.
I could hear him moving around the house, but not quickly. What could he be doing? With a sinking feeling, I realized he was probably wiping everything, getting rid of fingerprints.
The side door banged a few times as he went in and out. Finally, five minutes had gone by since I thought I'd heard him in the house. How long should I wait?
I still hadn't heard a car start.
And where the hell is the sheriff?
After two or three minutes more, I called, "Mister Tibbs!"
No bark responded, so I tried again. Still nothing.
"Oh my God! He took Mister Tibbs!!"
I leaned my back against the door, planted my feet firmly, and pushed. Nothing.
"You idiot, turn the handle."
I jiggled the knob. There was no lock, but the stones kept the door firmly shut. Sweat ran down the side of my right cheek.
I'd have to keep the door knob twisted to keep the latch knob out of the switch plate in the wall. That meant standing.
Leverage when I stood was much less than when I sat, but I kept pushing with my shoulder and calling for Mister Tibbs. The door barely opened an inch. It was enough so I could let go of the knob while I continued to push.
Five minutes later, even my back was sweaty. Tears tickled my cheeks. I rested by sitting on the floor, putting my head on my knees, and massaging my neck.
As I stood, the sound of a car on gravel came into the yard. I yelled, "I'm in here! In the closet!"
No car door seemed to open. "Damn, if they have the air conditioning on, they won't hear me!"
The car seemed to back up. Rage and fear alternated, and I screamed. Surely they'd hear that.
The car kept backing up. Then it stopped, and a door opened.
Now I really was crying. They heard me!
But, they hadn't. They'd heard Mister Tibbs. She was coming closer, barking nonstop.
A man's voice said, "Whoa, girl. Whoa."
Mister Tibbs ran up the side steps and kept barking.
"Okay, I'm coming," the man said. Not the same man who had locked me in the closet.
I rubbed my hand across my cheeks to wipe tears. When the man seemed to be near the steps, I yelled, "In here! I'm in the closet!"
"Melanie?" He jiggled the house door, but my keeper had apparently locked it.
"Newt? Deputy Harmon?"
"Yeah. You're stuck? What's going on?"
"Just come in and get me out."
"Is there a key out here?"
Oh, crud. Now I know how someone got in. "If it's not taped under a bottom step, use a crowbar, or break a window." My voice was getting hoarse from yelling.
The sound of my voice had quieted Mister Tibbs. I remembered she'd seen Newt several times. He'd even petted her one day down by the river.
Newt came back up the steps. "I'm gonna break one of the panes on the door."
Glass tinkled and he must have reached in, because I could hear him fumbling with the door handle lock. The door had a deadbolt, but whoever had been using the house must not have taken the time to lock it from the outside.
That was lucky. If the deadbolt had been locked from the outside, Newt would have to break down the door. I swore I'd never hide a key again.
The door opened. Mister Tibbs ran in and came to my room.
"Hey, dog. Come back here."
"I'm in here, Newt. In the closet."
He walked into the room and stopped. "Somebody put you in there?"
"Gee, you think?" I told myself not to be rude to a rescuer.
"I'll get you out." His radio crackled. "I need somebody else at the Perkins' place. Mel must have surprised a burglar or something."