Chapter 13
Noxious weeds are like unsavory people: even
in the most convivial company of flowers and
herbs, they emerge to sow seeds of ugliness.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
“It was an old nudist camp back in the day,” said Abby. She pointed to the sign at the commune’s entrance as she steered the Jeep toward the wide metal gate and braked.
“Tarweed Lodge,” Jack read aloud. “Nudist camp, you say. Do we have to disrobe to go in?”
Abby wrinkled her nose. “Good heavens, no.” She pointed to a large chain and padlock and the wooden sign wired to the gate. White painted letters provided visitor instructions: BUZZ THREE TIMES FOR AN ATTENDANT.
Jack jumped out of the Jeep. “I’ve got this.”
As she watched Jack tap the buzzer, Abby’s thoughts turned to the locked gate, and she searched her recent memory for a time when the gate had ever been closed, much less locked. Abby leaned out her driver’s side window. The scent of pine and juniper permeated the hot mountain air. She searched to see where the buzzer wires, secured to a branch of a nearby juniper tree and looped to a pole, led. It appeared that the wires had been strung to other trees all the way up the gravel driveway, until they disappeared behind a roof strut of the first of several rustic cabins. Her gaze swept back to rest on Jack.
He stood with his backside to Abby. He had plunged his hands into his cargo shorts pockets and was shifting from one foot to the other while he waited. Someone had to let them in. When no one showed, Jack strolled back to the car and stood by Abby’s car window. “You might as well cut the engine,” he said. “I don’t see Tom or, for that matter, anybody. We could be here awhile.” He slipped off one of his tribal-colored sandals and shook out a small stone. “Definitely the wrong shoes to wear in the woods,” he muttered.
Abby turned off the ignition and left the keys in place. After leaving the Jeep, she strolled into deep shade, curled a thumb into the hem of her white cotton shirt, and pulled it from where it stuck to her damp waist and back. “I’m wilting, even here in the shade. Tom said he would meet us at the gate, didn’t he?”
Jack’s brows knitted. “Yes. But maybe he had to get permission or something. I’m not exactly sure how commune protocol works.”
“Well, it seems to have evolved into more of a cult than a commune, with a bunch of new rules and restrictions,” said Abby. She wondered how much access to the place they would be given. When previously she had come here with Fiona, the gate had never locked, and the buzzer hadn’t worked. “Listen, Jack, once we’re inside, take your time talking with Tom. And don’t mind me if I disappear for a few minutes.”
Jack looked at her askance. “Why? Abby, what are you planning?” Before she could reply, he said, “Don’t make me have to track you down. I’ll be worried.”
“See? That’s what I mean. You needn’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I just need a little time to nose around. There’s been a lot of speculation about what goes on up here.”
A male voice called out to them, and Abby glanced over her shoulder toward the driveway. Down the packed dirt path strolled two men and Tom, dressed in a surfer shirt, jeans, and well-worn construction boots.
“You found me,” said Tom. “Hello, Abby. Last time I saw you here was a couple of months back, with Fiona.” He managed a weak smile, and Abby returned it. He appeared hollow-eyed and haggard as he waited behind the gate while his sandy-haired companion and the other man, who had a gray goatee, proceeded to open it.
“Two people to open a farm gate?” asked Jack.
“Rules,” said Tom.
The man with the goatee pulled a rolled-up flyer from his back pocket and handed it to Abby, but Abby was watching Jack size up Tom. After a moment, Jack opened his arms and drew his bereaved brother-in-law into a bear hug.
Glancing at the flyer, Abby skimmed past the image of a basket of vegetables to the address of their local farmers’ market and a booth number, where the commune sold its vegetables and herbs. It also listed Smooth Your Groove’s address under the image of a cornucopia of berries and other fruits. The rest of the page featured quotes from satisfied customers. Abby smiled as she realized no surnames were used, and the given names listed appeared to be those of commune residents. It just seemed bizarre that some marketing genius at the commune had thought up the idea of flyers for visitors and potential customers, whom they now locked out.
Following Jack and Tom up the incline, Abby stayed out of their conversation and wondered how she was going to slip away for some serious snooping. After weighing a couple of options, she finally surmised that it would just be easiest to wait for an opportunity.
“You okay?” Jack asked Tom when the men were a few yards from the fork in the path. Abby knew the right side of the fork led to Tom’s van. After a few more steps, she spotted it parked roughly sixty feet away, in the shade of a mixed grove of pine, redwood, and oak trees.
Tom shrugged. “I’ve seen better days.”
Jack put his hand on his brother-in-law’s shoulder and said softly, “Then why stay here? Fiona told me how much the commune had changed from the cooperative community it used to be. And even Abby here thinks it’s become a cult.”
Tom didn’t reply. He thrust his hands into his jeans pockets and kept walking toward the fork.
When they reached the split and turned right, Tom’s commune companions parted company with them, taking the left side of the fork. Abby stared at them as they marched in lockstep like mechanized soldiers toward a long barnlike structure, which she recognized as the commune’s meeting hall. She wondered if they might even be former military.
Her worries that the staff might not respect Jack’s right to talk privately with Tom were unfounded. Soon the trio arrived at Tom’s rainbow-painted van. The giant driver’s door sported a faded peace symbol that hearkened back to the hippie counterculture movement of an era long past. The vehicle had been positioned on a platform of railroad ties and concrete blocks. A thick layer of pine needles covered the van and the two folding chairs positioned next to a stump near the van’s rear bumper. Abby surmised that during hot evenings, here in the dappled shade, Tom perhaps quietly enjoyed the cordial company of a friend. Or maybe not. She’d heard the group’s leader expected everyone to work long hours. Upon being paid, residents turned over their wages to the commune manager. She used the funds for the support and welfare of their small community.
Jack offered her one of the chairs. Abby declined.
“No, thanks. I want to see the garden. I know the way,” said Abby.
“You can’t do that,” Tom said.
“No worries.” Abby played it off lightly. “I’ve been here before.” She wasn’t about to hang around and argue. She walked away as quickly as possible to the garden, which was surrounded by cyclone fencing to keep out the deer and other wild animals. She gauged the time to be roughly two thirty, so they were approaching the hottest hours of the day. She certainly felt it. Panting and perspiring, she glanced back at Jack and Tom. She could see their lips moving but couldn’t hear a word. Elsewhere, the grounds remained eerily quiet. Even Tom’s escorts had disappeared. Where was everyone?
Abby sprinted along the length of the garden fence to the weather-beaten garden shed and peered around the corner. About a dozen men and an equal number of women were filing into the long building into which the other two men had gone. Abby recalled Fiona had once described the meeting hall as a place where the community held biblical lectures, meditation sessions, and initiations. Abby judged the distance from where she stood at the shed to the nearest window in the rear wall of the meeting hall to be about ten feet. Dodging the sight lines of people wouldn’t be all that difficult, because there were trees and bushes, but dogs were another matter. Still, she had neither heard barking since their arrival nor seen any tail waggers running around. Everyone had entered the hall now, except for one bull-sized, muscular man in a gray, sleeveless shirt. She couldn’t see his face. Abby took a deep breath. It was now or never. She sprinted through the stand of trees into a clearing.
Her heart raced. She crouched amid tall blue-blooming ceanothus and the yellow-flowering flannel bushes that grew up against the back of the building, hoping no one had seen her. She wished she’d worn a dark top with her navy crop pants. Hands against the wall, she rose from a squat to an upright position next to the window. Layers of dust had created a dense film on the glass. Blowing hard on the glass set off a cloud of dust, but the thick layer remained. The window probably hadn’t been washed in years. The opacity might have suited the nudists who hung out here back in the day, but if cleanliness was truly next to godliness, why hadn’t the windows been washed by these God-fearing, utopian-minded people?
Using the heel of her hand, Abby gently rubbed away the dirt from the bottom corner of the window and peered in. She spotted Hayden Marks approaching the dais at the front of the room. He wore a plain white kurta tunic with an ochre-colored clergy scarf and loose pajama-type pants over his tall, thin frame. He stopped short of the dais stairs, folded his hands in a prayerful pranam greeting before those gathered, and bowed slightly. He then strolled up the carpeted wooden stairs of the dais and assumed a seated position on a red-cushioned divan at the center. He looked out over the room and straight toward the back window. In a panic, Abby pushed back from the window. She dropped to a crouch. Could he see her? Did he see her? Had bright light streamed through the peek hole she’d made?
After a minute, she mustered enough courage to look in again. Hayden Marks’s eyes were closed, while eight women in four pairs placed before him flowers, a platter of fruits, a wooden bowl of coconuts, and a black tray with a bolt of white fabric. They also laid before him a stack of currency tied in a red ribbon, prayer beads, colored stones, and crystals. There was a board with backing to make it stand. On the board’s eight hooks hung silver figure-eight necklaces. For his part, Hayden remained still as a statue, with his hands resting in his lap. Behind him were pedestals holding sacred images from the Bible. The pedestal nearest him held a canvas painted with the image of an Old Testament king surrounded by eight women. So that’s how old Hayden convinces women to do his bidding . . . by making it a biblical tradition. He would be the first cult leader to reinterpret Scripture to serve his purpose. She was pushing the heel of her hand against the window to enlarge the peek hole when she became aware of the scent of patchouli.
A female voice behind her hissed, “What are you doing?”
Abby spun around. Premalatha glared at her. Abby’s stomach churned. She struggled to think of what to say. “I . . . uh . . . was just curious. What’s that all about . . . ? Some kind of initiation?”
Premalatha, who was wearing a long-sleeve tunic and a mid-calf skirt, adjusted her scarf—similar to the one Hayden Marks was wearing—and as she did, the patchouli scent intensified. She glared at Abby with a steely-eyed stare. “That’s none of your business. You can’t just waltz in here anymore like your friend the queen bee, who used to be the teacher’s pet. Her teacher is gone, now she’s gone, we’ve got a new teacher, and I’m his pet. So get out.”
Abby pushed past the shrubbery. Standing in the open, she gestured toward the garden. “I’ve been here before with Fiona. Many times. I just wanted to see how all the herbs and veggies were coming along. What’s with the new restrictions?”
“None of your business.”
“I have every right to be here. I’ve driven Jack Sullivan here. Tom Dodge’s brother-in-law.”
“I know who Jack Sullivan is. He had the good sense to call. We gave him permission to be on the property. We haven’t extended that permission to you. We’ve posted signs. You are not welcome.”
“Well, that seems a little harsh for a peace-loving community. You commune folks used to welcome people to come see the garden and to learn about your way of life.”
Her expression hardened. “Now we don’t. We hand out flyers.” She pointed back toward the gate.
Abby pushed back. “Are you all afraid the murderer might enter the grounds? That the killer might come for you, as he did for Fiona?”
Premalatha slid her hands into the pockets of her paisley-patterned skirt. “Why should I care? We voted Fiona out. I say good riddance to that troublemaker. Somebody just did us all a favor.”
“It’s bad luck to speak ill of the dead. I’ve heard the wheels of karma grind exceedingly fine.”
“Our power comes from a visionary leader who receives messages from on high.” Premalatha’s expression seemed flat; her eyes empty.
“I see,” said Abby. “You mean like establishing a bunch of rules, locking down your facility, and taking the hard-earned wages of every worker here?”
Premalatha stared at her. “What do you know?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know. But I see Hayden Marks is right there inside the hall.” Abby jerked her thumb toward the meeting hall door. “I’d just as soon get answers to my questions from him.”
“He’s busy . . . and you’re leaving.”
Abby’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Did you kill Fiona?”
Premalatha snorted. “You’re not the police. Just some farm chick who sticks her nose where it doesn’t belong. Just like Fiona, who isn’t going to be missed.”
“That’s not true,” Abby said hotly. “Her brother is grieving, and her husband looks like a broken man.”
“Tom is lucky she’s gone.” One of Premalatha’s skirt pockets took on a cylindrical shape, and it was pointed toward Abby.
Did she have a pistol? But even if it was just a harmless felt-tip pen being used to threaten her, Abby recognized intimidation when she saw it. In her peripheral vision, she detected an abrupt movement. Jerking her head to the side, she spotted Dak, who had slipped up like a rattler from under a rock. His head had been clean shaven. His sleeveless sweatshirt exposed heavily tattooed arms and hands. Abby’s stomach churned. They outnumbered her, and he outweighed her.
“Get her out of my sight,” Premalatha hissed.
Dak grabbed Abby by the wrist and shirt and shoved her so hard, she stumbled. He yanked her upright to face him. Abby jumped squarely in front of him, as though to intimidate a new judo partner. She grabbed either side of his sleeveless sweatshirt and pulled him sideways over her extended leg. He fell hard but grabbed her foot. Struggling to wrench it free, she elbowed him in the face and broke free. Running, she felt him lunge at her back. She broke her fall with a roll, but he caught her, slammed his fist into her left shoulder. She cried out in pain and curled up as a protective defense. He levied another blow, striking her high on the right cheek, missing her eye socket. The split-open cheek burned searing hot. She choked back a scream. Dak yanked her upright. He hiked up the back side of her shirt. After twisting the fabric into a wad between her shoulder blades, he dragged her down the incline toward the gate.
A few feet past the garden fencing, Abby saw Jack and Tom leap up and then scramble toward her.
“What the . . .” Tom yelled.
Jack shouted over Tom, “Good God, man! Let go of her.” Jack rushed toward Dak like a football lineman.
Dak, the ex-con, pushed back. “You, too, buddy,” he shouted. “Outta here.”
“Civilized men do not hit women,” Jack yelled.
Abby flailed against Dak as he shuttled her to the gate area. Her defiance was putting her and Jack at risk. “Forget it, Jack,” she yelled.
“Let her go!” Jack shouted. He threw a jab at Dak. The bodyguard lost his grip. Abby broke free. She stumbled and fell. But now Dak had turned his rage on Jack. As they pounded each other, Tom and the goateed guy, who’d come back on the scene, tried to break up the brawl.
“Run, Abby. Run!” Jack yelled, dodging a punch. “I got this.” He followed a quick jab with a cross and a hook. Dak hit the ground and began writhing and moaning.
Abby took off running. A shot rang out. She stopped. Spun around. Oh, my God . . . Jack.
A group of men had gathered, with guns pointed at Jack, but he didn’t appear to have been shot. The goateed man and Tom had wedged themselves between Jack and Dak. Tom was trying to push Jack toward Abby. She raced back, clutched onto Jack, and held him as he stumbled alongside her to the Jeep. After yanking open the passenger door, she pushed Jack into the car, then ran around to the other side and slid in behind the steering wheel.
“You okay to drive?” Jack asked.
“Silly question,” said Abby.
She glanced over. He had his shirt balled up under his nose to stem the tide of blood trickling down. Abby shifted the gear into reverse, wheeled the car around, and pushed the gas pedal to the floor. She drove through the woods in a tense silence, constantly checking the rearview mirror for unwanted company. Only on transitioning from the graveled lane to the main road did she dare look over at Jack. He had leaned forward to wipe his sweaty, bloody face on his T-shirt. There were fresh red spots on his hemp-colored shorts.
“Might be a drop or two on the floor,” he said with a distinct nasal twang.
“Well, they could have shot you. Is that what you mean by beating a guy into a brisket and pounding his cabbage?”
Jack chuckled. “Aye. And I fear I am a wee bit out of practice. Still warming up, I was, when his fist hit my nose. Put me off my game.”
“Oh, is that what happened?”
Abby rubbed her temples, waiting for an approaching truck to pass. It carried old furniture pieces, tied down with bright yellow rope. After the truck had passed, she pulled out onto the asphalt roadway. Glancing into the rearview mirror again, she felt relief at the sight of dust swirling up behind the Jeep; no other vehicles were following them. The mirror reflected, however, the bluish-purple shiner around her eye and the snail trail of drying blood on her lacerated cheek. The churning she felt earlier in her stomach had evolved into full-fledged queasiness. She swallowed against the bilious taste in her mouth. If she felt terrible, she was pretty sure Jack felt awful, too. He kept shaking his punching hand, as if he couldn’t feel his fingers.
“Might throw up, Jack,” she said, leaning more toward her open window. “I think I could do with a cracker or some soda water.”
“I should have punched that brute’s lights out for manhandling you,” he said, apparently reliving the incident in his mind.
“It’s over, Jack.”
“Yeah . . . yeah. So, crackers . . . I’ve got some at the cottage. And there’s beer, but no soda water. We’re not far, are we?”
“No,” said Abby. “But what about your rental car? You left it in town.”
“Well, I suppose if you could fetch me for the funeral tomorrow, I could pick it up after the burial.”
Abby had all but forgotten about burying Fiona. “Yes, of course I’ll come get you.”
He ran his hand over his head twice, roughing up his light brown hair and not bothering to smooth it back into place. “What a pair we are, huh?”
“Tweedledee and Tweedledum.” Abby tried to grin, but it hurt. “I’m sorry I got us into that mess. I should have backed down sooner.”
“And I’m going to remember that about you,” Jack teased. “I’ll wager that if anything gets Tom to leave that place, it’ll be to escape the clutches of that Baxter woman. I’d be worried, too, if she had designs on me. Tom told me that their leader, Hayden Marks, arranges and performs marriages, often splitting up spouses and marrying them off to others. Tom said if Marks forces him to marry that woman, there is going to be hell to pay.”
“Good Lord. That sounds like a fate worse than death,” Abby said.
Jack nodded and grew quiet.
With their drama over and the tension finally leaving her body, Abby considered female rivalry as a motive for Fiona’s murder. When she realized Fiona wasn’t going to divorce Tom, Premalatha could have envisioned a more permanent solution to secure the man she wanted to marry. If that was the motive, did she also have the means and the opportunity? Kat had mentioned a phone call that Premalatha had made to Fiona at the time of her death. If she’d called her from the commune, that suggested that Premalatha could not have been with Fiona. What about Dak?
On the console, her phone rang, jangling her nerves and jarring her from her thoughts. Clay’s image showed up on the screen. Abby slid her finger across the screen and tapped the green speaker icon.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Clay replied. “When are you coming home, woman?”
“Why? Is something wrong?” Abby exchanged glances with Jack, who now sported a bemused expression. Contrary to his usual politeness, he seemed all too ready to listen to her conversation with Clay. Abby could have removed the call from the speaker, but then she’d have to pull off the road. It was mid-afternoon, time marched on, and she still hadn’t gotten through her to-do list.
“You’ve got to see how far along I got in the master bath today. I just had to pop out a small section to accommodate the jetted tub measurements. The framing is done, and I’ve got most of the copper piping done. Tomorrow I’ll be ready to feed the electrical cabling through the studs. Shoot, at this rate, you could be soaking in your new tub by the weekend.”
“Oh, that’s lovely!” Abby exclaimed. “So . . . nothing wrong on the farmette?”
“No. Although, I can’t hear a thing with that nail-gun compressor going. Or when I’m drilling, for that matter. But while I was eating a sandwich, I noticed your red-colored chicken limping around.”
“Ruby? Did she pick up a piece of glass or a thorn during her dirt scratching?”
“I wouldn’t know. Oh, and you might want to know that a bunch of your bees left their hive and are circling a limb of that huge peppertree out back.”
“A low limb, I hope,” said Abby.
“Not hardly. More like twenty feet up.”
Abby groaned. “Dang it . . . Those limbs are rigid. And I’m going to need a spring action to shake the bees loose, so they fall into a hive box.” She let a sigh escape through her teeth. “And how am I gonna get up there?”
“You’ll be glad to know that I put a tall ladder on my purchase order for the materials delivered today. If you get home before dark, you can use it. I’ll help. Otherwise, bee rescue will have to wait until tomorrow. I don’t mess with bees after dark.”
“So, I’m on my way. I haven’t gotten your extra nails yet, but the DIY place stays open until nine o’clock. Be there as soon as I can.”
Jack sneezed.
Out of habit, Abby said, “Bless you.”
“You got somebody with you?” asked Clay.
Abby caught her breath. She looked in horror at Jack, whose eyes expressed a wicked amusement.
“Wuh . . . I told you about my friend Fiona, who passed away.” Abby tried to sound matter-of-fact to reassure him. “I’m driving her relative home.”
“Just so long as it’s not a hot hunk.” Clay cleared his throat. “You’ve got one of those renovating your house, and tonight could be your lucky night.”
Abby’s cheeks grew hot. Was Clay trying to embarrass her? She wanted to hang up. If he felt uneasy over the possibility that she was with another man, just wait until he saw her shiner. How was she going to explain that? “Listen. . . let me call you back in a few. Okay?”
Silence ensued for a moment.
Clay’s voice came through. “Whatever.” His tone sounded like someone had just punctured his party balloon. Abby suspected that when she finally did get home, he would be in a mood and would be displaying that passive-aggressive behavior she hated.
“Later,” Abby said, feigning cheerfulness. She tapped the phone to end the call.
Her heart galloped as she struggled against familiar hurt and lingering uncertainties about her relationship with Clay. She stole a look at Jack and wondered what kind of explanation she could give. To her surprise, no explanation was necessary. He had rested his head against the seat back and closed his eyes. Abby sighed in relief that he wasn’t going to question her. But then again, why would he? Clay had made things pretty clear.
Abby drove to the turnoff at the big red barn and then navigated the Jeep up the bumpy driveway to Fiona’s cottage. Once the car was parked and turned off, she sat gripping the steering wheel, in no hurry to move.
“Your hand still hurt?” she finally asked Jack, locking eyes with him.
He nodded. “Uh-huh. Your cheek?”
“Yes.”
“Not life-threatening injuries,” Jack said in good cheer. “And comforting to know that a doctor lives next door.”
“Most likely blitzed out. In a stupor.” Abby knew her words were unnecessarily negative, and that wasn’t like her. Clay had put her in a dark mood. She inhaled deeply, let the breath go, and looked around. “But you know what . . . ? I don’t see the doc’s car. Oh . . . that’s a scary thought.”
Jack looked at her. “Just means we’re alone up here on his ten acres. Why does that scare you? You think I’m going to take advantage of you?”
Abby laughed nervously. “Well . . . one can always hope,” she said in a jesting tone. “No, it’s just that Dr. Danbury shouldn’t be drinking and driving.” She tried to hide the fact that it did worry her to be alone on the mountain with Jack, because she could no longer deny her attraction, and it was getting harder not to show it. But Abby would not let herself go there, because doing so would just muddy up everything. They needed clear heads to solve this case.
The stifling heat inside the cottage took her breath away. “Sheesh, you could fry an egg on the floor in here.”
“I should have left the windows open,” Jack said. “But last night it was darn cold up here, and that wind off the Pacific comes through with a piercing howl. Keeps you awake at night.” He began to open the windows one by one.
Abby hurried to the kitchen and filled two resealable sandwich bags with ice from the refrigerator’s freezer. Then she pulled out a chair, sat down, and used her elbow on the tabletop to support her hand as she held one of the ice packs in place over her eye and cheek. She pointed out the other ice pack to Jack as he walked through the kitchen on his way to the bathroom. When he returned, she noticed he had cleaned up the dried blood on his face and had brought a damp washcloth and a tube of antibiotic ointment.
“Good on you, Abby, for insisting I not toss this tube during our purging of the place.” He laid the ointment on the table. “Now, let me see that cut.” After pulling up a chair to face her, he sank onto it and leaned forward to scrutinize her wound. “I’ll have you right as ready in the blink of a crone’s eye.” He placed his hand around the back of her head. At his touch, Abby inhaled an abrupt breath and winced, not so much from pain as from the anticipation of it. With the damp cloth, Jack traced the edges of the laceration. His stroke was sure and steady. He paused to give Abby an arresting look.
Feeling a rush of adrenaline racing through her body, she closed her eyes, hoping she hadn’t telegraphed anything.
“Now . . . just relax. I’ve got you. Tilt your head back a little more against my hand. That’s my lass.” The ointment smeared light as a butterfly wing fluttering along the length of the cut. The touch of the fingers soothed her. Then . . . there was no touch. No movement.
Abby opened her eyes to find Jack’s eyes smoldering with intensity as he gazed at her, his lips so close they would have touched her if she’d nodded forward. He said nothing. She said nothing, but her cheeks flushed with warmth.
“You know, Abby,” he said, his voice a husky whisper, “you smell awfully sweet for someone who’s just been in a fight.”
Abby’s lips curved into a smile. “And here I thought I needed a shower.”
He leaned back, pulled the neck of his T-shirt up to his nose, and sniffed. “No, if anyone needs a shower, it would be me.” He rose and moved his chair back to its original position at the table.
Abby’s thoughts raced back to when they first met. Having been interrupted during his shower, he’d answered the door annoyed. But then later on, when she had helped him sort through Fiona’s things, he’d greeted her in an unbuttoned shirt, revealing a lean muscular torso. A shiver ran through her. Oh, Lord. Don’t think about that now. Clearing her throat, she said, “Let me see your hands. You were shaking one of them pretty hard in the car.”
“Aye. Jabbing that bollock brain was like a bare-fisted punch at a dicot angiosperm.”
She looked at him, bemused. “Come again?”
“Hardwood tree.”
“Yeah, well, your lightning jab broke his hold on me.” Abby noted the impish grin that lit up his face, and turned her attention to his hands. “Bruising and swelling, but no cuts. Use that ice pack on them. Got any painkillers?”
“Oh, yes.” He opened the fridge and took out two bottles of Guinness, popped off the caps, and handed her a bottle. “The liquid variety.”
“I can see that,” said Abby, suppressing a smile. She tapped her bottle against his.
Jack took a swig. “I’ll just change my shirt,” he said, then set the bottle on the table and hustled off to the bedroom.
When she could no longer tolerate the ice against her eye, Abby tossed the ice pack in the sink. She sipped from the beer and moseyed to the screen door at the back of the house, where an audible breeze rustled through the pines and redwoods. Looking out at the edge of the clearing between the house and the trees, Abby spotted the doc’s cat stalking a bushtit. The bird flitted between a patch of sweet broom and a thicket, as if teasing the cat.
“Mind the hole,” Jack called out from the bedroom doorway behind her.
Abby stopped short. She glanced down at the rug partially covering the hole. How could Fiona have allowed the hole to go unrepaired? With her landlord right next door, it could have so easily been fixed. As Abby thought about it, a realization began to emerge. Hole! Oh, sweet Jesus. She leaned down and pulled the rug back. “Jack, bring a flashlight, will you? And a cap or something for my hair.”
“What? What’s going on?” Jack asked.
“Just trust me.”
A moment later, he handed her a blue plastic flashlight and an Andean-style woolen cap with earflaps, a braid down each side, and one garnishing the top.
“Seriously?” Abby handed him her bottle of beer, took the flashlight, and plucked the cap from his fingers.
He winked at her. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got a big head. It’s not easy to find caps that fit.”
“And it’s only going to feel like a hundred degrees with all my hair under that hat, but never mind.” She pulled on the hat, flicked on the flashlight, and looked at him with an expression of childish delight. “Spell hole backward.”
Shaking his head, he stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “Okay. I can do that.... E-l-o-h.”
“Precisely. Your sister’s secret code. High time we found out what’s in that hole.”
Abby knelt and then lay flat on the floor, her face over the hole. She shined the light in. “Um . . . don’t see anything. Maybe if I can squeeze my arm farther in and get my head down in there for a better look. Hang on.” She moved into position. “Okay, let’s see. Okay, okay. There it is.”
“What? What do you see?” Jack asked.
Abby wiggled, willing her arm to reach farther, but soon realized her effort was futile. “Shoot. Can’t reach it. And if I can’t reach it, how in the heck did Fiona get it there?”
“What? How did she get what there?” Jack’s tone sounded impatient.
Abby felt his body stretching out on the floor beside her. She wiggled and stretched some more.
“Pull your head out of that hole,” he demanded. “Let me try.”
“Would if I could,” Abby called from under the floor. “How about a little help?”
Jack shifted his position. Abby figured he was up on his knees. She felt his hands around her hips, pulling her back until her head was out of the hole.
“There’s a light-colored fire safe down there, and it’s got a combination lock. I’m betting there are four numbers in the combination.”
“The year Fiona was born.” His eyes were shining when Jack took the flashlight from her. He wasted no time investigating the hole. “I see it.”
Abby said, “Think you can reach it?”
“Doubt it.” He tried. No success. “We need something with a hook. Let me think.” He sat upright, with his back to the wall. “But what? We threw almost everything out.”
Abby pulled on the side braids of the woolen cap. “There’s a poker in the living room. And a three-prong trowel out by the garden fence. I remember seeing it when you showed me Fiona’s garden. If you cut these hat braids off, we’ve got yarn to tie the trowel to the poker.”
Jack uttered a long, low “Ohhh.” After a moment, he said, “Genius. Going to the garden. Back in a minute.”
Abby’s phone buzzed with a text as she was pulling the poker from the tool stand next to the fireplace. Certain that it was Clay again, she figured it could wait. But curiosity got the better of her. She removed the phone from her pocket and glanced at the screen.
Just FYI, girlfriend. Health Dept. just closed down the smoothie shop.—Kat.
Abby texted back. Holy chicken feathers. I want all the details, but busy right now. Will call you later.
Sitting next to the hole, she looked out the back door at Jack hurrying toward her. She had the pole for the hole, and Jack had the hook. Time to go fishing.
Tips for Making Scented Dusting Powder
Scented oil derived from chamomile, lavender, lemon balm, patchouli, peppermint, rosemary, or other herbs can be used to create your own signature dusting powder. To make six tablespoons (two ounces) of scented dusting powder, thoroughly mix four to five drops of scented herbal oil with one tablespoon of cornstarch. Next, mix in five tablespoons of unscented talcum powder. To retain the fresh scent, the dusting powder is best stored in a jar with a screw-top lid. Use a powder puff, a cotton ball, or a brush to apply it.