40

She pulled into Delia’s driveway just outside of Freeport and found her in her one-acre garden, gently snipping buds from a long, tall row of vines. The early autumn cold snap had turned edges of the leaves on the vine a golden, crinkled blonde. Delia looked up when she saw Emily approaching, and greeted her with a broad smile.

“Miss Hartford. Nice to see you again. Please don’t tell me you’re here to say goodbye and heading back to Chicago.” Delia set down the snippers and gave Emily a hug.

“No, no, I’m not leaving yet,” Emily assured her. “What are you growing in here these days?”

“Oh, these are my hops vines,” she said. “It’s harvesting time. I grow them for a local brewery. And in exchange I get six bottles of their microbrewed beer every week,” she said with a sly grin. “So far my favorite is their carob winter stout.”

“Since when did Freeport get a microbrewery?”

“Since two years ago. You should check it out. Just south of town,” Delia told her.

“Maybe I will. Haven’t had a lot of time to go exploring. And honestly, I didn’t think there was much to discover after twelve years.”

“Right now they’re featuring a pumpkin ale and a summer squash IPA. I know it sounds awful, but it’s an adventure for the taste buds,” said Delia.

Emily laughed, remembering how Delia’s unconventional ways and attitude had always breathed fresh air into this otherwise homogenous community.

“Looks like your garden is on its way out,” noticed Emily.

“Yes, oh yes—we’re supposed to get our first frost next week. I had a good crop of eggplant, corn, broccoli, tomatoes, carrots, peas, raspberries, and blackberries this year. Oh, and have you ever heard of purple beans?” she asked Emily.

“I have not,” Emily said. “I think it might feel kinda fairy-talish eating a purple bean.”

“Unfortunately, they turn green when you cook them,” said Delia.

“I was hoping there would be more exotic fare,” said Emily.

“I stick to the basics in the garden and save the exotics for my greenhouse,” Delia said, pointing around back of the house to a large glassed-in structure.

“Wow, that’s new since I lived here,” Emily exclaimed.

“It’s real nice in the winter. I can hole up there for months and feel like I’m in the Caribbean while it’s snowing a blizzard outside,” she said.

“Semi-retirement suits you,” Emily teased.

“In all the best ways. So … I know you didn’t come here to make garden chat.”

*   *   *

Within a few minutes Delia and Emily were situated inside Delia’s large library, and she was paging through reference books. Both sets of X-rays were placed side by side, taped on a floor-to-ceiling, south-facing window. Delia examined them for a long time, sometimes with her naked eye and sometimes under a magnifying glass.

“You are right about the fact that the same instrument was used on both the horse and the girl,” Delia finally concluded. Then she went back to work, concentrating in silence. She made a few measurements and sketched out a few drawings, then erased them and started over.

“It’s a very unusual instrument. I’ve only seen it in one other case I worked on,” she said after a while.

Emily listened, not wanting to break her flow of thought.

Delia logged onto her computer, scanned her drawings into a file, and then plugged the images into a software system that started to come up with possible matches. Emily watched in amazement.

Emily stared straight ahead as Delia continued to work. What a woman—what a role model! Emily had missed Delia. She noted that in just three days of being back in Freeport, she was starting to warm corners of her heart that had been chilled for a long time to this place.

“That’s what I thought,” Delia said as she turned the screen to Emily. “They were struck with this instrument.”

The top part was sort of like pliers that pinched together. A large bolt clasped the two handles together. The handles were long and lean, at least a foot or more. The nose of the instrument came together in an elongated oval that could pinch something between its grasp. Emily recognized it immediately.

“A horse nippers.”

“From what I can assess from both injuries, the oval hole that the pincers make when they are closed is about seven millimeters in diameter, and they have this angled tip that points toward the nose of the nippers,” Delia explained. “That’s a clue right there. That’s what makes these nippers different.”

“Is it specific enough to find my weapon?” asked Emily, Nick’s words about a needle in a haystack ringing in her ears.

“It’s quite specific. The one used on your two victims seems to be an antique version,” said Delia, scrolling through the images in her reference books to find an example to show Emily. “I’m guessing somewhere around turn of the twentieth century. They made them from iron. Farriers kept them in many sizes, from six inches to fifteen inches or maybe larger. See here?”

Delia showed her an image on the screen. “The older ones have this pointy arrow-like notch. The newer ones today are just oval. No arrow notch.”

“Seems like most of these don’t have that notch,” Emily said, examining the pictures on the screen.

“You got it. So in that sense, it makes your job a little easier.” Delia made a copy of the nippers she believed might be a match. “So, go to it, girl. Or should I say, get the sheriff on it. From what I hear, you’re pretty good at lighting the fire under Nick.”

“Exactly what have you heard?” Emily asked. “Wait, are you talking about the Tim situation?”

Delia laughed. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m proud of you for that. Nick needs some heat under him from time to time. Keeps him sharp and fresh.”

“Speaking of Nick, I rushed over here so fast, I forgot to call him.”

“You were just being resourceful. You can catch him up later. Okay, doll, let’s get back outside and enjoy that beer,” said Delia, shutting down the computer. “Head on out to the back porch, and I’ll be out in a jiffy with a couple cold ones.”

Emily settled into a rocking chair on Delia’s back porch and took a deep breath of the fresh, verdant air. She was exhilarated that they had figured out what the murder weapon was. Now, to find its match. She was kidding herself to think that she could stay in Freeport until the case was solved. This could takes weeks, months. Possibly years. If ever. The thought of giving this all up to return to Chicago gave her an unexpected sad twinge. She was having a very hard time letting this go. She had promised Sarah. She had promised herself. And if she left, she would be a failure once again. Could she shoulder that burden on top of everything else?

Emily weighed what was waiting for her in Chicago. Surgery was just as challenging as crime solving. But let’s face it. Surgical centers and technologies were so advanced these days. The risk of losing a patient was very, very slim. Especially for the kinds of routine procedures she was performing. Yet how could she deny that these kinds of medical mysteries shot exuberance through every neuron and cell of her body? She thought about heading back to Chicago, where her biggest decisions now would be if they should serve shellfish appetizers at her wedding and whether they should put a vacuum cleaner on their registry. And despite the fact that she had been planning her wedding with Brandon in her mind since their sixth date, in this very moment, living out his prescribed path for them, as amazing as it had always seemed before, now didn’t seem nearly as fulfilling to her as being able to find justice for a vulnerable family and putting a killer in prison.

Delia came out with the glass mugs, beer and foam spilling over the lips. Emily studied Delia in the sunlight and noticed that she was more creased and frail looking than Emily had remembered. Was it the years, or perhaps the job, that had added this dimension to Delia? With all the awful things Delia had seen during her years at the FBI, how did she keep a fresh outlook on life?

“You look worried,” said Delia.

“Do I?” Emily hadn’t realized she was drifting off into her own thoughts. “It’s just … Julie deserves justice, and it seems so … so impossible.”

“You and Nick will get this case solved. I know it,” Delia said.

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re Dr. Robert Hartford’s daughter,” she said, smiling.

“I’m glad you’re so confident,” Emily said, wanting to believe her. “Thank you so much for your help.” Emily lifted the cool mug to her lips again, and her diamond caught the sunlight.

“What does Nick think about that?” Delia pointed to Emily’s ring.

“I don’t think it really matters to him at all,” she said.

“Oh, I doubt it doesn’t matter to him. You were his first love.”

“We were silly sixteen-year-olds.”

“I know. But it’s hard to let that first one go.”

“It’s been twelve years,” she said. “Plenty of time to let go.”

“Just be tender with him,” Delia advised.

“Nick’s over it. Moved on.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Delia, and Emily felt a slight irritation surfacing inside her.

“Why is that?”

“Hon, that man comes into Brown’s almost every morning of the week. And this week, the morning after you got into town, he popped in for his usual custard long john, and he looked positively energized despite the fact that he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep all night. And I’ve never seen his face light up like it did when he told me you were back in Freeport and assisting on the Dobson case.”

Emily took a swig of her beer. Why was it that some people just couldn’t let go of the past? she mused. And then realized she was just as guilty.

“This is amazing brew,” said Emily. Delia knew she was ducking the conversation, and just smiled. “What is it anyway?”

“It’s a German kölsch,” said a voice behind her. Emily turned and saw Nick coming up the porch steps. It was then that she noticed Delia had brought out three mugs.