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The next morning, after staying in bed to read a chapter of her mystery, Martha stopped in the kitchen just long enough to brew some of the coffee PJ had handed her the day before in the familiar brown Birds ‘n’ Beans waxed bag, Birder Blend—Medium roast—Medium body—Mild finish written on it in his distinctive handwriting. Then she clipped on Penny’s purple leash embroidered with the words “My Rescue Dog Saved Me” and set out to give the terrier a long walk as she’d hardly spent any time with her the day before.
Once they were ten or so minutes out of the village and heading into the woods, Martha unclipped the lead and let Penny investigate the many sights and smells of the hardwood forest floor. With the river on her left and the sun slanting through the towering oaks, ash and hickory trees, the chill of the morning easing off her worries, she pushed away a little of what today held in store for her: her beloved Aunt Lorna’s funeral and her interview with the village police, and the start of her work in figuring out what was to become of all of her aunt’s worldly possessions. She also had to figure out what had been preying on Aunt Lorna’s mind before her death. What in the world was a body doing in the backyard of her cottage? But how could Martha, a college administrator only in town for a short time, solve a murder mystery?
Her to-go coffee tumbler drained, she whistled Penny back and smiled as the miniature schnauzer came running to her, leaf detritus in her beard and sticking to her wet nose.
“Silly girl,” Martha said as she reattached the leash and they turned back toward home, coming up from the river’s edge to the back porch. As they stepped onto the deck just outside the French doors to the dining area, she could hear the high whine of a vacuum cleaner.
Martha slid open one of the doors and unclipped Penny to enter, only to be confronted by a blast of magenta so bright, she thought for a split second that she’d walked into the wrong house. A short and slightly stooped woman with severe black hair pulled back in a bun was working the standup cleaner over the living room floor like she was trying out for the vacuum Olympics. With each stroke, she pushed the vacuum out in such a broad arc that she nearly fell forward with it. Her rose-colored leggings, sparkly pink tennis shoes and magenta hoodie sweatshirt matched (or at least lived in some first-cousin association on the color wheel) the slash of bright pink lipstick that covered her lips.
“Joanne?” said Martha. Nothing. “Joanne?” she said again. At the same moment, Penny jumped her stubby front legs onto the back of the future Olympian.
“Merde!” the study in pink howled, throwing a hand to her chest as she turned around. Just then, a tall woman came trotting down the stairs, this one dressed as if she were off on a camping adventure in trail pants, low hiking shoes, and long-sleeve microfiber shirt rolled up to the elbows.
“Martha!” the women said simultaneously, engulfing her in hugs. Then the taller of the two leaned down and picked up little Penny, much to the terrier’s slurpy delight.
“We heard from PJ and Mary Jane that the place needed a cleaning, and since I don’t have to open the store till nine and Joanne doesn’t teach till ten, we decided to tag team and get everything looking nice before the funeral. I hope you don’t mind that we let ourselves in. Everyone knows Lorna leaves her doors unlocked.”
“It’s fine, Helen,” said Martha reassuringly as the tall woman blushed. “More than fine! Aunt Lorna would have been so touched to see how you are all helping me with this.” At the mention of Aunt Lorna, Martha was brought back to the reality of all that was ahead of her today. It felt like a ten-pound bag of birdseed had landed on her shoulders.
Margaret came creeping down the stairs, dressed from head to toe in her customary black.
“Powder room’s done,” she said in her small voice.
“Beds too!” boomed Ethel Jean right behind her, only a slight edge of crankiness detectable in her voice.
“My gosh, you all! I can’t thank you enough.” Martha knew Joanne Jablonski, the quirky French teacher and local IT expert, and Helen Chelton from her many visits over the years. But having them and Lorna’s other friends here in her aunt’s house, cleaning in preparation for Lorna’s funeral, meant more than she could put into words.
Helen pulled a dust rag out of a cargo pants pocket and made for the low coffee table. The front door opened and in came Mary Jane, a bucket of cleaning supplies in tow. Joanne coiled the vacuum cord and Mary Jane got to work, opening the tan linen curtains and letting the morning sun flow in.
These ladies are a cleaning machine, Martha thought. Thank heavens for them. As she observed the group of friends go to work on dusting, polishing and straightening the downstairs, Martha gazed around the cottage, taking it in in a way she hadn’t in some time. Natural materials abounded in the open-plan Arts and Crafts home, which featured beautiful wide-beam oak floors with tasteful floral rugs arranged carefully here and there. The furniture was mainly mission style, much of it collected in Amish country over the years as Lorna made visits north for the annual Wings on the Water festival in Ohio. Martha wondered what Helen must be thinking as she gently rubbed the side tables with a lemon-scented polish; Helen had accompanied Lorna on many of these birding jaunts, when they’d stopped on their way home to cram tables, lamps and other finds into Helen’s camper van.
Martha’s favorite part of the front room attracted her eye as Mary Jane carefully cleaned the windows. Geometric leaded stained glass topped each window facing the front of the house, every rectangle featuring straight-lined designs that collectively formed shafts of wheat containing parallel colors of green, orange, and yellow. Those colors were cast onto the floors when the sun caught them just so. The geometric designs matched those on the Tiffany lamps scattered here and there throughout the house; like all Lorna’s items, they were fully functional. A throw blanket here, pillows there—everything was comfortable, but spoke of Aunt Lorna’s no-frills approach to life.
As the gang of gals gave the cottage its finishing touches, Martha could swear she was beginning to feel warm again—the warmth of belonging she hadn’t felt upon arriving at Aunt Lorna’s this time. Everything had felt wrong, cold, off; but now, today—with her aunt’s friends around her and the cottage brightening up—she felt a glimmer of the hominess that usually comforted her here.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Helen staring at some papers on Lorna’s antique secretary.
“Helen, is everything all right?”
“Oh yes.” Helen quickly flipped the large oaken door of the desk closed and turned the key in the top. “All good here. Just straightening up.”
Joanne walked up to the three of them, gently sipping from a pottery mug in her hand.
“Fresh pot. Want some?” she asked, lowering her nose almost into the cup to take in the rich aroma.
“Not for me, thanks,” said Martha. “I promised Officer Tomlinson I’d go to the police station later this morning and I need to shower and get over there.”
A sympathetic murmur rose.
“Mon dieu,” Joanne said. “An appointment with the police definitely calls for extra coffee. Hang on.” She rushed into the kitchen and re-emerged seconds later, handing over a steaming mug. “You go shower. We’ll clear out, and then meet up with you...” Her voice trailed off. The next time Martha would see any of these women would be at the funeral that afternoon.
Helen looked up hesitantly and spoke almost as if to fill the silence. “Martha, I don’t quite know how to say this, but I had a visit early this morning from Officer Tomlinson. She was very nice, of course, but she did ask me an awful lot about Lorna and her comings and goings the past few weeks. I told her that we were friends and business associates, but not the kind of friends that keep tabs on each other. She seemed awfully persistent.”
“Her comings and goings?” blurted Martha, louder than she intended. “Whyever for?”
Ethel Jean was never one to shy away from saying something awkward. “I’m no genius, but I’m guessing it might be to do with the dead body you found in Lorna’s backyard.”
Margaret’s eyes widened and she looked down, as if searching for a hole to fall into.
“Well, we’ll soon see about that!” snapped Martha, stomping up the stairs to the shower, cup in hand.
“I want to speak with her right now. And I don’t want to hear any more of your excuses.”
Martha spoke with the confidence and bombast of a true Bostonian, though she’d spent much of her childhood right here in Riley Creek. Even to her own ears, she sounded obnoxious and rude. She had never set foot in a police department, and even this modest-sized building made her feel edgy and out of her element. Her brusqueness came more from her own unease than any true irritation at the fresh-faced young officer behind the counter. He literally was wet behind the ears with his short-cropped hair combed into place and still damp from his morning shower.
“Please find Officer Tomlinson now and tell her Martha Sloane is here to see her.”
The young man disappeared through a door after trying one last time to explain to Martha that Officer Tomlinson was not in the department at the moment, but another officer could be found to take her statement. She strained to hear the murmured voices beyond the door and was just contemplating sneaking behind the counter to get a better angle when a tall man in dress pants, pressed denim shirt with the cuffs rolled up, and a watch the size of Texas came through the door and up to the counter.
“I understand you’re quite insistent about seeing Officer Tomlinson,” he said.
“Damn right I am,” said Martha, “and I’ve been out in your lobby waiting for about half a year while she pretends not to be here.”
“And did you and she have an appointment?” the man replied, eyebrows raised. Martha guessed he was around six feet two, with black hair parted down the side and just brushing his collar. His bronze skin was one part Jimmy Smits and one part Antonio Banderas. The overall effect was one handsome drink of water, but Martha was darned if she was going to let him know she’d even noticed. Men equaled complication, complication took her eye off the ball, and taking her eye off the ball would keep her in Riley Creek much longer than she wanted. She had no time for that nonsense.
“Well...not exactly. She told me I could come over late morning and give my statement to an officer on duty. Look, I just need to talk to her to find out why she’s asking around about my aunt, like she had anything to do with the body I found.”
“Oh, I see,” he said, nodding sagely. “And you are...?”
“Martha Sloane, the one who found the body and whose dead aunt you are all but accusing of murder!” Martha heard her own voice rise an uncomfortable octave.
“Ms. Sloane, I’m Detective Perry. Teddy Perry. Why don’t you come back to my office and we can talk more privately?” Detective Perry came out from behind the counter and met her at the door from the lobby into the police station. He held the door open for her and led her to his office, such as it was. As she brushed by him, she caught the light scent of pine and wood smoke, suggesting a ruggedness that belied his sharply pressed dress pants. Martha had a fleeting vision of burying her head into his broad, strong chest and feeling his muscular arms around her.
Jeez, I must be seriously losing it, she thought.
They passed the young officer she’d assailed earlier. As she went by, he pressed his back into the wall. Martha cringed inwardly at her own behavior, but maintained her resolve as she entered the detective’s office.
Detective Perry’s tiny shoebox of an office bore little resemblance to the large corner room with conference table and wall-mounted TV monitor for teleconferencing that was Martha’s own office back in Boston. He took a seat behind his desk and she sat in the rickety wooden chair across from him. Normally, she would have viewed this move as a power play on his part, but since there was literally no other place to sit in his office (other than in his lap, she thought randomly), she would at least play along.
Martha took in the room’s sparseness: battered wooden desk; single file cabinet (equally battered); an outdated desktop computer with a monitor the size of a small suitcase; chairs that looked like they’d been rejected by Goodwill; and a single picture frame facing him. The most prominent feature in Detective Perry’s office was books. They were stacked everywhere—on the floor; on top of the file cabinet; even on his ancient monitor. Various files and sheets of paper lay strewn about, but they clearly took a back seat to the books.
“Now, Ms. Sloane, how can I help you?” asked the detective politely, folding his hands over his flat stomach.
“I really want to speak with Officer Tomlinson and I’m not sure why I’m getting this runaround,” said Martha, her steely attitude losing gas with Perry treating her so respectfully.
“Actually, Officer Tomlinson is already hard at work on this case. In fact, right now, she’s attending the postmortem on the victim found in your aunt’s leaf pile.”
“Oh,” said Martha, irritated at realizing she might have to eat some crow. She recovered quickly. “But I don’t understand why she’s asking my aunt’s friends about her comings and goings the last few weeks, as if Aunt Lorna had anything to do with this dead person who just happened to be found at her cottage.”
“Happened to be found under a neatly raked pile of leaves in her backyard,” he corrected.
“Well, yes...”
“To begin with, the coroner’s early examination showed that the body was only in a slight state of decomposition. Your aunt passed away five days ago. The man in the backyard probably died two to three days ago, so clearly she could not have caused his death. But still, you can imagine our curiosity. It is quite a coincidence to find two bodies in the same yard within the space of a week.”
Martha was silent as she took in this bit of information. None of this made sense. Surely Aunt Lorna wouldn’t have had anything to do with the dead man, right? Accustomed to being in the driver’s seat, Martha didn’t intend to be pushed around, even by police investigating a murder in which the body just happened to be found on her aunt’s property.
As she opened her mouth to regain the upper hand in the conversation, Detective Perry spoke.
“Ms. Sloane, had you talked to your aunt recently? Can you tell me anything that might help us in our investigation?”
“Of course I want to help. But there’s nothing...” Her voice trailed off as she recalled what some of the gals had said about her aunt’s behavior in the weeks leading up to her death. “To be honest, I’ve been so busy at work that I hadn’t talked to Aunt Lorna much recently,” said Martha, suddenly deflated. “I’ll regret that for the rest of my life. But I can tell you right now she had absolutely nothing to do with this guy or his death. Which happened after she was already dead, as you just said.”
“We’re doing our best to find out what happened. But you have to understand that the body was found at your aunt’s house. That naturally makes us suspicious. And there is the manner of death... and the fact that he worked for your aunt...”
“What do you mean? What is this ‘manner of death’”—she added air quotes—“and what’s it got to do with Aunt Lorna? And can we please stop saying ‘the body’? Who was this dead person? What do you mean, he worked for her?”
“Well, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. Word will get out soon enough and we notified his next of kin this morning. The deceased’s name was Curtis Sentrich.”
“Curtis Sentrich? Who was he?”
“Well, he grew up in Riley Creek and attended Lewis High, but he never graduated. As far as I can gather right now, being a high-school dropout may have been the high point of a life otherwise filled with low points. We’ve gathered from talking to some of her friends that your aunt had a soft spot for him and allowed him to do small jobs around her house. Apparently, she thought it might help him get on his feet and dig himself out of trouble.”
The irony of the phrase, juxtaposed with how Martha had found Sentrich, lingered in the air.
“But I still don’t see why his body being found near my aunt’s house means she had anything to do with his death,” she said. “Maybe he was doing yard work or something for her after she’d passed, just to be kind, and had a heart attack in the leaves.”
“A relatively young man, dying in the same yard of the same causes as your aunt days earlier? And somehow mysteriously being covered by the leaves he’d been raking?” Detective Perry gave Martha a few moments to realize the impossibility of what she was proposing.
“You said it yourself; she was dead before he was killed, so doesn’t that take her out of the equation altogether?” Martha objected.
“I agree that it makes it impossible that she was the murderer. But him being found in your aunt’s yard still must be handled as a suspicious death.” He paused, and then changed the direction of the conversation. “Did your aunt own a rather large spotting scope?”
“A scope? Well sure, as do half of the birders that come through here,” said Martha.
“And have you seen it since you’ve been back in Riley Creek?” he asked, eyebrows raised slightly.
Martha started an automatic yes, but then stopped a moment to consider.
“Well, now that you’re asking me, I guess not,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “But I also haven’t thought to look for it.”
Even as she said the words, she heard the same half-truth in her voice that the detective probably picked up. She had a distinct memory of seeing the scope’s tripod and the strangeness of the scope not being affixed to its top. Aunt Lorna never took that scope out of the house, partly because she was not completely comfortable with having spent over four thousand dollars on it and partly because she enjoyed it so much, she would never have endangered it by taking it along the trail.
“To be honest, Detective Perry....” Martha hesitated a bit, not wanting to cooperate more than she had to. “There’s a chance it’s not where I expected it to be.”
“Is that right?” the detective answered, the hint of a smile in his eyes. “That could be because it’s sitting in my evidence room.” He glanced sideways, as if nonchalantly reading some of the book titles on a nearby shelf.
“Excuse me?” Martha said, employing a tone of offended self-righteousness that came so easily to many Bostonians, but still sounded forced from her own mouth.
The detective sat up straight and leaned in. “Mr. Sentrich’s skull was caved in and a birding scope matching the description of your aunt’s was found in the shrubs at the side of her house, covered in blood and your aunt’s fingerprints. And a Birds ‘n’ Beans business card with your aunt’s phone number was in the victim’s wallet.”
Martha’s head felt woozy as she took in his words. As much as she wanted to come up with a snappy retort, the truth was laid bare—in fact, it was practically sprawling naked in the air between them.