“Did he just hit me?” Madison’s voice rose to a disbelieving shriek. She gripped the steering wheel with both hands to keep the car under control. “I can’t believe it.”
“Maybe you should pull over, let him by,” Grammie suggested.
“No. Don’t. That’s what he wants you to do.” I had no proof, only a sickening realization that this was no ordinary bad driver behind us.
In response, Madison floored the gas pedal. “Hang on, ladies. And don’t worry, I know this road like the back of my hand.” Of course she did, since she grew up here and had driven this way thousands of times.
The zippy little car took off like a rocket, blasting into the dense fog hovering ahead. I braced myself, hands against the seat, knowing what was next. We banked to the right, to the left, and to the right again as Madison whipped through steep curves notorious for accidents. Especially in foggy conditions.
Madison threw back her head and laughed when we shot into a straightaway. She patted the dashboard. “I knew you could do it, baby.”
“How fast were you going?” Grammie asked in a faint voice. “On second thought, don’t tell me.”
I turned and looked through the back window. “It looks like we lost him.”
“Let’s keep it that way.” Madison hit the gas again, and soon we reached our driveway. She pulled up next to the back door and shut off the car. “I can’t wait to see the damage. Not.”
We climbed out of the Mini and went around to the bumper. The automatic outdoor light on the mudroom door barely penetrated the murk. “We need a flashlight,” Madison said. She opened the front passenger door and rummaged in the glove compartment.
A rumbling engine on the road caught my attention. I grabbed Grammie’s arm. “Is that him?”
She turned to look as the vehicle went by. “Maybe.” Of course we couldn’t see any details in the dark, but by the general shape and taillights, I guessed it was a pickup truck.
Madison shone the flashlight over the back bumper, which surprisingly didn’t look too damaged, except for a dimple or two. She cussed under her breath. “Not enough damage for an insurance claim, with my high deductible. But I hate to leave it like that. Poor baby.” The Mini was her pride and joy, we all knew that, and we treated it with kid gloves.
“Don’t touch the bumper,” I warned. “There might be paint chips on it. I’m calling the police. Sure it’s foggy, but that was no accident.”
“I’ll put on the kettle.” Grammie pulled out the house key. “And start a fire. It’s freezing out here.”
Inside the house, standing as close to the fireplace as I could, I dialed the station. But before I hit send, I disconnected with a grunt of dissatisfaction.
“What’s the matter?” Madison sat slumped on the sofa, one hand absently patting Quincy, who rolled on his back so she could reach his soft belly.
“If I call dispatch, they’ll send whoever is on duty. I really want to talk to Anton.”
Madison’s chin jerked up. “Why him? You think this is related to finding the skeleton?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” I said. “But since I also got an email threat today, well, it seems kind of logical.”
My friend leaped to her feet, abandoning a disgruntled Quincy. Her fists settled on her slim hips. “Threat? What threat? Why am I only now hearing about this?”
Grammie popped around the corner from the kitchen. “We didn’t want to alarm anyone until we had a chance to talk to the police. Iris forwarded the note to Anton, isn’t that right, honey?”
“It is.” I checked my email for the first time that evening. No new mail. Huh. Maybe he didn’t get it yet. “I was just telling Madison I want to file a report with Anton, not another officer. Because maybe he can connect the dots.”
“I have his card,” Grammie said. She went to her desk in the corner and flipped through the old-fashioned rotating cardholder. When I was a kid, I loved to look through the jam-packed wheel, browsing quaint business cards from Blueberry Cove’s past. She stopped at an entry and pulled out a card. “Last winter, when Joe went to the hospital that time, he gave this to me. Said I could call him anytime.”
I remembered that terrible night, temperatures below zero, a blizzard raging. The ambulance had come, and as was protocol, so had the police. Papa had recovered enough to come home, but he’d been admitted to hospice soon after.
Grammie was reading digits out loud. “Sorry, say that again.” I readied myself to punch the numbers in.
“Hello?” A sleepy male voice answered, a television blaring in the background.
Judging by his greeting, I must have called his personal number. Taking a deep breath and hoping he wouldn’t bite my head off, I said, “Ah, Anton? This is Iris Buckley. Grammie gave me this number.”
“Iris?” He sounded marginally more alert and the television noise disappeared. “What’s up?”
I thought about mentioning the email threat but decided to wait. “Someone deliberately hit our car while we were driving home a little while ago. Madison’s car—”
“Madison was driving? Is she—is everyone all right?”
Interesting. “We’re fine. It was only a tap on the bumper. But I’d really love it if you’d come over to the farm to talk to us.” Turning my back, I lowered my voice. “I really don’t want her driving home alone.”
“Got it. I’ll be right there. Give me ten.”
“He’s coming over.” I looked away from my phone to see Madison staring at me.
“What were you whispering?” She crossed her arms. “Was it about me?”
Madison was independent and rarely asked for help, a trait that was both admirable and, at times, annoying. She was not going to like the implication that she couldn’t take care of herself. Then I sighed. Surely her safety overruled pride, either hers or mine. If she was angry with me, so be it. “Sorry, but I don’t think you should drive home alone tonight.” I shivered. “What if he’s lurking between here and town, waiting for you?”
“I doubt it. Probably long gone.” But she sank down on the sofa and reached for the comfort of Quincy’s fur. “I suppose you’re right. Why take a chance?”
Anton arrived within the promised ten minutes, the police SUV wheeling up the driveway and stopping with a spray of gravel. By the time he climbed out, dressed in a uniform that looked thrown on, the three of us were outside standing by the Mini.
“’Evening,” he said. “This the car that got hit?” He pulled a large flashlight from his duty belt.
“Yes,” Madison said. “Right here.” She hunkered down beside the rear end of the car and pointed. “See?”
Anton turned on his light and studied the damage, then swung the light over the rest of the bumper. He made a grunt of satisfaction. “I see some paint transfer I want to collect.” We held flashlights on the area while he used tweezers from his evidence kit to gather chips. He sealed those in a tube and placed the tube inside an evidence bag. “Looks like the vehicle was a dark green,” he said. “But we’ll know more once the lab gets hold of the sample.”
Dark green. That was good information to have. “And if it’s from the vehicle that went by here after we got home, it’s a pickup truck,” I said. “We’re pretty sure.” I’d be scouring the streets for dark green pickups from now on.
“We don’t know for certain if it was the same driver,” Grammie said. “But it was the first vehicle to go by.”
Anton took this in. “We’ll see what the lab can tell us.” He secured the evidence inside the cruiser. “One more thing.” To our surprise, he got down on the ground with his flashlight and checked the underside of Madison’s car. “Looks okay,” he said. “But I’d get someone to put it up on a lift tomorrow and check it out.”
“I’ll do that,” Madison said. She shivered. “The whole thing was really scary. Bad enough being tailgated in the fog, but I was shocked when he hit the car.”
“He?” Anton’s tone sharpened. “Did you see the driver?”
“No,” I put in. “It was too dark to make out any features, plus the headlights were glaring in our eyes too. I guess we’re just assuming.”
“Tea’s ready if you’d like a cup, Chief. I’ve got a variety of choices,” Grammie said as she moved toward the back door.
Over mugs of tea gathered from around the island, accompanied by a tin of homemade chocolate chip cookies, Anton took our statements. “So you don’t think it was an accident, a miscalculation on the driver’s part? You didn’t hit the brakes or anything right before?” At our loud protests, he held up a hand. “Didn’t think so, but I had to ask. From what you said, they could have gone out around you anytime.”
“That’s right,” Madison said. Her cheeks were flushed from the chilly air and excitement, which made her prettier than ever. At least Anton thought so. He’d barely been able to move his gaze from her face the entire time. “Plus I was moving right along.” She bit back a smile. “At a prudent speed for the conditions, of course. But it wasn’t like I was going twenty or something, holding him up.”
Anton swirled his mug of raspberry-leaf tea and drank the dregs. “No, that accident shouldn’t have happened.” He set down the cup and spun it with his fingers, his gaze on the countertop. “I’m wondering if it has anything to do with that threat you got, Iris.” He grimaced. “Yes, I finally checked my email. And I’ve got to say, odd sort of coincidence if they’re not related.”
I gave a yelp of agreement. “It is weird, isn’t it? I got the email this afternoon, then a few hours later Madison is hit, with me and Grammie in the car.” Then I thought of something. “How did he know we were with her though?”
Madison waved a hand. “It’s my fault. I posted that I was spending the evening with my besties at ‘Chez Bella’ and tagged you all.” She grabbed her phone. “I’m locking down my accounts for the moment.”
This was getting creepier by the second. Someone had been lurking in the fog, waiting for us to leave Bella’s house.
He pointed a finger at me. “I want you to be real careful, okay?” He then pointed at Madison and Grammie. “You two as well. Seems to me, you discovering that skeleton this morning upset somebody.”
“It upset me,” Grammie said in a quiet voice. “Star was my friend.”
Anton’s expression softened. “And every effort will be made to try and figure out how she ended up behind that wall.” He lifted one muscular shoulder in a shrug. “But I have to tell you, it’s now the state’s case. I’m going to be limited in what I can do.”
“What’s the likelihood of success, after forty years?” Madison asked, still busy with her phone. “Isn’t most of the evidence long gone?”
The chief shifted on his stool. “Yeah, and it’s hard to piece together a timeline and witnesses after all this time too.” He lifted his mug then realized it was empty and set it down. “But first things first. The anthropologist needs to finish her exam, see if cause of death can be determined. Then we’ll go from there.”
What if there were no marks on the skeleton? Would Star’s death always remain a mystery? I hoped not. I was sure her friends—and family, if she had any—would prefer answers.
“Are they going to want to talk to me?” I asked. In the back of my mind, I’d been waiting for their call.
“Probably, especially after I forward that email you got.” Anton dug for his phone. “Detective Dennis Varney is leading the case.” He gave Madison a brief smile. “You ready to roll, Miss Morris?”
She slid off her stool without argument, and after hugging us both, said good night with a promise to call in the morning. Anton hesitated in the doorway of the mudroom. “If anything else happens, strange, different, or unusual, you give me a call, okay?”
“Don’t worry, Anton,” I said. “I’m saving your number in my phone now.”
After the sound of their engines faded into the quiet night, Grammie said, “Want another cup of tea?” At my nod, she turned on the gas under the kettle.
I rested my elbows on the counter, propping my head with one hand. I was exhausted but underneath the tiredness anxiety still twanged. “I’d better drink something soothing,” I said. “I really need a good night’s sleep.” Maybe then I could move forward with a clear head.
“You and me both,” Grammie said. She switched off the gas under the shrieking kettle and lifted it to fill our mugs. “Try the lemon chamomile.”
I found the right teabag in the basket and ripped open the envelope, then dunked the bag in the steaming water. “I wonder if the state police can really figure out what happened to Star. It was so long ago.” Besides, with current cases clogging their workload, how many resources could they devote to an old case?
“I have my doubts,” Grammie said, also choosing chamomile. “Since physical evidence is probably either degraded or gone, then the answer lies in the relationships of that time. And only a few of us even remember Star, let alone know what happened to her.”
Did that limited number include the driver who hit us—and the person who threatened us? For our sake, I hoped answers came swiftly.