I took one step toward the open passenger door of Kennick Carter’s car, then stopped abruptly. I’d just convinced a man with a lucrative motive for murder that I did in fact get real psychic visions and might be able to identify Laini’s killer.
“Um … I’ll meet you there,” I said.
I followed the black Beemer out of town. About two miles down Route 100, a sign marked the turnoff to the Sweet and Smoky Syrup factory. The dirt road snaked through the dense woods, rising up a steep hill and then sinking down through the mist and dark shadow. If Laini had looked like a tragic sleeping beauty, then this felt like we were headed through an enchanted forest to the castle of the weak king and wicked queen. I half-expected to see seven little people with pickaxes heigh-hoing their way to work between the trees, or a handsome huntsman clutching a heart dripping blood.
It was sugaring season in Vermont — the time of year when daytime temperatures started rising while the nights were still below freezing, driving the sap up through tree trunks. Across the state, farmers would be tapping the sweet sap of maples and boiling it down into the famous syrup. Smalltime operations tended to use the traditional method of drilling a spile into the tree trunk and collecting the flow of sap in steel pails hung below. This old-fashioned way of doing things was supposedly kinder to the trees, but the Sweet and Smoky outfit, I saw as I drove deeper through the forest of red, black and sugar maples, used the newer, more efficient technology of vacuum extraction.
Plastic tubing plugged into the trunks high up on the trees, drew out the sap and fed it into thicker tubes which pulled it downhill to the pumping station and processing plant. The long sap lines crisscrossed the woods in a lattice of blue, red and green plastic, held up by trees and iron stakes. It was a bizarre sight — like the maples were hooked up to intravenous lines, only these tubes were drawing the lifeblood from the trees.
Neat rows of fast-growing firs bordered the winding dirt road. They were still saplings, but in a few years, they’d mask the unsightly sap-collection in the woods behind. As we drew near the factory, the avenue of saplings ended, revealing huge maples plugged with spiles and cute pails dangling beneath — a picturesque display presumably set up to charm visiting tourists.
There were no tourists that day, however. The large notice board at the entrance to the parking lot announced that tours of the sugar works, along with the children’s program and sugar-on-snow events, would resume the following week. I pulled into a parking bay beside Kennick’s car and looked around. To the right was the sugar shack — an enormous shed with red clapboard siding, white-trimmed door- and window-frames, and a gabled metal roof from which a chimney billowed snowy plumes of smoke and steam into the air. A sign above the door declared, “May your sap run strong and sweet!”
The building directly in front of me matched the style of the sugar shack but had glass fronting. Gold lettering on the windows pronounced this to be the factory outlet of the Sweet and Smoky Syrup Company, purveyor of Vermont’s finest hand-crafted maple syrup, candy and cream. It, too, was closed, although the lights were on and I could make out someone moving around inside. A sign to the side of the shop directed “staff only” to the offices behind.
The smell of woodsmoke and boiling syrup hit me as I climbed out of the car. Kennick Carter was still in his BMW, talking on his phone. When he motioned for me to give him a minute, I nodded and walked over to the store, cupping a hand against the glass to peer inside. The clerk inside was counting bottles and making entries into a tablet — stock-taking? So, the business hadn’t entirely shut down out of respect to Laini Carter. I ambled across the lot to the sugar shack, but before I could peer inside the open sliding doors, a short man in blue overalls stepped out. Wiping his hands on a grease-stained rag, he peered out at me from a face as wizened as a walnut shell.
“There’s no tours today, lady.” His voice was low, gruff and in no way friendly.
“I’m not here for a tour. I came to talk to Bethany Ford. Mind if I look around while I wait?”
I tried to take a step around him, but he blocked me.
“I’m Jim Lundy, the custodian of the sugar shack,” he said, like he was announcing himself to be Prince Regent of the empire. “And you can’t come in. There’s no tours and no one to do the tours. Laini always does the tours.” A spasm of intense emotion crossed his face. “And Laini is dead.”
Flashbacks of her dead body — in the quarry, on the stretcher — threatened. I curled my hands into fists and dug my fingers into my palms, trying to stay grounded in the present while Jim glowered at me, seemingly ready to tackle me to the ground if I attempted to penetrate his sanctum.
“Garnet!” Kennick had finished his call and was beckoning me over to where he now stood with two people.
I recognized the man immediately. Medium height with graying hair and as square as a refrigerator — this was the man I’d seen giving Laini the necklace. The woman was a few inches taller than my five foot five, with a lovely, fine-boned face framed in soft blond curls. She reminded me of an old-time Hollywood movie star — Grace Kelly, or perhaps Ingrid Bergman.
“Bethany, Carl, this is Garnet McGee. She’s a special consultant who’s assisting the police with their investigation into Laini’s death,” Kennick said. “Garnet, this is Bethany Ford, Laini’s boss, and Carl Mendez, her partner.”
They looked less than enthusiastic at meeting me. I shook both their hands, and though I’d been half-braced for the contact, I picked up no readings. Carl’s hands were bare, but Bethany was wearing a pair of dove-gray leather gloves. I needed to get a pair of those for myself; they looked both elegant and warm and might help with keeping my fingers out of my mouth.
“What kind of a special consultant?” Carl Mendez asked, his gaze doing the usual flick between my differently colored eyes.
“Uh …” I began.
“Victim analysis,” Kennick said smoothly.
“Victim?” Bethany Ford said. There was concern in her voice, but not a hint of a frown marred the smooth space between her brows. Botox?
“I don’t believe my sister committed suicide,” Kennick said.
Mendez shot him an assessing glance, suddenly alert. Bethany Ford’s expression, however, was one of compassion shot through with pity.
“Oh, Kennick, this must be so very, very hard for you.” She shifted her gaze from brother to lover. “For both of you.”
Honestly, it looked like it was hardest for her. Her eyes were swollen, her makeup smudged, her nose red, and she looked exhausted.
“I need to go,” Mendez said.
“I’d like to chat to you about Laini,” I said to him. “Can we set up a time?”
“No.”
He turned on his heel and stalked off across the lot. Bethany Ford hurried after him, and at his car, they embraced. Did I imagine it, or did the clinch last just a second too long for a condolence hug?
Bethany returned to us, apologizing for Mendez’ abrupt departure. “He’s devastated, just devastated. Well, we all are, I guess.”
His car disappeared, but she remained staring into space, lost in thoughts, or perhaps memories, that had her dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
“Ms. Ford —”
“Bethany. Everyone calls me Bethany.”
“Bethany,” I began again, “I realize this is a difficult time, but could you spare me a few minutes? I’d like to find out more about —”
“I’d do anything to help Laini and her family with this tragedy, but right now is not the time. I’ve just lost my best friend,” she said, smoothing her hair with a trembling hand.
“Right. I’m very —”
“And it’s taking everything I’ve got to keep the business on the rails and to sort out Laini’s affairs. Which reminds me,” she said, turning to Kennick, “the paperwork for you is in my office. Should we try to get that settled now?”
She and Kennick set off around the side of the store toward the offices, while I trailed behind like an uninvited child. Feeling a prickle on the back of my neck, I glanced over my shoulder and saw Jim the custodian standing on the side porch of the store, watching me.