TEN

All the clothes I had left piled on the bed had been tossed on the floor. The dresser drawers had all been pulled out and the contents had been pawed through, as had the closet. A scan of the bathroom showed the medicine cabinet doors open. Even the toilet tank lid had been removed and placed on the tile. I felt so violated I wanted to cry. Who could have done this? And why?

Except deep down I knew why. Somebody, the somebody who had Spiro and was threatening my family, wanted what was in this house and wanted it badly. Blind anger made me fearless. Not caring whether the perpetrator was still there or not, I looked into Spiro’s and Cal’s rooms, which had suffered the same fate. I wouldn’t have time to clean up before Sophie got home, so I just closed the doors and hoped she wouldn’t go in.

Sophie’s room was also a mess. The nightstand drawer was on the floor. I replaced the contents and noted that the romance novel was gone. She must have taken it with her to Marina’s. A candy bar wrapper was wadded up under the bed, so the searcher must have had a snack. I checked the loose floorboard under the bed—there was the metal lockbox. I shook it and was rewarded with the dull thud of a few days’ worth of cash. Whoever had tossed the place had missed that.

It took me nearly an hour, but I put the room back together, including folding up all the clothes and putting them back into the drawers and closet. Fortunately I did her laundry and knew in what order she kept her clothes, so I felt sure she wouldn’t notice. Her clutter-free habits made the job pretty simple. I would not be able to say the same for my own room. I used the opportunity to search thoroughly for any other places where valuables might have been stored, but came up empty.

The landline phone rang and I picked it up. “Bonaparte House,” I said, pushing my overgrown bangs back from my sweaty forehead. It was getting hot up here.

“Georgie, it’s Dolly.”

“Hi.” Make it quick, I willed.

“Listen, Russ ain’t coming in today.”

Terrific. I mentally listed the jobs that would have to be reassigned. He was scheduled to go out to the farm at Rossie this morning to pick up the fresh vegetables and dairy for the weekend, and Sophie had to be fetched from Marina’s. I’d have to put a busboy on dish duty tonight, and they always complained.

“Why not? Is he sick?”

“Uh, no, he ain’t sick. Well, maybe a little sick,” she added.

“What’s wrong, then?”

“He got himself into a scrap down at the Island Roadhouse last night.” The Island Roadhouse was a townie bar out on the road to Redwood, nowhere near an island. A rough place to hang out.

“Is he all right?”

“He got punched in the face and the ribs a few times. I think he got lippy with some of them bikers come in from Bassport for Pirate Days.” Bassport was a small city farther north on the river, the crime capital of the North Country. “He’s sore and bruised up some and got a pretty good shiner, but I put a steak on it.” I was pretty sure I knew where the steak came from. Russ kept a cooler in his car and was famous for sneaking filet mignons and T-bones out under the daily piles of vegetable trimmings he carried to the compost bin behind the restaurant. The Rileys were strictly red-meat people; there was never any chicken or fish missing.

“Will he be in tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I expect so. He ain’t gonna look too good, though.”

“We’ll keep him in the kitchen. Dolly, would you mind coming in an hour early this morning? Of course I’ll pay you extra. I need you to go pick up Sophie at Marina’s. You know she only likes to ride in her own car, so I’ll leave the keys for you. I’ll have to go myself out to Sunshine Acres to pick up the fresh food.”

“No problem, boss. I got a new George Strait CD. Bet she’d like to listen to that on the way home.”

George Strait? I liked him, but whether Sophie had ever heard of him was doubtful. “I’m sure she will. Tell Russ I hope he feels better. You have your key to the restaurant, right? Bye-bye.” Dolly had worked for us for thirty years and was trustworthy—and any little thefts Russ had committed were insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

I left the keys to the Lincoln for Dolly beside her cutting board and hustled out the door. I found my own keys and unlocked the door of my little blue Honda Civic. I loved this car, but didn’t drive it much. I was always working during the summer. And up till now I usually spent January and February in Greece, so it sat in Dolly’s garage, undriven, during the worst of the winter. A blast of hot, stale air hit me and I fanned the door trying to dissipate it. When it seemed safe, I got in and turned on the AC. I cranked up my Fabulous Hits of the ’80s CD and exited the parking lot.

I headed north out of town on Route 37. It was still a beautiful morning and I loved to drive, but I did not have time for this trip and that diminished my enjoyment. Old farms with their dilapidated barns and overgrown fields whizzed past, giving way to a few miles of neat Amish farms, their clotheslines pinned with dark trousers and colored shirts flapping in the summer breeze. Farmland was plentiful and inexpensive in the North Country, and the Amish population was growing. I drew closer to a black buggy traveling at a modest clip, put on my signal, and passed carefully so as not to spook the pair of well-matched chestnut horses hitched to the front of the conveyance. I waved and the driver nodded at me from under the brim of his straw hat.

I picked up the pace until I reached the turnoff for Rossie, then pulled off onto the back roads that led toward Black Lake. Eventually a simple, hand-lettered wooden sign reading, “Sunshine Acres—All Welcome Here,” appeared.

In the pasture, horses grazed peacefully alongside a herd of boldly patterned black-and-white Holsteins. I’d been here only a handful of times, nearly always sending Russ out for the pickups. It looked the same as I remembered it. Large red wooden barns on either side of the long dirt drive, a two-story rectangular white building that might be living quarters, long hoop houses covered in semi-opaque white plastic off to one side. Fat chickens pecked at the ground amid the spindly legs of dairy goats with low-hanging udders. These goats produced milk for the most delicious feta cheese, which the Sunshine Acres farmers made especially for the Bonaparte House.

I pulled up at the flat patch of dirt that served as a parking lot in front of the store, which was the front third of one of the barns. I opened the heavy door to the clang of a cowbell and was greeted by a spry fellow whose leathery, wrinkled face was set off by a pair of round, wire-rimmed John Denver–style glasses. A grizzly beard reached to just above his belt buckle. I placed him in his mid- to late sixties.

“What can I do for ya?” he asked.

“I’m here to pick up the Bonaparte House order.”

“Where’s the guy who always comes?” he asked a bit suspiciously. Like this was any of his business.

“He’s sick.”

“Oh. Well, give me a minute to see if it’s ready. You’re early,” he added, looking out at me over the tops of his glasses.

“I’m shorthanded today at the restaurant, so if you could check on it, I’d appreciate it.” I gave him a smile I hoped would encourage him to speed things up, but he moved unhurriedly through the back door.

While he was gone I admired a large Amish quilt hanging on the wall. The tiny, even stitches fascinated me and I made a mental note that one of these would make a nice gift for myself once the season ended. I scanned the glass-fronted refrigerator and pulled out a bag of cheese curds with today’s date written in black marker on the label. Score! Fresh cheese curds were a real treat, not to be found anywhere other than dairy country because they’re best the same day they’re made. I removed the twist tie from the top of the plastic bag and withdrew a pale yellow blob, which I popped into my mouth. It squeaked against my teeth as I chewed, cheesy and salty.

I replaced the twist tie and set the bag on the counter, placing a big jar of local honey next to it. Sophie’s baklava was to die for—light and flaky and dripping with butter, honey, and lots and lots of walnuts. My mouth was watering as I thought of it. I moved the honey closer to the cheese curds and accidentally displaced a pink lined notepad next to the cash register. “Meeting, tonight, usual” was written on the top sheet. The commune must have some kind of loose government, I realized, so they were probably going to discuss business. I slid the pad back over to where it had originally been.

I spied a basket of handmade soaps and selected three—lavender goat’s milk, rosewater, and teaberry vanilla—all wrapped up in calico fabric and tied with raffia. Sophie and Dolly could choose one each, and I’d be happy with whichever was left, they all smelled so good. I was a sucker for anything locally produced.

The guy came back out and set a big box of produce and a smaller box of dairy products on the counter. “You’re supposed to bring back your boxes,” he admonished. “Your boy does it right.” He pushed up the sleeves of his red-and-black-plaid flannel shirt, though it must have been close to eighty degrees already.

“Sorry. I’ll make sure these get back to you. I’m Georgie, by the way.” I extended my hand and he took it in his own, his rough calluses scraping my fingers.

“Hank. Say, you’re the owner, right?” He eyed me.

“Yes.” Not really.

“What’s that other woman’s name, the older one whose husband died?”

“Sophie? She’s my mother-in-law.”

“Sophie.” He said it almost reverently. “I’ve seen her down at the Pancake Heaven. She’s a doll.”

Yikes. Well, Sophie was a nice-looking senior, I guess. I could picture her flirting with older guys over a stack of flapjacks from her booth at Marina’s diner.

“You’re married to her son.”

“That’s right.”

“What’s he up to these days?”

I didn’t answer directly. “Do you know Spiro?” I asked.

“Just in passing. You from around here? What’s your maiden name? I might know your people.”

“Bartlett.”

“You from those Bartletts over toward Redwood?”

“I grew up here in the Bay. Never knew my father.”

He looked at me with interest. “What’s your mom’s name?”

“Shirley. Shirley Bartlett. I haven’t seen her in a long time.” Not since the day after my high school graduation, when she left town, and left me to fend for myself. But there was no sense dwelling on the past. I wasn’t sure why I was giving this man any information. I hadn’t talked about my biological family in so long and it felt strange.

He continued to stare at me, fingering his long beard, and I felt uncomfortable. “Uh, I have to get back. Can you ring me up?” After I paid, Hank helped me load my car.

“Don’t forget to bring back my boxes,” he called after me as my tires kicked up a cloud of dust from the dirt driveway. “The bags too!”