Later Saturday morning, October 7, 1950
The Neighborhood
When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they crossed to the entry doors. Henry gathered up his hat, and they went outside to the porch. When Henry had closed the front door behind him, Skip looked up at his face. “You were swell back there. Thanks to you, I got out of her room in time.”
“Good. I’m new to this detective stuff, but I’m learning.”
“You did great. Let’s walk a bit.”
“Okay, but we could go get the cigarettes right away and then come back. If we change our clothes, we could take a picnic lunch to a park or something by the river. I’m sure Miss Grant could arrange a basket for us, maybe a bottle of wine. It’s warmed up, and according to the newspaper it’s supposed to be in the mid to high sixties by this afternoon.”
“I like the sound of that, Henry. It’s been ages since I’ve had a picnic, but let’s save that for tomorrow before we leave, okay?” he said, placing his straw hat at a rakish angle on his head. “There are a few other things I want to do today.”
“Whatever you say, Valentine.” He put on his own hat and strolled down the steps to the sidewalk with Skip by his side. “Just being with you is a picnic to me.”
“I feel the same way. You’re the bread to my butter, Henry. Let’s go around the block, shall we? I love to look at all these big old houses.”
“It seems to me we could have done that in Chicago. They have plenty of old houses back home,” Henry said.
“But not these same houses,” Skip said. “Come on.”
They turned left at the end of the front walk and strolled casually and slowly down the tree-lined street, pausing now and then to comment on a house or its yard and garden, or to exchange pleasantries with a neighbor on their porch. When they reached South Forest Avenue they went left again, meandering slowly past the grounds of the Eberbach estate toward Wells Street, where they made yet another left.
“So,” Henry said, as they passed under an old chestnut tree, “what exactly were you looking for in Sister Barnabas’s room that you needed me to stand guard in the hall for, anyway? And did you find anything?”
“I wasn’t sure what I was searching for, as I told you before, but I certainly did find something. In the sister’s closet, which was locked, by the way, there were dresses, skirts, blouses, and fancy shoes, and in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, which was also locked, I found, along with the expected toothbrush and toothpowder, a lipstick, a compact and some rouge, and a bottle of hair dye. There was a small glass bottle with something silvery and shimmery in it, too.”
They stopped under the shade of another chestnut tree, this one not as large as the last. “Okay, I get it. Why would a nun have dresses, skirts, blouses, lipstick, rouge, and hair dye?”
“Exactly. It doesn’t make any sense. And who locks their closet and medicine cabinet?”
“I agree with you, it does seem strange. Say, if the closet and the cabinet were locked, how did you get them open, anyway?”
“I have my methods,” Skip said coyly.
“The paper clip and nail file, I bet.”
“See? You’re getting better at this detective business.”
“Thanks, I have a good teacher. But if you’re that talented at picking locks, why is the connecting door between our rooms still locked?”
“That one is trickier. It’s been locked so long it may be rusted,” Skip said with a sly smile.
“And that’s how you broke your nail file.”
“Guilty. I wanted to surprise you. I’ll work on it more tonight. If I can get it open, it would certainly make sneaking back and forth a lot easier. But regardless, if we’re going to do anything more, it will have to be in your room again, and we’ll have to be quiet. Your uncle is already suspicious.”
“Is he?”
“Yes. Last night he asked if I was funny, and told me he thinks you’re impressionable and you shouldn’t hang out with the wrong kinds of people, meaning me.”
Henry scowled. “That’s ridiculous. I’m far from impressionable, and you’re definitely not the wrong kind of people.”
“Thanks. It’s not the first time someone has said I was funny, and probably won’t be the last. I guess I’m just not the manly man type.”
“You’re man enough for me. Smart, funny, handsome, and sweet.”
“I’m glad you think so, Henry. Anyway, now we have to figure out Sister Barnabas’s secret.”
Henry frowned. “Do you think that’s a good idea, Skip? I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”
“I’m sure there is, and I’d wager it’s not a good one. I don’t trust that woman. Let’s keep walking, we still have lots to do.”
“You keep saying that. Like what besides going for cigarettes?”
“Some of it remains to be seen. By the way, any thoughts on what the silvery, shimmery liquid in the bottle might be?”
“Mercury would be my guess,” Henry said.
“Mercury? Why would she have a bottle of that?”
“Well, uh, it’s used in thermometers and stuff, you know.”
“Henry, I don’t think Sister Barnabas has a hobby of making thermometers.”
“Well, there are a few uses I can think of, but the one that comes to mind I hear penicillin is used more for now.”
“Used more now for what?”
“Gee, Skip, it’s not polite to talk about,” Henry said, his cheeks flushing. “I only know about it from being a medic in the Army.”
Skip stopped in his tracks and faced him. “Oh, fiddle faddle, Mr. Finch, tell me at once.”
Henry’s cheeks blushed a rosier red. “It was used to treat syphilis,” he said quietly.
“Syphilis!” Skip said loudly, and Henry felt his cheeks begin to burn.
“Quiet, Valentine. You want all of Ann Arbor to hear you?”
“Oh, what do I care? This whole thing gets stranger and stranger.”
“You can say that again,” Henry said. “And I think that fella across the street heard you.”
They both nodded politely and Henry tipped his hat to the older man working in his yard who had stopped raking and was staring at them, and then they continued their stroll up Wells Street, where the houses weren’t quite so grand as they were on Woodlawn, but still large and mostly well kept.
“Why would a nun need a syphilis treatment, Henry?”
“She wouldn’t, but like I said, there were other uses, too, mostly out of date now. It was also used as an antiseptic and diuretic. Most likely it’s been in that cabinet for years, forgotten about, if that’s what it is.”
“Hmm, I suppose that’s possible. And she is a nurse, so maybe if it is hers, it’s something she used on patients.”
“Could be,” Henry said.
“But still, it’s curious.”
Eventually, they’d circled almost the entire block when Skip came to an abrupt stop, staring up at a tidy corner house with a white picket fence around it.
“This house must be directly behind your uncle’s,” he said.
Henry looked up at it. “Yeah, sure, that makes sense. This is the corner of Packard and Wells. My uncle’s is on the corner of Packard and Woodlawn. We’ve almost made a complete circle, or rectangle, to be more precise.”
“Yes. It’s a smaller, simpler house but nice and well kept.”
“I like how the front porch runs the full width of the house, perfect for sitting on a hot afternoon with a pitcher of lemonade.”
Skip laughed. “Saying ‘howdy, neighbor’ to everyone who passes by.”
“Well, sure, why not?” Henry said, grinning. “It pays to be neighborly.”
“I agree. And on that note, let’s go and say hello.”
Henry raised his eyebrows in surprise. “To who?”
“Mrs. Savage, of course.”
“Who?”
“Augusta Savage, the lady that must live here. The one that used to talk to Bitters over the back fence and called on Mrs. Rutherford every week.”
“Ah, now I see what you’re up to. More prying. You’re going to get us into trouble with all this snooping about.”
“I’m merely being friendly.”
“Uh-huh. What do you hope to find out this time?”
“I’m not sure yet, once again, but we look silly standing here on the sidewalk debating. Let’s go.” He didn’t wait for a reply, but unhitched the gate of the white picket fence and walked up the narrow, flower-lined path to the porch, where he rang the bell. Henry, he noticed, had followed behind.
“What are you going to say to her?”
“Hello, for starters.”
“That’s a pretty good start, I guess,” Henry said.
Presently the door opened, and a woman wearing a simple house dress, her gray hair piled atop her head in a bun, stared out at them. She had deep lines on her suntanned face and bags under her brilliant hazel eyes. She was petite, her veins exposed under a thin layer of wrinkled skin.
“Mrs. Savage?” Skip said, smiling down at her.
“I’m not interested in anything you’re selling, young man,” the woman said, starting to close the door.
“Wait. Oh no, we’re not selling anything. We’re from the Rutherford house, right behind yours,” Skip said, pushing back on the door, which was met with a fair amount of resistance. The little woman was surprisingly strong and tough, like a piece of barbed wire. Mrs. Savage stepped back and the door gave way, Skip almost tumbling into her arms.
“Careful, watch your step.”
Skip straightened himself up and brushed off his trousers, stepping back next to Henry on the porch, somewhat embarrassed. “I do apologize, ma’am.”
“It’s all right. You say you’re from the Rutherford house?”
“Yes, that’s right. I’m Skip Valentine, and this is Henry Finch, Mr. Rutherford’s nephew. We’re up from Chicago for the weekend.”
“I didn’t know he had a nephew,” she said, looking Henry up and down.
“Well, a distant relation. He’s my mother’s second cousin, but I’ve always called him uncle,” Henry said. “I think he might be my second cousin once removed.”
“Darn confusing, all those second cousins, first cousins once removed, and so forth,” Mrs. Savage said.
“I feel the same way,” Skip said.
Mrs. Savage smiled, revealing yellow teeth, one on the bottom right missing. “Well, come in, then, and have a cup of coffee with me and set a spell. Tell me why you’ve come to call.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Savage, you’re too kind,” Skip said as they stepped into her front hall. The house was smaller than the Rutherford place, but it was clean and tidy if a bit dated. Nothing appeared to have changed much in the last thirty years or more.
“Just this way, my front parlor,” she said, motioning them into a room on the left side of the hall. “My only parlor. You may put your hats on the table there.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Henry said.
“Sit, sit. I’ll get the coffee. Back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
Skip and Henry both sat dutifully next to each other on the green velvet davenport under the front windows overlooking the porch. Two matching chairs faced the sofa, their backs and arms draped with age-yellowed homemade doilies. Just past the chairs was a broad doorway into the dining room, framed with burgundy curtains. Vases full of colorful flowers made the place seem cheery. On the wall opposite the entrance to the hall stood a well-used fireplace and an old, battered upright piano, a string hanging from a front panel where a knob must have been at one time.
“I still don’t understand why we’re here, Skip,” Henry said softly.
“As I said, just being neighborly, Henry.”
“Uh-huh.”
Presently the old woman returned, carrying a silver tray in need of polishing, upon which sat three porcelain cups of coffee with matching saucers, a sugar bowl, a creamer, three silver spoons, and a pair of silver tongs. Henry got to his feet to help her with it, but she shooed him back. “Sit, sit, Mr. Finch, is it? I’m quite capable.”
Henry sat back down as she placed the tray on top of the coffee table and handed Skip and Henry each a cup of coffee and a saucer. “Help yourself to cream and sugar, as you like,” she said, putting three sugar cubes and a dash of cream into her cup before settling into one of the green velvet chairs.
“Now,” Mrs. Savage said, sipping her coffee, “why would two young men like you come to see an old lady like me?”
“Mrs. Rutherford mentioned you,” Skip said, picking up one of the cups. “She said you used to call on her.”
“That’s right, I did. How is she?”
“Not well,” Skip said.
“I didn’t figure she’d gotten better since I last saw her. Sad. And all alone in that house, with no family except for her son. I’m a widow, too, and also by myself. My children have moved away. I have a grandchild, almost sixteen by now, a sweet girl. Clara’s her name, my daughter Ethel’s child. They don’t visit much.”
“I’m sorry,” Henry said, taking a cup and adding a little cream to it.
“Oh, I keep myself busy. I don’t have a television, too expensive, but I knit, crochet, volunteer at the church and the hospital, and I bake. Goodness, I’ve forgotten the biscuits and cookies. Would you like some? I just made them yesterday.”
Henry shook his head and Skip said, “No, thank you, Mrs. Savage.”
“Suit yourselves. So, are you two brothers?”
“No, ma’am, just good friends. Probably closer than brothers,” Henry said.
“Oh, how nice, and you chose to sit closely on the davenport next to each other instead of in the chairs.”
“Er, yes, I guess we did,” Skip said.
“Good friends are the family we choose, you know. When were you born, dear?” she said, looking at Skip.
“January eighteenth. Why?”
“Ah, a Capricorn. And you?” she said, pointing at Henry.
“May fifteenth, ma’am.”
“I knew it, a Taurus. Oh, you two are well suited to be good friends, I can see that. It’s in the stars. Capricorns and Tauruses hold a significant amount of respect and love for one another. I’m an Aquarian, and my husband Jack was a Gemini. We were both strong-willed people, but we didn’t let it hurt our relationship, no sir. We always knew we’d rather be together than apart. It’s only a hunch, but I bet you two feel the same way.”
“Uh, has your husband been gone some time?” Skip said.
“Nearly twenty years. Captain Savage, he was. He and his crew all lost in a terrible accident.”
“How awful,” Skip said.
“Yes. I still miss him. He was a good man. I contacted him once, through a séance my friend Velma held. He told me he missed me, but he was waiting for me in the afterlife.”
“That must have given you some peace of mind,” Skip said.
“Oh, indeed it did. After that, I didn’t see the need to bother him anymore. But we’ll have lots to catch up on when my time comes.” She smiled wistfully. “He and I built this house right after we were married. We wanted a big family. We ended up with just two, a boy and a girl. There’s a picture of them on the mantel there. They were just two and four when their father died.”
“A lovely family,” Skip said, looking over at it. “That must have been difficult for you, and for them.”
“Thank you. Yes, it was. The last time they telephoned, I told them I spoke with their father via a séance, but they didn’t believe me, unfortunately.”
“I’m sorry. By the way, I understand your friend conducted a séance for Mrs. Rutherford, also,” Skip said.
“Yes, she wanted to talk to the spirit of her dead son, Arthur, so I arranged it. Velma channeled the boy, and he told Mrs. Rutherford he was happy and content to play with his ball and roam the halls of the house, never far away from her.”
“Was that the last time you saw Mrs. Rutherford? The night of the séance?”
“No, I called on her about two weeks ago, Friday, the twenty-second of September. After what happened that day, I’m done with her, I think. Every Friday for years I’d stop and visit, on my way home from my volunteer work, you see, even during the war.”
“What happened that day that made you not want to return?” Henry said.
Mrs. Savage pursed her lips. “Oh, she’s gotten so bad, you know, in the last few months. It all started in June, I think, or maybe it was July. She doesn’t know me half the time lately or doesn’t remember I was there. What’s the point of my visiting? She gets angry, too, just like that.” The old lady snapped her surprisingly nimble fingers. “The last time I was there, she threw a flower vase at me and nearly hit me in the head. And that is why it was the last time I was there.”
“Oh my, that’s certainly understandable,” Henry said.
“Definitely,” Skip said. “By the way, Mrs. Rutherford said you were friendly with Mr. Bitters before he died.”
Mrs. Savage took a sip of her coffee. “Yes, that’s right. We used to chat over the fence out back while I was working in my garden and he was mowing the Rutherfords’ lawn or fixing something around their place. I’d bring him a glass of lemonade or a few cookies I’d just made, and he’d tell me all about the goings-on in the Rutherford household. In fact, we spoke just a couple of days before he passed away.”
“Mrs. Rutherford told us you believe his death may not have been an accident,” Skip said.
“My, it sounds like you two had quite a conversation with Gabria.”
“It was fairly brief, but she was lucid at the time, at least for a bit, and it seemed she wanted to talk.”
“I see. Well, the official verdict, of course, is that it was an accident, that Joe was most likely intoxicated and had passed out when the fire started. He certainly was a heavy drinker, but I do wonder. When Gabria told me about the pounding and barking she heard in the house late at night just after the fire, I put two and two together and figured it must be the ghosts of Joe and his dog Bullseye. And the only reason they’d haunt would be because they’re not at rest. After all, they want someone to discover what actually happened to them. I told Velma about it, too, and she agreed.”
“Not surprising,” Henry said.
“No, Velma’s very in tune spiritually. She told me they’ve taken to haunting the main house because their home was destroyed. Mrs. Rutherford told me she’s the only one who’s heard them, though.”
“Um, how fascinating,” Skip said. “Is that the only reason you think it may not have been an accident?”
“No, not entirely. You see, the fire was on August twenty-eighth. Two days before that, Joe told me he’d found something and was going to be coming into some money.”
“He didn’t tell you what he found?” Henry said.
“No, he didn’t. But he did say he had found something important, and that if something happened to him, I should find his notes. He was rather cryptic and gave me a rhyme I simply can’t figure out. And I’ve looked everywhere I could think of, but nothing has turned up.”
“So, Mr. Bitters didn’t explain what it was he had found or where to find these notes, or what they contained?” Skip said.
“No, as I said, he only gave me a puzzling rhyme that I’ve memorized. ‘A sharp mind will find a major clue in these. Pull the cord, and you’ve scored the location of my keys. Unlock the quotes to find my notes, and the evidence you’ll see.’”
“Huh?” Henry said.
Skip raised a brow. “You’re right, that’s quite a puzzle. You’ve no idea what he meant by all that?”
“None at all,” Mrs. Savage said. “I’ve thought and thought about it. Regardless, the notes and evidence were most likely destroyed in the fire, so we may never know what he’d found.”
“That’s what Mrs. Rutherford thought, too. She couldn’t fully remember the rhyme, though,” Skip said.
“Still, my goodness, she was having a lucid moment. She didn’t seem to comprehend anything I was saying at the time, so I’m surprised she recalled any of that.”
“Did Mr. Bitters get along with Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford?” Skip said.
“Well enough, I suppose, but Joe didn’t care for the lot of them, to be honest, and he’d say some rude things about them to me in confidence. He didn’t like the sister much, either.”
“Why is that?” Henry said.
“He told me he saw her the day she first arrived when Mr. Rutherford pulled up to the garage. Joe happened to be in the yard, and he went over and helped with her satchel. He said she was cordial, but then he ran into her again a few weeks later, and she barely spoke to him and was rude, keeping her distance.”
“Maybe she was having a bad day,” Henry said. “I imagine caring for Mrs. Rutherford got tiring quickly.”
“Oh, no doubt. And Joe was not necessarily what one would call a nice man, but he was friendly enough to me. He’d visit me every so often, you know, and we’d sit right here in this room and have coffee and cake and chat. Sometimes he’d play for me.”
“Play?”
“The piano,” Mrs. Savage said. “He was good, and he also wrote music and poems. I never learned how to play myself, but my daughter, Ethel, took lessons. It’s a player piano. You pump the foot pedals and it plays, but I could never figure out how to change the rolls, so I just leave it alone.”
“I could take a look at it for you if you like,” Skip said. “I took lessons for several years, and my uncle had an old player I used to fiddle with.”
“Thank you, but it’s fine. The knob on the compartment for the rolls broke off, too. I replaced it with a piece of twine but it’s not so strong, so best to leave it be. I’m too old to fuss with it, but I can’t bear to part with the piano, either.”
“Sure, I understand. Lots of memories.”
“Yes, some good, some not so good. Poor Joe. He was a bright man, but not the smartest. He liked his liquor, sometimes too much, as I said before, and they found quite a few empty bottles in the wreckage. That’s why the police thought he may have been drunk and incapacitated, and I suppose he may have been. You know, a whole bottle of vodka went missing from my sideboard once after one of his visits.”
“You think he took it?” Henry said.
Mrs. Savage laughed lightly. “Oh, my dear, of course. But I didn’t mind. Joe didn’t have much, you see, and I could spare a bottle of vodka. I only kept it on hand for visitors, anyway. He took other little things, too, nothing I minded. Rumor has it he was fired from his last job for dipping into the till, but that’s just a rumor. I looked the other way.”
“That’s generous of you,” Skip said.
“Oh, he repaid me many times over with his company, and his music and photographs.”
“Photographs?”
“Yes, he was an amateur photographer,” she said. “I’m a little embarrassed, but he took a picture of me this past summer out in my garden. I have it just here, inside my Bible.” She reached over and picked up a well-worn leather Bible from off the side table, extracting a small black-and-white photograph, which she handed carefully to Skip.
“It’s a good likeness, Mrs. Savage,” Skip said.
“Yes, you look pretty,” Henry said.
“Thank you. Still hard to believe he’s gone,” Mrs. Savage said wistfully. “And his old dog, too. Did you know Mrs. Rutherford also had a dog?”
“Yes, she mentioned him to us,” Henry said.
“She got him a couple of years ago when she was still all right. She must have been lonely. Oh, she’d go out now and then, to church and whatnot, and folks would call on her, but she didn’t seem to have any real friends. She was a stern woman, still is, and regretful.”
“Regretful?” Henry said.
“That’s right. She’d talk to me about her youth sometimes, before she got so sick. She was young and gay, vibrant and pretty, with lots of suitors where she grew up in Traverse City. She met Giles Rutherford when he was visiting his brother one summer, and soon they were married. She was only nineteen.”
“So young,” Skip said.
“Giles was older, in his late thirties, not much younger than Ambrose is now, come to think of it. But he was wealthy and charming enough, she told me. He brought her down here to Ann Arbor, where she knew no one. Unfortunately, his business kept him busy, and Gabria was left alone much of the time in that big old house with little to do.”
“But she had children,” Henry said.
“Yes, eventually. Her first child, a girl, was stillborn when she was twenty-eight. Her son Arthur was born several years later, and Ambrose came along a few years after that when Gabria was in her early forties, I think. I never met or saw Arthur, so protective of him, she was. Of course, she’s told you Arthur died at the age of five.”
“Yes, pneumonia. It claimed so many young lives back then.”
“Indeed. And then, of course, her husband Giles died shortly after Ambrose was born. I suppose it’s no wonder Mrs. Rutherford became a stern, strict woman, left alone with a toddler at her age, in a town that was all but foreign to her, even after all those years,” Mrs. Savage said. “She told me she never liked Ann Arbor.”
“I’m surprised she stayed here after her husband died,” Henry said.
“I asked her that once. She used to wallow in self-pity, I’m afraid. She said nothing was left for her in Traverse City anymore. Childbirth had ruined her figure, she was over forty, worn out, and tired. Giles had arranged for her to be taken care of financially, and he had put the house in her name, so she stayed and raised Ambrose as best she could.”
“But she was lonely, you said,” Henry said.
“She was. Understandable, I should think. She kept to herself, never made any real friends here, and never remarried. She could be cold and distant with me. As I said, I called upon her every Friday like clockwork but she never once called upon me, wouldn’t lower herself to walk to this side of the block.”
“Her loss, of course,” Skip said.
“Thank you. Anyway, I was pleased when, two years ago, Miss Grant found a puppy for her. Gabria took to the little runt right away, and the two of them became inseparable. I can’t remember what she named him off the top of my head.”
“Gipper,” Henry said.
The old lady nodded, the bun on top of her head bobbing up and down. “Yes, that’s right. So devoted to him she was. But the dog apparently ran away.”
“She told us that, too,” Skip said.
“Yes, but I’m not sure I believe it any more than I entirely believe Joe Bitters’s death was an accident.”
“Are you saying you think Mrs. Rutherford made it up about her dog?” Henry said.
“Oh no, I believe she believes he ran away, but I don’t. I think that dog is dead.”
“Why?” Skip said.
“I’m not one to gossip, but one night shortly after the fire, I couldn’t get to sleep, I was restless. I was still upset about Joe dying, and I guess I had too much on my mind. I tossed and turned, and finally got up and looked out the bedroom window. I can see the Rutherfords’ yard and old carriage house from there, you know.”
“That makes sense. Your house is directly behind theirs,” Henry said.
“Yes, and my bedroom is upstairs in the back. Anyway, I was standing at the window, staring down at the Rutherford place, lost in thought. There was a bright moon out, and it lit up everything almost like it was day. Everything was quiet and still, peaceful, even the crickets seemed to have gone to sleep. Then, all of a sudden, I saw a man come from the back of the Rutherford house, and it looked like he was carrying something, a box, maybe. He went into the garage and came back with a shovel, and then dug a hole beneath the old stairs near the fence. I couldn’t see for certain, but it might have been Jake, Miss Grant’s nephew. I’d bet money what he was carrying was a box with Gipper inside it, and I’m willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that someone killed that dog on purpose and told him to bury it.”
“Why would someone do that?” Skip said, surprised and rather horrified.
“I don’t know unless it was to punish Mrs. Rutherford, to get revenge on her. As you must be aware, she can be harsh and cruel. And as much as I hate to think it, it’s also possible she may have killed the dog in one of her fits of anger.”
“Oh my, that’s an awful thought,” Skip said.
“It is, but if she did it, I’m sure she doesn’t remember. Afterward, they may have told her the dog ran away to spare her feelings and had Jake bury it.” Mrs. Savage took a final drink of her coffee and set the cup and saucer back down onto the tray. “But as I say, I’m not one to gossip.”
“No, of course not,” Skip said. “So, you believe someone killed Gipper and buried him behind the carriage house, and Joe and his dog were locked in the night of the fire and now haunt the main house because of it?”
“That’s correct, and Velma agrees. I can see Joe being the haunting type, but Bullseye was such a sweet old thing. Of course, maybe for the dog, the fire was a blessing.”
“How so?” Henry said.
“Joe told me Bullseye had cancer real bad. He was an old boy, almost fifteen, and the veterinarian thought he only had a month or two at best to live. Maybe the smoke inhalation was a kinder way for him to go.”
“Still, how sad,” Skip said.
“Oh yes, indeed. And tragic for Joe Bitters. I miss him. I get lonely, too, sometimes.”
“That’s understandable, and please accept our condolences,” Henry said.
“Thank you, my dear. Poor Joe. I think Mr. Bitters put his nose in where it didn’t belong, and someone bit it off, so to speak.”
“Yes, well, if that’s the case, I hope justice is soon served,” Skip said.
“So do I, though the police seem to consider the matter closed. An accident, as I said, and they may be right. I could be letting my imagination run away with me.”
“Maybe, but there have been a few ‘accidents’ around the Rutherford place lately,” Skip said.
“Skip,” Henry said.
Skip glanced over at him and then back to Mrs. Savage. “I guess we can talk about all that another day, ma’am. I think we’ve taken up enough of your time. You’ve been so awfully kind.” He set his cup back on the table as Henry did the same.
“Oh, must you be going so soon?” the old woman said.
“I’m afraid so. The morning is slipping away, and we still have to get somewhere. But thank you so much for your hospitality,” Skip said.
Skip and Henry stood up. “May we help you clear the coffee service?” Henry said.
“Oh no, I wouldn’t think of it. It gives me something to do. But you must have a cookie each to take with you. I’ll be right back.” She sprang to her feet with surprising agility and disappeared down the hall, only to return presently with two cookies on a small plate. “Here you go, I hope you like chocolate chip.”
“My favorite,” Skip said, taking one off the plate.
“And mine, thank you,” Henry said, doing the same.
“You’re more than welcome. Don’t forget your hats, and do come again, please. I’m eager to hear more about these accidents and such. And I do want Velma to hold another séance. Maybe she can contact Joe and ask him what happened. Have you ever attended one?”
“Ah, no, I haven’t,” Skip said.
“Me neither,” Henry said.
“They must be done right, you see. It must be dark except for at least three candles, or any number divisible by three, and food. The candles and food attract spirits seeking warmth and sustenance.”
“Intriguing. That makes sense, I suppose,” Skip said, as they made their way to the front door, cookies in hand. “Thanks again, good day.”
“Good day. Give my regards to the Rutherfords.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Henry said, putting on his hat.
“Well, that was something, and so was she,” Henry said, latching the gate behind them as they stepped onto the sidewalk.
“She certainly was,” Skip said, taking a bite of his cookie. “Mm, these are delicious.”
Henry took a bite of his. “They certainly are.”
“And that was an interesting visit. We certainly did find out things,” Skip said, finishing the cookie as Henry did the same.
“We did? It doesn’t seem to me we found out much except for the fact she saw a man digging in the yard late at night. Otherwise, all we heard were her opinions on things, not facts, and she admitted that most of it may just be her imagination. She believes in ghosts, too, so maybe she’s a bit loopy. We don’t even know for sure if this Bitters fellow really found anything or left any notes. Maybe he was making it all up to entertain her.”
“Or maybe not. That’s why we have to do some more investigating.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“You don’t have to be involved if you don’t wish,” Skip said matter-of-factly.
“You are a stubborn one, Skip Valentine.”
“It’s one of my best traits, as someone once said about himself, so that makes two of us. Do you suppose your uncle keeps a shovel in the garage? And I seem to recall a flashlight in the glove box of your friend’s car. Does it work?”
“A shovel and a flashlight? What the—” Henry stopped abruptly. “Oh no, absolutely not! We are not going to go digging up that dead dog.”
“Aha. Then you admit you think Mrs. Savage is right and Gipper is in that box Jake buried.”
“First of all, we don’t know it was Jake for sure. And second, if it was, and if Gipper is in that box, what would it prove?”
“That he didn’t run away, and that somebody killed him.”
“But why?”
“That remains to be seen. Maybe to punish Mrs. Rutherford, as Mrs. Savage said.”
Henry sighed, exasperated. “Skip, if the dog is in the buried box, there could be a thousand explanations. He may have died unexpectedly, gotten into some kind of poison, or been hit by a car, and they didn’t want to upset Mrs. Rutherford by telling her he was dead. Telling her he ran away at least gives her hope that he could come back.”
“False hope. She’s heartbroken.”
“False hope is better than no hope. And if Mrs. Rutherford is the one who killed Gipper, it’s way better than the truth. We’re not digging up that box, understand? What if someone caught us? How would we explain that?”
“That’s why we’ll do it in the middle of the night, with your friend Bernie’s flashlight from the car.”
“Oh sure, that makes total sense. Never mind the fact that we could be seen by Mrs. Savage, Mrs. Rutherford, or Mr. Rutherford. All their rooms overlook the yard and old carriage house.”
“But they’d be sleeping.”
“No, Skip. I don’t care. I’m not doing it.”
“Fine. I’ll do it myself.”
Henry took off his hat and rubbed his forehead. “You are giving me a first-rate headache. Let me think about it, okay?”
“Okay.”
“All right, then. Let’s go get Mr. Rutherford’s cigarettes.”
“Yes, and I want to do some shopping.”
“Shopping? Why do I have the feeling you have an ulterior motive or two?”
Skip smiled. “Why, Mr. Finch, you are beginning to know me well.”