Eine Kleine Murder (24 page)

Chapter 42

Mit Nachdruck: With emphasis, strongly marked (Ger.)

I awoke to bright daylight and the usual birdsong, trying to think—what was different about this morning? Sunlight streamed into the porch, across the bright green indoor—outdoor carpeting, through the lattice work of the wicker chairs, and up onto the bed where I lay tangled in the bed clothes, alone.

Where's Daryl?

There were a few bright hairs left on my pillow.

I found a note Daryl had left by the coffee maker on the kitchen countertop. The note was soft and tender, like last night. The heat ramped up in my chest and a blush rose to my face. Smiling to myself, I reread it, folded it, and put it into my purse.

We'd spent the night on the porch, crowded into the single brass bed together, the shades drawn, but all the louvers cranked open. The owl was hunting again, but not close by. His hoot had sounded eerily in the distance. It didn't bother me at all that night.

My composing material, my keyboard, laptop, and staff paper still lay on the countertop. Something had solidified in my subconscious during the night. I was ready.

I sat down and creative energy surged through my body, veins, and brain, and I turned to my composition, lying lifeless until now. With startling clarity I knew what the problem was. And the solution. Why hadn't I seen it before?

With fresh vigor, I tore into the music, scribbling notes on the staff paper so quickly my fingers ached, stopping only occasionally to check what I had written by running through it on the piano keyboard. Wholly formed themes were appearing to me, crystal clear—I had only to capture them before they dissolved into the air.

I finally understand that I can't put life into my composition without including death. After all, life is only meaningful when it is linked with death. Life can't go on without death. They are two aspects of the same unnamed thing.

The void that had ached inside me since my grandmother's demise cried out and I heard it. I filled it with music; I put her death, as well as her life, into my piece.

The notes that had been only notes until then, limp ditties that sat and mocked my efforts, sprang to life when paired with the darker rumblings of the menace of death. My piece pulsed with the rhythms of the water, the wind, the woods, and the waves.

The melodies soared, the harmonies sang, the rhythms danced. I caught in my creation the light and the dark, the balance of nature, the awful, awe-full duo of life and death.

I scribbled hotly, desperately racing to capture the ideas tumbling through my brain before they evaporated. My music evoked the frogs, the owls with their haunting calls and their sudden swoops of death, the cries of the hunted and suffering, the terrible dark things of the night; it sang the birds in the morning, the joyful flight of squirrels through the topmost branches of tall and mighty trees, the delight of the sun rising through the mist. Even the new vigorous plants replacing the withered ones that would, in their turn, nourish new growth.

My music took shape; it worked. When I coupled life with death, presented the whole picture, passion entered my music. The concept was so elementary, so basic, and yet I didn't see it until now. Death is not just loss. It
is
loss of life, but not loss of the person; it's also a part of life. I hadn't lost Gram. Not really. Just her body. I still had the essence of her and always would. I would always have my memories of her.

Looking around, I felt I was returning from a long journey. At last, after several hours of feverish pursuit, I was drained of ideas. I scanned what I had done, and it was so fine I felt like leaping up.

But I sure was hungry. I ate a quick breakfast, although it was lunchtime, showered, and put on a pair of shorts. I slipped into my loafers, sockless. The day was already warm.

I hummed, basking in the glow of accomplishment, as I dressed. The dappled light filtered through the leaves onto the porch. What a beautiful day. And, to match it, my music danced like the sunshine, leapt in my heart, and sang like my soul. I sat down and did more work, putting a few last amazing touches into the music with no effort.

My experiences with prior compositions had taught me I could keep working on this piece forever, but at some point I would have to decide to quit writing it. A composition is never really done, it just gets done well enough to leave alone.

I laid my pencil down and shoved the keyboard aside at long last, and let my mind dwell directly on Daryl. If the truth were to be made known about the burning of the cabin, he might be able to put it behind him completely, and begin to forget.

I wonder if there's any way I can help him.
I stopped myself with that thought.
Little Miss Fix-It, that's me.

I closed the door behind me as I went out, meaning to inspect the site of the burning again, but something fluttered in the breeze at eye level. There was a note taped to the door.

Since Daryl had left his note inside, I was puzzled. Did he leave another one out here? I pulled it off the door and opened it to see Len's handwriting.

Weak in the knees, I stumbled back inside and sat down to read it.

“Dear Cressa,” it said. “I want to talk to you, but I can see that's hopeless. You won't listen to me, so I'll write it down for you, Bitch.”

I shivered as I heard his voice in my mind. That voice that used to make my heart leap, but now made my stomach lurch.

The note continued. “I can see now that you don't deserve me. That other creep can have you. It sounded like you had a good time last night.”

He heard us last night? He was outside the porch when the louvers were open. My God! I crumpled the note and threw it on the floor.

That was no good. I had to read the rest of it. My palms prickled as I picked it up and smoothed it.

“I wanted to tell you I took a job in Australia and I'm leaving in two weeks. You'll never see me again, and I never have to see your ugly face, or my nagging wife's face, either. You've both been replaced by someone better. I've been emailing a viola player in Sydney. I know she'll work out better than you did.”

This means he had been following me last night. And now he was finally gone. I'll continue to look over my shoulder, though. I can't believe he's truly gone.

The note was signed “Len” with no closing. No “Love” or “Yours truly” or “Cordially” or even “Hatefully.”

If my phone had any reception I would have called Neek. But I had no such luck. Ivan was back to being The Terrible.

I strolled down the road past Eve's empty cabin, past Hayley's sad-looking blue shutters, and stopped, surveying the site of the burned cabin.

Bushes had grown up all around the edges and screened it from view of the road. I found a set of concrete steps that led down to the level place where the cabin had stood. Aside from the cement foundation little else remained. None of the cabins here had basements; all were built on slabs. Two large, dead trees overhung the space that was once the roof of the cabin. Their trunks were coal black. Even the sunlight glimmered only dimly in this place. There were no clues here. I hurried back to the road and up the hill to my own cheerful cabin.

Finally feeling strong again, the time had come to read the message from Gram. I reached inside the armoire and found it where I had left it. I'd been half-hoping it would have disappeared, but it was there, waiting for me. Deciding this was an “occasion,” I poured a glass of iced tea—I didn't have any champagne—and took the envelope out onto the back porch, lit some scented candles, and settled into the wicker rocker.

The rocker creaked as I pushed it back and forth with my toes. Gram used to rock at the end of the day, her toes touching the floor, her heels bobbing up and down in a serene rhythm.

The envelope held several sheets of paper. The top one was a short note from Gram to me dated two days before her death.

My Dear Cressa,

I've had this letter from your parents for many years. They wrote it just before they died. After you read it, you will no doubt wonder what I did about this. I want you to know I hired two different private investigators, but neither of them found anything in addition to what the police report said. The deaths were ruled accidental.

I hope we've made up our quarrel by the time you read this. I almost mailed it to you and may still. If I don't see you before your summer break, I'll give it to you then. It's about time you had it. I'm rambling on, aren't I, dear Cressa?

I don't think there's anything more you can do, just wanted you to know about this.

As much love as always,

Gram

P.S. I've put this cabin in my will for you. I think you'll like it.

I caressed the paper between my fingers, because she had held it. How wonderful to know she wrote her love to me two days before she died. And she knew. She knew I would decide to come see her over my break. And I had. I had come, but hadn't been able to see her one last time. I would treasure this scrap of paper always. One lone tear trickled down my cheek.

Then I turned to the other sheets in the envelope. There were receipts and reports from two different private detective agencies. As I skimmed them, I saw, as she said, they had investigated the deaths of my parents. The findings of both were that no foul play was involved in their deaths.

But the letter from my parents was not included. She must have meant to stick it in, but hadn't gotten around to it.

Now what? Gram was murdered and must have suspected my parents were, too? But everything pointed to an accident. I knew the circumstances. They had finished playing a New Year's gig in a Minnesota ski resort and were on their way back to their cabin at the resort for the rest of the night. Their car slid on an icy patch and rolled down a steep hill. Their sound equipment and instruments flew in all directions and it wasn't clear if they had died of the impact, or from the cases hitting them.

All these facts were familiar to me; they'd been told to me at the time, though I hadn't known about the PIs.

I gently folded the papers and put them back into the envelope to keep. These were big chapters of my life that were over, songs that had been sung. Still, I knew I would get these sheets out and re-read them often in the future.

How silly of me to dread opening this envelope, I thought, as I put it back on the armoire shelf. It was as good a place as any for it.

I only had one thing on my mind now; I needed to see the letter from my parents. I examined every place I had looked in for my necklace, and then some, becoming more and more annoyed. Sweaty and angry, I sat back on my heels on the floor after searching the cabinet under the sink. The letter from my parents wasn't in the cabin. My stomach clenched. I would never know the basis for Gram's concern if I couldn't find that letter.

I pawed through the cupboards again, unmade the daybeds, threw the mattresses to the floor, even moved the items in the refrigerator aside. Still no letter.

Have to get a grip, Cressa. That letter is NOT
here.

In the little bathroom I threw water on my face, then sat down at the counter with another glass of iced tea. The cabin was a mess. How daunting to have to clean this up. Later.

The empty mousetraps lay inside the door, where I had left them days ago. Although I had decided to stop catching the poor little creatures, I still didn't want them living in the cabin. Maybe Mr. Anders in the drugstore would have a better solution, one that wouldn't kill them, just keep them out. A trip into town would delay straightening up my cabin.

And this cabin
was
mine now. My cousins would never get it. I had grown fond of it. I would have to close up the cabin and leave in the fall, but wanted to come back some day; I didn't want to return to an infestation, whenever I decided it was safe to return. Whenever people stopped dying here.

Chapter 43

Calcando: “Pressing”; hastening the tempo (Ital.)

On the way to my car I heard angry shouting from the Weldons' trailer. As I slid into the driver's seat Sheila stormed out, slammed the flimsy screen door behind her, thundered down the steps, and stalked off.

Wayne shoved the door open and called after her. The filthy thin slacks he wore must have been the same pair he had on at Grace's funeral yesterday. He was barefoot, and the familiar red plaid shirt was untucked and half-unbuttoned.

His words were slurred with drink, but it sounded like he said, “I can too get them all.” It came out more like “Ikin too gimall.”

Sheila whirled around, her enormous orange housedress flapping against her chubby legs, and told him to shut up. She shook a hammy fist at him, then kept walking.

I pretended I hadn't seen them and drove to the .

What do you suppose Wayne is talking about? Is he the killer, wanting to kill them all? All the Toombses? Could he have just been swatting flies. Or trapping mice?

Wayne as the killer didn't make any sense, though. It was true, Toombs fired them, but that should have been a welcome development since they didn't like working here. For that matter, why had they stayed all this time, taking his abuse?

I went in to talk to Mr. Anders about mice abatement. But first I asked him exactly what he knew about the famous fire at the lake.

“The Lake Fire.” His slow pronunciation gave it capital letters. “I remember when that cabin burned. Everyone does. Poor Norah lost her life that night. You know, most folks thought young Daryl Johannson set the fire. He was just a kid. He was even accused, but then he was acquitted.”

He assumed his stool behind the cash register, rubbed his shiny dome, and propped his knobby elbows on the counter. I leaned on the counter, anxious to hear his take on things.

“I never thought he did it. Norah was awfully kind to him when he was going through his hard times.” I breathed easier than I had since I read Gram's letter, glad someone else thought him innocent.

“He worked for me for quite a few summers. I know that boy. Honest, hardworking, he'd do anything for a friend. Lots of kids wouldn't be friends with him, though. Their parents all told them he set the fire that killed Norah Grey and to stay away from him.”

The tinkling bell interrupted us and he waited on a woman towing a sniffling kid and recommended an over-the-counter cough syrup. After they left, he climbed back onto his stool behind the counter and continued to spell out the history of The Lake Fire for me.

“That Norah, now, she was one of the best-looking women who ever stocked shelves in this store. She only worked here the one summer when she was a youngster. Same summer Al worked here. They had a romance going, leastways he did.” Mr. Anders's chuckle was dark and humorless. “He would corner her back in the stockroom and they'd kiss. I caught ‘em a couple of times and put ‘em back to work. It was a short romance, though.”
Al? Al Harmon?

Here he frowned. “She showed up several times—two or three, I guess—with a black eye or bruises. The last time, she broke down and cried. She told me Al had done it and she didn't want to be his girlfriend anymore.”

This didn't sound like the Al I knew. Or did I know him at all?

“Right after that, she quit working for me and got married to Hank Grey. I guess Al stopped pestering her then, for awhile. He got married, too, the next year. His wife left him after a few months, though, and he started bothering Norah again. Her husband even called the cops on him a few times.”

A teenaged girl stuck her head in from the back room and asked what to do with a box of light bulbs.

“Leave it,” he told her with a kind smile. “There's enough on the shelf. You'd better run along, you're wasting daylight.”

She scurried over with the light step of youth and gave him a quick hug before she left.

“When Al got married to his second wife,” Mr. Anders went on, “it seemed like he quit bothering Norah. It wouldn't surprise me, though, if it was him that burned the cabin. I'm not saying he meant to kill Norah, but I'm not saying he didn't, either. I wouldn't put it past him.”

I tried to absorb what he was saying, and barely remembered to ask him about the mice.

“You can either try to seal all the places they're comin' in and get an exterminator for the ones that're in there now, or you can get a machine that lets out a high-pitched noise, too high-pitched for us to hear, but it drives the little critters out. I don't have one here. Might be able to find one in New Windsor. It's called a high frequency emitter. The only exterminator around is in New Windsor, too, for that matter.”

I thanked him for the advice, got the number for the exterminator, and got into my car to return to the lake. I didn't feel like driving to New Windsor right then. My car meandered into the lake complex and up the hill.

Al—I should have asked him who Al was. The only Al I can think of is Al Harmon. The person Mr. Anders described doesn't sound a bit like Al Harmon, though.

There was Al, sitting outside his cabin fiddling with his fishing equipment, when I drove by. His family had left and he was alone.

He waved and I parked and came over, still carrying my purse with its pepper spray handy in the unlikely event he was the killer. I sat on the bench, out of reach of his long arms.

I asked politely what he was doing and he said he was having a sandwich for lunch and stringing poles, but he didn't have much appetite.

He looked down and my loafers caught his eye. “Where did you get your shoe so muddy?”

Gulp! I guess I didn't clean one side after my trek. The trek where I saw Al looking for his knife.

“I… I don't remember. Maybe when I found Toombs.”

Wanting to change the subject, quickly, I asked him if he and Grace were both from Alpha. Maybe that would tell me if he were Mr. Anders's Al.

“Yep, both born and raised here. We left after we got married, you know. I worked at three different colleges in my career, including DePaul. But we've always wanted to come back here to retire.” His gaze took in the towering trees, the clear sky, the peaceful lake. A light breeze stirred the leaves of a nearby lilac bush.

“We were glad to see Ida move in, too. Just sorry your grandfather wasn't still alive. Ida missed him something fierce.”

“I know. It was my fault he died.”

“How was it your fault he fell down the stairs?”

“I didn't replace the light bulb. If he'd had enough light he might have… wait. Wait a minute.” My fingers tightened on my purse strap. I pictured us finding him, Gram rushing down to gather up his broken body, the light casting her shadow on him. I'd pictured this scene hundreds, maybe thousands of times in my head. It was always the same. But I'd never talked about it out loud. Since Gram cast a shadow, there had to be light!

“There was light at the bottom of the stairs. There
was
a new light bulb. It
wasn't
burnt out. Gram must have changed it.”

Why had I never been able to figure this out before?
There's a time and a place for everything.
I would ponder this later. The ethereal part of Rossini's
William Tell Overture
, the part with flutes and trills, floated upward in my mind, taking a huge chunk of guilt with it.

“Were you in town just now?” he asked.

“Yes. I talked to Mr. Anders, the pharmacist, about my mice problem. He's an interesting man. Did you work for him when you were a teenager? He says almost everybody in town did at one time or another.”

Al set his fishing pole aside and rubbed his worn hands together. “Yeah, he's a character. Old as the hills, you know. A lot of us worked for him. Grace and I both did, but not at the same time. She was three years younger. I had to wait for her to graduate from college before we could get married. She was worth waiting for, though.” He gave a sad half-smile. “I'll always miss her, Cressa.”

A fly whizzed by and he shooed it away from his half-eaten sandwich.

“Mr. Anders spoke of an Al who worked for him one summer. It didn't sound like you, though. Grace was your first and only wife?”

“First, last, and only. She was my sweetheart, the love of my life. We were married forty-seven years. And I wasn't called Al when I was a kid. My nickname was Smiley. I tried to drop it when I went to college, but Grace still called me Smiley. It was her private pet name for me. No, Al would be Al Toombs. He's Albert, I'm Alvin. I've always thanked God I didn't have the exact same name he did. He's always been called Al. He's quite a bit younger than I am, too.”

“Mr. Toombs is named Al?” My mouth gaped at that revelation. “That makes more sense. Mr. Anders was telling me about a guy named Al, but the person he described didn't fit you at all. Toombs was married briefly before Martha?”

“Married the youngest Nelson girl. She got enough of him real soon, though, and ran off somewhere after a few months. Just disappeared. She's never been back, even to visit. None of her family is left here. The one he always liked was Norah, even after she got married, but she had sense enough never to encourage him, except for a short fling they had when they were teenagers.”

“That was the summer they both worked for Mr. Anders. He told me about that. He wonders if it was Al who burned down the cabin and killed Norah Grey.” This would mean
Toombs
set the fire and then blamed Daryl. And killed his first wife?

“He does, does he? I suppose it's possible. But Daryl Johannson probably did it. All the evidence pointed to him, even though he got off. I have nothing against the boy but his mother had just died and his father wasn't paying too much attention to him. I'm sure he didn't mean to kill anyone.”

Hot anger rose inside me. “He says he didn't do it.”

“Of course he says that. What would you think he'd say?”

“I believe him. I don't think he did.” I was speaking rather loudly.

“Well, it's old news anyway,” he answered quietly, trying to defuse my anger. “It was big excitement for a long time, but not as big as what we have now.”

“The murders, you mean.”

Al Harmon didn't say anything, he just picked up his pole and continued stringing line.

“Did Martha ever talk to you about her husband?”
Did she tell you he killed your wife? And did you retaliate by killing Toombs, then Martha?

“Martha? Toombs hardly let her out. I haven't said two words to Martha in years.”

Al set his equipment down and slumped. “I'm tired, Cressa. Think I'll go inside for a nap.” His voice sounded weary. He rose slowly, collecting his fishing poles and gear.

The sun was gathering strength and the day was getting downright hot. My purse was heavy on my shoulder.

I called after him. “Could I use your phone for just a minute?” I wanted to tell Daryl I had finished my composition last night.

“Sure,” he said, then put his things in the house and returned with the phone. “Go ahead and use it. Just leave it by the door when you're done.”

Okay, it doesn't look like Al Harmon killed Martha or Toombs. If Al Toombs is the one who set fire to the cabin, and if someone besides Mr. Anders also thinks so, then someone else would know Al Toombs killed Norah Grey. That person might want to avenge her death. By killing Al Toombs. But all these years later? Norah's husband is dead, Mr. Anders said. But Daryl mentioned a daughter.

I checked my cell phone one more time before I used Al's, but there was still no signal from good old Ivan. Daryl had put his number on the note he left this morning, saying to call any time. I tapped in his number from the note and he answered after two rings.

He said it was great to hear from me. He'd left because he was expecting an important phone call early this morning, but wanted to see me again as soon as he could.

“Great. Tonight's fine. I wanted to tell you I finished up my piece.”

“Way to go, Cressa.” His voice had a smile to it.

“I think I have what I want. I'm very happy with it. By the way, I need to ask you something. I hope you don't think I'm prying into something that's none of my business. I was thinking there might possibly be a connection between a couple of things.”

I spied something shiny on the ground and wandered toward it, away from Al's, a little toward the Weldons' trailer.

“What things?”

“The fire—”

“I knew you'd say that.”

“—and Al Toombs's murder.”

“What? Okay. Go ahead, shoot.” A dime shone in the dirt. Had I dropped it, or was it another omen? I'd have to check with Neek about that.

“Mr. Anders thinks Al Toombs set the fire. I was just figuring, if that's true, maybe a member of Norah's family would have a reason to kill him.” I stooped to pick up the dime. A blue jay flew by, warning me of something with his shrill, “
Jay! Jay! Jay!
”

“Norah's family. You mean Norah's daughter. That's all that's left.”

“Norah's daughter? Who is that?”

“Sheila Weldon.”

“Oh, damn.” It all fit. “Toombs went over to fire them the night he was killed. And at Grace's funeral Wayne was shouting about Sheila's mother being able to rest easy in her grave. It was hard to make out, but as they were leaving I thought he was saying he'd taken care of it. And Eve thinks she saw Wayne and Sheila load the body and drive the tractor to where they dumped it, where I found it. It all makes perfect sense. Wayne and Sheila must have—”

My words were tumbling out, but stopped short when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, someone stealing up behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. Wayne Weldon, still drunk, rushed at me.