Murder in the Boonies: A Sleuth Sisters Mystery (The Sleuth Sisters Book 3) (15 page)

Once we caught up on the past, Anne asked about the agency. “What made you decide to become a private detective?”

She wasn’t the least bit condescending, and I admitted that I liked actually pursuing criminals rather than simply prosecuting them once someone else caught them. “Right now we’re looking into the disappearance of a woman who left behind three daughters. Since she doesn’t seem the type to do that, I think her boyfriend killed her and hid her body.”

“How sad!” Anne said. “Do you have any leads?”

That’s what’s nice about people who understand the law. They go right from the “too bad” phase to “What are you doing about it?” I explained that the suspect had died in a fall. “Since we can’t question him, we have no any idea where to look for her.”

Anne straightened her glasses. “I’ve had similar cases. Usually the corpse is buried on property the guy knows well.”

“True,” I agreed, “but that doesn’t make it easier. They lived on a farm, so there’s almost two hundred acres this guy knew well.”

Folding her arms, Anne thought about that. “I guess my next question would be where had he been spending a lot of time?”

For three hours, the feeling I was neglecting the agency and letting down the Isley girls was only a tickle at the back of my brain. As soon as Anne and Marilyn left, however, I gave Shirley a hug, tossed my overnight bag in the back seat, and headed home.

My phone showed no new messages and no answers to either my voicemails or my texts. As I drove, I focused on home and what I might be missing.

For some reason the cat came to mind. She’d been outside my window again yesterday morning before I left Allport. When I offered chicken with a water chaser she accepted, eating more delicately than before. Still, when I’d tried to pet her, I was rewarded with a snarl. “Okay, Brat,” I said. “For now our relationship is unilateral, but someday I expect a little gratitude.”

Thoughts of the fiercely independent cat led to thoughts of Pansy Isley. She appealed to me in a way no other child had, and I couldn’t say why. She wasn’t the type of kid I was at her age, since I’d been more bookworm than animal lover. Still, we shared a sense of right and an unwillingness to keep quiet when wrongs arise. I thought Pansy could become whatever she set her mind to, and I hoped against hope that her mother wasn’t dead. If Rose was gone, as I feared, I vowed to see that whoever took charge of Pansy’s future recognized her independent spirit as a positive trait, not something to be squelched or shamed to silence.

Along with cats and kids I thought about my sisters, both so busy they hadn’t spoken to me all weekend. That didn’t happen often these days, and I kept waiting for the phone to ring. In the end I became worried, and I found myself wishing the drive from Flint to Allport didn’t take so long.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Faye

We made our usual Sunday morning visit to Dale’s mom a little earlier than usual. Leaving Buddy in the back seat, we entered the Meadows. Harriet was up and dressed, staring out the window, unaware we were there until Dale spoke to her.

Dale’s mom is a woman with no interests these days. Anything she ever enjoyed is beyond her physical abilities. Macular degeneration prevents her from reading. She can’t get the hang of audio books because she drifts off and misses large sections of the plot. Television is only a blur of movement, and she has to have the volume up so loud that others complain. We bought her earphones, but she refuses to wear them, claiming they make her look like Ray Walston in
My Favorite Martian.

Arthritic hands rule out the crafts Harriet once practiced: knitting, crocheting, and quilting. When she first moved to the Meadows she’d made friends, but everyone she got close to died. Harriet lives on, sitting in her wheelchair, lying on her bed, and wishing her stubborn body would succumb to something fatal.

Dale does his best to be a good son, though the irritating buzzes and bright lights at the Meadows make his head hurt. He entered the room first and went to his mother, touching her gently on the shoulder.

“Hello, son.” Harriet squinted at me. “Hello, dear.” She seldom used my name, even after thirty-three years. To Dale she said, “It’s been a long time since you came to see me.”

“It’s Sunday, Mom,” Dale answered. “We always come on Sundays.”

“It gets lonely sitting here all the time. I wish you came more often, at least once a week.”

Mentioning that I came on Wednesdays and whatever other times she needed something or the staff needed me to intervene wouldn’t have done any good. She went on, “I suppose you’re working a lot.”

Harriet never really grasped the extent of Dale’s disability. He looks fine, so she assumes he’s completely recovered. The easiest thing to do was go along. “Yes,” Dale said. “Always busy.”

“Have you worked up on Bois Blanc Island lately?”

Dale glanced at me. Her mind was ten years in the past today, before his accident. “Not for a while.”

“Good money up there,” she said. “Cutting trees for the tourists.”

“Yes,” Dale replied. “Good money.”

“I wish you came to see me more often. It’s lonely just sitting here.”

As we drove up US 23, Dale stared out at Lake Huron. Riding in a vehicle, he’s most comfortable looking to the side. Facing forward, he tells me, is like being in a fast-moving, 3D video game.

We were quiet for a while. It depressed Dale to hear his mother complain each week, though he knew she was well cared for. Focusing on the least bothersome part of the visit I said, “I’d forgotten that week you went up to Bois Blanc to clear land for a cabin. Odd that your mom remembers it.”

“She was impressed that we loaded a truck full of equipment onto the ferry and hauled it up there. It was a pretty big undertaking.”

“Not much up there, right?”

“No. They call Bois Blanc ‘the other island’ because it’s the opposite of Mackinac. Lots of nature, lots of quiet, no fudge.”

“One of Ben McAdams’ friends, Colt Farrell, has a lot up there,” I said. “Sheriff Brill looked at satellite images, but there’s just trees and a dock.”

Too late I realized we were supposed to be taking a break from investigation. I started to apologize, but Dale just chuckled.

“They might use that lot, if Farrell is involved and if whoever attacked you needs a place to hide from the police search going on in Allport. You have to admit, though, we don’t even know there is a plot. That missing weapon might just mean some Weekend Warrior has sticky fingers.”

I was thrilled by his use of
we
. If Dale took an interest in the agency, he might not be so bored. He futzed in his workshop, fixing small engines, but that gave him little intellectual stimulation. Though it broke my heart to see him watching
Wagon Train
re-runs for the fourth time, I’d despaired of finding things he could do that he wanted to do.

“There’s a reason someone stole that weapon, and Barb thinks Farrell is part of it,” I said. “He was on the farm twice we know of, hunting for something. The second time there were two men with him. We think it was Ben’s card-playing buddies, Stone and Sharky.”

“Okay, so McAdams hid the grenade launcher in his bunker after someone stole it from the Guard camp in Grayling. Maybe he didn’t tell his friends where it was.”

“So they watched the farm, saw me head into the woods by myself, and figured I knew something.” I touched the sore spot on my head. “I didn’t know as much as they thought, but I stumbled on what they were after.”

“How did they know where you were going?” Dale asked. “Did they follow you and your sisters every time one of you left home?”

I frowned. “That doesn’t seem likely.”

“You said the man who hit you knew you were a detective.”

That bothered me, and I lapsed into silence. It was unsettling to think of those men watching me go into the woods, following in hopes I’d do exactly what I did: lead them to the weapon. Whoever had taken the grenade launcher from Ben’s bunker needed a new place to hide it now, because the sheriff and the Allport police were searching for it. Where had they taken their prize?

While the new hiding place could be anywhere in Michigan, there was only one spot that we knew was connected to the plotters: Bois Blanc. I decided that tomorrow morning I’d call Rory and see if he could figure out a way for someone to physically check Farrell’s lot for the grenade launcher. It would be tricky, since there was no evidence Farrell was involved in anything illegal, but Rory would think of something.

We were nearing Cheboygan, and I asked Dale, “Do you want to find a place to stay here or keep going north to Mackinaw City? We can cross the bridge and visit the casino in St. Ignace if you want.”

He was quiet for a few seconds. I was about to ask again when he said, “What if I show you around Bois Blanc?”

“What? Why? I mean--”

“Look, Faye, I know this is supposed to be our time off, but I also know you’re dying to see if that gun is hidden on Farrell’s property. It won’t take long to check out Farrell’s lot, and afterward we can sit on the porch of the B&B and watch the sun set over the straits.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Barb

Around 1:00 p.m. I exited I-75, pulled into a McDonalds, got a coffee at the drive-through window, parked in an angled spot, and called Rory.

“Hi, Barb.”

“Hi. How are things in beautiful Allport?”

“Good,” he replied. “The weather’s going to be great all week, they say.”

“That’s nice. Have you heard from Faye or Retta since yesterday?”

“Um, yeah. I spoke to both of them, actually.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Yes, Rory. Why did you speak to my sisters?”

“Well, there were some things about Rose Isley’s disappearance we had to clarify. So I talked with Retta.”

“And Faye?”

“Right. She was there. With Retta.”

“At the house?”

“Um, no. We were at the sheriff’s office.”

“On Saturday? The sheriff called everyone in on the weekend?”

“Well, we thought it was best if everybody met and put together what we know all at once.”

“I see.”

“We got some new information, some new leads to track down.”

“That’s good.” I was getting all the wrong vibrations. “Faye sent me a message that sounded kind of weird. Is everything okay up there?”

“Barb, I give you my solemn word, Faye is perfectly healthy. I saw her myself yesterday, and she told me she and her husband were going away for a little R&R.”

“Which they never, ever do.”

“Well they did. And like I said, Faye’s fine. When you two get back together, she’ll tell you what she did while you were gone.”

I didn’t think Rory was lying, but there was a lot he wasn’t saying. Promising I’d see him soon, I hung up. Retta and Faye were avoiding me. Rory was holding back. I wouldn’t find out what I’d missed until I got home, but once I got there, I’d make them confess all.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Faye

We made some calls from Cheboygan, and for once I was glad Retta had insisted I get a smartphone. With it I located the number of the B&B, and while the rooms there were booked for the night, the woman suggested a second place that allowed small pets. I also found a plat map and located Farrell’s property on the northern shore of the island. It took every iota of computer savvy I had, but I didn’t want to tell anyone else our plan. No one we know would have approved of Dale and me snooping on our own.

In our defense, we had no intention of doing anything dangerous. We’d drive by the lot. If there was any sign it was occupied, we’d keep going. If it was empty, we’d stop and take a look. Not being police officers, we didn’t need a search warrant to do a little spying. If we were caught, we could claim to be tourists who didn’t know morel mushroom season had come and gone already.

We were in time for the Bois Blanc ferry’s noon run, and we waited patiently for our turn to drive on board. Buddy, who’d napped in the back seat the whole way, became excited about this new adventure, and I could hardly hear the guide’s instructions as we bought our ticket. Once aboard the
Kristen D
, I put Buddy’s leash on and led him to the observation area. He was interested in everything, but I kept him close, speaking firmly. If I do that he’ll stop barking, though he always pouts a little. He’s calling our attention to new things, and he doesn’t understand why we don’t appreciate the service he provides.

The ferry staff went about their casting-off duties, and then we were under way. Buddy didn’t like the ferry horn one bit, but once it went silent, so did he. We watched the Fourteen Foot Shoal Light approach and recede as we headed to open water. The Mackinac Bridge was on our left, and the cars on it looked like bugs heading to and from a picnic.

When we neared the island’s dock, Dale and I went back to our vehicle and waited our turn to disembark. Buddy was really excited now, and he bounded from one side of the car to the other, trying to see what everyone was doing. After driving off the ferry we turned left, onto a dirt road. It’s funny that there’s no pavement on Bois Blanc, which has cars, and pavement on Mackinac Island, which doesn’t. Bois Blanc’s roads were designated only as good dirt or poor dirt on the plat map.

Soon we came to Pointe aux Pins, the island’s largest settlement. Amenities are few on Bois Blanc, but at the general store we found a large paper map of the island. That meant I no longer had to squint at the 2x4-inch image on my phone. As we toured the town Dale told me about the week he’d spent up here. He pointed out a couple of chapels, a community building, a post office, a bar, and what looked like a one-room school.

Leaving the tiny town, we continued west on Lime Kiln Point Road and turned onto Bob Lo Drive, which cut across to the north shore. On our left the land was mostly state forest and it formed a point that leaned west, toward Round Island. Beyond Round Island was the most famous of the three, Mackinac Island. When the lake appeared again ahead of us I turned right, following the road that traced the island’s north shore.

We drove on, passing cottages scattered among the trees and occasional signs identifying points of interest. “There are a couple of inland lakes,” Dale told me, “but I think they’re on the south end.”