Sleuthing at Sweet Springs (The Sleuth Sisters Mysteries Book 4) (25 page)

Driving too fast for US-23, I called Rory and told him where Faye was headed. He was dialing Sheriff Brill on his other line even as he tried to reassure me. “We’re on the way, Barb.”

“I’m getting close. I’ll meet you out there as soon as I can.”

When I ended the call, my phone rang almost immediately. The caller ID informed me it was Retta.

“I’m back in Michigan, and wait till I tell you what I heard.”

“Later, Retta. Faye’s out at Clara’s, and she might be in trouble.” Quickly I told her what had happened.

“Why did she go off by herself?” she demanded. “Doesn’t she know we’re dealing with a killer?”

“You know Faye.” I bit my lip. “When someone’s in trouble, she’s got to help.”

“Even if it’s dangerous,” Retta agreed. “The girl doesn’t use her head sometimes.”

“I know.”

“I’m getting into my car now,” she told me. “I’ll be on the road to Sweet Springs in ten seconds.”

“I’ll see you out there.”

I drove faster by far than was usual for me, but not recklessly. The road back to Allport was twisty, constructed to skirt farm properties back in the day when farmers had a say in such things. As we traveled I recalled Barb, Dale, Retta, and I stopping along here to admire the view. I hadn’t met Clara Knight then, and I’d had no idea she and I would be speeding along this road less than two weeks later, hoping we’d escaped a killer.

We hadn’t. Suddenly there was a vehicle behind us—too close. A second after I noticed it, we were rammed. My car lurched to the side, bouncing off the guardrail with a screech of metal. Clara grabbed for the handle above the door. I gripped the steering wheel and pressed the gas pedal hard, pulling away.

It worked for a few seconds, but the bigger vehicle caught up with us and smashed into the back of my car again. I felt my spine react as the wave of the impact traveled up it, whipping my neck. Clara made a soft “Oh!” of protest.

Diane Landon’s face showed in my rear-view mirror, and her Tahoe loomed over my car like a hawk chasing down a sparrow. The road curved ahead, tracing the drop-off that overlooked the hay field. If I didn’t get around the curve before Diane came alongside, she could force my car over the guardrail and send it tumbling down the hillside.

My smaller engine was no match for the monster she drove, so I couldn’t outrace her. I had to outwit her.

Clara’s face was white, but she made no sound as I did what I could to foil Diane’s attempts to wreck us. When she lunged our way, I hit the brake. When she slowed to correct her steering, I sped up again. I didn’t know how long I could keep it up, but we remained on the road—terrified, perhaps doomed, but alive.

After falling behind for a few seconds, Diane pulled out again and came alongside my car. The scenario she would invent flashed through my mind. She and Clara had worked out a property deal. I’d come along and offered to drive Clara back to the Meadows. Somehow on the way we had a terrible accident. All she had to do was get rid of her damaged car somehow, and she was inventive enough to manage that. Who could prove she was lying once Clara and I were dead?

My thoughts were interrupted by another jolt. Diane was beside us, and she turned the steering wheel abruptly, catching my car’s front fender. I held on, but there was a terrible grind of metal on metal. When she backed off, I felt something pressing against my left front tire. Steering became difficult, and I had to fight to keep the car going forward. Worse, my speed dropped no matter how hard I pressed on the accelerator. Triumph glowed in Diane’s eyes as she kept pace with me. The road ahead split the woods, and though I’d escaped going over the drop-off, the forested area provided her with new opportunities to kill us. One more impact from her vehicle would send us off the road, where we couldn’t avoid crashing into a tree—probably many trees.

My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly it felt like I’d melded to it. Could I hit Diane first and perhaps damage her vehicle? I turned the wheel, but nothing happened except the noise got worse. I tried to brake, but she slowed with me. She was waiting for just the right moment—

“Look!” Clara cried, and I turned from Diane’s angry face to the road before us. Someone was coming—in fact, three someones. Lights flashing, two sheriff’s patrol cars approached, along with a pickup I recognized. Rory.

Driving in the wrong lane and fully focused on my car, Diane didn’t see their vehicles until it was too late. She braked, and I heard the roar of gravel under her wheels, but the big SUV kept going. She steered hard to the left, and her car went off the road and into the trees. She took out the first few, saplings that couldn’t withstand the force of the Tahoe, but twenty feet in she met an oak tree that stood its ground. With a horrendous crash, the SUV came to a sudden and complete stop. There was a hiss as something escaped from somewhere, and after a few seconds, Diane let out a loud wail: part anger, part fear, and part pure frustration. Shoving the door open, she struggled against the air-bag for a moment, then almost popped out of the vehicle, where she fell into the arms of an approaching deputy.

I arrived at the scene of Diane Landon’s arrest seconds before Barbara Ann did. Getting out of our cars, we hurried toward Faye and Clara. Sheriff Brill assured us no one was seriously injured, though Diane’s eyes were already going black.

Valiantly trying to sound like an outraged citizen, she insisted it was all a mistake. Her voice, strident and angry, was quite different from what I’d heard before. She was definitely not the woman I’d thought she was.

“Save it,” Brill told her. “I’m pretty sure we’ve got a footprint from Caleb Marsh’s porch that will match those big old boots you’ve got stowed in the back of your car, and we have a tire tread imprint that should prove you were out at the Warner place around the time of the fire.”

Diane removed the towel she was using to staunch her bloody nose. “
If
I visited those places, it doesn’t prove a thing.”

“No,” Rory agreed, “but now that you’ve kidnapped Mrs. Knight and tried to kill her and Mrs. Burner, I think a jury will put it all together.”

At a nod from the sheriff, a deputy handcuffed Diane and led her to his car. She kept talking, and it was a relief to hear the door slam, cutting off her torrent of lies.

Rory turned to Faye and Clara. “We need to get you two to a hospital and get you checked out.”

Though they insisted they were okay, the rest of us outvoted them, and to shut us up, they finally agreed. Tow trucks were called for the Tahoe and Faye’s poor Escape, which looked like it had been rolled down a mountain by a fairy tale giant. As Clara was escorted away, her concern was for her chickens. “If they’re out all night, the foxes or coyotes will get them.”

Faye turned to Barbara Anne and me, and I thought I saw a glint in her eye. “I think my sisters can help with that,” she said.

Leaving Barbara’s car along the road, we continued to Sweet Springs in mine, mostly silent. I was sure she was mad at me for solving Rory’s problem without her. Of course there was the Oxford comma thing, too. The fact that Faye might have died today made both those things seem petty, but I wasn’t sure Barbara Ann felt the same way.

We arrived to find most of the chickens scattered around the yard. Three had gone back into the pen, willing to trade freedom for food they didn’t have to hunt and peck for. Come night, the others would be easy prey for predators.

“We’d better get this done,” I said as we stared across the yard. Barbara was probably doubtful her much-older body would stand up to the task, since it had been decades since she’d chased a chicken. As for me, I was trying to calculate how I’d do this without wrecking my new Michael Kors shoes. In the end I kicked them off near the woodpile and proceeded in my hose, which were much more easily replaced.

I chose a plump hen who’d settled on one of the dock pilings. Seeing me coming, she jumped down and fluttered away, staying just out of my reach.

Barbara went after a bird that was pecking around the woodpile, but as soon as she approached, it hurried around to the other side. When Barbara went around to the back of the pile, the hen reappeared on my side, her head thrusting forward and back like a piston. Barbara cut her off at the end of the woodpile, but the hen merely turned and ran in the opposite direction.

My bird had gone between two of Clara’s sheds, so I tiptoed up to the spot, hoping she was looking the wrong way. I almost succeeded, but my shadow fell over her and she sensed danger. Shooting out the opposite end of the space, the hen clucked anxiously and sprinted toward the lakeshore.

Hearing a squawk, I turned. Barbara had actually caught her chicken. Holding it in front of her like a Russian samovar, she turned toward the pen. I hurried forward to open the gate for her, but we hadn’t thought ahead. It was tied shut in about six knots. I fiddled with them for a while, but my hands were cold, and the knots were tight. While Barbara looked over my shoulder, the hen sensed her distraction, twisted out of her hands, and bounced away.

Chickenless, Barbara took a stab at the knots on the gate, but she was no more successful than I’d been. “We need to find something to cut the rope with.”

As we turned, looking for a tool, I noticed a small, chicken-sized trapdoor near the back corner. “Look,” I said, pointing. “If we prop that open, we can shoo them inside one at a time.”

“But we’re going to have to do it together, so the ones that are in stay in.” Barbara got two pieces of firewood and set the trapdoor on them to hold it open.

We chose a hen fairly close to us. Barbara circled and approached from the opposite side. The nervous bird looked first at her, then at me, unsure who was scarier. Barbara moved closer, and the hen jerked toward me, one scaly foot pausing at each step. I stepped into her path so she had to turn left, toward the pen. Barbara took another step and the hen moved forward again. Spreading my hands, I shooed her farther to the left. Without realizing where she was headed, the hen stepped through the trapdoor and back into the pen. Quickly Barbara Ann set a third piece of firewood across the opening at a slant, effectively blocking her inside.

“Only eleven to go,” I said.

The next three were fairly easy. The four after that were not. They raced all over the yard, eluding us at every turn. I fell once on the slippery grass, and Barbara cut her arm on a wire when she captured the third hen and pushed her through the opening. While we were catching our breath, two hens actually approached the trapdoor and walked calmly inside, as if returning home from a nature hike.

That left the rooster and one hen. By mutual consent we left the male for last, capturing the female by trapping her against the woodpile. She tried to fly up over it but didn’t make a very good attempt, and I caught her by the legs. She made a terrible fuss, flapping her wings and squawking like she was being sent to Guantanamo. Though I didn’t like the feel of it one bit, I held on. Hurrying ahead of me, Barbara unblocked the trapdoor, and I tossed her inside.

We stood for a few moments, catching our breath before what we guessed would be our biggest challenge. The rooster had watched our progress from a low tree branch, and I didn’t like the look in the eye I could see from below.

Perhaps to prolong the time when we had to challenge him I said to Barbara, “You were right about Rick Chou.”

That brow went up, the one that says she’s surprised. “He beat his wife?”

“Well, no.”

I told her what Candice had said about Rick’s philandering. I waited for her to say, ‘I told you so,’ but she just shook her head. “Mental abuse. I’ve seen it a lot in my career. Others can’t understand why women stay with them, but they do.”

On the plane coming back from Wisconsin, I’d considered the status of my relationships. I really liked Lars, and as much as I didn’t want to, I had to admit my sister had done me a favor by reminding me the relationship was worth keeping. Stuffy as she is, Barbara Ann has integrity. With Rick turning out to be a big old liar-head, I had to give her credit.

“I guess it was lucky Lars showed up and reminded me what a great guy he is.”

“Yes.” Her tone was casual. “Did you hear that Ms. Tattletale and her partner gave up trying to get Rory in trouble?”

“That’s good, isn’t it? Rory doesn’t deserve that kind of grief.”

Barbara eyed the rooster, who sat on his branch like Yertle the Turtle. “I’ve done some thinking about the Oxford comma. There’s disagreement among scholars about its necessity.”

What I said next would be important to Barbara, who hates to be wrong or even
appear
to be wrong.

“I’ve seen places where it definitely clarifies the meaning of a sentence,” I admitted. “It’s too bad things like counting spaces and downright carelessness sometimes substitute for clarity.”

“You know I hate slipshod grammar and punctuation.”

“I know. I read a book last week where the author spelled
all right
as one word, A-L-R-I-G-H-T, all the way through. It irritated me to no end.”

“Then it’s good that we continue to demonstrate what’s correct.”

“Yes, I think we have to.”

At that moment, the rooster flapped his wings, dropped from his perch in the tree, and strutted over to the trapdoor, where he waited for Barbara to remove the block. When she did, he stepped inside like the man of the house returning from a hard day’s work. Barbara removed the wood and I closed the trapdoor as his little harem welcomed him home.