What the Cluck? It's Murder, page 18
They turned their heads toward me, and their ears twitched with curiosity. They'd seen me with Bowers, so they didn't feel threatened, and when Matilda moved toward me, the others followed.
While they approached, I took several deep breaths and cleared my mind of irritation and fear. I imagined the gigantic wooden door I used to keep the constant babble of animals out of my head, and I opened that sucker wide. By the time the horses made it to the fence, I was ready for anything.
I was immediately overcome by a feeling of sadness that I associated with the fact that my hands were empty of carrots or apples. Even a sugar cube would have been nice.
I didn't have time for bribery, so I snapped my fingers and said, “Listen up.” Matilda nudged my hand until I scratched her cheek, and then the other two pushed their faces forward and they forced me to use both hands and alternate between cheeks, necks and fuzzy noses, which made it difficult to concentrate. Finally, I took a step back.
“Pay attention, please.”
They looked at me with interest, and then I was barraged by thoughts of me surprising them with carrots hidden in my back pocket or pulled from thin air. Note to self. Always bring carrots when paying a call on horses.
I ignored them, closed my eyes, and imagined delivering a jpeg file from my head to theirs. The image in the picture was Duane. I waited for a response.
I learned Duane always carried carrots, the dapple gray had a secret spot in front of her left ear that, when scratched, gave her extreme waves of pleasure, and the third horse, a chubby dun with black socks, thought Duane had been stingy with the oats.
Now that we'd established the subject of our conversation, I realized I didn't know if they had been pasturing or in their stalls the night Duane was killed. I turned back to get their view of the barnyard, and then, using that perspective, I played out a movie of Duane being attacked with a shovel in the chicken run. I made it a little fuzzy to take into account the fencing around the run.
Their ears swiveled forward, and I got the sense they thought I was telling them a story. I tried again, this time going by my memory of what the inside of the barn looked like and my point of view as I was grooming them. I gave them an audio of a fight between Duane and a woman, since that had caused a reaction in the chickens. Nothing. Apparently, they weren't witnesses to Duane's death.
Tired from my foray into their heads, I leaned back against the fence and let them nibble on my shoulders and hair. I wondered what Bowers and the law were up to right now? There were three of them, so if they ran into the three men who had attacked Carl, at least they were evenly matched. Maybe they were checking the caves for additional prints to see if—
I stopped breathing. The horses had been listening to my thoughts, and as soon as I mentioned the caves, they started pawing the ground and snorting.
Their tension transferred to me, and I paced and dug at the ground with the toe of my shoe. I froze as the darkened Double Trouble caves came into focus with incredible clarity. Lights flashed inside the cave. They must have been flashlight beams. Or exceptionally large fireflies.
Male voices droned on in a conversation comprised of inarticulate words, which was not surprising as the scene was from the perspective of horses. But one thing was certain. The voices were angry.
I jumped when a shadowy figure loomed into my peripheral vision. It stooped and picked up a stone, shouted, “Scat”, and threw the stone.
This seemed to excite the horses because they snorted and tossed their heads. When they started rearing back and pawing at the air, I got realized again how powerful these animals were, and I got scared.
I still had control of the conversation—I hoped—so I swept away the flashlight beams and the ornery shadow with a fondness for rocks. Showing my audience the empty, clean caves finally calmed them down.
To thank them for sharing, I gave them extra nose rubs and scratches, and by the time I left, we were back on carrots again. I promised to bring some on my next visit, which they reluctantly accepted as my best offer.
I wanted time to digest our session, so I sought the privacy of my bedroom. When Bowers returned to the house ninety minutes later, I'd had plenty of time to get worked up over bad men and my boyfriend's willingness to put himself in danger. Fear had taken over. Actually, I was fuming, too. And sulking. It was quite a combination, and by the time Bowers knocked on my door, let himself in, and closed the door behind him, I was ready for a fight. He headed me off.
“I need you to listen to me carefully,” he said, his firm tone matching his expression of barely controlled anger. “When I tell you to leave, I mean it. I'm not being a chauvinist. I'm not sharing my opinion. I'm not opening up a debate. I'm telling you what I need you to do for both your safety and mine.”
The skin on my face flushed warm. “Just say yes like a good little girl.”
“No. Like a woman who isn't trained for the situation.”
“I don't need training to know you shouldn't run into danger without backup.”
“Ideally, yes. But there isn't always going to be backup.”
I stood. “Then let them go. Does it really matter? Duane's not coming back to life. Carl's okay.” Even as I said it, I didn't agree with myself, and Bowers, no surprise, didn't either.
“This time. You can't seriously expect me to risk my sister June getting attacked next. Or you. Or what about Marc?”
That was a low blow, but he had a point. I crossed my arms. “I don't like it.”
He gave me a tired smile and brushed his fingers through his hair. “If you did, I'd worry.”
Seeing how affected he already was by worry awakened my compassion, but I didn't want him to think I was a pushover. “Well,” I said gruffly, “at least you've got a gun. They seem to prefer rocks.”
“What's that?”
Explaining took too much effort, so I gave him the short version.
“How many were there?”
“I only saw one. But I could hear the others talking in the cave.”
“What did they say?”
“I couldn't understand the words because the horses couldn't.”
I stuffed my hands in my jean pockets and felt something small and hard in one of them. I pulled out the bullet I'd found in the cave.
“I forgot.” I held it out and he took it. “I found that in the cave's wall while you were talking to Dymphna.”
He held it up and rolled it between his fingers. I walked to the window. When I glanced over my shoulder to see how Bowers was taking this information, I was staring at an empty room.
I found Bowers in his room finishing a phone call. He tucked his cell phone in his back pocket and said, “Sorry about that. It was buzzing, and I had to take it.”
My gaze traveled around the forbidden room. I brushed off my disappointment, but Bowers caught my expression.
“What?” He searched the room, looking for something worth frowning at.
“Nothing. I just expected it to look as it did when you grew up here. You know. A shrine. Track trophies on the wall and band posters . . .or girlie posters.”
Bowers smiled. “My choices of wall art were Marilyn Monroe and movies like Phantasm and Night of the Living Dead.”
I arched one brow. “So, you prefer blonds?”
He took my hand. “You want to see where I spent my childhood?”
On the first floor, Bowers opened the door to a small closet off the den. “In here.”
“Seriously? Your sister locked you in the closet?”
He pushed aside the hanging sweaters and jackets and got down on all fours. “Come on.” Then he disappeared into a small passage. I crawled in after him, bumping nose-first into a wall three feet in.
“Over here.”
I turned a sharp corner and found a small area under the stairs that held several cardboard boxes. Bowers was sitting with his knees up, resting against the wall. It was a tight fit, but I positioned myself next to him.
“I used to bring my comics in here and read them by flashlight. It was the only quiet place in the house. Agatha tried to follow me once, but when I turned off the flashlight, she freaked out. Swore she felt something crawling on her and never tried it again.”
I jerked my hand off the floor, but he took it in his and chuckled.
“There weren't any spiders. It was me tickling the back of her hand to scare her.”
“Were you lonely?”
“Surrounded by sisters?”
“Well, yeah. Didn't you have guy friends?”
“Toby, of course, but his parents kept him busy, and now he's got a family of his own. Gary Hall and Brett Roman. We were on the baseball team together, but they lived in town, so I didn't see them often. Gary's married with three kids and is an attorney. Brett just kind of drifted away in high school. Died of a drug overdose four years later.”
“I'm sorry.”
“You're very lucky to have Penny.” He referred to my recently married best friend.
I agreed. “If it wasn't for her, I'd still be in Loon Lake, Wisconsin, trying to live down my ex-boyfriend's—what he did to me.”
Bowers knew the story, though he hadn't heard it from me. Like an idiot, I had moved in with a guy who hinted at marriage some day when the moment was right. The right moment came when he met up with a bimbo reporter. They bonded over an article using things I had told Jeff in private. They twisted my words to tell the world I was a fake, which I was at the time, but still. It left a terrible taste.
Bowers' thumb had been stroking the back of my hand. He stopped. “Do you still think about him?”
Since we hadn't brought a flashlight, he couldn't see me gape. “Not at all. Only when the subject comes up, like it just did, and then my only reaction is one of those head-slapping chastisements. You know. Stupid-stupid-stupid.”
He leaned in until our heads touched. “Good. I don't mean it's good that you think you were stupid. You should let that go. Everyone makes mistakes. I mean, it's good that you don't think about him at all.”
I got a funny feeling in my stomach and hoped I wouldn't regret my next question. “Do you have a mistake you regret?”
“One. I trusted someone who wasn't worth it.”
“And do you think about her?”
“Not for years.” He sounded surprised.
June's voice called out from another room. “Marty!” She was on the move, and the next time she called, her voice came from the den. She pushed the door all the way open and leaned in. “Oh, for heaven's sake. Are you in there?”
“No one here but us mice.”
She gurgled out a laugh. “Marshal Kipper is here to see you. Do you have room for him?”
Bowers nudged me and I crawled out.
Kipper must have been in a hurry because he had followed June into the den. He didn't bat an eyelash when we came out the closet door on all fours. Bowers helped me to my feet.
“The marshal and I have business to discuss. We'll step outside. Frankie, could you help June with dinner? Please?”
Since he asked nicely, I agreed even as June protested that she didn't need any help. That was good news, since I didn't have much to offer.
TWENTY-EIGHT
As I entered June's kingdom, I tried to recall every recipe I'd ever scanned, which was a very short list, as well as every piece of wisdom imparted by my mother while we bonded in the kitchen. Usually, Mom ended our time together with the same words. “I'll take care of this. Why don't you set the table?”
The kitchen might belong to June alone, but all of Bowers' sisters had made it clear that the ability to provide nourishing, delicious meals for their baby brother was high on the girlfriend suitability chart.
Within minutes, June had vegetables lined up in front of me on a rectangle cutting board with instructions to wash and chop them into half-inch pieces. She handed me a vegetable scrubber shaped like a potato, and I got through that with no injuries. Then I sized up my waiting victims.
While June was busy defrosting frozen homemade stock in the microwave, I bent my pointer finger and held it up to a potato. The space between the second and third knuckle measures approximately one inch, so I made two little marks with the tip of my knife for a guide. Once I got the first piece the right size, I used it as my template.
“Marty sure likes you,” June said as she put the lid on the pot and turned the burner up.
“I like him.”
I finished the potatoes and moved on to the onions. Focusing on my task, I fell into a rhythm and picked up speed. A few more days in the kitchen and I'd be a pro. Or at least not in danger of maiming myself.
“What are your intentions toward him?”
The knife slipped. I sucked in my breath and pulled my finger back. Fortunately, I'd only nicked the fingernail.
“You mean do I plan on having my way with him and then tossing him out like a used napkin?”
She laughed. “Something like that. I practically raised him, you know. I'm fond of Marty.”
“Um, me too.”
“He's a tough nut to crack. Always on the quiet side.” She made a t'cha noise. “When he was little, he thought it was his fault our mother died.”
“Oh my gosh!” I brushed the pieces of onion aside and started on the carrots. “Why would he think that?”
“Because that's what Agatha told him.”
“That b—” Agatha was her sister, so I amended my statement. “That bad girl.”
“She was just a girl. Barely a teen. That age when a girl wants her mother, and she was feeling the loss. I tried my best, but I wasn't Mom.”
I stopped chopping and turned to her. “I'm sure you gave them a lot of love, and that's what kids need.”
June stirred the stock and tasted it. “That they do.” She replaced the lid and gave me her full attention. “I just want you to understand that beneath that tough cop exterior, Marty is sensitive. He's a good man. He's also not casual, if you know what I mean. I wouldn't want to see him hurt because you didn't understand that.” Her voice got that throaty sound of someone who might cry.
Last month, I'd realized I loved Detective Martin Bowers. However, it didn't seem appropriate to share that news with his sister, especially since I hadn't told him. My experience with Jeff had left me skittish about making myself vulnerable, and so much depended on this weekend. If his sisters didn't take to me, I figured it would doom the relationship, and I wasn't about to expose myself only to have Bowers end the relationship. That would be pathetic. I felt my own tears well up.
“Yes, ma'am. I understand perfectly.”
“Good.” She sniffed. “I got the feeling you would.”
The subject of our conversation stepped inside just then, alone. He looked from me to June and read something ominous in our expressions. “What?”
I gazed at his face, weary once again from worries. I noted the permanent creases around the corners of his blue eyes, the ones that crinkled when he smiled. The firm mouth that I thought was fixed into a permanent frown when I'd first met him. I learned how quickly those lips could soften into a smile. I swallowed hard. I would hate to lose him.
“It's the onions,” I said, pointing with the knife at my handy work.
June moved over to check the results.
“Good job. Now dump it all into the pot.”
Bowers lifted the lid to inhale the delicious scent and held it while I swept the veggies into the stock. “Chicken noodle soup?”
June laughed. “Vegetable. I thought you two could use a break.”
I gave her an impulsive hug, and she squeezed me back, tight. One sister down. Six more to go.
With the attack on Carl, I hoped the marshal would focus on an explanation for Duane's death beyond lover's spat. Something more nefarious. Not because I reveled in conspiracy theories, but because that moved the investigation away from Bowers' immediate family. Then we could leave.
As much as I looked forward to getting back to what passed for normalcy, leaving soon also meant I had limited time to endear myself to these women who mattered most to my boyfriend. They would love me by the time we left if I had any say in the matter.
While he went upstairs to shower, I sought the sister I thought would be easiest to tackle—or should I say win over? —next. Cecelia was in the den, reading her book.
Why her? She hadn't been particularly friendly, and I didn't know of any common interest we shared. However, I always found older women more reasonable, and I hadn't yet offended her by scandalizing her young son with my near nakedness or rolling around on the floor and trying to snatch her jewelry.
I took a seat on the couch and smiled, which might have been a nice opening if she had looked up from her book.
“What are you reading?”
She sighed and closed the book, using her finger as a placeholder. “Are you interested in archeology and Indian artifacts?”
I thought about faking it. “Um, not really. I mean, if you had something interesting to share, I'd love to hear it, but as for researching it myself, no.”
She gave me a tolerant smile. “At least you're honest.”
I only knew one thing about Cecelia, and I used it to entice her into a conversation. “I'm curious what got you started on the organ. June said you played. I mean, you wouldn't just run across an organ sitting around and test it out.”
She chuckled. “Especially not a pipe organ.”
I frowned. “You mean those gigantic organs in churches?”
“And theaters. They used them in theaters a long time ago. Preservation is difficult but allowing them to fall into disrepair is a crime.”
And that's when I discovered Cecelia had been a teacher before she retired. But do teachers ever retire? I think not. It's in their blood.
The retired teacher informed me that organs originated in Greece when an engineer came up with an instrument called the hydraulis. Then the Byzantines got involved and the instrument finally wound up in the West. And thank goodness for the Middle Ages because someone came up with a portable version so people could enjoy them at home. Kind of like the first personal computers.
