Bound for Murder, page 2
Sunny leaned in and patted the hand I’d pressed against the countertop. “Maybe, but I’ll still be around, I promise.”
My foot, resting next to the macrame purse, vibrated from the loud music blaring from Sunny’s cell phone. “You want to get that? I realize the rule is no phones at the desk, but since there’s no one here right now …”
Kurt coughed.
“No one who will care, I mean.” I cast him a smile before grabbing Sunny’s purse and handing it to her. “Go on—I know that ring.”
“Yeah, it’s the grands. Again.” Sunny pulled a comical face as she fished her phone out of the pouch. “They aren’t usually this needy, but ever since the county started that dredging work on the creek, they’ve been calling nonstop. They’re so worried about damage to the trees and shrubs along the stream bed.”
“Of course.” I’d heard plenty about this from Carol and P.J., who were irate over the heavy equipment that had recently descended upon their quiet organic farm. The fact that the county had a right-of-way to the creek, which was part of a larger watershed, did nothing to appease their anger.
“Government barreling in and taking over, like usual,” P.J. had told me, his thin lips quivering with repressed rage. “Didn’t even inform us ahead of time. Just showed up one day and proceeded to rip up my fields with their equipment. Well, they’d better not destroy our trees along the creek, that’s all I’ve got to say.”
I shook my head. “Can’t say I blame them.” I directed my words to Kurt as Sunny listened intently to her phone. “The county’s been tearing up the stream banks all along its route.”
Kurt’s expression betrayed no emotion, but his jaw tightened. That was odd. The art dealer rarely appeared tense, even in the direst of circumstances, yet the mention of dredging a creek seemed to have distressed him. It piqued my curiosity.
Or maybe I was imagining things. I shook my head to clear my thoughts. “They say it benefits the environment because it allows for better runoff from nearby rivers and ponds. But I don’t know. It seems rather destructive to me.”
When Kurt replied, his voice was as calm and charming as ever. “I knew that the dredging work was ongoing but didn’t realize it involved that farm.”
“Yeah, unfortunately.” I glanced at Sunny and noticed that all the color had fled her face. “Anything wrong?”
Sunny’s fingers clutched her cell phone so tightly I worried she might crack the plastic case. “Yes. Not with the grands, thank goodness, but dredging crews found something on the farm.”
“Buried treasure?” I asked, with a quick glance at Kurt.
“No, not anything like that.” Sunny’s voice shook. “According to the grands, an operator swung his Bobcat bucket the wrong way and dug deep into the bank, up and away from the stream. And that’s when they found it.”
“Found what?” I asked, my gaze flitting from Sunny’s trembling lips to the carved-in-stone stillness of Kurt’s face and back again.
“Bones,” Sunny said. “Human bones.” She stared at me, her eyes as glazed as glass. “An entire skeleton.”
Chapter Two
After I sent a frazzled Sunny home, I waited until Kurt left the library before dashing to the computer to poke around on the Internet. I hoped to find some historical reason for human bones to turn up at Vista View. It’s possible, I reasoned, that was once the site of a Native American settlement, or part of some long-abandoned homestead.
Unfortunately, I found nothing to back up such suppositions. Most of the hits on Vista View either discussed the conversion of the property to an organic farm or announced special events the Fields family had held at the farm over the years. The only other mention was buried in a missing-person report in the digitized version of Taylorsford’s now-defunct local paper.
I peered at the computer screen. The article was from 1965, and the farm had merited only one sentence: ADAMS BRIEFLY LIVED ON A COMMUNE ON THE LOCAL VISTA VIEW PROPERTY, BUT HE LEFT SEVERAL MONTHS BEFORE HIS SUPPOSED DISAPPEARANCE, ACCORDING TO THE OWNERS OF THE PROPERTY, CAROL AND P.J. FIELDS.
Printing out the article, I shoved it into the pocket of my linen slacks just as a group of high school students entered the library. Assisting them with their history homework and checking out books to other patrons kept me busy for the remainder of the day. I was thankful this was a Tuesday, one of the days when the library closed at five o’clock. Not only was I tired, I was also anxious to get home and query my aunt about the nineteen-year-old man mentioned in the report.
Adams. I knew someone with that last name, but warned myself not to jump to conclusions about any connection to Walter Adams, who was my aunt Lydia’s friend and Zelda Shoemaker’s significant other. It was a common surname, after all. But I’d certainly question my aunt about this nugget of information. If there was a familial relationship between Walt and the missing young man—I stared at the printed article to remind myself of his full name—this Jeremy Adams, Aunt Lydia would know.
As soon as five o’clock rolled around, I ushered out any lingering patrons, closed up the library, and hurried home. I’d walked to work that day, as I often did. Since the library was close enough to allow me to walk on all but the worst weather days and Aunt Lydia didn’t drive that much, it made sense for us to share a car rather than pay for the gas and upkeep on two vehicles. Walking to work allowed my aunt access to the car most days.
I honestly didn’t mind the trek from the center of our historic town to our family home. My walk led from a downtown district that featured small businesses and church properties through a few residential blocks. I’d always enjoyed my stroll in this charming section of town, which was dominated by elegant turn-of-the century Victorians. There were also several Craftsman-style bungalows, and even a few more modern homes, all of which boasted well-kept front yards that were typically enclosed by rose- or vine-covered fences. As a gardener, I found the ever-changing flowers and shrubs along the route a delightful diversion on my walk to and from work.
On this September day, the air was heavy with the spicy fragrance of late-season flowers, blooming profusely as if staking a valiant stand against the oncoming frost. I gazed up into the canopy of trees that lined the sidewalks. As it was still so early, autumnal color barely tinged the tips of the green foliage.
Stubbing my toe on a broken piece of concrete, I swore and dropped my gaze to the sidewalk. Our current mayor, Bob Blackstone, had vowed upon being elected to replace the crumbling concrete with brick pavers, but despite his ten years in office, he had never fulfilled this promise.
Sunny could do better, I thought. Give her a mission and she’ll accomplish it, come what may. Squaring my shoulders, I increased my pace and vowed to contribute more time to my friend’s campaign.
When I reached the Queen Anne Revival home that I shared with my Aunt Lydia, I paused with my hand on the front-yard gate. The house had remained in our family since it was built in 1900, passed down from my great-grandmother Rose Baker Litton to her granddaughter, my aunt, Lydia Litton Talbot. I shaded my eyes and studied the three-story structure. Despite having been proclaimed one of the most beautiful homes in Taylorsford, it was showing its age. Although the gingerbread trim had recently been repainted, its crisp white sheen now sadly highlighted an issue with the fieldstone body of the house. I sighed, absently brushing a lock of my dark-brown hair behind one ear as I lowered my hand. The mortar needed repointing, but that would have to wait. Painting the trim had exhausted Aunt Lydia’s meager upkeep budget, and my library director’s salary, while enough to cover my personal needs, was hardly extravagant. I could help Aunt Lydia with general expenses, but my savings were insufficient to fund any extensive renovation projects.
As I opened the picket fence gate, I glanced at the house next door. Its neatly trimmed lawn was separated from ours by a taller section of fence draped in climbing roses. Our neighbor’s copper-colored car sat in the driveway next to his renovated 1920s farmhouse. The sight brought a smile to my face. It seemed that, for once, Richard hadn’t been required to work late.
My fiancé as well as our neighbor, Richard Muir was a contemporary dancer and choreographer. He was also an instructor at nearby Clarion University and often got corralled into helping with the technical aspects of his dance colleagues’ student recitals. The other instructors took advantage of his talent for hanging lights and running the light board. As I’d told him more than once, he needed to learn to say no. But Richard, who was sometimes too nice for his own good, usually agreed to help, no matter how many extra hours it added to his workday.
I closed the gate behind me before bounding across the small front yard and up the stone steps that led to our wraparound covered porch. Clucking my tongue, I pushed open the wooden front door with its inset antique windowpanes. It was unlocked, which merited another lecture to Aunt Lydia about security. Of course, she’d claim she was “perfectly safe, thank you,” especially if Richard had already arrived home, but I’d still admonish her. Taylorsford had seen more than its fair share of crime, including murders, over the past couple of years.
“Hello,” I called out as I dropped my keys into the ceramic bowl on the hall table. “Anybody home?”
“In the sunroom,” Richard responded, his clear baritone voice sailing out from the back of the house.
I shrugged off my light jacket and hung it on the hall tree. “I hope you have some wine uncorked,” I said as I made my way down the center hall to the back porch, which had been enclosed to form an all-season sunroom.
Richard sprang up from the metal-framed glider as I entered. “We even saved you a glass or two.” He crossed to me in three long strides. “How was your day?”
“Interesting,” I said.
He kissed me before stepping back to study my face. “Interesting? That sounds ominous.”
“Yes, nothing good ever comes after interesting.” Aunt Lydia sat up in her rocker and motioned toward a tall, narrow table that held a few bottles of wine and one empty glass. “Help yourself. I think the Chardonnay is still cold.”
“It’s chilled enough for me, I’m sure.” I crossed to the table and poured myself a full glass before waving the bottle at Richard. “Are you drinking red or white? There seems to be more red left, if that affects your decision.”
“Red, and don’t worry, I brought over extra bottles of both.” Richard flashed a grin before joining me at the table to refill his empty glass. “What about you, Lydia?”
“I’m fine.” My aunt swirled the white wine in her crystal goblet.
“So how was your day?” I asked, meeting her inquisitive gaze. “I smelled the lovely aroma of apple pie when I came in, so I assume you’ve been testing some more recipes?”
“Yes, trying some different proportions of ingredients to see what works best.”
Richard carried his wine glass over to the glider. “Is there a reason for all this pie baking?”
“The county fair is coming up at the end of the month.” I followed Richard, setting my wine glass on one of the tile-topped side tables that flanked the glider. “Three weeks from this Saturday, to be precise. Aunt Lydia always participates in one of the baking competitions. This year she’s concentrating on pies,” I said as I sat beside him.
“I see. Trying to win some blue ribbons, I suppose.” Richard used his glass to salute Aunt Lydia.
“Yes, and the competition will be stiff, so I need to make sure I have the best recipe,” she said. “I don’t know everyone who plans to enter, but I know I’m going up against Jane Tucker and Carol Fields for sure, and they are tough to beat.”
“I’m sure they feel the same about you,” I said.
“Maybe. Anyway, it’s all in good fun.” My aunt took a sip of wine before speaking again. “But enough about my mundane activities. You’ve piqued my curiosity, Amy. What was so interesting about today?”
“Nothing to do with the library, fortunately.” I pulled the printout from my pocket. “It has to do with what the county workers discovered at Vista View. They found something shocking where they’re dredging out the stream.”
Richard cradled his glass between his hands. “Buried treasure, I hope. Or at least something that will benefit Carol and P.J. Fields.”
“Sadly, no.”
“It was something unpleasant, then?” Aunt Lydia took a long swallow of her wine.
“Unfortunately, yes. They apparently dug up some human bones. Actually, from what Sunny told me, an entire skeleton.”
Richard paused with his glass at his lips. “Seriously?” He took a drink before setting down his glass.
“Yeah. I don’t know if they’re ancient or relatively recent or what, but it’s a bit unnerving, either way.” I unfolded the paper and waved it through the air. “I think it could be connected to this old story.”
Aunt Lydia’s blue eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”
I smoothed out the folds of the paper. “I did a little online sleuthing to see if I could figure out why human bones might turn up at that location. I figured that maybe it could be something archeological, but …”
Richard draped his arm around my shoulders. “You found something else?”
“I did, but I don’t know if it’s connected in any way. It’s simply the only reference I could find to Vista View that wasn’t directly related to selling organic produce.” I tapped the paper with one finger. “It seems someone who lived on the commune disappeared. According to this article, he’d left the farm several months before he was reported missing, but it just seems odd …”
Aunt Lydia stood up and set her wine glass on the side table near the bank of windows offering a view of her garden. “Not Jeremy Adams?”
“You knew him?”
“I knew of him.” My aunt’s somber expression took me by surprise. “He was Walt’s first cousin. He was older by about nine or ten years, but Walt talked about Jeremy incessantly when we were kids. He idolized him.” Aunt Lydia, obviously lost in thought, stared over our heads as if transfixed by the stone wall behind the glider. “Jeremy Adams was a musician. He could play almost any instrument, although he was particularly brilliant on guitar. He sang and wrote songs as well. When we were children, Walt often talked about Jeremy becoming the next rock superstar.”
I squinted at the small type of the article. “According to this, the family didn’t file a missing-person report immediately. They waited until early 1965, claiming they’d hesitated because they’d lost contact with Jeremy at least a year before. They’d known he was living at Vista View, but since he’d never contacted any of them during that time, they didn’t know exactly when he’d left the commune or where he’d planned to go.”
Aunt Lydia sat back down in the rocker. “Walt always thought he ended up in LA. He said Jeremy had often talked about moving out there to pursue his music career.”
I dropped the paper into my lap. “But he never contacted Walt or any of the family again?”
“Only once, and early on, right after he left the commune. Walt was pretty broken up about that when we were kids. He couldn’t understand why his beloved cousin would cut all ties, but …” Aunt Lydia frowned and twisted the hem of her raspberry silk blouse between her fingers. “Walt later found out Jeremy had a pretty serious drug problem. After that, Walt decided Jeremy must have died out in LA from an overdose, or from violence connected to a drug deal, or something like that.”
I slid closer to Richard. Aunt Lydia looked distressed, which didn’t surprise me. Her husband—my uncle Andrew Talbot, who’d died back in the late seventies—had also struggled with a drug habit. Although the drugs hadn’t been what killed him, I knew the memory of his addiction still troubled my aunt.
Richard, obviously on the same wavelength, stroked my shoulder blade. “That had to be hard for the family—never knowing.”
“It was tough. In fact, Walt still mentions Jeremy occasionally, questioning what really happened to him. I mean, it was the sixties, and there was a lot of racial tension back then. I got the feeling from Walt that, as one of the only black families in Taylorsford, they always assumed the sheriff’s department wasn’t too invested in the case. So maybe not as much was done to find Jeremy as it might’ve been if he’d been white. But after all this time, you have to assume the person is dead.” Aunt Lydia crossed one slender ankle over the other. “Anyway, I doubt those bones discovered today have anything to do with Jeremy, because Walt did hear from him after he’d already left Vista View. Just one phone call, but Walt said Jeremy told him he was on the road, headed west.”
“So, unless he was lying to Walt, he wasn’t likely to turn up as a skeleton at Vista View.” Richard glanced at me. “I know that’s where your inquiring mind has wandered, Amy.”
“Can you blame me, after the other murders and suspicious deaths we’ve encountered over the last few years?”
“No, I can’t. By the way, speaking of suspicious”—Richard slid his arm away from me and straightened—“my mother’s been sending texts about various locales that are ‘suitable for an elegant reception,’ as she puts it. You haven’t been encouraging her, I hope?” The smile he gave me before picking up his wine glass took the sting out of his question.
“Hardly. And, for your information, she’s been bombarding me with the same sort of texts.” I scooted over to the other side of the glider to grab my own glass. “I think she’s afraid we’re going to wait until it’s too late to line up an appropriate venue.”
“It’s not her wedding,” my aunt observed.
“Try telling her that.” I chugged my drink.
“She does like to manage things.” Richard took a swallow of wine before adding, “It usually doesn’t work on me, so I guess she’s widening her net to include Amy.”
I slid back beside him. “She’s in for a disappointment, then. I really don’t want to hold our reception in an echoing ballroom in some overly lavish hotel. For one thing, there isn’t anything close to Taylorsford that fits that description, and I refuse to force our guests to navigate city traffic just to attend our reception.”
