LeGarde Mysteries Box Set Read online

“What?” She cleared her throat. “Where are you? I thought you were going skiing this morning.”

  Red-beard casually covered a small pair of red sneakers with the sleeping bag. I scanned the room. A box of shotgun shells sat open on the dusty windowsill, a half empty bottle of Bud stood on the coffee table, and a roll of silver duct tape lay on top of the dusty television.

  “We were skiing, honey, but we’ve got a problem. Can you pick us up on Twin Bridge Road?”

  “Dad! Did you break something?” Since the death of my wife and her mother four years earlier, Freddie worried excessively about me. It was endearing, and I loved her for it.

  Red-beard walked closer to me and reached impatiently for the phone.

  I held up a finger. “Please. Just a second.” Talking faster now, I turned back to the phone. “We’re okay, but I’ll have to explain later. Look for your uncle by the tall pine grove, about halfway up the road—and bring your bag.”

  Red-beard grabbed the phone and slammed the receiver onto the cradle. His mouth tightened. “You’ve made your call, now go.”

  “Look…” I backed away from his pungent breath. “How ‘bout I pay you for your trouble? How’s ten sound?”

  He shrugged and grunted. “Makes no difference to me.”

  “Okay.” I reached for my wallet and came up empty. Damn. “Er. I left my wallet in my other pants.”

  His scowl deepened. Crowding me with his big belly, he forced me outside. “Forget about it.”

  I thought I heard another sob just as he closed and locked the door.

  His voice thundered through thin walls. “Shut the hell up!”

  My heart twisted. Was it a child, or his wife? Had he hurt her? With a nagging feeling of guilt, I pocketed the concern and headed back to the snowy fields to rejoin Siegfried.

  Chapter 3

  On the way back to our meeting point, I couldn’t help wondering about the sob behind the door. Was it an animal? The television? Did I imagine it?

  And who owned those little red sneakers? They didn’t seem like something a big burly redneck would have sitting on his couch.

  By the time I reached the pine grove, Freddie had dressed the retriever’s wound and made her comfortable on the back seat of the Jeep. Siegfried went back to get his skis, and after he settled in beside the dog, we headed home.

  Freddie looked exhausted. She wore rumpled flannel pajamas, furry boots, no socks, and a heavy parka. I watched her drive with skill on the snow-covered road. With her fair hair stuffed into a soft white hat, she peered out the frosty windshield.

  I glanced back at the dog lying across Siegfried’s lap. “Will she be okay?”

  Freddie nodded, shifting into third gear when we reached the top of the hill. “I think so. She’s dehydrated and cold, but with a little tender care, she’ll be fine. The leg should heal just in time for her puppies to arrive.”

  “When do you think she’ll deliver?”

  She tucked back a loose lock of honey blond hair. “Probably in the next few weeks.”

  Siegfried crooned and stroked the dog’s ears and ruff.

  I turned up the defroster to warm the foggy windshield. “Looks like your uncle is pretty taken with her.”

  “I know.” Freddie smiled in the rearview mirror, swirling her coat cuff against her side window to clear a spot. “Do you recognize her, Dad? I noticed that she didn’t have any tags.”

  I looked back at the dog and shook my head. “First time I’ve seen her. Looks like she’s been traveling, though. She’s loaded with burrs and her coat’s a mess. She must be hungry, poor thing.”

  We reached the top of Sullivan Hill Road, and Freddie turned into our dirt road. I’d plowed it the night before, but it really needed a second pass. We wound our way up the wooded drive and emerged into open fields. Just ahead, our house—built in 1811—looked like a Currier and Ives winter scene. Designed in the Greek Revival style, it featured rambling wings and porches and stood proud across from the monstrous green barn and attached carriage house, surrounded by post and board fences in need of another coat of whitewash. Fortunately, the snow hid the shabbiness of our fences, making everything look pristine.

  Freddie downshifted to first gear to make it through one particularly high drift of snow. “We can put an ad in the paper and call the local shelter. Her owner must be worried sick.”

  I didn’t want to voice my concern that she’d been abandoned because she was pregnant. Mostly it happened with cats around our way. City folks would drop off pregnant mother cats all the time in our lonely stretch of country. It’s how we got most of our barn cats over the years. I hated that people were like that, but did the best I could to care for their drop-offs.

  We slowly bumped over the snow-clogged driveway and pulled up beside the barn. Freddie hitched the parking brake. “Uncle Sig? You know you can’t keep her until we make a good effort to find her owner, don’t you?”

  Sig didn’t reply.

  “Uncle Sig?”

  He unfolded his large frame from the backseat and then leaned over to lift the dog from the car. Straightening, he stood before us as she licked the side of his face. “She is lost. She needs me.”

  Freddie chuckled. “We have to try to find her owner. Now. Where shall we keep her in the meantime?”

  I reached over and patted the dog’s head. “Max might be jealous if we bring her in the house—”

  I caught Siegfried’s expression of hope. His eyes lit up like a child’s.

  I glanced toward his apartment in the converted carriage house. “Would you have room for her in your digs, buddy?”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “Ja, naturlich. I will take care of her.” His face wreathed in smiles, he turned toward the carriage house and carried his charge inside.

  Freddie and I linked arms and walked to the back porch.

  “Thanks for the rescue, sweetheart. Sorry to wake you so early on a Saturday.”

  “It’s okay, Dad. I was awake anyway.” She pecked my cheek.

  I knew she was fibbing, but let it go.

  The kitchen door opened and a tousled little head peeked through the storm door. We climbed the steps, stomping our boots on the gray porch boards to shake off the snow.

  “Opa? You out der?”

  My two-year-old grandson pressed his nose against the storm door. In spite of my French Canadian heritage, the German word for grandpa had been assigned to me when Johnny was born. Siegfried began calling me Opa, and the name stuck.

  A small circle of fog clouded the surface where the boy’s warm breath met cold glass. I opened the door and scooped him into my arms. He wore his yellow blanket sleeper and clutched Eeyore tight in one hand. The tattered blue stuffed animal was his favorite. He didn’t go anywhere without him.

  Had there been a child in Red-beard’s house? Had he spanked the child before I’d arrived? Did he have a little blue stuffed animal, like my grandson?

  “Hey buddy. Whatcha doin’?”

  He laid his pink cheek against my shoulder and collapsed his weight against me, snuggling readily into my arms. “Opa.”

  Freddie kicked off her boots and tossed her coat onto a chair. She ruffled Johnny’s honey-colored hair and leaned over to smooch his cheek. “Mornin’, baby. Where’s Daddy? He’s supposed to be watching you.”

  Johnny pointed upstairs. “Sleepin’.”

  I grimaced and carried Johnny to the coffee pot, shifting him to my left side. Freddie’s husband had rubbed me the wrong way from the start. She’d fallen hard for him, and I’d hated his smarmy lawyer guts. It was all I could do to hide it around my daughter.

  The anger had been escalating lately. Every time he said a cross word to his son, or invalidated my daughter, or let the dog sit at the door whining until someone else walked by, it curdled my blood.

  Sometimes I felt like I’d burst and go jungle man on him or something. The thought of whomping on him with my fists made me smile. Then I pictured myself as Tarzan, swinging on a vine with H
arold under my arms. I dropped him in a big lake. And watch his surprised expression as he went down, down, down.

  I smiled again. I was getting pretty rotten in my old age.

  But what if Johnny had walked outdoors by himself? What if he’d fallen down the stairs? Or tried to turn on the stove? The bastard was supposed to be watching his son, not laying in bed snoring.

  Johnny rubbed one eye, laid his head against my shoulder, and popped his thumb in his mouth. I measured the coffee and added the water one-handed, flipped on the switch, then maneuvered my charge to the refrigerator. My stomach rumbled. I grabbed a dozen eggs and a stick of butter, waltzing both child and food to the farm table in the center of the kitchen.

  “I’m going up to get changed, Dad. Then I have to make a quick trip to the clinic.” She paused halfway through the kitchen. “Can Johnny hang out with you for a while?”

  I looked forward to spending time with my favorite little sidekick. The week had been so full of commitments, and we hadn’t spent our usual time together. I’d missed him. “Sure, honey. Take care of your patients at the clinic, and when you’re done, we’ll head up to church.”

  The East Goodland United Methodist church was broke. Out of desperation, we’d decided to hold a pork barbecue in the dead of winter. It was a novel attempt to raise funds, because the coffers were empty and a huge oil-heating bill was due next month. I looked out the windows at the sunny winter scene and hoped the roads would be plowed by afternoon.

  Freddie kissed my cheek. “Thanks, Dad. By the way, what time do we have to be there?”

  I set the eggs and butter on the table. “Reverend Hardina said to show up around two. The barbecue man is coming at three, and we’ll open the doors at four.”

  “Okay.” She headed up to the bedroom she shared with her husband.

  I sat down on one of the Hitchcock chairs at the table with Johnny now on my lap, and kicked off my ski boots. My feet still ached from the cold. I vowed to wear two layers of socks the next time Siegfried and I decided to brave the wintry elements at six in the morning. Both of us had been yearning for some time on the snowy hills, but knew the day’s hectic schedule would preclude it if we didn’t head out before dawn.

  “Can we watch T.B.?” Johnny mumbled.

  I bent down to kiss the top of his head, inhaling the scent of Johnson’s baby shampoo. He raised his big brown eyes to mine and looked up at me from his inverted soup-bowl haircut.

  “Maybe in a bit, buddy. How about some breakfast first?”

  My stomach rumbled again. Johnny giggled. “Your tummy’s grumbling.”

  “Yeah. I’m starving. How ‘bout you, honey?”

  He slipped from my lap and toddled to his high chair. “I hungry, too.”

  I picked up the spatula and took down the black cast iron pan from its hook over the stove. “Okay. Let’s eat.”

  Chapter 4

  Siegfried pushed back from the table. He’d joined us earlier and had eaten an omelet the size of a Frisbee, six slices of sour dough toast, and half a pound of bacon. He’d also downed four huge glasses of orange juice.

  I poured myself another half glass. “More juice, Siegfried?”

  “Nein, I’m stuffed.” He laced his fingers over his stomach and a contented smile spread over his face. “It was good. Danke.”

  Max sat patiently on the brick-patterned linoleum, blue eyes riveted to mine. His head swiveled with each bite I took. Finally, tired of waiting, he uttered a low “woof.”

  I leaned over and scrubbed behind his ears. His brindled gray coat was wiry, courtesy of his mother, a wire-haired dachshund. His father, a Siberian husky, had been responsible for Max’s coloring and his bright blue eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” I slipped him a piece of toast. “Jealous I didn’t make you eggs, too?”

  A half hour earlier, I’d scrambled four eggs for the retriever and had mixed them with several cups of Max’s kibbles. While Sig watched Johnny, I’d taken a plate over to the carriage house. After a long drink of water, she’d downed it ravenously. Shortly thereafter, she'd fallen asleep on Siegfried’s bed.

  Max took the toast gently from my hands and crunched it with eyes closed and tail thumping slowly on the floor. I patted his sides and looked through the archway into the great room, waving to Johnny. He’d finished breakfast first, and now lay wrapped in a quilt on the couch. Tristan, our hefty seal point Himalayan cat, lay beside the boy, purring loudly. Johnny patted his head and made squeaky noises at his face.

  I leaned on the table with my chin on my hand, recalling the morning’s expedition. I’d been troubled since the visit to Red-beard’s house and kept replaying the scene in my mind. Was it a sob I’d heard? Could it have been an animal?

  No. It had to be a person. Otherwise, why would the creep have yelled “Shut up!” after he closed the door?

  I took another sip of cooling coffee and sighed. A shadow of unease had tickled at my subconscious since the incident.

  Siegfried interrupted my train of thought. “Ist alles okay, Professor?”

  I stood to refill my cup with warm coffee. “Just an uneasy feeling about that place this morning, Sig. I—”

  We were interrupted by the appearance of Harold. I groaned and pushed down my intense dislike. But it rumbled and rolled and threatened to break through my semi-civil façade.

  When he didn’t greet us, I tried to force him an acknowledgment. “Morning, Harold.”

  He walked straight to the coffee pot without saying a word. A curt nod in our general direction was his apparent substitute for civility.

  He grabbed his travel mug from the dish drainer and filled it with hot coffee. When he dribbled some on his blue and white pinstriped suit, he swore, scrubbing it hard with a wet paper towel. The man reeked of cologne, and I wondered for the thousandth time where he went on the weekends all dressed up like that.

  Yesterday, Harold had begrudgingly promised to help serve at the church dinner. Now he shows up in his suit?

  I couldn’t help myself. “Pretty fancy getup for a barbecue.”

  His face froze; his eyes looked anywhere but at me. “Sorry. Something came up. I’ll be at the office all day.”

  Something came up?

  Siegfried looked from Harold, to me, and back again, a worried look on his gentle face. “I will help.”

  Harold snapped the lid on his coffee mug, grabbed his keys from the hook on the wall, and brushed past Siegfried. “You would.”

  Chapter 5

  The church kitchen was packed with women. As usual, Siegfried and I were the only guys except for the reverend. The heavy jobs were ours, and I’d been sweating at the potato station for the past hour.

  “Watch out. Hot potatoes coming through.” I hefted the stockpot from the old black stove in the church kitchen and carried it toward the double-wide sink, where Lillian and Abigail Philips were washing dishes.

  They tittered and trotted backwards, flattening themselves against the wall so I could make it through the tight quarters. We’d been choreographing this maneuver many times over with multiple batches of salt potatoes.

  I poured the potatoes into the colander. Steam billowed from the sink, and I had to back up fast to avoid being scalded. The two elderly sisters giggled again and returned to their post, washing silverware needed for the eat-in barbecue.

  “Nice job, Gus.” Pink spots blushed from Lillian’s cheeks, and her eyes sparkled. “Those spuds look good enough to eat.”

  I grinned at her and lifted the colander out of the sink, walking it over to the warming tray. “Sure hope so.”

  Lillian's trim white curls clustered about her head in a soft cap, a distinct duplicate of her sister’s hairstyle. The spinster twins had been members of the church since they were girls. These two—the most dedicated church ladies in East Goodland—had been digging eyes from the potatoes, filling small containers with applesauce, and baking dinner rolls since nine in the morning.

  I added handfuls of dried p
arsley and dill to the melting pot of butter and sprinkled a generous amount of garlic and onion powder to the mixture. Lifting the pan from the stove, I turned to Patsy Hatfield who sat at the long table filling small containers with homemade coleslaw. “Hey, Patsy. I’ve got a question for you.”

  She looked up from her work with playful brown eyes. Patsy lived with her parents on their dairy farm on Lewis Road. She was a chubby, pretty girl with short brown hair that she wore in a poodle perm. “Shoot. I’m all ears.”

  I poured the butter over the potatoes and replaced the stainless steel lid on top of the warming tray, looking over my shoulder. The question about who was shut behind that door at Red-beard’s house was driving me nuts. Although I had been suitably distracted all morning, it still niggled at me. Especially that lonely, mournful sob. “What do you know about that guy who’s renting your parents’ tenant house?”

  She scooped out another spoonful of coleslaw. “Not too much, Gus. I think he’s from the West Coast—Oregon, or somewhere near there. Dad said he’s an ex-cop. Guess he was injured or disabled in the line of duty. Lives on some kind of pension.”

  Remembering how he ran to turn up the TV, I wondered what type of injury he’d sustained. He didn’t look disabled. Then again, he might have a bad back or heart. I turned up the heat under the next batch of raw potatoes. “Does anyone live with him?”

  She shook her feathery hair back and forth and pushed back from the table. “Nope. Far as I know, he’s all alone in there.”

  My heart beat a little faster. “Really? Have you been over there?”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Not lately. Why?”

  I hesitated, doubting my own memory. “Oh, nothing really—the place is just kind of a mess, that’s all. He’s not the neatest camper in town.”

  She issued a merry laugh. “That place has been a mess for years, Gus. Dad just keeps renting it to whomever he can. This guy paid six months in advance, so Dad doesn’t ask any questions. I don’t think he’s spoken to the guy since last fall.”