Don't Let the Wind Catch You (LeGarde Mysteries Book 6) Read online

  "Keen," she whispered. Her eyes thanked me for the support and my heart melted.

  I caught Siegfried's eye and tried to get him to go along. "We could give it a code name, maybe bring some board games and cards up there."

  "And food!" Elsbeth said. "Soda and chips and stuff."

  "Yeah." I was warming to the idea and flashed a smile at Siegfried, who begrudgingly grinned in my direction.

  He shrugged and his eyes softened. "I guess it could be fun."

  "How about tomorrow?" Elsbeth said.

  "What about your ankle?" I asked. "You won't be able to ride, will you?"

  Siegfried answered for her. "Maybe if she ices it tonight, then wraps it with an Ace bandage?"

  I glanced down at her purple swollen joint. "I don't know. It looks pretty bad."

  She held it out from Pancho's side and inspected it. "It might work. I'll give it a try, anyway. Besides," she said, "I'd go crazy being home all day."

  We skirted around the hermit's cabin, catching only glimpses of the sun winking on the bumpers of the truck and a wisp of smoke curling from the chimney. Elsbeth looked with longing at the house, but Siegfried's frown kept her quiet.

  "No. We're not going in there."

  She ignored him and brushed a lock of hair back from her inquisitive face to get a better look. The intensity in her eyes told me we'd better keep a close eye on her.

  I couldn't keep it in any longer. "We went inside to look for you."

  She swiveled around and nearly fell off. "What?"

  Siegfried warned me with his eyes, but I kept talking anyway. "Yeah. The hermit was gone, and we thought maybe you were in there."

  "I wasn't."

  "I know. We checked it out inside, and…"

  "And what?"

  "We heard that weird singing again."

  One dainty hand flew to her mouth. "Honest?"

  "There's more." Siegfried rolled his eyes, but I ignored him. Elsbeth was my other best friend, and I wanted her in on the secret. "The ghost closed the door on us. And then she turned the pages of a book. Huck Finn."

  "Mein Gott!" Her brown eyes nearly popped. "Maybe the ghost is his long lost lover!"

  "Maybe."

  With renewed enthusiasm, she worked on the theme. "Ja! I know he has a broken heart, because something terrible happened to him long ago. Sally told me last night. She heard it from her grandmother."

  Siegfried remained quiet, plodding along with Golden Boy, who followed meekly beside him. Elsbeth turned forward again, lost in her thoughts.

  So something happened to break Tully's heart. And something happened with my grandfather to upset my mother so badly she couldn't even talk about it.

  My mind worked furiously.

  Maybe Tully and my grandfather were in love with the same woman? Maybe Tully loved my grandmother, and my grandfather won the fight.

  Then again, my grandmother was alive and well in Florida. She couldn't be flying around Tully's cabin turning pages and slamming doors.

  So who was it that had scared the wits out of us in Tully's cabin?

  Chapter Ten

  It poured for the next three days. Unrelenting, gushing, nonstop rain filled our gutters, made puddles in the driveway, and even tried to seep over the sill under the front door.

  I missed my friends.

  Elsbeth was housebound with her leg trussed in an Ace bandage, so she wasn't available, and Siegfried threw himself into his study of differential equations—whatever that is—so I didn't get to play with him, either. I knew he was going to try to get into some college courses in the fall, but it seemed crazy to worry about it in July. He had the whole summer to study. Thankfully, Elsbeth called a few times on the party line to speculate about Tully, but we got kicked off the phone when our neighbors needed to make calls.

  My mother tried to keep me busy. Her belief that rainy days were perfect for cleaning didn't quite match my own philosophy. I'd rather sprawl on my bed with Richie Rich or Superman comics while chewing my coveted reserve of Teaberry Gum. Better yet, I'd rather read comics while rolling atomic fireballs around in my mouth. That was the best. But I'd finished off the five cents worth that I bought last week at the market, and knew I wouldn't get any more until my allowance on Saturday. Dad had just raised it to thirty-five cents a week, and at the penny candy store that would buy a monster bag of goodies. Problem was, he'd only let me spend half on candy. I usually spent the rest on comics and soda pop, which were five cents each. So I figured that would cover seventeen pieces of candy, two comics, and one bottle of orange soda, with three cents left over.

  I stopped sweeping my bedroom floor to gaze into the distance and envision the country store where my father sometimes let me buy a bag of penny candy. I pictured a brown sack full of sweet rock candy on strings, fireballs, Sugar Babies, Tootsie Roll Pops, gum, and salt-water taffy.

  "Gus? Are you done yet?" My mother leaned into my room. She'd removed the kerchief from her hair that she always wore when cleaning and had exchanged it for an apron. "Supper will be ready soon, honey."

  I resumed sweeping with a brisk motion, moving the bits of candy wrappers and dust balls into a neat pile. "Yup. I'm almost done."

  She watched me work for a minute. "Good boy. We're having hamburgers and corn on the cob. Your favorite."

  My heart leapt. I loved corn more than anything in the world, and couldn't wait to sink my teeth into the buttery kernels. "Did you get a lot?"

  "Three dozen. Think that will fill you up?"

  I stooped to sweep the pile into the metal dustpan that had been my grandmother's. For a moment, I wondered about her and Tully again, but the vision of corn pushed the thoughts away. "Yeah. I'll eat it all, Mum."

  She laughed with a bird-like chirp that always made me smile. "Oh, Gustave. You have to save a couple for your father and me."

  With a cavalier motion, I emptied the dustpan into my metal trash bin, tossing the broom from hand-to-hand. "No problem. But I might eat all the hamburgers."

  She chuckled again, snatched the broom and dustpan from me, and waltzed out the door. "Don't forget to wash up for dinner."

  ***

  I pushed back from the table with a groan. Greasy butter coated my fingers. Crumpling my shredded napkin in my hand, I stared at the pile of cobs on my plate in a state of disbelief. I'd devoured a dozen ears of corn and two hamburgers.

  My father took a sip of his coffee, and looked at me as if I were an alien. "Is that hollow leg finally filled up, son?"

  I covered a burp. "Yup. What's for dessert?"

  My mother looked at me in horror. "You can't have any more room in your stomach."

  I stretched in my seat and looked at her with interest. "Sure I do. What are we having?"

  My father shook his head. "Gloria, he's a growing boy. Give him his rice pudding."

  "Rice pudding?" A grin stole over my lips. "With raisins?"

  "Yes, dear. Now help me clear the table and we'll bring out the dessert."

  I scooped my plate and silverware off the table and headed for the kitchen, followed closely by Shadow, who sniffed the air and wagged his tail. The corncobs would go on the compost pile, so I set them on the counter in the tin pan we used to carry scraps outside after meals. I fed Shadow the last of my hamburger bun. He wolfed it down so fast he couldn't possibly have chewed it.

  The pudding sat on the stove, divided into four fancy glass dessert cups. I knew I'd be able to eat two of them, and smiled in anticipation of the homemade warm mixture with sweet plump raisins inside. "Can I have two?" I asked.

  My mother rinsed the dishes in the sink, shutting off the tap. "May I have two."

  "May I?"

  "We'll see how full you get, young man."

  "Okay. I'll carry them out on the tray."

  I positioned all four cups on a metal tray my grandmother had painted with copper colored leaves and birds. Again, my grandmother. I couldn't stop the crazy thoughts about her, my grandfather, and Tully.

&nbs
p; "Careful, honey. Don't spill."

  I forced myself to concentrate on balancing the tray, and arrived safely at the table.

  Halfway through dessert, my father pushed his chair back and laid his napkin over his pudding. "Son? I've been meaning to ask you. How is Elsbeth doing? And how on earth did she hurt her leg?"

  I finished the first cup and reached for a second. "Ankle, Dad. Not leg. She twisted it. Golden Boy shied at a wild turkey and she fell off."

  My mother shook her head and jabbed the table with one finger to emphasize. "I told you, you children should ride with saddles. Bareback is dangerous."

  My father slid his chair forward again to finish his pudding. "Now, Gloria. You and I rode bareback our whole childhood. We survived."

  I smiled thanks at my father, but didn't stop eating.

  My mother bristled. "André! You're supposed to side with me."

  He chuckled. "Sorry, dear, I—"

  A knock at the kitchen door interrupted him, and I scrambled out of my seat to see who it was.

  Chapter Eleven

  An elderly woman peered through the kitchen door window. Her frizzy brown hair was drenched where her raincoat hood didn't quite cover it.

  My father slid past me and opened the door. “Can I help you?”

  The woman's hand shook when she held it out to my father. "I'm so sorry to bother you." She slumped against the doorjamb and started to slide toward the floor. Her neat leather purse dropped beside her mud-splattered shoes. "My husband—"

  My father helped her to her feet and led her inside to the great room. "Please, come inside out of the rain. Have a seat." He called to my mother. "Gloria!"

  I picked up the lady's purse and set it on the coffee table.

  My mother hurried in from the dining room, wiping her hands on her apron. She took in the situation in one swift, appraising glance, and then rushed to the lady's side and helped her slip out of her dripping raincoat. "Oh my goodness. Are you okay?"

  "Thank you, dear." Our visitor dropped into my mother's rocking chair by the fireplace. She let out a shuddering sigh, straightening her shoulders. "My name is Eudora Brown. I'm afraid I need your help."

  My mother launched into company mode. "Mrs. Brown, meet my husband, André LeGarde. This is my son, Gustave. And I'm Gloria."

  My father gave a quick nod, as if he had to get the social graces out of the way to make way for the real issue at hand. "Mrs. Brown. Please tell us what happened."

  The poor woman hitched a sob. "It's my husband. He's in the car. His heart is weak. I told him not to get out, but I'm worried he'll try to push the car out of the mud. We're stuck on your road, about a half-mile up the hill. We were looking for…" Her voice trailed off for a moment as if she'd almost forgotten her quest. "My husband is quite stubborn. I'm afraid he'll do himself harm by trying to get the car out." She looked up at my father with hope in her weary eyes. "Can you help?"

  My father barreled toward his raincoat in the kitchen and called over his shoulder. "I'll fetch him and be back in a few minutes. We can call a tow truck if your car is stuck too deep."

  I hadn't realized I'd moved so close to the chair, but when my father left, Mrs. Brown took my hand in hers. "Your father's a good man, isn't he?"

  I nodded with wide eyes. "Uh huh."

  "Mrs. Brown? Can I get you some tea or coffee?" My mother's empathy overflowed, evident in her dulcet tones and warm blue eyes. "And Gus can get you a nice dry towel, if you'd like?"

  "Thank you. Tea would be lovely. And young man, I'd love a towel so I can stop dripping on your mother's furniture."

  I scurried to the laundry room, hopped up on the dryer, and pulled a soft blue company towel from the shelf overhead. Seconds later, I handed it to our guest with my mother's approval. We hardly ever touched those company towels, and she was always happy when we could use them for a real guest.

  "Thank you, dear." She mopped her face and hands, and then looked at her muddy shoes. "I should have taken these off at the door."

  "Please, don't worry about the mud. Gus brings in so much dirt that I have to sweep and vacuum almost every day anyway. Why don't you slip them off and I'll find you some dry socks?"

  My mother started the teakettle and returned quickly with a plate of sugar cookies she'd made the day before. I looked at them in surprise. I thought I'd eaten them all, but she must've hidden a few away from my hollow leg and me.

  By the time we'd helped her remove her wet socks and shoes, the teakettle whistled and my mother brought out a cup of Lipton tea on a round silver platter with cream and sugar in fancy sterling silver bowls. She rarely used the set, and seemed a little excited to have the chance to show it off. "Cream or sugar? I could cut up a lemon, if you prefer?"

  "Cream and sugar is perfect. Thank you, Gloria."

  Mrs. Brown's eyes warmed and she touched my hand. "I never had a child. My career always took me so far abroad that I didn't think about it until it was too late."

  My mother's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my goodness. Eudora Brown? I thought I recognized you."

  I looked back and forth between them, trying to get a clue.

  My mother continued in a fast stream of words. "You're the journalist who just escaped from her kidnappers, aren't you? You used to write for the New York Times? Where was it you were held? Somewhere near India, wasn't it?"

  Mrs. Brown looked down at her hands. It was then I noticed how thin she was, and how completely worn out she looked. "Pakistan. Fifteen years."

  I couldn't keep quiet any longer. I remembered hearing about the famous journalist who was kidnapped and held by villains somewhere in the Middle East. There had been a special news report on it, and my father had read to us from the newspaper on the day she showed up in India at the American Embassy. "You made a daring escape, didn't you? I saw you on the news."

  It felt like we were hosting a Hollywood star. We beamed at our famous guest for a few seconds, but my mother finally recovered her manners and settled down. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to act all starry-eyed. You must be exhausted. And your poor husband… I'm sure André will return with him soon."

  A flash of lightning crackled outside, brightening the dark sky with a brilliant flash. Rain continued to stream down the windows.

  When Mrs. Brown finished her tea and half a cookie, my mother offered her an afghan. I pulled the hassock over for our guest to set her feet on, and in seconds, she fell asleep.

  We whispered for a few minutes, watching her as if she were Elizabeth Taylor, and then jumped up and ran to the door when we heard my father's car crunching gravel on the driveway.

  Chapter Twelve

  I waited for my father by the kitchen door, peering outside through the curtain and trying to see into the dark night. Rain pelted against the window, but when I squinted I saw the flicker of headlights from two cars. My father's Oldsmobile sat in its usual spot. The other car, some kind of foreign boxy number, was pulled up beside the Olds. I couldn't see my father or Mr. Brown, but it looked like the dome light was on in the Browns' car.

  My mother put her hands on my shoulders and peered out the window beside me. "It's so hard to see. What's going on?"

  "I don't know. It looks like Dad got their car out. It's parked over there." I pointed and let her take a closer look.

  "Okay, I see it now. But where's your father?"

  "I don't know. The light's on in the Browns' car. Maybe he's in there." A circle of fog formed on the window near my face. I ran my finger through it a few times, tracing my initials. "Do you think it will ever stop raining?"

  "I don't—wait! There's your father."

  My father tucked his head down and ran through the rain to the porch. We backed up as he burst inside and headed for the phone. "Sorry. Watch out, son. I need to get some help."

  We listened while he spoke rapidly into the phone. I couldn't catch all the words, but he raised his voice at the end and I caught the last of it. "Yes. That's right. The LeGarde place on Sullivan Hill Road."


  He turned to us with a face that spelled disaster. "Where's Mrs. Brown?"

  We pointed to the living room and my mother put a finger to her lips. "Shh. She's sleeping."

  He looked toward the room with trepidation, which confused me. Something was dreadfully wrong, but he hadn't come out and said it yet.

  "Dad? What is it?"

  He walked to the window and looked out, then retraced his steps and paced around the kitchen. "I'm afraid… I mean, I think…" He looked at my mother for support, but she was as baffled as I.

  "André. What is it?"

  He leaned against the Frigidaire and put a hand to his forehead. "I'm sorry. It's just that I've never dealt with this before. Mr. Brown was puttering around with long boards and a bag of cat litter when I arrived. Lucky he had that litter in his trunk. He was just getting the car out of the mud when I pulled up. We freed it, and he followed me back to the house. When he didn't get out, I walked to his car and knocked on the window." He pulled out a kitchen chair and sank into it. "I couldn't see inside, the windows were so fogged up. So I knocked again, but got no response."

  My mother dropped into the chair beside him and paled. "Oh, no."

  I backed up to the wall. My father looked as if he wished he could protect me. "I opened the door and found him slumped over the steering wheel. I couldn't find a pulse."

  Chapter Thirteen

  My mother went into protection mode, and raced to my side to cover my ears. I shied away from her and ran to my father. His slicker dripped furiously on the brick-patterned linoleum floor, and his eyes held tales of dread. He took me by the shoulders, dropped to the floor on his knees, and hugged me close. "I'm afraid he's gone, son. The ambulance is on its way, but I'm not sure if they'll be able to do much for poor Mr. Brown."

  My mother came close and hunched down to put her arms around both of us, looking nervously toward the living room. "Poor Mrs. Brown. We have to wake her."

  My father stood again, nervously running two fingers across his lips. "Of course." He stepped toward the door and peered out the window. "Wonder how long it'll take them to get here."