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

  I thought I heard the distant wail of a siren, but couldn't be sure if I'd imagined it over the wail of the wind outside. Then my mother heard it, too.

  "André. You'd best meet them outside. I'll wake Mrs. Brown."

  My father straightened his shoulders and pulled his hood over his wavy black hair. "Right. I'll flag them down at the end of the driveway."

  I followed my mother and watched her lean over Mrs. Brown, speaking softly.

  "Mrs. Brown? Eudora?"

  Our elderly guest moaned as if she were in pain. I wondered if she'd been dreaming about being tortured by her kidnappers. Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked up with hopeful eyes toward my mother. "Oh. How embarrassing. So sorry. Didn't mean to fall— " She stopped mid-sentence when she heard the ambulance siren. Her gaze shifted to me, and I felt moisture puddle in the corners of my eyes.

  I tried to squeeze them shut against the onslaught of humiliation, and rubbed them hard to stop it. It wasn't that I even knew Mr. Brown or would cry at his funeral. It was the look of sheer panic that flooded his wife's face that hitched my breath and made me want to turn back time.

  "What's wrong? Is it my husband? Where's Clive?" She got up too fast and almost tripped over the afghan at her feet. "Is he all right?"

  My mother helped steady her. "Careful, now."

  "Where's Clive?" A wildness entered Mrs. Brown's eyes, and she looked around in a panic, as if she could find the answers on top of our piano or behind the couch.

  My mother took her arm and whispered in her ear. I watched in horror as Mrs. Brown's face went white and her legs gave out. She dropped into the seat, let out a muffled wail, then got up again and started toward the kitchen. "I must go to him." Walking faster and steadier now, she strode to the kitchen and opened the door. "Clive? Clive!"

  My mother grabbed the raincoat and thrust it onto her shoulders. "Put this on, dear."

  Mrs. Brown shrugged into her coat and hurried outside.

  I watched as she stumbled into my father's arms and tried to push her way past the EMTs into the front seat of their little foreign car. One of the attendants turned to her, shook his head, and motioned toward the house. The flash of the ambulance's red lights pulsed strong against the wet windowpane, making it all feel even more unreal. My mother slid an arm around my shoulders.

  "Should we go outside?" I whispered, half wanting to run away, and half wanting to see. "Maybe we can help her."

  As if rousing herself from a bad dream, my mother looked at me as if she hadn't seen me before. "Oh, good Lord. You're right, son. You stay here, though. I'm going to try to bring her back inside."

  "Can't I come? Please?" I touched my mother's arm, knowing the answer would be no.

  "Heat up another kettle for me. We're going to need tea. Lots of tea."

  She grabbed her nylon jacket from the hook beside the door and hurried outside, holding it over her head. Peering out the window after her, I watched while Mrs. Brown struggled against the well-intentioned hands. I turned to the stove to start the kettle, knowing I'd never, ever forget this night.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mrs. Brown slumped in the rocker, her face frozen in a mask of despair. My mother huddled beside her on a rickety cane chair, patting the elderly woman's hands and murmuring words of comfort. I heard my father and a policeman talking in low voices through the kitchen window when I went to refill my mother's teacup. The officer was the last to leave, and I figured maybe he'd drive Mrs. Brown home when she was ready to go. Her car had been towed away by a police tow truck, and anyway, I didn't think she'd want to drive in the same car where her husband died. I put on more water to boil, and shaded my eyes to look out at my father and the cop. They stood under the cover of the porch, their yellow slickers glistening with the rain that blew sideways and splattered against our kitchen windows.

  I could only imagine the awful things poor Mrs. Brown would have to endure, like planning the funeral and picking out a gravestone. I shuddered at the thought. When the teapot whistled, I poured my mother another cup and shuffled back into the living room.

  Mrs. Brown's tea was untouched, cooling on the table beside her. Although she'd been motionless when I entered, she started rocking again—fast—and drew the afghan tight around her shoulders.

  "Fifteen years." Her mouth quivered. "Fifteen years in that hellish place. The only thing that kept me going was the thought of my reunion with Clive." Her shoulders heaved and she suddenly looked up at me. "I had three days with him. Three days." Her eyes, so full of pain, beseeched me, as if I could turn back the clock and fix things.

  Feeling totally helpless, I smiled with what I hoped looked like sympathy and not pained embarrassment.

  My mother had thankfully not reacted when Mrs. Brown said "hellish." I'd feared a quick intake of shocked breath. Instead, she reached up and rubbed Mrs. Brown's back. "I'm so sorry, Eudora. It's so terribly unfair."

  For the first time that evening, our guest erupted in a wail so horrible my stomach clenched and acid rose to my throat. She clutched her shoulders and leaned onto her knees, shuddering and sobbing. My mother looked at me as if she expected me to bolt. She formed the words, It's okay, honey, with her lips. I nodded and stood awkwardly by the hearth.

  After a while, Mrs. Brown regained control. With a massive shudder, she wiped her eyes with a soggy handkerchief and sat back in the rocker. "No. Life isn't supposed to be fair. That's what I keep telling myself."

  I wondered if she'd had to cry silently in captivity, for although her shoulders shook and her eyes streamed tears, she hadn't let out a sob or a wail until just now. Maybe the rebels hit her if she made noise? Maybe she'd had to keep silent to avoid being noticed? I watched her shiver and sniffle, wishing I knew what to say.

  "Maybe I should have just stayed in that horrible place. At least Clive would still be alive."

  "Oh, don't say that." My mother looked strained now, with those tired eyes she got when she'd had one of her migraines. "You couldn't have predicted this."

  Mrs. Brown sighed and lifted a trembling hand to her chest. "I guess you're right. And I've been a burden long enough. I'd best get home."

  "Is there someone I can call for you? Any family?"

  Our guest slowly rose to her feet. "No. Well, there is, but I don't know his phone number. It's my brother. That's why we were here, I was trying to remember where his house was."

  "Does he live close by?"

  "I'm not sure. My memory is failing me. Things look different now. But I'm sure I'll find him in the phone book in the morning."

  "Let me help you with your raincoat." My mother followed Mrs. Brown with worried eyes. "Here. It's almost dry now."

  After zipping up her coat, she straightened. A look of resolve flooded her eyes. She took my hand and my mother's, and squeezed them gently. "I'll never forget you both. You've been so kind."

  She left our home with the same wet gust of wind that blew her in. I watched out the window until the policeman's lights disappeared down our driveway, and although it made me feel terribly guilty, I couldn't wait to tell the twins that a man actually died in our driveway tonight.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next morning dawned bright and warm. I cantered into the Marggranders' driveway at eight-thirty, hoping they were done with their chores so we could go for a ride and investigate the abandoned house. Itching to talk with them, I rode right up to their front porch and slid off Pancho's back. I looped his reins through the railing and hopped up to the screen door.

  "Hello?" I knocked on the wooden edge of the door and mashed my face against the screen, but could only see the kitchen table and chairs. No one sat in them, but traces of breakfast dishes lay scattered there, so I grew hopeful. "Sig? Elsbeth?"

  Siegfried's face slid into view from the side. "Gus! I just tried to call you, but you weren't home."

  "That's ‘cause I'm right here." I grinned at him. "Can you and Elsbeth come out for a ride? Is her ankle better?"

 
He opened the door and motioned me inside. "Ja, naturlich. She's okay. She's doing barn chores. I have to finish these dishes."

  I wrinkled my nose. "Yuk. My mom usually does them at our house. I clear the table, take out the garbage, and clean Pancho's stall." I realized I wasn't being quite truthful, and shot a rueful smile at my friend. "Well, I have to do weeding when I'm in trouble. That stinks."

  He rolled his eyes, then looked nervous and shifted his gaze to the side, pointing to the living room. I saw his father's feet sticking out from his easy chair and realized Sig had to keep his feelings quiet. Rebellion of any sort wasn't tolerated in his house. Both twins had the bruises to prove it.

  "Sorry," I whispered. "Let me help you finish up."

  We zoomed through the dishes. I stretched out the yellow and white striped dishtowel on the oven handle to dry, and we sneaked outside without another chore being thrown at us.

  I squeezed Sig's arm and pointed to the barn. "Come on. Get Frisbee. I've got lots to tell you."

  I unraveled Pancho's reins, pulled his stubborn head up from the grass he was eating, and led him to the barn. Elsbeth emerged with her palomino, whose coat glistened. His white mane curled flaxen and bright in the sun.

  "Guten Morgen, Gus." She looked uncommonly pretty in a turquoise top and black pedal pushers. The wound on her forehead looked yellowish around the edges, but it had shrunk considerably since last Thursday. The expected Ace bandage wrapped her delicate ankle. She pointed her toe and wiggled her foot. "Look. I'm walking again!"

  "Morning. Do you need a leg up?"

  She shook her curls. "Nein, danke." She climbed from the lower rung of the fence onto the doghouse, and hopped onto her gelding's back.

  I vaulted onto Pancho's back with my best acrobatic move, hoping she'd notice. "Ready?"

  Her heart-shaped face, framed with masses of unruly curls, reminded me of the cherubs in an angel picture that hung over my parent's bed. "Ready. I can't wait to see the old house again."

  Siegfried raced into the barn, headed for Frisbee's stall. In seconds, he'd bridled his gelding and joined us in the driveway. "Auf gehts."

  We cantered three abreast toward the end of the gravel driveway, and turned east toward the Ambuscade.

  Elsbeth was the first to notice the swelling excitement in my eyes. She pulled Golden Boy to a dead stop and locked eyes with me. "Gus LeGarde. What is it? You look like the cat who swallowed the canary."

  She'd always been intuitive about me, reading me like a large print book. I guess I wasn't very good at keeping secrets.

  The truth burst from me, tumbling out in all its gory details. I felt an odd mixture of excitement and horror as I relived the previous night's events. Both of them peppered me with questions, looking wide-eyed and a little scared.

  "I saw her on television," Elsbeth said. She urged her horse forward and our mounts followed along side. "She's a great lady. They're calling her a heroine."

  Siegfried swatted a horsefly on Frisbee's neck. "Ja. She endured great suffering and pain. And she never revealed her sources. She waited for her moment to escape and finally it came. After fifteen years."

  Elsbeth's face dropped. "But it's so sad. All that time, wanting to be with her beloved husband. What was his name?"

  "Clive," I said.

  "Ja. Clive. It's so romantic, and so horrible at the same time. A tragedy."

  The word "tragedy" was a new one for her. She'd been using it for the past few weeks at every opportunity.

  Our conversation stopped and aside from the birds in the hedgerows along the fields we passed, the only sound was that of the horses' hooves clip-clopping along the road. I kept seeing Mrs. Brown's face before me, and felt a little guilty for gossiping about the death of her husband.

  I dropped my hands on Pancho's mane to rest them and turned around to look at the twins, who now followed me single file. "I think we should go to the funeral. Don't you?"

  Elsbeth nodded. "If our parents will let us. It would be a good thing to do. To show her respect. Especially since Clive Brown died in your driveway, Gus."

  "Yeah."

  I'd never been to an actual funeral before, although some of the kids in school had told me about relatives who'd died. In some cases, they actually saw the dead person in an open casket. Sometimes they called it a "wake," and I never understood if they were trying to wake up the dead guy, or if they all got so bored they couldn't stay awake. It was confusing. I hoped they wouldn't do that with Mr. Brown. It just seemed too creepy.

  A truck rumbled behind us, its motor growling with a familiar sound. I urged Pancho up onto a farmer's access road and led the twins onto the edge of a beet field so we wouldn't get hit or the horses wouldn't shy from the noise. After pulling Pancho to a stop, I watched the old Ford truck approach. It slowed when it almost reached us and parked on the side of the road.

  Tully got out as if he had to stretch to make his body work properly. He limped toward us like the grandfather in the Hillbillies television show, his arm and shoulder hitching up as he took each step. I froze, and saw the twins' jaws drop. All three horses lowered their heads to the grass—an admittedly bad habit we encouraged—and Tully came closer. My mouth became the Sahara and flutters of nerves circled in my stomach.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tully stopped and cocked his head to the side as if listening to someone. He raised one hand in the air and nodded. "Okay, okay. I'm going."

  He limped into the field and headed for me. I wondered if I should take off at a gallop, or dismount and shake his hand. My mind was a jumble of confusion. I just sat frozen on Pancho’s back with my heart bongo drumming beneath my ribs.

  Tully’s flannel shirt was rumpled and his overalls looked as if they'd been worn for a few weeks. I tried to catch his eyes to see if he was angry, but he kept them cast to the ground. Maybe it was so he wouldn't stumble. I couldn't be sure. At long last, he stopped beside Pancho's head and glanced up.

  I looked into eyes swirling with pain and sorrow.

  His face, etched in the same sense of loss, twisted in discomfort. "She says I should apologize for yelling at you kids." He glanced to the twins and back to me. "So, here I am. And… I'm sorry."

  Elsbeth urged Golden Boy closer and slid to the ground. Without hesitating, my brave friend slipped her hand into Tully's big paw. "It's okay, Mr. Tully." She beamed up at him. "We shouldn't have been spying on your cabin."

  Siegfried seemed to shake himself out of his state of inertia. "Who said you should apologize, Mr. Tully?"

  Tully shrugged and acted as if we should know. He pointed a finger toward the empty air at his side. "Her. Penni. Her real name is Penaki, but I just called her Penni. With an ‘i', not a ‘y.'"

  Siegfried and I exchanged a glance charged with excitement. I joined Elsbeth and looked up at the burly man. He seemed to be in pain, and reached over to lean on my shoulder. "I should have brought my cane. It's in the truck."

  "I'll get it." Siegfried thrust Frisbee's reins at me and raced to the truck.

  Back in seconds, he handed it to Tully, who looked over his shoulder to speak to Penni. "You were right. They are good kids." Tully repositioned himself on his cane, still holding Elsbeth's hand.

  Siegfried spoke in measured phrases. "Mr. Tully? Would you mind very much introducing us to your friend?" I'd have to let him know later that he was talking to Tully as if he were a doddering old fool, or a little kid. It was kind of condescending, and I knew he didn't really feel that way. A whiff of peppermint washed the air around us.

  Tully smiled at Siegfried. "She says you're the smart one. Is she right?"

  Siegfried paled and took a step back. "I… I guess. I like school."

  Elsbeth jumped to his rescue. "Yes, he is, Mr. Tully. He's way ahead of everyone in his grade. He's going to take differential equations from a college this fall."

  He slid his hand from hers and reached up to pat her curls. "And you're the musician. Aren't you?"

  Elsbeth's shoulde
rs drew back and she stood straighter. "I'm going to be a concert pianist."

  I watched with disbelief. "Sir? How do you know this stuff?"

  He turned to me now. A whisper of understanding passed over his face and a shivery chill passed through me.

  "Penni tells me." He leaned closer. "Dear God." He ran his free hand over his eyes and peered at me again. "Are you by any chance related to Marlowe Wright?"

  I stuttered a little and nodded. "Um. Yes. He was my grandfather."

  His eyes grew moist and a hand flew to his heart. "You have his eyes. And his nose."

  "I do?" I ran two fingers down my nose.

  He turned suddenly and walked toward the edge of the field. "I have to sit down." He slowly dropped to the edge of the gully that ran between the field and the road and settled on a clump of buttercups and cornflowers. Patting the ground beside him, he called us over. "Sit beside me, children."

  We let our horses nibble at the grass along the edge of the field and plopped down beside him. Elsbeth and I sat on either side of Tully, and Siegfried sat beside me. No cars had passed the entire time we'd been there. A red-tailed hawk soared overhead, its cry echoing over the valley. Conesus Lake glistened in the distance.

  After a few minutes, Tully turned to me and took my face in his hands, studying my features. An expression of great peace filled his eyes. "It's amazing. You look so much like Marlowe."

  Siegfried leaned forward. "So, you knew Gus's grandfather?"

  I had so often imagined them as enemies that it was hard for me to adjust to Tully's beaming smile. "I heard you had a falling out," I whispered.

  He shook his head. "Oh, Lord, no. We were best friends." His eyes wandered to the horizon and watered. He tried to cover his lower lip as it quivered for just an instant, but I felt more than saw his emotion. It flooded out of him. He was so sad that even after all these years, it poured from him like cider pouring from a pitcher. "Marlowe was a prince among men."