Tucker and Mrs. Murphy followed on her heels, their heads low, their ears swept back.
“If this ever stops I’m asking the owl to look where those prints were,” Tucker said.
“They’re covered now.” Mrs. Murphy blinked to keep out the snow.
“Who knows what she’ll find? She can see two miles. Maybe more.”
“Oh, Tucker, don’t believe everything she says. She’s such a blowhard, and she probably won’t cooperate.”
Both animals scooted through the door when Harry opened it. The phone was ringing inside. It was seven o’clock.
Cynthia’s voice greeted her “hello” with “Harry, all’s well over here.”
“Good. How was Blair?”
“At first he thought it was silly for me to sleep out in the barn but then he came around.”
“Is he awake yet?”
“Don’t see any lights on in the house. That boy’s got to get himself some furniture.”
“We’re waiting for a good auction.”
“Got enough to eat? I think the electricity might go out and the phone lines might come down if this keeps up.”
“Yeah. Can you get out okay?” Harry asked.
“If not, I’ll spend an interesting day with Blair Bainbridge, I guess.” A distant rumble alerted the young policewoman. “Harry, I’ll call you right back.”
She ran outside and strained her ears. A motor, a deep rumble, cut through even the roar of the wind. The snow was blowing so hard and fast now that Cynthia could barely see. She’d parked her cruiser in front of the house. She heard nothing for a moment and then she heard that deep rumble again. She ran as fast as she could through the deep snow but it was no use. Whoever was rolling down the driveway finally saw the police car and backed out. She ran back into the barn and called Harry.
“Harry, if anyone comes down your driveway other than Susan or Mrs. Hogendobber, call me.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know. Listen, I’ve got to get out on the driveway before all the tracks are covered. Do as I say. If I’m not back at the barn, call Blair. If he doesn’t pick up, you call Rick. Hear?”
“I hear.” Harry hung up the phone. She patted Tucker and Mrs. Murphy and was very glad for their sharp ears.
Meanwhile, Cynthia struggled through the blinding snow. She thought she knew where she was going until she bumped into an ancient oak. She’d veered to the right off the driveway. She got back on the driveway again and reached the backup tracks. The tread marks were being covered quickly. If only she had a plaster kit, but she didn’t. By the time she got one this would be gone. She knelt on her hands and knees and puffed away a little snow. Wide tires. Deep snow treads. Tires like that could be on any regular-sized pickup truck or large, heavy, family four-wheel drive like a Wagoneer, a Land Cruiser, or a Range Rover. She hunkered down in the snow and smashed her fist into the powder. It flew up harmlessly. Half of the people in Crozet drove those types of vehicles and the other half drove big trucks.
“Damn, damn, damn!” she shouted out loud, the wind carrying away her curses.
On her way back to the barn she slammed into the corner of the house. There’d be no getting out of Foxden today. She hugged the side of the building and slowly made her way to the back porch. She opened the back door, stepped inside the porch, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it. It wasn’t eight yet and she was exhausted. She could no longer see the barn.
She used the dachshund foot scraper and cleaned off her boots. She unzipped her heavy parka and shook off the snow. She hung it on the hook outside the door to the kitchen.
She stepped into the kitchen and dialed Harry.“You okay?”
“Yeah, no one’s coming down my driveway.”
“Okay, here’s the plan. You can’t get to work today. Mrs. Hogendobber will go in if she can even get down the alleyway. Call her.”
“I’ve never missed a day because of weather.”
“You’re missing today,” Cynthia ordered her. “Blair has that Explorer. We’ll pack up his kittens and him and we’re coming over there. I don’t want you alone, or him alone, for a while anyway.”
“Nobody wantsme.”
“You don’t know that. I can’t take any chances. So, I’ll get him up and we’ll be over there within the hour.”
57
“What pests.” Mrs. Murphy flicked her tail away from Jingle Bells, the calico, who was madly chasing it.
“Human babies are worse.” Tucker ignored the gray kitty, Noel, who climbed up one side of her body only to slide down the other screaming“Wheee!”
Harry, Blair, and Cynthia busied themselves making drawings of each room of Blair’s house. Then they drew furniture for each room, cut it out, and fiddled with different placements.
“Have you told us everything?” Cynthia asked again.
“Yes.” Blair pushed a sofa with his forefinger. “Doesn’t go there.”
“What about this, and put a table behind it? Then put the lamps on that.” Harry arranged the pieces.
“What about a soured business deal?” Cynthia asked.
“I told you, the only deal I made was to buy Foxden … and the tractor at the auction. If something is on my property that is valuable or germane to the case, don’t you think whoever this is would have taken it?”
“I don’t know,” Cynthia said.
“Whoops,” Harry yelled as the lights went out. She ran to the phone and put the receiver to her ear. “Still working.”
The sky darkened and the wind screamed. The storm continued. Fortunately, Harry kept a large supply of candles. They wouldn’t run out.
After supper they sat around the fireplace and told ghost stories. Although the storm slackened, a stiff wind still rattled the shutters on the house. It was perfect ghost story time.
“Well, I’ve heard that Peter Stuyvesant still walks the church down on Second Avenue in New York. You can hear his peg leg tap on the wood. That’s it for me and ghost stories. I was always the kid who fell asleep around the campfire.” Blair smiled.
“There’s a ghost at Castle Hill.” Cynthia mentioned a beautiful old house on Route 22 in Keswick. “A woman appears carrying a candle in one of the original bedrooms. She’s dressed in eighteenth-century clothing and she tells a guest that they ought not to spend the night. Apparently she has appeared to many guests over the last two hundred years.”
“What? Don’t they meet her social approval?” Harry cracked.
“We know their manners won’t be as good,” Blair said. “Socializing has been in one long downward spiral since the French Revolution.”
“Okay.” Cynthia jabbed at Harry. “Your turn.”
“When Thomas Jefferson was building Monticello, he brought over a Scotsman by the name of Dunkum. This highly skilled man bought land below Carter’s Ridge and he built what is now Brookhill, owned by Dr. Charles Beegle and his family, wife Jean, son Brooks, and daughters Lynne and Christina. The Revolutionary War finally went our way and after that Mr. Dunkum built more homes along the foot of the ridge. You can see them along Route Twenty—simple, clean brick work and pleasing proportions. Anyway, as he prospered, less fortunate relatives came to stay with him, one being a widowed sister, Mary Carmichael. Mary loved to garden and she laid out the garden tended today by Jean Beegle. One hot summer day Jean thought she’d run the tractor down the brick path to the mess of vines at the end which had resisted her efforts with the clippers. Jean was determined to wipe them out with the tractor. To her consternation, no sooner did she plunge into the vines than she dropped into a cavity. The tractor didn’t roll over—it just sat in the middle of a hole in the earth. When Jean looked down she beheld a coffin. Needless to say, Jean Beegle burnt the wind getting off that tractor.
“Well, Chuck borrowed a tractor from Johnny Haffner, the tractor man, and together the two men pulled out the Beegles’ tractor. Curiosity got the better of them and they jumped back into the grave and opened the casket. The skeleton of a woman was inside and even a few tatters of what must havebeen a beautiful dress. A wave of guilt washed over both Chuck and Johnny as they closed up the coffin and returned the lady to her eternal slumbers. Then they filled in the cavity.