Read Sleuthing at Sweet Springs (The Sleuth Sisters Mysteries Book 4) Online
Authors: Maggie Pill
Sleuthing at Sweet Springs (The Sleuth Sisters Mysteries Book 4)
Sleuthing
at
Sweet
Springs
A Sleuth Sisters Mystery
by
Maggie Pill
Copyright © 2016 by Maggie Pill
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Editor: Paige Trisko
Cover Art by Yocladesigns: http://yocladesigns.com
Gwendolyn Press, Michigan, USA
Sleuthing at Sweet Springs/Maggie Pill — 1st ed.
ISBN: 978-1-944502-05-8
Table of Contents
Chapter
Acknowledgements
The Sleuth Sisters and Maggie thank these people for contributing to their success:
*Paul & Debbie for info on raising reindeer
*Dan at State-Wide Real Estate for advice on the business
*Andrew at the DEQ for facts on water bottling/sources
*Kay & Connie for advice/reading as the series progresses
*P.J. for her expertise on medicines and their effects
Any errors in the books are mine, but I could never produce a complete story without input from helpful friends like these.
Maggie
Barb
I lost my sister when she took one step too far.
“Are we finished?” As she spoke, Retta backed up for a wider view and her right foot left the plank platform. Responding to the pull of gravity, her body followed the foot into space. As she waved her arms, fighting to keep her balance, I lunged forward to help. It was too late. One second she was there, her hair aglow in the billboard’s floodlight. The next she was gone. There was a soft thud of impact, but no scream of pain.
“Retta!” Fear made my cry louder than was prudent, since our mission was secret and not entirely legal. Dropping to my knees, I crawled to the edge and looked down, searching the darkness for a hopeful sign. Nothing moved. A pale spot below might have been a human face but could as easily have been the kind of limestone outcrop common in Michigan. “Retta!”
Had my campaign for better use of the English language gotten my baby sister hurt or even killed?
A muffled sound came from the ground below, and I turned my good ear toward it. A groan? An appeal for help?
She was giggling. “Lots of nice, soft grass down here,” she piped in her version of a whisper. “And the corrections on the sign look good from a distance.”
When we’d arrived at the billboard, it had read,
Between You and I, Croll’s has the Freshest Food in Allport
. With black paint, Retta and I had changed the word
I
to the objective case
me
. From her present position, it was apparently difficult to tell the change had been made.
Standing, Retta brushed off her black jeans, cupped her mouth, and called softly, “Bring our stuff down. I’ll go get the car.” She added with another giggle, “Use the ladder. My way was faster but the end was a little shocking.”
She was still looking amused after I’d tossed my tools in the back with careless thumps and clunks and got into the car. “You should have seen your face, Barbara.”
My heart was just getting back to a normal rhythm. “I thought you were dead for sure. If you’re going to be part of this, Retta, you have to be more careful.”
“Oh, I’m going to be part of it. That was the deal.” As if I’d never heard them before, she counted the terms of our agreement on her fingers. “I get to do Correction Events with you. I get to be a full partner in the detective agency you and Faye created. In return, I don’t tell anyone you go around fixing errors on roadside signs in the dead of night.”
“You’re part of the agency as long as you don’t order your sisters around,” I said firmly. “You agreed to that, too.”
“I didn’t think that needed to be said,” she countered primly, “because I never tell people what to do.”
Still relieved she hadn’t died in the fall, I left the comment alone. Pushy people seldom admit they’re pushy, and your sister is your sister, even if she is the original Miss Bossy-pants.
Faye
It was one of Harriet’s better days—not that she looked good. Past ninety, her spine had twisted until her ribcage sat cockeyed somewhere over her right hip. Her dentures had been abandoned, since they no longer stayed in place on her shrunken gums. Her lanky gray hair had thinned to reveal large spaces of shiny scalp between wisps. Puny and weakened as she was, my mother-in-law still scared the heck out of almost everyone who had to deal with her.
For her first few years as a resident at the Meadows, Harriet had pretty much run the place, watching over less aware residents (She called it “walking them home” when she escorted dementia patients from the cafeteria to their rooms) and ordering nurses and even doctors to obey her will. After a recent stroke she’d failed, and lately there were times when she’d mistaken Dale for his dad. She often wasn’t sure who I was, but if I said, “I’m Faye, Dale’s wife,” I got a gruff, “Oh, yes. You.” Other times a glazed stare told me Harriet didn’t recall she had a daughter-in-law named Faye, or any daughter-in-law at all.
When Retta and I arrived on this day, Harriet was almost her old self. As soon as we entered the room she informed us, “The woman across the hall died last night.” Tilting her head like an elderly owl she added, “They try to hide it from us, but we know.”
As an alarm went off somewhere down the hallway, I said what one is required to say in such situations. “That’s too bad.”
Harriet licked her scaly bottom lip. “Dying’s hard, but I bet you girls don’t know why.”
Retta had come with me, claiming she’d help me cheer Harriet up. Knowing Retta, I guessed she had a second motive I hadn’t heard about yet. My sister isn’t a bad person, but she seldom has fewer than three reasons for any help she offers, and two of them will fit her agenda more than they fit anyone else’s.
“Why is dying hard, Mrs. Burner?” she asked in her best caring tone.
Harriet grinned, showing her gums. “Because when you get to the end, you start wishing you’d done things different.” She gestured at her roommate, whose bed was only a few feet away. “Carrie over there? She let her kids run wild. Now one of them’s in jail and the other’s in and out of rehab so often they might as well adopt him and call him their mascot. Now Carrie’s old and sick, but she’s got nobody except the idiots that run this place.”
I raised a palm in warning, but Harriet merely chuckled, propelling her wheelchair backward with her foot so she faced Carrie. “She’s deaf as a post. Can’t hear nothing.” She smiled, and poor Carrie smiled back, her expression revealing the truth of what Harriet had said.
I might have reminded my mother-in-law that some of the “idiots” she’d mentioned might be in earshot, but concern for their feelings had never stopped her from speaking her mind before.
It was funny—and not ha-ha funny—that she spoke so casually of her roommate’s deafness. I was often embarrassed by Harriet’s similar condition, which resulted in loud comments about her dislikes among the staff at the Meadows, her discontent with the meals, and her disgust at having to wear adult diapers. After almost every visit, I promised myself that before I came to the point of living in a care facility, I’d jump in front of a city bus.
As of 2015, Allport didn’t have city buses. Unless the city progressed a bit, I’d have to settle for Dial-a-Ride.
Harriet went back to her point about the downside of approaching death. “When you get to be my age,” “you look back a lot, and it makes you understand what you should have done different. You could have treated some people nicer. You ought to have taken better care of yourself. Things like that.”
I knew my mother-in-law too well to fall into the trap she was setting, but Retta didn’t. Leaning toward Harriet sympathetically she asked, “What do you wish you’d done differently, dear?”
The old lady’s eyes widened. “Me? I wouldn’t change a thing. I was trying to make Faye see she should straighten up and fly right before she gets old and sick like Carrie.”
“But Faye isn’t—”
“You’ll see it someday, Rettie.” Harriet smacked her lips in her eagerness to predict my future. “Faye’s not going to have anybody when she’s old, because those boys of hers are shiftless.”
“That’s not true.” Retta said, but I nudged her and shook my head. Harriet had never warmed to my boys, and I couldn’t honestly say they were all that fond of her. Grandmas are supposed to bake cookies and adore their grandchildren. Harriet had once been a gem in the cookie-making department, but she never got the adoring part down.
“Faye just never had the will to stand up to those boys, and look at them now. Every one of them on welfare.”
It would do no good to tell their grandmother that none of my three sons was or had ever been supported by the State of Michigan. At times they’d been supported by Dale and me, but that was our business and no one else’s.
And “Rettie”? Where had that come from? Usually she called my sisters The Flibbertigibbet (Retta) and The Big Shot (Barb), even when they were within hearing distance.
Suddenly I wanted a cigarette. Due to rising blood pressure and my sisters’ disapproval, I’d quit smoking— well, mostly. I knew becoming a non-smoker was best for me, but there were times I regretted giving up the habit. Being around my mother-in-law was when I missed it most, perhaps because in the past I’d have excused myself to go outside and light up, getting that little nicotine high and at the same time escaping Harriet’s constant disapproval. I’d never gotten past being the girl who “trapped” her son into marriage, though Dale and I had been happy together for over thirty-five years.
I took a deep breath, reminding myself that Harriet needed me. How hard it must be for her that someone she wanted so much to dislike had become indispensable to her.
The best way forward was to change the subject. “What kind of candy would you like me to bring next time I come?” Any discussion of sweets drove other topics clear out of Harriet’s mind, so we proceeded to the relative merits of Dove Promises versus Hershey’s Bliss.