Read Online Meadowlark by Sheila Simonson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sheila Simonson
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next morning, a sheriff's
deputy and a dozen volunteers from the Search and Rescue team had
already set up a systematic search of the grounds.
I drove around to the back of the house and parked on the
asphalt between a county van and a cop car. Marianne must have
been watching for me because she was standing by the car, dressed
for a hike, by the time I got out.
"Hi. Bianca and Angie are showing the deputy the bicycle. Do
you want to come out to the old barn with me?"
I pulled on a pair of wool gloves. "Sure."
"I brought a flashlight." She showed me a small but powerful
electric lantern. "Del says it was too dark in there yesterday to see
much."
"Where are the interns?" I locked my door and stuffed the
keys in my jacket pocket.
"Out with the rescue team. So are Del and Keith."
We began walking along the dirt track that led to the fields
and sheds I had seen the day before from the kitchen window.
"Where is the barn?"
"'Bout half a mile--over the ridge past the broccoli field and
the ice house."
As we walked along I could see figures in the distance
moving slowly, eyes to the ground. They were coming toward us, so I
supposed they must have begun at the farthest field. They had
probably already searched the barn.
Marianne was not in a talkative mood. Neither was I. It was
misting out, and the air carried eerie sounds--crows cawing, a log
truck shifting gears on the highway, the occasional shout from one of
the searchers. We passed the two metal sheds I had seen Jason and
Bill enter the day before. My boots beaded water and the legs of my
jeans were damp. I wished I'd worn a longer jacket. I stuffed my
hands in my pockets and trudged along. Marianne set a good
pace.
"That's broccoli," she announced as we approached a
smallish shed. Behind and beside it, I could see rows of plants so
heavy with moisture they looked gray in the dim sunlight. They were
well-grown. I had heard that some crops wintered over or were
planted in January.
Like former President Bush, I am not a fan of broccoli,
though I will eat a dutiful portion if necessary. The field looked as if it
could supply the broccoli needs of a whole regiment of Republicans.
The ice house, unstained cedar with a tarpaper roof, abutted the
field.
"What's that?" Marianne stopped, head cocked.
"Sounds like an electric motor." The rain was coming down
harder, and I wanted to keep moving.
"Somebody must've turned on the ice machine." She strode
to the ice house door. I followed.
The door was latched but not locked. She yanked the door
open, switched a light on, and clucked. "Look at that. Knee-deep in
ice. Bianca will have a fit."
I entered behind her, stepping into a puddle. There was a
fug in the air, as in cold unlit spaces. Mold. Rotting plants. Something
else. "A fit? Why?"
"We don't need ice until we cut the broccoli. It has to be iced
before it's trucked out. But we won't start the first harvest until the
end of the week."
The room was divided roughly in half, with a storage area,
then empty, to the left and an icemaker with a catch-basin roughly
the size and depth of a large hot tub on the right. The tub was heaped
with fresh ice. A scatter of cubes so new they hadn't begun to melt
strewed the wet floor. The walls and ceiling of the ice house showed
foil-sheeted insulation. It was colder inside the building than
outdoors.
A rough table of unfinished planks leaned against the near
wall. A row of short-handled, wide-bladed knives gleamed above the
table. Three scoop shovels in a neat line rested against the edge of
the ice machine.
I walked over to the hill of glistening ice cubes. "Smells like
my refrigerator."
"Yeah." Marianne wandered into the storage space and
looked around. "Wait till Bianca sees the electric bill. I'd better shut it
off." She moved back toward the entrance.
I was looking at the ice. "Maybe somebody wanted to store
something..." Abruptly my heart slammed into distress mode. I
picked up one of the shovels and began scraping ice off
deputy and a dozen volunteers from the Search and Rescue team had
already set up a systematic search of the grounds.
I drove around to the back of the house and parked on the
asphalt between a county van and a cop car. Marianne must have
been watching for me because she was standing by the car, dressed
for a hike, by the time I got out.
"Hi. Bianca and Angie are showing the deputy the bicycle. Do
you want to come out to the old barn with me?"
I pulled on a pair of wool gloves. "Sure."
"I brought a flashlight." She showed me a small but powerful
electric lantern. "Del says it was too dark in there yesterday to see
much."
"Where are the interns?" I locked my door and stuffed the
keys in my jacket pocket.
"Out with the rescue team. So are Del and Keith."
We began walking along the dirt track that led to the fields
and sheds I had seen the day before from the kitchen window.
"Where is the barn?"
"'Bout half a mile--over the ridge past the broccoli field and
the ice house."
As we walked along I could see figures in the distance
moving slowly, eyes to the ground. They were coming toward us, so I
supposed they must have begun at the farthest field. They had
probably already searched the barn.
Marianne was not in a talkative mood. Neither was I. It was
misting out, and the air carried eerie sounds--crows cawing, a log
truck shifting gears on the highway, the occasional shout from one of
the searchers. We passed the two metal sheds I had seen Jason and
Bill enter the day before. My boots beaded water and the legs of my
jeans were damp. I wished I'd worn a longer jacket. I stuffed my
hands in my pockets and trudged along. Marianne set a good
pace.
"That's broccoli," she announced as we approached a
smallish shed. Behind and beside it, I could see rows of plants so
heavy with moisture they looked gray in the dim sunlight. They were
well-grown. I had heard that some crops wintered over or were
planted in January.
Like former President Bush, I am not a fan of broccoli,
though I will eat a dutiful portion if necessary. The field looked as if it
could supply the broccoli needs of a whole regiment of Republicans.
The ice house, unstained cedar with a tarpaper roof, abutted the
field.
"What's that?" Marianne stopped, head cocked.
"Sounds like an electric motor." The rain was coming down
harder, and I wanted to keep moving.
"Somebody must've turned on the ice machine." She strode
to the ice house door. I followed.
The door was latched but not locked. She yanked the door
open, switched a light on, and clucked. "Look at that. Knee-deep in
ice. Bianca will have a fit."
I entered behind her, stepping into a puddle. There was a
fug in the air, as in cold unlit spaces. Mold. Rotting plants. Something
else. "A fit? Why?"
"We don't need ice until we cut the broccoli. It has to be iced
before it's trucked out. But we won't start the first harvest until the
end of the week."
The room was divided roughly in half, with a storage area,
then empty, to the left and an icemaker with a catch-basin roughly
the size and depth of a large hot tub on the right. The tub was heaped
with fresh ice. A scatter of cubes so new they hadn't begun to melt
strewed the wet floor. The walls and ceiling of the ice house showed
foil-sheeted insulation. It was colder inside the building than
outdoors.
A rough table of unfinished planks leaned against the near
wall. A row of short-handled, wide-bladed knives gleamed above the
table. Three scoop shovels in a neat line rested against the edge of
the ice machine.
I walked over to the hill of glistening ice cubes. "Smells like
my refrigerator."
"Yeah." Marianne wandered into the storage space and
looked around. "Wait till Bianca sees the electric bill. I'd better shut it
off." She moved back toward the entrance.
I was looking at the ice. "Maybe somebody wanted to store
something..." Abruptly my heart slammed into distress mode. I
picked up one of the shovels and began scraping ice off
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