Read Online Sleuthing at Sweet Springs (The Sleuth Sisters Mysteries Book 4) by Maggie Pill - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maggie Pill
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stories? It would be embarrassing, not to mention overkill.”
“Maybe Lars would look into it.” When Lars Johannsen, an FBI agent from New Mexico, helped with a recent case, he and Rory had become friends. Lars and Retta had become…close friends.
“I’d feel silly asking.” Rory looked out the window at the darkening woods opposite the lights of the inn. “We’ll just hope she gets tired of picking on me and moves on to someone else.”
The restaurant was dimly lit and smelled of prime rib. Sounds of clinking silverware were softened by the violins and cellos of classical music. Once we were seated, I ordered from the light menu, as usual, and Rory had the beef with mashed potatoes and gravy. He’d have dessert too, probably tiramisu, while I sipped at a second cup of tea. Such is the metabolism of the over-fifty woman.
As we ate, I described our visit to Sweet Springs and Faye’s fondness for Clara Knight. Rory’s interest was piqued. “I haven’t been out there,” he said, “but the fire marshal mentioned it this week.”
“The fire marshal?”
“I sat next to him at a county-wide meeting, and he mentioned he’s investigating a fire out there. These people had just built a big new house on the lake, and then it burned down. He felt bad about it because the fire was suspicious, which means the owners probably won’t collect a cent.”
I recalled the property we’d stopped at across the springs from the Knight place. “Insurance won’t pay if it’s ruled the fire was set?”
“There’s an arson clause in their policy—pretty common, I guess.” Rory tasted the coleslaw he’d been given and took a second, larger bite. “Ray says the couple had sunk a lot of money into the place.”
“So it wouldn’t make sense for them to burn it down.”
He took a roll from the fragrant basket the waitress had left at the center of the table. I considered having one but decided against it. “If they’re telling the truth, nobody benefits from the crime. So Ray’s asking himself why someone would torch a newly-built home out in the boondocks.”
“A pyromaniac? Teenagers looking for a thrill? Someone who was angry at the owners?”
Rory nodded. “He passed all those theories on to the state police.”
Our main dishes arrived and the conversation went on to other things, but the arson on Sweet Springs stuck in my mind. An old lady claimed she’d been forced into a nursing home. A family had lost a structure to a suspicious fire. An old man had fallen to his death. One lake and three property owners in trouble. A series of odd, unfortunate events.
Around midnight, I let myself into the house, using the front door to avoid disturbing Faye and Dale, who occupy the back two-thirds of the ground floor. Slipping off my shoes, I climbed the stairs to my comfortable apartment.
When I entered my bedroom, frenzied scratching sounded at the window screen. Dropping my shoes into a corner, I hurried to the window and slid it open. The cat— my cat, I’d begun thinking of her—waited outside, her green eyes wide with anger. Accustomed in the last few months to being fed around eight, she was letting me know that four hours late wasn’t acceptable.
“Not to worry,” I told her softly. “I know you prefer fresh food, so I brought you some of my dinner.”
Sliding the screen aside, I set a piece of chicken on the window sill. The cat lunged for it, her head shaking as she tore off bits and swallowed them. I reached out to scratch her ears, which didn’t slow her enjoyment of the meal one bit. Her fur was matted and snarled, but experience had taught me that attempts to detangle it weren’t welcome. She wouldn’t come inside, and she tolerated only one or two strokes before growling to signal it was enough. No sloppy sentimentality for this feline. Our deal was food in exchange for the honor of a nightly visit.
I’d come to anticipate those visits as if they were gifts.
As girls on the farm,
“Maybe Lars would look into it.” When Lars Johannsen, an FBI agent from New Mexico, helped with a recent case, he and Rory had become friends. Lars and Retta had become…close friends.
“I’d feel silly asking.” Rory looked out the window at the darkening woods opposite the lights of the inn. “We’ll just hope she gets tired of picking on me and moves on to someone else.”
The restaurant was dimly lit and smelled of prime rib. Sounds of clinking silverware were softened by the violins and cellos of classical music. Once we were seated, I ordered from the light menu, as usual, and Rory had the beef with mashed potatoes and gravy. He’d have dessert too, probably tiramisu, while I sipped at a second cup of tea. Such is the metabolism of the over-fifty woman.
As we ate, I described our visit to Sweet Springs and Faye’s fondness for Clara Knight. Rory’s interest was piqued. “I haven’t been out there,” he said, “but the fire marshal mentioned it this week.”
“The fire marshal?”
“I sat next to him at a county-wide meeting, and he mentioned he’s investigating a fire out there. These people had just built a big new house on the lake, and then it burned down. He felt bad about it because the fire was suspicious, which means the owners probably won’t collect a cent.”
I recalled the property we’d stopped at across the springs from the Knight place. “Insurance won’t pay if it’s ruled the fire was set?”
“There’s an arson clause in their policy—pretty common, I guess.” Rory tasted the coleslaw he’d been given and took a second, larger bite. “Ray says the couple had sunk a lot of money into the place.”
“So it wouldn’t make sense for them to burn it down.”
He took a roll from the fragrant basket the waitress had left at the center of the table. I considered having one but decided against it. “If they’re telling the truth, nobody benefits from the crime. So Ray’s asking himself why someone would torch a newly-built home out in the boondocks.”
“A pyromaniac? Teenagers looking for a thrill? Someone who was angry at the owners?”
Rory nodded. “He passed all those theories on to the state police.”
Our main dishes arrived and the conversation went on to other things, but the arson on Sweet Springs stuck in my mind. An old lady claimed she’d been forced into a nursing home. A family had lost a structure to a suspicious fire. An old man had fallen to his death. One lake and three property owners in trouble. A series of odd, unfortunate events.
Around midnight, I let myself into the house, using the front door to avoid disturbing Faye and Dale, who occupy the back two-thirds of the ground floor. Slipping off my shoes, I climbed the stairs to my comfortable apartment.
When I entered my bedroom, frenzied scratching sounded at the window screen. Dropping my shoes into a corner, I hurried to the window and slid it open. The cat— my cat, I’d begun thinking of her—waited outside, her green eyes wide with anger. Accustomed in the last few months to being fed around eight, she was letting me know that four hours late wasn’t acceptable.
“Not to worry,” I told her softly. “I know you prefer fresh food, so I brought you some of my dinner.”
Sliding the screen aside, I set a piece of chicken on the window sill. The cat lunged for it, her head shaking as she tore off bits and swallowed them. I reached out to scratch her ears, which didn’t slow her enjoyment of the meal one bit. Her fur was matted and snarled, but experience had taught me that attempts to detangle it weren’t welcome. She wouldn’t come inside, and she tolerated only one or two strokes before growling to signal it was enough. No sloppy sentimentality for this feline. Our deal was food in exchange for the honor of a nightly visit.
I’d come to anticipate those visits as if they were gifts.
As girls on the farm,
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