Apples For Vinegar Page 3

  “Yeah, well, all the more reason why I need to be careful.”

  Helen studied her friend. She could feel Delyth’s disappointment. Local politics, education, elder care, rental prices and everything else a cub reporter might write about are important, but must feel abstract and distant when compared to the life and death immediacy of murder. Someone else’s petty insecurities shouldn’t keep Delyth from a story she wanted to write, a story that could land her on the front page, as Delyth would say. Helen decided she should do something about it

  “You know, you could do a follow-up to your story about family farms. You couldn’t be blamed if some of the interviews just happen to be with neighbors of a murdered man.”

  Delyth laughed. “Ted would never agree to my getting that close to a murder; he’d see right through the ploy, and he’s not about to risk Vickie’s wrath on the off-chance I’d find something significant.”

  “Then don’t tell him.”

  “That would mean it’ll have to be on my day off, and I’m working tomorrow.”

  “You’re off today.”

  Delyth returned Helen’s earlier, studied stare, then reached across the table and briefly touched Helen’s forearm—a gesture Helen valued more because it was rare. “That’s why I love you. Let’s do it. But we can’t show up dressed like this.” Delyth looked down at her purple and blue spandex outfit. “And we should at least call first.”

  “So you’ll do it?” Helen’s voice betrayed more personal excitement than she’d intended.

  “I’ll do it, but remember we’re only going to talk with the Duddas. We’ll just see if they have anything to say that might help the police. We’re not getting involved in the police investigation.”

  “Of course not.” She managed to modulate her voice closer to mundane interest, as if they were making plans for lunch rather than an afternoon interviewing suspects. “I’d never think of stepping on their toes.”

  THREE

  Delyth suspected Helen thought the two of them were once again going to work together solving another murder. Not that Delyth would admit they had worked together, which implied more intentional coordination than actually occurred. Yet she understood when Helen once confided she’d never felt so alive as when they discovered the old woman’s murderer. She wondered if Helen imagined they could recreate that feeling by hunting for Ajnabee’s killer.

  The image of them as private detectives was laughable—not that Helen had gone so far as suggesting they open their own agency. Helen would not do well with the sordidness or tedium of that kind of business. She only wanted to investigate “interesting murders,” as she called them. There weren’t enough of those to fill Helen’s retirement. Perhaps it would have been better if Delyth hadn’t raised her hopes.

  Still, Helen was clearly excited about going to interview the Duddas. It was something of an adventure they could share. Other than their weekly yoga and coffee, they didn’t spend time together. Besides, it was only one day. Ostensibly they were going to talk about farming. Delyth couldn’t help it if the murder came up in conversation. And, if the Duddas happen to share some interesting tidbit relevant to the murder, it just might lead to a front-page article.

  Delyth pulled up to Helen’s familiar board-and-batten home with its porch that ran along one half of the front and dormers poking from a steeply slanted roof, like a friendly face with a crooked smile.

  Helen must have been watching for her, because she came right out without Delyth having to honk. Once settled in the passenger seat, Helen asked, “How did Josh react when you told him where you were going?”

  “I didn’t. He’s at work.” Delyth wouldn’t have told him even if he were around. He’d never believe she was going so close to a murder scene only to pursue an unrelated story. “Why?”

  “I didn’t tell Frank either. He wouldn’t want me to go.” She made a sniffle of a laugh. “He'd never forbid it, of course, and it’s sweet that he worries, but I’m a big girl.”

  “You did almost get yourself killed the last time.”

  “That’s an exaggeration. Mollie was the one who took the brunt of it.”

  “How’s she doing, by the way?”

  “The vet says if we keep at her rehab, she’ll be good as new in another month or so.”

  The drive from Helen’s to the Duddas’ was short but scenic. As they passed one pasture green from spring rains, Helen said, “That must be what Ireland looks like. Have you ever been?”

  Delyth had, for two weeks when she was small, maybe six or seven. She didn’t remember much of what Ireland looked like, but she had vivid memories of the ferry they sailed on. Two hulled and gleaming white, its long, pointed prow rose from the water like the beak of a mythical sea creature. No one was allowed up front but Delyth asked if she could join the people standing on the stern watching Wales retreat on the horizon. Instead, she had to sit with her mother’s prayer group in the middle of the main lounge as they took turns reading from the bible. All Delyth could see was the meeting of sky and water rise and fall in the salt-sprayed windows. They stayed in Dublin the whole time, so Delyth didn’t know how green the countryside might have been. On the return trip, the weather turned bad and the Irish Sea heaved beneath them. Delyth clung to her mother, who mumbled hollow prayers.

  “No,” she told Helen rather than touch that part of her life.

  “That’s too bad. I’d love to go. We’ve been to Europe, of course, but Frank was more interested in Italy and France because of the art.”

  “Uh huh,” Delyth answered.

  While Helen rambled on about travel, Delyth couldn’t help thinking about her mother. Helen’s story about Karen Dudda’s grandfather’s religious conversion had already set her on that path. The Duddas’ religion didn’t seem as austere as her mother’s yet, remembering back to her last visit to their farm, she recalled the same self-righteousness in Karen’s words. Her belief that God wanted them to farm their land could justify any action to protect it. Her obvious glee when her husband went to confront their neighbor, the man who is now dead—murdered—suggested she wasn’t too far from violence despite her talk of turning the other cheek. Could the Duddas have killed him? Jerzy seemed hot-tempered enough. But what was his motive? Certainly not a cat. Jealousy of the money Ajnabee’s marijuana brought in? Could be, but from the little she knew of them, it didn’t feel right. Somehow she’d try to find out in an interview that was supposed to be about family farms.

  “Isn’t that their road?” Helen asked.

  “Shit. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Obviously.” Helen laughed indulgently.

  Delyth risked backing up rather than trying to turn around on the narrow country road. Once on the gravel lane, she had to be careful to avoid the ruts. “The road took a beating over the winter,” she told Helen. “It’s worse than when I was here in November.”

  “We didn’t get much rain this year, but what we got came down in buckets.” Helen grabbed the handle above her door, and held herself against the rough ride.

  On one side of the road, apple trees, barren when she’d passed them in November, were pushing out the green tips of early blooms. The few houses opposite were as dour and uninviting as they’d seemed before. A half-mile down, police tape announced the murder scene without Delyth having to point it out.

  “I wish we could have a look around,” Helen said.

  Delyth gave her a sharp look.

  “Don’t worry,” Helen said. “I learned my lesson not to cross that particular, flimsy barrier. The one time I did that, Josh threatened to arrest me for interfering with a crime scene.

  Delyth took the next turn on the opposite side of the lane. As they parked in front of the Duddas’ home, Helen bent forward to peer up through the windshield. “Trophy houses are springing up all around here. Impressive, isn’t it?”

  Delyth looked to where Helen pointed. Last time she was there, she hadn’t noticed the large, modern house, as sleek as a spaceship, t
hat curved—all glass and concrete—along the top of the hill above the Duddas’ home. “More like oppressive.”

  When Delyth had called earlier, the son, Ben, said Jerzy and Karen weren’t home but they’d be back soon. She left the message with him that she was doing an update on her article about family farming, and hoped it would be okay for her to ask them a few more questions.

  She knocked on the front door. When no one answered, she told Helen, “I guess they’re not back yet. I’m surprised the son’s not here.”

  “Oh, he could be, just not answering. Engrossed in video games, I’m sure,” Helen suggested with a knowing grin.

  “Do you want to wait? Ben was vague about when his parents would be home."

  “It’d be a shame to drive all the way out here for nothing. They’re not Ajnabee’s only neighbors. Maybe someone else will talk with us.”

  Delyth laughed at Helen’s persistence. Still not believing that anything would come of their adventure, she was enjoying Helen’s exuberance. If nothing else, teaming up with her to solve a murder, or at least making believe they were solving a murder, was a fun diversion.

  Helen seemed to take Delyth’s getting back into the car as assent because she said, “There’s a house just down the hill. We could try there.”

  Delyth drove back to the gravel lane then turned onto the next dirt drive that descended into a shallow dell. She parked at the end near a bungalow nestled under huge oak trees. A small dog ran up, barking and wagging its tail.

  Helen opened her door and said in a cheerful voice, “Oh, you silly thing. What’s all this noise about?”

  The dog put its front legs on Helen’s knees.

  “Tibby, get down,” a male voice commanded with the humor of someone accustomed to not being obeyed. The man behind the voice followed the dog. He was about Josh’s height, which Delyth didn’t find objectionable, but she knew was considered on the short side. He wore a visored cap with John Deere stenciled on the front and a loden-green, canvass jacket. From the face, Delyth would have guessed he was Helen’s age, but the body could have belonged to a man twenty years younger. His smile was sincere and welcoming.

  “Tibby,” Helen said. “I wonder if that’s from Howard’s End?”

  The man answered, “Yes, it is. Not many people get the reference.”

  “So that makes this Howard’s End?” Helen asked.

  “I’m Howard and this is the end of the road.”

  “Charming,” Helen answered.

  “Actually, it used to be the end of the road until they built the house on the hill. Now it’s just the end of my driveway.”

  “You still get an A-plus for the literary allusion.”

  “Why, thank you,” Howard said. “And you are?”

  “This is Delyth Bitersee and I’m Helen Terfel.“

  “I thought I recognized you. I’m Howard Puhl. You taught my daughter, Cindy.”

  Not another one, Delyth thought. Still, it could make him more willing to talk. She watched recognition and perhaps something more flash across Helen’s face.

  “Cindy,” Helen said. “Of course I remember her. How is she doing?”

  “Fine. Two boys of her own. She’ll want to know what brings Mrs. Terfel to this old place.”

  Delyth appreciated the clever ploy to ask them why they were there. “Hi,” she answered. “I’m a reporter with the Redwood Post.” She noted his brow creasing, his lips turning to a frown. Before he could object she explained, “We were supposed to talk with the Duddas about the troubles small farmers are having, but they aren’t home. Must have been a mix up in the times.”

  Helen took up the story. “I suggested that neighbors might provide some insight?” Her voice was raised in a supplication for his help.

  He smiled again. “I could use a break. Want something to drink? I can make lemonade. From my own lemons.”

  “That’d be wonderful,” Helen said.

  “The tree’s in the garden.” He turned to go back the way he’d come.

  Delyth hadn’t realized the offer of lemonade required picking the fruit. Helen had already fallen in step with him. Delyth could only follow behind.

  The garden was about forty-by-eighty surrounded by an eight-foot high fence. As they approached the gate Howard pointed down the hill. “Deer.”

  Delyth spotted three deer in the meadow below the garden—a doe and two spindly-legged fawns still sporting white spots, alert and wary—easing through the high grass. They veered at a fence line and disappeared into a narrow stand of willows and alder.

  “That’s Keir Foley’s land,” Howard said. “All the vineyards are putting up fences to keep the deer out. That’s why the garden’s the only fenced area I have. The rest is open to deer and any other wild critters who live around here. It’s their land as much as it’s mine.” He turned and reached into a large lemon tree. “Would you mind carrying a few?”

  Delyth took the four he handed her and held them close to her nose to breathe in their astringent sweetness.

  As he led them up to the house, he pointed at the modern house above them. “That’s Foley’s place. He’s the lord of the manor looking down on us serfs huddled below.”

  “Is he that arrogant?” Helen asked.

  “Not really, although he’s constantly complaining about how poorly we’re all maintaining our properties, as if it were his estate and we the peasants. Of course, that could be just one of my romantic fantasies. Like, when I work in the garden, I imagine a connection to millennia of farmers. Except they didn’t have access to a supermarket when their crops failed.”

  Inside, the house was small and dark. The kitchen was dominated by the clinical whiteness of a large Wedgewood stove that must have dated from the twenties. The floors creaked in a reassuring way.

  Delyth was laying her lemons on the counter, when a younger man entered the kitchen from the back of the house. “Howie, what time—” He stared a moment at Delyth. “Oh, hello. I’m Sam.” He extended a hand.

  He was tall and slim, his face sun-weathered to the point of rugged. Delyth might have called him lanky except the word suggested an early teen uncomfortable with a recent growth spurt. This man seemed at ease in his body—a leanly muscled body clearly apparent under the soft drape of a t-shirt the same shade as his light-blue eyes.

  Delyth grabbed his hand. “Delyth Bitersee.”

  “Delyth is a reporter for the Post,” Howard said. “And this is Helen Terfel. She taught Cindy way back when.”

  Helen laughed. “Not that long ago.”

  “This is Sam.” Turning to the man in question, he said, “We’re going to have some lemonade. Want some?”

  “Can’t. Sorry. I’m already late.” He moved toward the door. “What time’s dinner?”

  “Seven,” Howard answered, “but it takes a half-hour to get to their house.”

  “Nice meeting you,” Sam said as he left.

  “This will only take a minute.” Howard nodded toward two stools on the other side of a counter-height peninsula that separated kitchen from living room. “Sit and we can talk.” He added water to the dog’s bowl. Tibby lapped at it then settled on a dog bed beside the refrigerator.

  “This is lovely,” Helen said, looking around.

  “Thanks. My father-in-law built it. The house actually belongs to my daughter, but she lets me stay as a sort of caretaker.”

  “I can see why,” Helen said. “Everything is perfect.”

  Howard pulled out a green-glass hand juicer that seemed to match the stove’s vintage. Delyth marveled at people who could keep something so fragile so long.

  Squeezing the lemons, he said, “I thought you were another reporter come to ask about the murder. Having Mrs. Terfel tag along helped.”

  “Oh, call me Helen.”

  He smiled. “There were a couple of TV vans here last week. Zad wasn’t one of my favorite people, but I told them I didn’t believe in speaking ill of the dead. Of course, they pounced on the ill part.” />
  Delyth also perked up at the word. She suspected he only needed a little encouragement to do just that. “What was he like?”

  “Harmless enough.” Howard poured the content of the juicer into a pitcher, then squeezed a few more lemons. “He had a steady string of live-in girlfriends so he must have had something going for him, though I never saw it. Short and kind of scrawny. People said he had dark, bedroom eyes, but I always suspected that was because he was stoned all the time.”

  “Murder is a terrible thing,” Helen said. “No matter who. I was involved—I shouldn’t say involved—I stumbled on a body a couple months ago.”

  “Really? Here in town?”

  Helen explained finding Mrs. DuQuenne’s body, but didn’t elaborate on their part in the investigation.

  “I remember reading something about it. It must have been awful for you.”

  “Not as much as I would have expected. I was shocked, though, at the secrets the old woman kept. Still, no one deserves to be murdered. At least the killer was brought to justice.”

  “Zad probably doesn't care about all that at this point. If there is an afterlife, he’ll be more concerned about other issues.” Howard took a metal ice tray from the freezer, pulled the handle to release the cubes, then dumped them into the pitcher with the lemon juice. “If there isn't, well, he isn't around to worry about anything.”

  “Isn’t it important to society, though,” Helen said, “that murderers are discovered and punished?”

  “I guess.” He added water from a five-gallon water jug sitting in a modern, chrome dispenser that contrasted with the rest of the kitchen. “Though I don’t agree with the death penalty. As a society we have to move beyond barbarism.”

  Helen took a breath as if ready to launch into a discussion of her own reasons against capital punishment, but Delyth intervened. “I interviewed the Duddas a few months ago. At least, I tried to interview them. We got interrupted when Jerzy rushed off to confront Ajnabee about his dog killing a cat. Although the fight was pretty one-sided and kind of comical.”

  “That’s what I heard, but you probably don’t know the stuff that followed.” He poured lemonade into three tall glasses and stuck a long spoon in each. “It was like the Hatfields and McCoys around here after that.” Delivering their drinks, he warned, “I don’t add sugar so everyone can sweeten it as much as they like.” He reached back for the sugar bowl. “These are Meyer lemons so they’re sweeter than the ones you buy at the store.” He remained standing, facing them on the other side of the counter divide.