“Dani doesn’t seem to want to talk about much, does she? Not her ex–gentlemen friends, not her eating habits, and if I remember correctly from the other night, not even her given name.”
“Well, I’d feel a bit funny giving out any more details of her love life or even talking about what she eats.” Grampa drew even closer and dropped his voice. “Women can be awful funny about that sort of thing. But her given name is a matter of public record so she can’t be sore about that, now can she?” I couldn’t believe it. I was going to turn into a stress eater at this rate. Between the mountain lion, Alanza’s death, a pat-down performed by a camel, and now the outing of a closely held secret by my own relative—it was enough to send a swimsuit model to a fudge factory.
Rumbling on the road drowned out what my grandfather had to say. Gravel sprayed into the air and the camel sprang to its feet. A truck rattled to a stop and Loden popped open the driver’s door, leapt to the ground, and towered over me before Grampa could squeak out another word.
“Here it is. And that must be the new guy in Dani’s life.” For a heart-hammering second, I thought he meant Graham, and my cheeks got so hot I thought they’d blister for sure. Then I realized, only a little less embarrassingly, he was referring to the camel. As the only brother in the family, he got away with a lot and expected we would all forgive him no matter how mercilessly he teased. Usually he was right, but I was ready to spit nails dipped in camel slobber. Without a word, I turned my back and headed for the church basement.
I found Grandma at the sink up to her elbows in soapy water and the spirit of Christian helpfulness. I ignored all the stares and giggling and asked if we could head home.
“Well, of course we can, Dani, love. You look completely done in.” She wiped her hands on a faded apron she’d never allow in her own kitchen, then slipped it off and handed it to Mindy, the organist, saying the hot water would help keep her finger joints nimble. I grabbed another maple blondie off the church table. I must have looked even worse than I felt because Grandma didn’t say a thing about how unladylike it was to be gluttonous, and she didn’t even take the time to collect her ugly plastic cake tote. Anything that separates a New Hampshire woman from her Tupperware is serious business indeed. I’m not sure if it is inherent cheapness in our culture or if it is a collective consciousness about the fact that a New Hampshire native invented Tupperware. You can expect a lot from a mother or grandmother here, but don’t expect to come home to a smile and a cookie when you tell them you’ve lost their Tupperware. Women here wash and reuse aluminum foil. You can just imagine what happens with stackable matching bowl sets with burpable lids.
Seven
I spent most of Sunday afternoon pacing in the sugarhouse and trying to convince myself not to stick my nose into police business. Unfortunately, I’m not that persuasive. By the time the sun was thinking about packing it in for the day, I was in my father’s old MG Midget tooling along toward Jill’s house to ask a bunch of questions that were none of my concern.
Sugar Grove is like most towns in New Hampshire. The roads are narrow and they twist and turn around natural obstructions like rock formations and stream beds. Jill’s property wasn’t very large and she didn’t own that many trees of her own, which was why she borrowed trees from Alanza for her sugaring operation. But their properties did touch even though the public road didn’t connect them. I wondered if there was some sort of logging road or cart track that did. If I didn’t want to let Jill know that I was curious about her relationship with Alanza, I could ask Knowlton. He knew all the back roads, paths, and underbrush in the area. I’d have to see if there was a better way to find out, though, because owing Knowlton a favor was always on my not-to-do list.
I slowed down, scanning the side of the road for the hidden entrance to Jill’s property. Her driveway blended in perfectly with the ground, completely covered in beech and maple leaves. A large boulder flanked one side and a weathered signpost with no sign hanging on it marked the other. I turned in and puttered up the long stretch of dirt to the tiny cape-style house, glad the ground was starting to freeze instead of it being mud season. Their place is impossible to access in mud season without a four-wheel-drive truck and hip boots.
I decided my best tack to take would be of concerned breakfast attendee. That way I could ask questions without feeling so nosy. What I really wanted to know was why she missed the breakfast and whether or not she had reason to harm Alanza. I wondered what she was going to do to replace the loss of income from the trees they could no longer tap.