Lending a Paw(73)

House number 17981 was far from a broken-down ranch. It was an old farmhouse with a Centennial Farm sign out front. The roof was new and white trim set off the warm clapboard siding’s yellow paint. The wide porch that ran across the front of the house held a set of wicker furniture, swing included, with flowered cushions. The window boxes were filled with happy red geraniums that bobbed in the light breeze. And there, in the front yard, was Audry on her knees, weeding an exuberant flower bed.

Since there was no sign of a hulking husband, firearms, or any other sort of weapon, I pulled into the driveway and got out of the car.

Audry stood, putting her hands to the small of her back and wincing. “It’s the bookmobile girl,” she said, smiling. “What brings you out my way?”

“Stan Larabee,” I said simply, and watched her smile change to wariness. “Once upon a time,” I went on, “you were married to him. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Why?” she asked.

I saw a shadow of stubbornness starting to form on her face, but I also saw what looked like a question. And something that might have been sorrow.

“He was my friend,” I finally said.

She looked at me the same way I’d looked at her. Then, “Come on up.”

• • •

We sat on the front porch, glasses of lemonade in our hands, drinking in the view. This part of Michigan had been carved out by glaciers ten thousand years ago. Ice a mile thick had scoured the land underneath, then retreated, leaving high hills running north and south with valleys and lakes between. Audry’s house was nestled in the flat of one of those valleys, looking north across the valley’s expanse and up the length of the hills.

I sat there, enjoying the view, while Audry assembled lemonade and cookies. She set a tray on the small table between the two cushioned porch chairs. “Here we go. Yes, please go ahead and pour.” She settled into the empty chair and took the filled glass I offered. “So, you know about my first marriage. Odd that a stranger should know when everyone else has forgotten. Bill and I have been married for so long I’d bet even my brothers don’t remember I was married before. How did you find out?”

In a few short sentences I’d told her about my hunch that Stan’s death had to do with his past, and my searching into the newspaper archive. She nodded, then asked, “You say you were Stan’s friend? How did that come about?”

I explained about the budget situation at the library, the closings of the small outlying libraries, the idea of the bookmobile as a solution, then Stan’s donation and his wish to be involved with the planning and purchase of the bookmobile.

She settled back, the white wicker creaking about her. “Sounds like Stan. He always had to be in the thick of things.”

That, I knew. What I didn’t know was anything about his past. “I hear there was some sort of feud between Stan and his sisters. Do you know anything about that?”

Audry gave me a measuring look.

“It’s not idle curiosity,” I said quickly. “It’s just . . . Stan never mentioned his sisters. I met with him almost every day for nearly a year and I didn’t know anything about his six sisters and the nieces and nephews he must have. The great-nieces and great-nephews, there must be lots more of those. He didn’t have any pictures of them on his desk; he never talked about them at all.”

Audry gave a deep sigh and looked out at the hills. “Ancient history,” she said heavily. “What can it matter now?”

I let the silence sit a little, then said, “Maybe it’s the reason he was killed.”

“After more than fifty years?” She shook her head. “I can see one of his sisters taking a frying pan to him back then, but now? They’re too old for that kind of thing, the ones who are left. We’re all too old.”

“Are you sure?” I asked quietly. “The police haven’t arrested anyone for Stan’s murder. Do you want to take even the smallest chance of letting his killer go free?”

“Of course not.”

“Then . . . tell me.”

She sighed and kept her gaze on the hills.

I waited. Waited some more.

The ice cubes in the lemonade had melted to tiny bits before she started to talk. “Back then,” she said, “no one understood how ambitious Stan was. He’d talk on and on about making pots of money, but everybody laughed at him. He was a farm kid, how was he ever going to make the money to buy all those things he wanted? No, he was going to be a farmer, just like his dad and grandpa before. That was the future everybody saw for him.”