The Good, the Bad, and the Emus(24)

Not my problem. My job was to charm Annabel.

In addition to the wire fence that outlined the pasture, a weathered split-rail fence ran along the back of Theo Weaver’s lot. And inside his fence were a lot of overgrown bushes. Mostly prickly hollies and thorny pyracanthas, in an almost unbroken line, as if twenty years ago Mr. Weaver had anticipated the need for a substantial barrier between his yard and Camp Emu.

Someone was watching us over the two fences: a tall, though slightly stooped figure in a battered fishing hat. Presumably the infamous neighbor himself.

I smiled and waved at him, and he started slightly, as if surprised that he could be seen. I paused, and wondered if now would be a good time to go over and introduce myself to him. As good a time as any. I headed his way.

But when I was about ten feet from Weaver, he turned and stumped away toward his house.

“Mr. Weaver!” I called over the back of his fence. “May I speak to you for a moment?”

He ignored me, at least until he reached his back stoop, when he turned around to glare venomously at me before going inside and slamming the door behind him.

“So much for our welcome to the neighborhood,” I muttered.

I changed direction again, heading back toward the gate that led to Annabel’s yard. I was lost in thought, and almost fell flat on my face when my foot hit something more solid than the tall grass and weeds I’d been walking through. I glanced down to see something black and silver in the grass.

I bent down to look at it.

It was an LED headlight. Even if I hadn’t recognized the black and silver metal shape of the lamp itself, the elastic head strap had LED HEADLIGHT woven into its design in white letters on a black background.

I reached down to pick it up and then stopped myself. Was I disturbing evidence at a crime scene? Should I leave the headlight in place?

I looked around to see if I could spot anything to mark where it was. Nothing in sight, just tall grass. And I almost couldn’t find the headlight again when I looked back down, even though I hadn’t moved. Probably not a good idea to leave it. I’d never find it again. And after all, this wasn’t a fresh crime scene.

I pulled out my phone and took some pictures of the headlight in place. And I found some small sticks and made a triangle in the place where I’d found it. I didn’t have gloves, but I did manage to find a couple of large yellowed tulip poplar leaves. I picked the headlight up, careful not to touch it except with the leaves, and continued toward the house.

I was planning to go around to the front door and ring the doorbell, in case Annabel was a stickler for formalities, but I was only ten feet into the yard when the back door opened and Annabel stuck her head out.

“Over here,” she stage whispered. “Hurry.”

I veered toward the back door and soon found myself in a comfortable, if old-fashioned, kitchen. It was a big, airy room with white cabinets and countertops and a huge, well-worn oak table in the middle. Along one wall was a display of art pottery in tones of blue and turquoise, and on the table was a matching vase containing a huge bouquet of white hydrangea blossoms.

Although blacksmithing was my craft, I knew a lot of potters, and liked to think I’d developed a pretty good eye for a nicely made pot. These were very nice indeed. They had an Arts and Crafts feel to them—the sort of thing you’d find in a Frank Lloyd Wright house. But were they antiques or a modern reinterpretation? My fingers itched to pick up one of the pieces to see who’d made it, but I mentally swatted my hand away. Probably not the best way to ingratiate myself with my new cousin, mauling her crockery collection.

“Hope it’s okay that I came through the backyard,” I said.

“What’s that you’re carrying?” she asked.

“Good question,” I said. “You tell me.”

I set the LED headlight down on her kitchen table and tucked my makeshift leaf pot holders into my pocket. Annabel bent down and looked over her reading glasses at it. She made a move to pick it up and then stopped herself.

“Ah,” she said. “I see why you were being careful not to touch it. It’s her headlight.”

“A headlight,” I said.

“It’s just like the one she’d have been wearing that night,” Annabel said. She yanked open a drawer beside the sink, pulled out another little LED headlight, and set it down on the table beside the one I’d found. Mine had mud caked on it and showed signs of rust and corrosion. But apart from that, they were identical.

We both stared down at the two headlights for a few moments. I had no idea what Annabel was thinking. For my part, I was pondering an apology. Maybe there was more than I thought to her theory about Cordelia’s murder.