wooden door with his shoulder. “It sticks,” he apologized. “I was going to fix it, but . . .” His voice trailed off as if Neil’s death had robbed him of his energy.
“We’re sorry about Neil,” I managed.
Tom nodded, accepting the sympathy if not the reality. “We were friends since grade school. I can’t believe he’s gone.”
It occurred to me that Haylee and I should offer Cassie our condolences, also. I blurted, “Do you know what’s become of Neil’s assistant?”
Tom looked blank.
“Cassie?” I prompted.
“What’s become of her?” he asked. “Nothing, I hope.” He shook his head as if to clear cobwebs. “Sorry I’m so slow. I was laid up with the stomach flu ever since Saturday night, and then I heard about Neil, and I’m still not really on my feet. Maybe Cassie’s sick, too. Or maybe she went back home. Cleveland, I think Neil said.” He went around to the other side of his sales counter. “Poor kid. She seemed so eager to run that bakery better.” He opened the glass door at the back of the refrigerated display unit. “What kind of fish do you want and how much?”
It was a relief to discuss fish and not murder. He sprinkled ice chips over our fish to keep it fresh, wrapped it, and saw us out.
Sobered, we climbed into Haylee’s truck. She drove back past the marina and lodge and up the hill to Shore Road.
Years before, my Brownie leader took our troop on what she called “penny hikes.” The plan was that whenever we came to a crossroad, we flipped a coin and scampered down that street until the next crossroad, where we flipped a coin again. Sometimes, we ended up at my leader’s house in only a few rather disappointing minutes. Once in a while, though, the leader had to pocket the penny and direct us to the quickest route home to prevent concerned parents from laying siege to her house. After one memorably long hike, the leader began carrying a compass.
That was sort of how Haylee and I did our shopping at farm stands. We seldom flipped a coin, though. We tended to take routes we hadn’t traveled before, and if we found something particularly good, like those cinnamon and pecan breakfast rolls, we returned to that stand on our way to the grocery store for whatever was still on our shopping lists. So far, we hadn’t needed a compass.
Haylee drove south, away from the lake. Stands that had been selling only asparagus were closed for the season. We bought lettuce, spinach, strawberries, new potatoes, goat’s milk cheese, free-range eggs, and, of course, the cinnamon rolls we’d come for. We also bought muffins and artisanal bread at that woman’s stand, too, and cookies to supplement the baking that we would have to continue doing on Mondays.
Haylee had driven only about a mile toward home when a certain farmland aroma made us close the pickup’s windows. She pointed. “There’ve been times in my life when owning a manure spreader might have come in handy or been a lot of fun.” The manure spreader twirled like a small but jolly merry-go-round. All it needed was the music to go with it.
Asparagus grew in the field. The stalks were longer than the ones we commonly saw in stores or bought directly from farmers, but they hadn’t yet branched out into their ferny greenery. I asked, “Do you suppose someone sold asparagus after spreading manure on their fields, and the salad lady bought some? She served it raw. What if she didn’t bother washing it?”
Haylee nodded. “Food poisoning, maybe? How about if we do the rest of our shopping at the supermarket, go home, put away our groceries, eat supper, and later, when it’s dark—”
I finished the suggestion for her. “We’ll use my nicely nondescript five-speed car and bring the dogs out for a ride and their late-night walk.”
16
H AYLEE AND I HAD OUR AFTER-DARK snooping down to a science. If we had questions, we took the dogs for a ride wherever we thought we might end up with answers. Usually, the
“We’re sorry about Neil,” I managed.
Tom nodded, accepting the sympathy if not the reality. “We were friends since grade school. I can’t believe he’s gone.”
It occurred to me that Haylee and I should offer Cassie our condolences, also. I blurted, “Do you know what’s become of Neil’s assistant?”
Tom looked blank.
“Cassie?” I prompted.
“What’s become of her?” he asked. “Nothing, I hope.” He shook his head as if to clear cobwebs. “Sorry I’m so slow. I was laid up with the stomach flu ever since Saturday night, and then I heard about Neil, and I’m still not really on my feet. Maybe Cassie’s sick, too. Or maybe she went back home. Cleveland, I think Neil said.” He went around to the other side of his sales counter. “Poor kid. She seemed so eager to run that bakery better.” He opened the glass door at the back of the refrigerated display unit. “What kind of fish do you want and how much?”
It was a relief to discuss fish and not murder. He sprinkled ice chips over our fish to keep it fresh, wrapped it, and saw us out.
Sobered, we climbed into Haylee’s truck. She drove back past the marina and lodge and up the hill to Shore Road.
Years before, my Brownie leader took our troop on what she called “penny hikes.” The plan was that whenever we came to a crossroad, we flipped a coin and scampered down that street until the next crossroad, where we flipped a coin again. Sometimes, we ended up at my leader’s house in only a few rather disappointing minutes. Once in a while, though, the leader had to pocket the penny and direct us to the quickest route home to prevent concerned parents from laying siege to her house. After one memorably long hike, the leader began carrying a compass.
That was sort of how Haylee and I did our shopping at farm stands. We seldom flipped a coin, though. We tended to take routes we hadn’t traveled before, and if we found something particularly good, like those cinnamon and pecan breakfast rolls, we returned to that stand on our way to the grocery store for whatever was still on our shopping lists. So far, we hadn’t needed a compass.
Haylee drove south, away from the lake. Stands that had been selling only asparagus were closed for the season. We bought lettuce, spinach, strawberries, new potatoes, goat’s milk cheese, free-range eggs, and, of course, the cinnamon rolls we’d come for. We also bought muffins and artisanal bread at that woman’s stand, too, and cookies to supplement the baking that we would have to continue doing on Mondays.
Haylee had driven only about a mile toward home when a certain farmland aroma made us close the pickup’s windows. She pointed. “There’ve been times in my life when owning a manure spreader might have come in handy or been a lot of fun.” The manure spreader twirled like a small but jolly merry-go-round. All it needed was the music to go with it.
Asparagus grew in the field. The stalks were longer than the ones we commonly saw in stores or bought directly from farmers, but they hadn’t yet branched out into their ferny greenery. I asked, “Do you suppose someone sold asparagus after spreading manure on their fields, and the salad lady bought some? She served it raw. What if she didn’t bother washing it?”
Haylee nodded. “Food poisoning, maybe? How about if we do the rest of our shopping at the supermarket, go home, put away our groceries, eat supper, and later, when it’s dark—”
I finished the suggestion for her. “We’ll use my nicely nondescript five-speed car and bring the dogs out for a ride and their late-night walk.”
16
H AYLEE AND I HAD OUR AFTER-DARK snooping down to a science. If we had questions, we took the dogs for a ride wherever we thought we might end up with answers. Usually, the
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