The phone book didn’t have a Boggs listing, so after debating the wisdom of heading out to the house of a complete stranger, I walked home, wrote my intentions on a white board as I’d sworn to my mother I would always do when I went somewhere solo, patted a sleepy Eddie on the head, and got into the car.
Though there was still technically an hour and a half before the sun set, so much cloud cover had moved in that I felt compelled to turn on the car’s headlights. I almost turned them off, but sighed and left them on. It would be dark soon enough and it was always better to be seen than not seen.
It was about ten miles to the address, and in spite of the growing murk, I enjoyed the drive over forested hills that opened up to a wide valley. All around were the bright colors of autumn or what would have been bright colors if there had been some sunlight. Even still, the reddish-orange of the maple leaves and the occasional yellow of birches and aspens penetrated the darkening sky with color that was both breathtaking and heartrending with its fleeting beauty.
“Get a grip,” I told myself. It wasn’t like me to wax poetic, especially with a melancholy tone. Maybe what I needed was a dose of Kristen. She’d been too wrapped up with preparations for seasonal closing of her restaurant to make dessert for me the other night, but we were set in stone for the coming Sunday.
I turned right on the road that led to the Boggses’ house and, one mile later, bumped off the end of asphalt and onto gravel. After a half mile of bouncing over washboards and steering around potholes, I saw their house number on a mailbox in a cluster of five.
“Hmm.” I studied the driveways, looked at the map I’d printed from the county’s website, and aimed the car down the middle driveway. It was little more than two tire tracks through the woods, but the tracks were definite enough and I didn’t have any trouble following them down the winding path. The driveway wasn’t in any better condition than the gravel road had been, and as I bounced toward the house, I hoped my car’s suspension would hold up on the return trip.
One last bump around one last corner, and a house came into view.
A dark house.
With a For Sale sign stuck into the front lawn.
I sat there, engine running, staring at the place. Clearly, there was no one for me to talk to. Not only was it dark and for sale, but it had that abandoned air that houses take on when their owners have departed. I hadn’t even considered this possibility; now what was I going to do?
After a moment, I got out of the car, climbed the front steps, and peered in through the window in the door. “Huh,” I said out loud. Dark, for sale, and vacant. The front hall didn’t contain so much as a stick of furniture. The Boggses obviously didn’t believe in staging a house.
I walked sideways down the porch. The only thing in the living room was the grate in the fireplace, and the dining room’s only ornament was a hanging light fixture that was made from either driftwood or deer antlers. In the dark I couldn’t tell, but if I had to guess—
“Can I help you?”
“Yah!” I spun and took a jump away from the voice, bashing my head against the house in the process. “Ow!” I held one of my hands to my chest in an attempt to keep my rapidly beating heart inside where it belonged, and with the other I rubbed the back of my head.
The man standing on the lawn chuckled. “Sorry about that. You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?”
“Not enough to need an ambulance,” I said, still rubbing. “But houses don’t move much when you bonk into them.”
“If any house would, it’d be this one.”
I stopped my self-ministrations and looked at the guy. He seemed affable enough. Sure, I was looking at him through a half light that was growing darker every second, but his hands-in-pockets pose, along with an easy smile and a baseball hat that proclaimed him the WORLD’S GREATEST GRANDPA, combined for a nonthreatening persona. “What makes you say that? Are you Ray Boggs?”
“Neighbor. Or I was until they stuck that in the ground and headed off.” He nodded toward the real estate sign. “I told them I’d keep an eye on the place, so when I saw your headlights, I came over to make sure that someone wasn’t up to nefarious deeds.”
By this time I’d walked off the porch and stood in front of him. “Minnie Hamilton,” I said, offering my hand. “Assistant director and driver of the bookmobile for the Chilson Library.”
“Fred Sirrine. Retired from Ford Motor Company.” As we shook hands, he asked, “So what are you doing out here? Hope you’re not chasing down overdue fines; the Boggses haven’t been around in weeks.”
“Not today.” I debated how much to share. “A minute ago, you implied the house wasn’t built well.”
He glanced at the structure. “I shouldn’t have said that. All I have to go on is what Ray and Gail told me. Secondhand information isn’t a good way to form an opinion.”
I started to wonder what Mr. Sirrine had done for Ford. “Sometimes secondhand information is the only kind available.”
“The formation of an opinion should wait for solid data,” he said firmly.
“Oh, dear,” I said. “Then I’ll have to take back the opinion I’m already forming that you’re a nice man.”
He laughed. “Point taken. But getting back to my question, what are you doing out here?”
“I’m not looking for overdue fees, but I would like to talk to the Boggses. Do you know where they moved?”
“They had a place in Royal Oak when they built this for a weekend getaway, but they sold that when they thought they’d stay up here year round. After last February, though, they’d had enough of snow and cold. They put it up for sale and rented a condo near Santa Fe.”
“So they’re in New Mexico?” If so, I didn’t have much chance of finding them.
He shook his head. “That was only for the winter. They said they’d be staying at their other place in Michigan, but who knows?” He eyed me. “You going to tell me why you’d like to talk to my former neighbors?”
“Dale Lacombe, the contractor who built the Boggses’ house, was killed two weeks ago.” My new friend nodded, and I went on. “His daughter is a friend of mine and I’m just . . .” Just what? Think, Minnie, think! “Just following up on some of the clients he’d had troubles with.”
Fred eyed me. “Following up,” he said.
“Yes.” It was my story and I was going to stick to it. “I’m trying to help,” I said. “The family is . . . having a hard time.”
“I imagine.” He looked at me, at the house, then back at me. “You do realize that the Boggses and Lacombe ended up in court.”
“Yes, and I was hoping to talk to them about that. To clear the air, if nothing else.”
He pulled his hands out of his pockets and adjusted his Grandpa hat. “If Ray or Gail had been in town when Lacombe was killed, then you’d have some ideal candidates for the murder. They could hardly say his name without spitting. I assume that’s what you’re really doing here? Trying to find out who killed your friend’s dad?”
Was I that obvious? I sighed. “Leese is a lawyer. She grew up around here and moved back home this summer to open her own business and . . . well, she’s having a hard time right now.”
Fred flicked another glance at the house. “Please tell me she’s a better lawyer than her dad was a builder.”
I smiled. “She and her dad didn’t get along.”
“Good to know. Well, good luck to you,” he said. “It’s commendable that you’re trying to help your friend, but take care. Don’t forget there’s a killer out there.”