Chapter Twenty-One

“Woof! Ooowwww!”

Ralph flutters his wings in disapproval as the canine sounds wake him from his Sunday morning parrot slumber atop the cage in my office. I wheeled him in here with me when we came down right after breakfast.

“Eeeetch.” His half-hearted complaint makes me giggle.

“I feel the same way, buddy.” No energy left to spend on being afraid, or shocked, by Frannie’s murder. It’s time to solve it. Right after I get some more work done.

“Eeeetch!” More forcefully as the dog noises sound closer.

Ralph’s never going to let his new exclamation go, I’m afraid. Whenever something disturbs him, he’s screeched his new mystery word. Which computes to dozens of times this past week.

“It’s okay, Ralph. Someone’s just walking their dog.”

“Woof.” Steps scrambling on the back stoop raise goosebumps on my flesh. But before I can tell myself or Ralph to calm down, there’s a knock at the back door.

I freeze. I’m certain the killer came in through the back door, and being alone as I am, save for Ralph, I can’t help my mind’s flashbacks. Suddenly my inviting storage room is again a grisly murder scene, the broken Santa lodged—

“Oooowww!” More knocking, lots more footfalls. More like paw-falls.

The security system.

Frantic, I look for the tablet, posed on its easel next to the coffee pot. I zero in on the lower right corner, where a tall man fills the lens.

Nate.

My heart trips into pounding of a different kind. This kind of surprise, I can handle. I get my keys, tell Ralph to relax as I quickly put him inside his cage, and open the back door.

A blast of November wind blows in dried ginseng leaves and the scent of…Nate. Roasted coffee beans, caramel, and a clean piney aroma.

“Nate! Hi, Mach!”

“Hey, we’re sorry to bother you but, ah, I heard you were in the shop today and I wanted to talk to you.”

“Sure. Come on in.”

Mach bounds ahead of Nate, and Nate tugs him back with the Eagles leash. Same Phillies collar, too.

“You need a holiday-themed leash and collar set, Mach.” I grin at Nate. “We have quite the assortment of everything from traditional holiday plaid, to blue-and-white with silver dreidels, to snowflakes.”

“Mach’s more of a sports dude.” Nate takes his ski cap off, revealing that crop of startling silver hair.

“Woof!” Mach’s not interested in anything but Ralph, who has his beak up against his cage wires.

“Pretty bird. Give me a kiss!” Ralph’s acting more himself than he has all week. Except it seems to be enticing Mach.

“I wouldn’t let him get too close to the cage—”

Mach lets out a pitiful yelp as he bounces backward from the cage, his tail swinging in all directions.

“Mach, calm down, boy. Stop. No, Mach, no!”

“Oh no!”

Nate and I yell in unison as Mach’s wide, fluffy, very long tail makes a clean sweep of the table next to my desk. The neat pile of felted nativity figures I was prepping to put out in the shop scatter in a burst of bright colors. Soft thuds sound as a camel, sheep, donkey, Mary, Joseph and two of the three Magi hit the floor.

“Mach! Sit.” Mach’s butt makes an audible plop and his tail thumps in what I can only describe as happiness, his intelligent gaze meeting Nate’s briefly before he turns his attention back to Ralph.

“Eyes on me, Mach.” Nate’s frustration is evident in his tone, but to be fair, none of this is the dog’s fault. Or Nate’s. It just is. I notice a telltale red spot on Mach’s nose.

“Ralph, you are in so much trouble.” I kneel down in front of Mach, who is thrilled with the attention and promptly licks my entire face. “Poor boy. I’m so sorry, Nate, but Ralph bit him on the snout.”

Nate looks, shakes his head. “He’s fine. Maybe it’ll teach him to leave Ralph alone.”

“Doubtful. Ralph’s a master seducer.” As soon as the words are out I feel the heat in my cheeks. I cough. “I mean, he’s done this to almost every dog he’s met. My sister’s labs have had their share of nips since we moved back.”

“I’m going to reimburse you for the damaged goods.” Nate’s looking around, and I follow his gaze. The nativity figures are spread over the floor, between my desk and the coffee counter.

“No reimbursement necessary. It’s okay.” I bend down and pick up a couple Magi. “Look, they’re all made of felt, so nothing broken.”

“Mach needs to learn to behave better. He’s already two.”

“He’s still a young pup, right Mach?” Mach lets me scratch behind his ears. “Let me get him some peroxide for his nose.” I’ve picked up most of the figures, but as I count I notice I’m still missing one.

“That’s not necessary.” Nate’s face is flushed, too. The rosy glow brings out his eyes, the cut of his jaw. I turn my attention back to searching for the missing nativity figure, recount what I’ve picked up.

“Huh.”

“What’s missing?” Nate’s brows draw together.

“Nothing, please.” But I can’t help my gaze from bouncing around the edges of the room, where the hardwood floor meets the wall. Mach’s tail keeps thumping.

“Let me help look.” He sets the leash down and walks over. “What is it we’re searching for?”

“Baby Jesus. He’s tiny, about the size of my thumb, with a pale blue blanket.”

“Okay.”

We bend down at the same time and immediately bonk heads.

“Ow!” I’m not seeing stars, exactly. More like a meteor shower.

“Oof.” Nate rubs his forehead. “This is so not going the way I’d planned.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I suppose this is the worst time to ask you out.”

“Out?”

“You know, on a date.”

Nate’s question and my gut-reaction answer—I agreed to let him take me to dinner tomorrow night—has my head spinning so fast that I almost forget the most important thing I have planned for the day. I swear, if I hadn’t set the alert on my phone calendar I would have sat in my office for hours after Nate and Mach left. Staring into space, letting myself enjoy the afterglow of realizing my attraction to Nate isn’t one-sided.

But work and solving Frannie’s murder prevail. I just spent the last hour learning more than I thought possible about my hometown.

“Thanks for agreeing to show me around, Mel. I really appreciate it.” Melvin Springer stands in front of the Historical Society’s wall-sized map of Stonebridge, circa 1878. The town was founded nearly a century before and the area settled almost two hundred years ago. I keep looking at the scant inch between Mel’s bald head and the ceiling of the log cabin home where the society is headquartered. It’s a miracle he hasn’t cracked his noggin on one of the lower-hanging exposed beams.

“It’s what I do.” He looks around the room, from the glass cases that hold various artifacts both Native and colonial, to the shelf of antique books that offer a glimpse into the merchants who shaped Stonebridge. Most notable is Jacob Stoner, the namesake for Jacob’s Run, the home of the eel weir. Which is what I’m really here to find out about.

“Did you happen to know Frannie Schrock very well, Mel?”

He nods, blinks behind rimless specs. “I saw her parents grow up. My family lived down the road from their farm. Awful what happened to her. In your shop, no less.” His gaze is steady, nonjudgmental.

“Yes. I’ve heard it mentioned that Frannie was sold on the eel weir being authentically Native. Do you know why?”

“Look here.” He points to the map, to where Jacob’s Run is located north of town and runs parallel with Main Street for almost a mile before making several S turns and flowing east where it eventually meets the Susquehanna. His arthritic hand moves across the Plexiglas that protects the old paper until his finger stops on a point west of town.

“Woodsman’s Grove?” I’m familiar with the area that’s been set aside as game lands.

“Uh huh. There’s more than one eel weir, but Frannie focused on the one here.” He points to a spot almost dead center above Stonebridge. Almost directly north of my building. “For good reason, as it’s close to town and officially a part of Stonebridge, just like Jacob’s Run.”

“But that doesn’t explain why it’s authentic, original. As in, thousands instead of hundreds of years old.”

Mel holds up his index finger, makes sure he has my attention. “It does, though. The older ruins are all under water back here, and here.” He indicates locations before Stonebridge proper begins. “And over here, we know that the weirs are no more than a few hundred years old. That’s been proven.”

“Past town. So the one here in Stonebridge could be somewhere in between?”

He shakes his head. Mel’s made up his mind, it seems. “No, not in between. Our weir is definitely Native, and may even be the oldest one ever found. I don’t need to wait for the college researchers to get their results in. They found a bevy of arrowheads and other items in the same exact location. All of those predated the other Native weirs. So it’s fair to say these rocks are original. Have you ever been to Rome in your Navy travels? Italy?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, great. So you’ve seen how they incorporate ancient ruins into contemporary settings.”

“As a matter of fact, there are ruins in the Navy Exchange in Napoli, Italy. You can see them through the floor.”

“And in the UK, there are many examples of ruins coexisting with modern architecture.”

“But the eel weir is underwater. How will it drive more visitors to Stonebridge?” I’m still not seeing why Frannie was so hot about the weir.

“The Historical Society already has plans drawn up for a visitor’s center adjacent Jacob’s Run.”

“Do you mean like the one in Gettysburg? On Stonebridge town property?” The thought of the bucolic fields and trees surrounding Jacob’s Run being paved for an edifice of any kind leaves me cold.

“Yes. But without Frannie’s support, I’m afraid it’ll never pass.”

“Why would you think that? It’s going to be a matter of scientific fact, right?” Either the weir is ancient, or it isn’t.

“No, that’s just it. Like your mother and most of the society, I hope to heck that this is an ancient structure. In my gut, I believe it is. But let’s say it isn’t, that it’s only a couple hundred years old.”

“That’s still historical.”

“Yes. But not historical enough to warrant the visitor’s center, and resulting PR money to run ads to entice tourists. Frannie wasn’t going to rest until Stonebridge was featured in every Pennsylvania tourism video spot, be it on television, social media, or the town’s website. She had the pull to make it all happen, and it was close, let me tell you. But now…” He shakes his head, the sun reflecting off the very top more than at his temples.

I mentally kick myself for judging Mel’s lack of hair, of all things. What is my problem?

You’re stressed and under the gun about the opening.

Maybe.

“Are you saying that Frannie was going to get the approval for the building project pushed through before the actual age was identified?”

“You got it.” Mel’s eyes are sharp, belying the age spots on his head. “She wanted it passed before we knew, in fact. So that even if the weir’s ten years old, some kind of high school prank, the budget for the building structure would already be passed. She figured the worst thing that would happen is the building’s purpose would be redefined. Either way, it’s a Stonebridge town building, available for one and all to use for their annual events. She was already talking about a possible folk fest. Can you imagine? Emmy Lou Harris or Dolly Parton, here in Stonebridge.”

“That’s impressive. You might be able to get my favorite, Brandi Carlile, in here.” I’ve become a huge Americana music fan since returning to the States.

“Is she related to the Carlisles of Carlisle?” Mel’s referring to the larger town to the west and south of Stonebridge. For the record, I don’t expect Mel to know who Brandi Carlile is, but come on. If you’re going to talk folk music, there’s no one better than Brandi and the Hanseroth twins.

“No, no relation.”

“Well, you can invite whomever you want if we ever get it built. I just doubt that it’s going to happen, to be honest.”

“Mel, is there any member of the Historical Society, or anyone you can think of, that would be hurt if the Stonebridge Center is built? Financially or otherwise?”

The vacant look in his eyes frightens me. Please don’t stroke out now. Please.

“As it turns out, I’m a permanent member of the town’s development advisory board. I know what you’re getting at, Livvie.” I don’t correct him. If he thinks I’m my mother, that’s fine by me. “I suppose whoever owns the surrounding property that needed to be purchased to make the parking lot, with room for concessions. A small music arena has been discussed, too.”

“Exactly! That’s who I need to talk to. Any ideas?”

He lets out a low whistle, laughs. “Oh, boy. That reminds me. You may want to take notes.” He waves his hand toward my phone, where I’ve been tapping in pertinent facts. Mel’s really good at drawing things out and while I appreciate the skill when being told about history, my jaw is clenching as the last of my patience ekes out.

“I’m ready when you are, Mel.”

“Cornelia Applebaum has been mighty ticked off by all of Frannie’s shenanigans.”

“Is she part of the family that owns Applebaum farm?” I frequent their quaint but fully modern farmers market on a weekly basis. They’re open year-round, but with fewer veggies and more locally processed dairy during the winter months.

“It’s still hers, yes, but her kids have been running it for years now. Cornelia tells them where to keep it like it’s always been, and they do all the technology business.”

“So you were saying, Frannie angered Mrs. Applebaum?”

“Oh, more than angered. She got herself worked up enough to get a lawyer, who got her even angrier when Cornelia heard the words eminent domain.”

“That only applies to land that the government needs use of, not private interests.”

Mel stares at me, the keen intelligence in his gaze unmistakable. “That’s just it, Angel.” So he does know my name. “Frannie had some hotshot lawyer draw up papers stating that the museum and surrounding buildings were essential to the preservation of Stonebridge’s heritage and legacy. Now, I don’t know all the legalese, mind you, but I know enough. It’d crank me up, too, if that happened to me.”

“You’ve been so much help, Mel. I’m sorry if I came in here with my nose up in the air.” Truly, I’d missed judged the nonagenarian. “I’m out of my depth.”

Mel nods. “You are.” My stomach clenches at his stern expression. Self-recrimination floods my face with embarrassed heat.

“I won’t do it again.”

“Ha!” The grave wrinkles transform into laugh lines as Mel has a solid chuckle. He taps my upper arm. “I’m just joshing you! You should have seen your face!”

It takes me a few heartbeats before I join in on Mel’s mirth. Nothing like having my ego smashed right after Nate’s surprise invitation bolstered it. I guess this is what’s referred to as balance.

“You caught me. Thank you again so much.”

“Just make sure you’re keeping your police friend in the loop on all of this.” Mel takes a pipe from his jacket and puts it between yellowed but very strong teeth.

Not only has he missed absolutely nothing, he’s totally on to my motives.

I pray the killer isn’t.