FYI, Rose and Ruby are the unofficial Lake Bess mascots. In theory, they belong on Oden Poquette’s farm, but the ‘gals’ as Oden calls them roam our little town pretty much twenty-four-seven.

  “Help me, girl,” Dad called over his shoulder.

  “I’m not a kid person.”

  “But Truman is!” He waved Twirly Twine Twister at Truman. “Get it? Kid. Or kid?” Dad stopped and pointed Twine Twister at Rose.

  Big mistake. Cosmic Cow went in for the kill, and down went Twine Twister and my father into a pile of leaves. Charlie let out one of his rare barks, and Rose and Ruby bellowed a few baahs, and the FN451z beeped, burped, and chirped from inside Joe’s house.

  I walked over to help the old man up.

  “How was your day?” he asked me while Truman and Cow fished around for Twirly Twine Twister. “You don’t look so good.”

  “We need to talk,” I said. I told Charlie to keep an eye on everyone, told Truman to stay away from the water’s edge, and led my father inside.

  ***

  I looked down at the cat weaving around my ankles. “Why weren’t you in the game?” I asked, and Dad informed me Notz is an indoor cat.

  “So he won’t be bothering your bird feeders. That’s good news, right?”

  “It’s the only good news,” I said and guided him to the kitchen table, where I could keep an eye on Truman.

  Notz continued weaving around my ankles. “Sit!” I said, and he jumped onto my lap. I rolled my eyes and spoke to my father. “Captain Sterling stopped by campus today.”

  Dad’s eyes got wide. “Did he arrest you?”

  “Would I be sitting here if he did?”

  Dad relaxed a little, but I gave him the bad news, and he quickly stopped relaxing.

  “You didn’t tell him the truth?”

  “That I kidnapped Truman?” I shook my head. “For some odd reason, I failed to mention that.”

  Bobby gave me one of his I am your father looks. “Honesty is the best policy,” he scolded. “You cannot outright lie to a state trooper.”

  Actually, you can. I insisted Captain Sterling had believed my story about being Truman’s cousin. “He didn’t take out his handcuffs or gun or anything.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “Okay, but that isn’t the point.” I held onto Notz. “The point is, Judy Tripp was murdered.”

  “You didn’t offer to help Sterling, did you?”

  “Da-aad! That’s not the point, either. Truman’s the point.” I pointed out the window and jumped. “Nooo!”

  I dropped the cat, tripped over him, and ran outside. “Nooo!” I yelled again, and the little guy looked up from showing Cosmic Cow to Rose. “Rose will eat her!” I said, and he yanked Cosmic Cow overhead. I clapped my hands. “Toss her here.”

  He did so, and I went back inside to settle Cosmic Cow on the windowsill.

  “So?” I asked as I sat back down. “You’re a father. Do you think he knows his mother was murdered?”

  Dad shook his head and told me Truman probably didn’t understand the concept. “But even so, the child’s been traumatized. You need to go out there and bond with him, girl.”

  I shrugged.

  “You have a lot in common with him, and you know it.”

  I petted the stupid cat, who for some reason was back in my lap. “I’m not telling him about Spookey.”

  “Fine.” Dad pointed to the painting hanging over the doorway, which we think is supposed to be roses. “But your mother would tell you to be brave and talk to that child.” He paused for effect. “And your father knows the perfect way to broach the topic.”

  I frowned at Notz. “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes,” Dad said.

  I hate it when he’s right.

  ***

  “Time for a bike ride,” I called out, and the kid ran over with the dog and the goats in tow.

  “Can they come?”

  “Sure,” Dad said. “You can take Rose and Ruby home before it gets dark.”

  Well, we could try. I knew Charlie would tag along easily enough, but the gals aren’t exactly known for their cooperative spirit. While I found our helmets, Dad helped Truman get his bike out of the garage.

  “Can we take my training wheels off?” he asked me.

  How was I was supposed to know? I thought fast and suggested he try that first ride on our dirt roads with the training wheels. “If you do well, we’ll take them off next time.”

  I ignored the pout and turned around to fetch my own bik—

  “What in the world?” I stared into the backseat of Bobby’s car. “Where’d that come from?”

  Dad mentioned Xavier’s, the department store in Hilleville. “Thinking of Chance Dooley’s pilot’s seat reminded me I needed one of those before picking up Truman from school.”

  I glanced at the driveway and made sure the kid was occupied with the animals. “He won’t be here that long,” I whispered, but Dad argued that however long Truman stayed with us, we’d both be driving him.

  He pointed to his car. “That’s called a booster seat—the next step up for bigger children. You should switch the one in your car, too.”

  I mumbled something about working on that in my spare time, and as I maneuvered my bicycle out of the garage, Mr. Sci Fi Author described the sad condition of Chance Dooley’s pilot’s seat. Evidently whoever looted the Spaceship Destiny had ripped the thing right out of the Destiny. Which meant Evadeen Deyo had spent much of her day getting the seat back into position and making sure all the buckles and belts were in working order.

  “Chance has to strap himself very tightly before lift-off,” Bobby explained as Truman and I buckled our helmets. “The turbo thrust propulsion piston technology provides quite a blast of energy.”

  Speaking of which, Truman and the animals were already halfway up Leftside Lane. “Let’s race!” he called back.

  “Truman, wait!” I glanced at my father, and he gave me a stout nod.

  “Be brave, girl.”

  ***

  Believe it or not, I was. By the time we rounded the corner onto Elizabeth Circle, I’d already broached the subject. “Grief can hit people in odd ways,” I began.

  “What’s grief?”

  Oh, good grief.

  “Being sad when someone dies,” I said. I glanced sideways. “For example, I was sad when my mother died.”

  The little bike swerved, but luckily Elizabeth Circle is virtually devoid of traffic. “Your momma died, too?” he asked.

  “When I was ten,” I said. “I was very sad, and you know what I did?”

  He shook his head.

  I tapped my handlebars. “I went for a bike ride.”

  “Why?”

  “I was flustered.” I swerved to avoid Ruby. “I had all this pent-up energy, and Grandpa Bobby gave me permission.” I glanced sideways again. “But I went a whole lot farther than Grandpa Bobby expected. I rode to my Grammie Maloney’s house.”

  “Does she live at the Hilleville House, too?”

  It took me a second to realize the kid was talking about his great grandmother in the nursing home. I shook my head and reminded him about the maps we’d looked at.

  “I lived in Hoboken, New Jersey, and my Grammie lived all the way down in Wilmington, Delaware,” I said. “It took me two days.”

  “Were you scared?”

  “No, but I should have been. Grandpa Bobby sure was scared.”

  Rose got distracted by something at the side of the road. We let Charlie get her back on track, and I told Truman how my father had called out the authorities.

  “Two National Guardsmen—they’re like policemen and soldiers combined—found me.”

  They found me at the last exit on the New Jersey Turnpike, to be exact, and they tried to talk me into being rescued. But I was nuts, even back then.

  “I refused to let them drive me home,” I said as we passed Mallard Cove and Fanny Baumgarten’s house. “So the National Guardsmen got on their bikes and rode to Delaware with me.”

  The little helmet nodded. “You were in good hands.”

  “That’s what my father always says.” I swerved to avoid a pot hole. “And I would have been in good hands at my grandmother’s house, but she wasn’t home.”

  “Why not?”

  Because, earth to ten-year old Cassie Baxter, I’d somehow forgotten that Grammie Maloney, my mother’s mother, was staying in New Jersey with us Baxters at the time.

  “You were fluttered,” Truman told me.

  “I was fluttered and flustered,” I agreed. “So the National Guardsmen and I turned around and biked back to New Jersey.” I held up two fingers as we rounded the corner to the farm. “Two more days.”

  “That’s silly.”

  I shrugged. “Like I said, grief makes people do odd things. Doing odd things can make you feel better.”

  “Did you feel better?”

  “I did,” I said firmly. We stopped our bikes next to the barn. “So?” I asked. “Is there anything you’d like to do, Truman? You know, to feel better about your momma?”

  Oden Poquette popped out of the barn. “Hopefully he wants to milk a goat.”

  ***

  In case you’re not quite sure, he did.

  Charlie had to stay outside, but Oden led the child and me to the milking station and explained the process. I’m sure this is all mechanized on larger farms, but at Oden’s place, things are still done by hand. Which meant Truman’s hands were washed thoroughly with a special soap. Then Oden showed him the specially sanitized equipment and the proper milking technique. Rose went first, and by Ruby’s turn, Truman was a pro.

  Oden stepped away and joined me on the sidelines. I’m sure he was curious as to why I suddenly had a five and a half-year old in tow, but a true stoic Vermonter, he hesitated to ask any personal questions. Very handy.

  I avoided mentioning Truman’s last name, and was as vague as possible about everything else. “He’s only staying with me for a few days,” I concluded.

  “But Lake Bess is a good place to raise kids.” Oden smiled and nudged me. “Get it, Cassie?” He pointed to the boy and the goats. “Kids, and kids.”

  ***

  Maxine Tibbitts was getting out of her car as we rolled into our driveway, and she took three giant steps backward as we approached. “Hi,” she squeaked.

  I introduced her to Truman, but his greeting didn’t do much to dispel her non-kid person status. “I have to go to the bathroom,” he announced. He dropped his bike and ran into the Jolly Green Giant.

  “Whew!” Maxine let out a breath. “Thank goodness he didn’t stop to chat!”

  I rolled my eyes and asked if she’d had any luck with the little errand I’d assigned her on Sunday. “Did you find any stray Tripps or Abernathys?”

  She sighed and slumped, and I slumped, too. Because if anyone could uncover Truman’s long lost relatives, it was this woman—a librarian, reporter, and busybody—all in one.

  Maxine patted my back. “Now, don’t be discouraged,” she said. “A little bird told me it’s only a matter of time. Just leave the tyke’s family to me, Cassie.”

  I left it to her, put the bikes away, and went inside, where I almost tripped over—nothing!

  The living room was cleared of all the Truman-junk. Make that, close to cleared. The Spaceship Destiny was still under the coffee table, and Twirly Twine Twister, the kid’s bike helmet, and a few coloring books littered the top of coffee table, but other than that—

  “What happened to all the junk,” I asked as I stepped into the kitchen, and Dad told me Joe had come over while Truman and I were biking.

  “He lugged everything to the third floor, and then we discussed—” Bobby tilted his head at the little guy. “—the latest developments.”

  I glanced down at the blond crew cut, registered what the child was looking at, and groaned.

  “Truman asked to see it, girl.”

  Whether or not that were true, I should have known my father would pull out his scrapbook now that Truman knew about my infamous bike ride.

  And the child did seem interested. He had the stupid thing spread out on the kitchen table and was going through it, page after dog-eared page. He pointed the full-page color photograph from the cover of People magazine. “That’s a girlie bike,” he told me.

  “I was a girl,” I said and shook my head at the ten-year old Cassie Baxter in front of her beloved pink bike with purple and silver streamers.

  “She was cute as a button,” Dad said without taking his eyes from what I’m pretty sure is his favorite picture of me, ever. “And she was a hero. Twenty-three articles, not counting TV coverage.”

  Truman started back at the beginning and counted all twenty-three articles while my father continued to brag about my supposed heroism. My little odyssey had captured the imagination of a lot of people, and donations to the cancer center where my mother was treated poured in that week.

  “To this day they’ve never matched the donations my daughter raised.” Dad tapped the photo of me shaking hands with the Surgeon General, and Truman scowled up at me.

  “Remember what I told you?” I said. “Grief make us act in odd ways.”

  “An understatement,” Bobby said and closed the book.

  Chapter 13

  “Yoo-hoo, anybody home?” I called out.

  The FN451z returned an enthusiastic greeting, and Joe came down the stairs. “Is everyone asleep over there?” he asked.

  Yes and no. My father and his laptop were tackling Chance Dooley’s latest pickle, but the little guy was tucked in with Charlie and Notz, and hopefully sound asleep.

  “He wanted to come over to meet the FN,” I said. “But once again, we ran out of time.” I plopped onto the couch and closed my eyes. “Where’s the wine?”

  “Coming up.”

  I watched Joe do the honors and thought about him and my father—both men had single-handedly raised daughters.

  “How do single parents do it?” I asked. “How did you do it?”

  “You manage.” Joe handed me a glass and sat down with his own. “You’re doing a great job, Cassie.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I am right. You’ve had a lot dumped in your lap, especially with this latest development.” He reached for my hand, and I thought about Joe Wylie’s ancient history—his father had been murdered when Joe was even younger than Truman.

  “I wonder what Truman knows,” I said quietly.

  “Probably more than you think he does.” Joe stared at the grand piano in the corner of his living room. “You need to tell Captain Sterling you’re not related to the child, Cassie.”

  “Why, so he can arrest me?”

  Joe shook his head. “He’s not going to arrest you. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “How about kidnapping?”

  “How about withholding evidence in a murder investigation?”

  I grimaced, and he argued that my non-family status could have bearing on Sterling’s investigation. “You should talk to him, Cassie. Tell him everything.”

  “You actually want me cozying up to Jason Sterling?”

  Joe almost spilled his wine. “Not quite. But honesty is the best policy.”

  I was complaining that he sounded like my father when someone knocked at the door. I pointed. “That’s him, isn’t it?” I asked. “You guys planned this.”

  Joe told me to relax and went to answer.

  It wasn’t my father. It was Ms. Mauve.

  The child welfare advocate of Hanahan County, twice in one day.

  Needless to say, I failed to relax.

  ***

  “What a nice surprise!” I lied and hopped up to help her with her oversized coat.

  The FN451z beeped, burped, and chirped, and Ms. Mauve almost jumped out of that coat.

  Joe caught my eye. “Who?” he mouthed.

  “Social worker,” I mouthed back, and made the introductions.

  Joe invited her into the living room, she hoisted her oversized satchel back onto her shoulder, and we all sat down.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  She pointed up. “What is that?”

  Bad question. Joe dived into his usual incomprehensible explanation of the FN that would confuse Evadeen Deyo herself, and Ms. Mauve smiled.

  Was she following the gibber-gabber?

  Trust me, no one other than Joe Wylie himself has ever attempted to understand the FN451z, but maybe she was just being polite. Joe certainly was being polite. Or maybe he was happy that someone was actually listening to his explanation of—whatever.

  “Hello—oo.” I waved a hand to get everyone’s attention. “I’m pretty sure Ms. Mauve didn’t drive all the way out to here—for the second time today—to hear about the FN.”

  She winked Joe. “Maybe you’ll explain your machinery to me some other time?”

  Excuse me?

  I frowned and scowled and asked what she was doing there. “At 9:30 p.m.,” I added. “Did my father tell you where I was?”

  She nodded. “He pointed me in this direction and told me to follow the—” She smiled at Joe. “The—”

  “The burps,” I helped her out. “Your purpose?” I asked. Again.

  She pointed to our wine glasses, which I had no idea she’d even noticed. “What is the nature of your relationship?”

  I frowned and scowled some more, but Joe was had the answer.

  “Cassie and I are involved,” he told her. “Would you like a glass?”

  She sighed dramatically and said she’d better not.

  He offered tea or coffee, but she sighed some more and declined those choices also.

  Okay, so enough pussy-footing around. I pointed to the clock on Joe’s mantel and asked again. “Why are you here?”

  “The murder.” She changed her tone and turned to me. “What do you know about Judy Tripp’s murder?”

  I shrugged. “Only what Captain Sterling told me. What do you know?”

  “I know that murder seems to follow you, Dr. Baxter. Could there be a connection?”

  Oh, for Pete’s sake. I shook my head Truman-style. “No,” I said. “I never knew that poor redhead, and I certainly didn’t know Judy—”

  “Cassie!” Joe practically shouted, and the FN beeped from above.