The Question is Who

By Annie Taylor and Toni Taylor

Dead bodies, missing crooks, tax fraud, affairs, rumors running wild and Marge Monroe is right in the middle. Can she find the real killer before her brother in law is arrested?

The Question is Who? is a fine bit of mind-candy and cozy murder mystery. Settle in, gather an afghan and a cup of tea for a mysterious frolic in

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ann M. Taylor
• Release date: Jan 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736191231

Book preview

Prologue

Fingers holding the cuffs of her sweatshirt, she pulled on the tattered old jacket. The flannel-lined denim bearing a torn pocket and sleeves fringed with wear, changed her in an instant from a middle aged housewife to a farmer. Lined rubber boots, a knitted cap and thick gloves completed the metamorphosis. It was cold out; sunny but cold and windy, March after all, but she and Mac were eager for their walk. Before pulling the kitchen door closed behind her, she checked the stove and coffee pot. The light winked from Mr. Coffee. Taking a quick step, she poked at it with a gloved finger and turning, left the kitchen slamming the door behind them.

Mac’s long leash hung on a nail driven into the frame of the door to the garage. She snicked it to the collar of the big, beefy, yellow Labrador retriever and they left by the back way, heading down the lane and past the barns to the fields. Mac always accompanied her on the rounds of the buildings and stock, a tireless companion as she moved through the day. However, a leash meant they were going farther, into the fields, and he exhibited his delight by pulling her faster than she wanted to go. Slow down, Mac! Walk, Mac. Walk. There’s no hurry today, boy, we have all morning. They hadn’t been in this direction since Thanksgiving. An observer would be hard put to say who was enjoying the day more.

The weatherman promised a few dry days and she hoped to start the plowing tomorrow. This morning’s plan was to walk the perimeter of the long field. It would be the driest, except for the far corner. A shallow creek cut across the edge there, dry in the summer but running full in spring rains. Brush and willow had grown up in the swampy area around it and it was useless for farming.

The trees in the lane held the pregnant look that came just before green-up. Buds were swollen and fat, ready to deliver each leaf or blossom. The brush and tall grasses in the fencerow remained brown and ragged, tattered from winter storms, but eager for their renewal. Brown soil, rough beside the path, gave off its fragrance, earthy and familiar. The chill air may not feel like spring but she knew it was here. She could smell it.

They startled a rabbit or two, bouncing madly away from perceived danger, and she saw a chipmunk dart into a hole at the base of a huge Ash tree. Mac gave into his baser instincts and went wild at the scent of rabbits, pulling and jerking and barking. She stopped from time to time to feel the dirt, pulling a glove off her work roughened hand and kneading the soil, breaking it into clods, checking it’s workability. It was looking good! Mac, I think we’re going to do it. Tomorrow we roll.

They reached the corner of the field at the edge of the low, brushy spot and she turned east. Mac chose west, and began to pull, hard. He was a big beast, as heavy as she and much younger and stronger. He won the pulling contest, jerking her into the muddy, brushy mess.

Mac, get away from there, you’ll get sprayed by a skunk or something, Come on, Mac. Come on, boy. Mac, usually the most obedient of dogs, refused. He pulled at the leash, and jumped and began to bark. He won again, moving her a little nearer his goal.

Mac, stop. Sit. Mac, get away from there. Now she could smell what roused his curiosity, the sweet, sick smell of death. No doubt some poor, wild thing sickened and crawled in the brush to die. Come on, Mac. Get out of there, it stinks. Get away. But Mac gave one great heave, nearly jerking her off her feet and pulled away from her. Cursing under her breath, she staggered after the errant beast. Thick brush and brambles, stiff and dry from winter, pulled at her. She covered her face with her arm, to protect herself. Calling the dog’s name and searching for the big tan beast, she located him quickly, and what he discovered. It was no small wild thing. This stinking corruption had once been a human, and looking down, she found herself standing on what had once been a hand.

She gasped, choked and stumbled back. Her throat filled as nausea rolled through her. Her stomach heaved. Turning away she leaned against a willow, panting. Surely her mind was playing tricks. But no, the smell...in one convulsive movement, she lost her breakfast in the weeds. Pale, shaking and sweating, she turned to look again. God no. It’s true. She was filled with revulsion, then horror, then pity. Oh God, Mac. We’ve got to get help. No, not help, the police. Nothing can help that poor soul now. Come on, Mac.

She ran, and walked and ran. Mac followed at last, across the uneven field. She tripped on the corn stubble and lumps of mud heaved up by winter. Why she ran, she couldn’t say. Certainly there was no hurry now. To get away? She reached the house, winded and sick; the smell seemed to cling in her nostrils, on her clothes, in her hair.

Quick. Dial. 911

"This is Peg Curtiss, out on Rt. 37. Curt’s Place. I found a body in my field....

Glendale Daily News 3/16

Sunday, March 16

Bindelton City Councilman, Martin Lilly, announced that the council was giving serious consideration to the zoning change from residential to business/multifamily. Local environmental groups state that the additional increase in population could seriously affect the infrastructure and tax the already overused water and sewer system. The request for zoning change was filed….

Chapter 1

Marge Monroe drove along well-known roads on her way to work at her sister, Peg’s farm. She and Peg were closer than many sisters and Marge enjoyed the work. Her battered pick-up carried her past cozy named subdivisions erected in fields she remembered by other titles. This had been a 10-minute drive ten years ago. It wandered around the edge of town, through wooded hills and sloping pastures and along the shallow, rocky, creek, bordered by willow and sycamore, called Mad Run. But, Bindelton had been discovered by the neighboring metropolis of Glendale. Now it took 20 minutes to get to the farm. Schottmeyer’s pasture became Harbor Oaks and dotted with new homes. A remarkable lack of harbors existed in this midwestern town but Harbor Oaks it remained. The woods also sheltered a subdivision called Lighthouse Hill. It even boasted a sham lighthouse in sham stone. Go figure. Interesting how global their little town was becoming.

She usually talked to herself while driving alone, considering herself better company than most radio stations. Marge also believed herself to be a better driver than many, braking hard to avoid hitting a van full of kids that pulled in front of her. Soccer mom driving the babies to school? Drivers whose skill she judged inadequate got a sharp comment regarding her assessment of their ancestry. With the windows rolled up, no one heard. Appropriate gestures were made below window level, out of sight. Marge was, after all, a lady.

Today, she looked forward to work. Her sister and brother-in-law are fun, familiar, a little eccentric like herself, and work with plants is their passion. What could be better? The farm was also her homestead and nostalgia occasionally caught up with her there.

She pulled up to the traffic light at the highway and signaled a right turn. Each corner of the busy intersection cluttered the view with signs. At night the neon created a yearlong Christmas scene, colored lights flashing everywhere. A gas station/convenience store, a McDonald’s, a bank and a Taco Bell filled the corners. Turning, she drove past a Chinese restaurant, realtor’s office, dry cleaner, an auto supply shop and more. Curtiss’s farm, known as Curt’s Place, sat smack dab in the middle of all the business and building. It seemed as out of place as the lighthouse in Schottmeyer’s pasture. Behind the businesses on the highway, houses, plat after plat of subdivisions spilled out like Lego’s over the land. Each entrance sign and name grew sweeter than the one before. Marge, accustomed to the business, usually didn’t notice.

Peg and Frank, however, hated it. No longer the loved and familiar peaceful existence, they felt invaded by the influx of people. Taxes had escalated in order to provide services the city people expected. Farmers, they never needed city water, sewage, traffic lights, streetlights, curbs and sidewalks. They provided their own services. In order to keep up with the tax increases resulting from all these unwanted services, it became necessary to open a roadside stand to sell their produce. Growing table produce and greenhouse flowers is extremely labor intensive; they worked very hard. Aging at the same rate as the rest of the population, they were tired. Sick of it. They wanted out, to find a place to live out their years at the seasonal pace they loved.

Marge turned off the highway into the lane that wove through big old oaks. The farmhouse, tall and square, painted yellow with a brown roof and shutters, needed painting, again. Same with the barns. Shrubs needed pruning. There was always more work than time or money.

Marge dropped her jaw, eyes wide. What the devil is going on? Police cars, lights flashing, were spread at random near the barn. Parking her truck in the turn around by the house, Marge paused to look around and spotted her sister near the greenhouses talking with a police officer. Hurrying in their direction, she stumbled over a root, caught herself, begged pardon of the tree and hastened on.

The police officer turned from his note taking to see the tall woman loping toward him. She moved like a puppet, jerky and uneven. Her voice, however, was low and pleasant.

What happened, Sis? What are all the police doing here?

He would never guess they were sisters. Both women had the tanned and wrinkled skin that betrayed long years of working in the sun. Marge was tall, stooped, with narrow shoulders and wide flat hips. Her long limbs were draped in baggy jeans and a faded, oversized Chicago Bull’s sweatshirt. She looked to be in her 60’s, with a long narrow face and sharp dark eyes behind thick glasses. Peg was short, straight, with bright blue eyes. Her short blonde hair was deeply wavy and thick, framing a rounded face. She looked much younger than her 58 years but wore the same tacky uniform her sister did, plus boots. Today she looked a little pale.

Peg turned, Oh, Marge, you won’t....I...you’ll never...God...Mac and I...we found a body in the long field. I can’t believe it.... We just went out to check the field, and Mac pulled me into the low spot. There it was. It made me sick.

A body? What body? What are you talking about? The long field? With the wet corner? Who? When? Peg! Tell me what is going on? I can’t believe this. Where’s Frank? Shocked, questions shot like bullets from Marge.

Peg interrupted. Marge, if you will shut your mouth and open your ears, I will explain. You have more questions than the IRS. Frank is out in the field with the police. I couldn’t face it again. Mac and I went out early to walk the perimeter to see when we could get in the field...

Excuse me, Mrs. Curtiss. The police officer’s surprisingly high voice, interrupted. He was flipping through the pages of his notebook. Who is Mac? I don’t think you mentioned a Mac to me. He was young, very tall, 6’4 or 6’5, huge in the shoulders and in need of a haircut.

Mac is our dog, Officer, who always goes with me when I walk the fields. He likes the exercise and I like his company. He’s quiet, doesn’t say much.

The officer looked at her strangely. A dog? Quiet? You mean he doesn’t bark?

Marge ducked her head to hide a grin. Peg was a person who was comfortable with silence, rarely turned on the radio, and avoided crowds. Marge reached down to pet the big head by her knee. Mac had come to greet her and looked up at his name.

I’m sorry, Officer. A joke. I really can’t add anything to what I’ve already told you. Lt. Hickock seems to think it was a hunting accident. There is no hunting allowed here; we’re in the city limits. But we wouldn’t allow it anyway. There are too many near neighbors, and a gazillion kids. It wouldn’t be safe. And we haven’t been out in that field since November. No reason to. Peg’s shoulders were slumped. I wish I could be more help to you.

I’m not sure what you mean by ‘get in the field’. You were in the field, with the dog. Don’t you just walk in? Officer Kelly’s brow drew together in confusion.

Peg sat down suddenly, on a crate behind her, and dropped her face in her hands.

Marge spoke up. You must be a city boy, Officer. ‘Get in the field’ is an expression that means the soil is ready to work, either till, or plant, or harvest, depending on the season. One ‘gets in the field’ with heavy farm equipment. It’s necessary to check the soil before working it, for water content and temperature. That big equipment can be hell to pull out if it gets stuck in the mud.

The young man grinned at her. You’re right, I grew up in Cleveland. Moved here to be out in the country. I guess I have a lot to learn.

Peg looked up, a weary smile for the young officer. I would be out of my element in the city. Never go there if I can avoid it. Do you know when we can get in the field, from your point of view? You folks have it all tied off with yellow tape. Will someone call me and let me know it’s okay to till?

Will someone call and let her know who died? And why? And how? Marge was nosy.

Yes, ma’am, we’ll call when the crime scene investigators are finished. Turning to Marge, the young officer asked politely. Do I have your name and phone number, ma’am?

Marge gave him the information he asked for, embarrassed that she failed to introduce herself. He left then, assuring them again he would call when the long field was no longer a crime scene.

While the police stayed, Peg and Frank stood near the barn and looked across the fields, silently watching the lab people move around the field. It was too far to see anything more than tiny moving figures, but somehow, it was necessary to stand by. Was there a protocol for the day you find a body? Did you offer the investigators coffee? Could you ask questions? Was it okay to watch? What would they think about, seeing you leaning on the fence? Could you go on with your work while the investigation was in progress, or was that insensitive?? Politically incorrect??

Marge resolved her unease by going into a greenhouse to find comfort in the plants. They were still seeds, but she could talk to them, give them instructions on how to grow, what