“Quilt of Valor?”
“Yes, the Quilts of Valor Foundation distributes the quilts volunteers make to service members who’ve been touched by war. We make them to say thank you, to wrap them in warmth if they’re far from home, to comfort them wherever they are, really. It’s just a small thing we can do. Our nephew, our brother Joe’s boy, was badly wounded in Iraq. That’s why I got started. I’ve been doing it for years.”
“My brother Drew has one,” Troy said. “A Quilt of Valor. He was a medic in Afghanistan. He had a pretty bad time when he came home.”
I looked at Troy in surprise. I hadn’t even known that he had a brother.
“I’m so sorry,” Kristi said, touching him lightly on the arm. “Your family must be very proud of him.”
He nodded but didn’t answer. I noticed that he was swallowing hard and his eyes looked a little bright. To give him cover I said with unusual heartiness, “Those rolls smell great. I don’t want to be pushy, but you did ask, and I’d definitely like to try one.”
“Yes, of course, follow me.”
Seated at the long, scrubbed-wood table in the large kitchen, with a plate of cinnamon rolls in front of me and a cup of coffee beside me, I felt the visit was already worthwhile, even without Dwight.
I took a bite and let the cream cheese frosting meld with the spicy warmth of cinnamon and the soft roll itself. Heaven … I forced myself to refocus.
“You said Dwight and your sister are in Omico. Do you know if they’ll be back this morning?”
“I don’t expect them until supper time. Dwight has a doctor appointment at ten-thirty, and then they’re going to go to a movie and do some shopping.”
“Oh, is Dwight ill?”
“No, no. Juanita just finally got him to agree to a hip replacement. It took long enough. He’s the most stubborn man! Our mother used to say, ‘You can always tell a Pearson, but you can’t tell him much.’ It’s getting so Dwight can barely walk across the living room without wincing.”
As she spoke, my mental image of the seventy-something Dwight chasing a girl across a cornfield with murderous intent faded away. A candidate for a hip replacement certainly wouldn’t have been running in the dark on uneven ground. As I regrouped, Troy spoke.
“Mrs. McGinness—”
“Just Kristi, please.”
“Okay, Kristi. Can I ask how long you’ve been here?”
She frowned slightly, obviously puzzled by the question, but I wasn’t. If Troy wanted to show me that he knew the right questions to ask, this was a good start.
“Three weeks, more or less. The first week was that terrible rain. The wet weather really bothered Dwight’s hip. He was cross as a bear until the sun came out and things dried up a week or so ago. Why?”
He answered with another question. “Did he feel well enough to host a party recently? The drinks and dinner kind that you’d dress up for?”
She laughed, a warm and cheerful sound, and then said, “Dwight is a good man, but he is not a—what did you call it? A ‘drinks and dinner’ man. If he did host a party, it would be hot dish potluck with euchre afterwards, and no one would be dressed up. But we haven’t had any parties of either kind since I’ve been here.”
“How about the neighbors? Did you notice a lot of cars parked at anyone’s house the weekend before last?”
“There aren’t any neighbors to speak of on this road. It’s pretty much farmland and woods all around. Well, wait, now, that’s not exactly right. Dwight sold a hundred acres a while back. The parcel starts right where his cornfield ends. The man who bought it built a hunting cabin back in the woods. He’s in and out some, but he doesn’t live there.”
Troy sat back, looking deflated. I picked up the questioning.
“Do you know the man’s name?”
“Kent Morgan. Nice man. He’s a financial advisor. Lives in Omico. Now, why all the questions?”
I hesitated. Kristi had a right to be curious. And she had given me an awesome cinnamon roll. But I couldn’t risk word about the shoes spreading before I gave the information to the sheriff's office, or before we ran our story. Both would be equally bad.
“Can’t say right at the moment but look for a story on the Himmel Times online site, or in the paper later this week when the print edition comes out. Thanks, for the cinnamon roll and the conversation. You’ve been great.”
“That was pretty much a bust,” Troy said as we returned to the car and buckled ourselves in. “Are we going to the sheriff’s office so you can turn in the shoes now?”
“It wasn’t a bust, Troy. Your question about the neighbors got us the information that someone owns a hunting cabin right next to the cornfield where Miguel found the shoes.”
“But Kristi said no one lives there, so …”
“She did indeed. But she also said that Kent Morgan is ‘in and out some.’ So, as long as we’re out here, we’ll make a stop and see for ourselves just how close that cabin is to the cornfield, and who knows, we might even find Kent Morgan there.”
“It’s a workday.”
“Ah, but if you’re in the right line of work, you just might be able to spend a Tuesday morning puttering around your hunting cabin, especially with deer season coming up soon. Kent Morgan is a friend of Miller’s. That’s how I know who he is. He owns his own business, Kent Morgan Financial Services in Omico. If he wants to take a lazy day in the middle of the week, he can. If he’s there, great. If he isn’t, at least we can get the lay of the land.”
10
If Kristi hadn’t told us that there was a hunting cabin on the land adjacent to the Pearson cornfield, I wouldn’t have suspected it. A narrow track ran from the road and up through a heavily wooded area. About two hundred yards in, it curved and disappeared from sight into the trees.
“What do you say? Shall we just try it and see how far we can get?”
“That’s kind of what you do, isn’t it?”
I shot Troy a look, and he gave me a shy smile. He was joking with me. Maybe I wasn’t so scary after all.
“Yes, Troy, it kind of is. Now watch and learn.”
The deep ruts in the road wreaked havoc with my car’s suspension, or whatever it is that’s supposed to keep you from bone-shattering bumps in a car. I slowed down after a pothole bounced us almost to the car roof, but it didn’t help much. Just before another curve there was a turnaround on one side of the track. Just past that, a metal gate stopped our progress. I put the car in park and turned it off.
“Come on, Troy. Let’s see what’s on the other side.”
Troy joined me at the gate, but hesitated after I scaled it to the other side.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Well, I don’t think we should trespass.”
“I like to think of it more as exploring. It’s not posted. Do you see any ‘No Trespassing’ signs? The gate is to keep vandals or thieves from getting in. We’re not vandals or thieves. Besides, I’m a friend of Miller’s and so is Kent, so he’s basically a friend of mine, too.”