A Clear-Cut Case(an excerpt)

From My Dining Room Window

By the time I post my next blog, a month from now, I expect to be finished the first draft of A Clear-Cut Case. And since I’ve already revised most of what I’ve written, it won’t take long to complete draft number two. Much work still lies ahead. But it feels good to have the end in sight.

To give you a taste of what is to come, here are the first pages of my second novel. I don’t guarantee they won’t change between now and publication. But what you’ll read is a fourth draft. (Those of you who attended my book launch at McNally’s in Saskatoon or my author reading in North Battleford may recognize it.) Please enjoy it.

New year’s greetings and best wishes for health, happiness, and peace.

Friday, January 16

I should have known something was wrong when Stan suggested we park the truck at his place and walk the rest of the way to Ruth and Caleb Braun’s house. The proposed route? Across a field covered by sixteen inches of snow. The January night was cold—a stiff breeze and twenty below. I’d ditched my Sorels for light dress boots in honour of our visit to the new neighbours. Stan’s truck was warm, and the municipal road was good. Why the hell had I gone along with his sketchy, hare-brained scheme?

“Got a problem with driving?” I asked as he turned onto the track that led up to his century-old homestead.

He ignored my question. “It’s only a short hike, not even a mile.”

“Which would be fine on a summer night.” I looked out the window. Snow drifted across the road. Away from the shelter of the trees, the wind would be brutal.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?”

The thought of sitting in front of a cozy fire, book in hand and my cat purring beside me, was appealing. “I left it at home with Diesel.”

“A person gets soft in winter.” Stan pulled up beside his garage. “Not enough exercise.”

I rolled my eyes. My friend was a rancher who wintered several hundred head of cattle. “Yeah, right.”

“Please, Jeannie. I should have suggested the walk when I asked you to come with me, but I was afraid you’d say no.”

“And now that we’re almost at the Braun’s place, you’re counting on my acquiescence. Damn it, Stan, I’m getting too old for such shenanigans.”

He opened the cab door. “Fifteen minutes, and we’ll be there.”

“Twenty minutes, if we’re lucky.”

Grumbling, I unfastened my seatbelt and joined him beside the truck. Through the leafless poplars, I could see light in a window of the house across the field. It looked a long distance away.

Stan took my arm. “Thanks, I owe you one.”

“Darn right you do.”

A great horned owl hooted, mocking us as we set off on our trek.

At first, it was easy going. The snow was packed hard and carried our weight. We made good time as we briskly skimmed its surface. Then I hit a soft patch and plunged into snow up to my knees.

“Damn.” I stumbled and would have fallen without Stan’s arm to steady me.

“You okay?”

“Got snow in my boots,” I said.

“I’ll go ahead and break a trail for you.”

The plan was good in theory, but even with the help of a flashlight, it was hard to step into his footprints. I continually wandered off the path, silently cursing as the snow topped my elegant ankle boots. Before we were halfway across the field, my feet felt like blocks of ice.

“Remind why you thought this escapade was a good idea,” I said as we stopped beside a small bluff for me to catch my breath.”

Stan wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “You can do it, girl. We’re almost there.”

The lights looked almost as far away as they had when we’d started, but there was no point in turning back. Chances are we were half-way to the Braun’s house. I took a few deep breaths and tightened the scarf around my face.

“Let’s go.”

As we trudged through yet another drift, I reminded myself that I was responsible for getting into this mess. Most women would have insisted that we drive right up to the Braun’s place. Why hadn’t I had the good sense to do the same?

Stan wouldn’t have retaliated if I’d refused his request. If anything, he was chivalrous to a fault. At sixty-two, he was still the gallant, white-hatted cowboy of TV westerns. Tall and slender, with broad shoulders and dreamy brown eyes, it wasn’t the fault of local widows that he’d remained single after a brief marriage thirty-five years earlier.

I’d known him forever. He and my late husband Frank had been buddies as kids, and the three of us had gone to school together. I’d dated him the year I was in grade eleven; five years later, he’d been best man at my wedding. The three of us had remained friends until Frank’s death the previous winter.  After that, I hadn’t seen much of Stan until he and I had started hanging out together eight months later.

In our part of rural Saskatchewan, the options for social life were limited. Stan raised beef cattle on the family ranch which he’d inherited from his grandfather. I gardened and painted landscapes on the farm which Frank and I had bought from his parents. Although we considered ourselves neighbours, our properties were more than twenty kilometres apart.

Ruth and Caleb Braun had done nothing to improve our situation. They’d moved to the ranch next to Stan’s five months earlier but had quickly acquired a reputation for being standoffish. Caleb had rejected my dinner invitation with the excuse that they “kept themselves to themselves.”  And he’d said the same to Stan when he’d invited them for evening coffee. Had the leopard changed his spots?

A dark suspicion reared its head.

“Stan, do the Brauns know we plan to visit?”

“Not exactly.”

“That was a simple question,” I said. “Is your answer a yes or a no?”

“The situation is . . . complicated.”

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s hard for the women,” he said. “They must be lonely.”

“They? As in, more than one woman?”

“Ruth and Caleb have a daughter,” he said. “Naomi rides the bus to high school in town.”

“And you know that how?” I asked, stumbling as one foot plunged into a good two feet of snow.

Even through the darkness, I could sense his embarrassment. “I’ve . . . uh . . .seen her waiting at the end of their driveway.”

I didn’t have the energy to ask further questions. Instead, I kept my eyes fixed on the light ahead, numbly putting one foot in front of the other as we slowly made our way toward Ruth and Caleb’s house.

#

            Welcoming lights shone in the downstairs windows.

            “They’re gonna be spooked if they don’t know we’re coming,” I said as we climbed the steps up to the verandah. “Especially since there’s no vehicle noise to give them warning. Probably no-one else has ever arrived on foot.”

            Stan shrugged and knocked on the door.

At first, no-one answered. But when he knocked a second time, the door opened on a short chain. A young woman looked out at us.

            “Stan! We weren’t expecting you. My father’s not here . . .”

            “Jeannie and I were out for a walk,” he said. “She’s been wanting to meet you, so we took a chance you’d be home.”

            Eyebrows raised, I turned to Stan. He’d been the one who’d proposed the visit. And I could have sworn he’d said he barely knew these people. Why did his conversation with the young woman sound as if they were friends?

            “I’d invite you in,” she said, wrinkling her brow, “but my parents . . . they’re really old-school and . . .”

            Another woman appeared behind her in the doorway.

            “Mr. Hanson, I’m sorry you made this trip for nothing,” she said softly. “In this house, we do not receive make guests unless my husband is present.”

            “My friend Jeannie’s a great chaperone,” he said.

            She shook her head. “Forgive our lack of hospitality.”

            “It’s our fault,” I said. “We should have called ahead. If I could use your washroom first, we’ll be on our way.”

            Okay, so people use the washroom ploy when they want access to forbidden places. But I was on edge, and at sixty-one my bladder doesn’t work as well as it once did.

            “Caleb would be upset if he returned home and found you here,” she said as she unhooked the chain. “And he’ll be back soon. Please hurry.”

            “Won’t be more than a minute.”

We followed the women through a dimly lit mudroom that reeked of Pine-Sol and into a larger space that was clearly the kitchen.

“We’ll wait for you here,” the older woman said. “The washroom is down the hall, first door to the left.”

I gazed at her in amazement. She wore a high-necked print blouse, a calf-length navy skirt, and dark stockings with black lace-up oxfords. Despite the prim garb, the woman was jaw-droppingly beautiful. Tall and slender, with big brown eyes, luxuriant hair the colour of roast chestnuts, and a flawless complexion, she could have posed as one of the sultry models in a Pre-Raphaelite painting.

Stan touched my arm. “Meet Ruth,” he said. “And her daughter Naomi.”

“Welcome to the Thickwood Hills,” I said. “I’m Jeannie Wolfert-Lang.”

Naomi returned my smile. “Stan’s told me about you.”

Eyebrows raised, I looked at him.

His cheeks reddened. “Sometimes we talk while she’s waiting for the school bus.”

“And I’m the subject of your conversation? I’m flattered.”

“Stan says you’re an artist with a beautiful garden,” she said. “He’s lucky to have you as his girlfriend.”

I was about to correct her error when I looked at Stan. There was no mistaking the appeal in his eyes. Silently vowing to have a serious talk with my old friend, I turned back to Naomi.

Like Ruth, she wore a print blouse, dark skirt, and black stockings. And, like her mother, she was a beauty, albeit one with long blond hair and blue eyes the colour of a summer sky. When it came to luck, she’d won the jackpot. At least when it came to appearances.

In contrast to the women’s beauty, the room we were in was spartan. And immaculate. Friends have accused me of an obsession with cleanliness, but Ruth’s standards were a notch above mine. Cabinets, countertops, and kitchen appliances gleamed. Linoleum tiles glistened. Above a white-clothed table, a simple wooden cross stood out against off-white walls. The only brightness in the room was provided by a tiny patchwork quilt next to the fridge. Its reds and blues and yellows shone as brilliantly as a box of crayons.

“Wow!” I pointed to the quilt. “Ruth, did you make it?”

She nodded. “For my hope chest.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Thank-you,” she said. “I wish Caleb . . .but he’ll be here soon. I’d be grateful if you’d use the facilities and be on your way.”

“Right.”

The washroom was easy to find. I stepped inside the dark room and was about to search for a light switch when I glanced out the window. And bit back a shriek of alarm. Illuminated by a shaft of moonlight, a human face peered in at me.

            Resisting the impulse to run, I walked briskly back to the kitchen.

            “There’s someone outside,” I said. “Peeping through the bathroom window.”

            Stan jumped up from his chair and looked at Ruth. “Caleb?”

            She shook her head. “We saw it last night—a face in the window. My husband was upset. He went outside, but the person had gone.”

            “I’ll check it out,” Stan said, putting on his parka.

            “Give me a minute, and I’ll join you,” I said. Then I returned to the bathroom. When I looked out the window again, the peeper had vanished.