Bernadine Fagan - Nora Lassiter 01 - Murder by the Old Maine Stream Read Free Page A

a little doubtful, too.
    “You were their best computer analyst, weren’t you? Didn’t you get that Employee of the Month plaque a while back? I seem to remember you telling me.”
    “Yes. All past history.” Unfortunately.
    “Like your fiancé? Or do you think you’ll get back with him?” Her brows shot up in question. “Reconcile, maybe?”
    “That’s not happening.” I shook my head, more to dislodge the last awful scene with him and his bimbo in my shower, than to deny the likelihood of a reunion. “He’s history. Let’s not spoil this beautiful day by talking about any of this. I want to walk through the woods and see my old house this morning, then go with you to see Aunt Hannah and Aunt Agnes.”
    I sat down at the table. “Have you seen any moose in the woods around here lately?” I asked casually.
    “There was one around back about a week ago. Haven’t seen him since. Nothing to worry about. Mating season doesn’t start for another few weeks.”
    I was about to ask what mating season had to do with anything but decided to let that go.
    Over breakfast, Ida said, “The old logging trail you kids used as a shortcut is still there. JT plows it from time to time to keep it open. Not sure why. He hardly ever comes here to visit anymore. Anyway, you won’t get lost. Just take the bridge over the stream. You’ll remember the way.”
    She glanced at my feet. “Wicked smart boots you got on. Chic, I guess you’d call ‘em. Maybe you’d better change into something a little more substantial for trekking through the woods. Help yourself to anything in the closet upstairs.
    I thought my knee-high Bally boots were sturdy, but perhaps she was right. Didn’t want to scrape these.
    I went back upstairs, pulled on a pair of heavy socks and found ankle-high walking boots that probably belonged to some long-dead uncle, dusted them off and yanked them on. Unattractive, and definitely too large, but necessary.
    Woods are dangerous. You need heavy boots.
    I was careful on the trail. I walked head down, conscious of each step, knowing there were things here to be avoided at all costs, things like moose droppings and deer stuff. Scat, they called it.
    There were even animal potholes. Of course, I knew they were not called potholes. I scared myself with the thought of animals waiting to pop up and get me, so I walked cautiously. Ever alert. It goes without saying that I was continually on the lookout for moose. Didn’t want to run into any of those. How scared I was as a little kid when my brother Howie told me he’d seen a moose lurking around our driveway, and if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up as moose meat. Of course, I later found out they were plant eaters, but still… .
    Unbidden, came mental images of skunks and weasels and porcupines. Getting shot with a quill could probably kill a person. At the very least, it would hurt like hell.
    Snakes? Could there be snakes? More vigilant, I stepped over broken branches and around small trees, on guard for any threat. I took my mace canister out of my bag and shoved it into my pocket for easy access. Like a gunslinger, I was ready.
    The sun was visible through the burnished leaves fluttering above my head. Birches. I knew birches, the ones with the white bark. The morning frost had long since vanished, but bad weather was on the way. Red sky at morning, sailor take warning.
    I wasn’t sure where the property lines were, probably the stream off to my left. I could cross it ahead. Some of this land belonged to JT, some to Great-grandma Evie or Great-aunt Ida. What a feeling. Family woods. Once, Indians roamed here, hunting, making camp. As I stepped around a fallen branch, I pictured an Indian gathering firewood. My mind leaped from the Indians to my ancestors and I pictured Lassiters walking these same woods, maybe even this same trail, over a century ago. The sudden feeling of connection I experienced was so unexpected, I stopped dead in my tracks. But only for a