Free Cutter's Run by William G. Tapply Page A

our orchard, over there.”
    Even from that distance I could see that the trees were heavy with red fruit. They had been planted in perfect lines, so that the orchard made a patchwork-quilt pattern on the hillside.
    “The river’s down there,” she said, indicating the valley between the meadow where we sat on Arlo’s back and the orchard on the hillside beyond. “It’s the boundary between this property and ours.”
    “That must be the same stream that passes under some of the back roads around here,” I said. “I’ve often wondered if it held trout. I’m interested in moving water.”
    “When I was growing up,” she said, “the boys used to catch trout from it. I don’t know about now. I’m not much for fishing. Let’s take a look.”
    Before I could tell her that I just wanted to go home and call the sheriff, she clucked to Arlo, who began to canter down the sloping meadow toward the stream. I had no choice but to hold tight. As we approached the line of alders and poplar trees that marked the streambed, I could see that it looked more like a pond. It had flooded the valley, so that some of the poplars stood knee-deep in water. They still held their leaves, which had begun to turn into their autumn yellow. A forest of gnawed-off stumps rimmed the flooded area.
    “Beavers,” I said.
    Susannah nodded. “A hundred years ago it was dammed. There was a tannery over there, on our side of the river, and the water turned some machinery for them. A family named Cutter ran the tannery. My great-grandfather bought the property from Cutter after the tannery went out of business. He planted the orchard. Around here they call the stream Cutter’s Run. The dam blew out a long time ago. This is definitely beavers.”
    New beaver ponds, I knew, made prime trout water. I made a note to explore it sometime.
    We gazed at the water for a few minutes. Then Susannah leaned back against me. “Want to head back?” she said.
    “Yes. I’m anxious to get hold of the sheriff. Anyway, Alex is expecting me for lunch.”
    “Will you tell her about me?”
    “What about you?”
    She chuckled. “That I followed you here, took you for a ride, made you hug me?”
    “Did you?”
    “What?”
    “Did you follow me?”
    “Of course not. I was just kidding.”
    “I’ll tell Alex, yes. Any reason I shouldn’t?”
    She patted my hand where it held her hip. “None whatsoever.”
    When we got back to my Wrangler, I slid off Arlo’s back and held my hand up to Susannah. “Thanks for the ride.”
    She gave my hand a quick squeeze. “Let’s do it again. There’s a lot of country around here you can see best from horseback.”
    “Sure. I’d like that.” I scratched Arlo’s muzzle and told him he was a fine animal. I started to get into my Jeep, then stopped. “How can I find Mr. Hood, do you know?”
    “I know how you can find him,” she said. “Getting him to talk to you might be another story.”
    “He’s not friendly?”
    She smiled. “Hoodie don’t take kindly to strangers askin’ questions.” Susannah’s Down East twang sounded perfect. “If you want,” she said, “I could introduce you. He likes me.”
    “I bet he does.”
    She laughed. “I’ve known him since I was a baby.” She shrugged. “I’ll let you draw your own conclusions. How about if I drop by this afternoon, take you over there?”
    “That’d be great. Thank you.”
    “Bring Alex.”
    “I’d intended to,” I said.

CHAPTER 9
    I T WAS A FEW minutes before one in the afternoon when I got back. The muffled click of typing from Alex’s office told me she was still working.
    I took the cordless phone onto the deck and called Sheriff Dickman’s office. He was off-duty. I asked to have him call me. “Please tell him it’s important,” I said. Then I tried his home number. His answering machine picked up. “It’s Brady Coyne,” I told the machine. “I really think something has happened to Charlotte Gillespie. Please give me a