Farmed and Dangerous (17 page)

F
airy flakes were falling when she pulled onto the road thirty minutes later. The snow remained light and dry from the cold. Mostly, the flakes just flew around, but a layer formed on the trees and the berms of the country road. Switching on the headlights, she drove slowly and checked the edges of the road for tire tracks or any other signs of her attacker, but came up empty. If there had been any tracks in the old snow, the thin new layer of white had obscured them.

Cam stayed in second gear all the way down the steep slope of Attic Hill Road until it joined Bachelor Street. Bachelor had evolved over the centuries into a wider thoroughfare, and plenty of locals treated it more like a speed track than a rural lane. So far no one had raced past her. She passed the ball fields on the left, the tops of the outfield fences barely sticking up out of the accumulated snow, the scoreboard bereft of numbers. From spring to fall this park bustled with children in baseball or softball pants and cleats, parents holding the ubiquitous traveling coffee mug, and younger siblings running and sliding on the playground beyond. In summer the gazebo near the public senior housing hosted a Thursday evening outdoor concert, which was attended by all generations. It echoed a warm, safe season. Not how this winter was going for Cam, exactly.

Now the park lay empty save for one energetic soul clicking his feet into a pair of cross-country skis. She slowed. That man could be the one who had locked her away. She peered at him. It didn't appear to be anyone she knew.
Get real, Flaherty.
She'd go crazy if she thought any random cross-country skier had malicious intent. Plus, he'd be long gone by now. She watched him head out on the trails that led into the town woods. Cam would do the same in her own woods at home tomorrow if this didn't end up being a three-foot storm. Breaking trail in thigh-high fresh snow took a ton of work, not the kind of labor she cared for.

As she stopped at Main Street, the light snowfall became a squall. The Ford's wipers could barely keep up. But she knew how to drive in wintry conditions. She'd grown up in Indiana, and she'd often visited Albert and Marie at Christmas.

She waited, peering in both directions, until the way was clear, and made her left. A quarter of a mile later she rounded the bend, heading toward the small town center. A wide, low boat of a car, like one her grandmother had driven, approached from the other direction. Cam could barely see the driver's head above the steering wheel, and not because of the snow.

The car started to slide toward the middle of the road. The driver could be her attacker. Cam swore. She eased her truck toward the right as far as she could go. The car kept coming. Hitting the brakes wouldn't help. Neither would stepping on the gas. She'd just go into her own spin. She maintained a slow, steady speed, at one point scraping the curb.

At the last second before impact, the nose of the old car turned away. It straightened out. Cam watched its tail fins come toward her, but the driver corrected out of the fishtail and vanished around the bend.

Cam, sweating, glanced in the big side mirror. What stroke of luck had produced exactly no cars following her? Plus, the driver of that car was more likely to be a senior citizen than the person who'd locked her in. She let out a whistle of thanks at escaping a collision and then swore again. She wrenched the steering wheel and turned into the Westbury Food Mart parking lot. She'd almost forgotten to get something for Albert for his birthday, which didn't fall until the nineteenth. He was alive, though, and that was something to celebrate. Every day, if need be. And for today, she was alive, as well. She hated to picture having survived being shut in her root cellar, only to be run into by a senior citizen and to land in a snow pile, or worse.

Warm air and smells redolent of baking and spicy meats welcomed her when she pushed open the door to the small grocery store. The new husband-and-wife owners, a French-Brazilian couple, had recently added a small bakery to the rear. Georges, the husband, baked baguettes worthy of a Parisian bistro. Patricia, his wife, created delectable savory turnovers stuffed with spiced meat and vegetables, as well as desserts that featured egg yolks, sugar, and coconut. Cam wasn't sure how they managed also to run the store, but they seemed to have won over the mostly white, extremely provincial local population with their fresh-baked offerings.

She grabbed a plastic shopping basket and headed for the pastry aisle. A couple of those meat turnovers would be just the ticket for Albert. His doctor had forbidden him from eating sweets because of his diabetes, but he was always complaining about the food at Moran. When Cam had joined him for dinner, she'd never had a bad meal. She supposed the routine of institutional food could wear on a soul, though. She used the available tongs to slide three still-warm turnovers into a bag labeled
PASTEIS
TURNOVERS
and then into the basket. He could warm them in the toaster oven in his room. She had no idea why they were called
pastéis,
but they were delicious enough for it not to matter.

When she came around the end of a row by the registers, she nearly ran into Ginger Montgomery, who faced a man wearing a trim dark beard. His jeans and Carhartt barn jacket nailed him as someone who worked with his hands.

“Eddie, this is no place to be having this discussion. See me in my office tomorrow.” Ginger folded her arms and pursed her lips.

“I'm not coming into your office ever again. You want to cheat people, you can do it with another carpenter.” His voice rose. “And this is a great place to have this discussion. Everyone in town should know about the unethical way you do business.”

Cam realized the man speaking had to be DJ's brother. That was why he looked familiar. Eddie, who had worked for Ginger. A man standing in the checkout line turned his head, as did the woman behind the register.

Ginger saw Cam. Her eyes blazed. “What are you looking at?”

Cam held a palm up. “Simply doing some shopping, Ginger.”

Ginger turned and marched out of the store, head high, her ire trailing behind her.

“Eddie, I'm Cam Flaherty,” Cam said to the man. “You're DJ's brother. He's been helping out at my farm.”

Eddie threw one last glance after Ginger, then turned to Cam. “You bet. DJ's my baby brother. I've heard a lot about you, Cam.” He smiled and offered his hand. His hair was brown, whereas DJ's was light, and his build was a little stockier, but their voices and heights were similar, as were their genuine smiles.

“He also mentioned something about Ginger Montgomery's business practices.” Cam lowered her voice and cocked her head.

“Yeah. It's a rotten situation. I've had it with working for her.”

A plump woman walked toward them, holding a tray full of turnovers. Short dark hair curled over huge green eyes and the widest smile Cam had ever seen. She balanced the tray in her left hand and held out her right.

“I am Patricia Cook,” she said. “I am one of the new owners. You like the
pastéis?
” She gestured at the bag of turnovers in Cam's basket.

Cam examined the label. “The turnovers? I love them, and so does my great-uncle. I'm Cam Flaherty. Very nice to meet you.” She wanted to ask how a Brazilian got a last name like Cook, but didn't. The previous owners, longtime town residents, had maintained the market, but the place had needed an update after they retired, and these owners had turned out to be a good fit.

“So nice to meet you, too.”

“This is Eddie, um—”

Eddie broke in. “Eddie Johns. And I'm a big fan of those turnover things.” He winked at Patricia.

“Good to meet you, Eddie.”

“Do you happen to know my friend Lucinda DaSilva?” Cam asked Patricia. Their accents were similar, although Lucinda was more fluent in English every time Cam saw her.

Patricia's face lit up. “You are the
fazendeira.
We will buy some of your stuff in the springtime. You know, strawberries and lettuce, and vegetables.”

“I'd like that. I'll stop in with samples in May or June, once the growing season gets going. Thanks.” This could take the place of the failed Moran Manor idea, if it worked out.

“Very good, very good.” Patricia bustled away.

“Are you going to have trouble finding work?” Cam asked Eddie.

“No. People know I'm good at what I do. I tried to get her to change the way she operates.” He pursed his lips and gestured with his chin toward the door. “But she wasn't having it. She'll be lucky if someone doesn't sue her.”

 

Cam pulled into the Moran Manor parking lot at exactly four o'clock. She hadn't managed to arrive early, but she was here. Being shoved into and trapped in the root cellar had rattled her, as had sliding in the snow. The parking lot was particularly full, probably because of all the relatives joining in the monthly birthday party, but she found a slot to back into. The sudden snow squall had passed, and while white flakes continued to fall, the volume was still as light as a sprinkling of powdered sugar. Carrying a pair of loafers in her bag so she wouldn't need to wear her snow boots once she arrived indoors, she trudged past a black sedan and then stopped. The sedan was streaked with white dashes of road salt. And bore a bumper sticker that read
JEWELERS DO IT WITH STUDS
. She reversed her steps and peered at the license plate, her snort at the bumper sticker's message mixing with a zing of excitement at finding the car that had nearly hit her at Richard's this morning.
Now to find the driver.

Inside, she removed her coat and shook the snow off it before hanging it on the guest coatrack. She changed into her shoes and then signed in, gazing once more at Frank's portrait of the residence. The way he'd captured shadows and light made it a fine piece of art. She turned toward the common room. The sound of conversation mingled with glasses clinking and soft notes from a classical guitar. Albert emerged from the elevator in his wheelchair, with Marilyn leaning on her walker at his side.

“Cameron, you made it.” He waved and gestured her over. He was still more pale than usual and seemed diminished somehow. But a big smile split his face, and his eyes crinkled with pleasure.

Cam leaned over to embrace him. “You're looking great. Nice to see you, Marilyn.” She smiled at the older woman.

“Shall we go in?” Albert didn't wait for an answer. He spun his wheels and headed for the party.

Marilyn winked at Cam. “I can't tell you how glad he is to be in his own room again.”

She ambled behind him at Marilyn's pace. “What about the confusion?” Cam kept her voice low.

“He hasn't said anything goofy in a couple of hours.”

“So it must have been disorientation from being in the hospital. The doctor said it would clear with time.”

Marilyn nodded.

They entered the busy room. Albert sat at an empty table. Other residents clustered with younger family members at tables and in a row of chairs around the perimeter of the space. A long sideboard displayed hot and cold appetizers, and another held bottles of red and white wine, cider, and sparkling water. Twin boys about the age of Ruth's daughters sat with their mother and grandmother. One boy read a book, moving his lips, while the other played on a small digital device, his feet kicking the legs of his chair. At the far end Ginger Montgomery sat picking out a classical guitar tune. So she could play more than old sing-along favorites.

Marilyn pulled out a chair at Albert's table, maneuvered herself from her walker, and plopped down with a satisfied sigh.

Cam set down her handbag. “What can I get you both?”

“I'll take a glass of red, Cameron,” Albert said. “Strictly for my health, you understand. Cider for you, Marilyn?”

“I might try half a glass of red, as well.” Her cheeks pinkened. “Just to keep you company.”

Albert whistled. “That's quite a bit of company coming from a teetotaler like you, my dear.” He raised his eyebrows and patted her hand.

“Oh, hush. A girl can try something new, can't she?”

Cam left them to their sweet talk and brought back two glasses of wine. She went back for another for herself and then brought three plates full of food to the table. She sat facing away from Ginger. She didn't need any more anger from her, not even a glowering look.

“This place goes all out, doesn't it?” She tasted a small pastry. “They must have gotten Patricia to make these little meat pies. Oh, and I brought you some, Albert, but I left them in the truck. Rats.” She started to stand.

“Sit down, now. They'll keep.”

She obliged but figuratively smacked herself on the forehead for forgetting.

Albert tasted a pastry for himself. “You're right. This is a tasty piece of cooking. Thank you for thinking of me. They'll freeze nicely out there. I can warm them later.”

“Who is this
Pah-
TREE
-see-ah?
” Marilyn asked, mimicking Cam's pronunciation.

“She's Brazilian and one of the new owners of the Food Mart. That is the way she said her name, but I'm sure it's the same as Patricia. And, man, can she ever bake.”

Jim Cooper walked into the room and tapped a microphone on a pole positioned at the front. “Hello, everyone,” he boomed. “Happy birthday to our January residents.”

Refrains of people saying “Happy birthday” echoed around the room.

“We're so glad you all could come. Before we sing, I want to welcome you to enjoy yourselves as long as you'd like. It is snowing out there, though, so don't delay your departure for long. Now . . .” He gestured to Ginger, who switched to the familiar tune.