Farmed and Dangerous (22 page)

I
n the hoop house a few minutes later, Cam uncovered the beds, leaving the row cover running in a long pile down the middle. With this kind of sun, and a warmer day, the greens could fry from the heat if she kept them covered. That last bed in the rear might even make it, after all. Lettuce had hearty roots. The rest of the crops had survived the cold snap and appeared healthy. Time to start cutting and digging for tomorrow's shares.

In the barn Cam walked to the back wall to collect scissors, her pitchfork, and a basket. She'd left Dasha in the house, after he and Preston had warily accepted each other's presence. She passed the entrance to the root cellar and kept on going. What if she'd been trapped down there for a couple of days? She wondered if she'd ever figure out who had locked her in. It had to be the murderer. Who else would want her out of commission? But the police hadn't found any clues in the barn as to the person's identity. Perhaps they hadn't searched well enough. She retrieved a large flashlight from the office.

Feeling just a touch like Nancy Drew, Cam knelt near the doors to the root cellar. She ran the light over every square inch. She wasn't sure what she hoped to find. A scrap of cloth caught on a screw, a dropped pencil on the ground, anything that might lead to the person who'd obviously lain in wait and then shut her in.

She sat back on her heels.
Lain in wait.
Where would the person have waited? Must have walked in from the road, because she hadn't heard a vehicle come or go. Must have come in from her neighbor Tully's field. Hidden inside the barn. A creepy thought. But she had enough equipment and dark corners in here that someone could have easily sequestered himself. Or herself. Hiding like that was such a risk, though. Cam would not try to understand the criminal brain, but she couldn't imagine hiding herself in order to hurt someone.

She was about to hoist herself up when the light in her hand flashed on a burst of color. She leaned over one of the bulkhead doors. Snagged on a splinter of wood were a few red threads. Her heart beat faster. This could lead to finding her attacker. “What would Nancy do?” she said aloud and then laughed. Now she was letting her actions be governed by a teenage detective. A
fictional
teenage detective.
The Case of the Red Threads.
She shook her head, and a giggle escaped. Nancy or not, she'd learned enough by now to leave the threads in place for the experts, but she wondered how the team had missed finding the clue.

A day's work still stretched ahead of her. She pressed Ruth's number, and when she didn't answer, she left her a message. Gathering her tools, she slid the barn door closed behind her to resume work where she'd left off. She trudged along the shoveled path to the hoop house, with three-foot-high snowy berms on either side.
Do I now need to start locking the barn as well as the house when I'm not in it?
What a pain that would be. But whoever had trapped her in the root cellar could return and wait for her again.

Cam didn't make it back to the house until one o'clock. Working in the cold and her lack of sleep from the night on a Moran Manor couch made her yearn to take a hot shower and curl up under a blanket for the rest of the day. She'd made a lot of progress in the past couple of hours, but she wasn't done yet. That plan would have to wait.

Dasha was whining at the door when she got there. Also, a box with a note on top sat on the stoop. The Wolf Meadow Farm logo was printed on the side.

“Hang on, buddy,” she called to Dasha. Luca must have looked for her in the barn and not found her. She grabbed the leash out of the house and clipped it onto Dasha's collar. Hoisting the box, she walked Dasha first to the barn to deposit the cheese, figuring it would stay cold enough, and then let the dog prowl around the property. He left yellow marks in the snow here and there. So different from most cats, who didn't feel the need to establish their territory in the same way, unless they were unneutered males. Which Preston was definitely not.

Under a tree close to Tully's field, Dasha set his legs and, looking up, barked over and over again. Cam craned her neck to see what had alerted him.

And then whispered, “Wow.” Way up on a branch sat another owl. This one loomed large and mostly white. A snowy owl. It would be unusual for the bird to be this far inland, ten miles from the coast. But she'd read in an article in the
Daily News
that the breed was abundant this year and that there had been other sightings inland, near bodies of water. Her farm wasn't that far from the Merrimack River, after all.

The owl turned its yellow, catlike eyes down on her and Dasha. The round white head remained motionless for several moments. And then it flew. Its broad wings beat silently with grace as it headed north over her house and toward the river.

“How about lunch, Dasha?” Cam said, smiling. Seeing the beautiful bird felt like a good omen. Not that she really believed in such things. But all the turmoil and worry of the week had melted away at the sight of this graceful wild creature. Life would get back to normal. She'd do her work, visit Albert, drink wine with Ruth. And she'd be able to spend time with Pete again. She nudged Dasha toward the house.

Inside, she shed her cold-weather gear. She fixed a peanut butter sandwich and heated up water in the microwave for a cup of tea. As she waited, she glanced at her wall calendar. What had she written in for tonight? It read, “Lou. Six thirty.” She squeezed her eyes shut and cursed. Bad timing. Pete had said he would call her later. He was going to come by and get Dasha. He was finally free to see her. And she had a date with another man. A nice, intelligent, friendly man. But this was super, extra intensely bad timing. Her brand-new good mood careened into the compost bucket.

Preston bumped his head against her knee. Cam opened her eyes. The date with Lou was still on the calendar. She reached down to pet Preston. She should cancel the outing with Lou. On such late notice, though? Claiming illness was kind of lame. Just fessing up would be the right thing to do. And the hardest, at least for her.

“What should I do, Mr. P.?” The microwave dinged that the minute was up. She threw an English Breakfast tea bag into the cup and stirred it down while munching on her sandwich. She wandered over to the computer. Avoidance would work for a little while. Bringing up her “Moran Affair” file, she stared at it. Was there anything new she could add?

Sure. Cyanide was the murder weapon. It was used in ant poison, film developing, salt de-caking, jewelry making, even seed germination. She'd meant to mention Rosemary's earring business to Pete but hadn't. She decided she needed to set up a spreadsheet, with column headings of Motive, Opportunity, and Evidence, and rows populated with the names of the people involved: Frank. Ginger. Richard. Rosemary. Oscar. Surely Pete and his team already had this. On a huge whiteboard, if TV crime shows had even a shred of realism. Her wide monitor would have to suffice.

She glanced at her phone. It whispered, “Call Lou.”

She brought her gaze back to the monitor. Motive. Well, that was the reason for the names, so she could easily fill it in. Except for Rosemary. The cook had no reason to wish Bev dead. Did she? For that matter, Richard probably didn't, either, unless there was a way he'd benefit from Bev's death that Cam didn't know about. Frank wanted money from Bev, but the way he'd threatened her made it sound like someone else would be the killer. But who? Ginger? The thought of someone killing her own mother gave Cam the creeps. Oscar had had an opportunity, since he'd delivered the trays. Cam had grown to like him. She hoped he wasn't a killer.

Leaning back in her chair, she avoided the call she knew she had to make for just a little longer and examined the screen. Richard and Rosemary. Both of them were trying to hide the fact that they were together. Alexandra had said she didn't know if Richard and Hannah's mother were divorced. That would be a reason to hide another relationship, for sure.

Oh, and the red threads. Ruth hadn't called her back. She added a section to her spreadsheet titled Unsolved Clues. Were there others? Nicholas thinking he had seen an Indian in the hall was a little dubious, but it also could be real. And what about—

Cam stared at the phone again. She took a deep breath and grabbed the phone before she lost her nerve.

“Lou, this is Cam Flaherty,” she said when he picked up. “About tonight . . .”

“I was just going to call you,” he said in a creaky voice. “I've come down with a bad head cold. I can't make it tonight, after all. I'm really sorry.”

Cam told him she hoped he felt better soon, he said he'd call her next week, and they disconnected. She smiled. Saved by the bell, almost literally.

C
am slid the barn door shut behind her and switched on the light. She set down the basket of parsnips and carrots she'd just dug from their low tunnel inside the hoop house. Drawing off a glove, she checked the time on her phone. At four thirty it was almost completely dark outside, despite the lengthening days. She frowned at the phone display. Pete still hadn't called. She only hoped that meant progress in the case. She yearned for their life together to return to normal.

She put the glove on again and surveyed the harvest on the makeshift table, a long board resting on sawhorses. Richard's apples, enough for a couple of pounds for each member. The parsnips and carrots, their whites and oranges making a pretty mix. A big pale green kohlrabi for each. Red Swiss chard and curly dark green kale. Potatoes, beets, lettuce. The balls of cheese. She would cut Asian greens tomorrow morning, before the shareholders arrived. And she planned to include a butternut squash in each share. She grimaced. The squash still sat in the root cellar. She didn't much feel like venturing down there alone. Which should be ridiculous. She was a farmer, and this was her barn, her root cellar.

Given the recent events, it wasn't ridiculous. But she didn't have to be completely alone. Dasha needed another walk by now, anyway. Cam strode to the house and clipped on his leash. He yipped his excitement and flew down the back stairs.

“Hang on, buddy,” Cam said, laughing and struggling to keep hold of the leash. They explored the yard together. After he'd done his business, Cam guided him to the barn, shutting the door after them. She let him off the leash. He busied himself investigating all the corners and smells of a working barn, while she opened the root cellar doors. This time the lights came on.

“Dasha, come here, boy.” When he obeyed, she patted him on the head. “Sit. Be my guard dog?”

He lowered himself to his haunches, front legs straight, mouth open, arctic eyes fixed on her.

“I'll be right up. Stay.” Amazed at how well trained he was, she took a deep breath and ventured down the steps. The cool air smelled of dirt and something a little sweet, with a touch of rot. One of the squashes must have gone bad. She searched the shelves until she found a kuri with a bad spot. At least the squash didn't touch any of its neighbors. Rot could spread and ruin an entire season's worth of storage. She set the bad kuri on the stairs so she'd remember to take it up and compost it.

She filled a bushel basket with the light tan butternut squashes, which were shaped like elongated incandescent light bulbs. Happily none of them showed any soft spots. She had lifted the bushel and was turning to climb the steps when a rumbling noise reached her ears. She froze. Her heart thudded at the sound of the barn door sliding open. She set the basket down slowly, quietly. Who had entered her barn?

Dasha barked. Would he defend her? He had a sweet temperament. Surely Pete hadn't trained him to attack.

“Hey, Dash,” Pete called. “Cam? Are you here?”

Pete. Only Pete.
Cam exhaled and mustered her voice.

“Down here.” She hoisted the basket and a moment later emerged from the cellar. “You about gave me a heart attack, Detective. I didn't know who had come in here. And, you know, last time I went down to the cellar . . .”

“Sorry about that. I was going to call first, but the day got away from me. In a good way.”

Cam lowered the basket to the floor at the end of the table. “Oh?”

Pete stroked Dasha's head. “Yeah. We arrested Frank Jackson for Bev's murder.”

Cam moved to Pete's side and squeezed his hand. “Congratulations.”

“What you said about his film developing broke the case. We found his apartment over in Haverhill and discovered cyanide salts. He was heard threatening Bev.” He ticked the information off on his fingers. “He's almost destitute and needed money for his debts with that Patriotic Militia group he and Bev both belonged to. And several witnesses, including you, placed him in the residence, in fact in her room, near the time of her death.”

“Did you ever find the caregiver who was pushing Nicholas Slavin around?”

“We did. It was one of the teenagers, a girl named Raya.”

“She's Ellie's friend,” Cam said. “I saw her pushing him last Saturday, actually. I didn't realize she did it regularly.”

“She admitted that she left him belted into his wheelchair in front of the musical pictures and went off to the restroom to make a quick call to her boyfriend. She was appropriately remorseful. But she didn't see Frank.”

“Did Frank confess to the murder?”

Pete frowned. “No. He claims he's innocent. But they all do.” He let out a breath, which condensed in the cold air into an evanescent cloud. “Can we talk in the house? It's cold in here.”

“I know. It's too big a space for the radiant heating to do much more than keep it from freezing. But I need to stay out here, because I'm not done arranging the shares. Come into the office. It's warmer in there. Oh, wait. Look at this.” She pointed to the red threads. “Look what I found. It must be from whoever locked me in the root cellar.”

He peered at them. “Good for you for leaving them there. Did you call it in?”

“I called Ruth, but she didn't call back.” Cam led the way into the office and perched on the desk. Dasha followed her and lay at her feet with his head on his paws. The smell of cold dog fur mixed with the full aroma of the moist growing medium. The seedlings had sprouted their cotyledons, and the tiny first leaves were happily greening up under the grow lights.

Pete faced her, pulling the door mostly closed. He unbuttoned his coat and stuck his hands in his pockets. “That's better. I have another interesting piece of news.”

“You won the Powerball lottery?”

“Close. We acquired a copy of Bev's will. Which she'd changed only last week.”

“Right before her death,” Cam said.

He nodded. “She left her entire property to Richard Broadhurst. It's notarized and legal.”

“What?” She stared. “Not to be sold to him at a discount, but given as an outright gift? Why?”

“We're all wondering that. Didn't you say he took her out last weekend, on the day before she died?”

Cam nodded. “And somebody told me he'd been taking her out a lot recently. Oscar? Ellie? I can't remember who told me.”

“She left a note in the will about wanting the land to be farmed. Maybe she was trying to keep her daughter from developing it. Anyway, it doesn't change the fact that we have a real suspect in custody.”

“So I'm now a legally admissible date again?” Cam lifted her chin and smiled just a little.

“You'd better believe it.” Pete sidled close to her. When he leaned in for a kiss, Dasha barked and tried to nose in between them.

Pete smiled. “Somebody's jealous.” The
Dragnet
theme rang from his pocket.
Dun dahDUN dun.
He gave Cam a quick buss, then retrieved his phone and connected.

“Pappas.” He listened for a moment, his gaze on Cam, his face increasingly alarmed. “Yeah. Got it. Send someone over and keep me informed.” He pressed a button on the phone and stood in silence.

“What?”

“Someone reported hearing shots over at Broadhurst's farm a little while ago. A neighbor called it in, said she heard gunfire from the house, and then Richard's truck tore out of there.”

Cam opened her eyes wide. “Rosemary, you know, the cook at Moran Manor? She said she was going home early today. She lives with Richard.”

“You're kidding. She must have lied to us about her address when we interviewed her.” He rapped his fingers on the desk.

“She was trying to hide her relationship with him, but when I pointed out that she was the one who had nearly run me down over there, she admitted it. She also makes jewelry.” Cam felt her ears. “I bought these from her.” She waggled her head, and the earrings danced with the movement.

“Jewelry makers also use cyanide salts.” He tapped the fingers of his right hand on the desk and looked uneasy.

“I know. I read about it. Last night.” Cam frowned.

“And you didn't think to tell me?”

“You're the detective. I thought you'd know.”

“Sure I knew. But I didn't know that Rosemary makes earrings and lives with Broadhurst.”

“And I didn't know about the will. Richard could have pressured Rosemary to poison Bev so he'd get the land now rather than later.” A cold unease spread through Cam. “But you said you arrested Frank for the murder.”

Dasha picked up his head and barked. He jumped to his feet and kept barking.

“Dasha, quiet,” Pete said. “Hush, boy.” He grabbed Dasha's leash and pulled him close.

“Sounds like you two have things all figured out,” a voice boomed, and the door swung open. A grinning Richard Broadhurst, in his red work jacket, filled the space. “Too bad all that information is staying right here.”

He slowly swung up his right hand and pointed a gun at Pete.