Til Dirt Do Us Part (A Local Foods Mystery) (3 page)

S
im drove off on her motorcycle after saying she had customers waiting at her shop. Cam trudged back to work, with the news weighing as heavily on her as a bushel of new potatoes. She stopped and leaned against the southern wall of the barn, its rough wood warmed by a sun finally shining through the morning gloom, wood Bobby had hammered into place all summer long.

Poor Irene. Cam tried without success to banish the image of hungry, snuffling pigs chewing on Irene’s flesh. She fervently hoped Irene had been dead or at least unconscious before that happened. Who would have gone so far as killing Irene? And why on Howard’s farm?

The thought that cheery, hardworking, flirty Bobby was missing, and did not know his stepmother was dead, also disturbed her deeply. She had to admit to herself what she hadn’t said to Sim: maybe he had argued with Irene and somehow had accidentally killed her. And then had left town. She shook her head. It would be the act of a guilty person, not a grieving innocent.

Cam shook her head again. She had a farm to run. It was the police’s business to figure out what had happened, not hers. She grabbed a pitchfork from inside the barn and emptied the tomato vines from the cart into the bin holding the newest compost ingredients. She forked finished compost into the cart from the last bin in the row of four. The dark crumbly matter, more valuable to the soil than gold, was the result of mixing spent plants with fall leaves, horse manure from a neighboring farm, grass clippings, and kitchen waste. Cam turned the compost as often as she could. She sprinkled it with water as she worked and then let air, microorganisms, and worms do the rest of the work of breaking down the mix. She tried to find time, or sometimes a volunteer, to shift the working compost from bin to bin every week or two, which mixed and aerated it. By the time the compost hit the last bin, all the rough ingredients were combined, broken down, and ready to nourish the soil. As long as it had enough air in the process, the friable mix smelled as fresh as newly turned soil.

This particular cartload was destined to nurture next year’s garlic crop. Cam dumped it on the recently vacated tomato beds and headed back to the barn. She brought the bag of seed garlic, a small knife, and a basket out to a picnic table Bobby had knocked together for her. As she sat separating the bulbs of Music and German Red into individual cloves, she searched her mind for where Bobby might be. Maybe he’d had an accident, too. Maybe he was sick in bed. Or maybe he was a killer on the run.

One of the bulbs was particularly tight around its central stalk. This was stiff-neck garlic, the kind that grew in a single row of fat cloves around a pencil-thick stalk. She also needed to plant the soft-neck garlic. It featured several concentric circles of cloves, so some were smaller, but it kept longer than the stiff-neck varieties. She’d made garlic braids out of the soft-neck garlic at the end of August, and customers loved them.

Cam poked the point of the knife into the middle of the tight bulb to try to separate the cloves from the stalk. She jabbed at it as if that would get Bobby found and would bring Irene back to life. The knife slipped and pierced her palm instead. She swore as she dropped the tool.

A rumble from the driveway made her look up from her wound. The rental truck loomed. Cam pressed her other thumb to the cut as she directed the driver back to the tent. He and a helper, a young man Cam had seen bagging groceries at the Food Mart earlier in the year, set to work collapsing the tables and chairs, while Cam fetched a bandage from the house for her palm. When she returned to the tent, the driver approached her, holding something white.

“Found this under a table.” He gestured behind him with his head. “Somebody must have dropped it.”

Cam thanked him. It was a small envelope, unsealed, with nothing written on the outside. She opened it and drew out a slip of paper. She glanced at it and looked up with a quick movement. Had the man read what was written on it? But he had returned to his work. She read it again.

The message in all capital letters was a threat. She’d bet a bushel of heirloom tomatoes it was meant for Irene Burr. Or maybe Irene had threatened someone else. The real question was, who was it from? She slipped the paper back into the envelope and strode to the house, holding the envelope by one of its corners. She checked Albert’s yellowed phone list on the wall and dialed the numbers for the Westbury police station. She asked for Ruth Dodge.

“It might be connected to Irene Burr’s death.” Cam tapped the countertop as she waited on hold.
Or I’ll tell what I know,
the note read. If it was for Irene, she must have harbored secrets she didn’t want made public knowledge. And if it was from Irene, who in town feared a secret revealed? Cam’s own life had been pretty straightforward up to now. Sure, she had a fear of fires based on an incident in her childhood. If that became generally known, it would be more embarrassing than dangerous. She was an adult. Shouldn’t she have been able to master the fear by now? But a secret that would allow someone to threaten her with disclosure of it? She had nothing.

“Pappas here,” a voice barked into her ear. “Who am I talking to?”

Oh, crud.
“Detective Pappas, what a pleasure,” she lied. “It’s Cam Flaherty.” It had been anything but a pleasure working with the state police detective last June. He had to be in the local station, which could mean only one thing. Irene had been murdered.

“Ah, Ms. Flaherty.”

“I heard my customer Irene Burr is dead.” Cam didn’t want to use the words “was killed,” but the fact that Pappas was on the phone pretty much assured Irene had been murdered.

“Who did you hear it from?”

“A friend of Irene’s stepson’s.”

“Name?”

“Sim Koyama. She’s a mechanic—”

“I know who she is.”

Cam summoned up her inner adult, not an easy task in the face of his responses. “So I’m sure you already know Irene was at an event at my farm last night.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, this morning, just now, in fact, the tent guy—”

“Tent guy?”

“I rented a tent. Guys from the rental company are here taking it down. One of them found an envelope on the ground and . . .” She rushed on, worried he might be losing his patience. “It has what I think is a threatening note in it.”

“You
think?
”

“Look, Detective. Am I not doing the right thing? The guy found it, I read the note, and I walked straight into my house and called the authorities. Do you want to see it or not?”
Sheesh.
He was the one who had accused her of withholding evidence after Mike Montgomery was murdered on her farm. No wonder she’d heard less than positive gossip about Westbury’s finest and their statie colleagues. Although Pappas didn’t live in town, this area in the northeasternmost corner of Massachusetts seemed to constitute his state police beat.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll come pick it up. I wanted to ask you a few questions, anyway. Be there in ten.”

Nice of him to ask if now was a good time.

Apparently reading her mind, Pappas said, “If you’ll be available.”

“I’m here. Separating garlic.”

“What the . . . ? Oh, never mind.” The phone clicked off.

Cam finished splitting the last bulb into cloves. The discarded papery sheaths from the bulbs floated out of the basket on a new breeze.

The rental-agency truck was backing out when Pappas pulled in fast, nearly ramming the truck. Luckily, the driver leaned on the horn and the detective managed to swerve out of the way. Cam winced as she watched from the picnic table. The wheels of Pappas’s older-model Saab dug into the edge of the perennial flower garden Great-Aunt Marie had planted and lovingly tended until right before her death a few years earlier.

Pappas approached Cam. His shirt, open at the neck, bore a web of wrinkles, and one side of the collar hid under his sport coat, while the other point skewed over the jacket. The laces on one of his black walking shoes flapped as he walked.

“You want to sit down?” Cam pointed to the bench on the other side of the table. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him so disheveled. It was kind of a nice touch. In her earlier dealings with him he had always been neat to the point of fastidiousness. He seemed more human this way, less of an automaton.

He remained standing, so Cam stood, too, and slouched against the table. She didn’t know if her two-inch height advantage bothered him or not. In her experience, most men didn’t enjoy having to look up at a woman.

They exchanged brief greetings before Cam said, “I’ll get the note. It’s in the house.”

Pappas shook his head. “First, show me where the dinner took place.”

Cam gestured toward the back of the farm. She didn’t know what he expected to find. The tent and furniture were gone. This wasn’t the scene of the crime, anyway.

“I assume the fact that you are investigating means Irene was murdered,” Cam said as they walked.

He nodded but didn’t meet her eyes.

The closely mowed field where the tent had stood still bore signs of trampling from the guests, servers, and rental-agency guys. Clouds threatened the hour of sunshine that had blessed the day.

“Sim also told me Bobby Burr is missing,” Cam said. “Have you had any luck finding him?”

Pappas walked away from her without answering, tracing the perimeter of the field. He narrowed his spiral with each cycle until he stood in the middle, his hands empty.

“I heard this Sim person threatened Irene.” Pappas turned toward Cam. “Is it true?”

Uh-oh.
“Who did you hear that from?”

“Did she?”

“It was simply conversational, I’m sure. I don’t think Sim would hurt anyone.”

“Is she a close friend of yours?”

“No. I only met her last night.”

“I’m amazed at your confidence in people you know nothing about. Did Simone Koyama say, ‘I’m going to get her’ in regard to Irene Burr?”

Cam nodded. Better to keep her mouth shut than get in deeper than she already was. She wondered if Sim had a criminal record. Or, for that matter, if Bobby did. He was a competent and attractive carpenter. Cam had no idea if he or Sim actually had it in them to kill someone.

“Mr. Ames was also overheard arguing with Ms. Burr.” Pappas rubbed his head.

Cam looked down at the matted grass without seeing it. She wondered who from the dinner had been talking to the police so soon. This was all taking on a surreal aspect, as if Pappas had had Irene under surveillance even before her death. She shook the thought off. It was a small town. People talked.

“Ms. Flaherty?”

“Yes. Wes Ames opposed Irene’s plan to buy the Old Town Hall. I’m sure he wouldn’t kill her simply to stop a sale, though.”

Pappas raised his left eyebrow. “By the way, what did you do after the dinner was over last night?”

“I cleaned up and—” Cam stared at him. “Why do you want to know?”

“It’s policy. Need to establish whereabouts of all concerned parties.” He sounded like he was reciting from a manual.

“I didn’t kill Irene, if that’s what you mean by ‘concerned.’ I cleaned up and went to bed. It had been an exhausting day.”

“What time did you go to bed?”

“I think it was ten forty-five.”

“Anyone else on the property at that time?”

“Not that I know of.”

“All right.”

“I need to get back to work. Do you want the note?” At his nod, Cam led the way to the house. They walked in silence. As they neared the house, he spoke.

“What is it with you and murder . . . ?” Pappas’s voice trailed off, sounding like he was almost too tired to finish the question.

“It’s nothing with me and murder! You know I wasn’t involved in Mike’s murder. It just happened to occur in my greenhouse. And it’s not my fault people argued with Irene at the dinner. Or that she turned up dead.”

“Yeah. Don’t get all defensive on me. Where’s this reputed note, anyway? You’re not the only one who needs to get back to work.” He sank onto the top step of the back stairs.

“I’ll get it.” Cam let the screen door slam—maybe that would wake him up—and headed for the kitchen counter. She stopped and stared. The countertop looked the same as she had left it that morning. And there was no white envelope next to the phone. She checked all her pockets. Empty except for a piece of twine and a short pencil. Cam picked up the heavy black rotary phone, which must have been new four decades earlier. No note behind it. Nothing under it. She checked through the clutter. No note. What had she done with it? She thought back. She had walked in, put the note down, called Pappas, and gone back out to her garlic on the picnic table in the yard.

Gone back out.
A chill crept around her heart. Before she’d resumed separating the bulbs, she hadn’t locked the house door. When she’d shown Pappas the tent site, she thought they’d be out there only a minute, out of sight of the house for only a brief time. She knew she’d left the note on the counter. But it wasn’t there.

Cam groaned. Now what was the detective going to think of her? He’d never believe her story. She decided to get the scene over with as quickly as possible and called to him to come in.

He obliged, grumbling, “Just hand over the evidence, Ms. Flaherty. Some of us have jobs besides planting garlic.”

She shoved her hands in her pockets. “The note is gone. I left it right on the corner of the counter. It’s not here.”

“Oh, criminy, Cam.”

His use of her nickname startled her. He’d always addressed her as either Cameron or Ms. Flaherty.

“Where did you see it last?” He cocked his head.

“I know it was here when I called you. All I did was go sit outside and split up garlic bulbs. In full sight of the house, I might add. Then we walked out back, where we weren’t in sight of the house. Maybe whoever wrote it wanted to get it back and was watching me.” Cam raised her eyebrows and cocked her head.

“Jeez, Louise. Either you have an imagination fitting a fantasy writer or you’re . . . Well, let me know if this reputed note ever reappears. And don’t waste my time unless you have something actually in hand, all right?”