Farmed and Dangerous (10 page)

“Detective, I have other patients to see. We'll talk tomorrow.” Dr. Fujita turned away, balancing a tablet on her left hand, tapping something into it while she walked.

Pete gazed at Cam. His face softened. “How are you holding up?”

“How do you think? Over at the Manor they believe I'm a murderer. My favorite relative is in there, injured and newly senile. My favorite chicken just froze herself to death. And my new boyfriend can't consort with me and doesn't seem to care how Albert is doing, only when he can question him. Oh, and I'm off to debate a representative of an agrochemical giant. I'm having a really awesome day.” She turned toward the bank of elevators down the hall.

“Cam,” Pete called out.

“Your rules,” she said without turning toward him. She was nervous enough about the debate and would be lucky to get through the evening intact. She didn't need her relationship troubles to mess with her head. They'd already messed with her heart.

D
espite the discussion having gone on for forty-five minutes, the attendees in the packed library at Hamilton Academy listened closely, several sitting on the edges of their chairs, others nodding or frowning. Cam's presentation had gone well, she thought, despite how nervous she'd been at the beginning. She'd had to keep reminding herself to breathe.

Paul Underwood stood at the podium to her left, her opponent on the forum. He had prepared well and several times had included the usual defense of “The EPA approved this chemical as safe for use on food crops.” He wore an immaculate gray suit with a perfectly knotted green tie. Cam was glad she'd gone with her own power outfit.

She'd stressed the importance of increasing organic material in the soil through the addition of compost and maintaining a diverse environment with insects, plants, air, and water in balance. It appeared to go in one of Paul's ears and out the other, but it gained vocal approval and encouraging nods from the audience.

Lucinda stepped in and opened the floor for questions. “Please either use the microphone in the center aisle or speak loud and clear. I'll repeat the question before our speakers address it.”

A man around Cam's age stood. He had black, curly hair pushed away from his forehead and a lively expression on his face. He made his way to the microphone.

“What we need is to feed our soil correctly. Organic doesn't matter if the plants can't be healthy because their soil is lacking in nutrients. And when the plants get healthy, they can withstand pests and diseases, so farmers don't need to apply pesticides and herbicides. Bionutrient-dense feeding is the wave of the future. And that future has to happen now. We can build a healthy, sustainable food supply without chemicals of any kind.” He sat. A ripple of applause went through the room.

“Did everybody hear that?” Lucinda asked. At the roomful of nods, she gestured toward Paul and Cam.

“That sounds very interesting, although it's new to me,” Cam said. “I do a soil test, of course, and amend accordingly with minerals like greensand. Let's talk afterward. I'd like to learn more.”

Paul leaned into his mike. “Nothing to add.”

A white-haired woman in the audience stood. “Where can I learn more about composting? And I'd like to know, why isn't the school composting their food waste from the kitchen and the cafeteria?” Lucinda repeated her questions for the audience.

“I can't address the second comment, but of course I am in favor of composting,” Cam said with a smile. “As for the first, you can find how-tos on the Web. And if you check out the Northeast Organic Farming Association, you'll find links for local workshops and probably even videos. If all that doesn't work, come on down to the farm this spring and I'll be happy to walk you through it.” At the ensuing applause, she added with a smile, “You can all come. Composting is a big part of my operation.”

This was going better than she'd expected. No one had asked her forum partner a question yet, and people seemed happy with what she'd offered.

A ruddy-faced man in a plaid shirt stood. Cam thought she might have seen him at the Haverhill Farmers' Market when she sold there last summer.

“If I didn't spray my crops, I'd have nothing to sell,” the man boomed. “Paul here knows all about the pros and cons of using his products. Like he said, there's nothing wrong with using them on your vegetables and your fruit trees. And you're not going to feed the world population on a few dinky organic farms. It's fine for you locavores”—he said the word like it was an obscenity—“but it's not efficient.”

Scattered applause broke out.

Paul waved at the man. “Thank you, George. Eliminating world hunger is one of our company's goals.” Cam watched him smooth the lapel of his jacket, like he thought himself the company president.

“And aren't you the lady farmer who had a couple murders on your farm up to Westbury?” the ruddy-faced man continued. “What? You killing them off with all your fancy organics?”

A collective gasp resounded.

Cam swallowed. “A poor man was killed on my farm last June, it's true. I had nothing to do with it, and neither did my growing practices.” She started sweating under her jacket.

The woman who had asked about composting looked at Cam and started clapping. Others in the audience joined in. But not all.

A man with a full head of dark hair streaked with white stood. He waited for the applause to die down.

“I'm Luca. I own Wolf Meadow Farm, an artisanal Italian cheese company.” He spoke with a lilting accent. “We make organic mozzarella, ricotta, and other southern Italian farm cheeses from local organic milk. Like back home in Molise. My customers would have it no other way.” He sat.

Lucinda took the mike. “All right, everybody. Are there any more questions pertinent to the topic?” She surveyed the room and nodded at a man, who stood.

“My name is Louis Dispenza. Studies show there's a link between glyphosate and Alzheimer's disease,” said the man. Appearing to be in his early forties, he sported a tie and a tweed jacket. He spoke in a loud and clear voice. “How can you, in good conscience, continue to sell your herbicide G-Phos?” He stared at Paul Underwood.

Paul tapped his pen on the podium. “We've been over that ground. The EPA has approved our products for use on food crops.”

“Does your company ever reconsider? What about the ethics of giving dementia to people with a career in landscaping or farming? Don't you personally care about that?”

“I have nothing more to say.” Paul raised his chin.

The man shook his head and sat down.

“If there are no more questions, we've set out refreshments in the rear,” Lucinda said into the microphone. “I'm sure our guests will stick around and continue the conversation.” She thanked them both. “Let's give them a big hand.”

Cam remained at her podium, trying to stay smiling, during the applause. She was exhausted, and Lucinda still expected her to schmooze. The guy in the tweed jacket approached her, his dark hair contrasting with patches of silver at the temples. He stood a few inches taller than Cam.

“Great information, Ms. Flaherty. I'm Lou Dispenza. I'm a science teacher here at the school.” He held out his hand, with smile lines branching out from green eyes over rosy cheeks. “My students call me Mr. D.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. D.” Cam shook his hand.
Warm skin and a firm grip.
“Call me Cam, please.”

“And I'm Lou. Assuming you're not enrolling in class here.” He chuckled.

Lucinda approached. “Glad you two have met. Nice job, Cam.”

“Thanks. Sounds like you both read the same study about Alzheimer's and glyphosate.”

Lou nodded. He glanced at Paul, who was talking with a small group clustered around him. “Not that it's going to change their practices.”

“Come and take some refreshments,” Lucinda said, gesturing to the rear of the room.

Cam girded her proverbial loins for more socializing and walked toward the food, still chatting with Lou. She accepted a glass of cider from Lucinda and spent several minutes thanking people for coming and answering questions about organic practices. When the crowd thinned, the man who had mentioned bionutrient-dense feeding approached her.

“I have to run, but let's talk sometime soon. My organization offers workshops, as well.” He handed her a card.

Cam thanked him and said she'd call. The room began to empty out. Lucinda started to tidy the refreshment table, and Lou returned to Cam's side.

“I, uh, wondered if you'd like to grab a bite to eat sometime. It appears we have a lot in common.” He smiled a little tentatively.

A bite to eat?
Was that a date? She was temporarily free of romantic entanglements, after all, thanks to Pete. “Sure. That sounds like fun.”

With his left hand Lou held up one of the farm brochures she'd left on the table Lucinda had provided for information. He did not wear a wedding band. “I have your number. I'll give you a call soon,” he said, his smile now more sure.

“I look forward to that.”

As he walked away, Lucinda looked after him and then at Cam. “Nice work,
fazendeira,
” she said in a low voice, with a wicked grin. “He's smart. And one of the hottest bachelors around.”

 

Cam made it home by nine thirty and threw a thick sweater on over her outfit. She'd accepted an invitation for a “bite to eat” with Lou. How wise was that? Then she scolded herself.

“He didn't make a marriage proposal. It's simply dinner with an interesting man. That's all. Right, Preston?”

He jumped onto the couch and nestled next to her. She stroked his head as he purred. The heck with a few cat hairs on her skirt.

She couldn't believe the G-Phos rep had gotten away with saying what he did. He'd kept repeating the same line. “The EPA blah-blah-blah . . .” He obviously had supporters, like the man who had said he couldn't feed his customers if he couldn't spray his crops. With chemical fertilizers and pesticides, undoubtedly.

DJ would have had a better response than hers, which had been no response. He would have asserted the value not only of organic but also of permaculture-designed farming. Cam remembered reading about a one-hundred-acre farm in Wisconsin that used organic permaculture methods successfully, and about farms in Australia that were hundreds of acres in size doing the same. She chided herself for not coming up with those examples on the spot. She had smarts, but she wasn't quick on her feet when interacting with people. One of the many reasons she avoided public speaking.

She checked her phone, hoping the hospital hadn't called. That kind of news could only be bad. Nothing from Anna Jaques, but Ellie had rung her. Cam glanced at the time. Ellie had first texted and then had called at around six. Cam must have been either driving or visiting Albert. And she'd turned her phone off during the debate. The text read only,

 

 

She listened to the voice mail message.

“I heard something on Sunday. I didn't want to tell you in front of my mom. Call me.”

Cam saved the message and disconnected. Ellie'd heard something, on Sunday, the day Bev died, that she didn't want her mother to know she had heard. After nine was too late for Cam to return her call. Cam would try to find her after school let out for the day tomorrow. Ellie should be able to find a place to talk where her mom couldn't overhear. Cam felt a little uneasy about Ellie hiding information from her mom, but Cam could always tell Myrna if necessary.

She pulled the sweater close around her neck with cold fingers. Some rummy cider would warm her up. In the kitchen, she extracted a half gallon of local cider from the fridge and poured three-quarters of a mug full. She added a cinnamon stick and two whole cloves to the mug and nuked it in the microwave. The cider would be a lot tastier mulled at a low heat for a couple of hours, but by then she'd be asleep. She added a generous splash of Turkey Shore rum and a little Cointreau. She topped the cider with a dusting of cinnamon. When she raised the mug, the fumes made her eyes water.

She swung her feet onto the couch and sipped the toddy, its heat warming her hands, as well as her insides. If Pete knew about the text, he would urge Cam not to try to do his job. Ellie trusted Cam, though, in a way she clearly didn't trust Pete. Once Cam knew the story, she would pass it on to Pete. She supposed. Being a person of interest criminally had transformed her into a person of no interest romantically, at least for Detective Pappas. She had to accept it, but she didn't have to like it.

Bev's service tomorrow morning would involve another onslaught of socializing. For now, Cam needed to relax and be alone. She gazed at the lace curtains Marie had hung years before. Were Marie and Bev sitting in heaven, playing cards together right now? Marie and Albert were Catholic. Cam wasn't sure she shared their view of an afterlife. She tended more toward the carpe diem school of “right now is all we have.” Unfortunately, she'd seen more than one dead person. It had been clear each time that after death the essence of the person evaporated from the shell of the body. Was it the soul that left? Did it migrate into a newborn baby somewhere or gather on heavenly clouds or merely dissipate? Cam didn't know. But it was certainly comforting to picture all those who had gone before gathered in a pleasant place, doing whatever they liked without fear of sickness or death.

C
am called the hospital in the morning to ask about Albert. The male nurse on the floor said Albert's health had improved, but he still seemed confused about his surroundings.

“He will likely be discharged today or tomorrow.”

“Can I talk to him for a minute, please?” Cam asked. The nurse said he'd connect her to Albert's room.

After Cam had waited over a minute, someone picked up. Cam heard a shuffling noise and then, at last, Albert's voice. But he sounded faint, like he was speaking from a long distance.

“Uncle Albert? Are you there?”

“Who is it?” Albert said.

Cam could barely hear him. Then she heard the nurse's voice. “Mr. St. Pierre, it's your great-niece. But you're holding the phone upside down. Here.”

“Cameron?” This time Albert came in loud and clear.

“It's me, Uncle Albert. How are you this morning?”

“Well, I've been better. The party went on all night long.”

“The party?” So he was still confused. Maybe she could reach the doctor and ask how long it would last.

“They were making a ruckus right next door. Talking and carousing. I asked them to keep it down, but they didn't pay me any mind a-tall.”

“That's too bad.” Cam kept her voice sympathetic. He was probably misinterpreting what he heard the nurses and aides say among themselves. “Listen, I wanted to tell you I'll come by and visit a bit later today. I'm going to Bev Montgomery's funeral this morning.”

“Why, I must go, as well. Listen, son, I need to be getting out.” His voice became more distant. He had to be talking to the nurse. “Beverly was good to my Marie, and to me. Have to pay my respects.”

Cam didn't catch what the nurse said, but then he came on the line.

“Sorry about that. Your uncle is a bit agitated.”

“Please tell him I will represent him at the service for his friend. And that I'll come see him directly afterward.”

Poor Uncle Albert. She only hoped his confusion would clear once he returned home. She checked the clock. Bev's funeral would begin at eleven o'clock. Cam still had a few hours for work.

The air still tasted bitterly cold outside. Inhaling hurt, and she slid on the iced-over snow packed on the paths. Preston followed but didn't have a problem keeping his footing.

“You're lucky to have four feet instead of two, Mr. P. Although you could have stayed in that warm house, you know.”

Preston didn't reply, instead dashing off to chase a slate-colored junco off its perch on a fence post.

Cam checked on the chickens first thing. All the remaining birds were still alive and accounted for. She freshened the hens' food and drink but kept them closed in with the light on. She checked the lettuce flats she'd planted, started two more of spinach, and added water to the trays under the flats so it would wick into the cells. All the beds in the hoop house were still covered. She threw her own kitchen scraps into the worm bin.

As she worked, she thought through the recent events. Why would the doctor be thinking of discharging Albert already? It could be an insurance issue. The forum last night had gone passably well, aside from her being called a murderer. Again. Lou seemed kind of interesting. She would have to see how their dinner went, if in fact he called her. She liked Pete, but she found it hard to stomach that he needed to shun their relationship for work reasons. She missed the closeness they'd developed. She wondered if he missed her in return.

In the barn office, she checked the list of what she had to offer in the shares on Saturday. The portions looked scant. What else could she include? Cheese would be nice. An image of the guy who had spoken last night, the cute Italian, appeared in her mind. Luca of Wolf Meadow Farm. A ball of his cheese in each share would be perfect. He'd said he used local organic milk. Maybe he'd give her a wholesale price. If she left early, she could stop by the store on the way to the funeral.

When she finished working and went into the house, Preston came along. Even with his two layers of fur, he didn't want to stay out for long in this kind of cold. Cam showered, then dressed in her outfit from the night before. She donned her good black wool coat and headed out to buy some cheese.

 

“Welcome,” Luca said. He came out from behind the cheese counter with a big smile and open arms. “What can I help you with?” The shop was empty except for the two of them.

“I was hoping to buy some cheese from you to give to my shareholders.”

“How about some samples before you decide?” He returned behind the counter, then drew out three wedges of cheese and a slender knife. “This is many people's favorite, the aged truffled farm cheese.” He sliced off a piece and laid it on a square of paper.

“Mmm,” Cam said, savoring the nutty flavor.

“But our specialty is mozzarella.” The sounds that rolled out of Luca's mouth made Cam feel like she was in Italy instead of Westbury. He fished a white, squishy ball out of a bin of water and offered her a slice.

“Wow. That melted in my mouth,” Cam said when she finished it. “That's nothing like what we get in the supermarket. Would you give me a wholesale price on thirty balls of it? I distribute shares on Saturday.”

“We're both local. I am happy to. I make it fresh on Friday and deliver to your farm.
Bene?
”

Cam smiled and thanked him, then said good-bye. Luca said something she didn't understand as she climbed into the truck, and she drove off with Italian echoing in her ears. If she ever saved enough money for a vacation, she'd head straight for Italy.

Almost no spaces remained in the parking area of Oneonta Congregational Church. Cam squeezed the truck into a spot that hadn't been well plowed, crunching the snow-piled berm with the truck's nose. She made her way into the church with only minutes to spare, glad of the tread on her boots. An organ played a kind of dirge, one of the reasons Cam had stopped attending any kind of religious service in her teen years. Her idea of worship was more about being outside, under God's sun and sky, than about sitting on an uncomfortable wooden bench and listening to depressing tunes.

The sanctuary was nearly full and smelled of incense mixed with overly sweet flowers. On an easel in the front sat an enlarged copy of the same picture of Bev that Cam had seen at Moran Manor. Two vases of tall flowers flanked it, but she didn't see a coffin. Ginger sat in the front right pew with several others. Two had to be her brothers. Richard Broadhurst sat in one of the forward pews on the other side of the aisle. Oscar sat in a rear pew, with hands in his lap, his head bowed.

Cam spied Ruth in a pew halfway toward the front on the left and slid in next to her. Ruth, in dark slacks and a soft purple sweater stretched over her hefty figure, squeezed her hand. A moment later, Alexandra and DJ slid in from the outer aisle on the other side of Ruth. They brought a whiff of fresh air. Cam leaned toward them and gestured a greeting. Alexandra smiled in return, while DJ closed his eyes and crossed his legs meditation-style on the bench, laying his hands, palms up, on his knees.

“So this isn't really a funeral?” Cam whispered to Ruth. “No casket.”

“Right. The state couldn't release the body yet, but the family wanted to hold the service now.”

So the receptionist had been right.
Good.
She had been to one open-casket funeral and hoped never to have to repeat the experience. Knowing in her mind that someone had died was enough. She didn't need visual proof.

The organ music changed to something stirring, and the minister came to the altar. He spoke several platitudes, he led them in a song, and then he read from the Bible. Cam cast a glance around, noticing community members she had seen in the Food Mart but didn't know by name. She spied Felicity in a pew on the other side. Jim Cooper, the Moran Manor director, sat across from her. Then a thin man edged into a seat behind Felicity. Frank Jackson.

Cam nudged Ruth and pointed. Ruth's eyes widened. She sighed and gazed back at Cam, who could only imagine the thoughts and feelings roiling in Ruth's head.

A man rose from the front row and made his way to the podium.

“I am Bill Montgomery. My brother Tom and my sister, Ginger, and I would like to thank you all for coming. Our mother was taken too young, but I want to share some of my memories of her.”

He went on to talk about Bev's childhood, her marriage to their father, and their farm.

“When my brother Mike died last year, it kind of took the wind out of Mom's sails, and we hoped she'd be happier at Moran Manor. But she had a hardworking life and was good to the people she loved.” He swallowed hard and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “Let's remember her for that.”

The minister stepped to the podium. “Let us hold Beverly's soul in our hearts as she journeys on. If anyone present would like to stand and share a memory, please feel welcome.”

The music started again, quietly this time. If Albert were here, he would offer his story of how good Bev had been to him and Marie. Cam could tell his tale for him, but after the forum last night, she felt about all shared out.

A woman who said she had been a Grange friend of Bev's told of how they'd worked together to keep the rural nature of the town alive, and she made people laugh with a tale of a Halloween party they had thrown, with both of them in costume, one as a carrot, one as a stick.

Someone else rose to speak of how her family had been close to Bev's and what a good mother she'd been.

Cam studied her hands, trying to muster the energy to speak on Albert's behalf. Ruth nudged her.

Frank stood. “Bev and I were in the same, um, club. She was a good friend to me. She didn't deserve to die the way she did. May she rest in peace.”

A murmur rustled through the room. The club had to be the Patriotic Militia, a violent anti-immigrant group they'd both belonged to. Cam assumed Frank still did. Hardly a social club. And he was the first to mention how Bev had died. Cam felt she had to counter that, for Albert. She stood and took a deep breath.

“I am Albert St. Pierre's great-niece. He couldn't be here today, but I know he would want me to share with you how kind Bev was to him and his wife, my great-aunt Marie, when she lay dying a few years ago. Not only did Bev cook and care for Marie, but she also did farm chores so that Albert could be at Marie's side. He has told me this more than once, and I know how much it meant to him.” She sat. Ruth patted her hand.

The minister stepped forward again. He appeared about to speak when Richard Broadhurst stood. He began to sing “Amazing Grace.” The minister appeared startled. Richard turned sideways and opened his arms, his hands inviting everyone to sing along. Several others stood and joined him in the song. Ginger rose and began to harmonize. The minister smiled and gave a nod to the organist, who played along. Soon the entire church was singing in unison.

Cam's throat thickened. Something about singing in a group always got to her, especially when it entailed such a beautiful song in a spiritual place, despite what she thought of organized religion. She pictured Albert and willed him to recover so she could tell him about this moment. And so his service wouldn't be the next in line.