Farmed and Dangerous (13 page)

C
am arrived home and changed out of her nice clothes into jeans and an old sweater, glad to be home alone again. It'd been a long day, spent mostly talking to people. She'd read an article once about introverts and extroverts. Being around others fed the extroverts. For her, socializing and being in the company of folks, even those she knew and liked, drained her and made her hungry for solitude.

School should be out by now. She pressed Ellie's number, but the girl didn't pick up. She took a minute to walk through the farmhouse, with an eye to Albert navigating it in a wheelchair or on crutches. Marilyn was right. Not only would he have to get up the outside stairs, but also the only bedrooms were on the second floor. The couch in the living room wasn't a sofa bed, and she couldn't expect an elderly man to sleep on those narrow, sagging cushions. But if he wasn't safe at Moran . . .

She shook her head. After grabbing the egg bucket, she stuck her phone in her pocket and headed outside. What with Albert's health, plus a murderer on the loose, she didn't want to be without the lifeline of a cell phone even for a few minutes.

In the coop, in air becoming fragrant with the sharp tang of fresh chicken poop, she gathered all the freshly laid eggs from the past few days. She would clean up the droppings later in the week, when the weather warmed to double digits again. Definitely not today, though. She fed and watered the hens and closed them in, grateful the birds were all still alive, then carried the bucket to the barn to wash the eggs before she stowed them in the egg fridge. She slid open the wide barn door a few feet and slipped inside, then switched on the light and closed the door behind her.

“What the heck?” On the floor in front of her were two cat carriers. And the carriers were emitting the funny gargling speech of chickens. “Who's leaving me more hens?” An envelope sat on top of one carrier. She extracted a piece of paper and read.

The note had been signed “M&M.”
Great.
She had no idea who M and M were. The hens in the coop behind the barn had been rescued from certain death last fall. She supposed these had been headed for the same fate, except for different reasons. These were the fault of irresponsible owners who'd thought a few gallinaceous pets would be fun, until reality sank in.

She filled the egg bucket with water, then knelt and opened the door to one of the carriers. It held two birds. She was surprised they weren't wearing little name tags. The other carrier held two more. They were interesting-looking breeds. The silky golden one with a beard might even be an Ameraucana, the stupid but winter-hardy breed with the blue eggs. If she put them in the coop tonight, they might start fighting. If she left them in their cages, they could peck each other's eyes out or feathers off. And if she let them loose in the barn, they could end up eating something they shouldn't or getting stuck under the tiller. Plus, the air wasn't at all warm in here. But what if her current flock didn't like the new girls on the block? She sighed and pulled out her phone. She pressed DJ's number.

After she explained what she'd found, she said, “Will it be all right to put them in the coop with all the others?”

“It should be fine. They might peck at each other a little. But it's better than keeping them in those carriers—that's way too small of a space.”

Cam thanked him. “Plus, we're down one, anyway.” She told him the story of TopKnot's freezing death.

“No worries. These things happen.”

“Speaking of hens, somebody left a comment on the farm Web site, asking if our eggs were vegetarian. That is, if the chickens are.”

“We talked about that, right?”

“Right. I was glad I had an answer, and wanted to thank you. Some people are just clueless.”

DJ laughed. “Hey, while we're talking, let me tell you what my brother said about Ginger Montgomery.”

“I'm all ears.” She perched on a salt marsh hay bale away from the door.

“I told you Eddie worked on that housing development she did in Newburyport. He says he'll never work for her again. She cut corners, even with safety stuff, just to spend less money. She used cheap building materials and told them not to bother fixing stuff like cracks in the foundation. Said to just cover it up.”

“Sounds like bad business practice to me. That's got to bounce back at her one of these days,” Cam said.

“You'd think so, right? One time he overheard her talking on the phone to somebody about a loan she was supposed to be repaying. Eddie said she didn't seem particularly happy with whatever she was hearing on the other end of the line.”

Cam thanked him and disconnected. After she washed the eggs and refrigerated them, she carried the new members of her chicken family out to the coop. When she opened the door of the first carrier inside the coop, the birds didn't want to come out. She left the carrier on the floor with the door ajar. After she opened the other carrier, those two marched right out and started exploring. Hillary hopped off her roost and went to greet them with a few pecks. She cocked her head, as if studying their résumés, then returned to her nightly resting spot. The new ones apparently passed the test of membership. Cam had no idea which named hen was which. When their personalities emerged as time went on, she'd rename them. She reached into the carrier on the floor and pulled out the two shy chickens, one by one. The second, larger one squawked and tried to peck Cam's wrist, but when she set it down at the food tray, it stopped complaining.

She shut the coop again, dumped the empty carriers in the barn, and trudged to the house. Once inside, she cranked up the heat. She'd find a way to pay for the heating oil. Maybe next winter she'd put in a woodstove or one of those pellet stoves. For now, she wasn't willing to sit around wearing gloves and a hat indoors.

Her stomach complained bitterly of emptiness. She rummaged in the freezer until she found the single serving of lasagna she knew she'd stashed, and started heating it in the microwave. She poured a glass of red wine and munched on crackers while she washed a couple of handfuls of her own salad greens. Which reminded her of what Rosemary had said, that Pete thought Rosemary was also a person of interest. True, Rosemary had made the salad. She could have easily added poison to an individual plate of greens.
But why?

Ten minutes later Cam sat down to eat, the local
Daily News
spread out on the table. She idly flipped through the paper, noting that the Westbury Winter Festival was this coming weekend. It featured sledding and skating on Mill Pond, hot chocolate in the shed, and a snow person contest, weather permitting. So far it certainly appeared that there would be plenty of snow and plenty of frozen pond. December's relative warmth had given way to January's old-fashioned New England winter weather. With global climate change, who knew what February would bring?

Her cell phone rang. She didn't recognize the number but connected, anyway.

“Cam? This is Lou. From the debate.”

Lou.
“Hey, Lou.”

They chatted for a couple of minutes.

“Let's set that dinner date,” Lou said. “I mean, if you still want to.”

A stab of guilt hit Cam. She'd rather be arranging a dinner date with Pete. But she couldn't, could she?

“I'd love to.”

“Friday at Phat Cats Bistro? I can make a reservation.”

“I've heard about that place. Small, in Amesbury, right?” Ruth had mentioned dining there with her mother. Delicious and creative dishes, an intimate setting, friendly owners.

“Right. You'll love it. In fact, you should sell vegetables to them. They like to use local produce.”

“I'll check into it.” So far she'd batted zero, or whatever the sports metaphor was, in her attempt to secure a new contract for supplying locally grown veggies. But she might as well keep trying.

“Pick you up at six thirty?”

She agreed and said good-bye. She'd get a good meal out of the evening and some intelligent conversation. She wasn't marrying the guy or anything. And it could be that a little competition might make Pete realize what he was missing. Or maybe that was rationalizing her guilt.

She returned to the paper and paused on a short article below the announcement about the Winter Festival. Richard Broadhurst had applied for a small business loan to expand his orchard at Cider Valley Farm.
Interesting.
Did he believe he was still going to be able to buy Bev's land? With Bev's death, the property would surely go to Ginger and her brothers. Cam fully expected to see several roads lined with overly large homes on the property by next summer. Overly large and shoddily built, if what DJ's brother had said was true.

After she finished eating, she refilled her wine and carried it to her desk, running her finger along the smooth stem. She checked the farm's Web site, then paid a few bills and recorded the number of eggs she'd gathered. All that was under control. She rose and paced the length of her house and back. A killer roamed free. Albert might still be in danger. She hated the feeling that she couldn't do anything about it. She couldn't even talk over the case with Pete, as she had after the murder in the fall. Then he'd asked for her help in keeping her eyes and ears open in the community.

She needed to lose herself in something. She moved to the couch, clicked on the television, and started to watch an episode of the latest BBC mystery drama. It reminded her too much of the current mystery, and she switched to a cooking show. That shouldn't present any reminders of real life. But it featured a chef assembling
une salade composée.
The plated salads reminded her of Rosemary. Cam's mind jumped right back into Bev's murder. She switched off the TV.

Her sleuthing at Moran Manor had gotten her exactly nowhere. She searched her brain to figure out what else she could do. She found her phone and called Alexandra.

“Hey, I heard about Albert,” Alexandra said after greeting Cam. “Is he all right?”

“He will be. He's back at the residence. He's still a little confused, but he should recover. What we don't know is what actually happened to him. With the murder and all, I'm worried that he was attacked.”

“What does your detective say?”

My
detective. Not exactly.
Cam sighed but kept the thought to herself. “Detective Pappas said he doesn't have the resources to pursue that line of inquiry, especially since the doctor couldn't say if Albert hit his head in a fall or if somebody bopped him one.”

“I'm glad he's okay. But they should follow up on Albert. Maybe your friend Ruth can look into it.”

“Good idea,” Cam said. “Have you talked to Hannah, the one who is Richard Broadhurst's stepdaughter?”

“I meant to call you. I talked to her this morning. She said her mom and him separated a few months ago. She said he's not good with money. He likes to go down to Foxwoods, you know, the casino in Connecticut. She said he always returns with less money than what he took with him. Sometimes way less.”

“Boy, I totally don't get gambling,” Cam said. She sipped her wine. “Betting money on a game of chance seems crazy. And hanging around a big, noisy place with no natural lighting, to do it among a bunch of strangers who are drinking? Even worse.”

“No possible way I'd do that. Plus, I don't have any extra money to throw away. But back to Hannah. She didn't seem upset about Richard not living with them anymore. I don't think she ever liked him much.”

“So he and her mom are getting a divorce?”

“I'm not sure,” Alexandra said. “Hey, tell me how the hens are doing with this cold snap.”

“Oh, I have bad news.”

“More bad news?” She sounded horrified.

“This is small-scale bad.” Cam laughed and then related the story of TopKnot's demise.

“The poor bird. But don't worry about it. You can make stew out of her. Invite Lucinda over.”

“That would be local food, all right.” Cam laughed again.

“The rest are fine?”

“In fact, four new ones arrived last night.”

“You're kidding me.”

“No.” Cam told her about the “donation” she'd received, and that DJ had said she could go ahead and integrate them.

“Some people are just incredible,” Alexandra said. “I can't believe they would abandon their pets. Like, what if you hadn't found them? They could have frozen to death. Or killed each other in those close quarters. Who did you say signed the note?”

“They signed it M and M. No idea who that is.”

“Hey, I gotta split, Cam. Me and DJ are going to a movie. Tell Albert hi for me when you see him.”

Cam disconnected. Richard wasn't good with money. And from what DJ had said, Ginger might not be, either. She moved back to the computer and opened her “Moran Affair” file. She added the information about Richard's gambling and Rosemary being a suspect. She typed a line about Ginger's shoddy building practices.

Preston ambled over and leaped onto her lap. Alexandra had mentioned chickens killing each other in close quarters. Moran Manor fit the description of close quarters, too. Cam gazed with satisfaction around her solitary abode, shared with exactly no one except a cozy cat.

 

Shivering in the barn office the next morning, Cam checked the thermostat one more time. She'd switched on the space heater when she came in, but the temperature had risen only to sixty, even though it felt marginally warmer outdoors this morning than it had been. The clock on the thermostat read 7:15. She pulled her scarf more snugly around her neck and yawned. Her sleep had been troubled by what seemed like hundreds of thoughts and images. She'd awoken at least five times during the night and then had lain awake, restless, before sliding back into sleep. Her last dream before waking an hour earlier had first involved a banana farm on an island mountaintop and had devolved into Cam at the wheel of a vehicle packed with people, where she couldn't quite reach the brake pedal. The car had rolled backward into an ocean, and she couldn't stop it. She'd opened her eyes, grateful to be alone in her bed in Massachusetts in the middle of winter, despite feeling like her life reeled out of control.