Farmed and Dangerous (21 page)

T
he rattle of a cart in the hallway woke Cam. She sat up and wiped a drop of drool from the corner of her mouth. She still clutched her phone in her other hand. It read 6:50 a.m. She glanced out the closest window. The pale dawn light showed snow everywhere but in the sky itself, which grew bluer as she watched. She looked around the room. The girls still slept.

Cam rose and stretched. She grabbed her bag, made her way to the visitor bathroom, and then followed the alluring scent of fresh coffee all the way to the kitchen, an aroma that put all thoughts of almond-scented poison out of her mind.

“Ah, Sleeping Beauty arises?” Rosemary gestured at an old-style coffee percolator atop the eight-burner stove. “I pulled that out of storage. Grab a mug and help yourself.”

“Did the power come on?”

“Nope.” Rosemary ran her hands down her white apron. “But with a gas stove and a box of matches, who needs power?”

“Can I help?” Cam gazed at the stainless-steel island, which was covered with several industrial-sized rectangular pans, a couple of bowls, and a mound of grated cheese.

“I'm making a major egg bake. Soon as the potatoes are done, I need to assemble it and get it into the oven. I don't want to waste generator power trying to toast a hundred slices of bread. But sure, you can help. Wash up over there.” She tilted her head at the big sink. “And then start cracking eggs into that big mixer bowl.”

Cam obliged. Two flats of eggs sat next to a huge metal bowl. She began to crack egg after egg, until dozens of pale yellow orbs swam in their clear fluid. She hadn't realized how accustomed she'd become to her own free-range hens' organic eggs, with their deep yellow yolks and their flavor to match.

Ellie wandered into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes, followed by Ray. Their sleepy faces and rumpled hair made them appear more like children than the almost adults they were.

“Good morning, ladies,” Rosemary said.

“Morning,” Ellie murmured.

Ray nodded, still looking half asleep.

“Ellie, cell coverage is back,” Cam said.

“Thanks. I'll call my mom,” Ellie said. “When I wake up.”

“Why don't you both freshen up, get yourselves a glass of juice, and start setting up the dining room?” Rosemary extracted a large whisk from a wide crock and began to beat the eggs. “The roads are still impassable. I'm going to need you to work this morning, until the rest of the staff can get in.”

Ellie nodded and turned. Ray followed her out of the room like a teen robot.

“I'm all set now, Cam. Thanks for lending a hand. Pop in, in about half an hour, and I'll fix you a plate.”

“Will do.” Cam topped up her coffee and walked down the hall to the lobby. She heard the scraping sound of a snow shovel on pavement. She gazed out the glass door. Oscar, bundled against the cold, was slowly clearing the walkway. A snow scoop leaned against the wall. Cam donned her coat and hat and swapped her shoes for boots. She slung her bag over her head and one shoulder. No way was she leaving it unattended with Ginger still on the premises. Pulling on gloves, she pushed through both doors.

Oscar glanced at her. Pink overlaid his dark cheeks. “If I told people back in the home country about this, they would never believe me. You here to help?”

“Flaherty Shoveling Service.” She smiled at him and lifted the snow scoop. She walked down the few feet of cleared walk and began to push the scoop into two feet of fresh snow. The tool was shaped like a mini plow, with a square-sided scoop and a U-shaped handle. She'd gotten the hang of using the one at the farm. She pushed the scoop until it could hold no more snow, then upended it along the side of the walk, packing the pile of snow before righting the scoop again. The wind had ceased, but breathing the clear air was like inhaling shards of ice. Her exposed cheeks stung, and the tips of her fingers numbed.

They worked together for half an hour, occasionally swapping implements. The one who scooped accomplished more clearing, and the shoveler cleaned up the loose snow the scoop tended to leave at the edges. When they'd cleared the walk nearly all the way to the parking lot, Cam stopped. She could feel sensation in her fingers again, and the hard work mitigated the effects of the cold.

“I need a breather,” she said. She glanced around. The sun now bathed every crystal of snow in light, making the universe sparkle. Branches bent low and gracefully under their beautiful burdens. The scene was a winter wonderland at odds with poisoned salads, midnight clandestine searches, and elderly victims.

“How did you pass the night?” Oscar asked. He laid both hands on the shovel handle.

“Uncomfortably. You?”

He stuck the shovel in a snowdrift, then pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it after checking the vicinity. “I figure if they have me working past my pay grade and job description, I deserve a smoke. But yeah, not that comfortable on a short couch in the staff room.”

“Tall people like us are at a real disadvantage.” She smiled at him again, but it turned into a frown. “I caught Ginger going through my bag last night, at around midnight.”

“That lady is a real number.” He shook his head and inhaled. “What did she think she was going to find?”

“She claimed it was a mistake.”

“Only mistake she made was taking up with Cooper. That guy is no manager. I don't know how he ever got the job.”

Cam turned to gaze at the building behind them. “How old is Moran Manor, anyway?”

“This residence was built only two years ago. The place was new when I started here. Before that, Moran Manor had been family run in a big old house in town. I suppose it's still family run, but the owners moved to Florida.”

“I saw a crack in the plaster upstairs a few days ago,” Cam said. “It might be cosmetic, like somebody put too much paint on. But if it isn't, a building this new shouldn't be showing problems like that. Unless it's just settling.”

“Oh, there are other cracks, I can assure you.” Oscar took a long drag on his smoke and then ground it out under his heel. He looked around again, picked it up, drew back his arm, and shot the butt high and far into the woods. “It's poorly built. Walls that aren't square. Receptacles that don't work. Drains that back up. And lots of cracks in the walls.”

“I wonder if the residents are safe. Have you raised those problems with the director? With Jim?” If Albert survived his fall, only to have a roof collapse on him, Cam wasn't sure she could bear it.

“Cooper does not want to hear about it.” Oscar let a breath out. He took the scoop out of Cam's hands and handed her the shovel in exchange. “I've got to finish this job. I'm sure I'm needed inside by now for several cantankerous male residents who want only me to attend to them.” He scooped toward the parking lot.

Cam didn't move for a moment. She was willing to bet the farm that Ginger Montgomery had been the Moran Manor developer. And her cozy relationship with Jim Cooper would explain her continued presence at the residence even after her mother's death. Cam hefted the shovel and tackled the walkway in front of the cars parked facing the residence, the first one being Ginger's snow-covered Lexus. At her fourth shovelful, she crunched into something. She dug under it, and there, in the pile of snow, was Ginger's bundle of keys. Cam laughed out loud. She used her sleeve to swipe a spot clean on the car's hood and laid the keys in the middle, resisting the temptation to write, “You're welcome,” in the snow on the windshield.

A large yellow vehicle with a wide scoop of its own lumbered into the parking lot from the road. The scoop lowered with a clunk. The machine began to clear the pavement, one swath at a time.

C
am stood in the kitchen, a hot cup of coffee cradled in her cold hands. Both girls sat on stools. Ray gazed out from under heavy eyelids, and Ellie had a dazed look about her, as well.

“Girls, you're free to go,” Rosemary said to the teenagers. “The roads are clear, and the regular staff is arriving.”

“Sweet,” Ellie said.

“I can give you both a ride,” Cam told them.

Rosemary yawned. “And Jim actually told me to head on home soon,” she said to Cam. “Apparently, he has a backup cook on retainer. I need to do lunch prep until the guy gets here, and then I am bound for my bed.” She grinned. “With my favorite opera singer.”

On her way out, Cam found Albert in the breakfast room and planted a kiss on his head. “I'll come over on the weekend to see you.”

He glanced up. “Do you mean tomorrow?”

“Today's Friday, isn't it? I totally lost track.” At least Albert had his sense of time back. “I'll be here tomorrow or Sunday. More likely Sunday, since tomorrow is share day.”

He nodded and tucked into his egg bake. Cam's stomach grumbled at the sight, but she decided to eat at home. One more minute than absolutely necessary in a communal setting and she might start screaming.

Outside the girls helped brush the snow off the truck. Both Ray's red and yellow knit cap and Ellie's purple pashmina scarf were spring flowers against the white snow. Cam dug out around the doors and shoveled away the plowed snow in front of the truck, glad she'd thought to back in yesterday.

When the way was clear, they all piled in. Rosemary's car halfway blocked the way in front, but Cam had room to edge around it. She got directions from Ray and headed toward her house near the river.

“I'm glad it's a snow day,” Ellie said.

“If ever one was justified, it's today,” Cam said. “Did you let your mom know you were on your way?”

Ellie nodded.

“I'm going to sleep all day,” Ray said.

“But both of you slept really well, didn't you?” Cam asked. She could sense their eyebrows rising without even seeing them.

“It wasn't that, like, restful,” Ellie said. “Plus, one time I woke up, and that Ginger lady was prowling around. It creeped me out.”

“She's super weird,” Ray added.

Cam dropped Ray off and then Ellie.

“Thanks, Cam,” Ellie said as she climbed out. “Hey, do you need help later? You know, with the shares? Since it's a snow day, Vince could give me a ride over.”

“Thanks. I might, but not until the afternoon. I'll text you.”

Ellie waved and waded along an unshoveled path toward the house. Cam waited to be sure she got inside safely. Right before she reached her front door, Ellie bent down and then, with a big grin, lobbed a snowball at the truck's window. Cam laughed, flipping on the wipers. She beeped the horn and drove toward home.

Ten minutes later she was stuck in her own driveway. She'd revved the Ford's engine and had swung off the road into her drive. And had promptly stalled out. She restarted the truck but couldn't get anywhere in reverse or plow her way farther in, either. A plow guy had convinced her to hire him, but he clearly had other jobs ahead of her driveway.

She forced the door open and stepped into snow up to her knees. “I'm home,” she whooped. She was exhausted, cold, and hungry. But she was no longer shut in with more than a hundred senior citizens and caretakers, plus one shady businesswoman who couldn't keep her hands in her own designer bag. She trudged to the house. She cleared the stoop in front of the back door by sweeping her foot back and forth until she could pull the storm door open. The turn of a key in a lock had never sounded so good. As soon as she entered, stomping the snow off her feet, Preston came at a run.

“Mr. P.” She leaned down and stroked him.

He gazed up, over at his empty food dish, and at her again.

“Give me a minute, big guy.” She slid out of her boots and into her fleece-lined slippers, then filled his bowl and petted his head a couple of times while he began to crunch the dry bits of food. She turned up the heat, brewed a pot of coffee, and fixed herself a piece of toast. Sitting with her mug of coffee, inhaling its rich roasted smell and gazing out at the snow reflecting off the winter wonderland, she longed to stay in the quiet of her house all day. But tomorrow was share day. And the chickens needed attention. Oh, and she had a truck to dig out. Then she remembered she was supposed to call Pete.

She pressed his number. After she greeted him, she said, “I'm home, but my truck is stuck at the edge of my driveway, and I don't know when my plow guy will get here. No way you'll be able to get in. Try to park at the edge of the road.”

“I'll be over in thirty, or as long as it takes me. Still all right to bring Dasha?” The dog barked in the background.

“Absolutely.”

Cam poured her coffee into a travel mug before she donned her work coat. Not wanting ever to be cold again, she pulled on snow pants and slid into her boots. If she hurried, she could feed and water the hens and then get her own shoveling done before Pete arrived. At the very least the path to the house and to the barn.

The hens were all alive, Cam saw with relief after trudging through the snow to the coop. Ruffles had lived, as well. He stood on the highest roost but hopped down and pushed the girls out of the way when Cam scooped feed into the tray. She brought water out from the barn to fill their receptacle, then cleared the snow away from the ramp down to the yard. A combination of shoveling and stomping flattened an area at the bottom of the ramp for them. A minute later Ruffles emerged and let out a couple of good crows from the top of the ramp.

Cam had to smile. Ruffles, despite his name, was such a guy. She didn't know if a fowl version of testosterone ran through roosters, but they sure had something that made them act differently from the hens. At least today he wasn't on the attack.

She drained her coffee mug and set it on the bench outside the barn. She shoveled a path from the barn to the hoop house and started on the path to the driveway. She'd made it nearly to the drive when a loud engine noise interrupted the crunching of the shovel and made her lift her head. A big red pickup with a yellow snowplow fixed to the front had pulled in behind her Ford. The truck reversed and came forward again. This wasn't her plow guy's truck.

“Who the heck is that?” Cam said aloud. Someone about to ram her truck? But why? Her heart began to race. While she watched, though, she realized that the driver wasn't malevolent at all. He was plowing out her driveway. Whoever sat behind the wheel deftly pushed snow to the sides of the drive and cleared the few feet between the road and the Ford. The plower then edged by the side of Cam's truck and cleared the rest of the driveway, banking the snow on the far side, where the perennial garden was now buried under not two, but four feet of snow. The driver wore a dark watch cap, but Cam couldn't discern the person's identity. When the truck made one more forward pass, Cam waved.

The driver rolled the window down. “Thought you might need a little help out here,” a woman's voice said.

“Sim,” Cam said with a smile. Her plower was none other than Simone Koyama, the local mechanic who serviced Cam's truck. Not a “he” at all. Cam trudged toward her. “Thanks. My usual guy probably won't get here for hours.”

Sim winked. “Didn't think you had a plow attachment for that old rattletrap of yours. Actually, your buddy Pete called and asked if I could help out.” The sunlight glinted off the silver rings in her nostril and right eyebrow.

“He did?”

“Yeah. I do this for extra cash, anyway, in the winter. When business is slow at the shop.”

“Let me pay you, then.” Cam started to turn toward the house.

“Forget about it. You helped me out last fall, remember?”

Cam wasn't sure she'd call it helping out, but when Sim had gotten somewhat over-involved after their friend Bobby was accused of murder, Cam had tried to talk her down.

“Go get your keys. I'll push you out of your rut and then plow where you got stuck,” Sim said.

“Great idea.” Cam hurried to the house. Two minutes later her truck had made it well up into the driveway. Cam climbed out and watched Sim clear the rest of the area.

“Gotta run,” the mechanic called, sticking her head out her window. “Lots more driveways on my list. You take care. Let's grab a beer one of these days.”

“For sure. Thanks so much, Sim.” Cam raised her hand in farewell.

She resumed shoveling the path. The smell of truck exhaust mingled for a minute with the scent of fresh snow and then dissipated. She wished she could click into her skis and head out into the woods on the virgin powder that now coated her ski trails. But first she needed to wait for Dasha and tell Pete more about the night. And get to cutting, pulling, and assembling the shares. Dani hadn't returned her e-mail, so she supposed there wouldn't be any maple syrup for tomorrow. Perhaps she could arrange a few dozen bottles for the next pickup day in two weeks. She hoped she wouldn't go broke paying for it. And then she remembered her broken ski binding. No skiing today.

A beep sounded. Pete pulled up in a dark blue car that looked a lot like a police cruiser, except without the markings or the lights. He parked behind the Ford. Dasha bounded out and nearly knocked Cam over with his greeting. Pete followed at a more sedate pace. He opened his arms to Cam. They stood for a moment in an embrace, not moving, not speaking. Cam closed her eyes and inhaled the delicious smell behind his ear.

When he pushed away, she let her arms drop. “Coffee?”

He nodded. “First this.” He laid a gloved hand on each side of her head and pulled her in for a long kiss.

“Mmm,” Cam said. “I've missed that.”

“How about a rain date for more of the same?” Pete squeezed her hand and held on to it while they walked to the house. “Unfortunately, I'm already late to work. I can't stay long.”

“Thanks for calling Sim. She did an amazing job, and it took her only a few minutes. My plow guy gets really backed up.”

“You can get a contract with Sim instead, you know.”

“Maybe I should. I wish I didn't have to pay anybody, but otherwise I'd either have to shovel it out or buy a snowblower. Winter's tough on a farmer's bank account, at least a snowy winter like this one.”

In the kitchen, she poured him a mug of coffee and gave it to him black. “What's that car you're driving?”

He nodded, shrugging out of his wool coat. “It's an official unmarked car. Change in policy. No personal cars while we're on duty.” He sat at the table, drumming his fingers. His sport coat fell open.

Cam spied his shoulder holster. “That looks like a different gun, too.”

“New service revolver, updated courtesy of the commonwealth.” He drew Dasha's leash out of his pocket and laid it on the table. “I don't want to forget to leave you this.”

“Thanks.” Cam set a bowl of water on the floor for Dasha before joining Pete at the table with her own mug. “So I was out shoveling with Oscar this morning. He said Moran Manor is only a couple of years old and it has a bunch of building issues already. I even saw a big crack in the wall. Do you know if Ginger was the builder?”

“Don't know. I can check into it.”

“I saw in the paper last night that the poison was cyanide. You knew that, right?”

Pete nodded again. “I wish they hadn't published it, but the news got away from us.”

“And you're investigating legal uses for it?”

“We are,” he said slowly. “It sounds like you have been, too. What did you discover?”

“One use is for developing film. Did I tell you about Frank Jackson and the sepia photograph?”

“No.” Pete glanced sharply at her. “What picture?”

“It's on the wall behind the reception desk at Moran. It's an artistic portrayal of the residence in the fall. I overheard Jim Cooper and Frank talking about it. Frank said he uses actual film, not a digital camera. And develops it himself. Jim wanted to commission him to do one in each season.”

“Why didn't you tell me this before?”

“Pete Pappas. Look at me. Were we talking at all this week?”

“Some.” His tone was defensive. “We talked about the case some.”

“Anyway, I read last night—while I was snowed in with no cell reception, I remind you—first about the cyanide and then about its use in film developing. And now I'm telling you about Frank's photograph.” She reached for his hand.

“Any idea where Jackson is living?”

“No. I told Ruth I'd seen him, though, and we both saw her talk to him after Bev's service, remember? She might have found out by now. If not, she needs to know. He must owe her a bunch of child support.”

Pete glanced at the wall clock. He stood and drained his mug. “I'm sorry, Cam. I need to go. I've been saying ‘I'm sorry' a lot lately.” He pulled a wry smile. “Soon I won't have to.”

“You mean—”

He held a hand up. “Soon I won't have to. At least on this case.” He leaned down for another kiss, then straightened. “I'll call you as soon as I can.”

Dasha jumped up. Tail wagging furiously, he gazed at Pete, then at Cam, then at Pete again.

“Sit, Dasha. I'll be back for you later.” Pete slipped back into his coat, stepped outside, and, with a longing glance over his shoulder at Cam, closed the door with a soft click.