Farmed and Dangerous (9 page)

A
fter she arrived home twenty minutes later, Cam felt like she moved in slow motion, as if she were walking underwater. She fixed herself a sandwich, poured a glass of milk, sat at the table. While she ate, her mind stayed with Albert and with all the questions arising. She couldn't help at the hospital, but she didn't want to be at home, either. She ate slowly. Preston reared up and rubbed against her knee, then purred as she petted him with her free hand.

She moved to the desk and started the computer. Usually, if she wrote things down, they became more clear. Her mind worked best when she could see a problem in front of her. This particular set of problems wouldn't be solved with the logic statements of a computer language, but at least if she listed everything she knew, she could examine it all in one place.

She opened a file and named it “The Moran Affair.” She typed, “Did someone hit Albert on the head?” She typed, “He didn't have any enemies. Had he seen something suspicious around the residence and asked the wrong person questions? He seemed nervous after Miss Lacey's death.”

She added lines for Bev's death. And for Bev's difficult relationships with Ginger, Oscar, and Frank. She typed, “What was the poison that killed her? How had the police or the medical examiner or Pete even thought to test for a poison?” Before this morning she could have called Pete and asked him, but that door was closed for now. She wiggled her cold toes in her slippers, then glanced up to see the curtains stirring as cold air seeped in through the leaky windows.

She included what Ellie'd said about Oscar working in the kitchen. Cam didn't know a thing about poor Miss Lacey, but she added a line for her death, as well. Next time she went over to Moran Manor, she'd ask around, see if the deceased woman had shared any friends with Bev, or enemies, for that matter. She saved the file. Sure enough, getting everything down in black and white had calmed her nerves. Opening a browser, she navigated over to the farm Web page. Someone had left a comment on the page titled “Community.” She peered at it.

“Are the eggs you sell from vegetarian chickens?”

“As if,” Cam said aloud and began to type a reply. She'd discussed this issue with DJ in the fall, anticipating this moment.

“Chickens are omnivores. Our free-range birds feed outside all day in their natural habitat, which includes worms, bugs, and insects. Another farm might confine their hens and give them only nonanimal feed, but not this one.”

Her phone buzzed. She posted the comment and then connected the call. Lucinda spoke.

“You all set for tonight,
fazendeira?
”

“Tonight?”

“The forum. At my school's library.”

Cam swore. “Um, sure, all set.”

“You don't sound that sure.”

Cam filled her in on Albert's situation. “But it appears he'll probably be okay. And I did a bit of preparation for the forum last night. So yeah, I'll be ready.”
I hope.

“Wow. Well, give him a hug from me. I like that old guy. He's a class act.”

Cam said she would. She got directions to the school from Lucinda and disconnected. Then groaned. The forum. The last place she wanted to be tonight. But a commitment remained a commitment.

She checked the clock on the monitor. Two thirty. She'd better spend more time preparing, checking her research, finishing her slide presentation. She would swing by the hospital on her way and visit with Albert, or at least sit with him if he was asleep. She'd need to leave at around five to fit all that in and still get to the school early. Make it four thirty. She hated being late.

Shivering a little, she shoved her chair away and went to check the thermostat. She'd set the room temperature to seventy, but with the frigid wind outside, the old boiler in the basement couldn't keep up. Even though the thermostat read sixty-six in the room, the air felt colder than that. She threw on a heavy wool sweater and wrapped a scarf around her neck. And then lit the burner under the teakettle.

On her way back to the computer, she checked her digital indoor-outdoor thermometer. No wonder her boiler couldn't keep up. The display on the device read five degrees. Good thing she'd kept all the beds in the hoop house covered.

Her phone buzzed again. Felicity was on the other end.

“Cam, I heard about Albert. Is he going to be all right?”

“That's what they say. They are admitting him to Anna Jaques, but he doesn't need surgery, and it didn't appear to be a heart attack.”

“Someone told me he fell in his room. Did he have a stroke? Or did he just trip?”

“I don't know. They're doing more tests.” She kept quiet about her, and Pete's, suspicions of someone striking Albert.

“Well, I hope he heals soon.”

“Thanks. I'll tell him when I go back over there,” Cam said. The teakettle started to whistle.

“I also wanted to let you know that my father keeps talking about something he saw. As you know, he has dementia. And he often doesn't make a bit of sense. But he says he saw Bev's killer.”

“Really?” Cam felt a whoosh of excitement. “Who did he see?” The kettle split the air with its needle of urgency. Cam let it go. She moved into the far corner of the living room.

“That's the part I can't get out of him.” Felicity sighed. “I wondered if you'd stop by and see him next time you're around. He seemed to like you a lot the other day. Perhaps a fresh face would prod his memory. What's that sound, Cam?”

“The teakettle is boiling. Cover your ear. I'm going to go turn the burner off.” Cam dashed into the kitchen, where steam raced angrily from the cherry-red kettle's spout toward the ceiling. She turned the burner off. “Sorry about that. Anyway, I'd be happy to stop by and see your dad. But I may not get over until Albert is released from the hospital. Which I hope will be soon. You should let Detective Pappas know, too.”

“Good idea. I'll call the station,” Felicity said. “Let me know when you'll be by, and I'll meet you there to talk to Dad.”

“Will do. Listen, I think it's best that you don't tell anybody else that your father thinks he saw the killer,” Cam said. “We wouldn't want anything to happen to him.”

“Yikes. I never thought of that. What a terrifying prospect. Somebody stalking Dad. He's nearly helpless.”

Cam squeezed her eyes shut in a grimace. She'd never gotten the hang of being tactful. “Don't worry. I shouldn't even have mentioned that. I'm sure he's fine.”

“I hope so.” Felicity's voice quavered. “I know he's losing his mind, but I still love him dearly.”

After they said good-bye and Cam disconnected, she said aloud, “Nice move, Flaherty. Now Felicity is scared, as well. When will I learn?”

She fixed herself that cup of tea, since she'd gone to all the trouble to blow out a few auditory nerve cells, and brought it to the desk. She sat and stared at her monitor for a moment. Then she typed a line that read, “Nicholas Slavin saw Bev's killer?”

 

She checked the wall clock. Four fifteen. She glanced in the mirror one more time. Her hair, which was longer than she liked to wear it, curled around her ears. During the warmer months she sported a short cut that needed little care. But during a winter like this one, having longer hair made her head seem warmer, even if it wasn't. She wore a power outfit from her previous career, a tailored black jacket over a scoop-necked green sweater and a gray wool skirt that fell just below her knees. If she planned to butt heads with the agrochemical industry, she wanted to feel as powerful as possible. Flat knee-high black boots would keep her legs warm, and they actually had a decent tread on them for navigating icy pathways.

She checked her bag and added plenty of farm brochures and business cards. She grabbed a granola bar and a packet of almonds, which would have to take the place of dinner. Time to hit the road for the hospital and then the academy. She bundled herself in her good coat and beret. Picking up her scarf, she spied an empty egg carton on the table.

No.
She'd forgotten all about the hens. She swore and grabbed her bag. On her way to the coop, she dumped the bag in the truck and strode around the corner of the barn. The hen yard appeared empty, so at least they'd had the sense to huddle inside. Then she saw TopKnot standing at the top of the ramp.

“You goofy chicken. Get in there where it's warm.” Cam made her way into the enclosure and made shooing gestures. “Get out of this cold.”

The hen didn't move. Cam walked closer. She reached out a hand, and TopKnot still didn't budge. Cam touched her, and the bird toppled over onto the ground.

She lifted the hen in her gloved hands. The poor girl was frozen. She blew on her face. The red beads of her eyes were filmy. Cam wondered how to check for a chicken's heartbeat. She carried her into the barn and set her on the hood of the truck. She pulled off one glove and tried to feel the chicken's skin under her feathers. But TopKnot seemed cold through and through.

“You stupid, sweet bird.” Cam had loved watching her antics over the months since she'd acquired the hens. She kicked herself for not checking on the birds earlier. She found a plastic bag, wrapped TopKnot in it, and laid her in the chest freezer. She'd figure out what to do with her later. She pulled her glove on again and headed out to the coop, hoping the rest of the hens were alive. She opened the people-sized door and checked it out. The air felt a lot warmer in there than outside, and the hens were puffed up and clustered in one corner. They'd be all right. She left the incandescent bulb on for the bit of heat it provided and latched the door. She also closed the solid door over the rubber flap to the small entrance. If she'd done it earlier, TopKnot would still be alive.
Damn.

Twenty minutes later she stood at Albert's bedside. He looked better than he had earlier in the day, with color in his cheeks, although his eyes were still closed. And he seemed to be attached to fewer devices. The one that displayed a green waveform on a wall-mounted monitor beeped at a reassuringly regular pace. Cam stroked the back of Albert's hand. Its warmth also reassured her. After a minute, his hand turned under hers until they were palm to palm. He squeezed softly.

“Uncle Albert, it's me, Cam.”

His eyelids opened a crack and then more. The edge of his mouth tilted into the shadow of a smile.

“You look much better.” She touched his cheek.

He nodded a little. He murmured something Cam couldn't make out.

She leaned down. “What did you say?”

“Quite the accommodations.”

“Are you comfortable?”

“Pretty much.” He closed his eyes. “But the party's too loud.”

Cam frowned. “Right,” she said, having no idea what party he was talking about. Now didn't seem like the time to ask, though.

“I'm going to let you rest. I'll be back tomorrow. Love you.” She patted his hand and kissed his forehead. He raised his hand slightly and kept the faint smile on his face.

On her way to the elevator, once again with tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks, Cam passed the nurses' station.
Uh-oh. Here comes trouble.
She blinked away her worry for the moment. Pete faced Dr. Fujita, who stood with arms folded. Pete waved one hand in front of him, like he couldn't get why she didn't understand something so obvious. He glanced around with an expression of exasperation and saw Cam.

“Cameron.” He waved her over. “Will you tell the doctor what Albert did when you found him? And why I need to talk with him?”

Cam approached and greeted both of them. “When I told him he'd fallen, he looked alarmed, and he tried to shake his head. I thought he was telling me it hadn't happened that way.” She stayed a few feet away from Pete. If she smelled his scent, if she felt his warmth . . .

“I told you we've had two suspicious deaths at the assisted-living residence.” Pete, glaring at the doctor, tapped his pen on the counter next to him. “Mr. St. Pierre could have been attacked. Someone might have tried to kill him. I need to ask him what happened.”

“And I told you, Detective, that he's only beginning to recover. I will not have you in there harassing and upsetting him. Come tomorrow, and we'll talk more then. He's on the mend, I assure you.”

A wave of relief washed over Cam. Albert seemed to be getting better, but she welcomed hearing the news from the mouth of an expert.

“Did he receive a head wound?” Pete asked.

“He presented with a contusion, but it did not break the skin.”

“Could it have been from someone swinging a heavy object at him, or could he have fallen and hit his head?” Pete stuck his hands in his pockets.

“We can't tell. I'm sorry.”

“Doctor, a minute ago Albert said something about the party being too loud,” Cam said. “What was he talking about?”

“There haven't been any parties going on, I can assure you. Has he shown any signs of dementia?”

“Absolutely none. He's sharp. He has his own blog. He plays Scrabble. No, his mind is fine.”

“Well, sometimes the elderly find being hospitalized very disorienting. He might be exhibiting temporary dementia. It will likely clear once he returns to familiar surroundings.”

“Great,” Pete said. “So whenever you do let me question him, he might not make sense. Is that what you're saying?”

Cam stared at him. Pete didn't seem to care about how Albert was faring, only when he'd be ready for an interrogation.