Healing Grace (38 page)

“Can I help you, Miss Winters?”

Judy looked up from her vulnerable crouch and froze at the sight of a well built young man in aviator sunglasses striding up the unkempt row. The man came to a halt at the edge of her personal comfort zone. She watched lines form between his eyes and realized her nervous smirk scored no points. Not a good way to make a first impression. Or second, since he apparently knew her name.

“I don’t think so,” she said in her most polite voice. Judy pushed herself up and held out her hand. “And you are?”

The man had his hands on his hips. He belatedly reached out to grab hers. “Hart Wingate. Mine’s the adjoining farm. I helped Louise, and her father before her, with chores. The police asked me to keep an eye out for strangers.”

Judy nodded. “Yes. My aunt mentioned she had someone in to help. I assumed she meant a hired hand. You don’t know what really happened here, do you?”

“No. I wish I did. And I don’t work for Louise. I helped her when she needed it. I don’t recall seeing you here before the funeral.”

Taken aback, Judy opened her mouth to reply that she hadn’t met him before, either, when they were hailed from the yard.

“Hello, there! So, you’ve met each other. Good.” Gene Reynolds, accompanied by Red Hobart who had changed to work coveralls from his funeral suit, stood waiting for Judy. “Red insisted on joining us, Judy. Says there’s an important clause in the will that affects him.”

“Hi, Red, Mr. Reynolds,” Judy answered. “So you both know Mr., ah, Mr.—”

“Wingate,” Hart supplied, helpfully.

“Sure, sure,” Red said. “Hart’s been great since even before Louise moved back home. Mowing, taking care of the cows. Harold couldn’t manage much anymore, you know. Was glad the girl came home to care for him.”

The girl? If Louise was a girl to Red, what does that make me?
Judy squared her shoulders again. “Red, for pity’s sake, it wasn’t my fault Louise’s father had those bad lungs. Uncle Harold never said a word against Louise moving in to take care of me.”

Red folded his arms and spat to the side. Judy sighed, and then slid a glance sideways at her neighbor. So, Hart had mowed. And did chores. That probably meant she owed him big time. Huh.

Judy whirled around to face Hart. “Thank you for all of your help. Mr. Reynolds will advise me what to do next, and I’m sure, contact you. Goodbye.”

Reynolds kept quiet after Judy’s little speech. She knew she’d sounded rude, but this was Louise’s farm, and that Wingate person said he had his own place next door. He must be busy enough with his own work without doing double duty.

Reynolds turned toward the house. “Shall we go, Judy?”

The big old American Gothic house seemed to leer at her. Without Louise, Judy felt like an intruder. Two years ago when Judy started her new job teaching eighth grade, Louise said Judy was now grown and no longer needed her.

Louise, Louise. You’re wrong. I need you now.

Judy was weary with decision making, meeting people she only vaguely remembered from her childhood, and trying to find a place to put all the food that arrived daily from well-meaning friends of her aunt.

People who identified themselves as being from the state crime lab or the sheriff’s department came twice before the funeral, asking permission to photograph and take samples from the barn, yard, and kitchen. As a teacher, Judy would have been curious about the work if she hadn’t been overwhelmed by the reason for their presence. She’d gladly given them the contents of the refrigerator and pantry, hoping that whatever killed Louise had been accidental.

Judy took a critical look around the kitchen while Reynolds tossed a scuffed leather briefcase onto one of four chrome chairs and then rubbed his hands. He indicated the room with a generous sweep of his right arm. “Vintage nineteen fifty. People pay good money for this look nowadays. What you have here is original.”

She swiveled slowly. Reynolds found the light switch. An overhead chandelier garlanded with webs cast a hesitant forty-watt dent in the gloom. Judy noticed flies clustered in corners of the shadowy high ceilings. Why was it she only noticed the grunge through a guest’s eyes? Cavernous cupboards overwhelmed a tiny window over the sink. Reynolds pulled out a chair first for Judy, and then for himself, and began to unpack his case before sitting. Hobart hooked a seat of his own and straddled it backwards.

“Here we are,” Reynolds announced, as if they’d all come from the four corners of the earth. “First, let me tell you that it has been a pleasure serving your family, and I hope you and I will continue a long-term relationship.

“Louise was a truly honest, dedicated farmer and conservationist, greatly admired by all those in her circle. Upon her father’s death, we drew up a trust to try and prevent some of the unfortunate issues we encountered with his passing.” Reynolds sorted through files. He halted long enough to zero in on Judy with his black-framed plastic glasses. “Harold passed intestate.”

Judy gulped back the giggle at Reynolds’s pronouncement and quirked an eyebrow in question.

“That means, he never bothered to put his estate in order,” the lawyer enunciated critically. “So let us begin.”

A half hour later, Reynolds’s raging torrent of forms slowed to a trickle. Judy was impressed with the amount of work that went into preserving the Jamison farmland. However, her aunt’s last wish left her in consternation: should she choose not to live on and farm the property for at least three years, it would pass to KOWPIE, a local grassroots organization specializing in protection of natural areas. Louise’s farm would serve as a district office.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Judy couldn’t believe she’d heard correctly. “They call themselves cow pie?”

Reynolds frowned behind the glasses. “I believe…ah, yes. Here. It stands for Keep Our Woods Pristine In Essence. But of course there are always ways to get around this little hiccup in your inheritance,” Reynolds said. “Our office also handles real estate, you know, and I can tell you without reservation that I have a number of qualified offers on the table from nice people who are eager to make you comfortable. So comfortable you need never worry about money again if you accept the appropriate deal.”

He pulled a manila folder from his case. “I warned your aunt against those nutjob nature freaks. I’ve heard rumors about guns and bombs. They run some sort of military-style training camp to show how regular folks can create fortresses on their property. Huh—make sure no honest, decent people can build a new home for themselves wherever they please? This is America! Anyone can build wherever he wants. Promising to care for the earth. The earth is here to take care of us, I say.”

Judy stared at her twining fingers resting on the speckled tabletop. “Do you know any of those people? How did they get Aunt Louise to sign her property over to them like that? What if I decide I can’t live here?”

“No, I don’t know them. And I can’t begin to understand how Louise would have dealt with such riff-raff.” Reynolds punctuated the word with a sharp grimace. Judy noticed something else about Reynolds’s expression; a twitch of wiry black nose hair, gone in an instant.
He’s lying. Why would he lie?

She closed her eyes, recalling the sound of Louise’s voice during a previous visit. “I practically had to call the police the last time. Those land-hungry grubbers drove right up my driveway, pounded on the door bold as brass. Man in a suit told me he wanted to buy just a little of my land. I’m sick and tired of those fools. Strangers. From Chicago. Imagine, anyone just waltzing around the neighborhood asking to buy a stranger’s land. A person can’t even expect privacy on his own property anymore.”

Judy focused on the lawyer. “Thank you, Mr. Reynolds. I don’t think my aunt wanted that.” Reynolds’s little black pupils flickered with greater wattage than all the bulbs of the chandelier. Judy felt certain Reynolds included himself as one of those nice people who would like the right to develop her farm into neat little subdivisions. Probably with a playground and a gas station and a dog park. Carranza’d love that. “What about Mr. Hobart’s claim?”

Hobart hadn’t said a word during the whole presentation. Judy would have forgotten his presence if not for the emanation of machine grease and manure competing with alfalfa coming from his person. Somehow, that smell made the kitchen feel more like home than Reynolds’s musky cologne.

Red Hobart’s family farm sprawled over four hundred acres across the country lane. Judy had heard the Hobart name mentioned by Louise and her father Harold for as long as she could remember. The Hobarts and Jamisons had lived and farmed together for generations.

“See, Miss Judy,” Hobart began in his rural drawl, “the Hobarts did a favor for the Jamisons long time ago. Long time. In exchange for this favor, the Jamisons promised that southwest forty to the Hobarts whenever this here farm passed from Jamison hands.” Judy folded her arms. She could hear the next line. Hobart’s mouth formed the words, as if he chewed on a long stem of grass. “You, ma’am, are not a Jamison.” He ducked his head to pinch an ant crawling up his bib, and then targeted her again in his sights. “No offense.”

Judy’d been more offended by the “ma’am.” She hated being “ma’am’d.”

“Now, Red, strictly speaking, that’s not true,” Reynolds cut in. “Miss Winters, here, is a Jamison relation on her mother’s side.”

“So far back it don’t matter. Hardly more’n a drop.”

“Nevertheless, you are not entitled to that forty based on this clause, which says, and I quote, ‘If said property passes out of the hands of any Jamison heirs or such heirs do not farm said property, the southwest quarter of the southwest quarter of section twenty-one shall be given to descendants of Clem Hobart to be used for his own purposes in gratitude for aid given during dangerous times.’ End quote.”

“Right.” Hobart pounded the table. “And I claim my promise now. If Missy Winters here ain’t gonna farm, I got my rights to that forty.”

Judy leaned forward, placing herself between the two men who’d subconsciously moved closer to each other during their exchange. “Please! Mr. Reynolds, Mr. Hobart. I haven’t decided for sure yet, but I may stay here the summer while I work on my master’s degree. I want time to consider all the ramifications of my actions. Since I see that rental payment for the cropland covers the taxes, and my needs are few, I should be able to take enough time to make a good decision. One that will benefit everyone involved.”

Reynolds fixed Hobart with a glinty glare. “Judy may need to make some decisions soon regarding renters.” He addressed Judy next. “If you recall what I showed you earlier and take note of the due date, you’ll see that the rent payments are in arrears. Have been for a while, as a matter of fact.”

Hobart eyeballed Reynolds back. Judy studied them both, fascinated. Until she realized they were talking about money Red owed her.
How much? And why is he desperate for forty measly acres?

Reynolds didn’t give an inch. “Louise was too easygoing in those matters. We can talk more about that later.”

Hobart blinked first. He took his leave with stiff formality, even tipping his John Deere cap in Judy’s direction as she saw him out. When Judy returned to the table, Reynolds indicated three sets of keys. “Here are the keys the police put in my hands after the sheriff completed the initial investigation.”

Judy had used her own key when she first arrived and had never considered who closed up the outbuildings after Louise’s body was removed.

“As you can see, these are marked for the house, these, the barn, and these, here,” —Reynolds jiggled an old-fashioned ring with extra-large keys— “are for the garage and car. Harold had a nice Monte Carlo that your aunt drove, I believe. Anyway, it’s all yours now.”

“Thank you.” Another thought occurred to her. “Mr. Reynolds?”

The balding man looked up and peered at her through his plastic bifocals. He blinked. Judy was reminded of a picture of an owl in glasses she’d once seen.

“Yes?”

“Well, I wondered whether you knew if anyone else had any keys. Any of the neighbors?”

Reynolds cleared his throat. “That, I wouldn’t know.” He looked back down at the papers in his hands. “I nearly forgot this last item. The stock report.”

“Stocks?” Judy said. “I didn’t know Louise owned any company stocks.”

Mr. Reynolds looked at her over the top of his reading glasses. “Animals.”

Judy felt her cheeks warm. “Oh. Just before you came, out there in the orchard…that man—”

“Hart Wingate.”

“Right. He said he’d been doing chores. Louise told me she had some help, but I didn’t pay attention at the time,” Judy said. She lowered her gaze to the chipped tabletop. “I assumed my aunt had a handyman or something. Mr. Wingate is renting Bryce Edwards’s farm, isn’t he?”

“That’s right. I’ve been working with Country Properties LLC for some time, trying to encourage Edwards to sell now that he’s moved into town.”

“What’s Country Properties?” Judy asked.

“Developers. Of course, any zoning change out here has to go through the town board. This farm is out of city jurisdiction, young lady. The board president, Slim Hobart, Red’s cousin, and I don’t always see eye to eye on coming changes. I strongly recommend you make a deal quickly. It’s your land now. You don’t have to listen to Hobart or the KOWPIE folks.”