Murder Most Fowl (10 page)

Straightening, Cam switched off the phone light. Handgun ammunition. Cam could see why Greta might not want that in the house. But where was the gun? And why did she feel the need to own one? Certain farmers owned shotguns to ward off prey like coyotes or woodchucks, but a handgun was a different matter. Well, that was Greta's business. And since Wayne hadn't been shot, it should stay Greta's business, although Cam would let Pete know, just in case.

Cam left the barn, Pluto at her side, and made her way back to the house. Megan sat at the table with more wine in her glass and a half-full plate of lasagna. Swing music played from a phone plugged into a small speaker.

“Is that Postmodern Jukebox?” Cam asked. “I love that group.”

Megan nodded as she swallowed, then said, “This is perfect, Cam. Thank you so, so much.”

“It's my pleasure. Listen, I left the eggs soaking, but I don't have time to scrub and flat them. You can tell your mom you collected them if you want.”

The back door flew open. “Tell her mom what?” A frowning Greta stood in the doorway with her bag over her shoulder.

“Hey, Mom. Where you been?” Megan waved her fork. “Cam was nice enough to bring us dinner. Want some?”

Cam greeted Greta with a smile. “How are you?”

Greta did not return the smile. “How do you think?” She set her fists on her waist. Her round face was pale and her eyes as reddened as Megan's had been. “My husband's dead and my son doesn't seem to care. I'm broke and stuck with a business I don't want. I hate hens,” she spat.

“Mom.” Megan's eyes pleaded with Greta. “Sit down and eat with me.”

Greta pulled out a chair and sank into it. She smiled a little. “I wish I could point my wand at the bank and say
Accio
dollars! I wouldn't have to worry about money ever again.”

“Mom's a huge Harry Potter geek,” Megan said, looking at her mother with soft eyes.

“You both take care.” Cam took a step toward the door. “I have to get going.”

“Thanks for the food,” Greta's voice was gruff. “Appreciate it.”

I
t looked like every patron in Connolly's Irish Pub was wearing green. Cam and Lucinda's server was a young woman with pale skin, startling blue eyes, and black hair. When she approached their booth, Cam noticed she even sported a pair of green skinny jeans.

Cam looked up from the menu. “I'll have the Irish stew, please.”

“You got it,” the server said.

“Can I have the fish and chips?” Lucinda examined the back of the menu. “And we'll take a pitcher of green-colored Sam Adams, right, Cam?”

“Of course. Will it be green?”

“Is it Saint Patrick's Day?” The server laughed. “Green all the way.” She gathered their menus and turned away.

A trio played Celtic music in the far corner. A seated man held a flat frame drum vertically with his left hand inside, his right playing the skin with a stick. A man in a tweed cap coaxed an elaborate tune from a flute, and a petite, energetic woman in a short dress and boots played the fiddle and danced her feet at the same time.

“Sorry I was late,” Cam said.

“Not a problem.” Lucinda folded her arms on the table, leaning toward Cam. “What do you know about the chicken farmer's murder, the Laitinen man?”

Cam pursed her lips. “Wayne, poor guy. Why do bad things happen to the people with the biggest hearts?”

“I know. He was a really nice guy. I used to buy roasters from him. Can't get much more local than that.”

“I was late because I took a lasagna over to the Laitinens. Their daughter is pretty upset.” She decided to keep news of the ammunition to herself, along with any mention of Greta's behavior.

“How'd he die?”

“The family thought it might have been a heart attack.” Cam gazed at her. Lucinda could keep a secret. She kept her voice low. “It took the police a while, but Pete told me this afternoon it was nicotine poisoning.”

“Nicotine, like in cigarettes?”

“Like in cigarettes. But you know, with those e-cigs, people buy little vials of pure liquid nicotine.”

“Those things they call vaping? People who do that look ridiculous, if you ask me.”

“That's it. And apparently liquid nicotine is so toxic it only takes a couple of those vials to kill someone.”

“It should be illegal.” Lucinda's dark eyes flashed.

“Agree. Pete thinks so, too.” Cam sat back, nodding. “So how's your locavore year going?” Cam asked Lucinda, who had vowed last June to eat only locally produced food for a year.

“Eh.” She lifted a shoulder, then dropped it. “I have to make lots of exceptions. Like tonight, although with any luck the fish is at least from the Atlantic. I wouldn't be able to eat out hardly anywhere if I stuck to it. But it's okay. It's been a real learning experience.”

“A couple of restaurants around here like to feature local ingredients.”

“But those are fancy, expensive places, Cam. I'm a librarian at a private school, remember? With a librarian's salary.”

Their server arrived with a pitcher and two pint glasses and set them on the table. “Enjoy.”

After Lucinda poured, Cam raised her glass. “Here's to the Irish.”

“To the Irish.” Lucinda clinked her glass with Cam's and took a long drink. She tapped the table to the music.

The woman now held her fiddle at her side and sang in a language that must be Gaelic. Cam glanced around the room. Every seat at the bar was occupied and all the tables and booths seemed to be, too. As a man approached their table, Cam looked up.

“Mind if I join you, ladies?” Paul Underwood smiled at them. He wore a long-sleeved green shirt with pressed jeans, and his neatly trimmed brown hair looked, as with every time Cam had seen him, as if he'd come straight from the barber. He beat the rhythm of the music on his thigh with his hand. “All the seats are taken, and I'm a huge fan of that group.”

Really?
He wanted to sit with a couple of organic farming types? “Um, sure,” Cam said. She glanced at Lucinda and raised her eyebrows. “Have a seat.”

Lucinda shot her a look. She had organized the forum in the winter at the school where she worked, the forum where Cam and Paul had faced off over the question of using chemicals like G-Phos on a farm. Cam and Lucinda shared the view that glyphosates should be banned, but Paul had firmly defended his position, and that of his employer.

“Thanks. This is my favorite holiday. I know Underwood doesn't sound Irish, but my mother was from County Cork.” Paul sat between Lucinda and Cam. “How are you, Lucinda?” He smiled at her.

“Good.” She pushed her dark curly hair away from her forehead with a quick gesture.

“What's the name of the group?” Cam asked.

“Keeltori.” Paul gazed at them, now beating the table in time with the drum. “I used to play with them.”

“What do you play?” Lucinda looked at him with eyebrows raised, as if he'd suddenly acquired a new dimension.

“Guitar, banjo, mandolin. I especially like the mandolin, even though it's not really traditionally Irish.”

“Are you in a group now?” Cam asked.

“No. I have three little boys, and it's hard to do anything without them beyond going to work.” He smiled. “They're super guys, but they take a lot of time. Well, all my free time, unless I get my dad to come over and babysit, like tonight.”

“It must be good to get a break once in a while,” Lucinda said.

He nodded. “Katrina there is an old friend of mine and we try to jam from time to time, usually at my house so I don't have to get a sitter.” His voice turned wistful. As if she'd heard him, the female lead caught sight of Paul and waved at him.

Old friends
. “I heard you were old friends with Wayne Laitinen, too.” Cam watched as Paul turned to look at her.

“I was. Who'd you hear that from?”

“Your high school English teacher.”

“Mrs. Slavin?” He frowned.

“Yes,” Cam said. “She's one of my farm customers. Said you and Wayne were pretty close buddies in school.”

“We were. For a while. May he rest in peace.”

The server returned with Cam's and Lucinda's dinners. “Can I get you something, sir?” she asked Paul.

“A double Irish whiskey neat, with water back.” At the waitress's look of confusion, he groaned. “Just bring me a small glass of water when you bring the whiskey.”

When she'd gone, Cam remarked, “I don't know what a water back is, either.” She took a bite of the stew and let a chunk of meat dissolve on her tongue as she savored the stew's rich flavors.

“Adding a little water to whiskey opens up the flavor,” Paul said. “I should stop saying it anyplace but at the bar itself. The server ought to know the term, but . . .”

Cam swallowed. “So you weren't friends with Wayne anymore? But I saw you driving away from his place Saturday afternoon.”

“Yes, I went to see him.” Paul looked at the band. “We were trying to sort of work through a couple of things.”

“You mean the reason you stopped being friends?” Cam asked.

“Yes,” Paul said without meeting her eyes.

“You didn't look too happy when you left.”

“Happy, not happy. What does it matter?” He chewed on the inside of his lip.

“I read online that you found him dead Sunday morning,” Lucinda said as she swirled a French fry in ketchup. “Why'd you go back?” A little smile played around her mouth.

Paul looked from Lucinda to Cam. “What's with you girls? You sound like the damn detectives.” He stood. “Excuse me. I came here to listen to music, not to get grilled.” He intercepted the server and exchanged money for his drink. He splashed water from the glass into the whiskey and gave the water back to the server, then took up position standing near the band, his back to their table.

“A little touchy about that, wasn't he?” Lucinda asked.

“I guess. But who wouldn't be? We barely know him and here we were both pestering him with questions.” Cam watched Paul as he sipped his whiskey, his foot tapping to the music. She pulled her attention back to the most delicious beef stew she'd ever tasted.

“Is that good?” Lucinda asked, popping another French fry into her mouth.

“Very.” Cam poked her spoon around in the bowl. “Beef, carrots, onions, potatoes, of course. But the flavor is what does it. I wonder what their secret is.”

“I read a recipe that calls for a bottle of stout in it. Can you taste beer?”

Cam rolled a spoonful around on her tongue. “That might be it. I'm going to try this at home. Make it for Pete whenever he solves this case.”

“You could do it all local, too.” Lucinda waggled her eyebrows.

“Absolutely, and then give the recipe to the shareholders next summer or fall, when I harvest carrots and potatoes. Good idea.” Cam glanced up when the music stopped.

The woman took the microphone. “Sure and I hope you're all havin' a grand time tonight,” she said in accented English, her short dark hair spiked up off her head. “We're after askin' an old friend to play with us. Will yeh join us now, Paul Underwood?” She strode to Paul's side and grabbed his hand.

He shook his head hard and tried to pull back, but the fiddler won out, and a minute later a mandolin was in his hands. And a minute after that he was picking out an intricate tune with the rest of the group. Cam watched him, his head down as the fingers of both his hands flew over the frets and the strings. He had real talent.

“He's pretty good,” Lucinda said. “Wonder why he's selling chemicals instead of touring with that group.”

“I imagine it's because it's hard to support a family being a wandering musician.” Under the table her own feet were dancing to the song. “I've heard him talk about his sons. Felicity said he's essentially a single dad, so it'd be that much harder.”

“Sure would,” Lucinda said before draining her glass. “Fill 'er up?” She lifted the pitcher.

Cam nodded, but her thoughts were on Paul. How could she find out what his issue with Wayne had been? Pete had said Paul found Wayne's body Sunday morning. The police obviously didn't think Paul had killed Wayne, but why not? She shook her head. Tonight was supposed to be an escape from those thoughts, an evening of green beer, a good friend, and excellent music, not thinking about murder.

 

The next morning dawned windy and raw, with a gunmetal sky pressing down on the farm. Cam had stayed at the pub a little later than she should have, and now at eight she yawned as she trudged to the barn, her knit work cap pulled down over her ears, a travel mug full of French roast in one work-gloved hand. Dasha trotted at her side while Preston stayed behind on the back steps watching them.

After yesterday's warm weather and with the longer days, the outside worms were moving again and the compost should be warming enough to turn. Two of the three slatted bins sat full of last fall's spent plants, plus horse manure, leaves, and all the other vegetable matter a farm produced. She'd also bought a load of crushed lobster body shells to mix in. The compost wouldn't have broken down much over the winter, but it should be thawed by now. All it needed was air to get cooking again so the temperature would rise enough to kill weed seeds and break down the woody matter of stems.

Cam made sure all the chicks were alive and fed, and did the same for the adult chickens before grabbing a pitchfork and heading for the bins around the back of the barn. She dug into the middle three-sided bin, which she'd constructed of free shipping pallets almost four-foot square, and forked a heap of the rough mix over into the empty bin on her right. And another and another. The repetitive work freed up her brain to work overtime.

Paul had gotten defensive about Lucinda and Cam asking him questions last night. Maybe Albert would know something about Paul's past. She'd have to remember to ask Pete if his team had followed up on Paul's connection. Interesting that Paul was such a good musician. He'd played with the group the rest of the evening and had looked like he enjoyed himself. Cam thought she picked up on flirting between him and the woman he'd called Katrina, but maybe it was only the energy of old friends sharing something they both loved.

She wrestled a big chunk of matted-together leaves over the bin wall, shaking it as she dropped it so they would separate. Pete. It was Tuesday and he'd said his boss had threatened him with demotion if he didn't have someone in custody by the end of the week. And the days were ticking by. He didn't want Cam to go out into dangerous situations. Heck, she didn't, either. But if she could gather information that might help him, he couldn't argue with that. Could he?

Cam came to a layer of nearly finished compost, dark and crumbly, which was easy to toss over the side. The pile in the empty bin was growing into a cone, with the new material sliding down the sides. Then there was land-hungry Judith. Judith who vaped. Judith who seemed to expect she would get her own way. Judith who could apparently afford anything she wanted. Cam sure wouldn't want to be her daughter. Maybe Ellie knew Isabella and could . . . But, no, Ellie was on vacation in Florida.

After the rightmost bin was full, with a mound now heaped above the rim of the bin, Cam moved to the one on the left. She forked the loose leaves from the top into the now empty middle bin, then paused to stretch her back. Stretching made her think of Katie, who must be a dancer or do yoga or something, the way she'd stood up from the ground in one movement at the llama farm on Sunday. Katie hadn't wanted to tell Cam if Pete seemed satisfied with her answers. Cam removed her cap and rubbed her head. It seemed like everybody was hiding something. And speaking of hiding, Greta had been trying to hide something, Cam was sure of it. She had no idea how she was going to help Megan. She was pretty sure Pete wouldn't encourage such help, either.