Murder Most Fowl (9 page)

C
am finished the apple pruning after another hour of work. She gathered up all the clippings into the garden cart and dumped them on the rapidly growing brush pile at the edge of the woods. The branches were too thick and woody to compost, and the pile provided shelter for birds until the wood dried out enough to burn in the fall. She could use the wood ash to amend the asparagus bed, which benefited from a slighter higher alkalinity, and also sprinkle it around several of the other beds, since her soil ran a bit too acidic except for the blueberry bushes and the potato plants. She hated having to set a fire, given her past bad experiences, but it was the only way to sensibly dispose of the brush. She'd burned the brush last November on a windless day with the hose nearby and survived it. Maybe this year she'd corral a volunteer to do it.

She hadn't collected her hens' eggs in a couple of days, so after she hung the pruners and loppers on their hooks on the barn wall, she grabbed a small bucket and headed into the coop through the people door. Then stopped and wrinkled her nose. She hadn't cleaned the bedding in a while either, apparently. The odor of chicken waste was nearly overpowering and she tried to breathe only through her mouth. At least the hens didn't seem to mind. Hillary jumped out of a nesting box when Cam approached, but she had to nudge a few others out of the way to collect the eggs from underneath them. All around her they made their funny noises, scratched in the bedding, bumped into each other, and ran in and out the small door.

She latched the door behind her, gazing at the eggs. Yesterday she had collected eggs for Greta but had been told quite plainly not to come back to help. What if Cam, instead, brought over a friendly condolence casserole? It was only four o'clock. She had time to put a dish together and deliver it before she was to meet Lucinda at the pub. And maybe she could find out what Greta had been trying to hide. That wouldn't violate Pete's ban on investigating.

But what could she cook on short order? A quiche? No, bringing an egg-based dish to a poultry farm was a bit redundant. Cam put the eggs to soak in cold water in the barn and headed to the house. Dasha trotted beside her.

“Almost your dinnertime, too, isn't it, boy?”

Dasha cocked his head and barked his agreement.

Once inside, Cam fed him and then stood in front of the open refrigerator. The rest of last night's pasta dish sat in a small container. Pasta. That was it. She could whip up a fast vegetarian lasagna, since she'd picked up the cheeses last night as well as extra sauce. She checked the cupboard, glad she always kept a box of lasagna noodles on hand. She set a pot of water on the biggest burner, started the oven, and began to prep the other ingredients.

As she chopped parsley and grated Parmesan, she thought about Judith refusing to tell Cam if she'd gone to breakfast with Wayne. Why not simply say if she had or not? Maybe Judith had poisoned Wayne with her nicotine. Greta had said she cooked his breakfast before she went to church. Judith could be trying to frame Greta. But if Judith was trying to hide her breakfast with Wayne, she never would have told Cam about the invitation. Unless she was trying to appear innocent.

Cam dumped the noodles into the boiling water and stirred so they wouldn't stick together. Preston wandered over and rubbed his head against her knee.

“Sorry, P, no pets right now. I'm cooking.” She broke two eggs into the ricotta, added the parsley, and mixed it a little harder than necessary. The facts of this case seemed just as mixed up. Katie was hiding something, too, Cam was sure, as was Pete.

The timer went off for the noodles, and in five minutes the lasagna was in the oven. Time for a shower. With any luck she could wash these roiling thoughts down the drain, too.

 

Cam drove up to the entrance to the Laitinen farm with caution, but the reporters as well as the police were gone. It was nearly six o'clock, and even though the sun didn't officially set for another hour, it was well below the tree line and the shadows were blue and cold.

Leaving her bag in the car, she made her way with her offering toward the farmhouse. At the side door, which opened into a screened porch, she juggled the towel-wrapped Pyrex pan full of warm lasagna onto one arm so she could ring the doorbell with the other hand. Nobody answered. Cam tried to peer through the porch screening into the window of the house, but the curtains were drawn. A sliver of light shone from within, though, so she rang again.

After another minute, she shifted the casserole to both hands. What was she going to do with this hot dinner if they weren't home? She couldn't just leave it on the stoop here or animals would surely find it. She shifted it back to the other hand and tried the doorknob, letting out a sigh of relief when it turned. At least she could leave it inside the porch and then call to let Greta and Megan know it was there.

Cam stepped in. A small table sat at the end of the space. But the sliver of light she'd seen was from the inner door being slightly ajar. Maybe Greta hadn't heard the doorbell. Cam moved toward the door, but stopped when she heard a voice. It was Megan's, not Greta's.

“You have to come home, Henry. Daddy's gone and Mom's acting . . .” Megan's voice was anguished.

Cam heard only sniffling for a moment.

“I know it's a big deal to be at Disney World, but our father was murdered, for God's sake!” A sound of something slamming down came through the door, then silence.

Should Cam interrupt Megan, or slide the lasagna onto the table and leave her to her troubles? She took a step backward and knocked into a chair with her hip. The chair fell over with a clatter.

“Who's there? Mom?” Megan called out. The overhead light flashed on and Megan pulled the door open. “Oh! It's you.” She knit her brows together. “What are you doing here?”

Extending the lasagna, Cam said, “I made a casserole for you all. It's still hot.”

Megan's face crumpled. “That is so sweet of you.” Tears streaked her cheeks and she sniffled. “Come on in.” She gestured to the open door.

Cam followed her in and set the lasagna on a straw hot pad on the long weathered table, now cluttered with papers, empty coffee cups, a juice glass half full of wine, a large bottle of Jim Beam, and a flower arrangement. Only two days ago she had sat here with Wayne. It felt like a month had gone by.

“Please sit down. Would you like a cup of coffee? Or a glass of wine? Whiskey?” Megan swept the papers into a pile and set the whiskey bottle on the countertop. “I'm having wine.”

“That sounds good.”

A moment later Megan handed Cam another juice glass filled with red wine and sat across the table from her. “Sorry about the glasses. Mom isn't much into wine.” Megan's reddened nose matched her eyes, and she blew her nose on a tissue. Her fine blond hair lay in disarray on her shoulders. Pluto emerged from the hall and sat alert next to Megan's chair.

“You're having a tough time,” Cam said.

“I'll say. My brother won't come home from his vacation. Mom is out somewhere. You're like almost the only person who has done a kind thing for us.” Megan took a deep, ragged breath and blew it out. “And my father is dead. He was so sweet. Who could have . . .” She stared at Pluto, stroking his head.

“I'm so sorry.” Cam took a sip of wine. “Wayne was a decent, gentle man. How is your mom taking it?”

Megan wiped her eyes. “She's really angry. I don't think she's cried at all for him. I don't get it.” Looking like a lost dog, she gazed at Cam. “I mean, I know she and Dad weren't getting along that great, but still. They'd been married for thirty years.” She picked up her glass and took a long drink. “Cam, would you help us?”

“You mean with the chickens?”

“No. I mean help find who killed Daddy. I know you've been sort of involved in a few cases this last year. The police won't tell me anything. And since you're not official, maybe you can find out things they can't.”

“Well, it's their responsibility, really, not mine.”

“And that other guy, Detective Pappas's partner? He never smiles. He's so abrupt, he's almost mean.”

Cam pulled her mouth to the side. “I'm sure Detective Hobbs is only trying to do his job.”

“Please, Cam? We need your help.”

Cam blew out a breath. “I'll try.”

Megan scribbled her cell phone number on a piece of paper and slid it across the table to Cam.

“So has your mom been taking care of the hens?” Cam asked after pocketing the slip of paper. “And the cow?”

“I don't think so. I offered to help with the hens but she wouldn't let me. I've been milking Betsy so far. And then today Mom took off in the car. I keep thinking she'll come back and we can talk, but it's been a few hours and she's not answering my texts. I need to go home at some point. I'm taking this week off work, but I have an unhappy cat at my house.”

“I could help Greta with the hens, although yesterday she asked me not to. Do you know who Wayne usually sold the eggs to?”

Megan sipped her wine. “No idea. Once I went off to college, I stopped being involved in the poultry business. When I was in high school, he sold them to a cooperative, I think.” She looked at Cam. “Should we at least go out and make sure they have food? Mom can't object if you're with me. Although you're dressed kind of nice. I wouldn't want you to get dirty in there.”

Cam looked down at her jeans and green sweater under her jacket. “Not a problem. Let's do it now, if that's okay. I need to be somewhere at seven.” She took one more swallow of wine and stood.

“Sure.” Megan rose, too, and grabbed a coat off the back of a chair. “I appreciate the company. It's kind of freaky being in the hen house alone after dark, ever since it was vandalized.”

They walked down to the hen house together, Pluto ambling behind them.

“Felicity and I fed and watered them yesterday, and collected the eggs, too,” Cam said.

“Thank you so much, Cam.” Megan sniffled again. “I thought my parents had friends, but maybe not. I'm serious, you're the only person who has offered to help. A couple of women from the church brought by those flowers and a deli platter, but that's it.” She shook her head. “Whatever happened to community?”

A twinge of guilt stabbed Cam, since part of her motivation for both visits was to try to get information about the murder. “I wonder if people are unsure because your dad didn't die a natural death. Maybe they're a little frightened. But I'm sure the community cares.”

“Sure doesn't seem like it so far.” Megan pulled open the hen house door to a chorus of chicken song and a rush of warm, fetid air. She stood as if paralyzed.

“Come on,” Cam said softly. “Why don't you collect the eggs and I'll do the food? Buckets are on the shelf over there. Pluto, you stay outside,” she added, giving the dog a gentle push and closing the door on him.

Megan nodded like a sleepy robot.

 

Fifteen minutes later Cam closed the hen house door after them. Pluto sat waiting in the near dark, his tongue out. Megan held a bucket full of eggs but still looked lost. Up the hill the lights from the house pushed out a welcoming beacon.

Cam took the bucket from her. “I know where the sink is in the barn,” she said. “You go back to the house. Eat a plate of lasagna and then go home.”

“Okay. I haven't eaten all day.” She spoke slowly, as if she didn't particularly care if she ate or not.

“I'll pop in and say good-bye in a couple of minutes.” Cam watched Megan and Pluto head for the house, and then trudged over to the barn. After she flipped the lights on and set the eggs to soak in the industrial sink, she turned for the door. And turned again, back toward the stalls. It wouldn't hurt to quickly check that tack cupboard while Greta was out. Would it? She might have come back and hidden the item after Cam had left. The real question was why she was hiding something in the barn when she had a whole house at her disposal. Cam hesitated for a moment, then made her way to the stalls area.

Which one of the ten doors had Greta opened? Cam tried to picture the scene yesterday afternoon. It was one of the ones in the middle, she was sure. She counted down three and had her hand on the latch of the fourth one when she heard a noise and froze. She tried to listen over the thudding of her heart. The noise didn't sound like a car coming up the drive. A
click-click
sound came closer.

Cam's laugh was shaky as Pluto came trotting around the corner. “You had me there for a minute, doggie. I must have left the door open.”

He stood next to her and panted.

“Don't tell, okay?” Cam pulled the compartment door open and leaned down to peer into the space, feeling ridiculously like Nancy Drew. A disappointed Nancy Drew, as it turned out. The cupboard was empty. She opened the next one over. Also empty. Third time a charm? Not so much. Cam closed it. But there were six more. Cam moved down the row. Open, peer, close. Open, peer, close. Pluto watched. At the end of the row, she doubled back to the first cupboard. Empty. After she peered into the second one, she was already straightening when she bent down again. Something was lodged against the back. It was in the shadows but looked like a cube-shaped box.

Cam dug her phone out of her jacket pocket and hit the flashlight app. The bright white light illuminated the whole space. The red, black, and tan cube-shaped box read,
FEDERAL PREMIUM, .
410 HANDGUN
, .410 3 IN BUCKSHOT.
There were two more lines of details, and at the bottom it read,
PERSONAL DEFENSE
.