Farmed and Dangerous

by Edith Maxwell

  “You told the detective the only people in the kitchen were the cook and that caregiver. . . . What was his name, honey?” Myrna glanced at Ellie.

  “Oscar was helping out. You met him, Cam, right? And he delivered all the room meals. So it was us three, plus the other two kids who do what I do. Ray and this other kid, Sean.”

  “Ray?” Myrna asked. “Who is he?”

  “It’s a she, Mom.” Ellie shot a look at the ceiling and then back at her mother. “It’s just what we call her. Her real name is Raya, but she hates that. Her parents are subscribers to your CSA, Cam. Or they were last summer.”

  “They must be Neela and Sunil.” Cam nodded. “I met Ray on Saturday. She was pushing Felicity’s father in a wheelchair.”

  “Yeah, that’s her. Anyway, Mr. Pappas kept asking me the same questions over and over. Like, did Mrs. Montgomery get the special meal? Who touched her plate? Did I see anybody in the hallway? Did I go to her room?”

  “He questioned her relentlessly.” Myrna’s voice rose.

  “They questioned me today, too, except I had to go to the station,” Cam said.

  “It wasn’t that bad, Mommy. But I kept telling him the same answers. The room meals always get the special. Rosemary put the food on the plate, and Oscar put the plate on the tray, and the tray on that big cart. And I had too much to do to bring food to Mrs. Montgomery’s room. A lot of residents have guests on Sunday night. It’s a super-busy night to serve.”

  “I hope you didn’t think the detective suspected you of poisoning Bev’s meal, Ellie,” Cam said.

  “No. But just knowing that somebody could actually do that—that’s the scary part. And what if they, like, thought I saw them do it or something?” She hugged herself.

  Myrna stroked Ellie’s arm. “You’re not going back there until this issue is solved. Until they put the killer behind bars.”

  “Mom. It’s my job.”

  “Eleanor, you are fourteen.”

  “I’ll be fifteen next month.” Ellie stood and stuck her hands in her pockets. “I’m not a baby.”

  “I spoke to your father about it. He agrees. That place will find someone else to do your work.” Myrna lowered her voice. “You’re my only child. If something were to happen to you—”

  “I have to do my homework. See you, Cam.” Ellie stomped out of the room.

  “I don’t know what’s come over her the past few months.” Myrna’s gaze followed Ellie’s departure. “She used to be so sweet.”

  “That tends to happen with teenagers. I know I got pretty difficult for a few years there.”

  “I suppose. She’s both my eldest and my youngest. It’s tough.” Myrna cocked her head and gazed at Cam. “All I want to do is keep her safe.”

  As Cam drove home, she bet that look of Myrna’s had referred to the barn fire she and Ellie had barely survived the previous June. Ellie’s employment at Moran Manor didn’t have anything to do with the murder. Cam wanted the girl to stay safe, too. She thought her parents’ prohibition against returning to work until the killer had been apprehended was wise, even if Ellie didn’t much like it.

  Interesting that Oscar had been working in the kitchen and had delivered the meal. He certainly had the means to add poison to Bev’s portion. But why would he?

  As she locked the house door behind her, her cell phone rang. She greeted Lucinda on the other end.

  “Hey, Cam. I got a great gig for you.” Lucinda sounded breathless. “Tomorrow night.”

  “Slow down a little. What kind of gig?” Cam reached down to pet Preston. He turned his head up, and he headed for his dry food dish, his expression asking, as always, that he be stroked while he ate. She obliged, listening to Lucinda at the same time.

  “It’s a forum with a guy from the company that makes the herbicide that has glyphosate in it, that G-Phos we were talking about. The event is kind of like a debate. Remember, I told you about it?”

  “Sort of.”

  “A representative from an organic seed company was going to come, but he broke his leg. Can you do it?” Lucinda asked.

  “Wait. What?” Cam straightened. “Me? Debate a giant agrochemical company? I’m only a farmer. And a beginner, at that.”

  “But you’re smart. You decided to farm organic because you believe in it, right?”

  “Sure, but—”

  “It’s in the library at my school. Lots of people will be there. You have to do it.”

  “Aren’t there any more experienced organic farmers to ask?”

  “I called Zeke up in Londonderry, but his mother is ill and he has to go out of town.”

  Cam sighed. “I suppose I’ll do it. The guy will eat me alive, though.”

  “Cool. I’ll give you each fifteen minutes to do a presentation, and then you can talk with each other. I’m going to moderate. I’ll e-mail directions. It starts at seven, so come around six thirty. And bring your farm brochures. Consider it a marketing opportunity.”

  Cam said good-bye and disconnected. Sheesh. She hated public speaking. She disliked having to defend her views. She avoided conflict at all cost. And tomorrow night would involve all of those. She’d better muster her facts tonight. And eight thirty had already come and gone.

  She headed for her desk in the corner of the living room, fired up the computer, and opened a browser. Her home page opened to Weather.com, a farmer’s best friend. Or worst. She groaned. A Montreal Express would approach the region tonight and tomorrow. That meant arctic air was heading their way straight down from Canada. The old farmhouse was poorly insulated, and frigid air plus wind meant she’d be using a lot of heating oil this month. And getting mighty cold fingers while she worked.

  She navigated to the Web site of the Massachusetts chapter of the Northeast Organic Farming Association. NOFA had a good set of links to information about growing organically. When she saw the NOFA Organic Principles and Practices Handbook series, she remembered she’d bought it for her Kindle the previous winter, when she’d set herself to learning as much about organic growing practices as she could. She located the device and opened Growing Healthy Vegetable Crops. She’d start there.

  She was typing notes into slides for the forum when the old rotary phone rang on the corner of the kitchen counter. She barely reached it by the tenth and last ring. Almost nobody but Albert called her on that number. Sure enough, his voice sounded on the other end.

  “Bad news over here.” His tone was grim.

  “What is it? Are you all right?”

  “I am. But another resident has died. A Miss Lacey.”

  The death couldn’t be related to Bev’s. “That’s terrible.”

  “Everybody’s saying it was poison again.” Albert cleared his throat.

  “Who’s everybody?”

  “The residents. Several of the caregivers.”

  “Not the police?”

  “You know the authorities don’t tell us what they are thinking. But the lady who died was the one who felt sick earlier in the day, the one I told you about.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.” Cam cocked her head. “Did she have any connection with Bev?”

  “I don’t rightly know. If she didn’t and someone murdered her, too, perhaps the killer is someone who doesn’t like old folks. We’re all getting a little nervous over here, I can tell you.”

  “Don’t worry, Uncle Albert. I’m sure she died of natural causes. And the police are bound to find Bev’s killer soon. I’ll come over for a visit tomorrow, and we can talk more. All right?”

  “I’d like that. Come at eleven. I’ll be in my room.”

  After Cam hung up the phone, she stood and stared at it. No way were these deaths related. Or maybe they were. If so, was it someone targeting senior citizens, as Albert had said? Yikes. That would mean he could be in danger, too. No wonder he was nervous.

  Or maybe it was somebody trying to frame Cam herself. Again, since the woman had eaten the same dinner Bev had. Double yikes. She couldn’t even i
magine who disliked her enough to do that. Pete had better get on the stick and nail this guy before anybody else died.

  She checked to make sure the door was locked and bolted. And then checked it again.

  Chapter 10

  “They ought to change this weather’s name from the Montreal Express to the North Pole Express,” Cam said out loud, rubbing her gloved hands together. Simply walking from the house to the chicken coop at seven the next morning chilled her through and through. She opened the small door to the chicken coop, but the hens were smart enough to stay puffed up inside. She slid the rubber flap over the opening so they could get outside if they wanted to. The flap, which DJ had rigged up in the fall, resembled a cat door, and it kept much of the warmer inside air inside.

  She made her way into the hoop house and latched the door firmly behind her. The wind whipped the plastic covering the high tunnel and whistled through a crack where the door met the jamb. She wished it had a human-sized rubber flap to keep the cold air a little farther at bay. DJ seemed to be able to create anything. She’d have to ask him about making one. In the meantime she could hang a woolen blanket over the entrance.

  The thermometer above the worm bins read forty-five. Not too bad, considering that the sun hadn’t yet risen. Adding worms was one of the smarter things she’d done after she’d read an article about vermiculture in the fall issue of the Natural Farmer. DJ and Alexandra had built the bins, now arrayed along the north side of the hoop house. The busy worms added warmth to the hoop house. They blocked part of the cold from the side that received little direct sunlight. And, of course, all their digesting and excreting created high-quality compost. Last winter the outside compost bins had frozen solid, and whatever farm or kitchen waste she’d added had to wait until spring to start breaking down. Now she was creating organic material to nurture the soil all winter long, with the help of hundreds of her wriggly little friends.

  She pulled out her phone and snapped several photographs of the bins. She stuck a small shovel in one bin and stirred, taking a close-up shot quickly while the worms were still on top of the rich black soil. She would add it to her presentation for tonight. And to the farm’s Web site.

  The air inside the hoop house warmed to fifty on still days, but odds were it wouldn’t reach that today. As long as the beds didn’t actually freeze, she could cut greens to sell. She walked the length of the hoop house. She groaned when she got to the beds at the far end, where the temperature dropped even more. She knelt and felt the overly crisp leaves of a head of Red Sails. An entire bed of lettuce had frozen, despite the row cover. The bed sat next to the eastern end wall and simply didn’t get enough warmth. The forecast had been for temperatures dropping throughout the day again. She would definitely leave the cover on today and hoped she didn’t lose any more crops. At least she’d invested in the thicker fabric for the winter temperatures.

  As she worked, Albert’s words about the second death at the assisted-living residence filled her head. His approach to life was usually even-keeled, but he’d sounded uncharacteristically worried last evening. Cam wished she could talk about the case with Pete. When one of her customers had been killed in the fall, he’d asked her to keep her eyes and ears open in the community. Obviously, he couldn’t work with a suspect, even informally. But that he might even entertain the possibility of her being capable of murder made her question who he really was. And if her feelings were no longer to be trusted.

  Cam greeted the Moran Manor receptionist and glanced at the clock on the wall behind her. Eleven. She jotted the time next to her name in the sign-in book and added Albert’s name as the person she planned to visit. A notice had been posted in a clear holder on the desk, next to the book.

  BEVERLY MONTGOMERY MEMORIAL SERVICE. WEDNESDAY, ELEVEN O’CLOCK, ONEONTA CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH. ALL WELCOME.

  Cam straightened. “A memorial service and not a funeral?” she asked the woman behind the desk.

  “Exactly.” She leaned toward Cam and whispered, “The children wanted the service right away, but the police won’t release the body yet.” She raised her eyebrows and appeared almost delighted at the prospect, likely the stuff of television thrillers for her.

  “They need to do their work.” Cam turned toward the central stairway. She could give Uncle Albert a ride to the service. A woman leaning on a red walker and a taller one with a cap of blue-tinted white hair stopped in their tracks in front of her.

  The woman with the walker grabbed her companion’s arm. “That’s the murderer right there,” she said in a loud whisper. She pointed at Cam.

  The tall one said something in her ear. They reversed direction and made their way down the hallway. The tall woman glanced behind her.

  No, I won’t follow you, lady. What could Cam do? Wear a button that read I AM NOT A MURDERER? She’d stepped onto the first stair when someone called her name.

  “Ms. Flaherty? Could I have a word?” Jim Cooper stood in front of his office door. He motioned her toward him.

  Cam greeted him when she neared the office.

  “Please come in.” He held out his arm to usher her into the room, then shut the door behind them.

  She looked around. Some kind of award for Moran Manor hung on the wall, next to a framed picture of Jim beaming as he shook hands with their state representative, a Republican from the next town over. The desk held only a computer monitor, a pad of paper with nothing written on it, and a pen lined up neatly next to it. A long leather sofa lined one wall, and two armless chairs faced the desk.

  “How did the residents like the dinner I provided?” Cam asked. She stood with her hands in her coat pockets. He hadn’t asked her to sit.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk with you about. We won’t be needing you to provide produce for us in the summer.” He lifted his chin.

  “People didn’t like it? My great-uncle said the meal was delicious.” Cam frowned.

  He cleared his throat. “It’s this matter of the deaths. Mrs. Montgomery’s and now Miss Lacey’s. They both ate your food.”

  “Do you believe my food killed those women?”

  “Well, no, of course not.” He pasted a smile on his face and erased it just as quickly. “That is, the police are investigating. It’s our residents, you know. They tend to be concerned, and we simply can’t have any question of... you see—” He trailed off, apparently hoping she would fill in the gaps.

  “I don’t see. And I’m sorry you were unhappy with what I provided. If you change your mind, please let me know.” Cam left the office as fast as it felt safe. It wouldn’t be a good idea to lose her temper with Jim. Maybe he’d change his mind once the murder was solved. Or murders.

  She grumbled under her breath while she climbed the stairs. “If my vegetables killed those ladies, how come nobody else got sick?”

  On the landing, a small table displayed two framed pictures. A red rose in a bud vase sat in front of each picture. An elderly woman with a kindly smile looked out of one. That must be Miss Lacey. Bev Montgomery’s face gazed out of the other. Pearls encircled her neck, and her hair had been styled. Cam had noticed her dressed up only once, at the wake for Bev’s son, Mike, last June. Bev hadn’t been at all happy to see her at the time.

  “Poor Bev,” Cam said softly and then turned. “Pete,” she gasped, startled. Pete, in a tie and sport coat, stood a couple of feet away.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you.” He started to extend an arm toward her. Before it reached her, he let it drop back by his side.

  “Don’t sneak up on me like that.” She patted her chest. “Are you here investigating?”

  He nodded slowly. Lines pulled down from the corners of his eyes.

  “How’s it going?” Cam stuck her hands in her pockets again. And then realized how warm she felt with her coat on. She slid out of it and draped it over one arm.

  “Not much progress, I’m afraid.”

  “What about this Miss Lacey? Did Bev’s murderer kill her, as well?” />
  He glanced up and down the hall, but nobody stood nearby. “We’re waiting on lab results. Can’t say at this point.”

  “A woman downstairs called me the murderer when I came in. Nice.”

  “Sorry about that.” He sighed.

  “Are you? Aren’t I still a suspect?” Cam was being neither nice nor tactful, but she didn’t possess the energy to try. And was starting not to care.

  “Cameron—” He held out both palms.

  “Oh, and the director said he wouldn’t buy my vegetables next summer. Because it would upset the residents or something. Pete, you guys have to find the real killer. And soon.”

  He opened his mouth and then shut it again. He jiggled change in his pocket. “We’re doing the best we can. And you know I can’t talk about it with you. Take care of yourself, all right?” He walked with a heavy step down the stairs.

  She watched him go. He did not glance behind him. She walked slowly toward Albert’s room, feeling both somber and agitated. The walls were decorated with paintings of musical scenes, along with flat sculptures of instruments. A metal cutout of a violin hung at a jaunty angle next to a Degas painting of an orchestra in action. At a junction of two outer walls, Cam paused. A hairline crack next to the corner ran from floor to ceiling. She frowned. The building seemed fairly new. It shouldn’t have cracks in it already.

  She knocked on Albert’s door, but he didn’t answer. Funny. He said he’d be here at this time. She opened the door a crack and called. When he still didn’t answer, she pushed the door open. She’d make sure he hadn’t gone into the bathroom, and then she’d go search for him in the common room.

  The bathroom door stood ajar. He wasn’t in there. She stepped farther into the main room. She didn’t see him, but she spied his red plaid lap blanket in a heap on the floor near the foot of his bed. It would be nicer for him to come back and find it folded on his chair. She picked it up and cried out. It had covered Albert’s feet. He lay prone on the floor on the far side of the bed.