Farmed and Dangerous

by Edith Maxwell

  “And you?” Cam asked. “What are you working on out here in the middle of January?”

  “Pruning, pruning, pruning. Has to be done before the buds form.”

  Sure enough, small branches littered the ground under the trees in one direction from where they stood, and the shapes of the trees were more open, cleaner.

  “Is that really a chain saw?” She pointed to the tool.

  “Yup, cordless pole saw. Makes the work go way faster than using loppers and pruners. So, what brings a beautiful woman like you out on such a gray day?” He lifted his eyebrows, drawing on the cigarette, and then blew smoke out the side of his mouth.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It does look like snow, though, doesn’t it? And it tastes like it.”

  He gazed at the sky and sniffed. “Should start around midday, I’d say.”

  “I came by because I wondered if you have any storage apples I could buy at a wholesale price. I need to pad out my winter shares, or the subscribers will start complaining.”

  “Any particular varieties you’re wanting?”

  “I don’t know much about apples. I’ve heard of Baldwins. And I love to eat Macouns in the fall. What do you have?”

  “Let me give you some Spartans,” Richard said. “They’re great keepers and have the most marvelous flavor. An antique variety.”

  “That sounds great. And the locavores will be happy.”

  “Can’t get much more local than five miles distant from your farm.”

  “Your apples aren’t certified organic, are they?”

  He shook his head. “I follow organic practices, as much as I can. But I am a CNG.”

  “What?”

  “Certified natural grower.”

  “A new term.”

  “It’s a much smaller certifying agency than the USDA, which is a bloody bureaucratic nightmare for a libertarian like me. Certified naturally growing farms are peer evaluated. My customers are satisfied. They don’t care about a USDA sticker on their fruit.”

  “I’ll check it out.” Cam suspected the fees were lower and the standards might be, as well. “Do they allow woodchuck bombs? I had a terrible time with those critters last summer.”

  “They do. But I have a better solution.” He lifted his arms, with one extended in front of him, palm up, and the closer hand in a trigger configuration. “Blammo.”

  “You shoot them?” A shudder went through her. Woodchucks were extremely destructive, but the thought of taking a gun to one horrified her.

  “You bet. I trained as a sharpshooter a long time ago. I blast their little heads off. Pop them off, one, two, three.” He winked at her. “Say, I heard you changed your farm’s name back to Attic Hill?” He took a drag on his smoke.

  “I did. The name Produce Plus Plus turned out to be really annoying. And I had to explain it all the time.” She shrugged.

  “Such explanation being?”

  “Well, as my volunteer Lucinda put it, the name represented vegetables, plus local, plus community, or something like that. I used to write software, and the language we wrote in was C plus plus.” She folded her arms. “Anyway, Attic Hill Farm is a better name, and it means something to the community because of my great-uncle. So do you have time to get me a few bushels of those Spartans?”

  “About time I took a break and warmed up these old pegs. After you, my dear.” He bowed with a courtly gesture.

  As they trudged up the hill, Cam said, “Looks like you didn’t complete your addition.”

  “Oh, that. I ran out of time before the fall, and then I didn’t have a minute to spare. We had the best crop ever this year. Conditions were perfect.”

  “Must be cold in that part of the house.”

  “I’m not using it at present. It’s not finished on the inside, either, so I closed it off.”

  “It was such a good season. Have you thought about hiring somebody to complete the job?”

  “Oh, no.” He spread his hands expansively. “I do all my own work.”

  “So, awful news from Moran Manor. Bev Montgomery dead, and then another woman died, too.”

  Richard gave her a sharp glance. “Of the same cause?”

  “No idea. Pure coincidence, I’m sure. What I’m trying to figure out is, of all the people who didn’t get along with Bev, why somebody would go so far as to kill her.”

  “An extreme measure, certainly. But surely that is the purview of the police, your detective Pappas and his cronies, isn’t it?”

  “Of course,” Cam said. “But since somebody in the state police seems to believe I might have poisoned Bev myself, which of course I didn’t, I have a vested interest in figuring out who did.”

  He nodded.

  “I heard that Bev planned to sell you her land.” Cam glanced at him while they walked. “That deal must be off now.”

  “It’s early days yet.” He waved a hand of dismissal in the air. “I’ve been trying to get hold of her daughter, Ginger, but she doesn’t return my calls.” He increased his stride and kept his gaze on the barn ahead.

  But Richard had told Pete he’d lost his phone. He must have either found it or bought a new one.

  Chapter 21

  By the time Cam got home with the apples, it was nearly eleven. Richard had to be the world’s biggest schmoozer. He had shown her the cider press and the walk-in cooler. He’d gone on and on about his fall sales, which had bordered on bragging. He’d even introduced her to his cat, Zipper. Richard hadn’t elaborated on the friend who’d been in such a big hurry in the black car, on the unfinished addition, or on acquiring Bev’s land.

  But now she had three bushels of Spartans in the rear of the truck. Driving home, she’d munched a perfectly crisp one and savored the fruit’s deep, winey flavor. Richard had said he left them on the trees as long as he could into the cold weather to sweeten them up. Cam’s customers were going to love these apples.

  A little shudder ran through her when she remembered the car coming straight at her. Such a close call, but Richard hadn’t shown much concern. She should give the license plate number to Pete or Ruth, have them check out the car’s owner.

  She pulled into the barn and unloaded the bushel baskets. She went out and slid the wide door shut behind her, glancing over at the chicken yard. The gate in the shoulder-high fence stood ajar. She must not have latched it securely earlier. She let herself into the enclosure and shut it behind her. At least the hens wouldn’t want to be hanging around outside in this frigid weather. She peeked into the coop. Everyone seemed to be present and accounted for. Letting herself out again, she headed for the house. When she rounded the corner of the barn, Ruffles ran down the drive at her at full tilt. When he reached her, he started pecking at her shin. His sharp beak poked through her flannel-lined jeans to her skin.

  “Hey, that hurts.” She pulled one glove off and swatted down at him. “Shoo!”

  Rearing up, he flapped his wings, which made him look twice as big, and kept pecking.

  “Ruffles, stop it.” She kicked her leg sideways, but he simply switched to her other shin. She needed to get him into the chicken yard again. She strode toward it. Luckily, he followed her, still trying to peck her leg. She opened the gate and stepped in. He stood outside the gate, stretched tall, and crowed twice, then sauntered into the yard. She batted at him with her glove, pushing him toward the coop, then stepped around him. She hurried out, latching the gate firmly behind her. The last thing she needed was an attack rooster.

  “If I ever find you, M and M, whoever you are,” she said, hurrying toward the house, “that rooster won’t be the only one getting his neck wrung.”

  Inside she placed a call to the skilled nursing center at Moran Manor and asked for Albert. Worry about his safety gnawed at her, especially since she couldn’t keep him both safe and comfortable at her house.

  “Oh, he’s not here anymore,” the woman told her. “He’s gone back upstairs.”

  “That was fast. Is this Juney?”

  �
�It is, mum.”

  “This is Cam, Albert’s great-niece. Did his dementia go away?”

  “Close enough. The doctor, she came by this morning and said he was okay to move to his room. Mr. St. Pierre, he was glad to go.”

  “That’s great news.” Cam thanked her and disconnected, then pushed the speed dial for Albert’s room.

  Marilyn answered. She said Albert was just in the bathroom and would be out in a minute.

  “Marilyn, has he stopped hallucinating about the cats?” Cam asked.

  Marilyn didn’t speak for a moment. “Well, not completely. Oh, here he is,” she said in a bright tone.

  “Cameron, my dear,” Albert said a moment later. His voice lacked its usual vitality. “You heard that they released me from the dungeon?”

  “I did. But, Uncle Albert, you know you were in skilled nursing. It couldn’t have been that bad. How are you feeling?”

  “A bit of a headache. But I’m fine.”

  “I’m glad. Listen, I want to propose something to you. Why don’t you come and stay here on the farm with me for a week or two? I could cook for you and . . .” “And keep you safe,” she wanted to add.

  “What? That’s sweet of you, but it’s a harebrained idea. Why, I’d have the devil of a time with those stairs and such. No, I’m used to my room here. I’ll be fine, Cameron.”

  She’d expected this answer, but she didn’t like it. How could she guarantee he wouldn’t be attacked again? She decided not to ask him over the phone if he remembered any more details about his fall.

  “Listen, they’re having some damn fool birthday party here this afternoon,” Albert said. “It’s for everyone with a January birthday. They told us to invite our relatives. And since you’re it for me, consider yourself invited.”

  “That sounds fun. What time?”

  “It’s combined with happy hour. And a good thing, too. I’m going to need a drink to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to a bunch of old people. See you at four o’clock?”

  “It’s a date. I’ll come early and visit with you. Now, promise me you’ll rest. Yes?”

  He sighed, said he would, and hung up. Good. She could try to gather more information while she visited the residence, and could also keep an eye on Albert.

  She switched on the computer and checked her e-mail. It included a reminder about getting her bulk order submitted, a money-saving service NOFA/Mass offered to members. Going in with other farmers when ordering soil amendments, seed potatoes, onion sets, and cover crop seeds, among other items, cut down the cost for everyone. She finalized the order, then made sure there were no comments to moderate on the farm’s Web site. After navigating to the Attic Hill Farm Facebook page, she added a reminder about the weekend’s share pickup hours. She glanced at the collage of pictures that comprised the page’s banner. Ellie appeared in one, showing off the Girl Scout Locavore badge she’d earned the previous summer.

  Ellie. She still hadn’t talked with Ellie about what she’d remembered. The girl hadn’t returned her call last night. Now Ellie was in school again. Cam would call her again this afternoon, for sure. In the meantime, she was still a farmer with paying customers to satisfy.

  In the barn a few minutes later, Cam checked the seedlings in the office and swore. One flat had dried out. The tender shoots lay listless on the soil. She brought water from the sink in the main area of the barn and watered them, then turned down the heating pad under that flat. The others looked fine.

  As she closed the office door behind her, she cocked her head at a faint noise that sounded like it came from outside. It didn’t recur, though. Preston darted into the barn from the cat door in the rear wall, its flap whapping back and forth after him. Her carpenter had installed the door in the new barn so Preston could go in and out at will. She’d hate for him to follow her in and then get trapped inside when she left. And he was great at keeping the barn’s mouse population to a minimum. He often batted at the door before he came in.

  She went over the list of chores in her head. She needed to move a bucket of the worm castings onto the hoop-house bed where she planned to plant out the lettuce seedlings. Cut and bag enough mizuna and tatsoi for the Saturday shares. And dig more leeks.

  As she walked toward the wheelbarrow, she glanced at one corner of the barn and noticed the doors to the root cellar were open. She’d designed the cold storage room and added it below-ground when her carpenter, Bobby, constructed the new barn. The cellar featured wooden racks off the ground and away from the wall, a cement floor, and a gentle slope to the wide stairs so they were easy to traverse when carrying a bushel of potatoes or carrots while either descending or ascending. At Cam’s direction, Bobby had situated the cellar in a corner under two outer walls of the foundation on the north side. She didn’t remember leaving the doors open, but she must have done it the last time she had gone down to bring up winter squash.

  She strolled over to close the doors, which were like outdoor bulkhead doors. She smiled at the memory of Ruth referring to those kinds of doors as “Dorothy doors” after they’d watched The Wizard of Oz together for the umpteenth time as children. She paused. This would be a good time to check the condition of the storage crops, as well as how much she had left to give out. She flipped the light switch.

  The room below remained dark. Cam frowned. How could that be? The compact fluorescent bulbs in both pendant fixtures down there were brand-new last summer, and they were supposed to last for years. The barn had passed its electrical inspection, so it couldn’t be a wiring problem. The barn’s main floor provided enough light to illuminate the top of the flight of eight stairs. One of the bulbs could have loosened in its socket. Both of them doing so at the same time seemed odd. How much was it going to cost her to fix this? She needed to get a flashlight. With a killer on the loose, no way was she going down alone into a dark cellar.

  As she gazed down into the darkness, strong pressure on her back sent her tumbling down the stairs. Crying out, she managed to break her fall with her hands. A loud clunk sounded, and half the light disappeared. One of the doors had fallen shut. Another clunk closely followed. What? She lay on the floor in darkness. She heard a heavy scraping noise.

  “What the—” Shouting, Cam pushed herself to her feet. She felt her way to the stairs and scrambled up. She tripped and crashed onto her shin. She cursed, reaching for the doors. They didn’t budge. She knew the doors didn’t have any locks on the outside, only two handles to grasp them with. Whoever had pushed her had somehow locked the doors shut. She beat on them with her fists.

  “I’m in here! Open the doors.”

  Who had locked her in? Maybe the person was still waiting in the barn. Maybe they were spreading gasoline around, lighting a match....

  “Let me out of here, whoever you are,” Cam yelled. “What do you want?”

  No response. Then, faintly, she heard the wide barn door slide slowly shut. She had to get out. She braced her feet and pushed on one of the doors with her shoulder. Whatever the doors were latched with made a noise but did not give way. And her shoulder stung. She was truly trapped.

  She slumped on the stairs, rubbing her shoulder. Somebody wanted her out of the way. It had to be Bev’s killer or Albert’s attacker. Cam, exactly as Pete had feared, had been asking questions and snooping around to the best of her ability. She felt a chill unrelated to the root cellar. If the person returned to attack again, she would have trouble defending herself. She had nothing but a couple of kabocha squash to hurl at him. Or her. Another thought occurred to her that made her heart race. What if whoever had shut her in had taken Preston? He’d been kidnapped before and then drugged. She sent out a little prayer that he’d be all right.

  She wallowed in self-pity for a couple of minutes. And then got mad. She made her way back down the stairs until she stood on the cement floor. She would not die down here, after all, or not very soon. When she designed the root cellar, she could have controlled the environment with electronics. Instead she’d installe
d three-inch-diameter pipes to the outside, one low and one high, to let in fresh, cool air and let out the stale air, which included the ethylene gas ripening vegetables gave off. At least she’d be able to breathe. She sniffed the air. She detected no odor of smoke, unlike the previous time she’d been trapped in the barn, and exhaled with relief.

  She could breathe and didn’t appear to be in imminent danger of burning. If she heard any noises in the barn, she would yell as loudly as she could. In the meantime, she needed to stay alive. She could eat carrots. She could—

  She could use her phone. Her laugh shook, but at least she could still laugh. She drew it out of her pocket and pressed the button on the side that made it come alive. She’d never been so glad to see those glowing numbers and icons. The clock-face display on the front read 12:10. She pressed the green phone icon, the numerals 911, and SEND. It didn’t ring. She waited. It still didn’t ring. She pulled the phone away from her ear and peered at it.

  The little half pyramid in the top corner was displayed in white. No bars. No signal. No connection with a cell tower. No way to contact the outside world. Her heart raced, and her hands numbed. She felt her way up to the doors again. Still no connection.

  If she couldn’t figure out how to get out . . .

  “Damn it, no. I’m smart, and I’m healthy. Plus, I have people who will come searching for me.” She carefully felt her way down again and paced to the end of the space, holding one hand out until it touched the wall, then turned and retraced her steps. Or almost. She cried out when her shin hit one of the lower shelves, the same shin she’d hit on the stairs. She revived the phone again and found the flashlight app. Turning it on, she shone it around the cellar. Half the shelves held boxes and baskets full of winter squashes and various root crops, like rutabagas, parsnips, and beets. Carrots sat in sand in a bucket near the wall. Three bushel baskets in the far corner were full of potatoes: Purple Peruvians, Adirondack Reds, Satina Golds.

  The light extinguished itself. She pressed the WAKE-UP button again and groaned when she saw the battery display, which showed only one third charged. And she remembered that the flashlight app exhausted the battery power fast. She’d have to save it for when she needed it. Dejection raised its sorry head again. Someone had to come by after missing her. But who? And how long would it take? She didn’t have any water. She wasn’t sure munching carrots would provide her body with enough fluid.