by Gin Jones
“He was a lawyer,” Mabel said. “He must have had a will with information about his heirs.”
“He probably did, but we haven’t found it yet,” O’Connor said. “It’s not in the farmhouse, and searching a lawyer’s office is tricky because of client confidentiality. We have to get someone appointed to protect Graham’s clients’ privacy during the search. The state police detective who’s helping me is going to court tomorrow to deal with it, so it won’t be long before we have the will.”
“Good luck,” Mabel said, not entirely convinced it would be as simple as O’Connor believed. By all accounts, Graham hadn’t been interested in anything except his rhubarb since his wife had died. What if he’d left all his assets to the plants, like some people did with their pets?
“Don’t worry,” O’Connor said, clearly unconcerned, since his nervous laughter was absent. “It will all work out.”
Mabel had been expecting him to be more anxious, like Rory’s husband would have been. Maybe it was the difference in perspective between a beat cop and a detective, but Joe Hansen always anticipated the worst when it came to crime and fretted over how often things didn’t work out. It worried her that O’Connor seemed more inclined to believe that justice would happen without any real work on his part. With that attitude, he would be more comfortable with arresting the easiest suspect he could come up with—herself—rather than one he had to struggle to find.
“It won’t work out for the rhubarb plants if someone doesn’t do something to help them soon,” Mabel said.
O’Connor shrugged. “Not my responsibility. I’ve got a killer to catch. The plants will just have to fend for themselves.”
Except they couldn’t. They would die. Much like Aunt Peggy’s farm would have died if it were sold to Thomas Porter. Now that the deal was off and the packing could wait, Mabel had some spare time over the next couple of weeks before the garlic needed to be planted. If O’Connor wasn’t going to do anything about Graham’s work, and the heirs didn’t even know that they needed to take action, then she was the only one left to act.
“What if I volunteered to water the plants?” Mabel asked. “Would I get into trouble for trespassing?”
“Not from me. As of this morning, we’re done with the crime scene. I’d suggest staying away from the immediate area where Graham died in case the technicians want to recheck it, but other than that, I don’t care if you want to be a Good Samaritan.” O’Connor stood up and laughed before adding, “Lena Shaw might care, though, so make sure you don’t upset her. We’re too busy right now to deal with more of her petty grievances.”
“I’ll talk to her before I do anything,” Mabel said as if she hadn’t already been planning to. Now she could honestly tell Lena that the police had suggested talking to her. Leading with that might give her an opening to ask about Lena’s whereabouts at the time of Graham’s death, although Mabel wasn’t quite sure how to work that into the conversation. Too bad she couldn’t just create an app with the questions she needed answers to about motives and alibis, and then just ask people to respond to the app. It would be so much easier than dealing with people face-to-face. Perhaps she could appeal to Lena’s obvious pride about how she watched over the subdivision. Even if she hadn’t seen Graham the morning he died, she might know his daily routine, including when he usually fed the cat.
“Wait here and I’ll get you a key to the greenhouse,” O’Connor said. “The house itself is also locked, but you won’t need to go in there.”
“Thanks.”
She would have liked to ask him whether they’d confirmed the time of death yet since it might exonerate her. O’Connor wasn’t likely to share something like that though, despite his inexperience. He might get suspicious, and if he mentioned it to his colleague from the state police they would definitely think she was showing too much interest in the crime itself, rather than the rhubarb.
Mabel expected O’Connor to dally, but he returned after only two or three minutes. He dangled the key in front of her before abruptly pulling it back into his closed fist. “Just one thing first.” He was facing Mabel but didn’t look her in the eyes. He giggled nervously before saying, “I, uh, heard you were thinking of leaving town soon. We need you to stick around until the murder investigation is wrapped up. Just in case we have questions.”
Or in case he wanted to arrest her, she thought. It was probably a good thing the sale of the farmhouse had fallen apart, so she could focus on proving she hadn’t killed Graham instead of preparing to move. “I’m not going anywhere until I sell the farm, and it looks like that’s going to take a while longer.”
“Good to know.” He giggled again as he handed over the key. “I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know if anything changes.”
“I will.” Mabel grabbed the key before he could change his mind again, anxious to leave before he restricted her freedom even further. What would it be like to always need permission before leaving a room? She’d rather not find out. “Just how long do you think the investigation is going to take?”
O’Connor shrugged, assuming a world-weary expression that he couldn’t possibly have enough experience to justify, and that was odds with the accompanying laugh. “Hard to tell when there aren’t any obvious suspects, like in this case.”
“What about Graham’s clients?” Mabel asked. “I heard some of them were upset with him.”
“Yeah, we’ll be talking to them,” O’Connor said. “But first we need to get the court order to search his office. Not just for his will, but also so we can put together a list of who he represented. They’re our best leads so far, but it’ll take time to sort everything out. Any time you don’t have a clear suspect in the first day or so, you know it’s going to be a real challenge. The investigation could take weeks before we have solid answers. Months even.”
Her heart sank. There wasn’t anything she could do to help compile a list of Graham’s clients, so she was dependent on the police doing it and following up diligently, which she wasn’t sure would happen. “How many months?”
“A couple,” O’Connor said. “Or more. The state police detective told me it once took her ten years to catch her man, but she never gave up.”
“Let’s hope her perseverance won’t be quite so necessary in this case.”
Chapter 9
On the way to her car, Mabel got a text from Charlie Durbin with a link to the court order in the fraud case against Thomas Porter. She sat behind the wheel, with the engine off, and read the whole thing, just in case there was some mistake. Unfortunately, it didn’t take a lawyer’s training to know that Thomas Porter was definitely a real estate developer, and not an ethical one like Charlie who would honor a no-development provision in the contract. She could no longer hope that the rumors had been wrong or there was someone else with a similar name who’d been sued for lying to a seller.
Mabel texted Jeff Wright to let him know the sale was definitely off. Then she decided it was time to send another message asking him to call her to let her know he was okay. She’d been planning to wait until the end of the day, but she was starting to worry about him. Members of the legal profession generally had a reputation for not responding to calls and texts, but Jeff had never been that way with her. She was a long-time client of course, and that got her some special consideration, but she’d heard from some of his other clients who said he always got back to them quickly too. So why hadn’t she heard from him in close to two whole business days since she’d first texted him about the legality of collecting yard waste from other people’s property?
Mabel decided it was time to try something else to contact him. She called his regular office number, the one she’d given to Rory but hadn’t ever used herself, since she had his direct number. All she got was a recording inviting her to leave a message. That, too, was worrisome. Even if Jeff was on vacation, his administrative assistant should still be in the office
and answering the phone at four in the afternoon.
Mabel left a message, asking for a call back, but wished there was something more she could do. If she’d been at home in Maine, she’d have driven to his office, just to be sure it was still there. She couldn’t do that right now, not with the murder investigation hanging over her head. All she could do was wait for him to get back to her and hope that he’d been on vacation, and his assistant had perhaps taken a sick day or had been running an errand when Mabel called.
If she didn’t hear from Jeff or his assistant by the next morning, she was going to do whatever it took to get answers, even if she had to call every single person who lived in her hometown to find one who’d go over to Jeff’s office and ask him why he hadn’t responded to Mabel’s texts and calls.
Mabel was about to start her car when she saw the mayor park in his reserved space outside the main entrance to town hall. She needed to have a talk with Danny about buyers who weren’t farmers.
She caught up with him at the base of the front stairs. “Thomas Porter is a real estate developer, not a farmer,” she said. She’d never liked small talk, and he didn’t deserve any social niceties in the circumstances.
Danny gave her a broad smile, as if she’d just complimented his work instead of criticizing it. “Come on inside where we can talk in private.”
“I don’t have time for that,” Mabel said. “I just wanted to let you know the deal with Porter is off. I won’t accept any offer from him. He’s a developer, and I won’t sell to anyone who isn’t going to use the land for farming. You know that. It’s even in your listing contract.” Jeff Wright had given her the language to insert before she’d signed the document.
Danny glanced around furtively, obviously checking to see if anyone might overhear the conversation. The only people in sight were about half a dozen teenagers walking home from the local Catholic school in their distinctive uniforms. She doubted they would care about adult issues like property ownership.
Still, Danny lowered his voice. “I didn’t know Porter was a developer. All I knew was what he told you, that he’d always wanted to be a farmer and now he was ready to make his dreams come true. He sounded just like I did when I was dreaming about following in my father’s footsteps as mayor. I didn’t expect it to happen when I was so young, and I’d rather my dad was still alive, even if I’d be out of a job, but I definitely know what it’s like to have a passion for something.”
“I don’t care how much you have in common with Porter.” Mabel didn’t even believe the mayor was passionate about his job. From what she’d heard, Danny’s real obsession was with writing about local history, rather than either of his actual jobs. Aunt Peggy had a couple of the books he’d written about West Slocum in her home office, because they’d focused on agriculture rather than prominent citizens or architecture like the rest of his books apparently did. “You represent me, not Porter. And I’m not going to sell to him.”
“But he really wants the property,” Danny said. “I’ve got to advise you that he’s probably the best buyer you’re going to find any time soon. A cash deal doesn’t come along very often, and I bet Porter would pay even more than the listing price if you make a counteroffer.”
“I’m not interested at any price,” Mabel said. “It’s not about the money. I will only sell to someone who will continue using the property as a farm.”
“Okay, okay.” Danny raised his hands defensively. “I’m just doing my job here. I have to be sure you know your options.”
“I do.” Mabel had originally intended to list the farm herself online, but Jeff Wright had insisted she hire a broker. She didn’t always follow her lawyer’s advice, but he’d reminded her that if she sold it herself, she would have to personally show potential buyers around during their viewing of the property. And that meant engaging in small talk. Not her best skill. Or any kind of skill at all. With a broker, she could make herself scarce when strangers were on the site. “The only thing that matters to me is finding someone who will carry on Aunt Peggy’s work.”
“All right, all right,” Danny said. “I’ll do what I can. Just keep in mind that it will take some time to find the right person, and you might have to lower the price.”
Mabel didn’t care so much about getting top price, but she was anxious to get back to Maine as soon as possible. Although, now that she thought of it, waiting until spring to go back home wouldn’t be too much of a hardship. Especially since, while West Slocum wasn’t anywhere near tropical, the weather was a little less extreme than in her part of Maine. And it would give her more time to watch her foster kittens be born and grow up to adoption age. A spring deadline would give Danny another five or six months to find a buyer. She could wait a bit, just not indefinitely. “How long do you think it will take to find a buyer who’s a real farmer?”
Danny shrugged. “Could be years if you insist on keeping the land agricultural.”
He was about as optimistic as O’Connor was about when she’d finally be able to go home to Maine, she thought. In Danny’s case, though, he was probably exaggerating the situation to convince her to give up and accept the quick sale. It was a little tempting, especially as she thought about the imminent heavy labor to plant the garlic, but she owed it to her aunt to care for her legacy.
“I can wait,” Mabel said, as much to remind herself as to answer Danny.
“Perhaps we’ll get lucky. Hobby farms are popular these days, and Peggy’s place is the right size for that.” Danny’s attempt at an enthusiastic expression faded, and he asked, “You’re not so fussy that the buyer has to be a full-time grower, are you?”
Mabel didn’t have anything against hobby farmers, and as far as she could tell, neither had her aunt. The next-door neighbor, Emily, was a hobby farmer, with her husband’s high-powered job providing enough income to purchase the land and maintain it, while the goats barely paid for their direct expenses by producing the milk that was made into cheese. Aunt Peggy had been close friends with Emily and had partnered with her on the production of garlic-flavored goat cheese. That wouldn’t have happened if Aunt Peggy had looked down on hobby farms.
“Any kind of farmer would be fine,” Mabel agreed. “Just not a real estate developer who will destroy the fields my aunt worked so hard to establish.”
Danny’s enthusiasm resumed, looking more real. “I’ll do my best.”
That didn’t exactly reassure her. On the other hand, there really wasn’t any other broker who worked in West Slocum and knew the community. Even Graham’s heirs would probably end up hiring him to sell his property. From what Detective O’Connor had said, it seemed unlikely that there was a local heir who might want to move into the house, so the property would have to be sold and the proceeds distributed according to his will.
“There’s one other thing you could do for me in the meantime.” Mabel needed to think about what could make the farm more interesting to buyers, and maybe having an even more diversified crop would do it. She already had a blueprint in her aunt’s journals for adding a rhubarb field, and maybe that would entice a buyer. “I might be interested in buying the rhubarb plants from Graham’s estate. If you get the listing to sell the property, would you ask the heirs if they’d be willing to sell me some of the plants?”
“They’d be as crazy as Graham was if they didn’t sell someone the plants. The best price they’ll get for the property is as a building lot, with the buyer tearing down the house. No one is going to want that much rhubarb in their yard.” Danny’s face fell. “But I doubt I’ll get the listing. I expect Lena will jump in and make an offer the moment the heirs are identified. She’ll sweeten the deal by telling them they can save the broker’s fee by selling direct to her, so they’ll get to keep more of the proceeds.”
“I heard she might buy it, but I don’t understand why,” Mabel said. “It seems like a lot of work for her and a lot of money to invest, when
she could just sit back and let someone else build something new there. Whoever buys it is likely to care more than Graham did about maintenance and even about the homeowners’ association’s rules.”
“Lena likes to be in control,” Danny said. “She won’t want to take the risk that the next owner will fall short of her standards. She tried to buy it plenty of times before, but Graham wouldn’t sell. She was a friend of the man who developed the subdivision, and she got some sort of sweetheart deal on her house in return for being the broker on the other houses. I’ve heard she later had a falling-out with the developer, and I suspect it was over his failure to buy Graham’s farmhouse when the rest of the land was purchased.”
Mabel thought he was probably right. Lena didn’t seem like the sort to accept defeat gracefully. Or to accept no as an answer. Just how far would she have gone to get the title to Graham’s land? More than just nagging, all the way to stabbing?
* * * *
Mabel found Lena in her yard, a few feet in from the sidewalk, raking a smattering of leaves that had blown onto her property from Graham’s overgrown hedges.
“Hello,” Mabel called out as she entered the yard. “Do you have a moment to talk?”
“What are you doing here?” Lena demanded. “You aren’t parked illegally again, are you?”
Mabel had made sure to park out on the main street, outside the subdivision, just so she wouldn’t upset Lena over something so innocuous. “Now that I know what the rules are, I’m following them.”
“Good.” Lena put her hands on top of the rake’s handle and propped her chin on them. “What do you want?”
“I was wondering about the cat that lived in the greenhouse,” Mabel said.
“Ugh,” Lena said with a shudder. “I hate cats. They’re such a nuisance. All they do is eat the beautiful birds and poop in our gardens. We have a rule against free-range animals here, you know, but of course Graham didn’t care, and there was nothing I could do as long as the cat stayed on his property.”