Rhubarb Pie Before You Die

by Gin Jones

  There was no sign of Emily, and neither Rory’s pickup or any other vehicle was parked outside the barn. Pixie never yowled except when someone entered the property, and she was never wrong about there being a visitor. So where were they?

  Mabel peered down the driveway, in case the intruder had stopped short of the buildings, but she didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. A vehicle could have stopped on the far side of the bend in the driveway, but there wasn’t any reason to do that, and in any event, she ought to be able to hear a running engine from that short distance, and the only sounds were a few birdcalls.

  She had to consider the possibility that Pixie had gotten it wrong. Perhaps the presence of another cat in the house had caused Pixie to act out and demand more attention. She hadn’t liked being kept out of Aunt Peggy’s bedroom, so maybe she planned to yowl at random until she got the full run of the house again.

  Mabel realized then that she hadn’t actually seen Pixie, just heard the yowl, and hadn’t stopped to check on the pregnant cat before racing outside to look for a visitor. What if Pixie had gotten inside the off-limits bedroom somehow, and the yowl wasn’t a warning about visitors, but an aggressive challenge to Billie Jean? The poor pregnant cat didn’t need any more stress than she was already experiencing by losing her caretaker and then being cooped up in an unfamiliar place with people she didn’t know.

  Mabel was halfway back to the farmhouse to check on Billie Jean when there was a commotion behind her. She turned to see all thirteen of the barn cats come streaming out in a panicked jumble and run off into the adjoining woods. Usually they were asleep at this time of day, saving up their energy for dusk when hunting time began. Something must have spooked them. Some sort of predator?

  Mabel raced into the barn. She grabbed a hoe from where it hung immediately to the left of the entrance, so she’d have something to defend herself against the intruder. Most of the barn’s interior was empty now that most of the harvest had been sold. There were few hiding spaces or even shadows except near the bins stacked along the far wall, which held a few butternut squashes for Mabel’s personal use, plus the garlic heads that would soon be broken into cloves and planted for next year’s crop. The cats wouldn’t have been afraid of anything that might have hidden there—it was their job to hunt down the vermin attracted to the food, after all. So what could have scared the cats out of their naptime sanctuary?

  And then she smelled the smoke. It was coming from her right, about ten feet from the entrance. Wisps of gray smoke rose from a rusty old wheelbarrow that held garlic that wasn’t quite perfect enough to go to Jeanne’s Country Diner or Maison Becker or any of the farm’s other commercial customers. It hadn’t gone bad, but some of the heads had a damaged section that would rot eventually. Rory had suggested taking it to the farmers’ market with a heavily discounted price and a warning to discard any damaged cloves immediately and to use the rest as soon as possible. If no one bought them, they could be pickled, using Aunt Peggy’s recipe. Emily said it was easy, but Mabel had been hoping not to have to do that, since she’d never been much of a cook, and she didn’t have the patience for peeling all those cloves.

  Now, it was too late to do anything with the garlic. The dried outer skins of the heads were smoldering. The least bit of breeze would ignite flame, so it was fortunate that the air, despite being chilly, was calm. If that changed though, and the smoke turned to fire, the whole barn could soon follow the contents of the wheelbarrow.

  The hoe might have been useful against other types of intruders, but not a fire. Mabel needed something to smother it, a blanket or a tarp, but she couldn’t see anything like that. Rather than wasting any more time, she tossed the hoe aside and pulled off her oversized hoodie to drop on top of the garlic. It seemed to have done the trick, but just in case, she pushed the wheelbarrow out into the gravel parking lot where fire couldn’t do any damage, continuing until it was thirty feet from the barn.

  She dropped the handles and raced back inside to grab a fire extinguisher that she’d belatedly remembered hung on the wall next to the doors. She carried it over to the wheelbarrow, but then realized she didn’t know how to use it. Meanwhile, her hoodie, cotton and thin from years of use and repeated washings, had fed the fire instead of smothering it. The fabric was now smoldering and producing even more smoke than the garlic had.

  Mabel was studying the instructions printed on the side when a boxy purple SUV screeched to a halt nearby and the faux farmer, Thomas Porter, jumped out, leaving the driver’s side door open in his rush to join her. No longer hiding who he was, he wore a hoodie like the one she’d sacrificed to put out the fire, except it had the name of his company, Porter Development, embroidered on the left side of the chest.

  “Here,” he said, reaching for the extinguisher. “No time to waste. I know how to use it.”

  She didn’t like Porter or his lies, but now wasn’t the time to quibble over his rudeness. She silently handed over the extinguisher, and was relieved to see that he did indeed know what he was doing when it came to this bit of physical labor, even if his hands were soft and uncallused. He had the stream of fire retardant aimed at the contents of the wheelbarrow in mere seconds, and the smoke was quickly abating.

  Eventually, Porter set the extinguisher on the ground at his feet and looked at her. “What happened there?”

  “I don’t know,” Mabel said. “I went into the barn and found the wheelbarrow smoking. There’s garlic underneath the sweatshirt.” Her poor, beloved, comfy hoodie. It was going to take years to get another one that soft through repeated wearings and washings.

  “Never heard of garlic spontaneously combusting before,” he said. “But I’ve bought a number of farms at literal fire sales, and I remember one of them burned down after damp hay overheated when it began to break down. Maybe that’s what happened here. Except with garlic.”

  “I suppose it’s possible.” She had her doubts though. Rory had taught her about the importance of drying of the garlic after harvest, not so much to prevent fires but to make sure it would store well. Dampness led to decomposition, which ruined the crop, and it did also lead to heat, as Porter said, which at least theoretically could lead to fire. But Mabel had followed the drying instructions carefully, and she was sure she’d have heard from Rory if it hadn’t been done properly.

  The timing of the fire was suspicious, too, happening right when the cats had been disturbed by something, or someone, causing them to race out of the barn. She didn’t think they’d simply been reacting to the smoke, which had barely begun to waft out of the wheelbarrow when she noticed it, and that had been several minutes after they’d run away. If they’d been sleeping as they usually were at this time of day, she doubted they would even have noticed the earliest wisps of smoke that would have existed when they’d been spooked.

  No, Mabel was convinced that someone had been inside the barn, disturbing the cats’ naps, and starting the fire. He’d disappeared before she’d arrived, probably slipping out the small back door that faced Emily’s property.

  But why? To convince her to sell the farm? As Porter himself had admitted, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d managed to buy property after a fire had reduced its value. Had he simply taken advantage of an accident, or had he created the damage himself?

  She shivered and wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or from the chilly air on her uncovered arms. She wished she could go inside, but she had to get rid of Porter first. She wasn’t about to invite him inside, not when she suspected him of arson, to go along with his attempted fraud.

  “I appreciate the help, but why are you here?” Mabel rubbed her arms for warmth.

  “I wanted to talk to you about your decision not to sell the farm,” Porter said. “Why don’t we go inside, where I can explain everything.”

  “I don’t think we should be discussing the deal without my broker here.”

  “That rule is j
ust for parties to a lawsuit. They can’t talk to each other without their lawyers present. But we’re not in some kind of court battle. We’re just trying to come up with a mutually beneficial deal. A nice little conversation among friends who can help each other out.”

  “I’m not looking for new friends,” Mabel said through chattering teeth. “And I’m not going to sell the farm to a developer. Not now, not ever.”

  “You might not have a choice.” Porter nodded in the direction of the barn. “Nothing’s guaranteed in this world. That fire could have been a lot worse. Most barns go up in flames in moments, before anyone notices, and by the time the firefighters arrive, there’s nothing they can do to stop it.” He turned to look in the other direction. “Not much distance between the barn and your home. If the barn burns, the house will too.”

  Mabel’s shivering increased, and this time she was sure it wasn’t from the cold air. “Fortunately, the fire was caught quickly.”

  “This time,” he said. “Why not cut your losses and sell now before anything else can go wrong?”

  “I’ll take my chances. I’m not in that much of a hurry to sell, and the property’s fully insured.” At least, she hoped it was. Her aunt had been cutting some financial corners before she died, and Mabel hadn’t paid much attention to the insurance, just paying the renewal invoice when it came due without looking at the extent of coverage. “Even if everything burned down and I lost everything, I still wouldn’t sell to you. Nothing personal, but I want the land to remain agricultural.”

  “I could—”

  “No.” Mabel held up her hand. “I’m not listening. I’m going inside, and you’re leaving.”

  Porter gave her a long look before nodding. “I’ll go, but you’re going to regret this.”

  She let him have the last word, turning her back on him and forcing herself to walk slowly and deliberately to the kitchen door without breaking into a run like her instincts insisted.

  Chapter 14

  Inside, Mabel found Pixie sitting on the kitchen windowsill, glaring at where Porter’s SUV was turning around.

  “You’re going to get fat from all the treats you earned today.” Mabel opened a cabinet to retrieve the bag of pricey kibble that the local vet said most cats found addictive and then dropped three pieces in front of Pixie. “I just wish you could tell me who was in the barn when you yowled.”

  Pixie silently gobbled up her treats before turning pleading eyes on Mabel. “Okay, three more pieces, but that’s it for now. There will be more though if Thomas Porter gets anywhere near the farm again and you warn me about it.”

  Mabel put away the bag of treats and called the mayor. He didn’t answer, so she left him a message that he needed to do more to get Porter to accept that the deal was off. She considered sharing her suspicion that Porter had started the fire in order to show up in the nick of time to be her savior, with respect to both the flames and taking the farm off her hands. She didn’t have any real evidence against him, at least not related to the fire, so she hung up without mentioning it.

  Emily might have seen something to confirm Mabel’s suspicions, so she tried calling her. There was no answer, which meant she was probably outside working with the goats. She usually turned the phone off so the animals could have her full attention.

  After a quick trip upstairs to check on Billie Jean—still eating and glaring—and to get her second most favorite hoodie, which had just graduated to first favorite, Mabel headed next door. She found Emily coming through the gate from the back field.

  “What’s up?” Emily asked.

  “I was wondering if you’d seen anything strange on my property in the last hour or so.”

  “Sorry.” Emily shook the gate to make sure it was latched securely behind her. “I’ve been out back with the goats all morning. I can’t see or hear anything from your property from there.”

  “What about smell?”

  “When I’m working with the goats, all I can smell is parfum de chevre. Actually, the does don’t have much odor. It’s just the bucks that do, but they stink enough for everyone.” Emily frowned. “Why? What should I have smelled?”

  “Nothing, I guess. But there was a little fire in the barn. Some garlic heads in a wheelbarrow caught fire.”

  Emily gasped. “A fire? What happened? How did I miss the fire engines? I should have been able to hear the sirens even if I were in the farthest corner of the field and all the goats were bleating.”

  “There weren’t any sirens. The situation wasn’t that bad. I was able to get the wheelbarrow out of the barn and put out the fire myself.”

  “What did the police say?”

  “They don’t know about it.”

  “You need to tell them,” Emily said. “It could be related to Graham’s death.”

  “More likely it was just a natural bit of combustion,” Mabel said, although she was relieved that someone else thought it was suspicious. “It’s just that the cats were acting weird, running out of the barn when they should have been napping. That’s why I found the smoking garlic so quickly. I went into the barn to check on what had spooked them and instead found the fire.”

  “Did you ever figure out why the cats ran?”

  “No. That’s why I wondered if you’d noticed anything out of the ordinary,” Mabel said. “You’ll probably think I’m crazy, and I’m sure the police would laugh if I told them, but Thomas Porter, the guy who wants to buy the farm, arrived right as I was putting out the fire, and I can’t help wondering if he might have set it.”

  “Why would he do that?” Emily asked.

  “I turned down his offer to buy the farm, and he’s not taking no for an answer. At least not graciously. It felt like he was threatening to burn everything down if I wouldn’t sell to him.”

  “What if the fire wasn’t a threat but a warning?”

  “A warning about what?” Mabel said. “That I shouldn’t leave imperfect garlic in a wheelbarrow where people can set it on fire?”

  “No,” Emily said. “That you shouldn’t be poking around in the circumstances of Graham’s death.”

  “If the fire was intended to convince me to leave the murder investigation to the police, it wasn’t a very effective message,” Mabel said. “Someone needs to learn to use his words instead of acting out.”

  “Not everyone can do that.” Emily reached out and would have pulled Mabel into a hug if she hadn’t stepped back. Emily settled for taking Mabel’s hand and patting it for emphasis. “Just promise me you’ll be careful. A fire, even if it’s quickly put out—especially if it’s quickly put out—can be a sign that a person is facing other dangers and needs to take extra precautions.”

  “I’ve never been a risk-taker,” Mabel said. “I’m not doing anything crazy, just trying to figure out who, besides me, might have a motive for killing Graham. It’s not like I’m planning to hang out in a haunted house or go anywhere isolated. I’ve just been to Graham’s brother-in-law’s place of business where there are at least a hundred employees, and Graham’s greenhouse, where the next-door neighbor is probably taking detailed notes about my every move.”

  “She didn’t see whoever killed Graham,” Emily reminded her. “Otherwise the killer would have been arrested already.”

  Mabel hadn’t thought about what that implied. “That’s suspicious in itself, isn’t it? She should have noticed if anyone visited Graham the morning he died. She confronted me about the subdivision’s parking rules within a very few minutes of my arrival, and she called a tow truck even faster when Sandy Faitakis parked on the street.”

  “If you go back there, you should take someone with you, just to be on the safe side,” Emily said. “The omens right now are better for joint endeavors than for solo ones.”

  Mabel didn’t believe in omens, but she did believe in personal responsibility. “It’s my job, not anyone else’s.
I’m the one who committed to caring for Graham’s rhubarb. I’m even thinking about buying some of the plants. Did Aunt Peggy ever tell you she wanted to plant a field of rhubarb? I found it in her journal. She even mapped it out. I thought adding that field might make the property more appealing to a buyer. What do you think?”

  “I think that would be perfect.”

  “You’re not just saying that, because it was Aunt Peggy’s idea, and she was your friend so you want to be loyal to her?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I’m just not sure what the market is for rhubarb, and I haven’t had time to research it. I’ve never even eaten it, and when I met Sandy Faitakis, she admitted it’s not very popular. That’s why she’s trying to breed a different variety that people would like better.”

  “Lots of good plants aren’t terribly popular here in the US,” Emily said. “That’s starting to change though as more people get interested in foods that grow well locally so they don’t have to be shipped long distances. Rhubarb can thrive in climates and environments where other edible plants are harder to grow.”

  “I remember Aunt Peggy used to make stewed rhubarb a lot, but I never tried it. I found the recipe in her journal along with one for rhubarb crisp that sounded more appealing. Anything covered with a streusel topping can’t be all bad. Maybe I should make it before I commit to growing a whole field of rhubarb.”

  “It’s too late in the year to find any fresh rhubarb for cooking, and I can’t think of anywhere you could get it frozen. And don’t get me started on canned rhubarb in sugar syrup.” Emily shuddered. “But one of the farmers’ market vendors makes amazing rhubarb jams. Next time I see her, I’ll ask if she has any for sale, so you can try it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But in return, you have to promise me you won’t go to Graham’s greenhouse alone. Not until the killer is caught.”