Rhubarb Pie Before You Die

by Gin Jones

Deciding she wasn’t going to be able to get this conversation over with until she had something to drink, Mabel said, “Fine. Some water would be nice.”

  He opened a door marked “Interrogation Room B,” and gestured for her to go inside. “Have a seat, and I’ll be back in a sec.”

  It was actually more than seven minutes later according to her phone’s stopwatch app when he returned with two bottles of water and a large notepad, along with an extra-large, uniformed officer. The last seemed too big to fit in the tiny room that was furnished with nothing but a small table and four straight-backed chairs. The officer stationed himself in front of the door while O’Connor squeezed around him to the far side of the table.

  O’Connor handed her one of the bottles. “So, what can we do for you today? You weren’t thinking of leaving town, were you?”

  “I can’t leave until the farm is sold,” Mabel said. “And that could take some time. Which is why I wanted to talk to you. As long as I’m stuck here, I need to feel safe. A real estate developer named Thomas Porter has been stalking me. And trespassing at Graham’s property. My lawyer can do what’s needed to get a restraining order against him, but I also wanted to file an official complaint.”

  O’Connor dutifully wrote down the name. “Spelled P-O-R-T-E-R?”

  “Yes.”

  “And why would he be stalking you?”

  “He wants to buy Aunt Peggy’s farm, and I won’t sell it to him, and he keeps trying to change my mind. He accosted me outside my lawyer’s office just a few minutes ago.”

  “Were there any witnesses?”

  “Besides me and him? No. Unless Lena Shaw saw him on Graham’s property.”

  O’Connor set down his pen. “Is that all you’ve got?”

  “That’s all I know for sure,” Mabel said. “But it seemed suspicious when he showed up at the farm right after a fire started in the barn, and he made a point of telling me he’d still be interested in the property even if all the buildings burned to the ground.”

  That seemed to get his attention. “There was a fire in your barn? I hadn’t heard about that. Did the fire department tell you what caused it?”

  “It wasn’t that big,” Mabel said. “Porter and I were able to put it out.”

  “So he helped you put out the fire you think he started?”

  This was why she usually left things to Jeff Wright to handle. He knew the right things to say. “I think it was just intended to scare me, not necessarily to do any damage.”

  “I see.” But his giggles contradicted his words. “Would you like some more water?”

  Mabel glanced at her bottle, which had exactly one sip missing from it. O’Connor was stalling her. Why?

  “I’m sufficiently hydrated now, thank you,” Mabel said, suddenly anxious to leave. If they still considered her a suspect, they either hadn’t read Graham’s journal or hadn’t found anything useful in it. “I need to get back to the farm. Lots to do. Just one last thing before I go. I heard from a reliable source that one of Graham’s clients, Sam Trent was more upset with his lawyer than he might let on in public. I’m sure you’re looking into him as a possible suspect in the murder, so I thought you should know.”

  “We always appreciate information from the public,” O’Connor said without writing anything on his notepad. He giggled before adding, “But I’d like to hear more about Porter and his stalking of you.”

  O’Connor wasn’t a good liar. And he was definitely stalling. His nervous laughter was becoming more pronounced. Mabel was convinced he’d already decided she was imagining the problem with Porter and he certainly wasn’t going to do anything about it. She wasn’t entirely sure he even could do anything beyond what her attorney would do in seeking a restraining order. So why did O’Connor want her to talk about it and waste more of his time?

  The answer came to her suddenly: she wasn’t just one of several suspects, along with Sam Trent or Graham’s other unhappy clients. She was the prime suspect. O’Connor had probably been told to keep her here until the state detective could come to do an informal interview. Oh, you don’t need a lawyer present, they’d say. It’s just a formality, nothing to worry about.

  Jeff Wright had warned her about that sort of thing back when she was just a kid, with updated warnings every year when he took her out to lunch for her birthday. The advice hadn’t been for dealing with police detectives specifically, since even Jeff, with his tendency to always imagine the worst that might ever happen to his clients, hadn’t anticipated her involvement with not just one but now two murders, but it was the same advice for dealing with anyone who was snooping around in her private life. When she’d been a newly orphaned kid, it had been reporters trying to interview her without her grandparents or her lawyer present, and later it had been headhunters looking to hire her away from Phil or grifters looking for a share of her inheritance.

  If the detectives were focusing on her as the prime suspect, she needed to leave right this minute and talk to Jeff Wright. No more waiting for someone to call her back from his office. And then she would finish decoding Graham’s most recent journal, no matter how boring and time-consuming it was. She was reasonably sure there would be useful information there about the real killer if she could just separate out what was part of Graham’s delusions and what was real. She couldn’t do that if she was stuck in the police station being not-really-interrogated.

  Mabel stood up. “If you need me to sign a complaint against Porter, you can contact Quon Liang, and he’ll make the arrangements.” She turned toward the door, realizing belatedly that the uniformed officer was blocking her exit. He was looking at O’Connor, clearly waiting for instructions about whether to let Mabel pass.

  She turned back to the table and said, “Tell him I’m leaving now. Unless, of course, you want me to call my lawyer about being held here against my will.”

  “No, no, of course not,” O’Connor said with a chuckle. “We’d never do anything like that.”

  At a not-too-subtle nod of O’Connor’s head, the uniformed officer opened the door and held it open for her to leave.

  Mabel swiped her water bottle off the table before heading to the door. “Thanks for the hospitality.”

  * * * *

  Even if Quon Liang had been in his office, Mabel didn’t entirely trust him to advise her on something as critical as dealing with the homicide detectives. Losing some money if her aunt’s estate wasn’t handled efficiently was one thing. Going to jail was quite another. With that possibility hanging over her head, she had to talk to Jeff Wright.

  But first she had to get out of easy reach of O’Connor.

  She drove over to the library on the theory that no one would try to arrest her there, for fear of upsetting everyone’s favorite librarian, and parked to call Jeff Wright. Once again, there was no answer on either the public line or the private one, and when she tried to leave a voice mail, she got a message that the inboxes were still full.

  Something was definitely wrong, and if Mabel hadn’t been so distracted by her own problems, she’d have done more to find out what was going on back in Maine before now. She started down her list of contacts, dialing everyone who might know what was going on with Jeff, one after the other. His paralegal, the housekeeper who took care of his office as well as Mabel’s home, and a lawyer with a part-time practice based in her house, who sometimes rented Jeff’s conference room for depositions. No one answered until she finally thought to call Jeff’s nephew, who’d been her frequent babysitter the summer she’d turned twelve. She dialed his number.

  “Hey, Mabes.”

  Joey was the only person who’d ever called her that. There’d been a few instances when people had misheard it as “babes,” and they’d gotten some disapproving looks at the inappropriateness of a college-aged guy dating a twelve-year-old girl. She hadn’t understood the implication at the time, and Joey had always
set the record straight before anyone called the cops. She’d only tolerated the nickname at the time because he’d bribed her by letting her use his cell phone when her Luddite grandparents wouldn’t let her have her own.

  “Thank goodness you picked up,” she said. “I’ve been trying to contact your uncle all week, and he hasn’t called back. He never ignores me. I’m starting to get worried.”

  “Ah.” The teasing note in his voice was completely gone. “I guess no one thought to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “I’m sorry, but Uncle Jeff died.”

  “No,” Mabel said automatically. “That’s not possible.”

  “It is possible.” His tone was gentle. Despite Joey’s insistence on calling everyone by an annoying nickname, he’d always been kind to people in every other way. “He was close to eighty, you know. And people that age tend to die. He had a massive heart attack.”

  “I didn’t know,” Mabel said faintly, feeling the sudden sting of tears. Fortunately, she was already sitting down and the small size of her car meant that she and her tears were somewhat hidden from public view. “I should have been there.”

  “There was nothing you could have done,” Joey said. “I’m told it was quick and relatively painless. He was in the lobby of the courthouse with a client he liked almost as much as he liked you, so he wasn’t alone. It was all over before the ambulance even arrived. It’s what he would have wanted.”

  He was right about that. Jeff had lived—and now died—for his work. He would have been miserable as a retiree. It was something they had in common. Mabel never wanted to stop developing apps.

  “When you get a chance,” she said, “text me the details for the memorial service.”

  “You can count on me, Mabes.” Joey disconnected the call.

  She had always counted on Joey, and he, like his uncle, had never let her down.

  What was she going to do now? For more than twenty years, she’d relied on Jeff to take care of all the annoying aspects of life, and now he was gone. It was like losing her grandparents all over again.

  She had to go pay her respects, once she knew when the memorial service would be. Assuming O’Connor didn’t stop her from leaving town.

  He could try, she thought, but he wouldn’t keep her from saying her final farewell. For Jeff, Mabel was willing to go on the lam and dare the police to arrest her for it. Of course, Jeff would have told her not to take any chances by irritating the police, either by ignoring a request to stay in West Slocum or by meddling in their murder investigation to prove someone else was a better suspect than she was.

  She considered his likely advice for a moment, and then started the car to head back to the farm and Graham’s journal. It wouldn’t decrypt itself, and it was the only lead she had to find the real killer.

  Jeff would have understood that this was one situation where Mabel couldn’t follow his advice.

  Chapter 19

  The mayor was parked outside the barn waiting for Mabel, when she returned to the farm. She’d been crying for the entire short trip home from the library, so she had to take a moment to wipe her face. The rearview mirror told her that while she’d successfully mopped up all the tears, there was nothing she could do about the puffiness of her eyes or the red blotches on her cheeks.

  The mayor got out of one side of the car while a stocky woman in jeans and a denim jacket who appeared to be in her thirties got out of the other. Her weather-worn face, long braids, bandana scarf, and clean but worn jeans and navy t-shirt could have earned her a spot in a Norman Rockwell painting as the very ideal of female farmer. A potential buyer for the property, presumably, or else Mabel would have told the mayor to come back another time, because she’d just lost a member of her family.

  Mabel took one last swipe at some renewed tears and left the safety of her Mini Cooper. She strove for a natural tone, but her voice wavered slightly. “Hello, Danny. I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”

  “No, no,” he said. “Jill here was just so anxious to see the property that we took a chance on your being here if the viewing went well.”

  “Did it go well?” Nothing else had today. Mabel looked at Jill for her reaction.

  “Oh, yes,” she said in a child-like, high-pitched voice that seemed at odds with her no-nonsense image. “It’s perfect.”

  It seemed too good to be true, so Mabel forced herself to look into the woman’s eyes. Jill looked away guiltily before their gazes locked.

  Mabel gave the mayor a closer look. He too avoided eye contact. She tried to remember if he’d been more at ease in prior dealings with him. She couldn’t fault anyone for avoiding eye contact, since she found it difficult herself. She was certain though that she’d been the one looking away before, not him. She’d been told often enough that her avoiding eye contact made people anxious and caused them to distrust her. That was definitely not the kind of reaction a politician or a broker would want, given both professions’ reputation for dishonesty. He’d want to come across as the exception to the rule.

  She was in no mood for games right now. She needed time to process Jeff’s death before she made any major decisions. And she needed to get the rest of Graham’s journal decoded in the hope of clearing herself of suspicion.

  Mabel was pretty sure Jill didn’t know the first thing about farming despite her costume, and if that was true, this meeting could be ended quickly.

  “Did the mayor show you the fallow fields?” Mabel didn’t know a lot about farming, but she knew about the immutability of planting times. A real farmer would know if she got them wrong. “One field needs to stay fallow for rotation, but I’m thinking about planting the other one with rhubarb. Is that something you’d be interested in growing? I need to decide soon, since the plants need to go into the ground by the end of this month. And then, of course, the garlic gets planted in the spring. There’s never an end to work on a farm.”

  “Whatever you think best is fine with me,” Jill said in her child-like tone. “I just want to be a farmer, and you’ve obviously been successful. I’d be a fool not to take your advice.”

  “I see.” Mabel turned to the mayor. “Could I speak with you for a moment? In private?”

  “Sure,” the mayor said, still avoiding eye contact. “Jill can wait in the car until you’re ready to sign the contract.”

  Jill hurried over to get into the passenger seat and slammed the door behind her. Once inside, she slumped, as if aware that she’d failed to put on a convincing show of agricultural expertise.

  Mabel led the mayor over to the barn entrance. “She’s lying. She’s no farmer. Garlic is planted in the fall and rhubarb in the spring.”

  “Anyone could make that mistake,” Danny said.

  “Not if they were a farmer,” Mabel said. “She’s a friend of Thomas Porter, isn’t she? He finally accepted that I’ll never sell to him so he got someone to act as a straw buyer for him.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Danny said. “I can only go by what the buyers tell me. I can’t vet them all, get references and everything. My job is just to make the introductions and then see that everything goes smoothly until the papers pass.”

  “That woman is not a farmer,” Mabel repeated. “You don’t have to get references to figure it out. And the only reason I can imagine for her to lie about it is because she’s a developer herself or she’s working for one. And I’m not selling to a developer. Tell her I’m not interested in her offer.”

  “But she’s willing to pay more than the asking price.”

  “And that didn’t make you suspicious?” Mabel waved her hand. “Never mind. I don’t care. It’s not about the money. It’s about Aunt Peggy’s legacy. She poured her life’s blood into this farm. Literally.”

  “If it’s about her legacy, what if the buyer promises to name the subdivision after her? Skinner Acres perhaps. I c
ould have that written into the contract.”

  “No. That’s not the legacy my aunt would have wanted. She didn’t care about fame. She cared about keeping small farms alive.”

  “You don’t understand how hard it is to sell farmland these days,” Danny whined. “Especially here in New England where real estate is worth far more as housing.”

  “I never said it would be easy.”

  “I might have to increase my commission …”

  “I might have to fire you for disregarding my instructions for eligible buyers.”

  He sighed. “All right, all right. I’ll keep looking for a rich farmer.”

  “And I’m going to look into some other options.” Mabel had wanted to use her internet skills originally, advertising in discussion platforms where small farmers gathered online. But Jeff had advised against it. She’d done it his way, and it hadn’t worked. Now she was going to do it her way. It felt a little bit like a betrayal of his memory, but with the mayor not following her instructions, she thought Jeff would agree with her looking into other ways to sell the property.

  “You’ll still owe me a commission if you find the buyer yourself,” Danny warned.

  She didn’t know if that was true, and she started to think she’d ask Jeff, only to be brought up short with the realization she couldn’t ever ask him anything ever again. Before the tears prickling her eyes could multiply, she reminded herself that now wasn’t a good time to break down in grief. Besides, she wasn’t entirely without a source of legal advice. She could ask Quon Liang.

  “I’ll discuss it with my lawyer,” she said. “But for now, take Jill back to wherever you found her. I’ve got work to do.”

  * * * *

  Mabel fed Pixie and Billie Jean and then threw together a dinner of some canned tomato soup and a corn bread muffin from the freezer. She wasn’t hungry, but she had to eat something. It reminded her of how, after her grandparents had no longer been around to keep an eye on her, Jeff had frequently arranged for delivery of a week’s worth of prepared foods whenever he’d thought she’d been working too hard and forgetting to eat regularly.