It must have been an outsider. But who? Maybe someone had come onto the land when she’d been out at the farmers’ market the day before or visiting Albert later that evening. She always parked the truck in the middle of her driveway, making no secret to the public of when she was home and when she wasn’t.
Cam had just finished transplanting when she heard a giant clap of thunder. A drop of rain plopped on the back of her neck, then two more. Suddenly the skies let loose, and along with them, a flash of lightning. She grabbed the dibble and the empty flats and ran for the barn.
After Cam cleaned out the flats and stored them, she leaned against the open doorway of the barn, watching the rain. Nothing was better for the crops than a good natural watering. A thunderstorm was even better, since lightning somehow channeled nitrogen from the air into the soil, or at least that was what Great-Uncle Albert said. She hoped she’d cleared out enough of the salt. Whatever was left was getting well watered into the ground. She’d have to ask Albert how long she would need to keep that bed fallow. With such a small acreage, she couldn’t afford too many unplanted beds.
When the lightning seemed to have moved on with the wind, and the rain settled into a steady downpour, Cam raced to the house. She arrived on the back porch as a car turned into the drive from the road. Who could it be? Fear stabbed at her. She started to open the door. She hoped she could she lock it in time. Then she saw.
It was Lucinda’s little blue Civic. Cam breathed her relief, not sure why she’d been frightened in the first place. She waved to Lucinda, who dashed for the porch.
“Good rain, no?” Lucinda said, shaking the water out of her hair.
“I just finished planting out lettuces. It’s perfect. Come on in.”
Inside, Cam handed Lucinda a clean hand towel and used one herself to mop off her face and hair.
“Missed you this morning,” Cam said. “But a good-size group showed up.”
“I thought I told you I had to work. Mrs. Kosloski wants the house cleaned every Wednesday morning, no exceptions.”
Cam raised her eyebrows. “You clean for them?”
“They’re one of my steady jobs. They have only the one child, so the house doesn’t usually need much.” She rolled her eyes. “You should see the lady executive with four boys. Whoo. What a mess all the time. She doesn’t do anything around the place, and she doesn’t make her sons do anything, either.”
Cam extracted a glass jug from the fridge. “Glass of beer? It won’t keep, and it’s local.”
“Sounds like an excuse to me, but sure. Obrigada.”
Cam poured two glasses, set a bag of chips on the table, and poured salsa into a bowl. She sat across from Lucinda, raising her glass.
“Cheers. How do you say that in Portuguese?”
“Saúde.” Lucinda clinked her glass with Cam’s, then took a sip. “Hey, this is good. What’s it called? Five Mile Ale? Five miles from where?”
“It’s the Ipswich Ale Brewery’s local beer. Most of the ingredients come from Massachusetts farms, and at least one was grown within five miles of the brewery.”
“We should get this for the Locavore Festival.”
Cam agreed. “Great idea. I learned about it from Jake.”
Lucinda frowned. “Jake from the Market?”
Cam nodded. “He serves it there. You know him?”
Lucinda hesitated for a moment, then said, “No. Just heard about him.”
“So were you a house cleaner in Brazil, too?” Cam asked, then sipped her drink.
Lucinda snorted. “No way. I was head librarian at the university.”
Cam must have shown her surprise, because Lucinda continued, “I was a big . . . What do you call it? Big cheese.”
“Then why . . . ?” Cam spread her hands out, palms up.
“Long story.” Lucinda’s face clouded. “I had to come here.”
“Can’t you get work as a librarian here?”
Lucinda shook her head. “Might as well tell you. I came here on a tourist visa. I don’t have no green card. I applied for one, but it takes years. Meanwhile I’m illegal, undocumented. Nobody hires me like that. Only cash jobs, like cleaning.” She glanced at Cam and then looked away. “Now you’ll probably kick me off the farm, too.”
“No! Why would I do that? Anyway, it’s not illegal for you to buy vegetables or to volunteer. It can’t be.” That must have been why Lucinda had said she couldn’t work for Cam for money. Too bad. And why she didn’t want to talk to the police, either.
“Funny, you know?” Lucinda looked wistful. “At home, legal means ‘cool.’ ‘Awesome.’ ‘Great.’ Now I’m the reverse of that. But I didn’t come over to tell you that.” She brightened. “I think I have an idea about your murder man.”
“Really?”
“The one who killed Mike. You know, so you can tell police.” She leaned toward Cam over the table. “I heard some big cheese around here is also undocumented, and these guys, they know he’s illegal. I told you Mike was in that Patriotic Militia. I think Mike was their dirty guy. Do you say ‘dirty guy’?”
Cam thought for a moment. “You mean he did their dirty work?”
“Yeah, yeah. So maybe this big guy killed Mike because he was going to go public.”
“Well, who is this big cheese?”
Lucinda shook her head. “I don’t know. I hear stuff, you know, from other Brazilians.”
Cam sat back. “You have to tell the police, Lucinda.” Was Lucinda being honest with her? She was so evasive.
“No!” Lucinda’s eyes widened. “I’d get deported. I can’t go back.”
“Why not? I don’t think you would be sent away, not for offering information on a murder case.”
“You don’t know American cops. They’re pigs.” Lucinda narrowed her eyes at the rain-streaked window, as if a bad memory stood right outside.
Cam decided to change the subject. “So how’s eating only local food going?”
Lucinda whistled. “I’m kinda hungry. Potatoes are all from last year. They taste bad. I got local cornmeal, and I heard about a farm out in the western part of the state that grows rice, but I didn’t get any yet. I got enough vegetables and meat, plus strawberries, but it’s kinda tough.” She looked longingly at the chips and salsa.
“Oh, darn. Sorry about that, Lucinda.” Cam swept the snacks off the table and set them on the kitchen counter. She opened the refrigerator and poked around. She turned to Lucinda. “Want some asparagus?”
Lucinda laughed. “You’re funny. No, I’m okay. Anyway, you’re coming to the festival Friday, right?”
“Of course. It’s okay to bring Uncle Albert, isn’t it?”
Lucinda assured her he would be welcome. “It’s going to be a great event,” she went on. “Alfalfa Farm Winery is coming, and I’ll call this Ipswich beer place, see if they can come. The Cape Ann CSF is bringing smoked bluefish samples. You’ll have a table, plus other farms around here are going to be there. You giving out samples?”
Cam groaned. “I guess. What am I going to hand out? Lettuce leaves?”
“You could give them strawberries, like one each.”
Cam frowned. “They are bearing well this year, but I have to make sure I have enough for share day on Saturday.”
“How about little bunches of herbs? You have lots of herbs out there. And if it gets you new customers, it’s worth it.”
“Good idea. I can tie them up like little nosegays. I’ll make up a display basket of other produce, too. And I guess it’s about time to get business cards printed.”
They chatted for another hour, avoiding topics like immigration and murder suspects. By the time Lucinda left, the storm had blown through. The descending sun shone through the treetops against dark clouds as they retreated, casting the farm in a buttery glow like in a painting.
Cam heated up leftover quiche. She brought the plate and a glass of wine to the computer desk. Setting aside her concern about the sabotage for a moment, she decided to
see what the Internet had to say about the Patriotic Militia. If what Lucinda said was true, this bucolic town might be harboring a sinister underlayer.
She sat back thirty minutes later. Plotting ways to destroy the government was patriotism? The site shouted in all capital letters about liberty and the freedom to own assault weapons. It warned that the American way of life was being destroyed by the social justice mentality, “a combination of Communists, Marxists, and Socialists who want to turn the country into a dictatorship.” The anti-immigrant and racist vitriol in what she read disturbed her dreams all night long.
Chapter 8
“Knock, knock,” a voice called from the porch the next morning.
“Hey, Alexandra. Come on in,” Cam replied. She rose and welcomed the young woman. “Thanks for coming. Can I get you coffee?”
“No problem. And no coffee, thanks. The closest place growing it is a thousand miles away. Not exactly local. I heard they raise it in Iceland. But in greenhouses warmed by volcanic steam.”
Cam picked up her mug, wondering if she should feel guilty. “I don’t know. I am happy to supply you guys with local food, but if I didn’t have my coffee, I wouldn’t be able to get out there and grow anything.”
Alexandra laughed, then turned serious. “Hey, so some guy named Pappas talked to me. He thinks I might have killed Mike Montgomery. What’s up with that?”
Cam eyed her. “You did happen to describe the actual murder a few hours before it happened. In the company of others.”
“I didn’t mean I would do it.” Alexandra snorted. “That’s crazy. Just because I don’t think pesticides are good for us doesn’t mean I would actually kill someone.” She curled a braid around her finger.
Cam sat watching her.
“Cam! Do you think I’m a murderer?”
“No.” Cam hoped she meant it. Alexandra certainly had the height and strength to have been able to do it, not to mention the passion. “I simply want the state police to find the real killer.”
“Me too.” Alexandra gestured at the computer. “So how do you want to do this?”
“Well, while I’ve written HTML before, I don’t have time right now and I’m not artistic at all, so you wouldn’t want me to design anything. I put together a paper mock-up.” Cam showed Alexandra several sheets of paper. She’d sketched out the home page, a payment page, an events page, and a couple of others. “It’s not very complicated.”
“Let’s add a volunteer page, too, and maybe a comments page. Can I add a link to the Locavore Club site somewhere?”
“Yes, on all counts.”
“I think you want a clean look, an easy-to-read sans-serif font, and farmey kinds of colors. You know, greens and yellows and reds. Do you have any photos or artwork you want me to use, or should I look for free graphics?”
“I don’t really have anything,” Cam said, frowning. “We could go out and take pictures, at least of crops that are bearing now.”
Except for rhubarb, Cam thought. The plants still hadn’t recovered. She hoped they weren’t permanently damaged.
“Let me handle it. My phone has a wicked awesome camera in it. Now, show me how I can access the hosting site. We’ll have to buy your domain name, too, unless you’ve done that.”
Cam shook her head. She should have, but planting and growing had filled her days to overflowing.
“What do you want, www.produceplusplus.com?”Alexandra asked .
The two huddled at the computer for a few minutes. Alexandra straightened. “I think I’m good. I’ll put together a draft site, but I won’t publish it until you’ve approved it. What about a logo? Do you already have one?”
Cam sighed.
“I guess not. You’re going to want to maintain your brand across your online presence and your printed materials, too.”
“You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that.” The list of what Cam hadn’t thought of was growing by the minute. “Did you study marketing?”
“Nope, history. I like this stuff, though. Maybe I should have gone into marketing design. Let’s sketch out a logo.” She quickly drew a basket overflowing with vegetables and a stylized field in the background. “How’s that?”
“I like it.” Cam sat back. “You’re here two mornings in a row. You don’t have a job?”
Alexandra shook her head. “My college degree didn’t get me far in the employment market. If I knew what I wanted to do next, I’d go to grad school. But it’s okay. I get along pretty well with my parents, and they actually love having me back home.” She rolled her eyebrows. “Not so sure about my sister. And the ’rents and me have had to work out a few issues about, like, my not having to report in every hour when I’m out at night.”
“I’m sure,” Cam said. “Did I overhear that your sister goes out with Stuart Wilson?”
“She used to. She broke up with him because he had anger-management issues. At least that’s what she told me. And then she seemed to be going out with another guy, but I never met him. We don’t really talk that much.”
“Is she older than you?”
“Yep. Okay, gotta run.” Alexandra swept out, calling through the screen door, “I’ll be in touch.”
Cam walked to the door in time to see Alexandra ride off on her bicycle, braids flying. Cam scanned the skies, today a perfect paint-box blue. The storm had blown through and left the world looking clean and hopeful. It was a good morning for working. She had put in a couple of hours picking strawberries before her appointment with Alexandra and still had more work to do. Always more to do.
A truck rumbled up the driveway.
“Hey, Ms. Flaherty! Where do ya want me to dump it?” A scrawny teenager stuck his head out the window. “It’s me, Vince. With the, you know, manure?”
Cam groaned. She’d forgotten all about the manure delivery. Her day’s workload had just doubled. She grabbed a check and tip money from the house, then instructed the boy to back the truck up to the compost area. Cam walked alongside him to make sure he didn’t swerve over one of the herb beds on his way.
He dumped the load of composted cow manure, then climbed out of the cab. “I heard you, like, had a murder here. Did you see the killer? Dude, it must have been exciting.”
Cam shook her head. “That’s not the word I would use.” Neither exciting nor dude. She thanked him and handed him the check as well as five dollars for himself.
“Thanks, Ms. Flaherty. Let Pop know when you want more. Those cows never stop, like, sh . . . I mean, going.”
Cam waved him off. She groaned at the pile, then trudged to the barn for a pitchfork. No time like the present.
When she came in for lunch, Cam scrubbed her hands. She was exhausted from shoveling manure into the wheelbarrow, adding it to the future lettuce beds, and repeating. It added organic material and nutrients to the soil, but working with manure was heavy going. She was going to have to hire another farmhand. She had no idea who, though, or even where to look.
She checked her e-mail. Alexandra had already created a lively logo and had sent Cam several versions of it in different resolutions. Alexandra had also sent a link to an online printer. When Cam clicked it, an order form for Produce Plus Plus business cards and refrigerator magnets opened. It was already filled out and included two magnetic signs for the doors of her truck, too. She shook her head, wondering at the efficiency and expertise of her young volunteer. Outsourcing the marketing part of her business was a smart move. Cam would definitely pay Alexandra for doing this work.
She added overnight shipping to the order, filled in her credit card information, and clicked the SUBMIT ORDER button. Now she’d have business cards to hand out at the festival. Everywhere she drove she’d be advertising the farm. She could give each CSA customer a refrigerator magnet. Cam smiled. She could imagine Felicity hosting a dinner party featuring the farm’s produce and then excitedly showing her guests the farm’s magnet. Hey, if it brought in new customers, all the better.
After scarfing down
a cheese sandwich and a glass of nonfat milk, Cam was about to head back out to the fields when she spotted the disk she’d picked up in the greenhouse. She focused on it for a moment, then picked up the phone. She left Ruth a message, inviting her for dinner. “If you can get away from the family,” she said at the end. “Or bring the girls if you want to,” Cam hastily added. She rooted around in the freezer, finally drawing out a package of nonlocal chicken. She checked her recipe file and then checked the fridge. If she ran out to the store, she could make a strawberry cheesecake, too. And might as well do it now, while her hands were clean. She could still get in a few more hours in the fields this afternoon if she hurried.
As she pushed open the screen door, the house phone rang. Cam glanced at it, looked out at the sunny afternoon, then turned back to answer it.
“Hi, Uncle Albert. What’s up?”
“Wondered if you’d mind driving me to the wake this afternoon.”
“Wake?”
“Mike’s wake. Surely you planned on going.”
“Right.” Cam shook her head. How had that gotten off her radar? “What time?”
“It’s from four to eight down at the McClaren Funeral Home. You know, next to the church. I’d like to be there at the beginning.”
“I’ll pick you up at three forty, then.” She disconnected. There went her work afternoon, since she wasn’t about to cancel the dinner with Ruth. But she could hardly miss Mike’s wake, either, although it wasn’t her favorite kind of outing. All those somber people to negotiate, all those polite things to say.
A Tine to Live, a Tine to Die Page 8