A Tine to Live, a Tine to Die

by Edith Maxwell

  Cam helped Albert out of the truck and made sure his crutches were in place. The handicapped-parking placard he’d hung from her rearview mirror gave them the best spot in the lot.

  “Early yet,” Albert said, gesturing at the empty parking spaces. “I’m sure it’ll fill up later.”

  “Was Mike well liked, Uncle Albert?” They proceeded slowly up a zigzagging ramp.

  “You wouldn’t say that, particularly. But Bev is, generally speaking.”

  A black-suited woman held the door open for them amid a rush of cold air. As they entered, she pointed to the Rose Room. Cam took a deep breath. She flicked a spot of cat hair from her black skirt and hoped the businesslike purple blouse wasn’t too bright. She wasn’t very well equipped with mourning clothes.

  Bev stood at the end of a line, preceded by two younger men and a woman about Cam’s age. Sprays of flowers decorated a blessedly closed coffin to Bev’s right. What looked like a high school graduation picture of Mike sat on an easel. A younger, tidier, handsomer Mike than the one Cam had known only for the few months he’d worked for her.

  Cam and Albert took their places at the end of a short line of people who moved along, clasping the hands of family members and murmuring condolences.

  “Are those Mike’s siblings?” Cam whispered to Albert.

  He nodded. “He was the youngest.”

  She followed Albert along the line, uttering what she hoped were appropriate condolences, until he reached Bev.

  Propping himself on his good leg, Albert reached out an arm to embrace his old friend. “Too young, my friend, he died too young.”

  Bev returned the hug and closed her eyes for a moment. When she reopened them, she focused on Cam.

  The chill in the look had nothing to do with the air-conditioning.

  Bev looked back at Albert. “Thank you for coming, Albert. Don’t you wish life was back like it was before? You farming, my Mikey working for you, Marie still with us?”

  Albert put his hand back on his crutch. His smile was a sad one. “But we can’t turn the clock back, can we? My Marie, she’s resting in peace. That I know. And Cameron here is a good farmer, or will be when she gets her feet under her.”

  Cam shot a sharp look at him. When she got her feet under her? It sounded like Albert thought she wasn’t doing a good job yet. Great.

  “I’ve moved on, Bev. You will, too, in time.”

  Bev gazed from Albert to Cam and back, her face expressionless.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Bev,” Cam murmured, then realized she’d already said that to her at the market earlier in the week. Was she never going to get the hang of the right thing to say at the right time? It seemed to come so easily to others.

  Bev’s smile as she turned to the next visitor was unconvincing.

  Albert turned to the coffin. He rested on his crutches in front of it with head bowed. He crossed himself. He touched his fingers to his lips and then to the coffin.

  Cam waited, arms by her sides. Her parents weren’t involved in any church, and while Cam had usually accompanied Albert and Marie to Saint Ann’s in the summers, as an adult Cam didn’t feel called to keep up the practice. Working with plants under God’s blue sky was enough religion for her.

  Her head snapped toward the doorway when she heard raised voices in the hall. One of the black-suited staff quickly closed the door, but not before Cam saw Bev Montgomery’s eyes widen. If Cam wasn’t mistaken, that was Stuart Wilson out there, raising the ruckus.

  Curious about what Stuart was doing yelling at a wake, she whispered in Albert’s ear, “I’ll be right back.” She slipped out the side door she had spotted and strode down the hall to where it turned. She peeked around the edge. Sure enough, two large attendants were escorting Stuart out the door. He was still yelling.

  “I only wanted to pay my respects!”

  One of the black suits made sure Stuart was well out the door. The other walked in Cam’s direction.

  “You don’t get to pay your respects drunk and angry, buddy.” He shook his head, looking back at the doorway. “And you especially don’t when the family doesn’t want you here.”

  Stuart had been laid off from his job, just like Cam had been. The golden marketing whiz she had known didn’t seem to be taking the fall from grace very, well, gracefully.

  “So, Tina, if you hear of anything, will you let me know? I’m kind of wondering if I made the right decision with this farm thing.” Cam left her number on her friend’s voice mail and hung up. Her friend Tina was still employed at the old company, still head down in a cubicle, writing software. If the job market started looking up, she’d be the first to know. It wouldn’t hurt for Cam to keep her options open. For now, she had a dinner to pull out of a hat.

  Ruth arrived right at six o’clock, bearing a bottle of wine. Cam, wearing a striped apron over her shorts and T-shirt, greeted Ruth at the door, then rushed back into her kitchen, which was adjacent to the dining area.

  “Sorry. I’m in the middle of Chicken Ezekiel. And there seems to be a step missing in the instructions. That drives me crazy.”

  Ruth let out a deep, throaty laugh. “Still cooking by the recipe, are you?”

  “Well, yeah. Doesn’t everybody?” Cam waved a spoon at Ruth.

  “No. But it doesn’t surprise me that a geek does.”

  “Geek status fully acknowledged.”

  “And you always wanted to have procedures to follow. Remember the meal we made for those boys?”

  Cam nodded. “I was dating Robbie—if you can call doing our math homework together dating—and you invited . . . wait . . . Was it Paolo? The Italian exchange student?”

  Ruth rolled her eyes. “He was gorgeous, and taller than me. Which was saying something.”

  “And we cooked coq au vin from Julia Child, right? We had to steal wine from your dad’s stash for it.” Cam sniffed. “Oh, crud!” She whirled to the stove, where she gave a furious stir to a Dutch oven on the stove top. “Close one. Almost burned the onions.”

  “Smells great, Cam. Can I open this for us?”

  Cam nodded in the direction of a drawer. She had to stop talking and start focusing on this dinner, or it would be ruined. She added the pieces of chicken she had cut and dried on a clean dish towel to the pan and stirred again.

  Ruth extended a glass of red to Cam, who lifted it and clinked Ruth’s. “Here’s to old friends.”

  Cam returned the toast and sipped. “Now, let me concentrate for a minute.” She sipped again before setting the glass down. She added cut-up tomatoes to the pot, then minced garlic, kalamata olives, and fresh rosemary from the herb garden. She stirred, set the lid on, and maneuvered the pot into the warm oven.

  “There. Now I can relax a little.” Cam wiped her forehead with the apron as she returned to the table. Sinking into a chair, she eyed Ruth. “Sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

  Ruth obliged, but her cheery mood seemed to have vanished. She didn’t meet Cam’s eyes.

  “What?” Cam asked. “It’s like a dark cloud just came and sat on your head.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have come.”

  “Why not? We can’t be friends, at least on your day off?”

  “Cam, there’s a murder investigation under way. They haven’t told me much directly, but I don’t think they’ve eliminated you as a suspect.”

  Ruth must know she couldn’t have killed someone. Cam shook her head. This was getting ridiculous. “It’s making me nervous, you know, that a murderer is running loose out there.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “Oh! I just remembered. Look what I found in the hoop house the morning after the killing.” She rose and reached toward the kitchen counter.

  In a flash Ruth was at her side and had encircled Cam’s wrist with her own strong hand. “Don’t touch it. It could be evidence.”

  “Ouch! I wasn’t going to. I was just showing you. I even picked it up with a tissue,” Cam said.

  Ruth released Cam’s hand but
sighed. “Next time call the station. It’s better if we process things like this in the proper way from the start. It probably can’t even count as evidence now, but maybe we can get a print off it.” Ruth leaned over and peered at it. “Any idea what it is? Or whose it was?”

  “I don’t know. There’s a logo of some kind and the letters PM. See?”

  Ruth’s eyes widened, then narrowed. Her face grew pale. She blinked at the disk. She shook her head like she was trying to rid herself of a pest. “Sort of. Got a sealable bag?”

  Cam extracted a bag from a drawer and handed it to Ruth, who managed to scoop the disk into the bag without touching it.

  An insistent rapping sounded at the back door. Cam slid past Ruth. She addressed the door. “One second.” Whoever it was didn’t have much patience. Cam peered through the curtained glass top of the door and frowned. Him again. Cam looked back at Ruth. Preston sidled up and rubbed against Cam’s leg.

  “It’s your favorite statie,” Cam said. “Detective Pappas himself.” Since he was here, she could take the opportunity and tell him about the two instances of sabotage. Which she probably should have done much earlier, except that Pappas made her feel like she and her farm were under attack. He did not project a helpful “We’ll find the murderer, so don’t worry” kind of vibe.

  “Wonderful.” Ruth did not sound enthusiastic. “Go ahead. Don’t make him drill a hole in your door with his knuckles.”

  As Cam opened the door, Preston streaked out past her. “Hi,” Cam greeted Pappas. She suddenly couldn’t think of a single other thing to say.

  “Evening, Ms. Flaherty.” Pappas, now in a crisp oxford shirt with pressed blue jeans and brown loafers, glanced beyond her. “Hello, Officer Dodge.” He raised one eyebrow.

  “Um, can I help you?” Cam asked, not sure of the protocol. Should she offer him a glass of wine? Or stand here at the door?

  “May I come in?”

  His tone was the most polite Cam had heard from him yet, but it reminded her of the ominously polite pitch Tom used to use when he was furious. She stood aside and gestured him in. He walked up to Ruth, who stood at the counter, next to the transparent bag with the disk.

  “Officer Dodge, that looks interesting.” Pappas eyed the disk.

  A repeating electronic ding from the kitchen sped up in frequency. Ruth glanced behind her and then at Cam.

  “That’s my timer. Excuse me.” Cam fled farther into the kitchen to switch off the annoying digital timer, wishing she could find Marie’s old-fashioned wind-up device, which merely rang with a pleasant little bell tone when the time was up. She opened the oven and stirred the stew. She strained to hear what Ruth and Pappas were saying, but they had their backs to her and spoke in low tones. Cam replaced the lid, shut the oven door, and set the timer for another thirty minutes. She filled a big pot with water and set it to boil. Drying her hands on her apron, she turned back to them.

  Pappas was holding his hand out.

  “I can sign this in at the station,” Ruth said, keeping hold of the plastic bag with the disk in it.

  “I’d rather take it now.” Pappas glared at her. “I am the detective in charge.”

  Ruth glanced at Cam. “Yes, sir.” She handed the bag to Pappas.

  “Now maybe you can tell me why you are here out of uniform.”

  “Sir, Cam and I are childhood friends. I’m off duty, and she invited me for dinner. So I’m here.” She raised her chin and looked down at the detective at the same time.

  Cam opened her mouth and began, “Yes, we’re . . .” but stopped when Ruth held up her hand in a halt gesture. All right, Cam would let her work it out. It was Ruth’s job, after all.

  Cam decided to match Pappas’s manners with her own. “Can I offer you a glass of wine, Detective?” She mustered her sweetest smile.

  He frowned, as if trying to figure out if she was kidding or not. “Uh, no thank you.”

  “I suppose you came by to tell me you found the killer?” Cam raised her eyebrows.

  Ruth, in turn, raised hers.

  “No, I’m afraid not.” Pappas seemed about to interrogate when Cam interrupted.

  “Too bad. No clues?”

  He looked like he was about to shake his head when he caught himself. “Why don’t you fill me in on this clue right here?” He held the bag up in front of Cam’s face. “Before I charge you with withholding evidence.”

  Could he? “Let’s all sit down, shall we?” Cam gestured to the table. At the look on Pappas’s face, she added in a hurry, “And I’ll tell you all about it.”

  After Cam related how she’d found the disk, she asked, “What do you think it is, Detective?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  Couldn’t or wouldn’t? Cam figured it didn’t really matter. She glanced at Ruth. Her friend’s face was nearly expressionless.

  “You can be sure we’ll check it out, though. I’m curious why you neglected to turn it over when Chief Frost and I visited you several days ago.” He continued in the superpolite voice, and his icy eyes bored into Cam’s.

  “It slipped my mind. I’m very sorry,” Cam lied.

  “Don’t do it again. Now, what I originally stopped by to ask you concerns several of your customers. I understand an Alexandra Magnusson threatened Mike Montgomery on Saturday. Why didn’t you tell me about that?”

  “It slipped my mind.” He was going to think she was an idiot with a Teflon brain. “Finding a dead body has done a number on my memory. But, anyway, Alexandra didn’t threaten Mike. She was upset about anyone anywhere using chemicals on food crops. She’s kind of an idealist.”

  “Ms. Slavin related that Ms. Magnusson said she would knock Mike down and run him through with a pitchfork. Did she say that?”

  “Well, yes, but Mike wasn’t even there anymore. She’s passionate about the environment. That’s all.”

  “You know what I’m passionate about? I want to find Mike Montgomery’s murderer. To do that, I need all the information you have. If there is anything else you aren’t telling me, I’d appreciate knowing it now.”

  Cam swallowed and shook her head.

  “Now, about Ms. DaSilva. We can’t seem to locate her. Are you quite certain you provided us with her correct contact information?”

  “I think so. I printed out my customer list for you, didn’t I?”

  Pappas nodded.

  “That’s the only information I have on her. She lives in Salisbury.” Strange. Surely Lucinda had given Cam her correct number and address. Cam realized she’d never needed to call the Brazilian, and she certainly had never gone to her home. Then she thought about the tremor in Lucinda’s voice the day before, when she’d spoken about being undocumented and not wanting to talk to the police. Maybe Lucinda was not answering her door or her cell on purpose.

  Cam realized Pappas, now standing, had spoken. “Excuse me?”

  “Officer Dodge filed a report about sabotage on your farm. I wondered why you didn’t tell me that, either.”

  “I meant to. Really.” Cam hadn’t felt this guiltily uncomfortable since being called on while daydreaming in class by her strict sixth-grade teacher, Mr. Aguirre.

  “Maybe you can file an insurance claim against the lost crops.” Pappas raised his eyebrows. “I’ll be going. If you happen to hear from Ms. DaSilva, I’d appreciate it if you would ask her to call me. You still have my card, I trust?”

  Cam nodded as she stood. “Do you want me to show you where I found the disk? It was in the hoop house.”

  Pappas looked like he’d tasted a sour lemon. “It’s a little late for that.” He shook his head. “If you happen to find anything else, please call me immediately, instead of conveniently forgetting. Enjoy your dinner, ladies.” Pappas let himself out.

  Cam whistled. She turned to Ruth. “You’re the quiet one. A wooden nickel for your thoughts?”

  Ruth narrowed her eyes at the door. “He doesn’t seem as nice as he used to.”

  Cam snorted. “Nice? He doe
sn’t seem so nice to me.” Probably compensating for being so short, she thought but kept it to herself.

  Her stomach growled out loud as the melded aroma of chicken, olives, and rosemary wafted their way.

  Ruth laughed as Cam headed for the kitchen. “I’m hungry, too. Tell you what. Let’s not talk about the murder any more tonight. What do you say to that?”

  “Fine with me.” It wouldn’t make an uncaught killer go away, but it would be nice to take a break from thinking about it.

  Chapter 9

  A steel-gray sky and air heavy with humidity greeted Cam the next morning. She hadn’t slept well. She brewed a strong pot of dark roast coffee and took the first sip, grateful for its power to bring her into the world of the living. She carried the cup out to the back stoop. Only a good downpour would vanquish the oppressive stillness, but the forecast on the local station had included words like stalled front and low pressure. This weather could be with them for a while.

  Cam pulled a list out of her back pocket. Last night before bed she’d jotted down what she had to accomplish today. The list of chores for the morning stretched down the page. Besides the usual farm tasks of weeding, planting out seedlings, harvesting, and general maintenance, she had the Locavore Festival to plan for. All those little bundles of herbs to cut and tie up for the samples. And tomorrow was the next CSA pickup day. Cam shook her head. Better get to it. In the kitchen she threw the rest of the coffee into a travel mug, grabbed a granola bar, and headed for the barn.

  As she worked, she thought about her dinner with Ruth. They’d sipped wine, Ruth cutting herself off after one glass so she could drive home safely. They’d talked about their childhood summers and Ruth’s unhappy marriage. They discussed Cam’s ex, Tom, and how his breaking up with her had probably been for the best. The chicken was tender and rich with the olives and herbs, and it went perfectly with a plate of rotini, followed by a green salad fresh from the farm. They sat in the circle of their friendship and savored its uncomplicated warmth. They avoided the dark questions of the present.