Murder in the Meadow (Rosemary Grey Cozy Mysteries Book 1)

by Tracy Donley

  “You said city managers do all the work. What did you mean?”

  “Oh, I was half joking. Mayors here are elected. Managers are appointed. The mayor is the face of the town. He does ribbon cuttings, has his picture taken a lot, kisses babies, marshals parades . . .”

  “Acts like a ghost in cemetery crawls.”

  “Exactly. The manager, on the other hand, works behind the scenes, handles disputes and red tape and paperwork.”

  “So, the mayor gets all the glory, so to speak?”

  “Well, yes, sort of.”

  “I wonder if Mr. Thatcher ever resented that.”

  “Doesn’t seem like it. They’re known around town to be best friends. The Thatchers and Sam were like family.”

  “Mr. Thatcher was a mess at the meadow. His hands were shaking and he was sweating—even in this cold,” said Rosemary. “Poor man.”

  “Well, he just lost not only his friend but his colleague. It’s understandable. And Becky—well, Sam was her friend, too, and her boss.”

  “Tight-knit group,” Rosemary said, as Jack stopped in front of a small, red brick building.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “We’re taking this little sweetie to see Dr. Sims,” said Jack, nuzzling the kitten. “We’ll drop her here while we go to lunch, pick her up after. I want to get her checked out and take care of her shots.”

  “You’re keeping the—the cat?”

  “Well, Izzy could use a baby sister, couldn’t she? And frankly, I think this cat likes you, Rosemary.”

  “How can you say that? It’s been spying on me all morning.” Rosemary lowered her voice and leaned closer to Jack. “And maybe I’m reaching here, but I feel like it’s been glaring. A lot.”

  “Or maybe it was just adoring you from afar, because this precious wittle sweetie knows that deep down, you’re a good person,” said Jack, giving the kitten a peck on the nose.

  They had a brief visit with Dr. Sims, who promised to take good care of the kitten, and then they headed on to the café for lunch.

  “I think you should be the one to name her,” said Jack.

  “What? Why me?”

  “Because I think that cat was following you.”

  “Stalking me is more like it.”

  “Watching over you,” said Jack. “Protecting you. Don’t forget, there might’ve been a killer in those woods today. You could’ve even been in danger.”

  “But Jack, the curse! Remember what Ingrid said?”

  “You don’t believe in things like curses, do you? I mean, what well-adjusted, intelligent adult believes in curses these days?” said Jack with a snort, stinging Rosemary with her own words.

  He was right, of course.

  There was a logical explanation for the appearance of the cat and for the funny feeling in Rosemary’s gut, and even for Sam’s horrible death.

  “Name the kitty,” Jack urged.

  “No,” said Rosemary.

  “Come on,” insisted Jack.

  “I think I’m hungry,” said Rosemary, trying to change the subject.

  “You’ll come around. Wait and see,” said Jack.

  Rosemary answered this remark with a roll of her eyes.

  “Come on. I’ll buy you lunch,” he said, and they linked arms and walked on to the café.

  14

  On this visit to Potter’s Café, it was Abbey who served them lunch, instead of Gabby. Creamy mac and cheese and a cup of thick tomato bisque left Rosemary feeling comforted and satisfied.

  “I’m done with class for the day, so we’re going to the museum,” said Jack.

  “Do you think the festival will still go on—I mean, what with the mayor dying?”

  “It’ll go on,” said Jack. “Visitors will be arriving, and locals are counting on the extra business. Sam would be the first one to insist upon it.”

  “Then we still have a lot of work to do,” said Rosemary.

  The shops along Chestnut Street—one of the main streets around the town green—were festooned in colorful fall decorations. Every lamp post was wrapped in swag, every shop window featured oranges and reds and yellows. The smells of fresh bread and pastries wafted down the street from the open bakery door and mingled with the aroma of freshly ground coffee from the coffee shop. People wearing chunky sweaters and scarves hurried along the sidewalks, children played hide and seek among the trees on the green, and shopkeepers swept leaves away from front doors, waving to customers as they passed.

  Life went on. That was what Rosemary was thinking about when they approached a tiny, white, clapboard building with an American flag flapping in the breeze out front, and lights that looked like gas lanterns flickering on either side of the door. Above the door, a hunter green sign was carved with gold letters: “Paperwick Historical Society Museum.”

  “This is the cutest museum ever, “ said Rosemary as Jack pushed open the front door with a jingle and ushered her inside.

  “And it’s chock full of historical intrigue,” he said. “Paperwick has been around since the 1600s, so a lot has happened between then and now.”

  “Old Ballybrook? Is that near here?” asked Rosemary, examining an old town sign featured in a lit glass case on the wall near the entrance.

  “That was the name of the original colony,” said Jack.

  “The whole state was a British colony, though,” said Rosemary, moving from one display to another, lost in thought. “Quinetucket.”

  “Quine—what?” asked Jack.

  “That was what the Native Americans called this little corner of their world. It means beside the long, tidal river. The French mispronounced it, and we ended up with ‘Connecticut.’”

  “And the set of Puritans who settled this area started out in one big group, Ballybrook, but then eventually divided up into a smattering of villages, including Paperwick.”

  “So, the Founders Day Festival will celebrate that heritage.”

  “And celebrate the founders,” said Jack, pointing at another glass case that held an ancient-looking piece of parchment.

  “The town charter,” said Rosemary, squinting to make out the old handwriting. “Filbert. Anderson. Graves. Potter. Clark. Martin.”

  “Yep. These were the original families of Paperwick.”

  “So, Matthew Graves—the cursed judge who wanted to condemn Hortence . . . His was one of the original families.”

  “Yep. The Graves were active in politics right from the beginning.”

  “Are there still any of them around?”

  “Not in Paperwick. But there are some in the area. I’ve been told that some of them moved in the direction of New Haven. They don’t have a stellar reputation as a group, if you want the truth—neither back in history nor at present.” Jack stepped over to one of the large display cases, took out a small key, and carefully opened the lid. “And this,” he said as he lifted a crinkle-paged volume out of the case with great care, “is Mercy Clark’s record book.”

  Rosemary’s eyes widened as she recognized the handwriting. It was the same as that on the note from Jack’s barn.

  “Wow,” she breathed. “There it is again.”

  “There what is again?”

  “That feeling I get when history comes alive. I felt that way this morning when I saw Hortence’s grave. History has this way of sneaking up and punching you right in the stomach, you know?”

  “Takes your breath away,” agreed Jack, nodding.

  “Look,” said Rosemary, pointing to an entry in the book. “Here, Mercy is talking about a visit she and Hortence made to someone named Hannah Smith, eight months pregnant. And here, she talks about the ingredients for a tincture to fade freckles.”

  “I love freckles,” said Jack.

  “That must be what first drew you to me,” said Rosemary with a chuckle.

  “Oh, yeah. It was your freckles. The way they’re sprinkled right across your little button nose. That, and the wild, curly hair.”

  Rosemary laughed
and gingerly turned a group of pages in the old book.

  “Just want to check . . . Ah! Yes. This last section, where the handwriting changes. That’s when Elizabeth Graves took over as midwife, right? After Hortence and Mercy were gone?”

  “That’s right,” said Jack. “Amazing, isn’t it?”

  “Can we take this home? Just for tonight?” Rosemary asked.

  “I had a feeling you’d request to check it out,” said Jack with a wink. “Normally that would be out of the question, but since you happen to know the president of the Historical Society—and he happens to know you’re a reputable historian—we might be able to pull a few strings.”

  “That would be wonderful. I can curl up with this and read all night.”

  “You’re a wild woman, you know.”

  “You can tell by my hair.”

  “It’s for the best that we take it home anyway,” said Jack. “With all the commotion this afternoon, we were late getting lunch, and now it’s almost time to go home and fix dinner. Charlie’s grilling fish, and we’re making my mother’s potatoes.”

  “Ooh—the scalloped ones, with all the butter? The ones she used to catch your dad? It’s been years since we made those.”

  “The very ones. And don’t forget, we’ve got company coming.”

  “Oh yeah. Seth.” Rosemary tried not to let Jack see her small smile.

  “Yes, Seth. Oh—and also the cat-without-a-name. We need to head back to Dr. Sims’ place before she closes up shop for the day.”

  After Jack had carefully wrapped Mercy’s journal and sealed it in a plastic bag and then nested the bag inside an heirloom storage box, they locked up the museum and headed outside just as the sun was beginning to get low in the sky.

  “I’m worried about Ingrid,” said Rosemary as they walked along the sidewalk.

  “Really? Why?” asked Jack.

  “Because they took her in for questioning.”

  “She’s a definite suspect, Rosie.”

  “I just don’t see her as a killer.”

  “Rosemary, you just met her. And she’s had some crazy outbursts, even since Charlie and I have lived here. I think she has a long history of that sort of thing.”

  “But I just don’t think she’s the type. I can’t explain it. I know in my gut.”

  “Your gut? The same gut that loves to mix marshmallow cream with potato chips? That gut? Look, Rosie, you may be right. Or you might be letting your sympathies for Hortence and Mercy color your opinion of Ingrid. Let’s let the police do their job and trust that they’ll nab the killer.”

  “I’m not very good at letting things lie, you know,” said Rosemary.

  “Are you kidding? You’re the worst at letting things lie. But even though you’re inquisitive in the extreme, and even though we both love a good mystery, we’re not detectives.”

  “Yeah, but you saw the detective. He’s not what I would call . . .”

  “The sharpest pencil in the box? The brightest bulb? No,” Jack admitted. “Barney Weaser would never be accused of that.”

  “I just want to try to find out more, just ask a few questions—”

  “Rosie, we’re letting the police handle it. All kidding aside, somewhere there’s a killer on the loose, and we’d be wise to play it safe this time.”

  “Okay,” Rosemary said. “I’ll just keep my ears open, though. Okay?”

  “Agreed. And I’ll do the same.”

  They stopped in at the veterinary clinic and Dr. Sims handed them a small pet carrier with a sleepy kitten inside.

  “She’s in good shape,” said the doctor. “I’ll need to see her back in a few weeks, for her second round of shots.”

  “We’ll be here,” said Jack.

  Once they got to Holly Golightly, Jack handed Rosemary the carrier.

  “I can’t hold this,” said Rosemary.

  “Just for a second, while I unlock Holly,” said Jack.

  Rosemary reluctantly took hold of the handle and held the carrier as far away from her body as she possibly could. She glanced down once, and saw those green eyes, calmly looking out at her.

  “Could you stop staring at me?” she asked the cat.

  “I’m telling you, this cat likes you,” said Jack. “I know what let’s do. Let’s just pretend that she’s a puppy. You’re not afraid of puppies.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Come on, Rosemary. Name the cat.”

  15

  Charlie was already home when they arrived back at the farm.

  “Look what Rosemary got today,” called Jack cheerfully.

  Charlie’s head poked around the corner from the kitchen.

  “What did you get, Rosemary?”

  “Mercy’s journal! Can you believe Jack let me bring it home?”

  “I was talking about this,” said Jack, holding up the little pet carrier.

  “Oh. Right,” said Rosemary. “And we got a . . . um, cat,” she mumbled.

  “What? A cat?” Charlie hurried over, Izzy following at his heels. They both peeked inside the carrier.

  “Well, hello, little one,” Charlie cooed. “What’s your name?”

  “Rosemary hasn’t decided on a name just yet,” said Jack.

  “Well, I know you and cats haven’t always gotten along,” said Charlie, putting a hand on Rosemary’s sagging shoulder. “But maybe this one is different? This does look like an unusual cat.”

  “Unusual in a horrifying way?” asked Rosemary, looking into the carrier at the steady green eyes. “She looks like Hortence’s cat. Am I the only one who can see it? Has the whole world gone crazy? Is Ingrid Clark the new standard for sanity around here?”

  “No! This cat is unusually intelligent. You can see it in the eyes,” insisted Jack.

  “Really?” Rosemary leaned in to look a little closer.

  “How about we let Izzy be the judge,” said Charlie.

  Jack set the carrier on the floor and they all watched Izzy closely.

  The little dog sniffed around the complete perimeter of the carrier, then put her nose up to the bars as if in greeting, wagging her tale. The kitten, in turn, returned the greeting by touching noses, batting her lids, and purring softly.

  “Look at that,” said Charlie “Have you ever seen anything like it? They’re fast friends!”

  “Of course they are,” said Jack, bending to pat Izzy on the head. “You should’ve seen her there, Charlie. This brave little creature, all alone at the cemetery. We had to save her. I just know this cat is special.”

  “Right. And how do you know that?” asked a skeptical Rosemary.

  “I have a knack about these things,” Jack said sagely.

  “What is it with you people? Is that like the Paperwick town motto or something?”

  “What?” asked Jack, holding up his hands innocently.

  “I have just about been knacked to death here,” cried Rosemary. “Is it something in the air? In the water? Do you all think you’re clairvoyant?”

  “We’re highly intuitive at the very least,” said Jack.

  Charlie laughed and slowly opened the little carrier door to see what the animals would do.

  The cat put a tentative paw out, then emerged entirely and looked around, as if sizing up the place and finding it quite to her liking. She and Izzy touched noses again, and then the kitten wandered into the living room, hopped up onto the couch, and proceeded to lick her paws as though she’d made the command decision that this was an acceptable throne.

  Izzy seemed to be just fine with this decision, and trotted happily back into the kitchen.

  “A bright spot in a hard day,” said Charlie, putting a comforting arm around Rosemary’s shoulders.

  “So, you’ve heard all about it?” asked Rosemary. “Everything that happened with Sam?”

  “It’s all over town. Of course, Jack filled me in too. But it’s all anyone is talking about. I’m so sorry for poor Sam. And for you—finding him like that. It must’ve been awful.”


  “It was one of the worst experiences of my life,” said Rosemary. “I hope he didn’t suffer.”

  “Do they know how it happened?” asked Charlie.

  “I think the jury’s still out on that,” said Jack. “From what I can gather, they haven’t decided yet if he had an accident or if he was murdered. But the cause of death was a blow to the head.”

  “What’s this I hear about Becky Thatcher being there?” asked Charlie.

  “She was there before I got there,” said Rosemary. “I heard her scream, ran over to see what was happening, and she pointed to where Sam was.”

  “So, she must’ve been first on the scene,” said Charlie.

  “She said Ingrid Clark was already there when she arrived, but that she ran away,” said Rosemary. “And Becky . . . I’ve never seen anyone so shaken. She was almost delirious.”

  “The Thatchers were very close friends with Sam,” said Charlie. “And Becky has always struck me as a sort of shy, quiet type. I can’t even imagine how shocked she was.”

  “Still can’t believe Sam’s gone,” said Jack, shaking his head.

  Rosemary sighed and looked thoughtfully at the ground. “I don’t see how his death could’ve been an accident,” she said.

  “Why?” asked Charlie.

  “The witch’s mark,” said Rosemary.

  “Oh, that’s right,” said Jack. “I’d forgotten about that.”

  “The witch’s mark?” asked Charlie.

  “When I found Sam, he was lying face down. His shirt was torn slightly at the right shoulder. I saw a mark. I swear it was the witch’s mark. Like a smear. Sort of a blue-black color.”

  “Like a bruise?” asked Jack.

  Rosemary thought about this.

  “Maybe it was a bruise,” she said slowly. “I was so upset. Maybe my imagination got the better of me. I don’t know anymore. I think I’m just overwhelmed.”

  “We still have plenty of time before dinner,” said Jack. “Why don’t you go take a nice, long bubble bath. Put on your coziest sweats. And then meet me in the kitchen and we’ll whip up some comfort food?”