No Farm, No Foul (Farmer's Daughter Mystery)

by Peg Cochran

  13

  Dear Reader,

  Prudence’s funeral was well attended. In a small town like Lovett, people pull together during times of crisis. The Women’s Auxiliary has already arranged for meals to be delivered to Daniel for the next several weeks. The ladies of Lovett are all getting out their casserole recipes, determined to outdo each other. And every widow and divorcée in town is aflutter now that Daniel is a widower and will eventually be back on the market so to speak—the pool of marriageable middle-aged men being quite small here—minuscule, in fact. And Daniel’s not the type of man to stay alone for long—he’d be lost without someone telling him what to do.

  The service was lovely. Prudence would have enjoyed the hymns—Alan Swanson sang “Nearer My God to Thee” and Grace was right—he has a magnificent voice.

  Once again my cottage cheese pies were a success. In case you missed it, I’ll post the link to the recipe again.

  Shelby was on her way home when the thought struck her—could Prudence’s son, Wallace, possibly be the murderer? Mrs. Willoughby seemed to think he’d only arrived in Lovett after Prudence’s death, but was that true? It was possible he’d arrived earlier—before Sunday—and Daniel simply hadn’t thought to mention it. Perhaps Wallace had gone to the church hoping to catch Prudence or Daniel there, but they had already left. If he saw the notices for the potluck, it would have been easy enough for him to put two and two together. Shelby didn’t remember seeing him that afternoon, but there’d been so many people milling around on the lawn of Love Blossom Farm that it was possible she had just missed him.

  Shelby was so engrossed in her thoughts that she nearly went past her turn and had to slam on the brakes at the last minute. She made a mental apology to the driver of the car behind her as she made the turn—practically taking it on two wheels.

  Maybe Wallace approached Prudence at the potluck? Or he could have already gone to her asking for money and that was why Prudence had all that cash in her purse. And then perhaps she’d changed her mind—or she’d discussed it with Daniel and he talked her out of giving anything to Wallace. If he’d arrived at the potluck expecting to get money from Prudence, her refusal might have made him mad enough to kill. Shelby had felt from the beginning that the murder had been a spur-of-the-moment act driven by anger, desperation, or frustration.

  Shelby felt stirrings of excitement as she pulled into her driveway. She had a feeling she was onto something. If Wallace had arrived in town earlier, he’d probably stayed at the rectory with Daniel and Prudence. Shelby bit her lip. She didn’t want to ask Daniel about it while the poor man was in mourning, but perhaps there was someone else who would know. . . . Shelby mentally snapped her fingers. She remembered Coralynne from her knitting group once saying that she helped out at the rectory a couple of times a week running the sweeper, dusting, and cleaning the kitchen. Maybe she would know if Wallace had been there before Prudence was killed?

  The rain had stopped and when Shelby opened her car door, she was assaulted by a wave of heavy, humid air that the rain had brought with it. Puddles filled the ruts in her driveway, and she had to be careful to step around them as she made her way to the front door.

  Shelby had barely walked inside when Amelia came barreling down the stairs, nearly colliding with her mother. Amelia was wearing a tank top and cutoffs so short they made Shelby frown. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

  “Kaylee’s mom is picking me up in a couple of minutes. Bert’s here, so it’s okay. She said she’d stay with Billy.”

  “Oh,” was all Shelby managed to say.

  She was heading toward the kitchen when she heard a horn honk outside.

  “I’m going Mom, bye,” Amelia said.

  The front door slammed before Shelby had a chance to reply. On an impulse, she headed toward the foyer, walking as quickly as she could without actually breaking into a trot. Something was compelling her, although she couldn’t say what it was. She yanked open the front door. She was in time to see a car backing down the driveway. And it wasn’t Kaylee’s mother at the wheel, but Jodi Walters. Amelia was in the backseat, looking very cozy with Jodi’s son Ned.

  Shelby was tempted to run after the car but realized just in time that that would only serve to make her look ridiculous. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and punched in Amelia’s number. After a brief pause, the call went directly to voice mail. Shelby was tempted to throw the phone in frustration but managed to restrain herself.

  She stomped into the kitchen, where Bert was preparing to make pickles. She had a basket of Persian cucumbers from Shelby’s garden on the counter. Persian cukes are smaller, with a smoother skin and no seeds.

  “I love these cucumbers,” Bert said with her back to Shelby. “They fit perfectly in the canning jars so you can leave them whole.” She turned around. “Jeez-o-pete, what’s gotten into you? You look as riled up as a twister about to strike ground.”

  Shelby took a deep breath and tried to release the tension from her shoulders. She opened her clenched fists and shook out her hands. “Amelia . . .” She sputtered to a stop.

  “What’s she been up to now? Besides being a perfectly normal teenage girl. I had three of those myself—two at the same time with the twins. If I could survive that, you can survive this.”

  Bert turned on the tap and began to scrub the cucumbers under the running water.

  Shelby opened the cupboard and got out a jar of dill seed, mustard seed, some black peppercorns, and a container of kosher salt. “All this time Amelia has been claiming she was at her friend Kaylee’s house, when she’s actually been hanging out with a boy. Ned Walters. Jodi’s son.”

  “So?” Bert paused in her scrubbing.

  “So she’s not even thirteen yet, and he’s already fourteen.”

  “That’s about the time it starts.” Bert lined up a set of pickling jars on the counter.

  “What starts?” Shelby grabbed a towel and began drying the cucumbers.

  “An interest in boys. I think there’s a switch that gets turned on as they near their teenage years.”

  “I still think she’s too young.”

  Bert carefully lowered the glass jars into the pot of water boiling vigorously on the stove. “Look at your pullets and heifers. They know when the time is right.”

  Shelby turned sharply toward Bert and stood with her hands on her hips. “My daughter is hardly a chicken or a cow.”

  Bert chuckled. “Of course not. But it’s Mother Nature’s way of making sure the species continues. You can’t fight it.”

  “I’m afraid the species will have to continue without Amelia’s help for quite a few more years.”

  Shelby could remember the moment the doctor had handed her the beautiful, red-faced squalling baby that was her daughter. Bill was by her side and they couldn’t stop smiling at each other. They were a family. It was only a moment ago. And now Amelia was on the cusp of womanhood. Time should not be allowed to go that fast.

  Shelby and Bert finished putting up the pickles and Bert left for home, taking a couple of jars with her. Shelby tidied up the kitchen and tried to decide what to do. Should she go to Jodi’s house and confront Amelia? She tried Amelia’s cell again, but the call went to voice mail as before. Shelby stamped her foot in frustration.

  How could Jodi let Amelia fool her mother like that? But then maybe Jodi didn’t know Amelia had said she was at her friend’s. Jodi might think Shelby was perfectly okay with Amelia spending time with Ned. Which she most certainly wasn’t.

  Shelby was grateful to have her mudroom back, although she still found herself scurrying through the space, her eyes averted from the spot where Prudence’s body had lain. She was looking forward to redecorating as Matt had suggested. The paint she’d ordered should be in any day now.

  She opened the back door, stepped outside, and cupped her hands to her mouth. “Billy,” she
shouted. She put two fingers in her mouth and gave a long, drawn-out whistle. That brought Jenkins and Bitsy running. In their book, a whistle usually meant dinnertime. Shelby shooed them into the house and went back outside to wait for Billy.

  “Billy,” she shouted again through her cupped hands.

  He appeared over the small rise, running lightly and easily toward Shelby, as if it took no effort at all. One of the straps on his overalls had come undone, and the knees were caked with dirt.

  “Mom, Mom,” he yelled excitedly as he got closer. “You’ve got to come see!”

  “See what?” Shelby asked when he was within reach. She ruffled his hair—a gesture that made him scowl and duck away.

  “The mouse that Patches killed. It’s right outside the barn, and its head is missing. It’s really cool.”

  Shelby shuddered. “How about you show me later, okay? It’s time for your piano lesson.”

  “Aw, Ma, do I have to? Mrs. Van Buren is mean.” He kicked at the dirt with the toe of his sneaker.

  “She’s not mean—she’s strict. How else are you going to learn to play?”

  “I don’t want to play the piano,” Billy whined. “I want to play the drums.”

  Shelby shuddered. “Come on.” She gave him a gentle push toward the house. “You’ll be glad you know how when you’re older.”

  Billy continued to protest, but Shelby steered him toward the powder room to wash his face and hands. It was too late to send him to change, but she held him still long enough to reattach the undone strap on his overalls and brush the loose dirt off the knees.

  Unlike Amelia’s, Billy’s bad moods were like a brief rain shower—within minutes the sun was out again.

  “Mrs. Van Buren usually gives me a piece of candy when I come. I hope she has some Snickers today,” Billy said as Shelby watched while he buckled himself into the backseat of the car.

  She got behind the wheel, backed down the driveway, and headed toward the small development where Mrs. Van Buren lived.

  “It sounds as if she isn’t as bad as all that,” Shelby said as they pulled into the piano teacher’s driveway.

  Billy shrugged and bounded out of the car and up the steps to Mrs. Van Buren’s modest ranch-style house. Shelby waited until the door opened and then backed out of the driveway.

  She’d taken a dozen of her homemade potato dough rolls from the freezer and collected a basket of Love Blossom Farm preserves and canned fruit before leaving the house. She had no idea if she would find Coralynne at the rectory today, but if not, she at least had an excuse for calling on the pastor.

  The rectory had been built in the late 1800s in the Gothic Revival style common in religious structures of the day. It was a sturdy house of redbrick with a peaked roof in the center and fanciful white gingerbread trim that was at odds with the serious and slightly gloomy look of the rest of the home.

  An early-model Ford Focus was in the driveway. Shelby hoped that meant that today was one of Coralynne’s days for cleaning.

  She hooked the basket over her arm, grabbed the package of rolls with her other hand, and pushed the car door shut with her hip. She climbed the steps under the portico, set down her basket, and rang the bell.

  Shelby was relieved when Coralynne opened the door. She had an apron tied over an old-fashioned-looking silk dress and was wearing a strand of pearls and low-heeled black pumps.

  “Shelby, dear, come in,” she said, standing back from the door.

  “I’ve brought some things for Reverend Mather.” Shelby gestured with her chin toward the basket and the bag of rolls.

  “How lovely of you,” she said. “Let’s put these in the kitchen.”

  Shelby glanced into the parlor as they went past. The furniture looked as if it had come with the house—stiff, high-backed chairs and a rather stern and forbidding-looking sofa. Shelby couldn’t imagine anyone kicking off their shoes and getting comfortable in there. Perhaps there was another room—a den or family room—that was more hospitable.

  Coralynne led the way into the kitchen, where she opened the freezer door and pointed to the contents. It was stuffed with casserole dishes labeled in small, neat handwriting—chicken tetrazzini; tuna noodle; broccoli, chicken, and rice. “We’re keeping the poor, dear man well fed, as you can see.” She shook her head. “Not that he has much of an appetite these days. But I suppose that’s normal under the circumstances.”

  Shelby handed over the rolls. Coralynne peeked inside the bag. “I’ll just keep these out for his dinner, shall I? They’ll go quite nicely with the chicken and dumplings Eleanor brought.”

  Coralynne placed the bag on the counter and turned to Shelby. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “I don’t want to interrupt. . . .”

  “Not at all. Today isn’t my day for cleaning, but Reverend Mather asked if I could come because people might be stopping by. I made a batch of friendship bread and some shortbread cookies in case there were visitors. That way he doesn’t have to cope on his own.” She sighed. “Prudence was always the one to handle the social aspects of being rector of a church. Reverend Mather is rather shy and easily overwhelmed by it all.”

  Coralynne opened a cupboard, took out a kettle, and began to fill it. She was putting it on the stove to boil when the doorbell rang.

  “I’m certainly getting my exercise with the doorbell ringing constantly,” Coralynne said with a smile. “I’ll be right back.”

  Shelby heard another feminine voice coming from the hallway, and Coralynne ushered Grace into the room. She was carrying a covered casserole dish.

  “I’ve brought the reverend some chicken divan for his dinner.” She put the dish down on the counter.

  “We’re all set for his dinner,” Coralynne said, getting cups and saucers out of the cupboard. “But I’ll label it and put it in the freezer for later. Now.” She turned to face Grace with her hands on her hips. “Would you like to join us in a cup of tea?” Coralynne turned back toward the cupboard, her hand hovering over a third teacup.

  “Why not?” Grace dropped into a kitchen chair. “Alan is away on business, so I’m all by my lonesome.”

  “What does Alan do exactly?” Coralynne asked as she poured out the tea and put sugar and creamer on the table.

  “He’s an insurance salesman,” Grace said. “It’s a good job, and I’m not complaining, but it does take him out of town for half the week.” She looked at Coralynne and Shelby from under her lashes. “We’ve only been married three months, so we’re honeymooners still, and I hate him having to be gone so much.”

  “Don’t worry,” Coralynne said, settling into one of the chairs. “You’ll come to appreciate it after a while. My Roger is retired now and just between you and me, having him around all the time is very difficult. He always wants to talk when I’m involved in something.”

  Shelby had a sudden thought—would she ever be able to adjust to married life again? She’d been on her own for quite a while now, answering to no one and doing things her way.

  “I wonder if Reverend Mather will marry again,” Grace said.

  “I should imagine so,” Coralynne said. “It wouldn’t be seemly to have a bachelor as a rector. Best if he chooses someone and settles down as quickly as possible.”

  There were footsteps in the hall and for a moment Shelby panicked, thinking it was Daniel and that he might have heard what they were saying about him. A person appeared in the doorway—it was Wallace. He stuck his head into the room.

  “Got anything to eat?”

  Coralynne stiffened, her mouth set in disapproving lines. “Some shortbread cookies and some friendship bread.”

  Wallace made a face. “No, thanks.” He headed back down the hall, whistling as he went.

  Coralynne gave a loud harrumph.

  “Rather unsavory young man, isn’t he?” Grace said after Wallace h
ad retreated down the hallway. She sniffed. “Hard to believe he’s Prudence’s son.”

  “I was quite surprised to hear about him,” Shelby said, glad that Grace had brought up the topic for her. “I didn’t realize Prudence had been married before. Has he been here in Lovett long?”

  Coralynne harrumphed again. “Long enough. He got here the day before the murder. He wasn’t here even twenty-four hours before I heard him and Prudence arguing.”

  “Do you think he might be responsible for Prudence’s death?” Shelby asked, trying to look as innocent as possible.

  “I never thought of that.” Grace took a sip of her tea.

  “Did either of you see him at the potluck?” Shelby asked.

  Grace looked up, as if she would find inspiration in the ceiling tiles. She tapped her chin with her index finger. “There were so many people, of course. And I was quite busy introducing Alan to everyone.” Her face glowed with possessive pride.

  “I couldn’t say,” Coralynne said, her brow furrowed in concentration. “I was occupied with helping the Women’s Auxiliary get everything set up, and afterward I found a shady spot under a tree where I could enjoy my meal. It was excellent, I must say, although Mrs. Kendrick will insist on putting too much mustard in her potato salad. One wants only a hint of the flavor, and not to be hit between the eyes with it.” She puffed out her chest.

  Grace turned toward Shelby, her eyes sparkling and eager. “I think I do remember seeing Wallace at some point. Or at least, there was a rather sordid-looking dark-haired young man lurking about. I remember he kept picking bits of food off the platters—an olive here, a crust of cheese there. Very unsavory, I must say.” She shivered.

  “So it’s quite possible Wallace was at the potluck, and he did kill Prudence,” Shelby said.

  Grace frowned. “But I still wonder about Earl—the usher at St. Andrews.” She looked at them over the rim of her teacup. “He was furious with Prudence for accusing him of stealing that collection money. I heard them arguing and he definitely sounded mad enough to kill.”