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

by Peg Cochran

  14

  Dear Reader,

  I certainly have a lot to think about! It looks as if Wallace as the murderer is logistically possible—if not really probable. But how could someone kill their own mother? Grace brought up a good point about Earl. Certainly being wrongly accused would make someone very angry—angry enough to kill, perhaps. Especially if they pride themselves on their honor and trustworthiness. Of course the question remains—was Earl wrongly accused? That is something I still have to figure out. Maybe he really did dip his hand into the collection plate?

  And then there’s Amelia and this boy she’s seeing on the sly. Ned. I’ve heard he’s a nice boy—his mother seems to think so, but then she would, wouldn’t she? I don’t look forward to confronting her about her lying. This is one of those moments when I wish Bill were still here so we could face this together. I know he would have some wise and clever solution.

  Meanwhile, I need to get back to Love Blossom Farm and check on my lettuce to see how that potion I put on it—the canola oil, water, and dash of liquid dishwashing detergent—is working to stem the mildew.

  Shelby smelled cigarette smoke as she was leaving the rectory. Wallace must be smoking somewhere outside again.

  She found him near the rosebushes at the end of the drive, a lit cigarette in his hand. Shelby braved the miasma surrounding him and approached him. “Wallace?”

  He nodded, his glance shifting away from Shelby’s as he looked down at his feet. He was wearing a pair of expensive but very worn athletic shoes. Shelby suspected he might have purchased them secondhand.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss.” Shelby uttered the pat phrase even as she realized how trite it sounded.

  Wallace looked at Shelby briefly and grunted.

  “I’m glad you had the chance to see Prudence before she . . . she died.”

  Wallace nodded, turned his head to the side and blew out a long stream of cigarette smoke.

  “I hope you enjoyed the potluck.” Shelby tried again. Wallace certainly wasn’t much of a conversationalist. “Prudence put a lot of effort into it.”

  “Wasn’t there,” Wallace mumbled with his mouth around the cigarette.

  “That’s a shame. I’m sorry you missed it.”

  Wallace shrugged. “Not my thing—all those church people.”

  Shelby had no idea what to say to that, so she said good-bye and walked to her car.

  Shelby drove to Mrs. Van Buren’s, where Billy was waiting. His earlier bad humor had evaporated, and he was happily enjoying the sucker his piano teacher had given him. Shelby was relieved—she didn’t think she could deal with it if Billy started whining and complaining again on the way home. She had too much on her mind as it was.

  But things seemed to have gone well. Mrs. Van Buren said he was making progress on his scales and she praised him for having practiced them during the week.

  Dear Reader,

  I had to bite my tongue when Mrs. Van Buren said that about Billy practicing because Billy has been no closer to the piano than was required to change the channel on the television. What was it that Abe Lincoln said? Something about you can fool some of the people all of the time? That’s Billy for you. If all you need to succeed in life is charm and a little blarney, he’s got it made.

  Shelby heard noises coming from the kitchen when they got home and was startled when Amelia suddenly came around the corner. Shelby thought she’d have a bit more time before having to confront her daughter. Her thoughts were still in a jumble, and she wasn’t nearly ready.

  Billy bolted past Shelby and out the door before she could say a word. She supposed it was because of pent-up energy from having to sit still for an hour at the piano.

  “I didn’t expect you to be home,” Shelby said to Amelia. Her eyes were on her daughter’s face.

  “Kaylee had to go to the dentist,” Amelia said, her eyes sliding to the right of Shelby’s.

  “Let’s sit down,” Shelby said, pointing toward the living room.

  She took a seat on the couch and Amelia perched on the edge of the armchair opposite. She looked wary and plucked at a loose thread on the throw draped over the arm.

  “You weren’t really at Kaylee’s house this afternoon, were you?”

  Amelia looked momentarily shocked, but then a mulish look came over her face. “I was, too.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t see why you won’t believe me. You keep thinking I’m with some boy.”

  Shelby gave the ghost of a smile. “Some boy named Ned Walters? I saw his mother pick you up this afternoon.”

  Amelia’s jaw dropped and her eyes turned as round as pennies. “You were spying on me?”

  “Hardly. I happened to walk outside as Mrs. Walters was pulling out of the driveway.”

  Amelia’s face took on an even more mulish look. “If you weren’t so old-fashioned and would let me date, I wouldn’t have to go behind your back,” she shot back.

  Shelby sighed. “Twelve is too young to date.”

  “I’m almost thirteen.”

  “Thirteen is also too young. I wouldn’t mind if you went to a school event with a boy, but real dating will have to wait until you’re a little older.”

  “I’ll be ancient by then, and I’ll never get a boyfriend.” Amelia burst into tears and stomped up the stairs to her room.

  Dear Reader, well, that went well—don’t you think? Maybe it’s hormones?

  The skies had clouded over again while Shelby was cooking dinner for Amelia and Billy. Dear Reader, please don’t judge me, but I made macaroni and cheese from a box for them, and had toast and a cup of tea myself. I am worn-out! Soon I’ll share my recipe for macaroni made with three cheeses and a homemade cream sauce. Promise.

  By the time Shelby had finished cleaning up the kitchen and was settled in the living room with a book, trying to ignore the sitcom Billy had blaring from the television set, rain was pelting the windows. It sounded like handfuls of pebbles being flung at the glass. The dogs were restless—howling at the far-off thunder and pacing back and forth until the sound of their nails on the wooden floor threatened to make Shelby scream.

  At ten o’clock she made Billy turn off the television and get ready for bed. It was hard getting him to sleep any earlier, since it wouldn’t be completely dark for at least another half hour. Since Lovett was on the western-most edge of the eastern time zone, summer days were long in west Michigan. Amelia had disappeared upstairs right after supper—during which she hadn’t said a word but had stared at her plate the entire time—and Shelby presumed she was texting all her friends to tell them what a dinosaur her mother was and how unfair it was that she wasn’t going to be allowed to date for a few more years. Shelby tried not to let it bother her, but she had to admit Amelia made her feel like an ogre—and worse, that she wasn’t in touch with what was going on.

  Shelby let Bitsy and Jenkins out for one last time, waiting at the door until they came bounding back inside, shaking the rain from their fur. They followed her upstairs and made themselves comfortable on the bed while she washed up and changed into her nightgown.

  She’d planned to read in bed for a bit but found her eyes closing after the first page. She turned out the light, fluffed up her pillow, and drifted off to sleep.

  It was just after midnight when the dogs woke Shelby. At first they did nothing more than emit a deep, low growl—the kind they made when they weren’t sure if something was friend or foe—but then they progressed to outright frantic barking. Jenkins ran for the stairs and Bitsy, heavier and clumsier, was right behind him, sliding on the throw rug and then regaining her footing and giving chase.

  They both threw themselves at the front door, their barking reaching a frenzied pitch. Shelby padded down the stairs in her bare feet. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see Amelia and Billy following her. Neither of them appeared and she sent
up a silent prayer that the commotion hadn’t woken them.

  She couldn’t imagine what had gotten the dogs so riled up. A coyote venturing too close to the house perhaps? Or something smaller and more benign like a possum or, heaven forbid, a skunk? Both dogs had been skunked on more than one occasion—not something Shelby wanted to repeat, especially not at this time of night.

  She was hesitant to open the door, but she was afraid their incessant barking would eventually wake the children. Besides, if it was a harmless possum, Jenkins and Bitsy would soon send it packing.

  The rain had stopped, although dark clouds still moved swiftly across the sky. It looked as if the next downpour could happen at any moment. Shelby peered into the darkness but didn’t see anything. Bitsy and Jenkins pushed past her, running in circles, their noses to the floor.

  Shelby stepped out onto the front porch. The boards were wet from the rain, which had settled in small puddles on the uneven wooden floor. She scanned the driveway and the yard, but all she could see was the suggestion of a retreating headlight in the far distance and even that might have been her imagination.

  “Come on, Bitsy,” Shelby said in her most authoritative voice, which she feared sounded more whiny than firm. “Come on, Jenkins.”

  She held the door wide, trying to entice them back into the house. Bitsy, who was the more easily tired of the two, took the bait and lumbered into the foyer, where she stood panting and dropping huge gobs of drool onto the floor. Jenkins, however, was not as easily corralled. He continued sniffing in an ever-widening circle.

  Shelby thought it was strange that neither of them had left the porch. The scent that intrigued them so was clearly not out in the yard. The thought momentarily made her shiver. Had someone strange been standing on her doorstep?

  Shelby called Jenkins again, but he still refused to heed the command to come. Shelby sighed. That was a terrier for you—they were quite convinced that they ruled the world and your job was simply to make life easier for them.

  “Jenkins, that’s enough. I want to go back to bed.” Shelby yawned.

  Jenkins was too busy sniffing around the railing that enclosed the porch to pay attention. Shelby sighed again and began to walk toward him, ready to grab his collar and drag him in if necessary.

  She was halfway there when something smacked her in the face. She screamed but then quickly stifled it. She looked up. Something was hanging from the hook in the ceiling where she had hung a planter with flowers. Shelby looked around and found the planter itself had been taken down and placed on the floor.

  Shelby grabbed for the object that continued to swing back and forth from a long piece of cord. It was too dark to see exactly what it was, but it was cool and smooth in her hands. She ran into the kitchen, flicking on lights as she went, and grabbed a pair of kitchen shears from the pot on the counter before heading back outside.

  Shelby felt her way across the porch, sweeping her arms in front of her until she felt the rough cord brush against her hand. She grabbed it and sliced through it easily enough with the scissors. She tucked the object under her arm and gave a sharp whistle. “Come on, Jenkins.”

  Jenkins hesitated, unwilling to abandon his quest for the unknown scent on their porch, but Shelby grabbed him by the collar and dragged him inside.

  Bitsy and Jenkins followed her down the darkened hallway to the kitchen, where she’d left the light on.

  Finally Shelby could see the object that had been hanging from the ceiling of the front porch. It was a butternut squash with a length of cord wrapped around its neck like a noose.

  Shelby screamed and dropped it on the floor.

  15

  Dear Reader,

  People think life in the country is dull, but I can assure you that life in Lovett in general and at Love Blossom Farm in particular has been anything but lately. There was Prudence’s murder, and now it seems as if someone is trying to scare me to keep me from investigating. Why else would they hang a squash with a noose around its neck to the ceiling of my front porch? Not that I’m going around quizzing people like one of those detectives on television—it’s more a matter of keeping my eyes and ears open. And it seems I’ve touched a nerve—but whose?

  Shelby finally crawled back into bed, but she spent an uneasy night alert to every sound. Bitsy and Jenkins—her early warning signals—slept soundly, so the noises she thought she heard were probably a product of her overworked and heightened imagination.

  She woke before the alarm, slipped into her clothes, and went downstairs. She thought about breakfast but decided she would feed the chickens first. They seemed surprised to see her so early. They pranced around flapping their wings, as if she’d woken them.

  Shelby scattered the feed and put the bucket back in the barn. She kept looking over her shoulder and jumping at every rustle and creak in the old building. If the person who had hung the squash was intent on scaring her, it was working admirably.

  As soon as the chickens were fed, and a pot of coffee was brewing, Shelby picked up the phone and dialed the Lovett Police Station. They assured her that Detective McDonald would be there shortly.

  Shelby was in the garden checking on the pole beans—she’d had a great crop this year—when she heard the sound of a car in the distance. She stripped off her gardening gloves and headed around toward the front of the house.

  Frank got out of his pickup, which was no longer dusty but instead was now spattered with mud. He walked toward Shelby, scrubbing a hand over his face. When he got closer, Shelby could see the fatigue in his eyes and the tight set to his jaw.

  “You look like you could use a cup of coffee,” she said.

  “That bad, huh?”

  Shelby laughed. “Come on inside. I have a pot ready and waiting.”

  Frank followed her into the house. Bitsy and Jenkins were out on their morning romp, but they must have sensed the presence of a visitor, because all of a sudden, Jenkins was pressing his nose to the screen door to the mudroom and making a racket.

  Shelby opened the door and let them in. Frank staggered back a step as Bitsy put her paws on his shoulders and began to lick his face. Jenkins sniffed every inch of Frank that he could reach as if performing some sort of canine identity check. Shelby often thought Jenkins could get work in security at the airport.

  Frank accepted his mug of coffee, declined cream and sugar, and took a sip.

  “Ahhh,” he sighed before putting the mug down on the table. He turned to Shelby, who had sat down opposite him with her own cup in her hands. “Dispatch told me you found a squash hanging from the ceiling of your front porch. Unless Ashley’s hearing is going? Because that would be a shame, since she’s only twenty-nine.”

  Shelby explained about the dogs barking and her middle-of-the-night find.

  “Do you still have the squash?” Frank asked, a look of concern settling on his face.

  Shelby got up and went to the counter next to the refrigerator. “Here it is. Someone had taken down my planter and used the hook in the ceiling to hang this.”

  Frank pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, opened it, and held it toward Shelby. “I don’t suppose we’ll get any useful prints off here, but you never know.”

  His eyes narrowed as he examined the butternut squash and the rough cord that was wrapped several times around its neck. “It does look something like a noose,” he said, holding it up. The squash swung back and forth. “Especially with the knot tied here in the back.” Frank twisted it around so Shelby could see.

  She glanced at it quickly and then turned away.

  “Can you show me where you found this?” Frank got up from his chair, coffee mug in hand.

  Shelby led him back through the living room and out the front door to the porch. Bitsy and Jenkins were right on their heels. They ran circles around Frank for a minute or two, sniffing furiously at his clothes, and then retreated
to the far corner of the porch, their pink tongues hanging.

  Shelby stood under the spot where the squash had been hanging and pointed to the ceiling. “There’s the hook.”

  Frank came to stand next to her, squinting as he looked up to where she was pointing.

  “They must have needed a ladder to get it up there,” Shelby said.

  Frank looked around the porch. “Not necessarily. They might have dragged one of those chairs over.” He pointed to the wrought-iron chairs that surrounded a small table, where, on cooler nights, Shelby and the children sometimes ate their dinner.

  Frank bent over and examined the floor, squatting down to take a closer look. “Looks like there are some tracks in the dust.”

  Shelby stiffened. “It’s impossible to keep the dust and dirt off this floor. Even sweeping every day—”

  Frank laughed, interrupting her. “I’m not here to award you the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval, you know.” He motioned for Shelby to come closer. He pointed at the floor. “Look. There’s a slight scratch here.” He glanced over toward the table. “It could easily be from one of those chairs.” He straightened up with a grunt. “Then again, maybe not. Who knows?” He took a glug of his coffee. “Do you suppose it could be a prank? Some kids wanting to play a trick on you?”

  Shelby wrapped her hands around her warm mug—they’d suddenly turned cold despite the summer temperature. “I suppose it’s possible. It just seems too coincidental—Prudence was strangled with the cord of her slow cooker—the squash has a cord wrapped around its neck. I think someone is trying to tell me something.”

  Frank gave a small smile. “Why would that be?”

  Shelby bit her lip and looked around the porch as if for salvation. “I suppose I’ve been asking some questions. Questions the murderer might not want asked.”

  Frank heaved a gigantic sigh and rolled his eyes heavenward. “How about this? You stop asking questions. Leave that to me, okay?” He squeezed Shelby’s arm. “I promised Bill I would look after you,” he said with a slight catch in his voice.