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

by Peg Cochran

  Shelby nodded. “Okay.”

  Dear Reader, I really did mean it at the time. Honest.

  “Have there been any developments in the case?” Shelby finished the last of her coffee and put the mug down on the small wooden table beside one of the rockers. It wobbled slightly. She kept meaning to even up the legs but somehow never got around to it.

  Frank hesitated. Shelby could tell he was trying to decide what to tell her—if anything.

  “Let’s just say we’re following up some leads, okay?”

  Shelby strongly suspected that was code for we don’t have a clue.

  Frank drained his cup and put it next to Shelby’s. “That was just what I needed. Thanks.” He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag. He held it out to Shelby. “Do you recognize this?”

  Shelby took the bag and peered at what was inside. It appeared to be a length of red yarn, maybe two inches long.

  Frank tapped the package with his finger. “We found that when we searched your mudroom. Since everything is potential evidence, one of the men bagged it up. Of course it’s probably nothing at all.”

  “It’s a piece of yarn, obviously. It may have come from the scarf I’m knitting—or trying to knit. I think the wool is the same color.”

  Frank sighed. “I figured something like that. But we can’t ignore anything.”

  “Do you want this back?” Shelby held the bag toward Frank.

  “Yes. Thanks. It’s logged in as evidence, so we have to keep it for the time being even if it does turn out to be worthless.”

  Shelby smiled. “Don’t worry. I don’t think I’ll need it back.”

  Frank stuffed the plastic bag back into his pocket. “Mind if I take this with me?” He held the squash toward Shelby, dangling it from the cord.

  She shuddered. “No, not at all.” She couldn’t wait to get that thing out of her house, and if she never saw it again, that would be fine with her. She was hardly going to cook it up for dinner.

  Frank started down the porch steps, then stopped and turned around. “Be careful, okay? If you see or hear or suspect anything out of the ordinary, give me a call. I don’t care what it is or when it is. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

  Shelby did some weeding in her herb garden while the sun was still low in the sky, and the air pleasantly cool. The ground was damp from the rain, making the chore much easier than usual. The rich smell of dark earth mixing with the pungent notes of basil, thyme, and rosemary helped to soothe her still-frazzled nerves as she pulled out clumps of weeds and shook the dirt off. She didn’t always bother with gardening gloves—she mostly used them for tasks that could be rough on her hands like raking or hoeing and trimming the rosebushes. She never minded getting dirt under her fingernails.

  An hour later, Shelby stood up and brushed the dirt and bits of grass from her knees. Bitsy and Jenkins were due at Kelly’s veterinary clinic for their annual shots. Amelia could babysit Billy, since she was grounded for the rest of her life—if not longer.

  She gave a loud whistle and both dogs came running. Jenkins had dirt on his snout and front paws. He’d no doubt been digging for buried treasure again. Shelby was forever finding small holes all over the farm. Bitsy had pieces of tree bark and leaves in her fur. Shelby looked at her watch. She didn’t have time to give the dogs a bath—she wanted to stop by St. Andrews to pick up her salad bowls from Prudence’s funeral lunch—but she could at least wipe Jenkins’s paws and face and run a brush through Bitsy’s fur. Then she’d have to scrub her own hands and nails, change out of her dirty clothes, and drag a comb through her hair.

  Blessedly both dogs were very cooperative. Shelby gave them each a treat then led them to the car. Both Jenkins and Bitsy enjoyed riding in the car. Shelby had once had a dog that got carsick just backing down the driveway, so she was grateful that the two were good passengers.

  Jenkins always rode shotgun, sticking his head out the window to sniff the air rushing past. Bitsy stretched out on the backseat, panting happily.

  They both got excited when Shelby pulled into the church parking lot. She snapped on their leashes and let them out of the car. Jenkins sniffed every inch of the path between the car and the door to the church, and it took Shelby almost five minutes to get them both inside.

  She had no idea where Mrs. Willoughby had stored the dishes left over from the funeral luncheon, so she headed toward her office, hoping she would be in. The dogs pulled her up the stairs and down the hall, their noses working overtime.

  The light was on at the end of the corridor, and Shelby hoped that meant that Mrs. Willoughby was in. The dogs burst into the office ahead of Shelby, and she heard a high-pitched squeal as she went through the door.

  Mrs. Willoughby was backed up against her desk, trying to distance herself as much as possible from Bitsy. Bitsy, meanwhile, was leaning against Mrs. Willoughby, hoping in vain for a back scratch.

  “I’m so sorry,” Shelby said, yanking on both dogs’ leashes and reining them in. “I’m afraid they got away from me.”

  “It’s not . . . not vicious, is it?” Mrs. Willoughby said, pointing at Bitsy, who was hardly behaving like an attack dog. But Shelby could understand how someone might be frightened by her sheer size.

  “No, she’s extremely friendly,” Shelby said.

  “It’s just that they surprised me,” Mrs. Willoughby said, trying to gather up the remains of her dignity.

  She had a pair of half glasses pushed up onto her forehead and another pair dangling from a chain around her neck. Her computer was on, and there was a brightly colored picture on her monitor. Shelby got a glimpse of it before the screen went into sleep mode, and she thought it looked as if it was taken at the recent potluck.

  “I’m working on the church newsletter.” Mrs. Willoughby sighed. “It was so much easier in the old days when all I had to do was type it up and print it out. Trying to work with this computerized newsletter program is making me a nervous wreck.” She gave a short bark of laughter. “I guess you really can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

  She jiggled her computer mouse, and the monitor sprang to life again. “People have sent me some lovely pictures of our potluck, and I’d like to include them in the newsletter.” She settled her half glasses in place and sat down at her desk. “You might like seeing some of these yourself.”

  The first picture was taken from a distance and showed the tent on the lawn of Love Blossom Farm and all the people milling about the tables of food. Shelby had to admit—everything looked quite lovely.

  Mrs. Willoughby clicked to another shot—this one of the children playing. Shelby noticed Billy in the picture—his shirt was untucked, and she could see that his face was dirty. Hopefully Mrs. Willoughby wouldn’t pick that one for the newsletter. The next shot was a very nice one of Grace Swanson and her husband, Alan. They were standing arm in arm and smiling at the camera.

  Mrs. Willoughby clicked on the next photograph. It was rather blurry, as if the photographer had failed to focus the camera properly.

  “Well, I certainly can’t use that one.” Mrs. Willoughby hit the delete key. “Here’s a nice one,” she said as another shot popped up on the screen.

  It was a group picture. Shelby recognized Liz Gardener, Jodi Walters, and a few other people. Mrs. Willoughby was about to click to the next picture when Shelby stopped her.

  “Wait!” She leaned forward to get a better look at the picture.

  There was a young man standing apart from the crowd, partially turning away. Shelby stared at the photo.

  Shelby tapped the screen with her index finger. “That’s him. That’s Wallace, Prudence’s son. He lied to me. He was at the potluck after all.”

  Kelly held her clinic once a week in a trailer just outside town. She’d set it up in the parking lot of an abandoned building that had once house
d a Chinese restaurant. The large red sign out front still read CHINA CITY, but everyone in town knew this was where Kelly’s practice was located.

  There was one other car in the lot when Shelby pulled in. Both dogs spilled out of the car as soon as Shelby opened the doors. She managed to corral them and snap their leashes back on. Jenkins immediately tried to pull her toward the lone car and its enticing tires—he lifted his leg on anything and everything.

  The trailer had a small waiting area, and if Kelly was running late, it wasn’t unusual to find owners and their pets waiting outside. Today the single occupant—a woman in pink shorts and a tank top—sat with a ring-tailed cat in her lap. She clutched the cat to her chest when Bitsy and Jenkins burst into the room.

  Shelby reassured her that both dogs were not only friendly but used to cats, but the woman seemed far from convinced. Fortunately Kelly popped her head out of the examining room just then, and the woman and her cat jumped up, obviously glad of the chance to escape.

  Shelby grabbed one of the tattered magazines scattered across the coffee table, but she found it didn’t hold her attention. She kept reliving the moment when she’d walked into the hanging butternut squash. Was someone really out to warn her off?

  Before she could think about it any longer, the door to the exam room opened and the woman and her cat came out. Kelly nodded at Shelby. She grabbed the dogs’ leashes. “Come on, guys, it’s our turn.”

  Shelby followed Kelly into the exam room. Bitsy and Jenkins seemed to have had a sudden recollection of their last visit to the vet, and Shelby had to drag them in after her. Jenkins was immediately intrigued by the incredible quantity of smells in the room and was busy sniffing his way around the perimeter.

  “I guess you’re first, then,” Kelly said, scratching Bitsy behind the ears.

  Together, she and Shelby got Bitsy onto the examining table.

  “You’re looking tired,” Shelby said, glancing at her friend’s face. “Another middle-of-the-night delivery?”

  Kelly shook her head. “No, it’s been rather quiet lately.”

  “What is it, then?” Shelby knew Kelly well enough to know that something was wrong.

  “I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’m still worried about Seth—I can’t help it. I keep thinking, what if he gave that money to Prudence to keep her quiet and protect my reputation? And maybe she accepted the money but then told him it wasn’t enough—she was going to tell everyone about the mistake I’d made anyway.”

  Kelly turned away from Shelby and got two vials of vaccine from a locked cabinet. “Then they argued, he got angry, and he killed her.”

  When Kelly turned around, Shelby noticed there were tears in her eyes.

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?” Shelby asked.

  “I don’t know. Why won’t Seth tell me where he was during the potluck?”

  “I’m sure he has a good reason, and he will tell you soon enough. Maybe he’s planning some kind of surprise for you?”

  Kelly scowled. “Seth? I doubt it. That’s not his style.”

  “I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” Shelby reassured her. “I think I know where the money came from.”

  Kelly put down the syringe she was filling. “You do?”

  “Yes. I think the money was Prudence’s, and she planned to give it to her son.”

  “Son?” Kelly blurted out.

  “Yes. Prudence was married before and had a son, Wallace. He’s around thirty, I’d say, unkempt and rather rough-looking.” Shelby gave an exaggerated shiver. “He apparently came here looking for money from Prudence.”

  Kelly filled the syringe and paused with it in the air. “Do you think he killed Prudence?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?” Kelly asked as she stuck the needle in the unsuspecting Bitsy.

  Bitsy obviously didn’t notice, because she turned her head and tried to lick Kelly’s face. After removing the needle, Kelly gave her a dog biscuit, and Bitsy jumped off the examining table.

  “He wanted money,” Shelby said.

  “But Prudence had money in her purse, so she must have been planning on giving it to him. Why else would she be walking around with so much cash?” Kelly asked.

  “I think she did plan on giving it to Wallace but then changed her mind. Maybe she talked to Daniel and he told her it was a bad idea. I don’t know. But I think her refusal enraged Wallace, and in a fit of anger, he killed her.”

  Kelly shuddered. “That’s so . . . so cold-blooded. He must be a wretched young man.”

  “He certainly didn’t seem particularly distressed that his mother was dead.”

  “And in such a horrible way. . . .”

  Kelly lifted Jenkins onto the examining table. He wasn’t as content to be still as Bitsy and walked to the very edge and peered over it, as if he was assessing how high the jump was. Kelly clamped a hand on his collar while she reached for the second syringe.

  “When I talked to Wallace, he denied having been at the potluck. But Mrs. Willoughby was showing me some photographs from the event, and Wallace was in one of them, skulking around the edges of the crowd. I don’t remember seeing him, but there were so many people, not to mention so many things that needed to be done.”

  “I was oblivious, I’m afraid. I was on the lookout for Seth.” Kelly gave Jenkins his shot, and he whipped his head around, eyes fierce, to see what had stung him. “But I really think you may be onto something.”

  16

  Dear Reader,

  Every Thursday, Lovett has a farmers’ market in what passes for downtown in our small community. St. Andrews Church and the Catholic church, St. Mary Magdalene, are clustered together, just down the road from each other. Baptists and Methodists have to go further afield for their Sunday services—all the way to Allenvale, the next town over. Sandwiched between the churches are the Lovett General Store, which I’ve already told you about, the Lovett Feed Store, which also carries lawn mowers and snowblowers because in Lovett, as soon as you finish with one, you’re going to need the other—spring and fall are short around here. Just a ways down the road, past our one streetlight, is the Lovett Diner, where locals grab a cup of coffee in the mornings along with a helping of town gossip, or stop for lunch after shopping at the General Store, or go to celebrate anniversaries, birthdays, and graduations.

  The farmers’ market is held on the empty field just before you get to the diner. Everyone brings their own table and a canopy to put over it—some more makeshift than others. I’ve already picked and packed the produce I’m selling—bunches of fresh-smelling herbs, delicate lettuces still wet with dew, the few vegetables I don’t plan on canning for the winter, and some of my homemade cheese spreads.

  Shelby pulled her faded red pickup onto the rough lane that ran alongside the field where the farmers’ market was being held. She bumped over the ruts and hillocks until she came to the spot that had been allotted to her. Love Blossom Farm had been assigned that same location for several decades now. Shelby put the truck in reverse, swiveled around in her seat, and backed up to the area where she would be unloading.

  She jumped down from the driver’s side of the truck and went around to the back to let down the tailgate. The truck was old, and the pins holding the tailgate in place were often stubborn. Shelby made a mental note to put some lubricant on them. She leaned against the tailgate so it wouldn’t fly open and managed to yank the pins out.

  The back of the pickup truck was filled with crates. Shelby had stacked a long folding table on top of them so it would clear the wheel wells on the inside of the truck. By the time she got the table out and set up, she had worked up quite a sweat. She could feel the hairs at the nape of her neck plastered to her skin. There was no need to join a gym if you were a farmer—you got plenty of exercise doing your daily chores.

  By now any clouds left in th
e sky had scattered, and the sun shone down unimpeded. Shelby wrestled the purple-and-white canopy with LOVE BLOSSOM FARM written on the front from the bed of the truck. It was relatively easy to set up, but nevertheless one of the other farmers ambled over to help her.

  He hooked his thumbs under the straps of his worn overalls. “Need a hand with that?”

  Dear Reader, I am perfectly capable of putting up the canopy all by myself, but if I refuse I’ll be in danger of being labeled “one of them feminists” by the other farmers here.

  “Don’t want your lily white skin getting burned?” he asked as he helped her drive the stakes into the ground. He jerked his head in the direction of his own booth, which stood in full sun.

  Shelby was used to being ribbed by the other farmers. She was one of the few women who came to the market by herself and didn’t have a man to help. She merely nodded, thanked him, and went about her business.

  With the table and canopy set up, it was time to unpack the crates. Shelby set out her wares, fussing a little with the arrangement. She wanted her booth to look inviting to customers. She had lined a basket with a red-and-white-checked napkin and poured in a box of crackers. She would offer them to people so they could sample her herbed cheese spreads. She’d found that after tasting the cheeses, customers generally bought at least one container.

  Shelby was putting the finishing touches on her booth when Liz Gardener ambled over. She had a large blue-and-white tote over her arm that Shelby strongly suspected was a genuine Coach bag.

  Dear Reader, I did learn a few things when I lived in Chicago.

  Liz wore a short white tennis skirt with a pale blue polo shirt festooned with the emblem of a country club that Shelby had heard of but never been to. The pompom on her short white socks matched her top perfectly.

  “Shelby,” she gushed as she looked over the display. “You always have such beautiful things.” She pointed to the pyramid of containers stacked in the middle of the table. “Are those your famous cheese spreads?”