Mary felt a smile touch her eyes. “My daddy always spoke well of you. My mother always fussed that you didn’t like her baking.”
“Your mother couldn’t cook a peach pie the right way to save her life,” Sheriff Mables said with a chuckle. “That woman thought burned peaches would get a blue ribbon at the state fair. I don’t know how your old man tolerated her cooking for all them long years.”
“Love conquers all, even bad cooking skills,” Mary said with a smile. But her smile quickly faded when she turned around and looked at the front door. “Sheriff, Farmer Griffith didn’t have any children. What will come of his farm?”
“Well, as far as we all know, Farmer Griffith only had the one brother who lives way out there in Oregon. I’ll get a call out to the man, but I’m not sure what will come of it. If he refuses to take this farm, it’ll go back to the county and be put up for sale. I reckon Harry down at the bank will handle the details.”
“I guess if Farmer Griffith’s brother doesn’t claim the farm, the county will ask quite a bit of money for the land?”
“Two hundred and twenty acres of land doesn’t sell for a dime store nickel, Mary,” Sheriff Mables pointed out.
“Well,” Mary replied, “if Farmer Griffith’s brother refuses to take the farm, and the county does sell it, I hope someone identical to Farmer Griffith comes along and fills the void.”
Sheriff Mables nodded his head. “Me, too,” he told Mary. “Pineville is a good family town. I know a few locals who will make sure this farm stays in good hands—if, that is,” he added, “Farmer Griffith’s brother doesn’t claim it.”
“Sheriff?” Mary asked.
“Yeah?”
“Who is Farmer Griffith’s brother?” Mary asked. “I know Farmer Griffith had a brother because my daddy told me, but I never heard Farmer Griffith mention anyone. Of course, I didn’t spend every waking second on his farm, either. After I graduated from high school and got married, my life took a different turn. Oh, John and I drove out here to pick us a watermelon or buy some fresh produce, but not as often as I would have liked.”
“Well,” Sheriff Mables said, allowing a fresh, gentle breeze to cool his sweaty face, “all I know myself is that the man lives way out there in Oregon. Farmer Griffith never chewed over to anyone except a few of his closest friends.” Sheriff Mables looked at Mary. “All I can toss into the pot and stir around is that the two brothers just didn’t like each other and felt distance was a letter to send each other.”
“So, you don’t know what Farmer Griffith’s brother does for a living?”
“Not a clue,” Sheriff Mables answered. “All I know is that the man is considerably younger than Farmer Griffith…I’d say about a good fifteen years is between them, if my memory isn’t being stubborn on me today.”
Mary calmly absorbed the information and began wondering if Agent Green knew about Farmer Griffith’s brother. She concluded that the agent most likely did know that Farmer Griffith had a brother living in Oregon; after all, the FBI always dotted their i’s and crossed their t’s. “Sheriff, do you know the name of Farmer Griffith’s brother?”
“Nope,” Sheriff Mables answered. “The only time Farmer Griffith really opened the can on his brother was after his wife was taken on home to the Father’s Kingdom. He was teary-eyed and talked about his brother living in Oregon and how he regretted that the two spent so much of their lives angry at each other.”
“Do you think Farmer Griffith’s brother is somehow connected to his brother’s death?” Mary asked.
Sheriff Mables shook his head. “Wouldn’t see how.” He let his eyes soak in a small field of watermelons. After the death of his wife, Farmer Griffith had downsized his crops. Most folks knew that the poor man’s heart was broken, and he wasn’t interested in maintaining large numbers of crops as he had done before the death of his wife.
Mary looked out at the small field of watermelons and nearly began to cry. “Well, one thing is for certain.”
“What’s that?” Sheriff Mables asked.
“Agent Green has a lot of answers that we need. That Suit didn’t show up on this farm out of the blue. He came here looking for someone or something.” Mary drew in a deep breath to calm her sadness. “My guess, Sheriff, is that he came to Farmer Griffith’s farm looking for a person…and arrived late.”
Sheriff Mables glanced over at Mary. “Where is this Agent Green fella now?” he asked.
Mary shrugged. “I don’t know.” She pointed at the front door. “Sheriff, mind if I take a look around?”
“Why not?” Sheriff Mables said. “You may spot something these old eyes missed. Come on.”
Sheriff Mables walked Mary into a lovely living room covered with furnishings from the early 1920s. The room smelled of cherry tobacco and time. The hardwood floor creaked under her feet. The walls were lined with old photographs of relatives belonging to Farmer Griffith’s wife; each black-and-white photo held people who seemed timeless, although they were all most likely in the grave. The atmosphere in the room was peaceful—serene—and very soothing. Mary felt the presence of an old man and an old woman that the world couldn’t touch. She saw an old man smoking his pipe full of cherry tobacco and an old woman tending to her knitting while a cold winter wind howled outside. “It’s been years since I’ve been in this living room…I haven’t been inside this house since I was a little girl.”
Sheriff Mables shoved his hand down into the pockets of his pants. “I played bridge in this house with Farmer Griffith just last month,” he told Mary. “Jack and Fred—you know them, right?—came over, too. Farmer Griffith cooked us up some of his fried green tomatoes and cornbread. It was a good night.”
Mary slowly walked around the living room and studied each item of furniture, each photo, each nostalgic memory carefully and tenderly placed in a certain location. “Sheriff?” Mary asked.
“Yeah?”
“Where are the house keys?” she asked.
Sheriff Mables stared across the living room at Mary. Mary walked over to the front window and pulled back the green curtains, looking out again at the small field of watermelons. “I…didn’t think to check for any house keys,” he told her.
“I’m sure Farmer Griffith had keys to this farmhouse,” Mary said. She kept her eyes on the watermelon patch. “Everything in this living room is in its place…everything is too perfect. Farmer Griffith was killed because he saw or knew something…or maybe he was killed because whoever killed him thought he found something that he shouldn’t have. I’m sure, Sheriff, that the killer came into this house and searched around.”
Sheriff Mables continued to look at Mary. He didn’t say a word.
Farmer Griffith’s bedroom smelled like the living room and for all intents and purposes, resembled the living room. A large bed with black iron railings sat in the middle of the bedroom on top of a hardwood floor that, as in the living room floor, creaked under Mary’s feet. A 1920s carved oak chest of drawers sat against the front wall, in front of the bed. The room felt antique, old, timeless and simply wonderful.
“I promise to be respectful,” Mary whispered as she walked over to a white closet door and slowly opened it. A line of overalls, work shirts, a church suit, and old dresses appeared before her eyes. “He never gave away his wife’s dresses,” Mary whispered and fought back tears. “He really loved her.”
Mary thought of her husband. John Holland was flying bombing missions over Europe. The thought of him never returning home was always lodged at the back of her mind like a horrible nightmare constantly tormenting her. What if John was killed? What if the Southern Mayflower was shot down either by enemy aircraft or anti-aircraft guns? What if her husband was snatched out of her life after ten young years of marriage? Would she be able to give away his suits?
“No,” Mary whispered and wiped away a tear. She reached out her hands and touched a pair of overalls. Going through a dead man’s clothes was tougher than she thought. “Don’t think about Joh
n,” she told herself. “Think about the case at hand. Be smart like John taught you. There’s a time to be emotional and a time to be smart. Be smart.”
The sound of footsteps entering the room startled Mary. She swung around and to her shock, saw Agent Green standing just inside the doorway with a Lucky Strike in his mouth. “Looking for something?” he asked in a cold voice.
“House keys,” Mary said, forcing her voice to become tough and stern.
“I see,” Agent Green replied. He took a draw off his cigarette and slowly exhaled. “Mrs. Holland, is this really necessary?” he asked. “You can be a good citizen and help me and stop this nonsense.”
“Agent Green, a decent man is dead, and I want answers. I call that being a good citizen,” Mary fired back.
Agent Green looked around the bedroom. His eyes stopped at the window. “Mrs. Holland,” he said in a stony voice, “are you aware that the communists have spies in our country?”
“Of course I am,” Mary snapped. She kept her back to the closet and her eyes forward.
Agent Green nodded and walked over to the window, pulled back a green curtain, and looked out at a wide backyard decorated with beautiful flower beds. Brightly colored tulips, roses, and other lovely flowers swayed back and forth in a warm breeze. “Mrs. Holland, America has many sensitive secrets that the communists want. Can you understand that?” he asked.
Mary gaped at him. “Are you suggesting Farmer Griffith was a communist spy?” She calmly walked to the bedroom door and paused. “Who knows, Agent Green, maybe Farmer Griffith was a communist spy. Maybe all of the tomatoes he grows are secret devices transmitting hidden messages to the enemy.”
Agent Green was not amused by Mary’s sarcasm. He took another draw off his cigarette. “You may leave now, Mrs. Holland,” he said in a stern tone. “I can see that I’m speaking to a child rather than an adult.”
Mary snapped her arms together. “Listen, pal,” she fired at the agent, “you’re speaking to a woman who knows your kind. My husband has had his share of meetings with you Suits. Before he settled down in Pineville, he was in the Navy.” Mary stopped talking.
“Oh, go eat sour corn,” he snapped and walked back downstairs into the living room.
“Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea that Sheriff Mables left,” she whispered in a worried voice and hurried outside.
Being outside felt safer and allowed Mary the courage to stand next to her car rather than race back to town. She waited for Agent Green to show his face. “What are you really doing here?” she demanded.
Agent Green walked past a 1941 black sedan and stopped at the hood of Mary’s car. “Mrs. Holland, it would be very wise if you steered clear of this farm for the time being. The person I’m searching for may return and if he…or she…finds you here alone, you very well could end up like Farmer Griffith.”
Mary stared at Agent Green. It was clear to her that she was going to have to be very careful—and very smart. “I was pondering over a question.”
“What question might that be?”
“How did you know to come to this farm?” Mary asked him. “You found Farmer Griffith’s body. You called Sheriff Mables. Now, I’m just a little ol’ housewife, Agent Green, who’s holding down the fort for her husband while he’s away being a real man and fighting a real war. But it seems to me that coincidence is not part of your job. After all, good ol’ J. Edgar Hoover isn’t the type of man who sends his Suits out to look for shadows melting in the sun. No, you knew to come to this farm…a bit too late, though, if I might add.”
Agent Green worked on his Lucky Strike. “I’m privy to certain classified information, Mrs. Holland…certain information that the public masses do not need to concern themselves with.”
“You know,” Mary said in a disgusted voice, “someday the American people are going to get fed up with all the lies you Suits push down their throats.”
Agent Green let a cold grin touch his eyes. “Mrs. Holland, America belongs not to the people but to the powers that control it. Now,” he said, “let’s get back to the matter at hand. Farmer Griffith called you out. Why? And this time I want an answer. I’ve had my lunch and given you time to rethink your position. My patience is growing thin and I’m not leaving this farm, nor am I allowing you to leave until I get the answers I need.”
Fear grabbed Mary. Was Agent Green threatening her? Yes, she thought, an agent of the FBI was threatening to illegally detain her and obstruct her freedom unless she played his game. “Don’t be afraid of this guy,” she whispered, pushing her fear away. “I can leave anytime I please,” she told him.
Agent Green shook his head. “You’ll leave when I say you can. Now, tell me why Farmer Griffith called you out,” he demanded.
“Because he thought I was mighty smart,” Mary replied and snatched open the driver’s side door to her car. The agent shook his head at her. “If you take one step toward me I’ll slug you and—” Mary stopped speaking when she saw a woman riding down the driveway on a blue 1941 Schwinn bike. “Betty?”
Betty raised her hand and waved at Mary. She nearly lost her balance and toppled down to the ground. “Mary!” she yelled and rode up to Mary’s car. “I…was getting worried. You’ve been gone for hours.” Betty looked at Agent Green. “Who is he, Mary?” she asked in a worried voice.
“My name is Agent Vince Green. I’m with the FBI,” he told Betty. He threw down his cigarette and looked around. He was out in the open, which wasn’t smart. It was time to change course. Perhaps, he thought, it would be smarter to talk with Mary back in town. “Ladies, the day is growing on us. Perhaps it would be better if we talked back in town.”
“You mean you’re allowing me to leave?” Mary asked in a sarcastic voice.
“I will follow you back to your office and we will speak there,” Agent Green explained in a cold voice. “You can load your friend’s bike into the trunk of your car. She can ride back into town with you.”
Mary looked at Betty and saw the sweetest, most caring friend a woman could ever hope to have. “I can’t believe you rode all the way out here on your bike.”
Betty touched her sticky hair. “William and Millie wanted to come but Millie’s car isn’t running very well, and William walks everywhere he goes. We were all getting very worried and I didn’t think we could all fit on my bike.”
Mary smiled. “Oh you.” She patted Betty’s hand.
“Load the bike into the trunk and let’s get moving,” Agent Green ordered Mary.
“My, is he pushy,” Betty complained. “If you were a gentleman you would load my bike into Mary’s trunk for us.”
“I’m not a gentleman,” Agent Green told Mary. He walked over to his car and waited.
Mary noticed that the agent seemed uneasy. She watched the man looking around, as though searching for a shadow that might be lurking about somewhere. Then she realized if Agent Green was uneasy…maybe she should be uneasy, too. But then an idea hit her.
“Agent Green, I’m not ready to drive back into town. I still want to search for the house keys.”
Agent Green shook his head. “This farm is off limits to you from this point forward. If I catch you back on this farm, I’ll place you under immediate arrest.”
“In your dreams, you will,” Mary snapped at him. “This is America, pal, and in America a person has to commit a crime before being arrested. You have no authority to turn Farmer Griffith’s farm into a personal playground while threatening innocent citizens.”
“Yeah,” Betty said even though she wasn’t sure what Mary’s plan was. All she knew was that Agent Green looked like a very cruel man who’d never smiled a day in his life. The man scared her.
The agent pulled a Lucky Strike out of his pocket, studied the sky, and then focused on Mary. The woman was becoming very problematic. He needed answers from her, not problems. It was time to get tough.
“Mrs. Holland, the national security of our country has been jeopardized and I am authorized to use any
means necessary to eliminate all threats and reinstate the ruptured security. Do you understand what I am telling you?”
“I understand that you just threatened my life,” Mary told him. She stared at the man with angry eyes. “Come on, Betty. We’re wasting our time standing here talking to this Suit.” Mary grabbed Betty’s bike and walked it to the trunk of her car. As she did, movement coming from the far corner of the house caught her eye. She spotted young Mitch Anderson watching her with scared eyes. Agent Green seemed unaware that Mitch was there. Mary bit down on her lip and opened the trunk. “What’s Mitch doing here?”
Betty heard Mary whispering. “What?”
“Oh, I was just asking you if you’re tired from such a long bike ride,” Mary said in a loud voice. She spotted Agent Green working on his Lucky Strike, still unaware that Mitch Anderson was watching the scene.
“A little,” Betty confessed as she helped Mary load her bike into the trunk.
Mary bit down on her lip again and tried to think. She had to talk to Mitch. It was clear that the kid wanted to speak with her. “I’m afraid I need to use the little girls’ room,” she told Agent Green in an urgent voice.
Agent Green gave Mary an irritated, impatient look. “Make it quick,” he snapped. “If you’re not back in five minutes I’m coming inside.”
“Five minutes,” Mary said, forcing her voice to sound tough instead of relieved. “Betty, stay here beside my car, okay?”
“Okay,” Betty said. She watched Mary rush back into the house. “So,” Betty asked Agent Green, “do you like blueberry pie?”
As Betty talked to Agent Green, Mary rushed through the house and carefully exited out of the back door without being heard. She spotted a red-headed freckle-faced boy standing at the bottom of the back porch steps. “Mitch Anderson,” she said in a quick voice, “what in the world are you doing here? Why, your daddy is going to take a switch to you.”
Bought the Farm Page 3