Bought the Farm

by Wendy Meadows

  “It’s possible,” Mary said, “but I don’t think so. “Farmer Griffith is dead. Mitch and his friends found a briefcase full of papers with funny writing on them. Mitch said he saw Agent Green going through Farmer Griffith’s pockets…and you saw Farmer Griffith buying coffee. No, Betty, I think Farmer Griffith was entertaining someone.” Mary began nibbling on her lip again. “And to put the cherry on the cake, Farmer Griffith didn’t insist the parents of the boys responsible for burning down his barn pay for a new barn.”

  “What does that mean?” Betty asked.

  “It means, at least to me, that Farmer Griffith didn’t want anyone on his farm,” Mary told Betty. Mary kicked at the road again. “Betty, if—and this is only an ‘if,’ so don’t faint on me—Farmer Griffith was harboring a foreign spy, that would mean that the killer has to be Agent Green.”

  Betty nearly fainted. “Mary, are you sure?” she asked, grabbing the hood of the car.

  “Why would the spy kill Farmer Griffith?” Mary asked Betty. “That wouldn’t make any sense.” Mary felt anger rise in her heart like a bubbling volcano. “Agent Green killed Farmer Griffith. I feel it in my bones, Betty. And for now, that’s the theory I’m going with.”

  “Oh dear,” Betty whispered. “I knew you were going to walk us into a storm.”

  “You bet,” Mary told Betty and patted her arm. “Come on, honey, we need to get to the farm.”

  Betty nervously nodded her head and ventured back into the passenger’s seat. Mary hurried around the car and jumped into the driver’s seat and got the car moving at a safe speed.

  “Oh, thank you,” Betty nearly cried.

  “I don’t want you to become sick again. I’m sorry I was driving so crazy before.”

  “You were in a hurry. It’s understandable,” Betty told Mary in a forgiving voice.

  Mary sighed. “You’re my best friend, Betty, and I love you to pieces. I just wish you would get mad at me sometimes and really let me have it.”

  Betty put her supper plate back in the brown paper bag. “Mary, I’ve learned through the years to never let my anger win over my heart. Yes, it’s true I let my lips loose on that awful Agent Green, but that person is not my family. You are.” Betty gently patted Mary’s arm. “You’ve always been so kind to me. Why would I get mad at you because you drove a little too fast and upset my stomach? You’re trying to figure out a very difficult and scary case. Who am I to hinder you?”

  Mary almost started to cry. “You’re quite a woman, Betty,” she told her friend in a loving voice. “I don’t know what I would ever do without you.”

  Betty blushed. “Who would correct all your typos?” she asked.

  “No one,” Mary answered and let out a tired laugh. “You’re the expert, Betty.” Mary kept the car moving down the road. “I’ve sure dragged you through some strange water, haven’t I? Remember when we were little girls and I took you to go blackberry hunting with me?”

  “And you decided you wanted to go explore Milton’s Cave instead.” Betty shivered all over. “We got lost for two whole days. I thought we were going to die.”

  “Thank goodness the search party found us.” Mary let out another tired laugh. “We lived off blackberries and canteen water the entire time. Do you know I can’t eat a blackberry anymore?”

  Betty let out a sweet giggle. “Me neither.”

  Mary smiled. “You stand by me through thick and thin, honey, and I’m very grateful for you.”

  Betty blushed again. “Oh, what are friends for?”

  “Not friends…sisters,” Mary corrected Betty and drove her car to Farmer Griffith’s farm without saying another word. When she arrived at the farm she saw a strange figure dash inside the house.

  “Betty!” she yelled, pointing to the front door of the farmhouse. “Did you see what I saw?” she asked as she skidded to a stop.

  “I saw…a person wearing a black coat run into the house,” Betty told Mary in a scared voice. “Oh, Mary,” she said and grabbed Mary’s arm, “please, let’s drive back into town and get Sheriff Mables. Please.”

  Mary stared at the farmhouse, certain that the strange person was either watching her car from inside or dashing out the back door and making a clean run for it. She felt scared and excited at the same time. Her legs wanted to jump out of the car and run into the farmhouse and give chase. But her mind screamed caution at her.

  “The person we saw most likely has a gun,” Mary said and quickly backed up, turned around, and sped away.

  Betty let out a sigh of relief. But her relief was short-lived when Mary stopped the car out of sight from the farmhouse. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Mary opened the driver’s side door. “Honey, I need you to drive back into town and get Sheriff Mables. I’m going to stay behind and keep an eye on the farm.”

  Betty fainted. Mary put her hands up in the air and began fanning her best friend. Eventually, Betty came to, and after making sure she was okay, Mary took off on foot into the countryside.

  Unknown to Mary, the strange person Mary had spotted running into the farmhouse jumped onto a 1940 Indian 4-cylinder motorcycle parked beside the back door and looked toward town.

  Chapter 5

  Mary crept past a tall pine tree swaying in the wind and maneuvered her way to the winding waters of Blue Diamond River. The river was flowing smoothly, running deep and shallow in certain places, walking over wet rocks and fallen trees. The sound of crickets chirping in the late day mingled with the hum of the river, creating a tune of perfect harmony; in the distance, a woodpecker was eating away at a poor, unsuspecting tree. Mary loved every sound that entered her ears and every sight that reached her eyes. The countryside of Pineville, Tennessee was absolutely gorgeous.

  But, she reminded herself, reaching the river, danger was in the air, and it was no time to be sightseeing. “I have to be very careful and very—”

  Mary stopped talking. In the distance, she heard the sound of a motorcycle racing down the road. She spun around just in time to see the strange person she had spotted at Farmer Griffith’s farm race by through a group of trees.

  “Oh no,” Mary whined and kicked the ground in frustration. “Now what?”

  All alone and with no wheels to carry her back into town, Mary felt desperate. She stood with her hands on her hips until the sound of the motorcycle faded in the distance and the soothing sound of the chirping crickets returned.

  “Well, I surely can’t chase down a motorcycle on foot,” she said. “I guess I have no other choice but to go back to Farmer Griffith’s farm and take a look around. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll go to Farmer Griffith’s farm and take a good look around. It’s obvious that whoever that stranger is, he…or she…is still hiding out on the farm.”

  Mary hiked back to Farmer Griffith’s farm and cautiously jogged up to the farmhouse. “Drat,” she fussed. “The front door is locked.” Mary studied the front porch and then decided to try the back door. To her relief, the back door was unlocked. She eased the door open and crept into the farmhouse. The farmhouse felt eerie and silent—too silent. The floor creaked under her feet and whined at every step she took.

  “First, let’s check and see if there is any coffee,” Mary whispered. She tiptoed over to a long green counter. A white sugar container, a yellow flour container, and a brown coffee container sat on the counter next to each other, as nice as you please. Mary lifted the lid off the coffee container and looked inside. “Half full,” she whispered. “And the air, it smells like coffee, too.”

  Mary turned and examined the kitchen. A gray coffee pot sat on a gas stove. She hurried over to the stove and touched the coffee pot. “Still warm.” Mary swung away from the stove and hurried over to a white General Electric refrigerator and pulled the door open and studied the contents. “There’s enough food in here to feed two people,” she said. “Now why didn’t I think to check this refrigerator earlier? Oh, Mary, you klutz.”

  Mary closed the refrigerato
r and looked around. “Farmer Griffith, who are you?” she whispered. “And who were you hiding?” Silence answered Mary. She felt cold and creepy, expecting the stranger to burst out at her at any second even though she clearly knew the threat of danger was racing back toward town.

  But when Mary heard the floorboards begin creaking upstairs, she froze. Panic grabbed her mind and heart. Someone was in the farmhouse; someone other than her.

  “Easy, girl,” she whispered in a shaky voice. Her eyes ran to the sink and spotted a kitchen knife. Mary tiptoed over to the sink and grabbed the knife as the stairs began to creak. Whoever was inside the farmhouse was now sneaking down the stairs. Mary bit her lip and looked at the back door. Sure, she could run, but where would she run to? Besides, she was wearing high heels and whoever was in the farmhouse might easily chase her down…or shoot her in the back if she tried to run.

  “I have a knife!” Mary yelled in a fierce tone; at least she tried to sound fierce. In reality, her voice sounded terrified and weak.

  Silence fell. Mary gripped the knife and waited for danger to appear as her heart ran laps. Surely, Mary thought, whoever was inside the farmhouse, easing down the stairs, was in cahoots with the stranger she had seen zoom by on the motorcycle. Surely whoever was inside the farmhouse, easing down the stairs, was going to attack her at any second and possibly kill her. Surely whoever was inside the farmhouse, easing down the stairs, was a mean killer with no heart and soul.

  “Mrs. Holland, is that you?” a scared voice called out.

  Mary’s mouth dropped open. “Mitch Anderson?”

  “Yeah!” Mitch yelled in a scared voice.

  “Oh!” Mary tossed the kitchen knife into the sink and ran into the living room. She found a scared little boy standing at the bottom of the stairs. “Mitch, I told you to run home. Your folks are worried sick about you.”

  “I started to run home, honest,” Mitch declared. “But golly, then I got to thinking that the man I saw going through Farmer Griffith’s pockets might find me and hurt my folks. So I came back here. Only, when I did, this lady showed up. I got real scared, so I went and hid under Farmer Griffith’s bed like a real chicken.”

  “Oh, you’re not a chicken,” Mary told Mitch. She examined the boy. The tan shirt he was wearing over a pair of worn yard jeans was covered with dust. “You’re a mess,” she said and began brushing the dust off Mitch’s shirt. “I have to admit that I was very scared when I heard you coming down the stairs. I didn’t know who you were.”

  “I didn’t think anyone was inside the house,” Mitch confessed. “I was getting ready to make a run for it after I heard the lady drive away on that motorcycle.”

  Mary walked Mitch into the kitchen and poured him a glass of water. “Mitch,” she asked, “what did this lady look like? What was her appearance?”

  Mitch took the glass of water from Mary and chugged it down. He sure was thirsty. “She was really pretty,” Mitch explained and then made a confused face. “But Mrs. Holland, she spoke real funny.”

  Mary folded her arms. “Real funny?” she asked.

  “Sure, she walked around talking to herself. Her voice sounded real funny,” Mitch explained. “She sure sounded mighty worried. Don’t matter how a person talks, funny or plain, you can always tell when they’re worried.”

  Mary nodded her head. “Mitch, what else did this lady look like?”

  “Well,” Mitch said, handing the water glass back to Mary, “she looked about your age…about your height…she wasn’t fat…and she sure wasn’t thin like a broom.” Mitch scratched his head. “I only got a real good look at her when she was leaving. I watched her leave from the upstairs window.”

  “Could you point this lady out if you saw her again?”

  “You bet,” Mitch said in a proud voice.

  Mary nodded her head. “Now, Mitch, I have to ask you another question and I need you to be honest with me.”

  “Mrs. Holland, I’m too scared and in too much trouble to tell a fib,” Mitch said. He rubbed his backside and made a painful face. “Oh boy, I’m already gonna get a whipping like never before and I don’t need to add to it.”

  Mary fought back a grin. “I’m sure your daddy is going to go easy on you…this time around,” she promised Mitch.

  “Gee, you think?” Mitch asked in a hopeful voice.

  “Sure,” Mary said and rubbed Mitch’s head. “Now Mitch, I need you to tell me where the briefcase is you found in the barn. The briefcase isn’t in your bedroom.”

  “You bet it ain’t!” Mitch exclaimed.

  “You told me you hid the briefcase under your bed.”

  “But I didn’t tell you I decided to hide it someplace better,” Mitch added.

  Mary walked Mitch over to the kitchen table and sat him down. “Okay, Mitch Anderson, spill the beans.”

  Mary squirmed around in his chair a little. “Well, golly, Mrs. Holland, when I made up my mind to come back here and apologize to Farmer Griffith, I decided to bring that briefcase with me and hide it on his land. I sure didn’t want to get in trouble for stealing, too…I thought if I hid the briefcase and…kinda told Farmer Griffith where it was…he might not be so mad at me and…well, accept my apology.”

  Mary let a smile touch her lips. The logic of a scared child was very sweet and endearing. “I’m sure Farmer Griffith would have been very proud of you for coming back to his farm to apologize and return the briefcase.”

  “Maybe…I’m not sure,” Mitch said in a sad voice. “When his barn went up in flames, me and the guys sure skedaddled like a bunch of scared chickens. I ain’t proud of myself. I reckon Farmer Griffith wasn’t too proud of me, either.”

  Mary put out her right hand and lifted Mitch’s chin. “Mitch, we all make mistakes, but it takes a big person to admit his mistakes. You may be living in a small body right now, but you have the heart of a brave man.”

  “Golly, really?” Mitch exclaimed. “Do you really mean that, Mrs. Holland?”

  “I sure do.” Mary smiled. “Now, why don’t you and I take a walk and you can show me where you hid the briefcase.”

  Mitch hesitated. “I don’t know, Mrs. Holland,” he said. “That funny-talking lady wants that briefcase awful bad. I kept hearing her say the word ‘briefcase’ over and over again. You might get into a lot of trouble if I show you where the briefcase is.” Mitch scratched the back of his head again. “My daddy always says that it’s better to leave well enough alone.”

  Mary understood Mitch’s reluctance. And maybe, she thought, for the time being, it would be smarter to leave the briefcase hidden. After all, she thought, Agent Green was still on the prowl, as was the strange lady Mitch had seen. If she forced Mitch to show her where the briefcase was hidden and she took it back to town, why, she might be risking her very life, and the lives of other innocent people. Besides, the briefcase was a powerful tool to use in case she got into a sticky bind.

  “Okay, Mitch, we’ll leave well enough alone for now. But I do want you to tell me where the briefcase is hidden instead of showing me.”

  Mitch kicked his legs in the air, thought for a minute, and then nodded his head. “Okay, that seems fair,” he told Mary and carefully explained where the briefcase was hidden. “Got it?” he asked.

  “You bet.” Mary smiled. “Now, let’s get out of here and get back to town.”

  “I was hoping you would say that.”

  Mary grabbed Mitch’s hand and walked him outside. The air was fresh and tasted wonderful. “We have a long walk ahead of us and…” Mary paused. “Oh, drat,” she said.

  “What’s wrong, Mrs. Holland?”

  “I told Betty to drive back into town and bring the sheriff back with her,” Mary told Mitch. “Looks like we’re going to have to stay here and wait. If Betty shows up and I’m not here, why, she’ll faint again.”

  Mitch bit his thumbnail and looked around. “Sure is creepy,” he told Mary. “The farm was never creepy before. But now that I saw Farmer Griffith…dea
d…well, that changes everything, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Mary told Mitch. She took his hand and walked him around to the front porch. “We’ll just wait right here, okay? I’m sure the sheriff will be along shortly.”

  Mitch looked around again and then decided to sit down on the bottom step of the front porch. “Mrs. Holland?” he asked.

  “Yes, Mitch?”

  Mitch put his chin down on his hands and made a confused face. “Why would an old guy like Farmer Griffith have a funny-talking lady on his farm?”

  “That’s a very good question,” Mary told Mitch, sitting down beside him. She looked out at the small field and let her eyes rest on the growing watermelons. “I wish I knew the answer to your question. I sure intend to find the answer, that’s for sure.”

  Mitch sighed. “Mrs. Holland?”

  “Yes?”

  “Was…Farmer Griffith…a spy?” Mitch asked. “I know that sounds like a dumb question, but I can’t help to wonder, that’s all.” Mitch looked up at Mary. “My best friend, Chuck, well, he really likes those detective magazines. He’s always going around talking about spies. When we found the briefcase with those funny papers inside, Chuck sure had himself a fit. He kept saying over and over again that Farmer Griffith was a spy.” Mitch sighed again. “Mrs. Holland…this might sound awful crazy, but maybe…Chuck was right?”

  Mary looked down at Mitch. The boy was far too young to be chewing on such difficult questions. Yet, she thought, the boy deserved the truth instead of a weak, watered down explanation. “Mitch, I don’t know if Farmer Griffith was a spy or not, but I’m sure the lady you saw is a spy. The man you saw going through Farmer Griffith’s pockets is an FBI agent named Agent Green. I’m pretty certain he’s trying to find the lady you saw. But,” Mary stated in a careful voice, “Agent Green is sour, Mitch, and no good. Stay far, far away from him, do you hear me?” Mitch nodded his head. “Good boy,” Mary said. “Farmer Griffith is dead, Mitch. He can’t tell us why the lady you saw was here at his farm or why he was allowing her to stay here. But if the lady is a spy, then that means—”