Fatal Frost (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 2)

by Karen MacInerney

  “The guy who sold the fence to me told me water couldn’t get through it,” I told him, feeling confident.

  “We’ll see,” he said, giving me a quick, distracted kiss on the forehead. “Call me when you’ve got them settled.”

  “I will,” I promised, then hesitated. “The Christmas Market is tonight. Are you going?”

  “Afraid not,” he said. “Sorry . . . it’s been so busy lately that I need to catch up on paperwork.”

  “I’m sorry to add to your burden with the dog,” I said. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask about Mindy, but before I could speak, one of the goats started making noise. Instead, I said, “I should go.”

  Then I turned and walked out to the parking lot and the two bleating goats in my truck, feeling somehow deflated.

  I didn’t call Quinn until I’d gotten home, maneuvered the goats out of their crates, and managed to persuade them to investigate the enclosure I’d made them. Gidget went willingly, but Hot Lips was reluctant to leave the crate without Peter to encourage her. I ended up luring her out with apple chunks, a process that took a half hour and five McIntosh apples, then dialed Quinn’s number.

  “What do you mean, she’s dead?” Quinn asked when I told her what had happened.

  “I was over picking up the goats,” I told her as I cradled the phone against my ear and closed the gate of the goats’ new enclosure. My cow, Blossom—Tobias had told me that now that she was pregnant with her second calf, I couldn’t call her a heifer, or even a first-calf heifer, anymore—had sauntered over and was watching the new arrivals with interest. “Peter smelled smoke and could tell it wasn’t an agricultural fire. He took off in the truck and I followed; it turns out Krystal’s house was on fire.”

  I heard the intake of breath. “She burned in it? What a horrible way to go!”

  “No,” I said. “Peter got her out before the fire got to her, but she was . . . already cold. There was a puppy in the house, too; I took her to Tobias.”

  “He went into the burning house?” Quinn asked. “I mean, that’s totally heroic, but he’s going to get himself killed!”

  “He’s a member of the fire department,” I reminded her. “He knows what he’s doing.”

  “Even so,” she said. “I’ll bet he didn’t have protective gear on, or his equipment, and I just worry. I know we haven’t been together long, but if something happened to him . . .”

  “I know,” I told her. “I feel the same way about Tobias.”

  “It’s amazing how quickly you can fall for someone, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” I agreed, wondering with a little twist in my stomach if perhaps I’d fallen prematurely. “But you picked a good one this time.” She’d spent years fearing her abusive ex; now, Peter’s kindness and gentle nature were wonderful for Quinn.

  “Poor Krystal,” she said. “Molly will be glad she’s not influencing Brittany anymore, but I’m sure this isn’t the way she would have wanted it to happen.”

  “What do you mean?” Brittany was Molly’s oldest child, a bright teenager in high school.

  “Didn’t you hear?” she asked. “Molly and Krystal had a run-in at the Blue Onion the other day. She told her to keep away from Brittany, or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  “I don’t think she went into specifics. Unfortunately, half the town heard.”

  I groaned. “Molly never does have much restraint when she gets into mother-bear mode.”

  “The thing is, Krystal was young,” Quinn said. “What if she didn’t die of natural causes?”

  “Are you thinking Rooster might try to pin it on Molly?” I shivered. “But who would have wanted Krystal dead?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s weird, though. She never said anything about a puppy.”

  “Unfortunately, the puppy’s in pretty bad shape. She’s got smoke inhalation damage and was unconscious when I left.”

  “That’s awful,” Quinn breathed. “And I still can’t believe Krystal is dead. Were there any marks or anything on her?”

  “No,” I said, trying not to remember the young woman’s pale, waxy face. “You really do think it was foul play, don’t you?”

  “Just a hunch,” Quinn said. “She was such a nice person . . . I never would have wished anything like this on her.” My friend was silent for a moment, and I watched as Hot Lips and Gidget nosed the perimeter. Already looking for weak spots.

  A cold breeze swept the pasture, chilling me to the bone. “Well,” I said, “I’m sure we’ll know what happened soon enough. I just stopped by the farm to drop off the goats; I’m on my way back to her house now.”

  “You know what really makes me think it was something fishy?” Quinn asked. “If she was . . . already cold, then how did the fire start?”

  “I don’t know. An electrical short?” I suggested.

  “Or arson,” Quinn said.

  “You think?”

  “If you murdered someone and wanted to cover your tracks, how better than to burn the place down?”

  The skin on my arms prickled. “Why wait, then?” I asked. “Wouldn’t you burn the house down right away?”

  “True,” Quinn conceded.

  “Hopefully it was a freak thing,” I said, not wanting to think about the alternative. “I’d better get back there,” I said, checking to make sure the gate was securely locked. Blossom was nosing the fence, and Gidget had trotted over to touch noses with her through the hog wire. I hoped they got along.

  “Let me know what you find out,” Quinn told me as I turned away from the goats and headed back to the truck.

  “Will do.”

  By the time I got back to the scene of the fire, they had whisked Krystal away, but the fire truck was still parked in the driveway. Rooster was standing near the smoking remains of the wood house, an annoyed look on his fleshy face, while Peter directed a stream of water into the structure, making blackish plumes of smoke and steam. The air smelled of burning plastic. As I hopped out of the truck, the sheriff adjusted his too-tight collar, his reddish wattle jiggling.

  “How’s the dog?” Peter asked, almost yelling to be heard over the hose.

  “Not great,” I called back. “Smoke inhalation—she’s unconscious—but Tobias has her on an IV and oxygen. We’re keeping our fingers crossed.”

  Rooster swaggered over toward me, squinting at me suspiciously. “Peter says you were over in this neck of the woods when the fire started.”

  “I was at Peter’s place, picking up some goats,” I said, taking a small step back from the sheriff. He was clad, as usual, in his favorite brand of polyester pants—size 42, with extra room in the seat, which I knew from having to buy him a pair after Chuck put a hole in the sheriff’s trousers last spring. “We both saw the smoke, and I followed Peter over here.”

  “How do you know Miz Jenkins?” he asked me.

  “I’ve met her,” I said, “but I don’t—didn’t—know her very well.” Krystal had only worked for Quinn for a few months. The few times we’d talked, she’d been pleasant enough, but we hadn’t really gotten to know each other.

  “Mmm,” Rooster said.

  “You might want to talk to Quinn, though,” I suggested, intentionally leaving out any mention of Molly. “Krystal worked at the Blue Onion. Quinn was a little worried about her when she didn’t come into work.”

  “How many days did she miss work?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Quinn would be able to tell you.”

  “I hear your friend Molly had a spat with this young lady the other day,” Rooster said. “Something about leaving her daughter alone or she’d do her in.”

  My stomach lurched. “I didn’t hear that,” I said, and glanced at the charred remains of the small white house. A few flames were still licking at the siding, though Peter and another firefighter were attempting to quell them. The cheerful gingham curtains had gone up in flames, and the white siding—what was left of it—was blackened. The gray-green rosemary
on the front stoop, fresh and unscathed, looked incongruous next to the destruction behind it. “But I’m sure that doesn’t have anything to do with this. Any idea what started the fire?” I asked Rooster.

  “Can’t get in to see yet,” he told me. “Still on fire.”

  It was a valid point. The wind kicked up a little bit, cutting through my jacket, and I hugged myself. “Anything else I can help you with?” I asked Rooster.

  “Not at the moment, but tell Molly I’ll be wanting to talk to her,” he said in a warning voice before swaggering back toward the smoldering house, where he stood looking officious in his polyester pants.

  It took another fifteen minutes to fully extinguish the flames. Peter’s face was grim as he and another firefighter returned the hose to the truck.

  “What do you think?” I asked, glancing over toward the sheriff. Rooster was out of earshot; he had ambled over to his Crown Victoria and was making notes on a yellow pad. “Arson?”

  “Hard to tell,” Peter said. There was a smudge of soot on his cheek, and one cuff of his sweatshirt looked a little bit charred, but other than that, he appeared unscathed. “But I have to say it looks awfully suspicious.”

  “Rooster suggested Molly might be involved,” I said.

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “I wish I were.” I eyed the burned-out house. “I guess nobody uses crime scene tape in Buttercup.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” He turned toward the Crown Victoria. “What should we do to close off the scene?” he called to Rooster.

  “We’ll just lock the gate,” the sheriff responded in a surly tone.

  “You’re right,” Peter told me. “This isn’t like the city; no crime scene tape. Probably invite more interest than not, now that I think of it.”

  “True,” I said, “although I’m sure the news is halfway across town already.” I surveyed the house and the field behind it. Several little hillocks of fresh dirt were scattered around, as if there were a family of giant moles living in the pasture. “Think she was digging for buried treasure?”

  “It sure doesn’t look agricultural,” he said.

  “Is this her property?”

  Peter shrugged. “I don’t know who owns it. Why?”

  “Just wondering,” I said. “We were supposed to come and check on her tonight, you know; Quinn was worried.”

  He looked back at the house. “It’s too bad what happened. She was awfully young.”

  “She was,” I said, feeling my stomach wrench. If it turned out that somebody did kill Krystal, I was guessing Rooster wouldn’t look any further for a suspect than he had to. “Did you know her at all?”

  “We were friendly, but not close. I’ve heard that she and her sister lived with her uncle, Buster Jenkins, for a few years when they were teenagers.”

  “I knew Buster was a local, but I never knew Krystal lived with him,” I said. “What happened to her parents?”

  “Mom disappeared early and dad died young, from what I hear. Krystal moved back to town six months ago, and I gather she spent most of her time at that new church out on 71. The one that’s picketing the Christmas Market tonight. Word of the Lord, I think it’s called.”

  “Why on earth would a church be picketing the Christmas Market?”

  “Didn’t you hear? The pastor says it’s too commercial.”

  “Isn’t he the one who’s going to sign a TV contract soon?”

  “Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “It sure is. Particularly since the market’s proceeds are going toward a new roof on the town hall—and to fix up Bessie Mae’s house.” The whole town looked after Bessie Mae, who was, as Bubba Allen once put it, a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but a lovely person nevertheless. She’d spent her life in a little house by the old train station—until recently, when she broke her hip. The hope was that the market would make enough to retrofit her little house to be wheelchair friendly.

  “I know,” he said. “You’re preaching to the choir.” He sighed and shoved his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt, and I noticed his collar was singed. “Well, we can’t do anything to help Krystal, but I hope the puppy’s okay.”

  “I hope so, too,” I said, hugging myself as a gust of wind swept over us, carrying the acrid scent of smoke with it. “I told Tobias I’d help him out as much as I could.”

  “Keep me posted on how she’s doing,” he told me. “And let me know if you have trouble with the goats.”

  “Will do,” I said, taking a last glance at the house before retreating.

  I was still feeling shaken up about Krystal, but the Buttercup Christmas Market was in full swing when I arrived at seven that night. The Christmas tree in the town square sparkled with white lights, the smell of spices and candied nuts was in the air, and the Brethren choir was singing a rousing rendition of “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing.” I grabbed a box of mistletoe from the back of my truck and headed into the bustling square, which was filled with shoppers from Houston and Austin, their chattering adding to the market’s festive feeling.

  The only blight on an otherwise perfect scene was a small but loud group of people with handmade signs who had taken up a position in front of the Buttercup Bank and were chanting, “Put Christ back in Christmas,” and, “More praying, less shopping.” Pastor Matheson and mayoral wannabe Ben O’Neill were at the center of the throng. Most of the picketers, I noticed, were wearing “Ben for Buttercup” buttons. Ben, a hobby rancher who had moved from Houston not long ago, had his eye on longtime mayor Rose Niederberger’s seat. I wasn’t quite sure what he wanted out of it—maybe he was bored in his retirement—but something about it made me nervous. I had the feeling he didn’t have Buttercup’s best interests at heart.

  Rooster was on the scene, at least; he was decked out in his polyester uniform and stood about ten feet away from the picketers, eating a sausage sandwich. It wasn’t exactly the kind of imposing police presence I had seen in Houston, but it was something. Fortunately, the sound of the Brethren choir issuing from the speakers outside the courthouse drowned out most of the noise, but I was chagrined to see Molly’s daughter Brittany in the crowd of picketers, clinging to the arm of her boyfriend. As I walked through the throng, I waved to Molly; she was wheeling Bessie Mae around the market with a grim look on her face. Had Rooster talked to her already?

  I said hello to Bessie Mae, who was fingering a pair of hand-knitted socks, then looked up at Molly.

  “I heard you found Krystal Jenkins,” she said.

  “I did,” I said, and she grimaced.

  “It’s such a tragedy, and right before Christmas. I just keep thinking of her poor mother . . .” She glanced over at the picketers, and her face hardened.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “That,” she said, stabbing her index finger toward Brittany and her boyfriend, Bryce Matheson.

  I grimaced. “Yeah, I saw.”

  “I wish she’d never met him,” she said, her normally cheerful voice bitter. Brittany and Krystal had met working together at the Blue Onion; Krystal had brought her to Word of the Lord one Sunday, and she and the pastor’s son had been inseparable ever since.

  “And now there’s poor Krystal. Rooster already came by to talk to me. Apparently he heard the dustup we had the other day, and thinks I might have done her in. Utter nonsense, of course.”

  She didn’t look concerned, but I wasn’t comforted by this news.

  “Krystal and I had our differences,” she continued, “but it’s really a tragedy. She was so young! Brittany was beside herself when I told her.”

  “She seems to have recovered,” I said, glancing at Molly’s daughter.

  Molly frowned as we strolled through the market together. “I know. I can’t believe she’s picketing the market. She’s been coming to this market since she was a baby!” Molly said as Bessie Mae admired a bright-green knit cap at one of the booths. “And Flora Kocurek, too.”

  Toward the back of the group, Flo
ra was standing next to a slightly hunched man in his forties: Dougie Metzger from the gas station. I was surprised to see them; from what I remembered, Flora had been a lifelong member of Brethren Church. “When did Flora switch churches?” I asked.

  “When Dougie Metzger moved over from the Lutheran church,” she replied. “Her mother would be rolling over in her grave to think of her dating another German. Not that they’re dating; from what I hear, he’s interested in a younger woman.” Nettie Kocurek had forbidden her daughter to marry her fiancé the year before because he was of German descent. It turned out he hadn’t been marriage material after all, but it hadn’t seemed to keep Flora from falling for another German. Even though Dougie, with his somewhat vacant eyes, wasn’t exactly GQ material.

  “I guess Brittany isn’t the only one to be suckered in by a crush,” Molly said.

  “I’m sure what Brittany’s going through is just a phase,” I said. Brittany was a straight-A senior with a bright future ahead of her; she’d wanted to be a vet since she was old enough to talk. “She’s a smart girl.”

  “I wish Krystal—and the Mathesons—had never moved to town,” Molly said with feeling. “Ever since Halloween, that church—and Bryce—is all she ever talks about.”

  “He’s the pastor’s son, isn’t he?” I asked.

  She nodded, and her hands tightened on the handle of the wheelchair; I could see her knuckles whiten. “This isn’t how I raised her!”

  “Can’t you talk to her about it?” I asked.

  She looked at me with an expression of helplessness. “She’s threatened to leave home and move in with him.”

  “I thought the Word of the Lord Church frowned upon that.”

  “You’d think, wouldn’t you?” She sighed. “Alfie and I are hoping if we just ride it out, she’ll forget about him when she goes to college.”

  “That’s still several months away,” I mused.

  “I know,” she said, looking pained. “And she’s got to graduate from high school to be able to go to college.”

  I glanced over at the group of picketers again. Brittany was in the front row, pink cheeked and beautiful, clutching the hand of a tall, slim boy with a shock of blond hair.