My mother stepped back and took a look at me. “What happened to your head?”
“I fell,” I said. No need to tell her I’d been attacked, I decided. It would only make her double down on her campaign to get me to move back to Houston.
“It looks terrible. Have you had it checked?”
“It looks worse than it is. So,” I said, changing the subject, “what made you decide to come down?”
“We missed our girl,” my dad said. He gave me a hug that smelled like Old Spice and wintergreen. He was in slacks and a button-down shirt as usual, and his brown eyes twinkled. “Plus, your mom was homesick for farm life.”
“Ronald,” my mother chided him as I bent down to rub Chuck’s ears.
“Did you hear? Lucy’s got a cow, Linda. You could go visit the old stalls. It’ll be just like old times.”
My mother gave him a playful swat, then looked around the kitchen. “I already did the rounds of the place—I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “It does bring back memories.” She walked over to my grandmother’s pie safe. “You still have this, even,” she said, her hand stroking the tin panel. Although she’d grown up in Buttercup, after twenty years in Washington, DC, my mother had lost almost all trace of her Texas accent. “How’s farm life treating you?”
“It’s been a challenge—there’s a lot to learn—but I love being here,” I told her.
“The place looks terrific,” my dad said. “You must have put a lot of work into it.”
“There’s still a lot to do, I’m afraid,” I told him, thinking of the newly replaced water heater, the gardens around the house, and the fields I still hadn’t reclaimed.
“There always is,” my mother said. “It’s a farm.”
I grinned at her. “True. I’m so glad you’re here. How long are you staying?”
“We were hoping to stay for Christmas,” my dad said. “I hope you don’t mind . . . we just missed you.”
“Mind? I’m thrilled!” I was, too; particularly with things going as they were with Tobias, I hadn’t been sure if I was going to have to spend Christmas alone. “I hope you’ll come with me to the Christmas Market this week. I’ll bet everyone would love to see you.”
“I wonder how much it’s changed?” my mother mused.
“We could head back tonight, if you want; it’s open for another hour or so. Did you eat?” I asked.
“We stopped for dinner in La Grange,” my dad said.
“Good,” I said. “Can I get you guys something to drink while I take care of a few chores? I’ve got to go milk Blossom and check on the goats.”
“When did you get goats?” my mother asked.
“Just this morning,” I said. “We haven’t had time to get acquainted yet, really.”
“Watch out for those,” my mother warned me. “They get through fences like water.”
“So I’ve heard,” I said, heading for the back door.
“I’ll go with you,” my mother volunteered.
“What about your shoes?” I asked, looking at her kitten heels.
“I’ll go change,” she told me. “We put our stuff in my old room; hope you don’t mind. Got a spare pair of boots?”
“Uh . . . by the back door,” I said.
“Be back in a moment,” she said, leaving me in the kitchen with my dad, who was looking amused.
“Maybe she misses it more than she thinks,” he suggested.
“Maybe,” I said. “Has she gotten over the fact that I’ve left my job and moved to the country?” The news had not been received well by my mother, who had always had great aspirations for me.
“She’ll come around,” he said.
I hoped he was right, but I wasn’t optimistic.
“Something got into your broccoli,” my mother mentioned as she followed me to the barn. She’d changed into jeans and a tailored flannel shirt: the fashionable farm girl.
“I’ll check it in the morning,” I told her.
“Are you checking for cabbage looper and cabbage worms, too?”
I looked back at her, surprised. I knew she’d grown up here, when my grandparents owned the place, but she never talked about it; most of her life had been spent distancing herself from her childhood. I had no idea my mother had even heard of a cabbage worm. “Yes,” I said. “Since when do you know about cabbage worms?”
“I know about lots of stuff,” she said, squinting at the fence. “You might want to shore that up. Goats lean against everything and knock it down.”
“I thought you didn’t want me buying the farm,” I said lightly.
“What’s done is done,” she said. “And you can always change your mind. Right?”
“The way the newspaper industry is going, I’m not so sure. Besides, things are really coming together here.”
“Mmm,” she said in a tone that indicated just the opposite. “It’s hard keeping things going by yourself. What if you get sick?”
“I’ve got lots of friends,” I replied. Of course, one of them was likely to be behind bars soon, but I decided not to mention that. “So, want to do some milking, for old time’s sake?” I asked.
My mother shocked me by saying, “Why not?”
I watched in awe as she expertly chivvied Blossom into the milking parlor, swabbed down her teats, and filled a bucket. It took her half the time it took me.
“Have you bred her yet?” she asked.
“She’s due in a few months,” I told her. She’d spent a bit of time with the Kramers’ bull at the end of the summer. I was hoping for a girl calf.
“Are you still calling her a heifer?” she asked as I strained the milk into mason jars—it cooled faster that way.
I sighed. “No, Mom.” I rinsed the strainer and petted Blossom’s nose affectionately.
“You know to stop milking her two months before she’s due,” my mother advised as Blossom stepped out of the milking parlor.
“I’ve been told,” I said, still marveling at the font of information my mother had suddenly become. “Maybe you should have bought the farm instead of me,” I joked.
“Not on your life,” she said. “I worry about you, Lucy. Farming is hard work, and it’s so . . . unreliable. And you’re not married, so you don’t have a second income.”
I was starting to remember why I didn’t visit home more often. “Thanks for reminding me.”
“Do you have a backup plan?”
I hoped this wasn’t going to be the topic of conversation till Christmas. “I’ll be fine, Mom,” I said. “I’m a lot happier here than in Houston.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said darkly.
My dad was in the kitchen when I got back from milking Blossom the next morning. The goats seemed to be settling in, thankfully, and Blossom seemed happy for the company. I just hoped she didn’t encourage them to make a break for it.
“Did you sleep okay?” I asked as I set the milk jars down on the counter.
“Like a baby,” he said. “Your mom’s still down for the count.”
“I’m glad,” I said.
“So, are you going to tell me what happened to your head?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I can always tell when you’re lying,” he said. “Your left eye twitches.”
“It does?”
“Always has. So, what happened?”
I relayed what had happened two nights ago, and he shook his head. “Where was Chuck?”
“I left him inside.”
“Lucy, next time, don’t leave him inside when you go down to check on strange lights in the middle of the night. Or better yet, stay inside and call the cops.”
“But they were digging up my peach trees! Besides, clearly you haven’t met our sheriff,” I said.
“One of the Kocureks, right?”
“Just like always,” I said.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and added a spoonful of sugar. “Your mom’s told me about them.”
“Also, I didn�
�t want to freak Mom out when I got home, but I found a young woman dead yesterday morning. I think she was murdered, and I think the sheriff is going to pin it on a friend of mine.”
“Did you tell him about the assault on your property?”
“No. It’s most likely pointless, but I probably should.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “You think? Why didn’t you just leave the trespasser be and wait until morning to investigate?”
“I was worried about Blossom,” I said. Plus, I wanted to know who it was.
“Lucy, be careful. And next time, call the cops—or someone—okay?”
“I will, Dad,” I told him, and took a big sip of my coffee. Although to be honest, I didn’t know what good calling the cops would do. Rooster wouldn’t even answer the phone.
After we finished a big breakfast, my mother insisted on doing the dishes, so my dad and I walked down to the creek to stake the peach trees, a reluctant Chuck trotting along behind us.
Frost sparkled on the grass, and the morning was crisp and quiet. “I love the silence out here,” my dad said. “Nothing but the leaves rustling.”
“I know,” I said. “I feel such a sense of peace out here.”
“Except for two nights ago,” my dad said as we got closer to the creek. “I haven’t told your mom what happened. I figured I’d leave that up to you. I know she’s already giving you a hard time about moving out here.”
“I’ll tell her,” I said. “I don’t want to keep secrets. She certainly doesn’t keep her opinions secret from me.”
“No, she doesn’t,” he said. “But I’m proud of you.”
I looked over at him. “Really?”
“It takes a lot of guts to give up a job and follow your dream,” he said.
“Thanks,” I told him, feeling a flicker of pride. “I just hope I can make it work.”
“That bad?”
“I had to replace the water heater last month, and now the truck’s making weird noises. I should have more income from the goats in a few months, but money’s pretty tight right now.”
“It’s hard starting a business,” my dad said.
Chuck growled beside us as we got close to the place where I’d been hit. He sniffed the ground intently and trotted ahead. The grass was still flattened from where I’d fallen.
“It looks like an army of moles moved in,” my dad remarked.
“Large moles. With shovels.” I kicked at a pile of dirt. “They really messed things up down here; with the next big rainstorm, all this will just wash into the creek.”
“The holes seem to be clustered near these trees,” my dad said as he plunged a stake into the ground next to one of the fallen peach trees.
“Oaks,” I said.
“And one of them has a mark on it,” he commented, pointing to an “X” carved into the bark. “Not recent, though. It looks like an old tree.”
“Bubba Allen told me that at the end of the civil war, some lieutenant supposedly got attacked by Indians and buried a hoard of Confederate gold by Dewberry Creek,” I said. “Maybe that’s what whoever was down here was looking for. I thought I heard a metal detector.”
“But if they found it here, it would be yours, wouldn’t it?”
“Not if I didn’t know they found it,” I pointed out.
“Looks like they got into your pasture, too,” my dad said, pointing to where the fence came down to the creek; someone had snipped through the barbed wire.
“I didn’t see that,” I said. “I’d better get that fixed before Blossom finds it. Thank goodness she’s in the other pasture right now.”
“Do you have any wire in the barn?” he asked. “I can get that taken care of for you.”
“You sure?” I asked. “I thought you and Mom were going to walk down memory lane.”
“We’ve got all the time in the world,” he told me. “Don’t worry about it.”
Chuck sniffed around a little bit more, still growling, as we staked down the second peach tree. I used my phone to take a picture of a boot print. “Looks like a size eleven, like mine,” my dad said, then followed me as I walked through the rest of the farm. Together, we adjusted the row cover and checked on the sugar snap peas. They had suffered some frost damage but looked like they’d survive. The rows of turnips and radishes were thriving, as were the pale spears of green garlic I had planted around my beds as a natural pest repellent. After harvesting some lettuce, radishes, and a stalk of green garlic for a lunchtime salad, I watered everything, checked to make sure the row cover was holding—another freeze was expected tonight—and cut a few more sprigs of mistletoe to take to the Christmas Market.
“Are the older peach trees still producing?” my dad asked, looking back at the small orchard.
“So far, so good,” I said. “And hopefully the new trees will survive now that we’ve staked them down. I’ll have to send some of last year’s peach jam home with you.”
“That sounds terrific,” he said. “We’re supposed to have dinner with one of your mom’s old high school friends in La Grange tonight. Do you want to come with us?”
“I’m supposed to go to the Kramers’ for dinner, actually,” I told him.
“Well, then, that works out just fine,” he told me.
“And today’s kind of a mess, too. I’ve got to go learn how to make goat milk soap, and then I’m supposed to stop by the Blue Onion and help out this afternoon.”
“No worries,” he told me. “I’ll take care of the fence while you’re gone. We don’t want you to put your life on hold for us; we’re going to be here for a while. Like I said, your mom wants to poke around some of her old haunts, anyway.”
My mother was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee when we got back to the farmhouse. “How is everything?” she asked.
“We were just staking down some uprooted peach trees,” I told her. “Someone was out digging by the creek the other night and pulled up a couple of them.”
“Looking for gold, still, I’ll bet.”
“You know about that?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Everyone knows about the missing gold of the lieutenant who was heading to Mexico.”
“Well, I just heard it yesterday.”
“I can’t believe they’re still looking for it. Some things never change.”
“Speaking of things never changing, I told Lucy we’re going to go out and poke around today,” my dad said. “She’s got a full plate—and a dinner invitation tonight.”
“We’ll catch up tomorrow, then,” she said, patting me on the arm. The smell of my mother’s Halston in my grandmother’s kitchen was strangely disconcerting; I was more used to the lavender scent of my grandmother. My mother looked out the window. “I still can’t believe we’re here. When I left, I never dreamed my daughter would move back someday.”
“Circle of life, eh?” my dad said.
My mother gave him a strained smile and said nothing.
Mary Jane called while I was on the way out the door; I’d decided to visit the jewelry store in La Grange and see what I could find out.
“I hear you’re ready to try out soap making,” she said. “You free this morning?”
“I’ve got a quick errand to run,” I said, “but how about eleven?”
“Works for me,” she said. “You have frozen milk?”
“And a bunch of oils, too,” I said. I’d done my research. “I’m prepared.”
“Good for you,” she said. “See you then!”
I hung up the phone and climbed into the truck, hoping it would make it to La Grange and back. I was dying to know who had bought that necklace. After all, how many sapphire cross necklaces could be out there?
It was a short but noisy drive, and I said a small prayer of thanks that I made it to Jasper’s Jewels intact.
The salesperson behind the counter was a thin woman in a short black dress, with dark hair swept up into a chignon, and something about the dusty red carpet and small glass cases made
the store felt like it was trapped in the past. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, scanning the jewelry in the cases. “I think someone bought a sapphire cross here recently. I was wondering if you could look it up and let me know who that might have been.”
“We have one sapphire cross model,” she said, pointing me to a case near the back, “but our clientele list is private. I’m sure you’ll understand.”
“But someone bought one?”
“Yes,” she said. “But I’m not at liberty to divulge his name.”
At least I knew it was a man. “How old was he?” I asked.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said. “I couldn’t say.”
“It may be part of a murder investigation,” I said.
Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry. Unless you’re here with the police,” she said, casting an eye over my rather unofficial ensemble, “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
I sighed. “Can you at least tell me when was it bought?”
“A few months ago, I believe,” she said.
Without asking, I whipped out my phone and snapped a photo of the cross.
“What are you doing?”
“Just making sure it’s the right one,” I said. “Thanks . . . what was your name again?”
“Eleanor,” she said.
“Eleanor,” I repeated. “If you change your mind, give me a call,” I said, fishing a card out of my back pocket.
“You’re a farmer?” she said, peering at the card.
“I used to be an investigative reporter,” I said, then waved and headed back into the cold morning. Quinn would at least be able to tell me if it was the same one, and then perhaps we could persuade Rooster to get a warrant. Or convince a pig to fly. I wasn’t sure which would be easier.
I was still thinking about the sapphire cross when I pulled up to the Heimers’ farm at eleven o’clock that morning, with frozen goat milk from Peter in a cooler in the back of the truck and some palm and coconut oils on the seat beside me. I felt a little guilty about spending the morning making soap when I could be looking into Krystal’s death—or visiting Buster Jenkins and asking him a few pointed questions—but on the other hand, Mary Jane might know something helpful. Information sometimes came from the unlikeliest places, and Mary Jane had been in Buttercup a long time. I parked next to a sculpture of a cow that had been made out of what seemed to be a barrel, not far from the wooden farmhouse she had painted a rosy peach color.
Fatal Frost (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 2) Page 6