Fatal Frost (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 2)

by Karen MacInerney

  “Molly Kramer, isn’t it?”

  I looked up to see Pastor Matheson, dressed in khakis and a button-down shirt, looking remarkably fresh for six forty-five in the morning. His wife trailed behind him, head slightly bowed.

  “Your son ran away with my daughter,” Molly announced without preamble. “I need your help finding them.” She shoved the note at him.

  He scanned it, then looked up at her. “You found the note this morning?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Does he have a cell phone you can track him on? We need to find them.”

  “Our children aren’t allowed to have phones or computers,” Phoebe said primly from behind her husband.

  “Well, evidently your son has one anyway. My daughter’s done nothing but text him for a month,” Molly shot back.

  If this was a surprise to the pastor, he didn’t show it. “I’m sure they’ll be back by dinner,” he said, handing the note back to Molly.

  “You’re not worried?” Molly said. “They’ve eloped!”

  “At least they’re not intending to engage in sin,” the pastor said. “And your daughter has been a very faithful member of our flock. I’m sure she’ll make an excellent wife and mother.”

  “She’ll make an excellent veterinarian,” Molly spat. “She is way too young for marriage and motherhood. She’s seventeen years old!”

  I put my hand on her arm. “She can’t get married until eighteen without your consent, Molly.”

  “Not in Texas, she can’t,” my friend said, twisting the hem of her jacket anxiously. “But I’ll bet that’s not the case in Arkansas or Oklahoma.”

  “Does he have a car?” I asked.

  “No,” Pastor Matheson said.

  “Are both of your cars here?”

  “I’m sure they are,” Pastor Matheson said. “Honey, go look in the driveway, will you?”

  “Of course,” she said with a demure smile, and disappeared down a hallway.

  “Where do you think they might go?” I asked the pastor as he pulled up a chair at the head of the table. “If they don’t have a car, they can’t have gone far.”

  Unfortunately that did not seem to be the case. “He took your Range Rover, honey,” she said.

  He sighed. “Young love. So impetuous.”

  “Impetuous? Your son kidnapped my daughter!”

  “It looks like she went pretty willingly, to me,” he said, glancing down at the note in Molly’s hand. He turned to his wife. “How about some coffee, Phoebe?”

  “Of course, Pastor,” she said, and scurried to the coffeemaker. Was this the kind of marriage their son expected to have? I couldn’t imagine bright, driven Brittany turning herself into a clone of Phoebe Matheson.

  “So,” the pastor said, leaning back in his chair. Behind him, his wife was scooping coffee into a filter, a placid smile on her face. I took a close look at her hands; they were shaking. Maybe she wasn’t quite as unruffled as she seemed, I thought. “They’ve gone off to get married. At least they’re both good Christians. They’re welcome to live here when they get back,” he told us. “We’ve got plenty of room, and I’m sure we can find Brittany some work in the church until she starts having babies.”

  Molly looked like he’d smacked her across the face. “You’re kidding me, right? They are way too young to get married.”

  “We got married at seventeen, right, honey bunny?” he said, looking over his shoulder at Phoebe. “And everything worked out great.”

  She nodded, but I caught a flash of something like anger before her face assumed its bland expression again.

  “Look,” Molly said. “You may be okay with this, but I am not. As far as I’m concerned, your son has kidnapped my daughter.”

  “But she consented,” the pastor repeated. “It’s not a crime.”

  Molly looked like she was resisting the urge to strangle the man. “Let me put it to you plainly. You can either help me find them—pronto—or I’m going to the police.”

  “The police?” Phoebe put down the mug she was holding. “There’s no need to involve the police.”

  “I’m sure we can figure this out on our own,” the pastor said in a soothing voice. “Now, Mrs. Kramer . . . can I call you Molly?”

  “Ms. Kramer will be fine, unless you want me calling you by your Christian name as well,” my friend said in an acid voice.

  He dropped the name thing. “Did your daughter say anything in the last few days about leaving?”

  “Not a word,” Molly said. “Did Bryce?”

  “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “He always did have an impetuous streak. But he’s a good boy. I’m sure your daughter is in good hands.”

  Molly didn’t look convinced. “Where would he go?” she asked. “Does he have a favorite place?”

  He opened his hands. “He always enjoys our trips to Port Aransas,” he said. “I suppose it would make a nice place for a honeymoon, even if it is a bit cold for the beach this time of year.”

  “At least it’s in Texas,” I said to Molly. “They can’t get married there.”

  “As long as they’re not living in sin!” Phoebe said as she brought a tray of coffee mugs to the table. She turned to us. “Cream or sugar?”

  “Uh, yes, please,” I said, still processing her last comment. What was wrong with these people? They seemed totally unconcerned that two teenagers had run off to elope.

  Molly ignored the coffee offer; all she cared about was getting her daughter back. “Where did you used to go in Port Aransas?”

  “We stayed in a condo down there. I doubt he’d be able to afford it, though.”

  “Does he have a credit card we can track?” Molly asked.

  “We’re a cash-only family, I’m afraid,” the pastor said.

  The better to embezzle church funds with? I found myself wondering. The money to afford this place must be coming from somewhere. Family money?

  “Does he have cash?” Molly pressed.

  “He has a savings account,” he said. “And we always keep some cash on hand.”

  “No cell phone, no credit card . . .” Molly sighed. “No way to track them.”

  “Does Brittany have a card?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “And she turned the tracking function off on her phone.”

  “She’ll come back,” I said. “I’m sure of it.”

  “I hope so,” Molly said, looking defeated. She looked up at the pastor. “You really have no idea where he might be?”

  The pastor opened his hands and shrugged. “I promise, I’m as concerned as you are.”

  “Forgive me if I’m not convinced.” Molly fished in her purse and pulled out a pen and an old receipt. She jotted her name and number down and slid it across the table to the pastor. “Call me if you hear anything—anything at all. I’m going to go talk to the police.”

  Phoebe drew in her breath. She looked pale.

  “Do you really think that’s necessary?” Pastor Matheson asked. “I’m sure they’re just out on a lark.”

  “Yes, I think it’s necessary,” Molly said, pushing back her chair and standing up. “If you hear anything—anything at all—call me.”

  “Of course,” the pastor said. “But don’t you think we should . . . wait a little bit? They could be back any moment.”

  “No, I don’t,” Molly said, snatching the letter back from the table. “I’m sure we’ll be in touch,” she said, and marched to the door with me right behind her.

  She didn’t burst into tears until we’d pulled out of the driveway.

  Rooster wasn’t at the sheriff’s office yet when we arrived. In fact, no one was at the sheriff’s office yet. “What kind of police force is this?” Molly asked, wiping her eyes. “I thought they were supposed to be on duty twenty-four seven?”

  “I’m sure the phone is being forwarded,” I said. “Why don’t you call?”

  She pulled out her cell phone and looked up the number for the sheriff’s office, then dialed. It rang several
times, and then I heard Rooster’s faint, sleepy voice answering the phone.

  “Rooster, is that you? It’s Molly Kramer. I need to file a missing person report. My daughter has disappeared.”

  I heard his voice for a bit, then her answer.

  “No, it hasn’t been seventy-two hours. But she’s a minor. Pastor Matheson’s son has kidnapped her.”

  He said something indistinguishable.

  “I have a note that says they’ve run off to elope,” she said, clutching the paper in her lap.

  He said something else.

  “Yes, she’s missing! Just because she went willingly doesn’t mean this isn’t a crisis. Brittany’s my seventeen-year-old daughter!”

  More noise from Rooster.

  “I’m staying at the station until you get here, Rooster Kocurek. And if you don’t help me find my daughter, I’m going to find out who your boss is and I’m going to keep calling until somebody does something.”

  Rooster sounded a little more agitated now, but Molly didn’t bother listening; she hung up on him and turned to me.

  “Think I should call the FBI?” she asked.

  “Let’s deal with the locals first,” I said. “Tell you what. Why don’t we go get a coffee with Quinn at the Blue Onion while we wait? The office should be open by eight.”

  “I should go home,” she said.

  “Ethan’s got things under control,” I told her. “Besides, we’d have to turn around and come back to town as soon as you got there. Let’s just go talk with Quinn. Maybe she’ll have some ideas.”

  “You think?”

  “I do,” I said, and without waiting for her to respond, I started heading toward the Blue Onion.

  Quinn was already in the kitchen, up to her elbows in dough, when I knocked on the back door.

  “Come in!” she yelled, and we let ourselves in through the glass-paned door. Bing Crosby was crooning in the kitchen, which smelled like cinnamon and yeast.

  “Brittany ran off with Bryce Matheson,” Molly blurted before I closed the door behind us.

  Quinn paled. “Oh, no. How do you know?”

  “She left a note,” Molly said, and told Quinn about our trip to the pastor’s house—and Rooster’s indifferent response.

  “What a jerk,” Quinn said. “Did she say anything about what she was planning to do, or where she was going?”

  “They’ve eloped,” Molly said, and burst into tears.

  “Oh, Molly . . .” Quinn washed her hands, then came and gave Molly a big hug.

  “We thought we’d come keep you company and have a cup of coffee until the sheriff’s office opens,” I said.

  “You know you’re welcome anytime,” Quinn said as she stroked Molly’s hair. “And I’m sure she’s going to be fine,” she told Molly. “She may be infatuated, but she still has a good head on her shoulders.”

  “I used to think so,” Molly said, swiping at her eyes. “But now . . . I just wish she’d never met Krystal, or gone to that stupid church.”

  “There’s got to be some way to track her down,” Molly said. “Even though she’s got the tracking function off, maybe there’s some way the police can locate her with her cell phone.”

  “It’s worth asking.”

  “But she hasn’t read any of my texts,” Molly said. “If she turned the phone off, they might not be able to do it.”

  “She’s a teenager,” Quinn reminded her. “She’ll turn it on eventually.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Molly said as I handed her a cup of coffee and exchanged glances with Quinn. I hoped she was right, too, and that Brittany hadn’t lost all her common sense. But people in love make bad choices . . . and both Quinn and I knew from experience.

  Rooster finally turned up at nine o’clock, looking like he’d spent too much time downing margaritas at Rosita’s the night before.

  “So, your daughter ran off with the preacher’s son?” he asked as he unlocked the front door of the station. “Doesn’t sound like a missing person to me.”

  “She’s under eighteen,” Molly said. We’d spent some time researching things at the Blue Onion. “We need to file a missing person report immediately and open an investigation.”

  He grunted and opened the door. He didn’t hold it for us, which was no surprise.

  “Where’s Opal?” I asked.

  “Called in sick,” he said. “Cedar fever, she said . . . I’m guessing it’s because her grandbaby’s in town. Anyway, speaking of investigations, I’m glad you’re here, Miz Kramer.”

  “Why?”

  “Recognize this?” he asked, retrieving a plastic bag from his desk. Inside was a half-burned index card with a friendship bread recipe.

  “Of course,” she said. “That’s one of my recipe cards; I gave a ton out for Christmas. Where did you get it?”

  “Krystal Jenkins’s house,” he said, eyeing her with suspicion.

  “But I never gave her a recipe card,” she said.

  “No? Then where’d she get it?”

  “I don’t know,” Molly said. “What does this have to do with Brittany?”

  “I figure she might be the reason you decided to do in Krystal Jenkins.”

  Molly blanched. “That’s crazy,” she said.

  “There was a half-eaten loaf of poppy seed bread in what was left of the refrigerator. Only it didn’t have poppy seeds in it.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “It had some of those ground-up Jimsonweed seeds. Miz Jenkins was poisoned,” he said.

  “Poisoned?” Molly swallowed. “Wait. You think I poisoned Krystal Jenkins?”

  Rooster fixed Molly with beady eyes. “I’ll file a missing person report for your daughter,” he said. “But in the meantime, I think you’re going to be staying here for a while.”

  “What?”

  “You’re under arrest for the murder of Krystal Jenkins.”

  It was almost noon by the time I walked through the door of the Blue Onion, still feeling like I’d been punched in the stomach. After Rooster arrested Molly, I’d called Alfie on his cell and headed back to the farm to do chores, hoping it would clear my head. It hadn’t worked.

  “Any word on Brittany?” Quinn asked.

  “No,” I said. “But Rooster arrested Molly.”

  She dropped the spoon she was holding. “No.”

  “Apparently the friendship bread was poisoned after all,” I told her. I hung my coat up on a hook and inhaled the sweet smell of yeast and baked goods. This morning, it was little comfort.

  “I can’t believe it,” my friend breathed, looking pale. “Why would Molly kill poor Krystal? Rooster is out of his mind.”

  “I know that and you know that, but I don’t think it’ll hold up in court,” I said. “I plan to go visit that church. My parents dropped in for a surprise visit, but I’m afraid I’m not going to have much time to spend with them.”

  “Ouch. How are things with your mom?”

  “Not too bad so far . . . but I’m more worried about the Kramers. Somebody at the church has got to know something—about Krystal, about Brittany . . . anything.”

  “I’ll go with you,” she said. “We’ve got to get Molly out of jail.”

  “We need to talk to Dougie Metzger,” I said, tying on an apron.

  “He’s Opal’s cousin, isn’t he? I think he lives in a cottage behind her house.”

  “So odds are good the sheriff isn’t going to take a close look at him,” I said. I liked Opal, but I knew she’d balk at me asking questions about her cousin. “And I guess we need to go and see Buster; Mary Jane said he might have been treasure hunting. If he found something, that would give him a motive for killing Krystal.” I sighed. Krystal Jenkins was turning out to be quite a cipher. If only Brittany were here, I thought, my heart twisting. Now that her mother was under arrest, there was a good chance she’d tell me what she was holding back yesterday. I prayed that she was okay. “But first we need to get through the lunch rush. What do you need h
elp with?” I asked, trying to push my worries aside.

  “Probably tables, if you don’t mind.” Quinn adjusted the green-and-red bandanna she’d used to corral her red curls, then lifted the lid of a pot on the stove; she’d made her famous baked potato soup. My stomach rumbled as I caught a whiff.

  “Hear anything new?” I asked.

  “I went out to the front this morning a few times to see if I could hear some gossip, but it’s been too busy to spend much time chatting up customers,” she said. “Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

  “I’m on it,” I said. I grabbed an order pad from the basket by the swinging door and was about to head to the front of the cafe when Tori pushed through the door and hustled into the kitchen.

  “Oh, Lucy, thank goodness you’re here,” she said breathlessly, her round cheeks pink. “It’s a mess out there! Everyone wants to know what happened to Krystal.”

  “Anyone have any ideas?” I asked.

  “A faulty heater and the wages of sin are the theories I’ve heard so far,” Tori said.

  At least no one had heard about Molly’s arrest. Although I knew it would be across town by dinnertime. “Wages of sin?” I asked. “What, did Krystal overcharge someone for a chicken salad sandwich?”

  “Sounds biblical, doesn’t it?” She sighed. “That came from one of the church ladies in the corner. Not Brethren or Lutheran. I think they go to that big old warehouse of a church where they do faith healings and stuff.” Tori made a moue of distaste. “Wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve got a snake pit in there,” she said.

  “Is that the table?” I asked, glancing over at the corner she’d indicated. Two women in print dresses sat across from each other, backs ramrod straight, drinking tea.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Mind if I take over?”

  “You’re welcome to it,” she said, handing me a slip of paper. “Why don’t you take the rest of the tables on that side?”

  “My pleasure!” After conferring with her for another moment, I stepped out to the front of the cafe.