Fatal Frost (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 2)

by Karen MacInerney

  “What’s up with your truck?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid to ask,” I said. “It sounds too expensive.”

  “I’d get it checked out before you get stranded,” she warned. “I heard about Molly Kramer, by the way,” she added, grimacing. “Bad news.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Unfortunately, I’ve got more bad news,” she said, handing me a stack of mail.

  “Bills?” I said.

  “Always,” she said. “But it looks like you got one of those poison-pen letters.”

  My stomach sank as I looked down at the handwritten letter on top of the stack of seed catalogs and bills. “How did you know that’s what it is?”

  “I’ve delivered about ten of them,” she said.

  “Any idea where they’re coming from?”

  She shook her head. “They all get sent from the box at the main post office,” she said. “I haven’t gotten one yet, but we’ll see. Whoever it is seems to be targeting every woman in town.”

  “Only women?” I asked.

  “So far,” Alma said. “I only found out what they were when Quinn mentioned it to me.”

  I looked down at the letter as if it were a dead mouse. “Wonder what’s in it?” I asked, feeling a bit of foreboding.

  “Nothing good, that’s for sure,” she said, and glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to push on, but I hope your day improves.”

  “Thanks,” I told her, and turned into the driveway before ripping open the letter.

  It was every bit as nasty as Alma had suggested.

  To the new harlot in town . . .

  You are living in sin . . . and living a lie. Your “boyfriend” is just using you . . . he is still in love with his wife. You aren’t welcome in this town. Take your immoral big-city ways and go back to Houston where you belong. He’s been sleeping with his ex-wife on the side, anyway. You are a scourge on Buttercup.

  I put the letter down; the anger and hatred bled through not just in the words, but in the slashing letters and heavy pen strokes. No wonder Quinn had been so upset. As I shoved the letter back in the envelope, I got a whiff of lavender . . . I might have been imagining things, but it comforted me all the same.

  I jammed the letter into the glove compartment—I didn’t want it in the house—and carried the rest of the mail inside to where my mother was busy putting up dishes. She wore jeans and a gorgeous red wool sweater with a snowflake pattern. Christmas carols played on the radio I kept on the shelf above the microwave, and Chuck came over and wagged; I noticed when I reached down to pet him that he smelled suspiciously like bacon.

  “Hey, Mom,” I said. “You look festive; I love the sweater.”

  She smiled. “Thanks. I didn’t know if I’d get to wear it, but it’s pretty chilly this year.”

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “Out checking your fence,” she said, then gave me a compassionate smile. “He told me it’s been pretty awful for you . . . I’m so sorry about everything that’s going on with your friend.”

  “It hasn’t been the best,” I agreed. I decided not to mention the letter I’d just gotten.

  She poured herself a mug of coffee and offered me one; I took her up on it. We adjourned to the kitchen table; I put Molly’s list of bread recipients on the table and wrapped my hands around my mug to warm them. The heat was another thing that was going out in the truck. “How’s your head?” she asked.

  “Better,” I said. “No headaches, no focus issues, no more absentminded than normal, which isn’t saying much, but it probably means I don’t have a concussion.”

  “That’s good, at least.”

  “I guess.”

  Again, I got that whiff of lavender. My mother seemed to smell it, too; she sat up a little bit straighter and looked around. “Did you smell lavender?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Happens sometimes,” I told her. As I spoke, there was a sudden breeze, and the list I’d put on the table wafted to the floor.

  “You should get that door weatherized,” my mother said as I bent to pick up the paper. Was Grandma Vogel sending me a message? I shivered.

  “It’s almost like Grandma’s here sometimes,” I said as I looked at the paper in my hand.

  “It’d be nice to think so, wouldn’t it?” my mother said dismissively. She never was one for superstition. “By the way, you got a call from Margaret Marburger. Unfortunate name, isn’t it?”

  “Hard to forget,” I said.

  “Anyway, she called to invite us to a cookie exchange,” she said.

  “Us?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m in the mood to make Grandma Vogel’s Lebkuchen, but I don’t have the recipe.”

  “That’s one of my favorites, too! I was planning to make some this week, actually,” I said, opening the pie safe and retrieving my grandmother’s cookbook from the bottom shelf.

  “I haven’t seen that in years,” my mother said in a soft voice. “Where did you get that?”

  “It was here when I got here,” I said. “Sometimes it just shows up on the kitchen table.”

  “Weird,” she said, flipping through it. “Ah. Here it is. Do we have everything?”

  “I think so.” I’d picked up the ingredients last time I was in Austin; the recipe was one of my favorites. “I was going to make some fudge balls, too. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll join you.” I wanted to look through Molly’s list of friendship bread recipients again before I did anything else. I loved my mother, but my friend was in trouble.

  As my mother began assembling ingredients for the Lebkuchen, I reviewed the list of names, wondering if the murderer’s name was on the list.

  Other than Dougie, and possibly the Mathesons, there were no other obvious suspects. Had Buster somehow gotten his hands on some friendship bread? Buttercup was a friendly town; it was always possible that someone had been feeling charitable and passed it on.

  I set the list down on the table and walked over to join my mother, my thoughts still on Krystal’s murder—and Brittany’s disappearance.

  “Why don’t you heat the honey and molasses, and I’ll get going on the lemons?” I asked my mother, who had assembled all of the ingredients on the tile counter. I felt guilty for taking time away from helping Molly, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. Besides, how often was my mother in town?

  “It’s going to smell great in here,” she said. “You know, from a practical standpoint, I still wish you were in Houston, but I have to admit I’m enjoying being here. Farm life is not my cup of tea, but I have fond memories of this kitchen.”

  “I was always jealous of the way you grew up, to be honest,” I said. “Not that we didn’t have good times in Houston, but it always seemed magical out here.”

  “That’s because you weren’t mucking out the chicken coop on Saturdays and getting up at the crack of dawn to milk cows and weed the garden,” my mother said with a grin. “I spent half my childhood knee deep in animal manure. I didn’t want you to have the same experience.”

  “The funny thing is, that’s what I crave,” I said as I reached for the lemon zester.

  “Animal manure?”

  I laughed. “You know what I mean. But you’re worried I’m going to end up a bag lady, aren’t you?” I asked. My tone was light, but the truth was, the thought had occurred to me more than once. In fact, if I had to replace the truck, I wasn’t sure how I was going to manage.

  “I do worry about your financial security,” she admitted. “And if you’re thinking of getting married . . . well, the pickings can be slim in a small town.”

  “I’m seeing someone, actually.”

  “I heard. The vet, right?”

  “How did you know?”

  “It’s Buttercup, Buttercup,” she teased. “I also hear his ex-wife is in town, looking for property.”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling deflated. “And to be honest, Tobias and I haven’t seen much of each other lately. It is the holidays, and he’s covering a se
cond vet practice . . .”

  “Why don’t you invite him over to dinner?”

  “You don’t think it would be too much pressure—the meeting-the-parents thing?”

  “We’ll stay out of your hair,” she said. “You can always suggest the two of you have dinner at Rosita’s. The tamales are to die for, and they’re only around through Christmas.”

  “That’s a great idea,” I said. I put down the bowl and reached for the phone. “I’m going to call now.”

  “Good for you,” she said as I picked up the phone and dialed the vet hospital.

  Tobias’s assistant, Jon, answered the phone.

  “Hi, Jon,” I said, feeling butterflies in my stomach. “It’s Lucy. Is Dr. Brandt around?”

  “He’s in surgery right now. Can I take a message?”

  “Could you tell him I called?” I asked.

  “Actually, he just finished,” he said. “Hold on a moment.” Without waiting for me to respond, he put me on hold, and I stood in my kitchen listening to the tinny sound of “Jingle Bell Rock.”

  It seemed like forever before there was a click, followed by Tobias’s deep voice. “This is Dr. Brandt.”

  “Tobias? It’s Lucy.”

  “Hey, Lucy,” he said, sounding tired. “Calling about the puppy?”

  “How is she?” I asked.

  “She’s doing great,” he said. “Full of beans. If Quinn adopts her, she’s going to have her hands full.”

  “I’m glad to hear it; I’ll let her know,” I said. “Actually, though, I was calling to see if you wanted to join me for dinner at Rosita’s tonight.”

  “That sounds great. It’s been busy, but it looks like I’m free. Will six work?”

  “Works for me,” I said. I’d ask Quinn to cover for me at the Christmas Market.

  “Unless an emergency comes up, let’s plan on it. Normally I’d pick a lady up, but is it okay if we meet there? My last appointment is on that side of town.”

  “Works for me,” I said.

  “I’ll see you at six, then.” There were voices in the background. “See you soon!”

  My mother nodded approvingly. “Now that that’s taken care of, let’s get these cookies in the oven and start on the fudge balls.”

  “Aye, aye,” I said, reaching for the nearest pan and trying to banish the butterflies from my stomach. I thought I’d feel better after setting up a date with Tobias, but it seemed to be just the opposite.

  It was a surprisingly conflict-free few hours in the kitchen with my mother—the brown sugar pecan fudge balls were another childhood favorite of mine—but guilt nagged at me. My friend was missing a daughter and on the hook for murder, and I wasn’t doing anything about it. I had called Alfie to see if he needed help with the kids, but he hadn’t picked up the phone. Quinn hadn’t answered, either, and as I stared at the list of names Molly had given me, I felt despair creeping in. Everything seemed like a dead end.

  Buster hadn’t been particularly helpful, and as far as I knew, he had no way of getting his hands on Molly’s friendship bread starter. I suspected the pastor, but all I knew for sure about Krystal’s ex was that he was probably married. Buster had implied that O’Neill might be the source of Krystal’s funds, but the only information I had on her supposed windfall was that she put a cashier’s check in the bank not long before she died. I knew the poison-pen letter writer was a Sunday school teacher at the Word of the Lord Church, but I couldn’t see how that was linked to Krystal’s death—or Brittany’s disappearance. I kept thinking about Ben O’Neill. Was it possible that he was the mystery boyfriend—and paid Krystal off to keep her quiet after he broke up with her? O’Neill wasn’t on Molly’s friendship bread list, but it was the only thing I could think to follow up on.

  “What’s on your mind?” my mother asked as she finished rinsing the last bowl. My dad had come in from fixing the fence and was in the shower, and Chuck was sleeping on the rug in front of the wood stove.

  “My friend Molly,” I said. “I only have a few potential leads, and they’re flimsy at best; I feel like I’m not helping at all.”

  “Then all you can do is follow the leads,” she said. “It may come to nothing, but you might turn up something good. You never know!”

  I took some time getting ready that evening; I didn’t want to look like I’d tried too hard, but I didn’t want to seem unkempt, either. Apparently what I picked out—a tapered button-down blouse with a gold necklace, jeans, and cowgirl boots—wasn’t quite what my mother had in mind.

  “Don’t you have a dress?” she asked.

  “It’s cold,” I said, shrugging on a jacket. “Besides, Tobias is used to seeing me like this.”

  “Think about Mindy,” she reminded me. “I’ll bet she’s loaded with dresses.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk, Mom,” I said. I resisted the urge to go and change—I’d be late—and pulled my jacket tight as I headed out to the truck, praying it wouldn’t fall apart on the way to the restaurant.

  Fortunately the truck and I made it to Rosita’s, even if we were a few minutes late. But when I pulled into the parking lot, there was no sign of Tobias’s truck. Had he forgotten? I wondered as I parked near the front entrance. Despite the appealing scent of cooking fajitas wafting from the restaurant, my appetite had vanished.

  “Table for one?” Tammy, the curvy young server, asked as I pushed through the door into the restaurant, which was filled with the scent of tortilla chips and sizzling meat. I recognized the server as a friend of Brittany’s.

  “Two, actually,” I said.

  “Ooh. Got a date?”

  “Yes, actually,” I said, flushing. She grabbed two laminated menus, and as she led me to a booth next to a window, I asked if she’d heard anything about Brittany.

  “Not since she ran off with that boy from the big new church,” she said.

  “Her family’s worried sick.”

  Tammy seated me, then lingered, still holding the menus. “I also heard Mrs. Kramer went to jail for killing that waitress who worked for Quinn. Why do you think she did it?”

  My stomach churned. “Molly Kramer hasn’t done anything to anyone,” I said. “But she’s worried sick about Brittany. Has anyone at school heard from her?”

  “Not that I know of,” she said. “It’s scary, really. You don’t think Mrs. Kramer did in her daughter, do you?”

  “Of course not!” I said, shocked. “Are people suggesting that?”

  She shrugged, which meant the answer was yes.

  “Is there any gossip about where they might have gone?”

  “Not really,” she said. Just then, a server put a basket of chips and a bowl of salsa on the table, and she put her hostess smile back on. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “A margarita,” I said. With everything that had been going on—not to mention my impending date with Tobias, who was late and still hadn’t called—I needed one.

  Maybe more than one.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, and trotted back to the kitchen, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the basket of chips.

  Despite my fluttery stomach, I’d managed to make my way through half a margarita and two baskets of chips before I saw Tobias pulling into the parking lot. I glanced up at the clock by the door; he was twenty minutes late.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said as he hurried to the table. “It was a more complicated case than I expected.” He gave me a peck on the cheek and slid into the seat across from me. He wore blue jeans and a button-down shirt with a worn leather jacket, and looked good enough to eat, but I still felt wary. I took another sip of my margarita. “How’s the investigation going?” he asked.

  “Not too well, unfortunately,” I said, I reaching for a chip. “How are things with you?” I asked, still feeling hurt that he was late and resisting the urge to grill him about Mindy. “You’ve been slammed lately, haven’t you?”

  “It has been crazy,” he agreed, giving me a tired smile that made me w
ant to wrap my arms around him and kiss him. “I’m sorry I’ve been so hard to pin down the last week or two. I’ve missed you. Are you doing okay?”

  “I’ve missed you, too,” I told him. “I guess I’m okay.”

  “Any word on Brittany?”

  I was about to answer when Tammy arrived at the table. She gave Tobias a big smile. “Can I get you something to drink, Dr. Brandt? A strawberry margarita like you had the other night?”

  “Actually, I think I want a Shiner,” he said.

  “Got it,” she said, and sashayed away.

  I looked up at Tobias. “The other night?” I asked, unable to resist.

  “Mindy and I had dinner,” he said. “She wanted to talk over some properties she was looking at.”

  “Oh,” I said, looking down at my drink.

  “Lucy,” he said, reaching for my hand. I looked up into his blue eyes, feeling uncomfortable, and wishing he looked a little less handsome. “There’s a reason she’s my ex. Things between us are over; they have been for years.”

  “Are you sure? Even though she’s buying a place in Buttercup?”

  “Positive,” he said, giving my hand a squeeze.

  “Where’s she staying, anyway?” I asked, feeling a little bit better. “The hotel on the square?”

  He gave me a rueful smile. “My guest bedroom, actually. The hotel was booked up.”

  Something inside me curdled. “Ah,” I said, looking down at my margarita. Why hadn’t he told me this before? What else was he keeping from me?

  “I know I should have told you earlier, Lucy, but really, there’s nothing more to it than friendship.”

  “Right,” I said, forcing a smile as I poked at my drink with a straw and stared unseeing at the menu. “So, are you going to get the tamales?”

  “Of course,” he said. “But I don’t really care about tamales right now.” He reached out and lifted my chin. “Lucy. Please believe me; there’s nothing between Mindy and me. I swear it.”

  I took a deep breath. “Okay,” I told him, but I still didn’t feel any better.

  “Have you two decided?” Tammy said, appearing at the table with a pad in her hand.