Deadly Row to Hoe

by Cricket McRae

  Barr put his arm around me. “You’re right. She’s not on her best behavior, but it’s not exactly her fault.”

  To my surprise, Meghan rolled her eyes. “True, but it’s not like she’s ever on her best behavior.”

  My friend had had a pretty tough day, too.

  Twenty-four

  98.1°. Again.

  Peering at the thermometer in the light over the bathroom sink, I couldn’t see anything wrong with it. Maybe I hadn’t been the best about keeping track of my temperature, but this was ridiculous. There ought to be at least some kind of blip in my chart.

  But no. 98.1° had been the reading every single time.

  I plugged the sink and ran hot water into it. Plunged the thermometer in. Waited.

  Yep. 98.1°. The stupid thing was broken.

  Into the garbage it went. Disgusted, I applied arnica salve to the bruise beginning to develop on my hip and pulled on a pair of soft, boy-cut shorts and a sexy little tank. Barr was in bed already, working on his laptop and trying to make a dent in departmental paperwork. I’d filled him in on what Faith Snow had told me about Nate and Darla’s past. He’d dutifully jotted notes, but I could tell he didn’t think there was any connection to the present. Frankly, I couldn’t think of one, either.

  Now I was tired as all get out. Still, I was willing to give the whole baby-making thing one more try.

  Because tired or not, it was a lot of fun.

  I swallowed my chasteberry supplement, mindful of the irony of the name since I’d read that it was supposed to promote fertility. I brushed my teeth and combed out my mop of hair, pretending the few white ones creeping in were just really, really blonde. On the way to the bedroom I stopped by the sitting room for a quick look at the calendar.

  And stopped short.

  I was usually as regular as regular could be on the monthly cycle front, but those dates weren’t lying. In the flurry of activity and worry and, well, murder, I’d somehow missed the fact that I was late. Three days late.

  How could that be? Not the being late—that made sense if I was pregnant, of course. But how could I not have cottoned on before? Maybe it had something to do with the mix of emotions racing through my mind at facing the idea of actually being with child. Racing through my mind, my heart, and my solar plexus.

  Which might account for the heartburn.

  I shuffled into the bedroom and crawled into bed, quiet as a mouse. Slid down until the covers reached my chin.

  Distracted, Barr glanced down at me, then did a double-take. “What’s wrong?”

  Should I tell him? Well, why not?

  “I’m late.”

  A grin pulled one side of his mouth up. “I wondered when you’d notice.”

  My eyes widened. “What do you mean? Since when do you keep track?”

  “Since it became important. It’s right there on the calendar.”

  I wiggled into an upright position. “Ruth told me she saw you buying a pregnancy kit in the drugstore.”

  “Did she, now? Ms. Black should pay more attention to her own purchases.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Under the sink in the bathroom. Are you okay? This isn’t exactly the reaction I expected.”

  I groped for the words. “For the first time this whole having-a-baby thing feels awfully … real.”

  “Awfully?” His smile held confusion.

  “No, no. That didn’t come out right. It’s kind of scary, is all. Scary and wonderful and exciting and … can you understand?” I asked, not adding terrifying to the list. What was wrong with me? I was supposed to swoon and giggle at the thought that I might be preggers. And truth be told, I wanted to do those things, too. So many feelings swirling around made it hard to even breathe.

  “Of course,” he said, pulling me toward him.

  But I pushed away and climbed out of bed. “I’ll be right back.”

  He closed his laptop and put it on the bedside stand. “Okay. I’ll be waiting.”

  I shuffled down the hallway, feeling more cold than sexy in my skimpy night gear and ducky slippers. The test sat in the back corner under the sink, right where Barr said it would be. Taking it out, I sank down on the closed toilet lid and read the directions.

  It was the first time I’d taken a pregnancy test in my thirty-eight years. How had I managed that? My hands were actually shaking.

  I opened the box and removed one of the wands. So you usually needed more than one? Was that the deal? It looked simple enough.

  I did the deed.

  And waited.

  I filed my fingernails and applied cuticle cream, then rubbed cocoa butter on my elbows, knees, and heels. Barr sat in the other room. What kind of a wife was I? I should have been in there, waiting for the test results with him, but for some reason I wanted to know first. By the time the medicine cabinet was cleaned and neatly arranged the requisite amount of time had passed.

  Much like I’d examined Darla’s autopsy photograph, I flipped over the test and made myself look.

  Barr sat exactly in the same position he’d been in when I’d gone into the bathroom. Now as I stood in the doorway, the tenderness in his gaze almost undid me.

  I shook my head once.

  He held out his arms. “Come here.”

  He turned the light off, and I put my head on his shoulder. He stroked my hair. “Take it one day at a time, Sophie Mae. We both will.”

  I nodded. “You’re right, of course.”

  Soon his breathing became heavy and deep, and I felt him slip into slumber.

  I tried to sleep, I really did. Disappointment and relief about not being pregnant warred. How was I supposed to feel? How did normal people feel in circumstances like that? Why did I always have to complicate things?

  Counting backwards from one thousand didn’t even dent my insomnia. And every time I tried to imagine myself drowsing on a warm, sandy beach, it reminded me of Faith Snow’s story about the woman who drowned right in front of Nate and Darla. A tragedy that had followed them for the rest of their lives.

  Still, Darla had turned her life around, getting her master’s

  degree and following a passion for birds of prey. And it seemed Nate had found his footing on the Turner farm. I was sure that Faith was right about Daphne being good for him, too. I couldn’t bear the thought that he might not ever come out of his coma, not when his life was finally on track. Not to mention that he was the only one who could confirm who had hit him over the head and killed Darla. Assuming, of course, that it was the same person.

  See? There I went, complicating things again. Stick with the idea of one killer, Sophie Mae. At least until there was evidence to the contrary.

  Was that killer Hallie? She fit the bill so well. Darla’s time of death had been hard to pinpoint, so alibis were hard to come by for anyone associated with the farm—or the CSA. But did I really buy that Hallie was motivated by some kind of insane jealousy? Sure, she seemed unstable, but you’d have to be out-and-out crazy to kill someone you only suspect is an old flame of someone you used to date. And then to try and kill the old flame himself. Still …

  I shook Barr awake.

  “Wha …?”

  “Don’t you think you should put a guard on Nate’s room?”

  He sighed. “Dawson’s been there since early evening. She’s watching Daphne, too, since she refuses to leave the hospital.”

  “Oh. Okay. Good.”

  “Now go to sleep, Sophie Mae,” he grumbled.

  “Right. Goodnight.”

  “Mmmph.”

  Amazing, really, how quickly he could fall back into unconsciousness.

  The other thing that struck me as odd was the way Darla had been buried in the compost. Whether the killer had known she was still alive or not, they still had to do the heavy lifting of shoveling the compost over her. I imagined they would have had to place her body at the edge of the pile and then climb at least partway up it to dislodge enough compost to bury her. That would have been v
ery dirty work.

  As Clarissa had said, Hallie didn’t like to get dirty. Still, Mother Necessity made for some unusual choices.

  Thoughts still swirling, I slid out from under the covers, slipped my ducky slippers back on and dug one of Barr’s old sweatshirts out of the closet. Slipping it over my head, I padded down to the kitchenette. My favorite sleep-aid was a tea made of valerian root. It smelled horrible and tasted like sour dirt, but did the trick. I reached for the jar then saw it was empty. Some herbs were to be avoided during pregnancy—was valerian one of them? And what about my favorite single malt Scotch? Right out the window it would go once I was “with child.”

  Of course, the upside would be the child. And the thought of a little person who was part Barr and part me, was indescribably appealing. What was I so worried about?

  I found some chamomile tea in the main kitchen downstairs, and put on the kettle by the low light over the stove. The house was still and dark, everyone in bed—Kelly, too, I assumed. Meghan might not have had the perfect evening to pop the question, but it was obvious she’d made a decision to bring him into the household day and night. Outside, the wind wuthered around the eaves and whispered through branches. I dodged furniture in the dark living room and, reaching the window, pulled back the curtain. Tree leaves danced against the moon-bright clouds above, but to the west the sky roiled dark and foreboding.

  Back in the kitchen I brewed the tea, and with the soothing scent of chamomile steaming out of the mug, went downstairs to my workroom and turned on the small floor lamp in the corner by the big freezer. My selection of aromatherapy and herbal references inhabited a narrow bookcase there. I sipped my tea and perused the titles, selecting two which I knew included information about specific herbs to avoid during pregnancy.

  Light washed across the ceiling.

  I turned. The source came from the end of the alley. Something made me switch off the lamp and stand there in the dark.

  Watching.

  Headlights crept into view. A car crawled down the alley, bumping on the uneven track so the light bobbed gently across the back fence. Visible bit by bit through the slats, it was nonetheless impossible to make out an outline. The beams were low to the ground—a car rather than a truck or SUV.

  Terror arrowed through me, so surprising it made me gasp. I couldn’t move for a long moment after the car was gone, the big windows in my workroom that I loved so much now causing me to feel exposed and vulnerable.

  I forced myself to take a step.

  And then another.

  It was only a car in the alley. No reason to have such a strong reaction, Sophie Mae. Hormones. Must be PMS hormones.

  Great.

  Shaking it off, I checked all the window and door locks even though I knew Kelly had already done that, and went back up to the main level of the house. All the calming effects of the chamomile tea had vanished.

  A small noise drifted to my ears as I passed the hallway. I stopped, listening hard. Erin’s bedroom was the closest, and I was pretty sure it had come from inside the closed door. It sounded almost like a bird—yet not quite. Only silence greeted my straining ears. After a few minutes, I moved on to the stairs and up to our quarters.

  Still too tense to join Barr in bed, I drifted through the arched doorway into our sitting room. Once a guest bedroom, it now contained a loveseat and recliner, bookshelves and a roll-top desk where we completed our personal correspondence, paid bills, and so on. A small bouquet of pink sweet peas decorated the coffee table, a vague outline in the dark. Their spicy scent filled the small space, and I breathed it in. Opening the wooden blinds, I settled into the comfy recliner by the window and watched the wind push the clouds across the sky. The Krazy Kat clock that Barr had mounted on the wall ticked loudly in the silence.

  Movement on the street outside drew my eye. Someone on the sidewalk across from the house. My blood pressure began to rise, and I half stood, clutching the window sill. Relief winged through me as I recognized the tall figure—and the dog—strolling past. Bette, out walking Alexander. I glanced at the clock, its tail pendulum swinging back and forth. It was almost two-thirty in the morning. Not the most common time to walk your dog, but Bette was an artiste, and sometimes kept odd hours.

  Better than sitting and stewing all night, like I was. Of course, she had Alexander to keep her company. I might be able to steal Brodie away from Erin—and tonight Clarissa—but he did not offer the comfortable safety of a powerful German shepherd. I watched the big dog’s tail arching through the air as he strode confidently beside his owner. She stopped and ran her fingers through the ruff around his neck, and then bent as if to whisper something in his ear before moving on.

  That woman loved her dog.

  And she’d loved her mother. I’d held the notion of her realistic clay masks in the back of my mind ever since we’d talked about them, worrying at the idea of one of Barr like Brodie worried a bone. Her comments had made me think about what it would be like to have a mask of my husband if anything happened to him. Which, of course, made me think of things happening to him.

  I’d always worried about that a bit, especially given his line of work, but my confidence in Barr’s ability to deal with any situation assuaged my concerns. Now we were talking about bringing a new member into the family, and that put a whole new spin on it. And unlike some newlyweds, I knew bad things could happen. After all, I’d already lost one husband.

  Musing, I watched our friend and neighbor walk her dog out of my line of sight, heading for home. Maybe it was time for me to head to bed and get some much needed sleep.

  Outside, a car drove down the street. I wouldn’t have paid much attention, except it was moving so slowly.

  Like the one in the alley.

  Then the headlights went out, and the car came to a standstill in front of our house.

  The hair on the back of my neck flexed to attention, and I leaned forward again, almost pressing my nose against the window glass.

  The moonlight revealed a familiar outline. A Camaro. A red Camaro, in fact.

  Hallie.

  Twenty-five

  I opened my mouth to shout, then snapped it shut. No need to panic the entire household. Barr and I could handle this. Jumping to my feet, I began to turn when another movement outside caught my eye.

  Clarissa, ghostly in a scanty white nightgown, tiptoed barefoot across the yard toward the front gate.

  “Barr! Wake up, Barr!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. Down-stairs Brodie started barking, high yips of alarm that echoed through the house.

  Heart throbbing against my ribs, I opened the window with a jolt. “Clarissa, get back inside.”

  She craned her head to see where the voice was coming from.

  “Right now, get back into the house right now.”

  The driver’s side door of the Camaro opened.

  I flew into the hallway, almost knocking down my husband.

  “What the hell is going on?” he asked, irritation cooling his voice.

  “Hallie’s out front, and Clarissa’s in the yard!”

  “Damn!” And he was down the stairs, me right behind him. The hall light popped on, and Meghan stumbled out of her bedroom, followed by Kelly. Barr wrenched open the door and we barreled outside.

  Clarissa reached the gate and began to push it open. The porch light flicked on, illuminating the scene like a museum tableau. Hallie’s head jerked up. Fear burned in her eyes. She didn’t appear to be drunk anymore, but she was most certainly frightened half out of her wits.

  “How could you?” she yelled at Clarissa, who looked confused and hurt. Barr blew by me.

  “What did I do?” Clarissa asked in a plaintive voice.

  Barr vaulted the short fence. Hallie scrambled into her car and it roared to life. She yelled out the window. “How could you tell them I was coming for you? I thought you were on my side.”

  “I am!” the girl protested as I reached her.

  Barr leaped back as the Camar
o took off, nearly running over his foot. He ran a couple of steps, then whirled and loped back to where Meghan and Kelly stood on the porch, Erin hovering next to them. They parted to let him inside, and Meghan hurried down the steps.

  Hallie decelerated, possibly not wanting to call attention to herself in the quiet streets. I watched the taillights move sedately down the block. This was the third time that woman had pulled something crazy, and the third time she’d gotten away. I swore under my breath.

  Clarissa looked up at me.

  “Sorry,” I said. And promptly swore again.

  “Come on, honey,” Meghan said from behind us. I turned as she held out her hand to Clarissa. Over her shoulder, I spied Erin’s bicycle leaning against the side of the house, under the eaves.

  “Open the gate,” I yelled, running to the bike as fast as my ducky slippers could carry me. I hopped on and pedaled awkwardly across the grass. Erin and Kelly looked on open-mouthed as I passed.

  Meghan got the gate open just in time. Pumping hard, I jumped the curb with a jolt that made my teeth rattle in my skull. I steered the bike down the street in the direction I’d seen the Camaro last, thankful for the slight decline.

  Bette was in her front yard, peering up toward our house as I blasted by. Alexander wagged his tail. She said something, but the rush of the night air drowned out her words.

  There. Red dots in the night. I pedaled harder, legs burning. I forced myself to keep going. Left, right, left, right.

  The lights got bigger.

  And then they turned right. I was still at least two blocks away from her.

  At the next intersection, I veered around the corner and almost ran smack dab into a small pickup stopped in front of a house. Swerving shy of its bumper, I thanked the powers that be Cadyville rolled up the sidewalks early, and they mostly stayed rolled until dawn. For the most part, I wouldn’t have to worry about traffic.

  But neither would Hallie.

  I worked my way diagonally through the streets toward where the Camaro would be if Hallie kept going straight after she turned. I cut down an alley, moving fast, checking between houses, on the watch for moving headlights. At the corner I paused and peeked around a tall backyard fence. Blood throbbed through my veins. My ragged breath sounded loud in my own ears.