Sowed to Death
Page 1
Praise for Peg Cochran’s Cranberry Cove Mysteries
“A fun whodunit with quirky characters and a satisfying mystery. This new series is as sweet and sharp as the heroine’s cranberry salsa.”
—Sofie Kelly, New York Times bestselling author of the Magical Cats Mysteries
“Cozy fans and foodies, rejoice—there’s a place just for you, and it’s called Cranberry Cove.”
—Ellery Adams, New York Times bestselling author of the Books by the Bay Mysteries, the Charmed Pie Shoppe Mysteries, and the Book Retreat Mysteries
“I can’t wait for Monica’s next tasty adventure—and I’m not just saying that because I covet her cranberry relish recipe.”
—Victoria Abbott, national bestselling author of the Book Collector Mysteries
“First-class mystery fun.”
—Suspense Magazine
Berkley Prime Crime Titles by Peg Cochran
Gourmet De-Lite Mysteries
ALLERGIC TO DEATH
STEAMED TO DEATH
ICED TO DEATH
Cranberry Cove Mysteries
BERRIED SECRETS
BERRY THE HATCHET
DEAD AND BERRIED
Farmer’s Daughter Mysteries
NO FARM, NO FOUL
SOWED TO DEATH
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2017 by Peg Cochran
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN 9780698198111
First Edition: July 2017
Cover art: Morgan County Fair © Betsy Ross Koller
Cover design by Emily Osborne
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
Version_1
CONTENTS
Praise for Peg Cochran’s Cranberry Cove Mysteries
Berkley Prime Crime Titles by Peg Cochran
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Recipes
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to Anne Perkins of Headacre Farm in Owls Head, Maine, for answering my questions.
1
Dear Reader,
We’re almost halfway through September. I don’t know where the time goes. We’re starting to harvest our fall crop—broccoli, cabbage, carrots, and squash. We have a few apple trees between the house and the barn—a Paula Red and some Macs—and they produce enough fruit for eating and baking but not much else. I’ve wanted to make apple butter so the children and I picked a bunch of Cortlands over at the Tedfords’ orchard. They let us have a couple of bushels every fall in exchange for Love Blossom Farm’s lettuce and herbs during the summer. And they’re not the only ones—Zeke Barnstable down the road gives us corn in exchange for root vegetables. Farmers take care of one another like that.
Today is the annual county fair and the children are excited. Well, Billy is—Amelia is doing a good job of hiding her enthusiasm, which I’ve been told is normal for a thirteen-year-old.
Shelby McDonald sighed and hit SAVE on her computer. She’d started her blog, The Farmer’s Daughter, to while away the long winter evenings on the farm, and it had taken off. She now had enough of a following to attract some sponsors. The money came in handy—selling lettuce, herbs, and other fresh vegetables from the family farm, along with her homemade cheeses, made up the rest of her scanty income. Fortunately the farm had been in the family for several generations so she didn’t have to worry about a mortgage.
She wrote about life on the farm, shared favorite recipes and gardening tips and the antics of Jenkins, her West Highland white terrier; Bitsy, a mastiff; and Patches, her calico barn cat who was a champion mouser.
Shelby had grown up on Love Blossom Farm, and except for a brief sojourn in Chicago, she’d lived here all her life. Her parents had retired from farming and were touring the country in their secondhand RV, leaving her to run the farm. Things had been easier when her husband, William “Wild Bill” McDonald, was alive, but she prided herself on having risen to the occasion to manage the farm and raise their two children alone.
Shelby was about to turn away from the computer when she realized she hadn’t responded to or even looked at the comments on her previous blog post. She felt that part of the popularity of her blog stemmed from her interaction with her readers, so she tried to answer the comments left after each post.
She poured herself a glass of iced tea from a pitcher in the refrigerator. She noticed the rubber gasket around the fridge door was looking worn, and in several places, she had to push it back into position. It would be a long time before she could afford a new refrigerator—she was going to have to make do with this one as best she could.
The window over the sink was open, and the scent of newly mown grass drifted in on a breeze that was warm from the sun. There was a hint of autumn in the air as well—a crispness that hadn’t been there even a week ago.
Shelby peeked into the living room. Billy was sprawled on the sofa, his bare and very dirty feet pressed against the back. The furniture was old and worn but Shelby had still taken the precaution of covering it as protection against dirty little boys and even dirtier animals.
Bitsy and Jenkins were stretched out on the floor beneath the open window. Amelia was nowhere to be seen—Shelby suspected she was in her room with her cell phone all but glued to her fingers as usual.
She sighed and went back to her computer, setting her glass of iced tea on the table beside it. Someday she hoped to turn the closet-sized spare bedroom at the back of the house into an office for herself. Her mother had used it as a sewing room, and Shelby had yet to find the time and energy to convert it
to her needs.
She scrolled through the comments after her last blog post, featuring a recipe for sweet-and-sour red cabbage.
Shelby, I had to write and tell you how much my family enjoyed this recipe! I served it with roast pork, and it was a huge hit. Even the under fives liked it, and that’s a miracle considering they normally refuse to eat anything but chicken fingers and French fries.
XXX Dani
Shelby, love your Farmer’s Daughter blog. Going to try this recipe tonight.
Monica
Shelby smiled and wrote a brief reply. As she hit ENTER, the third comment caught her eye and she paused.
Dear Farmer’s Daughter, how dare you steal my family’s recipe for German sweet-and-sour cabbage? This recipe has been in my family for generations, brought to this country in 1892 by my great-grandmother Anna Kamp. You are nothing but a fraud. Sign me
“Not Impressed.”
Shelby realized she had been holding her breath as she read. It wasn’t the first negative comment she’d received—far from it. There was something about putting yourself out on the Internet that encouraged people to speak their minds. Numerous times she’d been told one of her recipes didn’t work (and she had her suspicions that that was the fault of the cook and not the recipe), but no one had ever accused her of stealing a recipe before.
There really was nothing new under the sun, as her grandfather always used to say—and that certainly held true with recipes. After all, there were only so many ways to cook a particular ingredient. Besides, how on earth would she have had access to the Kamp family recipe?
She knew she should write a quick note apologizing although certainly not acknowledging any theft, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. The idea made her feel sick.
She turned away from the computer. Maybe she would feel up to it later.
• • •
Shelby was gathering together the jars of jams and jellies she was entering into a contest at the county fair—blueberry jelly and strawberry jam from Love Blossom Farm’s own fruit—when Billy rushed into the room, the dogs keeping pace right behind him.
Shelby had measured him the other day and he’d grown an inch over the summer. He was tall for a nine-year-old and the hems of his denim overalls hovered somewhere above his ankles.
“Can we go now?” he asked, hopping from one bare foot to the other.
Shelby looked him up and down. “Did you wash your face?”
“Yes.” Billy nodded energetically.
Shelby stepped closer and stared at his face. “What’s this by your chin?” She licked her thumb and scrubbed at the spot—it looked like chocolate.
Billy jerked his head away. “Mom!”
“If you’d washed your face properly, I wouldn’t have had to do that.”
“I did wash it,” Billy protested. “Come on, Mom, can we go now?”
“I’m almost ready. Go call your sister, okay?”
Billy’s bare feet slapped against the wide-planked wooden floor of the old farmhouse as he ran to the stairs.
“Amelia! Mom says it’s time to go.”
Shelby heard a noise overhead, which she assumed was Amelia sliding off her bed. Moments later Amelia appeared in the kitchen doorway.
Shelby thought it ironic that Amelia resembled an angel with her halo of curly blond hair and blue eyes. Since hitting her teen years, Amelia had become as contrary as Jack Sparrow, the ancient rooster that patrolled the farm’s barnyard. And by all accounts, it would be at least seven more years, when Amelia hit her twenties, before she would become normal again. Sometimes Shelby looked at her and wondered where her sweet, darling child had gone.
“I’m not going,” Amelia said, her fingers never pausing in tapping out a text on the keyboard of her phone.
Shelby stopped with her hand halfway to the woven basket on the kitchen table. “Why not? You love the county fair.”
Amelia scowled. “That was before. I’m not a kid anymore, you know.”
A sharp retort rose to Shelby’s lips but she resisted the temptation.
“There’ll be rides and cotton candy and pigs and horses,” Billy exclaimed, barely able to stand still.
Amelia turned her scowl on him. She gave an exaggerated shiver. “I’m too old for those things.”
“That’s too bad,” Shelby said. “Because we’re all going to the fair and that’s that. Your brother has entered the riding competition and we all have to be there to cheer him on.”
“And Mom’s entered her jams and jellies,” Billy said as he worked his finger into a hole in his overalls.
Shelby felt tears prickling the backs of her eyelids. Billy still wore his feelings for her on his sleeve even if Amelia acted as if she wanted nothing more than for Shelby to disappear in a puff of vapor.
“Fine,” Amelia said, and flounced out of the room.
2
Dear Reader,
There’s something about the county fair that still excites me even after all these years—the animal judging, the pie contest and tractor pull, and all the rides that spin you around or turn you upside down . . . or both! When we were children, the fair was always a highlight of our year, second only to Christmas. The best part was when the sun began to set and darkness descended. The blinking lights on the rides and the game-of-chance booths seemed even brighter then and there was always the feeling in the air that magic could happen.
A long line of dusty cars snaked down M16, which was little more than a dirt road. The drivers were waiting to turn into the field that was being used for parking for the fair.
The air conditioner in Shelby’s car had given up the ghost several years ago, and the interior was hot with the sun beating down on the roof from a cloudless sky.
Her children and she rolled down all the windows although the dust kicked up by their tires was threatening to choke them.
“I’m hot,” Amelia whined from the front seat without looking up from her cell phone.
“Are we almost there?” Billy stuck his head out the back window to see how much farther until they received the signal to make the left turn into the makeshift parking area.
Shelby had their tickets tucked into the sun visor and reached for them as they got closer. Matt Hudson stood at the head of the line of cars. He had a green canvas money belt tied around his waist. Matt was the owner of the Lovett General Store, and Shelby and Matt were good friends—he’d helped her paint and renovate her mudroom in the spring to eradicate some really awful memories.
Matt made it clear that whenever Shelby was ready, he was eager to take their friendship to the next level. While Shelby sometimes yearned for male companionship, she wanted to be sure the timing was exactly right—and so was the man.
Slowly Shelby inched up the line of waiting cars. Matt smiled when he saw her and bent down so that his head was level with the window.
“I thought I might see you here. My volunteer stint ends in an hour. I hope you’ll let me buy you an ice cream and try my hand at winning you a stuffed animal?”
“Sounds like fun.”
Matt bent lower. “Hi, Billy. Hi, Amelia.”
“I’m going to be in the riding competition,” Billy answered. “You’ve got to come watch.”
Amelia didn’t bother to look up from her cell phone.
Dear Reader, even though it’s been a few years, Amelia is still taking her father’s death hard. She thinks that by dating I would be trying to replace him, which couldn’t be further from the truth. There is no replacement for Bill McDonald. He was my first love but hopefully not my last.
Matt took their tickets, straightened up, and waved them on. The car bounced over the rutted field as Shelby followed instructions from a young man in khaki shorts and a blue T-shirt with LOVETT COUNTY FAIR on it. He waved her into a parking space next to a bottle green van.
Shelby turned off the car and removed her seat belt. She opened her door carefully, not wanting to hit the car next to her—they were packing them in like sardines and there wasn’t much space between the vehicles.
The familiar aroma hit her as soon as she stepped out of the car—the scent of manure, hay, and livestock. She took a deep breath—she loved it. It reminded her of happy times—coming to the fair with her parents and falling asleep from sheer exhaustion on the way home; coming as a teenager with Bill and walking arm in arm, oblivious to everyone else.
She retrieved her basket of jams and jellies from the backseat and, with Billy running ahead of her and Amelia trailing behind, made her way across the field toward the entrance to the fair.
The noise was nearly overwhelming—the cry of the carnival barkers, the squeals of the children, and the braying of various farm animals. A Ferris wheel dominated the vista. Shelby knew from experience that at the top there was a view of the entire fair and the green patchwork of farms beyond.
The hint of manure was still in the air but had been joined by the aroma of popcorn, hot dogs, and cotton candy.
Amelia soon took off with a girl she knew from school, looking excited enough despite her original protests, and Shelby dropped Billy off at the stables so he could get ready for the equine events that would be coming up shortly.
Shelby followed signs toward where the cooking contests were to take place. The tent was abuzz with feminine voices arguing over the placement of the entries—pies, cakes, jams, and jellies.
A woman rapped her knuckles on one of the long trestle tables. “Quiet please, quiet,” she said in her fluty voice. “Let’s put the pies over here”—she indicated a sweep of tabletop to her left—“and the cakes over here.”
“Coralynne,” a woman in denim capris and a county fair T-shirt called out. “Where do you want the jams and jellies?”
Coralynne turned toward the sound of the woman’s voice. Her chins quivered as she pondered the question.
“How about here?” Shelby asked setting her basket down on a corner of one of the tables.