Sowed to Death

by Peg Cochran

Shelby brushed her hair out of her eyes, conscious of the fact that her sleek waves and curls were quickly becoming transformed into their usual uncontrolled jumble by the humidity. She spent a moment regretting her lost hairdo, pulled off the elastic tie she wore around her wrist, and swept her hair into some semblance of a ponytail.

  She looked up and smiled at the woman approaching her stall. Shelby recognized her from the pie contest at the county fair. It was Jenny Hubbard, who usually took first place and a blue ribbon but whose pie had been laced with pepper this time. Shelby didn’t know her well—most of Shelby’s limited social life revolved around St. Andrews, and Jenny was a member of St. Mary Magdalene’s down the street.

  Jenny returned Shelby’s smile. She had white hair and the weathered skin of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. She was wearing a visor that shaded her eyes and had a green recyclable shopping bag slung over her arm.

  “Can I help you? It’s Jenny, isn’t it?”

  Jenny glowed at being recognized. “I see you have a few red peppers left. I’ll take four of those. I’m making stuffed peppers for dinner tonight.” She tapped her bag. “I have some lovely spinach to fold into the mixture of ground beef and rice.”

  “That sounds delicious,” Shelby said, realizing she was getting hungry herself.

  She placed the peppers in a paper bag and handed them to Jenny.

  “Although I must say,” Jenny said with a quiver to her chin, “the very word pepper makes me want to scream.”

  “I’m sorry about what happened at the county fair. Have they discovered who did it?”

  Jenny shook her head. “No. At least not that I’ve heard. I suppose que sera, sera, as they say. I have a whole drawer full of blue ribbons. Perhaps it was time for someone else to win.” She clenched her fists. “If only it hadn’t been that Tonya Perry.”

  Shelby raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

  “Frankly I don’t think they have to look any further than Tonya to find the culprit. It’s just the sort of thing she would do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jenny put down her shopping, pulled a tissue from her purse, and wiped it across the back of her neck.

  “It reminds me of what happened to my daughter,” she said cryptically.

  “Your daughter?”

  Jenny nodded and tucked the tissue back into her purse. “It was when the two of them were in college. At Allen University. Tracy is the first member of our family to graduate from college.” Jenny puffed out her chest, making her look like a bird with ruffled feathers.

  “What happened . . . with your daughter and Tonya, I mean?”

  “Our Tracy is very artistic. She’s a graphic designer at an advertising firm in Grand Rapids. She’s being considered for the position of creative director, if you can imagine.”

  Shelby bit her tongue and tried to be patient. She hoped no customers would approach and put Jenny off her tale.

  “She did other kinds of art when she was in college—sculpture, painting, watercolors. But you can’t make a living doing that, now, can you?” Jenny took the soggy tissue from her purse and ran it along the back of her neck again. “So she took some courses in graphic design.” She tapped her head with her index finger. “Our Tracy is a smart girl. Always thinking.”

  Dear Reader, I have no idea what on earth all this has to do with Tonya Perry, but I suppose I shall have to listen if I want to find out.

  “Tracy entered an art competition at school. There was a prize—a cash prize.” She rubbed her fingers together. “Everyone agreed that Tracy was going to win.”

  “Did Tonya have a piece in this competition as well?” Shelby asked, suddenly suspecting where this was going.

  “Yes, she did. Hideous thing—it looked like something a kindergartner might have done, all splashes of color thrown willy-nilly at a canvas. Now, our Tracy’s piece was something else, a magnificent scene of the Presque Isle Lighthouse—the new one, not the old one—all done in quilting. Took her months to complete it.”

  Jenny paused for breath, her face flushed and glistening with perspiration.

  “What happened?” Shelby asked although her mind was racing ahead, drawing its own conclusions.

  “A fire. That’s what happened. Completely destroyed Tracy’s piece. All that hard work gone up in flames. She was devastated.” Jenny took a long, shuddering breath. “Of course the university art gallery was badly damaged as well. As you can imagine they did an investigation but never figured out who set the fire.”

  “But it was arson?”

  “According to the report in the newspaper. It said police found evidence that Tracy’s quilt had been doused with kerosene before it was set on fire.”

  Jenny raised her chin as if that said it all.

  “Why do you think Tonya—”

  “She was always jealous of my Tracy. They were in high school together. Tonya never liked being in second place. Like when they cast the school play—they were doing The Music Man. I always did like that show. Tracy got the part of Marian and Tonya ended up in the chorus. I think she built up a lot of resentment—like a pressure cooker builds up steam. Do you know what I mean?”

  “So, nothing was ever proven?”

  “Nah. I imagine the police had bigger fish to fry. But Tonya left college soon after and that says something, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “So it wouldn’t surprise me at all if it was Tonya who put pepper on my pie so she could win that contest. Like I said, she always wanted to be the best.”

  Jenny paid for her purchases and with a nod at Shelby moved on, heading toward the parking lot.

  Dear Reader, that is certainly food for thought, don’t you think? But the fact that Tonya might have set fire to Tracy Hubbard’s art piece and might have doctored Jenny’s pie doesn’t necessarily make her a murderer.

  • • •

  Shelby had just finished serving her last customer when Matt came along. Shelby felt slightly awkward—she hoped she hadn’t hurt Matt’s feelings by refusing to have coffee with him.

  “Let me give you a hand,” Matt said as Shelby began filling crates with the produce that hadn’t sold. Fortunately there wasn’t much left.

  “Thanks.”

  Shelby wished Matt had come by earlier—while her fancy new hairdo was still intact.

  Matt carried the filled crate to Shelby’s pickup while she collected the empty ones, took them to the truck, and stowed them in the back. Together, she and Matt quickly folded the tablecloth Shelby used to dress up her old pockmarked table. Matt then collapsed the table, and with it tucked in beside the crates, there was nothing more to do.

  Matt leaned against the rear fender of the truck and fixed his gaze on Shelby.

  “Want to grab an iced tea or something else cold to drink at the diner? And I don’t know about you, but I haven’t had any lunch and my stomach is grumbling in complaint.” He held up a finger before Shelby could answer. “If you say no, I’m going to keep asking you until you change your mind, so you might as well make it easy on both of us and say yes now.”

  Shelby laughed. “Okay. Yes. I’d love to.”

  “Meet you there in a couple of minutes, then.” Matt turned and headed toward his own truck.

  Shelby’s truck bounced and shimmied as she drove across the bumpy field to the main road. She held the steering wheel with one hand and with the other she tried to capture the loose hairs flying around her face. She wished she’d at least brought a compact and some lipstick with her. But then Matt had already seen her looking the way she did, so what did it matter?

  Matt had secured a corner booth by the time Shelby got to the diner. It wasn’t crowded—it was past noon, the time when the diner was busy with the lunchtime crowd.

  Shelby slid into the seat opposite Matt. His smile see
med strained and there were lines of fatigue around his eyes.

  “You look tired.”

  Matt spun his spoon around and around on the table, turning it with his finger.

  “I guess I am. It’s always . . . hard at this time of year.”

  Matt had been working in lower Manhattan during the attacks on September 11. His memories had eventually driven him out of New York City to Michigan, where he bought the Lovett General Store and settled into country life.

  He stilled the spinning spoon with his hand, looked up, and smiled at Shelby.

  “Enough of that. I’m here with you and that’s all that matters.”

  Shelby felt her heart lurch at Matt’s words. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that she didn’t want to be alone forever with only her memories to keep her company.

  “I guess I’d better decide what I want,” Matt said, reaching for the plastic-coated menus that were tucked between the napkin dispenser and the salt and pepper shakers.

  He handed one to Shelby.

  Shelby’s hunger had abated somewhat—or perhaps she didn’t notice it, sitting here with Matt. She opened her menu although she already knew what she wanted. The diner’s menu hadn’t changed in all the years Shelby had been going there. Everyone in Lovett had their favorite dish whether it was meat loaf and mashed potatoes, turkey with gravy, or their mile-high club sandwich.

  Shelby chose the chicken salad sandwich, which was made with chicken, mayonnaise, and nothing else. The diner didn’t go in for what the chef called furbelows in their chicken salad—chopped pecans, raisins, dried cranberries; if you wanted fancy fare like that, you had to go farther afield than the Lovett Diner.

  Matt ordered a hamburger, medium rare. The waitress frowned at him, her pencil hesitating over her pad until Matt repeated medium rare.

  He laughed as the waitress moved away from their table. “I guess the diner still isn’t used to what I’m sure they call my city ways.”

  “People around here do tend to go in for their meat cooked well-done.”

  Matt folded his hands on the table. “Has there been any more news about poor Zeke’s murder?”

  Everyone knew Frank was Shelby’s brother-in-law and everyone assumed he shared confidential police information with his family.

  Shelby told Matt what she’d learned about Tonya Perry—how she’d been suspected of her friend Emily’s death and how Jenny Hubbard blamed her for the fire at the Allen University art gallery.

  Matt whistled, and the waitress spun around sharply. He mouthed sorry at her and turned back to Shelby. “Tonya shops at the store like everyone else in town, but I don’t really know her. I must say, though, that news surprises me.”

  “Me, too,” Shelby admitted. “And to think she’s become involved with our rector. Although I suppose we have to remember—innocent until proven guilty.”

  “That’s right.” Matt leaned back as the waitress slid his hamburger in front of him with a disapproving toss of her head. “If what you’ve told me is true though, it does mean that Tonya is capable of anything—including murdering Zeke to avenge her friend Brenda’s death.”

  Shelby nodded as she picked up her chicken salad sandwich. “I don’t think we can rule her out.”

  They finished their lunch, and Matt insisted on paying for Shelby’s chicken sandwich, refusing to listen to her protests. They walked outside and stopped at the front door of the diner.

  “Thanks for having lunch with me.” Matt touched Shelby’s arm. “Maybe next time we can make it dinner somewhere nice—like Lucia’s?”

  Shelby nodded her head mutely.

  Dear reader, what am I getting myself into here?

  Matt leaned toward Shelby and kissed her on the cheek, then turned and headed toward his van.

  Shelby walked back to her truck in a daze. The spot where Matt had kissed her cheek tingled all the way home.

  15

  Dear Reader,

  Did you know that Michigan is the second largest producer of carrots in the United States? Carrots are harvested between July and November, giving them a long season, which is a boon to farmers and those of us who feed our families with what we grow.

  Most people don’t realize that not all carrots are orange! There are varieties called Black Knight (sadly it’s on the bitter side), Atomic Red, and Purple Haze.

  Roasting carrots brings out their delicious sweetness. Toss cut-up carrots with olive oil, salt, and pepper, spread on a baking sheet, and roast at four hundred degrees for around twenty minutes.

  Tonight I’m making a carrot cake for Bert’s birthday. Although it’s not a traditional birthday cake, it’s her favorite. I’m hoping Amelia will be willing to help me. Baking provides wonderful mother-daughter bonding time . . . assuming your teen is willing.

  “Well, don’t you look like the cat that swallowed the canary?” Bert said when Shelby walked in the door of her kitchen.

  Bert had a basket of fresh eggs on the counter and was placing them in cardboard cartons that had LOVE BLOSSOM FARM stamped on the top.

  “Quite a bumper crop from the hens this week.” She gestured toward the basket of eggs. “They must be happy.”

  Shelby laughed. “I guess I must be doing something right.”

  Even though Shelby had grown up on Love Blossom Farm and knew every inch of it by heart, she sometimes still worried about whether she was doing everything correctly. People in Lovett used to say that Shelby’s father was so charming that the hens laid twice as many eggs for him, and that no one could beat her mother’s apple pie. Sometimes Shelby was afraid she’d never measure up.

  “What have you been up to?” Bert turned around to face Shelby, her hands on her narrow hips.

  Shelby sighed. She thought the subject had been successfully changed, but apparently not.

  Bert shook a finger at her. “And don’t say nothing, because it’s obviously something.”

  Shelby knew better than to try to argue. “I had lunch with Matt Hudson—he owns the general store.”

  “I know perfectly well who Matt Hudson is,” Bert said, wagging her finger at Shelby again. “Don’t forget I’d already lived here a whole lifetime before you were even born.”

  Shelby breathed a sigh of relief when she heard the screen door to the mudroom slam.

  “I’m hungry,” Billy said as he tossed his backpack on the kitchen table.

  “How was school?” Shelby said as she swept Billy’s backpack off the table and onto a kitchen chair. She shuddered to think of all the places Billy had probably set it down and the germs that must be lurking on the bottom.

  “Okay.”

  “What did you do today?” Bert asked, closing the last of the egg cartons.

  “Nothing.”

  “That must have been exciting,” Bert said with a twinkle in her eye.

  She looked at Shelby and they both shrugged.

  “You have your riding lesson this afternoon,” Shelby said.

  “But I told you—I’m hungry.”

  “I’ll make you a sandwich, but we have to make it quick, okay?”

  • • •

  Billy walked out to the car, carrying the last quarter of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Shelby had long ago given up worrying about crumbs or spills in the car. What did it matter, when a tear in the upholstery of the front passenger seat had been mended with black electrical tape?

  Shelby turned down Jim Harris’s drive and followed it around the house, where the American flag was whipping in the breeze that had picked up since that morning. She followed the drive toward the stables around back.

  Jim Harris was leaning against the fence that encircled the paddock, his hat pushed back on his head, his arms folded across his chest. His face had sagged into defeated-looking lines.

  Shelby was surprised. Jim usually greeted th
em with a smile and a warm welcome. Shelby supposed everyone could have an off day. Perhaps he wasn’t feeling well.

  He motioned to Billy to come with him and the two of them disappeared inside the stable.

  Shelby stood by the fence, waiting. She always felt so proud seeing Billy controlling one of Jim’s enormous horses. She heard one of them snort loudly, and Billy came out the stable door riding Blackjack. He was a big horse with a mind of his own. Jim didn’t let just anyone ride him. Shelby felt herself glowing with pride.

  Billy began going around and around the ring—a trot, then a canter, then back to a trot.

  The sun was still hot and soon Shelby felt rivulets of perspiration running down her sides.

  The weathered picnic table under the shade tree looked very inviting, so she took a seat and pulled a pad and pen out of her purse. She would work on her next blog post. She was so engrossed in what she was doing that she didn’t notice someone approaching until she caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye.

  She turned to see Jim Harris’s wife coming toward her. Shelby had seen her around the farm, but they’d never actually met.

  “I’m Dawn.” The woman held out a rough and callused hand when she reached Shelby.

  “Shelby McDonald.” Shelby gestured toward the ring, where Billy was cantering and churning up dust. “That’s my son.”

  Dawn shaded her eyes with one hand and looked over to the paddock. “He’s going to make a fine horseman one day.” She dropped her hand and smiled at Shelby.

  “Thanks.”

  “I came down to see how Jim was doing,” Dawn said, taking a seat opposite Shelby. “Today’s a hard day for him.”

  “Oh?” Shelby put down her pen and leaned her elbows on the picnic table.

  “It’s the anniversary of his brother Sid’s death.” She shook her head. “Such a shame, really.”

  “I heard he was . . . in an accident.”

  “I guess you could call it that. Mowed down by someone who was in a dang hurry to get where they were going. They never even stopped.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “Sid was a good guy even though he had his problems.” She mimed drinking from a glass.