Sowed to Death

by Peg Cochran

  Mrs. Willoughby and Coralynne heaped a bit of each of the dishes from the buffet spread onto their plates while Isabel had some of Shelby’s white bean, tomato, and mozzarella salad, a plain green salad, and a small square of lasagna. Isabel glanced at the plates of the other two ladies, and Shelby thought she looked aghast.

  As soon as everyone had returned to their seats from the buffet line, Mrs. Willoughby banged her spoon against her glass. The chatter dipped to a murmur and finally died out.

  “I want to welcome everyone today to our annual luncheon. I want to remind you about the Christmas bazaar. October will be here before we know it. Time is of the essence. We need to have our ducks in a row. If you haven’t already signed up to volunteer, please do. We need all hands on deck.” She paused. “Now please go ahead and enjoy your lunch.”

  Dear Reader, Mrs. Willoughby is certainly full of clichés today, isn’t she?

  Mrs. Willoughby sat down and beamed at Shelby, Coralynne, Jenny, and Isabel. She rubbed her hands together.

  “What a delicious-looking meal we have here—don’t you think?”

  Isabel poked at her salad with her fork. She looked up, her eyes shining. “I heard that Brenda Barnstable’s body has been found at long last.”

  Coralynne paused with her fork halfway to her mouth, a piece of lettuce dangling precariously from the tines. “You don’t say!”

  Mrs. Willoughby leaned forward, and barely missed planting her considerable bosom in her lasagna.

  “Yes. And on Zeke’s Barnstable’s property,” Mrs. Willoughby said, and Shelby envisioned the words printed in bold. “That proves it, don’t you agree?”

  Coralynne shivered with excitement. “Do you think he felt so guilty that he was forced to take his own life?”

  Mrs. Willoughby shot her an impatient look. “By hitting himself over the head with a hammer?”

  Shelby stifled a laugh by pretending to be choking on her food. She cleared her throat loudly and followed it up with a big gulp from her water glass.

  Coralynne looked momentarily miffed, but curiosity got the better of her. She turned to Shelby.

  “Have you heard anything? After all, your brother-in-law is on the police force.”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  Both Coralynne and Mrs. Willoughby looked at Shelby as if they didn’t believe her.

  “I think it’s obvious who did it, and it wasn’t Brenda’s husband,” Jenny spoke up abruptly. She leaned closer over the table. “I think it was Tonya Perry.”

  Mrs. Willoughby sucked in air through her teeth. “I have heard that she threatened Zeke when she found out that Brenda had gone missing. She’s a big woman, and although Zeke is a farmer, he’s awful skinny and not very tall.”

  “That type is often surprisingly strong,” Coralynne said. “My brother is as thin as a beanpole, but that time I wanted to move my refrigerator, he picked it up as if it was nothing.”

  “I can’t see Tonya getting up the energy to do much of anything,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “She’s no use as a volunteer. You have to keep after her the whole time, like a sheepdog after an errant member of the flock. I don’t know what Daniel sees in her.”

  Isabel stiffened and her lips thinned into a straight line.

  Jenny scowled at Mrs. Willoughby. “Did I ever tell you what Tonya did to my Tracy?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Willoughby said decisively.

  “Don’t you think that proves she’s capable of almost anything?” Isabel said.

  “But murder,” Coralynne protested.

  Jenny toyed with her fork, poking at the remains of her lunch and scraping the tines through the last bits of macaroni salad on her plate.

  Her face drooped into defeated folds. “I’m afraid that as much as I hate Tonya, she can’t have killed Zeke.”

  “What?” the table gasped.

  Jenny nodded. “It’s true. My Tracy decided to come to the fair. She said she wanted to see me win.” Jenny preened but then her expression grew disappointed. “And I would have if Tonya hadn’t doused my pie with pepper.”

  “Go on,” Mrs. Willoughby said rather testily.

  Jenny told the story Shelby had already heard—about the suspicion that Tonya had set fire to Tracy’s piece in the university art competition.

  Shelby noticed Isabel’s eyes glittering as Jenny told her story.

  Dear Reader, I have the sneaking suspicion that Isabel is going to run straight to Daniel with this story in order to discredit her rival for his affections.

  By the time Jenny finished telling her story, her face was red and she was slightly out of breath.

  Mrs. Willoughby pursed her lips. “I don’t see how that proves that Tonya didn’t murder Zeke. If anything, I would say it proves the opposite—that she’s obviously capable of it.”

  Jenny scowled at Mrs. Willoughby. “Well, I’m not finished with the story, am I? I only needed to catch my breath for a minute.”

  Mrs. Willoughby sat back in her chair, her posture stiff with irritation.

  “Like I was telling you”—Jenny shot Mrs. Willoughby a dirty look—“my Tracy came to the fair for the pie contest. She didn’t expect to see Tonya there, and obviously Tonya didn’t expect to see her. It was right before Isabel tried that bite of my pie. As soon as Tonya clapped eyes on Tracy, Tonya took off running. If that doesn’t say something about her guilt, I don’t know what does.”

  “Did Tracy catch up with Tonya?” Shelby said.

  Jenny shook her head. “No, but she followed her all the way to the exit of the fair and even out into the parking lot. Unfortunately Tonya jumped in her car and took off. Tracy said she only wanted to talk to her about the incident. To have what she called closure.”

  Dear Reader, it certainly sounds as if Tonya didn’t have time to murder Zeke. She was with me at the pie contest and then in Tracy’s sights the rest of the time. Unless the station wagon where Zeke’s body had been found was left unattended earlier. I will have to check with Jake.

  19

  Dear Reader,

  I try not to listen to gossip, but sometimes it’s the only way to get information. But as the saying goes, believe nothing of what you hear and only half of what you see. I do think Jenny was telling the truth though—she certainly wouldn’t go out of her way to give Tonya an alibi.

  Shelby stayed behind after the lunch to help clean up. As she was clearing the dishes away, she noticed a group of women edging their way toward the door.

  Mrs. Willoughby, whose hands were full of dirty plates, came up to Shelby and poked Shelby with her elbow. “There they go sneaking out. The same ones every time. Leaving us to do all the work.”

  Shelby wasn’t surprised. Cleaning up wasn’t the most popular volunteer job.

  She carried her armload of dishes to the large plastic bus tubs that Coralynne had placed on the now-empty buffet table.

  With all the dirty dishes cleared off the tables, Shelby began bundling up the tablecloths.

  “Where do you want me to put these?” she asked Mrs. Willoughby.

  “If you could take them down to my office, that would be wonderful. The owners can pick them up there.” Mrs. Willoughby sighed. “Maybe we can put some of the money from the Christmas bazaar toward buying St. Andrews its own tablecloths.”

  “Good idea,” Shelby said as she headed toward the door.

  The old wooden floors in the hallway creaked under Shelby’s feet as she walked toward Mrs. Willoughby’s office. Shelby found the sound comforting along with the slightly dusty smell wafting from the worn and nearly threadbare Oriental carpet.

  The door to Mrs. Willoughby’s office was partially closed. Shelby eased it open with her elbow and stepped inside. The light was on in Daniel’s office, and the scent of gardenias wafted toward Shelby.

  She tiptoed farther into the room and strained
to hear the murmured voices coming through the open door. Shelby could tell by the perfume that Isabel was Daniel’s companion. And as she listened, she realized her suspicions had been right—Isabel was filling Daniel in on everything Jenny Hubbard had told them about Tonya.

  Shelby put the tablecloths down on the chair beside Mrs. Willoughby’s desk and tiptoed out of the room again.

  When she got back to the hall, the cleanup was done and Mrs. Willoughby was giving the tables a final wipe.

  “You go on, dear,” she called out to Shelby. “Everything’s been taken care of.”

  Shelby glanced at her watch and then hurried out to her car. She’d invited Bert to come by at three o’clock. She hadn’t mentioned the cake, but she was pretty sure Bert would be able to guess what the invitation was all about.

  Shelby was pulling into her driveway when she noticed Billy’s school bus coming down the road. She walked to the end of the drive and waited for him to get off.

  “Hi, Mom,” he said before trudging ahead of her toward the house, his backpack slung from one shoulder.

  “I’m hungry,” he said as soon as they’d walked in the back door.

  “Bert’s coming over for some birthday cake. Can you wait a few more minutes?”

  Billy groaned. “Okay.”

  Shelby set the cake on the table and added a few candles.

  “You’ll need more candles than that. Bert is ancient.”

  Shelby looked up to see Amelia standing in the doorway.

  “I wouldn’t say ancient, and I don’t think we want to risk burning down the house.”

  “I’m here, I’m here,” Bert called as she opened the door to the mudroom and wiped her feet on the mat. “What’s this all about?” She glanced around and the look of surprise on her face would have done any Oscar-winning actor proud.

  When she turned to Shelby, she had tears in her eyes.

  “You shouldn’t have. And my favorite cake, too.”

  Shelby smiled to herself. They enacted this little charade every year on Bert’s birthday, and neither of them ever grew tired of it.

  Dear Reader, I don’t think Amelia is amused—I saw her roll her eyes.

  “Can we have some cake now?” Billy sat slumped in his chair, his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands.

  Bert laughed. “Let me blow out the candles first.” She leaned across the table and gave a big huff. “Hand me that knife, would you?”

  Bert cut generous slices and pushed the plates toward Billy and Amelia, then handed Shelby one.

  Bert turned to Shelby. “So, how was the luncheon? They’ve been trying to get me to join for years, but the last thing I want to do is hang around with a bunch of church ladies.”

  Shelby laughed. “They’re a good group. Mostly.”

  Bert grunted.

  “Can I go out now?”

  Shelby looked over at Billy’s plate. It was empty except for a smear of frosting.

  “Okay.”

  Billy shoved his chair back, dropped his plate into the sink, and headed out the door, letting it slam behind him.

  “He never stops moving,” Shelby said.

  “Boys.”

  “Happy birthday, Bert,” Amelia said as she, too, stood up and deposited her plate in the sink.

  “Thanks, honey,” Bert said as Amelia left the room.

  Shelby began to tell Bert about Jenny Hubbard’s daughter being able to give Tonya an alibi.

  “I guess that rules her out.”

  “And Isabel made short work of sharing the information about Tonya’s past with Daniel. I heard them in his office and she was filling him in on all the gory details.”

  “You’ve got to give her credit for determination.” Bert cut herself another sliver of cake. “Who’s next on our list of suspects?”

  Shelby licked the last bit of cream cheese icing off the tines of her fork. “Ryan Archer is still a possibility. He lied about being at the fair and apparently doesn’t have an alibi. At least not one he’s willing to share.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the birds chirping outside.

  Suddenly Bert jumped to her feet. “I’ll help you with the dishes.”

  “No, you won’t,” Shelby said. “It’s your birthday. You sit and put your feet up.”

  “I can tell by the stubborn look on your face that there’s no point in arguing with you.” Bert sank back onto her chair.

  Shelby rinsed the plates and stacked them in the dishwasher.

  “Have you done anything about those pots and pans yet?” Bert said.

  Shelby felt prickles of guilt. “No. I don’t know what to do. I can’t possibly endorse a product that’s so terrible.”

  “Send ’em back, then.”

  “But the money . . .”

  “You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you did anything else.”

  “Yes,” Shelby sighed.

  Suddenly there was a rap on the wood of the screen door, and Shelby heard it squeak open.

  Jake strode into the kitchen. His expression was stern, and he was grasping Billy by the back of his shirt. Billy refused to meet Shelby’s eyes but instead looked down at his feet.

  “What happened?”

  “I caught this young man egging my henhouse.” He gave Billy a slight shake like a terrier might shake a mouse.

  Shelby gasped. Billy certainly knew better than that. Eggs were food, and to deface someone else’s property . . . What had gotten into him?

  “Billy!”

  Billy mumbled something that sounded like I’m sorry, Mom.

  “Why would you do something like that? You know better.”

  Billy shrugged and continued to stare at his feet.

  Shelby looked at Jake. “Billy will clean it all up. Won’t you, Billy?”

  Jake’s lips twitched into a smile. “We’ve already decided on that, haven’t we, Billy?”

  Billy grunted.

  “I’ve got a bucket and sponges and some soap.” Shelby rushed over to the broom closet.

  “Don’t bother,” Jake said. “I’ve got all of that myself.” He gave Billy’s shirt a slight tug. “Come on, buddy, you’ve got some work to do.”

  Shelby stood in stunned silence as the door closed behind Jake and her son.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.” She turned to Bert. “He’s never done anything like that before.”

  Bert gave her an all-knowing look. “Seems to me he needs a father. Your neighbor”—she jerked a thumb toward the door—“would be the perfect candidate. He’s handsome and kind and Billy already likes him.”

  Dear Reader, I love Bert. I really do, but sometimes I wish she would mind her own business. Especially when she’s right. Maybe not about Jake but certainly about Billy needing a father.

  • • •

  Shelby padded out to the garden barefoot. She loved the feel of the earth on her bare feet, warm from the afternoon sun. Her tomatoes were still blooming although they would soon come to an end. She knew from experience that the first frost was just around the corner. One plant was heavy with several large tomatoes. Shelby picked them all and carried them inside.

  Tonight was the viewing for Zeke Barnstable. The ME had finally released the body. The closest funeral parlor was in Allenvale, so the body had been sent there originally, but the wake itself was being held in the hall at St. Andrews to make it easier for local people to attend.

  Shelby cut the tomatoes in half and squeezed the seeds into the sink. She then grated the flesh and put the resulting pulp into a large saucepan. She added olive oil, salt and pepper, a sprig of basil leaves, and some tomato paste, gave it a good stir, and left it to simmer for fifteen minutes while the water for the pasta boiled.

  Billy was watching television in the living room. He
was unusually subdued following the incident at Jake’s. While Shelby had expressed her disappointment in his behavior, she hadn’t said much of anything else. An afternoon in the sun applying elbow grease to Jake’s henhouse had taught Billy more of a lesson than anything she could have said or done.

  Shelby poured the pasta into the water and lowered the heat. She stuck her head into the living room and called Billy for dinner, then went to the bottom of the stairs and yelled for Amelia.

  • • •

  “Why are we eating so early?” Amelia said as she twirled spaghetti around her fork.

  “I have to go to church tonight for a viewing.”

  “What’s a viewing?” Billy asked.

  She hesitated. How to explain the concept to someone as young as Billy?

  “It’s when someone dies and everyone goes to check out the body,” Amelia said before Shelby could answer.

  “Cool,” Billy said. “Can I go, Mom?”

  “I’m afraid not. You can stay here and finish your homework. Amelia will look after you.” Shelby looked across the table at Amelia.

  “I don’t need looking after. I stayed all by myself the other night, didn’t I?”

  Shelby raised her eyebrow at him and Billy went back to slurping up his spaghetti.

  “Amelia, can you do the dishes? I have to get cleaned up.”

  “Sure.”

  • • •

  Shelby took a quick shower—her hands smelled like freshly picked tomatoes and who knows what the rest of her smelled like?—and changed into a skirt and blouse she hadn’t worn since her brief stint working in Chicago. She was surprised to find that the skirt was loose. She didn’t consciously set out to exercise—she didn’t have to. Working on a farm was exercise in and of itself.

  The viewing was set for seven o’clock and Shelby pulled into the church parking lot at a quarter after the hour. She didn’t want to be the first to arrive—that could have been terribly awkward—but she didn’t want to be too late, either. She had no idea whether Zeke had any family besides Rebecca, but there was already a respectable number of cars in the parking lot.

  Shelby heard voices as soon as she headed down the hallway to the church hall—muted in deference, no doubt, to the solemnity of the occasion.