by Peg Cochran
A shiny wooden casket was displayed at the front of the room with a small spray of flowers in front of it. Shelby stood at the door for a moment and scanned the crowd. She saw Bert talking to Coralynne. Mrs. Willoughby was, as usual, officiously bustling about the room. Jodi Walters was there, too. Her son, Ned, was the one who had broken Amelia’s heart. Shelby noticed Rebecca, Zeke’s sister, standing with several people clustered around her.
Most of those in attendance were other farmers. While they didn’t socialize all that much, they were there for one another and Zeke was one of their own.
Shelby supposed she ought to pay her respects to Rebecca first. By the time Shelby reached her, the small group around Rebecca had broken up and Rebecca was standing alone.
Shelby was surprised to see she had a damp tissue in one hand. The only other time she’d met Rebecca, she had had the impression that Rebecca and Zeke hadn’t gotten along. Maybe she had been mistaken.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Shelby uttered the timeworn phrase. “I didn’t know Zeke well, but he used to give us corn every summer. We really appreciated it.”
Rebecca pressed the sodden tissue to her eyes. “Yes, Zeke was generous to a fault.”
Shelby felt like she did when she used to play pin the tail on the donkey as a child and she would be spun around and around until she was dizzy. This new version of Rebecca had her totally confused.
A tall woman, stooped at the shoulders, approached, and Rebecca turned to greet her. Shelby escaped with a barely concealed sigh of relief. She turned around and nearly ran smack into Jodi Walters.
Given the romantic entanglement between Jodi’s son and Shelby’s daughter, Shelby greeted the woman with a certain coolness that wasn’t like her.
Jodi didn’t seem to notice. She indicated Rebecca with a nod of her head.
“What’s gotten into her? Acting like she gives two hoots about her brother’s death when everyone knows she resented him like crazy.”
“Why would she resent him?”
“While Rebecca was off gallivanting who knows where, Zeke was taking care of their parents and doing all the work on the farm. Is it any wonder, then, that the farm was left entirely to him?”
Shelby glanced at Rebecca. “Who gets the farm now, with Zeke gone?”
Jodi shrugged. “I would imagine Rebecca does.” She jerked her head in Rebecca’s direction. “Although I don’t know what this big act of hers is all about. It’s not like she’s fooling anyone. When Rebecca came back from wherever it was she’d been, she and Zeke had a knock-down, drag-out fight over at the Dixie Bar and Grill.”
“Were you there?”
“Are you kidding? With three kids at home I don’t have time to hang out at the Dixie.” She shook her head. “No, someone told me about it. I can’t remember who.”
A short, dark-haired woman waved to Jodi from across the room and Jodi murmured an apology and moved away. Shelby stood where she was for another moment, thinking. Rebecca had resented her brother getting the farm, but now that he was dead and she was the one to inherit the land, who was to say she hadn’t killed him to make that happen?
20
Dear Reader,
As I walked from my car to the church, I noticed the increasing chill in the air even though it’s only mid-September. It’s already a little cooler than it was last week—which means my onions should be ready for harvesting soon. You will know they’re finished growing because the tops dry out and fall over. Left too long, they will spoil in the cooler temperatures.
Once they’ve been harvested they have to dry for several weeks before going into the cellar for storage. Even though I could never braid Amelia’s hair to save my life, I do manage to braid the onion tops, which makes for a nice presentation.
I’m looking forward to baking an onion tart with the first of the crop. It’s easy to make and includes bacon. Anything with bacon is good, right? I will share the recipe in a future blog post.
Shelby was about to leave the church hall when she remembered that Bert had said her neighbor worked at the Dixie Bar and Grill. It was probably too much to hope for that she’d been there the evening Rebecca had had the fight with Zeke, but it was worth asking.
Bert was standing over by the door, collecting her purse and sweater from the chair where she’d left them, when Shelby approached her.
“Zeke got a good turnout,” Bert said as she slipped on her pale blue cardigan and hung her purse from the crook of her arm. “He would have been pleased, although a crowd this size would have scared him.”
“I was talking to Jodi, and she said that when Zeke’s sister returned after having been off somewhere for years, she caught up with Zeke out at the Dixie, and they had a huge fight. Didn’t you say your neighbor works there?”
“She does.”
“I wonder if she was there when this fight occurred.”
“You can ask her.
Shelby glanced at the clock on the wall of the church hall. “Do you think she’d be home now?”
“Not likely since I saw her leave as I was pulling my car out of the garage. She was wearing her Dixie Bar and Grill T-shirt, and as far as I know, she only ever wears that if she’s going to work.”
“Maybe I could catch up with her there.” Shelby hesitated.
“Do you want me to pop in and make sure the kids are okay?”
Dear Reader, sometimes I swear Bert can read my mind.
“I hate to put you out. . . .”
“Don’t be silly.” Bert smiled. “Is there any of that carrot cake left, by any chance?”
“There is. And put on some coffee if you’d like.”
“I don’t mind if I do.” She shooed Shelby with her hand. “You go on ahead and see what you can find out at the Dixie. I’ll stay with the kids.”
Shelby started to walk away but then turned around again. “What is your neighbor’s name?”
“Doris. Doris Daniels.”
With Bert at the farm, Shelby wouldn’t have to worry. She didn’t like the idea of leaving Billy and Amelia alone at night—especially not after Amelia’s escapade the other night.
Shelby had been to the Dixie once or twice with Bill, but neither of them had particularly enjoyed the place. In the summer they preferred sitting in rocking chairs side by side on their front porch, and in the winter, who wanted to go out when you could snuggle together on the couch in front of the fire?
The Dixie was housed in a squat brick building with a neon sign that had several letters that didn’t light and a parking lot that desperately needed repaving. Shelby pulled in, jouncing over a giant pothole, and finally eased her car into a space on the end of a row of pickup trucks and cars with more rust on them than paint.
Although the evening was cool, the air conditioner hummed and a pool of condensation dripped onto the walkway to the right of the front door.
The interior was dim, and even though smoking was no longer allowed, the odor of Marlboros and Kools from earlier, less restrictive times still clung to the walls and the flat carpet that was so worn, it was impossible to tell what the original design had been.
The patrons sitting at the bar were almost exclusively male, but there were a few couples seated at the handful of pockmarked wooden tables in the back. A group of men holding cans of beer clustered around a pool table, shouting encouragement to the players.
A waitress with blond hair and gray roots hurried past, carrying a large tray laden with heavy chipped plates of hamburgers and fries. Shelby didn’t see anyone else waiting tables so she assumed this had to be Doris Daniels, Bert’s neighbor.
Shelby watched as Doris slid the food in front of customers at two of the tables, then, with her empty tray tucked under her arm, headed back toward the bar and the swinging door to the kitchen.
She must have caught sight of Shelby standing just beyond the e
ntrance, because she changed paths and headed toward her.
“Can I help you?” she asked when she reached Shelby. “As you can see, it’s seat yourself.” She waved toward the tables, several of which sat empty.
Shelby cleared her throat nervously. “I wanted to talk to you. I’m a friend of Bert’s.”
Doris looked startled. “A friend of Bert’s, huh? Nothing’s happened to her, I hope.”
“No, nothing like that. I wanted to ask you a few questions.”
“Now I’m curious. I’ve got my break coming up in five minutes. I usually go outside for a smoke. Meet me out back?”
Shelby nodded, and Doris turned and quickly strode away toward the kitchen.
Five minutes. Shelby couldn’t stand the smell and the noise of the Dixie for another minute, let alone five. She would go outside and wait.
Shelby made her way around to the rear of the building. An overflowing dark blue plastic garbage can sat to the right of the door where the overhead light flickered like a strobe.
Barely five minutes had passed before the back door flew open and Doris stepped out, a cigarette at the ready in one hand and a red plastic lighter in the other.
The flash from the lighter was a brief glow against the deepening darkness, illuminating Doris’s face and accentuating the lines around her mouth, nose, and eyes.
She exhaled a plume of smoke and smiled at Shelby. “So, what can I do for you?”
Shelby took a deep breath. She should have given some thought as to how she was going to present this to Doris. Maybe plunging in was the best way.
“I understand that Zeke Barnstable used to be a regular here.”
“Regular as rain,” Doris said, drawing in smoke. “He and that Jim Harris. Every Thursday night for years. But then a funny thing happened—Zeke stopped coming around. Of course, now he’s dead.”
“That’s sort of why I’m here,” Shelby said. “I heard that Zeke’s sister tracked him down here one night a while back.”
“Rebecca?” Doris gave a laugh that ended in a gurgling cough. “Darn right, she did. Disappears for I don’t know how long and then the first thing she does after she comes back is pick a fight with her brother.”
“Do you know what they argued about?”
Doris attempted another laugh but it was cut short by a cough. “Everyone knew what it was about. She made it plain as day and as loud as could be.”
Shelby waited patiently while Doris drew on her cigarette again.
“It was about money. What else? And the fact that their parents had died and had left the farm to Zeke while she was away.”
“She blamed Zeke?”
Doris ground her cigarette out under the heel of her sneaker and then kicked it off the walkway onto the grass where Shelby could see a cluster of other extinguished butts.
“She did. She was furious. Talked about getting some lawyer to prove that Zeke had—‘unduly influenced’ is what I think she said—their parents. Seems to me she’d already talked to a lawyer, or else I don’t know where she would have picked up an expression like that.”
“Do you think she was really mad? Maybe it was grief at finding her parents had died?”
Doris threw back her head and laughed. “Honey, she threatened to kill him. Sure, I think she meant it.”
• • •
Bert was asleep in front of the television, her knitting abandoned in her lap, when Shelby got home.
Bert woke with a start. “I must have dozed off there.”
“Everything go okay?”
“Fine. Billy is in bed. I had to force him to get him into the bath, but he finally had a wash. Amelia went upstairs, but I can’t promise she isn’t texting her friends on that phone of hers.” Bert eased herself out of her chair with a grunt. “There’s still some coffee, if you’d like a cup.”
“That sounds good.”
Bert followed Shelby out to the kitchen and watched while Shelby poured herself a mug of coffee.
“Are the dogs outside?” Shelby said as she blew on her coffee.
“Yes. They were in the mudroom whining, so I let them out.”
Shelby went to the back door and whistled. Moments later Bitsy and Jenkins came bounding through the mudroom and into the kitchen, smelling of fresh air, sun, and dirt. They circled around and around Shelby while she scratched their backs and patted their heads.
“So, tell me. What did you find out from Doris?” Bert said when Shelby joined her at the kitchen table.
Shelby cupped her mug of coffee between her hands. The last sliver of carrot cake sat on a platter in the middle of the table.
“According to Doris, Rebecca showed up at the Dixie one night and had it out with Zeke. She claimed he influenced their parents into leaving the entire farm to him.”
Bert snorted. “I can’t imagine what she’d thought they were going to do, seeing as how no one knew where she was. And she’d never shown a lick of interest in the farm—certainly not when it came to pulling her weight with chores.”
“I imagine the property is worth something. Even if you didn’t plan to farm it. It’s only a matter of time before one of those big, fancy housing developments pops up in Lovett.”
Shelby shaved a bit of cake off the remaining piece and popped it into her mouth.
“Land is always worth something. That’s why my daddy used to say, don’t put your money in the bank—invest it in something you can stand on.”
Bert stood up and took her coffee cup to the sink, where she rinsed it out and put it in the dishwasher.
“Do you think I should tell the police about the fight between Rebecca and her brother?”
Bert paused with her hand on the counter. “If by the police you mean Frank, I don’t see why not. Even they occasionally miss something.”
• • •
Shelby sat in the living room, the television muted but flickering in the corner, and stared at the cell phone in her lap. Should she call Frank? She glanced at the clock on the mantle. Maybe it was too late? Maybe she should wait till morning?
But by morning she might have lost her nerve. She gave herself a shake. Frank was her brother-in-law. She’d known him almost as long as she’d known Bill. There was no reason to be nervous about calling him.
Dear Reader, I know perfectly well why I’m nervous—I’m afraid Frank might take the call the wrong way. But I am going to indulge myself a little longer by pretending that I don’t realize this.
There was a noise from upstairs and Shelby stopped with her cell phone in her hand. She waited, holding her breath, but all was quiet. It was probably Billy rolling over in his sleep.
Impatience finally got the better of Shelby—impatience with herself—and she dialed Frank’s cell phone. He answered on the fourth ring. There was noise in the background—a woman’s voice? Shelby forced herself not to examine why that caused her a frisson of distress. It was none of her business who Frank spent his time with. He might have been at the office and it was a colleague. Or perhaps it was Nancy—although their divorce was final they might still have things to discuss.
“’Lo?” Frank’s usual laconic greeting sounded dispirited—as if he was tired or discouraged about the case.
“Hello,” Shelby said.
“Shelby.” The tone of his voice became more cheerful. “What’s up? Is everything okay? Billy? Amelia?”
“Everything’s fine,” Shelby said, then hesitated. “I thought there was something you ought to know. It may have some bearing on Zeke’s murder.”
“Oh?”
“It’s about Zeke and his sister, Rebecca. Did you know that when she arrived back in town, they had a huge fight out at the Dixie?”
“Arrived back in town? Where had she been?”
“No one knows, apparently. She just showed up one day.”
“Interesting.”
The noise behind Frank had died down. She heard him take a sip of—coffee?
“The waitress out there, Doris Daniels, said Rebecca threatened to kill Zeke.”
Frank was silent. She heard the tapping of computer keys.
“Here it is,” Frank said. “Looks like Lovett’s finest got involved. Someone filed a police report.” He was quiet for a moment. “Seems there was no harm done. Officer Prendergast broke up the fight and that was that.”
“Until now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Zeke is dead. Isn’t it possible that Rebecca made good on her threat to kill him?”
Frank’s indrawn breath told Shelby everything she needed to know.
“I think this is worth looking into. I’ll get on it first thing in the morning.”
“Thanks.”
“And, Shelby? Are you sure everything is okay?”
“Yes, Frank, we’re fine.”
Shelby clicked off the call before she could say anything else.
Because there were a lot of things she wanted to say. She was lonely . . . Sometimes she was scared . . . She wasn’t always sure she was doing the right thing.
Instead she went out to the kitchen, made a cup of chamomile tea, carried it up to bed, and slipped beneath the covers.
The windows were open and the curtains billowed into the room on the soft night breeze. Shelby picked her book up off the nightstand and opened it. She paused for a moment, listening to the croak of the frogs outside and the chirp of the cicadas, and then she began to read.
21
Dear Reader,
I’m looking out the kitchen window, watching rivulets of water turn the view as blurry as a Monet painting. The rain began sometime during the night and hasn’t let up since. I rather enjoyed its comforting patter on the roof while I was curled up snug in bed.
Most people assume farmers welcome rain, and we do—most of the time. But there is such a thing as too much rain. In a dry spell we can always water, but there’s not much we can do if it rains for days on end. Too much rain compacts the soil and causes soil loss. It can cause rot and leech important nutrients from the soil.