Sowed to Death

by Peg Cochran

  “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  “No. You and I have that in common. My parents considered me their miracle baby. They were more than happy to stop with one—I’m not sure they even wanted that many children.”

  Shelby didn’t know what to say. She’d been wrapped in a blanket of love from the moment she was born. She couldn’t imagine having lived without that.

  Matt made a right turn into the parking lot of Lucia’s. He pulled the car into a spot, got out, opened Shelby’s door, and extended a hand. She grasped it, surprised at how warm it was and how good that felt.

  A wave of voices and rattling crockery rushed at them as they opened the door to the restaurant. Lucia’s was packed, but the maître d’ spotted them immediately and hastened toward them with two oversized menus. He greeted them with a practiced smile and quickly showed them to a table for two in the corner.

  “I’m glad I made a reservation,” Matt said as he pulled out Shelby’s chair.

  Shelby looked around. It was hard to believe the restaurant was in an ordinary building in an ordinary strip mall in Michigan—the ambience was so charming, with candles flickering on every table, heavy white linens, dark chairs, and murals on the wall that looked like frescoes from Florence. She felt as if she had entered another world.

  Conversation continued to be easy as they waited for their meal—osso buco for Shelby and eggplant parmigiana for Matt.

  The food was excellent, and Shelby was contemplating the dessert menu when she looked up to see two women being led to a nearby table by the maître d’.

  “That’s Rebecca Barnstable,” she said in surprise.

  Rebecca had obviously washed and styled her hair, put on makeup, and changed into a pair of plain black pants and a royal blue polyester blouse. A young woman with long dark hair was following her. She was elegantly dressed in a simple black sheath with strappy, high-heeled sandals.

  “I wonder who that is with her,” Shelby said.

  Matt swiveled slightly in his seat. “I’ve never seen her before, but they look alike. Must be a relative—a cousin or something.”

  Shelby risked another glance at the women advancing toward them. The younger woman did look a lot like Rebecca—incredibly like her. So much so that Shelby didn’t think it was a coincidence.

  “I wonder . . . ,” Shelby began.

  Matt smiled. “You wonder what?”

  “You know Rebecca disappeared shortly after high school graduation and no one heard from her again until she returned to Lovett many years later. Her parents were still alive and of course there was her brother, but from what I’ve heard she didn’t contact any of them and none of them knew where she’d gone. They didn’t even know if she was still alive or not.”

  “Do you think there was a quarrel? From what you’ve told me, this Rebecca is a bit hotheaded.” Matt pushed his empty plate away. “I’ve heard of families having arguments that drove them apart like that.”

  “That’s possible, but I don’t think so. There’s another reason why a girl might suddenly disappear like that.”

  Matt cocked his head.

  “Because she was pregnant. I think Rebecca had a baby, and that woman is her daughter.”

  • • •

  As they were finishing their coffee, Shelby noticed the young woman who was with Rebecca headed toward the back of the restaurant.

  “Excuse me,” she said to Matt. “I’ll be right back.”

  Matt stood as Shelby got up from her chair.

  Shelby made her way between the tables toward the restrooms. When she pushed open the swinging door, Rebecca’s companion was standing in front of the mirror, touching up her lipstick.

  Shelby looked around. The ladies’ room was as nicely appointed as the rest of the restaurant, with generously sized mirrors framed in gold, matching gold fixtures, and a plump velvet-covered bench in the corner.

  Shelby stood at the sink next to the young woman and turned on the faucet. She washed her hands, and as she was reaching for one of the paper towels stacked next to the sink, she turned to the girl.

  Shelby smiled. “You look just like your mother.”

  The girl’s face broke into a grin. “I do?”

  “Yes.” Shelby pretended to be flustered. “I mean, I assume that’s your mother.” She gestured toward the dining room. “I’m sorry. I’m being terribly presumptuous.”

  “Not at all.” The girl put her hand on Shelby’s arm. “That is my mother. We’re only now getting to know each other.” She looked down at her feet. “I was adopted shortly after I was born, and my adoptive parents discouraged me from looking for my birth mother. But I’m twenty-two now, and I can do what I want.” She raised her chin.

  “You must be thrilled to have found her.”

  The girl’s face glowed. “I am. Believe me, I am.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Kate, by the way.”

  Shelby shook her hand. “Shelby McDonald.”

  Kate opened her purse and dropped her lipstick inside. “It was nice meeting you.”

  “You, too.”

  Shelby stood in the empty restroom for a moment. So she was right—Rebecca had left town because she was pregnant. And had stayed away for a long time—to be near her daughter, perhaps? To catch a glimpse of her now and then?

  The thought made Shelby’s heart ache. She couldn’t imagine having a child and then not being able to be a part of their life. It would have been unbearable.

  • • •

  Shelby wasn’t surprised to find Bert asleep in front of the television, her knitting abandoned in her lap once again, when Matt dropped her off after dinner.

  As Shelby stepped inside, the dogs raced to the front door, yipping excitedly and wagging their tails furiously. Bert startled awake when she heard the commotion.

  “I must have dozed off,” she said, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands.

  “I hope the kids weren’t too much of a problem.”

  “Not at all. They’re perfectly good at amusing themselves. Amelia has been upstairs since you left. Billy watched a couple of reruns of Hawaii Five-O with me, then went to his room a little while ago. It’s been quiet—I suppose he’s fallen asleep.”

  Shelby sank down onto the sofa, where Jenkins and Bitsy immediately joined her.

  “So, tell me,” Bert said, slapping both palms down on the tops of her knees, “how was your dinner?”

  Shelby had known she was going to get the third degree from Bert as soon as she came home. It was the price she had to pay for having Bert as a babysitter.

  “Dinner was lovely,” Shelby began. “The food was delicious and the restaurant is so charming.”

  “And your date?”

  “Equally charming,” Shelby answered evasively.

  “Come on,” Bert urged. “You can do better than that.”

  “Matt is very nice—”

  “When a woman says a man is nice, that usually means he’s as dull as dishwater,” Bert said.

  Shelby shook her head. “No, no, I mean it in a . . . positive way. He has good manners—he’s pleasant and kind to everyone.” Shelby thought about how gracious Matt had been with their waiter. “He’s interesting.”

  “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” Bert’s eyes gleamed.

  “Are you going to see him again?”

  “Yes. Behind the counter at the general store.”

  Bert shook a finger at her. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

  “I don’t know. I suppose.” Shelby stroked Jenkins’s ear. “But I haven’t told you the most exciting part.”

  Bert leaned forward in her chair.

  “Rebecca Barnstable was there.”

  “At the restaurant? Lucia’s doesn’t seem like the sort of place she would go.”

  “I know. But she wasn’
t alone. She was with a young woman who both Matt and I noticed looked a lot like her. I was able to talk to her when we both went to the restroom.” Shelby paused.

  “Well, go on,” Bert said. “Get to the punch line, for heaven’s sake.”

  Shelby drew out the pause a little longer and then said, “The girl is Rebecca’s daughter. Her name is Kate.”

  “You don’t say!” Bert slapped her hand against her leg. “So that’s why she disappeared all those years ago. She was pregnant.”

  “So it would seem.”

  24

  Dear Reader,

  I don’t know about you, but every time I make a roast, I seem to end up with a complete mess on the bottom of the roasting pan that takes a lot of elbow grease to clean. But fortunately I learned a little trick from my grandmother.

  Sprinkle some baking soda over the bottom of your pan, add hot water and some white vinegar, and let the whole mess soak for a while. When you come back, the burnt bits will lift right off and washing the pan will be a breeze!

  Shelby was tired, but she still found it hard to settle down. The dogs followed her out to the kitchen, their nails tapping on the wide-planked wooden floor. Shelby filled the teakettle and put it on to boil. Maybe some chamomile tea would make her sleepy.

  Jenkins and Bitsy went to stand by the back door and Jenkins began pawing at it. The paint at Jenkins’s level had long since been scraped off, and Shelby didn’t see any point in repainting it—Jenkins would only do it again. Shelby opened the door to let them out for their last run of the night.

  She took her tea and sat down at the kitchen table. What a stroke of luck it had been to run into Rebecca and her daughter. The evening had provided the answer to one question at least—why Rebecca had disappeared those many years ago.

  A thought came to Shelby while she was sipping her tea. Rebecca had done her best to keep her daughter a secret. She was unlikely to run into anyone she knew at Lucia’s in Allenvale—unlike at the Lovett Diner, where everyone pretty much knew one another except maybe for the truckers who came through late at night when all the Lovett residents were already tucked up in bed.

  Could it be that Rebecca had been with Kate the afternoon of Zeke’s murder and that was why she was unwilling to tell the police about it? But surely if she was being suspected of murder . . . Shelby shrugged. People did strange things for strange reasons. Perhaps Rebecca was hoping another detail would emerge to prove her innocent and she wouldn’t have to reveal the existence of her daughter.

  It was certainly a possibility, Shelby thought as she drank the last of her tea, rinsed out the mug, and put it in the dishwasher.

  Shelby opened the back door and called for the dogs. They came running toward the house, Jenkins in the lead and Bitsy lumbering behind. They burst into the kitchen with their tongues hanging. Jenkins had a dried leaf stuck in the fur on his belly, and he rolled around on the floor, trying to dislodge it. Shelby picked it off for him and threw it in the trash.

  Bitsy leaned against Shelby’s leg, looking to be petted, and Shelby reached over and idly scratched her back. Her hand brushed something unusual and she looked down. A piece of paper was rolled up and tucked under Bitsy’s collar.

  Shelby stared at it for a moment. Where on earth had that come from? Bitsy couldn’t have picked it up herself—someone had to have put it there. Her hands shook as she slid the roll out from under the dog’s collar.

  She unrolled the paper. There was a message on it written with letters cut from a magazine. Shelby read the note.

  MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS AND STOP NOSING AROUND OR SOMEONE IS GOING TO GET HURT.

  All the air rushed out of Shelby’s lungs and she felt as if she could no longer breathe. She let go of the piece of paper and it dropped to the floor. Who would have done such a thing?

  The murderer, of course. She’d obviously touched a nerve, but whose?

  Shelby looked at Bitsy and shivered. The killer had been in her yard—close enough to attach that note to Bitsy’s collar. The thought that they might have harmed Jenkins and Bitsy left her weak, and she sank into a kitchen chair.

  She had to call Frank. She realized she hadn’t thought about him all night. Was he still with his date? Maybe she ought to call the police station instead.

  Shelby quickly looked up the number for the Lovett police station. A tired-sounding voice answered on the other end.

  Shelby explained the situation and the officer promised to send someone around immediately. As soon as she hung up the phone she checked the locks on the doors and closed and locked the windows on the first floor.

  She became limp with relief when she saw the lights of a squad car in the driveway. She looked out the window and watched as two officers got out of the car. Suddenly a pickup truck came roaring down the drive and parked alongside them.

  Shelby couldn’t see clearly in the dark, but she was pretty sure that was Frank getting out of the truck. He approached the two policemen and they conferred briefly. The policemen then got back in their squad car and headed down the driveway.

  Moments later there was a knock on the front door.

  Shelby yanked it open. “Frank!”

  “I came as soon as I heard. Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I didn’t want to bother you.”

  Frank fixed Shelby with a stern look. “I’ve told you before. I promised Bill I would look out for you and the kids. And I meant it.”

  “Yes,” Shelby said in a small voice.

  “Where is this note?”

  Shelby led Frank out to the kitchen with Jenkins and Bitsy close on his heels. Normally she would have offered him a cup of coffee, but she was so frazzled, she didn’t think of it.

  Frank took a handkerchief from his pocket and picked the note up off the floor where Shelby had dropped it. He held it gingerly by the corner. His expression darkened as he read it.

  “And you have no idea who sent this to you?”

  “No. It was attached to Bitsy’s collar. I found it when she came in from her last run of the evening”

  “And the dogs weren’t harmed?”

  “No, thank goodness.”

  Frank’s expression darkened further. “They had to have been in your yard—near the house. And you’re here all alone. I don’t like that.”

  “Frankly neither do I,” Shelby said with a slight return of her usual spirit.

  Frank smiled briefly.

  “Why would anyone send you a note like this? Why do they think you’ve been nosing around?”

  Dear Reader, this is the part I’ve been dreading. How do I explain about my snooping?

  “You’ve been asking questions again, haven’t you?” Frank said before Shelby could reply. “Don’t you see how that can be dangerous? Once someone has committed murder, what’s to stop them from doing it again? They have nothing to lose.”

  Frank’s words sent an icy chill down Shelby’s spine.

  “I haven’t really been asking questions,” Shelby said. “People talk and I listen.”

  “Can you think of anything you’ve heard that might have prompted the killer to send this note?” Frank brandished the piece of paper.

  Shelby thought of Rebecca in the restaurant and her daughter, Kate.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  Frank sighed, took a plastic bag from his pocket, and carefully inserted the note.

  “We’ll see if forensics can lift any prints from this, but the system is so backed up that by the time we get the results, the perp will probably have been tried, sentenced, and locked up in jail.”

  Frank put a hand on Shelby’s shoulder. “I’m going to take a look around outside. Lock the door behind me, and call me if you see or hear anything—and I do mean anything—out of the ordinary, okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Promise?”

  “
Promise.”

  • • •

  “You don’t look very perky this morning,” Bert said when she showed up at Shelby’s back door.

  Shelby yawned. “I’m not feeling perky. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  Bert took a mug from the cupboard and poured herself a cup of coffee.

  Shelby told her about finding the note attached to Bitsy’s collar.

  Bert gave a loud harrumph. “I don’t like the sound of that. I’d feel a whole lot better about you and the kids if you had a man under your roof.”

  Shelby bristled. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Of course you are,” Bert said soothingly. “But a big, strong man is a lot more likely to scare someone off than a gal who is only a hair past five feet tall.”

  “I don’t suppose I can argue with that,” Shelby said dryly.

  “Did you still want to make some watermelon pickles?” Bert said, hooking a foot around one of the kitchen chairs and pulling it closer. She put her feet up. “I could give you a hand.”

  “Are you sure?” Shelby said. “Are your legs bothering you?”

  Bert scowled. “Of course not. I like to put them up occasionally. It helps with the circulation.”

  Shelby doubted that, but she knew better than to argue with Bert.

  “If we start on the pickles today, they should be ready by the next farmers’ market. They’re always a big seller.”

  “No time like the present, then.” Bert swung her legs down from the chair and got to her feet.

  Shelby retrieved the watermelons and put them on the counter. She didn’t grow them herself—the Clarks, who had a farm on the other side of Lovett, gave them to Shelby in exchange for some of her root vegetables.

  Cutting the rind off the melons was a tedious process, and Shelby was glad of Bert’s help. She was saving the pulp to make watermelon granita.