Sowed to Death

by Peg Cochran

  “I can call back.”

  “Nah, that’s fine. I had a losing hand anyway. What can I do for you?”

  “You said you knew Dick Archer.”

  Shelby grabbed the damp sponge sitting by the sink and scrubbed at a spot on the kitchen table that looked like dried sauce from macaroni and cheese.

  “Yes,” Bert said, drawing out the word, her tone wary.

  “Did he blame Zeke for Ryan having to go to prison? I mean, if Zeke hadn’t turned Ryan in, the police might never have found out that he was the one defacing the gravestones.”

  Shelby put the sponge down and scraped at the spot with her fingernail.

  “Jeez, I don’t know. I suppose it’s possible. Although Dick Archer never struck me as the type to do something like that.” Bert paused. “I think he would be more likely to march his son down to the police station himself.”

  “Can you think of any other reason why Dick Archer might have had a grudge against Zeke?”

  “Nothing comes to mind. Of course, I don’t know everything that goes on.”

  Dear Reader, don’t believe Bert. Very little happens in Lovett that she doesn’t eventually hear about.

  “I wish you wouldn’t play detective,” Bert said. “You could get hurt. Can’t you leave it to Frank?”

  “I will. Don’t worry,” Shelby said, her fingers crossed behind her back. “Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Shelby hung up the phone. A drop of sweat was making its way down her back. She didn’t like lying to Bert, although she was pretty sure that Bert hadn’t believed her anyway.

  Dear Reader, does it count as a lie if the other person knows you’re not telling the truth?

  • • •

  Shelby realized she hadn’t eaten. Her stomach was growling loud enough for her to hear, and she was getting a headache. She opened the refrigerator and peered inside. The contents were pathetic. Here she was, a blogger offering enticing recipes, and she had hardly any food in the house. The saying about the shoemaker’s children came to mind as she prowled around in the produce drawer.

  She found a head of tender butter lettuce she’d picked earlier in the week, the remains of a tomato so ripe it was almost purple, and half a cucumber. She had some fresh mozzarella left from the batch she’d made, along with some homemade croutons—so easy to make and a wonderful use of stale leftover bread.

  She threw together a salad, whipped up some vinaigrette, and took her plate to the small table where her computer was set up. She had to write to the cookware company and let them know she’d sent back their pots and pans and that she wouldn’t be able to endorse their product.

  She scanned her e-mails—there were several from fans of her blog who wrote regularly. She breathed a sigh of relief—no complaints this time.

  She began writing her e-mail and had gotten as far as the first sentence when her phone rang.

  Shelby stretched out an arm, reaching for the receiver that sat on the kitchen table. She clipped a glass full of water, and it overturned, sending a cascade of liquid onto the floor. Shelby stared at it in dismay as she pressed the button to answer the call.

  “Hello?”

  Kelly’s muffled voice came across the line. “I’m so upset.” And she burst into tears.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Shelby reached in the other direction, grabbed a towel hanging from the oven handle, and dropped it on top of the puddle on the floor. She used her foot to swish the towel around and absorb the spilled water.

  Kelly gave a loud sniff. Shelby could hear her blowing her nose.

  “Seth told his mother about our wedding plans, and she’s all upset. She’s insisting on having the wedding at their country club up north. And when Seth told her that was out of the question, she said we could go ahead and have the wedding without her.”

  Shelby frowned. “What did Seth say?”

  “He told her that that was her choice.”

  Shelby pumped a fist in the air. Go, Seth!

  “But now he’s feeling terribly guilty. His mother said his father isn’t well. He has some sort of heart problem. It’s not serious . . . yet. But it could be.”

  Shelby exhaled sharply. “It sounds like his mother is using that to try to persuade you. Has Seth talked to his father himself?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe it’s not as bad as she’s making it sound.”

  Kelly gave another loud sniff, and Shelby waited while she blew her nose.

  “You’re probably right. I’m getting all upset for nothing.”

  “At least Seth is sticking to his guns.”

  Shelby jiggled her mouse just in time to prevent her computer from going into sleep mode.

  “That’s true,” Kelly said, ending her sentence with a hiccough.

  “Changing subjects a bit,” Shelby said, “do you know anything about Dick Archer?”

  “The farrier?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not much. People seem pleased with his work.”

  “Do you think he might have had a grudge against Zeke? After all, Zeke turned Archer’s son in to the police.”

  “Ohhhhh,” Kelly said. “You’re thinking that maybe Dick Archer is the murderer?”

  “He doesn’t seem like the type, but Zeke was killed with a farrier’s hammer.”

  “That was on Sunday, right? At the fair?”

  “Yes—middle of the afternoon.”

  “Let me think.” Kelly was silent for a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t think so what?”

  “That Dick Archer could be the killer. The day of the fair I was called over to Randy Meyerling’s farm to check on one of his cows that he thought might be pregnant—like I had to do for the Mingledorfs that time. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

  Dear Reader, what a shame the cow can’t just pee on a stick and be done with it.

  “Anyway, Dick Archer was there banging out some new shoes for Randy’s old mare. That was midafternoon. And he was still there when I left. And it wasn’t long after that I heard about Zeke’s murder.”

  “You’re sure he wouldn’t have had time to—”

  “No way.”

  Shelby groaned. “That rules him out, I guess. I’m back to square one.”

  Shelby stared at the screen saver that had popped up on her computer—a picture of Amelia and Billy when they were younger, curled up on Bill’s lap. A wave of grief washed over her and she turned away quickly. Maybe it was time to replace the photograph with something that didn’t bring back painful memories.

  “Are you still there?” Kelly asked with laughter in her voice.

  “Yes. Sorry. I was . . . daydreaming.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t you think it odd that both Brenda and Zeke Barnstable were murdered?”

  “I find it odd that anyone in our little town has been murdered. Farmers are quiet people—I certainly don’t think of them as homicidal maniacs.”

  “What I’m wondering is—is there a connection of some sort between the two murders? They were husband and wife. . . .”

  “It’s possible.”

  “The problem is, I can’t imagine what the connection could be.”

  26

  Dear Reader,

  I had an exciting e-mail this morning. Another company is asking me to promote their cookware. They sell cast-iron pots and pans for very reasonable prices.

  Cast iron offers durability (I have my grandmother’s Wagner Ware set and still use it!) and excellent heat retention, making it the perfect choice for searing or frying.

  And it goes from stove top to the oven with no trouble.

  Some pans come preseasoned and others will need a bit of oil rubbed into them. Be sure to clean them with mild soap so as not to remove the
seasoning—a popular method of cleaning is to use coarse salt and a paper towel to rub out the pan.

  Shelby sat for a moment after hanging up with Kelly. Was there a connection between Brenda’s and Zeke’s murders? An idea—little more than a wisp—floated just out of reach. She sighed. Perhaps if she turned her mind to something else, she would be able to grasp the idea—whatever it was.

  She jiggled her computer mouse, and her computer sprang to life again. She devoted time every Saturday afternoon to writing at least two or three blog posts in case the week became too busy and time got away from her.

  She was a creature of habit, she supposed—like the other people in Lovett Bert had mentioned: Jim and Zeke at the Dixie on Thursdays, then Jim with his brother, Sid, there on Friday nights—the same night Brenda and her friends headed to the Dixie for their weekly girls’ night out.

  Shelby paused with her fingers hovering over her computer keys. Something had suddenly struck a chord. What was it? The thought came to her so swiftly, she almost jumped—Jim, Sid, and Brenda all at the Dixie on the same night of the week. Was there any significance in that?

  She picked up a pencil and began tapping it against the desk. Bitsy and Jenkins obviously took that as some sort of signal, because they both showed up at her side, panting heavily against her bare legs.

  “Sorry, guys. False alarm. It’s not time for dinner yet.”

  Jenkins tilted his head this way and that as if he was really listening. Bitsy made her way through the tangle of chair legs and plopped down under the table with a deep sigh that Shelby imagined signaled her disappointment.

  For a moment Shelby lost her train of thought and nearly groaned in frustration. She’d been thinking about Brenda, Jim, and Sid at the Dixie . . . That was it. She snapped her fingers, but this time the dogs merely lifted their heads and stared at her quizzically.

  What if . . . Shelby got so excited, she jumped up from her chair and began to pace up and down the kitchen. What if Brenda saw who hit Sid the night he was killed? And what if that person knew she’d witnessed the hit-and-run? Had they tracked her down and killed her to keep her from going to the police?

  Of course it was possible that Brenda hadn’t even been at the Dixie that night. She might have stayed home, laid up with a headache, the flu, or a stomach upset. Shelby picked up her pencil and began drumming it again. Who would know? She dropped the pencil suddenly, and it rolled off the table and onto the floor. Bitsy and Jenkins both watched it with curiosity but without stirring from their comfortable spots under the table.

  Tonya Perry would know. She and Brenda had been best friends—surely Tonya was part of the group that went to the Dixie every Friday night.

  Shelby almost reached for the phone but then thought better of it. It would be awkward enough approaching Tonya with these questions—it might be better to do it in person.

  Shelby had learned from her mother and grandmother never to go somewhere empty-handed. She would need an excuse to call on Tonya. She’d pick some Macs from the tree out back. Tonya was a whiz at baking—surely she would appreciate having the fruit for a pie.

  Shelby sighed as she looked at the blank screen on her computer. She’d not gotten very far with her blog. She’d have to forgo some reading tonight in order to make up for it. She turned off her computer, grabbed a wicker basket from the kitchen counter, and went out the back door with Bitsy and Jenkins happily trotting at her heels.

  Shelby took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of apples that drifted toward her on the breeze long before she even reached the small group of fruit trees.

  It didn’t take her long to fill her basket with ruby red Macs—enough for at least two apple pies. She hoped Tonya would be pleased.

  Shelby washed her hands, transferred the apples to a brown paper bag, refilled the dogs’ water dishes, and headed out the door.

  • • •

  Tonya’s house wasn’t far from what passed for downtown Lovett. Kelly had said that Tonya had inherited it from her grandmother. The house was fairly close to the street, with weathered white paint and scrubby grass in the front yard. Shelby headed up the cracked concrete walk and rang the bell.

  The door creaked as Tonya opened it. If she was surprised to see Shelby standing on her doorstep, she didn’t show it. She put up a hand to fluff her blunt-cut bangs as she pulled the door wider and gestured for Shelby to go in.

  “I’ve brought you some apples.” Shelby held out the paper bag. “I thought you might like them for some pies.”

  Tonya took the bag and held it to her chest as if she feared Shelby would snatch it back again. They went into an old-fashioned parlor at the front of the house. It looked as if Tonya had inherited her grandmother’s furniture along with the house. The sofa was stiff and the fabric scratched the backs of Shelby’s thighs.

  “Would you like some lemonade?”

  “Yes, thank you, but please don’t go to any trouble.”

  Tonya smiled. “It’s no trouble.”

  Shelby heard Tonya opening and closing the refrigerator door and rummaging in the kitchen cupboards. Moments later Tonya reappeared with two sweating glasses of lemonade. She handed one of them to Shelby.

  Shelby hadn’t worked out how to broach the reason for her visit. She stalled, taking several sips of her drink.

  Tonya’s smile was beginning to wear thin when Shelby finally brought up the subject of Brenda’s death.

  Tonya lifted the hem of her shirt and dabbed at her eyes.

  “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “Do you still go to the Dixie on Friday nights?”

  Tonya shook her head. “It’s not the same without Brenda. I haven’t been there since the night she died.”

  Shelby looked around for a place to put her empty glass, but there weren’t any coasters so she continued to hold it.

  “Were Sid and Jim there that night, too? Do you remember?”

  Tonya was already nodding her head. “Yes. They were always there on Friday nights. One of Brenda’s friends—I didn’t know her real well—used to talk to Sid. I think she was hoping he would ask her out, but he never did.”

  “Had Sid had a lot to drink that night? I understand he and Jim had a fight.”

  “That’s what he and Jim fought about. Sid was ordering another beer with a whiskey chaser—his usual—when Jim tried to tell him he’d had enough. They began quarreling and got quite loud. I remember the bartender shot Sid a look, and that’s when he got up and stormed out. He bumped into this couple’s table on his way to the door, and knocked over the woman’s beer. It spilled all over her lap, and she was furious. But Sid didn’t even stop to say he was sorry or anything.”

  “Brenda was still there when that happened?”

  “Yes, but she said she had to go. Zeke would be waiting for her.”

  “She drove herself to the bar?”

  Tonya squirmed in her seat, obviously uncomfortable. “We didn’t want her to leave. She’d had a couple of beers over her usual limit. Our friend Kathy said she’d take her home, but Brenda insisted she was fine and would drive herself.”

  Shelby was silent while Tonya chewed her bottom lip.

  “Brenda was all worked up about Zeke—I think that’s why she drank more than her usual. She was complaining about how he didn’t pay any attention to her and didn’t appreciate her and how all she did was work all the time. I think she was unhappy at that Laundromat, where she had a part-time job, and wanted to quit, but Zeke wouldn’t hear of it.”

  Tonya paused to take a breath.

  “Afterward we were . . . we were worried that Brenda might have . . . We were afraid that Brenda might have done it. That she might have been the one who hit Sid.”

  Tonya pulled at her bottom lip with her fingers. “Next thing we hear that Brenda’s disappeared.”

  “Was that right aft
er—”

  “No. It was a couple of days later. On the Wednesday after Sid’s funeral.”

  “She didn’t tell anyone where she was going?”

  “Not that I know of. She didn’t tell me—I know that. Not Kathy, either, or any of her other friends, or they would have said.”

  Tonya put her empty glass down on the carved wooden coffee table, and Shelby winced. She was afraid it was going to leave a ring.

  “It sounds terrible, but we figured she might have run away because—you know—she was the one who’d killed Sid.”

  Tonya tugged at the hem of her shirt. “And here she’s been dead all along.” She wiped her sleeve across her eyes. “I always said that Zeke must have done it. Brenda made it sound like the two of them weren’t getting along. Maybe Zeke decided to do something about it.” Tonya sniffed. “With all that property Zeke had, he probably figured they’d never find the body.”

  • • •

  Shelby was so preoccupied while making dinner that she nearly set fire to the bacon fat she was heating for the creamed corn. Amelia rescued the pan just in time and gave her mother an appraising look before going back upstairs to her room.

  Shelby couldn’t stop thinking about what Tonya had told her. Had Zeke killed Brenda and then buried her body, telling everyone that she had run off somewhere? Or had Brenda witnessed the hit-and-run accident that killed Sid and the driver had come after her, killing her and then burying her on her own property? If her body was found, Zeke would have been the first and most logical suspect.

  But then who had killed Zeke and why? Maybe the two murders weren’t connected after all, and she was wasting her time.

  Shelby stood over the stove, stirring the corn mixture. She looked at the situation from every angle she could think of. She was ready to give up when a thought came to her. It was so startling, she accidentally hit the side of her arm against the frying pan.

  She quickly shoved her arm under cold running water, watching as a thin red line formed on her forearm. She grabbed a paper towel, blotted off the water, and picked up the phone. She waited breathlessly for Kelly to pick up.

  “Kelly,” Shelby said when her friend finally answered. “Are you up for an adventure?”