Crops and Robbers

by Paige Shelton

  True to Betsy’s memory, there was a sliding glass door in the back. It looked strange amid the vintage doors and windows, but it was probably extremely useful. On this side of it, a concrete patio held the most modern grill I’d ever seen. The only other things on the patio were one chair and one small side table. The sheer loneliness of the few items in the middle of the huge patio sent a wave of sympathy through my chest.

  But, I told myself silently, weren’t many criminals loners? And strange, perhaps strange enough to build a castle out in the middle of the South Carolina countryside? And keep it a secret? I was continually surprised at the weirdness in the world.

  On the other side of the glass doors was a kitchen to match any restaurant’s anywhere. There was a three-bin sink against a tiled wall—it was difficult to tell from the outside looking in, but it seemed the tile was a dark green, the cabinets a dark wood, and the floor done in just as dark a wood.

  Against another wall stood a large six-burner stove with built-in oven and grill and a huge stainless refrigerator. A butcher-block island took up the center of the space. There was a slot around the perimeter of the block that was packed with knives, their points sticking down like ragged teeth. Of course, I wondered if Nobel had a fascination with the utensils and if that fascination had been why two people had been killed the way they had.

  “People don’t know about this place? He doesn’t entertain?” I said.

  Betsy shook her head. “He loves to cook. He loves to experiment with recipes. He’s probably always in his kitchen when he’s here, but he’s always alone from what I understand.”

  If I lived in such a place—which I would never choose to do—I would have to have family and friends over just to justify having so much space. I wasn’t very social, but I also wasn’t a loner. I didn’t like anything about the way the eerie mansion made me feel.

  Betsy reached for the door handle and pulled. The door swished open, and a gust of cool, air-conditioned air blew at our faces.

  “We’re in,” Betsy said as if she’d said it before. “Come on.” She stepped up and into the kitchen.

  “In for a penny,” I muttered quietly as I joined her in the kitchen.

  Betsy sniffed. “Oregano. I know he’s been working on the spaghetti sauce here, too.”

  I sniffed and was surprised at the smell. I knew what oregano smelled like. I’d smelled plenty of Herb and Don’s. I’d sometimes used it on foods I’d prepared, but there was something different about what I was smelling, something I recognized but couldn’t place.

  “What else am I smelling?” I asked.

  Betsy shrugged. “I’m not sure. I just smell oregano.”

  “Does oregano smell like something else? Maybe cologne or something?”

  Betsy laughed. “Not that I’m aware of. It smells good, but not that kind of good. Come on, we’d better get searching.”

  Again, I let Betsy lead the way down a dark hallway and past some darker rooms. The temperature in the house was particularly cool, which only added to the atmosphere. We passed a bathroom, a room with a large grand piano, and a library with only one shelf stocked with books. After a left turn in the hallway, we came upon an office. It was well furnished with a large desk, a separate table with a couple more chairs, a large flat-screen television, and a recliner.

  “When he’s not in the kitchen, I bet he’s in here,” I said.

  “Yeah. And this would be the place to find bank statements if he’s got them. Let’s look around. I’ll take the desk, you take the file cabinet.”

  “Remember, don’t leave fingerprints,” I said.

  “Oh. Yeah. I should have thought of that,” Betsy said sincerely.

  Using my knuckles, I opened the top file drawer. It was jam-packed with hanging files that were in turn jam-packed with papers. The drawer was so full that it was difficult to continue to use my knuckles, but I was motivated not to leave evidence.

  “See anything?” Betsy said.

  “It doesn’t seem organized. There are folders with months written on the tabs. From the best I can tell, each of those are full of recipes, either from newspapers or maybe just printed from a web page. I wonder if he looks at them after he files them.”

  “He memorizes them.”

  I turned and looked at her. “All of them?”

  “So I was told.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “It’s a crazy savant thing, but he can recite any recipe he’s ever read.”

  “I can’t even remember my grandmother’s chocolate chip cookie recipe. I have to look at my recipe card every time.”

  “What about your jam and preserve recipes? Do you have to look those up?”

  “Well, no, but they’re not all that difficult, and I’ve made them hundreds of times.”

  She shrugged. “It’s his passion—food, cooking, creating recipes that keep people coming back for more. I don’t think Joan contributed one new recipe to the restaurant since Nobel starting working there; that includes when he was a teenager and only worked part-time.”

  I couldn’t fathom having the kind of mind that could memorize recipes.

  “I bet he never has to write down a grocery list,” I said.

  “Actually, he does. It’s just with recipes. It’s weird.”

  We each went back to our searches. The two-drawer file cabinet didn’t seem to hold anything more important than recipes and more recipes. I didn’t take the time to inspect any of them closely, but one for apple fritters caught my attention briefly. I didn’t take it, though. If Nobel had some freaky gift for memorizing recipes, he probably knew where each of them was filed, too.

  “Hey, Becca. I think I found the statements,” Betsy said incredulously.

  “Really?” I closed the file drawer and joined her next to the desk.

  She’d been rummaging around in the bottom side drawer of the desk and had pulled out a stack of cellophane-window envelopes. They were slit open across the top. The statements were back in the envelopes, the address showing through the cellophane windows. The recipient was Central South Carolina Restaurant Association with Nobel’s house address.

  “I guess we’d better look at one. That’s what we came here for,” I said, though a part of me wondered if I was being set up. She seemed to find the statements pretty quickly—too quickly, maybe.

  “How do we do that without leaving fingerprints?”

  I had an idea, but I didn’t tell her what it was.

  “I’ll risk it,” I said as I took an envelope from her hands and pulled out the statement.

  It was a single sheet of paper that listed the account’s balance at the beginning of the month and then at the end. The account had $17,765 in it at the beginning of the month, and $1,389 at the end. There was no itemized listing of what the money was spent on, but a comment at the bottom read, “Thank you, valued customer. As per your request, your itemized listing of deposits and withdrawals is available online only. Please let us know whatever we can do to serve you better.”

  “Shoot. They bank online,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t have a clue what he uses for a password,” Betsy said.

  Suddenly a loud click sounded from . . . from somewhere.

  “What was that?” I said.

  Betsy shrugged and then said quietly, “Can’t be Nobel. No way is he home early.”

  “I suppose there’s a first time for everything.” My heart rate sped up as panic-induced adrenaline began to shoot through my system.

  “What do we do?” Betsy asked.

  “We get out of here.” I took the statement and envelope I’d touched and put them in my pocket. Without getting fingerprints on the other envelopes, I put them back in the drawer and shut it with my shin. Just as it shut, I heard the sound of barking dogs.

  “Nobel has a dog? Or dogs?” I said.

  “I didn’t think so.” Betsy shook her head. She was getting paler.

  The barking got louder and louder as more than one dog
got closer and closer. They sounded very angry, rabid maybe.

  “Holy crap,” I said. “This isn’t good.” Had Nobel come home, seen our vehicles, and then gathered the dogs to attack? I didn’t remember seeing or hearing dogs anywhere.

  The barking got even louder, but we were both frozen behind the desk. It was hard to tell from which direction the dogs were coming, which meant we didn’t know which direction to run.

  “Maybe we should just shut the door and hope for the best,” I said.

  I didn’t wait to hear Betsy’s response but stepped from behind the desk and ran to the office door. The barking continued to get louder, and it seemed my feet were in molasses as the dogs got closer.

  Just as I reached the door, the barking reached a fever pitch and I was certain that I’d be greeted with foaming mouths and sharp teeth before I could shut it.

  To make matters worse, Betsy screamed as my hand almost hit the doorknob. I thought maybe she’d seen a dog leaping for my fingers, so I abandoned that idea and took some steps backward. I lifted my arm to cover my face and waited for the imminent attack.

  Twenty-five

  That never came.

  The barking dogs approached, their claws silent but their collective bark becoming deafening. And then the barking decreased in volume, as if the dogs had passed right in front of the door and then kept going.

  I hadn’t seen them. How had I not seen them?

  For a few long and thoughtful moments, I stood and stared at the open doorway and listened to my heavy, panicked breathing.

  Finally I turned to Betsy and said, “What the hell was that?”

  Her eyes were wide as she shook her head. Suddenly, the barking that had now become distant and faraway stopped altogether, followed by another click.

  Betsy’s eyes went to the space above the door. I turned and looked up. There was a small square that was pocked with holes.

  “Do you think that’s a speaker?” she asked, her voice still tight from the previous moments of fear. “Do you think the barking is part of some security system recording? I bet you could hear that outside. If I’d heard that when we were at the front door, it would have deterred me from trying to get inside.”

  “Saying Nobel is odd is putting it mildly,” I said, now angry at him for using such a horrifying method to protect his property.

  “It makes sense. He’s too far away to respond to any alarm that might be triggered from someone breaking in. So are the police. I’d like to leave now. How about you?”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  With the statement in my pocket, we sprinted back out through the kitchen’s sliding door. Once outside, away from the imaginary dogs, I took a deep breath. I had an inkling that I might laugh about the dog recording someday, but that day wasn’t going to be this one.

  “Should we go talk to Nobel?” Betsy asked as we came back around to the front of the house.

  “Absolutely,” I said again. I wanted to talk to him even more now, as well as smell him.

  I didn’t know if Betsy noticed that I had pocketed the statement. My plan was to get it to Sam as soon as Betsy and I finished talking to Nobel. I’d make a fast trip to Bistro and then get back to Monson with whatever else I learned.

  “Follow me.” Betsy got in her car just as my phone buzzed.

  “Sam?” I said as I answered.

  “Where are you?” he asked. “Can you talk freely?” His voice was firm but strained.

  “I’m outside Monson.” It wasn’t a lie. “And, yes, go ahead.”

  “Allison’s here visiting with your parents, and she told me that you and Betsy Francis stopped by the market. Are you still with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you get away from her?” he asked.

  She was sitting in her car, waiting as I took the call.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Becca, we’ve come across information that Betsy drove Joan to the market the day she was killed. No one saw them leave together, but the assumption is that they did and that she was with Joan at your farm. She was here this morning. She left me something that leads me to be more than a little suspicious of her actions. Can you get away from her?” he repeated.

  I looked around again. Other than Betsy, there wasn’t another soul in sight. She had led me out here, but she hadn’t seemed threatening. In fact, there were a number of moments when she could have done something to me without anyone knowing. She’d had easy access to knives. She hadn’t killed me yet, but if she’d been the one to transport Joan, there was a chance that she was the killer. I was more disappointed about that idea than I thought I might be. Of course, I wanted the killer to be someone other than my mother, but I was beginning to kind of like Betsy. Besides, after the barking alarm, I’d set my sights on Nobel being the bad guy. However, the fact that those sights that had been set on him because of Betsy’s input was probably suspicious.

  “Yeah, I can. I’ll meet you back at the station. I left a message for Ian,” I said. I closed the phone and hoped he got what I was saying; if for some reason I didn’t make it back to the station, I’d left a message giving Ian a more specific idea of where I’d gone.

  “Change of plans,” I said to Betsy. “I’ve got to head back to Monson. My mom needs me for something.” It was a lame excuse, but how could anyone possibly argue with someone whose mother needed them, even if that mother was incarcerated?

  “Uh, okay, sure. Come by the restaurant later if you want to,” Betsy said.

  “Thanks, Betsy, for everything,” I said graciously, just in case she was the killer and she valued good manners.

  “You’re welcome.”

  I got in my truck, thanked the powers that be that it always started easily and put it into gear. Betsy signaled for me to go first. I steered off the property, down the bumpy road, and back to the state highway. There wasn’t much traffic, but Betsy stayed off the state highway as I headed straight toward Monson. Maybe she was making a call or something? After a car passed in front of her and was in the position behind me, she pulled out—going the same way I was going.

  If I hadn’t received the call from Sam, I wouldn’t have been watching her in my rearview mirror. She was going the opposite direction of Bistro. She had to know that the one car in between us wasn’t doing much to hide her. She also knew that if a high-speed chase occurred, her car would leave my truck in the dust. I kept rolling down the road, wondering what was going on but anxious to get back to the parking spot in front of the county building. There was a good ten minutes of wide-open state highway in front of me and only a Kia in between me and a potential killer, but I wasn’t as concerned as I was curious.

  I was relieved to pull into the same spot I’d left from. This time, Allison’s car was in the spot that Betsy had previously parked in and Sam was standing at the top of the stairs.

  Betsy had followed me all the way back to town. She was parked around the corner, but I could still see her.

  “Betsy followed me back,” I said casually as I joined Sam. “She’s parked over there.” I subtly nodded with my head.

  “I see. I’ll send Vivienne out to see what’s going on. Let’s get inside.”

  Sam and I hurried up the inside stairs and into the police station offices. Allison and Aldous were sitting next to Sam’s desk, discussing something. After Sam instructed Officer Norton to explore what Betsy was up to, I pulled out the statement and handed it to Sam.

  “This is a statement for the Central South Carolina Restaurant Association. It’s not itemized. I stole it. Is there any way you could demand the bank to give you something that’s itemized?

  Sam, Allison, and Aldous stared at me for a moment.

  “Where did you get this?” Sam asked.

  “Hang on,” Aldous said as he stood. “I don’t want to hear this. Excuse me a moment.”

  Once Aldous was out of earshot, I took a deep breath. I could have told Allison and Sam the truth; a part of me wanted to. But Sam was still
a police officer, and it was his job to enforce the law. I decided not to put him in a compromising position.

  “Nobel Ashworth, Joan’s son, is in charge of the bank account for the association. Sam, can you get a better record?”

  He shook his head. “Not without a subpoena. And I don’t have any good reason to ask for a subpoena.”

  Allison looked at me and then at Sam. “Now that I know which bank it is, I can,” she said as she stood. “Give it to me. I’ll be back as quickly as possible.”

  Neither Sam nor I argued as Allison took the statement and left, her dark ponytail swinging with her brisk pace. Allison knew everyone, and everyone knew and respected her. She’d never take advantage of that respect unless it meant freeing her husband, son, mother, father, or maybe even me from jail.

  “You don’t want to give me the details of how you obtained that statement?” Sam asked.

  “No.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I thought the next time I saw Sam, the air would be filling with anxious embarrassment over the kiss I inflicted on him. I was wrong, and he was true to his word. He was acting as though it never happened, and I was grateful.

  Aldous rejoined us. “Sam was just about to tell me something. What was it, Sam?”

  “Gus has run everyone’s fingerprints. We’ve got nothing.” Sam pointed at his computer. “Everyone is clean as clean can be. I’ve never known a group of people to show so little to no criminal activity.”

  “Damn,” I said.

  “Gus agrees with me, though, about the odd placement of the fingerprints on the knife. We’re waiting for a report from Charleston.”

  “What would it mean if an expert agrees with you? Would Mom be released?” I asked.

  “Only if we can convince the prosecution to drop the charges based upon the findings. If not, we make sure we get the expert to testify at the trial. We just need reasonable doubt. I think the print formation shows that,” Aldous answered for him.