Bought the Farm

by Peg Cochran

  Frank scrubbed his face with his hand. “A bit.” He looked up at Shelby. “I thought you’d want to know what we’ve found out.”

  The microwave dinged. Shelby pulled out the plate and slipped it in front of Frank. She opened a drawer and grabbed a fork and a knife and set them beside the plate.

  “This looks delicious.”

  “Would you like some iced tea?”

  Frank looked sheepish. “You wouldn’t happen to have a beer, would you? It’s been that kind of day.”

  Shelby wasn’t much of a beer drinker, but she’d stashed in the refrigerator a couple of bottles that were left behind after Kelly’s wedding.

  “Here you go.” She set a bottle in front of Frank and then took the chair opposite.

  “What have you found out? Anything to do with Travis’s murder?”

  Frank nodded as he finished chewing his bite of chicken. He pointed at the plate with his fork. “This not only looks delicious—it is delicious,” he said.

  Shelby smiled. The way to a man’s heart really was through a home-cooked meal.

  “The ME phoned tonight. He’d finished the autopsy. And in record time, if you ask me—this new guy is really on the ball. A real eager beaver.” Frank forked up a few carrot spears and took a bite.

  Shelby waited while he chewed.

  “He, too, was puzzled by the cause of death because nothing was particularly evident just by examining the body. It did look as if Travis had been hit on the head, but the blow certainly hadn’t been enough to kill him. Stun him maybe—but not much more than that. Other than that, there was only that bruise on his neck—but that hardly would have killed him either.”

  “But he did find something?” Shelby said, absentmindedly twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

  Frank nodded as he cut a piece of chicken. “He found pulmonary edema—in layman’s terms, water in Travis’s lungs.” Frank pointed his fork at Shelby. “Now, the ME also said that pulmonary edema could come from natural causes—heart failure, for instance—or even from something like a drug overdose.”

  “Pulmonary edema? Water in the—”

  “Lungs, yes.”

  “As in drowning?” Shelby raised her eyebrows.

  “There’s no definitive test for drowning, according to the ME, but that seems the most likely. His heart was perfectly fine, so no reason it would have failed, and preliminary toxicology tests showed he didn’t have any drugs in his system—legal or otherwise.”

  “But drowning? There wasn’t any water. . . .” Shelby wrinkled her forehead.

  She flashed back to the scene with Travis hanging from that pole like a scarecrow. How could he have drowned in the middle of a dry field? It didn’t make sense.

  “Oh!” Shelby exclaimed as a thought came to her.

  Frank looked up sharply. “What is it?”

  “The trough. I’d almost forgotten about it. I noticed it on Saturday morning. I thought I might turn it into a planter.”

  Seeing the confused look on Frank’s face, Shelby hurried to explain. “There’s an old rusted trough out in the field—left over from back when my parents kept cows. It was filled with rainwater.”

  Frank stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. “So the killer could have held Travis’s head underwater. That would explain the bruise on the back of his neck.” He put down his fork. “The ME hasn’t had the results from all his tests yet. They’ll be doing an analysis of the water found in his lungs—that should tell us something. But I think you’re right—someone held Travis’s head in the water in that trough until he drowned.”

  “And then strung him up like a scarecrow.”

  8

  Dear Reader,

  If you buy your eggs in the supermarket, most likely they are either white or pale brown. But different breeds of chickens lay different-colored eggs. For instance, your Araucanas, Ameraucanas, and Cream Legbars lay pale blue eggs. Marans lay deep brown eggs—much darker than your usual brown eggs. Welsummers also lay brown eggs—deep chocolate-colored ones with darker brown speckles—and your Penedesencas will give you a very dark brown egg.

  Sometimes Shelby felt like it was always Monday morning. Not that there was any such thing as a weekend when you owned a farm. The chickens wanted to be fed no matter what day of the week it was, and there was so much other work to be done that she couldn’t afford to take two whole days off during the growing season.

  She’d gotten a bit behind what with Kelly’s wedding. Even though the wedding planner had taken care of virtually everything, Shelby had still had plenty to do to get the farm ready for the guests.

  Today she would be planting seeds for squash and cucumbers. Jessie was coming to help—with an extra pair of hands it would take much less time to work the compost into the soil.

  Shelby always enjoyed looking at the nice even rows of seeds when she was done planting. She would start by placing a stake at the ends of each row and then string twine between them to act as a guide.

  Cucumbers needed to be planted one inch deep and six to twelve inches apart. Zucchini, on the other hand, needed to be planted only a half inch deep. The zucchini flowers were edible, and Shelby sometimes added them to salads.

  Technically zucchini are a fruit, but they are most often served in a savory preparation. Shelby even used zucchini in her lasagna—once the plants began producing fruit, it was easy to become overwhelmed with the squash and she was always looking for new ways to prepare it.

  Amelia and Billy were heading into their last weeks of school before summer vacation. It seemed as if the closer they got, the longer it took to get them out of the house in the morning.

  Billy had missed the school bus twice in ten days and Amelia once. Shelby hoped they’d be on time today—she had a lot of work to do.

  The back door slammed shut and Bert appeared in the kitchen.

  “Are we going to plant those zucchini today?” she said as she slipped off the light cardigan she was wearing. “We’re late as it is. We could have had them in the ground a week or two ago without any worries about frost.”

  “I know,” Shelby said. She had to admit she’d been thinking the same thing herself. “Jessie is coming to help, so we should be able to get it done today.”

  “I’m ready when you are,” Bert said.

  Shelby spun around. “Now, Bert.”

  “Don’t you go now, Bert–ing me. You’re going to need help, and here I am.”

  “But your gallbladder . . .”

  “Isn’t going to get any better or worse if I put in a day’s work.”

  “Have you scheduled your doctor’s appointment yet?” Shelby lowered her eyebrows and gave Bert a stern look.

  Bert stuck out her lower lip like Billy did when he didn’t want to take his medicine. Shelby had to put her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

  “Yes,” Bert said with a sigh. “I have. He’ll probably want to cut me open.”

  “You make it sound like he’s going to take a butcher knife to you. He might be able to do the surgery laparoscopically.”

  “I hope so.” Bert put her hands on her hips. “Well, let’s get going. We’re not getting anything done by standing here talking.”

  Shelby knew when to drop the subject. She headed toward the door to the mudroom with Bert behind her and Jenkins and Bitsy weaving in and out of Bert’s legs, champing at the bit to get outside.

  Once they reached the garden, Shelby pulled a roll of twine and two stakes from her basket and began laying out the rows for the seeds. She got several rows staked out, then stood up with a hand at her back.

  Where was Jessie? She should have arrived by now.

  “Where’s that girl you hired?” Bert said almost as if she could read Shelby’s mind.

  “She should be here,” Shelby said, scanning the distance for any sign of Jessie.


  “Is that a car I hear?” Bert said.

  Bert’s hearing certainly hadn’t gone, Shelby thought. Moments later a figure rounded the corner of the farmhouse.

  “Here she is.” Shelby waved to Jessie, who was slowly making her way toward them.

  As Jessie approached, Shelby noticed her shoulders drooped and her mouth was set in a thin line.

  “Hey,” she said when she reached them.

  “Good morning,” Shelby said. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

  Jessie grunted and shrugged.

  “I’m going in to get myself a cold drink,” Bert said, pulling off her gardening gloves. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Shelby knelt down beside her wicker basket and separated the cucumber seed packets from the zucchini seeds.

  “We’re going to plant the zucchini first.” Her knees cracked as she stood up. She bent down and picked up her hoe.

  “Fine.” Jessie hung her head, her dark bangs nearly mingling with her eyelashes.

  Shelby leaned on her hoe. “Is everything okay? You seem upset.”

  “I’m fine,” Jessie said, but a tear rolled down her cheek, giving the lie to her words.

  “Can I help?” Shelby said gently.

  Jessie shrugged again. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong? It might make you feel better even if there’s nothing that can be done about it. But you might be surprised—there’s usually a solution of some sort.”

  “I doubt it.” Jessie sighed. “I hope you’re not going to think badly of me . . . us. But the police came and questioned me and Jax this morning.”

  Shelby was confused. “Jax? You know him.” It was more of a statement than a question, since Shelby suddenly remembered seeing the two of them arguing at the wedding.

  “Yes. He’s my husband. We got married a couple of years ago.” Jessie gave a loud sniff. “I was still in my pajamas and hadn’t even put the coffee on yet when they came knocking at the door. I couldn’t imagine who could be coming to visit at that hour.”

  Shelby frowned. “You both must be very upset about what happened. I’m sorry—it has to be hard for you.”

  Jessie nodded. “What makes it worse is they—the police—seem to think me or Jax might have had something to do with Travis’s murder. At least that’s the way it sounded.”

  “The police have to question everyone. It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re a suspect.”

  Jessie looked up, her face brightening slightly. “Really? Is that true?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But why did they interview us, then? I know Jax is Travis’s brother and I am . . . was . . . his sister-in-law.” Jessie’s eyes shifted away from Shelby’s momentarily.

  Shelby put her hand on Jessie’s arm. “They’ll probably interview everyone who knew Travis. It’s the only way they’ll be able to find out who killed him.”

  “Jax would never hurt his brother,” Jessie said. “Never.”

  And she dropped to her knees and began digging a hole for the first seeds.

  * * *

  • • •

  “It’s getting hot out here, isn’t it?” Bert said when they decided to quit for lunch. The band was practicing in the barn, and Jessie decided to take her sandwich and go listen to them play.

  “It sure is.” Shelby swiped a hand across the back of her neck and blew a lock of hair off her forehead. “I made some egg salad this morning, if that sounds good.”

  “Sounds like those Rhode Island Reds of yours are producing well. I told you they would.”

  “And you were right,” Shelby said, putting an arm around Bert as they walked back toward the farmhouse.

  Shelby stripped off her gardening gloves and dropped them on the table in the mudroom. She headed to the kitchen sink and turned on the hot tap. Shelby scrubbed her hands while Bert filled a pair of tall glasses with iced tea.

  Shelby made the sandwiches, cutting them into triangles the way her mother used to do them for her when she was a little girl, and put them on plates.

  “Here you go.” Shelby slid a plate in front of Bert and sat down opposite, unfurling her napkin and placing it in her lap.

  “We got a lot done this morning,” Bert said, taking a sip of her iced tea. “That Jessie doesn’t look particularly useful, but she can really work when she puts her mind to it. You just have to keep after her.”

  “I’m glad she helped as much as she did. She was quite upset when she arrived. I was afraid she would turn out to be useless.” Shelby took a bite of her sandwich.

  “Really? Why?”

  “The police showed up at her door first thing in the morning, asking questions.”

  “You don’t say?” Bert scooped up a bit of egg salad that had seeped out of her sandwich.

  “Jax is taking Travis’s place in the band.” Shelby pointed vaguely in the direction of the barn.

  “I’d forgotten that there was another Coster boy. He was always in the shadow of his older brother.” Bert patted her lips with her napkin. “Why were the police questioning him? Was there something amiss between Jax and his brother?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m thinking there was. Jessie acted sort of . . . I don’t know. Sort of like she was hiding something. But what, I don’t know.”

  Shelby grabbed the pitcher of iced tea and refilled her glass.

  “Do the police even know what killed the poor fellow?” Bert shook her head. “What a shame—he was so young. It’s one thing for someone as old as I am to pass on, but you’d expect someone his age to have plenty of years left. But if someone killed him, how did they do it?”

  Shelby leaned forward. “Travis drowned. Frank told me.”

  Shelby was pleased to see that for once she’d taken Bert by surprise and not the other way around.

  “Drowned? But there’s no water within miles of that field.”

  “That’s what I said to Frank.” Shelby nibbled on the last bit of crust from her sandwich. “But then I remembered that old trough that Mom and Dad abandoned out there after they stopped raising cows.”

  “A trough? A person wouldn’t fit in there. That doesn’t make any sense. Has Frank lost his marbles?”

  Shelby laughed. “The murderer didn’t have to put Travis’s whole body in the trough—just his head.”

  “But where did the water come from?” Bert looked at Shelby as if she was now doubting Shelby’s sanity.

  “Rainwater. The trough was filled to the brim with rainwater after all the storms we’d had.”

  “How horrible.” Bert pushed her plate away as if the sight of food suddenly sickened her.

  “And the bruise they found on the back of Travis’s neck makes sense—it was most likely caused by the killer forcing Travis’s head into the water.”

  Bert shivered. “But why tie him up to that pole and make him look like a scarecrow?”

  “Who knows?” Shelby shrugged. “Maybe the killer was making some kind of statement.”

  * * *

  • • •

  By three o’clock, Shelby and Jessie had finished planting the zucchini seeds. Shelby had sent Bert home because she’d started looking tired, although Bert had, of course, denied it vehemently and Shelby had had to insist she leave and go get some rest.

  Shelby stood back to admire the neat rows of slightly rounded rich dark earth. In no time, the plants would be sprouting with tender shoots pushing up through the soil, and before she knew it, the ground would be covered with leafy green vines. Jessie stood next to Shelby and gave her first genuine smile of the day.

  “It looks nice, doesn’t it?” Jessie said. “It’s satisfying to create something so neat and orderly.”

  “I know what you mean,” Shelby said, peeling off her gardening gloves. “If only life could be arrang
ed so easily.”

  She looked at her hands. Somehow they always managed to get dirty despite the thick gloves she wore. Fortunately it was easily fixed with a good scrub. And her T-shirt and shorts could go through the wash. They’d emerge clean, if not new, and of course the holes would still be there.

  Jessie headed toward the driveway, her posture a little straighter than it had been when she had arrived that morning. Shelby could only imagine how she must have felt being questioned by the police and what a shock it must have been—even though it was probably just routine—especially coming on the heels of the death of her husband’s brother.

  Shelby followed Jessie across the field, breathing a sigh of relief when she reached the relative coolness of the mudroom.

  A hair elastic was sitting out on the kitchen counter, and Shelby grabbed it. She scraped her hair back off her face and secured it. The air on the back of her neck felt good.

  She was about to head upstairs to wash up and change her clothes when the door to the mudroom opened and closed.

  “Hi, Mom,” Billy said, flinging his backpack in the general vicinity of a kitchen chair. “I’m hungry. What do we have to eat?”

  Shelby smiled. Billy was always hungry. He’d shot up a couple of inches during the school year, and it looked as if his growth spurt wasn’t over yet.

  The back door slammed again and Amelia strolled in, in a much more leisurely fashion.

  “How was school?” Shelby said, although she already knew what the answer would be.

  “Fine.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  Amelia shrugged. “Sort of.”

  “There’s homemade hummus in the refrigerator along with some cut-up vegetables.”

  Billy didn’t need a second invitation. He opened the door to the refrigerator and helped himself.

  “Hey, Billy,” Amelia said. “I want to practice my pitching. Will you catch the ball for me? Please?”

  “Sure,” Billy said, and it was obvious his mouth was already full.

  Amelia had discovered a passion and a talent for baseball—perhaps not so surprising given that her father had been a pitcher for the Bobcats, the Lovett High School baseball team. Shelby was thrilled she’d joined her school’s team. Sports were a good influence and likely to keep teens out of trouble, according to things she’d read.