Deadly Harvest

by Marissa Shrock

  Grandpa, Cory, and I survived an exhausting—and mercifully distracting—four days of harvesting beans, including the field where I’d found Tara’s body. Saturday afternoon brought rain, so after a nap, I sat down at my kitchen table, where I’d stacked mail for the last several days. I made quick work of separating bills from junk mail, but a pale blue envelope with a P.O. box return address—but no name—caught my attention. Probably another invitation to a baby shower. I certainly received my fair share of those since most of my childhood friends had married several years ago and were onto the baby-making phase of life.

  I ripped open the envelope and pulled out a blue and white striped card covered in neat print on the inside.

  Dear Georgia,

  I hope this note finds you well. I have awesome memories of taking piano lessons from you. This is going to sound weird, but I could use some investigation advice, and I don’t want to involve the police yet. I also don’t have the money to hire a PI. Bobbi Sue Miller told me you’ve never given up on finding answers in your dad’s case, and with all of your experience, you might be able to give me some insight on my situation.

  I’m pretty scared, so I didn’t want to risk contacting you by email, phone, or social media. If you’re willing to meet, I’ll be at Latte Conspiracies in Wildcat Springs on Thursday, October 5, from 6:00 until closing. Feel free to stop by any time. I hope to see you there.

  Sincerely,

  Tara Fullerton

  The note fell out of my hand and plunked onto the table as blood pulsed in my head and my gut clenched. It wasn’t only the shock of getting a note from Tara. That was bad enough, but one line in her note mocked me: You’ve never given up on finding answers in your dad’s case.

  But I had.

  Daddy’s murder investigation had gone cold, and in spite of the sheriff’s department’s best efforts—and my private quest for answers—nobody had been able to explain why one of Wildcat Springs’s most beloved citizens had been shot and killed one October night on his way home from a school board meeting, where he’d served as president.

  Detectives theorized he’d spotted suspicious activity at the grain elevator a few miles from our house. When he stopped to look, he’d stumbled on a robbery in progress and had been shot before he could call 911. But the lack of evidence and security cameras had made it difficult to solve the case.

  I’d abandoned all investigative efforts three years ago. Apparently, Bobbi Sue hadn’t gotten the memo. I rested my head in my hands.

  Wait a second. I lifted my head.

  If Tara was too scared to go to the police, then my gut feeling was right, and her death wasn’t an accident. I had to turn in the note.

  I scrolled through my phone, located the number for the sheriff’s department, and tapped the call button.

  “I need to speak with the person in charge of the Tara Fullerton investigation,” I said when a woman with a nasal voice answered.

  “That’d be Detective Perkins. I’ll put you through to his voicemail.”

  Voicemail. Of course. It was Saturday evening. While the detective’s greeting played, I tried to gather my thoughts to overcome the hurdle of leaving a coherent message.

  “Detective Perkins, this is Georgia Winston. I need to talk to you about a note I received from Tara Fullerton. It sounds like she was in trouble before she died.” I left my number and disconnected. As soon as I ended the call, my phone vibrated with a text from Ashley.

  Where r u? Dinner’s almost ready.

  Right. Dinner with Ashley and Brandi. With my churning stomach, eating would be impossible. I glanced down at my thighs. Well, probably not as impossible as I wanted to believe. My jeans were snug, thanks to a lack of exercise during the last few weeks. I picked up my phone and texted back.

  On my way.

  I folded Tara’s note so that the print showed, slid it in a plastic bag, and began a search for my purse and shoes.

  It wasn’t unusual for Brandi, Ashley, and me to gather for dinner and a movie on a Saturday night when none of us had dates—which was far more often than either Ashley or I liked to admit. Both Ashley and Brandi could cook—and were good at it—so they nearly always made a meal. I’d missed out on the culinary gene when God was handing out domestic talents, so my idea of cooking was ordering wings or pizza from the local joint, but my friends never seemed to mind.

  “Hon, I’m making good old southern comfort food tonight,” Ashley said as I walked in the back door of her newly renovated 1920’s bungalow. From her front porch, she had a view of Sycamore Park, and she lived within walking distance of our favorite coffee shop and her favorite bookstore.

  Ashley was working at the marble-topped island, and she wore a cupcake print apron trimmed in pink. “I figured you’d need the good stuff after the week you’ve had.”

  Brandi and Ashley didn’t know the half of it since I hadn’t bothered to fill them in about Evan. “Sounds perfect.” My tone didn’t make it to enthusiastic and died somewhere around lackadaisical. I dropped down on the bench in the breakfast nook.

  Brandi’s forehead creased as she walked to the refrigerator and began filling glasses with water. “Something’s bothering you. Besides finding Tara.”

  “Yeah.” I recounted my awkward conversation with Evan in the combine cab while Brandi and Ashley gaped at me.

  “Unbelievable.” Ashley dumped an eight-ounce container of sour cream into steaming potatoes and started smashing. “I’m pretending these potatoes are Evan’s—”

  “Ashley Marie Choi.” Brandi stopped filling a glass with water.

  Ashley’s neck grew blotchy, and she whirled toward the refrigerator, wielding the hand masher as a weapon. Globs of potatoes dripped onto the blue and white patterned tile. “What on earth did you think I was going to say, Mom?” She raised her chin. “I was going to say head.” She turned around and slammed the hand masher with gusto.

  I smiled, got up, and wiped the potatoes off the floor.

  Brandi’s face melted into a scowl. “Can you believe the arrogance of that guy?”

  “He was trying to be sensitive.” I washed the potatoes off my hands and cleaned the spot on the floor with a wet paper towel. “Besides, he knew it wasn’t the best time. I goaded him into telling me.”

  “He also showed up without an invitation,” Brandi said.

  “Technically, you all have an open invitation to the combine cab.”

  “And this city girl needs to take you up on that because it sounds completely fascinating, and it might impress a few men I know.” Ashley finished the potatoes and dropped the masher in the sink. “By the way, you shouldn’t defend Evan. As far as I’m concerned, he was trying to ease his own conscience because he knows he led you on.”

  That pretty much summed it up, since his little visit had removed all doubt that he’d known how I felt about him. “It’s fine. Believe me, there’re bigger problems in the world.”

  “No, it’s not fine.” Brandi picked up the stack of silverware from the counter and began placing it around the table in the dining room. “None of this is, and you don’t have to pretend with us.”

  My throat thickened. “Thanks. But you know what? Let’s talk about someone else’s issues right now. I’m tired of thinking about my own.” I stole a crouton from the salad bowl on the island. “Like how about when you’re going to go on a date, Brandi.” I popped the crouton in my mouth and crunched.

  Her eyes darkened. “I’m not ready.”

  “But it’s been almost three years,” I said. Brandi’s husband Brian had died in a car accident.

  “Your blind date stories don’t exactly inspire me to reenter the dating pool.” She grinned and fiddled with the silverware.

  “You have to admit they’re funny. Don’t you want fodder to entertain us with?”

  “Now, ladies. How would these poor gentlemen feel if they knew we were laughing at their expense?” Ashley removed fried chicken that’d been warming in the oven.

 
“Like they never laugh at us.” My phone vibrated in my purse, and I prayed it was the detective. “Excuse me.” I walked through the dining room and into the living room where I answered.

  “Detective Cal Perkins, returning your call.”

  I pushed aside the teal decorative pillows, perched on Ashley’s couch with my back to my friends, and tried to remember if I’d met Detective Perkins the day I’d found the body. Detective Marvin Kimball had taken my statement, and this man’s pleasant, resonant voice was a nice contrast to Detective Kimball’s smoker’s growl.

  “Ms. Winston? Are you there?”

  “Yes, sir,” I whispered and then cleared my throat. “I received a letter from Tara Fullerton today. She asked me to meet her this past Thursday because she was having some sort of trouble and needed my advice. She was scared and didn’t want to involve the police.”

  “The letter came today? And she wanted advice from you?” There was no mistaking the skepticism in his tone.

  “I opened it today. I don’t know what day it came. See, I’m a farmer, and I was in the middle of cutting beans, and I let my mail pile up, so I just got to it today. I used to give Tara piano lessons, and—”

  “Ms. Winston, take a breath and tell me why you think Tara Fullerton wanted to speak with you.”

  I did and rested my elbows on my knees. “I’m sorry. Finding her body and getting this letter have brought back memories of my daddy’s murder. His case went cold, and for years everybody in Wildcat Springs knew I was investigating, and that’s why Bobbi Sue from Latte Conspiracies told Tara about me, but Bobbi Sue doesn’t know I gave up three years ago because I never found any answers, and I don’t know why she ever thought I’d be able to help Tara in the first—”

  “Ms. Winston, take another breath.”

  “I’m sorry for babbling.” I clenched my fist. “I’m the one who found Tara Fullerton’s body. In my field. That I own.” I said the words to try to make myself sound respectable, but it was probably way too late for that since I was coming off like I belonged in a loony bin.

  “I know. Tell you what,” he said as if he were trying to pacify me. “Bring that letter into the sheriff’s department Monday morning around nine, and we’ll talk.”

  “I will. Thank you, sir.” I disconnected and stared at Ashley’s coffee table that her mother had brought from Korea when she’d moved to the United States years ago. I wanted to fly away like the mother-of-pearl birds in the design.

  “Georgia?” Brandi’s eyes widened when she saw me. Wiping her hands on her jeans, she sat next to me. “What’s going on? Was that Evan? Because if he’s upset you again, I’ll—”

  I swallowed, pulled the bagged note out of my purse, and handed it to her.

  She sat next to me, read it, and gasped. “This is disturbing.”

  “I was talking to a detective about it.” I rested my head in my hands. “Why would Bobbi Sue think I could help Tara when I never even figured out who killed my dad?”

  “Hold the phone.” Ashley walked in. “Did I hear you say someone killed your dad?” She untied her apron and threw it on the rocking chair next to the couch.

  “Yeah. And they never caught the murderer.”

  “I’m so sorry, hon.” Tears filled Ashley’s eyes as she knelt beside me. “You never told me that’s how he died.” There wasn’t an ounce of accusation in her voice—just shock.

  “I don’t like to talk about it.” I laced my fingers and squeezed. It surprised me that she’d lived in Wildcat Springs for two and a half years and hadn’t heard. Had people already forgotten my daddy?

  “That’s understandable.” Ashley brushed her hand across her eyes.

  Brandi put her arm around me. “Let’s pray about this. Right now.”

  She thought prayer solved everything, which I guess I should believe too, but I’d never quite gotten to that point. It always impressed me that she actually had—considering everything she’d endured.

  “Yes, let’s do it.” Ashley clasped my hand.

  I nodded.

  “Father, we’re scared and confused,” Brandi said. “We don’t understand why Georgia’s dad died, but please bring the person responsible to justice. Give Georgia peace and hope. Show us how to help. Help the authorities figure out what happened to Tara. Amen.”

  I took a shuddering breath and lifted my head. “We should eat. There’s no point in letting Ashley’s good food go to waste.”

  As we stood, I didn’t miss the fact that Ashley and Brandi exchanged worried glances. But I didn’t care. I’d been dealing with this longer than we’d been friends and was a professional at handling it.

  That night, I couldn’t sleep, so I settled into my daddy’s black leather recliner that occupied the same space in front of the fireplace that it had when this house had belonged to my parents. During the day, I could look out at the pond and my vegetable patch and remember all the years daddy and I had spent tending the garden.

  I tucked the black and white blanket my late grandma Winston had crocheted around my legs and lifted the footrest. Opening my laptop, I found the file labeled Murder Investigation.

  I’d given up because my search for answers had robbed me of joy. When God had asked me to let it go, I’d obeyed, though it had been one of the hardest things I’d ever done. I thought of my small group’s recent Bible study in Ecclesiastes, and one verse from chapter three came to mind.

  “A time to search and a time to give up.”

  God cared about justice. Would he allow Daddy’s case to go unsolved forever?

  What are you doing, Lord? Do you want me to start searching for answers again?

  Blinking moisture from my eyes, I studied the document with notes and observations from my research that were all dead ends. With a sigh, I slapped the laptop shut and stared at the family pictures on the mantle. My favorite was the one of Daddy and me that Mom had taken in front of our old red barn the Father’s Day before his murder.

  Life had seemed so much simpler then. Right now, I didn’t have any answers.

  About anything.

  Chapter Four

  “Georgia!” Beverly Alspaugh stopped and grasped my arm. Fellow churchgoers at Wildcat Springs Community Church milled around us in the multi-purpose room during the fellowship time between Sunday school and the main service. Clusters of people stood sipping lattes, mochas, or plain old dark roast coffee they’d purchased from the shop in the corner. All the proceeds went to an orphanage in Guatemala.

  “I’m so glad I caught you.” Beverly adjusted her floral-print blouse.

  I gave her a quick hug. “How’re you feeling?”

  “About the same. Cancer’s relentless, but I’m not giving up.” She patted her curly gray wig.

  “I’ll keep praying.” I wasn’t good with remembering to ask God about every little thing, but I did keep the weekly list of church requests on my refrigerator—and Beverly was at the top of it. Had been for a year.

  “Thank you, dear. Enough about that.” She clutched my arm. “I’ve been meaning to call you because you had a rotten week. I can’t imagine how horrifying it must’ve been to find the Fullerton girl in your field.”

  “Be glad you can’t imagine it.” It was a picture that’d never leave my mind.

  “Oh, mercy!” Beverly covered her red lips with her arthritis-bent fingers. “I’ve been praying for everyone involved since I heard, but that isn’t why I stopped you.”

  My radar pinged, and I glanced around in search of Brandi, Ashley, or any one of my other friends who’d chosen that moment to migrate to Siberia.

  There were only a couple of reasons the older ladies in the church stopped me. Grandpa used to be one, but he was currently off the market in a relationship with Wanda Morris, a sweet widow he’d known since high school.

  That left the other reason. Wait for it…

  “How’s your love life?”

  And there it was. “Well, I—”

  “Have you tried online dating? My gr
anddaughter met her husband that way. They’re as happy as can be and are expecting my first great-grandbaby. You know, lots of young ladies meet gentlemen that way.”

  I wouldn’t use the word gentlemen to describe some of the men I’d met online, though in fairness—and Winstons were fair—there were a few good men like Evan out there, roaming the dating-world forest like rare beasts that huntresses paid for the privilege to stalk. I’d even encountered one or two who’d escaped capture. “I’ve already—”

  “There’s no shame in it. And if you’re careful, it can be a fantastic opportunity.” She took a breath, and I opened my mouth, but she blazed ahead. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, because I have a better idea.”

  “Really?”

  She leaned forward conspiratorially. “My great-nephew just moved to town, and I’d like you to help welcome him.” She winked. “I’ll invite him to church, and you take care of the rest. There’re lots of single girls around this church, but you’re the perfect one for him. He’s a good man who’s looking for a Christian wife. He’s even tall.”

  “And how would he feel about a Christian wife who’s a farmer?”

  “Good heavens.” She waved. “He’s a modern young man. Your profession won’t put him off. By the way, he was a major league pitcher for two years.”

  Very interesting. “What team?”

  “Texas Rangers.”

  I smiled. “I’d be happy to meet him. He could even join my small group—it’s a mix of guys and girls.”

  “Oh, that’s perfect. Thank you. I know you’ll make him feel right at home.” Beverly peeked around my shoulder. “Excuse me, dear. I need to talk to Mary Ann.” She slipped by me.