Deadly Harvest

by Marissa Shrock

  Nick rolled his eyes. “Anything in particular that you’d like to look for?”

  I glanced around the apartment and thought about the note Tara had sent. “Did Tara have a desk?”

  “It’s in her bedroom. We haven’t donated that furniture yet.” He led us down the short hall and pointed into the room. A double bed with a patchwork quilt dominated the space.

  Brandi examined the quilt. “This is gorgeous. Did Tara buy this, or did someone in your family make it?”

  “It was our grandma’s.”

  “Is she living?” I couldn’t remember what the obituary had said.

  “No. Died about ten years ago.” He pointed at a cardboard box of photo albums resting next to the bed. “Those might be helpful, so feel free to take a look. I’ll be packing up Tara’s clothes for charity.” He shook out a trash bag and opened a dresser drawer.

  “I’ll start with the desk,” I said.

  “How can I help?” Brandi asked.

  “Look through those albums and see if there are recent pictures of Tara with friends. We probably don’t need her childhood photos.”

  “What do you think you’ll find?” She perched on the bed, reached for an album, and flipped through it.

  “Honestly, I don’t know. More people to talk to?” I turned toward the desk.

  The first drawer contained pens, pencils, tape, sticky notes, and a few stray paper clips. The top drawer had checks and stationery that matched the note she sent me. The middle drawer held a folder of newspaper clippings. There were several copies of Tara’s mother’s obituary. Another newspaper clipping was an article about the opening of Mike’s Sandwich Depot five years earlier.

  “Nick, did Tara work at Mike’s restaurant when it first opened?”

  “Yep. That was her first job after she got clean.” He set a stack of T-shirts on the dresser. “I understand why she wanted to give Mike a second chance. It’s because he gave her a new start at life.”

  “That makes sense.” Another scrap of newspaper was an article about the closing of Irresistible, a restaurant in Richardville. According to the date, the restaurant had shut down without warning two and a half years ago, and the owners couldn’t be reached for comment.

  “Did Tara ever work at Irresistible?”

  “No, but Aunt Debbie—Tara’s mom—was the head chef for years.”

  I used my phone to snap a picture of the article. There were some more clippings of engagement and wedding announcements of people I figured were Tara’s friends. I took pictures in case I needed to speak with any of them. Then, I put the articles back in the folder and searched the last drawer that contained a box of colored pencils and adult coloring books.

  “Did Tara keep a diary or journal?”

  “No idea.” Nick shook his head as he stuffed some socks into a trash bag. “If she did, the police probably took it as evidence, which reminds me, I need to call them. We’ve been searching high and low for the accordion folder where she kept her important papers. Mom and I need the stuff in it to settle Tara’s estate.”

  “I found the recent pictures.” Brandi held up an album. “It’s the last one, too.”

  I sat next to her on the bed and flipped through the pages. There were several pictures of Tara and her mom at a family Christmas. Nick and Sheri appeared in several photos. Nick confirmed the other people were family members.

  Then, there was a shot taken at a beach with Tara, Morgan Hopewood, and Kevin Doyle. Kevin stood between the girls, and he had his arm around them.

  I slid the photo out of the album to see if the date was printed on the back. Two years ago in July. Hadn’t Kevin implied he didn’t know Morgan very well?

  “Did Tara or Morgan ever date Kevin Doyle?”

  Nick shook his head. “I don’t think so. But Tara and I weren’t close until after Aunt Debbie died last June, so I’m not sure.” Sadness flickered in his gray eyes.

  I turned to Brandi. “Did you have all three of them in school?”

  “Yes, but not together. I had Kevin when I taught high school at Richardville. The girls were in my class at Wildcat Springs, along with Nick.” She smiled at him, and he blushed.

  I slid the photo back in the plastic covering and found a few more pictures of Tara and Morgan along with several blank pages.

  Brandi pointed to the albums she’d stacked on the bed. “The rest of these are her childhood photos.”

  Nick nodded. “I’m betting the more recent pictures are on her laptop and phone, and the police have them. Nobody really prints pictures anymore.” He pointed to the album stack. “Most of those are probably Aunt Debbie’s doing.”

  “May I look in Tara’s closet?” I asked.

  Nick shrugged. “Go ahead. It’s not like the police haven’t been through every nook and cranny.”

  I slid the mirrored closet door open, which revealed her clothes and shoes. After poking around, I closed the door. “No luck.”

  “I know what you should look at.” Nick motioned for me to follow, so I did. “Tara’s cookbooks. She was always making notes in the margins about when she’d prepared the recipe or who loved it.”

  “Debbie did that too,” Sheri said.

  He pointed to the stack of books on the dinette set.

  Brandi and I pulled out chairs, sat, and I selected the Taste of Home cookbook on the top of the stack. “I really need to learn how to cook.”

  Nick laughed as he sat. “Me too.”

  A few pages into the appetizers, it became apparent that Tara had inherited the cookbook from her mom because there were two sets of handwriting. I recognized Tara’s printing from the note she’d sent me.

  As Nick had indicated, page after page held notations of dates when Tara and her mom had prepared the dishes—and for whom.

  I skimmed the pages for familiar names. In loopy cursive Debbie had written Nick and Sheri next to several recipes. Debbie had entertained several men through the years, including Max Jenkins, the owner of Wildcat Springs Implement.

  He certainly got around.

  Ten years earlier, Debbie had cooked chicken potpie for Pam and Joe. That could be Pam Marconi because she’d told me she’d hired Tara to work at Eatable in part because she’d known Tara’s mother for years. Was Joe her late husband?

  A collection of Italian dishes proved to be popular with Mike Dunson, whose name appeared next to at least a dozen recipes. Tara had even cooked a few times for J.T. recently.

  After skimming through the remaining pages, I snapped a few photos, closed the cookbook, stood, and faced Nick. “Thanks for letting us snoop.”

  “No problem.”

  That night, I paced in front of the piano in my living room while I waited for Kelsey to arrive. “God, what are you getting me into?”

  He didn’t answer. Glancing at my phone, I half hoped to see a text from Kelsey telling me she’d backed out.

  No such luck.

  The doorbell dinged.

  Kelsey stood on my porch with a case of grapefruit-flavored sparkling water on her hip. “I wasn’t sure you’d have any.” She thrust the twelve-pack at me.

  “Thanks.” I’d actually bought an unflavored variety earlier that day.

  I ushered her into the living room where a bowl of microwave popcorn—my specialty—waited on the coffee table. She sat on the couch and flipped her purple and green scarf back and forth between her fingers.

  “How about some of that grapefruit water?”

  “Perfect.” More scarf flipping.

  Willing my head not to shake, I went to the kitchen and prepared her glass. I took tap water for myself. Earlier that day I’d sampled my purchase and gagged on the stuff.

  But I was here to serve Kelsey.

  I placed the glass on the coffee table and sat on the opposite side of the sectional. “How would you like this to work? Besides praying, of course.”

  Her eyes widened. “I’m not sure.”

  I stifled a sigh. Nothing like flying by the seat of
your pants. “Do you have something on your mind you want to talk about?”

  Kelsey bit her lip. “I’ve messed things up with Evan.”

  There was the understatement of the decade. “Why do you think that happened?”

  She grimaced, let go of the scarf, and folded her hands. “I’ve always felt like I’m not enough,” she whispered.

  For a few seconds, my own insecurities and fears played in my mind like a shaky, unfocused home video. The too tall, babbling, music nerd with a manly profession. “What would it take to be enough?” As soon as the question left my mouth, it resonated in my soul.

  “I’m not sure.” She stared at the fireplace.

  “You’re a Christian, right?” It seemed like a dumb inquiry since she’d been asking God for a prayer partner, but I wanted to be sure.

  “Yeah. Since I was fourteen.”

  “Me too. I’m glad God got through my stubbornness at such a young age.” I sipped water. “Maybe instead of focusing on if we—I mean, if you’re enough, you should ask God to show you how to be the woman he wants you to be.”

  She lunged toward the popcorn, and then froze with her hand hovering over the bowl. “Does this have butter on it?”

  “Nope. Just salt. All natural.” I’d known better than to buy butter flavored, though I’d have chosen it for myself.

  She grabbed a handful and started shoving pieces in her mouth. “I’m thinking too much about me.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, without a hint of defensiveness. “I should start focusing on others.” She took more popcorn.

  “I should’ve put bowls out.” I started to stand. “Let me—”

  “No. I’m good.” She motioned for me to sit, took the big bowl, and arranged it on her lap.

  Another question popped in my mind. “Are you afraid to be alone?”

  Her popcorn-filled claw froze next to her mouth. “Yes.” She released a few kernels from her grip. “I’ve always had a boyfriend since I was fifteen. When I’d break up with one guy, another one would be there to take his place.”

  While I understood her fear of facing the world without companionship, having a man during college hadn’t even been an option for me. As much as I’d wanted it, nothing had worked out. Her experiences were so far from mine that I didn’t even have a response, so I decided to go a different direction. “Have you ever asked God what he wants you to do?”

  “No. I figure if the guy is a Christian, then I’m free do to what I want—as long as I don’t have sex before marriage.”

  “Call me crazy, but I think Christians ought to have a higher standard for dating than just not having sex before marriage.” God, I need some wisdom here. For some reason, I thought of Brandi and how her response was always to pray out loud—a practice that I found awkward. But since God had brought it to mind and we’d agreed to be prayer partners, I figured that was my answer.

  “We’re going to pray about this. Right now.” I said the words with more confidence than I felt and before I could talk myself out of it.

  “Okay.” She nodded and stuffed the rest of the popcorn in her mouth.

  I’d expected her to balk, but instead, she wiped her hands on her jeans, scooted closer, grabbed my hands, and bowed her head. Okay, then. That Christian college must’ve prepared her.

  She lifted her head. “Am I starting, or are you?”

  “I will.” I closed my eyes. What should I say? Every time my Bible study group met, I avoided praying for meals or requests so I didn’t embarrass myself.

  On the other hand, I shouldn’t worry about humiliating myself in front of a woman who’d thrown a tantrum that’d ended with a perfectly good pie in the trash and whipped cream on her boyfriend’s face.

  Just do it.

  “Lord, it’s hard being single,” I said.

  My words surprised me. I should’ve started with something more reverent. What was that acronym? Didn’t it start with an A for adoration? I’d already blown the whole praising God thing, so I charged ahead because I couldn’t remember the next letter. “But we want to serve you and do your will. Show us how. Heal our hurts. Help us not to put men in the place where you belong in our lives. Help us be content in all circumstances. Give us wisdom.” I squeezed her hand to let her know that was all I had in me.

  “Jesus, you’re amazing,” Kelsey said. “You’re our father, our helper, our friend, and we praise you for your goodness and mercy.”

  ACTS. The prayer acronym was ACTS, and she’d nailed the first part—adoration.

  “Please forgive me for thinking the worst of Georgia—and other people. Forgive me for not always representing you the way I should.”

  Confession, check.

  “Thank you for bringing her into my life and that she agreed to be my prayer partner in spite of my craziness.”

  Thanksgiving, check.

  “Help us to know what to do. Help me to know how to be single and for Georgia to know how to be in a relationship.”

  Supplication, ouch.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next morning while I sipped coffee, I added details to the board in my dining room, as well as the pictures of the articles and the beach photo of Morgan Hopewood, Kevin Doyle, and Tara that I’d printed out to have a visual. Since I hadn’t talked to Morgan, I opened my laptop and checked Eatable’s website for the day’s class schedule.

  There were several openings in the Shore Frolic class that afternoon. Even though it was an intermediate class, and I needed a remedial class, I booked it because the schedule listed Morgan Hopewood as the instructor. I’d be on my own because Ashley was working, and Brandi was shopping with her mom.

  Gazing again at the board, another idea came to mind. Had Pam Marconi owned Irresistible? Is that where she’d worked with Tara’s mother? I opened my laptop, did a quick search and confirmed that she had. Still, I couldn’t find any information on why the restaurant had shut down. I mentally sorted through everyone who might know the answer. One name came to mind, so I grabbed my purse and keys.

  “Have you asked that handsome detective on a date yet?” Bobbi Sue handed me a large Illuminati Latte and then punched my loyalty card.

  I looked over my shoulder and prayed the customers were as engrossed in work or conversation as they appeared to be. “I don’t ask men on dates.” Not only was it true, it was the simplest answer. She must not have heard about J.T. being questioned for Tara’s murder, or she would’ve been lamenting that instead of my love life.

  She returned my card and put her hands on her hips. “How’s that working for you?”

  “Fine.” I lifted my chin. “I like to be pursued.”

  “Fair enough.” She pointed to my latte. “By the way, I gave you a double shot since you look like you could use it.”

  I should’ve taken time to slather on more makeup. Apparently, covering my dark circles with concealer and putting on mascara wasn’t enough.

  Bobbi Sue leaned forward. “Rumor has it you’ve been on several dates lately. Must be quite a change after that dry spell. I’m glad to see you’re not pining away for that guidance counselor any more. Nice guy, but not my pick for you.”

  Dry spell? Pining? Her pick? I closed my eyes. I had to change the subject before another customer interrupted or I dropped dead of humiliation. I glanced over my shoulder and confirmed no one was in line behind me. “Do you remember Irresistible in Richardville?”

  “Sure do. The hubs and I used to go there every year for our anniversary. Shame the place went out of business.”

  “Why did it?”

  “I don’t know Pam Marconi well, but the rumor among folks in the restaurant biz was that it wasn’t making money.” Bobbi Sue shrugged. “I don’t believe everything I hear. The place was always busy when we were there. Not to mention, Pam managed to open that cooking school. I’ve always figured she wanted a career change.” She flicked me with the dishrag. “You ever thought about taking lessons? Men love a woman who can cook.” She lowered her voice. “Not tha
t I’m all about traditional gender roles, but truth is truth, and I didn’t invent the world.”

  I grinned and toasted with my coffee cup. “Here’s to a double shot of truth.”

  That afternoon when I arrived at Eatable, Pam Marconi greeted me at the door. “Welcome back. I’m so glad you returned for a class. You’re Tara’s friend, Georgia Winston, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She marked on her clipboard, adjusted her round frames, and handed me a paper nametag and permanent marker. “Fill that out and have a seat with the others. We’re waiting on a few more people before Chef Morgan starts class.”

  “Great.” I wrote my name and stuck the tag on my flowing, leopard-print blouse.

  The door jingled, and when I turned, Cal was standing there.

  Merciful heavens. Thankfully, I’d put on more makeup.

  His expression was inscrutable, but I detected the slightest gleam in his eyes. “Hello there, Miss Winston.”

  So we were back to formalities. Good to know.

  He turned to Pam. “Cal Perkins. I’m here for the Shore Frolic class.”

  “Excellent.” She gave him a nametag and clasped her hands. “Georgia, stay here a moment. I need to speak with the two of you.”

  Cal and I exchanged glances, and then it hit me. If he was here for the same reason I was, then he wasn’t convinced that J.T. had killed Tara.

  I’d better be Nice Georgia.

  Pam slipped off her glasses and put them on her head. “This class works best for pairs, and since you both signed up as individuals, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind partnering up. I was going to ask you anyway, but now that I see that you know each other, that’s even better.” She looked back and forth between us.

  “No problem.” I said a silent prayer of thanks that the words came out with ten times the confidence that I felt, because how I’d manage to cook with the dimpled detective at my side was a mystery in itself.