Deadly Harvest

by Marissa Shrock

  “We’ll have a great time.” He winked and put on his nametag.

  “Perfect.” She motioned toward the people waiting in the demonstration area. “Please have a seat with the others, and Morgan will be with you in a bit.”

  “What brings you here?” I asked as we walked toward our classmates.

  “My skills could use some help, and I’ve heard the classes are a blast. How about you?”

  “I can use all the professional help I can get.”

  “That’s very brave of you.” He patted my shoulder. “Admitting the need for help is the first step.”

  I laughed and rolled my eyes. “In the kitchen, of course.”

  “Of course.” He motioned for me to go ahead of him when we reached the half circle of chairs surrounding the demonstration area. “And that’s the only reason you’re here?”

  I sat and decided ignoring his question was the best strategy. “My poor mom tried for years to get me interested—even made me do baking in 4-H one year. After we had thirty nasty versions of a pumpkin spice cookie that my brother said tasted the same, Mom finally realized it wasn’t worth the hassle and let me show hogs and crops from then on. She hasn’t made a pumpkin spice cookie since.”

  “It takes a special talent to turn people off a cookie for life.”

  I chuckled. “That’s right. Microwave popcorn is my specialty.” I gripped the edge of my chair. “I apologize in advance for any mistakes I might make. I’m hoping my lack of knowledge doesn’t cause problems.”

  “Miss Winston, you could never be accused of having a lack of knowledge.”

  In spite of my flaming face, I forced a wannabe grin into a demure smile, and batted my eyes—just a little. “Thank you. Having all the facts is important when making decisions.”

  There was a lot of sugar mixed with the venom in my tone.

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Morgan, and I’m your instructor for today’s class. We’re going to be preparing coleslaw, fried cod, and blueberry cobbler. I’ll begin with a demonstration, and then you’ll have a chance to prepare your own meal.”

  She appeared alert, but her chef’s coat hung on her as if she’d recently lost weight. Her flawless makeup hid any sign of flushed cheeks. She began with showing us how to make the blueberry cobbler because that needed to bake while we cooked the rest of our dinner. Then she demonstrated how to properly use a knife to cut the cabbage for the coleslaw, and since I didn’t want to lose any fingers—especially with Cal watching—I paid close attention.

  That didn’t seem too difficult. Neither did the recipe for the dressing.

  I studied the other people in our class. One pair of well-dressed women looked like they were having a mom’s night out, and my guess proved right when one of them pulled out her phone, rolled her eyes, and embarked on a whispered tirade in which she disparaged her husband for not keeping their brood under control. A mother-daughter team took notes, but the married couples interested me most.

  Both of them were in different stages of the relationship. The young married couple, each with tattoo-covered arms, sat holding hands, fingers entwined. The other tired-looking pair dressed in khakis stared at Morgan as if successfully preparing a piece of fish would rekindle the lost spark between them.

  If I ever found the right guy, would we look like the Khaki Duo someday? Maybe a relationship wasn’t worth the hassle. There were definite benefits to living life on my own. I could spend my money how I wanted. Set my own schedule. I didn’t have to worry about cooking.

  Cal nudged my arm. “Are you getting all this?”

  Morgan dropped the pieces of fish into her fryer, and they sizzled.

  “Most of it.” What had Morgan done to the fish before she put it in the fryer? Hopefully, Cal hadn’t been distracted by the other people in the room and would know what to do. I’d follow his lead. A few minutes later, after flipping the fish, Morgan removed it from the oil, placed it on a platter, and everyone applauded as if she’d saved the world.

  “Now, each team should go to an empty station, and you’ll find all the recipes, ingredients, and tools you need. I’ll give you step-by-step reminders in case you forget what I showed you.”

  As we approached an empty kitchen, my eyes fell on the fryer. I leaned over and whispered in Cal’s ear. “I’m not touching the fryer. It’s safer that way.”

  “You run a combine, and you’re afraid of a fryer?”

  “It’s illogical.” I pointed to the cabbage and knife sitting on a cutting board. “But I’m not afraid of the knife, which you could say is the combine of the kitchen.”

  Cal laughed.

  “Start mixing the dough for your cobbler,” Morgan said.

  I measured and dumped flour in a mixing bowl while Cal put butter in the microwave to melt. “So… do you have any suspects besides my cousin?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “I wondered how long it would take you to ask.”

  “Did my restraint disappoint you?” I added some sugar.

  “You lasted about as long as I thought you would.”

  “I hate being predictable.” I dumped blueberries into a pan.

  “I’m just good at predicting.” He took the butter out of the microwave, added it to the bowl, and began stirring. “But, yes. I’m looking at other angles and have spoken with other people. However, we haven’t cleared J.T.” He dropped dough over the blueberries. “And that’s all I can say.”

  I shrugged. “Fair enough.”

  “I’m glad you agree, because someone doesn’t want you nosing around.” He slid the cobbler in the oven.

  I began chopping cabbage and wondered how I was going to talk to Morgan. Unless Cal needed a restroom break, it wasn’t looking good. Still, I took heart because my investigation had to be on the right track if we were showing up at the same place.

  I finished chopping the vegetables and tossed them in a bowl. Cal drizzled the dressing over them. We did make a good team. Now, to tackle the fish.

  “Go ahead and batter your cod,” Morgan said as she walked by.

  That I could do. I picked up a meat tenderizer from the container of tools and reared back to pound the life out the sucker when a hand clasped around my wrist. I turned and faced Morgan, whose eyes were gigantic.

  She let go of my wrist. “Not that kind of battering.” She pointed to a bowl of what looked like pancake mixture. Cal must’ve made the batter when I’d been chopping vegetables and plotting a way to talk to Morgan.

  He laughed.

  “Oh.” My face burned. I should’ve listened to Morgan’s demonstration instead of wondering what it would be like to be part of a married couple.

  Morgan patted my shoulder and then walked away.

  Cal held up a dripping piece of cod. “We’ve got this.” He dropped the fish into the fryer.

  As he put a second piece of fish in, his phone rang. He glanced at it. “I need to take this.” He started moving toward the front of the room. “Hey, Morgan, you might want to supervise.” He hitched his thumb toward me and winked.

  Morgan hurried over and peered at the fish swimming in bubbling oil. “Looks like you’re doing fine.”

  “Do you know why your friend Tara was trying to contact me for help?” I said the words before I could stop myself.

  Morgan blinked, glanced at my nametag, and her eyes widened. “I can’t talk about this right now,” she whispered.

  “Why?”

  Panic flooded her eyes. “Pam said if we discussed Tara’s murder at work, she’d fire us.”

  That seemed harsh for such a jovial lady. “Seriously? She’s the one who told me I should talk to you.”

  “She must’ve changed her mind then. I need this job, and I’ve seen her fire people over less. She can get weird about her business.”

  Was Pam trying to hide something? “When can you talk about it?”

  Morgan peeked over her shoulder. “I don’t know.” She pointed to the fish. “Go ahead and take that one
out,” she said at normal volume.

  I removed the fish from the oil and placed it on a paper towel. “Would you be willing to meet me somewhere after class? I have some questions about Tara. I just want to make sure the person who killed her is brought to justice.”

  Across the room, Cal caught my eye and gave a wave that clearly communicated he knew what I was doing.

  At the next station, the Khaki Duo bickered over whether or not their cod was done. “Excuse me. I need to intervene.” Morgan darted away.

  I pulled the other piece of cod out of the fryer as Cal walked up.

  “Did you have a nice chat with Morgan?” He smirked.

  “She didn’t give me the insight I was hoping for.” I forced myself not to clench my jaw—or my fists.

  “Too bad.” He shook his head. “Sometimes it takes an expert to find the right information.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  After we’d finished eating our cod and coleslaw, the cobbler was still taking its sweet old time to bake, so rather than endure awkward silence with Cal, I excused myself and went to the restroom. When I’d finished taking care of business, I hesitated in the hallway in front of the ladies’ room door. I could be good, turn left, and go back out to the kitchens. Or, I could turn right and see what was at the end of the hall and around the corner. I might get an idea why Pam was acting weird, at least, according to Morgan.

  I picked right.

  Before turning the corner, I stopped and listened. When I heard nothing but the cooking noises and chatter coming from the main floor, I moved forward, sliding my feet against the tile floor so my heels wouldn’t click.

  A row of tall cabinets lined the hallway. Pulling my sleeve down over my hand, I opened one of the six sections. It held a purse and a coat, so I shut it quickly and moved on. Ahead of me, an exit beckoned, but on the right, was the office I assumed belonged to Pam. The open door gave me a perfect view.

  A messy desk stood under a window with closed blinds. To the right of the desk was a full-year calendar with a different vegetable picture for each month. Predictably, October’s was pumpkin. On the left, framed pictures of Pam and other chefs adorned the walls. In one photo, Pam stood with Tara’s mother in front of Irresistible.

  A spreadsheet lying on the desk caught my eye because it contained the words Mike’s Sandwich Depot. I picked it up and studied the information. It was the assessed value of the restaurant. Why would Pam be checking that? Unless she was looking to buy his restaurant. What if he was selling because he was in financial trouble? His restaurant hadn’t been very busy the evening I’d been there. Had that been what Tara was investigating?

  I replaced the document on the desk and picked up a framed photo of Pam and a young woman. It was Haley, from Mike’s Sandwich Depot. Though Haley’s frame was slender, she shared Pam’s round cheeks and pug nose. Haley must be Pam’s daughter. Is that why Pam didn’t like Mike Dunson?

  I returned the frame and stepped out of the office. As I rounded the corner, the back door opened, and I darted down the hall, ducked into the restroom, and stood at the door until the footsteps clicked past. Though I wanted to pull out my phone and check real estate listings for Mike’s Sandwich Depot, I’d better get back before Cal came looking for me.

  When I returned to the kitchen, Pam was talking to the Tattooed Twosome as they ate their blueberry cobbler. My heart did a flip. A few more seconds and she would’ve caught me in her office.

  Cal’s forehead creased in concern. “Are you feeling okay? You were gone for a while.”

  For a second, the urge to fib and blame greasy fish tempted me, but I shoved it away. “I’m fine.”

  “Great.” He grinned and pointed to the cobbler resting on the counter. “Because I couldn’t eat this all by myself.”

  After class was over, I waited in my truck and watched as Cal stayed behind and talked to Morgan. Eatable’s large storefront-style windows gave me a perfect view. Judging by Morgan’s crossed arms and shaking head, I gathered he wasn’t getting any more answers than I had.

  I guess being an expert didn’t matter after all.

  I took my phone from my purse and looked for restaurant real estate listings. I used Richardville’s zip code to narrow my search, but there was only an Arby’s and an Applebee’s for sale.

  Had Mike made an offer to Pam before putting his property on the market because he was hoping to unload his business quickly? The building that housed his restaurant contained neat possibilities for an entrepreneur looking to expand.

  Inside Eatable, Cal finished talking to Morgan and strolled to the door, so I started driving home. I was about halfway there when my phone rang. I pressed the phone button on the steering wheel. “Hello?”

  “Georgia? This is Morgan from Eatable.”

  She must’ve found my number on my class registration. “Yes?”

  “I need to talk to you. Can you meet me at Zoe’s Place at eight?”

  I pumped my fist. Maybe I could get her to tell me what Detective Perkins had talked to her about. “Absolutely.”

  “Thanks. See you then.” She disconnected.

  I pulled into a church parking lot, searched for Zoe’s Place on my phone, and let the navigation system guide me to the bar, which was in the dinky town of Redburg, about fifteen miles west of Richardville.

  I arrived a few minutes before eight, so I waited in the gravel lot and noted my surroundings. Redburg consisted of some run-down houses, a brick United Methodist church, a one-pump gas station, and Zoe’s Place, which I guessed was a biker bar judging from the dozen or so motorcycles in the lot.

  Feeling like a New York City fashion designer at a farm show, I strolled into the cement block building and tried to ignore the creepy stares from the men I passed on the way to the bar. Rock music blasted and vibrated the floor. In the corner, some guys in leather vests played pool while a couple of women in tight jeans tossed darts at a board. Cigarette smoke engulfed me.

  The scruffy bartender looked me up and down. “What can I get you, sweetheart?” he yelled.

  “Coke please.” My voice sounded squeaky in spite of the shouting.

  He smirked. “Sure you don’t want something stronger?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He filled a glass and slid it across the bar. “You meetin’ someone?”

  “Morgan Hopewood.”

  He nodded slowly as if my presence suddenly made perfect sense. “Back there.” He pointed to a back corner where Morgan sat nursing a dark-colored drink.

  I tossed a five on the counter and made my escape. The music wasn’t quite as loud in the back corner. I slid into the cracked vinyl booth and rested my hands on the sticky table. “Thanks for meeting me.”

  “Did you know that guy you were cooking with is a detective?” She narrowed her eyes.

  I decided the direct and honest approach would work best with Morgan. “Yes. He thinks my cousin, J.T. Simms, killed Tara.”

  Morgan sighed. “No way J.T. killed Tara. He’s a good dude,” she said. “We hung out a time or two at Tara’s place, and I could totally tell he had no clue Tara had a boyfriend. I was the only person in on Tara’s little secret. I told her it wasn’t Christian of her to be stringing Mike and J.T. along and that she was going to blow it with J.T.” She sipped her drink.

  “Did you ever threaten to tell J.T. and Mike?”

  “Um, yeah. What kind of friend would I be if I wasn’t trying to keep my friend honest?” Morgan picked a hangnail. Across the room, a couple of men cheered, and at the pool table, one guy high-fived his buddies. “But I never had the guts to follow through—until after she died. I couldn’t let Mike go around thinking she was a saint.”

  “What did you think of Tara’s new faith?”

  “I suppose it was real, but I thought Christians didn’t cheat on their boyfriends.” She shook her head. “Not that I’m judge-y or anything like that, but Tara totally kept trying to convert me until I told her to stop or we couldn’t be friends anym
ore.” Morgan met my gaze. “I’m spiritual but not religious.”

  Good to know, except I wasn’t giving a survey on beliefs. “How did Mike feel about Tara’s faith?”

  “Okay, I suppose. He was going to church with her.” Morgan swished the ice in her glass. “He doesn’t like me, so I never got his thoughts about the whole thing.”

  “Why doesn’t he like you?”

  “He thought I was a bad influence on Tara. But I wasn’t. Besides, she was an independent woman who had the right to choose her own friends.”

  “Was Mike controlling?”

  She folded her hands. “Protective is more like it.” She downed the remains of her drink. “Detective Perkins asked me the same thing. And by the way, I only talked to him tonight because he’s in law enforcement and all the customers were gone.”

  “Do you think Mike killed Tara?”

  “You mean is he the most likely person to have figured out where she was hunting and went to confront her about J.T.? Yeah, the problem with that theory is I didn’t tell Mike about J.T. until after Tara died. He was super shocked, and I’m not sure he believed me. No way did he fake his reaction.”

  As much as I hated to admit it, Mike was looking less guilty. “Could he have been doing something illegal that Tara found out about?”

  “I don’t know what. He wasn’t into drugs. Wasn’t into gambling.” She shrugged. “Honestly, I have no clue.”

  “Is he trying to sell his restaurant because of financial trouble?”

  “Not that I know of. In fact, Tara told me his business was growing.”

  Weird. Unless he was looking at going into business with Pam. “Did Tara have any other friends who were having a problem she wanted to help with?” I told Morgan about the letter.

  “It could’ve been me because of my drug problem, but I’m trying to get clean.” She studied her hands. “I had a setback after Tara died.” Tears filled her eyes. “I don’t have an alibi for the morning she was killed.”

  She swiped away the overflowing tears with the back of her hand, so I rummaged in my handbag, found a tissue, and handed it to her.