Murder Most Fowl

by Edith Maxwell

  “We certainly have ours in Westbury.”

  “We don’t get as much of that in Newburyport, since we have a mayor and a city council,” Pete said. “But we have plenty of petty-minded conflicts, for sure.”

  “I heard a bit more conflict up close and personal after the meeting.” She told him about overhearing the conversation between Wayne and Judith Patterson. “And then when I went over to Wayne’s farm to get some chicken advice, he and his wife were arguing. Sounds like they have money problems. Greta wants to sell the parcel of land to the Patterson woman, but he’s refusing.”

  “Can’t blame him for wanting to hang on to the farm.”

  “I agree.” Cam stood. “Excuse me a minute. Just want to wash my hands before the food comes.”

  “Come back soon. I’ll miss you.” Pete’s wicked grin lit up his face, which in fact did look more relaxed than Cam had ever seen him.

  “I promise.” She reached out and ruffled his thick hair as she passed. Spying the RESTROOMS sign at the back of the restaurant, she headed in that direction, but slowed when she heard the same voice she’d heard earlier from behind the Escalade. The woman speaking, who had to be Judith Patterson, had her back to Cam. She shared a table with three other women, all with well-cut and expertly colored hair, Judith’s a cap of streaked ash blond. Cam continued past the table, noticing expensive rings and manicured hands holding martini glasses. Cam glanced at her own unmanicured hands, with short-cut nails, calluses, and reddened skin from constantly scrubbing out ground-in dirt.

  On her way back from the ladies’ room, Cam paused at the open doorway to the small kitchen where two men and the pink-clad chef moved in what looked like an orchestrated dance. Steam curled off a wide pot and something sizzled in a sauté pan. It smelled like heaven. As she approached the table of well-groomed women, Cam saw Judith put a long cylinder to her mouth. It had to be an e-cigarette, which Cam had never seen anyone smoke before, if that was even the right verb. Judith blew out a puff of a smoky substance as Cam tried to get a good look at her face while she passed. When Judith glanced up with piercing dark eyes, Cam resisted the temptation to throw her own gaze elsewhere, and instead gave her a stranger’s smile: not beaming, but not unfriendly, either.

  Cam slid into her seat as the waiter brought two plates of romaine spears topped with anchovies, Parmesan cheese, and a creamy dressing, with a slab of cheesy toast at the side.

  “Where do you get the lettuce?” she asked him.

  The waiter frowned. “Our local source went under last fall. We’d like to get it from another farm around here but haven’t found a reliable purveyor.”

  “I’m a farmer, over in Westbury. Maybe I should talk to the owner about supplying organic romaine.”

  His face lit up. “I think she’d love that. She tries to use local as much as possible. I’ll get her out here before you leave.”

  Cam thanked him. “Here, give her my card.” She dug a farm business card out of her bag and handed it to the waiter.

  “This would be a good gig for me,” she said to Pete. “Close by, steady business. And romaine is easy to grow.” She cut a piece and savored the mix of the tangy dressing, the salty fish, and the fresh crunch of the greens.

  “If I know you, you’re going to go home tonight and plant lettuce seeds in the greenhouse.”

  “On a date night? Guess you don’t know me too well. Yet.” She set her chin on her hand, gazing at Pete. They’d met less than a year ago after the terrible murder on her farm last June, and Pete had been called in to help solve it. Their dealings were adversarial at first. But he’d asked for her help with a second case in the fall, and when it was over they’d begun going out. That had gotten complicated this winter when Cam was an initial suspect in a murder at Great-Uncle Albert’s assisted living residence, but now their relationship seemed to be settling into an easy pattern of weekend dates, long conversations, and satisfying doses of passion.

  She frowned as she spied the back of Judith’s head beyond Pete.

  “What’s the frown for?” he asked.

  “The woman who wants to buy Wayne’s farm is right over there. Judith Patterson. I heard her voice when I went to wash my hands. Looks pretty well off, like she can afford to buy another few acres.”

  “Thank goodness she can’t make him sell, no matter how much money she has.”

  Cam stretched in her robe and slippers the next morning. Through the window she watched fat, lazy flakes float out of the sky. The drip of the coffeepot was accompanied by an increasingly rich aroma. She hugged herself, smiling at the extremely enjoyable night Pete and she had enjoyed. She’d left him asleep in her bed when her farmer’s internal alarm said her own rest was all done, even though the clock read only six. When the small coffee machine finally quieted, she poured herself a mug of the deep roast she loved, added a splash of milk, and curled her feet up on the couch, clicking on the local television news with the volume low.

  The station showed footage of an accident on Route 495 due to the snow. The weather woman said the storm, which had left only three inches of light snow, would be letting up within the hour with warming temperatures. Preston jumped up and joined Cam, and she stroked him, barely listening to the TV. Until she caught the word Laitinen. Her gaze went straight to the screen and she jacked up the volume a couple of notches.

  “Animal rights activists claimed responsibility for vandalism at the Laitinen Poultry Farm during the night, specifically on the chicken house, that long structure you see.” The reporter gestured behind himself. “Before dawn, farmer Wayne Laitinen discovered that the structure had been sprayed with red paint and all the doors were left open to the storm. Police seek any information about the members of this group, the Animal Rights Front, which apparently is a split-off from PETA, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.” The camera zoomed in on the chicken house, which indeed was splashed with red, with the letters ARF scrawled large. A good deal of paint also lay on the ground near the now-closed door, paint showing crimson under the light layer of fresh snow that had fallen since. “Farmer Laitinen reports that his hens fortunately had the good sense to stay indoors.”

  The camera panned to Wayne, who looked hastily dressed in an old work jacket and muck boots over his jeans. He also looked exhausted. “I don’t know who done this. I’m good to my girls. I’d never hurt any of my animals. Any animal. All these people did was scare my hens and make them cold. Is that ethical treatment? I don’t think so.” He turned away and stomped toward the house with bent shoulders.

  When the program cut to a commercial, Cam switched off the television. That was enough bad news for the day. Wayne was good to his hens, Cam had seen that. They weren’t completely free range, and they didn’t get organic feed, but they had a large netted-in run and plenty of space in the chicken house in the winter. He kept them clean and healthy, and he seemed an unfair target for this group, whoever they were. A group that likely included Katie Magnusson, Alexandra’s sister. Why didn’t they target one of the big commercial growers out there? With any luck they’d leave Wayne alone after this. She was sure any additional financial hit would only add to his woes.

  Cam drained her coffee. Maybe Pete would be interested in a wake-up call before she headed out to feed her own chickens.

  It was nearly ten and the snow had stopped by the time Cam and Pete got around to breakfast. After a pleasant interlude and a shower, she’d fed and watered the hens, gathered eggs, and cooked up a fresh cheese-mushroom omelet, fried potatoes, and toast for the two of them. While she prepared the food, she told him about the vandalism at Wayne’s farm. After breakfast was ready, he brought two mugs of fresh coffee to the table, then sat across from her.

  She gazed at him. His dark hair, already silvering, was still damp from the shower, and the pink Oxford shirt he’d worn to dinner he now wore untucked over his jeans. His left ring finger still showed a pale ring where his wedding band had been.

  “What are you looking at?” h
e said around a mouthful of omelet, but his dark eyes smiled.

  “You. Did I ever tell you I like you?”

  “I like you, too.” He grinned and pointed at her plate. “Now eat.”

  She complied, following the forkful with a sip of coffee. “You wouldn’t believe how strong Wayne makes his coffee.” She shuddered, remembering. “And he drinks it, too.”

  “Good thing the world is a big place with room for lots of different types.”

  After several more bites, Cam said, “Speaking of different types, any idea who’s in this Animal Rights Front, this PETA splinter group?”

  “We’ve heard a few threads of information. No real intelligence, though.”

  Cam fell silent as she ate. What if Katie had been part of the action at Wayne’s?

  “Looks like your brain is working overtime,” Pete said, nudging her plate with his fork.

  She glanced up. “I hate to say this, but I might know someone who was involved.”

  Pete glanced up from his plate. “Oh?”

  “Alexandra said her sister Katie’s getting kind of way out there for animal rights.”

  “Alexandra, your farm volunteer? The tall one?”

  Cam nodded.

  “What’s the sister’s full name?” He wiped a string of cheese off his chin.

  Cam blew a breath out. “I don’t want to get her in trouble. But maybe it’s better if she gets in a little trouble now before things go too far.”

  It was Pete’s turn to nod.

  “Her name is Katie Magnusson.”

  “I’ll let the team who handles that kind of thing know.”

  “Maybe a quick brush with the law will keep her from becoming more radical. I hope the group wouldn’t resort to violence against people.”

  “Sometimes they do.” He swiped the last of his omelet up with a piece of toast. “Breakfast was outstanding, thank you. Those fresh eggs make all the difference.”

  “I’ll say.”

  A buzzing sound came from Pete’s coat on the rack by the door and he groaned.

  “Aren’t you off duty?” Cam asked, stroking his hand.

  “Yes. But, you know . . .” He rose and hustled to his coat, extracting his phone.

  “When duty calls?”

  Pete pressed his lips together before saying, “Pappas.” As he listened, his face darkened. He glanced at Cam and then turned away.

  “Who made the discovery?” After a few moments, he said, “Okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Have to let my dog out first.” He disconnected. Picking up his shoes where he’d left them next to the door, he padded back to the table. He bent to kiss Cam’s forehead, then sat.

  She opened her mouth to ask what the news was. She shut it again. He’d tell her if he could, and when he was ready.

  When both shoes were on and tied, Pete straightened. He laid his hand atop hers.

  “Wayne Laitinen is dead.” He watched her.

  “Oh, no! The poor man.” She brought her other hand to her mouth. “Did he . . . was it . . . wait.” She watched him back. “If they called you, that means it’s murder.”

  “We don’t know. The local force’s preliminary inspection doesn’t show a wound of any kind. He could have had a heart attack. But with this PETA action, the Westbury police asked us to step in.”

  “He’s such a gentle soul. I hope it was a natural death. Was his wife there? Greta?”

  “He seems to have been alone. I’ve got to go let Dasha do his stuff and get over to the death scene.”

  “Let me handle Dasha. I haven’t seen him in a while. I’ll bring him over here, like I did before. How’s that?”

  “That’s the offer of an angel. Thanks.” He stood. Pulling her up with him, he encased her in one of his signature bear hugs.

  “Hey, I can’t breathe!” Cam laughed and pulled away enough to plant a big kiss on him, one that lasted longer than she’d intended.

  He broke it off. “I’ll call you when I can. Please keep this information to yourself for now.” He pulled on his coat.

  “Of course. Now go,” Cam said, shutting the door firmly behind him. After he pulled his old Saab out of the drive, she gazed out the window at the sun glistening on his footprints in the snow. Wayne Laitinen wouldn’t be leaving any more footprints on this earth.

  Chapter 4

  The sun was melting the snow fast as Cam drove back from Newburyport with Pete’s husky, Dasha, in the cab of the truck with her. He perched on the bench seat and gazed out the window as the road dipped down next to the Artichoke Reservoir and then rose steadily again at Westbury’s eastern border. A sign quietly announcing the Saint John the Evangelist monastery and Emery retreat house was on the right. Cam had never driven down the lane that led to the monastery, but she pictured robed monks walking the grounds in silence.

  She came up to All Saints Episcopal Church on the left and slowed. The service must have recently ended. A dark-skinned white-robed priest stood on the front steps greeting parishioners as they emerged from the brick building, and families were loading into cars parked along both sides of the busy state route. Cam spied Greta walking away from the church with a woman a little taller than Greta’s five foot five. Cam pulled over on the far side of the road. If Greta had been in church for an hour or more, she couldn’t have heard the news yet.

  Cam watched for a moment. It would be horrible for Greta to arrive home not knowing that Wayne was dead. The police should tell her, but she imagined they were looking for her and couldn’t find her. If Cam told her, surely Pete wouldn’t count Cam performing this terrible act of kindness as violating his request to keep the information of Wayne’s death confidential. This was Wayne’s wife, after all. She had a right to know. Or maybe Cam should call Pete and have him come and tell Greta. Cam had never delivered news of a death before and she wasn’t close friends with Greta. Her thoughts pulled back and forth like a tug-of-war.

  Across the road, Greta opened the passenger door of a small sedan in the church parking lot. The younger woman climbed into the driver’s seat and a minute later they were headed toward town, making Cam’s decision for her. She pulled onto the road after them. If they went straight home, then that was that, although they were driving away from the poultry farm. If they went out for breakfast or something, she could call Pete and tell him where they were.

  Sure enough, less than five minutes later, the car pulled into Daisy’s Donuts, the traditional donut shop that also made surprisingly good coffee. Cam pulled in, too, but parked at the far end of the lot. She watched them walk into the donut shop as she pressed Pete’s number.

  “Pappas,” he answered tersely.

  “Pete, I just saw Greta Laitinen come out of church with somebody who looked like her daughter. I thought of telling them about Wayne’s death, but decided you should do that.”

  “Thank you, Cam. Where are they now?”

  “I followed them to Daisy’s Donuts and they went inside.”

  “If they come out before I get there, can you find a way to stall them?”

  “Sure. You know where it is?”

  “I do. And then stick around, will you. They’ll need a friendly face.”

  He disconnected and Cam kept her eyes on the door. The front windows were large and clean, and she could see the two women at the counter. When they headed for the exit, white cups in their hands, Cam slid out of her seat. Pete hadn’t yet arrived. She told Dasha to stay and then rushed over to the door of the shop, slowing to a normal pace as Greta and the younger woman emerged. The full aroma of coffee mixed with the tantalizing scent of fresh donuts escaping before the door closed behind them.

  “Morning, Greta,” Cam said.

  “Hey, Cam. How’s it going?” The buttons of Greta’s black coat strained over her full figure.

  “Not too bad.” With raised eyebrows Cam glanced toward Greta’s companion as she tried to block the women’s path toward their car. Looking like a female and younger version of Wayne, the younger woman w
as clearly the couple’s daughter and appeared to be in her late twenties. Her light hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she had Wayne’s slender, wiry build.

  “Have you met my daughter, Megan?”

  “No.” Cam held out her hand. “Cam Flaherty. Nice to meet you, Megan.”

  “Good to meet you, too.” Megan smiled as she shook Cam’s hand.

  “Getting your morning coffee?” Cam asked. Which sounded trite, but she needed to keep them here.

  Megan laughed. “After that sermon? We both need it.” “Absolutely,” Greta said, with a fond smile for her daughter.

  “I thought he would never stop talking,” Megan continued. “Forgiveness instead of revenge was the topic of the day.”

  Cam tried to scan the lot while she nodded and smiled at Megan. Still no Pete.

  “I haven’t been to church since high school,” Cam said, grasping at a topic, any topic, to make sure they didn’t leave. “I used to go to Saint Ann’s with my uncle and aunt.” She pointed down Main Street in the direction of the Catholic Church a couple of miles away.

  “How is Albert these days?” Greta asked. “He was real nice to us when Wayne started up the poultry business. Gave him a few tips on how to raise hens and on how to keep the books.”

  “Albert’s doing very well, thanks.”

  Megan gently elbowed her mother. “I wanted to show you my new kitten, Mom, remember? At my apartment?”

  “I remember,” Greta said. She looked at Cam. “We need to get going.”

  At a crunch of gravel, Cam glanced over to see Pete pull into a parking space in a dark unmarked car. Just in time. Thank goodness he hadn’t brought a cruiser. Pete, in gray slacks and a navy blazer, walked up to the three of them.

  Greta cocked her head at him. “Friend of yours?” she asked Cam.

  “Yes,” Cam said, her gaze on Pete. She could hear Dasha barking from the truck across the parking lot. He must have spied his human.