Murder Most Fowl

by Edith Maxwell

  “That’s for sure. But, no, these are Black Prince. I grew them last summer.”

  “Of course. Incredible flavor, and that deep reddish black color.” Felicity smoothed the mix over the cells of another flat. “I was Wayne’s high school teacher. Did you know that?”

  “I didn’t even know you were a teacher,” Cam said. She stopped seeding and looked over at Felicity. “You don’t still teach, do you? You always seem to have time for Volunteer Wednesdays.”

  “I took an early retirement package three years ago. But I taught English at Westbury High for more than three decades. Wayne was in one of my first classes. He and Paul Underwood.”

  “Interesting. I was wondering how old Wayne was.”

  Felicity stopped, too, and narrowed her eyes at Cam. “Let’s see. They were juniors, so about sixteen, seventeen. And I was twenty-four. I’m sixty now, so that makes Wayne fifty-two or so, right? Paul, too.” She resumed work, setting a finished flat aside and starting a new one. “Those two, Paul and Wayne.” She made a tsking noise.

  “Were they friends?”

  “They were, and then they weren’t. Never really understood what happened between them. Paul was the rowdier . . . no, not rowdy. It was more so like he was unscrupulous. And you know Wayne, he always took the ethical high ground.”

  “Did Paul cheat on a test or something?” Cam asked.

  “Not in my class, he didn’t.” Felicity whistled. “I may look like a nice older lady, Cam, but I was a tough teacher. Nothing slipped past me.” She beamed one of her sweet smiles, which did, in fact, make her look like a nice older lady.

  “That seems like Wayne, to take the morally right path. It’s even more ironic, then, that someone took the lowest and killed him.”

  Felicity shuddered. “Who would have killed a nice man like Wayne?”

  Cam eased herself into the chair in front of her computer two hours later. Dasha wandered over and sat on the floor next to her, while Preston watched them both from the couch. With Felicity’s help she’d seeded over six hundred tomatoes, which would yield big red slicers, small gold orbs, dry-fleshed oblongs for sauce, early medium-sized reds, and the delectable Black Prince. She and Felicity had chatted as they worked, but she hadn’t learned anything else about Wayne. Or about Paul. Cam remembered seeing him driving away from Wayne’s as she’d arrived the day before, and he hadn’t looked happy. Too bad Felicity didn’t know what the two boys’ falling out had been about.

  She ought to be out pruning the blueberry bushes and her antique apple tree, but she was tired. She could do that tomorrow, as long as it was before the weather warmed up for good. Felicity had suggested they call the Laitinen house and offer to help out with end-of-day chores. Cam had agreed, even though she should be doing her own chores. She’d called and talked to Megan, who said she’d be happy for help in the hen house. Surely the police wouldn’t mind if they stayed in the chicken house and the barn. She took a bite of the cheese sandwich she’d fixed, then pulled up the Wicked Local news site, which already had a story about Wayne’s death. Munching, she scrolled slowly through, then stopped.

  “Local resident Paul Underwood discovered Laitinen’s body this morning. Underwood is being questioned by authorities.”

  Cam leaned back in her chair. What was Paul doing over at the poultry farm again this morning? Could it be connected to whatever had happened decades earlier? She glanced at the time in the corner of the monitor. Three-thirty. She had forty minutes before she needed to pick up Felicity, time enough to dive into Google and see what she could find out. She sat up again.

  Thirty-four years earlier. A time of big lapels and shoulder pads. Of men still sporting the longer hair of the decade before, but now adding a gold chain around their neck. Of tight economic times, disco dancing, and Pac-Man. Two years before her own birth. Cam shook her head. She needed to go local if she was going to dig up anything about a couple of high school boys, one apparently a straight arrow, one not so much.

  Twenty minutes later she sat back again and kicked the leg of the desk. Nothing. She hadn’t been able to uncover any news articles about Paul or Wayne being arrested, being charged, getting in a fight, nothing. Their names weren’t in the police logs. Not in Westbury, not in Newburyport, not in Boston. If she wanted more, she’d clearly have to spend time in the microfiche at the library, since the local paper wasn’t digitized that far back.

  Cam’s phone rang in her bag on the kitchen table. In her dash to find it, she cracked her knee on the desk leg as she stood. Swearing, she limped to the table and scrabbled in the bag. Sure enough, it stopped ringing by the time she held it in her palm. The ID showed Alexandra’s name. Cam grabbed an ice pack out of the freezer and sat with it pressed against her knee, then poked Alexandra’s number.

  “Sorry I missed your call. What’s up?”

  “Cam, they’re looking for Katie. And I don’t know where she is.” Alexandra’s voice rose.

  “Calm down. Who’s looking for her?” Cam asked.

  “The police! Detective Pappas.”

  Oh. “Did he say why?”

  “No. I hope she hasn’t done something really stupid,” Alexandra said.

  “Was she part of the vandalism last night?”

  “Probably, knowing Katie. She said she was going to spend the night at a friend’s, so she wasn’t home, anyway. I have to find her.”

  “Call her friends. Think about where she likes to hang out. Coffee shops, parks, whatever. Okay?”

  “You’re right.” Alexandra exhaled over the phone. “I will. I hope she doesn’t think she needs to hide or something.”

  “Let’s assume she’s not hiding. That she’s at the mall trying on boots with a girlfriend. Or out having coffee. It’s Sunday, so she’s not at the library, but—”

  “Library? My big sister?” Alexandra barked out a laugh. “Katie’s not exactly the library type.”

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  Alexandra didn’t speak for a moment, then said, “She might be at a farm gazing at animals, though. That’s how she got into this whole mess with those fanatics. She loves animals more than she loves people, and hates the thought of them being penned up or hurt.”

  “Your parents might be able to help you find her,” Cam said.

  “That’s not going to happen. They’re on vacation on Saint John.”

  “Oh. If I think of somewhere she might be, I’ll take a look, okay? Or if I see her around town, I’ll make sure she calls you.”

  Alexandra agreed and disconnected.

  Pete was good at his job, Cam thought. If he wanted to speak with Katie, he must have good reason to.

  On the way to pick up Felicity, Cam realized Pete had never called back. But she knew by now that when he was on a case, she might not see him for days on end. And Dasha was fine with her. She’d taken to keeping kibble, food and water bowls, and a spare dog bed at her house, and Dasha was good company. Not to say that Preston wasn’t, but dog and cat energy couldn’t be more different. Maybe she’d see Pete at the Laitinens’, anyway.

  “You were asking me about Paul Underwood earlier,” Felicity said as they drove. “I know he was a rowdy teen, but he’s sure settled down. Did you know he’s a single dad?”

  “I don’t really know anything about him.”

  “He’s raising three boys all by himself. I heard his wife went off the deep end after his youngest was born.”

  “Postpartum depression?” Cam asked.

  “More like postpartum psychosis. She’s still in an institution.”

  “That’s so sad. At town meeting he said the children were all young, under eight, I think.” Cam steered the truck onto Wayne’s road, and five minutes later she and Felicity were bumping along the dirt entrance to the poultry farm.

  “Do you think the police are going to let us in?” Felicity asked.

  Cam pulled the wheel left to avoid a pothole. “If they don’t want us there, we can go out for a beer.” She glanced at F
elicity, who smiled, nodding.

  “Uh-oh,” Cam said a minute later. Once again a Westbury police car was parked crosswise at the end of the drive, but this time several news vans and other vehicles were parked on the near side of it. Ruth stood, feet apart, arms folded, speaking to a clutch of what looked like reporters, with camera people standing behind them.

  Cam pulled to the side of the road and parked. “Wonder if Ruthie will let us through?”

  “No way to find out except by trying,” Felicity said in her trademark bright tone. She opened her door and jumped out.

  Cam climbed out, too, and nearly had to lope to keep up with Felicity’s short, fast stride. When they reached the group, they slowed.

  “The family is not available for interviews at this time,” Ruth was saying. “And, as I said, official news of the investigation will come from State Police Detective Peter Pappas. You’ll be notified, and it’ll probably happen at the Essex County DA’s office, not here. People, just go home, okay? Let Ms. Laitinen and her family grieve in peace.” Ruth caught sight of Cam and Felicity and beckoned them over.

  Felicity slipped by the right edge of the phalanx of news crews with Cam close behind. A clutch at Cam’s elbow made her whirl.

  “You’re Cam Flaherty, aren’t you?” A slim, neatly coiffed, and perfectly made up female reporter gazed at her. “You had a murder at your own farm last year. Would you care to comment?”

  Cam shook her head and extracted her arm.

  “Leave these folks alone,” Ruth said. “They’re friends of the family.” She held out her arm and ushered them beyond the police car even as another reporter called out a question.

  “What are you doing here?” Ruth asked Cam in a low voice.

  “We came to help with the chores,” Felicity answered. “Megan said it was fine. We don’t have to go in the house at all. But it’s a lot of work, and Greta won’t want to be out there feeding, watering, and collecting eggs.”

  “Can we?” Cam asked, raising her eyebrows.

  Ruth let out a breath. “Let me check.” As she’d done earlier in the day, she moved a few steps away and spoke into the mike on her shoulder, then turned back. “It’s okay. But only the chicken house and the barn. And don’t touch anything you don’t have to.”

  “What’ll we do with the eggs?” Cam asked. “We can wash them, assuming there’s a sink in the barn, but once they’re clean they need to be refrigerated.”

  “Just leave them in the barn,” Ruth said. “I’ll ask Greta what to do with them later.”

  Cam thanked her before she and Felicity began the walk down the hill to the chicken house. Cam glanced toward the farmhouse. What had Dasha uncovered earlier? She turned back toward Ruth.

  “Do you know if Pete checked the thing Dasha found under the bushes earlier?”

  Ruth shook her head. “No idea what you’re talking about. What thing?”

  “It was about the size of a pen but not a pen. I left it there and texted Pete about it.”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “I will.” Cam turned away again. The red-splashed side of the long chicken house faced north, so snow still lay in the shadows and the air tasted more of winter than of impending spring. She pulled her work jacket closed at the neck and took long strides to catch up with Felicity.

  Felicity slowed before they reached the door. “I don’t get these activists, do you?” She gestured to the spray-painted words that read, “Stop Eating Animals,” accompanied by several obscenities.

  “No, I don’t. When I saw Wayne on the television news this morning, he said they’d opened all the doors. Freeing the chickens.” Cam snorted, her hand on the door. “As if domesticated hens would even know what to do in the wild.” She gazed at the house. “Poor Wayne. I still can’t believe he’s gone.”

  Chapter 6

  Cam made her way down the long row of nesting boxes. The house held about four hundred hens, dozens already perched on roosting bars, some pecking the red nipples of the watering system, a long pipe that ran the length of the house about a foot off the ground with nipples set into it at regular intervals to provide fresh water on demand. Other hens roamed around the open space or dug in the bedding underfoot. The air was ripe with the smell of livestock, but not overpowering. She had no idea what system Wayne used for changing the bedding or how often he did it. This operation was ten times larger than her own small flock. In her coop, Cam simply shoveled out the floor, adding the soiled bedding to the compost pile, and then spread clean stuff around.

  As she reached into the pine shavings to pull out the last two eggs, the chicken house door at the end of the building squeaked open.

  “Ladies,” Pete said. He stood silhouetted by the late afternoon sun.

  Felicity called a greeting from the other end of the building where she was scooping pelleted feed into a cylindrical feeder. The hens in that area clustered around her, gargling with excitement. Cam gently set her eggs in the now-full bucket and carried it toward Pete.

  “How’s it going?” She set the heavy bucket down and stretched.

  Pete glanced at Felicity before speaking in a voice meant only for Cam’s ears. “This is a tough one.” He frowned. “I retrieved that object Dasha uncovered, but I haven’t had a chance to investigate what in heck it is.”

  “Won’t the autopsy show how Wayne died?”

  “Should. But that won’t get done until tomorrow, if we’re lucky.” He tapped the fingers of his right hand on his leg. “Dasha’s okay?” A softer look replaced the one of professional worry.

  “Of course. I think he likes being on the farm.”

  “He likes you.” Now Pete’s soft look included Cam. “As do I.” He let out a sigh. “But I’m not going to be free tonight. I can predict that right now. Do you mind keeping him?”

  “Not at all. As long as you need me to. How are Greta and Megan doing?”

  His frown returned, with his heavy, dark eyebrows meeting in the middle. “Greta doesn’t like us treating this as a suspicious death. Not one bit.”

  Felicity strode toward them. “Detective, have you apprehended the perp?”

  Pete’s frown turned to a smile. “What kind of television are you watching, anyway?”

  Felicity smiled. “I don’t get to say ‘perp’ all that often.” Her smile fell away. “But it must be murder if you’re involved, right?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. And I need to be getting back to work.”

  “I’m going to wash these in the barn and then we’ll clear out of here.” Cam gestured at the eggs.

  Pete picked up the bucket. “I’ll carry them for you.” He led the way out the door toward the barn a few yards away up the hill.

  Cam stepped ahead of him and slid the wide door open enough for them to get through, then took the bucket from him. “Thanks. Call when you can.”

  “You know I will.” He cast a longing look at her before sliding the door closed after him.

  The creak of the wheels in the rusty track at the top of the door gritted in Cam’s ears.

  “I think you snagged a good one,” Felicity said.

  “I did.” Cam smiled at her.

  “I know you liked Jake, but he was way too volatile.”

  “Yeah.” A year ago Cam had met the bigger-than-life chef when she’d arranged to sell him some of her produce for his high-end restaurant, The Market. Their relationship had grown closer than just farmer-to-restaurateur, but Jake had proved to be the hot-tempered jealous sort—jealous without provocation—and Cam had stopped seeing him. When she and Detective Pete later started spending romantic time together, it was a surprise, but an exceedingly pleasant one, and she’d known she’d made the right choice about Jake.

  “Now, where’s the washing station?” Cam glanced around. “It’s got to be here somewhere.” The illumination from two high windows facing west let in enough light to see by as she wandered through the building with Felicity. The air smelled of old wood and a hint of ma
nure, with an overlay of motor oil. The barn had held horses or other large livestock at some point, with a row of now unoccupied stalls lining one wall and tack cupboards set into the wall opposite. Behind the stalls an antique red tractor sat in a corner of the open central space and bags of chicken feed were stacked on a palette, still in clear plastic shrink wrap. Now that Wayne was gone, would Greta continue the poultry operation? Maybe their son would step in and take it over.

  “There it is.” Felicity pointed at an industrial sink and drain board in an alcove in the far corner. A refrigerator hummed next to it.

  “Oh, good, there’s a fridge, too.” Cam set the bucket next to the sink.

  Felicity filled the wide deep sink with water and the two women worked together, carefully scrubbing each egg, then setting the orb into twelve-by-twelve cardboard flats Cam had lifted off a stack on a shelf near the sink.

  The wide door creaked open, then closed. Cam couldn’t see it from where they worked, so she dried her hands on her jeans and walked around the corner of the alcove. Greta’s hand stretched into one of the tack cupboards.

  “Greta—”

  Greta whirled, eyes wide, holding a small bag in one hand. When she saw Cam, she whipped the bag behind her back. “What are you doing here?” She’d changed out of her church clothes into dark jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “We collected the eggs and we’re washing them.”

  “Who’s we?” Greta’s voice was tight and she almost barked the words.

  “My friend Felicity and me. The officer outside said it was okay.”

  “Well, nobody asked me. This is my farm.”

  “Of course it is. I called earlier and Megan said it would be fine. We just wanted to help. I thought you would be too upset by Wayne’s death to want to come out and do his chores.”

  She nodded slowly. “I’m sorry. You’re right. Thank you, Cam.” She edged toward the door, keeping the bag out of Cam’s sight. “I am upset and I appreciate your help. But I can handle the morning chores tomorrow. You don’t need to come back.”