Murder Most Fowl

by Edith Maxwell

  Cam looked down at her jeans and green sweater under her jacket. “Not a problem. Let’s do it now, if that’s okay. I need to be somewhere at seven.” She took one more swallow of wine and stood.

  “Sure.” Megan rose, too, and grabbed a coat off the back of a chair. “I appreciate the company. It’s kind of freaky being in the hen house alone after dark, ever since it was vandalized.”

  They walked down to the hen house together, Pluto ambling behind them.

  “Felicity and I fed and watered them yesterday, and collected the eggs, too,” Cam said.

  “Thank you so much, Cam.” Megan sniffled again. “I thought my parents had friends, but maybe not. I’m serious, you’re the only person who has offered to help. A couple of women from the church brought by those flowers and a deli platter, but that’s it.” She shook her head. “Whatever happened to community?”

  A twinge of guilt stabbed Cam, since part of her motivation for both visits was to try to get information about the murder. “I wonder if people are unsure because your dad didn’t die a natural death. Maybe they’re a little frightened. But I’m sure the community cares.”

  “Sure doesn’t seem like it so far.” Megan pulled open the hen house door to a chorus of chicken song and a rush of warm, fetid air. She stood as if paralyzed.

  “Come on,” Cam said softly. “Why don’t you collect the eggs and I’ll do the food? Buckets are on the shelf over there. Pluto, you stay outside,” she added, giving the dog a gentle push and closing the door on him.

  Megan nodded like a sleepy robot.

  Fifteen minutes later Cam closed the hen house door after them. Pluto sat waiting in the near dark, his tongue out. Megan held a bucket full of eggs but still looked lost. Up the hill the lights from the house pushed out a welcoming beacon.

  Cam took the bucket from her. “I know where the sink is in the barn,” she said. “You go back to the house. Eat a plate of lasagna and then go home.”

  “Okay. I haven’t eaten all day.” She spoke slowly, as if she didn’t particularly care if she ate or not.

  “I’ll pop in and say good-bye in a couple of minutes.” Cam watched Megan and Pluto head for the house, and then trudged over to the barn. After she flipped the lights on and set the eggs to soak in the industrial sink, she turned for the door. And turned again, back toward the stalls. It wouldn’t hurt to quickly check that tack cupboard while Greta was out. Would it? She might have come back and hidden the item after Cam had left. The real question was why she was hiding something in the barn when she had a whole house at her disposal. Cam hesitated for a moment, then made her way to the stalls area.

  Which one of the ten doors had Greta opened? Cam tried to picture the scene yesterday afternoon. It was one of the ones in the middle, she was sure. She counted down three and had her hand on the latch of the fourth one when she heard a noise and froze. She tried to listen over the thudding of her heart. The noise didn’t sound like a car coming up the drive. A click-click sound came closer.

  Cam’s laugh was shaky as Pluto came trotting around the corner. “You had me there for a minute, doggie. I must have left the door open.”

  He stood next to her and panted.

  “Don’t tell, okay?” Cam pulled the compartment door open and leaned down to peer into the space, feeling ridiculously like Nancy Drew. A disappointed Nancy Drew, as it turned out. The cupboard was empty. She opened the next one over. Also empty. Third time a charm? Not so much. Cam closed it. But there were six more. Cam moved down the row. Open, peer, close. Open, peer, close. Pluto watched. At the end of the row, she doubled back to the first cupboard. Empty. After she peered into the second one, she was already straightening when she bent down again. Something was lodged against the back. It was in the shadows but looked like a cube-shaped box.

  Cam dug her phone out of her jacket pocket and hit the flashlight app. The bright white light illuminated the whole space. The red, black, and tan cube-shaped box read, FEDERAL PREMIUM, .410 HANDGUN, .410 3 IN BUCKSHOT. There were two more lines of details, and at the bottom it read, PERSONAL DEFENSE.

  Straightening, Cam switched off the phone light. Handgun ammunition. Cam could see why Greta might not want that in the house. But where was the gun? And why did she feel the need to own one? Certain farmers owned shotguns to ward off prey like coyotes or woodchucks, but a handgun was a different matter. Well, that was Greta’s business. And since Wayne hadn’t been shot, it should stay Greta’s business, although Cam would let Pete know, just in case.

  Cam left the barn, Pluto at her side, and made her way back to the house. Megan sat at the table with more wine in her glass and a half-full plate of lasagna. Swing music played from a phone plugged into a small speaker.

  “Is that Postmodern Jukebox?” Cam asked. “I love that group.”

  Megan nodded as she swallowed, then said, “This is perfect, Cam. Thank you so, so much.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Listen, I left the eggs soaking, but I don’t have time to scrub and flat them. You can tell your mom you collected them if you want.”

  The back door flew open. “Tell her mom what?” A frowning Greta stood in the doorway with her bag over her shoulder.

  “Hey, Mom. Where you been?” Megan waved her fork. “Cam was nice enough to bring us dinner. Want some?”

  Cam greeted Greta with a smile. “How are you?”

  Greta did not return the smile. “How do you think?” She set her fists on her waist. Her round face was pale and her eyes as reddened as Megan’s had been. “My husband’s dead and my son doesn’t seem to care. I’m broke and stuck with a business I don’t want. I hate hens,” she spat.

  “Mom.” Megan’s eyes pleaded with Greta. “Sit down and eat with me.”

  Greta pulled out a chair and sank into it. She smiled a little. “I wish I could point my wand at the bank and say Accio dollars! I wouldn’t have to worry about money ever again.”

  “Mom’s a huge Harry Potter geek,” Megan said, looking at her mother with soft eyes.

  “You both take care.” Cam took a step toward the door. “I have to get going.”

  “Thanks for the food,” Greta’s voice was gruff. “Appreciate it.”

  Chapter 11

  It looked like every patron in Connolly’s Irish Pub was wearing green. Cam and Lucinda’s server was a young woman with pale skin, startling blue eyes, and black hair. When she approached their booth, Cam noticed she even sported a pair of green skinny jeans.

  Cam looked up from the menu. “I’ll have the Irish stew, please.”

  “You got it,” the server said.

  “Can I have the fish and chips?” Lucinda examined the back of the menu. “And we’ll take a pitcher of green-colored Sam Adams, right, Cam?”

  “Of course. Will it be green?”

  “Is it Saint Patrick’s Day?” The server laughed. “Green all the way.” She gathered their menus and turned away.

  A trio played Celtic music in the far corner. A seated man held a flat frame drum vertically with his left hand inside, his right playing the skin with a stick. A man in a tweed cap coaxed an elaborate tune from a flute, and a petite, energetic woman in a short dress and boots played the fiddle and danced her feet at the same time.

  “Sorry I was late,” Cam said.

  “Not a problem.” Lucinda folded her arms on the table, leaning toward Cam. “What do you know about the chicken farmer’s murder, the Laitinen man?”

  Cam pursed her lips. “Wayne, poor guy. Why do bad things happen to the people with the biggest hearts?”

  “I know. He was a really nice guy. I used to buy roasters from him. Can’t get much more local than that.”

  “I was late because I took a lasagna over to the Laitinens. Their daughter is pretty upset.” She decided to keep news of the ammunition to herself, along with any mention of Greta’s behavior.

  “How’d he die?”

  “The family thought it might have been a heart attack.” Cam gazed at her. Lucinda could keep a
secret. She kept her voice low. “It took the police a while, but Pete told me this afternoon it was nicotine poisoning.”

  “Nicotine, like in cigarettes?”

  “Like in cigarettes. But you know, with those e-cigs, people buy little vials of pure liquid nicotine.”

  “Those things they call vaping? People who do that look ridiculous, if you ask me.”

  “That’s it. And apparently liquid nicotine is so toxic it only takes a couple of those vials to kill someone.”

  “It should be illegal.” Lucinda’s dark eyes flashed.

  “Agree. Pete thinks so, too.” Cam sat back, nodding. “So how’s your locavore year going?” Cam asked Lucinda, who had vowed last June to eat only locally produced food for a year.

  “Eh.” She lifted a shoulder, then dropped it. “I have to make lots of exceptions. Like tonight, although with any luck the fish is at least from the Atlantic. I wouldn’t be able to eat out hardly anywhere if I stuck to it. But it’s okay. It’s been a real learning experience.”

  “A couple of restaurants around here like to feature local ingredients.”

  “But those are fancy, expensive places, Cam. I’m a librarian at a private school, remember? With a librarian’s salary.”

  Their server arrived with a pitcher and two pint glasses and set them on the table. “Enjoy.”

  After Lucinda poured, Cam raised her glass. “Here’s to the Irish.”

  “To the Irish.” Lucinda clinked her glass with Cam’s and took a long drink. She tapped the table to the music.

  The woman now held her fiddle at her side and sang in a language that must be Gaelic. Cam glanced around the room. Every seat at the bar was occupied and all the tables and booths seemed to be, too. As a man approached their table, Cam looked up.

  “Mind if I join you, ladies?” Paul Underwood smiled at them. He wore a long-sleeved green shirt with pressed jeans, and his neatly trimmed brown hair looked, as with every time Cam had seen him, as if he’d come straight from the barber. He beat the rhythm of the music on his thigh with his hand. “All the seats are taken, and I’m a huge fan of that group.”

  Really? He wanted to sit with a couple of organic farming types? “Um, sure,” Cam said. She glanced at Lucinda and raised her eyebrows. “Have a seat.”

  Lucinda shot her a look. She had organized the forum in the winter at the school where she worked, the forum where Cam and Paul had faced off over the question of using chemicals like G-Phos on a farm. Cam and Lucinda shared the view that glyphosates should be banned, but Paul had firmly defended his position, and that of his employer.

  “Thanks. This is my favorite holiday. I know Underwood doesn’t sound Irish, but my mother was from County Cork.” Paul sat between Lucinda and Cam. “How are you, Lucinda?” He smiled at her.

  “Good.” She pushed her dark curly hair away from her forehead with a quick gesture.

  “What’s the name of the group?” Cam asked.

  “Keeltori.” Paul gazed at them, now beating the table in time with the drum. “I used to play with them.”

  “What do you play?” Lucinda looked at him with eyebrows raised, as if he’d suddenly acquired a new dimension.

  “Guitar, banjo, mandolin. I especially like the mandolin, even though it’s not really traditionally Irish.”

  “Are you in a group now?” Cam asked.

  “No. I have three little boys, and it’s hard to do anything without them beyond going to work.” He smiled. “They’re super guys, but they take a lot of time. Well, all my free time, unless I get my dad to come over and babysit, like tonight.”

  “It must be good to get a break once in a while,” Lucinda said.

  He nodded. “Katrina there is an old friend of mine and we try to jam from time to time, usually at my house so I don’t have to get a sitter.” His voice turned wistful. As if she’d heard him, the female lead caught sight of Paul and waved at him.

  Old friends. “I heard you were old friends with Wayne Laitinen, too.” Cam watched as Paul turned to look at her.

  “I was. Who’d you hear that from?”

  “Your high school English teacher.”

  “Mrs. Slavin?” He frowned.

  “Yes,” Cam said. “She’s one of my farm customers. Said you and Wayne were pretty close buddies in school.”

  “We were. For a while. May he rest in peace.”

  The server returned with Cam’s and Lucinda’s dinners. “Can I get you something, sir?” she asked Paul.

  “A double Irish whiskey neat, with water back.” At the waitress’s look of confusion, he groaned. “Just bring me a small glass of water when you bring the whiskey.”

  When she’d gone, Cam remarked, “I don’t know what a water back is, either.” She took a bite of the stew and let a chunk of meat dissolve on her tongue as she savored the stew’s rich flavors.

  “Adding a little water to whiskey opens up the flavor,” Paul said. “I should stop saying it anyplace but at the bar itself. The server ought to know the term, but . . .”

  Cam swallowed. “So you weren’t friends with Wayne anymore? But I saw you driving away from his place Saturday afternoon.”

  “Yes, I went to see him.” Paul looked at the band. “We were trying to sort of work through a couple of things.”

  “You mean the reason you stopped being friends?” Cam asked.

  “Yes,” Paul said without meeting her eyes.

  “You didn’t look too happy when you left.”

  “Happy, not happy. What does it matter?” He chewed on the inside of his lip.

  “I read online that you found him dead Sunday morning,” Lucinda said as she swirled a French fry in ketchup. “Why’d you go back?” A little smile played around her mouth.

  Paul looked from Lucinda to Cam. “What’s with you girls? You sound like the damn detectives.” He stood. “Excuse me. I came here to listen to music, not to get grilled.” He intercepted the server and exchanged money for his drink. He splashed water from the glass into the whiskey and gave the water back to the server, then took up position standing near the band, his back to their table.

  “A little touchy about that, wasn’t he?” Lucinda asked.

  “I guess. But who wouldn’t be? We barely know him and here we were both pestering him with questions.” Cam watched Paul as he sipped his whiskey, his foot tapping to the music. She pulled her attention back to the most delicious beef stew she’d ever tasted.

  “Is that good?” Lucinda asked, popping another French fry into her mouth.

  “Very.” Cam poked her spoon around in the bowl. “Beef, carrots, onions, potatoes, of course. But the flavor is what does it. I wonder what their secret is.”

  “I read a recipe that calls for a bottle of stout in it. Can you taste beer?”

  Cam rolled a spoonful around on her tongue. “That might be it. I’m going to try this at home. Make it for Pete whenever he solves this case.”

  “You could do it all local, too.” Lucinda waggled her eyebrows.

  “Absolutely, and then give the recipe to the shareholders next summer or fall, when I harvest carrots and potatoes. Good idea.” Cam glanced up when the music stopped.

  The woman took the microphone. “Sure and I hope you’re all havin’ a grand time tonight,” she said in accented English, her short dark hair spiked up off her head. “We’re after askin’ an old friend to play with us. Will yeh join us now, Paul Underwood?” She strode to Paul’s side and grabbed his hand.

  He shook his head hard and tried to pull back, but the fiddler won out, and a minute later a mandolin was in his hands. And a minute after that he was picking out an intricate tune with the rest of the group. Cam watched him, his head down as the fingers of both his hands flew over the frets and the strings. He had real talent.

  “He’s pretty good,” Lucinda said. “Wonder why he’s selling chemicals instead of touring with that group.”

  “I imagine it’s because it’s hard to support a family being a wandering musician.
” Under the table her own feet were dancing to the song. “I’ve heard him talk about his sons. Felicity said he’s essentially a single dad, so it’d be that much harder.”

  “Sure would,” Lucinda said before draining her glass. “Fill ’er up?” She lifted the pitcher.

  Cam nodded, but her thoughts were on Paul. How could she find out what his issue with Wayne had been? Pete had said Paul found Wayne’s body Sunday morning. The police obviously didn’t think Paul had killed Wayne, but why not? She shook her head. Tonight was supposed to be an escape from those thoughts, an evening of green beer, a good friend, and excellent music, not thinking about murder.

  The next morning dawned windy and raw, with a gunmetal sky pressing down on the farm. Cam had stayed at the pub a little later than she should have, and now at eight she yawned as she trudged to the barn, her knit work cap pulled down over her ears, a travel mug full of French roast in one work-gloved hand. Dasha trotted at her side while Preston stayed behind on the back steps watching them.

  After yesterday’s warm weather and with the longer days, the outside worms were moving again and the compost should be warming enough to turn. Two of the three slatted bins sat full of last fall’s spent plants, plus horse manure, leaves, and all the other vegetable matter a farm produced. She’d also bought a load of crushed lobster body shells to mix in. The compost wouldn’t have broken down much over the winter, but it should be thawed by now. All it needed was air to get cooking again so the temperature would rise enough to kill weed seeds and break down the woody matter of stems.

  Cam made sure all the chicks were alive and fed, and did the same for the adult chickens before grabbing a pitchfork and heading for the bins around the back of the barn. She dug into the middle three-sided bin, which she’d constructed of free shipping pallets almost four-foot square, and forked a heap of the rough mix over into the empty bin on her right. And another and another. The repetitive work freed up her brain to work overtime.