Murder Most Fowl

by Edith Maxwell

  They topped the hill and headed down the perimeter of the other side where the winding trail perched at the edge of a steep slope. Cam had nearly slammed into a tree here in the winter when the snow had been slick and momentum had taken her faster than she wanted to go. From around the bend a horse and rider clopped uphill toward Cam and Dasha. Cam took a second look and realized it was Judith astride the same black horse she’d been riding at Sue’s stable the day before. Odd that she’d run into Judith two days in a row. When the horse drew near, Cam waved.

  “Hi, Judith.”

  Judith pulled the horse to a stop ten feet away. It snorted and stamped its front feet as if it didn’t agree with the decision. Cam didn’t move close enough to stroke the horse this time, sticking her hands in her pockets instead.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Cam said, when Judith didn’t speak.

  “Yes. You ought to mind your own business, you know.” She gazed down at Cam with narrowed eyes. She wore the same short black jacket as she had at the stable, with black knee-high boots over riding pants, and an orange silk scarf tied around her neck.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The police came to talk to me. They think I had something to do with Wayne’s death. I’ve never heard anything more ridiculous.” Judith sniffed and her lip curled.

  Oh. She’d told Pete about Judith’s vaping. “That doesn’t involve me, though,” Cam said. “You said you were in conflict with Wayne about the property. The police are only doing their job, their due diligence.”

  “I think you told that detective something that made him interested in me. I don’t like it, Cam. You ought to stick to farming. It’s unbecoming to turn snitch.” She clucked to the horse, which started moving again, fast. And it was moving straight at Cam.

  “Hey! What are you doing?” Cam yelled. Dasha barked. Cam leapt to the side and grabbed at a branch to keep from sliding down the hill. Dasha planted his feet downhill from her and kept barking. Cam barely hung on as Judith steered the horse past her so close Cam could feel the heat of its body on her face.

  Once they were past, Cam blew out a breath and climbed back onto the trail, staring as Judith and the horse disappeared over the crest of the hill. Cam’s heart was thudding in her ears like a loud, fast bass rhythm.

  “Geez, Dasha.” She picked up the dropped leash. “What was that all about? She’s crazy.” Or guilty.

  Dasha barked at the trail ahead.

  “Good idea. Let’s go home.”

  Chapter 16

  Cam was about to leave the farm after dinner for town meeting when she realized she hadn’t tucked the hens and chicks in for the night. She rushed out to the barn to secure them before climbing into the truck. She rattled down the hill and then right on Main Street a quarter mile, hurrying into the vestibule of Old Town Hall twenty minutes after seven. She checked in with the registrar at the door, but when she entered the hall, the meeting wasn’t yet in session. Committee members milled about on the stage, and clumps of townspeople stood talking in the back. A scattering of folks occupied seats, some reading, a few knitting, others chatting. Detective Hobbs stood in a back corner, hands clasped behind his back, eyes scanning the room, his trimmed dark-blond hair combed with exaction. Why was he here?

  Cam spied Felicity sitting near the side aisle and made her way toward her. Taking a seat, she greeted Felicity. “Why haven’t they started?”

  “No quorum. We need at least thirty percent of the voting population in order to decide financial matters over five thousand dollars.”

  “Guess I didn’t need to worry about being late, then.”

  Felicity laughed. “Nope. Hey, stroke of luck getting that new fellow in as a volunteer, wasn’t it?”

  “Seemed like it. I can use all the help I can get.”

  Felicity frowned at a crossword puzzle on a clipboard in her lap. “What’s an eleven-letter word for ‘before you eat’?”

  “Preprandial?”

  Felicity entered the letters on the puzzle and glanced over at Cam. “That’s it. How do you know that word?”

  “Great-Aunt Marie liked to use it.” Cam laughed. “When she and Albert would have their cocktail at the end of the day, she’d always offer me a preprandial libation, too. In those exact words.”

  “It’s a good one. Preprandial. I like the way it rolls off the tongue.” Felicity turned her gaze back to the puzzle.

  “There’s also postprandial and intraprandial. One of their friends who came over for dinner sometimes used to excuse himself in between courses. He’d say he was going outside for an intraprandial cigarette. Cam turned sideways in her seat and scanned the hall. She whistled.

  “What?” Felicity looked in the same direction.

  “Over there. Greta Laitinen and Judith Patterson talking together.” Cam shook her head. “I was walking in Maudslay today, and Judith almost ran me down with her horse.”

  Felicity wrinkled her nose. “Why would she do that?”

  “She thinks I got her in trouble with the police.” Cam frowned “I wonder if she’s hiding something. Innocent people don’t care if the police question them, do they?”

  “Not usually.” She glanced at Cam. “Seems kind of early for Greta to be out and about. It’s only four days since Wayne was killed.”

  Cam nodded her head slowly, still gazing at the two women. “That’s right. She was already back at work at the library on Tuesday, too. I think I might go over and say hello to them. See what Judith has to say about running me down, too.”

  “Don’t get caught in the crossfire.” Felicity pointed. “They don’t look that happy with each other.”

  “They sure don’t.” Cam had never seen either of them look particularly happy with anyone, come to think of it. She rose and made her way up the aisle and across the back of the hall. She passed Ivan Hobbs and slowed. She was about to say hello to him, but since they hadn’t been introduced, she decided to skip it. Pete could do the formalities if they were ever all in one place.

  Greta stood halfway down the aisle along the side of the room with arms folded across her chest, chin in the air, jaw clenched. Judith, standing a couple of inches taller than Greta and impeccably attired in a black pantsuit, waved a hand in the air with her back to Cam. Cam slowed as she approached. She was about to clear her throat to announce herself when Judith spoke.

  “Leasing the land to me benefits both of us, Greta. You know that. I thought we were in agreement about letting me have the land before . . .”

  “Before my husband was murdered? That changed everything. Now I’m not so sure I want to let you take part of my children’s inheritance.”

  Judith blew out an aggrieved sigh. “I wouldn’t be taking it. I’d be paying you for it, and paying you well.”

  “I’ll ask my lawyer about it.” Greta turned and stalked down to the third row of seats.

  Judith turned on her heel. Her nostrils flared when she saw Cam a few feet away. “What are you doing eavesdropping on us? That was a private conversation.”

  “Hold on. This is a public hall. I just came over to say hello. And to ask what you were doing running me down on the trail today. I almost fell down the hill.”

  Judith gave Cam a pitying look. “You have quite the imagination. There was plenty of room on that trail for both of us. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” She stepped forward.

  “It wasn’t my imagination.” Cam folded her arms and occupied the center of the aisle, with seats on her right and the wall holding ten-foot-tall windows on her left. “Why are you so worried about talking to the police if you’ve done nothing wrong?” She kept her voice low.

  “None of your business.” Judith turned again. Cam watched as she made her way down to the front and back up the center aisle, her heels clicking on the wooden floor. When she drew even with Cam, Judith glanced at her and mouthed, “Don’t mess with me.”

  Cam glanced toward the back to see Detective Hobbs, his gaze firmly fixed on Judith.

  Ca
m sipped her beer downstairs at the Grog, tapping her toe to the lively tunes of Keeltori. Town meeting had never reached quorum. She and Felicity had worked on the crossword together while they waited, with Cam occasionally supplying a word. At around eight o’clock the moderator had used the microphone to plead with everyone present to each please call another resident and ask them to show up. But by eight-thirty there still weren’t enough voters in the hall, and the meeting had been continued to the following Saturday.

  So Cam had driven over to the Grog, hoping she could talk to Catriona about Fionnoula and what had happened to her cousin. Not that she wanted to, but she felt she had to. Cam yawned. Surely the group would take a break soon. Couples and small groups occupied the rough wood tables, chatting quietly or simply listening. Glasses clinked and someone laughed back near the door. The room was half full, not bad for a Wednesday night at nine o’clock.

  Cam watched the fiddler. She moved her whole body with her playing, sometimes bending low over the fiddle, sometimes facing the guitarist as if their instruments were talking to each other, a few times sashaying toward the tables and engaging a listener here and there. Catriona wore a pink and black flowered dress this evening, with pink tights and low black boots, a pink flower pinned in her dark hair.

  Cam had finished her beer and her bowl of complimentary popcorn, and was considering giving up and heading home when the group finished a song with a flourish.

  Catriona leaned into the mike and announced into the applause, “We’re after taking a short break now. Catch you in fifteen, then.” She carefully set her fiddle on the stand, drank down a bottle of water, and dabbed a handkerchief on her forehead and neck.

  Cam took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be easy. She stood and took a step toward the front of the room when Catriona glanced around as if searching for something. Cam followed her gaze and saw her head for the restrooms. Well, Cam had to use the facilities, too, so she followed Catriona.

  A couple of minutes later she was washing her hands at the sink next to Catriona. Cam caught her eye in the mirror and smiled. “Great music you all play. I’m a big fan.”

  “Thanks, dearie. We’re loving doing it, for sure.”

  “I saw Paul Underwood playing with you on Monday. You’re old friends with him?” Cam asked.

  Catriona pulled out a paper towel and faced Cam, drying her hands. “We are, that.”

  “This might sound odd, but I’m a farmer, and I found a gold bracelet on my land. It had the initials FL inside it.”

  Catriona stopped drying her hands. She stood without moving.

  “And then I learned that the girl who wore it was named Fionnoula Leary. She used to ride at my friend’s stable, but my friend said she disappeared. And a news article said she lived with you and your family. Is that right?”

  “Who are yeh, then? Are yeh a private investigator?” Catriona’s mouth hung open and her face had gone pale.

  “No, not at all. But my friend was murdered this week—”

  “Wayne.” Her eyes filled as she stared at Cam. “He was my friend, too.”

  “His daughter asked for my help. I wondered what happened between Paul and Wayne all those years ago. You might be the only person who knows, besides Paul.”

  “Yeh think Paul killed him?”

  “I don’t know. But something caused them to split apart, and I know they were still dealing with it when Wayne died. And it seems linked to your cousin’s disappearance.”

  Catriona set her hands on the sink and hung her head down for a moment.

  “Please talk to me,” Cam urged.

  Catriona straightened and turned toward Cam. “I will. I shouldn’t, you know, but I will. I can’t do it now, though. We’re after having another set to play, and it’s a long one.”

  “Can I meet you for lunch tomorrow?”

  “All right.”

  “Here at noon?” Cam asked. If she didn’t set the time and place now, it might never happen.

  Catriona nodded. She tossed the towel in the receptacle near the door. With her hand on the door, she said, “None of us killed Fionnoula, and we all did.”

  Chapter 17

  Cam lay in bed with her eyes wide open. “None of us killed Fionnoula, and we all did.” Catriona’s words echoed in her brain. What in the world did that mean? The “us” had to be Catriona, Paul, and Wayne.

  She’d thought she was tired, but sleep was a distant train whistle compared to these nearby sirens of thoughts in her head. She turned and glanced at the red numbers of her alarm clock. Was ten-thirty too late to call Pete? She knew he’d want her to. She grabbed her phone and sat up, pressing his number.

  He answered with a slow, deep, “Pappas.”

  “Did I wake you?” she asked.

  “Yeah, but it’s okay. Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I can’t sleep and wanted to tell you what happened tonight. All day, actually.”

  “Go.” His voice already sounded more alert.

  “So I had a run-in with Judith Patterson today. I took Dasha for a walk in Maudslay this afternoon, because it was such a nice day.”

  “I’ll bet he loved that.”

  “He did. But then Judith came at me on a horse. First she said she was unhappy that I had snitched on her to you. Her word, not mine. And then she rode her horse so close to me I almost fell down the hill. And it was a steep one.”

  “But you were okay?”

  “Yes. Did you make any connection with Judith and the murder weapon?”

  He groaned. “Not yet. She claims . . . Well, I can’t really talk about it. Now, what was the other thing you wanted to tell me?”

  “Well, after town meeting—Oh, I should also tell you that Greta and Judith were arguing there. Greta seems to have changed her mind about letting Judith acquire a portion of the land.”

  “Hmm. Interesting.” Pete didn’t quite muffle his yawn.

  “And then Judith denied that she ran me down. But the other thing is, after the meeting was postponed because they didn’t get a quorum, I went to the Grog. I wanted to talk to Catriona Watson, and her group played there tonight.”

  “The fiddler. The one who knew Fionnoula.”

  “Exactly. I wanted to ask her about Fionnoula and the bracelet.”

  “What did she say?” Pete asked.

  “She asked me if I was a private investigator. She seemed really upset by my asking, like she’d seen a ghost. She didn’t have time to talk, though, so we set a lunch date for tomorrow. She said she’d tell me then.”

  “That’s good, at least.”

  “But what I wanted to tell you was the last thing she said. She said, ‘None of us killed Fionnoula, and we all did.’”

  Pete fell silent. When he spoke he was terse and sounded official. “That’s a very incriminating thing for her to say. What’s her last name again?”

  “Watson. Her maiden name was Brennan. And her first name isn’t spelled like it sounds.” Cam spelled out Catriona for him. Sounds of tapping came from the phone, as if Pete was typing into a laptop or tapping out a text message.

  “What did the “we” refer to?” he asked.

  “We’d just been talking about Paul Underwood and Wayne Laitinen. I assumed she meant the three of them.”

  “Got it. Do you know where she lives?”

  “No, but she plays around here, so it must be somewhere local.”

  “I’ll call it in. We’ll find her.”

  “What? Call what in?”

  “Anybody who says she killed someone is our business. I don’t care how long ago it was. There’s no statute of limitations on murder. They likely never closed the Fionnoula Leary disappearance case.”

  “But she also said she didn’t kill Fionnoula.”

  Pete was silent for a moment.

  “Dare I ask if you’ve made any progress in finding Wayne’s murderer?” Cam asked.

  “You can dare, but the truth is that we haven’t. No real progress, anyway.” He let out a
low, groaning breath.

  “That’s too bad.”

  “It is what it is. I’ve gotta get off the phone, Cam. Thanks for the tip about Catriona. Glad you’re safe. Talk to you tomorrow.” With that, he disconnected.

  The tip? Cam sat staring at the phone in her hand. Was he going to go find Catriona right now at eleven o’clock at night? And Paul? What can of worms had she opened? He’d said there was no statute of limitations on murder. Murder. A shudder rippled through her at the image of three teenagers murdering their friend.

  Chapter 18

  Cam headed out to do the morning chores as soon as she was awake, dressed, and caffeinated. Yesterday’s mild weather had disappeared overnight, and the iron-clad sky had returned. Such was March in New England. It would be as typical for this gloom to disappear and the temperature to double by the afternoon as it would be to get more snow in a couple of hours.

  Halfway to the barn she halted. Something didn’t look right. The outside wall of the barn had color on it instead of being plain wood. And was the door open? She knew she’d closed the sliding door before she’d left for Town Meeting yesterday. She slid a hand inside the open door and flicked on the light switch. And gasped.

  The office door stood open. Red spray-painted letters above the office door read, “ARF. FREEDOM FOR ANIMALS. STOP CRUELTY NOW.” And little yellow and black puff balls dotted the large interior of the barn. Her chick babies.

  “Oh, no. You poor things.” She reached down and picked up the closest chick, which shivered in her hand. “Who would do such a thing?” ARF were the same letters as at Wayne’s, the Animal Rights Front.

  She hurried to the door and was about to pull it closed when she glimpsed movement in the far corner where the light barely reached. Were the ARF vandals still here? She stuck her other hand into her pocket, grabbing her phone. If there was ever a time to dial 911, it was now.

  She froze as a high-pitched sound came from the same corner, then the sound abruptly cut off. A fox emerged into the light. It trotted straight at her, a bit of yellow fluff in the corner of its mouth.