Murder Most Fowl

by Edith Maxwell

  That would surely be a relief to Megan if the police succeeded in putting the killer behind bars. But, while Judith was a woman with an overly developed sense of self-worth, Cam was surprised that she would stoop to something as sordid as murder. Cam was sure Judith usually was able to get her way along much more conventional channels. And to kill a man over a piece of land? These puzzle pieces weren’t fitting together for Cam. On the other hand, Pete had always been good at his job. He must have his reasons. And Judith’s arrest meant it wasn’t Paul or Greta who killed Wayne. Or Katie, but Cam had never thought it could have been her.

  While she was on the Internet, Cam decided to see if she could learn anything else about Greta. Maybe she could discover some past experience, other than her thwarted ambitions, which might explain her grouchy attitude, dissatisfaction with her husband, and now distance from her own daughter, who, in Cam’s experience seemed sweet and easy to like. Cam thought back to the times she’d talked with Greta before last Saturday, but she could think of only one or two over the last six months. Cam’s dealings with the couple had been mainly with Wayne, as farmer to farmer, rather than socializing with them as friends, even though she’d always liked Wayne and how forthcoming he’d been with information about raising poultry.

  Cam uncovered a scholarly article Greta had written as Greta Carlson while still an undergraduate at Wellesley College. The article was about naturally occurring toxins in the plant world. Things like the trumpet flower, whose dried leaves made into a tea could kill someone with an already weak immune system. Rosary peas, the bright red legume used in rosaries, were poisonous when pierced. Morning glories, poison hemlock, castor beans, deadly nightshade—all got a mention. How ironic that her husband was killed with another one, nicotine, although not in its plant form.

  Next to Greta’s picture on the Newburyport Library Web site was a link to something called Potter World. Cam clicked that, then smiled to see that Greta offered all kinds of activities for young Harry Potter fans. Costume construction, short fan-fiction writing workshops—“Write your own adventure for Harry ten years older”—plus in-depth discussions of every part of every book. The site also included the spell-casting session like the one Greta had been offering when Cam walked by on Tuesday afternoon.

  How could someone so enchanted with a beloved children’s fiction series be so difficult with adults? Cam wasn’t all that good with adults, herself. What else could she find on Greta? She checked the years right after Greta graduated from Wellesley, but her presence in the academic world vanished. There were a few mentions in connection with the farm, including a blue ribbon for a Finnish pastry in a bake-off at the county fair, and a story about a Girl Scout trip when she was leader of Megan’s troop fifteen years earlier. Her life had become very much that of a small-town wife, mother, and Hogwarts fan. And now widow. Perhaps she was simply in the anger phase of grief.

  With Dasha lying asleep right inside the hoop house door, Cam stood spraying water onto the flats of maturing seedlings an hour later. The newly sprouted ones she continued to water from underneath so as not to disturb their still delicate roots and leaves. She ought to feel satisfied at Pete having Judith in custody, but it still didn’t feel right. Ruth had dropped by and picked up the bag with the scarf in it, but she’d said she had to rush right back to the station, so they hadn’t chatted.

  When Cam felt her phone ring in her pocket, she switched off the watering wand at the handle and answered the call.

  “Sorry I couldn’t take your call, and I can’t talk long now,” Pete said in a soft voice. “I’m out in the hall. We have a suspect in custody, though.”

  “I saw it online, that you have Judith. Is she under arrest?”

  “It’s already online? That was quick. She’s not under arrest, but we’re hoping she will be.”

  “That should make your commander happy, right? Since it’s the end of the week?”

  Pete uttered a low whistle. “Maybe, maybe not. Ivan jumped in and took the lead bringing Judith in. Unfortunately, she has lawyered up and isn’t talking. And I’m not sure we actually have the right person, despite the evidence.”

  “I had the same feeling when I read the news article. The puzzle doesn’t quite seem to fit. Can you tell me what missing piece made you take her into custody?”

  “We learned that she got an e-mail from Wayne asking her to come to breakfast,” Pete said. “She says she didn’t go. But we got a rush DNA analysis and it’s her DNA on the nicotine canisters that we found. The murder weapon. Her fingerprints, too.”

  “How did Wayne ingest the nicotine, though? Doesn’t it have a flavor?”

  “It was in his coffee.”

  “That makes sense.” Cam frowned. “He drank really strong, awful coffee. It would hide anything.”

  “So I understand. Hang on a minute.”

  Cam heard voices in the background. Dasha propped his head on his front paws and blinked at her.

  “Gotta go,” Pete said when he came back on the line. “Give Dasha a big noogie for me.”

  “Will do. Call when you can.” After Cam listened to the call become the empty air that signaled he’d disconnected, she slid the phone back into her jeans pocket. Judith was the only person Cam had ever seen around town smoking e-cigarettes. The liquid nicotine was certainly for sale in the public domain, but if that was her DNA on the containers, it didn’t bode well for her.

  Cam walked over to Dasha. Squatting, she stroked the smooth short fur on his head. His pale eyes, the color of the Arctic sky, regarded her with the same calm gaze Preston gave.

  “What do you think, doggie? Did Judith kill Wayne?”

  When he didn’t answer, she stood and stretched, her hands on her lower back. She had shed her work coat and her sweater in the humid warm air of the hoop house. What to do now? The plants were watered, the chicks were fine, and it was only two o’clock in the afternoon. Dasha would appreciate another long walk, and at least today they wouldn’t be accosted by Judith on a horse.

  At the sound of a knock, Cam glanced up to see a person’s shape through the plastic. A chill rippled through her. If Ivan had made a mistake and Judith wasn’t Wayne’s killer, whoever it was still roamed at large in the community. She couldn’t make out who it was, and wished she’d inserted a piece of clear plastic in the door frame instead of the semiopaque material the rest of the hoop house was covered in.

  “Who is it?” she called out, standing, her heart thudding.

  “Ken Wallace.” The Globe reporter pushed open the door.

  She blew out a breath of relief. “Hey, Ken.”

  “Hope you don’t mind my coming back.” He smiled. “I had a couple of follow-up questions for the article. Which is due in two hours for tomorrow’s edition.”

  “I don’t mind. Pull up a milk crate.” She gestured to the all-purpose thick plastic crates that served as chairs, as makeshift table supports, as containers for carrying supplies and bags of produce. She lowered herself onto a red crate, while Ken took a green one.

  He pulled out his notebook and pen again.

  “You’re not much older than me. Why the Luddite tools?” Cam grinned as she pointed to his scribing supplies. “You could use a digital tablet and get a head start on typing the story.”

  Ken cocked his head. “I think differently with a pen in my hand. And I’m a little hard on stuff.” He held up the notebook bound with a spiral wire on the top. “If I drop this in a puddle or forget it somewhere, I haven’t lost hundreds of dollars of equipment.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard that a Judith—” He broke off to consult his notes. “A Judith Patterson is in custody for the murder. Can I get your opinion on that? Do you think the police have the right person?”

  Cam picked a piece of dirt off the knee of her pants. “I have every confidence in the state police.” She pressed her lips together into a smile and folded her hands on her knees.

  “Did you know Ms.
Patterson?”

  “Not well. I spoke with her a few times.”

  “Did she strike you as a killer? Did you feel safe around her?”

  Cam laughed. “Are you serious? The most ordinary of people can feel compelled to kill. I don’t understand it, but I’ve seen it happen.” As he opened his mouth to speak, she held up a hand. “No, she didn’t strike me as a killer, and yes, I felt safe around her.” Except alone with her on a trail at Maudslay.

  “Okay. Back to farming for a moment. Do you know what the widow’s plans are for Laitinen Poultry Farm? She was unwilling to let me interview her for this story.”

  “I don’t know. It’s a lot of work. I only have forty hens and they keep me busy a couple times a day. Greta hasn’t told me what she’s going to do with four hundred layers.”

  “I understand she’s something of an expert on Harry Potter and the Hogwarts books. Has a small business offering activities for children.”

  “That’s right. She does some of it at the Newburyport Library.”

  He glanced up at Cam. “I’ll bet she wishes she could cast a spell to make Wayne come back to life.”

  “Her daughter would love that.”

  “Megan?”

  “Yes. She’s having a hard time with Wayne’s death.”

  “But not the wife?”

  “I didn’t mean that. Of course, I’m sure she would love to have him back, too.” Maybe.

  “I also learned that Greta Laitinen was quite the brilliant scientist in college. She was offered a full ride to go to Yale for a PhD degree program in biology, but never accepted it.”

  “That’s interesting. Did you also learn why she didn’t go?”

  “I can guess.” He tapped his pen on the notebook as he continued. “She and Wayne were married four months before their son was born. You have to be awfully motivated, and have a lot of family support, to be a successful grad student while raising children.”

  Talk about thwarted ambitions. “And maybe she didn’t have that,” Cam agreed. “I think Wayne was fairly traditional, despite how much he seemed to love her. But you sound like you know something about being a graduate student.”

  He tilted his head. “Actually, I do. My wife is finishing her PhD at MIT. And we have a three-year-old son. When I’m not out chasing a story, I’m Mr. Mom at home.” He checked his notes again. “Well, I think that’s it. Thanks for your time. I appreciate it.” He stood.

  Cam stood, too. “Not a problem. I’m not exactly interested in being famous, but I believe in print journalism. I guess I’m old fashioned in my own way, too. There’s something about curling up on the couch with a real newspaper that I like.”

  “Once again, you’re preaching to the choir.” He stuck out his hand.

  Cam shook it. “Take care. Have fun with your little boy.”

  He rolled his eyes. “It’s not always fun, but it’s always interesting. Taking care of him is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and the most meaningful, too. He’s a great kid and he never stops moving.” He stopped at the door. “On the off chance this Patterson woman is not the right person in custody, I’ll be back.”

  Cam nodded, watching him go. Despite the fecund warmth and light of her hoop house, she shivered, wondering, What if Judith wasn’t the right person in custody . . . ?

  Chapter 24

  Dasha trotted ahead on the leash as Cam moved at a brisk pace along Middle Road. A wind had picked up, and she was glad she’d donned a windbreaker before setting out for a walk after Ken Wallace left. Attic Hill Road, where her farm was situated, fed into Middle, which coursed up and down gentle hills the full length of town a couple of miles behind and parallel to Main Street. Houses dotted the road between swathes of woods, with the occasional open field running right down to the road. From deeper into the woods a northern flicker tapped out its wik-wik-wik call as busy chickadees buzzed next to the road. A few yards into the woods Cam spied maidenhair ferns popping up from the leaf litter, their green furled tops looking like the heads of stringed instruments.

  As she walked, she mused on what Ken had said about Greta’s PhD program. So Cam had been correct about child rearing interfering with Greta’s pursuit of her studies. Would Greta return to her passion of science now that Wayne was gone?

  After a mile or so, Cam came to the lane where the Laitinen farm was. On a whim, she steered Dasha down the narrow road and onto the long drive into the farm. When she neared the buildings, Pluto loped up and Cam pulled Dasha to a halt.

  “Hey, Pluto,” she said, holding out her hand for him to sniff. After he and Dasha checked each other out on both ends, Pluto barked once, then began to trot toward the barn. Cam followed and Dasha strained to run with Pluto, but she kept hold of his leash for now.

  Greta appeared in the doorway of the chicken house, a bucket of eggs in one hand. She raised the other to shield her eyes from the sun.

  “Is that you, Cam?” she called.

  Cam waved her free arm. “It is. Dasha and I were out for a walk and I thought I’d stop by. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  Greta glanced down at the eggs, her frizzy hair sticking out from under a faded Red Sox baseball hat. “Sure, if you want to wash eggs with me.” She pointed at Dasha. “You can let him off leash if you want. Pluto’s a friendly old guy.”

  Cam unclipped the leash from Dasha’s collar and watched as the dogs raced away and then enacted a play fight in the middle of the front yard. She stuffed the leash in her windbreaker pocket as she followed Greta, who was dressed in old jeans and a baggy gray sweatshirt, into the barn.

  “Did Megan return your dish?” Greta asked, running water into the bucket she had set in the industrial sink. The skin on her forearms was an angry red and bore scratches.

  “She did, thanks. She seems pretty broken up about Wayne’s death.” Cam watched Greta work. Cam didn’t think Greta needed to know that Megan had asked for Cam’s help. Or that Cam hadn’t been able to offer any. “Hey, are your arms okay?”

  “Poison sumac. I’m terribly allergic to it, poison ivy, too, and I didn’t see some in the woods the other day.”

  “Looks painful.”

  “Itches like crazy. Grab a few of those flats, would you?” Greta pointed to the stack of egg flats. “But yes, Megan runs to the emotional. She’ll be okay.” Flecks of shavings floated to the top of the water as she took a small, soft brush to one egg after another.

  Cam set a flat next to the towel where Greta was placing the clean eggs and began to transfer them to the cells in the flat. “Have you decided what you’ll do with the business, Greta?”

  Greta shook her head. “No, I haven’t. I’m not interested in all this work. Well, this kind of work, anyway. Scrubbing crap off eggs isn’t my idea of a good time, but I can’t bring myself to throw them away, especially when the Food Mart is buying them. I’m not in any hurry to make a decision.”

  “Sounds wise.”

  “I used to do much more interesting things. When I was young.” Her voice held a wistful note.

  Cam cleared her throat. “So did you hear the police have Judith Patterson in custody for Wayne’s murder?”

  Greta’s hands stilled. She turned slowly to face Cam. “Yes. They called me. How do you know about it?”

  “I read it online. Custody. Does that mean she’s been arrested?” Cam asked.

  Greta focused on the eggs again. “I don’t know.”

  “It must be a relief for you, to know they found out who did it,” Cam said.

  “Oh, it’s a relief, all right. Rich lady thinks she can boss poor farmers around. Serves her right. Glad the cops figured it out.”

  “Did you suspect Judith?”

  “I’m not in the business of suspecting anyone, Cam.” She shot Cam a sharp glance. “I’ve been busy trying to hold my life together, and that of my daughter and all the damn livestock around here.”

  “Something about the arrest seems off to me,” Cam said. “Judith is, as you say, rich. I don�
��t understand why she felt she had to kill Wayne.”

  “There’s lots about folks that’s hard to understand.” Greta shook her head. “Lots. You’re young yet. You’ll learn.”

  “I’m sure I will.” True, Cam was at least twenty years younger than Greta, but the comment seemed like it came out of left field. She sure didn’t feel young, not after running her own business, being associated with more than one murder, and having her own life endangered.

  Cam filled one flat and set another one on top. “Megan will be happy to hear the news, I’m sure.”

  “And Henry, too,” Greta said.

  “I wanted to ask you about something that happened a long time ago, Greta.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Well, it’s not related to the murder, but it does involve Wayne.” Cam told her about finding the bracelet and the bone. “And apparently the girl whose bracelet it was was named Fionnoula Leary.” She watched Greta, but all Greta did was lift a shoulder and drop it.

  “Never heard of her.”

  “There was some kind of accident and she died.”

  “What does this have to do with me?” Greta asked.

  “Paul Underwood was with her and another girl named Catriona Brennan. And Wayne was with them, too.”

  “Really?” She looked at Cam, her hands still in the bucket. “He never told me. We were never that kind of couple, though. You know, the ones who have to share everything with their darling spouse.” She snorted. “After his great-aunt died, she left him a nice inheritance. He didn’t share that with me, either, even though we could have used the money to help support this losing enterprise. Seems like his business hemorrhaged money.” She fell silent for a moment, gazing at the eggs. “But . . .”

  Cam waited.

  “I never really understood what was up between Paul and Wayne,” Greta continued. “Wayne didn’t care to spend time with him. But last Saturday, after Paul came to see him, Wayne seemed excited about something. Or nervous, more so.”