"You might have to think about selling some of your animals," he suggested.
"I hate to do it." One of the things I loved about the farm was that I could keep my little animal families together. At least so far, anyway. "For now," I told him, "I'm going to limit my concerns to water. I hope Peter's right about the fire station being able to deliver some, but I don't know how I'm going to use it to irrigate the crops."
"A pump and a few hoses should take care of it. You'll get it worked out," Tobias said. "You live in Buttercup now; your neighbors aren't going to let you fail."
"Really?"
"Really." He squeezed my hand again. "And your neighbors aren't the only ones."
Not for the first time, despite the problems looming over Dewberry Farm, I felt a surge of gratitude for the new life I'd made for myself. Tobias put down his coffee and stood up, still holding onto my hand. He pulled me up out of my rocking chair and into an embrace. His lips had just met mine when a strong wind came up from the direction of the pasture, and there was a loud bang from the direction of the old house. The goats bleated in alarm, and Tobias and I jumped.
"What the heck was that?" I asked.
"I don't know, but I'm going to check it out," Tobias said. I pulled my sweater tight around me and followed him out the gate toward the house.
"Do you think it's going to fall down?" I asked. "It sounded kind of like timbers cracking, don't you think?"
"It did, but I'm trying not to jump to any conclusions."
Together, we walked down to the house. By the time we got there, the hair was standing up all over my body; it sounded more like a construction site than a house.
"What do you think it is?"
"I don't know," Tobias said as we walked around the house. "It is kind of creepy, though, isn't it?"
"It is," I concurred. "In fact, I think I don't want to be here anymore."
"You know," he said slowly, "I don't think I do, either. Not that I'm superstitious generally, but..."
Another series of bangs interrupted him.
"Let's go," I said, and we hightailed it back to the house.
* * *
The next morning dawned cold and clear, with a light breeze from the north, but none of the rain that often accompanied fronts. Tobias had stayed until the banging ended last night, then left reluctantly, only after I assured him that I’d call if it started up again. Now, I tried not to fret as I made coffee with bottled water—we'd eaten off paper plates the night before to save on water—and left another message for Lenny Froehlich. If I didn't hear back soon, I planned to drive out and sit in his office until I had some answers.
As Chuck watered my grandmother's rosebushes, my eyes were drawn to the Ulrich house.
In the daytime, all the eeriness I had seen last night was gone. It was just a run-down old house with a rotting porch. Cute, but a lot of work. I squinted at it, looking for signs of something flapping loose in the wind, but there was nothing. In the spring, I thought, it would be a lovely place to stay, particularly with the sound of Dewberry Creek burbling in the background. Not that there was any water in the rocky creek bed now; after a reasonably rainy spring, the rush of water had dried to a trickle and then disappeared altogether. We'd had almost no rain to speak of in almost five months.
I turned my attention to my rather limp rows of broccoli. The only saving grace of my water shortage was that I hadn't planted all my fall crops yet, so there wasn't as much to water. That would change soon, though. I'd hoped to sow more lettuce during the next waxing moon; I was starting to experiment with a few old wives' tales to help boost production.
Chuck followed me back into the farmhouse, sniffing hopefully at the fridge door as I grabbed the clean milk pails and headed out to milk everyone. Blossom and Peony were anxiously awaiting me, and the goats were bleating with impatience. The milking went smoothly; I'd started to get the hang of it, and what once took hours was now a relatively straightforward routine. Although Blossom and I had duked it out at the beginning, she'd finally accepted that I was the one in charge, and now was content to munch on her treats while I did my job.
Once the milk had been safely stowed in the fridge, I gathered the few eggs the girls had laid for me and replenished the feeders. I spent the rest of the morning filling buckets from the goats' dwindling stock tank—I hadn't gotten a pump and hose setup put together yet—and lugging them over to my broccoli seedlings. It wasn't the most glamorous work, but as I set down the bucket for the last time and looked out over the golden hills around me, I felt a sense of satisfaction. Even in drought, the land was beautiful... although I had to admit I longed for the verdant green that carpeted the hills after the winter rains. Not that there were going to be any this year, most likely. My stomach tightened and I tried the whole don't-worry-about-what-you-can't-control thing, but it was hard when your livelihood depended on something so unpredictable. Maybe my mother had been right about me buying the farm; she'd thought I was crazy, and there were days when I agreed with her. On the other hand, with newspapers folding left and right, my journalism career hadn't exactly been rock solid, either.
Gidget bleated at me as I put the bucket down next to the stock tank and walked back toward the house. I had friends who would help me out, I had enough eggs to cook up an omelet for lunch, there was a loaf of bread from the Blue Onion Cafe in my cozy kitchen, and Tobias had promised me my neighbors wouldn't let me fail. And maybe the well company had called with a magical solution while I was doing the chores.
But I couldn't worry about that now. The market on the Square started in half an hour. I loaded my wares into the back of my truck and headed into town, trying to leave my troubles behind.
* * *
The market went pretty well, all things considered; the crowd was a bit smaller because of the time change, but the folks who showed up were happy to buy. Although I was short on greens, I sold lots of candles and just about cleared out my stock of pumpkin butter; I was going to have to make a big batch before next week's market. There was lots of buzz about Bug Wharton, and more about whatever was stalking Buttercup's livestock, but I didn't find out anything I didn't already know.
As I pulled up the driveway to the farmhouse, I found myself hoping there would be some news on the well situation. Unfortunately, no messages awaited me when I got back into the kitchen. I washed my hands at the sink and decided I'd figure out what to do after a snack, trying to find comfort in my cozy kitchen. I had just cracked three eggs into a bowl—one was for Chuck, who loved eggs—and was still consoling myself with Tobias's encouraging words when I heard the sound of tires crunching on my long dirt driveway.
Chuck perked up, growling as menacingly as a chubby poodle can, and together we walked to the front door. I was hoping it might be a pumper truck with water for my stock tanks—or maybe Lenny, my disappearing well consultant—but it was neither.
"What's wrong?" I asked as Aimee threw open the front door of her Kia.
"Serafine's been arrested," she said, looking ashen. "Rooster just turned up and took her to jail!"
9
It wasn't until I had her sitting at my kitchen table with a mug of coffee that I got anything else out of Aimee.
"Rooster showed up this morning," she blurted out. "Told her she was under arrest for the murder of Bug Wharton."
So, it was homicide after all, I thought. At least Rooster thought so.
"Did he say why he thought it was your sister?"
"I think it was that cup she threw in the fire," Aimee told me, gripping her mug like it was a life preserver. "He said something about destroying evidence."
"Did she say anything when he arrested her?"
Aimee shook her head. "She just let him handcuff her and take her outside and put her in the back of the car." There were tears in her eyes.
"She needs an attorney," I said. "Do you know if she's got one?"
Aimee shook her head. "I'm sure she doesn't. We never needed one before."
&nbs
p; "I know a good one in Houston," I said. "Serafine needs to not talk to anyone until she's got a lawyer with her."
My well troubles forgotten, I picked up the phone. A few minutes later, my old friend Andrea Morton had agreed to talk to Serafine. "Let's head down to the station and give her Andrea's number," I told Aimee. Together, we piled into my truck—Aimee's Kia had too much junk in the front seat for me to fit—and headed toward town.
Aimee dabbed at her almond-shaped eyes as I drove, and I couldn't help thinking about her rather heated discussion with Mitch Wharton. "How well do you know the Whartons?" I asked.
She darted a glance at me, then out her window. "Not really at all," she lied. "Why?"
"I'm wondering why Rooster might think your sister had something to do with Bug's death," I told her.
"Well, of course it was because they argued at the Witches' Ball!" she said.
"No other reason?" I prodded.
She dismissed the idea with a toss of her head. "Of course not." I didn't press. At least not yet.
Opal Gruber was seated behind the front desk of the station when we walked in a few minutes later, her short blond hair a bouffant around her round face.
"Oh, you poor dear," she cooed as soon as she spotted Aimee. Opal had been a little chilly to me at first, but she and I had become friendly over the last year. "I'm so sorry about your sister, honey."
"Has she talked with Rooster yet, do you know?" I asked.
Opal shook her Aqua-Netted head. "He headed over to the Blue Onion for coffee as soon as he brought her in," she said. "Had a meetin' with Mayor Niederberger."
For possibly the first time since moving to Buttercup, I praised Rooster's incompetence. "Can we see her?" I asked. "I got her the name of an attorney."
Opal bit her lip and glanced out the window. She had been my ally in the sheriff's office for the last several months; without her steady presence at the helm, I was pretty sure the entire police force of Buttercup would fall apart. "I suppose so, but be quick. I don't know how long he'll be gone. And for heaven's sake, don't tell anyone!"
"Of course not."
We hurried to the small cell at the back of the station. Serafine was sitting on the twin bed in the corner, leafing through a Texas Monthly magazine. There was a Flying Geese quilt on the bed, and lace curtains almost obscured the bars on the window. Opal liked to keep the place homey.
Serafine stood up as Opal unlocked the cell door. "Aimee! And Lucy! What are you doing here?"
"I knew Lucy had helped other people before, so she was the only person I could think to bring," Aimee blurted out. She hurled herself into her sister's arms, all signs of the conflict I'd seen the day before vanished. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Serafine said, but it was obvious she wasn't. Her normally glowing skin was ashen and the nails on her fingers were ragged. It looked as if she'd been biting them.
"Why did he arrest you?" I asked.
She shrugged. "I don't know."
I sighed. "Do you have an attorney?"
"No." Serafine shook her head. "I never needed one before."
"I called a friend of mine in Houston," I told her. "She's willing to come up and meet with you."
"Do you really think it's going to come to that?" Serafine asked.
"Rooster arrested you for murder," I reminded her, looking to Opal, who confirmed what I'd said with a grim nod. "He's not exactly the most thorough investigator on the planet."
"Or the sharpest knife in the drawer," Opal added. "Don't tell him I said so, though."
"Of course not," Serafine said.
"Did he tell you why he was arresting you?" I asked.
Serafine shook her head. "I'm guessing it must have been because he died right after we had that argument at the Witches' Ball," she said.
"I'll go keep tabs on the front," Opal volunteered, drifting away to give us some privacy.
"Was that the only argument you two had?" I asked. "Or was there something more?"
The two sisters exchanged looks, and a microexpression I couldn't quite decipher flashed over Serafine's face. "No," she said brusquely.
I paused for a moment, waiting to see if she would change her mind, but whatever had flashed between them was closed down. "Well, even if you don't want to tell me," I said, "I'd definitely mention it to the attorney."
"There is one thing..." Aimee began.
"Aimee." Serafine's tone brooked no argument.
"It's nothing," Aimee said, flushing. "I'm sorry I brought it up."
"Okay," I said slowly. "Well, if you change your mind, let me know. I was an investigative reporter in another life, so I might be able to help out."
"Thanks, Lucy." Serafine drew herself up, looking regal. "I know I'm innocent. I'm sure justice will prevail."
I wasn't so sanguine about the course of justice, particularly with Rooster in charge, but Serafine didn't seem interested in my opinion, so I didn't press it. "We should probably run before Rooster gets back, but don't talk to him without an attorney present. Her name is Andrea; I brought you her information." I pressed a piece of paper into her hand. "Have you had your phone call yet?"
She shook her head.
"Well, make this your first one," I said. Aimee gave her sister a big hug; they clung to each other as if they were never going to see each other again.
"Rooster alert!" Opal called from the front.
The sisters broke apart, and Aimee and I hurried to the front of the office, passing Opal as she raced past us with the keys. By the time Rooster swaggered through the front door of the office, we were standing by Opal's desk and she was walking down the hall with a hastily poured cup of coffee.
"Well," he said, surveying us. "Fancy meetin' you here."
Aimee crossed her arms and jutted out her chin. "Why did you arrest my sister?"
"For killin' Bug Wharton," Rooster replied, the red wattle under his chin jiggling as he spoke.
"Why on earth would she kill Bug Wharton?" I asked.
He looked at me as if I were two sandwiches short of a picnic. "Because she's one of those raving-lunatic animal-rights people, far as I can see."
"Not much of a motive," I observed. "There are a lot of ranchers in town."
"They had a personal beef, if that's what you want to call it. Anyway, it's police business."
Behind him, Opal rolled her eyes.
"Now," he continued, hitching his belt up over his prodigious paunch, "unless you've got somethin' else you came down to talk about, some of us have work to do."
"Has she had her phone call yet?" I asked.
He turned to Opal. "Well?"
Opal shook her coiffed head. "Not yet."
"We'll get it taken care of. Now, why don't you ladies go back to knittin', or milkin' goats... or whatever it is you do. Hexin' people and all," he added, narrowing his beady eyes at Aimee.
Aimee drew herself up. "I have never hexed anyone in my entire life, and neither has my sister."
"Right," he said. "It's all voodoo mumbo jumbo anyway, far as I'm concerned."
"Well," I said, watching Aimee's eyes narrow and sensing we were veering into dangerous territory, "We've got to run. We'll be back to check on Serafine later."
"But..." Aimee looked ready to spit bullets.
"Let's go," I said, grabbing her elbow and steering her out the front door.
"That hateful man!" she burst out when the door was safely closed behind us. "I may not have hexed anyone in the past, but I think I'm about to start!"
"Shh!" I said, looking around. Buttercup was for the most part a tolerant town, but there were a few folks who weren't too crazy about the idea of two witches taking up residence within the town lines, and there was no reason to start tongues wagging. It was bad enough Serafine was in jail for killing Bug Wharton. "Let's talk about it in the truck," I said. "I'll take you home."
"I don't want to go home," she complained.
"With Serafine stuck here, somebody's got to take care of things, keep
the place going," I reminded her. "Besides, there's nothing else to be done right now. Sometimes doing manual labor can help settle your mind a bit."
"I don't know about that," she said.
As I put the truck into gear, I edged toward the question that had been nagging at me since Tobias and I visited the Safari Exotic Game Ranch. "I heard you and Mitch Wharton talking over at the ranch this week," I said lightly. "I didn't know you two were friends."
Her head snapped around. "What?"
"The day the oryx was attacked," I said. "I heard you two talking, and I saw your car."
"You must be mistaken," she said.
Right. Like there were two green Kias in Buttercup.
"Maybe," I said. "But if you and Serafine have other connections to the Whartons, it could be a problem for Serafine."
"Look," Aimee said,. "Are you here to help me, or not?"
"I was trained as an investigative reporter," I reminded her. "I believe Serafine is innocent. But I also believe you're not telling me everything. If I don't know the whole story, it's going to be hard for me to figure out what really happened to Bug Wharton."
She pressed her lips tightly together and looked out the window, her arms crossed over her chest. It was so tense in the truck I rolled the window down, as if that would let some of the anger out. As we passed the old train depot, Bessie Mae waved at me, and I waved back, thankful that at least someone was in a good mood—and that there was a little bit of good news in Buttercup. The whole town had taken care of Bessie Mae for years, making sure she was fed and housed in a little place right by the train station. Her sole joy in life was watching the trains and waving at cars, but a few months ago she had suffered a health crisis that had taken her away from her favorite spot by the train depot. Thanks to the funds raised by the town's Christmas Market, her house on the train station had been renovated so she could manage it in her wheelchair. As I glanced into the rearview mirror, where Bessie Mae was still waving, I made a mental note to bring her a casserole later in the week; it had been a while since I'd stopped by.
Deadly Brew: A Dewberry Farm Mystery Page 8