Bring Home the Murder

by Jarvela, Theresa M. ;

  Soon after, the small yellow farmhouse came into view, nestled against a rolling hill. Meggie slowed the Bug and turned into the long narrow driveway. She pulled up in front of the house and turned off the ignition.

  A smile crossed her face when she thought about her bucket list. She might not live on a hobby farm but she could housesit one. She stepped out of the car and stretched her arms.

  A rooster crowed from the backyard. It reminded her that Molly had left the fowl in the coop earlier that morning. Her instructions were to let them out when she arrived. But first things first. She opened the trunk of the car, pulled out her luggage and set it on the ground. She reached back in for her brown cowboy boots and closed the trunk.

  Meggie pulled the luggage up the front porch steps and wheeled it across the wooden porch floor. She held the screen door open with her hip, fished in her purse for the house key, and slid it into the lock. The door opened into the entryway where subdued light shone from a small window above the staircase landing.

  Meggie slung her purse over her shoulder, gripped the cowboy boots with one hand and picked up her suitcase with the other. She carried her baggage through the living room with its fawn-colored furniture and beige walls.

  A warm and fuzzy feeling spread over her and she recalled her first visit to the farm. She had expressed to Molly how much fun it would be to housesit where she felt so at home.

  The refrigerator hummed in the corner of the combination kitchen and dining area. A warm breeze blew through the open window and lifted the red-and-white-checked café curtains in the air. Several white paper napkins had blown off the kitchen table and onto the floor.

  Meggie crossed the sun-streaked floor to the master bedroom. She set her luggage near the end of the double bed, admired the blue-and-white summer quilt, and took out her cell phone.

  After a quick text message to Walter to let him know she arrived at the farm, she unpacked her bag. She hung her clothes in the closet and arranged smaller items inside the dresser drawer Molly had emptied for her.

  In the kitchen she picked the napkins off the floor and tossed them in the garbage. A notepad with additional instructions lay on the table. She picked it up, read the list over.

  Meggie let herself out the back door and headed for the chicken coop. On the way she passed the white gazebo Molly and Michael had built. Tiny compared to her gazebo, the structure stood on a raised platform. A lattice wall about three feet high ran around the entire building. Underneath the roof, yellow woodwork topped each of the supporting beams.

  Morning glory vines with blue and white blooms spread over the lattice wall. Hanging baskets sported a brightly colored mixture of sweet-smelling petunias and hung between each section of the gazebo.

  Meggie opened the door to the chicken coop and let the fowl out. As she closed the door, her eyes came to rest on a nearby birch tree. The leaves shimmered in the summer sun and eye-like impressions in the bark stared back at her. “Watchful trees” her grandfather used to call them.

  A loud snort jolted her mind back to the present. Porky, the young black-and-white boar, stood near the front of the pigpen. Peggy, the sow, wallowed in the sludge by his side. She’d feed them later.

  Meggie stepped around the pigpen and walked toward the fence that ran behind the barn. She leaned against the gate, shielded her eyes with her hand and gazed across the back pasture.

  In the distance Black, a sleek-coated stallion, grazed near the base of a small hill. His tail swished from side to side. Beauty, a small chestnut-colored mare, stood close by. She dropped her head, then flipped it high and made a full skyward circle with her nose. When the stallion didn’t respond to her playfulness, she wandered off toward a wooded area.

  Meggie pushed herself away from the gate and made her way back to the house. She didn’t have to call the horses in from pasture until later so she had the rest of the day to settle in and make herself at home.

  That evening Meggie dressed for bed. She carried her toiletries into the master bedroom bathroom and set them on the counter. After brushing her teeth, she smoothed night cream over her face and studied her reflection in the mirror above the sink. She looked tired. It had been a long day and she needed a good night’s sleep.

  Meggie stepped away from the bathroom counter. She reached for the light switch near the door but her hand stopped mid-air. A faint spicy fragrance tickled her nose. She sniffed again but didn’t smell anything odd and convinced herself she imagined it.

  Meggie crawled into bed. Exhausted but unable to sleep, she lay awake. Thoughts of the supernatural flashed through her mind. No doubt the result of pointless chatter about ghosts and haunted houses from well-meaning friends and one husband.

  Determined to let nothing spoil her stay at the hobby farm, Meggie barred her mind to thoughts of the supernatural and anything negative. She closed her eyes and snuggled between the crispy-clean sheets. But despite her best intentions, tiny cracks developed in her mind’s armor and seeds of doubt marched through.

  A chorus of frogs sang through the bedroom window. Their croaks mingled together to form a melody. It reminded her of something Walter told her one summer night years ago—when many frogs croak together a strong storm will follow.

  Meggie didn’t know if it were true or not. It didn’t make much difference either way because she enjoyed a good Minnesota storm. Besides, what did a bunch of frogs know, anyway?

  Chapter 3

  The next evening, Meggie sat at the kitchen table. She parted the billowing curtains and peered into the black night. All day the weather had screamed storm. In the distance lightning streaked across the summer sky and wind whistled around the small farmhouse.

  From the kitchen she watched a tall jack pine sway. Seconds later lightning crackled and thunder rumbled. The farmyard lit up like a Christmas tree. Sheets hung from the clothesline and snapped in the wind. Her favorite crop pants ballooned with air and whipped back and forth.

  Seconds later the sky opened. Rain fell in sheets, pounded against the kitchen window and lashed the side of the house. She jumped up, knocking her chair backward in the process. It clattered against the hard oak floor. She reached out and slammed the window shut.

  In the master bedroom she shut out the deluge that gusted through the window. Rainwater puddled at her feet. She grabbed a towel from the bathroom and tossed it on the floor to soak up the mess.

  Once the windows were secured downstairs she ran to the entryway, switched on the light and vaulted up the staircase to the landing. Rain pummeled the rooftop. It blew through the window screen and dripped down the wall. She shut the window. The farmhouse rattled around her. Then the lights went out.

  She felt her way into the first bedroom. A bolt of lightning lit up the room and gave her time to secure the window. The room went black again. She stretched her arms in front of her and slowly made her way into the larger bedroom. She took baby steps to the window. Why hadn’t she grabbed a flashlight?

  Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed. A squeal rent the air. It came from the backyard. “Oh, no! The pigs are loose!”

  Meggie’s heart pounded as she stumbled back through the bedrooms and onto the landing. In the dark, her feet inched their way across the top stair. A lightning bolt illuminated the staircase. She darted down the flight of stairs and leapt across the bottom step.

  A sharp pain shot through her knee, and she doubled over. She should have known better than to move so fast. Meggie massaged the burning area, then edged her way to the entryway closet. Her hands slid over the door and found the door knob. She reached inside for the flashlight.

  Meggie pulled on the front door. It swung towards her. The outside door wouldn’t budge against the wind. She braced her shoulder on it, pushed with her legs and squeezed onto the porch. She pressed the flashlight switch but nothing happened. Shook it. Still no light. She set it down,
carefully descended the porch steps and headed for the backyard.

  Off and on, the sky lit up. Rain hammered her head and flowed down her face. It saturated her shirt and dripped down her back.

  “Here piggy, piggy,” Meggie yelled above the storm. She waited for a familiar snort but none came. Frantic, her voice raised an octave. “Here piggy, piggy.”

  Meggie cocked an ear and listened. A faint snort behind one of the lilac trees, then another snort. She grabbed a handful of lilac branches and shook them. “Come out of there,” she demanded. Seconds later Porky ambled out from behind the lilac tree with Peggy bringing up the rear.

  The pigpen’s faint outline stood against the black night. Its gate creaked back and forth. Her face tightened. She had forgotten to lock the pigs inside their sleeping quarters, and they had broken the latch on the gate. Molly had warned her that pigs were great escape artists. She was right.

  Meggie waved her arms in front of the animals in an attempt to herd them in the right direction. They darted this way and that. She ran after them, positioned herself behind their backsides and flapped her arms up and down.

  “Get in the pen you pigs!”

  They snorted, turned around and trotted through the gate.

  Meggie followed them into the pen. Her feet sank in the rain-soaked muck. She lost her balance and fell to one knee. She tried to push herself up, but her hands sank further into the sludge-filled hole, and she toppled forward. She cursed under her breath and wanted to cry but couldn’t. She raised her head in time to watch the pigs trot past her and back out of the gate.

  Meggie had almost given up when she remembered the slop pail sitting on the back patio. She could entice the pigs back inside the pen with food. She trudged slowly back to the house. After pouring the excess water out of the bucket, she went in search of the pigs.

  Several minutes later the pigs were inside the pen, lured by a bucket of slop. They waddled into the hut and she slapped the padlock on the kennel gate.

  Meggie then sloshed her way to the horses’ quarters. She took hold of the wooden board that held the barn door closed, shoved it to the left and pulled on the weathered door. It creaked open. The sweet scent of hay, oiled leather, and an earthy smell wafted through the air. Whinnies rose from the center of the barn and hooves stomped.

  Meggie lifted the battery powered lantern off the wall near the barn entrance. She switched it on and strode toward the horse stalls. She held the lantern high as she neared Black’s stall. Fear radiated from the stallion’s eyes.

  “There now, Black.” She stroked his nose. In return the big black horse nuzzled her hand. “Don’t be frightened.” Meggie moved to Beauty’s stall and stroked her as well. The horses seemed to calm down.

  But time was in short supply and she wasted none of it. She swung the lantern from side to side in front of the stalls and searched for a rope she had seen earlier. She lifted it off the peg and hustled outside.

  Meggie hung the lantern from a fence post and uncoiled the rope. She weaved it through the broken pig gate and around the fence post then knotted it. Satisfied that the pigs wouldn’t get out of the pen, she wiped her hands against her jean shorts and hurried to the chicken coop. The fowl were safe and sound.

  At the back door Meggie tried the knob but found it locked. A groan escaped her. Her clothes were drenched and her body covered in mud. Now the door was locked. She stamped her foot and mud splattered over her.

  She turned on her heel, held the lantern in front of her and strode around to the front of the house. After depositing her dirty clothes and shoes in the entryway she made her way into the kitchen. She dried the lantern off and set it on the table.

  Meggie grabbed hold of the kitchen chair, set it upright and plopped down before her legs gave out. She wiped her face and squeezed rainwater from her hair. A droplet of water clung fast to the tip of her nose. She shook it off, folded her arms on the table and placed her head in them.

  Seconds later her cell phone rang. She snatched it off the table.

  “Are you in the basement?” Walter barked. “If you’re not, take the cell phone with you and get down there. Now.” His voice cut in and out. “A tornado warning . . .”

  “Walter, I can’t hear you,” Meggie shouted into the phone. “Walter?” The word “tornado” reverberated in her mind. She had no time to lose. Cell phone in hand, she grabbed the lantern off the table and hurried toward the cellar door near the back of the house.

  She turned the knob and pushed the door open. Holding fast to the stair rail, she held the lantern in front of her and descended the steep uneven wooden stairs.

  A dank odor filled the air in the unfinished basement. The light beamed on a dark area half the size of the house. The glow swept over the water heater, cardboard boxes and a wooden crate in the corner of the basement. She ducked her head under the plumbing pipes, maneuvered her way to the corner and sat down on the wooden crate to wait out the storm.

  The basement muffled the howl of the tempest. Every few minutes lightning flashed and lit up the ground level window. Objects knocked against its glass. Meggie rested her elbows on her knees and cupped her face with her hands. She still liked summer storms, but not tornadoes. And she hated chasing pigs in the dark.

  Much later, Meggie plodded up the basement stairs. She halted near the light switch and flipped it with her finger. No power. She closed the basement door then stepped out onto the back patio and held the lantern up.

  Energy spent, the storm had moved away. Lightning flashed in the distance, the ferocious winds had blown themselves out, and the pelting rain had turned to drizzle.

  Barely awake, she turned to go inside. Her eye caught a movement in the shadows. Translucent and barely visible, the wispy shape swirled near the center of the yard and appeared to float towards her.

  Meggie’s breath felt constricted. It was difficult to swallow. She backed into the house and closed the door. Had she just witnessed an apparition? She stepped sideways, slowly leaned her head to the side and peeked through the small window near the back door.

  Apparition or not, it had disappeared. Only darkened shadows remained in its place. It must have been her imagination, she thought. The long day had tired her, the storm had scared her, and now her mind played tricks on her.

  Meggie shook off her fear and held the lantern in front of her. She moved through the kitchen and into the living room. Nothing appeared damaged. The lantern glowed in the entryway and over the staircase. The steps creaked as she ascended. On the landing she discovered the bedroom door had blown shut. She pushed it open.

  The lantern threw shadows against the bedroom walls. She moved on to the second bedroom. Both rooms held no visible damage. As far as she could tell, the entire house had weathered the storm.

  Downstairs she set the lantern on the bedside table and sent a text message to Walter and Molly to let them know all was good. She staggered to the bedroom window and opened it to let the fresh air in.

  After shedding her underclothes, she tossed them in the hamper and donned a night shirt. Her feet dragged on the way to bed. She threw herself across the mattress, too tired to think or care about anything.

  Before she fell asleep, frogs flashed through her mind. Those darn amphibians had been right after all.

  Chapter 4

  The early morning sun filtered through the lacy bedroom curtains and created patterns across the blue-and-white summer quilt. Meggie stirred under the covers and focused her mind, fuzzy from the early morning hour. Flashbacks of the previous night played inside her head.

  She threw back the covers, padded across the room and flipped the light switch. The ceiling light glowed. Relieved, she headed for the kitchen. She checked the contents of the refrigerator and found nothing spoiled. All items in the freezer section were still frozen and didn’t appear to have thawed at all.

>   The kitchen felt stuffy. A strange odor lingered in the air. She sniffed. It smelled like cigar smoke. But that was impossible, she thought. The windows had been closed all night, so naturally the room would be odorous. A little fresh air would work wonders.

  She slid the kitchen curtains aside and pushed up on the window frame. She inhaled the fresh outdoor smell. A song bird’s trill greeted her. The storm had passed and all was right with the world.

  But a closer look out the window told a different story. The large flower pot Molly kept near the back door sat upright under the clothesline. The bright red blooms waved in the gentle breeze.

  A crumpled white sheet lay on the ground next to the flower pot and a second sheet dangled above it. Her pants, full of life the night before, were wrapped around the clothesline, the air sucked out of them.

  Anxious to see what further havoc the storm had wreaked, she prepared a quick breakfast. While she ate, she listened to the radio to catch any news of the storm. She had just finished her poppyseed ­muffin when the broadcaster announced there had been considerable storm damage throughout the area but no deaths reported thus far.

  Meggie downed the last of her apple juice and headed out the back door. She gasped at the sight that awaited her. No doubt about it. The storm left its calling card.

  The outdoor grill leaned precariously against the outside of the house, blown off the back patio. Debris and branches littered the backyard. The beautiful birch tree lay on its side, a casualty of the storm. The bark’s eye-like impressions no longer discernible.

  Meggie strode toward the clothesline, picked up the window bird feeder and suctioned it back onto the kitchen window. A long sigh escaped her. The rest of the clean-up would have to wait until later. Right now the animals were her main concern. She prayed they survived the storm.

  On her way to the chicken coop, she stopped at the gazebo and peeked in. The wicker chair lay on its side and a puddle of rainwater pooled on the small table. Other than that, there didn’t seem to be any damage inside the gazebo. A quick walk around the outside of the building lifted her spirits. The main structure stood fast.