Books by Edith Maxwell
A TINE TO LIVE, A TINE TO DIE
’TIL DIRT DO US PART
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
’TIL DIRT DO US PART
EDITH MAXWELL
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Books by Edith Maxwell
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Recipes
Copyright Page
For Hugh Lockhart, the expert and hardworking restorer of more than one beautiful home and the always grateful beneficiary of food-related research.
Acknowledgments
I owe so many thanks. To my editor John Scognamiglio, able publicist Adeola Saul, and the whole team at Kensington Publishing, for nurturing this series and getting the word out about it. To my agent, John Talbot, for believing in cozy mysteries. And most of all to my readers—authors would be nowhere without you.
My fellow Wicked Cozy authors are the best support group ever. Jessie Crockett, Julie Hennrikus, Sherry Harris, Liz Mugavero, and Barb Ross are great writer companions on this journey. Look for their own cozies! Sherry Harris also worked her editing magic on the manuscript before I turned it in. Any errors remaining are certainly due to my own stubbornness. The Monday Night Salem Writers’ Group—Margaret Press, Rae Francouer, Doug Hall, Bill Joyner, Elaine Ricci, and Sam Sherman—heard much of this book in person and improved it immeasurably with their gentle but firm critiquing. And, of course, Sisters in Crime, the Guppies, the New England chapter of SINC, and the New England chapter of Mystery Writers of America provided inspiration, teaching, and fun along the way.
I have several sources of farming knowledge to thank beyond my own experiences operating and co-owning a small certified-organic farm twenty years ago: Paula Chase of Arrowhead Farm, Heron Pond Farm (where we are CSA members), and the Northeast Organic Farming Association then and now. Organic farmer Julie Rawson was my garlic-braiding role model many years ago and has an anonymous bit part in this book. Farmers Darryl and Renee Ray loved the series early on and helped to spread the word on the West Coast. I want to thank, too, a special farm consultant. My son John Hutchison-Maxwell is a permaculture, organic, and nutrient-density farmer extraordinaire. He helped me with all the details about the rescue chickens: their coop, their behavior, and what to do with them. I even learned what hens really sound like at New Harmony Farm, where he’s been working. Thank you, JD! I also thank Cider Hill Farm and Phat Cats Bistro in Amesbury, Massachusetts. I modeled the opening farm-to-table dinner directly on Cider Hill Farm’s dinner in the fall of 2012, including the menu prepared from local foods by the fabulous chefs at Phat Cats. A version of the Sweet Potato Empanada recipe included here was generously provided by Phat Cats chef Christina Johnson. No murders are due to either the dinner or the recipe.
I thank Phil Parsons for being my geek consultant for this book, and Officer Tom Hanshaw, Detective Kevin Donovan, and Officer Ron Guilmette, as well as others from the Amesbury Police Department, for generously sharing knowledge about police procedure during and after the Amesbury Citizen Police Academy (from which I graduated in May). Any errors are of my own making. I am grateful for Karen Salemi’s beautiful book quilt, which merited an anonymous mention; my late mother, Marilyn Muller’s gorgeous Japanese fan quilt, also anonymously mentioned ; and Jeanne Wallace, one of my biggest cheerleaders and helpers in letting the world know about my stories.
Diane Weaver is a fictional character in this book. The real Diane Weaver was the highest bidder in an auction to benefit StageSource, a nonprofit Boston theater-service organization, for the right to name a character. I hope Diane likes who she got.
The series is set in a fictionalized version of West Newbury, Massachusetts, up in the northeast corner of the commonwealth. No actual farmers or residents were harmed during the writing of this story.
As always, thanks and love to Barbara Bergendorf, Janet Maxwell, and Jennifer Yanco, as well as my dear friends at Amesbury Friends Meeting. And to my sons Allan and John David, and to Hugh—thank you with a full heart for putting up with my trials and being delighted by my successes.
Nor cast your pearls before swine, lest they trample
them under their feet, and turn and tear you in pieces.
—Matthew 7:6
Chapter 1
“Are we holding a dinner here or not?” A peremptory voice resounded from the wide doorway of the barn at Produce Plus Plus Farm. Irene Burr seemed to fill the space despite her petite size. Back as straight as a tomato stake and not a silver hair out of place, she wore her signature cream-colored slacks, a sweater in pale peach, and a shimmering woven shawl.
Cameron Flaherty gulped. It was the first farm-to-table dinner at her farm, and here she was, flirting with the chef in the temporary kitchen he’d set up in the barn, instead of tending to one of her most irritable customers.
Walking toward the doorway, Cam waved and greeted Irene. “Yes, of course we are. Let me show you.” She ushered Irene out and walked with her toward a white tent. Late-day sunlight slanted off its top. Green fields dotted with the oranges and reds of ripe fall crops stretched beyond.
“At least the weather is good.”
“Thankfully, yes. It’s a rain or shine event, but I’m sure everyone will be more comfortable this way.” Cam was exceedingly thankful the threatened storm had tracked farther inland. It would have been miserable for guests to sit with rain blowing in the sides of the tent, since her budget hadn’t extended to renting one that included walls.
Two long tables filled the space, their white tablecloths arrayed with settings for twenty on each side. A cool breeze blew away the few mosquitoes that remained in early October. Nosegay centerpieces of bright nasturtiums and fuzzy white spearmint flowers from her herb garden decorated every couple of feet. Cam straightened a fork here, a napkin there. The dinner was to be the crowning event of her first farm season. She was counting on it to build publicity for next year and hoped it would go as smoothly as a well-oiled tiller.
“What’s on the menu tonight?” Irene pulled reading glasses onto her nose and peered at the menu sticking out of one of the jars on the nearest table.
“Jake Ericsson from The Market restaurant has outdone himself. We’re starting with a Shady Oak Farm mushroom tart with Valley View
Farm goat cheese. He also made a killer sweet potato empanada with chorizo from Kellie Brook Farm. It’s all organic, of course.”
Cam was about to go on when the loud rumble of a motorcycle on the drive distracted her. She glanced back and spied two helmeted figures dismounting. The rear passenger wore a skirt.
“Why did he bring her?” Irene gazed in the same direction, her lips pressed in a thin line, like she’d whiffed fresh manure.
A moment later, the two sauntered toward the tent. A slim woman dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans ran a hand through spiky dark hair as she clomped in thick-soled black high-top sneakers. The man wore a hooded sweatshirt and a black pleated skirt. Cam looked again as he approached. It was Bobby Burr. In a skirt, all right, with a label that read UTILIKILTS. Cam thought about all those days over the last couple of months when the intelligent and muscled carpenter had been working on her barn from atop a ladder. She’d enjoyed going over plans and talking construction with him. Still, she was glad he hadn’t worn the kilt to work, despite his curly dark hair and sweet smile and despite the pockets and hammer loops the kilt sported. What men who wore kilts thought was appropriate to wear or not wear under them was anybody’s guess.
Bobby leaned down to give his stepmother an air kiss.
Irene turned her cheek. “Hello, Robert. Your attire is very unusual today.”
Bobby greeted Cam, rolling his eyes. “Do you know my friend Sim? Simone Koyama, this is Cam Flaherty. We call her Farmer Cam.” He swung an arm around Cam’s shoulders and squeezed.
His strong arm warmed the silk on her back in a distinctly pleasant way. She cleared her throat as she eased out from under his touch and extended her hand to Sim, who looked about the same age as Cam.
“Welcome, Sim. Any friend of Bobby’s is a friend of mine. He worked a miracle this summer, rebuilding my barn.” Cam wondered if friend was a euphemism for girlfriend or if the two were just pals. And she wondered if Sim was thinking the same about her and Bobby.
“He’s good stuff, for sure.” Sim shook hands with Cam. “Nice place you have here.” The silver stud in her tongue matched the piercing in her eyebrow.
“Irene, you know Simone,” Bobby began, but Irene was no longer there. She was strolling, her back to them, toward the far end of the tent.
“Oh, I know Ms. Burr,” Sim said in a tart voice as she raised one eyebrow. “I’m her mechanic, not that she appreciates it.”
“Why am I not surprised my stepmother is unappreciative?” Bobby stared after Irene. “Oh, well. That’s Irene’s world.”
“She brings her Jaguar in for service but seems to think I’m less than perfect because I work on all foreign autos, not exclusively nineteen ninety Jags.” Sim sighed.
“You’re a mechanic?” Cam looked with new interest at Sim. “Do you work on trucks?”
“Sure. SK Foreign Auto down on Main Street? That’s my shop.”
“Cool. I’ll bring my truck to you next time it needs work.”
“Happy to have the business, Cam.”
Alexandra Magnusson hurried up. “Sorry I’m late, Cam.” As tall as Cam, the recent college graduate and avid locavore had a flair for wearing vintage clothes in unusual ways. Today she sported a rayon housedress with a leather vest and knee-high boots. A narrow turquoise scarf gathered her long Nordic hair into a knot.
“No worries. You’re set for greeting, right?” She’d enlisted Alexandra to welcome people, check their names off the list, and hand out name cards.
“I tell them to clip the name card to the menu where they want to sit.”
Cam nodded. Every place setting was anchored by a pint mason jar with the menu card, a red napkin, and a clothespin. Once they’d reserved their seats, guests could mingle, get a drink, and sample the appetizers before the sit-down part of the meal started. And the jars would serve as water glasses. Mill River Winery had already set up their table. Dozens of bottles of red and white stood ready to be opened, and sparkling stemless glasses were lined up like an army of thirsty drinkers.
“What are we eating tonight?” Alexandra asked.
“Appetizers first. Then Jake has prepared salads, a local pork ragout over fingerling potatoes, and roasted root crops with rosemary. Not sure what the dessert is, but I’m sure it will include Cider Valley Farm’s apples in some form. I don’t have enough from my one tree to count.”
“Cam?” Ellie Kosloski, Cam’s Girl Scout summer volunteer, touched Cam’s shoulder. “The beer truck is here, and they want to know where to park.” She pointed toward the drive.
Cam turned to see the Ipswich Ale Brewery Tapmobile idling, its driver leaning on the open driver-side door. She walked in its direction and called out a greeting.
“Follow me, Jim. Careful of the beds, okay?” Cam led the way along the wide packed-dirt path back to the tent. She’d hired the brewery to bring two kegs in their vintage red-and-white truck with the taps inserted right in the side. It was a very popular way to distribute beer.
Half an hour later the tent was nearly full. The little name cards stuck out from the clothespins, and customers holding wineglasses or beer cups chatted in small groups. Ellie and her friend Ashley, both fourteen, sported black server aprons from The Market over skinny jeans and white shirts. They circulated with trays of the bite-size tarts and empanadas.
Cam stood at the opening to the tent. She took a deep breath and prepared to be social, always a challenge for her. She began to circulate, checking in with each group. She approached her regular customer Wes Ames as he scowled down at Irene.
“It will benefit the town, Mr. Ames. I am quite sure of this.” Irene shifted her glass of wine to the other hand and smoothed down a lock of hair with a pinkie finger that bent toward the ring finger at its last joint.
“Old Town Hall has been our central meeting place for decades, Mrs. Burr. It has historical significance.”
“How significant can it be if the town can’t even afford basic repairs on it? I’m surprised you haven’t been sued for lead poisoning from the flaking ceiling falling into people’s hair during Town Meeting.” Irene kept her voice even, but her jaw tightened.
“If you’d cooperate with us on our fund-raising instead of trying to buy the building out from under us, we could raise the repair money.” Wes folded his arms across his chest.
Cam edged in and greeted Wes. “Where’s Felicity?” His effervescent wife had reached out to Cam with support and friendship in the months since they’d met.
“Her sister in Albany is having surgery, so she’s staying out there for a couple of weeks. She was sorry to miss this dinner, I’ll tell you.”
“It’s too bad she couldn’t make it. So what’s this about the Old Town Hall?” The venerable building wasn’t far from Cam’s farm, but she hadn’t had time to read the local weekly paper lately and clearly had missed a brewing controversy.
“I want to help the town.” Irene’s confident tone held just a touch of smugness. “I am offering to buy the building and create a textile museum in it. I’ll restore it and bring tourism to our lovely town, which will bring dollars. It’s a win-win.”
“Our lovely town has been doing fine without your tourism,” Wes said. “Who’s going to pay for—”
“Cam! Those garnishes?” A voice boomed from the temporary kitchen chef Jake Ericsson had set up in the newly rebuilt barn. Crud. Cam was supposed to have cut a few last-minute handfuls of parsley and garlic chives for Jake to sprinkle on the ragout.
“Excuse me,” Cam said as she turned away.
“I’ll get them, Cam.” Ellie set her tray down on the serving table near the entrance to the tent. “I have my knife.” She headed toward the herb beds.
“Thanks, Ellie.” Cam wondered what else she had forgotten to do. She went over the list of guests in her mind. Cam had comped tickets for Howard Fisher, because Jake was serving pork from Howard’s pig farm, and for Bobby, who had somehow managed to rebuild Cam’s barn in only three months after the fire in June
that had nearly killed her and Ellie. Her childhood friend, and a local police officer, Ruth Dodge and her twin girls were coming. And, of course, Cam’s great-uncle Albert. She wouldn’t even be a farmer if he hadn’t urged her to take over the place. Great-Aunt Marie had died and Albert had had to have his foot amputated a year later. When Cam was laid off from her job, Albert had offered her the farm.
Cam walked briskly to the barn and popped her head in its wide open door. She inhaled deeply. “It smells divine. Everything under control? Ellie’s getting those herbs for you.” She waved at Jake and his assistant, who were artfully arranging slices of rich gold tomatoes on eighty salads laid out on a long table, salads made exclusively from greens, tomatoes, and herbs that Cam had harvested that morning. Her locavore customers were going to love it. Cam wasn’t nuts about eating only locally grown foods like some of her subscribers, but if their obsession kept her farm going, she was all for it.
Jake raised his head. “We are good. I think.” He winked at Cam, who promptly blushed right up to the roots of her red hair. Their date on Monday had been especially nice. No time to dwell on that now, though. She looked down at her green silk shirt and black jeans tucked into cowboy boots. At least she’d remembered to change before people had started arriving.
Ellie sauntered in with a bunch of herbs in each hand. “Where do you want these, Chef?”
“In the washing bin over there would be great.” Jake gestured with his head. “Thanks, Scout.”
Ellie rolled her eyes. “My name’s Ellie, Jake.” She shook her head as she dropped the fragrant green bits into the galvanized metal basin.
Cam reflected on how much Ellie had grown up over the summer. She had been a very young fourteen in June but now looked and acted much more like the ninth grader she was. Plus, she’d grown a couple of inches.
Ellie put her hands in the back pockets of her jeans and gazed up at the barn, rotating her head. “That Bobby dude sure worked fast. It looks awesome.”
Til Dirt Do Us Part (A Local Foods Mystery) Page 1