Til Dirt Do Us Part (A Local Foods Mystery)

by Edith Maxwell

  Cam followed him. She opened the larger door, which wasn’t even as tall as she was, and leaned in. Two levels of nesting boxes lined the back wall. Dowels stuck out every foot halfway up the end walls. Fresh wood shavings covered the floor and lined the boxes. The vents on either end would provide air circulation.

  Cam pulled her head back out. “Tell me what the dowels are for.”

  “They’re roosting bars,” DJ said. “The hens sleep on them.”

  “Won’t they fall off?” Ellie piped up.

  DJ laughed. “You’d think so, right? Chickens are descended from jungle fowl. Sleeping off the ground has kept them safe for a really long time.” He angled his head at Ellie and smiled. Ellie, in turn, blushed.

  “It all looks great,” Cam said, closing the door. The coop looked sturdy, protective, and, she imagined, inviting, if she were a hen. All it really needed was a little framed sampler of embroidery reading COOP, SWEET COOP.

  “For tonight let’s leave some food and water inside since they’ve been so neglected, but take the food out tomorrow. It’s better if they eat away from where they nest.”

  “So how exactly do I herd them in?” Cam asked. “Flap my own wings and say, ‘Shoo!’?”

  DJ looked at the sky. “It’s getting pretty close to dark now, anyway. Let’s do it together. I have to return the truck to my friend Tyler tonight, so I can’t stay much longer.”

  She and DJ surrounded the hens. Cam tried to persuade them to walk up the ramp and into the coop. “Time for bed, chickens.”

  DJ’s method was more successful. He walked, half crouched, with his arms out and low to his sides, shooing the hens ahead of him up the ramp, clicking as he went. Cam picked up the last straggler and plopped her inside.

  “They had a coop at Mrs. Montgomery’s, so they know how to walk up. It’s just that it was filthy inside and they were so underfed.” DJ frowned.

  “She was really steamed about us taking them,” Alexandra said. “But she was going to lose them, anyway. This seems like a four-way win to me. You get egg layers. Bev doesn’t have to feed them anymore. Board of Health doesn’t have to turn exterminator, and the girls have a nice, safe home and regular meals.”

  DJ carried the food and water into the coop and latched the door. “It’ll take time for them to remember how to live like real chickens. I’ll get you more information on how to take care of them and how to rotate the chicken tractor to prepare new planting areas.”

  “What tractor?” Ellie asked.

  “Yeah, I don’t own a tractor,” Cam added.

  “Right. It’s a coop on a trailer, but people call the whole system chicken tractoring,” DJ said. “When you move them to a new area, it’ll take them just a couple of weeks to clear it of weeds and fertilize it. You can plant right away, but chicken manure is pretty hot, so it’s best to let it sit a few more weeks. You don’t want to burn your seedlings.”

  “I have a lot to learn,” Cam said. “Thank you, DJ and Alexandra, for rescuing these gals, and all of you for making a nice home for them.”

  “I’ll be back tomorrow to check on them,” Alexandra offered.

  “Bring me the bill for the supplies,” Cam told her.

  Alexandra assured her she would.

  As DJ headed for the truck, he called out, “And, Cam, if you ever need an extra hand around here, I’m an able body and I love growing stuff. Text me. Alexandra knows where I am.”

  “That’d be great, DJ. Volunteer Wednesday is every Wednesday.” She laughed at her redundancy. “Anyway, I’d love to contact you for special projects, too. Bye, everybody!”

  DJ pulled out, the sisters rode off on their bikes, and Wes promised to deliver Ellie home. Cam peered into the grated window in the human door of the coop. The birds looked cozy and sated on their roosts.

  She whistled as she walked to the house. Young people interested in farming and animal welfare. A great new farmers’ market gig. Forty new female companions out back, no matter how dim witted. Life seemed pretty rosy today. As long as she didn’t dwell on a gruesome murder close to home or a missing carpenter now, apparently, under suspicion himself.

  In the formal dining room at Moran Manor Assisted Living that evening, Cam poured Great-Uncle Albert a glass of the chardonnay she had brought and then poured for herself. He wore a tweed jacket over his sweater vest, his nod to the Sunday night dinner dress code imposed by the facility. Cam hoped her sweater and slacks were nice enough to pass muster.

  “What’s this I hear about a murder happening after your splendid dinner last week?” Albert asked, setting his glass on the white tablecloth.

  “Howard Fisher found Irene’s body in the Fisher farm pigsty. The authorities can’t find Irene’s stepson.” Cam decided not to go into the whole story of Bobby’s brief appearance on her farm and his subsequent disappearance. “Wes Ames seems positively delighted that Irene’s plan to buy the Old Town Hall has fallen through. And the police were asking about her mechanic, Sim Koyama, who was heard arguing with Irene at the dinner. I’m glad it’s not my job to sort out that puzzle.”

  “Yes, at least the death wasn’t on your farm again.”

  “Small blessings.”

  “I know Simone well,” Albert said. “She used to service Marie’s Honda. A lovely girl when you get past the black clothes and all those piercings. Although it doesn’t surprise me she has a bit of a hot temper.”

  “I’m taking the truck in to her shop for service tomorrow. I know you preferred taking it to the dealer, but I’d rather patronize somebody in town.”

  “I don’t care about that.” He shooed away the distinction with his hand. “Now, tell me about your day, Cameron. It was pretty quiet here. Folks who need assistance living don’t make much ruckus. And I like a little ruckus now and then. Short of a murder.” He smiled under snow-white eyebrows whose bushiness threatened to take over his kindly face. “Although I do have a bit of news of my own when you’re done.”

  She described the Newburyport Farmers’ Market and her decision to sell there instead of at Haverhill. “It’s such a vibrant market, Uncle Albert. You remember Lucinda?”

  He nodded.

  “She told me it was like a festival. And it was. Live music, baked goods, even wine and beer tasting after noon. There was a boy, couldn’t have been older than twelve, demonstrating his beehive.”

  “And lots of customers, I assume?”

  “Absolutely. I sold out. Although not so many were using SNAP tokens.”

  “An excellent program. Poor people need more healthy food.”

  “And now we have hens at the farm, too.” Cam sighed. “I think it’s a good thing. But they’re going to be a lot of work.” She described the rescue venture, the brand-new coop, and the forty new residents.

  “I approve. Why, we had chickens for some years, don’t you know. Oh, your great-aunt Marie loved to feed them out of her apron. She made a little clicking sound that brought them running.”

  “That’s the same sound DJ made.”

  Albert nodded. “Chickens are smelly things, though.”

  “The chickens must have been before I started coming to the farm,” Cam said. “I don’t remember any.”

  Albert agreed it must have been. “Do you have a rooster, too?”

  “No, a male wasn’t part of the package.”

  Their dinners arrived, and they ate in silence for a few moments.

  “Where’d you say those chickens were rescued from?”

  Cam hadn’t said, on purpose. “You’re not going to like it. They were Bev Montgomery’s. The board of health was about to destroy them. I guess she wasn’t feeding or cleaning them. They’re skinny and look miserable. I went over there to help pick them up. Bev wasn’t happy about it.”

  “My poor friend Beverly. She has gone through so many hurtful times. And now she’s hurting pin-brained birds.” He put his fork down. “I wonder what I can do to help her. She was an angel to us when Marie was dying. I believe I told you.
An angel.”

  “Maybe she should sell her farm and come live here,” Cam said. “I’ll bet her property would go for a lot. She’s all alone on the property now.”

  “Why, that might be just the ticket, Cameron.” Albert’s eyes lit up.

  “I wonder if she’s old enough, though.”

  Albert took a sip of his wine. “She’s over sixty. Which qualifies her for independent living. And the assisted living area doesn’t have a lower age limit.”

  “Do you think she’d do it?” Cam said. “I mean, sell the farm and move here?”

  “She’s stubborn, but I do believe she is also down and out. I’ll pay her a visit sometime soon and see if I can convince her. Now, what else is new with you?”

  “Well, my programmer friend Tina says my name for the farm is already out of date. Nobody uses the C++ programming language anymore. I’m thinking of changing it back to Attic Hill Farm. What do you think?”

  “I’d be pleased with that. It was the farm’s name for two centuries before you changed it. I wanted it to be your enterprise, my dear. That’s why I didn’t object. And it is your farm, but I’ll admit I’m happy to hear the old name will be restored.”

  “Good. I’ll do it.”

  “Now, what about the fair? You are going to enter the vegetable competition, like we talked about, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a beginner.” Cam shook her head. “How could I win a prize against veteran farmers?”

  Albert patted her hand and kept his age-spotted, knobby hand on hers. “My dear, your Sun Golds are the best tomato I have ever tasted, bar none, including all those so-called heirlooms, which used to be the only kinds we grew. And your garlic braids? You used big, plump cloves, braided them expertly, and they’re organic. Nobody else will come close.” Cam had brought one over to show him a month earlier.

  “I had a lot of fun learning how to braid garlic. If I hadn’t gone to the organic farming summer conference in August, I couldn’t have done it. A farmer was sitting there one afternoon, braiding and teaching anybody who wanted to learn. She was getting her own work done and sharing knowledge at the same time.”

  Albert nodded.

  “So I thought I’d give braiding the soft-neck garlic a try. They do look pretty nice, don’t they?”

  “And you’ll take them to the Middleford Fair?” Albert leaned toward her, as if trying to pull the yes out of her. “It will be great experience in any case, and you’ll get a sense of who else is out there. Remember, too, a blue ribbon is a perfect marketing tool.”

  “You talked me into it.” She smiled at the man who’d spent his summers teaching her about growing without her even knowing she was in class. And who was now her marketing guru, as well. “I already printed out the entry forms. I’ll head down there Tuesday morning. Wish me luck.”

  “Break a leg, Farmer Flaherty.”

  “I never heard what your news was. Tell me.” Cam patted Albert’s hand.

  He was about to speak when their server appeared at Albert’s side, a high-school girl in tight black pants and a white button-down shirt barely covering her midsection. She cleared their plates onto a tray. “Can I get you some dessert tonight?” She proffered a small menu card.

  “Cameron?”

  “Sure.” The assisted-living facility had a remarkably capable baker on staff, and Cam never turned down dessert here. “I’ll have the apple tart with vanilla ice cream. Those are local apples, aren’t they?” Listen to me, she thought. Those locavores have converted me.

  The girl caught herself halfway through rolling her eyes. “I’ll check for you. Do you still want it if they aren’t local?”

  “Actually, I do. But I’d like to know, okay?”

  Albert ordered the sugar-free ice cream. “Damn diabetes.”

  “You’ve never been overweight,” Cam said. “How did you get diabetes?”

  “It’s hereditary. I inherited a curse from my father, is how I see it. That’s how I lost my foot, you know.”

  Cam nodded. Their desserts arrived, with an aside from the server that the apples were from Cider Valley Farm. Cam thanked her.

  “Now, then. Time for the news I heard yesterday.” Albert cocked his head. “Howard Fisher has run into a spot of bad luck lately, I’ve heard.”

  Cam raised her eyebrows. “What kind of spot?”

  “He’s not been managing his business well. He might lose the land to foreclosure.”

  “That’d be so sad. Are people just not buying pork anymore?”

  “Perhaps. Or maybe he’s just a bad businessman. If he loses the land, he loses everything.”

  Cam whistled. “How’d you hear that?”

  “Our friend Bev. She and I, we like to keep up on the goings-on in town.”

  Chapter 11

  Cam checked the hens when she arrived home. The coop door was latched, and all seemed well under a waxing moon that was already past quarter full. A screech owl called from the woods with its eerie whistling whinny, and dewy grass dampened her sneakers as she headed for the house.

  She ushered Preston in and locked the door. Providing a new home and nourishment for hens that had been on their way to the executioner’s block had been a great idea. She hoped they wouldn’t add too much to her workload. But even so, they would be an asset to the farm. She would have a great source of nitrogen for compost and could offer eggs for sale whenever the hens started laying again.

  The success of the hen rescue turned her thoughts to Howard’s pigs. Maybe they needed a rescue mission, too. The scope of that would be totally different, given the size of the rescuees and the demands of an appropriate living space.

  Cam sat at the computer to check her e-mail before bed. She also looked at the Comments page on the farm’s Web site. An inflammatory comment a few months earlier had forced her to moderate the messages, and she saw one message sitting in the administrator’s mailbox. She opened it and frowned.

  Leave other people’s livestock alone. Mind your own bizness, or else.

  Well, that one was going straight into the trash. No, on second thought, she saved it to her own e-mail and forwarded it to Pappas, with a note explaining Project Rescue Chicken. The comment qualified as a threat in her mind, whether he thought so or not. On further contemplation, Cam forwarded it to the Westbury police, too. It didn’t really pertain to the murder, or so she hoped, but was a threat nonetheless.

  The sun was creeping over the top of the woods when Cam opened the coop door the next morning.

  “Good morning, ladies. Come on out whenever you’re ready.” She lifted the feeder and the water receptacle and carried them down the ramp, setting them at the edge of the fencing where they would be shaded at least half the day.

  One groggy hen stumbled down the ramp, making Cam wonder if she should have brought out a tray of tiny espresso cups, instead. She replenished the food from the sack in the barn and carried the water basin to the hose. The girls had made a dent in the contents of both vessels overnight. As Cam herself would have if she’d been continually underfed.

  The rest of the hens made their way toward the fresh food. Cam laughed at the sounds they made, a cross between crooning and gargling. She hadn’t noticed their vocalizations the day before. Maybe they’d been too shell-shocked to talk. One with a goofy topknot stuck her neck out and ran straight toward Cam, then slowed and made the same funny sounds, which were nothing like the bock-bock-bock one heard in popular culture.

  Cam’s phone rang in her pocket. She checked the display. Alexandra.

  Cam greeted her. “What’s up?”

  “I can’t stop thinking about those pigs at Howard’s. I want to see for myself. But I don’t really want to go alone. He’s kind of a creepy guy.”

  Cam agreed but added, “Are you sure you want to confront him?”

  “I don’t want to confront him, exactly, but I feel like I need to see the animals. Do you have time to go over there with me?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll need some
kind of story. We can’t just show up for no reason.”

  “Can we get there through the woods? I sure don’t need to talk with Howard.”

  Cam checked her watch. “I don’t have time to go for a hike. But I do need to go out to drop the truck at Sim’s garage for service, anyway. I’ll drive us over there for just a minute. We’ll think of some excuse when we see him. He and I are both farmers, after all.”

  Alexandra said she’d meet Cam in the parking lot of the Food Mart in ten minutes, and they disconnected.

  No way would she be willing to host rescue pigs right now, but Alexandra deserved to know the truth about the swine’s living situation at the farm. And Cam wouldn’t mind getting a good look at Howard’s pigs, too.

  At five before eight, they pulled into Howard’s drive, if one could call a rutted gravel path a drive. White housewrap covered the left wall of the mid-nineteenth-century farmhouse, one corner flapping in the wind. Paint had chipped off the clapboards on the front. But tidy blue flower boxes hung from the railings of the side porch, with well-tended red geraniums reaching for the sun and bright nasturtiums spilling out like a waterfall. The lawn was mowed and free of leaves, despite a towering sugar maple nearby.

  The drive widened as it curved around behind the house, so Cam drove on. She wasn’t quite sure where the farm area was but assumed she’d run across it. Sure enough, some yards back, the drive ended at an open area ringed by outbuildings and a ramshackle barn. She parked the truck.

  “What are we going to tell him we’re here for?” Alexandra asked. She didn’t sound worried, simply curious.

  “I’ll think of something. Let’s go exploring.” She hoped this wasn’t too crazy of an idea.

  They climbed out of the cab. Woods lined the left side of the area, and cornfields stretched out as far as Cam could see behind the outbuildings and the barn. Pork and corn seemed to be the extent of Howard’s enterprise. Plus, he sold rhubarb in the springtime, she remembered.