Til Dirt Do Us Part (A Local Foods Mystery)

by Edith Maxwell

  “The lawyer’s a woman? How do you know her, anyway?”

  “Susan Lee is an old friend of my great-uncle’s. Albert said he used to babysit her. Don’t worry. She’s a force of nature.” Cam smiled. “Wait until you see her. She was my friend Lucinda’s lawyer last June, when she was falsely arrested.”

  “Bobby shouldn’t have been taken in, either! He didn’t kill that witch.” Sim punched a fist into the palm of her other hand over and over. “Do you think they’ll arrest him?”

  “They will now. I’m sure they thought he was going to attack them with that wrench. But I wonder what evidence they have against him for the murder,” Cam said, staring out the front window of the shop. “It can’t be merely because he was sitting outside her house in his van. Do you remember him being in a bad mood when you drove him home on the motorcycle?”

  “It’s kind of hard to tell somebody’s mood when they’re sitting behind you with a helmet on.”

  “I guess.”

  “What do we do now?” Sim asked. “How do we get him out?”

  “Based on what happened with Lucinda, they’ll hold a bond hearing in front of a judge tomorrow or the next day. They won’t let him out on bail if they think he might try to bug out. His hiding for four days probably won’t help him.”

  “We have to spring him, Cam.”

  “Wait a minute, Sim.” Cam held up a hand. “This isn’t the Wild West. You have to let the process play out. If you ask Susan Lee, she might be able to get you in for a visit.”

  Sim nodded. “Yeah, I’d like to visit him.”

  “The best thing you can do is be completely honest with Detective Pappas when he comes to ask you questions, because he definitely will. Tell him everything you know about the dinner, about Bobby, about Irene.”

  Sim straightened the papers on the desk, tidied a pile of pens, shut a file drawer. She looked everywhere but in Cam’s eyes.

  “They can’t keep Bobby if they don’t have evidence that he killed Irene,” Cam went on. “But they need all the information you have. Okay?” Cam felt like the heavy. What did she know about crime fighting? Nothing, really, but her involvement earlier in the year had given her experience she might as well draw on now. And she had a sneaking suspicion Sim was hiding something.

  “I have an idea,” Sim said, finally looking at Cam. She dangled something from her finger.

  Cam took a closer look. It was a key chain with a tiny silver hammer and a single key.

  “Bobby’s apartment. He gave me the key a while ago, when he had to travel for a job. Wanted me to water his plants.”

  “Okay. You have his key.” Cam waited. “And?”

  “Let’s go over there. Maybe we can find some clues or something.” Sim frowned and nodded, convinced of her own idea. “He lives right across the river in Merrimac.”

  “Now? Don’t you have regular hours here?”

  Sim batted the idea away with a brush of her hand. “There’s nothing left for today. I’ll put a note on the door. No problem. Let’s go. You in?”

  “I don’t know, Sim. This isn’t CSI, and you’re not Sherlock Holmes. What kind of clues do you think you’ll find? And what if the police show up while we’re there?”

  “How do I know what we’ll find?” Her voice rose. “I have to help Bobby. Are you coming or not? We should hurry. The cops are for sure going to go over there themselves after they book him.”

  Against her better judgment, Cam agreed to go on the condition they take her truck and not the Harley.

  Twenty minutes later they stood in Bobby’s one-room apartment, a renovated shed behind a large antique house on the Merrimack River. The interior walls were planks of natural wood, and the back of the living space was a wall of glass. The approaching sunset had dyed the river pink, and it seemed to fill the room. It was stunning.

  Cam wandered throughout the large room, which was punctuated by a half dozen healthy-looking houseplants. Hooks near the door held coats, shirts, and pants. In one corner a Southwestern-patterned spread covered a platform bed that held brightly colored bolsters and pillows. The small kitchen at the opposite corner of the space was clean and tidy. A wide couch faced the river, with a flat-screen television off to the side. A coffee table displayed the only signs of disorder in the apartment: an empty beer can, a wineglass with a trace of desiccated red in the bottom, last week’s newspaper, a bowl with dried bits of cereal stuck to the inside. She poked her head into the small bath, which featured a glass shower enclosure and red and yellow towels.

  Cam turned back to Sim, who was bent over a broad desk, rifling through a stack of papers.

  “Are you sure you should be going through his stuff?” Cam asked.

  Sim abandoned the pile and started yanking open drawers. “Maybe there’s a letter from Irene here somewhere that threatens him. Or his bank statement, showing he didn’t need her money. I don’t know, Cam!” Sim looked up with tears in her eyes. “I’m worried about him. He’s my best friend.”

  “Hey, don’t worry. He’s going to be all right.” Cam walked over to Sim and gingerly patted her on the back. She rarely had the need to comfort a fellow human, and it didn’t come naturally to her.

  The outer door creaked. Cam twisted her head to see Detective Pappas standing in the entrance, staring at Sim. He did not look pleased.

  “What are you doing here? You have no business in the home of someone under suspicion of murder.” He raised bushy eyebrows.

  Sim straightened up. “I have a key. He asked me to water his plants.” Sim’s stance was as defiant as her tone.

  “And he keeps houseplants in his desk drawers? Right. What were you looking for?”

  Sim shook her head.

  Cam backed up a few steps. It wasn’t enough to escape Pappas’s attention.

  “And you, Cameron? Can’t keep your nose to yourself. You should know better.”

  “Now, wait a minute, Detective. There wasn’t any yellow tape up,” Cam said. “We didn’t break in. We have a key. Bobby is a friend to both of us. A good friend. Why shouldn’t we be here? And aren’t you supposed to have a warrant to search a house?”

  Pappas shook his head in exasperation. “Get out.”

  “Lemme see the warrant.” Sim set her hands on her hips and glared.

  Sighing, Pappas drew a piece of paper out of his pocket. He held it up in front of him.

  Sim read it from where she was. “All right, we’ll go.”

  “And I’ll put up the damn tape. They brought him in only an hour ago. Didn’t think I needed to quite yet.” He watched them hesitate. “Get!”

  Chapter 14

  Cam and Sim were almost back to the auto repair shop when Cam glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Her eyes widened as she swore.

  “What is it?” Sim asked.

  “I have a dinner date. I forgot all about it.”

  “When are you getting picked up?”

  “I have to meet him in Newburyport. At six.” Cam pointed to the clock, which read 5:50. “And I have to get home and change.” She gestured down at her work clothes from the day, old jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt decorated with dried mud and plant stains. She groaned, pulling into the parking area of Sim’s shop.

  “Sorry to make you late.” Sim opened her door and climbed down. “And thanks for driving.”

  “No worries,” Cam said, shoving the gearshift into reverse. “Stay away from Bobby’s place, okay?” she called out the window.

  Sim held a hand up as she walked away. Cam noticed the mechanic didn’t agree. But she didn’t have time to worry about that. She drove home as fast as was safe in the gloaming. When she arrived, she left Jake a quick message that she was running late, and tore through a high-speed shower, wondering as she washed why he hadn’t picked up his phone. He was probably in the middle of some complicated sauce. She threw on clean black jeans and a soft pale blue sweater, since the evening threatened to cool down even more before she returned home. She ran a comb through he
r hair, pulled on her cowboy boots, and was about to dash back out when Preston looked longingly at his dish.

  “Gotcha, my man.” Cam scooped dry food into his dish and ran him some fresh water.

  After she’d rung the doorbell to Jake’s flat for the third time, Cam checked her phone. Uh-oh. It was 6:45. She was really late. And Jake wasn’t coming to the door. She stepped back and checked the second-story windows. They were closed, but light from his apartment pushed out into the night like a bloom of welcome.

  He lived above his restaurant. Since it was Monday, The Market was dark and the big exhaust fan on the side of the building was quiet. Cam shook her head. In the short months she’d known Jake and fallen partway in love, she’d also experienced his volatile moods and occasionally incendiary temper. Maybe this was one of those times when Cam’s being late had sent him into a minor rage. Wait’ll he found out why she was late. Anything involving a threat, in Jake’s mind, of Cam becoming interested in another man had sent him through the roof in the past. She made up her mind not to mention Bobby and her little field trip to his house with Sim. If Jake ever opened the door.

  She rang once more. She heard the peal from within and was rewarded by the sound of heavy footsteps clattering down the stairs.

  Jake pulled open the door. He wore a big grin, a silky black shirt, and jeans, with enormous bare feet poking out.

  Cam let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. He wasn’t angry with her. Good.

  He pulled her into an embrace and nibbled on her ear. “How’s my farmer?” His voice was husky and sensual.

  Cam hugged him and delivered a quick kiss. She pushed him away gently, trying to ignore the parts of her body he had just lit on fire. “Hungry, that’s how she is.” She smiled up at him.

  “All business, all the time.” He shook his head, tsk-tsking her.

  “I rang the doorbell a bunch of times.” She hoped that didn’t sound like whining, but wondered why he hadn’t responded to the bell until now.

  “Mmm.” He ushered her up the stairs ahead of him.

  He followed so closely, she could feel his heat. When she paused in the living room to drop her bag, he gracefully passed around her, letting his hand linger on her waist.

  “Come and taste.” He stood over a large pot on the stove, where a divine aroma surrounded him. He held a full spoon over the pot and gestured her closer. “Bouillabaisse. What do you think?”

  Cam tasted the stew. She closed her eyes to savor it on her tongue and opened them again.

  “You’ve done it again. Fabulous, Jake. It’s rich and subtle and light all at once.” She shook her head. “I’m amazed. If I tried that, it would never come out so good.”

  “Hey, I’ve been saving seafood shells—you know, lobster, shrimp, mussel. I boil them in court bouillon to make a seafood stock. And with the fishes, I put your leeks and herbs. Your red pepper and garlic go into the rouille. So it’s a collaborative meal.”

  “I can’t remember what rouille is,” Cam said.

  “Think of it as a spicy cream sauce, but without the cream. I blend olive oil with bread crumbs, garlic, saffron, and hot peppers.”

  Cam murmured her approval. She was getting weak in the knees. Could a person swoon over the mere description of food?

  Jake pulled a loaf of crusty bread out of the oven and asked Cam to slice it while he ladled the stew into two wide bowls. He spooned the rouille over the top and placed one bowl on each red place mat. A simple green salad in a wooden bowl and an open bottle of Côtes du Rhône Blanc already graced the table, along with two slender green tapers in glass candlesticks.

  “Sit, Cameron.” He held her chair for her. “Now, what did I forget? Ah, yes, candles.” He headed for the coffee table to fetch a lighter and returned to bring flame to wick.

  Cam waited, wondering again why he hadn’t answered her first several tries at the doorbell. She was glad he wasn’t in an angry mood. And further wondered what she was even doing with a man whose moods she had to worry about.

  Jake poured them each a glass of wine and dimmed the lights in the kitchen area. The candlelight softened the crags on his face. He sat and reached for Cam’s hand. “We should do this more often.” He squeezed and let go.

  Cam raised her glass. “To bouillabaisse.”

  Jake frowned. He arrested the movement of his glass. “I didn’t mean more French fish stew. I meant more intimate meals together with you, Cam.” He took a sip without clinking his glass with Cam’s or meeting her eyes.

  “Which sounds good, too.” Cam hoped that would be enough to smooth his Swedish feathers. Or maybe they were his dysfunctional-background feathers. Feathers reminded her of the hens.

  “Guess what? I have chickens at the farm now.”

  Jake’s face switched from whatever mood he had been in to instant delight. “How so?”

  Between bites of the savory stew, Cam explained Project Rescue Chicken, how Alexandra had found birds in need, and how her friends had chipped in to build the coop. “When you saw me at the market Sunday? Alexandra and her crew were all at the farm, setting up a new home for the girls.”

  “Where did you get the birds?”

  “There’s the unfortunate part. They were Bev Montgomery’s. She wasn’t feeding them or taking care of them. The board of health was about to exterminate the lot. Alexandra’s friend DJ helped get them out. He seems to understand chickens and can kind of talk to them.”

  Jake rolled his eyes. “Are there any guys out there you aren’t attracted to?”

  “I didn’t say anything about being attracted to him.” Was Jake jealous of DJ? “He’s young, like Alexandra, and he knows what he’s doing. I appreciate his talents. That’s all.”

  “Hmm,” Jake said with a toss of his head.

  “Anyway, Bev isn’t too happy about the rescue mission. She claims we stole them from her. She’s deluded about that, since the board of health was going to take them, anyway, and those pea-brained ladies would have been dispatched to the big coop in the sky. Uncle Albert said he is going to try to get Bev to sell her farm and move into his assisted-living place. I think it’s a wise move.”

  “Will you have eggs to sell?” Jake tore off a piece of bread and dunked it in the stew.

  “I will after they recover from . . . oh, crud.” Cam smacked her forehead.

  “What?”

  “Great chicken farmer I am. I forgot to get them into the coop before I came over here.”

  “What? Is a fox going to get them?” Jake laughed.

  “One might, actually. Or a coyote.” Cam couldn’t believe she’d forgotten to make sure the girls were safe for the night.

  “You were late getting here. What was up that you forgot about the hens, too?” Jake’s face turned serious again.

  Cam sipped her wine. “You probably haven’t been following Irene’s murder investigation, but her stepson, Bobby, has been missing.”

  “Was he killed, too?”

  Cam could swear he looked almost hopeful. She shook her head. “When I was at Sim’s, picking up my truck—”

  “Who’s Sim? Somebody else I have to worry about?”

  “Hey, you must have seen Sim. She’s the mechanic who came with Bobby to the dinner.”

  “Maybe. I can’t remember.” He waved a hand and nearly knocked over his glass.

  “Jake, stop it. Listen to me.” Cam covered his hand with her own. “I like you. A lot. I’m not looking to be involved with anyone else. I run into a lot of people in my work. You can’t keep imagining reasons to be jealous of every single man who is remotely in my age bracket.”

  Jake pulled his white-blond brows together. He didn’t look convinced.

  Cam retrieved her hand and sat back. “As I was saying, when I was picking up my truck at Sim’s auto repair shop—at her shop—Bobby showed up. He had started to tell us why he had been staying out of sight when the police swooped in and took him in for questioning about Irene’s murder.” Oops. She’d plann
ed not to mention Bobby. Why couldn’t she think before she talked for once?

  “I never liked that guy. Glad they have him behind bars. Why’d he kill her? For her money?”

  “Who said he killed her? I don’t think he did, and Sim certainly doesn’t.”

  “You can’t deny he was flirting with you all summer. Then he shows up at the dinner in a goddamn skirt.” Jake looked like he’d tasted a piece of rotten halibut.

  “The skirt was his choice.” Cam had liked the way it looked on him. And she had to admit she had enjoyed the months of flirting with the handsome carpenter, but she wasn’t about to mention that to Jake. “Anyway, Sim wanted to check out his house. She had a key and wanted me to go with her, so I did. That’s why I was late.”

  “So you chose Bobby over me.”

  Cam stared at him. “I’m done.” She laid down her spoon and took a last sip of wine. She stood.

  “Where are you going?” His voice was almost plaintive.

  “I’m going home. My affection doesn’t seem to be enough for you. If you want to spend time with me, I can’t be stuffed into a box or kept on a leash. I’m an adult woman with a life outside yours. You have a choice.” Cam grabbed her bag and started for the door. “Get used to it, or go find yourself somebody else, somebody meek and retiring.”

  “Don’t go.” Jake stood and followed her, arms outstretched. “I’m sorry, Cam.”

  Cam paused. He did sound sorry. But they’d been through this before.

  “Please?” He grabbed her left arm, his huge hand encircling it completely. He closed it tighter, squeezing her bicep.

  “Let go of me.” Cam unfolded his fingers with her right hand. “Think about what I said.”

  When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she glanced back up. The sad look on his face had turned to stone.

  She let herself out and stood for a moment outside the door. She shuddered. She’d playfully called him Lurch earlier in the year. The more she got to know him, the more often she glimpsed a monstrous side to him. She didn’t like it. Not at all.