Til Dirt Do Us Part (A Local Foods Mystery)

by Edith Maxwell

Cam inserted the key into the lock. It wouldn’t turn. She jiggled it. She pulled it out a hair and tried again. She turned it over and tried again with no luck. She kicked the bottom of the door in frustration. Why leave a hidden key if it wasn’t for this door? She pulled the key out and examined it. The metal looked corroded and dirty. She spit on it and rubbed it clean with a bit of the hem of her shirt, glad she hadn’t dressed up more than donning a clean long-sleeved T-shirt for her visit with Albert. She extracted a ChapStick from the pack and rubbed a bit of the waxy substance first onto her pinkie and then onto the key, which was as close to oiling the lock as she was going to get.

  This time it had to work. She was already going to be late for her beer with Albert, but she couldn’t repress the urgency she felt to examine her truck. Cam slid the key in, edged it a millimeter back and forth twice for good measure, and turned. She felt the lock release. She whistled her relief, opened the door, and replaced the key on the trim before grabbing her pack and entering the shop.

  She made her way to the heart of the establishment, a large room capable of holding three vehicles side by side. A wide workbench lined the back wall, with a ten-drawer red metal tool chest on wheels next to it. Shelves above the workbench held boxes of supplies. Two racks supported new tires on the wall opposite the door into the office.

  Cam’s old Ford was the only vehicle inside. The clouds that had scudded past the sun earlier now fully occupied the sky, and the filtered light from the dirty bay-door window kept the interior dim. Cam didn’t want to bring attention to herself, though, and decided not to turn on the overhead lights. She looked around the workbench until she found a big flashlight. She lifted the truck’s hood and propped it open. She’d worked on her old Volkswagen bug in a car co-op during college, so she knew her way around an engine a bit. But even this older-model truck, the smallest of its kind, carried much more sophisticated systems than her vintage VW.

  She extracted her printouts from her pack and set the ones for the engine compartment on top of the radiator. She studied the schematic of the brake system and what was in front of her. She found the brake fluid reservoir. It was nearly empty. According to the diagram, it sat on top of the master cylinder. She traced the four lines coming out of the cylinder until they disappeared too deep in the compartment to see. She groaned. She’d have to get underneath the Ford, concussion or no concussion. How nice it would be if Sim were here and could put the truck up on the lift. But Cam wasn’t about to try that maneuver herself. With her luck she’d get it halfway up and it would fall down on her.

  She scanned the shop until she located a flat platform on small wheels. She lowered her back onto it, flashlight and schematic in hand, and slid under the front of the truck. It was easy to spy the metal lines leading away from each wheel. The front left line looked intact, as far as Cam could tell. She slid over to the right, lifting her head to get a better view. A piece of metal grazed her forehead as she passed under it. She swore and lowered her head flat again. The headache was back. She tried to get the light in a good position to check the right line. It appeared fine, too. She pushed with her feet until she was clear of the truck and scooted to the back. The bed was higher than the engine compartment, so maybe she wouldn’t scrape her head back here. She took a deep breath before sliding under again.

  As she played the light over the left rear line, she noticed a darker spot. She reached up to touch it. It was rough and damp. Bringing her hand close to her face, she sniffed the fluid on her fingers. She laughed softly. She had no idea what brake fluid smelled like. She rubbed her fingers together. The fluid was oily. She put the light directly on the rough spot and felt a stab of cold. The area wasn’t just rough. It was an opening in the sealed system. Someone had definitely hacked at the thin metal with something like a saw or a file. The hole had caused the brake fluid reservoir to empty out. A braking system without fluid or pressure could not stop a car. And this was not a case of wear and tear. This had been perpetrated with malicious intent designed to put Cam out of commission.

  She slid over to the right to examine the final line, and the chill she felt in her gut became more widespread. Cold air crept around her neck. She heard a rustle. She froze. And switched off the flashlight. She listened with all her senses alive. Had somebody followed her in? Or maybe it was a resident rodent. The room reverted to silence. She dared to breathe. She peered up at the brake line again.

  Suddenly the overhead light snapped on.

  “Police! Come out from under there,” a female voice commanded. “Hands first.”

  Chapter 22

  Cam reared her head up and cracked it on the frame of the truck’s bed. She cursed and lay back down again. Not what she needed—a second injury on top of the one from her accident.

  “Now!”

  “I’m coming. Don’t Taser me!” She stuck her hands out. She managed to scoot herself out with her feet and pushed up to a sitting position.

  “Cam?” Ruth Dodge stared at her. She lowered the gun she was pointing at Cam with both hands. She shook her head. “What are you doing here?”

  “Hi, Ruth.”

  “Cameron Flaherty?” Chief Frost entered from the office.

  “That’s me,” Cam said with a rueful smile. “I can explain everything.”

  “Well, I sure hope so.” He pointed to her. “Why don’t you start right now?”

  Cam looked from one officer to the other. “I needed to take a look at the brake lines. I hadn’t heard from you or from Sim all day.”

  “How did you get into the shop?” Ruth was clearly in work mode. Her expression didn’t look a bit friendly.

  “Sim hides a key out back.” Cam shrugged.

  “Same one she told us about,” Frost said. “Ms. Koyama might as well leave her shop open if she’s going to tell the universe how to get in.”

  Cam didn’t think he really needed to know she had discovered the key on her own. Without Sim’s permission.

  “You came down to check out the brake lines, right? You should see what I found,” Cam began.

  “Actually, a passing citizen reported seeing a flickering light through the window,” Ruth said.

  “So you haven’t looked yet? I told you about the tampering this morning, Chief.” Cam couldn’t believe he had waited this long.

  The chief cleared his throat. “We were waiting for Ms. Koyama to get back to us. Which she did only an hour ago.”

  “She wasn’t here? Where’s she been all day?” No wonder the shop was closed so early. It sounded like Sim hadn’t ever opened it for the day.

  “I’m not at liberty to divulge that information.”

  “Anyway, I can show you. The rear brake lines both have a small opening in them. It’s rough. It looks like it was done deliberately. No wonder the truck didn’t stop.”

  “We’ll take care of it. For now I need you out of here.” Frost gestured toward the office door, which stood open.

  Cam boosted herself up and found a clean red rag to wipe her hands on. “Just a second. I need to get something out of the cab.” At Frost’s frown, she said, “I won a ribbon at the fair. I want to show it to my great-uncle.”

  “Go ahead.”

  She dug through the wreckage in the cab until she found the ribbon. As she walked out, she glanced back. Ruth and Frost were conferring, Frost pointing to the truck, Ruth writing something in a notebook. They didn’t look up.

  Albert clinked his glass of ale with Cam’s in his room at Moran Manor. He’d proffered two squat water glasses for the beer, saying they would have to do. He sat, as usual, in his recliner, a red plaid lap blanket over his knees, with his usual stack of books threatening to topple off the small table at his elbow.

  “I’m sorry I’m late.” After the police’s questioning she had stopped off at the Food Mart to pick up the beer and then visited the guest washroom at the residence to clean up her hands and face.

  “It’s fine. Here’s to your health, Cameron,” he said. He sipped the brew
and smiled. “Very fine. Very hoppy.”

  Cam stretched out in her chair and sipped her own. “They grow their own hops right at the brewery. I was thinking I should get some good rootstock and start some myself next spring. What do you think? I could train them up the south wall of the barn.”

  “Far’s I know, you don’t get much of a harvest the first year, and they don’t weigh but diddly-squat. But if hops are what you have a liking to raise, you should go ahead.”

  “True, the flowers are lighter than paper, but they fetch a pretty good price per ounce.”

  Albert set his glass down on the end table next to his chair. He leaned forward and took Cam’s hand. “How are you holding up, my dear? You look a little peaked.”

  “The accident was tough. I’m not completely recovered from it.” Her hand went up involuntarily to the lump on her head.

  “Tell me how you think it came to happen.”

  Cam relayed the story again of getting her brakes checked by Sim on Monday and how they had functioned normally before she arrived at the fair.

  “I told Chief Frost I thought someone had tampered with the truck. I wasn’t sure he believed me, so I stopped by the shop on my way over here.”

  “Had Sim taken a look?”

  “I don’t think so. She didn’t call me about it, anyway, and she wasn’t there. I sort of found a key and let myself in.”

  Albert raised snowy eyebrows that could have served as ski jumps for tiny elves, but he didn’t interrupt. Cam went on to tell him what she had discovered.

  “Are you sure the sabotage was deliberate?”

  “It had to be, Uncle Albert. It looked like someone sawed at the lines or took a rough file to them. The fluid had leaked out. The reservoir in the engine compartment was empty, too. No way my truck would stop.” Cam stared out the window at the memory of the truck picking up speed, her brakes not responding, the Civic in front of her not hearing her horn, finally—

  Albert touched her knee with his hand. “Cameron, come back. You survived the crash safely, now, didn’t you?”

  Cam took a deep breath. She nodded. And laughed to herself.

  “What’s funny?” Albert asked. He leaned forward in his chair and smiled encouragingly.

  “I was flat on my back under the truck at Sim’s. An hour ago. I’d just seen the cut in the second line when all of a sudden . . . busted! Ruth and Chief Frost showed up. They thought someone had broken into the shop. I had to talk myself out of trouble.”

  “And how did you manage that? It doesn’t sound like you had permission of the owner to enter, did you?”

  “No. But I told them I had used the hidden key. Which was true!” Cam protested.

  Albert shook his head. “Now, what would your parents say?”

  Cam looked at him. They both broke out laughing at the same time. “They’d say, ‘Whatever you need to do, dear. I’m off to catch a plane.’ As always.”

  Albert smiled and nodded.

  “Anyway, I told Chief Frost I needed to check the brake lines since they hadn’t done it. They let me go, but I’m glad they knew me.”

  “I’m glad, too. Now, what about the fair? Did you bring me a couple of blue ribbons?”

  “Not exactly.” Cam pulled her mouth as she reached into her bag. She held up the red ribbon for Albert to see. It now sported a crease and a smudge of dirt from being tossed about in the truck during the accident. “Second place for the Sun Golds.”

  “Not bad for your first time out.”

  “But they shafted me on the garlic braids. At the end they said I was disqualified because I incorporated a string in the braid. But the rules didn’t say I couldn’t!”

  “Now, that doesn’t seem quite fair, does it?”

  “I’m going to write them a letter about clarifying the guidelines.”

  “Good idea.” Albert nodded. “Something else is bothering you.”

  “You mean besides a murderer wandering around out there?”

  Albert waited with the patience of the aged.

  “I haven’t seen Preston since yesterday morning.” Cam rolled the hem of her shirt between her fingers until it caught on her dirt-roughened skin. “He’s never stayed out this long.”

  “What do you think has happened to him?”

  “At first I imagined him having a bad encounter with a predator in the woods. I’ve heard fisher cats out there, and I saw one running along the border of the woods at dusk last week.”

  “They have a terrible cry. Sounds like a baby being tortured.” Albert frowned.

  “I know. And they are voracious hunters. I’ve seen pictures of their teeth. We have foxes and coyotes, too, as I’m sure you know. Anyway, I looked everywhere on the farm. I drove up and down the road and didn’t see him. I posted signs with his picture on them everywhere. Madeline hasn’t seen him, and nobody has called me.”

  “He’s a good-natured cat, your Preston.”

  Cam’s eyes began to well. She wiped them with a fast gesture and took a deep breath. “Alexandra suggested maybe someone had taken him. I can’t understand who would do such a thing. Or why.”

  Albert’s frown turned to wrinkles of concern. “You need to be careful, Cameron. If what you say is true about your brakes, why, the same person could have taken your cat. What’s next?”

  “But why me?”

  “Maybe the murderer thinks you’re getting too close.”

  “I’ve told a couple of people I think Bobby is innocent. But I’m leaving the investigating to the police this time, I swear.” Cam glanced out the window. “I gotta run, Uncle Albert. I have to get the chickens in before dark.”

  “You won’t stay for dinner?”

  Cam shook her head. “But I will use your phone book. I’m going to call Port Taxi. I’m not up to riding my bike uphill all the way home.”

  “A wise move.”

  Chapter 23

  The flashlight barely penetrated the corners of the dark chicken yard where Cam pointed it. She hoped she’d gotten all the birds in. When she’d arrived, several of them were already in roosting position on the edge of the feeder, eyes closed. These girls seemed bound to their internal clock, or that of the sun, more likely. Cam had to lift each one up in turn and put her in the coop, the last one complaining bitterly and pecking at her hand. Rescue hens were more of a responsibility than she had expected. She latched the coop door and tested it.

  As she trudged to the house, she called for Preston. He could have been at a neighboring house and gotten shut in a shed accidentally. Maybe he’d made friends with the tabby across the road. She called again, not daring to let her hopes rise, not being able to help it when they did. He didn’t appear.

  As she approached the back of the house, her motion-detector light illuminated a large bouquet of pink carnations in a vase on her doorstep. Cam narrowed her eyes for a moment. Someone had delivered flowers anonymously last spring, but they had turned out to be trouble. She retrieved the little florist’s envelope from among the blooms. The card inside read, Please forgive me. And congratulations. I miss you. Med kärlek, Jake.

  She heaved a big sigh as the key snicked into the lock. What was she going to do about Jake? Cam hefted the vase with a little too much force. Water sloshed on her pants. She cursed as she set the vase on the table. She took heavy steps into the kitchen and leaned on the counter. Her stomach griped about its empty state, and her entire body ached from yesterday’s blow.

  First things first. She put pasta water on to boil and got out a jar of the summer’s pesto she’d blended up from handfuls of farm-grown basil and garlic, plus pine nuts, salt, and olive oil. Marie had taught her the recipe, one she’d gotten from her brother Jimmy, who had been the U.S. consul to Florence, Italy. Cam opened a bottle of a California Central Coast pinot noir and poured a generous glass. She arranged salad greens on a plate, adding slices of a Brandywine tomato that had ripened on the windowsill. She ground pepper and drizzled olive oil over the plate.

  As she
worked, she fretted over how she was going to get along without her truck. She had Jake’s delivery to make tomorrow. She couldn’t afford to keep taking taxis around the rural roads of town, and Sim hadn’t made any progress fixing her brakes. If the police were even going to let her work on the truck now. Cam wondered where Sim had been all day. She called one more time, with the same zero results.

  She threw in half a box of farfalle—the pasta Ruth’s twins liked to call “bow ties”—and let it cook. She set out a place mat and silverware and had finished draining the pasta when the phone rang. She threw some olive oil on the pasta so it wouldn’t stick and grabbed the phone.

  “Cameron?” A gruff male voice spoke.

  “That’s me.”

  “Howard Fisher here. Heard you had an accident.”

  “Yes, I did. Where’d you hear the news?” Cam was pretty sure he didn’t go looking for local news on the Internet, but she could be wrong.

  “Your truck beat up pretty bad?”

  “A little. Why?”

  “Could loan you a vehicle. If you wanted. Till you get yours back and all.”

  Cam barely knew the man. And he wanted to loan her a car? “I appreciate the gesture, Howard, but I’m sure you need the vehicles you have.”

  “Nope. Vince ain’t driving right now. Got another ticket. You can use his Jeep. It’s only fifteen years old. Runs okay. If you want.”

  A Jeep would solve her transportation problem for the moment. “Yes, I guess I could use it for a couple of days. Thanks very much, Howard.”

  “I’ll drop it off in the morning, early. You can run me home.”

  Cam was about to thank him again when the phone clicked off. She hung up the receiver. How different small town life was from the city. Nobody would have offered to loan her a vehicle in Cambridge. She shook her head and resumed preparing dinner, tossing the pasta with a quarter cup of pesto. She grated fresh Romano onto it and brought it to the table.

  Her cell phone rang as Cam took the last bite. Feeling restored, she checked the caller ID. Jake. She hesitated for a moment before pressing the SEND button.