Bought The Farm (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 1)

by Jeff Shelby

  The sheriff's forehead wrinkled like a shar pei’s and his eyes squinted into a menacing glare.

  Gunnar shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and said nothing.

  I stood my ground, my arms folded across my chest, trying not to flinch under the old man’s withering stare.

  Sheriff Lewis finally cleared his throat. “I'll go ahead and call it in.” He frowned. “But then I’m getting my chicken. It’s past my lunchtime.”

  I had no idea to whom he was calling it in, but I was chalking that one up as a small victory for me.

  SEVEN

  I'd just poured a glass of wine when someone knocked on my door.

  Sheriff Lewis had called the medical examiner and ninety minutes later, a man slightly older than the sheriff shuffled up my driveway, nodded at each of us. He then went to work moving the bones around and taking pictures and making notes. The sheriff, perhaps shamed into doing some actual police work after watching the examiner go to work, took out a small spiral notebook from his pocket and asked me a few routine questions. He wasn't treating me as a suspect and was still clearly operating under the guise that the bones had been placed there thousands of years ago by cavemen.

  Or something like that.

  Gunnar excused himself after a few minutes, and when the medical examiner gathered up all of the bones and said he'd be in touch, Sheriff Lewis bid me goodbye and accompanied him to his van.

  I'd gone back to the house and tried to busy myself with unpacking chores, but I was distracted and disinterested. So after a bit, I showered, purposely avoiding soaping up my skinned knee. Clean, I pulled Gunnar's eggs from the fridge and cracked a few into the pan. I uncorked a bottle of Merlot that I'd kept close at hand—who cared that it wasn’t five o’clock?— and was just sitting down to my scrambled eggs and red wine when the knock sounded, startling me.

  I debated not answering the door. I wasn’t in the mood for company, and I was hungry and the wine looked good.

  The person knocked again. I stilled my fork, hovering halfway between my mouth and the plate filled with eggs. I sighed. If someone had taken the time to come out this way and knock not once, but twice, then they were probably there for a reason.

  I grabbed my glass of wine and headed for the door.

  A man’s fist was up in the air, frozen in mid-knock when I pulled the door open. His eyes widened. “Oh. Hello.”

  I'd never learned to tell the difference between a minister and a priest. I knew that some religions didn't require their pastors to wear those white collars, but I'd never learned the formal rules; probably because I'd never subscribed to any particular religion. The gentleman frozen in mid-knock wore a short-sleeve, black shirt, black slacks, and black shoes. His stark white collar was tight against his freshly shaven neck.

  “Uh, Ms. Day?” he asked, a little unsure of himself.

  “Yes?”

  He smiled, a little more relaxed. I pegged him for a few years younger than me. He had kind blue eyes and his reddish brown hair had streaks of gold running through it. His hair appeared to have just been cut, too, and it was immaculately combed through.

  “I'm Declan Murphy,” he said. “I'm the pastor just down the road at St. Simon's Episcopal Church.”

  I vaguely recalled seeing an old white church with a tall steeple. “Oh. Right.”

  “I do apologize for showing up unannounced,” he said, running a hand over his hair. His eyes darted from me to the porch and then back up again. “Am I interrupting anything?”

  I held up the wine glass. “Just this and some eggs.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Eggs?”

  I stood to the side. “Scrambled. Come in, please.”

  He hesitated for a moment, then nodded and stepped into the entryway.

  I closed the door behind him and held out the hand that wasn't holding the wine glass. “I'm Rainy.”

  He shook my hand. “Declan Murphy, ” he said, introducing himself for the second time.

  “So I shouldn't call you Reverend or Father or something like that?”

  His cheeks flushed, and I found it charming. “No, no. You can call me Declan.” He gestured at the collar. “I probably should have changed. The collar always makes people feel like they're in church.”

  I didn't want to tell him that I hadn't set foot in a church in almost thirty years, so instead I said, “Okay. Declan it is.”

  He smiled again and folded his hands together, seemingly pleased that we'd gotten over the pleasantries. It occurred to me for a moment that a strange man was standing in my entryway and it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that he wasn't a pastor at all, but instead some sort of nut job who dressed up like a pastor to gain entrance to the homes of single women. I wondered how hard I'd have to hit him with the wine glass to take him out.

  But then I realized Declan was too uncomfortable to be any kind of predator. And I’d spent too much time listening to Mack Mercy relay his crazy cases at Capitol Cases.

  “Are you enjoying Latney?” he asked.

  It felt like a loaded question. I thought about my introduction to the community: Gunnar’s generosity. Sophia Rey’s welcome gifts. The unwelcome gift in my bungalow. The sheriff who bordered on incompetency.

  “It's been...a change,” I said.

  “A change,” he said, nodding. “Yes, I'm sure it is.”

  We stood there awkwardly for a moment.

  “Declan, can I ask why you're here?” I finally asked. “Are you part of the welcome wagon? Or something along those lines?”

  “Welcome wagon?” he said, his brow wrinkling. “Oh, no. I'm not. I'm sorry. I should've gotten right to the point. I truly didn't mean to interrupt your afternoon.” He paused. “But I wanted to stop by and see how you were doing.”

  How I was doing? Was this a mental health wagon instead of a welcome wagon? Is that what priest and pastors did in the country?

  “Um, I'm alright, I guess.” And then, because that seemed like a woefully inadequate answer for a man of the cloth who was asking about my well being, I added, “I'm a little tired, I guess. And I'm still figuring my way around here. But, otherwise, I'm alright.”

  He kept his gaze on me and I realized he was waiting for more.

  But I wasn't sure what to give him.

  “I feel like I'm missing something,” I finally said. “And you'll have to forgive me. Sometimes I'm slow with these things.”

  He smiled again. “No forgiveness needed. But I thought I would come by. After I heard.”

  “After you heard?”

  “St. Simon's offers crisis intervention and bereavement services,” he said. “That's why I'm here.”

  I squinted at him for a moment, still not getting what he was saying. Then the light bulb went on and I pointed my wineglass at him. It sloshed a little over the rim, wetting my fingertips. “Ohhhh. You're here because of the body.”

  Declan Murphy pulled at the collar, trying unsuccessfully to loosen it. “Yes. The body.”

  EIGHT

  I motioned toward the kitchen table. “I need to get to my eggs before they get cold. Would you like to come in?”

  He nodded and followed me to the kitchen. It was one of my favorite rooms in the house. White cupboards with wrought iron knobs and hinges, terra cotta tiled floor, an exposed wood-beam ceiling—it was about as different as it could be from the ultra-modern, remodeled kitchen from the Arlington house. The two windows in the room faced east and south, offering bright morning sunshine and a nice cross breeze when they were open.

  I grabbed the plate with my makeshift lunch/dinner and put it in the microwave. As old as the house was, the previous owners had put in some modern conveniences. A microwave and dishwasher were some of them.

  “Can I get you a glass of wine?” I asked, hovering near the cupboard with the wineglasses.

  “Oh, no,” Declan said. “No, I'm fine. But thank you.”

  I wondered if he was allowed to drink while he was on the job or if he was prohibi
ted. “Water? Anything else?” I paused. “Actually, that's all I have.”

  “Water and wine,” he said. “That's sort of my specialty.”

  It was a corny joke, but it was cute. “I see what you did there.” I gestured at the chair across from me. “Please, have a seat. And I hope you don't mind if I eat because I’m starved.”

  “I don't mind at all,” he said, sliding into the chair.

  The microwave dinged and I pulled the plate out and sat down next to him. “I have to say, I'm afraid you may have misinterpreted what went on here.”

  He frowned. “How so?”

  “You mentioned bereavement,” I said, spearing some of the eggs with my fork. “I don't know who those bones belong to. And whoever it turns out to be, I'm pretty confident I still won't know them.” I ate the eggs and nearly burned my tongue, they were so hot. I washed them down with a mouthful of wine. “So I can't say I'm terribly broken up over the whole thing because I don't feel very attached to it.”

  Declan's shoulders dropped a bit. “Oh, I see.”

  I eyed him. “How did you find out?”

  “The medical examiner's office called the church,” he explained. “It's standard procedure.”

  “I thought there hasn’t been a murder here in sixty years.”

  Declan raised his eyebrows. “Who said anything about murder?”

  I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. “I mean…I just meant that there was a body on my property and no one seemed to know how it got there. The sheriff mentioned how there hadn’t been any murders in a long time.”

  “Sixty years?”

  I nodded.

  “We’re notified when there are deaths, period,” Declan explained. “No matter the cause.”

  That made sense, though I couldn't believe that ancient medical examiner had thought twice about me and my potential need for bereavement services. Maybe it was just necessary channels.

  “I wasn't exactly sure what had occurred,” Declan continued. “And given that I was free this afternoon, I figured I would just stop by.”

  “Well, I do appreciate that,” I said, swirling the wine in the glass. “You were a far nicer surprise than the sheriff.”

  Declan shifted in the chair. “Sheriff Lewis?”

  “He wasn't too keen on checking out the body. Or the bones, or whatever you want to call it.”

  “He wasn't?”

  I explained to him what happened as I finished off the eggs. I emptied my wine glass, too. I desperately wanted another glass but I wasn't sure if that was appropriate for the time of day, especially in the presence of a non-drinking pastor.

  Declan wore a thin smile on his face when I'd finished. “Well, I'd like to tell you that's a different experience than what I've had with him, but I'm afraid I can't. He seems like a nice enough fellow, if, perhaps a bit…overwhelmed.”

  “And, maybe, lazy.”

  “Maybe.” He chuckled. “I was trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.” His smile broadened. “Hazard in my line of work, I suppose.”

  I laughed. “I suppose so. And my cynicism is a hazard of just being me.”

  He nodded. “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “I was just taken aback that he wasn't going to do anything,” I said. “As if that was okay.”

  I didn’t know why I felt the need to share all of this with the stranger sitting next to me. Maybe there was something to the whole confession thing.

  He folded his arms across his chest. “I think you may find that people are very entrenched in their ways here. If that's the way he's always done it, then getting him to do it any other way might prove difficult.”

  He sounded like he knew things I hadn't yet figured out.

  “How long have you been here?” I asked. “In Latney, I mean.”

  His smile dimmed a little. “Only a couple of months. The former pastor retired and moved with his family to Maine. I was in a community down in South Carolina when the diocese asked if I'd be willing to take over here. I, of course, said yes.” He shrugged his shoulders. “So here I am.”

  I pushed my plate aside and decided I'd tempt fate by adding a little more wine to my glass. I compromised by only filling it halfway.

  “And do you and your family like it?” I asked.

  “I came alone. No family.” He pulled at the collar again for a moment. “And, yes, I do like it. I do.”

  It sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as me that the words he was speaking were true. “But?”

  He dropped his hand from the collar and glanced down at the table. “But I will say it has been a...challenge?”

  I swirled the wine in my glass. “Challenge?”

  He moved his eyes from the table back to me.

  I really did like his eyes. A lot.

  “This is a very...stable community,” he said. “Most of the people seem to have been here for a very long time. They have friendships and relationships and like the way things have been done in the past. They aren't terribly open to new ways of doing things.” He sighed. “So, it's been a bit of a challenge.”

  I considered his words. Gunnar and Sophia had both been welcoming, but my experience with them had consisted mostly of pleasantries and nothing more. It hadn’t occurred to me that it might be hard to fit in here in Latney. I had romanticized it in my mind, pictures of bucolic scenery and small-town living and camaraderie. But Declan was telling me something very different. And I wasn’t sure that I liked it.

  He laid his hands flat on the table. “But now I just sound like I'm complaining. I'm lucky to be here and have a strong community. There are good, decent people here, people I’m lucky to have met. ” He paused. “And I’m lucky to have met you today, Ms. Day.”

  “Call me Rainy.”

  He smiled and nodded. “Rainy. And I've taken up enough of your time and embarrassed myself a little in the process.”

  “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  He smiled. “Bereavement services for bones? That isn’t something to be embarrassed over?”

  I smiled back. “It was a sweet gesture. And some people might have needed counseling after making such a discovery. Counseling from a man of the cloth.”

  His smile deepened. “If you say so. Anyway, I just have one more thing for you and then I'll be out of your hair for the day.”

  I didn’t need for him to be out of my hair. He was charming and sweet, and there was something oddly comforting about sitting with him at the kitchen table. I didn’t know if it was because we were both newcomers to town or if it was because he did really have some sort of religious, healing powers.

  And those eyes of his really hadn't bothered me in the least.

  “I do two services on Sundays,” he said. “There's an early bird one at seven in the morning, but the big one's at ten. Runs about an hour long, with coffee and donuts afterward.”

  Now it was my turn to shift uncomfortably in the chair. I really wasn't comfortable with religion or church or anything tangentially related to them. I didn't begrudge anyone their own beliefs, but I'd learned from an early age that organized religion just wasn't for me. I prescribed more to the theory of being kind and doing as much good as you can in the world and any god that might judge me later on would be good with that.

  But now a minister was sitting at my kitchen table, inviting me to a service. A sweet, earnest, cute minister. Who happened to be single.

  Not that it mattered.

  “Well, that's kind of you to invite me,” I said, staying neutral. “Thank you.”

  “And I'm sorry if I'm being presumptive,” he said. “I should've asked if you've already been attending services elsewhere.”

  There were other churches around? This was news to me.

  “Oh, no,” I said, waving the glass in the air. “I haven't been. Anywhere.”

  He studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. I should also mention that this isn't some sort of binding agreement. I promise not to baptize yo
u in front of the congregation or anything like that.”

  I laughed. He'd read me very well. He was scoring points with me in several ways.

  “But it would be great to see you on Sunday,” Declan said. “Friendly faces are always welcome. And I promise you that I will not drone on and on during the sermon.”

  I peered into my glass of wine. Going to church sounded like the last thing I needed right then. I was still feeling overwhelmed by the amount of work I needed to do on the farm and the things I needed to learn. But I knew that carving out an hour for a Sunday service for a fellow newcomer wouldn't set me back. It was good karma and might, at the very least, give me an ally in Latney.

  I held up the wine glass and smiled at my new pastor friend. “I'll be there.”

  NINE

  The next morning, I got up early, determined to attack the day.

  I wasn't quite ready to attack the mini-hangover I'd acquired from the bottle of wine I'd polished off after Declan Murphy left, though.

  So I was a little slower than I planned, cooking up the last of the eggs and gulping water to chase away the headache that was doing its best to try to hold me back. I really needed to head to the grocery store to stock the fridge and cupboards, but I knew I wasn’t up to it then. But my breakfast did manage to fill my stomach, and the water hydrated me, and I felt good enough to head outside into the early morning sunshine.

  To do what, though, I wasn't sure.

  I stood on the front porch. I was still having a hard time believing that everything was mine. It was sort of like when I'd seen my kids newly born for the first time and couldn't quite comprehend that I was now responsible for them. As I looked around the farm, it was hard to fathom that I was now responsible for the entire property, and even though I had a million things that needed to be done—boxes to unpack, acres of grass to mow, buildings to paint—I really wasn't sure where to start.

  Sheriff Lewis saved me from having to choose.

  His old pickup truck rumbled down the drive and lurched to a halt in front of the house. He waved at me through the window, then pushed the truck door open. He slid out of the front seat, wearing the exact same uniform as the day before.