Bought The Farm (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 1)

by Jeff Shelby

  I waited for a moment. “Sheriff?”

  He looked from the car back to me.

  “What exactly are you asking me for here?” I said, squinting at him. “Because I'm not sure how any of these questions are relevant to determining the identify of the skeleton or the cause of the fire. So can you give me a little context here?”

  He cleared his throat. “Well. Sure. Yes.” He stroked his moustache. “I guess what I'm getting at is I'm wondering if you had enemies up there in D.C.”

  “Enemies?” I asked, not sure I understood. “I was an administrative director for a private company. I was not a cartoon character or a pirate. So I'm not really sure if I had any enemies or not.”

  He forced a smile. “Maybe enemies is the wrong word then. How about people you didn't get along with?”

  “Of course I did,” I said, my squint turning more glare-like. “Because I'm human. But I'm still unsure as to what you're getting at. Do you think someone did this to spite me? That they came all the way down here to exact revenge on me?”

  He reached for his pipe, playing with it between his fingers before settling it in his mouth. “I suppose that's a possibility.”

  “Well, I don't,” I told him flatly. “I didn't have those kinds of enemies. I don't think anyone followed me down here with an elaborate plan to take me down.”

  He cleared his throat. “Ma'am, that's not exactly what I mean.”

  A flock of birds flew overhead and we both looked up to watch them.

  When they’d disappeared, I looked at the sheriff. “What exactly do you mean then?”

  He scratched at the back of his head, clearly uncomfortable. “I was wondering if maybe you were harboring any anger toward someone from up there. For whatever reason. If someone got under your skin a little too much. Something like that.”

  I blinked several times. “Excuse me?”

  “Did you have a quarrel with someone?” he continued. He shifted the pipe between his lips, moving it from right to left. “Maybe a neighbor or a co-worker? Maybe someone who just wouldn't let it go and you got pretty fed up about it. Not that I'd blame you or anything like that. We all have our buttons. And sometimes...we get a little carried away, don’t we?”

  I held his gaze for a moment, then pinched the bridge of my nose with my index finger and thumb. The headache I'd been hoping to avoid had arrived and was pulsating in different places throughout my skull. I'd finally figured out exactly what Sheriff Lewis was getting at and I was not happy.

  At all.

  I sighed and set my hands on my hips. “Let me get this straight, Sheriff. You're now suggesting that I brought a dead body with me? That I somehow packed a box of bones and brought them here?”

  “Well, now, I don't want—”

  “And then, what?” I asked, swallowing an incredulous laugh. “Set fire to the bungalow myself to cover my tracks? To hide other evidence?”

  “Ma'am, I'm not suggesting—”

  “That's exactly what you're suggesting,” I said, my voice rising. “That's exactly what you're suggesting. So let's just be clear here, okay? I am new to this town. I am new to this farm. But I am not new to the world.”

  The sheriff's shoulders drooped.

  “And I'm guessing you've watched a lot of cop shows on TV and you're doing your best to imitate one of those officers right now,” I said. “But you're doing a poor job. Because not on the worst show in the history of television would anyone have come up with as convoluted of a story as you are trying to put together right now. So here's what I have to say to you.” I waited a beat, just to make sure I had his attention. “You want to look into my background? Look for my enemies? You do that. And then when you're done, you let me know. So then I'll know you're actually ready to do your job and figure out just exactly what's going on here on my farm.” I jabbed my finger at my house. “Because I will be here waiting.”

  I turned on my heel and left him standing there in the driveway.

  TWENTY THREE

  Before I'd left D.C., my friends threw me a going away party after they'd helped me pack up my house. Nearly every single one had brought me a bottle of wine. My fondness for good reds was apparently a well-known fact within my circle, and shopping for a goodbye gift had been an easy chore. When I'd gotten to packing the bottles up, I'd had the momentary thought of leaving some behind for the new owners of the house. Then, selfishly, I'd stuck all of the new bottles in my very last packing box instead.

  It was turning out to be a decision that was helping me get through my first week in Latney.

  I drained three-quarters of a bottle of cabernet before I finally fell asleep. I'd been too wound up after my day, replaying all of the conversations over and over in my head. The wine finally did its job and took enough of the edge off so I could drift off and leave the day behind.

  I showered as soon as I woke, the morning sunlight streaming brightly through every window in the house. I sat down to another breakfast of coffee, vowing to get to town that day for groceries once and for all.

  And then, because I didn’t want to waste another second thinking about my lying, handsome neighbor or the outlandish accusations Sheriff Lewis had hurled my way, I decided to spend the morning putting the guest bedroom together, knowing my daughter well enough that a surprise visit might not be too far off. Especially since I’d let it slip that there was trouble in paradise.

  I was actually kind of surprised that she hadn’t called again. The old Laura would have hounded me incessantly, calling and texting, hunting for answers and more information. This was how I knew that she was still miffed over my move. Knowing her, she was probably struggling with wanting to bombard me with questions and advice and restraining herself, still resentful over my move.

  Less interference from my daughter was probably a good thing right now. But I knew it wouldn’t last for long.

  The movers had positioned everything in the room, setting the mattress pieces against the wall and putting the bed frame in place in the middle of the floor. But it was going to be up to me to get it all set up. I wrestled with the bedframe and the mattress, only groaning a little as I hoisted both pieces in place. I got the curtain rod hung straight over the window and moved the dresser and nightstand around, trying to make the most of the room’s square footage. I was generally pleased with the way the room looked with the furniture I'd brought with me. I made up the bed with the comforter and sheets I’d brought with, a light lavender bed set that looked beautiful against the whitewashed walls and honey wood floors.

  I surveyed the scene, wiping my sweat-dampened hair off my forehead. The only thing I needed to finish off the room was a small lamp for the nightstand and maybe a couple of pieces of artwork for the walls. A candle or two for above the fireplace would be a nice touch, too. Lavender or vanilla scented, something soothing and conducive to relaxation and sleep. Laura would definitely need it.

  Satisfied with my progress, I grabbed my purse and headed into town to do my grocery shopping and maybe find some things for the guest room.

  Toby's Market was at the edge of town and perhaps the finest grocery store I'd ever set foot in. It was small, no larger than a convenience store attached to a gas station, but it was stocked full of everything a person might need. The produce section was a cornucopia of colors and oversized fruits and vegetables, all neatly arranged with care. The aisles contained both brand names and locally sourced products, highlighted with small handwritten notes, touting the product. Every employee I encountered smiled at me and asked if I needed help finding anything. The young man who checked me out insisted on helping me get the bags out to my car and thanked me for my business.

  After a near week of weird occurrences, strange conversations and outright hostility from some of the townspeople, this slice of Latney finally felt like the place I wanted it to be.

  I left my car parked near Toby's and, after unwrapping a granola bar and eating it in three bites, walked down the street to the little boutique
that had caught my eye a few days earlier. Sophia's Stuff was in the middle of the block, bookended by an ice cream shop and a small hair salon. The window was tastefully decorated with sheer curtains and a refinished jelly cupboard decorated with woven baskets, candles, and small knick-knacks. It seemed like exactly the kind of place that might have things to decorate the guest room.

  The tiny silver bells on the door jingled as I pushed through the door, a wave of cool air greeting me. The scrubbed hardwood floors creaked beneath my feet and a heady floral scent enveloped me as soon as I stepped inside.

  The store looked like a page out of some home decorating magazine, loaded with rustic furniture and shabby chic décor. There was barely room to move around, and I gingerly made my way past an old farmhouse table elegantly set with linen napkins and mismatched pottery. Crystal candlesticks served as a centerpiece and a sterling silver tea set sat next to them, the pitcher turned into a makeshift vase for a bunch of delicate pink roses.

  Never in a million years could I have pulled off such a look. But it absolutely worked and I had the insane urge to buy it all, every last piece, and transport it to my own dining room table.

  A familiar face emerged from the back of the store.

  “Well, hello there, Rainy,” Sophia Rey said, smiling at me. “How lovely to see you.”

  The woman who'd frowned at the colored eggs Gunnar had given me headed in my direction. She was dressed in an expensive-looking pink blouse, a silver necklace ringing the collar. Designer jeans hugged her slim frame and silver leather sandals with thick heels showcased what looked like a fresh pedicure. Her blonde hair hung in soft curls, a hairstyle I wouldn’t be able to duplicate even if I spent hours trying, and her makeup accentuated her high cheekbones, wide eyes and full lips. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, and she very much looked the part of a banker's wife who owned her own boutique.

  I held up a hand in greeting. “Hello. I didn't realize this was your store.”

  She stuck a hand on her hip and swept the other from one side to the other. “The entire place.”

  “It's lovely.”

  “Thank you,” she said, the plastered smile still on her face. “I'm quite proud of it.”

  “You should be.”

  “What brings you by?” she asked, and I marveled again at her slow, honeyed accent.

  I looked around. “I need a lamp for a bedroom nightstand. And maybe a couple of other things.” Like the entire display on the farmhouse table.

  “Anything particular in mind?”

  “Uh, one that works and isn’t too bright…” And then, because I was pretty sure that wasn’t the information she was asking for, I added, “Something feminine. The room is white with a lavender bedspread.”

  She nodded. “I have the perfect one,” she said, and motioned for me to follow her toward the back of the store.

  She did, indeed, have the perfect lamp, one with a crackled wood base and a light lavender lampshade that would perfectly match the bedding. It was a little more than I'd hoped to spend, but given that it was a local business and I wasn’t sure I’d find anything else comparable within a twenty-mile radius, I had no problem buying Sophia's lamp.

  We walked back to the front of the store and she rang the sale through on the register. “You sure you don’t need anything else? You mentioned there were a few other things you might be needing.”

  I was tempted. I’d never used retail as therapy but standing in that store, surrounded by pretty things, the scent of honeysuckle and roses and lilacs washing over me, I could easily see myself doing so.

  I managed to find what little resolve I had. “Another time,” I told her. “I think I’m going to be a regular customer of yours.”

  She nodded and read me the total.

  “So,” she said, sliding my card through the reader, “it sounds like you've had an…interesting first few days in town.”

  “That's one way to put it.”

  The reader beeped and she handed my card back. “Yes, interesting. I am so sorry about all of that.”

  Her tone made it sound like she wasn't terribly sorry at all, but I wondered if that was just the way she spoke. Could accents make people sound less sincere? “Thank you.”

  She tapped the small printer, waiting for it to spit out my receipt. “I saw the smoke from the fire. Just awful. Do they know what happened yet?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  “A shame,” she said. “They really don't know anything about it? Or the...body they found?”

  I assumed she wanted to know simply so she could contribute to the underground gossip network, but I was starting to get used to that. “Not as far as I can tell.” And then, because I couldn’t resist, I added, “Other than the sheriff suggested maybe I'd done it all myself.”

  She paused and raised a gorgeously drawn eyebrow. “Donny thinks you did what?”

  “I'm not exactly sure,” I said, shrugging. “I guess murdered someone and then set my own property on fire? He wasn't clear on what he was accusing me of, and I wasn't terribly polite about the accusation.”

  “I am sure you weren't,” she said, shaking her head, her soft curls bouncing on her shoulders. “That is terrible. Again, I am sorry.” She pulled out a few sheets of tissue paper and wrapped the lamp. “He is a bit of an old fool, I suppose.”

  “That would be my assessment.”

  “And not like the old coot hasn't been on that property about a million times,” she said, removing the small shade and wrapping it in the same tissue. “What with him and Len being old hunting buddies and all.”

  “I've heard they were friends,” I said.

  She pulled out an oversized bag with twine handles and laid the lamp in it, then the shade. “More than friends, I'd say. Near brothers, as much time as they spend together. Drinking beer, barbecuing, shooting rabbits. You name it, they done it together.” She set the bag on top of the wooden counter. “Those two are tighter than denim on a fat man.”

  I took the bag from the counter. I'd already learned that the two men were friendly, but it seemed as if everyone who'd been in Latney for any length of time was friendly with one another. What Sophia was describing seemed different, though, and it made me wonder.

  “So they've been friends for a long time?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Since they were kids, I believe. Grew up next to one another and played football together. Or something like that. I can't recall the details. But they are buddies for sure.”

  “Good to know,” I said. I held up the bag. “Thank you very much for this, Sophia. I appreciate it.”

  “Enjoy,” she said. “And let me know if you need anything else. I do consultations, if you’re interested. Personal styling sessions.” She looked me over. “For homes and for wardrobes.”

  I didn’t know whether to be offended or not by her statement, so I just nodded and stepped back outside.

  Sophia Rey had given me more than I'd counted on. Not only did I now have the perfect lamp for my guest bedroom and a new feeling of self-consciousness over my appearance, but I also had to wonder about Sheriff Lewis's connection to Len Konrath. Did his attempt to turn the tables on me have anything to do with the fact that I'd bought his best friend's farm, a farm he hadn't apparently wanted to sell? Was he trying to scare me? Run me off? Or did he have another reason?

  As I walked back to my car, I wondered for the hundredth time what I'd gotten myself into.

  TWENTY FOUR

  I drove home from town and before I could let myself get bogged down in the details of what I'd learned from Sophia, I went upstairs and plugged my new lamp in.

  There was something comforting in seeing the soft glow of the lamp nestled on top of the nightstand. Even though it was afternoon, sunlight streaming through the windows, the light from the lamp was a soothing sight, like a beacon welcoming me home. The room still needed a few touches—those candles and artwork for the walls I’d thought of earlier—but it felt warm an
d homey, and I suddenly wanted someone to come and visit and stay with me. I knew that I still had plenty to do both inside and out of the house, but there was satisfaction in seeing this room done and ready for visitors. After all of the garbage I'd been sifting through over the previous few days, it was nice to feel like things were moving in the right direction.

  I went downstairs and put all of my groceries away. That, too, felt like progress. I liked seeing food on the shelves and in the fridge. It gave me a sense of normalcy that I hadn't felt in a long while.

  I was staring into the fridge, trying to decide what I wanted for my first home-cooked meal, when the doorbell rang.

  Declan Murphy was on the other side, his hands clasped behind his back, a friendly smile on his face. “Hello, Rainy.”

  “Declan, how are you?” I asked, even though it felt as if I'd just seen him.

  “I'm good. I was just driving by and thought I'd ask the same of you,” he said. “How are you?”

  I waved him in and closed the door behind him. “I got a bedroom done.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I pointed at the stairs. “The guest room. I unpacked it and set it up and found a lamp in town to complete the room. So, one more room down and a whole lot more to go.”

  He smiled. “Excellent.”

  “I also finally got some groceries,” I said.

  “I’m glad to hear that.” He held out a small white bakery box. “I brought these, just in case you hadn’t managed to get there yet.”

  I took the box. “What’s inside?”

  “Snickerdoodles.”

  “Another one of Ethel’s recipes?” I asked.

  He blushed a little. “No. Mine.”

  I opened the box and a blast of cinnamon wafted through the air, and I was reminded that my food consumption for the day consisted of a granola bar hastily eaten before rushing into Sophia’s store.

  I grabbed one and bit into it. “These are heavenly.”

  His cheeks were flaming now. “My grandmother’s recipe.”