Bought The Farm (A Rainy Day Mystery Book 1)

by Jeff Shelby

  As I moved west, in the direction of the sinking sun, it occurred to me that I hadn’t walked the entire property since I'd moved in. I'd stayed mainly near the house, tending to boxes and burning bungalows. But I'd purchased a lot more than just the house.

  The pastures surrounding the house and lining the driveway were a mix of clover and grasses, all in desperate need of a good trim. Bumblebees buzzed the clover and the tiny purple wildflowers that sprouted a little taller. Crickets chirped and a fly buzzed near my head as I walked down the drive, the gravel crunching beneath my feet. A squirrel scampered up a tree, its bushy tail swishing back and forth as it turned to study me before launching up to a higher branch.

  It was still hard for me to get my head around the fact that this was all mine. I'd only owned homes before, never property. A house, a front yard, a backyard. Always less than an acre. And with the row house I’d moved from, there hadn’t been a yard at all. I’d had shrubs out front that a landscaper had taken care of, and a brick paver patio just large enough for a small table and a grill. Now, I had multiple acres, and it felt like I'd bought a park.

  Or a farm.

  I smiled. I had bought a farm.

  I could picture cows grazing in the pasture, their soft brown eyes glazed over as they munched mouthfuls of grass. Maybe a horse or two, black horses like the ones I’d longed for as a little girl after reading The Black Stallion and Black Beauty. It really was like being a kid again, playing with plastic animals and fences and buildings, arranging and rearranging the pieces until they made sense. Only I had the opportunity to do it for real.

  I walked past the barn, just off to my left, its big doors bolted shut and then past the guesthouse on my right, resisting the urge to peek inside either of them. I hadn’t touched it since moving in, knowing I didn’t have furniture to put inside of it. That would be a project for a later date. With two unmarried kids and no grandchildren to speak of, I knew I wouldn’t be needing it any time soon. I purposely avoided looking at the spot where the bungalow had once stood, focusing instead on the pond just visible in the distance. I headed toward it, ignoring the gnats that swarmed as I approached the water’s edge. The water was clear, cattails and reeds of grass blowing in the slight breeze. The boathouse was just to my left, down a narrow dirt path. It was another building I hadn’t explored, one I knew I wouldn’t be needing any time soon.

  After an hour of walking, my head was clear, I felt energized, and the stress that had invaded my body was gone.

  Until I saw Gunnar Forsythe sitting on my front porch.

  He was on the top step, his elbows on his knees, looking down at the steps. He had on jeans and a red long-sleeve shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. One of his work boots was tapping a steady rhythm against the steps.

  “Are you lost?” I asked.

  He looked up, surprised by my voice. “Oh. Hi.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I was hoping we could talk for a second.”

  I shook my head. “Not interested,” I told him. “I did my talking already.”

  He pushed himself off the steps and ambled down from the porch.

  I did my best to not notice how good-looking he was.

  He came up to me and shoved his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “I came over to apologize.”

  “Not necessary and not interested.”

  “It is necessary and I don't care if you're not interested,” he said, frowning. “I'm going to apologize anyway.”

  “I've got things to do,” I said, walking past him. “Save your breath.”

  “Rainy, would you just hold on for one damn second?” he said. “Please?”

  The ‘please’ did me in. Because he said it with such sincerity, such conviction.

  I went up the steps to the front door and turned around. He'd pivoted with me and was looking at me.

  I stared at him. “You’ve got thirty seconds,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.

  He nodded, the frown lessening a bit. “Fine. I am sorry for not telling you I was the one who’d put the offer in. It was a bad move on my part.”

  I raised my eyebrows. That felt like the understatement of the year. “You think?”

  “I…” He sighed and thrust his hands deeper into his pockets. “I just didn’t want things to be weird between us.”

  “Weird? So you thought lying to me was a better move than telling me the truth? How is that less weird than you telling me you’d put an offer in on my place?”

  “It was a bad move,” he said again. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t want that to be between us. I didn’t want you to think I had some ulterior motive in coming over. In being your friend.”

  “Friends don’t lie to each other.”

  “True,” he admitted. “But I didn’t think it would ever come up. I made Len an offer the day the place came on the market and he refused. Didn’t take long for his answer to come back. So as far as I was concerned, it was a done deal. He refused and I moved on. I wasn’t going to mention it to you because it didn’t matter.” He pulled a hand free and ran it through his hair. “And then when you asked…I don’t know. It just felt like a weird thing to mention, especially because you seemed kind of freaked out by it.”

  “Well, I was even more freaked out when I found out it was you.” His thirty seconds were up, but I wasn’t putting an end to the conversation. Not yet.

  “I know. I should have told you. I shouldn’t have danced around your question. I never denied it was me, but I didn’t tell you the truth, either. And for that, I’m sorry.” He took a deep breath, then slowly expelled it. “Will you forgive me?”

  I thought back to the conversation we’d had while Mary inspected my burned-down building. He was right: he’d never told me outright that it hadn’t been him. He’d answered my questions with questions of his own and then, when I’d asked him if he knew about the offer, he’d said it was a prime piece of property that lots of people were interested in.

  It didn’t absolve him completely, but maybe I was being a little too harsh.

  I stole a glance at him. Both hands were back in his pockets and his hazel eyes were locked on me, a hopeful expression on his face. He was looking for forgiveness. Asking for it.

  I sighed.

  I was pretty sure I was going to give it to him.

  TWENTY EIGHT

  Gunnar left with promises to set up a chicken coop for me sometime in the next few days. Since we’d never gotten around to taking care of that the last time he’d brought his old coop around, it seemed like a good peace offering. A fresh start after the messiness of the last couple of days.

  So the next morning, after a breakfast of yogurt and granola, I decided to head into town early so I’d be available for when he brought the coop by, whenever that might be.

  My only stop for the day was The Bank of Latney.

  Trudy greeted me by name as soon as I walked through the double doors. Considering no one at my bank in Arlington had ever learned my name after banking there for close to three decades, this came as a bit of a surprise. But then I remembered. Small town. Everyone knows everyone. And everyone knows everyone’s business.

  “How are you, dear?” she asked, concern etched across her wrinkled forehead.

  “I’m fine. And you?”

  “I mean the fire,” she said, lowering her voice. “I was so sorry to hear about that.”

  “Oh, that.” I nodded. “Yes, it was quite the surprise to come home to.”

  “Do they have any ideas what might have caused it?” She narrowed her eyes. “You weren’t burning trash out there, were you? There’s an ordinance against that.”

  “Burning trash? I have trash pick up every Tuesday…”

  She nodded. “Well, sure, but lots of people do illegal burning.”

  “They do?”

  She glanced around. “Indeed,” she whispered. “Sheriff Lewis doesn’t take too kindly to that. Not with all the open land around here. W
hy, last time a trash burn got out of control, it nearly wiped out the town. Burned thirty acres or so before Gunnar and the rest of the firefighters got it under control.”

  I filed that little bit of information away. “Good to know,” I said. “But, no, I wasn’t burning trash. I wasn’t burning anything.”

  “Hmm,” she said, tapping her pen against the desk she was sitting behind. “Well, I wonder how it got started, then.”

  “You and me both.” I smiled. “Listen, I’m actually here to see Walter.”

  “Oh?” She raised her eyebrows. “But you just saw him a couple of days ago.”

  I didn’t know there was a limit to the number of times a person could see their banker. “Well, yes, but I had some questions for him.”

  She waited for me to elaborate, which I refused to do. Instead, I simply smiled wider and waited.

  She pressed her lips together, clearly disappointed that I wasn’t going to provide fodder for her to gossip about. “Well, I’ll see if he’s available, dear. You just sit tight.” She picked up the phone and pressed a few buttons. “Mr. Rey, Ms. Rainy Day is here to see you. She wouldn’t say why.”

  I frowned. The way she said it made it sound like I was upset about something.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll let her know.” She hung up and returned her gaze to me. “He’ll be down momentarily. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Not a coffee drinker? Don’t like tea?” she pressed.

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I thought about lying and telling her I was deathly allergic to caffeine. I was sure that little tidbit would make the rounds through town before I stepped out of the building.

  “I’m just not thirsty,” I said instead, taking the high road.

  Walter Rey appeared a minute later, his polished loafers soundless on the tile floor. His hair was gelled down, perfectly parted, his red tie knotted expertly at the base of his throat. He shook my hand and the spicy scent of his aftershave washed over me.

  “Ms. Day,” he said, smiling. “What a nice surprise.”

  “Rainy,” I said. “Thank you for seeing me. I’m hoping you can help me with some account stuff.”

  He quirked an eyebrow, still smiling. “Account ‘stuff?’ Why, certainly. I’m an expert at account stuff.”

  I followed him to his office, my sandals clicking rhythmically behind him, and sank into the same chair I’d sat in only days before. He sat across from me, his leather chair squeaking as he adjusted his tall frame.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, I’d like to move some more money into my accounts. Both checking and savings.”

  He beamed. “Wonderful. I assume from your existing bank in Arlington?”

  I nodded.

  “A wise decision,” he said as his fingers glided across his keyboard. “How much are we looking at transferring?”

  “Two hundred thousand dollars.”

  His fingers stilled. “Two hundred thousand?”

  I nodded.

  I hadn’t made the decision lightly. But as I’d sat in the living room the night before, making a list of all the things I wanted to do to the property, I knew I needed money on hand, money that was easily accessible. And yes, with online banking and credit and debit cards, I could have a bank in Switzerland if I wanted and it would be okay. But I was old-fashioned and I wanted to know that my bank—and my money—was really, truly close by. It wasn’t my entire life savings—I’d keep some of it in my Arlington bank—but it was a good chunk of it.

  “Well,” Walter said, adjusting his tie, “we can certainly do that.” He paused. “Is this a time-sensitive transfer?”

  “What?”

  He cleared his throat. “Do you need the money right away? If so, we could do a wire transfer but that will cost—”

  “No, I don’t need it right away,” I said, shaking my head. “Within the next couple of days is fine.”

  He nodded. “An ACH transfer can accomplish this. We’ll just need your routing number and checking account number.” He paused again. “And I assume you have that amount in your Arlington account…?”

  I frowned. “Why would I be trying to transfer it if I didn’t?”

  “Of course, of course,” he said. “Now, like I said, the money won’t be available right away. Unfortunately, we’ll have to put a hold on the funds until your old bank clears the transaction.”

  “I’m clearing the transaction,” I said. “Isn’t that enough?”

  “It’s just for protection,” he explained. “Yours, really, against fraud. If someone illegally accesses your account and transfers money, the bank you’re pulling from has the ability to reverse the transaction.”

  “Okay,” I said, still bewildered. “But I really am pulling the money. And I’m the owner.”

  “Of course,” Walter said, smiling. “It’s just the way things work.”

  My bewilderment morphed into irritation. I just wanted my money, period.

  “So,” he said as he thumbed through a sheaf of papers. He pulled one out and handed it to me. It was a form to fill out, authorizing the transfer. “I heard about the fire.”

  “What a surprise,” I muttered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing,” I said. I opened my purse and dug out my checkbook. “Yes, there was a fire. Burned a building to the ground.”

  He nodded. “That’s a shame. Are you transferring money to rebuild? We have some excellent home improvement loans here at the bank, if you choose to go that route.”

  “I’m not really sure what I’m going to do.” I wasn’t about to tell him that my insurance company had denied my claim.

  “Fair enough,” he said. He pushed at his glasses, readjusting them. “I understand you spoke with Len the other day, too. Did he have any information about the building or what might have caused the fire?”

  I stopped writing mid-sentence. It was an odd question. I wasn’t surprised that he knew I’d talked to Len Konrath—nothing surprised me about the meddling, nosy townsfolk of Latney—but why on earth would he think we discussed the fire and its potential cause?

  “Not really,” I said truthfully. “He mentioned he did the wiring in the building but that he had a permit and that someone had helped him. Chuck someone.”

  “Windegard,” Walter supplied helpfully. “He was a client here.” I was pretty sure most of the townspeople were, considering it was the only bank in town. “Fell over dead of a heart attack a few years back. Sad.”

  At least I had confirmation Len hadn’t been lying about that. And then, because Walter was proving to be rather helpful and talkative, I decided to let another detail slip.

  “He mentioned something about an uncle, too. Willie, I think?”

  Walter glanced up. “Willie Konrath?”

  I nodded.

  “Len mentioned his uncle Willie?”

  I nodded, suddenly uneasy.

  Walter let out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be gol-darned.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Len hasn’t breathed a word of that man in years.” He squinted at me from behind his glasses. “You sure he brought up Willie?”

  I squirmed in my seat. I had a sinking suspicion that I was going to get caught in my lie. So I avoided answering the question. If Gunnar could do it, so could I.

  “Did they not get along?” I asked.

  Walter chortled. “Not get along? You could say that again.”

  “I had no idea…”

  Walter leaned across the desk, as though he was about to share a secret. “There was always bad blood between those two. At least that’s the story. Rumor has it they had some sort of falling out. Over a woman.”

  “Wasn’t Willie Len’s uncle?”

  “Yes, but they weren’t far apart in age. Len’s own brother was quite a bit older than Willie—think those two were only five or six years apart in age. I’d have to ask Trudy. She would know.”

 
“That’s okay,” I said quickly. The less people who knew I’d been snooping, the better. I scrawled the remaining information on the form and slid it across the desk. “I think this is everything you need.”

  “Poor Len,” Walter said as he picked up the paper. “Just a series of mishaps for that man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Trouble has followed him around like a storm cloud for as long as I can remember. Female troubles. Family troubles. Money troubles.”

  I thought about what Davis Konrath had told me in the restaurant, that his father had needed to sell the farm. And just like that, the guilt settled back in. But then I thought about the bones on my property, the bones that were apparently being considered a homicide. Willie Konrath’s bones. The anger boiled back up.

  I was a mess. I needed answers.

  I glanced at Walter Rey.

  He might have the answers I wanted.

  But I wasn’t sure I wanted to deal with the consequences that came with asking him—or any other town person, for that matter.

  TWENTY NINE

  I didn’t ask Walter Rey any more questions. It felt like I’d already dug a deep enough hole by asking about Uncle Willie.

  But the hole got deeper the moment I stepped out of the bank.

  Sheriff Lewis was leaning against the hood of his squad car, toying with his pipe. He nodded at me and then, with some effort, pushed himself into a more upright position and headed my direction.

  He tipped his hat with his free hand, a gesture I was unfortunately becoming accustomed to. “Morning, Ms. Day.”

  “Sheriff,” I said coolly. After his veiled accusations and learning of his connection to the Konrath family, he wasn’t exactly my favorite person.

  He popped his pipe back into his shirt pocket, and I wondered if he ever actually lit it or if it was just something for him to hold.

  “How are you this fine April morning?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  He chuckled. “Just like the morning. Fine is a mighty fine word, isn’t it?”