Killer Jam (A Dewberry Farm Mystery)

by Karen MacInerney

  But as I walked back to the farmhouse, my breath wheezing in my chest, I knew it wasn’t fine at all.

  It was Rooster Kocurek, of course. He parked right in front of my gate, half-flattening one of my grandmother’s rosebushes.

  I trotted up as he opened the cruiser’s door. “What can I do for you?” I asked, my mouth dry. I could hear Chuck barking from inside the house.

  “I need you to answer a few questions,” he said as he heaved himself out of the car.

  “Sure,” I said, gesturing toward the front porch. “Can I get you a glass of iced tea? It must have been an awful day for you. I’m so sorry about your aunt.” I was babbling, but couldn’t seem to stop myself. “Dr. Brandt is here, too. Are you here about the geraniums?” I asked. “I promise I’ll buy new ones and replant them this week.”

  “I’m not here on account of any flowers,” he said in a slow drawl that was somehow menacing. His hair was red and thinning, and it looked like he’d spent a bit too much time in the sun without a hat; his scalp was an angry red. His eyes were equally angry, in a way that made my stomach feel watery.

  “Oh, you’re here about . . . your aunt, then.” I swallowed. “Well, why don’t you sit down on the porch, and I’ll get you a glass of tea. Unless you’d like a Shiner Bock,” I offered.

  “I’m on duty,” he said.

  “Sorry. Of course. Well, why don’t you pick a rocker and I’ll be right back with a couple glasses of iced tea,” I said, and hurried up the porch steps and into the house, trying to calm Chuck, who was still barking. And growling. And generally not helping things at all.

  “Shh,” I told him as I retrieved a pitcher of tea from the fridge and filled three glasses, adding a sprig of mint to each one. “I’m in trouble enough without you attacking the sheriff.”

  Chuck looked up at me and whined once, then abandoned the barking in favor of growling. I grabbed the glasses and headed for the front door. “Stay,” I told him, then pulled open the screen door and slipped through it.

  Unfortunately, Chuck slipped through after me and, before I could do anything, had firmly attached himself to the sheriff’s polyester pant leg.

  “Chuck!” I plunked the glasses down on the table, then grabbed him by the collar and hauled him backward. Which wasn’t a good move, as it turned out, because he was still attached to Rooster’s leg. There was a horrible ripping sound. When it ended, Rooster’s pant leg had gained a bit of ventilation.

  “Bad dog!” I pried the fabric from Chuck’s mouth and instinctively handed it to Rooster. He looked at it as if I were offering him a wedge of moldy cheese. “I’m so sorry,” I said, withdrawing the scrap of moist polyester. “I’ll pay for replacement pants.”

  “Add it to the bill with the geraniums?” he said. “You sure do have difficulty controllin’ your animals.”

  “It’s been a tough day,” I said.

  He humphed in a way that made me think it was about to get tougher. I herded Chuck into the house and shut the door firmly. Chuck, undeterred, continued to bark and growl as I handed Rooster his tea and gestured toward a rocker.

  “So,” I said. “Must have been quite a shock this afternoon. How is the family taking it?”

  “This here isn’t a social call, Miz Resnick,” he said, but he sat down in the chair anyway. It groaned slightly under his ample frame. “I’m here to get a few things straight.”

  “Did Quinn tell you what we . . . I mean, she found near where the jam tent was?” I asked, sitting down across from him and taking a nervous sip of my tea.

  “Oh. So you were the one put her onto it?”

  “Put her onto it?”

  “Or up to it, more like,” he said, rocking back in his chair. “Which one of you decided to put that Moravian lamb pin there? Tryin’ to cast suspicion elsewhere?”

  “What’s a Moravian lamb?” I asked.

  “You don’t know what a Moravian lamb is, with the Brethren Church just up the road from here?” He narrowed his eyes at me. “I didn’t just fall off the back of a turnip truck, you know.”

  “I don’t know why that lamb was there, or what it means—except that it looks as if it was ripped off of someone’s clothing. I also don’t know why there was a broken jam jar, but I suspect she may have used it to defend herself against her attacker,” I said. “Isn’t it possible you could have it DNA tested? Or at least see if you can get fingerprints from the lamb? Neither of us touched it.”

  “The scene was contaminated,” Rooster said, crossing his arms over his barrel chest. “Could have your heifer’s DNA on it by now.”

  “If you’d searched the area properly and cordoned it off, there wouldn’t have been risk of contamination,” I shot back, then regretted it. I’d reported on a few murder investigations in Houston, but I still wasn’t an expert—and haranguing the sheriff was going to do nothing but make my situation worse.

  “If you’re done prattling on, I’ve got a few questions for you, Miz Resnick.”

  I took a deep breath, feeling the tightness in my lungs, and tried to calm myself down. “Okay,” I said, trying to sound reasonable. “What do you want to know?”

  “What were you doin’ in the jam tent at twelve o’clock?”

  “I don’t believe I was in the jam tent then.”

  “I got a witness says otherwise,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “That information is confidential,” he told me, folding his arms over his ample midsection.

  “I promise you, I was only in there once. In the morning.” I mentally reviewed my day—and cringed inwardly. “Wait. I did go back, for a minute.”

  The sheriff gave a satisfied half smirk. “Happen to forget your skewer?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “I was selling jam and candles, not bratwursts. I was checking to make sure I’d remembered to label the jar.”

  “An hour before the announcement of the winning jam was going to be made?” he said. “Are you sure there wasn’t another reason for you to slip into the tent? Maybe because you saw an opportunity?”

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “Your aunt and I had some issues we needed to resolve, but I did not touch a hair on her head.”

  “Oh, really?” he asked. He fished in his pocket for a plastic baggie. “Recognize this?”

  “It’s a piece of my jam jar,” I said, catching my breath at the sight of the torn handwritten label stained dark with dewberry jam—and blood.

  “Thought so,” he said, and tucked the baggie back into his shirt pocket.

  “Where did you find it?” I asked.

  “It was in my aunt’s hand,” he said, and took a long, slurping sip of tea. Then he held the glass of amber liquid up to the light. “You didn’t poison this, did you?”

  “Poison?” The porch steps creaked as Tobias joined us. “Rooster,” he said, smiling and extending a hand. Rooster stood and hesitated for a moment before extending his own meaty hand, looking suddenly less comfortable. “Good to see you,” Tobias said. “Sorry about your aunt; she was a big part of the community.”

  I took a few deep breaths, feeling the tension ease slightly with the veterinarian’s arrival.

  “Thanks,” Rooster said. “It was a real shocker.”

  “What brings you to Dewberry Farm?”

  “Here on business,” he said.

  “I heard about the geraniums,” Tobias said. “It’s not her fault, though, really. Ed Zapp sold her number eighty-two—remember the one that kept crossing the freeway at lunch hour?”

  “This isn’t about the geraniums.” Rooster’s pink face turned a shade pinker.

  “No?” Tobias raised his eyebrows. “What’s going on, then?”

  “Found part of the label of Ms. Resnick’s jam in my poor aunt’s hand,” Rooster said, pulling the baggie out of his pocket.

  “And you brought it here?” Tobias asked.

  “Wanted her to identify it,” he said.

  “Hmm. Shouldn’t that be on its way to a forensi
c lab?” he asked. “Chain of evidence, and all that?”

  I looked at Tobias, surprised. How did he know about things like “chain of evidence”?

  “I know what I’m doin’,” Rooster said. “We do things different out here in the country.”

  “The law’s the law, Sheriff,” Tobias said. “Besides, your aunt was found in a tent filled with jam jars. That’s why it was the jam tent. Just because the jar in her hand happened to be from Ms. Resnick’s farm doesn’t mean Ms. Resnick was involved.”

  “Maybe she grabbed the closest jar and used it to defend herself,” I suggested.

  “Now you’re making up stories. This here label was definitely on the scene, and it definitely connects you to my aunt’s early demise,” Rooster said, waving the baggie. “I’ll bet we find her prints on it.”

  “I bet you will,” Tobias said. “Since it’s a handmade label.”

  “She was in the tent,” Rooster said.

  “So was the rest of Buttercup.”

  Flummoxed, Sheriff Kocurek stood up. “I have other business to attend to,” he said, putting the glass down so hard it sloshed. “You’ll be wanted at the station for questioning,” he told me, then marched down the porch steps to his car.

  “When?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “Nine o’clock sharp. And don’t forget to bring your checkbook.” He glared at the front door; Chuck was still growling from the other side of it. “You’re lucky that dog’s teeth didn’t touch my skin, or I’d impound it.”

  As he slammed the door shut, a branch from the pecan tree fell, right on the hood of the car. I winced, but it rolled off without leaving a dent. Shooting me a venomous look from behind the steering wheel, he reversed the car with a jerk and gunned the engine, leaving a cloud of dust behind him.

  “I don’t think Dewberry Farm likes him very much,” Tobias said mildly as the cruiser bumped over the cattle guard.

  “I don’t think I do, either,” I said, and took a big sip of iced tea, thankful for the cool liquid on my tight throat. Despite Tobias’s smooth talking, Rooster’s visit had rattled me. First the oil drilling, now a murder in town . . . it had not been a good couple of days.

  Chuck whined behind the door.

  “I think it’s safe to let him out now,” Tobias said.

  “He’d probably appreciate it,” I said, getting up to open the door. Chuck wasted no time waddling over to the veterinarian and plopping down at his feet.

  “Fierce dog you’ve got here,” Tobias said, reaching down to scratch behind Chuck’s ear.

  “I can’t believe he took a piece out of Rooster’s pants,” I said. “He’s never done that before.”

  “Must not like him much.” Tobias took a sip of tea and grinned at me. “Good instinct. How are the carrots going, by the way? He doesn’t look like he’s slimmed down much.”

  “He won’t touch them,” I said. “And his favorite place to sit is in front of the refrigerator.”

  Chuck rolled over on his back while Tobias rubbed his round tummy. He was a completely different dog than he had been when Rooster Kocurek was on the porch.

  “What was that you said about chain of evidence?” I asked, thinking of how quickly Rooster had departed once the veterinarian started asking questions. “How do you know about that?”

  “My father was a cop,” he said, and squinted after Rooster’s cruiser. “I grew up with all that stuff. For a while, I thought I might want to be a police officer.”

  “What made you decide to be a vet instead?”

  “I’ve always loved animals,” he said, stroking Chuck’s pink tummy. The shaved poodle was splayed on the porch; despite the indignities the veterinarian had foisted on him at the office the other week, the dog was putty in his hands. “My dog, a little beagle named Mustard, ran in front of a car when we were playing catch one day. He got checked pretty hard; broke a few ribs, and his leg was snapped in two.”

  I shuddered. “Awful,” I said.

  “I was twelve at the time, and I thought he wouldn’t make it, but we took him to Dr. Grenowich, and he put him back together again. He didn’t even have a limp.”

  “Is that what decided it?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. I wanted to be able to help animals in that way. I spent summers helping him out after that, and by the time I graduated from high school, I knew what I wanted to do.”

  “That must have been great to have a sense of direction so early,” I said. “I didn’t figure out what I wanted until I was in my midtwenties. Took me ten years to make it happen, and I’m still figuring it out.” I glanced at Blossom, who was hovering disturbingly close to the area of the fence the veterinarian had just fixed.

  “Well, I’m glad you figured it out and took over the farm,” Tobias said. “Nice to have a fresh face in town.”

  “Thank you,” I said, feeling a rush of warmth at his words.

  Unfortunately, his next sentence was like a bucket of cold water. “I’m worried about Rooster, though,” he said. “He seems to have it in for you.”

  Despite the warm weather, a chill settled over me as I gazed out at the green, rolling hills, touched with blue and purple from wildflowers and gilded by the setting sun. Knowing how tenuous my place here was made it all the more beautiful. “I noticed that,” I said.

  “It doesn’t make sense; half the town has reason to want to stick Nettie Kocurek with a skewer.” He sighed. “Probably because you’re new in town. He didn’t go to high school with you.”

  I leaned forward in my chair. A warm breeze lifted the hair at the nape of my neck, and I got a whiff of Tobias’s scent. Spicy, and clean. I was enjoying his company very much. “Who else had a bone to pick with Nettie Kocurek?”

  “Lots of folks,” he said. “You should go and talk with Myrtle Crenshaw, down at the library. She knows everything about everyone. She might be able to put you on the right track.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said. “Thanks for the tip.”

  He took another long swig of iced tea and stood up. “I hate to run, but I promised I’d swing by Peter’s place and check on the goats. One of them is so pregnant she looks like she’s going to pop.”

  “Thanks for coming out to help me,” I said, standing up with him. “And for chasing off Rooster Kocurek.”

  He turned his dark eyes on me. “Be careful with him,” he said. “I was thinking, you might want to get a lawyer.”

  “I already have to pay for one to keep the oil drillers off the farm,” I said. “I’m going to have to sell a lot of jam if I’m going to do that and pay the mortgage, too.”

  “I’d get going on the jam, then. You just got here,” he said with a grin that made my heart skip a beat. “I don’t want you to leave just yet.”

  Dinner was a simple one, of fresh cottage cheese spooned over Quinn’s homemade bread, with sugared dewberries for dessert. The creamy cheese was delicious, and it was all I could do not to finish the entire bowl on the spot. I’d definitely be making more tomorrow, I decided—and if I could replicate the results, would have to consider adding it to my market wares. I’d need the money, with all the legal fees I appeared to be racking up.

  I filled Chuck’s bowl half full with Light ‘n’ Lean, not adding extra treats in deference to Dr. Brandt—Tobias, I reminded myself, feeling a little thrill—and headed out to give the kitchen scraps to the chickens and to milk Blossom. Thankfully, the tawny heifer had not yet figured out another escape route, and in fact was grazing not far from the barn.

  Night was falling; all that was left of the sun was a light blue streak on the horizon, and Orion rode in the sky, his belt sparkling in the spreading darkness. The breeze rustled the grass as I called Blossom, who came trotting up to the milking parlor and happily headed into her stall as I fitted the reinforced bucket beneath her. It was almost as if she were apologizing for her jaunt to town, I thought—until she gave the pail a playful nudge that told me she was anything but chastened.

  The rhythm o
f the milk hitting the pail was soothing, and my mind wandered as I milked. Except for my successful foray into the world of cheese making, Tobias had been the only good thing to happen to me the past few days, I thought to myself. I hadn’t dated anyone in years, but I kept thinking of his smile, and his sense of humor. It had been very companionable with him on the front porch.

  But I had bigger things to deal with right now, I thought as I squeezed another jet of warm milk into the pail. Someone had murdered Nettie with a bratwurst skewer, and the local sheriff thought I was the prime suspect.

  Who had done it? I wondered. And why?

  And would her death postpone the arrival of the thumper truck?

  I was squeezing the last bits of milk from the udder when there was a thump from the hayloft above me.

  Goose bumps rose on my arms as I turned to look; Blossom turned, too, letting out a grass-scented burst of warm air from her velvety nostrils.

  “Hello?” I called, remembering too well that there was a murderer in Buttercup, and that except for the heifer, I was alone. She could be heck on milk pails, but I wouldn’t want to bet on her against a skewer-wielding killer.

  A cool breeze raised more goose bumps on my arms as my eyes scanned the dim barn. There was a pile of old hay in the corner, and the bin where I kept Blossom’s food, along with the rusty remains of a few unidentified farm implements, but nothing I could easily pick up and use as a weapon.

  It was probably just a mouse, I told myself. Or one of the neighboring farm cats.

  I finished milking Blossom and let her out of the stall, keeping one eye on the hayloft. After what had happened to Nettie Kocurek, there was no way I was climbing that ladder tonight. I retrieved my pail with shaky hands and released the heifer from the barn. Maybe it was my overactive imagination, but she seemed in a particular hurry to be out of the barn and back in the pasture. She made off toward the stock tank like someone had threatened to brand her.

  I was about to close the barn door when a chilly breeze swept through the barn, wafting an old, yellowed piece of newspaper down from the hayloft. I watched as it spiraled down through the air, coming to rest a few feet in front of me.