I thought of Crystal Kocurek. She was a nice-looking woman, with a nervous habit of twisting her light-brown hair between her fingers when you talked to her. She did wear a lot of makeup. I had always attributed it to personal taste, but now I wondered if she might have a different motive. Had she used it to cover the signs of abuse? I hadn’t noticed any bruises, but we’d only met a few times—and besides, I didn’t know what to look for. But Quinn had spent three years married to an abusive spouse. If anyone knew the signs, she would.
“Has she ever reported him?” I asked.
Quinn sighed. “Who would she report him to? He’s the sheriff.”
“That’s awful,” I said. “We should do something about it!”
“I’ve tried to talk to her, but she doesn’t want to hear it,” Quinn said, adding a teaspoon of maple extract to the bowl. “She won’t even come here for lunch anymore.”
“How does a man like Rooster end up in that kind of position?” I asked.
“Family connections,” she said, adding a dab of butter and turning on the beaters. “Nepotism.”
“No wonder Chuck went after his pants. The pecan tree by the driveway dropped a limb on his car, too. It’s almost like the farm doesn’t like him.”
“Your grandmother never liked Rooster, either.”
“Was it because he was Nettie’s nephew?”
“No,” she said. “There were a few issues up at the farm—someone was messing with her chickens. Turns out it was Rooster and a couple of his buddies.”
“What did she do?”
“Fired a few rounds from a shotgun in the air next time she caught them.” Quinn grinned. “They never came back.”
“I’ll bet not,” I said, trying to imagine my grandmother with a shotgun in her hands. I’d grown up with a kind, generous woman who was a whiz in the kitchen and kept everything on the farm humming, seemingly without effort. It was hard to imagine her with a shotgun, but she was nothing if not practical. I imagined if that was the only way she could come up with to keep kids from messing with her chickens, she’d do it.
“I’d watch your back, if I were you.”
“Thanks,” I said, thinking I did need to stop by the station with a check. I just hoped Rooster would let me leave again. “On the plus side, the attorney told me they can’t drill on my land until Nettie’s will is probated.”
“Think Flora will go forward with it now that her mama’s gone?” Quinn asked. A timer buzzed; she turned it off and pulled a tray of fragrant, golden-brown twists out of the oven. My mouth watered, but I knew it was best to wait until she’d glazed them.
“You’d know better than me,” I said. “How’s she taking it?” I asked, still staring at the tray of golden pastry. It was no wonder people came from as far as La Grange to sample Quinn’s wares.
“Hasn’t left the house, from what I hear.”
I looked up sharply. “Guilt, or grief?”
“Could be both,” she said. “She’s been under her mama’s thumb for so long it may be she doesn’t know how to get out the front door.”
“How’d she ever end up with a boyfriend, then?”
“Flora’s been sweet on Roger since high school. She saw him in town after church one Sunday when her mother wasn’t well. He asked her to dinner, and it just kind of went from there.”
“Does she go to the Brethren Church?” I asked. The local folks of Moravian—that is, Czech—descent attended the hundred-plus-year-old church at the corner of Kramer Lane and Giddings Road. Since Dewberry Farm was on Kramer Lane, I passed the small, white wooden building with its short steeple every time I came into town. I’d seen Nettie’s enormous Cadillac there more than once.
“That’s the one,” Quinn said, turning on the beaters and running a spatula around the bowl. My mouth watered as the sugar, milk, butter, and maple extract were transformed into a thick creamy glaze.
“And Roger Brubeck’s German, right?”
“His father’s German,” she said, “but his mother’s a Czech. Last name was Zapalac.”
“If he was half Czech, what was Nettie’s problem with him?”
“He’s still German—and a Mueller, besides,” Quinn shrugged. “It was worse during the wars, but there’s still a lot of bad blood in some families.”
I would never understand small-town prejudices, I decided. “Speaking of the Brethren Church, Rooster said something about that lamb pin we found,” I said, tearing my eyes from the glaze Quinn was making. “He suggested I’d planted it to throw suspicion on one of the Brethren.”
“Of course he would.”
“What does the lamb represent?”
“It’s the lamb of God, just like it is in all churches,” Quinn told me.
“So what does it have to do with the Moravians?”
“It’s the particular symbol of the Brethren,” she said. “I think it has something to do with God’s grace.”
I leaned forward. “So whoever killed Nettie was one of the Brethren.”
“If the pin came from the murderer, then it’s likely, yes.”
I thought of the scrap of fabric attached to it. “And he—or she—was wearing red.” I cast my mind back, trying to remember who had been dressed in crimson. Unfortunately, it being Founders’ Day, just about half the town had been in some shade of red. Had I seen that gold pin anywhere?
“Unfortunately, Rooster’s right—there’s no way to know. Lots of people were in and out of that tent.”
“But someone ripped it off of a shirt or a dress. Who would do that if they weren’t defending themselves?”
“True,” she said. “But we can’t prove it.”
I sighed. “I just wish they’d do DNA testing on that jam jar.”
“Not in the budget, Rooster told me.”
“Whoever she hit is likely to have a cut or bruise, though, don’t you think?”
“Yes—but it could be covered by clothes, or if she hit him or her in the head, it might be hidden under hair.”
“You’re a regular ray of sunshine today, Quinn.”
“Sorry,” she said, pulling another tray out of the oven and putting it on a cooling rack. I realized suddenly that she was looking more tired than usual; there were circles under her eyes, and her face was wan.
“You don’t look like yourself this morning. Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Just fine,” she said, but her voice was tight.
“You don’t sound fine.” She said nothing. “Does this have something to do with Jed calling?”
She let out a burst of air. “Yeah. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does.”
“Don’t you have a restraining order against him?”
She nodded. “He’s been calling a lot in the last few weeks. At three in the morning. Drunk.” Her lips tightened into a thin line as she picked up the glaze-filled mixing bowl.
“What does he want?”
She looked at me as if I had asked her what color the sky was. “To apologize, of course. To tell me he’s changed.” She thwacked the bowl onto the counter. “And, of course, to ask for a loan.”
“I thought he was from a wealthy family.”
“Evidently his parents have cut him off. He seems to have a bit of a gambling problem.”
“Liquor, too, if he’s drunk-dialing you. What did you tell him?”
“What do you think? There’s no way I’m giving him five thousand dollars. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. I’m just scraping by as it is.” A shadow passed over her face, and I felt a cold lump form in my stomach.
“He threatened you, didn’t he?”
She turned around quickly—but not so quickly I didn’t see the fear in her eyes. “He told me he needed five thousand dollars,” she said quietly, still turned away from me. “And that if I didn’t lend it to him, he might have to come and take it.”
I shivered. “Quinn, that’s awful. Did you tell Rooster?”
“What good would that do?” She turned around to face me, l
ooking more upset than I’d ever seen her. I could understand why. Jed Stadtler was six foot two, with the physique of a linebacker and the temper of a two-year-old. He’d put Quinn in the hospital twice, and had abused her badly enough that even his family’s high-paid attorneys couldn’t keep Quinn from getting a restraining order. “Rooster’s still got a grudge from high school. Besides, it’s not like Buttercup’s got enough cops they can spare one to guard me every night.”
“Stay with me, then, out at the farm,” I offered. “He won’t know where you are, and Chuck will warn us if he turns up.”
She looked up at me. “What if he comes and destroys the shop?”
“If he wants you to lend him money, why would he threaten your livelihood?”
She snorted. “That implies he’s capable of rational thought.”
“You have insurance if anything happens,” I said, hoping she would take me up on my offer and come stay with me for a few days. I knew what Jed had done to her before, and I hated the thought of it happening again. “Shops can be replaced. You can’t.”
She bit her lip and considered it for a moment, then let out a long sigh. “Thanks for the offer, Lucy, but I don’t want to turn tail just because Jed decided to be a jerk. He’s spent too many years controlling my life already.”
“I understand,” I said. I would hate having to leave my space because someone threatened me physically; it would bother me to hand over that power. On the other hand, I hated the thought of anything happening to my friend even more. If she didn’t tell Rooster what was going on, I definitely would—even if he did think I was a murderer.
“Can I think about it?” she asked.
“My door is always open,” I said. “But no matter what you decide, I’d definitely tell Rooster. If for no other reason than to document that your ex is defying the restraining order.”
“I’ll call him,” she promised, glancing at the back door of the bakery. “I think I may have a dead bolt installed, too.”
I followed her eyes to the back door. Nothing would stop an angry man from shoving his hand through the glass pane of the half-light door and unlocking a dead bolt, but I didn’t say anything.
“So,” she said, turning back to me with a forced smile, “now that that’s settled, do you want one of these maple twists?” She scooped up a spatula of creamy maple glaze and began slathering it onto the tray of pastry.
Everything was far from settled, and both Quinn and I knew it. But I smiled as if nothing was wrong and said, “I thought you’d never ask.”
I was still worried about Quinn when I pulled into a parking space in front of the sheriff’s office a few minutes later. It was only a few blocks from the Blue Onion—I could have walked—but by 11:00 a.m., it was already getting warm. Although Quinn had promised me she’d tell Rooster about Jed’s threat, I wanted to make sure they knew to keep an eye on the bakery.
Besides, I still had to write a check for a new pair of polyester pants.
The station looked more like a house than a sheriff’s office; it was a small white bungalow, its front door painted a cheerful red. The wood door stuck a bit as I pushed it open, and a small bell jingled above my head.
A woman looked up from a big metal desk on which were arrayed a number of photos of children—grandchildren, I was guessing—alongside a bowl of cinnamon apple potpourri that made the station smell disconcertingly like a gift shop. A country singer warbled about his cheating girlfriend from a small radio on the windowsill.
“You must be Lucy Resnick,” the woman said, smiling at me. Her hair was short and professionally styled into a halo of hair-sprayed blonde curls, and large turquoise earrings dangled from her ears. Her thin lips were painted cotton-candy pink. “Your grandma taught me how to play bridge, you know.” She took off her reading glasses and squinted at me. “Aren’t you just cute as a button!”
“Thanks,” I said.
“I’m Opal Gruber,” she said, smiling up at me. “I do my best to keep Rooster in line here at the station. Keep the files organized, answer the phone . . . you know.”
“I’m sure he appreciates the help. Especially with the loss of his aunt. He asked me to come in,” I said, not mentioning that he wanted to question me, although I was sure she already knew.
“He’s out on a call right now, I’m afraid.”
“Tell him I stopped by, please. Is he holding up okay?” I asked.
“Oh, you know Rooster,” she said.
I didn’t, but just smiled and nodded. “Any new developments?”
She seemed to close up a bit. “You’ll have to ask Rooster; he likes to keep that stuff close to the vest, if you know what I mean. Tragedy for him, though.”
“Were they close?”
“They were family,” she said, neatly evading the question. “It’s funny you should turn up here, though. Heard a lot about you this week.”
My stomach did a little flip-flop, but I pasted on what I hoped was a relaxed smile. “Hopefully all about how good my dewberry jam is.”
“Not much about your jam, to be honest, although I understand you took a silver,” she said. “I hear your dog had a run-in with the sheriff’s pants.” She cocked an eyebrow at me.
I held up a checkbook. “That’s part of the reason I’m here,” I said.
“If you want to talk about evidence, your friend Quinn came in and told him all about what you two found down by where the jam tent was.”
“Good,” I said. “Did he go back and pick it up, or send any of it to a lab?”
“He did, but he wasn’t too happy about it,” she said. “Said it was a waste of time, since he wasn’t even sure it was evidence.”
Of course. At least he’d sent it to the lab, I told myself, trying to boost my sinking spirits.
“Anyway,” Opal continued, “you’ll be wanting to know how much a new pair of pants will cost.” She put on her reading glasses and flipped through a notebook on her desk. “Let’s see. I looked it up this morning: forty-two waist—used to be thirty-eights, but he’s been hittin’ the pecan pie a bit hard these past couple of years—khaki polyester. That’ll be forty-eight dollars and fifty-three cents,” she said, looking up at me over the rims of her glasses.
I blinked. “Forty-eight dollars? For a pair of polyester pants?”
“He likes a certain style,” she said. “Fits him better in the seat.”
I wrote out the check and handed it to her, trying not to think about the balance of my checking account and reflecting that it might not be a bad idea to stop by the Buttercup Zephyr and ask about a job after all. “Will the sheriff be back after his call?” I asked.
“He has a lunch meeting,” she said. “Should be back in about an hour. Would you like to leave a message for him?”
I considered coming back for the sake of privacy but, based on everything Opal had just told me, decided that was probably pointless. “I just wanted to let him know that Quinn’s had some difficulty with her ex; he’s been asking for money and threatening her, calling at all hours. She’s got a restraining order against him, and he’s violating it.”
Opal’s eyes got big. “I knew she never should have married him. Easy on the eyes, of course, but that temper of his! Runs in the family,” she said. “His daddy was just as bad.”
“I think she wants to keep this quiet,” I said, already regretting that I’d told her.
“Oh, of course!” She mimed locking her mouth and tossing the key over a well-padded shoulder. It was not convincing. “Tell her she needs to come in and file a complaint,” Opal said.
“I hope she will. In the meantime, could you ask Rooster to keep an eye on the bakery?”
“Don’t you worry, sugar,” she said. “Rooster’ll make sure nothing happens to your friend.”
“Thanks for passing it on. I’ll ask Quinn to come down to the station when she gets a minute.”
“You do that.” She tucked the check into a little blue lockbox. “I’ll tell Rooster you dropped by. I
’m sure he’ll be real interested to hear it.”
I’ll bet he would, I thought with a chill of foreboding. I could feel Opal’s eyes on me all the way to the truck.
Before heading back to the farm, I decided to swing by the office of the Zephyr. The offices were lodged in a pink, brick 1950s ranch several blocks from the center of town. In the front yard, a sign advertising The Buttercup Zephyr, est. 1876 swung in the breeze. Although the building was far from picturesque, it was well taken care of, with trailing rosemary flanking the brick walk and pink-blooming hawthorn under the windows. A plastic hummingbird feeder was stuck to one of the windows with suction cups.
Although it was being used as an office, the interior had a homey feel. The entry hall had a coat rack and a table on which recent issues of the Buttercup Zephyr were mixed with Southern Living, Good Housekeeping, and Texas Monthly.
“Hello?” I called, peering into the room to the right of the entry hall—formerly a dining room, I guessed, now an office with a blonde wood corner desk covered in neatly stacked papers.
“Be there in a sec!” a woman called. She appeared a moment later, holding a tall glass of iced tea in one hand and an iPhone in the other. I was surprised to see she was about my age, with black shiny hair cut into a bob. When she spotted me, her pleasant smile flickered for a second, replaced by something else. Curiosity? Or suspicion? “I was wondering when you’d pay us a call,” she said, setting down her iPhone and extending her right hand. “I’m Mandy Vargas, editor of the Zephyr.”
“Lucy Resnick,” I said, shaking her hand. Her skin was cool and dry.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“I wanted to introduce myself,” I said. “And let you know if you’re ever in need of freelance work, I might be able to help out.”
“You worked for the Houston Chronicle, didn’t you?”
“For fifteen years,” I said.
“Took the buyout and got out of Dodge, I hear,” she said. “Can I get you a glass of iced tea? We can sit on the back porch—the roses aren’t in full bloom yet, of course, but it’s still nice out there.”
Killer Jam (A Dewberry Farm Mystery) Page 9