Killer Jam (A Dewberry Farm Mystery)

by Karen MacInerney

  “Thanks,” I said, following her back to the kitchen, which featured mustard countertops and bright green cabinets. For some reason, although the finishes were obviously dated, the effect was homey and comfortable. I looked around; it really did feel more like a house than an office.

  “Sugar and lemon?”

  “Just plain,” I said. I took the glass and followed her out to the back patio, where we perched on metal chairs at a small, bistro-style table. The view was lovely; the backyard had been fenced, and Carolina jessamine trailed over the wooden slats. Pansies and nasturtiums bloomed in pots around the patio, and although they were nearing the end of their growing season, they still looked like bright jewels. A mountain laurel perfumed the air with its grape Kool-Aid scented blossoms, and I could hear the bees buzzing as they gathered nectar. Were they from Nancy Shaw’s hives? I wondered.

  “Beautiful yard,” I said to Mandy. “You must like to garden.”

  She was seated across from me and had carried a pen and a notepad with her, I noticed. “I do. I love being able to work outside,” she said, crossing her jean-clad legs. Evidently the Zephyr wasn’t big on formal business attire. Mandy looked very comfortable in a button-down red blouse, a white camisole, and form-fitting blue jeans. She must work out, I thought, conscious of the few extra pounds I’d gained since moving to Buttercup. As much time as I spent working around the farm, it wasn’t enough to counteract Quinn’s generosity with the maple twists and homemade bread.

  “Isn’t it just lovely out here?” Mandy asked. “It won’t last, but the flowers are always so beautiful—and fragrant.”

  “They are,” I said. “I love all the pinks and blues and purples this time of year. It tends to all turn to yellows and oranges when it heats up, doesn’t it?”

  She nodded and turned her gaze from the mountain laurel to me, an appraising look behind her pleasant smile. “How are you finding Buttercup? A little different from Houston, I imagine.”

  “It’s a nice change,” I said. “I fell in love with the town when I was a girl visiting my grandmother, and I still feel the same way.”

  “Do you?” she asked. She paused. “I understand Rooster Kocurek questioned you yesterday regarding Nettie Kocurek.”

  “He did,” I said guardedly.

  She picked up the pen and turned to a fresh page in her notepad. “Mind if I ask you a few questions about that?”

  “I’d really rather you didn’t, to be honest.”

  “Are you a suspect, then?”

  “No,” I said, too quickly.

  “A person of interest, at least?”

  “If so, he didn’t tell me. I’m afraid you’ll have to take that up with Sheriff Kocurek. I know as much about her death as you do.” I took a sip of my tea and leaned back in my chair, determined not to let her throw me. The last thing I needed was an article in the paper about how Mandy had interviewed the prime suspect in the death of Nettie Kocurek. In fact, I was surprised she hadn’t started grilling me already; it seemed small-town reporters were nicer than their city colleagues. Perhaps dropping by the office of the local paper hadn’t been such a good idea, I realized belatedly.

  “I understand you found a few bits of evidence the sheriff overlooked.”

  “Like I said, I don’t think I should talk about that. It might interfere with the investigation.”

  “So you did find something.”

  “You’ll have to talk with Sheriff Kocurek about that.” I leaned forward, anxious to change the subject. “Opal Gruber says you’ve got copies of the Zephyr all the way back to when the paper started.”

  “We do,” she said. “Up in the attic. Why?”

  “I found an old newspaper in the barn,” I said. “It had to do with the death of a man named Mueller. It seemed like a funny coincidence, what with the Muellers and the Kocureks being rivals, and I wanted to find out more about it.”

  “You know, I remember hearing about that,” she said, distracted from the more recent murder—at least for the time being. “People talked about it for years. Down by the railroad tracks in Gruenwald, wasn’t it?”

  “It was in 1940,” I said, and took a sip of my tea. A blue jay alighted on a small bird feeder dangling from the mountain laurel, then noticed us and flew off in a hurry.

  “Do you think the two deaths might be connected?” Mandy asked, and I could see the curiosity sparking in her eyes. Good. If she linked the crime back to one that had happened more than half a century ago, maybe she’d think about finding someone else to suspect.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It just seemed like an odd coincidence.” I didn’t tell her about the eerie breeze that had blown it down out of the hayloft.

  “Lots of history at Dewberry Farm,” Mandy said. “Some folks even say it’s haunted.”

  I swallowed. “Haunted? What do you mean?”

  “After Nettie bought the place from your grandmother, she moved her sister, Berta, into it. She didn’t last two nights.”

  “What happened?”

  “She said there were all kinds of noises—and that she didn’t feel welcome. In fact, she told Nettie that somebody kicked her out of bed one night.”

  I almost choked on my tea. “You’re kidding me. Really?”

  “Really.” Mandy’s voice was animated. Now that she wasn’t interrogating me, she was warming up to me. “It was very exciting at the time; the grapevine was very active.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said.

  “She ended up in a home with a serious case of dementia not long after that, though, so I wouldn’t put much stock in it. I wondered if there wasn’t something to it at the time, but in retrospect, I’m just guessing she didn’t want to live there.” She looked at me with dark eyes. “Still, rumors do fly—Nettie couldn’t find anyone to buy the place after that.” She jiggled the ice cubes in her tea, then slid her eyes up to me. “You haven’t had any paranormal experiences, have you?”

  “No,” I said quickly. I wasn’t comfortable talking about the newspaper and the hayloft, which was probably just coincidence. “I sometimes think I can feel my grandmother there, though,” I amended. “I get a warm, comforting feeling, and I can almost smell the lavender she used to wear.” I shrugged. “Although it could just be the good memories I have associated with the place.”

  “She seemed to be a wonderful woman, from the little I knew of her. But your grandmother couldn’t have been the ghost—she was still alive when Berta moved in.”

  “Maybe Grandpa Vogel kicked her out of bed,” I said, half jokingly.

  She laughed, tipping her head back. “Wouldn’t surprise me. He didn’t like the Bacas—or the Kocureks—much, that’s for sure.”

  “No?” I asked. “I know he and Nettie had some problems, but what was his issue with the rest of the family?”

  “I think your grandfather thought they were destroying the fabric of the town. He didn’t like the way the Bacas had pushed the Muellers out of the cotton business. And the Kocureks charged crazy rent to anyone they didn’t like. Almost chased my parents’ restaurant out of town, until my dad bought his own building out on Pecan Street.”

  “You mean Rosita’s?” I asked.

  She smiled. “Yup. I grew up in that restaurant. When they first opened, it was hard to get business—they didn’t serve Czech or German food—but once people tasted my mother’s enchiladas suizas, they couldn’t get enough of them. And when my father got a liquor license and started selling margaritas . . . ” She grinned. “Always a line for a table. They come all the way from La Grange for his frozen strawberry ’ritas.”

  “Why didn’t Nettie like your parents?” I asked.

  Mandy gave me a crooked grin. “Maybe because they don’t serve kolaches.”

  For such an unassuming-looking old lady, I thought, Nettie Kocurek had been pretty darned nasty. “Who else did she raise the rents on?” I asked. “Maybe that’s something Sheriff Kocurek should be looking into.”

  “He won’t listen to s
uggestions,” she said, “but I could always ask around. It’s been a while since I’ve had a chance to do any investigative reporting.”

  “Where were you before you came to the Zephyr?” I asked.

  “I worked for the Dallas Morning News,” she said. “I did the crime beat for two years before I couldn’t handle it anymore, and moved on to covering local politics. When the job came up at the Zephyr, I took it.” She shrugged. “My parents aren’t getting any younger. They’ll need someone here to look after them.”

  “They’re lucky to have you,” I said.

  “I’m lucky to have them,” she said, then took a last swig of her tea and stood up. “Well, I hate to run, but I’ve got some phone calls to make. It was nice to meet you, Lucy.”

  “You too, Mandy,” I said. “Before I leave, though, mind if I take a look through the archives?”

  Mandy glanced at her watch. “I don’t have time to dig right now, but can you come back tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Sure,” I said. “How about two o’clock?”

  “I’ll put it on my calendar,” she said, tapping on her iPhone.

  “Thanks. And if you need any freelance work done, please keep me in mind.”

  She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then smiled. “I will.”

  Blossom was still in the pasture when I got home in midafternoon, loaded down with a bag of groceries along with another fresh loaf of Quinn’s bread and a small box of maple twists, half of which I’d already eaten. To my relief, the thumper truck wasn’t back in my driveway—and the sheriff’s car wasn’t, either.

  Chuck came trotting out of the bedroom as I tossed the ground beef I’d gotten on sale into the freezer and lined up a few pale tomatoes on the windowsill. I stowed the maple twists in a basket at the end of the counter, then cut two thin slices of the bread and layered on some of the turkey I’d bought that afternoon at the store. I was able to use lettuce from the garden behind the house, but the tomatoes were nowhere near ripe. I hated spending money on groceries, but I didn’t want to live on eggs, milk, and lettuce alone.

  It seemed counterintuitive for a farmer to buy meat at the grocery store, but all the books on homesteading I’d read advised me to start slow, so I’d winnowed my beginning farm down to a few varieties of vegetables, some chickens, and a cow, supplemented by home crafts such as jam making, candles, and soap. I made a mental note to stop by and ask Peter Swenson about raising goats; they seemed to do well without a lot of upkeep.

  Although I’d planned my budget carefully and still had a nice nest egg in the bank, the unexpected expenditures I’d had the last week—attorneys, for starters, not to mention buying a new pair of pants for the sheriff—had been unsettling. If the last several days were an indicator of things to come, I needed to find more ways to bring cash in the door if I had any hope of making a go of the farm.

  I could always make more of my candles—they were always popular—and soon, the next crop of lettuce would be ready for the market. But the dewberries wouldn’t last forever, and I needed to make sure the peaches didn’t fall prey to some disease or pest.

  I spread some mayonnaise on my sandwich, grabbed a handful of dewberries from the blue bowl in the refrigerator, and settled myself at my grandmother’s table, Chuck stationed optimistically at my feet. A part-time job would certainly take some of the pressure off, at least until I could get the cheese-making part of the enterprise together. I had enough acreage for two cows, according to my research, assuming we didn’t have a major drought. Should I plan to get another? I could count on twelve ounces of cheese per gallon of milk, evidently, which was just over two pounds a day. If I managed to sell it for $8 a pound, that was maybe $200 per week—$400 with a second cow.

  Which would cover about two hours of attorneys’ fees.

  It would be a good idea to pick up a bit of freelancing work, I thought as I bit into my sandwich. I knew from my research that many homesteaders supplemented their small farm income with outside work. Unfortunately, the look on Mandy Vargas’s face told me that wasn’t going to happen until my name was cleared in the case of Nettie Kocurek.

  I finished my sandwich, tossing a scrap of turkey to Chuck, and made a plan for the rest of the day as I washed the plate and put it in the dish drainer. I didn’t have a part-time job at the moment, but I could pick dewberries and make another batch of my (now silver-medalist) dewberry jam. I could also make a few more pounds of cheese from the milk that had been collecting in the refrigerator—plus, it was time to water and weed the gardens. If I was feeling particularly energetic, I could clean out the chicken coop, too. I still had several batches of soap, so soap making could wait, but it wouldn’t hurt to whip up some more candles. I’d also seen a recipe for natural beeswax lip balm I’d wanted to try; if I liked it, I could sell it alongside the soaps and candles.

  Feeling more optimistic now that I had a plan, I grabbed the tin bucket I kept by the back door, slipped on my boots, and headed outside to the garden, Chuck waddling behind me.

  I checked the lettuce and arugula for aphids—none so far, thankfully—and set up the sprinklers, thankful that at least it was well water, so I wasn’t racking up a big utility bill. I’d have plenty of beautiful lettuce—red oak leaf, deliciously bitter arugula, green leaf lettuce, and my favorite, “Freckles,” which was pale green with red polka dots—to sell at the next market on Saturday. The larkspur was doing well, too—I should be able to sell bunches for weeks, and the zinnias I’d planted were starting to come up for bouquets later in the summer.

  Should I consider doing one of the Wednesday markets, too? I wondered. Or maybe we could start one here in Buttercup. Another question for Peter the goat farmer, I decided, turning from the lettuce and inspecting the cucumber vines that were poking up out of the soil, looking for any sign of squash bugs, the dreaded orange prehistoric-looking insects that could devastate a cucumber crop in days. I was looking forward to making and selling my grandmother’s half-sour pickle chips. The tomatoes, too, were thriving, growing lush in their metal cages. I surveyed the lines of plants, flourishing in my care, with a feeling of hope and satisfaction. This land had sustained my grandparents. I’d spent years learning how to grow vegetables and take care of chickens.

  I’d make it, wouldn’t I?

  I looked down at Chuck, who was blissfully unaware of the concerns swirling around both me and the farm like a summer storm, and rubbed his head. If I didn’t figure out who had killed Nettie Kocurek, chances were I’d be in jail or dead broke from paying a criminal defense attorney.

  Possibly both.

  I finished my chores and ended the day in the milking parlor, where Blossom produced a healthy two gallons before strolling back out to the pasture. Tobias’s fence fix had held, and she hadn’t gone gallivanting since her trip to town, but I knew from the insolent swish of her tail as she stepped out of the barn that I hadn’t heard the last of Harriet Houdini.

  The scent of my grandmother’s antique roses perfumed the air as I walked back to the farmhouse, the full bucket swinging in my hand. Despite the beauty around me, though, I was preoccupied with the issue of Nettie Kocurek.

  While it was possible that the unsolved murder of Thomas Mueller was related to Nettie’s death, it seemed like a long shot. I still planned to stop by the Zephyr the next afternoon, though.

  I put the milk in the fridge and pulled out the two pints of strawberries I had picked earlier that afternoon from the small patch I’d planted near the fence. I popped one into my mouth and almost groaned with pleasure; unlike the Styrofoam-flavored berries I usually got from the store, these were the perfect mix of sweet and tart. I reached for my grandmother’s cookbook; as if it knew what I wanted, it opened right to Strawberry Custard Pie.

  I smiled, remembering eating a big slice of that sweet-tart, creamy pie on an early summer evening, a mason jar filled with fireflies on the pine table beside me. I scanned the recipe, then set about assembling the ingredients. Eggs and milk were no pr
oblem, that was for sure; I had plenty of strawberries, too. I just needed to whip up a crust, and my grandmother’s kitchen would be filled with the heavenly scent of pie in no time.

  As I measured flour into a bowl, my mind turned back to the problem of Nettie Kocurek’s death. I thought of those closest to her: her daughter, Flora, topped that list. Although she’d evidently lived under her mother’s thumb for half a century, the fact that she was branching out and dating a man her mother considered unsuitable was definitely a mark of burgeoning—if belated—independence. Was it enough for Flora to put her mother out of commission? I wondered. If Mama threatened to change her will, I decided, it might be. If given the choice between her mother and her lover, might Flora have chosen her lover?

  I scooped shortening into a measuring cup and mused on the fact that I knew very little about Roger, other than the fact that Nettie didn’t like him. He was a definite possibility, too. Although he and Flora had been quite obviously attached during the Founders’ Day Festival, could it be that he didn’t want Flora without her substantial inheritance?

  Peter Swenson, too, had evidently had it out with Nettie over something. Was it over her less-than-organic farming practices? If so, would that be worth killing over? It was hard to imagine, but strange things did happen, and I couldn’t afford to discount anything. Nancy Shaw had been unhappy, too; Nettie’s pesticide use had been affecting her livelihood. Had her refusal to stop spraying poison driven Nancy to murder?

  And then there was the Moravian lamb pin Quinn and I had found near where Nettie had been killed. It looked as if it had been ripped from clothing; something a woman defending herself might have done. If so, that seemed to take Peter out of the equation; after all, he was of avowed German heritage, not Czech. Nancy Shaw didn’t sound Czech either, and Roger Brubeck was German through and through; he’d been wearing lederhosen that day, after all. And the pin had only been given out to people attending the Czech church. I remembered Flora wearing a bright red fancy outfit; had she worn a pin on her dress?