Killer Jam (A Dewberry Farm Mystery)

by Karen MacInerney

  “She’s stayed close to home, thankfully. Those cuts look good, too; thanks for treating them.”

  “I should come by and walk your fence with you sometime soon. Just to be sure.” He glanced over at me, and a rakish grin spread across his face. “That cow’s got a reputation.”

  “Just my luck.” I smiled back at him. “Thanks for the offer of help; that would be great. As long as you let me cook you dinner.”

  “Two dinners in a row? This is my lucky week.” His voice was gravelly in a way that made my heart skip a beat, and I found myself wondering if he was referring to the two home-cooked meals, or two evenings in a row with me.

  “Tomorrow night okay?” I struggled to keep my voice light.

  “Office hours end at six; will that work?”

  “Perfect,” I said, mentally thanking Alfie and Molly for the invitation to dinner tonight—and for the luck that had brought Tobias to their farm. I was worried about the cow, though; as we approached, I could see she was disturbingly still on the ground, her head turned back at an awkward angle. A small brown calf bleated nearby, his cries pitiful. As glad as I was that he was here, I hoped Tobias hadn’t arrived too late.

  “Thanks for coming so quickly,” Alfie said. “She calved two days ago. I think it’s milk fever, but I want to be sure.”

  “Looks like it,” Tobias said, whipping a stethoscope out of his bag and pressing it to her side, then looking at his watch. “Slow heartbeat. How long has she been like this?”

  Alfie shifted from one booted foot to the other, looking worried. “Less than an hour. I saw her and her calf at around four this afternoon. She was a little unsteady on her pins, which is why I came out to check on her.”

  “Staggering a bit?”

  He nodded. “A bit.”

  Tobias looked at the cow’s eyes, then felt her ears. “Looks like you got it right,” he said. “We’ll know in a few minutes, but I’m pretty sure it’s milk fever. Glad you called me when you did.” He put the stethoscope back into his bag and pulled out a syringe and a bottle. She shivered as he injected her, but didn’t change position. Tobias gave her a pat on the side and stood up. “If that’s what it is, she should be up and around in a few minutes. How many other cows have calved or are in calf?”

  Alfie shifted his ever-present lump of snuff from one side of his lip to the other. “Five have calved in the last month or so, and there are another half dozen on the way.”

  “We should probably supplement them just to be sure.” Tobias scanned the other cows in the pasture; they looked normal to me, but then again, I wasn’t a vet. “I don’t have any in the car, but if you’ll swing by the clinic tomorrow, I’ll give you something to add to their feed.”

  Alfie looked down at the cow, which still hadn’t changed position. The calf was still bleating nearby, upset; I had the urge to go and comfort him, but when I took one step toward him, he skittered away nervously.

  “How long until we know?” Alfie asked.

  As if she’d heard him, the cow suddenly lurched to her feet, looking a little surprised at the audience.

  “Looks like we pegged it.” Tobias watched as she took a few careful steps toward her calf and nuzzled its head. Then he turned back to Alfie. “Start in on those supplements and keep an eye on her—and the rest of them. Call as soon as you see anything—even a bit of staggering.”

  “Should I be supplementing Blossom, too?” I asked.

  Tobias turned to me. “Not unless she’s in calf. Speaking of which, have you thought about that?”

  “Not yet,” I said. I knew I had to but was worried about what I’d do if she had a boy calf. Or how I’d manage two Harriet Houdinis if she didn’t. I didn’t have enough pasture for more than a couple of cows; I was hoping that at some point, I could sell extra calves to the Kramers.

  “You can do IVF,” Alfie suggested, adjusting his worn straw cowboy hat, which Molly told me was his “summer hat.” I knew enough to know that IVF was artificial insemination, but I had no idea how to go about doing it.

  “Who would I call?” I asked.

  “George Skalicky is your man,” he said. “But the thing with that is, you have to be able to tell if she’s in heat before you call, which can be hard to do when you’re starting out. If I were you, I’d borrow Brawly.”

  “Who’s Brawly?”

  Alfie pointed to a hulking black mass in the next pasture over. “My bull,” he said, his voice tinged with pride. “He’s a beef/dairy cross. That way you’re covered either way.”

  I looked at Brawly, who was frighteningly large, then turned and watched as the bleating calf ducked under his mother and began pulling at a teat. “I am so out of my depth,” I murmured. Even if I did manage to stay out of jail and keep the Kocureks from erecting an oil well on my farm, the amount I had to learn was daunting.

  “That’s what you’ve got us for,” Alfie said, clapping a hand on my back. “Now, let’s go see if Molly’s got those dumplings ready. I hope you’ll stay for dinner, Tobias.”

  “Absolutely. Molly already invited me.” Tobias zipped up his vet bag and slung it over his shoulder. “I’d be a fool to refuse her chicken and dumplings.”

  Together we headed back to the farmhouse, Tobias on one side of me and Alfie on the other. As we walked, I felt a wave of gratitude for my companions. Despite the worry hanging over my head, the company and support of these two strong, good men gave me hope.

  Dinner was delicious—Molly promised to give me the recipe for her chicken and dumplings, which came with a gravy so scrumptious I considered licking the plate. The strawberry custard pie was a big hit, particularly with the kids, all of whom had seconds. It was a rowdy dinner until Molly shooed everyone upstairs to finish their homework. She grimaced as I cleared the empty pie plate from the table. “Sorry there wasn’t any left over to take home with you.”

  “I wasn’t planning on it,” I said as I carried the plate to the sink. “Besides, I’ll have enough strawberries to make another in a day or two.”

  Tobias brushed by me with two plates in his hand and grinned. “How about tomorrow?”

  “What’s tomorrow?” Molly gave Tobias an inquisitive look.

  “Tobias is coming over to walk my fence with me, so we don’t have any more unplanned cow escapes,” I answered. “I promised to feed him dinner.” I glanced at Tobias, who was returning to the table for more plates. “Hope you like enchiladas.”

  “Like them? They’re my favorite.”

  Molly cast me a speculative glance, which I ignored.

  Alfie was either oblivious or more subtle than his wife. “Blossom been behavin’?”

  I was thankful for the opportunity to change the subject. “She hasn’t gotten out again, if that’s what you mean. And I finally figured out how to keep her from kicking over the milk pail.”

  Alfie laughed. “You’re learnin’ fast. You’ll be an old hand in no time.”

  “Maybe. If I can keep the Kocureks from mucking with the farm long enough to learn.”

  Worry creased Alfie’s forehead. “Any word on that?”

  “It’s on hold until the will is probated, apparently. I’ve got an attorney, but she charges a fortune.”

  Molly, who was sitting down while the rest of us cleaned up, took a sip of her iced tea. “How are things with Rooster?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, feeling my stomach tighten as I opened the dishwasher. “He hasn’t called me, at least. I’m hoping no news is good news.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Tobias said. “He’s not the most professional detective.”

  “I’ve been asking around town,” I said, “trying to figure out who could have done it.”

  “What have you turned up?” Molly asked.

  “Well, Flora and her fiancé are obvious possibilities. But I understand Nettie’s irritated half the town at one point or another.” I took a sip of cold tea and then a deep breath. “I know both Nancy Shaw and Peter Swenson had words with her r
ecently, but have you heard anything else?”

  “Peter?” Alfie blinked. “You think he might have killed Nettie?”

  “I’m not saying that,” I said quickly, regretting my candor. I knew Alfie and Peter were friends. “I’m just finding out who else might have been upset with her.” Someone in Buttercup, after all, had skewered Nettie Kocurek, and I knew it wasn’t me.

  “Hmm,” Molly said. “I know someone was sugaring all their gas tanks.”

  I rinsed a plate and put it into the dishwasher. “I’d heard that. Does Rooster know about it?”

  “I’m sure Nettie told her nephew about it right away,” she said, “but that doesn’t mean he’s connected it to her murder.”

  “If it is connected.” Alfie transferred the remaining chicken and dumplings—which wasn’t much—to a small dish. “Like you said, lots of people were upset with her. Besides, I think someone put sugar into our tractor tank not too long ago, which would mean it wasn’t just directed at Nettie.”

  “What? Is that what was wrong with the tractor?” Molly’s voice was tight.

  “That’s what Fred Sanger thinks.” Fred Sanger was the local mechanic. I hadn’t had to go see him yet, which was evidently a good thing, as I drove a Toyota. From what I’d heard, he viewed purchasers of Japanese cars with suspicion bordering on hostility.

  Molly crossed her arms. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Alfie put a lid on the dish and tucked it into the refrigerator. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “Alfie, that’s not your decision to make! If there’s a threat, I should know about it, don’t you think?”

  “You’re probably right, sweetheart.” He closed the refrigerator door, then walked up behind her and put his big, work-roughened hands on her shoulders.

  Molly reached up and put her smaller hands on his. “Why would someone do a thing like that?”

  Alfie shrugged. “I don’t know. Why would someone stick Nettie Kocurek with a bratwurst skewer?” No one said anything. “Okay, there are lots of reasons someone would stick Nettie Kocurek with a bratwurst skewer. What I meant to say was, sometimes there’s no good explanation for things.”

  “Do you think the kids are safe?” Molly’s round face looked worried. “I mean, if whoever it was was willing to vandalize our farm equipment, what else would they do?”

  Alfie shrugged again. “It was a month ago, and that’s the only thing that’s happened. Besides, it’s happened at multiple farms—not just ours.”

  “Did you tell Rooster?”

  “No. What’s the point?”

  Tobias, who had gotten up to clear the table, set a plate on the counter next to me. “I think he should know. If it’s happening at other farms, he may be able to identify a pattern.”

  Alfie patted Molly on the shoulder again, then reached in his back pocket for his can of Skoal. “I’m not sure Rooster could identify a pattern on a Flying Geese quilt, Tobias.”

  Molly sighed. “I’m afraid he’s right. Rooster’s strongest skill is handing out tickets to out-of-staters on FM 955.”

  Tobias wasn’t swayed. “Tell him, at least, will you? So he can tell his officers to keep an eye out?”

  Alfie tucked a bit of snuff in his lip before answering. “I’ll drop by tomorrow and let him know.”

  “And ask him to keep an eye on the farm and the kids, too.” Molly looked up at her husband. “Promise?”

  “Promise. Now, I’m going to go check on that cow. Just in case.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Tobias rinsed his hands under the faucet as I put the last plate into the dishwasher.

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely,” he said.

  “He’s cute,” Molly said when Alfie and Tobias had closed the door behind them.

  “He is,” I agreed.

  She cocked an eyebrow. “And you’re feeding him dinner tomorrow?”

  I felt my face color. “He’s checking on my fence.”

  “Mmm.” Molly grinned.

  “Oh, stop.” I wiped my hands on a dish towel. “If I end up in jail for murder, it won’t make a difference whether or not I feed him dinner.”

  “Well, I want to see how this budding romance develops, so we’d better get to work figuring out who skewered her.”

  I sighed and sat down across from my friend. “You mentioned a rumor that Flora’s fiancé had someone on the side. Any idea who that might be?”

  “I know Alfie’s seen him flirting with one of the waitresses at Rosita’s. And I do see his truck parked there a lot.” Molly pursed her lips. “On the other hand, it’s the only Mexican restaurant in town.”

  “Whose truck?” Brittany, Molly’s sixteen-year-old daughter, stood at the kitchen doorway. She wore shorts and a Buttercup Bandits T-shirt, and her long brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

  Molly jumped guiltily—I knew she didn’t like the kids to hear her gossip—and when she spoke, her voice was stern. “How’s the homework going?”

  “Done with my math and almost finished with my English paper.” Brittany was on track to be valedictorian of Buttercup High, and sharp as a tack. Not to mention persistent. “Whose truck?”

  Molly sighed. “We’re talking about Roger Brubeck,” she said.

  “Flora Kocurek’s fiancé?” Brittany shook her head. “I wouldn’t marry him.”

  Brittany’s mother pulled the tablecloth off the table and balled it up in her hands. “I should hope not. He’s over fifty, and you’re not even seventeen!”

  Brittany shot her mother a look that clearly translated as “duh.”

  “Not me. I meant Flora.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “My friend Marta works at Rosita’s on the weekends, and she told me he’s down there all the time, hitting on Tammy Beck.”

  “Even since he got engaged to Flora?” Molly asked as she tossed the tablecloth into the laundry room.

  “That’s what she says.”

  “Tammy’s one of the waitresses, isn’t she?” I asked. I remembered her; I’d splurged on a taco salad a few weeks back and had talked with my bubbly server about the upcoming Founders’ Day Festival. I could see why Roger would be interested; she was vivacious, with a pretty face and a curvy figure. She’d mentioned she’d be serving tacos at Rosita’s stand at the festival, but had hinted she preferred Bubba’s barbecue.

  Brittany walked to the fridge and grabbed a Diet Coke. “Yeah. She’s worked there for a few years.”

  “Do you know if she ever went out with him?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Brittany said, “but Marta told me Tammy told her she thought he was kind of cute.” The teenager shuddered as she popped the tab on her soda. “Which I don’t get at all.”

  I had to agree with her. Roger might have been a nice guy, but he wasn’t exactly GQ material. Although if he was two-timing Flora, he might not have been a nice guy, either.

  Brittany fixed me with an innocent blue-eyed stare. “I’ve heard Rooster thinks you did in old Mrs. Kocurek.”

  Molly paled. “Brittany!”

  I held up a hand. “It’s okay.” My voice sounded calm, but I felt as if I’d been doused with ice water. “Who told you that, Brittany?”

  “It’s all around town,” she said. “But not everyone believes it.”

  I swallowed. “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “You should tell them not to gossip,” Molly chided.

  “Yeah, right.” Brittany took a swig of her Diet Coke. “That’s about all there is to do in Buttercup. I can’t wait to get to UT.”

  “First you have to graduate,” Molly called after her as she drifted out of the kitchen. She turned to me and rolled her eyes. “Teenagers.”

  Despite the excellent food and company, I felt my stomach churn as I drove up the long drive to Dewberry Farm that evening. Blossom, thankfully, was waiting by the barn door rather than gallivanting around downtown, and as I stepped out of the truck, I could hear the chickens chuckling as they s
ettled down for the night.

  I hooked up the soaker hoses to give the tomatoes a good watering, then checked on the chickens’ food and water. There were a few hens in nesting boxes, but the rest were roosting. Already the days were growing long; soon it would be light until nine.

  The sun was down by the time I finished my chores and let Chuck out for a waddle around the garden. He didn’t go far—just visited his favorite rosebush and then headed back to the kitchen, where he parked next to the food dish. I measured out his kibble. He sniffed at it, then gave me a plaintive look.

  “Doctor’s orders,” I reminded him. “It’s good for you.” He continued to look at me. “All right,” I finally said, fishing a bag of shredded cheese out of the fridge and dusting the top of the dry kibble. “Just don’t tell Tobias,” I muttered as he gulped it down.

  I glanced at the clock; it was almost eight thirty. Enough time to whip up a quick batch of brownies to take to Flora’s tomorrow, I decided. With my chunky poodle looking on hopefully, I measured out flour and cocoa, mixing them up with eggs, melted butter, and a healthy dose of dark chocolate chips. I dropped a chocolate chip on the floor. Chuck lunged for it, but I was too quick for him.

  When the pan was in the oven, filling my grandmother’s house with the cozy smell of baking, my thoughts turned again to the lockbox I’d found in the loft. I set it on the table and looked at it, running my fingers around the sides and trying to figure out how to open it. After a few minutes, I grabbed a flashlight and headed toward the shed behind the house.

  After a good bit of digging through cobwebs and rusted tools, I found a decrepit chisel. I carried it to the back porch, then grabbed my hammer and the box and sat down on one of the rocking chairs, propping the box up between my feet.

  I don’t know why I didn’t think of using a chisel earlier. The box opened like a clamshell on the third whack.

  If I had been hoping for gold, I would have been disappointed. All I could see in the box was a bouquet of long-dead flowers, held together by a moldering piece of string. As I lifted the fragile bouquet from the box, something fell onto the floor of the porch. Setting the flowers down gently, I stooped to retrieve it; it was a small picture. I picked it up; there was a faded photo of a lovely young woman with dark brown hair.