“Okay,” I said, backing off and reaching for the jar of dressing. “The offer’s open, though. Any time, day or night.” I gave the bowl a pointed look. “And you might want to lay off on the chicken salad, or you’re going to have chicken pâté instead.”
She stopped and blinked down at the contents of the bowl, then laughed. “Another casualty of my awful ex,” she said, then retrieved four slices of bread from the freshly cut loaf on the board next to her and spread them with chicken salad. As I drizzled the greens on the plates in front of me with dressing, she sliced the sandwiches in two and arranged them on plates, then retrieved a bowl of sliced berries and melon from the fridge and spooned some into small bowls. “But enough about him. What’s new with you?”
“Well, I’m not in jail yet, so that’s good news.”
Tori bustled in and filled a cup with soup from the pot on the stove, then added a crouton and a slice of Swiss cheese and tucked it into the oven next to the quiche.
“How’s it going, Tori?” I asked.
“Busy, busy.” Her dark eyes glinted. “Everybody’s talking about you out there.”
“All good things, I hope.”
“Edna Orzak said you did the town a service.”
Quinn’s voice was sharp. “What do you mean?”
“When you . . . ” Her voice trailed off as she realized what she’d said. “I mean, when you bought that farm,” she said feebly, then clipped two more tickets to the clothesline that hung over the counter. “We’re going through iced tea awfully fast,” she told Quinn, avoiding my eyes.
“There’s another jug in the fridge,” my friend told her. We waited in uncomfortable silence as she filled the pitcher, shooting me a sidelong glance, then retrieved the bowl of soup from the oven and set it on a tray alongside the chicken salad sandwiches. When she pushed through the swinging door back into the dining room, Quinn apologized to me. “She’s only here for another couple of days, anyway,” she said. “She gave her notice last Friday.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to offer to take the job—after all, I needed the money and Quinn needed help—but then I remembered the reaction in the dining room and bit the offer back. Quinn had enough on her plate with her ex-husband’s threats. She didn’t need a suspected murderess scaring off her customers in the dining room, too.
I slid the tray of quiche out of the oven and plated them, then asked what else needed to be done.
“We’ve got an order for two buttermilk pies and a dewberry cobbler,” she said.
“A few fresh berries and a mint sprig on the pies?”
She smiled as she stretched plastic wrap over the bowl of chicken salad. “Exactly,” she said as she stowed the chicken salad in the fridge and pulled out a bag of washed greens and a tray lined with rounds of breaded goat cheese. I grabbed a pie and shut the door, then selected a knife from the block. Quinn glanced up at me as she dropped a knob of butter onto the griddle. “No thumper truck?”
“Not yet, anyway,” I said, slicing through the creamy golden custard and flaky piecrust. My mouth watered; Quinn’s buttermilk pie was to die for. “Not until they probate the will.”
She sighed as she arranged four goat cheese rounds on the griddle. The smell of sizzling butter filled the kitchen, making my mouth water. “I wish Rooster would follow up on that evidence you found.”
“Well, he did point out that the label on the broken jam jar was mine,” I said, plucking two mint sprigs from the mason jar on the windowsill. “So I guess that’s something.”
“So? Anybody could have picked that jar up.” She flipped the goat cheese rounds. “The lamb is the big issue. There can’t be that many of those pins running around town.”
“I’m going to stop by the Brethren Church and see if I can get a list of who had them,” I said as I placed berries on the slices of pie and reached for the cobbler pan. As I opened the oven to put a bowl in to warm, the cheesy smell of quiche wafted out. I pulled the tray out and replaced it with the cobbler. Although I’d waited tables one summer in college, I’d forgotten how busy working in a restaurant was.
“It’s a start,” Quinn said as I set the tray of quiche on a rack and reached for the plates of greens. “And at least we know the killer was probably Czech.”
“Which cuts the suspect list to only half of Buttercup,” I groaned.
“We all have to start somewhere.” She put the bowl into the fridge and turned to me with a sly grin. “Speaking of starting somewhere, I hear you have a dinner date tonight.”
I felt my cheeks turning pink. “Where did you hear that?”
“It’s a small town, Lucy.” Her grin widened into a real smile. “I’m happy for you. Tobias is a good man.”
“It’s only dinner,” I reminded her.
“We’ll see what happens. What are you making?”
As we filled the orders on the clothesline, we talked recipes. Quinn became animated as she helped me plan out dinner, and I could feel the tension leaving her. “I made extra vinaigrette yesterday,” she said, pausing in the assembly of a sandwich to open the fridge and pull out a mason jar filled with golden-yellow dressing. “Why don’t you use this on the salad? You’ve got lettuce in the garden, right?”
“Unless Blossom’s gotten to it,” I told her.
“So. Salad, a loaf of bread . . . ” She pointed to one of the fresh loaves cooling on racks at the end of the counter.
“And enchiladas,” I said.
“Sounds great. How about dessert?”
“I was planning on making a chocolate icebox pie,” I told her.
“If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” she said, placing sandwiches on plates and adding little bowls of berries and cut fruit, “you should be a couple by tomorrow.”
“How about you?” I asked. “Anybody catch your eye?”
She snorted, but all of a sudden the drawn look was back. “I’m too busy dealing with my last romantic disaster.”
“What’s going on?”
“He wants to get back together. He called me yesterday afternoon and told me he’d changed.” She busied herself with the plates and didn’t look up at me.
Tori scurried into the kitchen, and I waited until she had filled a tray with plates and disappeared back through the door before responding. “What did you tell him?”
“That it’s over.” Her voice was flat and hard.
“How did he take it?”
“Not well.”
I pulled the bowl of cobbler out of the oven, inhaling the rich berry scent. “Have you told the attorney?”
The noon sun glinted off her red hair as she nodded. “She told me to document it.”
“You still have a restraining order, right?”
“For all the good it’s doing,” she said. “When he drinks, that all goes out the window.”
I glanced at the back door of the restaurant, which had a big glass window on the top half—and was easy as pie to break into. “As I said, you’re welcome out at the farm. Just until things settle down.”
She lifted her chin. “Thanks, but I’m going to stay put. I’m not letting him chase me out of my home.”
“Are you sure? We could ask the cops to keep watch on the restaurant . . . ”
“Rooster Kocurek?” She gave a bitter laugh. “If you recall, I’m not exactly on his good list right now. No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve thought about it, and I’ve made my decision. I’m not going to let Jed Stadtler affect my life any more than he already has.”
I didn’t argue, but foreboding filled me as I sliced another piece of buttermilk pie for a new order.
I hoped I was wrong, but I had a feeling Jed wasn’t going to stick to phone calls.
Six o’clock rolled around faster than I’d ever thought possible. I’d spent another hour helping out Quinn before heading home to do my own chores. By the time I’d weeded the cucumbers, picked lettuce, fed the chickens, made pie, and tucked the enchiladas into the oven, Tobias w
as due in just under thirty minutes and I still hadn’t showered.
I had just pulled on a pair of jeans and a white linen blouse when I heard the sound of a truck rumbling up the drive. I ran my fingers through my damp hair, put on a hasty touch of mascara and lip gloss, and checked to make sure my blouse didn’t have too many wrinkles. I was on my way to the kitchen to peek at the enchiladas when the doorbell rang.
Chuck raced to the door barking, but transitioned to wagging as soon as he recognized Tobias. I opened the door and smiled, feeling my heart thumping inside my chest.
“Howdy, ma’am,” he said with a grin, then bent down to rub Chuck behind the ear. “Hey, buddy.” Chuck slathered him with kisses, and Tobias looked up at me. “How’s it going with the Light ‘n’ Lean?”
“He eats it, but he’s not happy about it.”
“And the carrots?”
“Not a fan, I’m afraid. Come on in.”
He stood and walked into the house, Chuck at his heels. “Can I get you something to drink? Shiner Bock?”
“That sounds terrific,” he said. “Smells great in here.”
“Chicken enchiladas,” I said. “And chocolate icebox pie for dessert.” I pointed to the cutting board as I reached into the refrigerator for two beers.
“I’ve heard your grandma was a good cook, too,” he said. “Must run in the family.”
“You haven’t tried the enchiladas yet,” I reminded him. “You might want to reserve judgment.”
“I sampled your pie yesterday, so I’ll trust my instinct.”
I laughed. “I’ve got some chips and salsa. Why don’t we sit on the porch until the enchiladas are done? I think we’re about twenty minutes out.”
He carried the chips and salsa, and I carried two longnecks out onto the porch. The chickens chuckled in the background, and a cool breeze carried the scent of my grandmother’s roses to our noses.
I handed him a Shiner and settled into the rocker across from him, taking a sip of the cold, dark beer. Chuck settled between us, eyeing the chips. “So,” I said. “How’s Alfie’s cow?”
“Doing just fine,” he said. “He’s a good stockman; he caught it right away.”
“Is milk fever common?”
“Can be,” he said, taking a pull off the bottle. He wore a pair of worn cowboy boots under his faded jeans. Unlike many of the locals, who wore belt buckles the size of billboards, he wore a plain, understated brown belt and a light blue button-down shirt that brought out the color of his eyes. “Especially after calving.”
“It must be nice to make a difference in your work.”
“It is,” he said. “But you know what that’s like, too. Weren’t you in the newspaper business?”
“Yes, but it’s a dying industry,” I told him. “And I’m not sure how much of a difference I made. I reported what I saw, but things never really seemed to change because of it. It’s not like giving a cow a shot and seeing it make a miraculous recovery.”
“I do like it when it goes well,” he told me. “But I’m not always so lucky. We get a lot of dogs hit by trucks around here. It can be depressing.” He bent down and rubbed Chuck on the head. “You stay out of traffic, okay?”
I laughed. “I have a hard enough time getting him to walk down to the mailbox, much less romp around in the road. Walking him is like walking a thirty-pound anchor sometimes.”
“Well, he should be a little lighter soon,” Tobias said, giving him a final pat.
“Here’s hoping.” I took another sip of beer.
“How are things with you?” Tobias asked. “Still glad you moved to Buttercup?”
“I think I am,” I said. “I just hope I can stay.”
“Worried about the thumper truck? I thought that was put on hold when Nettie died.”
“It was,” I said. “But I’m still worried about it. I’m even more worried about taking a one-way trip to Huntsville, though.”
“You think Rooster’s going to charge you with murder?”
“The rest of the town seems ready to.” I told him what had happened when I dropped by the Blue Onion that afternoon.
He waved it away. “People love gossip. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I’d feel more comfortable if Rooster had a few more suspects.”
“Surely there are a ton of people who would have wanted to put Nettie out of commission,” Tobias suggested.
“She wasn’t exactly Ms. Popularity around here, was she?”
“She ruled by fear,” Tobias said. “And did whatever she pleased, regardless of the consequences.”
“I know she had it out with at least a couple of people from town recently,” I said. “But do you know anyone—other than the Muellers—who had reason to want her dead?”
“I’ve always wondered about Flora,” he said.
“Why would she kill her mother?”
“Because she was the only one standing in the way of marrying her beau and inheriting the farm?”
“I thought they were engaged.”
“They were,” Tobias said. “But rumor has it Nettie was changing her will. Flora was going to have to choose between marriage and money.”
I leaned forward. “Do you know for sure if she changed it yet?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Rooster should, though.”
“I may have to go down to the sheriff’s office and ask,” I said. “He’ll love that. Who inherited if Flora was cut out?”
“Lots of rumors going around,” Tobias said. “Some people say she was going to leave the whole thing to Texas A&M.”
“Think they’d want to drill for oil on my land?” I asked.
He laughed. “First, let’s worry about getting you off the hook for murder, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, feeling a warm glow inside. The folks at the Blue Onion might not be with me, but Tobias was making it clear he was on my side. I knew Molly was, too. And Quinn.
“So. It might be a good idea to find out what was up with her will. If she hadn’t changed it yet, that gives us two potential suspects.”
“Flora,” Tobias ticked off on one finger.
“And Flora’s fiancé,” I added. “So we have two potential suspects. Three, if you put any stock in the rumor that Nettie and Peter Swenson had an argument the other day.”
“An argument doesn’t mean motive for murder,” Tobias pointed out.
“Not necessarily,” I said. “But until we know what they argued about, we don’t know.”
“True,” he said.
“I also know that Nancy Shaw wasn’t too happy about her using pesticides.”
“Think she’d kill Nettie over bug spray?”
“If it were messing with her livelihood, she might,” I said.
“I can tell you’ve done this before.”
“Done what?”
“Investigative reporting,” Tobias said. “You’re good at it.”
“Thanks.” I felt my cheeks turn pink. “So, we’ve got four suspects so far. What about that old feud with the German contingent?”
“The Kocurek-Mueller thing? It’s still going—always has—but I can’t think that would be motive for murder.”
“Besides, whoever did it was probably Czech.”
“Why do you say that?”
“There was a Moravian lamb pin on a scrap of fabric near Nettie’s body.”
“Not likely that a German would be wearing that,” he agreed.
“Of course, there was also a jar of my jam,” I said.
“So? It was the jam tent. Just because it was yours doesn’t mean you did it. In fact, you’d be more likely to use someone else’s jam, don’t you think?”
“That’s what I thought, but Rooster appears to think otherwise. Thanks again for pointing out the chain of evidence issue the other day,” I said. “I was too flustered to think straight.”
“Don’t mention it.”
I thought about Nettie. “I wish I knew more about Nettie Kocurek. I know she felt st
rongly about her great-grandfather’s statue, and was really pushing the Czech heritage. But was she doing something else that upset someone? Some kind of business dealing?”
“It would be interesting to find out what she and Peter were arguing about,” Tobias said.
“Maybe I’ll drop by to talk farming,” I suggested.
He was about to answer when the buzzer sounded from the kitchen. “Sounds like dinner’s about done. Let me go check on the enchiladas, and I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll keep an eye on Blossom and Chuck,” Tobias said, nodding toward the heifer, who had drifted close to the fence and was eyeing my roses.
“Harriet Houdini, you mean? Good luck with that,” I laughed, and headed into the house.
Dinner was delightful—the enchiladas were the perfect mix of cheese, chicken, and spicy chilies, and Quinn’s salad dressing was tangy and fresh, complementing the delicate lettuce from my garden. Tobias regaled me with stories of his youth—and the list of places Blossom had ended up, which included the lumberyard, the middle of State Highway 71, and the parking lot of Hruska’s Bakery. I had laid the table with my grandmother’s flowered tablecloth and put a couple of sprigs of larkspur in a vase in the middle, and the kitchen felt cozy and warm and companionable. It was good having company—especially handsome, humorous company—and as I finished the last bite of chocolate pie, I realized I hadn’t enjoyed a meal in my grandmother’s kitchen as much since I was a kid.
“That was amazing,” Tobias said, putting down his fork. “I’m doing the dishes.”
“No you’re not,” I protested. “You’re the guest.”
He shook his head, eyes glinting. “You cook, I clean.” And before I could say another word, he had swept up the plates and started the water in the sink.
I relented in the face of such efficiency and pulled a dish towel off the hook on the wall. “Okay. But I’m drying.”
We stood side by side at the sink, talking about his burgeoning vet practice and my hopes for my fledgling farm, our arms brushing from time to time. I felt a tingle at his touch—he seemed to be charged with energy somehow. An energy that drew me in and made me feel cared for and special and beautiful. The dishes were done all too soon, and I was loath for him to go, but couldn’t think of a reason to make him stay.
Killer Jam (A Dewberry Farm Mystery) Page 14