“Has Chuck had his walk yet?” he asked, eyeing the bald poodle, who had been watching wistfully as I put up the food.
“Not yet,” I confessed.
“Well, then, let’s leash him up,” he suggested. Happy for an excuse to keep Tobias longer, I clipped the leash to Chuck’s collar and together we headed for the door.
Although Chuck dragged his heels when I took him out, he, too, had evidently come under Tobias’s thrall and trotted happily after him as we headed down the driveway. The sun was setting in beautiful orange and pink streaks over the bluebonnet-strewn hills, and the ozonic smell of rain was in the air, mixed with the green smell of fresh spring grass.
“What happened to the thirty-pound anchor?” Tobias asked as Chuck sprang over a rock in the gravel driveway, looking spry as a puppy.
“You must have the magic touch,” I told him. “Everyone likes you—even Blossom.”
“Not everyone,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“My ex-wife wasn’t one of my biggest fans,” he told me.
“Ex-wives usually aren’t,” I agreed. “But I think she must be crazy.”
“Do you?” He gave me a sidelong smile. “That’s a comfort.”
“What happened?” I blurted unthinkingly, then cursed my lack of tact. “I’m sorry; that was a really personal question,” I added, blushing.
“Not much to it, really. She left me for her sports medicine doctor,” he said.
Ouch. “I’m sorry,” I said. “How long ago?”
“Five years,” he said. “That’s when I moved out here. Nothing holding me in the city anymore.” He sighed. “I think she expected a bigger salary. She was what you call ‘high maintenance.’”
I couldn’t imagine anyone leaving this kind, funny, handsome man. Then again, I hadn’t known him that long. He claimed salary was the dividing factor, but there were always two sides to every story. “There’s more to life than money,” I said.
“I’m glad you agree,” he told me. “Because neither of us is likely to get rich out here in Buttercup.”
I laughed. “Even if I do strike oil, none of it belongs to me.” I fervently hoped the rolling hills that had been my family’s home for so long would not be flattened in search of profit. I’d heard horror stories about some of the fracking operations that had sprung up around Texas, poisoning both water and land. I could feel my blood pressure rise just thinking about it.
Tobias turned the conversation back to me. “And what about you? Ever been married?”
“Came close,” I confessed, “but no, I’ve never walked down the aisle.”
“What happened?” he asked. “If it’s not too personal,” he added with a grin.
“It’s not,” I said. “I don’t know what happened, really. We got along well enough, but as the day got closer, I started getting cold feet. Then, two weeks before the wedding, he showed up at my doorstep at 2:00 a.m. and told me he wanted to call it off.”
“Wow,” Tobias said. “How did you feel about that?”
“Relieved,” I said. “And hurt, too, even though I felt the same way. Isn’t that funny?”
“It’s natural,” he said.
“I think it’s for the best,” I told him. “He’s working for the Times in New York now. Foreign correspondent. We still keep in touch.”
“Did he marry?”
“No,” I said. “Neither of us did. We’ve both been in relationships, but neither of us have ever found the right person.”
“I hope that changes for you.”
There was a quiet electricity in the air between us as we walked down the dusty road. Tobias stopped and turned to face me, his blue eyes on mine. He reached for me, and I felt every cell in my body respond, like iron filings drawn to a magnet. As his arms closed around me, his phone rang. He swore under his breath and reached for it.
“Tobias Brandt,” he answered. He was quiet for a moment, and his face tensed. “I’ll be right over.”
The house seemed particularly empty when I returned to it. The phone call—a golden retriever had been backed over by a Ford F-150 and needed emergency surgery—had put everything on hold. Tobias had promised to call and let me know how things went; I would have gone with him, but he was going to be in surgery for hours, likely, and there were chores around the farm that needed doing.
Chuck lazed on the front porch as I milked Blossom, who still did her level best to knock over the milk pail and eyed me balefully when her attempts were unsuccessful. I was still stirred up by Tobias’s visit, and the way things seemed to be going. I felt something for him that I hadn’t felt for anyone in a long, long time—and on some level, it was unsettling. I’d come out here to make my own way, not to become embroiled in a relationship. What if things went wrong? We’d be cheek by jowl in the town for years—there was no way to leave your past behind in a town as small as Buttercup.
On the other hand, a little voice reminded me, unless I managed to find my way out of the number one slot on Rooster Kocurek’s suspect list, it didn’t matter how well things were going between Tobias and me. I’d be living in Huntsville, not Buttercup. And it’s hard to have a relationship when there’s a wall of bars between you.
My eyes drifted to the shadowy loft above me, and my thoughts turned to the lockbox with the photo and marriage certificate. Why had someone hidden that in the loft, of all places? And was my family somehow involved in Thomas Mueller’s murder?
It took an hour to feed and water the chickens, water the vegetable patches, set up the irrigation for the peach orchard, and walk down to check on the dewberries; it was time to pick another batch in the morning. The phone still hadn’t rung when I put on my cotton nightgown and crawled between the blue sheets of my grandmother’s bed, Chuck at my feet. I prayed the Marburgers’ dog would be okay; she couldn’t have a better vet than Tobias to put her back together.
I picked up one of the library books I’d checked out: Mourning Gloria by Susan Wittig Albert. Her tales of China Bayles switching gears from her career as an attorney to the owner of an herb shop in Pecan Springs had been an inspiration to me when I was considering moving to the country myself. Tonight, though, my thoughts kept veering from the murder on the pages to the operation that was going on in the vet clinic—and, even more disturbingly, the murder in my own small town. Who had killed Nettie Kocurek, anyway? And why couldn’t the officer in charge of the investigation be at least a little more professional in his investigation? As China worked in her herb garden and made a mental list of suspects, I decided it was a good idea and began constructing one of my own. Talk to Peter Swenson and Nancy Shaw. And stop by the Brethren Church and ask about that pin.
I was about to pick up the book again when the phone rang. I bolted out of bed, anxious to find out how the golden retriever was doing.
“Lucy.”
“Quinn?” I felt my adrenaline spike. Her voice was all wrong. Panicked. Breathy. “Are you okay?”
“He broke in,” she said. “I kicked him in the knee, and he took off . . . but the back door’s all shattered, and I’m afraid he’s coming back.”
Are you okay?” I repeated.
“I’m fine,” she said. “I called Rooster, and he’s heading right over.”
“I’m coming to get you,” I said. “You can’t stay there tonight. I’ve got plenty of room, and I’d love the company.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Okay.”
I stayed on the phone with her until she told me a sheriff’s car had pulled up outside, then I threw on shorts and a T-shirt and raced out to the truck.
The black-and-white car was parked right in front of the Blue Onion, and all the lights were on in the building. The front door was unlocked, and I let myself in, calling out to identify myself.
“We’re back here,” Quinn called from behind the dining room. Then, in a lower voice, she said, “It’s okay. I called her.”
Quinn stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter a
nd hugging herself. She wore a tattered blue bathrobe, and Rooster stood a few feet away from her, looking rumpled in his uniform, as if he’d just gotten out of bed. Which he probably had.
“Evenin’, Miz Resnick,” he said, the suspicious look in his eye belying the polite greeting.
“Good evening, Sheriff. Thanks so much for coming out.” I looked at my friend, whose eyes looked haunted, and then at the shattered window that stood out in the cheerful room like a jagged, broken tooth. “I’m so sorry, Quinn. I’m so glad you’re okay.” I crossed the distance between us and put a hand on her shoulder. My instinct told me she was too rattled for a hug—particularly in front of Rooster Kocurek.
“You’re sure it was Jed Stadtler?” Rooster asked, as if I weren’t there.
“I was married to him for five years,” she said. “He threatened me on the phone today. Plus, I’m guessing his fingerprints are all over this place.”
“Don’t you have a restraining order against him?”
She nodded. “Doesn’t seem to be doing a lot of good, though, does it?”
“So he broke through your door and let himself in.”
“That’s what woke me up,” she said.
“Then what happened?”
“He came up the stairs and into my bedroom. He tried to hit me in the head.”
“Tried?”
“I blocked it,” she said, raising her right arm. A large bruise purpled her freckled skin, and I felt anger boil up in me.
“That’s right. You do that tae kwon do stuff.”
“Karate, actually,” she corrected him.
“So. He tried to hit you, and it didn’t work. Then what happened?”
“He yelled at me. Called me a . . . a bitch,” she said. “Reared back to hit me again.”
“And then?”
Quinn lifted her chin. “I kicked him in the crotch.” Rooster winced a little bit. “And his knee, too,” she added. “I may have broken it. Then I ran to the bathroom, locked the door, and called you.”
“Did he follow you?”
She shook her head. “He left. I heard him go downstairs, and heard the truck engine out back.”
“Thank God he didn’t have a gun,” I said.
“He does, though,” she said, in a voice that chilled me.
“Maybe you’d better think about getting one,” Rooster said.
“I don’t like having them around,” she said. “Bad things happen with guns. Accidents.”
“Might change your mind next time your ex comes around with a sawed-off shotgun,” Rooster pointed out.
“Hopefully he’ll be in jail for breaking and entering and it won’t be an issue,” she countered.
The sheriff hitched up his belt and sighed. “I suppose I’d better get this all written up.” He squinted at the jagged shards of glass in the door. “You’re going to need to replace that, or at least board it up. Are you staying here tonight?”
“I thought I’d go out to Dewberry Farm and stay with Lucy,” she said.
Rooster eyed me. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Quinn eyed him levelly. “Can you spare an officer to park outside my back door every night?”
He took a shuffling step backward. “Budget’s kind of tight. Maybe not all night, but we’ll be sure to swing by and keep an eye on the place.”
“Then it’s a better idea than staying here.”
Rooster sniffed. “Out of the frying pan into the fire, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t,” Quinn said, her voice cool. “Are you going to be taking fingerprints tonight?” she asked. “I need to get this cleaned up so I can open tomorrow.”
Rooster let out a heavy sigh. “I’ll call Ed, see if I can get him over here tonight.”
“Thank you,” she said.
It was almost two in the morning by the time Rooster finished in the kitchen and we were able to sweep up the glass. His technician had gotten several prints, and I hoped at least some of them were Jed’s; so many people came in and out of the kitchen, they could be anyone’s. They also took Quinn’s prints; they’d already taken mine from the day that Nettie was killed.
After we’d nailed up a piece of plywood I’d found in the shed out back and poured the last of the broken glass into the trash can, we double-checked the locks on the windows—“Like that’s going to help,” Quinn added jadedly—and I kept her company while she packed a few days’ worth of clothes.
She followed me out to the farmhouse, which was only a few minutes away from the town square. I’d left the lights on, and the house looked cozy and welcoming as we bumped up the long drive. “Thanks for letting me stay,” Quinn told me as she carried her suitcase into the house.
“My pleasure,” I told her. “Like I said, I’ll enjoy the company.”
Once we’d dropped her suitcase in my old bedroom, Quinn and I checked all the doors and windows and lingered in the kitchen for a minute. “Piece of pie?” I asked.
“I can’t eat yet,” she said, leaning up against the door frame. “Still too riled up. I forgot to ask, though; how did dinner go?”
Although only a few hours had passed, it felt like dinner with Tobias had been weeks ago. I wondered how the surgery had gone; when Quinn went to bed, I’d check my messages. “Great,” I said. “Your salad dressing and bread were terrific.”
“I wasn’t talking about the food, silly.”
“Oh. Things seem to be . . . progressing. We had to cut the evening short, though—the Marburgers’ golden retriever had a run-in with an F-150, and Tobias had to go and do emergency surgery.”
“Poor Sadie,” Quinn said. “She’s a sweetheart, but has a bad habit of chasing cars. Is she okay?”
“I don’t know yet,” I said. “But I’m glad you’re okay. That must have been terrifying.”
“It was,” she acknowledged. “I wish I’d never met him. All I can hope is that this will put him behind bars and I can rest easy for a while. I hate always having to look over my shoulder.”
“What did he want?”
She shrugged. “Same thing he always wants. To control me. He can’t stand that I’m living my life without him. I keep hoping he’ll move on, but he just can’t seem to let go. And when he drinks . . . ”
“You’re welcome here for as long as you want,” I said.
“Thanks.” She looked up at me with haunted eyes. “But how long will it be before he figures out where I am now?”
The night passed without any further disturbance, and after milking Blossom and checking on the chickens, I accompanied Quinn to the Blue Onion to open the next morning. There was no sign of Jed, thankfully, and once Tori turned up to start the lunch service, I took my leave. “I’ll see you tonight, right?” I asked.
“Yes. Thanks again,” she said.
“Let me know what Rooster comes up with.”
“I’m going to call him in a minute,” she said. “Right after I call the glazier. The sooner I get that window fixed, the better.”
“Have you thought about a security system?”
“Too expensive.”
I sighed. “I wish I could help.”
“You’re doing more than enough,” she said. “Now, go and find out who murdered Nettie Kocurek, so we can prove Rooster wrong.”
I put on a brave smile that I didn’t feel and set off to pay a visit to Peter Swenson.
If driving up to Nettie Kocurek’s house felt like time traveling to the 1950s, following the winding drive to Peter Swenson’s was a little like pulling up to Tolkien’s Shire. His property was tucked back behind a stand of oaks, and the rolling hills were verdant with crops: I recognized a variety of greens and the feathery tops of carrots, as well as rows of the velvety green of young tomato plants. About half the property was a sizable pasture, filled with goats in a variety of colors and bounded by barbed wire and cedar posts.
But it was Peter’s house that commanded your attention. Nestled among a swath of fruit trees and half-built into a hill was
a small, rammed-earth home with a grassy roof and round windows that would not have looked out of place in Hobbiton. The door was made of cedar planks, with what looked like hand-forged hinges, and tufts of rosemary and lavender flanked the limestone walk. I knew Peter had built the place himself, but had imagined a wooden shack, not the quaint hobbit-esque home built into a hillside. The only thing that linked the place to current-day Texas was his fry oil–powered school bus, which was parked about fifty yards from the house. He had painted it green, with the logo MOVEABLE FEAST painted along the bottom, amid what appeared to be a veritable cornucopia of vegetables. Nowadays, he used it to transport his produce to the Austin farmers’ markets. Quinn had told me he lived in it while building his home; apparently he’d removed the seats and put in a futon and a small kitchen.
As I opened the door of the truck, a rooster crowed, and a few hens scuttled out from behind the lavender. The front door of the cottage opened before I got there, and Peter’s lanky frame emerged.
“Howdy, neighbor!” he said in an exaggerated Texas accent. Which was kind of funny, since he came from the Pacific Northwest.
“Howdy yourself,” I replied, wondering exactly how I was going to ask him about Nettie Kocurek without sounding like I was trying to implicate him. “Your house is amazing,” I told him. “I can’t believe you built it yourself!”
“Would you like the tour?” he asked, obviously proud of his handiwork.
“I’d love one.”
The interior of the house was just as quaint as the exterior, with low, beamed ceilings and rustic cabinets that looked like he’d made them himself.
“What made you decide to leave Seattle and build a hobbit hole in Buttercup?”
He gave me a rueful smile. “A girl,” he said. “I’m a hopeless romantic. I met her at South by Southwest in Austin, and she seduced me with her vision of an organic farm in the countryside.”
Killer Jam (A Dewberry Farm Mystery) Page 15