“Well, you’ve got the organic farm.”
“But not the girl,” he said with a crooked grin that showed his white teeth. “She moved to Portland six months after I bought the property. Didn’t like living in a bus and making bricks out of mud.”
“Reality can be a lot harder than the dream, can’t it?” I asked, thinking of my own troubles since moving to town. I looked around at the rustic yet beautiful interior. Hand-laid wood floors, whitewashed walls, and thick oak beams gave the house a fairy-tale feel that was enhanced by the open shelves of handmade mugs and plates in the cozy kitchen. He invited me to sit down at a small, round wooden table that, like everything else in his house, I suspected he’d made by hand. I ran my hand over the smooth surface. Pecan, I was guessing. “She should have hung around a bit longer, though. The results are spectacular.”
“Thank you. But there are still goats to be milked, and it turned out she wasn’t too fond of that, either.”
“I can understand that.”
“I’ll bet you can. But if you think your Jersey girl is a challenge, you should meet a few of my nanny goats.”
“At least none of them have consumed the town square geraniums yet,” I pointed out.
“Only because I invested in a solar-powered electric fence six months ago,” he said with a grin. “Before that, Nettie Kocurek was threatening to shoot them and serve cabrito to her farm hands.”
“Ah, Nettie. Quite a charmer, wasn’t she?”
“She won’t be much missed. At least not by me.” He took a sip from his tumbler. “Can I get you a glass of kombucha?”
“No, no thanks,” I said. I’d tried his kombucha once at market days. Despite his assurances that it was a health elixir and delicious, it tasted like dill pickle juice, only worse.
“How about some mint iced tea? I picked a bunch and brewed it yesterday.”
“That sounds terrific,” I confessed.
As he filled a tumbler with mint tea for me, adorning it with a fresh sprig from a jug on the windowsill, he said, almost idly, “So, what brings you out for a visit?”
“I actually wanted to ask you about Nettie,” I said, figuring that honesty—or at least partial honesty—was the best policy. “Since you and she were neighbors, I was wondering if you had any idea who might have wanted her . . . well, you know.”
He gave me a sharp look. “Dead?”
“Yeah.”
He sighed. “I’m sure you’ve heard we had an altercation a few weeks back.”
“I’d heard a rumor,” I confessed.
He shook his head and handed me the tumbler, then sat down in the handmade chair across from me. “Small towns. Everyone knows everything, it seems.”
“What was the disagreement about?” I asked, taking a sip of my tea, which was lightly sweetened with honey and had a lovely, fresh kick from the mint.
“She was spraying weed killer along my fence line,” he said. “A few of my goats took sick. Plus, it was jeopardizing my organic certification.”
“What was her response?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “She said she was welcome to do whatever she wanted on her property, and that if I could prove her chemicals had killed any of my goats, she would pay the replacement value.”
“Which isn’t very much,” I said.
“Not enough,” he said bitterly. “I look after my goats. I know them by name, and I take great care to make sure they’re only eating what nature intended.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder if she wasn’t doing it intentionally. She didn’t like having a hippie living next door.”
“She did like to get her way, didn’t she?”
“By whatever means possible,” he agreed. “A bunch of my nanny goats took sick a few months back; Dr. Brandt told me it must have been something they ate.”
“Any idea what?”
He shook his head. “Unfortunately not. I lost two of them—Bridget and Tufty—but Nettie claimed she had nothing to do with it.”
“Did you believe her?”
“Of course not,” Peter said. The anger, I could tell, was still fresh. “But I couldn’t prove it, so I was out of luck. I’ve kept a close eye on them since, though.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know what it is to lose an animal you love.”
He shrugged. “I should get used to it—I’m a farmer, after all—but somehow, I never do.” He took a pull of his kombucha as if it were whiskey.
“Do you know if she was arguing with anyone else?” I asked.
He gave me a twisted grin. “Well, she wasn’t crazy about her daughter’s choice of husbands,” he said. “But everyone knows that.” He thought for a moment, and then said, “I think she was working on some kind of deal.”
“She was sending a thumper truck out to my property to look for oil,” I told him.
“I know about that,” he said. “But there was something else.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Maybe the Kocureks are trying to buy more property.”
“But Nettie just sold me Dewberry Farm six months ago,” I said. “That doesn’t make sense. Why would she be buying more?”
“Good question,” he said, taking another swig of kombucha. “Maybe Faith could tell you. I’ve seen her car out there several times these past few weeks. Hard to miss a pearly white Escalade with BUYBUTT on the license plate.”
I almost choked on my tea. “Buy Butt? Really?”
“You didn’t notice?”
“I guess I was too busy worrying about spending my life savings to look at my real estate agent’s license plate.” My list of people to question kept getting longer. “I’ll have to stop by her office this afternoon,” I said.
“You’ve had a rough time since you came to town,” Peter said. “The Kocurek family seems to have it in for you.”
“A lot of people seem to think I have it in for them,” I pointed out.
He laughed. “Rooster in particular. He glommed onto you immediately, didn’t he?”
“I guess I’m an outsider.”
“I know that feeling,” Peter said, and looking around at his hand-built house, I could understand his meaning. “Not too many rammed-earth houses around Buttercup,” he said, echoing my thoughts. “And at least you have roots in this town—you’re living in a house that belonged to your grandparents.”
“That’s true. But you seem to be integrating quite well.”
“I think they’re getting used to me, but I’m never quite sure.”
“Teena Marburger certainly likes you,” I said, grinning.
He blushed. “I know. I don’t know what to do about it, either. She told me the other day that the splinter would soon be gone.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I wish I knew,” he said. “She seems to have some weird sight into the future. Only problem is, people aren’t quite sure what she meant until after the fact, so if anything, her predictions just make everybody nervous.”
“Maybe I should ask her whether I’m going to jail or not,” I half-joked.
“It wouldn’t help,” he said, taking me seriously. “She doesn’t take questions, unfortunately. Just spouts things out.” He shrugged. “Some people call it a gift, but I’m not so sure.” He took another swig of kombucha and changed the subject. “How’s the farming business going? Anything I can help with?”
“I noticed your vegetables are looking terrific. Any organic gardening tips you can share?”
“I’m a firm believer in compost tea,” he said, and for the next twenty minutes, he loaded me up with tips for growing tomatoes and dealing with the cucumber beetles that would soon be descending upon my squash plants. “Wait until summer,” he said. “You’ll be out there vacuuming leaf-footed bugs off of your tomatoes.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“Well, row cover works, too, but then you have to hand-pollinate.”
He wasn’t kidding, I realized, and thought—for the hundredth time—that
I’d had no idea what I was getting into when I signed the contract for Dewberry Farm.
By the time I left, I was full of mint tea and glad I’d stopped by—I now had another new lead. As we stepped out of the little house, the goats all began clamoring at the fence.
“Feeding time?” I asked.
“They just want me to pet their noses,” he said, walking over and stroking a brown nanny goat between the eyes. Four others pushed toward his hand.
“They really like you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” he said, stroking a velvety ear. “Sorry, girls,” he said, “but I’ve got to weed the lettuce patch.”
“Thanks so much for talking with me—and for the tips,” I said.
“My pleasure,” he replied with a sunny smile. “We outsiders have to stick together.” It was a lovely visit, but I still found myself wondering if he felt strongly enough about his goats to do in Nettie Kocurek.
My next stop was Faith Zapalac’s office, which was on the corner of the town square, catty-corner from the Blue Onion, and with a lovely view of Krystof Baca’s pickle-nosed statue, which still squatted in front of the courthouse, flanked by the decimated geraniums. I still hadn’t gotten around to replacing those, I realized, and added them to my mental list.
First, though, I wanted to talk to Faith and see what I could find out about any of Nettie Kocurek’s land deals. Which was going to be a challenge. I hadn’t seen the real estate agent since the Harvest Festival, and things hadn’t exactly been cordial between us; after all, she sold me Dewberry Farm without making clear that the mineral rights wouldn’t belong to me.
I knew Faith was in the office—her white Escalade with its BUYBUTT plate was parked in front, and as I walked by, I could see her head bobbing up and down behind the plate glass window advertising “Buy a Piece of Buttercup Today!” She was facing away from the street, the phone pressed to her hair-helmeted head. I opened the front door quietly, not wanting to interrupt her animated conversation.
“I know,” she crowed into the phone, oblivious of my entry. “We’ve only got a few more to go before we can break ground, and I think one of the ones we were interested in is going up for sale next week.” She was quiet for a moment. “I’ve been working on that one for months, but they keep holding on. What?”
She listened for a moment. “They’re probatin’ the will right now. Who knows?” She sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to wait and see how everything settles out.”
The person on the other end spoke loudly; I could hear the agitation even from across the room.
“Even if she does know something, what does it matter?” There was another loud response, the upset in the caller’s voice even more urgent. “She won’t want to shoot herself in the foot, and nobody’s gonna be able to prove anything. And I promise you, my lips are sealed.” As I watched, Faith drew herself up in her chair. “Are you threatening me?”
At that moment, she became aware of my presence. Faith swiveled around, her black-mascaraed eyes widening, her lipsticked mouth slackening into an “o” before pressing into a thin line as I pretended to study the listings taped to the wall. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to call you back,” she said firmly. “A client just walked in.”
She hung up and sat back in her pink vinyl chair, adjusting her white rayon blouse. Her eyes blinked nervously, her eyelashes thick with clumpy mascara. “I didn’t hear you come in.” There was more than a hint of accusation in her voice. Maybe even fear?
“I just walked in,” I said.
“If this is about those mineral rights, there’s nothing I can do,” she said in a flat voice.
“I do want to talk to you about that,” I said. “You said there wasn’t any problem.”
She shrugged. “Caveet enter, you know?”
“You mean caveat emptor?”
“Whatever,” she said.
“You should have advised me about the mineral rights. That’s what I paid you for—to represent my interests.”
“Seller paid commission, actually. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.”
“Too bad,” I said. “Now that my land may be taken over by oil wells, I was going to ask if there were other properties for sale.”
She blinked. “Other properties? You mean, buying more land? But I thought we stretched that loan as far as we could just to get you into your grandma’s old place!”
“We did,” I said, “but, uh . . . I may have come into a little more money.”
Now I had her interest. “Oh? How did that come about?”
“My aunt died,” I said without thinking.
So had Rooster’s, I realized as soon as I’d spoken, and she did, too. It hung between us for a moment. “Anyway,” I said, “I wanted to talk to you and see if there was anything new out for sale.”
“Well, then,” she said, softening. “I’m glad you can put that mineral rights thing behind you. You might want to think about selling that property—of course, with the Kocureks doing exploration, you might take a bit of a hit, but if you’ve got more resources now . . . ”
I swallowed hard, as if I could swallow back my anger, and forced a smile. “These things happen,” I said in what I hoped was a light tone. “Real estate is never a sure bet.”
“I’m so glad you understand that,” she said, looking relieved. “Now then. I’ve got a few new parcels that just came on the market. This one’s about fifty acres—a bit more than you’ve got now. Of course, the price is a little steep . . . ” She showed me the listing price, and I stifled a gasp before remembering that I wasn’t actually in the market for property. “But it’s got a pond, and frontage on a wet-weather creek. Lots of good pasture.”
“It’s nice,” I said. “Mineral rights?”
She gave me a tight smile. “Don’t want to make that mistake again, do we? Looks like they’ll convey, but we’ll do a double-check. And then there’s another piece coming up on the market in the next week or two, but I think I already have a buyer for that.”
“Whose property?”
“Well,” she said in a conspiratorial tone, “it’s not official, but the Chovaneks are considering selling up and moving to Houston. It’s a big tract, and like I said, I’ve got some interested buyers, but you might be able to divide it and take a portion for your farm.”
“The Chovaneks? Haven’t they been here for more than a hundred years?”
“Well, you see, they’ve had a lot of bad luck lately. A few of their tractors gave up the ghost not too long ago, and their stock seem to have gotten into some bad pasture; they lost about a hundred head of cattle. Some kind of nightshade poisoning, I think I heard.”
“That’s a shame,” I said.
“Happens sometimes,” she said. “It’s always tough with cows—they eat anything that isn’t nailed down, practically. Almost as bad as goats. In fact,” she said airily, “a few farms seem to have been having trouble this last year. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a few more properties on the market shortly. Here’s what’s listed currently, and recent sales, too,” she said, pushing a photocopied list toward me. “Of course,” she added, “you might have some competition. I’ve got a few clients looking for something special.”
“I heard the Kocureks were looking to expand a bit,” I said as I glanced at the page, even though I hadn’t heard anything of the sort.
“What gives you that impression?” she asked.
I shrugged. “Just rumors.” I waited a moment, and then threw out what I hoped would be a hook. “Somebody told me you and Nettie were planning something together.”
“Well, I’ll be,” she said, blinking rapidly.
“You weren’t working with Nettie?” I asked.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Just because somebody is my client doesn’t mean they fill me in on everything. Besides, she hadn’t been in touch with me since you bought your farm.” Her defensive posture made me wonder if she was telling the truth.
“Huh.
I thought I’d seen your Escalade out there a few times recently.”
She shook her head. “Must be somebody else’s.”
“With BUYBUTT on the back of it?” I asked.
Instead of answering, she shuffled the stack of listings together. “I might have stopped by to do client relations or something; I don’t keep close track of everything.” She pushed a flyer toward me. “Why don’t you look through these and see if there’s anything that interests you?” she said. “What did you say your price range was again?”
I hadn’t, but I threw out the first number that popped into my head, and it was a big one.
Her eyebrows rose, but all she said was, “Your aunt must have liked you a whole lot, honey.”
“She did. She was my father’s sister—other side of the family. We were very close.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” She arranged her face into a bright smile. “I hate to run, but I have a lot on my plate this afternoon, so why don’t you let me know if you’d like me to show you one of those properties. Do you want me to set up an appointment with the mortgage broker?”
“I think I’d rather find the right property first,” I demurred.
She nodded thoughtfully. “All right, then. You just let me know, okay?”
“Sure,” I said, letting myself out the door and heading to my pickup truck. The shades were now down in the front office of Buttercup Properties, and I wondered what business Faith had to attend to.
Something told me it had to do with the phone call she’d been on when I arrived. I just wished I knew who she’d been talking to.
My next stop was to visit Quinn. Instead of parking in front of the cafe, I drove the pickup around the back of the Blue Onion, where the plywood over the door was a stark reminder of what had taken place last night. I knocked on it, identifying myself in a loud voice, and Quinn peered out through the window over the sink, her curly red hair pulled back from her drawn face with a blue bandanna. A moment later I heard the deadbolt snick back, and the door opened.
“Sorry to freak you out,” I said. “I just thought it would be better if I came through the back.”
“I don’t care who knows you’re here,” she said.
Killer Jam (A Dewberry Farm Mystery) Page 16