Killer Jam (A Dewberry Farm Mystery)

by Karen MacInerney

  The creek was lined with cottonwood, sycamore, and willow trees. The dewberry vines were clustered under them, glistening with raindrops and hanging low to the ground, heavy with fruit. I used my stick to move branches aside as I picked the fat, ripe fruits—partially to avoid the poison ivy that tended to sprout up among the canes, and partially to look for any snakes that might be hiding among the brush. The breeze rustled the leaves above me, showering me with rainwater from time to time, but the whispery sound was soothing. The creek was already running a bit higher, and as I worked, I heard an occasional plop as a startled frog leaped into the water.

  It was good to be outside, away from the house, away from people, focusing on the simple and nourishing task of picking berries and filling my basket. No snakes today, and only two sprouts of poison ivy—my luck was improving—and it took less than an hour to fill my basket. There were several more berries blushing; they’d be ready in a few days. I took a detour through the small peach orchard on my way back to the house, pleased to see the boughs heavy with fuzzy green fruit. With any luck, it would be a good harvest.

  I could only hope I’d be around to take advantage of it.

  Pushing that thought away, I headed into the kitchen, where I put my big canning pot on the stove as I rinsed and measured the berries, pouring them into my jam pot and adding sugar, water, a touch of lemon juice, and my grandmother’s secret ingredient—vanilla. As the mixture heated, a sweet smell filled the kitchen, and I found myself turning things over in my mind as I stirred with a wooden spoon.

  Nancy’s death had been a real shock, but I was sure it was related to what had happened to Nettie. Did that label have something to do with her death? Her house, after all, had been right next to the Kocureks. Or did she know something about what had happened at the Founders’ Day Festival—something that the murderer was afraid she’d spill?

  Peter Swenson had mentioned seeing Faith Zapalac over at the Kocureks a lot recently, and suggested they were trying to put together some kind of land deal. Was he telling me the truth, or was he just trying to divert my attention away from him?

  Faith had been talking with someone when I walked into her office, though—and she’d thought someone was threatening her. She’d gotten off the phone quickly when I arrived, but it was entirely possible she’d called back as soon as I’d left. She had almost certainly talked to Rooster at some point—I’d only been away from her office for an hour before Rooster knew what I’d said about an inheritance.

  What was I going to do about that, anyway? I’d panicked and told Rooster the inheritance was still up in the air, but it wouldn’t take long to discover I had no rich aunt, much less any other relatives who had died recently. Rooster was a lazy officer, but it was too much to hope that he wouldn’t check out my story; I knew he was determined to put me away. And he’d confront me with it when he found out it was a lie. In which case I’d have to tell him why I’d said it, and what I was investigating. Something I was loath to do.

  As the mixture in the pot started to bubble, I reached in the drawer for my candy thermometer and hooked it to the side of the pot, burying the silver bulb at the bottom into the foamy purple syrup. The smell of berries and vanilla was intoxicating; it was a shame, really, that a jar had been wasted at the festival.

  Why had Nettie hit someone with a jam jar? Or, it occurred to me for the first time, had someone hit Nettie with it? I wished there were some way to find out what the autopsy results were. Something told me the murder was a crime of passion—why else would anybody take the risk of killing someone in a tent at the festival?

  And I still hadn’t figured out anything about that lamb pin on the scrap of red fabric.

  I gave the berry mixture another stir, making a mental list of things to do. Talk to Nancy’s husband—maybe when I stopped by with a King Ranch Chicken Casserole. Find out about the lamb pin on the scrap of fabric. And figure out what kind of real estate deal Faith was trying to put together with Nettie Kocurek.

  As I used a pair of tongs to lower clean jars into the canning pot, I thought about the rash of tractor troubles I’d heard about—and something tugged at my memory. Something Faith had said, about a farm that was coming up for sale. A hundred head of cattle had died of poisoning, and that had made them decide to sell up.

  Then again, the Kocureks had had machinery sugared, too—at least that’s what the librarian had mentioned—and if Nettie was trying to drive people off their land by sabotaging them, she’d hardly damage her own equipment. I wondered who else had had trouble? I’d have to ask Mandy Vargas down at the Buttercup Zephyr for a list. I knew Rooster wouldn’t be forthcoming with it.

  I peered down at the thermometer; the jam was almost done. I retrieved the jars from the canning pot, setting them down on a dish towel I’d laid on the counter next to the stove, and watched the mercury until it reached 104 degrees. When it hit the point, I pulled a plate out of the freezer and spread some of the syrup on it. It set immediately, which meant the jam had jelled.

  I turned off the heat and ladled the mixture into the jars, leaving about a half inch of headspace, then fitted the sterilized lids over all of them and used the tongs to put them back into the pot. I’d boil them for another fifteen minutes before returning them to the dish towel to cool and waiting for the lids to pop down—the sign that the jars were sterile and sealed. I was just shy of a full jar, so instead of filling one more, I scooped myself up a bowl of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream and poured the dewberry mixture over it.

  The taste of tart-sweet berries with creamy ice cream was divine, and by the time the timer rang to tell me to take the jars out, I was wishing I’d kept back enough of the syrup for a second bowl. As the jam cooled, I hand-lettered another batch of labels; I’d put them on the jars when they had reached room temperature and then store them until Saturday.

  Once the jars were all lined up on the dish towel, glowing in the afternoon light that slanted through the kitchen window, I took a quick inventory of the pie safe. I still had three dozen candles and about as many bars of homemade soap. With the carrots, greens, broccoli, and green garlic I would harvest, there would be plenty to sell at my stall this Saturday. I still had plenty of milk to process, too; once I got regular cottage cheese production going, with any luck, I’d turn a bit of a profit. Not enough to pay my attorney’s fees, perhaps, but something was better than nothing.

  I had just finished washing up the pot when Chuck started barking, and I glanced out to see Quinn’s truck bumping up the drive. A few minutes later, she knocked, and I walked to answer it, drying my hands on a dish towel.

  “Smells terrific in here,” she said as she walked in carrying a heavily loaded cloth bag. “Just made another batch of jam,” I said. “How did things go at the restaurant?”

  “The window guy never showed up,” she said. “But he said he’d be there tomorrow.”

  “And the lunch trade?”

  “Busier than ever,” she said. “I stayed out of the dining room as much as possible, but Tori told me there were lots of questions.”

  “I’ll bet.” Whenever a police car arrived with its lights flashing, questions were sure to follow.

  “Any word on tracking him down?”

  “Nothing yet,” she said. “Rooster is giving me the runaround. Says the evidence is still with the lab, so he can’t do anything.”

  “At least he doesn’t know where you’re staying,” I said.

  “I sure hope not, anyway.” She put the bag on the counter and started pulling out groceries. “I’ve got some plums here that need to be used up, so I was thinking of making pork medallions with plum sauce.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said. “Can I help?”

  “You can pour me a glass of wine if you’ve got any,” she suggested.

  “Happily,” I told her. In truth, I could use a glass—or maybe a half dozen glasses—of wine. The day had not been a triumph, I reflected as I pulled a bottle of inexpensive but not awful
sauvignon blanc out of the fridge.

  “Do you have ginger?”

  I dug in the vegetable crisper and withdrew a slightly wrinkled knob of ginger root.

  “That’ll work,” she nodded as I tossed the ginger over to her. “How was your day?”

  “You didn’t hear?” I asked as she reached for a cutting board.

  “Hear what?”

  “I found Nancy Shaw dead.”

  “Oh, no.” Quinn held the knob of ginger to her chest, looking stricken, as I poured us each a glass of wine. “I knew she’d had a heart attack a few years back . . . ”

  “It wasn’t a heart attack.” I handed her a glass and told her about the puddle of blood.

  “That’s awful,” she breathed. “Poor Martin. Unless, of course, he did it himself.”

  “Would he?” I asked. “I kind of guessed this had something to do with Nettie.”

  “I always thought they were happily married,” she said. “I’ll have to send up some food. Poor guy.” She shook her head and rinsed a few plums in the sink. “Was Rooster there?”

  “Of course.” I relayed our conversation, and she groaned.

  “Lucy Resnick. Sometimes you don’t have the sense God gave a goose. Why on earth did you tell Faith Zapalac you were inheriting money?”

  “Because I needed an excuse to stop by the office,” I told her. “Peter Swenson said he’d seen her at Nettie’s a lot recently, and I thought I’d see if I could find out why.”

  She took a swig of wine and then rinsed a half dozen plums. “What are you going to tell Rooster when he finds out you don’t have an aunt?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know. The truth, maybe?”

  “Might have been a nice idea to mention that up front,” she said.

  I took a sip of wine and offered to chop plums, but she waved me away. “It’s therapeutic,” she explained. “Did Peter have anything else to say?”

  “She was spraying stuff near his fence line that he was afraid was messing with his goats’ organic status,” I said, “but I’m not sure that’s enough to kill someone for. He did mention that Faith Zapalac was over there a lot recently, though.”

  “Probably sucking up to Nettie and suggesting she subdivide her property.”

  “That’s a possibility,” I admitted. “Peter did say he thought the Kocureks were trying to do some kind of real estate deal.”

  “Why would Nettie be interested in doing a real estate deal?” she asked. “She was already rich as Croesus?”

  “To hear her talk, she was a poor pensioner,” I snorted.

  A few moments later, the phone rang.

  “Lucy, it’s Molly,” my friend said breathlessly when I answered. “I heard you found Nancy Shaw murdered.”

  “It’s true,” I said.

  “I also heard that Quinn’s ex broke into the Blue Onion last night, and that she’s staying with you.”

  “Also true,” I confirmed.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Please tell her if there’s anything we can do . . . ”

  “I will,” I said.

  “I can’t believe someone killed Nancy,” she said. “I heard Martin was devastated. Came home to find a sheriff’s cruiser in his front yard.”

  “Is someone with him this afternoon?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He’s staying with their daughter out in La Grange. It’s such a tragedy. They were expecting their first grandchild, did you know?”

  “I didn’t,” I answered, feeling a pit open up in my stomach.

  “Bad times in Buttercup,” Molly said. “People selling up left and right.”

  “I know,” I said. “Faith Zapalac mentioned it to me. By the way,” I asked, “how’s that cow?”

  “Doing just fine,” she told me.

  “I heard the Chovaneks lost a hundred head recently and are selling up.”

  “There have been a lot of problems with sick cattle recently,” she said. “It’s been a rainy spring—must be making the weeds grow. They sometimes eat things they shouldn’t.”

  A thought glimmered in my mind. “Are you sure it’s not linked with whoever’s been sabotaging tractors?” I asked.

  “Oh.” She was quiet for a moment. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “It’s worth thinking about,” I suggested. I thought of the list of properties for sale Faith had given me. I needed to ask Tobias how many of them had been linked with sick cattle.

  “Of course. Anyway, I’ve been meaning to call you about the lockbox you found in the loft.”

  With everything else that had been going on, I’d almost forgotten about the box. “I got it open the other day; there’s an old marriage certificate, a photo, and an old bouquet.”

  “Really? Who was it?”

  “I don’t know. The certificate had too much water damage to tell the names.”

  “I’ll bet if you take it to the county clerk, they’ll be able to help you out.”

  “Did you find something out?”

  “I was talking to Gus Holz the other day, and he mentioned that Thomas Mueller used to work for your grandparents. He didn’t have a car or a truck, and it was a few miles to town, so they let him put up in the hayloft of the barn.”

  “Wait a moment. The Mueller man who was killed over Gruenwald lived here?”

  “That’s what Gus said.”

  “That would explain why the lockbox was in the hayloft, at least,” I said. “Did he say anything else?”

  “Only that he’d been sweet on one of the Baca girls. Unrequited love, I guess; he was just a farmhand, and she ended up marrying one of the Kocureks.”

  “Did he have any ideas who might have killed him?”

  “No,” she said, “and it will probably remain unsolved. Almost everybody in town who was around when it happened has moved or passed on.”

  “Who’s still here?”

  “Well, there’s Anna Kosmetsky, but she’s in the Alzheimer’s ward. And Liesel Mueller—his cousin, I think—but she’s always been what my momma called ‘simple.’” She paused for a moment. “Why are you so interested in this, anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I like mysteries, I guess. And knowing he lived in the barn . . . ” I thought about it for a moment. “But he couldn’t have been the one holding onto the article about his death, could he?”

  “Maybe your grandmother left it up there,” Molly suggested.

  “But why put it in the barn?” I asked. “And it doesn’t explain the marriage certificate.”

  “You should go over to the county clerk’s office and see if you can get another copy,” she suggested. “After you manage to clear your name of Nettie’s death,” she said. “Speaking of which, I stopped by the Brethren Church today.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “I asked Father Mikeska about the lamb pins. He told me they’d been given out at Christmas to recognize people who were particularly active in the church community.”

  My hope flared. “Does he have a list?”

  “As a matter of fact, he does,” she said. “He showed me a picture that was taken after they were awarded. I wrote down everyone’s name. Want the list?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “I’ll get it from you next time I’m out there.”

  “Great. Now, what about the pictures Mandy took at the festival?” she asked.

  “You mean we could see who was wearing one the day of the event?”

  “Just a thought.”

  “Molly,” I said, gripping the phone with both hands. “You’re a genius.”

  I hung up a moment later and explained everything to Quinn, finally feeling like I might possibly escape being charged with murder.

  “There’s only one problem,” she said, looking up from where she was slicing the pork tenderloin into one-inch medallions. The red juice on the cutting board brought back an image of Nancy, and I looked away.

  “What’s that?”

  “How are you going to convince Rooster Kocure
k you didn’t plant the pin?”

  My hope deflated a bit, but I refused to be totally demoralized. I slugged down the rest of the wine, looked at Quinn, and said, “I’ll burn that bridge when I get to it.”

  Quinn and I shared a relatively jovial dinner together, despite the circumstances, and didn’t resume our conversation until after I’d finished my evening chores.

  “Have you made kolaches with your grandma’s cottage cheese yet?” my friend asked as she reclined on my old overstuffed couch with Chuck stretched out beside her. I sat down in the rocker across from her with a glass of mint iced tea. He and I were both enjoying the company.

  “Not yet,” I told her. “I made the cheese the other day, though. It was good!”

  “Where’s her cookbook?” she asked.

  “I’ll get it,” I said, standing up. “Need anything in the kitchen?”

  “No. I’m too full of chocolate pie.” I retrieved the cookbook from the kitchen and handed it to her, then sat back down in the chair, rocking gently as she leafed through it. She stopped about halfway through. “Oh, you’ve got a recipe for her bublanina.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A really yummy Czech cherry cake. She brought that to lunch at my mom’s house one time. It was awesome with vanilla ice cream.”

  “I still haven’t made most of the recipes,” I confessed.

  “She’s got a few good pickle recipes, too. When your cucumbers come in, you should definitely try them.” She paused and looked up at me. “It may sound weird, but I keep expecting your grandma to walk in from the kitchen,” she said. “It’s almost like I feel she’s here.”

  Goose bumps rose on my arm. “I feel that way a lot,” I admitted. “And you know that newspaper clipping? The one about the murder at the train depot in Gruenwald?”

  “What about it?”

  “It fell from the hay loft while I was milking Blossom.”

  “That could be the wind. Those old barns aren’t too tight.”

  “I told myself the same thing,” I said. “The thing is, the window was closed; and there wasn’t a breeze that night. I almost felt like . . . like she wanted me to find it.”