Wicked Harvest

by Karen MacInerney

  A few minutes later, I padded back into the living room with my coffee mug in one hand and a little bit of fresh cheese in the other. "Not a word to Tobias," I warned Chuck as he gobbled the cheese. He gave me a panting smile and then gave the kitten another lick before settling back in. The kitten purred, but didn't open her eyes. I took my coffee to the bedroom, got dressed, and quietly headed out the back door to do the milking and gather eggs from the chickens.

  If the damage to the chicken coop and the historic little house had really been the work of a vandal, they didn't appear to have made a return trip the previous night. The roof of the coop was still intact, and the restrung cables holding the house up were all still taut and unharmed. Ed and Nick had taken to locking the front and back doors of the little house, too; they were still shut tight, I was glad to see. In addition, all the cows and goats were accounted for.

  The sun had inched well over the horizon as I headed back to the house with a basket of eggs and two buckets of milk. A cool breeze that foretold the coming autumn was sweeping over the pasture, ruffling the grass, and the air was perfumed with just the tiniest touch of woodsmoke. I was guessing someone had fired up the smoker for a brisket; it was still a tad warm for a fire in the fireplace, but all the same, the scent stirred up anticipation of cozy evenings by the fire.

  I'd just put the eggs in a bowl in the fridge and poured the milk into a pot on the stove when Ed's truck bumped up the driveway. Chuck abandoned his role as cat bed and ran to the door, barking; a moment later, the kitten followed, stretching and yawning and looking completely unconcerned.

  I waited until Ed parked to let Chuck out the front door. He raced over to the truck, greeting Ed as he swung down from the front seat. I made sure the kitten was still inside as I closed the door behind me and walked out to greet the contractor, who was dressed in neat blue jeans, his best boots, and a white button-down shirt. He was holding something that looked like a camera in his hand.

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "Security camera," he told me, bending down to scratch Chuck behind the ears. "Everything here doin' okay? No more monkey business?"

  "Not that I saw," I told him.

  "Well, if they do anythin' else, we'll catch 'em on this," he said, tapping the camera. "I just have to find a place to put it."

  "Let me know if you need a hand," I said.

  "I think I should be fine," he said. "Nick's comin' over later; I've got an interview in town."

  "What for?"

  "Biddin' on the Buttercup Bank job. Don't you worry, though. If we do get it, it won't start until after your little house is done."

  "Well, then, I hope you get it."

  "Me too," he said, but he didn't look hopeful.

  "Who's the competition?"

  "Oh, some bigwig firm out of Houston. Say they can do it in half the time for a third the money." He rolled his eyes. "Of course, I know that ain't the case, but you know how bankin' folks can be. All about return on investment and all that. Problem is, they don't know they've bought a pig in a poke until they're a year down the road and the project's only half done and twenty-five percent over budget."

  "Surely your reputation around town will help?" I suggested.

  "That's how things used to get done around here," he said. "But Buttercup Bank's part-owned by some folks out of the big city, so it could go either way."

  "I'll be pulling for you," I said. "If you need a reference..."

  "Even after the house almost fell down on Nick?" He gave me a wry smile.

  "You and I both know that had nothing to do with you," I said.

  "Yeah, well, Nick told everybody at the brewery what happened," he told me. "I got a call from his daddy, too. Told me I needed to keep a more watchful eye."

  "Did you take pictures of the cables?"

  "I should have," he said, "but I didn't." He sighed. "Things just ain't what they used to be around here."

  "I'm sure you'll get the job," I said. "At any rate, I'm looking forward to getting my project up and running. What all is left?"

  "Once we get her stable, we're finishin' up the bathroom downstairs, puttin' in new counters and cabinets in the kitchen like we talked about, and slapping on some more paint."

  "I ordered the appliances last week," I said. "Should I have waited?"

  "If they get here early, we'll just keep 'em in boxes in the barn," Ed assured me. "Better to have 'em ahead of time than end up waitin' six weeks because some oven is on backorder."

  "True," I said.

  "Well," he said, "let me get this set up and then I've got to head into town. Nick should be here in a bit to finish replacin' some of the sheathin'. I'm hopin' we can get goin' on the kitchen by the end of next week."

  "Counters came and cabinets are on the way," I said. "They should be here by Monday."

  "Perfect timin'," he said, then tapped the camera in his hand. "I'll get this here camera set up and be on my way, but like I said, Nick'll be here soon." He squinted at me. "He doin' okay?"

  "He seems to be working hard," I said.

  "He's a good worker when he wants to be," Ed admitted, "but sometimes I think his mind wanders."

  "He's a teenage boy," I said. "I think they're known for that. He seems like a good kid."

  "A bit naive, but I suppose you're right," Ed said. "I just wish his daddy would get off his back. And mine." He sighed. "Oh, well. I guess I rode my kids hard, too. What goes around..."

  I grinned at him. "Payback, eh?" I glanced down at Chuck, who had deposited himself at Ed's feet and was looking up at him with a hopeful expression. "Oh—I found a kitten in my chimney last night, by the way. I think the mama cat is still hanging around somewhere—I saw her in the smokehouse last night. Seen any cats while you've been working?"

  "I've seen one a few times; I thought it was yours. Gray stripy thing, skittish?"

  "That's the one," I said. "Where have you seen her?"

  "Near the chicken coop a couple of times," he said.

  "Not too far from the smokehouse, then. Any sign of kittens?"

  "Not that I saw, but I wasn't lookin'. Might want to ask Nick when he gets here."

  "I will," I said. "Let me know if you see her again, or any kittens, okay?"

  "Will do," he said, tipping his hat—he was actually wearing one made of straw—and then strode toward the Ulrich house, camera in his hand, with me in his wake.

  "Part of the chicken coop roof was pried up last night," I told him. "I found a raccoon slipping out of the coop. I thought it might be him, but if someone's here vandalizing things... is there any way to tell?"

  "Did you see any dents where someone might have used a crowbar, or a hammer?" he asked.

  "No," I said, "but it was dark. I didn't look too closely."

  "Hard to know," he said. "I'll take a look in a bit. In the meantime, I'd stay alert. Too bad you don't have a watch dog, or maybe some guineas."

  I hadn't thought of adding guinea fowl to the farm. I'd seen the black and white-spotted birds with their crested, red heads more than once; the odd-looking creatures, native to Africa, had a reputation for adopting particular areas and guarding them fiercely, putting up a huge racket when anything came near.

  "I've heard about them, but never thought about getting any," I said.

  "One of them adopted Lenny Froehlich's '54 Ford pick-up a few years back," Ed said. "Made a kerfuffle every time he tried to get in and drive it to town. He finally gave up and had to get a Tacoma."

  "Really?"

  He nodded.. "Really."

  "That's dedication." I stared at the little house, with its slightly crooked frame and its metal roof, and thought of its years of history. With everything else that had been going on, I'd kind of forgotten about the sabotage, but it made me uneasy. Uneasy enough to want to find a way to keep an eye on the place when I couldn't be there. "I wonder if I could get a small flock to adopt the house?"

  "If you're thinking of rentin' it out, you might warn the tenants. They
make a heckuva racket at sunset every night. And on that metal roof, they'd sound like they were tap-dancin'."

  "That might be a problem," I said.

  "I think a video camera might be a better call than guinea fowl. This one's got a motion sensor and everythin'."

  "And if someone's trying to vandalize the place, maybe we'll be able to find out who."

  "If someone's goin' after my jobs, I want to know, too. I don't know if it's you or me they're after, or if someone was just havin' their version of fun, but better safe than sorry."

  "Can you help me set it up?"

  "Sure thing," he said. "In fact, I'll put it up now."

  "Everything still looking okay?" I asked.

  "Yup. We fixed up the damage and we're back on track. Hope to have you up and runnin' in time to rent it out during the antique fair in the spring; we're a little late for fall, but maybe in the new year?"

  "That would be great," I said. "Thanks."

  "My pleasure. I'll just go get this set up," he said, tapping the camera.

  "I've got drinks in the house if you're thirsty," I said. "Help yourself; I'm going to be working here myself for the next few hours."

  "Thank you, Ma'am," he said, and tipped his straw hat as he headed down to set up the camera.

  I walked across the yard, Chuck at my heels, thinking about the mother cat. I didn't know if she could be tamed, but I wanted to find a way to get her spayed so that she didn't have another litter of kittens. Would a Have-A-Heart trap be the way to go? But what if she had other kittens hidden away somewhere, and wasn't able to get back to them?

  I sighed as I stepped into the living room. The kitten had found her way to the rug in front of the stove and had curled up into a little gray ball. Chuck trotted over and began grooming her as I filled two bowls with cat food and water and put them on the back porch, just in case mama cat was hungry.

  11

  The Oktoberfest market at the Town Hall didn't start until six in the evening, so I spent the rest of the day clearing more of the pumpkin and squash patch and making more goat milk flan. On the fifth try, I finally got the hang of the caramel, which made the process much faster. It turned out delicious, thank goodness, and I hoped it would sell well. Flan might not be German, but since there'd been an elotes stand at the brewery, I wasn't too worried about adding a bit of Mexican flair. Besides, diversification was the name of the game, right?

  Nick turned up at around eleven. At noon, I took a break from making flan to head down to the house with a ginger ale.

  "Any more near-catastrophes?" I asked as I handed him a ginger ale.

  "Thanks," he said, wiping his brow with a blue bandana, and said, "Not so far. But I'm being extra-careful. My dad just about had a coronary when I told him what happened." He took a swig of ginger ale.

  I spent the next hour doing kitchen work. Once I finished tucking the last batch of the cooled flans into the fridge, I spent some time packaging more of my new Autumn Spice scented soaps, which I'd poured into leaf-shaped molds using soap in a variety of reds, golds, and oranges, into little mesh bags with handmade labels. I'd made them a while back; they'd been curing for weeks, and were ready to sell. As I put the last bag into the crate I used to carry them, I took an appreciative sniff; the mix of spices made for a delightful scent that made me excited about crisp fall nights, pumpkin pie, and cozy fires.

  But it wasn't fall just yet, I reflected as I checked my inventory of flans and fresh goat cheese (some of which I'd rolled in fresh herbs this time). Then I set to work creating a sign advertising my "goat milk crème caramel" and dug out some sample spoons from my storage bin. When I was satisfied that everything inside the house was taken care of, I headed out to cut some flowers from the cutting garden I'd planted at the end of the yard. I spent a fun half hour creating beautiful bouquets of Mexican Bush Sage, zinnias, coral vine (which covered the fence to the west of the house in a glorious burst of pink), and fragrant Mexican Mint Marigold, adding in a few bits of fennel here and there. I sniffed the cheerful yellow flowers of the Mexican Mint Marigold as I finished another bouquet; I loved the flowering herb, which was not only beautiful, but a dead ringer for fresh tarragon in French-inspired dishes. Which was a very good thing, since tarragon is notoriously hard to keep alive in Texas's hot climate.

  Once the flowers were all bundled into bouquets and nestled into a bucket of water, I loaded a box with a bolt of the blue-and-white-checked fabric I'd picked up in a fabric store in Austin, and several rolls of fairy lights to string around my booth. I grabbed a flat of rosemary plants, too; I'd been nursing them through the summer, and hoped they would be popular. Fall was the best time to plant perennials in Texas, so that the cool fall and winter rains could help their roots grow deep and get established before the punishing summer began.

  In between market prep chores, I made frequent stops to the bedroom to check on the kitten, feed her, and give her a few encouraging pets. Tobias and I had set up a temporary litter box for her, made out of an old cardboard peach crate and some cat litter that I kept in the barn for oil spills. The kitten was still sleeping a lot, but was always happy to see me, and was becoming more active after every feeding. I had been glad to see her energy returning as the day progressed; now, as I went in to check on her one last time before heading out to the market, she was attempting to climb the lace curtains framing the big window.

  "You're trouble, aren't you?" I said, laughing as she gave me a startled look from her big green eyes and let out a scratchy meow. I was feeding her every few hours now; should I leave her here at home, or take her with me so I could check on her regularly?

  As I detached her from the curtains, the kitten snuggled into my arms, purring strongly. I was glad she wasn't scared of me; although I felt bad for any other kittens who hadn't made it, it was a good thing we'd found this one so young. Tobias said that feral cats do best if they start interacting with humans sometime in the first four weeks.

  "Want to come with me?" I asked.

  She meowed as if she understood me. I smiled and stroked her head, then put her in the litter box.

  "Hang on," I told her. "I'll be right back."

  I headed to the storage shed to retrieve the carrier I'd bought when I adopted Chuck from the shelter. As I opened the shed door, I caught a flash of something down by the house. Nick had headed home a while ago, so it couldn't be him. Was my vandal back, in broad daylight? Or I had I caught a glimpse of the kitten's mother?

  I tucked myself behind the door and peered down toward the house. Had I really seen something?

  After another five minutes of watching, I saw nothing. I glanced at my watch; I needed to get moving if I was going to make it to the market in time to set up. I grabbed the carrier, closed the shed door, and headed back to the farmhouse. Part of me was tempted to go down and check out what I had seen, but fortunately the bigger, smarter part of me knew I was short on time and fairly ill-equipped to deal with potential intruders. Ed might have put the camera up, but I hadn't asked him how to use it.

  I'd have to remedy that tomorrow.

  * * *

  It was almost five-thirty by the time I rolled up to the town square. Like the brewery, it had been decked out to look like a quaint Bavarian town, with lots of blue and white bunting, fairy lights, and festive stalls. The green in front of the courthouse had been turned into a beer garden, with long picnic tables covered in blue and white tablecloths, complete with little jars of local wildflowers in the middle. Mayor Niederberger had been working with the German Club to make Buttercup's events even more special; obviously it was working.

  As I secured the legs of my pop-up and set up my table, I scanned the booths on the edge of the green. Despite yesterday's brouhaha, Sweetwater Brewery had a big booth, complete with professional-looking table set-ups and signage and several taps; a few booths down was Max Pfeiffer's much smaller booth, which featured a card table and a keg, along with a hand-lettered sign inviting festival-goers to "Try Fayette Co
unty's Oldest Beer." Which wasn't the most appealing invitation; he could use a little help in the marketing department. He was sitting on a card table chair a few feet behind the table, his arms crossed across his chest, looking... satisfied? The sun glinted off his scalp, which was peeking through his few remaining strands of hair.

  My eyes drifted to the Sweetwater Brewery booth. There was no sign of Teena, but Simon was there, directing his workers as they set out cups and wired the price list to the top frame of the booth. His movements were jerky, and his face, usually animated and friendly, was devoid of expression. It must be hard to lose a brother, I thought. Particularly one with whom your life was so entwined. Although if Simon had been the responsible party, maybe it was the threat of jail that had him so upset? I didn't like to consider it, but I couldn't eliminate the possibility.

  I checked on the kitten's water—she was tucked into the back of the carrier, watching everything with big green eyes—and then searched the gathering crowd for other familiar faces as I spread out the tablecloth and began arranging the autumn spice soap bags in a display basket. Adriana Janacek, the unfortunate barley farmer, didn't seem to be in attendance, but Ed was standing at Bubba's barbecue booth, wearing his trademark boots and jeans. I reminded myself to tell him to be extra-careful next time he and Nick were down at the house. I didn't know if I'd been imagining things or not earlier that day, but better safe than sorry.

  I had just finished putting out samples of my flan and arranging the bouquets of flowers at the end of the table when Mandy Vargas appeared, a notebook in her hand and an eager look on her face.

  "I tried to call you earlier, but there was no answer," she said.

  "I've been pretty busy," I said. "I probably turned my ringer off and haven't checked for messages. It's been crazy getting ready for the festival."

  "I understand you were there when they found Felix Gustafson," she said, her eyes glinting with the fervor of a journalist on a hot trail. I liked her, but there wasn't much I could do to help her with the story; I knew as much as everybody else.