1 A Cop and a Coop

by Hillary Avis

  Anne paused mid-chop and looked back over her shoulder at me. “He won’t hurt me.”

  “What are you talking about? Yes, he will! He tied you up and is holding you hostage! That never ends well.”

  She shook her head, a sad smile quirking the corner of her mouth. “No, he just tied me up so I’d hear him out. He’s trying to convince me to marry him now that Walt’s gone. I guess he saw his chance after all these years.”

  “Have you two been having an affair this whole time?” I asked, stunned.

  The knife clattered down onto the cutting board and Anne turned to face me. “No! I broke it off with him twenty years ago—back when Walt chased Joe off with a knife, and then Joe disappeared. I didn’t know for sure that Walt killed Joe, but I knew he would kill Rusty if he found out about us.” She swallowed hard, fingering her silver locket. “I told Rusty we couldn’t see each other anymore. We couldn’t even talk. If he was going to do work around our place, he had to deal with Walt only. That’s how it had to be.”

  I nodded sympathetically even as I scanned the door for any signs of movement. “I guess you couldn’t claim to be doing housekeeping for Amos Chapman anymore once you had your necklace back, could you? Walt would have been looking for the money you were earning.”

  She nodded and turned back to the cutting board, slicing the apple into thin, even pieces. “That’s what I told Rusty, too. The jig was up. No more sinning. He had to let me go.”

  “But he didn’t let go...obviously. That’s why we need to get out of here, Anne—please!”

  “He still carries a torch, I guess,” Anne said, her voice trancelike. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe we should move off somewhere else and be together.”

  I could see she wasn’t going to be any help. The past days’ events had been too much for her fragile psyche. I moved over to the window by the door and, praying that Rusty was still facing Eli and had his back to the window, lifted the edge of the curtain a little so I could see what was going on outside on the porch. The two men were still in a standoff, their voices raised in argument.

  “Just put down the weapon!” Eli’s voice came faintly through the glass. “We can talk about this!”

  The back of Rusty’s head bowed. His voice was so low that I couldn’t make out the words. But Eli seemed to have understood him.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything. I just want to hear your side of the story.” Eli held up his hands, pointing the gun away from Rusty, and then slowly put the gun back in the holster. “See? Now your turn.”

  Rusty didn’t put the hatchet down right away. Instead, he half-turned toward the house as though deciding whether to do as Eli said or come in after Anne. I swiftly dropped the edge of the curtain before he could spot me through the glass.

  “Anne!” I hissed. “Is there a back door to your place?”

  “Yes—it’s through the laundry room. Go on and let yourself out.” Anne scraped the apple slices into a bowl with the edge of her knife, then pointed the knife toward the other side of the kitchen, where a doorway opened to the dining and living rooms.

  I grabbed her elbow and tugged her toward where she had pointed. “Come on—I think he’s going to come inside.”

  She pulled her arm away and backed toward the sink, shaking her head. “I told you, don’t worry. Rusty won’t hurt me.”

  “Anne! He killed Walt! You had no idea what he’s capable of! We have to go, now!” The voices on the porch were louder now.

  Anne’s smooth, pale forehead creased. “Why would he kill Walt? They were friends.”

  “Walt found out that Rusty was the one who stole his telescope,” I said breathlessly, moving toward the dining room. “He went to the pawn shop and saw Zeke’s records—saw that Rusty traded the telescope for your necklace. He figured out that you were having an affair with Rusty, not Joe. He probably confronted Rusty about it, they fought, and Rusty killed him in the blueberry shed. Come on, please.”

  The voices were right outside the door now, and I could hear the heavy tread of feet pounding up the porch stairs.

  Anne stood frozen, the knife in her hand, staring at the front door. “I didn’t want him to do it.”

  I took a deep breath to calm my leaping stomach. “I know. It’s not your fault. Just put down the knife and let’s go. Actually, on second thought, bring the knife. We might need it.”

  Something clattered onto the porch outside, and Rusty’s wail came through the door. “Oh God. Oh God. This is all my fault. I ruined everything.”

  Chapter 34

  My heart stopped. My breath stopped. I think maybe the earth stopped spinning on its axis for a second. Had Rusty finally thrown his hatchet—had he killed Eli, too? I wobbled for a moment, dizzy from the lack of oxygen, and drew a deep breath just as Eli’s soothing voice echoed from the porch. He wasn’t dead. I sagged against the wall.

  “We’ll get this sorted out, man. If Walt made the first move—”

  “Walt?” Rusty’s voice through the door was fuzzy, confused.

  “He found out about you and Anne. He confronted you about your affair. You argued, right? The day he died? What happened in the shed?”

  Rusty sounded more agitated now, and his voice rose until he was shouting. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! Are you trying to trick me? I’m just here to protect Anne. Make sure nobody hurts her. Get back! Get—” He broke off and someone—or two someones, more likely—crashed against the door.

  “We need to get out of this kitchen.” I said grimly. I wanted to believe that Eli, with his Marines-made muscles and law enforcement training, was going to win this scuffle, but there were no guarantees in life. Someone was going to come through that door, and it might be Rusty with his hatchet. I couldn’t depend on anyone to save me but myself.

  “I didn’t want him to do it,” Anne repeated. “I told him it was worth it.”

  “What was?”

  “Losing the necklace. I told Rusty it was worth being with him. I didn’t care about it. But he didn’t listen. He had to go and make a mess out of things that I had to clean up—that I’m still cleaning up.”

  She was still standing there with the stupid knife in her hand, gripping it so tightly her knuckles were white as her apron as she stared out the kitchen window at the blueberry shed. Her face was pale but her expression was unruffled, the same as it had been the night Walt was killed. The only difference was that then, her apron hadn’t been white—it’d been streaked and spotted with red juice from the berries she’d been processing. Her gloves had been a mess, too.

  What did Anne mean, Rusty caused a mess that she was still cleaning up?

  What if...

  What if it wasn’t berry juice on Anne’s apron the night Walt died? Whoever killed Walt would have been covered in blood. What if Rusty was telling the truth out there on the porch and didn’t know anything about Walt’s death. What if he wasn’t the killer—and Anne was.

  I looked at Anne again, and something in her bearing shifted. She knew that I knew with one look at my stupid face—the face that had given everything away on America Today was still showing its hand. She pointed the knife tip at me. “Sit in the chair with your hands behind your back.”

  I shook my head—no way was I going to let her tie me up and risk letting her and Rusty Bonnie-and-Clyde their way out of here. I edged away from her. “I don’t think so. Why’d you do it, Anne? Why’d you kill Walt?” I asked, hoping the question would distract her as I weighed whether to dash for the front door or the other way out through the house.

  Anne wasn’t stupid. Brandishing the knife, she moved between me and the door to the dining room. My only option for escape was out the front door, and judging by the shouts, thumps, and grunts coming from that direction, it was no good option, either.

  “I couldn’t take another second of Walt’s tirades,” Anne said flatly. “He came home from Zeke’s shop railing about something that happened twenty years ago—something I buried twenty years ago.
I gave up everything that night, and it still wasn’t good enough for him. So I just snapped.”

  I nodded and edged backward, hoping she wouldn’t notice my movements. “It’s understandable; he abused you for so long. I’m sure a jury will understand if you plead self-defense,” I babbled. “I mean, Walt was a killer—nobody can fault you for fearing for your life! Come outside with me and tell Eli about how Walt chased Joe out of the house that night. Just put down the knife and we’ll go outside together.”

  Anne’s eyes flashed and she slashed the air in front of her, then pointed the blade at the chair she’d been tied up in earlier. “Sit down and shut up! I’m tired of people telling me what to do! You have no idea what you’re talking about. Instead of making up lies, you need to listen. Just like you should have listened when I told you to go home.”

  I startled at her words. They sounded eerily familiar. And then I realized—that’s what was scratched into the side of my Suburban. “It was you who called me a—” I left the word unsaid. “You ruined my paint job! But why?”

  “You wouldn’t leave it well alone. You kept asking questions around town about things that were none of your business! The forensics team was so busy in the blueberry shed that they didn’t notice me walking over to your place.” Anne’s cheeks colored crimson as she glared at me, the few hairs that escaped her tight bun swirling wildly around her face. “You made me upset, Leona. Bad things happen to people who think they know what’s best for me. Walt did it and look what it got him. Joe did it and look what it got him. I ended them, and don’t think I won’t end you, too.”

  “Wait...you killed Joe, too?” I blinked. “But why? I don’t understand.”

  Her face hardened into a mask at my question. “It’s simple. He tried to blackmail me. He knew Rusty took Walt’s telescope and then blamed it on him. Joe said that if I didn’t clear his name, he was going to expose the affair. I had to choose Joe or Rusty, and I chose Rusty.”

  My shoulders sagged as I realized the enormity of her deception. “Everything you told me was a lie. Joe didn’t try and kiss you the night he confessed his feelings for you.”

  Anne gave a slight jerk of her head. “No. He knew I wasn’t interested.”

  “And Walt didn’t chase him with a knife. Did he even come home from poker?”

  “No. I chased Joe. It was dark. He tripped and fell into the duck pond and hit his head on a rock, so I finished the job with the shovel that was there. Less messy that way than with a knife. Less cleanup.” Anne looked lovingly at the blade of the kitchen knife in her hand.

  “Less cleanup for you. You left it to Rusty,” I blurted out, stepping backward and fumbling behind me for the doorknob. “You said you were cleaning up his mess by killing Joe, but really, he cleaned up your mess when he buried Joe’s body, and he’s been living with the guilt all these years. And you were going to let him take the fall for Joe’s murder, and maybe Walt’s too, weren’t you? That’s why you let him tie you up. You were never going to run away with him.”

  Anne’s face darkened and she flew across the room at me, the knife poised to strike. I grabbed the only thing within reach—the pan full of Yelena’s casserole that still rested on the counter. I swung it at her just in time to block her attack. The knife hit the cast iron with a clatter and the casserole fell out of the pan onto the floor, sending potatoes and eggs skittering across the linoleum. The knife flew out of Anne’s hand into the sink and she screamed, clutching her wrist. From the strange angle of her hand and the contorted expression on her face, I could tell that the pan must have broken some bones.

  Anne’s breath hissed between her teeth. “You hit me!”

  “I did, and I’m not sorry. I don’t care if that makes me a terrible person.” I said, echoing Anne’s words the night that Walt was killed. Then, I’d thought she wasn’t sad about Walt’s death because of his abuse, but now I could see it was actually because she was the one who’d killed him. And I was the sucker who believed her—who stuck up for her. Anger rippled through me I gripped the pan’s handle with both hands and brandished it at her, daring her to come at me again. She tensed, her eyes flicking between her injured wrist, the cast-iron skillet in my hands, and the two exits from the room.

  “Eli!” I called before she could make a break for it. “I need a little help here!”

  An instant later, Eli and Rusty both came bursting through the door. Apparently I didn’t need to worry about what was going on outside—Rusty already wore handcuffs. Shock registered on his face when he saw Anne standing there, her hand limp and her face crazed.

  “You hurt her!” he gasped, taking in my stance with the heavy skillet.

  Tears seeped down Anne’s cheeks at his words and her lower lip trembled. “She tried to kill me. I think she might have—might have—” She broke down, sobbing, then raised her face to look straight at me, her expression eerily cold as she said without a hint of emotion, “she might have murdered Walt.”

  “Don’t be so desperate, Anne.” I snorted a laugh and turned to Eli. “Listen, the only thing I murdered was Yelena’s casserole. Anne’s the killer—Walt’s killer and Joe’s killer, too. I’ll fill you in on the details later, but basically she freaked out when I realized she’d committed both crimes and came at me with a knife. I knocked it out of her hand with the pan. It’s in the sink—you can check.”

  Eli glanced in the sink to confirm my story and then looked back at me. “Wow. If I’d known you were this lethal with cookware, I might not have been so overprotective. You really can defend yourself!”

  I grinned at him and flexed. “I told you—I really, really hate surprises.”

  Chapter 35

  Three Weeks Later

  The seat of my pants was getting toasty, so I rotated to face the bonfire, holding my hands up to warm in the roaring flames. I watched across the fire, contentment rising in my chest, as Eli and Mike Spence loaded the last barrel of freshly pressed cider onto the refrigerated truck. The first apple harvest was in, although not quite in the way I’d imagined it. Rusty had been right: I couldn’t sell the imperfect apples for much, but I could definitely sell their juice for a premium—as long as I had a crew of enthusiastic cider-pressers at my disposal. Luckily, my friends were all willing to work for free.

  I couldn’t wait to show my progress to Andrea when she came for Christmas. When I called her and explained more about what had gone on in my marriage to her dad, she’d agreed to bring the twins to visit and stay for a few days. My heart glowed as I imagined them in snowsuits, chasing all the pullets around the yard.

  Ruth nudged me with her elbow and then handed me a stoneware mug of hot mulled cider. I accepted it gratefully and breathed in the steam, fragrant with cinnamon sticks and orange zest and spices I couldn’t identify. “This smells incredible.”

  “My special recipe,” she said, taking a sip from her own cup. She tucked her wild curls behind her ear to keep them out of the way and pulled her rainbow cardigan closed against the damp, chilly evening. “I put cardamom and turmeric in it. That’s what makes it taste so round and earthy. That, plus the cinnamon, makes it like a little fire in your belly, heating you from the inside.”

  “I’m definitely stealing that idea—if you don’t mind,” I said, enjoying the warmth from the cider spreading through my body, adding to the heat from the bonfire. “Maybe next year I’ll sell mulled cider along with apples and eggs. I have to say, it’s so satisfying to make a little money off the farm. I know it’s not much, but it’s a little promise of what’s to come next year when my flock is laying.”

  “Speaking of, what’re you going to call your farm? I mean, now that your chicken palace is finally complete?” Ruth nodded over at my recently completed coop, if it could be called that. Really, it was more like a second barn, albeit one that was designed to be impervious to predators of every kind—feathered, furred, or scaled. Inside the expansive run, the Magdas, Phyllis, Cher, Dr. Speckle, and Alarm Clock were milling about, scra
tching in the grass for bugs. I knew the grass wouldn’t last long once I added the eighty-four chicks that were growing like weeds in the barn, but for now the lucky clucks were enjoying it.

  “I’m not sure; I haven’t thought much about it. You know how it is—people are going to refer to it as the old Chapman place forever.”

  “They will if you don’t give it a new name,” she said, nodding her head sagely. “Maybe it should be the Davis farm now.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “The world doesn’t need another thing with my ex-husband’s name, does it? It’s bad enough that I’m stuck with it.”

  “The Landers Chicken Farm, then.” Ruth smiled, but I thought there was something bittersweet underlying her expression. I knew that she’d be sad when her family wasn’t attached to the property anymore, even as she pushed me to rename it. But maybe it was sadder to have the farm bear the Chapman name when it wasn’t theirs anymore.

  I shook my head. “No—not Landers, either. That will confuse everyone. They’ll be like ‘the old Landers place or the new one’? You know all my mail will end up at Dad’s old farm. I’d rather name it something totally new, something that’ll stick in people’s minds, something that’s more about the chickens than about the people. What do you think about Lucky Cluck Farm?”

  Ruth giggled. “Honestly? I think that’s perfect. You should have Tambra paint you a sign for the end of your driveway—her artistic talents aren’t limited to manicures.”

  I grinned and admired my own fingernails, wrapped around the warm mug of cider. To celebrate the completion of the coop—and the end of the construction wear-and-tear on my nails—Tambra had treated me to a special manicure and painted each of nails to look like a feather. The two hours it’d taken? Totally worth it for the work of art I got to carry around with me all day.

  “Are you talking about me behind my back?” Tambra asked behind us, a smile in her voice. Carrying her own mug between her pink-sparkly-gloved hands, she joined us next to the fire.