by Reid, Penny
“Well, your mother is at the ER. She’s doing okay, woke up, is responsive but not talking yet. Some smoke inhalation and a bad bump on the head. Old Man Blount found her out near his beehives. Someone set the bee boxes on fire. He went out with a hose and found her unconscious. Looks like she was dragged.”
“What? Dragged? Did you say dragged or drugged?” Jenn stared at the phone, her tone anxious.
“Dragged. We reckon someone konked her on the head by her car and dragged her to the bee boxes. Do you know why she’d be out there?”
“Uh. Yeah. Yes. She was picking up the honey.”
“Picking up honey? Your momma was picking up honey?”
“Yes. I gave her a list of our suppliers yesterday—now that Nancy Danvish is retired, or whatever she’s doing—we have several local farmers where I source my ingredients. Mr. Badcock, Miller Farm, Old Man Blount, the Hills—”
Jenn sat up straight, her attention moving to some spot outside the windshield, her gaze unfocused. “Oh no,” she whispered.
“Jenn?” I placed my hand on her wrist. “You okay?”
“You still there?” Jackson’s voice cracked over the line. Reception wasn’t always the best on the mountains, prone to cutting in and out.
“We’re on our way, Jackson. See you soon.” I ended the call, and then slid my hand to her thigh. “What’s wrong? What’s going on in your head?”
“This is my fault.”
“What?”
She twisted in her seat and faced me, her fingers at her lips. “Cletus, don’t you see? Farmer Danvish’s retirement, Mr. Badcock losing his chickens, Farmer Miller selling his livestock, Old Man Blount’s burned bee boxes—they’ve all sold to me.”
Chapter Eleven
“Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.”
― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own
*Cletus*
“Listen to me! I’m telling you, they’re in it together.” Old Man Blount’s shouts reached us as soon as the sliding doors to the ER opened. “That cow auction? At the Miller Farm? Bullshit! That was them putting on a show. Those Sylvesters are rotten to the core.”
I held Jenn’s hand tighter, slowing our pace, and pulled her a little behind me as we walked down the hallway closer to the ruckus.
“He’s just mad about his bee boxes,” I muttered.
She said nothing as his rant intensified. “Look at that son of theirs, Isaac. Motorcycle club trash! And that girl, Jennifer—”
“Don’t disrespect the kind lady. You need to calm down or you need to leave. Now.” Jackson James’s voice boomed from someplace nearby. He sounded angry.
I decided then and there to delete Jackson’s (Armadillo?) designation from my phone. No leprosy for him.
“Now I know you’re upset,” Jackson continued, now sounding tired. “But that’s no call to come in here and start trouble.”
“You don’t know shit!” Blount yelled. “Let me back there! I’ll get the truth out of the Dragon Lady, I’ll kill them both!”
A crash, shouts, worried gasps, soles of shoes squeaking on linoleum—the telltale echoes of a scuffle.
I brought Jenn to a stop and backed us up against a wall, keeping her fully behind me. “That old man is mean as a badger with half a brain.” Perhaps I would give him Jackson’s (Armadillo?) designation.
“He’s distraught,” she said, sounding distraught herself. Her free hand gripped the side of my jacket.
More shouts, gasps, linoleum shoe-squeaks, followed by Officer Boone’s voice calmly reciting Miranda rights.
Jenn’s forehead fell to my spine between my shoulder blades, her chest pressing against my lower back with a deep inhale. “Bless his heart.”
“Indeed.” I moved fully in front of her, blocking her from view as Deputies Boone, Evans, and James exited the waiting room, hauling a spitting and cursing Old Man Blount down the hall. Both Evans and Jackson James had a split lip and the beginnings of bruises forming beneath their cheekbone and jaw, respectively.
I caught Boone’s eye and he lifted his chin in greeting, his gaze sliding back to the old man as though to say, Let me deal with this, I’ll be right back. The other two officers tipped their heads in greeting. I thought maybe Old Man Blount was fixing to spit on me, he looked so riled up. He did not, however, in the end.
I waited until they were outside, stepped away from the wall, and turned to Jenn. “How are you?”
“I just feel bad for him. He lost those beautiful bee boxes. Did you know he built those with his son? He’s upset. I hope they don’t press charges.”
“I hope they do.”
Jenn flinched back like my words surprised her. “Cletus. He’s upset.”
“He assaulted two individuals, in front of witnesses, while throwing a temper tantrum. At his age, he should know better.”
“Those bees were like his friends.”
“If you can’t hold your temper in society, then you don’t get to be part of society. Those are the rules.”
“There’s no exception to the rules?”
“That’s not up to me.”
She crossed her arms. She’d been crossing her arms at an increased rate lately. “You don’t see the irony of your statement?”
“I do not.”
“You have a history of not always following the letter of the law.” She lifted her eyebrows meaningfully.
She didn’t need to lift her eyebrows, I knew to what she referred without the nonverbal clue, but I failed to see the relevance. “That is correct.”
“And yet you condemn Old Man Blount for his illegal actions?”
“I’m not the one condemning him, the legal system is.”
“Then why do you get away with breaking the law?” She stuck her chin out. It was cute. I wanted to kiss it.
“Because I haven’t been caught.”
Her eyes narrowed into slits. “I caught you.”
“Yes. You did.” I couldn’t help but smile at the memory. “And now I’m serving a life sentence. Lucky me.”
She smiled like doing so was not something she had control over, but she wasn’t ready to concede. “Cletus, put yourself in his shoes. If someone had burned down the Winston Brothers Auto Shop, I don’t think anyone could blame you for being upset.”
“Being upset is not an excuse for violence.” I didn’t know how to make myself any clearer. If we allowed folks to pick fights whenever they experienced unruly emotions, then everyone in town would walk around with a black eye.
But more than that, on a personal level, I knew I needed the order. If I were allowed to pick fights whenever I experienced unruly emotions, then everyone in town would walk around with two black eyes. I’d been that way once. Never again.
Jenn shook her head, looking disappointed, but we didn’t get a chance to dwell on the topic any further. Boone and Jackson walked through the sliding doors, Jackson testing his lip with his tongue.
“Evans is taking the old man in.” Boone set his hands on his hips, looking between us.
“Are you okay?” Jenn asked Jackson. “Do you need a nurse?”
“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” He gave her a brave smile and then winced.
In a rare paroxysm of vacillatory inconsistency, I redacted my earlier decision. That is, I changed my mind: Jackson’s (Armadillo?) designation would stay put for now.
“We need to talk. Your mother is still with the doctor,” Boone cut in, getting right to the point. “They woke her up and she’s okay, no lasting injuries. They think they can discharge her soon. She’ll need to be watched tonight.”
Jenn cast me a mournful glance. “I guess I will stay with her.”
I rubbed her back in what I hoped was a reassuring manner. I also hoped she knew she didn’t need to worry about me. First of all, this was an emergency. No use twisting oneself into knots about an emergency situation. Second, she hadn’t promised we’d spend time togethe
r tonight because I’d stopped her from promising.
She still looked mournful.
“I’ll bring y’all dinner and be back in the morning with breakfast.” I’d make a quiche. Who doesn’t love a good quiche?
Nodding, still mournfully, she sighed. “This is all so crazy.”
“Jennifer, I’m sorry I have to ask—” Boone pulled out his notepad “—but do you have any idea why Old Man Blount would think your parents are responsible for torching his bee boxes?”
Jenn and I traded a look. In the car, she’d told me she was convinced that all these farm shenanigans had something to do with her, or at the very least, they had to do with the bakery. I wasn’t as convinced, but I did plan to investigate her suspicions as soon as possible.
“I have no idea.” The helplessness in her voice had me pulling her closer to my side. “Though I think maybe Blount is right. Not about my momma. My momma has nothing to do with any of this, but my father . . .”
Boone gave her a hard stare, like he was trying to figure out if he believed her. “Then why was your mother at Old Man Blount’s?”
“To pick up the honey. I have a standing order, every Sunday night. He only lets folks stop by on Sundays.”
“And she was at Badcock’s to pick up eggs?” Boone asked, though I was certain he already knew the answer to the question. He’d questioned both Diane Donner and Jennifer on Friday.
“No. Not to pick up eggs. She was there to pay for a six-month order.”
“That’s right.” He nodded, continuing to assess her. “And why was your mother at Miller Farm yesterday?”
“To pick up butter, cream, and milk.” Jenn twisted her fingers, visibly agitated. “Boone, do you think this has something to do with the bakery? All this upheaval with the farmers? Do you think someone is targeting my suppliers?”
“Badcock, Miller, and Blount all supply the bakery.” His lips twisted to the side and his gaze grew thoughtful.
“That’s right. And Nancy Danvish used to, before she retired in the fall.”
As though abruptly deciding, Boone glanced around the hallway before stepping closer to Jenn, his voice hushed. “Did you know your father was down at Blount’s farm in early December, and then again this last week, trying to talk him into selling?”
“My father was at Old Man Blount’s?” Her head reared back. “He must really not understand Old Man Blount. That man would never sell his farm.”
“And then your momma shows up there today for reasons Blount doesn’t know or understand and is found right next to the burned-out boxes, still on fire.” Boone flipped through the pages of his notepad as he recited the facts.
“Except Ms. Donner was hit in the head, left unconscious, and would’ve died in the fire if she hadn’t been found,” Jackson pointed out, sending Jenn an apologetic smile.
I hated to agree with Jackson, for any reason, but he was right. “Ms. Donner didn’t burn those boxes,” I announced with authority because I was certain. “I doubt she even knows how to light a match.”
I could feel the consternation in Jenn’s gaze pointed up at me, but I said what I said. Her mother was whip-smart, a shrewd businesswoman—when her husband and cows weren’t involved—nerves of steel, but she had a team of people to lift their fingers so she didn’t have to lift any of hers. I wasn’t insulting the woman, she knew what her time was worth, what tasks were beneath her notice, and there was never anything wrong with practical self-actualization and awareness.
“Yeah, we’re not suspecting Ms. Donner for this.” Boone’s attention remained fixed to his notepad. “Although, we’re certain it was arson.”
“Boone.” Jackson elbowed him lightly. “You’re not supposed to be sharing ongoing investigatory details and conclusions with civilians.”
“I know that, Jackson.” Boone’s voice was distracted. “But this is Cletus.”
My attention sharpened on Boone. We weren’t friendly, but I knew he was the best investigator at the sheriff’s office. I didn’t like thinking he knew—or suspected—I might be different than the hapless weirdo I projected, it might interfere with my long-term, less than legal machinations.
Jackson looked me over, frowning. “Not a word to anyone.”
I lifted a hand. “Who am I going to tell? My cars?”
Jenn interrupted, “I don’t understand who could do such a thing to those bees.”
I shook my head somberly, deciding it was time to look a bit more idiotic. “Especially when there’s this huge crisis in the country with inseminators.”
“I think you mean pollinators.” Jackson made a face of distaste.
“Inseminators, fertilizers, pollinators, they all do the same thing.” I inspected Boone as I said this, not liking the way his mouth hooked up and his eyelids lowered, like he was unimpressed with my attempt at buffoonery.
Note to self, be dumber around Boone.
Boone’s steady stare then shifted to Jenn. “Do you think your father could’ve done this? Because Blount wouldn’t sell to him?”
Jenn seemed open to the suggestion—at least, not surprised by it—and her gaze clouded as her focus turned inward. “Maybe. I mean, we know he and Nancy Danvish are going into business together. Now it turns out he tried to also buy Blount’s land. But what about Mr. Badcock?”
“You said, when you went to see Mr. Badcock, he was real hostile right?” I asked.
“That’s right.”
“And that was strange?” Boone tilted his head, still openly assessing Jenn.
“It was strange.” She nodded.
“We should check in with him, see if your father asked about buying his farm,” Jackson suggested before I could lead everyone down this path, and I was glad. I didn’t want to ask too many good questions.
“And while we’re at it, we should also ask him who bought all his eggs before I got there.” Jenn was clearly irritated by the memory.
“Actually, Badcock told me Kip Sylvester did make an offer for his farm in early December and again last week, which he turned down. And the eggs, that was—” Boone flipped through his notepad “—Roger Gangersworth.”
Jenn heaved a sudden sigh, like this news pained her. “Oh, Roger.”
“What? What about Roger?” Boone looked to me.
I shrugged. Dumbly.
“You know he’s a baker.” Jenn twisted her fingers, agitated, fidgeting again.
“Okay, and . . .?” Boone prompted.
“He really hates that I win the state fair baking contest every year.” Now she looked guilty.
“Could he be working with your father?” Jackson asked.
“As far as I’m aware, they don’t know each other outside of my winning streak. I’m pretty sure Roger hates my father by association. I know he hates my momma.”
Boone and Jackson traded a look.
Jenn added quickly, “But I just don’t see Roger Gangersworth burning bee boxes and killing chickens.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“His pie is excellent,” Jennifer said, like this would explain why she didn’t think Roger was capable of wickedness.
“Don’t let your preference for his pie get in the way of your decision-making. We’d all like to think great cooks aren’t capable of sinister deeds, but that’s simply not true. I, myself, often suffer from pie bias.” I squeezed her around the waist and she glanced at me like I was strange and wonderful, but she also looked agitated and tired.
“What I mean is,” she went on, “he’s not the sort to hit a woman over the head and leave her there to die. I just really can’t see him doing that.”
Studying Boone, I figured it was safe to ask, “Do you know what Ms. Donner was hit with?”
“It appears that she was hit on the back of the head with a broom, or a rake handle. Something like that. Blunt force, hence the concussion.” Jackson scratched his jaw. “They knocked her out by her car and then dragged her to the bees.”
“How do you know she was dragged and
not carried?” Jenn asked.
“We found a trail where the person pulled your mother through the field, and there’s grass and dirt stains on the back of her clothes.” Boone’s response was both perfunctory and distracted.
“They left her there to die?” Jenn’s voice cracked with emotion. I resumed rubbing her back.
“That’s what it looks like.” Boone nodded. “It also looks like the person who dragged her wasn’t very strong because they dropped her a couple times.”
“That woman can’t weigh more than one hundred pounds,” Jackson added unnecessarily. We all knew Diane Donner was slight in stature but big in personality. Plus, she’d always been a tad underweight. Jenn had told me that while they were married, Jenn’s father had frequently hounded Diane about her dress size.
“Here are the facts: your father asked farmers Badcock, Miller, Danvish, and Blount to sell their farms.” Jackson ticked off the farmer’s names on his fingers. “And now, the two that didn’t sell—Badcock and Blount—end up with murdered livestock.”
“Are bees considered livestock?” I addressed my conversational query to Jackson. “And did you know honey is bee vomit?”
“I did not know that.” Jackson made a face of disgust, and I smiled inwardly.
One of my favorite pastimes—for the undeserving—is ruining enjoyable activities, destinations, and/or goods with facts. If you dig deeply and scrutinize enough, everything enjoyable can be made either problematic or disgusting. Cognitive dissonance is a wonderful, wonderful phenomena.
“Miller?” Jenn asked urgently, ignoring my question. “My father bought the Miller Farm?”
My heart did a strange flopping thing at the distress in her voice. It had been obvious to me as soon as we stepped foot on the Miller property that Jenn had fallen in love with the place. Learning her father had been the one to buy it appeared to hit her hard.
Boone nodded, confirming her fear.
“That’s why he was at the cow auction,” she muttered under her breath. “He was there because he’d bought the land.”
“I’m waiting on the property office to get back to me, but it looks that way,” Boone clarified. “According to both Blount and Badcock—the two who didn’t sell or buy-in—your father wanted to buy out their mortgage, lease the land back to them for a dollar fee. They’d join some sort of farming hotel co-op, where they would have guests stay on their property and do—uh—what do you call it?”
