by Reid, Penny
Jackson nodded. “Oh yeah, that thing where the person does the lived experience or whatever—what is it called?”
Both Boone and Jackson were snapping their fingers until Boone blurted, “Agritourism!” then they pointed at each other. “That’s what it was, agritourism. They live for a stretch on a farm, some call it primitive living, relative to life in a big city these days without food delivery and such.” Boone’s attention returned to Jenn. “So the farmers continue to live on their land rent-free, no mortgage, basically retired. The agritourists do all the farm chores and the farmers split the profit from the hotel co-op, all of which Kip—your daddy—would arrange and manage for a fee.”
“That’s a dumb idea.” This made no sense to me, and I figured there was no harm in saying as much. “Who would pay for that?”
“Oh, you know, those hipster types from the big cities, with their selfies, wanting to Instagram influence all over the place, taking a hundred pictures just to get one perfect enough to post.” Jackson flicked his wrist this way and that. “Those folks will do anything to get more social media clicks, it’s like an addiction.”
“Badcock said your father had a business plan and investors, and the details looked solid.” Boone stuffed his notepad in his back pocket. “But he didn’t want to sell because he likes—or, I guess, liked—what he did, raising chickens and such. Anyway, I think it’s pretty clear, your father is involved.”
“I guess I should be relieved it doesn’t have anything to do with me or the bakery.” Jenn’s lips flattened into a sad line. “He was definitely involved at Miller Farm, him and Miller were working together to drive the price of those cows up. I just couldn’t figure out why they were working together at the time, what my father had to gain from it. I guess now I know.”
“Yes. My dad told me what happened.” Jackson gave Jenn a sympathetic look.
“How’d the sheriff find out?” I asked. It’s always good to know from which direction information flows.
“My father heard it from Fire Chief McClure, who heard about it from his wife, who heard it from Posey Lamont. It’s all over town. Where are you going to put those cows?”
“Posey Lamont? The lady who makes the muffins?” Posey Lamont wasn’t at Miller Farm during the auction, but she was another baker. I wondered if she didn’t much appreciate Jenn always winning first place at the state fair, similar to Roger Gangersworth.
“Correct. Posey Lamont.” Jackson nodded distractedly. “Do you have a place for the cows?”
But I wasn’t finished. “Where’d Posey Lamont hear about it?”
“I don’t know, Cletus,” Jackson answered irritably. “I haven’t spoken to Posey since the jam session on Friday.”
That’s right. She was there, wearing that eyesore of a sweater. And Roger was there too, wearing unsurprising overalls.
Jenn clutched her head. “What am I gunna do about those cows?”
“Your mother is in no shape to pick those cows up. She can’t make arrangements either. She shouldn’t even go to work.” Jackson laid it all out, like Jenn didn’t already know all this. I could see it was on the tip of Jackson’s tongue to step in and try to rescue her.
So I made sure I spoke over him, “Don’t worry, Jackson. I’m here to help Jenn with the cows. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Cletus, I can’t ask you to do that.” Lifting her eyes to me, my heart gave another sad flop at the stress and exhaustion within them.
“That is one hundred percent my job and my role as your fiancé,” I pronounced the last word nice and slow, “to help where and when needed. I live to service you.” I brought her hand to my lips and kissed the back of her fingers.
Jenn watched me do this, giving me the side-eye. She seemed to be warring with her urge to scold while also feeling gratitude. Yet I knew she saw right through me, that I’d overpronounced the word fiancé for Jackson’s benefit, and that was just fine. I hoped she’d always see through me.
Nevertheless, I decided it was time to deflect and distract. “Don’t forget. You still have the state fair cakes.”
“Oh. That’s right! I have to bake the cakes this week for initial judging.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.” I didn’t add that it would also give me a chance to have a chat with the gentleman farmer. He definitely thought I was an idiot. Thus, I suspected I’d be able to get some good details out of him. Folks, in my experience, liked to monologue about their own successes, and Miller was no exception.
“Jenn, I hate to ask this, but if your father comes to see you, or talks to you about the bees or anything related to the farm stay business, I need you to tell me.” Boone dipped his head, his voice lowering to a hush.
“Are you going to bring him in?” Jenn shifted her weight from her left foot to her right, and back again, like the thought of anyone having to interact with her father was worrisome.
Boone seemed to hesitate, and I got the sense he was choosing his words carefully. “Questioning your father is a given.”
Hmm. Interesting how he put that.
Before I could stop myself—and continue my charade of idiocy—I asked, “Have you already questioned Kip Sylvester?”
Again, the side of Boone’s mouth tugged upward, but he didn’t look my way, instead addressing Jenn. “Nothing is certain. I’d really like to find out who’s doing this, and why.”
Hmm. Interesting he didn’t answer my question.
“Me too, and I will tell you if he speaks to me about any of it,” she promised. “And thank you.”
“For what?”
“I know my momma was seriously injured, and this is very serious. But you cared about this investigation even before she was hurt. Thank you for caring about Mr. Badcock and his chickens, and even Mr. Blount and his bees.”
Boone scratched the dark stubble on his jaw, his brown eyes turning friendly, for once. “Jennifer, it’s the small businesses that are the backbone of this country. I know that. My job is to keep folks feeling safe, every single person, and safety is more than just a person’s body, it’s also a state of mind. If people around here don’t feel safe—their homes, their property, and their person—then, well, we’re not doing our job as police officers, are we?”
Chapter Twelve
“There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind.”
― Louisa May Alcott, Little Women
*Cletus*
Snow fell, blanketing the outside while we sat inside, waiting on Jenn’s mom to be discharged. Silently, we watched the flakes through the large window in the waiting room until dusk obscured their descent. Hospital staff called Jenn back, presumably to fuss with paperwork and care-taker instructions, and I let her go with a hug and a promise to stay. I used the time to contact Billy and set into motion Operation Nesting Dragon.
“Why do we always have to give these task lists of yours a name? Why can’t we just call them what they are?” Billy’s tone seemed tired rather than irritated. “Okay, so, you want Beau and Shelly to pick up Jenn’s car, then Ms. Donner’s? How and when do they pick up the keys?”
“We have a copy of the keys at the auto shop in the safe. They’re labeled clearly, Beau knows the combination.”
Billy’s tangible hesitation ended as he asked haltingly, “You keep copies of keys for everyone in Green Valley?”
“Do you want me to answer that question? I thought you wanted to run for state congress.”
He grumbled something I couldn’t quite decipher, then said, “No, don’t answer. Fine. I’ll tell Beau.”
“Have them install snow tires on both, then return them to the Donner house by tomorrow midmorning. He should lock the cars and put the keys back in the safe.”
“Okay.” The scrape of dishes being sta
cked sounded from the other side of the call. He must’ve turned a faucet on, I heard running water.
“And don’t do my dishes.”
“I wasn’t planning to.” A dish clattered, and Billy’s voice grew muffled, likely because he pressed the phone to his ear using his shoulder, as was his habit. “But I did have to move your pile of dishes out of the way. I’m just cleaning up after myself.”
“Good. Is Roscoe still there? Or did he head back?”
“He’s getting ready to leave, I think. I can catch him if you need me to.”
“Tell him to take the lasagna in the freezer—the one that says Emergency Lasagna, not the one that says Lasagna Emergency—to the Donner house on his way back to school. I’ll text him instructions on how to get inside. He needs to set the oven to bake at three-seventy-five for forty-five minutes.”
“What’s the difference between the Emergency Lasagna and the Lasagna Emergency?”
“One fixes an emergency, the other causes an emergency.”
“Shouldn’t it be switched around? Lasagna Emergency should solve an emergency, right?”
“No, Emergency Lasagna is the one you use when you have an emergency. Just, let it be. I have a system.”
Billy sighed again—louder and longer this time—and I heard the water shut off. “All right, let’s start again. Which one is which? I better write this down and go get it myself.”
I waited while he grabbed a pen and paper. Instructions written down, he promised to send Beau and Shelly right away. We hung up so I could text Roscoe with the necessary details for gaining entry into the Donner house. I’d just finished as Jenn and her momma left the exam area of the ER.
The woman looked small and not herself, fuzzy-headed. I’d never seen her without a barrier of makeup, a helmet of hairspray, and a designer outfit. Presently, she donned pale blue scrubs, smudges of soot beneath her nose and chin—though it looked like the hospital staff had endeavored to wipe her clean—and her hair in a tangle.
She didn’t seem to be in the mood or mind to talk as I wheeled the woman out to my car and helped her climb in. Jenn loaded up in the back seat, then we drove her home, little in the way of conversation passing among us other than one or two remarks on the snow.
But when I cut the engine upon arrival, Diane stirred as though surprised, her voice cracking out, “Are we home already?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I refrained from mentioning that the Bronco had snow tires, excellent shocks and struts, four-wheel drive, and a short wheelbase. As such, the tight turns and country roads had been smoother than in her BMW. We’d made it to the Donner house in forty minutes without jostling the passengers or any wincing on Diane’s part.
Jennifer exited the back seat, opening her mother’s door while I took the liberty of unbuckling her seatbelt. In an uncharacteristic display of vulnerability, the older woman allowed herself to be steered and led to the front door, me on one side carrying most of her slight weight, Jenn on the other.
I reached for and opened the front door before Jenn could withdraw any keys—I’d told Roscoe to leave it unlocked—and we were greeted by the aroma of my Emergency Lasagna, my stomach giving an automatic, answering rumble.
Diane’s feet stalled. “What—what’s that smell?”
“It’s Emergency Lasagna.”
“Oh!” Jenn looked at me over her mother’s head, her gorgeous eyes full of warmth and gratitude. “Thank you.”
“What—how’d that happen?” Diane’s body stiffened, her features belying alarm and confusion. “When—who—”
Keeping my voice gentle, I encouraged her forward with a tug around her waist. “Roscoe, that’s my youngest brother—you know him, he’s the good-looking one—put the lasagna in the oven and set it to bake for forty-five minutes. It should be ready in just a bit. Are you hungry?”
“I haven’t had lasagna in over twenty years.” Diane’s eyebrows pinched together. “It used to be one of my favorites.”
“You should have some.” Jenn also pressed her forward, away from the cold of the open door. “Why don’t I help you get cleaned up?”
Diane nodded distractedly, allowing me to help her to the threshold of her bedroom. Jenn took over, casting me another warm look of gratitude, then—with a promise to emerge soon—shut them inside.
I meandered into the kitchen, checking the bake time on the oven. The lasagna still had another twenty minutes. I opted to set the table, deciding against building a cozy fire in the fireplace. The last thing Diane Donner likely wanted was a fire.
I’d just discovered the silverware drawer when Jenn’s unexpected voice made me jump. “She wants to eat in her room—sorry. Did I startle you?” She stood in the doorway, and I hadn’t any idea she’d approached.
I plucked a fork and knife from the drawer. “I didn’t hear you. You’re so quiet.”
“Sorry. Force of habit in this house.” Jenn leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “Growing up here, it was often preferable to be invisible, if you know what I mean.”
My heart constricted, an automatic response to her current words in much the same way my earlier stomach growl had been an automatic response to the smell of Emergency Lasagna. “I’m sorry you ever felt being invisible was preferable to being seen.”
Jenn, a sad smile on her gorgeous lips, pushed away from the doorframe. “Happens to everyone, I suspect. From time to time.”
“I supposed that’s true.” I disliked that she’d ever wanted to be invisible. Furthermore, I disliked that I couldn’t fix this problem for her, save her from it, improve her past somehow.
Lack of ability to time travel is frustrating.
“You okay?” Her elbow bumped mine as she came to stand next to me.
“Fine. How are you feeling?”
“Bewildered. And tired.” She reached into the cabinet for a plate, her hip brushing my leg.
I stepped back to give her space. “It’s been a strange few days.”
“That’s an understatement.”
I examined her profile as she seemed to examine the white plate she’d just set on the counter. “What’s on your mind? I mean, other than the well-being of your mother.”
Jenn inhaled deeply, and then released the breath through her nose, turning toward me with a frown in her eyes and on her mouth. “I still think this whole farm business has something to do with the bakery. I just—I can’t seem to shake the notion.”
“In a roundabout way, of course it does.”
“How do you mean?”
“I’m guessing your father selected this fair part of East Tennessee for his farm stay business as a way to upset your mother.”
“Yes, but that’s not what I mean. I just have this feeling that we’re missing something, that the bakery is somehow involved.”
My feet were tired, so I leaned my hip against the counter. “How so?”
“It just feels like too much of a coincidence that Roger Gangersworth buys all the eggs at Badcock’s farm the afternoon before the chickens end up dead. And even if my father is buying Miller Farm, why make a point to be there for the auction? For that matter, why auction the cows at all? If they’re running a farm stay, agritourism business? Nancy Danvish still has all her chickens, goats, bees, and cows. She just stopped selling to me.”
“Does she sell to anyone else?”
“I don’t know. But she has to do something with all that milk and eggs and honey, right? Where is it going? And what did Roger do with those Badcock eggs?”
I stroked my beard, staring unseeingly at a spot over Jenn’s head. “I reckon I could ask Nancy Danvish.”
Jenn made a face. “No. She’d know you were asking on my behalf.”
“Then I could ask Flo McClure. She’d tell me.”
Jenn perked up at that. “Could you?”
It was a poorly kept secret that Florence McClure—who worked dispatch at the police station—and Nancy Danvish were lovers, and had been since the early 1980s. Folks in Green Val
ley were more progressive than many other parts of the deep south about some things, but not about sexuality, or anything related to it, or the fact that sex—as an act—existed.
I’d shocked a gaggle of my fellow Sunday schoolers when I’d unceremoniously announced that storks did not deliver babies. I’d then used the chalkboard to draw several helpful diagrams, all of them related to human anatomy. Suffice it to say, I was not invited back to Sunday school. Mind, that was before Reverend Seymour took over.
Also, I’d been six years old.
Anyway, if anyone knew Nancy Danvish’s secrets, it would be Flo.
“Flo and I are friendly—or at least friendly for Flo. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you. I’d like to know who Nancy is selling to, if anyone. And if she is selling to others, why she won’t sell anything to me anymore.”
“I feel like the answer is obvious.”
Jenn tilted her head to the side, as though wanting to look at me from a different angle. “How do you mean?”
“I think she won’t sell to you because she’s in business with your father, and he’s asked her to stop selling to the lodge. Another way to aggravate your momma, even if it’s indirectly.”
“That makes sense.” She nodded slowly, then suddenly shook her head. “But I don’t know. My gut is telling me there’s more to the story. If he wanted to threaten my mother’s hotel business with one of his own, why not use his investors’ money to just build a similar hotel to the Donner Lodge? Why go to all the trouble of buying up farms? Killing the livestock of those who don’t sell? That seems so strange and brutal, like it’s more than just getting back at my momma. Interrupting the bakery’s supply chain makes me think, and you’re going to think I’m crazy, but it makes me—it makes me wonder if—if –”
