by Reid, Penny
The real problem wasn’t my father and his machinations—although, I wondered if the man would always be a problem or if he’d ever leave me alone—the true issue was lack of time. We lacked time to connect, truly connect. Over the last week, there’d been so many misfires, moments stolen from us by one emergency or another. We needed time together, just us, no phones, no interruptions, no intrusions. Alone.
“We should take a vacation,” I thought and spoke.
“You want to take a vacation?”
“Yes.” I looked at him again. “When was the last time you took a vacation? A proper one? Where you traveled somewhere else and relaxed?”
“If you don’t count boar hunting in Texas, or my trip to Alaska several years ago, which I don’t, then, uh, hmm . . .” He shifted in his seat, more deep thinking as he pulled into Nancy Danvish’s long driveway. “Have I ever taken a vacation?”
“See?” Twisting in my seat, I faced him. “You deserve a vacation, Cletus. We both do.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Maybe we’ll go on a cruise, someplace warm, and wear bathing suits all day.”
“Motion seconded and approved.”
“Or maybe we’ll go to a ski lodge and spend all day inside under the covers.” I grinned, my mood brightening considerably.
“Next motion seconded and approved.”
Chuckling, I patted his leg. “I’ll plan the whole trip. You don’t need to worry about a thing.”
“Wait a minute.” His eyes slid over to me and narrowed as he pulled us to a stop. “Are you planning to whisk me away somewhere and have your way with me?”
“Yes.”
“Final motion seconded and approved for immediate action. Now, let’s go inside and get this over with.” Cletus cut the engine and opened his door, exiting and crossing around to mine just as I was stepping out. He closed it behind me, and we linked hands, walking up the stone path to Farmer Danvish’s front porch.
Before we could knock, she opened the front door and grinned at both of us. “Come on in, come in. I poured mishla for the occasion.”
Cletus and I swapped a startled look.
“You made mishla?” he asked, sounding a tad alarmed, and placing his hand on the small of my back as we stepped inside and followed her.
This was only the third time I’d been inside the farmer’s house and everything was just the same. As far as I knew, her walls were unpainted wood everywhere but the powder room, which had trout wallpaper up top and blue wainscoting below.
Nancy Danvish wasn’t fussy, didn’t seem to care much about traditional decorations, and therefore had no art on her walls, no mirrors either, but she had plants everywhere. Being inside her house was like being outside in late spring, it smelled like lemongrass and lavender in the family room, basil and rosemary in the kitchen, rose and sage in the dining room. A smattering of skylights dotted her ceiling, making everything bright and cheerful. Her brown leather sofa stuffed with goose down was the comfiest couch I’d ever sat on.
But most impressive as far as I was concerned, the majority of her furniture—oak bookshelves, a pedestal kitchen table with Queen Anne chairs made of cherry, the walnut spindle-legged plant stands with marble and hammered copper tops—she’d made herself.
“You bet I did, a while ago, as an experiment. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”
We’d followed her into the family room, and she picked up two shot glasses filled with clear liquid from a teak bar of mid-century modern design. She’d showed me the piece of furniture the last time I was here as she’d just made it and was pleased with the results.
“Take these.” The farmer passed off the shot glasses to us and picked up her own, raising it up, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. “To Cletus and Jenn, may all your children have kind hearts, quick wits, and green thumbs.”
“Thank you, Nancy,” Cletus said kindly, lifting his glass before bringing it to his lips and pausing. He cast me a wayward glance—one of apology and worry—and downed the shot in one gulp.
I followed suit, immediately regretting everything in my life that had brought me to this moment. Coughing—my nose, mouth, throat, and esophagus on fire—I gripped Cletus’s arm for balance.
Nancy’s laughter could be heard over my fit, and she picked up an unlabeled bottle, moving as though to pour me another shot. “Here, second one goes down better.”
Cletus moved his shot glass to intercept my pour. “I’ll take hers. She has to work tonight.”
I sent him a look of gratitude through my tears as I gasped for breath.
Continuing to chuckle, Nancy poured Cletus another shot and clinked their glasses together. “What’ll we drink to this time?”
“How about new ventures? Personal and business.”
Nancy’s clever eyes sharpened, and she nodded, tossing back another shot and wiping her lips with the back of her wrist. Cletus also drank, but not until after taking two deep, bracing breaths. He handed over his glass and mine, which she took. She then disappeared for a moment with a promise to return in a moment.
As soon as I could breathe again, I tugged Cletus down so I could whisper, “What’s mishla?”
“It’s moonshine, made from bananas,” he said low, his features still apologetic.
“Banana moonshine?”
“Yep. Lethal. You could burn a barn with the stuff.”
“I didn’t know she made moonshine.”
He seemed taken aback by that. “Jenn. I don’t know any farmer who doesn’t make moonshine.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. Its various applications make it a common staple on most farms.”
“Various applications?”
Cletus ticked off uses on his fingers. “Astringent, disinfectant, antifreeze—add two cups to a bucket of water if you want it to stay unfrozen in the winter, then boil it off if needed—truth serum.”
I flattened my smile at the last one. “You make moonshine.”
“I do.”
“You ever used it as a truth serum?”
“I have.” He glanced around the living room, sniffing. “Do I smell lavender?”
“It’s over there.” I pointed to a big pot in the corner of the room, next to the stone fireplace. “It likes dry climates, which must be why she puts it next to the fireplace. Who?”
“Pardon?”
“Who did you use moonshine on as a truth serum?”
His eyes moved between mine, and I thought for a minute he wouldn’t answer, but then he said, “Billy.”
“Really?”
Cletus nodded once.
“I’d like to hear this story.”
“Not mine to tell.” He glanced over his shoulder as though looking for Nancy, mumbling, “And Billy doesn’t remember some of it.”
“Sit! Sit down. On the couch. It’s the most comfortable couch in Tennessee.” Farmer Danvish walked back in, smiling brightly, and carrying two mugs. “These are for you. It’s cold, and you both look cold, and I don’t like folks being cold in my house.”
“Thank you so much.” I accepted the mug even though I wasn’t cold, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic. “That mishla warmed me up.”
“Good to see you, Jennifer. I like your hair that color, you look less like a Barbie doll and more like a person, though I got nothing against Barbie dolls nor women who look like them.”
“Good to see you too, Ms. Danvish.”
“How’d you find out we’re engaged?” Cletus asked, giving her a quizzical look.
“You told the sheriff this afternoon. He told Florence at the police station and Florence immediately called me.”
We both nodded. That made sense.
“She’s happy for you too. Said it was a good match.” Nancy smiled, taking a seat by the fire. “I agree. You’re both nice people. Nice people should marry nice people, makes sense. But I forget myself, that’s not why y’all are here.” She stood again and walked out of the roo
m, returning before Cletus and I could comment on her abrupt departure, carrying a portfolio envelope. “Here. Take it.”
Since she was handing me the envelope, I accepted it. “Uh, what is it?”
“It’s the contract for the farm stay business your daddy is pulling together, the overview of his plans.” She took her seat once more by the fire.
“Oh.” I felt the weight of the papers inside, it was substantial.
“That’s why you’re here, right? Spying for your momma?”
“What? We’re not spying.” Cletus waved away her statement, chuckling.
But Farmer Danvish’s eyes were on me, her stare candid, just like her. “Don’t go interfering with matters that don’t concern y’all. There’s a good reason I agreed to your daddy’s business proposal, and none of them are personal. I’m tired. I have no help around here. I’m ready to travel and retire, and the income from the farm stay will let me do that, with little to no hassle to me.”
Straightening my spine, I spoke up. “Farmer Danvish, I’m not here to interfere with your business, yet I am here to spy. But not for my momma.”
I felt Cletus’s eyes on my profile, not exactly shocked. More like equal parts caught off guard and concerned.
“Really?” Nancy dipped her head in a deferential movement, and I couldn’t tell if it was sincere or meant to be mocking. “Then who’re you spying for, Queen of Banana Cakes?”
Ah well. Mocking it is.
No matter.
“Myself,” I said plainly.
Smirking, she didn’t look like she believed me. “And you do whatever your momma tells you to do.”
I debated whether or not to contradict her but decided she wouldn’t believe me if I contested her statement. Everyone in town thought I did whatever my momma wanted, and until just a few months ago, they’d been right.
Instead of arguing, I got right to the point. “Did you hear what happened to Mr. Badcock’s chickens?”
Her expression sobered immediately. “I did. That was a shame. He loves—loved—those chickens.”
“And did you hear about Old Man Blount’s bee boxes?”
“I did. That man is a menace, but his bees deserved better.”
“Did you know that both Blount and Badcock refused to sell to my father or participate in the farm stay business?”
Her gaze grew introspective for a few seconds, and then cagey. “I did not.” She sat back in her chair, her hands coming to settle on the arms. “You think your father sabotaged Badcock and Blount because they wouldn’t sell?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, setting the mug on the coffee table next to the envelope. “But it does seem like an interesting coincidence.”
She seemed to ponder me for a moment. “Or have you considered, it’s also interesting—don’t you think—that me, Miller, Blount, and Badcock all supply, or supplied, your bakery?”
Cletus leaned forward slowly, placing his cup next to mine and his elbows on his knees. “That is interesting. Huh.”
I glanced at him and realized he didn’t want me to admit that this line of thinking had already occurred to either of us.
“I’ll tell you something else interesting, and I can’t believe this is a shock to anyone with half a brain, but, Jennifer, you are not well-liked in the baking community. Petty jealousy, I call it. But there it is. And for the record, I’ll sell you honey and eggs again, until poor Badcock and that mean old Blount get their farms in order. Some folks take things a step too far.”
“What does folks being jealous of Jenn have to do with Mr. Badcock’s chicken troubles?” Cletus tented his fingers in front of him, putting on a show of being honestly perplexed.
“Do you need me to connect the dots for you?” Nancy glanced between us before rolling her eyes. “Fine. Some folks think it’s about time someone other than she won the state fair, and they’ll do just about anything to make sure that happens, however misguided and stupid.”
“Even burning bee boxes and almost killing my mother?”
“Those bee boxes never should’ve been touched, I agree with that. But no one was trying to kill your mother.”
“Then why hit her over the head with that shovel?” Cletus stroked his beard.
“Oh, please. A concussion isn’t attempted murder. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And it wasn’t a shovel. It was a broom handle for hootenanny’s sake.”
I felt Cletus stiffen at my side, but he made no other outward sign of catching her slipup.
“Did she say it was a shovel?” Nancy snorted. “Diane Donner always had an overly dramatic, self-involved streak. Even as a kid. She’s fine now, isn’t she? Just a small bump on the head. No harm, no foul.”
Cletus and I swapped looks, and I knew exactly what he was thinking. How could she possibly know what was used to knock out my mother?
We didn’t know.
No one knew.
Except the person who did it.
Chapter Sixteen
“No great wisdom can be reached without sacrifice.”
― C.S. Lewis, The Magician's Nephew
*Jenn*
“Are we going to tell Boone?” I asked the moment we pulled out of Nancy Danvish’s driveway and onto the main road. “I mean, we have to tell him, right?”
Cletus wore a considering frown, his eyelids slightly lowered. “Nancy didn’t hit your momma on the head, and she didn’t burn those boxes, but she knows who did. Who does Nancy know? Who told her? Who is she friends with, close enough friends that they would tell her about assaulting your mother?” he asked slowly, like he was speaking while thinking.
“I don’t know, it could be anybody. She’s friendly with lots of folks and I know she sells—or used to sell—to a lot of bakers. Posey Lamont, Deb Brightwell, Ms. Ortiz, to name a few.”
“Well, regardless, Nancy wasn’t present when your momma was knocked out.”
“What makes you say that?”
“First, it was obvious she didn’t like that Badcock’s chickens had been killed, and she also didn’t like that Old Man Blount’s bee boxes were burned. She wouldn’t have any part in destruction of livestock, and I think she feels bad about it, which is, I suspect, why she offered to sell you eggs and honey again. And second, she didn’t know your momma had been dragged over to the boxes and left to die.”
“She didn’t?”
“No, think about it for a second.” His sharp attention flickered between me and the road. “Your momma definitely could’ve died. That’s a fact. But she would’ve died from the smoke and fire, not the hit to the head. Nancy only knew about the hit to the head, which was why she seemed to think ‘attempted murder’ was hysterics and drama, not reality.”
“So—” I leaned my elbow on the windowsill and pulled at my bottom lip, piecing it all together. “So Nancy knows who hit my momma on the head. Fact. And she thinks the burned bees and strangled chickens have to do with folks not wanting me to win the state fair. Also a fact. But she doesn’t know that the person who hit my momma on the head also dragged her over to the bee boxes before setting them on fire, and left my momma to die.”
“Or . . .”
“Or?”
Cletus’s chest expanded with a deep breath and he looked at me again, his frown now severe. “What if we’re dealing with two people? Or more? And they’re all working toward a common goal, which, according to Nancy Danvish, is keeping you from winning the state fair baking contest. But maybe they’re not all being forthright with their coconspirators.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s just”—he made a face of both indecision and irritation—“who in their right mind almost kills a person because of a state fair baking contest? Who does that? Also, Ashley made a good point when we were plucking Badcock’s chickens.”
“What did she say?”
“She pointed out that chickens are dumb and keeping them alive is difficult. Someone could’ve just opened the coop door and let a dog in. Sure, B
adcock might’ve heard the dog, but there’s a hundred different ways to kill chickens and make it look like an accident if all they wanted to do was interrupt the supply chain for the bakery. Somebody wanted everybody to know the chickens were killed on purpose. Killing them all by strangulation was unnecessary, unless the person—or people—doing it wanted to send a message to Mr. Badcock, or to someone else, that it was done maliciously.”
“Ugh.” I rubbed my chest. “That makes my heart sick. Poor Mr. Badcock.”
“Those chickens were killed to send a message, and your momma was almost killed to send a message. Somebody is being vicious.”
I glanced at my hands. “The only person I can think of involved in this mess who is also that level of vicious, and might want my momma dead, is my father. But he doesn’t care if I win the state fair baking contest.”
“Doesn’t he? The bakery is a big draw for the lodge. You winning every year is a big deal on social media and a big feather in your momma’s cap. Your mother spends hours on your Instagram page, curating it, the image she wants to project. Plus, don’t forget about the Tricia Wilkinson connection. She hasn’t placed first, second, or third in the state fair ever since you won, and your father is dating her sister.”
I turned my body so that my back pressed against the car door. “You think my father is using Tricia to destroy bee boxes and kill chickens so that I don’t win the state fair as a way to sabotage my momma?”
“I’m not sure. Nancy seemed to think Badcock and Blount’s troubles were entirely because of jealous bakers, but we can’t forget Nancy is going into business with your father. Clearly, she doesn’t have a grudge against you, doesn’t care if you win the fair or not, but if your father were involved with messy, illegal dealings—destroying livestock and such—it would put her in a difficult position. She’s already signed the contract for the farm stay. If her contract is similar to Miller’s, her farm and income are tied up for three years.”
“Well, we have her contract right there.” Cletus gestured to the envelope she’d given us with a copy of the contract. “I guess we’ll find out.”
