by Gin Jones
“Does the grapevine have any suspects?” Mabel asked. “Besides me, I mean.”
“No one in particular,” Josefina said. “Graham was a lawyer though, so I’m sure he’d made a few enemies over the years. I had a few patrons ask me for help with looking up how to report lawyers to the Board of Bar Overseers, and I’m pretty sure they were all represented by Graham. A few were pretty vocal about it, and not just in private with me.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Well, I heard Sam Trent was really angry,” Josefina said. “He claimed that Graham revealed something confidential to opposing counsel. I know Sam threatened to get Graham disbarred a year ago, but I don’t know if he carried through with it.”
“He couldn’t have been successful with it,” Mabel said, “since Graham was still practicing law. The client might have decided to take things into his own hands to get his justice.”
“Or he could have done what the other clients did,” Josefina said. “Most of them just fired him and moved on.”
“Still, looking into angry clients seems like a good avenue of inquiry for the police.”
“That could be difficult,” Josefina said. “The detectives would have to get past attorney-client privilege in order to search Graham’s office, and even if they did, I’m not sure what they’ll find in his records. His last employee, not counting the answering service, quit about six months ago. Given how he’d been going in and out of coherence lately, who knows what he was doing with his office paperwork?”
“His greenhouse was perfectly organized,” Mabel said. “I didn’t look inside the seed drawers, but judging by the precise labels, I suspect his records there are in good shape.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Josefina said. “But he cared passionately about the breeding program. I’m not sure he ever cared all that much about being a lawyer. It was just something to generate the money he spent on his rhubarb plants.”
“If you hear anything more about Graham’s death or who might have wanted him dead, will you let me know so I can make sure the police aren’t spending too much time trying to prove I did it?”
“Of course,” Josefina said, coming around the counter to give her a farewell hug. “I’ll always do whatever I can to make sure the police don’t even think about arresting Peggy Skinner’s niece.”
Mabel let the hug go on longer than usual, as an unspoken apology for not having told Josefina about the sale of the farm yet. One way or another, Mabel would be leaving West Slocum in the next few weeks. If she wanted her destination to be her home back in Maine rather than a prison cell, she needed to figure out who else had wanted Graham Winthrop dead. She’d hit a dead end with Josefina, but Rory might have some ideas about where to start, since she knew everything about everyone in town.
Chapter 7
Mabel took care of a few errands after she left the library, picking up some groceries so Emily couldn’t fuss about the empty refrigerator and then getting the scanner she needed to copy her aunt’s journal. Maybe it was just her imagination, but it felt like people were staring at her wherever she went, more so than they had in the past, even when she’d first come to West Slocum and they’d been curious about Aunt Peggy’s niece. And they accompanied their stares with whispered comments she couldn’t quite make out. Were they all thinking that she had killed Graham Winthrop? She wished she were more like Rory, who would have gone up to them and asked them what they were saying about her, but that wasn’t Mabel’s way. She just made her purchases and left.
By the time Mabel got home, it was dark. Too late to call Rory, who went to bed around nine o’clock. Or was that just an excuse to delay the inevitable? The next time she talked to Rory, Mabel would have to confess about the pending sale of the farm, and she wasn’t in a rush to have that conversation. Getting some leads on who might have killed Graham could wait until morning. Late morning, when Mabel was fully alert.
Until then, Mabel had work to do. She loved being inside the farmhouse at night. The birds were asleep, no one was likely to set Pixie to yowling, and she could work without interruption during her most productive hours. Not that she had any paid work right now, but she would soon. She just needed to sell the farm and get back to Maine first.
Mabel went upstairs to check on the pregnant cat. It was hiding in the farthest corner of the crate, cowering inside a cardboard box the animal control officer had tossed inside for that purpose. Water had been splashed all over the front half of the crate, and the kibble bowl was half empty, despite having been filled just a couple of hours earlier. She probably needed to eat more than normal during the pregnancy. Graham must have been feeding the cat regularly, since he’d had the food and water bowls, along with a bucket of kibble, near the back door of the house, but it seemed likely she hadn’t been fed the morning of the murder. The animal control officer had said she’d been ravenous when he’d caught her, making her easier to catch than if she’d been fed shortly before the trap had been set.
Too bad the cat couldn’t testify to when her human had been killed, since an exact time of death should exonerate Mabel. She hadn’t arrived until late morning, and it seemed likely that Graham’s schedule would usually call for him leaving for his office and feeding the cat before nine at the very latest, around three hours before she’d arrived. If she was right about that as the estimated time of death, she might even find herself grateful for the nosy neighbor whose video, if time-stamped, would establish Mabel had entered the greenhouse well after whatever time the autopsy would reveal was when Graham had died.
Mabel cleaned up the water on the floor of the crate and refilled both bowls while Pixie scratched at the bedroom door to be let inside. With the pregnant cat taken care of, Mabel contemplated the contents of the rest of the room. The reading chairs and side table that the animal control officer had moved to make room for the crate were stacked with several loads of laundry that had been washed and folded but not put away before Aunt Peggy had died. The bed was even more covered with stuff, now that a box of canned cat food and bags of kibble and kitten-safe litter had joined the dozen lacy pillows, three paperback books, and a breakfast tray with an e-reader and an empty mug that had been on the bed since before Aunt Peggy had died. The closet door and the dresser drawers didn’t shut completely because of their overflowing contents.
It was going to take hours to inventory everything, and her presence was going to irritate the feral cat who, whenever she paused in munching on the kibble, threw angry looks at Mabel. Virtually all of the room’s contents, other than the cat supplies, would be either thrown out or donated to charity, so she might as well just mark it all down as not coming to Maine with her, and give the cat some privacy.
Satisfied that she was done with the bedroom for now, Mabel glanced into the crate and found that the pregnant cat had already eaten about half of the kibble and retreated to her box in the back corner. Mabel topped off the food bowl again and left the room, careful not to let Pixie inside before shutting the door behind her.
She went downstairs to hard-boil the eggs she’d promised Emily she’d eat before the next delivery. Pixie joined her, eating her own dinner and then perching on the windowsill to stare in the direction of the barn as if communicating telepathically with the other cats.
After dinner, Mabel settled at the desk in her aunt’s home office to inventory its contents. The small room was Spartan compared to the rest of the house, with none of the pineapple decor and clutter-topped furniture, just an antique wood desk, an ergonomic chair, and a wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Many of the books were on farming and especially about the economics of agriculture. Once an accountant, always an accountant, Mabel thought.
She spent the next few hours sorting through the desk drawers and books for anything she might want to keep. Ultimately, all she wanted was the series of journals her aunt had written about the farm and her life since moving to West Slocum
. There were ten of them in all, one for each of the years Aunt Peggy had owned Stinkin’ Stuff Farm.
There were only nine on the shelves, since she’d taken the most recent one up to her bedroom the night before. She hadn’t gotten far, and she was convinced it would contain useful information for the new owner of the farm.
It was almost midnight by then, so she headed upstairs to resume her reading. After a final check on the pregnant cat and another refill of the food bowl, Mabel settled in bed with the heavy, leather-bound journal on her lap and Pixie curled up at her side.
She was almost ready to turn out the lights an hour later when she came across a passage where her aunt had been considering adding a field of rhubarb to her farm. There was even a diagram showing where it could be sited for best sun and soil conditions.
She bookmarked the page with a note to scan it in the morning to share with Thomas Porter. Perhaps he’d find it useful, and he might even be interested in buying some of Graham Winthrop’s plants so they wouldn’t be plowed under. He’d obviously put a great deal of time and energy into their propagation, and no matter what she’d thought of Graham as a person, it would be a shame to waste all of his painstaking work.
* * * *
The next morning, before getting out of bed, Mabel checked her phone for a message from Jeff Wright, but he hadn’t replied. Not a text, not a voicemail, nothing at all. While she mulled over why she still hadn’t heard from him and whether she should contact him again, she refilled the pregnant cat’s bowls and then went downstairs to peel two of the hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. Maybe Jeff was waiting until he’d had a chance to review the purchase and sale agreement. She’d give him until the end of the day before she bothered him again.
While she ate, she found an app to organize her move and installed it on her phone. After breakfast, she resumed inventorying the contents of the farmhouse, starting with her own bedroom, which had the least number of things to deal with. Even so, filling in the basic information for the app made her aware of just how much work she had to do in the next few weeks to get ready to leave. And there was nothing in the app about saying goodbye to friends.
Mabel took a break at noon. She needed to get some Help Wanted flyers made and posted them around town. With the planting season starting in just a week, she couldn’t wait any longer to collect potential farmhands in case the sale fell through. Even if she no longer owned the farm then, Thomas Porter would need help, and she could pass along the information on potential employees to make the transition go more smoothly.
Mabel updated the flyer she’d used for the summer harvest and sent it to the local printer, who promised to have them ready whenever she got there to pick them up. After checking on the pregnant cat in her aunt’s bedroom and giving Pixie a treat and a quick pat so she wouldn’t get jealous, Mabel headed out of the farmhouse to go into town. She made it as far as her car outside the barn before Rory arrived and accosted her with a hug and a worried, “Are you all right?”
Mabel almost blurted out that she was feeling stressed about how much she needed to do before the sale of the farm, but stopped herself in time. That wouldn’t be the way to break the news to Rory about the sale. Assuming she hadn’t already heard about it from the grapevine.
“Why wouldn’t I be all right?” Mabel asked cautiously as she pulled away from the hug.
“You found a dead body. My husband told me everything. It’s all anyone can talk about at the police station.”
“Does that mean the police have found the killer?”
“Not yet,” Rory said. “All Joe knew was that Graham had been stabbed and you were the one who found him in his greenhouse.”
“That’s all I know too,” Mabel said. “Except that everyone in town has been looking at me funny, like I was the one who killed him.”
“You wouldn’t be my first choice for a suspect.” Rory went over to the back of her truck to lower the tailgate.
Mabel followed her. “Who would be?”
“There are too many possibilities to choose just one.” Rory pulled a stack of empty bins toward her. They were the ones she’d helped fill with squashes the day before, but that had apparently been transferred to the delivery boxes for CSA members. She hefted her bins and carried them into the barn.
Mabel grabbed her own stack and hurried to follow. “Like who?”
Rory dropped her bins near the back wall. “Like his clients. Most of them were mad at him. Then there’s the local judge who’s been threatening to throw him into jail for contempt, and another rhubarb breeder Graham was feuding with.”
“I never realized rhubarb was that big a deal. Was there really another breeder who lived close enough to have had in-person dealings with Graham? Close enough to have come here to kill him?”
“Definitely,” Rory said. “I suppose it is surprising there were two of them in the same little corner of Massachusetts, considering how small a niche rhubarb is. Perhaps she inspired him. Or vice versa. All I know is that her name’s Sandy Faitakis, she’s a professor at the local university, and her breeding program is part of her academic work. Her trial field is about half an hour’s drive from here.”
“Do you think she might have killed Graham?” Mabel leaned against the shelves she’d labeled the day before. “The local detective doesn’t seem to have a lot of experience, so I want to be sure he’s got some suspects other than me.”
“I don’t know her at all. I’ve just heard that the two of them didn’t get along, and they both thought the other one was either stupid or malicious.”
“I suppose it’s not too likely that a university professor would kill a rival breeder.” Mabel laughed. “Actually, I never would have thought anyone would kill over a few not-very-popular plants, but then I saw Graham’s greenhouse and how much work he’d put into this breeding program. There must have been thousands of seedlings in there, and that’s not even counting what was growing in the back yard. I wonder what’s going to happen to them.”
“They’ll probably die,” Rory said. “The ones growing outside can fend for themselves, but the ones in the greenhouse are dependent on human watering and temperature control. Even this time of year, it can get pretty hot in the greenhouse on a sunny day.”
“What if someone bought them from the estate?” Mabel asked. “Aunt Peggy was thinking about adding a rhubarb field. She even drew up plans for where the plants would grow best. Maybe Graham’s seedlings could find a home here.”
“I thought you were looking for less responsibility at the farm, not more,” Rory said, taking a closer look at the newly affixed labels. “Preparing and planting a new field of perennials is a lot of work.”
“Actually,” Mabel said, steeling herself for what was to come. “It wouldn’t be me doing that work. I have a buyer for the farm.”
Rory continued silently inspecting the labels for a long moment before finally saying, “Is it anyone I know?”
“Probably.” As far as Mabel could tell, Rory didn’t just know everyone in West Slocum, she knew everyone in New England who had any connection whatsoever to agriculture. “He says he knows a lot about farming, so I’m guessing you’ve run into him at some point. His name’s Thomas Porter.”
“Doesn’t sound familiar. I’ll ask around, see if anyone else knows anything about him.” Rory headed for the barn doors. “What kind of time frame are you looking at for the sale?”
Mabel followed. “I’ve already sent the contract to my lawyer, but I haven’t heard back from him yet. Once it’s signed though, the closing will happen pretty fast. He’s paying cash.”
Rory slammed the tailgate of her truck with more force than necessary, but her voice remained unemotional. “You shouldn’t rush into things.”
“It’s been months already without any offers,” Mabel said. “You know I’m no farmer, and I can’t keep relying on you to tell me what needs doing.
You’ve got your own life to live. You should be as anxious as I am to see the place turned over to someone who knows how to grow things before I destroy the farm.”
“There are other options, you know,” Rory said, her tone turning earnest. “You could hire a farm manager and split your time between here and Maine.”
“But Maine is my home.” The closet thing she had to family—her attorney, Jeff Wright—was there, her cottage was there, and all of her backup electronics were there.
“Maine used to be your home,” Rory said. “West Slocum is now. I’m sure of it, and I’m afraid you’re not going to figure it out until it’s too late.”
“Why don’t we see what my attorney has to say about the sale of the farm before we start worrying?” Mabel suggested. “He advises me on more than purely legal issues, and he won’t let me do anything rash.”
“All right,” Rory said. “But I want to talk to him before he makes up his mind about whether the sale is a good idea.”
“Sure.” Mabel texted Jeff to give him permission to talk to Rory about things that would otherwise be confidential, and then texted the attorney’s office number to Rory so she could call him. “He may be out of town or something though. He hasn’t responded to my recent texts.”
“I’m not in any rush,” Rory said. “I’ve got plenty to do while I wait to hear back from him. I promised to help out with a school project for my daughter’s class, and Joe’s wearing his last clean uniform today, so I need to do some laundry. I may not be all that domestic generally, but I do try to support his career at least a little.”
