by Gin Jones
Mabel didn’t need Jeff Wright to tell her that it would be foolish to believe, like so many fraud victims did, that she was the exception to the pattern, that Tellman really truly wanted her farm because it was so amazing, and he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the acquisition. It still would have been nice to talk to Jeff about it, and know that she had him in her corner. It would have been nice to talk to him, period, about anything, even the social chitchat she normally avoided at all costs. She just wanted to hear his voice again. But that wasn’t going to happen.
Mabel dropped into the chair beside Josefina’s, fighting the moisture gathering in her eyes. “I really miss my lawyer.”
“You mean the one in Maine?” Josefina said. “I heard about his death. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks,” Mabel said. “I never had to worry about anything financial, because I always knew he was there for me, and he’d keep me from making any really huge mistakes. He’d have known this Tellman was a con right away. I don’t know how Jeff did it, but he’d always been able to tell instantly when someone was lying or was trying to take advantage of me. I was never any good at figuring out who I could trust, other than Jeff. And now there’s no one left.”
“You can trust your friends,” Josefina assured her. “Like me and Rory and Emily.” After a brief pause, she added slyly, “And Charlie.”
Mabel ignored the matchmaking. She didn’t have time for that right now. “I do trust them, but they don’t want to buy my farm. No one does.” She couldn’t help the whiney tone that infected her words.
“I know,” Josefina said gently. “You’re going through a lot, and you’re still mourning your aunt, and now you’ve experienced another loss. I’m sorry for teasing you.”
“It’s okay.” Mabel had gotten better at telling when someone was teasing, but even when she got it wrong, she’d found that there was often a lot to be learned from something said in jest. Frequently, it showed her who the person really was. Like in this case, it meant that Josefina cared about Mabel and wanted her to be happy. And presumably Josefina cared about Charlie too, and wanted him to be happy.
“Maybe you should think about your ownership of the farm differently,” Josefina said. “One of the things I love about being a librarian is watching how books can suggest options that the reader hadn’t thought of initially, and it changes their lives. I get to be part of making that happen by recommending things to read.”
“So what should I be reading to get a new perspective?”
“Hmm.” Josefina stared at her monitor, her arthritic hands hovering over the keyboard while she thought. “I suppose this is a bit like deciding on a career.”
“I already have a career,” Mabel said. “I’m an app developer.”
“Yes, but you’re assuming it’s the only thing you can do. And that you can only do one thing at a time instead of multi-tasking or compartmentalizing. What if you were meant to be both an app developer and a farmer?” Josefina started tapping on the keyboard without actually applying enough pressure to activate the keys, as if it helped her to think.
Finally Josefina’s fingers stopped and she said, “Have you ever considered being just a farm owner, not the person who’s doing the actual growing and harvesting? Get someone else to do that for you, so you can do your app work?”
The college student, Terry Earley, had said something similar about separating the ownership from the agricultural work. Perhaps she should learn more about how it would work. “What have you got for me on farm managers?”
“Let me see.” Josefina entered a few slow, painful-looking key strokes. “Mostly games, and I don’t think they’ll be helpful.” Another minute of laborious typing. “This is better. There’s a lot of resources on farm management generally. They should give you an idea of how much work you could do yourself and how much you’d want to hire someone else to do.”
“Okay,” Mabel said. “I’ll take whatever you recommend.”
“I can send you one digital resource now, but the rest will take a few days. They’re not in this library, so I’ll have to get them through the inter-library loan program.”
“Thanks.”
After a handful of additional slow jabs at the keyboard, Josefina looked up. “Done. Now will you do something for me?”
“If I can,” Mabel said warily.
“I hate losing my favorite patrons, so promise me you’ll keep an open mind about staying here in West Slocum. At least until the books come in and you’ve read them.”
“I will.” She didn’t add that, regardless of what she wanted, she might not have a choice about staying here, not when leaving would only make Detective O’Connor more convinced that she was the best suspect in Graham’s murder.
* * * *
Mabel checked on Billie Jean as soon as she got home. The water and kibble bowls still looked untouched. She called the animal shelter, and found that it was closed until the next afternoon. She still had the business card of the jam-maker who’d said she had experience with cats giving birth, so Mabel texted her to ask if she should be worried about Billie Jean’s lack of appetite.
While she waited for a response, Mabel went downstairs and settled at the kitchen table with some iced tea and the book Josefina had checked out for her. The information quickly overwhelmed her. She’d never imagined how much management a farm needed. It had always seemed sort of quaint and straightforward. Get up at dawn, work with nature, feed the community. But it was a business, and a complicated one at that. Especially since she didn’t know anything about either the growing aspects or the business aspects of farming.
She’d probably already irrevocably damaged the next year’s profits. Any experienced farmer who might otherwise be interested in buying the farm would figure out pretty quickly that she’d made a mess of things, and wouldn’t make an offer. In her ignorance, she was practically asking to be taken advantage of by buyers who were liars or scammers.
She decided she needed more time to straighten things out. And to find someone who could give her the kind of business and legal advice Jeff had always given her.
Mabel had just finished her tea when she got a text from the jam-maker: Don’t worry. But expect kittens soon.
She wanted to ask for a more definite time frame than “soon,” but then her phone rang with a call from her boss, Phil Reed. She considered ignoring him, but experience told her he’d just keep calling, and she might as well get the conversation over with as quickly as possible so she could go make sure Billie Jean hadn’t produced any kittens in the last half hour.
She took the call, saying, “There’s been a delay in the sale of the farm. I can’t give you a definite answer right now on when I can come back to work.”
“I can’t hold your job open forever.”
“I’m not asking for forever. Just a few months.” When he didn’t immediately respond, she added reluctantly, “But if you’ve got to replace me, go ahead.”
“No, no,” he said. “I don’t want to lose you. But I really need you on this project, and it can’t wait weeks, let alone months. It’s right up your alley, and everyone else is overworked already.”
Phil went on to explain the specs, and they did sound interesting.
“When’s it due?”
“In a month,” he said. “You could do it in half that time.”
She could. Or in the same number of weeks, but working on it only part-time. She could spend her days finding a farm manager and still have the evenings to work on the coding. But not quite yet. First she had to focus on more imminent crises. Like kittens and killers.
“I’m not coming back full-time right now,” she said, “but I can do this one emergency project, starting in about a week.”
“I knew I could count on you.” Phil’s voice exuded even more relief than she’d expected. He was probably getting paid top dollar to do i
t in such a short time frame, or he wouldn’t have been so desperate to get her back to work. Jeff Wright had always handled her salary negotiations for her, but now she was responsible for herself. What would Jeff have done in these circumstances?
“In return,” she said, “You’ll pay me overtime rates for the entire project.”
“That’s crazy,” Phil said, sounding surprised she’d even brought up the issue of money. Had he heard of her lawyer’s death and thought he could walk all over her now that she didn’t have Jeff watching out for her?
If so, Phil was wrong. She’d grown accustomed to leaning on Jeff, but she’d also learned a lot from him over the years. She could take care of herself now, even if she wished she didn’t have to.
“I guess you’ll have to find someone else to do this project then.”
Phil didn’t answer right away, apparently trying to decide whether she was serious. She needed to get this conversation over with so she could go check on Billie Jean.
“Look”—Mabel put him on speaker and set her phone’s timer for sixty seconds—“I’m going to hang up in exactly one minute. I’ve got plenty of other things to do here on the farm this month instead of working on your app. Hiring field hands, planting garlic, and midwifing kittens.” To say nothing of finding a killer. “So, do you agree to my terms or not?”
With eight seconds left, Phil said, “All right, all right. But you don’t get the overtime until the project is done. Regular rates up front, plus the rest as a bonus at the end.”
“Fine,” Mabel said “Send me the specs. I’ll start in a few days, just as soon as I deal with some other crises here.”
Like figuring out how to hire a farm manager. Fortunately, one of the books Josefina had ordered for her was about the hiring process. All she had to do was to follow the steps in the book. She had one addition to the checklist: The successful candidate would have to like cats. Even though she was taking Pixie back to Maine with her eventually, there were the barn cats to look after and now Billie Jean too.
Before she could even think about hiring the manager, though, she needed to get herself out from under police suspicion of murder. That couldn’t wait weeks or months. Not if she was going to attend Jeff’s funeral. And she was. Whether O’Connor liked it or not.
Chapter 22
Mabel was on her way to the stairs to check on Billie Jean, when Emily knocked and entered the kitchen. “I was wondering how your pregnant cat is doing, so I thought I’d stop by.”
“I’m not sure.” Mabel said. “Apparently not eating is a sign of imminent labor, and I don’t think she’s eaten anything since sometime in the middle of the night. Definitely not since early this morning.”
“Labor should start soon then,” Emily said.
There was that word again—soon. “Could you be a little more specific than that?”
Emily laughed. “Afraid not. I’ve only dealt with one set of kittens. I make sure all my barn cats are fixed, but I had a pregnant stray show up once a few days before she was due. I read up on what to do, but apparently each cat’s experience is a little different. Just like with humans, I guess.”
Mabel nodded toward the stairs. “Do you want to come with me to check on Billie Jean? It’s been a while since I looked in on her, and I was on my way there when you arrived.”
“Sure. But first you need to tell me why you look so miserable.”
“I just feel so helpless,” Mabel said on the way to the stairs. “I want to do something useful, but I don’t know what. For Billie Jean and also to help find Graham’s killer.”
“For Billie Jean, the best thing is to just leave her alone except for occasional checks to make sure she’s not having a difficult labor,” Emily said. “Humans hovering around will only stress her.”
“I’ll keep my distance from her after we check on her, but I can’t stay away from Graham’s murder.”
“It might be better if you did,” Emily said. “You’re not responsible for him the way you are for Billie Jean.”
“No, but I have to leave town soon for a friend’s funeral back in Maine, and I can’t do that without bringing the wrath of Detective O’Connor down on me. As best I can tell, there are only four likely suspects, but I can’t figure out how to narrow down the options.”
“Four?” Emily said. “The only person I’ve thought of is his next-door neighbor. I’ve heard about what a nuisance she is. According to Rory’s husband, she called the cops on every little thing Graham did. Are there really three other people who disliked him as much as she did?”
“There could be more than that,” Mabel said. “The ones I know about are a client who was angry with him and another rhubarb breeder who had a rocky relationship with Graham. And then there’s his brother-in-law, Rob Robinson. He isn’t an heir, but he’s a creditor and his kids will get whatever’s left after the bills are paid. That’s a motive, even if it’s indirect.”
“Rob Robinson? The name sounds familiar.” Emily frowned in concentration as they made their way up the stairs to the second floor. “Oh, I know why. He works in insurance, doesn’t he?”
Mabel nodded.
“I didn’t know he was related to Graham,” she said. “But if he’s got any financial interest in the estate, no matter how distant, he’d be my prime suspect.”
“You’ve dealt with him before?”
“Not me, but my husband,” Emily said, pausing outside the bedroom where Billie Jean was. “He did a training program for Rob’s company, and Ed’s pretty used to normal cut-throat business behavior, but he said Rob was different. Like he wanted to hurt the competition, not just win a particular contract. My husband had the chance to do more work with the company, but he turned it down.”
Mabel needed to have another chat with Rob, perhaps under the pretext of letting him know that she might be out of town for a few days, and she’d hired someone else to take care of the rhubarb seedlings. His office would be closed by now, so it would have to wait until morning.
She opened the bedroom door to show Emily that even if the investigation into Graham’s murder was stalled, at least Billie Jean was doing just fine.
Except she wasn’t. She was moaning and writhing.
“She’s in labor,” Emily said. “And look, the first kitten is born already and Billie Jean cleaned her up, just like she’s supposed to.”
Mabel peered at the little, rat-like creature lying on its back a few inches away from the momcat. It didn’t seem to be breathing, and it definitely wasn’t moving. “Are you sure it’s okay?”
Emily nodded. “Childbirth comes naturally to most animals. Cats usually don’t have problems.”
“But what if Billie Jean does?” Mabel asked. “That kitten doesn’t look good.”
“Give it some time to adjust to being in the world. It may be waiting for some siblings to join it before it starts looking for food,” Emily said. “I can stay with you for a while if you want to keep an eye on things, but mostly the momcat probably just wants to be left alone.”
Mabel had found the same advice online. “If all we can do is leave her alone, I can do that on my own. I’ll call you if I do need help, if that’s okay.”
“Of course,” Emily said. “Don’t worry if it’s late. That’s one good thing about my husband being gone at the moment. You won’t wake him up.”
“Thanks.” She shut the door behind them to keep Pixie out and walked Emily to the back door. Mabel knew she’d be too worried about Billie Jean to sleep, so she grabbed her laptop from the kitchen table and went back upstairs, not to her aunt’s bedroom but to her own, where she could work on decoding Graham’s journal. The need to check on the cat would keep her awake, and as long as she was pulling an all-nighter, she could finally finish decoding the journal. She was running out of time to clear her name, and if there weren’t any clues in the journal, she needed to know as s
oon as possible so she could come up with a new plan.
* * * *
After about an hour of intense work on the journal and a quick check on Billie Jean who had two kittens in the crate with her by then, Mabel was up to August in Graham’s journals. The work had gone faster after she’d decided not to bother to decode the paragraphs that started with the word data, which she could recognize at a glance after having translated it so often, and generally just summarized some aspect of his breeding work. Instead, she focused on anything without that flag, and those sections were almost always something personal that, unlike the scientific information, might offer some insights into his murder.
No new leads presented themselves though. Graham continued to accuse the Enforcer of pressuring him to sell his property, and the Professor of wanting to steal his work. He seemed increasingly worried about them, but the only mentions of violence were his own fantasies of killing them if they ever became a real threat to his seedlings, rather than any fear of someone killing or even assaulting him.
Another few hours passed with regular visits to check on Billie Jean to break up the back-straining monotony of hunching over the scanned copy of the journal on her laptop. At last check, there were four kittens, all latched onto their mother, drinking ravenously, their tiny round ears twitching adorably.
As Mabel hit the September entries, she ran into a new nickname—the Salesman, who presumably was Sam Trent. For the first time, Graham had sounded legitimately afraid, rather than paranoid and angry. The fear wasn’t of physical violence, but of being sued and forced to quit practicing law. He didn’t seem to mind the prospect of losing his career per se, since it would give him more time for his breeding program, but he was terrified of losing his only source of financial support for his rhubarb.
She still had a month left to decode, but it was three in the morning, and she wasn’t used to such a late hour any longer. Her attention kept wavering, and the work slowed exponentially. If she was going to finish it before falling asleep sitting up, she needed to narrow down the pages that needed to be decoded. She decided to look just for references to Trent, to see if there was something specific she could bring to the police.
