"I don't know," I said. "But it doesn't sound good. Did you manage to get in touch with him today?"
"I called him, but he didn't answer," she said. "If Dottie goes on and on about Jessie all the time, I can see why Jennifer might be a little miffed."
"I have a feeling Jennifer suspects her brother might have done in Eva."
Quinn's eyes widened. "Really?"
"She said Eva was against Jessie's crusade to get Dottie to sell the house. When I wondered out loud if he might have had a reason to want Eva out of the way, she kind of flushed and said she felt guilt even thinking about it, but..."
"We should probably let Deputy Shames know about the situation with Dottie," Quinn suggested. "Of course, it would kill her if her son really was a murderer."
"But if he is—and I'm not saying he is—doesn't Eva deserve justice?"
Quinn sighed. "Man... what a question. Families can be tough, can't they?"
I thought about the jealousy in Jennifer's voice when she talked about Eva... as if Eva were the daughter Dottie had always wished she'd had. As much as I hated to think it, it occurred to me that Jessie might not be the only one with a motive to get rid of Eva. I shook myself, as if that would rid me of the thought, but it still lingered. She said she'd been home with the kids... but could that have been a story?
With Chuck on her heels, Quinn followed me into the kitchen and sat down at my kitchen table. "Need any help?" she asked as I pulled down a mixing bowl and grabbed a container of goat cheese from the fridge.
"I've got it," I said. "It's a pretty easy recipe. Want a margarita?"
"I'd love one," she said. I set the goat cheese down and reached into the freezer for some ice cubes.
"Can you get me the tequila and triple sec from the bottom of the pie safe?" I asked as I scooped some of the limeade into the blender.
"Got it," she said, opening the bottom cabinets and retrieving the two bottles. I measured in a few jiggers of each, added some ice, and grabbed the dewberry puree I'd made from some frozen berries the day before. "How do you feel about dewberry margaritas?" I asked.
"That sounds heavenly," Quinn said. I juiced a lime into the blender and dumped in some ice, then measured out some of the dewberry puree—I'd cooked the frozen berries down with some sugar and lemon juice and then strained the mixture—along with generous amounts of tequila and triple sec. As the blender whirred, I took two margarita glasses I'd picked up at last year's antique fair and rimmed them with sugar. A moment later, I filled them with the dark purple slush.
"Cheers," I said as I handed her a margarita. We clinked our glasses, and when she took a sip, Quinn's eyes widened. "This is amazing," she told me. "I need the recipe."
"I'll send it over," I told her. I opened a bag of chips, poured some salsa verde into a bowl, and set both in front of my friend as I got back to working on the quesadillas.
We talked about Dottie and Eva as I mixed shredded Monterrey Jack and goat cheese, then retrieved a few sprigs of the cilantro that had survived the storm and chopped them up. "How long had Eva been helping Dottie out?" Quinn asked as I added the cilantro to the cheese mixture along with some fresh garlic, salt, and pepper.
"At least a year," I said. "Eva seemed devoted to her."
What I don't understand is, why would she make a change like that if everything was going so well?"
"According to Jennifer, Jessie convinced Dottie that the finances weren't looking too rosy. And assisted living places aren't exactly cheap," I pointed out. I would give him the benefit of the doubt for now, I decided.
Quinn furrowed her brow. "If most of Dottie's equity is in her property, maybe she couldn't afford to stay without accessing it."
"She mentioned that might be the case. But why not do a reverse mortgage?" I asked.
Quinn shrugged. "I'm not the one making the decisions," she said. "You'd have to talk with Dottie. But something tells me she wouldn't want to discuss it. To hear her talk, her son Jessie is the financial wizard."
"That's not what Jennifer said. He's driving a brand-new Escalade, but apparently he just got laid off. Which gives me the feeling it's not Dottie who came up with the idea of selling the property."
"Maybe he is pushing her to sell," my friend said. "I don't know. I just know that I'll be sad to lose Dottie."
"All kinds of bad news today," I said, taking a long sip of my margarita. The tangy lime and dewberry were a perfect foil to the tequila, and although I wasn't a big drinker, today had been the kind of day that almost required a little pick-me-up.
"What else is wrong?" Quinn asked.
"Well, there's Eva, of course. And Cinnamon. And I'm worried about Flora now, too."
"What about her?"
"Remember what Dottie said this morning? We told her Gus seemed like a solid guy; what if we were wrong?"
"Flora and Gus are both adults," Quinn reminded me. "They're in charge of themselves. From everything we knew, Gus seemed like a good option, and when she asked our opinions, we gave them. Besides," she added, "Dottie was upset. And who knows where she was getting her information from?"
"True," I said as I heated a pan on the stove and laid out four fresh tortillas. I took another sip of my dewberry margarita—it was the perfect slushy mix of tart and sweet, and went down far too quickly—and added the cooked shrimp to the mixture, then divided it among the four tortillas. I "sandwiched" each of them with another tortilla, then melted a knob of butter in the pan and carefully added the first quesadilla.
The kitchen soon filled with the mouthwatering scent of browning butter and goat cheese, with only a tinge of the briny aroma of shrimp. Quinn and I were both salivating by the time I finished the last quesadilla. I quartered them using a pizza cutter and set them on the table with the salsa verde while Quinn set the table.
A few minutes later, my friend and I were sitting in front of a cheesy, shrimpy stack of melted goodness. "I love these," she said through a mouthful of quesadilla.
"Me too," I mumbled as salsa verde dripped down my chin.
"Oh—did I mention I did one of those DNA tests the other day?"
"No," I said.
"I got the results back. I always thought I was mainly Czech and Irish, but it turns out there's a big chunk of German in there, too."
"Wasn't one of your grandmothers adopted?" I asked.
"She was," Quinn said, looking melancholy. "I wish I knew more about my family from before. Who were they? I'm thinking of doing Ancestry.com to see if I can find some relatives. The family I have is small; I don't have any siblings, and my parents were only children, too. And now they're both gone."
"And all the stories with them. I'm so sorry," I told her.
I took another sip of margarita. As I put the glass down, there was a sudden drop in temperature in the kitchen, and something cold pressed against my leg. Chuck whined nervously; I bent down to pet him.
"Chilly all of a sudden," Quinn said.
"I thought maybe it was the margarita, but I don't know," I said, putting my hand in my pocket to figure out what felt so cold. It was the locket; I'd forgotten about it.
"I found this at Dottie's today," I told Quinn as I pulled it out of my pocket and set it down on the table. Despite being in my pocket, the metal was cold. It was still streaked with mud, and the tarnish made it almost black.
"That looks old," she said, reaching out for it.
"There's a picture inside," I said. "It looks familiar, but I can't place it."
She peered at it. "And some hair," she said, poking at the curled-up, faded lock. "It's kind of creepy."
"I know," I said. "I found it at the base of a tree that got twisted out of the ground. I need to give the locket to Dottie, but if she's okay with it, I might look around to see if anything else got turned up."
"This land has so much history we know nothing about, doesn't it?"
"It does," I said. "It's part of what makes it so magical."
"Yes," Quinn said, taking another sip o
f her margarita. I followed suit. Despite the good company and delicious food, I still felt hollow. Poor Eva would never have another quesadilla again. And I still had no idea what had happened to Cinnamon.
After Quinn left, I walked the property one more time, looking for Cinnamon, but there was no sign of her. I knew the odds were against her, but I prayed that somehow someone had found her and was taking care of her. I checked on the rest of the animals; the fence had held, and everyone was settling in for the night, none the worse for wear after the day's excitement. I wrapped up a few more candles to take to the Easter Market, which was starting this week, and watered the herb starts, thankful that at least they had survived the storm. Then I took Chuck out one last time so he could do his business before settling into my cozy bedroom with a skein of marigold-dyed wool yarn.
Before Dottie got sick, she'd been an avid wool-dyer, and had kept a few sheep for their wool, becoming an expert wool dyer, spinner, and knitter. She'd once told me she'd learned the craft from her mother, who'd learned from her own mother. I could sense her disappointment that her Jennifer hadn't shown interest, and was delighted when I inquired after the plants. With her permission, I'd experimented with a few for my egg-dyeing experiments.
As Chuck settled in beside me, I started a row on my thick knitting needles, hoping to fall into the Zenlike state I often enjoyed while knitting. Calm was escaping me this evening, though. I was worried about Dottie, and poor Eva, and Cinnamon, and the crops I'd have to replant...
It wasn't all bad, I reminded myself. Eva was gone—that was a tragedy—but I was still okay. All the buildings, including the renovated house, had survived, and it was early enough in the year that I'd still get some yield this summer. Besides, milk production would be up with more goats and cows on the farm, so I'd have more cheese to sell. Plus, with the new hives I was hoping to set up soon, I'd be less reliant on outside suppliers for beeswax and honey.
But my mind kept circling back to Cinnamon... and Eva.
After about an hour, I put down my knitting, turned off my light, and drifted to sleep.
At some point during the night, I was back in the farmhouse kitchen with my grandmother, helping her make bread. I was a child again, and my grandmother wore the same checked apron she always wore, her hair pulled back away from her sweet, crinkled face. She let me dust the board with flour before she turned out the dough out and began to work it, humming as she kneaded. The room smelled of yeast and flour and my grandmother's lavender perfume, and her eyes crinkled as she smiled at me. "You have to keep at it if you want it to come right," she said, and I wasn't sure if she was talking about the dough or something else.
She handed me a scrap of dough and I slipped it into my mouth. A moment later, there was a knock at the door. "You keep kneading," she said. "I'll be right back." I reached for the dough and tried to knead it, but it was like Silly Putty, not dough. It just wouldn't budge. As I fought with it, women's voices drifted to me from the front of the house; although I strained, I couldn't hear.
After a long while my grandmother came back to the kitchen, carrying a long, deep basket, almost like a bassinet. "That was Liesl from next door," she said. "She wanted me to ask you to patch things up for her. Make it come right."
She handed me the basket. I put down the dough and took it from her; inside was a skein of yellow wool and a needle, and the locket I'd found in the field next door. And then suddenly I wasn't a child anymore.
"I found that locket yesterday," I said.
"You did," my grandmother agreed.
I stared down at the contents of the basket, baffled. I looked up at my grandmother, suddenly small again. "What do I do?"
"You'll know," she said, and put a hand on my head. "Liesl will help you."
"Who's Liesl?" I asked, but before she could answer, the dream fragmented, as dreams do, and I was alone in my bedroom, with Chuck sleeping fitfully at my feet.
The next morning dawned gray, and way too early, as far as I was concerned. I dragged myself out of bed to face the carnage that was the remains of my farm, hoping against hope that Cinnamon might have made it back to the barn.
She hadn’t.
I promised everyone I’d be back to milk them soon, then headed to gather eggs from the chickens—assuming they’d laid any, after all the excitement yesterday. I tried not to look at the flattened rows of vegetables, but it was impossible to ignore them… or the work that would be required to replace the missing crops. I’d planted almost everything from seeds I’d started, but I’d have to replace much of it with transplants. Between that and the cost of fixing up the damage to the little house, I didn’t like to think about the state of my bank account, much of which had already been emptied doing renovations on the historic house.
The latch of the chicken coop was open when I got there, and the door stood slightly ajar. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. Had my chickens been chickennapped?
I pulled the door open to find the hens all huddled together in the corner. The back wall of the coop was plastered with broken eggs, and a message scrawled in something that looked like blood.
MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS… OR ELSE.
8
I did a quick head-count; everyone was there, but my hopes for a morning omelet was, obviously, dashed. That was the least of my worries, though. Who had threatened me? And if I didn’t "mind my own business," what exactly was going to happen?
And what had set someone off? Was it to do with Eva? Or was it because I’d been asking questions about Dottie?
I cleaned up the eggs and fed the chickens. The letters, thankfully, had been spray-painted—no blood—but it would still take some work to get rid of. I’d have to paint over them; I couldn’t imagine looking at that horrible message every morning.
I rinsed the egg off the wall, found a padlock for the chicken coop, and then took care of the rest of my morning chores with a heavy heart. It was almost ten by the time I’d finished my morning rounds. I wanted to stay home and keep tabs on everyone, but I had errands to do—including buying vegetable starts to replace what I’d lost—so I made sure Chuck was safe in the house and locked the door before climbing into the truck. It took a few tries before the engine caught—another thing to take care of, I thought—and I backed out of my gravel parking spot with reluctance, worried about leaving my farm… and wondering if maybe I should buy a shotgun after all.
Just in case.
The tornado was the talk of the town when I stopped by the Blue Onion on my way to pick up replacement plants from Greenleaf, a wholesale nursery not far from La Grange.
The little cafe was stuffed with locals, sipping iced tea, eating quiche and swapping gossip.
"I heard it took the roof of the Marks's barn clean off," Mildred Ehrlich was telling a friend as I walked into the cafe.
"Livestock okay?"
"They are, miraculously," she said. "But I heard the storm sucked all the feathers off his chickens. They're walking around naked!"
"That I have to see," Mildred said. She looked up and noticed me, and her eyes brightened. "Lucy," she said. "Heard the storm went through your place yesterday. Everything okay?"
"My crops are destroyed, I'm afraid, and I'm still missing a kid," I told her, "but except for a little bit of damage, the buildings and the rest of the livestock are all okay, so I'm counting my blessings."
"Heard you were the one who found poor Eva," said her companion, Gretchen Hoffman.
"That was me," I confirmed.
"If you don't mind my asking, what happened to her? Just between us, of course."
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Mildred was a more efficient distributor of news than the local paper, the Buttercup Zephyr, by about a factor of ten. "I'm not supposed to talk about it," I said.
"Heard it was foul play," Mildred said with a gleam in her blue eye.
I shrugged noncommittally. "It's very sad. She seemed like a very nice person, and it's got to be hard on Dottie."
&nb
sp; Mildred shook her head. "I'm not surprised, to be honest. I always told her, if you stick your nose into other people's business, you're gonna get yourself burned."
Again, that was rich coming from a woman who was pretty much a central trunk of Buttercup's very active grapevine. But I put on a polite smile and asked, "What do you mean? Had she gotten anyone into trouble recently?"
"Oh, she was always nosing around, finding things out, and then telling other people about it 'for their own good.' Got herself fired over at Sunset Home in La Grange a while back, too."
"She did? When was that?"
"A year or two ago," Mildred said. "She got real close with one of the residents. Managed to convince him that his daughter was trying to take all his money. Maybe she was, too; he ended up writing his daughter out of the will before it all got squared away. They fired her, of course."
"That sounds horrible," I said. "Do you think it was real, or was she trying to... I don't know...."
"Get his money?" Gretchen asked. She shook her bouffanted head. "I don't think so. Eva may not have had the best judgment, but she has... well, had a good heart."
"She grew up without a momma, and her dad was on the bottle the whole time, so I think she just got in the habit of tryin' to take care of everyone all the time," Mildred volunteered. "Too much, if you ask me."
"Do you know if she was stirring anything up recently?" I asked.
"So you are investigatin'," Mildred said. "I thought so."
"I'm just curious," I said.
"I know she's dating that newcomer to town," she said. "Edward Bartsch. Works down at the wool store. Thinks he's an artist of some sort."
"Is... or was... she seeing anyone else, do you know?"
Mildred and Gretchen exchanged glances. "Maybe," Gretchen allowed. "But I don't like to gossip."
"I won't say a word to anyone," I promised.
"Well," she said, leaning forward, "I heard she was at a Mexican restaurant in La Grange with Gus Holz a week or two back.
Dyeing Season Page 5
