Dead on the Vine

by Elle Brooke White

  If this man sells farms, he really should be more comfortable around animals.

  Charlotte once again admired the beauty of her surroundings as they trudged down the hill. This was true America: peaceful, normal, and humble to nature. Farmer Brown stood at the gate to the paddock’s split rail fence, and the pig raced on ahead. As soon as he was granted entry, the pig made his way to an awaiting trough full of slop. In between grunts, it almost sounded as if he was humming.

  Only then did Charlotte notice that Farmer Brown was talking on his cell phone.

  “It’s not going to change anything, Serge—how many times do I have to tell you? I run the place, and like you suggested, the extra crops we put in last fall are ready. I have produce that needs to get to market and a very short window of time. Now are you coming out for a pickup, or should I call another distributor?”

  Charlotte watched him pace and kick dirt while he listened to the phone.

  “He’s talking to Serge Andersen—he distributes our produce to market,” Joe whispered to her. They don’t always get along, as you can probably tell,” he added sheepishly.

  When everyone had reached the paddock, Farmer Brown ended his call.

  He acknowledged the group and started the fifty-cent tour, still reacting coolly to Charlotte. The realtor kept asking profitability questions, which only served to make the farmer close up tighter than a swimming duck’s backside.

  “What would you say is your crop yield per acre of farmable land? Both per year and per month?” Mr. Lurvy persisted, but he got no response.

  Just like the day before, all of a sudden Charlotte saw the geese burst out from the orchard. Diane shrieked with delight.

  “Do you raise geese for market too?” Mr. Lurvy’s avarice was getting under Charlotte’s nerves.

  “They are beautiful,” Charlotte said to Farmer Brown before the realtor could pose another question. “What makes them fly like that?”

  Seemingly happy to be asked about something that he was well versed in, Farmer Brown explained. “For the benefit of you city slickers and newbies, the birds fly in a V formation for maximum efficiency. Each bird flies a bit above the bird in front of him, reducing the wind resistance. See that?” He pointed toward the tip of the V. “The birds take turns being in the front, falling back when they get tired.”

  Charlotte and Diane watched them do a flyover above the paddock, interrupting the pig from eating for a moment. They settled on the fence rails and barn eaves. The pig watched, and when all had landed, he gave the birds a hearty “oink, oink” greeting. They responded in kind with a chorus of honks.

  The symphony was repeated, and Charlotte could tell that the orchestra was just warming up. The goat section joined in with both soprano and baritone notes of bleating. Finally, the horse in the barn produced a tenor neigh that brought the house down.

  Charlotte and Diane applauded eagerly, but Mr. Lurvy maintained a look of sour annoyance, the kind of face someone might make if his or her food arrived cold.

  “This is the main barn, home to the horse that you just heard and three pygmy goats that I use to help keep control of the brush that grows wild around the areas that haven’t been plowed for cultivating. That’s what I do with them, plus introduce them to the kids when their class comes here for a field trip. A couple days a week, a woman borrows them to teach yoga, but I’ve got nothing to do with that.” Charlotte watched Farmer Brown’s nose wrinkle at the thought.

  He sure has a lot more to say when he’s in his element.

  Diane looked at Charlotte, and they realized that they both had the same question: Just how the heck do goats teach yoga? Before Diane could ask, Farmer Brown left from the back of the barn, expecting the group to follow.

  When she exited, Charlotte saw that the farmer was waiting for them outside a small cabin.

  “He really should be a U.S. ambassador in some foreign country with his charisma,” Diane suggested, and she giggled. “If he weren’t so cute, I might hate him.”

  “You think he’s cute?” Charlotte immediately asked.

  “In a Sam Shepherd, Daniel Day Lewis kind of way. Don’t you?”

  Charlotte looked at Farmer Brown again but said nothing.

  “These are my quarters, nothing much to see in there—one bedroom, wood stove, bathroom with shower. We’ve got two flatbeds”—Famer Brown gestured toward the area where the trucks were parked—“and a couple of golf carts. They’re all part of the property. The farm equipment is over by the fields, kept under a carport. We’ll head there next.”

  When the group returned to the paddock gate, Charlotte noticed that the pig was digging into a second filled trough. “That pig’s eating again,” she observed. “It looks like he can put away more than that chestnut horse over there.” She shook her head and smiled at the pink ball of fluff.

  Joe and Diane laughed.

  “I hope he’s not eating up all the profits,” Mr. Lurvy said, and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. In a suit and tie, he was not at all appropriately attired for a farm audit, Charlotte thought. The clouds were gone, and it had started getting hot. With this man’s pasty skin and no hat, he was sure to burn. She checked her pockets for her sunscreen, something that she rarely left the house without. She found a roll-on stick and offered it to him.

  “I won’t be here long enough to need it,” he said, ignoring her outstretched hand.

  “I wonder where Alice is,” Joe said, looking at the screen of his cell phone. His furrowed brow showed that he was starting to worry.

  When they reached the strawberry fields, the atmosphere changed entirely, from dry enclosures to lush green bed rows moist from the irrigation system.

  “We use raised beds because we can lift the soil out of the ground and into piles. The trenches in between allow great airflow to reach the plants and stimulate growth,” Farmer Brown explained.

  The pig caught up and trotted along, remaining close to Charlotte’s side.

  “Hello, pig, are you finally sated?” Diane asked.

  Charlotte looked down at him and saw a black and red speck on the top of his head that she didn’t remember from being up close and personal with him last night. She leaned in for a closer inspection and grinned.

  “What?” Diane asked, always up for a good joke.

  “Meet Mrs. Robinson. I’ll explain more later.”

  Diane followed the direction that Charlotte was pointing and saw the insect.

  “I think that you are really ‘to the farm born,’ Charlotte. Have you given every creature here a christening?”

  “Hardly. But trust me, this is a good story.”

  “What on God’s green acres is that?” Mr. Lurvy howled.

  Smack in the middle of the field Charlotte spotted Beau, clad in a turquoise Speedo. His blue robe was now slung over a strawberry lattice. From somewhere, he was broadcasting the soundtrack from Oklahoma! Beau was working alongside about a dozen day laborers who were busy picking fruit and enjoying his music. Almost every other berry went into his mouth.

  “I represent quality control,” he announced to the pickers, and they laughed.

  “That’s my brother, Beau,” Diane explained. “Unlike some people, he chooses to enjoy life.”

  That brought a chuckle out of Farmer Brown.

  “Indeed. It looks like the pig isn’t the only one eating into your profits, Charlotte,” the realtor snarked.

  “I don’t trust this guy,” Diane whispered.

  Beau spotted the group and, piqued by curiosity Charlotte assumed, slung his bathrobe over his shoulders in a fashion drape and turned off the music from his cell phone. He loaded up the plate he’d brought from the kitchen with strawberries and joined the tour.

  “Adios, amigos. I’ll be back to help soon, and I’ll bring lemonade and more show tunes!”

  Beau offered the plate to Mr. Lurvy, but he just waved his hand in a gesture of “shoo.”

  “Suit yourself, sir. I’m here if you change your mi
nd.” Beau’s mood couldn’t be dampened.

  Charlotte shook her head in disbelief and draped her arm over Beau’s shoulders as they walked.

  “You must have a strawberry, Miss Charlotte. They are to die for.” Beau grabbed a stem and held the berry over her mouth.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” She bit off the fruit, warm from the sun and bursting with flavor.

  It seemed that everywhere Charlotte looked, the farm was brimming with life. If the strawberries had voices, she was sure that they would be singing right now. She was also sure that if she sat down right here in the field, she’d be able to see the berries growing.

  * * *

  Farmer Brown led the group from the strawberry fields to the tomato vines, some resplendent with little yellow flower buds and others carrying plump fruits in various stages of ripening. He explained that they staggered the planting and growing so that they could sell virtually year-round.

  He really seems to know what he’s talking about.

  “These rows of cages are heirloom tomatoes of six different varieties and sizes. We sell them in mixed baskets.”

  Charlotte examined the nearby plants. She saw some with fruits that were a dark, dusty pink; others that were larger, gold with red streaks; and some that must be beefsteaks, but they were a dark purple color. Across the path were varieties of cherry and pear-shaped tomatoes. She felt like she was walking through an expressionist museum with vibrantly colored works of art.

  Along the way Farmer Brown stopped to examine several broken valves in the irrigation system.

  “Damn,” he muttered.

  “Animals?” Charlotte suggested as the culprit. “I keep thinking that something is spooking those geese.”

  “No, this is the work of the two-legged variety. Although ‘animals’ is the right word.”

  As they moved deeper into the field, the pig became agitated and kept trying to block Charlotte’s path.

  “What are you doing, little man? This is important, and we need to keep going.”

  “I think that this heat is getting to you if you are talking to the livestock,” Mr. Lurvy snidely remarked.

  The pig stopped in his tracks. It was as if he had taken offense to the realtor’s sass.

  Charlotte almost tripped over him and managed to jump to one side in the nick of time. She shooed the pig away, but after another few steps, he tugged on the hem of her sundress.

  “No!” Charlotte said firmly to the pig. She’d had enough, and the mood among the group had turned darker. When she looked down and saw his big eyes turn glassy, Charlotte immediately regretted shouting.

  Did I just make a pig cry?

  The pig dropped back and watched them continue on.

  “These are Yellow Brandywine tomatoes,” Farmer Brown told them as they walked. “They are beefsteak shaped and have a sweet, old-fashioned tomato taste. We sell a lot of these to grocery stores—they’re great on sandwiches and in salads. Over there are Early Girls. They’re an abundant producing plant, and we stagger starting them each year so that we always have crops to sell.”

  As Farmer Brown continued his narrative, Beau, Diane, and Charlotte huddled for a confab.

  “Does that guy ever crack a smile?” Beau gestured with his chin toward Lurvy. “He acts like he was born constipated.”

  “Shh—he’ll hear you.” Diane placed her index finger over Beau’s lips.

  “I don’t think that I can sell the farm with this guy. Uncle Tobias would say that he eats cranky flakes for breakfast every morning.”

  “Do you have a profit and loss statement on these Early Girls? Buyers are going to want to see that sort of thing, you know.”

  Farmer Brown stopped in his tracks and turned to him.

  “That’s the kind of thing that you’re going to have to take up with Miss Charlotte and our distributor, Mr. Lurvy. I’m much more on the organic side of making the farm work. But I would suggest that right now you just focus on finding some of those buyers and worry about the rest later.” Charlotte watched Farmer Brown swing around and double his pace along the cages, possibly hoping to run the portly man out of breath.

  “Touché.” Diane whispered.

  This confirmed what Charlotte had suspected. This tall-drink-of-water farmer was more at home with land, propagation, and irrigation than capitalization.

  With each moment of immersing herself further into farm life, Charlotte was becoming more conflicted. It made sense to sell the farm; she knew nothing about running one, and she’d have so many more opportunities in L.A. But she was also becoming enchanted with the prospect of a simpler life.

  All of a sudden, they heard a loud, sharp oinking bark that sounded like it was coming from the belly of a hound in Hades.

  “What is it, pig?” Farmer Brown asked.

  The pig stood atop some stacked wooden crates.

  All the commotion caused the realtor to trip and go down face first onto the field. He was quiet for a moment, probably assessing his possible injuries, but then, when he turned his head to one side, he released a hyena-like howl.

  “Oh no, are you hurt?” Charlotte put her hands to her mouth in shock.

  Farmer Brown quickly moved in along with Joe to spread apart the leaf-laden branches where a long wooden handle stood at attention. What was revealed justified Lurvy’s wail.

  Charlotte saw, lying faceup next to the realtor, a motionless young man with his eyes still open, his body held in place by a pitchfork that had pierced his neck. Blood had made the soil beneath him turn a dark, sticky red.

  “Oh. Dear. God. Is he—is this real? Or is this somebody’s idea of a cruel joke?” Charlotte dropped to her knees half-hoping that the young man would break into a smile, and it would all be over except for a good tongue-lashing.

  Beau and Diane gently helped Charlotte stand and coaxed her to back away from the body.

  “I’m afraid that this is no joke, Miss Charlotte. The poor lad is dead.” Farmer Brown had checked for a pulse and now stood back up. He extended his hand to the realtor for a lift up.

  The realtor didn’t see his hand or else ignored the offer, and crab-walked himself upright as quickly as he could muster while shouting, “No one will be interested now—that guy has bought the farm. You’ll have as much of a chance selling as you will of seeing pigs fly.” Mr. Lurvy then charged off.

  Upon hearing this, Charlotte saw the pig make several attempts to jump into the air from atop the crates, leaving Charlotte to wonder just how much language this little guy could understand.

  “Anyone recognize this man?” Farmer Brown asked.

  No one responded.

  “I’ll call the authorities,” Joe announced.

  “Let’s have everyone move back, try and retrace the footsteps you took getting here. Pig, you don’t come any closer—this has nothing to do with you.” Farmer Brown took charge.

  When Charlotte looked behind her, the pig had gotten off the crates and stood about ten feet back. He was shaking.

  You may be wrong about that, Farmer Brown. The pig sure acts like he knows something.

  Beau asked to no one in particular, “Just out of curiosity, what’s the pig’s name?”

  Charlotte was in shock and reeling from the repercussions of finding a dead man in the farm’s beds, but she still felt the need to answer Beau, and quickly replied, “Horse.”

  When Beau gave her a blank look, Charlotte replied, “Because he eats like one.” Farmer Brown, Diane, and Joe nodded in unison.

  Chapter Four

  The gang returned to the main house to wait for the police. Farmer Brown stayed behind to keep a close eye on the spot where they’d found the body, to make sure nothing and no one disturbed it.

  “It shouldn’t be long,” Joe told them. “The chief said that she was close by.”

  “Joe,” Charlotte said as she approached him, “when we were walking through the fields before … Farmer Brown discovered a number of broken valves in the irrigation pipes. He would
n’t actually assign blame, but he gave me the impression that this had been done deliberately. Do you know who he was thinking about?”

  Joe slowly nodded and closed his eyes in muted anger.

  Diane and Beau gathered around him to hear his response.

  “Afraid so. There’s been a long-standing feud between your great-uncle and, by association, Samuel and the Avery family. There’s two boys—men actually—Wade and his brother, Clark. There’s an older sister as well, but she wants nothing to do with the hooligans. The guys have some hair-brained idea that they should own this farm. Only they haven’t been able to offer any evidence to support it. So they pass the time trying to sabotage our crops, shutting down the water, introducing mice and rats into the fields to eat the produce—even tearing up some fresh plantings. We’ve never been able to catch them in the act, but that doesn’t stop them from bragging about their deeds.”

  “That’s awful!” Charlotte’s new “Garden of Eden” was starting to show some cracks.

  “It sounds like the town bullies need to be taught a lesson, and I know just the person to do it!” Diane hated injustice.

  “I do too, you!” Beau said, saluting Diane.

  Just then a Ford Explorer with police markings appeared and rolled to a stop in front of the farmhouse. Out stepped a woman in uniform, with strips of foil in her hair.

  “I’ve come straight from the beauty shop, Joe, so there’d better be a body down there,” she told him.

  “Everyone, this is Chief Theresa Goodacre, this is Charlotte, the farm’s new owner, and her friends Diane and Beau. I’m afraid that the realtor got so spooked that he turned tail and ran.”

  “More like he limped away with his tail between his legs,” Diane added.

  “What’s his name?” Chief Goodacre asked.

  “Mr. Lurvy,” Charlotte offered.

  “Never heard of him, and I know everybody.”

  “I told you.” Diane elbowed Charlotte in the ribs.

  Chief Goodacre had a pleasant face and naturally rosy cheeks. She was tall and sturdy and carried herself with an absolutely straight back. But Charlotte also noticed signs that she enjoyed being a lady when off the job. Her nails were manicured, and she wore a necklace of freshwater pearls, a dainty and delicate juxtaposition to her professional attire.