By the time we’d finished the monumental task of prepping the turkey, Katrina had baked three pans of rolls, a pan of cinnamon rolls, and a batch of gingerbread cookies.
Lured by the smell of nutmeg that had infiltrated every inch of the house, I stole a gingerbread man from the cooling rack. Katrina playfully smacked at my hand. Smearing flour on her cheek as she brushed a stray hair away, she glanced out the window.
“Who’s that?” she asked.
Mom glanced out the window at the white delivery truck parked in the driveway. “Oh, that’s Randy Jones. He’s coming to load up the rest of my turkeys. He’s an organic grocer—he’s been doing big business, especially with all the New Yorkers who’ve moved up here.”
We said “New Yorkers” to refer to people from New York City, even though technically, we were all New Yorkers. But New York City was like a state unto itself. And many Manhattan residents had bought land up our way, dreaming of wide open spaces and leaving a smaller footprint. Sometimes the only footprints they left were their own, as they pulled up stakes and ran away from our heavy snows. But some had settled in pretty well, so the demand for organic foods had continued to skyrocket.
Mom rushed out to help Mr. Jones with the turkeys. Katrina’s stare shifted from Mom to me, and she slowly took in my feather-encrusted work overalls and dirt-smeared face. She gave a demure cough.
“I’ll take a shower,” I said.
“That’d be nice,” she said. Katrina was a stickler for cleanliness, whereas I was the kid who’d once gone two weeks without a bath. Until Katrina had told on me.
I skulked upstairs, reaching my room just in time to make out a muffled ring from my phone. I dug around in the covers until I located where I’d haphazardly tossed it.
“Hello?” I asked brusquely.
“Belinda? This is Dietrich.”
“Dietrich?” I couldn’t hide my shock. “What’re you doing calling me?”
“And a warm hello to you, too, little lady.” He laughed. “Sorry for being so random, but Stone said you’d been over at Margo’s to clean her room, and I wondered if you’d found anything.”
I smelled a rat, and if anyone knew what rats smelled like, I did. “Why didn’t you just ask Stone?” I countered.
“You know Stone, dahling,” he said. “Cagey as ever. You can’t ever get a straight answer out of him, but you struck me as the more forthcoming type.” His playful tone turned serious and he said, “Actually, I wondered if you found any of my artwork.”
“Why, did you want it back? You’d have to ask the Fentons about that.”
“There was a little sketch I did for her—something she didn’t want anyone else to see. I thought she might’ve tucked it away in that plunder palace she called a room.”
My phone lit up and I jabbed at it, accidentally hitting the view button. Dietrich’s face popped onto the screen, and I could tell from the uneven pink splotches dotting his cheeks that he’d been crying.
In similar fashion, he was gaping at my filthy, feathered face. The horror in his expression sent me into a gale of laughter.
I finally pulled myself together, realizing how unhinged I must seem. “Sorry. I’m at my parents’ and we’ve been doing...farm chores.” Something told me Dietrich might not understand that turkeys were not born in the freezer section, so I didn’t elaborate on my adventures of the day. “Anyway, I didn’t run across a sketch of any kind.”
Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen any of Dietrich’s artwork on her walls. Why did she allow him to paint her if she didn’t even care for his work?
We continued to stare at each other. Behind Dietrich’s slim shoulders, I caught a glimpse of canvases that had been toppled to the floor. Had he had some kind of an artist’s tantrum?
“You doing okay?” I asked in all sincerity.
He gave a sniff. “Not really. I mean, it’s nearly Thanksgiving and Margo is gone. I thought I was okay with it, but it’s hitting me now.”
I nodded. “Perfectly normal. You’re grieving.” In reality, he could be emotional for any number of reasons, including guilt over murdering her in a fit of rage.
Something moved behind me on the inset phone screen. Katrina adjusted her hair and smiled. “You talking to someone?” she asked innocently. She was angling to see Stone.
Dietrich peered at the screen. “What a lovely friend you have, Belinda.”
“Sister,” I corrected. “And she’s married and pregnant. But thanks for noticing.”
His face gave an odd twist when I said pregnant. Like a wake-up slap, I realized Dietrich had known about Margo’s pregnancy. It was so blatantly obvious. So why had she confided in him instead of Frannie? There was no logical reason...unless he was the father.
I struggled to hide the disgust that simmered inside me. I couldn’t think of one decent thing to say to Dietrich. Luckily, Katrina sensed I was a bit thunderstruck, and she spoke up.
“And are you Stone?”
I blushed furiously as Dietrich shot me a look. “No. I’m Dietrich Myers.” He paused for dramatic effect, and I nearly dropped through the floor when Katrina provided his hoped-for response.
“Oh, the artist? You’re in New York City, right? I went to your show in Albany last year.”
Dying. I was literally dying. What on earth would possess Katrina to go to one of Dietrich’s art shows?
While Katrina and Dietrich chatted about his painting process, I geared up for a polite goodbye. Before I had a chance to offer it, Mom’s irritated shout sounded from the kitchen.
“Belinda!”
I jumped from the bed, leaving my phone in my sister’s hand. “Oops, sorry. I’d better go, Dietrich. Thanks for calling. Hope I helped a little.”
I raced downstairs, trying to guess how I’d dropped the ball in the Thanksgiving preparations. As I burst into the kitchen, Mom’s back was to me. She was digging in a cabinet, pulling things out and setting them willy-nilly on her counter.
“I was sure I had honey,” she said. “I’ve looked through everything and I’m totally out. We need it for those yeast rolls—you know how your father loves honey on rolls.”
I nodded, unsure what she wanted me to do about it, but she didn’t hesitate to supply the solution.
“Thank goodness Jonas had lots of honey this year. Could you run over and pick up a couple of jars? You can take the snowmobile.”
Mom knew my weakness. There was nothing like the feeling of gliding across our fields at less-than-cautious speeds, frosty cold snapping the breath from my lungs. And Jonas was our closest neighbor, even though he was almost a mile away. Not only had Jonas maintained his deceased father’s organic dairy farm, he also sold honey, blueberries, apples, and pumpkins. I never could figure out how he kept up with all that work, but he did have some hired help.
“You got it,” I said.
Mom heaved a huge sigh. “Thanks.” She glanced around. “Where’s Katrina?”
I knew another shout was soon to follow. Mom didn’t like being left alone in the kitchen, especially when a big family meal loomed. I skittered out to the garage, donning my outside attire before steering the snowmobile out into the yard.
I welcomed the bracing air. Maybe it would clear some of my conflicting thoughts about Dietrich.
Chapter 18
The snowmobile bounced over a small hill and I gave a sigh of exhilaration. I wanted to revel in the fields and forests that always welcomed me, that never demanded anything more than my rapt attention. I throttled up and hunkered down, flying like a bullet toward Jonas’s Greek revival farmhouse.
Still, I couldn’t stop mulling over the conversation with Dietrich. Could he have killed Margo? Sure, but he really was small-built. He would’ve had to reach up to pull a necklace tight around her neck, and she could have easily broken free.
Besides, why would Margo have
kept it secret if Dietrich had fathered her baby? Dietrich was from an established family, and he would’ve had income to take care of Margo in the style she’d grown accustomed to. Their families knew each other; they were probably friends. I couldn’t see any way a relationship between Dietrich and Margo would’ve been taboo.
I geared down, narrowly missing one of Jonas’s snow-covered beehives. By the time I pulled alongside his long front porch, I had dropped to a perfectly respectable crawl.
Jonas’s front door opened. He stood in the doorframe and waited for me, since he wasn’t wearing a coat or shoes. This allowed me the chance to take a good, long look at him, one of my secret pastimes, because there wasn’t a man alive who was put together exactly like Jonas Hawthorne.
Jonas’s head was shaved, which gave the initial impression that he was a Marine. He wasn’t. He had a strong brow that was emphasized by oft-quirked dark eyebrows. He wore a trim beard. His mouth was nearly always drawn in a serious, tight line, which explained my perverse temptation to crack jokes every time I was around him. Because when Jonas laughed, it filled up the room and went on a few seconds too long. It was like the one thing he couldn’t seem to control.
He was in his mid-thirties and already had the air of a man who’d pulled himself up by his own bootstraps, which I supposed he had. He’d taken risks his father never would have taken, and from the look of the updated paint on his house and the new truck in his driveway, it was clear his entrepreneurial spirit was treating him well.
He waved me inside. “Your mom called and said you were on your way. Come on in. My mom’s asleep right now, but I know she’d love to see you.”
I crunched across the snow to him. “Don’t you dare wake her. She needs her sleep.” Mrs. Hawthorne had been battling an aggressive form of breast cancer for two months, and there was no way I’d interrupt her rest.
“Your call,” he said, taking a long look at my hat. “Nice tiger. You going hunting later?”
I grinned, then stepped in the door and shed my snow-encrusted boots and coat, along with my vibrant hat and gloves.
Jonas motioned toward his study and I followed. “We won’t wake Mom in here,” he whispered as I walked past him.
It really was more of a man-cave library than a study. Stained wood planks stretched to the ceilings, and bookshelves lined two walls. I cautiously perched on the edge of a worn leather couch, suddenly aware of my still-dirty state after the turkey killing. Jonas closed the door, then settled into an oversized peach chair I was pretty sure he’d commandeered from his mom’s living room set. I stretched my hands toward the gas fireplace, enjoying the warmth.
Something was different about Jonas, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. “What’s new?” I asked.
He crossed an ankle over his knee. “Not much. I had a good honey year, so I’m glad your mom’s taking some off my hands. Tell her it’s no charge. Merry early Christmas.”
“Thanks,” I said. I absently fluffed my curls, which had likely been flattened by my hat.
Jonas’s mildly disinterested gaze sharpened and followed my hand movement. Rushing to cover the thrill of surprise that shot through me, I asked, “And how are your animals?”
“The cull rate was down this spring, so I have a lot of healthy heifers coming up,” he said.
“Cull rate” was a fancy way of saying “death rate,” so I was glad to hear more calves had made it this year. Jonas had some of the prettiest Jerseys I’d seen.
His silvery blue eyes twinkled. “I should ask how your animal’s doing. Your dad said you’ve been snake-sitting?”
“Yes—a ball python. He’s fairly small.”
“Be careful. You know that’s a constrictor.”
I didn’t need a lecture. “Yes, I know.” I curled my socks under my legs in an attempt to warm my cold toes. “I noticed balloons on the way in. Was your mom in the hospital or something?”
“No, actually that was for a book club that meets in town. We call ourselves the Kaffeeklatsch. We’re reading through the classics. Yesterday was Delia’s birthday, so we celebrated.”
I’d forgotten how active Jonas was in the affairs of our small town. He always seemed to be plugged in. If I recalled correctly, Mom had mentioned that Jonas was now on the town board.
But Jonas mentioning a girl was something new. I tried to place her name. “Delia...?”
“Delia Jensen. She was in my graduating class. Moved to Buffalo for a while, then came back. She runs the bakery.”
“Oh, okay.” I wanted to find out more about Delia, but couldn’t think of a roundabout way to ask more questions. My silence dragged into awkwardness.
He jumped to his feet. “I’ll go get the honey. You have some way to carry it back?”
“I’ll put the jars in my coat pockets. What’re you reading? For the book club, I mean.” I couldn’t stop myself from returning to the topic burning in my head.
“Tess of the d’Urbervilles.” He shook his head. “Talk about bleak. Even though I already know the ending, I can’t bring myself to read it.”
“I need to read that book,” I said.
“You won’t like it.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” I said, trailing him into the kitchen. It was a small space, but cozy as could be. A row of open-shelved cabinets ran along the wall and showcased honey and multicolored jam jars.
He took out a couple of honey jars. They were topped with black and white gingham cloth that was cinched with white rickrack, a touch I knew his mom had come up with. “While we’re discussing the untimely deaths of young women like Tess, your mom said something about a murder in your neck of the woods in Connecticut? Some woman who was strangled?”
He handed me the honey and our eyes locked for one second. What I saw in Jonas’s eyes flummoxed me. It went beyond simple neighborly concern and belied the casual tone of his voice. It flew in the face of my theory that Jonas was dating Delia.
What that look said was, “I want to protect you.”
I took a step back. I was seeing things.
A truck roared into Jonas’s driveway and we both rushed toward the front door, concerned.
Jonas took one look and said, “It’s Gerald Klein, come to pick up his hay. But he’s driving too fast.” He threw the front door open and Gerald rolled his window down.
“Cows out!” Gerald shouted.
The words every farmer dreaded.
Jonas moved fast, pulling on his boots, coat, and gloves before I managed to struggle into my damp coat.
“What’re you doing?” he asked.
“Going with you,” I said.
I figured he’d tell me to stay there, but he didn’t. When the cows were out, it was usually all hands on deck. Everyone around knew the story of the time Jonas’s dad’s cows had broken through the fence, making their way across pastures until they hit the main road, where they’d formed a herd and walked straight into town.
We jumped into Gerald’s truck and he skidded up the narrow back road until we reached the animals, who were milling around not too far from the fence line.
Jonas’s tone was grim as he looked over the situation. “Someone’s run into the fence, taken out a wire. Of course, I don’t have electric running to the wires right now, since the cows aren’t out long in this snow. But the animals must’ve pushed against it and realized it was down.”
Gerald turned to me, explaining. “Since Jonas is organic, he has to keep the cows out a certain number of days a year, no matter the weather.”
Jonas was already out of the truck, though in a very gentlemanly move, he turned back and offered a hand to help me out.
Jonas spoke mostly to Gerald. “I’m going to round up the bull, if you two can handle the others?”
Gerald nodded with more confidence than I could muster. I’d only rounded up cows once, when I was on a h
ouse call with my dad. He hadn’t wanted me to join him, but it was obvious they’d needed more bodies to direct the animals.
But there hadn’t been a bull loose that day. I stared at the big beast who was rubbing against the fencepost. He looked beefy and belligerent to me, even with those pretty chocolate-brown eyes.
Fear gripped me as I saw Jonas walking directly up to the bull. I had to look away, but I heard him say, “Get in there,” with the tone of one who would not be disobeyed.
Gerald nudged my elbow. “You ready?” Without waiting for my answer, he strode over to the cows. Throwing his arms wide, he yelled, “Go on! Get back in there!”
Adrenaline coursed through me and I followed suit, forming a human fence for the wayward animals. “Go on!” I shouted, trying to seem more intimidating than I was.
The cows mooed and balked, but we kept at it. Finally, I took a moment to glance back at Jonas, and he was standing near the fence, pulling on a broken fence wire.
His eyes met mine. “C’mon out,” he said. “They’re all in.”
I glanced around, realizing he was right. Amazingly, the bull was safely in the fence and moving away from us, toward some fresh hay. Gerald and I backed out and Jonas pulled the wires tight, wrapping them around the pole.
“I’ll have to get my tools and come back and fix that,” Jonas said. “Thanks for letting me know, Gerald.”
We climbed into the truck and Gerald cranked the heat. As the men fell into a conversation about milk prices and hay quality, I leaned back into the cracked upholstery of the seat. I felt strangely content and more than a little proud of myself. Maybe I should add cow wrangling to my list of exotic pet-sitting capabilities.
But I’d done nothing today compared to what Jonas did. What kind of man walked straight up to a bull and bossed it around? A man with some kind of serious confidence, that was what. I hadn’t ever seen that side of Jonas Hawthorne, and it was impressive.
When we got out at the farmhouse, I realized how much time had passed. “I’ll get the honey and head home. Mom will wonder what’s taking so long.”
Belinda Blake and the Snake in the Grass Page 11
