“You miss the forest, kitty?” Lucinda murmured to Preston.
“I wonder where the last person is.” Cam checked the clipboard in her hand. “It’s an S. Wilson. I don’t think I met him. Or her. Must have been an e-mail application.”
A car pulled into the drive from the road. Gravel spewed as it passed the house and headed for the barn. It didn’t slow and even seemed to accelerate.
Lucinda stepped forward. “Hey!” She held up her hand, palm out. “Not so fast,” she yelled over the engine noise.
The windows of the car were closed. Cam couldn’t see the driver, only the shape of a head wearing a hat.
The car still didn’t slow. Who was this maniac? Cam grabbed Lucinda’s arm and yanked her into the barn as the car sped straight at them.
Chapter 2
The car screeched to a stop directly in front of the barn door. Cam’s heart beat so hard, she could barely breathe.
The car door flew wide open and bounced against its hinges. A slender man with sandy hair sticking out from under a faded Red Sox hat extricated himself and stood. An alarmed look on his ruddy face, he said, “Am I too late?”
Stunned, Cam narrowed her eyes. “What do you think you’re doing, speeding like that?” Her heart slowed. This guy had the nerve.... Wait a minute. “Stuart?” Her voice rose.
“I wondered if you were the same Cam Flaherty.” The man smiled. He extended a hand toward Cam. “Last I heard, you were still head down in your cubicle, creating software, cranking out C++ code for the company.”
“I was. Then my position was eliminated about a year ago. ‘Reduction in force,’ they called it. A load of you know what, in my opinion. Around the same time, my great-uncle had to give up the farm and asked me if I wanted to run it. My great-aunt died a couple of years ago, and when Great-Uncle Albert had to have his foot amputated, that was it for him.”
“That’s quite a switch.”
“I know. I’ve wondered if I made the right decision. But I have always loved growing stuff, and with NetSystemics leaving me in the lurch, well, it seemed like a sign.” Cam mustered a smile.
“And that boyfriend of yours? What was his name? Tim?”
Cam sighed. “Tom. Yeah, well, he didn’t really like me living an hour’s drive away. So that’s been over since the winter.” Cam was surprised Stuart even knew about Tom.
“I never liked the guy.”
“Did you know him?”
“We met once, yes.”
“But what about you?” Cam asked, leaving the puzzle of how Stuart knew Tom for another time. “What are you doing up here in the country? Last time I saw you, you were Marketing Whiz Boy. Everybody talked about you like you were golden.” What she really remembered was a tipsy Stuart getting a little too friendly with her at one of the lavish holiday parties and hoped he wouldn’t recall the same. She’d had to push him away repeatedly.
Stuart looked out at the fields for a moment, then back at Cam. “Yeah. I was. New management came in. Must have been after you left. In with the new ideas, out with the old. I wasn’t too happy about it. I’m still not. Moving back in with Mother at age forty? Real fun.”
“Mother?”
“I grew up here. Wilson is a big name in this town.”
“Wilson?” Cam’s recording was stuck on the question mark. “You’re my last subscriber?” They had never worked directly together, and she’d known Stuart only by his first name.
“Yeah. I just got off my shift at the Food Mart.” Stuart looked like he’d tasted a bitter herb. “I go from marketing whiz to slicing meat. Nice, huh? It’s the only job I could find. I work there, but I’d rather get my produce here. And my girlfriend, well, my ex-girlfriend, is the sister of another one of your customers.” He cocked his head. “Am I too late?”
“You’re not too late,” Lucinda said.
“Good. Who are you?” Stuart addressed Lucinda.
Cam wondered how someone with such abrupt manners had gotten as far as Stuart had in his former job. No wonder he had an ex-girlfriend. “Stuart, this is Lucinda DaSilva. She’s a subscriber and president of the Westbury Locavore Club.”
“Loco what?” Stuart frowned at Lucinda.
“Locavore. We believe in eating food grown close to where we live. Starting today, I’m not eating anything from farther than a hundred miles from here.” She rolled her eyes as if at the challenge. “For a year.”
“Oh, yeah. I think I heard Katie’s sister talking about local eating,” Stuart said. “But doesn’t that mean no coffee? I’d never be able to do that.”
Lucinda grimaced as she shook her head. “And I’m Brazilian. That will be the hardest part for me. By the way, what’s C++?”
“C++ is a computer language,” Cam said. “It’s what runs most of the modern world.”
“That why you renamed the farm Produce Plus Plus?” Stuart asked. “Wasn’t it called Attic Hill Farm before? Being on Attic Hill and all.”
“You got it, on both counts. I guess I was trying to bridge my two worlds. Now it sounds a little hokey, but I’m stuck with it. At least Great-Uncle Albert gave his blessing on my renaming it and going organic.”
“That must be a pretty big deal,” Stuart said. “Converting to nonchemical growing.”
“He wasn’t certified organic, but he didn’t use much in the way of off-farm inputs.” Cam heard herself toss out the jargon like she’d been a farmer all her life and smiled. “Most small farmers can’t afford to apply pesticides or chemical fertilizers in a major way. But you’re right. Getting certified is a three-year process. I’m just getting started.”
“I like the farm’s name,” Lucinda said. “It sounds like lots of food. Or food plus community plus health. You know?” She put her hands on her hips, ready to gauge Cam’s response.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way. But sure. As long as it brings in the sales. Stuart, come on in and we’ll get you your share.”
Stuart had finished stuffing his vegetables into the two plastic bags Cam provided when he grabbed a ringing cell phone from his pocket. He put the bags down and pressed a button on the phone.
“Where are you?” He glanced over at Cam, then quickly away. “I’m on my way.” He strode toward the door.
“Wait! Your share.” Lucinda held out his bags.
Stuart retrieved them with a sheepish smile.
“And drive carefully, all right?” Cam called after him.
“I’m leaving, too.” Lucinda cradled a cardboard box full of produce in her arms. “June first. The start of my locavore year. I have some cooking to do.” She beamed.
“Thanks so much for helping out, Lucinda. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Lucinda waved as she walked out. “See you next week,” she called.
Cam tidied up, including tossing the jug of pesticide into the trash barrel and securing the lid. As she left the barn, she looked back. Motes danced in the sunlight shining in from two high west-facing windows. Her shovels, pitchforks, rakes, and hoes hung neatly on the back wall, next to a Peg-Board with hooks for pruners, hand hoes, and trowels. Large buckets held greensand, lime, and other organic soil amendments. Albert’s old red rototiller stood in a corner.
Cam walked toward the house and sank into a lawn chair, grateful for a chance to rest. The big maple in back of the antique saltbox her great-aunt and great-uncle had lived in for sixty years provided blessed shade. The tree had always given Cam a feeling of being protected, even when she was a child playing at being a scientist under its wide limbs during the summers she spent with Marie and Albert. She gazed at the barn, which listed a bit but was still structurally sound after all these years. The greenhouse beyond to its right was technically a hoop house. It looked like a white sports bottle some giant had cut in half lengthwise and placed on the ground. Building it last fall had been her first big project.
To be living here full-time now was a blessing. Cam had thought she was a confirmed city person. She’d had a charming
rehabbed third-floor flat in an old house in Cambridge. She had ridden her bicycle to work and had rented a Zipcar or had taken the T when she wanted to go farther than a couple of miles. She’d walked to the farmers’ market and availed herself of art films in Harvard Square. But being back in the country gave her room to breathe deeply again.
Preston sidled up to Cam and leapt onto her lap. She rubbed the top of the cat’s head with her chin and then leaned back in her chair. She closed her eyes, stroking his lush double layer of fur. She’d chosen him from a shelter three years earlier. Luckily for both of them, he’d made the transition from urban condo pet to farm cat without suffering any apparent angst.
“How’s my favorite farmer?” A booming voice made Cam nearly jump out of her chair. Preston executed a quick exit, first gouging Cam’s denim-clad thigh in the process, then speeding toward the barn. She turned to look at the voice and groaned. The last thing she needed. One more person she had to interact with.
Jake Ericsson strode up the driveway, carrying a small padded cooler. He approached Cam, gesturing to her to stay seated. “You look bushed.”
Cam frowned.
“What?” His tone was teasing, then turned serious. “You’re disappointed. Maybe I should leave?”
“No, don’t leave. It’s just been a long day.” Cam tilted her head back and squinted at the chef. “I did tell you I wouldn’t be ready to fully supply you for another couple of weeks, didn’t I? It’s still too early in the season to give you anything in the amounts you need. Plus I have my subscribers to satisfy.” Landing a contract to supply summer produce to The Market, the coolest and most gourmet local-foods restaurant in the nearby small city of Newburyport, had been one of the highlights of her spring. “All I’ll be able to sell you right now will be strawberries and rhubarb.”
“Ya, ya, I know.” Jake, his native Swedish accent still in evidence, reached for another chair. He pulled it close to Cam’s. He lowered his substantial self gingerly onto the webbing, as if hoping he wouldn’t break yet one more aluminum seat. “Thought you might like a little adult refreshment.” Jake unzipped the cooler and drew out two brown bottles, the condensation on the cool glass dripping onto his black-checked pants. He extracted an opener from his pocket and pried the lid off of one bottle. “Thirsty?”
She nodded as she reached for the bottle. “Did I say it’s been a long day?” She hadn’t spent too much time with Jake, but somehow adult refreshment had always been part of the visit, whether on the farm or in the restaurant kitchen. She guessed she could put up with a little socializing for a cold beer.
“That’s why you need a cold one.”
Cam read the label. “Local Harvest Five Mile Ale?”
“Yup. The Ipswich Ale Brewery started the series recently. We’re featuring it at The Market. The beer has to contain least fifty percent Massachusetts ingredients and at least one ingredient from within five miles of Ipswich. You ought to think about growing hops here.”
“That’s an idea. And maybe we could do a joint event. The farm, your restaurant, the brewery. What do you think?”
“Great idea.” Jake opened the other bottle and held it out for a clink before taking a long draught.
“I’ll definitely tell my subscribers about this ale,” Cam said.
“So how did the first day with them go?”
“It turned out okay. I was a little worried I wouldn’t have enough to harvest, it’s so early in the season, but my volunteer Lucinda helped me out.”
“Lucinda DaSilva?” Jake cocked his head at Cam.
“You know her?”
“I might.” He gazed out at the barn, the breeze ruffling his shaggy dark-blond hair.
Cam wondered at the evasive answer, but she was too tired to pursue it.
“So no disasters,” Jake said. “That’s good.”
Cam rolled her eyes. “Almost none. I found a pesticide container in the barn.” She suddenly wondered if she should have mentioned it. She didn’t really know Jake at all. Too late now. “My great-uncle’s employee, Mike Montgomery, thought using poison on the crops would be easier than handpicking pests.”
“Montgomery. A name I know. His mother is a farmer, too.”
“That’s right. Anyway, I had to fire him. And now I have no farmhand.”
“That’s not good.” Jake leaned back in his chair, imperiling the life of the flimsy outdoor furniture, which Cam was pretty sure dated from the 1960s. “Can you manage the work without him?”
“I hope so. I can call on all my eager shareholders for volunteer help, too. Maybe I’ll hire Lucinda, come to think of it.”
“Maybe.” Jake took a long drink of his beer, then eased up out of the chair. He smoothed his black T-shirt over a substantial belly. The man clearly enjoyed his own cooking. Cam realized it was the only shirt she’d ever seen him wear besides chef’s whites.
“Give me a tour of the farm before I head back to dinner prep?” Jake held out his hand to her in an oddly courtly gesture, which surprised Cam.
She accepted the hand and stood. His muscular fingers held hers for a moment longer than necessary, and his ice-blue eyes locked onto Cam’s. She didn’t often stand next to a man a half foot taller than she was. She liked it. A rush buzzed through her all the way to her face. Her pale Scottish-Irish cheeks pinkened. She pulled her hand away, ran it through her short red hair, and cleared her throat.
“To the fields?” She gestured toward the barn, the hoop house, and the fields beyond.
“To the fields.”
At just after sunset that evening, Cam puttered in the farmhouse kitchen, which she hadn’t yet had a chance to update and wasn’t sure she wanted to. It was oddly comforting that the utensil drawer still stuck like it had during her childhood summers with her great-aunt and uncle. Cam found the corkscrew and opened a bottle of Marechal Foch from Alfalfa Farm Winery a few miles down the road. She poured the dark red wine into one of her great-aunt’s fragile wineglasses and carried it with her to the barn to get scissors and a basket. The cool twilight air was fragrant with growth and bloom. A fat waxing moon brightened the darkening sky. A bat zigzagged overhead. Cam held the glass by its bowl, swirling the wine. She raised the glass to the moon. “May the season just get better.”
Despite having worried about the amount of produce and the shareholders’ reactions, she had had a good day, if she didn’t count having to fire Mike. The customers had seemed satisfied with their produce and with being part of the farm community. Then there was that moment of spark with Jake, and how comfortable she felt walking the fields with him.
After he left and she cleaned up, Cam rewarded herself with a visit to Mill Pond, a secluded spot on the other side of town. She strolled along the trail that circled the water to her favorite spot, a boulder sitting on a finger of land jutting out into the water. She sat meditating for an hour, relieved to be alone.
All that conversation tired her. She hadn’t considered that the farm lifestyle would include interacting with people as much as with the vegetables. In the cubicle, her main interaction had been with her computer, aside from the awkward gatherings in the break room for a coworker’s birthday, which were usually accompanied by embarrassing remarks or a horribly inappropriate cake. It was good to get off the farm for a bit, too, although much of her meditation had involved trying to figure out how she was going to get through the busiest part of the season without a farmhand.
Now she planned to clip greens for a salad and a few perennial herbs to top the quiche she had ready to pop in the oven. Spending an evening alone reading a good murder mystery sounded about right, even if it was Saturday night. Cam sipped the wine as she walked.
She rounded the corner of the barn from the yard. The light was on in the hoop house. Had she left it on all day? It looked like a Maxfield Parrish painting, ghostly white walls against a deep blue evening sky. Cam walked along the side.
She slowed, staring. Worn sneakers stuck out of the hoop house doorway. “What?”
Cam moved closer, until she could see into the structure.
She inhaled sharply. The shoes were still on their owner. Mike Montgomery lay on his back on the gravel path between raised benches full of green seedlings. A dark stain pooled around his head, tinting the small gray rocks an unpleasant red. A pitchfork rose straight up from the body. Its tines were embedded in Mike’s throat.
A mosquito droned its high noise around Cam’s head like a tiny chain saw. All the other sounds of a late spring evening were gone. She stared through the doorway. That was her pitchfork.
Chapter 3
Her eyes locked in horror on Mike, her difficult ex-employee, this troubled man. She had an urge to tell him everything would be all right. Except nothing would be all right for Mike Montgomery ever again.
A sharp pain pierced Cam’s left hand, followed by wetness. She had gripped the bowl of the wineglass so hard, it broke. She looked at her hand. Blood mixing with red wine dripped down her arm to her elbow and onto the ground. She took a couple of deep breaths. She let go of the pieces of glass. They fell to the hard dirt of the path without a sound. She pressed her good right hand to the wound and raised both hands above her head.
A rustling sound came from behind the hoop house. Cam froze, cursing in a whisper. She took a quick glance left, then right. Nobody. She sprinted to the house.
The light she’d left on in the kitchen pushed out of the window into the dark. No home had ever looked so much like a safe harbor. Cam hurried to let herself in. She gave a quick look over her shoulder, then slammed the door behind her. Just because she didn’t see anyone didn’t mean the killer wasn’t out there. She held her cut hand in the air and locked the door with her right. Her usually reliable legs wobbled with relief. Suddenly her eyes thickened and her head thrummed, with the world at a distance.
She sank to the floor, propping her back against the door. A dead man lay in her hoop house. She had seriously cut her hand. She’d had a few sips of wine with nothing to eat. And now, instead of calling the police, she was about to faint.
A Tine to Live, a Tine to Die Page 2
