No Farm, No Foul (Farmer's Daughter Mystery)

by Peg Cochran

  A car came down the road, and everyone froze. The dusty and battered blue pickup truck turned into the long driveway and rattled toward the farmhouse. Everyone swiveled in that direction and watched as a man got out. He was wearing worn jeans, a plaid shirt, and a Lions baseball cap. He was Shelby’s brother-in-law—Wild Bill’s older brother—and a detective with the Lovett Police Department.

  Shelby began walking toward him. He saw her and started in her direction.

  “You okay?” he asked when they came abreast of each other. His face was pinched with concern.

  “Yes. At least I think so.”

  He put an arm around Shelby’s shoulders. “It must have been a shock. But I know you’re tough. That’s one of the things Bill liked about you.”

  Shelby smiled. Frank had the same blue eyes his younger brother had—so light they were almost transparent. Bill had been taller, though, with darker hair and a passion for danger that drew him to motorcycle riding and fast driving. Frank, on the other hand, found his thrills chasing down criminals.

  Billy came running toward them. “Uncle Frank, Uncle Frank,” he yelled.

  Frank grabbed Billy around the waist and swung him up in the air before giving him a big hug.

  Frank had done his best to take Bill’s place in Billy’s life—teaching him how to fish, taking him camping and out on the lake in his boat. Frank would have loved kids of his own, but so far it hadn’t happened for him and his wife, Nancy.

  “Can I watch? Can I?” Billy danced from one foot to the other in excitement.

  “I’m sorry, buddy, but this is police business. It’s off-limits, I’m afraid.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “But I promise to fill you in later, okay?” He winked.

  “Sure.” Billy shrugged. He dragged his feet as he went back to the circle of children playing on the lawn.

  Frank turned to Shelby. “Do you mind showing me where the incident took place?”

  Incident? What a funny word to use for murder, Shelby thought. “Sure. It . . . the body, that is . . . is in the mudroom.” It felt wrong to be referring to Prudence as it or the body, but she didn’t know how else to put it.

  Shelby wasn’t anxious to go back into her mudroom. She had loved working out there at the long, rough-hewn gardening table her father had made out of found pieces of wood. She could spend hours separating overgrown plants, rooting cuttings, and starting seedlings. Now she didn’t know if she’d ever want to use the room again.

  “Don’t let anyone leave,” Frank called to the young policeman, who looked as shell-shocked as anyone else.

  Shelby led Frank around to the back of the house. The door to the mudroom was open and yellow police tape with POLICE LINE: DO NOT CROSS on it in black had already been strung across it. The other policeman—the short, stocky one—was waiting outside. Frank lifted up the tape and ducked underneath.

  “It might be better if you waited out front,” he called to Shelby.

  Shelby joined the crowd milling anxiously on the lawn. They quickly gathered around her, everyone murmuring in low voices. Mrs. Willoughby’s purse hung from the crook of her arm. Shelby supposed she wanted to be ready with the smelling salts in case someone developed the vapors.

  Dear Reader, the thought of that old-fashioned phrase—the vapors—almost made me laugh and now Mrs. Willoughby is looking at me strangely.

  “It’s the shock, dear,” Mrs. Willoughby said, her tone doubtful, as if she was looking for an explanation for Shelby’s strange behavior.

  Shelby quickly assumed a more somber expression, which certainly matched how she was feeling inside.

  “That policeman says we can’t leave,” Alan said, maneuvering his way to the front. “Grace isn’t feeling well.” He gestured toward his wife, who looked just fine to Shelby—she had a paper plate in her hand and was eating the remains of a piece of cake. “I’d like to take her home. This has been a terrible shock.”

  “It’s been a shock for everyone,” Mrs. Willoughby said firmly. “We’d better obey the authorities.”

  “I think there’s some iced tea and lemonade left in the fridge,” Shelby said, turning toward the house. “I’ll bring them out. Maybe a cold drink will make Grace feel better—no doubt she’s a bit woozy from the sun and the heat. Obviously no one can leave until the police say it’s okay.”

  Shelby almost apologized for the inconvenience, but then realized how ridiculous that was. None of this was her fault, although maybe if she had refused to let Prudence use her mudroom? She shrugged off the thought. If someone had been intent on killing Prudence, they would have found a way no matter what.

  Another car had pulled into the long driveway leading to the farmhouse when Shelby came back out with two pitchers of iced tea and one of lemonade. The car was black and looked quite new but had already gathered a layer of dust from the country roads. It hadn’t rained in almost a week and when it did, all that dust would turn to mud.

  Jake rushed over to take one of the pitchers from Shelby.

  “The medical examiner is here.” He cocked his head in the direction of the newly arrived car.

  Shelby shuddered. She’d seen enough police shows on television to know what indignities were coming. Poor Prudence.

  A few minutes later, Frank came around the side of the house. He was frowning and tugging at his lower lip. Bill had often done the same thing. A wave of longing for her late husband swept over Shelby, and she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. If he were here right now, she would collapse against his broad chest, and he would make everything all better again. But that wasn’t going to happen—she was on her own. She stiffened her spine and stood up a little straighter.

  Frank walked over to where Shelby was standing. Jake hovered nearby—like a sheepdog protecting its flock.

  Frank took off his hat and ran a hand over his head before clapping the cap back down again. He looked at Jake. “Mind giving us a minute?”

  Jake hesitated, his black eyebrows drawn together in an almost straight line.

  “It’s fine,” Shelby said to him. “Frank is my brother-in-law. I don’t think he plans on arresting me.” She smiled to show Jake that everything was all right.

  Frank waited until Jake was beyond earshot. “Can you give me any information on the victim?”

  “Yes. It’s Prudence Mather. She’s the wife of the rector of St. Andrews.” Shelby looked around and spotted Daniel sitting in a chair under the shade of a tree, Mrs. Willoughby standing protectively by his side, her red patent leather handbag still slung over her arm. “That’s her husband there.” Shelby pointed toward Daniel.

  “Was this some kind of party?” Frank waved a hand encompassing the stacks of folding tables and chairs, the ice chests from the Lovett General Store, and the popcorn machine that was now turned off. “I don’t remember getting an invitation.”

  He smiled, and Shelby gave a weak laugh.

  “We were having a potluck fund-raiser for St. Andrews Church. For a new roof,” Shelby added.

  Bill and Frank and the McDonald clan had frequented the Catholic church in town growing up, but Shelby had had strong ties to St. Andrews, and Bill had started going with her after they married.

  Frank nodded. “Do you have any idea why Prudence was in your mudroom? Did you let her in? Or are you two friends, and she comes and goes when she wants?”

  “Prudence wanted to rinse out her slow cooker, so I took her inside to let her use the sink in the mudroom.”

  Frank pursed his lips. “Any idea what time that was?”

  “As a matter of fact, I looked at the kitchen clock on my way back out. It was ten minutes after five.”

  “I don’t suppose you happened to glance at the clock when you found the body?”

  Shelby nodded. “Yes, it was almost five thirty. Prudence had been gone more than long enough to clean out her slow coo
ker, and the Women’s Auxiliary was waiting for her to tell them what to do with the tables. I went looking for her, and I found . . . found . . .”

  “Of course.” Frank put a hand on Shelby’s shoulder. “I’m sorry—I wish you didn’t have to go through this, but there’s no other way. Why don’t you get yourself a drink of water while I talk to some of the other guests?”

  Frank walked away, and Shelby saw him approach Kelly, who was sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree, her eyes half-closed. Shelby supposed she must be exhausted after her early-morning trip to the Clarks’ farm.

  Shelby looked around for Amelia. She was sitting on the old swing hanging from the apple tree—the one Shelby used to swing on when she was a kid. And she was sitting with that boy. Shelby supposed there wasn’t much she could do about it—at least not without making a scene. That would embarrass Amelia and accomplish nothing.

  Jodi came up behind Shelby. “They look cute together, don’t they?” She pointed toward Amelia and the young boy.

  Shelby turned toward her. “Do you know who that boy is?” She looked back at the couple and frowned.

  Jodi laughed. “That’s my son, Ned. And I assume that’s your daughter.”

  “Yes. Amelia,” Shelby said through tight lips.

  “He’s a good boy,” Jodi said.

  “How old is he?” Shelby thought he looked older than Amelia. There was a hint of baby-fine hairs on his chin.

  “He’s fourteen. Going to be a freshman at Lovett High School next year,” Jodi said with a hint of pride.

  “Amelia’s only turning thirteen. She’s too young for someone that old,” Shelby protested.

  Jodi laughed. “There’s only a year’s difference between them.”

  “Yes, but he’s going into high school. She’s only in middle school.”

  Jodi looked at Shelby and gave a half smile. “You can’t hold on to them forever.”

  5

  Dear Reader,

  Our little world here at Love Blossom Farm is still rocking from yesterday’s tragedy. The police were here until late last night taking pictures of my mudroom, dusting for fingerprints (there will be a ton, considering how often we go in and out of that room), and generally looking for clues.

  I hardly slept at all last night, but of course I managed to fall asleep an hour before my alarm went off. I wanted nothing more than to silence it (preferably by throwing it across the room), pull the covers over my head, and go back to sleep. But the chickens will be squawking to be fed and besides, today is my cheese-making class and I have to get ready. A number of women have shown an interest in learning how to make fresh cheese. We are starting with ricotta cheese, which is incredibly easy to make and so delicious—far tastier than the containers you buy in the supermarket.

  Jake promised to leave the milk we’ll need by the front door. Normally he delivers it to the back door, but the mudroom is still out of commission because of what happened yesterday.

  Shelby slipped her feet into the gardening clogs she’d left by the front door. It was still fairly dark out as she made her way around the house and toward the ancient barn, whose outline she could barely make out in the distance. At this hour it was still cool, and the grass was wet with dew. She ran a hand through her tangled curls and felt the damp from the morning air.

  She’d made this same journey so many times that a slightly indented path had been worn in the ground. Shelby didn’t need a flashlight—she knew where every hole, tree root, and rock was by heart.

  The chickens began to squawk as soon as they heard her coming. Shelby pulled open the door to the barn, which groaned like an old man getting out of bed first thing in the morning. Shelby felt along the shelf next to the door until she found the flashlight she kept there. It was shaped like a lantern and threw a bright patch of light in front of her as she crossed to the corner of the barn. She put the flashlight on the floor and picked up the rusty tin bucket they had been using at Love Blossom Farm for as long as she could remember. She filled it with feed from an open burlap bag propped in the corner.

  Patches wound in and out between Shelby’s legs as she walked toward the door. She bent down to scratch the cat’s back. Patches swished her tail back and forth, gave an indignant meow, and streaked off, disappearing into the shadows.

  Shelby carefully navigated the darkened barn—skirting the small hole in the dirt floor that was just big enough to catch your foot in and twist your ankle. She had learned the hard way to avoid it, having stepped in it more than once already. One time she went flying, landing on her knees and scattering the bucket of chicken feed all over the barn floor.

  By now the chickens’ squawking had reached a frantic crescendo. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” Shelby called to them as she briefly put down the bucket to turn off the flashlight. She put it back in its place on the shelf and went outside. The sky was getting lighter by the minute, and the air was slightly warmer.

  The chickens immediately surrounded Shelby, dancing from one scrawny leg to the other as she tossed the feed in a wide arc away from the birds clustered around her. They scattered in all directions, pecking at the ground with their sharp, pointed beaks. One of them—who was slightly bigger and therefore felt entitled to boss the rest of them around—pushed the others out of the way, giving a loud squawk and flap of her wings to warn them off. She had never produced any eggs, and more than one person had suggested that she would make an excellent chicken dinner, but Shelby couldn’t bring herself to do that.

  All the feed scattered, Shelby returned the bucket to the nail in the barn wall and headed back toward the house. The house was quiet—it would be hours yet before Amelia and Billy woke up. Shelby tiptoed through the living room—although she didn’t know why she bothered, because both kids could sleep through a nuclear explosion—and out to the kitchen.

  She avoided looking at the door to the mudroom as she put on a pot of coffee. As soon as it had brewed, she poured herself a cup and got to work. She was making a sour cream coffee cake to serve the ladies while they waited for the cheese they would be making to drain and the curds to separate from the whey.

  Shelby got the cake into the oven and began to set the kitchen table. She had a hand-embroidered tea cloth that had been her grandmother’s and a tea set left by a great-aunt who’d never had any children of her own. She enjoyed making everything look nice even though it didn’t happen often. Although she and the children sat down for dinner every night, either Amelia or Billy was always in a rush and finished eating by the time Shelby had her napkin in her lap. Amelia was in charge of setting the table, and Shelby was positive she made a mess of it on purpose—the knife to the left of the plate, the forks tossed anywhere, the napkins left in a pile in the center. Shelby had decided long ago that it wasn’t worth fighting over, but still . . .

  She stood back and admired her handiwork. Everything looked so pretty. She caught sight of the mudroom door out of the corner of her eye. The house was still hushed, and it was hard to believe such ugliness had happened here.

  A few minutes before nine, the front doorbell rang. Shelby dried her hands on a kitchen towel and went through to the foyer. Jenkins and Bitsy were there ahead of her, pressing their noses to the glass panels alongside the door, adding to the collection of nose prints and paw prints that already blurred the glass and which Shelby kept meaning to wipe off.

  Mrs. Willoughby was standing on the front steps. She’d exchanged her red patent leather purse for a navy blue one that matched her shoes and the belt around her shirtwaist dress.

  By the time Shelby ushered Mrs. Willoughby inside, the other women began arriving. Punctuality was considered a virtue in Lovett, although some people took it too far, arriving twenty to thirty minutes ahead of time and occasionally catching their host or hostess in the shower.

  Shelby led the way through to the kitchen, the women chatting about the previous
day’s events as they followed her.

  “I almost didn’t come today,” Valerie Young said, “but I wanted to find out if there was anything new about the . . . the . . . well, you know.”

  Valerie was the junior warden at St. Andrews. She had a round, bland face, rather like an unbaked biscuit, that belied her sharp nose for gossip. Shelby doubted she would have missed this morning’s class for anything and the chance to have a firsthand look at the scene of the murder. Indeed, as soon as they entered the kitchen, Shelby noticed Valerie’s head craning in the direction of the mudroom door.

  Liz Gardener had brought a friend with her. They were both immaculately coiffed, made up, and dressed, even though they were going to a cooking class.

  Dear Reader, Liz always manages to make me feel unkempt and slightly sloppy. Well, what can I expect, I suppose, when my wardrobe consists of T-shirts with stains on them and worn-out jeans and shorts? I’m sure Liz sleeps in pretty nightgowns and probably even has special clothes just for gardening.

  Olivia Willoughby, Valerie, and Mrs. Willoughby’s neighbor Karen, whom Mrs. Willoughby had persuaded to come, stood on one side of the kitchen island, while Liz and her friend Hope stood apart from them on the other side.

  “We’re all here, so let’s begin,” Shelby said, grabbing a half gallon of the milk Jake had delivered earlier from the refrigerator. “I’m only making a small amount of cheese today, so you can see how easy it would be for you to do this at home.”

  Shelby planned to mix the finished ricotta with cooked pasta, meat sauce, and shredded mozzarella for dinner that night. It wouldn’t need more than half an hour in the oven to become deliciously browned and cheesy.