by Peg Cochran
Kelly shot bolt upright in her chair, nearly upsetting it. “Prudence? Dear, sweet, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth, hand-wringing Prudence?”
Shelby laughed. “Yes, that Prudence.”
“What did she do? Have an affair with the choirmaster?”
This time Shelby roared. Kelly joined in. It was good to laugh. Even though it had only been a couple of days, it felt as if this murder had been hanging over their heads for ages.
Kelly wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her T-shirt. “Since the idea of an affair with the choirmaster seems too far-fetched, what do you think Prudence really did to get herself and her poor husband banished to Lovett?”
“According to the ladies in Cranberry Cove, their last parish, Prudence made a number of false accusations against members of the church. She claimed the sexton stole gardening equipment belonging to the church and that another member helped himself to some of the proceeds from their annual Christmas bazaar.”
“And it wasn’t true?”
“Apparently not. But she stirred up a lot and got the parishioners riled up to the point where Daniel could no longer do an effective job and the bishop made the decision to move him to another church.”
Kelly shook her head. “Poor Reverend Mather.”
“And there’s more.”
“Seriously?”
Shelby nodded. “Grace Swanson, who is in the St. Andrews knitting group, told me that Prudence accused Earl Bylsma of helping himself to money from the collection plate on Sundays.”
Kelly whistled. “Is that why he quit ushering? I thought he was going to do that forever. He looked so proud every Sunday—giving that serious little bow before handing you the program and leading you to your seat.”
“I know.” Shelby swept the broom into the very corner of the mudroom.
Kelly stopped rocking abruptly. “But don’t you think that gives him a motive for murder? He must have been furious with Prudence—his reputation ruined even though nothing was proven. I know if it were me, I’d certainly feel homicidal.”
“But Earl? He’s so mild-mannered and . . . and . . .”
“You see stories like it all the time in the paper.” Kelly leaned forward eagerly and nearly catapulted out of the rocking chair. “The Casper Milquetoast who snaps and murders his nagging wife. Earl was here at the potluck—he had a motive and he found the means.”
Shelby had a sudden flashback to the slow cooker cord around Prudence’s neck.
“But who’s to say it wasn’t Daniel himself who snapped?” she said. “By all accounts, he was henpecked half to death.”
“True,” Kelly said.
“Although I can’t see Daniel in the role of murderer.” Shelby slumped against the broom handle. “Besides, how will we ever prove that either of them did it?”
12
Dear Reader,
I think it’s going to be a late night. I promised to make my cottage cheese pies for Prudence’s funeral luncheon tomorrow. Mrs. Willoughby is arranging everything for Daniel, and she asked me especially if I would mind making some. I don’t mind at all—for some reason I feel responsible for Prudence’s death, even though I know that’s ridiculous. Just because she met her end in my mudroom doesn’t mean I need to feel guilty about it.
Billy and I had a quick dinner of macaroni and cheese—not the kind from the box, of course, but homemade with real cheese and milk from Jake’s cows. Billy is watching something on television—there’s a lot of shooting but no swearing or naked women, so I suppose it’s okay.
Amelia isn’t home yet. She and Kaylee have obviously become very close—almost like sisters. I’m glad she has this relationship. So many girls her age are only interested in boys, boys, boys. And while I like boys plenty myself, it’s your girlfriends who will see you through the hard times. Don’t you agree, Dear Reader?
Shelby cleaned away the dinner dishes, scraping the hardened bits of macaroni off Billy’s plate, rinsing them, and stacking them in the dishwasher. She glanced at the clock. It was seven o’clock. Surely Amelia was finished with dinner at Kaylee’s house by now. They didn’t keep New York hours in Lovett—dinner was usually on the table by five o’clock—six at the latest for those who worked in offices or in town and not in the fields. For Lovett residents, it was early to bed and early to rise, just like in the old proverb.
Shelby felt weariness threaten to melt her bones. She put the kettle on the stove and got out a tea bag. She’d make herself a good, strong cup of tea. While the water heated, she grabbed the telephone and dialed Amelia’s cell phone. Shelby had been adamantly opposed to purchasing a cell phone for her daughter, but she was soon convinced of the usefulness of it and gave in. She’d already told Amelia that not answering her mother’s phone calls would result in grounding plus the confiscation of said phone for possibly the rest of her life.
The phone rang once, twice, three times, four times. Soon the call would go to voice mail. Shelby felt a combination of irritation and worry. She picked at the ragged cuticle on her thumbnail while she waited. Finally Amelia’s voice came over the line.
“Yeah?”
“Amelia, it’s getting late. Do you need me to pick you up?” Shelby devoutly hoped not—she needed to get going on those pies if she was going to manage to eke out five hours of sleep before the chickens demanded to be fed.
“No, Kaylee’s mom is bringing me home.”
There was a muffled giggle in the background. The hair on the back of Shelby’s neck stood up. It didn’t sound like Kaylee. It sounded like a boy, but she wasn’t sure. Besides, Amelia said Kaylee had a brother, so she was probably being paranoid again. “Okay, but make it soon.”
“Fine.”
Amelia disconnected.
Fine, Shelby muttered to herself. Dear Reader, how is it that a simple word with four ordinary letters can be said in such a tone that it becomes fraught with so much meaning and emotion—irritation, annoyance, disdain . . . ?
Shelby shook her head and got out a blue-and-white mixing bowl that was probably as old as Love Blossom Farm itself. It had been passed down from generation to generation and no one could quite remember when it had actually been purchased or by whom.
She measured out flour, butter, and ice water for her pastry crust. She had just finished fitting the dough into the first pie plate when she heard the front door open.
“Amelia?”
No answer.
There were footsteps on the stairs and the slam of a bedroom door. Shelby went into the living room, wiping her hands on her apron, and saw the glare of retreating headlights through the front windows.
She shrugged and went back to her pies, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of something being off. Amelia was definitely up to something. The question was what?
The next morning Shelby was up and on her feet even before the chickens, which was no small feat. She pushed aside the curtain in her bedroom and looked out the window as she shrugged on her robe. It looked as if it was threatening to rain. It was suitable weather for a funeral—certainly more so than a bright sunny day would have been.
She quickly straightened the sheets and pulled up the comforter. The bed didn’t get nearly as messy as it had when Bill was alive. Shelby pushed the thought from her mind and started down the stairs to the kitchen.
Her pies were completed and ready to be packed into the waiting boxes. She was also making several salads with her heirloom tomatoes and gourmet lettuce varieties. Other women from the church had signed up to bring various casseroles, vegetable platters, homemade bread, and fruit trays. If Prudence had been alive she would have been bringing her slow-cooker meatballs, Shelby thought somewhat irrationally. But of course Prudence was gone, and all of this was being prepared for her funeral.
Shelby scrambled herself some eggs and ate them out of the frying pan while standing over the sink. The
sky was still black outside the kitchen window and the temptation to crawl back into bed was strong. Instead she mounted the stairs to her bedroom and quickly changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
Shelby fed the chickens, who seemed particularly fidgety and demanding this morning—perhaps they sensed the storm that was brewing. Shelby glanced at the sky, where she could make out ugly dark clouds moving swiftly overhead. It was now light enough to pick some lettuce and tomatoes for her salads. She passed the patch of garden where the enormous leaves on the zucchini plants made her think of the old children’s story Jack and the Beanstalk.
Billy was growing a zucchini especially for the county fair in September. They would leave it on the vine to let it grow as large as possible—Shelby crossed her fingers that the rabbits wouldn’t go after it. The county fair had always been a favorite of the children’s, and she and Bill had taken them every fall. Would Amelia even want to go this year? Shelby and Bill had gone while they were courting—Shelby remembered sneaking a kiss behind the barn, where the horses were stabled. The smell of manure still brought back the memory.
There would be hayrides, chickens, pigs, and cows raised by the kids in the local 4-H club, and Billy’s favorite—the largest vegetable contest. Every year there were pumpkins weighing nearly as much as a small car and other gigantic produce that made you feel as if you had suddenly been transported to the land of the giants. Liz Gardener had won the last two years with her prize squash, but Billy was determined that this year his zucchini would be the largest. Shelby hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed if he didn’t win.
Shelby finished collecting the makings for her salad and headed back to the farmhouse, where she rinsed the lettuce and washed the tomatoes. After drying them, she began assembling her salads.
She was slicing tomatoes when Billy wandered into the kitchen, his eyes still puckered with sleep, his cowlick more pronounced than ever. She fixed him a bowl of oatmeal with cinnamon and sugar and then began wrapping up her pies.
Shelby hoped Amelia would be up soon, since she had to head to the church, but she knew that was wishful thinking. Several shouts up the stairs finally brought a sleepy and cranky Amelia to the landing.
“Watch your brother, okay? I have to deliver some things to the church.”
“Fine.”
Amelia flounced downstairs in her bare feet, dropped into a chair in the living room, and immediately began texting on her phone.
Shelby sighed and carried the first batch of pies out to the car. Two trips later, she was all loaded and ready to go. She was about half a mile from home when fat drops of rain began to splatter across her windshield, creating a blurry landscape of cornfields interspersed with farmhouses that were weather-beaten to pastel hues.
Shelby wasn’t looking forward to making numerous trips between her car and the church, especially as the rain had intensified and was now a steady downpour. Mrs. Kendrick from her knitting group was getting out of her car as Shelby pulled into the space next to her in the church parking lot.
“Do you need some help?” she asked, turning to Shelby after beeping her car locked.
“That would be wonderful.”
Shelby opened her trunk, where she’d stashed the pies in individual boxes inside a large cardboard carton. Hopefully they hadn’t shifted too much during the car ride.
With her hands full, Shelby couldn’t hold an umbrella. Mrs. Kendrick had had the foresight to don one of those plastic rain hats they used to give out at savings banks—Shelby didn’t know if they even made them anymore. Fortunately it didn’t matter what happened to her hair, since she’d pulled it back and stuck it up on top of her head in a tenuous bun that wobbled as she walked.
Shelby had been determined to carry everything in one trip this time, and could barely see over the stack of boxes in her arms. She prayed fervently that she wouldn’t trip and spew her hard work all over the slate path.
“What’s that smell?” Mrs. Kendrick sniffed loudly. “Someone is smoking.”
Shelby suddenly got a whiff of it, too. She looked around and spotted a young man squatting under the partial shelter of a tree, puffing on a cigarette. As they got closer, Shelby thought he looked nearer to thirty than twenty. His dark hair was long, and he had that small triangular patch of hair in the middle of his chin that seemed to be so popular with young men these days. He had a disreputable air about him, although Shelby couldn’t put her finger on exactly what made her think that.
Mrs. Willoughby must have seen them coming, because she was standing at the entrance to the church kitchen, holding the door ajar. Shelby edged her way around Mrs. Willoughby’s considerable bulk and into the room.
“Set the things on that table over there.” Mrs. Willoughby pointed toward a long metal table that had an industrial-sized pot rack suspended over it.
Shelby gladly set down the boxes of pies and breathed a sigh of relief at their safe arrival. Mrs. Kendrick put the bowls of salad she had carried in for Shelby on the table and untied her rain hat.
“Is it absolutely frightful out there?” Mrs. Willoughby asked, adjusting the belt on her dress, which encircled her waist much like the equator circling the globe.
“The rain has picked up.” Mrs. Kendrick shook out her rain hat, folded it back up, and slid it into its plastic pouch. “Perfect weather for a funeral, if you ask me.”
A dreamy look came over Mrs. Willoughby’s face, and she put her hand to her bosom. “Be still, sad heart! And cease repining; behind the clouds is the sun still shining; thy fate is the common fate of all, into each life some rain must fall.”
Shelby and Mrs. Kendrick stared at her openmouthed.
“Longfellow,” Mrs. Willoughby said sheepishly. “I was an English literature major at Albion College until I met my Richard and left to get married.”
Mrs. Willoughby shook herself as if shaking off the rain and her face resumed its usual businesslike expression. “What do we have here?” She inspected the boxes Shelby had set out on the table.
“Cottage cheese pies. Do you want me to take them out of the boxes?”
Mrs. Willoughby clapped her hands together. She inhaled deeply. “I remember your pies from the potluck. Absolutely heavenly! Did you make the cheese yourself?”
“Yes.” Shelby nodded as she slid the last pie out of the box. “And the milk is fresh from Jake Taylor’s cows.”
“It doesn’t get fresher than that.” Mrs. Willoughby giggled.
Mrs. Kendrick peered at one of the pies, then turned to Mrs. Willoughby. “Who was that rather unsavory young man outside? He’s crouched under that large elm tree near the door smoking a cigarette.” She shuddered. “Nasty things. My late husband used to smoke. It took me a year and a half to get the smell out of the house after he died.”
Mrs. Willoughby rolled her watery blue eyes heavenward, pursed her lips, and shook her head. “Him! They say the apple falls close to the tree, but obviously not in this case. Poor Prudence. I don’t know how she could bear it.” She raised her chin and sniffed. “I feel quite blessed that my son has a good job and a future ahead of him.”
“But who is he?” Mrs. Kendrick asked with a querulous look on her face.
Mrs. Willoughby was known to go off on a tangent at the drop of a hat, and reining her back in again was not for the faint of heart.
Mrs. Willoughby lowered her voice to a near whisper, even though they were alone in the kitchen. “He’s Prudence’s son.”
Mrs. Kendrick gave a gasp, and Shelby was hard-pressed to repress one herself.
“Her son!” Mrs. Kendrick exclaimed. “Well, I never!” She looked slightly affronted—as if this information had been withheld from her on purpose.
Mrs. Willoughby nodded again, setting her stiff gray curls quivering. “It seems Prudence was married before—before marrying Reverend Mather, that is.”
“The son hasn’
t been around before, has he?” Shelby grabbed a paper towel from the roll on the counter and wiped off a bit of cottage cheese that had gotten onto her thumb as she was taking the pies out of their boxes. “I don’t remember seeing him at church.”
“He just showed up out of the blue,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “Reverend Mather was quite put out, I can tell you that. It seems that Wallace—that’s the young man’s name—and Prudence had had a falling-out two years ago and hadn’t seen each other since. What a fine thing showing up now that she’s dead.” Mrs. Willoughby’s many chins quivered in indignation.
“Is he here for the funeral?” Mrs. Kendrick asked.
Mrs. Willoughby made a sound that was halfway between a laugh and a snort. “Hardly. He’s come here to get some money; what else?”
“Really?”
Shelby must have sounded skeptical, because Mrs. Willoughby immediately continued. “He’s already been after Reverend Mather for some cash. I heard them arguing about it. The door to the reverend’s office was closed, but their voices were raised, and I could hardly help hearing every word.”
Dear Reader, what do you think the odds are that Mrs. Willoughby had her ear pressed to the door?
“The poor reverend can hardly spare any money—he has holes in his shoes as it is.” She shook her index finger at Shelby and Mrs. Kendrick. “What that young man needs is to put in an honest day’s work and collect an honest wage. But I can tell by the looks of him that he’d rather get other people to pay his way.”
“Did he think he was going to get money out of Prudence?” Mrs. Kendrick scowled. “The lot of a pastor’s wife is not a rich one. Unless Prudence had means of her own.”
“I shouldn’t think so,” Mrs. Willoughby said.
Shelby flashed back to the thousand dollars in Prudence’s purse the day of the potluck. Where had that money come from? Was it from Seth, or, as Mrs. Kendrick had suggested, did Prudence have a bank account of her own?
