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

by Peg Cochran

  Alan gave Shelby an apologetic look. “I really am sorry about this. If you hadn’t gone snooping . . .”

  He raised the gun a fraction, steadied his aim, and moved his finger to the trigger.

  Shelby was tense with readiness, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet.

  Alan pulled the trigger.

  Shelby threw herself sideways, and the bullet bit the dirt behind her, sending up clods of earth. The noise was deafening, and for a moment, her ears rang shrilly from the blast. Alan swore, and she knew he was taking aim again. Grace was scouring the ground for the other gun, dragging her injured leg behind her.

  Shelby had made it under the loft, where it was considerably darker than the rest of the barn. She prayed the shadows would keep her hidden enough to make it difficult for Alan to aim at her. She saw him raise the gun again and quickly scuttled across the barn floor, closer to the ladder to the loft.

  Both Bitsy and Jenkins had bolted—the two of them struggled to get under the beds when it thundered or firecrackers were going off. The chickens in the yard were squawking wildly, startled by all the unaccustomed noise. Jack Sparrow was crowing frantically, and she pictured them all running to and fro, flapping their wings uselessly.

  Before Alan could take aim again, Shelby started up the ladder to the loft. She knew she was making herself an easier target, but if she could get to the top . . .

  She was on the final rung when she heard the click of the empty gun—Alan was out of bullets. Shelby risked a look and saw him throw the gun on the ground and swear.

  “Find that other gun, would you?” he shouted at Grace. “I never should have let you take it. You never do anything right,” he added, a sneering tone to his voice.

  Grace gave a whimper as if he had lashed out at her physically.

  “Go on! Don’t just stand there,” Alan screamed at her. “Move.”

  Grace put her hands on her hips. “How dare you talk to me like that!”

  “This isn’t the time to discuss . . . Oh, never mind.” Alan grabbed the ladder and began to climb. “I’ll deal with this another way.”

  Shelby scurried to the farthest reaches of the loft. She could feel the structure shake as Alan climbed the ladder. By now she was pressed into the corner, wishing there was somewhere to hide.

  Dear Reader, I’ll be darned if I’m going to stand here cowering like some helpless female out of a Perils of Pauline movie. I’m going to fight back—but how?

  Shelby scanned the loft for a weapon of some sort—anything she could use against Alan, who was considerably bigger and taller than she was. A motley collection of rusted gardening and farm implements were scattered across the floor. They’d been there so long they’d almost become one with the wooden boards of the loft. They were a testament to Shelby’s grandfather’s thrift—even if something was broken, he would save it in case it would prove useful later.

  Shelby picked up a trowel that had a nicely pointed end. It would have to do. She decided it would be best if she took the offense, but when she turned to face the loft stairs, Alan was already there, startling Shelby, and she dropped the trowel. Alan kicked it out of reach with a wicked grin.

  In no time, Shelby was backed against the wall. She felt the rough and splintered wood through the thin cotton of her T-shirt. Alan was so close she could almost feel his breath on her face. She tried to scuttle away—going sideways like a crab—but he put out an arm and pinned her to the wall.

  Shelby felt panic choke her as Alan put his hands on either side of her neck and began to squeeze. Shelby stomped on his foot as hard as she could, but he didn’t loosen his grip. She was beginning to feel light-headed and was convinced she was seeing stars.

  There was no time to lose. She had to do something before she lost consciousness. Shelby swept a hand along the rough wooden wall in back of her. A splinter lodged in her thumb, but she hardly noticed. The tips of her fingers brushed something hard.

  She managed to stretch her arm out far enough to get her whole hand around the object. It was a long wooden handle. Shelby remembered there was an old pitchfork up in the loft—she’d warned Billy numerous times not to touch it. She’d kept meaning to get rid of it, and now she was glad she’d never gotten around to it.

  It was now or never, Shelby decided. She grasped the handle as far down as she could reach for better control, lifted the pitchfork off the floor, and swung it around until it made contact with Alan’s body.

  It wasn’t an especially hard blow, but it was enough to make him let go of Shelby’s throat. She moved away as quickly as she could, swinging the pitchfork in front of her to keep him at bay, much like a lion tamer waving a chair.

  Alan’s face was crimson with rage. He made a sound like a roar and lunged at Shelby. She jabbed at him with the pitchfork, forcing him backward and farther away from her. She caught a glimpse of Grace out of the corner of her eye. Bitsy and Jenkins had returned to the barn now that the noise was over. Jenkins stood in front of Grace, growling, as she pressed against the wall. Her hands were empty—she obviously hadn’t found the gun, and with Jenkins guarding her, she wasn’t able to continue looking.

  Bitsy was staring at the loft as if sensing the danger to Shelby. She made a few futile lunges at the ladder, barking furiously. Shelby had taught her to sit, to stay—more or less—to roll over and beg, and now she only wished she had found a way to teach her how to climb a ladder. At least the two of them were frightening Grace enough to keep her from looking for the gun.

  Shelby and Alan continued their cat-and-mouse game—thrust and parry, thrust and parry. Alan was panting, and Shelby felt sweat trickling down her back, causing the fabric of her T-shirt to stick to her clammy skin.

  Alan lunged again and Shelby jabbed at him with the pitchfork. He pushed it aside and for a moment Shelby stood stock-still, thinking he was about to grab her. Frantic, she swung the pitchfork in a wild arc, striking Alan on the cheek. He howled and clasped a hand to the spot where the pitchfork had hit him.

  The pain seemed to have enraged him even more.

  “You’re not getting away with this,” he hissed at Shelby. “I had everything planned. If it hadn’t been for you, it would have come off without a hitch.”

  And he lunged at Shelby again, trying to grab the pitchfork from her hand. She gave him a hard jab with it, and he stumbled backward. She jabbed again, as hard as she could, and the sharp tines connected with his stomach, forcing him backward a few more steps. He teetered on the edge of the loft for a moment, and Shelby held her breath. He stood there for a few more seconds, waving his arms frantically, then lost his balance and plummeted to the ground.

  Shelby thought she would never forget the sound his body made when it hit—that and the sound of Grace’s piercing scream. Shelby peered over the edge of the loft—she couldn’t tell if Alan was dead or just knocked out. She thought she saw his chest rise and fall but wasn’t sure. Grace leaned over him, crying and calling his name.

  Shelby started down the ladder, keeping one eye on Grace as she descended. Bitsy and Jenkins immediately surrounded her. Bitsy put her paws on Shelby’s shoulders, and for a second Shelby couldn’t see past the dog’s slobbering tongue. When Bitsy finally got down, having satisfied herself that her owner was okay, Grace was no longer leaning over Alan’s body.

  Grace was bending over with her back to Shelby, and when she whirled around it was clear she had found the missing gun. Her hand was quite steady as she leveled it at Shelby’s head.

  Shelby was exhausted from fighting Alan and barely had enough energy to think straight.

  She watched, stunned, as Grace tightened her finger on the trigger.

  28

  Dear Reader,

  When something intense happens, everything seems to go in slow motion and time becomes telescoped so that what may have taken a minute or two feels as if it’s taking hours. But t
hen when it’s over, time snaps back again and you realize it’s only been a short time after all. It’s a little disconcerting, though, when you find yourself staring at a gun.

  The dogs circled Grace, as if trying to decide what to do. Grace paid no attention to them—her focus was riveted on Shelby.

  Shelby was bracing herself to jump out of the way—Grace would probably still hit her, but perhaps it wouldn’t be the fatal shot Grace was hoping for.

  “Police. Drop the gun,” an authoritative voice came from the open door of the barn.

  Grace’s jaw dropped, and she spun around.

  Shelby was just as surprised as Grace to see Frank standing in the doorway, his gun drawn but still at his side. The easy way he held himself made him look almost nonchalant, but Shelby could tell he was anything but. Like his brother, the unwavering intensity of his gaze gave him away.

  Grace turned back to Shelby with lightning speed, grabbed Shelby’s arm, and pulled her closer. She pointed the gun right at Shelby’s head and maneuvered her so that Shelby was in front of her like a shield. She gave Shelby a push. “Move. My car is parked at the end of your driveway.”

  “Where are we—”

  “Quiet,” Grace hissed in Shelby’s ear.

  Shelby clamped her mouth shut. Grace was clearly delusional if she thought she could get away with this, but the look in her eyes scared Shelby. She was obviously crazy, and crazy people did crazy things—like pulling the trigger on a gun even when confronted by the police. Even the dogs seemed to sense that Grace was behaving erratically, and kept their distance from her although their stance remained alert and watchful.

  Frank’s eyes narrowed as he watched Shelby and Grace’s progress across the room. He held his gun loosely, but Shelby could see the muscle jumping in his jaw.

  She had to give Frank a shot at Grace somehow. She thought of giving her a shove, but Grace’s finger on the trigger was so twitchy Shelby didn’t want to chance it. If only she could trip her somehow. She had to bite back a gasp when the idea came to her. That hole in the ground! It wasn’t deep—just deep enough to throw someone off balance. How many times had she herself stumbled after catching her foot in it?

  Shelby started to lead Grace as subtly as possible to the left. Fortunately they didn’t have to go far, and luckily Grace didn’t seem to realize Shelby had them crossing the barn at a slight angle—all her attention was focused on Frank and his gun.

  At first Shelby thought they’d missed the hole when suddenly Grace gave a squeak like a mouse caught in a trap. Her body twisted and she went down on one knee. Her hand holding the gun slammed into the ground, and the gun went off.

  Bitsy and Jenkins streaked past Shelby at astonishing speed—Bitsy, for once, giving up her characteristic lope in favor of sprinting like a racehorse.

  Frank ran over to Shelby and grabbed her arm, pushing her to safety behind him. Two uniformed policeman with guns drawn burst into the barn, and between them they quickly subdued Grace and carried her off to the waiting police car outside. She screamed like a fishwife and her hissed curses could be heard even after she’d been removed from the barn.

  A third policeman arrived and immediately ran to Alan Swanson, where he lay near the stairs to the loft.

  Dear Reader, the entire Lovett police force must have come out for this. It certainly makes an exciting change from directing parking at the county fair and ticketing speeders.

  Frank motioned to Shelby to stay where she was as he joined the uniformed officer who was kneeling by Alan’s side. Shelby felt herself start to shake uncontrollably.

  Frank leaned over Alan’s body. “Is he alive?” he asked as he stuck his gun in the waistband of his jeans.

  “He’s knocked out pretty good, but there’s a pulse,” the cop said, removing his fingers from the side of Alan’s neck. “Who knows what’s broken, though?” He stood up and stared at Alan’s twisted body. “I’ll radio for an ambulance.”

  “The EMTs are already on their way. I was afraid we were going to need one, so I radioed ahead.” Frank pulled a piece of gum from his pocket, tore off the wrapper, and put the folded piece in his mouth. He chewed calmly as he gave a last glance at Alan’s body before turning and walking toward Shelby.

  As soon as Frank reached her, Shelby’s legs gave out. Frank put an arm around her, and she leaned her head against his chest, trying to stifle the tears that were gathering and threatening to spill.

  “It’s shock,” Frank murmured against Shelby’s hair. “It will pass.”

  Shelby nodded and gave a loud sniff.

  “Shelby, are you okay?” a male voice came from the barn door.

  Frank and Shelby jumped apart quickly.

  “Jake!” Shelby said. “Yes, I’m fine. Or I suppose I will be.”

  “I heard the sirens, and when they stopped at your place, I panicked. I ran all the way here.” Jake pulled out the tail of his shirt and wiped the perspiration off his face.

  Shelby didn’t know why, but she felt as if she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t have been. The look on Frank’s face as he walked away told her he felt the same.

  “What the . . . ?” Jake said, gesturing toward Alan’s body. He went to stand next to Shelby. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, his voice edged with concern.

  “Positive.”

  Dear Reader, I’m as okay as anyone can be after being attacked in their own barn and having to fight off two people who were both intent on killing them.

  By the time Shelby left the barn, the sun had risen considerably higher in the sky. The EMTs had come for Alan, who had regained consciousness only to find himself strapped to a backboard. Judging by his attempts to free himself, he wasn’t that grievously injured.

  Frank had spent some time questioning Shelby. It had been a little awkward as she tried to gloss over the fact that she had been actively investigating Prudence’s murder herself. That and the fact that she and Frank were both acting like two people who had touched a hot stove and been burned. Shelby vowed that in the future, she wouldn’t let Frank’s resemblance to Bill go to her head.

  Amelia and Billy were up when Shelby got back to the farmhouse. Billy had his baseball cards spread out over half the breakfast table, and Amelia was still in her nightgown, hunched over her cell phone and a bowl of cereal.

  “Bert!” Shelby was surprised to see Bert at the kitchen sink.

  Bert spun around. “My neighbor’s daughter works part-time as a file clerk for the Lovett Police Department. She got wind of what was happening here and called me. I came over in case you needed me.”

  Shelby sank into a kitchen chair, feeling as if all the air had been let out of her. “Bert, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “And I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Bert dashed a hand across her eyes. “I was real scared for a minute there.”

  Shelby thought she saw some tears clinging to Bert’s lashes, but she knew better than to ask—Bert would simply deny it.

  Bert tilted her head toward the kitchen window. “So, what was going on out there?” She turned to Amelia and Billy. “You two, shoo. Go on upstairs and make your beds.”

  “I thought it would be better if they didn’t hear,” Bert said after Amelia and Billy left the room. “I put on some fresh coffee if you’d like some.”

  “Sounds great,” Shelby said. It would give her time to collect her thoughts.

  “Now,” Bert said with relish as she set a mug of steaming coffee in front of Shelby and took a seat opposite. “Want to tell me what was going on out there? I’ve been dying of curiosity, but I saw Frank’s car, so I knew you’d be okay.”

  Frank had said he’d look after her, Shelby thought. Maybe that frisson of attraction between them had been nothing more than the promise he’d made to his brother?

  Shelby shook herself and looked ove
r at Bert, who was eagerly awaiting what she had to say. She was giving Shelby the same look she gave the television set when waiting for her favorite program to start.

  Shelby explained how she’d gone out to the barn to feed the chickens when suddenly Grace had appeared with a gun.

  “So Grace is the killer?” Bert gasped, her cup of coffee forgotten at her elbow.

  “No, not exactly.”

  “Then who?” Bert’s voice was edged with impatience. “You remind me of that detective show I watched the other night when, just as the killer was about to be revealed, the show ended and the announcer said to stay tuned for part two next week.”

  “I promise you won’t have to wait that long.”

  Shelby realized she hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast yet and she was hungry. She got a loaf of bread from the bread box and popped two slices into the toaster.

  “It wasn’t Daniel, was it?” Bert said, obviously hoping to hurry Shelby along.

  “No, it was Alan Swanson.”

  “Alan Swanson?” Bert echoed in disbelief. “But he and Prudence hardly knew each other. Now, Grace I could picture as the killer. Plenty of things happening at church to cause her to feel murderous toward Prudence.”

  “True,” Shelby said as she transferred her toast to a plate and buttered it. “But Prudence knew something about Alan that Alan didn’t want anyone to know.” Shelby slid into her seat at the table. “Alan is a bigamist.”

  “No!” Bert nearly knocked her coffee over in her astonishment. “Does Grace know?”

  “Not only does she know, she seems to be condoning it,” Shelby said, taking a bite of her toast.

  “And his other wife? Where does she live? Nearby?”

  “She lives in Cranberry Cove, over by the lake. Prudence called her and told her about Alan and Grace, but she didn’t believe her.”

  “I know Prudence was good at ferreting out secrets, but how on earth did she discover Alan’s bigamy?” Bert frowned. “Unless Alan made a clean breast of it to Daniel, and Daniel then indulged in some pillow talk. Although that doesn’t sound like Daniel.” She frowned again.