Fatal Frost (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 2)

by Karen MacInerney

  “Just like Krystal,” Quinn said in a mournful voice.

  I shivered and took another sip of mulled wine. Quinn scanned the market, her eyes drifting to the pottery stall, which was doing a brisk trade.

  “Do you want me to cover for a bit so you can shop?” I asked.

  “Would you mind?” she asked. “I was hoping to buy my mother one of those pretty blue salt pigs, and I’m afraid Martin will sell out.”

  “Go for it,” I said. “Browse the whole market while you’re at it. Take all the time you need.”

  “Thanks, Lucy,” Quinn said, and untied her apron. “The price list is right there. You remember how to run the register, right?”

  “I’ve got it,” I said, sitting down on the stool behind the register. “Have fun!”

  No sooner had Quinn drifted into the crowd than Peter Swenson walked up to the booth, his hands in the pockets of his brown field jacket. It was the first time I’d seen him since the fire. “Quinn around?”

  “She just headed out to do some shopping; she’ll be back in a bit.”

  “Shoot . . . I was hoping to see her.”

  “Have you heard anything more about the fire? Or Krystal?”

  His smile faded. “It looks like arson,” he told me.

  I felt a coldness that had nothing to do with the crisp December evening. “I was afraid of that.”

  “Someone emptied a gallon of gasoline inside and set it on fire.”

  Which meant that whatever happened to Krystal wasn’t an accident. I searched the crowd for Molly. I needed to warn her. “Heard any rumors yet?” I asked.

  “I have,” he said. “Molly’s going to be in the hot seat soon, I think.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said. Unless I managed to find the killer, I thought.

  “I’ve been thinking about the puppy. Who’s going to take her if she makes it, do you think?” he asked.

  “We’ll figure that out when we get there, I guess.” To be honest, I wasn’t sure Chuck was up for a canine companion, and with my truck’s ominous clunking getting louder by the day, I knew I couldn’t afford two dogs anyway.

  But Krystal—and Molly—were my main concerns right now. “I heard Krystal had a boyfriend, but no one seems to know who it is.” Something told me the mystery boyfriend had a lot more to do with Krystal’s death than Molly did. I was determined to find out who it was.

  “I never saw anyone,” he told me, “but I did see a beat-up truck in her driveway from time to time.”

  “What kind?”

  “An old Chevy,” he said. “Half blue, half rust.”

  “That shouldn’t be too hard to find,” I said.

  At that moment, the sound of a “put Christ back in Christmas” chant intensified, overtaking the sweet sound of “Silent Night.” Peter glanced over toward the group. “At least Mayor Niederberger put some limits on their float in the parade.”

  “I just hope she doesn’t get ousted by O’Neill. He and the pastor seem pretty buddy-buddy.”

  “Maybe we should take up a collection for her campaign,” he suggested. “The last thing we need is a Houston business tycoon in charge of Buttercup.”

  We both lapsed into silence for a moment, watching the picket line. Was one of the men Krystal’s mystery boyfriend? And if so, what did he know about Krystal’s death? “I keep thinking about what happened at Krystal’s today,” I said. “The whole thing doesn’t seem right.”

  “The fire?”

  “Yes. If it was murder, and someone was trying to cover the evidence, why wait to burn the place?” I asked.

  “It’s a good question,” he said. “Hopefully someone in the sheriff’s office will be asking the same thing.”

  Before I could respond, a large family drifted up to the stall, eyeing the loaves of vánočka. I handed out samples of Quinn’s traditional Czech bread. The two young boys in the family were immediately hooked, and their parents bought two loaves—“One for us, and one for Grandma.” Peter waited while they bought a couple of candles and a sprig of mistletoe for their front hall.

  “By the way,” Peter said once they’d drifted away, “how are the girls doing?”

  “I’ve hardly had a chance to see them, to be honest. It’s been a crazy day.”

  “Hot Lips is a sweetheart,” he said with a smile. “But she’ll give you a run for your money if she ever slips out.”

  “Thanks for letting me have them; I know they’re like your children.”

  “It makes it easier when I know they’re going to a good home,” he said. “Besides, Hot Lips and Murphy Brown didn’t get along very well; I figured they’d be happier if I separated them.” He sampled a bit of the vánočka Quinn had put out. “This stuff is addictive,” he said when he’d swallowed it.

  “I know. I’m going to need to buy elastic-waist pants if I keep eating it.”

  At that moment, there was a voice raised from near the picketers. I looked over; Molly and her daughter were toe-to-toe.

  “Uh oh,” I said. “Can you watch this for a second?”

  Peter had barely agreed before I was hurrying through the crowd toward my friend and her daughter.

  “This is to benefit Bessie Mae!” Molly said, pointing to the woman in the wheelchair. “What about her? That’s the whole point of this market—to help her!”

  “I am doing what my morals tell me to do.” Brittany gripped the sign in her hand hard, her cheeks flushed. Behind her, Flora edged closer to Dougie, but Dougie didn’t seem to notice.

  “Your morals? Or your boyfriend’s?” Molly shot back. “I wish Krystal had never talked you into going to that wackadoodle church.”

  Shut up, Molly, I thought.

  But she continued. “It’s like you’re . . . brainwashed. What about your future? What about college?”

  “My future is my business,” Brittany said, taking a step back and grabbing her boyfriend’s hand. Rooster had edged closer and was looking at Molly with an expression I didn’t like. “You’re glad Krystal’s gone, aren’t you?”

  “This has nothing to do with Krystal. I just want you to come to your senses,” she said.

  “Molly,” I said, coming up behind my friend and touching her on the shoulder. “The whole town is watching.”

  She started, then turned and blinked at me. Then she surveyed the audience that had gathered to watch the drama. She took a deep breath, her cheeks flushed, and gave me a thin smile. “Thanks,” she said, and turned to her daughter. “I’ll see you at home, Brittany.” She grabbed the wheelchair and swung it around so fast she almost ran over young Teena Marburger.

  “Look under the flowers,” Teena blurted, staring at me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I just need to tell you to look under the flowers.”

  The skin prickled on my arms. Teena Marburger was known as something of a psychic around town. The last time Teena told me something, it had figured into a murder investigation. But what could flowers have to do with Krystal’s death? And why tell me instead of Molly?

  Speaking of Molly, she was still pushing her way through the crowd ahead of me.

  “Molly,” I said, jogging after her to catch up. “Are you okay?”

  “I need to be alone,” was all she said, but I could see the tears welling up in her eyes as she hurried away. I looked back at Brittany; Bryce’s arm was around her possessively, and she was leaning into him, but her face was troubled as she darted a glance at her mother’s retreating back.

  By the time Quinn returned to the booth, a wrapped package in one hand and a paper cone of candied almonds in the other, I had taken over the register and Peter had moved on.

  “How’s it going?” my friend asked as she tucked her package under the front table.

  “You missed Peter,” I told her. “And did you see the showdown between Molly and Brittany?”

  “I ran into the shop for a few moments; I must have missed it. What happened?”
/>   I told her about the words they had exchanged. “And the whole town—including Rooster—was right there watching.”

  Quinn winced. “That’s all Molly needs,” she said. “I’m surprised Rooster hasn’t arrested her yet.”

  “I know,” I said. “On the plus side, Peter said he’d come back in a little bit. And your Christmas cakes are selling so fast, you might have to bake another hundred this week.”

  “Good news and bad news, I guess. Try a few of these,” she said, offering me the cone of nuts. I took two and popped them into my mouth. They were still warm, and the spicy, slightly salty sugar crust was a wonderful foil to the almonds inside.

  “These are amazing,” I said.

  “Aren’t they? It’s a good thing they’re only here in December.”

  “No kidding,” I said, popping another few in my mouth. “By the way, Peter told me he saw a rusty Chevy out at Krystal’s a few times.”

  “A rusty old Chevy truck?” Quinn asked. “Sounds like Buster Jenkins.”

  “It was Buster Jenkins,” said a wiry man who had walked up to the booth. I recognized him as Clyde Swartz.

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “He’s been digging things up all over town. Convinced he’s onto Beauregard’s cache.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?” Quinn asked.

  “‘Not if they don’t find out’ is his motto. I keep reminding him that people around these parts carry guns, but it don’t stop him.”

  “Do you know if he had any luck?” I asked. “I heard he called Fannie’s Antiques about a couple of coins he found.”

  “He claims to have struck gold so many times there’s no telling,” he said. “But if he did find any, you can be sure it wasn’t on his land.”

  “But he didn’t say anything about a recent find?”

  “Not to me,” he said. “I saw him day before yesterday, and he didn’t breathe a word. He’s been over at Krystal’s place a lot, though. Poor thing.”

  “Were they on good terms?” I asked.

  “Good as they ever were,” he said. “Not a lot of family affection. He was trying to talk her into helping him out with something, I heard . . . don’t know what that was all about. But if Krystal’s place was on Dewberry Creek, you can bet he was out there with a shovel.”

  “That explains the holes dug up around her place,” I said.

  “At any rate, I’m just here for a sample of that famous bread of yours,” he said. Quinn offered him a sample, and he took three, then kept ambling on.

  “Well, we know Buster was over there, at least. Did Peter say he saw any other cars?” Quinn asked.

  “He didn’t mention any,” I said.

  “Shoot. I was hoping if he did, it might help us figure out who Krystal’s boyfriend was. He gave her a necklace as a birthday present,” she told me. “The day after he gave it to her, she walked into the Blue Onion looking like Cinderella after she’d met her prince.

  “What kind of necklace was it?”

  “It was a small blue-sapphire cross on a gold chain, and she was over the moon about it. She polished it with her shirt collar all the time.”

  I wished we had a jewelry store in Buttercup. There was one in La Grange, though; it was worth seeing if anyone remembered selling a sapphire cross.

  “Did she say anything that might help us figure out who he was?”

  “Only that he had a hard time getting away from work. I got the impression she didn’t see him as often as she liked.”

  “Not much to go on.”

  “She talked with Brittany a lot; she’d be a good person to ask. And Dougie Metzger down at the gas station—he was incredibly jealous. If anyone would know who she was seeing, it would be him.”

  “He was jealous of Krystal’s boyfriend?” I asked, looking over at the picketers again. “I wonder what Flora thought of that.”

  Quinn blinked at me. “I hadn’t considered that,” she said. “Krystal did turn Dougie down several times—the last time just a few weeks ago. And I have heard that Flora had a crush on him.”

  “People do funny things around the holidays,” I said. I took a sip of my Glühwein and looked out at the festive tree in the square and the cheery lights, trying to recapture the Christmas spirit. But the image of the burning house—and the look on Rooster’s face when Molly was arguing with Brittany—kept swimming back into my thoughts.

  The lights were still on at the Buttercup Veterinary Hospital as I drove home to Dewberry Farm an hour later. Peter had come back and kept us company during the rest of the market; he couldn’t stay away from Quinn, and despite the day’s tragic events, I’d never seen her so happy.

  I still had to milk Blossom, but I couldn’t resist stopping by to visit the puppy.

  And Tobias.

  I knocked lightly at the door, feeling butterflies in my stomach despite the fact that we’d been seeing each other since June.

  He opened the door and gave me a weary smile.

  “How is she?” I asked as I walked into the warm, antiseptic-scented hospital.

  He gave me a brief kiss on the top of my head. “About the same. It’ll take time.”

  I followed him through the waiting room to the back of the hospital, where the puppy was lying in a crate, covered in a red fleece blanket. I could hear her wheezing. Tobias opened the door to the crate, and I reached in to touch her silky head, avoiding the sores where the skin had burned.

  “She’s so small. You really think she’s a Lab mix?”

  “I do, but her paws aren’t huge; I doubt she’ll get too big.”

  The future tense was encouraging. “Is there anything I can do to help you out?”

  “I’m keeping her with me until the critical period is over,” he said. “After that, though, if you’d like, you could take her home in the evenings—provided Chuck doesn’t object.”

  “He’s pretty easygoing. Unless you’re Rooster Kocurek.” The sheriff was the only person Chuck had ever taken issue with. “By the way, I hear your ex is in town,” I said in a breezy tone. At least I hoped it was breezy.

  He took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said. “She is.”

  “You didn’t mention it to me,” I pointed out.

  “I’m sorry, Lucy. It’s just . . . she just turned up two days ago. There’s nothing still between us. I promise.”

  “She’s looking for a house,” I said, unable to help myself. “I thought she didn’t like the country.”

  “She’s . . . I think she’s here for more reasons than one,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “I’m not supposed to say anything. I promise it has nothing to do with me. Or us,” he said, looking at me from clear blue eyes.

  I wanted to believe him. But I also knew that old passions sometimes die hard, and Mindy was nothing if not beautiful. “Okay,” I said. “Sorry . . . it’s just a little weird.”

  “I’ve hardly seen her since she got here, anyway,” he said with a shrug. “I spend half my time in barns and the other half chasing cows down in pastures.” There was a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You’ve started calling Blossom a cow now, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, yes,” I said. “Although I still think she’s young enough to be a heifer.”

  “Greenhorn,” he teased.

  I grinned and stroked the puppy again, feeling slightly better—about Tobias, anyway. “She’s so sweet,” I said, playing with a floppy ear.

  “If you do take her home, it might be best to introduce the two dogs slowly. Chuck’s used to having you all to himself.” He gave me a look that made my insides quiver. “Well, almost all to himself . . .”

  “Lately there hasn’t been a lot of competition,” I reminded him.

  “It’s been busy,” Tobias said shortly, the teasing look gone.

  “Covering two practices is a challenge . . . I know.” I looked down at the puppy and tried to put the whole Mindy thing aside. It was hard. And it was hard to watch the puppy laboring for brea
th. I looked up at Tobias. “You think she’s going to get better, then?”

  “I hope so,” he said. “I’m doing everything I can.”

  I fumbled with the puppy’s ear for another moment, then stood up. “I’d better get home and check on the goats,” I said.

  “Thanks for stopping by,” he said, his voice softer now.

  “Let me know if there’s any change,” I told him as he followed me to the front door of the practice. I gave him a smile and pushed through the door. “Thanks for taking care of her.”

  “Anytime,” he said, following me out. “Let me know what you find out about Krystal; I’ll ask around and let you know if I hear anything.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “See you tomorrow.” He gave me a quick kiss good-bye and turned to go back inside.

  The truck gave an ominous clunk as I backed out of my spot. Despite Tobias’s assurances, I realized I still wasn’t feeling good about Mindy.

  And how, I reflected as I pulled out of the hospital parking lot, was I going to find out what happened to Krystal before Rooster clapped Molly in irons?

  The lights were on in the farmhouse when I pulled up in the truck a few minutes later. There was a silver Accord parked near the fence, and I headed up to the door, confused. No one in Buttercup locked their doors, and people often just stopped by for a visit, but I didn’t recognize the car, and no one had said they would be stopping by.

  “Hello?” I called when I opened the door.

  “Lucy!” My mother and father sat at the kitchen table, smiling at me. “Merry Christmas!”

  I blinked, feeling something between surprise and shock. I couldn’t imagine my mother ever coming back to Dewberry Farm. It was a Christmas miracle. At least I hoped it was a miracle; it depended on whether or not my mother behaved. “Mom! Dad! What are you doing here?”

  “We thought we’d surprise you,” my mother said, beaming. Chuck, who had been lounging at her feet, got up and trotted to greet me.

  “You certainly succeeded,” I said as my mother pulled me into a hug. She smelled like Halston, and in her tailored slacks and colorful jacket, she looked like she was ready for a board meeting at the museum where she worked as the head of fundraising. Although I was happy to see her, I felt a twinge of misgiving; she had told me I was crazy to buy the farm, and things between us were still awkward.