“They already had plans,” I told her.
“Well, come on in and have a glass of wine,” she said, inviting me into her warm kitchen. Fiestaware in a rainbow of colors filled the open shelves, and the lace curtains at the window gave the room a homey feel. Homemade cedar wreaths decorated the farmhouse windows, and a red pillar candle surrounded by greenery burned in the center of the table, adding a spicy scent to the already delicious aromas wafting through the kitchen.
“It smells heavenly,” I said, trying to sound cheerful, even though I was worried sick about Molly. “What did you make?”
“King Ranch Casserole,” she said.
“My favorite,” I said. “Can I help with anything?”
“You can convince my daughter to dump her boyfriend,” Molly joked, but there were worry lines around her eyes. She poured two glasses of red wine and sat down across the table from me.
“Still going strong?”
She nodded. “Her grades are dropping, just when she needs them the most. She’s always been so driven,” Molly said. “I don’t know what to do.” She took a big swig of wine. “I was hoping Tobias could talk to her.”
“I’m sure he needs help down at the hospital,” I said. “It might inspire her to work on her studies again.”
“I heard his ex is in town,” Molly said, raising an eyebrow. “She’s pretty, too, unfortunately.”
“I’ve heard, but I haven’t met her yet.”
“I hate to pile on, but Alfie saw him in the backseat of Faith Zapalac’s SUV the other day. Mindy was in the front.”
“So they’re looking for property together,” I said, feeling glum. I sighed. “Well, if I ever get around to talking to him, I’ll see if he’s got time for Brittany.”
“I’ll call him,” she said. “Unless you want an excuse . . .”
“No,” I said. “I’ll call.”
“My only worry is that Quinn needs the help. I don’t want to leave her shorthanded.”
“I think Quinn would understand. Plus, I could use the extra hours.”
“Poor Krystal.” Molly shook her head. “I feel terrible about what happened to her.”
“Molly, be careful,” I said. “I’m worried Rooster might try to finger you.”
“I don’t see how he can possibly think I murdered her just because she was friends with my daughter,” she said. “I didn’t like her, but I’d never kill her. I’d never kill anyone.” She grimaced. “I have to admit, though . . . on some level, I’m glad she won’t be in Brittany’s life anymore. I just wish she’d never introduced her to that church—and Bryce Matheson.”
I was about to respond when Brittany walked into the kitchen. How much had she heard? I wondered.
“Hi, Brittany,” I said, putting on a smile.
“Hi,” she said, shooting a frosty look in Molly’s direction and walking over to the refrigerator.
“Dinner’s in about twenty minutes,” Molly said, “so no snacking.”
“I’m just getting a drink,” she said without looking at her mother.
“I’m so sorry about Krystal,” I said to Brittany.
She plucked a can of Diet Coke out of the refrigerator door. She was a beautiful girl, with shiny brown hair like her mom’s, a slighter version of Molly’s frame—and the same feisty personality. “Mom’s not,” she said tartly.
“That’s not true,” Molly said, and folded her mouth into a thin line.
Brittany didn’t respond. I glanced at Molly, who suddenly announced she’d left something in the car and vacated the kitchen with a meaningful look in my direction.
“I wanted to ask you a few questions about Krystal,” I told Brittany when we were alone. “If you don’t mind.”
She shrugged. “Like what?”
“I understand she had a boyfriend, but she never told anyone who it was.”
Brittany’s eyes flicked away from me for a moment; she looked uncomfortable. “She didn’t tell me, either,” she answered, but busied herself playing with the tab of the can.
Somehow I didn’t believe that. “Are you sure?” I asked. “It could be important.”
“Important? How?”
“I think someone killed her,” I said quietly. “I’m trying to figure out who it was.” I decided not to tell her the sheriff suspected her mother; she’d find that out soon enough.
Her eyes got big. “You mean she didn’t die in the fire?”
I shook my head, then pulled the picture of the sapphire cross up on my phone and showed it to Krystal.
“That’s her necklace!” she said. “Why do you have a picture of it?”
“Her boyfriend bought it in La Grange,” I said. “Are you sure she never told you his name?”
Her eyes cut away. “She didn’t.”
I knew she was lying. After a long moment, I said, “There was a dog there, too. Did she say anything to you about it?”
“A dog?” She looked perplexed. “She never told me she got a dog.”
Strange, I thought. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm her?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I mean, I think some of the church ladies were jealous of her, but that’s because she was such a free spirit. Wanda Karp couldn’t stand her. Then again, she doesn’t like anyone other than her best friend, Ethel. They sit around and gossip about everyone.”
“Christian of them,” I said dryly.
“I know, right?” she said, and for a moment I saw a spark of the old Brittany.
“Mary Jane told me someone was leaving gifts outsider her house at night. Any idea who?”
“Probably Dougie Metzger. He was ancient—almost twice her age—and I know he made her kind of nervous, hanging out at the cafe all the time.”
“Did he ever threaten her?”
“Of course not! Flora Kocurek was jealous, of course; she kept flouncing by in poofy skirts, trying to get him to notice, but he wasn’t interested in anyone but Krystal. He proposed to her one day at the cash register. She laughed it off, but I think he was serious.”
“Do you think he might have hurt her when she turned him down?” I asked.
“I can’t imagine him doing anything to her. I think he just thought he was going to wear her down.”
I hoped she was right.
“I just don’t know what happened, Ms. Resnick,” Brittany said. “I wish I did. I miss her.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, honey,” I said, and held out my arms. I was still holding her as she wept into my shoulder when Molly came back into the kitchen.
Molly hurried over to her daughter. “Brittany. Sweetheart.” I stepped back, and Brittany hesitated, then let her mother wrap her arms around her. “I’m so sorry, darling. If there’s anything I can do . . .”
“It’s just . . . she was my friend!” Brittany sobbed.
“I know,” Molly crooned, stroking her daughter’s hair.
“It’s not fair.” Brittany buried her head in her mother’s chest. “She had her whole life in front of her.”
I sat while the two embraced, feeling tears well in my own eyes. I hadn’t known Krystal well, but she had seemed like a nice young woman—and Brittany was right. She’d been robbed of her life.
But—assuming she was killed, which my gut told me was the case—who had done it? A jealous Dougie Metzger? Krystal’s Uncle Buster? Or her mystery boyfriend?
If only Brittany would tell me who Krystal’s boyfriend was. Deny it she might, but I was almost sure that she knew.
Dinner was delicious, but uneventful. I made a suggestion that Brittany talk to Tobias about helping out at the vet hospital, but was rebuffed. Molly’s four kids had homework or finals to study for, so they ate quickly and headed to their rooms, and Molly’s husband, Alfie, was having trouble moving a few cows to a new pasture, so he headed out right after dinner.
As I helped Molly clean up, I noticed she still looked troubled. “You’re really worried about Brittany, aren’t you?” I asked.
She nodded. “I’m glad we finally connected a bit, but she seems to be completely under the sway of that boy, Bryce. She spends more time with him than with us.”
“Young love,” I said with a grimace.
She sighed. “I think he inherited his father’s charisma, unfortunately.” She handed me a bowl, and I dried it. “I also can’t get Krystal out of my head. She wasn’t that much older than Brittany.” My friend shivered. “Her poor mother.”
“I don’t even know if her mother knows—or if she’s alive,” I said. “From what I hear, she disappeared when Brittany and her sister were little. Do you know what happened to her sister?”
“She left town years ago,” Molly said. “I don’t even remember her name, to be honest. You talked with Brittany?”
“Yes, for all the good it did,” I said. “She didn’t have much to tell me.”
“She never does these days,” Molly said darkly as we finished the last of the dishes.
“I’m worried about you,” I told her. “Are you getting any sleep?”
“Some,” she said. “But you know Christmas: it’s a madhouse. Speaking of which, did I ever give you your friendship bread?”
“Half the town seems to have gotten bread from you,” I said, thinking of the anonymous tip Rooster had gotten. If the bread was poisoned, just about anyone could have done it—but I knew that Rooster wouldn’t bother to follow up on that. “How much did you make?” I asked.
“A dozen loaves,” she said. “I’ve given out about ten, and I’m not done yet.”
“No wonder you’re tired!” I said.
She disappeared into the pantry, returning to hand me a loaf of golden bread, then dug in the fridge and gave me a Tupperware full of starter. “There’s a card on the bottom with instructions,” she said. “I made it with poppy seeds and a bit of lemon, but you can do all kinds of things with it.”
“Thanks!” I said, lifting the loaf to my nose and taking a whiff of lemony sweetness. “I can’t wait to try it. Who all did you give them to?” I asked.
“Oh, all kinds of people,” she said.
“Apparently someone called Rooster and said you gave Krystal poisoned friendship bread.”
“What? There was no way I’d give that girl bread,” she said. “They’ll figure that out soon enough.”
“Unless someone doctored a loaf you gave them . . .”
“No one I gave bread to would do something like that,” she said, dismissing the idea. “So, do you think Brittany will change her mind about going to work with Tobias?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I’ll keep working on it.”
“I’m sure it will all get worked out,” Molly said.
It hadn’t worked out well for Krystal, though, I thought as I headed out to my truck a few minutes later.
I woke up the next morning and made a pot of coffee quietly, trying not to wake up my parents. As I sat down at the little kitchen table and watched a finch peck at the bird feeder, I reflected that although I was glad they were here, my mother was starting to get on my nerves. I knew I had disappointed her when I bought the farm, and I shared her worries about being able to make a go of it. For the most part, though, I’d made my peace with my fears and embraced my new life—and had managed to stop staying up nights wondering what I’d do if the peach crop failed, or locusts hit, or the well dried up . . .
Chuck, on the other hand, was unconcerned. Now, he relaxed on his bed in front of the wood stove as I sipped my coffee, nibbled at a piece of Quinn’s vánočka, and mentally prepared myself to take care of the morning chores. The thermometer outside the window read forty-two—chilly for Texas, and cold enough that I was planning on wearing gloves. I had just grabbed the egg basket when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“She’s gone, Lucy. She left last night.”
“Molly, what are you talking about?”
“Brittany,” she sobbed. “She left a note on the table. I think she’s eloped!”
Molly answered the door before I knocked, eyes red, face pale. She wore a fluffy bathrobe and slippers, but looked haggard. “I can’t believe she’s gone,” she said. “She packed her clothes, took her cell phone . . .”
I followed her into the house to the kitchen, where Brittany had drunk a Diet Coke just the night before. “Can you track her on her phone?”
“She turned that function off,” she said. “Too smart for her own good.”
“Did you call her boyfriend’s parents?”
“Of course,” she said. “No one answered. I’m going to go over there. Alfie got up early and went into Houston . . . he must not have seen the note.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Let me talk to Ethan,” she said. He was Molly’s oldest boy, and only a year younger than Brittany. “He can make sure everyone gets to the bus stop. Then I’ll get dressed and we can go.” She reached out and grabbed my hand. “Thank you so much for coming.”
“Let me look at the note while you go talk with Ethan,” I said.
“It’s there,” she said, jabbing at a piece of loose-leaf paper on the kitchen table.
Dear Mom and Dad,
I love you, but it’s time for me to follow my own life. I’m going away with Bryce, and we’re going to get married. I know you don’t approve, but God tells me it’s the right thing for me. I’ll be in touch when I can. Don’t worry about me; I’m in Jesus’s hands.
Brittany.
“Jesus’s hands?” I asked Molly when she came back in wearing jeans and a big sweatshirt.
“More like the devil’s hands,” she replied. “I can’t believe she’s going to marry that kid. Is it even legal? I’ve got to find her.”
“Pastor Matheson’s house first?” I asked.
“I should probably leave the shotgun at home,” Molly said grimly.
“Might be a good idea,” I said, as she followed me outside, the note in her hand.
The Mathesons lived in a sprawling new ranch-style house that was anything but modest.
“The rectory is nicer than the church,” Molly noted as we pulled up into the driveway behind a brand-new white Ford truck. “Even if it does look like it belongs in a Houston subdivision rather than the outskirts of Buttercup.”
“He does seem to be doing pretty well for himself,” I agreed.
“God, I hope she’s here,” she said, opening her door almost before I stopped the truck.
She marched up to the front door with me in her wake and stabbed the doorbell with a finger.
When no one answered in the first five seconds, she jammed a finger into it again, then knocked. “Where are they?” she muttered.
“Probably still asleep. It’s not even seven yet,” I pointed out, taking in the attractive landscaping and the new limestone exterior of the builder house. Molly was right; it looked like someone had taken a house out of a ritzy Houston subdivision and plopped it down in the country. Not exactly in keeping with its quaint neighbors.
As I watched, Molly stabbed the doorbell again. I prayed Brittany was inside, but was guessing my prayers weren’t going to be answered. My instinct told me she and her boyfriend were long gone.
Maybe a minute passed before I heard the thunk of a dead bolt snicking back. A sleepy-looking Phoebe Matheson peered out, looking confused.
“Can I help you?” she asked in a small, thin voice.
“I sure hope so,” Molly said. “Your son ran off with my daughter this morning. Brittany left this.” She brandished the note.
The woman blinked at her. “He what?” She reached for the note and read it, then let out a sigh. “Oh, that silly boy. He is such a romantic.”
“Is he here?” Molly asked in a tight voice.
“I’ll go see,” she said, and without inviting us in, she closed the door and locked it, leaving us marooned on the cold porch.
“Friendly,” I noted, glancing at my friend. Her lips were a thin line, and her jaw was set, but what I saw more
than anything was fear. “I’m sure she’s fine, Molly,” I said, touching her arm.
“I knew I never should have let her go to that church,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “She’s throwing away her whole future.”
“We’ll find her. Let’s take one thing at a time,” I told her. “For all we know, she’s here.”
As I spoke, the dead bolt clicked, and the door opened. It was Phoebe again, looking remarkably placid. “He’s not here, I’m afraid,” she said.
Molly seemed to shrink next to me. “So they’re gone.”
I looked at the woman, who seemed strangely unconcerned about her son’s disappearance. “Can we come in and talk about this?” I asked, a little put out she hadn’t already invited us in.
“Sure,” she said. “I should probably wake Pastor Matheson, too.”
Pastor Matheson? My eyebrows started up toward my hairline, but I reined them in as we followed her into the potpourri-scented front hall. “That would probably be a good idea,” I said politely, running an eye over the house’s interior. Crosses covered the wall of the front foyer, which featured a double-height ceiling and an enormous crystal chandelier that looked like it had been lifted from a hotel ballroom.
“Why don’t you come into the kitchen while I go and wake him?” she asked, leading us through the cavernous front hall to a kitchen with a granite-topped island adrift in the middle of a sea of tile. We sat down at the pickled pine table as she disappeared into another hallway.
Molly’s eyes darted around the room as if she thought Brittany might be hiding behind one of the enormous country-style platters displayed on the counter. The walls were covered with airbrushed portrait-style family photos: Pastor Matheson, Phoebe, and their two kids, Bryce and Andrew. One of those two kids had run off with my friend’s daughter, though. Why did that not bother Phoebe as much as it bothered Molly? Was it the difference between having a son and a daughter? I wondered.
“Expensive house,” I murmured, taking in the decorator-fresh surroundings. “I didn’t know preaching paid so well.”
Molly was on her phone again, sending texts to Brittany. “She’s going to miss her finals,” she fretted. I knew she was worried about a lot more than finals. “She’s got such a bright future . . . I can’t believe she’s throwing it all away, and for a boy. Where can they be?”
Fatal Frost (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 2) Page 8
