Fatal Frost (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 2)

by Karen MacInerney

  “I think it was someone from that church of hers,” he said. “Drove a white truck. That’s all I know.”

  “Thank you,” I said, trying to think of who drove a white truck.

  “So someone . . . killed her?”

  “That’s what the police are saying. Poison.”

  “I could have given her a good life.” He swiped at his eyes.

  “I know,” I told him. “I’m so sorry.”

  He crumpled the card in his hand.

  “Hold on to that,” I said. “Let me know if you think of anything else that might help.”

  He nodded and turned away as I revved up the truck and clunked out of the parking lot, my heart hurting for Krystal—and for Dougie.

  But I didn’t rule him out as a suspect.

  The farmhouse was redolent of grilled onions and steak when I got back to the house; my dad was making dinner.

  “I’m sorry you had such a rough day,” my dad said as he transferred onions to a plate. Chuck was drooling on the floor at his feet.

  I sank into a kitchen chair. “Thanks; it really was rough. I can’t believe Molly’s in jail for murdering Krystal Jenkins.”

  “Do you think she did it?”

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “The problem is, how do I get her off? I’ve got a couple leads, but no solid motive.”

  “Good thing you’ve got those investigative reporting skills,” he told me. “From what your mother’s told me, the police force in Buttercup has never quite been Texas’s finest.”

  “That’s an understatement,” I said. I decided not to tell him that I had been a suspect a few short months ago. “I’m probably going to be busy trying to figure out what happened over the next few days . . . I’m so sorry. Between everything going on and the Christmas Market, I may not be around much.”

  “No worries,” he said as he washed his hands at the sink. “I’ll make your mom take me for another tour of the area, so she can tell me stories.”

  “She really isn’t happy with my buying the farm, is she?”

  “She isn’t,” he admitted, slipping Chuck a piece of steak. It disappeared in a flash. “She was looking at the want ads in the DC papers the other day.”

  “Looking for a new job?”

  “For you, of course,” he said. “But I can tell you’re happier here than you ever were working for a paper—even though I know things are tight. Although you might want to get your truck looked at. It sounds awful.”

  “I know,” I said, “but I don’t want to spend the money right now. I’m hoping the finances will get better as I get more established. Where’s Mom, by the way?”

  “Kibitzing with the goats,” he said. “For a woman so averse to farm life, she sure does seem to enjoy being here. I liberated a bit of your lettuce, by the way . . . I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “Glass of wine?” he asked, nodding toward a bottle of red on the counter.

  “Absolutely,” I said, thankful for my dad’s presence—and hoping the alcohol would dull my mother’s barbs.

  I poured myself a glass and took a big swig. So far, Christmas in Buttercup was anything but what I’d envisioned.

  I finished my chores early the next morning and headed to the Blue Onion. After Quinn gave a few directions to Tori and Olivia, who were covering the cafe for the day, we piled into her car to head to Word of the Lord Church; we’d decided she should drive, since there was less likelihood of her undercarriage falling out. “You really need to get that fixed,” she told me.

  “I’m afraid to find out how much it’ll cost. Did you see Brandi last night?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “I did,” she said. “She and Ethel Froehlich are not exactly a fit.”

  “No?”

  “Ethel’s a teetotaler, and Brandi . . . well, she was named well.”

  “Did you find out anything helpful?”

  “She was still really upset about Krystal,” she said. “She told me a little about their childhood. Apparently their mother lived in Buttercup and got pregnant in high school. She left town before anyone found out about it and had the girls somewhere else. Their father—Matt Jenkins—died in an accident when they were fourteen; that’s when they moved back to live with Buster.”

  “Poor things,” I said. “No wonder Brandi’s got issues. And I’ll bet Krystal was thrilled to have a boyfriend who loved her. If it weren’t for the fire—and the friendship bread—I’d wonder if the pain of the breakup didn’t cause her to . . . well . . .”

  “Take her own life? I had the same thought,” Quinn said. “It’s tragic in any case. Oh—before I forget, there was one thing Brandi told me that was interesting.”

  “Really?”

  “Krystal mentioned their uncle when they talked. She was feeling some pressure from him to do something she didn’t want to do.”

  “Did she say if it had anything to do with the windfall?” I asked, wondering if the “pressure” had something to do with the certificates of authenticity sent to Krystal’s address.

  “I’m not sure, but I also ran into Monica Espinoza, down at the bank. She told me Krystal deposited a big cashier’s check two days before she died.”

  “Did she say where she got it?”

  Quinn shook her head. “No, but it sounds like she wasn’t lying about a windfall.”

  “That rules out Buster’s Confederate gold, then. He just brought the gold coins to Fannie to be appraised—if he hasn’t sold them yet, the money must have come from elsewhere.”

  “Maybe he found a second hoard?” Quinn suggested.

  “If so, what did he do with the first one?”

  “I wish I knew,” Quinn said. “I stopped by the high school and asked a few of Brittany’s teachers if she’d said anything about where she was going, but no one knew anything about it. They’re going to ask the students for me, though. Oh—and John Chovanek stopped by.” John was a local rancher; his daughter went to school with Brittany. “He thinks he saw Bryce Matheson pulling out of the grocery store in La Grange. He told Rooster, but he wanted to pass it on to you and me, too.”

  “No sign of Brittany?”

  “No,” she said. “He tried to catch up with Bryce, but got caught at a red light.”

  I felt a chill. Why was he alone? “Do you think she’s okay?”

  “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I’m hoping we find her soon.”

  “Maybe we’ll get a lead this morning,” I said as we turned onto State Highway 71 and headed to Krystal’s church. We rode the rest of the way in silence, both fretting over our friend . . . and Krystal’s unsolved murder.

  I’d never been to the Word of the Lord Church before. It looked like an airplane hangar, but with less charm. The only two things distinguishing the corrugated-metal building as a church were an enormous red cross that had been screwed to the front of the building and a bait-shop-style sign near the highway proclaiming “Jesus Loves You: Faith Healings Every Sunday!” The metal building was located just off 71, and a car backfired as Quinn and I walked from the broad swath of parking lot to the double front door of the church. It was a far cry from the quaint wooden Brethren Church down the road from Dewberry Farm.

  “I’m surprised they don’t have drive-through communion,” Quinn said as I grabbed the door handle.

  “Maybe that’s phase two of the building program,” I told her as we walked into the narthex. “Thanks for coming with me, by the way.”

  “So, what’s our reason for being here, again?” Quinn asked. “Other than sheer curiosity, that is.”

  “I don’t think we need a pretext,” I said. “Brittany’s missing and Molly was arrested. We just want to see if anyone can help us figure out what happened.”

  “Got it,” she said.

  The narthex smelled like burned coffee and new construction, which could not have been further from the cozy scent of wax and furniture polish I associated with the Brethren Church. I peeked int
o the worship space; the warehouse-like room had metal chairs in a rough semicircle, stadium-like, on a concrete floor. An enormous white screen was in the front of the room, where I was accustomed to seeing a cross, and in front of the low-slung altar was what looked like a small above-ground pool. “I hear they do full-body baptisms,” Quinn said.

  “No snake pit, though.”

  “I’ve heard rumors,” Quinn said. She looked up at the ceiling. “Lots of stage lights. It looks like an auditorium.”

  “That’s because of the television show,” said a voice behind us.

  I turned to see one of the two women from the Blue Onion. She had a helmet of highlighted hair, a blue shirtwaist dress, about three pounds of foundation on her face, and a stack of papers in her hands. It was Wanda Karp.

  “When is that starting, anyway?”

  “The New Tomorrow network starts broadcasting this Sunday . . . it’s so exciting! Pastor Matheson will be spreading the Word of the Lord all across the world!” Her eyes shone through the thick mascara; I got the impression she had a bit of a crush on the good pastor. “Of course, they’ll have to do some sound remediation. With that concrete floor, it’s a bit echo-y.”

  Quinn and I exchanged glances. “I’d love to hear more about his ministry,” I said. For some reason, I felt uncomfortable leading with questions about Krystal and Brittany.

  “So would I, actually!” came a bright voice from behind us.

  I turned to see Mindy Flynn. “Oh,” I said. “I had no idea you were here.”

  “I’m shopping churches,” she said brightly, “since I’ll be here on weekends. Mind if I join you?”

  The secretary’s “Of course” seemed a bit feeble.

  “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” Mindy asked her.

  “Wanda Karp,” she said. “If you’ll come to the office, I’ll get you some literature.”

  We followed her through the narthex to a long hallway. Her office was the second on the right, a closet-like space with a small window that overlooked the parking lot. “Let me give you some brochures,” she said, putting down her papers and gathering up a handful of shiny flyers. “Shoot. I’m missing the one on faith healing. I’ll be right back,” she said, and bustled out of the room.

  “I still can’t believe they’re running a TV show out of Buttercup,” Quinn said.

  “I know,” I said, my eyes roving around the room. There was something that looked like a stack of checks on the middle of her blotter. I leaned over to look at the one on top; it was a social security check made out to one of the older residents of Buttercup.

  “What do you know about the church?” Mindy asked me. “I’ve heard the pastor is very charismatic.”

  “He is,” I said. “Unfortunately, so is his son; he just ran off with my friend’s seventeen-year-old daughter.”

  Mindy’s eyes widened. “Really? What’s her name?”

  “Brittany Kramer,” I told her. For some reason, I didn’t feel like telling her that Molly had been arrested.

  “When did this happen?”

  “Just this week,” I told her.

  She sucked in her breath, but she looked more excited than sad. “That’s terrible,” she breathed.

  “I know. We went to see the good pastor, but he didn’t seem at all concerned.”

  “Really,” Mindy said. Something about her tone of voice reminded me of when I was an investigative reporter.

  “You’re in entertainment law, I hear.”

  Mindy’s smile got tight. “Only in Houston,” she said. “I’m off duty here.”

  “Any luck finding a house?” I asked.

  “Still looking,” she said. “Hard to find ten acres with a nice house on it.”

  “I’m sure Faith will find something for you,” I told her. “But I’d double-check the contract before I signed it.” Faith, I had learned from experience, was not the most trustworthy real estate agent. To say the least.

  “I’m sure. If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I’m going to find the ladies’ room.”

  “We’ll let Wanda know,” I said. When she left, I looked at Quinn. “She seems awfully interested in the pastor, doesn’t she?”

  “He’s a good-looking man,” she said. “At least that would mean she wasn’t after Tobias.”

  “I guess that’s looking on the bright side,” I said.

  She pointed out the top check. “Did you see that? That’s Ursula Mueller’s social security check.”

  “I know. But she has almost no income,” I said. “How can she afford that?”

  “There are a couple of others, too,” Quinn said, glancing over her shoulder and then quickly leafing through the stack. “Huh. All widows.”

  “Preaching is more profitable than I thought,” I said.

  “Holy cow!”

  “What?”

  She showed me a check from Ben O’Neill for twenty-five thousand dollars.

  “That’ll cover a few mortgage payments,” I said.

  “No kidding. That’s an awful lot to tithe.”

  “Maybe that’s why Pastor Matheson is such a big supporter of O’Neill’s campaign.”

  We heard Wanda’s footsteps coming back toward the room, and Quinn quickly straightened the stack of checks out. When the secretary returned, we were both sitting with our hands in our laps. “Where’d the other lady go?” Wanda asked.

  “Call of nature,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll be back in a moment.”

  “Well, here you go,” she said. “I’m glad to hear you’re interested in our ministry.”

  “Krystal Jenkins always said great things about Pastor Matheson,” Quinn said lightly.

  The smile froze. “Krystal?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Quinn said. “She was an employee of mine, until . . .”

  “Oh, yes. The tragedy,” Wanda said. “I heard she was poisoned by a local woman.”

  “That’s one theory,” I said.

  “That’s what the police are saying,” she said, the sugar gone from her voice.

  “Do you know who she was friendly with?” Quinn asked. “Apparently she was dating someone, but we can’t figure out who it was. We were hoping someone here might be able to help us.”

  Wanda’s face seemed to close up. “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she said. “We don’t talk about parishioners. Now, if you don’t have any more questions . . .”

  “Actually, I do,” I said. “Do you know Brittany Kramer well?”

  “She is very active in the program,” she said. “A new parishioner.”

  “I understand she was dating the pastor’s son,” I said.

  “She’s a lucky girl,” Wanda said. “He’s handsome, like his father. Yes, I see them together on Sunday mornings.”

  “Did either of them say anything about going somewhere?”

  “Going somewhere?” She looked confused. “Like on a mission trip? No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Apparently she and the pastor’s son ran off together the other night. Nobody knows where they are.”

  She blinked at me and pursed her lips. “I hadn’t heard that. I’m sure it’s just a nasty rumor.”

  “No,” I said. “It’s not. I saw the note myself.”

  “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.” She began shuffling papers. Our interview, it seemed, was over.

  “Are there ever snake-handling Sundays?” Quinn asked. I turned to blink at her.

  Wanda was blinking at her, too. “Snake handling? Goodness gracious. Of course not.”

  “It might make good TV,” Quinn said. I stepped on her toe, and she yelped.

  “We have faith healings, but no snakes,” Wanda informed her.

  “Thanks,” I said. “We’ll think about it.”

  The phone rang, and she picked up. “Word of the Lord Church, can I help you?” A moment later, she smiled. “Yes, Mr. O’Neill. Of course. If you’ll drop them off, we can have the campaign buttons in the narthex for Sunday services. I know you want
ed to talk to him about”—her eyes darted to us—“that other matter,” she said. “I’ll have him call you when he gets back.” She hung up a moment later.

  Mindy appeared at the door. “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “Fine,” Wanda practically barked.

  “Sounds like the church is a big supporter of Ben O’Neill,” she commented.

  “Mr. O’Neill is a God-fearing man,” she said shortly, handing Mindy a stack of brochures. I noticed a red flush rising from her tight collar. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do.” She stood up, dismissing us. “Maybe we’ll see you some Sunday,” she said with a weak smile that I wouldn’t call welcoming.

  “Before you go, I heard that one of your parishioners recently died in unfortunate circumstances,” Mindy said, echoing what Quinn and I had said.

  “Yes,” she said, looking wary. “I heard her house caught fire. Tragic.”

  “Have the police been by to talk to you?” she asked.

  Before she could answer, Pastor Matheson walked in. He looked a bit pale, and his chiseled jaw was clenched. When he spotted us, there was a brief flash of emotion before he arranged his features into a charismatic smile.

  “Ladies! Are you interested in the church?” he asked.

  “Why, yes,” Mindy said, practically fluttering her eyelashes. “I was hoping to run into you!”

  “Well then, it’s my lucky day!” he said, brightening; once he saw Mindy, I got the impression that he’d forgotten about the rest of us. I glanced at the secretary, whose mouth was a disapproving moue; it hadn’t escaped her notice, either. Jealous? I wondered.

  “We’re starting live broadcasting this coming weekend,” he said. “If you come and sit in the front row, your beautiful smile might make national TV!”

  “Maybe you can talk another time,” Wanda interjected. “We have a meeting now.”

  He looked startled. “Meeting? But—”

  “It’s about the programming for this Sunday. Don’t you remember?” Her voice was strained.

  “Of course,” he said. “Sorry we couldn’t talk more . . . what’s your name again?”

  “Mindy,” she said. “Mindy Flynn.”