Fatal Frost (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 2)

by Karen MacInerney

  “I think we’re going for the tamales,” Tobias said, looking at me.

  “Two orders?”

  “Yes, please,” I said. As she sauntered away, I turned back to Tobias. “I’ll call Fannie tomorrow,” I said. “See if Buster’s come by again.”

  “Let me know what she says. How’s Chuck, by the way? Getting along with your parents?”

  “Yes, but my dad keeps slipping him bacon.”

  “Bad habits run in the family,” he replied, grinning. For a moment, I almost forgot Mindy. Almost.

  “How’s his weight?” Tobias asked. Chuck had been on diet food for more than six months now, but he still retained his roundish profile.

  “The Light ‘n’ Lean doesn’t seem to be working out too well.”

  Tobias fixed me with a hard look. “Are you sure you’re not giving him too many treats?”

  “He doesn’t like carrots,” I said. “Or vegetables in general.”

  “But still fond of cheese, I’ll bet.”

  “I don’t give him much!” I protested.

  “You have to be strong, Lucy,” he said with a grin. “More exercise, then.” He reached out for my hand. His touch felt electric, and for a moment, I forgot all about Krystal and his ex-wife and the Christmas Market. I leaned forward over the table. Our lips were just about to touch when my cell phone rang.

  “Hold that thought,” I said, and grabbed my phone.

  “Lucy, is that you? It’s Quinn!” I could hear the sound of Christmas music in the background.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “I think Hot Lips just stole a packet of burnt almonds out of Bessie Mae’s hand and climbed a tree.”

  But . . . I just checked on them two hours ago,” I said.

  “Two hours is a long time,” she said. “And apparently they cover a lot of ground fast; they made it to the Christmas Market. Gidget’s heading for the roasted corn stand now.”

  “I’ll be right down” I said.

  “What’s wrong?” Tobias asked as I hung up.

  “Hot Lips just stole a bag of almonds from Bessie Mae,” I said.

  “Are you sure it was Hot Lips?”

  “I think I need to go find out,” I said. “Should we cancel the tamale order?”

  “We’ll just come back and get them to go,” Tobias said, sliding out from the seat across from me. “Come on; let’s go round up some goats.”

  Thank goodness Tobias was with me tonight, I thought . . . if only for a little while.

  By the time we got there, the Christmas Market had turned into chaos. Peter had rounded up Gidget and lassoed her with a hand-knitted scarf, which he was now trying to keep her from eating. Hot Lips, however, was still halfway up one of the oak trees, and was alternately bleating and mouthing the Christmas lights; apparently she’d dropped the bag of burnt almonds somewhere along the way. Peter was crouched down, calling to her and trying to get her attention with an ear of roasted corn from the Kosmetskys’ stall, but she seemed too intrigued by the Christmas lights to respond.

  “We’d better unplug those lights,” Tobias said.

  “You’re right,” I said, hurrying over to yank the cord as Tobias helped Peter replace the scarf with a rope collar. Mayor Niederberger was at the base of the tree, looking up at Hot Lips, who was precariously balanced on a long knotted branch about halfway up. “Sorry about this, Mayor Niederberger,” I said. “We’re still having trouble with the new fence, apparently.”

  “Oh, it’s no problem,” she said. “If anything, we could use a little excitement to get people’s attention on something other than that.” She tipped her head toward the protest contingent, which was chanting something about Jesus and candy canes. I recognized Ethel Froehlich, who was looking very downtrodden, and her pal, Wanda Karp, but neither the Mathesons nor the O’Neills were in attendance.

  “Maybe we should try luring her with some of Quinn’s vánočka,” I said. “It’s how we got her into the enclosure the other day.”

  “Do all of your animals have a thing for baked goods?” Tobias’s eyes twinkled.

  “I don’t give Chuck vánočka.”

  “But I’ll bet he steals it when he can.” Tobias grinned, then waved to Quinn, who was watching the action from her stand. “Quinn, can I have some vánočka?”

  “Sure,” she said, cutting a slice from the sample loaf. “Is this enough?”

  “Why don’t you give me two, just in case,” he said, and she sliced off another chunk and handed both to him.

  “Need something to tie her with?” Tobias asked Peter.

  “That would be helpful,” he said.

  “Here you go,” Tobias said, handing him the bread and some more rope. “Maybe if we can get everybody to back off a bit, she’ll stop freaking out and come down.”

  “She’s crafty,” Peter warned. “She’ll make a break for it if you let her.”

  “I’ll help corral her if she does,” Tobias assured him. He turned to the crowd that had gathered. “Would y’all step back a bit? Give her some space?”

  As everyone backed away, Peter crooned to Hot Lips, lifting the bread up so she could smell it. “Can I help?” I murmured to Tobias, who was standing a few feet from the base of the tree, his eyes on Hot Lips.

  “If she runs, see if you can help me box her in,” he said quietly as the goat took a tentative step toward her former keeper.

  “That’s it,” Peter said in a soothing voice. “Come this way.”

  She tried to lift her hoof, but it was caught in the Christmas lights. She reared up, almost losing her balance, and backed up a few more feet.

  “It’s okay, girl,” Peter said, proffering the bread again. She tossed her head a few times, but then took another step forward.

  “See? Here is proof that Satan is in league with this commercial ‘Christmas Market,’” someone bellowed. Hot Lips backed up, agitated, as I looked over to see Wanda Karp, thin lips pressed together. “If baby Jesus had been the parade marshal, none of this would have happened.”

  “What?” the mayor asked in her soft drawl. “I don’t know about you, Wanda, but I’m getting a real kick out of watching two grown men trying to coax a goat out of a tree. In fact, I could go for another Glühwein. Bubba,” she said, addressing the proprietor of the mulled wine booth, “do you mind getting me a cup?”

  Bubba beamed at her. “Coming right up, Mayor.”

  Wanda drew herself up and attempted to look down her nose at the mayor, which was a challenge, since Mayor Niederberger was at least six inches taller. “You’re in league with Satan, then?”

  “I am a card-carrying member of the Brethren Church,” Mayor Niederberger said, steel in her voice. “The whole point of this market is not just to celebrate Christmas, but to make it possible for a member of our community to continue to live in the house she’s been in her whole life.” She looked down at Wanda, who had tilted her head back and was still trying to look morally superior. “If helping out a disabled woman means being in league with Satan, then I guess I’m guilty as charged.”

  The entire square burst into applause, and Wanda turned stiffly and marched back to the picket line, looking like someone had rammed a broom up the back of her brown dress.

  “Well done, Mayor Niederberger,” I said.

  “I don’t much hold with the old ways,” she said as Bubba handed her a cup of mulled wine, “but there are moments when I wish tarring and feathering were still legal.”

  I glanced up at Hot Lips, who, thanks to Wanda, had climbed farther up the tree, and then at the cluster of sign-carrying people over on the corner of the square. “Not quite sure how they were planning on getting baby Jesus here for the parade, but I guess they have First Amendment rights.”

  “I know. And so does Buster Jenkins, who keeps flying that Confederate flag and blabbing on about Civil War conspiracies.” She sighed. “I just have to tell myself it adds to the local color.”

  “You know Buster?”

  “W
e’ve had a few run-ins over the years,” she said. “He behaves . . . most of the time. Still, I wouldn’t be sorry to see him move out of town. Shame about his niece, though.”

  Peter cooed at Hot Lips, but she wasn’t interested in moving.

  The mayor sighed. “Christmas is coming, and we’ve got picketers at the Christmas Market, a homicide, a goat stuck up in a tree, and a good woman arrested for poisoned friendship bread. What in heaven’s name is Buttercup coming to?”

  “You don’t believe Molly did it?”

  “Molly might be feisty, but she’s not a murderer,” she said.

  “Is there anything you can do to persuade Rooster to consider other options?”

  “I’m afraid he’s as stubborn as an ass. I told him that only a fool would include a personalized card with a poisoned loaf of bread, but that man doesn’t have the sense God gave a goose.” In a low voice, she leaned over and added, “The only thing I can think to do is for someone else to figure out who did it.” The mayor shook her head and took a long sip of wine.

  “I’ve been wondering about Ben O’Neill,” I said. “I’ve seen him with Faith Zapalac a few times. Why do you think he’s so keen on being mayor?”

  “He’s got plans for Buttercup,” she said. “I have a feeling he’s got some money-making scheme up his sleeve. There’s been talk about rerouting 71 through Buttercup for years . . . that would ruin the town, but up the property values.”

  “That would be terrible for Buttercup!” I said.

  “I know, but I don’t think he’s too concerned with quality of life.”

  “That would explain why he’s buying up property. Why don’t you put that on your campaign material?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I don’t have any proof; it’s just a gut feeling.” She looked over at Rooster and sighed. “But I’ve got other things I’m worried about, like Molly. To be honest, I was kind of hoping you might do some of that magic you did when ol’ Nettie got herself skewered.”

  “Quinn and I are looking into it,” I confessed. “I was wondering: You’ve known Buster for a long time. Do you think he might be capable of poisoning his niece?”

  “Poisoning a loaf of home-baked bread?” the mayor asked. “I would have figured him more for a six-shooter, but I guess anything’s possible.” She put a finger on her nose. “You know what? He did have a loaf.”

  “What do you mean? He wasn’t on the list.”

  “Father Mikeska’s cutting out sugar, so he’s been giving all the home-baked goodies he’s gotten to the less fortunate. I remember him saying he gave his loaf of bread and starter to Buster after church the other day. Although I doubt he’d have the wherewithal to follow the recipe.”

  “You never know,” I said, thinking of the certificates I’d found at Krystal’s house. I was beginning to think Buster was capable of a lot more than people gave him credit for. “Thanks for letting me know about that. I hope you’ll tell Rooster about it, too.”

  “I think I’ll do that as soon as we’re done watching the show,” she said, nodding toward the goats. “I hate to think of Molly rotting away in jail.” She finished her mulled wine and crumpled the cup, and we both watched Hot Lips as she inched down the tree toward Peter. The entire town stood silent, mesmerized, as she put one hoof, then a second, down onto the ground, reaching her nose out toward the bread. She tore off a chunk and was starting to chew it when Tobias slid the noosed rope around her neck and grinned at me.

  The town square burst into applause for the second time that evening.

  It was late by the time Tobias and I drove back up the drive to Dewberry Farm, two frustrated goats bleating from the truck bed. It wasn’t the most romantic ride I’d ever experienced.

  Despite the excitement of the goat rescue, my thoughts were still with Molly. “Turns out Buster got Father Mikeska’s friendship bread,” I told him as we got out of the truck and headed over to the goat enclosure. “And Opal shared hers with her cousin, Dougie Metzger.”

  “Well, at least that’s something,” Tobias said. “Not that Rooster’s going to bother looking into it.”

  “True,” I conceded as we searched the fence perimeter. The wire was intact, but the gate was unlatched.

  “I’m sure I latched it—and I can’t imagine my mother didn’t. How did this happen?” I asked.

  “Either someone didn’t close it, or your goats figured it out.”

  “Figured it out?”

  “You might want to get a more complicated latch,” he said. “Maybe a sliding bolt.”

  “I’ll add it to the list. That’s twice now you’ve helped me rescue my livestock,” I said once we’d gotten the goats back into their home under Blossom’s wistful gaze, securing the gate with an extra length of wire. It had been at least a month since she’d gotten out. I hoped she didn’t pick up any tips from Hot Lips and Gidget.

  As I finished securing the fence behind me, my eyes drifted down to the creek.

  His gaze followed mine. “Any more digging?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I haven’t looked.”

  “It’s dark, or I’d say let’s go have a look now.” He turned to me, then encircled me with his arms, pulling me close to his muscular chest. The rest of the world seemed to melt away as he reached down and tipped my chin up, then kissed me.

  I have no idea how long we stood there, but a tug on my jacket caught my attention. Hot Lips had nosed through the fence and was trying to eat my sleeve.

  Tobias released me and took a step back. “I guess we should get back and get our tamales,” he said.

  “I suppose,” I said. “I’d almost rather stay here.”

  “Me too,” he said, and there was a huskiness in his voice that made me shiver.

  He leaned down and gave me one last lingering kiss, and we turned back toward the truck, hand in hand.

  At least something was finally going right, I thought, trying to push down the thought of Mindy that kept trying to bubble to the surface.

  After chores and a quick breakfast with my parents the next morning, I climbed into my truck and headed to the O’Neills’ house to ask some questions. They lived in a sprawling, Frank Lloyd Wright–inspired house with expansive views of the countryside. It was located up a long, winding drive; the O’Neills lived on a huge piece of property—and an expensive one, according to Quinn. I hadn’t called ahead, but I’d learned since moving to Buttercup that most people didn’t bother. The truck made a series of jarring clunks as I pulled in next to the O’Neills’ sparkling white Ford F-250, and as I turned the engine off, I prayed it would start again when I wanted to leave. Dougie had mentioned Krystal’s beau having a white truck. Could it be Ben O’Neill?

  The front porch was wreathed in garlands, and a gorgeous balsam wreath adorned the stained-glass front door. I might not agree with the O’Neills’ politics, but they had good taste in architecture, I thought as I admired the limestone porch and the large bungalow-style windows that lined the front of the house.

  I knocked on the front door, a small tin of Lebkuchen in my hand, and hoped someone would answer.

  I was in luck.

  A puzzled-looking Hope O’Neill opened the front door, a wine glass filled with what looked like orange juice in her left hand. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I just wanted to drop off some Christmas cookies and see if you had a minute to visit,” I said, smiling.

  “Oh,” she said. “For a moment I thought you were a salesperson.”

  I decided not to be offended. “We’re both still adjusting from Houston, aren’t we?” I said lightly.

  “Yes, I’m sorry. Please come in . . . and remind me of your name again?”

  “Lucy. Lucy Resnick,” I said.

  “Oh, yes. You bought your grandmother’s farm, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” I said, following her into the house. It was as beautiful inside as outside, with wide-planked, honey-colored wood floors and cherry built-in shelves. A huge Christmas t
ree stood next to the tile fireplace, sparkling with white lights, and the air smelled like cinnamon and oranges—and liquor.

  “Can I get you a drink?” she asked, raising her glass and walking into the kitchen. “I’m on my second mimosa. Would you like one?”

  “Actually, if you have any tea, that would be lovely,” I said.

  “I’ll put a kettle on,” she said, and gestured toward a chair as she put a copper kettle on the stove.

  “Thanks for the cookies,” Hope said as she fished in a canister for a tea bag. “The kids should be home in a day or two. They’ll disappear quickly.”

  “How old are they?” I asked.

  “They’re both nineteen, and at college,” she said. “They should be finishing up finals now, and they’ll be home with their laundry soon.”

  “Do they like being in Buttercup?”

  “They miss their Houston friends,” she said. “I kind of do, too, to be honest. When you’re not from around here, it’s hard to break in.”

  “I hear you’re pretty active at Word of the Lord Church,” I said.

  “We are,” she said. “But to be honest, that’s more Ben than me. I’m not much of a Bible-thumper.”

  “He’s a big donor, too, I understand.”

  Her smooth forehead creased. “What? I mean, we give a little bit, but nothing huge. After all, we’ve got two kids in college.”

  Interesting. “How did you two meet?” I asked.

  “Oh, we were set up by a friend in Houston,” she said. “We’ve been married what . . . twenty years now?”

  “That’s a long time,” I said.

  “It is. I’m a lucky woman.”

  “First marriage for both of you?”

  “For me, anyway. We actually met while he was still married to his first wife. Of course, we didn’t start seeing each other until he divorced . . .”

  “Of course not,” I said, although I wasn’t convinced.

  “And of course,” she continued with a grim smile, “I told him if I ever found him cheating, I’d kill him before I divorced him.”

  My eyebrows rose. “Well, at least he knows where he stands,” I said.