BAD PICK

by Linda Lovely

  I sprang away from Paint and ducked my head as low as I could to be out of sight yet able to take a gander at the car’s occupant. If the driver was Harriett’s mother, I figured she would not take kindly to me choosing her late daughter’s street as a place to park and smooch with my boyfriend.

  The car crawled by. It took so long I feared whoever was inside planned to stop and beat on Paint’s window, demanding an explanation for our presence. Thank heaven, the car kept inching past.

  The breath I’d been holding whooshed out when the Beemer and its super bright headlights turned a corner and disappeared onto a side street.

  “Did you see who was inside?” I asked.

  “Yeah, it wasn’t Mrs. Quinn,” Paint answered. “I’m pretty sure it was Jeannie Nickles, the pastor’s wife.”

  “Really?” I shook my head. “Why would she be at Harriett’s?”

  Paint shrugged. “Harriett’s entire family attends the Temple of True Believers. Maybe Mrs. Quinn wasn’t up to going inside her daughter’s house so soon. Maybe she asked the pastor’s wife to collect some things for her.”

  I nodded. “Makes sense, even though Mrs. Quinn certainly didn’t seem to have a delicate constitution while screaming I was a murderer and battering me with her outsized pocketbook.”

  “You have a point. I know the Quinns and the missus is about as sensitive as a bull in a china shop,” Paint agreed. “It’s also puzzling why the pastor’s wife hauled away bags of stuff. Doesn’t make sense. Still want to check out the trash cans in the alley? It’s pitch black now. No lights on at neighboring houses. Don’t think anyone will notice us if we’re quiet.”

  I shrugged. “Why not?”

  Ten minutes later our curiosity was partially satisfied. Harriett’s trash cans were empty, but the barren bins hadn’t been returned to the house.

  “Very curious,” Paint said. “The guy who offers private trash pickup in this area prides himself on making sure empty cans are hauled back to the house and there’s no litter spill. Look at the bottles and cans on the ground.”

  I picked up one of the cans. It had once held pink salmon and was particularly smelly.

  My nose wrinkled. “This can hasn’t been sitting here long. It’s still quite fragrant. Do you think Jeannie Nickles carried off Harriett’s trash? And, if so, why? Who besides me would care what might be hiding in Harriett’s garbage cans?”

  Paint shook his head. “You got me. Unless Harriett’s family feared someone might find evidence of a different sort. Maybe someone in her family knew she was blackmailing people. Could be they searched the house—and took the garbage—to make absolutely certain the sheriff wouldn’t find anything incriminating. If it was determined that Harriett’s death wasn’t accidental, Mason might get a warrant to search for evidence of the killer’s motive.”

  “Possibly. Then again, maybe Mrs. Nickles didn’t know Harriett’s trash pick-up arrangements and just wanted to neaten up the place for her family.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Paint reached over, cupped my chin, and kissed me. “Want to visit any other trash receptacles tonight? The packaging in my recycling bins might give you insights into a carnivore’s diet. Lots of telltale wrapping confirming my visits to the deli, cheese, and meat sections of grocery stores.”

  I punched Paint’s arm. “Knowing what you order in restaurants, I have a fair idea what you eat at home. No need to paw through your garbage.”

  “Good,” Paint answered. “Then I have much better ideas of how we can spend the next couple of hours at my house. Pawing is a definite option.”

  “You do remember no clothing can be lost while we engage in said pawing.”

  Paint grinned. “In high school, I dated girls who stipulated the same rules. You know clothing doesn’t have to interfere with close contact of the best kind.”

  Ninety minutes later, I had to agree with Paint’s assessment. Holy Havarti. Clothing and hot-and-heavy full-contact recreation weren’t mutually exclusive. David a.k.a Paint Paynter knew how to make a girl’s senses sing. Mine kept singing a hallelujah chorus as we left Paint’s retreat in the woods. Lunar, the orphaned wolf, howled as our truck bumped down the lane. I felt like howling myself.

  Back at Udderly, we kissed goodnight at the door. Neither of us wanted to risk waking Aunt Eva and Billy, or worse, interrupting their recreational activities.

  Despite the chill in the air, Paint lingered, holding me tightly in his arms. He repeated his promise to nose around and see if any of his contacts knew anything about Harriett’s health or had heard any gossip regarding who might have wanted to hurry the farm-to-table blogger’s departure from Mother Earth. He promised to call if he unearthed any interesting tidbits.

  Then he reminded me only one night remained of his Brewing Trouble week. “I hope you’ve scheduled plenty of alone time with me tomorrow evening—no Eva, no Mollye, and certainly no Andy.”

  “How about I make dinner for the two of us at Summer Place. Candles. Wine. Of course, that means you’ll risk eating food in the same location where this chef’s last guests were poisoned.”

  “Hey, if it means I have you all to myself, I’ll chow down on whatever you serve, wherever you choose. Of course, I may switch plates when you’re not looking.”

  “Very funny,” I replied. “It’s a date. But dinner will have to be a little late, say seven thirty. I’ll have chores to finish before I can leave Udderly for Summer Place.”

  Paint’s arms snaked around me, pulling me tight against his body. His lean, muscular body. His hot breath tickled my neck as he whispered exactly what he hoped to be doing tomorrow night at 7:31. Yowzer.

  I tiptoed to my bedroom to avoid waking Eva and Billy. Loud snores confirmed at least one of them was sound asleep. However, Cashew opened her eyes and unwound from her dog bed as soon as I slipped past. My pup always preferred my bed to hers, but only if I was in it.

  The cabin interior felt so cold I was surprised I couldn’t see my breath. I undressed faster than Paint or Andy could dream and slipped on a full-length flannel nightie. I jumped into bed and pulled up the handmade quilt. Shivering I snaked one arm out to collect my cell phone off the nightstand to check for messages I’d missed. Once Paint and I were alone, I’d switched my phone off. Didn’t want a silent but still vibrating phone to interrupt other sensations.

  Three text messages waited. The first from Mom. Ursula’s daughter would arrive at noon tomorrow, and Mom’s friend insisted on moving into the cottage behind Summer Place. Mom wondered if I could drop by late morning to chat with Ursula before the move.

  I texted a simple OK reply. I didn’t add that I might need an extra fifteen minutes to run a True Believers’ gauntlet at the Udderly gate. Surely Nickles’ cult-like flock would take a day off from picketing to prepare for the coming visitation and funeral. Protocol called for mountains of food to be prepared for the Quinns’ extended family, the visitation, and post funeral mourning. The weather forecast also predicted more snow flurries. Kitchens and even the mortuary would be warmer spots for the True Believers to hang out.

  My second text message came from Mollye, who said she’d harvested some gossip about H’s enemies as well as folks who bore grudges against my other luncheon guests.

  I figured Moll’s enemy lists could wait until morning. It was late and I was dog tired. Apparently, though, not more tired than Cashew, who’d promptly fallen back to sleep curled beside me on the quilt.

  Fara had left the third message. FYI, Harriett will be in our care tomorrow. Want to “virtually” attend the Friday visitation for her? I can arrange it. Call me.

  Intrigued I immediately texted Fara. I wasn’t too tired to hear this proposition. Still up? Too late to call?

  A second later Fara’s muted ringtone answered my question. Yep, she was up.

  “Last year we installed video cameras and speakers in our chapel
and visitation rooms,” she explained. “It creeps out mourners when funeral directors hang around in plain sight. They seem to think we’re gleefully calculating profits or checking which guests look a little sickly. You know like lions watching a herd of gazelles to spot the slow ones. That’s why we installed the monitors. Lets us spot any problems and take care of them without seeming to intrude.

  “Anyway you can be invisible,” she continued. “You can sit in my office and check out the attendees. Maybe even eavesdrop on conversations if the folks talk loud enough. Whisperers not so much. Want to give it a whirl?”

  “What time Friday?” I asked. “I’d need to get there way in advance to arrive unseen. Waltzing in the front door while folks are gathering would kinda defeat the purpose.”

  “Visitation starts at four, and there’s an unmarked drive off the street behind us. It leads to the back of our building. That’s where employees park and ambulances deliver bodies. Our building sits on a hill and our lower level is where we do the embalming. It’s hidden from the street. I could meet you downstairs and lead you up a back staircase to my office. No chance of being spotted by any of our front-door guests.”

  I shivered at the idea of arriving via the same portal as corpses en route to embalming but I did want to see who might come to bid Harriett farewell. If I was lucky I might even overhear comments about Harriett’s health—prior to her death, of course.

  Or maybe I could match visitation attendees to Moll’s enemy lists. In the movies police often attended funerals and visitations to scout for potential killers. If Harriett was murdered on purpose, might the killer show up to gloat on his success at getting rid of Harriett and making me the fall guy?

  “I may regret it, but my curiosity wins. It’s a date,” I said. “Thanks. See you on Friday.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  After I finished the morning farm essentials, I hustled to the cabin for a jolt of caffeine and a little alone time to think. Eva had bid Billy goodbye an hour ago. Now she was out with the goats, checking on the soon-to-be mamas.

  I hoped our nannies would delay motherhood a few more days. This season I’d promised Eva I’d play nursemaid to newborns—no small commitment. Our kids were separated from their mothers at birth, but the babes never had a chance to be lonely or hungry. Their assigned humans kept them company around the clock for the first two days, bottle feeding them every two hours. Of course, we made sure they were supplied with first milk from new mothers. For a few days after a nanny gives birth, her milk includes colostrum, which transfers immune-boosting factors from mom to kid and strengthens the newborn’s natural defenses.

  During the next forty-eight hours, the human parents teach the kids to take milk from nipples on communal milk buckets. After they got the hang of it and seemed healthy and well-adjusted, they graduated to our nursery, a fenced-in pen where they frolicked with siblings and cousins. Of course, they were still petted and cooed over by human visitors at least once an hour.

  Eva told me she’d enlisted Gerri, our part-timers, and a variety of friends to foster kids in their homes for this human-animal bonding experience. But with the number of spring births expected, she warned I wouldn’t get much shut-eye once the baby goat boom began in earnest.

  I took advantage of the cabin’s current quiet to do my own internet search. First stop was Harriett’s farm-to-table blog. I wanted to read everything Harriet had written about Farmer Fred’s Organic Eggs and Gussies’ Grass-Fed Beef before I searched for more information on these businesses and their owners.

  Mollye was right. Harriett’s blogs went beyond bad reviews; they viciously attacked the character of the owners. At the tasting, I’d seen a hint of the pleasure Harriett reaped from taunting a victim. I still cringed when I recalled how she’d leapfrogged from veal to a snide assault on Della’s pet charity—Animals Entitled to Personhood.

  I could sympathize with Fred Adams and Gertrude Danson. They had every right to be angry. If either had sent me the anonymous warnings about Harriett, I felt a thank you might be in order for attempting to do me a service. Of course, if Fred or Gussie took advantage of my failure to uninvite Harriett and spiked my mousse, they owed me an apology. I’d been set up as a killer chef—a label certain to find its way into Ardon County mythology.

  Before leaving Harriett’s blog, I scanned her posts from the last six months. Her choice of topics ran the gamut—farmer’s markets, craft breweries, restaurants, delis, bakeries, and dozens of farmer entrepreneurs who sold direct to the public. These businesses offered everything from beef, pork, poultry, and eggs, to farm-raised catfish and vegetables. During this timeframe, Harriett had savaged two other businesses. But, based on Mollye’s research, they’d survived the blogger’s forked tongue. Presumably they had less reason than Fred or Gussie to harbor a murderous rage.

  I spent another half hour following digital breadcrumbs to get a better overall picture of Fred and Gussie. What kind of people were they? I paid visits to their Facebook pages, websites that hadn’t been taken down for their failed businesses, and LinkedIn profiles. I also searched for liens, Better Business Bureau complaints, and court dockets for criminal and civil lawsuits.

  My efforts inclined me to cross Gertrude’s name off any potential killer list. She was eighty years old, and her Facebook page was filled with pictures of two really cute great grandkids sitting on her lap. Her grin was contagious. On the other hand, Gussie might have figured if she killed Harriett, got caught, and was sentenced to life, she’d have a roof over her head for what was left of her golden years plus three squares a day, and free medical care. Could look like a reward for murdering the woman she blamed for the foreclosure on her farm.

  Fred actually looked the part of the villain. If he were an actor, I’d typecast him as such. In his posted photos, he looked shifty and squinty-eyed. In fairness, most of the outdoor shots had the poor man looking directly into the sun. Fred was a family man, too, though he looked a lot less happy about it than Gussie. I guessed his age at forty, maybe forty-five. But while Fred’s Organic Eggs had gone under, corporate records revealed Fred owned a dozen other profitable enterprises.

  I checked my watch and figured Mollye was probably awake though not necessarily out of bed. I phoned as I poured a third cup of coffee.

  “’Bout time you called,” Moll said. “When I didn’t hear from you last night, I figured Paint kept you out late. Did he retain any articles of clothing as trophies? With Paint and Andy trying their dangdest to win exclusive boyfriend rights, I’m betting you cave sooner rather than later.”

  “Yes, I was out late, and, no, I arrived home with clothes intact. I admit I was tempted to discard a few pesky items of clothing last night. What am I going to do, Mollye? I feel like a cheating Jezebel when I’m kissing Paint and realize I’ll be smooching Andy the next week—or vice versa. I’m a one-man-at-a-time girl. Not experienced at juggling two men. Paint and Andy act as if they’re fine with our deal, but sometimes I think I sense the hurt when I’m out with one and we bump into the other. I may explode. I love them both, though not exactly in the same way. Andy’s so sweet. He reminds me a lot of my dad. And Paint, well, he makes me think things I have no business thinking.”

  “Yep, you need to decide—sometime, but you’d better not be thinking about any knot-tying until after September twenty-second. Remember I get exclusive blushing bride billing until then.” Moll’s tone was exceedingly cheerful. “Lots of women would love to trade places with you, Brie. Who else gets to date two hunks with no worries about a jealous discovery? But let’s skip ahead to why I texted you last night. Just a sec, have to find my notes.”

  I heard paper rustling and a couple of swear words.

  “Forget what I said about Fred and Gussie,” she said. “I’ve moved them way down the suspect list. My new number one choice as potential murderer of our farm-to-table blogger is Matt Hill, who owns a popular Greenville eatery famed fo
r its farm-fresh fare. Hill’s preparing to franchise, and word on the street is Harriett was threatening some sort of exposé. Maybe she was blackmailing him for a really large chunk of change.”

  I sighed. So much for my internet research. A waste.

  “While I was at it I mined some gossip about Della,” Mollye continued. “Why you ask? Maybe our poisoner sat next to her victim. Maybe Della knew about Harriett’s views on animal rights before the tasting and just played nice until after dessert was served. Of course, once I started researching Della, I realized she had a clutch of enemies as well.”

  “What?” I broke in. “Are you now saying Harriett might not have been the target?”

  “That’s precisely what I’m saying. Who says your other guests weren’t equally capable of inspiring hatred? Perhaps the poison was meant to teach Della, Bert, Dr. Swihart, Judge Ursula, or even your Mom a lesson, and the plan went awry.”

  My chin dropped. Duh. Mollye was right. I’d been so focused on Harriett’s foes I hadn’t considered my other guests might have their own enemy clubs. Could Harriett have been an unintended casualty?

  I was inclined to rule Mom out as someone capable of inspiring sufficient hatred. Then I recalled her telling me that a young man she’d prosecuted had unexpectedly died in city jail. His relatives blamed Mom for the man’s death.

  Jumping jerky. I’d rather believe my reputation was the target and the poison was just meant to make everyone sick. I shivered. Could someone be after Mom?

  I tuned back in as Mollye started dishing dirt on Della. “She’s a bona fide fruitcake. I can see her poisoning Harriett for promoting consumption of mammal meat and poultry. She’s given thousands of dollars to Animals Entitled to Personhood. She could have slipped something into Harriett’s food when no one was looking. She was sitting right beside her. And remember how chipper Della sounded when you phoned her? Sure she told you she’d suffered the runs, but maybe she wasn’t sick at all because she didn’t eat what she’d added to everyone else’s plate.”