by Peg Cochran
And pies, and mashed potatoes, and fried chicken . . . Speaking of fried chicken—if you decide to make it, you’ll want a bird that weighs no more than three and a half pounds. And after you coat it with flour the second time, let it rest on a rack for about twenty minutes. It needs to rest again after you’ve cooked it—set your oven to 250 degrees and let the chicken wait while you prepare the sides. And please, whatever you do, don’t drain your fried chicken pieces on paper towels! That’s how you get a soggy crust.
Speaking of sides—my favorites are vegetables straight from the garden dressed up with a little butter and a sprinkle of herbs.
The house seemed especially empty when Kelly left. Shelby smiled. Her friend had enough energy and vitality for several people.
Shelby was dusting the living room—a chore she’d neglected for far too long and she didn’t want Bert taking her to task for it—when the doorbell rang. Bitsy and Jenkins, who had been sleeping peacefully moments before, occasionally opening an eye to see what Shelby was doing, bolted to their feet and made a beeline for the front door, scrunching the throw rugs under their paws as they ran.
Two visitors in one day—that was unusual. Bert would simply walk in, so it wasn’t her. Shelby thought nothing of opening the door to a stranger—crime was rare in Lovett. Except for the murder, she thought, pausing with her hand on the doorknob.
In the end she yanked the door open to find a UPS deliveryman standing on the step with a large cardboard box next to him and a bored expression on his face.
His expression changed quickly to one of alarm as Bitsy and Jenkins arrived to check him out.
Shelby noticed beads of sweat forming on his forehead and took pity on him. She whistled and called the dogs to order—sort of. At least they stopped jumping on the poor man’s leg.
“Don’t worry. They’re perfectly harmless,” Shelby said although he clearly didn’t believe her.
He quickly glanced down at his clipboard, obviously anxious to be on his way. “Ms. McDonald?”
“Yes.”
“This here’s for you.” He nudged the box with his foot.
“Can you bring it inside?” Shelby asked as she tried to read the address label.
“Sure thing.”
He picked the box up and, keeping an eye on the dogs, muscled it into Shelby’s living room.
“If you’ll sign here?” He handed her the clipboard.
Shelby scribbled her name, trying to remember what on earth she had ordered that was coming in such a large package. She handed the deliveryman the clipboard, showed him to the door, and shut it behind him.
By now she was dying of curiosity. She turned the box around so she could read the label. The return address was somewhere in Des Moines, Iowa, and the company was called Armor Cookware.
Now she remembered! Their marketing department had asked her to become a spokesperson for their new line of cookware. It was quite a feather in her cap, really. Her blog was obviously hitting the big time. And she was going to be paid. The thought of Billy’s hospital bill crossed her mind. The money was definitely going to come in handy.
Of course, she’d insisted on trying out the new pots and pans before agreeing to the deal. Her reputation was at stake here—her readers trusted her and they trusted her opinion. She couldn’t let them down.
Shelby sighed. She hadn’t realized they would be sending quite so much. But she could always donate the merchandise when she was done.
She only hoped she liked the company’s product. Because if she didn’t, she would have to turn the offer down.
• • •
Shelby thought about what Kelly had told her as she vacuumed the living room and foyer—about Ryan Archer. So, Zeke did have at least one enemy after all. She could imagine that Ryan had been very angry with Zeke—a month in the county jail must not have been particularly pleasant for such a young man. And then a fine on top of that. But would Ryan have wanted to compound the crime by resorting to murder?
It was possible. Shelby had lived long enough to learn that anything was possible. Fortunately it wasn’t her problem—she would leave the police work to Frank.
Shelby was wrapping the cord around the vacuum cleaner when the back door opened and slammed shut again.
“Mom, I’m home,” Billy called from the kitchen. “And I’m hungry.”
Shelby smiled. Lately Billy was always hungry. She suspected he would soon have another growth spurt.
He was standing in front of the refrigerator with the door open when she walked into the kitchen. Her first instinct was to give him a hug, but she knew better than to even try. Hugs were now reserved for special occasions such as birthdays and Christmas. Her baby was growing up and it made her more than a little sad.
She made Billy a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which he wolfed down while barely taking a breath.
Dear Reader, it was my prizewinning jelly. Is it okay if I glow a little? I’m still excited about my blue ribbon. I hope I never get too jaded to be thrilled by something like that.
Billy disappeared upstairs and Shelby heard the door to his room close. Very shortly afterward the back door opened and slammed shut again with even more vigor than when Billy had arrived home.
Amelia. Shelby turned around to say hello to her daughter—hugs were entirely out of the question as far as Amelia was concerned as well—when she stopped short. Amelia’s face was red and tear streaked.
Amelia pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose.
“Is something wrong?” Shelby ventured as delicately as possible.
“No.” Amelia gave a huge sniff followed by a hiccough.
“Something is wrong,” Shelby insisted.
Amelia flung herself into her mother’s arms, astonishing Shelby to no end.
“Mr. Campbell accused me of cheating,” Amelia said, her voice rising to a wail.
“What?”
Amelia burrowed farther into Shelby’s shoulder. “I didn’t cheat. I didn’t.”
Shelby put out a hand and tentatively stroked Amelia’s hair. “I know you didn’t. You would never do that. Mr. Campbell is mistaken.”
“She copied from my paper.”
“Who is she?” Shelby continued to stroke Amelia’s hair, surprised her daughter hadn’t made a peep of protest about this unaccustomed intimacy.
“Brittany Morse.”
“You have to tell Mr. Campbell what you’ve told me. He needs to know who’s really at fault. He won’t be doing Brittany Morse any favors by letting her get away with cheating.”
“I can’t,” Amelia wailed. “I just can’t.”
“Of course you can.”
Amelia shook her head back and forth, rubbing her face against Shelby’s shoulder. “You don’t understand.”
Shelby tried to hide the sigh that was her automatic reaction to that statement. It was always you don’t understand. As if she, herself, had never been young but was born a married mother with two children.
“Why can’t you tell Mr. Campbell that you didn’t cheat—that it was the other way around? This Brittany copied off of your paper.”
“Do you know who Brittany Morse is?” Amelia pulled her head away from Shelby’s shoulder and stared at her mother with an incredulous look on her face.
“Brittany Morse is, like, the most popular girl in our class . . . in the whole school!”
“What does that have to—”
“No one will ever talk to me again if I tell on her. I’ll have to eat lunch all by myself or, worse yet, sit with nerds like Leslie Dowdle.” Amelia gave a sob. “It’s not fair!”
Dear Reader, Amelia is right—it’s not fair that she should become an outcast because Brittany Morse is so popular. I suppose you think I should persuade her to talk to her teacher, but I know from experience that she’s never going to listen t
o me no matter what I say.
• • •
Shelby was working on another blog entry when she looked up at the clock. Almost dinnertime. She’d better get something started before Billy and Amelia came slinking downstairs, like ravenous lions, to pillage the refrigerator and cupboards of the small amount of junk food Shelby allowed in the house.
Dinner was going to be simple tonight—breaded and baked pork chops, scalloped potatoes, and a vegetable. She thought for a moment. Broccoli would be good—sautéed in some olive oil with a hint of garlic.
Her broccoli crop was still going strong. She had enough for their own use and plenty left over to take to the farmers’ market.
Shelby paused and listened—it was quiet up above. Amelia and Billy knew she expected them to be getting a start on their homework.
She opened the back door and stepped outside. Jenkins and Bitsy were right on her heels. Jenkins immediately charged under a bush—no doubt on the scent of some small creature that had already burrowed its way to safety.
Bitsy amused herself by chasing a monarch butterfly that easily eluded her and disappeared into a tree.
The breeze had picked up, and Shelby noticed the old wooden swing that hung by ropes from the apple tree just beyond the garden was moving back and forth as if pushed by an invisible hand. Her grandfather had rigged up that swing before she was even born. Her father had been the first to use it, she’d played on it herself, and then her children had taken it over.
On an impulse, Shelby went over to the swing and sat on it. The wooden board that served as a seat was bleached almost white by the sun and the rough edges had been smoothed down over the years.
She pushed off and gently swung to and fro. She gave another push and went a little higher, then pumped her legs until she really got going. Her hair blew in the wind and she relished that feeling in her stomach when the swing dropped—much like the sensation she enjoyed on a roller coaster.
Shelby was so engrossed in what she was doing, she didn’t hear Jake approach. She was unaware of his presence until he put a hand against her back and gave her a push that sent her flying higher than ever.
She squealed with delight and let the sensation wipe out all her thoughts, cares, and worries. Suddenly a memory wriggled into her mind—Bill pushing her on this very same swing, then helping her off and wrapping his arms around her and lowering his lips toward hers.
Shelby put her feet down and dragged them in the hollow that had formed beneath the swing until she came to a halt. She twisted around and gave Jake an apologetic smile.
She was taken aback. He seemed different tonight—his characteristic electric energy had been drained out of him and he looked white and strained.
He gave Shelby a tight smile. “I wanted to bring over some milk and thought I’d better make sure this was a good time. Then I saw you on the swing and . . .” He shrugged apologetically.
“Yes, that’s fine,” Shelby stammered, not sure how to ease the suddenly awkward moment. She hesitated. “Is everything okay?” She slipped off the swing and turned to face Jake.
“Not really. I’m sure it won’t amount to anything, but it’s disconcerting being suspected of murder by the police. I have to say that’s a first.”
“What? Why on earth would they suspect you? That’s ridiculous. Did you even know Zeke?”
Jake traced a circle in the dirt with the toe of his boot. “His land abuts my pasture, so sure, I knew him.”
“And just because you’re neighbors, the police think you killed him?”
“Not exactly. Do you remember the incident at the pie contest?”
Shelby nodded. “Yes. I was there.”
“The whole squad went running over to the tent when they got the emergency call. Except me. I’d forgotten some gear in my car and I went to get it. There were already more than enough people to handle the situation. They didn’t need me.”
“Did anyone see you at your car?”
Jake gave a brief laugh. “Let’s hope so.” He kicked at the dirt. “Because if anyone tells the police about the fight between me and Zeke, I’m done for.”
Shelby felt herself go still. “A fight?”
“Zeke thought the runoff from my fields had tainted his well water.” Jake looked down at his feet. “And I accused him of stealing one of my cows. There are plenty of people unscrupulous enough to buy a cow at a good price even if it has someone else’s brand on it.”
“Does anyone know you two had this fight?”
“It’s possible. Zeke might have told someone.”
“From what everyone has said, Zeke pretty much kept to himself.”
“You could be right. I hope you’re right.”
Jake looked at Shelby and gave a forced smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound so negative.”
Jake was looking over Shelby’s shoulder, toward her house, when the expression on his face suddenly changed and he froze.
Shelby spun around to see Frank standing outside her mudroom door. With his baseball cap tilted low over his face and his arms crossed over his chest, his resemblance to his brother was startling. Shelby almost took a step toward the house before realizing it wasn’t Bill.
Jake was scowling. “I’d better go. I’ll bring the milk around tomorrow, okay?”
“Sure.”
Jake walked away, his steps speeding up until he was almost trotting as he neared the fence separating Love Blossom Farm from his pasture.
Shelby hurried toward where Frank was standing, his arms still crossed in front of him.
“Mind if we go inside?” he said when Shelby reached him.
He held the door as Shelby walked ahead of him through the mudroom and into the kitchen.
“Would you like a cold drink? I have iced tea, lemonade . . .” Shelby opened the refrigerator. “And a bottle of beer.” She grabbed it by the neck and pulled it out.
Frank smiled and held out his hand. “Just what the doctor ordered,” he said as he twisted the top off and took a long drink.
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I needed that.”
Shelby poured herself a glass of iced tea and took the seat opposite Frank.
“The divorce is final,” he said after a long pause. “Today. It’s over.”
“I’m sorry,” Shelby said.
Frank shook his head. “Don’t be. At first it was what Nancy wanted, but I’ve had time to think, and I’ve realized that things weren’t working out and were probably never going to work out.” He took another sip of his beer and put the bottle down on the table. “We gave it a shot, and that’s that.”
He leaned his chair back and balanced on two legs.
“I’m sorry” was all Shelby could think to say.
“Like I’ve told you, there’s only one woman I’ve ever really been in love with.”
Frank looked at Shelby so intently that she had to turn away.
“I need to start dinner. The kids will be getting hungry.”
Frank let his chair drop back into place. He jerked his head toward the mudroom door. “You might want to stay clear of that fellow next door.”
“Jake? Why?”
“We don’t have much to go on yet, but there’s a chance he was involved in Zeke Barnstable’s murder.”
Shelby had thought Jake was exaggerating the police’s interest in him, but apparently not.
“I don’t believe it.”
“Do me a favor, would you?” Frank smiled. “I promised my brother I’d look out for you and the kids.” He drained the last of his beer. “Steer clear of him until we know more, okay? We already know he had the means—we just don’t know what his motive might have been.”
Dear Reader, it was one of those moments when everything goes still, sounds are amplified, and you can hear your own heart beating.
She knew she ought to tell Frank about Jake and Zeke, but she was positive Jake didn’t have anything to do with Zeke’s death, so that would only be sending Frank on a wild-goose chase.
Wouldn’t it?
9
Dear Reader,
We’ve had a barn owl living in the corner of our barn for quite some time. The children named him Elvis. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s his soulful dark eyes in that white face. We don’t catch too many glimpses of him, but we can hear his screeching cry at night as he hunts for rodents and other small creatures. Elvis’s call used to scare the children when they were little, but they are used to it now.
Patches, our calico, once got too near the spot where Elvis had built his nest and Elvis let out an angry hiss that had Patches flying out of the barn with comical speed. Patches now steers a wide berth around that corner.
Elvis’s night vision is excellent—certainly better than that of old Mrs. Wolfenbarger, who thought her mailbox was a stalker and called the police. But his hearing far surpasses even his vision and is what enables him to catch mice and other animals even when they are hiding in dense grasses. And get this—he swallows his prey whole. Yes, I agree, that is quite disgusting when you think about it. Come to think of it, that’s kind of how Billy eats—I’m always having to remind him to chew his food!
It was still dark when Shelby opened the back door and headed toward the barn, although the sky to the east was lightening.
The barn door squeaked loudly as she opened it and Shelby cringed. She knew there was no one to wake out here—goodness knew the chickens were already up, pawing the ground, waiting for their morning meal. Nonetheless, Shelby made a mental note to take the oil can to the door as soon as possible.
Jack Sparrow, Love Blossom Farm’s elderly rooster, strutted around and around in a circle as if he was trying to corral the chickens into some form of order. For the most part they ignored him, all their attention focused on Shelby and the metal pail over the crook of her arm.
