by Peg Cochran
She threw seed in a wide arc and watched as the chickens pecked at their breakfast. The morning was quiet and the air had a coolness and freshness that the sun would chase away as the day wore on.
Shelby finished with the chickens and headed back toward the house. She made another mental note to stop at the Lovett Feed Store soon—her stock of feed for the chickens was getting low. She passed the herb garden and noticed some weeds poking out between the stalks of rosemary and clumps of thyme. She stopped, knelt down, and began pulling them out. There was something about the task that was inherently very soothing, Shelby thought, and the more you did, the more you wanted to do.
She was tempted to linger even longer, but she knew she’d better be getting back to make sure the children were up and getting ready for school. The sky was already considerably lighter than it had been when Shelby left the house.
Amelia was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a piece of apple pie left over from the night before. Shelby raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth but then shut it. There were more important battles ahead to be fought—Amelia wouldn’t develop scurvy or malnutrition from one breakfast of pie.
Billy was nowhere to be seen . . . or heard.
“Where’s your brother?” Shelby asked as she measured coffee grounds into the coffeemaker.
Amelia shrugged, picked up her phone, and began punching keys. Shelby gritted her teeth. The phone had been a present from her parents, and while she liked being able to track Amelia down when necessary, her daughter’s constant obsession with it was driving her crazy.
She was at the foot of the stairs, calling for Billy, when the front door opened and Bert walked in, carrying the newspaper under her arm.
Bert jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Saw the school bus go by. Looks like Billy missed it if you’re only just calling him now.”
Dear Reader, this is the kind of thing that makes me feel like a terrible mother. Looks like I’ll be driving Billy to school.
Shelby heard the water go on in the upstairs bathroom. Maybe Billy was up after all. She hoped he’d hurry—they still might make it on time for the first bell.
“I don’t know what the world is coming to,” Bert said as she slapped the newspaper down on the kitchen table.
“I assume you’re talking about the murder at the fair?”
“Well, that, too, but I was thinking about yesterday. I stopped by the Lovett General Store to pick up a couple of pork chops and some oil for my sewing machine. I parked my car in back like I normally do, and when I came out, there was a dent in the passenger-side door. It looked like somebody might have opened their own door too fast, and they hit mine. But no note!” Bert threw her hands up in the air. “Nothing. Heck, they had to know I was still in the store. There were only half a dozen cars in the lot. How hard would it be to track down the owner of the car you’d just dinged?”
“That’s awful,” Shelby said, grabbing a bowl from the cupboard and filling it with cereal.
“People today have no moral scruples at all.” Bert gestured toward the newspaper. “You’ve only got to read the front page of the paper to see that.”
“Morning,” Billy mumbled as he walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table.
Shelby pushed the bowl of cereal in front of him and handed him the milk.
“I’m going to have to take you to school today. Bert says you’ve missed the bus.”
“That’s okay,” Billy said, spooning up a large portion of cereal. “Jake said he could take me anytime.”
“You can’t keep bothering Jake. He has work to do.”
“I already called him and he said it was okay.”
Bert looked at Shelby and raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t you start,” Shelby said to Bert as she turned her back.
Billy was taking the last bite of his breakfast when there was a honk from the driveway.
“Gotta go. Bye, Mom. Bye, Bert.” He swiped his napkin across his mouth and dashed toward the door, slamming it behind him.
Shelby gave Bert a look that said, Don’t you dare say anything.
Bert shrugged and reached for the apron on the hook by the back door.
“I already told you what I think. Whether you listen or not is up to you.” Bert put her hands on her hips. “How about we get to putting up that pepper relish you wanted to try selling at the general store?”
Shelby was more than happy to get out the supplies she needed—celery seed, sugar, mustard seeds, turmeric, tarragon—and avoid any further discussion of her next-door neighbor and her relationship with him—or lack thereof.
Shelby was chopping the peppers while Bert measured out the vinegar and herbs and spices when Amelia dashed into the kitchen.
“Do you want something to eat?” Shelby said.
“Can’t. I’m going to be late.” Amelia grabbed an apple out of the bowl on the kitchen table. “Bye, Mom. Bye, Bert.”
She blew her mother a quick kiss as she bolted from the kitchen.
Shelby was startled. That was the most affection Amelia had shown her since she entered her preteen years. Maybe the phase was almost over?
“Have you ever heard of a kid named Ryan Archer?” she asked Bert.
Bert paused with the jar of mustard seeds in her hand. “Archer? That would be Dick Archer’s son. Why?”
Shelby tried to sound as casual as possible. “Oh, Kelly mentioned that he was caught defacing the headstones in the cemetery.”
“Yes. And it was Zeke Barnstable who caught him and turned him in.” Bert turned to face Shelby with her hands on her hips. “Do I need to remind you of what happened the last time you decided to meddle in a murder case?” Bert grunted. “You nearly got yourself killed, remember?”
“I know. I’m curious, that’s all.”
“Ryan Archer is an odd duck. Not surprising, given his family. His mother was Amish but ran off with his father when she was only sixteen. She came from Centreville, down in St. Joseph County. As you can imagine, she was shunned by the rest of the family, and here Dick Archer was an only child with rather elderly parents. No relatives to speak of.” Bert measured out a teaspoon of mustard seeds. “Dick Archer is a little odd, too. Some people say it’s because of the horses he works with all the time and that one of them must have kicked him in the head, although I don’t know that there’s any truth to that.”
“Why do you say Ryan’s an odd duck?” Shelby dumped her pepper chunks into a pot and added the ingredients Bert had measured out for her.
“Basically he’s a good kid, but then all of a sudden he’ll go off and do something wild like defacing those headstones or breaking old Mrs. Wilson’s window.”
“But you don’t think he’s capable of murder?” Shelby asked as she adjusted the flame under the peppers.
Bert hesitated. “It’s quite a leap from defacing gravestones to murder . . . but you never know, do you?”
“I guess not.” Shelby selected a wooden spoon from the jar on her counter and stirred the peppers again. The fragrant steam rising from the pot was making her hungry, and she realized that she hadn’t eaten anything yet.
“Is that a new pot?” Bert pointed toward the stove. She was wiping down the kitchen table and putting Amelia’s plate and Billy’s bowl in the dishwasher.
“Yes.” Shelby stared at the pot. “It’s a new line of cookware I’ve been asked to endorse on my blog.”
Bert whistled. “Well, aren’t we going big-time?”
Shelby grinned. “You got that right.” Then her expression sobered. “Goodness knows the money will come in handy, what with the bills for Billy’s arm. Then there’ll be the Snow Ball at Amelia’s school in December, and she’ll want a new dress. We’ll have to go down to Grand Rapids to shop at that mall there. Hopefully we’ll find something she approves of on sale.”
Bert snor
ted. “In my day, we wore what our mama sewed for us.”
“Not anymore,” Shelby said, opening the refrigerator. “It’s all about keeping up with the Joneses. Are you hungry?”
“I could go for a little something.”
Shelby pulled out a container of fresh milk that came from Jake’s cows. “I made some granola yesterday. How does that sound?”
“Good. I’ll get the place mats.”
Shelby put the container of homemade granola on the table.
Dear Reader, you can make granola in your slow cooker. Did you know that? I used very little sugar and only a dash of maple syrup, so it’s quite healthy. I’ll post the recipe soon, I promise.
The pot on the stove had started to boil, and Shelby went to turn down the gas to a reasonable simmer. She gave the contents a stir and then stopped in horror. She pulled the spoon out of the pot and held it up.
“What’s the matter?” Bert said.
Shelby shook her head and gave the contents another stir. Once again she removed the spoon and looked at it. She turned around to face Bert.
“Something’s wrong. What is it? Did I measure out too much vinegar?”
“No, it’s not that. Look.” Shelby held the wooden spoon toward Bert.
“What’s that?” Bert pointed toward some metallic-colored flakes mixed in with the peppers.
“It’s the coating from the pot.” Shelby dropped the wooden spoon on the counter. “The lining of the cookware is coming off.”
Bert frowned. “That’s not good.”
“No, it isn’t.” Shelby plopped into a seat at the table and put her head in her hands. “What am I going to do?” She looked up at Bert. “I’ve already cashed the check for the endorsement.” Shelby groaned. “I can’t recommend this cookware on my blog. My readers trust me to tell them the truth.”
“Maybe it’s a fluke and it’s only the one pot that’s defective. I would wait to see how the others hold up before you decide.”
“Good idea,” Shelby said although she sincerely doubted whether the other pots and pans would turn out to be any better.
• • •
Shelby tried to put the murder out of her mind and take Bert’s advice to leave the detective work to the police, but she couldn’t help being curious.
Dear Reader, you would want to know the truth, wouldn’t you? Especially if a friend of yours was being targeted as the prime suspect?
Shelby was on her way to the Lovett General Store to pick up a few things she needed. She tried to make do as much as possible with what she could grow on the farm but that wasn’t always practical, of course. She couldn’t provide her own meat, for instance, and Amelia was certainly not going to wear dresses made out of flour sacks like farmers’ wives did in the old days.
Shelby passed the drive that led to the Tedfords’ apple orchard. A crude wooden structure had been set up to serve as a farm stand where they were selling bushels of apples and Mrs. Tedford’s homemade pies.
Seeing the pies made Shelby think of the pie contest at the county fair. Mrs. Willoughby was convinced that Tonya was the one who had put the pepper in Jenny Hubbard’s lemon meringue pie. It was obvious to jump to the conclusion that it had been done to keep Jenny from winning the blue ribbon. But what if it had been done to create a diversion?
All the volunteer firemen had come running when Mrs. Willoughby called for help—except for Jake, a small voice in Shelby’s head whispered. The car where Zeke’s body was found was left unattended—had that been the real purpose behind the pepper stunt?
If that was the case, it couldn’t have been Tonya who doctored the pie—what motive could she possibly have for murdering Zeke?
Shelby was still pondering that question as she pulled into the parking lot behind the Lovett General Store.
Matt Hudson was behind the counter, as usual. Shelby often wondered if he ever took a day off. He greeted her with a big smile that caused his eyes to crinkle at the corners.
“I’m sorry I never got to buy you that ice cream I’d promised you. When word spread about finding Zeke’s body, a lot of people decided to leave, and they needed help directing traffic.”
Shelby shivered at the image that came to mind. “I wish Billy hadn’t had to see that.”
“Fortunately kids are resilient.”
“Frank said he was hit on the head.”
“Yes.” Matt straightened a display of mints next to the cash register. “I was there when they found the weapon later on.”
“What was it?”
“Some kind of hammer. Dangerous-looking thing. I don’t suppose there will be any fingerprints on it. Killers are too educated today to make a novice mistake like that.”
“Unless it was a spur-of-the-moment act. Zeke had an argument with someone, and they grabbed the nearest thing to hand and conked him on the head.”
“They did a pretty clever job of hiding the weapon, although I don’t know why they didn’t take it with them and toss it in a lake or river.”
“I guess our killer wasn’t that smart after all.” Shelby pulled her shopping list out of her purse. “Where did they find the hammer?”
“You won’t believe it. The Lovett police force isn’t very large, so you can imagine it took quite some time. They searched for hours. And then some kid found it in one of the gondolas on the Ferris wheel.” Matt leaned his elbows on the counter. “Pretty clever of the killer, if you ask me.”
“How awful for that poor child.”
Matt smiled. “I don’t know. I imagine all his friends are going to be jealous that they weren’t the ones to find the murder weapon.”
Shelby thought of Billy and realized that Matt was probably right. He would be too young to fully understand the situation but would certainly glory in all the attention.
Matt fiddled with a pack of gum, turning it over and over in his hands. He cleared his throat.
“Margie ought to be here in . . .” Matt looked at his watch. “Ten minutes. Time enough for you to do your shopping, and then I can duck out for a few minutes and take you for a cup of coffee at the lovely Lovett Diner.”
Shelby looked up from her shopping list. “Coffee? The diner?” She felt panicky. “I don’t know. I have to—”
“Hey, if you don’t want to, that’s fine.” Matt put the pack of gum back in the display rack. “It’s only a cup of coffee. Not a commitment.”
“Next time, okay?” Shelby said in desperation. That would give her time to think. And to get used to the idea of going out with someone.
Dear Reader, I can hear Bert’s voice in my head telling me I need to move on. And I will, I promise. Just not today.
10
Dear Reader,
Did you know that a fresh egg will sink to the bottom of a bowl of water, an egg that is a couple of weeks old will stand on its end in the water, and a very old egg will float to the surface?
And if you’re planning on cooking some eggs sunny-side up? A fresh yolk will stand up while an older one will flatten out. Ever crack open an egg and find a double-yolker? Double- or triple-yolk eggs are usually found in young pullets around 20 to 28 weeks old. The probability of finding a multiyolk egg is estimated at 1 in 1000 overall but with a young pullet the odds are better—1 in 100. Some people say they’re good luck, but I couldn’t attest to that! I do know I like the yolk so it’s a bonus when I crack an egg open and find two yolks inside.
Shelby was filthy. She was in the garden attacking the dirt with a hoe as if it was the enemy. If she worked hard enough and sweated enough, perhaps she could quiet the thoughts that went through her mind like a filmstrip. Her conversation with Matt had unsettled her. She felt bad for turning down his invitation for coffee—heck, it wasn’t as if he was asking her to move in with him—and she was disturbed by the fact that Frank’s face kept coming to mind. She pushed the unwelco
me thoughts as far away as she could and raised the hoe over her head again. She was preparing to plant some mesclun, spinach, and mâche—crops that would grow in the cooler weather of a Michigan September.
Shelby was kneeling in the dirt, carefully nestling the delicate plants in the aerated soil, when the cell phone in her pocket vibrated. She pulled off her gloves and yanked it out. A call during the day was unusual—she always worried that something had happened to one of the children at school.
Fortunately it was Kelly on the other end of the line asking Shelby if she could meet for a quick bite for lunch at the diner. She wanted to hammer out some more wedding details before she talked to Seth about the possibility of holding the reception in Shelby’s barn.
Shelby felt guilty agreeing—she’d turned Matt down on the pretense of having a lot of work to do. Which she did. But what woman could ever resist talking about weddings?
Shelby finished the row she had been planting and returned the hoe to the barn. She glanced down at herself. There was no way she could leave the farm looking the way she did. A shower was certainly in order.
Shelby was surprised that the water in the shower didn’t turn to mud, considering the amount of dirt she’d tracked inside with her. She’d long ago given up on keeping the inside of the farmhouse as spick-and-span as the places you saw pictured in magazines. She was all about comfort, and if that included a little bit of clean dirt—so what? Because Shelby truly believed in the concept of clean dirt—earth from the garden was definitely clean dirt. Dirt picked up on your shoes from walking city streets or through parking lots or from the unwashed tile floor in the bathroom at the bus station was dirty dirt.
Fortunately Kelly’s idea of dressing was grabbing the nearest pair of jeans and yanking a clean T-shirt out of the laundry basket, so Shelby didn’t have to worry about how she looked. She pulled her damp hair back in a ponytail, fished a cleanish pair of jeans from her closet along with a plaid cotton shirt, and deemed herself ready for anything the Lovett Diner could dish up.
• • •
