by Peg Cochran
“Wheelbarrow in the barn?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll take care of these, and then I’ll be back.”
The dogs were waiting by the back door when Shelby opened it. She crouched down and let them lick her face while she rubbed their heads. She could always depend on a warm welcome from Jenkins and Bitsy.
She washed her hands and opened the refrigerator. She got out a pitcher of lemonade and put it on the table along with some glasses.
Dear Reader, I’m rather nervous about what Frank has to tell me. Because I hope he doesn’t still think that Jake is responsible for Zeke’s death.
The door to the mudroom opened and Frank walked in. He pulled off his baseball cap and ran a hand over his head. Shelby noticed that his hair was thinning a bit in front. Would that have happened to Bill, too, if he’d lived?
“That sun sure is hot,” Frank said, turning a kitchen chair around and straddling it. He pointed at the pitcher of lemonade. “Is some of that for me?’
“Help yourself.” Shelby pushed a glass toward him.
Frank filled his glass, downed half of it in one gulp, and wiped his hand across his mouth.
“A couple of people have had their cars broken into in the parking lot of the Dixie Bar and Grill. It doesn’t make sense—there’s not much to steal out of most of the cars you’d find parked there. A radio, maybe. A handful of spare change left on the console? Heck, most people around here don’t even have a functioning air conditioner.” He picked up his glass and drained the other half of the lemonade.
Shelby pushed the pitcher toward Frank.
“And this murder case has me running around in circles.” He leaned his elbows on the back of the chair. “You know . . .”
Frank paused, not looking at Shelby. He picked at some loose paint that was chipping off the top of the chair.
“I don’t . . . trust myself with this case.” Frank ran a hand along the back of his neck and looked up at Shelby.
“Why? You’ve got plenty of experience. It’s not your first murder case.”
Frank shook his head. “It’s not that.”
Shelby waited patiently while Frank continued to scrape at the loose paint with his thumbnail.
“It’s an odd case,” Frank said finally. “There’s not much evidence to go on. But what we do have points to your neighbor Jake Taylor. We now know he had a motive—Zeke blamed him for contaminating his well and was threatening to go to the Department of Health and Human Services to report him. By all accounts they had a humdinger of a fight over it.”
“But if they had a fight”—Shelby was thinking fast—“then wouldn’t Jake, or Zeke for that matter, have been more likely to duke it out right then and there?”
Frank dropped his head into his hands and groaned. “I don’t know,” he mumbled between his fingers. “You’re probably right.” He looked at Shelby over the tips of his fingers. “It’s because of you.”
“Me?” Shelby pointed to herself in confusion.
Frank gripped the top of the chair until his knuckles turned white. “I know that Jake has his eye on you.”
Shelby started to protest but Frank held up a hand.
“It’s quite obvious.” He scowled.
“But what does that have to do—”
“It’s like this.” Frank looked down at the table. “I want him to be the killer. And I think that’s coloring my judgment. I’ve never let something like this get in the way of my judgment before.”
“So why now?” Shelby took a sip of her lemonade—her mouth had gone dry.
“Because I told Bill I’d take care of you.” He shook his head abruptly and got up so suddenly, the chair scraped across the floor.
Shelby stood up as well.
“That’s a lie,” Frank said, looking earnestly at Shelby. “It’s because I’m jealous.”
Frank took a step forward and put his hands on Shelby’s shoulders. She held her breath and, without even realizing it, closed her eyes. She sensed him lowering his head.
Dear Reader, what was I thinking? Of course I’m attracted to Frank—he looks so much like Bill. But I don’t know him. Not like I knew Bill. It’s an illusion. A mirage or a magic trick. I can’t do this.
Shelby turned her head and moved away, quickly putting some distance between herself and Frank. He looked at her for so long she began to feel uncomfortable, but then he grabbed his cap and tugged it back on his head.
“I’m sorry. My fault—I was out of line.”
Frank’s expression was grim, and Shelby’s first reaction was to reach out and comfort him, but she knew she couldn’t do that. Things had gone far enough.
She accompanied him to the door and watched as he walked to his truck. He turned, gave her a brief wave, got in the driver’s seat, and shot down the driveway, spewing bits of gravel as he went.
12
Dear Reader,
I tried that cookware I told you about again. I felt it deserved a second chance—heck, sometimes we all deserve a second chance, right? Well, I’m afraid it failed again.
With the nights getting chillier now that we’re into September, I had a craving for some soup. Specifically split pea soup. Did you know that split peas are actually split? There’s a natural dividing line in the peas and splitting them helps them cook faster. They are full of protein and almost no fat and are very inexpensive!
I like to add some sausage to my soup. The general store has a selection of locally made sausage that is fabulous. It gives the soup all the flavor you could want.
I know what you’re thinking—your kids wouldn’t eat split pea soup. Mine love it, but then they’re used to eating what’s on hand rather than what’s on the shelves at the grocery store.
Shelby rinsed the dinner dishes and stacked them on the counter. She’d have to put them in the dishwasher later. She hated leaving them like that, but she had to get Amelia and Billy to choir practice.
She went to the foot of the stairs and yelled, “Amelia, Billy! Time to go.”
Amelia had a lovely voice and enjoyed singing in the choir but she hated having to go to practice.
“Amelia,” Shelby called again, and this time she heard Amelia’s bedroom door open.
Amelia stood at the top of the stairs, her lips drawn together into a pout.
“Don’t even bother to argue with me,” Shelby said, pointing toward the door. “We’ve got to go.”
Amelia’s sigh was audible all the way down the stairs. She brushed past Shelby, grabbed her fleece from the closet, and tied it around her waist.
Dear Reader, at least I don’t have to remind her that it will be colder when she comes out of practice and she’ll freeze to death in those cutoffs she insists on wearing.
Shelby, Billy, and Amelia piled into the car and Shelby began the drive to St. Andrews, which was just down the road from St. Mary Magdalene, the Catholic church. On Sundays, church bells could be heard pealing at the end of the service at St. Andrews at eleven o’clock and again at noon at St. Mary’s.
Billy, who was relegated to the backseat whenever Amelia was in the car, somehow managed to kick the back of Amelia’s seat even though he was securely buckled into his seat belt. His legs must be getting longer, Shelby thought with a pang of sadness. Her little boy wasn’t going to stay little forever.
The two immediately began bickering and Shelby was relieved when they reached the church and she pulled into the parking lot. A handful of cars was already there. She glanced at the clock on her dashboard—it was surely a miracle but they were five minutes early. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Amelia got out of the car and headed for the choir room without saying a word.
Shelby watched her go. When was this period of adolescence going to be over?
Billy trooped behind Amelia, stopping to kick at a loose stone tha
t was beside the path that led to the back door of the church hall.
The air felt close and stuffy as they climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor, where choir practice was being held. Amelia’s group was practicing in the room at the very end of the hallway whose ancient flowered carpet was faded and stained from its many decades of service.
It had taken some time, but Shelby had talked Billy into—okay, dear reader, I forced him—joining the youth choir at the beginning of the year. He had a voice like a bullfrog but so did half the other boys and this way he was occupied with his group while Amelia was occupied with hers.
Shelby usually took advantage of the time to read—there was always a paperback tucked into her purse—or to chat with any of the other parents who hung around waiting for their kids. Farming could sometimes be a lonely existence and she enjoyed the opportunity for some adult company.
That thought gave her pause—maybe Bert was right and she needed to think about dating again. Maybe she needed to get more active socially. She couldn’t imagine inviting another couple for dinner when the chair across from her would remain empty and she’d be forced into the role of third wheel.
Shelby was still shaken by Frank’s visit. She had almost let him kiss her. What had come over her? She leaned against the wall and watched the people milling about in the hallway. The choirmaster was standing at the open door of the choir room, checking for stragglers, and the youth choir director was rounding up a couple of reluctant participants and herding them into the room with the finesse of a sheepdog.
Shelby looked up to find Mrs. Willoughby bearing down on her like a freight train run amok. She had skinny legs and a large belly that made her look like Humpty-Dumpty on stilts.
“There you are,” she said to Shelby as if Shelby had purposely been hiding from her and not standing out in the open in full view of everyone. “I wanted to talk to you about the Christmas bazaar.” Her face was flushed from her trot down the hallway and the tip of her sharp nose was red. “I do hope Love Blossom Farm will be taking a table again this year.”
“Of course we will.”
Mrs. Willoughby had a clipboard tucked under her arm. She pulled it out and flipped through the pages that were attached to it.
“Can’t see a thing anymore without these.” She picked her glasses up off her bosom, where they’d been resting peacefully at the end of a chain, and slipped them on.
“I’ll mark you down as a yes, then?” She looked at Shelby questioningly, as if Shelby might have changed her mind in that brief interval.
“Definitely a yes.”
“You’ll be doing your jams and jellies and one of those lovely bay leaf wreathes to auction off?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Willoughby made another check mark on her paper, tucked her clipboard back under her arm, and let her glasses fall back onto her bosom. “Splendid!” She beamed at Shelby.
Perfume—the scent of gardenias and tuberose, Shelby thought—wafted in their direction. Shelby turned to see Isabel Stone coming down the hall. She looked as if she’d recovered well from the incident at the county fair. She was wearing a long skirt in the ankle-length style Shelby knew had become popular thanks to the circulars in the Sunday newspaper, with a slim-fitting sleeveless black turtleneck and suede booties. It took a long time for changes in fashion to trickle down to Lovett, but Isabel had always been ahead of the curve.
Shelby spotted Tonya Perry coming out of Daniel’s office. So maybe the rumors about her and the pastor were true, she thought. In sharp contrast to Isabel, Tonya was wearing a pair of denim capri pants and an ill-fitting, stretched-out plain white T-shirt.
Isabel had set her cap for Daniel when he’d first arrived as rector of St. Andrews, but Tonya, with her comfortable sandals and unpolished toenails, seemed a far more suitable match for him and much more likely to take to life as the rector’s wife.
Shelby could tell by her posture that Isabel had noticed Tonya. Her back stiffened and her shoulders went rigid. She began to walk toward Tonya, slowly at first, then gathering speed like a hurricane picks up force as it travels over the water.
Shelby watched as the unsuspecting Tonya continued her journey down the hall until the two women were finally abreast of each other.
“You,” Isabel said loudly enough that everyone gathered in the hallway of the church hall turned to look.
Tonya stopped midstride with a look of horror on her face.
“Did you think that attempting to poison me at the county fair was going to pave the way for you to get your clutches on Daniel?”
Tonya’s face shut down.
Isabel’s face, on the other hand, was mottled red.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Tonya said, her eyes narrowing. “I think you’d better explain it.”
“You put the pepper on that piece of lemon meringue pie, didn’t you?” Isabel pointed a finger at Tonya.
“Me?”
“Don’t deny it.”
“But how would I . . . Why would I . . . ?”
Isabel waved a hand, dismissing Tonya’s protests. “That little stunt also won you first prize in the contest, didn’t it?”
Tonya’s expression went from one of astonishment to one of white-hot anger. She opened her mouth but no words came out—she was obviously too furious to speak. Instead she lashed out, giving Isabel a shove that sent her rocking back on her stiletto heels.
“You pushed me!” Isabel exclaimed in disbelief.
“And I’ll do it again if you don’t stop spreading rumors about me.”
Meanwhile, Mrs. Willoughby must have become aware of the altercation, because she was moving toward Tonya and Isabel at the speed of lightning.
“Ladies, please. Please remember where you are.”
Mrs. Willoughby attempted to get between Tonya and Isabel but met with very little success. It would have taken a much thinner person to insinuate herself into the gap between the two women, who were now standing practically nose to nose.
“Is everything okay? I heard a noise. . . .”
Daniel, who had come out of his office, stuttered to a halt at the sight of Tonya and Isabel. He was slightly disheveled looking—his shirt could have used a touch-up with an iron and he was overdue for a haircut. It did seem as if he needed someone to look after him, Shelby thought.
“Mrs. Stone,” he said, putting a hand on Isabel’s bare arm. He withdrew it as quickly as if he’d touched a live wire. “You know what it says in the Bible about casting stones.” He stopped abruptly and rubbed his chin. “Although perhaps that isn’t totally apt in this case.”
“You led me on,” Isabel said through gritted teeth, her lips clenched and white.
“I did no such thing,” Daniel protested. “I haven’t treated you any differently than any of my other parishioners.”
Tonya, meanwhile, looked as if she was gearing up for round two.
And Daniel looked as surprised, flustered, and flattered as any man of modest looks and means would while enjoying the unprecedented experience of being fought over by two women.
• • •
“Have you talked to Seth about the wedding?”
“Yes,” Kelly said, rocking her chair back and forth, one leg tucked under her, a glass of iced tea in her hand.
She and Shelby were sitting on Shelby’s darkened front porch, listening to the chirping of the crickets and watching the stars twinkle in the black sky. Shelby had pulled on a sweatshirt and Kelly was wearing a fleece over her usual T-shirt and jeans.
Kelly stopped rocking and turned to face Shelby. “He loves the idea.”
Shelby couldn’t see her friend’s face all that clearly but she could tell by the warmth in Kelly’s voice that she was smiling.
“I’m so glad for you. What about his mother? Has he told her?”
Kelly snorted.
“Not likely. Seth is totally in command when he’s in his office seeing patients or at the hospital supervising the new residents, but he reverts back to a little boy in short pants when he’s around his mother. He won’t say boo to her.”
Shelby laughed. “Someone has to tell her. Unless you plan to wait until she receives the invitation.”
“I’m afraid that’s going to be me,” Kelly said. “Besides, I’m the bride, right? The bride is the one who plans the wedding. I’m sorry my mother isn’t here to—”
She broke off and Shelby thought she caught the sound of tears in Kelly’s voice. Kelly’s mother had died while Kelly was in college, and while she was close to her father, a girl missed her mother at a time like this.
“Would you like a refill on your iced tea?” Shelby asked, thinking it would give Kelly time to collect herself.
“Sounds great.”
Kelly handed Shelby her glass.
Shelby pushed open the screen door with her hip and went inside.
Billy was sitting on the floor in front of the television watching a rerun of The Brady Bunch when Shelby walked through the living room, and the faint strains of some current hit song drifted down the stairs from Amelia’s room. Jenkins and Bitsy were sprawled on the sofa, their pink tongues lolling as they dozed.
Shelby glanced into the sink as she headed toward the refrigerator. The night’s dinner plates and the ruined pot stared back at her reproachfully. She silently promised to get to them as soon as Kelly left.
“Here you are.” Shelby handed Kelly her glass as she resumed her seat in the rocking chair.
She waited while Kelly took a sip of her drink.
“I’m in something of a pickle,” Shelby said.
“Mmmhhmm?” Kelly mumbled.
“The shipment of cookware arrived from the company that’s asked me to promote it on my blog. The first pan I used was a disaster—the nonstick coating flaked off. I thought perhaps it was simply a matter of my getting a defective piece. I’m sure that happens from time to time. Tonight I decided to give the cookware a second chance, and I tried another one of the pots. The same thing happened—it ruined my whole batch of pea soup.”
