Sowed to Death

by Peg Cochran

  And you can’t get much work done in a flooded field. So while I don’t mind that it’s raining today—I only hope it lets up by tomorrow.

  Shelby turned away from the kitchen window and came face-to-face with the box of cookware she was supposed to be endorsing on her blog. It would have to go back. She’d thought long and hard about it, but she didn’t have it in her to fool her readers into buying an inferior product.

  Shelby rummaged in the kitchen junk drawer—didn’t every kitchen have one?—for her roll of packing tape. As she was securing the flaps, she heard Billy’s feet hit the floor overhead. Good—he was up and getting ready for school. She looked at the clock. She would have to call Amelia if she wasn’t up in the next ten minutes.

  Shelby finished securing and labeling the box while Billy ate his bowl of cereal. She had to go to the feed store for dog food—she would take the package with her and mail it then.

  Amelia came dragging down the stairs at the last possible moment, grabbing a granola bar as she ran out the door to catch the school bus. At least it wasn’t a toaster pastry, Shelby consoled herself as she watched her daughter disappear down the drive. She was grateful that Amelia was still riding the bus—in a few years she’d have her driver’s license and would no doubt want her own car.

  It would come as a great shock to Amelia that if she wanted a car, she was going to have to work for one. There was no way an extra automobile fit into Shelby’s meager budget.

  Shelby tidied up the kitchen, wiping down the counters, scooping the crumbs from her morning toast off the table, and sponging up the bit of milk Billy had dribbled from his bowl of cereal.

  She washed her hands, ran a comb through her hair, and wrestled the bulky package of pots and pans out to her truck. She would send the company an e-mail alerting them to its imminent arrival and explaining why she couldn’t possibly endorse their product on her blog.

  The Lovett Feed Store was the first stop on Shelby’s list of errands. She turned into the parking lot, found a space, and pulled in the pickup truck. As Shelby was getting out, another pickup truck backed out of a space and shot toward the exit of the parking lot, stopping for barely a second before pulling out into the street. Shelby saw only a flash of red but she knew immediately that it had been Frank.

  He must have come to talk to Rebecca Barnstable. Shelby felt a vague prickling of guilt for having mentioned the fight between Rebecca and Zeke. But surely Frank would have found out soon enough on his own?

  Shelby was grateful that the rain had slowed to a drizzle and she barely got wet as she dashed toward the open door of the feed store.

  Inside, it was dim and smelled of grain. Shelby grabbed a cart and wound between sacks of feed stacked one on top of another. The ancient cart had a stuck wheel so that it pulled hard to the left, and Shelby got a workout trying to keep it on track. She pushed it toward the back of the store, where there was a small selection of pet food.

  She found the brand she wanted and loaded the unwieldy bag into her cart. As she approached the checkout counter she was disappointed to see that Rebecca wasn’t behind the cash register—it was a middle-aged man with thinning hair who Shelby suspected was one of the Van Enks, who had owned the feed store since it opened in her grandparents’ time.

  “Is Rebecca here today?” Shelby asked when she approached the counter.

  “She’s taking a break.” The man came out from behind the cash register. “No need to take that out of the cart—it’s heavy.” He used a portable scanner to read the price on the dog food.

  Shelby paid for her purchase and put her wallet back in her purse.

  “Take the cart out with you,” the man said. “Leave it by the front door and I’ll send Dieter out to fetch it.”

  He wasn’t going to get an argument from Shelby—the bag was heavy and she was more than happy to leave it in the cart even if steering the thing felt as challenging as controlling a Formula One race car on the Indianapolis Speedway.

  The rain had picked up while Shelby was in the store, and it wasn’t long before a huge wet splotch plastered her T-shirt to her back. The rain was cool, and despite temperatures in the mid-seventies, she shivered slightly.

  She looked around as she wrestled the bag of dog food into the back of her pickup. The cashier had said Rebecca was having her break. Unless she’d stayed inside, there weren’t a lot of places to go to relax for a few minutes—especially not in the rain. The roof on the sides of the feed store had a slight overhang that protected the area underneath—maybe Rebecca was sheltering there?

  Shelby caught a whiff of cigarette smoke when she rounded the corner and wasn’t surprised to see Rebecca leaning against the side of the weathered building, holding the stump of a butt between her fingers.

  Shelby’s foot slipped on some loose gravel, sending the stones shooting across the concrete walkway. Rebecca jumped at the sound and looked in Shelby’s direction. Even from a distance, Shelby could tell the woman was in distress—her eyes were red and the hand that held the cigarette to her lips was shaking.

  She was hunched over, like a crab about to scuttle away from a predator. Shelby held up a hand to indicate she didn’t mean any harm.

  “Is everything okay?” Shelby asked, employing the same tone of voice she used to soothe Billy and Amelia when they were upset.

  Rebecca threw down the end of her cigarette and ground it into the pavement with what looked to Shelby like unnecessary force. She glanced up at Shelby.

  “No, everything’s not okay. Unless you count being questioned by the police as being okay.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  Rebecca’s shoulders drooped. “No, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”

  She put a hand over her eyes, and Shelby saw her shoulders begin to shake.

  “The police think I had something to do with my brother Zeke’s death.”

  “Why would they think that?” Shelby asked although she was pretty sure she already knew the answer.

  Rebecca gave a loud sniff. “Someone told them about that fight Zeke and I had a couple of years ago out at the Dixie.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Why would I wait this long to kill him?”

  Dear Reader, why, indeed? But the fact remains—without Zeke in the picture, Rebecca inherits some property that could prove to be very valuable in the future.

  “But if you have an alibi, all you have to do is tell the police, and they’ll realize you didn’t do it,” Shelby said.

  Rebecca played with a piece of lank hair she’d pulled over her shoulder. She mumbled something that Shelby didn’t catch.

  “I’m sorry—what was that?”

  “I do have an alibi,” Rebecca said, her expression growing sulky. She sketched a circle on the pavement with the toe of her sneaker.

  “All you have to do is tell the police where you were and who you were with and that will be the end of it.”

  “I can’t tell them.”

  “Why not?” Shelby asked gently.

  For a moment the only sound was the splat of water dripping off the edge of the overhang onto the ground.

  “Because I promised.”

  • • •

  Billy was getting out of school early because of scheduled parent-teacher conferences, so when Jim Harris called to see if Billy would like to earn a little pocket money helping muck out some stalls at the stable, Shelby assured him Billy would be there as soon as he’d had some lunch.

  “But, Mom, that sounds icky,” Billy protested when Shelby told him about it.

  “Mucking out stalls is part of being a responsible horseman. Besides, Mr. Harris is willing to pay. I know you’ve been saving for a new baseball mitt.”

  Billy kept his father’s old glove in his room. Bill had been a pitcher on the Lovett High School baseball team. His junior year the Bobcats had missed being all-state champs b
y a hair. Shelby knew that Billy tried on the mitt every couple of months but it would be a long while yet before it fit.

  Billy continued to grumble as he ate his peanut butter and jelly sandwich—he was on a kick lately where that was all he wanted for lunch no matter what else Shelby had on hand.

  While Billy finished his meal, Shelby took advantage of a break in the rain to snip the tops off her basil plants, which were threatening to flower. She inhaled their delicious scent, knowing that their growing season would soon be coming to an end. She would miss all her fresh herbs when winter came.

  Billy was watching television when Shelby carried her bounty back inside.

  “Are you ready?”

  Billy reluctantly retrieved the remote, his finger pausing over the OFF button.

  “Billy!”

  “Okay.” He switched off the television and followed Shelby out to the car.

  It was no longer raining, and the dark storm clouds that had hung over the area all morning were quickly blowing east, leaving behind bright blue skies.

  Shelby turned into the Harrises’ drive and went past the white farmhouse and around back to the stables.

  Jim Harris came out of the stables as Shelby pulled up in front and parked.

  “Hey, Billy, how’s it going?” He gave Billy a high five.

  Billy’s face brightened slightly.

  “Why don’t you go say hello to Blackjack before we get started?”

  Blackjack was Billy’s favorite horse. Billy’s face brightened even more, and before Jim could say another word, he was off at a trot toward the open stable door.

  “He’s a good kid,” Jim said when Billy was out of earshot. “You’ve done a fine job with him.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Not like most kids these days.” Jim looked up at the sky. “Sometimes it seems as if the world is spinning out of control. I mean”—he kicked at a piece of gravel with the toe of his boot—“who would suspect we’d have another murder in Lovett? It’s not the sort of thing that happens here.”

  Shelby nodded. “I know what you mean.”

  “I wonder if the police are any closer to finding out who did it.”

  Dear Reader, is Jim pumping me for information?

  “Poor old Zeke—killed with a hammer. Can you imagine? I can’t believe he’s gone. I heard it wasn’t an ordinary hammer but one of them hammers that farriers use to make horseshoes.”

  “Really?”

  Jim nodded.

  Shelby tried to hide her excitement. If that was true, then Ryan Archer was the most likely suspect. He’d obviously lied about not being at the fair. He could have easily stolen the hammer from his father. Hadn’t Ryan’s father said his hammer was missing the day Shelby and Kelly were at the Harrises’ stables? Maybe Ryan was the one who had taken it.

  And maybe Ryan was the one who had used it to kill Zeke Barnstable.

  22

  Dear Reader,

  While Billy has been mucking out stalls over at the Harrises’ stables, I’ve been working hard, too. I’ve been pruning our Brussels sprouts plants—removing any yellow leaves and taking off the lowermost leaves from the sides of the stalks. This helps the sprouts to develop. I’ve also been topping the plants—cutting off the growing tips—because I’ve found it helps increase the plants’ production.

  I’ve spent some time in the kitchen, too, brewing up tinctures to get us through the winter. Tinctures preserve the chemical properties of herbs for up to several years and are easy to make. I’ve put peppermint, ginger, and fennel in a glass jar, covered them with boiling water, then added food-grade alcohol to fill the jar. I’ll keep this mixture in a cool, dark place, shaking daily, for anywhere from two to six weeks, at which point I will transfer the mixture to the small glass bottles my grandmother used to use for hers.

  This particular tincture is fabulous for soothing heartburn or indigestion or easing nausea. It works wonders whenever we’ve overindulged in spicy or fried foods or if one of us comes down with a stomach virus.

  Shelby was tidying up the kitchen when the door to the mudroom opened and slammed shut. Amelia walked in and dropped her books on the table with a loud thud.

  “How was school?” Shelby asked, turning around with a sponge in her hand.

  She didn’t expect much more than a word or two—Amelia usually answered questions with a yes, no, or fine.

  “It was epic,” Amelia said, her head half-buried in the refrigerator.

  “Epic? Wow, that sounds great.”

  Shelby paused. She hoped she was interpreting the word epic correctly.

  Amelia turned around with a jar of peanut butter in her hand. She unscrewed the top and scooped some out with her finger.

  Shelby bit her tongue and didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to chance spoiling this rare dialogue they were having.

  “I told Mr. Campbell about Brittany Morse cheating,” Amelia mumbled, her mouth sticky with peanut butter. “At first he didn’t believe me, but then Connor—he’s one of the coolest boys in school—heard me talking and told Mr. Campbell that Brittany had copied off his paper, too.”

  “So then Mr. Campbell believed you?”

  “Yes.” Amelia ran her finger around the nearly empty peanut butter jar. “And get this. Mr. Campbell must have talked to Brittany, because she went around the lunchroom telling everyone I was a liar and a narc and nobody should talk to me.”

  Shelby held her breath. That was what Amelia had been afraid of.

  “Was it awful?”

  Amelia shook her head. “No, because apparently everyone told Brittany off. Then they all began coming up to me to tell me they were glad I’d told on Brittany because she’d been cheating off of everybody while acting like she was so smart and perfect.”

  “I’m glad that worked out,” Shelby said calmly, breathing a sigh of relief.

  “It was epic,” Amelia said again. She looked at Shelby. “You were right. Thanks, Mom.”

  She clutched the jar of peanut butter and scurried out of the room, leaving Shelby standing openmouthed.

  • • •

  Shelby drove home from the Harrises’ stable with all the windows wide open. The smell made no mystery of how and where Billy had spent his afternoon.

  “How was it?” Shelby glanced over at the passenger seat.

  “It was fun,” Billy said. “Afterward, Mr. Harris let me ride Blackjack.” Billy stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out several crumpled bills. “And look, Mr. Harris even paid me. He said I did a good job and next time he needs help, he’s going to call me.”

  “I’m proud of you,” Shelby said, reaching out and patting Billy’s knee.

  She didn’t have to look at him to know that he was probably scowling at this seemingly unwarranted display of maternal affection.

  Bert was in the kitchen when they arrived home.

  “Looks like you’ve been busy,” Bert said, indicating Shelby’s glass jar of herbs sitting in a darkened corner on the kitchen counter.

  “I got the Brussels sprouts plants pruned and topped, too.”

  “You’re going to have to think about hiring some help come spring,” Bert said, cutting up an apple and handing the plate to Billy. “You can’t keep doing things by yourself with just the occasional hired hand.”

  “I know. I hate to do anything that cuts into the farm’s profit, slender as it is.”

  “You would be able to produce more.”

  “True.”

  A knock on the door startled them both.

  “Maybe it’s Jake,” Billy said, slipping out of his chair and running to the back door.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  Shelby’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of Frank standing in the doorway of her mudroom.

  “Not at all. Come on in.�
�� Bert picked up the coffee carafe and held it toward Frank. “Coffee? I can put on some fresh.”

  “No, thanks. I’ve already had my fifth cup today.” He held his hands out in front of him. “I’m getting the jitters from so much caffeine.”

  “Caffeine is no substitute for sleep,” Bert said, grabbing a mug and pouring herself a cup of coffee.

  “Tell that to my insomniac brain,” Frank said.

  “I helped Jim Harris muck out some stalls today,” Billy burst out with. “And he paid me, too.”

  “That reminds me,” Shelby said. “Jim told me that the hammer used to kill Zeke was a farrier’s hammer.”

  Frank went very still, his face a blank.

  “Really?” he said finally.

  “It’s not true?” Shelby asked.

  “Well, we already knew it wasn’t an ordinary hammer.”

  “Is there anything else new on the case?” Bert said, slipping two teaspoons of sugar into her coffee.

  “Nothing to speak of,” Frank said.

  “So, you didn’t want a cup of coffee and there’s nothing new on the case . . . Just why are you here, then?” Bert said, but in a teasing voice.

  Frank laughed. “I wondered if I could get some herbs from you. Is the basil still growing?”

  “Not taking up cooking, are you?” Bert said in disbelief.

  “Not exactly. I am trying my hand at some marinara sauce. It ought to be easy enough, right? And to cook the pasta all that’s required is to boil water, and even I can do that.”

  “Tired of microwave cooking?” Shelby said.

  A slow flush colored Frank’s face. He looked down at the floor. “Actually, I’m having company.”

  “By the look on your face, I assume that company is female,” Bert said, glancing over at Shelby.

  “Let me go cut some basil for you,” Shelby said, jumping up from her seat.

  She grabbed her scissors off the counter and slipped out the back door, letting it slam behind her. She half ran down the walk, then stopped for a moment to catch her breath.