Sowed to Death

by Peg Cochran

Shelby glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and smiled.

  “You really like working for Mr. Harris, don’t you?”

  “He’s nice,” Billy said, swinging his legs back and forth. “He’s teaching me lots of stuff.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Just stuff.”

  “Sure,” Shelby said. “Stuff.”

  Billy already had his hand on his seat belt clasp as Shelby pulled into the Harrises’ drive.

  “Mr. Harris said to go around back to the stables.”

  Shelby drove past the farmhouse where the American flag hung listlessly from its pole—the air was still and calm with no noticeable breeze.

  Shelby continued down the drive and pulled up to the stables. Billy bolted from the car as soon as Shelby came to a stop.

  Jim came out of the stable and walked toward Shelby’s car. He’d changed out of the suit he’d worn to church and into jeans and a T-shirt. He leaned an arm on the roof of Shelby’s car and bent down to speak to her.

  “It’s wonderful having such an enthusiastic helper.” He turned toward the stable door, where Billy was waiting eagerly. “He’s a good boy.”

  “I know.” Shelby smiled, thinking of all the times Billy drove her crazy. “What time shall I pick him up?”

  “Is three o’clock okay? That will give him some time to ride.”

  • • •

  Bert’s car was in the driveway when Shelby got home. Shelby found her in the mudroom, obviously looking for something.

  “You’re back,” Bert said. “I was looking for some gardening gloves. That herb patch isn’t going to weed itself, you know.”

  “Gloves? I’m sure I have a pair around here somewhere.” Shelby moved some terra-cotta flowerpots around. “What’s with the gloves, though?” She turned to Bert. “I’ve never known you to bother with them before.”

  Bert held up both hands, which were brown from the sun, covered in age spots, and rough from years of hard work. She wiggled her fingers.

  “I’ve got my manicure to think about.” She let out a wheezy laugh.

  “What manicure?” Shelby laughed with her.

  “I’ve got a bit of eczema on my fingers, and I thought maybe wearing gloves while I garden might help.”

  “Let me see what I can find.”

  Shelby glanced surreptitiously at her own hands. She could have done with a manicure herself, and a liberal application of hand cream.

  Shelby moved some more pots out of the way and seized a pair of flower-printed gloves. “Here you go.” She held them out to Bert.

  “What about you?” Bert asked as she slipped them on.

  “I’ll be fine—don’t worry.”

  They carried their tools out to the bed where Shelby grew parsley, thyme, sage, rosemary, and other herbs.

  The sun was warm on Shelby’s back as she knelt on the rich earth and began pulling weeds. She looked up at Bert.

  “I didn’t see you in church today.”

  “I went to the early service,” Bert said, shaking the dirt off a clump of weeds.

  “It looks as if Isabel has finally managed to snare our poor, hapless rector. She was glued to his side during the coffee hour.”

  “That poor man has gone from being henpecked by Prudence to being henpecked by Isabel.”

  “Oh?” Shelby raised an eyebrow.

  Bert snorted. “Isabel may be all flirty and feminine around men, but I was on the Christmas bazaar committee with her last year, and that oh-so-delicate, well-manicured hand is really an iron fist.”

  “Poor Daniel.”

  “I don’t think he would know what to do if he didn’t have someone to lay it out for him.”

  Shelby yanked out a weed, only to discover she’d pulled up a section of thyme. She realized she was preoccupied—wondering whether she should tell Bert about finding Brenda’s car in Zeke’s garage.

  “Got something on your mind?” Bert asked, pointing at the clutch of herbs in Shelby’s hand.

  Shelby sighed. She couldn’t hide anything from Bert—that was obvious.

  “I made an interesting discovery last night.”

  Bert paused with a trowel in her hand. “Uh-oh. Something about Amelia?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  Thank goodness, Shelby murmured to herself.

  “I started thinking about Zeke’s murder.”

  Bert shot her a stern look.

  “Thinking about it doesn’t count,” Shelby said, lifting her chin. “It struck me as odd that both Zeke and his wife were murdered. Was there a connection?”

  Shelby sat back on her heels and wiped an arm across her brow, which by now was beaded with perspiration.

  “I got to thinking about Sid Harris being killed in that hit-and-run accident. I know you said Jim and Sid went to the Dixie every Friday night for a couple of games of pool. It stands to reason, then, that the hit-and-run must have taken place on a Friday night—unless Jim and Sid broke their routine, and that seems unlikely. I also knew that Brenda and her girlfriends had their night out on Fridays at the Dixie.”

  By now Bert had stopped working entirely, all her concentration focused on Shelby.

  “I wondered if there wasn’t some connection between the two. And then it came to me—what if Brenda had seen the person who hit Sid and they had killed her to keep her quiet?”

  Bert pointed a finger at Shelby. “I don’t think that ever occurred to anyone—not even the police.”

  “But I was wrong.”

  Bert looked like a child who’d had a piece of candy yanked from their grasp.

  “Wrong?”

  Shelby nodded. She took a deep breath—this was the part Bert wasn’t going to like.

  “I had a hunch.”

  Bert made a low grumbling noise in her throat.

  Shelby thought about retreating, but it was too late now.

  “Yesterday, Kelly and I went over to Zeke’s farm and looked in his garage.”

  “And?”

  “And we found a car.”

  “Imagine that.”

  Shelby shot Bert a look.

  “It was Brenda’s car—covered in dust and cobwebs. It obviously hadn’t been out of the garage since she died.”

  “I wonder that Zeke didn’t sell it. I’m sure the money would have come in handy.”

  “There’s a good reason why he didn’t. There was heavy damage to the right front fender. And the headlight was smashed.”

  Shelby heard Bert’s indrawn breath.

  “So it was Brenda who hit Sid that night.”

  “Don’t you think that makes sense? Why else would Zeke hide the car?”

  “It still doesn’t explain Brenda’s disappearance and murder. Or Zeke’s murder, for that matter.”

  “I know. But at least it’s one mystery solved.”

  “I assume you’ve told Frank about this,” Bert said in a slightly sarcastic tone.

  Shelby tilted her chin up. “I called him and left a message, but he hasn’t called me back yet.”

  Bert looked up sharply. “Maybe he’s busy with whoever that was he was cooking dinner for on Friday night.”

  28

  Dear Reader,

  “Waste not, want not” is pretty much the motto of every farmer I know. You may not even realize you’re being wasteful—for instance, do you throw out the leaves on your celery, the ends of the carrots, and your vegetable scraps? Don’t—save them instead! Keep them in a sealed plastic bag in your freezer, and when the bag is full, make vegetable broth. It won’t cost you a penny, and the broth will be so much better than the canned stuff you buy in the store.

  With Bert’s help, Shelby was able to finish weeding the herb garden before she had to leave to pick up Billy. She even had time to wash her h
ands and face and run a comb through her unruly curls.

  A storm was slowly moving in as Shelby headed toward the Harrises’ stable. The skies overhead were thick with gray clouds that appeared almost black when she looked toward the horizon.

  Shelby’s conversation with Bert was still on her mind. She’d been positive that Zeke’s death was somehow linked to Brenda’s disappearance and ultimate death. But where was the connection between the two?

  Brenda had to have been the one who hit Sid that night as Sid walked home from the Dixie. Poor Jim Harris had spent all these years wondering who had killed his brother, when the answer was hidden in Zeke Barnstable’s garage.

  Shelby thought about the day she’d come to the stables on the anniversary of Sid’s death. Poor Jim had been so worked up about it—still in pain and mourning his brother. The phrase Jim had used—“an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth”—went through her mind. Now Jim would never see justice done.

  The thought came to Shelby so quickly that she almost slammed on her brakes.

  What if justice had been done?

  Jim had left the Dixie to go after Sid that night they’d had the argument. What if Jim had nearly caught up with Sid and had been close enough to see the car that ran his brother down? Certainly he would have recognized it as Brenda’s.

  Had he killed Brenda and then buried her body on Zeke’s property in order to incriminate Zeke? Anyone who watched television knew that the spouse was always the first to be suspected in a case of murder.

  Shelby’s stomach began to tighten. Billy was with Jim right now. Was he in any danger? Shelby reflexively increased the pressure of her foot on the gas pedal and the car lurched forward.

  As soon as she had Billy in the car, she would call Frank again, she decided. She would tell him about finding Brenda’s car and about her own suspicions as to what had happened. But not until she and Billy were well away from the Harrises’ stables.

  Shelby was pulling into the Harrises’ drive when a bolt of lightning zigzagged across the sky and the first plump rain drops landed on her windshield. She turned on her wipers and continued toward the farmhouse. A car passed her on the way down the drive. Dawn Harris waved from the window and Shelby waved back. She felt a frisson of fear—she and Billy would now be alone with Jim.

  But maybe she was being ridiculous—jumping to conclusions that had no basis in fact?

  As soon as Shelby pulled up outside the stable, her cell phone began to ring. She prayed it was Frank.

  “Shelby? This is Frank.”

  “Frank.” His name came out sounding like a cry of relief.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. Fine.”

  “Do you remember telling me that Jim Harris told you that the weapon used to kill Zeke Barnstable was a farrier’s hammer?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  “There’s no way Harris could have known that. I’ve checked all around the office and everyone swears that they kept that information confidential, as we’d requested. The only way Harris could have known that is if—”

  “He was the killer,” Shelby finished for him, her voice breaking into a sob on the last words.

  She heard Frank’s sharply indrawn breath.

  Shelby thought she heard the crunch of gravel behind her, and she whirled around, but no one was there. It must have been nerves.

  “Where are you?” Frank said.

  “I’m at the Harrises’ stable and—”

  “What are you doing there?” Frank’s voice was sharp.

  “Billy’s here. I came to pick him up.”

  “Is he in the car with you?”

  “No.” This time Shelby sobbed in earnest.

  “Get Billy in the car. Don’t do or say anything to Harris. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

  Shelby heard the click as Frank ended the call. She put her cell phone on the passenger seat next to her, where it would be easier to reach. Her hands were shaking, and she gripped the steering wheel momentarily to try to stop their trembling. She had to look normal—as if nothing was wrong—or Jim might begin to suspect something.

  Shelby strained her ears for the sound of police sirens, but all she could hear was the drone of a tractor in a distant field and the buzzing of bees bunched around a cluster of clover at the edge of the gravel drive.

  Shelby got out of the car and shut the door as quietly as possible. There was no reason to be afraid, she chided herself. Jim couldn’t possibly have been aware of her suspicions. All she had to do was act naturally.

  She shoved her hands in the pockets of her shorts and tried to slow her ragged breathing. She felt the perspiration under her arms and on the back of her neck even though the day was mild and the misty rain falling had a chill to it.

  The stable door creaked open slowly, and Shelby was about to call for Billy when Jim walked out.

  “I’m here to pick up Billy.” Shelby tried to make her voice sound as normal as possible, although she suspected she hadn’t succeeded particularly well.

  Jim smiled—a smile that wasn’t the least bit welcoming.

  “Billy is . . . Well, you could say Billy is tied up at the moment.”

  “We need to leave now.” Shelby feigned looking at her watch. “We have to be somewhere.”

  “That’s a shame,” Jim drawled. “Because you aren’t going anywhere at all.”

  Shelby felt her stomach drop to her feet.

  “What do you mean?”

  Jim hooked his thumbs through the belt loops of his worn jeans. “Just what I said. You’re not going anywhere.”

  Shelby tried to summon some righteous indignation but was defeated by the trembling in her arms and legs. “You can’t keep me here.”

  Jim sighed and tilted his hat back. “I can’t let you go now that you know the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me,” Jim snapped. “I heard you on the phone with that detective.”

  “So it’s true. You did kill Zeke,” Shelby said.

  She hoped that if she kept Jim talking—if she stalled long enough—the police would arrive. Once again she strained her ears for any hint of police sirens, but there was nothing.

  “Zeke was bleeding me dry. He decided to clear that back acreage on his property. He’d barely begun to dig when he found Brenda’s body.” Jim scowled. “That land had lain uncultivated for years—there was no reason to suspect the bastard would suddenly decide to make use of it.”

  Jim turned his head and spat. “Zeke put two and two together—Brenda’s damaged car, my brother’s death—and he realized I was the one who killed Brenda.”

  “Couldn’t you have gone to the police—”

  “And what would they have done? I remembered that time Doug Hickory ran down that fellow on his bicycle. And what did he get? A slap on the wrist, that’s all. Six months in jail and two years’ probation. Where’s the justice in that?” Jim shook his head. “I wanted justice done and the only way to do that was to do it myself.”

  “Zeke was blackmailing you?”

  “Yes. Trust Zeke to find a way to take advantage of the situation.”

  “So you killed him.”

  Jim grinned in earnest this time. “He never saw it coming. Just like Sid never saw Brenda’s car coming. One time Dick Archer was here shoeing Dancer—my Appaloosa mare. It was easy enough to lift one of his hammers.”

  “So, you planned to kill Zeke at the county fair?”

  “It wasn’t planned out—not like with charts and timetables and such. I waited for the right moment, and then I struck.”

  “Why put him in that Volvo station wagon the firemen were using?”

  “I thought it would be amusing. Not to mention fitting. Zeke helped Brenda hide her car instead of doing the right thing. At the time I didn’t realiz
e that leaving Zeke’s body in that old wreck would point a finger at that neighbor of yours. That was pure luck.”

  “Did you mean to implicate Dick Archer in the crime? The murder weapon belonged to him.”

  Jim shrugged. “I didn’t plan on it, but it was convenient it worked out that way. I knew that son of his had had a run-in with Zeke.”

  Shelby knew she couldn’t stall much longer. Where was Frank? And where were the police?

  “Where’s Billy?” Shelby demanded, horrified to hear her voice shake.

  “Like I said, he’s tied up at the moment.”

  Jim opened the stable door and motioned for Shelby to go ahead of him.

  Most of the horses had been turned out, but Shelby could hear one stamping its hooves and snorting in the far stall. Jim led her over to it.

  Blackjack was in the stall, tethered with cross ties attached to the wall. His nostrils flared and his dark eyes were rolling in the sockets, as if he was spooked.

  And Billy was seated atop the majestic stallion. His eyes were wild and there were tears pooling at the corners. His hands were tied to the saddle pommel with twine, and a gag—a navy blue bandanna—was tied loosely across his mouth.

  29

  Dear Reader,

  I still can’t believe what happened. I’m in shock. I will tell you all about it later.

  Shelby had to restrain herself from dropping to her knees when she saw Billy. She rushed toward the stall.

  “Billy! Are you all right?”

  Billy could only mumble with the kerchief tied around his mouth, but he managed to nod. Shelby knew he was trying to be brave, and that nearly broke her heart.

  Shelby whirled around. “How could you do this?” She pointed at Billy and then held out her hands toward Jim. “Take me instead. Let him go, and take me.”

  Surely her chest would explode, Shelby thought as blood pounded in her ears so loudly, she could barely hear.

  “You’ll get your turn. Don’t worry,” Jim said, moving toward the stall.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to turn Blackjack out. Let’s see how long Billy can stay seated. He’s a good rider. I give him a minute or two.”