Viola was somewhere in her eighties, but I didn’t know where and thought it rude to ask. Despite her slow gait, she moved steadily, carrying a cane with three legs that unfolded and had a pull-down seat. When she reached the corner of the garden, she pulled down the seat and maneuvered it into place. She sat and faced me but looked over my shoulder.
“Bo, would you get those stinkers out of the lettuce, please?” she said. Two of the younger boys thought it was appropriate to play tag in the lettuce.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
She inspected the progress over my shoulder. When she seemed pleased, she focused her attention on me.
“Becca, tell me what in tarnation is going on. Your mother is in jail for killing Joan Ashworth? I don’t understand.”
Viola’s voice wasn’t as demanding as I knew it could be. She felt genuine concern, not just curiosity.
I gave her a quick overview of what had happened. She listened intently, her different colored eyes on my blue ones the whole time.
Finally, she shook her head slowly when I’d finished. “So sad, so wrong. Becca, it sounds like your mother was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“The only evidence points to her, too,” I said, swallowing hard.
“And I could sell you some swampland if circumstances presented themselves correctly. I’m sure your mother didn’t kill Joan. Have the police looked at her son, Nobel, yet?”
I blinked. “You know Nobel?”
“I know of him. I’ve heard stories over the years. He’s odd, a loner, and always concocting some sort of something. He likes to make up recipes, but I hear he’s worked with lethal combinations, too.”
“Lethal? Like what?” I knew Viola had all her faculties, but I suddenly wondered about her imagination.
Viola rubbed at her chin. “I remember hearing something about arsenic.”
“Arsenic? In what connotation?”
“There were rumors he was trying to poison some customers. This was a long time ago and I don’t think anything came of it, but it’s something the police should know about.”
“I’ll let them know today. Can you tell me any more details?”
“There was some fuss. I think there was a newspaper article, but the fuss died down quickly.”
“Newspaper article?”
“Yes, in the Monson Gazette, I believe. Oh, darn, I can’t remember the details, but part of the fuss was Joan’s doing. Of course, she would protect her son, but she put a stop to further articles. I don’t know how she did it, power of the press and all, but she managed it.” She looked over my shoulder again. “You know who would know more—Bo’s mother, Miriam. They were friends. Until they weren’t friends. I think maybe it was Nobel’s troubles that ended the friendship.”
“Was that when the restaurant association quit buying onions from Bo’s family farm?”
Viola nodded. “I think it was. Oh, I’m almost sure it was. Ask Bo. No, I have a better idea. Go talk to Miriam. Bo!”
“Yes’m?” he said as one boy with red hair hung from his extended arm and a blond boy was trying to jump up to grab onto the other extended arm.
“You’ll take Becca to your mom’s house after lunch to talk to Miriam, all right?”
“Sure, Becca’s always welcome.”
I watched this communication and didn’t feel the least bit uncomfortable. Bo would do whatever Viola asked him to do. We all would do whatever Viola asked us to do. And I would love to learn more about the person who might have worked with lethal concoctions. This added a whole new layer to the investigation.
However, I was simply more curious than anything else. I didn’t know how Joan’s death would have anything to do with Nobel’s sketchy past, but it was something worth looking at. There would be no threat in visiting Miriam; it’d be a safe thing to do.
“Very good,” Viola said. “Now, let’s show the young’uns how to pull up the onions.”
Viola folded her chair and called the kids to attention. They hurried to gather around and listen as she explained the harvesting process for onions. Even though Bo was the onion expert, he just listened as she explained that the best time to pick onions was when their necks were tight and their scales were dry. She told them never to freeze onions but keep them at room temperature. They’ll start to spoil after a good four months, so for something that’s harvested from the ground, they stick around a long time.
We played in the dirt for a couple more hours, showing the kids what to do to keep the plants healthy organically. We talked about root systems and how far apart to plant different types of seeds. I was always surprised at how closely the kids listened to what we said. They didn’t sit still well, but even with all the fidgeting, I could witness a love of land taking shape in each and every one of them. It was almost as satisfying as my real job.
Jake brought out some trays of mini sandwiches for lunch. That was one of the best perks of working at the garden: Jake fed us lunch.
I’d planned on visiting my parents after the morning at the garden, but plans to visit Bo’s mother suddenly came first. I called them to ask if they needed lunch. When they said that Allison had already brought them salads from home, I let them know that some other things had come up but I’d stop by later. They understood and seemed to be in good moods. I also called Allison to see if her research had turned up anything important, but she said she was still searching.
After wrapping up at the garden, I followed Bo to his family’s onion farm, which was about ten miles past my own. I glanced at my property as I drove by. Everything looked fine, but I did feel sorry for Hobbit. I bet she missed the front porch, but she was still under dog-sitter supervision.
The Staffords’ onion farm might have been one of the most picturesque farms I’d ever seen. The main house sat back from the state highway, but only slightly. It was a white colonial two-story with four tall columns across the front. It looked old, but not in a run-down way. Tall trees filled the front yard, which widened as it got closer to the highway. Where there weren’t trees, there was thick green grass that looked like it had been trimmed all around, including at the point where the lawn met the gravel shoulder.
Directly to the left of the house was a huge rose garden. Rosebushes of every color and size filled the space. I’d never seen so many roses in my life. The onion fields were in rows behind the house and the rose garden. The rows stretched off into the distance and out of sight, and even though the colors alternated between the green of well-cultivated crops and the deep brown of harvested dirt, for some reason the never-ending paths reminded me of the yellow brick road.
There was a red barn behind the house and on the opposite side of the rose garden. An antique-looking tractor sat next to the barn. I wondered if the tractor was still in use or merely decoration. Whatever the case, its green paint wasn’t chipped.
I pulled into the driveway and parked behind Bo. He got out of his truck and walked to mine.
Before we’d started spending time together at the community garden, I thought Bo was just a big, gruff guy, but I soon realized his gruffness was a cover for his shyness. Since we’d been around each other so much more, he seemed to have relaxed around me and now smiled frequently. And the change in his personality when he was at his farm was even more pronounced. He was on his turf and completely at ease and comfortable.
“This is where I grew up, Becca,” he said as I got out of the truck. “My dad died a long time ago, but my mom still lives here and I work here, but I live about a mile that way”—he pointed—“with my family. I don’t have much land, but Mom’s giving me this farm when she dies.”
I raised my eyebrows.
Bo laughed. “That’s pretty morbid, but she’s been talking about it for years, since Dad died. It feels like a natural conversation to have.”
“I inherited my farm from my aunt and uncle,” I said with a shrug.
“I think I knew that. Stanley and Ruth Robins, right?”
“Ye
s.”
“My mom might have known them. We’ll ask her.”
Bo led the way down the driveway and into the house. The inside was just as charming as the outside but in different ways. It was sparkling clean and full of antique furniture. The entryway was big, with an old coatrack next to an old wardrobe that was next to an old table. Everything was dark wood, but the wardrobe had white ceramic knobs. The floor was more polished dark wood.
“Have a seat in there.” Bo nodded toward the room to our left. It was full of more antique furniture. A sofa and a couple chairs were upholstered in navy blue plush fabric. They all had matching ornamentally carved dark wood frames. Even though the furniture was antique, there was nothing fragile or frilly about it. It looked welcoming and as though you could plop down on it without having to be careful.
The polished wood floors continued into the room but were covered with large rugs that blended with the navy blue upholstery. There were also paintings filling the walls. They were portrayals of people working in fields or on some other farm-related job. One was of a man fixing a tractor that looked just like the tractor by the barn. Bo caught my intrigued stares.
“My mom painted every single one of those. It’s what she does.”
“It’s how she makes a living?” I said.
“Oh, no, she doesn’t take money for them. She either hangs them up around here or gives them away. It’s just . . . well, what she does.”
“They’re fantastic.” They were. The colors were bright, and the subjects in the paintings were almost, though not quite, realistic, their edges softer and rounder than reality would allow.
“Thank you. Have a seat. I’ll go round her up.” Bo turned to make his way down a wide hallway that I guessed led to a kitchen, and I set a course for the tractor painting.
Only an instant later, I was halted in my tracks.
A high-pitched scream sounded from the direction Bo had gone.
Under normal circumstances, I would have run toward the shrill scream to see what was wrong and determine if I could help whoever was in distress.
But considering my life had recently been full of less-than-normal circumstances, such as finding a dead body in my barn, I reacted like I was scared—because that’s exactly what I was: scared like I had never been scared before.
Twelve
Once I mentally found my feet again, I ran to the front door. I wanted out of that house.
I heard more noises after the scream: voices, things banging, thuds, and then finally Bo’s voice saying, “Becca—it’s okay. My mom’s cornered a rat. Go on out to the front if you want. I’ll come get you after I get the filthy creature.”
“Oh, hello, you’re Becca Robins. Nice to meet you, sweetie. Sorry about the scream. The stupid animal scared the livin’ grits out of me.”
Bo and his mother stood at the end of the hallway. She peered over his shoulder, a big, friendly smile on her face.
She reminded me of my mother, before my mother quit perming her hair. Miriam Stafford had a head full of long curls that had gone gray somewhere along the way. The gray worked, though. She was tall and skinny, and I couldn’t tell what color her eyes were, but they were smiling with the rest of her face. She wore a long, sleeveless denim dress that somehow made her gray hair look fashionable.
My heart was pounding in my ears and my throat hurt. For an instant I thought I might faint, but the sight of Miriam acted like a tether to bring me back to earth. I took my hand off the door, nodded, and made some sort of unintelligible noise that seemed to signal Bo and Miriam that it was okay to go back to their rat trapping.
I took a couple deep breaths and decided to see what I could do to help with the rodent hunt.
“Bo, no, not like that. I don’t want to hurt the poor thing. Let’s just try to lasso it and then throw it outside.”
“Mom, it’s a rat. The longer we let it live, the longer it will have to contribute to making baby rats.”
“Don’t be silly. You know I don’t believe in killing any creatures except for spiders. They’re the devil’s creation, I tell you. Now back off and let me at it.”
I reached the kitchen door just as Miriam elbowed her much larger son out of her way. She held a frying pan in one hand and a spatula in the other.
The kitchen matched what I’d seen of the rest of the house: it was full of antiques. But I suspected this was an illusion. The icebox was probably some sort of retrofit, hiding a modern refrigerator-freezer behind the wood-door front and pull handles. The huge stove, which looked like the kind that required burning wood for heat, was, I guessed, also faux old-fashioned. I couldn’t imagine that anyone would still really use such archaic appliances when the newer ones made life so much easier.
A large stainless steel island sat in the middle of the space, its modernness contrasting with all the old. On the other side of the island, Miriam stood in front of Bo, her weapons at the ready and her sights set on the creature that must have been cowering against the wall by the sink.
“Can I help?” I said, though I stayed on my side of the island.
I didn’t like rodents. I didn’t have to deal with them often, but whenever I did, my reaction was automatic and similar to Miriam’s: I screamed. However, I usually didn’t stick around long enough to arm myself. My first instinct was to run.
I’d never come upon a rat, though, just the occasional mouse that left the premises by the time I returned to where I’d found it. I prepped myself before I leaned over the stainless island. I didn’t want to add to the commotion with another scream.
I said something similar to “Uuugh” when I saw the monster.
It wasn’t cowering. If anything it was emanating attitude. The black rat sat up slightly on its hind legs and looked at Miriam with the beadiest of beady eyes. It worked its claws as if it couldn’t wait to pounce, and it twitched its nose as if to say, “Bring it on, lady.”
“You okay, Becca?” Bo said.
“Fine. As long as I’ve lived in the country, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a rat quite that big,” I said. I swallowed another exclamation.
“We’ve got a creek running on the other side of the barn. They love the water, blasted creatures. I’ve not seen one this big before, but I’ve seen my share,” Miriam said with a chuckle. She was enjoying the hunt.
I wanted to tell her that I agreed with Bo and it should be killed, but I didn’t want to make an enemy of her before we got a chance to talk about Nobel.
“Come on, you,” Miriam said. “Just scoot yourself right on out of there. Bo, open the door. I’m going to move in. Becca, stand over there. If it runs that way, it’ll run right into you. Then it’ll turn the other way, probably for the door. Once it runs out of here, close the door immediately, Bo. You hear?”
“I hear,” he said. He rolled his eyes my direction.
Miriam’s prediction of how the rat would behave didn’t inspire a lot of confidence in me, but I moved to where she’d pointed anyway. If it ran toward me, I doubted it would turn and go the other way. It would most likely either run up my leg or veer around me and head for the room with all the wonderful paintings.
I hoped it would run around me. If it did run up my leg, everyone would be treated to a scream worse than Miriam’s.
“Everyone in their positions?” Miriam asked.
“Uh-huh,” Bo and I said. Both of us sounded unsure.
“All right, here I go.” Miriam stepped forward as she extended the pan and the spatula. I was intrigued as to how she planned to use the two items on the rat if they weren’t meant to kill it or at least knock it silly.
From my new angle, I couldn’t see the rat, but I could sense what it was doing by the looks on Bo’s face. His expression went from concerned to surprised. I braced myself.
With the speed of a freight train, the creature darted from the corner and headed directly at me. It wasn’t going to go around. It was either going to go up my leg or knock me over and drag me by my hair to wherever it
kept its hostages.
If I’d had to answer the question “What would you do if a large rat ran right at you?” I would not have been able to answer correctly. This was one of those moments that you don’t know what you’ll do until you have to do it.
“Stop,” I yelled. I put my hand out in the halt position. I was slightly bent over, with my other hand resting on my hip. “Stop!”
The rat skidded to a stop. It sat up on its hind legs again and looked at me. It needed only a black leather jacket and a pack of cigarettes to complete the image of toughness it portrayed. I was intimidated, but I also knew that if I let it see or smell my fear, it would win. Whatever the result of its winning, I knew that it would be bad and ugly for me.
I didn’t look up at Bo and Miriam, but I knew they were still as they watched the showdown.
I took a tentative step toward the rat.
Whisker twitch.
“Bo, the door is open, right?” I said as I kept my eyes on the rat.
“Wide.”
“Get ready,” I said.
“Oh, we’re ready, sweetie,” Miriam said quietly.
I had nothing, no weapon, no tool, nothing. There was nothing in my reach either. I would have to do whatever I was going to do on my own. Mine would be a lonely battle.
The rat was beginning to look impatient. It wanted whatever was going to happen, to happen. It was ready, too.
I took a deep breath. I couldn’t believe it hadn’t run. I took another step forward, but this time I stepped hard and loudly.
“Get on out of here,” I said. I sounded like a mean version of my grandmother shooing Allison and me out of her kitchen when we were kids.
The rat blinked and flicked a claw and looked taken aback, but didn’t move.
“I mean it!” I stepped again, with enough force to rattle dishes. I continued moving directly toward it. If it didn’t move, I would stomp on it. I hoped it died with the first stomp. I didn’t want to have to make a bigger production out of it than necessary or horrify Miriam any more than I had to.
Crops and Robbers Page 10
