Bought the Farm

by Peg Cochran

  Shelby shook herself. That made no sense. Surely if it had been Seth arguing with Travis, Danielle would have noticed something else about his clothes—his navy blazer, his linen pants . . . something . . . anything . . . besides just the hat.

  And now that she thought about it, Valerie from Grilling Gals hadn’t noticed anything particular about the man’s clothes either. Had she been worrying needlessly?

  Because it couldn’t have been Seth. Shelby let out her breath in a whoosh. It had to have been someone else. And as she’d suspected before, the murderer had picked up Seth’s hat from wherever Seth had abandoned it and put it on. And had then gone out and had that argument with Travis. Shelby shuddered.

  And then he—whoever he was—had stunned Travis with a blow to the head before holding his face in the rainwater in Shelby’s old trough.

  20

  Dear Reader,

  Chicken soup is considered a remedy for what ails you in almost every culture around the world and has been considered a cure for the common cold since at least the twelfth century. Scientists believe that the steam from a hot bowl of soup helps nasal congestion and some even think that chicken soup might have anti-inflammatory properties.

  I don’t know about you, but I find a bowl of chicken soup comforting at any time. And although it’s hard to find the time, making your own is much better than opening up a can and isn’t very hard at all.

  Travis certainly seemed to have told an awful lot of lies, Shelby thought—lies to get what he wanted and lies to avoid the things he didn’t want. It was hard to know what had been the truth and what had been fiction.

  Shelby was about to head out to the herb garden to do some weeding when she had a thought. Bert had said Travis’s mother still lived in Lovett. Shelby racked her brain for several minutes before she came up with her name—Debbie Coster. Surely she should be easy enough to find in a town as small as theirs.

  Shelby pulled out a battered and dog-eared copy of the Lovett telephone directory—so many longtime residents had resisted the trend toward digital and still wanted a copy they could hold in their hands.

  Shelby thumbed through it until she came to the correct page. She ran her finger down the entries. There was a large stain in one corner—ketchup?—but fortunately it wasn’t obscuring the listing for Debbie Coster, which she found near the middle of the page.

  Her house wasn’t far away—Shelby knew the street, which wound up the hill past St. Andrews Church.

  On an impulse, Shelby jotted the address down and grabbed her purse. Weeding could wait. There were some questions she hoped Debbie Coster would be able to answer for her.

  She found the address easily enough—a small but tidy brick ranch in a neighborhood of similar houses. The yard was narrow but deep, and Shelby noticed neat staked rows of overturned earth in a vegetable garden out back.

  Debbie Coster opened the door almost as soon as Shelby had rung the front bell. She looked to be in her late forties with a thin stripe of gray along the part in her short brown hair.

  Her voice was wary when she greeted Shelby.

  “Can I help you? Because if you’re selling something, you’re wasting your time.”

  Shelby shook her head and held up a hand. “No, nothing like that. Mrs. Coster?”

  “You’re looking at her.”

  “I wanted to talk to you about your son Travis.”

  “You might as well come in, then. My name’s Debbie,” she called over her shoulder as she led Shelby into a small living room with worn but clean furniture.

  “Have a seat.” She waved Shelby toward a sagging sofa the color of pea soup, while she perched on the edge of an armchair.

  “What about my son?” she said when they were seated.

  “I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” Shelby said. “I realize it must be difficult for you to talk about it.”

  Debbie grunted and looked at her hands.

  Shelby leaned forward in her seat and clasped her hands between her knees. “I’ve met your other son, Jax, and his wife, Jessie, helps me out around my farm.”

  “Your farm?” Debbie looked up. “Is that where it . . . it happened?”

  Shelby nodded.

  “I always knew Travis—that’s what he decided to call himself—would come to a bad end. Even as a boy—” She stopped and looked down at her hands again.

  “As a boy . . . ,” Shelby prompted.

  “He was always running into trouble. And then he’d lie to get himself out of it. It got so you never knew if he was telling the truth or not.”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask you about.” Shelby held her hands out in front of her. “I heard that Travis left his girlfriend Jessie standing at the altar. That he was upset because she’d been having an affair with his brother.”

  Debbie looked up sharply. “Who told you that?”

  “One of the members of the band.”

  “That’s probably what Travis told them, then. With Travis it was always what he wanted you to believe.”

  “So . . . it’s not true?” Shelby raised her eyebrows.

  Debbie shook her head. “No. At least not all of it. Travis did leave Jessie at the altar, but it wasn’t because of Jax. He had nothing to do with it. Travis changed his mind, pure and simple, and didn’t have the guts to break it off.”

  “I see.” Shelby leaned forward and propped her chin on her hands. “And that accident that Travis and Jax had? I thought Jax was responsible, but then I read in the newspaper—”

  “That was Travis again. Telling people what he wanted them to believe.” Debbie closed her eyes momentarily, as if trying to blot out disturbing images. “Jax got a raw deal in that accident. Spent months in rehab. We didn’t know if he’d ever get better or not. Meanwhile, Travis was gallivanting all over with that program America Can Sing.”

  “So Jax wasn’t driving when it happened.”

  “No. Travis was.”

  So the newspaper article had been correct, Shelby thought as Debbie led her back to the front door. Travis had caused the accident that had so badly injured his brother, and Travis had lied about Jax and Jessie having an affair. Debbie was right—Travis told people what he wanted them to believe, and it was always a version of the story that put him in the best light.

  * * *

  • • •

  When Shelby got home, she put the soup on to simmer over a low flame. In the meantime, she would get some work done outside. The rain had ensured that her plants were well watered but had also caused a crop of opportunistic weeds to sprout in all her gardens.

  Then after the weeding, there were lettuce and herbs to pick—both were coming up beautifully. She would soon have a bumper crop to take to Matt at the general store.

  Shelby was slipping into her gardening clogs when the telephone rang. She debated letting it ring—she really had a lot to do—but then what if the Cub Scout leader was calling to say Billy was sick or hurt and needed to be picked up?

  She kicked off her clogs and ran into the kitchen, catching the call right before it would have gone to voice mail.

  “Hello?”

  “Shelby? This is Olivia Willoughby.”

  Shelby groaned inwardly. Was Mrs. Willoughby going to pester her for even more information about Isabel Stone?

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Isabel Stone has had an accident.”

  “How awful! What happened?” Shelby asked, picturing all sorts of gruesome scenarios in her head.

  “She caught her heel on a bit of loose flagstone on the walk leading up to her house. You know those shoes she wears—an accident waiting to happen. And she’s broken her ankle, the poor dear.”

  Mrs. Willoughby’s voice dripped with insincerity.

  Shelby was wondering what this had to do with her.

  “With her foot in that plaster cast,
poor Isabel can hardly do a thing, so a number of us have banded together to bring her something for dinner until she’s back on her feet again.”

  “That’s a lovely idea.”

  “We’re hoping you’ll agree to join us.”

  Shelby glanced at the pot of chicken soup simmering on the burner.

  “I’d be glad to. I have a pot of soup on the stove this very minute. How about if I take some of that to Isabel?”

  “How wonderful!” Mrs. Willoughby cleared her throat. “Is there any chance you could take her some for tonight? We have the first few weeks covered, but on such short notice we couldn’t find anyone to volunteer for today. I would do it myself, but I have my bunco group coming, I’m afraid. You’re sure it’s no trouble?”

  “Not at all. I’m taking soup to Bert in the hospital. I’ll drop some off for Isabel, too.”

  “You are a lifesaver, dear. I hated to ask—knowing how busy you always are.” There was a note of censure in Mrs. Willoughby’s voice. “Isabel is expecting someone and will be leaving the door open, so don’t knock—go right on in.”

  “I’ll do that,” Shelby promised, and hung up.

  * * *

  • • •

  Shelby knelt in the herb patch amidst the oregano, thyme, and rosemary, enjoying the lush scent as well as the sight of all the greenery. After two hours her back was beginning to protest, her hands cramp, and her knees ache. She sat back on her heels and looked around.

  Jessie was supposed to be helping her today. Normally Bert would have joined Shelby in the garden, but that wouldn’t be possible for a long time. Shelby sighed and was about to bend to the task at hand again when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.

  Jessie?

  Shelby looked up to see Jessie making her way toward the herb garden.

  She couldn’t walk any slower if she tried, Shelby thought. She really had to consider looking around for more reliable and energetic help.

  “Hi,” Jessie said as she dropped to her knees beside a row of basil. “Sorry I’m late. I’ve been having trouble getting going in the mornings.” She pointed vaguely toward the barn. “It’s the stress, I guess.”

  Shelby sighed. “Yes, I can imagine.” She reached for a clump of weeds and pulled. “Hopefully the police will soon arrest the culprit, and we can all go back to normal.”

  “I don’t know,” Jessie mumbled. “With Travis gone, I don’t know if things will ever be normal again.”

  Shelby shook the clump of weeds to get the dirt off. “Hopefully you and Jax can work things out. This doesn’t have to mean the end of your marriage, you know.”

  “He’s pretty mad,” Jessie said, swiping at a tear shimmering at the corner of her eye.

  “Maybe counseling?” Shelby suggested. “I’ve heard people say it can be very helpful.”

  But Jessie was already shaking her head.

  “Or maybe talk to Reverend Mather. He’s had experience with these sorts of things.”

  Shelby glanced at Jessie, but she was looking in the other direction, across the field toward the barn. And she had a look of horror on her face.

  Shelby turned her head, but all she could see was Paislee trooping across the grass toward them.

  “I’ve got to go,” Jessie blurted out. “I’ll be right back.” She jumped to her feet and began to run toward the farmhouse.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Paislee said when she finally reached the herb garden, where Shelby was still kneeling. “Not that I care or anything.”

  She was puffing on a cigarette again, and Shelby wrinkled her nose against the smell. Shelby looked back toward the house. She couldn’t imagine what had gotten into Jessie. Maybe she should go check on her?

  “Excuse me,” she said, getting to her feet almost as quickly as Jessie had. “I’ve got to see to something.”

  Paislee shrugged. “Fine. I just thought I’d say hello. I’d better get back anyway.” She dropped her cigarette on the ground and rubbed out the remaining spark with the toe of her shoe. “Jax is quite the slave driver. He’s still not satisfied with the new song. Even Brian told him to chill out, but he won’t listen.”

  “Good luck,” Shelby called over her shoulder as she set off toward the house at a brisk pace.

  She found Jessie in the kitchen, sitting at the table, her head resting on her crossed arms. She jumped when Shelby walked in, her chair squeaking in protest as it scraped against the floor.

  “You look like you could use a cold drink,” Shelby said, opening the refrigerator and retrieving a pitcher of lemonade.

  She didn’t say anything else as she got two glasses out, filled them, and carried them to the table.

  “It’s rather stuffy in here, don’t you think? Why don’t we take our drinks out to the porch and get some fresh air.”

  Shelby knew from experience that rocking in the rocking chairs could be very calming and practically therapeutic. She hoped it would have that effect on Jessie.

  Jessie still didn’t say anything but heaved a deep sigh as she settled in the chair. A slight breeze was blowing and the faintest smell of manure hung in the air.

  Jessie rocked back and forth rhythmically, pushing off with first one foot and then the other. The rocking seemed to be soothing her, Shelby noticed. Her breathing was quieter and the stiff set to her shoulders was easing.

  Suddenly the rocking stopped. “She hates me, you know,” Jessie said.

  “Who hates you?”

  “Paislee.”

  “Why do you think that?” Shelby asked, although she could guess the answer easily enough.

  “Because of Travis. But doesn’t she understand? He was mine long before he ever met her.”

  Dear Reader, talk about flawed logic! Jessie seems to have forgotten she’d married Jax in the interim.

  “But you’re married to Jax now, right? Isn’t it worth trying to work things out?”

  Jessie grunted. Shelby couldn’t tell if the noise was meant to be affirmative or negative.

  “It’s not just that,” Jessie said, starting to rock again.

  “It’s not just what?” Shelby was beginning to find this conversation confusing.

  “It’s not just about my affair with Travis.”

  “Oh?”

  “You know that song Travis wrote? That Jax is now singing with Paislee?”

  “The new one?”

  “Yes.” Jessie stopped rocking again. “Travis wrote that song for me. For us to sing together. He’d already talked to his record label about it, and they’d agreed. That was to be our song.”

  Shelby didn’t know what to say. After talking to Travis’s mother, she knew Travis wouldn’t hesitate to lie when it suited him. Had he lied to Jessie? Or was it Paislee he’d lied to?

  “That’s really why Paislee hates me. When she found out she wasn’t going to record that song with Travis, they had a huge fight. She said she’d never forgive him.”

  Never forgive him, Shelby thought. Had Paislee decided to murder Travis as well?

  * * *

  • • •

  Shelby sat for a moment after Jessie left. She’d sent her inside to splash some cold water on her face—her eyes were puffy from crying. Jessie had insisted she was fine and had gone back to weeding the herb garden.

  The scent of chicken soup cooking drifted out from the kitchen, and Shelby knew she should go check on it, but she didn’t want to get up. The breeze felt good and the rocking was so soothing. She felt her eyelids getting heavy—the interrupted sleep she’d had the night before had hardly been refreshing.

  A noise startled her, and her eyes flew open. Bitsy and Jenkins came bounding onto the porch just as Paislee turned the corner and came into view.

  Shelby groaned inwardly. Dealing with Jessie had worn her out—the last thing she wanted was a ru
n-in with Paislee.

  “You look comfortable,” Paislee said as she mounted the steps to the porch.

  Dear Reader, Paislee apparently does not see the irony in pointing out how comfortable I am while she proceeds to disturb that very comfort.

  “Do you mind if I sit down?” And before Shelby could say anything, she plopped into the rocker Jessie had recently vacated.

  “I know Jessie hates me,” Paislee said. “She thinks I stole Travis from her, which is ridiculous, since Travis left her a long time ago.”

  Shelby felt as if she were hearing an echo. Jessie had so recently said much the same thing about Paislee. “I don’t think she hates you,” Shelby protested.

  Paislee stopped rocking and turned to stare at Shelby. “Please. I know she does. And I don’t mind. Believe me.”

  “But as you said, you didn’t steal Travis from her, did you?”

  “No.” Paislee began rocking again. “It was already long over.” She picked at the threads surrounding a small rip in the knee of her jeans.

  “I don’t think Jessie hates you,” Shelby said again. “I think it’s you who hates Jessie.”

  “What?” Paislee froze. “Why would I hate Jessie? I hardly know her.”

  “That song Travis wrote—you think Jessie stole that from you.”

  Paislee gave a humorless laugh. “Jessie didn’t steal it from me. What are you talking about?”

  Shelby began to wonder if she’d got hold of the wrong end of the stick, as her grandmother used to say.

  “Jessie said Travis wrote that song for her. And that he planned to record it with her.”

  Paislee’s pale cheeks turned red. “No, he didn’t. He only said that to string her along. And she fell for it.” She began playing with the loose threads on her jeans again. “Travis wrote that song for me. And we were going to record it together.” Paislee lifted her chin. “And now I’m going to sing it with Jax.” She gave a not very nice smile. “I wonder what Jessie will think of that.”

  * * *

  • • •