by Annie Irvin
Lonnie steered her Camry down the gravel access leading off the main blacktop and into the farm just as Maggie finished loading a vegetable order into the back of her delivery van. Fred Davis, the farm manager, rounded the corner of the garage and strode toward the van. The long hours of farm labor showed in the firm muscles of Fred’s broad back. By the end of each summer, his rugged good looks were highlighted by a deep tan and sun-bleached hair.
“Fred’s damn buff for a man in his fifties,” Harper commented as Lonnie slowed the car to a stop.
“Yep, he and Maggie make a nice looking couple. It’s about time they decided to get married. What’s it been, almost thirty years since Gerald died? I think Fred’s been asking Maggie to marry him for at least the last fifteen of them.”
Harper nodded. She knew how hard it had been for Maggie when, after only five years of marriage, her husband, Gerald McCarthy, died in a tractor accident on White Pine Farm. Olivia, wanting to help her neighbor, had sent Ezra over to lend a hand with the work requiring more physical strength than Maggie could muster. Then, a few months after Gerald’s death, Ezra sent Fred out to see her.
Fred moved into a remodeled apartment above one of the outbuildings and he and Maggie worked side by side to turn the place into a successful market farm. Harper and Lonnie had crossed their fingers, hoping things would turn romantic for Maggie and Fred.
“It’s a good thing we were patient,” Lonnie told Harper, waving at Maggie.
“It’s a good thing Fred was patient,” Harper corrected Lonnie.
After Lonnie parked the Camry, Harper scrambled out and peeked inside Maggie’s van.
“It’s an order for Rubino’s restaurant. Kay Rubino ordered a case of beets and as many late season zucchini and eggplant as I had,” Maggie chuckled. “I can already taste the red flannel hash and ratatouille that’s going to show up on the menu soon.”
A few White Leghorns and Golden Comet hens scratched around in the dirt by Harper’s feet.
“Morning,” Fred called out, swinging burlap bags filled with russet potatoes in each hand. “How’s the investigation coming? Any suspects?”
“Not that I know of,” Harper replied, stepping out of Fred’s way so he could load the potatoes into the van. “But then, I haven’t been to the Inn since last night.”
“A couple of deputies were over here early this morning scoping things out, mostly looking out back by the river,” Fred said.
“I’m sure they’re scouring the river bank,” Maggie said. “At least, I overheard them saying they thought they’d find some footprints or something down there.”
Fred chuckled. “Lots of folks pull their fishing boats up on shore not far from here where a little sandbar juts out. Then they walk back and forth to find a good spot to drop a line. I’m sure there are plenty of footprints along the banks to keep the cops busy. Give me the keys, Maggie, and I’ll deliver the goods to Rubino’s.”
Maggie tucked an escaped lock of curly brown hair back under the baseball cap she always wore outside in the sunshine. She dug the keys out of her jeans pocket and handed them to Fred, giving him a quick kiss on his cheek.
After Fred drove off, Maggie said, “Come on in the house, ladies. We’ll have a cup of coffee and you can tell me everything you know about how Grace Potter got herself murdered at the Bittersweet Inn.”
Like many older houses still standing amid the rolling hills and fertile farm land of Iowa’s countryside, Maggie’s big white farmhouse flaunted a wide front porch, Harper’s favorite spot when she visited at White Pine Farm. But today Maggie didn’t have time to sit on the porch. She had work to do in the kitchen. Her bread dough needed punched down and while Harper and Lonnie sipped coffee on one side of the large kitchen island, Maggie stood on the other side and shaped cloverleaf dinner rolls, placing the yeasty dough into greased muffin tins.
“I thought I’d take a couple dozen to Marshall’s this afternoon,” Maggie said. “Fred and I weren’t close friends with Grace or Marshall but we did do business with both of them over the years. As a matter of fact, we stopped by Marshall’s travel agency last month. We haven’t set a wedding date yet, but that didn’t stop us from wanting to look at travel brochures for the honeymoon, whenever it might be.”
“Paul headed out early this morning. He’ll be on the road for a few days,” Lonnie said. “That’s one of the drawbacks of being married to a pharmaceutical salesman. I’ll have to pay my respects without him.”
“Fred and I can pick you up when we go. How about you, Harper? Want to make it a foursome?”
“Thanks, but I have a few consignment pieces coming in to the shop later this afternoon. I’ll go this evening. I’m used to flying solo anyway.”
“Well, if you change your mind we’ll go around four. Speaking of Marshall, I wonder if the old boy will be in mourning long. Most people thought he must be part saint to put up with Grace’s sharp tongue like he did.”
“Probably a good thing he was out of town when it happened,” Lonnie said, “since the husband is usually the first one the cops look at.”
“Are there any ideas floating around as to who did Grace in?” Maggie asked, shaping the last roll.
Harper and Lonnie glanced sideways at each other before looking swiftly away. Maggie, however, caught the motion.
“Okay, give it up. What do you know that you aren’t sharing with me?”
Harper sighed. She disliked having a hand in exposing Pastor Hart’s and Fannie’s affair yet she really wanted to know if Maggie had noticed anything that might have seemed suspicious on Sunday night, particularly as far as Lawrence or Fannie were concerned. Besides, she and Maggie had shared most everything with each other over the years and once Harper turned over Grace’s letters to the authorities the affair would no doubt be front page news anyway.
“Get the flour off your hands. I’ve got a couple of letters you can read,” Harper said.
Maggie covered the rolls in the muffin tins with clean white towels until they could double in size, washed her hands at the sink, and poured everyone a fresh cup of coffee. She took the papers Harper pulled out of her purse and sat at the kitchen table where she read through both letters twice.
“Holy cow,” she said, handing the letters back to Harper. “Fannie could win Layperson of the Year for that. You have to hand it to Grace Potter. She knew how to cut up someone and throw them into the meat grinder.”
Harper stuffed the letters back into her purse before asking Maggie, “Did you notice Grace, say around eight o’clock on Sunday evening? Or Fannie or Lawrence?”
“To be honest, Fred and I had parked ourselves on the hay wagon to wait for Ezra to light the bonfire so I wasn’t exactly paying attention. The wagon was on the side of the house opposite the bonfire where it would be out of reach from any flyaway sparks.”
“And out of sight of any prying eyes, right?” Lonnie said, laughing.
Maggie laughed, too. “I’ll admit we were snuggling a little. Now that I think about it, I do remember hearing a noise like the crack of a branch underneath someone’s foot. It made me jump and I wondered at the time if someone had walked by.”
“So did you see anyone?” Harper asked.
“It was almost too dark to see very far away by that time; the moon hadn’t made its way above the tree line yet. It was right before the bonfire started. Come to think of it, I caught a glimpse of a couple making their way across the property, heading toward the garden shed. But they were pretty much shadow figures. They disappeared a few seconds later. I thought they might have been walking toward the timber, maybe on their way down to the river. And then Fred cuddled a little closer and I forgot all about them. Until now, that is.”
“You’ve no idea who you might have seen?” Lonnie asked.
“Unfortunately, no. I wish I had been more observant but I didn’t know Grace was about to be murdered.” Maggie shivered. “It’s an awful thought, actually, that Fred and I were, well, you know, cuddling while
someone was killing Grace a hundred yards away.”
“I’ve come up with two suspects,” Harper said. “Fannie and Lawrence both had strong motives to shut Grace up permanently. Now all I have to do is put them at the scene of the crime and prove it was the two of them you saw, Maggie.”
“Just how do you intend to do that?” Lonnie asked.
“I haven’t figured it out yet,” Harper answered. “Wasn’t Grace a church secretary or something?”
“She helped with some of the weekly tasks,” Maggie said. “You know, typing up the Sunday programs and depositing the offerings at the bank. She was involved with the choir, too. My aunt goes to that church. She said once Grace really wanted the position of church secretary but her lack of discretion kept her from even being considered for it. Yet the Potters do a lot for the church and give a lot of money. Marshall and Wagner even bought an expensive baby grand piano for the church a few years ago. So Grace didn’t get completely winnowed out by the church board.”
“Well, there you go, Harper,” Lonnie said. “You might go talk with Fannie about Grace’s vacant spot in the choir, see if you can get a feel for what she thinks about Grace’s murder.”
“Or I could show Fannie the letter to Bruce,” Harper said, “and then ask her what she thinks about Grace’s murder.”
Chapter Seven
Harper unlocked the front door of her Craftsman- style home, stepped inside the comfortable living room, and kicked off her shoes. Lonnie had dropped her off at the antique shop after their visit with Maggie, and when she and Helen closed the shop a little after five o’clock, Helen drove her home. One walk a day was surely enough healthful activity. She planned to freshen up, then make a condolence call to Marshall Potter.
First things first, however. She pulled a few ingredients from her freezer and pantry, and prepared a casserole to take to Marshall. After sliding the baking dish into the oven, she took a quick shower and dressed in a pair of gray slacks and a black sweater. She fluffed up her medium-length hair, applied enough makeup to look presentable, and grabbed her jacket.
Harper drove to the other side of town and parked her Ford pickup in front of the house Grace and Marshall Potter had called home for thirty years. Harper lifted the warm casserole from the seat and proceeded to the front door. Balancing the baking dish wrapped in a cozy, she rang the doorbell and waited. Mona Wagner answered after the second ring.
Mona dressed well for the role of condolence greeter, Harper thought, noting the pricey black coat dress and several pieces of expensive-looking jewelry Grace’s sister-in-law wore.
“Poor Marshall, this is just terrible for him,” Mona said softly, motioning for Harper to follow her to the kitchen with the casserole. “He got home from the convention this morning and he’s exhausted.”
Mona led Harper past the living room where a tired looking Marshall sat talking with a few callers.
“He said he didn’t get much sleep last night,” Mona said as she placed the casserole in the fridge alongside several other goodwill offerings already on the shelves, and then smoothed her perfect chignon. She hesitated for just a second and Harper saw something flicker behind her eyes. She felt once more that Grace’s sister-in-law knew something, but before she could ask her anything, Mona said, “Wagner and I are the only close relatives Marshall has since he and Grace never had children. Children were greatly over-rated as far as Grace was concerned. In the earlier days of their marriage, Marshall often mentioned how he hoped to become a father. He never had a clue how Grace practiced stringent birth control so she wouldn’t get pregnant. But I knew. Grace confided in me about that. She said a baby was messy, noisy and cost a lot of money––money Grace didn’t want to spend on anyone other than herself. So what if Marshall never got to be a father? she said once; he’d get over it.” Mona shook her head, a look of distaste on her face. “Yes, when Grace wanted something badly enough she’d declare war until she got it. Marshall knew the only way to keep the peace was to wave the white flag and surrender to her demands. Take her Lexus. I got a new Acura a few weeks ago and Grace just had to one up me. So last week, Marshall drove Grace to the Lexus dealership where she took possession of her new car. Battle won.”
The doorbell rang and Mona excused herself, retreating across the tile floor, her Jimmy Choos clicking. Harper wandered into the hallway and listened to the reserved voices of the visitors bearing foil-covered dishes.
While Mona chatted with the newest arrival, Harper spotted a door on her right. It opened into what appeared to be a home office. Harper considered the consequences of getting caught by one of the Potters. However, Mona seemed to have forgotten all about her, and Marshall was occupied.
Who says I’ll get caught, Harper thought before she slipped quickly into the room, closed the door and switched on a light.
Grace must have knocked herself out at the Ethan Allen store, Harper concluded while quietly padding across thick carpeting to a laptop computer lying open on an expensive oak desk. Hidden clues always pop up in computers on detective shows, so why not take a peek? she reasoned, powering on the machine. She hoped luck would be on her side and Grace hadn’t locked the computer with a password. When the computer’s desktop appeared on the monitor, she felt a rush of relief. She clicked the email icon. Fortunately, Grace hadn’t used a password to protect her email account, either.
Trying to not think too much about privacy issues, Harper clicked the Inbox icon and scrolled through several unopened messages. One was from Amazon confirming a book order, one was from a department store confirming an order for three sweaters, and the others dealt with real estate news.
She scrolled through the deleted email and the trash folder. Nothing suspicious jumped out at her. Next she opened Grace’s word processing software and scrolled through several folders, including ones labeled ‘Church,’ ‘Work,’ ‘Recipes,’ and ‘Household.’ Harper didn’t find anything out of the ordinary in them.
She quickly scrolled through the remaining programs. Finding nothing of importance, she powered off the laptop and turned her attention to the oak desk, sliding open the middle drawer.
“Oh, geez,” Harper sputtered. She could scarcely believe what she had exposed. With a shaking hand she picked up a copy of a snapshot clearly showing Summer Storm standing by the open door of her car, the muscular arm of a man draped across the young woman’s shoulders. The bright blue neon sign behind the shocked-looking couple clearly showed they were at the Rest Stop Inn, a motel of dubious reputation on the seedy side of St. Stephens. Harper’s mouth formed a grim line while letting the full implication of the guilty-looking couple standing outside a cheap motel sink into her head.
Summer and a very married Mickey O’Connell caught at the Rest Stop Inn? Obviously.
Wow, Harper thought. What could be worse for Mickey than having Grace Potter catch him in an adulterous affair? Having Grace catch him in an adulterous affair with Summer Storm, his wife’s sister. And clearly, Grace had caught him. Caught him and taken a picture to prove it.
Lucy O’Connell had kicked her husband, Mickey, out of the house once before for cheating and she’d made it clear to anyone who cared to listen to her, and to her bridge club, in particular, that Mickey was about to run out of rope. One more cheating scandal and she’d see to it he not only lost his well-heeled wife but also the O’Connell Farm Implement Company her family money had bought and paid for. If he had a dime left to his name she planned to take that for spousal support.
It hadn’t taken long for Lucy’s announcement to make its way from the bridge club to most every nook and cranny in town. Harper was convinced Lucy O’Connell would flush her husband, Mickey, and her sister, Summer, down the toilet if she ever saw this family photo, giving the guilty twosome one heck of a motive for murder. She looked at the back of the picture. Grace had scribbled the words another big catch this week and had dated it two days after she’d written the letters to Deacon Fairweather and Bruce Abbott. Harper stuck the picture i
n her purse. She flipped off the light and headed to the living room.
The last visitor was just leaving and Harper gave Marshall a hug. “I’m so sorry about Grace.”
“Thanks, Harper. It’s been a shock. I don’t believe I’ve really taken it in yet.”
Tears glistened in the corners of Marshall’s eyes and his wide shoulders slumped.
Marshall must be around sixty, Harper thought, patting his arm. He’s still attractive, still looks quite fit. I wonder if he had anything going on the side, any reason to want Grace out of the way. It wouldn’t be the first time a husband believed he’d remained fit and trim over the years while the little woman let herself go, thereby entitling him to get rid of her and latch on to a younger, trimmer wife. Not that Grace had let herself go.
Harper pictured Grace the last time she’d seen her during the Pumpkin Patch Festival. She didn’t think Marshall had any reason to fault his wife on her upkeep. Sure, Grace had plumped up in the last few years but she made up for the extra pounds with frequent mani-pedis, hair coloring, eyebrow waxing, and dressing expensively.
