Murder Most Fowl

by Edith Maxwell

  “That’s a beautiful horse,” Cam said. The horse’s coat was a glossy black, and it had a finely shaped head over a smooth, muscular body. She reached out a hand to stroke its velvety nose, but the horse tossed its head with a snort.

  “Thanks. He doesn’t like strangers.” Judith led him around Sue in the direction of the stalls. “See you Thursday,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Gotcha,” Sue replied. “What’s up, Cam?”

  “I wanted to ask you something.”

  “Can you ask it over coffee in my office? I need to sit down.”

  “Of course.”

  Sue headed for the steps that led to an upstairs hallway. When she opened the door to the office, warm air and the aroma of overcooked coffee spilled out. The office featured a window overlooking the riding ring. Sue bent over to remove her riding boots while still in the passageway, then straightened. “This is my little refuge from manure.” She gestured to Cam to come in. “You don’t have to take your shoes off, though.”

  “Thanks.” Cam had seen the window on the riding ring but had never been up in the office before. It was a cozy room, with a desk and chair, a small couch covered in red next to an end table with a lamp, and a shelf holding the coffee machine and supplies atop a dorm fridge. Pillows in bright primary colors lay on the couch and a painting on the wall pictured two women at a produce market that looked distinctly Caribbean. An electric blue pillow on the couch matched the upholstery of the desk chair.

  “Have a seat.” Sue pointed to the couch before carrying the coffee carafe through a doorway into a small bathroom. After clattering about and running water, Sue reappeared with the carafe full of water and proceeded to start a new pot.

  “So what’s up?” Sue asked, sinking into the desk chair when she was done.

  “I found a gold bracelet in my compost pile. I wondered if you or someone here might have lost it in the manure and it got onto my farm by accident.” Cam drew out her phone and brought up the pictures. “I took two shots of it before the police took it away.”

  “The police?” Sue’s blue eyes flew wide open.

  “Well, I found a bone, too. There’s an off chance it could be human, so I thought I’d better turn it over to the authorities.”

  “Good idea. I hope it’s not, though.” Sue reached for the phone. “I’ve never owned a gold bracelet, but maybe one of my riders lost it.” She squinted at the first picture, swiped to the second and back to the first, then glanced up at Cam. “What does that say? I don’t know where my glasses have got to.”

  “It has the letters FL engraved on the inside. Do you have any horse owners with those initials? Or any of the girls who work for you?”

  Sue turned to a phone list pinned to the wall above her desk and scanned it. “Not presently.” As the coffee sputtered, signaling the end of the brewing, she stood and poured it into two mugs, extending one to Cam. “Milk? Sugar?”

  “A little milk if you have it, thanks.” Cam accepted the quart of whole milk Sue extracted from the fridge and added a glug to her coffee.

  “Long time ago, though, when I was starting out, there was an Irish girl who loved horses, and she worked mucking out stalls for me to earn riding time,” Sue said. “Fionnoula Leary. And I’m thinking she used to wear a bracelet like that.”

  Cam sat up straight on the couch. “Really? Does she still live in this area?”

  “I don’t think so. I remember the bracelet because I told her she shouldn’t wear it in the stalls, that it would get trashed with the manure and all.” Sue smiled at a memory. “She said in that accent of hers that she never took it off because it was her grandmother’s, who’d had the same name. And that gold would last forever.”

  Chapter 13

  Cam peered at the microfilm screen on the second floor of the Newburyport Library half an hour later. She’d had an hour to fill before going to see Uncle Albert, and she wanted to dig into the long-ago conflict between Paul and Wayne just in case it helped Pete with the case, and thereby helped Megan, too. After she texted Ruth with the name of the Irish girl, Cam had located the year Felicity said Paul and Wayne had had their falling out. But a year’s worth of a daily paper could take a while to scan. She didn’t need to peruse the features or sports pages, but it was too bad she couldn’t run a search. Cam shifted in her seat. Might as well start with January.

  She clicked the Next arrow through page after page, scanning for a mention of either Paul’s or Wayne’s names. She checked the news headlines and the police logs for each town in the paper’s coverage area, looking for a mention of high school boys getting in trouble. She was well into April with nothing to show for it when her phone buzzed where she’d laid it on the table next to the keyboard. She’d set the timer for three-thirty, which was now. Time to head back to Westbury for her date with Albert.

  Clicking onto one more day, Cam froze. The top news headline read, POLICE SEEK INFORMATION IN LOCAL GIRL’S DISAPPEARANCE. And the first paragraph contained the name Fionnoula Leary.

  Cam stared. Fionnoula Leary. The Irish girl who had worn a gold bracelet to muck out horse stalls. Cam read every word of the article and then read it again. Fionnoula had been on an informal exchange year, the article said, staying with relatives in Westbury and attending the high school as a junior. The relatives, the Brennan family, had reported her missing after a day, saying only that she’d said she was going out with friends but that she’d never come home. No friend had as yet come forward to say what had happened. The story ended with the usual plea for anyone with knowledge of Fionnoula’s whereabouts to call the local authorities.

  The poor thing. A sixteen-year-old exchange student. How could a girl like that just disappear? Had she been abducted? Or run away because she wasn’t happy with the family? Maybe she’d been in an accident and had suffered from amnesia.

  When Cam’s phone timer buzzed insistently again, she shook her head. She was dying to find out if Fionnoula had ever surfaced, but she had to get going. Google might get Cam somewhere once she got home, since she now had specifics of name and date. She hadn’t learned anything about Paul and Wayne, though, which was what she had come for. She shook her head again.

  She quickly sent the page to her personal e-mail account and logged out, then gathered up her bag and coat and headed downstairs, through the lobby, and out the front doors. As she walked briskly along the sidewalk toward her truck, she glanced over at the wide, lit windows of the library’s children’s room and stopped. Greta, with a thin black cloak thrown over her sweater and slacks, stood in front of a circle of elementary-aged girls and boys, each of whom wore round black Harry Potter glasses and held a wand. Greta held one, too, and waved it as she spoke. The children followed suit. It had to be an after-school Spells class or something similar. But what was Greta doing back at work so soon after her husband’s death?

  Albert cracked open first one beer and then the other. “Fetch those drinking glasses from the cupboard, will you, dear? And the bag of chips.” He stayed in his big padded recliner, his customary red plaid blanket draped over his lap, his one remaining foot peeking out from under the blanket.

  Cam handed him a glass, poured the potato chips into a bowl and brought it over, then sat in the accompanying chair in his cozy assisted living room at Moran Manor. It included a sitting nook with his desk in one corner, a tiny kitchen area with sink and minifridge next to the bathroom, and the bedroom area beyond. It smelled cozy, too, a whiff of Albert’s Old Spice aftershave mixing with the leather of his chair. A photograph of a dark-haired Albert and Marie at the farm hung on the wall. They stood in the classic American Gothic pose in front of the old barn, Albert in overalls, Marie’s hair pulled back in a bun. Except that she wore overalls, too, they both held pitchforks, and rather than looking stern, they were smiling into the camera as a breeze ruffled their hair.

  “When was that taken?” Cam asked. “I don’t think I ever asked you.” She popped a salty chip into her mouth and crunched.


  Albert smiled. “Why, I’d say I was about forty, so forty-six years ago, give or take a couple.”

  “You look happy.”

  “We surely were.”

  She poured the beer into her glass and held it up. “Here’s to happiness.”

  Albert poured his own and clinked his glass with hers. He peered at her. “Are you happy, Cammy?” He took a swallow and set the glass down.

  Cam blinked. “I guess so.” She gazed out the window, then back at Albert. “Sure, I’m happy. Pete says he loves me. I have work, I have friends. I have you.” She had found Albert unconscious on his floor a couple of months ago while the most recent murderer had been at large, and Cam had been afraid she would lose him.

  “I hear a ‘but.’” He reached over and patted her knee.

  “Good ears.” Cam sipped her own beer before she went on. “Wayne’s murder is disturbing. I’m sad he’s gone, but it’s also frightening to have another killer wandering around out there. Plus, Pete’s boss is putting a lot of pressure on him to solve the case quickly. So I’m basically happy, but it’s an unsettling week.”

  “I understand. Want to talk about something else?” At Cam’s nod, Albert asked, “How’s spring pruning and planting going?”

  They chatted for a few minutes about the farm, about a Moran Manor trip to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts Albert had been on, about the chicks, about Albert’s computer club activities—about anything but murder.

  “And how’s Marilyn?” Cam asked. She liked Albert’s new lady friend, a smart and gentle woman who didn’t let her fondness for Albert get in the way of regularly beating him at games of Scrabble.

  “Excellent. She’s up to Ipswich visiting her daughter and grandsons just now for a few days.” He took a handful of chips and began to eat them one at a time.

  Cam cocked her head. “Do you remember news about a young Irish exchange student going missing about thirty-five years ago?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Can’t say that I do. Why are you interested?”

  “I was turning the compost this morning, and a bracelet emerged.” She leaned down to her bag where she’d set it on the floor and fished in it until she found her phone. She brought up the pictures and handed it to him.

  Albert took the phone in his gnarled, age-spotted hands and peered at the picture. “That’s a nice piece of work. Someone must be missing it. Any idea how it got into the compost?” He handed it back to her.

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Three ways it could have gotten there. One, it was already on the farm, buried in the soil, and got in with the roots of a spent plant—”

  “I never saw it, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.”

  “Right. That particular batch of compost also has two sets of off-farm inputs. Horse manure from Sue Genest’s stable, and a load of lobster bodies I ordered from Seacoast Organics.” She showed him the initials on the bracelet. “I went over to see Sue earlier this afternoon, and she told me an Irish girl named Fionnoula Leary used to work and ride there when Sue was getting started.”

  “FL. But surely if she lost the bracelet all those decades ago it wouldn’t have come over in a load of manure this year?”

  “No. But then I was at the Newburyport Library looking at their microfilm for the Daily News for that same time period—”

  “Why were you doing that?”

  “Tell you in a minute. I was about to leave to come here when I saw an article about a Fionnoula Leary disappearing. She was staying with relatives and going to high school here in town, and she didn’t come home one night.”

  Albert frowned. “An Irish family in Westbury? Now that does ring a bell. They were only here for a few years. The father was an executive for a European company and was working in Boston for a while. He wanted the children to live and go to school somewhere safer than the city, so they took up residence here in Westbury. Can’t say that I heard about the visiting girl, though. Did she ever show up?”

  “I don’t know. I was running late to come over here and didn’t get a chance to keep reading. I’ll go back tomorrow.” Cam took another sip of beer and savored the bitter hop flavor as it went down. “So the Irish family had children. I don’t suppose you remember their names?”

  He tapped a finger against his glass. “The older one came to the farm one time, said she was interested in growing vegetables. Marie showed her around. Now what was the girl’s name?” He tapped some more. “Katrina, maybe. Although that sounds Russian, doesn’t it?”

  “There was a Katrina playing at the pub last night. And she knew Paul Underwood—remember, the chemical salesman I debated in the winter?”

  “Yes.”

  “The other thing I wanted to ask you was the reason I went to the library in the first place. And it might have to do with the murder.”

  Albert raised his bushy white eyebrows.

  “So it turns out Paul Underwood and Wayne were friends in high school, according to Felicity Slavin, but had a falling out at the time. Paul was visiting Wayne on Saturday right before he was killed, and I want to know what happened between them all those years ago. Which, as it turns out, was the same year Fionnoula Leary went missing.”

  “And the plot thickens. This Katrina playing Irish music—that certainly might be Fionnoula’s cousin. I can’t say that I remember either of those boys, though, so I’m not much help to you, dear.”

  “I knew it was a long shot. But if any old memory pops up, you’ll let me know?”

  Albert nodded. “And you’ll let me know what you find out about that missing girl.”

  “There was something else in the compost. A bone as long as my forearm.”

  Albert’s eyes widened. “You don’t say.”

  “I do, and I wondered if it might have come with the bracelet. I called the police and, boy, did they ever investigate. Ruth came and said she thought it was likely a human bone. The teams are probably still there. They even brought in a cadaver-sniffing dog. I had to shut Dasha and Preston in the house.”

  “My goodness, honey. Did they find anything?” Albert asked.

  “I don’t know. They said they’d call.” She frowned at her glass. Her phone dinged and she picked it up off the side table. “Speak of the devil. It’s the police.” She connected and said hello.

  Ruth was on the line. “Wanted to tell you we didn’t find any additional remains on your property.”

  “Okay, thanks. I found out something about the bracelet today. It belonged to an Irish girl named Fionnoula Leary about thirty years ago. She was apparently staying with cousins here in Westbury.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “It’s a long story. Can I come and talk about it tomorrow?”

  “How about tonight?” Ruth asked.

  “If I have to. I’m at Albert’s. I’ll stop by the station after I leave here.”

  After Cam disconnected, she glanced at Albert. “They didn’t find any other remains, as they put it.”

  “Well, that’s good. Wonder if they’ll figure out whose bone it was. Maybe it was this Fionnoula’s.”

  She cocked her head at her uncle. “You never heard of anyone being buried on the farm, did you? Like before your time?”

  Albert laughed. “I most certainly did not.”

  “Ruth wanted me to ask you that. But if the bracelet was Fionnoula’s, that’s kind of a moot point.”

  “I have a thought.” Albert reached into the drawer of the end table and pulled out a slim pamphlet. “There’s a lady here who used to teach at the school. History and social studies, if memory serves. Let me see if I can find her number in the directory.” He scanned the pages, running a knobby bent index finger down the lines of names. “Here she is. Nina Bertoli. I’ll give you her phone number along with her room number. She’s in the other wing.” He scrawled the number on a notepad, tore off the page, and handed it to Cam

  “Thanks. I’ll give her a call, or maybe stop in and see her.”

 
; “Tell her I sent you.” He glanced at the clock next to his bed and drained his beer. “It’s almost time to go down for dinner, and as you know it takes a one-legged man a good deal of time to get anywhere. Will you join me for the meal?”

  “Thanks, Uncle Albert, but I should get home to the chickens and the pets.”

  “Pets plural?”

  “I have Pete’s dog, Dasha, while he’s working this case.” Cam helped Albert up and into his wheelchair, although she knew he was perfectly capable of managing it himself. Having his foot amputated had meant he could no longer farm, and was the reason he’d offered the property and business to Cam, but it hadn’t slowed him down much once he’d moved here.

  “Get along then. I’ll join the line of old folks waiting for the elevator.” He winked at her, and then his smile went serious. “You watch your back, now, honey. Lock up tight. You’re the most precious thing in this life of mine.”

  Cam, her throat suddenly thick, leaned down for a hug. “Right back atcha. I’ll be careful, don’t worry.” She walked out into the hall with him, then waved as she headed for the wide central staircase. “Love you,” she called.

  Cam knocked on Nina Bertoli’s door. At the bottom of the stairs she’d glanced at the slip of paper and decided to try and find Nina now rather than call her later. Cam made her way to the room on the first floor of the wing opposite Albert’s.

  “Come in,” a quavery voice called out.

  Cam pushed open the door to a faint scent of vanilla and a room as feminine as Albert’s was masculine despite an identical layout. Pink flowered curtains lined the windows, and the two stuffed armchairs were upholstered in a dainty blue and pink floral print. A tiny woman sat in the one near the window, her pink-slippered feet resting on a round pink ottoman. One hand held an embroidery hoop with a piece of needlework stretched on it, the other hand grasped a needle threaded with yellow silk. A brightly lit gooseneck floor lamp illuminated the work. The woman glanced up at Cam above the red-rimmed reading glasses perched on her nose.