Murder Most Fowl

by Edith Maxwell

  Yes. “It’s okay. Do you want to know what I think?”

  Megan nodded without speaking. She pointed to the left into the rose gardens, so Cam steered Dasha in that direction.

  “Your father was making a payment of a hundred dollars to someone every month for the last twenty years.”

  Megan whipped her head toward Cam. “Every month for twenty years? Who was he paying?”

  “Someone with the initials PU.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “I think it might be Paul Underwood.”

  Megan slowed to a stop. “The man who found Daddy dead,” she whispered.

  Cam pulled Dasha to a halt, as well. “That’s right. I think he might have been blackmailing Wayne.”

  “Blackmail? You have to be kidding. My father isn’t . . . I mean, wasn’t a criminal. He would never have hurt anyone.” Her gaze cast around the low rows of severely pruned shrubs arranged in geometrical shapes, which would be gorgeous, fragrant displays of roses in a few short months.

  “Something terrible happened a long time ago. When your dad was a teenager. Paul was with him and two girls when one of the girls died in an accident.”

  Megan’s face collapsed. “Oh, no. That’s awful.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But that’s no reason to blackmail him.” Megan started walking again, but slowly, like a sleepwalker.

  “Wayne inadvertently caused the accident.”

  Megan’s eyes went wide, then she shook her head, hard. “I don’t believe it.” She lifted her chin and picked up the pace until they’d reached the hedge at the end of the garden. She led the way through the passage and headed on the path across an open field to Curzon Mill Road, but instead of turning back to the parking lot, she continued toward the right.

  Cam lengthened her stride to keep up. “Both Paul and the surviving girl, Catriona, have confessed to the accident. Paul told me himself only yesterday. Megan . . .” Cam reached out a hand to Megan’s arm to try to slow her down. “Your mother never mentioned knowing anything about what happened?”

  Megan did slow, shaking her head. “No, nothing.”

  “Well, it was before she met Wayne, so that makes sense. And all three of them—I mean, Paul, Wayne, and Catriona—apparently made a pact not to ever tell the story.”

  “Which resulted in my father paying off some guy for years and my mother complaining about us never having any money for most of my life. Brilliant.”

  They reached the small footbridge that spanned the Artichoke River before it ran out to the Merrimack. Dasha’s toenails clicked over the thick wooden boards.

  “Well, anyway, it’s over now,” Cam said. “I brought the statements back for you. They’re in my truck.”

  “Maybe it’s over, maybe it’s not. Blackmail is a crime. Paul Underwood is going to have to pay that money back. He owes it to my mom. To the whole family.”

  For the first time, Cam caught a glimpse of Greta’s spirited side in Megan, instead of Wayne’s sweetness. They kept walking along the road, Dasha alert and trotting with his tongue out. Suddenly he stopped and barked. From around the bend ahead of them came two men in long black robes, walking slowly and talking in quiet voices.

  “We must be on the Emery House grounds,” Cam said softly. “Maybe we should turn around.”

  “Oh, no. I know those guys.” Megan smiled, her face brightening. “They come and volunteer at Sunday school sometimes.”

  “The monks do?”

  “Yeah. Brother William, Brother Matt,” she called, waving.

  The men looked up as if startled, and then the taller one waved. They continued toward them until they reached Megan. The taller monk towered a good eight inches above Cam and was built like a grizzly. He leaned down and enveloped Megan in a huge hug.

  “Our poor dear Megan,” he said, releasing her. “I’m Brother Matt,” he said to Cam, sliding his hands into the opposite sleeves and lowering his head for a moment.

  “Cam Flaherty. Nice to meet you.”

  “Brother William.” The other one, light-haired and thin, copied the same movement toward Cam, then it was his turn to hold out his arms to Megan.

  Brother Matt squatted and petted Dasha for a moment, which Dasha seemed to enjoy, despite it coming from a total stranger.

  After another hearty embrace, Megan surfaced, sniffling and wiping her eyes. “You guys are the best,” she said with a wan smile. “You really are.” She looked at Cam. “They come in and teach Bible stories to the primary class, sitting on the rug with a bunch of five-year-olds.”

  “Don’t be silly, my dear,” Matt said. “We care for all our brothers and sisters, young and old. How is your mother faring?”

  “Not great. I think. She isn’t really talking about her feelings.”

  The monks exchanged a look. “We will pay her a visit soon,” Brother William said.

  They both did their sleeve bows again, reminding Cam, except for the outfit, of the Buddhist monks she’d once met in Cambridge. After they said good-bye, the monks headed back the way they’d come.

  “I should get back,” Cam said. “I have an afternoon of tilling ahead of me.”

  “And I have to get back for lunch with Mom.”

  Cam turned and made her way back to the bridge. At the edge, Dasha stopped and barked. As Cam turned, she realized Megan had lagged behind, so she waited.

  “Something funny happened when I went over to my parents’ farm this morning.” Megan frowned. “That Judith woman drove over in a big huff and accused my mom of going through her trash. Why would Mom do something like that? We’re not that poor.”

  “What did your mom say?”

  “She denied it, of course.”

  “Did Judith say she’d seen Greta do it?” Cam glanced at Megan.

  “I don’t know. Mom told her to leave and then followed her outside, so I couldn’t hear what else they said. Can’t the world just leave my family alone?”

  Chapter 29

  Cam lingered over a cheese sandwich and a glass of milk when she got home, reading the paper and practicing work avoidance. She indulged in two pieces of dark chocolate and checked her e-mail and Facebook. Finally she glanced at the clock.

  “Two o’clock, Preston. Time to get serious.”

  From where he lay on his back in a patch of sunshine, he opened one eye and closed it again. Dasha gave a little doggie-mare twitch from his bed.

  The day had warmed by the time she’d come home from the walk, so Cam slipped on her dark khaki work vest instead of a jacket. It had big patch pockets on the front, perfect for her keys, phone, and a pair of pruners or a few seed packets.

  She locked up and headed out to the barn, once again leaving the animals inside. It was time to till. After checking the oil in the tiller and topping up the gas, and after several pulls of the starter rope, Cam finally got Red started. She wanted to call the rusty, formerly red rototiller Old Rustbucket. But she didn’t dare offend the heavy machine she’d inherited from Uncle Albert, along with all the other farm tools and supplies, even though parts of the tiller were nearly rusted out. One of its back-mounted circular tines was almost worn through, and a piece that kept the handles upright was about gone, too. She guessed she ought to be grateful that the tiller ever started, and that it ran, too. She needed it for the heavier work of turning the beds in the spring, and once it got running, it didn’t quit until the gas tank ran empty. She’d taught herself the rudiments of small engine maintenance and rescue last summer, which had kept the tiller in operation more than once.

  She shoved the engine in gear and walked behind it out of the barn, then let it die by releasing the lever on the right handle. She took a moment to lock the barn before firing up the tiller again and heading out back. She walked slowly behind the big machine, her hands vibrating with the engine even though the tines weren’t engaged. The sunshine had heated up the day into the fifties, but it felt warmer than that. Cam realized with a start that today was the equinox, si
gnaling the shift to longer days and shorter nights, so it was a day farmers all over the northern hemisphere traditionally rejoiced in. Should she go find a flagon of mead to drink and splash on the ground or something?

  Nah. She had fields to turn. The hens would be able to clear only so much, and each fenced-in area would take them several weeks. Cam had crops to get in the ground before that. But the equinox was a major turning point in the season, even if there was still the danger of freezing temperatures well into May. She could understand why rural people everywhere celebrated it. Maybe next year she’d hold an equinox potluck on the farm to drum up customers for the summer. One more missed opportunity for this year, which just showed that she was a geek farmer, not a brilliant marketer. Good at code and cucumbers instead of knowing how to make the news of her farm go viral.

  Arriving at the area she wanted to till, this one planted with hairy vetch, she engaged the tines and pressed down on the tiller handles so the curved blades dug into the soil as they turned. DJ would advise her to just use a no-till method and plant right into the small leaves and curly tendrils of the nitrogen-fixing vetch. But since he was off on his retreat, she couldn’t ask him how she was supposed to get earth loose enough to plant in if she didn’t loosen it. At least she was adding organic material to the soil, one of the main purposes of planting winter-hardy crops in the fall.

  As she worked, she considered what Megan had said about Judith accusing Greta of going through her trash. Could Judith have meant Greta did it this week? But why?

  The tiller encountered a more compacted bit of ground and bucked. Cam focused on pressing the back down again as a counterweight against the heavy engine in the front. She came to the end of the row and pressed down on the handles as she swung the tiller around to go back the way she came. She tried to walk to the left so she didn’t compress the newly tilled soil, but it was awkward, and she was almost too tall for the machine, so her back already ached from the effort of bending over and controlling the weight of the machine, the pressure downward, and the forward motion.

  She reached the end and turned again. Maybe Megan was wrong. Maybe Judith hadn’t said trash. Why would Greta be going through Judith’s trash, anyway?

  Cam swore and let go of both levers on the handles. The blades stopped rotating and the engine cut out. Greta could have been stealing Judith’s vaping supplies to make it look like Judith had killed Wayne. Cam stared at the dark soil she’d brought to the surface, at earthworms wriggling to the surface, at stray vetch tendrils reaching for the sky. She didn’t see any of it.

  Greta would have framed Judith for only one reason: if Greta had killed Wayne herself.

  Chapter 30

  Pulling off her gloves, Cam grabbed her phone out of her vest pocket and stabbed Pete’s speed dial. “Pick up, pick up, you have to pick up,” she whispered.

  When his voice mail answered, she blew out a breath and swore again. Maybe he was in a meeting. Maybe he’d call back in a minute. Should she leave a message or wait for him to call? The beep sounded.

  “Pete. You have to find Greta. Judith says Greta stole her trash. It must have been the vaping stuff that she planted to frame Judith. Judith has a security cam by her front door. Maybe she has another one—”

  Her message was cut off with another beep. Cam stabbed at the phone again, this time disconnecting. Damn it. Greta might have killed her own husband. How could she do such a thing? A shiver rippled through Cam despite the bright, mild, happy-looking day. She’d had enough experience with murder over the last year to know logic didn’t always prevail, and that one person’s difficult situation became another’s intolerable one. But why hadn’t Greta simply filed for divorce if she was so unhappy with Wayne and her life with him?

  Cam didn’t know what to do next. She wasn’t about to go over to Greta’s and confront her. That was a job for the police, not for an unarmed farmer. Uh-oh. What about an armed one? Cam had seen Greta’s ammunition for a small gun. She must also own the gun. That must have been what she was hiding in that bag. For sure it wasn’t medicine for Pluto. Double reason for Cam to stay right here on her own farm, do her tilling, and listen for the phone. She made sure it was set to both full volume and vibrate before sticking it back in her pocket.

  Starting up the tiller, she made her way down the row again, and back up. And back down. And back up one more time, finishing that small field. She let the tiller die to check her phone, just in case she’d missed Pete’s call from the noise and vibration of the machine, but there was no indication of a new call. He had to call her back. Or maybe he was already following up on her tip.

  Cam had her hand on the starter rope when she realized how thirsty she was. She let it go and trudged to the barn. It was a pain to have to unlock it every time, but a nuisance was better than vandalism or, worse, an assault. She drank down a cup of water and then reversed her actions. She locked up and was turning toward the rear of the property when a rattling car slowed near her driveway. Cam whirled. It wasn’t a vehicle or driver she recognized and it sped up again, driving off down the hill. It wouldn’t be Tam’s rattling car, anyway. He was in custody.

  Drawing on her work gloves again, Cam walked back out to the far field where she passed the hens’ new location. She slowed at the sight of forty multicolored hens delighting in their new luxury vegetative digs, quite literally.

  “Hey, girls, how’s the salad? Hey, Mama Dot. You like?”

  The Silver Laced Wyandotte ran right up to the fence and chirped at Cam, the chicken’s feathers forming a gorgeous scalloped pattern of black edging a silvery white. Cam reached down and through the fence to pet her, but the hen slid out from under Cam’s hand, as she always did.

  Her phone emitted two short bursts. Her eyes widened. It was the barn camera. She hadn’t heard a car drive up, but she could be too far back on the land for that. It could be any one of her volunteers. It could be someone wanting to sign up for the CSA. But she had a bad feeling about this. The phone repeated the beeps, two quick ones in a row.

  She grabbed at her pocket but the glove was too bulky. She ripped it off and pulled the phone out with too much force. It dropped to the ground in front of the chicken fencing. Her hand shaking, she retrieved it and pressed the camera icon.

  The picture showed Greta standing in front of the barn, banging on the door with one hand. In her other was a gun.

  Chapter 31

  Cam stared at the screen. Greta must think Cam knew she was the murderer. But why? And now what? All Greta had to do was come around to the back of the barn and she’d see Cam out here. Cam’s heart raced as she swiped back to the home screen, hit the phone icon, and stabbed 911. She rushed around to the far side of the coop and crouched as the dispatcher asked her what her name and emergency was.

  “Cam Flaherty, Eight Attic Hill Road,” she whispered. “Greta Laitinen is here with a gun and she looks angry. Please help me.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s in front of my barn. I’m out back in the field. I need help.” Cam heard keys tapping.

  “We’ll send help. Please stay on the line. Have you been hurt?”

  “Not yet.” Cam peeked around the side of the coop. She couldn’t see Greta, but now she couldn’t see her camera display, either. She squatted again, afraid if she swiped back to the display, she’d end the call.

  “Should I run into the woods at the back of my farm?” Cam asked. “They’re twenty yards behind me.”

  “I can’t say, ma’am. Do you feel unsafe where you are?”

  “Damn right I do.”

  “Help is on the way, ma’am.”

  Cam peeked around the side again. She swore as she ducked back behind the coop. Greta moved directly toward her. Cam couldn’t see the gun. A siren started up somewhere in the distance. Was it getting closer? She couldn’t hide behind the coop forever, and she’d be a sitting target out here, even if she tried to escape over Tully’s field. At least in the woods she might be able to hide an
d then get away, especially if she could find the trail that ran through them.

  “She’s coming. I’m going into the woods.” Cam could barely swallow, her throat was so thick with fear. She slid the phone back into the vest pocket. Staying at a crouch, she dashed for the line of trees. She tried to keep the coop between her and Greta. She could barely run bent over like this.

  “I see you,” Greta called out in a steely voice.

  Cam straightened and ran with all the speed her long legs could muster. Her lungs ached. The woods had never seemed so far away. She’d almost reached the first row of trees when a sharp sting hit the left side of her back. A crack split the air. The pain was sharp, insistent. She kept going, crashing through the underbrush. Ten yards in stood a thick old oak, with hairy poison sumac vines clinging to its trunk. Cam ducked behind it. Her side hurt. She looked down. Blood seeped out through her vest. Oh, no. A woozy feeling came over her. She took a deep breath and tried to shake it off. She couldn’t afford to faint.

  “So now you want to play hide-and-seek?”

  The woods made it hard to know where Greta was, but Cam didn’t think she’d followed her into the woods. Yet.

  Cam had to get deeper into the woods. Farther away from Greta. Ruffles must have felt this terrified the moment before the fox caught him. She glanced ahead of her. A trail ran through here somewhere. But Cam only saw more underbrush. Saplings and tangled deadfall. She turned and lifted her foot carefully, picking her way toward the next big tree back. She tried to stay in the cover of the one behind her. A branch cracked under her foot right before she reached the wide trunk. She slid behind it.

  “You’re not going to get out of here alive, you know.” Greta’s voice now sounded closer.

  Where was she and how had she approached so quietly? Cam was sure Greta would be able to hear the thundering sound of her heart. She tried to breathe without making noise. Her wound burned. She felt light headed.