Killer Jam (A Dewberry Farm Mystery)

by Karen MacInerney

  I laughed. “I sure wouldn’t want Nettie for a grandma. On the other hand, maybe she wouldn’t be sending thumper trucks out to my farm if she was.”

  Alfie leaned forward and said, in a low, hoarse voice, “But then you might have the Baca nose.”

  I couldn’t help but giggle.

  “Seriously, though, young lady,” he said, adjusting his hat. “If there’s anything we can do to help out, just let us know. You need to borrow a tractor or need a couple of fellas to help out with some heavy work, just give me a ring; the boys and I’ll be right over.”

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling warmth inside. Alfie’s wife, Molly, had invited me over to dinner the day we moved in, and she’d served up a King Ranch Chicken Casserole that was the best I’d ever tasted. Over dinner, Alfie had given me some subtle advice on the chicken coop that had probably resulted in keeping several chickens away from the raccoons and coyotes, and he’d even come over and plowed part of the back field for me. I’d brought them several buckets of dewberries over the last week or two and planned to load them up with peaches this summer (presuming I got any), but I was definitely in their debt.

  “If you know a way to keep her thumper truck off my farm, that would be a help,” I said.

  He shook his head and his mouth pulled to the side. “Afraid I can’t help you with that. Nettie never did get over your granddaddy,” he said. “I’m sorry you’re havin’ to deal with her. There’s a heap o’ nice folks who kick off before their time, but she just keeps hangin’ on. Seems like the mean ones always do.”

  “Isn’t that the way of it?” I asked.

  “Looks like Flora’s finally steppin’ out from her shadow, leastwise.” He nodded toward Flora, who was dressed in a dirndl-style getup. She was holding a frosted kolache as she walked hand in hand with a man whose lederhosen strained at their buttons. As I watched, he whispered something into her ear, and she laughed; despite her graying hair and the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, the laugh was as giddy as a teenager’s.

  “Is that her boyfriend?” I asked.

  “Sure is. Roger Brubeck.”

  “Sounds German,” I said.

  “He is, and Nettie doesn’t like it much. There’s a longstanding rivalry between the Germans and the Czechs in this town. Rumor has it Flora and Roger have been sweet on each other since high school. His wife left him about a year back, and he’s started steppin’ out with Flora since.”

  “Good for her,” I said, thinking it was no wonder Flora sounded like a teenager; she was still in the throes of a teenage romance. It gave me hope that even though I was approaching the big 4-0, I might find the right person out there after all.

  “Good, until Nettie writes her out of her will,” he said. “Look at her over there by her granddaddy’s statue. She’s givin’ ’em the stink-eye even now.” He nodded toward the septuagenarian, who was eyeing her offspring with the thin lips and narrowed eyes of a disapproving mother.

  “You think she’d do that? Flora must be in her fifties, for goodness’ sake.”

  “Wouldn’t put it past her,” Alfie said. “Was a shock when Flora announced he was taking her to the Harvest Festival. Nettie’s been madder than a wet hen ever since.”

  “Think that’s why she’s drillin’ on my land?”

  “Oh, no,” he said. “She’d a done that anyway.”

  As we talked, a tall, lanky young man with scraggly sideburns trotted up, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a tie-dyed T-shirt. “Hey there, Alfie!”

  “Howdy, Peter.” Alfie stuck out a work-roughened hand, which Peter grasped in his much thinner, smoother one. Peter Swenson had driven in from Austin in a fry oil–powered VW about a year before I’d arrived in Buttercup and had promptly bought a herd of dairy goats and planted several rows of vegetables. Every Saturday, he drove into Austin and sold his cheese at the farmers’ markets; last I heard, he was working on a contract to supply Whole Foods. The two men were as different as wheatgrass juice and Shiner Bock, but they had become friends.

  “Quinn tells me you’re in the dairying business now, too,” Peter said, smiling at me.

  “Sort of,” I said with a grin. “I’ve just now figured out how to keep Blossom from kicking over the bucket.”

  “Try milking a herd of goats sometime,” he said, groaning.

  “No, thank you!” I said. “Although I wouldn’t mind a few tips.”

  “Sure,” he said. “And if you ever want to know about the Austin farmers’ markets, let me know.”

  Before I could answer, a young female voice called Peter’s name. I turned to see Teena Marburger, dressed in a dirndl she hadn’t yet grown to fill out, trotting over to us with glowing eyes. Her family owned Marburger’s Cafe and Bier Garden, where she worked as a waitress when she wasn’t attending Buttercup High School. I grinned, remembering my own first high school crush. Teena’s eyes were glued to Peter; Alfie and I could have been painted blue and juggling fire, and she wouldn’t have noticed. “I made Daddy buy tofu bratwurst special for you,” she said, her braces gleaming in the afternoon light.

  “Thanks, Teena,” Peter said. I noticed him take a small step back from her. “I’ll be over in a little bit.”

  Teena suddenly swiveled and looked at me. “Somebody’s trying to reach you,” she said, with no expression on her face.

  “Pardon me?” I said, feeling a chill up my back despite the warm afternoon.

  “Look for a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” she said. “That’s all I know.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Sorry, but I’ve got to run back to the stand or Daddy will kill me.” She gave Peter another doe-eyed, hopeful smile. “See you at the stand after the awards ceremony?”

  “Sure,” he said, and she bounced off as if he’d just declared his undying love for her, leaving Peter looking uncomfortable and me feeling uneasy.

  “What was all that about?” I asked Alfie.

  “She’s got it bad for Peter,” Alfie said. Peter looked mortified.

  “The whole town knows that,” I said. “I mean what she said to me. About someone trying to reach me.”

  “Molly says she’s got the sight,” Alfie said, grimacing.

  “Sight? As in . . . second sight?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Have to ask Molly. In fact, why don’t you come over for dinner sometime this week and ask her then?”

  “Are you sure? I should have you over next.”

  “It’s easier to do it at our place with the kids,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I said, grateful for the invitation. Molly was an excellent cook, and the Kramers’ house was warm and cozy and full of noise—a nice change from the calm peace of Dewberry Farm. I’d call Molly and find out what I could bring.

  Just then, Mayor Niederberger picked up a megaphone. “Good afternoon, Buttercup!” she announced, smiling broadly. “I’m tickled pink that all of y’all made it out to Founders’ Day!”

  Hoots and hollers erupted around the square, and I settled in as the mayor gave a brief history of the settlers who came over from Moravia and Germany and supplanted the few “Anglos” in the area to found the town almost two hundred years ago. “In honor of our ancestors—and of Founders’ Day—Nettie Kocurek, great-great-granddaughter of Moravian founder Krystof Baca, will be announcing the winner of the Jam-Off.” There was polite applause, but Nettie Kocurek didn’t materialize.

  “Mrs. Kocurek?” Mayor Niederberger repeated. “Nettie?”

  “I think I saw her near the jam tent,” Mary Elizabeth Bedicheck, the Buttercup Garden Club president, called out.

  “Go and fetch her, will you?” Mayor Niederberger said. “Sorry, folks,” she said to the crowd. She’d opened her mouth to say something else when there was a bloodcurdling scream.

  Everybody okay?” Mayor Niederberger asked.

  Mary Elizabeth stumbled from the tent, her normally ruddy face like chalk. “She’s dead!”

  “Who’s dead?” Mayor Niederberger
asked into the microphone. The feedback made a piercing squeal, and I shuddered.

  “Nettie Kocurek!” Mary Elizabeth grabbed the tent pole with a calloused hand, looking as if she needed the support. “There’s blood. Everywhere!”

  There was a collective intake of breath as the residents of Buttercup absorbed the shocking news, then a buzz as everyone began talking at once. A siren wailed somewhere, puncturing the burble of voices, and the scene that had seemed so festive was suddenly fraught with anxiety and fear. It was amazing how quickly things could change. Five minutes ago, we were enjoying a community celebration, and now . . . I shivered as if I’d felt death’s cold breath on my neck.

  I searched the crowd instinctively for Flora.

  I didn’t like Nettie Kocurek, but I hadn’t wished her dead.

  Once the vital information had been passed around—stabbed with a bratwurst skewer, and found with her feet sticking out from under one of the tables—the crowds had vanished along with Nettie Kocurek. It was almost as if people were afraid her death could be catching. With a murderer around, I realized with a shiver, it could well be.

  An ambulance came and went as Quinn and I wrapped up leftover maple twists at the Blue Onion booth.

  “I can’t believe she’s dead,” Quinn breathed as they closed the yellow back doors of the ambulance.

  “I can’t believe someone stabbed her,” I said. “At the Founders’ Day festival, of all things.”

  “At least there are plenty of suspects,” Quinn said.

  I looked up from the box of pastries I was wrapping up. “Is that a good thing?”

  “Probably not, now that I think of it. You think Rooster will question all of us?”

  “Half of the town has already cleared out, and if he questions the other half, we’ll be here for weeks.”

  Quinn and I watched as the ambulance pulled out of the square. “Wonder if this means the thumper truck will be delayed?” she said.

  I hadn’t considered that. “Do you think it might?”

  She cocked an eyebrow at me. “You might want to call the exploration company and let them know the person who ordered it is no longer in a position to pay bills.”

  For the first time since seeing the guy from Lone Star on my property, I felt a small gleam of hope—even if the reason for it was a tragedy. “That’s a good idea,” I said. “Even if it’s only delayed, that will at least give me time to meet with the attorney and see what my options are.”

  Quinn ran a hand through her mop of red curls. The humidity had made them wilder than usual today; her hair glowed like a halo around her face. “I wonder who did her in,” she mused.

  “Did she have many enemies?”

  “Are you kidding me? She’s spent the last sixty years ruffling people’s feathers,” Quinn said.

  “She certainly ruffled mine,” I said.

  “I’m sure that won’t have escaped her nephew’s notice,” Quinn said, eyeing the sheriff, who was looking both aggrieved and official. And was walking in our direction.

  “Uh-oh,” Quinn said as Rooster Kocurek strode over to us. He smelled like Old Spice and Skoal.

  “Ms. Resnick?”

  I nodded. “I’m so sorry about your aunt . . . ”

  “I’m going to need to ask you a few questions,” he said, hitching his belt up. I watched as it slid right back down, defeated by his ample belly.

  “About what?” I asked, as if I had no idea.

  “About where you were this afternoon.”

  I swallowed. “I was here the whole time,” I said. “Just like everyone else.”

  “Were you in the jam tent?”

  “Of course,” I said. “I had to drop off my jam for the judging. But not when Mrs. Kocurek died.”

  “You know when she died?”

  “No,” I said, flustered. “Of course not. But when I dropped off my jam, she wasn’t there. Or at least I didn’t see her.”

  “What time was that?” he asked, pulling a small notebook out of his pocket.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “A couple of hours ago, I guess. Right after she and I spoke, in fact.” I remembered with a sinking heart that Nettie had told the sheriff I’d threatened her.

  “And you weren’t in the jam tent at any other time?” Rooster Kocurek said, his brown eyes beady above his pillowy cheeks.

  “I’ve been here most of the time,” I said.

  “You didn’t eat, or go and browse the stalls?”

  “Well, I did get a sandwich,” I admitted.

  “But you were here the rest of the time,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “What about when you went to hear about the Jam-Off?” Rebecca piped up from where she was stacking trays of maple twists.

  Not helpful.

  “I didn’t go into the tent,” I said. “I was standing near the stage talking with Peter and Alfie; they’ll vouch for me.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Rooster said, eyeing me with a satisfied look I didn’t like at all. “Wouldn’t take but a moment to nip into the jam tent.”

  “She said she didn’t go into the jam tent,” Quinn said firmly.

  “You seem mighty concerned, Quinn.” He looked at her in a way that made my skin crawl, and I suddenly remembered Quinn telling me she’d gently turned him down when he asked her to senior prom. He had not taken it well, I recalled her saying, and had spread a nasty rumor about Quinn and another boy. The Kocurek family evidently didn’t take rejection well.

  Quinn crossed her arms and looked at Sheriff Kocurek. “Are you saying Lucy’s a suspect?” she asked.

  “What do you think, Quinn?” His tone was condescending.

  “I’m not the sheriff,” she said, lifting her chin. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

  “You’re right about that.” He hitched up his belt again and smiled at her. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Well, now, Quinn. I don’t know anyone else in Buttercup who threatened my aunt an hour before she turned up dead with a bratwurst skewer in her heart. Do you?”

  Chuck was sound asleep on my beaten-down living room couch when the screen door slammed behind me late that afternoon. He lifted his head as I entered, then rolled on his back, presenting a round, pink tummy.

  I sank into the couch beside him and rubbed his belly as he licked my hand with a preternaturally long tongue. “Hope your day was better than mine,” I told him. I’d ended up taking a silver medal for my dewberry vanilla jam, finishing just behind Edna Orzak, Buttercup’s perennial first-place winner, but the news had done nothing to allay the worry that had gripped me since the moment I learned Nettie Kocurek had decided to invoke her mineral rights. Not to mention the feeling of doom I got when Sheriff Kocurek fixed me with those beady eyes of his. Would he charge me with Nettie Kocurek’s murder? I wondered. I couldn’t see how there would be any physical evidence—after all, I hadn’t even touched her that day—but I couldn’t deny I had a motive.

  And Sheriff Kocurek knew it.

  Chuck, blissfully unaware of my mental torment, wagged harder, and I bent down and hugged him as I petted his tummy.

  After a few snuggles, I coaxed him to the kitchen, where he plopped down on the rag rug in front of the refrigerator, looking at me expectantly.

  “No treats,” I said, and he cocked his head to the side. “It’s not my call, sweetie. I’m sorry!”

  He gave me a reproachful look when I opened the back door instead of the refrigerator, but waddled through it anyway. As he investigated the back fence, I picked up the phone, leaving yet another message for the property rights attorney. I hung up wondering if I should hire a criminal defense attorney as well. I dismissed the thought, at least for now. Nobody had charged me with anything.

  Yet.

  I picked up Grandma Vogel’s cookbook, hugging it to my chest as if it were my grandmother herself. If I closed my eyes, it was almost as if she were in the kitchen with me, standing at the stove with a wooden spoon in her hand. What would she do? I wondered.


  Get up and get moving, I realized. She would never just sit around and worry; she would do something productive. I set the cookbook down on the counter and flipped through it, looking for something comforting to make—and maybe sell at Market Days. I bookmarked the Moravian sugar bread, which—intriguingly—involved mashed potatoes, but decided against it for now. After all, I still had Quinn’s loaf in the bread basket. I leafed through to my grandmother’s spice cookies from my childhood, but they didn’t feel quite right for a late spring day—she’d always baked them around the holidays, when the air was crisp. I was about to give up and weed the garden when I looked at the refrigerator and remembered I had several gallons of milk to play with . . . and the equipment I needed to try making my grandmother’s cottage cheese. I flipped through until I found the recipe, which included lots of suggestions for using the final product—including filling kolaches.

  She had multiple variations of the recipe, so I picked the one that used what I had on hand—milk, salt, and white vinegar.

  I gathered my supplies, then poured two gallons of creamy milk into the pot and turned the stove on low. The golden cream floated to the top as I fitted the thermometer to the side of the pot, and my mouth watered at the thought of the cheese to come. As it heated, I lined a colander with a tea towel and glanced out the mullioned windows at the hummingbird feeder. The first ruby-throated hummingbirds had visited it yesterday, and as I stirred, another darted in, hovering near the red plastic flowers. Would the hummingbirds still come if there was an oil well in my side yard? The bird was about to dip its beak in when Chuck growled and then started barking.

  I checked the milk’s temperature and hurried to the back door. “Chuck!” I called, and scanned the pasture. There was nothing there but waving grass and a few tall thistles that I hadn’t gotten around to digging up yet; I had no idea why he’d barked. “Come, Chuck,” I ordered. He barked again, but after another, firmer call, he lowered his head and waddled back to the kitchen, parking himself in front of the fridge. Chuck was nothing if not an optimist.