Killer Jam (A Dewberry Farm Mystery)

by Karen MacInerney

  I grabbed the paper and hurried out of the barn, feeling more freaked out than I had since I’d watched my first (and last) Freddy Krueger movie. It wasn’t until I closed the door of the farmhouse behind me that I realized what made the breeze so eerie.

  All the windows in the hayloft were painted shut.

  Sleep came slowly that night; between Nettie Kocurek’s death, the threat of the thumper truck, and the strange sound in the barn, I was anything but relaxed. I’d considered calling Quinn to come out and check the hayloft with me, but decided that would be silly.

  Instead of calling Quinn, I locked all the doors and windows and lay in bed with one eye open, a two-by-four under the bed just in case. I’m not usually a pro-gun kind of person, but this was one of those times when I kind of wished I were. Despite the scare in the barn, though, the farm was quiet; aside from the occasional chuckle from the chickens and a stray moo from Blossom, everything was peaceful. Chuck didn’t seem terribly concerned as he sprawled on his back at my feet, all four paws pointing upward. At least if Rooster—or whoever had murdered Nettie Kocurek—came to visit that night, I told myself, Chuck would likely let me know.

  I must have fallen asleep eventually, because the sound of Rusty crowing jerked me awake. I opened my eyes to the pale light of dawn filtering through the lace curtains into the room I had stayed in as a child; I almost expected Grandma Vogel to appear at the door in her blue checked dress. For a second, I fancied I caught a whiff of the lavender sachets she hung in her closet, but the impression was gone as quickly as it arrived.

  Groaning, I dislodged Chuck from across my feet and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Coffee was definitely in order—followed by another call to the attorney. I threw on a bathrobe and headed to the kitchen, wishing I had a morning newspaper to read while I waited for the coffee to brew; paper delivery was one thing I missed about country life. Instead, I picked up the old newspaper I’d found in the barn the night before, glancing at the headlines as the scent of coffee filled the sunlit kitchen.

  The paper dated from June of 1940. The headline blared LOCAL MAN FOUND DEAD, and I wondered again at the weird breeze that had sent it floating down from the hayloft. I glanced out the window toward the barn, which was bright and cheerful in the morning sun. The thought of going up into the hayloft didn’t bother me at all now that the world was bright. The thump had doubtless been a mouse, or even an owl roosting in the rafters, and as for the breeze—the back of the barn probably wasn’t airtight. It was funny how things seemed spookier in the darkness.

  I glanced at the paper as I drank my first cup of coffee, which I’d sweetened with sugar and topped off with the cream that had risen to the surface of one of the milk jugs. I skimmed the article on the death—the deceased was Thomas Mueller, and the sheriff was named Ed Kocurek, which was not encouraging—and wondered if they’d ever found out who did it. The yellowed pages advertised a special on potatoes at the Red and White, and seasonal kolaches at an establishment called the Little Czech Bakehouse. Who had tucked that newspaper up into the hayloft, I wondered, and why it had waited half a century to come free? And what else might be up there?

  With that thought in mind, I retreated to the bedroom and tossed on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, then headed out to milk Blossom, whom I’d spotted over by the driveway, nosing at the fence. Looking for another weak spot, no doubt. I should have known she was too good to be true.

  Chuck sauntered out after me, but I waved him away when I got to the cattle guard; I didn’t trust Blossom around the little poodle just yet. He gave me a perplexed look, then waddled over toward one of the rosebushes and cocked a leg. With his farm buzz cut, he was the same pale pink as the two feeble blooms on the neglected bush. Which was fine in spring but would be a problem come June, particularly in Texas. I made a mental note to ask Dr. Brandt—Tobias—about doggie sunscreen next time I talked to him. In fact, I figured I might just have to call and ask today; I’d hate for Chuck to get sunburned!

  With that happy thought in mind, I turned toward the barn. Despite the bright morning, my stomach still tightened when I opened the barn doors and stepped into the dim, dusty interior. Everything looked the same as it had last night; the hay was undisturbed in the corner, and the pile of rusted equipment lay just as it had. The inside of the barn was silent, and nothing was visible in the hayloft—even when I backed out the barn door to get a better vantage point. Last night had probably been the product of an overactive imagination and a stressful day, I told myself as I climbed the ladder and poked my head cautiously into the loft.

  I scanned the dusty floor. More hay. And a few mouse droppings, which were no surprise—mice were probably the source of the noise I’d heard last night, after all. The piles of ancient, dried-out hay and droppings made me feel tired. I’d have to add cleaning the hayloft to my list of things to do.

  There was no stack of newspapers, though, and the windows were all closed.

  I climbed the rest of the way up and walked to the back wall, looking for cracks in the wood through which a breeze might have come. There were none—and the windows were still painted shut. In fact, despite the breeze outside, the barn was still and airless.

  I was about to climb down the ladder when there was a loud clunk from below. Heart in my throat, I spun around to see Blossom nosing at the barn door, ready for her morning milking.

  My heart was still hammering as I filled her bucket with food, positioned the milking pail beneath her, and wiped sanitizer on her teats. I rested my forehead against her flank as I filled the bucket, the rhythm of the milk against the side of the bucket soothing me. Maybe today would be better, I thought.

  Unfortunately, I was wrong.

  I reported to the sheriff’s office at nine, only to find Rooster out on a call. “Big cow problem down on 71,” the deputy on duty told me. I tried to pay for Rooster’s pants, but the deputy had no idea what to tell me. “Opal handles all that stuff, and she’s out today.”

  “There’s no way to look it up?” I asked. I was hoping to get it taken care of so I had an excuse not to come back.

  “Sorry about that, ma’am. I’ll be sure to tell Rooster you stopped by.”

  I hurried home to make sure it wasn’t Blossom and was relieved to find her nosing around the corner of the pasture by the house, trying in vain to reach my roses.

  Unfortunately, the rest of the day didn’t go quite as well. I’d just finished my morning chores when an enormous truck came rolling down my driveway. I hurried out to stop them, but wasn’t having much luck.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’ve got the paperwork right here.” The driver raised his cap and scratched his sparsely covered scalp. His compatriot eyed me from a few yards back. From the wary look on his face, they’d done this a time or two before.

  “But the woman who authorized it is dead!” I said. Or yelled, actually.

  “Let me call the office,” he said.

  I was dying to go and call the attorney again, but there was no way I was walking away from the monstrous truck. So I tried to hush Chuck, who was growling and yipping from across the cattle guard, while the truck’s operator explained the circumstances to his supervisor.

  “Well?” I asked when he hung up.

  “Looks like the bill’s already been paid,” he said. “So we’re gonna go ahead.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry ma’am,” he said, backing away from me toward the truck. “Just following orders.”

  “I’m calling my attorney right now,” I said, and sprinted toward the farmhouse. Hands shaking, I dialed the number and then watched out the window as I explained the situation to her receptionist, then waited to be put through.

  There was a horrible rumbling sound as the engine kicked to life, and I waited for the awful thumping sound that would come, but as soon as it started, it died away. They started the truck again, and once more it died.

  “Ms. Resnick?”

  “Yes,” I said.


  “This is Janet Morgan. I’m sorry you had a hard time getting in touch with me, but I researched your case, and I’m afraid there’s not much I can do about it.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “As long as they restore the property when they’re done, the mineral rights holder has the right to both search and drill for oil, I’m afraid. I’d take lots of dated pictures, if I were you.”

  “You mean I can’t stop the thumper truck from breaking up my land?”

  “No, but the mineral rights owner will have to pay for any damage to your property.”

  “But she just died yesterday!” I said.

  “Who? The owner of the mineral rights?” the attorney asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well. That may change things. If the will hasn’t been probated . . . ”

  “Of course it hasn’t. It happened yesterday.”

  “Then it seems reasonable to put a stay on further actions until it is determined who owns that portion of the estate.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Now can you tell the people about to thump my land that?”

  “Are they there?”

  “I’ll get them,” I said. “Hold on.” I put the phone down, well aware that I was going to pay fifty dollars just for the time necessary to retrieve the driver, and ran back outside. “My attorney’s on the line,” I called. “She wants to talk to you!”

  The man shrugged, scratching his head again, and walked toward me.

  “I still need you to talk with my lawyer,” I said, leading him toward the house. He followed—very slowly, it seemed to me—and grunted when he picked up the phone. After a short conversation that probably cost me a week’s proceeds, he gave the attorney the phone number of his supervisor and handed the phone back to me.

  “I’ll get in touch with the company today,” she said. “If they try anything else, let me know.”

  “Do you have a cell number?” I asked.

  She gave it to me, and I wrote it down on the back of a flyer. “Call me anytime,” she said.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I will.”

  The driver and I walked back out to where the truck stood. Chuck was still guarding it, growling low as if warning it not to roll any further.

  “Well, looks like you guys can head out for the day,” I said. “Until the estate is cleared up, no thumping.”

  “Truck’s broke anyway,” he said.

  “What?” I asked. “It’s in the middle of my driveway!”

  “I’ll try to start it, but it’s deader than a doornail.”

  He got back up into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine coughed a few times but didn’t turn over.

  “Terrific,” I said. “How am I going to get in and out of the farm?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am,” he said. “Can you give me a jump start?”

  I tried, but it didn’t work; the engine just wouldn’t take. After the sixth try, the driver lifted his cap and smoothed down his remaining hair. “Looks like we’ll have to call a tow truck.”

  “Is there one big enough?” I asked, eyeing the monstrous vehicle.

  He shrugged. I sighed. “Well, do you want some iced tea while you’re waiting? No sense standing out here in the sun.”

  They followed me back to the farmhouse, where I installed them in rocking chairs with glasses of tea. Then I retrieved my milk, which by now had been sitting out far too long, and checked the chickens, who had laid a lovely half dozen green and brown eggs. They were nervous nellies, and Rusty crowed repeatedly, as if telling the large interloper in the driveway that he was still in charge of his harem.

  As I laid the last egg into a basket and opened the door to the chicken coop, the disturbing thought occurred to me that Rooster was right. Of all the people I knew, I did have the most to gain from his aunt’s death.

  I just hoped my temporary reprieve might not be the first step on the road to prison.

  The driver had informed me earlier that their supervisor had told them to hold off on any thumping until it was clear who would be responsible for the damages, which made sense. Feeling giddy with relief, I’d made the two men egg salad sandwiches from the hens’ eggs and Quinn’s leftover bread before melting another block of beeswax for candles. I had just poured the last mason jar candle when I heard the tow truck rumbling down the driveway, two hours and several glasses of tea later.

  After adjusting the wick and replacing the pot on a cool burner, I hurried to the door.

  “Thank you, ma’am, for your hospitality,” the driver said, doffing his cap in an old-fashioned gesture.

  “No problem,” I said. “Good luck with your truck.”

  I stood and watched as the tow truck driver conferred with the two men. The driver climbed up into the cab one more time, evidently to test the engine once more.

  The truck roared to life on the first try.

  “I thought you said it was dead!” the tow truck driver said.

  “It was,” the man said, rubbing the top of his balding head and looking perplexed. “Tried jumpin’ it and everything.”

  “Well, seems to be working fine now,” I said, as the driver revved the engine.

  The tow truck driver grumbled a bit but backed down the long driveway anyway, followed by the thumper truck. As nice as the men were, I was glad to see the truck lumber down the driveway and out onto the road. I hoped I’d never see it again.

  You must be Elsa Vogel’s granddaughter.” The woman behind the circulation desk peered at me through her glasses. She was probably in her late fifties, and wore her graying hair short. She had no jewelry or makeup, but her blouse was a riot of red poppies on white silk. I liked the contrast. “I’m Myrtle Crenshaw,” she said. “I knew Elsa, but I don’t see much resemblance between the two of you, really.”

  “We both like to bake and garden,” I said, “but it’s true; I don’t much look like her.” I put my purse down on the front desk of the library, which was a cozy, converted house lined with bookshelves, even if the paint scheme—pink and green—reminded me of a watermelon. Once I’d finished cleaning up after the men and picked another few quarts of dewberries for jam, I’d followed Tobias’s advice and headed into town. First stop was the library, a bungalow two streets from the courthouse, shaded by tall pecan trees and bordered with a picket fence lined with impatiens in a rainbow of colors. My plan was to pay a visit to the librarian to see what I could find out about Nettie’s enemies, then swing by the Blue Onion to borrow the stove and make jam.

  “Heard Rooster’s been after you over what happened to his aunt,” Myrtle said. “Bad business.”

  “That’s actually why I came to talk to you,” I said. “Dr. Brandt suggested you might be able to help me.”

  “You need a book?” she asked.

  “No,” I said, then reconsidered. “Well, yes. If you have any books on homesteading, that would be terrific. But what I really need is some idea of who might have wanted to . . . well, you know.”

  Myrtle’s eyes glinted as she pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Stick a bratwurst skewer into Nettie Kocurek?”

  “Ah . . . yes.”

  “That woman was a piece of work. Sweeter than molasses pie to your face, but she did whatever she damn well pleased.” The librarian covered her mouth. “Shoot. I didn’t mean to cuss.”

  “No worries,” I told her, smiling. “I understand the sentiment.”

  “Here’s a perfect example,” she said. “When she was on the library board, everybody voted against her color scheme. Guava and Avocado, if you’d believe it.”

  I looked behind me at the pink trim and green shelves. “Looks like Guava and Avocado won the day.”

  “It was six to one for Summer Sage and Dusty Peach. We asked Joe down at the Red and White for Summer Sage and Dusty Peach. The labels on the paint cans even said Summer Sage and Dusty Peach.”

  “Then how come it’s Guava and Avocado?”

  “You’d have to ask Nettie Kocure
k that.” Myrtle shook her head and grimaced. “I don’t know how she managed it, but by the time we caught it, the whole dang place had been painted. Would have cost a fortune to redo it.” She snorted. “Lucky me. Now I get a little bit of Nettie Kocurek here every time I walk in the door.”

  She sounded like she was still pretty hot about it, and I found myself wondering if she might have stuck a skewer into Nettie.

  “So,” I said. “Sounds like Nettie Kocurek had gotten under the skin of more than a few people here in Buttercup.”

  “You can say that again,” she said.

  I glanced around to make sure there was no one nearby. “Who do you think might want her dead?” I asked.

  “Not to speak ill of the dead, but who wouldn’t?” she asked, and leaned over the circulation desk, an old-fashioned oak store counter that had been repurposed—and, thankfully, not painted Avocado or Guava. “Whoever did her in deserves a medal, not jail time, if you ask me.”

  “It sounds like she was a terror.”

  “She was. Problem is,” she said, “since you’re an outsider, Rooster isn’t gonna look past you. You’re easy, and with that oil business over on your farm, you’ve got a motive. Plus, you had a jam in the competition.”

  “That’s why I need your help,” I said, leaning forward over the antique circulation desk. “It wasn’t me, but unless I can find out who did it, I’m the prime suspect.”

  “Oh, lots of folks had a bone to pick with her,” she said. “There’s Nancy Shaw, of course, over at the Bees’ Knees. I know she and Nettie had it out a few times over the stuff the Kocureks are spraying on their fields.”

  “Nancy mentioned that when I stopped by.”

  “And then there’s Ursula Mueller, who heads up the Daughters of the German Republic. The Kocureks and the Muellers have had a feud going on for more than half a century now,” she said. Then she pursed her lips. “But I can’t think why she’d wait this long to do her in.”