I patted the dough in the pie plate and tucked it into the oven, then set to work on the custard part of the pie, cracking an egg into a bowl and mixing it with sugar, butter, and flour. When the piecrust was ready, I hulled the strawberries and folded them into the batter, then poured them into the crust. I tucked the pie into the oven, a vintage white Frigidaire from the ’50s—the same oven the pie my grandmother made had been baked in, all those years ago.
I washed the bowls and mixers as the pie baked; before long, a heavenly scent filled the kitchen, and Chuck moved from the rug in front of the refrigerator to a spot right in front of the oven, tail wagging hopefully. After drying the last bowl, I sat down and made a schedule for the next day. I’d stop by to talk with Nancy Shaw and Peter Swenson in the morning, then swing by the Zephyr in the afternoon. The person I really needed to talk to, though, was Flora Kocurek. How was I going to manage that?
The timer buzzed, and I removed the pie from the oven, admiring the rich red of the berries against the creamy yellow custard. Although I was dying for a piece now, I knew it was best to wait, so I put it on a cooling rack next to the stove, then poured myself a glass of Blossom’s milk and sat back down at the table, turning the glass on the scarred wood surface.
I hardly knew Flora—but there was nothing that said I couldn’t be neighborly and bring her a casserole, or a pan of brownies, was there? I even considered taking over the strawberry custard pie, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it; I’d worked too hard on it to give it to Nettie’s daughter. Whatever I made, it had to be with what I had on hand; I wasn’t in a position to spend money.
I was deciding between brownies and a cobbler when the phone rang. I picked it up on the third ring, filled with both hope and dread—hope that it might be Tobias, dread that it might be Rooster Kocurek or the oil-exploration company.
“Hello?”
“Lucy, how are you! It’s Molly.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Fine, thanks. How are you?”
“Better than you, from what Alfie tells me,” she said in an ominous voice. Then she brightened. “Now, I know it’s late notice, but Alfie told me you’d talked about coming over sometime this week. I was wondering if you would join us for dinner tonight? I made chicken and dumplings and I’ve got enough for half the town.”
“Thanks for the invitation, Molly. I’d love to.” I leaned against the wall and looked at the berry-studded pie on the cooling rack. “And I just pulled a strawberry custard pie out of the oven, so it’s perfect timing.”
“You don’t have to bring anything but yourself,” she said.
“I know, but if I don’t get some help, I’m going to eat the entire pie myself.”
She laughed. “You’ll have many willing helpers here. See you at six thirty?”
“Can’t wait!”
“Glad you could make it,” Molly said as she opened the front door. The family’s giant Lab, Barkley, gave a deep-throated woof, then wagged his tail. I handed Molly the pie and reached down to pet him.
“Smells wonderful in here,” I said as I stepped into the front hall of the Kramers’ beautiful farmhouse. Before they had kids, Molly and Alfie had refinished all the pine floors so they glowed honey-gold, and furnished the place with an eclectic mix of antiques both from her family and from the antique show that took place down the road at Round Top twice a year.
“Come on in.” Molly led me down the hallway, which was covered in photos of their kids—Brittany, Ethan, and Nick—toward the kitchen. The house smelled intoxicatingly of cooking chicken, and my mouth watered. “This pie looks yummy. What kind is it, again?”
“Strawberry custard,” I said. “I got the recipe from my grandmother’s cookbook.”
“Then it’s guaranteed to be delicious,” Molly said, taking a sniff. She wore denim shorts and a T-shirt from Marfa, Texas. Her brown hair was streaked with silver, and she had a solid, comforting presence to her. Although she was always bustling around, taking care of her kitchen, her kids, or the farm, she had a deep, calm energy that made me feel peaceful. I could see why Alfie was so devoted to her. “Can I get you a drink?” she asked as she slipped the pie into the refrigerator. “A glass of wine, or some tea?”
“A glass of wine would be great, if you have a bottle open,” I said.
“I do.” She winked at me and reached for the bottle—a half-empty pinot grigio. “I always cook with wine.” As I sat down at Molly’s long table, she poured two glasses and handed one to me. Her kitchen was a comfortable room, with open shelves filled by Fiestaware in a rainbow of colors, a collection of ceramic chickens pecking their way across the windowsill, and white lace curtains that looked European. Barkley had settled himself on his dog bed, which was next to the back door.
I took a sip of the wine, which was cool and crisp, and leaned back in my chair. “Where is everyone?”
Molly lifted the lid of the pot on the stove and took a sniff, then pushed a wayward lock of brown hair behind one ear. “The kids are out feeding the chickens, and Alfie’s checking the fences.” A big bowl of dough rested beside the stove: future dumplings, I guessed.
I leaned forward in my chair. “Can I help with anything?”
“Just relax. Everything’s just about done. I just have to toss the dumplings in at the last minute and dress the salad before we sit down.”
After one last check on the chicken, she pulled up a chair across from me. “You’ve had a heck of a week, from what I’ve heard. How are you holding up?”
“Okay, for now, anyway.” At least I hoped so. “I haven’t been charged with anything, at least.”
Molly’s brow was furrowed above her brown eyes. “Rooster really thinks you did in Nettie?”
I shrugged. “Quinn says I’m an easy target. He’s not looking much further.”
“I don’t know why not.” Molly crossed her arms and made a sound that resembled a harrumph. “Half the town has wanted to put her six feet under at one time or another.”
“That’s what I keep hearing, too. I’m going to go talk with a couple of people tomorrow, and see what I can find out.”
Molly leaned forward, curiosity in her brown eyes. “Like who?”
I told her what I’d heard about Peter Swenson’s argument with Nettie—and about Nancy Shaw. I took another sip of wine. “I also want to talk with Flora. I hear Nettie was thinking about changing her will if she married Roger.”
Molly shook her head. “Lots of bad blood between those two families. Goes back for decades.”
“I found an old newspaper in the barn about a Mueller who was murdered back in the ’40s,” I said.
“You must mean the guy found by the railroad track—wasn’t his name Thomas Mueller?”
I nodded. “That’s the one.”
“They always figured it was one of the Bacas who killed him, but no one ever proved it.”
“Why?”
She leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, as if Nettie Kocurek might jump out of the pantry and chide her for spreading rumors. “The story goes that Thomas Mueller was sweet on one of the Baca girls. Old Josef Baca warned him off, but he didn’t listen.”
“So he killed him because he wouldn’t stop seeing her?” I swallowed. “Jeez. It’s like the Capulets and the Montagues, only with Germans and Czechs.”
Molly shook her head and chuckled. “I know. Crazy, isn’t it? Of course, nobody ever proved it. Helps that there was a Kocurek in the sheriff’s office then, too. The Bacas and the Kocureks have always been tight.”
“So it was never officially solved, and somebody got away with murder.” I shook my head, thinking about it. Then I remembered the lockbox I’d found in the hayloft. “I almost forgot—I doubt it’s related, but I found something else with the newspaper in the barn.” I told Molly about the green metal box.
“Ooh, how exciting. Did you bring it with you?” Her brown eyes sparkled with curiosity.
“I didn’t think to,” I said.
“You sh
ould; I’ll bet Alfie can get it open.”
“I’ll bring it next time I come.” I took another sip of the wine, and Molly reached over to top off my glass. “I just can’t think why anyone would have hidden a lockbox in the hayloft.”
“It does seem a bit odd,” Molly said, refilling her own glass. “Everybody who had things to hide used to bury them under trees.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. The old folks didn’t use banks. There have to be tens of thousands of dollars stashed in boxes under trees in Buttercup; people have been poking around on their properties for years.” She rolled her eyes. “Alfie spent six months digging up this place when we bought it fifteen years ago.”
“Did he find anything?”
“Nothing but a few rusty nails and an arrowhead or two,” she said. “He’s still convinced there’s money out there, though. I bought him a metal detector for Christmas, but he still hasn’t found anything of value.”
As if he’d heard his name, Alfie appeared at the kitchen door, opening it but not stepping inside. His boots were caked with mud, and his face was grim.
Molly sat up straight in her chair. “What’s wrong?”
“One of the cows is down,” he said. “I’m hoping it’s just milk fever.”
Molly shot up out of her chair and hurried to the phone. “I’ll call Dr. Brandt.”
“When he gets here, tell him we’re in the lower pasture, near the stock tank,” Alfie said, closing the door behind him and heading back outside.
Molly dialed the number from memory and passed the information on, then returned to the table looking worried.
“What’s milk fever?” I asked, thinking of Blossom and all the things I didn’t know about cows. And of Tobias, who would be here shortly. Why hadn’t I taken a moment to fix my hair before running out the door?
“It happens around calving time,” she said. “Low calcium—easily fixed with an injection. Assuming that’s what it is.”
“What else could it be?” I asked.
She sighed. “Any number of things, I’m afraid. The important thing is, when they go down, get help fast. The longer they’re down, the less likely they are to get back up again.”
I slumped back in my chair. “I sometimes think I’m crazy for buying Dewberry Farm.”
“Nah,” she said. “You’ll get the hang of it. And on the plus side, if you have trouble, our veterinarian is pretty easy on the eyes.”
“True.” I couldn’t argue with that.
“He’s quite a catch, in fact.”
I felt my cheeks warm, and she chuckled. “I thought we were talking about cows, not vets,” I protested.
“I’m just teasing,” she said. “We’ll see what develops with our vet; I hear he helped with Blossom the other day.”
“He did. Ed Zapp didn’t mention the cow he was selling me was an escape artist. Tobias—Dr. Brandt—helped me fix the fence.”
“First-name basis, eh?”
“Isn’t everyone here on a first-name basis?”
“More or less,” she admitted, then stood up to check on the chicken again, using a potholder to protect her hand from the heat. The scent was divine; my stomach grumbled as she put the lid back on the pot and turned back to me. “For the record, I’m glad there’s a Vogel in Dewberry Farm again, and I have no worries that it’ll work. You’ll get the hang of it before you know it.”
“But your family’s been doing this for generations,” I said.
“We have, and we’re here to help you if you need it,” Molly said.
“If the Kocureks decide to go through with the drilling, there might not be much you can do, unfortunately.”
Molly twisted the potholder in her hands. “I’d be more worried about staying out of jail, to be honest, Lucy.” Her voice was suddenly low and solemn.
I swallowed, but it did nothing to get rid of the lump that had formed in my throat. “You think?”
“Rooster seems to have you in the crosshairs.”
“Why not Flora?” I asked. “She’s got more to gain than I do.”
“She’s family, Molly. He won’t go after family.”
“There was a Moravian lamb pin at the site.” The words tumbled out of me. “Torn off of red fabric. Do you know anyone who wears one of those?”
Molly sat down in the chair across from me and picked up her wine glass, taking a big swig. “Just about half the town, unfortunately. The Moravian half, anyway. And since it was Founders’ Day, almost everyone was wearing red.”
“I know the Kocureks and the Muellers have had a feud going on for decades. Do you think one of the Muellers might have killed Nettie?”
“I doubt it,” she said. “Most of them left town to look for work elsewhere. The only one left is Ursula Mueller—she runs the Daughters of the German Republic. She’d be second cousin of the guy who died, I guess,” she said, doing some kind of mental genealogical analysis in her head, “and she didn’t have too many dealings with Nettie. And I guess there’s Jacob Mueller, too.”
“He runs the Art Guild, right?” I remembered walking in and admiring several large canvases depicting the rolling Texas countryside.
She nodded. “He does great rural paintings. They sell for a mint in Houston.”
“I’ll bet,” I said. “They’re gorgeous—I wish I could afford one.”
“That’s a lot of beeswax candles,” she grinned.
“Tell me about it. What about Flora’s boyfriend—Roger Brubeck?”
“I don’t know much about him, to be honest,” Molly said, pursing her lips. “He’s only been back in town a few years, and keeps to himself, for the most part. Moved into his parents’ house when his mom went into Sunset Home.”
“How did he and Flora end up getting together?”
“Got together not too long after the Founders’ Day Festival last year, believe it or not. He took her out for Bubba’s barbecue, and those old flames reunited.”
“I heard they were sweet on each other in high school.”
“That’s the rumor. At that time, though, Nettie wouldn’t have allowed it. He ended up heading to Texas A&M.” She got up and peeked under the pot lid, then adjusted the heat before returning to the table. “He got a degree in accounting,” she said as she sat back down across from me. “I hear he did taxes in Houston until he moved back to his parents’ house. He still works as a CPA; he hung out a shingle on Magnolia Street.”
“So he’s not desperate for cash.”
“No, but he likes money. There were a lot of rumors that he was dating Flora for her money—and that he was seeing someone on the side.”
I leaned forward, feeling a spark of hope. “Who?”
She glanced around, as if one of her children might be hiding behind a cabinet door, then spoke in a low voice. “Somebody young, is all I heard.”
The mention of somebody young made me think of the teenager I’d met at the festival. “That reminds me of something. Alfie tells me you think Teena Marburger’s got some kind of second sight.”
Molly nodded, her brown hair bobbing. The sapphire stud earrings Alfie had just bought her for their anniversary twinkled in the light from the windows. “She does. Her grandmother did, too.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“She knew I was pregnant before I did.” Molly grinned. “Twice.”
“What about the third time?”
Molly’s grin widened. “She was too young to tell me.”
Goose bumps rose on my arms. “What other kinds of things does she—‘know’?”
“It varies. She says things just pop into her head, and sometimes she doesn’t know what it means until later. She told Edna Orzak to watch out for pecans last fall, and a week later she slipped on one in the back room of the Red and White and broke her hip. Laid her up in the hospital for six months.”
“Not very helpful,” I said.
“Not that time,” Molly admitted. “But last April, she told Alfie he should put off
going to Houston—he was going to look for a new tractor.”
“And?”
“She had no way of knowing he was going that day—he hadn’t told anyone but me.”
“What happened?”
She fingered the gold band on her left hand. “He decided to listen to her, and I’m thankful for it. There was a twelve-car pileup on SH 71 that day. Three people died.”
I shivered. “She told me that someone was trying to reach me the other day.”
“Any idea what that might mean?”
“Unfortunately, no.” I was about to say more when there was a knock at the door. My heart did a little jig in my chest as I followed Molly down the hallway.
Tobias was there, in blue jeans and a Luckenbach T-shirt, holding his bag. Our eyes met and held for an electric moment before he focused his attention on Molly. “Where is she?” he asked in an urgent voice.
“In the lower pasture, near the stock tank.”
“Can I come?” I asked impulsively.
“I’d love the company.”
Molly’s eyebrows flicked up as she looked at me, then turned to Tobias. “Thanks so much for coming out, even though it’s late. We’re having chicken and dumplings, and there’s plenty; I hope you’re planning to stay to dinner.”
“Thanks for the offer, Molly. If it’s something easy like milk fever, which it probably is—Alfie knows his stock—I’ll gladly take you up on it.” His voice was friendly and calming.
Molly smiled at him. “I’ll just put the dumplings in then, and set an extra place at the table. Even if it is a complicated case, you’ll still need to eat.”
“You’ve convinced me. And it smells terrific.”
“Thanks so much for coming out.” Molly grabbed a spoon and reached for the bowl of dumpling dough as I slid into my sneakers; a moment later, Tobias and I were headed across the backyard toward the lower pasture.
“How’s Blossom doing?” he asked as we hurried down toward the murky pond at the lower end of the property, where we could see Alfie kneeling over a dun-colored cow.
Killer Jam (A Dewberry Farm Mystery) Page 11
