I turned the box right-side up, wondering what the significance was of the flowers and the lockbox—an old love of my grandfather’s, maybe?—and why someone had hidden them in the loft. Why not in the house, or the attic? It was very strange. As I put the photo back in the box, I noticed a piece of paper wedged into the bottom of the box.
I pulled it out gingerly and unfolded the brittle page, which was stained with brown splotches. Emblazoned at the top of the page, in very fancy script, were the words Marriage License. Unfortunately, just about everything else on it was lost to water damage.
Disappointed, I took the page into the kitchen and held it up under the light. It looked like one of the names began with an “M.” The other name on the certificate was completely indecipherable. I squinted down at the page. Although the month had been swallowed by water, the year was still legible: 1940. The same year as the newspaper that had blown down from the loft. Coincidence? Or had that piece of paper somehow not made it into the box?
I glanced up at the top of the certificate again and noticed that the county name had been written under the florid script. Fayette County—which was the county Buttercup was in.
The timer rang, bringing me back to the present. I tucked the certificate back into the lockbox and pulled the brownies out of the oven, leaving them on the stovetop to cool. Chuck eyed me with interest, but I informed him that there were no treats forthcoming and headed up to bed. Reluctantly, he followed, and fell asleep promptly at the foot of my bed.
I, on the other hand, stared at the ceiling for hours, wondering about the lockbox—and wondering how in the world I was going to clear my name.
The Kocurek homestead was not what I’d call picturesque, but it certainly was imposing.
It was just before ten when I pulled up outside the gates, which were two square, red brick pillars spanned by an imposing black gate of wrought iron. The oversized gate looked out of place beside the low barbed wire fence that seemed to stretch out for miles on either side of it.
Most people in these parts had gates you could open manually—if they had gates at all, since cattle guards were more common. But attached to one of the rather ugly brick pillars near the entrance was an intercom, along with something that looked like a security camera mounted to a post just inside the gate. I wondered if the camera had been added since the sugaring.
I pushed the red button and waited, stealing a glance at the plate of brownies beside me. I had originally put them on a paper plate but decided instead to use one of my grandmother’s china platters, so I’d have an excuse for a second visit to retrieve the plate if necessary.
“Who is it?” The voice was male and surly.
“A neighbor,” I said. “Lucy Resnick. I brought a plate of brownies for Flora.”
There was a long pause, during which I feared the gates wouldn’t open. Then, without any further communication through the speaker, there was a click and a whir, and the iron gate swung slowly open.
I took a deep breath and put the truck in gear. Rocks from the drive pinged against the undercarriage as I drove down the straight dirt road toward a compound of large farm buildings. In the center of the compound sat a squat, red brick ranch unsheltered by trees.
Where most of the farmhouses in Buttercup were a hundred years old and constructed of wood, Nettie Kocurek’s house appeared to date from the 1950s and included a series of white-painted columns on a narrow front porch that wasn’t deep enough for a rocking chair. The square of lawn surrounding the house was protected from cattle by a wrought-iron fence that matched the front gate, and the expanse of shorn Bermuda grass was interrupted only by a line of square-trimmed boxwoods that stretched across the facade of the house. It was anything but welcoming, I thought as I bumped over another cattle guard.
I pulled into a gravel parking area to the left of the house, wedging my truck in between a shiny red Ford F-150 and Nettie’s Cadillac. Wherever the barn and outbuildings were, I thought as I walked across the gravel drive to the ranch’s bright white front door, they were nowhere near the Kocurek homestead.
Despite the intercom, nobody came to the door when I rang the bell. I waited a minute, then rang again, adding a knock in case the ringer was broken. I shifted the platter of brownies to my other hand as the time crawled by; finally, I heard the deadbolt snick back, and the door opened about three inches.
“Hi.” I addressed the eye that peered out at me suspiciously. By its color—brown—and the mass of frizzy brown hair above it, I guessed it was Flora’s. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I brought some brownies.”
The eye blinked, still regarding me.
“Flora?” It was the voice from the intercom, and it came from somewhere behind the eye. I heard footsteps, and a moment later the door opened wide, releasing a strong whiff of tuna casserole.
“Hi,” I said again, this time to the man standing in the doorway. His thinning hair had been combed over a shiny pate, and his western-style shirt and blue jeans looked oddly out of place on his paunchy frame. Flora, who was wearing a red floral housedress and matching lipstick that made the rest of her face look even more wan, had crossed her arms and was looking at me through narrowed eyes.
“I’m so sorry about Mrs. Kocurek,” I said, holding out my grandmother’s platter. “I brought some brownies.”
“That’s mighty kind of you.” Roger squinted at me from behind thick glasses. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Roger Brubeck, Flora’s fiancé.”
“I’m Lucy Resnick.” I smiled. “I moved to town a few months ago—bought a piece of property from Mrs. Kocurek.” I shifted the platter and thrust out my right hand. “Dewberry Farm,” I said.
“She’s the one Rooster thinks killed my mama,” Flora spat, pulling her arms tight around her. “Brownies are probably poisoned, too.”
Roger patted her on the shoulder. “Now, now, Flora. No need to be ornery. She’s just payin’ her respects.”
But Flora was not about to be mollified. “Mama knew she was trouble. Of course she was trouble, being the granddaughter of that Vogel woman. If she’d a known that’s who it was, she never would have sold her that piece of property.”
Roger shot me an apologetic look. “I’m terribly sorry about all this. It’s been a shock.” He put an arm around Flora. “Did you remember to take your medicine this morning?”
“Shock?” She shook his arm off of her. “I’m not in shock, Roger,” she said, glaring at me. “I just don’t like people who offer sympathy but don’t mean it.”
“She’s just being neighborly, Flora.”
“Well, tell her to take her poisoned brownies and go be neighborly somewhere else,” she said, and stomped off into the darkened house.
“Don’t mind her,” Roger said quietly when she’d gone. “Ever since . . . well, the incident, she hasn’t been herself.”
“I’m so sorry. It must be tough.”
“I think once Rooster . . . I mean, once the crime is solved, things will be better.” His eyes darted away from my face, and I realized with a sinking sensation that he had been about to say “once Rooster arrests someone.”
Meaning, most likely, me.
“Thanks for the brownies,” he said, and I handed him the plate. He reached to close the door, but I stopped him.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes?”
“I heard someone put sugar in the tanks of some of your farm machinery. How long ago did that happen?”
A groove appeared between his eyebrows as he considered the question. “It was right after Christmas,” he said.
“Any idea who might have done it?”
He shook his head. “Not a clue. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to attend to my fiancée.”
“Of course,” I said. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” And with a strained smile on his sallow face, he closed the door.
I walked back to my car slowly, taking in what Flora had said. Her mother had held a grudge ag
ainst me—and I was more than willing to bet that her sudden interest in oil exploration had started when she’d discovered who I was. Why else would she let the property sit fallow for fifteen years?
As I walked around to get into my truck, I glanced into the bed of the Ford pickup next to mine. There was a paper bag in the back, half covered by a plastic tarp. I darted a swift look back at the house—the window shades were all closed—and reached in to pull the tarp aside.
Underneath it was a paper sack with a label—COMPOSTED COW MANURE. Not exactly the kind of clue I was looking for. I flipped the tarp back, then got back into my truck.
As I bumped across the cattle guard and down the dirt road to the gate, I felt anger and frustration rise in me. Nettie Kocurek didn’t like me because of who I was—and had tried to ruin my farm to wreak revenge on me.
Unfortunately, unless my instincts were wrong, whoever had killed her had done an even better job.
My mood was still dark when I pulled up in front of the Buttercup Zephyr, the newspaper I had found in the barn on the seat beside me. Mandy Vargas greeted me at the door, wearing jogging shorts and with her dark hair pulled up in a ponytail, earbuds slung around her neck. “I’m on my way out for a run, but I pulled some of the files for you. You’re welcome to stay and go through them—there’s a copier in the back if you need one.”
“Terrific,” I said. “Remember that old news article about the Mueller murder I told you I found up in the barn?” I said. “I also found a marriage certificate.”
“A marriage certificate?” she asked, a furrow appearing on her brow.
“I can’t read it, but it’s from the same time period. Since I found it in my grandparents’ barn, I’m curious about it.” I smiled at her. “I was wondering if maybe the two were related.”
“Hmmm,” she said, not seeming too interested. “Let me know what you find out.” She reached for her earbuds.
“Speaking of finding out,” I said before she could wedge the first earbud in, “remember those things the police missed down at the crime scene?”
Mandy grimaced. “Yes. Are you ready to tell me what they were?”
“A scrap of red fabric with a gold lamb pin. Also, a smashed jam jar.” I swallowed. “I don’t know who the pin belonged to, but unfortunately, the jar was mine.”
“There were lots of jam jars in that tent,” Mandy said. “Besides, just because it was yours doesn’t mean you smashed it.”
Although her words buoyed me, the reality was that her opinion didn’t carry weight in the justice system of Fayette County. “I wish Rooster felt the same way,” I said.
“The lamb pin is interesting,” she said. “It’s a Brethren Church thing, so it might limit the pool of suspects. It might not be a bad idea to talk to Father Mikeska and find out who got one.” She pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. “Assuming Nettie ripped it off the murderer’s clothing.”
That would put me out of the running for top suspect—I wasn’t Czech, I’d only been here for a few months, and I’d never seen a lamb pin before finding one on the town square. “Rooster won’t believe me, though. He thinks I planted it to implicate someone else.”
“It would have been better if someone else tracked it down,” she agreed, which did not give me a warm and fuzzy feeling.
“One more question. Do you have any idea who’s been putting sugar in gas tanks?”
She perked up. “Is there another case?”
“The Kramers mentioned it happened to them,” I said. “I think the Kocureks were hit, too.”
“I did some research and ran a little article on it a few months back. Nobody found out who it was, and I thought it had died down,” she said. “It was mostly small farms that suffered; I was surprised when the Kocureks were hit. Their farm is bigger than the average target, and pretty well fenced.”
“With a radio-controlled security gate, too. Did that come before or after the problems?”
“It’s been there for years,” Mandy said. “I’ll give them a call and follow up on it. Thanks for the tip. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to run before it gets too hot.” With a smile, she tucked the earbuds into her ears and jogged away.
I let myself into the small house, thinking about the pin I’d found and wondering a little at Mandy’s willingness to let me walk right in when nobody was there. I was still used to city living, where everything was locked up tight. I still hadn’t adjusted to the trust in small communities—and realized with a warm rush that that must mean she didn’t believe I had murdered Nettie Kocurek.
As I walked past the front desk, the headline from the most recent issue of the Zephyr screamed up at me: PROMINENT BUSINESSWOMAN STABBED, KILLED AT FESTIVAL. On the front was a picture of Flora Kocurek and Roger Brubeck, decked out in their Czech outfits. Flora wore a white blouse and a lace-trimmed apron, her hands over her mouth as if she had just received shocking news (which I supposed she had), and Roger stood beside her. One arm was wrapped around her protectively, but he was looking somewhere else, distracted. Had he killed her? I wondered. He was wearing lederhosen, though, and not a scrap of red, and I reflected that the lamb pin knocked him off my suspect list. Besides, he looked disappointingly unmussed.
A quick scan of the article revealed nothing I didn’t already know. The one bright spot was that Mandy hadn’t named me as the prime suspect.
Yet.
Making a mental note to check in at the Brethren Church and inquire about lamb pins, I headed to Mandy’s desk and picked up the folder she’d left for me. The first headline blared LOCAL MAN FOUND DEAD AT GRUENWALD TRAIN DEPOT. A large photo showed the station as it had been years ago. A police officer in a crisply pressed uniform stood in front of the depot, looking grim; off to the side, standing in the shadows, was another person. The words “Gruenwald Station” were crisp and freshly painted.
I scanned the faded newsprint. Thomas Mueller had evidently been the son of Uschi and Tom Mueller, who owned the Mueller cotton mill. Although I knew all of the details already, rereading them made my heart hurt.
After reading the story, I flipped through the rest of the pages in the folder. The crime had never been solved; it had been assumed to be a robbery, since the man’s wallet was missing. I found myself wondering who had stored all of those articles in the barn. I’d heard of murderers keeping mementos of their crimes. Had someone living at Dewberry Farm killed young Thomas?
My stomach did a little flip-flop as I considered the unpleasant truth. If the murderer had been at Dewberry Farm, there was a good chance it was a member of my family.
I was still brooding on Nettie’s death twenty minutes later, when I swung by the Blue Onion to pick up another loaf of Quinn’s yeasty white bread. The dining room was full as I walked in—it was lunchtime—and the conversation was animated as I opened the front door. Which made the awkward silence that fell the moment all eyes landed on me even more uncomfortable. With a brittle smile, I scurried to the back of the restaurant—even Tori, the waitress with whom I shared a passion for maple twists, paused, iced tea pitcher in hand, to stare at me.
By the time I reached the kitchen and closed the door behind me, I could hear the hum of conversation starting again. Only this time it sounded like a hive of angry bees.
“Lucy!” Quinn looked up from the counter, where she was mixing fresh tarragon into a big bowl of chicken salad.
“That may have been the most uncomfortable ten seconds of my life.” I glanced over my shoulder at the door to the front of the restaurant.
She raised a quizzical eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
I let out a big breath and leaned against the wall. “The moment I walked in, everyone stopped talking.”
“Oh.” She brushed a stray curl out of her eyes with the back of her hand and dismissed it. “It’s because of what happened to Nettie, of course. Don’t worry about it. It’ll blow over.”
“Easier said than done. Can I help?” I asked, surveying the list of tickets clothes
-pinned to a cord above her head.
“Sure. Would you mind warming up three slices of quiche for me? The oven’s preheated.”
“Got it.” I retrieved a quiche from the fridge—Quinn’s ham-and-leek quiche was legendary in Buttercup—and cut three generous slices, transferring them to a warming pan. “Want me to plate the greens, too?” I asked.
“That would be great. I use a little Dijon vinaigrette,” she instructed, “and toss in a few cherry tomatoes.”
As I arranged the greens on the plate, thankful for something to busy my hands, I glanced over at my friend. “It looks like I’m turning into a pariah,” I said, trying to keep my voice light.
She gave the chicken salad a vigorous stir, but didn’t look up. “As soon as Rooster arrests the right person, it’ll all die down.”
“But will he?” I asked.
“Let’s hope so. Hey, can you grab me the plastic wrap?” She pointed to the roll on the edge of the counter. Despite her cheerful yellow tank top and her bright red apron, she looked pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes.
“Sure,” I said, feeling a twinge of worry for my friend. I reached for the roll of wrap and handed it over to her. “How are things with Jed?”
Her eyes flicked to me, and I saw fear in them. “He’s drinking again,” she said flatly.
“Oh, Quinn.” I sucked in a breath. “I’m so sorry.”
She folded her lips into a grim line and thrust the spoon into the bowl, stirring hard. She looked spooked. And it wasn’t too hard to figure out why.
“He threatened you again,” I said quietly.
She stopped stirring for a moment, but didn’t raise her eyes.
“Stay with me,” I said. “Just until you can work things out with the attorney.”
Quinn looked up at me. Despite the fear in her eyes, her jaw was set. “I’m not going to let him control me anymore, Lucy.” She pushed her shoulders back and stirred harder. “I spent five years living in fear. No more.”
Killer Jam (A Dewberry Farm Mystery) Page 13
