A Tine to Live, a Tine to Die Read online

  A Tine to Live, a Tine to Die

  Edith Maxwell

  Kensington Publishing Corp. (2013)

  * * *

  It's harvest time in Westbury, Massachusetts, and novice farmer Cameron Flaherty hopes to make a killing selling organic produce. But when a killer strikes on her property, her first foray into the world of organic farming yields a bumper crop of locally sourced murder. . .

  Cam's first growing season has gotten off to a slow start, but her CSA is flourishing thanks to a colorful group of subscribers led by Lucinda DaSilva, an enthusiastic Brazilian volunteer who's vowed to eat nothing but locally produced food for one year. When Cam fires her only employee, local handyman Mike Montgomery, because he won't follow organic growing practices, it seems like just another day at the office—until she finds him with a pitchfork sticking out of his neck.

  The police suspect Cam of Mike's murder, but when their investigation goes nowhere, Lucinda joins Cam in the hunt for the real killer. In a small New England town full of eccentric locavores, there's no shortage of...

  A Tine to Live, A Tine to Die

  EDITH MAXWELL

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Copyright Page

  For my sons, Allan and John Hutchison-Maxwell

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank my agent, John Talbot, for taking me on as a client and nurturing the proposal for this book into a salable work of art. My editor at Kensington Publishing, John Scognamiglio, also took a leap of faith in signing me on without having seen the entire manuscript, and I thank him. None of this would have happened if Sheila Connolly, president at the time of the New England chapter of Sisters in Crime, hadn’t sent John Talbot’s request for a few names out to the entire chapter and had hand-picked several instead. Thanks, Sheila! Thanks, too, to Rosemary Silva, whose keen editorial touch vastly improved the book by nailing inconsistencies and fine-tuning my writing.

  My farmer friend Paula Chase of Arrowhead Farm also read the proposal. She helped me fix a few details and has been my consultant all along the way. Software engineer Tina VanRoggen ably served as my geek consultant.

  I read most of this book to the fabulous Salem Mystery Writers Group—Margaret Press, Rae Francouer, Doug Hall, Bill Joyner, and Sam Sherman—and am grateful always for their critiques and support. Sherry Harris edited the entire manuscript before I turned it in and made it much bettert. Three talented fellow authors—Jessie Crockett, Liz Mugavero, and Barb Ross—are also represented by John Talbot and had similar deadlines to mine this year. They are the best support group ever.

  I wouldn’t have arrived at publication without the members of the Guppies (the Great Unpublished) chapter of Sisters in Crime. They provide an infinite supply of information, cheers, and commiseration. May you all be published! My excellent friend and publicist, Jeanne Wallace, has helped me immensely in getting the word out to the world about my stories. I also thank Barbara Bergendorf, Janet Maxwell, and Jennifer Yanco for their love. My fellow Quakers at Amesbury Friends Meeting are endlessly encouraging. I couldn’t ask for a better second family.

  Many years ago, when I co-owned a small certified-organic farm with John Hutchison, he said, “You like to read mysteries. Why don’t you write one?” I started to write this book way back then. Thanks, John. I read drafts at the time to Susan Oleksiw’s writing group and learned much about the craft from her, Mary McDonald, Tempa Pagel, and Jan Soupcoff. I’m so happy to have finally finished it. I also learned a great deal about farming from the Massachusetts chapter of the Northeast Organic Farming Association, some of which is reflected in this story.

  I am eternally grateful for my sons, Allan and John David, avid readers and awesome writers both, who are tireless cheerleaders for their author mom. And I thank Hugh, who doesn’t quite get what I am doing but is happy for me, regardless.

  Chapter 1

  Cam hung the pitchfork on the back wall of her antique barn with a tired hand. The scent of sun on old wood mixed with the aroma of fresh scallions, well-oiled machinery, and a couple of centuries of farmers. Thirty new customers were due at the farm over the next two hours to pick up the first of their weekly farm shares, and she hoped she was ready. She was about to turn back to her errant farmhand when she spied an unfamiliar plastic jug on a shelf behind the organic products. She extracted it and examined the red-and-green label. What the heck? She whirled, then strode toward the middle of the barn.

  “What’s this doing here?” Cam pushed the jug toward a disheveled Mike Montgomery, who faced her in a wide stance, tattooed arms crossed, breath reeking of alcohol despite the noon hour.

  “How would I know?” The young man glanced at the container and then examined the fingernails on his left hand.

  “I did not bring this onto the farm, and I can’t have it here.” Cam willed her employee to look at her, or at least at the label featuring a skull and crossbones. “You know that. We follow strict organic practices. I explained everything at the start of the season.” A hefty gray-and-white cat arched his puffy, long-haired body against Cam’s leg. She reached down to stroke him while fixing her eyes on Mike. Great-Uncle Albert had asked her to keep him on as farmhand, and she’d agreed, despite misgivings.

  “Maybe it was left over from your uncle’s stuff. Albert didn’t care how I took care of the crops. He was just happy somebody did the heavy lifting for him.”

  Cam straightened. “Look, Mike.” She kept her voice level despite her anger. “I cleaned this barn top to bottom when I moved to the farm last fall. I threw out every product like this. I know it wasn’t here.”

  “Okay. You win.” Mike rolled his eyes and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I was tired of handpicking those stupid beetles off the asparagus and the potato leaves. I was going to kill them off with a good spraying instead.” As Cam opened her mouth, he put up a hand. “Now, don’t get your panties in a twist. I didn’t do it yet. Your precious organic crops are all clean and safe.”

  “They’d better be,” a voice said in a shocked tone.

  Cam turned to see Alexandra Magnusson, one of the new subscribers to Cam’s farm-share program, who wore two blond braids like a Viking princess. If princesses wore cutoff overalls and hiking boots with red socks, that is.

  “Hey, Alexandra. Be with you in a minute.” Bad timing to have a new customer show up right now, a customer Cam wanted to impress.

  The younger woman stuck her hands in her pockets and scowled at Mike. Her pale skin set off intense green eyes.

  Cam moved closer to Mike and lowered her voice. “Mike, this is unacceptable. You skip work on my most important harvest day so far. When you do drift in, you’ve been drinking.” She ticked his offenses off on her fingers, her ire rising.

  Mike grinned. “It’s not a crime to have a morning date, is it?” He leered at Alexandra,
who backed away with disgust on her face.

  Cam shook her head. “A date? When you’re supposed to be at work? But the worst part is that you think it’s fine to spray chemicals on my crops. I could lose my organic certification! I won’t tolerate it.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going to have to let you go. You no longer work here.”

  Mike stopped grinning. Glaring at Cam and Alexandra, he pivoted and strode toward the wide main doorway. He stopped and looked back. His face darkened into a scowl. He threw a hand in the air as if to dismiss Cam.

  “You’ll regret this!” Mike stomped away.

  The cat surveyed him and then turned and streaked out the open back door of the barn.

  Two people stood in the wide doorway, silhouetted in the early June light. The smaller one, carrying a large basket by its handle, nearly fell over as Mike pushed between the two without a word and disappeared.

  Cam shoved the toxic container under the table. She hurried toward the newcomers. “Sorry about that. I’m Cam Flaherty. Welcome to the share program. Come on in.”

  “Who was that poor fellow? He didn’t seem too happy.” The petite woman with the basket turned toward the barn door, as if sad everyone wasn’t as happy as she.

  “He used to work here. Don’t worry about him.” Cam shook her head.

  “Well, anyway, I’m Felicity.” She beamed up at Cam. She wore a purple tunic over loose turquoise pants. A long gray braid hung down her back. “We met just that once, remember, when we signed up for the CSA? We were so excited to find a community supported agriculture program here in Westbury. And after a New England winter, finally the season is under way. Aren’t we excited about our share, Wes?” She gazed at her companion.

  Wes nodded without speaking. He was a little taller than Cam’s five feet eleven. He also sported gray hair, although not on the top of his shiny head. Friendly wrinkles surrounded blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.

  Alexandra still watched the door, her eyes intent. “If that guy tries to put pesticides on your crops, I’ll take him down and run a pitchfork through him.”

  Felicity inhaled sharply, and Wes put a hand on her shoulder.

  “Nobody should use those chemicals,” Alexandra went on. “They’re poisoning our environment.”

  “I’m sure you won’t need to do that, Alexandra. He’ll find another job somewhere.” Cam then mustered her inner social being, not an easy task for a geek-turned-farmer. “Thank you all for buying a share in the farm. Getting the money up front really helps, because that’s when I need it for seeds and other expenses. And I think you’ll enjoy your portion of freshly picked local produce every week. Let me show you what we have for today.”

  Cam turned to the produce table, a rustic plank laid out with the first harvest of the spring. Thirty bundles of asparagus she’d cut over the last couple of days. Thirty bags of spinach she’d harvested earlier in the morning from the bed that she had seeded last fall. Thirty bunches of slim green-and-white scallions. Thirty small heads of Red Sails lettuce, and more. Nine months ago, when she’d taken over her great-uncle’s farm, she hadn’t been sure she’d ever get to this point. Now she was both proud of these baby crops and a little nervous that her customers wouldn’t think it was enough. The beginning of June in Massachusetts was still early in the growing season. They’d just have to be satisfied with the yield.

  Several other customers approached from the barn door. Cam said to the group, “We’re starting with half portions for the next month. Help yourself to one of everything.”

  Felicity looked over Cam’s shoulder. “Lucinda!” Felicity waved. “Hey, when’s the next club meeting?”

  A wiry woman with curly black hair stood behind the produce table. One of the farm volunteers, Lucinda DaSilva had come early that Saturday morning to help Cam harvest for the shares.

  Cam looked at Lucinda and back to Felicity. She hadn’t realized they knew each other. She raised her eyebrows.

  “Lucinda is the president of our club. The Westbury Locavore Club!” Felicity’s voice rose until Cam wondered if she was about to float up to the rafters on sheer enthusiasm. She knew that kind of relentless cheer was not part of her own makeup, and, frankly, was glad.

  “She told me. So you’re members, too. Now I see how I got so many subscribers in such a short time in February. Well, food doesn’t get any more local than this.”

  Lucinda nodded. “We had just formed when I saw your ad for the CSA on Craigslist. Seemed like a perfect match.”

  “Some of us are even thinking of joining a CSF.” Alexandra spoke behind Cam.

  “What’s a CSF?”

  “Community supported fishery,” Alexandra said. “It comes straight from the boat to the consumer. This one’s out of Gloucester. Could we have our fish pickup here on the farm? They can bring the truck during our farm-share pickup time. Would you mind?”

  “Give me a couple of days to think about it,” Cam said. “Right now I can’t see any problem. Maybe I’ll join, too.” She wasn’t sure she’d ever embrace these people’s dedication to all things local, but, hey, if it made her farm profitable, that was enough.

  “Great!” Alexandra nodded briskly. “We do a bulk meat order at Tendercrop Farm over in Newbury, too, because they raise all their own animals and treat them humanely.” She stuck her hands in her pockets. “It’s part of the sustainability model. We’re building a new world.”

  Only a recent college graduate filled with idealism could say such a thing with a straight face. Cam smiled. She had been there herself a decade earlier. She didn’t care as long as the model included sustaining her farm.

  “Sample the salad on the table.” Cam spoke to the cluster of shareholders. “I’ll be preparing a dish from every week’s harvest and putting recipes out for each shareholder.” Cam gestured at a small table showcasing a wide wooden bowl brimming with greens, a stack of small paper plates, a mug full of plastic forks, and a basket holding half sheets printed with recipes.

  “What’s in the salad?” Wes asked in a deep voice. He walked to the table and peered into the bowl.

  Felicity beamed at her husband, then said to the group, “He does all the cooking in our house.”

  “Well, it’s a couple of kinds of lettuce, along with mizuna, which is a mild Asian green, and baby arugula. Then I marinated asparagus in an herb vinaigrette, added chopped scallions, and topped it up with violets.”

  “I’ve seen that on cooking shows, but I’ve never eaten any flowers.” Lucinda looked wary.

  “They’re tasty. Don’t worry. I grow several types of edible flowers, although the violets are wild. Wait until later in the season, when you taste a nasturtium. Peppery. Really nice.”

  Alexandra strode to the salad table and served herself a heaping plateful, making Cam glad she’d put out only tiny plates. The bowl had to last for all thirty subscribers.

  Alexandra took a bite. She closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and said, “Ahhh. So perfect.” Reopening her eyes, she selected one of the recipe sheets. “Ooh, Herbed Spring-Garlic Quiche, too. I know what I’m having for dinner tonight.”

  “But paper plates and plastic forks?” Felicity raised her eyebrows. “Next week I’ll bring you some bamboo products. Much more green.”

  Cam thanked her and hoped silently she could deal with all this enthusiasm for sustainability. Just then she caught sight of the pesticide jug she’d shoved under the table after the confrontation with Mike. Uh-oh. She glanced around quickly, but nobody seemed to have seen it.

  After Felicity filled her basket, she walked up to Cam and leaned in close.

  “When’s your birthday, Cam?” Felicity asked. “Have you ever had your astrological chart done?”

  Cam shook her head.

  “Tell me the date and what time of day you were born, and I’ll do your chart for you.”

  “November second, six fifty-eight in the morning. I remember my mother telling me that as if it was significant.” She squinted at Felicity. “I
s it?”

  “Everything is significant. Eastern time zone?”

  Cam shook her head. “No, Central. I was born in Indiana.” If Felicity wanted to find meaning in the planets, Cam wouldn’t stop her, but she didn’t think there was much logic in it.

  “Hey, everybody.” Lucinda held up her hand and waved. “Want to make sure you know we’re kicking off the season with a Locavore Festival this Friday evening. Over at St. John’s Hall.” She turned to Cam. “We reserved a table for you, Cam. You’ll be there, right?”

  “It’s the first I’ve heard about it, but sure. I’m not doing anything else Friday night.”

  “I’ll just put this up so all the subscribers will know about it.” Lucinda drew a flyer out of her bag and tacked it to the wall near the produce table. “It’s going to be great.”

  More shareholders streamed in. The next two hours became a blur of greeting customers, making sure they understood the system of taking one of everything. Cam jotted down the names of new volunteers and showed the fields to several. One asked her about the greenhouse, how she had constructed it from arcs of piping and plastic, how she ventilated it, what the cost had been. A man came with his daughter. The girl, who looked somewhere in her preteen years, seemed excited by the barn and the table full of produce.

  The man spoke with a slight accent. “Is Mike Montgomery here?”

  “No, he’s not.” Cam kept it simple.

  The man looked relieved and let his daughter lead him out to look at the fields.

  All the schmoozing of the event exhausted Cam, but she kept a smile plastered to her face. At two o’clock she stepped out of the barn. Only one share remained for pickup. Lucinda joined her in the fresh air. The cat snuggled up to Lucinda’s shin.

  “Tudo bem, Preston?” Lucinda stroked the back of his neck. “Such a big boy, and very handsome. What kind of cat is he?” She looked up at Cam.

  “He’s a Norwegian Forest Cat.” At Lucinda’s expression, Cam said, “Really! You can find pictures of other cats who look exactly like him on the Internet. He has the sweetest nature, too.”