Til Dirt Do Us Part (A Local Foods Mystery) Page 11

  At home, Cam drove behind the barn and angled the truck so the headlights shone at the chicken yard. She let herself into the fencing and shooed the hens up the ramp and into the coop.

  “Come on, ladies. Time for bed.”

  She couldn’t tell if they were all there or not. She glanced around the yard and didn’t spy any bedraggled creature lurking in the shadows. She’d have to count them in the morning. When she picked up the water receptacle and the feeder, she thought she felt a feather caress her hand, and her heart sank. She hoped a fox hadn’t invaded their space and made off with one of them. She placed the receptacles inside and secured the door, checking it twice.

  Tomorrow she’d rig an outdoor light on the barn wall. For tonight she’d just earned an F in Hen Management.

  Chapter 15

  The next morning dawned foggy and cool. After Cam pulled herself out of bed at six, she donned work clothes and an old sweater.

  As she let the chickens out of the coop, coffee mug in hand, Cam tried to count them while they tumbled and staggered out. The one with the topknot flew out the door, startling her. Except for that one, they all looked pretty similar, and she thought she’d counted forty as she brought out their food and drink and replenished both. Preston stood outside the fencing with his ears perked up, but he didn’t try to get into the enclosure.

  “You leave the girls alone, Mr. P. They aren’t your girlfriends or your lunch, you hear?”

  She could have sworn he shrugged as he turned away. She yawned as she trudged out to an empty bed she’d raked smooth the afternoon before and carefully dropped hardy spinach seeds into three shallow furrows. It was too late for the plants to mature this fall, but she’d read the crop overwintered easily.

  Over the bed she started to erect a knee-high mini hoop house. She set out heavy wire arcs spaced a foot apart. She fetched some floating row cover from the barn and laid it over the half hoops, anchoring it on the ground with lengths of lumber and pinning the ends to the wires with clothespins so they wouldn’t flap in the wind.

  Later in the season, after the ground froze, she would mulch the bed with salt marsh hay, much like she did with the garlic, and would replace the floating row cover with thick plastic, stretched tight to keep the snow from collapsing the hoops. The plastic would raise the temperature enough to keep the crop from dying off completely, and when spring came, it could resume growth. At least, that was the plan she’d read about in a book on growing in all four seasons.

  On her way back to the barn, a breeze brought the flutter of a feather from the direction of her neighbor’s property. Cam glanced to her right.

  “Oh, no.” She strode to a sad little heap on the ground. It was the remains of one of the hens. So she hadn’t counted an even forty, after all. A mostly stripped skeleton lay abandoned near the boundary between her farm and Tully’s meadow. The beak and claws, if that was what chicken feet were called, were intact, as were the bones. Most of the flesh had been eaten away.

  Who or what had done the hen in? Cam guessed it could have been any predator, from a hawk to a fox to a coyote. Through her own negligence Cam hadn’t been able to protect all the ladies, after all. She knew it was only a tiny-brained animal destined to become stew one day, but she felt sad for it and a failure for not being able to keep it safe. Plus, what would Alexandra and DJ think of her?

  She drew her phone out of her back pocket to check the time. Crud. Now she was negligent in another direction. She was almost late if she wanted to get to the Middleford Fair on time. She blew the carcass a kiss and loped to the house, promising to give the dead girl a burial later in the day.

  Cam quickly washed her hands and face and dumped her work clothes in a pile on the floor. She threw on her vegetable-print vest over a black shirt and the same black jeans she’d worn to Jake’s. She tied her black sneakers and checked the clock. Nine twenty. It was a thirty-minute drive south to Middleford. She had to submit her entry at the county fair by ten o’clock at the latest. She had barely enough time. She clattered downstairs and grabbed the completed entry forms from the desk. She winced at her farm’s name, which was increasingly striking her as ridiculous. She’d change it back this winter. Albert had certainly expressed his approval for the move.

  In the short walk from the house to the truck, Cam could feel the fog dampening every strand of her hair. Yet another reason to wear it short. It dried quickly, and humidity didn’t really affect it. Hurrying, she loaded her three most perfect, most uniform garlic braids and four baskets of her sweetest, roundest gold cherry tomatoes into the cab of the truck, glad she’d harvested them in the sun the day before. They were so small, the temperature at harvest time made a big difference in their flavor. A warm, sunny day really brought out the sugars, while cooler or cloudy days made them taste more acidic.

  She climbed into the truck and maneuvered into the navy-blue rain jacket she kept ready for days like these. As she drove, cutting across back roads to pick up Route 1, she rehashed last night’s conversation with Jake. Why did the two of them seem to light up fireworks every time they were together? The romantic kind along with the conflicted kind. Her life was difficult enough. She didn’t think she needed a contentious love relationship on top of it, no matter how weak in the knees Jake made her.

  Her thoughts turned to Bobby, sitting in a jail cell. She hadn’t heard from Sim this morning or from Susan Lee. Poor Bobby. Finally, when he’d been willing to come out of hiding and talk to the police, he’d been abruptly taken away instead. And tased, too. Cam had heard about the stun guns, but she’d never seen one used. Bobby had cried out as he fell like a giant rag doll. She had at first thought the police had shot with a bullet, and was immensely relieved when Frost looked at her and said, “Taser.”

  She drove through the Great Marsh of Newbury. The fog cloaked the salt marsh haystacks. These weren’t modern hay bundles shrink-wrapped in white plastic. Instead, they evoked earlier times with their traditional mushroom-like mounds elevated on wooden racks. She made it through the traffic from the Rowley strip mall shoppers, and up and down the wooded hills through Middleford. She hoped this weather would keep the crowds down at her destination. Even on a Tuesday morning the county fair had the potential to snarl traffic and clog the pop-up parking lots that bordered the fairgrounds.

  She would never consider going near the fair on a weekend. People flocked to it for all kinds of reasons. 4-H teenagers hoped to win a blue ribbon for a prize goat or steer, even in these modern times. Other teenagers wanted to neck on the carnival rides. Adults came for the music venues, to watch the tractor-pull event, or to browse the blue-ribbon quilts and best-of-show family farm exhibits. And children everywhere clamored for sugary fried dough, a chance to play a shooting game, a spin on the most thrill-inducing ride. But flock there they did. Cam, on the other hand, didn’t enjoy crowds one bit.

  She stopped behind two other cars at a red traffic light. The light turned green, and the first car accelerated. A truck running the red light zoomed out from the crossroad. It swerved around the first car and sped away. The first car slammed on its brakes. The car behind it crashed into it. Cam jammed on her own brakes. She thanked her lucky stars she always left a large space between her and the vehicle in front. Her heart beat so hard, she could barely breathe.

  She rolled her window down as both drivers exited their cars. Neither looked seriously hurt. They conferred about insurance and excoriated the red-light scofflaw, now long gone. Should she get out and leave her name as a witness? Another car pulled over, and Cam heard the driver call out that she’d seen the whole thing. She dug a farm business card out of her bag and handed it out the window to one of the drivers, apologizing for not staying but asking them to call if they needed her testimony.

  Cam drove around the cars and continued to the fairgrounds. She had to make the deadline to submit her vegetables, and she could easily get stuck in traffic up ahead. Her heart rate gradually returned to normal, and her resolve to proceed ver
y cautiously at intersections was reinforced.

  She snagged what seemed to be the very last parking space in a grassy lot across from the fairgrounds, a spot at the back bordering a band of brush. She backed the truck into a tight space between an SUV and a beat-up Civic that must have been two decades old. She slung the bag of garlic braids over her shoulder with care and lifted out the flat box holding her tomatoes. She slammed the door with one heel. No need to lock the old rust bucket.

  She stood in a group of fairgoers waiting for the police officer on duty to signal them to cross the busy two-lane highway. Howard Fisher walked through the parking lot, toward her, with his head down. He glanced up and saw her. He abruptly changed direction.

  “Howard! Hey, Howard!”

  His reluctance was obvious, but he turned back and shuffled up to her side. “Morning.”

  “How are you?”

  He grunted, hands in pockets. “I’m all right.” He gazed across the road at the acres of bustling fair.

  “Do you have an entry here?” she asked.

  “Yup. Bacon.”

  “That makes sense.” As long as no one judging the bacon knew Howard’s current pigs had been gnawing human flesh. A little shudder ran through her. And he couldn’t very well enter one of his emaciated swine in the judging, so maybe bacon was his only option. Winning could provide him with good publicity, the same reason Cam was entering.

  The police officer in his electric-yellow vest motioned the group across the highway. Howard split off from Cam, barely saying good-bye, as soon as he was on the other side. Cam asked a volunteer in a green vest where the produce barn was and followed his directions. She glanced at her watch. Could have stopped at the accident, after all. She was ten minutes early.

  The fog hung even more heavily here in the flat valley between the hills. It didn’t dampen the fairgoers’ spirits, from what Cam could see. The aroma of fried dough beckoned to her, as did sausages frying at a different booth. She stopped. Wes Ames and another man stood right beyond the Sausage Gal booth, each digging deep into a messy sub with oily peppers and onions trailing out of the roll every which way. Wes’s friend was short, a bit thick through the middle, and wore a gray ponytail tied at the nape of his neck.

  “Hey, Wes,” Cam called.

  He looked up and waved.

  Cam approached the two as Wes turned back to the booth, grabbed a handful of paper napkins, and wiped his chin.

  “Cam, how are ya?” Wes grinned. “Want a bite of sausage?”

  She declined and greeted the other man.

  “Billy’s an old college buddy. Lives in Idaho. I thought I’d show him some local color. Homegrown, you might say.” The men looked at each other and began to laugh.

  Cam didn’t get the joke but wished them a good time and moved on. If she didn’t know better, she’d say they were acting like stoned college students. Maybe they were stoned. She didn’t care.

  A few moments later, she stood at the entrance to the warehouse-size produce barn with butterflies in her stomach. The end of her first year of farming. What had she been thinking, entering a competition ? She was certain more experienced growers would be the blue ribbon winners, not her. But, as Albert had said, it would give her experience in the process. Plus, her gold tomatoes were exceedingly tasty and organic, too.

  She squared her shoulders and marched in.

  Chapter 16

  After leaving her produce and her entry forms, she had two hours until the judging decisions were announced. She strolled through the vegetable area. First, she checked out her competition in the cherry tomato and garlic braid area and hoped she had a chance. Two of the braid displays looked a little pathetic, with small bulbs and uneven braiding. She kept walking through the barn. Some of the family farm displays went all out, including knitted tea cozies, handmade baskets, deep ruby jams, and bright green pickled beans, as well as the usual array of squashes, onions, and sheaves of cornstalks. She’d never have that kind of display unless she hooked up with a grandmother or two.

  She moved to the next building, the quilt barn. Perusing the displays, she was amazed by the artistry. One wall hanging looked like a basic patchwork with narrow rectangles, until she looked closer. It was actually a bookcase, with each block a book, complete with title and author embroidered on the spine. A blue ribbon hung from another, a beautiful and complex rendering of interlocking Japanese fans in shades of gold and turquoise.

  Cam ventured into the animal barn. To her surprise, Vince Fisher and a pig occupied one of the pens. The skinny teen wore khaki pants and a white polo shirt with WESTBURY 4-H embroidered on the chest. He was grooming a huge swine that didn’t look like it could get much cleaner or much fatter.

  “Hey, Vince. How’s it going?”

  “Yo, Ms. Flaherty. I have to, like, show this big guy in an hour. I’m pretty nervous.”

  “He looks well fed.” This pig was so healthy and fat. Where had Howard Fisher been keeping it? Clearly, it got special treatment, which had to be to the detriment of the rest of the pigs Cam had seen the day before.

  Vince looked up with a smile, his skinny, acne-ridden face half hidden under a lock of sandy hair. “For sure. Buddy here gets nothing but the best.”

  “That’s great. Are all your pigs so big?” She was curious what he would say.

  A shadow passed over Vince’s face. “Well, not all of them. We’re a little short on feed right now.” He brightened. “But if Buddy gets Best of Show, we’ll get some money, for sure.”

  “Really? I didn’t know the fair offered award premiums.”

  “They don’t usually, but some rich guy put in a bunch of money for prizes this year.”

  “What time are you showing him?”

  “At noon.”

  “Well, good luck, Vince. I’m sure you’ll do great.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Flaherty. Hey, can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “I was just wondering, like, about Ms. Burr’s killer. Do you think they’re going to catch him soon? It kind of weirds me out. And she was such a nice lady.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “Yeah. I mean, sort of. She came to the farm one time. She seemed interested in me, asked me about my classes and what I like and stuff.”

  “It’s very sad she’s gone. I’m sure they’ll catch someone soon, Vince.” Cam hoped she sounded confident. “Don’t worry.”

  “Wicked. Stay cool, Ms. Flaherty.”

  At least this time he hadn’t addressed her as “dude,” as he had earlier in the summer. Cam smiled as she walked back to the produce barn for her own judging. He was a good, hardworking kid with a difficult father. She hoped Buddy would win. Interesting, too, that Irene had taken the time to get to know Vince a little. More proof that Cam really hadn’t known her at all.

  Outside the barn, she checked her watch—three minutes until the announcement. She took a deep breath and walked in.

  Farmers of all ages and sizes stood arrayed in an expectant semicircle. They faced the judges, who clustered at the end of the display tables. A photographer dressed in black tapped his foot, poised to capture the awards. Cam slid in at the end of the line of growers. She glanced around but didn’t recognize any of them, which didn’t surprise her, being the new girl on the block.

  The head judge introduced himself and began by announcing the winner of the winter squash entry. The farmer, a woman younger than Cam, walked up and shook the judge’s hand. She posed for a picture with him, her acorn squash, and her blue ribbon. He moved on to the next vegetable category and repeated the ritual. When a winner wasn’t present, the judge laid the blue ribbon on top of the display. This could take a while.

  An hour later it was time for the garlic braids. The judge announced the third and second place. Neither was Cam’s. He held up a braid.

  “This one incorporates the fattest bulbs and the best braiding. Unfortunately, we had to disqualify it because a string was used in the braiding.” He went on t
o award the blue ribbon to a farmer from Essex. The handshake and photograph were accomplished.

  Cam had used a string in her own braid. Had it been the erstwhile winner? It looked like hers. She made her way over to the garlic table, where the judge still stood. She introduced herself.

  “I’m sorry. But rules are rules,” the judge said to Cam. He held out her braid.

  She took it. “I didn’t see anything in the guidelines about not using string.” She thought she had studied the online booklet in detail.

  “The rules clearly say all entries must be produced on the farm. It was a wild guess you didn’t grow the cotton and spin the string.”

  “So if I had sheep and spun my own yarn, it would be admissible ?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Yes, I suppose it would.”

  Disappointed, Cam turned away, garlic in hand. It was a very fine braid.

  Half an hour later the same judge approached the cherry tomato division. At least half the audience had already left. Some farmers, apparently, stayed only until their own entries were announced, and then they cleared out. Cam wiped her sweaty palms on her pants. Why was she so nervous about this? It was only a silly ribbon, and she was a freshman farmer, for Pete’s sake.

  He announced third place and then said, “Cameron Flaherty, Produce Plus Plus Farm, Westbury.” He held up the red ribbon.

  Cam’s eyes flew wide open. Cool. A red ribbon on her first time entering. After the blue ribbon was awarded to a Groveland farmer, she picked up her own award.

  She trudged toward her truck. The energy of the crowds had sapped her own, and even the second-place ribbon in her bag for the tomatoes didn’t restore her spirits. She’d spent a day away from work for a minor award. To lose the garlic blue ribbon on a technicality was apparently one of those live-and-learn experiences. As she passed the Sausage Gal booth, the aroma of sizzling pork, which had smelled so enticing earlier, now made her feel a little nauseous.