A Tine to Live, a Tine to Die Page 18

  Cam shook that thought off. She sighed and checked her watch. Time to get over to Moran Manor. A car door slammed, and the sound of dogs barking interrupted the quiet of the tree-rimmed pond. Cam made her way toward the path that led to the parking area. From around the bend twenty yards away bounded a large black dog. It ran straight at her.

  Chapter 16

  Cam froze. The dog stopped three feet in front of her. It planted splayed feet and panted. Drool dripped from the corner of its mouth. Its eyes were trained on her and did not look friendly.

  “Nice doggy,” Cam said, her heart thumping in her throat. She tried to take a deep breath. She tried to muster thoughts of a curly cocker spaniel, a tactic she’d once read that could trick a dog into thinking you weren’t afraid. “Nice little doggy.”

  “Billy! You come here.” A man appeared on the path. He held back another dog on a leash, this one even bigger. “Get over here.” He slapped his thigh.

  Billy looked at the man and back at Cam. He turned and loped away from Cam.

  “Sorry about that, ma’am,” the man called.

  She walked slowly toward them as he rubbed the black dog’s head.

  “He wouldn’t hurt you.”

  Every dog owner’s favorite words. She kept moving, her heart returning to normal, the smile on her face a lie.

  “He’s a good boy, aren’t you, Billy?” The man wore a trim gray beard and a Red Sox hat. His business shirt, rolled up at the cuffs, and pressed dark slacks looked out of place at the pond, although his sneakers were at least appropriate footwear.

  Cam passed them, giving a little wave. “Have a good walk.” After she was sure the man and his dogs had proceeded down the path, she turned and watched, eyes wide. The man’s forearm displayed the same tattoo as Frank Jackson’s. The Patriotic Militia tattoo.

  Albert pointed a crutch toward a table in the corner of the dining hall at Moran Manor that evening. “Let’s eat our dinner there. We’ll have a little more quiet.”

  Cam followed him toward the table in a tasteful room fragrant with the aromas of roasting meat and fresh bread. Aging eyes tracked them from all sides. She nodded and smiled to the senior citizens as she passed. It appeared that having a young visitor in the place was an exciting event.

  Albert stopped at a table of three women and a man. “This is my great-niece, Cameron Flaherty. Cam, Jimmy Rousseau, Claire Rousseau, Virginia Skinner, and Edna Rogers. We play bridge together. Well, except for Edna.”

  Cam greeted them. Edna didn’t look up from the roll she was working hard to butter, but the others smiled and waved a hello.

  “Nice to meet you, dear,” Virginia said. “Good to see young blood around here. Come back soon, you hear?”

  Cam said she would, then pulled out a chair for Albert at the last table in the row.

  He drew a bottle of wine out of a quilted bag and set it on the table. “They’ll come and open it for us. Thanks for joining me, honey. And for getting out of your farm togs. They do like their dress code for dinner.” He rolled his eyes. Albert’s concession to the dress code was the sports coat he’d pulled on over his plaid shirt.

  “You know I like hanging out with you, Uncle Albert. And after everything that has happened, well, I could use a nice meal and intelligent conversation.” Cam had washed up after market and had donned a summery dress before driving to the assisted living facility.

  They spent a few minutes perusing the menu after giving the wine to a nervous high-school waiter who looked like he’d tucked a shirt into pants for the first time ever. When he brought the open bottle, they gave their orders and then sipped the wine.

  “It’s a dry Riesling from down the road in Rowley. Perfect for a summer night, don’t you think?”

  Cam tasted it and agreed. “From Mill River?”

  Albert nodded.

  Cam took a bite of a roll, a delicious warm sourdough, then set it down. “Susan Lee is a force of nature. And she appears to adore you.”

  Albert laughed. “I’ve known her forever. She’s no spring chicken, but she’s done very well by herself in the law. You know, she didn’t go to law school until she was in her forties. She raised three children all by herself after her scoundrel husband left them. And the minute the last kid was off to college, why, she was, too.”

  “I wish she could have gotten Lucinda out on bail, but the judge denied it.” Cam frowned.

  “Whoa, back up a little, Cameron. I want to know everything about this Lucinda. And why they think she killed young Montgomery.”

  Cam laid out the events of the past few days, since she’d dropped Albert off after the Locavore Festival. “There’s still something I don’t get about Friday night. Lucinda left in a hurry. The next day she was late to help harvest, and she didn’t look too well. Then two other subscribers, Wes and Felicity—”

  “The Slavin girl?”

  Cam nodded. “She’s not exactly a girl, Uncle Albert. I’d say she’s almost Susan’s age.”

  “She’s a girl to me.” Albert waved a hand. “But go on.”

  “Anyway, Wes and Felicity told me Pappas had asked them about Lucinda and Friday night, as if he knew what had happened. I don’t know what it was, though. And then Lucinda and I never got a chance to talk about it.”

  “Can you visit her in jail?”

  “I’m going with Susan tomorrow afternoon.”

  The boy brought their meals. Cam and Albert ate in silence for a moment.

  “This is good,” Cam said.

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Yeah. I didn’t expect institutional chicken to be so tasty. It’s a really nice mushroom sauce with what? Wine and capers?”

  “We have a real chef here, and she does wonders. It’s all pretty much healthy, too.”

  “I should talk to her about using the farm produce in these meals.”

  “Now you’re thinking like a business owner.” Albert raised bushy eyebrows. “Make sure you charge her a good price.”

  “I will, I will. Getting back to the case,” Cam said. “What about Bev Montgomery? She’s been almost one hundred percent unpleasant to me and downright awful about Lucinda. She seems to think every immigrant in this country ought to go back where they came from.”

  “Yes, she does hold those views.”

  “Well, as far as I know, Montgomery isn’t exactly a Native American last name. How does she think her family got here?” Cam heard her voice rise and saw Jimmy at the next table glance over. She went on in a low tone. “Sorry about that. It just really bothers me.”

  Albert nodded but didn’t offer an opinion.

  “And then today she also accused me of stealing her customers and playing at farming.” Cam shook her head. She downed a healthy swallow of wine.

  Albert reached across and patted her hand with a palm callused from decades of working with the earth. “Bev has had a hard life. Do you know her husband was killed in a tractor accident? Bev blamed it on their Jamaican farmhand, but it was Jeb Montgomery’s own damn fault. What kind of farmer gets drunk and then climbs on a tractor?” Albert’s mouth pulled down. “At any rate, her older sons and her daughter aren’t interested in being farmers. She’d held out hope for Mike, but he didn’t quite rise to the responsibility she gave him. Then he said he’d rather work for me. And now she doesn’t even have him.” He shook his head.

  Cam rued being so irritated with Bev. Sort of. “What was it you owed her a favor for, Albert? You wouldn’t tell me the other day.”

  “When Marie was dying, why, Bev Montgomery was over every day. She’d either be wiping Marie’s brow, cleaning up the kitchen, or doing farmwork so I could be with Marie. She really came through for us. She’s gruff, but she has a big heart.”

  Now Cam did feel bad.

  “Don’t let her bark worry you. I think you’re doing a super job with the farm, Cameron. And I want a tour one of these days.”

  Cam mentally slapped her forehead for not thinking of it herself. “Of course. And
thank you. I’m working hard, and I’m trying to keep the spirit of your farm going, just with an update to organic. That’s what the customer base seems to want.”

  “The customer base. You have all these fancy ways of referring to things.” Albert smiled. “And that’s good.”

  “Would you believe we have a Web site now, too? Alexandra, one of the younger locavores, designed it and set it up for me. I just didn’t have time. I’ll have to show you. They must have a computer here somewhere we can use.”

  “I didn’t tell you? I’m online now. Right in my room.”

  Cam’s mouth dropped open. “You are?”

  “Why, yes. I ordered a laptop with the Senior Geeks group they got going here, and I took the class. Just finished yesterday, as a matter of fact. I have an e-mail address and everything, don’t you know. Web design is our next class, and I’m thinking of blogging about my memoirs.”

  “Now you’re the geek, and I’m the farmer.” A moment of happiness washed over her, extra rosy for the lack of it lately. “How about we start a farm blog and you can write about your farming memories? You could give growing and harvesting tips. I could publish some of Marie’s recipes. They’re still in her recipe box in the kitchen cupboard.”

  “We could do that.” Albert glanced toward the door of the dining room. “Well, what do you know?”

  Cam followed his gaze. Stuart stood in the doorway with a woman in a blazer that sported a name tag. On Stuart’s arm was an older woman, who looked around her like she had stumbled into a new and unfamiliar universe.

  “There’s Betty Wilson. Hello, Betty!” Albert called to her. He turned to Cam. “Are we all done?”

  Cam looked at her plate. Somewhere during their conversation she’d polished off her entire meal. She nodded. Albert was already on his feet and crutching toward Stuart and the woman, who was clearly his mother, so Cam followed.

  “Betty, I haven’t seen you in years,” Albert said, beaming at her.

  “Why, yes, Albert. How’s my dear Marie?” Betty smiled sweetly, but her eyes seemed unsure. “Please tell her hello for me.”

  “I’ll do that, Betty. Hello, Stuart. I’m Albert St. Pierre.” He balanced on the crutches and extended his hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met, although I saw you at the local food thingamabob last week.”

  Stuart shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir. Hi, Cam.” Stuart didn’t smile, and a tic jumped at the top of his lip. “We’re checking this place out for Mother. Aren’t we, Mother?” His tone softened when he addressed her, as did his eyes.

  “I’m sure you’ll find a lovely apartment for yourself here, dear. Can I go home now?” She turned her face up to Stuart’s.

  “In just a minute, Mother.” Stuart patted her hand with a wistful smile and pained eyes. He excused them and moved along on their tour with the Manor representative. Cam strolled with Albert back to his room.

  “Why didn’t you tell Mrs. Wilson that Great-Aunt Marie died two years ago?” Cam asked, holding open the door to his room.

  “Cameron, it would just upset her. Couldn’t you see she doesn’t have so much going on upstairs anymore?”

  “When I get old, I don’t want people to lie to me.”

  “When you get old, you might not be able to tell the difference. Now, let me show you my new toy.” Albert gestured to a chair in the corner as he lowered himself into a swivel chair at the desk. “Pull that up.”

  Cam sat next to Albert and watched as he showed off what he knew.

  “Now, show me the farm Web site,” he said.

  She scooted closer and, taking over the keyboard, brought up the page. “There’s an events area, a page for the CSA, and we have a customer comment area, too. See?” She clicked through the tabs. She turned to see how Albert was reacting to her baby. He looked like he’d eaten a spoiled tomato.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t like it?”

  He pointed. “Cameron, read that. It’s disgusting.”

  Cam focused on the screen. The topmost comment was a paragraph of obscenities and slurs against her, against immigrants, against organic farming. It accused her of murder and worse.

  “What! Who put that there?” She leaned in. “There’s no name on it. They must have chosen the anonymous identity. But I’m taking it down right now.” Her fingers flew on the keys as she logged in as administrator.

  “Wait.” Albert laid his hand on her arm. “Maybe you should save it. Show it to the police. They could track who sent it.”

  “Good idea.” Cam copied the content out to a file, saving it to the desktop. She deleted the message from the page. “E-mail me this file later, will you? I’m going to have to moderate this page, I can tell.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I’ll have to approve every comment before it goes public. Who would have thought I’d need to do that for a simple organic farm Web site?”

  “There are many unfortunate souls out there, Cameron, who have never heard of moderation.” Albert shook his head slowly. “Many unfortunate souls.”

  Chapter 17

  Cam had just finished watering in the hoop house at eight thirty the next morning when she heard the ding of a bicycle bell. She stepped outside to see Alexandra leaning her bike against the barn.

  “Hi, Alexandra. You’re early for Volunteer Day.”

  “Yeah. Hey, funny weather, isn’t it?” She gestured to the gray, overcast sky. “It’s even sort of cool. For summer.” She wore a red long-sleeved T-shirt and faded jeans cut off right below the knee. “So, I have to drive my sister to the bus station in a couple of hours. I thought I’d get a head start here since I can’t stay until the end of the volunteer time.”

  “Where’s your sister headed?”

  “Katie thinks she’s going to break into the acting scene in New York.” Alexandra cocked her head. “I’d say it’s unlikely she’ll even break into a waitress job.”

  “She’s not getting back together with Stuart?”

  “No way. He’s way too old for her, anyway.”

  Stuart certainly didn’t think he was too old for Katie. Cam wondered how he would react to the news of Katie being gone.

  “Uh, Cam? Are you going to give me a task to do? I’d like to get started.”

  Cam started. “Sorry. Of course. But first, can you add a moderation facility sometime to the comments page on the Web site? A disgusting message showed up on the page last night.”

  “Yuck. Really?”

  “Yes. It was basically a rant against me and the world, including immigrants and organics. Actually accused me of killing Mike. And not in very nice language.”

  “You deleted it, I assume?”

  “Yes, after I saved the file. I was with Albert at the time, so I had him e-mail it to me. I sent it off to Pappas this morning.”

  “Good. I’ll set up moderation as soon as I get home. What’s on the job list for farmwork today?”

  “Do you mind turning compost again?”

  “Not at all. I like doing that kind of work. Bring it on.”

  Cam grabbed a pitchfork from the barn and handed it to Alexandra. As they walked out back, Cam patted her pocket. No cell phone.

  “I’m going to run to the house and get my phone. Last week I layered fresh manure into the new bin, you know, the one on the far left. You can turn the middle bin into the one on the right, and then turn the fresh stuff into the middle bin. That all right?”

  “Got it, boss.”

  Cam trotted to the house and retrieved her phone from the kitchen counter. She strode back to the barn, feeling like her brain was about to explode. That flaming comment on the Web site. Pappas saying they had evidence and a witness tying Lucinda to the murder. Jake’s odd departure Monday night and no word from him since. Lucinda sitting in a jail cell. And Cam with a farm to run. The overcast sky and strangely cool air added to her sense of uneasiness with the world.

  At noon the volunteers finished up and straggled toward the barn and their cars.
It was a smaller group this week. Stuart hadn’t showed. And, of course, Lucinda wasn’t there. Alexandra had flown off on her bicycle an hour earlier.

  Felicity approached Cam as she wiped a weeding tool with a rag to get the dirt off before she hung it on the barn wall.

  “Cam, is it all right with you if we have our first shareholders’ potluck here?” Felicity tossed her braid back over her shoulder. She stood with clasped hands and a cheerful, expectant look on her face.

  “That’d be fine. I don’t think I have enough chairs, though.”

  “We’ll take care of all that. Everybody can bring their own chairs. I thought we could use the share table, and then we’ll bring a couple more collapsible tables.”

  “Sounds good, Felicity. When did you want to hold the first one?”

  “This Friday. Is six o’clock okay?”

  “This Friday?” Cam swallowed. “Don’t you think that’s kind of . . .” She stopped. Felicity’s cheer had turned to dismay. Cam put up a hand. “No, it’s fine. This Friday it is.” She sighed inwardly. One more item to add to the list of things she had to worry about.

  “Good.” Felicity’s balance was restored. “I’ll send out an e-mail to the list.” She looked around and lowered her voice. “Except to Lucinda, that is. Is it true she’s in jail? For the murder of that disturbed young man, the one you had to fire?”

  “It’s true. I’m going to see her this afternoon with her lawyer. Believe me, they have the wrong person.”

  “She’s such a nice woman. But you know what they say. The killers are often those quiet, normal-looking neighbors.”

  “Felicity.” Cam frowned at her customer. “Lucinda is not a killer. Please don’t think she is. And do me a favor?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t talk about her as if she’s a murderer. Will you do that for me?”

  Felicity nodded. “I suppose.” She brightened. “See you Friday! We’ll have everyone bring their own plate and utensils, too, and I’ll have tablecloths and such. We don’t want to make any extra work for you while we build community.”