Farmed and Dangerous Page 2

  Strains of guitar chords drifted their way. Nicholas tapped his foot and beat his hand on his knee.

  Felicity introduced the girl as Ray. “She helps out on weekends.” Felicity nodded at the girl.

  After Cam introduced herself, Ray said, “Mr. St. Pierre’s niece? He’s really nice.”

  “Are you going to the music?” Felicity asked Cam.

  “I thought I’d check it out before I go home. Although I shouldn’t stay long. Did you see that it started to snow?”

  “Sure. It’s January, Cam.” Felicity smiled.

  Cam lowered her voice. “How’s Wes doing?”

  Felicity let a breath out. “He’s under house arrest, awaiting trial. How did such a smart man and such a sweet husband do something so stupid?” She lifted her chin and squared her petite shoulders, but Cam could still see bewilderment in her eyes. Wes, a tall, aging hippie who doted on his tiny wife, had indeed done something stupid last October and was now paying the price.

  They arrived at the wide side doorway of the common room that opened off the front lobby of the residence. A slender woman perched on a stool at the front, one leg extended in front of her, one foot hooked on the stool’s rung. Her outfit, green leather ankle boots, a calf-length suede skirt, and a green sweater, could have come straight out of a Talbots catalog. She strummed the guitar and encouraged the residents to sing along to “Oh My Darling, Clementine.”

  Felicity pushed her father to the end of the front row of chairs, while Cam stood near the doorway. Residents filled the row, mostly women, many white-haired and several with careful dye jobs. Most sang along and clapped. One woman, with a short cap of hair more dark than silver, took tiny stitches in a piece of cloth stretched over a ring, listening and tapping a sneaker-clad foot. A row of wheelchairs formed the second row. In two of them, a man and a woman sat side by side, holding hands. Next to them a man slumped over, his head listing to the side. Cam was glad to see he had a wheelchair seat belt strapped around him.

  “Great singing, ladies and gentlemen.” Ginger smiled and tossed her artfully tousled blond hair. “Now, how about ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’ to brighten up this winter day?”

  “What’s with all the old-fogy songs?”

  Cam glanced around for the source of the voice. Just as she’d thought. Bev Montgomery stood at the rear of the room. She leaned against a table, with her arms folded tightly across her chest. She didn’t smile. Cam had never seen the former farmer in anything but work pants and a faded plaid flannel shirt. Now she wore new jeans and a fresh-looking plaid flannel shirt. The bangs and ends of her straight slate-gray hair appeared recently trimmed.

  “You can’t play anything newer than from nineteen thirty?” Bev continued in a snarl.

  Ginger strained to complete her smile, and her eyes did not participate.

  “What’s wrong with ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’?” the woman doing the needlework chimed in. A few others nodded.

  “I like that song,” Nicholas added.

  “We’ll do ‘Yellow Rose,’ and then how about ‘Charlie on the MTA’?” Ginger surveyed the room.

  Bev rolled her eyes and pursed her lips but stayed where she stood. When her daughter began to play, Bev did not sing along.

  Cam mustered her inner social being, never an easy task for her, and slid along the edges of the room to Bev’s side. Cam greeted her in a low voice.

  “How are you settling in?” She smiled with what she hoped was a welcoming look. She and Bev had had several conflicts in the past year, and Cam hoped they would cease now that Bev no longer needed to see Cam as the new competition on the block.

  Bev snorted. “What do you care?”

  “I thought you might like it here. Albert certainly does.” Cam gestured around the room. “You know, find it an easier life. We both know how hard farming is.”

  “Well, I don’t like living in a fishbowl with a bunch of old folks.” Her voice rose. “And you’re the one who put me out of business. Stole my customers and my hens, too. Don’t go all friendly on me, Cameron Flaherty.”

  A man in a necktie, whom Albert had once introduced to Cam as Jim Cooper, the director of the facility, stood nearby. He frowned at them, and the woman with the needlework turned around and said, “Ssh.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cam whispered. She grimaced and made her way back to the wide doorway.

  Ginger didn’t stop playing and singing, but she didn’t look particularly happy about the outburst. She finished “The Yellow Rose of Texas” and launched into the MTA song. Nearly every resident joined in on the chorus of the famous tune. Some likely had lived in Boston during the time the song described. And then also after that, when the Scollay Square mentioned in the lyrics was bulldozed to make room for the Stalinesque Government Center, with its ugly concrete buildings and windswept wasteland of a plaza. Even Bev seemed to scowl less than usual during the popular tune.

  When the song ended, Jim Cooper stepped, clapping, to the front of the room. He thanked Ginger for entertaining the residents. “And let’s welcome her mother, Beverly Montgomery, our newest member here at Moran Manor. I know you’ll all do what you can to make her feel at home in our cozy community.”

  Several of the residents clapped for a few seconds, but the applause didn’t exactly deliver a roaring embrace, probably as a result of what Albert had mentioned about the dining room complaints.

  “Do you play Scrabble, Beverly?” The needlepoint woman twisted in her chair to glance at Bev. “I could use another good opponent.”

  “Maybe.” Bev lifted her chin and directed her next comment at the director. “I don’t know why you let her entertain here.” She gestured at Ginger. “She’s trying to steal my land, you know. Her and her brothers. None of them would farm with me, but they’d grab the land to build houses on. If they could.”

  The director gaped. The residents stared at Bev. A mellifluous voice sang out from the far end of the lobby, which led to the wide doorway. Heads now turned in that direction.

  A man let the outer door swing shut behind him. He strolled in, singing an aria, one hand on his chest, one arm extended. A full head of salt-and-pepper hair swept off his wide forehead and nearly reached his shoulders. His barn jacket fell open to reveal a brilliant turquoise vest over a white collarless shirt. The stains on the legs of his faded jeans, on the other hand, made it look like he’d been shoveling compost in the jeans. Which he probably had.

  Cam smiled at the sight of her fellow farmer Richard Broadhurst. Opera singer turned farmer, that is. A master organic grower, he’d been focusing more on tree fruits than vegetables in the past few years. She’d visited his farm several times during her first season and had appreciated the open way in which he shared information with her. She gave him a little wave, which he returned, even while belting out the operatic tune.

  At the sight of Richard, Ginger closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. She opened them, thanked the residents for participating, then grabbed her guitar and headed for her mother.

  Cam couldn’t hear their conversation over the noise of chairs sliding and caregivers taking the wheelchair bound out of the room. But she watched for a moment. Ginger and Bev’s interaction didn’t appear to be a calm and affectionate conversation between mother and daughter by any means. Stealing her land was a strong accusation. Bev kept her arms folded and her chin up. Ginger seemed to be pleading with her.

  Richard paused at the reception desk and sang directly to the woman sitting there, who blushed and applauded. He caught sight of Cam and strolled toward her.

  “Cam.” He leaned in for an air kiss. “How’s the winter CSA going?”

  “It’s not easy, but so far, so good. The hoop house hasn’t collapsed, and I’m still harvesting greens. I’m providing the raw ingredients for a dinner here tomorrow. It’d be nice to get a regular contract with this place.”

  “Is that so? Good luck with it.” He glanced toward Bev and Ginger. “Catch you later.”

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nbsp; He turned into the room and approached Bev, kissing her on the cheek.

  “Beverly, my dear,” he boomed. “This must be your lovely daughter.”

  “Thanks for coming by again,” Bev said, eking out a smile. “This is Ginger.”

  Ginger’s gaze met Richard’s. Cam couldn’t exactly interpret the look, but it appeared that they already knew each other, or at least had met before.

  “Are you ready?” Richard asked Bev.

  “Where are you going, Mom?” Ginger looked confused.

  “Richard’s taking me out for a decent meal.” She pulled her mouth down and blinked. “Come with me while I grab my coat,” she said to Richard, who nodded.

  Cam turned to go. She probably ought to look for Rosemary one more time, but she’d had enough hustle and bustle for one day. Time to head back to the farm. She signed out and donned her down jacket at the coatrack. She glanced behind her before pulling open the heavy outside door. Richard followed Bev up the wide central staircase. Ginger stood with one hand on her hip, watching them.

  Chapter 2

  Cam’s truck crunched over fresh snow when she pulled into the driveway next to her antique saltbox farmhouse. She sat for a moment, watching the flakes fall in the headlights. A gust of wind stirred them into a dance, and then they settled to a straight free fall again. She’d have to shovel in the morning, but so far the snow fell light and dry, not heavy with moisture, as it did when spring approached. She pulled into the barn and turned off the engine, then tugged her wool cap down around her ears. Time to put the chickens to bed.

  She fetched a big flashlight, then headed around the rear of the barn. The A-frame coop sat on a trailer, with an attached fenced-in area around the entrance. During the summer she planned to rotate the ensemble around the farm to weed and fertilize various areas for a couple of weeks at a time. At this time of year, though, she kept the few dozen hens and their home close to the barn.

  Cam shone the light around their yard. Most of them hunkered inside when the temperature dropped like this. She kept an incandescent bulb burning in the coop to add a bit of extra warmth. One silly bird had such a tiny brain, she liked to stand outside in any kind of weather, though. Sure enough, TopKnot sat on the ramp going up to the coop door. Cam had named the black-and-white Silver Laced Polish that because of the way her feathers formed a poufy crown on the top of her head.

  “Go on in, you goofy bird.” Cam shooed her with her hands.

  TopKnot only cocked her head, staring. Cam picked up the bird and set her in with the others. She made sure they had enough feed and water, switched off the light inside, and latched the door.

  Keeping hens had its down side. Once she’d nursed these rescue birds back to health with organic feed, fresh water, and clean bedding, they’d begun to lay. Customers loved being able to buy a dozen organic eggs when they picked up their shares. But in the cold, dark weather of winter, the hens were down to laying only one egg each twice a week, even with the extra light Cam provided. She had to make sure she latched them in every day before dark. Foxes and coyotes prowled the woods that bordered the far boundary of her fields. Plus, hens were smelly and, well, birdbrained, although the several Speckled Sussex seemed a little smarter than the rest. But she had them now, and her avid volunteers Alexandra and DJ, who’d spearheaded the rescue and the coop building, often stopped by to help out with the job of parenting the flock.

  The snow seemed to be tapering off as Cam shuffled her way through two inches of white powder to the hoop house. Tired, cold, and hungry, she struggled to draw the floating row cover over the long beds to keep them a little warmer overnight. A helper right now would make her life a lot easier, but she had no partner, no spouse, and she ran the farm alone. At least for now. She had to keep walking back and forth, pulling the cover that stretched the length of the hoop house over the mini hoops that bent over the individual beds. When she finished, she made sure she pulled the door tightly shut, and headed for the house.

  Preston sat patiently on the top step in front of her back door. With his double layer of fur, the Norwegian Forest cat went outdoors every day of the year. Even in a rainstorm she would see him sitting Sphinxlike at the base of the big maple that grew in the middle of the yard.

  “Come on in for dinner, Mr. P.”

  He mewed his tiny but enthusiastic agreement. For a big, fluffy cat, he had the littlest feline voice she’d ever heard.

  As she unlocked the door, he reared up. He rubbed his head and his arched body along her knee, as was his habit with his favorite humans. She let him in, locking the door carefully once she arrived indoors. She’d never locked the door when she moved over a year ago to this centuries-old farm. But after being threatened first by the murderer of her farmhand last June and then by the killer of one of her customers in October, she’d installed not only a motion-triggered outdoor light but also a new lock set and dead bolt. She secured the door even when she was inside the house or out in the fields. Living alone, it seemed only prudent. Although with any luck, she wouldn’t be involved with any more murders in her life, ever.

  She spooned Preston’s portion of wet food into his bowl. He turned his head and asked with his eyes for her to pet him while he ate, as was his habit. She obliged for a moment, then heated a dish of leftover stew in the microwave for her own dinner.

  Last night she’d tried out the recipe that she planned to provide to Moran Manor for the dinner. Local eating in a New England winter featured lots and lots of stored root crops, a few greens from the hoop house, and vegetables frozen and canned from the summer. So this particular stew included parsnips, carrots, cabbage, and potatoes from the root cellar. Kale, pesto, and one Scotch bonnet pepper from the freezer. Garlic and onions from the basket in the closet. A jar of her own canned tomato sauce. Rosemary and sage from the covered herb bed near the back door. And a ham bone simmered in stock with cut-up ham from Tendercrop Farm over in neighboring Newbury, which raised all its own meat animals.

  A glass of a hearty Cabernet Sauvignon and a hunk of sourdough bread rounded out the meal. She settled at the wide, worn table where farmers had been eating for decades. Where she herself had eaten all her meals during her childhood summers, alone with Great-Aunt Marie and Great-Uncle Albert while her own academic parents had been off at far-flung research sites. She’d had her older relatives’ full and kindly attention and had learned about farming and self-sufficiency without even trying.

  The stew tasted even better the second day. Cam hadn’t committed to being a locavore, unlike many of the subscribers to the Attic Hill Farm CSA, her farm-share program. But growing and selling food locally so they could feed their enthusiasm for local foods? No-brainer. By the end of March, though, even the locavores would be craving fresh, crunchy produce, a hard find in an environment where the ground consisted of either frozen soil or mud.

  Eating the stew, she perused the local newspaper. An article about a proposed farming restriction caught her eye. She picked out the names Montgomery and Broadhurst. She sipped her wine and read on. The article said Richard Broadhurst, a local apple farmer, had made an offer to buy the Montgomery farm. He’d proposed adding an agricultural preservation restriction so that it would always stay farmland. He was seeking approval from the town. Bev didn’t want the land to be developed, and the restriction would give the owner a payment up to the difference between the fair market value and the current agricultural use value.

  But both Albert and Bev had said Ginger had proposed to develop the land. Did she not know what her mother’s wishes were? Maybe the look Ginger and Richard had exchanged involved the plan to develop.

  Cam finished reading the paper, amused by several of the items in the small town paper’s police blotter column: “Saturday, 2:00 p.m. Lost identity investigated on Maple Street.” “Monday, 9:00 a.m. Suspicious person reported walking on Main Street.” She imagined an old lady gazing out her window and calling in about a pedestrian who might have appeared a little bit out of place.<
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  She carried her wine over to her desk and fired up the laptop. She always had farm business to deal with, but that could wait for tomorrow. Tonight she wanted to prowl the Internet for information on Ginger Montgomery and on Oscar, as well. His temper didn’t seem to mesh well with taking care of elderly residents. It didn’t take long to discover that Ginger, in fact, sold and developed real estate and owned an apartment complex in Boston. But she’d also developed a property in the nearby small city of Newburyport, building a condo complex at the edge of town, on a piece of land that had been a dairy farm. Cam dug a little deeper, until she ran across a letter to the editor complaining bitterly about the shoddy construction of the Montgomery condos and about the absence of a response from the developer to disgruntled owners. Interesting. How had Ginger gone from growing up on a farm to building poorly constructed housing on farmland?

  Cam couldn’t recall if Ginger sported a wedding band. Perhaps she was married to someone unscrupulous. She headed over to Facebook and examined Ginger’s page. Even though they weren’t Facebook friends, Ginger hadn’t set many privacy settings. Cam could see her whole profile. It didn’t indicate her relationship status, but lots of people would just as soon keep that optional field private, anyway.

  Now for Oscar Zerezghi. Cam had just typed his name in the search text box when she heard the zoot-zoot of her cell phone vibrating. She’d turned the sound off at Moran Manor. She strode to her bag, which was hanging on the back of a chair, and managed to extract the device at the moment the call disconnected. Checking the caller ID, she smiled. Pete had called. She pressed SEND to return the call.

  “Is this the famous detective Pappas?”

  Pete chuckled. “Famous or infamous, it is I. How’s my favorite farmer?”

  “Not bad. Having an exciting Saturday night home alone.” Cam scrunched up her face for a moment. She’d never get the hang of small talk.

  “I’m on call tonight, or I’d ask myself over to remedy that situation. But how about you come over here for a home-cooked Greek dinner tomorrow night instead?”