Mulch Ado about Murder Read online

  William made a tsk-ing sound. “She’s not going to be happy about having to talk to the authorities, I daresay. She’s more accustomed to being the authority.”

  “There’s no arguing with the police when someone has died.”

  “I suppose. Now, what about your fellow, Pete Pappas?” he asked. “I hope he’s invited for dinner tonight, too. I like him, Cam.”

  Cam had asked her boyfriend, Pete, to dinner the night before so he could meet her parents. She’d made pasta primavera with grilled lemon chicken, and Pete had brought his homemade spanakopita for an appetizer. By all appearances her parents had liked her man, and vice versa.

  “Of course he’s invited,” Cam said. “But now I’m not sure he’ll be able to make it.” Pete was the lead Massachusetts State Police homicide detective for this region of the state. “If Nicole’s death is murder, he’ll likely be assigned the case.”

  “Murder? Surely that’s not possible, my dear. I’ll bet the poor woman merely suffered an irreversible health crisis. Or perhaps she ended her own life.”

  Maybe, maybe not. Cam frowned. If Pete was assigned the case, and if her mother was a person of interest, once again Pete wouldn’t be able to spend time with her. He’d already had to suspend their relationship in the winter when Cam herself was briefly a suspect. That was reason enough to hope Nicole had died of natural causes. Spring was plenty manic on a small vegetable and chicken farm. She definitely didn’t need murder in the mix, with the temporary loss of a boyfriend on top of it. Cam grimaced. It was heartless of her to even think that when a really nice woman had just lost her life.

  * * *

  “This is quite a delight.” Albert beamed at his four tablemates in the Moran Manor dining room. Cam sat at his left at the round table. On Albert’s right was Marilyn Muller, his new lady friend, then Cam’s parents. “I’m just sorry Peter couldn’t join us, Cam,” Albert went on.

  Cam gazed at the empty seat to her left. “He’s sorry, too, but he had to work.” That was all he’d said, but he’d promised to call Cam later if he could. His absence had to mean that either Nicole was murdered or they had reason to suspect a homicide. Small towns in Massachusetts called in the state police in cases of unexplained death.

  An older woman appeared with two open bottles of wine—one red, one white—and set them in front of Albert. “Here you are, Mr. Saint Pierre.” A teenage waiter followed her.

  The facility allowed residents to bring their own wine to dinner, which Cam thought was a sensible and civilized approach to institutional living. All the men in the room wore blazers, as was required in the formal dining room, and Cam had changed into a springlike skirt and top before leaving. Her mom wore white Capris and a dark blue blouse, while Marilyn was attired in her usual comfortable slacks but with a string of pearls to dress up her flowered top. Cam was glad Albert had found Marilyn. The fact that he and Cam still missed Marie didn’t mean Albert shouldn’t be happy.

  Cam’s mom had showed up at the farm at the very last moment in the rental car and had quickly washed up and changed. Cam hadn’t had a chance to ask her how the interview with the police had gone.

  “Thank you, dear,” Albert said to the woman, whose name tag read MANAGER above her name. “Now, who wants which?”

  After the manager poured the wine and left, the teen asked, “Do you know what you want to order?” His voice cracked.

  Cam perused the menu. At the bottom was a line she hadn’t seen before: “All herbs from Fresh Page Farm.” She pointed to it. “Do you know where this farm is?” she asked the waiter.

  “It’s in Salisbury, ma’am. One of those water farms.”

  “Do you mean hydroponics?” Albert asked.

  “I guess so,” the kid answered. “The owner just made a delivery. Do you want to talk to him?”

  “We’d appreciate that,” Albert said. “Right, Cam?”

  She nodded. They each gave their dinner order to the teen and he left.

  William raised his glass of Chardonnay. “Here’s to your health, Albert, yours and Marilyn’s.”

  They raised their glasses and clinked them in all directions. “Thank you, William,” Marilyn said. “And safe travels to you both. Albert tells me you lead very exciting lives in the summers. Where are you headed this time?” She took a tiny sip of wine and set her glass down, aiming a cheerful smile at Cam’s parents.

  Deb glanced at her husband. “We’re going to a village in the Amazon in Brazil. The Yanomami have some curious customs regarding death. Right, Bill?” Cam’s mother was the only person her father let call him by a nickname.

  “Yes, it’s a fascinating culture,” William added. “They cremate their dead and then the family members eat the ashes to protect the soul of the deceased. We’ve seen more unusual customs elsewhere, but the Yanomamis’ is one of the more interesting.”

  “I hear we had a bit of drama in town this afternoon,” Albert said, “that Deb and Cam were involved with. What can you tell us?” His eyes were serious under his snowy ski-jump eyebrows.

  “What drama, Al?” Marilyn asked.

  Cam looked at Deb, who pointed back at her. “I wouldn’t call it drama, exactly. You know the new hydroponics greenhouse downtown?” Cam asked. Using the word “downtown” was a bit of an exaggeration, since all Westbury had for a center was a strip of Main Street with a post office, the Food Mart, a gas station, a pizza parlor, a barber shop, and a few other small businesses.

  “Certainly. That’s a fine new structure Mrs. Kingsbury built for herself,” Albert said.

  “It is,” Cam said. “Bobby Burr helped Nicole put up the greenhouse.”

  “Must be a competitor to this Fresh Page outfit,” Albert said.

  “Did I hear the name of my business?” A tall man with blond hair turning to gray approached them. He flashed a toothy grin. “Evening, folks. I’m Orson Page. Kid in the kitchen said you wanted to ask me a question?” He stood with his arms hanging straight at his sides, his bony wrists extending beyond denim workshirt sleeves a bit too short for him.

  “I saw the note on the menu about your business, and our server was nice enough to say you were in the building.” Cam stood. “I’m Cam Flaherty, and I’m a fellow farmer here in Westbury.” She shook his hand and introduced the others at the table.

  The man’s eyebrows went up. “Glad to meet you, Ms. Flaherty. What do you farm?”

  Cam wondered if he’d heard of her before. “Organic produce, primarily. And I keep chickens, too. I didn’t realize you were growing there in Salisbury.”

  “I’ve been kind of flying under the radar for years, growing and selling herbs,” Orson said. “But when I saw that new lady set up shop right here in town, I figured I’d better get my name on the menus of all the restaurants I supply. Never had no competition before.”

  “Did you meet the proprietor of Seacoast Fresh?” Albert asked. “She was doing hydroponics, too.”

  “No, not yet. Well, nice to meet you folks. I’ve got to get back to the missus. She’s an invalid and depends on me for just about everything.”

  “It was good to meet you, Orson.” Cam pulled out her farm business card from her bag and handed it to him. “I’d love to show you my farm sometime.” When a frowning Deb opened her mouth, Cam shook her head at her. They didn’t need to get into the ethics of hydroponic growing here at the dinner table.

  “Thanks. And you stop on by the greenhouse when you can, Cam. I’m on Ferry Road in Salisbury.” He glanced around the table. “Any of you are welcome. I’d be happy to show you around.” He ambled back toward the kitchen, shoulders forward in a self-effacing gait.

  Albert watched him go. “He doesn’t appear to know about today.”

  When Marilyn looked confused, Cam said, “I took a couple of flats of seedlings over to Nicole in her greenhouse today. But I found her dead. Right there in the greenhouse.”

  Marilyn gasped and brought both hands to her mouth.

  Albert nodded. “That’s what
I heard.”

  “Al, you could have told me,” Marilyn said to him in a gentle tone. She looked at Cam. “How terribly upsetting for you, dear.”

  “Before you ask, I don’t know how she died,” Cam said. “And yes, it was no fun to discover her body.” She brought her own hand to her mouth, seeing again Nicole’s hand clutching the rosary, her body splayed over the vat. Nobody should have to go like that.

  “The police seem to think she might have died from foul play,” Deb said. She sat erect in her chair, as always.

  Cam wondered why they thought that so soon. Didn’t they have to wait for an autopsy? Sure, if Nicole had shown evidence of suffering a gunshot wound or having been stabbed, but Cam hadn’t seen any signs of either. If she hadn’t died from natural causes, might it have been suicide?

  “They questioned me for quite a long time,” Deb continued.

  “Why you?” Marilyn asked.

  Deb sipped her Pinot Noir instead of answering.

  “Because she had been picketing Nicole’s business.” Cam watched her mother. “And apparently had been inside alone with Nicole earlier. Isn’t that right, Mom?”

  “That is correct.”

  “How did it go, your conversation with Nicole?” Cam asked. “I assume she was still alive at the time?”

  “You can’t have a conversation with someone who isn’t alive.” Deb clipped off her words. “We’re here to have a nice dinner, not rehash some idiot officer’s questions. If you don’t mind, I’d rather not repeat the grilling I received.”

  “And you shan’t,” William said, patting her hand. “Marilyn, we hear you’re quite the wordsmith. Winning Scrabble every time and all?” He smiled at her. “I’d like to take you on after we eat.”

  “I don’t always win.” Marilyn blushed. “Albert here gets a little carried away in his estimation of my skills.”

  “Let’s play,” Albert said. “A family game. That’ll be splendid.”

  Maybe, or maybe it’ll be tense, Cam thought, just like things are right now. Her mom wouldn’t meet her gaze. What was she hiding?

  Chapter 5

  The sun had set twenty minutes ago, but light still softened the night sky as Cam shut the chickens into their coop at eight-thirty. She and her mother had played a rousing game of Scrabble with Marilyn and Albert, with William looking on and offering whispered tips to anyone who asked. Cam had insisted on a timer, though. She hadn’t expected to arrive home so late, and she needed to make sure her flock of several dozen hens was safely inside for the night.

  Marilyn had won the game, as predicted. Her sweet demeanor didn’t dilute a keen mind and a cutthroat approach to game playing. Deb had continued to refuse to talk about her interview, even in the car on the way home. Cam couldn’t imagine her mother was hiding something, but she sure acted like she was.

  Now mild air brushed Cam’s cheeks. She leaned against the chicken tractor, which was really just a coop on wheels she could transport around the farm to let the hens fertilize different sections of ground. She and her father had moved it only this morning, so the fragrance of chicken manure was barely detectable. Tomorrow was volunteer day. William seemed to like the hens, so maybe Cam could get one of her regular volunteers to supervise him cleaning out the inside of the coop. She definitely wasn’t letting him near any more plants, even weeds.

  Cam’s phone buzzed in her messenger bag, which she’d slung crosswise over her chest. The display confirmed Pete as the caller. She greeted him and sank onto the bench near the back wall of the barn. Preston sidled over and reared up to rub against her knee.

  “Cam, I’m so sorry to have missed dinner.”

  “We missed you, too. Uncle Albert asked about you.”

  “I’ve been put on the Kingsbury death, as you might imagine.”

  “I was wondering. That means a suspected homicide, right?”

  “There’s just too much that’s odd. That doesn’t fit.”

  “For example?” Cam asked in a soft voice.

  “I’ll let you know a few details in person next time I see you. You know I can’t talk about it on the phone, hon. How was it for you, finding the body?”

  “It wasn’t any fun. I keep seeing her in my mind and thinking what a terrible way it was for her to die.”

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  “Thanks.” She couldn’t see the farmhouse from where she sat, but Cam pictured her mom and dad sitting quietly side by side reading on the couch. The home movie of her childhood—all three of them reading every night instead of watching television. “Pete, is my mom in trouble? They kept her at the station for quite a while today.”

  “Trouble. Hmm. As far as I know she gave a straightforward account of her dealings with the victim. But the fact that she was engaging in public and vocal opposition to the greenhouse business isn’t a point in her favor. Nor that she spent time alone with Ms. Kingsbury this morning.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Cam, but that’s the way it goes.”

  Her mom. A person of interest in a murder. Cam felt a rush of protective feelings. “Mom wouldn’t have hurt Nicole. No way.”

  “Let’s hope not. I’ve been in this business long enough to know that people aren’t always as they seem.”

  “But—” Cam protested.

  “Cam, hang on.” Pete’s voice was gentle. “Nobody’s been accused of anything. We haven’t made any arrests. We’ll be investigating this death as thoroughly as any other suspected homicide.”

  “All right.” Cam stared into the evening, which was getting darker by the minute. “I know you will.” But my mother did not kill Nicole.

  “And actually, Chief Frost and Officer Dodge shouldn’t have let you go as soon as they did. You found the body. They should have obtained a full statement from you.” His voice was low and ended in a sigh.

  “But I didn’t have any problems with Nicole,” Cam protested.

  “Doesn’t matter. You’ll need to come in and give a statement tomorrow.”

  “To you?”

  “No, to Officer Hobbs. I have to be in court tomorrow morning.”

  Ivan Hobbs, Pete’s assistant. Cam had seen how rigid he could be earlier in the spring.

  He cleared his throat. “And anyway, I’d have to recuse myself from taking your statement.”

  “Of course.” What a mess. “I miss you. When can I see you again?”

  Pete remained silent for a moment.

  “Uh-oh,” Cam said. “Does this mean—”

  He blew out a breath. “It’s not quite the same as when you were a person of interest in January, Cam. But the fact that you found the body and that your mother is staying with you, well, I really can’t be socializing with any of you.”

  It was Cam’s turn not to speak. Dating a homicide detective was so much fun.

  “I’m sorry,” he went on. “You know that.”

  “I know.” Her voice was heavy. “Call me when you can.” She disconnected without saying good-bye. “Come on, Preston. Time to go inside.”

  A bat startled her by zigzagging almost silently through the air from the barn to a nearby tree, likely dining on mosquitoes or black flies. Too bad catching a murderer wasn’t as easy.

  * * *

  Cam was almost to the house when a truck crunched toward her on the gravel of the driveway. She held up her hand to block the headlights as her heart thudded. According to Pete, a killer was at large. Preston dashed for his cat door, jumping through into the basement. The flap fwapped behind him. She hurried toward the steps, too.

  “I couldn’t reach you, Cam,” Bobby Burr’s voice said through the open window. “Hope it isn’t too late to stop by.” He turned off the engine and hopped out.

  Whew. “Bobby, I’m glad you came. I was out to dinner and must have missed your text.” She gazed at the curly-haired carpenter illuminated by the porch light, her pulse returning to normal. Had he heard the news? Had the police notified him, questioned him, even?

  “I’
m on a big job in Amesbury, didn’t get off until an hour ago. What’s up?”

  No, he clearly didn’t know. Cam gestured to the chairs on the small bricked patio behind the house. She would have invited him inside, but she wanted to speak privately with him and it was a nice evening.

  “Have a seat.” She flashed back to the murder at the poultry farm in March, and how Pete hadn’t wanted her to tell the widow and her daughter about the killing, how he’d insisted that he do it, that their reactions could be important. Should she even be telling Bobby about Nicole now that Pete thought her death might be murder? How could she not, though, now that Bobby was here? He was her friend. And anyway, lots of other people already knew about the death.

  He sat, but looked puzzled. “What’s going on? I mean, I’m happy to chat with you, but—”

  She held up her hand. She took a deep breath and let it out. “Something awful happened today. I’m really sorry to tell you that your cousin Nicole has died.”

  Bobby jerked back in his chair as if someone had hit him with a two-by-four. “Nickie? You’re not serious. She’s only forty-one.” His hands clenched the arms of the wrought iron chair until his knuckles were the color of a freshly cut piece of ash.

  Cam leaned forward and touched his hand. “It’s true. I was the one who found her. In her greenhouse.”

  His eyes filled. He sank his head into his hands and leaned forward. It took a few moments before he spoke. He addressed the ground. “We were like sister and brother. Neither of us had siblings. We always took care of each other, ever since we were little.” He raised his head to look at Cam, anguish painted on his face. “I was so glad she left that jerk of a husband and moved back up here.” He shook his head slowly. “My uncle, her dad, died of a heart attack in his forties. She must have had an underlying heart condition and we never knew it.”

  “I’m so sorry.” What else could she say? Bobby’s own mother had been murdered last fall. If it turned out Nicole had been killed, too, her death was going to hit him even harder.

  “And you found her. That must have been tough.” Bobby’s characteristic caring side took over from his grief.