Farmed and Dangerous Read online

  He gazed at her, looked at the door, and then trotted to her side.

  “Good dog.” She stroked his head and back. “Now what am I going to do with you? That mom of yours didn’t leave me a leash or anything.”

  Cam found a plastic food container left over from a farm potluck and rinsed it out. She filled it with water and set it on the floor in the office in a corner of the barn. She’d had her carpenter add the room the summer before, when the barn had to be rebuilt. The room included a small desk and chair, an electric space heater, which she now switched on, and two tables with grow lights hanging above them. She also kept her seeding supplies—flats, seeds, and seed-starting mix—in the office so she could plant seeds in a warm environment and nurture them along until they were ready to go out into the colder hoop house.

  The main area of the barn stayed warm enough to work in as long as she kept a coat on, thanks to the radiant heat in the poured slab floor. It was provided by an array of solar panels on the roof and a bank of batteries that stored the solar energy. She once again offered thanks to both the subsidies and the grant she’d received that let her put all that free sunshine to good use.

  “Stay here.” She pointed to the water. When he went over and lapped some up, she left, closing the door behind her. She had no idea if he would stay on the property if she let him roam around. He might go after the chickens or chase Preston again. She found a couple of old beach towels in the house and brought them back to the barn, favoring her bruised hip from the day before. Folding the towels into a bed, she set it near the water dish.

  “I have to work now.” She patted the towels. “Come and lie down. Dad will be by sometime to get you. He promised.”

  Dasha obliged. Then he laid his head on his paws and gazed up at her. Needy but compliant. She could live with that. She stroked his head a few times. “Good boy.”

  Shrugging off her parka, she checked the harvest list tacked to the wall by the desk. Pickup day didn’t fall until Saturday, but she needed to make sure she had enough to supply the twenty CSA customers, avid locavores, every one of them. This winter she’d gone down to an every-other-week pickup schedule, which took a little of the pressure off. The list for this two-week period included kale, beets, radishes, leeks, lettuce, Asian greens, and Swiss chard for crops she needed to cut or dig. She also had storage potatoes and various squashes to offer.

  The most urgent task for this morning was seeding more greens so she’d have a crop to harvest in March. Setting two seventy-two-cell flats on the tables beneath the grow lights, she filled the cells with the lightweight seed-starting soil mix and extracted a bag of hardy romaine lettuce seeds from a cupboard. She wished she’d invested in one of the new vacuum-seeding devices. The job would go much faster, and she wouldn’t waste as many of the minuscule germs of life. But the price was prohibitive for an operation of her scale, at least in the winter, when her income was lower.

  While she worked, trying to drop only one or two tiny lettuce seeds into each one-inch-diameter cell, she thought about Bev’s death. She realized she didn’t even know how Bev had died.

  “Oscar wasn’t so happy with her. But kill a cranky resident?” Cam glanced at Dasha, who watched her every move. “I don’t think so.” She continued dropping seeds into the cells. “Frank didn’t seem that pleased with her, either. I wonder what that meant. What’s your opinion, Dasha?”

  He perked up, gave a little bark, then rested his head on his paws again. Preston rarely attended to what she said. Maybe there was something to this dog business, after all.

  “I need a dog translator.” Cam smiled at him before she returned her focus to her work. “Bev’s death will let Ginger get what she wants, I guess, if she inherits the property. That fertile farmland will turn into chemically treated lawns for McMansions. What a waste.”

  Dasha declined to comment. Cam finished her task. Most of the cells had gotten more than two seeds, which meant she’d be thinning and throwing away plantlets in a couple of weeks. She sprinkled a little more of the soil mix on top of each cell and then gently pressed it down with her fingers. The seeds were tiny and barely needed to be covered. She filled her watering can at the sink in the main area of the barn and gingerly watered each flat, glad she’d invested in a high-quality can that sprayed the water from a wide disk with tiny holes so the seeds didn’t get swamped. She lowered the rectangular light fixtures that hung from chains until they were suspended only a few inches above the flats and switched on the heating pads under them. The pads provided a low, steady warmth and let the seeds sprout sooner rather than later.

  She checked the clock above the desk, her stomach rumbling. The clock read 9:15 a.m. Time for breakfast.

  “Come on, doggy. I’ll show you the house.”

  Dasha sprang to his feet. He looked ready to run off. She grabbed a length of rope and tied it to his collar to serve as a makeshift leash. She carefully switched off the electric space heater and closed the office door behind her.

  As they approached the house, a vintage Saab pulled into the drive. Dasha strained toward the car and barked. Cam almost lost hold of the rope.

  “Dad’s here.” She waved.

  As Pete stepped out of the car, Dasha tore loose and bounded toward him, ending in a happy reunion, with much licking on the part of one and much stroking on the part of the other.

  “You’re just in time for breakfast,” Cam called with a smile.

  As he straightened from bending over Dasha, Pete’s face looked flat, almost like he was avoiding expressing any kind of feeling.

  “I’ll come in for a minute.” He approached her, with Dasha close at his side. The dog kept gazing up at Pete and nudging Pete’s knee with his head while they walked.

  “What’s up?” Cam tilted her head.

  “Let’s go in.” He didn’t return her smile.

  She gazed at him for a moment before she turned. On the third step her knee felt like it was going to give way. “Ouch.”

  “What’s wrong?” Pete asked from behind her.

  “I twisted it a little while I was skiing yesterday. It’s okay.” She led the way indoors after unlocking the door. She stomped her feet on the mat. “Don’t worry about taking your boots off. The floor’s a mess, anyway.” She walked to the coffee machine, ground a scoop of beans, and started a pot of French roast before turning back to him.

  He stood just inside the door. “How has Dasha been?”

  “He’s a good dog. We’ve had a fine morning. Better than I expected. I’m not much of a dog person, you know.”

  “Oh? You didn’t tell me that.”

  “He totally looks like he should be pulling a sled in the Iditarod.”

  Pete smiled. “He’s part Siberian husky and part unknown. He’d never place in a show, but he’s stronger for not being a pure bred. Thanks for taking him.” His smile disappeared. “We need to talk.” The lines in his face spoke of a night without sleep and more. Something more.

  “Absolutely,” Cam said. “I’m glad to see you. Sit down.”

  “I can’t stay.”

  “Well, if we need to talk, then let’s talk sitting down. My feet are tired, and I had a good night’s sleep. You appear totally wiped out.” And something more. She pulled out a ladder-back chair and sat at the table.

  He sighed, sinking into a chair across from her, but he kept his coat on. Dasha sat on his haunches nearby. Pete absently stroked Dasha’s head. He drummed the table with the fingers on his other hand and then stopped. He rubbed his forehead and then folded his arms.

  “Tell me what you found at Moran.” Cam reached a hand across the table to him. When he kept his arms folded, she pulled hers back, stung.

  “She was murdered,” he said.

  “That’s awful. How?”

  The expression on his face changed from fatigue to steel. “I’m afraid you’ve become a person of interest.”

  “Me? Why me?” Cam frowned. “I didn’t have any beef with Bev. She didn’t like
me much, but I had no reason to kill her.”

  “There are preliminary indications that someone put a fast-acting poison in her dinner—”

  “What? Do you believe I put poison in the food?” She stared at him. “But I provided only the raw ingredients. The cook made the meal, assembled the salad. Somebody delivered dinner to Bev. Anybody could have done it. Do you truly think I could actually kill someone?” She pushed her chair back so hard, it fell over as she stood, and then she strode into the kitchen and back. The coffeepot popped and hissed as the coffee finished brewing. Cam was about to pop and hiss, too. How could he accuse her of murder?

  “No.” He rapped the table with his fingertips. Buhdum, buhdum, buhdum. “But it’s my job. I should probably recuse myself from the case entirely. I’m not going to, though. We’ll clear you, and that will be that.”

  “Clear me? I’m innocent!” She swallowed hard.

  “Calm down. I know you didn’t do it. But I need to back away from our relationship for now.”

  “Back away? What are you saying? Not only do you think I killed somebody, but you also don’t want to see me anymore. That just stinks.”

  “I told you this wouldn’t be easy.”

  “Then, you were right.” Her face heated up, and her heart pounded in her neck. She rose and poured herself a cup of coffee with a shaky hand. She added a splash of milk, spilling a little, but left the cup on the counter. She faced him, folding her arms. “It’s not easy at all.”

  “I’m sorry.” He stood. Dasha jumped to his feet, as well. Pete spread his arms, palms up. “I’m sorry, Cam.” He walked toward her, Dasha at his heels, and stopped in front of her.

  She tried to avoid meeting his gaze but couldn’t. He laid his hand on the side of her face, his palm cool on her hot cheek. She closed her eyes. She opened them when he spoke.

  “I’ve never been in this situation before, Cameron. It’s killing me. But I can’t see you again romantically until this is resolved.”

  She nodded. She opened her mouth to speak. And then closed it, mad and hurt all at the same time.

  “I want you to be careful. Whoever killed Bev is still out there.” He cleared his throat. “And I need you to come down to the Westbury station today to be interviewed. I have to be meticulous where you’re concerned.” His gaze pleaded with her.

  Cam nodded again.

  Pete’s phone buzzed. He turned, heading for the door, grabbing the phone off his belt and putting it to his ear.

  “Pappas. Hold on a second.” He lowered the phone and gazed at Cam. “I’ll be at the station by noon. Have to take Dasha home and try to sleep for an hour.” He patted his leg. Dasha started to follow him, then trotted back to Cam and barked.

  “Bye, buddy. See you around.” She stroked his head.

  He rubbed his head against her hand before he followed Pete out the door.

  Cam locked it behind them. Nice way to start the week.

  Chapter 8

  “Wouldn’t someone else have gotten sick, too? That dinner was served to everybody in the residence, as far as I know.” Cam tried to keep her voice level, but being asked the same questions over and over was getting old. The metal chair in the Westbury police station’s interview room hurt her tailbone. She wondered if she should have called a lawyer, after all. She hadn’t thought she needed to. She hadn’t poisoned anyone. She glanced at the clock. Quarter past two. She’d been here for forty-five minutes already. The room, painted a mustardy yellow, smelled faintly of stale doughnuts and bad coffee.

  Detective Ann Jaroncyk cleared her throat. “Let’s talk about how long you’d known the deceased, Beverly Montgomery.” Her blond hair stretched into a severe bun, which matched an equally severe blazer and slacks. She tapped something into the iPad on the table between them.

  “I met Bev at the Haverhill Farmers’ Market last spring. She was the market manager.”

  “And her son was killed on your farm, correct?”

  “He was.” Cam decided to keep her answers as short as she could, in hopes of getting out of here before nightfall.

  The detective checked her notes. “She threatened you with a gun on your property last June.”

  “Correct. I managed to take it away from her.”

  “And in the fall you removed her chickens?”

  “The board of health planned to exterminate them. Bev hadn’t been taking care of them. We—”

  “Who is we?”

  “Several volunteers. Alexandra and DJ. Anyway, we picked up the hens. The volunteers built a coop. The birds are healthy now on my farm.” So much for short answers. Cam clasped her sweaty palms together in her hands.

  “Mrs. Montgomery didn’t like that plan.”

  “Yes. But those are all reasons Bev might have wanted to get rid of me, not me get rid of her. Right?”

  “They are. But we need to ask you. She was also heard accusing you of stealing her customers.”

  “Right.”

  The detective waited. Cam waited. The detective remained silent. Cam decided to cave first, in the interest of getting out of there.

  “Bev farmed traditionally. She grew the usual crops and didn’t mind applying pesticides and herbicides. There are customers who want that. I grow the newer Asian greens and other unusual varieties. My farm is in the three-year process of becoming certified organic. If a few of her customers preferred my vegetables . . . Well, that’s the free market.”

  “Now, about the produce you supplied. How did you handle it after the harvest?”

  Cam frowned. “I put it in bins. I brought it over to the Moran Manor kitchen.”

  “Do you use chemical sprays? Preservatives of any kind?”

  “No. I farm organically. Why would I do that?”

  “How do you clean what you pick?”

  “With water. Well, some of it. Pumpkins, squashes, potatoes don’t get washed. It might lead to rot. I don’t wash herbs, either. I just dust any dirt off. As I said, it’s all organic.”

  “Where did you go when you left Moran Manor yesterday?”

  “I returned to my farm.”

  “Anyone else there?”

  “Nobody you could interview.”

  The detective raised her eyebrows.

  “Sorry. I’m getting punchy. The only other beings on my farm are the hens and my cat, and I’ve never heard them speak English.”

  Detective Jaroncyk did not even crack a smile. “Did you stay on your property all evening?”

  Uh-oh. Should she say she’d been with Pete? If he hadn’t already informed them, this could get him in hot water. The detective watched Cam.

  “I ate dinner out. With a friend.”

  “And the friend’s name would be?”

  The heck with him. She didn’t need to protect him. “Pete Pappas.”

  “Would that be state police detective Pappas?” The detective glanced over at the uniformed officer sitting in the corner. They exchanged a look.

  Cam nodded. Then remembered she’d been instructed to answer verbally for the recording. “It would.”

  “Did you spend the night at your house?”

  “I did.” Next, she’d ask if Cam had been alone. That would be easy to tell the truth about. It occurred to her that maybe she could barter information in return.

  “So how did you figure out what killed Bev?” Cam asked. “Do you analyze stomach contents or something?”

  “I’m asking the questions here.” The detective noted something on the iPad. She stood. “That will be all. For now. We’d appreciate it if you stayed in town.”

  “I’ll be here.” Cam also stood, her rear end doing a little glory dance to be off the unforgiving chair. “I run a farm. It doesn’t exactly allow for road trips or tropical vacations.” Babbling again.

  The uniformed officer, one Cam hadn’t seen before, rose and ushered her to the door. Before she left, she heard the detective formally end the interview for the recording.

  Cam hurried down the hall toward th
e outer door. The walls appeared freshly painted in institutional beige, an improvement from their battered condition last June. She paused at the hallway that led to the cells. Last time she’d visited here, Lucinda had been locked in one of them. Cam hoped she wouldn’t be next.

  Cam stopped by the Westbury Food Mart after she left the police station to pick up a few items. The warm air smelled delectably of fresh baked goods. She browsed the cracker selection in the small local grocery, searching for her favorite rice-flour-and-seed crisps.

  “I told you not to touch.” A thin woman slapped her son’s hand off a package of cookies at the other end of the aisle. She wore a fashionably styled blue coat and a matching beret on shoulder-length blond hair, but dark patches under her eyes gave her a haunted appearance.

  Cam watched the scene. The boy, who seemed about six, burst into tears. A somewhat older girl in a puffy pink coat punched the boy in the arm.

  “Yeah, Mom said not to touch,” she said in a taunting tone.

  “Don’t you be hitting him,” the mother said. She slapped the girl’s arm, hard.

  “Well, you did.” The girl turned her back and grabbed a bag of gingersnaps off the shelf.

  “Put those back. Now.” The mother raised her hand at the girl, who obeyed but glowered. The mother glanced down the aisle and caught sight of Cam. She lifted her chin and held Cam’s gaze for a moment, then hustled the children toward the registers.

  The girl had nailed it. Her mother was modeling behavior she told her children not to follow. Cam watched the children jostle each other while their mother paid for her purchases. A sadness dragged on her heart. As a teenager on one of her summer visits, she’d witnessed an even worse scene right here in the Food Mart. A father had rapped his little son’s hand so hard, he broke it. Cam had resolved right then never to hit her own children, whenever she had some. Or assault anybody, for that matter. She knew parenting wasn’t easy, but physical violence wasn’t the solution to anybody’s problems. Ellie’s friend Vince had had his share of violence at home before he finally got free of his abusive father. He seemed to have overcome that trauma so far, at least according to Ellie.