Til Dirt Do Us Part (A Local Foods Mystery) (2 page)

Irene was on quite a roll tonight. First Sim, then Wes, now Bobby. Cam knew Bobby as an extremely good-natured man, a hardworking carpenter, and a bit of a flirt. Seeing him in a fight, with his stepmother no less, was new. Since the beer truck was parked right beyond them, Cam thought she might head over for a sample and maybe a bit of a listen, too. She strolled in that direction, her eyes away from the two, but her attention tuned to them.

“I am happy doing what I do, Irene, and I’m good at it,” Bobby said.

“Your father wanted you to do more than carpentry, Robert. You know that.”

“I have no interest in working for you, Irene. Zero. Nada. Zilch. It’s not going to happen.”

“You know I inherited Zebulon’s assets. If you persist in this misguided vocation, you won’t see a penny of them. And my real son might.”

“You stole Dad’s assets. For all I know, you killed him yourself. And what
real son
are you talking about?”

Cam whistled under her breath.
Whoa.

Jim hailed her from the truck. “Try the Five Mile Rye Saison, Cam.”

Cam agreed, asking for a half cup. She thanked him and savored the ale on her tongue as she mulled over what she had heard. She glanced back at where Bobby and Irene had been, but they’d moved on.

She took a deep breath. She was the farmer in charge, and it was time for her speech, whether she wanted to do it or not. She strolled to a spot at the end of the tent, between the beer truck and the wine table, and waved her arms over her head.

“Can I have your attention, please?”

Attention not forthcoming, she said it again with a rise in volume. The chatter and clatter continued. Alexandra noticed Cam’s plight and stuck two fingers between her lips. A resulting piercing whistle startled the crowd into quiet.

Cam laughed. “Thanks, Alexandra. And welcome, everyone. I just wanted to say a few words before we start eating.”

“Hope they’re not prayer kind of words,” someone behind her whispered, which made Cam almost wish she were religious solely to counter that sort of mean spirit. And then she wished she knew who said it.

She took a deep breath. “Thanks to everybody here tonight. We’re going to have a really special meal. And I’d like to thank all of you who signed up as farm shareholders for my first season. You did it on faith, which I appreciate. I hope you’ve felt nourished by the food and by being part of this community. It’s been an interesting year for you and me both.” She swallowed and forced a smile.

“I particularly want to thank the volunteers who helped me keep the farm running after the fire. You know who you are.” She scanned the crowd for Lucinda, Alexandra, Wes, Ellie, and others, giving each a nod.

“And there’s Bobby Burr, our resident artist-carpenter, who worked like a maniac to produce a working barn again in short order.” She pointed at Bobby, now standing with Sim and Alexandra, who waved his acknowledgment.

Cam looked around. Jake hadn’t appeared. She caught Ellie’s eye and gestured toward the barn with her head, mouthing “Jake.” Ellie nodded and took off.

“I hope all of this year’s subscribers will sign up again. We’re going to offer winter shares this year. It’ll be the first time, so I’ll keep the price low and maybe expectations, too.”

Laughter rippled through the guests.

“But be sure to sign up early for next year’s main season. Judging by the interest here tonight, we might sell out. And early is good for a farmer. If I can get the cash for seeds and seedlings up front, we all benefit.” Cam looked around for Jake again. He hadn’t appeared, and Ellie wasn’t back, either. What was going on?

“I, uh, had planned to introduce Jake Ericsson, our talented chef for tonight. I recommend eating at his restaurant, The Market, as often as you can. I provide much of his produce, and he works miracles with whatever he touches.” Cam felt a blush creep up her neck, remembering a miracle or two Jake had wrought on her personally. “But he must be busy with the last-minute details of your dinner. Please enjoy your drinks a moment longer. And thank you all for coming.”

Cam strode out of the tent in search of the chef. She slowed as she spied Irene Burr leaning over and stroking Preston, Cam’s Norwegian Forest Cat. The handsome, fluffy fellow, who usually absented himself around strangers, reared up and rubbed his head against Irene’s knee as she petted him and scratched his scruff.

“He likes you,” Cam said.

Irene looked up. “Animals make so much more sense than humans, don’t they?” An almost sad smile crept across her face.

Cam nodded. This seemed so out of character for this sometimes domineering, usually aloof, and always controlled customer, especially given what Cam had overheard. Irene’s import-export textile business was a successful one. Maybe she needed that kind of control to run it, and Bobby had told Cam that his stepmother hadn’t shed a tear when her husband, Zebulon, Bobby’s father, died a year earlier. But if any animal could win someone over, it would be her sweet rescue cat, Preston.

Cam excused herself and continued to the barn. As she approached, Ellie and Jake’s assistant emerged with the cart full of salads.

“Good. I think people are getting hungry.” Cam waved them toward the tent and entered the barn.

“Jake?” Cam looked around and couldn’t see him. Where was he? The electric warming box was plugged in; fresh plates were lined up on the serving tables, waiting to be filled; and a glass of beer was mostly empty, but no chef. An involuntary shudder ran through Cam. Ever since the murder in her hoop house in June, she had found her thoughts leaping to disaster at the slightest provocation. What if something had happened to the man who was her friend and who was now starting to become more than that?

“You could at least make yourself useful,” a voice boomed behind her.

Cam jumped and emitted a little shriek as two long, strong arms encircled her from behind. “Jake, you scared me.” She twisted around to look up, way up, at his twinkling ice-blue eyes. It was a treat to find a beau who was even taller than her own five foot eleven.

“It’s just me.” He planted a quick kiss on her lips and released her. “So, you want to help?” He was a substantial man who enjoyed his own cooking, dressed today in a black-striped chef’s jacket and black pants.

“What I wanted was for you to greet the diners, but you never showed.” Cam frowned.

“Hey, you want me to cook, or you want me to talk? I got work to do back here,” Jake said with a tinge of annoyance. “I’ll talk to them after.”

“Don’t you like the ragout?” Cam had watched Alexandra consume everything on her plate except the pork stew. “Mine was delicious.” It had been good, although now Cam’s stomach felt a little uneasy. She was sure it was from worrying if the dinner would go smoothly. Now, an hour after talking with Jake in the barn, the event looked like a success. She surveyed the relaxed faces and the mostly spirited conversation and started to relax, herself. She was happy to let others do the conversing, too. Making small talk wasn’t her strong point, and she found it a strain.

“I’ve heard Howard Fisher doesn’t treat his pigs well,” Alexandra said. “He doesn’t feed them enough, and their conditions are poor. I don’t want to eat the meat of unhappy animals.”

“Can I take your plate?” Ellie tapped Alexandra on the shoulder.

Alexandra nodded and thanked Ellie. Ashley was clearing on Cam’s side of the table.

“Howard mistreats his animals?” Cam twisted in her seat to look at him. He sat at the far end of the other table. Great-Uncle Albert sat next to him—of course, Albert knew everyone—and across from them was Irene Burr. Albert sat turned in his wheelchair toward Lucinda on his other side, while Howard leaned toward Irene and gestured as he spoke, their heads nearly touching.

“That’s the information I have, and it’s from a reliable source,” Alexandra said.

“I had no idea about the mistreatment.” Cam looked back at the younger woman.

“Who decided to get the meat from Howard?”

“I think it was Irene who suggested it,” Cam said.

“You might check into your meat sources in a little more depth next time, Cam. Or assign me the job.” Alexandra smiled, her expression radiating youth.

“I think the pork tastes great,” Bobby said from his seat next to Alexandra. “This dinner is a big success, Cam. And you are lovely as a farmer-hostess.” He set his chin on his hand, elbow on the table, and gazed at Cam with a smile.

Suddenly flustered, Cam shook her head. “Don’t be silly.” She felt her usual blush creep up her neck. “The dinner does seem to be going well, though, doesn’t it?”

“You bet. Now, if you had some music, that would top it off. I could show you my dance moves.” He winked.

Cam had opened her mouth to say she didn’t dance in public when Alexandra looked over Cam’s shoulder and started clapping. Others near her clapped, too.

Cam turned to see what the commotion was. Jake loomed in the entrance to the tent. She stood and clapped as she crossed the tent to stand next to him.

Jake removed his toque and bowed with a flourish as the space quieted.

“Everybody, this is Jake Ericsson, chef at The Market, who cooked all your food tonight,” Cam said. The applause started up again.

After a few moments, Jake held up his hand. “Please. It looks like you enjoyed your meal. We couldn’t have done it without Farmer Cam’s superb produce.” He put his right arm around her shoulders and squeezed a little too hard.

Another round of applause started up, despite Cam’s efforts with both hands to tamp it down.

When it subsided, Jake spoke. “For dessert”—he gestured at Ellie and Ashley, who had started delivering small plates to each diner—“we have a pumpkin-crisp cheesecake. And next time you dine at The Market, let your waitperson know you were at this event and I’ll try to get out front to say hello.” He released Cam and leaned toward her. “What’s with you and that Bobby character?” he whispered.

“Nothing.” Cam frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

“I saw him drooling over you. You’d better make up your mind who you want.” He turned away and began to greet the guests.

Cam took a deep breath and let it out. The jealous streak she’d seen in Jake last spring was back. Why did life have to be so complicated? She decided she’d earned a glass of wine, and made her way to the vineyard’s table. Irene arrived at the same time. They both selected a glass of the pear dessert wine. Irene pulled her shawl closer around her. The fall of darkness had cooled the air considerably. Cam inhaled, catching the damp scent of fertile soil that rose up after sunset.

“Wonderful event, Cameron.” Irene held her glass up. “Congratulations.”

Cam clinked hers and thanked the older woman. “So did I understand you want to buy the Old Town Hall?”

Irene pursed her lips. “I have made the town an offer. I can’t believe your Mr. Ames opposes the sale. Westbury needs me.” She sniffed. Gone was the sad smile and affection for small animals. The imperious Irene Burr was back.

“Hey, great dinner,
fazendeira.
” Lucinda DaSilva elbowed Cam with a smile. “Irene, how are you?”

Irene blinked several times and replied that she was well.

“How do you know each other?” Cam asked, looking from one to the other.

“I clean house for her. I didn’t tell you that?” The Brazilian frowned with a smile.

As Cam shook her head, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Excuse me, Cam. We’re heading out,” Sim said. Bobby perched on the edge of the table behind her, gazing anywhere except toward Irene.

“So soon?” Cam smiled at Sim.

“Yeah. Hey, bring your truck down anytime,” Sim said. “I’ll take good care of it for you.”

Irene gave a little snort and looked amused.

“Listen, Ms. Burr.” Sim’s voice boiled. “Have you ever, ever had a problem with my work? Your Jaguar runs like a real wildcat, and it’s all my doing.”

“You’re not a Jaguar-trained technician is my only point.” Irene raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms, the glass of wine now in the crook of her elbow.

“It’s an engine. A foreign engine. I speak its language. That’s all I need to know. Oh, and by the way? Ever hear of computers? Anything I don’t know, I have at my fingertips.” Sim planted her feet in a wide stance and folded her arms. “If you don’t like my work, feel free to drive twenty miles down to the dealership and let them take your money.”

Bobby pulled at Sim’s sleeve. “We gotta run. Good night, everybody.”

Irene nodded and turned away. Sim stared after Irene. Her face was so red, Cam thought she could see flames coming from her ears.

“I’m going to get her, one way or the other,” Sim muttered.

As Wes walked by, he snorted. “Take a number, honey.”

C
am trudged up the worn wooden stairs of her antique saltbox several hours later. She loved this house. Growing up, she’d spent her summers here with her great-uncle and great-aunt. Marie had welcomed her like the grandchild she’d never had, and the two old farmers had enveloped Cam in love and warmth while her peripatetic parents spent months overseas, doing anthropological research. She paused at the fading photograph of Albert and Marie on their wedding day. She extended a finger to stroke Marie’s image. Her great-aunt had passed away two years earlier, after sixty-one years of marriage, and some of the light had gone out of Albert. Now he seemed to be doing well, though, and was making friends in his new assisted-living quarters. He even had his own laptop computer and maintained a blog where he posted short memoirs about his life as a farmer.

Swinging aching feet into bed, Cam rehashed the dinner. It had gone well. There had been enough food, Ellie and her friend had served without a hitch, and the guests seemed to appreciate the free wine and beer. She hadn’t taken time to tally the cash but thought the fifty-dollar-per-person tickets had more than covered the expenses, since Jake and the other vendors had discounted their costs so steeply. She’d certainly offer the event again next summer and fall.

Jake. He hadn’t spoken privately with her after his comment about deciding between him and Bobby. Which was ridiculous. There was nothing going on with her and Bobby. The guy was a flirt. That was all.

And Cam felt uneasy at the undercurrents she’d witnessed swirling around Irene Burr. That Irene was difficult was no surprise. That she was difficult enough to spur Bobby into anger merited thought. Cam didn’t know Sim Koyama at all but wondered at Irene’s power to invoke her ire, too. And then the conflict about Old Town Hall’s fate . . . Even mild-mannered Wes Ames was upset with Irene.

As Cam slid toward sleep, fall crickets serenading her through the open window, she was glad she hadn’t experienced Irene’s wrath. The distance of a farmer-customer relationship with Irene Burr was fine with Cam.

Cam threw on an old sweatshirt before heading downstairs after letting herself sleep in until almost eight. Gray clouds pressed in on the morning, and the temperature had to be below sixty. Still, the farm season wasn’t over yet. She’d be working on many colder mornings soon. She took a moment to clean up an unfortunately placed hair ball Preston had hacked up during the night on the kitchen countertop, near the telephone. She shoved aside residual clutter here and there as she wiped down the counter with some liquid cleanser. Hair balls were one of the drawbacks of owning a very large, very furry feline.

She headed out to the fields to work, passing the now forlorn tent, its empty chairs and bare tables ghosts of last night’s warm conviviality. The people from the rental place would be here sometime before noon to dismantle it and cart it all away.

A siren wailed in the distance. The rising and falling keen sounded like it came from the other side of the woods that formed the back perimeter of her property. Cam sniffed the air for smoke and scanned the skyline. She relaxed her shoulders, not having realized how tense she’d become at the thought of a fire. A childhood incident, combined with the barn fire, made her wary every time she heard sirens.

She threw an empty bushel basket into the garden cart and headed for the tomato field. It was time to call it a day for the crop of larger heirlooms, even though there hadn’t been a hard frost yet. New England didn’t offer enough sun or warmth at this time of year to ripen the crop of baseball-size green fruit yet clinging to the browning vines. She filled the basket with the pale green orbs while thinking about green tomato–apple chutney and began pulling the spent plants, laying them in the wide garden cart.

Preston sidled by and then shot off in pursuit of unseen prey. Cam worked for another hour, until her growling stomach demanded fuel. She hoisted the bushel on top of the cart full of vines. She trudged with the cart to the compost bins and carried the basket to the house. She set it down in the screened-in back porch. Extracting a key from the not-so-secret hiding place under a statue of a garden gnome sitting at a computer, she unlocked the back door and let herself in. Before getting involved in the search for her farmhand’s murderer in June, she had always left the door unlocked while she was outside working. Now she locked it every time she left the house.

On the faded blue-speckled Formica of the kitchen countertop, the green light on her voice mail device blinked. The missed call was from Ruth Dodge. Cam realized Ruth and her little daughters hadn’t shown up at the dinner last night.

She accessed the message and listened, gazing at one of the dinner centerpieces on her dining table. The flower vase needed topping off with water.

“Cam, call me as soon as possible.”

That was it. Cam frowned. Maybe Ruth needed some emergency babysitting. She checked the number—Ruth had called from her cell and not from the police station. Cam pressed the buttons to return the call. Ruth picked up right away and sounded relieved that Cam was on the line.

“What’s up?” Cam asked. “Are the girls okay? You guys didn’t come to the dinner last night.”

Ruth said they were fine, that she’d explain later. “This is an official call, Cam. I’m at work.”

“Did I do something wrong?” It was odd that Ruth was calling from her cell phone at work.

“Irene Burr was at the dinner, wasn’t she?”

“Yes. We had about eighty guests. It was a great event—”

“Did she argue with anybody?” Ruth interrupted.

Cam kept her silence for a moment, picturing the evening.

“Cam?”

“I’m not sure you’d call it arguing. She seemed to rub a number of people the wrong way. But that’s how she is. I think she probably means well.”

“Any details on who she upset?”

“What’s going on?”

“I need to know. Tell me who she rubbed the wrong way.”

“Her stepson, her mechanic, Wes Ames, even Howard Fisher. You might better ask who didn’t she get riled up.”

“Oh?”

Cam sensed that Ruth’s ears were perking up even more. The two had been friends since the first summer Cam had come to the farm, when she was six. “Has something happened?”

It was Ruth’s turn to keep silent.

“Has something happened to Irene?” Cam shivered. It wasn’t from the temperature.

“I have to go, Cam. I’ll call you back.” The phone clicked off.

Cam stared at the device in her hand, as if willing it to ring again. She set it down a little harder than it deserved and assembled a peanut butter and banana sandwich instead. Ruth wasn’t going to call back. Two bites in, a bell rang, but it was the doorbell.

Hastening to chew and swallow, Cam checked the window. She opened the back door to Sim Koyama.

Sim’s tough exterior now displayed a big crack. “Cam, you have to help me.” Her voice quavered. She wore a uniform of black similar to her garb the night before, but her hair stuck out every which way, like a thistle plant. Dark smudges lurked under tense eyes.

“Come in. Are you all right?”

“I am, but Bobby isn’t. Irene Burr is dead.”

“Oh, no! That’s terrible.” So that was why Ruth had called. “Bobby must be really upset.”

“And the pigs. My God, the pigs.” Sim’s dark eyes looked haunted.

“The pigs?” Had Sim lost it?

“It’s awful.” Sim paced toward the kitchen and back.

“Is Bobby all right? What can I do to help?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t know where he is. I don’t even know who his friends are, besides me. I thought maybe you’d be able to find him.”

“He worked for me all summer, but he didn’t really talk about his personal life. I really have no idea where he would be or who he hangs out with.” Cam shook her head. “How did you find out about Irene’s death?”

“My cousin’s a dispatcher. She knows Bobby and I are friends. She thought I might know where he is. The police are looking for him.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. To notify him, I guess.” Sim’s voice shook.

“Sit down. I think you need a beer or something stronger. Yes?”

Sim agreed and sat at the dining table. Cam poured them each a glass of ale from a half-full growler the brewery had given her last night. So what if it was only ten o’clock in the morning? It was five o’clock somewhere. Sim drained half her glass straight off. Cam refilled it and sat.

“What were you saying about pigs, Sim?”

Sim shuddered. Her face drew in like she’d seen a demon.

“Tell me.” Cam covered Sim’s hand with her own.

“The cops said Irene was found in a pigsty. Half the flesh was eaten off her legs by the pigs.” Sim laid her head on her arms on the table.

Cam gasped. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the image was worse. And when she reopened them, Sim was still there. The nightmare was still there.

“A pigsty?” Cam shuddered at the awful vision. A body, Irene Burr’s body, in a pigsty. On a pig farm.

Sim nodded mutely.

“How did she get into a pigsty?”

“I don’t know. Somebody saw her Jag parked at the edge of the woods.”

Cam’s eyes widened. “Wait. Whose farm?”

“The Jag was next to a path that leads to the Fisher farm.”

“Oh, no! But why didn’t she get out?” Cam stared at her, the realization sinking in. “This wasn’t an accident, was it? Did your cousin say—”

“Not an accident. Irene was murdered.” Sim slammed her hand on the table, making the vase jump. An orange nasturtium slid away from its mates and lay beached on the old oak of the table. “Lots of people would have been much happier if Irene disappeared, me included. I wouldn’t kill her, but it doesn’t surprise me somebody did.”