A Tine To Live, A Tine To Die Part 2

Taking a deep breath, Cam said she was. She wrapped the towel around her hand and followed Ruth out the door. As they made their way toward the barn, Cam wondered why they needed so many emergency vehicles for one poor dead man. The pulsing blue and white lights were nearly blinding, and a fire engine seemed to fill the entire driveway. She guarded her face with her hand and looked at the ground as she walked.

"Here's Cameron Flaherty, Chief, the farmer who found the body. Cam, Chief George Frost." Ruth gestured toward an older man in slacks and a pink polo s.h.i.+rt standing in front of the barn, then stepped back.

"Thanks, Ruthie." Cam extended her hand and shook the chief's. "Nice to meet you, sir."

He shoved a lock of white hair back off his forehead. "Likewise." He ran a hand down his s.h.i.+rt. "I was out to dinner. We don't get murder calls around here too often. I suppose you might not know that. How long have you been living here?"

"Less than a year, but I spent every summer on the farm when I was young. That's how I know Ruthie." Cam looked at her old friend. Ruth didn't smile, though. Cam wondered why not. Can't smile on duty?

He snorted. "Never heard her called Ruthie before. Anyway, what happened here? How'd a pitchfork get into young Montgomery's neck?"

Cam shuddered. "I have no idea. I had been out, and-"

"Where? For how long?"

"A couple of hours. I was at Mill Pond."

"Alone?"

"Yes." Cam frowned. "I got home around six thirty, I think. I came out here just as it was getting dark to cut salad for my dinner."

Frost sniffed. "You've been drinking." He gave Cam a stern look.

"Sure. It's Sat.u.r.day night. I'm at home. Anything wrong with that?"

"What happened to your hand?"

"I cut it." Cam looked at her hand, then noticed for the first time the spatter of blood on her khaki shorts and her turquoise T-s.h.i.+rt. Great. She glanced up to see the chief also focused on her shorts. "That's my blood, by the way."

"What do you think Mike Montgomery was doing here?"

Cam explained how she'd inherited him as an employee along with the farm, and what had happened at midday.

"You had a fight with him."

"Not a fight, really. I merely told him I couldn't have him working for me. Organic certification takes several years, and I'm only in the first year. Pesticides on my farm, in my barn, on my crops could jeopardize the whole process. And he was late, and he'd been drinking before noon. It was too much."

"Was anyone else around?"

"A couple of my customers had recently arrived, plus a volunteer was helping out."

"Had you fought with him before?"

"I didn't fight with him!" Cam's voice rose. She cleared her throat to try to regain control of this ridiculous situation. "I simply let him go." She glanced back, but Ruth was gone. Cam s.h.i.+vered and wrapped her arms around herself, wis.h.i.+ng she'd thrown on a sweater. The night was cooling down fast.

"Any idea who might have wanted Mr. Montgomery dead?"

Cam shook her head. She ran through the events of the day in her mind. Her confrontation with Mike. Alexandra's indignation. Wait. What had she said? Oh, crud. Cam wrinkled her brow. Alexandra had literally described the actual murder. She should probably tell Chief Frost that, but Cam didn't want to get Alexandra in trouble. She was sure the young woman had not killed Mike. Or hoped she was sure.

A woman in a violet sheath dress with a cap of silver hair strode up the drive toward them. She carried a black attache case. A heavy gold bracelet encircled one wrist, and a jeweled watch decorated the other. She would have looked like a fas.h.i.+onable businesswoman except for the black sneakers on her feet.

"Ah, Dr. Cobb. You made good time."

Cam was glad to have Frost's focus on someone else.

The woman nodded as she shook his hand. "I was at a fundraiser for the Women's Crisis Center."

"Thanks for getting here so promptly."

The woman looked at Cam. "Glenda Cobb. Medical examiner. You have blood on you."

Cam sighed. "I'm Cam Flaherty. This is my farm. I cut my hand on a gla.s.s."

"I see." The ME turned back to Chief Frost. "Where's the body?"

"I'll take you." He faced Cam. "You can go back inside. I'm going to need those clothes, so please change into something else. Officer Dodge will accompany you. She'll take your statement, too." He took the ME's elbow and walked away.

Cam gazed after them. She started as Ruth materialized next to her.

"My clothes? He thinks I did it." Cam rubbed her head as she frowned. "Why? That's crazy. How could I kill someone? He doesn't even know me."

"It's his job. Let's go back to the house, Cam. I want to catch up with you, but tonight's not the time. I need to take what you're wearing and to write down what you told the chief, and then I have to get going."

They walked in silence back to the saltbox. As they reached the antique house-two stories in the front, its back roof slanting down to one story-Cam said, "I can't even imagine who might have killed Mike Montgomery. I mean, he was kind of difficult. But you don't go around sticking pitchforks in people's necks simply because they're a problem to you."

Ruth paused. "We will find who did it."

Cam wasn't so sure.

In the morning, Cam pulled on denim cutoffs, pink socks, and an old purple T-s.h.i.+rt with a head of cabbage on it advertising the NOFA Summer Conference.

Maybe there'd been a murder here last night, but that didn't mean she didn't have a long to-do list. She needed to till in the winter rye in the far field, weed and thin the infant carrots and cornstalks, water the lettuce seedlings, pick strawberries. The digital clock by her bed read 6:35, already a late start. Light streamed in through the antique window gla.s.s and burnished the wide pine floorboards. A cool breeze stirred white cotton curtains. The fresh light and air soothed her unsettled feeling, which had endured from the night before. But what was that rumbling sound?

Cam ran a quick brush through her hair and walked into the hall. She peered out the window on the street side.

"Oh, no." Three news trucks had parked at the edge of the road in front of her house, their engines idling. A stylish woman Cam had seen on the news paced briskly back and forth on the driveway, near the street. She wore slacks and a short jacket, and her hair curved perfectly around her face despite the early hour.

Downstairs, Cam brewed coffee and poured a mug. She sat outdoors on the back steps to lace up leather work boots, grateful for the screening effect of an antique lilac next to the entrance. "How am I going to avoid these reporters, Preston?" The cat rubbed his side luxuriously against Cam's leg, arching his back and purring loudly, but not giving a clue as to what she should do.

She judged the distance across the yard to the barn and wondered for how much of it she'd be hidden by the house. She set off at a brisk pace, but as she edged onto the drive to enter the barn, one reporter called out.

"Ms. Flaherty? Cameron? Can you tell me what happened last night?" The chic reporter strode toward Cam. A young woman in black hoisting a camera on her shoulder followed close behind her.

"No, and you need to get off my property." Cam faced them. She put both hands up in the universal halt gesture. The reporter slowed but kept moving toward Cam. "I mean it. I will call the police."

"All right. I just want to be sure the viewing public has the real story, in your own words." The woman flashed a megawatt smile. "We'll be out here when you're ready." She nodded to the cameraperson and headed back to the street.

In your dreams. As Cam rounded the barn, she shook her head. Ruts in the ground described the vehicles that had invaded her land. Seeing them further darkened her mood. A tire tread had flattened the edge of the herb garden, barely missing the tender basil and dill seedlings.

Seeing the hoop house cast an even darker shadow despite the slant of morning light pouring into it. Yellow police tape blocked the entrance where Mike's body had lain only twelve hours earlier. Poor Mike. She would have thought the police would be here investigating, looking for clues to the murderer's ident.i.ty. She shook her head to clear it. She had a farm to run.

Staring at the hoop house, Cam realized something else. How was she going to water the lettuce starts? She set her fists on her hips. The tender seedlings needed hand watering with a gentle stream. Spraying them with the hose from the doorway would destroy them and probably any evidence the police hadn't collected last night. She wanted to head back to the house to call Ruth or Chief Frost to get permission to cross the tape. She didn't want to destroy evidence, but she had a business to run here. She stopped. It was not even seven o'clock on a Sunday morning. She couldn't be waking people up. Plus, now the pack of newshounds was ready to pounce on her.

Cam sighed. She was about to return to the barn when an object flashed at her in the suns.h.i.+ne from the ground right inside the hoop house door. She knelt and reached beyond the tape and then pulled her hand back. She'd seen enough police shows to know you weren't supposed to touch evidence. She found a tissue in her pocket, then used it to scrabble in the gravel on the ground until her fingers found the object through the thin paper. Cam sat back on her heels and held it up. The slim disk was scratched but had a tiny loop of metal sticking out, like the kind of talisman you could attach to a key chain. She slid it into her pocket, feeling vaguely like Nancy Drew. She'd give it to Ruth when she talked to her. Maybe it was a clue.

In the barn, Cam stood with hands on hips, staring at Albert's old rototiller. "You're going to start for me now, Red, aren't you?" Albert had named it after its original color, of which only traces still remained. Cam wanted to call it Rust Bucket but didn't think she should risk getting in its bad graces. Her uncle had tried to explain his tricks with the machine. She checked the oil and gas. She pushed the throttle level to the fastest setting and persuaded the lever into the choke position. Now came the part she hated. She grasped the rope handle with the rope snaked between her middle fingers, set her feet in what she hoped was a strong stance, and pulled.

Nothing. No whir of the small engine. She let the rope back in and pulled again. Silence. Ten pulls and twenty curses later, Cam glared at the obstinate metal beast, then turned and grabbed her weeding tools. Tomorrow she'd have to call Nick's Small Engine Repair and hope they had time for a tiller tune-up.

She weeded the lettuce rows and thinned the carrot and bean plantings for a couple of hours, then loaded six shallow two-quart baskets into the big-wheeled garden cart. The birds sang their version of the "Hallelujah Chorus" and the sun had already crested well over the trees in the distance when she arrived at the strawberry patch, stomach growling. She spent the next hour picking strawberries and sampling a few, too, glad it was an early season. Her cut hand hurt, but it didn't get in her way too badly. She was grateful the EMT hadn't needed to st.i.tch the cut.

As she plucked, she thought about Ruth the night before. Her old friend had dutifully transcribed Cam's account of the day, from the pesticide encounter with Mike all the way to when she pressed 911. Cam had thought Ruth would be more sympathetic, more rea.s.suring of Cam's innocence. But Ruth had maintained a somber expression and hadn't answered any of Cam's questions. She'd stayed 100 percent police officer. Cam wondered what it would be like to spend time with her once this business blew over. Could they regain their childhood closeness?

They'd both been stubborn in their way, but those ways had taken different paths. Cam, the childhood geek, the would-be scientist, liked to take risks in the name of experimentation. She had always tried to convince Ruth to make potions with her, to combine all manner of household liquids and watch what happened. Ruth, on the other hand, had a need for order, for following the rules. She had kept the two of them out of trouble when they forayed into alcohol and drug ventures as teens. After only one drink or one toke, Ruth had abstained. She'd kept Cam safe until it was time for her to return to Indiana for the school year.

Cam sat back on her heels. The baskets were nearly full. She gently took a final big deep-red strawberry by its top and savored tiny bite after tiny bite of the sweet, juicy flesh. Jake was going to love these. She carried the baskets back to the barn and set them on the ground in the shade. She grabbed a quick breakfast in the house, then spent another couple of hours weeding around nascent tomato plants and planting a second crop of bush beans, now that the soil was fully warmed. As she worked, she thought about the creep factor for customers of buying food from a farm where someone had died a violent death. If it seriously affected her budding business, she was in trouble.

She managed to water the seedlings in the hoop house from the doorway without destroying them, although she wondered how long the tape needed to stay up and, more important, why the authorities weren't here investigating.

Cam's final task before she delivered the berries was to harvest rhubarb. She swung an empty bushel basket beside her. She approached the big, showy plants growing around the back side of the barn, a plot Marie had planted as a newlywed and had maintained all those years until her death.

The big, green, elephant-eared leaves, toxic to humans, flopped over as if they'd been picked and left to wither. But they were still attached to their cherry-red stalks. Cam frowned. She squatted at the edge of the patch, rubbing the leaves and smelling them. The stalks sagged like limp pieces of rubber. What had happened?

There weren't any holes in the leaves. Cam looked around. She didn't see any vole tunnels nearby. The rhubarb leaves weren't chewed off, like the woodchucks loved to do with less poisonous foliage. Cam couldn't see any fungus. The plants had been fine the day before. They'd been fine! They shouldn't be sick. It was spring, their healthiest season. She had been counting on a big cutting to take to Jake today and to the farmers' market on Tuesday. Rhubarb and strawberries were a big sell in June, when so many other crops weren't yet ready. Cam examined the plants, her eyebrows knit into a straight line.

Maybe a spray had drifted over here on the wind. But from where? Cam gazed down the long row, then spied a white coating on most of the plants. Her throat tightened. Had Mike already done his damage before he'd been killed?

She walked down to the first affected plant. She leaned down and sniffed. It had a chemical odor. It had to be a herbicide. How could it have happened that a poison used to remove unwanted plants had been applied to one of her prize crops? And applied heavily.

"Oh, Ms. Flaherty!"

That voice again. Cam whirled. Great. The reporter stood ten yards away in Tully's meadow, what pa.s.sed for her neighbor's quarter-mile-long front yard. Cam doubted if Tully had given the woman permission. She looked uncomfortable standing in weedy gra.s.s up to the knees of her expensive-looking black pants. Her cameraperson appeared to be focusing on Cam. How long had they been there? And now the poisoned rhubarb was going to be on television.

"We want to hear your side of the murder in the greenhouse." The drama in the woman's voice could have landed her on Masterpiece Theater. She walked toward Cam, extending a microphone attached to a black shoulder bag.

Cam opened her mouth to shout at them, then shut it again. She took a deep breath. "Five more feet and you're on my property. Don't cross that line." Cam turned away and strode into the barn, fists clenched. Mike could have brought herbicide onto the farm, too. Or maybe it was the pesticide from the container she'd found, applied heavily. A chemical like that surely could destroy anything. She thought she'd thrown the container in the trash yesterday. It was time to check.

Chapter 4.

It hadn't been Mike's pesticide. The jug still sat in the barrel in the barn when she checked, and it felt as full as when she'd tossed it.

Cam washed up in the house and changed into a green flowered cotton sundress and flat sandals to go into town. She told herself the b.u.t.terflies in her stomach couldn't possibly have to do with seeing Jake. She checked her appearance in the tall mirror. She wanted to look nice but didn't want to appear as if she had dressed up for her strawberry delivery. She smoothed an errant tuft of hair. A fas.h.i.+on plate she wasn't, but it was a big step up from her usual outfit.

Downstairs, the mid-afternoon sun filtered through bright green leaves outside before it washed the room with light, a sight that normally cheered Cam. Between a murder, the reporters, and crop sabotage, though, sunlight didn't have a chance. She looked at the telephone. She really should call the organic inspector and tell him about the rhubarb. But it had to be an isolated incident, and she hadn't found any other forbidden substance in the barn. That bed wasn't near any of the fields. Her organic certification was still in progress. If she reported a chemical on a crop, well, that could totally derail things. On the other hand, if she'd been filmed with the destroyed crop behind her, the inspector might be calling her after the evening newscast.

Cam frowned and then worried about adding frown lines to her face. She exited the house, careful to lock the back door. She ignored the calls from the street as she made her way to the barn. She laid the baskets of berries in the bed of the truck and covered them with a clean cloth, securing it with elastic cords. She turned Great-Uncle Albert's old vehicle around and drove down the driveway as fast as was safe. As she approached the clump of newspeople that included her persistent reporter, she leaned on the horn. Her heart raced. She really didn't want to hit anyone. And she really didn't want to talk to any of them, either.

The group scattered, leaving Cam scarcely enough room to turn onto the road. She gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. This was crazy. She hoped they weren't going to follow her.

She headed down to the wide Merrimack River and along its banks until she arrived in coastal Newburyport. Federalist mansions lined the main street, large houses that had belonged to sea captains, with widow's walks atop every roof. As she drove, Cam again saw the poisoned rhubarb. Who could have done it? More important, who would have done it, and why? Mike said he hadn't used the pesticide yet. Maybe the killer did that to her crop. Maybe Mike caught the person and was killed because of that. The problem with all these scenarios was the same. Cam had no idea of the motivation. Why ruin her crop? Why kill Mike?

Cam turned down a side street lined with smaller old homes built right on the road. Their age showed most around the window frames, which were no longer squared, and in the many times repainted clapboards. Tiny tidy gardens peeked out from the sides or backs of the homes.

Cam, her heart rate finally back to normal, parked behind The Market. She carried the baskets to the rear door of the restaurant, set them down, and pressed the bell until the door opened.

"Hi, Jake. Berry delivery."

The chef smiled as he took the baskets. He leaned down to kiss her cheek. He smelled of shampoo, citrus, garlic, and a trace of male sweat.

A zing raced through Cam. She could get used to this.

He stood upright, tossing hair from his eyes as he led the way into the kitchen, setting the baskets on a counter. "You look nice, Farmer Flaherty. How you can go from the field to the fas.h.i.+on page, I shall never know."

"Just be quiet," she said lightly, trying not to smile.

Jake sampled a berry. "Heavenly." He rolled his eyes and enfolded Cam in a bear hug.

Cam flushed at the delicious feel of her face against the shoulder of this solid white-clad man but said, "Let me go, Lurch!" And then wanted to bite her tongue. Calling someone the name of a monstrous TV character remembered from her childhood wasn't very complimentary. With any luck the Swede wouldn't know the reference.

He let go. "My customers will adore you in perpetuity. They will grovel at your doorstep. But no rhubarb to go with the strawberries?"

Cam's smile vanished.

"What is it, Cam? What's troubling you?" Jake put a hand on her shoulder.

Cam shook her head as she dropped her bag on the floor, pulled a tall metal stool next to a stainless-steel island, and perched on it. The fragrant kitchen was quiet now between the lunch and dinner rushes. Piles of chopped leeks and a bowl of scrubbed potatoes in water sat on the broad counter nearby. A young man in white chef's garb chopped tomatoes. Several large pots simmered on a ten-burner stove behind him. Cam tried not to look at the flames.

"Come on now. Tell me what's worrying you," said Jake as he emptied a big bag of lettuce and greens into a sink and ran cold water to cool and wash them. He looked over at her from under bushy eyebrows, his hands busy in the deep sink. "Tell, tell."

Cam slouched, with her elbows on the island. "I guess you haven't seen the news. There was a murder on my property last night."

"Murder? You're kidding, right?"

"I'm not kidding. My employee, I mean, the employee I had fired at noon, was the unlucky recipient of a pitchfork in his neck. My pitchfork."

"Who found him?" Jake looked at Cam.

She pointed at her chest.

"You poor thing. Did they catch the killer?"

"Not yet. The police weren't even around today. I don't understand it. Oh, and I found herbicide on my rhubarb."