A Tine To Live, A Tine To Die Part 20

Mom. It was just her current-day, still-absent mother. And what ever happened to, "We've missed you, dear," or "How are you, honey?"

"Have you been talking to Albert?" Cam asked.

"No, we saw it on the Internet once we got back in range and wanted to check out the local news. You must be so much more at ease now that they've caught the murderer."

Cam sighed, but she didn't have time to count to ten again. "Is this your own cell, Mom?"

Her mother said it was.

"I'm in the middle of cooking dinner, and I don't want it to burn. Can I call you back?"

They arranged to talk later, and Cam disconnected. What she really didn't want to burn was her own feelings, s.h.i.+elded from conflagration for so long by her immersion in the satisfying and logical work of coding. If farming was gradually lowering her emotional defenses, what would happen when her parents breezed through town again? When they showed up and failed to try to find out how she was, as they had been doing for so many years. She knew, or at least Marie had told her, that her mother and father meant well. They just didn't have people skills, either. Cam had apparently come by that honestly.

She set the steak on the hot grill and put history, both ancient and recent, out of her mind. Twelve minutes later she brought the plate in and sat at the table. She savored her first mouthful of juicy steak and rolled the flavors of the seasonings and the meat on her tongue. Perfection.

Perfect food bought her thoughts a direct ticket to Jake. She hadn't heard from him since he left Monday night. She tore off a piece of crusty bread and sopped up a bit of the juices with it. She chased the bread with a swallow of wine. Jake was still there in her brain. Cam was the one who had left their embrace to answer the telephone. Maybe Jake was waiting for her to call him and fix things up. But he was the one who had split, hadn't offered to help her, had looked alarmed. Shouldn't he call her?

Preston sidled over and laid his paws on her leg, asking with his tiny voice for a morsel of rare beef. Cam cut off a bite and laid it on the floor for him.

"Preston, what do you think?"

He ignored her as he ate.

"Shouldn't he call me? And why do I feel like I'm suddenly sixteen again and angsting about a boy?" Which was exactly how Cam felt.

From outside came a noise like a big object being knocked over. Cam froze. What was that? And who? Had she locked the door after her dinner was ready?

She crept to the door, trying to stay out of sight of the windows. She locked the door and the dead bolt. With the day's cool weather, all the windows were already shut and secured. Cam turned off the lights. She listened. Another noise, and then the outdoor floodlight lit up.

Cam peered out onto the patio but couldn't see anyone in the pool of light. Still keeping it dark inside, she found the remote to her seldom-used television and switched it on. Careful to stay out of the light from the screen, she found a news talk show and turned the volume up as she had done before. At least it might sound like there was a conversation going on inside.

She returned to the table. The outside light from over the top of the cafe curtains cast enough illumination on the table so she could see her food. It was at least equivalent to candlelight. Cam cursed the noisemaker, whoever it was, but she wasn't going to let some sound ruin her dinner. She had good locks, a cell phone in her pocket, and an excellent steak.

As she picked up her knife and fork, Cam spied one window in the room whose curtains were not fully drawn. She got up and reached for the cloth to draw it shut. She took one more glance at the patio and then laughed out loud. At the edge near the back door, a racc.o.o.n had tipped over the trash barrel and was devouring the fat Cam had cut off the edges of the steak. Almost no food made its way into Cam's trash, but animal meat and fat were an exception, since they weren't appropriate for the compost. Other bits of trash were scattered over the bricks.

Well, let the little guy have it. She could clean up the patio tomorrow. Cam switched the light back on and turned off the TV. She was going to get her dinner, after all.

After she finished savoring her meal and reading the rest of the day's newspaper, she pushed back her chair but remained seated. For the moment, her search for a murderer was at bay, as were her worries about Lucinda. She relaxed with a warm glow.

Cam looked at her cell phone on the table. In a rush, so she didn't change her mind, she pressed Jake's cell number. When he didn't answer, she left a simple message that she hoped to speak with him and that he could call her back anytime. She looked at the phone for a moment and then pressed The Market's number. Might as well go all out.

"The Market," a perky female voice said. The clatter of dishes and voices behind her made it sound like the restaurant was fully booked on a Wednesday night.

"I'd like the kitchen, please." Cam knew the kitchen had its own extension.

"Okay, but they're pretty busy in there."

"I'm a personal friend of Jake's." Cam winced, wondering if this was a big mistake.

"Hold on. I'll transfer you."

"Kitchen." Jake almost spat out the word. "Who's this?" The background was even noisier, if that was possible, although these were sounds of water boiling, fat spattering, vegetables being chopped with a vengeance, line cooks calling out orders.

"Hi, Jake. I just wanted to-"

"I can't talk, Cam. I'll call you tomorrow. Or the next day."

Her ear hurt as he slammed down the receiver. Her heart hurt, too, even though she'd been a fool to expect him to talk during the dinner rush. Living in a sh.e.l.l was so much more comfortable.

Chapter 18.

Cam spent the morning tilling, hoeing, and thinking. She wished she could go talk with David Kosloski, but farming ch.o.r.es called out for attention like a crying baby. Things would only get worse if she didn't tend to them.

This time Rust Bucket started up like a charm. Cam pushed it between the rows in the back field, the tiller's rotating blades turning over the soil in the paths and at the edges of the rows, uprooting the crop of freshly sprouted weeds. Corn didn't take well to competing with weeds for nutrients and moisture, and neither did young potato starts. When the edges of the corn were cleared, Cam pulled a CobraHead cultivator at the end of a pole gently between the corn plants, its single curved hook neatly slicing through weeds and aerating the soil. After she tilled next to the potatoes, Cam spent another hour hoeing the freshly turned soil up around the plants in a long mound along the rows until only the very top potato leaves showed. In a couple of months that range of miniature foothills of dirt would be filled with potatoes.

By midmorning the fog had burned off and the sun shone dry and hot again. Cam shed her long-sleeved s.h.i.+rt for the tank top she wore under it and rolled her pants up to the knees.

She finished the morning cutting greens and picking strawberries. It was Thursday, one of the days she had committed to delivering produce to Jake. After last night's call, though, she wondered if he still wanted it. And then wondered again at the wisdom of getting involved with someone she already had a professional relations.h.i.+p with. The embarra.s.sment of thinking Jake could talk during his busiest time of night continued to sting, as did that of him hanging up on her.

She strolled into her kitchen at eleven thirty. As she drank down a tall gla.s.s of water, her cell phone rang. She checked the display, which read THE MARKET. She groaned. "Let this be an easy call," she whispered to whichever spirit watched over relations.h.i.+ps.

After Cam answered, Jake said, "Cam, I'd like to fix you lunch. In my apartment."

"Today?" Cam asked.

"Yes, as soon as you can get here."

Cam looked down at her muddy legs and dirty clothes. "I'd love it, but I'll have to clean up. Say, twelve thirty?"

"Deal. Do you happen to have my greens and berries?"

"Freshly picked. But wait. Where do you live?"

Jake laughed. "It's just upstairs from the restaurant."

Cam said she'd see him in an hour and disconnected. That laugh had sounded like the normal Jake. Maybe he wanted to make up, to get their budding relations.h.i.+p back on track. Still, she had no idea of his mood or what had been going on during the past few days. She wondered if it was safe going to his apartment. He was a Swede. What if he was the undoc.u.mented immigrant who put a pitchfork through Mike's neck? She did not have the same kind of instinct about Jake's innocence that she did about Lucinda's, even though she had trusted Jake enough to kiss him and be kissed.

She shook her head. Those were crazy thoughts. He had owned the restaurant for years and was well known in the community. She marched upstairs for a quick shower, then pulled on clean capris and a blouse. Surely restaurant employees would be right downstairs from Jake's apartment. And she'd have her phone with her, after all.

"So, what do you think?" Jake gestured around the room with a broad sweep of his hand. He again wore black-checked pants with a black T-s.h.i.+rt. Very large bare feet poked out from under the pants.

"It's lovely, Jake." Cam wasn't just being nice. The plain lines of the off-white walls and gleaming hardwood floor in the large room were brightened by a simple red couch, accents of blue and yellow, and a three-foot-tall houseplant in front of the bow window. An abstract painting in the same colors hung over the couch. A gla.s.s coffee table was home to several chefs' magazines and the day's paper. A small gla.s.s table and two blue upholstered chairs at the end opposite the window separated the rest of the room from a small kitchen. The table was laid with yellow place mats, red cloth napkins, and silverware.

A box fan in the window blew the air around. Jake gestured to a still ceiling fan. "Sorry it's a little warm. If I turn it on, I'm afraid I'll get a haircut I didn't plan on."

"Good choice. You're pretty close to the ceiling as it is."

"The house was originally built two hundred years ago, right after the big fire in this section of the city. People must have been shorter then."

Cam stood a few feet away from Jake, her purse over one shoulder. She suddenly couldn't think of a single thing to say to continue the conversation. She glanced out the window, at the painting, anywhere but at Jake's eyes.

Jake cleared his throat. "Come and sit down, Cam. Lunch is all ready." He gestured to the table and then walked behind it to the kitchen area. "I made simple sandwiches. I'll finish them in the broiler. But first, a gla.s.s of wine with lunch? I have a nice light Cotes du Rhone breathing. Or would you rather have seltzer?"

Cam sat and took a deep breath. "I'd love a gla.s.s of wine." She seemed always to want a gla.s.s of wine lately.

Jake delivered her wine and held out his own. "Thanks for coming." They clinked gla.s.ses. His expression remained serious.

Cam said nothing but took a sip.

"Now, it'll just be a second." Jake turned to the counter, slipping a pan into the oven. He left the oven door open a crack and stood watching it.

"How long have you been in this building?" Cam's voice quavered a little. She didn't know if she was nervous because of their previously budding romance or worried because there was a chance Jake was a murderer.

"More than a decade. I bought the building, renovated downstairs for the restaurant, and then gradually fixed up the apartment." He drew the pan out. "You can't beat the commute."

Cam watched as he slid two portions onto waiting plates, added several other things, and turned toward the table.

"Voila. Grilled portobello and goat Gouda melt on sourdough." He set a plate at each place, fetched his winegla.s.s off the counter, and sat.

Cam studied the plate. The toasted top slice of bread, spread with what looked like pesto, lay open on a bed of watercress. Brown dots on the white cheese, which was sprinkled with flecks of rosemary, still bubbled slightly from the broiler. The cheese oozed over a blackened mushroom as big as a small steak. The crust of the bottom bread slice peeked out at the edges. She leaned over and sniffed, then straightened.

"This looks and smells heavenly. But it doesn't look so simple to me."

"It is, believe me." Jake scooped watercress onto the top of his sandwich, added the top slice, and then cut it in two. "Dig in." He took a large bite and then set the sandwich half down.

Cam followed suit. They ate in silence for a moment, if the sound of chewing and swallowing a delicious meal can be called silent. But even as Cam ate, she wondered when they were going to actually start talking. Or if.

She took a sip of wine and then opened her mouth to speak.

Jake spoke at the same time. "Cam, I must apologize for leaving so quickly Monday night." His eyes darted around the room before settling back on hers. "I don't know if I can explain it."

"I thought I should apologize for answering the phone. It was really nice dancing with you." Cam set her elbow on the table and her chin on her hand.

Jake sipped his wine. He studied the half of his sandwich remaining on the plate. "All right. I'll tell you. When my parents went back to Sweden with my little brother and I stayed, I became an illegal alien. My father had come here on a work visa that permitted him to bring his family. I had become an American kid in those two years. I wanted this life, and I refused to go back. In Sweden it's either very dark or very light. The government takes care of people, but they also regiment them. I liked this freedom you have."

"And you couldn't just apply to stay?"

"I was young and stupid. I started getting restaurant jobs and found I loved cooking. I was paid cash, under the table. n.o.body seemed to care or ask for my papers. Now, since nine-eleven, the INS is much more vigilant. Homeland security and all that. But by then I had already bought this place."

So Cam's idea about Jake had been correct. "But what made you split when I said Lucinda was in jail for the murder?"

"Listen, we're both immigrants. Mike and that group of his had threatened to expose me. I could lose everything, Cam." He stood. "Everything!" He was nearly shouting. He paced toward the window.

Cam kept her eyes on Jake as she put a hand down the side of her chair and into her purse, which she'd hung there, and grabbed her phone. She slipped it into her pants pocket just as Jake turned back toward her.

"I left because I didn't want you to see how glad I was that they had arrested Lucinda."

"She didn't kill Mike, Jake."

"How do you know?" His eyes narrowed. "Did they let her go?" Jake approached the table until he loomed over her.

"No, the police think she killed him, but I know she didn't."

"If she didn't kill him, who did?"

The question hung in the air between them like a bubble of explosives. Cam wasn't sure if she should try to pop it or wait for it to waft away.

"Did you?" she asked. Now she'd done it. Her heart started racing. Her throat tightened. She gripped the phone in her pocket but wondered if it would be better to just race for the door.

He regarded her with those pale eyes. He threw his head back and laughed, then sank into his chair. "You think I killed Mike Montgomery? It was Jake Ericsson in the greenhouse with the pitchfork." He laughed again, more quietly this time. "For the record, I didn't."

"You acted so oddly. You're an immigrant. I just wondered . . ." Cam realized she no longer wondered. She believed Jake.

Jake frowned. "I guess I had just cause. Isn't that what they say in court? And I'm still worried about that d.a.m.n group. I know there are plenty more where Mike came from."

Cam agreed. "I went online. They're scary, what they write, how they talk."

"Didn't you think it was a little scary to come here, to my apartment, to be alone with me, and accuse me of murder?" Jake reached out a hand and covered Cam's.

"Hey, I'm a big girl. Plus, I had my trusty phone." She drew it out of her pocket. Just then the descending out-of-battery-power tones played. "Oops. Anyway, how do you know I don't have a black belt in kung fu?"

"Do you?" Jake raised one eyebrow.

"No." She smiled. "I'm going to finish my lunch now that we've gotten that out of the way. I'm sure you have work to do this afternoon, and so do I."

As they ate, they talked about how the crops were coming along, Jake's plans for a monthly wine-pairing dinner, anything but murder.

When they were finished, Cam rose and thanked Jake.

He walked her to the door. "You're still not completely sure I didn't kill Mike. I hope you'll believe me when they find the actual murderer."

"They?" Cam shook her head. "They think they have it all b.u.t.toned up with Lucinda behind bars. They're not really looking anymore. The last thing Pappas said to me was, 'Perhaps another suspect will turn up.' Those aren't the words of an active investigator. No, if anybody is going to find the killer, it's going to be me."

"Shouldn't you leave it to the police? You could get hurt, Cam. If I had been the criminal, you might never have gotten out of here alive." He leered at her. "I have a very large walk-in freezer downstairs."

As he put his arm around her, Cam s.h.i.+vered. She didn't know if it was from attraction or fear. Maybe she was still wondering about him. "I'd better get going. That was a great lunch. I appreciate it. And thanks for not using your cleaver on me." She mustered as big a smile as she could.

Walking down the stairs, Cam glanced back up and called, "I'll see you Sunday."

Jake stood backlit at the door to his apartment. His expression had returned to somber, and he loomed as large as an ogre.

Cam checked her watch after she climbed into the truck. Might as well take advantage of the clean clothes again for a visit to David Kosloski. She debated calling first but then remembered her dead phone. It wasn't until she pulled up in the K-One Construction parking lot that she wondered what she was going to say, and then wondered why she hadn't wondered that yesterday. If David was here illegally, and if the militia, with Mike as the messenger, had said they were going to expose him, David had a lot to lose. His successful company, his reputation in the community as a generous donor to charities, his ability to support an ill wife and a daughter. Would he have killed Mike, though? Cam had no idea if any of it was true. Her head hurt from all the ifs. But there was one more. If any of it was true, would David even talk with her about it?