Bought the Farm Read online

  Shelby heard Billy’s alarm go off as she was finishing up her blog entry. Minutes later, Amelia’s alarm went off. Shelby listened carefully, making sure she heard two pairs of feet on the floorboards and didn’t need to go to the bottom of the stairs to call them.

  Shortly afterward, Billy came stumbling down the stairs and into the kitchen. He wanted to eat his bowl of cereal in front of the television, but Shelby nixed that idea. He would spend more time watching than eating and would miss the school bus again.

  Amelia came downstairs at the last possible minute and grabbed one of Shelby’s homemade granola bars on her way out the door. Billy wasn’t far behind. Quiet settled over the house, and Shelby took a moment to savor it. As much as she loved her children, she wasn’t averse to some peace occasionally.

  Today she was holding a cooking class in the church kitchen as part of Lovett’s adult education program. Shelby had accepted the assignment in a weak moment during the winter, when the days had seemed so long without as much work to do on the farm.

  They were going to learn how to spatchcock a chicken and bake it with lemon and herbs. It was a simple but delicious recipe.

  Shelby filled her basket with the fresh chicken she’d purchased from the Comstocks’ chicken and turkey farm down the road, along with thyme and oregano from her own garden, a couple of lemons, and a bottle of olive oil.

  The church kitchen was well equipped with pots and pans, but the quality of their knives was questionable, and Shelby seriously doubted that she would find a zester in one of their drawers, so she tossed both into her basket.

  She put Billy’s cereal bowl and spoon into the dishwasher, wiped down the kitchen table, and turned out the lights.

  * * *

  • • •

  Mrs. Willoughby was the first to arrive for class—not unexpected since she was the church secretary and had to only come down the stairs. Isabel Stone was next with Coralynne not far behind. Liz Gardener had signed up, but Shelby knew from experience that she was likely to cancel at the last minute, so she was surprised when Liz appeared at the door.

  The ladies arrayed themselves around the kitchen island—both Mrs. Willoughby and Coralynne keeping an obvious distance from Isabel Stone, whom they both deemed unworthy of Reverend Mather’s attentions.

  Shelby smiled to herself. Isabel was overdressed as usual in a white silk blouse and a floral printed skirt. Shelby urged Isabel to come stand by her, a move that made both Mrs. Willoughby and Coralynne frown slightly.

  Shelby waited till everyone was settled to begin.

  “Today we are going to spatchcock a chicken.”

  There was a barely audible gasp from Mrs. Willoughby and a clearly disapproving look on her face.

  “It means to butterfly a chicken or spread it open,” Shelby added hastily, demonstrating with her hands. She could only imagine what Mrs. Willoughby must have been picturing.

  “Then why not say so in the first place?” Coralynne sniffed.

  “You may find a recipe that refers to it as spatchcocking—particularly if it’s an English recipe.”

  “American recipes are perfectly good enough for me,” Mrs. Willoughby said, her many chins wagging in disapproval.

  Shelby sighed. She placed the chicken, which suddenly looked obscenely naked, on the cutting board and grabbed her knife and kitchen shears.

  “It’s really quite easy,” Shelby said as she spread the chicken out flat. “And it cooks so much faster this way. You can grill it or bake it—it’s delicious either way.”

  The fresh scents of lemon and herbs perfumed the air as Shelby set about zesting and chopping. Her audience watched with rapt attention.

  “What if I don’t want to use thyme or oregano?” Isabel asked. “Daniel doesn’t care for herbs.”

  Mrs. Willoughby and Coralynne exchanged knowing glances.

  “You can make the dish with lemon, salt, and a little pepper then,” Shelby said. She poured some olive oil into a bowl and added the lemon zest and the chopped herbs.

  Liz looked around the room. “I’m going to say it if no one else is. Is there anything new about the murder?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I haven’t seen anything in the paper lately. There was nothing in our little local paper and nothing in the daily paper either.”

  Shelby decided to ignore the interruption. “Now you put the spatchcocked chicken in a dish and pour the herb-and-lemon oil over it. Be sure to rub it in really well.”

  Shelby looked up and sighed. No one was listening.

  “Doreen is in my Bible study group,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “She works over at the police station. She said the poor man was drowned in a trough that was filled with water.”

  Everyone gasped.

  Shelby thought the police were keeping that information quiet. Obviously if they wanted to keep details of their cases under wraps, someone was going to have to figure out how to keep Doreen quiet.

  “That’s absolutely terrible,” Isabel said in her husky voice. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “It seems the police don’t have a clue,” Mrs. Willoughby said authoritatively.

  “They must have some idea,” Liz insisted. “Weren’t there clues at the scene?”

  Shelby thought of Seth’s hat and clamped her lips shut—not that she would say anything, but just in case something burst out of her mouth.

  “How on earth could someone drown in a trough?” Coralynne asked, her eyes wide. “That doesn’t seem possible.”

  Mrs. Willoughby looked at Coralynne as if she had just asked whether the earth was flat or round.

  “The murderer”—she said the word with great relish—“obviously held the poor man’s head underwater. There’s no other way.”

  Coralynne looked spooked, her eyes the size of saucers. “I do hope there isn’t a murderer running around loose in Lovett.”

  Shelby hastened to reassure them. “I’m sure the motive was personal and we’re all perfectly safe.”

  “I hope so. I saw a television show the other day about a serial killer who went around targeting older women with cats. It scared me half to death.”

  “But a television show is hardly real, is it?” Mrs. Willoughby said. “It’s all made up. Things like that don’t happen in real life.”

  Shelby opened her mouth but then shut it again. No need to alarm Coralynne any further.

  “But don’t you think—,” Liz said, pausing as if she was thinking. “Don’t you think that the killer would have gotten wet? It seems unlikely that the poor, hapless victim simply allowed himself to be drowned. He must have struggled.”

  “What a ghastly thought,” Mrs. Willoughby said.

  Liz shrugged. “It’s true.”

  Liz was right, Shelby thought. Surely the killer got water on him. Or her, she added to herself. She should have thought of that herself. She tried to think, but she couldn’t remember whether she’d seen anyone wearing clothing with wet spots. It just hadn’t occurred to her at the time.

  Maybe someone else would know? The band was still using the barn for practice. Perhaps she’d feel them out and see how they responded.

  Mrs. Willoughby stayed behind to help Shelby clean up the dishes. She sidled up next to Shelby, who was elbow-deep in sudsy water, and asked in a whisper, “Have you discovered anything about Isabel yet? Surely you must have found something on the computer.”

  Shelby closed her eyes and sighed. She’d thought she was going to get away without an inquisition from Mrs. Willoughby. Perhaps the best plan of attack was to try to make the little information she’d managed to glean from Dotty sound as enticing as possible.

  “Well.” Shelby paused dramatically. So dramatically that Mrs. Willoughby held her breath and looked as if her eyes were going to bug out at any second.

  Finally Shelby took pity on her. “I did find out a few
things,” she said in a conspiratorial and tantalizing voice.

  “What?” Mrs. Willoughby was practically licking her lips in anticipation.

  “Isabel is from Canada.” Shelby pronounced this as if it were terribly exotic—on a par with being from Nepal or Mozambique.

  Mrs. Willoughby’s eyes got bigger. She was falling for it.

  “And she had a very high position in a company called Glide. In fact, she was second only to the president of the company.”

  It was a bit of an exaggeration, but Mrs. Willoughby’s indrawn breath told Shelby she was impressed.

  “She’s divorced.” Mrs. Willoughby frowned and Shelby hastened to add, “But he was a terrible man and she had no choice.”

  Mrs. Willoughby’s expression softened.

  “No children,” Shelby added.

  Mrs. Willoughby nodded.

  Shelby leaned a little closer to Mrs. Willoughby. “But a hard worker and very well liked.”

  Dear Reader, take that, Mrs. Willoughby! Isabel appears to be a fine, upstanding citizen, if a bit mysterious.

  Mrs. Willoughby sniffed. “Perhaps she’s not as frivolous as her high heels and flowery perfume would suggest.”

  “And,” Shelby said, employing another dramatic pause, “she wants to be a writer.”

  “Well, I never,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “I honestly don’t know what Reverend Mather would make of that.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Shelby took the chicken home with her—there wasn’t time to bake it during the class—and stowed it in the refrigerator for dinner that night. She made herself some lunch, then headed outside to do some weeding before her herb patch was taken over with the pigweed she’d spotted earlier. It had to be removed before it flowered, or you’d be battling it forever.

  Shelby knelt between the rows of thyme and oregano and began yanking weeds. She thought her conversation with Mrs. Willoughby had gone rather well. At least until the end. Perhaps she shouldn’t have told Mrs. Willoughby about Isabel’s ambitions to become a writer. No doubt that was something she would find unseemly in a rector’s wife.

  Music was coming from the open doors of the barn. The band was playing the song she’d heard the other day—the one with the haunting melody. Once again, Jax’s and Paislee’s voices blended beautifully together. Shelby stopped to listen, her head cocked to one side. She wondered if they would be recording the piece. It seemed as if Jax had permanently stepped into Travis’s place in the band. Had he possibly murdered his brother to achieve just that?

  And what about Cody? Was he still hoping to start a relationship with Paislee? With Travis out of the way, it was possible she would turn to him.

  Shelby sighed as she sat back on her heels and surveyed her herb garden. She’d certainly uncovered enough motives for Travis’s murder, but she was no closer to uncovering the killer.

  * * *

  • • •

  Shelby was carrying a bag of dog food from her car to her house—she’d been to the Lovett Feed Store to stock up—when Brian, the band’s manager, pulled into the driveway in his Taurus.

  He waved to Shelby as he got out of his car.

  “Looks like you could use a hand with that,” he said, taking the bag of dog food from her.

  Shelby had carried similar bags of dog food into the house by herself many times before, but she wasn’t the sort of woman to turn down an offer of help. In her mind, she had nothing to prove, so why not let someone else lend a hand?

  Brian hefted the bag as if it were weightless, shifting it into the crook of his arm.

  “Thanks,” Shelby said, falling into step beside him. “The dogs seem to be out of food every time I turn around.”

  Brian smiled. “I imagine that mastiff of yours eats her fair share.”

  Brian had a nice smile, Shelby thought. It changed his face—he no longer looked so stern, which had been her first impression of him. He had attractive blue eyes as well.

  “Where would you like me to put this?” he asked when they were inside.

  Shelby led him into the mudroom. “You can put it over there, if you don’t mind.” She pointed to the far corner.

  Brian leaned the bag against the wall.

  “Thank you,” Shelby said. “Can I get you a cold drink?”

  “That would certainly hit the spot.”

  Shelby retrieved a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator and filled two glasses.

  “Thanks.” Brian took the glass, leaned against the kitchen counter, and took a sip.

  “Had you known Travis long?” Shelby said.

  “Not very, no. I met him when he was on America Can Sing. I knew right away he had talent, and I decided I wanted in.”

  “Hitching your wagon to his star, so to speak?”

  Brian laughed. “It doesn’t sound very nice when you put it that way, does it? But look at it this way. His job was to do what he did best—sing. My job was to do everything else so he didn’t have to.”

  Dear Reader, wouldn’t that be nice?

  Brian finished his iced tea but seemed in no hurry to leave.

  “How lucky for you that Jax has been able to take Travis’s place so easily,” Shelby said.

  “Jax is every bit as talented as Travis was. It’s too bad about that accident. But he worked hard in rehab, and they managed to put him back together.” Brian put his glass down on the counter. “He wanted to pick up where he and Travis had left off, but Travis wouldn’t hear of it. He’d made a solo career for himself, and he wasn’t giving it up.”

  “You mean Jax asked Travis if he could join the band as originally planned?”

  Brian pointed a finger at Shelby. “Bingo.”

  “Jax must have been furious. Especially since the accident was Travis’s fault.”

  “Furious is right. I’d say he was beyond furious.” Brian hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and crossed his ankles. “Someone had to have been pretty darn furious to do what they did—drowning Travis like that.” He shook his head. “Awful way to go.”

  “So you think Jax killed Travis?”

  Brian shook his head vigorously. “No, no, nothing like that. I didn’t mean for you to think . . .”

  Shelby thought about what Liz had said during the cooking class.

  “Whoever murdered Travis had to have gotten wet, don’t you think? I mean, I doubt Travis let them hold his head under the water without so much as an attempt to struggle.”

  Brian raised his eyebrows. “Good point. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Did you happen to notice anyone coming back into the barn with wet clothes?”

  Brian rubbed a hand over his face. “Not that I can think of. But I don’t know if I would have even noticed. We were all occupied with the performance. I doubt the person would have been dripping wet. That I would certainly have noticed.”

  Brian uncrossed his ankles and pushed away from the counter. “I should get back. We have a couple more hours of rehearsing ahead of us. We want to record that new song with Jax and Paislee before word gets around about Travis’s death and people assume we’re all washed up.” Brian laughed. “Washed up,” he repeated. “Perhaps not the most fortunate choice of words, I’m afraid.”

  14

  Dear Reader,

  They say that revenge is a dish best served cold. Of course, most people act in the heat of the moment—striking out either physically or by saying something they soon regret. I think it takes a special kind of person to be able to bide their time and strike when their enemy least expects it. I can’t help but wonder if that’s what Jessie did.

  She certainly had good enough reason to hate Travis. Of course, they also say that living well is the best revenge. She had a new life with Jax—but was that enough for her?

  “How are you feeling?” Shelby said.<
br />
  She and Kelly were sitting on Shelby’s porch in a pair of rocking chairs with cold glasses of lemonade by their sides. The air was cooler than it had been earlier and a faint breeze had picked up. It was quiet—the only sounds the vibrating buzz of insects hidden in the plants and trees and the faint rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker in the distance.

  “Meh,” Kelly said. “I’m not really nauseated, but at the same time, the smell of manure is beginning to put me off. And I’ve been craving cornflakes like you wouldn’t believe. And sleeping! I fell asleep in my truck yesterday between appointments.” She rocked her chair back and forth. “Seth says that’s normal and will go away after the first three months.”

  “And return the last month or two,” Shelby said, thinking about her own pregnancies. “Get as much rest as you can. You won’t be getting much sleep once the baby is here.”

  Kelly groaned. “So I’ve heard.” She circled the rim of her glass with her finger. Rivulets of condensation ran down the sides. “I think I’d feel a lot better if Seth wasn’t under suspicion for murder.”

  “The police don’t really suspect him, do they?”

  “I don’t know. Has Frank said anything?”

  Shelby shook her head. “Not to me.” She ran her fingers over the arm of her chair—the wood was splintering from exposure to the sun and the rain. She’d have to refinish the pair of them soon. “There are plenty of other, more likely suspects. I mean, Seth would hardly kill Travis because of something that had happened in college.”

  “I know he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t kill anyone . . . period.”

  “There are other people who have a lot more to gain from his death. Take Jax, for instance.” Shelby stopped rocking and turned to Kelly. “With Travis dead, he’s moved into the lead spot in the band. And heaven knows, he had plenty of reasons to resent his brother. Not only did Travis cause the accident that sent Jax to rehab, but when Jax got better, Travis refused to let him join the group.”

  “So Travis didn’t want to share the limelight?”