Bought the Farm Read online

  “It seems that way. And Jax is good. He might even be better than Travis.” Shelby began rocking again. “Then there’s Cody. Travis treated him like a gofer and apparently was about to fire him.”

  “That sounds like a good reason to get mad.” Kelly leaned her head back against the chair. “What about the girl?”

  “Paislee? I don’t think she had anything against Travis, but Jessie certainly did.”

  “Jessie?”

  “She’s the one who is married to Jax, and she’s helping me out here on the farm. She’s nice enough, although a little shy. She’s the girl Travis was engaged to and left standing at the altar.”

  Kelly stopped rocking. “I don’t know what I would have done if Seth had done that to me.”

  “Seth would never do something like that.”

  “You’re right,” Kelly said. “And he would never murder someone either.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Shelby couldn’t help thinking about what Liz had said during Shelby’s cooking class—that the killer must have gotten wet, because surely Travis had struggled. Maybe she would ask the band if they’d noticed anything. It was possible they had. And if one of them was guilty, he might react to the question and perhaps she would pick up on it.

  Shelby headed across the field with Jenkins and Bitsy following in back of her with occasional detours to check out an intriguing smell or a curious noise.

  She heard someone call her name and looked over to see Jake, her neighbor, mending the fence between the pasture he rented from her and her field. He was wearing a T-shirt that did nothing to conceal his muscular chest and upper arms. Shelby had to admit, he was a very attractive piece of eye candy.

  Shelby waved and continued on. She stopped for a moment and listened. There was no music coming from the barn. All she could hear was the rustling of the leaves on the apple tree as the breeze picked up and the sound of Bitsy panting, her large pink tongue hanging out the side of her mouth.

  Perhaps she’d missed them. It was almost three o’clock—the time she’d asked them to leave.

  Shelby peered around the edge of the open barn door. At first she saw no one, just the band’s equipment—microphones, amplifiers, and yards of tangled wires. They must have already left.

  She was about to turn away when she heard a noise coming from behind one of the pieces of equipment. A moment later, a head appeared, popping up over the top of the amplifier. It was Cody.

  He looked almost as startled as Shelby.

  Then he smiled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.” He pointed to the amplifier. “I was fixing the connection—it was loose. I’ll be out of here in a minute.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “You’re fine. I’m almost done. Everyone has gone to the Dixie for a hamburger and some beers. I wanted to get this taken care of before I did anything else.”

  Travis might be dead, Shelby thought, but it seemed as if Cody was still being used as the group’s general dogsbody.

  Cody began winding up one of the electrical cords that lay in a heap on the floor. “By the way,” he said, “has there been any news about the police investigation? We’ve had to cancel a bunch of concert dates already. I gather that that detective is a relative of yours.”

  “My brother-in-law,” Shelby said. “But I haven’t heard anything from him recently.” She hesitated. “One thing did occur to me—and this is what I came out here to ask you—the person who killed Travis must have gotten wet when he held Travis’s head underwater. Travis would have struggled. . . .”

  Cody shivered. “That’s a horrible thought.”

  “Did you happen to notice anyone whose shirt or pants were wet? You might not have thought anything of it at the time.”

  Shelby realized she could be putting herself in danger with this question if Cody was the person who’d murdered Travis, but Jake was outside, close by, and would surely hear her if she yelled.

  Cody gave Shelby a startled look and became very still.

  “No,” he said a little too loudly. “I didn’t. I think you’re barking up the wrong tree if you think one of us did it.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply . . . I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”

  Cody gave a strained smile. “No offense taken.” He patted the amplifier he was sitting on. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d better finish up so I can get out of here. There’s a tall, cold glass of beer at the Dixie calling my name.”

  “Sure. Enjoy your beer.”

  As she was walking toward the door, she turned around briefly. Cody was staring at her with a very odd expression on his face.

  * * *

  • • •

  She had certainly picked up a strange vibe from Cody, Shelby thought, as she chopped an onion for the chicken dish she was making for dinner—especially when she’d mentioned the fact that the person who’d killed Travis must have gotten water on their clothes.

  She had the feeling Cody knew something, and it was something he wasn’t about to share with her. Or was it that he was the guilty party? Shelby had no idea, but the thought that she might have been out in the barn alone with a killer made her shiver.

  She put the chopped onion into a pan where olive oil was heating over a low flame, and added some minced garlic. When the onions were softened and the garlic was beginning to brown, she added some chicken pieces. Once the skin was nice and golden brown, she added the tomatoes she’d canned last summer, some orzo, and some chicken broth. She lowered the heat, put a lid on the pan, and let it simmer.

  While it cooked, she would work on her blog, although her inclination was to plop into a chair in the living room, put her feet up on an ottoman, and leaf through her pile of seed catalogs.

  Shelby sat at the kitchen table and powered up her computer. First she would scroll through the comments on her previous post. She always tried to respond to any questions readers might have had, as well as to engage as many of them as possible in a friendly dialogue. She found it helped to build her audience and bring people back to her blog again and again.

  Shelby smiled—some of her regulars had left comments. There were some people she could always count on to read her latest entry, and she’d come to think of them as friends.

  She read the second-to-last comment and then went on to the final one. As she read, her hands slowly tightened on the hem of her shirt, and her heart rate sped up until her heart felt as if it were going to jump out of her chest.

  It wasn’t actually a comment at all—it was a threat. Shelby read it again to make sure she hadn’t misunderstood it, but there was no misunderstanding the menace in the commenter’s tone.

  It read: Why don’t you stick to cooking and gardening and stop poking your nose into other people’s business? If you don’t, someone else is bound to get hurt, and that someone will be you.

  15

  Dear Reader,

  Have you ever noticed how in British novels and movies when someone has had a bad shock, they always give them a cup of tea? I used to think that was simply a tradition unique to the British, but it turns out that offering someone tea under those circumstances actually has merit.

  The warm beverage helps to get the blood flowing and combats the shaking and shivering that often accompany a bad shock. Adding plenty of sugar is a good idea, too—the sweet will help keep the person’s blood sugar levels up until they are feeling normal again.

  The kitchen was warm with the stove on and the last rays of sun coming in the kitchen window, yet Shelby felt chilled to the bone. She sat and stared at the message, half-expecting that it was a figment of her imagination and that at any minute it would disappear.

  She was surprised to discover her hands were shaking. She had no idea whether this person was some random lunatic who had found her blog
by accident or someone who knew about Travis’s murder and the investigation.

  She ought to tell Frank about it. She couldn’t take the chance that the threat was real and that the person might try to harm her or her children.

  Shelby picked up the telephone, then hesitated. Frank was busy and worked long, hard hours. Should she really be bothering him with something that might turn out to be a big nothing in the end?

  Yes, Shelby decided. Frank would want to know.

  She dialed Frank’s cell phone. He picked up on the second ring.

  “Shelby—is something wrong?”

  Shelby heard indistinct scratchy voices coming over Frank’s radio and a horn blaring. He must be in his car. She explained about the comment on her blog.

  “I’m turning around. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Shelby felt conflicted. Was she wasting Frank’s time?

  Steam was coming out from under the lid of the pot on the stove. Shelby lifted it and gave the contents a stir. The orzo had absorbed nearly all the liquid from the chicken broth and the tomatoes. A few more minutes and it would be done. She replaced the lid and turned down the flame to a bare simmer.

  She heard Frank’s car coming down the driveway and her feeling of relief surprised her. She looked out the window, waiting for his truck to appear, then hastily turned away and began to set the table so he wouldn’t catch her watching for him.

  She debated setting a place for Frank—the kids would love it if he stayed for dinner—but she didn’t want him to take the invitation the wrong way or to feel obligated. She stood by the table, the extra plate in hand, and nearly dropped it when Frank rapped on the back door.

  “Come in.” Shelby rushed over to the counter, put the plate in the sink, and pretended to be washing it.

  “Sure smells good in here,” Frank said as he walked into the kitchen. He pulled off his baseball cap and ran a hand through his hair. “Somehow those microwave dinners I make never smell quite this good.”

  “Why don’t you stay for dinner?” Shelby blurted out, and instantly regretted it.

  “You sure it’s no trouble?”

  “No trouble at all,” Shelby said. “There’s plenty.”

  Frank seemed to take up all the space in her tiny kitchen. And all the air, too, because she was having trouble breathing.

  Frank’s expression turned serious. “Tell me about this threat you received.”

  “It wasn’t actually a threat,” Shelby said, moving her laptop to the counter. “It was a comment on one of my blog posts.”

  Shelby turned the computer so Frank could read the entry.

  He exhaled loudly and pointed at the screen. “If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck . . . well, you know the rest. This person—whoever they are—is very clearly threatening you.” Frank turned toward Shelby. “The question is why. Why do they think you’re poking your nose in other people’s business, as they put it?”

  “I don’t know.” Shelby forced herself to meet Frank’s eyes. “All I’ve done is talk to people. It’s not my fault if they tell me things.”

  “What sorts of things?”

  Shelby went to the stove to buy time to think. She lifted the lid on the chicken and orzo. Fragrant steam filled the air.

  Frank put his hands on Shelby’s shoulders and spun her around to face him.

  “What sorts of things have people told you?”

  “Nothing, really.”

  “It can’t be nothing. You’ve worried someone enough for them to threaten you. There has to be something.”

  “I did happen to mention that someone must have gotten wet while they held Travis’s head underwater.”

  “Who did you say that to?”

  “Brian—he’s the band’s manager. And Cody.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d feel better if you didn’t have these people around, at least until we nail down the killer. Can’t you tell them to leave?”

  “I would, but they’re paying me, and I need the money. Besides, Peter—he’s one of the guitarists—is Kelly’s cousin. So it’s not like they’re complete strangers.”

  “Look . . . about the money. I’ve told you I can help you out if need be.”

  Shelby felt her face turn to stone. She had no intention of letting herself become a charity case.

  “Thank you,” she said through stiff lips. “But we’re doing fine.”

  Frank grunted. “Please don’t put yourself in a position where you’re alone with any of these people, okay? Don’t let them in the house or around the kids.”

  “I’ve told them they have to leave before the children get out of school.”

  “Good. That’s something at least.”

  Shelby thought about being alone in the barn with Cody and shivered.

  “What’s the matter?” Frank asked. “Did something happen?”

  “No, no. I just got a chill for some reason.”

  Frank didn’t look convinced and Shelby was relieved when Billy appeared in the door.

  “Uncle Frank, Uncle Frank,” he cried, dashing over to Frank and hopping on one foot and then the other in front of him. “Will you play ball with me? Please?”

  Frank ruffled Billy’s blond hair, making his cowlick even more pronounced. “I think it’s time for dinner, sport.”

  “Awwwww,” Billy whined.

  “Go wash your hands,” Shelby said, giving him a push toward the powder room.

  “Not fair,” Billy muttered under his breath.

  Soon they were all seated at the table, passing the platter of chicken and orzo along with a bowl of fresh buttered green beans.

  Shelby looked around the table. With Frank there, it felt complete. Had she made the right decision in putting Frank off? Suddenly it didn’t feel like it.

  * * *

  • • •

  Shelby squirted a hefty dose of dishwashing liquid into the sink, then turned on the hot-water tap. When the sink was filled with bubbles, she slid the dirty frying pan into the foam and began to scrub it.

  Shelby might have been standing in her own kitchen, but her mind was elsewhere. She kept going back to that scene with Cody in the barn. What a strange look he’d given her and when she’d commented on how the killer must have gotten wet—he’d looked positively startled.

  If he was the killer, then perhaps it had never occurred to him that something as simple as some splashes of water on his pants or shirt might have given him away. Whoever killed Travis was lucky the day was warm enough for their clothes to dry almost immediately.

  Shelby finished washing the few dishes that wouldn’t fit in the dishwasher, dried them, and put them away.

  She sat down at the table again and powered up her laptop. She was half-afraid to look at her blog for fear of finding another threatening comment, but she breathed a sigh of relief when there were none.

  She did have a new e-mail, though. The e-mail address wasn’t familiar to her, and Shelby was fearful that it would be another threat. She opened it reluctantly.

  The expression knock me over with a feather was familiar to her, but she’d never really experienced it before. Until now. She read the e-mail a second time to make sure her eyes weren’t deceiving her or her brain wasn’t making up things that weren’t there.

  Apparently Lucia’s, the fancy restaurant Matt had taken her to in Allenvale, had recently hired a new chef. The chef—Michelle Martini—was a huge proponent of using locally sourced, fresh ingredients in her dishes.

  Shelby had read enough issues of Bon Appétit magazine to know that the locavore movement—eating locally grown or produced food—was a fast-growing trend. People were acting as if the concept had recently been invented when Shelby and her family, along with all the farmers she knew, had been eating that way most of t
heir lives. Her kitchen garden provided vegetables and fresh herbs in the warmer months and home-canned produce in the winter. Their milk, and the cheese she subsequently made from it, came from Jake’s dairy farm next door, and their eggs from the chickens scratching around out by their barn. Even their meat came from nearby sources.

  Apparently the local news was anxious to cover the story of the newly hired chef, and some public relations person had dreamed up the idea of having Michelle go to a local farm, pick produce and other items, and do a cooking demonstration on the spot.

  And they were asking if they could film at Love Blossom Farm.

  And they were willing to pay for the privilege.

  Shelby blinked a few times, but the e-mail didn’t disappear.

  Wait till she told Amelia about this! Now she couldn’t possibly say that nothing exciting ever happened on the farm.

  * * *

  • • •

  Shelby woke to the sound of rain pinging against her window. The temperature had dropped, and the floor was cold under her bare feet. She pulled on a pair of jeans and rummaged in her drawer for a clean sweatshirt.

  She’d decided to wait to tell Amelia about the news segment being filmed at the farm until she had more details and it was signed, sealed, and delivered. No sense in disappointing her daughter if things didn’t work out.

  Shelby realized she herself would be equally disappointed if things fell through—and it wasn’t only because of the money. While she loved working Love Blossom Farm and her life in general, a little something out of the ordinary wouldn’t be amiss.

  Billy and Amelia had just caught the school bus when Shelby noticed the band’s van coming down the driveway. The rain had turned the dust to spatters of mud, and the windshield wiper on the passenger side was trailing a piece of shredded rubber. It zoomed past the farmhouse and headed down the dirt path to the barn.

  Earlier in the morning, Jake had dropped off several bottles of milk, and Shelby was bringing them into the kitchen two by two when she saw someone running from the barn toward the farmhouse.