Bought the Farm Page 22

  Somebody was lying, Shelby thought as she walked into the house. Either it was Jessie or it was Paislee. She remembered that conversation she’d overheard Paislee having with Jax. Paislee had been upset that Travis had been planning on singing that new song with someone else, and now Shelby knew who that was.

  If Jessie was telling the truth, she was the one Travis had decided would replace Paislee. Was Paislee mad—not just at Jessie, but at Travis, too?

  The delicious aroma of chicken soup now filled the kitchen. Shelby checked the pot—not much longer now. Long enough for her to get cleaned up and change her clothes. She peeked at the gas flame under the pot and turned the knob slightly to lower it.

  By the time Shelby was finished making herself presentable, the soup was done. She decided she would take Bert a small container now—Bert claimed the hospital food was nasty, although Shelby suspected it was the low-fat diet the doctor had put her on that Bert didn’t like. She would save the rest of the soup to take to Bert when Bert went home, which would hopefully be very soon.

  Shelby was pouring the soup into containers when there was a knock on her front door. She frowned, wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, and headed toward the foyer.

  “Shelby,” Frank said as soon as Shelby opened the door. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Call you?”

  Frank snorted with impatience. His tall, muscular frame was dominating Shelby’s small foyer, making her feel crowded.

  “Yes. When you found those footprints on your porch. You should have called me.”

  Shelby put her hand on Frank’s arm. “Let’s go into the living room.

  “I didn’t want to bother you,” Shelby said when she was perched on the arm of the sofa and Frank was pacing the room.

  Frank turned and looked at her, his eyes unreadable . . . sad, maybe?

  “But that’s my job, Shelby. I’m a policeman. Never mind that I’d promised Bill I’d look after you and Billy and Amelia.”

  “How did you know about the footprints anyway?” Shelby asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “Matt told me.”

  “Matt told you?” Shelby repeated. “Why on earth—”

  “Because he was worried.” Frank began pacing again. “To think of you and the kids alone here at night and someone lurking around the farmhouse after two people have already been murdered—it would drive anyone mad.”

  Shelby opened her mouth, then decided not to tell Frank that Matt had spent the remainder of the night on her sofa.

  “You know you can count on me, Shelby.”

  “Yes, of course, Frank. I do. And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

  Frank gave her a strange look.

  “What does this really mean, Shelby?”

  “I . . . I don’t understand.”

  “About you and me.” Frank stopped pacing and stood in front of Shelby. “I thought you and I . . .” He ran a hand across his face.

  Shelby felt trapped. She could no longer put it off. She’d made up her mind—she had to be honest with Frank.

  “Frank, you know I care about you,” she began.

  Frank gave a bitter laugh. “You care about me. Why do I think I know where this is going?”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the arm of the chair opposite Shelby. He stretched his long legs out, and they nearly reached all the way across the rug to where Shelby was sitting. She drew in her own feet self-consciously.

  Shelby was riddled with doubt. Seeing the look on Frank’s face—so like his brother’s—she wanted to smooth away all the lines and the stress with her own hands.

  But she took a deep breath instead. “I know we both thought—”

  “That we loved each other? I still do.”

  Shelby looked down at her hands.

  Frank exhaled loudly. “Are you . . .” His voice broke as if he’d felt a sharp pain. “Are you in love with Matt?”

  “Yes,” Shelby said, suddenly realizing that she meant it.

  Frank stood up. “Okay.” He paused with his arms dangling loosely at his sides. “I’ll still look after you and the kids like I promised. You can’t take that away from me.”

  Shelby nodded.

  Frank walked to the front door, opened it, and left.

  Shelby burst into tears.

  * * *

  • • •

  Shelby dried her tears, dabbed some powder on her nose, and carried the soup out to the car. She’d put Bert’s portion in a thermos so it would be warm when she got to the hospital.

  She’d decided not to think about her conversation with Frank right now.

  Dear Reader, does that make me sound like Scarlett O’Hara?

  There would be plenty of time to think about it later.

  She had the radio on as she drove. The only time she ever sang was in the car. Alone. Once she forgot and started to belt out a song in front of the kids, and Amelia had laughed so hard she’d nearly peed herself.

  A new song came on—the disc jockey called it a golden oldie. Shelby was slightly miffed; she remembered the tune from high school, which wasn’t that long ago—at least not in her mind. She remembered slow dancing to this song with Bill at the Winter Ball. She’d worn a shimmery silver dress that she and her mother had driven two hours to find, and she’d had her hair done by a neighbor who knew her way around a blow-dryer and a can of hair spray.

  Bill’s cheek had felt so soft against hers—years later he’d admitted he’d shaved twice just to be sure. Shelby couldn’t help smiling at the memory.

  The song ended and Shelby let out a sigh. The melody, although not the words, reminded her of another song—something recent—but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Maybe she’d heard it playing in the background somewhere but had forgotten.

  Thinking about Bill had made her think about Frank, and she pushed the thought firmly from her mind. Later, she told herself.

  It was a short drive to Isabel’s small house. It was obvious from the exterior that Isabel was quite the gardener. Flowers lined the flagstone walkway to the front door, and under the windows on either side were deep beds filled with annuals and perennials artfully planted according to height and color, creating a pleasing design.

  Shelby did as she had been told by Mrs. Willoughby and didn’t knock but opened the door and walked into the tiny foyer, where there was a tiny table topped with a vase full of flowers.

  “Hello?” Shelby called out. “It’s Shelby McDonald. I’ve brought you some dinner.”

  “In here.” Isabel’s husky voice came from the room on the right.

  Shelby walked into a parlor that was small but attractive with bookshelves lining one wall, a comfortable-looking sofa and armchair, and a worn but colorful Oriental rug.

  Isabel was on the sofa, her foot, which was encased in plaster, propped on a tufted velvet ottoman. She was wearing a floral-patterned silk dressing gown.

  “I’ve brought you something for dinner,” Shelby said, holding out the container. “Homemade chicken soup.”

  “It probably won’t cure my ankle,” Isabel said dryly, “but I’m sure it will taste delicious.” She waved a hand toward the hall. “Would you mind putting it on the kitchen counter for me?”

  Shelby took the container into the kitchen, which, although small, was spic-and-span and very comfortable looking with a round table, covered in a white cloth, with another vase of garden flowers in the center.

  Isabel’s laptop was sitting on the table with a thick stack of papers next to it. Curious, Shelby glanced at the top sheet, but there were only a few words printed on it. Shelby wondered if this was a manuscript. Dotty at Glide had said Isabel wanted to be a writer. It looked as if she might have kept at it.

  “Your house is lovely,” Shelby said when she returned to the parlor.
r />   “Thank you.” Isabel smiled.

  Shelby gestured toward the bookshelves. “I take it you like to read.”

  Isabel gave a small smile. “I have to fill my evenings.”

  Shelby nodded and scanned the titles lined up on the shelves. It was an eclectic collection, but right at eye level was a row of ten Damian Devine novels, their dust jackets shiny and crisp.

  “You’re a fan?” Shelby said, pointing to them.

  Isabel looked slightly flustered. “A fan?”

  “Of Damian Devine. I see you have a number of his books.”

  “Oh.” Isabel gave a dismissive wave. “I’ve read them. Have you?”

  Shelby shook her head. “Matt from the general store was reading one the other day. He said he couldn’t put it down. Do you mind if I borrow one?”

  “Please, go right ahead.”

  “Which one do you suggest?”

  Isabel pursed her lips. “Start with the first one—The Decoy.”

  Shelby ran a finger along the spines of the books until she came to the one Isabel had recommended. She pulled it from the shelf and tucked it under her arm.

  “Thank you.”

  “No,” Isabel said, “thank you. I’m sure I’ll enjoy the soup.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Shelby pulled into the parking garage at the hospital twenty minutes later. She hated parking garages—either she forgot what level her car was on, or she went the wrong way when she was ready to leave and ended up having to go all the way to the top level in order to circle back down again to reach the exit.

  She made a mental note that she was on level five as she walked toward the hospital. Hopefully she would remember. She tried to think of something to peg the number to but failed.

  Hospitals had certainly changed since she’d visited her grandmother in one when she was a little girl. She’d been frightened of what horrors she might see and had been relieved when they had finally reached her grandmother’s room.

  Now there was none of that sickly antiseptic smell and instead of drab industrial beige paint, bright paintings lined the walls. Bert had a single room complete with a flat-screen television, wallpaper in a soothing blue-and-green pattern, and blue curtains.

  The requisite hospital equipment was still there, though—the oxygen, the IV stand, the box of disposable gloves for the doctors and nurses.

  Bert was propped up in bed, the remote control in her hand and Days of Our Lives on the television.

  “I’ve brought you some soup,” Shelby called out as she walked into the room.

  Bert pressed a button and the television dimmed and went off. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” She smiled.

  “It’s chicken soup,” Shelby said, putting the thermos down on Bert’s bedside table. She fished in her purse. “I’ve even brought you a spoon and a plastic bowl.” Shelby retrieved them from her purse and handed them to Bert. “The soup should still be warm, too.”

  Bert grabbed the bedside table and pulled until the top swung over the bed. She fumbled with the lid of the thermos.

  “Let me.” Shelby twisted it off and placed it to one side.

  Bert poured some soup into the bowl, dipped in her spoon, and scooped up a mouthful.

  “Delicious,” she declared with a sigh. “I’ve so missed having something decent to eat.”

  Shelby pointed at the bowl. “Hopefully I won’t get in trouble with your doctor for bringing you that.”

  “Bringing you what?” said Seth as he strode into the room.

  He had a stethoscope draped around his neck and three different pens sticking out of the breast pocket of his starched white coat.

  “Nothing,” Bert said, pushing the bowl of soup to one side.

  “How’s my favorite girl today?” Seth said as he unwound the stethoscope from his neck.

  Bert chuckled. “You can’t fool me. I know who your favorite girl really is.” She peered at Seth. “How is she doing, by the way?”

  Seth sighed and perched on the edge of Bert’s bed.

  “She’s so worried about this murder. I’ve told her that the police interviewing me doesn’t necessarily mean anything. They have to question everyone.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid this might affect the baby.”

  Bert snorted. “You should know better than that after all those years in medical school.” She wagged her finger at him. “Babies have been born amidst all sorts of turmoil and have come out just fine. Make sure she gets plenty of rest and has plenty of good food to eat.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” Seth said meekly. “Now, let’s see how you’re doing.”

  Seth checked Bert’s heart and pulse and her incision, which was healing nicely. He folded up his stethoscope and wound it around his neck.

  “Everything looks good. I’ll get the discharge papers drawn up. No reason you can’t go home if you promise to take it easy for a few more days.”

  “That’s good news,” Shelby said.

  “You can say that again,” Bert said as she began to swing her feet over the edge of the bed.

  “Whoa.” Seth put up a hand. “Take it easy. It can take a few hours to get the discharge instructions ready. You might as well lean back and get as much rest as you can in the meantime.”

  Bert frowned, but she pulled the covers back up to her chest.

  Seth leaned over and squeezed Bert’s shoulder. “Take care of yourself. I’ll have my office manager call you to arrange a follow-up appointment in a week.”

  Seth had no sooner left the room than Bert began to question Shelby. “What news is there about the murder?” Her eyes glowed eagerly. “I feel like I’ve been cooped up here forever.”

  “Let’s see.” Shelby went through what she knew in her mind. “It turns out Travis was cheating on Paislee in more ways than one.”

  “Oh?”

  “Not only did he take up with Jessie again, but he’d apparently been planning on recording a new song he wrote with Jessie instead of with Paislee.”

  “That must have made Paislee mad.”

  “I certainly think it did. The whole thing can’t have made Jax too happy either.” Shelby walked over to the window and glanced out. Bert had a marvelous view of the parking garage, which loomed like a giant concrete monster in the distance.

  “We can’t forget about Cody,” Bert said, moving her legs back and forth under the covers. Shelby could tell they weren’t going to be able to keep her in bed much longer. “What motive would any of them have had for killing him?”

  “My best guess is that Cody knew something. Maybe he saw the killer after they’d murdered Travis and noticed that the person was wet—although at the time they probably didn’t realize the relevance of it.”

  “What about some of those others in the band? The older guy—I think he’s the drummer.”

  “Brian?” Shelby shrugged. “I don’t know. So far I haven’t uncovered any reason he might have had for killing Travis. Although Paislee did admit that Travis wasn’t easy to work with. Maybe Brian thought the same thing.”

  “Can you find out more about this Brian? Where he comes from—what he’s like?”

  “I suppose. Paislee seems willing enough to talk about her colleagues.”

  Bert was squinting in the sun coming in the window, and Shelby adjusted the blinds.

  “You’ve sure got yourself quite a puzzle there,” Bert said, leaning back against the pillows.

  Her face was pale and Shelby thought she was beginning to look tired. She picked up her purse.

  “Not me. It’s up to the Lovett police to find the culprit. For all I know, they’re about to arrest someone this very minute.”

  21

  Dear Reader,

  You never know where information is going to come from in a murder inquiry. The police interview people, of
course, but many times they reveal more in ordinary conversations with friends or neighbors—things they didn’t think were important or things they didn’t think of at the time. I know I should leave the investigating to Frank and his team, but sometimes I’m able to pick up nuggets of information that can be valuable in solving a case.

  The phone was ringing as Shelby walked into the house. She threw her purse on a chair and managed to grab the receiver right before the answering machine picked up.

  Shelby listened to the caller in alarm—it was Billy’s Cub Scout leader and it seemed Billy had developed a fever and had broken out in a red rash on his back and abdomen. Shelby would have to pick him up.

  She sighed, grabbed her purse, and fished out her keys again. She glanced out the kitchen window—the rest of her chores would have to wait.

  Shelby pulled up to Lovett Elementary School—a long, low building with children’s colorful artwork hanging in all the windows. The middle school was up a slight hill and the high school just beyond that—creating a large compound where the students moved from one building to the next as they progressed.

  Shelby pulled into the circular drive and parked at the curb. She was trying to control her anxiety—the leader hadn’t sounded as if Billy was deathly ill. Nonetheless, Shelby’s heart was beating hard as she walked at a fast trot down the long corridor to the main office. The leader had said that the school secretary was on duty during the jamboree, and she would be keeping an eye on Billy until Shelby got there.

  Billy was slumped in a chair in the corner, his face red from the fever.

  “Can I help you?” The secretary swiveled her chair away from her computer screen and toward Shelby. “Oh, Ms. McDonald, it’s you.” She leaned her elbows on the desk. “I loved your blog the other day about making herb tinctures. I remember my grandmother doing that.”

  “Thank you.” Shelby gave her a weak smile and gestured toward Billy. “I’ve come to collect my son. I understand he has a fever—”

  “And a rash. You might want to get him in to see a doctor as soon as possible in case it’s something contagious.”