No Farm, No Foul (Farmer's Daughter Mystery) Read online

  Shelby poured the milk into a large pot she had ready on the stove.

  “Is that whole milk?” Liz frowned. “Can you use low-fat?” She patted her flat stomach absentmindedly.

  “You can use two percent,” Shelby said, turning the burner under the pot to a medium flame. “But I wouldn’t try it with skim or nonfat. Your curds and whey wouldn’t separate.”

  “Makes me think of Little Miss Muffet.” Mrs. Willoughby laughed.

  “As soon as your milk reaches two hundred degrees,” Shelby said, inserting an instant-read thermometer into the pot, “it’s time to remove it from the heat.” She turned the burner off under the pot. “Now we are going to add one-third of a cup of lemon juice or, if you prefer, distilled white vinegar.” She poured in the lemon juice she had squeezed in advance.

  Valerie peered into the pot. She pointed at the mixture. “It’s beginning to form curds.”

  Mrs. Willoughby jostled into position so she, too, could have a look. “What’s that yellowish liquid?”

  “That’s the whey,” Shelby said. “Don’t throw it out. It’s so healthy. You can use it in baking instead of water when you’re making bread or pizza dough.” Shelby stuck a spoon into the pot and poked around. “It takes about ten minutes for the curds to form.” She peered into the pot again. “This looks good.”

  “What do we do now?” Mrs. Willoughby asked, casting a glance at the coffee cake sitting out on a cake stand on the counter.

  “Now we drain the mixture.” Shelby set a strainer in a large bowl and lined it with the piece of cheesecloth she had cut earlier. She spooned the larger curds into the strainer first, then upended the pot and poured out the rest. “This will need to drain for anywhere from ten minutes to an hour depending on how wet or dry you want your ricotta.”

  Liz rubbed at an invisible spot on her white linen blouse. “So we wait for an hour?” She frowned and looked at her watch.

  She was probably late for some committee meeting, Shelby thought, but she had been clear when Liz signed up that the class would take approximately an hour and a half.

  “How about we have some tea and coffee cake?” Shelby said, gesturing to the kitchen table with its embroidered cloth and fancy dishes.

  Mrs. Willoughby was the first to take a seat. She patted the chairs on either side of her, and Karen and Valerie slipped into them.

  “Do you need help pouring, dear?” Mrs. Willoughby half rose from her seat.

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” Shelby said. She knew Mrs. Willoughby was one of those people who liked to have a task to do.

  She bustled around filling the delicate china teacups with enough pomp and circumstance to be worthy of an English royal.

  Liz and Hope shook their heads when Shelby offered up the sour cream coffee cake.

  “Have to count my calories,” Liz said with a stiff smile. “Do you have any artificial sweetener?”

  Shelby pushed a bowl filled with blue and yellow packets in Liz’s direction.

  Mrs. Willoughby looked as if the very concept of calorie counting was completely alien to her and managed to snare the piece of cake that was infinitesimally larger than its mates.

  “So, what about the elephant in the room?” Liz asked, slyly looking around the table.

  Shelby stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth.

  “Oh, come on,” Liz chided, “we’re all just dying to talk about the murder, aren’t we?” She looked around the table again, finally glancing at her friend, who looked suitably enthusiastic.

  Mrs. Willoughby pointed her fork at Liz. “I think it was that hussy who comes to eleven o’clock Sunday Mass smelling like she poured an entire bottle of scent over herself.”

  “Isabel Stone?” Valerie asked. “She’s always wearing such inappropriate shoes—those stilettoes make such a racket when she walks down the aisle for Communion.”

  “Yes, that’s the one,” Mrs. Willoughby said, helping herself to a second piece of coffee cake. “Have you seen the play she’s been making for our rector? Disgusting, if you ask me.”

  “I’m sure we can rest assured that Reverend Mather is above all that,” Shelby said.

  Valerie sniffed loudly. “With that wife of his, maybe not. Maybe he was tempted,” she said. “Not that I want to speak ill of the dead.”

  Dear Reader, everyone is clearly dying to do just that.

  “Prudence always seemed so nice to me,” Shelby said, feeling the need to rise to the poor woman’s defense.

  “There was more to Prudence than met the eye,” Mrs. Willoughby said. “She picked at her poor husband something fierce.”

  “But in the nicest possible way, of course,” Valerie added with a snicker.

  “That’s true. But he was still henpecked, no matter how nicely she pretended to do it,” Mrs. Willoughby said, eyeing the remaining cake on the stand. “And who knows what went on behind closed doors?” She adjusted the navy patent leather belt around her broad waist. “Men don’t like being treated like they’re slightly dim-witted children.”

  Shelby pushed the cake stand toward Mrs. Willoughby. “Please, help yourself.”

  “I don’t mind if I do,” Mrs. Willoughby said, brushing some crumbs from her top.

  “That’s true,” Liz said. “They like to think they’re king of the jungle.”

  “Or at least king of their own little household kingdom,” Karen added. “So maybe Prudence did drive him into the arms of another woman?”

  “That other woman being Isabel Stone.” Mrs. Willoughby wet a finger and picked up the crumbs on her plate.

  “I still can’t see someone like Isabel Stone stooping to murder. Who is she, anyway?” Liz asked.

  Mrs. Willoughby finished chewing her piece of cake. “She’s divorced. No children.” As church secretary Mrs. Willoughby was privy to a number of details about the parishioners.

  “Does she work?” Liz arched a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

  “Not that I know of.” By now, Mrs. Willoughby had finished her third piece of cake. “She’s on the Garden Committee at St. Andrews, and I often see her working in the garden during the afternoon. She has quite a way with the roses. The groundskeeper was going to dig up this one bush that appeared to be quite dead, but Isabel brought it back to life again.”

  “If she’s doing all that, she obviously couldn’t have a full-time job. Unless she works nights.” Liz raised her eyebrows suggestively.

  “She probably got a good settlement in a divorce.” Karen wiped her lips with her napkin.

  “Maybe not,” Liz’s friend Hope spoke up. “And that’s why she wants to snare a new husband—for the money.”

  Mrs. Willoughby gave a loud laugh. “Then she’s barking up the wrong tree. Church rectors barely make a living wage.”

  “But maybe Isabel Stone isn’t our murderer. Maybe Daniel Mather decided he’d had enough of Prudence.” Liz turned toward Shelby. “Could he have snuck into the mudroom when no one was looking?”

  Shelby thought back to the previous afternoon. “It’s possible. There were still so many people milling about. No one was really paying much attention to what everyone else was doing.”

  “It’s shocking, I can tell you that.” Mrs. Willoughby puffed out her chest.

  Shelby thought this was the perfect time to bring this conversation to a close. “Let’s check on the cheese, shall we?”

  The women looked disappointed, but they obediently trooped over to the counter and peered into the strainer Shelby had poured the curds into.

  “Look at that.” Mrs. Willoughby pointed toward the strainer. “It’s turned to cheese.”

  Shelby smiled. “I told you it was easy.”

  “Seems like an awful lot of work to me when I can go to the Lovett General Store and pick up a container there,” Valerie said.

  “That’s perfectly true,
” Shelby said through gritted teeth. “But there is a certain satisfaction in knowing you made it yourself.”

  “I do read your blog every day,” Valerie said. “But I never try the recipes. I guess you could call me an armchair cook.” And she laughed.

  6

  Dear Reader,

  Today was my cheese-making class—we made fresh ricotta. There is such a difference between the fresh and the store-bought kind. . . .

  Shelby paused with her fingers hovering over the keys—no matter what Valerie Young says, she thought to herself.

  I’ve posted the recipe below for those of you who would like to try it. I’ll be making a pasta casserole tonight with mine, but you can use it in lasagna, ravioli, cannoli, and other delicious dishes.

  The ladies all wanted to gossip about the . . . murder. I can hardly say the word. It’s so at odds with the peacefulness of Love Blossom Farm!

  Billy is off for his Cub Scout meeting and Amelia has gone to visit her friend Kaylee—they’ve been friends since nursery school. I have to get out and do some work in the garden. I don’t want the tender lettuces I’ve planted to be choked out by weeds. And some should be ready for picking and delivery to the Lovett General Store.

  Shelby said good-bye to the ladies from her cheese-making class and watched as they slowly drifted down the path to their cars, their chattering voices rising and falling on the warm air. She closed the front door and headed back to the kitchen.

  She spooned her fresh ricotta into a container for her casserole for dinner that night and cleaned up the rest of the kitchen. She was hanging up the dish towel when Billy appeared, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. He was dressed in his Cub Scout uniform and had managed to slick down his cowlick with water. Shelby had to resist the urge to grab him and give him a huge hug and big kiss. She knew that would not go over well—talk about the understatement of the year.

  “Hungry?”

  “Yeah, can I have some cereal? Zack’s mom will be here soon, so I’d better hurry.”

  Shelby got the cereal box out of the cupboard along with a spoon, bowl, and milk from the fridge.

  Billy downed his cornflakes and put the bowl on the counter just as a horn blared from the driveway.

  “Gotta go, Mom.” He aimed a kiss in Shelby’s direction and ran out the front door.

  Shelby watched him climb into Zack’s mother’s station wagon. His father would be surprised to see how big he’d become, Shelby thought, and he would be proud, too.

  Shelby headed back to the kitchen and was about to step into the mudroom when the black-and-yellow police tape brought her up short. The room was still off-limits. Shelby bit her lip. Her favorite trowel was in there—she could see it sitting out on the wooden table. She would have to make do with the old one she’d tossed in the barn.

  Fortunately she kept most of her gardening equipment in the barn, where it was closer at hand.

  Patches rubbed against Shelby’s legs as she gathered her things together. Patches had been part of the family for so long that no one could remember exactly how old she was. She spent the spring, summer, and fall on critter patrol in the barn but lately, as she’d gotten older, Shelby was able to entice her into the house during the colder months, where she gloried in the warmth of the fire and curled up nose to tail on the throw on the sofa.

  The sun was high in the sky and felt good against Shelby’s back as she knelt between the rows of lettuce. The ground was still cool, though, and the breeze was fresh. Patches strolled over as Shelby worked, and lolled in a sunbeam, leisurely grooming a front paw.

  Shelby was yanking out a large clump of weeds when Bitsy and Jenkins bounded over. Jenkins had bits of hay caught in his white beard, and his paws were muddy. He grabbed the weeds from Shelby’s hand and shook them vigorously—as he would a mouse—sending clods of dirt flying into Shelby’s face.

  She laughed and brushed the bits of earth from her cheeks and forehead. Seemingly tired of his game, Jenkins bounded off again with Bitsy, who was not far behind.

  Shelby was nearing the end of the row when a dark, human-shaped shadow blotted out the rays of the sun. She turned around to see Frank standing behind her. For a crazy moment, with the sun in her eyes, she thought it was her husband, Bill, and she felt a wave of longing rush over her. She shook it off.

  “I didn’t hear you coming.” Shelby always lost track of the world when she weeded. There was something relaxing about the activity and about having your hands in the warm earth.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Shelby got to her feet and stripped off her gardening gloves. She must look a sight—dirt on her face and her hair tangled even more than usual by the breeze.

  “I need to ask you a few questions.” Frank rocked back on his heels. Like the day before, he was wearing jeans, a checked shirt, and work boots.

  “Why don’t we go inside? That sun is starting to get hot.”

  Frank followed Shelby back to the house. He stopped at the door and looked down at his feet. “I don’t want to drag any dirt inside. That always gives Nancy fits.”

  Shelby smiled. Nancy was extremely good-natured, and Shelby doubted that she gave Frank any grief at all. “We can sit on the porch if you like. There’s usually a cool breeze out there.”

  “Fine.”

  Shelby led the way around to the front of the house and left Frank sitting in one of the rocking chairs while she went inside to get them something cold to drink. She couldn’t imagine what kinds of questions Frank had for her—she’d told him everything she knew the day before. But she supposed it was routine, and Frank had to follow protocol.

  Shelby pulled a pitcher of lemonade out of the fridge, grabbed a couple of glasses, and headed back to the porch. She had just poured Frank a glass when Jenkins and Bitsy appeared around the corner of the house.

  Bitsy galloped up the steps toward Frank. She went over to him and laid her head on his knee, her drool leaving a wet patch on his jeans. He scratched behind her ears absentmindedly. Jenkins was too busy snapping unsuccessfully at a fly to pay any attention to their visitor.

  Bitsy finally moved to the corner of the porch and Frank leaned back, stretching out his long legs.

  “What is it that you wanted to ask me?” Shelby said, handing him a glass of lemonade.

  “I had a few questions about your potluck yesterday.” Frank began unconsciously rocking the chair.

  Shelby smiled to herself. Rocking chairs always put people at ease. Whenever she was upset as a child, her grandmother Jenny would tell her to go sit in the rocking chair and rock her troubles away.

  Frank took a long pull on his drink and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Did people pay for the potluck at the door?”

  Shelby shook her head. “No. We sold tickets in advance at the church. That way there would be no need to worry about having change.”

  “So no one paid when they got here? Maybe they decided to come at the last minute and hadn’t purchased a ticket?”

  “There were a handful of people who did that, but not very many.”

  “That’s curious.”

  Shelby raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “We found a thousand dollars in Prudence Mather’s purse.”

  Shelby gasped. “What would Prudence have been doing with that amount of money in her handbag?”

  “I don’t know. I was hoping you would be able to tell us.”

  Shelby went back to her weeding after Frank left—his pickup kicking up dust as he backed down the long driveway leading to Love Blossom Farm—but the calm she usually felt out in the fields eluded her this time.

  She’d been shocked when Frank told her about the money in Prudence’s purse. She couldn’t imagine what on earth Prudence had been planning to do with it—it certainly wasn’t the cash from the handful of tickets they’d
sold at the last minute at the potluck. She wondered if robbery had been a motive in Prudence’s killing, although that didn’t make sense because surely the killer would have taken the cash.

  Obviously they didn’t know as much about Prudence as they thought if the women in her cheese-making class were to be believed. Shelby had always regarded Prudence as something of an open book—a fidgety old fussbudget to be sure, but essentially harmless. The others seemed to think that Prudence was far more sinister than that—that Daniel was so unhappy he would consider adultery or murder . . . or both!

  Shelby finished weeding another row—this time a crop of tender red-leaf lettuce. She glanced at the last few plants and frowned. Some of the leaves were turning yellow. There were a number of possible causes, but one of the most common was powdery mildew. She lifted up one of the leaves and sure enough, there was a white, powdery fungal growth on the top and underside of the older leaves. Powdery mildew thrived in warm, dry conditions—exactly what they’d been having lately. Shelby bit her lip. She couldn’t afford for this to spread.

  Fortunately there were a number of organic solutions to the problem, including mixtures made with milk, garlic, baking soda, or canola oil. It sounded like a witch’s brew, but it worked. The last resort was sulfur or copper, but only after all other measures failed to stop the spread of the fungus. Shelby made a mental note to treat all the lettuce with a solution of canola oil, water, and a dash of liquid dishwashing detergent—her go-to blend for dealing with this problem.

  By now the sun was straight overhead, and Shelby could feel beads of perspiration forming on the back of her neck and running down her back. Her stomach was rumbling, too—time for lunch and a cold drink. It had been hours since breakfast.

  She had just stepped into the kitchen when her phone rang. Shelby grabbed the receiver with one hand and the handle to the fridge with the other. “Hello?”

  “Hey, girlfriend, it’s Kelly. Are you busy?”

  Shelby looked at the clock. She had planned to spend the afternoon starting some yogurt since Matt said they were running out of her herbed yogurt cheese at the General Store. And then she wanted to take care of the mildew on the lettuce before it spread any further.