No Farm, No Foul (Farmer's Daughter Mystery) Page 7

  The thought seemed absurd given the warm, sunny day, but Shelby knew the first snow would be falling in a few short months.

  “Sorry I missed the church potluck,” Bert said, standing at the sink scrubbing her hands with soap. “The neighbor kid, Rusty—he’s a daredevil in the making if I ever saw one—fell off his bike and chipped the bone in his elbow. His mama’s pickup wouldn’t start, so I drove them to the ER. By the time we got out of there, the potluck was nearly over.”

  Shelby began prepping the beets she’d piled on the counter. They still smelled like the warm earth she’d pulled them from not too long ago.

  Bert pointed at the knife in Shelby’s hand. “Leave a good two inches on those stems and don’t cut off the taproot,” she said. “That way your beets will keep more of their color when we boil them.”

  Bert had told Shelby that dozens of times already—every time Bert helped her can beets, as a matter of fact—but Shelby always pretended that it was news to her.

  She slipped the beets into the large pot of boiling water on the stove. Bert stood watch over them like a nanny over her charges.

  “Don’t want to let them boil too much,” she said, stirring the pot. “Just enough so that their skins will slip off and then you’ll know they’re done.”

  Shelby nodded. She was getting the jars that they would need later out of the cupboard.

  “Quite some goings-on here yesterday apparently,” Bert said, fishing a beet out of the water and testing the skin. “Olivia Willoughby called me and told me all about it. I couldn’t hardly believe my own ears.”

  Shelby made a noncommittal sound. She placed the clean jars, one by one, upside down in a pot with a couple of inches of boiling water and turned off the gas. In a few minutes, the jars would be hot and ready for the beets.

  Bert faced Shelby with her hands on her hips. “St. Andrews hasn’t been the same since Reverend Bostwick retired. Something like this would never have happened if he’d been in charge. I heard this Reverend Mather has had three churches in as many years.”

  Shelby agreed that Reverend Bostwick had run a tight ship, but she doubted that even he could have prevented a determined killer from murdering Prudence.

  “Reverend Mather’s sermon yesterday,” Bert said as she lifted the cooked beets out of the pot and plunged them into cold water, “was too wishy-washy for my taste. I don’t go for all this permissiveness. That’s what’s wrong with the world these days.”

  Shelby hadn’t interpreted Daniel’s sermon as encouraging permissiveness, but she held her tongue. When Bert was on a roll, there was no point in trying to stop her.

  Bert jerked her head toward the beets floating in their cold-water bath. “You want these sliced or left whole?”

  “Let’s slice them. They’re on the large side.”

  Bert grunted. “And now look what’s happened—the reverend’s wife murdered,” she said, returning to the topic of Prudence’s death.

  “I don’t think you can blame Reverend Mather’s sermon for that,” Shelby said as she filled the canning jars with the cooked beets Bert was methodically slicing.

  “I blame Reverend Mather himself,” Bert said, plunging her knife into the beet on her cutting board so vigorously that it shot off the counter and rolled under the kitchen table.

  Bitsy and Jenkins, who had been sound asleep in opposite corners of the room, both sprang to attention and ran over to ascertain whether this sudden missile was edible or not.

  Bert dove under the table with incredible alacrity considering her age, but she was too late—Bitsy had already swallowed the beet whole.

  “That’s one less for your dinner table, I guess,” Bert said, straightening up. Her knees gave a loud crack.

  Shelby began pouring boiling water into the prepared jars. “I don’t see how you can blame Reverend Mather for Prudence’s death,” Shelby said, carefully topping off the last jar.

  “I think him taking up with that hussy had something to do with it,” Bert hissed as she helped Shelby put the lids on the jars and began placing them in the pressure canner.

  “What? What hussy?” Shelby asked, although she could guess who Bert was talking about easily enough.

  “Isabel Stone—the one who wears all that gardenia perfume. You can’t get within half a mile of her without smelling it. It gets so I can taste it in my mouth.”

  “Don’t you think it’s more a matter of her throwing herself at poor Reverend Mather? He doesn’t seem to be encouraging her.”

  Bert was already shaking her head. “That’s what we’re meant to think.”

  Shelby frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

  Bert began rummaging in the cracked leather handbag she’d deposited earlier on one of the kitchen chairs. She finally pulled out a yellow sticky note with an air of triumph. “Just you read this and see if you don’t agree with me.”

  She handed the note to Shelby. It said—Isabel, I’ll see you at 3 p.m. on Thursday. It was signed Daniel.

  “See what I mean?” Bert said, looking over Shelby’s shoulder as she read. She poked a long, crooked finger at the slip of paper. “They were planning a rendezvous. That’s French for an affair,” she whispered even though there were no young, innocent ears anywhere in the vicinity.

  “How . . . where did you get this?”

  “I found it stuck to the bottom of my shoe when I left church yesterday. It must have been tucked between the pages of the hymnal I was using and fell out. I thought I saw something drop, but I couldn’t find whatever it was. No wonder—I was standing on it.”

  “And you think this means . . .”

  Bert gave a brisk nod. “Yup. I think one or the other of them did in the reverend’s poor wife so the pair of them could be together.”

  8

  Dear Reader,

  I now have a lovely row of glass jars on my counter glittering with beautiful shades of ruby red and deep purple from my canned beets. I know that many of you are probably thinking—yuck, beets—but they will brighten our dinner plates all winter long. We try to live off our land as much as possible here on Love Blossom Farm, and beets are a crop we can always count on.

  Bert was, as usual, a huge help. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s been in our lives for almost as long as I can remember. I have to admit, though, that I was incredibly shocked by that note she showed me. I am sure there must be an innocent explanation no matter what Bert thinks. Life here in Lovett can sometimes be on the . . . quiet side . . . and it’s tempting to imagine that innocent happenings are more exciting than they are.

  I’m off to take Amelia to choir practice, and I’m sure the talk will be all about Prudence’s murder. I hope the police solve the case soon so we can go back to the peaceful life we normally live here in Lovett.

  “Amelia! Billy! We have to leave now,” Shelby yelled up the stairs, resisting the urge to stamp her foot.

  She heard feet thumping overhead, and Billy appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “Do I have to go?”

  “Yes. We have to take your sister to church for choir practice.”

  “Can’t I stay here, Mom? I’m old enough.”

  Shelby hesitated. She was tempted, but with a killer on the loose . . . “No! Get your shoes on and let’s get in the car.”

  Amelia came skulking down the stairs in a pair of cutoff denim shorts that made Shelby’s breath catch in her throat.

  “Amelia! What did you do with your shorts?”

  Amelia gave her mother a sly look. “Nothing. They started to fray, so I trimmed them a bit. They weren’t even, so I trimmed them some more and . . . well. . . .”

  “You can’t wear those to church.”

  Amelia rolled her eyes. “We’ll be wearing our choir robes, Mom. It’s going to be fine.”

  There was that word again. Shelby was com
ing to hate the word fine. But there was no time to argue or they would be late. Albert Long, the choir director, did not tolerate tardiness, as he always put it. Shelby sometimes wondered if half the choir wasn’t habitually late because they had no idea what the word tardy meant.

  This was one of those times when Shelby missed her late husband something fierce. She was convinced he would be able to handle Amelia much better than she was—didn’t daughters look up to their fathers during this period of adolescence? Sometimes she wondered if she ought to give in to the temptation to begin dating so she could provide her children with a male role model. Both Matt Hudson and Jake Taylor had made it very clear they were just waiting for a signal from her.

  Shelby finally hustled both children into the car and pulled out of the driveway. As soon as they were seated in the car, Amelia reached out and fiddled with the radio, changing to a station that was playing music that set Shelby’s teeth on edge.

  Amelia immediately began complaining about having to go to choir practice, but Shelby closed her ears to Amelia’s complaints. Her daughter had a beautiful soprano voice that Shelby was ashamed to admit she envied. She herself could barely sing well enough to croak out “Happy Birthday” within the safe confines of a group of other people, and during hymns in church she generally just mouthed the words.

  “What did you and Kaylee do today?” Shelby asked as she turned onto the main street that led into the small downtown area of Lovett.

  “Oh, you know . . . stuff,” Amelia mumbled.

  “Stuff? Like what?”

  “Just stuff, Mom, okay?” Amelia turned and glared at her mother.

  Shelby felt the stirrings of alarm. She remembered the sound of that boy’s voice in the background on the telephone call and had to force herself to clamp her lips shut.

  Billy, as the younger sibling, was relegated to the backseat whenever his sister was in the car. He leaned forward and held his index finger an inch from Amelia’s shoulder.

  “I’m not touching you,” he said in a singsong voice.

  Amelia ignored him.

  “I’m not touching you,” he said louder, his finger hovering closer but still not touching.

  “Don’t be such a baby.” Amelia sneered.

  “Billy, stop that or else,” Shelby exploded, turning around to glare at Billy in the backseat. His expression was as innocent as that of the angel on top of the Christmas tree.

  “Or else, what?” Amelia asked, momentarily looking up from her cell phone.

  Shelby didn’t have an answer for that, but she was saved by the fact that they were now pulling into the church parking lot. She was surprised by the number of cars already there. Choir practice during the summer was usually much less well attended. She suspected it was morbid curiosity that had brought everyone out tonight.

  They were heading into the building when Billy began to tug on Shelby’s arm.

  “Mom, there’s Zach. Can we go play?”

  Shelby hesitated, then said okay. She would have a chance to talk to people and find out what was going on and if anyone knew anything—she at least wanted to find out if Prudence’s funeral had been scheduled yet.

  Billy and Zach ran inside with a gleeful shout and shot down the corridor toward the church meeting hall, where they would be able to run around and not disturb anyone. Amelia bolted for the choir room and Shelby found herself standing alone.

  “Excuse me,” a woman behind her said.

  Shelby spun around to find Grace Swanson with her arm linked through her husband’s.

  “I’ve persuaded Alan to join our little choir,” Grace said with a smile, giving his arm a squeeze. “He has a wonderful baritone voice, and it’s a waste to only use it in the shower.”

  Alan smiled at the joke. “Has there been any news about . . .”

  Shelby shook her head. “Not that I know of. I was going to ask you.”

  “I wonder when the funeral is,” Grace said with a frown.

  “I don’t know,” Shelby said, making a mental note to see if Mrs. Willoughby was in her office.

  “Poor Daniel,” Grace said. “He must still be in shock. Perhaps he hasn’t had a chance to make any plans yet.”

  Alan ran a hand over his chin. “It’s possible the police haven’t released the . . . body yet.”

  Shelby and Grace shuddered.

  “I should think it was fairly obvious what killed her,” Shelby said, flashing back to the scene in the mudroom.

  Alan shrugged. “I imagine they still have to go through the motions.”

  Just then, Mr. Long, the choirmaster, stepped out of the choir room and looked up and down the hall, clearly checking for strays.

  “We’d better go,” Grace said.

  She and Alan said good-bye and continued down the hall, their footsteps quickening as Mr. Long frowned at them.

  Shelby mounted the old, creaking stairs to the second floor. The carpet was worn to the threads in spots, and the original rich colors had faded over the years. The church offices were located on the upper level along with the nursery for the infants and toddlers. The place smelled of damp, causing Shelby to wonder how much money the potluck had brought in. She peeked into the nursery—it hadn’t changed much since she used to drop Amelia and Billy off there on Sunday mornings—the same worn playpens and battered plastic toys bearing the teeth marks of several generations of children.

  The smell of damp intensified as Shelby made her way down the hall and she noticed two large buckets lined up against the wall. It looked as if the roof was going to need repairing sooner rather than later.

  Most of the doors on the second floor were closed, and the hall was quiet and dark except toward the far end, where light spilled out of one of the offices. The worn Oriental runner absorbed the sound of Shelby’s footsteps as she continued down the hall toward the open door.

  Shelby stood just outside the office and cleared her throat loudly, not wanting to startle anyone who might be inside. She didn’t hear any papers rustling or computer keys tapping, so she stuck her head around the edge of the door. The room was empty.

  The office chair was pushed away from the desk as if someone had recently gotten up, and the computer monitor hadn’t yet gone dark but instead showed a collage of pictures of smiling children of various ages. Mrs. Willoughby must have very recently stepped out.

  A door on the far wall led to Reverend Mather’s office. It was firmly closed. Shelby wasn’t surprised—she hadn’t expected Daniel to be back on the job so soon.

  Shelby glanced at the computer. Had Mrs. Willoughby already entered the time and date of Prudence’s funeral on the church calendar?

  Okay, Dear Reader, I know what you’re thinking—that I’m more interested in checking the reverend’s calendar than checking the date of Prudence’s funeral. But I’m not quite ready to admit that to myself.

  Shelby peered down the hall, but it was quiet and empty. She sidled closer to the desk and jiggled the computer mouse. The pictures of children faded, and the screen sprang to life. It was open to the church’s e-mail program.

  Shelby hesitated, listening for any sounds from the hallway, but there were none. She leaned over the desk, grasped the computer mouse, and clicked on the calendar icon. The page for the month of June filled the screen.

  Shelby scanned the entries for the coming days. There weren’t very many—summer was a quiet time on the church calendar. The earlier Sunday service would be canceled for July and August, and most of the church committees didn’t meet again until the fall. Shelby didn’t see any entries for Prudence’s funeral, although there was the Mason–Stilton wedding scheduled for the coming Sunday. Perhaps plans hadn’t been solidified for the funeral yet? Poor Daniel was probably still in shock.

  But Shelby did see something interesting—in the square for Thursday at three p.m. was written the name Isabel Stone.


  Shelby pulled into the driveway of Love Blossom Farm just as Kelly was about to turn away from her front door. Kelly must have heard the car crunching over the gravel drive, because she stopped as she was about to step off the porch.

  Amelia and Billy jumped out of the car, ran ahead, and in through the front door. Shelby hoped the police would release the mudroom soon—having to go in and out of the front of the house was tracking even more dirt than usual into the living room.

  Shelby caught up with Kelly, who was waiting for her.

  “Perfect timing.” Shelby put her arm around Kelly as they walked up the porch steps.

  Kelly wasn’t looking like her usual cheerful self. There were dark circles under her eyes and lines of strain around her mouth. Even her normally buoyant curls looked deflated and limp.

  “Called out late last night?” Shelby asked.

  Kelly shook her head. “No, why?”

  “No reason,” Shelby said, taking in Kelly’s worn jeans and a T-shirt advertising a rock concert that had taken place at least a decade ago. “You look a little tired.”

  Kelly let out a gusty sigh. “I am tired. I didn’t sleep well. I kept thinking about Seth and that money in Prudence’s purse.”

  “Let’s go inside and pour ourselves a cold drink.”

  Shelby led the way through the living room and into the kitchen. Kelly perched on one of the kitchen stools with her elbows on the island and her chin in her hands while Shelby retrieved glasses from the cupboard and a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator.

  “How’s this?” Shelby waved the pitcher in Kelly’s direction. “Or would you rather have something stronger? I have a bottle of white wine in the fridge.”

  Kelly rolled her eyes. “Bring on the wine. It’s been that kind of day.”

  Shelby retrieved a wineglass from the cupboard, filled it, and placed it in front of Kelly. She filled a glass for herself and took the stool opposite Kelly across the island.

  “You’re not seriously worried that Seth had something to do with Prudence’s murder, are you?”