Deadly Row to Hoe

Copyright Information

Deadly Row to Hoe
© 2012 Cricket McRae

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Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition © 2012

E-book ISBN: 978-0-7387-3483-5

Book design by Donna Burch

Cover illustration © Robin Moline/Jennifer Vaughn Artist Agent

Cover design by Lisa Novak

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DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to small farmers and
backyard gardeners everywhere.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’m so grateful to the many people who helped create this book and get it into the hands of readers. The skilled and hardworking team of Terri Bischoff, Connie HIll, Courtney Colton, Donna Burch, and Lisa Novak at Midnight Ink are great to work with and did their usual awesome job. My writing buddies Mark and Bob, bless their hearts, have read and critiqued this mystery series from the beginning, and the ladies of the Old Town Writing Group—Janet, Laura, Dana, other Laura, Carrie and Sarah—provided
encouragement and kept me going when deadlines loomed. Kevin, as always, loaded on the love and support and the occasional, “Shouldn’t you be writing?”

Community Supported Agriculture is going strong where I live, and I’m thankful to be able to buy the majority of our food from local farmers and ranchers. Among the many who provide the food we eat I thank the folks at Happy Heart Farm, Cresset Farm, Windsor Dairy, Quatrix Aquaponics, and Jodar Farms for chatting with me and giving farm tours. Theirs is tough yet vital work. Friends of Happy Heart Farm also raises funds to provide local low-income families with some of the best organic foods available. Nice work, guys!

One

Chickens gabbled and pigs
rooted through the compost pile outside the dark and dusty shack. To the left, a long greenhouse soaked up the summer light, heating the tomato vines, melons, and squash. On the other side, afternoon sun shone down on sprawling pumpkins, pickling cucumbers, and thirty-five feet of berry-heavy canes. The sound of a car starting up in the parking lot signaled the departure of a farm stand customer. Voices drifted from the direction of the open field.

Squinting at the thermometer in the dim light of the shed, I tried to remember whether 98.1° was a high or low basal body temperature. Kind of high, I seemed to remember from reading the brief instructions that came with the device. But I was supposed to be keeping track so I’d know what was high or low for me. More research was definitely in order.

I rose from the pile of burlap bags I’d been sitting on in the vegetable distribution shed at Turner Farm. Tomorrow morning volunteers would be shoving green beans and peppers, eggplants and ears of just-picked corn into them for pickup by the members who had purchased a CSA membership share. Community Supported Agriculture had finally come to Cadyville, Washington, and my best friend Meghan Bly and I were right in the middle of it.

The whiff of tomato leaves rose from my fingers as I brought the thermometer closer. 98.1°, huh. Well, this whole temperature tracking thing was new, as was the idea of actually trying to get pregnant instead of simply waiting for it to happen naturally. But once my husband and I decided to go ahead and have a baby, I was anxious to get on with it. Let’s face it: I wasn’t getting any younger.

98.1°. Maybe I should call Barr. Just in case. Couldn’t hurt, right? I smiled to myself.

A scream lacerated the air. Shoving the instrument in my pocket, I jerked the door open and bolted outside. I knew that voice, and Meghan was not prone to screaming. From the corner of my eye I saw Tom Turner loping across the field, heading toward the far end of the greenhouse.

With a knot of dread twisting through my solar plexus, I sprinted toward the plastic-covered tunnel and down the central aisle, past the indeterminate tomato vines I’d been tying up half an hour earlier. Their heirloom fruit glowed in my peripheral vision like multi-hued gems. Exiting at the other end, I saw Tom had veered to the right, toward Meghan and the towering pile of compost.

Wisps of steam rose from the heap of decaying matter, visible even in the seventy-degree day. An ancient John Deere track hoe sat quietly to one side, ready to fire up and give the compost a good toss. Meghan stood hugging herself. Tears cut dirty streaks through the dust on her face.

Without warning she ran toward the pile and swung her arms in a shooing gesture. As I neared, a low mewling sound came from someplace deep inside her chest. I’d never heard Meghan do that, and it frightened me. The young pig we’d named Arnold Ziffel ran off, dragging away a purple cabbage leaf half as big as he was and snorting happily.

When I reached her side, Meghan spun and stared at me with hands on her hips. Her chin quivered, and the muscles along her jaw line clenched and unclenched.

My eyes widened. “Good Lord! What happened? Are you all right?”

Without breaking eye contact, she pointed at the ground about ten feet away, where Tom Turner now stood with his arms crossed and shoulders hunched.

I tore my gaze away from hers and directed it downward. It took a moment to make out what I was looking at. Then the recognizable pattern of a waffle-soled boot emerged.

Now why would … ?

Following the line of the boot, I saw it was well-worn, scuffed at both heel and toe. It stopped ankle high, revealing a sock.

A dirty but festive green-and-blue-striped sock, in fact. Which appeared to have a leg in it.

My jaw slackened as realization dawned. My hand crept to my throat, and I looked back at Meghan. After a couple of tries, I finally got the words out. “Is that what I think it is?”

She clamped her bottom lip between her teeth, and her hand rose so her shaking finger pointed straight at me.

“What? I didn’t put it there!”

The sock disappeared into the fifteen-foot-high mountain of vegetable scraps and manure slowly turning themselves into fine, dark dirt. The stripes made me think wildly of the Wicked Witch of the East, but those hiking boots were about as far away from ruby slippers as you could get.

Meghan’s swallow was audible. “I’m not the one who’s supposed to find dead people, Sophie Mae.
You
are.”

“Hey!” But it rang true. Suspicious deaths had seemed to crop up
around me ever since I’d discovered the neighborhood handyman dead on our basement floor. But the “supposed to” bothered me.

Elbowing past her, I knelt and touched the side of the boot. Pushed
at it gently. Tried to wiggle it, just to make sure. Yep. That was a leg all right. It was stiff as all get out.

“This is some kind of joke, right?” Tom Turner said.

I peered up at his lanky, overalled form silhouetted against the August-blue sky. “If it is, I don’t get it.”

His eyes met mine, and I watched as the knowledge deepened. There really was a body buried in his compost. He glanced at the John Deere, then seemed to think better of it. He jogged off again, this time toward the tool shed.

“Oh, my God. Do you think she could be alive?” Sudden panic infused Meghan’s voice.

Shaking my head, I stood. “I don’t see how.” I didn’t mention how the leg had felt when I’d tried to move it.

But new tears had replaced my friend’s glare, and she began pawing in the compost, pushing it aside by the armful as I took out my cell phone and dialed 911. I told the male operator who answered to send an ambulance along with law enforcement, just in case, and to hurry.

“Sure thing, Sophie Mae. I bet Barr’s not gonna like this.”

I ignored the disturbing note of glee in his voice. “Just send your people out, okay?” I didn’t know his name, but it wasn’t the first time I’d talked to him. And everyone in town knew I was married to the only remaining detective on the tiny Cadyville police force. His partner had transferred to the state crime lab a couple of months earlier, and they were still looking for a replacement.

I knelt and joined Meghan in unearthing the body. She was right: better safe than sorry. And she was right in thinking the foot belonged to a woman. The Timberland boot was about a size seven, the calf muscular but still feminine. Soon we revealed the other boot, then the pale bare skin of a knee, then the filthy hem of khaki hiking shorts. The compost was heavy and the pile rose at a steep angle. Organic steam rose from our efforts in tiny puffs. Meghan and I panted as the rich, coffee-colored earth rained back on our Sisyphean efforts to clear it.

My housemate paused in her digging to direct another resentful look at me, as if my bad habit of stumbling into fishy situations had somehow rubbed off on her. I ignored her, and she got back to work. Moments later, Tom joined us with two hand spades and a short shovel.

By the time the sirens approached, we had reached the bottom of a green T-shirt. There was little question left by then that the woman was most definitely dead.