Murder Most Fowl (5 page)

R
uth walked back to where Cam stood near the car. “Did you notice that Greta seems more mad than sad?” Cam asked. She watched as the front door closed behind Greta and Megan. “I guess people deal with death in different ways. Although when I visited here yesterday she didn't seem that happy with him. So if their marriage was already in trouble . . .”

A door slammed somewhere and Dasha barked. Cam glanced into the car to see him standing alert on the front seat, his face intent on the house.

Pete strode toward them from around the side of the building. “That was a good call, Cam.”

Cam blew out a breath. “It really was just dumb luck, if you can call it luck. I was driving past the church after picking up Dasha when they came out. I almost told them myself. I didn't think it was particularly nice to let them come home to a dead man and a bunch of police.”

“It's a good thing you didn't. You could have eliminated a piece of evidence.” Pete pressed his lips together and waved his hand.

“What do you mean?” Cam asked.

“How the nearest of kin react to the news of a suspicious death is evidence,” Ruth said.

“The daughter—Megan—is very upset. She was crying the whole way here,” Pete said.

“And Greta appears grim about it, almost angry.” Ruth frowned.

When Dasha whined, Pete opened the passenger door. Letting the dog out, he rubbed his head and accepted a few kisses, then stood, his hand on Dasha's head, the leash trailing on the ground.

“How did Wayne die?” Cam asked. The sun was in her eyes and she held up a hand over her eyebrows as a shield. Between the sun and the rising temperature, snow was melting from the corners of the barn's roof and off the branches of a tall sugar maple at the side of the house.

“Not sure yet. ME's on her way.” Pete tapped his fingers on his leg.

“But you think it was murder? Not a heart attack or a stroke or something?”

Ruth and Pete exchanged a glance. “It's an unaccompanied, unexplained death. We have to investigate,” Pete said. When Dasha trotted away, nose to the ground, Pete called him back and took the leash in his hand.

“Maybe it's connected with the real estate deal,” Cam said.

“What's that?” Ruth asked.

“Wayne told me Judith Patterson wants to buy part of the property, where it abuts hers. He and Greta argued about it in front of me yesterday. He didn't want to sell at all, and Greta thought they should let Judith have a piece of the land.”

Ruth nodded slowly. “Or it could be connected to the animal rights folks.”

“Was he shot or stabbed or something?” Cam asked.

Pete shook his head.

A tall man appeared from around the side of the house, hands on his hips, a neatly knotted tie over a white shirt visible under his jacket. When he saw Pete, he opened his hands to the sides in a “What's keeping you?” gesture.

“Listen, I have to get back inside. Ivan calls. But you need a ride home. And I can't spare anybody.” His jaw worked.

“I actually need to get back to my truck, which is at Daisy's. But we'll walk. Right, Dasha? He's got his leash, and it's only a couple of miles down Garden Street.”

“Oh, good.” Pete's face looked like a weight was lifted off it. “You sure?”

“Of course. On a gorgeous day like this? No problem.”

“Thanks. I owe you.” He handed her the leash, then turned toward the house. “Dodge, I want to show you something.” He beckoned for Ruth to follow.

They disappeared around the side of the house as Cam slung her canvas messenger bag over her head and one shoulder and headed down the long drive with Dasha. Something felt unusual in her pocket. Patting it, she swore and turned back.

“One sec, Dash. I have Megan's keys.” She approached the front door of the house and slowed to a halt. Did she want to insert herself in that scene again? Pete would surely prefer that she didn't. She could leave the keys in the car, and text Pete about where they were. As she headed away from the house again, the leash went taut. Dasha had his nose buried in something near a shrub. She tugged on the leash but he didn't budge. He looked up at her with a snout covered in snow and she laughed. He barked and put his nose back on the ground, pawing at something.

“Okay, let's see what you found.” Cam knelt next to him. He'd uncovered a slim cylinder about the size of fountain pen, with a band on one end. “Wonder what that is?” She knew better than to touch it. “Good boy, Dasha. I'll tell Dad.” She rose, and this time Dasha went with her. She didn't want to disturb the investigators right now, who were not only looking into Wayne's death but also dealing with Greta's and Megan's grief. But if Wayne had been murdered, this could be a piece of evidence. After Cam left the keys on the driver's seat, she slid the leash strap onto her wrist and dug her phone out, texting Pete both about the object and the keys.

“That's done. Let's get some fresh air and exercise, shall we?”

Dasha yipped his approval. The supple leather leash in her hand was smooth from years of Pete's hand holding it, and Cam smiled.

“And we have chicks to take care of, too.”

 

After their vigorous walk to the truck, Cam and Dasha drove back to Attic Hill Farm. The dog had spent enough time with her in the winter that she knew she could leave him off leash on the property. He and Preston had also arrived at a truce. They didn't cuddle up together, but Preston allowed Dasha to exist without either challenging him or feeling the need to flee.

She greeted the mature hens in their yard. “How's it going, girls?” At an indignant crow from Ruffles, she added, “And boy?” She cleaned out their water feeder in the coop, gave them a scoop of food, and collected the eggs in a bucket like the one Wayne had been carrying only the day before.

Wayne. A pang of sadness wound its way around her heart at the thought of that gentle light snuffed out too soon, and violently, if Pete was correct. If Wayne wasn't shot or stabbed, was he choked to death? Or could it have been poison?

One of the Ameraucana hens, whom Cam had named Hillary because she acted as a leader to the other hens, wandered over to Cam and gargled inquisitively.

“Your food's in the coop, Hil. You know that.” Cam bent down to pet her but the bird slid under her hand and marched up the ramp to the open door of the coop. Wayne had an entire chicken house full of several hundred birds. Was Greta up to taking care of them?

She headed into the barn and busied herself checking each of the almost week-old chicks, making sure their vents weren't clogged. Luckily none were. The chicks were growing fast, and already looked bigger than the day before. After she topped up their feed and water, she laughed watching them climb over each other.

“Yoo-hoo,” a woman's voice called from the main part of the barn.

Cam left the office, closing the door behind her, to see Felicity Slavin walking toward her. Cam greeted the petite woman, one of her first volunteers and a founding member of the Westbury Locavore Club.

Felicity threw a long gray braid over her shoulder. “Thought I'd stop by and help. It's been a long winter, and I miss my farm work.” She was dressed to work, in a purple sweatshirt and old jeans tucked into turquoise muck boots.

“I can always use help, thanks. How have you been?” Cam knew Felicity's husband, a tall, aging hippie, had gotten in trouble with the law last fall, but she hadn't heard if he'd gone to trial yet.

“I'm okay. It's hard with Wes, you know.” She gave a little smile but her eyes looked pained. She made a waving gesture, as if brushing away the thought of her husband. “Give me a job,” she said in a bright tone.

“Starting seedlings is next on my list. Come on out to the hoop house.” Cam led the way.

The pipes and plastic of her high tunnel hoop house had survived the heavy snows of winter, and now held long rows of seedling flats sitting on the ground. Beyond the flats were beds of spinach and other cold-hardy mixed salad greens like mizuna, tatsoi, and arugula direct seeded in the ground. She'd been able to cut them over and over again, since they kept growing, to offer to her winter CSA customers. The sun-warmed air inside was humidified by moisture rising up out of the soil, and both women shrugged out of their jackets.

“What are those?” Felicity asked, pointing to the closest flats.

“Leeks and onions. I started them in January.” The needlelike leaves of the pungent alliums were greening up nicely and reaching for the light. The lettuces next to them were younger but looked healthy, a mix of bright and dark greens with reds, and curly-leafed varieties next to rounded. Cam checked the composting worm bins on the north wall, scooping up a handful of rich dark castings off the top and scattering it on the greens beds.

“I was going to start tomatoes today.” Cam pulled a couple of fat seed packets out of a box on the table. “The flats are here, and the seed-starting mix is all set in this barrel. I already moistened it.” She emptied half of one packet into a shallow bowl.

“Do you make your own mix?” Felicity set one flat of seventy-two cells in a supporting tray, then scooped out a measure of mix, spreading it over the inch-wide cells.

“I do. It's a mix of a bunch of stuff—screened compost, peat moss, vermiculite, perlite, greensand, and so on.”

“I heard about Wayne Laitinen. Terrible news,” Felicity said as she worked.

“It's incredibly sad. He was such a sweet-hearted man. Where did you hear about it?”

“My cousin's sister-in-law is a dispatcher. She knew I'd bought roasters from Wayne and thought I might want to know.”

“So you heard they're suspecting he was murdered?”

“I did. I expect your Pete is on the case.”

“He is.” Cam smiled at the “your Pete.” She took the filled tray from Felicity and began placing one tomato seed atop each cell. After they sprouted and were established, she would pot up each seedling into a four-inch container, and eventually transplant half into the hoop house and the rest outside. With any luck, by July her salads and those of all her customers would be graced by sweet, juicy, deep-flavored tomatoes. The New England season was a short one, but with the hoop house, she could get an early start on everybody's favorite summer crop.

“Are these Sun Golds you're planting?” Felicity asked. “I love those cherry tomatoes. They're more like candy than a vegetable.”

“That's for sure. But, no, these are Black Prince. I grew them last summer.”

“Of course. Incredible flavor, and that deep reddish black color.” Felicity smoothed the mix over the cells of another flat. “I was Wayne's high school teacher. Did you know that?”

“I didn't even know you were a teacher,” Cam said. She stopped seeding and looked over at Felicity. “You don't still teach, do you? You always seem to have time for Volunteer Wednesdays.”

“I took an early retirement package three years ago. But I taught English at Westbury High for more than three decades. Wayne was in one of my first classes. He and Paul Underwood.”

“Interesting. I was wondering how old Wayne was.”

Felicity stopped, too, and narrowed her eyes at Cam. “Let's see. They were juniors, so about sixteen, seventeen. And I was twenty-four. I'm sixty now, so that makes Wayne fifty-two or so, right? Paul, too.” She resumed work, setting a finished flat aside and starting a new one. “Those two, Paul and Wayne.” She made a tsking noise.

“Were they friends?”

“They were, and then they weren't. Never really understood what happened between them. Paul was the rowdier . . . no, not rowdy. It was more so like he was unscrupulous. And you know Wayne, he always took the ethical high ground.”

“Did Paul cheat on a test or something?” Cam asked.

“Not in my class, he didn't.” Felicity whistled. “I may look like a nice older lady, Cam, but I was a tough teacher. Nothing slipped past me.” She beamed one of her sweet smiles, which did, in fact, make her look like a nice older lady.

“That seems like Wayne, to take the morally right path. It's even more ironic, then, that someone took the lowest and killed him.”

Felicity shuddered. “Who would have killed a nice man like Wayne?”

 

Cam eased herself into the chair in front of her computer two hours later. Dasha wandered over and sat on the floor next to her, while Preston watched them both from the couch. With Felicity's help she'd seeded over six hundred tomatoes, which would yield big red slicers, small gold orbs, dry-fleshed oblongs for sauce, early medium-sized reds, and the delectable Black Prince. She and Felicity had chatted as they worked, but she hadn't learned anything else about Wayne. Or about Paul. Cam remembered seeing him driving away from Wayne's as she'd arrived the day before, and he hadn't looked happy. Too bad Felicity didn't know what the two boys' falling out had been about.

She ought to be out pruning the blueberry bushes and her antique apple tree, but she was tired. She could do that tomorrow, as long as it was before the weather warmed up for good. Felicity had suggested they call the Laitinen house and offer to help out with end-of-day chores. Cam had agreed, even though she should be doing her own chores. She'd called and talked to Megan, who said she'd be happy for help in the hen house. Surely the police wouldn't mind if they stayed in the chicken house and the barn. She took a bite of the cheese sandwich she'd fixed, then pulled up the Wicked Local news site, which already had a story about Wayne's death. Munching, she scrolled slowly through, then stopped.