Til Dirt Do Us Part (A Local Foods Mystery) (11 page)

A
fter leaving her produce and her entry forms, she had two hours until the judging decisions were announced. She strolled through the vegetable area. First, she checked out her competition in the cherry tomato and garlic braid area and hoped she had a chance. Two of the braid displays looked a little pathetic, with small bulbs and uneven braiding. She kept walking through the barn. Some of the family farm displays went all out, including knitted tea cozies, handmade baskets, deep ruby jams, and bright green pickled beans, as well as the usual array of squashes, onions, and sheaves of cornstalks. She’d never have that kind of display unless she hooked up with a grandmother or two.

She moved to the next building, the quilt barn. Perusing the displays, she was amazed by the artistry. One wall hanging looked like a basic patchwork with narrow rectangles, until she looked closer. It was actually a bookcase, with each block a book, complete with title and author embroidered on the spine. A blue ribbon hung from another, a beautiful and complex rendering of interlocking Japanese fans in shades of gold and turquoise.

Cam ventured into the animal barn. To her surprise, Vince Fisher and a pig occupied one of the pens. The skinny teen wore khaki pants and a white polo shirt with
WESTBURY 4-H
embroidered on the chest. He was grooming a huge swine that didn’t look like it could get much cleaner or much fatter.

“Hey, Vince. How’s it going?”

“Yo, Ms. Flaherty. I have to, like, show this big guy in an hour. I’m pretty nervous.”

“He looks well fed.” This pig was so healthy and fat. Where had Howard Fisher been keeping it? Clearly, it got special treatment, which had to be to the detriment of the rest of the pigs Cam had seen the day before.

Vince looked up with a smile, his skinny, acne-ridden face half hidden under a lock of sandy hair. “For sure. Buddy here gets nothing but the best.”

“That’s great. Are all your pigs so big?” She was curious what he would say.

A shadow passed over Vince’s face. “Well, not all of them. We’re a little short on feed right now.” He brightened. “But if Buddy gets Best of Show, we’ll get some money, for sure.”

“Really? I didn’t know the fair offered award premiums.”

“They don’t usually, but some rich guy put in a bunch of money for prizes this year.”

“What time are you showing him?”

“At noon.”

“Well, good luck, Vince. I’m sure you’ll do great.”

“Thanks, Ms. Flaherty. Hey, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“I was just wondering, like, about Ms. Burr’s killer. Do you think they’re going to catch him soon? It kind of weirds me out. And she was such a nice lady.”

“Did you know her?”

“Yeah. I mean, sort of. She came to the farm one time. She seemed interested in me, asked me about my classes and what I like and stuff.”

“It’s very sad she’s gone. I’m sure they’ll catch someone soon, Vince.” Cam hoped she sounded confident. “Don’t worry.”

“Wicked. Stay cool, Ms. Flaherty.”

At least this time he hadn’t addressed her as “dude,” as he had earlier in the summer. Cam smiled as she walked back to the produce barn for her own judging. He was a good, hardworking kid with a difficult father. She hoped Buddy would win. Interesting, too, that Irene had taken the time to get to know Vince a little. More proof that Cam really hadn’t known her at all.

Outside the barn, she checked her watch—three minutes until the announcement. She took a deep breath and walked in.

Farmers of all ages and sizes stood arrayed in an expectant semicircle. They faced the judges, who clustered at the end of the display tables. A photographer dressed in black tapped his foot, poised to capture the awards. Cam slid in at the end of the line of growers. She glanced around but didn’t recognize any of them, which didn’t surprise her, being the new girl on the block.

The head judge introduced himself and began by announcing the winner of the winter squash entry. The farmer, a woman younger than Cam, walked up and shook the judge’s hand. She posed for a picture with him, her acorn squash, and her blue ribbon. He moved on to the next vegetable category and repeated the ritual. When a winner wasn’t present, the judge laid the blue ribbon on top of the display. This could take a while.

An hour later it was time for the garlic braids. The judge announced the third and second place. Neither was Cam’s. He held up a braid.

“This one incorporates the fattest bulbs and the best braiding. Unfortunately, we had to disqualify it because a string was used in the braiding.” He went on to award the blue ribbon to a farmer from Essex. The handshake and photograph were accomplished.

Cam had used a string in her own braid. Had it been the erstwhile winner? It looked like hers. She made her way over to the garlic table, where the judge still stood. She introduced herself.

“I’m sorry. But rules are rules,” the judge said to Cam. He held out her braid.

She took it. “I didn’t see anything in the guidelines about not using string.” She thought she had studied the online booklet in detail.

“The rules clearly say all entries must be produced on the farm. It was a wild guess you didn’t grow the cotton and spin the string.”

“So if I had sheep and spun my own yarn, it would be admissible ?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yes, I suppose it would.”

Disappointed, Cam turned away, garlic in hand. It was a very fine braid.

Half an hour later the same judge approached the cherry tomato division. At least half the audience had already left. Some farmers, apparently, stayed only until their own entries were announced, and then they cleared out. Cam wiped her sweaty palms on her pants. Why was she so nervous about this? It was only a silly ribbon, and she was a freshman farmer, for Pete’s sake.

He announced third place and then said, “Cameron Flaherty, Produce Plus Plus Farm, Westbury.” He held up the red ribbon.

Cam’s eyes flew wide open.
Cool.
A red ribbon on her first time entering. After the blue ribbon was awarded to a Groveland farmer, she picked up her own award.

She trudged toward her truck. The energy of the crowds had sapped her own, and even the second-place ribbon in her bag for the tomatoes didn’t restore her spirits. She’d spent a day away from work for a minor award. To lose the garlic blue ribbon on a technicality was apparently one of those live-and-learn experiences. As she passed the Sausage Gal booth, the aroma of sizzling pork, which had smelled so enticing earlier, now made her feel a little nauseous.

The fog had lifted somewhat, but a fine mist continued to envelope the world. She climbed into the cab at the same time that a tall man folded himself into the Civic next to her. She followed him to the exit and waited in line next to him, checking her watch. It was already one thirty. She flipped on her turn signal to go left into the flow of traffic heading north on Route 1 until she saw it was moving at tortoise speed.

A Harley formed part of the line of cars inching up the hill. She squinted. It had a red lightning bolt on the back and a slender driver. What was Sim doing here in the middle of the day? If that was even her.

Cam glanced to the right. The southbound cars were driving at a normal rate. She could head that way and cut over to pick up Route 95 north. She’d probably get home faster, even though the distance was longer. Maybe she could salvage some of the rest of the day’s work hours. She could call Sim when she got home and find out if it had been her. Cam shifted the truck’s position a little and switched her turn signal so the traffic cop would know which way she was headed. He finally let her in, looking a little annoyed at her turning right from the left lane of the parking lot.

The road climbed up out of the valley. It leveled off for a dozen yards and crested at a forested area before a steep downhill stretched for a half mile. Fields and marshes lined the road and its narrow, crumbling shoulder. Cam was reaching down to switch on the radio when she realized her cruise control wasn’t holding her speed back. She pressed her foot on the brake pedal. Nothing happened. She pumped it. No response. The speedometer read seventy-five and increasing. The Civic from the parking lot drove in front of her, creeping along, probably going exactly the speed limit to conserve gas. The gap between them was narrowing fast.

Cam pushed the brake pedal to the floor and swore when nothing happened. Her hands dampened on the steering wheel. She leaned on the horn. She grew closer and closer to the Civic. It didn’t speed up. Its driver didn’t hear her. Cam was about to crash into it. She reached for the emergency brake under the dashboard, but her hand slipped off. She was out of time. She saw a wider bit of shoulder ahead, near the bottom of the hill, and steered for it.

She fought the wheel as her tires found the shoulder, narrowly missing the Civic to her left. The truck wrenched right. But what had looked like a solid shoulder wasn’t paved. The tires spun on the tops of marsh grasses. The Ford launched airborne. She gripped the wheel with all her strength, but there was nothing left to control. The truck crashed down into the marsh. Cam was jerked up, her hands torn off the wheel. The seat belt cut into her shoulder. Her head whacked against the roof. The engine cut out. All went silent.

“M
iss? Miss?” A knocking sound. Cam opened her eyes. She turned her head a little, but it hurt. A man was knocking on the window.

Where was she? Who was this guy? She looked around as far as possible without moving her head. Okay, she was in her truck. In a marsh. Cattails and tall grasses stuck up all around, interspersed by the invasive brilliance of purple loosestrife.
Wait a minute.
Her truck was in a marsh?

“Miss?” The guy made a cranking motion with his hand. He looked desperate. “Can you roll down the window, please?”

Cam stretched out her left arm and cranked down the window. “What am I doing here?”

Relief washed over his face. “You must have been speeding down the hill, and you ran off into the marsh. I’m so glad you’re all right!”

Cam stared at him. It came back to her in a flood. “I wasn’t speeding! My brakes didn’t work. I didn’t want to crash into the car in front of me. I tried to alert him, but he didn’t hear my horn.” She took a closer look. “Wait. You’re the guy in the Civic.”

The man, a thin fellow with salt-and-pepper hair and a white Vandyke beard, looked abashed. “Right. I was playing my music really loud. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even see you until right before you crashed. I don’t use my rearview mirror.” His look turned to concern. “Hey, are you all right? Your head is bleeding.”

Cam put her hand up to her head. Sure enough, it came away covered with blood, but nothing hurt in an acute way. “I think I cut it when I hit the roof.”

“I called nine-one-one. They’re on their way.” The keen of a siren sounded in the distance.

Cam tried to open her door, but it wouldn’t budge. “Can you open the door for me?”

“That’s not going to happen. You’re stuck in the muck here. So am I.” He gestured down. Cam leaned her head out to see that his legs vanished into a thick mud from mid-thigh down. She groaned and pulled her head back in. She closed her eyes. The fecund smell of marsh muck washed over her.

“Miss, you need to keep your eyes open. I learned that in an emergency training session at my workplace. Please look at me and keep talking. In fact, tell me what year it is and who the president is.”

Cam sighed but obliged. This fellow was trying to help her.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Four. What’s your name?” Cam asked.

“Brian Walsh. What’s yours?”

“Cameron Flaherty. Cam.”

“So we’re both Irish. Were you just at the fair?”

“Yes.” She felt for the ribbon on the seat next to her, but it was missing. “Where’s my ribbon?” She gestured to the wreckage of the cab. All the junk she usually kept on the seat, the floor, or the dashboard had played a game of musical chairs and switched places.

“What ribbon?” He frowned.

“Oh, the ribbon I won. Second place. For my tomatoes.”

He smiled with crinkles around his eyes. “You grow vegetables ? How amazing. I’m a software engineer. I couldn’t grow a vegetable if you paid me.”

“Well, I wrote code, too, until about a year ago.” Cam tried to laugh, but that hurt, too. This guy was good at distracting her if she was actually trying to laugh. “And now I farm. Who knew?”

After being extricated from her truck and transported by ambulance to the hospital in Newburyport, Cam was scanned, x-rayed, poked, and evaluated. She wondered why they were taking even more blood out of her, until she was asked to give the state police permission to examine it for alcohol. Her shoulder sported a big bruise from the seat belt, and she had a surface cut on her forehead. She sat on the edge of the bed in an emergency department bay. A big clock on the wall read 4:40. There went any thoughts of working today, owing both to the time and to how she felt.

“You were lucky,” the doctor said. “Although I wonder why your head hit the top if you were wearing a seat belt.”

“It’s a pretty old truck. I’m lucky it even has seat belts.”

The doctor cocked her head, shiny black hair following. “How do you feel right now?”

“Like I was hit by a truck. Which I guess I was.”

“Do you live with anyone?” the doctor asked.

“My cat.”

“You probably have a mild concussion. I’d advise asking a friend to spend the night. A human friend. But if that’s not possible, do this. When you find yourself getting sleepy, set a timer for two hours. You want to wake up every few hours and make sure you continue to see and think clearly.”

“Do you think clearly when you’re awoken every two hours?” Cam asked. “I sure don’t.”

The doctor laughed. Although she looked younger than Cam, her dark eyes creased at the corners. “Good point, although I don’t think I’ve slept for more than two hours in a row in years. All right, set your timer for every four hours. Get as much rest as you can. And refrain from physical activities for a few days.”

“I’m a farmer! I can’t not work. It’s ninety percent physical.”

“Do your best.” The doctor looked over her glasses at Cam. “All right? You’re released to go home.” She made a note in the chart, saying Cam should call her personal doctor the next day and schedule a follow-up appointment. “Oh, and there’s a police officer here who wants to talk with you before you leave.”

Cam had called Lucinda to pick her up from the hospital. She was trying to tie her left sneaker without lowering her head when a man in uniform appeared at the entrance to the curtained bay holding her bed.

“State police, Ms. Flaherty. I’m Officer Russo. I need to speak with you for a moment, ma’am.”

“Now? My ride is waiting outside.” She grimaced at hearing herself whine.

“Yes, ma’am. Permission to record the interview, ma’am?” He switched on an iPad and lightly pressed a few icons.

Cam nodded, which made her head hurt again.

“I need you to acknowledge permission out loud, ma’am.”

“I give permission to record this interview.”

He noted the time, date, and location, and identified himself again. “Please describe in your own words what happened on Route One earlier today.”

Cam told him about the truck speeding down the hill, about her brakes not working, about the car in front not seeing her. About the shoulder and how she landed in the marsh. “I’m grateful the truck didn’t flip and that there wasn’t a big tree waiting to greet me.”

“You were fortunate, ma’am. Had you been having problems with your brakes before?”

“No. In fact, on my way to the fair this morning, I had to apply them suddenly because some idiot ran a red light. The car in front of me crashed into the car in front of her, but I had enough distance and my brakes stopped me in plenty of time.”

“I was called to that event. You didn’t stay to provide a witness statement.” He looked up from his tablet with a stern expression.

“I know I should have stayed, but both drivers seemed fine and another witness had stopped. I gave one of the drivers my card. I had to get to an appointment at the fair.” She smiled wanly and hoped he’d understand.

“What year is the truck you drive?”

“It’s a nineteen eighty-five, I think.” At his look of surprise, she went on. “It was my great-uncle’s. It’s only really used for farmwork and driving around locally. He always maintained it well, and it has pretty low mileage.”

“Do you know the last time the brakes were replaced?”

Cam said she’d have to check. “But I’m sure it was done when it was needed. Albert is meticulous about that kind of thing. And I had it serviced yesterday.”

“Where?”

“SK Foreign Auto in Westbury.”

The officer, who looked about Cam’s age, looked up again. “Wait. You’re a farmer. Is your uncle Albert St. Pierre?” He smiled.

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“I do. Our families were—” He cut himself short and wiped the smile off his face. “Yes, I do. And admire him greatly. Now, since no alcohol was found in your blood—”

“They said they were testing for that.”

“Of course. It’s routine in any hospital transport after a motor vehicle incident. As I was saying, since you were not under the influence and no one else was injured, you are free to go. This interview is concluded.” He switched off the recording app.

Lucinda pulled up in Cam’s driveway and hurried around to open the passenger door. “I’ll come in,” she said as she helped Cam out and held her elbow while they walked toward the back door. “Let me make you some soup,
fazendeira.
”

Cam thanked her. “I’m okay. I think I have a can of soup in the cupboard. I only want to lie down on the couch and do nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

Cam eased herself onto the couch with a groan. “I’ll be fine.”

Lucinda set a glass of water and Cam’s bag on the end table and stroked Cam’s shoulder. “Call me if you need anything. I still owe you big-time.” She pulled the door shut behind her with a soft click.

As Cam reclined with a blanket on her lap and a throbbing head, the crash played over and over in her mind. Why had her brakes gone out? They had been fine earlier in the morning, more than fine. Could someone have tampered with them? The thought made her shiver. She pulled the blanket up around her neck. It had to have been someone at the fair. She’d seen Howard and Vince. She’d run into Wes. She thought she’d seen Sim on her bike. She considered all of them friends. Why would any of those people want to do her harm? O would some evil stranger have done it just for kicks?

Her head hurt more than before from hashing through all the possibilities. She felt sleepy and realized she should call her great-uncle before she snoozed in case her crash made the early news. She reached for her bag and dug the cell phone out.

“I guess you’re at dinner, Uncle Albert,” Cam said in reply to his voice mail greeting. “I was in a little accident today in Middleford, but I’m fine, so don’t worry. Oh, and I won the red ribbon for the Sun Golds. Talk to you tomorrow. Love you.” Speaking with him about her suspicions would have to wait. She made a mental note to tell Sim to check for malicious tampering with her brakes. Which wouldn’t do much good if Sim herself had done it. Or maybe she should tell the police.

As she lay there, Cam acknowledged that her blessings ran to luck, too. She could so easily have killed someone else—the nice guy in the Civic—or been killed herself. If she were Preston, one of her nine lives had just gotten used up, she thought as she slipped into sleep.