Farmed and Dangerous (3 page)

She shook off the thought of Oscar's temper. Surely a business dealing in the care of the old wouldn't hire someone who would be a danger to them. Would they?

As she navigated down a gentle slope, an odd shape on a bare branch high above her head caught her eye. She slowed to glance up. An owl perched on the branch. A big owl. She smiled to herself. She'd heard the
hoo-hoohoohoo-hoo-OO-hoo
of the great horned owl at twilight. She felt privileged to see—

Cam cried out at a crunching sound. The crust of snow broke through into the icy water of a small stream that wound through the woods. Cam's right ski caught and twisted sideways. She fell onto her right hip, landing on a stump that stuck up out of the snow. Her other ski jutted off at an odd angle, twisting her left knee into a configuration God hadn't designed it for. With the new snow, she must have missed the path where it curved over the stream on a wide fallen log.

She swore. Her right foot and her entire right ski sat in the water. Maneuvering her pole to click the boot out of the binding, she kept missing the right position and leverage. Having extra-long legs didn't help in this predicament, and neither did the lack of automatic-release bindings on cross-country skis. She aimed the pole at the left binding and succeeded in freeing that boot, which let her straighten her knee. It throbbed, and she hoped she hadn't seriously damaged it. She poked at the right binding again until it gave way, then grabbed a branch and dragged herself to standing on the slope next to the stream.

Her cell phone rang in her pocket.
Sheesh.
Cam bit her right mitten and dragged it off her hand. She glanced at the caller ID.
Jake?
She connected the call.

“Jake? Where are you?”

“At home in Uppsala. I miss you.”

Cam squeezed her eyes shut for a second. She reopened them. “I hope you're well. But I can't talk right now.”

“I suppose you're busy with your cop.” His voice sounded sad even from thousands of miles away.

“No, I'm actually out skiing in the woods. By myself. But I just fell into a stream. And my foot is cold, so I have to go. I'll call you another time.”

“Take care, Cam. Go get warm.” He disconnected.

Cam sighed. She glanced at the time before she stuck the phone in her pocket and pulled her mitten back on. Jake had been sweet to her much of the time. He excelled as a chef. They had a strong attraction to each other. But a volatile temper and unpredictable reactions were not what she wanted from a partner. She hoped he could get over her.

But right now, if she didn't return to the farm and get changed, she'd never get all the food together and delivered to Moran Manor in time. She used a pole to lift the ski out of the water. She lined both up on the path toward home and clicked her boot into the left binding. She put the toe of her right boot into the binding, her toes numbing in the ice water that had seeped inside, but the boot wouldn't click in. First the ski slipped on the snow. Then she realized stream water had frozen inside the binding. She scraped it out with the pole's tip and tried again. The boot would not attach.

She swore again. What a time for her old bindings to give way. She had to get back home. She clicked the left binding open, releasing her boot, and hoisted the skis and poles on her shoulder. Heading for home, she tramped along the trail, in the tracks, her right foot barely sensate, her feet sinking into the path with each step. Which ruined the ski tracks, but it couldn't be helped. The snow next to the path was so deep, it would mean even more exertion.

When she cleared the woods, she paused to catch her breath. A nearly silent whoosh sounded above her, and she caught a shadow moving on the snow. She darted her gaze to the sky. The great horned owl flew along the border of the trees, its powerful wings beating slowly, quietly. A mouse struggled, the last movements of its life, in the predator's powerful talons.

C
am glanced at the clock on her kitchen wall when she made it back to the house. Eleven o'clock. She pressed Lucinda DaSilva's number. “If you could come over right away to help me, I'll owe you big-time.” She disconnected after Lucinda said she would be over. Less than three hours to harvest several of the ingredients, pull together the rest from storage, and deliver it all to the cook at Moran Manor.

She pulled off her pants and socks, despite still feeling sweaty from the exertion of the hike home. Her foot was red from the ice water, so she rubbed it with bare hands until it regained feeling. At least it didn't show the yellow-white color of frostbite. Her knee ached a bit, and her hip would have a big bruise on it tomorrow, but overall the health inventory was positive. She donned dry pants, thick wool socks, and her snow boots, then downed a glass of water and grabbed a muffin. The combination of the exercise and the fresh, cold air had worked its usual magic. She felt calm and energized, like she could meet whatever the world brought, even falling into a creek and breaking a binding.

As she headed for the barn, an old blue Civic pulled into the drive. Lucinda climbed out, wearing a yellow down jacket, jeans, and sturdy boots.

“Fazendeira,
” Lucinda called out, using the Portuguese word for
farmer,
her nickname for Cam. “I'm here.”

“Thanks for coming.” Cam set her hands on her hips and smiled at the Brazilian, her friend and favorite volunteer. “You're rescuing me.”

Lucinda waved a hand encased in a rainbow-striped glove. “Now that I got a job as a librarian, I miss working on the farm.”

“I'm glad you're not cleaning houses anymore, but I miss working with you, too. How's the job going?”

“Those private school teenagers think they're a little bit entitled. But they're smart, mostly, and the headmaster likes what I'm doing. So far.” She pulled a multicolored knit hat a little farther down on her mass of black curls. “What's the chore list for today? I can give you two hours, until I have to go in and work Sunday study hall.”

Cam explained the Moran Manor dinner. “Help me cut greens in the hoop house, and we can talk while we work.”

“Lead the way.”

The two women grabbed scissors and baskets in the barn and trudged to the hoop house. Cam carefully shut the door behind them. The three-foot-wide beds of greens stretched in front of them the full length of the structure. Bright green baby arugula, reddish-green kale, dark green mâche, each row with knee-high mini hoops placed every couple of feet. The bunched-up white row cover ran down the middle. The small electric motor that blew air between the layers of plastic overhead hummed. The air smelled damp and earthy, and Cam welcomed the warmer temperature now that her sweat was drying and chilling her.

As they stooped to cut, Cam told Lucinda about falling into the stream. “That frigid water about did me in.”

“This skiing thing? I don't get it. Where I come from, we like to be real warm. We don't have any snow in Brazil, except on the high plateaus way in the south.”

“Well, I love it. You can't beat it for exercise, and the woods are quiet and beautiful, covered in snow.”

“Until the ice gives way under it, you mean.” Lucinda held a finger up. “Hey, I saw a news article about an herbicide last week. I've been doing a bit of research in the library when it's not busy.”

“The one about G-Phos? I heard a bit on the news but never got around to reading the paper that day.”

Lucinda nodded. “Conventional farms use it to kill weeds.” She straightened and stretched. “The main chemical is glyphosate. There's studies that show it causes Alzheimer's disease and other old-people problems. It looks like it's responsible for killing all those honeybees lately, too.”

“That's the reason I farm organically. I have lots of reasons, actually, but that's one of them.” Cam worked in silence for a moment. “Can you imagine? You work trying to grow food for people, and instead you're poisoning them. And yourself.”

“That's why I eat local food. I can see what the farmer's putting on it. I can buy something labeled organic from California, but I have no idea how it was grown.”

Cam frowned and stopped cutting.

“What?” Lucinda asked.

“Mr. Slavin. You know, Felicity's father. He has Alzheimer's. And he had a career as a landscaper. I bet he sprayed a ton of that stuff in his lifetime.”

“Bad news.” Lucinda shook her head. “The study said they have a blood test for it.”

“I wonder if Felicity knows. I'd much rather have a few weeds than add that kind of chemical to my soil and body.”

“You know what they say. Weeds are only a plant you don't want.”

It took an hour to cut the greens in the hoop house, even with Lucinda's help. They had to bend over and cut carefully, and Cam's back ached before they were done. They moved on to the leeks. Even though she'd loosened them in their beds and mulched them heavily before the ground froze, they were difficult to get out intact. When they got to the rosemary, half of it was frozen, despite the mini hoop house she'd erected over the perennial herb bed so she could continue to cut during the cold months.

 

Two hours later
calm
and
energized
no longer described Cam. She'd worked too hard, too fast, on top of the skiing and slogging through the snow on foot. Her head pounded, and her hands ached from the cold. Lots of farm tasks didn't mesh well with wearing gloves, like using scissors to cut greens. She'd cut the tips off of a pair of gloves, but it meant the ends of her fingers stayed chilled. A lot rode on this dinner going well, and she worried the amount of food she'd gathered wouldn't be sufficient for Moran Manor. She hadn't stored as many squash in the root cellar as she had thought, but what she had would have to suffice.

She loaded everything into the rear of the truck. Getting that used cap to cover the bed of the old Ford had turned out to be a brilliant business decision. No snow clogged the bed of the truck, and whatever she hauled didn't blow around when she drove.

She headed to the house. She didn't have time for a shower, but she could at least wash up and swap these work clothes for a fresh set. First, she checked her list for the dinner. As a former geek, she was grateful for possessing the organization gene. Root crops: check. Greens: check. Herbs: check. Onions and garlic: check.
Oh. The frozen goods.
She headed for the chest freezer in the basement and brought up a cooler packed with bags of frozen kale, a pint of her own pesto, and a bag holding two bright orange habanero peppers. She loaded it into the truck, then dashed into the house to change. She'd barely get there in time.

“A
bout time.”

Cam glanced up as she set a carton of acorn squash on the counter of the Moran Manor kitchen.

The cook folded her arms. “I'm Rosemary. We spoke on the phone.” A white chef's uniform encased her robust figure, and a floppy white toque mostly tamed her blond hair.

“Nice to meet you in person.” Cam smiled, trying to squash the butterflies in her stomach. What if the chef didn't approve of the quality of the vegetables? Or didn't deem the stew recipe appropriate?

Rosemary watched Cam set out the produce on the stainless-steel island. Besides the squash, which Rosemary planned to stuff and bake, Cam lifted a bag of leeks. She added a box of parsnips, carrots, and potatoes for the hearty stew. The onions and garlic went next to them, along with several big bags of cold-hardy salad greens. Cam left the basket of apples from a neighboring farm on the floor.

“How does it look?” Cam stroked the round ridges on one of the nearly black squashes. “The frozen stuff is in this cooler.” She pointed.

“Should be all right. Though they won't like those dark green greens. Old people are kind of particular about their salads.” She pulled her mouth and raised one eyebrow.

“That's the easiest kind to grow in the winter.”

“I expect half of those'll come right back, untouched. But, hey, we compost here.”

“You do?”

“Your great-uncle pushed it through. I didn't much like it at first, but now, well, it's a better use than throwing food in the trash. Saves the facility money, as well.”

Cam nodded. “Here's the stew recipe I proposed.” She extracted a couple of sheets of paper from her bag and slid them across the island to Rosemary. “And the one for the apple-almond cake.”

The cook pulled reading glasses out of a pocket in her apron. She perused the recipes. “Pesto?”

“I brought a pint. It adds nice flavor and also thickens the stew a bit.”

“We'll see.”

“That cake recipe is delicious.” Cam checked the cloth bag at her feet. “Oh, I almost forgot the herbs.” She extracted rubber-banded bunches of rosemary and sage and laid them on the island. She frowned at the rosemary. Freezing hadn't treated it well. She hoped it retained its flavor.

Rosemary scrubbed her hands at a deep stainless-steel sink and then pulled on a pair of thin gloves of the type medical personnel used. Without turning, she said, “I'll let you know how it goes.”

“Thanks.” Clearly dismissed, Cam grabbed her bag and left the kitchen. She stood in the open hallway for a moment, glad to be done with that encounter. Adding a contract with the Manor for the summer would increase her workload, but it would also be a guaranteed income. If this dinner succeeded, she could expect more financial stability, always a benefit for a small farmer. But then she'd need to hire someone to help her.

The reception desk in the lobby was to her left; the stairway up to Albert's room, to her right. Cam couldn't decide if she should pop up for a visit or just go home and collapse. Ellie came bounding down the stairs.

Cam greeted the girl. “Working again?”

“Yeah. Hey, I saw your great-uncle in the common room a little while ago. He's about to start a game.”

Cam entered the big, sunny space to see the woman who had been doing needlepoint the day before sitting across a table from Albert, with a Scrabble board in the middle.

“Cameron, join us in a game,” Albert called. “Have you met Marilyn Muller?” He introduced Cam to the woman.

“It's nice to meet you, Marilyn.” Cam shook Marilyn's hand, which was knobby with arthritis.

“I'm happy to meet a relative of Albert's. Will you play?” Marilyn gestured at the board, one of the deluxe models that sat on a turntable and had little ridges around the squares so the tiles didn't slip out of place.

Cam checked the big analog wall clock. “Sure. I'd love to.” She sat.

“What brings you over again so soon?” Albert asked. He rearranged the tiles on his rack.

“For the dinner I'm supplying the produce for, remember? But I kind of fell into a stream while I skied in the woods this morning, and then my binding broke. I had to really hustle to get everything picked and assembled.”

“Marilyn, Cameron here took over my farm, and she grew all the vegetables for tonight's dinner. I'm sure it will be fine, my dear,” he said to Cam.

“I certainly hope so.”

“You look like you might benefit from an adult beverage. Since it's Sunday afternoon, they set out the happy hour supplies early.” He pointed to the sideboard, where bottles of red and white wines stood ready to be poured. A tray of wineglasses sat near a jug of cider, and snack-sized bags of chips and nuts nestled in a big bowl. “Help yourself, and also bring over a glass of white for me.”

“Marilyn, would you like one?” Cam glanced at the woman.

“Oh, no, not at all. I'll take a glass of the apple cider, though, if it's not too much trouble.”

“I'll get that for you.” Cam noticed a red walker standing behind Marilyn's chair. She delivered the cider and the white wine to the table, and returned to pour a glass of red for herself. She grabbed a few bags of snacks, too. The little touches, like early happy hour and real glasses instead of plastic cups, set Moran Manor apart from some other facilities.

They played and chatted for two hours. Cam refilled their drinks once and munched on the snacks, since she'd missed lunch.

Marilyn tried a couple of bluffs on them.

“Blimpy.” She smiled, with a twinkle in her eyes. “You know, when you feel kind of bloated, you feel blimpy.” But she also seemed to possess the contents of the entire Scrabble dictionary in her head, using a two-letter word like
jo
and combining it with a “triple word score” space and an existing word to soar ahead on the score sheet.

Albert was no slouch at the game, either. He and Marilyn bantered like old friends, or maybe their interaction had become more than that, Cam realized.
Good for him.
Marie had passed away three years earlier. He deserved a new romance in his life.

Oscar pushed a resident in a wheelchair into the room and deposited him in front of the television, which played a black-and-white movie at low volume. From the man's closed eyes, it didn't seem like he would care one way or the other. Oscar stopped by the Scrabble game on his way out.

“Nice board.”

Albert greeted him. “Do you play?”

“My children's school uses it in the after-school program to help kids with their English reading and spelling skills.” He leaned down, pointed to something on Albert's rack, and whispered in his ear.

“Young man, I thank you.” Albert winked at him and rubbed his hands together before Oscar strolled away.

This was a different side of Oscar than what Cam had seen in the kitchen. She was losing miserably and didn't care. Her worries about the dinner were melting away, too. The game was down to the last tiles when Cam spied Frank Jackson through the wide doorway. He stood at the reception desk a few yards away, even thinner than the last time Cam had seen him. Frank was the estranged husband of Cam's childhood friend, Ruth Dodge, and the father of their twin daughters. He'd gotten so deep into the activities of the Patriotic Militia that he'd left Ruth and the girls the previous summer. Ruth, an officer in the local police force, hadn't heard from him since, and she'd said nobody had seen him around town. Cam would have to tell her he'd shown up here.

“I need to talk to Bev Montgomery.” His voice resonated in the high-ceilinged lobby.

Heads in the common room turned in that direction. Albert raised his eyebrows but kept his gaze on the board. It was his turn to play, and his score hovered only a few points away from beating Marilyn's.

The receptionist said something Cam couldn't make out.

“Just give me her room number.”

The receptionist spoke again. She shook her head, then picked up the phone on the desk.

Frank stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He paced back and forth in front of the desk. His straggly ponytail hung over a wool pea coat, and his boots left tracks of snow on the carpet.

The director emerged from his office.
Jim Cooper working on a Sunday?

“Frank.” Jim extended his hand, his hearty greeting extending to where Cam sat. “We love the picture.” He waved his other hand at a large sepia-toned photograph behind the receptionist's desk.

Frank pulled his hand out of his pocket and shook with Jim. “Thanks. Doing them keeps me sane.” He seemed to calm down in Jim's presence.

“I'd buy one in each season if you can produce them.”

“Shouldn't be a problem. You know, I use real film. And a darkroom. Makes me old-fashioned, but I believe it makes a better picture.”

Cam hadn't ever taken a close look at the picture and reminded herself to check it out when she left.

Albert nudged Cam's elbow and pointed to the Scrabble board. “Your turn, dear.”

Cam was studying her tiles when Ellie sauntered over. She leaned over Cam's shoulder.

“You're in bad shape.” Ellie pointed at Cam's tiles.

“Don't I know it.” Cam added an
s
to
bottle
for a pitiful score of nine. She glanced up to see Bev stomping down the stairs.

“What are you doing here?” Bev glared at Frank.

“We need to—”

“No, we don't.” She turned to go.

Frank reached for her arm. She shook him off, but he leaned toward her. He put his hand between his mouth and her ear and said something. Bev's eyes widened. She cast a quick glance around. When she saw Cam watching, she scowled but returned her gaze to Frank.

“All right. But only for a minute.” She headed for the stairs. Frank followed close behind.

“Who's that dude?” Ellie asked in a low voice.

“Frank Jackson. You remember Ruth Dodge, right? It's her husband. Sort of.” Seeing Frank with Bev flooded Cam's brain with memories from the preceding spring. Most of them not very nice ones.

“Bingo, and out,” Marilyn declared.

Cam looked back at the board. Marilyn had played all seven of her remaining tiles, spelling
braised.

“That's ten, plus eight, plus fifty for the bingo.”

Cam picked up the bag of tiles and jiggled it. Empty. Albert groaned, but the sound held a hint of delight at his friend's triumph.

He took the last sip of his wine. “Congratulations, my dear. How many wins in a row is that?”

“I shouldn't keep track.” Her blue eyes smiled under long, curly lashes. “But since you ask, eight since we started playing. You won the first three, don't forget.” Marilyn's round cheeks pinkened. Cam would have to ask Albert sometime why she needed the walker.

“You did that like butter, Mrs. Muller.” Ellie nodded and gave a thumbs-up gesture to Marilyn.

“Thank you, young lady.”

Cam's phone buzzed in her bag. She retrieved it and checked the new text message. “Oh, no.”

“What's wrong?” Albert's forehead creased.

Cam pushed her chair back and stood. “I have a dinner date, and I lost track of time. Good thing he asked me to pick up a bottle of wine.” She glanced at the time on the phone. “I'll barely have time to get home and put the chickens in for the night.”

“Off you go, then.”

“This was really fun. I very much enjoyed meeting you, Marilyn.” Touching Marilyn's shoulder, Cam leaned down to give Albert a kiss.

“We'll do it again,” Marilyn said.

Albert nodded with a smile. He covered Marilyn's hand with his own.

“See you, Ellie,” Cam called, walking out of the room.

Should she pop into the kitchen and see how the meal preparation was going? No, she needed to get home and then to Pete's, and she didn't imagine Rosemary would appreciate the visit, anyway. On her way, she paused at the receptionist's desk to sign out and then remembered she'd brought the vegetables in through the back door to the kitchen. She glanced up at the framed picture, a striking photograph of Moran Manor in the fall. Leaves in different shades clung to the trees, and pots of mums lined the walkway. The yellowy-brown sepia tint gave the picture a timeless feel, despite showing the residence's modern ramp railings and double-hung windows. If Frank had created this, he had real talent. Ruth had never mentioned her husband's photography.

She headed for the front door. She was about to reach for the handle when the door began to swing open, so she stepped away.

“Excuse me.” Ginger Montgomery sailed in with a rush of cold air, nearly whacking Cam with the door. The beret perched on Ginger's head matched her white quilted jacket. “I'm going up to see my mother,” she told the receptionist in an imperious tone and swept up the stairs. The scent she wore trailed behind her.

Cam could only imagine the fireworks that might be shooting out of Bev's room in a minute. She imagined the pyrotechnic combination of Bev, Frank, and Ginger could be downright lethal.