Farmed and Dangerous (4 page)

“Y
ou should have seen that silly hen,” Cam said to Pete an hour later. She perched on a stool at the island in his kitchen and watched his smooth-skinned hands chop vegetables. “TopKnot just stood there in the cold. The true definition of a pea brain.” She‘d been only a few minutes late, since the farm lay between Moran Manor and Pete's apartment in nearby Newburyport. She'd raced through a quick shower at home, too, since she hadn't had time earlier.

“I have my mother's recipe for avgolemono. Lemon chicken soup would work just as well with a frozen chicken—”

“Pete Pappas.” Cam shook her finger at him. “Don't you even consider cooking poor, stupid TopKnot.” She sipped the red wine he'd poured into a wide-bowled glass for her.

“Just saying.” He waved the knife he held in the air with a wicked smile.

“What's on the menu for tonight?”

“Nonlocal lamb chops. My special Greek nonlocal eggplant-tomato bake and nonlocal potatoes.” He frowned playfully. “Can you manage to eat it?”

“Of course I can. I don't really care if it's local or not. I know several of my customers go a little, shall we say, overboard in wanting to eat only local foods. But, hey, if they want it, I'll grow it. Whatever helps the bottom line.”

Pete nodded.

“Speaking of that, the president of the Locavore Club came by to help me today,” Cam said.

“Lucinda?”

Cam nodded. “Her new job is great for her, but she misses working on the farm.” Pete and Lucinda had had a run-in the previous June, but they'd come to a wary peace since then.

“And how are things over at the Manor? You said you were providing dinner ingredients.”

“I did. They should be eating the dinner right now.” She filled him in on Bev's adjustment to communal living, or lack of it. “She's still pretty mad at me about the hens and what she describes as me stealing her customers.” She took another sip of wine. “And Frank Jackson dropped by to see Bev today. She didn't appear overly happy to see him.”

Pete's heavy dark eyebrows went up. “That's very interesting. I wonder where he's living these days.”

“No idea. Last time I talked with Ruth, she didn't know, either.”

Pete slid a casserole into the oven and set a timer. He picked up his own glass of wine and came around the island. A pink oxford shirt warmed his Mediterranean coloring, and he appeared more relaxed than Cam had ever seen him, the skin around his deep brown eyes not showing the tension it often did.

“Thirty minutes. Come sit on the couch with me.” He put his free arm around her and leaned in for a long kiss.

When they came up for air, Cam said, “What did you say about a couch?” She slid off her stool. Her five feet eleven made her two inches taller than Pete. He didn't seem to mind at all, and neither did she. Jake stood half a foot taller than her, and while she'd liked that aspect of their relationship—she rarely found a man she physically looked up to—the rest of her dealings with Jake had been so stormy, she couldn't handle it.

They made their way to the sofa, which faced a bay window. The kitchen and living room occupied a single space in the apartment Pete had moved into last summer, after his marriage had ended. A framed photograph on the wall portrayed a sunny, whitewashed Greek village on a hillside above the sea. The houses wore blue doors and shutters. An herb garden filled one of the yards. Cam could almost taste the olives and the freshly caught fish grilled with rosemary and oregano. Pete sat next to her, and Cam laid her hand on the soft fabric of his faded jeans.

“Guess what?” Pete poked her gently in the ribs with his elbow.

Cam shook her head. “Surprise me.”

“I get Dasha for a week, starting tomorrow. Alicia has to go out of town.” His smile reflected sadness. “I'm at peace with being divorced—I don't miss being married to Alicia at all. But I miss that dog something awful.”

“Remind me what kind of dog it is.”

“He's sort of a Siberian mutt. His markings and build are mostly like a husky's. He's smart and clean, but one of his parents must have been another breed, because his coloring isn't typical and he's shorter than most.”

“You should have gotten custody of him. I thought you said your ex doesn't even like dogs.”

He nodded. “She pulled a power trip. I told you, I didn't want to fight her about anything. That's why she's in our lovely house and I'm in this little rental apartment.”

“It's big enough for you, isn't it?” Cam squeezed his hand. “It's a lovely place.” The wide pine floors shone, and early-twentieth-century woodwork lined the doorways and windows. A graceful arched doorway led to a small hall, off of which lay the bathroom and the single bedroom. It was the top half of a ninety-year-old house that sat at the end of a dead-end road in Newburyport, which made for quiet surroundings.

“It's fine for now.” He gazed out the window, into the darkness.

The timer dinged. Pete moved to the kitchen. He took the casserole and another dish out of the oven and put something else in, changing the oven setting. He set the small table with blue place mats and napkins and added silverware and plates.

“Let me help.”

“Sure. Bring the wine to the table and light the candles. And then sit down.” He placed the two dishes from the oven on cork trivets. He removed a broiler pan from the oven and brought over a plate heaped with small lamb chops, then sank into the chair across from her.

“This looks wonderful.” Cam inhaled the aromas of the meal. “And it smells like Greece must.”

Pete served her a portion of the eggplant casserole, with tomatoes oozing juice and melted feta cheese on the top, along with a heaping spoonful of scalloped potatoes and a lamb chop.

She cut a bite of lamb and savored it. “Oh, my, Detective. What did you do to make this so delicious?”

“Olive oil—the real stuff—plus lemon juice, salt, and oregano. Broiled.” He smiled. “The best meat is next to the bone, you know. I get these from the butcher down in Rowley.”

“So the meat is local, after all.”

He smiled. “Could be. I didn't ask.”

“We can save the bones for Dasha. Will he like them?”

“You don't know much about dogs, do you? Bones like that can splinter and kill a dog.”

“You're right. I don't.” Cam had never had a dog, but any dog so dear to Pete's heart as this one was an animal she might as well get to know. She only hoped Dasha didn't habitually jump up and stick his nose in one's crotch.

They ate and talked for some minutes. The candles bathed the table in a glow as soft as fresh snow. When they'd finished, Cam started to stand to clear the table, but Pete put his hand up.

“I'm doing all the work tonight. You just sit there and look beautiful.” He winked at her.

She wasn't sure she quite qualified as beautiful, but she looked as good as she ever had. Fresh air and honest physical work were a much better beauty treatment than sitting in a cubicle all day, every day.

He cleared the dishes and brought out two pieces of baklava. It oozed honey and bits of walnuts from a flaky crust.

“I love this,” Cam said.

“Not homemade, but I get it from Iris's Greek bakery in Ashford. It's almost like my mother used to make.”

She was biting into her portion when a staticky sound came from the hallway. Pete turned his head sharply.

“The police scanner. I need to check that.” He rose and disappeared down the hall. He returned a minute later, carrying a black device that reminded Cam of an old walkie-talkie. A thick antenna stuck out of the top, along with a knob. He set it on the table and fiddled with the knob before sitting.

More static erupted, and then a tinny voice.

“Unattended death, code seventy-nine. Repeat. Unattended death of elderly resident, code seventy-nine.”

Pete frowned. He drummed the table with his fingers.

The voice continued. “Location, Forty-four Maple Way, Westbury. Car thirty-two, come in, please. EMT, come in, please.”

Cam gazed at Pete. She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hand.

He listened to more of the transmission until it returned to static. He turned a knob and reduced the volume.

“This isn't good,” he muttered.

“I know it isn't. That address is Moran Manor.” Cam's heart thudded in her chest. “What if it's Uncle Albert?”

Pete gazed into Cam's face. “Any idea what a code seventy-nine is?”

“None.”

“Unattended deaths must be checked out every time. Code seventy-nine means there is also a report of suspicious behavior.”

“You mean murder,” she whispered.

“I
need to call Uncle Albert.” Cam glanced at the clock. “It's almost seven. He's probably still at dinner. But what if—” Her throat thickened. Tears threatened to fill her eyes. Her emotional ties to her great-uncle were stronger than to her own parents.

“I'm sure it's not him, Cam.” Pete put his arms around her for a moment. “But why don't you call, anyway?” He stood and paced to the window and back, his brow furrowed.

Cam picked up her bag and dug out her cell phone. She took a deep breath, wiped her cheeks, pressed Albert's number. His line rang six times and then went to voice mail. “Albert, please call me as soon as you get this message,” she said, trying to keep the worry out of her voice. She disconnected and remained standing.

Pete paced some more.

Cam watched him. “If it's murder, you'll be investigating, right?” She clutched the phone.

“I have to wait for them to call me. The Westbury department responds first, but as you know, they're too small to be able to muster sufficient resources.”

“To investigate a murder. So they call the state police. I know. I sort of wish I didn't.” If someone had been murdered, it would be the third time in a year in the small town. At least this death didn't have anything to do with her farm. Unless . . . the person died from eating her produce. Then it absolutely involved her.

“I need to go to Moran Manor.” She slung her bag over her shoulder as she glanced at the door. “Everybody there ate my produce for dinner. What if something was spoiled?”

“You won't be able to do anything there, and they probably wouldn't even let you in. Let's finish our dessert.” He reached for her hand and led her to the table.

Cam only picked at hers. “It's delicious. But I'm so worried about Albert, I can't really enjoy it. I'm sorry.”

“Cameron, I'm the one who's sorry. I wanted us to have a quiet, intimate night.” He covered her hand with his. “But that phone's going to ring any minute now, and when it does, I'm out of here.”

When they were done, he fixed small, sweet Greek coffees. They sat on the couch to drink them. Cam laid her phone carefully on the coffee table. She took one sip from her cup and set it down.

“That's fabulous. But I'll never sleep if I finish it.”

Pete nodded. “That's sort of my plan. And I'll drink yours, too.” His knee jittered up and down.

Cam's stomach roiled. Why hadn't Albert returned her call?

“Maybe the Westbury police decided the behavior wasn't suspicious, after all,” she said. “Maybe a ninety-three-year-old simply died in her sleep, unattended.”

Her phone rang. She picked it up from the table and fumbled to connect, dropping it in the process. Pete retrieved it for her in one swift scoop. She pressed SEND just in time.

“Cameron?”

She closed her eyes in gratitude. “Uncle Albert. I'm so glad you're all right.”

“Of course I am. I was at dinner. I do eat dinner every day, my dear.”

“We—” She opened her eyes again at Pete's tapping her arm.

He shook his head with a quick move.

“I heard some commotion here tonight, though,” Albert said. “An ambulance took someone away. Not certain who. I saw Ruthie Dodge, too. Now, why did you call? Is everything all right with you?”

“I'm fine. I wanted to—” Cam racked her brain. “To say what a good time I had playing Scrabble with you and Marilyn this afternoon. She seems sweet. And smart.”

“She's quite the gal, I agree. We've taken to dining together every evening. You'll join us sometime soon, I hope.”

“Of course.”

“The dinner tasted fine, by the way. Very nice winter stew, excellent stuffed squash. Not many residents partook of the salad, but Marilyn and I very much enjoyed it. The almonds in it were a nice touch. And the apple-almond cake? A perfect ending.”

“I forgot to even ask. I'm glad it went well. The cook must have decided to throw in the almonds on the salad. Nonlocal ones, of course.”

“I should think the residence will want to buy from you regularly once the season gets under way. But that's not my decision, of course.”

“Thanks. Well, good night, Uncle Albert.”

He said good night and disconnected.

“Sorry. Rules of conduct.” Pete let out a heavy breath. “Don't share scanner news with civilians. Which you are.” He drummed his fingers on his knee. “It won't be easy hanging out with me, Cam. You might want to reconsider this, whatever we're doing.”

“I quite like this
whatever.
” Cam snuggled into his arm. The poor soul at Moran Manor wasn't Albert or, apparently, Marilyn. Cam's jitters were gone. She noticed that Pete's weren't. His work still loomed.

“He didn't know who died, I gather?” he asked.

“No. He said an ambulance had taken someone away. Oh, and that Ruth Dodge is there.”

He nodded. “She must be the officer on duty tonight. You're friends with her. Remind me how you know her.”

“I spent every summer with Great-Aunt Marie and Great-Uncle Albert. I stayed with them on the farm from the time I was six until I went off to college. Ruth grew up nearby, and we played together all summer long. Playing when we were teenagers involved hanging out at Salisbury Beach and hunting for boys, of course, and getting in various kinds of minor trouble.”

“Minor trouble?”

Cam snorted. “I was the foolish geek, and she was the clown, but a sensible clown who kept our trouble to the minor sort.”

Pete's phone sat on the coffee table. It vibrated twice, then twice again, then twice again. He gave Cam a baleful glance and sat forward to answer it.

“Pappas.” He listened for a moment. “I'll be there in twenty. Thank you, Officer.” He disconnected. “The life of a statie is never really his own. I hope you can get used to this.” He held out his arms to Cam.

She sank into them. She burrowed her face into his neck and inhaled his scent—a combination of olive oil, aftershave, and man—and murmured, “I have so far.”

He kissed her and then untangled the two of them. He tossed down the rest of both coffees.

“I'll clean up in the kitchen,” Cam said. “You go on.”

“You're a treasure.” He squeezed her hand and stood.

“Call me when you can.” She also stood. “And stay safe.”

“You give me great motivation to do exactly that.”

 

“I know Frank,” Cam said to Ruth Dodge over the telephone line. She'd called her the moment she arrived home from Pete's at a little after eight. “I'm not mistaken.” She leaned over from where she sat on her couch to stroke Preston as she spoke.

“I haven't seen him or heard from him since last summer. Did you get any idea of where he's been living, or what he's living on, for that matter?”

“No. I didn't talk to him directly. He sort of demanded to see Bev Montgomery.”

Ruth didn't respond for a moment. “That's interesting,” she said at last.

“I didn't realize he did art photography. He has a real talent for it.”

“What?”

“There's a black-and-white photograph of Moran Manor hanging in the lobby there,” Cam said. “It's a fall shot, sort of sepia toned. It's really nice, a very artistic shot.”

“Huh. He did photography when we first met. He's very creative. He used the darkroom at the community college. He shot a dozen stunning portraits of the girls when they were toddlers. But so far as I know, he hasn't touched it in several years.”

“The director over at Moran asked him to do more. The rest of the seasons.”

“I'm gobsmacked, as my Australian friend says. I wonder where he is. . . .” Ruth's voice trailed off.

“Albert said that they took someone away from Moran Manor in an ambulance tonight and that you were there. What's going on?”

Cam heard voices in the background.

“Hey, I have to go,” Ruth said. “I'm actually at work. Just took a break to answer your call.”

“I'll let you know if I see Frank again.”

“Thanks. I'd appreciate that. Let's fit in a glass of wine one of these days. It's been a while.”

Cam agreed and disconnected. Ruth and Frank had seemed pretty happy when they married—Cam had attended the wedding—and now Ruth didn't even know his address or that he sold high-quality photographs.
What a shame.
Not every marriage was destined for sixty years together, like Albert and Marie's, she supposed. Cam realized Ruth hadn't told her what had happened at the residence, either.

 

Cam answered her ringing cell phone out of a deep sleep the next morning.

“Beverly Montgomery is dead. At Moran Manor.” Pete's voice on the phone sounded terse.

“That's terrible.” She glanced at the clock by her bed. Six thirty and still winter dark outside. “Did she have a heart attack or something?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.” He cleared his throat.

Someone must be standing nearby. “What about the suspicious behavior?”

“I need a favor from you.”

So he didn't want to talk about the death. “What's the favor?”

“I told you I was getting Dasha for the week. I can't be there this morning when Alicia drops him off. Would you, please, go over to my apartment and meet her, and then bring him to the farm? I'll get him sometime later today.”

A dog on the farm? How would Preston react?
Yikes.
“Sure. What time? And will she know who I am?”

“I'll tell her. She wanted to hand him off at eight o'clock.”

“I've got it. Don't worry.” She swallowed. She definitely wasn't a dog person.

“Thank you. I owe you one.” He disconnected.

Now she was wide awake. She'd asked him to call, and he had. Bev Montgomery had died. The woman had been unhappy and unpleasant, but she'd been relatively young, in her late sixties, Cam thought. A premature death.

She stretched in her bed in the same room she had stayed in as a child and teenager for all those summers. She'd painted it when she moved in over a year ago. White trim set off walls in a pale shade of rose that picked up one of the colors in the braided rag rug on the wide pine floors. A refinished antique bureau sat against the wall, and Great-Aunt Marie's little white wicker rocking chair occupied a corner. Cam's ancient stuffed lion sat in it, reigning over the room. Her parents had brought the lion back from one of their anthropological sojourns to southern Africa. Cam expected they bought it at the airport before they left the country. Despite the fresh paint and the new bedding, she still inhaled the aroma of the old house: dry wood, a hint of lilac, and memories.

Her copy of Albert and Marie's black-and-white wedding picture sat on the bureau. Marie smiled directly into the camera, slim and lovely in a simple white wedding dress with sleeves and a neck of lace. Albert, in a dark suit and tie and not yet displaying the stocky build of a farmer, beamed at his bride. They'd had a long and happy marriage, and Marie had lived into her eighties before dying from pancreatic cancer. The diagnosis had come so late that no treatment would have been effective. The illness was short and not overly painful, but it gave Marie time to say good-bye to her loved ones.

Albert had told Cam once that Bev had been incredibly kind and helpful to both of them while Marie lay dying. When Bev wasn't tending to Marie, she cooked meals or helped Albert with the farm chores. He'd seen through Bev's cantankerous attitude to a good heart within. Now Bev was dead, without her own chance to live into her eighties.