Farm Fresh Murder (14 page)

Yale Avenue was similar to Harvard in that trees and big,
beautiful older homes lined the street. But there was one house on Yale that stood out from the others.

Abner’s sister’s house was small and squat. It was adorable, but still small compared to the others surrounding it. It looked like a dollhouse cottage with its clean brick exterior and soft pink painted trim.

I had no idea what I was going to say to Ms. Helen Justen as I climbed the steps and knocked on the screen door that had a puppy figure sculpted from thick aluminum in the middle of it.

I heard and felt the fast pitter-patter of someone running to the door. It swung open and a very old woman with wild hair and a wild look in her eyes said, “I’m busy in the kitchen with my preserves. Who are you, and what do you want?”

“Ms. Justen, my name is Becca Robins. I happen to know a few things about preserves. Would you like some help?”

“Abner’s friend Becca?”

“That’s me.”

“Come in and back to the kitchen.” Helen turned and hurried away. Her flowered housedress flapped behind her, and her pink slippers sent sparks of static electricity up from the shag carpet.

I was impressed with the timing of my visit as I entered the house. I couldn’t think of another time in my life when I’d happened upon a preserve “situation.” I hurried back to the kitchen, but not without first noticing all the pink: pink furniture, pink pillows, pink knickknacks. Everything was neat and well placed, and somehow didn’t remind me of Pepto Bismol.

“I’m stirring,” Helen said as she looked up from a large pot. “I’m close to the boil.” Even though she was old and small, there was nothing feeble about her.

“Smells good. Where’s the pectin?”

“Over there.” She pointed to a counter on the other side of the small kitchen. I grabbed the pectin and took it to her.

“Thanks, dear.” Helen smiled. “So, you’re Abner’s Becca? I’ve heard so darn much about you. All good. Abner thinks you’re the cat’s pajamas.”

I laughed. “Abner and I are very good friends. He helped me a bunch when I first started my business.”

“Really? That proves it, then—he adores you. He’s not one to offer help very much.”

“I think you’re boiling,” I said, looking down into the pot.

“So I am. Dump that pectin right in. I’ll keep stirring.”

I dumped as she stirred. We both looked at the beautiful red mixture.

“Strawberry, huh?” I said.

“Yes, a friend has some of those plants that have more than one crop a year. I think she said she has three full crops—you heard of those?”

“Sure. I don’t have that kind, though. I think they’re called Everbearing. My plants just bear fruit one time per year.”

“What’s the difference?” she asked as we watched for the mixture to come to a rolling boil again.

I shrugged. “My plants have longer runners—vines. Some say there’s a different taste, but I think if you take care of your plants, the berries can all taste great.”

“Boiling. One more minute.” Helen pushed a button on the stove, and the timer showed the number 1.

I hadn’t timed this last boil for years. I’d developed an inner timer. I just knew when it was ready.

“Grab another ladle out of that drawer.” She pointed. “We can both fill.”

I did as she asked and surveyed the readied jars on the table. Her system seemed efficient enough except for one fault that caught my attention. From the looks of things, she had hand-cut all of her strawberry pieces. I preferred to throw mine in for a fast spin in the food processor. It was quicker, of course, but I also liked the more evenly sized fruit pieces that came from the processor. It was a delicate balance, though. Too much processing wasn’t a good idea, but just enough could make each bite of the preserve mixture have just the right amount of correctly sized pieces of fruit.

I wouldn’t say anything, though. I might be the expert, but she had probably been doing this for many more years than I had.

The timer beeped, and Helen slid the pot next to the sink. She skimmed off the top foam and then lugged the pot to the table. We each went to work with our own ladles and measuring cups.

“So, Becca, tell me why you came to visit me today,” Helen said as we both ladled and poured.

“Ms. Justen . . .”

“Helen, please.”

“Helen. I’m worried about Abner.”

She looked away from my eyes. “You know, the police were here yesterday.”

“Oh yeah? What did they say?”

“They wanted me to tell them where my brother was, but I wouldn’t. Though the officer—Brion, I think it was—was a very nice man. It seems that Abner has gotten himself into some trouble, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it looks that way. Do you know where he is?”

“I have some idea, but I don’t know for sure.”

“Don’t suppose you’d tell me where you think he might be?”

She looked back into my eyes, her own glimmering with the sparkle of having a secret. “Probably not, but not because I don’t think Abner wouldn’t want to see you. I just think it’s best if his location is kept secret until all of this nastiness is worked out.”

“Helen”—I stopped ladling—“I’m not sure how it’s going to get worked out. The evidence is stacking up against him. He needs to tell the truth to the police.”

“Keep filling, dear,” she said. I resumed the job. “Abner is innocent. I promise you that. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

I didn’t know exactly how much she knew, so I didn’t bring up the bloody axe.

“Well, then he definitely needs to turn himself in. Justice will prevail.”

“Not if he’s being framed.”

“Who’s framing him?”

“He won’t tell me, but I have my suspicions.”

“Tell
me,
then. Who would frame Abner?”

Helen sighed and inspected my face again. She wanted to tell me—tell someone—what she knew. She was the type of person who found it challenging to keep a secret.

“Well, Matt Simonsen was a thorn in his side for years. They were not friends.”

“Why’s that?” I asked innocently. I wanted her version, untainted by what Jessop Simonsen had shared with me.

“Abner was, at one time, very much in love with Simonsen’s wife, Pauline.”

“Really? When? This is about love?” Again, my tone rang with sincerity.

“He’d have to give you the details; it was when they were very young. Pauline promised herself to Abner but Matt became very sick with pneumonia, and once Pauline had helped take care of him, she claimed they fell in love. They got married, and that was that.”

This was some new information, though Betsy had told me that she’d heard Abner say something like
If you’d died all those years ago . . .
to Matt. Was that what he was talking about? The pneumonia?

“So maybe he finally snapped and killed the man who took his woman?” I said.

“No, I don’t think so.” Helen shook her head slowly.

The wheels in my mind turned. “So what about Pauline? Do you think she could have killed her own husband to finally be with Abner?”

“I don’t think that’s possible, either. She had her youthful wild moments, but she never struck me as homicidal. Plus, it’s been many years. I think if she was going to kill anyone, she would have done it before this.”

“What do you think, then? Who could have killed Matt Simonsen and would frame Abner for it?” If I asked enough times, maybe she’d answer.

“Again, I only have my suspicions—I want to be surer before I tell anyone. I do know this, though. Pauline was not only a beautiful young woman, she was rich, too. I wonder if that doesn’t have something to do with it. With her hand in marriage came lots of money.”

“A dowry?”

“Not really. It was her money. She was rich, but everyone knew about it. Everyone knew that whoever married Pauline would be marrying the most beautiful woman in town and would become instantly rich. Anyway, whether it was her beauty or her money, she had a number of suitors. I think one of them killed Matt—even after all these years, maybe the killer couldn’t let go of his love for Pauline.”

“But you’re not speaking about Abner?”

“No, a different suitor altogether. Another one who happens to work at Bailey’s.” She gasped and put her hand to her mouth. She was about to break—not that she hadn’t wanted to, anyway.

“Another one! No! Who?” I accidentally dropped the ladle to the floor, making yet another red splatter of the day. “Damn! I mean . . . Sorry, Helen. Stay put, I’ll get it cleaned up. But tell me who you’re talking about.” I put the ladle in the sink and took a wet cloth to the floor.

She laughed at my butterfingered antics. “Really, you don’t need to worry about it. I can clean it up later.”

“I got it. But tell me who you mean,” I said from my hands and knees. I didn’t want her loose tongue to tighten up.

“You have someone there named Barry? He sells corn?”

“Yeah.”

“He was in love with Pauline, too.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yes, pinky-swear.”

I stopped cleaning midswipe. The list of Barry’s lies was growing. He hadn’t been straight with anyone.

“Helen, I thought I heard that Barry was involved in a land dispute with Matt Simonsen years ago. Is that true?”

“Not that I’m aware of, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

Barry had lied to me, then later claimed he and Matt had been involved in a land dispute. I’d seen him on my way out of Bailey’s. Had he been the one who’d knocked on Allison’s door when I was hiding? I didn’t think so—he was tall, but surely I’d have recognized his voice. Barry’s truck was white, not brown. And the person who was knocking might have absolutely nothing to do with any of this. But something nudged at me, telling me that he
was
involved. But how?

“Becca?” Helen said, pulling me from my thoughts.

“Huh? Sorry about that. So, Barry? Really?”

“Well, I don’t know anything for certain, but I remember that they were all very much in love with Pauline. There were other suitors, of course, but those three men loved that woman with a strength that they almost couldn’t control.”

“All three of them?”

She nodded. “And I know what you’re getting at. You still think Abner might be involved, but I don’t think he is.”

“And you won’t tell me where he is,” I said as I finished cleaning.

“No, that’s up to him. He’s my brother, Becca, the only family I have left. I could never . . .”

“I understand.” I’d have gone to any length necessary to protect Allison.

“Time to seal the jars,” Helen said pleasantly. She was ready to change the subject.

I tried to ask her more questions, but she was done speaking about anything that had anything to do with her brother.

We sealed and then wiped the outsides of the jars in record time, and then put the filled jars into the boiling water canner and let them process. Two people on the job made a huge difference, though I knew I wouldn’t be hiring a helper anytime soon. I loved my alone time in my kitchen with only preserves and loud music for company.

A noise sounded from the front room just as we finished pulling the preserves out of the water.

“Yoo-hoo, Helen.”

“That’s Liz. Come on.”

I followed Helen to the front room. Liz was young, with a pretty face framed in red curls. She wore a white nurse’s dress under a light blue sweater. Her feet were encased in unflattering white oxfords, but the entire ensemble worked on her.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you had company,” she said as she inspected me. I remembered the mirror at Ian’s. I’m sure I was a horrifying sight. Frankly, I was surprised Helen had let me in the house.

“Liz, this is Becca. Becca, Liz.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said. She responded with only a quick nod.

“Liz is very protective of me. She helps me around the house and with a little physical therapy on my old shoulders,” Helen said. “Liz, Becca is a friend. Be nice.”

That loosened up Liz a bit. She smiled, but not with her entire face.

“Well, I should probably go, anyway. Let me finish in the kitchen and I’ll be on my way.” I really didn’t want to go. I had enjoyed talking to Helen and playing Super Preserve Woman, but there was really nothing else for us to discuss, and Liz’s arrival put a damper on the mood.

“Come back and visit, Becca,” Helen said as I made my way out the door. “I’ve heard so much about you. And Abner was right, you’re delightful.”

“So are you. I’m glad we met. I look forward to seeing you again.”

I left the house and Helen closed the door behind me, but then it opened again.

“Becca, I almost forgot. Abner thought you might be stopping by and he wanted me to tell you something.”

“Really? Okay, what?”

“He wanted me to tell you that though he doesn’t dislike them, he doesn’t have a thing for hummingbirds. Is that some sort of code or something?”

“Uh, I don’t really know, but I’ll think about it.” It
was
some sort of code, but I didn’t know how to decipher it. There had been lots of feeders on Abner’s greenhouse and syrup on his porch. If he wasn’t fond of hummingbirds, why would he have all that stuff?
And that was the question, wasn’t it?

“Well, take care,” Helen said before she closed the door again.

“You, too.”

In a haze of distracted thought, I made my way to my truck. Just as I put the key in the ignition, my cell phone rang. Unknown name and number. I flipped it open. Another coincidence? I didn’t think so, as I looked at the house. A pink curtain fluttered. I’d have bet that Helen made a phone call the second after she closed the door.

“Abner?”

“Becca?” he said.

“Listen to me, Abner, I don’t want you to call me ever again unless you agree to meet with me in person first. I’ve had it with your mysteriousness. I need some answers. Where are you?”