Murder Most Fowl (20 page)

Stepping back a couple of yards from the blueberries, Cam stretched her arms to the near midday sky as she surveyed the row. It had taken a couple of hours, but the pruning was finished, for this year, anyway. The garden cart sat full of pruned-out dead and broken wood, and the bushes looked clean and open. As she'd worked, she'd thought about the bone and the bracelet. They had to have come in with the lobster shells, which meant they'd been in or near the ocean all this time. With any luck, Pete would have extracted the details of the accident from either Catriona or Paul by now. How sad that none of the three teenage survivors had felt they needed to inform the family or the authorities about what happened. She couldn't imagine having that on her conscience for her entire adult life, and they had been living with exactly that weight. But then, what did they say about the teen brain? It wasn't fully developed in the area that could predict consequences.

She hefted the cart and wheeled it back to her brush pile, then upended it, raking the last bits of branch out with her hands along with a few fat earthworms that had hitched a ride. A nuthatch pecked head down at the bark of a nearby tree, and a newly hatched moth floated over the pile. The most pressing question was if that long-ago event was connected to Wayne's murder. Paul had said Wayne was ready to go public about the accident. Would Paul have killed him to prevent that exposure?

Cam walked the cart back to the barn, stopping to pick up the pruning tools on the way. She set the cart down at the chicken coop, which in this sunshine was smelling pretty ripe. All the girls were out, digging in the dirt, pecking at the dried feed she'd scattered for them, enjoying the near-spring warmth as much as Cam was. She'd planned all along to move the coop around the farm, since her volunteers had built it on a wheeled trailer bed and the fence was portable, too. She'd make time in the next couple of days to hitch the system to the truck and set it out in one of the fallow fields, so the hens could dig up weeds and fertilize the soil at the same time. Maybe she ought to rig a chicken cam, too. She'd seen a site like that on the Internet when she worked in a cubicle and it had seemed charming and entertaining to watch chickens poke around a yard. Her use of a camera now would be much more practical.

As she watched the chickens, Cam pictured Katie at the pizza house last night. Something was clearly still bothering her. She could ask Alexandra if she knew what was up. She pictured Katie sitting next to Tam and not acting particularly friendly toward this dude who was ostensibly her friend, and then leaving with him, after all. There was something odd about Tam. He was too smiley. Too polite. Too sincere. So sincere it didn't quite ring true. Even his posture was too good to be true, as was showing up out of the blue to volunteer.

She lifted the cart's handles again to wheel it into the barn and put the tools away. When it balked, she stopped and checked the wheels. Something black was tangled in the spokes of the left wheel and had gotten onto the axle. She squatted to examine the thing, which was a piece of fabric. She upended the cart to unweave it, tugging and turning the wheels. After it was loose she stood and shook it out. It was a scarf. A black fleece scarf.

Cam brought her hand to her mouth. Tam. He had been wearing a black scarf when he came to volunteer. A scarf very much like this one. He had been interested in her barn. He wasn't wearing the scarf at the House of Pizza. Of course, there could be plenty of young men wearing black scarves out there. Maybe he'd simply lost it. But with his connection to Katie, and maybe to the animal rights folks, she had to report this to the police. It was their job to check it out.

She drew out her phone, pressed the number for the Westbury station, and asked for either of the officers who had come to check out the vandalism. When the female came on the line, Cam told her about finding the scarf, about seeing Tam wearing it or one like it on Wednesday and then not last evening.

“I don't know if it's his, but it looks like the same one,” Cam said. “His full name is Tamlin Haskell.”

“How do you spell Tamlin?”

“I don't know. I've never seen it written. That's how he pronounced it.”

“Do you have an address for him?”

“No. But I think he's a student at Northern Essex Community College. He's a friend of Katie Magnusson's, you know—”

“The woman who was at the Laitinen vandalism. Yes. Thank you, we'll look into this. Please secure the scarf in a paper bag and touch it as little as possible. We'll send someone out to pick it up.”

Cam thanked her and disconnected. She stared at the phone for a moment. Should she also let Pete know? First she had to secure the scarf. She held it by one corner and walked into the barn to where she kept a supply of paper bags for her customers. She'd just slid it in and folded over the top when she heard a car crunching the gravel in her driveway. She wasn't expecting anyone, but her customers knew they were always welcome to drop by.

Dasha began to bark from where she'd left him tied to a long line near the big old maple in the backyard. Cam walked out of the barn and stopped. Speak of the devil.

Tam Haskell stood next to a boxy, beat-up Volvo sedan. He held up both hands to fend off Dasha. The dog strained at the rope, which didn't quite reach to where Tam stood.

“Dasha,” Cam called. “Stop barking, now.” She walked to the dog and pulled him back a few feet. Dasha quieted but didn't take his eyes off Tam.

“Hey, Tam,” Cam said. “You here to volunteer again?”

Staring at Dasha with narrowed eyes and a grim set to his mouth, Tam shook his head with a quick move. “Don't have time today.”

“That's good, because I'm almost caught up on chores.” Where had his previous good nature gone? “So what's up?”

“I left my scarf here the other day when I was working. Wondered if you'd found it.” He glanced at her, then back at the dog.

Aha
. “What does it look like?”

“Black. Fleece.”

“No, I haven't seen it. Did you leave it by the hens?”

“I guess so.” He kept his gaze on Dasha. “You know, it's bad for dogs to tie them up.”

“Thanks.” Cam smiled, keeping her tone light. “He's not mine. I simply do what his owner asks me to do.”

“His
owner
. Right. See you, then.” He looked over at the barn. “I see you have a new lock. Good idea. You never know who's out there.”

“That's for sure. Did you hear that vandals attacked my farm? My little defenseless chicks were put out in the cold. They're only a week old.” She watched him.

He lifted a shoulder and let it drop.

“And a fox came in and ate several of them. The group seems to think that's giving animals their rights. Their right to die, I guess.”

Tam didn't respond as he turned away. Before he climbed into the car and started it, Cam memorized the license plate number. The engine made a knocking sound as he backed onto the street. So that's who her prowler had been. She turned her head toward the barn. She couldn't even see the flat lock from here.

“Good dog, Dasha.” She patted his head. He'd definitely recognized Tam from the night before. “Good boy.” She pulled out her phone and dialed the Westbury Police Department once again.

C
am took the last bite of her tuna sandwich and swiped an errant piece of celery off the plate. Tam must have suspected he dropped his scarf during the vandalism and had come back last night to what he thought would be an unlocked barn. Or maybe he was hoping to continue letting her chicks out. Good thing for good locks.

She bit off an inch of a deliciously sour and crunchy dill pickle and chewed, glancing idly at the wall calendar titled A Year in Tuscany. This month's photograph featured rolling hills covered in lines of grapevines with a sun-splashed sprawling farmhouse and winery nestled in the middle. Definitely not New England. But the calendar also pointed out that today was Friday, the day Pete had to produce results.

She was about to call him when someone knocked on the back door. Cam pulled the curtain aside on the window to see Megan standing there with a cloth bag in her hand. Cam opened the door. Megan's thigh-length jacket was misbuttoned and strands of her fine dark-blond hair had escaped from the clip that pulled it back off her face.

“Megan, come in.”

“I can't, really. I'm on my lunch break from school.” Megan extended the bag. “But I brought back your dish. Thank you for the lasagna.”

“I was glad I could do something.” Cam drew out the rectangular glass pan, setting it on the table behind her, and handed the bag back. “Are you sure you won't come in for a minute?”

Megan shook her head and stepped down one stair. “Have you gotten any closer, Cam? To finding out who killed my father?” Her eyes pleaded.

Cam cleared her throat. “I'm afraid not. I've been trying to follow up on a couple of things, but—”

“Like what?” Megan's eyebrows lifted in hope.

“Oh, it's something that happened a long, long time ago. With your dad and a couple of his friends when they were in high school.”

“In high school?” Megan frowned.

“Yes. But I don't think it has anything to do with his death. I'm sorry.”

Megan's shoulders sagged. She turned and made her way down the rest of the steps and turned to face Cam. “The detective won't tell me a thing. My mom's shut me out emotionally, and my brother already went back to Florida to rejoin his family on their vacation. I feel completely alone.” She climbed in her car, shutting the door with barely a click.

“I'm sorry,” Cam said softly, watching her drive away. A cloud gusted over the sun, casting somber shadows that matched Megan's mood. Cam blew out a breath and shut the door.

She picked up her phone and pressed Pete's number, tapping her foot as she waited for him to answer.

“Hey,” she said, after he picked up on the tenth ring. “Just checking in. Got a minute?”

“Not really. I'll call you back in a little while.” He disconnected.

“Okay, then,” she said to the phone. She set it down and cleared her lunch plate, then stood uncertain in the kitchen. There must be other work she should be doing outdoors, but she thought she was pretty caught up. Poor Megan, feeling bereft and abandoned. And Cam no help to her what whatsoever.

Cam wandered over to her computer and sat. In her former life as a software engineer, puzzling out problems was so much more straightforward. If a piece of a program didn't work, she could always figure out the reason by testing smaller and smaller parts until she isolated the problem. But figuring out her fellow humans' motivations, secrets, feelings—that was another realm of problem solving entirely, one for which she possessed few talents.

Her fingers poised above the keyboard, she tried to think of an avenue she could follow that might further the case. She pictured Judith's whispered message to Greta at the wake. Remembered the exchange between Greta and Judith at Town Meeting. Heard again Wayne and Greta's argument about selling the land.

And then there was the vaping connecting Judith to the means of death. What if she could dig up information about Judith? She ran a consulting business; it couldn't be that hard to delve further into her life, even though Cam hadn't been able to find much the first time she looked. She searched for Judith's name and stared at the top result on the screen: “Judith Patterson in custody in the Laitinen murder case.”

When had that happened? It must have been only this morning. No wonder Pete didn't have time to talk. Judith had said she'd been called in for questioning earlier in the week. But “in custody” had a much more serious ring to it, although Cam thought it stopped short of arrest.

She clicked the link and read the story, in which Pete was quoted as saying evidence had come to light that linked Ms. Patterson to the crime, although the investigation continued. The article, only a few paragraphs long, didn't describe the evidence or go into any other details.

That would surely be a relief to Megan if the police succeeded in putting the killer behind bars. But, while Judith was a woman with an overly developed sense of self-worth, Cam was surprised that she would stoop to something as sordid as murder. Cam was sure Judith usually was able to get her way along much more conventional channels. And to kill a man over a piece of land? These puzzle pieces weren't fitting together for Cam. On the other hand, Pete had always been good at his job. He must have his reasons. And Judith's arrest meant it wasn't Paul or Greta who killed Wayne. Or Katie, but Cam had never thought it could have been her.

While she was on the Internet, Cam decided to see if she could learn anything else about Greta. Maybe she could discover some past experience, other than her thwarted ambitions, which might explain her grouchy attitude, dissatisfaction with her husband, and now distance from her own daughter, who, in Cam's experience seemed sweet and easy to like. Cam thought back to the times she'd talked with Greta before last Saturday, but she could think of only one or two over the last six months. Cam's dealings with the couple had been mainly with Wayne, as farmer to farmer, rather than socializing with them as friends, even though she'd always liked Wayne and how forthcoming he'd been with information about raising poultry.

Cam uncovered a scholarly article Greta had written as Greta Carlson while still an undergraduate at Wellesley College. The article was about naturally occurring toxins in the plant world. Things like the trumpet flower, whose dried leaves made into a tea could kill someone with an already weak immune system. Rosary peas, the bright red legume used in rosaries, were poisonous when pierced. Morning glories, poison hemlock, castor beans, deadly nightshade—all got a mention. How ironic that her husband was killed with another one, nicotine, although not in its plant form.

Next to Greta's picture on the Newburyport Library Web site was a link to something called Potter World. Cam clicked that, then smiled to see that Greta offered all kinds of activities for young Harry Potter fans. Costume construction, short fan-fiction writing workshops—“Write your own adventure for Harry ten years older”—plus in-depth discussions of every part of every book. The site also included the spell-casting session like the one Greta had been offering when Cam walked by on Tuesday afternoon.

How could someone so enchanted with a beloved children's fiction series be so difficult with adults? Cam wasn't all that good with adults, herself. What else could she find on Greta? She checked the years right after Greta graduated from Wellesley, but her presence in the academic world vanished. There were a few mentions in connection with the farm, including a blue ribbon for a Finnish pastry in a bake-off at the county fair, and a story about a Girl Scout trip when she was leader of Megan's troop fifteen years earlier. Her life had become very much that of a small-town wife, mother, and Hogwarts fan. And now widow. Perhaps she was simply in the anger phase of grief.

 

With Dasha lying asleep right inside the hoop house door, Cam stood spraying water onto the flats of maturing seedlings an hour later. The newly sprouted ones she continued to water from underneath so as not to disturb their still delicate roots and leaves. She ought to feel satisfied at Pete having Judith in custody, but it still didn't feel right. Ruth had dropped by and picked up the bag with the scarf in it, but she'd said she had to rush right back to the station, so they hadn't chatted.

When Cam felt her phone ring in her pocket, she switched off the watering wand at the handle and answered the call.

“Sorry I couldn't take your call, and I can't talk long now,” Pete said in a soft voice. “I'm out in the hall. We have a suspect in custody, though.”

“I saw it online, that you have Judith. Is she under arrest?”

“It's already online? That was quick. She's not under arrest, but we're hoping she will be.”

“That should make your commander happy, right? Since it's the end of the week?”

Pete uttered a low whistle. “Maybe, maybe not. Ivan jumped in and took the lead bringing Judith in. Unfortunately, she has lawyered up and isn't talking. And I'm not sure we actually have the right person, despite the evidence.”

“I had the same feeling when I read the news article. The puzzle doesn't quite seem to fit. Can you tell me what missing piece made you take her into custody?”

“We learned that she got an e-mail from Wayne asking her to come to breakfast,” Pete said. “She says she didn't go. But we got a rush DNA analysis and it's her DNA on the nicotine canisters that we found. The murder weapon. Her fingerprints, too.”

“How did Wayne ingest the nicotine, though? Doesn't it have a flavor?”

“It was in his coffee.”

“That makes sense.” Cam frowned. “He drank really strong, awful coffee. It would hide anything.”

“So I understand. Hang on a minute.”

Cam heard voices in the background. Dasha propped his head on his front paws and blinked at her.

“Gotta go,” Pete said when he came back on the line. “Give Dasha a big noogie for me.”

“Will do. Call when you can.” After Cam listened to the call become the empty air that signaled he'd disconnected, she slid the phone back into her jeans pocket. Judith was the only person Cam had ever seen around town smoking e-cigarettes. The liquid nicotine was certainly for sale in the public domain, but if that was her DNA on the containers, it didn't bode well for her.

Cam walked over to Dasha. Squatting, she stroked the smooth short fur on his head. His pale eyes, the color of the Arctic sky, regarded her with the same calm gaze Preston gave.

“What do you think, doggie? Did Judith kill Wayne?”

When he didn't answer, she stood and stretched, her hands on her lower back. She had shed her work coat and her sweater in the humid warm air of the hoop house. What to do now? The plants were watered, the chicks were fine, and it was only two o'clock in the afternoon. Dasha would appreciate another long walk, and at least today they wouldn't be accosted by Judith on a horse.

At the sound of a knock, Cam glanced up to see a person's shape through the plastic. A chill rippled through her. If Ivan had made a mistake and Judith wasn't Wayne's killer, whoever it was still roamed at large in the community. She couldn't make out who it was, and wished she'd inserted a piece of clear plastic in the door frame instead of the semiopaque material the rest of the hoop house was covered in.

“Who is it?” she called out, standing, her heart thudding.

“Ken Wallace.” The
Globe
reporter pushed open the door.

She blew out a breath of relief. “Hey, Ken.”

“Hope you don't mind my coming back.” He smiled. “I had a couple of follow-up questions for the article. Which is due in two hours for tomorrow's edition.”

“I don't mind. Pull up a milk crate.” She gestured to the all-purpose thick plastic crates that served as chairs, as makeshift table supports, as containers for carrying supplies and bags of produce. She lowered herself onto a red crate, while Ken took a green one.

He pulled out his notebook and pen again.

“You're not much older than me. Why the Luddite tools?” Cam grinned as she pointed to his scribing supplies. “You could use a digital tablet and get a head start on typing the story.”

Ken cocked his head. “I think differently with a pen in my hand. And I'm a little hard on stuff.” He held up the notebook bound with a spiral wire on the top. “If I drop this in a puddle or forget it somewhere, I haven't lost hundreds of dollars of equipment.”

“Gotcha.”

“I don't know if you've heard that a Judith—” He broke off to consult his notes. “A Judith Patterson is in custody for the murder. Can I get your opinion on that? Do you think the police have the right person?”

Cam picked a piece of dirt off the knee of her pants. “I have every confidence in the state police.” She pressed her lips together into a smile and folded her hands on her knees.

“Did you know Ms. Patterson?”

“Not well. I spoke with her a few times.”

“Did she strike you as a killer? Did you feel safe around her?”

Cam laughed. “Are you serious? The most ordinary of people can feel compelled to kill. I don't understand it, but I've seen it happen.” As he opened his mouth to speak, she held up a hand. “No, she didn't strike me as a killer, and yes, I felt safe around her.”
Except alone with her on a trail at Maudslay
.

“Okay. Back to farming for a moment. Do you know what the widow's plans are for Laitinen Poultry Farm? She was unwilling to let me interview her for this story.”

“I don't know. It's a lot of work. I only have forty hens and they keep me busy a couple times a day. Greta hasn't told me what she's going to do with four hundred layers.”