Murder Most Fowl (22 page)

C
am and Dasha made it home without further incident, although Cam barely saw where she was walking, her mind filled instead with the horrific image of a car knocking a girl over a cliff. She had left Paul leaning on the trunk of his car staring at the road ahead.

Dasha barked as he trotted up the back steps of the farmhouse. When Cam pulled open the outer door, a large manila envelope fell onto her feet. Picking it up, she read the message written in a neat hand on the outside.

“Please see if you can make sense of these. I found them going through Daddy's papers. Megan.”

Cam juggled the fat envelope, the eggs, and her keys to unlock the door. Preston was in the kitchen sitting on the mat in front of the stove, waiting for his dinner. She gave him a few strokes, and then fed both animals before pouring a glass of water for herself and sinking into a chair at the table. Inside the envelope was a sheaf of papers. Bank statements with Wayne's name at the top. And only Wayne's name. Could it be the great-aunt account? It was odd that Megan would leave them for Cam instead of simply asking her mother about them. But maybe Megan had a sense that that would only make trouble. Or maybe Wayne had mentioned something about the private account to Megan.

Pressing Megan's number on her phone, Cam waited, but she didn't pick up. Cam left a message asking Megan to call back, and then studied the statements. It looked like there had been monthly automatic transfers of a hundred dollars to an account at the same local bank going back almost twenty years. Next to the account number were two letters,
PU
. She flipped through the pages. The last one was from January, only two months ago. And the final balance was zero. She whistled.

Cam brought a half glass of wine from the kitchen and sat again. Wayne had been paying
PU
a hundred dollars a month—
PU
who had to be Paul Underwood. It wasn't a huge sum, but had been steady over the years. If Paul had blackmailed Wayne, threatening to tell about him being behind the wheel at the accident, that would explain why Wayne never shared the account with Greta, and why he couldn't plow the extra money into the farm. What had Greta said the day before he died? That their money vanished into thin air. So maybe Wayne was also paying Paul cash out of the house account. But now that the great-aunt's funds were exhausted, no wonder Wayne would want to tell the truth and refuse to pay Paul any longer. Especially if the alternative was selling off a piece of the cherished Laitinen farmland. Cherished by Wayne, at least.

She needed to share this information with Megan. And with Pete. Unless Paul had already told him about the blackmail, but she doubted that. Why would Paul be so desperate for money, though? He worked in sales for a big company. Surely they paid him enough to raise a family on. Although with his wife in a mental hospital, he must have expenses associated with that, and, of course, no second income in the family to help support three growing boys. But he wouldn't risk his children's well-being by killing Wayne to prevent him talking. Would he?

Cam's stomach growled. She hadn't eaten since her tuna sandwich hours ago, and it had been a full afternoon of work and walking. She perused her refrigerator, which didn't yield any likely dinner unless she fixed an omelet. She desperately needed to go grocery shopping tomorrow. If Judith was arrested and this case was a wrap, Pete should be free for a nice Saturday night home-cooked meal. She found her phone and pressed his number.

“Any chance of meeting me for a quick dinner out?” she asked, after greeting him.

“Hang on a minute.”

Cam heard voices in the background, then Pete came back on.

“Sure. I can get away for an hour. How about the Japanese place in Port Plaza?”

“Perfect. See you in fifteen?”

“Perfect.”

“Wait, make that twenty. I need to get the hens closed in before I leave.”

“Twenty it is.”

 

Pete popped the last piece of sushi into his mouth and chewed with a dreamy expression on his face. Many of the tables in the small restaurant were occupied and most of the counter stools, too. Behind a counter, a chef never stopped slicing and arranging planks full of sushi. A waitress wearing a kimonolike top scurried back and forth from the kitchen. The air was warm and smelled deliciously of seaweed, sizzling meat, and something sweet.

“You really like that stuff, don't you?” Cam asked. She finagled a piece of tempura sweet potato almost into her own mouth, and then lost control of the chopsticks and dropped the morsel on her plate.

Pete laughed at her. “You can use a fork, you know.”

Cam stabbed the batter-fried slice with the point of the chopstick. “I never got the hang of chopsticks, but I feel like I should. Especially if we're going to be coming to places like this.” This time the sweet potato made it into her mouth.

“I do love sushi. Even though my father was from Greece, he served in Japan in the US Navy after he immigrated here. He taught me to use chopsticks when I was five.”

“Well, you can have raw fish.” Cam shuddered a little. “Give me a nice cooked meal any day.” She sipped her green tea.

Pete drained his own cup of tea and set it down. They'd agreed to not talk about murder until they finished their dinner, but that time had come.

“Is the Judith thing going to stick?” Cam asked. “Are you going to be able to make an arrest?”

“No.” Pete shook his head. “She's already out. That woman brought a high-powered lawyer up from Boston.”

“That's too bad. Do you think she did it?” Cam glanced around, glad the adjacent tables were unoccupied, but she lowered her voice, anyway. “Killed Wayne?”

“I'm not sure. The evidence is looking like it. But she's quite adamant that she never went over there that morning.”

“And your commander—is he still on your back about solving it this week?”

“Of course he wants to have it all wrapped up. Who wouldn't? I think he was bluffing about demoting me, though. Just wanted to make sure I stayed on top of the investigation.” He pressed his lips together as he shook his head. “As if I wouldn't, anyway.”

“Did you get the truth out of Catriona or Paul about the accident?”

Pete cocked his head. “No, but how do you know we talked to Paul?”

“He told me. Dasha and I were walking home from Greta's—”

“You were at the Laitinen farm again?” Pete frowned.

“We were out for a walk and stopped by. I helped Greta with the eggs. And I learned a few interesting things.”

Pete set his jaw in his hand, elbow on the table. “I clearly can't stop you. So you might as well fill me in.”

A couple with two children in tow walked in, to the waitress's high-pitched voice calling,
“Irashai!
Welcome!” She bustled in from the kitchen and seated them at a table in the far corner.

Cam told Pete that Greta didn't seem to know about the accident. “She said Wayne had gotten an inheritance from a great-aunt but that he hadn't shared it with her,” Cam continued. “Then, when Dasha and I were walking home, Paul drove by with his sons. He stopped and was angry with me about telling you he was involved in the accident. But get this, Pete.”

“Yes?”

“He told me exactly what happened on that night.” Cam gave Pete the details about the drinking and pot, the dancing in the park on the bluffs, the headlights, and Wayne losing control of the car, knocking Fionnoula onto the rocks, and then her being swept into the ocean. “The three made a pact never to tell what had happened. They were teenagers and terrified of the consequences.”

“I gathered that from Catriona's interview, even though neither she nor Paul would say exactly what went down that night. He should have told me. They both should have.” He drummed the table with his fingers, frowning again.

“Here's something else.” Cam reached across the table for Pete's hand. “I think Paul was blackmailing Wayne all this time, because Wayne was the driver who hit Fionnoula. Megan dropped off an envelope full of Wayne's bank statements at my house today. She asked me to look at them. I think it was the account holding the money from his great-aunt, and he was paying someone with initials
PU
a hundred dollars a month for the last twenty years. And maybe cash, too. Greta said she didn't know where their money went, that they never had enough.”

Pete sat up straight. “That is interesting, all right.” He squeezed Cam's hand and let it go. “Why did she want you to look at the statements?”

“I don't know. Maybe she doesn't trust Greta? I wasn't there when she left them, so I didn't get a chance to ask her.”

“I'll check it out,” Pete said.

“Paul told me Wayne was going to go public. I think the money ran out, and he wasn't about to sell his land to Judith so he could keep paying Paul. Do you think Paul could have killed Wayne?”

“He had an alibi for the time of death. That's why we didn't suspect him all along. But maybe . . .” He stared over Cam's shoulder.

“Maybe what?”

The waitress hustled by, laying their check on the table.

Pete examined it and left cash in the folder. He gazed at Cam. “His alibi is his oldest son. He said his dad was home making pancakes for them. Paul could have coerced him to lie, though.” Pete nodded slowly. “We've already been digging deeper into that story.”

C
am sank onto her couch and drew her knees up. It had been a day full of talking. To Sim, to Tam, to Megan. Ken Wallace, Greta, Paul, Pete. Way too much interaction for a native introvert. She picked up the
New Yorker
magazine and flipped through, scanning for the cartoons, smiling at one that depicted every person in Times Square walking around texting while using red-tipped white canes to avoid obstacles.

The magazine rustled in her hand. Why had she ordered green tea with dinner? Its caffeine always made her jittery. She turned to an article about the increased use of drones in a number of areas of life, from police surveillance to news gathering to observing how crops were growing on megafarms. The article also described how owning a drone had turned into an expensive hobby. Certain customers who bought one of the remote-controlled hovercraft to play with didn't fully read the instructions, and often crashed it into a building on its maiden flight. The software aspect of the systems interested Cam, but the article didn't go into any depth about how the devices were controlled.

She tossed the magazine on the coffee table and headed to the kitchen, bringing a glass of chilled Chardonnay back to her desk. Maybe doing farm-related desk work would calm her down, that and the wine. She shrugged on the thick sweater she'd left on the back of the chair. The sunny day had turned into a cold, clear, windy night by the time she'd driven home from the restaurant, and the last time she'd filled her heating oil tanks the amount on the bill had made her choke. Soon enough the furnace wouldn't be kicking on, but for now, she'd rather bundle up than turn the thermostat any higher than the sixty-five degrees she usually set it to during the evenings.

Staring at her spreadsheet of farm tasks for the next couple of months, Cam narrowed her eyes. She'd set up an ambitious plan for spring planting. She should be able to till at least one of the fields if it didn't rain or snow again. Working wet soil destroyed its natural structure of air pockets and turned the earth into a brick. If she got the side field tilled up tomorrow, she could get the early peas direct seeded into the ground. Seed potatoes would go in next, since they also tolerated cool soil and even light frosts.

Sipping the wine, she checked her expenditures and income file. If the summer CSA filled up, and if she got that greens contract with Phat Cats, she might be able to hire someone as regular help, at least part time. She'd already landed a contract with the Food Mart to supply them with tomatoes and other produce for the summer, and so far the farm-share program was about half spoken for. It looked like a few hours of publicity work was in her near future, not something she cared for in the least, although Alexandra had been a big help in the past with setting up the Web site and even designing the farm logo.

Cam pushed back her chair and stretched out her legs. The back of her brain was consumed by all the unanswered questions about Wayne's death. If in fact Judith hadn't gone to Wayne's for breakfast that morning, if she hadn't slipped the nicotine in his coffee, who had? Paul was there. He could have, especially if his alibi fell through. Greta, of course, had said she'd fixed Wayne's breakfast. Katie conceivably could have poisoned Wayne, too, but Cam couldn't believe she would do something like that. Anyone could buy liquid nicotine these days. But how did Judith's prints and DNA get on the vial if she didn't do it?

Cam's phone rang from the kitchen counter where she'd plugged it in to charge. She checked the ID and saw Ruth's name.

“Ruthie, what's up?” Cam said.

“Thought you'd like to know we made an arrest in your vandalism case.”

“Really?”

“You were right, it was that Tam Haskell. He was part of the Laitinen incident, too. Seems he's a young mastermind of sorts in this extremist group.”

“I'm glad he'll be off the streets. He seemed to have two sides to him. When I first met him, he was all polite smiles and helpful. But when he came back looking for his scarf, he almost snarled at me about having Pete's dog on a leash. I guess in his world all animals would be wild and running free.”

“Yeah, he mentioned something like that. I'll tell you, he wasn't very polite when we apprehended him.”

“Is Katie Magnusson going to be arrested, too?” Cam asked.

“We struck a deal with her in exchange for information. She was pretty frightened of Haskell, as it turns out. He'd threatened to hurt her if she identified him.”

“No wonder she was walking around looking haunted, scared.” The image of Tam's insincere smile floated in front of Cam's eyes. “Do you think it's possible he came back and killed Wayne?”

“I don't believe he's being considered for that. The murder is Pete's bailiwick, though, as you know.”

“Of course.”

“I expect he's checked Haskell out. I know he was notified of the arrest.”

“Well, thanks for letting me know about Tam being caught. Hey, remember you were going to bring the girls over this weekend sometime. And maybe we can have a glass of wine and not talk about crime of any kind.”

Ruth laughed. “Sounds like a plan. How about Sunday?”

After they disconnected, Cam took another sip of wine. She'd be just as happy if she never saw Tam's fake smile again.

 

After sipping wine while reading a short story in the
New Yorker
, Cam watched the local news, which included a story of an aggressive coyote attacking people in the next town.

“The coyote should be considered rabid and dangerous, and anyone who comes into contact with the animal will require medical attention,” the reporter warned in a dire tone. “Groveland residents are advised to keep children and pets indoors.”

Cam shuddered at the thought of a rabid coyote approaching her in broad daylight and taking a chunk out of her leg, as apparently had happened to a man only a few miles down the road. Maybe she should keep Dasha and Preston indoors tomorrow, too, although she had no idea how far coyotes ranged.

She swore as she glanced at the table where she'd left the bank statements. She should have called Megan again, but now it was too late. What would Cam tell her, though? That regular payments were going out of the account to a
PU
? She didn't know what Megan could do with that information, and Cam didn't particularly want to be the person delivering it. She would wait until tomorrow, at any rate.

Cam watched television a little longer, and finally went up to bed at eleven-thirty. Surely the green tea would have worn off by now. She set her phone on the bedside table, changed into her night wear, a long T-shirt worn smooth and thin by years of wear, and slid under the comforter. She was slipping into dreamland, that state where she knew she was still awake but also saw random dream scenes inside her eyelids, when her phone beeped twice in quick succession.

Her eyes flew open. What was that? It wasn't her ring tone indicating a call, or the text signal, either. The phone beeped again, two short bursts. She sat up and grabbed it. The new round icon with an eye in it blinked at her. Something had triggered the barn cam. She pressed the icon to bring up the app and stared at it, her palms cold and clammy. Despite Tam having been apprehended, it could be a different intruder. It could even be Wayne's murderer if the police were wrong about Judith.

In the picture, the floodlight had come on. It illuminated the area around the door, but the camera didn't show anyone. The video wasn't the best she'd ever seen, likely a direct consequence of how little she'd paid for the device. Cam groaned. Should she get dressed and go out there? According to Ruth, it shouldn't be more chicken vandals, if Tam was indeed the ringleader. And sure, Wayne's killer might still roam at large, but why would he or she be coming after Cam? She rolled over to the far side of the double bed and sat up, gazing out the window that overlooked her back door. That motion-triggered light wasn't on, although the waning moon shone yellow and still presented a fat profile as it rose over the maple in the yard.

The wind must have picked up since she came home. The sound of it in the trees roared like an armada of tractors rumbling over her fields. But there were no trees in front of the door to the barn. That wouldn't have triggered the light and the camera. The pulse in her neck beat double time. She looked at the phone again.

As she watched, a small shadowy figure crept across the screen. A four-legged figure. Cam let out a breath. And a moment later, over the noise of the wind, a high mournful cry pierced the night. A coyote was her culprit. It howled again, and then uttered short barks, raising goose bumps on her scalp. Coyotes, most of whom weren't rabid, were even fiercer hunters than foxes. At least all her hens were safe inside, as were the chicks. She set her bare feet on the cold floor and lifted the sash for a moment.

Answering barks called out from the woods as well as another far-off howl, triggering one more ululation from the animal outside her barn, the cry fluttering and then rising to a sharp finish. She slammed the window closed and locked it, then dove back under the covers, pulling the fluffy comforter over her head. She didn't want that terrifying sound to disturb her sleep. Although, a coyote lurking was certainly better than a malicious human up to no good.