Murder Most Fowl (24 page)

Megan's face collapsed. “Oh, no. That's awful.”

“Absolutely.”

“But that's no reason to blackmail him.” Megan started walking again, but slowly, like a sleepwalker.

“Wayne inadvertently caused the accident.”

Megan's eyes went wide, then she shook her head, hard. “I don't believe it.” She lifted her chin and picked up the pace until they'd reached the hedge at the end of the garden. She led the way through the passage and headed on the path across an open field to Curzon Mill Road, but instead of turning back to the parking lot, she continued toward the right.

Cam lengthened her stride to keep up. “Both Paul and the surviving girl, Catriona, have confessed to the accident. Paul told me himself only yesterday. Megan . . .” Cam reached out a hand to Megan's arm to try to slow her down. “Your mother never mentioned knowing anything about what happened?”

Megan did slow, shaking her head. “No, nothing.”

“Well, it was before she met Wayne, so that makes sense. And all three of them—I mean, Paul, Wayne, and Catriona—apparently made a pact not to ever tell the story.”

“Which resulted in my father paying off some guy for years and my mother complaining about us never having any money for most of my life. Brilliant.”

They reached the small footbridge that spanned the Artichoke River before it ran out to the Merrimack. Dasha's toenails clicked over the thick wooden boards.

“Well, anyway, it's over now,” Cam said. “I brought the statements back for you. They're in my truck.”

“Maybe it's over, maybe it's not. Blackmail is a crime. Paul Underwood is going to have to pay that money back. He owes it to my mom. To the whole family.”

For the first time, Cam caught a glimpse of Greta's spirited side in Megan, instead of Wayne's sweetness. They kept walking along the road, Dasha alert and trotting with his tongue out. Suddenly he stopped and barked. From around the bend ahead of them came two men in long black robes, walking slowly and talking in quiet voices.

“We must be on the Emery House grounds,” Cam said softly. “Maybe we should turn around.”

“Oh, no. I know those guys.” Megan smiled, her face brightening. “They come and volunteer at Sunday school sometimes.”

“The monks do?”

“Yeah. Brother William, Brother Matt,” she called, waving.

The men looked up as if startled, and then the taller one waved. They continued toward them until they reached Megan. The taller monk towered a good eight inches above Cam and was built like a grizzly. He leaned down and enveloped Megan in a huge hug.

“Our poor dear Megan,” he said, releasing her. “I'm Brother Matt,” he said to Cam, sliding his hands into the opposite sleeves and lowering his head for a moment.

“Cam Flaherty. Nice to meet you.”

“Brother William.” The other one, light-haired and thin, copied the same movement toward Cam, then it was his turn to hold out his arms to Megan.

Brother Matt squatted and petted Dasha for a moment, which Dasha seemed to enjoy, despite it coming from a total stranger.

After another hearty embrace, Megan surfaced, sniffling and wiping her eyes. “You guys are the best,” she said with a wan smile. “You really are.” She looked at Cam. “They come in and teach Bible stories to the primary class, sitting on the rug with a bunch of five-year-olds.”

“Don't be silly, my dear,” Matt said. “We care for all our brothers and sisters, young and old. How is your mother faring?”

“Not great. I think. She isn't really talking about her feelings.”

The monks exchanged a look. “We will pay her a visit soon,” Brother William said.

They both did their sleeve bows again, reminding Cam, except for the outfit, of the Buddhist monks she'd once met in Cambridge. After they said good-bye, the monks headed back the way they'd come.

“I should get back,” Cam said. “I have an afternoon of tilling ahead of me.”

“And I have to get back for lunch with Mom.”

Cam turned and made her way back to the bridge. At the edge, Dasha stopped and barked. As Cam turned, she realized Megan had lagged behind, so she waited.

“Something funny happened when I went over to my parents' farm this morning.” Megan frowned. “That Judith woman drove over in a big huff and accused my mom of going through her trash. Why would Mom do something like that? We're not that poor.”

“What did your mom say?”

“She denied it, of course.”

“Did Judith say she'd seen Greta do it?” Cam glanced at Megan.

“I don't know. Mom told her to leave and then followed her outside, so I couldn't hear what else they said. Can't the world just leave my family alone?”

C
am lingered over a cheese sandwich and a glass of milk when she got home, reading the paper and practicing work avoidance. She indulged in two pieces of dark chocolate and checked her e-mail and Facebook. Finally she glanced at the clock.

“Two o'clock, Preston. Time to get serious.”

From where he lay on his back in a patch of sunshine, he opened one eye and closed it again. Dasha gave a little doggie-mare twitch from his bed.

The day had warmed by the time she'd come home from the walk, so Cam slipped on her dark khaki work vest instead of a jacket. It had big patch pockets on the front, perfect for her keys, phone, and a pair of pruners or a few seed packets.

She locked up and headed out to the barn, once again leaving the animals inside. It was time to till. After checking the oil in the tiller and topping up the gas, and after several pulls of the starter rope, Cam finally got Red started. She wanted to call the rusty, formerly red rototiller Old Rustbucket. But she didn't dare offend the heavy machine she'd inherited from Uncle Albert, along with all the other farm tools and supplies, even though parts of the tiller were nearly rusted out. One of its back-mounted circular tines was almost worn through, and a piece that kept the handles upright was about gone, too. She guessed she ought to be grateful that the tiller ever started, and that it ran, too. She needed it for the heavier work of turning the beds in the spring, and once it got running, it didn't quit until the gas tank ran empty. She'd taught herself the rudiments of small engine maintenance and rescue last summer, which had kept the tiller in operation more than once.

She shoved the engine in gear and walked behind it out of the barn, then let it die by releasing the lever on the right handle. She took a moment to lock the barn before firing up the tiller again and heading out back. She walked slowly behind the big machine, her hands vibrating with the engine even though the tines weren't engaged. The sunshine had heated up the day into the fifties, but it felt warmer than that. Cam realized with a start that today was the equinox, signaling the shift to longer days and shorter nights, so it was a day farmers all over the northern hemisphere traditionally rejoiced in. Should she go find a flagon of mead to drink and splash on the ground or something?

Nah
. She had fields to turn. The hens would be able to clear only so much, and each fenced-in area would take them several weeks. Cam had crops to get in the ground before that. But the equinox was a major turning point in the season, even if there was still the danger of freezing temperatures well into May. She could understand why rural people everywhere celebrated it. Maybe next year she'd hold an equinox potluck on the farm to drum up customers for the summer. One more missed opportunity for this year, which just showed that she was a geek farmer, not a brilliant marketer. Good at code and cucumbers instead of knowing how to make the news of her farm go viral.

Arriving at the area she wanted to till, this one planted with hairy vetch, she engaged the tines and pressed down on the tiller handles so the curved blades dug into the soil as they turned. DJ would advise her to just use a no-till method and plant right into the small leaves and curly tendrils of the nitrogen-fixing vetch. But since he was off on his retreat, she couldn't ask him how she was supposed to get earth loose enough to plant in if she didn't loosen it. At least she was adding organic material to the soil, one of the main purposes of planting winter-hardy crops in the fall.

As she worked, she considered what Megan had said about Judith accusing Greta of going through her trash. Could Judith have meant Greta did it this week? But why?

The tiller encountered a more compacted bit of ground and bucked. Cam focused on pressing the back down again as a counterweight against the heavy engine in the front. She came to the end of the row and pressed down on the handles as she swung the tiller around to go back the way she came. She tried to walk to the left so she didn't compress the newly tilled soil, but it was awkward, and she was almost too tall for the machine, so her back already ached from the effort of bending over and controlling the weight of the machine, the pressure downward, and the forward motion.

She reached the end and turned again. Maybe Megan was wrong. Maybe Judith hadn't said trash. Why would Greta be going through Judith's trash, anyway?

Cam swore and let go of both levers on the handles. The blades stopped rotating and the engine cut out. Greta could have been stealing Judith's vaping supplies to make it look like Judith had killed Wayne. Cam stared at the dark soil she'd brought to the surface, at earthworms wriggling to the surface, at stray vetch tendrils reaching for the sky. She didn't see any of it.

Greta would have framed Judith for only one reason: if Greta had killed Wayne herself.

P
ulling off her gloves, Cam grabbed her phone out of her vest pocket and stabbed Pete's speed dial. “Pick up, pick up, you have to pick up,” she whispered.

When his voice mail answered, she blew out a breath and swore again. Maybe he was in a meeting. Maybe he'd call back in a minute. Should she leave a message or wait for him to call? The beep sounded.

“Pete. You have to find Greta. Judith says Greta stole her trash. It must have been the vaping stuff that she planted to frame Judith. Judith has a security cam by her front door. Maybe she has another one—”

Her message was cut off with another beep. Cam stabbed at the phone again, this time disconnecting. Damn it. Greta might have killed her own husband. How could she do such a thing? A shiver rippled through Cam despite the bright, mild, happy-looking day. She'd had enough experience with murder over the last year to know logic didn't always prevail, and that one person's difficult situation became another's intolerable one. But why hadn't Greta simply filed for divorce if she was so unhappy with Wayne and her life with him?

Cam didn't know what to do next. She wasn't about to go over to Greta's and confront her. That was a job for the police, not for an unarmed farmer.
Uh-oh
. What about an armed one? Cam had seen Greta's ammunition for a small gun. She must also own the gun. That must have been what she was hiding in that bag. For sure it wasn't medicine for Pluto. Double reason for Cam to stay right here on her own farm, do her tilling, and listen for the phone. She made sure it was set to both full volume and vibrate before sticking it back in her pocket.

Starting up the tiller, she made her way down the row again, and back up. And back down. And back up one more time, finishing that small field. She let the tiller die to check her phone, just in case she'd missed Pete's call from the noise and vibration of the machine, but there was no indication of a new call. He had to call her back. Or maybe he was already following up on her tip.

Cam had her hand on the starter rope when she realized how thirsty she was. She let it go and trudged to the barn. It was a pain to have to unlock it every time, but a nuisance was better than vandalism or, worse, an assault. She drank down a cup of water and then reversed her actions. She locked up and was turning toward the rear of the property when a rattling car slowed near her driveway. Cam whirled. It wasn't a vehicle or driver she recognized and it sped up again, driving off down the hill. It wouldn't be Tam's rattling car, anyway. He was in custody.

Drawing on her work gloves again, Cam walked back out to the far field where she passed the hens' new location. She slowed at the sight of forty multicolored hens delighting in their new luxury vegetative digs, quite literally.

“Hey, girls, how's the salad? Hey, Mama Dot. You like?”

The Silver Laced Wyandotte ran right up to the fence and chirped at Cam, the chicken's feathers forming a gorgeous scalloped pattern of black edging a silvery white. Cam reached down and through the fence to pet her, but the hen slid out from under Cam's hand, as she always did.

Her phone emitted two short bursts. Her eyes widened. It was the barn camera. She hadn't heard a car drive up, but she could be too far back on the land for that. It could be any one of her volunteers. It could be someone wanting to sign up for the CSA. But she had a bad feeling about this. The phone repeated the beeps, two quick ones in a row.

She grabbed at her pocket but the glove was too bulky. She ripped it off and pulled the phone out with too much force. It dropped to the ground in front of the chicken fencing. Her hand shaking, she retrieved it and pressed the camera icon.

The picture showed Greta standing in front of the barn, banging on the door with one hand. In her other was a gun.

C
am stared at the screen. Greta must think Cam knew she was the murderer. But why? And now what? All Greta had to do was come around to the back of the barn and she'd see Cam out here. Cam's heart raced as she swiped back to the home screen, hit the phone icon, and stabbed 911. She rushed around to the far side of the coop and crouched as the dispatcher asked her what her name and emergency was.

“Cam Flaherty, Eight Attic Hill Road,” she whispered. “Greta Laitinen is here with a gun and she looks angry. Please help me.”

“Where is she?”

“She's in front of my barn. I'm out back in the field. I need help.” Cam heard keys tapping.

“We'll send help. Please stay on the line. Have you been hurt?”

“Not yet.” Cam peeked around the side of the coop. She couldn't see Greta, but now she couldn't see her camera display, either. She squatted again, afraid if she swiped back to the display, she'd end the call.

“Should I run into the woods at the back of my farm?” Cam asked. “They're twenty yards behind me.”

“I can't say, ma'am. Do you feel unsafe where you are?”

“Damn right I do.”

“Help is on the way, ma'am.”

Cam peeked around the side again. She swore as she ducked back behind the coop. Greta moved directly toward her. Cam couldn't see the gun. A siren started up somewhere in the distance. Was it getting closer? She couldn't hide behind the coop forever, and she'd be a sitting target out here, even if she tried to escape over Tully's field. At least in the woods she might be able to hide and then get away, especially if she could find the trail that ran through them.

“She's coming. I'm going into the woods.” Cam could barely swallow, her throat was so thick with fear. She slid the phone back into the vest pocket. Staying at a crouch, she dashed for the line of trees. She tried to keep the coop between her and Greta. She could barely run bent over like this.

“I see you,” Greta called out in a steely voice.

Cam straightened and ran with all the speed her long legs could muster. Her lungs ached. The woods had never seemed so far away. She'd almost reached the first row of trees when a sharp sting hit the left side of her back. A crack split the air. The pain was sharp, insistent. She kept going, crashing through the underbrush. Ten yards in stood a thick old oak, with hairy poison sumac vines clinging to its trunk. Cam ducked behind it. Her side hurt. She looked down. Blood seeped out through her vest.
Oh, no.
A woozy feeling came over her. She took a deep breath and tried to shake it off. She couldn't afford to faint.

“So now you want to play hide-and-seek?”

The woods made it hard to know where Greta was, but Cam didn't think she'd followed her into the woods. Yet.

Cam had to get deeper into the woods. Farther away from Greta. Ruffles must have felt this terrified the moment before the fox caught him. She glanced ahead of her. A trail ran through here somewhere. But Cam only saw more underbrush. Saplings and tangled deadfall. She turned and lifted her foot carefully, picking her way toward the next big tree back. She tried to stay in the cover of the one behind her. A branch cracked under her foot right before she reached the wide trunk. She slid behind it.

“You're not going to get out of here alive, you know.” Greta's voice now sounded closer.

Where was she and how had she approached so quietly? Cam was sure Greta would be able to hear the thundering sound of her heart. She tried to breathe without making noise. Her wound burned. She felt light headed.

“You've been messing in my business, Cam Flaherty.” Greta's words came out strained, like she was barely containing her fury. “Who do you think you are, grilling my daughter about my husband's accounts?”

Cam didn't dare speak. She changed her mind about getting deeper into the trees. It was a stupid idea. Greta could kill her back there and her body would never be found. She crept past a thick stand of saplings to her left and crouched behind them. At least she wore a dark green shirt and dirt-stained jeans with her vest, the most camouflage she could hope for.

“Asking questions about Wayne's past, and about mine, too.” Greta now sounded breathless. “Snooping around my barn. Talking to that witch, Judith. She's one person you won't be talking to ever again.”

No
. She must have killed Judith. Cam couldn't think about that now. She listened for where Greta's voice came from. It seemed like she was directing it farther into the woods, that she thought that's where Cam was heading.
Good
.

“Judith's rotting in hell right next to Wayne now,” Greta spat out. “Nothing made me happier than to end his life. Everybody thought he was such a sweet pushover, but he wasn't. I never got to have my own life.”

Cam eyed another big tree closer to the fields, a craggy dead maple. She felt her side and her hand came up smeared with blood. She pressed the back of her left hand against the wound, wincing at the pain, suppressing a cry. She had to get out of here before she lost any more blood. She took a careful step. One more. And one more. She made it to the safety of the big tree and glanced around before hiding. She couldn't see Greta anywhere and now she'd stopped talking. Cam let herself take a breath as a hawk screamed its high scratchy call from the sky. From where she stood it looked about thirty feet to the end of the trees. She could make a dash for it except for the underbrush. It would have to be a careful dash.

She counted silently as she inhaled deeply. One, two, three. Go! She walked as quickly and as quietly as she could. She lifted her feet above the dead branches littering the ground, onto a mound of moss, over an unfurling fern. Thorns grabbed at her pants leg. She ripped her leg loose and took another step. The scent of the freshly turned soil of the field reached her nostrils, called to her. Almost there.

A puff of smoke surrounded a hole in the tree right in front of her and another crack resounded. Chips of bark flew out.

“Freeze!” Greta demanded, the word a cold steel dagger.

Cam froze.
I don't want to die.

With a quick rustle, Greta strode toward her. She gripped the gun in both hands. A gun pointed at Cam's chest.

“Put that thing down!” Cam held a hand up, barely able to speak. “You don't have to point it at me.” Her hands numbed and her breath came fast and shallow.

“Wanna bet? Turn around. Now.” Greta's breath smelled sour. The pale skin around her eyes was strained and a tic beat below her right eye. Her hair frizzed loose in all directions above a worn denim jacket. She reached for Cam's shoulder with her right hand, keeping the gun steady with her left.

Cam turned. The movement sliced her with pain. The gun pressed hard and angry between her shoulder blades. It hurt, but not as much as her side. Her insides turned to ice. Would the police get here in time? They had to.

“Walk.” Greta prodded Cam with the gun. She gripped Cam's right shoulder with her hand.

“Where are we going?” Cam tried to keep her words from wobbling. Her throat was dry. She could barely swallow.

“You'll find out.” She pushed Cam back into the woods.

Cam moved as slowly as she could. “Put the gun down, Greta.” Cam croaked as loudly as she could. “You're not going to shoot me, are you?”
Let them hear, let them hear
.

“I'm finally going to do exactly and only what I want to do, after all these years,” Greta snarled. “And yeah, it might just include shooting you.” The acrid scent of nerves and desperation exuded from her.

No
. Cam's legs felt like a baby calf's up on its feet for the first time. “Why did you kill Wayne?” She fervently hoped the phone could pick up their conversation from her pocket. Should she tell Greta she'd called the police? No, Greta would probably kill her on the spot.

“I was going to be a world-class scientist, but he trapped me.” Greta wove through the trees like she didn't know what her plan was, trudging mostly parallel to the border with the fields. “He kept money from me, he stuck us in this godforsaken village, he made me deal with chicken shit, of all things.” Greta pushed Cam to change direction, heading deeper into the woods again. She fell silent.

“Where are we going?” Cam asked.

“Just shut up and walk.”

They trod, cracking branches underfoot, brushing past young maples still bare of leaves and a young pine straining for the canopy.

“What about Megan?” Every time Cam tried to slow the pace, Greta nudged her with the barrel of the gun.

“What about her?” Greta asked.

“What's going to happen to her when you're arrested for murder?”

“For one thing, I'm not going to be arrested. I have a plan. And Megan's fine. She's an adult, she has a job.”

The smell of evergreen needles dredged up an incongruous memory of Christmas. What if Cam never saw another Noel? The trees opened up onto the trail.
Damn
. Greta had found the path, narrow though it was. Now she could easily force Cam to walk far into the woods. Cam needed her own plan, and soon.

“Why didn't you get a divorce? Or tell him you needed to work in your own area? Why kill Wayne?” She saw a flash of something on her right. She didn't dare turn her head.
Please let it be rescue
.

“You make it sound so easy. What do you know?” Greta barked. “You're single. You don't have kids. I'll bet you've been handed privilege your whole life.”

Cam forced herself to keep moving, but no police appeared. Apparently the flash hadn't been her rescue angels. Cam was on her own. She slowed to a halt and planted her feet. She tensed her leg muscles.

“Hey, I didn't tell you to stop.” Greta's hand pushed Cam's back and the pressure from the gun let up.

Cam whipped her head to the left. “Watch that poison ivy,” she cried.

Greta looked. Cam spun to the left. She smashed her elbow into Greta's face. The gun fired. Cam's ears rang and another sharp sting hit her right arm. Greta cried out and staggered. She cupped her right hand over her nose, her eyes streaming. Cam grabbed Greta's left forearm and twisted it until she screamed and dropped the gun. Cam put both hands on Greta's chest and pushed, ignoring her own pain.

Greta yelled and fell to the ground, landing on her rear with a thud. She reached for the gun, but Cam kicked her hand away. She bent down to pick up the weapon, never taking her gaze away from Greta, and pointed it at her. Cam's side and arm were on fire, but at least she was alive.

“Don't move.” Cam willed her hand to be steady on the handgun's grip, still warm from Greta's grasp. Cam hadn't fired a gun since Albert had taught her as a teenager. But if she had to, she would.

“I wasn't going to hurt you,” Greta said thickly. “I was only trying to scare you, get you to quit sticking your nose where it didn't belong. And now you broke mine.”

“Right.” Cam kept the gun pointed at Greta but made sure she stayed out of reach of Greta's hands and feet. If the police weren't on their way, if that flash had been only sunlight on a puddle or a piece of metal, she had no idea how she was going to get Greta out of here and into the hands of the authorities. She assumed the call to dispatch was still live in her pocket. But if that flash was the police, wouldn't they have appeared by now?

Cam's right arm started to shake and the upper part where she'd been shot ached something fierce. She brought her left hand up to support the gun. Greta pushed up on her elbows and made a quick scoot toward Cam. She nearly grabbed Cam's ankle. Just in time, Cam lashed a kick, landing her work boot toe squarely on Greta's upper arm.

Over Greta's yell of pain, Cam said, “I told you not to move.”

Greta grabbed her arm with her other hand and turned her face away. Cam heard a soft rustle. She didn't dare take her eyes off Greta.

With a rush of noise, three officers burst out of the woods onto the trail to Cam's right. Led by Ruth, they had weapons drawn and wore thick vests over their uniform shirts. They arrived at Cam's side in seconds. Greta scrabbled backward with elbows and knees, her eyes wide.

“Don't move,” Ruth commanded Greta as she pointed her weapon at her.

Greta stopped. Blood ran in rivulets from her nose and dripped off her chin.

“I already told her that,” Cam said, lowering Greta's gun. She tried to laugh but it came out half sob.

Another officer trained his weapon on Greta while a third rolled her over and cuffed her hands behind her back. Ruth reached out a gloved hand and took the weapon from Cam.

“You're hurt,” Ruth said to Cam. Worry lines creased her face as she looked at Cam's arm.

“She hurt
me
, you know,” Greta said, struggling against the restraints. “She broke my nose. She lured me out here and was going to kill me. I think she killed my husband, too. She's the one with the gun.”

Cam turned her back.

The cuffing officer squatted next to Greta. “Keep quiet. We've been listening to you our whole way over here.” He read Greta her rights as she glared at Cam with narrowed eyes and flared nostrils. The other office spoke into the mike on his shoulder, saying something about the woods and about gunshot wounds.

“You were great,” Ruth said to Cam, holstering her own gun. “Let's get you out of here.” She ushered Cam a little ways down the trail until they could see the fields. “I need you to sit down. The paramedics can get to us just fine.”

“She shot me in the side, and then my arm got hit when I attacked her. She fell for ‘made ya look,' the oldest trick in the book.” Cam made the smallest of smiles as she started to sway. Ruth extended her hand and helped Cam sink to sitting on the mowed path between the woods and the last field. The ground was cold but at least it was solid. And safe.