Murder Most Fowl (3 page)

C
am lifted her glass of an Oregon Pinot Noir and clinked it with Pete's beer glass. He'd driven her to a small bistro across the river in Amesbury, telling her it was one of his favorite restaurants. The air was full of tantalizing smells. What looked like neighborhood regulars lined the bar, and a petite woman in a pink chef's shirt and toque never stopped moving.

“Here's to you, kid.” He gazed at Cam from under his heavy, dark eyebrows, then took a long drink and set the glass on the table.

“You must be glad you're off duty,” she said after sipping her own drink. Pete Pappas's long hours and often irregular schedule as a state police detective made maintaining a relationship difficult.

“You bet. A whole weekend free. Had a relaxing day just hanging with Dasha. I think we walked every trail in Maudslay State Park. You should come sometime.”

“I'd like that. It's one of my favorite places to walk. Did you finally get custody of Dasha from Alicia?” Cam had met Pete's intelligent husky in the winter, and Dasha had helped to bring down a murderer, but Pete's ex-wife had gotten the dog in the divorce.

“Didn't I tell you? Alicia never liked him, anyway. It was simply a power trip to claim custody. She finally realized she was a lot freer without him. Freedom is real big with her these days.” He laughed softly. “Fine with me.”

“I'm glad you got him and I'm sure he is, too.” Cam twisted in her chair to read the specials written on a chalkboard behind her. The restaurant was in an old building that featured a stamped tin ceiling and brick walls, but the owners had added colorful sound-absorbing panels to cut down on noise, and the atmosphere was warm and bustling.

A ponytailed waiter in a white shirt, black jeans, and a black half apron approached them. “Ready to order?”

Cam looked at him. “What's in the lamb ragout on the specials menu?”

“Thyme, rosemary, roasted garlic, and a roasted heirloom tomato sauce, served over tiny new potatoes. It comes with grilled herbed asparagus.”

“Perfect. I'll have that.”

Pete ordered the Creole stew.

“Anything to start?” the waiter asked.

“Want to split a Fallen Caesar?” Pete looked at Cam.

“Sure.”

The waiter gathered up their menus and turned away.

“How's your new partner working out?” Cam asked. “Detective Hobbs.”

“Ivan? I was happy to have a break from him today. He's conscientious to a fault. Everything has to be by the book. I preferred working solo, but the new commander brought Ivan with him. Hard to relax around somebody so regimented.”

“I didn't have a relaxing day, myself,” Cam said, then told him about the highlights of the town meeting. “All day long, it took. At the end, the question everybody had come for wasn't even resolved.” She shook her head. “Albert warned me about New England town meetings. Speaking of a fallen Caesar, ‘Beware the ides of March' kept running through my head. Not that I thought anybody was going to get assassinated, but Shakespeare—”

“You know that was a real thing, don't you? Shakespeare knew his Plutarch.”

Cam wrinkled her nose. “Remind me about Plutarch? I didn't have much of a humanities education, being in computer science.”

“He was a Greek biographer and historian who became a Roman citizen. He wrote about how a seer had warned Julius Caesar that he would be killed no later than the ides of March. And a different biographer and historian, Suetonius, said it was a haruspex named Spurinna who warned Caesar.”

“A haruspex?”

“Someone who did divination by reading the lives of sacrificial sheep and chickens.”

Cam stared at him and then laughed. “How in the world do you know all this?”

“I like reading Shakespeare, and that led to reading about Caesar.” He grinned. “It's a break from crime, at least from crime in our own time period. They also had their share of small-town politics then, of course.”

“We certainly have ours in Westbury.”

“We don't get as much of that in Newburyport, since we have a mayor and a city council,” Pete said. “But we have plenty of petty-minded conflicts, for sure.”

“I heard a bit more conflict up close and personal after the meeting.” She told him about overhearing the conversation between Wayne and Judith Patterson. “And then when I went over to Wayne's farm to get some chicken advice, he and his wife were arguing. Sounds like they have money problems. Greta wants to sell the parcel of land to the Patterson woman, but he's refusing.”

“Can't blame him for wanting to hang on to the farm.”

“I agree.” Cam stood. “Excuse me a minute. Just want to wash my hands before the food comes.”

“Come back soon. I'll miss you.” Pete's wicked grin lit up his face, which in fact did look more relaxed than Cam had ever seen him.

“I promise.” She reached out and ruffled his thick hair as she passed. Spying the R
ESTROOMS
sign at the back of the restaurant, she headed in that direction, but slowed when she heard the same voice she'd heard earlier from behind the Escalade. The woman speaking, who had to be Judith Patterson, had her back to Cam. She shared a table with three other women, all with well-cut and expertly colored hair, Judith's a cap of streaked ash blond. Cam continued past the table, noticing expensive rings and manicured hands holding martini glasses. Cam glanced at her own unmanicured hands, with short-cut nails, calluses, and reddened skin from constantly scrubbing out ground-in dirt.

On her way back from the ladies' room, Cam paused at the open doorway to the small kitchen where two men and the pink-clad chef moved in what looked like an orchestrated dance. Steam curled off a wide pot and something sizzled in a sauté pan. It smelled like heaven. As she approached the table of well-groomed women, Cam saw Judith put a long cylinder to her mouth. It had to be an e-cigarette, which Cam had never seen anyone smoke before, if that was even the right verb. Judith blew out a puff of a smoky substance as Cam tried to get a good look at her face while she passed. When Judith glanced up with piercing dark eyes, Cam resisted the temptation to throw her own gaze elsewhere, and instead gave her a stranger's smile: not beaming, but not unfriendly, either.

Cam slid into her seat as the waiter brought two plates of romaine spears topped with anchovies, Parmesan cheese, and a creamy dressing, with a slab of cheesy toast at the side.

“Where do you get the lettuce?” she asked him.

The waiter frowned. “Our local source went under last fall. We'd like to get it from another farm around here but haven't found a reliable purveyor.”

“I'm a farmer, over in Westbury. Maybe I should talk to the owner about supplying organic romaine.”

His face lit up. “I think she'd love that. She tries to use local as much as possible. I'll get her out here before you leave.”

Cam thanked him. “Here, give her my card.” She dug a farm business card out of her bag and handed it to the waiter.

“This would be a good gig for me,” she said to Pete. “Close by, steady business. And romaine is easy to grow.” She cut a piece and savored the mix of the tangy dressing, the salty fish, and the fresh crunch of the greens.

“If I know you, you're going to go home tonight and plant lettuce seeds in the greenhouse.”

“On a date night? Guess you don't know me too well. Yet.” She set her chin on her hand, gazing at Pete. They'd met less than a year ago after the terrible murder on her farm last June, and Pete had been called in to help solve it. Their dealings were adversarial at first. But he'd asked for her help with a second case in the fall, and when it was over they'd begun going out. That had gotten complicated this winter when Cam was an initial suspect in a murder at Great-Uncle Albert's assisted living residence, but now their relationship seemed to be settling into an easy pattern of weekend dates, long conversations, and satisfying doses of passion.

She frowned as she spied the back of Judith's head beyond Pete.

“What's the frown for?” he asked.

“The woman who wants to buy Wayne's farm is right over there. Judith Patterson. I heard her voice when I went to wash my hands. Looks pretty well off, like she can afford to buy another few acres.”

“Thank goodness she can't make him sell, no matter how much money she has.”

 

Cam stretched in her robe and slippers the next morning. Through the window she watched fat, lazy flakes float out of the sky. The drip of the coffeepot was accompanied by an increasingly rich aroma. She hugged herself, smiling at the extremely enjoyable night Pete and she had enjoyed. She'd left him asleep in her bed when her farmer's internal alarm said her own rest was all done, even though the clock read only six. When the small coffee machine finally quieted, she poured herself a mug of the deep roast she loved, added a splash of milk, and curled her feet up on the couch, clicking on the local television news with the volume low.

The station showed footage of an accident on Route 495 due to the snow. The weather woman said the storm, which had left only three inches of light snow, would be letting up within the hour with warming temperatures. Preston jumped up and joined Cam, and she stroked him, barely listening to the TV. Until she caught the word
Laitinen
. Her gaze went straight to the screen and she jacked up the volume a couple of notches.

“Animal rights activists claimed responsibility for vandalism at the Laitinen Poultry Farm during the night, specifically on the chicken house, that long structure you see.” The reporter gestured behind himself. “Before dawn, farmer Wayne Laitinen discovered that the structure had been sprayed with red paint and all the doors were left open to the storm. Police seek any information about the members of this group, the Animal Rights Front, which apparently is a split-off from PETA, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.” The camera zoomed in on the chicken house, which indeed was splashed with red, with the letters ARF scrawled large. A good deal of paint also lay on the ground near the now-closed door, paint showing crimson under the light layer of fresh snow that had fallen since. “Farmer Laitinen reports that his hens fortunately had the good sense to stay indoors.”

The camera panned to Wayne, who looked hastily dressed in an old work jacket and muck boots over his jeans. He also looked exhausted. “I don't know who done this. I'm good to my girls. I'd never hurt any of my animals. Any animal. All these people did was scare my hens and make them cold. Is that ethical treatment? I don't think so.” He turned away and stomped toward the house with bent shoulders.

When the program cut to a commercial, Cam switched off the television. That was enough bad news for the day. Wayne was good to his hens, Cam had seen that. They weren't completely free range, and they didn't get organic feed, but they had a large netted-in run and plenty of space in the chicken house in the winter. He kept them clean and healthy, and he seemed an unfair target for this group, whoever they were. A group that likely included Katie Magnusson, Alexandra's sister. Why didn't they target one of the big commercial growers out there? With any luck they'd leave Wayne alone after this. She was sure any additional financial hit would only add to his woes.

Cam drained her coffee. Maybe Pete would be interested in a wake-up call before she headed out to feed her own chickens.

 

It was nearly ten and the snow had stopped by the time Cam and Pete got around to breakfast. After a pleasant interlude and a shower, she'd fed and watered the hens, gathered eggs, and cooked up a fresh cheese-mushroom omelet, fried potatoes, and toast for the two of them. While she prepared the food, she told him about the vandalism at Wayne's farm. After breakfast was ready, he brought two mugs of fresh coffee to the table, then sat across from her.

She gazed at him. His dark hair, already silvering, was still damp from the shower, and the pink Oxford shirt he'd worn to dinner he now wore untucked over his jeans. His left ring finger still showed a pale ring where his wedding band had been.

“What are you looking at?” he said around a mouthful of omelet, but his dark eyes smiled.

“You. Did I ever tell you I like you?”

“I like you, too.” He grinned and pointed at her plate. “Now eat.”

She complied, following the forkful with a sip of coffee. “You wouldn't believe how strong Wayne makes his coffee.” She shuddered, remembering. “And he drinks it, too.”

“Good thing the world is a big place with room for lots of different types.”

After several more bites, Cam said, “Speaking of different types, any idea who's in this Animal Rights Front, this PETA splinter group?”

“We've heard a few threads of information. No real intelligence, though.”

Cam fell silent as she ate. What if Katie had been part of the action at Wayne's?

“Looks like your brain is working overtime,” Pete said, nudging her plate with his fork.

She glanced up. “I hate to say this, but I might know someone who was involved.”

Pete glanced up from his plate. “Oh?”

“Alexandra said her sister Katie's getting kind of way out there for animal rights.”

“Alexandra, your farm volunteer? The tall one?”

Cam nodded.

“What's the sister's full name?” He wiped a string of cheese off his chin.

Cam blew a breath out. “I don't want to get her in trouble. But maybe it's better if she gets in a little trouble now before things go too far.”

It was Pete's turn to nod.