A Hoe Lot of Trouble (6 page)

I looked back at Bridget, narrowed my eyes. "You okay?"

She gave a shake to her head. "Sorry. I just don't understand people some times. I'd never do that to my child. Where were we? Oh yes, being here awhile. No, I don't mind."

I barely had time to think about the emotional scars she must be carrying before she said, "With Tim out of work, I've been putting in extra hours and I'm grateful for some free time."

"Tim's out of work? I didn't know."

She sighed. "Remember that big death-penalty case he

tried up in Columbus about six months ago? The one he lost?"

I nodded. I'd followed the story in the paper.

"His firm fired him."

"Oh no."

Quite honestly, I'd been glad Tim, a defense attorney, lost the case. His client had been the worst kind of bad—rotten to the core—and was now serving out his remaining days on death row. Good riddance to bad rubbish, as my mother always said. I did feel bad for Tim, though.

"He's been out looking, getting a nibble here and there. But most of his offers have come from out of state. And we hadn't wanted to move, not with the baby, and my job going so well . . ."

My heart went out to her. As an environmental lawyer, Bridget worked her tail off, most of it pro bono. Now with a baby coming and Tim's unemployment—

"And with Tim's dad being sick—we couldn't just up and lea—"

I gasped, covering my mouth. My appetite vanished. "Oh, God, Bridget, you must think I'm the worst person in the world. I'd totally blanked on Joe's death. I saw your wonderful belly and everything else went right out of my head."

She smiled. "It's okay."

"No, it's not. Really, it's not. How's Tim holding up? Mrs. Sandowski? You?"

She shook her head, picked up her empty water glass, looked around. Gertie was still yapping with the eligible, octogenarian Molaris.

"Orange juice okay?" I asked Bridget.

"Great, but—"

I pried the glass from her hand, made my way behind the horseshoe counter, smiled at Gus, who was flipping pancakes, and filled the glass with juice from the tap with the oranges on it and shimmied my way back to our table.

Bridget laughed, sipped her juice. "I've missed you."

"Same here. So, tell me about Joe. What happened to him, and what happened at the farm this morning?"

Her blue eyes blinked, owl-like. "How did you know?"

"Kevin. He mentioned something happened there."

Her eyes darkened. "What did he say?"

"Not much. There was a report of some gunshots. Apparently Tim's mom didn't know anything." I left out the part where Kevin said he was sure Mrs. Sandowski had been lying. I didn't think Bridget would take too well to that. "What's going on? Does this have something to do with Joe's death?"

She shifted in her seat, clearly uncomfortable. "I don't know where to begin."

"At the beginning?" I suggested. I hoped that didn't come out as insensitive as it sounded to my ears. It was that whole impatience thing again. Mix it with my curiosity and it was almost always a caustic combination.

"About a month ago someone poisoned the sheeps' water."

"What? Are you sure?"

She nodded, motioning with her juice glass. "One died and the other two are still under the care of a vet. Startzky's Rat Poison."

"Oh God."

"Whoever did it left the box next to the trough, like they wanted it to be found. Taunting us, almost."

"Do you still have the box?" I'd lived with a cop long enough to learn a thing or two. Maybe fingerprints could still be retrieved.

"No. We passed it on to the police when it happened. Nothing came of it."

"No fingerprints?"

"Not that I know of. No one ever said."

I pressed on, being my usual nosy self. "What else has happened?"

"Threatening phone calls in the middle of the night, death threats in the mail, and someone started a fire in the west field. Luckily a passerby noticed before it could do any real damage."

"Do you have any idea why?" Because it sure as hell didn't make sense to me.

"The land."

I remembered Sandowski's Farm quite well. It was nothing to brag about. Multiple acres of fields and crops. Mostly corn and some soy if I recalled correctly. They had a few cows, some sheep, and oodles of chickens.

"I don't understand."

Placing her elbows on the table, Bridget leaned forward, her blue eyes searching. "You've heard of Vista View?"

"Sure." I was lucky enough to have a few clients in the subdivision of half-million- to million-dollar homes nestled snugly together between their ritzy country club, private golf course, tennis courts, and pool. For me, Vista View meant big profits and more publicity than I knew what to do with. "Congressman Chanson lives there, along with dozens of other movers and shakers."

Off a main road, Vista View houses were set back, rising like monoliths against the horizon. The subdivision itself never held much appeal to me. If I were going to own a halfmillion-dollar house, it would be in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but nature. In Vista View, if you sneezed, your neighbor blessed you.

"What does Vista View have to do with Tim's family?"

"It's having traffic problems. I'm sure you know Vista View is a shortcut from Liberty Avenue to Millson."

"I use it all the time. It's always backed up, especially at rush hour." Most of my work was in that direction. With all the developments popping up on the acres and acres of old farmland to the north, my business was booming. "But what does traffic in Vista View have to do with Sandowski's Farm?"

"Vista View wants to become gated. Residents only. Guards at the gate, the whole shebang."

"I hadn't heard." Already I mourned the loss of my shortcut and dreaded the added minutes of commute time along one of the most congested roads in town.

"They haven't gone public with the announcement yet."

"Why?"

She clasped her hands together, looking very lawyerly. "They're having a bit of trouble. In order to become gated, a road must be paved from Liberty Avenue to Millson."

"So why doesn't the town build it?"

"Because there's a farm in the way."

I did some mental geography. "Ahh. Sandowski's Farm?"

"Exactly. Tim's mom and dad were offered a small fortune to move, but refused."

"How much and why not?" I hadn't thought of it before, but Sandowski's Farm had to be worth a small fortune. I'd heard a story of one farmer who sold his land for eight million so a shopping mall could be built for the new suburbanites. Although the Sandowskis didn't own nearly as much land, the asking price would still be up there, considering its prime location.

"About three million dollars," she said solemnly, "and because it's their home. Sandowski's Farm has been in Tim's father's family for nearly one hundred and fifty years. It's Tim's heritage. There's no way they would have sold, not for any amount. And they shouldn't. If every farmer sold out to make way for new office plazas, think of all the valuable resources that would be lost." Her almost-white eyebrows dipped as she frowned. "It just makes me sick to think of all that beautiful farmland paved over."

"So you think someone took to using terror tactics to get them to leave?"

She nodded. "The list of people who want them out is endless. All the residents of Vista View; developers who would give their eyeteeth for the land that would bracket the new road; and Congressman Chanson had visited them himself to plead his case."

"You think a congressman would kill sheep?"

"I think he would do a lot of things to get what he wants."

I crossed my arms, suddenly cold. "Kevin said something about shots fired this morning. What was that about?"

"Jumper, Tim's mom's cocker spaniel. He lost a leg to a bullet, but he'll be okay."

My eyes widened in shock. "Why didn't you tell the police?"

"Tim and I went to the police when the sheep were poisoned. They made a report and told us it was probably teenage misfits. We went back when the death threats arrived. Again, they did nothing." She took a deep breath. "You haven't heard the worst of it yet."

I leaned forward, intrigued by her expression. It was a mix of sadness, of anger. "What?"

"Nina, someone killed Joe."

For crying out loud, I'd forgotten again! What kind of person
was
I? So wrapped up in the story of the sheep and land, I'd forgotten that Farmer Joe had been murdered. I gasped. "My God. You don't think a congressman . . ."

She cut me off before I could finish the thought. "As you know, Joe had cancer."

I nodded. It had been why she and Tim had moved back down to the Cincinnati area from Columbus a few months back, buying an old run-down Victorian near the city.

"It was end-stage, but he wouldn't let it keep him down. He was so very weak, but still wanted to run the farm as best he could." She paused, then continued, her voice shaky as she said, "When Tim's mom found him out by the foot of his tractor in the middle of the cornfield, it looked like his heart had just given out. He was already gone by the time the paramedics arrived. They took him straight to the mortuary."

"But that doesn't make sense if it was murder—the medical examiner would have been called in."

Sarcasm oozed from her lips. "Apparently they didn't know."

"But how—"

She interrupted. "That night . . ." Her gaze dropped to her hands, where it studied her short, trimmed nails. "Tim's mom couldn't bear to leave the mortuary. So Tim and I went back to the farm, took care of the animals. When Tim went out to move the tractor back into the barn, he noticed there was a nearly empty thermos of coffee in the cab."

The enormity of her statement didn't escape me. Besides me, Joe was the only other person I knew who didn't drink coffee.

"Since Joe hated coffee, there's no way he would have drunk it . . . unless someone forced him."

"Maybe it was Mrs. Sandowski's?"

"It wasn't; we asked her about it. Finding the coffee made us suspicious enough to turn it over to the police immediately. We also had a few drops of the contents analyzed." She sighed. "We found out a few days later that it was laced with cyanide."

"Well, that proves something, doesn't it?" I said.

"To us." Bridget ran her finger along a scratch in the tabletop. "But not to the police."

"Why not?"

"They're waiting for the contents to be verified by their own lab—the one we used wasn't certified, so the analysis is virtually useless."

"I can't . . . I just can't believe it. You really think Joe drank the coffee?"

"I think someone forced him to, yes. The cancer had taxed his strength. He'd become so weak . . . There's no way he would have been able to defend himself." Pushing a hand through her blonde hair, she said, "The sheep, the threats . . . If we hadn't found that thermos, I would have kept believing Joe died naturally."

"Why wasn't the ME called right away? Didn't the paramedics notice something was off?"

"Maybe they did." Revulsion laced her tone. Her features hardened. "Maybe they were told they'd be having a pickup that day. Maybe they were told to bring Joe to the mortuary, no questions asked."

This conversation was getting creepier by the second. "A cover-up?"

"Paramedics are employees of the county. And Congressman Chanson can pull a lot of weight, since he lives here. He is a powerful adversary."

I couldn't seem to close my mouth. I stared. I gaped. It wasn't pretty, I was sure.

"I know it seems unreal. And sure, I could be wrong about the paramedics. Joe's skin tone
was
poor. The cancer had spread from his lungs to his liver. He really needed to be on oxygen, but refused." She looked at me. "You remember how stubborn he was?"

I nodded.

She exhaled. "The liver damage had turned him a slight yellow color—jaundice—and his low oxygen levels caused his nails and lips to have a bluish tint. But that doesn't explain why his death is being swept under the rug."

"What do you mean?"

"You said in your card that you'd read about Joe's death in the paper? When was that?"

I thought back, trying to remember. "Last week? Monday? No. Tuesday."

"Right. And have you read anything since?"

Come to think of it, there had been no further mention of Joe's death. Not in the newspaper or on the TV. "No."

"It's being kept quiet."

I thought of Kevin and his silence on the subject. Maybe it had had nothing to do with the end of our marriage. Maybe he was under orders to keep things to himself.

"That does seem odd."

"Then yesterday . . ." Her fists clenched. "Yesterday I got a call from Freedom PD. Seems the thermos has been lost en route to the lab. Apparently someone just up and stole it while the driver made a stop. Or so the police say." Sarcasm dripped from her words. "Please excuse me if I don't believe them."

My stomach rolled. I could see where the paramedics might have made a mistake. And maybe the media just wasn't all that interested in the death of an old farmer, murder or not, but this . . . This was too big to discount. There was too much coincidence. And too much coincidence usually meant something hinky was going on.

"What about an autopsy?"

She shook her head. "Joe was cremated before we knew about the thermos. It's what he told Tim he wanted."

Shock rippled through me. "I'll give you Kevin's number. You and Tim should talk to him about all this."

"I wish I could, Nina. But we don't trust anyone who works for this town. I mean, I have faith that Kevin's an honorable person, after all, you wouldn't have married him otherwise—"

I thought maybe I was going to be sick right then and there.