Farm Fresh Murder (15 page)

For a long few moments, I thought I’d lost him. In truth, I didn’t want to lose him—I wanted to help him, but to do that, I needed to talk to him in person.

Finally, he responded. “Okay, Becca, tomorrow afternoon. Go to my house at about three, and I’ll call you and give you instructions from there.”

“Abner, I don’t . . .” I began, but there was a distinct silence on the other end. “Abner?”

He was gone.

I turned the key and revved the truck’s engine. I decided that if I actually went to Abner’s house and followed his cryptic instructions, he’d be lucky if I didn’t bring my own axe to bloody.

I drove directly home, made sure all the doors were locked,
peeled off my filthy clothes, and stepped into the shower. As I watched grime swirl down the drain with steamy hot water, a million thoughts crashed around in my mind.

What a day!

As much as I’d have loved to stay under the water until it ran cold, I had too much to think about and write down. So much had happened, and I didn’t want to forget one detail.

I didn’t know if it was the call from Abner or everything else that sent me into the creepy zone, but after putting on my most comfortable flannel pajamas, I turned on a bunch of lights, found the alarm code, set it, and then parked myself at the dining room table/desk. I found some light green index cards that were still wrapped in tight plastic, tore them open, and began my notes.

I titled the first card Abner. I listed what I could. He’d been the one to find Simonsen’s body; he’d been overheard in an argument with Simonsen—death threats and all; he’d been cagey to everyone (except Ian) about where he lived; there was a bloody axe in his greenhouse (I made a note to ask Officer Brion about fingerprints on the axe); he was missing in action, except for the flowers he put in my pumpkin patch and the calls he’d made to me; he’d been in a long-ago love triangle with Simonsen—I scratched that out and wrote
love square
—now, according to Helen, Barry was involved, too. Finally, I noted that he didn’t care for hummingbirds, though it sure seemed like he did. And he wanted his sister to tell me that specifically. Again the urge to wring Abner’s neck if he didn’t give me more information at our meeting made me clench my teeth.

I reread my notes. He sure seemed guilty on paper. Love was motive enough, and had been the reason for more murders than anyone would probably ever know for certain. But still, something didn’t fit. I turned the card over and wrote:

But Abner is gentle—feisty, but gentle. He’s claiming he’s being framed, but won’t tell by whom. His romance with Pauline was apparently a long time ago. Could he possibly still love her? Could she be the one framing him?
I thought I’d heard somewhere that most murders were committed by loved ones.

“I need to know about Pauline and Matt’s marriage,” I said aloud. How was I going to find out about their relationship? The only realistic way I could think of was to talk to Pauline myself. I’d burdened their son enough with my surprise visit—he probably wouldn’t give me a straight answer about his parents’ relationship, anyway. But it was too soon for me to interview the grieving widow, wasn’t it? I’d have to figure out a way, or . . . I made another note on my Officer Brion card—I’d ask my new friend, the police officer, if he knew anything. It wouldn’t be strange for the police to have asked her such questions. Maybe Sam had shown Mrs. Simonsen the picture, too—maybe she was the blonde. I’d for sure ask Sam, I just didn’t know if he’d give me a straight answer.

Satisfied with my progress on Abner’s card, I grabbed another one. This one was titled Carl Monroe. My notes were about his strange behavior at the meeting and the fact that he’d been at Smithfield and, while there, had run from me. What was he doing? And why would he run? That’s pretty much always a sign of guilt, but guilty because he’d killed someone? Or was there another reason? If so, what was it?

I turned the card over and scribbled about not knowing him well enough to make any real judgments. He’d always been quiet, nice, and tall. Tall. Presumably, so was the person who killed Matt Simonsen. So was the person who’d knocked on Allison’s door when I’d been stealing information. Could that have been Carl’s voice I heard? Maybe.

I grabbed the phone book and looked up Carl’s address. Maybe his would be easier to find than Ian’s and Abner’s.

“Nuh-uh,” I said aloud. “No way.” There was only one Carl Monroe listed in the thin phone book. Though I wasn’t familiar with the area, the address seemed to be right on the other side of Abner’s property. On a separate card, I jotted down Carl’s address. How could this new address be just a coincidence? How well did Abner and Carl know each other? How close friends were they really?

If Carl and Abner were good friends, I never saw it. I’d have to ask Allison or some of the other vendors.

My next card was about Barry. I noted what Helen had said about his love for Pauline. I listed his lie about how well he knew Matt Simonsen, which seemed to change every time I talked to him or to someone else about him. I also wrote down what he had said to me on the morning of the murder. It had been something about thinking the police didn’t suspect him because he didn’t have any blood on him. At the time I’d thought he was just being Barry, but now I wondered if maybe he was “protesting too loudly.” Barry was also tall. He was big and tall, and had a difficult time maneuvering his body, but he could probably still swing an axe. I turned the card over and added:

This was an awful thing to say about anyone, but I had to be honest with myself.

Though I could have devoted a card to Helen, I had no suspicions that she’d killed Matt Simonsen. I moved to my last card: Ian Cartwright. I smiled as I wrote his name, but then forced myself to be sober and focus on what I knew about him.

He’d worked with Matt Simonsen at Smithfield; he hadn’t told me, but he hadn’t thought that he was hiding something from me; he learned Abner’s address in record time while working at Bailey’s—though he said it had been because of the sculpture that Abner purchased. He lived close to Abner’s sister. I turned the card over.

The words I wanted to write weren’t appropriate for a murder investigation, so I allowed myself a moment or two of personal thought instead.

Ian said he was from Iowa, but I was curious, for personal reasons, to know more about him. His darker skin and ink-black hair made me think he might be at least partially Native American. Maybe African American? Shoot, maybe just a very olive-skinned Caucasian. I had no idea, but I was curious, just because. And I wanted to know even more. What did he do when he wasn’t working or reading to his landlord? And why did I suddenly have a picture in my mind of him reading in front of a fireplace, wearing only his jeans, as I’d seen him today? And why did I suddenly wish our kiss hadn’t been so innocent? And wasn’t I too old for all this nonsense?

I cleared my throat, put the pen to the back of Ian’s card, and wrote:
I’ve been married twice and must remember that relationships are not my strong suit. But the fact that I find him attractive (despite his younger age) and would like to inspect his tattoos further could cloud my judgment as to whether or not he’s a murderer. Must keep on my toes around this one. And not allow his poisonous spit to touch me again.

I suddenly realized that I’d been asking a bunch of questions, but leaving out an important one. Did these people have solid alibis? I’d been investigating, but trying to hide the fact that I was doing so. Apparently, Ian and Barry had been at Bailey’s, but I didn’t know exactly what time they’d arrived Tuesday morning. And I didn’t remember seeing Carl at all that day. I was searching for something that would tell me who had killed Matt Simonsen, but I needed to get more aggressive. I was just going to have to ask my possible suspects what they were doing at the time of the murder. Or I would have to ask Officer Brion what he’d learned. Or both.

The doorbell chimed, making me jump an inch or two off the chair. Allison had said she’d deliver Hobbit, but my nerves were on edge.

As dogs will do, Hobbit greeted me as though she hadn’t seen me in a month.

“She’s so fickle,” Allison said. “She acted heartbroken to leave Mathis, and now you’d think she was relieved to be away from the awfulness of our place.”

“Hey, girl. Treats,” I said as I rubbed her neck and dodged her slobbery tongue. The word “treats” always sent her directly to her bowl. I’d already placed her favorite bacon snacks over her regular food. After she’d pattered away, I turned to Allison. “Thanks for bringing her home. I needed a shower something fierce.”

“Sure, not a problem, but since you owe me and all”—she smiled—“tell me what you did with the rest of your day. How’s your investigation going?”

I cringed, but I didn’t think she caught it. Did she know I’d been in her office?

“Come on in. I’ll give you all the details,” I said as I crossed my fingers behind my back. Someday I’d admit to sneaking into her office, but it probably wouldn’t be until we were both old and gray and she could no longer run faster than me. Allison valued what she did, and the fact that I’d done something to betray her trust would make me feel guilty for about a hundred years or so. That was probably enough punishment, or so I rationalized.

We sat at the table as I lied and told her that Linda had known where Helen lived and that Ian had called me with his address. I told her the truth about what was discussed at both places, except that I left out the kiss and the call from Abner. My feelings for Ian were still too new to discuss, and she’d have made me call Officer Brion to tell him about Abner. Though I still might—I’d told him I would—I wasn’t sure yet.

“Did you know that Carl and Abner live close to each other?” I said.

Allison shrugged. “I never thought about it. We work with farmers in a fairly small geographical area. Some of them are bound to live by each other. Carl’s behavior is strange, though—running from you? He’s one of my easier vendors—never asks for anything special, shows up when he’s supposed to, does well. I like him a lot.”

“Me, too, but . . . do you know if they’re friends?”

“The only person I’ve ever seen Abner be truly friendly to is you. Other than that, he’s the same to everyone.”

“He’s always been good to me.”

“Becca,” Allison said in her serious I’m-one-minute-older-than-you voice, “I want you to be careful.”

“Oh, pshaw, there’s nothing to worry about. I’m fine.” I stood. I wasn’t hiding anything—I was sure she saw that I’d armed my alarm. “Hey, I still have some of Mamma Maria’s Mmmm-Amazing Lemon Meringue Pie. Want some?”

“Absolutely, but quit trying to change the subject. I know you have some concerns, or you and Hobbit wouldn’t have come over last night.”

“That was just Abner—who else would have left the flowers? And yes, I admit I was a little freaked,” I said as I cut thin but bouffant-high pieces of pie and brought them to the table. “But Abner’s no threat to me, Allison. He probably just wanted to talk. No big deal.”

“Okay, what if Abner isn’t the killer?” She slid a bite of yellow heaven into her mouth, her eyes closing in appreciation as she let it melt on her tongue.

“I know, it’s delicious, isn’t it?”

“I’ve never tasted anything quite like it—Linda bakes amazing fruit pies, but this is amazing in a whole different way. Anyway, if Abner is the killer, he’s dangerous, and if he isn’t the killer and the real killer realizes you’re out there asking questions, well, you could be in danger, too.” She pointed at me with her fork.

I thought about that as I let my own bite of pie melt. I didn’t want to comment on the fact that if Abner was indeed the killer, I was going to meet him in person the next day.

“I’ll be careful,” I finally said. What else was I going to say? The truth was—yes, I’d attempt to be careful, but I wanted this crime solved and I was going to do whatever it took to help solve it. Too much rode on a good conclusion. But, frankly, my sister probably couldn’t handle that truth.

“Good. Now, is there anything I can do to help?”

“Hmm. I don’t know.” I hadn’t thought about asking Allison for help for the same reasons that she’d just lectured me about. I wouldn’t want to put her safety in jeopardy. She was a mom and had a family of her own—it would be beyond irresponsible of me to put her in any sort of danger. Our hippie parents hadn’t believed in much discipline while we were growing up, but they’d often shared their ideas about karma—whatever I put “out there” would come back to me a hundredfold. If something bad happened to Allison, I’d think it was the result of my own poor decisions. But perhaps there was something that wasn’t so dangerous. “Wait, maybe there is.” I looked at my watch. It was dark, though it was only seven thirty. “Want to go for a ride?”