Farmed and Dangerous (8 page)

Cam said good-bye and disconnected.
Sheesh.
She hated public speaking. She disliked having to defend her views. She avoided conflict at all cost. And tomorrow night would involve all of those. She'd better muster her facts tonight. And eight thirty had already come and gone.

She headed for her desk in the corner of the living room, fired up the computer, and opened a browser. Her home page opened to Weather.com, a farmer's best friend. Or worst. She groaned. A Montreal Express would approach the region tonight and tomorrow. That meant arctic air was heading their way straight down from Canada. The old farmhouse was poorly insulated, and frigid air plus wind meant she'd be using a lot of heating oil this month. And getting mighty cold fingers while she worked.

She navigated to the Web site of the Massachusetts chapter of the Northeast Organic Farming Association. NOFA had a good set of links to information about growing organically. When she saw the NOFA Organic Principles and Practices Handbook series, she remembered she'd bought it for her Kindle the previous winter, when she'd set herself to learning as much about organic growing practices as she could. She located the device and opened
Growing Healthy Vegetable Crops.
She'd start there.

She was typing notes into slides for the forum when the old rotary phone rang on the corner of the kitchen counter. She barely reached it by the tenth and last ring. Almost nobody but Albert called her on that number. Sure enough, his voice sounded on the other end.

“Bad news over here.” His tone was grim.

“What is it? Are you all right?”

“I am. But another resident has died. A Miss Lacey.”

The death couldn't be related to Bev's. “That's terrible.”

“Everybody's saying it was poison again.” Albert cleared his throat.

“Who's everybody?”

“The residents. Several of the caregivers.”

“Not the police?”

“You know the authorities don't tell us what they are thinking. But the lady who died was the one who felt sick earlier in the day, the one I told you about.”

“I'm so sorry to hear that.” Cam cocked her head. “Did she have any connection with Bev?”

“I don't rightly know. If she didn't and someone murdered her, too, perhaps the killer is someone who doesn't like old folks. We're all getting a little nervous over here, I can tell you.”

“Don't worry, Uncle Albert. I'm sure she died of natural causes. And the police are bound to find Bev's killer soon. I'll come over for a visit tomorrow, and we can talk more. All right?”

“I'd like that. Come at eleven. I'll be in my room.”

After Cam hung up the phone, she stood and stared at it. No way were these deaths related. Or maybe they were. If so, was it someone targeting senior citizens, as Albert had said?
Yikes.
That would mean he could be in danger, too. No wonder he was nervous.

Or maybe it was somebody trying to frame Cam herself. Again, since the woman had eaten the same dinner Bev had.
Double yikes.
She couldn't even imagine who disliked her enough to do that. Pete had better get on the stick and nail this guy before anybody else died.

She checked to make sure the door was locked and bolted. And then checked it again.

“T
hey ought to change this weather's name from the Montreal Express to the North Pole Express,” Cam said out loud, rubbing her gloved hands together. Simply walking from the house to the chicken coop at seven the next morning chilled her through and through. She opened the small door to the chicken coop, but the hens were smart enough to stay puffed up inside. She slid the rubber flap over the opening so they could get outside if they wanted to. The flap, which DJ had rigged up in the fall, resembled a cat door, and it kept much of the warmer inside air inside.

She made her way into the hoop house and latched the door firmly behind her. The wind whipped the plastic covering the high tunnel and whistled through a crack where the door met the jamb. She wished it had a human-sized rubber flap to keep the cold air a little farther at bay. DJ seemed to be able to create anything. She'd have to ask him about making one. In the meantime she could hang a woolen blanket over the entrance.

The thermometer above the worm bins read forty-five. Not too bad, considering that the sun hadn't yet risen. Adding worms was one of the smarter things she'd done after she'd read an article about vermiculture in the fall issue of the
Natural Farmer.
DJ and Alexandra had built the bins, now arrayed along the north side of the hoop house. The busy worms added warmth to the hoop house. They blocked part of the cold from the side that received little direct sunlight. And, of course, all their digesting and excreting created high-quality compost. Last winter the outside compost bins had frozen solid, and whatever farm or kitchen waste she'd added had to wait until spring to start breaking down. Now she was creating organic material to nurture the soil all winter long, with the help of hundreds of her wriggly little friends.

She pulled out her phone and snapped several photographs of the bins. She stuck a small shovel in one bin and stirred, taking a close-up shot quickly while the worms were still on top of the rich black soil. She would add it to her presentation for tonight. And to the farm's Web site.

The air inside the hoop house warmed to fifty on still days, but odds were it wouldn't reach that today. As long as the beds didn't actually freeze, she could cut greens to sell. She walked the length of the hoop house. She groaned when she got to the beds at the far end, where the temperature dropped even more. She knelt and felt the overly crisp leaves of a head of Red Sails. An entire bed of lettuce had frozen, despite the row cover. The bed sat next to the eastern end wall and simply didn't get enough warmth. The forecast had been for temperatures dropping throughout the day again. She would definitely leave the cover on today and hoped she didn't lose any more crops. At least she'd invested in the thicker fabric for the winter temperatures.

As she worked, Albert's words about the second death at the assisted-living residence filled her head. His approach to life was usually even-keeled, but he'd sounded uncharacteristically worried last evening. Cam wished she could talk about the case with Pete. When one of her customers had been killed in the fall, he'd asked her to keep her eyes and ears open in the community. Obviously, he couldn't work with a suspect, even informally. But that he might even entertain the possibility of her being capable of murder made her question who he really was. And if her feelings were no longer to be trusted.

 

Cam greeted the Moran Manor receptionist and glanced at the clock on the wall behind her. Eleven. She jotted the time next to her name in the sign-in book and added Albert's name as the person she planned to visit. A notice had been posted in a clear holder on the desk, next to the book.

BEVERLY MONTGOMERY MEMORIAL SERVICE. WEDNESDAY, ELEVEN O
'
CLOCK, ONEONTA CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH. ALL WELCOME
.

Cam straightened. “A memorial service and not a funeral?” she asked the woman behind the desk.

“Exactly.” She leaned toward Cam and whispered, “The children wanted the service right away, but the police won't release the body yet.” She raised her eyebrows and appeared almost delighted at the prospect, likely the stuff of television thrillers for her.

“They need to do their work.” Cam turned toward the central stairway. She could give Uncle Albert a ride to the service. A woman leaning on a red walker and a taller one with a cap of blue-tinted white hair stopped in their tracks in front of her.

The woman with the walker grabbed her companion's arm. “That's the murderer right there,” she said in a loud whisper. She pointed at Cam.

The tall one said something in her ear. They reversed direction and made their way down the hallway. The tall woman glanced behind her.

No, I won't follow you, lady.
What could Cam do? Wear a button that read
I AM NOT A MURDERER
? She'd stepped onto the first stair when someone called her name.

“Ms. Flaherty? Could I have a word?” Jim Cooper stood in front of his office door. He motioned her toward him.

Cam greeted him when she neared the office.

“Please come in.” He held out his arm to usher her into the room, then shut the door behind them.

She looked around. Some kind of award for Moran Manor hung on the wall, next to a framed picture of Jim beaming as he shook hands with their state representative, a Republican from the next town over. The desk held only a computer monitor, a pad of paper with nothing written on it, and a pen lined up neatly next to it. A long leather sofa lined one wall, and two armless chairs faced the desk.

“How did the residents like the dinner I provided?” Cam asked. She stood with her hands in her coat pockets. He hadn't asked her to sit.

“That's what I wanted to talk with you about. We won't be needing you to provide produce for us in the summer.” He lifted his chin.

“People didn't like it? My great-uncle said the meal was delicious.” Cam frowned.

He cleared his throat. “It's this matter of the deaths. Mrs. Montgomery's and now Miss Lacey's. They both ate your food.”

“Do you believe my food killed those women?”

“Well, no, of course not.” He pasted a smile on his face and erased it just as quickly. “That is, the police are investigating. It's our residents, you know. They tend to be concerned, and we simply can't have any question of... you see—” He trailed off, apparently hoping she would fill in the gaps.

“I don't see. And I'm sorry you were unhappy with what I provided. If you change your mind, please let me know.” Cam left the office as fast as it felt safe. It wouldn't be a good idea to lose her temper with Jim. Maybe he'd change his mind once the murder was solved. Or murders.

She grumbled under her breath while she climbed the stairs. “If my vegetables killed those ladies, how come nobody else got sick?”

On the landing, a small table displayed two framed pictures. A red rose in a bud vase sat in front of each picture. An elderly woman with a kindly smile looked out of one. That must be Miss Lacey. Bev Montgomery's face gazed out of the other. Pearls encircled her neck, and her hair had been styled. Cam had noticed her dressed up only once, at the wake for Bev's son, Mike, last June. Bev hadn't been at all happy to see her at the time.

“Poor Bev,” Cam said softly and then turned. “Pete,” she gasped, startled. Pete, in a tie and sport coat, stood a couple of feet away.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to alarm you.” He started to extend an arm toward her. Before it reached her, he let it drop back by his side.

“Don't sneak up on me like that.” She patted her chest. “Are you here investigating?”

He nodded slowly. Lines pulled down from the corners of his eyes.

“How's it going?” Cam stuck her hands in her pockets again. And then realized how warm she felt with her coat on. She slid out of it and draped it over one arm.

“Not much progress, I'm afraid.”

“What about this Miss Lacey? Did Bev's murderer kill her, as well?”

He glanced up and down the hall, but nobody stood nearby. “We're waiting on lab results. Can't say at this point.”

“A woman downstairs called
me
the murderer when I came in. Nice.”

“Sorry about that.” He sighed.

“Are you? Aren't I still a suspect?” Cam was being neither nice nor tactful, but she didn't possess the energy to try. And was starting not to care.

“Cameron—” He held out both palms.

“Oh, and the director said he wouldn't buy my vegetables next summer. Because it would upset the residents or something. Pete, you guys have to find the real killer. And soon.”

He opened his mouth and then shut it again. He jiggled change in his pocket. “We're doing the best we can. And you know I can't talk about it with you. Take care of yourself, all right?” He walked with a heavy step down the stairs.

She watched him go. He did not glance behind him. She walked slowly toward Albert's room, feeling both somber and agitated. The walls were decorated with paintings of musical scenes, along with flat sculptures of instruments. A metal cutout of a violin hung at a jaunty angle next to a Degas painting of an orchestra in action. At a junction of two outer walls, Cam paused. A hairline crack next to the corner ran from floor to ceiling. She frowned. The building seemed fairly new. It shouldn't have cracks in it already.

She knocked on Albert's door, but he didn't answer.
Funny.
He said he'd be here at this time. She opened the door a crack and called. When he still didn't answer, she pushed the door open. She'd make sure he hadn't gone into the bathroom, and then she'd go search for him in the common room.

The bathroom door stood ajar. He wasn't in there. She stepped farther into the main room. She didn't see him, but she spied his red plaid lap blanket in a heap on the floor near the foot of his bed. It would be nicer for him to come back and find it folded on his chair. She picked it up and cried out. It had covered Albert's feet. He lay prone on the floor on the far side of the bed.

He wasn't moving.

I
n two more steps Cam knelt at his side. She was about to place her hand on his neck to check for a pulse when he shifted slightly and moaned. His eyes remained closed.

“Thank God you're alive.” She looked frantically near the head of the bed. Where was the emergency buzzer? There, on the wall. She reached up and slapped the round red button. Then hit it again two more times.

She glanced back at Albert. She didn't see blood anywhere. He must have passed out and hit the floor. Or maybe he'd been resting and had fallen out of bed. But would he have landed on his back if he'd fallen out of bed?

Oscar rushed into the room, followed by a woman in a blue smock-like jacket with a stethoscope around her neck.

Cam stood. “I found him here on the floor only a minute ago. He's breathing, but he isn't conscious.” She stepped out of their way, her heart thudding, her throat thick. She almost tripped on one of Albert's crutches, which lay half hidden under the bed.

Oscar turned away and spoke into a kind of two-way radio.

“I'm the facility's nurse.” The woman took Cam's place, kneeling. She listened to Albert's heart. She pried an eyelid open and shined a little flashlight in his eye. She measured his pulse. She gazed up at Cam.

“His vitals aren't bad. We'll get him to the hospital to be checked out. I can't tell right now if he had a stroke or what. Until he wakes up.” She glanced around and picked up the blanket. She stretched it over him, then leaned in close to his ear.

“Mr. St. Pierre? Albert. Can you hear me?” She gently patted his cheek.

Albert didn't move.

The nurse sat back on her heels and then stood in a fluid motion. “You sit there and talk to him until the EMTs arrive,” she said to Cam.

Cam knelt by his side again. “Uncle Albert. It's me, Cammy. Can you hear me?” She found his hand under the blanket and squeezed. “Uncle Albert?”

His eyelids fluttered open.

“I think he's waking up.” Cam glanced at the nurse to make sure she'd seen Albert's open eyes.

The nurse smiled and nodded. Cam looked back at Albert.

“It's okay. You'll be fine.” Cam tried to keep the tremble out of her voice. “You had a fall.”

Albert's eyes widened. He moved his head a little from one side to the other. He moaned and shut his eyes again.

“What's going on in here?” Pete Pappas stood behind the woman. “I heard the alarm.”

“I found Albert lying here,” Cam said. “He just woke up a little.”

“He must have fallen,” the nurse said to Pete. “His pulse and blood pressure are stable, though. It doesn't appear to be a cardiac event.”

Pete frowned, with hands on hips. “I'm glad.”

Two EMTs strode into the room. One carried a large red bag. “Mr. St. Pierre?” asked the female EMT.

The nurse nodded.

“Wait a minute,” Pete said. He held one palm face out and extended his ID with his other hand. “State police detective Pappas. This could be a crime scene. We've had two unattended deaths here in the last forty-eight hours. This might be an attempted murder.”

The male EMT whistled under his breath. “How do we proceed? You realize we need to get this gentleman to the hospital stat.”

Pete nodded. “Try not to touch anything you don't have to. That goes for all of you.” He included Oscar and Cam in his gaze.

The nurse briefed them on Albert's condition even as the female EMT gave Cam a look that sent her scrambling to her feet. She hurried out of their way and stood near the bathroom door on the other side of the room. The other EMT repeated the nurse's steps of assessing Albert's health.

“We'll have him out of here in a minute,” the female EMT said on her way out of the room. “The gurney is in the hall.”

“As soon as you can, please assess any wounds on him, especially on his head,” Pete said. “I'll be over to talk to the doctors. Are you taking him to Anna Jaques?”

“Yes,” the female EMT said.

“Add a note to his chart that he might have been attacked.”

“Got it.” The EMT nodded.

A flurry of activity ensued, ending with Albert, strapped to a gurney, being wheeled out of the room.

“I'll see you over there, Uncle Albert,” Cam called.

He nodded his head almost imperceptibly. Oscar and the nurse followed the others out of the room, leaving Cam and Pete alone.

“He's in good hands,” Pete said. He took two steps to stand in front of her. “I'm sorry that happened.” He glanced behind him. They were alone in the room. He opened his arms to Cam.

She let him wrap her in his care. A sob escaped her before she choked it back. The image of someone whacking Albert over the head filled her brain. She stepped away and wiped her cheek of tears.

“Do you really think someone attacked him?” she asked.

“It's possible. Perhaps he saw who poisoned Bev Montgomery. Or had been asking too many questions. Which is why I don't want you getting all detective on me. You could be in danger, as well.”

She nodded slowly. “When he opened his eyes, I told him he'd fallen. He looked a little alarmed and tried to shake his head. He might have been saying no.”

“Interesting.” His eyes narrowed.

“I'm headed over to Anna Jaques.” Cam grabbed her bag from where she'd dropped it on the floor.

“Good. Be careful.” Pete turned away and spoke into his cell phone, asking for a crime scene team.

 

The television in the emergency department waiting room at the hospital blared some inane talk show. The woman seated next to Cam coughed again, a deep, thick rattle that sounded infectious. Cam rose and moved to a chair in the hallway, on the way dosing up her hands with sanitizer from a dispenser on the wall. The last thing she needed was to get sick. She could still see the door to the reception area from here.

She'd been waiting for news for an hour. They wouldn't let her go in to see Albert yet, even though she was his only relative anywhere nearby. Her stomach grumbled. She checked her phone, which read almost one o'clock. She hadn't eaten since seven that morning. But she didn't plan to go in search of the cafeteria, in case she missed the doctor.

She wanted to see Albert so badly, it ached. That look he'd given her in his room. Did he try to tell her he had not fallen? Which would mean Pete's suspicions about an attack might be true. And then Pete's embrace . . . What did that mean? It had to be because his feelings for her hadn't changed. He needed to follow regulations about not consorting with a person of interest. But how could he turn his emotions off and on so easily? She was incapable of doing that.

As she waited, the movie of her finding Albert on the floor replayed in her head. Funny that Oscar had arrived first. He wasn't even one of Albert's care providers. He must have been tending to one of his own residents.

A white-coated woman about Cam's age came through the door. “Cameron Flaherty?” She carried a tablet device.

Cam stood. The woman walked over to her. Her coat read
DR. FUJITA.
Her eyes and shiny black hair matched her name. “You are Albert St. Pierre's great-niece?” She extended her hand.

Cam nodded as she shook hands. “You're the doctor who saw me after my accident last fall, aren't you?”

The doctor cocked her head. “Mild concussion? That's right. No lingering effects?”

“No. How's my uncle?” She clasped her hands behind her so they wouldn't tremble.

“He hit his head hard on something. He did wake up for a while, which is a very good sign, but we need to admit him. He seems basically healthy, although the hospital record indicates a history with diabetes.”

“That's why he lost his foot. But he's been very careful with his diet, and he swims for exercise.”

“Any history of heart disease, heart attacks, angina, that kind of thing? That you know of?”

“I don't believe so.”

“Good.” The doctor frowned and checked something on her tablet. “There's a note in his chart about a possible assault. Do you know anything about that?”

“Not really.” Cam paused, then decided not to mention Albert's head shaking. “The state police are investigating a murder, possibly two, at the facility where he lives, though. I'm sure they'll contact you.”

“You can visit him for a minute before we take him for more tests, but you should know he is sedated.”

“Are you the doctor who will be in charge of him?”

“I am. Give me your cell phone number. I'll call you as soon as he's in his room. It could be a while, though.”

Cam scrabbled in her bag, eventually finding one of the farm's business cards, which bore her cell number, along with the street address and the address of the Web site.

Dr. Fujita thanked her. “Don't worry. We'll take good care of him.” She reached out and patted Cam on the arm. “Follow me.”

A minute later Cam stood in a bay, at Albert's side. He wore a blue-print johnny, a white blanket covering him to the chest. Tubing and cables connected him to an IV bag and several machines that blipped and ticked. The fluorescent lights shaded his skin a tinge of green that echoed the walls, and the air nicked her nose with the sharp tinge of disinfectant. His near hand lay flat, the age spots more visible than ever. She held it and squeezed. She leaned down and brushed her lips across his forehead.

“Uncle Albert, you're going to make it. We have a dinner date, don't forget.” Her throat constricted. She could barely say those last, most important words. “I love you.”

A muscular male nurse hurried in. “You need to leave now. I'm taking him for tests.”

She slid around him toward the opening to the central area.

The nurse lowered the guardrail on one side of the bed and busied himself with tubing and settings.

Cam blew Albert a kiss and then wandered with blurry vision toward the exit, one hand over her mouth, as if that would keep her anguish from spilling out.