Hard Truth (12 page)

“Hasn’t skipped a beat.” She could see where the conversation was leading. “My life is there. I really don’t have one here anymore. My sister and her husband live in Oklahoma. They have very young children. She doesn’t want to sell. I think she has visions of bringing the kids back for summer vacations on the farm. Playing in the fields, swimming in the pond.”

“You have a pond?”

She nodded. “On the other side of the family burial plot.”

“Family burial plot, too?”

“Yes.”

“Any chance these last three bodies—”

She cut him off. “No. No chance. I was over there earlier, no sign of disturbance.”

“Are your parents buried there?”

“My dad is—though he’s not a Palmer, he lived here for most of his married life—and my mother is . . . partially. Sort of.”

“I have no idea what that means, ‘partially sort of buried.’ ”

“She was cremated. She wanted some of her ashes spread around in the family cemetery.” She could tell by the look on his face that he wanted to ask where the rest of the ashes were going, but he was too polite. “She wanted to be in three places: the cemetery, with her parents and my dad; her garden; and around the pond. Her favorite places.”

“Is that why you were weeding the other night?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. Not that garden. Mom wanted her ashes in her flower garden. But that’s so overgrown, I couldn’t do it. I don’t think she realized how the weeds would take over, with her having been gone the past two summers. I’ll get to it before I leave. At least, I hope I will. It meant a lot to her.”

“You said ‘siblings.’ I understand why your sister isn’t here to give you a hand, who else is there?”

“My brother, Rob.” She settled back in the chair and rocked for a long moment. “I had a really odd conversation with him just this morning. I asked him to come back and give me a hand—he’s between jobs right now—but he said the strangest thing. He said he’d left Callen for the last time when he was eighteen, and he couldn’t think of a good enough reason to come back now. Or words to that effect.”

“Did he have a hard childhood?”

“Robbie?” She laughed. “Please. He was the youngest, he was the only boy, and he was spoiled rotten. He was doted on by my grandmother like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Then maybe
spoiled
is the right word.”

“He was never bratty, at least, not that I remember. He’s seven years younger than I, though, so he was eleven when I left for college. I don’t know why he feels the way he does, but he was pretty insistent about not coming home. He wants me to sell everything, send him his share, and we’ll all go on with our own lives.”

She was waiting for him to comment, and when he didn’t, she said, “Selling would probably be best for everyone. Andrea and I together couldn’t buy out Robbie, so that’s that. And I don’t know how I’d support this place.”

“How did your mother do it?”

“She rented out the fields to another farmer.”

“Really?” His interest was instantaneous. “Is he still around?”

“Gil Compton, yes, he is.” She turned to look at him. “I see where you’re going. Maybe he saw something over the years, something or someone.”

“Maybe we should put him on the list of people to talk to.”

“It would. Good call. I wouldn’t have thought of him.”

“That’s why you’re paying me the big bucks.”

“Oh, right. We need to talk about that.” The phone in her pocket rang and she answered it right away. “Regan. Were you able to speak with Mitch?”

“I was. Unfortunately, the Bureau doesn’t have the case yet. As a matter of fact, no request has been made. His boss is going to call the county DA in the morning and offer assistance, but until that happens, he’s reluctant to get involved. There was a little fallout from the fax thing. Your police chief called the Bureau. Mitch got his hand slapped.”

“Ouch. I’m so sorry that happened. Please apologize to him for me.”

“He doesn’t blame you. He blames the cops for having put T.J. in that position in the first place. They know the law. They’re supposed to follow it.”

“Still . . .”

“Still nothing. The reports should have been handed over. They can charge for them, but not withhold them.”

A van pulled into the driveway. T.J. got up and walked down to meet it.

“There’s another damned reporter here,” Lorna said.

“That’s only going to get worse. I think you should call your police department and tell them that you need a car there to keep trespassers off the property.”

“Fat chance. No one there is speaking to me unless they have to.”

“Well, they have to. They can’t pick and choose who they’re going to protect. Hang up and call them.” Regan paused, then said, “Are you alone there?”

“Well, T.J. is here now, but he’ll be leaving.”

“Why don’t I drive up there and spend a few days, just till this blows over and something else takes its place on the news.”

“Drive up? Aren’t you in Princeton? Wouldn’t that be ‘drive down’?”

“My dad’s place is in Princeton. My house is on the Eastern Shore. Right around St. Michaels. I’m probably not an hour from you. Not a bad drive.”

“I thought you had a book due.”

“They moved it on the schedule, changed the publication date. I can take a little time off. What do you say? Want a roommate for a few days?”

“Actually, I’d love it. If you’re certain it’s not an imposition.”

“Hey, I offered. I want to. Give me directions from around Rising Sun.”

Lorna did.

“Piece of cake to find you,” Regan said. “I’m going to hang up and throw some clothes into an overnight bag, and then I’ll leave. In the meantime, call the police department. Make ’em earn your tax dollars.”

They each hung up, and Lorna stood to look down the drive. T.J. was still talking to whoever was in the van. Lorna was about to walk down to see what was going on when the van made a U-turn and took a left on Callen Road.

“What was that all about?” she asked T.J. as he approached the house.

“Network news, Wilmington affiliate. I told them the farmhouse was off-limits. Not that that will do any good.”

“Regan’s coming up to spend the night,” she told him. “She suggested I call the police and have them send a car to keep an eye on things.”

“I was going to suggest the very same thing. I’m not comfortable with you being here alone. Some of these people will go to ridiculous lengths to get their story. It’s better if the police are around and you have someone in the house with you. Call them now.”

“I don’t think my request will be well received.”

His jaw tightened. “Too bad. That’s their job. Go on, give them a call while I’m still here.”

She went into the house to look up the number and realized that it was well past the dinner hour. She should offer to feed T.J. She dialed the number for the station and peered into the refrigerator while the line rang. Lots of vegetables . . . eggs . . . seltzer. Somehow, T.J. didn’t look like the type of man you’d invite for quiche and sparkling water.

“Callen Police.”

She knew the voice.

“Brad?”

“Yes?”

“Lorna Stiles.”

“Yes?”

“Brad, I’m having a problem here, with reporters coming to the house.”

“And what would you like me to do about it?”

“I would like you, acting on behalf of my local police department, to send a car over to patrol the property during the night, more than just the quick drive-by you’ve been doing.”

“Need protection from a few reporters, do you?” He laughed. “Maybe you should call your friends at the FBI.”

“And what do you suppose the feds would say if I told them my local police department refused me protection when I felt threatened?”

A long, unpleasant silence followed.

“I’ll send Bobby Markham over.” He paused, then asked, “Will there be anything else?’

“No, thank you very much. I appreciate it, Officer Walker. Be sure to thank Chief Walker for me.”

She hung up, and grinning, walked back outside.

“They’re sending a car,” she told T.J. “I’m ordering pizza. What’s your preference?”

E
leven

“Lori?”

“Andrea?” Lorna glanced at the kitchen clock. “You’re up awfully early. What time is it out there, five-thirty?”

“I couldn’t sleep. The baby kept me awake all night so I got up”—Andrea’s words shot through the phone, gathering speed—“and came downstairs and turned on the TV . . .”

Uh-oh.

“. . . and what do I see but our house . . .” she took a breath, “. . . at least, it looks like our house, Lori. But back when I lived there, it was referred to as the ‘old Palmer farm.’ The house on the TV was being called ‘The Body Farm.’ ”

Andrea paused, then said, “Please tell me they’re talking about somebody else’s farm.”

“I wish I could.”

“Well, what the hell is going on out there?” Andrea sounded close to tears. “Where are all these bodies coming from?”

“I don’t know. And I haven’t seen the news today, so I don’t know what’s being said.”

“They’re saying four bodies have been found out in the fields.”

“It’s actually the old woods. The developer cut the trees down. I guess to the reporters it looks like part of the field. And I guess, technically, it is now.”

“Well, so much for finding a buyer. Who’s going to want to buy the property now that bodies are popping up all over the place?”

“Trust me, any one of the builders down here would love to get their hands on this much land. They won’t care. At least, they won’t after this blows over.”

“Well, won’t the police keep the property off-limits for a while?”

“For a while, maybe, while they search around to see if there’s anything else here, but that won’t last. Are you worried we won’t be able to find a buyer?”

“I’m more worried that we will.” Andrea sighed. “I don’t know if it’s the baby that’s making me nostalgic, or if it’s just a slightly delayed reaction to Mom’s death, but I find myself more and more wishing we didn’t have to sell. Even if we could just save the farmhouse and the barn, maybe that stretch along the road, down to the pond. That way we’d still own the family plot.”

Andrea was sniffling.

“Why can’t we do that, Lori? Why can’t we keep that much?” The sniffles turned to sobs. “Why do we have to sell it all?”

“We’d still have taxes, and maintenance on the house. We can’t leave it vacant indefinitely,” Lorna said as gently as she could.

“But we could come for a few weeks every summer, and the kids could see what life on the farm is like.”

“Does it make sense to hold on to it just for those two weeks when you bring your family on vacation?”

“Well, you could vacation there, too, and Robbie . . .”

“Andrea . . .”

“And Christmas. What about Christmas? We could all come back at Christmas. Mom would have liked that.”

“Yes, she would. But there’d be no ‘all,’ sweetie. Rob told me he’ll never come back.”

“I don’t know what’s up with that, Lorna.” Andrea was back to sniffling. She blew her nose away from the phone, then said, “He told me pretty much the same thing, last time I spoke with him. I asked him how he could feel that way about our home, and he said that my memories were apparently better than his, then he changed the subject.”

“He said he only wants his share of the proceeds of the sale. He’s out of work right now, and I guess he needs the money.”

“Why can’t we buy him out, you and me? Why can’t we just sell the fields and give him that?”

“Andi, honey, it doesn’t make sense. Someone has to live here. Someone has to take care of the place.”

“But Mr. Compton—”

“Mr. Compton did it for Mom. Mom’s gone now, and we can’t expect him to watch over this place forever.”

“But you could—”

“No, Andi, I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t. This isn’t my home anymore. I love it, every bit as much as you do, but like you, I’ve made a home elsewhere. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to get back to it.”

“Maybe I can talk to Robbie. Maybe I can bring him around.”

“Good luck.”

“I’ll let you know what he says.”

“You do that, sweetie.”

Lorna hung up the phone and blew out a long breath. Andrea was always sentimental when she was pregnant. Maybe her attachment to the farm would pass when the baby was born.

Maybe not.

Well, Lorna couldn’t dwell on that right now. Her houseguest was on her way down the steps, looking for coffee, no doubt. Lorna opened a cupboard and took down the sealed bag of ground coffee she’d bought at the supermarket earlier in the week, then found the coffee pot. She hadn’t bothered to make her own since she’d returned to Callen; buying it already made had seemed easier. Today would be a good day to start.

Lorna was filling the pot with water when Regan came into the room.

“Oh, yay. I was hoping there’d be coffee.” Regan smiled.

“Well, there will be, once I figure out how much coffee goes into this thing.” Lorna set the pot on the counter and searched through one of the nearby drawers for a pair of scissors to cut the top off the packet of coffee.

“My dad had one of those old percolating pots. He used a heaping tablespoon of coffee per every cup of water.”

“Works for me.” Lorna hunted for a measuring spoon and cup, then dumped the water out of the pot. “We’ll start over, though, because I have no idea how much water I put in there.”

“It looks like it’s going to be a gorgeous day.” Regan stood at the screen door.

“It is, much less humid than it’s been. Which is a relief. It’s been wicked hot here.”

“Can we take a tour of the farm?”

“Sure. Before or after breakfast?”

“Before. We can take our coffee. It’s a nice morning for a stroll.”

They waited while the coffee perked, then left through the back door, mugs in hand.

“Barn on the right, gardens on the left,” Lorna pointed out. “Straight ahead is the field, at the opposite side of which is the section of field where the bodies were found.”

“You have any thoughts at all on that?” Regan asked.

Lorna shook her head. “Not a clue. My first thought was that maybe they’d come from the family burial plot somehow, but there’s no sign of the graves having been disturbed.”

“Could that have happened at some other time? Maybe a few years ago?”

“Someone would have noticed. My family has lived here continuously since the mid–eighteen hundreds. If the graves had been dug up, someone would have known.”

“Where’s the family plot?”

“Right down here.” Lorna led the way. They walked several hundred yards, then stopped by the fence. “Grandparents, great-grandparents, great-greats, and several generations of aunts, uncles, cousins, and of course my dad and some of my mom’s ashes are here now.”

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Regan leaned on the fence. “All those pretty vines and the wildflowers. It’s just the way I’d picture a small country graveyard.”

“I thought it needed some tending—the grass was getting long—but it looks as if our neighbor, Mr. Compton, came down and mowed. I’m going to have to give him a call and thank him.”

Lorna walked around the back of the small cemetery, Regan following.

“Down here’s the pond and, beyond that, a small orchard.”

“I can smell the apples.”

“Rotting on the ground, no doubt. No one’s been down to pick them for years. I don’t imagine there’s much good fruit anymore.” Lorna stopped at the edge of the pond.

The cattails were tall and straggly, their pods having already burst to release the seeds. A small dark bird took cover on the opposite side of the pond, and from deep within the reeds bullfrogs grumbled.

“I haven’t heard one of those in the longest time.” Regan laughed. “Don’t you love that sound?”

“I do. We used to try to catch them when I was younger, but they’re so fast. And some of them are just huge.”

Lorna stood with her hands on her hips. Someday soon she’d have to come back with that second urn of her mother’s ashes. She’d been deliberately avoiding it, but she knew she couldn’t put it off forever.

“And the area where the remains were found?” Regan asked.

“Straight ahead. Want to see how close we can get?”

“Sure.”

They walked around the pond and through the orchard. At the far end, Lorna grabbed Regan’s arm.

“I forgot. The police have cordoned off the field with yellow tape,” she said. “They want to make sure no one gets close to where they’re working.”

“Probably a smart thing to do, to keep as many people away as possible. Otherwise, this field would be teeming with reporters and cameramen, more than it already is. The police don’t need that when they’re trying to investigate something as serious as this.”

“I wish I had binoculars.”

“Me, too.” Regan raised her hand to her forehead to block the sun. “I can’t see a damned thing.”

“The only good vantage point is the old hayloft in the barn.”

“Well, it could come to that before the day’s over, if our curiosity gets the best of us.”

“Seen enough?” Lorna asked.

“I haven’t seen anything, and I’m not likely to, so I’d put breakfast next on the agenda.”

They started back across the field. They’d gotten halfway, when Regan pointed off to her right and asked, “What’s that wild area we passed?”

“It used to be a vineyard.” Lorna told her the story of her great-uncle Will’s dream of bringing a winery to Callen.

“That is so cool.” Regan grinned. “Can we walk over there? I’d love to see it.”

“I’m afraid there’s not much to see, but sure.” She led the way.

As they drew closer, Lorna said, “I think most of the vines are most likely dead. They haven’t been tended in years.” She paused, then added, “Except for those few rows up there near the cottage. Billie Eagan’s been living there, at my mother’s invitation, and she dug all the weeds out and somehow got the vines to grow up on the trellises again.”

“You said your great-uncle brought the vines from France?”

“Some of them. I don’t know if he planted American varieties as well. No one seems to know much about the venture, except he did cultivate the grapes for a few years and was planning to make wine.”

“He had the equipment here?”

“No, I don’t think he’d bought equipment yet. If he did, it was disposed of before I was born. But he did have a wine cellar dug, and he brought a lot of barrels back from France, so I guess he planned on making a lot of wine.”

“Where’s the wine cellar?”

“It runs under the barn and out below the field a ways. I’m not sure how far. When I was little, it seemed like it went down into the center of the earth, but I haven’t been to the cellar in years.”

“Is there wine down there?”

“Like I said, Uncle Will never actually got to make any before he died.” Lorna grinned. “Which is not to say he hasn’t contemplated it since.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s still around the house sometimes. If you believe in that sort of thing.”

“I do,” Regan admitted somewhat sheepishly. “I always have. Growing up in England, I had relatives with very old houses. Some of them had unexplained goings-on, so I’ve had some exposure to the real thing.”

“Uncle Will is definitely the real thing.”

They walked toward the house and were almost to the end of the field when Regan stopped and looked back over her shoulder.

“It’s really beautiful, don’t you think? The vineyard?”

“It used to be. Now, overgrown like that, and with all the vines barren and twisted around the trellises, it’s sort of sad-looking.” Lorna paused. “When I look at it, I can’t help but think about how Uncle Will must have felt, after his wife and son died. Back then, the vineyard would have been beautiful, well tended and the vines healthy, but they lost their beauty for him after he lost his family.”

“Have you thought about restoring them? Raising grapes? You have the basic infrastructure already in place.”

“I know nothing about growing grapes, nothing about making wine. It’s probably more complicated than you think. And I have one business to run. I don’t have time to learn another.”

“Too bad.” Regan resumed walking. “It would probably be fun.”

“Sure it would, if your idea of fun is worrying about crop failure and the weather.” Lorna took one last fond look behind her before falling in step with Regan. “But it might be worth mentioning to the Realtor. There are several really fine vineyards and wineries here in the southeastern part of the state. Someone thinking about starting up their own small winery might be interested.”

“So you’re definitely selling?”

“As soon as I can get around to lining up a Realtor and having everything appraised.”

“Where will Billie go, after you sell the property?”

“I haven’t really given it any thought. Actually, I haven’t given selling as much thought as I should have.”

“My dad’s been gone for a year, and I still haven’t had a serious discussion with an agent about selling his place. I’ve had a few out to look, but I’ve never gotten beyond that. I keep meaning to, but for some reason I’ve found myself putting it off.”

“It’s hard to give it up. Especially if it’s your childhood home.”

“Well, I didn’t grow up on Dad’s farm, but I have spent a lot of time there. I feel the same way, though. I don’t know, maybe it’s just an attempt on my part to hold on to my dad.”

“You were really close, I guess.”

Regan nodded. “Especially those last few years when we worked together. I came to see him in a whole new light, as someone other than simply my father. He was a brilliant writer, and was totally devoted to finding the truth and seeing the bad guys pay. He received citations from police departments all over the country. Cops loved him. He treated them with great respect in his books, never blamed them for not being able to solve a crime, even when their investigations had proven to be sloppy or lazy. He had a huge following in the law enforcement community. When he had book signings, the stores would be filled with cops.”

“We could sure use him now,” Lorna said, thinking of her situation with the Callen PD.

“Well, you’ve got me. Granted, compared to my dad, I’m just a rookie, but if there’s anything you think I could do to help you out . . .”

Lorna stopped for a second, her thumbs hooked into the pockets of her jeans, a slow smile working at the corners of her mouth.