A Tine to Live, A Tine to Die

Book 1: Local Foods Mystery

by Maddie Day

Genres: Small Town & Rural; Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Culinary Cozy Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

A New England organic farmer is out to catch a killer who’s rotten to the core in this debut cozy mystery by the author of Murder Most Fowl.
 
When Cameron Flaherty takes over her great-uncle’s farm in Westbury, Massachusetts, she’s eager to get the place certified organic. Unfortunately, that means firing her handyman, Mike Montgomery, whose negative attitude doesn’t cut the organic mustard. Thanks to an enthusiastic volunteer and a colorful group of subscribers, Cam's CSA is beginning to flourish—until murder threatens to spoil her success. 
 
When Cam finds Mike’s body in her barn, stabbed to death by a pitchfork, she knows his death is far from kosher. To clear her name, Cam will have to weed out suspects, dig up long-buried secrets, and catch a killer who’s ready to reap another victim.

Release date: June 24, 2013

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

Cam hung the pitchfork on the back wall of her antique barn with a tired hand. The scent of sun on old wood mixed with the aroma of fresh scallions, well-oiled machinery, and a couple of centuries of farmers. Thirty new customers were due at the farm over the next two hours to pick up the first of their weekly farm shares, and she hoped she was ready. She was about to turn back to her errant farmhand when she spied an unfamiliar plastic jug on a shelf behind the organic products. She extracted it and examined the red-and-green label. What the heck? She whirled, then strode toward the middle of the barn.

“What’s this doing here?” Cam pushed the jug toward a disheveled Mike Montgomery, who faced her in a wide stance, tattooed arms crossed, breath reeking of alcohol despite the noon hour.

“How would I know?” The young man glanced at the container and then examined the fingernails on his left hand.

“I did not bring this onto the farm, and I can’t have it here.” Cam willed her employee to look at her, or at least at the label featuring a skull and crossbones. “You know that. We follow strict organic practices. I explained everything at the start of the season.” A hefty gray-and-white cat arched his puffy, long-haired body against Cam’s leg. She reached down to stroke him while fixing her eyes on Mike. Great-Uncle Albert had asked her to keep him on as farmhand, and she’d agreed, despite misgivings.

“Maybe it was left over from your uncle’s stuff. Albert didn’t care how I took care of the crops. He was just happy somebody did the heavy lifting for him.”

Cam straightened. “Look, Mike.” She kept her voice level despite her anger. “I cleaned this barn top to bottom when I moved to the farm last fall. I threw out every product like this. I know it wasn’t here.”

“Okay. You win.” Mike rolled his eyes and shoved his hands into his pockets. “I was tired of handpicking those stupid beetles off the asparagus and the potato leaves. I was going to kill them off with a good spraying instead.” As Cam opened her mouth, he put up a hand. “Now, don’t get your panties in a twist. I didn’t do it yet. Your precious organic crops are all clean and safe.”

“They’d better be,” a voice said in a shocked tone.

Cam turned to see Alexandra Magnusson, one of the new subscribers to Cam’s farm-share program, who wore two blond braids like a Viking princess. If princesses wore cutoff overalls and hiking boots with red socks, that is.

“Hey, Alexandra. Be with you in a minute.” Bad timing to have a new customer show up right now, a customer Cam wanted to impress.

The younger woman stuck her hands in her pockets and scowled at Mike. Her pale skin set off intense green eyes.

Cam moved closer to Mike and lowered her voice. “Mike, this is unacceptable. You skip work on my most important harvest day so far. When you do drift in, you’ve been drinking.” She ticked his offenses off on her fingers, her ire rising.

Mike grinned. “It’s not a crime to have a morning date, is it?” He leered at Alexandra, who backed away with disgust on her face.

Cam shook her head. “A date? When you’re supposed to be at work? But the worst part is that you think it’s fine to spray chemicals on my crops. I could lose my organic certification! I won’t tolerate it.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going to have to let you go. You no longer work here.”

Mike stopped grinning. Glaring at Cam and Alexandra, he pivoted and strode toward the wide main doorway. He stopped and looked back. His face darkened into a scowl. He threw a hand in the air as if to dismiss Cam.

“You’ll regret this!” Mike stomped away.

The cat surveyed him and then turned and streaked out the open back door of the barn.

Two people stood in the wide doorway, silhouetted in the early June light. The smaller one, carrying a large basket by its handle, nearly fell over as Mike pushed between the two without a word and disappeared.

Cam shoved the toxic container under the table. She hurried toward the newcomers. “Sorry about that. I’m Cam Flaherty. Welcome to the share program. Come on in.”

“Who was that poor fellow? He didn’t seem too happy.” The petite woman with the basket turned toward the barn door, as if sad everyone wasn’t as happy as she.

“He used to work here. Don’t worry about him.” Cam shook her head.

“Well, anyway, I’m Felicity.” She beamed up at Cam. She wore a purple tunic over loose turquoise pants. A long gray braid hung down her back. “We met just that once, remember, when we signed up for the CSA? We were so excited to find a community-supported agriculture program here in Westbury. And after a New England winter, finally the season is under way. Aren’t we excited about our share, Wes?” She gazed at her companion.

Wes nodded without speaking. He was a little taller than Cam’s five feet eleven. He also sported gray hair, although not on the top of his shiny head. Friendly wrinkles surrounded blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.

Alexandra still watched the door, her eyes intent. “If that guy tries to put pesticides on your crops, I’ll take him down and run a pitchfork through him.”

Felicity inhaled sharply, and Wes put a hand on her shoulder.

“Nobody should use those chemicals,” Alexandra went on. “They’re poisoning our environment.”

“I’m sure you won’t need to do that, Alexandra. He’ll find another job somewhere.” Cam then mustered her inner social being, not an easy task for a geek-turned-farmer. “Thank you all for buying a share in the farm. Getting the money up front really helps, because that’s when I need it for seeds and other expenses. And I think you’ll enjoy your portion of freshly picked local produce every week. Let me show you what we have for today.”

Cam turned to the produce table, a rustic plank laid out with the first harvest of the spring. Thirty bundles of asparagus she’d cut over the last couple of days. Thirty bags of spinach she’d harvested earlier in the morning from the bed that she had seeded last fall. Thirty bunches of slim green-and-white scallions. Thirty small heads of Red Sails lettuce, and more. Nine months ago, when she’d taken over her great-uncle’s farm, she hadn’t been sure she’d ever get to this point. Now she was both proud of these baby crops and a little nervous that her customers wouldn’t think it was enough. The beginning of June in Massachusetts was still early in the growing season. They’d just have to be satisfied with the yield.

Several other customers approached from the barn door. Cam said to the group, “We’re starting with half portions for the next month. Help yourself to one of everything.”

Felicity looked over Cam’s shoulder. “Lucinda!” Felicity waved. “Hey, when’s the next club meeting?”

A wiry woman with curly black hair stood behind the produce table. One of the farm volunteers, Lucinda DaSilva had come early that Saturday morning to help Cam harvest for the shares.

Cam looked at Lucinda and back to Felicity. She hadn’t realized they knew each other. She raised her eyebrows.

“Lucinda is the president of our club. The Westbury Locavore Club!” Felicity’s voice rose until Cam wondered if she was about to float up to the rafters on sheer enthusiasm. She knew that kind of relentless cheer was not part of her own makeup, and, frankly, was glad.

“She told me. So you’re members, too. Now I see how I got so many subscribers in such a short time in February. Well, food doesn’t get any more local than this.”

Lucinda nodded. “We had just formed when I saw your ad for the CSA on Craigslist. Seemed like a perfect match.”

“Some of us are even thinking of joining a CSF.” Alexandra spoke behind Cam.

“What’s a CSF?”

“Community-supported fishery,” Alexandra said. “It comes straight from the boat to the consumer. This one’s out of Gloucester. Could we have our fish pickup here on the farm? They can bring the truck during our farm-share pickup time. Would you mind?”

“Give me a couple of days to think about it,” Cam said. “Right now I can’t see any problem. Maybe I’ll join, too.” She wasn’t sure she’d ever embrace these people’s dedication to all things local, but, hey, if it made her farm profitable, that was enough.

“Great!” Alexandra nodded briskly. “We do a bulk meat order at Tendercrop Farm over in Newbury, too, because they raise all their own animals and treat them humanely.” She stuck her hands in her pockets. “It’s part of the sustainability model. We’re building a new world.”

Only a recent college graduate filled with idealism could say such a thing with a straight face. Cam smiled. She had been there herself a decade earlier. She didn’t care as long as the model included sustaining her farm.

“Sample the salad on the table.” Cam spoke to the cluster of shareholders. “I’ll be preparing a dish from every week’s harvest and putting recipes out for each shareholder.” Cam gestured at a small table showcasing a wide wooden bowl brimming with greens, a stack of small paper plates, a mug full of plastic forks, and a basket holding half sheets printed with recipes.

“What’s in the salad?” Wes asked in a deep voice. He walked to the table and peered into the bowl.

Felicity beamed at her husband, then said to the group, “He does all the cooking in our house.”

“Well, it’s a couple of kinds of lettuce, along with mizuna, which is a mild Asian green, and baby arugula. Then I marinated asparagus in an herb vinaigrette, added chopped scallions, and topped it up with violets.”

“I’ve seen that on cooking shows, but I’ve never eaten any flowers.” Lucinda looked wary.

“They’re tasty. Don’t worry. I grow several types of edible flowers, although the violets are wild. Wait until later in the season, when you taste a nasturtium. Peppery. Really nice.”

Alexandra strode to the salad table and served herself a heaping plateful, making Cam glad she’d put out only tiny plates. The bowl had to last for all thirty subscribers.

Alexandra took a bite. She closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and said, “Ahhh. So perfect.” Reopening her eyes, she selected one of the recipe sheets. “Ooh, Herbed Spring-Garlic Quiche, too. I know what I’m having for dinner tonight.”

“But paper plates and plastic forks?” Felicity raised her eyebrows. “Next week I’ll bring you some bamboo products. Much more green.”

Cam thanked her and hoped silently she could deal with all this enthusiasm for sustainability. Just then she caught sight of the pesticide jug she’d shoved under the table after the confrontation with Mike. Uh-oh. She glanced around quickly, but nobody seemed to have seen it.

After Felicity filled her basket, she walked up to Cam and leaned in close.

“When’s your birthday, Cam?” Felicity asked. “Have you ever had your astrological chart done?”

Cam shook her head.

“Tell me the date and what time of day you were born, and I’ll do your chart for you.”

“November second, six fifty-eight in the morning. I remember my mother telling me that as if it was significant.” She squinted at Felicity. “Is it?”

“Everything is significant. Eastern time zone?”

Cam shook her head. “No, Central. I was born in Indiana.” If Felicity wanted to find meaning in the planets, Cam wouldn’t stop her, but she didn’t think there was much logic in it.

“Hey, everybody.” Lucinda held up her hand and waved. “Want to make sure you know we’re kicking off the season with a Locavore Festival this Friday evening. Over at St. John’s Hall.” She turned to Cam. “We reserved a table for you, Cam. You’ll be there, right?”

“It’s the first I’ve heard about it, but sure. I’m not doing anything else Friday night.”

“I’ll just put this up so all the subscribers will know about it.” Lucinda drew a flyer out of her bag and tacked it to the wall near the produce table. “It’s going to be great.”

More shareholders streamed in. The next two hours became a blur of greeting customers, making sure they understood the system of taking one of everything. Cam jotted down the names of new volunteers and showed the fields to several. One asked her about the greenhouse, how she had constructed it from arcs of piping and plastic, how she ventilated it, what the cost had been. A man came with his daughter. The girl, who looked somewhere in her preteen years, seemed excited by the barn and the table full of produce.

The man spoke with a slight accent. “Is Mike Montgomery here?”

“No, he’s not.” Cam kept it simple.

The man looked relieved and let his daughter lead him out to look at the fields.

All the schmoozing of the event exhausted Cam, but she kept a smile plastered to her face. At two o’clock she stepped out of the barn. Only one share remained for pickup. Lucinda joined her in the fresh air. The cat snuggled up to Lucinda’s shin.

“Tudo bem, Preston?” Lucinda stroked the back of his neck. “Such a big boy, and very handsome. What kind of cat is he?” She looked up at Cam.

“He’s a Norwegian Forest Cat.” At Lucinda’s expression, Cam said, “Really! You can find pictures of other cats who look exactly like him on the Internet. He has the sweetest nature, too.”

“You miss the forest, kitty?” Lucinda murmured to Preston.

“I wonder where the last person is.” Cam checked the clipboard in her hand. “It’s an S. Wilson. I don’t think I met him. Or her. Must have been an e-mail application.”

A car pulled into the drive from the road. Gravel spewed as it passed the house and headed for the barn. It didn’t slow and even seemed to accelerate.

Lucinda stepped forward. “Hey!” She held up her hand, palm out. “Not so fast,” she yelled over the engine noise.

The windows of the car were closed. Cam couldn’t see the driver, only the shape of a head wearing a hat.

The car still didn’t slow. Who was this maniac? Cam grabbed Lucinda’s arm and yanked her into the barn as the car sped straight at them.

The car screeched to a stop directly in front of the barn door. Cam’s heart beat so hard, she could barely breathe.

The car door flew wide open and bounced against its hinges. A slender man with sandy hair sticking out from under a faded Red Sox hat extricated himself and stood. An alarmed look on his ruddy face, he said, “Am I too late?”

Stunned, Cam narrowed her eyes. “What do you think you’re doing, speeding like that?” Her heart slowed. This guy had the nerve.... Wait a minute. “Stuart?” Her voice rose.

“I wondered if you were the same Cam Flaherty.” The man smiled. He extended a hand toward Cam. “Last I heard, you were still head down in your cubicle, creating software, cranking out C++ code for the company.”

“I was. Then my position was eliminated about a year ago. ‘Reduction in force,’ they called it. A load of you know what, in my opinion. Around the same time, my great-uncle had to give up the farm and asked me if I wanted to run it. My great-aunt died a couple of years ago, and when Great-Uncle Albert had to have his foot amputated, that was it for him.”

“That’s quite a switch.”

“I know. I’ve wondered if I made the right decision. But I have always loved growing stuff, and with Net-Systemics leaving me in the lurch, well, it seemed like a sign.” Cam mustered a smile.

“And that boyfriend of yours? What was his name? Tim?”

Cam sighed. “Tom. Yeah, well, he didn’t really like me living an hour’s drive away. So that’s been over since the winter.” Cam was surprised Stuart even knew about Tom.

“I never liked the guy.”

“Did you know him?”

“We met once, yes.”

“But what about you?” Cam asked, leaving the puzzle of how Stuart knew Tom for another time. “What are you doing up here in the country? Last time I saw you, you were Marketing Whiz Boy. Everybody talked about you like you were golden.” What she really remembered was a tipsy Stuart getting a little too friendly with her at one of the lavish holiday parties and hoped he wouldn’t recall the same. She’d had to push him away repeatedly.

Stuart looked out at the fields for a moment, then back at Cam. “Yeah. I was. New management came in. Must have been after you left. In with the new ideas, out with the old. I wasn’t too happy about it. I’m still not. Moving back in with Mother at age forty? Real fun.”

“Mother?”

“I grew up here. Wilson is a big name in this town.”

“Wilson?” Cam’s recording was stuck on the question mark. “You’re my last subscriber?” They had never worked directly together, and she’d known Stuart only by his first name.

“Yeah. I just got off my shift at the Food Mart.” Stuart looked like he’d tasted a bitter herb. “I go from marketing whiz to slicing meat. Nice, huh? It’s the only job I could find. I work there, but I’d rather get my produce here. And my girlfriend, well, my ex-girlfriend, is the sister of another one of your customers.” He cocked his head. “Am I too late?”

“You’re not too late,” Lucinda said.

“Good. Who are you?” Stuart addressed Lucinda.

Cam wondered how someone with such abrupt manners had gotten as far as Stuart had in his former job. No wonder he had an ex-girlfriend. “Stuart, this is Lucinda DaSilva. She’s a subscriber and president of the Westbury Locavore Club.”

“Loco what?” Stuart frowned at Lucinda.

“Locavore. We believe in eating food grown close to where we live. Starting today, I’m not eating anything from farther than a hundred miles from here.” She rolled her eyes as if at the challenge. “For a year.”

“Oh, yeah. I think I heard Katie’s sister talking about local eating,” Stuart said. “But doesn’t that mean no coffee? I’d never be able to do that.”

Lucinda grimaced as she shook her head. “And I’m Brazilian. That will be the hardest part for me. By the way, what’s C++?”

“C++ is a computer language,” Cam said. “It’s what runs most of the modern world.”

“That why you renamed the farm Produce Plus Plus?” Stuart asked. “Wasn’t it called Attic Hill Farm before? Being on Attic Hill and all.”

“You got it, on both counts. I guess I was trying to bridge my two worlds. Now it sounds a little hokey, but I’m stuck with it. At least Great-Uncle Albert gave his blessing on my renaming it and going organic.”

“That must be a pretty big deal,” Stuart said. “Converting to nonchemical growing.”

“He wasn’t certified organic, but he didn’t use much in the way of off-farm inputs.” Cam heard herself toss out the jargon like she’d been a farmer all her life and smiled. “Most small farmers can’t afford to apply pesticides or chemical fertilizers in a major way. But you’re right. Getting certified is a three-year process. I’m just getting started.”

“I like the farm’s name,” Lucinda said. “It sounds like lots of food. Or food plus community plus health. You know?” She put her hands on her hips, ready to gauge Cam’s response.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way. But sure. As long as it brings in the sales. Stuart, come on in and we’ll get you your share.”

Stuart had finished stuffing his vegetables into the two plastic bags Cam provided when he grabbed a ringing cell phone from his pocket. He put the bags down and pressed a button on the phone.

“Where are you?” He glanced over at Cam, then quickly away. “I’m on my way.” He strode toward the door.

“Wait! Your share.” Lucinda held out his bags.

Stuart retrieved them with a sheepish smile.

“And drive carefully, all right?” Cam called after him.

“I’m leaving, too.” Lucinda cradled a cardboard box full of produce in her arms. “June first. The start of my locavore year. I have some cooking to do.” She beamed.

“Thanks so much for helping out, Lucinda. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Lucinda waved as she walked out. “See you next week,” she called.

Cam tidied up, including tossing the jug of pesticide into the trash barrel and securing the lid. As she left the barn, she looked back. Motes danced in the sunlight shining in from two high west-facing windows. Her shovels, pitchforks, rakes, and hoes hung neatly on the back wall, next to a pegboard with hooks for pruners, hand hoes, and trowels. Large buckets held greensand, lime, and other organic soil amendments. Albert’s old red rototiller stood in a corner.

Cam walked toward the house and sank into a lawn chair, grateful for a chance to rest. The big maple in back of the antique saltbox her great-aunt and great-uncle had lived in for sixty years provided blessed shade. The tree had always given Cam a feeling of being protected, even when she was a child playing at being a scientist under its wide limbs during the summers she spent with Marie and Albert. She gazed at the barn, which listed a bit but was still structurally sound after all these years. The greenhouse beyond to its right was technically a hoop house. It looked like a white sports bottle some giant had cut in half lengthwise and placed on the ground. Building it last fall had been her first big project.

To be living here full-time now was a blessing. Cam had thought she was a confirmed city person. She’d had a charming rehabbed third-floor flat in an old house in Cambridge. She had ridden her bicycle to work and had rented a Zipcar or had taken the T when she wanted to go farther than a couple of miles. She’d walked to the farmers’ market and availed herself of art films in Harvard Square. But being back in the country gave her room to breathe deeply again.

Preston sidled up to Cam and leapt onto her lap. She rubbed the top of the cat’s head with her chin and then leaned back in her chair. She closed her eyes, stroking his lush double layer of fur. She’d chosen him from a shelter three years earlier. Luckily for both of them, he’d made the transition from urban condo pet to farm cat without suffering any appare. . .