Farmed and Dangerous

Book 3: Local Foods Mystery

by Edith Maxwell

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Mystery

Synopsis

When a bad biddy bites the dust after biting into poisoned produce, a Massachusetts organic farmer must clear her name in this cozy mystery. Cam is finding the New Year in Westbury just as hectic as the old one. Her sometimes rocky relationship with Chef Jake Ericsson is in a deep freeze, she’s struggling to provide the promised amount of food to the subscribers in her first winter CSA, and her new greenhouse might just collapse from the weight of the snow. Supplying fresh ingredients for a dinner at the local assisted living facility seems like the least of her worries—until one of the elderly residents dies after eating some of her produce. Cantankerous Bev Montgomery had many enemies, from an unscrupulous real estate developer who coveted her land to an aggrieved care provider fed up with her verbal abuse. But while the motives in this case may be plentiful, the trail of poisoned produce leads straight back to Cam. Not even her budding romance with police detective Pete Pappas will keep him from investigating her. As the suspects gather, a blizzard buries the scene of the crime under a blanket of snow, leaving Cam stranded in the dark with a killer who gives new meaning to the phrase “dead of winter.” Praise for ‘ Til Dirt Do Us Part “There are plenty of farming-based cozies on the market today, but this one stands out.”— Booklist “Engaging. On top of the intriguing whodunit plot, Maxwell vividly portrays life on a small contemporary farm.”— Publishers Weekly “A most enjoyable look at organic farming with some charming characters and cooking suggestions thrown in.”— Kirkus Reviews

Release date: May 26, 2015

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

Cameron Flaherty sidestepped in surprise as a tall man with gleaming skin the color of dark-roasted coffee beans stormed into the institutional kitchen at Moran Manor Assisted Living, his deep brown eyes flashing.

“I’m going to kill that woman.” He carried a tray holding the remnants of someone’s lunch and slammed it onto the counter. A dark spot stained the front of his green caregiver’s polo shirt. “Nothing I do satisfies her.”

Cam had seen him in the halls of the residence, but he wasn’t one of the caregivers who tended to her great-uncle, Albert St. Pierre. The man glanced around the kitchen, which was empty except for the two of them.

“Where’s Rosemary?” he snapped.

“The cook?” Cam asked. If Rosemary was who he wanted to kill, this could get dicey. Cam took a couple of steps back, until she neared the doorway.

He nodded as if he doubted Cam’s intelligence.

“I don’t know. I’m looking for her, too.” Cam would have thought the cook would be hard at work in mid-afternoon, prepping Saturday night dinner for a hundred-odd residents. A huge pot bubbled on the back of the stove, and the room carried the aroma of sautéed onions with an undertone of cleaning solution. Cam had arranged to provide her own organic vegetables for an upcoming dinner and needed to make the final arrangements with the chef, who seemed to be missing in action. “You have a problem with Rosemary?”

The door next to Cam swung open, nearly whacking her. She stuck out her hand at the last minute. “Whoa.”

Ellie Kosloski sauntered into the room, her red Moran Manor polo shirt tucked into skinny jeans. “Oh, hey, Cam. Sorry about that.” The slender ninth grader hadn’t gained any weight since Cam met her last June, when Ellie had shown up to volunteer on Cam’s farm, but her legs seemed to get longer every time Cam saw her.

“No problem,” Cam said.

“Oscar, what’s up?” Ellie said, catching sight of the man. “You don’t look very happy.”

He slapped his hand on the stainless-steel island. “She’s been here only a month, and she’s driving me nuts. It’s no Happy New Year for me so far.” He threw his large hands into the air.

Ellie frowned at the clatter but didn’t recoil. “Mrs. Montgomery?”

Cam raised her eyebrows. Uh-oh. So Bev Montgomery was making trouble again.

He nodded. “I wish she’d never come here.”

“What’s she doing now?” Ellie asked.

“Well, for one thing, she’s some kind of ethnophobe.” He clenched and unclenched huge fists. “Telling me because I’m Eritrean, I can’t do my job right.”

“She has a history with that kind of opinion,” Cam offered, staying safely near the exit. Bev, an old friend of Cam’s great-uncle and late great-aunt, had been involved in an anti-immigrant militia group.

“Who are you?” The man frowned in her direction.

“Cameron Flaherty. I’m a local farmer. I’m supposed to be finalizing arrangements with Rosemary to provide some of my produce for tomorrow night’s dinner.”

“Cam’s great-uncle is Mr. St. Pierre,” Ellie said. “Cam, this is Oscar Zerezghi. He’s a caregiver, and he helps the cook, too.”

“Nice to meet you,” Cam said, not sure if it was. He hadn’t extended a hand, so she didn’t, either, instead crossing her arms, her shoulder resting on a cool stainless-steel wall.

“Mr. St. Pierre seems like a decent guy. Unlike some of our residents.” He turned on his heel and stalked out.

“Oscar’s having a tough time.” Ellie stuck her hands in her back pockets and leaned against the island.

“He’s a professional. He should be used to it. Speaking of professionals, have you seen the cook? I need to talk to her.” Cam eyed the boiling pot. Its aromas made her stomach growl. Where was the woman?

“No. Actually, that’s why I came in here. The director was looking for Rosemary, too.” Ellie pushed pale hair away from her face and resecured her ponytail. “Maybe she’s off with her boyfriend somewhere. My friend Ray said she saw them outside kissing one time.” She rolled her eyes after the manner of teens.

“That doesn’t help me at all.”

“So what’s the dinner?” Ellie asked.

“I’m donating produce for the meal. It’s kind of a trial balloon. If they like it, I hope to get a contract to supply the residence regularly next summer.” Cam moved back into the room and tapped the counter, frowning. “Sounds like Bev giving up her farm and moving here haven’t improved her attitude.”

“She’s still saying bad stuff about you, too.”

“Me?” Cam sighed.

“The whole business about you, like, stealing her hens. You know, with the rescue chickens last fall.”

“I thought we’d put all that behind us. Although she was sure upset at the time, when my volunteers rescued her neglected hens. But the health department was about to put them down.” The birds were now healthy and were living in a new coop at Cam’s farm tucked in the woods of Westbury, a semirural town north of Boston.

“I guess she’s still mad,” Ellie said.

“What are you doing here today, Ellie? I thought you worked as a server in the dining room only on weeknights.”

“On Saturdays I, like, come in to take reading material around to the rooms and deliver meals. And I play cards with the residents. I’m the activities director’s helper. It gives me more hours and doesn’t interfere with school.”

“That’s cool.”

“Some of the people are totally interesting. Even the ones in the Neighborhood, you know, the residents with dementia and Alzheimer’s.” Ellie glanced at the big clock on the wall. “It’s almost three o’clock. I have to get over to the community room to help out with the anagram game.”

When Cam turned to go in search of the elusive Rosemary, she bumped her hip on the corner of the counter. Ouch. Such a klutz.

“You should have heard this guy Oscar, Uncle Albert.” Cam stretched her legs out from her chair a few minutes later in Albert St. Pierre’s homey room on the second floor. She hadn’t been able to locate the cook and had finally given up. She cupped a mug in both hands, inhaling the peppermint tea he’d fixed her in his kitchenette.

“He is Beverly’s care provider.” Albert sat, as usual, in his recliner, with a red plaid lap blanket covering his own legs, or rather, his one complete leg and the other missing its foot. He’d offered Attic Hill Farm to Cam over a year ago, when the amputation forced his retirement from farming. “Oscar tends to get a little carried away in his reactions, I have heard. But I also know Beverly has been loudly unreasonable since she moved here.” He grabbed a stack of books off the table at his elbow and dumped them on the floor. “You can set your tea here.”

“It sounds like Bev might be going off the rails. She said he couldn’t do his job right, because he’s from Eritrea.”

“I believe she is developing dementia.” Albert raised his abundant snowy-white eyebrows. “And she’s in the angry phase, as it starts out for so many.”

“Maybe she simply misses her friends in the Patriotic Militia.” Bev’s involvement in the shadowy group last spring had caused headaches for several immigrants in the area.

“Perhaps. You know that I volunteer in the Neighborhood downstairs. I’m a little overfamiliar with the stages of dementia these days.” He sighed. “Beverly is so angry, she doesn’t even take her meals in the dining room with everyone else. She apparently complained about the other residents—didn’t want to share a table with any of them—and they complained right back about her.”

“So nothing has changed.”

“No. Now, enough about that. It’s January in Massachusetts. Tell me how winter farming is treating you.”

Cam shrugged. “It’s a struggle. You know how cold it’s been, but so far the crops in the hoop house are surviving. I spread a floating row cover over them every night and uncover them in the morning. The cover raises the temperature a couple of degrees. And I have the air layer insulating the house, too.”

“What’s that?”

“The house is covered with two layers of plastic, and an electric fan blows air between them. If we get a big snow, though . . . Well, I hope the pipes and plastic won’t collapse. I’d be out of business until April.”

“I never tried to extend the season all the way through the winter, you know. You’re brave to try, honey.”

“Or stupid.” Cam tapped her mug. “Did I tell you that I’m providing the produce for dinner here tomorrow night?”

“Excellent. Is the dinner a tryout for a summer contract?”

She nodded. “You’re my marketing genius. You suggested doing exactly this last summer.”

“I wasn’t much of a genius when I ran the farm, but now I have time to come up with new ideas, don’t you know?”

“I couldn’t find the cook just now to arrange final details. I think we’re all set, though.”

“I’m sure it will be a success.” Albert’s pale blue eyes crinkled. He reached out and patted her hand.

“Can we get back to Bev for just a minute? I heard that Richard Broadhurst is going to buy her farm. Is that true? It’d be a great addition to his own farm since they abut. And I know he wanted to expand his orchard.”

“I read about it in the paper. Don’t believe the sale’s been completed yet. And that daughter of hers, Ginger . . . Somebody heard her trying to cut a deal to develop the land into housing.”

“Oh? Is that what Bev wants?” Cam asked.

“You’d have to ask her,” Albert said. He took a sip of his own tea and gazed out the window. Outside, fat snowflakes floated down like errant cotton puffs. He brought his gaze back to Cam. “Ginger Montgomery tried the same trick with my farm when she nosed out the news that I had plans to quit, you know, with my foot and all.”

“What? She wanted to buy the land and build housing on it?”

He nodded. “Some fancy town house plan. I said I wasn’t interested, but she pushed pretty hard. And when I heard you lost your programmer job in Cambridge, why, that’s when I offered the farm to you.”

“I’m glad you did. I think. Farming isn’t easy, but I’d hate to see luxury condos on such a pretty piece of the hill.”

“Happening all over town. Fertile farmland and woods disappearing into fancy kitchens and three-car garages for bankers and lawyers who work down to Boston. Ginger comes around here to play guitar on weekends. Acts like she’s some kind of do-gooder.” He shook his head, with a sorrowful look. “She’s playing this afternoon, as a matter of fact.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Cam gazed at his desk in the corner of the room. She snapped her fingers.

“I just remembered. While I’m here, I wanted to show you something on the farm’s Web site, see how you like it.”

“Computer’s all fired up,” Albert said. He reached for his crutches and transferred himself to the office chair at the desk. “That class they gave here last year really got me going on this computer stuff. And I should show you some pictures that I scanned in, of my dear Marie before we were married. Nineteen forty-nine, it was.”

Cam pulled her chair to his side. She checked the time in the lower corner of the screen. She might be able to catch Ginger Montgomery’s guitar gig downstairs when they were done here.

A teenage girl with bouncy black hair pushed a man in a wheelchair ahead of Cam in the main hallway of the residence twenty minutes later. A short woman with a long gray braid, hanging down over a turquoise quilted jacket, walked next to them.

“Felicity?” Cam called out. Felicity Slavin, one of the most avid locavores who subscribed to Cam’s farm-share program, volunteered frequently on the farm.

Felicity turned with a smile. “Cam.” She patted the polo-shirted arm of the young caregiver, signaling her to stop, and waited for Cam to catch up. “Have you met my father? He lives in the Neighborhood here.”

“No, but I’d love to.”

“Dad, this is Albert St. Pierre’s great-niece, Cam Flaherty. She’s the farmer I’ve been telling you about.”

The man, in red suspenders over a striped shirt, smiled up at Cam. His smile extended to his watery blue eyes under a tweed Irish cap. He extended a quavering hand.

“I’m pleased to meet you, sir.” Cam shook his hand with care. His skin felt like parchment, but he gripped her hand more firmly than she’d expected.

“Nicholas. I’m Nicholas, dear.”

Strains of guitar chords drifted their way. Nicholas tapped his foot and beat his hand on his knee.

Felicity introduced the girl as Ray. “She helps out on weekends.” Felicity nodded at the girl.

After Cam introduced herself, Ray said, “Mr. St. Pierre’s niece? He’s really nice.”

“Are you going to the music?” Felicity asked Cam.

“I thought I’d check it out before I go home. Although I shouldn’t stay long. Did you see that it started to snow?”

“Sure. It’s January, Cam.” Felicity smiled.

Cam lowered her voice. “How’s Wes doing?”

Felicity let a breath out. “He’s under house arrest, awaiting trial. How did such a smart man and such a sweet husband do something so stupid?” She lifted her chin and squared her petite shoulders, but Cam could still see bewilderment in her eyes. Wes, a tall, aging hippie who doted on his tiny wife, had indeed done something stupid last October and was now paying the price.

They arrived at the wide side doorway of the common room that opened off the front lobby of the residence. A slender woman perched on a stool at the front, one leg extended in front of her, one foot hooked on the stool’s rung. Her outfit, green leather ankle boots, a calf-length suede skirt, and a green sweater, could have come straight out of a Talbots catalog. She strummed the guitar and encouraged the residents to sing along to “Oh My Darling, Clementine.”

Felicity pushed her father to the end of the front row of chairs, while Cam stood near the doorway. Residents filled the row, mostly women, many white-haired and several with careful dye jobs. Most sang along and clapped. One woman, with a short cap of hair more dark than silver, took tiny stitches in a piece of cloth stretched over a ring, listening and tapping a sneaker-clad foot. A row of wheelchairs formed the second row. In two of them, a man and a woman sat side by side, holding hands. Next to them a man slumped over, his head listing to the side. Cam was glad to see he had a wheelchair seat belt strapped around him.

“Great singing, ladies and gentlemen.” Ginger smiled and tossed her artfully tousled blond hair. “Now, how about ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’ to brighten up this winter day?”

“What’s with all the old-fogy songs?”

Cam glanced around for the source of the voice. Just as she’d thought. Bev Montgomery stood at the rear of the room. She leaned against a table, with her arms folded tightly across her chest. She didn’t smile. Cam had never seen the former farmer in anything but work pants and a faded plaid flannel shirt. Now she wore new jeans and a fresh-looking plaid flannel shirt. The bangs and ends of her straight slate-gray hair appeared recently trimmed.

“You can’t play anything newer than from nineteen thirty?” Bev continued in a snarl.

Ginger strained to complete her smile, and her eyes did not participate.

“What’s wrong with ‘The Yellow Rose of Texas’?” the woman doing the needlework chimed in. A few others nodded.

“I like that song,” Nicholas added.

“We’ll do ‘Yellow Rose,’ and then how about ‘Charlie on the MTA’?” Ginger surveyed the room.

Bev rolled her eyes and pursed her lips but stayed where she stood. When her daughter began to play, Bev did not sing along.

Cam mustered her inner social being, never an easy task for her, and slid along the edges of the room to Bev’s side. Cam greeted her in a low voice.

“How are you settling in?” She smiled with what she hoped was a welcoming look. She and Bev had had several conflicts in the past year, and Cam hoped they would cease now that Bev no longer needed to see Cam as the new competition on the block.

Bev snorted. “What do you care?”

“I thought you might like it here. Albert certainly does.” Cam gestured around the room. “You know, find it an easier life. We both know how hard farming is.”

“Well, I don’t like living in a fishbowl with a bunch of old folks.” Her voice rose. “And you’re the one who put me out of business. Stole my customers and my hens, too. Don’t go all friendly on me, Cameron Flaherty.”

A man in a necktie, whom Albert had once introduced to Cam as Jim Cooper, the director of the facility, stood nearby. He frowned at them, and the woman with the needlework turned around and said, “Ssh.”

“I’m sorry,” Cam whispered. She grimaced and made her way back to the wide doorway.

Ginger didn’t stop playing and singing, but she didn’t look particularly happy about the outburst. She finished “The Yellow Rose of Texas” and launched into the MTA song. Nearly every resident joined in on the chorus of the famous tune. Some likely had lived in Boston during the time the song described. And then also after that, when the Scollay Square mentioned in the lyrics was bulldozed to make room for the Stalinesque Government Center, with its ugly concrete buildings and windswept wasteland of a plaza. Even Bev seemed to scowl less than usual during the popular tune.

When the song ended, Jim Cooper stepped, clapping, to the front of the room. He thanked Ginger for entertaining the residents. “And let’s welcome her mother, Beverly Montgomery, our newest member here at Moran Manor. I know you’ll all do what you can to make her feel at home in our cozy community.”

Several of the residents clapped for a few seconds, but the applause didn’t exactly deliver a roaring embrace, probably as a result of what Albert had mentioned about the dining room complaints.

“Do you play Scrabble, Beverly?” The needlepoint woman twisted in her chair to glance at Bev. “I could use another good opponent.”

“Maybe.” Bev lifted her chin and directed her next comment at the director. “I don’t know why you let her entertain here.” She gestured at Ginger. “She’s trying to steal my land, you know. Her and her brothers. None of them would farm with me, but they’d grab the land to build houses on. If they could.”

The director gaped. The residents stared at Bev. A mellifluous voice sang out from the far end of the lobby, which led to the wide doorway. Heads now turned in that direction.

A man let the outer door swing shut behind him. He strolled in, singing an aria, one hand on his chest, one arm extended. A full head of salt-and-pepper hair swept off his wide forehead and nearly reached his shoulders. His barn jacket fell open to reveal a brilliant turquoise vest over a white collarless shirt. The stains on the legs of his faded jeans, on the other hand, made it look like he’d been shoveling compost in the jeans. Which he probably had.

Cam smiled at the sight of her fellow farmer Richard Broadhurst. Opera singer turned farmer, that is. A master organic grower, he’d been focusing more on tree fruits than vegetables in the past few years. She’d visited his farm several times during her first season and had appreciated the open way in which he shared information with her. She gave him a little wave, which he returned, even while belting out the operatic tune.

At the sight of Richard, Ginger closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. She opened them, thanked the residents for participating, then grabbed her guitar and headed for her mother.

Cam couldn’t hear their conversation over the noise of chairs sliding and caregivers taking the wheelchair bound out of the room. But she watched for a moment. Ginger and Bev’s interaction didn’t appear to be a calm and affectionate conversation between mother and daughter by any means. Stealing her land was a strong accusation. Bev kept her arms folded and her chin up. Ginger seemed to be pleading with her.

Richard paused at the reception desk and sang directly to the woman sitting there, who blushed and applauded. He caught sight of Cam and strolled toward her.

“Cam.” He leaned in for an air kiss. “How’s the winter CSA going?”

“It’s not easy, but so far, so good. The hoop house hasn’t collapsed, and I’m still harvesting greens. I’m providing the raw ingredients for a dinner here tomorrow. It’d be nice to get a regular contract with this place.”

“Is that so? Good luck with it.” He glanced toward Bev and Ginger. “Catch you later.”

He turned into the room and approached Bev, kissing her on the cheek.

“Beverly, my dear,” he boomed. “This must be your lovely daughter.”

“Thanks for coming by again,” Bev said, eking out a smile. “This is Ginger.”

Ginger’s gaze met Richard’s. Cam couldn’t exactly interpret the look, but it appeared that they already knew each other, or at least had met before.

“Are you ready?” Richard asked Bev.

“Where are you going, Mom?” Ginger looked confused.

“Richard’s taking me out for a decent meal.” She pulled her mouth down and blinked. “Come with me while I grab my coat,” she said to Richard, who nodded.

Cam turned to go. She probably ought to look for Rosemary one more time, but she’d had enough hustle and bustle for one day. Time to head back to the farm. She signed out and donned her down jacket at the coatrack. She glanced behind her before pulling open the heavy outside door. Richard followed Bev up the wide central staircase. Ginger stood with one hand on her hip, watching them.

Cam’s truck crunched over fresh snow when she pulled into the driveway next to her antique saltbox farmhouse. She sat for a moment, watching the flakes fall in the headlights. A gust of wind stirred them into a dance, and then they settled to a straight free fall again. She’d have to shovel in the morning, but so far the snow fell light and dry, not heavy with moisture, as it did when spring approached. She pulled into the barn and turned off the engine, then tugged her wool cap. . .