Farm Fresh Murder Page 4

  “His truck wasn’t out front, either, and I haven’t seen his keys anywhere. There’s a spot behind the greenhouse where he could park, but I really don’t think he’s here.” Ian stood in the bedroom doorway.

  “Do you think we’ve overreacted?” My pounding heart whooshed in my ears. Where was Abner?

  “Did you see the coffee table?” he said.

  “Yeah, but the living room didn’t seem messed up except for that.”

  “It didn’t. I’m going to double-check.”

  We moved so quickly down the hallway that I was surprised we didn’t pinball off the walls.

  “What’s that?” Ian said as we reached the front room.

  He pointed to something at the side of the table. In my previous quick survey of the room, I hadn’t noticed the three white squares lined up on the floor.

  I reached for a lamp and flipped the switch, filling the room with gloomy, sallow light, and crouched down.

  “Old pictures,” I said as I peered closely, careful not to upset the layout—it was spaced so evenly that it seemed planned, and maybe important. The pictures were obviously from another time—they were black-and-white images, slightly yellowed and warped.

  “That could be Abner when he was younger,” I said as I pointed at a young man who had Abner’s roundish face. The smile was familiar enough, but the Abner I knew didn’t have the hair to compare. There was a young woman next to the younger Abner. She was very pretty, her hair white and poofy like Marilyn Monroe’s. Even with the lack of color film, I could see that she wore a thick coat of lipstick, most likely red.

  “His wife? Was he married?”

  “I have no idea. Remember, until you brought me here, I didn’t even know where he lived. But—though I hate to be stereotypical in any way—I don’t think there’s a woman on the planet who’d live here without at least covering that chair with a towel or something.” I pointed. “Actually, I’m really beginning to wonder if we were friends at all. This house—even the greenhouse—all of it is part of a person I don’t know. I can’t make any of this fit.”

  “People can be pretty secretive.”

  “I suppose.”

  “The other two look like pictures of trees, or something,” Ian said.

  “Uh-huh.” Flanking the picture of the couple were indeed pictures of trees. One was of three trees and the other one had just one tree. “Weird.”

  “Tell you anything?”

  “No, except that Abner might have had a thing for both blondes and trees.”

  “Right. Come on. Abner’s not in here. Let’s check the greenhouse.”

  “Yep.” I glanced at the pictures one more time, but they didn’t tell me anything at all.

  We both leapt over the sticky puddle again and then closed the door behind us. I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving her alone, so I let Hobbit out of the truck and we made our way along the dirt path to the greenhouse. It wasn’t terribly far away, but I couldn’t make my legs move quickly enough. The sky was darkening, and though I didn’t want to leave any wildflower unturned, I hoped that we could wrap this up quickly.

  In truth, there was probably nothing creepy about Abner’s property, but with everything that had happened that day, it seemed like we were in the midst of the set for some scary movie. Would a mask-wearing someone step out from behind the bluebells and run at us with a big knife?

  “What was with the coffee table?” I said, thinking aloud.

  “Don’t know. At first glance, it looked so wrong, but at second glance, it almost seemed placed—like the pictures.”

  “Doesn’t make sense. Do you think there was a fight—that Abner was taken from his house or something?”

  “Can’t tell from what we’ve seen. It’s all strange but not really violent.”

  When we were about ten feet from the greenhouse, our conversation was interrupted as an array of motion-sensor lights in between the hanging hummingbird feeders blazed on. Hobbit barked at the sudden change.

  “It’s okay, girl.” I petted her neck.

  “Hey, that could be the feeder that had the syrup from the porch in it,” Ian said.

  I followed his glance and saw a busted hummingbird feeder. It was on the ground, next to the door of the greenhouse. The clear tube was cracked open like an eggshell.

  “It doesn’t look like any of the syrup was spilled out here,” I said as I inspected more closely. A few drops still clung to the plastic, but if this was the feeder that had once contained the syrup, it had been pretty well emptied on the porch.

  “There are no footprints,” Ian said.

  “Huh?”

  “There aren’t any syrupy footprints anywhere. We leapt over the puddle. If there was anyone else at the house—including Abner—they must have leapt over it, too, or they would have left footprints.”

  “Where is he?” I said.

  “Abner! It’s Ian and Becca,” Ian said loudly.

  There was no response.

  “Let’s go in.” With Hobbit close by, I stepped surely toward the door. I was ready to face whatever boogeyman was on the other side. Again with some sort of superheroweird speed, Ian’s hand was on the doorknob long before mine. “How do you do that?”

  He shrugged. “Let’s be careful.”

  “Right.”

  Ian pushed the door open.

  The greenhouse was mostly dark, but there was still enough light outside to cast shadows everywhere. One small, illuminated, white lightbulb stuck out from the wall underneath the main light switches. Its light didn’t travel far. There were so many switches—a dozen or so—that Ian had to partially reach under some thick twine that hung in a perfectly round ring on the wall to flip them up.

  “Wow,” I said as I looked around. I had honestly never seen anything like it—so much so that I wasn’t even sure what I was seeing. “This is better than Oz.”

  “Abner!” Ian called again. His voice echoed, but didn’t receive a response.

  The greenhouse was half as long as a football field and probably not quite as wide. There were rows and rows of flowers that seemed to be planted in tables. All of the tables had deep bellies and were linked together by PVC piping. Beneath them, there was a grated irrigation runoff system that snaked up and down the aisles. Even with all the soil, the greenhouse was immaculate; the floor was spotless, and the temperature was controlled by some invisible machine that whirred quietly in the background. As time-warped as his house furniture had been, Abner’s greenhouse was modern, practically futuristic.

  “I’m beginning to think he’s just not here, Ian.”

  “Maybe,” Ian said, as he peered at the tables and underneath them.

  Hobbit and I picked an aisle and began walking down it. The flowers were color-coded. On my right were red somethings and on my left were purple somethings. The flowers were healthy and bright. Where there weren’t flowers, there was either bare, even soil or healthy sprouts peeking up cheerfully. The entire space was filled with the earthy aromas of soil and flowers, but there was nothing artificial about the scent, nothing perfumy. I sniffed deeply. No one would ever figure out how to bottle this. I kept walking, recognizing some of the flowers from Abner’s booth, not recognizing others.

  “How in the world?” I muttered. Hobbit nudged my knee lightly. “This must have cost him a fortune.”

  “I can’t even guess,” Ian said as he joined us. “He’s probably been working on it a long time.”

  “Explains the old furniture—why spend your money on the house when you could spend it here and create this?”

  “I agree.”

  “Oh, look, here are some of his favorite ones.” I pointed to some flowers with white petals and bright yellow centers. The stems, though mostly hidden by leaves, were obviously thick with thorns.

  “They look wicked,” Ian observed.

  “They are. They’re called Carolina horse nettle. Abner can create a bouquet, placing one of these just right so that it doesn’t ever touch the
customer at all. It’s quite a trick.” I echoed what I had said to Allison earlier in the day.

  “Look at these.” Ian picked up some old kitchen oven mitts that reached to his elbows. They were pocked with little holes in the red outer fabric, the white stuffing branching out here and there.

  “Yikes. I think that any flower that requires wearing those for maintenance should be banned from all gardens.”

  “Damn!” Ian said suddenly. He ripped off the oven mitts and stared at the ground behind me.

  “What?” I thought maybe there had been thorns in the mitts, but once he got them off, he pushed past me, went to his knees, and looked at something under a table the next aisle over.

  “Oh my God,” I said as I joined him and saw what he’d seen.

  Underneath the table full of beautiful flowers, on the pristine floor, was something that not only looked out of place, but was stomach-roiling horrific, too.

  It was an axe, the handle old and worn and the blade dark and bloody.

  I have no idea what made me do it, but I reached for the axe and pulled it from the floor.

  “Becca, I don’t think . . .” Ian said.

  I ignored Ian’s hand on my arm and held the axe close. It was real, heavy and substantial.

  “I think Abner’s in trouble, Ian,” I said.

  “And I think perhaps you lied to me, Ms. Robins,” a voice said from behind us. “You really did know where Abner lived. Now, put the axe down and step away from it, please.”

  After I swallowed my heart back down to my chest, I did exactly as Officer Brion said. He was halfway down the aisle, still in his crisp uniform. He didn’t have his gun drawn, but once I stood, I put my hands into the air, just like any common criminal caught in the act would do.

  Five

  I had no idea what time it was, but all I wanted to do was go home.

  Officer Brion had allowed Hobbit to stay with me, but he’d separated us from Ian. We’d gone through another complete round of questioning. I sat on the hood of the police car, and this time it went something like this:

  “Ms. Robins, explain how you’re here after you told me you didn’t know where Abner Justen lived.”

  “I’m worried about him, Officer. The bloody axe. Do you think he’s okay?”

  “Ms. Robins, I’m asking, you’re answering.”

  “Ian created that art.” I pointed. “He knew where Abner lived because he had to deliver and set up the artwork. I didn’t find this out until long after I talked to you. I didn’t even think about letting you know. Besides, you questioned Ian, so you probably got the address from him, too.” I wasn’t in the mood to be questioned, and though I respected the police and what they did, I was tired and angry that they’d perhaps missed something horrible happening to Abner.

  “So, Mr. Cartwright supplied you with the information?” He tapped his pen on his notepad as he looked over at Ian, who was next to the front porch, talking to another officer.

  “Yes.”

  “Wait here.”

  “Officer Brion, what about Abner? Do you think he’s hurt? Do you think the axe is the weapon that was used to kill Matt Simonsen?”

  For a moment, Officer Brion kept his stern face. I was ready for him to tell me again that it wasn’t my job to ask the questions, but then the hard edges of his face relaxed—only slightly.

  “Ms. Robins, we don’t know where Mr. Justen is, but he’s a person of interest in the murder of Mr. Simonsen. We came out here tonight to talk to him some more. We hope no one else is hurt, but we don’t have that answer right now. As for the murder weapon, that’s not something I can share with you.”

  I nodded as he turned and went to talk to Ian.

  I waited for a long time.

  Finally, we were free to go—well, told to leave. Abner never did show up. The officers searched the house and greenhouse and presumably found the same things we did, but they didn’t share their observations with us.

  “Were you the one who told Officer Brion where Abner lived? Earlier today, I mean,” I asked as Ian drove us back to my house.

  “No. Officer Brion wasn’t the one who interviewed me. It was the other guy. He didn’t ask if I knew where Abner lived.”

  “Oh.”

  “In case you’re wondering, I’d have given up the address if they’d asked.” Ian’s voice had a smile to it.

  “Probably a good idea.”

  “Yeah.” Ian scratched behind one of Hobbit’s ears. She was fast asleep, spread out over both of us.

  “Do you think Abner’s been hurt?”

  “I have no idea. I hope not. The axe isn’t good, though, no matter whose blood is on it.”

  I cringed.

  “They’ll figure it out. They’re the police,” Ian said.

  “Uh-huh,” I muttered. But I wasn’t so sure.

  We replayed the police questions, neither of us learning anything new. Well, other than the fact that Officer Brion hadn’t been able to hide his displeasure at the way Ian had been questioned earlier in the day. We didn’t know how they’d finally figured out Abner’s address, but they hadn’t learned it from Ian.

  Ian dropped Hobbit and me off with the promise that we’d do something less criminal-like next time.

  I fell into bed and slept deeply, without one bad dream, and woke up after the sun had risen—this was rare, but at least I’d gotten plenty of rest.

  It was Wednesday—my day off—and I was grateful to spend the time around my farm. The entire day before had been emotional and draining; it was good to have tasks to keep me busy. And, of course, I had to call my sister and give her the previous evening’s details, which I did as I worked the pumpkin patch.

  “I’m very pleased that you weren’t arrested,” Allison said.

  “Me, too, but it was close. We were trespassing, after all. And I picked up a bloody axe.” I switched my cell phone to my other ear as I lifted a slightly green pumpkin and rearranged it so that it wouldn’t flatten on one side.

  “Picking up a bloody axe wasn’t smart, Sis.”

  “I know, but apparently Officer Brion observed us discovering it and me picking it up.”

  “That probably saved you.”

  “Yep.”

  “Did he believe you were there out of concern for Abner?”

  “I think so, but I don’t think they’re concerned for his well-being so much.”

  “They suspect him, huh?”

  “Pretty sure. I think they think the axe was the murder weapon, but they wouldn’t tell us.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “I’m sure you’d have told me this already, but Abner’s not there—not at Bailey’s today?” I asked.

  “No. His stall is empty.”

  “I figured.”

  We were silent for a moment, both of us processing . . . well, everything.

  “Hey, I have a pumpkin that looks like Richard Nixon,” I said to break up the quiet.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.” I lifted Mr. Nixon and moved him slightly. “He might now transform into Gerald Ford.”

  Allison laughed. “I hate to do this on your day off, but can you come in for a meeting this afternoon? Vendors are still—understandably—upset about everything, and the customers aren’t rushing back yet, so I thought we’d get everyone together to talk things out. And the Equinox Dinner is scheduled for this Sunday. I want to see if everyone still really wants to have it, considering the circumstances.”

  I’d forgotten about the dinner. It was Allison’s yearly moment to shine, so to speak. She always put together a great party for all Bailey’s vendors and their families on the Sunday night before the fall equinox. That Sunday was typically the last day at the market for the seasonal vendors, who wouldn’t return until spring. The dinner was a time for socialization, farewells, and evaluation. Everyone looked forward to it. “Sure. What time?” Though I still had lots of work to do around the farm, Allison could probably use a positive attitude
/force at her meeting. I’d work on attaining such. Plus, I wanted to ask some questions; I wasn’t sure who I wanted to interrogate, but having lots of people together might help me figure it out.

  “About three o’clock. Oh, and Ian will be there, too. Maybe he’ll show you the rest of his tattoos.”

  “Now I’m sorry I told you.” In working up to the horror of the night before, I’d told Allison what I’d learned about Ian, particularly the mystery number of tattoos over his body.

  “Sorry, but the way you talk about him is very interesting. You sound . . . intrigued.”

  “I’m too often divorced to be intrigued with anyone. You’re mistaking my tone.”

  “Okay,” Allison said easily, not willing to bring the issue to an argument. “Hey, go ahead and bring Hobbit today.”

  “Thanks. See you then.”

  We signed off. I snapped the phone shut and slipped it into the back pocket of my short overalls. I knew from experience that my pumpkin-turning crouch could result in my cell phone being propelled out of a side pocket. And the big leaves of pumpkin plants hid phones very well.

  “You’ve been invited to a meeting. Are you excited?” I asked my ever-loyal farming partner. She knew how to stay close beside me and step carefully enough so that her long paws didn’t tear the leaves or crush any of the pumpkins. When I worked with the strawberry plants, she stayed to the outside of the runners. It took only a couple of smushed berries for her to learn that her feet weren’t made for avoiding the small fruit.

  Hobbit winked, acknowledging either the fact that she knew going to the meeting would be the best part of her day, or that she knew she’d be invited all along.

  She’d come into my life literally the second that my second husband left it. I’d driven the last box of his personal items to the 7-Eleven not far from the farm. Scott and I didn’t hate each other, but once the relationship was over, it was uncomfortable having him in the house, so I planned to meet him and deliver the box.

  As I sucked on the straw of a Big Gulp and watched him drive away in his newer-model truck, silently wondering how he was ever going to make payments on the truck and buy gas for it when he didn’t have access to my checking account anymore, a child stepped in front of me and held up a very small brown puppy with very long feet.