Fruit of All Evil Read online

  He didn’t say anything, but looked down at me with controlled patience. The slacks weren’t tight, so it was easy to pull at the seam and reach into the pocket. He maneuvered his fingers into the space, pinched the phone, and plucked it from the pocket—all without brushing my body in any way. However, his eyes did shift again, to something strange that made me want to look away. But he recovered and blinked them to normal as he stepped back.

  “Very impressive,” I said.

  “Becca, did you take anything else that might be considered evidence?” Sam asked, no humor anywhere.

  “No.”

  “Good. Now, it’s my job to tell you not to leave town during the investigation.”

  “Am I a suspect?”

  “You are a potential witness. And the fact that you took the victim’s phone makes you look suspicious and a bit crazy, but I wouldn’t give you the full title of suspect. Just yet.”

  “Got it.”

  Sam still held the phone pinched between his gloved thumb and forefinger.

  “You’re free to go, now,” he said.

  “Uh, well, . . .”

  “What?”

  “Then . . .” I was pushing my luck, but I couldn’t leave without at least trying.

  “What is it, Becca?”

  “Well, is there any chance you’d look at the phone’s call log and tell me if Madeline called Linda?”

  “No.”

  “Please, Sam, just a quick look. I just want to know if Madeline called Linda at any time today. And, and, well, if she didn’t, I might have some information that could maybe potentially be important to the case.” This was my only bargaining chip, weak though it might have been. Sam, being a police officer, didn’t bargain for such things. But we were friends—I hoped that would help.

  “Really?” he said doubtfully. “What information?”

  I was stretching his patience, and he was abnormally patient with me, even in the worst of circumstances. But I couldn’t help myself.

  “Explain the information.” He still held the phone.

  “When Madeline stopped by Bailey’s today to tell Linda about the dinner, she commented that she’d called Linda a number of times. Linda’s phone didn’t show the calls. It might not mean a thing, Sam, but it might. It’s the reason I took the phone. I needed to know—though I’m not sure why—I just did. I didn’t look at the phone because . . . well, because I realized how stupid I’d been to take it, I guess. What would it hurt? Just take a quick glance. You have the gloves on,” I added quickly. “Please.”

  Sam took a deep breath and with his gloved fingers opened the phone. I moved to his side and glanced down at the small screen as he pushed the call button and a log immediately appeared.

  Madeline had made a number of phone calls on the last day of her life. Sam scrolled down the list too quickly for me to digest much of anything, but I did catch three high points:1. The name Linda didn’t appear anywhere on the log of the day’s calls. Of course, Madeline might not have attached Linda’s name to her number, and there were quite a few numbers without names listed. Plus, I didn’t know Linda’s number by heart. She was on my speed dial, and when she called me, my screen just showed her name.

  2. The name Jeanine Baker, the egg lady from Bailey’s, did appear on the call log. I wondered if Sam noticed it and remembered who she was, but I didn’t say anything. He’d figure it out soon enough, and I couldn’t imagine that Jeanine was guilty of anything except making up conspiracy theories. However, I didn’t think that she and Madeline moved in the same circle, and it was odd that Madeline had called her. I made a mental note to ask Jeanine for the details.

  3. And finally, there was a number I recognized immediately. I wasn’t good at hiding much of anything, so I was proud of myself for not gasping as I saw my boyfriend Ian’s number move up the screen as Sam scrolled down. Again, Sam would eventually figure that Madeline Forsyth had called Ian on the day she died, but since a name wasn’t attached to this number, he might not think it strange that I didn’t point it out to him. Even though Ian’s number was also programmed into my phone, it had an unusual pattern that was made up mostly of 4s and 5s. I had memorized his number the first time he told it to me.

  But why would Madeline Forsyth have called Ian?

  “No Linda listed,” Sam said as he carefully snapped the phone shut. “I’ll look up the other numbers and let you know.”

  “You’ll let me know?” I tried not to sound like I was thinking about Ian.

  “Yeah, I’ll give you a call. I’ll have to have more conversations with Linda anyway. I’ll let her know first.”

  “Thanks, Sam.” I tried to sound sincere, but I couldn’t make room in my thoughts for anything other than my curiosity as to why Madeline had called Ian. I didn’t even know the two of them knew each other.

  “Anything else I can do for you?” Sam asked. I caught the sarcasm this time.

  “No, I’m good. Really, thanks. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Becca, are you okay?” he asked, no sarcasm.

  “Oh, I’m . . . I’ll be fine.” I smiled and tried to sweep away the questions in my mind. “You know that Madeline had lots of enemies, don’t you?”

  “I’m aware of who she was and what she did. We have many avenues to explore.”

  I nodded.

  “Take care, Becca,” Sam said. He nodded, looked away, and left the room. There wasn’t any need for me to be there either, so I followed him down the front hall and out the door.

  We’d been at Madeline’s house for almost three hours, and though it was dark outside except for some yard lighting, the fresh air was delicious. I took in big pulls as I stood on the wide front porch. I didn’t know where the other party guests had gone, but Ian was sitting on the open tailgate of his truck.

  Officer Vivienne Norton crossed the other side of the yard. She looked at me with surprise. We’d gotten to know each other during the Simonsen murder case, and she was the burliest woman (maybe man, too) I’d ever met. I saw surprise in her eyes as she realized that I was in the middle of another horrible event. Her eyes hardened as she waved—was I the killer this time? I waved back and then stepped off the porch toward Ian.

  “Some dinner,” I said.

  “Yeah, that was rough. You okay? Did you give Sam—I mean Officer Brion—the phone?”

  “Yes.” I hopped up on the tailgate next to him.

  “Good. I bet he wasn’t happy that you had it.”

  “Thanks for not telling him.”

  “No problem. I knew you’d confess.”

  “Yeah.”

  The temperature was perfect, cool and warm at the same time. The air was fresh and clean, and as I looked up at the first twinklings of stars, for probably the millionth time in my life, I was grateful I didn’t live in a big city.

  “Who do you suppose did that to her?” I asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Have you talked to anyone else?” I asked.

  “No, everyone else left. Except for you and me, everyone was taken down to the police station.”

  “Really? You saw them? Linda, too?”

  “Yep. Sam talked to me out here. He told me that everyone said you and I were the last ones to arrive and we were always in view of someone. But everyone else has some explaining to do, apparently.”

  “Oh, gosh. Poor Linda! I hope she’s okay.”

  “I hope she has a good attorney,” Ian said.

  The thought that my best friend, mild-mannered, pioneer-dressing pie baker Linda McMahon, could have committed a murder dug a pit in my stomach.

  “Do you think someone else at the party was the killer?”

  “I don’t have any idea. No one acted too strange—well, like they’d just taken someone’s life, at least. They’re an interesting bunch.”

  “Yeah, I wish we’d had a little more time with them. Did Sam tell you anything else?” I asked.

  “No.”

  A sudden chill shook my limbs
.

  “You cold?” Ian reached for the jacket he’d removed and put in the bed of the truck.

  “No, just . . .”

  “I know. Too strange, huh? Come on, let’s get out of here.” Ian hopped off the tailgate and reached as though he was going to help me do the same.

  “Hang on, Ian . . .”

  “What is it?’

  I hesitated, because the fact that Madeline Forsyth had called Ian was probably none of my business.

  But I couldn’t help myself.

  “I have a question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Madeline Forsyth called you today,” I said, no question to my voice, as I looked into his dark eyes. I loved those dark eyes and everything else attached to them. I had to know why the murder victim had called my boyfriend on the day she died.

  Ian smiled.

  “I’ve been caught, huh?” he said quietly.

  “I don’t know. Have you?”

  “Yep.” Ian looked away and back at the house. His smile faded. “Come on, let’s get out of here, and I’ll tell you all about my affair with Madeline Forsyth.”

  Six

  As Ian’s truck ticked off the miles, I began to fight a good dose of delayed-reaction willies. Mostly deep in our own thoughts, we were quiet for the trip back through town. We bypassed his apartment and my dog, and then headed out the other side of Monson, more toward my farm. I was curious about Ian and Madeline, of course, but I was fairly certain they hadn’t had that kind of an affair.

  Madeline Forsyth had been murdered, and we’d seen the body. And we just might have sat at the dinner table with the killer or killers—two potential suspects being my friend and her fiancé. Oddly, the farther we traveled from Madeline’s house, the more real the murder became.

  I was grateful when we hit the open fields on the other side of town and suddenly I felt like I could breathe again. I knew Ian felt the same. I heard him take a deep breath, too.

  “I know,” I said. “Too much, huh?”

  “Lots to process. I hope they catch whoever did it quickly.”

  “Me, too.”

  A moment later Ian turned onto a road I was very familiar with; I had grown up with my sister and hippie parents on this road, most commonly known as “the road right before the state highway.” When I was a kid, we had to have a box in the town post office because our address didn’t seem to be easy to understand. Rural Route 6 was mostly dirt with a few big rocks thrown in here and there, meant to wreak havoc on nice vehicles and new tires. The hidden road suited my parents just fine; they loved living out in the country with as few visitors as possible. They were making up for it now as they traveled the country in an RV, experiencing as much of America as they could before they passed on to the next realm—hippie parents didn’t ever die, they just packed up and hitched a ride to their next journey. I wasn’t sure I believed the same things they did, but there was something comforting in their beliefs.

  “Ian? Where are we going?” I asked. The turn onto the familiar path erased the image of Madeline’s body from of my mind.

  “You’ll see.” Ian maneuvered his truck over a rough patch like he’d done it a time or two before.

  When the road suddenly smoothed, I peered out the windshield and into the gloom.

  “The road, it’s been paved?” I said.

  “From here on out for a while.”

  “I haven’t been down this way in a long time.”

  “I know. Your family moved into town when you were fourteen, right?”

  “You knew I lived out here?”

  “Yeah. Allison and I discussed it. She’s the one who told me about this area.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see, but first we’ll stop here briefly. Take a look if you’d like.”

  Though I hadn’t lived on Rural Route 6 for about twenty years, I had driven out this way now and then, but the last time had been over five years earlier. Ian pulled to the side of the road, and I peered at the house of my childhood. I wasn’t all that sentimental, but I loved seeing that the small house had been well taken care of. I couldn’t see very well because of the darkness, but the porch light was on, illuminating some big-bellied flower pots here and there on the tiny front lawn.

  “My parents wanted us to grow up in the ‘wilderness,’ ” I said. “They loved it out here and managed to save a bunch of money. This house, along with the land, didn’t cost them much at all. When it was time for high school, we moved into town. There they became business-savvy and bought a bunch of rental properties. They never worried about money.”

  “Did you miss the country?”

  “I dunno, probably. Allison and I had a great time no matter where we were, but I suppose I must have missed it, because that’s where I ended up again. You know, it must be an evening for memories—this is where we lived when we got the deliveries from the Loder Dairy that we were talking about at dinner. Funny how stuff like that happens, huh?”

  “Synchronization,” Ian said.

  There was a light on in the front window of the house, and though I didn’t feel a strong connection to the building, I liked the warm feeling that emanated from the window.

  “Ready?” Ian asked.

  “Yes, but only if you’re going to tell me about this affair with Madeline Forsyth.”

  “Ah, yes, the affair.” Ian pulled the truck back onto the road. “Well, it was pretty wild, really.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We’re almost there. Hang on a minute.”

  A few seconds later, Ian pulled the truck to the side of the road again.

  “Here we are,” he said as he put the truck into Park and got out. He reached behind the driver’s seat for a flashlight and came around to open my door.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  He turned and looked out at a long stretch of land that I could barely see by the milky light from the rising moon. From where we were, the land looked rough, and a small shack that sat in the middle of it looked even rougher.

  “This is my affair with Madeline Forsyth.”

  “Okay.” I got out of the truck, and we walked to the edge of the property.

  “Supposedly this land is going into foreclosure. Allison sent me out here long before that happened, by the way. I was attempting to purchase it when the owner got the foreclosure notice from Madeline . . . well, from Central Savings and Loan. Madeline was . . . well, she was being difficult about the entire thing. The owner, Bud Morris, is an old guy who doesn’t need to be dealing with any of this. He claims there’s no way his land could be in foreclosure, but Madeline hadn’t been returning his calls. I intervened recently, and I had left her a message. When I saw her at Bailey’s this morning, I actually wondered if she was there to see me. Her path directly to Linda told me otherwise, of course. When I realized we’d be having dinner with her, I thought I might approach her then—even if it would be bad manners. Then she called this afternoon, but I was too busy to answer the phone. She left a brief ‘call me back’ message, which is why you saw my number on her phone.” Ian paused. “I think it’s good I came along, or Bud might have been scared out of his home.”

  “Wait, what? Start over. You want to buy this property, work this land, live in that terrible shack?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why?” I wished for daylight. In the darkness, the soil seemed rocky and not fertile; the shack leaned enough that a good sneeze would be the end of it.

  “One word: lavender.”

  “Lavender?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ian, really, start over. Start from the beginning.”

  He smiled and reached out his hand. “Come with me.”

  I took his hand. “Does Bud live in that shack?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will he shoot at us for trespassing?”

  “No. His hearing isn’t all that great.”

  “Lead the way.”

  The land was rough and kind of rocky, but maybe not as rocky as
I originally thought. I didn’t want to voice my doubts, but I still couldn’t understand why this was a good decision.

  After we’d walked about thirty yards, we reached a small lift of land.

  “There, now you can see the whole thing.” Ian swept the flashlight in a circle. “Well, sort of. Clearly, we’ll have to come back when the sun’s up.”

  I looked around. The land and shack were positioned nicely amid rolling hills, but my impression still wasn’t of fertile, healthy dirt.

  “Lavender?” I said. “I don’t know a thing about it. Oh, except that it’s purple.” The mention of the color made me think of Madeline’s decorating taste, but I put those thoughts to the back of my mind again.

  Ian laughed. “Yes, you’re correct. Would you like a quick lesson?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s one of the most useful herbs. It can be dried, it can be used in cooking—I make a mean lavender cookie—but I’m going to grow it and mostly create oils, essential oils. I’m going to tear down the shack and build a better house and a workshop for my sculptures and for a place to create the essential oils. I’ll be able to do both.”

  “What are the oils used for?”

  “Some people just like the lavender scent. There are other possible uses—including insect bites, acne, headaches, and scars. Hey, I only play a doctor on TV, though,” Ian joked. “I know there’s a market for the oils, but what people use them for will be up to them.”

  “That all sounds fantastic, Ian, but I have to ask about growing conditions. I can’t see so great right now, but when we first stopped, it looked like the land was kind of rocky.”

  “It’s not too rocky. The land just hadn’t been worked. Lavender plants thrive in warm, well-drained gritty soil and full sun. This land is ideal. Someone told me that lavender’s like sage—but with class.” Ian pointed the flashlight toward the ground at our feet.

  “That changes everything.” For a long moment, I mulled over what he’d said. “Then I think this could be very awesome!”

  “Good,” Ian said, “I hoped you’d like the idea. Are you mad I didn’t talk to you about it before?”

  “No, not at all,” I replied, but I did wonder if my nonanswer about visiting his family had been part of the reason he’d kept the secret.