Killer Jam (A Dewberry Farm Mystery) Read online

  “No. I know it’s late, and I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have the photos from the Founders’ Day Festival?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Why?”

  “Because I think we might be able to identify the killer,” I told her.

  She blinked at me for a moment, then said. “Come on in.”

  Mandy pulled up the photo file on her laptop, and we both pulled up chairs. “What are we looking for?” she asked.

  “Remember I told you about a small, gold lamb pin attached to a torn scrap of fabric at the scene of Nettie’s death?” I said. “I think Nettie must have torn it off whoever killed her.”

  “Rooster never mentioned any pin.”

  “I bet,” I said. “He probably didn’t want to admit to a reporter that he hadn’t investigated the crime scene.”

  “Sounds about right,” she said.

  “Anyway, Father Mikeska gave out the lamb pins last Christmas, to congregants who had performed special services for the church. I have a copy of the photo they took when they issued them, and I want to go through and see who was wearing one during the festival.”

  “And who might not be wearing one at the end of the day,” she added.

  “Exactly.”

  I took out the photo, and we combed through the file of Mandy’s shots from the Founders’ Day Festival. Four people had chosen to wear their lamb pins that day: Edna Orzak, Faith Zapalac, Bessie Mae Jurecka, and Flora Kocurek. Of all of them, Flora was the most likely suspect. We were more than halfway through the photos when I stopped on a group shot, jabbing a finger at the screen.

  “Is that what I think it is?” I asked.

  She zoomed in. “I think so,” she said as we stared at the gleaming gold pin.

  “But he’s not on your list!” Mandy said.

  “He’s not in the photo, that’s for sure. Did you take any pictures after Nettie died?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, moving quickly through the next shots until the jocular faces turned worried and long. “We’ll slow down and look to see if the pin is still there.”

  We made it through about thirty photos before Mandy stopped. “He lost his sash,” she said.

  “No he didn’t,” I said, pointing to a bit of red sticking out of a pocket. “He took it off.”

  “Because the pin was torn off?”

  “That’s my guess,” I said.

  “But it still doesn’t prove he did it,” she said.

  I told her what I had found out about the cattle deaths and the land sales, and her eyes grew wide. “He’s involved in that?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Nettie was totally against fracking,” she said. “Not traditional oil drilling, of course, but she didn’t want the town’s water getting polluted, particularly with all this drought. She was a big supporter of the fracking ban.”

  “Was she?” I asked.

  “Maybe she found out he was involved with the company—helping them get established. Maybe she threatened to tell Rooster.”

  “I wish there were some way to prove it,” I said.

  “And what about Nancy Shaw?”

  I thought about it for a few moments. “It still fits.” I told her my theory.

  “All we’re missing is proof,” she said.

  “That’s why I’m going over there tonight,” I told her.

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  “No,” I said, “but it’s the only idea I have.”

  I was on my way home when Tobias called.

  “I got word back from the lab on what happened at the Chovaneks’ farm,” he said.

  “What was it?”

  “Pesticide poisoning,” he told me. “A really toxic one—a carbamate insecticide—but I can’t figure out where it’s coming from. John Chovanek must have come in contact with it, too; his wife found him lying in the field. He’s on his way to the hospital.”

  “Poor guy . . . I hope he’s okay. What was he doing when he came out to check on the cattle?”

  “Replacing the salt lick,” he said. We were both quiet for a moment, then, at the same time, said, “The salt lick.”

  “Can you get it tested?” I asked.

  “I’ll go and get it now,” he said.

  “Be careful.”

  “I’ll wear gloves,” he promised. “I’ll let you know what I find.”

  “Stay safe,” I warned him.

  “You, too,” he said, and I decided not to mention what I planned to do that evening.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Quinn asked as I pulled a black hoodie on over a navy-blue T-shirt. She had come over to let me know they were charging Jed with breaking and entering and assault, and had stayed when I told her what my plan was. I figured someone should know.

  “I need to see if I’m right,” I said. “I can’t send Rooster in if there’s no evidence.”

  “How are you going to get in?”

  “Martin Shaw is still in La Grange” I said. “I’ll go through their fence.”

  “You know it’s legal to shoot trespassers in Texas,” she said.

  “Thanks for the reminder.”

  She got up from the rocker she’d been sitting in, her voice still a little strange sounding due to the swelling in her cheek, which had turned an alarming shade of purple. “I should come with you.”

  “After last night? No way. Besides, I need somebody I can call if I get into trouble.”

  Quinn gave me a look.

  “Not that I’m going to get into trouble.”

  “What kind of security measures do they have? They seem pretty serious about it; they’ve got that intercom and video feed at the front gate, remember?”

  “I’ll figure it out,” I told her. “Just keep your cell phone handy, okay?”

  I wasn’t feeling quite so optimistic when I turned off at the Shaws’ house about twenty minutes later. My heart clenched as I bumped down the long, dirt drive, and I found myself wondering how the bees were doing without their caretaker—and how Martin was holding up without his wife. I was glad he had family nearby.

  I parked my truck behind the house and turned the engine off, listening to the sounds of the night. A few cattle lowed in the distance, and the first cicadas had started humming. Peaceful sounds under normal circumstances, but tonight, they put my nerves on edge.

  It took a few moments to get myself together enough to get out of the truck. I double-checked to make sure my phone was charged, slipped my rubber rain boots on over my tennis shoes, and tucked a penlight into the back of my pocket before opening the door and stepping out into the night.

  It was only fifty yards to the fence. Once I got there, I put on the rubber gloves—I’d researched how to get through electric fences—and cringed as I touched the two wires and prayed Google hadn’t lied to me.

  Either the fence wasn’t on, or the Internet was right; the rubber kept me from getting shocked. I stepped through unscathed and pulled off my rain boots, setting them next to the fence post. Since my tennis shoes had rubber soles, the boots were probably overkill, but I figured it was better to be safe than sorry.

  The compound was another few hundred yards away. I walked toward it, praying I would go unnoticed, and jumped when a cow shuffled toward me, mooing in surprise. I’m not sure who was more startled.

  I paused to let my heart rate return to a reasonable level before moving forward again, still scanning the compound for signs of life. Lights burned in the brick ranch house, but there were no security lights on the outbuildings, and the barn windows were dark.

  I slowed down as I got to the edge of the barn, clinging close to the wood exterior wall as I searched for a door. I wasn’t sure where I would find the bag that had been in the F-150, but I knew it was no longer in the truck—at least it hadn’t been when I was at Rosita’s for lunch. I just hoped the bag hadn’t been emptied and/or thrown away—or that if it had, it was still here somewhere.

  The main doors were held clo
sed with a length of chain, but no padlock. I undid the chain and sidled into the barn, pulling the door closed behind me, and turned on the penlight.

  There weren’t any animals, but there was a lot of junk. The little light skimmed over the hoods of two old cars—also Cadillacs, from the familiar hood ornaments—and piles and piles of rusted farm equipment that looked like it dated back from the last century. There was a broken butter churn, an ancient, derelict tractor, and even a yoke. The Kocureks didn’t ever throw anything out, it seemed; it was an antiquer’s dream come true.

  The problem was, I had no idea where to look for the bag I’d seen in the back of the F-150. Or even if it was in here.

  I poked around a heap of old feed bags in the front corner of the barn, but they were dusty and had obviously been here for a while. I was beginning to wonder if what I was looking for was in the barn at all, and after fifteen minutes of stirring up dust, I decided to look in the other buildings.

  I slipped out of the barn, still watchful for any signs of movement, and crept up to the driveway. The barn was outside the fence that surrounded the Kocureks’ compound; I leapt across the cattle guard into the fenced portion of the area, feeling too close to the house for comfort. Particularly since there was movement on the other side of the sheer curtains covering the big bay window. I’d have to be very careful.

  First, I decided to recheck the back of the F-150. Unfortunately, the only thing in the truck bed was some dirt and a small pile of dead leaves, and a quick sweep of the cab with the penlight turned up nothing but an empty Big Gulp cup and an old newspaper. I headed next to the small outbuilding furthest from the house—it looked like it had once been a smokehouse. My guess was confirmed when I swung the door open; it still smelled like smoke, and the walls inside were black. I closed the door before flashing the penlight around, but other than a small pile of charcoal on the floor and few withered onions hanging from a beam by dried stalks, there was nothing to be found.

  I slipped out of the smokehouse and crept over to the next outbuilding, which was a modern metal shed not too far from where Nettie’s Cadillac was parked. Unlike the barn, this door was padlocked shut, which meant there might be something the Kocureks wanted to hide behind the door. Unfortunately, it also meant I couldn’t easily get in.

  The lock was a combination lock, with a row of four numbers along the bottom. Three of the numbers were centered, but the fourth was between the 3 and the 4. I pushed it to the 3 and tried the lock; nothing happened. But when I pushed it to the 4, the lock clicked open like magic in my hand.

  I was in.

  A strong chemical smell hit me, and as I closed the door behind me and turned on the penlight, I could see why. There were stacks of fertilizer bags along the back wall, and several drums of Roundup along the side, but no sign of the white bag I’d seen in the back of the truck. Peter Swenson would hate the way this ranch was run, I couldn’t help thinking; nothing happened without the help of chemical manufacturers. I wasn’t crazy about it, either—but an inventory of the Kocureks’ fertilizer and weed-control choices wasn’t what I was here for. I ran the penlight around the room twice, searching, and was just about to give up when I caught a glimpse of white behind the yellow fertilizer bags, up at the top of the stack.

  I reached for it, but the bag was too heavy to pull down, so I slid one of the Roundup drums over and used it as a step stool.

  My heart thrummed with excitement as I saw the label. Most of the lettering was faint—I could tell this was the bag the label had been ripped from—but it was still legible. “TEMIK 15 mg” it read . . . and underneath it, the words “Aldicarb Pesticide,” along with the word “POISON” in bright red.

  As I stepped down from the drum, it tipped. I stood on one foot, suspended on the edge of the drum like a clumsy ballerina, before pitching into the metal door with a loud thunk, sending the penlight bouncing out onto the grass, where it landed with its beam aimed directly at one of the ranch house windows.

  Terrific.

  I scrabbled to my feet and launched myself at the penlight, praying that no one had heard my less-than-graceful exit from the shed—or seen the beam of the wayward penlight. I hobbled back to the shed as fast as I could—I’d hit my hip on the metal lip of the floor—and closed the doors, fitting the lock back on with trembling hands. I was just snapping the lock shut when the yard flooded with light, and a door creaked open behind me.

  I turned, tensed to run, and found myself looking at the barrel end of a shotgun.

  “This is private property,” Roger Brubeck said in a menacing voice.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Um, Blossom—my heifer—got out, and I’ve been looking for her.”

  “In my shed?” he asked. “On a fenced property?”

  “I must have gotten turned around,” I said, shuffling to the side. The barrel of the gun, unfortunately, followed me.

  “What are you really doing here?” he asked. There was a shadow behind him; Flora had come to the open door. He turned back to her for a second to tell her to go inside, but before I could do anything stupid, his eyes were back on me. I watched Flora; she went inside and closed the door, but when Roger turned back around, she opened it again, just a hair.

  “Nothing. Sorry to bother you. I’m going to head home now,” I said, and took a shaky step toward the cattle guard—and the section of fence I’d slipped through earlier.

  “Maybe I should call the sheriff,” he said in a voice that chilled my blood.

  “Do you really want to do that?” I shot back, sounding braver than I felt. “I know about your deal with Frac-Tex.”

  The barrel wavered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No?” I asked. “You know, you sent a rancher to the hospital today. I know you put a toxic pesticide on the salt licks of properties Frac-Tex wanted to buy. I’m betting you tampered with the farm equipment, too. You even sugared one of the engines on this ranch, to throw anyone off your trail.”

  “You don’t have any proof,” he said.

  “Oh, no? One of the labels from your pesticide bags was found near Nancy’s body,” I said. “She knew about the poisoning. And soon enough, the police will come knocking at your door.” I took a small step, back toward the shed. “Why did you have to kill them, though? That’s what I can’t figure out. Poisoning cattle is a crime, but it’s not enough to put you away for life. Did Nettie find out about your deal with Faith Zapalac and the fracking company?”

  “Shut up,” he said, advancing on me.

  I backed up, wishing there were something I could put between Roger and me, and kept talking. “And Nancy,” I said. “She knew what you were up to, too.”

  “Stupid woman, crazy about her bees. She was going to ruin everything,” Roger said. “Poking around over here, eavesdropping, stealing things from my truck.”

  “Like fake labels on toxic pesticides?” I sucked a deep breath and risked another question. “How did she know you’d killed Nettie?”

  That was the million dollar question; I still didn’t know the answer. Fortunately, Roger provided one, and I found myself wishing I’d thought to run the recording app on my cell phone. “She figured it out,” he told me, anger in his voice. “She was over here on the sly, poking through the back of my truck, and heard me talkin’ to the real estate lady about takin’ care of the ol’ bat. I shoulda been more careful. But I will be from now on,” he said. “I can promise you that.”

  “What about Nettie?” I remembered what Molly had told me about Alfie’s cousin and the will. “She found out about what you were up to with Faith Zapalac and the fracking company, and was going to change her will if Flora didn’t sign the prenup, wasn’t she?”

  “I had Flora talked around, thinking the prenup was nonsense, but then that witch found out about the fracking deal and pulled the will business on me that day at the festival.” He glanced back toward the house, but didn’t register the slightly open door. “It didn’t matter what she told
Flora; if Flora’s mama cut her off, there’d be no point in marrying her.” He shook his head. “Years of taking her out to dinner and buying her flowers and listening to her complain about her overbearing mother, all for nothing.”

  “So you cut Nettie off before she cut Flora off.”

  He nodded. “That’s the long and short of it. Lucky for me, you were a perfect suspect. Still are. And with you dead, the case will be closed.”

  I swallowed hard and played for time. “Smart of you to damage the Kocureks’ equipment, too—take suspicion off of you.”

  “I ain’t stupid,” he said. “And I don’t plan on goin’ to jail. Lucky for you, you won’t be goin’, either. ’Cause I’m goin’ to shoot a trespasser, and then I’m going to marry Flora Kocurek and her money, and then, when I’m done with her, I’m goin’ to do whatever the hell I want.”

  “With that waitress you were talking to, down at Rosita’s?”

  “Maybe,” he smirked. “Maybe not. A lot of young ladies like a well-off man. But you won’t be around to know, will you?”

  “I’m not the only one who knows you killed Nettie,” I blurted. “You left your gold lamb pin at the scene—the one Nettie tore off of you when you stabbed her. I went down to the Zephyr; she’s got pictures of you with it on, and then with the sash stuffed into your pocket.”

  “Well then,” he said, “maybe I need to stop on by the newspaper office when I’m done here,” he said. He clicked back the hammer of the shotgun.

  And several things happened at once.

  The gun blasted. The door of the house slammed open. I launched myself to the side, falling into a painful roll. And Flora stepped out of the house, a pistol in her hand, the end of it trained on her fiancé’s back.

  “Put down the gun, you double-crossing bastard, or I’ll shoot till there’s nothing left in this pistol.” I never thought I’d be so happy for someone to discover her inner Nettie Kocurek, but boy, was I glad.

  Roger raised his flabby arms. “Flora, sweetheart.” His voice was shaky. “I can explain everything.”

  “Don’t you go sweetheartin’ me, you murdering, yellow-bellied snake. Get down on your stomach, where you belong, and toss that shotgun to where the Vogel girl can pick it up.” She looked up at me. “You got a phone on you?”