Deadly Brew (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 3) Page 3
She shook her head. "Aimee and I will deal with it in the morning. I just can't look at it tonight."
"I'm sure everything will look brighter in the morning," Tobias suggested.
"I doubt it, but thanks for the positive thinking," Serafine said grimly.
My cell phone rang just as I finished milking Blossom the next morning. It was Quinn. As I sent the tawny Jersey cow to join her daughter in the pasture and walked toward the house with the milk jug, I hit Talk and held the phone to my ear.
"Any news?" I asked, opening the screen door and stepping into the house that had been my grandmother's when I was a girl.
"He died of an allergic reaction," she said. "Tobias was right about that."
"He'll be relieved," I said, sliding the jug onto the tile counter as my bald poodle, Chuck, nosed at my ankles. Tobias had been uncharacteristically silent on the way home the night before; I knew he felt personally responsible for what had happened to Bug. "But why didn't the EpiPen work?"
"That's the mystery," she said.
"Is Rooster looking in to the bee angle?"
"I don't know," she said. "Mandy Vargas from the Buttercup Zephyr just swung by and asked me a few questions; don't be surprised if you hear from her, too. Oh—and watch out for your livestock. She told me there's word of a chupacabra in the area."
"A what?"
"A chupacabra," she said. "You know, that mythical, wolflike thing that preys on livestock. A few of the Chovaneks' goats were attacked the other night."
"Oh no!" I said, peering out the window at my little flock, which thankfully seemed to be okay as they nosed the perimeter of their pen. "I'm guessing it's more likely a mountain lion than a chupacabra, though."
"Gus Holz saw something that seemed too weird to be a coyote out by his ranch the other night," Quinn said. "Said his chickens were all upset about something, and he just caught a glimpse of it, but it wasn't like anything he'd seen before."
"Everybody's spooked with Halloween coming up," I said. There had been nothing but ghost stories in town lately... including a juicy one involving the derelict old farmhouse Quinn had convinced me to move onto Dewberry Farm. "Still no ghosts on the Ulrich homestead, by the way," I informed her. Quinn had talked me into rescuing the hundred-plus-year-old house and moving it to a knoll overlooking Dewberry Creek. I glanced out the farmhouse kitchen window toward the recently relocated house, which was half-obscured by a cottonwood tree.
"I'm so glad you saved it," Quinn said.
"I don't know what I'm going to do with it now that it's here, but at least it won't be demolished," I told her. "It might fall down, but it won't be torn down."
"I told you what to do with it: turn it into a guesthouse for when the antique fair is in town. You'll be making money before you know it."
"With all the work that needs doing, it's going to be a while before that house is making any money," I said. Liesl Heinrich's brother, Ralph, had moved the small, wood-frame structure onto the farm for free, but it was up to me to keep the leaning house from falling in on itself. And with a dry well, I wasn't exactly flush with funds for restoration.
"Peter's really good at building; why don't we have him take a look at it?"
"I've got some chicken in the fridge," I mused. "Think you guys would be up for dinner tonight? Maybe we can walk down to the house and he can give me an honest assessment."
"Absolutely!" she said. "We were already planning on dinner together; we'll just head your way. Will Tobias be there, too?"
"I'll ask," I said.
"I've got a pecan pie I just made. Can I bring anything else?"
"Just expertise and reassurance that I'm not crazy for saving the Ulrich house."
"I'm glad you saved it," Quinn repeated. "I just feel like it was meant to be on Dewberry Farm, somehow."
"Let's hope I'm glad, too." At the moment, I was feeling like I'd bitten off way more than I could chew. "Thanks for letting me know about Bug. I'll call Tobias and tell him he was right."
"Are you planning on swinging by the cafe today?" she asked. "I could use a little help at lunch."
"Lenny is supposed to be here at nine to look at the well situation," I said.
"Good luck with that," she said. "Maybe he'll change his mind and tell you it's the pump after all. By the way, any lettuce yet?"
"Still too warm," I said, "but soon, assuming it rains or I get my well squared away." One of the nice things about living in Texas was that there were two growing seasons: the warm season started in March and ran through September, and the cool season picked up when the last of the summer's harvest was drying up. I actually preferred cool-season crops; although I missed having tomatoes and cucumbers, I loved green garlic, fresh lettuce, sugar snap peas, radishes, and particularly arugula. You had to protect some things during harsh cold snaps, but for the most part the winter was as productive—if not more productive—than summer. Right now was a shoulder season; the summer plantings had played out, but the cool-season veggies hadn't matured yet. Plenty of time to tackle the Ulrich house... assuming I got the well fixed and it didn't bankrupt me. If it weren't for my beeswax candles and jams, I wouldn't have much to take to the Saturday market.
"Well, I'll let you get your chores done," Quinn said. "We'll definitely be there tonight. Come by the cafe today if you can!"
"I'll try," I said and hung up a moment later. Between the well fiasco and the leaning haunted house, I certainly did need all the extra work I could get. I called Tobias and left a message, then turned to my morning chores.
I'd just finished processing the milk when the phone rang again; it was Tobias.
"You were right," I told him as I put the last jar of milk into the fridge. "Quinn called; Bug Wharton died of anaphylaxis."
"At least I didn't misdiagnose it," he said. "But the EpiPen should have worked."
"Maybe we got there too late?"
"Maybe," he said, but didn't sound convinced. "What are you up to today?"
"Lenny Froehlich is coming out to talk about the well this morning," I said, "and then Quinn wants me to swing by the Blue Onion if I have time. And I was hoping you would join Peter, Quinn, and me for pot pie tonight."
"I'd love to," he said. "But what are you doing before that?"
"Why?"
"I'm supposed to head out to the Safari Exotic Game Ranch to check on some ibexes at two," he told me. "I was wondering if you wanted to tag along."
"Ibexes?"
"They just came in from Africa," he said. "Plus, I thought you might be curious to take a look at the place."
"I kind of am," I confessed. My reporter instincts were telling me what had happened to Bug was no accident; I was anxious to take a look at the Wharton place from the inside.
"I hope the well problem gets fixed soon; let me know what he says. Can I pick you up at the Blue Onion at one-thirty?"
"Sounds like a plan," I said, and hung up with a new spring in my step. "Maybe it's not such a bad day after all, Chuck," I said to my bald poodle, who wagged in response and licked my calf.
Ha.
3
"Your options," Lenny Froehlich told me as we stood over my bone-dry well, "are to drill deeper and hope we get lucky, or drill a whole new well."
"Okay," I said. "What's the benefit of a new well?"
"More water, hopefully," he said.
"How much is that going to cost?"
"I won't lie to you; both are gonna cost you a pretty penny," he told me. "But if you do drill a new well, the question is, where do we put it?"
"Ideally, where there's water," I said. "But how do you know?"
"Well, that's where the dowser comes in," he said.
"The dowser?"
He nodded. "Water witch, they used to call 'em. He could always sniff out the best spot to drill. Problem is, the dowser—Gusher Orton—died last year."
"Gusher?"
"Name was Gus, but he was always good at findin' water, so the nickname kind of stuck."
He shrugged. "Just start drillin' and hope for the best."
"Surely there's some other way to do it?"
"I'll look in to it and get back to you," he told me, not meeting my eyes.
"What do I do in the meantime?"
"A few things. You can spend the money to get a tank of water out here," he said.
"That doesn't sound cheap. Any other options?"
He glanced up at the cloudless sky. "Pray for rain."
"Do you know anyone who can dowse a well?" I asked Quinn as I walked into the kitchen of the Blue Onion later that morning.
"Only one I know of was Gusher Orton," she told me as she tossed a big bowl of salad, "and he passed."
"That's what Lenny said." I sighed and tied on an apron, taking an appreciative sniff of the fresh-bread-scented air. It was a good thing I got a lot of exercise out at the farm, or I'd be the size of a house with all the day-old baked goods I took home from the cafe. "I guess I'm going to have to truck in some water while I get it figured out, although I have no idea how to go about doing that. I've got to have something for the animals to drink—and to water my seedlings."
"I'll see what I can find out for you," Quinn said.
"I guess I can't do anything about it right now," I said glumly.
"We'll work it out. Maybe Peter can help; the fire department's got a pumper truck."
"That might work as a stopgap," I agreed, feeling a slight ray of hope. "Need me in front today?"
"That'd be great," Quinn told me as I grabbed a pad and pushed through the swinging door to the front of the cafe.
The Blue Onion was a fixture on Buttercup's Town Square. With Quinn's charming touches—a mix of antique tables and chairs, white curtains, and refinished pecan floors, along with little vases of flowers on each table—it was a haven of hominess and comfort. The delicious breads and sweets in the glass case by the register and the yeasty aroma of baked goods wafting through the air had won Quinn a loyal customer base, and although it was early for lunch, the little cafe was bustling.
I spent the next hour and a half taking orders and half-listening to the gossip about Bug Wharton's recent demise out at the Honeyed Moon winery.
"I heard it was that potion she served up that did him in," Max Gunther, a retired rancher, said as he swilled iced tea.
"Oh, nonsense," his wife Jean said. "It was honey wine, not bee venom. Besides, I heard he was stung on the way back to his truck."
"I'll bet they put a spell on him because they didn't like him shootin' all those exotic deer. You were there when it happened, weren't you?" Max asked, narrowing his eyes at me. "You see any funny business?"
"It was very sad," I told him, "but evidently it was just an allergic reaction. Anaphylactic shock can happen very fast."
"I just don't know," he said. "I still think those witchy women are involved."
His wife just rolled her eyes and ignored him as I refilled their drinks and moved on to the next table, which was inhabited by Maria Ulrich, one of the members of the town's German Club. She didn't look very German—she had her Mexican mother's silky black hair and dark eyes—but she was proud of her heritage on both sides. Maria was lunching with another German Club member, Liesl Heinrich.
"Lucy!" Maria said. "I hear you moved the old Ulrich homestead out to your farm. Thank you so much for saving it. Our family came over in the early eighteen hundreds and were very active in the town."
"Quinn mentioned that to me," I told her.
"I can't wait to see what it looks like when you've restored it," Maria said. "It's hard to imagine my family lived there; it seems like another world."
"I hope I'll be able to save it," I told her. "I just found out my well's run dry. I'm not sure I'm going to be able to afford much to restore it."
"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that," Liesl said, turning to Maria. "Maybe the club can help out a bit? After all, it is a historic building."
"When was it built anyway?" I asked.
"A couple of years after they got here," Maria told me. "They raised six children in that house. Can you believe it?"
"No, I really can't," I said, thinking of the small, ramshackle house down by the creek. It was barely big enough for a couple by today's standards, never mind a family of eight.
"It was my great-great-great-great-grandfather—I think that's enough greats, anyway—who built it," Maria told me. "And my great-great-great-great-grandmother did the blue stenciling all around the tops of the walls."
"That's my favorite part of the house!" I said. The downstairs walls were made of boards that had been painted white with a china-blue pattern stenciled around the perimeter.
"I'm so glad it's not being destroyed," Liesl said. "It has such potential, and, of course, lots of history."
"I heard about that," I replied. "And I've heard it's supposed to be haunted, too."
Maria and Liesl exchanged looks; evidently, they'd heard that story, too. "Well, it does have some history," Maria admitted.
"What kind of history?" I asked, a little irritated no one had mentioned the haunting to me before I agreed to have the house deposited on my property.
"One of their children—a teenage daughter named Ilse—disappeared."
"What happened to her?"
She shrugged. "Nobody knows; she was never heard from again."
"So, is the ghost supposed to be your grandparent, or the missing girl?"
They glanced at each other again. "Nobody knows for sure, but rumor has it it's the ghost of Ilse. My grandmother said she saw her once, in the upstairs window," Maria admitted.
"Still, it's an adorable house," Liesl put in quickly.
"It is," Maria agreed. "I'd have taken the house myself, but I live in town, and I don't really have any land to put it on."
"It's a cute little house," I told her. And it was; it was a simple, small, cozy farmhouse, with a front porch that invited rocking chairs—assuming the porch didn't cave in when you stepped on it. "I hope the ghost—if there is one—doesn't object to visitors. The only way I can afford to preserve it is if I can rent it out."
"I'm sorry we didn't tell you," Maria said. "It's just... it seemed like the perfect location for it."
"We'll see what we can do to help," Liesl rushed to add. "We'll take it up with the club."
I sighed. What was done was done. And it was a cute house, despite its history. "If you know anyone who can help with my well, I'd appreciate that, too."
"With the drought, lots of folks are having water problems," Maria said. "Happening more and more the last few years."
"Maybe this wasn't the best time to take up farming."
"There's never a perfect time to do anything," Maria said. "Sometimes you just have to take the plunge."
Like buying a haunted house that was falling in on itself, I thought grimly as I refilled their iced tea and headed back to the kitchen.
I had just cashed out my last check when Tobias walked into the Blue Onion, wearing jeans and a faded blue T-shirt that stretched over his chest and biceps in a way that made my heart skip a few beats.
"Hey," he said with a slow smile that did nothing to help my heart rate. I reached up to adjust my hair and found myself wishing I'd put on a bit of makeup before leaving the farm that morning.
"You about ready?" he asked.
"I am. Let me just get my purse." I ducked into the back, shed my apron, and told Quinn Tobias had arrived and that we were heading over to Bug Wharton's place.
"It seems so weird that they pay for a vet to make sure the animals are okay when all they're going to do is shoot them," she said.
"It does seem strange," I acknowledged. "But I'm really curious about what that place looks like on the inside."
"You're still thinking about what happened to Bug Wharton, aren't you?"
"Yeah. I just have a feeling th
ere's something funny going on."
"I hope not," Quinn said as she slipped a batch of maple twists into the oven. "We were first at the scene—and Tobias was the one who used the EpiPen. I'd hate to see Rooster go after him for being a Good Samaritan."
"Why would Tobias want to hurt Bug Wharton?" I asked. In truth, Peter was the one who had organized the PETA protest—and it was Peter who had gotten the EpiPen out of the glove compartment. A little squiggle of worry stirred in my stomach.
"I don't think logic has anything to do with Rooster's thinking process," Quinn pointed out.
"Unfortunately, you're right," I told her as I hung up the apron and grabbed my purse.
"Have fun," she said. "I can't wait to hear what you think about it!"
"I'll let you know," I promised her as I pushed through the swinging door into the cafe, where Tobias was ogling the bakery case.
"How do you spend time here and not gain fifty pounds?" he asked.
"Because I'm always on the move," I said, grinning.
Tobias gave me a quick kiss on the top of the head, then tore himself away from the case and held the door to the cafe open for me. "Ready to visit Little Africa?"
"Who knew we'd be on safari in Buttercup?"
"It's an adventure every day," he said, winking as I climbed into the truck.
It was a short, pleasant ride to the Safari Exotic Game Ranch. I filled Tobias in on my nonexistent well progress as we drove past bleached fields and farmhouses with pumpkins and chrysanthemums adorning their front porches. Tobias seemed quiet, I noticed.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"I'm still thinking about what happened to Bug Wharton," he told me. "I could have misdiagnosed him. It happened so fast..."
"He asked for the EpiPen and you gave it to him," I said. "You weren't diagnosing anything; you were doing what he asked you to do. Besides, it was anaphylaxis."
"But he died," Tobias said. "I just can't get it out of my mind."
"Maybe there was something wrong with the EpiPen," I said. "I read an article recently about a recall. At any rate, it really doesn't matter. You had nothing to do with what happened to Bug Wharton. If anything, I'm wondering if someone had it in for him."