Deadly Brew (Dewberry Farm Mysteries Book 3) Page 6

  Once I found the recipe, I started coring and peeling six of the apples I'd picked up at the market on the square the previous week.

  When I'd finished preparing the apples, I took the pie dough left over from the pot pie out of the fridge—I'd made a double batch—and rolled it out on the piece of marble I kept for such occasions, then cut it into six squares.

  As I distributed the cored apples among the dough squares, my thoughts turned to Aimee. Serafine had said she'd been acting strange the last couple of months; I was guessing I knew why. How long had she and Mitch been seeing each other? I wondered as I cut up a stick of butter and tucked pieces into the apples, then loaded the tops and the sides with brown sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg.

  Aimee had obviously broken up with Mitch. Had he killed his brother to be able to provide for her better... and maybe keep her from calling things off? I sprayed a baking dish with cooking spray, moistened my fingers, and began gathering the corners of the pie dough squares and making the dumplings. What did he have that she wanted back? And why wouldn't he give it to her?

  When the unbaked dumplings were arranged in the baking pan, I added water, sugar, vanilla, and the rest of the butter to a saucepan on the stove and turned on the burner, inhaling the sweet aroma as I stirred it. I could practically taste the spicy, buttery sweetness of the dumplings, with their flaky crust and their soft apple insides; just the thought of it brought up warm memories of my grandmother, whose presence I always felt in the farmhouse. It was like having my own personal guardian angel. "I miss you, Grandma," I said out loud. I didn't know if she could hear me, but I wanted her to know.

  Chuck was more concerned with the food itself than nostalgia. He hadn't left my side since I started cooking, and kept cocking his head and looking up at me with sad brown eyes. I took pity on him and tossed him a chunk of apple and a leftover scrap of pie dough. He devoured them in an instant and looked up at me, wanting more. I gave him the last little scrap of pie dough and cleaned up the kitchen as the scent of apple dumplings filled the little house.

  As I wiped down the marble slab, my thoughts turned to Teena Marburger and her proclamation of death. The reading had been for Peter. Was what happened to Bug linked to Peter, somehow? Or was she referring to something else that hadn't happened yet... and that might involve the young farmer?

  Although I hadn't known Bug very well, and wasn't what you'd call close, I had a bad feeling about what was to come. Would whoever killed Bug Wharton stop at one death? Or would there be another victim soon?

  Peter and Quinn came over at six, bearing a pecan pie and a six-pack of Shiner Oktoberfest beer.

  "Come on in," I said, and Chuck just about did a somersault trying to jump all over Pip, who had bounded in after Quinn. Quinn had adopted Pip at the beginning of the summer, and the formerly small black puppy was turning out to be a rather enormous, but very sweet, Lab mix. Quinn brought her out to the farm every time she came; there wasn't a lot of room to run around in her apartment over the Blue Onion, and Pip usually enticed Chuck into some much-needed exercise.

  Once we'd shooed the dogs out into the yard, where Pip immediately started investigating the perimeter for signs of squirrels, we headed into the kitchen. Peter opened beers for us as Quinn offered to help me finish dinner prep.

  "I pretty much took care of everything this afternoon. You can help with the dishes," I told her as I poked a few holes in the top of the chicken pot pie I'd prepared to vent it. "I just have to slip this into the oven and dress the salad, and we're ready to go."

  "Where's Tobias?" Peter asked as he sat down at the table.

  "He's still taking care of an oryx we found at the Safari Exotic Game Ranch," I told him. "He's going to be a few minutes late."

  "What happened?" Peter asked.

  "It was attacked. He thinks it might have been a mountain lion," I told him.

  "Mountain lion? That's serious business," Peter said. "When did this happen?"

  "We found her today," I said.

  "The ranch isn't too far from my place. I'd better make sure everyone's locked up safe tonight."

  "They're not the only one having problems," Quinn said. "Myrtle Crenshaw was at the cafe this afternoon talking about how a chupacabra left a deer in bad shape in her backyard."

  "A chupacabra?"

  "She says she saw it skulking away," she said.

  "I doubt that," Peter said. "Probably a coyote. I've heard a few packs out here... none recently, but there are some in the area. Still," he said, "I'll watch out for the girls. Sometimes I think I should get a guard dog, but I don't think I could bear to leave it outside all night."

  "Chuck does a pretty good job from the foot of the bed," I said. Quinn and I exchanged glances; we both remembered how he had tried to protect her from her violent ex one night.

  "He's out of jail, you know," Quinn said quietly.

  "What?"

  "He got out on parole last week," she said. After assaulting Quinn in my kitchen, Jed Stadtler been sentenced to time in jail. I'd hoped he'd be out of commission for a good long time, but evidently, I was out of luck.

  "Have you heard from him?" I asked as I slid the pot pie into the oven.

  "Not yet," she said ominously, and Peter reached over and grasped her hand.

  "You know you can always stay here," I told her.

  "As much as I appreciate the offer, I hate the thought of changing anything in my life just because of that jerk," she replied, running a hand through her red curls. Her voice was defiant, but her movements were jerky.

  "I understand, but the door is always open. Besides, I'd love the company. And I know Chuck would, too."

  "Thanks for the offer," she said. "I'll think about it."

  "You know the door's open at my place, too," Peter reminded her.

  "I know," she said with a tired smile. "Thank you both. It means so much to me."

  Just then, there was a knock on the front door, followed by a hearty "Hello!" from Tobias.

  "Come in!" I called, and a moment later he walked into the kitchen with a bouquet of yellow wildflowers and a weary-looking smile.

  "For you," he announced.

  "Thanks." I kissed him and reached for a Mason jar as Peter offered him a beer.

  "What's this I hear about a mountain lion?" Peter asked when we'd all settled in at the table, the Mason jar of cheery wildflowers in the center.

  "That's my best guess as to what went after the oryx Lucy and I found today," Tobias said.

  "Quinn said someone was talking about a chupacabra," I said.

  "I heard about that," Tobias said. "The deer in the pasture, right?"

  Quinn nodded. "What do you think?"

  "I think something's out there," Tobias said. "But it's hard to tell what. Like I said, my best guess is a mountain lion. I took some photos and sent them to a friend of mine from vet school. We'll see what he thinks."

  "It's been an exciting couple of days," I said, and turned to Tobias. "Guess who was at the game ranch at the same time we were?"

  "Who?" he asked.

  "Aimee Alexandre," I told him.

  "Wait a moment. She was the one we heard talking to Mitch?"

  "I don't know," I said, "but I saw a green Kia that looked a lot like hers at Honeyed Moon when I swung by to ask about bees this afternoon."

  "Has Serafine heard anything else from Rooster?" Tobias asked.

  "Not as of this afternoon," I replied. "Something tells me we haven't heard the last of it, though."

  "And I still can't get over that death card thing," Peter said.

  "Me neither," I admitted.

  Quinn shuddered. "Creepy. I was thinking about Teena today, by the way. I think you should have her check out your new house. If it's haunted, she'll be able to tell you."

  "That's just what I need," I said. "Ghost confirmation."

  "It could be a selling point," Quinn said. "You could do ghost-hunter weekends."

  "Assuming it doesn't fall in on them," I p
ointed out.

  "We'll take a look at that tonight," Peter said.

  "Actually, what I need even sooner is to get my well taken care of. I still haven't heard any action plan from Lenny."

  "What are you doing for water?" Peter asked.

  "I don't know yet," I said. "Any way I could get the pumper truck to deliver some water to tide me over?"

  "I can't think why not," Peter said. "I'll ask down at the station, but that's only a short-term fix. What's going on?"

  "I was hoping it might be that the pump needed to be lowered, but Lenny told me I need to drill a new well. Unfortunately, the local dowser passed away recently, and Lenny doesn't seem to have another way of locating water." I took a swig of beer. "I was hoping we might get a tropical depression to park over Buttercup and get the well back up and running, but there's no rain in the forecast." Hurricanes and tropical depressions, while devastating to the coastal cities, were an important source of water for the rest of Texas. We always prayed that big gulf storms were mild, slow-moving, missed the population centers, and parked over Fayette County, refilling the aquifer. Texas was, as a friend once put it, "perpetual drought interrupted by intermittent flooding."

  "Not good," Quinn said.

  "Exactly. I've got to come up with a plan, and soon.

  Quinn grimaced. "It's always something, isn't it?"

  "Do you think Teena can magically find water?" Peter suggested, only half-joking. "She seems to be able to predict everything else."

  An uneasy silence descended on the table as we all thought of Bug Wharton's untimely death. And Peter's altercation with the man just before he died.

  "She should market her skills. Haunted house evaluation, water location... she could open an online psychic service," I said. "She really pegged it at the winery the other night. It was spooky."

  "Speaking of the other night, have you seen Rooster since the Witches' Ball?" Tobias asked Quinn.

  She shook her head. "Thank goodness," she said. "I'm hoping they rule his death an accident."

  "It was a bee sting," I said. "What else could it be?"

  "I've never had an EpiPen fail before," Tobias said. "I did some research online; there haven't been any recent recalls."

  "Maybe we got it to him too late," I said, reaching out to touch his hand. "There was nothing you could do."

  "I know," he replied, taking a swig of his beer. "It just bothers me."

  "How long till dinner?" Quinn asked brightly, obviously attempting to change the subject.

  "Twenty minutes," I said, checking the timer.

  "Well, then. Let's go check out your haunted house!"

  7

  "I'm not sure I'd say it's haunted," I demurred, not liking the idea of having transported a haunted house to Dewberry Farm. Of course, there had been enough strange coincidences since I moved to the farm that I was pretty sure my grandmother was still watching over me, but she was a friendly ghost, so to speak. "Maybe you all can tell me what I need to do to it to make it habitable," I suggested. "Or at least keep it from caving in on itself."

  Together, we stepped out into the cool night air. Now that it was October, while most days weren't what I'd call nippy, the evenings were delightful, and tonight was almost cool enough to entice me to start a fire in the woodstove. I unwound the sweater from my waist and pulled it on over my head as we headed through the kissing gate and walked down the path to the old house. Pip bounded up to us, followed a moment later by a panting Chuck.

  "He's getting his exercise, isn't he?" Tobias said approvingly as he put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. "No extra treats?"

  "I can't promise that," I said, thinking guiltily of the pie crust I'd slipped him earlier that day, "but I'm trying."

  In the fading evening light, the little wood house seemed desolate, as if it knew it had been abandoned. The front porch slewed to the left, and I felt another pang of buyer's remorse. I was glad I'd been able to save the old building from destruction, but I wasn't sure I was going to be able to afford to fix it up it before it fell over.

  "This is a perfect site for it," Peter said. "It's a sweet little house."

  "Think it'll fall over if we go into it? Quinn asked, echoing my fears.

  "Have you been in it since they moved it?" Peter asked me.

  "I have," I said. "A few of the floorboards are a bit springy, but it didn't fall in on me."

  "I'll take a look," Peter told us. "I used to help renovate houses in the summers."

  "I'll come with you," Tobias said. Peter stepped up onto the porch gingerly and opened the front door. Tobias followed a moment later, and we could hear the boards squeaking as he walked around the first floor.

  "Did Maria tell you all about how the place is supposed to be haunted?" Quinn asked.

  Just the thought of it put an eerie cast on the house, somehow. "She told me Indians killed one of her ancestors and abducted his daughter," I said.

  "That's it," she said.

  "What's the story?" Tobias asked.

  "There was a Comanche raid one night. The wife was in Galveston with several of the children, visiting relatives; it was just the father and his teenage daughter who were home. He died and she disappeared; they found him on the front porch."

  Maria hadn't told me that detail. I looked at the leaning porch, trying to imagine the scene. "That's horrible. No one ever heard from her again, right?"

  Quinn shook her head. "I don't know, but eventually another family ended up with the house, though they didn't stay long. There have been stories about it ever since."

  "Like what?"

  "You know. Weird noises, the sound of a woman screaming..."

  "I can't think why they didn't stay," I said dryly.

  "Have you heard anything weird?" Quinn asked.

  "No. But I haven't exactly spent a lot of time down here," I admitted. And nor, now, would I want to, necessarily. I'd wanted to rent it out as a guesthouse, but I wondered how guests would take to ghostly women screaming and banging in the middle of the night. "It's been busy, and I've been worried about the whole water situation." I glanced over and surveyed my gardens; so far, things still looked okay, but I was going to have to solve my water problem soon, or everything I was growing would die. And without any produce from the farm, I was toast. My mortgage wasn't huge, but it still needed to be paid. Thank goodness the animals still had a good bit of water in their troughs. I stifled a sigh; I couldn't do anything about it right now anyway, so there was no use in worrying tonight.

  "I think it's sound," Peter called out. "A few soft floorboards, and I wouldn't use the stairs just yet, but I think you're safe."

  "Shall we?" Quinn asked.

  "Sure," I said and followed her up onto the porch and into the front door. As I stepped inside, there was a whining noise behind me; Chuck and Pip were standing at the base of the porch steps. "We'll be right out," I reassured them, but it didn't help. The whining just increased.

  "This place has a lot of potential," Quinn breathed in as she looked around. The floors were wide planks of pine, and the walls were painted wood boards. Although they were dingy, they had been painted white, with a beautiful blue stencil pattern along the top of the wall. "This could be a great living room, and you could put the kitchen and a nice eating table at the end, and there's room for a bathroom maybe under the stairs. The windows are terrific," she said. My mind started totting up the expenses as she spoke.

  Peter ran a finger along the window frame. "The windows have wood rot."

  "But they've got that lovely wavy glass," Quinn said. "The light in here must be just fantastic. What's upstairs?"

  "One long room that could be broken up into two bedrooms," I said. Before moving the house, I'd taken a peek, and in a moment of insanity, had said, "I love the windows at the ends of the house; they're triple windows, and I kind of envision hanging stained glass in the middle window." Even now, the thought of it made me a little excited, and I found myself thinking about how beau
tiful the floors would be if they were refinished. I looked up at the stenciling and wondered about the woman who had painted it. What dreams had she had? And how had she felt when she came home to discover her husband dead and her daughter missing? There was tragedy everywhere, I sometimes thought, even in beautiful things.

  She might be gone, but I wanted to preserve her handiwork. Once I got the water situation figured out, I decided, I'd come down and wash down the walls, and at least sweep the place out. Maybe we could sweep out the sadness and bring new life to it. With a few rosebushes by the front porch, a fresh coat of paint, and an old-fashioned range in the little kitchen... I was already picturing a Mason jar filled with wildflowers on a round wooden table...

  Bang.

  I felt my heart jump in my chest.

  "What was that?" Quinn hissed.

  Tobias was eyeing the ceiling. "It came from upstairs."

  A moment later the wind kicked up, shaking some of the windows, and there was a low, moaning sound. The dogs started barking madly.

  Bang. Bang. It sounded like someone hammering a frying pan.

  "I'm getting out of here," Quinn said, making a beeline for the door. I followed her; when we got outside, the dogs were whining nervously. They jumped all over Quinn, and then me, as if making sure we were okay.

  Peter came out a moment later, but Tobias lingered for a moment before stepping onto the porch in a leisurely fashion.

  "What took you so long?" I asked as he joined us in front of the house.

  "I was trying to figure out what was making that noise," he told me.

  "It was creepy," Quinn said, shivering. "Maybe we need to get Teena out here to look around. She seems to have a direct line to the other side, if you know what I mean." Our collective thoughts turned to Bug Wharton again.

  "The pot pie's probably almost done," I said. "We should probably head back."

  "Probably," Peter said, still squinting at the house. "Bang or no bang, the house has good bones and lots of history," he told me. "If you need help, I'm happy to give you a hand with the renovation."