Born in a Barn (Clucks and Clues Cozy Mysteries Book 4) Page 6

Another hour of hustle, and all the donated gifts had been wrapped and sorted. The Knitwits retrieved tins of cookies from their tote bags and set them out on the now-empty giftwrapping tables to share. Joan produced an electric kettle and opened a cupboard behind her cash register area to reveal a row of mugs hanging from small hooks, some labeled with names, above an assortment of herbal teas.

  Once she’d helped herself, the Knitwits followed suit. Joan took a spot in a purple, overstuffed chair, a sugar cookie in one hand and a peanut butter cookie in the other as she beamed like a benevolent empress at the empty table that’d held all the gift donations. She ran a tight workshop, like Rusty said, but she sure got the job done. Well, with the help of a lot of us elves, anyway.

  As several of the members got out their knitting and crochet projects and began adding rows to their colorful creations while others sat down to munch and sip, I got the feeling this was the format of their usual club meeting.

  “Shall we get back to the grandkids?” Peterson asked me. He had a smile behind his eyes—I could see it even through the red-and-purple blotch and swelling.

  “Sure. Let me say goodbye to Ruth first.”

  Ruth was pouring hot water into a mug with a teabag in it. “Orange gingersnap,” she said. “Want some?”

  “No, we’re just leaving. I came to say goodbye.”

  “Aw, stay for cookies.” When I shook my head, she pouted slightly. “Fine. See you at the Christmas in the Park tomorrow? Tambra’s bringing her two. I bet they’d love to play with J.W. and Izzy.”

  Tambra, the manicurist who worked in Ruth’s salon, was a single mom of two boys in first and third grade. Ollie and Dylan were sweet kids, but they were also bundles of kinetic energy that destroyed everything in their path and were usually covered in dirt and something sticky. I tilted my head, doubtful that Andrea would approve of her well-behaved duo mixing with the likes of that wild pair.

  “Oh, come on! The city rented a snow machine! Ed’s going to run it for a few hours in the morning so there’s a big pile to play in.”

  “Come on, Leona, you can’t say no to a snowball fight.” Peterson, tired of waiting by the door, had found me. His eyes sparkled—or at least the good one did. Now that I thought about it, the idea of pelting him with snowballs—all in good fun, of course—sounded very therapeutic.

  “Ed Wynwood?” I asked Ruth. She nodded, and I was sold. The twins would have a blast, even if Andrea didn’t thoroughly approve of their playmates...and maybe Christmas in the Park would afford me the opportunity to find out why Ed was so reluctant to let anyone see his security tapes. I could bend his ear while he was stuck manning the snow machine. “We’ll be there,” I told Ruth.

  When Peterson and I got back to Lucky Cluck Farm, I made Andrea a cup of tea and took J.W. and Izzy out to the coop to give her a break. To my surprise, Peterson came with us.

  “I won’t let the chickens get them, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I assured him, as he matched his pace to mine. “We’re just going to collect eggs.”

  “No, I want to see your whole operation.” He pulled his bomber jacket closed and zipped it up to his chin, then tucked his hands inside the shearling-lined pockets as the kids ran ahead of us. We crossed the driveway and made our way over to the chicken coop and run.

  Peterson craned his neck to check out the weathervane on top. “I have to say, it’s bigger than I thought it’d be. I pictured something a little more Clampett, a lot less Disney castle.”

  I giggled self-consciously. “Eli calls it my chicken palace. He helped me build it, though, so it’s partly his fault.”

  Peterson cracked a smile and then his face grew serious. “He seems to be fond of you.”

  I flushed and handed him a wire basket that’d been hanging on the row of hooks on the end of the coop. I gave one each to J.W. and Izzy, too.

  “How do you feel about him?” Peterson studied my face to see my reaction, but I ignored him. It was none of his business. Instead, I showed the twins how to open the nest box doors. Though they could reach the latch themselves, they were too short to see inside, so I hefted Izzy up high enough that she could collect the eggs.

  “Ooh, pretty!” she exclaimed when she saw the clutch of eggs in the box. She grabbed the one nearest to us. It was a green one; though most of my hens were the typical brown layers, I had a few wildcards that had been included with my hatchery orders—they laid eggs that were blue, green, cream, and a brown so dark that it was almost red. I usually kept the rainbow eggs for myself and sold the brown ones to my egg customers.

  Peterson wrinkled his nose and swiped the egg out of Izzy’s hand before she could put it in her basket. “Ew, don’t touch that. That’s a rotten one.”

  “It’s supposed to be that color,” I said quickly, before he did something dumb like pitching it into the bushes. “It was laid in the last few hours, I swear. I check these boxes for eggs twice a day.”

  Peterson stared at the egg in his hand, turning it over to marvel at the pale green shell. Freckled with darker brown, it was a uniquely beautiful specimen, the kind you didn’t even need to dye for Easter. “Huh. You learn something new every day.”

  J.W. tugged at my elbow. I let Izzy slide to the ground and held my arms out to him. “Do you want a turn?”

  He gave a single, solemn nod, so I boosted him up to the nest box. He looped his basket over one sturdy little arm and went to work moving the remaining cluster of brown eggs into his basket with the focus of a seagull on a french fry. The last egg collected, I set him down and closed the door, latching it securely against predators. J.W. examined his basket contents and turned his big brown eyes on me. “Thanks, Nana.”

  My heart thrilled. They were the first words he’d spoken directly to me during the visit—or to any adult other than his mom. “Thank you for helping me with the farm chores.”

  “Can I go again?” Izzy asked.

  “Yep, you can collect eggs until my arms wear out.” I heaved her up to reach inside the next nest box.

  “When’s my turn?” Peterson joked.

  I raised an eyebrow, frankly a little surprised that he wanted anything to do with the chickens after his experience with Boots in the bathroom. “Why don’t you and J.W. take the other end, and we’ll both work toward the middle?”

  “As long as you promise that no wild hens are going to pop out and attack me.” For a second, I thought he was serious, but then he cracked a smile.

  “I’m the only wild hen around here, and you don’t need to worry about me.”

  J.W. reached his little hand up and snaked it into Peterson’s palm. “Come on, Gamp.”

  At the little boy’s words, Peterson’s breath caught. I knew just what he was feeling, hearing his name come out of J.W.’s mouth. It was a gift. We exchanged a look over the top of the twins’ heads, the kind only two doting grandparents can share.

  If this was the only result of our marriage, these kids and this one moment, I couldn’t help thinking that maybe it was all worth it.

  Chapter 9

  December 22

  The roar of the snow machine as it spit a plume of white, frozen crystals into the air nearly drowned out the delighted squeals of Honeytree’s children as they swarmed the park, tossing snowballs and sliding down the growing mountain of snow on garbage can lids. J.W. and Izzy stood transfixed in their matching red jackets, their mouths open, as they took in the scene.

  Finally, Izzy let out her breath in a big huff. “This is awesome!” J.W. nodded in agreement.

  Next to me, Andrea’s expression said she felt otherwise. Her eyes roved the park, her eyebrows knitting anxiously as she watched a toddler in a pink snowsuit faceplant into a frosty pile. Peterson reached over and smoothed the lines in her forehead with his gloved hand. “Careful, or it’ll stick like that. I’ve seen women with deep lines before forty because they’re always pulling faces. I always say the best wrinkle treatment is prevention. The second best is Botox.”

 
; I elbowed him. “Knock it off. Her face is fine.”

  “It’s OK, I know what he means,” Andrea said. “I need to relax and stop being such a control freak. It’s just hard. I can’t really let the kids run wild in Chicago, so I’m not used to it.”

  “Can we please go play, Mama?” Izzy asked, her face turned up to Andrea. J.W. waited patiently beside his sister, his expression expectant.

  I spotted Tambra and Ruth headed toward us, Tambra’s boys in tow. I crouched down between J.W. and Izzy and pointed. “Look who’s here! It’s Ollie and Dylan. They can show you everything you need to know about Honeytree Park.”

  “Those are big boys,” Izzy observed. “Are they nice ones or mean ones?”

  “Nice. Also very funny.” I shot Andrea a questioning look, and she gave a single nod.

  “Put on your mittens,” she reminded them. J.W. and Izzy dutifully slipped their hands into the mittens that dangled from their sleeves just as the boys and their mom reached us. I introduced Ollie and Dylan to the twins, and before I could blink, the four of them were scrambling over the piles of snow with the rest of the horde.

  “I’m Peterson, Leona’s husband,” Peterson said.

  “Ex,” I interjected.

  He pulled off his right glove and extended his hand to Tambra. “I have to say, whoever did your work was a master.” I rolled my eyes. Tambra, a former Miss Oregon, was objectively gorgeous—but her beauty was all-natural, not the creation of some genius doctor.

  She tossed her long red hair back behind her shoulders, her laugh filling the air as she shook his hand. “Why, thank you. I do my nails myself.” She wiggled her fingers on her other hand to show off her silver, glittery polish.

  I snorted. “He means your plastic surgery.”

  Ruth gave a loud laugh, jostling the cardboard tray of steaming hot cocoa in her hands. “Oh my gourd, Tambra, he thinks you’ve got fake—”

  “She hasn’t had any surgery,” I said to Peterson. “But even if she had, you really shouldn’t make comments like that.”

  “Sorry.” He ducked his head, sheepish. Today, the swelling around his eye was down enough that it could open almost normally, but the purple part of the bruise had darkened to nearly black, and the red areas screamed out against his pale skin. With his cashmere scarf wound around his neck and the tip of his nose pinkened from the cold air, he looked a little bit like a snowman with one coal eye fallen out. “Professional interest,” he explained apologetically.

  “Well, I’ll take it as a compliment. You know, you could really use a manicure,” Tambra said, winking at him. “Professional interest.”

  Peterson gaped at her and then at the fingernails on his right hand, which were actually very tidy. I happened to know he got regular nail treatments back home. He quickly popped his glove back on to hide them.

  “Just kidding,” she said, smirking. Andrea and Ruth giggled.

  Peterson’s horrified expression switched to relieved and—if it could be believed—slightly embarrassed. Ruth rescued him by handing him a paper cup.

  “Honeytree’s finest instant cocoa, brewed by genuine Girl Scouts,” she said. She handed Andrea the second one and I took the third. Ruth held the fourth out to Tambra.

  “None for me.” Tambra waved her glittery fingers. “I’ve already had too much sugar. The Pastry Palace is handing out free gingerbread and I had seconds.”

  “Is there any such thing?” Ruth took the last cup for herself, dropping the cardboard tray into the recycling bin nearby.

  “As free gingerbread? Sure. On the table over there.” Tambra nodded over to the other side of the park, where a covered picnic area hosted the Pastry Palace booth. In addition to the free gingerbread, they were selling decorated cookies to benefit the Gifting Tree. A long line stretched away from the table, inching slowly past the snow machine that was set up nearby.

  “No, I meant as too much sugar.” Ruth sipped her cocoa, her eyes twinkling under the wooly rainbow beanie she had pulled down over her forehead. That hat looked like something the Knitwits might make: chunky, cheap, and cheerful. She noticed me checking it out and smiled. “Do you like it? Joan sold it to me yesterday after you left. It’s cute, except it gives me hat head.” She pulled it partway off using the pompom on top to demonstrate how the snug fit had flattened her curls, then yanked it back down to her eyebrows.

  “Worth the sacrifice for cuteness. It’ll be great for our ski trip,” I said. In lieu of exchanging holiday gifts, Ruth, Tambra and I had gone in on a ski cabin rental up near Diamond Lake. We had a girls’ weekend scheduled for mid-January that was going to be the highlight of the year. “Hey, does anyone else want gingerbread? I’m going to go stand in line.” Truthfully, I was eager to see if I could get Ed to open up a little more and find out what he might be hiding on the security footage, and the slow-moving line near the snow machine was the perfect excuse.

  Ruth instantly raised her hand, and Tambra shook her head no.

  “Me.” Andrea answered with her eyes still trained on the twins, who’d made it all the way to the top of the snow “mountain” with help from Dylan and Ollie. “Dad, how about you?”

  “I’ll come with you,” Peterson said to me. “You might need some extra hands to bring it back.”

  I shrugged. I was confident I could manage an armload of gingerbread, but if he wanted to fetch and carry, I wasn’t going to argue. We crunched across the snow to the end of the line, several yards behind the snow machine. I tried to catch Ed’s eye, but he was fully absorbed in snowflake production.

  Though the machine itself was cordoned off by orange plastic fencing, groups of kids kept pressing too close and stepping on the water supply hose that ran from the faucet in the picnic area to the back of the machine. Every so often he had to shoo them away so the snow could keep flying out of the machine’s wide, roaring fan.

  “Do you know him?” Peterson asked, noticing my interest. Knowing him, he probably thought Ed was another man I’d dated.

  “Yep. One of my biggest egg customers. That’s the guy who owns the restaurant across the street from the gas station—the one with the camera.” Ahead of us, Ed hit a button on the control unit. The noisy fan in the snow machine died down.

  “That’s it! Snowstorm’s over,” Ed announced cheerfully, sweeping his arm to indicate the huge pile of snow that the machine had generated. The kids close enough to hear him groaned in chorus, but quickly resumed their gleeful antics. Ed moseyed over to the picnic area and unplugged the machine from a heavy-duty extension cord, then wrapped the cord around his arm as he retraced his steps. It looked like he was stowing the machine and readying it for return to the rental outfit.

  “Motherclucker,” I muttered, mentally willing the line to move faster so we could reach Ed before he finished his task.

  “What is it? If you didn’t bring enough money, I can get it.” Peterson slipped his wallet out of his inside jacket pocket and held it out to me, blocking my view.

  I swiped it away, irritated. “The gingerbread’s free, Peterson. Some things you can’t fix with a wave of your magic wallet.”

  With an injured look, he tucked his wallet away and zipped his jacket up to his chin, then stuffed his hands in his pockets like a sulky child. “Well, if you’d just tell me what was bothering you, I might be able to help. Nobody can read your mind, so you can’t get mad at us for guessing.”

  Us? Who else was he talking about?

  I turned to him, puzzled. “You’re the only one standing here, as far as I can see.”

  “From what Eli says, you make him work pretty hard, too. He never knows how you really feel, because you always keep him at arm’s length.”

  The words hit me like a punch in the stomach. I opened my mouth to snap back, but nothing came out. I was genuinely speechless, for once.

  Peterson shrugged at my dumbfounded expression. “We had a long talk last night. It was surprisingly nice to chat with someone who’s been there, done that.”

 
; By that, I could only assume he meant me. I started to grumble at the characterization, but the line finally moved, and I obediently stepped forward. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Ed drifting away from the snow machine. He’d covered it with a large orange tarp, and it looked like he was heading toward the parking area.

  I felt a surge of panic. Was he leaving? He probably had to get back to the diner to prepare for the dinner rush. As annoyed as I was to hear that Peterson and Eli were bonding over their shared complaints about me, I didn’t have time to litigate the situation. My chance to talk to Ed was evaporating.

  “You get the gingerbread,” I ordered Peterson. “I’ll be right back.” I left the line before he could object, cutting across the hill of snow to catch up with Ed. It was larger and steeper than I’d anticipated at first glance, and I huffed, puffed, and slid my way across, dodging children and the occasional unleashed dog that cavorted in the drifts on either side of the sliding area. I had to jog the last few yards to reach Ed before he got into his truck.

  “Hey, Ed!” I skidded to a stop in front of his front fender, bracing my hands on my thighs to catch my breath. He looked up and seemed to notice me for the first time.

  “What’s up?” He swung his car keys around his finger and caught them, once, twice, three times.

  Unfortunately, I hadn’t quite worked out what to say to him. I held up a finger, pretending I still hadn’t caught my breath. “One sec.”

  What did I really hope to find out by questioning him? Of course, I was dying to know why he didn’t want anyone to see those security tapes. His excuse about privacy was bunk—I knew that. The fact that he was willing to turn them over once it was clear a crime had occurred was a flimsy justification. At that point, Eli would be able to get a warrant to compel him to turn over the tapes, so it wasn’t a mark of Ed’s good character that he was volunteering them.

  “I really need to get back to the diner,” Ed said, his tone apologetic.

  “It’s about Homer,” I blurted out. “I thought, since you two were neighbors for so many years, you might want to say a few words at his memorial service.”