A Tine To Live, A Tine To Die Part 14

Cam's arms grew a crop of goose b.u.mps. Her eyes, adjusting to the dark, could now make out the other person's shape. It was tall and thin. Her eyes widened. A ponytail was silhouetted against a bit of light from across the street. It could belong only to Frank Jackson. What was Ruth's husband doing out here arguing with a woman?

"I just think it's time to take action," the man returned. "Why are we still messing around with plans, with surveillance?"

Yup, Frank's voice. He spoke with the kind of heavy local accent the mayor of Boston had. But who was he talking to?

"We have to be careful, Frank," the whispered voice said. "We have a plan everybody agreed on. Now, let's stick to it."

Frank shook his head. As Cam saw him turn toward her, she was horrified to feel a sneeze coming on. She made a quick decision. Stepping out from around the enclosure, she sneezed out loud and kept walking toward them as if she'd never stopped. She would never know what their plan was, but it was better than being caught snooping. She struggled to keep the surprise from her face when she saw the whisperer was Bev Montgomery.

"Hey, Frank. How's it going?" Cam kept her voice calm, level. "Hey, Bev."

"What are you doing here, Cam?" Frank's voice wasn't so calm.

Cam was about to respond when the Bev spoke.

"I'll bet she likes Cajun music, right, Cameron?" Bev mustered a smile.

"Wasn't it a great concert?"

Bev nodded. "If you like that kind of music," she added.

"You don't?" Cam asked.

"Not to speak of. I was just pa.s.sing by." Bev looked at her wrist. "Getting late. I'm surprised you're not home, getting your beauty sleep, Cam. Or figuring out what to plant next. Say, do you succession plant greens? You know, like arugula?" She c.o.c.ked her head at Cam.

Cam returned her gaze. Was this a message or an innocent question from a colleague? "I replant every two weeks. You?"

Bev turned away. "You think I grow those fancy greens?" She shook her head and made a sound like "sshhee." "I grow the traditional New England crops," she said, facing Cam again. "My customers don't want anything else."

Cam shot a glance at Frank. His hands stuffed in his pockets, he jiggled his right leg, looking away at the street.

"Well, have a nice night. See you at the market, Bev." Cam squeezed past them on the path, since neither had moved. "Say hi to Ruthie, Frank."

Bev kept her silence. Frank grunted.

After she'd walked a few yards, Cam glanced back. The two seemed to have resumed their quarrel. When Frank looked her way, Cam continued her brisk walk, hoping she'd played the innocent in a convincing fas.h.i.+on. So Bev thought growing varied greens was a fas.h.i.+on trend. Fine. Let her. Cam's customers loved her mesclun salad mix. But Frank? Cam worried for Ruth's and her daughters' safety.

Chapter 13.

Cam was up with the birds the next morning. She took a moment to trim fresh ends on the carnations and top up the water. That ladybug on the side was a clever touch, dressing up the metal bucket into a vase. She still couldn't figure out who had left them. She stood with hands on hips for a moment, wondering if she should worry about random flowers being delivered to her house, and then snorted at her own paranoia. How dangerous could a bunch of dianthuses be? It was probably just a misdelivered gift meant for some lucky recipient down the road, although she thought florists usually affixed their own card to a delivery.

She downed toast and coffee and strode out to the barn. A quick storm had blasted through the stalled front overnight and had shoved it out to sea. The air smelled fresh, and objects stood out with a clarity that seemed to match Cam's brain. The heavy thoughts of suspicion and worry from the week had lifted with the barometric pressure.

"It's probably temporary," Cam told Preston as he trotted along beside her. "The murder isn't solved, after all. But I'm glad to feel a little lighter this morning."

Preston stopped, sniffed the air with perked ears, and sped off into the middle of the flower garden.

Cam spent the next several hours weeding, planting, raking, doing the work of a farmer. She purposely did not think about anything except her labors.

Glancing at the angle of the sun, Cam pulled her cell phone out of her back pocket. Yup, eleven o'clock. Replacing it, she paused for a moment at the now wilting memorial to Mike. Rain had streaked Alexandra's drawing despite its clear plastic cover, and the flowers were past their prime. Cam's mood darkened again as she turned on the hose next to the hoop house and spent half an hour watering and tending the trays of starts. The lettuces, a tray each of red looseleaf, pale green b.u.t.terhead, variegated summer crisp, deep green romaine, and rusty oakleaf, looked healthy for the most part, their fourth pair of true leaves already forming. Cam frowned at the tray of broccoli for the fall crop. The leaves looked too pale, and most of the seedlings weren't as big as they should be. There must be an imbalance in the starting mix, which occasionally happened. She measured nitrogen-rich fish emulsion into a watering can, filled it with water, and handfed the seedlings.

Cam turned off the hose. She sniffed. Fire. There was a fire somewhere. A chill ran through her. She scanned the horizon. Sure enough, smoke arose toward the south. Her throat thickened with the old panic. A vision of her ever-absent mother sprang into her mind. She worried the hem of her shorts with her right hand as she had her rag of a blanket when she was six.

A resident of the semirural community could be burning brush in their back field. Or maybe a house had caught on fire. Maybe a house with a small girl in it. She shuddered. No sirens kicked in, though. No flas.h.i.+ng lights sped by on the road.

Cam took a deep breath. She told herself once again to get a grip. She headed toward the house for lunch and had her hand on the back door when her cell rang. She checked the display. Pressing SEND, Cam said, "Hey, Ruthie. What's up?"

"How about that walk on the beach this afternoon? I'm off, and Frank's taking the girls to the new Muppet movie."

"Love to," Cam said. "Plum Island? Want me to pick you up on the way?"

They agreed on meeting at two o'clock, and Cam disconnected. She had just enough time to pick Sunday strawberries for Jake. She scarfed down a quick peanut-b.u.t.ter sandwich. Ten minutes later she was kneeling in the strawberry patch. Luckily, the season was turning out to be a good one, with the sizable patch yielding early and often. She knew Albert and Marie had had years when either the temperatures or the weather left them with pitiful picking.

The call from Ruth brought Frank to mind. The vision of him, both last night and at the festival, kept rerunning on the screen of her mind. He unsettled Cam. He had to be in the militia. And now it looked like Bev might be, too. They had talked about a plan. Frank wanted to move forward, to take action. Bev wanted to stick to what they had apparently agreed on as a group. Cam resolved to get the story from Ruth. If she even knew about it.

Waves crashed against the steep cant of the beach. Ruth and Cam trudged barefoot along the water's edge. Cam's knit skirt blew around her knees in the ocean breeze, and Ruth had rolled her pants up. Two children ran screaming with delight across their path, and a football soared overhead and then splashed in the water. On a sunny Sunday in June, after the long New England winter and cool spring, everyone wanted to be on the beach, although the water temperature was still frigid by Cam's standards.

"Sit for a minute?" Ruth said after they'd walked for half an hour.

"Sure." Cam trudged up the dry sand until she stood next to the bluff with its scrawny sea gra.s.s that looked like an old man's hair. She plopped down, her eyes on the Atlantic. A tern circled and then dive-bombed its prey, coming up with a fish wriggling for its life clamped in the narrow beak. Cam leaned back on her elbows and sighed.

Ruth sat a couple feet away from Cam, pulling up her knees and wrapping her arms around them. "Sounds like the world's on your shoulders." She peered at Cam's face under her blue hat.

"Wouldn't you feel burdened if a man had been killed on your property and the killer was still out there walking around?"

"I'm in the business, remember? Some murders get solved. Some don't."

"Can you at least tell me what's happening? Is Pappas getting anywhere?" Cam cleared her throat when she heard how whiny her voice sounded.

"They're not really telling me much. I'm back to the work of Westbury's finest. You know, speed traps, checking lapsed inspection stickers, doing the D.A.R.E. program at the Page School. Really exciting police work." Ruth removed her sun visor, wiped her forehead, and replaced it.

"I guess I'll have to give our esteemed detective a call and see if he'll tell me anything." Cam shoved her toes into the dry sand and wiggled them in the warmth, soaking up the summery feeling. "So I saw Frank last night."

"Yeah, he was out." Ruth watched a seagull trying to drag lunch out of an abandoned knapsack. "Where'd you see him?"

"Near the Firehouse. I went to the outdoor concert with Lucinda. Frank was talking with Bev Montgomery. It sounded like they were arguing about some plan. Why would they be arguing?"

It was Ruth's turn to sigh. "You don't really want to know."

"I do. Does it have to do with the tattoo on his arm?"

Ruth nodded without meeting Cam's eyes. "He's gotten deeper and deeper into the Patriotic Militia. I think it's awful." She turned to Cam. "They're nut jobs, all of them. But it's not illegal." She spread her hands. "Until they carry out an illegal action, that is."

"Has he always been part of the group?"

Ruth shook her head. "Not when we got married. As far as I know, I mean. We've just kind of slid apart since then, though. I don't really have a handle on how it happened, Cammie. I guess I've been so busy with my own career. That and the girls."

"You didn't take his last name. Did that bother him?"

Ruth nodded with a fierce motion. "You bet. What made it worse was that we had daughters. We'd agreed to give sons Frank's last name, Jackson, and to give girls mine. When the twins were born, though, he wasn't very happy about the decision."

"What does Frank do for work?"

"He's a carpenter. He's a very skilled cabinetmaker, but lately he's just been working on houses with another guy. Who I think is also in the militia." Ruth shook her head. "He's not bringing in much money, either."

"Lucinda told me the militia is very anti-immigrant. Do you share those views?"

Ruth snorted. "Of course not. I almost wish they'd do something illegal so we could break them up."

Something illegal would mean Ruth might have to arrest her own husband. Cam picked up a handful of sand and let it stream slowly through her fingers. "That disk I found in my hoop house. The PM must be for Patriotic Militia."

Ruth nodded. "I didn't want to tell you."

"Were there fingerprints on it?"

"I haven't heard. Pappas is keeping a lot to himself."

"If Mike was a member, maybe he just dropped it in the hoop house. Right?"

"Could be." Ruth sat up straight and crossed her legs. She dusted the sand and talk of militias from her hands. "How about lunch? How does Greek salad sound?"

"Excellent. All I ate today was toast and peanut b.u.t.ter."

"And we have a fine red wine to wash lunch down with. Speaking of illegal." She glanced around and clicked her tongue. "I don't see any authorities, do you?"

"Not a one."

"I'm warning you, it's a nonlocal salad." Ruth held up her hands. "Don't shoot me!"

Cam laughed. She'd had enough with serious talk for today. "Forget those locavores. I love their business, but they take themselves a little too seriously."

Ruth handed Cam a plastic container and a fork, then unscrewed the top of a wine bottle and poured red wine into two red plastic beer cups. She took another salad and fork out of her pack and put the bottle back in.

"Here's to old friends." Cam held the cup up.

Ruth tapped it with her own. "Friends.h.i.+p all the way."

The ocean sparkled, the sun shone, and the company excelled. In the back of Cam's mind, though, thoughts of murder never left. She wondered if Frank was the killer, or somebody else in the militia. But Mike had also been in the militia. Frank wouldn't have had cause to kill him. Would he?

Cam shook her head, as if to shake those thoughts out and let them vanish on the breeze. She was on the beach with a good friend on a lovely afternoon. That should be enough. For now.

Glancing at her watch, Cam rang the bell of The Market's back door again. It was already five o'clock, later than she had planned. The beach lunch and walk had stretched out, and the time had gotten away from her.

"There you are." Jake had opened the door. He held it, frowning at Cam. "I thought you'd be here earlier."

"I did too. Sorry, Jake. I have your berries, though." Sun and wind still warmed her cheeks, and sand crunched between her toes.

"I thought I was going to be making a reduction with them a couple of hours ago." He folded his arms.

"I hope I didn't ruin your menu for the evening." This was the first time Cam had seen Jake upset with her, instead of his usual smiling and flirting self. A man that big being mad was a little intimidating. "I was walking on the beach with a friend. And then the traffic leaving the beach was horrendous. Do you want the berries?"

He sighed. "Of course I do." He propped open the restaurant door with a nearby concrete block.

Cam led the way to the truck, glad she'd laid the boxes of berries in her big cooler with cold packs. They wouldn't have fared well sitting in a hot truck for hours in the beach parking lot. Jake hoisted the cooler and carried it into the kitchen.

"Are you eating here tonight?" Jake asked as he unloaded the boxes.

Cam stretched and yawned. "No, I don't think so. I had a late lunch. . . ."

"On the beach. With your friend." Jake turned to Cam. "What's his name?" His gaze was level and somber.

Cam returned the look. "His name?"

Jake turned away again. "Maybe we'd better cancel that dinner for tomorrow night, Cameron."

"What?" Cam was speechless, or almost. Then it hit her. She laughed. "Who do you think I was on the beach with?" The man was jealous. She couldn't believe it.

"I'm sure I don't know, and it's none of my business. You show up late. Your cheeks are all rosy. I just a.s.sume you were on a date."

Cam reached for Jake's arm. "Listen. I was walking with my old friend Ruth Dodge. My cheeks are rosy because it was sunny and windy and I forgot to reapply sunscreen. And I want to cook dinner for you tomorrow. All right?" She tugged on his sleeve until he faced her. "Okay?"

He nodded, the little crinkly lines around his eyes back again. "I'll be there. And, Cam?"

"Yes?"

"I'm just a regular old stupid male." He raised his eyebrows in a sheepish look.

"It's cool, Jake. I'm going to head home. See you tomorrow at six?"

"Six."

As Cam drove home, though, she wondered if it was cool, after all. Was Jake just being a stupid male, and should she be flattered by his jealousy? Or maybe she just shouldn't mix work with pleasure. Cam didn't need any more complications in her life. But life wasn't simple. That much she knew.

She climbed the back steps of her house to find Preston waiting on the landing. He posed like the Sphinx next to the flowering shrub with its dainty pink blossoms and gracefully bowed branches.

"Hey, Mr. P. What's up? Didn't want to use the cat door?" She leaned down to pet him. "Well, come on in the people door. I know I'm spoiling you, but why the heck not? That's what I say." Cam unlocked the door and let them both in. She left the inner door open so the breeze could blow through the screen door, but she made sure to lock it. Not that an old wood-framed screen door would keep anybody out who wanted to get in. It was hard to imagine anyone forcing their way in on such a lovely summer afternoon, though.

The message light on the phone was blinking. Cam dialed the message number and listened. It was Detective Pappas, asking her to call. He sounded impatient and said he had also called her cell. Cam dug her cell phone out of her bag. Sure enough, the little message icon had appeared on the screen. It must have been while she was on the beach. She'd left her bag and phone locked in the truck.

She dialed Pappas's number, but it was his turn not to pick up, so she left a message that she was returning his call. She topped up Preston's food and refilled his water bowl. He turned his large eyes up to her and mewed. She petted him a few strokes while he ate. Such a funny cat.

After Cam stowed the salmon fillet she'd picked up on the way home in the fridge, she wandered into the living room with the Sunday paper. The end-of-day sun slanted on the old floorboards like a splash of amber paint. She stretched out on the couch and began, as she had since childhood, with the comics.