Chapter 16
Watch out if your rooster lowers his head and
struts around you—take it as a sign of fowl
aggression.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
Tires crunching against gravel alerted Abby that someone had rolled into her driveway. She had been sorting snap peas on the patio but got up to greet her visitor as Sugar bounded across the yard with a yip. When the dog’s tail began waving, Abby knew it was a friend, not a foe, who’d come calling at her farmette. Still, Houdini, who could never be accused of shirking his duty as a rooster, hustled the hens—whom Abby had let free range in the yard—closer to the chicken coop.
“Hey, girlfriend,” Kat called.
“Hey, yourself . . . What brings you all the way out here?” Abby picked up another pea, ran her nail along the ridge to open it, dropped the four peas into a bowl, and discarded the shell in a basket on the ground.
“I had to take care of some business out this way, and now I am on my way back to town. But I thought since I was so near, I’d quench my thirst and see that master bathroom Clay’s been working on. Where is he, anyway?” Kat sank into a patio chair.
Abby arched a brow. “Why? Is there a problem?”
“No. Just curious,” Kat said, stretching out her long legs.
“I suppose he’s somewhere in Las Flores.”
“How did he get there? Your Jeep is parked out front.”
“His truck. Five minutes after the transporter arrived this morning and unloaded his pickup, Clay hopped into his truck and told me he was going to buy four recessed-light kits and a bathroom exhaust fan. And he suggested that when I’m done sorting the peas,” she said, laying aside the basket of shells and the bowl of peas, “I could go ahead and finish hanging the drywall.”
“How nice of him to give you something to do . . . because everyone knows you have way too much time on your hands,” said Kat.
“Yeah, well, it was just the smaller pieces of drywall. It’s done. He’s gone. And, frankly, I hope he stays gone for a while. I could use some thinking time. Sweet tea?”
Kat smiled. “Oh, I thought you’d never ask. I’m wilting in this heat.”
Abby traipsed into the kitchen. She took out a couple of tall glasses, filled them with tea from the fridge, and plopped in sprigs of mint from the plant in the garden window. After stepping back out through the open slider and screen door, she handed a glass of tea to Kat.
“You said you were around here on business. What kind of business?” asked Abby, sitting back down and touching the cool glass to her warm cheek.
Kat took a swig of sweet tea before answering. “A garbage truck nearly sideswiped a cow on Farm Hill Road.”
“Sheesh, that could have been disastrous,” said Abby before taking a sip. Using her forefinger, she pushed the mint sprig deeper into her glass.
“Turns out that heifer belongs to your handsome neighbor, Lucas Crawford. When I told him one of his cows had escaped from its pasture and a garbage truck had narrowly avoided hitting her, he showed more animation than when we shared ice cream in town. I watched him swing upon that horse of his faster than a felon on a jailbreak.”
Abby smiled at Kat’s analogy. “Oh yeah? Horse, huh?”
Kat looked off philosophically. “Damn fine man, that Lucas. Too bad we couldn’t get a little something going.”
“Yeah, too bad,” Abby said in sympathy, feeling secretly delighted, but not wanting to telegraph it to Kat. She took another sip of tea and turned her gaze toward the hill and Lucas Crawford’s old gray barn.
The chatter coming through Kat’s radio drew Abby’s attention back. The dispatcher was asking for Kat’s location.
“Uh-oh,” Abby said with a frown. “Our illustrious police chief checking up on you?”
Kat nodded while pushing the button on her two-way. She gave her location as Farm Hill Road, between the Henny Penny Farmette and the Crawford Ranch.
Abby listened intently. The dispatcher requested that all available officers respond to a ten seventy-one near Ridge Top Road. Shock registered in Abby’s body. Her pulse raced. That road intersected the main traffic artery near Dr. Danbury’s cottage. Knowing that a ten seventy-one was Las Flores Police code for a shooting, Abby fought against mounting concern for Jack and the doc. She took a deep breath and reminded herself not to make assumptions or jump to conclusions.
“I’ve gotta go,” Kat said. She chugged down the rest of her tea before setting the empty glass on the table, said, “Thanks,” and sprinted back to her cruiser. Abby and Sugar followed.
“Kat,” Abby called out, “that’s near Dr. Danbury’s place.”
“Know it.”
Abby called out again as Kat climbed into the cruiser. “Text me. I’ll be worried sick until you do.”
“Affirmative,” Kat called out. She started the engine and flipped on the lights and the siren. The cruiser’s tires spun against loose gravel as the car tore out of the driveway and sped off.
Covering her nose and mouth with her hand against the cloud of white dust and listening to the siren’s wail grow fainter, Abby stood rooted on the spot and fretted. A drive-by shooting was an all-too-familiar occurrence in nearby Silicon Valley, but in the mountain foothills of Las Flores, it was unheard of. Abby’s thoughts turned to her recent altercation with the commune people. She texted Jack, but with no reply, she stood rooted in her driveway, in the hot sun, with a cold chill descending upon her like a vapor.
* * *
By nightfall, Abby still had not heard from Kat. Jack hadn’t replied to her text, either. To keep from obsessing about the shooting, she busied herself by working on organizing receipts and stapling them to sheets of paper marked HONEY/BEE EXPENSES, CHICKEN SUPPLIES, GARDEN EXPENDITURES, and RENOVATION/BUILDING MATERIALS. Around eight o’clock, Clay strolled into the house with a pepperoni pizza, a bottle of a red blend wine, and an apology for being gone so long. Sugar still barked at him as if he were a stranger, but eventually settled down next to Abby on the couch.
“I’ve got the light and fan kits in the truck. Put out the pizza with some napkins, and I’ll be right back,” Clay said, with a devilish grin.
Somebody’s in a good mood. Abby tucked the pages of receipts inside four manila file folders and carried them back to the small credenza in her makeshift office at the end of the hallway.
“I don’t feel much like eating,” she said when Clay had finished lugging in the boxes from the supply store.
“Why’s that?” he asked, putting the boxes on the floor next to the wall and proceeding to whip out his pocketknife to cut the foil from the wine bottle. He thrust the corkscrew into the bottle, twisted it a few times, and eased out the cork. After finding two wineglasses in the cupboard, he took them down and poured a splash of red into each.
“I guess you forgot that I’m not a fan of pizza,” Abby said, sliding into a chair next to his at the dining table and taking from him the glass of jewel-colored wine. She hesitated in telling him what was really on her mind—that she was worried about the shooting, Jack’s safety, and the reason why Kat hadn’t yet texted or called.
He shot a peculiar look at her and then reached for a large gooey slice of pizza. “Suit yourself,” he said and wolfed down the slice.
It had been four hours since Kat had been dispatched to the scene. Abby would never intrude when Kat was out on a call, but the waiting and not hearing from either Kat or Jack was crazy making. Now, after swallowing a small bite of pizza and telling Clay not to buy pizza again, because she could make a more wholesome version using garden herbs, homegrown veggies, and slices of fresh mozzarella and goat cheese, Abby felt the phone in her pocket vibrate. She dropped the pizza onto her plate, wiped her hands on the napkin, and plucked her phone from the ap-pliquéd pocket of her yellow print sundress. Finally, the update she had been expecting had come as a text. But as she glanced at the screen, Abby saw it wasn’t Kat’s message, but rather Jack’s. Tom critically wounded. Meet me at Las Flores Community Hospital.
Abby looked up at Clay, who seemed wholly occupied with pigging out on pizza and wine. He reached for the bottle and began to refill his glass. She put her hand over her glass, scooted her chair back from the table, and said, “None for me, Clay. Sorry, but I’ve got to go.”
Training his dark brown eyes on hers, Clay frowned and opened his palms in a gesture that suggested he was waiting for her explanation.
“Fiona, the friend we buried yesterday . . . Well, now her husband has just been shot,” Abby said. “He could die.”
Clay’s brow shot up, and then his expression turned into a scowl. “Let me get this straight. Just why do you have to go?”
“Because Fiona’s family has asked for me. Look, I’m sorry. But these things happen.”
“Only to you, Abby. Only to you. You don’t work for the police department anymore, and you’re not a victims’ advocate. I can’t see any good reason why you have to go, unless it’s to avoid being with me.”
“Good grief, Clay. This is not about you. And now isn’t the time to cop an attitude. Save it for later.” Abby dumped her slice of pizza in the garbage and set her dish in the sink. She dashed to the bedroom for a summer sweater and her purse. Sugar, apparently picking up on Abby’s anxiety, began to whine.
“You want me to drive?” Clay called out from the kitchen.
“No,” Abby replied, kneeling to hug Sugar. She returned to the kitchen with the sweater, her purse, and the car keys. “Do you mind if I leave Sugar here? I don’t think hospital security will let me take her inside, and I don’t want to leave the poor baby in the Jeep for hours.” Abby hurried back to the dining table to grab one of the six water bottles that she always kept in the bar area opposite the table. She resisted her natural inclination to tell him more about her plans; he hadn’t exactly been forthcoming as to where he’d been all day.
Clay bit into another slice of pizza, took a moment to chew and swallow, and another few seconds to wash the bite down with wine. “You’re planning to be gone for hours?”
Abby heaved an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know. It could be a while.”
Clay stared at his pizza. “Fine. Leave me. Leave your dog. We’re getting used to your absences.”
“That remark is so unnecessary, Clay. I’ll be back as soon as I can. In any event, I’ll text you.”
“Whatever.”
Clay’s irritation riled her, propelling Abby out the door and to the Jeep. Inside it, she started the engine and reminded herself to breathe through her tension and to let it go. Clay had apparently forgotten that he was a guest in her house. Yes, she’d been away a lot, helping Jack clean out the cottage, attending Fiona’s funeral, and now keeping a possible vigil at the hospital. Friends helped friends. And if Clay wanted to fault her for that, so be it. He was the darling boy child in his family, the bearer of the family’s hopes and dreams, always getting his way. Abby reminded herself how self-focused he could be. Well, the world doesn’t spin around you, Clay. And I’m not thinking about you anymore . . . tonight.
At the first traffic light in town, Abby braked for the long red light and glanced down at the message from Kat on her phone screen. Vic is Tom Dodge. Transported. Finished working the scene. Need to interview him.
The light changed to green, and Abby pushed hard on the gas pedal. The Jeep responded with a squeal of its tires. The hospital was still a half mile away. Abby wanted to get there as quickly as possible, but in one piece. Tom just had to pull through—the police would need to hear his version of the shooting. If he died, it would mean the already overtaxed LFPD would have two murders to investigate at the same time and Jack would have lost two family members. So occupied were her thoughts in making a linkage between Fiona’s murder and the attempt on Tom’s life that Abby nearly missed the turn into the hospital parking lot.
Not finding Jack in the waiting area of the emergency room, Abby approached the triage nurse, a perky young woman in green scrubs, and asked where she might find the patient with the gunshot wound who had been transported in earlier by paramedics.
The nurse trained her green eyes on Abby and asked, “Are you family?”
“I’m a friend meeting his family, who is already here,” Abby told her.
“They took him to the OR, second floor. There’s a waiting room up there near the surgical suites, but if you hit the surgical ICU or ward, you’ve gone too far.” The nurse pointed to the gray door marked STAIRWELL. She then reached for a clipboard with paperwork for her next patient.
Abby hurried to the door, pushed it open, and entered the dank, cool stairwell, where she sprinted up the concrete steps. Pushing open the second-floor door and stepping out into a hallway, she saw a sign with an arrow indicating the direction to the waiting area. She spotted Jack pacing toward her. She dashed into his embrace.
He exhaled a long sigh. “Thank you for coming, my girl,” he said, stroking her hair. “Can you believe this?”
“Thank God it wasn’t you,” Abby said, easing out of his embrace to glance toward the operating-room doors. The area smelled of air freshener, used to cover up the other disagreeable scents that permeated the environment, but Abby could still smell them—antiseptic mouthwash, hand sanitizer, iodine, alcohol, and stale coffee.
Jack led her to a dimly lit alcove with six identical chairs next to a small table, with a slew of magazines strewn about. He fixed his pale eyes on hers, as if anticipating a barrage of questions.
“What exactly happened?” Abby asked.
“The police say it was a drive-by. Tom was alone in his truck and, apparently, the target,” Jack said. “An eyewitness in a Ford Escort had followed Tom for some distance when a motorcyclist cut in between the Escort and the truck. When the road straightened out of the switchbacks, the biker pulled even with Tom’s truck and fired two shots into the cab.”
“Oh, my gosh,” Abby said. “Then what happened?”
Jack took a deep breath and exhaled. “The truck went into a skid. Tom—despite being seriously wounded—apparently fought for control of his pickup. You know, Abby, there are places up there where there are no guardrails. That was one of them.”
Abby nodded. “So he got the truck stopped.”
Jack nodded. “In the nick of time and inches from a slide-area drop-off.”
After a moment of silence, she asked, “So . . . how serious are his injuries?”
“The bullet wound caused massive blood loss. The police told me that the medics decided to transport him right away, instead of stabilizing him on scene. I think he has a collapsed lung, too. They said he needed a chest tube.”
“Oh, Lord. Poor Tom,” said Abby. “Have you spoken with his doctors yet?”
“Yes. They’re encouraging. Told me he’s lucky to be alive. Barring complications in surgery, he should pull through.”
Abby’s mind raced. “But why was Tom the target? His whole world seemed to be that commune.”
“My opinion . . . Dak Harmon may have done this,” Jack said.
“Hmm,” Abby said, wondering why Jack had formed that opinion, except that he’d seen firsthand Dak Harmon’s violent streak. Her stomach churned as she recalled how Dak had hit her.
After a few minutes of sitting quietly, waiting for news from the doctor, Abby looked over at the elevator doors that had just opened. Kat strolled out of the elevator, walked toward them, and sank into a chair.
“We’re so glad to see you, Kat. Piece this together for us, will you?” Abby said.
Kat began talking even as she removed the flip-over notebook from her shirt pocket. “Well, we’re still working it ourselves. As Abby knows, we tend to be guarded about giving out a lot of information until we have a clear picture of the case ourselves, but we do try to keep the victim’s family updated.” Kat looked over at Jack. “There was an eyewitness driving from Boulder Bluff, on his way home. He witnessed the shooting of Tom by a tall, thin man on a motorcycle, wearing a touring helmet—full face hidden by the helmet mask—black jeans and shirt.” Kat peered at the pages of her notebook, flipping through them one by one. “The witness also said he thought there was some kind of scarf sticking out of the shirt collar. He called the emergency number and stayed on scene until the medics and law enforcement arrived.”
Abby stopped Kat for a second. “Wait a minute. Did you say that the eyewitness described the shooter as tall and thin?”
Kat nodded.
Abby looked at Jack. “That can’t be Dak Harmon. He’s stocky and heavyset. So if it wasn’t Dak—and why would he want to kill Tom, anyway?—who else could it have been, and what was the motive?”
“We’re looking into it,” said Kat. “We believe the shooter used a forty-five-caliber automatic pistol. We found a casing on the road. We’ve got ballistics over at the crime lab, working on it. In the meantime, we just have to wait for input on the size caliber and also the type of firearm. A lot depends on scrutinizing the firing-pin indentations, as you know.”
“When you saw Tom, was he still conscious?” Abby asked.
“No,” said Kat. “He’d been hit by flying glass to the face and upper body. The gunshot pierced the left side of his upper chest, and he suffered a loss of blood and consciousness. His lips and nail beds were that cyanotic blue hue you get when you’re not being properly oxygenated.”
“So have you come to check on him?” asked Jack.
“I’m here to interrogate him as soon as he wakes up.” Kat chewed her lip. “I’ll be brief, but there are facts we need to get.”
Abby nodded and put a reassuring hand on Jack’s shoulder.
Kat looked at Abby. “With our resources stretched so thin, it could be a while until we get to the bottom of this. What I wouldn’t give for a forensic expert all our own to help us to determine bullet distance, angle, trajectory, sequence, and a thousand other little details.”
“Maybe the homicide guys helping Otto on Fiona’s murder investigation,” Abby said, “could look at this, too.”
Her optimism was met with a shake of Kat’s head. “Not likely.”
“Listen, Kat, my gut tells me there’s a link between Fiona’s murder and the attempt on Tom’s life.”
“Yeah, I think so, too,” Kat said. “But you know we also have to set aside our personal opinions and let the evidence lead us to the right conclusion. The DA can’t prosecute a case based on a gut feeling.”
“You think Tom knows who tried to kill him?” Jack asked.
“Possibly.” Kat returned her notebook to her pocket and folded her hands in her lap. “I certainly think the shooting was no accident.”
Jack chewed the corner of his lower lip.
Kat leaned toward him. “You met with Tom recently, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Abby and I both did.”
“Well, technically, you met with Tom,” said Abby. “I looked around the commune grounds and got this shiner to show for it,” she said, pointing to her eye.
“What did you and Tom talk about?” Kat asked.
Jack sniffed and furrowed his brow, as though trying to remember. “I asked him if he had anything to do with my sister’s death or if he knew who did.”
“And what did he say?” asked Kat.
“He adamantly denied he had anything to do with her death.”
“Do you believe him?” Kat asked, pressing on.
“Of course. Tom is no killer.”
“Did he know anyone with a reason to hurt Fiona?” Kat asked.
Jack glanced at Abby. “Maybe, but he didn’t name anybody,” said Jack. Looking at Kat, Jack said, “My brother-in-law said that the commune was changing and that Fiona had been outspoken about it. I guess the new leaders have a life of ease, even luxury, with all the residents working at the commune or in the commune’s various businesses. Premalatha, in particular, had a bad history with Fiona, according to Tom.”
“Bad history? What are we talking about here?” Kat asked.
Jack straightened and leaned back into his chair. “Fiona told me that once the old leader returned to India, Hayden Marks and Premalatha Baxter were to share equally the old guy’s spiritual power. They said he’d passed it on to them. Those two began implementing the changes. Hayden Marks became the ‘official leader,’ and Premalatha Baxter assumed the role of commune manager and banker. She recently bought a new BMW Alpina for her and Hayden Marks to share. One assumes she used the money collected from the commune folks to make the purchase. I don’t even own a car, but I know this much—that particular model costs over a hundred grand.”
Kat made a soft whistling sound. “That’s a lot of moola.”
Jack rubbed his hand across his cheek. “I don’t know if this is relevant, but during our conversation that day, Tom told me about a promise he made to Fiona.”
“What promise?” Abby and Kat asked in unison.
“My sister told Tom that he had to promise he would leave the commune if anything ever happened to her. And not only that, but she made him swear to go to the police with everything he knew about the place, its dealings, and Hayden Marks and Premalatha Baxter.”
“So, did Tom go to the police, like Fiona had asked?” Abby searched Jack’s eyes.
Jack looked at her briefly and then turned his attention back to Kat. “No. I think he was scared. Tom said there could be severe reprisals against people who reveal what goes on inside the commune world.”
“It appears that’s exactly what happened to him after he talked with you,” said Kat. “Did Tom reveal anything about Baxter or Marks to warrant involvement by law enforcement?”
Jack arched a brow. “Tom told me Hayden Marks hired outside help for special situations. He told me that two other people who threatened Marks ended up leaving the commune. Tom said no one knew how, when, or why they left. They just disappeared.”
Kat leaned forward, with forearms on her knees, palms clasped together. “That sounds ominous. Did he mention any names?”
Jack shook his head. “No. Do you really think Tom’s chat with me was the reason he got shot?”
Before Kat could answer, a call came over her two-way. She pressed her fingers to her lips, signaling the need for silence.
“Interviewing Tom Dodge can wait,” Chief Bob Allen said to Kat. His voice sounded loud and clear. “We’ve got an address for the registered owner of the motorcycle used in the drive-by. I need you and Otto to do a knock and talk.”
“On it, Chief,” Kat said. She rose to leave. Turning back, she told Abby, “Text me when Tom is awake.... I need to ask him some questions.”
Abby nodded, but before she could ask Kat to inquire of the chief the bike owner’s name, Kat disappeared behind the closing elevator doors.
Tips to Ensure Success in the Making of Mead (Honey Wine)
Mead may have been the first fermented beverage enjoyed by the ancients, brewed before wine, beer, and other alcoholic spirits were created and became popular. The ingredients list for mead is simple enough: honey, spring water, and yeast. Today other ingredients, such as rose petals, orange slices, raisins, cloves, vanilla, and chocolate, are sometimes added to impart unique flavors to the mead. There are many mead recipes on the Internet and in beverage books; however, in all the recipes, honey remains the most important flavor ingredient. When making mead, be sure to do the following:
• Always follow sanitary procedures to avoid introducing bacteria into the brew.
• Always use an organic, unadulterated honey for best results.
• Ensure that there are no bubbles in the mead and that it is clear before bottling it.
• Permit the mead to age several months to temper its sweetness.