Farmed and Dangerous by Edith Maxwell Page B

frozen solid, and whatever farm or kitchen waste she’d added had to wait until spring to start breaking down. Now she was creating organic material to nurture the soil all winter long, with the help of hundreds of her wriggly little friends.
    She pulled out her phone and snapped several photographs of the bins. She stuck a small shovel in one bin and stirred, taking a close-up shot quickly while the worms were still on top of the rich black soil. She would add it to her presentation for tonight. And to the farm’s Web site.
    The air inside the hoop house warmed to fifty on still days, but odds were it wouldn’t reach that today. As long as the beds didn’t actually freeze, she could cut greens to sell. She walked the length of the hoop house. She groaned when she got to the beds at the far end, where the temperature dropped even more. She knelt and felt the overly crisp leaves of a head of Red Sails. An entire bed of lettuce had frozen, despite the row cover. The bed sat next to the eastern end wall and simply didn’t get enough warmth. The forecast had been for temperatures dropping throughout the day again. She would definitely leave the cover on today and hoped she didn’t lose any more crops. At least she’d invested in the thicker fabric for the winter temperatures.
    As she worked, Albert’s words about the second death at the assisted-living residence filled her head. His approach to life was usually even-keeled, but he’d sounded uncharacteristically worried last evening. Cam wished she could talk about the case with Pete. When one of her customers had been killed in the fall, he’d asked her to keep her eyes and ears open in the community. Obviously, he couldn’t work with a suspect, even informally. But that he might even entertain the possibility of her being capable of murder made her question who he really was. And if her feelings were no longer to be trusted.
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    Cam greeted the Moran Manor receptionist and glanced at the clock on the wall behind her. Eleven. She jotted the time next to her name in the sign-in book and added Albert’s name as the person she planned to visit. A notice had been posted in a clear holder on the desk, next to the book.
    BEVERLY MONTGOMERY MEMORIAL SERVICE. WEDNESDAY, ELEVEN O ’ CLOCK, ONEONTA CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH. ALL WELCOME .
    Cam straightened. “A memorial service and not a funeral?” she asked the woman behind the desk.
    â€œExactly.” She leaned toward Cam and whispered, “The children wanted the service right away, but the police won’t release the body yet.” She raised her eyebrows and appeared almost delighted at the prospect, likely the stuff of television thrillers for her.
    â€œThey need to do their work.” Cam turned toward the central stairway. She could give Uncle Albert a ride to the service. A woman leaning on a red walker and a taller one with a cap of blue-tinted white hair stopped in their tracks in front of her.
    The woman with the walker grabbed her companion’s arm. “That’s the murderer right there,” she said in a loud whisper. She pointed at Cam.
    The tall one said something in her ear. They reversed direction and made their way down the hallway. The tall woman glanced behind her.
    No, I won’t follow you, lady. What could Cam do? Wear a button that read I AM NOT A MURDERER ? She’d stepped onto the first stair when someone called her name.
    â€œMs. Flaherty? Could I have a word?” Jim Cooper stood in front of his office door. He motioned her toward him.
    Cam greeted him when she neared the office.
    â€œPlease come in.” He held out his arm to usher her into the room, then shut the door behind them.
    She looked around. Some kind of award for Moran Manor hung on the wall, next to a framed picture of Jim beaming as he shook hands with their state representative, a Republican from the next town over. The desk held only a computer monitor,