“I know,” I said.
“Do you think he’s going to hurt Sam?” Bess asked.
“I don’t know. But it sounds like that’s on the table.”
Bess looked horrified. “Three o’clock . . . what time is it now?”
I glanced at the clock on my computer screen. “It’s one thirty.”
Just then George breezed through my bedroom door. “Was that you I saw driving like a woman in labor?” she asked, looking at me like I was out of my mind. “It couldn’t be, right? Aren’t you always telling me that just because I can drive the speed limit doesn’t mean I should go that fast? What were you in such a rush for?”
I gave George a matter-of-fact look. “I think I’ve figured out who’s behind all the shenanigans at Black Creek,” I said, “and if we don’t stop him . . . Sam is going to get hurt!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Coffee Stakeout
I PEEKED OUT OF THE kitchen at the Coffee Cabin, watching the door as I adjusted the volume on the microphone I’d hidden under table four. Table four was the most popular table in the place, according to George, and very centrally located. If I was really lucky, Jack and his accomplice would take a seat there to have whatever sordid conversation they were planning to have, and I’d get a crystal-clear recording that I could bring to Sam to show him the ugly truth. If I was only a little bit lucky, they’d sit somewhere else in the Cabin, but still close enough to the mic for me to hear what they were saying.
I worried that we’d already used up our luck allowance, though—because it was crazy lucky that Jack had decided to meet this person in the one coffee shop in the area that employed my amazing friend George.
“It’s not too busy today,” George murmured, sidling up next to me in the crisp white shirt and black apron that served as her uniform. “That’s lucky. It’ll make ‘Dude’ easier to spot.”
I nodded. “I already have, like, three potential ‘Dudes’ picked out,” I whispered. “The bald guy at table one, the redhead at table eight, and the biker guy sitting at the bar.”
George surveyed my candidates with interest. “The biker guy ordered a strawberry mocha dream-a-chino,” she whispered back, “just in case that takes him off any kind of ‘potential criminal’ list.”
I shot her a horrified look. “George, criminals drink all kinds of coffee drinks!”
“There’s no coffee in that,” George corrected me. “But there is a mountain of whipped cream.”
I looked back at Biker Dude just in time to watch him put down his mug, revealing a huge whipped-cream mustache. I glanced at George and couldn’t help giggling.
“George, did you wipe down table seven?” George’s boss, Lydia, interrupted our giggle-fest. She leaned over from her desk just inside the kitchen, frowning.
“I’ll get right on it,” George replied, shooting me a sorry, but she pays me look. Lydia hadn’t exactly been thrilled when we’d explained that we wanted to turn the Coffee Cabin into a recording studio. She’d nixed Bess having any part in it, so Bess had headed downtown to get her much-craved manicure—but not before we promised to keep her updated via text. Meanwhile, Lydia had been staring daggers at my back since I’d arrived, sarcastically asking how our “little detective game” was going.
When George left to wipe the table, I looked to the doorway as the bell jingled, indicating a new customer. When an older woman walked in, I felt myself deflate a little.
I looked out the window, across the street, where a River Heights police cruiser idled. I’d had quite a hard time getting the River Heights Police Department to take me seriously when I’d gone into the station to tell them everything I knew about the Black Creek case. They told me the only crimes actually committed (the vandalism and contamination of the crops) had been outside their jurisdiction, and that a meeting of two potential culprits didn’t warrant sending an officer to the scene. It took a gentle reminder that the noted attorney Carson Drew would be very upset if anything were to happen to his darling daughter to get them to agree to send Officer Bailey over to wait outside the café in his squad car, “monitoring the situation.” He still looked pretty unhappy about it, with his folded arms and grim expression. He glanced over at the coffee shop, and I waved brightly. I swear he rolled his eyes before giving an exaggerated yawn.
I was so busy watching Officer Bailey that I almost missed the door opening again, setting off the jingling bells. George was nearly back to the kitchen and turned to look too. When I saw who was entering, though, I frowned. It was Holly, George’s old Girl Scouts leader. If she saw us here, she’d want to know what was going on with the Black Creek Farm case, and I didn’t want to get into a long conversation with her that would distract me from Jack and “Dude.” I ducked into the kitchen just before Holly could spot me and waved to George to wait on her. George nodded and walked out to the register.
“Can I help you?” I heard.
“Omigod, George! I totally forgot you worked here! Can I get a large soy latte?”
“Of course! How are things going?”
“Oh, you know, I can’t complain. I just started teaching this new yoga class over at the community center—water yoga? Have you heard anything . . .”
I tuned their voices out and turned back to the door.
A familiar car was pulling up outside. Jack’s. I felt my stomach drop.
The driver’s-side door opened, and a figure climbed out. When the door closed again, revealing the driver, I let out a gasp.
It wasn’t Jack—it was Julie!
Julie was “J”?!
My jaw dropped as I quickly ran through all the evidence in my head. The motivation, needing money, wanting Black Creek Farm to fail so there would be a larger inheritance if anything happened to Sam. Check. Julie would benefit from a larger inheritance just as much as Jack. And the computer I’d taken the e-mails from—it could have easily been Julie’s e-mail account, couldn’t it? And the black hoodie on the towel rack . . . it could have been hers!
The only strange thing was that Julie was the one who’d gotten food poisoning at the buffet, setting this whole terrible string of events in motion. Or did she? I thought, and my heart thumped. It was a stroke of genius, in a way—Julie’s getting food poisoning while pregnant was more dramatic and scary than anyone else who could have gotten sick. But would a pregnant woman really knowingly poison herself? Was Julie so desperate that she would endanger the life of her unborn chid?
Then I remembered the night before—when I’d been chased by the figure at the chicken coop. Julie had been sleeping on the couch. Or had she? I just assumed she’d been there all night when I stumbled upon her sleeping on the couch. But I’d gone into the living room in the first place because I’d heard someone moving around, someone I’d later assumed was Jack. But wasn’t it possible that Julie was sneaking back onto the couch after sneaking back into the house?
My heart was racing now, the way it does when I’ve just about solved a case. But I forced myself to take a breath. I knew I wasn’t done. I needed Julie to meet with whomever she was meeting with, and have whatever conversation she planned to have, and get it recorded, before I could talk to Sam about next steps.
Who would believe a pregnant woman poisoned herself and then killed a bunch of chickens, anyway? It sounded ridiculous.
Julie walked purposefully toward the Coffee Cabin, then suddenly stopped and looked around. She walked over to one of the few sidewalk tables and sat down. I gulped; the weather was chilly today, and I’d never considered that “J” and “Dude” might like to sit outside. Our only microphone was inside at table four. And while it had a pretty good range, there was no way it would pick up a conversation from the table where Julie was sitting outside.
Someone has to move the microphone!
But who? It wasn’t like I could casually stroll outside and stick something under Julie’s table without her noticing. I looked desperately at George. She’s my only hope. As if sensing my stare, George turned a
round and looked at me, and I made a crazy, hysterical sort of gesture that I hoped translated to Come here right now. Please, please, please, I need you!!
George raised an eyebrow, turned to Holly, and cleared her throat. “That sounds amazing,” she said warmly, “but can you excuse me for a minute? My boss is calling me.”
Holly nodded and smiled as she took her latte, and George walked back into the kitchen. “What?” she demanded.
“You have to move the microphone,” I said, pointing urgently out the window. “See? They’re sitting outside.”
George looked to where I was pointing, then shot me a stunned look. “Julie?” she asked.
“Right,” I replied. “Looks like I had the wrong J person all along.”
George sighed. “Okay, but how do I move the mic?” she asked. “It’s not exactly a normal motion for me to slip something under a table.”
“It’s more normal for you than for me,” I pointed out. George looked skeptical. “Listen, just take it with you when you bring the menus, and find some excuse to bend down. Drop something, whatever.”
“You make it sound so easy,” George muttered.
I grabbed her shoulder, looking at her pleadingly. “Please, please, please, please . . .”
George shook me off. “Okay, okay. I’ll try.”
I watched her walk out into the dining area and carefully untape the mic from under table four. Then, with a final look back at me, she grabbed a few menus, opened the front door, and walked over to the table where Julie was sitting.
My heart was pounding as George handed Julie a menu, then purposely dropped it on the ground, knocking over the sugar dish in the process. What looked like a hundred little pink and white packets scattered over the terrace, and I watched George shake her head and gesture wildly for Julie not to help. Finally Julie seemed to settle in her seat, and George picked up the sugar and, pretending to duck back down for one more packet, carefully stuck the mic to the underside of the table.
I let out my breath. Oh, thank you, George. I was still going to be able to record whatever Julie said—and stop her before she could hurt Sam.
I pulled out my tablet and put on my headphones, adjusting the mic’s sensitivity and volume.
“. . . didn’t know you worked here,” Julie was saying to George.
George laughed. “Oh, it’s kind of a new job for me. But I’m getting really good at making little designs in the foam of a cappuccino, so I’m learning marketable skills.”
Julie took a second to laugh, but when she did, it was a hearty laugh. “Oh, I just discovered this new baby store in downtown River Heights,” she said. “Have you heard of it? It’s called Rattle and Roll.”
George shook her head. “No, but I’m not really in the baby-stuff market,” she said with a smile. “Did you buy lots of fun things?”
Julie’s smile faltered, and I remembered what she’d said about their money problems. “Just a few,” she said more quietly. “Can I have a minute to sit with the menu before I decide?”
“Of course. I’ll be back in a few.”
George walked back inside, shooting me a questioning look. I gave her a thumbs-up.
But just then, someone from inside the café bumped into George on the way out. Holly!
“Is your latte okay?” George asked.
Holly looked at her, almost seeming surprised to see George standing there. “Oh . . . oh yes! It’s great. I’m just heading out to meet a friend.”
George smiled and nodded, and Holly continued outside.
Her friend is here? But there was no one outside but . . .
Julie.
Holly sat down across from her, and Julie leaned over to hug her.
I felt my heart thump in my chest. Is it possible?
J = Julie, and Dude = . . . Holly?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Things Fall Apart
IT MAKES SENSE, I THOUGHT warily. In Julie’s current state, she would have needed an accomplice. Holly contaminated the food at the buffet after she and Lori had washed it and after Julie ate. Either Julie or Holly or some combination vandalized the greenhouse, and Julie attacked the chickens and shot at me last night. Then she snuck back onto the couch just in time for me to find her there.
I couldn’t imagine why Holly had joined forces with Julie. She seemed so supportive of Black Creek Farm, and so gung ho about local, organic, sustainable food in general. Why would she help destroy a farm that’s such a great example of all the things she supposedly stands for? I didn’t know, but I intended to find out.
Julie leaned over to Holly. She was whispering, but with some quick adjustments to the microphone controls, I could still hear her.
“There’s a problem,” she was saying, peering inside the dining room. “That girl.” She jabbed her finger in George’s direction. “She’s been at the farm with her friends—including that little detective girl Sam met the night of the buffet. I don’t think for a minute that someone her age could outsmart us, but I don’t really feel comfortable talking turkey with her so close.”
Holly followed her eyes, nodding. “Maybe we should go somewhere else,” she whispered. “George is pretty smart.”
Julie stood up from the table. “We’ll drive somewhere,” she said. “Find a Starbucks or something. I could actually really go for a Frappuccino. . . .”
My stomach sank. If Holly and Julie left, all of George’s hard work reattaching the mic to the outside table would be for naught, and my plan would be shot. Again. There was no way I could follow them and inconspicuously plant a microphone at a new location, which meant I wouldn’t get the full story. Not to mention there was no way Officer Bailey would follow, especially if Julie and Holly went to another town. I’d have to kiss good-bye to the idea of a recording that could stop Julie from hurting Sam.
There was only one thing I could do. And it scared me senseless.
“George!” I hissed at my friend, who was busing some tables in the corner. She looked up and walked over.
“You know,” she said, “some people raise a hand in the air and say, ‘Excuse me, miss.’ ”
“I’m not trying to order a cappuccino,” I said, pulling off my headphones and handing them to George. “I need you to listen for a minute.”
George frowned. “Okay, but no more than a minute. Because Nancy, you know if I’m gone any longer, Lydia will freak. She’s probably ready to kill me over this whole thing already.”
We turned back and looked at Lydia. She was wearing headphones of her own and staring at her laptop screen. When she saw us looking, she made a wild gesture for George to get back to the dining room.
“One minute!” George called in a weirdly high voice, holding up one finger. “You have one minute, Nancy.”
“That’s all I need.”
I burst out of the kitchen before I could lose my nerve and walked straight through the dining room and over to Julie and Holly’s table outside.
“Hi Julie. Hi, Holly,” I said loudly. “I think we need to talk.” I lowered my voice. “You know what about.”
Both of them turned to me. Julie’s expression turned murderous when she realized who I was. “What are you doing here?” she asked with a sneer.
“I think you know,” I said, willing myself to stay calm. “The thing is, Julie, I managed to get a photo of you on my phone last night. Blown up on the computer, the photo is clear—it’s pretty easy to identify you.”
Julie turned pale. I looked over at the squad car, hoping to catch Officer Bailey’s attention.
Except the squad car was empty. What the . . . ?
“Is that so?” Julie smiled at me, a sickly sweet grin that made my stomach do a flip. She leaned closer. “That’s very interesting, Nancy, I’m not going to lie. I think you should get into my car so we can go somewhere and discuss this further.”
I snorted. “You think I’m going to get into a car with you?” I asked. “Do I look that crazy?”
Julie leaned back and
folded her arms on the table. “No,” she said, “but I think you love your father that much.”
My father? “What does this have to do with my dad?” I asked.
Julie tilted her head. “You’ve probably guessed this already, since you’re such an ace detective,” she said in a sarcastic tone, “but Jack is working with us.” She glanced at Holly. Holly’s mouth dropped open, but her expression gave nothing away. “He has the gun I used outside the chicken coop last night. I had a feeling you might be a problem for me today, so Jack is currently sitting in a rental car outside your house, just waiting for the call from me,” she said. She held out her hand, pistol-style, and mimicked shooting. “Bang, bang! Is your dad home today, Nancy?”
He was. In fact, I’d said good-bye to him less than an hour before.
“I don’t believe you,” I said quietly.
Julie smiled again, a cold smile. “How much do you not believe me?” she asked, pulling a phone from her purse. “Enough to stake your father’s life on it?”
I lost my breath. No—and Julie knew it.
Without thinking, I turned and looked into the café to see if George was watching. She was—in fact, she’d moved out of the kitchen and was standing just inside the dining room, headphones on, holding the tablet. She was looking at me like I’d lost my mind.
“Your friend had better come too.” Julie’s voice was low, threatening. “I know she’s in on this with you.” I turned back to her to see that she’d seen me look at George. And worse, Holly was glancing between us nervously. I saw something in her eyes that looked like genuine fear. “If either one of you screams, I’ll make that call to Jack. I’m sure he could make a visit to George’s house too. Understand?”
I swallowed hard and gazed desperately at the squad car. It was still empty. George stepped out of the café, and I squinted past her into the dining room, hoping to see Lydia watching—but she must have still been in the kitchen/office. I looked at George, trying to put all the I’m so sorry I looked back I was feeling into my frantic expression. We were about to get into a car with a total maniac, and nobody would know. How did this all go so wrong?