Free Murder Most Fowl by Edith Maxwell Page A

he’d be over as soon as he finished up something.
    Cam grabbed a basket and ambled toward the aisle that held pasta and jars of sauce. She added several of each to her basket, a packet of chocolate cookies from one aisle over, and then headed for the cheese section, picking up a block of Romano for grating, and ricotta and pregrated mozzarella just to have around. That was plenty for a simple, quick supper.
    When she reached the checkout line, Katie had already paid for a bottle of red, and the steel-haired cashier was sliding it into a narrow paper bag. Katie looked around the woman behind her in line at Cam. “Okay?”
    Cam laughed as she set the contents of her basket onto the rolling checkout belt. “We’re both over twenty-one.” She could caution her about not overindulging once they got home. Cam was digging in her bag for her wallet when the woman standing in between Katie and Cam spoke to Katie.
    â€œI heard you were with that vandalism group last night up at Laitinens’. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, young lady.”
    The cashier stood with her hand on Cam’s box of spaghetti and pursed her lips, nodding.
    â€œThem are good folks, and now Wayne’s dead,” the woman continued. “What, did you kill him off? Wasn’t enough to try to freeze all them hens?”
    Katie stared. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. Turning, she rushed out the door.
    The customer muttered to the cashier about liberals and no-good young people as she swiped her card with more force than was necessary. Cam kept her own mouth shut, as well. It wouldn’t do any good to argue with her. Nobody was going to change that woman’s mind. Besides, Cam agreed with her about the vandalism. She waited as her own purchases were rung up. She paid and made her way out.
    Outside the temperature had indeed plummeted as the sun made its descent, forecasting a night with the mercury dipping below freezing. Katie stood at the back of Cam’s truck talking with Greta. And by the looks of it, Greta wasn’t a bit happy, her finger pointed at Katie’s chest. Uh-oh . And what was Greta doing out shopping the night her husband had been killed?
    â€œThat Detective Pappas thinks you killed my husband. Either you or one of your crazy friends.” She glanced at Cam. “What are you doing driving a murderer around?”
    â€œA murderer? What’s going on in this town?” Katie asked. “I didn’t kill Mr. Laitinen.” She shook her head, hard. “I wouldn’t do that. He was a nice man. I don’t even kill animals to eat. Why would I—”
    â€œYou’ll have to ask Pappas that.” Greta whirled and stalked toward the store. She called back to Katie, “I’m warning you. Don’t you ever go near my property again or you might end up the dead one.”

Chapter 7
    C am latched the door of the coop after making sure Ruffles and all the hens were safely inside. She’d left Katie and her glass of wine waiting for the pasta water to boil as Katie spoke with Alexandra. Maybe they could have a calming dinner before Pete showed up. As Cam walked toward the farmhouse, with Dasha poking around the yard, the full Worm Moon lifted its bright, cold head above the trees. The Worm Moon was the name the Algonquins had taught the colonists for the month when the soil softened and worms began to come alive. With tonight’s temperatures chilling the ground, though, Cam expected the worms were going to remain in hiding for a few more days. New Englanders preferred to call the first full moon in March the Sap Moon because it heralded the movement of the maple sap in the trees’ veins.
    Dasha barked and trotted to the driveway, and the crunch of gravel made Cam turn her head. The motion detector light outside her back door sprang to life, illuminating Pete’s old Saab. So they wouldn’t be having a quiet dinner first, after