Halloween at Pumpkin Hill (Inn Vermont Cozy Mysteries Book 7) by Thea Cambert

Author:Thea Cambert [Cambert, Thea]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Summer Prescott Books
Published: 2021-09-07T20:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

Booth Farms wasn’t far from the southeast edge of town, down Red Maple, over William’s Other Bridge, past Blue Spruce Street, and on out toward Gunther Hill. There was a stretch of rolling farmland, framed by the mountains, that was just breathtaking. At this time of year, hay stood in huge round bales in the fields, and as we entered Booth Farms, we saw field hands harvesting squash, cabbages, and beets.

“Is this place for sale?” Matthew pointed at a large For Sale sign to the right of the road, where the remnants of the sweet corn stalks stood, waiting to be plowed under.

“Good question,” I said, imagining what it would be like to live on a farm. I could picture Matthew out working in the field while I showed our children how to feed the chickens.

“What are you smiling about?” asked Matthew, breaking my daydream bubble.

“Oh. Nothing. It’s just so beautiful out here.”

He nodded, looking out the window. “It is.”

“So. Do we have our story straight?”

Since we didn’t want to lead with questions about snakes, Matthew and I had devised a logical narrative around why we’d come out to Booth Farms to talk with Zane. I was hopeful that he hadn’t already heard about our amateur sleuth antics in town from someone like Emma Weber, so he wouldn’t suspect our true agenda. But once we’d met him—a quiet man who appeared to be in his very early thirties—I put my worries to rest. He’d been working on a tractor, just outside a huge barn near the farmhouse. He walked over to us and welcomed us. He was wearing well-worn jeans with a flannel shirt over a Henley, and his blond-brown hair stuck out from underneath his baseball cap, just like Matthew’s always did. The moment I saw his wide blue eyes, my gut told me this man was not a killer. And he didn’t seem the type to be up on the latest goings-on in town. He seemed more the earthy, live-off-the-grid-and-on-the-land type. I doubted he watched much television or made a habit of reading the Onlooker. We introduced ourselves, mentioning simply that we operated the Inn at Pumpkin Hill.

“What can I do for you folks?” he asked after shaking hands.

Matthew and I glanced at each other.

“We’re interested in offering more fresh, local produce at the inn,” I said. “Maybe even some sort of farm-to-table arrangement. We heard you sell produce, and eggs, milk, honey . . .”

“But we saw the For Sale sign down the drive,” Matthew cut in. “Are you moving or something?”

“Oh no, nothing like that,” said Zane, shaking his head. “I’m just downsizing a little. Selling off the top fifty acres.”

“Really? Why?” I asked.

He sighed and took off his gloves. “Farming isn’t what it was in my grandfather’s time. Or my father’s either, for that matter.”

“So, it’s hard to make a living as a farmer,” I said, thinking this place would make a great feature article for the paper.

Zane nodded, a hopeful gleam coming into his eyes.

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