Killer Jam by Karen MacInerney

Author:Karen MacInerney [MacInerney, Karen]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781503945463
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2015-07-28T04:00:00+00:00

Despite the excellent food and company, I felt my stomach churn as I drove up the long drive to Dewberry Farm that evening. Blossom, thankfully, was waiting by the barn door rather than gallivanting around downtown, and as I stepped out of the truck, I could hear the chickens chuckling as they settled down for the night.

I hooked up the soaker hoses to give the tomatoes a good watering, then checked on the chickens’ food and water. There were a few hens in nesting boxes, but the rest were roosting. Already the days were growing long; soon it would be light until nine.

The sun was down by the time I finished my chores and let Chuck out for a waddle around the garden. He didn’t go far—just visited his favorite rosebush and then headed back to the kitchen, where he parked next to the food dish. I measured out his kibble. He sniffed at it, then gave me a plaintive look.

“Doctor’s orders,” I reminded him. “It’s good for you.” He continued to look at me. “All right,” I finally said, fishing a bag of shredded cheese out of the fridge and dusting the top of the dry kibble. “Just don’t tell Tobias,” I muttered as he gulped it down.

I glanced at the clock; it was almost eight thirty. Enough time to whip up a quick batch of brownies to take to Flora’s tomorrow, I decided. With my chunky poodle looking on hopefully, I measured out flour and cocoa, mixing them up with eggs, melted butter, and a healthy dose of dark chocolate chips. I dropped a chocolate chip on the floor. Chuck lunged for it, but I was too quick for him.

When the pan was in the oven, filling my grandmother’s house with the cozy smell of baking, my thoughts turned again to the lockbox I’d found in the loft. I set it on the table and looked at it, running my fingers around the sides and trying to figure out how to open it. After a few minutes, I grabbed a flashlight and headed toward the shed behind the house.

After a good bit of digging through cobwebs and rusted tools, I found a decrepit chisel. I carried it to the back porch, then grabbed my hammer and the box and sat down on one of the rocking chairs, propping the box up between my feet.

I don’t know why I didn’t think of using a chisel earlier. The box opened like a clamshell on the third whack.

If I had been hoping for gold, I would have been disappointed. All I could see in the box was a bouquet of long-dead flowers, held together by a moldering piece of string. As I lifted the fragile bouquet from the box, something fell onto the floor of the porch. Setting the flowers down gently, I stooped to retrieve it; it was a small picture. I picked it up; there was a faded photo of a lovely young woman with dark brown hair.

I turned

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