Farmed and Dangerous by Edith Maxwell Page B

hanging in the lobby there,” Cam said. “It’s a fall shot, sort of sepia toned. It’s really nice, a very artistic shot.”
    â€œHuh. He did photography when we first met. He’s very creative. He used the darkroom at the community college. He shot a dozen stunning portraits of the girls when they were toddlers. But so far as I know, he hasn’t touched it in several years.”
    â€œThe director over at Moran asked him to do more. The rest of the seasons.”
    â€œI’m gobsmacked, as my Australian friend says. I wonder where he is. . . .” Ruth’s voice trailed off.
    â€œAlbert said that they took someone away from Moran Manor in an ambulance tonight and that you were there. What’s going on?”
    Cam heard voices in the background.
    â€œHey, I have to go,” Ruth said. “I’m actually at work. Just took a break to answer your call.”
    â€œI’ll let you know if I see Frank again.”
    â€œThanks. I’d appreciate that. Let’s fit in a glass of wine one of these days. It’s been a while.”
    Cam agreed and disconnected. Ruth and Frank had seemed pretty happy when they married—Cam had attended the wedding—and now Ruth didn’t even know his address or that he sold high-quality photographs. What a shame. Not every marriage was destined for sixty years together, like Albert and Marie’s, she supposed. Cam realized Ruth hadn’t told her what had happened at the residence, either.
    Â 
    Cam answered her ringing cell phone out of a deep sleep the next morning.
    â€œBeverly Montgomery is dead. At Moran Manor.” Pete’s voice on the phone sounded terse.
    â€œThat’s terrible.” She glanced at the clock by her bed. Six thirty and still winter dark outside. “Did she have a heart attack or something?”
    â€œI’m not at liberty to say.” He cleared his throat.
    Someone must be standing nearby. “What about the suspicious behavior?”
    â€œI need a favor from you.”
    So he didn’t want to talk about the death. “What’s the favor?”
    â€œI told you I was getting Dasha for the week. I can’t be there this morning when Alicia drops him off. Would you, please, go over to my apartment and meet her, and then bring him to the farm? I’ll get him sometime later today.”
    A dog on the farm? How would Preston react? Yikes. “Sure. What time? And will she know who I am?”
    â€œI’ll tell her. She wanted to hand him off at eight o’clock.”
    â€œI’ve got it. Don’t worry.” She swallowed. She definitely wasn’t a dog person.
    â€œThank you. I owe you one.” He disconnected.
    Now she was wide awake. She’d asked him to call, and he had. Bev Montgomery had died. The woman had been unhappy and unpleasant, but she’d been relatively young, in her late sixties, Cam thought. A premature death.
    She stretched in her bed in the same room she had stayed in as a child and teenager for all those summers. She’d painted it when she moved in over a year ago. White trim set off walls in a pale shade of rose that picked up one of the colors in the braided rag rug on the wide pine floors. A refinished antique bureau sat against the wall, and Great-Aunt Marie’s little white wicker rocking chair occupied a corner. Cam’s ancient stuffed lion sat in it, reigning over the room. Her parents had brought the lion back from one of their anthropological sojourns to southern Africa. Cam expected they bought it at the airport before they left the country. Despite the fresh paint and the new bedding, she still inhaled the aroma of the old house: dry wood, a hint of lilac, and memories.
    Her copy of Albert and Marie’s black-and-white wedding picture sat on the bureau. Marie smiled directly into the camera, slim and lovely in a simple white wedding dress with sleeves and a neck of lace. Albert, in a dark suit