called from the little office where he was updating farm records on the computer. “Someone you and Sam used to know?”
“I told you, Ben, he was in the navy with Sam. I never met him till he came to the memorial service. He's moving to Asheville and he has some pictures of Sam for me. And he just wanted some information about the area.”
“Oh, right, I remember now.” Ben wandered into the room, twisting his long sun-bleached hair into a ponytail and eyeing the table. “Looks nice, Aunt E; what're we having for lunch?”
Elizabeth looked at her tall, handsome nephew, and thought, as she often did, how lucky she was that Ben had wanted to come to live at Full Circle Farm. Two years ago Ben Hamilton had finished college with a degree in philosophy and a desire for what he called “the simple life.” Though he had grown up in Florida, where his mother, Elizabeth's sister, still lived, he'd often spent the summer with Sam and Elizabeth and their girls, reveling in the freedom of exploring the mountain's woods and pastures with his two cousins.
When Sam had died four years ago in the crash of a friend's small plane, Elizabeth had been determined to carry on the herb and flower business they had built up together. Although she was financially secure in a modest way, due to the unexpectedly generous insurance settlement after Sam's death, she had welcomed the endless physical toil in the fields and drying sheds. The exhaustion she felt at day's end, as well as the sense of duties fulfilled, dulled the pain of her loss and made it easier to fall asleep in the lonely bed at night. But as time passed and her daughters became ever more involved in their own careers, she began to find the work, even with hired help, increasingly difficult. And then last year, Ben had come to her, asking to learn the business. He had set about becoming knowledgeable in every aspect of growing and marketing the herbs and dried flowers that the farm produced, and had moved into the old log cabin across the creek from Elizabeth's house.
Little Sylvie's cabin,
she thought with a sudden memory of the story Birdie had told.
“By the way, Aunt E,” Ben said, having satisfied his curiosity about the menu by a look around the kitchen, “Julio wants to rent the old house down by the workshop. He's bringing his wife and family up from Mexico.”
Elizabeth smiled. Between Ben and Julio, most of the actual work of the business and the farm had been taken out of her hands. She constructed the elegant dried-flower-and-herb wreaths that were the farm's signature product and that fetched such surprising prices in a few upscale shops, but the backbreaking field work was no longer her job. She maintained her own vegetable garden and her flowers, as well as doing huge amounts of weed-eating in the summer, but she had more free time now than at any other point in her life on the farm.
And that's given me time to miss Sam,
she thought ruefully.
But it also means I'll have plenty of time to help Birdie discover what happened to that shotgun . . . and to settle her mind about Cletus. I wonder what Sam would have thought about this—was it an accident or . . .
The word “murder” formed in her mind but she rejected it.
And you're not here to help me find out, are you, Sam? I'm on my own. Again.
Elizabeth arrived at the big red barn on the lower part of her property a few minutes before eleven-thirty. This was where she had told Hawkins that she would meet him and there was an unfamiliar gray car parked over to one side, but no Hawkins. Then she saw him out in the field bending down to examine a gray-green row of fragrant lavender. He straightened up and came walking briskly toward her, his olive-skinned face alight with pleasure.
“Mr. Hawkins, I'm glad you made it. I hope my directions were fairly clear.”
“Perfect,” he said with a grin. He was as she remembered him: a compact and burly man, just slightly taller than herself. The black hair
“I told you, Ben, he was in the navy with Sam. I never met him till he came to the memorial service. He's moving to Asheville and he has some pictures of Sam for me. And he just wanted some information about the area.”
“Oh, right, I remember now.” Ben wandered into the room, twisting his long sun-bleached hair into a ponytail and eyeing the table. “Looks nice, Aunt E; what're we having for lunch?”
Elizabeth looked at her tall, handsome nephew, and thought, as she often did, how lucky she was that Ben had wanted to come to live at Full Circle Farm. Two years ago Ben Hamilton had finished college with a degree in philosophy and a desire for what he called “the simple life.” Though he had grown up in Florida, where his mother, Elizabeth's sister, still lived, he'd often spent the summer with Sam and Elizabeth and their girls, reveling in the freedom of exploring the mountain's woods and pastures with his two cousins.
When Sam had died four years ago in the crash of a friend's small plane, Elizabeth had been determined to carry on the herb and flower business they had built up together. Although she was financially secure in a modest way, due to the unexpectedly generous insurance settlement after Sam's death, she had welcomed the endless physical toil in the fields and drying sheds. The exhaustion she felt at day's end, as well as the sense of duties fulfilled, dulled the pain of her loss and made it easier to fall asleep in the lonely bed at night. But as time passed and her daughters became ever more involved in their own careers, she began to find the work, even with hired help, increasingly difficult. And then last year, Ben had come to her, asking to learn the business. He had set about becoming knowledgeable in every aspect of growing and marketing the herbs and dried flowers that the farm produced, and had moved into the old log cabin across the creek from Elizabeth's house.
Little Sylvie's cabin,
she thought with a sudden memory of the story Birdie had told.
“By the way, Aunt E,” Ben said, having satisfied his curiosity about the menu by a look around the kitchen, “Julio wants to rent the old house down by the workshop. He's bringing his wife and family up from Mexico.”
Elizabeth smiled. Between Ben and Julio, most of the actual work of the business and the farm had been taken out of her hands. She constructed the elegant dried-flower-and-herb wreaths that were the farm's signature product and that fetched such surprising prices in a few upscale shops, but the backbreaking field work was no longer her job. She maintained her own vegetable garden and her flowers, as well as doing huge amounts of weed-eating in the summer, but she had more free time now than at any other point in her life on the farm.
And that's given me time to miss Sam,
she thought ruefully.
But it also means I'll have plenty of time to help Birdie discover what happened to that shotgun . . . and to settle her mind about Cletus. I wonder what Sam would have thought about this—was it an accident or . . .
The word “murder” formed in her mind but she rejected it.
And you're not here to help me find out, are you, Sam? I'm on my own. Again.
Elizabeth arrived at the big red barn on the lower part of her property a few minutes before eleven-thirty. This was where she had told Hawkins that she would meet him and there was an unfamiliar gray car parked over to one side, but no Hawkins. Then she saw him out in the field bending down to examine a gray-green row of fragrant lavender. He straightened up and came walking briskly toward her, his olive-skinned face alight with pleasure.
“Mr. Hawkins, I'm glad you made it. I hope my directions were fairly clear.”
“Perfect,” he said with a grin. He was as she remembered him: a compact and burly man, just slightly taller than herself. The black hair
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