Page 31 of Everything You Want Me to Be
“He’d be the first one to say thank God for that.”
She parted with a small smile, but it disappeared as quick as it came and she busied herself checking the remaining nests.
“What brings you out here?”
“Eggs, to tell the truth,” I lied, watching the chickens dart in and out of a low door that must have led to an outdoor space. “When I saw you at Winifred’s I happened to remember you’d started selling them again. I used to buy some from John from time to time.”
“Sure.” She went through the last of the nests and then motioned me to follow her to the main barn, where a series of old refrigerators lined one wall.
“How many do you need?”
“A dozen’ll do me fine. How much?”
“No charge.” She handed me a carton and waved off the five-dollar bill I’d pulled out of my wallet.
“Sorry, I can’t take them for free. Got into a bit of a sore spot with that once. Had a bartender who let me drink free for about a year during one of those years you don’t want to remember too well anyway. It seemed like a great deal until I found out he was selling the marijuana his cousin grew in the middle of his cornfields. He thought I owed him. Never forgave me for throwing them both in the clink.”
“I’m not growing marijuana,” Mary Beth said with a nervous laugh.
“All the same.” I held the money out until she took it.
“I don’t have change on me, so you’ll have to take another dozen.”
“Sure, I’ll come back when these run out.” I shifted the carton under my arm and switched topics. “You didn’t know Hattie Hoffman, did you?”
“No,” she answered quickly, starting to unload the eggs she’d just collected.
“She was practically family to me.”
“I’m sorry.” Whatever else she might have been feeling, she sounded like she meant it.
“You okay, Mary Beth?”
“Yeah. There’s just a lot going on right now.”
“Mmm. Your mom and the farm and everything.”
She nodded and kept working.
“Why were you talking about murder with Winifred?”
“What?” Her head shot up and she finally looked me in the eyes. Hers were surprised and tense, the kind of tense that builds up over months and years, where the muscles don’t even remember how to relax. Winifred had said something about marital troubles.
“I heard the two of you before she open fire on me. She said murder has its place.”
“It was nothing. Not what you think.”
“How about you tell me what it was and then I’ll tell you if it’s what I think.”
“It was just... Peter, my husband.” She swallowed and stopped, then her eyes darted around the floor. “He’s a vegetarian. Thinks it’s wrong to kill animals. Winifred was trying to reassure me.”
Even though it explained Elsa’s comment, the rest of the conversation still didn’t jibe.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“It’s between me and her. I don’t...” Her mouth became one firm line and I knew I wasn’t getting any more out of her.
“I need to see your knives.”
