A Year on Ladybug Farm - Donna Ball [46]
And that was what brought them up short as they made their way past the abandoned reflecting pool, through the walled garden that protected nothing, and emerged from beneath the rotting twig arbor into the sunny vegetable garden. There they just stood, and stared.
“Well, now that’s weird,” Lindsay said at last.
“That is definitely one rabbit I don’t want to meet in a dark alley,” agreed Cici.
Where once there had been stalks of foot-high corn, there were now only empty holes. Where once had stood a neat row of bell pepper plants, there was now dirt. Every other trailing cucumber plant was missing. The huge yellow squash blossoms that had been so cheerfully promising yesterday were no longer. And standing in the midst of it all, wearing a floppy hat and a thunderous look, was Bridget.
“Are you going to try to tell me a deer did this?” she demanded. “What kind of deer pulls corn stalks out of the ground?”
“A hungry one?” suggested Lindsay, then shrugged apologetically as Bridget turned the look on her.
“I don’t know, Bridget,” Cici said, stepping carefully around the rows to reach her. “What do we know about deer except that they used to eat hostas out of Mrs. Livingston’s yard? These are country deer. Maybe they like corn.”
“Sure. So they just pull it out of the ground and take it home to transplant.”
“Maybe it’s not deer.”
“Maybe it’s the ghost.”
“Maybe,” suggested Bridget darkly, “it’s a person.”
Cici lifted her eyebrows. “Why would anyone want to steal produce from us?”
“Especially when it’s not even ripe,” Lindsay pointed out.
Bridget’s scowl grew uncertain. “Well, all I know is it needs to stop.”
“We could put up a fence,” Cici offered, albeit with obvious reluctance.
“We could call the sheriff,” Lindsay said, “but if it turns out to be a deer . . .”
“It’s not a deer!” Bridget insisted sharply.
Cici patted her shoulder. “At least you saved most of the corn. And we had too many peppers anyway.”
“What kind of deer eats peppers?” Lindsay mused.
“Wait!” Bridget exclaimed, her face clearing suddenly. “Cici, do you still have that nanny cam you bought when you thought that maid was dipping into the bourbon?”
“Maybe . . . I guess so . . . I don’t remember selling it. It’s probably in a box somewhere in the cellar. The maid quit before I ever set it up.”
“It runs on batteries, right?”
“Oh no,” said Lindsay. “You’re not going to put a nanny cam in the garden? This sounds like something Ethel and Lucy would do!” And when Bridget turned the full force of her glare on her, she added quickly, “I’ll help you set it up.”
While Bridget and Lindsay trolled the cellar for unopened boxes from the move, Cici went to examine the bog in the backyard. She had a dreadful suspicion even before Farley puttered up the drive on his tractor to pull the lawn mower out of the mud and confirmed her fear.
“Septic,” he said, unhooking the chains from the lawn mower. “Roots.”
Cici had grown used to reading between the lines of his taciturn conversation, but this one gave her pause. “I’m sorry?”
He just grunted.
“Is there a—um, septic person I can call?”
“Yep.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Yep.”
“Who is it?”
“Will Peterson. Bear Gap Road.”
As she so often did after successfully finishing a conversation with Farley, Cici sighed. “Thank you.” She pulled a ten dollar bill out of her pocket and he took it silently.
“Won’t do you no good.” Farley tucked the bill into his wallet.
Again, a sense of dread crept upon her. “Why not?”
“Gone to Baltimore.”
“Oh. When will he be back?”
He looked at her for a moment as though the stupidity of the question surpassed understanding. “Ain’t no telling. Sometimes a week, sometimes two.”
“Isn’t there anyone else?”
He said, “Nope.” He climbed aboard the tractor. “Ya’ll coming to the pig-pickin’?”
Now it was her turn to stare blankly. “The what?”
“Fourth of Ju-ly.” He pronounced it with the accent on the first syllable of July. “Parade and pig-pickin’, downtown. Starts at one o’clock. Maggie said I was to ask you special. Ain’t got no fireworks,” he added, somewhat morosely, Cici thought.