Sweet peaches, family secrets… and a farm-fresh murder.

A struggling peach orchard, a tangled love triangle, and a suspicious death have farmer Lucy Resnick’s reporter instincts on high alert in the latest Dewberry Farm mystery. Add in old bones, a decades-old disappearance, and loads of delicious peach recipes for a juicy story you won’t want to put down!

SNEAK PEEK!

CHAPTER ONE

A few years back, when I was contemplating purchasing my grandparents’ old farm in Buttercup, Texas, I’d been warned by an old rancher that Texas weather was perpetual drought interrupted by occasional floods.

Now, as I surveyed the soggy fields where my tomato plants stood among puddles of water, I reflected that he sure knew what he was talking about. After a dry couple of months in the early spring, during which I was worried my well and cistern were not going to refill themselves before the summer heat began, we’d been deluged with storms leaving up to six inches of rain at a time. Farmers in Texas almost always welcomed rain, so I wasn’t exactly complaining, but I was wishing it might do a better job of spreading itself out. My tomatoes, which had been green and lush a few weeks ago, were now showing disturbing signs of blight thanks to the heavy moisture, and the leaves of my cucumbers were gray with powdery mildew.

I’d gone through the rows removing sick foliage every day that week, and again today, the bag in my hand was almost full to the brim with wilting leaves. After removing the blighted leaves, I then waited until early evening to spray the plants with a homemade baking soda concoction to kill the spores I hadn’t been able to clear. My efforts appeared to be helping slow the spread, at least, but it was a lot of work, and I welcomed a reprieve in the forecast.

Unfortunately, it was not to be. As I tied up the bag of vegetation, a rumble sounded in the distance, and Chuck, my apricot-colored rescue farm poodle, yipped at me from the back yard. I looked up at the horizon where a line of leaden clouds was approaching from the east. It reminded me of one of those Mordor scenes in the Lord of the Rings movies.

With a sigh, I tied up the bag and walked back to the house. I was just opening the back gate when a little silver Kia zipped down the driveway toward the Ulrich house. I waved; the driver waved back, smiling big. Casey Dorfler was the first Airbnb guest in the Ulrich House, the historic house I’d moved to the property and renovated with some help from the local German Club. She was working on an article about the area for Texas Weekly magazine; she’d been there three days so far, and I hadn’t had any complaints, either about ghosts or faulty air conditioning, so I considered my first hosting experience a win. Besides, it had been fun sharing with her all the things I loved about Buttercup… and hearing her talk about how beautiful it was reminded me how lucky I was to live here.

I’d bought Dewberry Farm a few years back. The farm had left my family when my grandmother died, languishing in the hands of a local landowner, but when I was searching properties in the area on a whim and saw that the farmhouse that had been such a vital part of my childhood was on the market, I took early retirement from the Houston Chronicle, scraped together my savings, and plunked it all down on one of the most precious pieces of my history–and my future.

So far, I’d managed to survive. Things were tight, and I had learned to be thrifty, but my life was so much richer it was worth the sacrifices.

I was giving Chuck head scratches when I heard Casey call my name. I turned to say hello to her.

“How’s the house?” I asked. “Everything good?” There had been rumors that the house was haunted, and although I thought I’d narrowed the problem down to a contracting and expanding metal roof, the house did have some history, and I wasn’t ruling anything out. The renovations had been finished by local master carpenter Ed Mandel, and it was a labor of love. I was thrilled to have a piece of Buttercup’s history on my farm.

“The house is amazing; you did a great job.”

“Thank you!”

“The only thing is that the wifi’s sketchy sometimes,” she said, “but I understand it’s like that all over Buttercup.”

“Unfortunately, you’re right. One of the drawbacks of country living. How’s the article going?”

“So far, so good. You’re right; the Blue Onion cafe is great!”

“You should come to Two Sisters Orchard for the Peach Jamboree!” I suggested. “I’ll be there with my stall; there’ll be pick-your-own peaches, food stalls, local artisans… it should be a lot of fun.”

She perked up. “I think I will. It’ll be a good chance to get a feel for the locals.”

“It will,” I said.

“I’ve been meaning to ask… I heard a rumor the other day that there’s a lot of new development proposed for the downtown area. What do the locals think of it?”

“I don’t think any of us are crazy about it,” I replied. “Especially since one of the projects involves knocking down two of the historic storefronts. There’s an open meeting coming soon; a lot of us are planning to attend.”

“Property values have really risen here, haven’t they?”

“I haven’t been following them closely,” I said, “but it wouldn’t surprise me; it seems like a lot of local ranches and houses are being bought up as weekend homes for city folks.”

“That changes the fabric of the place, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” I said. “But there are still a lot of old families here, along with some new transplants who are putting down roots. Have you met Peter Swensen yet? He’s created a wonderful organic farm called Green Haven.” He was also dating my best friend Quinn, but I didn’t feel the need to mention that. “And Quinn, who owns the Blue Onion, is a small business owner who’s dedicated to the town. Our mayor is wonderful, too.”

“I’ve heard about her. Mayor Niedermeyer, right? Where is she on the downtown development plan?”

“I haven’t heard her weigh in on it, to be honest. You’d have to talk to her.” I glanced at my watch. “I’ve got to go in and get on with my work, but do you need anything down at the house?”

“No,” she said. “Everything’s perfect; you really did a great job with it.”

“I’ll let you know some of the Ulrich house’s history if you’d like,” I said. “It was almost demolished, but we moved it here with the help of the community. It has had quite an illustrious past; including an Indian abduction.”

“That does sound interesting,” she said, but the response sounded polite, not truly interested. What kind of article was she really writing? “I’ll let you get to your work,” she continued. “Let me know if you hear anything else about the downtown plans, would you?”

“Of course,” I said, reaching down to scratch Chuck behind the ears, feeling a twinge of worry now that I was thinking about the development. A Houston-based developer had recently acquired three historic properties on the town square, and was planning to replace them with a brick three-story commercial space, with city-style “loft” condominiums planned for the upper floors. Several signs had popped up all over town: “Don’t Houston my Buttercup” and “Say No to Big City Rollers,” along with a minority that recommended “Revitalize Downtown Buttercup.” Most of the community seemed to be hesitant about the proposed changes, but the decision was up to the mayor and the city planners.

I pushed the thought out of my head and focused on the day ahead of me. I couldn’t do anything about the downtown plans at the moment, but I could take care of my own little kingdom… and between the cats Smoky and Lucky, Chuck the poodle, the chickens, the goats, and my two dairy cows–not to mention the rows of vegetables–I had plenty to worry about without losing sleep over downtown.

I was, however, hoping there would be a few nice words written about Dewberry Farm and the Ulrich House; with luck, the Airbnb would be a nice extra source of income for me, helping to smooth out the vagaries of the farming life, particularly the months that were a little less lucrative.

For now, though, I was focusing on the day’s chores, the comforting rhythm of a life lived with nature and the outdoors. And tomorrow I’d head to Two Sisters Orchard and treat myself to one of local barbecue legend Bubba Allen’s brisket sandwiches… and maybe some peach ice cream for dessert.

Life was good, I thought as I hurried inside to beat the storm. I just needed to take it one day at a time and keep the farm going, and everything would be okay.

Or so I thought at the time.

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