In Farm's Way: An Organic Cozy Mystery

By Amanda Flower

"An adorable pug and characters you can invest in enliven a very cherry-centric mystery." — Kirkus Reviews

When the biggest catch at the annual Ice Fishing Derby is the body of brewmaster Wallace, Shiloh must reel in the killer before her farm goes belly-up. 

Shiloh Bellamy still expects the last few Winter months to be busy with repairs, spring planning, and networking with local businesses. She might even be able to broker a new partnership with Fields Brewery and its organic brewer's association. Well, she could if the owner, Wallace, wasn't found murdered at the county Ice Fishing Derby.

Once again, Shiloh gets tangled up in the investigation when the police ignore an entire crop of suspects to blame one of her friends. She'll have to dig deep to find the truth, reel in a killer, and convince her city-slicker pug to wear his winter boots. But with Bellamy Farm still struggling, can Shiloh spare the time to look into the town's fishy characters? Or will her dream farm be the next thing floating belly up?

USA Today bestselling Amanda Flower returns to the Farm to Table cozy mystery series with another exciting sleuthing adventure!

Readers love the Farm to Table Mysteries:

"Amanda Flower is a master at writing mysteries and keeping the reader interested the whole time."

"I enjoyed all the characters in this new series... Animal lovers will love Huckleberry and Esmerelda."

"As usual, her cute mysteries leave me wanting more."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sourcebooks
• Release date: Feb 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781492699989

Amanda Flower

Amanda Flower is an Agatha Award-nominated mystery author (Maid of Murder), who first caught the writing bug in elementary school. She is also the author of Andi Unexpected, the Andi Boggs series, Appleseed Creek and the India Hayes series. When she’s not writing, she works as a librarian at Ursuline College near her hometown of Tallmadge, Ohio. Visit her online at www.amandaflower.com and www.isabellaalan.com.

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Books. Change. Lives.

Copyright © 2023 by Amanda Flower

Cover and internal design © 2023 by Sourcebooks

Cover design by Patrick Knowles

Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Epilogue

Shiloh’s Quick Farm Tips

Excerpt from Put Out to Pasture

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Back Cover

For my favorite farmer, David

Chapter One

A Michigander knows snow—or at least she should. The northwest corner of the Mitten gets ten to twelve feet of snow a year. In a ranch home, that’s snow up to the roof. Snow was something Michiganders understood most of the time. But that wasn’t the case when a Michigander moved to LA and came back.

I knew this because I was sitting in my father’s old pickup truck in a ditch. The front end of the truck was half buried in the snowdrift on a dark January night on a lonely country road.

I gripped the steering wheel and let out a breath. My tires had lost traction on some black ice. My saving grace had been the lack of other vehicles on the country road and the fields on either side, so there weren’t any trees or large brush to hit.

The problem was the ditch and four feet of ice-cold Michigan snow.

Huckleberry, my beloved pug, was on the floorboards of the car, having rolled off the passenger seat when I lost control of the truck. Luckily, his dog bed on the floor had broken his fall. If Huckleberry had been hurt, I would have never forgiven myself.

He shook his head and the metal tags on his collar clacked together. I reached down and scratched him on the head. You okay, buddy?

He snuffled at me. Snuffle was the pug answer to everything.

I rested my forehead on the steering wheel. I’m so sorry, Huckleberry. I thought driving in the snow was like riding a bike. Clearly, it’s not. I straightened up. This was no time for a pity party. I might have gotten into a jam, but I was okay. Huckleberry was okay. It could have been so much worse. I knew that better than most. A car accident snatched my fiancé, Logan Graham, from my life nearly sixteen years before when I was twenty-three years old.

I cleared my throat, refusing to allow myself to dwell on what might have happened and what had happened in the past. I just have to find my phone and we’ll call for help. The truck has plenty of gas. We’ll be toasty warm until someone can come and get us. That’s what AAA is for, right? I knew my singsong voice was more to calm myself than the pug.

Huckleberry hopped back on the passenger seat and licked my hand.

I unbuckled my seat belt and started looking for my phone. Of course, it wasn’t on the console where it had been when I hit the snowbank. Most likely, it was under one of the seats. I reached under my seat and then Huckleberry’s, running my hand back and forth over the rubber mats. Nothing.

I hope all those yoga and Pilates classes I took in LA made me as limber as they promised, I told Huckleberry as I contorted my body to reach under the seat again. I swiped my hand back and forth like a metal detector on the beach. I reached under as far as I could, and on the second pass, I hit what I thought was my phone. Except instead of grabbing it, I knocked it deeper under the seat. I groaned.

Huckleberry tipped his head back and let out a high-pitched howl. Usually a pug only howled when it was stressed.

Oh Huck. It’s going to be okay. I righted myself and lifted the dog from his seat into my lap to hold him close. As soon as I find my phone, we’ll get out of here. I know it’s under there. Don’t worry, buddy.

He whimpered.

Headlights bobbed in my rearview mirror and came to a stop right behind us. It was either a Good Samaritan or a killer. As far as I was concerned, there wasn’t anything in between. As a television producer of true crime for over a decade, I had a chronic inability to believe it was ever the former. I set Huckleberry back on his seat, confirmed the doors were locked, and grabbed the ice scraper from the small back seat. It wasn’t much of a weapon.

Someone knocked on the driver’s-side window.

I jumped, and Huckleberry yipped in excitement. He’d been frightened just a moment ago, and now he seemed perfectly at ease. He wagged his curled tail back and forth. This told me it was friend not foe at the window.

I dared to look. A man stood there holding a flashlight. He wore a navy-blue paramedic ski jacket and a matching navy-blue stocking cap on his head, and he was smiling.

Of all the people in Cherry Glen, of course it would be firefighter Quinn Killian who just happened to drive by when I was in a predicament.

I groaned, but not because Quinn wasn’t capable of helping me. He was probably the most capable EMT and fireman in the Glen, as the locals called our town. He’d spent most of his firefighting career working in Detroit, Michigan’s largest city. He was also a close neighbor to the farm I shared with my dad. And when I say close, I mean a couple of miles away. We were in farm country after all.

It was just plain embarrassing to think of the number of times I had humiliated myself in front of Quinn since I’d moved back home from LA. I’d only been back six months, and it seemed like I was going for some kind of record to make myself look like a fool in front of this handsome man.

His handsomeness was just a statement of fact, such as the sky was blue or my face was bright red. He was clean shaven and always well-groomed, even when he was out of uniform. Years of athletics and working a physically demanding job kept him in amazing shape. I couldn’t see his hair now, but I knew it was brown and slowly fading into gray. I would even venture to say he was more handsome as a distinguished grown man than he ever had been as a high school athlete. But like I said, my recognition of this was purely observational.

Quinn knocked on the window again. Shiloh, open up. Are you okay?

I rolled down the window, and when I say rolled down the window that was exactly what I meant. I cranked on the lever by the door. My dad’s truck was so old it didn’t have power windows. However, it did have a really sweet tape deck.

I smiled. Quinn, fancy meeting you here tonight. Out for a night drive in the snow?

I take it you and Huckleberry are all right. You wouldn’t be cracking jokes if Huckleberry was hurt.

Huckleberry is fine, if not a little bewildered by what happened. As for me, the only thing injured is my pride. I let out a breath. But I am grateful you happened by.

So am I. When I saw the truck on the side of the road, I knew you or Sully had to been in it. You need to be more careful on these icy roads. What if there’d been oncoming traffic? You could have been killed like…

Like Logan, he was about to say. Not only had Logan been my fiancé but he had been Quinn’s best friend. I didn’t need Quinn to remind me of what happened. I knew all too well.

I hit a patch of black ice, and the truck spun out. And you know I would never let Dad behind the wheel on a night like this.

Since Thanksgiving, Cherry Glen had been in a constant state of on-and-off-again snow. So far, I’d been able to drive my father everywhere he needed to be or found someone to give him a ride. My spare driver was usually my cousin Stacey or Quinn.

I’m really glad you aren’t hurt. I don’t know how I’d explain it to Hazel if something happened to you. She would hold me accountable.

Hazel was Quinn’s twelve-year-old daughter and my partner in crime when it came to solving a two-decade-long mystery at Bellamy Farm, which I co-owned with my father.

I’m fine, I said brightly. And I think the truck is fine too. It’s just stuck. Can you pull me out? I need to get to town. I’m already running late.

Late for what? It’s eight o’clock at night. You’ve never struck me as a night owl.

I barked a laugh. Eight o’clock is night owl status?

It is in Cherry Glen in the middle of the winter. The town rolls up the sidewalk at this time of night when it’s this cold.

He had a point. The freezing wind coming south from Canada over frozen Lake Michigan didn’t help.

I was on my way to the brewery. Kristy invited me to a party. She said the owner is going to make some kind of big announcement that involves her husband, Kent, and she wants me there to hear it.

Do you even like beer? Quinn asked.

It’s okay…

He laughed. You lived in LA too long and became a wine and champagne girl.

I rolled my eyes. Coffee. I’m a coffee girl. I cleared my throat. You should come tonight. The food is supposed to be great. At least that’s what Kristy said. Likely to entice me since she knew the mention of beer wouldn’t do it for me.

I can’t. I’m picking up Hazel from my parents. I don’t think beer tasting is an appropriate school night activity for my seventh grader.

I supposed not. Well, in that case, you shouldn’t be standing out in this weather. And I need help out of here.

He pulled down on his winter hat. Let me get my chain.

Hopefully I’m not so stuck that we’ll have to call a tow truck.

A tow truck? You really have been away too long. Any pickup worth its salt can get you out. Just shift your truck into neutral.

When Quinn left to get the chain, I turned to Huckleberry. This is one of those stories that’s going to make the rounds at Jessa’s Place, isn’t it? And I’ll have to hear about it for years to come.

He grunted. In pug that meant yes.

Quicker than I expected, Quinn knocked on the window again.

I opened the door.

You got it in neutral?

I nodded.

Good. Then you and Huckleberry should probably get out just to be safe. Wait in my truck.

I hopped out of the truck and stuck my hand under the driver’s seat once again. This time, my fingers brushed against something. Got it! I shoved my phone into my coat pocket, then scooped up Huckleberry and snuggled him against my chest to keep him warm. It took all my balance not to fall in the snow as each step went up to my knees. Quinn gave me his arm and helped me out of the drift. I trudged toward the headlights of his truck, opened the door, and lifted Huckleberry up into it. Once I was on the leather seat, I let out a sigh of relief.

The truck was tidy. The only trash was a disposable coffee cup that I recognized from Jessa’s Diner in the cupholder. Everything else was neat as a pin, except for a collection of stickers along the dashboard that ranged from flowers to cars to smiley faces. There were at least two dozen of them. They looked aged and worn, as if they’d been cleaned several times over the years.

They had to be from Hazel when she was younger, and it was endearing that big, tough Quinn Killian would proudly drive around rural Michigan with princess stickers on his dash. That said a lot about who he was as a father—and as a man too.

The driver’s-side door opened, and Quinn jumped in like this was the Wild West and he was jumping onto his steed. Here we go.

After checking for nonexistent traffic, he shifted into gear. The wheels spun on the icy pavement.

I held Huckleberry close to me. The wheels spun more.

If you can’t get it, we can call AAA. I think my membership is still current.

Patience. I haven’t even tried yet.

It looked to me like he had been trying, but I clamped my mouth shut.

He changed gears, revved the engine, and pressed down harder on the gas. My father’s truck inched backward.

Now, I got him, Quinn said, as if he was the old man from The Old Man and the Sea, about to bring in the marlin.

Finally, the two rear tires of my dad’s truck were on the pavement and after that, the rest of the truck came out relatively easily. It stood in the country road blocking both lanes of traffic.

Oh my goodness, thank you! I cried. I don’t know how I can ever repay you for this.

You don’t have to make it up to me. You watch my daughter several days a week after school and won’t let me pay you. The least I can do is pull your truck out of a snowdrift.

There’s that, I said with a smile. But honestly Hazel is a great help on the farm. I would feel guilty for taking your money and then putting her to work.

She doesn’t see it as work. She thinks it’s fun. She’s talking about being a farmer now, much to my mother’s chagrin.

What does your mother have against farmers? She’s surrounded by farms, I said.

Quinn shrugged. She’s a townie, he said, as if that were explanation enough, and maybe it was.

Thank you again. You’ve been a great friend to Dad and me.

A strange look crossed his face. "Being a friend to both of you is important to me. I know that it’s been awkward since—"

Oh wow, I said, making a show of looking at my watch. I had better get going. I at least owe you one of my homemade pies for this.

His face fell because I knew what he was going to say, and I wasn’t up to hearing it again. Three months ago, I thought that it maybe it was just possible that Quinn and I could be something more than friends, but he squashed that. He wasn’t ready after the death of his wife, and he was still conflicted after all these years about Logan. I didn’t want to rehash it. I just wanted to move on and concentrate on my farm and caring for my dad.

I’ll see you tomorrow? he asked after a beat.

I frowned and then if dawned on me. Right. I’ll be bringing Dad to the ice fishing derby. Thank you again for letting him fish with you and Hazel. Ice fishing really isn’t my thing, and he’d be so disappointed if he couldn’t go. He’s gone every year no matter how bad he’s feeling.

It’s no problem, and it will be a fun day. I think he can teach me a thing or two about catching a muskie.

He probably can. I shifted in my seat. Well, again thank you. I’d better get going. I was running late as it is for the party. Kristy is going to start blowing up my phone at any moment. Balancing Huckleberry on my lap, I started to open the door.

Quinn grabbed my arm. Shiloh, be careful. I would hate for anything to happen to you. He paused. For Hazel’s sake. She really cares about you.

I swallowed. And I care about her too. She’s a great kid.

Good. Good. He punched me in the arm lightly as if I was an old football teammate. You have my number. Remember, if you ever get into trouble, you can always call me for help. I’m a fireman, after all. It’s my job to rescue people.

I know. I cleared my throat. Thanks again. I gathered up Huckleberry and slipped out of the truck.

As I drove away, I felt Quinn watching me.

Chapter Two

Ohmigosh, Shi, you’re here! I was just about to call you, Kristy Garcia Brown said as she tiptoed toward me on four-inch heels. She wore a black cocktail dress that was a perfect fit and showed she was back into prepregnancy shape just nine months after the birth of her twin daughters. She wore her black hair slicked back and dark eye makeup. I blinked. I hadn’t seen her this dressed up since we were in college.

Kristy was the director of the Cherry Glen Farmers’ Market, so most of her days were spent in jeans, sweatshirts, and boots.

I looked down at my black leggings, boots, and black sweater. I felt immensely underdressed, but at least I got the color of the night right. I set Huckleberry on the floor and snapped on his leash. Are you sure it’s okay for him to be in here?

Oh yeah. The owner’s wife has a bunch of dogs that are here all the time. I’m surprised they aren’t here tonight. Now why are you late? I was getting worried. I thought you bailed again.

I grimaced, since she had reason for making such an assumption. I wasn’t the most social person in the world. After years in LA where social events were made to rub shoulders and network for that next big project, I was burned out on parties and even more on small talk. Kristy had invited me to so many events since I’d returned to Cherry Glen, but I had only gone to a handful. I wasn’t even sure why I agreed to come here tonight other than my best friend had begged me.

I’ve never bailed without giving you warning, I said.

Not much warning. You told me just three hours before our double date last week that you couldn’t come.

The double date had been a setup by Kristy with one of Kent’s friends. It was a blind date for me, and it was true, I hadn’t wanted to go. I agreed to it because Kristy was my friend. However, that wasn’t the reason I canceled.

We were in the middle of a blizzard that night. No one was going anywhere.

She sniffed, as if the weather hadn’t been a factor at all.

I glanced around the crowded room. The building had once been a granary. Behind me there was a glass wall that looked into the brewery itself, with its large copper fermentation tanks, tubing, and gauges. The restaurant and bar on the right side of the building served the brewery’s selection of beers but was no longer the only place selling the beverage. Fields had recently made the leap to distribute through local retailers. I knew very little about the owner, Wallace Fields, but I’d heard from chatter at Jessa’s Place he was an ambitious man. Local retail was just the beginning. He wanted to go national.

I was late because the truck slid off the road and into a ditch, I said.

Her mouth fell open. What? Are you okay?

I’m fine. I’m fine. I waved my hands back and forth before she could get the wrong idea. Huckleberry and I weren’t hurt, and my dad’s truck is fine too.

Nothing can hurt your dad’s truck. It’s as sturdy as the tank.

The tank was the old World War II Sherman tank sitting at the end of Michigan Street, the main road in Cherry Glen. It was also the same road that pretty much all the businesses were on, including Fields Brewing Company. The tank had been a donation to Cherry Glen by a local collector—don’t ask me how someone goes about collecting tanks—and had sat at the edge of town since before I was born.

How did you get out?

Quinn happened by before I could even call for help and pulled the truck out of the ditch.

Her demeanor immediately changed from concerned to amused as her dark eyes sparkled. Quinn saved you, huh? Maybe I don’t need to set you up with someone else when you already have a man in shining pickup in your corner.

I frowned back. Kristy had made it no secret that she thought Quinn and I would make a good couple. We’d all gone to high school together. I think for her, Quinn and I being together would be a chance to relive those past days. She just didn’t understand or accept it was never going to happen. The memory of Logan was just too big a hurdle for Quinn or me to jump over.

As a fireman, he has to save people. It’s his job.

Okay, she said in a voice that told me she wasn’t going to drop this anytime soon.

Time to change the subject. So what is this party about anyway? I asked as I looked around the room. You told me very little about it. I’m not sure why I’m even here.

I know, I know. I’ve just been so frantic between this event and the derby tomorrow. You’ll be there at seven, right?

I will, I promised.

The derby was the

Reviews for In Farm's Way

[jetangen4571 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

snow-season, Michigan, cozy-mystery, small-town, rural, family, friendship, amateur-sleuth, law-enforcement, farm-animals, farming, pets, birding, competition, ice-fishing, murder, murder-investigation*****Not unbiased as I love her writing and this series is great.Shiloh was born and raised in Cherry Glen, moved to California and was a successful producer but left after a number of years to work on the family farm as her father no longer could manage. She has a lot of friends, a pet Pug, and a Siamese cat. Once again, Shiloh becomes involved in investigating a murder. This man seemed universally unliked, but Shiloh's best friend's husband is the prime suspect. And then there's the beer/brewery issue! Excellent sleuthing!It was odd for this Cheesehead to hear "fishing derby" when we call them "fisherees".I requested and received a free e-book copy from Poisoned Pen Press via NetGalley. Thank you!