06 Bushel Full of Murder Page 2

  “It’s okay. I understand.”

  Herb and Don were both business and life partners and had had an herb stall at Bailey’s for years. They’d been so successful growing oregano that they’d been approached by a national spice company, and both of them were offered great-paying jobs in the product development department. But they declined, choosing to stay at Bailey’s instead of going to what they predicted was a sterile indoor environment requiring adherence to corporate rules and such. We’d all been happy to hear the good news.

  “Thank you, Becca,” Herb said. “When we have the oil ready for sale, we’ll drop off a bottle for you.”

  “I’d love one.”

  Ah, the perks of working at a farmers’ market.

  Herb and Don dodged customers as they continued down the aisle in search of other available vendor tongues. I glanced over my inventory. Six jars of strawberry preserves were all that was left for the day, and my regular customers and special orders had all been taken care of and reordered if necessary. I was tempted to pack up the jars and go home, or to someplace where I could jump into frigid water, maybe step into a freezer.

  My fraternal twin sister and the Bailey’s manager, Allison, had installed a tubed water mister system along the aisles and above the stalls that had given us tiny clouds of cooling relief during our warm South Carolina summer temperatures, but the misters had stopped working the day before. She’d been trying to get someone to come out and fix them since only a few seconds after they’d come to a silent and dry halt, giving way to a collective moan of despair that spread throughout the market.

  We’d been spoiled by our misters.

  Unfortunately, Allison couldn’t be her typical determined pest with the repair people because another surprise had been sprung on her only a few hours ago.

  Bailey’s managers had given the go-ahead for five food trucks to spend two weeks in the market’s parking lot, and the trucks were scheduled to arrive today. They were part of a national program called KEEP ON EATING. The participants were reimbursed all fuel and hotel expenses as they traveled to someplace that they’d never served their food before, preferably away from their home states. It was a way to bring attention to the food truck industry, different regional foods, as well as to some of the unknown but talented chefs and bakers who created delicious, in some cases gourmet, food—from inside a truck. The benefits to Bailey’s were hopefully increased traffic to the market, and an agreement that the food truck operators would purchase as many groceries as they could from the market vendors. The chefs would place signs on their trucks mentioning that they were only using the best-quality and freshest food, found locally from Bailey’s Farmers’ Market. It was with the delivery of the signs earlier today that Allison learned about the trucks’ imminent arrival.

  It was a great idea, of course, no matter how or when the news had been delivered. But unfortunately, making sure the goings-on went off without a hitch was more than just making sure there was room in the parking lot for the trucks. Allison’s duties had been all about KEEP ON EATING since the moment she’d seen the signs. I hadn’t talked to her since, but I had left her a phone message letting her know that if she needed any help, I could make myself available.

  So instead of going home, I decided I would pack up my remaining inventory and then track down my sister. Maybe she actually could use a hand but hadn’t had a moment to call me back.

  I grabbed a box from underneath my front table and started to load the six jars.

  “Ms. Robins?” A voice that seemed hesitant but familiar pulled my attention back up toward the aisle.

  I recognized him. I remembered him. But how was he here? How was he in South Carolina? It didn’t fit. His deeply tanned skin and brown eyes—framed in the best laugh lines I’d ever seen—his thick, dark hair, the ever-present cowboy hat. Had he taken a wrong turn or gotten lost, perhaps somewhere around Missouri?

  “Hi! Oh my gosh!” I said as I abandoned the box and the jars and stepped around my front table to greet my friend from Arizona. “Harry! Talking Trees! It’s great to see you.”

  “Becca Robins, hello,” Harry said with a smile that crinkled the laughing lines into deep cheery fan folds.

  Harry Lindon, also known as Talking Trees on his reservation home in Arizona, was a law enforcement officer in his neck of the woods; his hot, dry, desert neck of the woods. I’d visited Chief Buffalo’s Trading Post and Farmers’ Market the summer before and had met Harry when murder had become a part of the adventure.

  “You look well. Good as new,” I said. “What in the world are you doing in South Carolina?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, waving away any concern I might have about his state of health or his recovery from the potentially deadly injuries I knew he’d suffered. “I’m here on business, but I was surprised and happy when I heard I was coming to Monson so I could see my new friend who made me laugh even after we’d gone through some very dangerous moments together.”

  “I’m so happy to see you, too. What in the world would your business be in South Carolina?”

  Harry looked around. He was tall, but not as tall as his presence made him seem. His wide shoulders and cowboy hat made it feel like he took up a gigantic amount of space.

  “This is not a great place to talk. Maybe I could buy you a cup of coffee, or something cold to drink after you’re done working?” he said.

  “I’m done,” I said. I felt bad about not tracking down Allison, but I couldn’t resist taking some time to understand why Harry was in Monson, here on “business.” “Do you have a vehicle?”

  “I flew into Columbia and then rented a car. It’s out front in the lot.”

  “I have an orange truck. I’ll come around and then you can follow me to a coffee shop.”

  “All right,” Harry said.

  Only a few minutes later, I’d officially closed my stall for the day and brought my truck around to the front parking lot. Harry waited at the entrance in his tiny car. His hat was off because there couldn’t possibly be enough room for both him and it.

  I led us to Maytabee’s, a local coffee shop, one of six now in South Carolina that carried some of my products. My preserves, jams, and jellies had sold well from the first day they’d been on the Maytabee’s shelves, but lately they’d done even better, orders coming in twice as big as they’d been only a few months earlier. I didn’t mind, even with the now required extra hours spent in my converted barn/kitchen.

  I was dressed in my typical summer short overalls and it had been a hot day, so the overalls and my short blond hair were both wilted, but the people at Maytabee’s had seen me in even worse shape—in fact, one day extra-blue from a jar of blueberry jam I’d dropped in the parking lot when it had slipped out of my hurried hands. They’d referred to me as the Oompa Loompa jam lady ever since.

  I didn’t recognize any of the baristas today, though, as I asked Harry to take a seat while I ordered the coffees.

  We sat across from each other in matching worn leather chairs, both of us able to enjoy the cool air coming from a ceiling vent. The chairs were off in a corner by themselves, so though there were a few other customers in the shop none were close enough to hear our conversation.

  Briefly, we recounted the craziness we’d gone through together in Arizona, but Harry didn’t want to give me many details regarding the deeper investigation into the motives behind the murder of a Native American jewelry maker, other than to tell me that the authorities had the important answers but were still trying to get more details. I made him promise to call me and let me know once all the mysteries had been solved. He said he would.

  “Harry, what is your business in Monson?” I finally asked.

  “Ah, it’s a curious thing, I suppose. I’m on the trail of someone we think stole a substantial sum of money from a large restaurant in Arizona. She worked for them at the time, stole the money along with one of their proprietary recipes.”

  “And she’s in Monson?”

 
; “She’s on her way, I think. I don’t think she’s arrived yet. I hope she truly does make it here. She operates a food truck—a venture she began shortly after leaving the restaurant. She got out of town too quickly for me. I was going to follow her, but I missed her middle-of-the-night exit a few nights ago.”

  “Food truck! I know about the food trucks. Five are coming in. But from Arizona? I can’t imagine why someone would travel so far.”

  “It’s a long way to go, but we think she’s trying to get far away from home. We don’t know if she’s trying to make a permanent move or just a temporary one. When I contacted the organization sponsoring the summer food truck event, they told me that she requested Monson specifically. They said they tried to honor all of the requests they got, though most of the trucks were only going to travel a state or two away from their homes.”

  I knew nothing about the specific trucks set to arrive at Bailey’s. I didn’t know what kind of food they prepared, and other than selling them some of my products at a discount, I didn’t know what role I was to play in their visit.

  “Tell me more about her. What kind of food?”

  “Gourmet hot dogs. They’re good, too. She grills all the dogs. Her toppings are delicious, including the secret recipe she stole, a sauce made with tomatoes and a mix of spices that has just the right bite, but lots of flavor.”

  “Mmm. My mouth is watering.”

  “I have to admit when I started investigating the alleged stolen recipe, the part where I had to sample the food was much more enjoyable than lots of other investigations I’ve conducted.”

  “The sauce is identical?” I said.

  “Mostly,” he said hesitantly.

  “Mostly?”

  I was not in a position to interject any ideas into Harry’s investigation. I didn’t know the details, I didn’t know the people involved. But I’d witnessed a few alleged recipe thefts over the years. When you work with food, even if it’s not in a restaurant setting, you have the chance to taste things that are so good that you want to create something similar. It becomes a challenge, a goal. Recipe theft is one thing, but trying to re-create something based upon your own tastes and experience is something else altogether.

  “Is that what makes you think she stole the recipe?” I asked.

  “It started when the card with the secret recipe went missing from the restaurant’s office. She was the last one seen leaving the office. On her own, behaving suspiciously. The sequence of events is too long to go into now but that combined with her quick departure from the restaurant shortly thereafter and what happened to the manager the week before makes her look pretty guilty. I’ve been hanging around her truck trying to figure her out, as well as eating the food she prepares. It’s very good. I started questioning her more seriously a couple weeks ago. I think she got nervous about my curiosity, and the food truck tour became a convenient way to leave town, at least for a little while.”

  “What happened to the restaurant manager?”

  “She was assaulted on her way to the bank to make a deposit.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Concussion. Not good, but could be worse. She’ll be okay eventually.”

  “That’s good. Mind if I ask how much the deposit was? I’m just trying to get a feel for the size of the restaurant.”

  Harry looked at me with his intelligent brown eyes. They were such friendly eyes. Even when he’d been in the middle of some of the most terrifying moments life could throw your way, his eyes had remained friendly. I knew. I’d experienced some of the terror with him. Right now his friendly eyes told me that he was about to say something important. I listened closely.

  “Fifty thousand dollars,” Harry said quietly, no matter that no one was close enough to eavesdrop.

  “Good grief!”

  “The alleged thief had been put in charge of the restaurant the previous week. She claims that before the manager went on vacation, she told her not to take any deposits to the bank. The manager would take care of the money when she got back.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t, and the manager claims she never made that request.”

  “This is not looking good for the food truck woman.”

  “No, particularly when after the assault and the suspicious exit from the restaurant office, she was able to open her food truck. And with cash, from what I understand. There were no bank records of the money’s movement until the seller of the food truck put it in her bank account.”

  “Why haven’t you already arrested her?”

  “It’s still all circumstantial, Becca. No proof, but I’m working on it. Or I hope to somehow catch her either in her lies or doing something else illegal.”

  “Good luck. I hope you get her. What’s her name? I’ll keep an eye on her, too.”

  “Peyton Chase.”

  I’d never experienced a real choke-on-your-drink moment. When Harry said the chef’s name, I hadn’t even been taking a sip. Technically I guess I choked on the sharp intake of air that accompanied my gasp. The name was too unusual for it not to be attached to the person I thought it was attached to. Peyton. Arizona. Food truck. Until he’d said her name, I hadn’t considered that my cousin might be a part of Harry’s “business.”

  “Wait, did you say Peyton Chase?” I said after I recovered.

  “I did. You okay?” He sat forward on the chair and set his coffee on the floor.

  “Fine. Hang on one second, Harry,” I said. I pulled out my phone and pushed the button for Allison. With whatever good juju I might have, I willed that she answer this time.

  “Hey, Becs, what’s up?” she said.

  “Peyton Chase,” I said.

  “Yeah?”

  “She’s one of the food truck people.”

  “She is? Hang on.” Allison must have been in her office. I heard papers shuffle and a drawer open and close. “Yes! The hot dog truck. I had no idea.”

  “Our Peyton Chase?” I said.

  “I thought she was in Arizona, but if it’s Peyton, who knows what she’s up to? But why would she travel this far?”

  “I think it’s our Peyton, Allison.”

  “Okay. That’s great!”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll tell you later. Gotta go.”

  “Uh, okay. Well, the trucks should start arriving in about half an hour. Be here if you want.”

  “Will do.” I ended the call and looked at Harry.

  “What’s going on, Becca?” he said. He hadn’t removed his hat yet. He did now, setting it on the floor next to his coffee, punctuating the sudden seriousness of the moment.

  “Harry, I have a cousin named Peyton Chase. I know she moved to Arizona in search of herself and an adventure. We were all pretty excited when we heard she got a food truck, but I never learned the details. I don’t know if hers is a gourmet hot dog truck. I wonder if we’re talking about the same Peyton. But . . . how could it not be?”

  Harry reached into a small pocket with embroidered edging on the front of his vest and pulled out a picture.

  “This her?” he said as he held it out for me to inspect.

  The picture was a close-up of a young woman leaning out over the counter of the truck, serving someone a hot dog piled high with onions towering above the red and white paper boat the dog sat in. The woman’s short, wavy, dark hair was held back by a blue bandanna and her eyes were just as happy as her big smile.

  “Yes, that’s her.” My heart sank. I literally felt it plummet.

  “I see.” Harry sighed heavily and sat back on the chair. He returned the picture to his pocket and then steepled his fingers, resting his chin on top. “I suppose there are some conflicts of interest arising here.”

  “Because you and I know each other?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you won’t be able to investigate thoroughly because you’re friends with your suspect’s cousin? We might be fast friends, H
arry, but we only hung out a few days total.”

  “Someone might question the integrity of my investigation.”

  “I don’t believe that. Again, I might not know you well or for long, but you don’t let personal feelings get in the way of your investigations. I know that firsthand. I saw that. In Arizona, it got pretty personal for you, Harry.”

  “Still.” Harry’s eyebrows came together and he moved his hands to the chair’s armrests.

  “Hang on.”

  I needed to think about what I wanted to say. I knew what I was about to suggest wasn’t the most usual way to handle the predicament in front of us. I’d been shaken by my cousin’s potential involvement in illegal activities, but I still had enough of my wits about me to know that I didn’t want Harry to relinquish his investigating duties to someone else. Harry waited patiently as I held up one finger and let my brain work through some needed gyrations.

  “Harry, let me help you,” I finally said after the pieces came together in my mind.

  Harry laughed, transforming his serious face into a happy, amused one. “Becca, either you like or don’t like your cousin. She’s family, it can go either way. But whatever the case, you helping me doesn’t make sense, and would only compromise the investigation even more.”

  “No, hear me out. My boyfriend, Sam, is a local police officer. I’ll introduce you to him. He’s like you—wouldn’t let personal feelings get in the way of investigating a case, ever. You two can work on it together. I can help by trying to prove Peyton innocent, but Sam won’t let me get in the way. You look for evidence of guilt; I’ll look for evidence of innocence. I know that’s not how it’s supposed to work, but I do like Peyton, Harry. I love her. I haven’t seen her for about five years, but I care deeply for my cousin. She was a sweet, kind, but somewhat untamed child who Allison and I probably tormented way too much, but she always had a determined attitude. I really hoped she’d find herself. She sure seemed to need to search a lot.”

  Harry couldn’t hide his skepticism. His friendly chocolate eyes, it seemed, could squint perfectly with doubt. “I’m not sure that’s the best way to go about this, but Arizona is a long way away, and it might be a challenge to get someone else from there interested enough to make the trip all the way here. All right, Becca, I’ll give it a day or two.”