06 Bushel Full of Murder Page 3

  “Great! This will work. Somehow, this will work.” I lifted my coffee cup in a toast.

  I just hoped it worked in Peyton’s favor.

  Two

  The plan was to take Harry to the police station immediately and introduce him to Sam, but when I called to see if Sam was at the station, he told me he was actually at Bailey’s, there to provide crowd assistance and suggestions regarding the placement of the soon-to-arrive food trucks. He’d quickly educated himself on town ordinances regarding the legal placement of all types of temporary businesses. I mentioned that I was surprised we had any such ordinances. He added that they were pretty vague.

  Harry followed me back to Bailey’s and we both parked in the front lot, on the side opposite of where it seemed the trucks would be parked. We concluded that something important must be going on over there considering the number of people who had gathered. Harry and I observed as we leaned, side by side, against Harry’s petite rental car. The goal was to not draw attention to ourselves as we took a few minutes to get the “lay of the land.” However, between Harry’s hat and my orange truck, we were probably hard to miss.

  “When you were in Arizona, you mentioned that your love life was . . . I think you used the word messy. At the coffee shop you said your boyfriend was a police officer. Sounds like you got things figured out.”

  “I did. Sam”—I nodded toward the other side of the parking lot where Sam stood with his hands on his hips next to Allison, inspecting a patch of open land next to the parking lot that extended to the back of this side of the market stalls and up to the two-lane highway—“and I have been together since shortly after I returned home from Arizona. It’s not so messy or complicated anymore. In fact, it’s as close to noncomplicated as I’ve ever been. The woman standing next to Sam is my sister, Allison.”

  “You two look nothing alike,” Harry said.

  I laughed. “Would you believe we’re twins? Fraternal, of course. Allison is tall, dark, and beautiful like our dad. I’m short, blond, and almost as adorable as our mom.”

  “I see.”

  “Allison is Bailey’s manager. She’ll jump in and help you, too.”

  “Becca, I know you mean well, and I meant it when I said I’d stick around for a couple days, but you do know that any investigation needs to be conducted by officers of the law only?”

  “Mostly.”

  Harry laughed.

  I smiled up at his friendly eyes, which were now shaded by the brim of his hat. “I mean, of course, I know that, but like I said, I’ll look for ways that Peyton is innocent. It’s the least I can do for a family member. She was such a sweet kid, Harry. Really she was.”

  Harry nodded doubtfully and adjusted the hat.

  “What do you think of South Carolina?” I said as I swung my attention back to the other side of the lot.

  “It’s much greener than Arizona, but most places are, and it’s got lots more humidity. The parts I’ve seen are beautiful, but I haven’t seen very much. I came straight to Bailey’s.”

  I was about to offer a tour, but the first food truck rumbled into the parking lot, making sightseeing much less important.

  “Paco’s Tacos,” Harry said as he read the side panel. “Sounds good.”

  “It does,” I said. The name of the truck was painted across the yellow side panel in black letters that were framed by a red whimsical scribble and pictures of bow tie confetti in a rainbow of colors. There were no pictures of tacos, or any other kinds of Mexican food fare, but the design did its job of bringing attention to the truck and somehow making the idea of eating tacos sound like a good one, or at least a fun, festive one.

  Only a couple seconds later another truck pulled in. This one’s side panel had a number of animated chickens painted onto a white background. The chickens were cartoonish as well as chock full o’ personality, with big smiles and winks and thumbs-up (okay, wings-up). The name painted along the top of the panel was simply “Wings.”

  “That sounds good, too,” Harry said.

  “Maybe we should have had more than coffee at Maytabee’s,” I said.

  “Maybe.” Harry laughed.

  Allison and Sam directed traffic well, but when I noticed that both Ian and Brenton, the homemade dog biscuit guy, were assisting, I felt like I was neglecting an unspoken duty.

  “I should go help,” I told Harry. “Wanna come? It’d be a good way for you to meet Sam and some of the other people from the market.”

  He looked toward the crowd and frowned.

  “Do you think Peyton will recognize you?” I said.

  “Absolutely,” he said. “And I’m not sure I want her to see me yet. I’ll just stick back here a bit.”

  “Sounds good. After everyone is settled, I’ll grab Sam and come find you. Or we’ll connect this evening. I don’t know how long any of this is going to take.”

  “You still have my cell?” Harry asked.

  We confirmed that we still had each other’s numbers. We’d shared them before I left Arizona. As we looked at our phones, I realized that back then I’d thought I would probably never dial Harry’s number. Though I didn’t like the reason he was in South Carolina, it was good to see him. It would be even better to see him if Peyton turned out to be innocent of the things he thought she’d done.

  I hurried across the parking lot and joined the others just as the third truck arrived. This one was a cupcake truck. It was painted with soft pastel colors and giant but realistic pictures of cupcakes that made my mouth water. How was I supposed to stay inside the market at my stall and sell my jams, jellies, and preserves when all this delicious food was going to be a mere parking lot away?

  I watched as Sam and Allison directed traffic, pointing the trucks to their spots, which were simply spaces along the outside edge of the parking lot, beside a curb that bordered the open patch of land I’d seen them inspecting earlier.

  The land was not used for anything and wasn’t taken care of. It was about twenty by thirty yards of ignored grass and weeds. I wondered if Sam and Allison had been discussing whether it was too ugly for the truck vendors to have to look at or so ugly that having them parked next to it would hide it from market customers for a couple weeks, at least.

  I didn’t have time to ask. Allison saw me and immediately asked me to welcome the cupcake truck baker.

  The truck was called “Caked It” and the driver, owner, and baker of the business inside was Basha Bonahan. She’d come to Monson from the not far away Greenville, South Carolina. She was tall, thin, and wide shouldered; pretty, with sharp facial features that made her look more delicate than her height and shoulders.

  “Welcome to Monson,” I said.

  “Thank you, darlin’,” she said, her accent heavy and her voice surprisingly deep, as she extended a hand. She had a firm grip and a forceful shake. “I’ve been here a time or two over the years. Love this market, and I was excited when they told me this was where I was going to park for a bit.”

  “We’re happy to have you here. What can we do to make your time easier?”

  “Get up at about three in the morning and get my batters started.” She laughed.

  “Do I get to lick the spoons and bowls?” I said.

  “We might be able to work something out.”

  For a few minutes we were a flurry of movement, Basha and I. I helped her make sure the truck was level and parked where Allison wanted it to be parked, which was at the front of the line and closest to the market entrance. Basha invited me inside for a quick tour. We went through a door that was on the side of the truck facing the patch of land. Once inside, Basha opened the awning over the serving counter, which was part of the panel that faced the parking lot.

  I was struck by not only the cozy size of the work and preparation spaces, but also by the efficiency that was necessary to go along with the limited space. While standing mostly in place, Basha pointed out the preparation table that held a fancy mixer and shelves that held her cupcake tins when t
hey were empty or filled with batter or finished cupcakes. Two squat refrigerators were along the back, and two stacked ovens were to the side of the counter space. Dishes, bowls, and other utensils all had designated spots. There was a place for everything, and everything had to be in its place or a mess would surely ensue.

  I tried to imagine making my jams and jellies in such tight quarters, and the idea made me claustrophobic. I could probably manage it given enough time and trial, but I’d grown accustomed to my big kitchen and I wasn’t ready to trade it in for a truck.

  I learned that the reason for lining the trucks up next to the patch of land wasn’t to hide it, but to hide something else instead: generators. All the trucks needed either access to electricity or a place to put a power generator. Bailey’s made power available to the vendors inside the market, but since there’d been little to no time to prepare for the trucks’ arrival, Allison hadn’t managed to get power out to the parking lot. Generators would have to do for a day or two at least.

  The activity level increased even more when the fourth truck arrived. Hank was big and burly, with bright blue eyes and short brown hair. He sold bowls of homemade ramen noodles topped or mixed with all kinds of things. I had no idea you could do so much with ramen. His truck was simply called “Noodle Bowls,” and his side panels were painted with some of the items he put in the bowls along with the noodles. The pictures of meats, vegetables, and spices were just as appealing as Basha’s cupcakes, but in a different way, of course.

  Hank had a big voice and a big laugh, and was good-natured about the lack of electricity and the need for the generators, even though I could see he didn’t want to be. I wondered if he would complain to Allison in private. I hoped not.

  Between burly Hank; Daryl, the wing man (he liked referring to himself that way); Mel, the Paco in Paco’s Tacos (he explained that Mel’s Tacos just didn’t have an authentic ring to it); Basha; and those of us from the market, it wasn’t long before all but one of the trucks were lined up in their appropriate spots and ready to prepare and sell food.

  Daryl reminded me more of an absentminded professor than a “wing man.” He was tall with red bushy hair and glasses that didn’t seem to fit right on his nose; they were off-kilter every time I looked at him, but he didn’t seem to care. Other than sharing his nickname, he didn’t have much to say, but his smile was friendly enough when he was in close proximity to other conversations. He moved slowly but efficiently. I saw him stretch his back a time or two and I hoped he wasn’t overexerting himself.

  Mel was the youngest of the group, so far. He was about twenty-five and seemed more surfer dude than taco chef. His blond hair and tanned skin made me wonder if he typically parked his truck on a beach somewhere, but I had to file away my curiosity for later. He spent most of his time helping other people with their trucks, lending a hand wherever he was needed. We’d finished with most of the manual labor and I was about to strike up a conversation when the fifth truck turned into the parking lot.

  I stepped away from Mel and searched for Allison. She’d separated herself from everyone else as she jogged toward the approaching truck. I hurried to catch up to her.

  “I guess we’ll know if that’s her soon enough,” Allison said when she noticed me.

  It was a bright yellow truck with happy black letters that said “Gourmet Hot Dogs.” There were no food pictures, no list of toppings. Just a giant painted spatula that angled down and around the word “Dogs.” It was simple but, surprisingly, not boring.

  The young woman behind the wheel sent Allison and me a huge smile as she steered to the spot that Allison pointed her toward. There was no question that it was our cousin.

  Once the truck stopped, she bounded out of it and ran to us.

  “Allison, Becca, it’s so great to see you. Are you surprised?”

  As hugs were given all around, Allison and I both said things like “Yes!” and “Very!” and “How did this all come together?”

  “It was really just by accident,” Peyton said breathlessly. “I was surfing the Net and I saw something about a food truck promotion program where they were sending food trucks all over the country this summer. They mentioned that some of the locations were farmers’ markets. I called them and asked if I could be involved and then asked to come to Bailey’s. It was a great reason to come see family, mostly you two. I hope you’re not mad I didn’t let you know I was coming.” Peyton was all smiles and prettiness. She’d always been pretty, but I thought she must have hit a whole new stride in her twenties. She’d become beautiful.

  “You drove all the way from Arizona?” I said.

  Peyton blinked. “I did! Cool, huh?”

  “Very,” Allison said.

  “It was a long trip, but the truck did just fine. I’m so glad to be here!”

  “Excuse me, ladies. Allison, there’s a gentleman from the bank and another one from the city business office here to see you. I hate to interrupt but they seem impatient.” Ian smiled at me and Peyton after he spoke to Allison.

  “Thanks, Ian,” Allison said as she looked over his shoulder. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Ian? You’re Becca’s Ian? Of course you are. You’re exotic and handsome and have a ponytail and”—Peyton stepped next to him and lifted a sleeve of his T-shirt—“tattoos. Yep, you must be the Ian. I’ve heard such good things about you. I’m Peyton, Becca and Allison’s cousin.”

  Ian smiled pleasantly at Peyton and me again as they shook hands. “Nice to meet you, Peyton. Excuse me. Duty calls,” he said before he turned and walked with Allison back to the growing group by the other trucks.

  “Yep, that was Ian, and he is amazing and wonderful, and he and I aren’t dating any longer,” I said to Peyton. “But we’re very good friends.”

  Sam was helping Hank with something near the front tire of the noodle truck. He wasn’t far away and I could have pointed him out, but it seemed like too casual a way to let Peyton know about the new guy in my life.

  “Oh. Oh, dear. I’m sorry. The last I’d heard was that you were together,” Peyton said.

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” Peyton said again. But this time she didn’t sound chastised. She sounded baffled. “What in the name of strawberry jam and jelly is wrong with you, cuz? He’s . . . a lot to take in, I think.”

  I laughed. “He’s all you think he is, Peyton, but I’m afraid we weren’t meant to be. Later I’ll introduce you to the man I think really is the one. For now, what can we do to get you set up? Looks like you’ll be last in the line.”

  “Not much. It’s too late to cook much of anything today, but I’ll spend some time prepping for tomorrow.”

  “Let me get you hooked up with your generator,” I said.

  “Sounds great.”

  I looked across the parking lot at Harry. It was as if he hadn’t moved an inch from his stoic pose against the car. I was pretty sure he saw me looking. The cowboy hat tipped ever so slightly. I decided not to wave, but I tried to smile quickly without Peyton noticing before we stepped around the truck to get the generator hooked up.

  We weren’t there long and I hadn’t had a chance ask about anything, including her life in Arizona, before Allison poked her head around.

  “Could use your help, Becca,” she said.

  “I’ll take over.” Mel from the taco truck strode toward me and Peyton and the generator. He might have looked like a surfer dude, but he was a hard worker. However, anyone who owned a food truck would have to have a strong work ethic, wouldn’t they? Like farmers’ market vendors, most of the work was done by one person.

  “Thanks,” I said as we crossed paths and I joined Allison.

  “Come with me to talk to these men,” Allison said. “The guy from the bank has been bugging me for weeks about coming to talk to the vendors regarding some ideas he has. I could use your moral support and, frankly, your bluntness if we need to get him off the subject. I don’t like to make any decisions for the ve
ndors without their viewpoint in mind. Don’t be shy about sharing your opinion or whatever you think the other vendors’ opinions might be.”

  “Glad to help,” I said.

  The two men we approached stood out from everyone else. They looked nothing like market workers, or food truck chefs. They were both in dress pants, dress shirts, and ties. I couldn’t imagine how miserable they were in the heat. I was empathetically relieved that they didn’t wear jackets, too.

  I glanced quickly back and across the parking lot again. Harry still hadn’t moved at all as far as I could tell.

  I gave my full attention to Allison. I was honored to be her “bad guy” if I needed to be. She rarely asked for or needed my help. She was so darn good at everything. It was always great to be Allison. I liked it when I had a rare moment or two of it being great to be me.

  Three

  I wasn’t given an opportunity to display my “blunt” skills.

  Though Mr. Lyle Manner and Mr. Robert Ship were nice enough, they were also very formal. I wasn’t used to formal and it made me uncomfortable. Allison introduced them specifically as Mr. Lyle Manner and Mr. Robert Ship, and they didn’t ask that we call them by their first names, so we didn’t.

  Mr. Manner was from a local branch of the American Investors Bank and Trust. He was tall, very thin, with a pointy chin and short, perfectly smooth gray hair. His gray pants were a shade lighter than his hair, and his red tie made a bold statement against all the gray. He reminded me of a photographic special effect that turned the entire world black and white and shades of gray except for a few splashes of red here and there.

  Mr. Ship was from the Monson City Business Licensing Division, or MBD for short. He was just barely taller than me and round, with a totally bald head and the most adorable nose I’d ever seen. I wondered if he thought lots of people were cross-eyed because of where their eyes landed when they were talking to him, right on his nose.