5 Merry Market Murder Read online

  He glanced in my direction, his mouth and eyes tight. He wasn’t happy about what he’d had to do, but he was trying to let me know that it was necessary. Not that he needed to explain anything to me.

  I liked that he wanted to, though.

  “You’ll get the details to me later?” Allison said. As stealthily as Sam had darted to Brenton, Allison had moved to my side.

  I nodded.

  “I can’t understand what’s happening with Brenton. It’s like he’s a completely different person than the one who has been working at Bailey’s for all these years,” she said.

  I nodded. I didn’t have any idea, either. I could speculate, but if I’d learned anything at all, it was that too much speculation without substance could sometimes drive you down the wrong path, and it would definitely drive you at least a little crazy.

  Five

  It crossed my mind to follow Sam and Brenton downtown to the small police station located on Main Street, but I stayed at Bailey’s. The police didn’t shut down the market; they just disrupted it slightly and in waves. Officer Norton stayed, and a couple other officers were called in. They questioned a number of the other vendors, though I got the impression the police didn’t learn anything new. Many vendors hadn’t paid much attention to the Christmas tree trucks, and no one seemed to have additional information about what had happened to Reggie. His body was removed, but his truck remained; a crime scene unit was called in from Columbia to search it thoroughly for evidence. I was sure I’d have to either give them a new set of fingerprints or let them know that the Monson police had a set on file. Once again, I was in the position of needing to be eliminated from suspicion. I wondered if there was a limit to the amount of times I was allowed to be eliminated, or if I’d automatically be placed under suspicion at some point.

  The official police and crime scene unit vehicles were curious sights, but the customers weren’t to be deterred. Plenty of people thought it was just another good day to shop at Bailey’s, and they ignored whatever was going on in the parking lot and put their energy into filling their shopping bags.

  After a trip to an Arizona market last summer, I’d become interested in jalapeño peppers. My farm wasn’t set up to grow them, and we had a couple small pepper vendors at the market, but I’d found a small farm not far from my own that grew a large variety of peppers—jalapeños, habaneros, and milder green and red varieties. I hadn’t been able to convince Levon Sanchez to open a stall at Bailey’s, but he had lately become one of my most important suppliers. I’d created a jalapeño-mint jelly that sold well during the fall and looked to become my big December seller, if the past couple of weeks were any indication. The green color of the jelly along with the word mint coincided with what many December shoppers were looking for.

  “Oh my! Those are so pretty!” a woman in the most magnificently floppy straw hat I’d ever seen said as she picked up a jar.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “I want ten. I’m going to put pretty red bows on these little devils and give them to people I like. I haven’t yet decided what to give people I don’t like. Any suggestions?”

  I smiled and then realized that she wasn’t joking. Her long, thin face was serious underneath the drooping brim of the hat.

  “Gosh, I don’t know,” I said.

  “Well, if you have any ideas, I’ll be shopping all day; you track me down and let me know, okeydokey?”

  “I will,” I said. We completed the transaction, and I placed the ten jars of jelly into her Bailey’s shopping bag.

  The shopping bags had been Allison’s idea. They were made of slick canvas, sewn with handles sturdy enough to carry heavy loads. They were about a foot and a half tall by a foot and a half wide when flat, but could unfold to add a good seven inches of depth. They were emblazoned with “Bailey’s Farmers’ Market” across the top and had a picture of fruits and vegetables illustrating the bottom half. They’d become one of the more popular items at the market, but Allison refused to mark up the price to anything above break-even. She’d become concerned about the number of plastic and even paper bags leaving the market and wanted a better, more environmentally friendly solution. She had no idea that the bags would become so popular, that people would come to Bailey’s just to buy a bag, and that they’d also be used as holiday gifts, but she was pleased by the developments.

  “Thank you, darlin’. Now, I need some mushrooms and I can’t remember which direction to go for mushrooms. Oh! I could give poisonous mushrooms to the people I don’t like.” Fortunately, this time she laughed. “The look on your face! I’m kidding. Besides, I know your mushroom people don’t sell poisonous mushrooms.”

  I smiled genuinely this time. “You got me, but no, I don’t think we have any poisonous mushrooms. We have two different stands, each of them selling their own specialties. They’re both down there.” I pointed to my left. “They’re at the very end of the aisle.”

  We told each other thank you, and I watched her quick steps as she hurried away. Never a dull moment at Bailey’s. Returning customers were like familiar friends and family. New customers were surprises that never ceased to add excitement to the day.

  “I have the best job in the world,” I said quietly.

  “No, the second best. I have the best,” a voice said, pulling my attention to the other side of my stall.

  “Ian! Hi,” I said.

  “Hey. I do have the best job, by the way,” he said. His arms were crossed in front of his chest as he leaned on the sturdy pole between my stall and Linda’s.

  “That’s good to hear. How are you?”

  “Very well, thanks, but I came by to see how you were doing. I heard about Reggie Stuckey.”

  “I’m okay. It’s never good to find a dead body, though.”

  Ian’s face became serious as he inspected me. “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Yeah—it’s a terrible tragedy and it’s tacky to say, but I didn’t know him. I’m sad for what happened, but he wasn’t a friend.”

  “I met him. He was a nice guy.”

  “I should be asking if you’re okay then.”

  “I’m fine. I’d only met him because I’d looked at his place before I purchased the land I ended up purchasing. He’d been trying to sell his tree farm for a long time.”

  “Really? It wasn’t a successful farm?”

  “That wasn’t it. According to the numbers he showed me, it was doing okay—not great, but good enough to make a living. He told me he was just tired of all the hard work.”

  “Poor guy.”

  “Yeah. It’s sad.”

  If we’d still been dating, I would have quietly told him I’d share more with him later. I’d tell him about the contract issue and the scene in the parking lot. I was caught between wanting to share and knowing it was no longer appropriate to do so. Habits were hard to break.

  “Anyway, if you need anything, just let me know,” he said a beat later, maybe sensing my wave of uncertainty.

  “Thanks, Ian. You, too.”

  “Hey, you need to come out and see both George and Gypsy. Soon, according to George’s instructions.”

  Before Ian had purchased the land he was tilling, planting, and transforming into a lavender farm, he’d lived in the apartment above George’s garage. George was older and wonderful but had horrible vision. When Ian built his new home/warehouse, he made a space just for George. And Gypsy was the black cat I’d accidentally adopted when she was a clingy kitten and had just missed my truck’s tires as I pulled into a driveway. She and George had fallen immediately and deeply in love. The three of them—Ian, George, and Gypsy—were very happy together.

  “Bring Hobbit and Sam,” Ian said genuinely, though I sensed there was more he wanted to say but maybe couldn’t quite find the words.

  Yeah, despite both of us being grown-ups and Ian, at least, being mat
ure enough to handle just about any situation, we were still figuring it out.

  “Thanks, I will. Soon.”

  I’d heard that Ian and a mutual friend we’d made, Betsy, had become a couple. She’d attempted to manipulate her way into Ian’s life before he and I had broken up, but at that specific moment I noticed that the raw sense of betrayal I’d felt over her actions suddenly didn’t sting as much.

  Ian smiled one more time before he turned and left, and then I laughed a little at myself. When I gave it more thought, I’d realize that Ian was, of course, being friendly and supportive, but he’d also come over to my stall to try to communicate something else, something he couldn’t quite yet get out. It was probably something about Betsy.

  We’d get there.

  “What are you smiling at?”

  “Mamma, what a great surprise!” I said as I leaned over the front display table and hugged Mamma Maria, a pie vendor from the Smithfield Market I’d met as the result of my snooping into the first murder at Bailey’s.

  “It’s good to see you, Becca,” Mamma said as we disengaged. “I heard about the tragedy, though. You doing all right?”

  Mamma Maria made and sold piled-high meringue and cream pies. She herself was as stacked as her pies, and she didn’t hide her assets. Today she wore tight jeans and a low-cut, short-sleeved shirt that would have given her cleavage the starring role if it weren’t for her platinum-blonde ponytail and bright-red lipstick, which somehow got top billing. She’d been dating Bailey’s peach vendor, Carl Monroe, for over a year now and we’d all become friends.

  “I’ll . . . we’ll all be okay. It’s good to see you, too,” I said. “I haven’t made it out to Smithfield, and I haven’t seen you here for a couple months. What’s new?”

  “Sounds like we’ve both been busy. Nothing much. Carl and I are still together . . . living together actually,” she said.

  “Well, that’s new!”

  “We’re happy, Becca. Our plans aren’t not to get married, but we’re just taking it one day at a time. We’re not in a hurry. I moved to Carl’s peach farm. I wanted to tell you myself.”

  “That’s a wonderful place,” I said.

  “It is. And when we have some sort of soiree to celebrate our ‘next step,’ you and Sam will, of course, be invited.”

  “Thank you! I look forward to it. We’ll be there.”

  “Good. I’m off to talk to Allison about getting my own stall.”

  “What!? You buried the lead! You’re moving to Bailey’s?”

  Mamma laughed. “I think so. Part-time, at least. My Smithfield customer list is too big to abandon completely, but I think I can make it work at both places.”

  “That’s even better news than your good news.” I smiled.

  In another life and time, I doubted that Mamma Maria and I would have become friends, only because I doubted we would have ever met. The farmers’ market way of life attracts a diverse crowd. People can have little in common except for the fact that they work together outside, but that becomes enough to create some tight, lasting farmers’ market friendships.

  Okay, so Ian and I, and Mamma Maria, all had the best jobs in the world.

  “I’m looking forward to being around here more,” she said. “Maybe I can help keep you out of trouble.”

  “I doubt it,” I said.

  There wasn’t time to chat further. Mamma waved and winked as she backed away from the table to make room for a small group of eager customers who’d heard about the jalapeño-mint jelly from “a lady in a big, crazy hat.”

  The day turned out to be even busier than I thought it would be. I sold out a couple hours too soon. I had to write up orders for both the jalapeño-mint jelly and more strawberry preserves. I had a supply at home, but between the jams, jellies, and the remaining cookies I’d committed to baking, it looked like I had a busy couple evenings ahead. Since there was literally nothing more I could sell and I had plenty to do at home, I decided to leave early. I put a “Sold Out” sign on my front table and left a piece of paper for people to fill out if they wanted to place an order, then threw my empty inventory boxes into the back of my truck.

  The aisles of the market weren’t packed, but they were busy enough that I had to weave through the crowd a little bit as I sought out my sister. Before I left, I thought I should make sure she was okay. One curve in the flow of traffic led me toward Brenton’s stall. I was surprised to see him there, crouched to the ground and looking through a box of his dog biscuits.

  I hesitated, but only briefly. “Brenton?”

  He looked up and then grimaced slightly. “Hi, Becca.” He stood and stepped toward me. “Look, I’ve apologized to Allison, but I’m truly sorry for my behavior these last couple days. Really sorry.”

  “Sure,” I said. I knew Sam had cuffed him and taken him away, but there had been no reason to arrest him. He’d been disruptive, but no real harm had been done—unless, of course, Brenton was somehow responsible for Reggie’s death. But if Sam had thought as much, Brenton wouldn’t be back at Bailey’s. “You okay?”

  “I’m embarrassed, but I’m fine. I reacted to something that I shouldn’t have reacted to and I behaved in a way I didn’t even know I had in me. I don’t have any evidence that Denny Ridgeway killed anyone. I should never have made such an accusation. I should never have lost my cool. Again, I’m sorry.”

  “’S’okay. You want to talk about it?”

  “No. Thank you, though.”

  I couldn’t think of one thing to say that would make him spill the beans. I wanted to, but I bit back my curiosity. “If you need to talk, call me, find me, whatever.”

  “I appreciate it. Sam said the same thing. He’s a good guy, Becca.”

  “I agree.”

  Brenton looked away and down at the box on the ground. It was an obvious dismissal, but I wasn’t offended. Whatever he’d been going through, it had been rough. I understood how he felt, but I reluctantly stepped away from his stall. Maybe in time he’d be able to talk about it. Maybe Sam would tell me what he’d learned.

  As I continued down the aisle, I was distracted by Jeannine, the egg lady. She wore an off-kilter Santa hat as she stood with her back to the aisle. She was looking at the small stack of egg boxes behind her. There wasn’t much left to sell. She’d had a busy day, too.

  “Everything okay?” I asked her.

  She turned and glared at me in the way that she glares at everyone. Jeannine was short and strong, and leaned more toward paranoid than friendly. Though we usually wore about the same amount of makeup—none—her closely cropped hair was dark and unruly and she was older than me, but I didn’t know her exact age. We’d all thought the Santa hat was a strange addition to her cranky attitude, but we’d become used to it.

  “No, Becca, everything isn’t all right. Someone stole some eggs—some brown eggs, to be specific.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m missing a half dozen that I know I didn’t sell and I know I had with me when I got here this morning.”

  Jeannine Baker’s farm-fresh eggs were delicious. There’s a noticeable difference in the taste of farm-fresh eggs and a store-bought-not-fresh-from-the-farm eggs, and Jeannine had a slew of loyal customers. I knew firsthand that she’d created a financially successful farm, but could never tell her about my accidental snooping. She saw conspiracy theories everywhere and would frequently misinterpret someone’s accidental, sideways glance for something suspicious or evil. Telling her I’d seen her bank records once when Sam and I thought she’d gone missing and were searching her house might make her so angry that she’d never be able to forgive me. Of course, I wouldn’t want someone seeing my bank records, either, and I wasn’t paranoid. It was just best to keep the secret.

  “Oh, that’s too bad. Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Of course I’m sure. I count my inventory twi
ce every morning and I keep a running count throughout the day.” She held up a notebook with frayed corners.

  “I’m sorry about that, Jeannine. Were you away from your stall at all?”

  “Yes, I took a small break earlier.” Her mouth pursed tightly. “That must be it. Someone must have seen Barry in here and known that he’s not as vigilant as I am. They must have somehow snuck around back and grabbed them.” She moved her front table enough that I took it as an invitation to join her in the stall.

  I doubted that anyone had stolen six eggs, but Jeannine definitely would pay close attention to her inventory. There must be some mistake, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to be the one to discover what it was and point it out to her. Nonetheless, I stepped into the stall.

  “Look there.” She pointed to the ground underneath the back wall. There were distinct skid marks on the dirt floor, as though someone had scooted into the stall on their knees.

  “Don’t you go through here to get your eggs in and out?” I asked.

  “I do this.” She pulled up the canvas wall and secured the corner of it with a hanger hook, similar to what most of us used. “I walk only on this path. Those skids or marks or whatever weren’t there this morning.”

  The space she walked through was to the side of the marks, far enough away that her route shouldn’t have caused the digs in the dirt.

  “I never go that way over there. Ever,” she continued.

  An evenly worn path marked her entry and exit. It was obviously the path that she always used, and though I hated to admit it, it was clear that something or someone had disturbed the other space. But it would be impossible to attribute the marks to an egg thief. Bailey’s was an open-air market; people could access the backs of the stalls easily, and so could animals. It wasn’t rare that someone would turn around and find a surprise visitor—dogs, cats—in their stall. Bo, the onion guy, even had a skunk visit once.

  “Do you want to call Allison? Let her know there might have been a problem?” I asked as I took out my cell phone.