Farm Fresh Murder Page 5

  “Hey, lady, want a puppy?”

  I can’t even remember what the child looked like because I was so busy falling in love with the dog. Hobbit and I had been together ever since—two years of the best relationship of my life. Her enjoyment of the pumpkin patch was a bonus.

  As I’d read on bumper stickers about fishing—time spent among pumpkins should not be deducted from one’s life. The gourds were easy to grow and they produced such wonderful orange fruit that cultivating a pumpkin patch was an easily satisfying experience.

  Unfortunately, my usually peaceful task was more stressful than relaxing this morning. As I walked through the patch, rearranging those pumpkins that needed rearranging, watering the plants, and inspecting the large leaves for mold, I kept thinking about poor Matt Simonsen and his bashed-in head. It was probably the Richard Nixon look-alike that brought the human comparison to the front of my mind, but in just about every pumpkin I looked at, I began to see the disfigured part of the dead man.

  Who was he? What had he and Abner really argued about? Did Abner use the axe to kill Matt? Did they know each other before Matt had come to work at Bailey’s? Was Abner now a victim, too?

  Beyond those specific questions, there was the whole idea of murder. Even with two divorces under my belt, I’d never felt particularly murderous toward either of my ex-husbands; crazed with anger enough to slam a door with destruction in mind, maybe, but never homicidal. How badly must someone want someone else out of their life to follow through with killing them? Had Matt Simonsen been such a large thorn in Abner’s side that the only way to relieve the pain was killing him? And if Abner wasn’t the killer, then who was? Last time I’d asked, Allison told me that there were fifty-something vendors at Bailey’s—some were part-time, others full-time. Though it seemed the police didn’t suspect anyone other than Abner, could another Bailey’s vendor have disliked Simonsen enough to do away with him? I wanted to know who that might be. And why.

  I was beginning to look forward to the meeting. It wasn’t that I thought I was smarter than the police, but I wondered if maybe my insight into the people I’d worked with for so many years might offer me a clearer look. And I really wanted to know what had happened. I was curious, but I was angry, too. Bailey’s was a great place to work and shop—someone had brought their mess to my ’hood, and I wasn’t happy about that at all. I didn’t feel unsafe, but the egg vendor Jeanine Baker had, and customers were bound to be wary for at least a little while. The sooner this was solved, the better off we’d all be.

  I finished with the pumpkins at about ten o’clock, still leaving me with plenty of time to trim back the strawberry plants and give them the good soaking that would contribute to another great crop in the spring. My strawberries had been healthy and hardy this year, but that wasn’t unexpected. Even though many of my berry jams were made from the berries of other farmers, I had a special knack for growing strawberries that were plump, sweet, and juicy. I was the envy of many local growers who tried in vain to duplicate my methods. And I wasn’t secretive about my ways. In fact, I told anyone who asked exactly what I did. But still, to this day, no one was able to grow them the way I could grow them. I liked to think that my strawberries were a result of my ability to understand my plants innately and know exactly what they needed when they needed it. Perhaps it was something cosmic—a life-to-life relationship coming together in perfect harmony. In actuality, it was probably the slight slope of my land and the way the sun fell on the plants in a perfect arc, angling just right throughout the growing season.

  Well, whatever it was, I was either lucky or damn good at it, and proud to be so.

  I didn’t believe in just turning on a sprinkler or a hose, allowing the water to run freely. I insisted on hand-watering everything. Beyond the fact that there was something peaceful about spending time in a garden or working the land, it was my job, my responsibility, to make sure that I created the best products I could. Personal attention to each and every plant was the only way, in my opinion.

  Though I cleaned my kitchen/barn and all my cooking items every time I used them, on Wednesdays I cleaned everything again, inventoried the freezers, pulled everything away from the walls, and mopped floors and corners that I couldn’t reach otherwise; this was most successfully done with music turned up to wall-shaking volume and was probably the best part of my week—I called it my head-clearing therapy, and I definitely needed that form of therapy today.

  Hobbit wasn’t allowed in the barn, so she always napped on the front porch as I cleaned, usually to the sounds of Springsteen, Motown, or George Strait. It was an odd collection of favorites, but MP3 players had changed the world and made those mixed-music collections I used to create on cassette tapes a hundred times easier to put together. Today, the “Teen Pop for the Geriatric” playlist sounded appealing, so with the background of Shaun Cassidy, David Cassidy, Donny Osmond, and Rick Springfield, I inventoried and then scrubbed until there was nothing left to scrub. The therapy worked wonders, and I emerged from the barn in a deeply contented state.

  Of course, my phone had to ring and spoil the moment.

  I fished it out of my pocket and read the ID: Unknown.

  “Hello.”

  “Becca?”

  “Abner?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re okay?! Where are you? How are you?” My mind and mouth both started to whir.

  “Becca, I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Abner, I never thought you did.” The axe hadn’t helped with that belief, but I didn’t want to lose him.

  “The police do.”

  I took a deep breath and told myself to calm down. I had Abner on the phone and the police still wanted to talk to him. Maybe I could—what did they call it—talk him in? “Abner, they’ll figure it out. If you’re innocent, they’ll figure it out. It’s what they do.”

  “I saw you at my house last night.”

  “Okay. Well, I’m sorry we were trespassing. I understand if you’re mad at me.” In truth, I was mad at him. Why hadn’t he let us know he was there? But now wasn’t the time to scold.

  Abner was silent.

  “Abner?”

  “I know who killed Simonsen.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Oh, come on, Abner. If you know anything, you have to tell the police. This needs to get solved—you owe it to Mr. Simonsen’s family to tell what you know. Shoot, you owe it to yourself to clear your name.”

  “I saw the murderer plant the axe.”

  “Okay. Let’s go tell the police.”

  Silence again.

  “Abner?” I looked at my phone. The call had been disconnected. “Dammit, Abner!”

  Hobbit nudged at my knee. And just like that, my head-clearing therapy was negated. I stood and pondered what to do next. Should I call Officer Brion? Allison? Abner hadn’t told me anything, really, just that he hadn’t killed Simonsen, but he knew who had. Why in the world wouldn’t he share that with the police? Or with me—I could take it from there. Unless he really had killed Simonsen and just wanted me to play along.

  Woof.

  “I have no idea, girl,” I said. And I didn’t. I was confused to the point that I was shaking my head to myself.

  I didn’t call anyone. Not yet, at least. Abner wanted to talk to me. Maybe he’d call again and tell me more—either more truth or more lies, whichever. But if he did call again, I planned on being much better prepared.

  Six

  So, who killed Matt Simonsen? I thought as I looked around the tent.

  Farmers’ market meetings were an unusual sight, to say the least. First of all, meetings weren’t standard operating procedure for a gathering of farmers and artists. We were a restless crowd, made up of people who didn’t do much in a committee way. We each did our own thing and didn’t bother with group decisions. Sitting around in a meeting went against our grain. But the good part of any rare meeting we might have was the treats—everyone bro
ught a little something. I contributed some blackberry jam, and there was an assortment of fruit, cookies, pies, and breads. And Betsy, whose tomatoes were heavenly, brought a full basket, a couple good knives, some salt, and my new favorite topping for her fruit: peanut butter.

  As the tent filled and people grabbed their food, I sidled my way next to Betsy.

  “So, I heard that you heard the argument between Abner and Matt Simonsen.” It wasn’t subtle in the least, but I was never very good with subtle. Plus I didn’t want her to later think I had greeted her with ulterior motives.

  Her green eyes flashed and opened wide. She was the most granola person I knew, and it worked well on her. Her long, straight brown hair was thick and smooth—if I’d tried to grow my hair past my shoulders, my head would have been covered in blond frizzy, stringy things. Her skin was flawless and would have looked painted if she tried to wear makeup—I didn’t wear much myself, but my skin was freckled, and when I occasionally spread on some foundation, the improvement was noticeable. She wore bohemian dresses in contrast to my overalls and jeans. She was also very smart, with a quick wit that often left me laughing and wondering where she came up with such stuff.

  “Well, Becca, I think I heard the argument. That’s what I told the police.”

  “What do you think you heard?”

  “Hmm. The police have that information. I’d feel wrong about sharing it with just anyone.”

  “I understand. It’s just that Abner is such a good friend. I hate thinking he actually killed someone—if he’s innocent. You might ease my mind.”

  She smiled slyly. “Come on, Becca. What’s up?”

  I guided her to the side of the tent and bent close to her ear. “I just want to figure this out—it isn’t that I don’t have confidence in the police. I do, but they don’t know us the way we know us.” I waved my hand, taking in the world of farmers’ market vendors we lived in. “We might be able to help things progress faster. While this is unsolved, I don’t think our safety is in jeopardy, but I do think our businesses are.”

  That got her attention.

  “Well, keep it to yourself,” she said. I nodded in agreement. She hesitated another moment but finally spoke again. “They were yelling, and I heard Mr. Simonsen call Abner a stupid son-of-a-bitch. Abner then said something to the effect of ‘If you’d died all those years ago, we wouldn’t be dealing with this—I could just kill you now and we could all finally move on.’ That’s all I heard.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. That’s all I heard.”

  “None of that sounds like Abner.”

  “I know, but he was very angry. I’ve never seen him like that.”

  “Me, either.” I tried to imagine those words coming from Abner, but I couldn’t. And I couldn’t think of anything else to ask. “Well, thanks, Betsy.”

  “Sure. Let me know what you find out.” She turned and went back to the other vendors.

  I maneuvered to the food but found I wasn’t hungry anymore. Hobbit stayed at my heels as though she’d actually been trained instead of treated like another human.

  I glanced around the small crowd—of the fifty-something vendors who worked at the market, only about thirty had shown up for the meeting. Most of my friends were there: Linda, Herb and Don, Jeanine, Barry, and Brenton. I knew most of the others, too, but hadn’t had the time (or taken it) to get to know them all that well.

  As much as I tried not to look for him, I noticed Ian there, too. He was in a tête-à-tête with Barry. He looked in my direction when I took a seat. He half smiled and half waved as Barry commanded his attention. I wondered if Ian knew anything about corn or was being forced to learn.

  I sat on the other side of the room. Not because I was being coy, but because all the chairs on his side were taken. I was pretty sure that Ian’s wave and smile to me paled in comparison to the light his eyes took on when he saw Hobbit. I was glad she didn’t see him. It would have been humiliating to have her abandon me to sit beside someone else.

  “Thanks, everybody, for coming in this afternoon. I hope I haven’t disrupted your day too much.” Allison stood at the front of the tent. She was back to her normal self: beautiful and confident. I knew the murder had taken, and would continue to take, a huge toll on her, but she was the consummate professional and she knew that business for her vendors had to go on. In keeping with their respect for her, the crowd quieted quickly and gave her their full attention.

  “Yes, thanks, everyone,” she repeated. “We’ve had a rough couple of days and I wanted to bring as many people together as possible to try to address all concerns or questions. Of course, if you’d like to talk to me in private about anything, please just let me know.

  “I know that some of you knew Mr. Simonsen personally. Our condolences have been extended to his family, and we offer them to you as well. I didn’t know him myself for very long, but he seemed like a very nice man. I’ve already spoken to his wife—Mr. Simonsen might have only begun working at our market, but he worked at many others over the years. He and his son worked together over at Smithfield for a long time. His son, Jessop, will continue to run their peach business over there. Those of you who know him might want to send sympathy to him or to Mrs. Simonsen.”

  I glanced around, but no one had the shifty eyes of someone who had murdered someone the day before. I was curious, though—who, other than Abner and Barry, in this group had known Matt Simonsen, and how well? It wasn’t the appropriate time to interject such a question. I tried to figure out who was missing from the meeting, who was and wasn’t there yesterday. So much had happened, and between talking to market vendors both in person and on the phone, I couldn’t put together in my head who had been where and when. I silently chastised myself for not paying better attention.

  “We will place a small plaque on the front of the office building honoring Mr. Simonsen.” Allison cleared her throat. “It’s always difficult to broach the subject of getting back to work when a tragedy occurs, so please forgive me if this offends anyone—but I just want to remind you that the police have given us the go-ahead to continue with our jobs. I’m not saying this to rush anyone. But I know that sometimes getting back to work can help—of course, do this at your own speed, but I want you to know that we’re cleared to do so. Does anyone have a question? Don’t be shy.”

  Jeanine raised her hand hesitantly.

  “Jeanine.”

  “Well, I wonder . . . well, I can’t help but . . . Allison, how safe or unsafe are we?” Jeanine’s face was still pale and drawn. She probably hadn’t gotten much sleep.

  “I think we’re very safe, Jeanine, but we should all be careful. The police think that the murderer came here specifically for Mr. Simonsen.” Allison cleared her throat again. “They feel we’re safe. I’d love to tell you that I’m one hundred percent sure that nothing else awful is going to happen at Bailey’s, but the truth is, we should all be aware and perhaps use the buddy system. I’ve put together a list of potential buddy groups. It’s based on your schedules and the locations of your stalls, and if you’ve told me you despise someone, I promise I haven’t paired you with them.” The room snickered along with Allison’s attempt to lighten the mood. “Perhaps we could unload and load in pairs for a while. And we should all watch out for each other. I’ll post the list after the meeting. If I need to make any changes, let me know.”

  “Who’s my partner?” Jeanine said.

  “Brenton.”

  Jeanine seemed to think a moment before she nodded. “Brenton, you good with that?”

  “Absolutely, we’ll trade eggs for dog biscuits.”

  “I don’t have a dog,” she said flatly.

  “I know someone who can solve that problem.”

  Jeanine’s face finally flooded with the color of someone not so petrified. She and Brenton were actually pretty good friends and had worked next to each other for some time.

  “I like your plan, Allison,” she said.
>
  Leave it to Allison to have a good plan. The collective mood in the tent changed noticeably. Jeanine’s smile was genuine, and Brenton leaned back on his chair and stuck a piece of straw in his mouth.

  “Good. I suppose the other thing is the fall equinox party. You’ve all worked very hard this year, and I’d love to treat you and your families to dinner on Sunday night as planned, but in light of what has happened, does anyone think that would be an inappropriate thing to do? Should we cancel or postpone?”

  At first everyone was silent, and then a low murmur spread through the tent. This was a rough question—a party after such a horrible incident didn’t seem right, but the dinner was looked forward to and changing it to a day other than the Sunday before the equinox didn’t fit with either the idea behind it or the fact that some vendors would be gone from the market after this weekend.

  “Oh, hey, Allison, I have an idea,” Brenton said as he pulled the straw out of his mouth and sat up. “Let’s still have the dinner, but let’s have it in Matt Simonsen’s honor. I didn’t know the man, but he worked the land like most of the rest of us. He’d have appreciated the spirit behind it, I’m sure.”

  The murmur turned into sounds of agreement.

  “Does anyone object?” Allison asked. “Okay, then, we’ll keep it scheduled. Any other questions?”

  “Where’s Abner?” a voice called from the back of the tent, but I couldn’t tell who it was attached to.

  “Abner is taking some time off,” Allison said. I didn’t point out that the official word for him was “missing.”

  “I don’t think he should be allowed to come back to the market until we know for sure he’s not a killer.” Goddard McElroy stood and leaned on his cane. He was a part-timer who sold baked potato meals out of a cart. His cart held a variety of toppings that melted perfectly over the hot potatoes. I often wished he was at Bailey’s full-time. He was only in his forties but had a bad foot that required him to use the cane. He was never outspoken, so his words caught us all by surprise.