5 Merry Market Murder Page 7

  I think Sam was still pleasantly surprised when I was so forthcoming with any information that I had. Keeping secrets from the police was another hard habit to break, but I was working on it.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Okay, now what did you want to show me?”

  “Hang on a second.” I hurried to the kitchen and grabbed the decorated eggshell.

  “I found this in my truck.” I sat in the chair next to Sam instead of the one across the table as I handed him the ornament.

  “What is it?”

  “As far as I can tell, it’s a decorated eggshell, made into an ornament. It reminds me of elementary school presents we made for our parents.”

  “Who’s it from?”

  “I guess I have a secret admirer, a Secret Santa.”

  “Nah, I’m not a secret anymore.” Sam smiled. “You really don’t have any idea who put it in your truck?”

  “No clue, but there is a little more to the story.”

  Sam nodded and I told him about Jeannine’s alleged egg theft.

  “Someone stole six eggs just so they could make you an ornament? That sounds . . .”

  “Unreasonably far-fetched?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe it was someone who bought eggs, maybe this egg has nothing to do with Jeannine’s eggs, but I’ve tied the two stories together just because.”

  “It could be pure coincidence, but I don’t know. Does 1987 mean anything to you? Is it secret code for something?”

  “Not really. The thought crossed my mind that 1987 was the year that Ian was born, but that probably doesn’t mean much.” I bit my cheek. Sam and I had talked about Ian plenty, but it still made me somewhat uncomfortable.

  Sam looked at me, a half smile pulling at his mouth. “That’s possible, but I can’t see Ian going to such measures, even if he is your secret admirer. He’s much better artistically than this, too.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “You care if I ask him about it, if I feel like I need to? That will only happen if I think it might lead to something more important. As it is, it’s just a cute gift, but with the potential theft—small though it might be—and the murder . . . you never know.”

  “I’m okay with you talking to Ian about it.”

  “Good. I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sam sat the ornament on the table and said, “Let’s look at it this way—we have our first ornament. Now we just need to get the tree.”

  “Sunday?”

  “Definitely.”

  Hobbit barked her approval. We scratched behind her ears and then went to the barn to bake about ten dozen strawberry preserve–filled cookies.

  Even solving a murder couldn’t put off parade commitments.

  Seven

  Nothing’s ever quite as perfect as we want it to be, no matter what it seems like from the outside looking in. Though I might have given the impression that my relationship with Sam was shiny and close to perfect, it’s probably only fair to mention that there is a glitch—not a big one and not one that has me second-guessing our future, but a glitch nonetheless.

  Sam moved to Monson from Chicago a few years ago. He’d been a police officer there, too, and though we’ve seen way too many murders in Monson recently, Chicago was worse, much worse. And more personal to Sam.

  As I mentioned before, there’d been a fiancée. This is what I knew so far: her name was Clarissa and she was pretty, funny, and smart; that’s all he’ll tell me about her specifically—except for the really bad part, and I don’t have all of those details, either. But what I do know is that Clarissa was killed—tragically, brutally, and because Sam was a police officer. Those are the goriest details he’ll share and they’re pretty awful on their own. I can only imagine how truly heartbreaking the entire truth is. I’m sure that I’ll learn it someday. I could research it myself; we’re all connected to the world by keyboard, and terrible stories are usually the highest ranked on any search engine.

  But there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to know the details until Sam wants to tell me. So, those nights when he’s restless, or those nights when I wake up and find he’s not beside me but usually somewhere outside, somewhere sitting and thinking and hopefully working through the pain, are nights that I sometimes either learn another small kernel of the truth or just remain silently supportive because there’s just not much anyone can say.

  “Hey,” I said as I found him with Hobbit on the back patio. The night was cold, the clear sky bright with what I called a country quilt—you couldn’t see that many stars from a well-lit city or town.

  “Aw, sorry. We tried to stay quiet,” Sam said, the light from the moon glimmering and making his eyes seem happy and jovial even though I knew they weren’t.

  “No problem.” I sat in a chair next to him. “Nightmares?”

  Sam huffed a small, non-funny laugh. “No, not this time. I just woke up. Nothing but my eyes opening.”

  “I guess that’s good.”

  He was silent for a long beat, but then said, “It was as if I woke up because there were no nightmares this time.”

  I paused a moment, too. “Is that good?”

  “I think it’s probably very good. I’ll never completely get over what happened, Becca, but moving on is the goal. I want it and I know Clarissa would have wanted it, too.”

  “You might not believe this, but I’d love to know more about her. I’m okay if you want to talk about her. I’m okay even if you cared for her more than you could ever care for anyone else.”

  “Brooding me isn’t the best me, but I still don’t have much faith in my ability to tell the whole story. Someday. Maybe.”

  “You don’t brood.”

  “You and she would have gotten along really well.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “Really? The two of us wouldn’t have battled it out for you?”

  “You would have been friends.”

  “I don’t know. Did she like to can things? I mean, there’s this whole group of people who think that canning preserves, jellies, jams, and whatever else is old-fashioned and silly. If she’d have thought that, I don’t know.” I wasn’t sure I was handling this correctly, but it was the only way I knew how to handle it.

  “I doubt Clarissa ever canned anything in her life. She was a city girl through and through. I actually wanted to move out to the suburbs, but she’d have none of that. She didn’t like the idea of lawns or gardens, but I think she thought flowers were pretty. I also think she thought they only came from florists.”

  “I bet we could have taught each other a thing or two.”

  I heard Sam take a deep breath, and for a second I was concerned that I’d said something that caused him more pain.

  “Well, that wasn’t so bad,” he finally said.

  “Please tell me she was a dog person. If I’m beginning to like her, I don’t want my affections to be false. If she didn’t like dogs . . .”

  “She loved them.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “And Becca?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t compare what I felt for her to what I feel for you. I don’t think that would be fair—to her. I’m pretty sure you’re the one for me. I knew it the second I had to question you regarding the first murder you were somehow involved in.”

  “That’s kind of romantic.”

  Hobbit yawned with a dog throat-squeak and stood from where she was curled around Sam’s feet. She’d adjusted well to Sam, though she still had loyalty to Ian.

  “I think she’s ready to head back to bed,” Sam said.

  “I can take her. You can stay out here if you want to.”

  “No, I think I’m good. I think I’m getting better all the time.”

  Hopefully, we all were.

/>   • • •

  Sam was gone by the time I woke a few hours later. His shift wasn’t scheduled to start until 7 A.M., but he wanted to get a jump on investigating Reggie Stuckey’s murder, so he’d left about 5 A.M. I was out of bed and ready to go by 6 A.M., which was unusually early for me and a shock to my system. Hobbit and I took our morning walk, but she was ready for the bed on the porch shortly afterward. We were both morning people, just not ridiculously early morning people.

  I could get to Bailey’s early, but unlike the enthusiastic summer crowds, which were there right at dawn to beat the heat, the December crowds meandered in around mid-

  morning.

  I could have baked more cookies, but I was now ahead of my originally planned schedule, so I had a few hours and enough curiosity to follow through on a couple tasks that were on my mind, and Hobbit could come with me.

  I searched the Internet for the Stuckey Christmas Tree Farm. I knew that the Ridgeway Farm wasn’t too far from Monson, about thirty minutes away, but it was a hilly and curvy drive that could take up to an hour in bad weather or with Christmas-week traffic. The drive itself had become a yearly tradition for many people. Apparently whatever the Ridgeways had done to market their farm had done wonders, because the Stuckey farm was much closer to town. Its location as well as the great condition of the trees I’d seen in the Stuckey truck made me doubly wonder why in the world I, and it seemed many others, had never even heard of the farm.

  “Come on, girl,” I said to Hobbit, “let’s go check out some trees.”

  I loaded my inventory into the back of the truck, and Hobbit, suddenly wide awake again, climbed into the truck with her typical enthusiasm. Now, it didn’t matter that it was early or that she normally had some time to herself in the mornings, she was just excited to be a part of the adventure. As I steered us down the highway toward town and the market, her tail wagged approvingly.

  “Well, we’re not going to the market, but we’ll stop by later.”

  The tail continued to wag.

  Monson was never too busy, but this predawn morning was particularly quiet. Downtown would be transformed by the parade soon, but I didn’t think the decorating committee was supposed to begin until tomorrow. The semi-darkness and the few and far between strings of light had something to do with the peacefulness.

  Through most of December, the upcoming parade made Monson look like Scrooge had moved in and taken over. It had become tradition not to do much to decorate until the parade, which was always the weekend before Christmas. We’d go from boring and bland to lit up like Vegas overnight, and then decorations would stay up through New Year’s. As I skirted the edge of Main Street, I turned the radio off and left the window down a bit to enjoy the quiet, the cold air, and the scents of small town surrounded by farmland.

  Once through town, I would turn onto the road that would lead me directly to the Stuckey farm, but first I pulled the truck into a parking spot and enjoyed the peace and the quiet morning.

  “Look, girl, we get to live here,” I said to Hobbit.

  Hobbit leaned over me and peered out the window. Suddenly an orange tabby the size of a mountain lion darted across the road about a half block away.

  Hobbit looked at me as if to ask if she could go play.

  “No, we’re working—investigating, to be more precise.”

  She moved back to her side of the truck.

  “Don’t tell Sam,” I added. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  Her muzzle was sealed, I was sure, but even just asking my dog to keep a secret from Sam left me feeling suddenly uncomfortable. I’d tell him later, to alleviate the guilt I felt at not telling him beforehand. I was aware of my backward thinking, but I didn’t dwell on it.

  I was certain that Hobbit thought I was righteous and perfect, and she whined in agreement.

  I put the truck back into drive and drove for about a mile until I came upon two dirt road turnoffs, one going each direction. From the map I’d found I was fairly certain I was supposed to turn left, but there was no signage to help with the decision.

  “You’d think he’d want people to know about his farm,” I said.

  The sun was beginning to rise, so I could see a pretty good distance down the road. The area was wooded, but not thickly. I couldn’t see any sign of a farm.

  “Just a quick look.” I pulled the truck onto the road and was pleasantly surprised to find it was much smoother than many other local dirt roads. I followed it into the sparse woods and then took a curve to the right and then another one to the left, and then I brought the truck to a dead, hard halt.

  “Holy . . .” I said as I looked at the view in front of me.

  Hobbit whined again.

  “No, girl, I’m fine. It’s just so . . . so amazing. I had no idea.”

  The Stuckey Tree Farm was a couple hundred yards straight ahead. The road I was on would lead me beside a smallish lot of trees and then to a spot in front of an old farmhouse. It was a farmhouse directly out of the early twentieth century; something that fit the small valley perfectly. The sun peeked out from behind a distant slope and had the house in its sights. The direct light should have highlighted any flaws, but I didn’t see any.

  The house was a tall two-story with a wraparound porch on the bottom level and a small corner porch on the top level. Opposite the top-level porch was a white spire with a decorative ball on its tip. There were pale-green shutters bordering all the windows, milky shears fluttering inside them. The whitewashed clapboard siding looked like it had recently been painted, which might have been the one thing about the extraordinary house that I didn’t like. It was either an older house that had been refurbished or it was a new house built to look like something from the turn of the century; the century before the one we were currently in. It seemed like it should lean a little and perhaps be covered in chipped paint. But it was perfect.

  The trees filling the land next to the left of the house were dark green, and the pine scent that found its way into the cab of my truck was just as intoxicating as the scents from the Ridgeway trees.

  “There is just nothing like the real thing, is there?” I said.

  There weren’t as many pines as I thought there should be on a working tree farm, which probably explained the farm’s almost anonymous existence. The trees I did see were of varying sizes, and I couldn’t tell offhand where the ones that had been brought to the market had originally grown. Either the planted part of the land went back deeper than I could see or the stumps were well hidden.

  “Stop!” a voice rang out from the middle of the tree patch. It took a second but I finally found the woman attached to it.

  She wore a long, brown skirt and what I thought was a beige muslin shirt. Her getup reminded me of Linda, who dressed the pioneer part. This woman was a lot older than Linda, though; her steel-gray hair had been pulled back into a bun at some point, but many pieces had come loose, giving her a wild and somewhat crazed look as she chased after an animal she was bound to never catch.

  A goose—no, a huge goose—was running with quick, web-footed steps and intermittent flaps of its wings.

  “Uh-oh,” I said.

  The goose had the serpentine move down pat. I had no idea that geese were so skilled at averting a chase. I wondered when it was just going to take off and fly.

  “You stupid, stupid creature. Stop right this minute,” the woman commanded. It did no good.

  If I left at that moment, she’d notice my truck if she hadn’t already. It was hard to miss. But I wanted to leave. In the span of a few seconds I predicted several potential outcomes, and none of them were appealing. The woman was either going to ask me to leave, ask me to come in and buy a tree, or ask me to help her catch the goose and if, by chance, it was a Christmas goose in the same vein as Dickens’s, I wanted no part in the hunt.

  I stalled a fraction of a second too long. Th
e woman stopped, put her hands on her hips, and signaled in my direction.

  “Could use your help,” she yelled.

  “Stay here,” I said to Hobbit.

  I got out of the truck and waved, hoping she’d see my small stature and think I wasn’t up to the task. It didn’t work.

  “Just stop the damn creature. I’ll chase him in your direction.”

  “How?”

  She shrugged. “Any way you can. He’s a stubborn old cuss, so you can’t hurt him.”

  “Can he hurt me?” I knew the answer to this was yes. Geese could be wicked mean.

  She shrugged again. “Just be careful.”

  “Okay,” I said quietly.

  I stepped away from the false security of the truck and walked a path that was ahead of both the goose and the woman.

  The creature was pretty smart. It had quit running when she’d quit chasing it, but I was certain that its bill would be nipping and its wings would be flapping once she set everything in motion again.

  “Good, yes, the other side of the driveway should work. Use your sidestepping abilities.”

  To my knowledge I didn’t have any sidestepping abilities, but I nodded nonetheless and bent my knees in a wrestler stance.

  “Well, you might want to look a little less intimidating. Try to look friendly, and then when he gets to you, grab him.”

  “Whatever you say,” I muttered quietly but I stood upright.

  The woman started running again, and so did the goose, sort of in my direction. I suddenly understood the need for sidestepping.

  “You stupid bird!” she exclaimed.

  I didn’t take the time to point out that she was being intimidating with her words so I would have probably been okay with my stance.

  I moved to my left, I moved to my right, back and forth many times before the goose made it close enough that I could try to make some sort of move to catch it.

  But how? I didn’t want to hurt it, no matter how awful or stupid it might be. How does one reach for a big, flapping animal with a long neck and stop it without potentially breaking said neck? The way I chose was quickly proved wrong.