06 Bushel Full of Murder Page 7

  I felt properly guilty. “I know. Sorry.”

  Sam smiled and shook his head. “You worry me, Becca, but you’re pretty fun to have around so the worry is worth it, but still, be safe. Please.”

  I’d gotten a little better at being safe, about being a little less nosy, but he was right and I needed to improve. And even though he kept his tone light, I could hear the concern in his voice. There was no need for me to cause him unneeded worry, at least not about these sorts of things.

  “I will, I promise,” I said with a thoroughly brazen and flirtatious move to sit on his lap.

  Neither of us spent much time worrying for the rest of the night.

  • • •

  Though you would think that the mere excitement about getting to attend a morning breakfast meeting with two police officers would be enough to render me wide awake, the caffeine boost from Maytabee’s strongest ever in the universe blend was necessary. Sam had rescheduled the meeting for five o’clock—in the morning. When he awakened me at four thirty, I got up and ready with the most cheerful demeanor I could muster at such an early hour. It was rough.

  Sam and Harry hit it off immediately. Well, in that way two serious men with serious matters to discuss can hit it off. They conversed easily and intelligently and before long were on the same page regarding Peyton and her potential crimes. I told Harry about the canvas bag, but was surprised by his reaction.

  “You didn’t see her pull it up out of the ground, right?” he said to me.

  “No. I just saw her dusting it off.”

  “She might not have dug it up at all. The timing is questionable and might be off,” he said.

  “It seemed like a reasonable conclusion.” As I said the words, I realized how right he was. I’d played a scene out in my head, but not all the pictures were real; I’d added a few. “Oh, I see. Should I just ask her about it? Tell her what I saw?”

  Harry and Sam looked at each other.

  “Not quite yet,” Sam said, changing his mind from the night before. “Let me get a better feel for what’s going on. Harry and I can work together on this, Becca. Maybe you can talk to Peyton at some point about these things, but let’s not let her think you’re trying to catch her at something.”

  “Which is the opposite of what I’m doing. I’m going to prove that Peyton’s innocent.”

  Sam put his hand over mine on the table. “We know she’s family.”

  Harry nodded, but I sensed that Peyton being part of my family was the least of his worries.

  Sam’s radio buzzed. “Sam, you there?”

  I recognized the voice as Officer Vivienne Norton’s, the toughest female police officer in the entire county, maybe the state.

  Sam reached to the handset that was secured to his shoulder. “I’m here, Vivienne. What’s up?”

  “Need you at the American Investors Bank and Trust. Immediately. You know where it is?”

  “Sure. What’s wrong?”

  There was a slight hesitation before Vivienne spoke again. “Sam, we’ve got a 10-89.”

  Sam stood from the table. “At the bank?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “I’ll be right there. Gotta go,” he said to no one and anyone who might be listening.

  “Want me to come?” Harry asked.

  “No, not right now. I’ll get back with you later,” Sam said. He looked at me like he’d just remembered I’d ridden with him. “Can you go with Harry?”

  “Sure, but what is a 10-89?” I asked.

  Sam hesitated. “Deceased person.”

  “Dead body?” I asked. “At the bank? Who?”

  “I’m going to go find out. Go with Harry.” Sam turned and hurried out of the coffee shop.

  “This isn’t good,” I said as I looked at Harry.

  “No, ma’am, these sorts of things are never good. But I’m sure Sam will take care of it.”

  “He will,” I said as I looked out of Maytabee’s front window. Who was dead? And how did they get that way?

  And why was Peyton being in town now even more worrisome?

  Six

  Harry dropped me off at my house, and I took Hobbit out for her morning jog before loading up my truck with more jams and preserves and heading into Bailey’s. I was like a teenager who couldn’t stop checking her phone. No one called or texted, Sam included. Hobbit didn’t appreciate that I seemed distracted, and by the time I told her I had to leave, she seemed relieved to get rid of me.

  Harry said he’d probably see me back at the market later. We decided that I needed to introduce him to Allison as soon as possible. She needed to know what was going on with Peyton, too, and today would hopefully be less hectic than yesterday. But all those plans were tentative, depending upon what we learned about the events at the bank.

  It was inappropriate, I knew, but I spent a brief moment being relieved that I hadn’t been the one to find Monson’s latest dead body. I’d been on that particular unlucky roll for some time. Maybe my luck was changing—I cringed at myself. I’d gone from inappropriate to wildly inappropriate.

  I pulled into the load/unload area of Bailey’s and parked the truck, realizing I’d been so distracted on the ride into town that I didn’t remember the trip. I needed to get in the moment.

  Other familiar trucks and vans were parked in their spots. Lots of others. I recognized most of them and realized the big turnout meant it was probably going to be a busy day at Bailey’s. Most of the time a good majority of vendors worked from their stalls, but some days, when almost all the vendors were there, you knew a big crowd was expected. It looked like that was happening today, though I didn’t know why.

  My guess proved to be correct. I wasn’t late, but the second I pulled open the back flap of my stall and started moving my inventory inside, I was met by the rumble of lots of eager customers.

  Linda, my friend and stall neighbor, came out through her back flap just as I was grabbing the last box out of my truck.

  “Becca, hey, you’re earlier than normal, but I think that’s a good thing. We’re busy.” She reached into the back of her van and pulled out a few pie boxes. Linda made and sold the best fruit pies in the history of all fruit pies. She dressed in a pioneer woman getup that only added to her made by loving hands reputation. “I ran a little behind this morning and I wonder if I’ll ever catch up.”

  “What’s the reason for the big crowd?” I asked.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “You have any more pies in there?” I asked as I set the box of my preserves on the ground.

  “No, these are my last few. We’ll talk later,” she said as she and her pie boxes slid through the gap in her back flap.

  I retrieved the box of jams and with the same maneuver moved into my stall.

  It didn’t take long to get my product up and ready to sell. I had a couple customers, regulars, who swung by as I was stacking and arranging. They knew what they wanted and they had exact change so they were easy to take care of.

  I’d built a good reputation too. Somehow I grew the most amazing strawberries, perfect for jams and preserves. I purchased other fruits (and peppers for my jalapeño mint jelly) from local growers and had become adept at making all kinds of delicious flavors. I gave the credit for the delicious strawberries to the South Carolina soil that I was lucky to have on my property. The recipes I used were from my Uncle Stanley, who’d purchased the land and house and had remodeled the barn into a kitchen with the idea of making jams and preserves as a retirement project. He and my aunt Ruth had been killed in a terrible car accident before he could make his first jar or see a strawberry plant produce even one piece of fruit. Allison and I had been their beneficiaries. I’d gotten the land, house, and recipes, and Allison had gotten some money, a comfortable amount that she’d put into a savings account to be used for her son Mathis’s education.

  I would always miss my aunt and uncle, their kind hearts and generous natures, but I knew they’d be pleased with the cho
ices we’d made with their legacy.

  As the flurry of business built even more, I happened to see Betsy, the tomato lady, scurry down the aisle, seemingly in an agitated hurry. I might not have thought anything about it if I hadn’t spent time with her the day before. But her pulled-together eyebrows and her tight mouth, along with how she moved people out of her way with her sheer presence, made her less bohemian and even more angry witch today. I wondered what was going on.

  There was nothing I could do to find out, unless I left my stall unattended and went to ask her. Not a good plan with the continual flow of shoppers stopping and passing by.

  In between customers, I noticed my phone vibrating in my pocket. I’d been looking at it all morning, until I’d gotten to the market. Since then, it appeared that I’d missed calls from Sam, Allison, and Ian. The current call coming in was from Allison.

  “Hey,” I said as I answered.

  “Did you get my message?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “S’okay. A terrible thing happened this morning.”

  “I know. A dead body at the bank.”

  “You know who it was?”

  “No.”

  “It was Robert Ship, one of the men who were at the market yesterday.”

  I paused. “I thought he was the business office guy.”

  “He was. No one knows why he was at the bank.”

  “Oh no. What happened to him?”

  “He was killed, Becca.”

  “Oh no,” I repeated. “Did they catch the killer?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “Just tell me, please.”

  “Sam took some people in for questioning and he’s looking for one other person.”

  “Who did he take in?”

  “Oh, Becca. Peyton, for one. Jeff was also picked up. They had appointments though I’m not clear who with—the bank or Mr. Ship at the bank. It’s confusing right now. Lyle Manner, the guy from the bank, was also taken in. But they’re also looking for Betsy.”

  “Betsy?” I said, my thoughts of despair over Peyton pushed to the side for a moment.

  I pulled my front table back and stepped around it, merging behind a small group. “Allison, I saw her here, not long ago. She was hurrying down the aisle, I thought she was going to her stall. I’m going there now.”

  “She was here? At Bailey’s?”

  “I’m sure I saw her. I’m on my way to her stall to check.”

  “I’ll meet you there.”

  It didn’t take long to get to Betsy’s stall even though it felt like it did. As I passed Ian’s, I noticed he was with a customer, but he didn’t see me pass by. My feet were not able to move as quickly as I would have liked because of the people in my way. It seemed like my destination kept moving farther down the aisle. I arrived at the exact moment Allison arrived. She was breathing heavily enough to make me think she’d run from wherever she’d been.

  We looked at each other and then in tandem looked down at the note Betsy had placed on her front table. She’d secured it with a rock but its bottom corners flapped with the breeze stirred up by passing shoppers.

  The note said: Sorry for the short notice, but I will be leaving Bailey’s at this time. I hope to make other arrangements to sell my tomatoes soon. Here’s my e-mail if you’d like to stay in touch.

  The stall was otherwise empty. No sign of the previous day’s bins, or chairs, or cash box. No tomatoes anywhere. Most important, no Betsy.

  “She didn’t say anything to you?” I asked.

  “No, not a word. When I came by her stall earlier, her stuff was here. Well, her tomatoes weren’t but her tables were. I thought she just hadn’t made it in yet. I told Sam as much when he called looking for her,” Allison said.

  “She left her e-mail address. Maybe she’s not trying to hide,” I said.

  “Then why didn’t she talk to me first?” Allison said. “She and I have never had one moment of difficulty. She could have talked to me about anything.”

  A thought occurred to me. “Come with me a sec.”

  Allison followed me back to Ian’s stall. He was still with a customer but he saw us peering in this time and waved, making me think it was okay to wait. He joined us a few seconds later.

  “Did you try to call me?” I said.

  “I did. Well, I meant to call Allison but you two are next to each other in my phone. Then a customer showed up and I didn’t have time to fix the mistake. Well, no matter. It’s good you’re both here. I saw Betsy packing up her stall. She seemed very upset. I tried to talk to her, but she literally waved me away. Wouldn’t look at me. Wouldn’t say anything. I thought you should know. Sorry I got the number wrong.”

  “Was she alone?” Allison asked.

  “Yes. I really did try to help her get her bins through the back, but she didn’t want my help and she managed it pretty quickly.”

  “Didn’t say anything about what was bothering her?”

  “No.”

  “Thanks, Ian. I appreciate it,” Allison said.

  “She definitely cleared out,” I said.

  Allison nodded. “Something’s up. I’ll find her and talk to her. I’m sure we can work out whatever needs to be worked out.”

  Ian was pulled away by a young man interested in “the biggest yard art” that could be sculpted. Allison gave me a serious look that I read to mean “Follow me.” So I did.

  A few moments later we were in her air-conditioned office. If I’d been the market manager instead of Allison, I probably would have just sat inside the office all summer and hoped the market vendors didn’t need me for anything.

  She plopped into her chair and I sat in the one across the desk. The space was small, but more cozy than cramped.

  I’d rarely seen my sister flustered. Maybe not ever. She’d always been the reasonable twin, the one who could handle anything, come up with the proper solution to any challenge. Today, though, she looked harried. Her normally smooth, dark ponytail was framed by a few escaped flyaways.

  “I will look for Betsy and try to figure out the problem there—well, I suppose if the police don’t find her first. Right now, we need to talk about Peyton.”

  I nodded eagerly. “Allison, I haven’t had a chance to tell you something and at this moment it seems like I was avoiding it but I wasn’t. I just . . . well, I need to tell you some things about Peyton and another visitor we have in town.”

  Allison blinked, smoothed her hair, and then listened patiently as I told her about Harry and what he’d shared with me regarding his suspicions of Peyton, and how he’d come all the way across the country just to investigate the Arizona crimes.

  “Oh my, Becca. That’s all so terrible. Does Harry really think Peyton assaulted someone, or is a thief? I’m not as concerned about stealing the secret recipe, but the assault and the money? That’s bad.”

  I swallowed hard because the next words I had to say didn’t want to come out. In fact, I felt like I wanted to cry even as I thought them.

  “And now maybe murder?” I finally said.

  “Oh, Becca, Mom and Dad are going to freak.” Allison deflated.

  Though that was probably true, it was an odd first thought to have. I chalked it up to stress, and I nodded in agreement.

  Seven

  “Harry?” I said as I stepped toward my stall. He was behind the front table, helping my customers.

  “Becca. It just seemed like the thing to do,” he said as he handed a jar of blueberry preserves and a couple dollars’ change to a young man with the best dreadlocks I’d ever seen. “People were wondering where you were. I thought . . . well, it just seemed like it needed to be done.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled as I stepped back behind the table and joined him.

  Harry took off his ever-present cowboy hat and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. He wiped from his forehead all the way to the back of his neck. “Goodness, the humidity is thick here.”

  I laughed. “A little different from Ari
zona. But really, thanks. I up and abandoned my post. I thought I would come back to an empty stall, and that the customers would have had every right to just take whatever they wanted. If I have to step away, I usually leave a note. You saved my cash flow for the day, and my reputation. Much appreciated.”

  “My pleasure.” He plopped the hat back onto his head.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I said. Allison and I had agreed that it would do no good to keep the fact that the police wanted to talk to Peyton about a murder from Harry. He and Sam had already met and hit it off if I wasn’t mistaken. Sam would surely give Harry the details when they spoke again anyway, not to mention that the news would spread quickly no matter how much we might not want it to. “I need to tell you something.”

  In between and around two more transactions, I told Harry who had been found dead at the bank and how it seemed that murder was suspected.

  He reminded me of Sam momentarily, as his chocolate eyes became extra serious and pensive at the same time. They didn’t change colors, though, so not quite Sam’s. However, even with their singular shade, they managed to say a lot.

  “I will be honest with you, Becca, I would never suspect your cousin could commit murder. She struck me as someone a little . . . I don’t know, less than reliable, perhaps desperate, young and not as smart yet as she might be someday, but not a killer. And if she’s been in Arizona for a while, how would she have known the victim beforehand? Didn’t you mention that she didn’t ever live here in Monson?”

  “Never. Just visited family. She grew up in Virginia. She just met Mr. Ship yesterday, I’m pretty sure about that. He was going to help the food truck vendors set up temporary business licenses.”

  Harry shook his head slowly. “I’d like to talk to Sam if he isn’t too busy at the crime scene. Where is his office located?”

  I gave Harry the simple directions to Monson’s small downtown police station.

  “You going to be okay without me?” he said.

  “I’m not really sure,” I said. “You handled everything like a pro. Thanks, Harry.”