Farm Fresh Murder Page 8

  “Well, my sister manages Bailey’s. She came down for a meeting. I came along to give her some company—I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”

  “Oh. Your sister—Allison Something?”

  “Yes. Reynolds. Allison Reynolds.”

  “She talked to my mom. She sent some flowers, too . . . that was nice.”

  “We know the police are working hard to figure out who . . . what happened.”

  “Oh, I know who killed my father,” Jessop said. Suddenly, his eyes filled with both anger and tears. He cleared his throat as he turned to rearrange the peaches again. The tears never fell down his cheeks.

  “You do?”

  “Yes.” He looked at me, tear-free but full of dangerous anger. “Abner Justen killed my father as sure as I stand here today.”

  “Really? What makes you so sure?” My chest tightened. He sounded so certain.

  “I just know, that’s all.”

  “Have you explained to the police why you think that?”

  “Of course. They’ll find evidence, I’m positive, but for now they’ve got nothing substantial.”

  I nodded. “So, they had a history, your father and Abner?”

  Jessop huffed. “I’d say. Fifty years or more.”

  “Wow, that’s a long time.”

  “Well, if Abner wasn’t such a sore loser, this never would have happened. By the time Dad started working at Bailey’s, Abner should have been long over it.”

  “Sore loser?” I wanted to keep him talking. “What, a land deal or something?” It was the best I could come up with.

  Jessop huffed. “Not quite. Aw, hell, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you.”

  “Only if you’re comfortable with that, Jessop. I’m not a gossiper . . .” I should have been ashamed of myself—this was none of my business. But it is my business, I mantra’d silently. I’d made it my business, if nothing else.

  Jessop sighed deeply. As he released the air from his lungs, I heard a hitch of emotion. He was hurting in ways I didn’t ever want to experience firsthand.

  “It was my mother,” he muttered.

  “Excuse me?”

  “My mother. Abner was in love with my mother. He was dating her when she met my father. She dumped Abner for my dad.” A nerve twitched at the side of Jessop’s face. He looked down and away from my eyes.

  “Oh my,” I said with my own heavy sigh. “Did you tell the police?”

  “Of course. They’ll catch him.”

  “Oh my,” I repeated. As far as motives went, I could imagine the organ keys of doom now announcing Abner’s guilt. “I didn’t know, Jessop. I’m sorry.”

  “S’okay. They’ll catch him. Hey, could you excuse me, please?” His voice cracked.

  “Of course.” I watched Jessop turn and walk out the back of his stall. I felt terrible for being the cause of such emotion—it hadn’t been my intention. I was also simmering with anger. If Abner had called me at that moment, I probably would have answered only so I could hang up on him.

  I debated whether I should leave or stay and apologize to Jessop again for disturbing his day, but if I were him, I wouldn’t want to see me when I came back. I turned to walk away, my appetite for funnel cake reduced to nothing.

  The market was already getting crowded, which was normal for a Thursday at most markets. I dodged people at about every third step as my thoughts performed mental gymnastics. It sure seemed like Abner could have been the murderer. But—I had to remember—seeming guilty and really being so was always a matter of evidence.

  What about those pictures—that woman, was she Jessop’s mother? Was that evidence? Officer Brion had asked me if I knew who was in the picture—he’d acted like he didn’t know. Did that mean he really didn’t know, or that he knew and was just trying to get more information? Probably the latter. Did he know that Abner had been in love with Matt Simonsen’s wife? It was a long time ago, but still . . .

  And what did Ian have to do with all of this?

  I didn’t realize I had stopped walking until an elderly lady bumped into me.

  “Oh, dear, pardon me,” she said.

  “No, I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

  “Fine, fine.” She waved me away and continued her walk/shuffle. As I watched her to make sure she was none the worse for wear, something down the aisle caught my attention.

  If he hadn’t been so tall, I might not have thought I was seeing Carl Monroe, the Bailey’s peach vendor who seemed to want to give me the brush-off yesterday, moving quickly away from me.

  I knew I was seeing a tall person with short dark hair zigging and zagging away through the crowd, but I couldn’t tell for sure if it was Carl.

  Suddenly, he stopped moving and turned. He looked directly at me, his eyes wide and afraid. I lifted my hand to wave hello, but he turned and hurried on his way. Again. The man was trying to give me a complex.

  “What the . . . ?” I took off running, unfortunately bumping right into the woman I’d stopped in front of a moment before.

  “Young lady, have you been drinking?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Drugs, then?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m very sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine, but you either need to slow down or walk at a steady pace. You’re going to hurt someone. And if you are doing drugs, get some help.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” I took a wide step to the other side of the aisle and continued the chase after Carl Monroe.

  I thought I’d lost him, but then I caught sight of his dark hair again as I rounded a corner. He was so tall and I was so short that I had to resort to jumping every few steps to keep track of him.

  If my short-term memory was correct, he was about to reach a sort of fork in the aisles. He would have two paths to choose from. I stopped jumping so that I could just run as fast as possible to try to get close enough to see which way he went.

  Right before I reached the fork, I jumped one more time. I got lucky; I saw Carl Monroe turn to the right—he was so tall he couldn’t really hide. I turned up my speed and ignored the looks and exclamations of irritation directed my way.

  I moved as quickly as I could and got lucky again. Suddenly the aisle cleared; I’d be able to veer right easily. Unfortunately, all my jumping hadn’t made me privy to the fact that after I turned onto the new aisle, I should have moved slightly to the left to avoid a collision with a man carrying two cases of huge, fresh, ripe, and beautiful tomatoes.

  I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything like the tackle I inflicted on the poor tomato man. I had just the right momentum to smack into him with my full body, propelling him backward and all of those lovely tomatoes even farther backward and airborne, splatting on tables, poles, tent walls, and people.

  As I lay on top of the man I’d taken down, I looked up and around at the unbelievable mess I’d caused. It was as though time had stopped as vendors and customers looked at me, at the mess, back at me, and at the tomato juice that dripped everywhere.

  “Becca?” My sister appeared from behind someone with a huge red splat on their white T-shirt.

  From the ground, atop the poor man I’d assaulted, I waved feebly and wished for the earth to open up and swallow me whole.

  Nine

  The good news: no one was hurt.

  The not-so-good news: Carl Monroe got away, I’d made a complete fool of myself, there was tomato juice everywhere, and the old woman was now convinced that I was definitely either drunk or doing drugs.

  Garrett Martinez fortunately had a great sense of humor. I’d taken him down and ruined his tomatoes, but he managed to lasso in any anger he felt and replace it with something that reminded me of hysterical humor.

  Not everyone who’d been hit by a tomato found it quite as funny, but between Allison and myself, we extended apologies and promises to replace their clothing, and I probably offered to give away all of my upcoming season’s pumpkin preserves if they came to Bailey’s and reminded me what h
ad happened.

  With wet towels, Allison and I cleaned up what we could from product displays. The dirt floor would eventually soak in whatever else remained.

  It was honestly one of my worst moments, ever.

  “Garrett, you will take this money and you won’t argue with me any further,” I said as I handed him some bills.

  “It was only two small cases, Becca. I have lots more tomatoes, and you’re giving me enough money for about five cases.”

  “Please take the money. The inconvenience I’ve caused is beyond what this covers, anyway.”

  “Accidents happen.” Garrett shrugged. “Here.” He took the money, kept one bill, the denomination of which I couldn’t discern, took my hand, slapped the rest back into it, curled my fingers, and smiled. “You’ve had a rough day. I’m not upset—no one is hurt. I’ll come see you at Bailey’s. My mouth waters at the thought of pumpkin preserves on my toast this winter.” He turned and presumably went to get more tomatoes, or change clothes.

  “It’s all right, Becca. He’s right, accidents happen.” Allison pushed back a stray hair that had fallen out of her ponytail. “We’ve got things pretty well put back together here. And Jack isn’t upset in the least.”

  “Good.” That was the last thing Allison needed—a market manager angry at her for anything. “What a morning.”

  “Why were you running?”

  “Carl Monroe.” I took the wet towel she was holding, dipped it in a bucket full of water, and wrung it out for one more swipe over a table.

  “Our Carl Monroe—peach seller?”

  “Yep, the same one.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Come on, let’s put this stuff away and pick up my pie, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  Once we were on the road and had stopped talking about the pie and how it defied all logic and physics, I told Allison what I’d learned.

  “Can you believe that Ian worked at Smithfield and he didn’t tell me?” I said as I slowed my truck for a red traffic light.

  “Becca, I knew Ian worked at Smithfield. I didn’t think to tell you. I’m sure he told the police.”

  “Oh. Well, I suppose he doesn’t owe me any sort of explanation, but still . . . we went out to Abner’s together. It would have been a good time to tell me he knew Matt Simonsen.”

  “He might not have known him well enough for it to matter.”

  “Or he did know him well—too well.”

  “There is that, but I find it hard to believe that Ian—or Carl Monroe, for that matter—could kill anyone. You say you saw Carl leave the meeting suspiciously yesterday?”

  “Yes, and then he ran from me today.”

  “I don’t understand it, but there’s probably a reasonable explanation. You can talk to him at Bailey’s.”

  “I will.”

  “I think the item of most interest is Abner’s past with Matt Simonsen’s wife. I’m trying very hard not to suspect Abner—don’t want to, definitely can’t let anyone other than you think I do—but his past romance just adds another brick in the wall, if you know what I mean,” Allison said.

  “That plus his sudden disappearance don’t bode well,” I said.

  “No.”

  “But there’s one thing that I keep getting hung up on.”

  “What?”

  “Abner is really short,” I said with a slap to the steering wheel.

  “Yes.”

  “Matt Simonsen was really tall and his head was bashed in—I think from the top, not the back or the side. Even if Abner had used the axe, he couldn’t have reached the top of Matt’s head. Do you know which it was? I didn’t look closely enough.”

  Allison was silent, so I looked at her. Her eyebrows where high. “No, Becca, I don’t know which it was. You could call Officer Brion, though, and ask. You and he seem to be spending a lot of time together.”

  “Good idea.”

  “I was kind of kidding, Becca.”

  “Not me. I’m gonna call right now.”

  Officer Brion first wanted to know if I was all right. I told him I was fine but had a question.

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but the blow came from behind and landed on top of the right rear quadrant of the cranium,” he said as though he had the file open in front of him.

  “Thank you. Was the axe the murder weapon?”

  “I’m not going to give you that information.”

  “Darn.”

  “Don’t hesitate to call again if I can help in any way,” he said with the same sarcastic tone Allison had used a moment ago.

  I told Allison what he had and hadn’t said and finished with, “See, whoever hit Matt Simonsen had to be tall, maybe as tall as Carl Monroe.”

  “Possibly,” Allison said doubtfully, “but there are lots of ways someone can be higher up than another person—stand on a chair, a table, sprout wings, something.”

  “True, but I can’t imagine how you could surprise someone and kill them from behind if you’re standing on something.”

  “Dunno. But don’t forget—no evidence, no guilty.” Allison wagged her finger back and forth.

  “Right,” I muttered. I was leaning more toward thinking everyone was guilty, but I didn’t say that to her. “Next stop, Bailey’s.”

  I had lots of people I wanted to talk to.

  Ten

  I tried not to take it personally that everyone I wanted to talk to wasn’t at work. No surprise that Abner wasn’t there, but Carl wasn’t there, either, his stall empty of even his display tables. It looked as if he’d packed up for the season, which was possible, but Allison hadn’t heard from him so she had no idea.

  And last but far from least, Ian wasn’t there. He didn’t necessarily keep to a strict schedule, so Allison thought he was probably in his garage/studio working on projects.

  “Come on, Sis, he knows where I live. He won’t mind me knowing where he lives. He told me it was a garage in town.”

  “He didn’t answer his cell—I’m not going to give out someone’s address if they haven’t given me the okeydokey. You’re out of luck. Sorry.”

  I sighed heavily and put my hands on my hips. She wouldn’t budge; I was sure of it. But I had other methods.

  “Fine. I get it,” I said too willingly. Allison looked at me with obvious suspicion.

  “You have another idea. Don’t tell me what it is. Go. Out of my office. I have work to do.”

  I turned to leave.

  “And thanks for the company to Smithfield this morning,” she said to my back.

  I turned. “Thanks for letting me and Hobbit crash at your house. I’ll pick her up on my way home.”

  “No hurry.”

  I walked out of the office and took an immediate left. The market office was brick and mortar, but the tent walls began immediately on each side of the small building. I looked around, saw that I wasn’t being watched, stepped through the tent opening, and was suddenly well hidden in a small enclosure. I was at the back of Herb and Don’s stall, where they had a small area walled off for storage—that was where I’d gone. I loved their oregano, but in this small space the scents from their herbs were a bit much. I crouched down, knowing I could watch the office door from my secret spot and Allison wouldn’t see me lurking.

  I did take a moment to debate the intelligence associated with my plan. I was sure Ian would eventually call either me or Allison and gladly tell one of us where he lived. Maybe.

  What if he didn’t call? And what if he was somehow involved in the murder? The fact that he hadn’t told me that he’d worked with Matt Simonsen sat wonky in my gut and made me think he was hiding something. If I could find out where he lived, I could surprise him with a visit. And since he wasn’t in the phone book, I’d resorted to hiding and breaking and entering.

  I pulled out my phone and called Linda.

  “Hello, there. Where are you?” she said.

  “Hey, Linda,” I whispered from my crouch.

&nbs
p; “Becca, why are you whispering?”

  “I’ll explain later. I have a favor to ask.”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I heard Don say from the other side of the wall to the storage area. “Let me see if I’ve got enough in the back.”

  Really? You’ve got to be kidding.

  “Hang on, Linda,” I said. I could either go out the way I came in or lie flat behind a taller stack of boxes. Don would surely see the tent wall flap if I left, so I chose to crawl and flatten myself into the dirt floor.

  “Becca, Becca, what’s going on?” Linda said.

  Don pulled back the booth’s wall in a flourish, sending a bunch of dirt flying directly into my nose. I swallowed and rubbed the roof of my mouth with my tongue, doing everything I could to stifle a sneeze. I was flat on my stomach and I planted my face into the floor. Direct from the ostrich school of hiding: if I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see me, right?

  “Becca?” Linda said again. I’d kept the phone at my ear while putting my face in the dirt, and this made me want to giggle. So now I had to stifle both a sneeze and a giggle.

  Don whistled as he moved boxes somewhere on the other side of the storage area—right where I’d been crouching. I had no idea what tune it was, but he hit the high notes with style.

  “Here it is,” he said. “I found plenty, ma’am.”

  In only another second he was out of the storage area and back to the front of his stall.

  I sat up and wiped the dirt off my face.

  “Linda.”

  “Becca, what the hell . . . ?”

  “Hey, could you just call Allison and ask her to come over to your stall and help you with something?”

  “Uh.”

  “Please.”

  “Okay. Sure. I’ll come up with something.”

  “Thank you.” I closed the phone and crawled back to the other side of the storage area. If Don had to come back there again, I wasn’t going to hide. There was a better way to do this, I was sure, but I didn’t take the time to figure it out.

  I peeked out of the side opening and waited. A short moment later, Allison hurried out of the office building.