Bushel Full of Murder (20 page)

“I can see why you love it here so much,” Harry said when we stopped walking. He took off his hat and peered toward the South Carolina woods that bordered my property.

Hobbit, Harry, and I were up along the ridge above my crops, enjoying the warm but serene early evening.

“Have we convinced you to move here yet? You and Sam might make a great team.”

He laughed and put his hat back on. “Not quite. All right, my friend Becca, tell me why you called me out here this evening.”

“Maybe I just wanted to invite you over for dinner.”

“Maybe, but I think there’s more to it. Don’t get me wrong, though, those egg salad sandwiches were delicious.”

“Yeah, I suppose if I had preplanned my invitation to
dinner, I might have cooked up a little more than egg salad sandwiches.”

“It’s not the food that makes a good dinner, it’s the company. The company was perfect, but itchy.”

“Itchy?”

“Yes, itchy to get some information from me if I’m not misinterpreting.”

“I’m not good at hiding my motives.”

“You don’t need to be, particularly with me. I’ve been as up front as I can be with you. You are welcome to do the same. What do you want to know that you think I can answer, even though I might choose not to answer?”

I started walking again. Hobbit and Harry kept up.

“First of all, do you know what’s going on with my cousin? Is she okay?”

“I think she’s fine. You can visit her anytime you want. Sam got her a really good attorney. I like him.”

“But you still think she’s guilty of theft, assault, and murder?” I said.

“Actually, I don’t think she’s guilty of anything yet, but I do think I’m not ready to stop considering that she
might
be guilty. A person of interest. And maybe now I don’t think she’s a person of interest regarding all those things, but I can’t go into detail.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry, but Sam would have my hide if I told any of his secrets, and I’ve got my own secrets to keep. Remember, I’ve been as up front as I feel I’m able to be. I don’t want to jeopardize anyone’s case. Honestly, I don’t want to jeopardize your cousin’s legal standing either.”

“You just made me more curious than I already was.”

Harry laughed. “I’m sure.”

We walked a little farther, a little closer to the setting sun and the orange-lined sky, when he said, “But I can tell you that Sam is a great police officer. You need to have faith that he’ll make sure your cousin will be treated fairly.”

“I have faith. In him. I really wish I had as much faith in Peyton. Harry, I’ve tried to find something that might help her, might prove her innocent of any of the charges, but I haven’t had much luck. I hope she hasn’t done the things she’s been accused of doing.”

“Me, too.”

I looked at Harry. It seemed he was being genuine.

“Harry, do you know how closely Sam has looked at other potential suspects? Other potential killers?”

“He’s looked pretty thoroughly as far as I can tell.”

“What about the potato vendor from Bailey’s? Jeff? Do you know if he’s looked at him?”

“I think so. There was a note in Robert Ship’s planner that he was going to meet Jeff at the bank early that morning. Jeff claims that there was no early morning meeting scheduled, and he has a solid alibi as to where he was the night before until midmorning, but I don’t feel at liberty to tell you the young woman’s name who offered the alibi.”

“Right. But there was more to what was going on between Jeff and Mr. Ship. It was a strange misplaced power struggle. Does Sam know all the details?”

“I don’t know. Do you want me to plant seeds with Sam? Do you think Jeff is guilty of murder? Do you have any solid evidence?”

“Not really. Maybe I just really want Peyton to be innocent.” I smiled.

Harry squinted and smiled back at me. “Of course you do. Perhaps I can ask questions without planting seeds, if you’d like.”

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt,” I said. I wished I’d hid the defeat in my voice but it was too late now.

Harry and I followed Hobbit’s lead. Harry was interested in hearing about the process of making jams and jellies, from seed to jar. It was an easy topic of conversation for me to fall into. I didn’t give him the long version, but I didn’t give him the quick and dirty version, either. If I read him correctly, he was truly interested. He was captivated when I explained how I always started my pumpkin plants indoors, and how there were many summer nights when I’d play matchmaker with paint brushes, pollinating the female pumpkin plants with a little dust from the male plants. He thought my plastic molds that turned a pumpkin into the disembodied shape of a head made for much better fare than typical carved jack-o’-lanterns.

He had no idea that there were specific pumpkins used in baking. Sugar pumpkins were smaller than your jack-o’-lantern pumpkins, their insides easier and a touch sweeter for making pumpkin pies.

I gave him a complete tour of my kitchen. He was most intrigued by the sanitizing feature on my dishwasher.

Talking so much about me had been a welcome break from thinking about murder and Peyton’s problems.

It was when we were in my kitchen and I pulled out the shoebox my uncle had stored his recipes in that the real world troubles came back to me and I had another question for Harry.

“The handwritten recipe that Mr. Ship had in his hand—was that really from the restaurant? I mean, it wasn’t a copy or something?”

“No, not a copy. The real thing.”

“How? I mean . . . well, how?”

“It was taken from the back office of the restaurant. It’s been missing since Peyton left her job there. Shortly before it went missing, someone reported seeing her leave the office. Alone. And behaving suspiciously. The only other way the recipe card could have feasibly made it from Arizona to South Carolina was if I brought it along. I didn’t, Becca. I know your cousin says I might be framing her; I’m not.”

I sighed as I put the lid back onto the shoebox. “I didn’t ever think you were, Harry. I wish you were. I wish someone was, but I’m beginning to accept that that’s not what’s happening.”

“I’ll be taking the recipe card back to Arizona with me when Sam’s done with it, but the good news is . . .”

Harry lifted his hat from his head, slicked back his hair (it didn’t need to be slicked back), and then put the hat back on. I’d never seen him do such a thing before.

“What, Harry? What’s the good news?”

“I probably shouldn’t have gone there,” he said.

“But you did! You can’t just leave it now. You have to tell me what the good news is.”

“Dangit, Sam’s not going to be happy with me, but that
would
be pretty unfair to leave you hanging.”

“Yes, it would.”

“The good news is that of the number of fingerprints on the card, so far none of the prints belong to Peyton. None are Betsy’s, either, but she wasn’t a real consideration, though
it was good to rule her out because of the glove you
found.
Well, that’s what I know since I last talked to Sam.”

“That is good news. How many different prints are there?”

“Not as many as you might think, but I’m not going to give you a precise answer on that one.”

“Okay, well, that’s good. The fewer the better to determine that Peyton’s and Betsy’s prints aren’t there, right?”

“It’s certainly better than if they were there, Becca, but that’s about as positive as I can be right now.”

I liked the optimism; I glommed on to it actually. It was good to feel a tiny swell of hope.

We left the kitchen and Harry told me and Hobbit good-bye. He took off his cowboy hat before he scrunched into his rental car and drove away.

For a long moment, I stood on my front porch with my hands on my hips as I looked out over my now dark property. The pumpkin leaves made pointy, spooky shadows with the bright moonlight; the faraway woods were a solid backdrop of trees. There was plenty to do; there was always plenty to do. I was okay on inventory, but it wouldn’t hurt to make more.

I looked down at Hobbit, who sat next to me and surveyed the same things I surveyed.

“You up for a ride?” I said to her.

Of course she was.

A summer weekday evening in downtown Monson was probably one of the quieter times and places in the entire universe.

We were a small town, and though we had a little slice of nightlife going for us, weekday nights at the one downtown bar, The Painted Owl, were filled with mostly empty tables and vacant barstools. I didn’t even know the bartender’s name, but I’d seen him at the market a time or two.

Hobbit and I had to pass the bar tonight to get to my destination, the police station, but it was only by chance that I looked inside through the front window.

I was surprised to see Officer Vivienne Norton sitting on a stool; so surprised, in fact, that I stopped short, leaving Hobbit to travel a few steps forward before turning back to rejoin me.

“Vivienne?” I said from my side of the window.

She wasn’t wearing her uniform. I didn’t think I’d ever seen her out of her uniform. She wore simple mom jeans and a white T-shirt. Her hair was a little messy, and I’d never seen it other than hairspray still. Sam’s hair was also different when he wasn’t in his uniform. Was that a police officer thing, something they taught in police officer school? Secure your hair when your gun is on your waist?

I sidestepped back to the bar’s door and opened it, moving inside with Hobbit next to me.

The bartender looked up from the typical bartender pose of cleaning a glass with a towel and said, “I’m sorry. No pets.”

I looked around. The bartender, Vivienne, Hobbit, and I were the only ones in the place. “I just want to talk to her for a second.” I nodded toward Vivienne, who still hadn’t turned to notice me. “If Hobbit can just stay up front, I promise we’ll be out of here quickly and she won’t cause a problem.”

The bartender was probably in his late fifties with a long-banged hairstyle that seemed too young for the beefy face and swollen eyes it topped. He shook his head twice but then said, “All right.”

Vivienne still hadn’t turned around, so I approached slowly and placed my hand gently on her arm when I reached her.

“Vivienne,” I said.

She turned and seemed extra surprised to see me, to see anyone, as if she hadn’t even noticed that the bartender had just had a conversation with someone else as she sat there.

“Becca, what are you doing here?” she said lucidly with no sign of slurred speech or unfocused eyes.

“I was on my way to visit my cousin at the station. Do you think they’ll let me talk to her?” I said.

“Of course,” Vivienne said. “She’s being treated like royalty.”

I inspected her again, but I didn’t sense any bitterness or sarcasm in her words.

I hoisted myself up to the stool next to hers. “You think she’s being treated too well?”

“Of course she is—if she’s a killer especially.”

Again, there wasn’t much emotion underlying the words so I just asked. “Make you mad?”

“No, not really. I know she’ll be punished if she’s found guilty.” Vivienne took a swig from the bottle of beer in front of her. There was also a glass there, but it was empty and clean.

“You drowning your sorrows for some reason?” I said.

Vivienne set the bottle down, swallowed, and looked at me. “It’s a beer. One beer. Not drowning my sorrows. I have no sorrows. Not really. I just wanted a beer.”

I looked at the bartender, who tried to hide the look of surprise he directed toward her, but he wasn’t quick enough.

“Come here often?” I said with a smile as I nudged her shoulder gently with my shoulder.

A smile pulled at her lips, and at the bartender’s, too, which made me smile along with them.

“Becca, can I do something for you?” she said.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m surprised to see you so human is all.”

“Police officers are people, too.”

“Not really. No,” I said. “Sometimes they’re almost people,
but when they’re working, they’re Super-People. They have to be. You’re currently not a Super-Person like I’ve seen you be plenty of times. You’re just a regular old person who wanted a beer.”

She glanced at me and then looked back at the beer bottle she held between her hands. The smile was gone, replaced by total seriousness.

“I wasn’t so super earlier today.”

“Uh-oh, did you get in trouble for something?” I said.

“No, but that’s not how it should be. I should have gotten in trouble. Sam let it alone.”

“I don’t understand, Vivienne. That sounds like a good thing.”

“No, it wasn’t and I’m trying to figure out a way to talk to him about it.”

“Just talk to him. He’s easy to talk to.”

“Yes, but . . .”

We were both silent a moment. I noticed that the bartender was listening closely even though he was pretending not to. I caught his eyes with mine and lifted my eyebrows. He got the hint and moved down to the other end of the bar.

“Vivienne, I’m happy to guide you in the ways of talking to Sam if you want, but I have to be honest, I’m mostly just curious about what happened. If you want to talk about it, I’d love to listen. If you don’t want my input, just say so.”

She looked at me and then back at the bottle again. She started peeling the front label.

“Your cousin. When we got you two out of her truck. I was so scared, Becca. I didn’t want you to be hurt.”

I put my hand on her arm. “No one got hurt, Vivienne.”

“I know, but I . . . I got scared and I let my emotions get the best of me. I was too rough with her.”

“Oh. Well, she wasn’t hurt by your actions, was she?” I’d all but forgotten about Vivienne throwing Peyton down to the ground.

“No, she’s fine, but that’s not the point.”

“Okay.”

“I should not have behaved that way. Sam should have been angry at me for doing what I did. But he wasn’t, and I can’t decide if he wasn’t because you were involved or if he just wants to let it go.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” I said.

Her head turned and she looked at me again. “All right. Tell me.”

“You’ll hear about it, and he won’t be pleased.”

“Right. So you’re going to talk to him and tell him to get mad at me.”

“Nope.” I held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor, I won’t, but I promise you, you’ll hear about it when the case is over. He processes everything,
ev-ery-thing
, and if he thought getting mad at you would help solve the murder, he would have gotten good and mad. But he knows a few things. Peyton’s not hurt, and she could be guilty of murder, though I sincerely hope not. Also, you’re a good cop and you will beat yourself up much more than he ever would. He’s giving you the time to do that. And here you are.” I smiled.

“But . . .” Vivienne’s eyebrows came together. “I . . .” Finally, her face relaxed and she laughed. “You’re right, Becca. Here I am. How did I not figure that out?”

“Our”—I cleared my throat, hinting at a deeper
meaning—“relationship gives me insight into the man that it would be difficult to have otherwise.”

Vivienne laughed again. “I’ll be.”

“Right.”

“You know, the two of you are a great couple,” Vivienne said. “I saw it the first time I saw you together. I believe Sam was questioning you regarding another murder.”

“I probably saw it, too, but it took a little longer for me to recognize it.”

“Ian’s great, too, Becca. You’ve been lucky in love.”

“I was married twice before, Vivienne. I didn’t make good matches with either of them. Maybe I’m getting back some good karma after putting up with some of the things they put me through.”

“That happens.”

She took a swig of her beer, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it as much anymore.

“Need a ride home?” I said.

“It’s one beer, Becca, and I’ve only had a couple drinks from it. If it would make you feel better, I’ll stop now.”

I shrugged. “Just be safe, Vivienne. You’re too good a cop and friend to lose.”

Vivienne shook her head slowly. “I really hope she’s not guilty.”

“Me, too,” I said as I scooted off the stool. “I’m going to go see her now. Maybe I can get some answers.”

“Do you really think you can?”

“No, but when has that ever stopped me?”

“Good point.”

Hobbit had been doing as I promised the bartender she
would do, and was relaxing by the front of the bar. She stood and joined me as we left. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in the Painted Owl, but it might have been to pick up one of my ex-husbands who’d had too much to drink. I was grateful that part of my life was over. I left Vivienne there with her mostly undrunk beer and a silent but observant bartender. Maybe Sam and I would have to go there sometime together on a date night.

I knew he was right. I knew we needed the . . . well, we needed not to be in the same house while my cousin was under police suspicion. It made sense, but at that moment and even though I knew he wasn’t far away, I really missed him. If he wasn’t at work (which I hoped he wasn’t because I was just about to go to the police station and I didn’t want to force us both into an uncomfortable situation), then he was probably at his house, a mere few minutes’ drive away.

Wow.

How was this possible? How could I miss him that much already?

“Uh-oh,” I said aloud. Hobbit looked up at me. “I think I’m in trouble.”

Hobbit smiled and nudged my knee with her nose before she picked up speed and trotted up the stairs in front of the brick building. She knew exactly where we were. If Sam wasn’t inside, Hobbit would be disappointed. Come to think of it, and to heck with uncomfortable situations, so would
I.