Bushel Full of Murder (8 page)

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 choices 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.

“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 Arizona. 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.”

“My pleasure.”

As expertly as his big body could accomplish, he maneuvered around the front table and walked down the aisle toward the market exit. I watched his high cowboy hat move above most of the summer shoppers, some of them in straw hats, but their hats seemed much less important than Harry’s.

As with the day before, it didn’t take long to sell out of product. I was still ahead with inventory, but I wouldn’t be for long if this pace kept up.

I hadn’t really expected to come back to an empty stall, because that wasn’t the way farmers’ market shoppers behaved—no one just took something they wanted. But I had expected a note or two of complaint, or maybe some cash on the table with a note explaining what had been purchased in my absence. As it was, Harry truly had saved the day.

Recently, I’d thought about hiring an assistant. Between the market, the farm, and my continually increasing retail business at the Maytabee’s shops, I always had something
that needed to be done and I always felt a little behind schedule. Even when I was technically on schedule, a growing to-do list always loomed ahead. The things that had been holding me back from making the hire were tied to my personality. I’d want an assistant to be able to help everywhere and also be completely flexible, at all times. That wasn’t fair. I had to fix myself and my inconsistent routine before I brought someone in who’d have to put up with me.

I threw the empty boxes into the back of my truck and closed my stall when it seemed we’d hit a lull in business. I stepped around to the front of Linda’s stall just as she was selling what looked like her last pie of the day.

“Hey,” she said as she smoothed back her hair. “I hope the big guy who can’t possibly be from around here was supposed to be in your stall earlier. I didn’t have a chance to talk to him, but he looked like he was doing everything as it was supposed to be done. I couldn’t have offered much help at the time anyway.”

“He’s a friend from Arizona. A police officer,” I said.

“Really? What’s he doing here?”

“Chasing someone.”

“Oh, that’s interesting. Tell me more.”

I hadn’t talked much to anyone other than Sam about what happened in Arizona. The time that had passed mellowed the memories and I found that I enjoyed sharing some of the details with Linda. It was still a scary story, just not as scary as it had been.

And even though a family member and other market vendors were involved in the investigation of Robert Ship’s murder, I told Linda everything I knew. She listened intently.

“Becca, your cousin didn’t kill anyone,” she said when I was done. “I only met her in passing yesterday, but she’s not a murderer. It just wouldn’t be in her. I have a hard time thinking she could have hurt that restaurant manager, too. Now, stealing a recipe—I don’t know. That certainly sounds like something a young, inexperienced person might be tempted to do. It’s somehow a less harmful crime in some people’s eyes. I hope she didn’t, but perhaps if she did, she should let the authorities know as soon as possible. If she did steal it, I bet she’s scared to death. At the moment I feel sorry for her. Now, if she proves to be guilty of either assault or murder, I’ll take back that sympathy.”

Though we were friends, Linda would never say something she didn’t mean. I appreciated her comments and insight. I was sure my cousin was scared, but I didn’t know how to ease her fears.

“Betsy couldn’t kill anyone, either,” Linda continued. “Although I wonder about her sometimes. She’s a mystery, isn’t she?”

“She is. I don’t know anything about her family. I suppose we’ve never been close, but I know a little about almost all the vendors’ families.”

“I’m in the same boat. I’ve had some friendly conversations with her, but I don’t know one thing about her personal life. I don’t even know if she has a significant other. She never brings anyone to the market’s family events. She and I live very close to each other, but we’ve never socialized together. My fault as much as hers, I suppose, but you just get those vibes from some people, definitely from Betsy—‘work relationships only.’ Now, Jeff—I wouldn’t be
surprised by anything he did. He’s different, and makes me uncomfortable.”

“Do you know anything about his personal life?”

“I know he dates lots and lots of women. And doesn’t call them the next day if you know what I mean. I wish I didn’t know that much, but when he first started working here, I happened to overhear some conversations.”

“Yeah, I’m not surprised, either. I wonder how much Allison knows about either of them.”

“If anyone knows anything, it would be Allison.”

We talked a few minutes more about how Linda’s husband, Drew, a Navy SEAL, and Sam seemed to get along so well and how we both thought they were probably plotting ways to save the world whenever they were together. We laughed, but there was a serious ring to the laughter.

I helped her gather her empty boxes and load them in the van. As I waved a good-bye to her taillights, I decided I still had a few things to do before I left for the day.

I hurried toward Jeff’s cart; this was much more easily accomplished without the earlier crowd to slow me down. I wasn’t surprised to find that it didn’t look to have been opened for business today. His table was folded and leaning against the side of the cart. I inspected everything for another note or something that might be important, but I didn’t find anything. However, if he’d left the market as permanently as it seemed Betsy had, he would have taken the cart and table with him. Unless he had been picked up by the police before even making it in.

I turned away from the cart and walked back out to the
parking lot. I had a hunch that’s where I’d find Allison. But this time the hunch was wrong. There was no sign of her, but someone else captured my attention.

All of the trucks except Peyton’s were open for business, their serving counter doors either pushed up or pushed out and supported by sturdy metal rods. Either the trucks’ food hadn’t quite caught on yet, or business had hit a lull. There were no customers outside any of them. However, the cupcake lady, Basha Bonahan, stood outside Peyton’s closed truck, her hands on her hips and her focus on something on the top right part of the side panel.

I made a beeline to her. “Hi,” I said.

She started slightly. “Oh! I didn’t see or hear you, young lady. Maybe clear your throat or something next time.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Basha shook her head. “I’m a little jumpy, I guess. Did you hear about the murder?”

“I did,” I said.

“That man was just here yesterday. He seemed . . . well, I’m not sure he seemed like much of anything, but he didn’t seem like someone who would be murdered. Whatever that means, I guess.” Tears filled her eyes, but they didn’t fall.

“I’m sorry, Basha. This is a terrible shock.”

“Oh, I’m fine. Gracious, I didn’t even know him. It’s just . . . unsettling, that’s all. I’m sorry for his family, and I keep looking over my own shoulder.”

I nodded.

“Did you know him?” she asked.

“No, not really.”

She turned her eyes back to the truck. I inspected her profile as she seemed to recover.

“What are you looking at?” I asked.

Basha blinked and then looked at me again. “Just at the truck. I heard the young woman who owns this one was . . . what’s the word? Detained by the police regarding the murder.”

I nodded. “I don’t really know what’s going on, but I thought you were looking at the top corner up there specifically. Is there something about the way the trucks work that made you look there?”

“No, nothing. That’s just where my eyes fell,” she said.

I didn’t quite believe her, but I didn’t know why. It was just a side panel—there were no dents, nothing strange.

“Anyway, I guess I should get back. It’s been quiet for an hour, but we had business earlier. I hope it picks up some tomorrow.” Basha turned and walked quickly away.

The entire exchange left me feeling somewhat confused. She’d been emotional one second, almost taciturn the next. Blatantly curious about the corner of the truck from what I’d observed, and then claiming to me she wasn’t looking at anything specific. And then she’d marched back to the duties at hand.

“Hey,” I said as I hurried to catch up to her. “I’ve wanted to be a customer since the second I saw you pull into the lot. I’d love a cupcake.”

Basha laughed. “Come on over, I’ll hook you up.”

Again, her personality shifted. Now she seemed downright jovial. I waited outside as she hoisted herself into the business part of the truck and came over to the counter.
She pointed at the handwritten menu board folded open on the counter, which listed the flavors she’d made today. “What can I get you?”

Key Lime Disco, Maple Bacon Sizzle, Piña Colada Party, Strawberry Cheesecake Swirl, Chocolate Coma, and Lemon Pucker.

“I’ll take two of each,” I said.

“Dessert for the family?”

“Maybe,” I said with a smile.

Basha nodded knowingly.

Shortly, I had the box of cupcakes, but no answers to my questions about what Basha had been looking at. Another customer appeared so I stepped out of the way after our brief transaction, and resumed my search for Allison.

It was by chance (though sometimes I called these incidents twin-moments) that I happened to see her standing at the market entrance by her office building just as she looked my direction and waved me over.

As I passed each food truck, I glanced inside them, ready to wave if the proprietors were available. The only person I was able to greet was Daryl, who stood at the counter of his wing truck and watched me though those tilted glasses. Would it be rude to ask if one of his ears was that much higher than the other or if he’d just done something to bend the glasses? He scowled when he waved and made me uncomfortable. I didn’t see either Mel or Hank in their trucks and I wondered where they’d gone, so I stepped up the pace as I hurried toward Allison.

“Cupcakes?” she said with an enthusiastic but weary smile when she saw the box under my arm.

“Couldn’t resist,” I said.

“I tried one earlier and thought it was delicious. I also had a taco. I recommend Paco, I mean Mel, and his tacos.”

“You look tired.”

“I am. Peyton’s on her way back. Sam’s bringing her,” Allison said.

“That’s good news, isn’t it?” I said.