Crops and Robbers (21 page)

I pulled into Bailey’s and parked in the lot instead of behind my stall. The market was busy enough that I didn’t want to take a good spot from a customer, though, so I picked one far from the entrance. I knew I’d chance running into one or more of my regulars, and they’d wonder about the note at my stall and my absence from it, but since I didn’t have any better ideas, talking to Herb and Don had become the goal I couldn’t ignore.

Hobbit and I first went into the small building at the front of the market. Allison wasn’t in her office, but the box of my preserves was, with a few jars missing. We set a course for the inner market aisle.

Herb and Don were busy. Everyone was busy.

And there was nothing I could do to disguise myself. Even with the hypnotist appointment and the bail hearing, I’d worn my regular summer attire: short overalls and a T-shirt. The T-shirt was clean and not stained, though, which was rare. I stood to the side of the herb stall and waited until the guys had a free moment. If one of my customers saw me, I’d have to be honest and tell them I was only there briefly, but it would be awkward.

As I waited, I stood on my tiptoes and craned my neck to look down the aisle toward my stall, but I couldn’t see much of anything except the moving crowd of people.

“Hey, Becca,” Herb said as he rearranged some product on the front display table. He and Don had turned their business into one of the most successful at the market. They did some wholesale business away from Bailey’s, but most of their customers were regular weekly shoppers.

“Herb, Don,” I said.

Don peered up from where he sat at the back of the stall. He was pulling bags of herbs from boxes and putting them into other boxes.

Herb was the short, bald musician part of the couple; Don was the muscular, tall male-model part. When they weren’t selling herbs, and sometimes when they were, they improvised classic comedy routines, bits from old-time actors like Laurel and Hardy and Abbott and Costello. They were very entertaining.

“What can we do . . . hey, I went by your stall earlier and you weren’t there. Are you really late today?” Herb asked.

“Not working. I’m undercover.”

Herb’s eyes widened. “Such a great disguise. I only recognized you by your voice.”

“I didn’t think it through very well. I stopped by to ask you about oregano.”

“Ask away. I know whatever you need to know,” Herb said as Don stood and joined us at the display table.

“I guess just tell me more about it, whatever you want to tell me.”

Herb’s eyes lit. He loved talking about herbs. “All righty. Well, it’s a perennial that grows from about yay high to yay high”—he held his hands about two feet and then three feet apart—“and it has lovely purple flowers. We dry the leaves, not the flowers, to create the herb. Some people call it wild marjoram, but that bugs us for some reason.” Don nodded in agreement. “Humans have messed with creating different kinds of oregano over the years; sadly, some oregano is weaker than it should be. We watch our plants and the pH in our soil to keep ours flavorful and strong. Naked, it can be so strong that it numbs the tongue. But when it’s mixed in with other foods, the strong flavor becomes very important. Of course, pizza is a biggie for oregano, but it’s also used in lots of other cooking. It’s a very important herb.”

I nodded. “Who would smell of oregano?”

They both laughed. “Lots of people,” he said as he leaned close to me. “Sniff.”

I’d noticed that Herb and Don both smelled of their spices, mostly the oregano they were famous for, but as I sniffed, I wondered how my mom could distinguish it from other strong-smelling herbs.

“Good, huh?” Don laughed.

“You both smell delicious.”

“Tell her the other stuff, Don. You know, about the essential oils,” Herb said.

“Oh yeah. Actually, Ian told us about the essential oils. He’s been studying up on lavender oils, and he told us about the oregano oils.”

“Oregano can be in oil form, too?” I said.

Don nodded as Herb moved to the other side of the stall to help a customer. “
Essential
oil. It’s not something we have time to do, but Ian might eventually purchase from us to create it. But that’s down the road. Anyway, he told us the oil can be used for lots of things. It’s an antiseptic, can be used to help sore muscles; inhaled, it’s an expectorant—it’s strong, though, and can also be used as a sedative.”

“Sedative? You mean like to knock someone unconscious?” My interest peaked. Could the person who smelled like oregano have been trying to make my mother unconscious? Could that be why she remembered the smell?

“I think so, but I know the herb, not the oil. You should ask Ian if he knows more about that. I’m sketchy on the details.”

“I will. Thanks.” My mind played with the possibility that someone had used oregano as a sedative as they were committing a murder on my property. Of course, that didn’t mean it was as powerful as chloroform, which could render someone unconscious almost instantly when held to their nose. “Sedative” didn’t necessarily mean “unconscious.” Still, maybe it was something important.

That was all the time I got, because another wave of customers began to converge on their stall.

Hobbit and I wove our way through the crowd toward Bo and his onions. Hobbit stopped as we passed my space. She looked at me with furrowed eyebrows.

“I know. I’m playing hooky,” I said. I had an urge to look down and keep my eyes covered with my hand, but even that wouldn’t have hidden me.

She didn’t approve.

Bo was bagging up some baby onions just as we stopped in front of his stall.

“Becca,” he said with a smile. “My mother loved meeting you. Dance with any rats lately?”

I laughed. “I had a great time meeting your mom, Bo. Thanks for introducing us.”

“Did you talk to Elliot?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“The gentleman who was allegedly poisoned wasn’t really harmed. His name was John Ralston and he sold apples. He was a vendor who’d also either been dropped by the restaurant association or got out of it.”

“I don’t even know that name,” Bo said. “He sold apples?”

“That’s what the paper said. He retired a few years back and then died—of a heart attack—a year ago. I was wondering, though, can you think of any other vendors who were dropped by the association, maybe even restaurant owners?” I asked.

Bo shook his head slowly. “No, but that makes me wonder how many there have been. Maybe they dropped someone recently. Maybe that person got mad at Joan and killed her. I wish I knew, Becca.”

“Me, too,” I said.

What I didn’t emphasize to Bo, though, was that no matter who killed Joan, they’d done the deed on my property. That fact had, of course, been under my skin more than I wanted to admit to anyone. I never got a chance to quit or be dropped by the association. I was cut off before Joan even finished the cracker with the sample. So, why my barn? Why my property?

I thanked Bo again, and Hobbit and I wove our way back to the truck and then took a slow trip home. Whether there was more evidence on my property or not, I needed some time to just be there. I needed to get past any sense of being spooked I might still have.

In a way, I suddenly knew I needed to reclaim what was mine before I could clearly see why someone had wanted to spoil it.

I pulled into the driveway, determined not to think about bodies
in the barn.

Hobbit nudged my arm as I put the truck in Park.

“What is it, girl?” I asked.

She nudged my arm again and then licked my ear.

“You’re right. No one can run us out of what’s ours. Let’s go. Let’s go make the rest of the day just for us.”

After a search of my house and barn just to make sure there were no surprises, the first item on my list of things to do was to inspect my crops. With a critical eye, I started in the pumpkin patch. I thought I’d seen signs of mold on some of the leaves a week ago, but it had been a false alarm; everything still looked healthy and fine, and the large green leaves were doing their job as well as effectively hiding the currently green and growing gourds from view. The leaves and stems were prickly enough that handling them with gloves was better than bare hands, but I’d become so used to the sensation that I wasn’t bothered by the sharpness. I lifted leaves, moved pumpkins if they looked like they needed a different position, and clipped away any dead leaves or vines. It was going to be another good crop.

The ease of growing pumpkins contributed in a big way to my sense of satisfaction. When they began to turn orange, I could hardly stay away from the patch. One of my favorite times was an October night lit by a full moon. For me, Halloween wasn’t about scary; instead, there was something magical about pumpkins, Halloween, and October. Every year, I had the family over for a full-moon dinner in the patch. Everyone was required to share a story, but not a scary one. Until he was older, Mathis was excused from sharing a story, but he loved listening.

This patch was the result of my hard work, and I was determined that no one was going to take it and the memories that came with it away from me.

My strawberry plants were in good shape, and I predicted another good spring the following year. I watered them, but it would be another month before they needed the deep dousing that would take them through another mild winter.

After my inspection, I stood at the edge of my crops and inhaled deeply. With each pull of oxygen, I felt my sense of ownership come back a little more.

“I’m going to make some preserves,” I said to Hobbit.

The barn door still hadn’t been fixed. I hadn’t reminded either Ian or my dad of the task. They had enough on their plates. It would get done when it got done. For now, I kept it open as Hobbit sat right outside it, at the ready.

I turned the iPod to a classical selection and threw myself into creating some raspberry preserves. To the sounds of Beethoven, Mozart, and Pachelbel, I gently mashed, stirred, boiled, and canned.

By the time I was done, I was exhausted in a good way. I’d turned the air-conditioning on, but the heat outside was so intense that with the door open I was warm. Still, I felt great.

I remembered something my mom used to say. “Sometimes, you gotta spend time just being you. That’s what home and family are for. If you just need to be you, this is where you can be it.”

I’d spent time not only being me, but getting back to the me I needed to be.

After I cleaned up my mess, Hobbit and I went into the house. I filled her water bowl and poured myself a tall glass of iced tea.

I gathered the list Ian and I had stolen from Bistro.

It was a long list. I’d heard of many of the restaurants, but not all of them. I looked closely at every page. I reconfirmed that each comment was one of three words: yes, no, or maybe. My inspection showed me that the majority of them were marked with no or maybe. In fact, only six out of the forty-two restaurants were marked with a yes: Manny’s; Smitty’s Barbeque; the Ice Cream Shack that was in the next county; Bill’s Diner—I’d never heard of it, but the address said it was in Smithfield; Tacos Grande in Monson; and Gardner’s Tomatoes. I stopped on the last listing. Gardner’s Tomatoes wasn’t a restaurant. It sounded more like a vendor. I’d never heard of it, but I knew someone with the last name of Gardner who was good with tomatoes: Viola, Jake’s aunt. The address was a PO box.

I glanced over the paper again. There were two other listings that seemed like vendors. I’d never heard of either of them, but one farmed fresh eggs and the other farmed squash. They both had a “no” by their company names.

I’d only asked Jake about the note, not the full list. He claimed he didn’t know what the no by his name meant, or the yes by Manny’s name, for that matter.

He’d said that the note probably either meant nothing at all or meant something insignificant. What exactly had he said? Something about Joan always making notes—even though that had felt like a lie, maybe there was something more to it. I wondered if Gardner’s Tomatoes had anything to do with his aunt and if he would have reacted differently if he’d known a yes had been penciled in on that listing.

I pulled out my cell phone and called Allison.

“Hey, Becca,” she said. “Where are you?”

“At home. I have a question. Do you know anything about Viola Gardner growing and supplying tomatoes to restaurants?”

“Sure. Well, she did years ago when Jake and I were dating. We used to help her pick them and deliver them. She’s amazing with tomatoes.”

“I know,” I said, but I was distracted.

“Bec, what’s up?”

“I don’t know, but I’m fine. I’m going to dinner tonight with Ian and Sam. Sorry you can’t join us.”

“Me, too. Have fun.”

“Thanks,” I said. I hung up before either of us could say good-bye.