Crops and Robbers (8 page)

Bo, never one to say a whole bunch, had difficulty expressing his gratitude, but we saw right through his gruff words of thanks; he truly appreciated what we’d done. Despite his rebel attitude toward the restaurant association, he’d have done the same for any of us. I didn’t forget that I had some questions for him, but for now, I kept them to myself.

Bo’s stall being vandalized the day after Joan’s murder was a coincidence the police would look at closely. Maybe I’d just talk to Sam and see what he thought. I wasn’t even sure if Bo had heard about Joan’s murder. I thought that if he had, he would have said something to me.

To beat the oncoming midday and afternoon heat, customers started to trickle into the market, so we all moved back to our own stalls, ready to sell before we could further discuss or think about much of anything.

Allison told me that Officer Rumson wouldn’t comment regarding whether he thought the destruction of Bo’s tables had anything to do with the murder. She seemed to think it was a random act of vandalism, but Officer Rumson agreed that security cameras would be a good idea. As the market got busy and we all went to work, everyone’s mood improved. Sometimes that’s the best thing—getting back to work and moving on.

My small inventory of jams and preserves flew off the display tables quickly, and I sensed that everyone else’s products were moving at an equal pace. I predicted that a lull in the activity would hit us about the time the heat hit its high. I was correct.

Allison stopped by my stall again around noon and asked if I’d heard from our parents.

“No, I haven’t tried to call them either, though,” I said as I pulled my phone from my pocket.

“I just tried. I suppose they’ll get back to us when they can, but they did say they’d see us here this morning.” Allison’s forehead wrinkled briefly. “Hey, I do have a bit of good news.”

“Tell me. I could use some of that.”

“I talked to the market owners. Not only are they going to put in a camera security system, they’re putting in a full mister system as well.”

I blinked. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Misters. They help keep the area cool by spraying a fine mist of cold water. It’s kind of like outdoor air-conditioning.”

“That sounds great. When?” I was melting as we spoke. Misters might save me.

“Cameras will be here tomorrow. Mister system work begins no later than next week.”

“Excuse me, Becca Robins?” A woman approached the other side of my stall.

“That’s me. What can I do for you?” I said as I stepped toward her. She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place when or where we might have met. It wasn’t too difficult to spot the market regulars, but I didn’t think she was one of them. She was petite, dressed in short shorts and a white T-shirt. Her blonde hair was pulled into a long ponytail, and though her makeup was a little heavy for my taste, it was applied perfectly.

“Betsy Francis. We met yesterday,” she said expectantly.

I bit back the words “We did?” and thought about where we had met. It took a second, but I realized she was the same woman who’d been holding the notebook and pen and taking orders from Joan the day before. Yesterday, she’d worn no makeup and had on huge glasses that distorted her face. I remembered thinking she was probably cute underneath the large frames. I was right. She was cute, verging on pretty, but the look on her face didn’t say pretty.

“Betsy, of course. Sorry, it’s been . . . crazy.”

“I know.” She put her fists on her hips.

“I’m very sorry about your . . .”—
was Joan her boss?—
“about Joan.”

“You’re sorry?” she challenged.

“Of course.”

Allison stepped closer.

“All she did was not like your stupid jams. You killed her for that?” Betsy might have been petite, but her voice wasn’t. The other vendors in the area were beginning to pay attention.

“Betsy, I didn’t kill anyone. I found Joan, but I didn’t kill her.”

“Ms. Francis,” Allison said, “this is terribly inappropriate and I need to ask you to leave. You may come to my office if you’d like, but you’re disrupting the market.”

Betsy’s reaction to Allison was as close to a snarl as I’d seen any human pull off. Shortly after imitating a snake contemplating an attack, she turned on her heel and walked out of the market.

I’d never heard the market so quiet. The aisles weren’t full, but there were a few customers and lots of vendors looking in my direction.

“I should have called a meeting, but Bo’s stall put me off track this morning,” Allison said under her breath.

I realized that being accused of murder was much worse than being insulted or having my products rejected.

Fortunately, my sister knew exactly what to do, and before long she’d set up a skeleton crew to take care of the customers who hadn’t been frightened away by the heat or the angry woman, and had the rest of us gathered in a big tent meeting space. She lifted the tent walls to help create a small cross breeze, but that would only scratch the surface of the cooling off she was going to have to do.

“The police have assured me that Becca isn’t under suspicion,”
Allison lied firmly.

She’d given the vendors a rundown of the events that had occurred the previous afternoon and evening. She explained how I found Joan’s body but offered as few details as possible. She didn’t mention anything about our mother. No one brought up or seemed to suspect that Bo’s tables might have something to do with the murder.

But everyone was shocked at the news—everyone, including Bo Stafford. I watched him closely, and his surprise was just as genuine as everyone else’s. Perhaps he was a good actor, but based on his reaction, I didn’t get any sense that he’d done the deed.

Some of the vendors shot me a sideways glance, but mostly I thought everyone just needed to process the information.

My good friend, cranky old Abner Justen, stood from where he was seated and came up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. I hadn’t been formally accused of murder as he had once been, but our solidarity in things criminal was comforting. I appreciated the gesture.

I wished Ian was there, but he and Hobbit were on installs and at his new place, doing the sorts of things one did on a large plot of rugged land that was going to be turned into a working farm.

Ian’s goal was to build a lavender farm. He was going to harvest and sell the essential oils from the herb. His plans fit with his artist’s temperament. He could also continue his yard artwork business, but his schedule was becoming increasingly full and he spent less and less of his time at Bailey’s.

Ian’s offer to take Hobbit with him had been greeted with happy eyes, smiles, and a little panting, from both my dog and me. They’d keep each other good company, and I wouldn’t worry about either of them.

Allison wrapped up the meeting by letting everyone know about the security cameras and the mister system. This ended things on an upbeat note, and vendors made their way back to their stalls, readying for a hopefully busy afternoon rush despite the heat.

“You lead quite the exciting life,” Linda said as she swam against the departing crowd and sat next to me.

“Thanks for leaving the pie last night. We ate it and loved it,” I said.

Linda smiled. “I bet you didn’t taste much of anything, but thanks for the compliment. It’s been a crazy morning. You’re right next door to me and I didn’t even ask how you’re doing. Sorry.”

“No problem. It really has been unusually crazy. To be honest, until Betsy Francis showed up I was thinking more about Bo’s display tables than the murder. Am I in denial or just coldhearted?”

“You’re coping. Perfectly normal. And this Betsy Francis person? Was she the same person as the mousy-looking girl with the big glasses yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“What’s with the instant makeover? That in itself seems suspicious to me.” Linda lifted some short blonde curls off the back of her neck. There was no bonnet in sight today.

“I hadn’t thought about it. Suspicious how?”

“In two ways—why did she look like she looked yesterday, and why did she look like she looked today? One of her ‘personas’ was fake. Which one, and why?”

“Maybe she got up late yesterday and had to hurry to get ready.”

Linda shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. The woman we saw today would call in sick before she went to work looking like she looked yesterday. I sound awful—I don’t mean to. There was nothing wrong with the way she looked when we first met her. It was just so different than today. Something’s up with that. I think that’s the first thing you should check into.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know you’re going to look into Joan’s murder. And for the first time, I get it. This happened on your property, and your family is in the middle of it. Just let me know if you need any help. I’m here for you.” Linda stood and squeezed the same shoulder Abner had had his hand on earlier.

It was great to have wonderful friends.

“Thanks, Linda,” I said as she turned and walked out of the tent.

It was just me, Allison, and a new vendor, Erin Hodges, left in the big tent area. Erin made and sold brownies in so many flavors I thought it might take me a year to taste them all. She was young and wore John Lennon glasses, her hair was short-short, and she always had questions for Allison. I had stopped by her stall and told her she could ask anyone anything about the farmers’ market world, but she seemed to trust Allison more than the rest of us and sought her out almost daily for advice or help.

And Allison didn’t mind. She liked the young woman’s spunk and fire. She predicted that Erin would have not only a successful market business within a year, but a booming Internet business, too.

They were on the other side of the area and I couldn’t hear what they were discussing, but it probably had nothing to do with murders or broken display tables. Erin listened intently as Allison explained something.

As I looked at my sister, I wondered if she’d be in the same boat as Linda. After my last adventure investigating murders, she made me promise under threat of torture to stop being so nosy.

But this was different, and Linda’s question about Betsy Francis was valid. What was with the makeover? It could be something easily explained, but I was curious enough to want to know more.

Besides, investigating a makeover was much different than investigating a murder. A zip of rationalization ran up my spine.

As if he was in tune with my thoughts, Sam appeared from under one of the pulled-back tent-flap walls. He was, again, crisp in his demeanor. When he was in regular street clothes, I noticed a drop or two of perspiration on his brow, but when he was on the job, he was cool under all sorts of pressure. And based on the look on his face, he was currently under some sort of pressure. He was not happy.

I stood and watched as my mom and dad came into the tent behind him. They didn’t look happy either. Allison said something to Erin to send her on her way, and she hurried around us and out of the tent.

“Mom, Dad, Sam,” I said. “What’s going on?”

Allison moved next to me and crossed her arms in front of herself.

“Girls,” Mom said, her voice cracking, “now I want you to remain calm.”

“What?” Allison and I said at the same time.

Sam rubbed his finger under his nose and clenched his jaw. He wanted to talk, but our parents must have asked him to let them tell us what was going on.

“Becca, Allison,” Dad said, “they’ve . . . the police have found something that they promise they’ll try to figure out further, but for now . . . well . . .”

“Someone, spit it out,” Allison demanded.

Sam glanced at our parents and then back at us. “We found prints on the knife that belong to only one person. Your mother.”

“No!” I said.

“Not possible!” Allison said.

Sam took a deep, hard breath and looked at us again, this time with a pained sternness. “Yes, it is. I’m still not convinced that your mother is the killer, so I’m not done investigating, but for now I have to follow the letter of the law. I have to arrest her.”

“He’s being very kind. He brought us down here to tell you in person. He wouldn’t put the cuffs on, and he’s promising me good food in the pokey.” Mom laughed lightly. “Besides, I’ve been to jail before. I’ll use the time to work on something productive.”

“Sam, no,” I said. The already stifling heat seemed to go up another ten degrees.

“I don’t have any choice, Becca. I’m sorry about that.” He was sorry, I could tell, but that didn’t help much.

“He’s right, dear,” Mom said. Dad put his arm around her.

“We’ll get her out,” Dad said. “She didn’t kill anyone. We know that, and I believe Sam does, too. Your mother and I believe that Sam will figure it out.”

Mom nodded and smiled, but I knew this was not the way she wanted to spend her second day back in Monson.