Crops and Robbers (9 page)

“Come on, walk us out to Sam’s car,” Mom said as if she were leaving after a dinner party.

The surreal march to the police car was clouded by my panicked thoughts. Why was this happening? How did my mother’s fingerprints end up on the murder weapon? How in the world were we going to clear her?

Sam let her sit in the front passenger seat. Dad got in the backseat and went with them. We said one of us would join him at the station as soon as we could wrap up things at the market.

As they drove away, we waved like two little girls watching their parents go out for an evening on the town.

“My office. Now,” Allison said. “We’re going to help Sam figure this out, and you have more experience investigating murders than I do. Let’s get organized and get this solved.”

We were on the same page, but I wasn’t sure she’d be thrilled with what I was going to tell her.

We’ll see
, I thought as I followed her sure footsteps back to her office. At least it was air-conditioned.

Allison was not happy with me, and though it was a rare feeling,
I didn’t care. She didn’t like what I’d told her; she didn’t like being told “no” or “not possible” or “not gonna happen.” Especially by her one-minute-younger fraternal twin sister.

I was far from an expert, but I knew enough to know that once you started looking into a murder, you set yourself up for potential harm. I had the scars and leftover aches and pains to prove it.

Allison was married and a mom. I explained that her position in life was much more valuable than my single-though-seriously-dating status. She eloquently argued the point, but I thought I might have won—or at least gained an advantage—when she said, “Okay, but there must be things I can do from here, from my desk. Phone calls, computer research. Something.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Where do we start, Becca? Someone killed Joan. It wasn’t our mother. Where do we begin?”

I had no idea. I’d never noticed there was a starting point. I just searched for facts or clues or information that might fill in spots that seemed empty even if I didn’t quite understand why they were empty.

“Well, I guess we do need to know about Joan’s life,” I said.

“I can do that. I can ask around and do some research on my own.” Allison perked up. This gave her something to do, something to focus on other than the fact that our mother had just been arrested for murder.

“Great. That seems like a perfect place to start. I’m going to pack up my stall, go home and clean up, and then go see Mom.”

“I’ll finish up here, too, and get started on my research. I’ll go see her later. We should talk after that, though. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said. I stood and hurried out of her office. I pulled out my phone. I still didn’t have any sort of Internet access on it, so I dialed Information. In a few seconds I was connected to Bistro. The person who answered the phone had a pleasant tone to his voice.

“Bistro.”

“Hi, just seeing if you’re open tonight.”

“Yes, we are. Would you like to make a reservation?”

“You’re open even after Joan’s death?” I said, because I couldn’t stop the words from coming out of my mouth even if I’d wanted to.

The gentleman paused briefly, cleared his throat, and said, “Miss Joan would want the show to go on, so to speak. And, as it seems to go these days, some people are more popular in death than in life. We’re filling up quickly.” The pleasantness had gone out of his voice, replaced by an impatient glibness. It sounded as though he didn’t agree with the decision to open the doors but was required to “put on a happy face.”

“I see. Sure, I’d like to make a reservation for two for six o’clock.”

“Certainly.” The pleasant tone was back. “Under what name?”

I didn’t want to give my own name, or the name of anyone associated with Bailey’s. The one I used must have been on the tip of my tongue for some reason, but I had no idea why. “Pitt. Brian and Angel Pitt.”

“Uh, well, yes then. We look forward to seeing you, Ms. Pitt.” Emphasis on “Pitt.”

“Thank you.” I shut the phone. “Pitt?” I muttered to myself as I opened it again to let Ian know that we had dinner reservations. We made plans to meet at his apartment before driving to Bistro. George would love to have Hobbit spend the evening with him.

I began to pack up what was left of my inventory. The crowd was starting to build again, but it couldn’t be helped. I had other things to do.

“Hi again, Becca,” someone said from the front of my stall.

“Jake, hi!” I said.

He set down what looked like a new version of one of Bo’s onion display tables.

“You still planning on working at the garden tomorrow?”

“Yep,” I said, trying not to sound doubtful. No matter what other things I felt needed attention, I knew I’d have to keep my commitment to the garden; the kids counted on it. I couldn’t let them down. “What’s this?” I looked at the table.

“I had some wood. I knew Bo needed some new display tables. I threw this one together quickly. I hope to make some more for him.”

“That’s terrific, Jake. Bo will appreciate it, I know.” I looked toward Bo’s stall, but I couldn’t see him. The rest of us might have rounded up some tables and racks, but Jake had made an almost exact replica of Bo’s original tables. It sat at a slant, higher in the back, and it had short walls that would keep the onions well contained. Jake’s talent with woodworking was yet another thing I didn’t know about him.

“S’nothing,” Jake said. “He’s such a nice guy. And after yesterday and how he said Joan and the others treated him . . .” He winced. “Oh, that was bad timing. I heard about Joan’s murder, and it’s rotten of me to speak ill about the dead, particularly the murdered.”

“Did you know her well?” I asked.

Jake shrugged. “I knew her. We got along, but I wouldn’t say we were friends. She and her son were quite the team. They created an amazing restaurant. Good, affordable food. Good service. All the things customers look for when they go to a restaurant. I haven’t been a part of the association for long—less than a year—but I didn’t know anyone who hated her enough to kill her.”

“Did she really just walk by Bo’s stall and ignore him?” I asked.

“That’s what he said, but I wasn’t paying attention,” Jake said.

“Bo said the other members don’t buy from him, but you do?” I asked.

“Of course. He grows the best—well, other than what’s in my own little garden, but I don’t have enough time or space to grow enough of anything. My loyalty is to local vendors, not restaurant associations.”

“Local’s the only way to go,” I said.

Jake smiled and nodded. “Hey, you’re on your way out. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He picked up the table and hauled it toward Bo’s stall as I exited out the back of mine.

On my drive home, I thought through my schedule for the next few days. My order for Maytabee’s Coffee Shops wasn’t due for another five days. I didn’t need to make that a priority. I’d be at the garden the next morning and then attending to my own crops unless something else came up. The pumpkins were really beginning to come in quickly, and though the strawberries were done for the year, I’d have to give some TLC to the plants. I couldn’t forget that I still needed to stock up on other fruits I could freeze and use for my winter inventory. Peaches were either at their peak or almost there; I made a mental note to make sure I put in an order with the peach vendor, Carl Monroe, the next day.

It was still warm outside, but as I drove down the state highway, I sniffed in the hot, sweet air. I didn’t think there was ever a time I didn’t like living in South Carolina, but there were different reasons I liked each season, each month, actually. The end of July and the beginning of August signaled the deep part of summer. To me, tomatoes were at their sweetest and vegetables such as green beans were plentiful. I could eat the beans raw, and I often craved them.

The fresh air and passing farms also allowed me time to think about my current predicament. I knew my mother didn’t kill Joan. The thought of her being convicted hadn’t crossed my mind. Her fingerprints on the knife weren’t a good sign, but I knew she wouldn’t be found guilty. The killer had seen her at my farm and taken the opportunity to frame her. At least I hoped that was what happened.

But, and my stomach roiled at the thought I let trickle into my consciousness, what if she
was
guilty?

“NO!” I said aloud as I hit my steering wheel.

Mom was not guilty. It had to be that simple. Everything else would follow, I assured myself. I took ten deep breaths and forced my shoulders to relax away the tension that made them seem like they were scrunched to my ears.

At first, the police car in my driveway threatened my vow of clearheaded calmness. What had happened now? But then I saw Sam on my front porch, in his civilian clothes. He must have changed right after taking my mom to jail. He wasn’t here on official business and there were no other officers around, so I presumed I wasn’t now under arrest, and that my farm wasn’t the scene of a new crime.

“Sam?” I said as I got out of the truck. He got up and met me halfway. He wore a faded blue T-shirt and some old jeans. His hair was loose from its slicked-back work mode. I always wondered if he disheveled it himself or if it automatically looked more casual when he took off his uniform.

“Becca, hey,” he said as he stopped in front of me.

“Is my mom okay?”

“Fine, fine. Your Dad is staying with her. I pulled some strings, and unless we have a run on criminal activity, he can stay in the next cell, unlocked.”

“That was nice and probably difficult to pull off. Thank you.” Any anger I might have felt toward Sam was dissipating. He was doing his job and probably breaking rules for the sake of my mother’s comfort. It was hard for me to separate the friend Sam from the police officer Sam; I needed to remember that it was probably hard for him, too.

He nodded and then looked out toward my pumpkins. He didn’t say anything.

“What, Sam? Why are you here?”

He looked back at me, his eyes softer now. “I know this is horrible for you and Allison. I’m sorry I had to arrest your mom.”

“I know you are, and don’t get me wrong, it stinks, but I’m not mad at you, well, not anymore. Allison and I know she’s innocent. We’ll . . . we know you’ll find the real killer.”

“I will. I’d like to know what your plans are regarding the investigation. Don’t lie, just tell me. I’d like to know and maybe I can stop you from heading in a direction I’m already looking or in a direction that I know might be dangerous.” Gone were his threats of arresting me for butting in where I shouldn’t. He knew they would be more pointless than ever since my mother was involved.

“Ian and I are going to Bistro tonight for dinner, just to check it out.”

“They’re open?” he said.

“According to the gentleman who answered the phone, business is booming and Joan wouldn’t want them to close for something so silly as her death.”

Sam nodded, his forehead wrinkling in thought.

“You want to go with us? I’m sure they could make it a table for three?” I said as I pulled out my phone.

“No, no, that’s all right,” he said. “Third wheel and all.”

“Sam, both Ian and I would love to have you join us.”

“It’s fine, some other time, but thanks. However, I was hoping you’d be okay with me taking another look around your property. I’m not here officially, Becca. This is just my curiosity.”

“Sure. Can I look around with you?”

“Of course.”

I had about half an hour before I needed to shower to be presentable for my mom and then dinner with Ian. I was glad Sam was there. I had wondered what it would be like to pull into my driveway again, especially with no one else home. Had Sam been concerned about the same thing? Maybe he was really there to help me deal with the fact that I now owned a home where a murder had been committed.

He helped me unload the leftover inventory and store it in the barn, which the cleaners had left spotless.

“They did okay in here?” Sam asked as he handed me some jars of blueberry jam.

“Yes, they did great. I’m pretty picky and I couldn’t find a problem anywhere.”

“Good. When were you planning on getting the door frame and lock fixed?” he asked as he peered under the appliances.

“Ian and my dad—well, maybe just Ian now—were planning on doing it tomorrow.”

“That works. I don’t see anything in here that might have been missed. I’d like to walk the perimeter of the property, up to the tree line. Still want to come with me?”

“Are you kidding? I’d love to see how the pros do this.”

Sam laughed. “Remember, I’m not here officially. I’m not following any protocol except going where my curiosity leads me.”

“Right,” I said. “But I know you well enough to know you’re always on the job even when you’re not on the job.”