I had no idea what time it was, but all I wanted to do was go
home.
Officer Brion had allowed Hobbit to stay with me, but he’d separated us from Ian. We’d gone through another complete round of questioning. I sat on the hood of the police car, and this time it went something like this:
“Ms. Robins, explain how you’re here after you told me you didn’t know where Abner Justen lived.”
“I’m worried about him, Officer. The bloody axe. Do you think he’s okay?”
“Ms. Robins, I’m asking, you’re answering.”
“Ian created that art.” I pointed. “He knew where Abner lived because he had to deliver and set up the artwork. I didn’t find this out until long after I talked to you. I didn’t even think about letting you know. Besides, you questioned Ian, so you probably got the address from him, too.” I wasn’t in the mood to be questioned, and though I respected the police and what they did, I was tired and angry that they’d perhaps missed something horrible happening to Abner.
“So, Mr. Cartwright supplied you with the information?” He tapped his pen on his notepad as he looked over at Ian, who was next to the front porch, talking to another officer.
“Yes.”
“Wait here.”
“Officer Brion, what about Abner? Do you think he’s hurt? Do you think the axe is the weapon that was used to kill Matt Simonsen?”
For a moment, Officer Brion kept his stern face. I was ready for him to tell me again that it wasn’t my job to ask the questions, but then the hard edges of his face relaxed—only slightly.
“Ms. Robins, we don’t know where Mr. Justen is, but he’s a person of interest in the murder of Mr. Simonsen. We came out here tonight to talk to him some more. We hope no one else is hurt, but we don’t have that answer right now. As for the murder weapon, that’s not something I can share with you.”
I nodded as he turned and went to talk to Ian.
I waited for a long time.
Finally, we were free to go—well, told to leave. Abner never did show up. The officers searched the house and greenhouse and presumably found the same things we did, but they didn’t share their observations with us.
“Were you the one who told Officer Brion where Abner lived? Earlier today, I mean,” I asked as Ian drove us back to my house.
“No. Officer Brion wasn’t the one who interviewed me. It was the other guy. He didn’t ask if I knew where Abner lived.”
“Oh.”
“In case you’re wondering, I’d have given up the address if they’d asked.” Ian’s voice had a smile to it.
“Probably a good idea.”
“Yeah.” Ian scratched behind one of Hobbit’s ears. She was fast asleep, spread out over both of us.
“Do you think Abner’s been hurt?”
“I have no idea. I hope not. The axe isn’t good, though, no matter whose blood is on it.”
I cringed.
“They’ll figure it out. They’re the police,” Ian said.
“Uh-huh,” I muttered. But I wasn’t so sure.
We replayed the police questions, neither of us learning anything new. Well, other than the fact that Officer Brion hadn’t been able to hide his displeasure at the way Ian had been questioned earlier in the day. We didn’t know how they’d finally figured out Abner’s address, but they hadn’t learned it from Ian.
Ian dropped Hobbit and me off with the promise that we’d do something less criminal-like next time.
I fell into bed and slept deeply, without one bad dream, and woke up after the sun had risen—this was rare, but at least I’d gotten plenty of rest.
It was Wednesday—my day off—and I was grateful to spend the time around my farm. The entire day before had been emotional and draining; it was good to have tasks to keep me busy. And, of course, I had to call my sister and give her the previous evening’s details, which I did as I worked the pumpkin patch.
“I’m very pleased that you weren’t arrested,” Allison said.
“Me, too, but it was close. We were trespassing, after all. And I picked up a bloody axe.” I switched my cell phone to my other ear as I lifted a slightly green pumpkin and rearranged it so that it wouldn’t flatten on one side.
“Picking up a bloody axe wasn’t smart, Sis.”
“I know, but apparently Officer Brion
observed
us discovering it and me picking it up.”
“That probably saved you.”
“Yep.”
“Did he believe you were there out of concern for Abner?”
“I think so, but I don’t think they’re concerned for his well-being so much.”
“They suspect him, huh?”
“Pretty sure. I think they think the axe was the murder weapon, but they wouldn’t tell us.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“I’m sure you’d have told me this already, but Abner’s not there—not at Bailey’s today?” I asked.
“No. His stall is empty.”
“I figured.”
We were silent for a moment, both of us processing . . . well, everything.
“Hey, I have a pumpkin that looks like Richard Nixon,” I said to break up the quiet.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” I lifted Mr. Nixon and moved him slightly. “He might now transform into Gerald Ford.”
Allison laughed. “I hate to do this on your day off, but can you come in for a meeting this afternoon? Vendors are still—understandably—upset about everything, and the customers aren’t rushing back yet, so I thought we’d get everyone together to talk things out. And the Equinox Dinner is scheduled for this Sunday. I want to see if everyone still really wants to have it, considering the circumstances.”
I’d forgotten about the dinner. It was Allison’s yearly moment to shine, so to speak. She always put together a great party for all Bailey’s vendors and their families on the Sunday night before the fall equinox. That Sunday was typically the last day at the market for the seasonal vendors, who wouldn’t return until spring. The dinner was a time for socialization, farewells, and evaluation. Everyone looked forward to it. “Sure. What time?” Though I still had lots of work to do around the farm, Allison could probably use a positive attitude/force at her meeting. I’d work on attaining such. Plus, I wanted to ask some questions; I wasn’t sure who I wanted to interrogate, but having lots of people together might help me figure it out.
“About three o’clock. Oh, and Ian will be there, too. Maybe he’ll show you the rest of his tattoos.”
“Now I’m sorry I told you.” In working up to the horror of the night before, I’d told Allison what I’d learned about Ian, particularly the mystery number of tattoos over his body.
“Sorry, but the way you talk about him is very interesting. You sound . . . intrigued.”
“I’m too often divorced to be intrigued with anyone. You’re mistaking my tone.”
“Okay,” Allison said easily, not willing to bring the issue to an argument. “Hey, go ahead and bring Hobbit today.”
“Thanks. See you then.”
We signed off. I snapped the phone shut and slipped it into the back pocket of my short overalls. I knew from experience that my pumpkin-turning crouch could result in my cell phone being propelled out of a side pocket. And the big leaves of pumpkin plants hid phones very well.
“You’ve been invited to a meeting. Are you excited?” I asked my ever-loyal farming partner. She knew how to stay close beside me and step carefully enough so that her long paws didn’t tear the leaves or crush any of the pumpkins. When I worked with the strawberry plants, she stayed to the outside of the runners. It took only a couple of smushed berries for her to learn that her feet weren’t made for avoiding the small fruit.
Hobbit winked, acknowledging either the fact that she knew going to the meeting would be the best part of her day, or that she knew she’d be invited all along.
She’d come into my life literally the second that my second husband left it. I’d driven the last box of his personal items to the 7-Eleven not far from the farm. Scott and I didn’t hate each other, but once the relationship was over, it was uncomfortable having him in the house, so I planned to meet him and deliver the box.
As I sucked on the straw of a Big Gulp and watched him drive away in his newer-model truck, silently wondering how he was ever going to make payments on the truck and buy gas for it when he didn’t have access to my checking account anymore, a child stepped in front of me and held up a very small brown puppy with very long feet.
“Hey, lady, want a puppy?”
I can’t even remember what the child looked like because I was so busy falling in love with the dog. Hobbit and I had been together ever since—two years of the best relationship of my life. Her enjoyment of the pumpkin patch was a bonus.
As I’d read on bumper stickers about fishing—time spent among pumpkins should not be deducted from one’s life. The gourds were easy to grow and they produced such wonderful orange fruit that cultivating a pumpkin patch was an easily satisfying experience.
Unfortunately, my usually peaceful task was more stressful than relaxing this morning. As I walked through the patch, rearranging those pumpkins that needed rearranging, watering the plants, and inspecting the large leaves for mold, I kept thinking about poor Matt Simonsen and his bashed-in head. It was probably the Richard Nixon look-alike that brought the human comparison to the front of my mind, but in just about every pumpkin I looked at, I began to see the disfigured part of the dead man.
Who was he? What had he and Abner really argued about? Did Abner use the axe to kill Matt? Did they know each other before Matt had come to work at Bailey’s? Was Abner now a victim, too?
Beyond those specific questions, there was the whole idea of murder. Even with two divorces under my belt, I’d never felt particularly murderous toward either of my ex-husbands; crazed with anger enough to slam a door with destruction in mind, maybe, but never homicidal. How badly must someone want someone else out of their life to follow through with killing them? Had Matt Simonsen been such a large thorn in Abner’s side that the only way to relieve the pain was killing him? And if Abner wasn’t the killer, then who was? Last time I’d asked, Allison told me that there were fifty-something vendors at Bailey’s—some were part-time, others full-time. Though it seemed the police didn’t suspect anyone other than Abner, could another Bailey’s vendor have disliked Simonsen enough to do away with him? I wanted to know who that might be. And why.
I was beginning to look forward to the meeting. It wasn’t that I thought I was smarter than the police, but I wondered if maybe my insight into the people I’d worked with for so many years might offer me a clearer look. And I really wanted to know what had happened. I was curious, but I was angry, too. Bailey’s was a great place to work and shop—someone had brought their mess to my ’hood, and I wasn’t happy about that at all. I didn’t feel unsafe, but the egg vendor Jeanine Baker had, and customers were bound to be wary for at least a little while. The sooner this was solved, the better off we’d all be.
I finished with the pumpkins at about ten o’clock, still leaving me with plenty of time to trim back the strawberry plants and give them the good soaking that would contribute to another great crop in the spring. My strawberries had been healthy and hardy this year, but that wasn’t unexpected. Even though many of my berry jams were made from the berries of other farmers, I had a special knack for growing strawberries that were plump, sweet, and juicy. I was the envy of many local growers who tried in vain to duplicate my methods. And I wasn’t secretive about my ways. In fact, I told anyone who asked exactly what I did. But still, to this day, no one was able to grow them the way I could grow them. I liked to think that my strawberries were a result of my ability to understand my plants innately and know exactly what they needed when they needed it. Perhaps it was something cosmic—a life-to-life relationship coming together in perfect harmony. In actuality, it was probably the slight slope of my land and the way the sun fell on the plants in a perfect arc, angling just right throughout the growing season.
Well, whatever it was, I was either lucky or damn good at it, and proud to be so.
I didn’t believe in just turning on a sprinkler or a hose, allowing the water to run freely. I insisted on hand-watering everything. Beyond the fact that there was something peaceful about spending time in a garden or working the land, it was my job, my responsibility, to make sure that I created the best products I could. Personal attention to each and every plant was the only way, in my opinion.
Though I cleaned my kitchen/barn and all my cooking items every time I used them, on Wednesdays I cleaned everything again, inventoried the freezers, pulled everything away from the walls, and mopped floors and corners that I couldn’t reach otherwise; this was most successfully done with music turned up to wall-shaking volume and was probably the best part of my week—I called it my head-clearing therapy, and I definitely needed that form of therapy today.
Hobbit wasn’t allowed in the barn, so she always napped on the front porch as I cleaned, usually to the sounds of Springsteen, Motown, or George Strait. It was an odd collection of favorites, but MP3 players had changed the world and made those mixed-music collections I used to create on cassette tapes a hundred times easier to put together. Today, the “Teen Pop for the Geriatric” playlist sounded appealing, so with the background of Shaun Cassidy, David Cassidy, Donny Osmond, and Rick Springfield, I inventoried and then scrubbed until there was nothing left to scrub. The therapy worked wonders, and I emerged from the barn in a deeply contented state.
Of course, my phone had to ring and spoil the moment.
I fished it out of my pocket and read the ID: Unknown.
“Hello.”
“Becca?”
“Abner?”
“Yes.”
“You’re okay?! Where are you? How are you?” My mind and mouth both started to whir.
“Becca, I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Abner, I never thought you did.” The axe hadn’t helped with that belief, but I didn’t want to lose him.