Bushel Full of Murder (13 page)

Ian’s farm was outside Monson’s city limits and just past the small house Allison and I had lived in when we were kids. He’d taken a plot of less than ideal land and turned it into something spectacular. Though I hadn’t seen it for some time, I’d heard about the combination house-warehouse that was almost finished and the rows of healthy, purple-flowered lavender plants that rolled idyllically up the short hillside. Allison had described it as a modern-ish storybook setting, a place where you felt like you could grab a book and stretch out on a giant, soft purple comforter for a few hours. As I pulled my truck to a stop on the side of the road, I concurred with her assessment.

The lavender was truly beautiful, something that belonged in a Van Gogh painting, a purple escape on a sunny day. The
wide, two-story house had modern lines, but they were mellowed by green clapboard siding and wide white window shutters, creating a charming new twist for the old farmhouse. The house was big, but I knew the living space took up only about half of it. The other half was a work space for Ian’s yard art and his multifaceted lavender business. I wasn’t sure where George’s apartment was located, but I knew it was in there somewhere.

Ian stepped out of the house’s side door just as I got out of the truck.

“Becca, hey,” he said when he turned to see who’d was attached to the sound of a door shutting. He put down a long metal piece, wiped his hands on his jeans, and walked down a small slope next to the lavender crops. “This is a great surprise. What’s up?”

“My mom needs some lavender oil. I didn’t get the message until just a little bit ago. Sorry to barge in.”

His eyebrows came together as he stopped in front of me. “You’re not barging in. Not possible. You haven’t seen the place in all its glory. Come on, I’ll give you a tour, and George will be thrilled to see you. You have some time?”

“I do.”

I followed Ian back up the slope and through the side door, into the warehouse space. Though the outside of the building was nicely finished off, the warehouse wasn’t quite done. Even though warehouses weren’t supposed to have fancy walls and floors, this big room still had exposed mud patches on the drywall.

“I haven’t gotten to the walls because they seem like the least important thing. I got the house done, and then I had orders to fill and lavender oil to make. I’ll paint the walls in
here at some point but for now you can see that I’ve split it up into two areas: metalwork and lavender stuff. Well, you can sort of see it. It’s kind of a mess but I know where everything is and I’m sure I’ll get organized someday.” Ian smiled.

I looked at him. He truly had found his passion and was in his element. He’d gone to college for math, but had always wanted to create art. I was genuinely happy for him.

“This is great, Ian,” I said as I looked around at the metal scraps and pieces he would turn into interesting shapes that moved with the wind. There were machines that cut or formed the pieces, machines I’d seen him work with but still didn’t quite understand. A welder’s mask was tipped on its side on one of the tables and there was a slight smell of burnt motor oil in the room. On the other side were two tables that were covered in chemistry-type equipment. Bottles, beakers, and funnels, things that made me think of frog dissections and stinky high school experiments.

“Thanks.” He looked around the room. Maybe he was trying to see it through my eyes. If so, he’d be impressed. “How much oil do you need?” He stepped around the chemistry table and reached to a back shelf. “What is your mom making?”

“I think she’s baking something. I don’t think she’ll need much.”

“A couple small bottles will probably be okay, but let me know if she needs more than this.” He grabbed the brown bottles from a shelf and brought them back around.

“Perfect. What do I owe you?”

“Are you kidding? For your mom? No, we won’t charge her today. Maybe down the road, but not today. Come on, let’s go find George.”

I followed him out of the warehouse and into a hallway between the work and living spaces. This part was more finished, and similar to the outside, the lines inside were simple, yet somehow cozy. The floors were polished walnut and the walls painted off-white. Ian stopped at a closed door and knocked.

“George, you decent?” he said. “We’ve got company.”

“Well, I’m dressed if that’s what you mean,” George said from the other side of the door. “Come in.”

George’s studio apartment was one large room with areas devoted to different things like eating, sleeping, and reading. But all the walls except the one that contained the small kitchenette were covered with filled bookshelves. Ian said he’d bring George’s library to his new home, and it looked like he’d done exactly that. He’d even brought George’s worn and comfortable reading chair and his standing lamp with its fringed shade that had yellowed from time.

“Becca! How delightful,” George said when I got close enough that he could see me through his thick glasses. His vision was terrible, but the glasses helped a little. He didn’t read much on his own if at all anymore, but listened to recorded books or was read to. I’d read a book or two aloud when he’d lived in his old French Tudor on Harvard, and I was sure Ian still read to him when he could. It had been a big project to gather all the books, but they were his world, and though his apartment was homey, I knew having the books around him had been important.

“George, you look great!” I said as I hugged him.

“That boy keeps feeding me,” he said. “I’ve gained back a
little weight. The doctor is pleased so I guess that’s a good thing.”

“That’s good news,” I said.

George had been losing weight before he’d moved to Ian’s farm. He’d lost his desire to do much cooking and seemed to forget a few meals. He did look better now with a little more meat on his bones and filled-out cheeks.

“And this creature”—he reached back to the arm of the chair and scratched behind the ears of a very black, very green-eyed, short-haired cat—“keeps me on my toes.”

I’d almost run over Magic when she was a tiny newborn kitten. I’d stopped just in time, and though she’d thanked me by digging her claws into my neck, I’d brought her to George. Destiny had taken over and they became quickly smitten with each other.

But I didn’t think Magic liked me all that much. As she pushed her head into George’s fingers, she looked at me with green-eyed suspicion.

“Hey, Magic,” I said. She tipped her head and inspected me, but only for a moment.

“What’s the occasion for your visit?” George said.

“Getting lavender for my mom,” I said.

“This is the place for that. Ian’s farm is becoming quite the spot.”

“I agree,” I said.

“Come with us to the kitchen, George. Becca hasn’t seen that part. I think she’ll like it. She likes kitchens.”

“Ah, yes, come along, Magic,” George said.

I followed behind both Ian and George as we walked
down another short hallway and into Ian’s living areas. Magic stayed at my heels, but in that cat way, just far enough behind so she didn’t run into them.

Ian’s living space was unexpected. It was terrific—no, extra terrific. The great room began at the front of the house with a giant space that held three couches. There was a modern flat-screen television but it was small and looked somewhat neglected on the wide television stand. The space directly behind the couches was filled with a long dark walnut dining table, which was in turn topped with papers, two laptops, and what I thought was some dried lavender. Next was the kitchen island with a few stools tucked under it and a sink at its far end. Along the back wall were the rest of the appliances, surrounded by light blue shelves. The floors were all off-white tile that matched the color on the walls. There was nothing fancy about any of it, but the simplicity suited Ian—modern yet homey.

“It is beautiful,” I said. “Just great.”

“Thanks,” Ian said.

“Look at the view out the windows,” George said.

There were five tall windows along the side wall of the house. They framed the lavender field. I moved past the dining table so I could get a better look.

“It’s stunning,” I said. I’d already noticed that the field looked like something from a Van Gogh. The windows made it a framed masterpiece.

“It is,” George said. “I can’t see it as well as most people and even I know how wonderful it is.”

“I like how it turned out,” Ian said. “But what about this kitchen? Isn’t it perfect? Too bad I don’t do preserves.”

I walked back to the kitchen, pretended to give Ian a stern, doubting look (which only made him smile), and then inspected everything as if I wore a white glove.

“Well, it’s pretty close to perfect,” I said with a wink toward George, though I had no idea if he saw it or not. “No, it’s absolutely perfect. Really great, Ian.”

“Thanks,” Ian said.

George pulled up a stool and said, “Becca, I heard about a death at the bank. You have connections. Was it a murder?”

“I think that’s what’s been determined.”

“Oh, dear. I knew Robert Ship. He was a neighbor and a friend at one time.”

I pulled up a stool, too. “He was? A neighbor at the Harvard house?”

“Yes. He was a nice man.”

“I’m sorry for your loss then.”

“I’m sorry he’s gone. Honestly, I can’t imagine anyone wanting him dead. He was a quiet man with a quiet life. He worked in the licensing office downtown.”

“I know. I was there just this morning. The two people who were working seemed sad about his death.”

“I don’t know much about his co-workers, but I know he was well liked around the community. We’re not a large place, but we have our fair share of businesses. His was not a controversial government job by any stretch of the imagination. Paying for one’s business license isn’t a big deal, but he was good at reminding people when theirs was about to expire. He took it quite seriously actually.”

“Did you ever have your own business license?” I said.

“No,” George said.

“Well, you’re right in that it’s no big deal to keep it active, just a yearly nominal fee. But the first time you apply for one, you have to answer some questions about your past possible involvement in illegal activities, whether you’ve been convicted of any crime, and if they were felonies on your record. It occurred to me that maybe someone lied on their application and Mr. Ship found out about the lie. Maybe he confronted them.”

George thought a moment. “No, I don’t think he would have confronted anyone, Becca. It wasn’t his style. Now, if he found something illegal, I have no doubt at all that he would have gone to the police. He was very much about doing the right thing.”

I didn’t want to argue with George, but I’d gotten a different impression from Mr. Ship’s co-workers. They’d mentioned that Mr. Ship had let Jeff slide for what I interpreted they deemed was probably too long. I was sure they thought he should have gone to the police much sooner.

“How much of his family do you know?” I asked.

“His wife died many years ago, and he raised their two kids mostly on his own. They left Monson when they went away to college and never moved back, but I’m pretty sure they’ve always had a friendly relationship.”

“Do you know his extended family at all? His niece has—or had, she might not be coming back—a tomato stall at Bailey’s. Her name is Betsy.”

“Yes, of course. I don’t know her well, but there were family events at his house and I think Betsy was there a few times.
Again, I wasn’t around them all that much, but I never sensed any problems between any of the family members. The get-togethers were never rowdy in a bad way. But that was a long time ago, Becca. Time moves at such a different pace when you’re my age. My past has become compartmentalized into some unexpected categories. I believe Betsy was a young girl when she was at Robert’s house. That’s still how I think of her.”

I nodded. “She’s full grown now.”

“Yes, then, it has been some time. Has Sam mentioned if the police have any idea about what happened?”

“They’re still in the evidence-gathering phase. Some things happened at Bailey’s the day before Mr. Ship was killed that probably have nothing to do with his murder, but the police think are notable. When Mr. Ship was at the market to talk to some food truck vendors, he also mentioned a couple market vendors who had issues with their licenses. Betsy’s business license had expired and another vendor’s had never been purchased. Our baked potato vendor, Jeff, claims that there’s a loophole in the law that allows him to operate a food cart without purchasing a business license.”

“Really? How long has Jeff had the cart?”

“About a year.”

“There’s no question that he would be required to have a license, Becca. No matter what he tried to manipulate, if you sell a product, you definitely are required to have a business license. What’s he have to say for himself regarding the murder?”

“I haven’t seen him. I don’t know if Sam has talked to him yet. Jeff hasn’t been at the market for two days.”

“Hmm,” George said. “Well, Jeff’s absence might or might not have had anything to do with Robert’s murder, but it’s a possibility, I guess.”