Bushel Full of Murder (2 page)

FOUR DAYS EARLIER

“Close your eyes,” he said.

I did as he instructed.

“Okay, stick out your tongue,” he said.

I did.

“Tell me what you think.” He deposited a small drop of liquid onto my tongue.

“Mmm,” I said a second later. “That is so good. Can I open my eyes?”

“Sure.”

Herb and Don, of Herb and Don’s Herbs, a popular stall at Bailey’s Farmers’ Market, stood in front of my stall with
expectant looks on their faces and a collection of dark brown miniature bottles in their hands.

“Really good,” I said. “That’s your peppermint?”

“It is, and made into our very own peppermint oil. So good. Right?” Don asked. “Flavorful, maybe even a little cooling?” He smiled. Even if the peppermint had been served with a sliver of ice, it would have done very little to combat today’s heat and humidity.

“Yes,” I said, returning the smile. “It’s perfect.” I knew exactly what it was like to bring a new product to the market. Nerve-wracking. I’d done a few taste test tours through Bailey’s aisles myself. There were never enough positive comments, never enough assurances that the product you’d created was a good one, and one that would not only sell, but that customers would sincerely enjoy.

“Oh, good,” Herb said, his shoulders relaxing. He grinned at Don. “She likes it.”

“She does,” Don said with his own smile. “We’re at one hundred percent, Becca. Everyone who has tried it has given us good reviews, but we were most worried about you. You have one of the best tasters at the market.”

“I did not know that. Glad I could help.”

“When Ian said he could show us how to create essential oils from some of our herbs, we thought we were in for a terrible learning curve, but he’s helped us so much.” Don’s smile faded. He blinked and bit his bottom lip. It took me a second, but I figured out the problem: he wasn’t sure he should side with Ian in front of me on anything ever again. I appreciated his loyalty.

I laughed. “Ian and I are still friends. Ian and Sam are
friends, too. It’s good”—I leaned toward them—“but between me and you guys, it’s also a little weird.”

It really wasn’t all that weird, my old boyfriend and my new boyfriend having a friendly relationship of their own, but I knew it should be weird so that’s usually what I told people. In fact, Ian, my old (much younger) boyfriend, and Sam, my current and forever boyfriend (or so I hoped), seemed to get along great. They genuinely liked each other. There was a point, early on in my relationship with Sam, that I was sure he would put a halt to our dating if Ian had been adamant about wanting to stay with me. I thought that maybe we’d passed that point, and that Sam would now fight until the bitter end for me, or at least put Ian in a jail cell until the younger man came to his senses.

Sam was a Monson police officer so he had access to a couple small holding cells in the back room at the police station. Ian was in his mid-twenties and an artist with long hair and lots of tattoos, but none of the criminal behavior that might be expected to stereotypically coincide with that look. Instead, he was a smart, ambitious, talented yard art artist and lavender farmer, with plans to make all sorts of products from his crops—essential oils were only the beginning. Not long ago he’d mentioned to me that Herb and Don were becoming interested in his oil development techniques, and he was excited to teach them his ways. I was happy to see that the end result of their project together had become a viable new market product.

“I’m so glad to hear that. You know, things don’t seem weird around here with you and Ian, but he’s at the market less and less and we just weren’t sure. We should have just asked, huh?” Don said.

“It’s okay. I understand.”

Herb and Don were both business and life partners and had had an herb stall at Bailey’s for years. They’d been so successful growing oregano that they’d been approached by a national spice company, and both of them were offered great-paying jobs in the product development department. But they declined, choosing to stay at Bailey’s instead of going to what they predicted was a sterile indoor environment requiring adherence to corporate rules and such. We’d all been happy to hear the good news.

“Thank you, Becca,” Herb said. “When we have the oil ready for sale, we’ll drop off a bottle for you.”

“I’d love one.”

Ah, the perks of working at a farmers’ market.

Herb and Don dodged customers as they continued down the aisle in search of other available vendor tongues. I glanced over my inventory. Six jars of strawberry preserves were all that was left for the day, and my regular customers and special orders had all been taken care of and reordered if necessary. I was tempted to pack up the jars and go home, or to someplace where I could jump into frigid water, maybe step into a freezer.

My fraternal twin sister and the Bailey’s manager, Allison, had installed a tubed water mister system along the aisles and above the stalls that had given us tiny clouds of cooling relief during our warm South Carolina summer temperatures, but the misters had stopped working the day before. She’d been trying to get someone to come out and fix them since only a few seconds after they’d come to a silent and dry halt, giving way to a collective moan of despair that spread throughout the market.

We’d been spoiled by our misters.

Unfortunately, Allison couldn’t be her typical determined pest with the repair people because another surprise had been sprung on her only a few hours ago.

Bailey’s managers had given the go-ahead for five food trucks to spend two weeks in the market’s parking lot, and the trucks were scheduled to arrive today. They were part of a national program called KEEP ON EATING. The participants were reimbursed all fuel and hotel expenses as they traveled to someplace that they’d never served their food before, preferably away from their home states. It was a way to bring attention to the food truck industry, different regional foods, as well as to some of the unknown but talented chefs and bakers who created delicious, in some cases gourmet, food—from inside a truck. The benefits to Bailey’s were hopefully increased traffic to the market, and an agreement that the food truck operators would purchase as many groceries as they could from the market vendors. The chefs would place signs on their trucks mentioning that they were only using the best-quality and freshest food, found locally from Bailey’s Farmers’ Market. It was with the delivery of the signs earlier today that Allison learned about the trucks’ imminent arrival.

It was a great idea, of course, no matter how or when the news had been delivered. But unfortunately, making sure the goings-on went off without a hitch was more than just making sure there was room in the parking lot for the trucks. Allison’s duties had been all about KEEP ON EATING since the moment she’d seen the signs. I hadn’t talked to her since, but I had left her a phone message letting her know that if she needed any help, I could make myself available.

So instead of going home, I decided I would pack up my remaining inventory and then track down my sister. Maybe she actually could use a hand but hadn’t had a moment to call me back.

I grabbed a box from underneath my front table and started to load the six jars.

“Ms. Robins?” A voice that seemed hesitant but familiar pulled my attention back up toward the aisle.

I recognized him. I remembered him. But how was he here? How was he in South Carolina? It didn’t fit. His deeply tanned skin and brown eyes—framed in the best laugh lines I’d ever seen—his thick, dark hair, the ever-present cowboy hat. Had he taken a wrong turn or gotten lost, perhaps somewhere around Missouri?

“Hi! Oh my gosh!” I said as I abandoned the box and the jars and stepped around my front table to greet my friend from Arizona. “Harry! Talking Trees! It’s great to see you.”

“Becca Robins, hello,” Harry said with a smile that crinkled the laughing lines into deep cheery fan folds.

Harry Lindon, also known as Talking Trees on his reservation home in Arizona, was a law enforcement officer in his neck of the woods; his hot, dry, desert neck of the woods. I’d visited Chief Buffalo’s Trading Post and Farmers’ Market the summer before and had met Harry when murder had become a part of the adventure.

“You look well. Good as new,” I said. “What in the world are you doing in South Carolina?”

“I’m fine,” he said, waving away any concern I might have about his state of health or his recovery from the
potentially deadly injuries I knew he’d suffered. “I’m here on business, but I was surprised and happy when I heard I was coming to Monson so I could see my new friend who made me laugh even after we’d gone through some very dangerous moments together.”

“I’m so happy to see you, too. What in the world would your business be in South Carolina?”

Harry looked around. He was tall, but not as tall as his presence made him seem. His wide shoulders and cowboy hat made it feel like he took up a gigantic amount of space.

“This is not a great place to talk. Maybe I could buy you a cup of coffee, or something cold to drink after you’re done working?” he said.

“I’m done,” I said. I felt bad about not tracking down Allison, but I couldn’t resist taking some time to understand why Harry was in Monson, here on “business.” “Do you have a vehicle?”

“I flew into Columbia and then rented a car. It’s out front in the lot.”

“I have an orange truck. I’ll come around and then you can follow me to a coffee shop.”

“All right,” Harry said.

Only a few minutes later, I’d officially closed my stall for the day and brought my truck around to the front parking lot. Harry waited at the entrance in his tiny car. His hat was off because there couldn’t possibly be enough room for both him and it.

I led us to Maytabee’s, a local coffee shop, one of six now in South Carolina that carried some of my products. My
preserves, jams, and jellies had sold well from the first day they’d been on the Maytabee’s shelves, but lately they’d done even better, orders coming in twice as big as they’d been only a few months earlier. I didn’t mind, even with the now required extra hours spent in my converted barn/kitchen.

I was dressed in my typical summer short overalls and it had been a hot day, so the overalls and my short blond hair were both wilted, but the people at Maytabee’s had seen me in even worse shape—in fact, one day extra-blue from a jar of blueberry jam I’d dropped in the parking lot when it had slipped out of my hurried hands. They’d referred to me as the Oompa Loompa jam lady ever since.

I didn’t recognize any of the baristas today, though, as I asked Harry to take a seat while I ordered the coffees.

We sat across from each other in matching worn leather chairs, both of us able to enjoy the cool air coming from a ceiling vent. The chairs were off in a corner by themselves, so though there were a few other customers in the shop none were close enough to hear our conversation.

Briefly, we recounted the craziness we’d gone through together in Arizona, but Harry didn’t want to give me many details regarding the deeper investigation into the motives behind the murder of a Native American jewelry maker, other than to tell me that the authorities had the important answers but were still trying to get more details. I made him promise to call me and let me know once all the mysteries had been solved. He said he would.

“Harry, what is your business in Monson?” I finally asked.

“Ah, it’s a curious thing, I suppose. I’m on the trail of
someone we think stole a substantial sum of money from a large restaurant in Arizona. She worked for them at the time, stole the money along with one of their proprietary recipes.”

“And she’s in Monson?”

“She’s on her way, I think. I don’t think she’s arrived yet. I hope she truly does make it here. She operates a food truck—a venture she began shortly after leaving the restaurant. She got out of town too quickly for me. I was going to follow her, but I missed her middle-of-the-night exit a few nights ago.”

“Food truck! I know about the food trucks. Five are coming in. But from Arizona? I can’t imagine why someone would travel so far.”

“It’s a long way to go, but we think she’s trying to get far away from home. We don’t know if she’s trying to make a permanent move or just a temporary one. When I contacted the organization sponsoring the summer food truck event, they told me that she requested Monson specifically. They said they tried to honor all of the requests they got, though most of the trucks were only going to travel a state or two away from their homes.”

I knew nothing about the specific trucks set to arrive at Bailey’s. I didn’t know what kind of food they prepared, and other than selling them some of my products at a discount, I didn’t know what role I was to play in their visit.

“Tell me more about her. What kind of food?”

“Gourmet hot dogs. They’re good, too. She grills all the dogs. Her toppings are delicious, including the secret recipe she stole, a sauce made with tomatoes and a mix of spices that has just the right bite, but lots of flavor.”

“Mmm. My mouth is watering.”

“I have to admit when I started investigating the alleged stolen recipe, the part where I had to sample the food was much more enjoyable than lots of other investigations I’ve conducted.”