Bushel Full of Murder (3 page)

“The sauce is identical?” I said.

“Mostly,” he said hesitantly.

“Mostly?”

I was not in a position to interject any ideas into Harry’s investigation. I didn’t know the details, I didn’t know the people involved. But I’d witnessed a few alleged recipe thefts over the years. When you work with food, even if it’s not in a restaurant setting, you have the chance to taste things that are so good that you want to create something similar. It becomes a challenge, a goal. Recipe theft is one thing, but trying to re-create something based upon your own tastes and experience is something else altogether.

“Is that what makes you think she stole the recipe?” I asked.

“It started when the card with the secret recipe went missing from the restaurant’s office. She was the last one seen leaving the office. On her own, behaving suspiciously. The sequence of events is too long to go into now but that combined with her quick departure from the restaurant shortly thereafter and what happened to the manager the week before makes her look pretty guilty. I’ve been hanging around her truck trying to figure her out, as well as eating the food she prepares. It’s very good. I started questioning her more seriously a couple weeks ago. I think she got nervous about my curiosity, and the food truck tour became a convenient way to leave town, at least for a little while.”

“What happened to the restaurant manager?”

“She was assaulted on her way to the bank to make a deposit.”

“Is she okay?”

“Concussion. Not good, but could be worse. She’ll be okay eventually.”

“That’s good. Mind if I ask how much the deposit was? I’m just trying to get a feel for the size of the restaurant.”

Harry looked at me with his intelligent brown eyes. They were such friendly eyes. Even when he’d been in the middle of some of the most terrifying moments life could throw your way, his eyes had remained friendly. I knew. I’d experienced some of the terror with him. Right now his friendly eyes told me that he was about to say something important. I listened closely.

“Fifty thousand dollars,” Harry said quietly, no matter that no one was close enough to eavesdrop.

“Good grief!”

“The alleged thief had been put in charge of the restaurant the previous week. She claims that before the manager went on vacation, she told her not to take any deposits to the bank. The manager would take care of the money when she got back.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“No, it doesn’t, and the manager claims she never made that request.”

“This is not looking good for the food truck woman.”

“No, particularly when after the assault and the suspicious exit from the restaurant office, she was able to open her food truck. And with cash, from what I understand. There were
no bank records of the money’s movement until the seller of the food truck put it in her bank account.”

“Why haven’t you already arrested her?”

“It’s still all circumstantial, Becca. No proof, but I’m working on it. Or I hope to somehow catch her either in her lies or doing something else illegal.”

“Good luck. I hope you get her. What’s her name? I’ll keep an eye on her, too.”

“Peyton Chase.”

I’d never experienced a real choke-on-your-drink moment. When Harry said the chef’s name, I hadn’t even been taking a sip. Technically I guess I choked on the sharp intake of air that accompanied my gasp. The name was too unusual for it not to be attached to the person I thought it was attached to. Peyton. Arizona. Food truck. Until he’d said her name, I hadn’t considered that my cousin might be a part of Harry’s “business.”

“Wait, did you say Peyton Chase?” I said after I recovered.

“I did. You okay?” He sat forward on the chair and set his coffee on the floor.

“Fine. Hang on one second, Harry,” I said. I pulled out my phone and pushed the button for Allison. With whatever good juju I might have, I willed that she answer this time.

“Hey, Becs, what’s up?” she said.

“Peyton Chase,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“She’s one of the food truck people.”

“She is? Hang on.” Allison must have been in her office. I heard papers shuffle and a drawer open and close. “Yes! The hot dog truck. I had no idea.”

“Our Peyton Chase?” I said.

“I thought she was in Arizona, but if it’s Peyton, who knows what she’s up to? But why would she travel this far?”

“I think it’s our Peyton, Allison.”

“Okay. That’s great!”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you later. Gotta go.”

“Uh, okay. Well, the trucks should start arriving in about half an hour. Be here if you want.”

“Will do.” I ended the call and looked at Harry.

“What’s going on, Becca?” he said. He hadn’t removed his hat yet. He did now, setting it on the floor next to his coffee, punctuating the sudden seriousness of the moment.

“Harry, I have a cousin named Peyton Chase. I know she moved to Arizona in search of herself and an adventure. We were all pretty excited when we heard she got a food truck, but I never learned the details. I don’t know if hers is a gourmet hot dog truck. I wonder if we’re talking about the same Peyton. But . . . how could it not be?”

Harry reached into a small pocket with embroidered edging on the front of his vest and pulled out a picture.

“This her?” he said as he held it out for me to inspect.

The picture was a close-up of a young woman leaning out over the counter of the truck, serving someone a hot dog piled high with onions towering above the red and white paper boat the dog sat in. The woman’s short, wavy, dark hair was held back by a blue bandanna and her eyes were just as happy as her big smile.

“Yes, that’s her.” My heart sank. I literally felt it plummet.

“I see.” Harry sighed heavily and sat back on the chair.
He returned the picture to his pocket and then steepled his fingers, resting his chin on top. “I suppose there are some conflicts of interest arising here.”

“Because you and I know each other?”

“Yes.”

“So you won’t be able to investigate thoroughly because you’re friends with your suspect’s cousin? We might be fast friends, Harry, but we only hung out a few days total.”

“Someone might question the integrity of my investigation.”

“I don’t believe that. Again, I might not know you well or for long, but you don’t let personal feelings get in the way of your investigations. I know that firsthand. I saw that. In Arizona, it got pretty personal for you, Harry.”

“Still.” Harry’s eyebrows came together and he moved his hands to the chair’s armrests.

“Hang on.”

I needed to think about what I wanted to say. I knew what I was about to suggest wasn’t the most usual way to handle the predicament in front of us. I’d been shaken by my cousin’s potential involvement in illegal activities, but I still had enough of my wits about me to know that I didn’t want Harry to relinquish his investigating duties to someone else. Harry waited patiently as I held up one finger and let my brain work through some needed gyrations.

“Harry, let me help you,” I finally said after the pieces came together in my mind.

Harry laughed, transforming his serious face into a happy, amused one. “Becca, either you like or don’t like your cousin. She’s family, it can go either way. But whatever the case, you
helping me doesn’t make sense, and would only compromise the investigation even more.”

“No, hear me out. My boyfriend, Sam, is a local police officer. I’ll introduce you to him. He’s like you—wouldn’t let personal feelings get in the way of investigating a case, ever. You two can work on it together. I can help by trying to prove Peyton innocent, but Sam won’t let me get in the way. You look for evidence of guilt; I’ll look for evidence of innocence. I know that’s not how it’s supposed to work, but I do like Peyton, Harry. I love her. I haven’t seen her for about five years, but I care deeply for my cousin. She was a sweet, kind, but somewhat untamed child who Allison and I probably tormented way too much, but she always had a determined attitude. I really hoped she’d find herself. She sure seemed to need to search a lot.”

Harry couldn’t hide his skepticism. His friendly chocolate eyes, it seemed, could squint perfectly with doubt. “I’m not sure that’s the best way to go about this, but Arizona is a long way away, and it might be a challenge to get someone else from there interested enough to make the trip all the way here. All right, Becca, I’ll give it a day or two.”

“Great! This will work. Somehow, this will work.” I lifted my coffee cup in a toast.

I just hoped it worked in Peyton’s
favor.

The plan was to take Harry to the police station immediately and introduce him to Sam, but when I called to see if Sam was at the station, he told me he was actually at Bailey’s, there to provide crowd assistance and suggestions regarding the placement of the soon-to-arrive food trucks. He’d quickly educated himself on town ordinances regarding the legal placement of all types of temporary businesses. I mentioned that I was surprised we had any such ordinances. He added that they were pretty vague.

Harry followed me back to Bailey’s and we both parked in the front lot, on the side opposite of where it seemed the trucks would be parked. We concluded that something important must be going on over there considering the number of people who had gathered. Harry and I observed as we leaned,
side by side, against Harry’s petite rental car. The goal was to not draw attention to ourselves as we took a few minutes to get the “lay of the land.” However, between Harry’s hat and my orange truck, we were probably hard to miss.

“When you were in Arizona, you mentioned that your love life was . . . I think you used the word
messy
. At the coffee shop you said your boyfriend was a police officer. Sounds like you got things figured out.”

“I did. Sam”—I nodded toward the other side of the parking lot where Sam stood with his hands on his hips next to Allison, inspecting a patch of open land next to the parking lot that extended to the back of this side of the market stalls and up to the two-lane highway—“and I have been together since shortly after I returned home from Arizona. It’s not so messy or complicated anymore. In fact, it’s as close to noncomplicated as I’ve ever been. The woman standing next to Sam is my sister, Allison.”

“You two look nothing alike,” Harry said.

I laughed. “Would you believe we’re twins? Fraternal, of course. Allison is tall, dark, and beautiful like our dad. I’m short, blond, and almost as adorable as our mom.”

“I see.”

“Allison is Bailey’s manager. She’ll jump in and help you, too.”

“Becca, I know you mean well, and I meant it when I said I’d stick around for a couple days, but you do know that any investigation needs to be conducted by officers of the law only?”

“Mostly.”

Harry laughed.

I smiled up at his friendly eyes, which were now shaded by the brim of his hat. “I mean, of course, I know that, but like I said, I’ll look for ways that Peyton is innocent. It’s the least I can do for a family member. She was such a sweet kid, Harry. Really she was.”

Harry nodded doubtfully and adjusted the hat.

“What do you think of South Carolina?” I said as I swung my attention back to the other side of the lot.

“It’s much greener than Arizona, but most places are, and it’s got lots more humidity. The parts I’ve seen are beautiful, but I haven’t seen very much. I came straight to Bailey’s.”

I was about to offer a tour, but the first food truck rumbled into the parking lot, making sightseeing much less important.

“Paco’s Tacos,” Harry said as he read the side panel. “Sounds good.”

“It does,” I said. The name of the truck was painted across the yellow side panel in black letters that were framed by a red whimsical scribble and pictures of bow tie confetti in a rainbow of colors. There were no pictures of tacos, or any other kinds of Mexican food fare, but the design did its job of bringing attention to the truck and somehow making the idea of eating tacos sound like a good one, or at least a fun, festive one.

Only a couple seconds later another truck pulled in. This one’s side panel had a number of animated chickens painted onto a white background. The chickens were cartoonish as well as chock full o’ personality, with big smiles and winks and thumbs-up (okay, wings-up). The name painted along the top of the panel was simply “Wings.”

“That sounds good, too,” Harry said.

“Maybe we should have had more than coffee at Maytabee’s,” I said.

“Maybe.” Harry laughed.

Allison and Sam directed traffic well, but when I noticed that both Ian and Brenton, the homemade dog biscuit guy, were assisting, I felt like I was neglecting an unspoken duty.

“I should go help,” I told Harry. “Wanna come? It’d be a good way for you to meet Sam and some of the other people from the market.”

He looked toward the crowd and frowned.

“Do you think Peyton will recognize you?” I said.

“Absolutely,” he said. “And I’m not sure I want her to see me yet. I’ll just stick back here a bit.”

“Sounds good. After everyone is settled, I’ll grab Sam and come find you. Or we’ll connect this evening. I don’t know how long any of this is going to take.”

“You still have my cell?” Harry asked.

We confirmed that we still had each other’s numbers. We’d shared them before I left Arizona. As we looked at our phones, I realized that back then I’d thought I would probably never dial Harry’s number. Though I didn’t like the reason he was in South Carolina, it was good to see him. It would be even better to see him if Peyton turned out to be innocent of the things he thought she’d done.

I hurried across the parking lot and joined the others just as the third truck arrived. This one was a cupcake truck. It was painted with soft pastel colors and giant but realistic pictures of cupcakes that made my mouth water. How was I supposed to stay inside the market at my stall and sell my
jams, jellies, and preserves when all this delicious food was going to be a mere parking lot away?

I watched as Sam and Allison directed traffic, pointing the trucks to their spots, which were simply spaces along the outside edge of the parking lot, beside a curb that bordered the open patch of land I’d seen them inspecting earlier.

The land was not used for anything and wasn’t taken care of. It was about twenty by thirty yards of ignored grass and weeds. I wondered if Sam and Allison had been discussing whether it was too ugly for the truck vendors to have to look at or so ugly that having them parked next to it would hide it from market customers for a couple weeks, at least.

I didn’t have time to ask. Allison saw me and immediately asked me to welcome the cupcake truck baker.

The truck was called “Caked It” and the driver, owner, and baker of the business inside was Basha Bonahan. She’d come to Monson from the not far away Greenville, South Carolina. She was tall, thin, and wide shouldered; pretty, with sharp facial features that made her look more delicate than her height and shoulders.

“Welcome to Monson,” I said.

“Thank you, darlin’,” she said, her accent heavy and her voice surprisingly deep, as she extended a hand. She had a firm grip and a forceful shake. “I’ve been here a time or two over the years. Love this market, and I was excited when they told me this was where I was going to park for a bit.”

“We’re happy to have you here. What can we do to make your time easier?”

“Get up at about three in the morning and get my batters started.” She laughed.

“Do I get to lick the spoons and bowls?” I said.

“We might be able to work something out.”

For a few minutes we were a flurry of movement, Basha and I. I helped her make sure the truck was level and parked where Allison wanted it to be parked, which was at the front of the line and closest to the market entrance. Basha invited me inside for a quick tour. We went through a door that was on the side of the truck facing the patch of land. Once inside, Basha opened the awning over the serving counter, which was part of the panel that faced the parking lot.

I was struck by not only the cozy size of the work and preparation spaces, but also by the efficiency that was necessary to go along with the limited space. While standing mostly in place, Basha pointed out the preparation table that held a fancy mixer and shelves that held her cupcake tins when they were empty or filled with batter or finished cupcakes. Two squat refrigerators were along the back, and two stacked ovens were to the side of the counter space. Dishes, bowls, and other utensils all had designated spots. There was a place for everything, and everything had to be in its place or a mess would surely ensue.

I tried to imagine making my jams and jellies in such tight quarters, and the idea made me claustrophobic. I could probably manage it given enough time and trial, but I’d grown accustomed to my big kitchen and I wasn’t ready to trade it in for a truck.

I learned that the reason for lining the trucks up next to the patch of land wasn’t to hide it, but to hide something else instead: generators. All the trucks needed either access to electricity or a place to put a power generator. Bailey’s
made power available to the vendors inside the market, but since there’d been little to no time to prepare for the trucks’ arrival, Allison hadn’t managed to get power out to the parking lot. Generators would have to do for a day or two at least.

The activity level increased even more when the fourth truck arrived. Hank was big and burly, with bright blue eyes and short brown hair. He sold bowls of homemade ramen noodles topped or mixed with all kinds of things. I had no idea you could do so much with ramen. His truck was simply called “Noodle Bowls,” and his side panels were painted with some of the items he put in the bowls along with the noodles. The pictures of meats, vegetables, and spices were just as appealing as Basha’s cupcakes, but in a different way, of course.

Hank had a big voice and a big laugh, and was good-natured about the lack of electricity and the need for the generators, even though I could see he didn’t want to be. I wondered if he would complain to Allison in private. I hoped not.

Between burly Hank; Daryl, the wing man (he liked referring to himself that way); Mel, the Paco in Paco’s Tacos (he explained that Mel’s Tacos just didn’t have an authentic ring to it); Basha; and those of us from the market, it wasn’t long before all but one of the trucks were lined up in their appropriate spots and ready to prepare and sell food.

Daryl reminded me more of an absentminded professor than a “wing man.” He was tall with red bushy hair and glasses that didn’t seem to fit right on his nose; they were off-kilter every time I looked at him, but he didn’t seem to care. Other than sharing his nickname, he didn’t have much
to say, but his smile was friendly enough when he was in close proximity to other conversations. He moved slowly but efficiently. I saw him stretch his back a time or two and I hoped he wasn’t overexerting himself.

Mel was the youngest of the group, so far. He was about twenty-five and seemed more surfer dude than taco chef. His blond hair and tanned skin made me wonder if he typically parked his truck on a beach somewhere, but I had to file away my curiosity for later. He spent most of his time helping other people with their trucks, lending a hand wherever he was needed. We’d finished with most of the manual labor and I was about to strike up a conversation when the fifth truck turned into the parking lot.

I stepped away from Mel and searched for Allison. She’d separated herself from everyone else as she jogged toward the approaching truck. I hurried to catch up to her.

“I guess we’ll know if that’s her soon enough,” Allison said when she noticed me.

It was a bright yellow truck with happy black letters that said “Gourmet Hot Dogs.” There were no food pictures, no list of toppings. Just a giant painted spatula that angled down and around the word “Dogs.” It was simple but, surprisingly, not boring.

The young woman behind the wheel sent Allison and me a huge smile as she steered to the spot that Allison pointed her toward. There was no question that it was our cousin.

Once the truck stopped, she bounded out of it and ran to us.

“Allison, Becca, it’s so great to see you. Are you surprised?”

As hugs were given all around, Allison and I both said
things like “Yes!” and “Very!” and “How did this all come together?”

“It was really just by accident,” Peyton said breathlessly. “I was surfing the Net and I saw something about a food truck promotion program where they were sending food trucks all over the country this summer. They mentioned that some of the locations were farmers’ markets. I called them and asked if I could be involved and then asked to come to Bailey’s. It was a great reason to come see family, mostly you two. I hope you’re not mad I didn’t let you know I was coming.” Peyton was all smiles and prettiness. She’d always been pretty, but I thought she must have hit a whole new stride in her twenties. She’d become beautiful.

“You drove all the way from Arizona?” I said.

Peyton blinked. “I did! Cool, huh?”

“Very,” Allison said.

“It was a long trip, but the truck did just fine. I’m so glad to be here!”

“Excuse me, ladies. Allison, there’s a gentleman from the bank and another one from the city business office here to see you. I hate to interrupt but they seem impatient.” Ian smiled at me and Peyton after he spoke to Allison.

“Thanks, Ian,” Allison said as she looked over his shoulder. “I’ll be right there.”

“Ian? You’re Becca’s Ian? Of course you are. You’re exotic and handsome and have a ponytail and”—Peyton stepped next to him and lifted a sleeve of his T-shirt—“tattoos. Yep, you must be
the
Ian. I’ve heard such good things about you. I’m Peyton, Becca and Allison’s cousin.”