Bushel Full of Murder (4 page)

Ian smiled pleasantly at Peyton and me again as they
shook hands. “Nice to meet you, Peyton. Excuse me. Duty calls,” he said before he turned and walked with Allison back to the growing group by the other trucks.

“Yep, that was Ian, and he is amazing and wonderful, and he and I aren’t dating any longer,” I said to Peyton. “But we’re very good friends.”

Sam was helping Hank with something near the front tire of the noodle truck. He wasn’t far away and I could have pointed him out, but it seemed like too casual a way to let Peyton know about the new guy in my life.

“Oh. Oh, dear. I’m sorry. The last I’d heard was that you were together,” Peyton said.

“It’s okay,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” Peyton said again. But this time she didn’t sound chastised. She sounded baffled. “What in the name of strawberry jam and jelly is wrong with you, cuz? He’s . . . a lot to take in, I think.”

I laughed. “He’s all you think he is, Peyton, but I’m afraid we weren’t meant to be. Later I’ll introduce you to the man I think really is the one. For now, what can we do to get you set up? Looks like you’ll be last in the line.”

“Not much. It’s too late to cook much of anything today, but I’ll spend some time prepping for tomorrow.”

“Let me get you hooked up with your generator,” I said.

“Sounds great.”

I looked across the parking lot at Harry. It was as if he hadn’t moved an inch from his stoic pose against the car. I was pretty sure he saw me looking. The cowboy hat tipped ever so slightly. I decided not to wave, but I tried to smile
quickly without Peyton noticing before we stepped around the truck to get the generator hooked up.

We weren’t there long and I hadn’t had a chance ask about anything, including her life in Arizona, before Allison poked her head around.

“Could use your help, Becca,” she said.

“I’ll take over.” Mel from the taco truck strode toward me and Peyton and the generator. He might have looked like a surfer dude, but he was a hard worker. However, anyone who owned a food truck would have to have a strong work ethic, wouldn’t they? Like farmers’ market vendors, most of the work was done by one person.

“Thanks,” I said as we crossed paths and I joined Allison.

“Come with me to talk to these men,” Allison said. “The guy from the bank has been bugging me for weeks about coming to talk to the vendors regarding some ideas he has. I could use your moral support and, frankly, your bluntness if we need to get him off the subject. I don’t like to make any decisions for the vendors without their viewpoint in mind. Don’t be shy about sharing your opinion or whatever you think the other vendors’ opinions might be.”

“Glad to help,” I said.

The two men we approached stood out from everyone else. They looked nothing like market workers, or food truck chefs. They were both in dress pants, dress shirts, and ties. I couldn’t imagine how miserable they were in the heat. I was empathetically relieved that they didn’t wear jackets, too.

I glanced quickly back and across the parking lot again. Harry still hadn’t moved at all as far as I could tell.

I gave my full attention to Allison. I was honored to be her “bad guy” if I needed to be. She rarely asked for or needed my help. She was so darn good at everything. It was always great to be Allison. I liked it when I had a rare moment or two of it being great to be me.

I wasn’t given an opportunity to display my “blunt” skills.

Though Mr. Lyle Manner and Mr. Robert Ship were nice enough, they were also very formal. I wasn’t used to formal and it made me uncomfortable. Allison introduced them specifically as Mr. Lyle Manner and Mr. Robert Ship, and they didn’t ask that we call them by their first names, so we didn’t.

Mr. Manner was from a local branch of the American Investors Bank and Trust. He was tall, very thin, with a pointy chin and short, perfectly smooth gray hair. His gray pants were a shade lighter than his hair, and his red tie made a bold statement against all the gray. He reminded me of a photographic special effect that turned the entire world
black and white and shades of gray except for a few splashes of red here and there.

Mr. Ship was from the Monson City Business Licensing Division, or MBD for short. He was just barely taller than me and round, with a totally bald head and the most adorable nose I’d ever seen. I wondered if he thought lots of people were cross-eyed because of where their eyes landed when they were talking to him, right on his nose.

“Ms. Reynolds,” the tall Mr. Manner said to Allison as he looked down at her and she looked up at him, “I understand you don’t feel like you should interfere with your vendors’ bank account decisions, but I assure you, having them all bank at one place, one bank, will make their lives much easier.”

“Please call me Allison. And I appreciate what you’re saying, but I think you might misunderstand how we do things here. There is no account sharing, Mr. Manner. Each vendor does their own thing. They are individual stall owner/operators. There’s no benefit to them to all bank at the same place because they each have their own accounts, chosen for their own reasons. Perhaps they bank close to their homes, or along the routes they travel. They have to do what’s best for them, individually.”

They didn’t know Allison nearly as well as I did, of course, so they probably didn’t hear the incredulity in her voice. To her credit, she was toning it down, but I knew what was causing it. How could someone in the banking industry not understand that farmers’ market vendors were individual owner/operators? Everyone was in charge of their own products and their own money. Frankly, it was one of the benefits
of working at the market. Bailey’s offered us a location, but we still got to have our own businesses.

“All right. Well, here’s a proposal. What if we remove all banking fees for the Bailey’s Farmers’ Market main account if at least twenty of your vendors move their accounts to our bank?”

“Oh,” Allison said. Again, she tried to hide it, but I could hear her disbelief, even with just one word. The “deal” felt more like bribery than a business offer. “Well, I’m not sure I’m the person you should talk to about that. I’ll pass it along to the market owners, or you are welcome to talk to them yourself.”

“Did I hear you say you’re a local banker?” Peyton appeared behind my shoulder.

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Lyle Manner, at your service,” he said as he extended a hand.

“Peyton Chase. I’m from Arizona and there’s no branch of my bank here locally. I’m thinking about sticking around South Carolina for a little while and I should probably set up an account.”

“At your service,” Mr. Manner repeated. “Shall we schedule an appointment?”

“You’ll need a local, temporary business license, too, Ms. Chase,” the shorter, rounder Mr. Ship added with what felt like a rude interruption. “In fact, that’s what I’m here to talk to you about, Ms. Reynolds. Well, I’m here to help get the food truck temporary licenses set up, but it also seems that some of your market vendors are lacking a proper permanent business license. We need to get that remedied.”

“Allison. Please. We require all the vendors to post their
licenses, Mr. Ship. We also require them to give us a copy for our files. I’m not aware of any unlicensed vendors. Do you know the specific vendors I need to talk to?”

“Yes, I have their names.” Mr. Ship opened a pristine leather binder he’d been holding and lifted a single page from the top of a short stack of papers inside. “Here.”

Allison took the paper. “Two vendors?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not too bad, but there might be a mistake. Betsy is always on top of everything. And Jeff Kitner . . . well, he has a cart, but I’m pretty sure he has a business license, too. I’m happy to follow up on these right away,” Allison said.

“That would be very helpful.” Mr. Ship turned back to Peyton, handing her a piece of paper, too. “Fill this out. I can pick it up tomorrow morning, get it expedited, and have everything in place quickly.” He turned back to Allison. “I can do that for all of the food truck vendors.”

“Thank you,” Allison said.

“That would be great. Thanks,” Peyton said. Something in her tone caused me to look more closely at her. It wasn’t that she wasn’t agreeable, but like Allison, there was something underneath the words, perhaps something contradictory. But as I inspected her, all I saw were her slightly crossed eyes focused on Mr. Ship’s nose.

“I’ll be by first thing in the morning, but here’s my card if you have questions.” He handed Peyton one of his cards.

“Thanks again,” she said before she turned to the banker. “Mr. Manner, can we talk over there, in private? I don’t really mind Becca and Allison knowing my financial circumstances, but I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.”

“Of course, of course,” Mr. Manner said.

Peyton smiled at Allison and me and then went with Mr. Manner to a spot deeper into the parking lot where the only other people who could have heard them would have had to be inside the old parked Jeep that they stood next to. I didn’t think anyone was inside the Jeep, but looking that direction gave my eyes a chance to seek out Harry again. He was still there, still in statue mode.

Mr. Ship cleared his throat. “I’ll stop by and talk to each food truck vendor, Ms. Reynolds, if that’s okay, and let them know we can expedite things quickly.”

“Of course,” Allison said. “Thank you.”

“And please check on the delinquent licenses as soon as possible.”

“Right away.”

Mr. Ship smiled professionally and stepped around us to make his way toward the other trucks. It was as I watched him that I noticed Mel, Hank, and Daryl grouped together outside the taco truck. They were looking toward Peyton and Mr. Manner still out by the Jeep.

I realized that Mel probably hadn’t just wanted to be helpful to Peyton. Perhaps he and the other two men thought she was cute. Frankly, they’d be blind not to notice her. She was more than cute; she was stunning.

I sent the three men a critical squint. She might be mostly a grown-up, and she might potentially be in trouble with the law, but Peyton was still my cousin and they’d better be polite and respectful. They didn’t notice me.

“You think Peyton can handle whatever needs to be handled?” I said, mostly meaning the business dealings with
Mr. Manner and Mr. Ship, but covertly meaning the three men whom Allison hadn’t noticed. “I still think of her as our little cousin who needs protection and guidance.”

Allison laughed. “We taught her how to jump off the rope swing at just the right spot so she wouldn’t hit rocks in the lake. I believe you taught her how fun it was to tie a bunch of firecrackers together and light them off at once. I’m not sure we were the best examples.”

“Ah, the good old days,” I said.

“She’ll be fine,” Allison said before she glanced unhappily at the time on her phone and then at the trucks that still needed her attention.

Now wasn’t a good time to let Allison know about Peyton’s potential legal issues, but she needed to know as soon as possible. Later would have to work, though. Allison currently had enough on her plate.

“Hey, why don’t I talk to Betsy and Jeff about their licenses?” I offered. “I know, I know, it’s not my job, but it’s not a big deal. I can handle it. I know them both well enough. I will explain how busy you are. They won’t care.”

“I’m not sure, Becca,” Allison said. “It’s an official conversation; it should come from the market manager.”

“Those two won’t care, I promise.”

She didn’t take long to think about it.

“All right,” she said. “But if there are any issues, call me immediately.”

“I will.”

“Thanks, Becca,” she said as she hurried away.

I also wanted to tell her about Harry, but later would be
better for that, too. I looked across the parking lot again, expecting to find him still there. But he wasn’t. He and his small car were gone.

Peyton and Mr. Manner were deep in conversation, presumably about her bank account. I did a double take at them when I realized that something had changed. Neither of them seemed happy. Peyton’s arms were crossed in front of her and Mr. Manner seemed to be speaking sternly to her, or was that just their height difference and my perception? I took a step toward them, thinking I might need to intervene.

But Allison’s words rang in my mind. I hoped Peyton really was okay. The fact that Harry had chased her from Arizona meant she might not be, but I didn’t know how to jump into her current conversation without seeming like I was doing anything other than interfering.

Harry had said he didn’t have any solid evidence or she would have been arrested by now. Maybe she was totally innocent; maybe he wouldn’t find any solid evidence. I hoped not.

As I turned again to make my way into the market, I caught Sam’s eye. He smiled and winked quickly before he crouched beside the noodle truck tire again. Oh, how I liked his smiles and winks.

I shook off the flirtation. I was over thirty and twice divorced. Giddy, girly stuff was reserved for younger, less jaded women who weren’t responsible business owners and who hadn’t just agreed to perform an important task for the market manager.

I couldn’t help it, though. I liked the things his smiles did to me. I often wondered at what point this would all stop. When would we become either tired as heck of each other or so used to each other that boredom set in? No matter—I hoped we both hung in there long enough to find out.

I wove my way through the parking lot and then down the first aisle to the left inside Bailey’s entrance. Betsy was still in her stall, but that wasn’t a surprise; she typically stayed at the market through the entire afternoon. There were still a few tomatoes for sale in her bins, and she’d sell them all before she left. Though we didn’t know each other well or deeply, she and I had always gotten along. She was the first one to introduce me to tomatoes topped with peanut butter. The discovery had been one of the best and most surprising culinary snack moments of my life, and had cemented my admiration for the earthy woman who had a way with her produce that brought people from all over the state to her stand.

Last summer, she created a red pasta sauce that had been both a blessing and a curse to her business. It was (not surprisingly) delicious, which meant that even more people traveled to Bailey’s from far and wide to purchase a bottle of Betsy’s Best and Bodacious. It tasted exactly as described. It was by far the best pasta sauce I’d ever eaten and its tangy, yet subtly sweet flavor, was, indeed, bodacious. She’d had so many customers and orders this summer that about a month earlier she’d asked to use my kitchen, which gave her much more room to work than her own kitchen. Betsy and I had figured out a schedule where she and I could both use the kitchen for our products but not be in each other’s way.
She’d offered to pay me, but I’d traded the time in the kitchen for a few jars of sauce, with more jars whenever I wanted them. I didn’t intend to take advantage of the offer, but I sure liked the sauce.

Her current sauce inventory was down to one bottle. She sat on a folding chair in her stall, her long brown hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, her beautiful makeup-free ivory skin shining but not in a sweaty way. Allison was like that; she could work hard and not break a sweat or mess up her hair. I took one box from my truck to my stall and my short hair looked like it could use a comb, and depending on the temperature, my cheeks were ruddy with either heat or cold.

“Hey, Betsy,” I said as I approached her stall.

“Becca! It’s great to see you. Perfect timing. I have one bottle left.” She stood and reached for the sauce.

“I still have a bottle, but I have no doubt that the second it is gone, I’ll be back for more.”

“Sounds good. What’s up?”

“You know about the food trucks?” I said.

“Sure. I already have a couple orders for tomatoes. Some tall, quiet professor type and a kid that might still have sand in his sun-streaked hair.” She laughed.

“I know exactly who you’re talking about. All five of the trucks are out in the parking lot now. Allison’s there, too.” I eyed the business license that was posted on the back pole of her stall. It was in the same spot I put mine in. “Anyway, a couple of the businesspeople from downtown are out there. One is from the bank, but the other one is from the city offices . . .”

Betsy’s face soured and she threw one hand up to a hip. “Let me guess: Robert Ship is out there and he’s complaining that I don’t have a current license.”

“Yes. How did you know?”