Bushel Full of Murder (6 page)

“Just a few minutes ago?” I said.

“Ten, fifteen,” he said.

“I was watching Betsy’s stall. She came back and seemed off—you know, funny. That’s what I was overthinking just a second ago.”

“Well, I think she was unhappy, too, but Peyton’s problem was . . . a little louder, I guess.”

“I’ll ask Allison,” I said. “How’s your Betsy?”

Ian’s Betsy had become his girlfriend shortly after I hadn’t. She was a local young woman who operated a successful restaurant.

“She’s fine. Leaving town for a while.”

“Vacation?”

“Nope. Moving.”

“What? How can she move? She owns the restaurant.”

“Someone came in and offered her a bundle for it. She’s heading up to New York and culinary school. She’s going to come back when she’s done and open a new restaurant.”

Betsy was one of the hardest-working people I knew, but she’d taken a less than traditional path to restaurant ownership; she’d received an inheritance of sorts. She’d never had any sort of formal cooking or baking instruction and I knew she wished she had. Her hard work had gotten her far. It sounded like her ambition was still going strong.

“Wow, that’s big. I’m sorry she’s leaving for a while.”

“It’s okay. I like people to follow their dreams.”

“You’re good that way.”

Ian smiled again.

I felt bad for him. I knew he liked her, but we hadn’t discussed it that deeply. Our friendship still held clear memories of closer moments between us, and it would have been weird for us to go into detail about our new relationships. Ian and I would never date each other again, but we both respected what we’d had, and the evolution necessary to let it go completely.

Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Ian’s customer, there to pick up his yard art. I got out of their way and started down the aisle again.

I was curious about Peyton and Betsy, not Ian’s Betsy, but the one who sold tomatoes at the market. I’d ask Allison for more information about the altercations, but something had caused Betsy’s blue mood. Maybe she felt like she missed a chance to talk to Mr. Ship because he’d been busy arguing with Peyton. And what would that have been about? Had Peyton argued with Mr. Manner—as I thought I’d seen—and then with Mr. Ship? Why? I hoped Allison had been paying attention.

For now, I picked up the pace. I still had a baked potato vendor to talk
to.

The potato cart had been placed at the end of the other aisle, the other leg of the U. I’d taken so much time at Betsy’s and with Ian that there was a good chance that Jeff had packed up and gone home for the day, but he was still there, and still serving baked potatoes, even in the lingering late afternoon heat.

It was a clever idea. He baked the potatoes at home, wrapped in foil and in an oven like any good baked potato should be prepared. He kept the wrapped potatoes in the warming cubby belly of the cart. Just like with the food kept in airplane food carts, I was surprised by how many potatoes fit into the cubby. The toppings were housed in the refrigerated top of the cart, protected by a sneeze guard. Jeff set a table with plates, napkins, and utensils next to the cart. Since he
was a stickler for food safety, I would be surprised if he truly was delinquent regarding his business license. Like Betsy, there had to be some misunderstanding.

Even with the heat of our summer days, customers loved his baked potatoes. And even with the odd time I’d approached the cart—in between lunch and dinner—I had to wait for two customers to get their orders before I could talk to him.

“Hey, Jeff,” I said as the line and the utensils table cleared of customers.

“Becca, how’s your day going?” Jeff said, his words cheerful, but his tone less so. He was a nice enough guy, but I always had a sense that he didn’t really want to be nice, that he was thinking of less than nice things to say but keeping them to himself as he vocalized pleasant sentiments instead.

“Good. Yours?”

“Good. It sure is hot out, but it’s been busy.” Jeff’s cart and table weren’t located near any of the misters so he didn’t know the crushing misery that hit most of us with the mechanical breakdown.

Jeff Kitner was young, maybe in his mid-thirties. He was handsome in a serious, angular way, with a sharp jaw and a sharp nose. He kept his wavy brown hair just long enough to be considered tousled. When he first started at the market, all the young, single women developed an almost constant craving for baked potatoes, but after a while his sour tone and personality made him and his food much less popular with the market vendors. His business had continued to thrive, but it became more about customers liking the potatoes, less about vendors trying to get a date.

He was from a small town in South Carolina. I couldn’t ever remember the name of the town, but it was apparently smaller than Monson and had been an “okay” place to grow up, according to Jeff during the first and longest conversation he and I had ever had. I wondered if today’s would be longer.

We’d gotten along okay. I liked his potatoes and he’d bought quite a few jars of my boysenberry jam—though as market vendors, we all subscribed to the idea that we didn’t need to be each other’s customers to be friends.

“I know.” I fanned my hand in front of my face a couple times. “Hey, Jeff, I hate to bug you, but I’m helping Allison with some business details. She’s out front working with the arriving food trucks and a bank and a town business office guy are out front with her. The business office guy works in the licensing division and he’s gathering copies of all the market vendors’ business licenses. He thought since he was here, it wouldn’t hurt. I offered to do the legwork. Any chance I could get your license, make a quick copy, and bring it back to you?”

My story was a lie, and a weak one at that. But I’d decided to try it that way first. I didn’t know Jeff well enough to single him out, and there was enough potential volatility about him that I didn’t want to sound critical or combative. It might not have been the best idea I’d ever had; it didn’t make much sense that the guy from the business licensing division would need copies of business licenses, because his office should already have them on file, but if Jeff wasn’t listening closely, it might fly. I hoped he’d go along with it and he and I could be done quickly with our second longest conversation ever.

“Huh,” Jeff said doubtfully. I continued to smile and look
him in the eye as the “bad” in my bad idea seemed to expand. “Well, I don’t have a business license.”

“Oh? Why not?” I said, genuinely surprised.

“Don’t need one. And that guy you’re talking about knows it. His name is Robert Ship, right?”

“I think so.”

“Well, he’s sent you to do some of his dirty work, Becca. I never have had a license because I don’t need one. There’s a clause in the law that says I don’t. I’ve showed it to Mr. Ship a number of times. He can’t find a way to validly argue that I’m wrong. He just keeps hounding me, but there’s nothing legal to back him up. I’m sorry he thought you—or you and Allison—should continue the harassment. He shouldn’t have done that.”

No, he shouldn’t have. If that was really what he’d done. I’d need more information to know for sure.

“But you are a retail establishment, right? You take money? Don’t you have to report taxes? How do you do that and not be attached to a license?” My questions weren’t meant to be accusatory. I was curious. My entire business, including my bank account, was tied to my license and my setup as a corporation.

“I’m self-employed, and since I have a cart, not technically a stall, I don’t have to have a license. I have
food
inspectors inspect my cart to make sure I’m not breaking any
food
regulations, and I get clean inspections all the time. Look up the clause, number 458-098, in the county business regulations, and you’ll see there’s no requirement for me to have a license.”

“Huh,” I said, repeating Jeff’s earlier exclamation. I wanted
to point out that a business license wasn’t a bad way to go anyway, and that setting his business up as a corporation of some sort was an even better way to protect himself, to keep clear of liability, to keep business and personal monies separate. But I didn’t think I should lecture Jeff on the ins and outs of owning a business. If we’d been better friends, I might have, or if I didn’t have a sense that
Jeff’s way was the only way
, I might have. But I did have that sense. “Okay. I’ll let Allison know.”

“Thanks, Becca, and I’m really sorry he dragged you two into it.” For the first time since I’d known Jeff, he actually sounded sincere. “I’ll stop by his office and talk to him tomorrow morning and end this craziness once and for all. How’s that?”

“Sounds great. And neither Allison nor I were inconvenienced.” I smiled. “I might have just learned something new. Sorry to interrupt your day.”

A young couple, each with an infant attached to their fronts in those things that I thought made babies look like turtles, approached the cart just as it seemed our conversation had reached an appropriate ending spot. I stepped back and observed Jeff a moment as he helped the customers. I didn’t think what he’d said could possibly be correct, but I wanted to find out. I found a pen with a chewed cap in my short overalls’ back pocket and scribbled the numbers 458-098 on the back of my hand before I made my way to the parking lot.

Surprisingly, Allison was easy to find this time. She hadn’t left the parking lot, and I spotted her just as she emerged from the taco truck, her cell phone in her hand and a serious look on her face. She stepped a few feet back from the truck and
turned to face it. Her hands had moved to her hips by the time I reached her.

“How’s it going?” I said.

She looked around furtively and then leaned toward me. “Each truck has its own problem. No, I should call them challenges. Only one truck is ready to serve food. This one”—she nodded toward Paco’s Tacos—“has a grill that doesn’t heat evenly. I thought the bank guy and the business office guy were tough; they’re nothing compared to the woman from the health department. She’s something else. I understand her concerns, but she certainly has an abrupt style about her.”

“Where is she?”

“Gone, but she’ll be back tomorrow morning. Before then, we need to get the grill working, the refrigerator working better in the cupcake truck, all the barbeque sauce replaced in the wing truck, and all new cheese for Peyton’s truck. The ramen truck is fine, I guess. So that’s one out of five.”

“My kitchen’s available if anyone needs to cook or prep, and I know a couple electricians that might be able to help if we need them.”

Allison smiled at me. “Got the electricians, but Mel and Daryl might want to use your kitchen. And Peyton could use some help shopping for cheese. I bet she’d enjoy the company.”

“I can do that.” I looked around. “Sam still around?”

“He’s one of the electricians. He’s in the cupcake truck.”

“I didn’t know he could do that stuff.”

“Learn something new every day. Oh! How were Betsy and Jeff?”

“Okay. I need to follow up with them, but I have to ask
you a question about Jeff. He doesn’t think he needs a business license. Sound familiar?” I said.

“I think I remember talking to him about that one time. I’ll have to check my notes in his file.” Allison frowned. “And Betsy was upset out here but I didn’t get a chance to talk to her. I feel like I was remiss in my duties. I’m sorry, Becca, I shouldn’t have bothered you with it.”

“Don’t be sorry. I like it when you think I’m responsible.”

“You’re very responsible,” Allison said without even a small hint of sarcasm. She looked around again, not furtively this time, but curiously, assessing the situation. “If you’re good to check with Mel and Daryl and then go with Peyton, I’d better follow up with Betsy and Jeff right away. I’ll come back out here when I’m done.”

“I can do that.”

I decided that I wasn’t sure if I was glad I was there to help, or if I wished I’d left earlier, before Harry arrived and my day took all these new turns.

I sighed and looked for Mel and Daryl. Fortunately, they were together, without Hank but in Hank’s noodle truck, the only truck the health department had cleared. I spied them through the open counter window. They were facing each other, both with one hip leaning against the inside front counter. They were in the middle of a conversation that didn’t seem either private or all that important so I approached.

“Hi, guys,” I said.

“Hello.” Both of their hips came off the counter and they turned to face me.

“I’m Becca.” We’d all introduced ourselves earlier, but
considering the flurry of activity during the trucks’ arrival, I decided it wouldn’t hurt to refresh.

“Yeah, I’m Mel and this is Daryl.”

“Right. Well, I know you have some truck issues. I have a big kitchen that’s available if you need it for anything.”

“That’s very kind. Thank you. I’m fine. My issues will be resolved quickly,” Daryl said with a frown as his arms crossed in front of his chest. It was impossible not to look at his glasses, noticing that they angled sharply down to the right. My fingers itched to straighten them.

Had I insulted him by mentioning the truck issues? I didn’t think I had, but if so, he was far too sensitive.

“I think I’m all right, too,” Mel said too cordially, his surfer hair swooping just right. He was compensating for Daryl’s closed off body language. He leaned over the counter. “Does anyone else need any mechanical help? I’m good with generators.” He winked.

I was caught off guard. Was he flirting? I didn’t really think so, but the compensating had just moved to overcompensating.

“I’ll ask my sister, the market manager,” I said. “But thanks for all your patience today. We would have liked to have had your electrical hookups ready for you. Hopefully, that will be taken care of quickly.”

Still leaning over the counter, Mel didn’t miss a beat. He winked again and smiled extra big. “No problem. We can roll with it.”

“So where’s Hank?” I said.

Mel stood up. “Don’t know. I was wondering that myself.”

As if on cue, Hank appeared. He came out from between
Peyton’s and Daryl’s trucks. He looked flustered, but in a buff way. He shook his head and then ran his fingers through his hair before he noticed me watching him.

“Hey, buddy, what have you been doing?” Mel said to Hank. Mel’s voice had changed from the friendly tone he’d tried to sell me to one that was laced with suspicion. He’d resumed leaning out of the counter window, but his smile was gone.

“Nothing, just checking on a couple of the generators,” Hank said. He smiled at me. “Hello.”

“The generators okay?” I said.

“Yeah, the generators okay?” Mel said.

Daryl had stepped backwards in the small space inside the noodle truck. His top half was cloaked in a shadow so I couldn’t see the look on his face, but Mel’s suspicion and Hank’s somewhat discombobulated appearance made me wonder what they were all up to.

“It sounds like your kitchen is ready to go, but I was just offering mine to these guys. Offer goes for you, too. I have a big space if you need to use it,” I said.

“I’m good. Thanks, though.” He’d hurried past me and ignored Mel as he moved toward the front of his truck, stopping there as if to wait until it was polite to disappear again.

“Okay,” I said. “Well, just let Allison know if you change your minds.”

“We’ll do that,” Daryl said. He’d moved toward the counter again and out of the shadow. He was unquestionably uncomfortable about something, or he was naturally awkward.