Bushel Full of Murder (7 page)

I looked over the three men and decided that I didn’t really need to know what they were up to. I still had some cheese shopping to do.

“See you later.”

They all muttered similar sounding farewells.

•   •   •

I stepped toward Peyton’s truck. Since it was last in line, it was closest to the parking lot’s entrance and exit. It had front cab doors on each side, as well as small sliding doors behind the cab and on the box part of the truck. The sliding doors were obviously an afterthought, not part of the original truck but something that must have been added when the truck became a mini kitchen. I noticed that the other trucks had only one of these doors and it was on the side that didn’t have the counter, the sides that were currently facing the empty plot of land. But Peyton’s had two.

When I was about ten feet away from her truck, I noticed the sliding door on this side shut—it rebounded first like someone had pushed it too hard, but it stayed closed on the second try.

“Peyton,” I said as I peered in through the tiny, foggy window at the top of the door. She must not have heard me as she moved toward the matching door on the other side.

It looked like she was carrying a small canvas bag and there was something about the way she held it tucked tightly under one arm that made me wonder if she was trying to hide it.

I stepped to the space between the front of Peyton’s truck and the back of Daryl’s. I moved slowly through the gap, craning my neck and hoping Peyton would come into view. I got to the other side just as the back sliding door opened and Peyton stepped out. She looked around and I pulled back, not
wanting her to see me just yet. I leaned back out and watched as she took the bag from under her arm and held it in her hands. She stared at it a long time and then brushed off what looked like caked-on dirt. She muttered something to herself but no matter how much I strained to listen, I couldn’t understand the words. She tucked the bag under her arm again and looked over the open plot of ignored land. She seemed to focus on one spot.

I looked in that direction and then back at her a few times. Was she looking at something specific or was she lost in thought, her eyes just happening to land where they’d landed?

Another few seconds later, she took a deep breath and let it out in what seemed to be a relieved sigh. She turned and disappeared back inside the truck. I went down into a crouch so she wouldn’t see me through the front windshield.

I remained in the crouch for a few long seconds. Should I go see what she might have been looking at, or should I just knock on a sliding door and then escort her to the grocery store for some cheese? Finally, I threw caution to the wind and scurried out and toward the spot in the back.

The trek wasn’t terrible, but the ground was uneven enough to slow down my scurry to a high-stepping jaunt. I stopped where I thought she’d been looking, and was surprised that there was something to see. The ground had been disturbed recently. The dirt was loose and too smooth, as if someone had dug there and then covered up the hole.

I went to my knees and used my hands to sift through the loose dirt. I didn’t have to go too deep to determine that there was nothing to find except more dirt. Was it possible
that Peyton had recently dug up the bag from this spot and this was the result?

I sat back on my heels and tried to understand what might be going on, what it might mean. Peyton could see me if she happened to step back out of the truck, and a part of me hoped she would. The moment would probably be uncomfortable, but might ultimately make it easier to ask her a slew of questions that had come to mind since Harry had arrived.

But then again, if she really had done illegal things in Arizona, my methods might only make it easier for Harry to catch her. I cringed. I really hoped she hadn’t done something that would land her in trouble.

I stood and brushed off my knees before I hurried back to the truck, knocking on the back sliding door.

“Becca?” Peyton said when she opened the door. “You know there’s another door on the other side? Next to the parking lot.”

“I do, but this one seemed like the right one.”

“Okay.” She shrugged.

“I’m here to take you cheese shopping,” I said.

“That would be very helpful. Thanks!”

“How about a quick tour before we go?” I stepped up and into the truck before she could stop me or hide the bag if it was sitting out.

“Of course,” she said with no hesitation at all.

There was no immediate sign of the canvas bag, but I saw a few crumbles of dirt on the floor next to the doorway.

Similar to Basha, she stood in the middle of the truck and turned as she showed me the refrigerators, the grill, the storage shelves, and the other implements that made up her
cooking space. It was efficient in ways that hadn’t ever occurred to me until today. A few square inches made for a good spatula drawer. It was fascinating in an engineering way, but I had a hard time focusing on the places she wanted me to focus on as my eyes scanned for the canvas bag. However, she got my full attention when she opened one of the small refrigerators.

“What’s that?” I asked as I pointed at a plastic-lidded container full of what looked like thick, dark ketchup. Even though Harry hadn’t told me much more than there’d been a theft of a secret tomato recipe, I couldn’t help but wonder if this might be resulting sauce.

“Oh, that’s . . .” Peyton squinted in thought and frowned a moment. “That’s a topping.”

“For your hot dogs? What kind of topping?”

Peyton laughed. “Tomato. It’s kind of amazing. I . . . well, I used to work for a restaurant that made something like it. This is my version and it’s even better, or that’s my opinion.”

“You got their recipe?”

“Heavens no,” Peyton said. “I figured out my own recipe, but I gotta tell you, Becca, they were none too happy when they tasted how close mine was to theirs.”

“Uh-oh, did you get in trouble?”

Peyton looked at me a long moment as if she wanted to say more. Perhaps confide in me? I held my breath with the hope that whatever was on her mind (and whatever was in that canvas bag for that matter) would just pop out of her mouth and we could solve all the problems that needed to be solved.

But a second later she waved away the comment, closed
the fridge door, smiled her pretty smile, and said, “No, not at all. Come on, let’s go shop for some cheese.”

I scanned the compact kitchen one more time but there was no sign of the canvas bag. I watched as Peyton made sure every door to the truck as well as the panel over the serving counter was locked tight. Maybe she was just being smart and careful about the truck’s security, but I thought I saw an extra intensity to her scrutiny.

Or maybe I was just reading too much into every single move she made.

“I couldn’t have just barged into her truck, Becca, you know that,” Sam said with a smile.

We were sitting on a cushioned bench on my back patio, with Hobbit, my short-legged, long-footed, brown retriever mutt, lounging under us. I’d showered and was in clean short overalls and Sam had changed out of his uniform and into shorts and a T-shirt. His legs were stretched out in front of the bench and I had my legs over his. Though we were in the shade, we’d already gone through a pitcher of iced tea; the second pitcher, half-empty, glistened on the small table next to Sam.

Peyton and I had finished cheese shopping quickly. The one grocery store I took her to had everything she needed. I’d dropped off her with her cheese and then hurried home to Sam and Hobbit.

The sun hadn’t set yet but it was well on its way. The western sky was painted with orange and yellow layers. Relaxing and cooling off might have been better accomplished inside, but our summer evening patio ritual was hard to break.

“I know, but what in the world could have been buried back there? How would Peyton have known about it? It’s strange,” I said.

“I think you should just ask her. She’s your cousin, family. You can be blunt with family. In fact, I might have seen you be blunt a time or two with those who aren’t family.” Sam smiled at me over the rim of his glass as he took another sip.

He was tan this year. He’d been helping me with my strawberry and pumpkin plants as well as caring for the rest of my yard. He said he enjoyed the labor and I’d fully admitted to enjoying watching him work. In his police uniform you knew he was a pleasant enough looking guy, handsome and almost disturbingly observant with blue eyes which seemed to change shade with his mood or his thoughts. But when he wore civilian clothes and freed his wavy hair from the gunk and threw himself into physical labor, he was downright yummy. Visions of him moving in slow motion toward me as he swung a hoe over his shoulder had recently started filling my daydreams.

I told him as much not long ago and he’d laughed, mentioning that he wasn’t quite “all that,” but since I’d fallen under his spell, he was more than happy to think of himself as “yummy.”

I knew without a doubt that it wasn’t all about the way the tan looked on him; it was the attitude that had come with the
tan. My house had, step-by-step, been turning into his house, too. He enjoyed the outside work as well as the inside work helping with my jams and preserves. The meaning of home had been changing for me as well. He’d become a bigger and bigger part of the definition, and his tanned skin and burnt-tipped nose were constant reminders of those welcome and happy changes.

However, I was still completely aware of the fact that I was twice-divorced, so maybe I wasn’t very good with this sort of thing—the relationship thing. Counting on any of it working out might still be a bit premature.

He knew that about me, too, and had an uncanny knack for sensing when I might need a little space or was leaning toward a “freak-out” moment because everything seemed to be going too well, and that seemed so impossible considering my past experiences. He’d step back, maybe do something on his own outside, or perhaps head back into the police station for a little bit. The number of those moments had been decreasing, though. He knew it, but I wasn’t sure if he knew I knew it.

Allison thought I was being both silly and stupid and I just needed to ask Sam to marry me. I kept telling her that a third marriage didn’t bother me in the least, but a third divorce might just be too much to bear. She’d just shake her head and refrain from further comment.

“I could be blunt,” I said. “I have no problem being blunt with Peyton, but there’s more.”

“What’s that?”

“She’s in trouble, Sam. Or might be. There’s a police officer in town from Arizona. I met him when I was down
there. He says she’s suspected of assault, and theft of money and a secret recipe.”

Sam set his glass on the table with the pitcher and looked at me with his serious eyes. “I think you’d better fill me in on some things.”

“Me, too,” I said.

I outlined the details regarding Harry and his reasons for traveling to South Carolina. Sam wasn’t happy that Harry hadn’t first contacted the local police department but was somewhat appeased when I told him that I’d called Harry on my way home and made plans for him and Sam to meet the next morning.

Sam made a few phone calls, including one to Harry to confirm the early morning meeting, and I managed to wrangle an invitation to attend.

However, after the calls, Sam said, “Becca, you might want to tell me about visiting police officers or potential legal issues only about a second or two after you learn about them. Not a few hours later.”

I felt properly guilty. “I know. Sorry.”

Sam smiled and shook his head. “You worry me, Becca, but you’re pretty fun to have around so the worry is worth it, but still, be safe. Please.”

I’d gotten a little better at being safe, about being a little less nosy, but he was right and I needed to improve. And even though he kept his tone light, I could hear the concern in his voice. There was no need for me to cause him unneeded worry, at least not about these sorts of things.

“I will, I promise,” I said with a thoroughly brazen and flirtatious move to sit on his lap.

Neither of us spent much time worrying for the rest of the night.

•   •   •

Though you would think that the mere excitement about getting to attend a morning breakfast meeting with two police officers would be enough to render me wide awake, the caffeine boost from Maytabee’s strongest ever in the universe blend was necessary. Sam had rescheduled the meeting for five o’clock—in the morning. When he awakened me at four thirty, I got up and ready with the most cheerful demeanor I could muster at such an early hour. It was rough.

Sam and Harry hit it off immediately. Well, in that way two serious men with serious matters to discuss can hit it off. They conversed easily and intelligently and before long were on the same page regarding Peyton and her potential crimes. I told Harry about the canvas bag, but was surprised by his reaction.

“You didn’t see her pull it up out of the ground, right?” he said to me.

“No. I just saw her dusting it off.”

“She might not have dug it up at all. The timing is questionable and might be off,” he said.

“It seemed like a reasonable conclusion.” As I said the words, I realized how right he was. I’d played a scene out in my head, but not all the pictures were real; I’d added a few. “Oh, I see. Should I just ask her about it? Tell her what I saw?”

Harry and Sam looked at each other.

“Not quite yet,” Sam said, changing his mind from the night before. “Let me get a better feel for what’s going on.
Harry and I can work together on this, Becca. Maybe you can talk to Peyton at some point about these things, but let’s not let her think you’re trying to catch her at something.”

“Which is the opposite of what I’m doing. I’m going to prove that Peyton’s innocent.”

Sam put his hand over mine on the table. “We know she’s family.”

Harry nodded, but I sensed that Peyton being part of my family was the least of his worries.

Sam’s radio buzzed. “Sam, you there?”

I recognized the voice as Officer Vivienne Norton’s, the toughest female police officer in the entire county, maybe the state.

Sam reached to the handset that was secured to his shoulder. “I’m here, Vivienne. What’s up?”

“Need you at the American Investors Bank and Trust. Immediately. You know where it is?”

“Sure. What’s wrong?”

There was a slight hesitation before Vivienne spoke again. “Sam, we’ve got a 10-89.”

Sam stood from the table. “At the bank?”

“Affirmative.”

“I’ll be right there. Gotta go,” he said to no one and anyone who might be listening.

“Want me to come?” Harry asked.

“No, not right now. I’ll get back with you later,” Sam said. He looked at me like he’d just remembered I’d ridden with him. “Can you go with Harry?”

“Sure, but what is a 10-89?” I asked.

Sam hesitated. “Deceased person.”

“Dead body?” I asked. “At the bank? Who?”

“I’m going to go find out. Go with Harry.” Sam turned and hurried out of the coffee shop.

“This isn’t good,” I said as I looked at Harry.

“No, ma’am, these sorts of things are never good. But I’m sure Sam will take care of it.”

“He will,” I said as I looked out of Maytabee’s front window. Who was dead? And how did they get that way?

And why was Peyton being in town now even more
worrisome?