Farm Fresh Murder (13 page)

“Not at all, dear. You were standing there for so long I wondered if there was some problem.”

My cheeks heated from the blush that must have been close to neon. I didn’t know what to say.

“It’s all right. I understand. Believe it or not, I was young once, too. I’m George McKinney. Your friend is making good use of an old man’s garage. Had my driving rights taken away from me a couple years back.” He tapped his glasses. “Peepers don’t peep as well anymore. Now I take the bus everywhere.” He sighed as though he’d resigned himself to the task. “Ian’s good for the garage and good company for me.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Becca Robins.”

We shook hands. “Pleasure to meet you.” He inspected me for a beat more and then nodded. “I’ll be off, then. If that young man gives you any trouble, my back door is always unlocked. You can run in there and either use the phone or grab a knife to slice him open.”

“Oh. Well, all right. I appreciate that.”

George nodded, put his hat on, and then took off in a spry walk down the driveway. I turned and knocked. Knocked again, with enough force to be heard over the music this time.

Ian looked up from his work and squinted toward the door. I waved. His face was first full of question, but then softened into a smile. He gave me the one-second sign, turned off the music, and pulled on a gray T-shirt.

“Becca?” he said as he opened the door. “Good to see you.”

“Hey, Ian. Thanks.”

The awkward silence didn’t last long.

“Well, come on in. My shop isn’t spotless, but it’s been much worse.”

During my earlier spying, I hadn’t noticed just how wonderful the garage was. But now I took the time to look around. There were parts of Ian’s sculptures everywhere. Spires, tubes, balls, starbursts; the designs were endless. Everything was placed on large tables, and though I hadn’t noticed them before, there were windows all along the back and one of the side walls. There were two large machines against the garage door, both with big belts.

“This is something, Ian,” I said.

“It’s a good space.”

“Yeah.”

“So, uh
,
can I get you something to drink? You thirsty? You okay?”

“I’m a little thirsty, but I’m fine. Why?” I said. He was peering at me strangely.

“You look like you might have had a rough day or something.”

“Really?” I looked down at myself. Tomato juice splat-ted over almost every inch of my shirt, overalls, and legs. Over the tomato juice, there was a layer of dirt from my body plant in the back of Herb and Don’s tent. “Oh, I’d forgotten all about this.” I laughed. I must have been a sight.

Ian licked his thumb before wiping it over my jawline. “What’s all this?”

“Uh, well, it’s tomato juice and dirt. Long story.” I thought I should tell him that touching me, especially with his saliva attached, wasn’t appropriate, but I didn’t want to.

He smiled. “You have adventures that you don’t even realize.”

“Something like that.”

“Well, how about a soda? You’re more than welcome to clean up in my bathroom, but you don’t have to.”

“Actually, that would be great. Thanks.” I was suddenly self-conscious about my state. How could he take my questions seriously if I looked like I’d had a rough day drinking Bloody Marys on a beach somewhere? And why, all of a sudden, did I not feel angry at him or the urgency to ask the questions? His spit must have magical powers.

“This way.” Ian turned and walked toward the back of the shop. “It’s just a ladder, but it’s pretty sturdy. My landlord’s an old guy, and he had it reinforced so he’d feel safe climbing it.” Ian pulled down a ladder that unfolded as it fell from the ceiling.

“I met him.”

“George?”

“Yep. I was spying on you before I knocked, and he caught me. He gave me full permission to use one of his kitchen knives if you were trouble.”

Ian blinked his dark eyes and then laughed. “Well, George is a murder-mystery fanatic. Loves talking about anything bloody. His eyes aren’t so great anymore, so I sometimes read to him at night.”

“You do?” I couldn’t imagine it.

“Uh-huh. You were spying on me?”

“Uh-huh.” We looked at each other for a beat, both of us wondering things that weren’t ready to be spoken. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t look murderous.”

“Okay. Apparently I didn’t?”

I nodded. “So’s the bathroom up there?”

“Yep.” Ian led the way and then helped me as I reached the top rung and stepped into the apartment.

I knew that later I’d have to describe to Allison what it looked like, so I registered my first impression and went from there. It was masculine, but cute and cozy and well lit, with lots of windows along the back wall. There was one large room divided into different areas, everything either brown, tan, or navy blue. We’d stepped into the TV area, where a worn brown leather couch faced a television as small as my own. The coffee table in front of the couch was covered with organized stacks of paperwork and a laptop. The kitchen area lined the wall behind the couch. Everything was small—the stove, the refrigerator, and the two-place table. On the other side of the room, closed off by a tall three-panel divider, was the bed. Even though it was mostly hidden, I could tell it was made.

“Bathroom’s over there.” Ian pointed to our left.

“Thanks.”

“There’re towels and stuff under the sink.”

“Thanks.” I hurried into the small room and closed the door. It was spotless, which was a pleasant surprise. There was no tub, but there were a shower, a toilet, and a sink, and clean towels and washcloths right where he said they’d be.

There was also a mirror—the image in which would haunt me for years. How had I not realized that my face was covered with tomato pox? Why hadn’t Allison or Barry said something? But ours was not a clean career—maybe it was just the world we lived and worked in, and they saw nothing unusual in it.

Farmers’ market careers aren’t for the dainty or those who don’t want to get a little dirty. The nature of our work is physical, and it frequently takes place either in the out-of-doors or in open spaces. It’s wonderful and full of fresh air, but it’s also grimy.

I rinsed off my face, arms, and hands and called it good. The damage had been done anyway. Then I decided I needed a good mental talking-to, so I sobered my face and looked directly into the mirror.

That’s enough flirting. You’re here to ask serious questions. Get serious.
The look of doubt that was returned did not instill the confidence I’d hoped for.

At least my face was cleaner, I thought, as I left the bathroom.

Ian was staring inside his open refrigerator.

“It’s a good thing your landlord can’t see well. He’d have probably called the Centers for Disease Control if he’d noticed all the stuff on my face.”

Ian turned and smiled. “Or he would have wanted the gory details on how you became infected. So, diet or regular soda? And I don’t suppose you like beef jerky? That’s all I have at the moment.”

“Regular soda, and I’m not hungry, but I like beef jerky just as much as anyone else.”

“Ice or not?”

“Straight from the can or bottle is perfect.”

Ian shrugged, pulled out two cans of soda, and walked around the couch.

“Have a seat.” He waited until I sat on one end of the couch before he sat in the middle of it. He handed me the soda. “So, what’s up, Becca? I can’t imagine you’re here just to say hi, though I’m glad to see you.”

“Yeah, actually I do have a question,” I said as I popped the top of the can.

“Shoot.”

“How well did you know Matt Simonsen?”

“Oh. Not well at all.”

“Did you work at Smithfield Market?”

“Yeah, for about nine months.”

“Then how come you didn’t know him well?”

Ian’s brows came together. “Becca, have you taken a part-time job with the police?”

“No, I just want to know. And . . .”

“And what?”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Ian gave one of those knowing half-smile things as he looked away from my probing glance. He looked back up soon enough, though.

“Becca, I didn’t think about you not knowing. I thought everyone knew I’d worked at Smithfield before, so therefore I must have at least been acquainted with Simonsen. I wasn’t trying to keep anything secret. Especially from you. I guess I just didn’t think it needed to be talked about. I told the police everything I knew about Simonsen. He and his son kept to themselves. I don’t think they looked favorably on my art, but they weren’t ever rude to me—just distant, like they didn’t have much time for my silliness, but that was fine. They were hard workers, old-timers, you know. There before the sun came up and gone only when their product was sold out or the market was closing. I never had any real conversations about the Simonsens with the other vendors, so I couldn’t tell the police anything more than that.”

“Oh.”

“Have I satisfied your questions, Officer?” Ian said with another smile.

“Well, maybe. I have one more question, though.”

“Ask away. I’m an open book.”

“Did you know that Abner’s sister lives one block over from you?”

“I had no idea,” Ian said. But he suddenly sat up on the edge of the couch as though he’d heard something.

“What?”

“Well, you might just be cut out for this questioning thing. You made me remember something. I can’t believe it didn’t come to me before.”

“I did? What?”

“Right before I left Smithfield, I saw Abner there.”

I sat up, too. “What happened?”

“I knew he looked familiar. I just couldn’t place him when I first got to Bailey’s. He was at my Smithfield stall, looking at my art, asking me all kinds of questions. Someone called his name, but I can’t remember who it was.”

“Male or female?”

“Female, I think. I was busy with a few other customers, so I didn’t pay attention, but he left right after that.”

“I wonder who it was.”

“I have no idea. Maybe more will come back to me if I think about it. I don’t think there’s much to what I’m remembering right now, but I’ll call Officer Brion and let him know. Good job, Becca,” he said.

We both took sips of the sodas.

“Thanks.”

Because we’d both sat forward on the couch, we were now very much in each other’s space. So close that I hoped my breath wasn’t bad. His wasn’t.

I really don’t think either of us intended for what happened next to happen. It was one of those moments where some other force takes over and just pushes two pairs of lips together.

We each leaned toward the other. Ian put his tattooed hand on my cheek and hesitated, giving us both a moment to make sure this was the direction we wanted to go. It was. We both leaned farther and then kissed. It was almost like an extended junior high first kiss—gentle and practically innocent. Except that my heart rate didn’t think it was so innocent.

Ian stopped first. He sat back slowly and pulled his hand away as though that magnet was still working hard to keep it where it had been.

“Hey, Becca, I’m sure it was way too soon for that, but, well . . .”

“It’s okay. Really, it is.”

Ian’s eyes squinted as he inspected my own.

“You . . . um, well . . .” he said.

I laughed lightly. “I’d better go.”

“Yeah, one of us probably should, huh?”

“And you live here. I’d better go,” I repeated, forcing myself to get off the couch and get out of Ian’s garage.

I don’t know whether I scampered or scurried, but I know I was quick about climbing down the ladder. Our kiss had done something to me that made me want to run away from Ian as much as it made me want to stay. I needed to clear my head—again.

Using the lightning-quick movements I’d become accustomed to, somehow he reached the door before I did. He pulled it open and stayed out of my way as I stepped over the threshold.

“Ian,” I began.

“I know, I know. That was a mistake—you think you shouldn’t have allowed that to happen.” His smile was far too knowing for someone in his mid-twenties. His tone wasn’t whiny. Instead, I thought he was trying to make me laugh.

“Actually, no, that’s not what I was going to say. I don’t think it was a mistake. It was an impulse, but from all I could tell, we both had the same impulse. No harm done.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm, I can’t figure out if your analysis is positive or negative for the potential of doing that again someday.”

I shrugged.

“So what did you want to say?” He leaned on the door frame and crossed his arms in front of his chest. His eyes were way dangerous, and I liked that.

“I was just going to say that I’ll see you tomorrow, if you’re working.”

“I’ll be working.”

“Good. See you then.”

“Great.”

I turned and walked down the driveway. I didn’t look to see if he was watching me go, but I hoped he was.

As I drove toward Abner’s sister’s house, I realized that Ian had answered my questions, but for all I knew, he was a serial murderer who hypnotized those who suspected him by first poisoning them with a bit of his spit and then kissing them. When my head was on straight, I’d have to go over what he’d said and figure out if it made sense. I couldn’t let his kiss overshadow my ability to think clearly.

Right.

I drove down Harvard, heading toward Yale. Higher education suddenly had a whole new meaning.