Farm Fresh Murder (22 page)

Surprising myself, I woke up in a good mood. I felt a bunch
better and was well rested. Hobbit thought this suspicious, and for a while she followed me around the house with doubting eyes.

I still wasn’t going to Bailey’s, but I was ready for some serious time in the barn. I needed to get my inventory built back up to a respectable size. I planned on working the next week with a pain-free body, a good attitude, and lots of jam. Plus, I had a party to prepare for, and my bruised face would require a slab or two of makeup. That would take time.

Blueberries called to me from the freezer. Of my frozen fruits, they seemed to be most ready to be transformed into jam. This relationship I had with my plants and fruits, this intuitive communication, was probably something I got from my hippie parents, but it was real to me.

I pulled the berries out of the freezer to thaw while I readied everything else. First, I loaded jars into the dishwasher. My modern kitchen had been fitted with modern appliances, and my dishwasher had a Sterilize cycle. I still prepared the lids via the old-fashioned method: boiling on the stovetop.

There isn’t really anything more satisfying than the mashing of blueberries. Well, to me at least. Once they’d thawed enough, I placed the berries in the bottom of a pan and took a potato masher to them, happily smushing them just enough, and to perfection. Other fruit worked in the food processor, but the potato masher was the only way to go with blueberries.

My job was in so many ways my sanity. The process, from growing the crops to selling final products, was satisfying at every step. Working at Bailey’s, with my sister and with other friends, was a life that I wouldn’t trade for anything. As I worked the jam that Sunday morning, I realized that I wasn’t going to let a murderer or a few bruises ruin what had become a really terrific life.

Besides, I was close to figuring out . . . well, something. Whether it was the murderer’s identity or something else, I wasn’t sure. A realization of some sort kept trying to spark in my mind, like I was staring at something that I wasn’t really seeing. I’d mentioned as much to Ian when he called a couple of nights earlier, and he’d tried to add some flame to the spark, but neither of us had been able to get any closer to what I was missing.

Sigh.

Between attempting to organize my thoughts and enjoying some Motown classics as I worked, the time flew. Before I knew it, I was on the last step of processing the jam-filled and sealed jars in boiling water. Some people didn’t follow through with a complete boil, but to reduce any chance for spoilage, I not only boiled the jam-filled and sealed jars, but did so for a little longer than needed. After about seven to ten minutes, I used tongs to pull out the jars and set them on a cooling table, careful to not let them touch one another or bang into anything. They’d cool throughout the day, and I’d be able to add them to my next week’s inventory. I was excited about the possible predictability of next week’s schedule. It would be good to get back to Bailey’s.

I left the kitchen at about two o’clock, a good day’s work accomplished. Hobbit greeted me happily and stayed at my side as I went back into the house. She waited as I showered and dressed. I kept telling her I was fine, but she held fast in her mission.

I wanted to take her to the dinner, but that wasn’t a reasonable idea. I’d lock her in the house when I left, and she wouldn’t be happy. I’d owe her big, but I’d find a way to make it up to her.

At exactly 3:41 P.M., a knock sounded on the front door.

“He’s a police officer, Hobbit, he’s trained to be early,” I said as I put in an earring. I’d had my ears pierced when I was eleven and had worn jewelry consistently until I’d started in the farming/preserves/market business. Casual, with no time for accessories, had been my fashion statement since then. But I was sure that Allison had worked hard to make this dinner upbeat, and that made me think I should spruce up a bit. And though the makeup had been necessary to cover my bruised face, I’d made it look pretty natural.

I opened the door with a smile and then froze in place. Officer Brion—I mean Sam—froze, too.

I know what was going on in my mind. I can only guess what was happening in his. This time it went something like this:

“Hi,” I said to the man whose oil light must have been blinking. Whatever he used for his slicked-back style was noticeably gone. In its place was a head full of clean, wavy brownish hair, somewhat ruffled. His short-sleeved shirt had a bright print; something almost Hawaiian but not quite. His muscular calves stuck out from below some casual shorts. He looked positively . . . playful.

“You’re wearing a dress,” he said as his eyes opened wide.

“Yes, it’s the only one I own.” It was a sundress, not really appropriate for the cooler evening weather, but I’d planned on wearing a sweater, too.

“You look . . . nice.”

“Are you sure?” I laughed.

He smiled, almost laughed, too, as his cheeks reddened.

“Yes, I’m sure. I just wasn’t expecting a dress.”

“You look nice yourself. And you don’t look a thing like a police officer.”

“That’s the plan, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” I said. “Did you have to go buy that get-up?”

“No, believe it or not, my clothes aren’t always unicolored, wrinkle free, and intense. Well, I can’t help the intense part so much, but I like a wrinkle or two sometimes,” he said, his mouth fighting another smile. To prove his intensity was never far away, he didn’t take his serious eyes away from mine. He could probably put a hole in steel with that stare if he wanted to.

“That’s good to hear.” I cleared my throat.

We looked at each other another beat or two. I suddenly wanted to know more about him—Why had he come to Monson, and what had his previous life been?

“Uh, well, we should probably go,” he said, breaking up the strange moment.

“Of course.” I grabbed the sweater I’d thrown over a chair and turned to Hobbit. “Be a good girl.”

She switched it on big-time. She was a pro eye-drooper.

“Let’s take her,” Sam said, being totally taken in by lesson one of Dog Charm School.

“I’d love to, Sam, but think about it. It’s probably not a good idea. It’s a dinner.”

“You’re right, but I hate leaving her. Will she stay in the car?”

“Only if we stay in it with her.”

Rough decision of the day made—Hobbit would miss the party. But I had on a dress, some earrings, and a thick layer of makeup—I felt very girly, and though it wasn’t something I needed to feel all the time, it was fun every now and then.

 

 

I was used to trucks, mostly old trucks. Sam’s vintage Mustang
convertible was a welcome change. With the top down (by my choice—he asked which I preferred), my hair felt like it blew just right.

“Sam, I didn’t hear anything new yesterday. How’s it going with Abner? Allison was surprised that no one has said a word to her.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve kept it under wraps, which in a small town is no easy feat.”

“How?”

“I have my ways, but you probably don’t need to know the details. Suffice it to say that the news will be out by morning. The best thing is that Monson only has a weekly paper, not a daily. Monday’s—tomorrow’s—edition will have the story. The larger cities are interested in our small-town murder, but they’ll pursue it more after the
Monson Gazette
lands on porches tomorrow.”

“Allison and Ian know, Sam. I told them both,” I said, experiencing a rare moment of telling the truth.

“I figured as much, but they must not have spread the word, either.”

“I don’t think so. We’ll probably find out when we see how we’re greeted at the party.”

“It’ll be fine, either way.” Sam paused. “So, how are you, Becca? How’re you feeling?” he asked once we were on the state highway.

“I’m fine,” I said.

He looked doubtful.

“You were shot at, you hammered your own hip, and I threw you across a room with a door. Those sorts of things can cause pain.”

“I know, but really, I’m fine.” I was. Mostly. I was much better than the day before, but I didn’t go there. I wasn’t ready to tell him about my excursion. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone. Besides, Sam had said he’d check out the trees. He’d probably already seen them. Mamma Maria’s surprise appearance also wasn’t something I was ready to share. I wanted more details, hopefully from Carl and hopefully this evening at the party.

“Well, even tough police officers like myself”—he winked—“are required to talk to someone after being shot at.”

“A psychiatrist?”

“Yes, or psychologist. There are lots of people you can talk to if you need to. I’m not one of those ‘ists,’ but you can always talk to me.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that, I really do, but it was one shot and I don’t think I was the target. I’m not freaked-out in the least.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks, Sam,” I said.

“You’re welcome.”

“So, you’ve been a police officer for a long time?” I asked.

“You’re changing the subject, I see.”

“Yep.”

“I’ve been a police officer all my life, or at least since finishing college. It’s all I ever wanted to be.”

“So it’s a passion?”

“Complete and total.”

“Where did you grow up, come from?”

Sam paused long enough that I glanced at him. When he finally spoke, he said, “Chicago, the one in Illinois.” He tried to make the tone of his voice light so I wouldn’t notice the pause. It didn’t work.

“Why did you leave Chicago for South Carolina?”

“Have you ever been to Chicago?”

“No, I don’t think I have.”

“It’s a wonderful city, but it’s big and there’s a lot of crime—some of it very violent. I was ready for a change.”

“Crime like murders at farmers’ markets?”

“Good point.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“What?”

“Well, you don’t have to tell me or anything, but I know you’re not giving me the whole story. You said you love being a police officer, so enforcing the law in Chicago was probably wonderful. And South Carolina? There’s something else behind why you chose here, I can hear it in your voice.”

Sam laughed. “You definitely have a keen sense of observation. Very impressive. If you ever get tired of farming and farmers’ markets, I bet you’d make a good cop.”

“I’ll never get tired of what I do, but you still haven’t answered my questions. Tell me what you’re leaving out.”

Sam guided the convertible down the open road. There was no traffic, and the fields and intermittent dwellings on both sides of the road were part of what I loved most about where I lived. I thought I might lose my mind if I ever tried to live in a big city.

“Well, why I left is a very long story that I’m not ready to share with anyone quite yet, but maybe someday. Why I came to South Carolina, though—well, that’s easy. My grandparents lived here. I was born and raised in Chicago, but my parents brought me here to visit frequently. When I wanted to go someplace other than where I was—Chicago—I chose the place that had the best memories for me.”

“That’s a pretty good reason,” I said.

We drove in silence for a few minutes. Sam seemed to need a moment of introspection.

“So, how many murders have you solved?” I broke the silence.

He laughed again. “That’s an interesting question. Let’s see, I helped solve four in Illinois. Unfortunately, I worked on a number of others that didn’t get solved while I was there. This is my first murder in South Carolina. I’ll have it solved—or you’ll have it solved for me—shortly.”

“You’re confident?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a possibility that the murderer is someone other than Abner?”

“Anything is possible, but I have to find the evidence.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Quit putting yourself in danger, and don’t ‘forget’ to tell me anything else.”

“Point taken, but really, I want to help. Tonight, at least. At the dinner. Is there something I can do? I know you’ll be investigating, even though you won’t look like it.”

“I don’t know, yet. Let’s see what happens. Follow my lead, whatever it may be,” Sam said as we pulled into Bailey’s parking lot.

“Deal.”

There were still customers, since the market didn’t close for another two hours, but there weren’t many. We got a parking spot close to the front entrance. I looked around for brown trucks. There were six that I could see with my quick survey. Except for one that seemed like it was fresh off the showroom floor, they all looked pretty much the same.

“I have a few officers around here tonight. They’ll never be far away,” Sam said.

“You do? Are you worried about our safety?”

“Not particularly, but precaution is good. No one will notice. I’ve got them outside the market and at key road intersections. I can’t tell you
all
my secret police stuff.”

“Share whatever you want. I like secrets.”

Sam got out of the car and walked quickly to my side. He opened the door and offered me his hand. “I noticed. Shall we?”

“I believe we shall.” I was feeling much better, but my hip was still sore enough that the help was nice.

Probably noting my slightly off gait, Sam crooked his elbow. I happily put my arm though it as we entered Bailey’s. Of course, the first person we saw was the one I didn’t want to see me arm in arm with another man.

“Mr. Cartwright,” Sam said as he extended his hand.

“Officer. Becca,” Ian said as he shook Sam’s hand and sent a conspiratorial pinched smile in my direction. “Nice to see both of you. How’re you feeling, Becca?”

“Hey, Ian, I feel pretty good, much better, thanks,” I said. I’m sure he didn’t look any different than he had the day I’d gone to his apartment, but he looked different to me. Or maybe I looked at him differently. He seemed older than I’d remembered, or my mind played a trick to make it so. I’d already explained my fake date with Sam to him, and he’d taken it in stride, but I suddenly felt guilty about kissing Ian and then going out with Sam.