Farm Fresh Murder (9 page)

“It’s what he’s the best at,” Officer Norton said, sharing a secret smile with Sanford.

“Yeah,” Sanford added, “if there’s a needle in any haystack, he’ll be the one to find it.”

“He’s the best,” Officer Norton repeated. “He’ll figure out the Bailey’s killer, we have no doubt.”

I cringed at the words she used. Bailey’s should never be associated with a murder. And yet, now it was—at least temporarily.

Officer Brion reappeared a moment later, carrying in his hands the one thing that would tell both him and me who had most likely been on my porch.

“Ms. Robins, did you notice these out by your strawberries?” He held up a bouquet of flowers—wildflowers, to be exact.

“No, this is the first time I’ve seen them.” My heart hollowed as I realized that it had been Abner on my porch, and I’d not only sped away from him in fear, but called the police on him, too.

“I think I checked everything pretty well, but why don’t the two of you look for further evidence out in Ms. Robins’ strawberries and pumpkins?” he said to the other officers. “Ms. Robins, let’s you and I sit down and get to the bottom of your relationship with Abner Justen.”

We sat in my kitchen and I poured him a tall, cold glass of iced tea. He was very thirsty and didn’t act as though he was going to light into me, so I relaxed. His tough police exterior seemed to be somewhere else, most likely with his uniform. He wasn’t brusque as he asked this round of repeat questions.

“You didn’t see the person, though?”

“No, just the shadow.”

“So it might not have been Abner.”

“No, but I know his arranging. He put that bouquet together. If it wasn’t him on the porch, it was someone who’d gotten the flowers from him,” I said.

“Why would Abner be at your house?”

“Well, like I told you, we’re very good friends.”

“But you still claim you didn’t know where he lived until last night?”

“Yep.”

Officer Brion glanced at me over his iced tea. He was a nice-looking man in that way you’d never notice when he was in uniform. He had almost generic features: medium brown hair and light brown eyes, but once his hair got a little messy, he wasn’t so generic. He was probably in his early forties, in good shape but not as good as Officer Norton, and he didn’t smile easily.

“I confirmed that Mr. Justen is secretive about the location of his property, but why do you suppose he told Mr. Cartwright the address so easily?”

“He must have really wanted one of Ian’s pieces of art. They’re pretty wonderful,” I said, but I doubted that Sam had any use for yard artwork. Besides, we’d been down this road before.

“But Mr. Cartwright and Mr. Justen hadn’t been acquainted before the yard art transaction?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hmm. He must have really liked that art.”

“Uh-huh.” I sensed that he was trying to get me to say something specific, but I had no idea what it was—I worked much better in the worlds of obvious and blatant.

Okay, it
was
odd that Abner gave Ian his address so easily. Very odd.
Had
they known each other? I was under the impression that they hadn’t, but I didn’t know for sure. I hoped my face didn’t show my sudden doubt.

“What else can you tell me about Mr. Justen? We can’t find record of him ever being married. Do you know anything about his personal life?”

I sighed. “No, nothing. As well as I knew him, I really don’t think I knew him at all, Officer . . . Sam. I’m trying not to be angry about that because everyone has a right to their privacy, but I at least tell my friends where I live and give them my phone number. Anyway, during our excursion last night, I did see the pictures. Do you know who the blonde was?”

“No, I was hoping you might.”

“No clue.”

Sam sipped at his tea and looked in the direction of the dining room. I decided to fess up.

“There is something else,” I said.

“What?”

“Abner called me today.”

“Oh?”

I gave him the details, sparse as they were. He took notes and said he’d check my phone record to see what he could find out.

“You know, Ms. Robins, this is a murder investigation. I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know if Mr. Justen attempts to reach you again.”

“Sure,” I said, appropriately subdued. I should have told him sooner.

“Now, what about tonight?”

“What about it?”

“Is there someone you can call—someone you can ask to come over or someplace you can go? I’ll have officers drive by throughout the night, but I want you to feel comfortable.”

“Oh, I’ll call my sister.” I wasn’t sure if I would or not, but she’d welcome both me and Hobbit. I didn’t think I’d be uncomfortable, though. Even though Officer Brion was pretty convinced that Abner had something to do with Matt Simonsen’s death, I still had at least a little doubt. If Abner’d been on my front porch, he’d probably just wanted a friend to talk to. But I couldn’t deny the chill that zipped up my spine as I thought about the axe—really, could Abner have used it to kill someone?

“Very good. Would you like me to wait while you call?”

“Oh, no. All is well. I actually have an alarm system.” I did, though I hadn’t activated it in years. I thought I still had the code written on a piece of paper in a drawer somewhere.

“Well, then, thank you for your time, Ms. Robins. I’ll be in touch, and please let me know if you hear from Mr. Justen again.”

“Of course.”

I watched the officers drive away. I kept Hobbit at my side as I locked everything and searched for the security system code, to no avail.

Finally, after about fifteen minutes of watching television in my bedroom and imagining all sorts of mysterious noises, I called Allison and told her we were coming over.

It wasn’t that I was concerned about safety at Allison’s house, but I spent most of the night being angry. I was almost 100 percent certain that Abner had been the shadow on my porch. Why the mystery with me? Why hadn’t he just shown himself? Why hadn’t he called again?

I woke the next morning, anxious to get up and get to work—just not the work at my stall. Without question, I was determined to figure out who killed Matt Simonsen. That earlier jab of denial about the murderer potentially being Abner was lessening with every moment that passed. It wasn’t so much that I believed he did it, but if he did do it, I was ready to face that reality and do whatever was necessary to bring him to justice. No matter that we were friends, this craziness had to stop.

Allison and I were up and out of her house early—Hobbit had no interest in rising from the guest futon we’d shared, and Allison’s husband would get their son, Mathis, up, dressed, and fed. Large coffees and even larger donuts were our breakfast as I drove us along the highway, precrack-of-dawn.

“I understand your determination, Becca,” Allison said in between coffee sips, “but be careful.”

“I will. I won’t do anything crazy, but we know these people, Allison—farmers’ market people.”

“Everyone’s a mystery in some way or another. You’ve seen that with Abner. Maybe the murder had absolutely nothing to do with market people.”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.”

After a moment of thought she said, “Okay, let me know what I can do to help.”

I nodded in the darkness. I thought about telling her my observations of Carl Monroe at the previous day’s meeting, but I didn’t. There might have been nothing strange about his actions—I’d look into it further, though, then maybe tell her.

“So,” she continued. “Jessop Simonsen should be working at Smithfield today. I called Mrs. Simonsen yesterday to let her know about the dinner and the fact that we would have a moment of silence for Matt. She was actually very happy that we were continuing with our plans, by the way. And she said that Jessop
has
to work. He can’t deal with sitting around all day thinking about what happened.”

“I guess I get that,” I said.

“Do you want to talk to him?”

“I don’t know. You?”

“I do. I’d like to tell him how sorry I am, but I don’t know if the timing will be right.”

“It’s a tough situation, no matter how you look at it.”

“Awful.”

Fortunately, Allison and I never ran out of conversation topics, so in order to move away from such sadness, we used the rest of our thirty-minute drive to talk about Mathis and our hippie parents who were currently touring the country in an RV. Neither of us had heard from them in few weeks, but that was nothing new. They’d call when they wanted to talk.

We pulled into Smithfield Market at about 7:00 A.M., earlier than our original plan, but there was still plenty of activity. In line with my belief that Bailey’s was the best farmers’ market anywhere in the universe, I hadn’t spent a lot of time at many others. I knew all about the big ones in South Carolina, and I knew they were just fine when it came to farmers’ markets. But Bailey’s was the best. Of course, I wasn’t beyond knowing that the vendors who worked at other markets probably thought theirs was the best, too.

Smithfield Market was about thirty miles from Bailey’s, but it felt like a different world. Bailey’s sat on the edge of the town of Monson and was surrounded by hilly land, fertile and deeply green. The Smithfield-area land was just as fertile, but it was flat and tended to brown up a little bit by the end of summer. And, though the town of Smithfield was close to the market, it couldn’t be seen, heard, or smelled from the inner sanctum of the market tents.

But Smithfield Market did have one thing that Bailey’s didn’t have—well, two: funnel cakes and a Ferris wheel. It was as if the two most popular items from the state fair were stored at Smithfield during the off-season. It was too early in the morning for the Ferris wheel to be fired up, but whoever sold the funnel cakes must have already turned on the fryer. The smell of rich dough almost put me into a coma of fried bliss.

We were greeted at the entrance to the market by a very friendly man with a ready smile and the fastest walk I’d ever seen.

“Ms. Reynolds, it’s great to see you again,” the man said as he pumped her hand.

“Good to see you, too, Jack. This is my sister, Becca. Becca, Jack Wilson, Smithfield Market’s manager.”

We shook hands, and then he and Allison took off to his office for their business meeting that would apparently include market managers from throughout the state. I was invited to come along, but I couldn’t think of anything more boring so I declined, hopefully hiding my terror at the thought of participating in such an activity.

I also wanted to find Jessop Simonsen. Despite what I’d said to Allison, I wasn’t hesitant in the least to talk to him. I needed to know more about his father, and he would be the one to talk to. There was nothing easy about death, particularly when murder had been involved, but I’d do my best to be sensitive.

It was still early, so as I walked slowly down the aisles in search of Jessop, I watched the vendors set up their stalls. I compared the tomatoes and corn with what was sold at Bailey’s. There probably wasn’t much difference, but I was certain that the superior products were most definitely being sold by Barry and Betsy.

A corner booth of one of the aisles stopped me in my tracks, as literally as possible. I stood still, probably with my mouth agape in wonder, staring at the pies that had been created by someone, according to the sign, named Mamma Maria.

Mamma was not your typical mother/baker-type person. Frankly, she reminded me more of a stripper. She was tall, blond, and built—
just like her pies,
I thought to myself. Mamma wore Daisy Duke shorts and a low-cut shirt that I’d probably at least have in my closet if I’d been gifted with such cleavage.

“Hi,” she said in my direction. “Like lemon meringue?” She held up an oversize pie, the topping probably almost half a foot high. I’d never seen anything like it.

“I, uh,” I stammered.

She laughed. “This is the first time you’ve seen my pies, huh?” She waved to the back of her stall, where a cooler displayed a number of pies, all of them tall and beautiful and moving in slow circles inside a mechanical case. I focused on one tent card that read Mamma Maria’s Mmmm-Amazing Lemon Meringue Pie.

“Yes, actually.”

“Well, I make them all myself. I try to get most of my ingredients from here at Smithfield’s, but no one’s grinding wheat and selling flour here, so I have to get some ingredients from the grocery store. Let me get you a sample. My name’s Maria Christopher, but everyone calls me Mamma.”

Mamma turned toward the display case and pulled out a pie that had already been cut into. With long red fingernails guiding the way, she sliced a thin but tall piece and put it on a paper plate. She handed me the plate and a plastic fork that had a pink ribbon tied around the end of it.