Mrs. Granger seemed to be in her element, chatting animatedly with everyone and accepting several compliments on her fantastic hat. If Amanda hadn’t known better, she would’ve thought that Mrs. Granger had suddenly gone senile, thinking she was at some fun party instead of a funeral. It was true the old lady’s giggling and joking was lightening the mood but it still seemed terribly out of place.
“Well, Mrs. Granger, you seem to be having a good time.” Amanda tried to keep the borderline annoyance out of her voice.
The old lady looked at her with surprise and smiled, her eyes kind. “What you really want to know is why I’m sitting here laughing at a dead man’s party, right, Amanda?”
“Well, you do seem to be having more fun than anyone here. Don’t funerals bother you?” She almost added the phrase “because you’re so old” but stopped at the last minute, realizing it was probably an insult. Her ninety-year-old friend, always so blunt, read between the lines and spoke her mind.
“You think it’s inappropriate, don’t you?” she said. It wasn’t really a question. Amanda kept silent but the answer was in her eyes.
“Oh honey, I’ve buried more people than you’re ever gonna meet. I never worry about dying.”
Amanda tried to think of how to ask if that was really true, considering Mrs. Granger’s advanced age, but the old lady must’ve known exactly what her young friend was pondering.
“I never worry about dying because I know where I’m going. Smart people through the ages have taught about life after death and I have to think it’s gonna be a big adventure.” She smacked her lips as she dug her fork into a huge piece of chocolate cake. “That’s why I’m wearing my party hat. Seems to me funerals aren’t so much about saying goodbye as they are about saying bon voyage.” Amanda stifled a laugh, instantly picturing the little old lady gleefully waving at a departing cruise ship, her amazing hat firmly in place.
“I wish I had that kind of faith Mrs. Granger, but I just don’t.”
The old lady turned, surprised. “You mean your generation believes in positive thinking and ghosts and aliens and psychic phenomenon and you don’t believe in what the majority of people throughout time have told you?” She turned back forward with a dissatisfied harrumph. “Seems kinda arrogant to not at least investigate it and see if it’s real or not.”
Amanda wasn’t quite sure what to say. “Well, if it encourages you to wear such a festive hat, I’m all for it.”
The little old lady looked over the top of her glasses at Amanda, a small smile playing around her lips. “Honey, anytime I wake up and I’m not six feet under, that’s reason enough to be festive.”
Chapter 2
Amanda always looked forward to Saturday in Ravenwood Cove, because it was the day the local farmers and craftspeople set up small booths in the vacant lot next to the old Grange Hall. Almost two dozen vendors sold their produce and handcrafted items at the weekly farmers market, and even though it was a new event in Ravenwood Cove it had been an instant hit. Townspeople who worked during the week slept in a bit later on the weekend, and after coffee and maybe some household chores, dressed in their comfy clothes and wandered downtown to discover what goodies were new and yummy at the farmers market. It was always a mystery what new things would show up. Some weeks the bakery would be trying out a recipe for raspberry turnovers or white chocolate cupcakes, and once or twice the portable pizza oven had turned out fresh Indian naan bread or tarts made with the fat local blackberries.
Amanda rode her red bicycle down the hill into town, waving at Grace TwoHorses as she sailed by. Grace was pulling a wire handcart full of bright yellow boxes, probably from Kazoodles toy store. On Saturdays her booth was definitely one of the kids’ favorites, and she made sure to have something new they could play with every week. Last week she’d shown up in a full-sized inflatable dinosaur costume, much to the delight of the children who squealed in mock terror as she danced around them, making growling noises while opening and closing the soft fabric claws.
The Grange parking lot had been blocked off and little pop-up canopies marked each vendor’s booth. The scent of hot bread, spiced nuts, and cut flowers wafted across the lot, mixed with the promising smell of freshly-brewed hot coffee. Holding two cartons of fresh eggs, newly-laid by her rooster Dumb Cluck’s hen harem, Amanda made sure to give a dozen to Mrs. Mason and then headed to the hardware booth. Brian Petrie always let Amanda park her bike at the back of his vendor space, behind his arrangement of potted chrysanthemums and hardware stuff to winterize people’s homes, and Amanda had started bringing extra eggs as a way to thank him.
Lately, one of the most popular booths belonged to the local Presbyterian church where the pastor, Tom Fox, kept a group of teenagers busy working two different cider presses. The church had nine apple trees and a scrubby pear tree toward the back of its property, where the fruit usually went to waste. When someone suggested making the apples into freshly-pressed cider and selling it at the market to raise money for play equipment for the rundown park in the nearby town of Likely, the pastor had jumped on the idea. The kids were enthusiastic and energetic, some working the cider presses to produce gallon after gallon of golden juice, and some cheerfully chatting with the passing people, trying to get them to stop in and try a free sample. When Amanda had offered them her apples, too, they had shown up with a full-sized pickup truck and about a dozen teens, eager and thankful to get the free fruit.
There was quite a line at the coffee booth, which Meg was staffing by herself. She kept smiling even though she was moving as fast as she could, trying to serve the patient line of people who were waiting for their morning caffeine. She nodded briefly at Amanda, who waved in return, and kept her cheerful line of banter going with customers as she worked the espresso machine.
As much as she enjoyed the farmers market, Amanda was actually there to work. She coordinated the whole thing and did her best to help out as much as she could. Carrying her clipboard and an extra pen, she walked from booth to booth, talking with the merchants and checking to see if there were any questions or problems they needed to discuss. Today she wasn’t just checking to make sure everything was running smoothly; she was also passing out flyers for the upcoming Harvest Festival. The little town loved excuses to celebrate, and the annual fall festival was a beloved tradition. With the recent influx of tourists all rooms for rent were booked for miles around, and Amanda was part of the committee that was making sure Ravenwood Cove’s Harvest Festival was especially good this year, with hayrides and an old-fashioned carnival planned.
Amanda walked down the line of booths, handing out flyers and signing up merchants for the festival. Mr. Orwin grabbed her the moment she walked by, nearly incoherent when he frantically reported he had no electricity to his booth and that he desperately needed it for lighting his wooden sculptures and to run his sander. It only took a moment to reassure him and find the electrician who could get the power restored, and Amanda continued down the row to the next booth.
One of the people she was checking up on was Truman. He was brand new to Ravenwood Cove, and the owner of the newly-opened bike and kite store. This was only his third market weekend but his booth had already made quite an impression. The bright colors of his spinning wind catchers and huge butterfly kites floating at the top of twenty-foot tall poles were visible from all over the market, lending a festive air to everything. Truman’s physical appearance may have startled a few of the residents of Ravenwood Cove at first, because they weren’t really used to young men with scrolling tattoos of medieval woodcuts wrapped around their arms or haircuts that seemed to change color and shape weekly. Today Truman was in full form, showing off his bare arms by wearing a sleeveless t-shirt with some obscure mathematical problem on the front, and sporting a nearly-shaved right side of his head. The left side still had a few inches of long hair but the dark locks were now tipped with purple.
He grinned widely at Amanda, waving a pair of pliers. “Hey, ‘Manda! What’s cookin’
?” She suppressed a smile. Truman was definitely a unique addition to their little coastal village, but Amanda had to admit he was becoming a favorite person to talk with. She’d discovered that his mind was bright and inquisitive, and that he was always ready to help a neighbor by carting groceries or making sure the older vendors had assistance when setting up or breaking down their booths. The week before, Amanda had seen him using his hand truck to move large plastic tubs of lavender and foxglove plants for Mrs. Bitterman, all while keeping up a chatty conversation on the benefits of ginseng tea. Truman’s little brown dog, Benny, a personable mix of dachshund and Chihuahua, was running close to his heels just as he always did.
After a few minutes making sure Truman had what he needed, she caught up to her friend Lisa at the Bake Me Happy booth. Lisa was obviously in reporter mode, using her high-powered camera to take photos of Mrs. Mason’s amazing display of mouth-watering cupcakes, arranged on a multi-tiered rack and grouped in rainbow colors. The boom of tourism to the town and the newspaper’s role in making it happen had definitely pleased Lisa. She’d worked even harder to showcase the town’s charms and its local citizenry, including the merchants at the weekly market. Mrs. Mason, the local baker, was standing by awkwardly as she did her best to stay out of the picture, an immaculate apron tied around her well-upholstered waist and a small pink cake box in her hand.
Even with the camera in front of her face, Lisa must’ve heard Amanda coming. “You missed all the fun this morning.” She clicked her camera off and cradled it in her hands, apparently having enough photos of cupcakes. “Owen Winters called me a leftist pinko and said he’d only let me take a photo of his garden gate if I paid him five bucks. Can you believe that?”
Actually, Amanda could. Owen Winters was an older man who had a reputation of being suspicious of other people’s motives. He was an army veteran who lived next door to Mrs. Bitterman, the one neighbor he actually liked, apparently bonding over a mutual love of gardening and antique cars. He could often be seen with his head under the hood of her still-running 1934 Model A, tinkering with it and muttering curse words when it didn’t cooperate with his wishes. Other than that, he’d been known to occasionally corner George Ortiz and tell the patient police chief about how the teenagers of the town were too noisy when they drove by, or that someone’s dog was constantly barking and how irritating it was. It must’ve been hard for George to keep a straight face because everyone knew Owen Winters was hard of hearing, but good cop that he was, he listened carefully and followed up on any genuine issue, much to Owen’s satisfaction.
“Did you pay him the five bucks?” Amanda couldn’t help but tease her serious friend a bit, and she got the reaction she wanted when Lisa looked shocked. “Pay him? Are you crazy? The press does not pay for photos.” She sniffed disdainfully and finally added, “I did buy two of his pumpkins, though. They’ll look good on my front porch for fall.”
“And how much did they cost?”
Her friend was turned away from her, stowing her camera in its bag, but Meg could hear the tone of resigned confession in her voice.
“Five bucks.”
Amanda laughed and looped her arm through her friend’s as Lisa finally smiled and gave a deep sigh. “Well, I needed the pumpkins anyway.”
“Of course you did.” Under Lisa’s serious exterior beat a soft heart of someone who did her best to help people, whether it was by writing an article in her newspaper highlighting injustice or making sure someone who was barely making ends meet quietly got whatever they needed. More than once Amanda had noticed Lisa’s subtle way of helping people without making them feel like they were receiving charity, and it was one of the things she most admired about her quiet friend. Owen was on a fixed income, and only able to supplement it with sales from his small fruit stand and pay for helping Mrs. Bitterman with her weeding and yardwork. Lisa’s five bucks probably helped Owen get some much-needed groceries.
“Are you about done? I promised Mrs. Granger I’d sit with her and Mrs. Bitterman and do some people watching. God only knows what sort of stories that lady is going to tell me this time,” Lisa said as she put the strap of her camera bag over her shoulder.
Amanda unlooped her arm. “Sounds promising.” Mrs. Granger’s ability to know everything about everyone in Ravenwood Cove was legendary. “I’ve got a few more vendors to check and then I’ll be there. Save me a chair.”
Touching base with the rest of the merchants, Amanda was pleased that no new disasters surfaced, and she tucked her clipboard under her arm with a satisfied sigh. Almost every small shop or craftsperson in town had set up either a small table or a full-sized booth, ready for the townspeople and tourists to stop and buy their wares. There were even a few people who had just plopped into a folding chair and laid down old blankets near the sidewalk with their handicrafts on them.
The only shop in town that never had a booth at the weekly market was one of the newest, and certainly the most stylish, in Ravenwood Cove. The former mayor, Mrs. Sandford, had resigned in disgrace from the town council and had quietly opened up a high-end art gallery. It featured imported antiques, too; none of the local bits and pieces of castoffs that so often made their way into the beach town antique stores. Amanda actually liked those sort of shops, with their jumble of items that could be treasures, but Mrs. Sandford had publicly proclaimed that no ‘junk’ would ever be in the Sandford Gallery. The influx of tourists had proved to be a bonanza for the ex-mayor, and she’d hired a couple of elegantly-dressed young women to greet clients, while she mostly managed the books and supervised from the back office, an interior window with frosted glass between her and the customers.
The market was in full swing by the time Amanda was able to stop by Mrs. Bitterman’s booth to sit with Mrs. Granger and Lisa. Mrs. Bitterman seemed to love chatting with the people who drifted by her booth, drawn in by the sumptuous display of dahlias and bundles of fresh herbs. Almost twenty years younger than her longtime friend Mrs. Granger, she was a bundle of energy, even though she’d recently broken a bone in her foot at a Zumba dance class and had to sit while she talked, a plaster cast on her left foot and a pair of metal crutches nearby. She loved to explain how to cook with her pickled elephant garlic or what meats tasted best when roasted with rosemary, and from the constant traffic by her chair, Amanda could tell her plants and herbs were a crowd favorite. Owen Winters brought by three grapevine wreaths to sell, ignoring the ladies’ greetings and talking quietly with Mrs. Bitterman before he disappeared back into the busy aisle.
Mrs. Granger was a running stream of observation, sitting on the seat of her walker and letting Lisa and Amanda know the dirt or her opinion about most of the people who walked by. She was the best sort of gossip, even if she did perhaps tell a bit more than she should, because she never did it to be vicious or spread ugly rumors. She seemed to simply delight in being able to share the local news, and Amanda had learned some time ago that there were actually things her ninety-year-old friend would never talk about, because it might hurt someone or betray a confidence.
Mrs. Granger was just pointing out Mrs. Henderson, Amanda’s neighbor from across the street, and quietly whispering details of her high school love life when Meg stomped over and flopped into the open chair by her grandmother, frustration on every line of her face.
“Anderson’s here.”
Just the name set off alarm bells in Amanda’s head, and her mouth dropped open in shock.
“Here? What’s that creep doing in Ravenwood? Are you okay?” She tried to keep her voice from having a note of panic but considering Meg’s history with Anderson Bowles she had every right to be upset. Meg had met Anderson on some dating site online, and from the very first date he’d been aggressive and demanding, wanting far more from Meg than she was willing to give, and deriding her choice to not sleep with him as being ‘puritanical’ and ‘prudish’. When Meg had given him a piece of her mind and unceremoniously dumped him, refusing to return his calls and throwing out the two
huge bouquets of white roses he’d had delivered to the coffeeshop, he hadn’t taken it well. It had been weeks since that single date, and he still was texting her and trying to call.
“I think he’s stalking me. He stopped by the Cuppa booth and said we needed to talk. I told him we had nothing to discuss and he needed to leave, but he seemed really angry before he walked away. I had Tory take over the booth and I came to find you.”
Meg’s words seemed to jolt Lisa into action. “I’m going to see if I can find George and let him know what’s going on,” she said, and before Meg could stop her she was loping out of the booth and down the crowded aisle, intent on finding the police chief.
Mrs. Granger had been listening with rapt attention, and finally leaned back in her walker. “In my day, we’d take a boy like that out back and someone would beat the tar outta him if he was gonna bother a young lady. Honey, your gramma’s got your back.” The old lady pulled her ancient black purse off the handle of her walker and dug inside, dumping out several cotton handkerchiefs and a tattered coupon book from the local grocery store before she finally fished out a small, snub-nosed revolver.
“Here ya go, honey. This should persuade him you mean business,” she said, as she tried to hand the gun to her protesting granddaughter.
“Gram, put that away! I’m not going to shoot him!” Meg was swiveling her head around, trying to see if anyone was watching her grandmother brandishing a deadly weapon. “I just want him to stop bugging me.”
Mrs. Granger seemed genuinely disgusted as she finally stuffed the little gun back in her purse. “Seems like shootin’ him would do the trick, especially if it was something important to him that you shot off.”
There was a sound of a small scuffle from in front of the booth, and then a large, angry man was pushing his way toward the back, where the women were sitting. It was Anderson Bowles, the guy Meg had met over the internet. Wearing a hooded sweatshirt and ball cap from the large local university, he looked exactly like some ticked off blond frat boy who was going to start a fistfight, and Meg and Amanda both instinctively leapt to their feet, facing him. Amanda could feel her heart pounding with adrenaline but she stood her ground, ready to defend her friend.
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