Farmers Market Fatality

by Sarah Hualde

  Kat was not accustomed to babies, either. She’d forgotten how sweet it felt to have their sleeping weight rest on her chest. How their breath came in inconsistent waves and how every so often a tiny chubby hand patted her shoulder. Kat softened her guard. She luxuriated in the smell of clean baby hair and tried to tune out the noise.

  Thaddeus texted with updates from the town circle. No more set up would be required for one more day. He helped manage the flux of vendor calls as he sat on the town table discouraging the random onlooker. News traveled swiftly. Some teenagers, from the set-up crew, returned after leaving the park. They wanted to see where the police found the dead body. Thad detoured them, with a smile.

  “Tomorrow morning is going to be crazy!” Kat spoke to Ivy, who was currently slaughtering Ever and Sam in Catan.

  “What’s new?”

  Chapter 6

  “I can’t tell where we went wrong.” Flora inspected the new apron. Her crafting glasses slid down her nose. She left them there. The angle magnified every stitch.

  Lydia huffed. She wanted to stomp her feet and throw the sewing machine out Flora’s kitchen window. Huffing quelled her inner violence. She sighed again. “I know I can do this. Everyone in this town can do crafty things.”

  Flora turned the fabric ninety degrees and traced the stitching with her finger. Lydia’s straight stitch curved more than a stretched-out Slinky. “Maybe we should give hand sewing a try. Perhaps using the machine is the problem.”

  Lydia agreed. Sewing machines were stupid. She never wanted to touch another Brother or Singer ever again. “Sure, let’s do that.”

  “First, I need to feed Enoch. For now, dig in my sewing basket. Get a couple of needles threaded with black thread.” Flora happily escaped the kitchen table. Lydia’s stress was infecting her mood. Without any knowledge of the language of sewing and handicrafts, it was difficult to explain the steps of even the most straightforward task. Flora was losing her patience and her mind. God help us both, she prayed on her way upstairs to her tiny man.

  Lydia seized the break to call Ethan. His afternoon agenda included babysitting Miss Rene until her nephew picked her up. Andrew lived three hours away from Pottersville, aka Honey Pot. It was Friday, and he was at work when Rene called him. Andrew was taking a half-day and rushing down to get his aunt.

  “Miss Jacqui said Rene wasn’t fit to be left alone. I didn’t believe her, until now. Man, Miss Rene is a firecracker. She goes from sweet to psycho in an instant. She also meanders. I’ve stopped her, twice, from walking out into the middle of the road. How did we not know she was doing so poorly,” Ethan said.

  Lydia listened, a new worry knot forming in her gut. “Maybe she forgot to take some meds. Did you check her pillbox?”

  “She hid it from me.” Ethan’s frustrated laugh remained compassionate. “I set it out on the kitchen table, so we wouldn’t forget. Went to the bathroom and came back and it was gone. She swears she never touched it, but there’s no one else here.” Lydia heard the old woman shuffling around the living room. She pictured her pacing and talking to herself, but Ethan set her straight. “At the moment, she’s practicing her line dancing. I don’t know how she does it, with her knees, but she’s nailing the electric slide.”

  “Help is on the way,” Lydia reminded him.

  “How does Jacqui manage?”

  “Maybe she’s not like that for her. Miss Jacqui can be rather intimidating. I bet Rene is just off her schedule. It’s been a crazy day for all of us.”

  “Perhaps. Dr. Lawrence called a bit ago.”

  Lydia lazily sorted quilting needles by size, in front of her. They glittered on the table as she listened to her husband.

  “Miss Jacqui’s staying the night in the hospital. They didn’t need to reconstruct her wrist, which is great. However, she’s ticked at Lawrence for dragging her down to Ashton for a cast he could’ve made in his office.”

  Lydia picked out a thick, sturdy black thread and unrolled an arm’s length. She folded it in on itself and licked the tip of the yarn before she tried threading her first needle. “So, why are they keeping her if she’s only in a cast?”

  “I think they want to keep an eye on her. They don’t know how to take her. Dr. Lawrence and I warned them of her sharp wit, but they didn’t get the message. I think they believe her belligerence is due to head trauma.”

  Lydia squinted trying to jab her thread through the needle’s eye. She gave it her full effort without triumphing. Her spit on the end of the thread began fraying the tiny cords. She snipped the tips and reapplied saliva. “Did you hear anything about Hobo Joe?”

  “Only that the doctors want him to stay in Ashton for a day or two. His leg is broken. That’s the news I’ve received. I’m sure there’s a lot more damage. But I haven’t heard anything yet. Gus is keeping in contact with Ashton Station. He’ll keep me informed.”

  Deciding her first needle was the trouble; Lydia stabbed it into a red tomato pin cushion and selected a fresh one. She unrolled another measure of thread and started over. “Has he found anything at the lawn,” she questioned.

  “Not that I can tell you. We’re hoping to clear the site for clean up late tonight. Vendors should be able to come in tomorrow morning. We’re slightly off schedule. How’s Cordelia? I’ve heard Mario’s work truck come and go several times since I’ve been here.”

  Lydia’s tongue twisted in unison with her concentration on the needle. Her success was short-lived. The thread stuck to her fingertip and though it made its way into the needle when she pulled her hand away the thread followed. “Biscuits! Oh, I guess she’s okay. She’s determined to make the Market’s opening a huge tribute to Mario. You know she thinks he’s dead? But I think she’s hoping he’ll show up, bright and cheery on the first day of the market.”

  Ethan was silent. Lydia knew he agreed with her. His silence was a sign. “I hope he does. In the meantime, she’ll probably need help cleaning up later tonight.” Lydia beamed at her success with needle number two. She knotted the thread and laid it down to prepare the next needle. “Maybe we can go together.”

  “Aren’t you relieving Gus, tonight?”

  “Yes, for part of the night. The new guy, Parker, will sit at the station and take calls. But I’ll help clean up and then I’ll check on him.”

  Flora tiptoed, gingerly down the stairs. Her soreness faded daily but her energy depleted at a rapid pace. Her curly hair frizzed on her left side and stuck out from her bun on her right. “Sorry, I must have dozed off.”

  Lydia signed off with Ethan and returned to her lessons.

  ✽✽✽

  “You need to call for help,” Kat said. She carted her spray bottle and rag in a canvas shoulder bag. Lydia felt the grass staining her favorite pair of jeans, as she scrubbed off her 47th cross.

  She wiped sweat from her forehead. It was ten pm. The sun teased the close of day. She sprayed another rag with glass cleaner and scooted sideways to the next cross. “There’s no one left to ask,” she said. “Rene is second in command of the Quilter’s club, and she’s on her way out of town.”

  Kat took on the next row of memorial crosses and began her scrubbing. She rubbed out the spatter while leaving the stickers intact. Lydia purchased replacement stickers from the general store. She hoped there were enough to go around.

  Cleaning blood splatter off of white wooden crosses was as much fun as it sounded. Knowing the dried brown blood belonged to Hobo Joe was sickening. The smell needled at Lydia’s stomach and replayed Joe’s predicament in her mind. She found herself retching and Kat returned the gesture. “Will you stop that? We’ve cleaned all this mess up, and if you hurl, I’m going to hurl, and we’re going to have to start the work over again.”

  “I can’t help it! You didn’t see him. It was awful,” Lydia said.

  “I can imagine, and sometimes that’s worse.” Kat dropped peppermint oil on a pocket-handkerchief and handed it to Lydia over the crosses. “Breathe that in and then tuck it
into your bra. Your body heat will send the smell up to your nose. It should help.”

  Kat and her oils. Lydia did what she said and prayed it worked. Sometimes Kat’s oil concoctions made her dizzy. Flora explained that Kat used too many drops at one time. But that didn’t stop overachiever Kat from dousing everything in some scent or other for some reason or other.

  The peppermint felt cool and cleansing as she inhaled. It stung her eyes. They watered. She tucked in the rag and sniffed back the smell.

  “Now, don’t start crying on me. We’ll never get this done if you start that.” Kat scolded and sniffled.

  “I’m not crying. It’s the oils. They’re strong.”

  Kat muttered to herself. “They’re not too strong.”

  Lydia barreled back into her work. Two rows to go. At first, the women believed they’d need to scrub the few crosses that encircled Joe’s attack. But with Ethan helping, they discovered tiny dots of blood on crosses columns away. They chose to wash each one just in case. It was better, for them to waste their nighttime hours, this way, than a distraught family bumble across their loved ones cross and see it tarnished with recent violence.

  “Who would want to hurt Hobo Joe?”

  Kat’s head popped up from her work. She’d expected this conversation and waited for Lydia to start it. She sat back on her heels and studied Lydia’s face. Her friend’s eyes were still watering.

  “Not a clue. Though it couldn’t have been anyone from around here.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  Kat’s eyebrows curled in surprise. “Seriously, Lyds who around here would hurt Hobo Joe? He’s an icon. His fudge alone makes him a man worth keeping around.”

  “Fudge? Fudge is your measure of worth?”

  Kat shrugged and continued her work. “Hobo Joe’s fudge is known, countywide and beyond. His fudge makes Christmas.”

  “Says my health-nut friend.”

  “Win some lose some. I jog off the fudge. It’s worth it.”

  Finishing her current cross, Lydia replaced three heart stickers and a glitter butterfly sticker. She slid over to the next cross. “You need help.”

  “Yeah, who doesn’t? Let’s get back to Hobo Joe. Why do we call him Hobo Joe, anyway?”

  Both women paused in their service and stared at each other. Blank expression mirrored blank expression. “I have no idea,” Lydia admitted.

  “Seriously? You’re the one person I was certain would know.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.” Lydia sprayed her rag and inspected her current job. No blood.

  “I bet Miss Jacqui would know.”

  “You’re probably right. We’ll ask her later. She should be more... open when on pain meds.” A mischievous grin spread across Lydia’s face. Kat spotted the change in expression, and it tickled her. The ladies ripped into spontaneous stress laughter.

  Lydia lost her balance and tumbled onto the lawn, causing yet another grass stain on her jeans. Something stabbed at her left cheek. Still hooting she reached behind her and pulled a silver earring out of her pants. She held it out to Kat.

  “Gross. That was in someone’s ear! Did it break your skin?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Lydia stood. She used her flat palms to dust off her ruined pants. Grass and dirt stuck to her skin. “I felt it poke me, but I don’t think it stabbed me.”

  “You’ve got to be sure.” Kat’s fear of germs crept up her spine and spouted out her mouth. Her face squished in toward her nose. She gagged.

  “I’m not dropping my pants to check.”

  Kat continued to choke on her thoughts.

  “Chill out! We’ve been scrubbing blood for the last two hours, and you were fine then. Take a second and calm down.”

  “Yeah, but the blood didn’t creep its way under my skin. I’m wearing gloves. Someone’s ear cooties were shot into your butt cheek.”

  Lydia shuddered. She would have Ethan inspect her later and dose the area in hydrogen peroxide. She was not taking off her pants. She hoped she could distract Kat from her paranoia. Lydia tucked the earring into her pocket.

  “So, if no one in town came after Hobo Joe, who did?” Lydia said after her laughter did its work. Ten more crosses to go.

  “While we’re stumped on that, I have another question. Who’d run over Miss Jacqui?” Kat said. Lydia stared straight into Kat’s eyes, getting her point across. “Okay, okay. There’s too many to list. But that’s who she is. Rough on the outside, sweet on the inside.”

  Lydia contemplated Kat’s deduction. In light of the new information Ethan had shared, Miss Jacqui was a cranky old saint. Determined to get her way and have things done according to her order, yet tender enough to house and care for a mentally unstable friend. Miss Jacqui was a conundrum Lydia would never crack. She turned her attention to a different problem.

  “Everyone in town knows that Hobo Joe sleeps out at the table all summer long. So, I don’t see it being an accident. Everyone steers clear of the town lawn during the summer.”

  Kat finished the last cross and packed away her supplies. “So, you think someone came to the lawn to hurt Hobo Joe?”

  “Or to kill him.”

  Kat and Lydia, proud of their work, left the lawn and headed for their cars. Lydia sneezed as the last rays of the day left Honey Pot and shuddered with the sudden change of temperature. She retrieved the only tissue she had that wasn’t soiled in blood and rubbed at her tired eyes. A building wail surged from Lydia’s throat, and she stomped her feet and flung her arms wildly.

  Seeing her friend acting the lunatic, Kat left her car door opened and rushed to Lydia. “What is it? What is it?”

  Lydia gasped. “Invisible fire!” Her hands shot in reflex up to her swelling eyes.

  “What?” Kat searched for her friend’s meaning and found it clutched in her right hand. The peppermint soaked hanky. She failed to swallow her laughter and instead led Lydia over to her van. “There’s coconut oil in my glove box.”

  ✽✽✽

  Emily Prior's heart raced in her throat. Clammy stress lubricated her palms and made climbing perilous. She deactivated her window’s alarm every night after bed checks. The mechanical voice that announces “Second Story Window Open” would not give her away. Her two roommates might.

  Jasmine and Tiffany glared at Emily’s clumsy shadow. Their arms crossed and knuckles clenched; they awaited their payment. Emily promised contraband. In return, the girls padded her bed with their pillows and blankets. Armed with book lights, they each tented under their sheets and read. Emily was two hours late, and their self-centered worry festered into self-centered aggravation. They refused to get in trouble for Emily Prior. Though she’d always been loyal and attentive to their needs, she was not worth risking the wrath of Mr. Mike.

  “Let me guess?” Jasmine was the first to attack Emily. Tiffany slowly and quietly closed the window and returned to her bed. “Lucas, again.”

  “Of course,” Emily glowed from excitement. She peeled in the corner of the room, hiding behind her closet door.

  “Did you bring us our stuff?”

  Emily tossed two large bags of sour gummies at Jasmine. The bags crinkled against the girl’s chest. Jasmine’s forehead pinched as she caught it. “Be quiet!”

  On a typical night, Emily would laugh and hop into bed. Instead, she took her soiled clothes and tucked them underneath her box of keepsakes. She settled her backpack on top of the box and drenched her skin in body spray. Fumes of pear and ginger clouded the small bedroom.

  “Geez, Em. Are you trying to kill us?” Tiffany gagged and flicked on the ceiling fan. Emily shrugged and burrowed deep under her bed covers. She begged for instant sleep.

  Chapter 7

  The front of Lydia’s hair rested against her forehead in silky rebellion. Reluctant to obey after soaking in Kat’s coconut oil. Lydia washed and dried it and washed and dried it again. It did no good. The oil revitalized Lydia’s h
air where she deliberately damaged it with dyes and overtreatment. If she didn't beat her hair into obedience, it laid limp where she wanted it stiff and shapely. Lydia resigned herself to an awkward hair day by quick twisting her long shag and pinning it back. It wasn’t her favorite look, but it did look “crafty”.

  Lydia strapped on her most artsy apron and fashioned a bow to rest above her fanny. She missed her old boots. She hadn’t reconditioned them after her muddy trek through a bee yard. They sat cleaned but not waterproof in her closet, staring at her in disdain. When she selected a pair of strappy and chunky sandals, she felt them gossiping about her. However, she didn’t have time for her usual style.

  It was the opening day of the Honey Pot Farmer Market. Friday and Saturday from 9 to 3 the market bustled with locals and tourists alike. After opening weekend, the market would reopen every Tuesday evening from 5 to 9 and again on Saturday morning from 10 to 2. Almost every resident of Honey Pot and its surrounding neighborhoods participated in some way. Many retired couples and large booming families, tended their greenhouses all year long. They shipped locally through the winter and sold their bumper crops at the fair.

  The Senior Center helped with the crafting portion of the Market. Bailey Family Fellowship Christian Church hosted the Quilting and Craft table. Miss Jacqui sold many articles to tourists, but the group made a killing on its DIY classes. The Farmers Market was one’s first chance to sign up for the year’s events. Most of which, sold out by the end of summer.

  Lydia strolled between the booths. She zigzagged through the fresh produce until she landed in Crafter’s Corner. It was ten to seven. Lydia expected the stalls to be almost empty. Instead, every gray-haired lady from her home church busied herself dusting and organizing merchandise.

  They all stopped to look at her. Lydia’s throat tightened. They all knew of Lydia’s past with crafts and were not impressed. What was I thinking? She plastered her best confident smile to her face and marched into the madness.