A Slaying in the Orchard

by Gin Jones

  Sweetwater brought me back to the moment. "Why aren't you going over to see what's wrong?" he demanded. "I would if I were in charge."

  Just one more reason why I thought the town had made the right decision in hiring me. I knew when to take charge and when to let the experts do their jobs without interference.

  "The Baxter twins are already there, and all I could do is get in the way. You should go back to your stall now before your customers miss you." I started up the Memorial Walkway, keeping my expression calm and my pace unhurried so Sweetwater wouldn't be tempted to follow my every step, telling me what I was doing wrong. "I'm sure the Baxter twins have everything under control. Assuming there is anything wrong. It could just be that someone mistook a role-playing pirate pretending to be dead for the real thing."

  As I spoke, one of the Baxter twins emerged from the Pear Stirpes Orchard stall.

  "Afraid not," he said grimly, and I noticed there was a red substance on his latex gloves and dark splotches on his uniform. "Someone's dead, and it's definitely not a gamer. Pirates don't wear jeans and tie-dyed T-shirts."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  There was nothing in my sling bag that would fix a dead body, so there was no point in my heading for the crime scene. Instead, I tried to think of what I could do something about.

  Cary didn't handle disturbances very well, and if Jazz had returned from her break, he'd probably gone back to where he'd been working with JT at the Pear Stirpes Orchard stall. That put him right in the middle of whatever was going on. I needed to make sure he was okay, but I didn't want Sweetwater coming with me. If Cary was melting down, Sweetwater would only make the situation worse.

  "Go back to your space," I said, this time not bothering to make it a suggestion.

  Apparently even Sweetwater understood that his concerns about grills and my general incompetence were trivial compared to a death, because he left without any further complaints. I didn't pause to question my luck in getting rid of him, but hurried over to check on my assistant.

  Cary wasn't under the Pear Stirpes Orchard canopy. He came running down the Memorial Pathway from the opposite direction and arrived at Merle's space at the same time as I did. "I was just going to look for you, Maria Dolores," he said. "Jazz Constant took an awfully long break, but she's finally back now. She told me to thank you for my help. Did you know she has a bunny? Its name is HoneyBun. There's a plaque on the cage."

  "Names are important to know."

  "I know lots of names," Cary said. "But most aren't as important as yours is."

  I could always count on him to raise my spirits after Sweetwater did his best to lower them. I owed it to Cary to make sure he wasn't traumatized by whatever had happened behind the Pear Stirpes Orchard space.

  "Could you do something for me?" I asked him, scrambling for an assignment that would get him out of harm's way. "The Police Foundation volunteers are having trouble keeping up with their customers. Would you go help them out?"

  "Of course, Maria Dolores." He ran off, apparently oblivious to the crowd gathering around the crime scene.

  I checked on JT, who was standing in the gap between the orchard's display table and the tomato-covered one in the adjoining stall, blocking access to anyone other than emergency service personnel. Apparently a mere murder didn't faze him the way a threat to his perry making might have done.

  About a dozen marketgoers had gathered in front of JT and were peering past him to see what was happening at the crime scene. I caught glimpses of the Baxter twins back there, along with young officer Richie Faria still in his grilling apron, but I couldn't see anything more detailed than that. Thank goodness. I'd already seen enough dead or dying bodies to last me a lifetime.

  Officer Fred Fields came running up the Memorial Walkway, slightly out of breath and carrying a roll of police tape. He politely but inexorably pushed his way through the gathered crowd, offering reassuring words. JT stepped aside to let the officer and me behind the display table.

  I gave JT a quick "good job" and then followed Officer Fields to where he was stringing police tape from the canopy's rear supports.

  "Do you know what happened?" I asked him.

  "Henry Atwell is dead." Fields shoved a case of purple and black tomatoes aside so he could access the back of Tommy Fordham's space and continue stringing police tape. "From what I heard, he was stabbed by one of his own chisels. That's not an official cause of death, but it's hard to imagine what else could have been used when they found the tool at the crime scene, covered with blood."

  "No chance of an accident?"

  "Not unless he fell on his chisel multiple times."

  "Someone needs to tell his granddaughter. She's been helping out at the market and was in charge there when he left for a break about half an hour ago." It dawned on me that if I hadn't sent Henry for a time out, he might not have been in the somewhat isolated spot where he'd been killed. I knew I wasn't responsible for his death, not in any legal or even moral sense, but it bothered me that I might have, however inadvertently, set him on the path to a dangerous situation.

  Fields returned from wrapping the tape around the far support for Tommy Fordham's canopy. He handed me the remainder of the roll. "Would you hang onto this while I go talk to the granddaughter? Her name's Etta, isn't it? Named Henrietta after her grandfather, if I remember right."

  I took the tape. "Was she close to him? Beyond the fact of working with him at the market?"

  Fields shrugged. "Probably. His family's been here in Danger Cove for generations, but they keep to themselves for the most part. Henry's son's family lives in the house that's been owned by Atwells for several generations, and he has a separate studio on the property. Back when Henry's wife was alive, they had a few local friends that they used to have dinner with, go to the movies, that sort of thing, but they were never involved in larger social events. Probably just as well. As you've seen, Henry could be a bit of a jerk, and he's gotten into some public shouting matches over the years. Nothing violent, nothing I couldn't fix with a brief conversation with him. And I can't recall even so much as a traffic stop for anyone else in the family."

  Etta was going to be devastated by the loss of her grandfather. Now I felt even worse about my tiny role in today's tragedy. "Do you want me to come with you to tell Etta what happened?" I asked, even as I hoped desperately that he'd say no.

  "Probably best if you didn't," Fields said. "I've got the routine down pretty well. I can't say I'll ever get used to it, but I've learned to handle it. And it's best if there's no amateur—all due respect to you—around to add to the already-high emotional level."

  "Tell her to let me know if she needs anything at all," I said. "If you think it will be helpful, I can send my assistant, Cary, with you to take over the sales and keep people out of your way while you're delivering the news."

  "That would be a help." Fields straightened his uniform jacket. "I just need to get to her before some 'helpful' citizen spills the beans."

  * * *

  Officer Fields went with me to get Cary from the Police Foundation's table. While we waited for Cary to remove his apron, Fields quickly introduced me to the suit-wearing man I hadn't recognized earlier who turned out to be a local prosecutor with political aspirations. Then Fields and Cary hurried up the Memorial Walkway toward WoodWell.

  I followed more slowly, watching to make sure Cary didn't get distracted by the crowd outside the Pear Stirpes Orchard stall. He would get trampled if he had a meltdown and collapsed in the middle of the walkway while everyone was milling around to get a glimpse of the crime scene. Cary seemed to be fine, skipping occasionally to keep up with Officer Fields.

  With Cary in good hands, I turned to the crowd and pushed my way back through them. JT wasn't going to be able to keep out the rubberneckers for long by himself. I assumed the people pushing up against the display table were curious about the crime scene and weren't customers. Merle's pear products were in demand, but not enough to draw this kind of
crowd. And if there were any customers in the mix, they wouldn't be able to get past the gawkers to make their purchases.

  Unfortunately, I had too much experience with the public response to dead bodies, so I knew that even if the police didn't shut down the market, Pear Stirpes Orchard was out of business for the rest of the day. At least if it remained next to the crime scene. It used to be assigned to what was now the unoccupied space at the far end of the market across from WoodWell, where I had fortuitously prevented Keith Nettles from squatting earlier in the day, so it was available now for Merle to use.

  The police tape Officer Fields had left with me would help keep the rubberneckers from swarming the vacated space, but JT was going to need more help than I could provide to move everything quickly. It was time to call Merle and let him know what was happening here. Surely Detective Ohlsen would understand that Merle was needed at the market. The body at the orchard had been there for quite some time before it had been uncovered on Monday—years, rather than days or weeks, from what I'd heard—so surely that investigation could wait a little longer.

  I explained to JT that he'd have to move everything to the new space. Then I took his place in the opening at the front so it wouldn't immediately be overrun. Some jostling in the crowd settled down after I used the glare that I'd perfected years ago to quell my younger siblings. After waiting a few moments to make sure no one was going to do something foolish like leap over the display table, I called Merle.

  He picked up on the first ring. "I'm in the parking lot already. Ohlsen told me what happened, and we both raced for our vehicles. He's probably already at the scene. The perks of having a siren and blue lights. It'll be another two minutes for me."

  I turned to peer past JT, beyond the canopy. Detective Bud Ohlsen was just then coming into sight, emerging from behind the first aid tent. He was a tall, solid man, nearing retirement age, and easy to spot while keeping my focus well above ground level so I wouldn't inadvertently catch a glimpse of the body.

  Ohlsen's arrival was perhaps the only encouraging aspect of this whole situation. He was a good detective whose only failing was that his methodical approach often meant that it took a long time to identify the killer. I couldn't change the way he worked, but I could help to move the investigation along by talking to the vendors about what they knew, as long as I did it quietly and without ruffling anyone's feathers. I knew it was more important to get the right person than to get someone quickly, but I couldn't help worrying about the dampening effect of knowing there was a killer at large. It would cast a gloomy shadow over both the market and the rest of the Labor Day activities nearby at the pier in one direction and Two Mile Beach in the other. The sooner the killer was caught, the better for everyone.

  Merle arrived at last, pushing his way through the crowd and lightening my gloomy mood. He was tall and lean and a few years older than me, with a slight Virginia accent that made me think of him as the sort of gentleman farmer that Thomas Jefferson had written about. He wore jeans with the lime green T-shirt that was printed with the Pear Stirpes Orchard logo. Despite his modern, casual clothes, he had a touch of Renaissance elegance to him, from his speech patterns to his posture and even his scholarly vocabulary. He didn't have to do or say anything—just the sight of him made me feel more optimistic.

  I held the strip of police tape up to make it easier for him to duck under it. "JT's packing up your stuff to take it over to your previous location. Unless you want to just take it back to the orchard now. No one would blame you for cutting out on the market early today." I glanced across the path to where Jim Sweetwater was standing in the walkway, chatting with the farmers from the stalls on either side of his. None of them had any customers; everyone in the market area, except for the vendors, had congregated as close as they could get to the crime scene. "Well, Jim Sweetwater would probably blame you and me both, but I don't really care what he thinks right now."

  "I do," Merle said. "Not for my sake, but for yours. Usually no one pays any attention to him, but that's because they already know everything about the person he's complaining about and that there's nothing to his claims of imminent disaster if someone doesn't act. You're still something of an unknown commodity."

  "Don't worry about me. I knew I'd have to overcome the resistance to outsiders." My mother had been born and raised in Danger Cove and had escaped to Seattle shortly after my birth. She'd warned me about how much the local residents could resent outsiders, and she'd been appalled by my decision to move here. I still got a phone call from her every Monday to make sure I'd made it back to Seattle alive. Once I finally found a more long-term residence here than the Ocean View B&B where I stayed a few days a week, the calls would probably escalate to daily.

  "If I can't do a better job as market manager than Jim Sweetwater, then I deserve to be fired."

  "Just about anyone could do a better job than Jim. He does grow good root crops though. He'd be a lot happier person, I think, if he could spend all of his time on his farm alone where there isn't anyone who needs him to tell them what they're doing wrong."

  "You're probably right, but we both have more important things to do than psychoanalyze Jim Sweetwater," I said. "You've got packing to do, and I've got to go offer my condolences to Henry's granddaughter. Officer Fields went to deliver the news a few minutes ago, but he should be done with the official part by now."

  "Want me to come with you?"

  I did, desperately, but I couldn't ask him to do it. He had his own crises to deal with, and he'd already helped me with my new job more than I'd had any right to expect. "I'll be fine."

  "I know you will," he said. "But the offer stands."

  "Thanks."

  "Will I see you later?" he asked. "Dinner at the Smugglers' Tavern, perhaps?"

  "Are you sure you'll be free? Or will Detective Ohlsen return to questioning you about the body at the orchard?"

  "I think he's going to be talking to other witnesses about a different body for the rest of the day, perhaps the entire weekend." Merle grinned suddenly. "If not, well, having dinner with you tonight is worth the risk of whatever Ohlsen might do to me. I haven't seen you much lately, while you've been commuting back and forth from Seattle."

  We had been ships passing in the night recently. Merle had been busy with JT and the plans for improving the perry production, and I'd been spending a ridiculous amount of time poring over real estate listings for the very few houses that ever hit the market anywhere near Danger Cove. Merle and I had made plans to get together whenever I was in town, only to have to cancel most of them due to one crisis or another. I couldn't remember the last time we'd had dinner together, and it might be weeks before we could get together again after tonight.

  "I'd love to have dinner with you, but the idea of investing in something that might put an entire portfolio at risk goes against all my training. I don't want to get you dragged down to the interrogation room at the Danger Cove Police Department just because you were hanging out with me while Detective Ohlsen cooled his heels, waiting for you at the orchard."

  "I should have known you wouldn't consider my devil-may-care attitude to be romantic," Merle said. "Don't worry. I won't take any big risks. Besides, I'm pretty good at finding a way out of legal trouble."

  He'd helped both me and Cary in the past. And it was kind of romantic that he was willing to put his skills on the line in order to have dinner with me.

  "I'll see you tonight then," I said. "Preferably not at the local jail."

  * * *

  I was almost even with Jim Sweetwater's stall and psyching myself up to be polite to him, when Denise Casey from Danger Cove Dairy came up to me carrying five ducklings in a basket.

  "He did it again," she said angrily. "You've got to do something about him before my husband takes the matter into his own hands."

  I took her arm and urged her along the walkway toward her own space and away from Jim Sweetwater's overly interested ears. "Who did what?"

  "Henry
Atwell," she said. "He stole some of my ducks again."

  "Perhaps you should start at the beginning," I said. "When did he steal the first ones?"

  "That was during the earthquake over the Independence Day weekend. I thought three of them had fallen victim to some natural predator, but then I saw Henry with them. He insisted they were his now. 'Finders keepers,' he said. Like we were in grade school or something."

  "Why didn't you tell me then?"

  Denise shrugged. "You had enough to deal with that weekend, and I was pretty sure he wanted them for his great-grandkids to raise, so I didn't mind that much. I'd been planning to sell them anyway, so it wasn't like they were part of my main egg-laying flock."

  "And today?" I asked. "Did you see Henry with the missing ducks again?"

  "No. I suppose the last few could just be lost. They all escaped when I was over consoling Jazz for the way Henry had treated her. I must have knocked the cage door ajar when I raced over there. I've been looking for them ever since." She reached into the basket to rub each of the adolescent ducklings' backs in turn, as if reassuring herself they were still there and no more had gone missing. "They're molting, which limits their ability to fly, but they can move awfully fast. I found most of them over in the garden. At least Sargent Adams was pleased. My birds ate quite a few bugs before I collected them."

  "I'll keep an eye out for the last ducks, and I can have Cary look for them once he's done with his current project," I said. "He's good at finding things, and I'm reasonably sure Henry didn't take them. If he did, it's too late to do anything about it. I'm afraid there was an incident, and he's…" At the moment I really could have used Officer Fields and his official experience with breaking bad news. It was going to come as a shock, even for someone who hadn't much liked the man. "Henry's dead."