A Slaying in the Orchard

by Gin Jones

  "I've got to go," I told Tommy. "If you need any help since Ginger isn't here, keep an eye out for Cary. Once he's finished picking up trash, you're welcome to ask him for whatever help you might need. Otherwise, if you see him looking like he doesn't know what to do next, please send him on up to help JT at the Pear Stirpes stall. Merle is stuck at the orchard again this morning."

  "Will do." Tommy turned back to setting up his display of heirloom tomatoes. Today, in an apparent acknowledgment that he was understaffed, he'd tossed them onto the table in a haphazard mix of colors, shapes, and sizes.

  That wouldn't last long if Cary was enlisted to help. He'd quickly sort them with scientific precision.

  * * *

  Fred Fields had left the front of the first aid tent and was now down in the area between the market and the parking lot, looking longingly at the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery pushcart even though it hadn't yet been filled with tempting muffins and cupcakes.

  I jogged over to him. "The consumer sciences class has some granola bars, and even though they're not officially open yet, they'd probably sell you one to tide you over."

  Fields shook his head. "I'm not really hungry. Eating is just a coping mechanism. That's what my anxiety support group has taught me, anyway. Plus, I just like cupcakes."

  "Doesn't everyone?" I asked. "Could you tell me something? I let Leo stick around because he claimed to have useful information for the investigation. Was that true, or was he just playing me?"

  "I can't say," Fields said. "Not because it was anything secret. He didn't tell me much, just kept saying he had information but would only talk to 'the man in charge.' Which isn't me. Thank goodness."

  "I know what you mean." Being the woman in charge of the market had turned out to be a great deal more challenging than I'd anticipated, and my migraines had increased in frequency since the Independence Day market. Maybe I should join Fields' anxiety support group.

  "I left a message for Bud Ohlsen about Leo," Fields said. "Now it's in his hands."

  "There's something else you should pass along," I said. "Tommy just told me that Ginger has recovered enough to be interviewed whenever it's convenient for Detective Ohlsen. He might want to talk to her before Leo, because apparently she saw him over in the garden watching the crime scene shortly before the body was discovered."

  "I'll let Bud know," Fields promised. "He can use any information he can get."

  "Does that mean he's not making much progress on Henry's murder?"

  "I'm not completely in the loop, but it does look like it's going to be a slow process," Fields said. "The suspect list is practically infinite. The market drew a lot of people from out of town yesterday. Plus, even just among Danger Cove residents, Henry made quite a few enemies over the course of his life."

  "And he seemed to be making new ones every day," I said. "Someone told me he'd been threatened by a customer's boyfriend shortly before the murder."

  "I heard that too," Fields said. "But don't worry. Bud will figure it out. It'll be tough, though, since the murder weapon makes it look like a spur-of-the-moment decision, not something that was planned. That means it could be just about anyone, even someone no one knew Henry had upset. It may take a little longer than usual to sort through all the possibilities, and it doesn't help that Bud's also working on the Palmer case out at the orchard. It's really bad timing for Lester Marshall to be on vacation when we have two major cases going on."

  I considered it good timing. I knew from personal experience that Ohlsen was a good detective, but I hadn't met the other man. From what I'd heard, I'd been lucky not to have worked with Marshall in the past. "It must be hard on Detective Ohlsen to be working two major crimes simultaneously, but I do trust him to get to the bottom of it." And if I could help him get there quickly, so much the better.

  "Bud's doing all the right things, and they'll pay off eventually," Fields said. "We've put out a call for information on the Palmer widow and her kids, since family members are always suspects, especially when they left town suddenly around the time of the crime. It's not surprising they moved after the sale of the orchard, but it's odd that no one seems to know where they went. People are starting to speculate that we've got a serial killer on our hands, and it's just a matter of time before the rest of the Palmer family's bodies show up."

  If there was a serial killer in the area, I doubted there were enough muffins and cupcakes on the entire planet to soothe Officer Fields' outrage over the affront to local law and order.

  * * *

  While I was talking to Officer Fields, I happened to catch a glimpse of Keith Nettles, who had his fake smile in place again, which made me realize that marketgoers had started to drift up from the parking lot and I needed to check in with a few of the vendors before they were busy with customers. I left Fields to his community policing and headed back up the Memorial Walkway.

  Business was already booming, unaffected by yesterday's death as far as I could tell. Tommy had a line in front of his tomatoes already, and even Jim Sweetwater had a couple of buyers for his root crops.

  Denise Casey waved me over to the Danger Cove Dairy stall. She'd exchanged yesterday's bland scrubs for a set with solid burgundy pants and a V-neck top printed with a leaf design. A receipt pad and a handful of feathers peeked out of one of the many pockets in the top.

  "I found the rest of my ducklings," she said. "Henry didn't steal them after all. I don't know how the silly little birds did it, but they somehow managed to get inside the lighthouse. After we talked before I went up to the cliff to clear my head, and I heard them quacking, so I got someone from the Save the Lighthouse Committee to let me in."

  "I'm glad you found them." Too bad it hadn't happened before Henry's death. Then no one would have had any reason to consider Denise as a suspect. As it was I couldn't rule out the possibility that she'd acted in the heat of the moment after discovering her ducklings were missing, when she'd thought Henry had been intentionally provoking her. "I'm also glad there's one less thing we need to blame Henry for posthumously. His family doesn't need any more stress right now."

  "I shouldn't say it, and I'm not glad he's dead, but I am relieved he won't be back at the market ever again. You must be too."

  "I wasn't particularly worried about him. He was down to his last chance, and anything else he did that was disruptive would have gotten him banned. I doubted he'd be able to behave himself, so I figured it was just a matter of time before I kicked him out," I said. "I hope no one thinks I'd resort to murder to get rid of troublesome vendors."

  "Oh, definitely not," Denise said. "Pretty much everyone thinks Henry was killed by the guy who'd been yelling at him for humiliating a customer earlier in the morning."

  "I heard about that. Did you see either of the incidents? Henry upsetting the customer or her boyfriend threatening him?"

  "I don't know the guy, but the woman is a regular at the market," Denise said. "She always gets a dozen duck eggs and half a pound of whatever special flavor of cheese we're promoting. Unless it's got dill in it. She's severely allergic to the entire Umbelliferae family, I believe. I know she keeps her distance from Jim Sweetwater, which a lot of people do, but in her case, it would be because carrots are part of that plant family too, so she can't get near them."

  "It might be helpful if I could give the detective her name."

  After taking a moment to think, Denise shook her head. "If she ever told me her name, I can't remember it. She pays cash, so I haven't seen a check or credit card that might have identified her."

  "I'll let Detective Ohlsen know he should talk to you anyway. I assume Richie Faria got your name and contact information."

  Denise nodded. "If the woman comes back next week, I'll make sure to find out who she is."

  "I'm hoping it won't matter by then," I said. "The sooner an arrest is made, the better. For everyone. Especially Henry's family."

  Denise looked past me toward WoodWell. "Poor Etta." Her glance moved to the right. "And Jaz
z. When she got here this morning, her eyes were all red and puffy. Like she'd been crying all night. She seems to be taking Henry's death really hard."

  That seemed excessive for someone who hadn't been more than a passing acquaintance. "Were Jazz and Henry that close?"

  "I didn't think so," Denise said. "But I don't know Jazz all that well either. We didn't run in the same social circles. Her husband was a lot older than she was, and while he was alive, she was a full-time homemaker for him, and she socialized with his contemporaries, not her own. He died about a year ago. That's when she turned her spinning hobby into a full-time business."

  I had a hard time imagining how anyone could support herself with only a small herd of bunnies and a spinning wheel. "Did he leave her financially secure? Life insurance or a paid-off house or something?"

  Denise patted her ducks thoughtfully. "I really don't know. She's kind of shy, so I doubt she'd have told me if she were having any financial troubles. She might have told Henry, but if she did, that only makes it more despicable that he breached the contract with her."

  Since Jazz hadn't worked outside the home, she must have been dependent on her husband's income when he was alive. After his death her financial situation could well have become strained. Her fiber business had only been operating for about a year, which was an extremely precarious time for any start-up. An established business could easily weather a minor contract breach, like Henry's refusal to make the bowls that Jazz's customers were waiting for, but for a start-up it could prove devastating.

  "Maria Dolores! Maria Dolores!" Cary came running up to me dragging a half-full trash bag behind him. "Etta Atwell is crying, and it's not my fault—I promise."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "I'm sure you didn't do anything to make her cry." I turned to jog toward WoodWell. "You did the right thing, coming to get me."

  "I know." Cary loped along beside me. "Can you make her stop crying?"

  "I'll try."

  Cary drifted to a stop at the front of WoodWell, where two women were whispering to each other while also peering curiously toward the back of the space. "Stay here and help with the customers," I told him.

  I continued inside the stall to where Etta knelt beside a big plastic bin with its lid off. She hugged a folded tie-dye T-shirt to her chest.

  I knelt beside her and let the strap of my sling bag slide down my arm, noticing only then how heavy it had become with the rolls of quarters in the bottom. I retrieved a tissue and handed it to Etta. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing," she said before blowing her nose on the proffered tissue. "And everything. I thought there was inventory in this bin, and instead I found Grandpa's never-ending stash of stupid shirts."

  "He did like them an awful lot, didn't he?"

  "Not really," Etta said. "He got a hundred of them about ten years ago, when tie-dye designs were briefly fashionable, and he thought he could sell them. It was at a crafts show, and he bartered some of his wood pieces for the shirts. He was pretty upset when he found out that the fad had already passed even before he got them, but he was too cheap to write them off as a bad deal and just move on. Instead, he was determined to get his money's worth out of them, so he wore them to every single event where he sold his pieces. And the thing is, they were really top-quality shirts, so they held up well, never falling apart enough that he could justify throwing them out."

  "I can arrange to have them disposed of if you'd like. Donate them to charity or recycle them somehow."

  "I don't know." She lifted the bin's lid to show me that it was indeed full of the shirts, most of them looking brand new. "I'm thinking about continuing the tradition. Assuming I'm able to take over the business."

  Etta seemed to need to talk, and the probate process was something I knew a little bit about from my old work, so I asked, "Are you worried that your grandfather willed it to someone else?"

  Etta waved her hand dismissively. "Dad will undoubtedly inherit all of his assets. As far as anyone knows, Grandpa didn't have a will. Even if he did, there isn't anyone other than my parents or my brother and me, I guess, to give his assets to. He had some big fight with his sister about twenty years ago, and as far as I know, Grandpa hadn't talked to anyone on that side of the family for my entire lifetime. And he didn't have any close friends that I know of. He used to, but some of them died, and some moved into nursing homes or went to live with family members outside Danger Cove. He's been pretty much a hermit for the last three years. Maybe longer."

  Was it possible there was someone on the estranged side of the family who might have had a reason to kill him? Or perhaps they'd pretended to reconcile with him to convince him to write a will and then killed him for the inheritance? For that matter was it possible Etta's parents had been desperate enough for the inheritance to kill for it? He'd owned the property where his studio and the family home was, which had to be worth a good bit of money, possibly even mortgage-free since it had been in the family for generations. Plus there was the value of WoodWell too. I'd seen the website, and some of Henry's relief sculptures—especially the pieces done on commission for corporations or wealthy patrons—had sold for amounts in the mid-five-figures range, and there might be a few in his inventory for sale.

  "Do your parents want to keep the business for themselves?"

  "No, that's not a problem either. Mom and Dad both have careers that they love, and they've never had any interest in woodworking. I already talked to them about it, and I'm sure they'll give me the business if they can. They don't want me to get my hopes up, because they're afraid it's not worth anything, or it might even be in debt. Grandpa was always pretty secretive about the business side of his work. They didn't know if it was because he was embarrassed about how badly it was doing, or if he was doing fine and he was just being his usual controlling self. It's probably going to take me months to figure out his paperwork. That's assuming I can even find it. He didn't exactly label any of his stuff. He stacked bins like this one," she said, nodding at the one filled with shirts, "all along one wall of his studio, from floor to ceiling. Some contain inventory, but a lot of them, like this one, hold other things. I'm pretty sure his business records are in some of them, tossed into the bin haphazardly or according to some system that only he would understand."

  I liked Etta, and even if I didn't, it was a critical part of my job to maintain a good mix of vendors. If she'd inherited even a fraction of her grandfather's artistry, then with her much better people skills, WoodWell could be an even bigger draw for customers in the future and a solid reason to consider the Lighthouse Farmers' Market for a place on the "best of" lists. "If there's anything I can do to help, just let me know. I'm pretty good with business documents, especially the financial ones."

  "Thanks."

  A raised voice out in front of where I'd left Cary caused me to jump to my feet. A glance at Etta confirmed that she had stopped crying, so I could go deal with the latest crisis.

  * * *

  "Well? Where is she?" Jim Sweetwater glared down at Cary, who shrank behind the table that displayed Henry's bowls.

  Poor kid. He was about the only person in the entire market who could be intimidated by the annoying but ultimately ineffectual Sweetwater.

  I raced over to rescue my assistant.

  "If you're looking for me, I'm right here. But first you owe an apology to Cary." Glancing at my assistant, I noticed he had a heavy-looking bag and a credit card in his hands, and the two women who'd been whispering to each other when I'd arrived were staring daggers at Sweetwater. "And another apology to the people he was helping before you interrupted him."

  "What I've got to tell you is important," Sweetwater said, and the two women's dagger-like expressions grew sharper at the implication that their business didn't matter.

  "Is anyone bleeding or on fire?" I asked, belatedly mortified that I'd said such a thing where Etta might have heard me. "Because otherwise it can wait for a few seconds while you make your apologies. And if it is a tru
e emergency, then you should be looking for the Baxter twins or Fred Fields, not me."

  "I didn't mean to interrupt," Sweetwater said begrudgingly as he stuck his hands into his overalls' pockets, "but I need to talk to you, and it really can't wait."

  Cary seemed to be recovering from his paralysis. He hadn't been scared so badly he'd been huddled on the ground, rocking back and forth. Besides, having something to do by finishing the two women's transaction might actually keep him from collapsing, so I didn't see any advantage to insisting on a better apology.

  "Please finish helping your customers, Cary," I said. "Etta and I are counting on you."

  I steered Sweetwater away from WoodWell and down the path a few feet. "What's the problem now?"

  "It's about the grills used by the Danger Cove Police Foundation," he said. "Did you know they were sharing them with the kids from the consumer sciences class? Someone should do something about it. It's dangerous. And it's got to be a violation of child labor laws."

  "Those laws don't apply. They're volunteering at a school activity," I said, but I wasn't entirely sure that mattered. Where was Merle anyway? I'd known he was going to be late today, but I'd expected Detective Ohlsen to let him go by opening time. I missed knowing he was nearby, and not just for his legal advice.

  Sweetwater sighed. "But what if one of the kids gets hurt?"

  "I'm reasonably sure the adult volunteers from the Police Foundation won't let them do anything too dangerous. They're cops, after all, sworn to protect people."

  "You might be right in other circumstances," Sweetwater said smugly, "but there aren't any cops there right now. They're too busy with the two homicide investigations."

  I didn't think Ethan Harding, the consumer sciences teacher, would let the kids use a grill unsupervised, but I had to be absolutely sure. "Thanks for letting me know," I told Sweetwater. "You can go on back to your stall while I go check on the grills. We wouldn't want you to lose out on business while you're watching out for other people."