by Gin Jones
I grabbed the knife and raced past him in the direction Cary had gone.
About halfway across the parking lot, I saw Jim Sweetwater heading in my direction with a handcart stacked with crates of potatoes. Annoyed as I was with him, I couldn't let him walk into danger.
"Go back!" I shouted. "Keith's attacking witnesses!"
Sweetwater stopped and parked the handcart but didn't turn to leave. "You're as…special…as your assistant. What are you talking about?"
I slowed as I approached him. "Come with me back to the market area. It's not safe here."
Sweetwater shook his head. "Someone should really do something about your strange ideas."
I glanced over my shoulder to see that Keith had begun to recover from his dizziness. He'd pushed up from where he'd been leaning against the truck and was doing a cross between a drunk's staggering walk and a jog in our direction.
"You've got to get back to where there are more people," I said, hooking my arm around his elbow to tug him backward. "Keith Nettles killed Ryan Palmer."
"I know that." He reclaimed his arm, and I grabbed for it again, desperate to get him to listen to me for once.
Sweetwater eluded me, and I caught a glimpse of movement at the entrance to the parking lot. It was Officer Fred Fields, I thought. Someone in a police uniform at least.
Help was on its way, but a glance in the opposite direction told me it was going to be a close call whether the police officer or Keith got to us first. I started back in the direction of the police, to put a little more distance between me and Keith. If Sweetwater wanted to volunteer to be Keith's next victim, there wasn't anything I could do about it.
Sweetwater stuffed his fists into his overalls pockets and turned his back on the approaching Keith. "I knew that Keith was the killer long before anyone else did. Keith killed his stepfather years ago, probably with his sister's help. I knew that the minute I heard that the body had been found in a shallow grave. Those kids never did have the patience for doing a proper job of anything. And I figured he killed Henry to shut him up, but unlike Keith and his sister, I do know how to do a thorough job, so I had to make sure there wasn't anyone else who could have killed Henry before I told the detective. I believe in doing things properly."
"You're a liar!" shouted Keith from right behind Sweetwater. Keith grabbed Sweetwater by the shoulder to spin him around, and a moment later, a fist was heading toward Sweetwater's face.
It hit with a cringe-worthy sound, proving that Keith's athletic appearance wasn't just for show, the way his high-school-branded shirt had been. Sweetwater dropped to the ground unconscious, and I took off running before Keith could knock me out too.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
As I approached the end of the parking lot, Officer Fields and Cary came racing in my direction. Fields kept going past me to subdue Keith while Cary stayed beside me and said, "I found Fred Fields for you."
Cary kept his distance from me—he wasn't good with touching people—but hovered protectively while I slowed to a walk and caught my breath enough to say, "I knew I could count on you."
By then I could hear sirens approaching on Cliffside Drive, presumably bringing backup for Officer Fields. I turned to see that he didn't seem to need any help. He might look a bit like Fred Flintstone, and he might prefer to head off physical confrontations by using his wit instead of a gun or fists, but he could handle himself in an altercation if necessary. Keith was in handcuffs and seemed resigned to his arrest. I allowed myself a moment of personal satisfaction, convinced that his docility and the droop of his head owed something to the clobbering I'd given him with my sling bag. Unlike Sweetwater, I didn't wait around for someone else to do something.
Merle arrived a few minutes later in the wake of the Baxter twins. One of the EMTs stopped to ask if I was okay, but I waved him off, and he went to check on Sweetwater, passing his brother, who was flashing a light in Keith's eyes, presumably checking for a concussion.
Unlike Cary, Merle had no reservations about touching me, so he pulled me into a hug. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I am now."
The adrenaline wore off moments later, and now that I was safe, my legs turned to rubber, and without Merle's support I would have collapsed on the ground like Cary sometimes did when he was overwhelmed. Merle helped me over to his truck.
"We can get your car later," he said. "After the bonfires if you're not too worn out for an evening on the beach."
Never let it be said that I could be fazed by a mere brush with death. It wouldn't have kept my great-great-great-grandmother from her plans, and it wouldn't stop me either.
"I can't wait to see the bonfires," I said, although my voice may have been a little shaky.
I was still a little shaky, so I left my car behind, and Merle gave me a ride back to the Ocean View B&B. I took a long, hot bath and considered everything that had happened this weekend. Henry's death hadn't been my fault, hadn't really had anything to do with the market. I doubted that anyone would avoid Pear Stirpes Orchard and its products just because the prior owner had been killed for reasons totally unrelated to Merle. I was reasonably confident that the residents of Danger Cove would be equally understanding of the market's role—or lack thereof—in Henry's death. I was less certain about how outsiders might view the situation. The market needed tourists to visit if it was going to thrive, and that meant getting some positive media coverage beyond the Cove Chronicles. That wasn't going to be easy considering all the bad press we'd had since I took over as the market manager.
Perhaps everyone else was right, and I should let go of my big plans for the market. The mayor had made it clear when he'd hired me that all I was expected to do was to maintain the tiny market's existing standards in terms of quality of the products and the number of vendors and visitors. While Merle had been the temporary manager, he hadn't had any aspirations for the tiny market to grow in ways that would bring in more people from outside Danger Cove.
I just couldn't be that relaxed about my work. It went against all my professional instincts. When a portfolio stood still, it actually lost ground to inflation. And I thought the same would be true for the market if all I did was maintain the status quo. It would fall behind the competition and not meet even the needs of the local residents.
I couldn't let that happen. First on my agenda after this weekend was to find a beekeeper to join the market. It might not completely undo the market's association with tragedy, but a spoonful of honey could make a lot of things easier to swallow.
I changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a light jacket for the cooler temperatures that were expected for the evening. One of the beautiful little flags painted on my nails had chipped, probably when I'd struggled with Keith, but considering how much worse the day could have gone, an extra trip to The Clip and Sip to get my nails redone was a small price to pay.
Merle didn't seem to notice anything wrong with my appearance when he picked me up to go to the beach for the bonfires and barbeque. He'd spoken to Detective Ohlsen, who'd assured Merle that he no longer had anything to worry about in the investigation of the body in the orchard. The police had searched Keith's SUV and found his clothes, soaked with what the lab reports were expected to confirm was Henry's blood, and the local prosecutor was convinced they'd soon have plenty of evidence to put Keith away for life for both murders.
"They should arrest Sweetwater too," I said. "He knew who Keith was, knew he was here, and knew that the police were looking for him with questions about Ryan Palmer's death. But instead of giving the police that information, which might have prevented Henry's death, Sweetwater just sat back and watched to see what would happen."
"Legally, it would be tough to make a criminal case against him."
"I can ban him from the market, can't I?"
"We'll see," Merle said, which I was pretty sure meant that I couldn't do it. "Let's enjoy the evening, and we can talk about it again after the police are finished with him and we hear what S
weetwater has to say for himself."
The delay would give me time to work out a solid plan for banning Sweetwater. It wouldn't be easy. I needed to convince the mayor to support my decision, and that meant figuring out who was in Sweetwater's pocket so I could deal with them and not be blindsided like I'd been when town hall had insisted that I admit Keith Nettles to the market. The mayor might be a little more willing to defer to me in the future, considering what had happened when they'd overruled me with Keith.
My stomach growled, turning my attention to a more immediate concern. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten. "I'm starved."
Merle steered me in the direction of the Police Foundation's grills, which had been moved over next to the entrance to the beach. Instead of hot dogs and hamburgers, they now offered barbequed chicken and ribs. The line was several times longer than I'd seen it at any time during the market, and the customers were restless, some of them drifting away toward Cliffside Drive, where they could get something to eat at the grocery store across the street or at the pier down the road a bit.
I was definitely going to have a talk with the Police Foundation about possibly sharing the cost of a commercial grill during the Halloween market event. The market could use it during the day for demonstrations, and then the Police Foundation could use it in the evening, increasing the number of customers they could serve during peak demand by making the process more efficient.
I was beginning to see the shape of a new plan for the market's growth. For the next few weeks when the vendors would only be here a few hours on each Saturday, I could focus on maintaining the status quo and proving that nothing bad happened to people who came to the market. Then I'd throw everything I could think of at the big Halloween weekend market. Surely by then I'd have a beekeeper, Merle would be selling the first crop of perry since his genius brewer started on the job, and with a little luck Sweetwater wouldn't be around to remind everyone of past problems. Add in a huge grill for demonstrations, and no one would be able to resist checking out the market.
Now that I had the beginning of a plan, I was ready to enjoy the evening—and possibly much more—with Merle.
"There's something I meant to tell you earlier today," I said.
Merle was busy paying for our barbeque chicken and answered distractedly. "What was that?"
It might not have been the best timing to announce a life-changing decision, but Merle was the one person with whom I'd ever felt comfortable saying whatever came to my mind without first constructing a plan of action for the topic of discussion.
"If JT hasn't changed his mind about using the caretaker's cabin," I said, "I'm ready to move in."
Merle turned, a plate of chicken in each hand. His eyes flicked from the food to me and back again. Another man might have tossed the chicken over his shoulders to sweep me off my feet and kiss me senseless in a big romantic gesture. Merle just handed me my chicken with a smile that promised a more enthusiastic response later.
I'd always appreciated a man who could plan ahead, saving up for a big return on investment instead of settling for a quick, little reward. And I was fairly certain we both had the same plan in mind: dinner now, a bit of flirty anticipation while we watched the bonfires, followed by a great deal of kissing later.
I was more than ready to carry out that plan. Figuring out how to grow the market could wait for another day.
* * * * *
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DANGER COVE BOOKS
Secret of the Painted Lady
Murder and Mai Tais
Death by Scones
Four-Patch of Trouble
Deadly Dye and a Soy Chai
Killer Closet Case
Tree of Life and Death
A Killing in the Market (short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection)
Killer Colada
Passion, Poison, & Puppy Dogs
A Novel Death
Robbing Peter to Kill Paul
Sinister Snickerdoodles
Heroes and Hurricanes
A Death in the Flower Garden
Divas, Diamonds & Death
A Slaying in the Orchard
A Secret in the Pumpkin Patch
* * * * *
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
USA Today bestselling author Gin Jones is a lawyer who specializes in ghost-writing for other lawyers. She prefers to write fiction, though, since she doesn't have to worry that her sense of humor might get her thrown into jail for contempt of court. In her spare time, Gin makes quilts, grows garlic, and serves on the board of directors for the XLH Network.
To learn more about Gin Jones, visit her online at: http://www.ginjones.com
Elizabeth Ashby was born and raised in Danger Cove and now uses her literary talent to tell stories about the town she knows and loves. Ms. Ashby has penned several Danger Cove Mysteries, which are published by Gemma Halliday Publishing. While she does admit to taking some poetic license in her storytelling, she loves to incorporate the real people and places of her hometown into her stories. She says anyone who visits Danger Cove is fair game for her poisoned pen, so tourists beware! When she's not writing, Ms. Ashby enjoys gardening, taking long walks along the Pacific coastline, and curling up with a hot cup of tea, her cat, Sherlock, and a thrilling novel.
* * * * *
BOOKS BY GIN JONES
Danger Cove Quilting Mysteries
Four-Patch of Trouble
Tree of Life and Death
Robbing Peter to Kill Paul
Danger Cove Farmers' Market Mysteries
A Killing in the Market (short story in the Killer Beach Reads collection)
A Death in the Flower Garden
A Slaying in the Orchard
A Secret in the Pumpkin Patch
Helen Binney Mysteries:
A Dose of Death
A Denial of Death
A (Gingerbread) Diorama of Death (holiday short story)
A Draw of Death
A Dawn of Death
A Darling of Death
* * * * *
SNEAK PEEK
of the next Danger Cove Farmers' Market Mystery
A SECRET IN THE PUMPKIN PATCH
by
GIN JONES
&
ELIZABETH ASHBY
CHAPTER ONE
I must have shared the standard investing advice—past performance is no guarantee of future success—a dozen times a day, every single day, in my previous career as a financial planner. Now, in my new work as the Lighthouse Farmers' Market's manager, I'd been repeating the exact same advice to myself while preparing for the last weekend before the winter hiatus. Just because the last seven Saturdays had been successful and largely problem-free didn't mean that the two-day celebration of Halloween, would go as smoothly.
Still, I was determined that the final event of the season would be one to remember. And, ideally, one that would get us listed in the various round-ups of favorite markets in the Pacific Northwest.
Of equal importance was snagging a beekeeper for next year's market. All the good reviews in the world wouldn't help if we continued to have gaps in the range of products we offered. Honey was our biggest lack, and I'd been trying all summer, without success, to find a beekeeper. Plus, my contract to manage the market had only been for the first season. In order to get it renewed, I was going to have to prove that I could grow the market. The odds were against my expanding its name recognition by landing it on one of the lists of top markets in the Northwest, so I had to consider other ways to show that the market was a good investment for the town. Signing up a beekeeper would go a long way toward convincing the mayor to renew my contract.
I finally had a solid prospect, thanks to Tommy Fordham, the heirloom tomato grower, who had convinced his friend, Terry "Buzz" Reed, to check out this weekend's event. I was cautiously optimistic that Buzz would be sufficiently impressed by the crowds and enthusiasm to sign a contract for a stall in next year's market.
I'd been impressed myself with the variety of exhibits that were being set up when I'd arrived about an hour ago before the market was officially open. The market consisted of two rows of white-canopied stalls facing each other across the Memorial Walkway that led from the parking lot on Cliffside Drive to the beginning of where the land turned rocky and steep, eventually rising to where the lighthouse stood at the edge of the cliff.
To the left of the market were boulders that topped a steep drop-off down to the waters of Danger Cove, and to the right was a historical garden where, during the growing season, the garden club had maintained a recreation of the kitchen garden that the early lighthouse keepers had used to feed their large families. In anticipation of the imminent hard frosts, everything had been harvested a few days ago, and the remaining plants had all been turned under for the winter. Then the front half of the area had been transformed into a temporary pumpkin patch, complete with artfully arranged vines. The back half had been fenced in to hold about a dozen turkeys. The birds had been set loose inside their pen this morning and were pecking at insects in the dirt.
Over beyond the historical garden, the concert stage had undergone its own transformation. It was now a haunted house, operated by Gil Torres, director of the Danger Cove Historical Museum. Each room was based on a bit of local lore, which had been carefully researched to separate out the facts from the legends. Beyond the haunted house, where the rocky arm of land along the edge of the ocean and grass gave way to Two Mile Beach, the locations for a row of bonfires were being marked in the sand. They'd be lit on Sunday night as a backdrop for Halloween partying and dancing on the beach.