by Gin Jones
Back near the market, in the space between the canopies and the parking lot, were a variety of vendors who only participated in the special holiday weekends, not the regular Saturday markets. They all seemed to have adopted an unspoken theme of "Pumpkin All The Things." The Danger Cove Quilt Guild was raffling off a pumpkin-colored quilt, although they insisted it was a "cheddar" quilt. Outside the Dangerous Reads tent was a display of children's books with pumpkins on the cover, all topped off by a three-dimensional paper pumpkin made out of the pages of an old and tattered book. Over beneath a tree near the parking lot, the Second Chance Animal Shelter's pens held adoptable dogs, cats, and bunnies, many of them dressed in orange sweaters embroidered with jack-o'-lantern faces.
I hadn't been able to resist the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery's pumpkin-shaped pumpkin muffins with cream-cheese stems and had scarfed one down before continuing along the Memorial Walkway to check on the regular vendors. Not counting the extra-large first aid tent at the beginning of the market, there were nineteen official spaces, each one covered with a white canopy. The canvas wasn't as new and bright as it had been three months ago on my first day on the job, but the enthusiasm of the vendors and the marketers alike was undiminished.
The market had opened this morning without a hitch. I'd started to believe that my biggest worry for the day would be whether the beekeeper would show up as he'd promised when the sight of a tall young woman over by the first aid tent made me reconsider. I knew her, and she could turn out to be a bigger problem than the lack of a honey-seller, at least short-term.
She was dressed in almost exactly the same long, dark pioneer dress and white apron as I wore, with her usually dark hair colored gray and pulled back into a severe bun—also, just like mine. I hadn't been so committed to historical accuracy that I'd given up the sling bag that held all my emergency supplies for the market, but other than that, the only significant difference between our respective costumes was the vintage-looking brass spyglass the woman wore like a necklace. I recognized it as having been part of the pirate outfit she'd worn to a previous market event.
It didn't bother me that Angela looked better in the costume than I did. I was above average in height, but she was still several inches taller and significantly thinner than I was, even after I'd lost some weight and gained some muscle tone during the transition from a desk job to a more physically active career. It also didn't bother me that my costume was less than unique. In fact, I would have been surprised if I were the only one dressed as my great-great-great grandmother and namesake, Maria Dolores. She was something of a legend in Danger Cove, as the first lighthouse keeper here and the rescuer of drowning sailors.
No, what bothered me about Angela's presence wasn't the duplicate costume, but that I had had a few run-ins with her during previous market events. Her name was Angela Henderson, and she was part of a group of role-playing gamers known as the Dangerous Duelers who liked to stage their events on market days. That wasn't a serious problem in itself, especially this weekend. I understood why they'd enjoy mingling with all the other costumed people here to celebrate Halloween. During this one holiday event, the players weren't outsiders but were part of the crowd of people pretending to be someone else for a few hours. Even the normally conservatively-dressed Lilly Waters, from the Smugglers' Tavern, had indulged in some psychedelic colors, channeling her grandmother as a Woodstock-era flower child. Bree Milford, the manager of the Ocean View B&B, had thrown herself into the fun too. She'd dressed as a hobo, a distinct contrast to her best friend's glamorous movie star costume, and Bree laughed every time her gorgeous friend tried to make sure they weren't standing too close to each other.
I hadn't expected the vendors to have quite as much fun with the costumes as the Dangerous Duelers did, but neither had I expected any trouble from either group. I'd gotten to know some of the gamers, and they had added a fun bit of color to the market in the past, especially when dressed as pirates or pioneers, since local residents and tourists alike seemed to enjoy the living reminders of the town's early history. The group as a whole wasn't a problem. The problem was Angela. She could be aggressive, both verbally and physically. I was going to have to keep an eye on her to make sure she didn't blacken my ancestor's name. Or mine.
I was about to go have a chat with her when I caught sight of Merle Curtis, the owner of the Pear Stirpes Orchard, jogging in my direction from the pumpkin patch. I'd much rather spend time with him than Angela any day, and she didn't seem to be on the verge of picking a fight with anyone at the moment. Dealing with her could wait a few minutes.
Merle was responsible for my being the market manager. He'd recommended me for the job, given me a personal reason for moving to Danger Cove and then offered me the use of his orchard's caretaker's cabin when I couldn't find any other place to live in town. He was an erstwhile trial lawyer from Washington, DC, who'd shut down his practice after his wife died and bought an orchard on the outskirts of Danger Cove. Merle was tall and lean, with dark hair and a slight Virginia accent that made me think of him as a gentleman farmer in the Thomas Jefferson tradition. To complement my costume, he was dressed like a pioneer from the Oregon Trail, in his usual jeans, but with a loose-fitting cotton shirt and suspenders instead of his usual lime green T-shirt with the logo of his orchard printed on the front. In recognition of the chilly October breeze, he'd added a black, front-zip hoodie that all but obscured the fact that he was wearing a costume.
"I'm sorry," Merle said as he came to a stop in front of me. "Something came up, and I need to get back to the orchard for an hour or so."
"Not another dead body, I hope." The skeleton of the orchard's prior owner had been found during a bit of construction back in August, and Merle was still dealing with some of the legal fall-out at a time when he already had his hands full with the peak of harvest season.
"Nothing serious," he said. "Just a problem with what some of the goats have been nibbling on. Now that I own them instead of renting them, there's no one to call when they act up. And JT is threatening to quit if I don't cure them of their taste for young pear trees."
"You definitely don't want to lose your genius brewmaster," I said. "Do you want me to have my assistant manage your stall when he gets here? I loaned him to Gil Torres for the haunted house, but she'll understand if I need to call him back to the market."
"I won't be gone that long," Merle said. "I'd already closed the stall temporarily when Buzz arrived, so I could give him a tour of the place. I'm not worried about lost sales, since all I'm doing is selling off the old inventory that isn't up to my brewmaster's new standards. It doesn't matter to me if the stall stays closed a bit longer, as long as you don't plan to give me a demerit for not being open for the full duration of the market's hours."
"I think I can overlook it this once, in return for your help with Buzz." I was relieved to hear that the beekeeper had shown up as planned. Besides, I had no illusions about my powers of persuasion as compared to Merle's. If he couldn't convince the beekeeper to sign on with the market, then no one could. "What did he think of the market?"
"He hasn't decided. Have you met him yet?"
At a shake of my head, Merle turned to look over his shoulder toward the pumpkin patch. He pointed at a short, elderly man wandering in a random zigzag pattern that seemed to be heading generally in our direction. He wore black skinny jeans and a yellow sweatshirt that was cinched in with the strap of a black fanny pack at the top of a hugely round belly. His oversized, round black sunglasses looked like an insect's eyes. I couldn't see his back, but I wouldn't be surprised to see a pair of little wings attached to his shoulder blades. All he was missing was a pair of antennae to be the perfect anthropomorphized bumblebee.
"We've already been over to the haunted house and through the exhibits outside the market," Merle said, "but you'll need to introduce him to the regular vendors."
"I can do that."
"I know you can." Merle held my hand while we walked over to where Buzz had
come to a stop a few yards away from us in the middle of the Memorial Walkway.
Buzz balanced uncertainly on one of the memorial stones. They were flat and rough, about twice the size of a brick's face. Near the base of the steps to the lighthouse, they were set solidly, a few inches apart, for a width of about five feet, but the path quickly petered out as it moved closer to the parking lot. For much of its length, like where Buzz was standing, there were just random single stones set several feet apart.
He acted as if the stone were some kind of safety zone and he'd be in danger if he moved away from it. He glanced from side to side at the various pushcarts, tents, and canopied stalls, and twice raised a foot as if to start walking toward a specific vendor's stall in the main market area, only to set it back down again so he could remain in his safe spot.
As we approached, I could hear him humming tunelessly. I wasn't sure if it was supposed to be an intentional buzz that was part of his bumblebee costume, or if it was something he did unconsciously when he was trying to make a decision. Although, if it was that hard for him to decide whether to go up the left side or the right side of the market, I was going to have my hands full getting him to make the much more complicated decision about whether to sign a contract for next year's market.
"Are you sure there's no one else who can deal with the goats today?" I asked.
"I'm sure. But I'll be back as soon as I can. I promise." Merle let go of my hand and told Buzz, "This is the market manager, Maria Dolores. She can answer your questions about the market while I'm gone." Merle didn't wait for a response before loping away toward the parking lot.
The humming stopped, and Buzz blinked at me. Up close, I could tell that he wasn't just elderly—he was ancient. He had to be at least ninety. Possibly even pushing a hundred. It made me wonder if there might be some validity to the claims that beekeepers had a longer life expectancy than most people.
Still, I stifled a sigh. Even if the elderly Buzz agreed to join the market next year, there was no guarantee he'd be able to make good on the promise. At his apparent age, he might not survive even another day, let alone a full year. And how on earth could he possibly do the heavier chores of beekeeping? I supposed the work wasn't as demanding as some of the more backbreaking types of farming, but there was still some heavy labor involved occasionally. I'd done some research, and producing honey wasn't as easy as what Winnie-the-Pooh had done, letting the bees do all the work and then scooping it up at will. The hives needed to be inspected regularly, sometimes moved to food sources for particular varieties of nectar, and eventually the heavy frames filled with honey need to be harvested.
I had to trust that Tommy Fordham wouldn't have recommended Buzz if he wasn't up to the job.
"It's nice to meet you, Buzz. Why don't I give you a tour of the main market?"
He nodded, seemingly relieved not to be in charge of choosing his destination any longer.
Perhaps his indecisiveness could work to my benefit. My brothers and sisters had complained often enough that I'd forced decisions on them when they were young, but Buzz seemed to want someone to take the choices out of his control. The tour would give me a chance to show him what I could do to keep his life simple, with a minimum of decisions that he would need to make.
Normally, I would have started a tour by going up the right side and then down the left, but if we did that, we'd have to pass Merle's closed stall and then we'd hit Sweetwater Spuds. Definitely not the right person to make a good first impression on Buzz. The produce was excellent, but the owner was an annoying thorn in my side. He never had anything positive to say about the market.
I pointed at the row of stalls on the left, across from Sweetwater. "Let's start over there. Lots of those farmers rely on bee pollination."
Buzz still hesitated, looking in both directions as if he were crossing a street and checking for traffic. Finally he took a step toward the left row of stalls. "Whatever you think best."
Surprisingly spry for his age, Buzz easily kept up with me, unfazed by the sometimes uneven ground or the tripping hazards of the occasional memorial stone that had been unseated over the years by frost heaves. I'd heard that the town had come into some money to re-set them, and I was hopeful they'd be done before the market opened for the next season.
Buzz dithered over the piccalilli and pickle samples at the first stall, and then took at least fifteen minutes deciding whether to try the garlic jelly or the onion jam at the next one. We'd only made it to the third space—Fordham Farms—when I heard a woman's angry shouts coming from near the first aid tent.
* * *
"Excuse me," I told Buzz. "I need to go take care of something. I'll be right back."
"No, wait. I'll come with you." Buzz grabbed the closest cracker with jam and followed me across the walkway.
I would have preferred not to give my prospective beekeeper an up-close view of the market's less appealing elements, but there wasn't a good way to keep him in the dark without making the situation seem even worse than it was.
My nemesis, Angela Henderson, was at the center of the argument outside the first aid tent. That didn't surprise me, but I hadn't expected her to be yelling at Leo Ricci, the leader of the Dangerous Duelers. He was dressed as a wizard in a long black robe with a pointed hat, and he carried a magic staff. He was far too short to be Gandalf or Voldemort, and too chubby to be Rincewind. I couldn't think of any other likely possibilities, so perhaps he was just a generic wizard. He was older than most of the other gamers, in his forties, and he'd been the gamemaster the last time I'd seen him, while the much younger Angela had been his second-in-command. She had her back to me, so she couldn't see my approach, but across from her Leo gave me a relieved glance. He and I had had a rocky start to our working relationship, but it had improved over time.
Angela reclaimed Leo's attention by giving his shoulders a solid shove and shouting, "You can't tell me what to do."
Leo stumbled back a couple of steps before regaining his balance. "I'm sorry, Angela. It wasn't my idea. We took a vote—"
"I didn't know about any vote," she said.
"Um." He took another step away from her. "It was on the Dangerous Duelers' agenda for our last two meetings, and we voted unanimously to terminate your membership at the second one. All in keeping with the rules."
"No, it wasn't," she said, closing the distance between them again.
Leo took another step backwards. "The agendas are archived at our website. You can check if you want."
"Websites can be faked," she insisted. "You did this. You've always resented me, and now you've gone behind my back to turn everyone else against me."
"I didn't," he said, holding up his hands in a gesture of innocence. "Honest."
Angela snorted. "You're a liar and a cheat, and you'll be sorry when I'm done with you."
"I'm already sorry," he mumbled, but Angela was so worked up that I didn't think she heard him.
Before Angela could attack him again, I said, "That's enough. Leo, why don't you go rejoin the rest of your players, and I'll have a chat with Angela."
Leo scooted backwards and took off at a gallop for the area outside the main market where the gamers had set up their pirate's ship, made out of painted plywood attached to a twin-sized bed. Its prow was piled high with pumpkins that had skulls and crossbones carved into them.
Angela spun to face me for the first time. Apparently she'd been among the first in line this morning to get her face painted by Gia Di Mitri from The Clip and Sip, or perhaps she'd had a private appointment before the market began, because her face had been transformed into a calavera—the ornate sugar-skull design popular for Day of the Dead festivities—with a makeup skill that few possessed. Freed from the restrictions of what was appropriate for even the most elaborate versions of regular makeup, Gia had outdone herself. Angela's entire face had been painted bone white, except for her lips and the tip of her nose, which were black. Then an intricately detailed red rose had been painted
across her forehead. Her eyes appeared sunken, with a three-inch circle of black all around them and red flower petals decorating the outer edge.
"What do you want?" Angela demanded. "This has nothing to do with you."
"It does if it affects the market," I said. "Your shouting is upsetting people."
"Too bad for them." Angela didn't stick out her tongue, but her tone was as childish as her words. She'd apparently forgotten what costume she was wearing or wasn't bothering to stay in character. My great-great-great-grandmother had, by all accounts, had a calm, deliberate and—above all else—mature personality from about the age of ten.
Supposedly, I took after her in personality as well as appearance, but there were times when I struggled to remain calm. "Look, I don't want to have to ask you to leave, but I will if you don't quiet down."
"You can't do that," Angela said. "This is public property. I've got the right to assemble."
"I can still ban you for being disruptive." At least I hoped I could. I'd have to ask Merle later. For now, though, I just wanted to show Buzz that this was nothing more than a minor blip on the market's radar, nothing that I couldn't handle, nothing that should concern him when deciding whether to sign on as a vendor for next year.
"You're just jealous," Angela said, pointing her spyglass at me for emphasis. "I make a better Maria Dolores than you do. She was a tough old broad, and you're all sweet and soft and weak. I mean, look at those silly little pumpkins on your fingernails. They're practically invisible compared to my art."
She waved her own fingers at me. The nails were mostly black with tiny, hand-painted white skulls and crossbones. I had to admit they were nicely done, if not my style. Still, I was quite happy with my more restrained orange pumpkins and green vines painted on a buff background, and I wasn't about to let her ruin my enjoyment of them.