“Ms. Reynolds,” the tall Mr. Manner said to Allison as he looked down at her and she looked up at him, “I understand you don’t feel like you should interfere with your vendors’ bank account decisions, but I assure you, having them all bank at one place, one bank, will make their lives much easier.”
“Please call me Allison. And I appreciate what you’re saying, but I think you might misunderstand how we do things here. There is no account sharing, Mr. Manner. Each vendor does their own thing. They are individual stall owner/operators. There’s no benefit to them to all bank at the same place because they each have their own accounts, chosen for their own reasons. Perhaps they bank close to their homes, or along the routes they travel. They have to do what’s best for them, individually.”
They didn’t know Allison nearly as well as I did, of course, so they probably didn’t hear the incredulity in her voice. To her credit, she was toning it down, but I knew what was causing it. How could someone in the banking industry not understand that farmers’ market vendors were individual owner/operators? Everyone was in charge of their own products and their own money. Frankly, it was one of the benefits of working at the market. Bailey’s offered us a location, but we still got to have our own businesses.
“All right. Well, here’s a proposal. What if we remove all banking fees for the Bailey’s Farmers’ Market main account if at least twenty of your vendors move their accounts to our bank?”
“Oh,” Allison said. Again, she tried to hide it, but I could hear her disbelief, even with just one word. The “deal” felt more like bribery than a business offer. “Well, I’m not sure I’m the person you should talk to about that. I’ll pass it along to the market owners, or you are welcome to talk to them yourself.”
“Did I hear you say you’re a local banker?” Peyton appeared behind my shoulder.
“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Lyle Manner, at your service,” he said as he extended a hand.
“Peyton Chase. I’m from Arizona and there’s no branch of my bank here locally. I’m thinking about sticking around South Carolina for a little while and I should probably set up an account.”
“At your service,” Mr. Manner repeated. “Shall we schedule an appointment?”
“You’ll need a local, temporary business license, too, Ms. Chase,” the shorter, rounder Mr. Ship added with what felt like a rude interruption. “In fact, that’s what I’m here to talk to you about, Ms. Reynolds. Well, I’m here to help get the food truck temporary licenses set up, but it also seems that some of your market vendors are lacking a proper permanent business license. We need to get that remedied.”
“Allison. Please. We require all the vendors to post their licenses, Mr. Ship. We also require them to give us a copy for our files. I’m not aware of any unlicensed vendors. Do you know the specific vendors I need to talk to?”
“Yes, I have their names.” Mr. Ship opened a pristine leather binder he’d been holding and lifted a single page from the top of a short stack of papers inside. “Here.”
Allison took the paper. “Two vendors?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not too bad, but there might be a mistake. Betsy is always on top of everything. And Jeff Kitner . . . well, he has a cart, but I’m pretty sure he has a business license, too. I’m happy to follow up on these right away,” Allison said.
“That would be very helpful.” Mr. Ship turned back to Peyton, handing her a piece of paper, too. “Fill this out. I can pick it up tomorrow morning, get it expedited, and have everything in place quickly.” He turned back to Allison. “I can do that for all of the food truck vendors.”
“Thank you,” Allison said.
“That would be great. Thanks,” Peyton said. Something in her tone caused me to look more closely at her. It wasn’t that she wasn’t agreeable, but like Allison, there was something underneath the words, perhaps something contradictory. But as I inspected her, all I saw were her slightly crossed eyes focused on Mr. Ship’s nose.
“I’ll be by first thing in the morning, but here’s my card if you have questions.” He handed Peyton one of his cards.
“Thanks again,” she said before she turned to the banker. “Mr. Manner, can we talk over there, in private? I don’t really mind Becca and Allison knowing my financial circumstances, but I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.”
“Of course, of course,” Mr. Manner said.
Peyton smiled at Allison and me and then went with Mr. Manner to a spot deeper into the parking lot where the only other people who could have heard them would have had to be inside the old parked Jeep that they stood next to. I didn’t think anyone was inside the Jeep, but looking that direction gave my eyes a chance to seek out Harry again. He was still there, still in statue mode.
Mr. Ship cleared his throat. “I’ll stop by and talk to each food truck vendor, Ms. Reynolds, if that’s okay, and let them know we can expedite things quickly.”
“Of course,” Allison said. “Thank you.”
“And please check on the delinquent licenses as soon as possible.”
“Right away.”
Mr. Ship smiled professionally and stepped around us to make his way toward the other trucks. It was as I watched him that I noticed Mel, Hank, and Daryl grouped together outside the taco truck. They were looking toward Peyton and Mr. Manner still out by the Jeep.
I realized that Mel probably hadn’t just wanted to be helpful to Peyton. Perhaps he and the other two men thought she was cute. Frankly, they’d be blind not to notice her. She was more than cute; she was stunning.
I sent the three men a critical squint. She might be mostly a grown-up, and she might potentially be in trouble with the law, but Peyton was still my cousin and they’d better be polite and respectful. They didn’t notice me.
“You think Peyton can handle whatever needs to be handled?” I said, mostly meaning the business dealings with Mr. Manner and Mr. Ship, but covertly meaning the three men whom Allison hadn’t noticed. “I still think of her as our little cousin who needs protection and guidance.”
Allison laughed. “We taught her how to jump off the rope swing at just the right spot so she wouldn’t hit rocks in the lake. I believe you taught her how fun it was to tie a bunch of firecrackers together and light them off at once. I’m not sure we were the best examples.”
“Ah, the good old days,” I said.
“She’ll be fine,” Allison said before she glanced unhappily at the time on her phone and then at the trucks that still needed her attention.
Now wasn’t a good time to let Allison know about Peyton’s potential legal issues, but she needed to know as soon as possible. Later would have to work, though. Allison currently had enough on her plate.
“Hey, why don’t I talk to Betsy and Jeff about their licenses?” I offered. “I know, I know, it’s not my job, but it’s not a big deal. I can handle it. I know them both well enough. I will explain how busy you are. They won’t care.”
“I’m not sure, Becca,” Allison said. “It’s an official conversation; it should come from the market manager.”
“Those two won’t care, I promise.”
She didn’t take long to think about it.
“All right,” she said. “But if there are any issues, call me immediately.”
“I will.”
“Thanks, Becca,” she said as she hurried away.
I also wanted to tell her about Harry, but later would be better for that, too. I looked across the parking lot again, expecting to find him still there. But he wasn’t. He and his small car were gone.
Peyton and Mr. Manner were deep in conversation, presumably about her bank account. I did a double take at them when I realized that something had changed. Neither of them seemed happy. Peyton’s arms were crossed in front of her and Mr. Manner seemed to be speaking sternly to her, or was that just their height difference and my perception? I took a step toward them, thinking I might need to intervene.
But Allison’s words rang in my mind. I
hoped Peyton really was okay. The fact that Harry had chased her from Arizona meant she might not be, but I didn’t know how to jump into her current conversation without seeming like I was doing anything other than interfering.
Harry had said he didn’t have any solid evidence or she would have been arrested by now. Maybe she was totally innocent; maybe he wouldn’t find any solid evidence. I hoped not.
As I turned again to make my way into the market, I caught Sam’s eye. He smiled and winked quickly before he crouched beside the noodle truck tire again. Oh, how I liked his smiles and winks.
I shook off the flirtation. I was over thirty and twice divorced. Giddy, girly stuff was reserved for younger, less jaded women who weren’t responsible business owners and who hadn’t just agreed to perform an important task for the market manager.
I couldn’t help it, though. I liked the things his smiles did to me. I often wondered at what point this would all stop. When would we become either tired as heck of each other or so used to each other that boredom set in? No matter—I hoped we both hung in there long enough to find out.
I wove my way through the parking lot and then down the first aisle to the left inside Bailey’s entrance. Betsy was still in her stall, but that wasn’t a surprise; she typically stayed at the market through the entire afternoon. There were still a few tomatoes for sale in her bins, and she’d sell them all before she left. Though we didn’t know each other well or deeply, she and I had always gotten along. She was the first one to introduce me to tomatoes topped with peanut butter. The discovery had been one of the best and most surprising culinary snack moments of my life, and had cemented my admiration for the earthy woman who had a way with her produce that brought people from all over the state to her stand.
Last summer, she created a red pasta sauce that had been both a blessing and a curse to her business. It was (not surprisingly) delicious, which meant that even more people traveled to Bailey’s from far and wide to purchase a bottle of Betsy’s Best and Bodacious. It tasted exactly as described. It was by far the best pasta sauce I’d ever eaten and its tangy, yet subtly sweet flavor, was, indeed, bodacious. She’d had so many customers and orders this summer that about a month earlier she’d asked to use my kitchen, which gave her much more room to work than her own kitchen. Betsy and I had figured out a schedule where she and I could both use the kitchen for our products but not be in each other’s way. She’d offered to pay me, but I’d traded the time in the kitchen for a few jars of sauce, with more jars whenever I wanted them. I didn’t intend to take advantage of the offer, but I sure liked the sauce.
Her current sauce inventory was down to one bottle. She sat on a folding chair in her stall, her long brown hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, her beautiful makeup-free ivory skin shining but not in a sweaty way. Allison was like that; she could work hard and not break a sweat or mess up her hair. I took one box from my truck to my stall and my short hair looked like it could use a comb, and depending on the temperature, my cheeks were ruddy with either heat or cold.
“Hey, Betsy,” I said as I approached her stall.
“Becca! It’s great to see you. Perfect timing. I have one bottle left.” She stood and reached for the sauce.
“I still have a bottle, but I have no doubt that the second it is gone, I’ll be back for more.”
“Sounds good. What’s up?”
“You know about the food trucks?” I said.
“Sure. I already have a couple orders for tomatoes. Some tall, quiet professor type and a kid that might still have sand in his sun-streaked hair.” She laughed.
“I know exactly who you’re talking about. All five of the trucks are out in the parking lot now. Allison’s there, too.” I eyed the business license that was posted on the back pole of her stall. It was in the same spot I put mine in. “Anyway, a couple of the businesspeople from downtown are out there. One is from the bank, but the other one is from the city offices . . .”
Betsy’s face soured and she threw one hand up to a hip. “Let me guess: Robert Ship is out there and he’s complaining that I don’t have a current license.”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Robert has been a thorn in my side for three weeks now.” She turned and stepped surely to the license and pulled it off the pole. “Is he still out there?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Would you mind watching my stall for just a second? I’ll run out and talk to him. His records are messed up apparently. We’ve played phone tag, leaving increasingly impatient messages for each other. I even went into the office personally to try to take care of it,” she said with much more anger than I thought she would display over a simple misunderstanding.
I’d never seen Betsy as worked up as she was at that moment. Even when her customer lines stretched down the aisle, she kept her cool. Her pretty ivory cheeks were suddenly dotted with pink.
“You do have a second, don’t you?” she said.
“I do. Go on.” I’d told Allison I would talk to Jeff, too, but there was no way I could leave now.
Betsy marched down the aisle, her long bohemian skirt flapping backward as she moved, reminding me of a witch with a spell and a specific Muggle in mind. I didn’t want to be on the other end of that wand.
I moved to the spot behind her front table and took in the view. It was always interesting to see the market from a different stall’s perspective, and this was the first time I’d been on this side of Betsy’s table. I could see Abner’s and Ian’s stalls much better from this vantage point. Ian’s stall was empty, but I knew he was out helping with the trucks.
Abner, the wildflower man, was organizing a small bouquet, his arms moving precisely and quickly, his old fingers still nimble and able to gather, arrange, and then tie a piece of string around a group of stems in record time.
The bouquet in progress was for a man who was just the right age to make me wonder if he was buying it for a romantic partner, his mother, or his daughter. It was fun to spend a moment pondering where the colorful flowers would go once they left Bailey’s.
“Is this for sale?” A woman pointed at the remaining bottle of sauce. She was tall and very thin with short gray hair but an unwrinkled youthful face.
“Yes, it is,” I said.
“I’ll take it,” she said as she reached into her giant woven bag.
She handed me a twenty. I hadn’t asked Betsy where she kept her cash box, but it was easy to find, on a small table in the back corner of the stall. I kept hold of the twenty, but pulled out the change for the customer. Once I gave her the change, I took the twenty back to the cash box. I hadn’t put it away immediately, because I wasn’t sure how Betsy organized her money and I didn’t want to make the customer wait a couple seconds for me to learn the system. If Betsy did things the way I did, anything bigger than a ten would go under the tray, tens and smaller bills up top in the compartments.
There were no twenties in the top tray, so I figured Betsy worked the same way I did and I would find twenties underneath. The second I lifted the tray, though, I knew I should have probably just left the twenty on top and let Betsy sort it out.
There were some larger bills under the tray: three twenties and one fifty. But there were other things, too. I wished I hadn’t noticed them but they were impossible to ignore. Two trifolded pieces of paper were under the bills. They were arranged so that I could see big, bold stamped letters on each of them. One said “OVERDUE” and the other said “DELINQUENT.” It was also impossible to ignore the letterhead next to each of the stamped notices. The two letters were from American Investors Bank and Trust, the bank where Mr. Lyle Manner, the man who’d I’d thought might be reprimanding my cousin a few minutes earlier, worked.
After the information that I should never have seen was burned onto my brain, I dropped the twenty into the cash box and put the tray back in place. Betsy might not even think about what bill the last customer had used. She might never suspect that I’d seen what I’d see
n. I wasn’t going to tell her.
I hadn’t really seen anything anyway. I hadn’t unfolded and read the letters. They could have been . . . well, they could have been a misunderstanding of some sort, or not Betsy’s. None of my business.
I wondered if she was unpleasantly surprised to see a representative from American Investors Bank and Trust out in the parking lot along with Mr. Ship.
Also none of my business.
As could happen, market traffic suddenly dwindled to almost nothing, with only a few customers left roaming the aisles. It was a typical late afternoon weekday crowd. Allison had mentioned that the market managers were thinking about opening late on a weekday other than Friday, but until that happened, the late afternoon would remain the best time for vendors who didn’t want to pack up yet to grab a nap or catch up on a good book. I didn’t think I should leave until Betsy came back so I grabbed the gossip magazine that was sitting on another chair and opened the cover.
“Becca.” A voice that sounded angry grabbed my attention before I could turn another page.
“Hi, Jeannine,” I said as I put the magazine down and popped up to attention.
Jeannine Baker was one of the market’s egg vendors. Her eggs were the freshest, best eggs I’d ever tasted. Jeannine was loyal to Bailey’s and never missed a day at her stall, but she was also one of Allison’s more challenging vendors. Jeannine was suspicious of everyone and everything. The world was against her, she was sure.
“Becca,” she repeated, making my name somehow sound like one syllable. “What is with the trucks?”
“They’ll just be here a couple weeks, Jeannine, and I bet they buy eggs from you,” I said, hoping I’d answered correctly.
“Will the market managers want us all to get trucks?” Jeannine was small and thin, with short hair and stern, sharp features. I often wondered if she’d been born that way or if she’d transformed over the years.
06 Bushel Full of Murder Page 4