06 Bushel Full of Murder

by Paige Shelton

  “No—not at all, Jeannine. They might like the trucks, but they’ll never get rid of the stalls,” I said. The idea hadn’t occurred to me; most of Jeannine’s ideas never occurred to me until she mentioned them. She had a way of planting unexpected seeds.

  “I hope not. I don’t know about all these newfangled changes,” Jeannine said.

  “Newfangled?” There wasn’t any way to be less newfangled than we were at Bailey’s. We still had our individual stalls made with tent canvas. The parking lot was paved, but the market floor was simply the dirt ground. The Smithfield market a half an hour away was slightly more newfangled than we were with an aluminum top over the canvas tents.

  “Yes, like the misters. We worked here for years without any such thing. Now we have misters. Trucks might be right around the corner,” Jeannine said.

  I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t even crack a smile because I wouldn’t want to offend my paranoid friend and co-vendor.

  “We’ll be okay, Jeannine. I promise we won’t have to get trucks.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am.”

  “Hello, Jeannine,” Betsy said from over Jeannine’s shoulder.

  “Betsy, what do you think of all this truck activity?” Jeannine asked.

  “I think it’s great,” Betsy said, but her tone didn’t sound great. Instead, she sounded defeated—or as though she was working at not sounding defeated but couldn’t quite get there. I inspected her face closely. She had her emotions under control, but there was a small twitch at her left eye. Maybe it was nothing, but I doubted it.

  “You do?” Jeannine said.

  “Sure. I bet some of them buy eggs from you. They’ll be gone in few weeks. They’re trucks, they’re not meant to be parked for long. It’s just a fun promotion for them and for the market. But the nature of their businesses means they’re on the road, always going someplace.”

  “Oh, I know, but I bet they get so much business at Bailey’s that they stick around, and I’m just having a hard time thinking it’s a good plan, even if they do buy eggs from me.”

  There was no sense in arguing with Jeannine when her mind took hold of an idea. Betsy just smiled patiently at her and said some of the same words I had.

  “It’ll be okay, Jeannine.”

  “I hope so.”

  With that final declaration, Jeannine sniffed once, turned, and moved purposefully back to her own stall.

  “Even with all that, she really is a likable person,” Betsy said.

  “Yes, she is. Maybe it’s just that she’s one of us, you know?”

  “I do. That makes sense.” Betsy took a deep breath and then let it out slowly as she looked down the aisle in the wake of Jeannine’s departure.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Oh.” She looked at me and forced a small smile. “All is well. I didn’t get the misunderstanding cleared up, but I will. I’m sure.”

  “Your last bottle sold,” I said cheerfully.

  “That’s great. Thanks, Becca. I know you have your own stuff to do, but I appreciate your help.”

  “No problem at all. I’m packed up for the day,” I said.

  “Yes. Fortunately, I’m a little ahead of the game. My inventory is good for another week. I won’t have to work this evening.”

  “That must be nice.” I said, just to continue the conversation. In fact, I was frequently ahead of schedule and was this week, too. It was a good feeling.

  Betsy nodded absently.

  “Can I help you load up or anything?” I said.

  “No, I’m good,” she said, a little more pep in her voice. “Thanks again, Becca.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Betsy stepped around the table, making her way into the stall. Unless I wanted to crowd the small space, my only real option was to go the opposite direction.

  I stood in the aisle a moment, but she moved directly to the bins and started moving the remaining tomatoes to a small box that had been stored underneath. Even packing up the tomatoes proved she was off. She was always at the market until it closed if she wasn’t sold out.

  “See you later,” I said.

  “Later, Becca,” she said as she continued to load.

  I turned and walked slowly away, my mind on Betsy more than my next task, talking to Jeff. I’d never once known her to be anything but her level self, friendly but not gushy, smart but kind of silly sometimes, earthy. She ate more vegetables than anything else, but I knew she loved cookie dough ice cream with a deep passion. She was what my grandmother would have described as a lovely person.

  Which meant nothing when it came to the items I’d seen in her cash box. And she’d acted funny when she came back to her stall.

  As I reached the aisle intersection, I stopped and laughed at myself. Why was I turning this into a mystery? Why was I making this more important than it probably was? I’d check on Betsy tomorrow and make sure she was okay, but even earthy, happy, level people are allowed less than cheerful moments.

  “What’s so funny?”

  I turned to find that Ian’s stall wasn’t empty after all. Or at least it wasn’t empty now. Ian was there, sitting in a chair toward the back, which was open to the load/unload area on the inside of the U-shaped market. The back flap was pulled up to make room for a tall piece of yard art that he was assembling.

  “Hey, Ian. I’m overthinking something,” I said as I stepped into his stall. There was no table in the front. In fact, he was barely in his stall anymore, and when he was, it was mostly so a customer could pick up a piece of art they’d ordered from him. Though he’d started at the market by making the yard art, his world had grown much bigger.

  “You?” he said with a smile. “I can’t imagine you overthinking anything,” he teased.

  I smiled, too.

  I liked the comfortable spot we’d found in our friendship and dating spectrum.

  “That’s a beautiful piece,” I said as I crouched and lifted the end of one of the scoop-shaped wind catchers. From what I could tell, it looked like one wheel of scoops would go one direction and another wheel would go the other. The resulting illusion would be interesting. My boost up gave Ian the chance to use both hands to attach the top piece to the pole.

  “Thanks, I’m pleased with it. I hope the customer is, too. There,” he said. “Done. Couldn’t have done it without you.” He smiled.

  We both straightened as he moved the piece to an upright position.

  “You’ve only gotten better,” I said. “A better artist. Your work was always great but it’s improved.”

  Ian laughed. “I knew what you meant. Thanks. I don’t do as many of these as I used to. I’m enjoying the farm, but once everything transitions into more a routine than just a bunch of work to get things started, I hope to do more yard art, too. It was my first passion.”

  If you looked up the word artist in the dictionary, there was a good chance Ian’s picture would be next to the definition. He looked the part. But what wasn’t obvious at first was his mathematically inclined mind. The calculations necessary to balance his sculptures required him to be good at math—really good. At first glance you’d have no idea he was so smart. At second glance, though, and once you’d had even a short conversation with him, you’d know he was not only exotic but intelligent, too.

  “I hope you have the time. Farm going well?”

  “Very well. If I stay on the right track, I will have giant and beautiful purple fields for many years to come.”

  “I bet it’s amazing. How’s George?” I asked. George had been Ian’s landlord when he’d first moved to town. George had owned a big, old Tudor in the Ivy League district. Ian had enjoyed the apartment above the garage, and he and George had become close friends. When Ian purchased the land for the farm, he’d asked George to come along with him. George’s eyesight had been progressively worsening, and the idea of leaving him alone in his big house didn’t sit right. Fortunately, George did go with Ian and they and the bl
ack cat I had found when he was a kitten and given to George were getting along grandly, I hoped.

  “He’s doing very well. He’s more help than I thought he would be. He loves working on the essential oils. He can go at his own pace. Between that, listening to audio books, and hanging out with Magic, his days are full and busy. I think he’s happy. I’m sure he’d love for you to come out and visit. Sam, too.”

  “I will. Soon.”

  “So your cousin, the one with the truck?”

  “Yeah. Sorry about the misunderstanding. We don’t talk as much as we should.”

  “Oh. Not a problem. She and the guy from the business office were sure having a heated discussion out there. Allison had to break it up, and Betsy came over, too, and tried to help. Your sister had her hands full, but she handled it well,” Ian said.

  “Just a few minutes ago?” I said.

  “Ten, fifteen,” he said.

  “I was watching Betsy’s stall. She came back and seemed off—you know, funny. That’s what I was overthinking just a second ago.”

  “Well, I think she was unhappy, too, but Peyton’s problem was . . . a little louder, I guess.”

  “I’ll ask Allison,” I said. “How’s your Betsy?”

  Ian’s Betsy had become his girlfriend shortly after I hadn’t. She was a local young woman who operated a successful restaurant.

  “She’s fine. Leaving town for a while.”

  “Vacation?”

  “Nope. Moving.”

  “What? How can she move? She owns the restaurant.”

  “Someone came in and offered her a bundle for it. She’s heading up to New York and culinary school. She’s going to come back when she’s done and open a new restaurant.”

  Betsy was one of the hardest-working people I knew, but she’d taken a less than traditional path to restaurant ownership; she’d received an inheritance of sorts. She’d never had any sort of formal cooking or baking instruction and I knew she wished she had. Her hard work had gotten her far. It sounded like her ambition was still going strong.

  “Wow, that’s big. I’m sorry she’s leaving for a while.”

  “It’s okay. I like people to follow their dreams.”

  “You’re good that way.”

  Ian smiled again.

  I felt bad for him. I knew he liked her, but we hadn’t discussed it that deeply. Our friendship still held clear memories of closer moments between us, and it would have been weird for us to go into detail about our new relationships. Ian and I would never date each other again, but we both respected what we’d had, and the evolution necessary to let it go completely.

  Further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Ian’s customer, there to pick up his yard art. I got out of their way and started down the aisle again.

  I was curious about Peyton and Betsy, not Ian’s Betsy, but the one who sold tomatoes at the market. I’d ask Allison for more information about the altercations, but something had caused Betsy’s blue mood. Maybe she felt like she missed a chance to talk to Mr. Ship because he’d been busy arguing with Peyton. And what would that have been about? Had Peyton argued with Mr. Manner—as I thought I’d seen—and then with Mr. Ship? Why? I hoped Allison had been paying attention.

  For now, I picked up the pace. I still had a baked potato vendor to talk to.

  Four

  The potato cart had been placed at the end of the other aisle, the other leg of the U. I’d taken so much time at Betsy’s and with Ian that there was a good chance that Jeff had packed up and gone home for the day, but he was still there, and still serving baked potatoes, even in the lingering late afternoon heat.

  It was a clever idea. He baked the potatoes at home, wrapped in foil and in an oven like any good baked potato should be prepared. He kept the wrapped potatoes in the warming cubby belly of the cart. Just like with the food kept in airplane food carts, I was surprised by how many potatoes fit into the cubby. The toppings were housed in the refrigerated top of the cart, protected by a sneeze guard. Jeff set a table with plates, napkins, and utensils next to the cart. Since he was a stickler for food safety, I would be surprised if he truly was delinquent regarding his business license. Like Betsy, there had to be some misunderstanding.

  Even with the heat of our summer days, customers loved his baked potatoes. And even with the odd time I’d approached the cart—in between lunch and dinner—I had to wait for two customers to get their orders before I could talk to him.

  “Hey, Jeff,” I said as the line and the utensils table cleared of customers.

  “Becca, how’s your day going?” Jeff said, his words cheerful, but his tone less so. He was a nice enough guy, but I always had a sense that he didn’t really want to be nice, that he was thinking of less than nice things to say but keeping them to himself as he vocalized pleasant sentiments instead.

  “Good. Yours?”

  “Good. It sure is hot out, but it’s been busy.” Jeff’s cart and table weren’t located near any of the misters so he didn’t know the crushing misery that hit most of us with the mechanical breakdown.

  Jeff Kitner was young, maybe in his mid-thirties. He was handsome in a serious, angular way, with a sharp jaw and a sharp nose. He kept his wavy brown hair just long enough to be considered tousled. When he first started at the market, all the young, single women developed an almost constant craving for baked potatoes, but after a while his sour tone and personality made him and his food much less popular with the market vendors. His business had continued to thrive, but it became more about customers liking the potatoes, less about vendors trying to get a date.

  He was from a small town in South Carolina. I couldn’t ever remember the name of the town, but it was apparently smaller than Monson and had been an “okay” place to grow up, according to Jeff during the first and longest conversation he and I had ever had. I wondered if today’s would be longer.

  We’d gotten along okay. I liked his potatoes and he’d bought quite a few jars of my boysenberry jam—though as market vendors, we all subscribed to the idea that we didn’t need to be each other’s customers to be friends.

  “I know.” I fanned my hand in front of my face a couple times. “Hey, Jeff, I hate to bug you, but I’m helping Allison with some business details. She’s out front working with the arriving food trucks and a bank and a town business office guy are out front with her. The business office guy works in the licensing division and he’s gathering copies of all the market vendors’ business licenses. He thought since he was here, it wouldn’t hurt. I offered to do the legwork. Any chance I could get your license, make a quick copy, and bring it back to you?”

  My story was a lie, and a weak one at that. But I’d decided to try it that way first. I didn’t know Jeff well enough to single him out, and there was enough potential volatility about him that I didn’t want to sound critical or combative. It might not have been the best idea I’d ever had; it didn’t make much sense that the guy from the business licensing division would need copies of business licenses, because his office should already have them on file, but if Jeff wasn’t listening closely, it might fly. I hoped he’d go along with it and he and I could be done quickly with our second longest conversation ever.

  “Huh,” Jeff said doubtfully. I continued to smile and look him in the eye as the “bad” in my bad idea seemed to expand. “Well, I don’t have a business license.”

  “Oh? Why not?” I said, genuinely surprised.

  “Don’t need one. And that guy you’re talking about knows it. His name is Robert Ship, right?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, he’s sent you to do some of his dirty work, Becca. I never have had a license because I don’t need one. There’s a clause in the law that says I don’t. I’ve showed it to Mr. Ship a number of times. He can’t find a way to validly argue that I’m wrong. He just keeps hounding me, but there’s nothing legal to back him up. I’m sorry he thought you—or you and Allison—should continue the harassment. He shouldn’t hav
e done that.”

  No, he shouldn’t have. If that was really what he’d done. I’d need more information to know for sure.

  “But you are a retail establishment, right? You take money? Don’t you have to report taxes? How do you do that and not be attached to a license?” My questions weren’t meant to be accusatory. I was curious. My entire business, including my bank account, was tied to my license and my setup as a corporation.

  “I’m self-employed, and since I have a cart, not technically a stall, I don’t have to have a license. I have food inspectors inspect my cart to make sure I’m not breaking any food regulations, and I get clean inspections all the time. Look up the clause, number 458-098, in the county business regulations, and you’ll see there’s no requirement for me to have a license.”

  “Huh,” I said, repeating Jeff’s earlier exclamation. I wanted to point out that a business license wasn’t a bad way to go anyway, and that setting his business up as a corporation of some sort was an even better way to protect himself, to keep clear of liability, to keep business and personal monies separate. But I didn’t think I should lecture Jeff on the ins and outs of owning a business. If we’d been better friends, I might have, or if I didn’t have a sense that Jeff’s way was the only way, I might have. But I did have that sense. “Okay. I’ll let Allison know.”

  “Thanks, Becca, and I’m really sorry he dragged you two into it.” For the first time since I’d known Jeff, he actually sounded sincere. “I’ll stop by his office and talk to him tomorrow morning and end this craziness once and for all. How’s that?”

  “Sounds great. And neither Allison nor I were inconvenienced.” I smiled. “I might have just learned something new. Sorry to interrupt your day.”

  A young couple, each with an infant attached to their fronts in those things that I thought made babies look like turtles, approached the cart just as it seemed our conversation had reached an appropriate ending spot. I stepped back and observed Jeff a moment as he helped the customers. I didn’t think what he’d said could possibly be correct, but I wanted to find out. I found a pen with a chewed cap in my short overalls’ back pocket and scribbled the numbers 458-098 on the back of my hand before I made my way to the parking lot.