“Unless you put it there, I guess there would be no way for you to have known.”
“Exactly.”
I thought it was a strange response, but not necessarily suspicious. Her current overriding concern was about her issues in Arizona. Mr. Ship’s murder seemed either less important or maybe less real to her. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I hoped it was because murder was so far away from something she could fathom doing.
“Right, well, I’m sure everything will be fine. It will work out, Peyton. But I gotta say, if you can offer Harry, the officer from Arizona, anything that might show your innocence, I suggest you do so. Quickly. Or if you know something about some small part of it, jump in and tell him. Or just tell me. We’ll figure something out before we go to the police.”
Peyton got busy straightening and cleaning. Most of the motions were unnecessary, but I’d been known to move empty jars from one table to another one just to have something else to focus on for a second or two.
“Dinner at your parents’ house tonight?” she said as she brushed some invisible crumbs off the counter.
“I hadn’t heard about that.”
“Oh. Shoot. I think Allison told me I was supposed to tell you. There was something else, too.” Peyton stood straight and bit her bottom lip. “You’re supposed to bring something.”
“I can call Allison,” I said as I pulled out my phone.
“Lavender oil. Does that make sense? Your mom wants to make something with lavender oil. Allison said you could get it from one of the vendors in the market.”
Allison had probably told Peyton about the oil early this morning. If she or anyone had mentioned it to me, I could have called Ian and asked him to bring some into the market if he was coming in today. Considering the time, I was now going to have to either find lavender oil someplace else, or go out to his farm. Even when he spent time at Bailey’s, he was never here this late.
I’d also been terribly remiss about visiting George, and as time had passed, my embarrassment over that oversight had grown. Maybe it was time to take care of that.
Besides, there was nothing wrong with going out to an old boyfriend’s farm to pick up some lavender oil, even if a small sense of discomfort did buzz in my chest for a second.
Which, I realized, was silly and immature.
“Thanks, Peyton,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”
Twelve
Ian’s farm was outside Monson’s city limits and just past the small house Allison and I had lived in when we were kids. He’d taken a plot of less than ideal land and turned it into something spectacular. Though I hadn’t seen it for some time, I’d heard about the combination house-warehouse that was almost finished and the rows of healthy, purple-flowered lavender plants that rolled idyllically up the short hillside. Allison had described it as a modern-ish storybook setting, a place where you felt like you could grab a book and stretch out on a giant, soft purple comforter for a few hours. As I pulled my truck to a stop on the side of the road, I concurred with her assessment.
The lavender was truly beautiful, something that belonged in a Van Gogh painting, a purple escape on a sunny day. The wide, two-story house had modern lines, but they were mellowed by green clapboard siding and wide white window shutters, creating a charming new twist for the old farmhouse. The house was big, but I knew the living space took up only about half of it. The other half was a work space for Ian’s yard art and his multifaceted lavender business. I wasn’t sure where George’s apartment was located, but I knew it was in there somewhere.
Ian stepped out of the house’s side door just as I got out of the truck.
“Becca, hey,” he said when he turned to see who’d was attached to the sound of a door shutting. He put down a long metal piece, wiped his hands on his jeans, and walked down a small slope next to the lavender crops. “This is a great surprise. What’s up?”
“My mom needs some lavender oil. I didn’t get the message until just a little bit ago. Sorry to barge in.”
His eyebrows came together as he stopped in front of me. “You’re not barging in. Not possible. You haven’t seen the place in all its glory. Come on, I’ll give you a tour, and George will be thrilled to see you. You have some time?”
“I do.”
I followed Ian back up the slope and through the side door, into the warehouse space. Though the outside of the building was nicely finished off, the warehouse wasn’t quite done. Even though warehouses weren’t supposed to have fancy walls and floors, this big room still had exposed mud patches on the drywall.
“I haven’t gotten to the walls because they seem like the least important thing. I got the house done, and then I had orders to fill and lavender oil to make. I’ll paint the walls in here at some point but for now you can see that I’ve split it up into two areas: metalwork and lavender stuff. Well, you can sort of see it. It’s kind of a mess but I know where everything is and I’m sure I’ll get organized someday.” Ian smiled.
I looked at him. He truly had found his passion and was in his element. He’d gone to college for math, but had always wanted to create art. I was genuinely happy for him.
“This is great, Ian,” I said as I looked around at the metal scraps and pieces he would turn into interesting shapes that moved with the wind. There were machines that cut or formed the pieces, machines I’d seen him work with but still didn’t quite understand. A welder’s mask was tipped on its side on one of the tables and there was a slight smell of burnt motor oil in the room. On the other side were two tables that were covered in chemistry-type equipment. Bottles, beakers, and funnels, things that made me think of frog dissections and stinky high school experiments.
“Thanks.” He looked around the room. Maybe he was trying to see it through my eyes. If so, he’d be impressed. “How much oil do you need?” He stepped around the chemistry table and reached to a back shelf. “What is your mom making?”
“I think she’s baking something. I don’t think she’ll need much.”
“A couple small bottles will probably be okay, but let me know if she needs more than this.” He grabbed the brown bottles from a shelf and brought them back around.
“Perfect. What do I owe you?”
“Are you kidding? For your mom? No, we won’t charge her today. Maybe down the road, but not today. Come on, let’s go find George.”
I followed him out of the warehouse and into a hallway between the work and living spaces. This part was more finished, and similar to the outside, the lines inside were simple, yet somehow cozy. The floors were polished walnut and the walls painted off-white. Ian stopped at a closed door and knocked.
“George, you decent?” he said. “We’ve got company.”
“Well, I’m dressed if that’s what you mean,” George said from the other side of the door. “Come in.”
George’s studio apartment was one large room with areas devoted to different things like eating, sleeping, and reading. But all the walls except the one that contained the small kitchenette were covered with filled bookshelves. Ian said he’d bring George’s library to his new home, and it looked like he’d done exactly that. He’d even brought George’s worn and comfortable reading chair and his standing lamp with its fringed shade that had yellowed from time.
“Becca! How delightful,” George said when I got close enough that he could see me through his thick glasses. His vision was terrible, but the glasses helped a little. He didn’t read much on his own if at all anymore, but listened to recorded books or was read to. I’d read a book or two aloud when he’d lived in his old French Tudor on Harvard, and I was sure Ian still read to him when he could. It had been a big project to gather all the books, but they were his world, and though his apartment was homey, I knew having the books around him had been important.
“George, you look great!” I said as I hugged him.
“That boy keeps feeding me,” he said. “I’ve gained back a little weight. The doctor is pleased so I guess that’s a g
ood thing.”
“That’s good news,” I said.
George had been losing weight before he’d moved to Ian’s farm. He’d lost his desire to do much cooking and seemed to forget a few meals. He did look better now with a little more meat on his bones and filled-out cheeks.
“And this creature”—he reached back to the arm of the chair and scratched behind the ears of a very black, very green-eyed, short-haired cat—“keeps me on my toes.”
I’d almost run over Magic when she was a tiny newborn kitten. I’d stopped just in time, and though she’d thanked me by digging her claws into my neck, I’d brought her to George. Destiny had taken over and they became quickly smitten with each other.
But I didn’t think Magic liked me all that much. As she pushed her head into George’s fingers, she looked at me with green-eyed suspicion.
“Hey, Magic,” I said. She tipped her head and inspected me, but only for a moment.
“What’s the occasion for your visit?” George said.
“Getting lavender for my mom,” I said.
“This is the place for that. Ian’s farm is becoming quite the spot.”
“I agree,” I said.
“Come with us to the kitchen, George. Becca hasn’t seen that part. I think she’ll like it. She likes kitchens.”
“Ah, yes, come along, Magic,” George said.
I followed behind both Ian and George as we walked down another short hallway and into Ian’s living areas. Magic stayed at my heels, but in that cat way, just far enough behind so she didn’t run into them.
Ian’s living space was unexpected. It was terrific—no, extra terrific. The great room began at the front of the house with a giant space that held three couches. There was a modern flat-screen television but it was small and looked somewhat neglected on the wide television stand. The space directly behind the couches was filled with a long dark walnut dining table, which was in turn topped with papers, two laptops, and what I thought was some dried lavender. Next was the kitchen island with a few stools tucked under it and a sink at its far end. Along the back wall were the rest of the appliances, surrounded by light blue shelves. The floors were all off-white tile that matched the color on the walls. There was nothing fancy about any of it, but the simplicity suited Ian—modern yet homey.
“It is beautiful,” I said. “Just great.”
“Thanks,” Ian said.
“Look at the view out the windows,” George said.
There were five tall windows along the side wall of the house. They framed the lavender field. I moved past the dining table so I could get a better look.
“It’s stunning,” I said. I’d already noticed that the field looked like something from a Van Gogh. The windows made it a framed masterpiece.
“It is,” George said. “I can’t see it as well as most people and even I know how wonderful it is.”
“I like how it turned out,” Ian said. “But what about this kitchen? Isn’t it perfect? Too bad I don’t do preserves.”
I walked back to the kitchen, pretended to give Ian a stern, doubting look (which only made him smile), and then inspected everything as if I wore a white glove.
“Well, it’s pretty close to perfect,” I said with a wink toward George, though I had no idea if he saw it or not. “No, it’s absolutely perfect. Really great, Ian.”
“Thanks,” Ian said.
George pulled up a stool and said, “Becca, I heard about a death at the bank. You have connections. Was it a murder?”
“I think that’s what’s been determined.”
“Oh, dear. I knew Robert Ship. He was a neighbor and a friend at one time.”
I pulled up a stool, too. “He was? A neighbor at the Harvard house?”
“Yes. He was a nice man.”
“I’m sorry for your loss then.”
“I’m sorry he’s gone. Honestly, I can’t imagine anyone wanting him dead. He was a quiet man with a quiet life. He worked in the licensing office downtown.”
“I know. I was there just this morning. The two people who were working seemed sad about his death.”
“I don’t know much about his co-workers, but I know he was well liked around the community. We’re not a large place, but we have our fair share of businesses. His was not a controversial government job by any stretch of the imagination. Paying for one’s business license isn’t a big deal, but he was good at reminding people when theirs was about to expire. He took it quite seriously actually.”
“Did you ever have your own business license?” I said.
“No,” George said.
“Well, you’re right in that it’s no big deal to keep it active, just a yearly nominal fee. But the first time you apply for one, you have to answer some questions about your past possible involvement in illegal activities, whether you’ve been convicted of any crime, and if they were felonies on your record. It occurred to me that maybe someone lied on their application and Mr. Ship found out about the lie. Maybe he confronted them.”
George thought a moment. “No, I don’t think he would have confronted anyone, Becca. It wasn’t his style. Now, if he found something illegal, I have no doubt at all that he would have gone to the police. He was very much about doing the right thing.”
I didn’t want to argue with George, but I’d gotten a different impression from Mr. Ship’s co-workers. They’d mentioned that Mr. Ship had let Jeff slide for what I interpreted they deemed was probably too long. I was sure they thought he should have gone to the police much sooner.
“How much of his family do you know?” I asked.
“His wife died many years ago, and he raised their two kids mostly on his own. They left Monson when they went away to college and never moved back, but I’m pretty sure they’ve always had a friendly relationship.”
“Do you know his extended family at all? His niece has—or had, she might not be coming back—a tomato stall at Bailey’s. Her name is Betsy.”
“Yes, of course. I don’t know her well, but there were family events at his house and I think Betsy was there a few times. Again, I wasn’t around them all that much, but I never sensed any problems between any of the family members. The get-togethers were never rowdy in a bad way. But that was a long time ago, Becca. Time moves at such a different pace when you’re my age. My past has become compartmentalized into some unexpected categories. I believe Betsy was a young girl when she was at Robert’s house. That’s still how I think of her.”
I nodded. “She’s full grown now.”
“Yes, then, it has been some time. Has Sam mentioned if the police have any idea about what happened?”
“They’re still in the evidence-gathering phase. Some things happened at Bailey’s the day before Mr. Ship was killed that probably have nothing to do with his murder, but the police think are notable. When Mr. Ship was at the market to talk to some food truck vendors, he also mentioned a couple market vendors who had issues with their licenses. Betsy’s business license had expired and another vendor’s had never been purchased. Our baked potato vendor, Jeff, claims that there’s a loophole in the law that allows him to operate a food cart without purchasing a business license.”
“Really? How long has Jeff had the cart?”
“About a year.”
“There’s no question that he would be required to have a license, Becca. No matter what he tried to manipulate, if you sell a product, you definitely are required to have a business license. What’s he have to say for himself regarding the murder?”
“I haven’t seen him. I don’t know if Sam has talked to him yet. Jeff hasn’t been at the market for two days.”
“Hmm,” George said. “Well, Jeff’s absence might or might not have had anything to do with Robert’s murder, but it’s a possibility, I guess.”
“Jeff’s not a bad guy,” Ian added. “He keeps to himself, and he’s resolutely single, but not terrible. He strikes me as an independent sort, but I can’t imagine him not getting a business license.”
“I’m surprised Allison allowed Jeff to keep his cart,” George added.
“Oh,” I said. “I think Jeff told her he was working on things, and even though it’s unlike Allison, she never did follow up completely. She’s not happy with herself, I’m sure.” I paused. “But there is another part to this.”
I told Ian and George about Peyton and her behavior and her poor timing regarding the murder. I didn’t, however, tell them about Harry’s reason for visiting Monson, about my cousin’s alleged involvement in the lesser Arizona crimes. I wasn’t sure why my gut told me to keep that information to myself, but I always listened to my gut. Besides, somehow her poor timing in Arizona only made her poor timing in South Carolina worse. Maybe I didn’t want to pile more problems on.
“Ian mentioned your cousin was visiting. I got the impression he thought she was cute,” George said.
Ian’s eyes got big as he looked at George. Then he smiled. “Well, I’m not sure that’s what I said.”
George shrugged. “I could hear it in your voice.”
“She’s very cute. She’s beautiful, actually. And she might have noticed Ian, too,” I said without even one small thread of territorial jealousy zipping through me. Yeah, it might be weird if Ian and one of my relatives were to date, but as long as it wasn’t my mom or sister, I didn’t think it would bother me too much. In fact, the idea of seeing Ian happy was important to me; maybe more important than I’d acknowledged to myself until that very moment.
Of course, at the moment Peyton was a potential thief and killer, so I didn’t think now was the time to fix them up.
Nevertheless I said, “You two should join us for dinner at my mom’s house.”
“Becca, that wasn’t obvious at all,” Ian said with another smile.
“What do you think, Ian? Should we?” George said.
“As great at it would be to see Becca’s family, I have way too much work to do around here. But thanks, you two, for the assistance with my personal life.”
“Always here to help,” George said. “Thanks for the invite, Becca, but I’ll pass, too. I’m tired. A rain check would be great, though.”
06 Bushel Full of Murder Page 12