One of the people she was checking up on was Truman. He was brand new to Ravenwood Cove, and the owner of the newly-opened bike and kite store. This was only his third market weekend, but his booth had already made quite an impression. The bright colors of his spinning wind catchers and huge butterfly kites floating at the top of twenty-foot tall poles were visible from all over the market, lending a festive air to everything. Truman’s physical appearance may have startled a few of the residents of Ravenwood Cove at first, because they weren’t really used to young men with scrolling tattoos of medieval woodcuts wrapped around their arms or haircuts that seemed to change color and shape weekly. Today Truman was in full form, showing off his bare arms by wearing a sleeveless t-shirt with some obscure mathematical problem on the front, and sporting a nearly-shaved right side of his head and a left side that still had a few inches of long hair but the dark locks were now tipped with purple.
He grinned widely at Amanda, waving a pair of pliers. “Hey, ‘Manda! What’s cookin’?” She suppressed a smile. Truman was definitely a unique addition to their little coastal village, but Amanda had to admit he was becoming a favorite person to talk with. She’d discovered that his mind was bright and inquisitive, and that he was always ready to help a neighbor by carting groceries or making sure the older vendors had help when setting up or breaking down their booths. The week before, Amanda had seen him using his hand truck to move large plastic tubs of lavender and foxglove plants for Mrs. Bitterman, all while keeping up a chatty conversation on the benefits of ginseng tea. Truman’s little brown dog, Benny, a personable mix of dachshund and Chihuahua, was running close to his heels just as he always did.
After a few minutes making sure Truman had what he needed, she caught up to her friend Lisa at the Bake Me Happy booth. Lisa was obviously in reporter mode, using her high-powered camera to take photos of Mrs. Mason’s amazing display of mouth-watering cupcakes, arranged on a multi-tiered rack and grouped in rainbow colors. The boom of tourism to the town and the newspaper’s role in making it happen had definitely pleased Lisa, and she’d worked even harder to showcase the town’s charms and its local citizenry, including the merchants at the weekly market. Mrs. Mason was standing by awkwardly as she did her best to stay out of the picture, an immaculate apron tied around her healthy middle and a small pink cake box in her hand.
Even with the camera in front of her face, Lisa must’ve heard Amanda coming. “You missed all the fun this morning.” She clicked her camera off and cradled it in her hands, apparently having enough photos of cupcakes. “Owen Winters called me a leftist pinko and said he’d only let me take a photo of his garden gate if I paid him five bucks. Can you believe that?”
Actually, Amanda could. Owen Winters was an older man who had a reputation of being suspicious of other people’s motives. He was an army veteran who lived next door to Mrs. Bitterman, the one neighbor he actually liked, apparently bonding over a mutual love of gardening and antique cars. He could often be seen with his head under the hood of her still-running 1934 Model A, tinkering with it and muttering curse words when it didn’t cooperate with his wishes. Other than that, he’d been known to occasionally corner George Ortiz and tell the patient police chief about how the youth of the town were too noisy when they drove by, or that someone’s dog was constantly barking and how irritating it was. It must’ve been hard for George to keep a straight face because everyone knew that Owen Winters was hard of hearing, but good cop that he was, he listened carefully and followed up on any genuine issue, much to Owen’s satisfaction.
“Did you pay him the five bucks?” Amanda couldn’t help but tease her serious friend a bit, and she got the reaction she wanted when Lisa looked shocked. “Pay him? Are you crazy? The press does not pay for photos.” She sniffed disdainfully and finally added, “I did buy two of his pumpkins, though. They’ll look good on my front porch for fall.”
“And how much did they cost?”
Her friend was turned away from her, stowing her camera in its bag, but Meg could hear the tone of resigned confession in her voice.
“Five bucks.”
Amanda laughed and looped her arm through her friend’s as Lisa finally smiled and gave a deep sigh. “I needed the pumpkins anyway.”
“Of course you did.” Under Lisa’s serious exterior beat a soft heart of someone who did her best to help people, whether it was by writing an article in her newspaper highlighting injustice or making sure someone who was barely making ends meet quietly got whatever they needed. More than once Amanda had noticed Lisa’s subtle way of helping people without making them feel like they were receiving charity, and it was one of the things she most admired about her serious friend. Owen was on a fixed income, and only able to supplement it with sales from his small fruit stand and pay for helping Mrs. Bitterman with her weeding and yardwork. Lisa’s five bucks probably helped Owen get some much-needed groceries.
“Are you about done? I promised Mrs. Granger I’d sit with her and Mrs. Bitterman and do some people watching. God only knows what sort of stories that lady is going to tell me this time,” Lisa said as she put the strap of her camera bag over her shoulder.
Amanda unlooped her arm. “Sounds promising.” Mrs. Granger’s ability to know everything about everyone in Ravenwood Cove was legendary. “I’ve got a few more vendors to check and then I’ll be there. Save me a chair.”
Touching base with the rest of the merchants, Amanda was pleased that no new disasters surfaced, and she tucked her clipboard under her arm with a satisfied sigh. Almost every small shop or craftsperson in town had set up either a small table or a full-sized booth, and there were even a few people who had just laid down old blankets near the sidewalk with their handicrafts on them and plopped into a folding chair, ready for the townspeople and tourists to stop and buy their wares.
The only shop in town that never had a booth at the weekly market was one of the newest, and certainly the most stylish, in town. The former mayor, Mrs. Sandford, had resigned in disgrace from the town council and had quietly opened up a high-end art gallery. It featured imported antiques, too; none of the local bits and pieces of castoffs that so often made their way into the beach town antique stores. Amanda actually liked those sort of shops, with their jumble of items that could be treasures, but Mrs. Sandford had publicly proclaimed that no ‘junk’ would ever be in the Sandford Gallery. The influx of tourists had proved to be a bonanza for the ex-mayor, and she’d hired a couple of elegantly-dressed young women to greet clients, while she mostly managed the books and supervised from the back office, an interior window with frosted glass between her and the customers.
The market was in full swing by the time Amanda was able to stop by Mrs. Bitterman’s booth to sit with Mrs. Granger and Lisa. Mrs. Bitterman seemed to love chatting with the people who drifted by her booth, drawn in by the sumptuous display of dahlias and bundles of fresh herbs. Almost twenty years younger than her longtime friend Mrs. Granger, she was a bundle of energy, even though she’d recently broken a bone in her foot at a Zumba dance class and had to sit while she talked, a plaster cast on her left foot and a pair of metal crutches nearby. She loved to explain how to cook with her pickled elephant garlic or what meats tasted best when cooked with rosemary, and from the constant traffic by her chair, Amanda could tell her plants and herbs were a crowd favorite. Owen Winters brought by three grapevine wreaths to sell, ignoring the ladies’ greetings and talking quietly with Mrs. Bitterman before he disappeared back into the busy aisle.
Mrs. Granger was a running stream of observation, sitting on the seat of her walker and letting Lisa and Amanda know the dirt or her opinion about most of the people who walked by. She was the best sort of gossip, even if she did perhaps tell a bit more than she should, because she never did it to be vicious or spread ugly rumors. She seemed to simply delight in being able to share the local news, and Amanda had learned some time ago that there were actually things her ninety-year-old friend would never talk about, because it might
hurt someone or betray a confidence.
Mrs. Granger was just pointing out Mrs. Henderson, Amanda’s neighbor from across the street, and quietly whispering details of her high school love life when Meg stomped over and flopped into the open chair by her grandmother, frustration on every line of her face.
“Anderson’s here.”
Just the name set off alarm bells in Amanda’s head, and her mouth dropped open in shock.
“Here? What’s that creep doing in Ravenwood? Are you okay?” She tried to keep her voice from having a note of panic but considering Meg’s history with Anderson Bowles she had every right to be upset. Meg had met Anderson on some dating site online, and from the very first date he’d been aggressive and demanding, wanting far more from Meg than she was willing to do, and deriding her choice to not sleep with him as being ‘puritanical’ and ‘prudish’. When Meg had given him a piece of her mind and unceremoniously dumped him, refusing to return his calls and throwing out the two huge bouquets of white roses he’d had delivered to the coffeeshop, he hadn’t taken it well. It had been weeks since that single date, and he still was texting her and trying to call.
“I think he’s stalking me. He stopped by the Cuppa booth and said we needed to talk. I told him we had nothing to discuss and he needed to leave, but he seemed really angry before he walked away. I had Tory take over the booth and I came to find you.”
Meg’s words seemed to jolt Lisa into action. “I’m going to see if I can find George and let him know what’s going on,” she said, and before Meg could stop her she was loping out of the booth and down the crowded aisle, intent on finding the police chief.
Mrs. Granger had been listening with rapt attention, and finally leaned back in her walker. “In my day, we’d take a boy like that out back and someone would beat the tar outta him if he was gonna bother a young lady. Honey, your gramma’s got your back.” The old lady pulled her ancient black purse off the handle of her walker and dug inside, dumping out several cotton handkerchiefs and a tattered coupon book from the local grocery store before she finally fished out a small, snub-nosed revolver.
“Here ya go, honey. This should persuade him you mean business,” she said, as she tried to hand the gun to her protesting granddaughter.
“Gram, put that away! I’m not going to shoot him!” Meg was swiveling her head around, trying to see if anyone was watching her grandmother brandishing a deadly weapon. “I just want him to stop bugging me.”
Mrs. Granger seemed genuinely disgusted as she finally stuffed the little gun back in her purse. “Seems like shootin’ him would do the trick, especially if it was something important to him that you shot off.”
There was a sound of a small scuffle from in front of the booth, and then a large, angry man was pushing his way toward the back, where the women were sitting. It was Anderson Bowles, the guy Meg had met over the internet. Wearing a hooded sweatshirt and ball cap from the large local university, he looked exactly like some ticked off blond frat boy who was going to start a fistfight, and Meg and Amanda both instinctively leapt to their feet, facing him. Amanda could feel her heart pounding with adrenaline but she stood her ground, ready to defend her friend.
“You left! You refused me! What do you think you’re doing?”
The words were loud and bitter and completely focused at Meg. The man’s face was a florid mask of unbridled rage, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. As frightening as he was, Amanda grabbed her friend’s hand and stepped in, ready to try to stop Anderson in any way she could.
“You’re a psycho nutcase and you’ve been stalking me! Now leave me alone!” Meg shouted, her voice wavering a bit. People in the neighboring booths were starting to take notice, hearing the raised voices and seeing the anxious movements of the women. Owen Winters had just circled back by to check on whether his wreaths had sold or not, and as soon as he heard the volume of the voices he instantly pushed his way through the gathering crowd of people toward the furious stranger, grabbing his arm as Anderson raised his hand. Amanda saw Anderson’s posture shift, his hand going up like he was going to punch Meg, and she threw herself into his left side with all her might, just as Owen tried to pull it down. The force of both of them shifted Anderson off balance and he fell backward onto the asphalt, taking Amanda and Owen with him. Amanda landed sprawled across him, and Owen was momentarily stunned but was still hanging onto the younger man’s arm, just as George Ortiz came running up.
Anderson seemed blind with rage and was scrambling to his feet, ignoring his two attackers, as Meg backed into her chair and fell, trying to escape his fury. Just as Anderson reached out to grab her by the hair the burly police chief expertly grabbed his hand and twisted Anderson’s arm high on his back, making the man squeal in high-pitched pain.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” The words weren’t meant to be polite, and at their note of authority, Anderson turned his attention entirely toward George.
“This is a private matter, between me and my girlfriend,” he hissed, but George was having none of it.
“Seems like she’d disagree with that and sounds like we need to have a chat.” As George was reciting the Miranda rights to a squirming Anderson, Amanda shakily pulled herself to her feet and hugged her trembling friend, who seemed on the verge of tears. People were milling around, trying to see what all the excitement was about, and Mrs. Granger was standing by her walker holding Mrs. Bitterman’s hand.
“What a jackass,” she pronounced. “Are you okay, dear?” Her granddaughter nodded and hugged her. They watched as George handcuffed Anderson and called into the police station, letting them know that he was bringing in a prisoner.
“Can both you ladies come down and make a statement?”
“Hey, what about me? I was minding my own business and that broad attacked me!” Anderson jerked his chin toward Amanda. “I think she hurt my back. I should sue. I’m the victim here.”
George ignored him, his years of experience evident as he expertly guided Anderson through the crowd. Meg promised that they’d be following close behind, once they got Mrs. Granger to the car, which took a bit of time, and the police chief smiled as if frog-marching a complaining suspect through a farmers market was the most normal thing in the world.
While she waited for Meg to bring her car around, Amanda gathered their things together and made sure Mrs. Bitterman had a ride home. By the time Meg had arrived the two younger women were feeling the after effects of their confrontation with Anderson. Amanda’s knees were actually shaking as she put Meg’s purchases in the trunk. Mrs. Granger looked them both over and seemed to come to her own conclusion, pushing her walker to the driver’s door and trying to open the handle.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Meg knew her grandmother’s eccentricities and she already had a very good idea of what the old lady was up to.
“You’re both shaken up, so I’m going to drive.” She held out her hand for the keys, patiently waiting.
“You can’t drive. You haven’t driven in years.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean I can’t drive now.”
“Yes, it does, Gram. Remember what happened last time? You put your Cadillac all the way through the back wall of your garage and we had to take your keys away to protect you.”
“The brakes didn’t work properly.”
“The mechanic said otherwise.”
Apparently, Mrs. Granger was hoping that Meg wasn’t going to bring up the unfortunate garage incident, and she pouted just a bit.
“Fine, you drive. Just because I’m not driving today doesn’t mean I can drive any time I want in the future, though.”
Meg rolled her eyes as she opened the back door for her grandmother. “Fine. When you turn a hundred we’ll take a road trip and you’ll drive, okay?”
Mrs. Granger grinned like a maniac, deliberately ignoring the note of sarcasm in her granddaughter’s voice.
“Deal. We’ll rent a convertible and you can ride shotgun.”
Amanda loved going down to the beach first thing on a crisp fall morning. On a rare, clear day like today, with the autumn wind pushing her from behind, she didn’t even mind the chill of being out so early. She had the beach all to herself and the morning sun was just starting to crest over the dunes, making the cold sand stretching in front of her glitter with golden flecks.
Almost all the guests had left on Sunday afternoon, heading back to bigger towns and paycheck jobs, and the sole remaining guest, Richard Loomis, had said he wouldn’t be needing breakfast at the Inn. Amanda had tried to make small talk about the funeral and even though Loomis had listened patiently and politely explained that Mr. Peetman had been a friend of his family’s so he’d decided to pay his respects, Amanda still felt a bit uneasy around him. The fact that her cat Oscar had decided that Mr. Loomis was unwelcome, made plainly obvious by his walking by with his furry nose in the air and his fat tail jerking in irritation whenever Mr. Loomis came in the room, definitely colored Amanda’s opinion, too. If Oscar didn’t like him there was probably a very good reason why.
She was nearly alone on the beach. The only other people out so early in the morning were a lone couple walking hand-in-hand and talking quietly to each other. Amanda smiled and nodded as she went by them, but they were so wrapped up in their conversation they didn’t even acknowledge her as the strolled by. She turned her head a bit to watch them pass, surprised at how their lack of eye contact made her feel. Even with the good friends she’d made at Ravenwood Cove, sometimes she felt really alone. She’d been so busy running her business, starting the farmers market, and trying to get her life back on track that she hadn’t had much time for other things in her life. It wasn’t that she missed men, because she certainly didn’t miss her last boyfriend, Kevin. It was just that she hadn’t had a chance to relax at all and be able to slow down a bit. Her idea of a fun time was a good book and a quiet night at home, recuperating from all the renovating and housework she was doing. Maybe it was time to do something about that.
DUNE, DOCK, and a DEAD MAN: A Ravenwood Cove Cozy Mystery Page 2