“Good job, Linda,” I muttered. She must have come up with something good to put Allison in such a hurry.
I looked around again—this side of the tents and the office building were facing the main parking lot and there were people walking here and there, most of them toward the entrance to the market that was on the other side of the office. But it wouldn’t be too strange to see someone appear from the back of a tent, so I stood straight and walked out, making sure I looked like I knew what I was doing.
I stepped back into the office building and turned the knob on Allison’s office door.
Of course, it was locked. But that was easily overcome. Allison kept an emergency key on the frame above the door—I’d seen her use it only once, but the moment had made an impression. Allison was über-organized—the fact that she needed an emergency key made her more human than I’d previously given her credit for.
I swept my finger over the dusty frame, found the key, wiped it on my T-shirt, unlocked the door, and closed and locked it behind me.
“Phew,” I whispered to myself.
Allison’s door was probably circa 1970-something, and it had a window on the top. The pane was made of frosted glass so no one could see through it in either direction, but the fact that it was there made me feel exposed. I hurried to the desk.
I wasn’t exactly sure where Allison kept the vendor files, but after a quick opening and closing of a couple of metal drawers, I found a file tab that read Vendor Applications.
There wasn’t time to be nosy about anyone other than Ian. He was right there, the first one in the C section.
I grabbed a pen and a Post-It and jotted down the address. I was familiar with that part of town—all of the streets were named after Ivy League universities. Ian lived on Harvard Avenue. I hurried the file back into place and closed the drawer, grabbed the Post-It, and put it into my pocket. If Allison wasn’t on the other side of her door right now, it looked as though I’d managed my cloak-and-dagger maneuver.
But just as I put my hand on the doorknob, another idea popped into my head. Allison had mentioned that Abner had listed his sister’s address on his application. That address suddenly seemed like something I needed to have.
I went back to the drawer and fingered through the files to the Js.
Abner did, indeed, list an address other than the one I now knew was his—and it just happened to be located on Yale Avenue. I thought I was imagining things, so I double-checked Ian’s address.
Both of them lived in the same part of town—one street away from each other.
“Well, that’s interesting.”
Coincidence?
There wasn’t time to ponder the question, so I wrote down Abner’s sister’s address and put it in my pocket, too, and then went back to the door.
The office building wasn’t large, and even though Allison’s door was a few steps in from the building’s front door, she had a window that faced the front parking lot.
A blind was closed over the window, so I couldn’t see anything but I could hear some sort of diesel vehicle pull up right next to the window. There wasn’t a parking space, but I’d seen people stop there when they wanted to talk briefly to Allison or someone else in the office.
The diesel engine sputtered loudly outside the window. I wanted to leave the office, but whoever belonged to that truck would no doubt see me. I didn’t want that, so I stood still, my hand almost on the doorknob, and waited.
Someone approached—I could see the shadow through the frosted pane. I stepped to the side of the door so they wouldn’t see mine. The person knocked forcefully.
“Ms. Reynolds! Ms. Reynolds!” The male voice sounded urgent and maybe angry.
I didn’t really recognize the voice, but there was something familiar about it. I wanted him to speak again.
Instead, he reached for the knob and started to shake it. The maneuver sent me back to the desk, and though I didn’t think he could get the locked door open, the whole building was old enough that a good yank or shove might do the trick. He shook the knob more forcefully, sending the entire frame into a stiff warble.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I crouched and hid under the desk.
“Ms. Reynolds!” he yelled this time. Now I thought he must be angry, but I couldn’t be sure. He was silent long enough that I crawled out from under the desk. The shadow wasn’t on the other side of the door any longer. Outside the office window, the slam of a truck door sounded just before the diesel engine revved and tires sprayed gravel.
I leapt over a chair, went to the window, and pulled back the blind, but I was too late. I could only see the brown truck from behind. There was no way to distinguish who was in the driver’s seat.
But at that moment, two things became very clear in my mind—the shadow had been very tall. And Carl Monroe drove a brown diesel truck.
I had one more address to gather. And if Carl Monroe lived on Princeton Avenue, I’d know I’d gone beyond coincidence.
But just as I turned away from the window, I heard Allison’s voice as she walked back into the building. She was talking on her cell phone, and the volume of her voice increased as she got closer. My gut got mushy.
She was my sister and she wouldn’t hate me for long, but I didn’t want to be caught by anyone. And the fact that I was sneaking around on my own twin made me feel worse.
But other than throwing myself out the window, I didn’t have much choice but to wait and confess my sins.
Eleven
Somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good. Though it hadn’t felt like it over the last few seconds of panic, I must have been living right somewhere along the way. Allison finished her phone call before sliding the key into the lock. Then, just as I was ready to throw myself at her mercy, her phone rang again. I couldn’t make out her words precisely, but I thought I heard her say that she’d be “right there.”
She left the small building, and I left her office as though the fires of hell burned at my feet, which in actuality they probably did. I’d later feel the heavy weight of guilt about my illegal and disloyal activities, but for now, I was grateful for the addresses I’d acquired and wasn’t willing to push my luck further for Carl’s. Ian and Abner’s sister would be a good start.
I locked Allison’s door and hurried out of the building, only to be greeted by Barry and a wagon full of corn.
“Hey, there, Becca. Where’re you off to in such a flurry?” he said.
“Oh, hi, Barry. I’m just going to run some errands.” I ignored the desire to sprint to my truck. I also ignored the anger I felt about Barry’s lies about just how well he knew Matt Simonsen. What he’d told me the day of the murder and what he’d shared in the market meeting didn’t jibe. Another day, another time, a time when I wouldn’t be afraid of getting caught, I would have a bunch of questions for Barry. As it was, I just wanted to get away and get to the Ivy League neighborhood.
“Don’t you usually work on Thursdays?”
“Yeah, but I hung out with Allison today—we went to a meeting.”
Barry looked at me like I was speaking Martian. He was probably wondering just what meeting I would willingly attend that he hadn’t been invited to. He was also smart enough to be suspicious that I hadn’t pushed him regarding his lies.
“Oh, well, all right, then. I needed to ask Allison a question. Is she in there?”
“No. Not at the moment. She got a call and hurried off somewhere.” I waved my hand through the air and then swiped a wisp of hair off my forehead. If Officer Brion had been watching, he’d have known I was guilty of something. Body language was probably one of his specialties. “Hey, Barry, have you seen Carl today?”
“Uh, nope. Come to think of it, I wondered about him, too. It seems kind of sparse in there. We have to move past this tragedy. You know that, don’t you, Becca?”
“Sure. Yeah, I’m sorry. I’ll be back tomorrow. I’m sure Carl will, too.”
“Uh-huh.
”
“Hey, gotta go, Barry, but I’ll see you tomorrow. Promise.” I needed to get out of there before Allison returned. She’d know I’d been up to something.
“Good. Well, I guess I’ll see you later, then.” Barry’s nostrils flared roundly and he took off with the wagon.
I didn’t run, but I walked at breakneck speed to my truck. Once there, I took a deep breath and calmed my heartbeat down to something that wouldn’t attract vampires. I didn’t have the constitution for criminal behavior.
The short trip to the Ivy League neighborhood of Monson allowed me to clear my head—I hadn’t gotten caught, that was good.
I needed to find out what Ian really knew about Matt Simonsen, and I needed to attempt not to be irritated at him for not telling me the information sooner. He wasn’t obliged to. But still, he should have said something. And perhaps I could get something useful out of Abner’s sister. I wasn’t quite sure what I wanted to get out of her, but I’d figure that out.
The Ivy League neighborhood was one of my favorites. I’d often thought that if I ever got tired of my wide-open spaces, which was unlikely, I’d want to live in one of the old homes on Harvard, Princeton, or Yale. The yards were filled with tall trees and there was nothing cookie-cutter about the houses, most of which were made of brick. My favorite coffee shop and bookstore were also nestled quaintly on one corner. “Nestled” was the best word to use when describing this neighborhood.
Ian’s was my first stop. I turned onto Harvard and searched for the address. The house was spectacular. It was tall, with lots of windows, a line of small ones across the second—or was that the third?—floor. The architecture was French Tudor and made me think of pastries. I parked in front and headed for the driveway. If Ian lived in the garage, it must be somewhere along that path.
I debated whether I should stop at the house and announce myself, but I decided not to. The garage was, indeed, at the end of the long driveway, and Ian’s truck was parked to the side of it.
I didn’t see anyone else as I made my way, but as I approached the garage, I heard the rumble of music. It wasn’t loud enough to reach the house or any of the other houses in the area, but it vibrated the aluminum garage door.
There were no windows in the front, but there was a side door that had a window at the top of it. I shaded against the glare with my hand and peered in.
Ian was there, working on something that required the use of a large polishing cloth. He was shirtless, so I was getting to see some of his tattoos.
I pressed my nose closer.
He was working on a round piece of metal, flat and about the size of a basketball. The large cloth moved quickly over the surface. The force of his efforts caused the muscles in his arms and chest to expand and contract enough that the starlike design on his right forearm and the lines of a design I couldn’t quite distinguish on the left side of his chest moved. The tattoos were both only in black ink, and they blended with his skin more than they stood out.
Ian was thin, but there was nothing skinny about him. And even more than my voyeuristic enjoyment of looking at his body, I liked watching him move. He was athletic; smooth, with the ability to make his body do sports things. I’d never quite gotten there, having given up on sports after a terrible childhood experience with kickball. From my vantage point, I concluded that Ian probably hadn’t ever had a bad day of kickball. Most likely, he’d ruled the field.
He had on jeans, so if there were any other tattoos, I’d have to get to know him better to see them. I pulled my nose away from the glass and lifted my hand to knock.
“Can I help you?” a voice said from behind me.
“Oh!” I turned, fully expecting to see Officer Brion. But it wasn’t a police officer at all. An old man, in a bow tie and suit, held his hat in his hand as he inspected me, the intruder.
“I’m sorry. I’m a friend of Ian’s. I was just about to knock. Should I have stopped by the house first?”
“Not at all, dear. You were standing there for so long I wondered if there was some problem.”
My cheeks heated from the blush that must have been close to neon. I didn’t know what to say.
“It’s all right. I understand. Believe it or not, I was young once, too. I’m George McKinney. Your friend is making good use of an old man’s garage. Had my driving rights taken away from me a couple years back.” He tapped his glasses. “Peepers don’t peep as well anymore. Now I take the bus everywhere.” He sighed as though he’d resigned himself to the task. “Ian’s good for the garage and good company for me.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Becca Robins.”
We shook hands. “Pleasure to meet you.” He inspected me for a beat more and then nodded. “I’ll be off, then. If that young man gives you any trouble, my back door is always unlocked. You can run in there and either use the phone or grab a knife to slice him open.”
“Oh. Well, all right. I appreciate that.”
George nodded, put his hat on, and then took off in a spry walk down the driveway. I turned and knocked. Knocked again, with enough force to be heard over the music this time.
Ian looked up from his work and squinted toward the door. I waved. His face was first full of question, but then softened into a smile. He gave me the one-second sign, turned off the music, and pulled on a gray T-shirt.
“Becca?” he said as he opened the door. “Good to see you.”
“Hey, Ian. Thanks.”
The awkward silence didn’t last long.
“Well, come on in. My shop isn’t spotless, but it’s been much worse.”
During my earlier spying, I hadn’t noticed just how wonderful the garage was. But now I took the time to look around. There were parts of Ian’s sculptures everywhere. Spires, tubes, balls, starbursts; the designs were endless. Everything was placed on large tables, and though I hadn’t noticed them before, there were windows all along the back and one of the side walls. There were two large machines against the garage door, both with big belts.
“This is something, Ian,” I said.
“It’s a good space.”
“Yeah.”
“So, uh, can I get you something to drink? You thirsty? You okay?”
“I’m a little thirsty, but I’m fine. Why?” I said. He was peering at me strangely.
“You look like you might have had a rough day or something.”
“Really?” I looked down at myself. Tomato juice splat-ted over almost every inch of my shirt, overalls, and legs. Over the tomato juice, there was a layer of dirt from my body plant in the back of Herb and Don’s tent. “Oh, I’d forgotten all about this.” I laughed. I must have been a sight.
Ian licked his thumb before wiping it over my jawline. “What’s all this?”
“Uh, well, it’s tomato juice and dirt. Long story.” I thought I should tell him that touching me, especially with his saliva attached, wasn’t appropriate, but I didn’t want to.
He smiled. “You have adventures that you don’t even realize.”
“Something like that.”
“Well, how about a soda? You’re more than welcome to clean up in my bathroom, but you don’t have to.”
“Actually, that would be great. Thanks.” I was suddenly self-conscious about my state. How could he take my questions seriously if I looked like I’d had a rough day drinking Bloody Marys on a beach somewhere? And why, all of a sudden, did I not feel angry at him or the urgency to ask the questions? His spit must have magical powers.
“This way.” Ian turned and walked toward the back of the shop. “It’s just a ladder, but it’s pretty sturdy. My landlord’s an old guy, and he had it reinforced so he’d feel safe climbing it.” Ian pulled down a ladder that unfolded as it fell from the ceiling.
“I met him.”
“George?”
“Yep. I was spying on you before I knocked, and he caught me. He gave me full permission to use one of his kitchen knives if you were trouble.”
Ian blinked his dark eyes and
then laughed. “Well, George is a murder-mystery fanatic. Loves talking about anything bloody. His eyes aren’t so great anymore, so I sometimes read to him at night.”
“You do?” I couldn’t imagine it.
“Uh-huh. You were spying on me?”
“Uh-huh.” We looked at each other for a beat, both of us wondering things that weren’t ready to be spoken. “I wanted to make sure you didn’t look murderous.”
“Okay. Apparently I didn’t?”
I nodded. “So’s the bathroom up there?”
“Yep.” Ian led the way and then helped me as I reached the top rung and stepped into the apartment.
I knew that later I’d have to describe to Allison what it looked like, so I registered my first impression and went from there. It was masculine, but cute and cozy and well lit, with lots of windows along the back wall. There was one large room divided into different areas, everything either brown, tan, or navy blue. We’d stepped into the TV area, where a worn brown leather couch faced a television as small as my own. The coffee table in front of the couch was covered with organized stacks of paperwork and a laptop. The kitchen area lined the wall behind the couch. Everything was small—the stove, the refrigerator, and the two-place table. On the other side of the room, closed off by a tall three-panel divider, was the bed. Even though it was mostly hidden, I could tell it was made.
“Bathroom’s over there.” Ian pointed to our left.
“Thanks.”
“There’re towels and stuff under the sink.”
“Thanks.” I hurried into the small room and closed the door. It was spotless, which was a pleasant surprise. There was no tub, but there were a shower, a toilet, and a sink, and clean towels and washcloths right where he said they’d be.
There was also a mirror—the image in which would haunt me for years. How had I not realized that my face was covered with tomato pox? Why hadn’t Allison or Barry said something? But ours was not a clean career—maybe it was just the world we lived and worked in, and they saw nothing unusual in it.
Farm Fresh Murder Page 9