I looked back at Carl’s house, which I could clearly see, but I couldn’t distinguish any other properties from this vantage point. That seemed odd, because I was higher up, but nonetheless I couldn’t see any part of Abner’s house or greenhouse.
I went to the other side of the trees and realized that without question these must be the ones in the pictures. Each of them had a heart carved into its trunk and words carved inside the hearts—not just initials, but whole words.
One said Pauline Loves Barry but had an X over it as though to cross it out. Another tree, the middle one, said Pauline Loves Matty, and it, too, had an X over the writing. The last tree was the most disturbing, though. I think it said Pauline Loves Abner, but I couldn’t tell whether or not those words had been negated by an X. Someone had recently taken what must have been an axe to it, and the only part I could read was Pauline Loves A; everything else was chopped up. I wondered if Sam had seen the trees yet, and if he had thought to check the axe for wood pieces along with blood and fingerprints.
“Weird,” I said. “Why?”
Beyond the fact that chopping away at the words was childish, the tree probably wouldn’t survive, and that irritated me. The Xs had been done a long time ago, carved with the same sort of thing that had carved the initials. The trees had made it through the carvings. But the chopping was a recent addition, something violent and thoughtless.
“It’s some sort of clue, Hobbit, but I have no idea what it means,” I said as I touched the exposed innards of the beautiful tree. “Who did this?”
Hobbit didn’t answer but made her way back to the other side of the trees. She barked lightly to get my attention.
Someone was pulling into Carl’s driveway. We were far enough away that they might not think to look in our direction, but I didn’t want to risk being seen.
“Come here, girl,” I said.
Fortunately, she listened and we hid behind the middle tree.
It was a truck, but not a brown one. In fact, it was white and maybe only five years old or so. It also had a topper over the bed. It had come from the opposite direction than we’d come, but I didn’t like that my bright orange truck was on the side of the state highway, right there for everyone to see. I didn’t have any advertising on it, but the color was an announcement in itself.
Since the house was so close to the road and the driveway was so short, once the white truck was all the way in the driveway, I couldn’t see it. I really wanted—no, needed—to know who was driving it.
“Damn. Hobbit, come on.”
We came out from behind the tree and hurried to the bowl. I ran like I’d been beaten up the previous day and my hip in particular had been injured. Even Hobbit looked at me like she wasn’t sure if I was serious or not—my gait was far from even and pain free, but I trudged along.
Finally we reached the bowl, and I practically slid on my behind down the side. I hurried (well, to the best of my ability) to the slope of the orchard from which I’d previously spied on Carl. There was no climbing the tree today, but I crawled up and peered over the side of the bowl. Hobbit, good sport that she was, lay on her belly next to me, her long paws sticking up over the lip of the bowl like rabbit ears.
The truck was empty and my breathing was more labored. If someone had come at me with an axe at that moment, I would have told Hobbit to run and save herself; there was nothing I could have done to protect my aching body from anyone or anything.
Ten minutes or so passed before the person attached to the truck emerged from the house.
I was shocked from the top of my bruised head to the bottom of my sore toes.
Mamma Maria, the pie lady from Smithfield Farmers’ Market, came out of the house, looked around as though she was trying to spot someone watching her, and then snuck a key into the lock. She wore jeans and a white T-shirt, but she was still . . . what was the term? Oh, yes, she was hot. She was a beautiful, sexy woman who baked amazing pies—if I wasn’t so curious about her involvement in Matt Simonsen’s murder, I might have been jealous. She hurriedly slid the key into her back pocket, got in the truck, and drove away. She didn’t look in my direction once.
What was she doing at Carl’s house? Why wasn’t she at her own market on one of the busiest days of the year? When could I get another one of her pies?
For a long time, I leaned against the edge of Carl’s orchard bowl and tried to come up with some answers, but nothing came to me except more questions. I couldn’t call anyone and tell them what I’d discovered. I’d pinky-sworn that I was out of the business of investigating murders and that I would take it easy all day. Even Allison might have had me arrested if she knew what I’d been up to—if only to keep me out of trouble.
“Come on, Hobbit, let’s go home,” I finally said.
I gathered my stiffening self and my dog. We made our way out of the bowl—my crawl wasn’t pretty—and into my truck.
So, for the rest of the afternoon, I did as all my friends/ family/pretend-doctors said. I thought my busy mind might prevent me from relaxing, but I was wrong. I didn’t just rest, I slept—another long nap. As I was dozing off, I hoped any upcoming dreams would help sort out the questions. But as far as I remember, I saw only black nothingness.
Nineteen
Surprising myself, I woke up in a good mood. I felt a bunch better and was well rested. Hobbit thought this suspicious, and for a while she followed me around the house with doubting eyes.
I still wasn’t going to Bailey’s, but I was ready for some serious time in the barn. I needed to get my inventory built back up to a respectable size. I planned on working the next week with a pain-free body, a good attitude, and lots of jam. Plus, I had a party to prepare for, and my bruised face would require a slab or two of makeup. That would take time.
Blueberries called to me from the freezer. Of my frozen fruits, they seemed to be most ready to be transformed into jam. This relationship I had with my plants and fruits, this intuitive communication, was probably something I got from my hippie parents, but it was real to me.
I pulled the berries out of the freezer to thaw while I readied everything else. First, I loaded jars into the dishwasher. My modern kitchen had been fitted with modern appliances, and my dishwasher had a Sterilize cycle. I still prepared the lids via the old-fashioned method: boiling on the stovetop.
There isn’t really anything more satisfying than the mashing of blueberries. Well, to me at least. Once they’d thawed enough, I placed the berries in the bottom of a pan and took a potato masher to them, happily smushing them just enough, and to perfection. Other fruit worked in the food processor, but the potato masher was the only way to go with blueberries.
My job was in so many ways my sanity. The process, from growing the crops to selling final products, was satisfying at every step. Working at Bailey’s, with my sister and with other friends, was a life that I wouldn’t trade for anything. As I worked the jam that Sunday morning, I realized that I wasn’t going to let a murderer or a few bruises ruin what had become a really terrific life.
Besides, I was close to figuring out . . . well, something. Whether it was the murderer’s identity or something else, I wasn’t sure. A realization of some sort kept trying to spark in my mind, like I was staring at something that I wasn’t really seeing. I’d mentioned as much to Ian when he called a couple of nights earlier, and he’d tried to add some flame to the spark, but neither of us had been able to get any closer to what I was missing.
Sigh.
Between attempting to organize my thoughts and enjoying some Motown classics as I worked, the time flew. Before I knew it, I was on the last step of processing the jam-filled and sealed jars in boiling water. Some people didn’t follow through with a complete boil, but to reduce any chance for spoilage, I not only boiled the jam-filled and sealed jars, but did so for a little longer than needed. After about seven to ten minutes, I used tongs to pull out the jars and set them on a cooling table, careful to not let them touch one another or
bang into anything. They’d cool throughout the day, and I’d be able to add them to my next week’s inventory. I was excited about the possible predictability of next week’s schedule. It would be good to get back to Bailey’s.
I left the kitchen at about two o’clock, a good day’s work accomplished. Hobbit greeted me happily and stayed at my side as I went back into the house. She waited as I showered and dressed. I kept telling her I was fine, but she held fast in her mission.
I wanted to take her to the dinner, but that wasn’t a reasonable idea. I’d lock her in the house when I left, and she wouldn’t be happy. I’d owe her big, but I’d find a way to make it up to her.
At exactly 3:41 P.M., a knock sounded on the front door.
“He’s a police officer, Hobbit, he’s trained to be early,” I said as I put in an earring. I’d had my ears pierced when I was eleven and had worn jewelry consistently until I’d started in the farming/preserves/market business. Casual, with no time for accessories, had been my fashion statement since then. But I was sure that Allison had worked hard to make this dinner upbeat, and that made me think I should spruce up a bit. And though the makeup had been necessary to cover my bruised face, I’d made it look pretty natural.
I opened the door with a smile and then froze in place. Officer Brion—I mean Sam—froze, too.
I know what was going on in my mind. I can only guess what was happening in his. This time it went something like this:
“Hi,” I said to the man whose oil light must have been blinking. Whatever he used for his slicked-back style was noticeably gone. In its place was a head full of clean, wavy brownish hair, somewhat ruffled. His short-sleeved shirt had a bright print; something almost Hawaiian but not quite. His muscular calves stuck out from below some casual shorts. He looked positively . . . playful.
“You’re wearing a dress,” he said as his eyes opened wide.
“Yes, it’s the only one I own.” It was a sundress, not really appropriate for the cooler evening weather, but I’d planned on wearing a sweater, too.
“You look . . . nice.”
“Are you sure?” I laughed.
He smiled, almost laughed, too, as his cheeks reddened.
“Yes, I’m sure. I just wasn’t expecting a dress.”
“You look nice yourself. And you don’t look a thing like a police officer.”
“That’s the plan, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” I said. “Did you have to go buy that get-up?”
“No, believe it or not, my clothes aren’t always unicolored, wrinkle free, and intense. Well, I can’t help the intense part so much, but I like a wrinkle or two sometimes,” he said, his mouth fighting another smile. To prove his intensity was never far away, he didn’t take his serious eyes away from mine. He could probably put a hole in steel with that stare if he wanted to.
“That’s good to hear.” I cleared my throat.
We looked at each other another beat or two. I suddenly wanted to know more about him—Why had he come to Monson, and what had his previous life been?
“Uh, well, we should probably go,” he said, breaking up the strange moment.
“Of course.” I grabbed the sweater I’d thrown over a chair and turned to Hobbit. “Be a good girl.”
She switched it on big-time. She was a pro eye-drooper.
“Let’s take her,” Sam said, being totally taken in by lesson one of Dog Charm School.
“I’d love to, Sam, but think about it. It’s probably not a good idea. It’s a dinner.”
“You’re right, but I hate leaving her. Will she stay in the car?”
“Only if we stay in it with her.”
Rough decision of the day made—Hobbit would miss the party. But I had on a dress, some earrings, and a thick layer of makeup—I felt very girly, and though it wasn’t something I needed to feel all the time, it was fun every now and then.
I was used to trucks, mostly old trucks. Sam’s vintage Mustang convertible was a welcome change. With the top down (by my choice—he asked which I preferred), my hair felt like it blew just right.
“Sam, I didn’t hear anything new yesterday. How’s it going with Abner? Allison was surprised that no one has said a word to her.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve kept it under wraps, which in a small town is no easy feat.”
“How?”
“I have my ways, but you probably don’t need to know the details. Suffice it to say that the news will be out by morning. The best thing is that Monson only has a weekly paper, not a daily. Monday’s—tomorrow’s—edition will have the story. The larger cities are interested in our small-town murder, but they’ll pursue it more after the Monson Gazette lands on porches tomorrow.”
“Allison and Ian know, Sam. I told them both,” I said, experiencing a rare moment of telling the truth.
“I figured as much, but they must not have spread the word, either.”
“I don’t think so. We’ll probably find out when we see how we’re greeted at the party.”
“It’ll be fine, either way.” Sam paused. “So, how are you, Becca? How’re you feeling?” he asked once we were on the state highway.
“I’m fine,” I said.
He looked doubtful.
“You were shot at, you hammered your own hip, and I threw you across a room with a door. Those sorts of things can cause pain.”
“I know, but really, I’m fine.” I was. Mostly. I was much better than the day before, but I didn’t go there. I wasn’t ready to tell him about my excursion. I wasn’t ready to tell anyone. Besides, Sam had said he’d check out the trees. He’d probably already seen them. Mamma Maria’s surprise appearance also wasn’t something I was ready to share. I wanted more details, hopefully from Carl and hopefully this evening at the party.
“Well, even tough police officers like myself”—he winked—“are required to talk to someone after being shot at.”
“A psychiatrist?”
“Yes, or psychologist. There are lots of people you can talk to if you need to. I’m not one of those ‘ists,’ but you can always talk to me.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that, I really do, but it was one shot and I don’t think I was the target. I’m not freaked-out in the least.”
“Okay.”
“Thanks, Sam,” I said.
“You’re welcome.”
“So, you’ve been a police officer for a long time?” I asked.
“You’re changing the subject, I see.”
“Yep.”
“I’ve been a police officer all my life, or at least since finishing college. It’s all I ever wanted to be.”
“So it’s a passion?”
“Complete and total.”
“Where did you grow up, come from?”
Sam paused long enough that I glanced at him. When he finally spoke, he said, “Chicago, the one in Illinois.” He tried to make the tone of his voice light so I wouldn’t notice the pause. It didn’t work.
“Why did you leave Chicago for South Carolina?”
“Have you ever been to Chicago?”
“No, I don’t think I have.”
“It’s a wonderful city, but it’s big and there’s a lot of crime—some of it very violent. I was ready for a change.”
“Crime like murders at farmers’ markets?”
“Good point.”
“Hmm.”
“What?”
“What?”
“Well, you don’t have to tell me or anything, but I know you’re not giving me the whole story. You said you love being a police officer, so enforcing the law in Chicago was probably wonderful. And South Carolina? There’s something else behind why you chose here, I can hear it in your voice.”
Sam laughed. “You definitely have a keen sense of observation. Very impressive. If you ever get tired of farming and farmers’ markets, I bet you’d make a good cop.”
“I’ll never get tired of what I do, but you still haven’t answered my questions. Tell me what you�
�re leaving out.”
Sam guided the convertible down the open road. There was no traffic, and the fields and intermittent dwellings on both sides of the road were part of what I loved most about where I lived. I thought I might lose my mind if I ever tried to live in a big city.
“Well, why I left is a very long story that I’m not ready to share with anyone quite yet, but maybe someday. Why I came to South Carolina, though—well, that’s easy. My grandparents lived here. I was born and raised in Chicago, but my parents brought me here to visit frequently. When I wanted to go someplace other than where I was—Chicago—I chose the place that had the best memories for me.”
“That’s a pretty good reason,” I said.
We drove in silence for a few minutes. Sam seemed to need a moment of introspection.
“So, how many murders have you solved?” I broke the silence.
He laughed again. “That’s an interesting question. Let’s see, I helped solve four in Illinois. Unfortunately, I worked on a number of others that didn’t get solved while I was there. This is my first murder in South Carolina. I’ll have it solved—or you’ll have it solved for me—shortly.”
“You’re confident?”
“Yes.”
“Is there a possibility that the murderer is someone other than Abner?”
“Anything is possible, but I have to find the evidence.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Quit putting yourself in danger, and don’t ‘forget’ to tell me anything else.”
“Point taken, but really, I want to help. Tonight, at least. At the dinner. Is there something I can do? I know you’ll be investigating, even though you won’t look like it.”
“I don’t know, yet. Let’s see what happens. Follow my lead, whatever it may be,” Sam said as we pulled into Bailey’s parking lot.
Farm Fresh Murder Page 16