Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Recipes
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Paige Shelton
PRAISE FOR
Farm Fresh Murder
“Ms. Shelton writes in such a way that the sounds and smells of the farmers’ market come to life through the pages . . . Each page leads to more intrigue and surprise as the ending explodes . . . Great job, Ms. Shelton!”
—The Romance Readers Connection
“A breath of summer freshness that is an absolute delight to read and savor . . . A feast of a mystery.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Becca is a genial heroine, and Shelton fashions a puzzling and satisfying whodunit. The first in a projected series, Farm Fresh Murder is a tasty treat.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“An appealing heroine . . . As satisfying as visiting the farmers’ market on a sunny afternoon.”
—Claudia Bishop
“Watching jam-maker Becca Robins handle sticky situations is a tasty delight.”
—Sheila Connolly
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Paige Shelton
FARM FRESH MURDER
FRUIT OF ALL EVIL
CROPS AND ROBBERS
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,
South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
CROPS AND ROBBERS
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / December 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Paige Shelton-Ferrell.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN : 978-1-101-55898-0
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA)
Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
For Tyler.
I hope that someday you are able to look back fondly
on when you were little and helped out at our restaurant.
Your best talents were frosting cookies
and then eating them.
Oh yeah, and winning the after closing
water fights with Brad and Rob.
Acknowledgments
A very special thanks to:
My agent, Jessica Faust, and my editor, Michelle Vega. You are amazing and I’m so fortunate to be able to work with you both.
Coming up with a title for this book was a challenge. But when I sent out an idea request via Facebook, many people contributed some great ones. It was Morgan McGuire, though, who had the perfect one. Thank you, Morgan. Someday I know you’ll be working on titles for your own books.
Luann Reeve, for your friendship and our lunches together. You keep me laughing and sane and let me ramble on aimlessly when I need to the most.
My family. I know you think I’m off my rocker sometimes, but you still cheer me on like I always make perfect sense. Much love.
Heidi Baschnagel, for helping me with so many recipes. I’d be lost without you.
And, Shannon Fitzpatrick, you’re pretty amazing. Keep up the good work.
One
I was on my best behavior. Everyone was on their best behavior. It wasn’t easy.
If the floors of Bailey’s Farmers’ Market hadn’t been made of dirt, I’m sure they would have been swept and mopped to a sparkling shine. As it was, we’d cleaned and polished our display tables and racks until we were all afflicted with cleaner’s elbow. Our products were lined up perfectly; even Barry of Barry Good Corn had organized his stalks so they were all going the same direction.
I’d ironed my short overalls, for goodness’ sake.
Allison, my fraternal twin sister and the manger of Bailey’s, hadn’t ordered us to be so . . . orderly. We’d taken on the task ourselves. We knew how important the visit was going to be—to all of us, even if all of us weren’t going to be under consideration. In fact, I wasn’t high on the consideration list, and I was fine with that. My business was going so well that if it boomed any more, I was going to have to hire an employee. I wasn’t ready for such responsibility. I had plenty to do with my jam-and-preserves market stall and a steadily growing shelf presence at some local Mayta-bee’s Coffee Shops.
But, for the team, for the rest of the vendors whose businesses could use a little boom, I was willing to clean, iron, organize, and be extraordinarily friendly. For vendors like Barry, and Jeanine, the egg lady, and Herb and Don of Herb and Don’s Herbs, this visit could take them from just making a living with their market stalls to making a better living, maybe to making a really great living. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportuni
ty, and we all knew how important it was. Well, almost all of us anyway.
Bo Stafford, onion vendor extraordinaire, had complained about the entire situation and refused to clean up his stall or organize even one of his tables of onions. Allison had told me to ignore his attitude, but that was becoming increasingly difficult. His stall was across and down three from mine. The only way I didn’t have to see his display of disarray and purposeful disrespect was if I stood toward the back of my own stall. And with the visitors scheduled to arrive at any moment, I wanted to be front and center and contribute to good vibrations, not bad.
Bo caught me peering at him out of the aggravated corner of my eye. He smiled sincerely and waved, which only made me feel mean. I should heed Allison’s advice and ignore his less-than-stellar behavior.
Bo and I had become closer recently because of our association with a community garden project. I’d spent many friendly hours digging in dirt with him and helping kids learn and love the world of farming. I’d gotten to know him on a whole other level, and I liked him more than I thought I ever would. In fact, he had a way with kids that I admired. I didn’t want to be angry at him.
I forced myself to look in the other direction, down the aisle. “Spiffy” was the word that came to mind when I glanced at Barry. Jeanine licked her finger and seemed to be trying to tame a piece of her very short hair. Herb and Don were inspecting each other. Even Abner, the wildflower man, had stepped it up; he wore very clean overalls, and I would have sworn I could see him practicing a smile or two. He wasn’t high on the association’s list of consideration either, but his flowers were so spectacular that one never knew if perhaps the Central South Carolina Restaurant Association might want to consider using his products for centerpieces or decorations. Anything was possible, and that was the feeling today—positive and hopeful.
Linda, my recently married good friend and neighbor-vendor, was decked out in her usual pioneer garb. She’d taken extra care to make sure her apron was spotless and ironed as well. I gently touched the spot on my left arm that was still healing from the gunshot graze I’d taken the night before her wedding. It was still sore but would return to normal someday. Her husband, Drew, was still on his top secret “military” (said in hushed tones) mission, but he was doing well and we’d heard that he was going to be home by Halloween. In an odd twist of events, her business was booming, too. She’d become a celebrity in her own right as the details of her mother-in-law’s murder had emerged. And, her pies were one of the products the board of the restaurant association specifically asked to sample. She had so many berry pies stacked in her stall that I only caught a glimpse of her pioneer bonnet every now and then.
The events that brought us to this fateful day had occurred so quickly that none of us had had much of a chance to gain our bearings.
Two weeks earlier, at the beginning of August, the South Carolina Record, a statewide publication that had gained popularity as “The Paper That’s All About the Food,” had given Bailey’s the distinction of being named the “Best Farmers’ Market” in all of the southeastern United States.
You’ll not find a better market with fresher food and friendlier vendors than Bailey’s. We’re sorry for those of you who don’t live close enough to make Bailey’s a daily—or even weekly—stop in your shopping. We wish we could buy all of our groceries, jewelry, and artwork from the market on the edge of Monson, South Carolina.
That in itself was enough to boost business for the vendors. We’d all been seeing bigger crowds and heavier cash boxes at the end of the day. But, another result of the article and the rating was that Bailey’s had been approached by the Central South Carolina Restaurant Association. They were a group of about forty restaurants that were always meeting and discussing things like tablecloths, credit card companies, seating limits, and where to get the freshest foods for their customers. Apparently, the small article got their attention.
They, or at least their eleven board members, were on their way to Bailey’s to sample and shop. If we lived up to some standards that weren’t overly clear to any of us, we’d become one of their main suppliers. They would send the trucks, and we would pack them with products.
Yes, it was a very big day.
I needed to focus on my smile, and ignore Bo and the suffocating heat that I’d described to Allison as gates-of-hell hot. It was amazing how much I sweated when I was supposed to look my best.
My phone buzzed in my overalls pocket, interrupting my silent personal pep talk.
“Hey, Allison,” I said as I answered. “They here?”
“Not yet, but someone else, or elses, are.”
“Who?”
“Mom and Dad. They’re on the way to your stall. I explained what’s going on, so they wanted to be able to say hi to you before you got too busy.”
“Mom and Dad? Our wayward parents are home? Do they look okay?” I talked to my parents frequently enough, but they’d hit the road in an RV almost two years earlier and hadn’t said anything that made either Allison or me think they might be coming back to Monson anytime soon. I hoped neither of them was ill.
“They’re fine. I doubt they’re planning on sticking around long, but I think they needed a check-in to make sure we’re okay and you weren’t planning on another divorce soon, or getting shot at.” Allison laughed lightly.
“Funny,” I said. I was twice-divorced and not currently married. I wasn’t in a hurry to be married again, and my boyfriend Ian and I were on the same page regarding such commitments. He and I were both so busy building our businesses that it wasn’t the time for planning such things. I’d traveled back to Iowa with him to meet his family, and though I didn’t think it mattered all that much, Ian’s father and I hadn’t gotten along quite as well as Ian and I had hoped.
There was also the fact that he was ten years my junior. Not only was he building his business, he was also still building the sort of life a twenty-five-almost-twenty-six-year-old man should be building. We realized we weren’t there, but I suspected Ian was also part of the reason my parents had made a stop in town. It was time for them to meet him.
“Actually, you’re going to be pleased with the way they look. They seem healthy and happy,” she said. “Gotta go.”
I put the phone back in my pocket and peered over my front display table. Only a second or two later, I saw my parents moving down the aisle. Allison was right; they looked great. Polly and Jason Robins waved and flashed friendly smiles to the vendors as they made their way toward me. Dad was tall and dark, just like Allison, and Mom was petite and blonde, just like me. They were both hippies who’d made some great real estate investments over the years and were able to travel the country in an expensive RV instead of a Volkswagen van like they’d done when they were first married.
But today, they didn’t look as much like hippies as they had last time I’d seen them.
Dad’s dark hair was short, very short, shorter than it had ever been. He was clean shaven and tanned to a brown perfection. He wore khaki shorts and a blue golf shirt. I had never seen my father in a golf shirt before, and I pondered what could have happened in his life to make him wear one.
Mom wore a long bohemian sleeveless dress, which assured me that whatever had possessed my father hadn’t spread to my mother yet. But, on second glance, was her shoulder-length hair straight and in a ponytail? Mom and I looked alike except for the length and state of curliness of our hair. I wore mine short, straight, and easy. She wore hers long and curly. But where was the wild curliness that she preferred? Of course, the curls were achieved with perms, but it had always fit her so well. She looked almost distinguished with her smooth ponytail. She reminded me of Allison, and she never reminded me of Allison. Her nose was also a healthy pink; that, along with Dad’s tan, made me think they might have been at a beach recently.
But hang on, something else was missing. Where were the long beaded earrings she always wore? From where I stood, I would have sworn she wore posts. Posts!?
>
They weren’t themselves. I braced myself for whatever bad news they were bringing.
“Becca, my girl,” Dad said as he embraced me over the display table. He smelled of Zest soap, just like he always had.
“Becca, so lovely to see you,” Mom said when it was her turn.
I inspected them both very closely. Allison was right; though they didn’t look like the parents I was accustomed to, they both looked great. They were only fifty-four, but they actually looked younger—in an oddly mature way—than they did two years ago.
“Wow, it is so good to see you both,” I said, holding back some surprise tears. It was so good to see them. “I don’t know where to begin with my questions, so tell me everything. Where’ve you been recently? Glad to see you, but really wondering why you stopped by. And, Dad, why are you wearing a golf shirt instead of a T-shirt?”
They both laughed.
“We just spent a few days at Myrtle and thought we’d stop by for a visit. Can’t a mom want to see her girls?” Mom said. Myrtle was Myrtle Beach, perhaps one of the greatest places in the world and located on the South Carolina coast.
“Sure,” I said.
“I like my golf shirt,” Dad said as though he was surprised by my observation. It was then that I realized what had happened. They were living their midlife crises, in reverse of how most middle-aged people experienced such a thing, but for a couple hippies they were “crisising” in their own ways. I’d faint, though, if they’d driven to Bailey’s in a four-door sedan.
“You look spectacular,” I said as I laughed.
Crops and Robbers Page 1