Crops and Robbers

by Paige Shelton

  “I . . . I think I started to run, but I didn’t get far. I ran into something. I don’t understand it, but I think I ran into the person who was coming at me. How is that possible?”

  “Don’t worry about the possibilities, just remember. At that point, did you see what they looked like?”

  “No. A second later my head hurt and everything went black, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “The person I ran into had a distinct smell . . . It’s the same scent I noticed at the market.”

  “Body odor?” Sarie asked.

  “No, no, it was . . . they smelled like . . . it really is coming to me. Maybe oregano. Maybe.”

  “Think about it a little more. Let’s be sure. Sniff and remember.”

  Mom sniffed, and then sniffed again, and then one more time. I was holding my breath. Dad, Allison, and Aldous probably were, too, but Sarie remained calm and in control.

  “Yes. Yes, I’m positive. This person smelled of oregano. Something besides that, but I can’t pinpoint it. But oregano for sure.”

  “Very good. Now, one more thing, Polly. Can you tell me if it was a big person or a small person? Maybe if it was a male or a female?”

  “No. I wish I could, but now all I can see is oregano.”

  “Let’s skip to what you remember next, then.”

  “I woke up. I was outside, on the side of the barn, but it took me a long time to figure that out. I . . . oh, I had blood all over me. It was horrible. I was dizzy, but I stood up and went around to the front of the barn. I looked inside and saw Becca, Hobbit . . . and . . . oh, that poor woman.”

  Sarie turned to me and Allison. She didn’t say anything, but I thought her eyes might be asking if we had enough information. Allison and I looked at each other, and then she turned to Sarie and nodded. If Mom couldn’t identify whoever she saw, there wasn’t much more to know at this point.

  Sarie told Mom she was going to wake her from the relaxed state. Mom would remember everything that happened while she was “under,” and she’d feel especially relaxed and rested.

  “Oh, I can’t believe what I remembered,” Mom said when she was wide awake. “And what I still don’t remember, of course, but maybe it’ll come.”

  “It might,” Sarie said. “I thought that was a pretty successful session.”

  “Oregano, Mom?” Allison asked.

  “Yes, I think. Sort of. Maybe. I don’t remember smells well, but I’m almost certain I remember oregano.”

  The only oreganos I knew about were what was sold in the grocery store and what was grown and sold by Herb and Don. It was a common spice, though, and could have come from anywhere—anywhere but my farm. I didn’t grow it and even though I loved all of Herb and Don’s spices, I wasn’t a creative or frequent enough cook to keep it around in anything but very small quantities.

  “Almost?” I asked.

  “Yes. It’s as if there’s something else, another smell, but I can’t place it,” Mom said.

  Sarie smiled at Mom. “It’s a good start, Polly. Things might start coming back more strongly. It was a traumatic situation. You were hit on the head. The human body sometimes copes with trauma by using what I call the ‘forget button’ in the brain. As you continue to heal, the pressure that’s on your subconscious to forget what happened to your body might let up. Don’t push yourself, and, of course, feel free to call me if you want to do this again.”

  Mom nodded absently. I could tell the memory of whatever scent was haunting her was right on the edge of her awareness.

  A loud knock sounded from the door. We turned to see Sam as he opened it and peered in.

  “Time to go,” he said. “The judge is waiting.”

  Seventeen

  Sam unlocked the cell door, and Mom joined us on the “outside.”

  Officer Rumson gently took her arm and led the way. Aldous walked next to Mom; Dad followed behind and then Allison followed him. Sam was still by the door as I brought up the rear. I stopped long enough to let the rest of the crowd get far enough ahead so they wouldn’t hear what I had to say to Sam.

  “Oregano,” I said quietly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Mom ran into someone who smelled like oregano. I’ll talk to you about it after the bail hearing.”

  “I’m all for that, Becca, but you might want to let your mom’s attorney know that you’ll be talking to me.”

  I wondered why, but of course it made sense. Sam wouldn’t want to jeopardize Mom’s case in any way. He might want to investigate something I told him. He didn’t want to find something that might actually prove her guilty, or at least that’s what I hoped.

  I wasn’t sure whether I’d tell Aldous or not, but I nodded agreeably.

  Everyone in the courtroom, with the exception of Aldous, knew Judge Eunice Miller. If I’d thought about it, I would have given Aldous a crash course in the judge. He and Mom sat at the defendant’s table.

  Judge Miller was old, had been old since I’d first seen her making her way down Monson’s Main Street when I was probably five or so. She was over six feet tall, with wide shoulders but a thin, long body. She wore her hair short, almost shaved. Her dark scalp matched the rest of her skin tone, and I always thought she could be a model. She still looked the same as she had when I’d been a child, and I found her large exoticness intimidating, even though she’d never been anything but friendly to me. That was because I’d never had to stand in front of her in her courtroom. This was her domain; she didn’t put up with any . . . well, with anything. Though she had to deal with a full range of criminal activity, we had had one murder trial in Monson back in 1990 that made history. Judge Miller’s face had been plastered on the front pages of all the South Carolina newspapers. She’d become an unwilling celebrity.

  Judge Miller didn’t like photographers or pictures or reporters or anyone who disrupted the flow of her court; therefore, in every picture, she’d scowled like the irritated judge that she was. I didn’t remember many of the details, but Norman Weldson had been found guilty of murder. At his sentencing, he dropped dead from a heart attack. Legend had it that Judge Miller had taken care of him with her eyes—eyes that were brown and clear and the smartest I’d ever seen.

  I both admired her and was scared to death of her.

  I sat in the gallery with Allison, Dad, and Sam.

  Allison and Dad, the two calmest, most levelheaded people I knew, were both biting at their bottom lips. They looked so much alike, even in the nervous habits they tried to hide, and I wished I could wrap my arms around them.

  Sam sat next to me.

  Other than the bailiff officer who I didn’t know, the prosecutor who I also didn’t know, and Jenny Henderson, the court reporter who’d been around as long as Judge Miller, there was no one else in the old, small courtroom, which confirmed what the overnight police officer had said: it had been a quiet night. Hobbit had remained in the police station with Officer Rumson, who’d offered to watch her after he delivered Mom.

  “Please rise,” the bailiff said. “The honorable Judge Eunice Miller presiding.”

  Judge Miller made her way to the bench. She moved lithely and with the spirit of someone who didn’t know their bones and muscles were older than dirt. She eyed the courtroom as she picked up her gavel. With one all-encompassing glance, she could take in a room and make every single person in it think she was looking directly at them.

  “Have a seat.” She pounded the gavel.

  The prosecutor was a young woman who’d, according to Sam, traveled from Charleston for the hearing. She looked fresh out of law school. Her gray suit was pressed, and her short red hair was perfect. She wore just the right amount of makeup, and just looking at the heels on her shoes made my ankles hurt. Immediately, I didn’t like her.

  “Your Honor, I’d like to request remand,” the prosecutor began eagerly.

  Judge Miller slipped on some reading glasses and peered over them at the young woman. The judge lifted her auth
oritative eyebrows. “I see. Well, perhaps we could back up a little bit. I’d like to know a little more before you make your remand request.”

  The prosecutor cleared her throat. “Of course. I’m sorry, Your Honor.”

  “S’all right. What’s your name?”

  “Rose Warren for the state, Your Honor.”

  “And you are?” Judge Miller looked at Aldous.

  “Aldous Astaire for the defense, Your Honor.”

  “Why have I not met you before?”

  “I just moved here to work with my . . . to work with Levon Lytle, Your Honor,” Aldous said.

  “I see. Where’s Levon?”

  “Not feeling up to par today.”

  “Hmm.” She turned to the bailiff and told him to remind her to check on Levon later. “All right, then. It looks like we have a murder here. Those sorts of crimes do not please me in the least.”

  She lifted a folder and moved it away from her eyes a distance. “State vs. Polly Robins in the murder of Joan Ashworth, how do you plead?”

  Aldous nodded at my mom.

  “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

  “Your Honor . . .” Rose began.

  Judge Miller lifted her hand, once again halting the prosecutor’s enthusiasm.

  “I appreciate that you might have somewhere else you need to be, Ms. Warren, but as you might have noticed, Monson’s a little short on crimes needing attention this morning. Give me another second, and then you can request whatever you need to request.”

  Rose Warren might have been from the big city and she might have been in a hurry, but she wasn’t stupid. She nodded and said, “I apologize again, Your Honor.”

  Judge Miller studied the folder a minute or two longer and then removed her glasses.

  “Ms. Robins, I believe you are a former resident of Monson. Is that correct?”

  “Yes . . . well, my husband and I are traveling the country in an RV, but we still consider Monson our home.”

  “When did you return?”

  “Thursday night, late.”

  “The day before the murder?”

  “Yes,” Mom said.

  “I see. All right Ms. Warren, tell me what you need to tell me.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. We request remand. The crime is murder and the only evidence available leads to Ms. Robins. Considering her living situation, she’s clearly a flight risk. We’d also like to have her transported to a jail facility in Charleston. While we have complete faith in the legal system in place in Monson, the facilities aren’t as secure as we’d like for a murder suspect. The prisoner has an arrest record as well.”

  Judge Miller looked at Aldous.

  “Your Honor, the evidence pointing to the witness is minute at best, perhaps a false positive at worst. She was arrested because the police haven’t had an opportunity to investigate the crime scene fully . . .”

  I looked at Sam, who shrugged. “He’s kind of right. We’re still processing, but we did find your mother’s fingerprints,” he whispered.

  Aldous continued. “In fact, she isn’t a flight risk. Her family is here, and if the prosecutor is insinuating that Ms. Robins will leave town in a large RV with a bright yellow stripe down the side—well, I just don’t think that constitutes a big risk. As for her previous record, I’m sure you’ll see that all of her arrests were the result of peaceful protests, nothing that included or involved violence.” Aldous was firm and certain in his words and suddenly reminded me nothing of Pee-wee Herman. I wanted to cheer him on, but I didn’t.

  Judge Miller pushed up her glasses, but they fell immediately to the tip of her nose again as she surveyed the group.

  “Ms. Warren, I’m going to grant your request for remand, but not the other part. Ms. Robins can stay here in one of the police department’s holding cells.” The judge looked at Sam, who nodded. “I’m okay with Mr. Robins staying in the holding room, but not in the cell with his wife.”

  “Your Honor! That’s highly irregular,” Rose exclaimed.

  Judge Miller pounded her gavel once with authority.

  “Irregular?” She said. “Clearly you don’t understand whose courtroom you’re standing in. Whatever decision I make is highly regular because it’s my decision. I define regular.”

  Ms. Warren pinched her mouth shut and started loading her briefcase.

  I didn’t know the legal ramifications of the mini-spar between the prosecutor and the judge, but I didn’t much care. I was disappointed that my mother would be kept in jail, but at least it was one with room service.

  “That’s good news, Becca. That’s very good,” Sam said.

  “Now,” the judge said. “Let’s set a date for trial.”

  As she’d mentioned earlier, there weren’t many crimes in need of attention in the Monson area. The calendar was pretty open. She consulted with both attorneys and Sam as to whether two weeks from today would give everyone reasonable time to get done whatever they needed to get done.

  Everyone agreed and, with the exception of Ms. Warren, we made our way back to the small holding cell that would be my mother’s home for at least the next two weeks, unless the real killer was discovered. The judge had confided in Sam that she suspected the prosecutor would make a motion to have the trial moved to Charleston, but she thought she had enough clout to keep it in Monson.

  By the time we made sure Mom and Dad were fine back in the holding cell room, it was only ten in the morning.

  Sam had disappeared. I watched Aldous ride away on his bicycle after he assured us that he’d keep us in the loop regarding Mom’s defense. The prosecutor didn’t even look in my direction as she hopped into her Toyota and presumably drove back to Charleston. Allison had to get back to the market, which is where I was supposed to be, too, but we both thought that I could spend my time doing things that might help my mom’s case. She transferred a small amount of my inventory to her car. She’d put a note up at my stall apologizing for my absence today and perhaps tomorrow and informing any regular customers that she’d have some jars in her office. It was irregular to say the least, but we were both okay with it.

  Hobbit and I sat on the steps in front of the police station as I dialed Ian’s number on my cell phone. I made arrangements to meet him out at his soon-to-be lavender farm. I closed my phone and told Hobbit we were going to see Ian just as Sam reappeared and came out of the building.

  “Becca!” he said as he hurried down the stairs. “Sorry, I had to take care of something. Do you have a minute?” He stopped in front of me and looked around before he spoke again. “You wanted to tell me something about oregano? Did you talk to your mom’s attorney?”

  “I didn’t. Do you think he’d be angry at me for telling you what happened during the hypnosis?” I said.

  “Most definitely. That’s up to you. I won’t push you for a thing. Remember, though, it’s my job to find the killer, no matter where the evidence leads me. Plus, I wasn’t there and didn’t hear anything firsthand. For all I know, you could be making it up.”

  “I’m not making anything up.”

  Sam rubbed his knuckle over his chin. “Okay, for all I know, your mom made it up. She really wasn’t hypnotized but created a good story.”

  “She wouldn’t do that, Sam.”

  Sam shrugged. “Just telling you my perspective, the perspective I have to have as an officer of the law.”

  “Fine. I won’t give you the details, but I will tell you she thinks she ran into someone—literally ran into them—who smelled of oregano, the spice.”

  Sam blinked. “That’s not totally unhelpful, Becca, but there still isn’t much I can do with the information. I will keep my nose on the lookout, though.”

  Sam was in work mode, which was my least favorite part of him. But he was a good cop, and I was glad he was on the case.

  “Thanks,” I said. I turned and guided Hobbit to the truck. “I’m sure Allison and I will both be checking on Mom again today.”

  “You’re more than welcome.�
��

  “See you later, Sam.”

  “Becca?” Sam said as I reached the truck. I turned to see that the work-mode Sam, though still in the same clothes and slicked-back hair, had a question in his eyes that I’d never seen in combination with the uniform. It made me uncomfortable.

  “Yeah?”

  He hesitated only long enough to make me know he didn’t say what was actually on his mind. “Be careful.”

  “You, too.”

  I drove toward Ian and the lavender farm. I tried not to look in my rearview mirror, but I failed and saw Sam watch us drive away. He and I would need to have a conversation soon, but I wasn’t sure exactly what we needed to talk about. Just something.

  I turned on the AM radio and listened to the mid-morning farm report. It was somehow soothing and exciting at the same time and helped me remember all the good stuff: my job, my farm, the wide-open spaces, and all the fresh air. My mother wasn’t a killer, and she’d be released from the holding cell soon. We’d figure it out.

  At least I hoped as much.

  Eighteen

  Ian’s future lavender farm was just past my childhood home, a short distance into the country outside Monson. It was about ten minutes from my place, which made it close, as farm distances go. When Allison heard that the previous property owner, Bud Morris, was interested in selling, she directed Ian to get in touch with Bud. Before long and after sniffing out some bad bank behavior, Ian was approved for a mortgage and Bud had found a new comfortable home in a retirement community staffed with people who made sure he got three meals a day and didn’t have to worry about much of anything.

  Bud had lived in a shack on the land for a number of years but hadn’t farmed it. He’d moved there after losing his wife and son in separate tragedies. When I met him a few months earlier, I worried about his safety in the wobbly structure. Fortunately, Bud was now safe and Ian had been able to purchase land that would hopefully turn into a fertile and beautiful lavender farm. And the shack had been torn down.

  Ian hadn’t planted anything yet but was readying the ground for the following year’s crop. He was also building a combination warehouse and living structure that would house his essential oil business as well as his yard artwork business, which had continued to become increasingly popular throughout South Carolina, and give him a place to sleep and clean up when necessary. He had a lot on his plate, but we both saw how, once everything was rolling on its own, he would build the type of life and career he’d always wanted. His lifelong goal was to own land and farm it. The successful yard artwork business had helped his dreams come true even sooner than he’d expected.