When he’d dreamed about owning and working land, lavender hadn’t been part of the picture, but meticulous research and planning eventually steered him in that direction, and it was exciting to watch his enthusiasm.
I parked the truck on the side of the road. In the last couple of days a large hole had appeared where the shack had been. It was larger than I’d imagined it would be.
The soil was gritty and not the same sort of fertile I needed for my strawberries and pumpkins. Lavender requires well-drained soil and lots of sun. Ian’s land seemed to have both.
At the moment he was steering a tractor in a slow straight line. I suddenly decided that there was something very appealing about a man on a tractor.
I’d gotten past any issues I had with Ian being ten years my junior. Other than that one thing, our relationship had been mostly easy—certainly much easier than either of my marriages. Ian and I were in different places in our lives and that was apparent, but neither of us seemed to feel a need to ask the other to reprioritize.
Even when he wasn’t on the tractor, I found him fetching, with his long ponytail and dark exotic skin he’d inherited from some of his Native Americans ancestors. At the moment, he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that covered six of his seven tattoos; my favorite, the seventh one, was the small peace sign on his right hand. Hobbit and I got out of the truck. I gave her permission to stretch her legs as I leaned against the driver’s side door and continued to observe the man on the tractor.
He saw Hobbit first, as she ran into his line of vision. When he saw me, he turned off the tractor and signaled me to join him.
“Hey,” he said. “Climb on up.” He extended his hand. “How’s your mom? The hypnotist? The bail hearing? Sorry I couldn’t be there.”
He pulled me up, and I sat in front of him on the tractor’s seat. I loved the high perch—it made me want a tractor of my own. I gave him a full rundown of the earlier events. The late morning was quiet and peaceful without the sound of the engine. Even though the day so far had been stressful, I began to feel myself relax to something more normal.
“Sorry about no bail, but at least she can stay in town,” he said.
“Until the judge gets overruled by a higher court. I’m sure the prosecutor will be all over it.”
“Judge Miller’s well respected. I bet everything will be fine. Again, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.”
“No problem. There wasn’t anything we could do anyway. It was all under the judge’s control. We just observed and hoped for the best. It could have been worse, I suppose.”
“Without a doubt.”
“So, what are you doing with the tractor? I forgot to ask. And why is that hole so much bigger than I pictured it would be?” I pointed.
“I’m tilling phosphate into the soil. I had it tested and it was a little light. Plus, I need to get it more leveled out. I’m not sure if I’m accomplishing that with the tiller, but we’ll see.” The land had a slight slope to it, but that’s what helped it get so much sun. “And the hole is for the basement.”
“I thought it was for the basement, but why is it so big?”
“It’s going to be a big basement.”
“The warehouse will need a big basement?”
Ian hesitated a beat before he answered. “I’ll have to show you my new plans. Of course I’ll need the warehouse, but instead of small living quarters, I’m building more of a house.”
“Oh,” I said.
He cleared his throat. “I figure if I’m building something, I might as well prepare for . . . well, just be prepared, I guess. If I’m building and all. That is.”
We’d talked about living together. It would have been easier on our vehicles to have us both in the same location. But I could never leave my farm, and he currently was a big part of his landlord’s life. George was old and couldn’t see well. Ian’s workshop was in George’s garage with an apartment above. Neither of us could leave him. We’d discussed the possibility that there might be other renters out there who’d befriend him and help him out if needed, but it wasn’t a risk we were willing to take.
And now it sounded like we would have one more place—a nice place—in competition for our time.
“Becca,” Ian said as he wrapped his arms around me. “I mean it—it’s just to be prepared. Think about it. I’m building anyway. I won’t be George’s tenant forever—though I’ll never abandon him. You know I don’t see an end to you and me. I’m not trying to make any statement except that, shoot, I might as well make this entire property as appealing as possible.”
“Makes sense,” I said. It did, but there was still something about it that bothered me, though I knew if I said anything further I’d sound whiny and annoying, so I let it go, for now. “Hey, do you know I’ve only ridden on a tractor a couple times. I’d love to give it another go.”
Ian laughed. “I’m your man, then. Hang on tight. I think we’ll be moving at about three to five miles an hour.”
The ride was perfect and served to put me in an even better mood. I decided to enjoy the moment and worry about the rest later. Having been through bad marriages, I realized how important it was to enjoy the good “couple moments” as they happened.
By the end of the ride, I mentally put another exclamation point on the reasons I love living where I live and doing what I do. I’d never be able to trade these sorts of simple pleasures for things like traffic jams (vehicle traffic jams, that is—I was stuck behind some cows the other day), smog, and belly-to-butt people. My wardrobe, full of T-shirts, overalls, and a few nicer things, was as extensive as I hoped it would ever be.
I hopped off the tractor. “You want to go to dinner again? Manny’s Pizza?” I said as Ian dismounted, too. “Jake had no idea—well, no serious idea he was willing to share—as to why his name was on a note that Joan had written. He and Viola lied to me, but I’m not sure why or exactly what the lie was. I told him Joan dropped the note at the market, so I lied too. I’d like to smell Manny and see if there’s a way to ask him about the note. Oh, and Jake and Betsy have gone out a couple times. He wouldn’t tell me much about their relationship, but I think it’s interesting that they’ve dated.”
Ian laughed. “I don’t suppose Jake likes to talk about his personal life with the sister of his high school girlfriend.”
“I don’t think that was it. That was ages ago. I think Jake’s just naturally shy. Anyway, want to go out with me again tonight? Since oregano has now become a curiosity and Manny works with lots of oregano, his seems like the next logical restaurant.”
“Do we get to break into his office?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m in. Should we invite Sam? I know he loves Manny’s, and I bet he’d keep us within the parameters of legal activity.” Ian smiled.
“Sure,” I said without thinking. I didn’t understand what was going on between Sam and me, but something told me we shouldn’t invite him to dinner with us. Too late.
“I have to head downtown to ask about some building permits. I’ll stop by and visit your parents and invite him.”
“Great,” I said.
“What?” He’d heard something in my voice. “Should I not visit your parents?”
“No, nothing. I think they’d love it if you visited them. I’m just distracted. I’ll see you later.”
Our kiss was filled with the scents of tilled land and fresh air. I was head over heels for Ian and loved kissing him, but I tried to put something extra special into this one.
“Mmm,” he said as he lifted an eyebrow. “Looking forward to seeing you later.”
I gathered Hobbit and we got back into the truck. I watched Ian climb aboard the tractor again and begin the slow movement over the land. Finally I waved good-bye.
Dinner was still many hours away, but I had plenty to do.
Other than knowing that my mother didn’t kill anyone, I didn’t have any solid idea as to who murdered Joan. The clues were sparse and scattered, to say the
least, plus I wasn’t even sure if they were real clues. The possibilities currently seemed endless, and the only “leads” were the smell of oregano and a cryptic note and list that might be nothing more than random scribbles.
Clinging to the only thing that I thought substantial, I decided to talk to Herb and Don at Bailey’s. Their oregano was fresh, delicious, and very popular. Joan had liked it; so had Manny. I didn’t think it would hurt to ask them some questions, even if I wasn’t sure exactly what the questions were.
I pulled into Bailey’s and parked in the lot instead of behind my stall. The market was busy enough that I didn’t want to take a good spot from a customer, though, so I picked one far from the entrance. I knew I’d chance running into one or more of my regulars, and they’d wonder about the note at my stall and my absence from it, but since I didn’t have any better ideas, talking to Herb and Don had become the goal I couldn’t ignore.
Hobbit and I first went into the small building at the front of the market. Allison wasn’t in her office, but the box of my preserves was, with a few jars missing. We set a course for the inner market aisle.
Herb and Don were busy. Everyone was busy.
And there was nothing I could do to disguise myself. Even with the hypnotist appointment and the bail hearing, I’d worn my regular summer attire: short overalls and a T-shirt. The T-shirt was clean and not stained, though, which was rare. I stood to the side of the herb stall and waited until the guys had a free moment. If one of my customers saw me, I’d have to be honest and tell them I was only there briefly, but it would be awkward.
As I waited, I stood on my tiptoes and craned my neck to look down the aisle toward my stall, but I couldn’t see much of anything except the moving crowd of people.
“Hey, Becca,” Herb said as he rearranged some product on the front display table. He and Don had turned their business into one of the most successful at the market. They did some wholesale business away from Bailey’s, but most of their customers were regular weekly shoppers.
“Herb, Don,” I said.
Don peered up from where he sat at the back of the stall. He was pulling bags of herbs from boxes and putting them into other boxes.
Herb was the short, bald musician part of the couple; Don was the muscular, tall male-model part. When they weren’t selling herbs, and sometimes when they were, they improvised classic comedy routines, bits from old-time actors like Laurel and Hardy and Abbott and Costello. They were very entertaining.
“What can we do . . . hey, I went by your stall earlier and you weren’t there. Are you really late today?” Herb asked.
“Not working. I’m undercover.”
Herb’s eyes widened. “Such a great disguise. I only recognized you by your voice.”
“I didn’t think it through very well. I stopped by to ask you about oregano.”
“Ask away. I know whatever you need to know,” Herb said as Don stood and joined us at the display table.
“I guess just tell me more about it, whatever you want to tell me.”
Herb’s eyes lit. He loved talking about herbs. “All righty. Well, it’s a perennial that grows from about yay high to yay high”—he held his hands about two feet and then three feet apart—“and it has lovely purple flowers. We dry the leaves, not the flowers, to create the herb. Some people call it wild marjoram, but that bugs us for some reason.” Don nodded in agreement. “Humans have messed with creating different kinds of oregano over the years; sadly, some oregano is weaker than it should be. We watch our plants and the pH in our soil to keep ours flavorful and strong. Naked, it can be so strong that it numbs the tongue. But when it’s mixed in with other foods, the strong flavor becomes very important. Of course, pizza is a biggie for oregano, but it’s also used in lots of other cooking. It’s a very important herb.”
I nodded. “Who would smell of oregano?”
They both laughed. “Lots of people,” he said as he leaned close to me. “Sniff.”
I’d noticed that Herb and Don both smelled of their spices, mostly the oregano they were famous for, but as I sniffed, I wondered how my mom could distinguish it from other strong-smelling herbs.
“Good, huh?” Don laughed.
“You both smell delicious.”
“Tell her the other stuff, Don. You know, about the essential oils,” Herb said.
“Oh yeah. Actually, Ian told us about the essential oils. He’s been studying up on lavender oils, and he told us about the oregano oils.”
“Oregano can be in oil form, too?” I said.
Don nodded as Herb moved to the other side of the stall to help a customer. “Essential oil. It’s not something we have time to do, but Ian might eventually purchase from us to create it. But that’s down the road. Anyway, he told us the oil can be used for lots of things. It’s an antiseptic, can be used to help sore muscles; inhaled, it’s an expectorant—it’s strong, though, and can also be used as a sedative.”
“Sedative? You mean like to knock someone unconscious?” My interest peaked. Could the person who smelled like oregano have been trying to make my mother unconscious? Could that be why she remembered the smell?
“I think so, but I know the herb, not the oil. You should ask Ian if he knows more about that. I’m sketchy on the details.”
“I will. Thanks.” My mind played with the possibility that someone had used oregano as a sedative as they were committing a murder on my property. Of course, that didn’t mean it was as powerful as chloroform, which could render someone unconscious almost instantly when held to their nose. “Sedative” didn’t necessarily mean “unconscious.” Still, maybe it was something important.
That was all the time I got, because another wave of customers began to converge on their stall.
Hobbit and I wove our way through the crowd toward Bo and his onions. Hobbit stopped as we passed my space. She looked at me with furrowed eyebrows.
“I know. I’m playing hooky,” I said. I had an urge to look down and keep my eyes covered with my hand, but even that wouldn’t have hidden me.
She didn’t approve.
Bo was bagging up some baby onions just as we stopped in front of his stall.
“Becca,” he said with a smile. “My mother loved meeting you. Dance with any rats lately?”
I laughed. “I had a great time meeting your mom, Bo. Thanks for introducing us.”
“Did you talk to Elliot?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“The gentleman who was allegedly poisoned wasn’t really harmed. His name was John Ralston and he sold apples. He was a vendor who’d also either been dropped by the restaurant association or got out of it.”
“I don’t even know that name,” Bo said. “He sold apples?”
“That’s what the paper said. He retired a few years back and then died—of a heart attack—a year ago. I was wondering, though, can you think of any other vendors who were dropped by the association, maybe even restaurant owners?” I asked.
Bo shook his head slowly. “No, but that makes me wonder how many there have been. Maybe they dropped someone recently. Maybe that person got mad at Joan and killed her. I wish I knew, Becca.”
“Me, too,” I said.
What I didn’t emphasize to Bo, though, was that no matter who killed Joan, they’d done the deed on my property. That fact had, of course, been under my skin more than I wanted to admit to anyone. I never got a chance to quit or be dropped by the association. I was cut off before Joan even finished the cracker with the sample. So, why my barn? Why my property?
I thanked Bo again, and Hobbit and I wove our way back to the truck and then took a slow trip home. Whether there was more evidence on my property or not, I needed some time to just be there. I needed to get past any sense of being spooked I might still have.
In a way, I suddenly knew I needed to reclaim what was mine before I could clearly see why someone had wanted to spoil it.
Nineteen
I pulled into the drivewa
y, determined not to think about bodies in the barn.
Hobbit nudged my arm as I put the truck in Park.
“What is it, girl?” I asked.
She nudged my arm again and then licked my ear.
“You’re right. No one can run us out of what’s ours. Let’s go. Let’s go make the rest of the day just for us.”
After a search of my house and barn just to make sure there were no surprises, the first item on my list of things to do was to inspect my crops. With a critical eye, I started in the pumpkin patch. I thought I’d seen signs of mold on some of the leaves a week ago, but it had been a false alarm; everything still looked healthy and fine, and the large green leaves were doing their job as well as effectively hiding the currently green and growing gourds from view. The leaves and stems were prickly enough that handling them with gloves was better than bare hands, but I’d become so used to the sensation that I wasn’t bothered by the sharpness. I lifted leaves, moved pumpkins if they looked like they needed a different position, and clipped away any dead leaves or vines. It was going to be another good crop.
The ease of growing pumpkins contributed in a big way to my sense of satisfaction. When they began to turn orange, I could hardly stay away from the patch. One of my favorite times was an October night lit by a full moon. For me, Halloween wasn’t about scary; instead, there was something magical about pumpkins, Halloween, and October. Every year, I had the family over for a full-moon dinner in the patch. Everyone was required to share a story, but not a scary one. Until he was older, Mathis was excused from sharing a story, but he loved listening.
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