5 Merry Market Murder

by Paige Shelton

  “I know. I told him I was going to talk to you this evening, but that you’d have to be involved officially. He’s upset because he thinks that he shouldn’t have even tried to send the contract until he’d received approval from the owners, which he never did.”

  “I doubt any of it is really his fault, but we need to get to the bottom of it. I’ll work on phone records, etc.”

  “There’s no woman,” I said.

  “What’s that?” Allison said.

  “There’s no office person or assistant. Reggie was set up with a skeleton crew. I was at his place today. Well, he had a female housekeeper and a woman who’s part of a married couple that help with the trees but no assistant or secretary. It would be nice to know who the woman who called Mel is.”

  I gave them both a brief overview of my visit with Gellie and Batman, even though Sam had heard the details earlier. Some other officers had been out to the Stuckey farm, so I suspected that he was now comparing my experience to theirs, but he only listened without adding to the conversation.

  “I don’t have any idea who called then,” Allison said.

  “I’ll track her down,” Sam said.

  Allison’s new information might have felt big, but I could tell she was a little deflated after sharing the details. I knew what it was like to have something be bigger in my mind than in reality. I didn’t want to upstage her, but I really wanted to share what I’d discovered, too. “I’ve got more information.” I said when it seemed like Allison was finished.

  “What?” Allison and Sam said together.

  “I know who Reggie Stuckey was once married to.”

  Sam sat up straighter. “I’d like to know.”

  “Evelyn Rasmussen Stuckey was her married name. She went back down to Evelyn Rasmussen when she and Reggie divorced in the late eighties. She was a state senator.”

  “Senator Stuckey?” Allison said. “I don’t recall the State of South Carolina electing a senator of that name.”

  “Not a big senator, just a state representative senator.”

  “Oh.”

  “I couldn’t name a current state senator if my life depended on it,” I said. “They’re not the most well-known politicians, but I guess Evelyn was a force to be reckoned with, at least until she mysteriously stepped down from her position and she and Reggie divorced.”

  “Okay?” Sam said, prompting me to continue.

  “I bet that whatever it was that happened to cause her to step down, it happened around 1987.” The egg and onion ornaments were on the far counter. I picked them up and put them down in front of Sam and Allison. “Someone knows who the killer is, and I bet you a dozen of Jeannine’s eggs that they’re using these ornaments to try to tell us who it is. And somehow, Evelyn is involved, even if she isn’t the killer.”

  “That’s a pretty big theory,” Sam said. “Tell me more.”

  “We’ve got one more clue.” I gathered the doll, which was hidden from their view in a space next to the refrigerator. I was about the drama now. I placed the doll next to the onion and the egg. “Evelyn didn’t really look like this doll, but she was pretty and blonde.” I’d printed out a picture of her and I placed it next to the doll. “However, I think this doll is supposed to be her. I think all these are about her.”

  I showed them what I’d found. They were both surprised by the fact that Evelyn now worked at the Smithfield Market, and they were only lukewarm to the idea that I was the recipient of the ornaments because I worked at a farmers’ market, too.

  “But lots of us work at Bailey’s,” Allison said.

  I shrugged. “I’m just the lucky one, that’s all,” I said.

  Sam’s eyes were stern and thoughtful, but he didn’t agree or disagree.

  “Why wouldn’t this person just tell the police who the killer is? What’s with the clues?” Allison said.

  “I thought about that, too,” I said. “Sam, what do you think—the person sending the ornaments isn’t 100 percent sure?”

  “I think it’s that. Partially. There’s more—maybe he or she likes the game. Maybe the killer is the one sending them to throw the investigation off track. There’s also the other option—maybe these are just gifts and have nothing at all to do with the murder.”

  I looked at the strange group of ornaments and, though Sam could be correct, I strongly sensed that these were clues to something, hopefully that would lead to the killer.

  “You know,” Sam said, “the doll reminds me more of your friend, the one at the Smithfield Market who sells pies, than the Internet picture of Evelyn Rasmussen Stuckey.”

  “Mamma Maria?” I asked as I picked up the doll again. He was right. There was something overdone about the doll—well, as overdone as a cornhusk doll could be.

  “She’s coming to Bailey’s,” Allison said. “I mean, she’s going to have a stall at Bailey’s, at least part-time.”

  “I heard,” I said distractedly. I’d fallen into thought, but was jolted out again by both Sam’s and Allison’s chuckles.

  “You are so transparent, little sister.”

  “What?”

  “You’re going to Smithfield tomorrow, right? You’d go tonight if the market were open,” Sam added.

  I smiled. They knew me too well.

  Thirteen

  The evening ended with me sharing the details of my visit with Stephanie Frugit, but neither Sam nor Allison thought that part of my day was nearly as interesting as the other parts. Allison had known that Brenton was once married to Stephanie, and Sam didn’t think the long-ago marriage mattered, though he would stop by and talk to Stephanie himself just to see if there might be something pertinent to the current murder.

  In case my concern about Hobbit being home alone had been rekindled because of the appearance of the doll ornament, Allison said she’d take Hobbit while I ventured to the Smithfield Market. Sam offered to let her stay at his house, though he had to work. I also knew that both Ian and George would welcome her at the lavender farm. It was wonderful to have options.

  Ultimately, I knew she’d be happiest at home for the few hours I would be away, so I instructed her once again on the ins and outs of the doggie door. She seemed just fine with the solution and happily sent me away as she curled up on the porch. She liked her routine, and I’d switched it up enough the day before.

  I didn’t like that I thought it was necessary, but I was pretty sure I would soon be installing a security camera.

  There was a slightly deeper chill to the air this morning. In addition to donning my long overalls, I pulled a sweater over my long-sleeved T-shirt and kept the windows rolled up as I drove the thirty minutes to Smithfield.

  The trip through the South Carolina countryside wasn’t meant to be done speedily. The two-lane highway had been built to accommodate the random, slow-moving tractor or trucks older than my own that couldn’t quite make it over fifty miles per hour anymore. There wasn’t a large amount of traffic to contend with, but sometimes you had to let a few vehicles pass the other direction before you passed something moving slowly in front of you. Doing so without a friendly wave was unheard of.

  From this stretch of road it seemed that the entire world was made up of farms, one right next to the other, one crop suddenly becoming a different crop. Crops weren’t flourishing this time of year, of course, but that didn’t make the drive less interesting; it just changed where you looked.

  December was the time to notice the handiwork that had gone into houses, barns, fences, and even mailboxes. I didn’t know where or when the tradition had begun, but at some point someone must have created such an interesting mailbox that it prompted others to follow along.

  By the time I made it halfway through the trip, I’d enjoyed almost a full cup of Maytabee’s coffee, the sun had risen up over the small slopes of hilly countryside, and I’d noticed a variety of interestin
g mailboxes: a chicken, a pig, a horse, and a surprisingly odd, giant, silver dollar shape. There were others, but those were the ones that stood out the most, the ones that looked as if they’d recently seen some new paint.

  I was always pretty sure there was no other place in the world I’d rather live; the drive this morning only reinforced my opinion.

  The Smithfield Market’s parking lot was mostly empty, but a few trucks, similar in age and wear to mine, sat close to the entrance. Like Bailey’s, this market had a back unload/load area, so the vendors’ vehicles wouldn’t be in plain sight. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might be too early for vendors, but as I noticed the sparse turnout, I remembered that Smithfield typically opened a little later in the day in December.

  I debated searching the town for another cup of coffee, but decided to go ahead and explore the quiet market grounds anyway. Again, like Bailey’s, the space was open, even if all the stalls weren’t set up and ready to sell yet. I might not see much, but I could walk around and at least enjoy the peacefulness before the customers started crowding the aisles.

  While Bailey’s was set up in a U-shape, Smithfield was set up closer to a W-shape, with three aisles spreading out from the entrance and short aisles deeper inside connecting the three larger ones. I’d met the market’s manager, but I didn’t know where his office was located or if there was even one on the premises. Allison’s was in a small though visible front building; there were no such buildings at the Smithfield entrance.

  The tent stalls at Bailey’s were protected by an aluminum topper, a ceiling of sorts. Smithfield vendors had only the cover of their individual tents; the set-up contributed to the open yet disjointed feeling of the market. It was a good market though, with a good, strong vendor list, just not as perfectly wonderful as Bailey’s—at least in my opinion.

  As I stood inside the opening, I realized that either I wasn’t as early as I thought I was or there were a large number of early bird vendors who’d parked in their hidden-from-view load areas.

  “Excuse me?” a voice said.

  I turned toward the low drawl. The farmer who greeted me wasn’t much taller than me, and his overalls and long, red T-shirt made us look like we might make good twins for some sort of Grant Wood portrait. He was bald, his perfect oval head matching his peach-colored complexion, and his gray eyes were both steely obvious and quietly inconspicuous. He was somewhere between my age and my parents’ age but it was impossible to know exactly which one he was closer to.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi. Can I help you find something?”

  “Sure. I’m here to visit Mamma Maria and I know where her stall is, but I’d also like to purchase some eggs. I’ve heard that someone named Evelyn has an egg stall here but I’m not sure where it’s located.”

  The man’s interesting eyes opened wide before straightening to a tight squint. “You mean Evie?”

  I shrugged. “I was told Evelyn, but that might be her.”

  He looked around, down two of the three main aisles. He shifted his weight from one boot-clad foot to the other as he rubbed his chin. “Evie’s down that way.” He pointed to the left aisle. “But she doesn’t sell many eggs anymore.”

  His comment begged the question, so I asked, “Why not?”

  He blinked and then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, but if she doesn’t have any to sell or if you’d rather not buy them, we have another stall down that way.” He pointed to the right aisle. “Rebecca always has a good supply of fresh, fresh eggs.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” The man tipped an invisible hat and then hurried down the left aisle.

  I didn’t know if he was odd, I was odd, or Evelyn—Evie—was odd, but the short interaction was disquieting. I shook it off.

  “Mamma Maria first,” I mumbled before I set off down the middle aisle.

  Though there weren’t many customers yet, the temperature had warmed a little from when I’d first set out in my truck. But I still needed the sweater, and market traffic might start building any minute just because warming weather sometimes caused the crowds to suddenly come out in force.

  Mamma Maria’s stall was different than it had been the last time I’d visited her. There’d been a tall, refrigerated display case in the back corner that turned slowly and showed off her pies in all their glory—and glorious was a good description for her creations—but the display case was now MIA. The reason probably had something to do with her move to Bailey’s.

  “Becca?” she said as she threaded her head and neck through the opening in her back wall. She balanced three pie boxes precariously, as the tent flap didn’t seem to want to open all the way. I hurried around to help her.

  “It’s great to see you again, but I’m surprised. What’re you doing here?” she said as I took two boxes and set them on the front table.

  “It’s great to see you, too,” I said. “Here, let me help you unload and then I’ll tell you why I’m here.”

  “Great. I’ll take the help.”

  We made quick duty of unloading the thirty-three pies she’d brought. Except for five of them, all had been presold, and most were her beloved pumpkin cream. She once told me that she sold more pumpkin cream pies between the middle of October and the end of December than she did her other pies the rest of the year.

  “People get in the mood for pumpkin and they just stay in the mood until almost the new year,” she’d once said.

  I understood completely and had her put aside one of the extras for me.

  Once set up, she said again, “What’re you doing here, Becca? You’re up to something.”

  “My reputation precedes me,” I said.

  “Something like that.” Mamma laughed. “Ask me whatever you’d like to ask. I’m intrigued and interested that you want to talk to me.”

  “Thanks.” The man with the gray eyes had made me wary, so I stepped a little closer to her and said, “Does someone named Evelyn sell eggs here?”

  “You mean Evil Evie?” Mamma gasped and put her hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe I just said that. That was so rude. Forgive me. You’re a friend and I lost my sense of professionalism for a moment.” She cleared her throat. “There’s a woman named Evie who sells eggs over in the far aisle, but she’s strange, frankly. Not evil. Probably. Though that’s the nickname she’s been given—Evil Evie. It has a nice ring, I guess, and—oh, goodness, it’s just plain awful that that’s what she’s called, but unfortunately, it is.” Mamma sighed and rubbed her knuckle over her forehead.

  “How is she strange?” I said.

  “She’s abrupt, not friendly. She used to sell lots of eggs, but she brings in less and less inventory all the time. She’s withdrawn.” Mamma’s eyes pinched. “It’s actually quite sad, but anytime any of us attempt to befriend her, we’re met with biting, sarcastic remarks.”

  I thought about whether or not to tell Mamma who I thought Evil Evie really was. It didn’t seem to matter much if I was wrong, so I said, “Is there any chance she’s Evelyn Rasmussen Stuckey, who was once a state senator and married to the man who was recently killed in the Bailey’s parking lot?”

  Mamma blinked and then laughed. “Oh, Becca, I have no idea, but leave it up to you to find such a connection. Hang on a second, I know someone who might be able to help.” She stepped back, sat in folding chair, and pulled out her cell phone.

  As I waited, I wondered if she still had a supply of plastic forks somewhere in her stall. The pumpkin cream pie that now had my name on it was beckoning to me more loudly than the conspiracy theories I had rumbling around in my head. I peered under tables and into whatever other areas that looked like a storage space.

  There were no forks under the table and the spaces were mostly empty, emphasizing that her partial move was well on its way. I was suddenly excited about the reality of having Mamma around Ba
iley’s more often. I was friendly with almost everyone at my market, but Linda and I had become very good friends. Linda would welcome Mamma, too. A mental picture of the three of us formed in my mind: me in my overalls, Linda in her pioneer garb, and Mamma with her cleavage. We’d make a fun trio, I mused silently. I slipped a reminder to the back of my mind to ask Allison where she’d placed Mamma’s stall.

  “Here he comes now,” Mamma said as she appeared next to me. “Addy’s been around a long time. He knows everything about everybody, though he might not give up the information easily.”

  Addy was my overalled bald twin with the strange eyes. He was stepping quickly in our direction.

  “Mamma, how are you today?” he asked as they hugged over the front table. It was purely a friendly hug. I was continually surprised by Mamma’s ability to make friends with men and somehow keep it simply friendly. She was knock-out gorgeous with a perfect body, topped off by the cleavage I’d just been thinking about, but once most men got to know her and knew she was in a committed relationship, those men were able to keep their eyes up and their hands to themselves, at least as far as I’d seen.

  “Great. Addy, this is my friend Becca Robins. She’s from the Bailey’s market.”

  Addy smiled and shook my hand. “We sort of met earlier.”

  “I didn’t ask Addy for details, but I did ask him about someone named Evelyn who sold eggs,” I said to Mamma.

  “Oh, well, I think Becca has a more in-depth question regarding Evie. Becca’s a good friend, Addy, but we both understand if you don’t want to gossip about our fellow vendor.”

  “What’s the question?”

  I looked around again, feeling silly about my need to know, but not silly enough to miss the opportunity.

  “Addy, any chance Evie is Evelyn Rasmussen Stuckey? Maybe she was a state senator back in the eighties?”

  Addy blinked his crazy eyes. I tried not to stare, tried not to count until he blinked again.

  “I don’t know all the details, but I do know her last name is Rasmussen. She doesn’t tell anyone, but I overheard her on the phone one day. I wasn’t eavesdropping, really I wasn’t. I just happened to hear her and I filed the information away. What else do you know?”