A Secret in the Pumpkin Patch

by Elizabeth Ashby

"I'll be free at noon. I've got someone coming to help me then. We can meet somewhere to talk then. Somewhere away from the crowds." He looked over his shoulder and toward the lighthouse. "Up there—"

  This time I was the one who interrupted, finally giving in to my impatience. "I'm not sure I'll be available then, but I'll get back to you if I am." I turned to Buzz and said, "Come on. You're going to love Tommy's heirloom tomatoes."

  "What about my potatoes?" Sweetwater said. "If you really want to impress this guy, you should show him my stall."

  If I waited for Buzz to decide which place he'd prefer to see first, we'd be stuck here in the walkway for the next half hour. "Okay, let's go see your potatoes."

  "You should let me do the whole tour for you." Sweetwater pointed his pipe toward the Police Foundation's set-up near the parking lot behind me. "It looks like you're needed over there. You might not recognize the guy heading for the grill, but I do. He's a state agricultural inspector. And he doesn't look happy."

  * * *

  For once Buzz made up his mind quickly and chose to follow me instead of going with Sweetwater. I completely understood why Buzz wouldn't want to spend more time with someone who'd insulted him, but I would have preferred it if my best prospect for adding a beekeeper to my collection of vendors didn't have a front-row seat for yet another problem at the market. Even if it meant taking the risk that the prospect would be poisoned—metaphorically, not literally—by Jim Sweetwater.

  The demonstration grill had been intended to solve some of the market's problems, not cause new ones. For the last big market event on Labor Day weekend, the fire chief had severely restricted the number of smaller grills that could be set up in individual stalls due to concerns about the fire trucks' access in the event of an out-of-control fire. The right to have a grill had been assigned by lottery, but that had left quite a few unhappy vendors who'd wanted to do their own cooking demonstrations.

  I had come up with the idea of renting one large grill that could be set up in the area between the parking lot and the main market, where there would be better access for firefighting equipment in what I still hoped was the unlikely event of an out-of-control fire. The vendors could take turns using it for demonstrations during the day, and then we would defray some of the cost by subleasing it to the Danger Cove Police Foundation to sell hot dogs and burgers to the crowds enjoying the Sunday-night bonfires and dancing on the beach.

  Ethan Harding, the teacher of the high school consumer sciences class that had a stall in the market, had created a lesson plan that let his students apply what they were learning to a real-world scenario. They'd researched the grill options and come up with three recommended models, including the one I'd ultimately proposed to the fire department. The chief had been enthusiastic about the idea, and we'd had several meetings to work out the details, culminating in the choice of the site near the parking lot, where the grill had just been delivered and was now being set up in time for the beginning of the lunch crowds.

  Officer Fred Fields—a middle-aged patrol cop with an ever-expanding waistline who served as the police liaison during market events—ambled over to the grill, arriving just as I did, while the inspector had been delayed by someone who'd stopped him for a conversation.

  Fields had gotten into the spirit of the day and was wearing a costume. Since he was on duty, he'd been somewhat limited in what he could wear. He hadn't let that stop him, though. He'd added a British-style helmet, truncheon, and white gloves to a formal police uniform, transforming himself into a British bobby. Given that he was a cop down to his very soul, he probably would have chosen the same costume even if he weren't on duty.

  "I love your costume," I told him.

  "It's great, isn't it?" He patted the chain that connected a pipe-like whistle to a chest pocket. "My wife got me the whistle. It's a reproduction of what British bobbies used to carry. I'd demonstrate, but it's painfully loud, and I don't want to panic anyone. My wife threatened to kick me out of the house if I used it at home."

  "It totally makes the outfit," I said.

  "Thanks." Fields gestured at the six-foot-long grill. "Is this for the Danger Cove Police Foundation?"

  "Not yet." I pointed behind him at a vacant spot near the beginning of the left row of stalls. "They'll be over there with their smaller grill and hot dogs and hamburgers until tomorrow night when they'll move this grill over near the beach to serve the people attending the evening activities there. Until then it will be used for cooking demonstrations by the vendors. Cary has a schedule for who's doing what when, and he'll come keep an eye on things here once everything gets started at noon."

  The five teens from the high school consumer sciences class ran up to check out the grill just then. Judging by the whistles of appreciation, fist bumps, and covetous sighs, I'd made the right choice of equipment. One of the boys said, "Anyone know when it's our turn? I can't wait to get people to try our pumpkin spice barbeque sauce."

  "It's squash spice barbeque sauce," a girl corrected. "Squash is far superior to pumpkin from a nutritional point of view."

  "Maybe," the first boy said, "but it's Halloween, and everyone wants pumpkin stuff, not squash stuff. And the spices stay the same, either way. We all agreed it was better to market it as pumpkin spice. Squash spice just sounds funny."

  "I didn't agree," the girl said. "It's false advertising."

  "Sounds harmless enough," Officer Fields said. "If it's true that there are more nutrients in squash, then your customers will be getting more than they bargained for, not less."

  The two teens looked at Fields and then at each other with an expression of solidarity against adults before saying in perfect unison, "Whatever," and turning away to examine the controls on the grill.

  Fields shook his head good-naturedly, and he and I shared our own look of solidarity as grown-ups.

  The moment was shattered by a shrill voice shouting, "Hey! What do you think you're doing?"

  The inspector had arrived. He was a middle-aged man in a brown tweed jacket, beige button-down shirt, orange bow tie, and brown pants. He was a little below average height and slightly built, with an overgrown mustache and goatee combination that seemed to be trying to compensate for the baldness creeping up from his forehead.

  He pushed his way through the teens surrounding the grill and turned to face them. "Stand back. This is much too dangerous for children."

  If the teens had been mildly annoyed by Fred Fields' attempt at diplomacy earlier, they were downright angry now.

  "We're not children," the girl said, her earlier disagreement with the boys forgotten. "We're young adults. And we probably know more about commercial cooking equipment than anyone else here."

  "I'll take care of this," I told the teens. "You're second on the schedule, I believe. Why don't you go pack up your barbeque sauce and whatever else you'll be using for your demonstration while we finish with the installation here?"

  The teens left, if not with the cheerful enthusiasm that my assistant showed for his work, at least with good grace. They were definitely behaving more like adults than the man who'd been lecturing them was. He was furiously keying something into his tablet.

  "I'm Maria Dolores, the market manager," I said.

  He held up one finger briefly before he returned to stabbing at his tablet's keyboard. After a final flourish, presumably hitting a save or send button, he tucked the device into one of the oversized patch pockets that seemed to take up the entire width of his jacket at hip level.

  "Lew Sturgeon," he said, and I couldn't help thinking his pursed lips made him look fish-like. It was probably a good thing the teens hadn't heard his name, or they'd have given him a derisive nickname, liked they did with their guidance counselor, Jim Sweetwater, known to them as Sweetpants. "I'm an inspector with the Washington State Department of Agriculture."

  I quashed a sigh. Why had he shown up this week instead of all the previous ones, when I'd actually been trying to arrange for an inspection? All sea
son, up until last night, my sling bag had held copies of several letters to the WSDA asking for some clarification on state regulations, some of them written by the original market manager back in May and the rest by myself when I took over in July. They'd sent me a form letter indicating that small markets were a low priority for inspections and that they'd contact me if they saw any reason to visit the Lighthouse Farmers' Market. After all this time, it had seemed safe to conclude that the state had agreed with Merle that the market wasn't just a low priority but actually exempt from any requirements for an inspection, so this morning I'd taken the paperwork out of my bag and left it on my desk at the cabin.

  If I'd had the letters, I might have used them to distract the inspector from whatever his problem was with the grill, but I couldn't go get them now. All I could do was work with the inspector and try to bring his attention around to the market's highlights instead of alleged problem spots.

  "You probably want to see the agricultural parts of the market," I said cheerfully, as if I hadn't noticed his bad mood. "Most of them are beneath the white canopies. Would you like me to go with you as you visit the vendors?"

  "I work alone," he said absently "And I'm not finished here. This grill is a safety hazard."

  I was pretty sure that was outside his authority, since the fire chief had approved it, but I didn't want to give the inspector any reason to dislike me before he'd even started looking at the market itself. Besides, Buzz was right at my heels, and I didn't want him witnessing an argument between me and a state official. "How can we make the grill safer?"

  "You can't," Sturgeon snapped. "I'll be reporting it to the fire department."

  "Good idea. I have full confidence in the fire chief." Especially since he'd already approved the grill, its location, and its planned use, and he'd even mentioned that his wife was looking forward to attending some of the demonstrations. As a further precaution, there was a fire truck nearby in the parking lot, although I wasn't about to draw Sturgeon's attention to it. He might feel the need to go talk to whoever was in charge over there, and I didn't see any good reason to inflict his rotten attitude on the firefighters or the children who were getting tours of the truck. Sturgeon would probably think that was unsafe too, since someone might slip and fall from the tall vehicle.

  I glanced beside me to make sure Buzz was still there and then gestured for him to lead the way up the Memorial Walkway. "If you want to go back to visiting the vendors, I'll catch up to you in a minute."

  Buzz took off in the ambling, zigzag pattern I'd noticed before, and I turned to Sturgeon. "Until you hear from the fire chief, why don't we head on over to the main market area. I'll get back to introducing Buzz to the vendors, and you'll be able to find me if you have any questions that the farmers can't answer for themselves."

  Sturgeon glared at Buzz's back. "Why's he dressed up like a bee?"

  "This weekend's market is part of the town's Halloween celebrations," I said. "A lot of people are wearing costumes."

  Sturgeon frowned and then peered suspiciously around himself at the exhibitors in the space between the parking lot and the market itself. His gaze came to rest on the Second Chance Animal Rescue's cages in the shade of a tree between the market and the parking lot. "Are those live animals over there? Within five hundred feet of fruits and vegetables?"

  He didn't wait for my answer but retrieved his tablet from his jacket's huge pocket and began keying in more notes.

  "They're not officially a part of the farmers' market," I said, trying not to sound desperate. I wasn't even sure the technical correction mattered much. It wouldn't be long before Sturgeon found living creatures in the market itself. There was at least one Angora bunny in the fiber stall and a family of ducks in the dairy stall. There were also live turkeys on display over in the historical garden between the market and the beach, but they might be far enough away from the produce displays to escape the inspector's wrath. Or not, since he seemed determined to find fault with everything I was responsible for. "I wasn't aware of any restrictions on either pets or livestock on the market grounds. Perhaps you could send me the regulations on the topic so I can do better in the future."

  "I don't have time to do your work for you," Sturgeon said. "You should go talk to the local board of health about keeping animals contained. Not that I'd expect the officials here to be any better informed than you are. Not in this town."

  I felt somewhat reassured that apparently Sturgeon hated everything and everyone. I could be the most experienced, conscientious market manager on the West Coast, possibly even in the entire country, and he'd still find things to complain about.

  I decided anything I said would be taken wrong, so it would best to say nothing. I just nodded vaguely and turned to catch up with Buzz, who was approaching the fourth stall on the left side of the market.

  Sturgeon stayed behind to take angry notes and glower at the delivery men who were finishing the grill's set-up and tossing the packing materials into their truck. I would have to get back to the grill before noon to keep an eye on the situation. The high school kids setting up for their demonstration wouldn't be fazed by the inspector, but Cary was easily intimidated, especially by people in authority.

  CHAPTER THREE

  While Buzz inspected the various displays even more closely than Sturgeon was likely to, I kept an eye on the foot traffic. It was steady, and I was pretty sure it was the heaviest yet, although it could have been wishful thinking. I made a note on my phone to check with Officer Fields later to see if the police department had estimated the attendance at any of the three holiday markets this year. I did love data. Especially if it confirmed that the market was growing in popularity, something I could point out to any journalist who might inquire, especially the ones from out of town. The Cove Chronicles reporter on the arts beat already had a favorable impression of the market.

  Regardless of whether or not the data supported my observations, at least I could honestly say that the majority of the people at the market, both sellers and buyers, seemed to be enjoying the opportunity to show off their costumes in a family-friendly setting, even without the free candy that would be handed out on Sunday near the haunted house after the market closed.

  A few people stopped to admire my costume, although others seemed confused by the fact that there were two Maria Doloreses, since Angela continued to shadow me, remaining within about a twenty-foot radius. She wasn't actually doing anything I could use as a reason to kick her out of the market, so I just ignored her.

  The last space on the left side of the market was occupied by the jam and jelly vendor, a sturdy woman in her sixties. Buzz was immediately overwhelmed by the choices on display. There seemed to be samples of absolutely everything in her catalog, including her seasonal pumpkin butter. To advertise it, she was dressed in a pumpkin costume—black leggings and turtleneck with an orange sleeveless tunic printed with a grinning jack-o'-lantern face. On her head was a hat that formed the pumpkin's stem, with green ribbons serving as vines and tangling with her curly white hair.

  I was considering taking a trip to the porta-potty while Buzz was paralyzed by all of his options, but before I could say anything, a baby-faced young man in a black denim kilt called out my name. He looked familiar, but I couldn't place him.

  "At last," he said as he approached me. "I finally found you, Maria."

  "I can't imagine why you were looking for me," I said, belatedly recognizing his voice.

  The last time I'd seen Eddie Weber, he'd been going through what I'd dubbed his superhero phase. In his midtwenties then, he'd been a bit old for the bright primary colors he'd favored for his wardrobe. Now, about two years later, he was in gloomier but more age-appropriate colors, from his dark gray turtleneck to the black kilt, black knee-high socks, and black hiking boots. I wasn't entirely sure if he was supposed to be some sort of fictional character today in honor of Halloween, but then again, he'd always denied he was in costume in the past, even though there'd been no mist
aking the superhero influences on his wardrobe. He hadn't worn any of the official licensed merchandise but instead had dressed in tight, long-sleeve knit shirts and even tighter jeans in the characteristic colors of a given superhero, with finishing touches that, like an impressionist painting, subtly suggested the trademarked character with just a few fine spiderwebby lines, a flame-like zigzag, or an arrow-like chevron.

  Eddie had been a client until about six months before I'd decided to shut down my old office. He'd fired me, claiming that the advice I'd given him had caused him to lose a substantial portion of his inheritance. It wasn't true, and I'd been more relieved than upset at the time, since he'd saved me the hassle of formally withdrawing as his advisor, which I'd been considering for a while. It had long since become apparent that he wasn't following any of my advice and instead latched on to a series of get-rich-quick schemes that had consistently lost money. Later I'd come to believe I owed him a debt of gratitude, since his decision to fire me had started me thinking about whether I was happy with my career, eventually leading to my realization that I was ready for a change.

  My gratitude didn't extend so far as to make me glad to see him here today. Eddie had been a difficult client, and not someone I would have chosen as a friend, so it didn't bode well that he'd been hunting for me. I wasn't entirely surprised, since I'd gotten some emails from him, forwarded from my old business account. I hadn't replied, other than by way of the automated message explaining that I had closed my financial planning office and providing contact information for some colleagues who were accepting new clients.

  Just in case he'd missed the previous written messages, I reminded him, "I don't do financial planning any longer."

  "But I need your help," he insisted.

  "All I can do is refer you to someone who's still doing that work."

  "They're no good," Eddie grumbled. "I talked to the ones you told me about, and they were terrible. They only made my situation worse."