A Secret in the Pumpkin Patch

by Elizabeth Ashby

"You can take it up with the mayor if you want," I said. "He's here somewhere. Probably playing the role of Frankenstein over at the Haunted House if he's not needed at the Howl-oween parades."

  Sturgeon grumbled as he stabbed angrily at the keyboard of his tablet, and I tuned him out to stare at my phone, willing Fred Fields to respond to my text.

  After a few moments, Sturgeon stuck his tablet back into his jacket's oversized pocket and announced, "This is the final straw. I'm recommending that the market be shut down before anyone else gets hurt. Where did you say the mayor was?"

  I hadn't really thought Sturgeon would take me up on my suggestion. Judging by his unwillingness to confront the fire chief in person after the fire, I'd thought Sturgeon was much braver when it came to writing reports or harassing turkey farmers than he was at confronting authorities in person. Apparently I'd misjudged, and now I had to at least try to keep him from doing anything rash.

  "We don't even know that anyone got hurt. Cary might have made a mistake." I didn't really believe that—while Cary had a unique way of looking at the world, he always got the basic facts right—but I was willing to clutch at straws. Or at least delay the inevitable as long as possible. "The mayor won't shut this place down unless the police tell him to, and neither will I."

  "The local cops don't care about anything except their pensions and their doughnuts."

  "That's enough." I'd worked with both Officer Fields and Detective Bud Ohlsen, and they were both fine policemen. If there were any bad apples in the local force, I hadn't met them yet. "You can do whatever you need to do to inspect the farmers' stalls, but then I want you to leave the premises without any more involvement with things that are none of your business. I'm reasonably certain the officer who's the liaison for the market will back me up, especially if I tell him your opinion of his department. I won't say anything to him about that if you leave right away, but I will be filing a complaint with your agency about your blatant bias against the town."

  For the first time since I'd met him, Sturgeon relaxed his tightly pursed lips and laughed. "Go ahead. Tell my supervisor. It won't change anything. I'll still have accomplished what I set out to do this weekend, and none of the fallout will touch me."

  * * *

  I was distracted by some shouting near the parking lot, which fortunately wasn't a new problem for me to fix. Instead, people were cheering enthusiastically for the participants in the latest Howl-oween parade, suggesting that they were unaware that another tragedy had occurred during a market event.

  When I turned back to Sturgeon, he had gotten out his tablet again and was angrily keying more notes into it. I felt even more sympathy for whoever had to read those reports and a little guilt that my rejection of Sturgeon's advice had probably made that person's unpleasant job worse.

  Still, I couldn't worry about someone I didn't even know. Or about Sturgeon's odd response to my threat to report him to his supervisor. I hadn't expected Sturgeon to be so blasé about the prospect of being disciplined at work or possibly even losing his job. He seemed incredibly dedicated to his work, even if I thought much of his energy was misplaced.

  I didn't have time right now to try to understand what motivated Sturgeon. I abandoned him to check on how Cary was coping with getting the food demonstrations back on track. The teens from the consumer sciences class were lined up at the grill, displaying the ingredients for their pumpkin—or squash—barbeque sauce to a rapidly growing audience.

  Sturgeon followed me, muttering, "too young, not safe," but I decided ignoring him was the only way to deal with him. I was reasonably confident the mayor wouldn't take Sturgeon seriously as long as he continued making blanket statements about how terrible Danger Cove was, without any evidence to support his claims.

  The inspector stomped off, presumably to search for the mayor rather than to do any actual inspection work, and I stayed at the outskirts of the grill's audience, close enough to spot anything that might go up in flames—or Sturgeon's return to harass Cary—but far enough that I wasn't giving the impression that I didn't trust my assistant to do the job I'd assigned him.

  The teens finished the formal portion of their demonstration and began fielding questions from the audience with remarkable poise and apparent knowledge. Who else would have known that the wire brushes used to clean grills needed to be replaced frequently, since otherwise they could leave behind rusted bits of the bristles that attached themselves to food and then were ingested, sometimes leading to the need for emergency surgery?

  Cary was signaling that the teens' time was almost up, and Tommy Fordham was waiting with his hired chef for their turn behind the grill when Officer Fred Fields hurried over to me. "Got your message and sent Richie Faria over to guard the scene until the detective and backup get here. Can we talk?"

  "Sure." I noticed the way Fields was sending furtive looks in the direction of the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery's pushcart, operated by the owner, Maura Monroe, in a Julia Child costume. Maura was a bit taller than I, which helped her to carry off her costume, although she was still about six inches shorter than the famous chef had been, and Maura's pixie-cut hair had had to be covered with a wig cut in a short bob with thick bangs.

  Fields was always interested in the bakery's offerings, but he looked particularly desperate for some carbohydrates now. Not a good sign.

  Better to take this discussion somewhere I didn't have to worry that the inspector or my undecided beekeeper might overhear. "The first aid tent ought to be fairly private. The Baxter twins already reported to the scene."

  "Let's go." Fields adjusted his bobby's helmet and straightened his jacket before giving the bakery's pushcart one last longing glance, but once we were inside the first aid tent, he got right down to business. "Cary was right. There is a dead body at the base of the cliff."

  I went around a wheelchair that someone had abandoned next to the folding table in the back left corner of the tent that served as my on-site office. The wheelchair was usually stored in the opposite back corner, but it looked like one of the Baxter twins had been working on it when they'd been called out on an emergency. They'd left behind a stack of discarded gloves, cleaning rags, and a bottle of lubricating oil on the seat of the wheelchair.

  I dropped into the folding chair behind the table. "Do you know whose body it was?"

  Fields pulled over another folding chair to sit across from me. "Angela Henderson. That's not official, but I recognized her from incidents at previous market days and some other minor situations she's been involved in."

  "Anything else you can tell me?"

  "Too early to know much," Fields said. "We've roped off access to the lighthouse just above where the porta-potties are. It seems likely she fell from up there."

  "I did see her heading in that direction around noon." Now I felt guilty about having avoided her then. Perhaps if I'd stopped to talk to her, she might still be alive.

  Fields leaned forward. "Was anyone with her?"

  "Not that I saw," I said. "But I only caught a brief glimpse of her before I ducked out of sight. I hate to admit it now, but I was avoiding her. She wanted to rehash old arguments, and I didn't have the time or patience for it."

  "It sounds like you might have been one of the last people to see her alive," Fields said. "Detective Marshall will want to talk to you."

  "Not Bud Ohlsen?"

  "He's on vacation." Fields schooled his face carefully, but from the way he suddenly ducked his head, dropping his gaze and adjusting his helmet so his eyes were shadowed, I was pretty sure he was as disappointed by the choice of detective assigned to the case as I was.

  He raised his head again to say with forced enthusiasm, "Anyway, I'll let Marshall know he should talk to you."

  "You've got my number," I said. "And I'll be on site until the market closes and then again tomorrow the whole time it's open."

  Fields stood, but I held up a hand to stop him. "Wait. I just thought of something else. It's not as big a deal as Angela's deat
h, but the state agricultural inspector has been upsetting the turkey farmer and making broad claims about how terrible Danger Cove is. He said there used to be a farmers' market here, and it was a disaster. What can you tell me about it?"

  "I wouldn't say it was a disaster," Fields said. "Just bad timing, I think, when the advantages of farm-to-table weren't on people's minds as much as they are today. Add to that the problem of not having a paid market manager, so there wasn't anyone to coordinate the advertising or mediate any squabbles among the vendors. Every time there was a disagreement, at least one of the parties dropped out, sometimes both, and no one was recruiting replacements, so the market just dwindled to nothing."

  "That's good to know," I said. "I was afraid there might be more truth to what Lew Sturgeon was claiming."

  "Sturgeon, huh?" Fred said, taking out his phone to make a note of the name. "Someone by that name used to be an inspector here around the same time as the previous market, I think. Didn't last long, although I can't remember why he left. I'm sure I knew at the time, but it's eluding me at the moment."

  "If you think of it, could you let me know?" I said. "It might help me deal with him."

  "Will do."

  Fields left, but I stayed behind in the tent to go through the contents of my sling bag. I knew there wasn't anything in there that would help me deal with the investigation into poor Angela's death, but it would only take a few minutes, and sorting through my supplies would soothe the anxiety I was feeling. If I didn't get the stress under control, the slight headache I was experiencing would turn into a full migraine, and I'd be incapacitated right when the market needed me the most.

  I might have felt less anxious if I knew more about Detective Lester Marshall, his reputation, and his standard operating procedures. The other detective on the Danger Cove Police Department was good at his job, and I knew how to deal with him and his prolonged, guilt-provoking silences. Officer Fields was too much of a good soldier to tell me anything less than positive about a colleague, so I couldn't expect any help there. For now, at least, Marshall was a total unknown, and going into any new situation, even simple ones, without first doing a great deal of research had always made me nervous. The anxiety was exponentially worse when something as big as an unexpected death was involved. Especially when I might be a suspect.

  I needed to talk to Merle before I was interrogated by Detective Lester Marshall.

  * * *

  I found Merle at the consumer sciences stall with Buzz, who was reviewing the options on the display table. Even I would have had trouble deciding among the five different dips, one of them made with their pumpkin barbeque sauce, plus a tray of vegetables and whole-grain crackers for dipping, and Buzz was completely overwhelmed by the choices.

  The teens I knew from previous market days were still down at the grill, but they'd arranged for two additional girls and one boy, all wearing sweatshirts identifying them as belonging to the local chapter of Future Farmers of America rather than costumes, to help in the stall today. These students were every bit as passionate as the ones who'd been to prior market events and were able to rattle off the nutritional information for each of the dips for Buzz's benefit. He seemed fascinated by what they had to say, unlike most of the visitors who tended to have stoic, determined expressions that suggested they were listening more to be supportive of local students than out of any personal interest.

  I tugged on the sleeve of Merle's hoodie from behind, trying to remain out of Buzz's sight so he wouldn't be inspired to question me about the latest crisis at the market. Merle took one look at me, nodded, and raised one finger to let me know he'd be with me in a minute. I slipped into the adjoining stall belonging to Thyme for Tea. A Be right back sign was propped against a vase containing stems of fresh basil and oregano interspersed with the finer sprigs of thyme. The combined aroma filled the entire stall and out into the walkway, leaving no doubt that the market was the best place in town for buying herbs.

  I heard Merle telling Buzz, "I need to leave you here for a minute." Merle took a twenty-dollar bill out of his wallet and dropped it into the teens' tip jar. "Why don't you try all of the dips while I'm gone? Perhaps you could brainstorm with the students some ways to incorporate honey into one of the recipes for next year."

  Buzz waved his hand in agreement and bent to carefully inspect the dip that was flavored with the pumpkin spice barbeque sauce while the teens vied to provide him with the dipping options each of them thought would best complement it.

  Merle joined me in the Thyme for Tea stall. He waited until we'd moved to the very back of the space, where we could still keep an eye on Buzz without being overheard, before asking in a low tone, "What was the siren all about?"

  "Minor fire at the grill," I said. "No real damage done. At least not physically. What did Buzz think of the commotion?"

  "I tried to convince him it was just a demonstration for the kids who were so fascinated by the fire truck."

  "Did he buy it?"

  Merle shrugged. "Probably not, but I managed to distract him before he could think about it too much. We'd just reached the pottery stall, and you know how popular Georgia's pots are for storing and serving honey. I introduced Buzz to her, and she had questions about design features she might incorporate into her honey pots in the future. He seemed flattered, and he did have some suggestions for her."

  "I hope she took his advice better than some of the other vendors would." I was thinking of the late Henry Atwell, the woodworker who used to take it personally whenever one of his customers said anything that might possibly be construed as being critical of his work, even when they were just looking for more information about his products.

  "Georgia seemed quite happy to listen to him. One of the reasons she's so popular is that she's obsessed with functionality in addition to appearance. She thought there might be some design features that could help reduce honey crystallization."

  "Did Buzz appreciate the attention?"

  "Definitely. Between Georgia and the farmers-to-be, if Buzz isn't convinced to join the market now, I'm not sure anything will do it."

  "I can't just give up on signing Buzz to the market."

  "I know," Merle said. "If anyone can do it, you can. I've seen you do the impossible in the past."

  At least one person had confidence in my abilities as the market manager. "I'm no superhero."

  Merle shrugged. "That's what real heroes always say—that they were just doing their job."

  "I may not have a job after this weekend."

  "What happened?" Merle asked. "I saw some sort of commotion down by the grill, but there were too many people in the way to see what was going on. I figured you didn't need any help from me, and I was better off keeping Buzz distracted, since no one seemed to be in a total panic."

  There was a note of uncertainty in Merle's voice, so I told him, "You did the right thing."

  "Good to know," Merle said. "I started second-guessing myself after Cary raced past us on the way toward the lighthouse and then back again in the other direction a little while later. What—if you'll excuse the pun—put the bee in his bonnet?"

  I looked to make sure Buzz was still fully engaged with the teens in the consumer sciences stall. He was working on the third of the five dipping sauces and seemed to be totally absorbed in the process of choosing his favorite.

  Still, I lowered my voice to give Merle the bad news. "The fire wasn't a big deal, just a towel dropped on a burner. But afterwards Cary found a body. He was upset about the fire happening while he was supervising the grill, so he went up to the cliff to compose himself, and instead of being soothed by the sight of the ocean, he got even more upset by the sight of Angela Henderson's body at the base of the lighthouse cliff."

  Merle checked on Buzz the way I had, but he didn't seem to be paying us any attention. He was happily chewing on a cracker and listening raptly to an explanation of why the whole grains in it were better than more processed grains.

  Mer
le turned back to me and asked quietly, "Murder or accident?"

  "I don't know, but I'm planning for the worst."

  "Woman after my own heart," Merle said.

  "If the matchmakers in town had known all it took to catch you was to always be prepared for murder charges, Danger Cove would have been a bloody mess the last few years."

  "You're a suspect?" Merle pulled me into his arms. It wasn't as personal as it looked or felt, I knew. He'd have offered comfort to anyone he knew who'd suddenly become a possible suspect in a criminal case.

  Still, I wasn't about to push him away. We'd been too busy lately to spend much time together on the porch swing, and we were far enough back in the stall now that casual passersby wouldn't notice us. "I haven't spoken to the detective yet—I wanted to talk to you first—but I might have been the last one to see Angela before she was killed, when she was heading toward the lighthouse. Plus, everyone knows that she and I have been at odds pretty much all season. The only thing in my favor—besides the fact that I didn't actually kill her—is that she's well known for being confrontational with everyone, not just me, and some of her arguments have turned physical. I wouldn't be surprised if she had quite a few real enemies."

  "True. I heard she'd been kicked out of the Dangerous Duelers."

  "She was," I said. "Leo confirmed it this morning. And she wasn't happy about it. I don't think she was planning to go quietly."

  "I wonder if someone in that group decided to make sure she couldn't come back."

  "I can't see Leo doing anything like that, but I don't know about the rest of his gamers," I said. "I'll make sure the detective knows about them, though."

  "What about the market vendors?" Merle said. "Should we be concerned that they might be suspects too?"

  "I can't think of anyone who might be of particular interest. None of the vendors complained to me about the past behavior of any of the Dangerous Duelers, not even Angela. I asked everyone after Independence Day weekend, and most of them thought the pirates and pioneers had added to the family fun." I let my head rest against Merle's chest while I tried to think of who might have wanted Angela dead.