A Secret in the Pumpkin Patch

by Elizabeth Ashby

  On the other hand, I could think of a number of reasons for people affiliated with the market to want me gone, if not necessarily dead. Perhaps someone had blamed me for one or all of the previous deaths at the market, like Sweetwater had suggested. Henry Atwell's granddaughter didn't seem to hold me responsible for his death, but I didn't know about the rest of her family or about the families of the other people who had died. Another possibility was that one of the vendors thought I'd mistreated him somehow or given others preferential treatment. That seemed too minor to be a motive for murder, but small farms were under a great deal of pressure these days, so I supposed it was possible that someone felt they'd lost money because of me and their farm was going to fail as a result. Except no one had complained—other than Sweetwater, of course, but he complained about everything—and I'd never turned down any vendor who'd asked for help.

  I supposed I should also consider the possibility of a disgruntled customer who blamed me for a problem with a purchase, or the owner of the grocery store across Cliffside Drive who might think getting rid of me would end the market that competed with him.

  None of my theories felt right, but who else could it be?

  I looked up the Memorial Walkway, as if I could come up with suspects just by looking at the stalls. The white canopies were dingier and more frayed in spots than they'd been at the beginning of the season, but everyone's attitude seemed every bit as bright and shiny as they'd been on Independence Day weekend, my first days on the job. Unlike Sweetwater, I didn't say out loud what I was thinking—which one of you killed Angela?—as I looked from stall to stall. They all went about their business, apparently oblivious to my scrutiny, no one raising a hand to accept responsibility for the murder.

  I needed an answer, and I needed it now. Once the market closed at the end of the day, my job would also essentially be on hiatus for several months—assuming the contract was renewed—so getting rid of me wouldn't be any immediate benefit to anyone affiliated with the market. The killer could take his time, lurking and stalking me throughout the winter.

  I shivered, even though I'd reached the extended market area and was safely surrounded by witnesses. I'd been looking forward to spending time alone with Merle in the off-season when both of us had reduced workloads, but I wouldn't be able to enjoy it if I were constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering whether someone might be watching and waiting for an opportunity to kill me.

  * * *

  I hadn't quite reached the first aid area on my way to talk to Merle when Eddie popped out from the far side of the Dangerous Reads tent. He'd abandoned the cape and mask of his costume, and we weren't alone, so he didn't startle me as badly as he might have if he'd appeared that suddenly in costume or down in one of the more isolated areas of the parking lot.

  "Just hear me out, please," Eddie said, sounding more desperate and less demanding than before. "You don't need to look at my portfolio, but I really need your help."

  I glanced around to confirm that there were indeed plenty of witnesses in case his mood changed to something more aggressive. Fred Fields was nearby, his bobby's helmet easily visible, and he would come running if I called for help.

  I didn't really think that would be necessary. And I might be able to get some information out of Eddie in return for agreeing to listen to his latest plea, information that would help me to rule him out as a suspect in Angela's murder.

  "You have exactly two minutes."

  "I'm sorry if I've offended you," Eddie said. "I won't do it again, I promise. I'll leave you alone after this. Just, please, I'm desperate. I need a financial planner I can trust. None of the others you recommended understood me."

  I wasn't entire surprised by that. I didn't understand him either, and I'd sent him to advisors who followed essentially the same theoretical models as I did and who had similar working relationships with their clients. Perhaps that was the problem. Rather than sending Eddie to a planner who would have been my own choice for advice if I'd needed to hire someone, I should have sent him to someone I wouldn't ever have been able to work with. There were a handful of financial planners I knew only by reputation as having somewhat contrarian approaches to their work, while still being legitimate. One in particular might be just what Eddie needed. Male, authoritarian, and not very good at listening to what a client said he wanted, instead imposing the advisor's goals on the client. Dealing with someone like that would have annoyed me, but despite what Eddie said about wanting someone who understood him, he might actually be better off with someone who would run roughshod over him.

  "If I give you a name, do you promise not to bother me ever again? And to stay away from Danger Cove in the future?"

  Eddie nodded eagerly until I added, "Even if this planner doesn't understand you any better than the others did?"

  He hesitated before finally saying, "I promise," as solemnly as if he were saying "I do" to his marriage vows.

  I'd never seen him quite that docile before, which made me believe he finally accepted that this was his last chance and that I wasn't ever going to help him after this. I scrolled through the contacts in my phone and then gave Eddie the name and number of the financial planner I'd had in mind. "Wait until Tuesday before you call him. I'll let him know before then that you'll be calling, so he'll recognize your name."

  "Thank you, thank you, thank you," Eddie said. "I knew I could count on you."

  "Never again," I said, just in case he hadn't really accepted that our professional relationship was over. "The next time I see you, I'll file stalking charges against you."

  "I'll be gone as soon as I can," Eddie said. "I've already called for a ride. The car service should be here any minute. Just don't hold it against me if it doesn't arrive on time. It's not like there's public transportation between Seattle and Danger Cove."

  "I'd forgotten that you don't have a car," I said. "Why didn't you rent one when you came here?"

  "I still don't have a driver's license," he said with a sigh. "I keep signing up for lessons, but the instructors aren't any good, so I end up knowing less after the session than when I started. It's probably better for everyone if I stay in the city, where I don't really need a car to get around. I'm even worse at driving than I am at investing my money."

  "I won't hold you responsible for any delays by the cab company, but I'd appreciate it if you'd go wait for your ride down by the entrance to the parking lot instead of up here in the market."

  "Anything you want," Eddie said before loping off toward the exit.

  I watched him go, although I didn't doubt that he would, in fact, be picked up by a cab for the long ride back to Seattle. Early on in our professional relationship, he'd told me he was afraid to drive, because of the accident he'd been in as a child that had killed his parents and left him with the money he'd hired me to advise him on. I'd seen how much he'd spent on both psychotherapy and driving lessons to deal with his phobia over the past ten years, but he hadn't seemed any more emotionally committed to learning to drive than he'd been to sticking to a budget. It was part of his behavioral pattern—a willingness to throw money at his goals, like financial independence and learning to drive, without ever really investing himself, heart and soul, in those goals.

  Since Eddie hadn't made any progress in learning to drive during the previous ten years when he'd been my client, I doubted he'd suddenly found a miracle therapist or instructor who could help him overcome his phobia in the past year. Which meant he couldn't have been the person behind the wheel of the SUV at the grocery store. I hadn't gotten a good look at the driver, but one thing I was absolutely sure of—he hadn't been tentative or out of control. He'd been trying to hit me, and he'd skillfully avoided a collision at the last moment.

  I could now rule out Eddie to my satisfaction, but someone else had wanted me dead, and someone else had killed Angela by mistake.

  Abandoning my scrutiny of Eddie's departure, I happened to notice Officer Fred Fields chatting with the crowd at the demonst
ration grill. At the moment, even he wasn't above suspicion. I didn't think he had any beef with me, but it was possible I was wrong about Angela's killer having intended to kill me, and Fields had good reason to be annoyed with her. Angela had been a troublemaker, after all, and Fields was known for taking crime personally. If she'd goaded him up on the cliff, he could have snapped and lashed out in a momentary lapse of control.

  Fields must have noticed I was studying him, because he looked in my direction and gave me an inquisitive look. I waved to let him know I was fine or at least was in control enough to keep up the pretense of being my usual self.

  Behind that facade, though, I knew I was losing my mind. No sane person would ever think—not even for a moment—that it was even remotely possible that Fred Fields could have killed anyone without then immediately taking himself straight to the police station to confess.

  I desperately needed to get grounded. I'd always been the one calming down other people, not getting help myself. I didn't know where to start.

  Before I could give way to panic, I remembered that before I ran into Eddie, I'd been on my way to talk to Merle. If anyone could keep me from losing my usual calm, it was Merle.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I forced myself to turn toward the market area and the Pear Stirpes stall. It wasn't as hard as it might have been to remain reasonably calm, since the alternatives—like screaming and running around in circles—weren't really my style.

  Before I could actually head up the walkway to the Pear Stirpes Orchard stall, I caught sight of Meri Sinclair outside the Dangerous Reads tent, waving to get my attention. The flip hairstyle of her Nancy Drew impersonation had begun to return to its more usual bob, perhaps because Meri was fidgeting with it in a sign of apparent anxiety. I had to hold my panic at bay until I found out what was upsetting her.

  As I hurried over to see what she wanted, I couldn't help thinking that if I had to have a vendor who turned into a real-life amateur sleuth, it would have been much better if it were Meri instead of Sweetwater. The bookseller wouldn't have upset anyone with her questions, and she might actually have gotten some useful answers, like she'd done when an author had been killed in her bookstore shortly after she'd inherited it.

  "I'm really sorry," Meri said, running fingers through her hair again and turning a few more ends in the wrong direction, "but I need to leave early today. I just got a call about an emergency at the bookstore. There's a leak, and it needs to be fixed before it drowns all of my inventory, and the plumber won't do anything unless I'm there in person."

  "I completely understand. It won't be a problem. But thanks for letting me know." The vendors outside the main market area weren't bound by a contract requiring them to be on site for all of the official hours, so Sweetwater wouldn't have any grounds to complain that I was giving the bookseller preferential treatment by not insisting that she should keep her tent open. Besides, Sweetwater ought to be gone by now, so he wouldn't even have the chance to see that Meri was leaving early. At this point, even if he did complain to the mayor, I doubted it would have any adverse effect on Meri. The Dangerous Reads tent had attracted quite a few people to the market, and her bookstore was a popular Main Street attraction for both residents and tourists. The mayor wouldn't want a successful business owner upset. He might, of course, consider Meri's leaving to be a black mark on my record, but compared to everything else that Sweetwater was going to bring up, a vendor going home a little bit early wasn't going to be the deciding factor in whether my contract was renewed for the next season.

  "Do you need help packing or taking down the tent?" I asked, thinking that having something physical to do might help to steady my nerves.

  "I'm just going to put up a sign and close the flaps for now. I'll let Officer Fields know I'm leaving, and I'm pretty sure he'll keep an eye on the tent while I'm gone," Meri said. "I'll come back or send someone else to take care of everything here as soon as I can, but it probably won't be before the market closes for the day."

  "Just do me a favor and make sure everything is gone before dark." If it wasn't, Sweetwater would be sure to hear about it even though he wasn't here. "I'll ask Cary to keep an eye on the tent too, although he's busy at the grill, so he wouldn't be able to do much other than alert the police if someone goes inside."

  "That's fine. I'll take the cash box and payment system, so there won't be anything terribly valuable to steal. At least nothing the usual black market would be interested in, and I'll be taking all the signed Elizabeth Ashby books with me when I leave so her fans won't be tempted." Meri absently turned under another section of her flip hairstyle and then nodded in the direction of the garden and the haunted house. "I've been meaning to ask you. Who is that man?"

  I followed her gaze to see Wayne Comstock over in the pumpkin patch. He wasn't anywhere near the police tape at the far end, but judging from his slow and methodical movements through the greenery, staring down at his feet, it looked like he was coming to the end of doing a grid-based search of the vine-covered section of the garden.

  "That's Wayne Comstock," I said. "He claims to be a private investigator, but I don't know if it's true."

  "I saw him yesterday morning, and he seemed out of place," Meri said. "I can't explain it, but he was Lurking. With a capital L. He'd huddle near a vendor for a while, not looking at the display, and then he'd move suddenly to another place and lurk there for a while. And then I saw him down in the pumpkin patch in the afternoon, although he was just standing around, not searching like he seems to be doing now. The funny thing is that it looked like he was trying to be invisible by standing still and hunching in on himself in the middle of all the activity there, but instead it just made him seem more conspicuous."

  Comstock had told me he hadn't gotten his assignment until today. "Are you sure you saw him yesterday?"

  Meri nodded. "I remember it distinctly, because he made me a little nervous. I know it's not right to judge a book by its cover, but I couldn't help thinking he was some sort of mafia henchman. A nice-looking one but still dark and potentially violent."

  "He wouldn't tell me who he's working for, but if he's legit and the client is too, then he could just be going for the noir look."

  "You're probably right, and I've read too many mysteries, so I'm just imagining it," Meri said with a laugh. "If I weren't leaving right away, I'd try to interest him in some books by Dashiell Hammett."

  * * *

  While I was at the grill asking Cary to keep an eye on the Dangerous Reads tent, I noticed the state agricultural inspector appeared to be heading toward the turkey pen. Exactly where he wasn't supposed to be. Apparently dealing with my own little lapse in sanity was going to have to wait. I was going to have to be my usual unflappable self for a little longer, even if it killed me.

  I raced off to intercept Sturgeon before he could antagonize Scott Vicente again. Fortunately, the inspector stopped at the front edge of the pumpkin patch to peer at the vines, and I caught up to him there.

  "Is there a problem?" I asked from behind him.

  Sturgeon started and spun to face me. "Some of the pumpkins have bruised spots and the skin is broken."

  I might be prepared to remain calm, but I was done with being patient. "So?"

  "So it's not healthy. Bacteria can get under the surface. Who knows if there's e. coli around here?"

  I flinched at the mention of e. coli. If there was anything that would start a panic among market-goers, it was the hint of unsafe food. Within the world of farmers' markets, even a whisper about the potentially deadly bacteria was like shouting "fire" in a crowded theater.

  "You'd better have proof of contamination before you make an allegation like that, or we'll see you in court."

  Sturgeon gave me a smug look. "By the time you can file for a restraining order, the damage will have been done. No one will ever forget that your market was associated with e. coli. Not only will you go out of business, but it will be a permanent black mark on the town's
reputation."

  I just stared at him incredulously. I couldn't even get angry at this point, since his threat was so ridiculous. "You'd really risk your career as an inspector by lying on the job, just to damage the town's reputation? What on earth made you hate Danger Cove so much?"

  "I don't hate the town," he said self-righteously. "I'm just doing my job."

  He wasn't a very good liar, I thought. His face was getting red, and he was having a harder time looking me in the eye than Cary did. Even without those tells, the sum total of his actions this weekend had made it abundantly clear that Sturgeon had a personal vendetta against the town. Even my mother didn't hate Danger Cove as much as he did. Shouldn't he have turned down the assignment to inspect the market here, knowing he couldn't give it a fair viewing? Or had he jumped at the chance without mentioning his feelings, thinking he could finally take revenge on the town for whatever it was he felt had been done to him twenty years ago?

  "I don't believe you." The inspector's hatred for the town had been obvious in the social media posts he'd made about the turkey farmer, where he'd disparagingly referred to the town first as Danger Trove and then as Dainty Cove, explaining that the town was run by senile old ladies, managing to be both sexist and libelous at the same time. Plus, Sturgeon had been finding fault in things that were clearly outside his job description, like trying to overrule the fire chief on issues of fire safety at the demonstration grill. Even the fact that Sturgeon had spent two whole days at a single, tiny market that probably didn't even qualify for any inspection whatsoever suggested he had been looking for trouble.