Divas, Diamonds & Death

by Elizabeth Ashby

  I wished I could say the same for the two spaces run by people who hadn't participated in the market before and whose applications I'd initially rejected. Not because they were new to the market, but because they'd shown every indication of being more trouble than they were worth. They reminded me of some risky investments my financial-planning clients used to ask me about. The investments could potentially have paid off handsomely, but they'd have required monitoring on an almost daily basis, constantly judging whether to continue owning them while also being prepared to sell them quickly if necessary to avoid a serious loss. Most people weren't willing to put in that effort, and without the constant review, the potential gains were more likely to turn into losses.

  In a similar way, the two troublesome vendors were already on their way to consuming more of my time, both before and during this weekend, than all of the other vendors combined. They'd both applied after the deadline for reserving a space, and their applications hadn't reassured me that they'd be any better at following the more substantive rules for the market. One of the applicants, a group of live-action role-players—or "LARPers"—who called themselves the Dangerous Duelers, seemed likely to create unnecessary chaos as they ran around in costumes and pretended to kill each other. The other applicant wasn't even from Danger Cove, and he sold factory-made products, both of which should have excluded him automatically from a market advertised as selling only locally grown produce and locally made arts and crafts.

  I'd denied the two applications, but unfortunately, despite my title as the market manager, the buck didn't stop with me. It stopped with town hall. Mayor Edward Kallakala was a good guy, and he could resist pressure when it came to important decisions for the town, but for something as relatively minor as who was allowed to participate in the Labor Day festivities, he was as susceptible as any politician to constituent pressure. I was fairly new to Danger Cove, so I didn't yet know who was connected to whom, but apparently both of my denied applicants had some clout with the mayor's office or knew someone who did, and now I was stuck with them.

  I'd been hoping for the best with the LARPers, but the complaint by the president of the Danger Cove Garden Club meant I needed to have a talk with them right away. The players were easy to spot, at least. Half of them were dressed as pirates, and the other half were dressed as pioneers who'd arrived in the Pacific Northwest by way of the Oregon Trail in the middle of the nineteenth century.

  The Dangerous Duelers' setup had suggested that they would be a nice addition to the area between the parking lot and the main market. They'd built a child-sized pirate ship by adding a painted-plywood prow and stern to a twin-sized bed. The mattress served as a resting spot for tired players, the prow served as a table for rules packets, and cubbyholes built into the opposite end held supplies and water bottles. A skull-and-crossbones flag flew above the stern. So far, most of the players had been respectful toward the kids climbing on it and the parents asking how much it would cost to buy the pirate's ship for their child's bedroom.

  I gathered the dozen or so players loitering around the pirate ship into a huddle and introduced myself, adding that I'd appreciate it if they'd steer clear of the garden unless they were volunteering to help with the weeding. Most of them nodded agreeably, but a mutinous female pirate caught my eye. I’d seen her before, during the Independence Day market, when she’d worn an Uncle Sam costume. As far as I knew, the Dangerous Duelers hadn’t been playing a game then. In her patriotic costume, she’d been friendly, offering little American flags to kids. Now, she seemed to have adopted a more confrontational attitude to match her pseudo-blood-stained pirate costume. Anything with a corset that tight would have made me cranky too, but her expression went far beyond irritable. She looked like she wanted to hang me from a yardarm or make me walk a gangplank. She settled for whispering something into the ear of a short, middle-aged man and then shoving him in my direction. He’d somehow eluded my notice until then, despite his voluminous, robin's egg blue choir robe that practically glowed when the sun hit it.

  He gave the female pirate an irritated look and straightened his robe before turning to me. "The garden is open to the public, and we’re members of the public. We can stay out of the vegetable beds for our game, but we need to use the areas around it, especially the rocky places. They're perfect for hiding in."

  The spots he was referring to weren't in the garden itself, but in the relatively low but rocky expanse looming over it. The landward side of the cliff that supported the lighthouse curved around much of the garden, encircling much of what was a dry equivalent of the cove on the other side of the market. There were piled boulders and small openings that weren't the sort of caves a serious spelunker might be interested in, but some of them were two or three feet deep and easily tall enough for one or two people to stand inside, somewhat hidden from any casual observers who might be stalking them for their game.

  "You must be Leo Ricci." It was just a guess, but he was older than the other players and was carrying a stack of stapled pages that outlined the rules of the day’s game, suggesting that he was the gamemaster who’d signed the application to participate in the market.

  "You can call me 'Your Honor' this weekend," he said, puffing himself up. "I'm the hanging judge for the next thirty or so hours."

  He must have noticed my flickering glance down at the pale blue robe, because he added defensively, "Judges aren't required to wear black. It's a tradition, I agree, but it's too hot today. I'd melt if I wore black. I can still be tough and hang pirates, no matter what color I'm wearing."

  "No one is getting hanged this weekend," I said. The market had gone two whole months without anyone dying, and I was hoping to extend that streak for the entire remainder of my tenure as the manager. Or the end of the first season, whichever came first.

  "Not really hanged," Leo said in the tone usually reserved for explaining things that the speaker believed were common sense to anyone over the age of two.

  "Not even pretend hanged," I said. "The market is supposed to be a happy, peaceful, family-friendly event. No blood and gore, nothing that might make people sad or wish that they'd had a trigger warning before they saw something upsetting."

  "I know, I know. We do try to blend in and not bother anyone who isn't a character. But you can't blame me if some of the players stage really elaborate death scenes when they get knocked out of the game. It's all in good fun. I sometimes think a few of our members get themselves killed on purpose so they can die dramatically."

  "Just do me a favor and keep them out of the main traffic. And make sure there's nothing too realistic about their death throes. Consider this your cardinal rule: Don't scare the marketers." I glanced over at where the garden club president was watching us from near the tomato bed. "And please stay out of the garden proper. You can use the caves and rock walls as long as you don't stomp through the plants on the way there."

  "That's acceptable." Leo turned to the female pirate who'd been tugging on his robe. "Forget it, Angela. I've approved the two amendments to the rules, so it's official. Everyone will stay out of the garden proper and will refrain from scaring the marketers."

  "That's all well and good for the pioneers," the costumed woman said. "But how can we be proper pirates without being scary?"

  "I don't know," Leo said, exasperated. "You figure it out. Coming up with creative solutions to problems is what gaming is all about."

  Angela put her hand on the hilt of the remarkably realistic-looking cutlass hanging from her hip, but then seemed to think better of it and moved her hand to the brass-trimmed spyglass hanging from a cord around her neck. "I'm going to go find the pirate captain. He isn't going to like this."

  She stomped off, and Leo watched her leave before reassuring me, "Don't worry. The pirate captain knows he has to follow my rules or his team will lose by default. He won't cause any trouble."

  "I hope you're right."

  I did wish them well, but I wasn't going to leave it to chance. I'd
be keeping an eye on Leo and, even more so, on Angela. It would be a shame if she ruined the game for everyone, both players and non-players alike. I thought the local residents would enjoy mingling with role-playing pirates, as long as the game catered to nostalgia for the days when pirates had supposedly been common around here. Danger Cove's citizens tended to be proud of the lawless early days of the town, as evidenced by the popularity of the Smugglers' Tavern and the many market products with names like Pirate's Treasure or Pieces of Eight.

  I left the Dangerous Duelers' ship and headed for what I expected to be a bigger problem with little in the way of possible rewards: the stall at the farthest end of the market, the last one before the site became too rocky and steep to set up a canopy. The space was supposed to be unoccupied, as it had been since the end of the Independence Day weekend when I'd reassigned the vendor there to a more visible spot that had been vacant due to the death of the flower seller. I'd been working all summer to find a new vendor for the only empty spot, preferably a beekeeper, since quite a few people had been asking about a source for local honey. Unfortunately, I hadn't found one yet. The best I could do in the meantime was to make sure that all the spaces in the front were occupied, with the empty one tucked away at the back where it wouldn't make the market look like it had fallen on hard times.

  Where that far-back stall had at one time featured a display of pears and cider beneath a hand-carved sign that read Pear Stirpes Orchard, there was now a printed purple and white trade-show style banner with the name of an educational toy company above pictures of kids happily playing with the products. It was at least three feet wide by seven feet high and would have looked more natural in an indoor setting like a conference center than outdoors on grass. Next to and in front of the banner, partially blocking the stone steps up to the lighthouse, were three purple child-sized tables with matching chairs.

  Beneath the canopy was a brawny man wearing khaki pants with a loose soccer shirt in the distinctive purple and white of the local varsity teams. I'd seen him earlier, when he'd been unloading his hand cart in his assigned spot—down near the first aid tent—and he'd introduced himself as Keith Nettles. I'd noticed then that the color of his shirt wasn't a random choice. It was official Danger Cove High School gear, with the school's name and logo printed in the left chest area. The shirt looked new, although as a man in his thirties, he couldn't possibly be a student there. He could be a coach, I supposed, since he had the muscular build of someone with a strong commitment to exercise. I couldn't see if anything was printed on the back of the shirt to explain his connection with the school, because he wore a matching purple backpack, again with the high school's name printed on it. If he was a coach, it would certainly explain how he'd had the political connections to get a space at the market after I'd rejected his application.

  Now Keith was bent over a plastic bin, unpacking samples of his company's line of educational toys. He set each one down on the children's tables with more force than necessary, as if he were angry and taking it out on his own products. It didn't seem like an ideal attitude for someone who was marketing to parents of young kids, but presumably he'd do a better job of being pleasant once he was fully set up and making his sales pitches. Some people didn't like to waste energy on an upbeat, positive attitude with non-customers, and he had plenty of reasons to be less than cheerful at the moment. No one enjoyed doing the setup, especially if it was rushed because of a change of location. Plus, it was hotter than expected for early September, not the greatest weather for engaging in the heavy labor of lugging around the furniture and inventory bins. He wasn't going to be happy to hear that he had to move them all over again.

  "Excuse me," I said. "This isn't your assigned space."

  He turned to face me, holding an obviously used infant's version of a smartphone, complete with a touch screen and pretend apps. "I noticed no one was using it, and I didn't think it would be a big deal if I stepped in."

  "I'm afraid it is, though." I wouldn't have cared if any of the regular vendors had decided to swap spaces, but Keith was not only a non-regular, but he was also someone who didn't meet any of the requirements for space in the farmers' market itself. It was worrisome enough that he was associated with the market at all, but I was determined to make sure that everything within the official canopies was grown in Danger Cove or produced by hand here, like the wooden bowls and relief sculptures of WoodWell across the path, or the yarns of Snazzy-Jazzy Fibers. This man was selling mass-produced educational toys, clearly not made by hand and unlikely to have been manufactured in Danger Cove. As far as I knew, there weren't any factories capable of mass-producing plastic products here in town.

  Still, Keith had connections with the mayor's office, so it wouldn't be wise to provoke him, no matter how much he tried my limited patience. "If you need help moving things back to your assigned spot outside the main market, I can get my assistant to lend you a hand."

  "It's too hot over there," he said testily. "It shouldn't be this tropical on a Labor Day weekend, and I was expecting a nice breeze from the ocean to keep things comfortable. You should have warned me to bring something to block the sun a bit."

  The farmers' market was located next to the cove the town was named for, on a triangular bit of land that rose to a cliff where the lighthouse had once warned sailors of dangerous waters. On the other side of the market, away from the cove and beyond the historical garden, was Two Mile Beach. Both the cove and the beach undoubtedly benefited from ocean breezes even on unseasonably warm days like today, but nestled as we were on the side of the cliff away from the water, the wind currents mostly missed us.

  It was incredibly tempting to quote the patron saint of financial planning, Benjamin Franklin, who once said, "By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail," but I'd learned over the years that it was a saying that only other financial planners really appreciated. My clients had certainly never thanked me for that particular bit of advice. In any event, it was too late now for Keith to do any useful preparation.

  I refrained from lecturing and simply said, "There's a place here in town called One Man's Trash. It sells canopies. Tucker would probably even deliver and set it up if you ask nicely. I've got his number in my contacts if you'd like it."

  Keith crossed his arms over his chest, clearly indicating he had no intention of moving. "I'm not spending any more money than I already have on this rinky-dink little market. I'd been told it was going to be the next big thing in destination shopping, or I wouldn't have bothered. You should be glad I'm here, giving people a reason to check the place out. I don't understand why you're making it more difficult for me to work."

  I should have known he wouldn't feel obliged to follow any of the market rules. It didn't help that my authority had previously been undermined by the town officials who'd overruled my decision to deny Keith's application. He wasn't likely to care about any orders I gave him now.

  I had backup, of course. I'd seen the senior officer Fred Fields and rookie Richie Faria, along with a few of their colleagues, patrolling the area earlier. The regular Saturday market days generally hadn't required any police intervention, but for holiday weekends like this one, the police chief had decided that the expanded activities and corresponding increase in attendance called for some extra supervision. I hadn't tried to change his mind. Fred Fields was good with people, and after what had happened over the Independence Day weekend, I was grateful for the increased police presence.

  The officers would evict Keith from the stall he'd misappropriated if I asked, but I preferred not to involve them. Keith's political connections might make matters awkward for the responding officer. I also worried that it would undermine my authority with other, more long-term vendors if they noticed I couldn't handle this on my own. I would be the first to admit that I had a lot to learn about my new job, but I tried not to give other people reasons to point out my inexperience. It wasn't easy to keep a low profile in a small town, especially when, as my mother had
gloomily warned me would happen, everyone was watching to see if I would live up to the reputation of my legendary great-great-great-grandmother.

  Normally, I dismissed my mother's negativity toward Danger Cove. She had found the small town a stifling place to live, but she and I were very different, and I found the place charming. Nevertheless, there were a few people here who made me realize that my melodramatic mother had had some valid grounds for her complaints. The potato farmer, Jim Sweetwater, hadn't been one of the specific people who'd caused her to flee to Seattle, but he embodied everything she hated about Danger Cove. He'd been born and raised here, as had his parents and grandparents, and he couldn't imagine living or working anywhere else. He was a middle-aged guidance counselor at the high school he'd once attended and was as fanatically supportive of everything local as the local teams' adolescent cheerleaders were.

  Even as I thought about Sweetwater, I caught a glimpse of him in his overalls and bow tie, stepping out from the shade of his canopy several spaces away and into the Memorial Walkway to watch my interaction with Keith. Now I really didn't want to involve the cops.

  In light of my audience, it was doubly important that I convince Keith to go back to his assigned space, more or less of his own volition. I couldn't remove him physically, and he didn't seem amenable to reason, so I'd have to resort to trickery.

  I glanced around as if I didn't want anyone to hear what I had to say and then took a step deeper beneath the canopy so I could lean in and whisper. "If you insist on staying here, there's something you need to know. The market's lawyer insists on it."

  I didn't have any qualms about invoking Merle Curtis, semi-retired lawyer, owner of the Pear Stirpes Orchard and leading candidate for the role of my future significant other. He wasn't here yet, since he'd encountered problems of his own back at the orchard, but if he were here, he'd have backed me up with all of the considerable legalese at his control. I could have gotten him on the phone to deliver a verbal cease and desist to Keith, but I didn't want to bother Merle right now any more than I wanted to involve the police. With a little luck, some vaguely dire consequences would convince Keith to do the right thing.