by Gin Jones
"On the plus side, you won't be searching for a new goat farmer from behind bars. It sounds like Detective Ohlsen isn't theorizing that you were involved in the murder."
"That reminds me." He paused to order two hot dogs and pay for them. He handed me one before he said, "Ohlsen asked me to have you get in touch with him. He wants to talk to you about Henry's death."
"Whatever for?" I'd expected to have to work at convincing the detective to talk to me if I came up with any useful information from the vendors. I hadn't expected him to make it easy for me to share what I knew. Unless that wasn't exactly what he was interested in. He could be considering me a possible suspect. "I don't know anything about what happened to Henry, and I wasn't anywhere near the crime scene when the body was found."
"I'm sure it's just routine." Merle headed toward the Memorial Walkway, setting a pace so slow it would take us all afternoon to get to the far end of the market. "Richie Faria got all the vendors' contact information yesterday, along with where they were during the hour before the body was found, but apparently he followed his instructions a bit too literally. You're not a vendor, so he didn't think to talk to you. In any event, I'm pretty sure Ohlsen doesn't consider you a suspect. He's just being thorough. He needs to know whatever you can tell him about where you were at the time of the murder and whatever you know about where the vendors were then. He's trying to narrow the possibilities down by finding out who doesn't have an alibi at the time of the murder."
"I'm not sure I can help much with that either." I took a bite of my hot dog and thought back to the time after I sent Henry on his break. "It might depend on how exact they can be with the time of death. I didn't spend more than ten minutes with any one person or group after Henry left, so any of them could have killed him either before or after I ran into them."
"You won't be the only one he gets a timeline from," Merle said. "Eyewitness information is often unreliable, especially when it's from a single person. It's better if he can get multiple people to share what they know and then see where the statements match and where they don't."
"If he'd asked me yesterday, I probably would have given him incorrect information," I said. "I thought Jazz Constant was with Gia Di Mitri for a solid half hour or more. That would have covered the time of the murder, but she was only there briefly, and she didn't get back to her stall until after the body was found. That leaves a large chunk of time I can't account for."
Merle swallowed and turned a perplexed expression on me. "Wasn't Jazz the only person in the market who actually liked Henry?"
"Most of the time she was." I crumpled up the wrapping from my wolfed-down hot dog and stuffed it into my pocket for disposal later and then dug in my sling bag for two moist towelettes. They'd somehow managed to slide down to the very bottom, beneath the rolls of quarters. "But not right before he died. The reason I sent Henry on a time out was for being a jerk to Jazz. And not just his usual crotchety comments. He'd just told her he was backing out of a contract to make some yarn bowls for her customers. Apparently she'd already presold quite a few, and now she's going to have to explain why she can't fill the orders."
"That's going to be hard on her." Merle took the offered moist towelette. "I remember at the beginning of the season she had trouble coming up with the fee to register as a vendor, and it's not that much money. I don't know the details, but it seems likely that she's finding it hard to keep up with her expenses since her husband died. I saw a foreclosure notice on her home in the Cove Chronicles the other day, and I bet Jack Condor is salivating over the prospect of buying it from the bank. If she loses the property, I don't know what she'll do with her rabbits. Depending on how big her colony is, it might be difficult finding a rental place or even a condo that will let her keep them."
"Poor Jazz. She's having a bad enough weekend without being suspected of murder."
"I'm just glad no one seems to be blaming JT." Merle slipped out of the flow of traffic and into the still-empty space that he'd vacated yesterday. Just past us, Tommy Fordham was doing a brisk business, although I thought he was rolling a little less jauntily today without his girlfriend.
The abandoned stall seemed gloomy in the shade of the first aid tent, and I wasn't the only one who felt that way. People were giving it a wide berth, which I supposed was good news for the vendors across from it, who were getting extra attention for their corn, beans, and alliums.
"Why would anyone blame JT?"
"You mean besides his being alone in the closest spot to where the body was found?" Merle glanced at the crime scene for emphasis. "Tommy and Ginger can alibi each other, but JT's got no one. It would be hard to prove he didn't slip out the back for a few minutes, just long enough to run into Henry, get into an argument, and kill him. It's a little too easy to imagine how he might have responded if Henry, true to form, zeroed in on JT's passion for his work and insulted his distillation skills."
"You sure know how to make a case," I said. "I'm glad you're on my side."
"Always." Merle glanced at the walkway where people were keeping their distance. He kept his voice low so it wouldn't carry past the edges of the canopy when he added, "And what makes the theoretical case against JT particularly credible is that people will want to believe it. No one around here knows much about him, and he makes a lot of people uncomfortable with his intensity about his work. Especially in a small town, the detectives have to fight against their own natural tendency to want to blame someone they don't know very well instead of someone they've known all their lives."
"I haven't lived here much longer than JT has. Are you sure Detective Ohlsen doesn't consider me a suspect?"
Merle shook his head. "I don't know. I've only got a few more years of local residency than you do, but perhaps it would be just as well if I sat in on the session with Ohlsen."
"Thanks." I wished I could believe that Merle was being overly cautious, but I couldn't. I needed to prepare for the worst. For JT, for myself, and for the entire market.
* * *
Before Merle left, he contacted Ohlsen and arranged for the three of us to meet at the first aid tent in about half an hour. While they were making the arrangements, I received a text from Denise of the Danger Cove Dairy, asking me to do something about Jim Sweetwater.
I would have loved to do something about him, if I could just figure out what.
I hurried over to find Sweetwater cowering at the front corner of the pepper farmer's display table where it abutted the dairy's space. His shoulders were hunched, causing the straps of his overalls to slip down to the middle of his short sleeves, and he'd wrapped his arms around his torso as if he were giving himself a hug.
"Patrick Casey hit me." Sweetwater unwrapped one arm to point at Denise's husband, who was at the far end of his space, where the squash farmer in the adjoining stall and his customers had paused to watch the commotion.
Patrick was a big man with a bushy beard. Everyone described him as a teddy bear, but at the moment he looked more like a grizzly, shaking with rage. He wasn't roaring and seemed content to let his wife speak for them both.
"He didn't touch you," Denise said.
"That's just because he missed," Sweetwater said with some of his usual bravado.
Denise snorted. "If Patrick had wanted to hit you, he would have."
"Someone's got to do something about this." Sweetwater looked at me. "Violence isn't allowed at the market."
It might not be allowed, but it was happening with worrisome frequency.
"Tell me what happened."
While Patrick wisely remained at the opposite end of his space and kept quiet, Sweetwater and Denise tried to talk over each other. I held up a hand until they stopped and then pointed at Sweetwater to begin, since he was the supposedly aggrieved party.
"I was just asking people about their whereabouts when Henry died, and Patrick went crazy," Sweetwater said. "Someone has to figure out who killed Henry Atwell, and the police aren't getting anywhere, so I've been a
sking around, trying to figure out who has an alibi and who doesn't."
"It really would be better if you left it to the police." I didn't trust him to keep his inquiries low-key, like mine were. "Detective Ohlsen may not be as fast as you'd like, but speed isn't the most important thing in a murder investigation. Getting it right is. And that requires being thorough and methodical."
"But I can help," Sweetwater said. "I know everyone in town and all their connections and secrets, thanks to my job."
In theory, he was right. His knowledge of Danger Cove residents should give him an edge in figuring out motives and solving a murder, but he'd tried playing at amateur sleuth before, and it hadn't been pretty. I almost wished he were as competent as he claimed to be. Then I wouldn't have ended up in danger the last time someone died at the market, and I could let Sweetwater and the detective take care of the investigation without me. But that wasn't an option. I was responsible for the market and everyone in it.
"Perhaps you could share what you know with Detective Ohlsen," I said. "He'll be in the first aid tent in about half an hour. I'm sure he'll make time for you."
Sweetwater shook his head and slid his hands into his overalls pockets. "It's too soon for me to report to him. I need to narrow down the possibilities first, finding out who was where when. And that's what I was doing when Patrick went berserk. We all know everyone who's ever worked at the market hated Henry, so they're all suspects. I knew Patrick wasn't here working with his wife from before the fight between Henry and Jazz until midafternoon, but I didn't know where he was. So I asked him. It wasn't like I was accusing him of murder. If he didn't have anything to hide, he could have just answered me. Instead, he took a swing at me. Which is practically an admission of guilt, if you ask me."
More likely it was an understandable if not exactly wise reaction to being accused, however indirectly, of murder by someone who didn't have the right to ask the question. Sweetwater did seem to go out of his way to make people want to slug him, although I knew that didn't excuse Patrick.
I turned to Denise. "Is that what happened?"
"Patrick did take a swing at Jim, and I know he shouldn't have, and he's really sorry. But can you blame him?"
"I'm afraid I have to." I glanced at Patrick
He was looking down at his boots, the visible skin on his face red. He took a deep breath and then raised his head to look directly at Sweetwater, "I'm sorry, Jim. I shouldn't have reacted like that. It won't happen again. I promise."
I appreciated the immediate and seemingly sincere apology. Of course, Sweetwater wasn't impressed. He just grunted and said, "Someone should make sure you learn how to control your temper better."
I quashed a sigh. I'd been hoping I could turn the tables on Sweetwater a bit by assigning him the next project he decided "someone" should do, but there was no way he could teach anyone to remain calm, unless it consisted of desensitization therapy, where he provoked someone repeatedly until the other person no longer reacted. I doubted Sweetwater would take the risk of being pummeled until the treatment took effect.
Still, Sweetwater was right that someone needed to make sure Patrick didn't lose his temper again at the market. It wasn't something I could delegate. Apology or not, I couldn't let Patrick off without some sort of punishment. I would have preferred to ban Sweetwater for provoking the altercation, but while that would have been emotionally satisfying, I couldn't really justify it. He hadn't resorted to anything physical, and even if I kicked him out, Patrick was still culpable for rising to the bait, and he would have to go.
"You know the rules," I told Denise. "Patrick is banned from the market until further notice. We can talk about the details after this weekend."
"We understand," Denise said. "I'm going to be shorthanded though. Do you think Cary could help me close at the end of the day?"
"Sure." I typed a reminder into my phone. "I'll send him over later."
Denise made a face at Sweetwater before turning back to me. "And just so no one starts any rumors, I can tell you that Patrick couldn't possibly have killed Henry. He was helping at the church yesterday where people were preparing for today's Procession of Saints. After he got us set up here, he went and helped in the church's kitchen, feeding everyone who was working there. His shift was from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. Dozens of people can confirm he was there. Including the priest. How's that for an alibi?"
Sweetwater didn't have the good sense to be embarrassed. He just shrugged and said, "Then why didn't Patrick just tell me that? All I wanted to know was where he was. He didn't have to try to hit me."
"That's enough." I didn't trust Sweetwater to be a gracious winner and leave Patrick in peace on his trip to the parking lot, so I needed to separate them. "Please go on back to your stall while I have a word with the Caseys."
"Why doesn't anyone listen to me?" Sweetwater muttered as he left. "I'm just doing what has to be done when no one else will do it."
Once Sweetwater was safely in his own space, I told Patrick he could leave and I'd be in touch with him later in the week.
He nodded and crossed to the far side of the Memorial Walkway so he wouldn't have to pass directly in front of Sweetwater on the way to the parking lot. He stopped to help one of Cicely's customers pick up something she'd dropped in front of Thyme for Tea but otherwise kept going until I lost track of him near the first aid tent, when he was swallowed by the crowd.
Denise had been watching her husband's progress too, and once he was out of sight, she turned to me. "Seeing Patrick at Thyme for Tea reminded me of something you should know. It won't be good if Sweetwater decides to interrogate Cicely. She gets flustered when her tea ceremonies are interrupted, and much as I'd like to see soggy tea leaves sliding down Sweetwater's face after she dumps a pot on his head, it's probably better if the situation doesn't arise."
"I'll ask Ohlsen to have a word with him about meddling in a police investigation. Until then, is there some reason you think Sweetwater might want to question her in particular?" Cicely had been away from her stall shortly before Henry's body had been found, but I couldn't imagine why anyone would think she might have wanted to kill him. She was brand new to the market, and her space was far enough away from WoodWell's that she wouldn't have had any reason to get into an argument with Henry.
"She hated Henry as much as everyone else here, perhaps more." Denise lowered her voice and leaned closer to me. "Did you know she's not really British? We all know she's actually from California, but it makes her happy to pretend she's from England, and it doesn't hurt anyone, so most of us keep quiet about it. Except for Henry. He was making fun of her accent yesterday when everyone was setting up."
"I never would have guessed it wasn't real."
"Me neither," Denise said. "She told me she started talking that way when she was going through an Anglophile phase in high school, and now she doesn't even think about it. Henry pretended he couldn't understand her and then did his own really bad accent, claiming it was better than hers."
"I'll let Cicely know she should contact me if Sweetwater even looks in her direction." Even as I spoke, I noticed what promised to be another more immediate problem. A crowd was gathering up at WoodWell, and not in a good way. "I may not get to Cicely right away, so if you see Sweetwater talking to her before I can warn her, will you text me?"
She nodded, and I hurried off to see what was happening at WoodWell.
I almost hoped Sweetwater did bother Cicely. A second incident provoked by him in one day might even be enough to justify kicking him out of the market. Getting rid of him was an investment that would pay off in the long run, but it would have some costs initially. Like having to explain myself to town hall and all the work I'd have to do to find another farmer to fill yet another empty space in the market.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I had to do a little pushing and shoving to get through the crowd packed in front of WoodWell. The display table was almost empty, with customers hugging stacks of wooden bowls and t
renchers to their chests and clamoring for Etta's attention.
"Where's Cary?" I asked her.
"I told him he could take a break. And then…" She waved a hand at the crowd. "Then this happened." She turned back to the customer she'd been waiting on.
"Who's next in line?" I asked, and at least six people raised their hands and demanded my attention, including two in the very back of the crowd. I chose the woman closest to me and gestured for her to hand over her stack of merchandise so I could ring it up.
Cary returned a few minutes later, and I assigned him to crowd control, giving him permission to organize the customers as if they were items in a vendor's display, as long as he kept track of who was next in line. With that taken care of, Etta and I were able to deal with totaling the purchases and collecting payment. After fifteen minutes everything that had been claimed had also been paid for, and the display table was empty. There was still a crowd demanding a look at the inventory packed away at the back of the stall.
"We're closing for an hour to refill the display table," I announced. "I hope you'll all come back then."
No one moved except to shuffle their feet and make it clear that they weren't losing their places in line by leaving.
I slipped my sling bag off my shoulder and dug inside for a roll of numbered raffle tickets and handed it to Cary. "My assistant will give you a ticket to hold your place in line, and then you can come back at 2:15 when we'll be ready to help you."
While Cary handled the crowd, I took Etta to the back of the stall where a row of battered plastic bins formed a low wall. Henry had always transported his inventory and supplies in those bins. "What was that all about?"
"Apparently everyone thinks my grandfather's work will go up in price significantly now that it's in limited supply. And I think there's a rumor going around that WoodWell won't be back at the market after today, so this is the last chance to buy anything before the prices skyrocket."