by Gin Jones
I drew Merle's attention to the toy seller's space. "If Keith abandons his canopy, would you and JT take it back to the orchard for me until I can figure out what to do with it?"
"I'd be happy to store it for you. I'm sure someone will need a replacement eventually."
"Thanks. It's a relief to have a plan." With the various disasters we'd had since I'd started this job—an earthquake, a missing person, and more than one death—a canopy getting struck by lightning or crushed under falling boulders wasn't as farfetched an occurrence as it ought to have been. "So what are you going to do about the goat farmer implicating you in the death of Ryan Palmer?"
"Nothing I can do right now," Merle said. "Once the widow and her kids are found, the police will be able to get some answers, and I'll be able to poke holes in their stories about me."
"I wonder if the widow or her kids came to Danger Cove after the body was found," I said. "Stalking Henry, maybe. Etta told me her grandfather thought Louise Palmer's children were dangerous. If they killed their stepfather, and Henry knew something about them, they might have wanted to silence him."
"It seems unlikely to me," Merle said. "For three reasons. First, if the kids had been loitering near WoodWell, looking for an opportunity to silence Henry, someone would have noticed. You've seen how gossip races through the market."
"Does anyone here know what the kids look like?"
"I don't, but Sweetwater probably does."
"And he does love to show off how much more he knows than I do."
Merle made a noncommital sound. "Except he didn't rush to tell anyone what he knew about Veronica Buckley when she died in July. Not until it was too late to be useful."
"So the kids could have been here, waiting for a chance to get rid of Henry." Perhaps one of the vendors had met them. I'd have to add that to the questions I was asking the vendors about what they might have known about Henry's death. So far, no one had seen anything useful, but perhaps I'd just been asking the wrong questions.
I glanced up the walkway again. "What do you know about Cicely Smythe? She's about the right age to have been one of Ryan Palmer's stepkids. She's from California, the same place Louise Palmer came from, and she was away from her space right around the time of Henry's death."
"I never met her before this weekend," Merle said, "but if I remember right from when you showed me her application to join the market, a couple of the other vendors—not Sweetwater—vouched for her as a local resident. If they'd known she was Ryan's stepdaughter, they'd have told the police by now."
"You're probably right," I said. "But I'm getting desperate to see some progress with finding Henry's killer. I've talked to several of the vendors about what happened, but they haven't had anything particularly useful to the investigation. I didn't think to ask them about Louise Palmer's kids."
"It seems like a stretch to think Louise Palmer's kids are lurking in the shadows of Danger Cove. If they'd been targeting Henry, it would have been a lot easier to stalk him at home, with fewer people watching."
"Maybe they'd already tried that and couldn't get to him there." I knew I was just being stubborn, but I really liked my theory that Ryan Palmer's stepkids had also killed Henry. Probably because then it wouldn't have had anything to do with the market, besides the location, and I wouldn't feel responsible, even a little. It wasn't just wishful thinking. I did have a little information to back up my theory. "Etta mentioned that Henry had had some unexpected visitors in the days before the market. She didn't see them, so we don't know what they looked like, but we also can't rule out that they were Mrs. Palmer's kids."
"Interesting," Merle said. "But there's one more reason I don't think the widow or her kids killed him. That would have been a premeditated act, and in that case, you'd expect the killer to have brought his own weapon."
"But Henry was killed with his own chisel," I finished for him. "I heard about that."
"Unfortunately I'd have to say someone affiliated with the market is most likely to have been the culprit."
"I'm afraid you're right." And if so, the news coverage of the investigation and eventual arrest—or worse, reports of the failure to make an arrest, so the impression remained that a killer had been spawned at the market and continued to lurk there—was going to put paid to my plan to get the market on any "best of" lists. Just getting on the Cove Chronicles' list of best farmers' markets in town was going to be a stretch, even though the Lighthouse Farmers' Market was the only one in town.
"Still, I'd feel better if the police could find Louise Palmer's kids so we'd know for sure that they weren't involved. I bet you'd be relieved about the situation then too, since they need to be found to get some answers about the body at the orchard."
"I would like to see them found, but I don't see it happening any time soon. For now all I'm thinking about is the next few hours until the market closes. And then spending the evening with you at the bonfires." He took my hand. "Unless you'd rather come back to the orchard and check out the caretaker's cabin?"
"I'm sorry, but I haven't had a chance to think about that yet." It wasn't entirely true. I'd been distracted by the fallout from Henry's death, but that hadn't kept me from thinking about Merle's offer in spare moments.
"I understand." Merle dropped my hand.
"I'm going to do what you suggested and concentrate on getting through the next few hours for now," I said. "No more worrying about what will happen next week. All I have to do is get through the rest of the day without any more major crises."
Just as I finished speaking, a scream of rage erupted from the far end of the market.
* * *
Merle and I tossed our empty bottles into the recycling bin next to the Police Foundation's table and raced to where a small crowd had formed outside Snazzy-Jazzy Fibers. The Baxter twins had gotten there before I did and were already leaving, which was an encouraging sign. No one was hurt.
Merle bent to whisper, "Looks like you can handle this on your own. I'll be over in my stall if you need anything."
Jazz was standing beside an empty cage, a bunny clutched to her chest protectively. When she saw me, she nodded at a young man with a scruffy beard. "I want him arrested for animal cruelty. And attempted kidnapping. He was going to abduct my baby."
"All I did was wiggle my fingers to get its attention," the man said. "I was thinking of getting one for my girlfriend. I didn't know it would get out."
"HoneyBun is smart, and he doesn't like to be locked up," Jazz said.
"Then you should have secured it better," the young man said.
"Seriously? Seriously?" Her voice was rising to impossible heights, as sharp as everything else about her. "You're blaming the victim?"
I interrupted before her voice could get to glass-shattering levels. "I'm sure it was an honest mistake. And HoneyBun is safe now."
Jazz squeezed the bunny tighter. "No thanks to him," she said, but her voice was back down to a normal range.
"He's sorry for what happened," I assured her, "and there's no permanent harm."
"HoneyBun is traumatized," Jazz said, her pitch rising slightly.
"And I'm sure you'll be able to soothe him." I remembered what Denise Casey had said about Henry stealing some ducklings in the past. Could he have tried that with one of Jazz's bunnies? It would explain why she was so distraught now, if she thought something similar was happening again. "You must have had to deal with loose bunnies before, considering how many events you've been to with them."
"A few times," she said, loosening her hold on HoneyBun slightly. "But it wasn't my fault. Not now and not then. No matter what anyone claimed."
That sounded like just the sort of insensitive thing Henry might have said. Now wasn't the time to ask if that was what she was referring to. Not with the curious audience out in front of the stall, trying to get the inside scoop on what latest disaster had happened at the market. Instead I tried for a more soothing tack. "And everything worked out just fine when the bunny got
loose in the past, right?"
"Eventually." Jazz carefully slid HoneyBun into its cage and fussed with the latch that looked less than secure to me.
"It's almost closing time, and I'd like to get through the last half hour of the market without having any more police involvement. It looks like HoneyBun is safe, and no one meant him any harm, so I'd be grateful if you could drop the matter."
"I'm really sorry," the young man said. "I would have felt terrible if anything had happened to your rabbit. I'm not a bad guy. Really. I was just trying to get a better look at his face."
"I suppose his getting out wasn't intentional, and I probably should have been paying closer attention. It's just that rabbits get scared easily, and it's taken me ages to get HoneyBun calm enough to come to events with me." Jazz sighed. "Never mind. It's been a difficult weekend for everyone, and I don't want to make it worse. No need to call the police."
"Thank you." I turned to the young man. "Why don't I walk with you?"
"Are you escorting me off the grounds?" he asked cautiously.
"Nothing like that. I just want to be sure Jazz doesn't change her mind and come after you." I waved a hand to encourage him to walk with me down the Memorial Walkway. "I hope you won't let this incident sour you on the market. You probably heard about what happened yesterday. It's got everyone on edge. But you wouldn't want to miss out on some of the amazing products our vendors are offering."
"I don't know. No one yells at me at the supermarket. And I can get my beer there too."
"But does the supermarket have…" We were next to the consumer sciences stall, and unfortunately, they didn't really offer anything likely to be of interest to the young man whose primary criterion for judging a store was whether it sold beer.
In the next space after the one belonging to the high school group, Cicely was starting a tea demonstration. She was about the same age as the young man, even if she didn't dress like it. I knew it was a stretch to think he might be interested in her products, but it was all I had to offer him at the moment. "Does the supermarket offer tea that was grown right here in Washington state? We do. Come, let me introduce you to Cicely."
He hesitated. "Is there anything I need to know before I get close? Things I need to watch out for? You know, like fragile cups or something else I might break?"
"I'm afraid you'll have to find out for yourself," I said. "Unlike a grocery store, we don't have warnings against every possible danger."
* * *
After the first thirty seconds of listening to the excruciatingly detailed explanation of how tea was grown and processed, I began to have second thoughts about using Cicely as a good example of why the young man should shop at the market instead of a grocery store. Fortunately, he seemed to find the information fascinating, and he even bought a box of tea at the end of the lecture that had lasted only five minutes, although it had felt more like half an hour to me.
After he left, I reminded Cicely that the market would be closing in a few minutes.
"Couldn't be too soon for me," she said in the British accent that, even now that I knew it was fake, still sounded real to me. "There were some very rude and nasty people here, you know."
"You don't have to put up with bad behavior. Just tell me about it. I'll ban anyone who mistreats vendors," I said. "But I need to know about the incidents before I can do anything about them. Was there anyone in particular who bothered you?"
"Henry Atwell's the first to come to mind. I shouldn't say anything ill of the dead, but he was such a hateful person. Always ridiculing people."
"Anyone else cause you trouble?"
"Not like Henry did," Cicely said. "They were just tiring and tiresome."
"But you'll be back next week, right?" I couldn't afford to lose her as a vendor. I'd asked around before approving her application to join the market, and I was pretty sure that locally grown tea—the real thing, not the herbal variety—wasn't available at any other market within a day's drive of Danger Cove.
"Oh yes," she said. "Educating people about the virtues of tea is important, no matter the cost and inconvenience to me."
"I hope you had a good number of students to educate this weekend."
"Oh yes. Literal students, even. The kids from the consumer sciences class came over for a lesson." Cicely's eyes flickered, looking across the Memorial Walkway and then back to me. She leaned forward to speak in a lower tone, although there weren't any customers browsing her stock. "That Sweetwater guy didn't say anything to me, but he gives me the creeps. If you really want to make my life easier next week, you'll assign me to a space where he won't be staring at me all the time."
I resisted the instinctive urge to look over my shoulder and across to where I could practically feel him staring at us. If I looked in his direction, he would take it as an invitation to come berate me for whatever he considered to be my latest mistake. Not that he needed an invitation.
"Did Sweetwater interrupt your demonstrations?"
"Not directly," Cicely said. "He kept distracting me. I suppose it isn't his fault that his stall is in my line of sight when I'm doing a demonstration. Still, I couldn't help noticing that he was staring at me a lot today. Staring at everyone, I guess, so maybe it's got nothing to do with me. I did hear that he was asking questions about who might have killed Henry, so perhaps he's just being weird because of that. All I know is that he's definitely been on edge all day. Like he expects one of us to race over there and stab him with his own spading fork."
This time I couldn't help glancing at Sweetwater. I didn't have to worry about him seeing me, since he'd ducked down behind his display table, as if he were looking for something. Or as if he'd noticed Cicely watching him watching us and he was hiding from me. He had to know that it wouldn't take much for me to lose my patience and suspend him from the market, even if I didn't have grounds to permanently ban him.
I turned back to Cicely before Sweetwater could emerge from behind his table. Much as I wanted to strangle him for upsetting a hard-to-replace vendor, I didn't want to encourage friction between the farmers, so I tried to make light of his annoying practices. "He's probably just scheming to smuggle in a grill next week. Or perhaps doing his amateur sleuth thing and trying to be inconspicuous about it, because both Detective Ohlsen and I have told him to leave the investigating to the professionals."
"He's not very good at inconspicuous," Cicely said. "Or at following your instructions. He was over talking to the squash farmer a little bit before you arrived. His voice carries, and I was between demonstrations, so I heard him flat-out asking the man where he was when Henry Atwell died."
I hadn't really expected Sweetwater to stop butting in where he wasn't wanted, but it was annoying to hear how blatantly he was ignoring orders. Especially since his lack of tact made it more difficult for me to ask my own, more subtle questions without drawing too much attention to myself. "I'll talk to him. Just not right now or I'll probably lose my temper and get one or both of us arrested."
"It can wait," Cicely said. "It's not like I've got anything to hide if he asks me where I was. The only time I was out of my stall anywhere near when Henry died was when I went to use the porta-potty. You showed up right after I returned, so you can vouch for me then, and I'm pretty sure the police would be able to find someone who saw me in the queue to use the loo. There was a bit of a wait."
"If there's a witness to be found, Detective Ohlsen will find him," I said. "That's just one more reason why Sweetwater shouldn't get involved. He can't do anything the police can't do even better."
Cicely looked across the path with an appraising expression on her face. "I don't know about that. From what I've heard, Sweetwater has a lot of connections here in Danger Cove. He probably knows a lot of secrets about anyone who ever had a kid in the local high school. And he's got to know he's a suspect, so he's got a real incentive to make sure the killer is identified."
We'd finally gotten around to what I most wanted to talk about, and I hadn
't even had to raise the subject. "Why would Sweetwater want Henry dead?"
Cicely shrugged and absently poured the last few drops out of the teapot she'd used for her most recent demonstration and into a bucket of discarded tea leaves and brewed tea that was past its peak. "I don't know. I just assumed Henry picked on everyone like he did with me yesterday. Maybe I'm wrong, and Sweetwater didn't get harassed."
"I doubt it." A couple of weeks ago I'd been told that Henry had made fun of Sweetwater's habit of wearing bow ties with his overalls, but Sweetwater had insisted it hadn't bothered him, and he hadn't wanted to pursue the matter. I hadn't seen the incident personally, so I'd had to let it go.
A customer arrived asking about purchasing white tea, so I waved at Cicely and headed out into the Memorial Walkway.
I carefully avoided looking in Sweetwater's direction so he wouldn't be tempted to leave his hiding spot to come tell me more things I'd done wrong. I did wonder what had caused him to duck out of sight. Could he be feeling guilty about something he'd done? That was unlikely. He didn't seem all that self-aware, and he certainly wouldn't care if I caught him investigating the murder against my wishes. I wasn't entirely sure he'd care if Detective Ohlsen caught him at it.
So what could he have been nervous about? He was annoying, but I had to admit that if I overlooked his annoying personality, he was well-behaved insofar as he followed all the written rules. He set up on time, stayed until closing time, and kept his setup inside the boundaries of his assigned space.
If it were anyone else acting as guilty as he was, I'd have suspected him of being Henry's killer. But Sweetwater? I just couldn't picture it. For one thing, he didn't seem like the type to engage in a physical altercation. If he were mad at Henry, he'd be far more likely to come crying to me—or to anyone else who would listen—and then expect a vague "someone" to fix the problem rather than taking care of it himself.