“What did you say?” I asked as I swallowed the chunk of now-tasteless pizza.
“I told her that it wasn’t going to happen. I told her that whatever happened between you and me was between you and me. We weren’t going to have dinner and decide who would be best with whom.”
“Good answer.”
“When I pointed that out to her, she did realize that her plan was poorly thought through, and she apologized for mentioning it.”
We looked at each other.
I finally said, “Do you . . . what, like her? Are you attracted to her?”
Ian laughed. “Becca, whatever romantic feelings I have, they’re for you. Now, I admit, I’m not sure if both of our feelings are strong enough to keep us together. But I promise you, I haven’t had one romantic thought about another woman since we’ve been together.”
“I so don’t deserve you.”
“I disagree. I just think you are who you are, that’s all. You’ve always had some difficulty in the romance department. I feel fortunate that we’re together, even if we don’t last forever. I think we’ve been good for each other.”
“I so don’t deserve you. Again.”
Ian looked at me, his dark eyes twinkling with the bright light atop one of the poles. “You know the best part is our friendship. No matter what, and I know people say this crap all the time, but I don’t ever want us not to be friends.”
It was pointless to repeat again how much I didn’t deserve him.
“Guess who’s at the creepiest fair I’ve ever attended or been a part of?” I said, hoping to change the subject to something lighter.
“Who?”
The rest of the evening was one of the best Ian and I had spent together in a long time. There was a noticeable difference in our relationship; it wasn’t good, it wasn’t bad. It just was, my hippie parents would say. “Was” or “is” is always better than something forced or phony.
I told Ian about the dubious rides, the corn maze that scared me, and the silly talk of gypsy magic. I told him about Scott, the note in the wallet, and the disappearing act into the trailer. I was surprised when he didn’t tell me I might be overreacting. He thought the gypsy magic was far-fetched, but he didn’t think I was off base wondering if Scott might be up to something suspicious.
“There’s been something strange about the fair the whole time,” he said. “No business, and now suddenly lots of business, business that might have picked up because someone was killed. And then there’s the fact that Scott found the body. I kind of wish you hadn’t committed yourself to going back. In fact, I don’t think it would be a bad idea not to go back, no matter what you told them. I’m actually surprised it wasn’t shut down, by the fair operators or the authorities. Strange.”
I thought about that a long minute. It was more than just me. Stella, Henry, and Brenton were also involved. I supposed I could call them all and discuss the need or their real desire to return to the fair.
“Tomorrow’s Saturday. We’ll see how it goes, and I’ll talk to everyone else. We’ll decide what’s best. We won’t be there when there isn’t a bunch of other people around. Remember when Matt Simonsen was killed at Bailey’s?”
“Yes.”
“We didn’t shut down any longer than it took to gather evidence.”
“True.” He thought a moment. “You want me to come with you tomorrow?”
For a second, I almost said yes, but I knew that his taking a day off from work would put him way behind. I knew Saturday was one of his busiest days because he always tried to spend a good amount of time at Bailey’s in his yard sculpture tent.
“I’d love the company, but I’ve got it under control.”
All in all, the evening Hobbit and I spent with Ian was perfect, but when she and I went home, the noticeable difference was more noticeable than ever.
Our kiss good night wasn’t as full of passion as it was friendliness.
Not that that was all bad. It just was.
Five
“Oh my stars above,” Stella said as she peered around her tent wall and into my stall. “What in the world is going on here?” She fanned her face. It wasn’t too hot, but we’d been working so hard, she was flushed.
The four of us from Bailey’s as well as the rest of the fair had been busier than any of the busiest days at Bailey’s. Stella and I had driven separately but had rolled our product in together on matching red wagons. We’d had to start taking care of customers even before we could get everything unloaded and put on display.
“I didn’t think there were this many people living in South Carolina, let alone in Swayton County. Where did they all come from?” I asked.
The mysterious and bizarre death of Virgil Morrison had hit every single South Carolina news outlet. In fact, the strange occurrence had even made the national news. Suddenly, little Swayton County was on the tip of everyone’s tongue, and they all wanted to see the amazing Ferris wheel that had—how did one of the radio stations phrase it this morning?—“magically come to life, picked up its operator, and taken him on his final ride. Perhaps the legends of Orderville gypsy magic were true.” Yes, it had been that gory.
The gathering around the shut-down Ferris wheel was big and disturbing. A throng of people stood underneath the ride staring up as their cotton candy or the powdered sugar from their funnel cakes blew in the breeze. Every time I stood on my tiptoes and looked in that direction, I had to tell myself to quit imagining foreboding dark clouds. In fact, the sky was clear and bright blue, not a cloud, dark or otherwise, in sight.
I didn’t know specifically what everyone was looking at, but I was just as guilty of searching for . . . something. Maybe if we stared long enough, we’d understand how what happened could possibly have happened. How did someone manage to be killed on the machine that was under his own control? Maybe if we waited patiently, the Ferris wheel would finally speak and tell us its secrets.
Henry, Brenton, Stella, and I had brought plenty of product. The most intuitive of us, Brenton, brought three times his normal busy Bailey’s day amount. He proved to be the smartest. Even though we all still had some goods left to sell, it was only midmorning. If the pace continued, everyone but Brenton would be sold out by noon.
“Bailey’s is getting lots of notice, too. This will be good for all of the vendors,” Henry said as he peeked around his tent wall. He’d been much more exuberant and outgoing this morning. Being busy got everyone’s blood pumping, but it seemed to boost Henry even more than the rest of us.
We all had card signs on our display tables that announced we were from Bailey’s Farmers’ Market in Monson. I wasn’t sure how much the fair customers were really paying attention, but if we got only a few new shoppers, I guessed it would be a good thing for the market.
“Allison will be pleased,” I said weakly. She would be, but mostly because we’d stuck it out. Even though she’d agreed that we didn’t need to harm our businesses by staying somewhere that wasn’t producing sales, she was very into sticking with commitments, even if a murder had occurred. Hopefully, everyone would end up better off.
I didn’t know whether she’d been watching my booth or just happened to get lucky, but at the one moment that there was a slight lull in business, Lucy swooped in and landed right in front of my table.
“Hi, Becca. I got your note last night and tried to call but the number wasn’t yours. You must have written down the wrong one.”
“Really?” I had been a little rattled, but I was surprised to hear I’d written down a wrong number.
“Anyway,” she continued, “isn’t this business wonderful? I’m so pleased for all of us, but I really do hope you all will reconsider staying again. You can, of course, stick with the original plan of having Monday off.” She laughed; she was plain giddy. “There’s just one more week, and even if Tuesd
ay, Wednesday, and Thursday are slow, which I don’t think they will be, I’m sure next Friday will be just as busy as yesterday. You’ll be here Wednesday anyway with the maze opening, and I just know that’ll bring out even more people.”
If this pace continued, I was going to have to buy some jars of Smucker’s and sneak my labels on them, but I didn’t say that out loud.
I sighed. “I promise we’ll talk about it, Lucy. But, I gotta know, why do you want us here so badly? These crowds have nothing to do with us.”
Lucy cringed, but she recovered quickly and matched my sigh with one of her own. “I might as well tell you the real reason.”
She paused long enough that I actually leaned closer to her in anticipation of the answer.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“The owners”—she nodded toward the trailer, though it seemed an unconscious gesture—“are thinking of opening their own farmers’ market. They want me to observe how you do things and try to monitor the response from the locals.”
A part of me wanted to laugh, but another part of me thought the owners might be pretty astute. “But,” I began, “having the four of us here doesn’t give you much information.”
“More than you might think. I’ve been able to see the way you set up your products. I’ve watched how you interact with your customers, which is different than the way we”—she waved to the goings-on behind her—“interact. We’re much pushier than you are, and though that makes sense, it’s been good to watch and learn.”
I blinked. There was no reason to think that whatever farmers’ market the Swayton County event organizers put together would be viable competition for Bailey’s, but I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of betrayal and disloyalty regarding their motives. Lucy must have seen my misgivings in the scrunch of my forehead and the squint of my eyes.
“But you’re benefitting, too, particularly these last two days. Right?” she said enthusiastically.
“Yes, we are and . . .” I was going to say that it was all fine because it truly was. There was just something uncomfortable about it, but not horribly so. “Yes, we are.” I shook off any doubt. “And you know, Allison is very forthcoming with her knowledge. She’s often asked about the organizational aspects of running a farmers’ market, and she shares willingly. You could ask her anything.”
“Really?” Lucy said.
“Yes, really. She’s wonderful that way.”
“That’s great to know. I will most definitely put together a list of questions and call her,” Lucy said before moving to make room for another customer.
I was far too busy to spend any time really thinking about what she’d said, but I did spend a minute or two worrying that the time I and my fellow market vendors spent at the fair might end up being a big waste for everyone no matter how much we sold. The expense of transporting our goods here and the days away from our stalls and regular customers needed to be accounted for. Lucy or anyone could have simply asked Allison for advice. Anyone could visit any market anywhere—in fact, the more the merrier—and observe how we operated. It wasn’t a difficult business model to understand. But I thought that maybe, just maybe, Lucy had a point about observing the reaction the locals had to such a setup.
I suspected they were mostly just like everyone else though; a large chunk of the population liked to buy local, fresh products. It was the nature of the beast, and even though “organic” was the “in” thing at the moment, there had always been people who wanted organic and homegrown, and there always would be.
Of course if one of us was the killer, then plenty of harm had been done. Until that second I hadn’t given one moment’s thought to the killer potentially being a fellow vendor. For some reason and even with my now vast amount of experience with murder, I would never consider a vendor or close friend a murderer. I’d made this sort of mistake in the past; maybe I should learn to be more suspicious.
As I finished counting out some change, I leaned forward and looked at Henry in the stall to my left. I had only recently met him, but I knew he was an expert at growing squash, and I’d learned just the day before that he had once been a mechanic and worked with Scott. That was all I knew. Even working next to him for a week hadn’t given me much insight into his character, and I knew nothing of his personal life. I made a mental note to ask Scott for more details about him.
Stella was to my right and busy with a line of three customers. If Stella was a killer, then reality as I’d always accepted it would change forever. She was one of the most devoted mothers, wives, bakers, and market vendors I knew. And basically, with all that going on, she was just too darn busy to kill anyone. I discounted her entirely. If I was ever proven wrong, I’d have to conclude that every decision I’d ever made had been somehow misinformed and off track. Then again, I had been married twice. And I was currently doing almost everything I could to make sure I never had a healthy relationship again.
But still, no, Stella wasn’t a killer.
My last cohort, Brenton, was holding a miniature Yorkie that had been thrust upon him. Holding, petting, and admiring dogs came with the job. It was a good thing he enjoyed them so much. He often mentioned that his customers assumed that because he made dog treats, he was capable of judging the lovability of all canine creatures. When he said he thought they were all wonderful, he wasn’t lying or laying on a sales pitch. He truly loved dogs; it was that love that prompted him to create the healthy, nutritious treats in the first place.
That was almost all I knew about him. I’d heard about a years-earlier divorce, but I had no idea if he had a girlfriend, a boyfriend, or whatever. He never talked about his love life, and I didn’t remember ever seeing him with someone who might be considered a significant other. Of course, that didn’t mean a significant other didn’t exist.
But Brenton wasn’t a killer either, I was sure.
The only fair worker I really knew anything about was Scott, and he seemed an unlikely suspect, too, no matter what the note had said or the way he’d behaved. Scott was too . . . Scott-like to be a killer. He had a good heart and a sometimes tiring tendency toward “life of the party” antics. I’d never once seen him be mean. Even when our divorce was in full swing, I hadn’t witnessed much pain or anger. He’d been sad, but never despondent.
Because of his recent suspicious behavior, I wasn’t ready to give him the pass I gave Stella and Brenton, but I really didn’t think he was a killer. I hoped not.
I didn’t have a real sense about any of the other fair workers, but from what I could tell everyone else was just working hard to do a job that took a lot of hours and a lot of energy.
Besides, the murder took place either late at night or early in the morning. The killer could be someone who had nothing to do with the fair.
I wished I’d talked to Virgil a little more. I wished I’d pushed for more information, like his marital status, was he a parent, did he have pets? But I had tried, I’d tried to get to know him, make him interested in getting to know me. His guarded behavior might have had something to do with why he was killed, though that was such an ambiguous clue.
I had a sudden impulse to call Sam and see what he knew, if he’d learned anything more about the murder, or just about the spider tattoo, but although we’d reconnected, I didn’t feel right about following through on the idea. I sensed our amiable meeting hadn’t taken us as far as casual phone calls yet. If he stopped by the market, he would know that we’d decided to stay at the fair. I’d talk to him when I got back to Bailey’s.
“Excuse me, hello, these for sale?”
I was pulled out of my thoughts, back into the moment, and discovered a nice-sized group of customers standing in front of my display table.
“Absolutely,” I said. “How many would you like?”
Six
The entire morning was busy with eager customers, and we Bailey’s v
endors weren’t able to discuss our future fair attendance plans until things slowed down when fairgoers became more interested in eating lunch than in buying our wares. We purchased our own corn dogs, fried Snickers bars, and roasted corn on the cob and finally found an available picnic table a little too close to the corn maze for my liking, but it was the only table available for us to gather.
“Well, I’m game to do anything. I give up, she’s won.” Stella laughed. “We keep discussing this, and I think we should just commit and live with the results.”
Stella wasn’t the only one succumbing. We were all exhausted and our collective rebellion, weak though it had been, had lost steam. We hadn’t really done anything different from what we usually did at the market, but our jobs somehow seemed more tiring amid the fair setting. I blamed all the fried food, but that wasn’t going to stop me from enjoying lunch.
“Having Monday off will be a nice break,” Brenton said. “I can get my Internet orders packed and mailed, bake some more biscuits, and be back Tuesday easily. But don’t go by what works for me. Henry, what do you think?”
Henry shrugged. “I’m almost sold out today. I’m easy. Business has been good, it would be good at Bailey’s. Someone else choose.”
“You know, we don’t have to do this as a group. It would be great if we all agreed to be here or not, but if someone doesn’t want to, it doesn’t mean we all have to make the same choice,” I said. “I’ll be here.” I would have to figure out how to come up with the inventory, but I could do it.
“Makes sense. Count me in too,” Brenton said.
“Me too.” Henry shrugged again.
A Killer Maize Page 6