Farmers Market Fatality

by Sarah Hualde

  Farmers Market Fatality

  Honey Pot Mysteries, Volume 3

  Sarah Hualde

  Published by Indie Christian Writers, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  FARMERS MARKET FATALITY

  First edition. September 22, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Sarah Hualde.

  ISBN: 978-1393807452

  Written by Sarah Hualde.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Farmers Market Fatality (Honey Pot Mysteries, #3)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Thank You

  Acknowledgements

  Stephen’s Page

  About the Author

  Sign up for Sarah Hualde's Mailing List

  Further Reading: Missing on Main Street

  Also By Sarah Hualde

  Daddy, this one is for you.

  You’re the strongest, most generous man I know.

  I love you – TOUGH!

  Chapter 1

  Hobo Joe plucked the last of the dandelion flowers. He tossed it into his burlap sack. White fluff stirred. Tiny wispy seedlings escaped and drifted to safer havens. The town circle was finally clear. He beamed over his work. Eighty-seven wooden crosses graced the north end of the lawn, and not a single weed intruded on their space.

  Every town hosted ghosts of the past. Honey Pot was no exception. Citizens decorated their family crosses every year and planted them on the lawn. Farmers Market patrons paused at the memorial. Families visited their crosses or adopted a cross to honor with their tears and prayers. Everyone was encouraged to participate but not required to do so.

  Hobo Joe loved the Honey Pot town lawn. The crosses glittering in the early morning light stirred bittersweet memories. They made his summer one of brotherhood and remembrance. Each morning, he ate his breakfast with the newest member of the memorial patch.

  With his weeding completed, Hobo Joe looked forward to his thermos of coffee and an egg sandwich from 3 Alarm Coffee. He set the burlap bag of wishes on the lawn’s single picnic table and snatched his cooler.

  Respectfully, the town crackpot lowered his tired body onto the grass in front of a fresh cross decorated with teddy bears and train stickers. He bowed his head in prayerful thankfulness. Then he started his conversation with the represented soldier.

  The topic was always the same. Hobo Joe monologued about his history. He detailed his time in the service and the family he’d left behind. He spun tales of his decline into depression and darkness. Most of this solo conversation recounted his deepening need for salvation and his relief at finding it.

  He prayed over the families of the fallen and then cried with the deceased. He bewailed the events the father, son, and friend would never witness. He lamented the celebrations the mother, daughter, and sister wouldn’t grace in photographs. He mourned with the dead and wept for the left behind.

  He did so humbly, without drawing attention to himself. Those who met with this secret chaplain left feeling understood and hopeful. Unfortunately, very few knew Hobo Joe in this way. Many saw him as an eyesore. They slandered him without mercy. Hobo Joe paid them no attention. He continued his worshipful routines and let the haters be.

  Swallowing his last warm slog of coffee, Joe rose to his feet. His knees cracked as they opened to stand. He swung his arms from side to side, sending a popping wave of relief up his spine.

  “Until tomorrow.” He nodded politely at his breakfast companion and turned back to his table.

  The thwack of a metal bat echoed along his ribcage. His air, moist and sticky, shot from his lips and he sputtered to regain his breath. Again, the bat landed. This time below his left shoulder blade. He felt the impact in his molars before he noticed the pain in his back. Hobo Joe dropped among the crosses. His thermos shot from his hand and skittered across the lawn. His shin buckled and crunched as he tripped over his ice cooler before hitting the cold dewy grass.

  The bat skimmed his ankle while he tumbled. A screaming, pleading, begging voice cried off to his right. A female voice. He couldn’t make it out. He wished the girl would stop crying. He wasn’t worth her tears. His thoughts rumbled through a slapdash prayer for the wailing child’s safety. Then his mind went blank, and the agony stopped.

  ✽✽✽

  Lydia Everett scowled as Miss Jacqui pointed her crooked finger into the abyss. A room, filled to the ceiling with boxes, hosted all the goods that required toting. Lydia volunteered to help the Bailey Family Fellowship Church Quilter’s club out of boredom.

  Summer always depleted enrollment in her tutoring sessions. Ivy, the Everett’s live in teenager and mother to Baby Scout, needed less and less of Lydia’s time. After tackling the Lavender Lane 5k, Lydia ditched her pseudo-healthy ways and gained more white space. According to her wall planner, Lydia’s summer would be less than sizzling with activity. It looked downright boring.

  Procrastinating in the hall, Lydia puzzled over why she volunteered for the Quilters Club. More importantly, how had the wiley widows of Honey Pot accumulated so many boxes? Miss Jacqui and Miss Rene lived together for moral support and safety. However, even if they’d worked together there was no way they could have lugged each box into their spare room.

  Again, Lydia wondered what she had been thinking when she signed on to help the old ladies. Still, anything was better than sitting at home and dwelling on the drama of the Lavender Lane Festival. As a bonus, the manual labor and early hours spelled certain sleep for Lydia. She hoped exhaustion would stave off her recurring night terrors.

  Miss Jacqui’s eagle eye scrolled Lydia’s slumped shoulders with keen perception. She knew the woman didn’t want to cart boxes to her truck and then to the town square. She further understood Lydia held no great joy in the art of quilting. Miss Jacqui never spotted her at the monthly beginner circles she instructed or at any of the mom and me events she hosted throughout the year.

  She remembered seeing Joan, Lydia’s 20 something daughter, at a few of her crafting events. Joan showed promise with her crochet hook but failed to grasp the math of quilting. Joan always arrived sans Lydia. The older woman didn’t express her discernment. She bit her tongue. Help was help. She wasn’t about to turn away free labor.

  Miss Rene, on the other hand, worried the lifting was too much for the middle-aged volunteer. “Dear, we can find some boys to help with the loading and unloading. We don’t want you hurting your back.”

  “I’ll be fine Miss Rene.”

  Miss Jacqui squinted, “You forget, Rene. She raced in the Lavender run.”

  “Yes, but she didn’t finish it.�
��

  Lydia hid her wince with a spine-cracking neck roll. She shoved her sleeve over her elbows, wedged herself between two towering hills of cardboard, and questioned her sanity. Perhaps I should find someone else to do the lifting?

  She wrapped her arms around the first chunk of trade and braced her knees. When she could, she’d finagle a break and text Mr. Mike. Maybe she’d call Ivy and beg her help in reaching the boys of the BFF youth group.

  The first load didn’t kill her. During her second load, Miss Jacqui stood out near the curb instructing her on placement. Lydia tramped up the ramp to the truck bed. Sweat drizzled onto the box tops. Lydia hoped Miss Jacqui didn’t notice. She would throw a tizzy fit if Lydia showed weakness. However, Miss Jacqui wasn’t watching her pack mule. She was waving at Cordelia Muggs who stood two houses down the road. Lydia seized the opportunity to rub her back and take an exhausted breath.

  “Poor Cordelia,” Miss Rene waved alongside her housemate. “Has she heard from Mario, yet?”

  Miss Jacqui shook her head without taking her eyes off of Cordelia. “Nothing yet. It’s been two months and not a word. You know, Lydia, Cordelia could use your help more than us. She depends on her sales and ours are for charity.”

  “Not just for charity,” Rene argued.

  “Take a break. I’m going over. Cordelia looks strange. Maybe she could use some tea,” Jacqui said.

  Praising the heavens, Lydia shuffled onto the front porch and plopped her bum on one of the outdoor rockers. Miss Rene absorbed the other chair. “My knees are yelling at me.” She rested her ankles on the porch rail. “I can’t be jogging back and forth, up and down the street. She’ll bring Cordelia over here, anyway.”

  Lydia groaned a response as her thumbs flew across her phone screen. Ethan, Lydia’s husband and the town’s sheriff had thankfully agreed to swing by Miss Jacqui’s house as soon as his shift ended. He’d also bring Gus and Gus’ two teenage boys. Mrs. Everett heard a car shifting down the road before she sent her ecstatic response.

  “Not again!” Miss Rene cocked her head and peered down the road.

  A flying car charged down the block. It weaved from curb to curb slamming into the rubber trash cans lining the sidewalk. The plastic prey twisted and curved into the air and over the roof of the vehicle. Each landed splat, sprinkling garbage behind it. Lydia gagged on a scream when she spotted Miss Jacqui frozen in front of the oncoming car.

  The driver, noticing the senior woman, shoved a heavy foot onto the gas pedal and the break. Smoldering rubber scented the early morning sky. Smoke followed the smell. The driver released the brake, and the car plummeted into the green trash barrels of the Muggs’ residence. It swerved around the sauntering biddy and peeled farther down the street. Hooting and wailing faded behind it.

  Lydia thought Miss Jacqui was dead. She lay still, akimbo on the ground. Lydia bolted. The screams of Miss Rene echoed behind her. Cordelia Muggs met her at Miss Jacqui’s side.

  “Is she breathing,” she asked.

  “The car didn’t hit her,” Lydia said. She looked all over her church friend. There wasn’t a mark on her pristinely pressed pantsuit.

  “Not what I asked,” Cordelia said.

  Miss Jacqui coughed and clutched her throat. “It knocked the wind from her. She seems okay.”

  The piercing blue gaze of the town’s quilting savant blazed into Lydia’s brown eyes. It wasn’t fear or sadness or pain that radiated from behind Miss Jacqui’s laugh lines. It was anger and consternation.

  “Of course, I’m not okay,” she blasted, her voice bouncing from house to house. “Those hooligans almost shattered every bone in my body.”

  “Did you see the driver?” Lydia scanned Jacqui for obvious wounds.

  Miss Jacqui’s rage focused in on her friend. “I was busy not being killed.”

  Cordelia petted Lydia’s arm and offered Jacqui a hand. “Let’s get you out of the street.”

  “Sounds like a sensible plan.”

  Jacqui ignored Lydia’s attempts to help. Her fury morphed into friendliness when she addressed Mrs. Muggs but remained frigid when facing the Sheriff’s wife. The quilter recoiled when Lydia took her left hand in her own.

  “Do you mind,” she snorted. “I do believe that wrist is broken.”

  Lydia looked down. The paper pale and thin skin blossomed with bruising. It angled oddly and sickened Lydia’s stomach. Broken was an understatement.

  “If you’re going to vomit, do us a favor and turn your head.” Miss Jacqui’s cold words and bitter tone swirled Lydia’s stomach more than the destruction of her friend’s hand. “Good.” Jacqui noticed Lydia swallow back bile. “Now, if you’re not too preoccupied, I’d like to get out of the street.”

  Chapter 2

  Cordelia paced the foyer rug. Muffin her raggedy mutt followed every step. Cordelia insisted Miss Jacqui rest in her front room while she called Dr. Lawrence and Ethan Everett. Lydia sat beside Miss Jacqui and avoided eye contact. Her glance fell upon Cordelia’s uneasy pace. When Ethan knocked on the front screen, Cordelia shrieked before opening the door.

  Ethan smiled at his wife but didn’t stop to speak with her. He went straight for the couch and Miss Jacqui. He knelt beside the BFF quilting queen and inspected her for signs of shock. As usual, Miss Jacqui offered a formidable and robust greeting. Her damaged hand throbbed, but she made no mention of the injury unless directly asked. Her first words startled every anxious body in the room. The freshly arrived doctor flinched in surprise.

  “I keep praising Jesus that I didn’t have my shotgun. Someone would have died.” Her words vibrated with the hint of threatening honesty. “Seriously, why haven’t you all done something to stop those kids from racing down our street? They used to terrorize us only in the evenings and nighttime. However, now, since you’ve done nothing, they’ve grown brazen and reckless. How many times do concerned citizens have to call their Sheriff before he takes action?”

  Ethan grimaced but said nothing. Dr. Lawrence grinned. He was happy his patient was feeling so hearty. It would make her easier to treat if her wits remained with her.

  Lydia went to Cordelia who cried, silently, by the front door. “This has happened before?”

  Cordelia’s eyes answered for her. She was terrified. “Every night this week. Now, daylight isn’t safe.”

  Lydia put a comforting arm on Cordelia’s shuddering shoulders. “Let’s go outside and talk. We don’t want to be here when the doctor starts messing with Jacqui’s wrist.” Cordelia blanched and held the door open.

  “It started a few weeks ago, around the time Mario...” Cordelia’s voice broke. The disappearance of her husband, ever a burden, clumped in her throat at the mention of his name. “...when my husband went missing. I don’t know why. But they cruise up and down the street. They knock into trash cans. They run over lawn ornaments. Last week they aimed at Muffin, but he escaped under the porch just in time. It’s terrifying.”

  Cordelia Muggs flung herself at Lydia. She wailed. Miss Rene bid them to her front door. She elaborated on Cordelia’s account.

  “There are two cars: one green and small and one white and boxy. Jacqui and I watch for them. If it’s not nailed down, they plow into it. Maybe it’s a group of kids who think they’re vampires. Maybe they think they can’t die!” Miss Rene leaped into her whimsical reasoning. Her eyes drifted toward unseen gothic teens and their customs. Lydia waited for her to return to the moment.

  “Who’s suffered the most damage?”

  “Cordelia. She lives on the corner. It's an easy target. Ask her neighbor, Victor. He’ll tell you. If only Mario was here. He’d put a stop to it.”

  Cordelia started sobbing. Miss Rene watched her without expression. She was oblivious to facial cues. Once on a track of thought, she followed it to the end. Lydia hoped Cordelia could bolster herself against the oncoming conversation.

  Cordelia’s watery eyes met Lydia’s. She knew what lie ahead. Lydia gifted her with a smile of encouragement b
ut had no words to distract Miss Rene.

  “Poor Mario,” Miss Rene said. “I figure he must be dead. No one goes missing for two months and returns unharmed. No. My guess is he must have died two months ago and someday the body will pop up. Of course, by then, he’ll be unrecognizable. Just a rotten, stinky corpse. However, DNA...”

  “Rene!” Miss Jacqui entered the room with a doctor on one arm and a sheriff on the other. Miss Rene’s eyes popped, and her cheeks darkened. The flush ran down her neck and turned her ears a bright red. “Tact, woman!” Miss Jacqui continued her scolding as she settled in a dining room chair. “What has gotten into you?”

  “Miss Jacqui needs to visit the Ashton ER. Her hand is beyond my scope.” Dr. Lawrence said.

  Miss Jacqui huffed with discontent. “There are things I need to do, Dr. Lawrence. These things require my know-how and input. Things I cannot accomplish from Ashton Hospital.”

  She spoke of the Honey Pot Farmers Market. It was time for Honey Pot’s Main St. lawn to bloom with portable canopies and seller booths. Miss Jacqui ran the Arts and Crafts section of the Farmers Market. Mario Muggs ran the rest. His vanishing meant Miss Jacqui assumed his previous responsibilities atop her own. Cordelia strove to help but was understandably distracted.

  Whispers circulated in small-town fashion. Mario Muggs left his wife. The reasons depended on who was telling the story. One idea centered on Mario having a sordid affair and a second family. Lydia didn’t see it.

  Cordelia was a gorgeous and strong woman. She acted the perfect helpmeet. Not afraid to get dirty, when Mario decided to start a lettuce and herb farm Cordelia strapped on an apron. When Mario chose to raise chickens, she pulled on her muck boots. When he dove headfirst into essential oils, Cordelia beamed with sweat pouring soap into molds and melting soy pellets into candles. Mario and Cordelia were a fantastic couple.

  In another theory, Mr. Muggs was robbed and left for dead during one of his deliveries. However, he was only a local supplier. Ethan and Gus questioned all of his vendors, and all of them worried alongside Cordelia, praying and panicking on behalf of the couple.