A Slaying in the Orchard

by Gin Jones

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  A SLAYING IN THE ORCHARD

  A DANGER COVE

  FARMERS' MARKET MYSTERY

  by

  GIN JONES

  &

  ELIZABETH ASHBY

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  Copyright © 2017 by Gin Jones

  Cover design by Janet Holmes

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

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  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

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  SNEAK PEEK

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  CHAPTER ONE

  "There was a massacre in the cucurbit zone," Sargent Adams, the newly elected president of the Danger Cove Garden Club, shouted in my direction. He pointed at the damage caused by someone stomping through a bed of thickly tangled vines in the historical garden where volunteers had recreated what the early lighthouse keepers had grown to feed their large families. On the weekends the garden club offered tours, and benches scattered throughout the garden invited marketers to take a break and get a bit of education about the history of agriculture.

  Sargent—that was both the name listed on his birth certificate and the rank he'd achieved during his career—was in his sixties, but he hadn't taken his retirement from the military as an excuse to slack on his exercise regimen, so he was more physically fit than I'd ever dreamed of being. I was taller than average for a woman, but he had a good six inches on me and had perfected the art of looming. Between his muscular build, barking voice, and constant hint of suppressed fury in his eyes, I was amazed anyone would risk so much as breathing on his cucurbits without his permission.

  "I'm sorry." Technically, the garden was outside my jurisdiction as the manager of the Lighthouse Farmers' Market. It was located between the market and a rocky arm of land where people liked to climb, which had undoubtedly led to someone taking a short cut through a corner of the cucumber bed. "Did you report it to the police? They usually have a few officers here on market days."

  "Fred Fields told me there wasn't much he could do if he didn't catch them in the act but he'd keep an eye out for future incursions into my territory."

  "I don't suppose you saw who did it?" If he had, I doubted he'd have needed my help to deal with the miscreants.

  "I did. Two young hooligans in pirate costumes." As a garden guide, Sargent himself was wearing a costume to look like the pioneers of the late 1800s who'd settled the Pacific Northwest. His outfit wasn't as flashy as the pirate ones, just a shapeless beige homespun shirt with dark loose pants held up by suspenders.

  Sargent went on, "I'd have caught them if it weren't for my bum knee. They can't outrun a paintball, though." He nodded at the vintage wheelbarrow a few feet away.

  Inside was what I hoped was just a toy gun, although I was far from an expert on such things.

  "I'm prepared now. If they come back, I'll tag 'em, and then Fred Fields will have something neon bright to keep an eye on."

  "I may be able to head off any future problems with the pirates so you don't have to resort to armed combat," I said before I left him to do whatever he could to rescue his trampled cucumber vines while I returned to the main market area.

  The farmers' market had only been open for an hour, and I was already starting to regret my decision to make it an expanded two-day event to take advantage of the Labor Day weekend crowds on the waterfront. I'd been warned that I was pushing too hard to make the Lighthouse Farmers' Market into a top destination for tourists in too short a time frame, but I was determined to pull it off. Despite my inexperience as a market manager, I had a great deal of experience with setting goals and overseeing the actions needed to accomplish them. Admittedly, that had been in the context of financial planning, rather than selling locally sourced products, but I wasn't prepared to let that hold me back.

  After all, I was the great-great-great-granddaughter and namesake of Danger Cove's first lighthouse keeper, Maria Dolores, famous for her rescue of drowning sailors in a terrible storm when she was in her sixties. I didn't just look like her—above average in height with a sturdy build and short brown hair—but I'd been told I had her unflappable personality too. She wouldn't have been fazed by the prospect of something as non-life-threatening as getting the market onto one of the published lists of the top ten farmers' markets in the Pacific Northwest during its first season. The original Maria Dolores had also been as practical as she was brave, so she'd probably have been willing to settle for being among the top ten in Washington State rather than across several states. Unfortunately, at the rate things were going today, I'd be lucky to stay out of the list of the ten worst markets.

  It was particularly galling that the various problems had arisen despite my being as prepared as I possibly could be. The vendors had been thoroughly vetted and then provided with detailed instructions for their on-site activities. My sling bag was packed with emergency supplies, like magic markers, receipt pads, price tags, baggies, paper towels, sale signs, tacks, duct tape, batteries, chargers, and my migraine meds. I wore my official Kelly green market T-shirt to make it easy for people to find me if they needed anything. My jeans and sneakers would hold up to any challenges I might encounter while making my rounds, and I'd added a bit of holiday flair to my appearance by spending some time at The Clip and Sip on Friday, getting my fingernails painted. I'd chosen miniature American flags, since the traditional muscular arm holding a hammer wasn't easily recognized, and Rosie the Riveter wouldn't fit.

  My preparations had paid off in the main market area at the foot of the Danger Cove Lighthouse, where everything appeared to be proceeding as planned. The regular vendors were all set up, and a steady stream of buyers was making its way up from the parking lot to where the white-canopied stalls faced each other across the Memorial Walkway that led to the lighthouse. All the regular farmers and craftspeople knew what they were doing and, for the most part, were good at interacting with customers.

  The morning's problems had all arisen outside the main market, between the first aid tent and the parking lot. Tha
t area was usually empty, but for the holiday weekend it was populated with displays by local businesses and nonprofit groups.

  Not everyone in that area was contributing to my incipient migraine. The adoptable dogs, cats, and rabbits brought by the volunteers of the Second Chance Animal Rescue were on their best behavior, and I thought one or two of each species had already found their forever homes. The Danger Cove Quilt Guild had set up their quilting bee with military precision, and their raffle tickets were selling nicely. At the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery's pushcart, people waited in line with more patience than I would have shown to get fresh pastries, and at the Dangerous Reads tent there was only mild grumbling over the sign limiting the number of books that Elizabeth Ashby would sign per person per trip, through what was likely to be a long line.

  These vendors, along with half a dozen other local businesses, had been here the last time I'd expanded the market for a holiday weekend and hadn't caused any trouble whatsoever. When they'd requested sites for this weekend, I'd been happy to approve them. I could trust them to treat both local residents and tourists alike with the upbeat, professional demeanor that gave Danger Cove its reputation of being the friendliest town in the Pacific Northwest. At the end of the day, their customers would leave satisfied and primed to return the following week and even to spread the word about how great the market was.

  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 spaces, 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 ru
le: 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 nonplayers 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.