PRAISE FOR THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING FARMERS’ MARKET MYSTERIES
Merry Market Murder
“One of my favorite series . . . Paige Shelton has put a real clever spin on the clues.”
—Escape with Dollycas into a Good Book
“A perfect balance between murder and merriment . . . A great addition to a wonderful series.”
—Debbie’s Book Bag
A Killer Maize
“Masterfully plotted . . . A jam-packed whodunit that will ‘a-maize’ you!”
—Escape with Dollycas into a Good Book
“[A] darn good murder mystery.”
—MyShelf.com
“The mystery is complex and captivating . . . The pace is quick. The plot is tight and fun. And Shelton’s writing is a joy to read; her prose has an easy rhythm to it, her narrative style is both witty and engaging, and her dialogue is snappy and rings true.”
—The Season
Crops and Robbers
“Shelton has dished up yet another tasty mystery . . . Readers will also get a nice taste of a potential love triangle between Becca’s artsy love interest and the principled police officer who’s willing to wait in the wings.”
—Mojave Desert News
“Very fascinating . . . First-class writing and characterizations along with a lot of homegrown food and jam and jellies that will make your mouth water.”
—Once Upon a Romance
“I have loved this entire series . . . No matter the weather outside it is always a perfect time to visit Bailey’s Farmers’ Market and catch up with all the characters that have sprouted warmly in our hearts.”
—Escape with Dollycas into a Good Book
Fruit of All Evil
“A delicious mystery to be savored . . . [A] delightful continuation of the story line featuring feisty and smart amateur sleuth Becca Robins.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Spunky Becca should appeal to fans of Laura Childs and Joanne Fluke.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Fun characters and a great setting are the highlights of this series full of homegrown goodness.”
—The Mystery Reader
“A unique setting and interesting characters . . . You can enjoy Paige Shelton’s Farmers’ Market Mysteries for the stories, the characters, the humor. Fruit of All Evil beautifully blends all of those elements in a delightful mystery.”
—Lesa’s Book Critiques
Farm Fresh Murder
“Watching jam-maker Becca Robins handle sticky situations is a tasty delight.”
—Sheila Connolly, New York Times bestselling author of An Early Wake
“Becca is a genial heroine, and Shelton fashions a puzzling and satisfying whodunit. The first in a projected series, Farm Fresh Murder is a tasty treat.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“An appealing heroine . . . As satisfying as visiting the farmers’ market on a sunny afternoon.”
—Claudia Bishop, author of A Fete Worse Than Death
“A breath of summer freshness that is an absolute delight to read and savor . . . A feast of a mystery.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Ms. Shelton writes in such a way that the sounds and smells of the farmers’ market come to life through the pages . . . Each page leads to more intrigue and surprise as the ending explodes . . . Great job, Ms. Shelton!”
—The Romance Readers Connection
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Paige Shelton
Farmers’ Market Mysteries
FARM FRESH MURDER
FRUIT OF ALL EVIL
CROPS AND ROBBERS
A KILLER MAIZE
MERRY MARKET MURDER
BUSHEL FULL OF MURDER
Country Cooking School Mysteries
IF FRIED CHICKEN COULD FLY
IF MASHED POTATOES COULD DANCE
IF BREAD COULD RISE TO THE OCCASION
Specials
RED HOT DEADLY PEPPERS
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
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penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company
BUSHEL FULL OF MURDER
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2015 by Paige Shelton Ferrell.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-18939-3
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / June 2015
Cover illustration by Dan Craig.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
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For my three main guys—Chuck, Charlie, and Tyler. I love you.
Acknowledgments
A giant thank-you to—
My agent, Jessica Faust, who somehow continues to make me think she studied at Hogwarts and has mastered all sorts of magic.
My editor, Michelle Vega, who works untiringly to make each and every word count.
The cover artist for the Farmers’ Market Mysteries, Dan Craig. He’s perfect.
This is a place used to thank the people who helped you with the book that follows these first pages. I’m going to take some liberty with this one and use some space to send out a giant personal thank-you to Jessica, Michelle, and my precious family, friends, and readers. When my life was rocked with a personal crisis (about a year and a half ago from when this book publishes), you were all there to support and care. I can’t express how much that still means to me, and I have no doubt that it was your support that gave my family the boost we needed to make it through. I will be forever grateful.
Contents
Praise for The Farmers’ Market Mysteries
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Paige Shelton
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
ON THE RUN
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen: DONE RUNNING
Seventeen
Eighteen
Ninetee
n
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Recipes
ON THE RUN
“Come on, Peyton, pull over,” I said as I looked for something to hold on to. There were no handles anywhere, and the dashboard was just a flat piece of vinyl-covered plastic with a duct-taped heating and cooling vent at the top corner. This was one old truck. Even older than mine. But that wasn’t fair; this truck did things mine didn’t. It was an old box truck, but it had been converted to make food—delicious food, hot dogs topped with every imaginable thing, even things that shouldn’t taste good on hot dogs.
“I’m innocent, Becca. You should know that. I can’t get caught. They’ve made me look guilty. I have to get away and let things settle.”
Her protests made her sound both irrationally panicked and guilty. But murder? Peyton? I looked at my cousin’s profile. She was young, barely twenty-two, and pretty in a classic, perfect skin way. Though her short, dark curls were worn in a modern style, there was something reminiscent of the 1920s about her. Thin, sleek, with dainty features, a cute button nose, and a bow mouth. She was the baby of all the cousins. At first when she’d moved to Arizona to “find herself,” we were all worried. But when we heard about the food truck, we hoped her journey of self-discovery had proved successful and she’d found a way to have a fulfilling career and life. This beautiful, smart free spirit couldn’t be a killer, could she?
“Peyton, we’re in a box truck. It’s not built to go fast, and you shouldn’t push it; it’s too old, it’s dangerous. It’s a high-exposure vehicle, and a gust of wind or a quick turn could tip us over,” I said as held on to the sides of the old seat. The truck was probably at its top speed, which was maybe about sixty-five, but it was so big and clunky that it bounced all around as we moved down the road. I hoped the brakes worked.
“It’s the middle of June. There’s no wind to tip us, Becca. And the sooner we get out of town, the better. I need to leave the jurisdiction. Your boyfriend and that other officer are bound and determined to make me look guilty.”
“Peyton,” I said, my voice sharp. I’d tried to be patient with my young cousin and her unusual behavior over the past few days, but she’d just hit my next to last nerve. I had only one left, and I really didn’t want it triggered. “Sam is fair and will listen to everything you have to say. He doesn’t jump to conclusions. Harry Lindon’s also a friend and I’m sure he’s fair, too.”
“Sorry.” She wasn’t. “But come on, don’t you think someone is trying to frame me?”
“I don’t know, but Sam and Harry will make sure you are treated fairly,” I repeated, my voice even sharper. “Pull. The. Truck. Over.” I reached into my pocket and grabbed my cell phone.
We weren’t far out of Monson, but once we were on the road, the passing scenery had turned into countryside quickly. We were on the way to Columbia, but there were many woods and farms and towns to pass by before we got there. I knew we were about to hit a big stretch ahead that didn’t have any cell phone coverage, and I wanted to get ahold of Sam before we got there.
But I was too late. My phone had zero bars, which currently felt like less than zero. I glanced out the side window, but any thought to jump out of the truck withered quickly. Injury and pain were certain.
“Let’s just get to the coast. I’ll catch a cruise ship or something and leave the country,” Peyton said.
I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. “You’ve seen too many movies. That’s not going to work. We’re not even going to make it to Columbia. I’m going to call Sam and tell him what’s going on.”
“Becca, please! Just listen to me a minute. I’m not guilty. Someone is framing me. Okay, well, yes, I got into some trouble in Arizona, but I thought I got it cleared up. I can’t explain that to Officer Lindon—he might be the one framing me, don’t you see? And this . . . murder? Not in a million years, Becca. How could anyone think I had it in me to kill someone?”
“You won’t be in trouble if you are innocent.”
“But the evidence makes me look guilty. I will be arrested. And if I’m arrested, I can’t to do what needs to be done to clear my name. I need to get away. Why can’t you understand that?”
“I understand, and I’ll help, Peyton. Allison will help, so will my parents. You know them. They’re all about making sure no one is wrongly accused of anything. They’ll make signs and picket if they have to.”
“No. Give me that phone.” Peyton reached over quickly and tried to grab the phone out of my hands.
I pulled back, but the moving and rocking truck didn’t make it easy. The phone fell onto the flat, dirty metal floor beneath my feet.
“Stop it, Peyton,” I said as I bent over and tried to grab the phone.
I hadn’t put on the flimsy seat belt. Supporting myself with my feet as I bent over to reach for the phone was precarious. The floor was slippery enough that the phone zipped back and forth, continually dodging my reach. Peyton jerked the steering wheel so it would slide close to her toes.
“Peyton! Come on!”
Another steering wheel jerk and the phone disappeared under the driver’s seat, out of my fingers’ and Peyton’s toes’ reach.
“Stop the truck, Peyton, and let’s just talk about this a minute. Give me a chance to understand your position better. No one is after us right now. No one knows where we are. Just explain to me what’s going on. I’m on your side. You know I am.”
I tried to sound sincere, but I wasn’t sure I pulled it off. Mostly I wanted to punch her.
Peyton looked over at me. Her brown eyes were panicked and scared, and suddenly I did feel a small but genuine drop of sympathy for her. She was young. She was terrified. It was a combination that frequently led to bad decisions.
“Please,” I said.
She nodded and looked back at the road.
But even though she’d had her eyes off the road for only a second, it was enough to cause the truck to travel over the yellow line. And even though there wasn’t much traffic on these back roads, there were some cars in the opposite lane. We suddenly faced a big, red, horn-honking pickup truck. I tried to brace myself on something and Peyton screamed as she jerked the steering wheel.
One more time.
One
FOUR DAYS EARLIER
“Close your eyes,” he said.
I did as he instructed.
“Okay, stick out your tongue,” he said.
I did.
“Tell me what you think.” He deposited a small drop of liquid onto my tongue.
“Mmm,” I said a second later. “That is so good. Can I open my eyes?”
“Sure.”
Herb and Don, of Herb and Don’s Herbs, a popular stall at Bailey’s Farmers’ Market, stood in front of my stall with expectant looks on their faces and a collection of dark brown miniature bottles in their hands.
“Really good,” I said. “That’s your peppermint?”
“It is, and made into our very own peppermint oil. So good. Right?” Don asked. “Flavorful, maybe even a little cooling?” He smiled. Even if the peppermint had been served with a sliver of ice, it would have done very little to combat today’s heat and humidity.
“Yes,” I said, returning the smile. “It’s perfect.” I knew exactly what it was like to bring a new product to the market. Nerve-wracking. I’d done a few taste test tours through Bailey’s aisles myself. There were never enough positive comments, never enough assurances that the product you’d created was a good one, and one that would not only sell, but that customers would sincerely enjoy.
“Oh, good,” Herb said, his shoulders relaxing. He grinned at Don. “She likes it.”
“She does,” Don said with his own smile. “We’re at one hundred percent, Becca. Everyone who has tried it has given us good reviews, but we were most worried about you. You have one of the best tas
ters at the market.”
“I did not know that. Glad I could help.”
“When Ian said he could show us how to create essential oils from some of our herbs, we thought we were in for a terrible learning curve, but he’s helped us so much.” Don’s smile faded. He blinked and bit his bottom lip. It took me a second, but I figured out the problem: he wasn’t sure he should side with Ian in front of me on anything ever again. I appreciated his loyalty.
I laughed. “Ian and I are still friends. Ian and Sam are friends, too. It’s good”—I leaned toward them—“but between me and you guys, it’s also a little weird.”
It really wasn’t all that weird, my old boyfriend and my new boyfriend having a friendly relationship of their own, but I knew it should be weird so that’s usually what I told people. In fact, Ian, my old (much younger) boyfriend, and Sam, my current and forever boyfriend (or so I hoped), seemed to get along great. They genuinely liked each other. There was a point, early on in my relationship with Sam, that I was sure he would put a halt to our dating if Ian had been adamant about wanting to stay with me. I thought that maybe we’d passed that point, and that Sam would now fight until the bitter end for me, or at least put Ian in a jail cell until the younger man came to his senses.
Sam was a Monson police officer so he had access to a couple small holding cells in the back room at the police station. Ian was in his mid-twenties and an artist with long hair and lots of tattoos, but none of the criminal behavior that might be expected to stereotypically coincide with that look. Instead, he was a smart, ambitious, talented yard art artist and lavender farmer, with plans to make all sorts of products from his crops—essential oils were only the beginning. Not long ago he’d mentioned to me that Herb and Don were becoming interested in his oil development techniques, and he was excited to teach them his ways. I was happy to see that the end result of their project together had become a viable new market product.
“I’m so glad to hear that. You know, things don’t seem weird around here with you and Ian, but he’s at the market less and less and we just weren’t sure. We should have just asked, huh?” Don said.
06 Bushel Full of Murder Page 1
