by J. R. Ripley
“And Pack’s an egg farmer. Well,” I said, folding my napkin over my lap, “you won’t have to worry about them thinking that now. As I said, Amber has admitted it now, though she had denied it to the police earlier.
“I hope the Smiths’ lawyer advises the young lady that she shouldn’t go lying to the police. It doesn’t help their case. More wine?”
“Please.” I held up my glass while Derek poured. “I feel so sorry for the two of them. I think that Rose is too embarrassed about the whole thing, what with everybody thinking that Amber committed murder.”
“You’ve got to try these.” Derek grabbed a spoon and dropped several shrimp on the edge of my dinner plate. “Cara Siskin is the only person in the vicinity with a clear connection to Mason. Plus, you said they had a relationship.”
“Physical, at least.”
“Maybe too physical,” Derek quipped. “I wonder if Ms. Siskin has a volatile temper.”
I gave the idea some thought. “I could see her as the hot-headed type.” I played with my fish before taking a bite. “Personally, Frank Duvall is at the top of my list. He’d contacted Mason before Mason’s arrival in Ruby Lake and had been trying to get his endorsement for that flower he developed.”
“He’d been at the book signing and the Birds and Brews get-together,” added Derek.
“And, according to Greg Tuffnall—”
“Who?”
I explained how Tuffnall ran Truckee’s Road Stop out by the interstate.
“Why did you go see him?”
“Lance told me that Mason was seen there the day before the murder with Violet.”
“So you wanted to question this Tuffnall guy yourself.” Derek grinned. “What did you find out?”
“That Mason had been in Truckee’s Bar, first with Violet, then Frank Duvall. You know what else Amber told me today?”
“What?”
“If Amber is to be believed, and I’ve no reason to think she’d lie to me, she saw Frank arguing with Cara Siskin and Violet Wilcox outside Mason’s trailer after the murder.”
“Interesting,” admitted Derek, “but it gets us no closer to figuring out who really killed Mason.”
I looked out across the lake. The stars were out now, their faint light reflecting off the quiet water. “If the real killer isn’t caught, they might never open Bookarama back up.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if Rose and Amber left Ruby Lake for good,” Derek suggested.
“That would be a terrible shame. I hope it doesn’t come to that.”
After dinner, we walked arm in arm to Birds & Bees. It was a pleasant evening. We had strolled to the Lake House from my house. Derek’s car was parked out front.
Paul Anderson waved to us from the outdoor patio of Brewer’s Biergarten. “Come on over for a beer, guys!” He waved to us.
“Sorry,” Derek said. “I can’t tonight.”
Paul waved again and turned back to his customers. I noticed Violet Wilcox and Cara Siskin at the outside bar. “Are you sure you can’t come up?”
“Sorry. Dad and I have a court case down in Charlotte starting tomorrow. We’ll be gone several days.”
“I’ll miss you, but good luck.”
“Thanks. We’re hitting the road at seven, so I have to make it an early night.” He kissed me. “Try to stay out of trouble while I’m gone?”
“Don’t worry.” I ran my fingers through his hair. “All I want is a good night’s sleep.”
We lingered in each other’s arms until Derek finally broke away. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Derek said, climbing behind the wheel of his car.
I watched his tail lights recede, then started up the front steps. A strong hand grabbed me from behind a shrub and yanked me around. “Frank!”
Frank teetered in the flowerbed. He was in his faded dungarees with a white T-shirt underneath. He smelled like he’d been drinking. “I want a word with you, Amy.”
I pulled at Frank’s hand clenched around my upper arm. “Let go of me, Frank!”
He relented but fixed his bloodshot eyes on me. “What’s your problem, Amy?”
“At the moment,” I couldn’t help saying, “it’s you.” I stumbled back and hit the side of the porch, banging my hip bone.
“Why are you following me around? Why are you harping on and on about the professor’s death?”
“Because,” I said, struggling to regain my footing in the dark, “I’d like to find out who killed him and why.” I looked at him carefully, his face a mask of shadows under the moonlight. “Was it you, Frank? I know all about how you wanted Mason to help you promote some flower of yours that’s supposed to be some sort of magnet for hummingbirds.”
Frank’s jaw tightened. “Who told you that?”
I smirked. “Everybody’s talking, Frank. Everybody. I also saw the letter you wrote to Mason urging him to go into business with you. Why did you lie to me about it?”
“I didn’t lie to you about anything.” Frank’s voice was hard and deep. “What I do is none of your business.” He slammed the side of his fist against the porch rail. “I’ve sunk all the money I’ve got into my business, and this new flower is going to make me rich.” He jammed a finger at my nose. “Don’t you go messing this up for me.”
“Was that the problem, Frank?” I swatted his finger away. “Was Mason going to mess things up for you? Was that why you stuck a pair of scissors in his neck?”
Frank loomed over me. I hadn’t been paying attention and had let him get too close once more. His strong, thick fingers latched onto my wrist. “Stay out of my business, Amy. Isn’t one murder in town enough for you?”
I swallowed hard. My eyes teared up from the pain of Frank’s grip on my arm, his nails digging into my flesh. “Please, Frank, let go.”
“Are you going to stop your interfering?” I smelled whiskey on his breath.
“Frank,” I said, struggling to remain calm and wishing Derek would suddenly return, “if you do not let go of my arm right now, I am going to scream loud enough for all of Ruby Lake to hear.”
Frank dug his nails in deeper. “I’ve gone too far, Amy. I owe too much. This flower is my last chance.”
“This is your last chance, Frank. I’m counting to three.” I closed my eyes for a second, then began. “One . . . two . . .”
The front door opened with a creak and an accompanying tinkle of tiny bells. “What’s going on out here?”
Frank released his hold on me. We both whirled around. My mother stood on the porch. “Amy? Frank?” She stepped to the edge of the porch and looked down at us, a questioning look in her eyes. “What are you two doing down there?”
I trained my eyes on Frank. “Mister Duvall and I were talking, Mom.”
“Talking?” Mom fixed her eyes on Frank. He teetered unsteadily under the weight of her stare. “It’s late, Amy. Frank, go home.”
The flower farmer thrust his hands in the side pockets of his dungarees and dipped his head. “You should tell your daughter to stick to birds, Barbara.” Frank ran his fingers along his unshaven chin. “If she knows what’s good for her, she’ll mind her own business.”
“If you know what’s good for you,” my mother said evenly but firmly, “you’ll get off our property.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Before I telephone the police.”
I massaged my throbbing arm. “And don’t ever lay a hand on me again.”
Frank spat, then trounced off through the flowerbeds, mangling and trampling my beautiful flowers left and right with his heavy boots. There’d be a mess to clean up in the morning.
Mom came down the steps. “Come inside, Amy.” She planted her hands on my back and guided me through the door. She locked it behind us, her eyes on Frank as he slunk away.
Mom insisted we drink some chamomile tea, and she prepared it herself. I brought the honey jar to the table with a spoon. Mom poured the tea, then sat.
“Thanks, Mom.” I smiled at her. “For the tea. And for rescuing me.”
“Young lady, you know you’re in trouble if you need the likes of me rescuing you!” She picked up her mug and sipped. “But you know I’ll always try.” She set down her cup. “I could hear Frank from the upstairs window. What was that all about?”
“I’m not sure, to tell the truth.” I massaged my throbbing temples. “He was drunk, and I don’t know if he was warning me not to look into Mason’s murder or not to interfere with his plans to bring that flower of his to market.”
Mom shook her head. “I’ve never known the Duvalls well, but I’ve never heard anyone say anything about them that would have led me to believe that Frank Duvall was a thug or, worse, a killer.”
I told Mom how Amber had admitted to me that she had egged the professor’s birdhouse. “All because she mistook his advances towards Rose.”
“Some girls take longer to grow up than others,” Mom replied. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it.
“What is it, Mom?”
“You don’t mind that I’ve been seeing Ben, do you, Amy?”
“Of course not.” I patted her hand. “I’m happy for you.”
“That’s good. I wouldn’t want you egging my bedroom.” Mom finished her glass and took it to the sink. “I’m off to bed. Are you coming?”
“In a minute,” I said, running my finger in the circle of the mug’s handle. “I have some thinking to do.”
21
All my thinking had gotten me nowhere. I’d gone to bed after one in the morning, listening to the owls hooting in the distance, their calls reminding me of the goofy sound of Mason’s pickup truck horn the day he had arrived in Ruby Lake. I had crawled out of bed at six, unable to get an hour’s solid rest. Whatever was going on with Frank Duvall, I was determined to get to the bottom of it.
I didn’t relish the thought of another restless night or another wrestling match with the man in my shrubs. I showered, grabbed a fresh store shirt and a pair of shorts, and dressed as quietly as possible. I scribbled a note to my mother that I was going down to the farmers market and should be back in time to open Birds & Bees.
I left the note in front of the coffee maker and slipped out the door, being sure to lock it behind me.
The farmers market opens at seven in the morning, seven days a week, and runs from early spring through late fall. It’s been a town fixture for as long as anyone could remember. It was a place you could shop for practically anything and meet practically everyone. A place for buying, selling, and gossiping.
The sun was bright, but the air was cool and the streets calm. I found a spot close to the vendor tents on the square and parked the van. It was closer to seven thirty by the time I arrived on the scene, but several sellers were still in the process of setting up their wares for the day, unloading trucks or vans and arranging goods in their tents.
In the distance, several stalls down from the Duvall’s Flower Farm tent, I saw Packard Mulligan. Derek had told me Pack offered his eggs at the market, so seeing him was no surprise. Pack was rolling up the front flap of his tent and securing the corners. An orange-feathered hen bustled nervously in and out of his feet.
Maybe I’d go say hi to Pack after talking to Frank. First things first. It was time for Frank to come clean and in front of witnesses where I’d be safe and he’d be less prone to doing anything stupid.
Besides, I wanted to clear the air. Like Mom said, he wasn’t a bad guy. Circumstances may have been getting the better of him, but hopefully we could bury the hatchet, let bygones be bygones—at least agree to stay out of each the other’s way and not pounce unexpectedly on one another from behind dark shrubs.
I ambled slowly along the walk leading to the farmers market, enjoying the weather, wishing I had more days that I could spend just like this. It really was all about the simple pleasures in life. I made a note of a silversmith’s stall. She had some pretty things, rings and bracelets, that I wanted to come back and get a closer look at another time.
As I approached, I could see that the Duvall’s Flower Farm tent was not open for business yet. The front and side flaps, designed to protect merchandise from weather and theft, were still tied down. From what I’d heard, that wasn’t like Frank.
“Frank? Are you in there?” Several eyes watched me from surrounding stalls, including a local organic vegetable stand owned by a cute couple who sipped coffees and were speaking with a young woman holding an empty mesh shopping bag. “Frank? It’s me, Amy Simms. We need to talk.”
He didn’t answer. I maneuvered around to the side of the tent. Frank’s vehicle sat at the curb. There were several open boxes in the flatbed with flowers of reds, whites, and yellows protruding from within. “Frank?” I couldn’t see him at the truck either.
A rugged young man in floppy shorts and a tank top rolled a handcart toward me, and I stepped aside to give him room. “Have you seen Frank Duvall?”
“I saw him a while ago,” the young man replied, holding the cart one-handed. “We pulled in at about the same time.”
“What time was that?”
“About quarter till six. He’s around here someplace. Always is. Frank never misses a chance to sell something.”
I scratched the top of my head. “Maybe he went for coffee, you think?” There was a stand here at the farmers market, plus the Coffee and Tea House on the square kept early hours.
“I doubt it. Frank always brings his own. Coffee and an egg sandwich and apple. Like clockwork. Comes in early, sets up, eats, then opens up.” The kid laughed revealing a gap between his two front teeth. “That guy is as cheap as they come.” With that, he continued on his way, hauling a half dozen boxes of lettuce heads to the opposite end of the market.
I was about to give up, then remembered the unusual flower I’d seen in Frank’s stall the other day. He hadn’t seemed to like my showing an interest in it. With Frank nowhere to be seen, now was my chance to take a closer look at it. Could it be that it was the special flower he’d been hoping to capitalize on?
The canvas tenting was heavier than I had expected. Using two hands, I was able to lift the material high enough that if I bent over low enough, I could crawl under. Light filtered in through the cracks in the tent. It was anything but weatherproof.
“Frank?” Just my luck he’d be standing here and our confrontation from the night before would start all over again. Satisfied that he wasn’t around, at least long enough for me to take a look at his stock, I sidled past the outer table and moved into the middle of the tent.
“Frank!”
Frank Duvall lay stretched out in the center of the space, surrounded on three sides by his display tables, wearing pretty much what he’d worn the day before and the day before that. The man was no slave to fashion.
His arms were stretched out overhead, and he was on his stomach on the matted earth and grass. An open thermos bottle was lying on its side, its contents spilled out in a small brown puddle.
Frank Duvall’s eyes were closed. Was he passed out drunk from the night before? There was a smear of dirt on his cheek. I knelt beside him, my bare knee dipping in the cold coffee. “Frank?” I nudged his shoulder. “Frank, wake up.”
He failed to respond. Worriedly, I placed a trembling hand to his neck and felt nothing but near lifeless flesh.
I gasped. “Frank!”
I scrambled to my feet and crawled quickly out the front of the tent. The two young organic grocers were arranging yellow summer squash on a wooden display stand. “Hurry!” I waved. “Call an ambulance!”
Within minutes, the ambulance and the town’s biggest fire truck had arrived. Three EMTs had raised the tent flap, hustled in, and laid Duvall on a portable stretcher.
I had been shoved off to the side with the rest of the early shoppers and sellers. We congregated in a ring across the way, held back by Officer Larry Reynolds, who was the first policeman on the scene.
Chief Kennedy arrived in a blaze of sirens and smoking tires. Jerry hopped out of the driver’s side of the squad ca
r, and Officer Dan Sutton extracted himself from the opposite side. “Wait a minute!” the chief called gruffly as he jogged up, one hand holding the gun on his belt.
The two EMTs holding the stretcher shifted the unmoving body of Frank Duvall. His clothing was soiled with vomit.
“What have we got here?” Chief Kennedy pulled up close and examined Duvall.
Frank Duvall’s face was a dirty, contorted mess.
“He’s in bad shape,” remarked the third EMT, a stethoscope to Frank’s chest. “I don’t know if he’ll make it. We’re rushing him to the ER.”
Chief Kennedy stepped aside. “Go! Go!”
“What do you think, Chief?” Dan tipped his cap farther back on his head. “Heart attack? Stroke?”
Jerry chewed his lip. “Maybe.” He eyed the retreating EMTs, then passed his gaze over the gathered crowd with unveiled annoyance. “Anybody see anything? Hear anything?”
“Could be food poisoning,” suggested the husband of the organic grocer.
His wife agreed. “He looked fine when we saw him earlier.”
There were a lot of mutterings but nothing else of any use. Several people said they had seen Frank pull up in the predawn hours and start unloading.
Chief Kennedy turned back to his men. “Let’s take a look around ourselves.”
“What are we looking for?” Officer Sutton inquired.
“If I knew that, I’d tell you to look for it,” snapped Jerry.
Reynolds and Sutton looked at one another before complying. They moved idly about the stall, stopping to examine the flowers and kicking at the ground with their feet.
Officer Reynolds opened a brown paper bag and withdrew a sandwich wrapped in aluminum foil and a green apple. “If it was something he ate, it wasn’t this.” Both were untouched.
Chief Kennedy stepped over to the thermos and nudged it with his toe. He leaned over and sniffed. Over his shoulder he yelled for Officer Sutton to bring an evidence bag from the squad car.
He focused his gaze on the man who’d suggested food poisoning, then said, “Careful how you handle this.” He pointed to Officer Reynolds. “Keep everybody away for now. And get your camera.”
