Then those of us who were already there helped the police put up their own tent to use for more interviews. After the crime scene people took a bunch of pictures and removed Mr. Simonsen’s body, the police posted an interview schedule and allowed the market to open again.
Abner wasn’t arrested, so I tried, in vain, to corner him and see how he was holding up, but there was too much chaos for anything more than fleeting glances at each other. I hoped my eyes told him that I was there if he needed me, and his glances told me that I shouldn’t worry and he was fine. I didn’t believe his eyes in the least.
Somehow, I was first on the list of interviews.
The first thing I noticed when I entered the tent was that it was hot and stuffy. I figured this was on purpose, to “sweat” out the murderer. The officer who asked the questions had somehow mastered looking cool and collected in stifling air and while wearing a long-sleeved, well-pressed uniform.
Officer Brion was able to ask his questions without showing one drop of perspiration or allowing one hair to fall out of its slicked-back style.
The interview went something like this:
“Ms. Robins, where were you this morning between 5:00 A.M. and 6:00 A.M.?”
“At my farm, about fifteen minutes that way.” I pointed and then wiped my hand over the drip of sweat falling from my right temple.
“Was anyone there with you?”
“Just my dog, Hobbit.”
“Can you prove you were there?”
“No, I don’t think I can.”
“Is that blood on your overalls and arm?”
“Oh. No, that’s blackberry jam—that’s what I make and sell—jams and preserves.” I wiped my left temple and noticed that his temples were still dry.
“Did you know Mr. Matt Simonsen?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Are you sure? You worked at the same place.”
“Working at a farmers’ market isn’t necessarily like working at the same place. Most of us work alone, and sometimes we can go weeks without having the time to socialize. My sister, Allison Reynolds, told me he just started here last week. I hadn’t met him yet.”
“Do you know Abner Justen?”
“Very well.”
“Did he speak to you about Mr. Simonsen?”
“No.”
“Ms. Robins”—the officer leaned forward, and I tried not to look scared—“do you know where Mr. Justen lives?”
“Um, well, actually, I don’t.”
“Do you know where some of the other vendors live?”
“Yes, some, but . . .”
“But what?”
The next words that were going to come out of my mouth were about Abner’s secretive ways regarding where he lived. Even with me, his good friend, he had always been paranoid about revealing the location. But I didn’t think anyone knew where he lived. I decided not to give more to the police officer than he asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
Officer Brion gave me a look that stopped just short of a sneer.
After I was given his card with instructions to call him if anything else occurred to me, I was dismissed. I failed miserably at walking out of the tent with anything resembling an innocent gait.
I wanted either to talk to Abner or to go home, but I was thrown into work instead. The other vendors who were interviewed needed some fill-in help, and Allison volunteered me.
I started with Linda’s fruits and pies. As Linda walked away from her stall, she told me to eat whatever I wanted. She wore clothes that reminded me of Laura Ingalls Wilder, which seemed to make her products taste even better. Like me, she was in her mid-thirties and worked her farm by herself. Unlike me, she hadn’t gone through two husbands to get to that point, but we were as close to good friends as two single, working women whose idea of a good party was an extra-early dinner, an early movie, and an early bedtime could be.
Since the murder and the questioning had done nothing to diminish my appetite for Linda’s raspberries and her razzleberry pie, I did indeed indulge in the sweet treats in between helping curious and concerned customers. In addition to baking her goodies, Linda also grew most of her own berries, some of which I purchased for my jams and preserves. She had the same talent for growing raspberries and blackberries as I had for growing strawberries. Every once in a while we traded berries—I made a killer razzleberry jam, and her strawberry pie brought some of her most loyal customers.
“Miss—I heard there’d been a murder here this morning. That can’t be true. Is that true?” one elderly lady said.
“There’s nothing to worry about.” That wasn’t true, but I didn’t know what else to say. “What can I get for you? Some berries or some pie?”
As the day wore on, the curiosity became more demanding, and once the news made it to the media outlets, the normally medium-sized Tuesday crowd began to dwindle to a sparse few who were either still very curious or hadn’t turned on their radios or televisions that day.
As I worked the Barry Good Corn stall, Allison found me and took a moment to gather her wits. She sat hidden behind an enormous table piled with end-of-the-season ears of corn.
“How’re you doing?” I asked.
“I can’t seem to process everything yet, but I think I’m exhausted.”
“Do the police suspect anyone—other than Abner?”
“No, I don’t think so. He refused to tell them his address. I went to look it up on his application form—which is over ten years old, by the way—but the address he gave is his sister’s house in town. That’s the same one that’s on his driver’s license.”
“The police should know how to figure out where he lives.”
“I’m sure they will. Why is he so weird about it?”
“His flowers are amazing, right?”
“The most amazing.”
“He’s afraid someone will figure out how he does it. He grows some flowers that shouldn’t even be able to take hold in South Carolina. He grows other flowers out of season. His favorite flower is this very thorny one—he prides himself that he can grow it and that he can place it in a bouquet so that the thorns never even graze a customer’s fingers. He’s very good at what he does and he’s very protective of how he does it.”
“He is. He adores you like a daughter. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yeah, he’s a good friend.”
“Well, if he’s a murderer, I don’t want to put you in the line of fire, but would you check on him before you leave—that is, if they don’t arrest him? I’m worried. Abner’s not super old, but he’s old enough that I’m concerned about the stress this is causing him.”
“He’s also very feisty, and I’d be happy to check on him. I was planning on doing it earlier, but I haven’t had the chance.”
On cue, the young parents of a very upset baby started working through the corn table and asking me questions. I knew just enough about corn to peel some of the husk back to demonstrate its fresh ripeness. I was very proud of myself when I sold them twenty ears. By the time I finished the sale, Allison had left and Barry Drake had come back to his stall.
Barry was another of the old-timers who had been in the market business for a long time. He and I had never been the best of friends but we’d gotten along all right. I was always amazed at how agile he was. He was a very large man who never seemed to quite get his walk up to speed. But he knew his corn.
“Well, darlin’, thank you for covering for me,” he said, his breathing labored from the walk.
“You’re welcome. How’d the interview go?”
He said something like, “Ah, ptewy.”
“That much fun?”
“Well, if you’re askin’ do they think I killed that Simonsen man, I don’t think so. I was here, but plenty of people saw me and I never had any blood on me. Don’t know if Abner could have reached high enough to hit that tall man over the head, so I couldn’t give them much information about that, either.” He huffed a laugh.
> “Did you know Matt Simonsen?”
“Yes, and I’ll tell you—only you—this,” he said as he looked around for spies. “Didn’t like the man one bit. I can understand why he got under Abner’s skin.”
“You knew him less than a couple weeks and you knew you didn’t like him?”
“Naw, I met him a while ago. Can’t remember the exactlys, but it wasn’t at this market—didn’t tell the police that, of course.”
“Of course,” I said, in a tone not pleasing to Barry.
“Anyhoo, he was more of a curmudgeon than Abner and lit’l ol’ me combined.” Barry laughed.
I smiled. “Hey, Barry, do you know what Abner argued with Simonsen about?”
“Nope. I didn’t hear the battle, but some people did. Some people are saying that Abner really threatened to kill him, for what reason I don’t know. And Abner taking on Simonsen? The size difference in itself makes it pretty unlikely.”
“Hmm.” Barry was right; Abner was significantly smaller.
“Yeah, hmm. Go ask Abner about it yourself.”
“You don’t need me here anymore?” I said as I looked at the emptiness all around. The hum and drone of voices and activity were much quieter than normal, giving the air a creepy leftover feeling.
“I appreciate your help, Becca, but off with you. I can handle it from here.”
I was anxious to get to Abner’s stall. I really wanted to talk to him, but my short conversation with Barry made me think that others might know something about what happened, too. I hurried along, wondering just how much I didn’t know. I wished I could sit in on the police interviews. But since Officer Brion probably wouldn’t allow such an intrusion, I’d have to ask a few questions of my own.
Farmers’ market vendors are their own bosses, usually working alone or maybe with one other person. They’re an independent, hardy crowd, most of them working the land. Some, like me, create other products from our crops, and still others are of a more artistic bent, creating products that have nothing to do with fruits and vegetables. I was continually fascinated by how hard most of the vendors worked. And though you could pick the hours you wanted to have your stall open, most of us were at the market from very early in the morning until we either ran out of product for the day or had to attend to it back at our homes or farms.
Jeanine Baker was one of the smallest and strongest women I’d ever known. I’m only about five-foot-three, but I tower over Jeanine. And until I’d tried some of her farm-produced eggs, I didn’t realize there were eggs that actually tasted better and fresher than the grocery store variety.
“Hey, Jeanine,” I said to her bent head.
She looked up quickly, and I thought I heard her gasp.
“Oh, sorry,” I continued. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No, you didn’t.” Jeanine was somewhere between the ages of fifty and ninety; no one knew for sure. Her short, dark hair always looked like it needed to be brushed, and her wrinkled face had probably never seen one ounce of makeup. She didn’t make a habit of being friendly, but she wasn’t rude. I’d always suspected that she was old enough to have gotten over the need to have everyone like her all the time. “I just have the heebie-jeebies, you know?”
“Yeah, I know. Rough day.”
“Poor man.”
“Mr. Simonsen?”
“Yes, who did you think I meant?”
“Sorry, yes, you’re right.” I’d actually wondered if she’d meant Abner. I thought my friendship with him might be prejudicing me, and I realized I probably needed to get a grip.
Jeanine sighed. “You don’t suppose . . .”
“What?”
“Well, I guess we’ll all have to be extra careful now. Do you think some of those big corporations are banding together to get rid of all the farmers’ markets?”
“Oh, no, Jeanine, we’re fine.” My mind hadn’t even gone where Jeanine’s had. I hadn’t felt one ounce of concern over there potentially being a mass murderer on the loose, ridding the world of farmers’ markets, one vendor at a time. Maybe she had a point, but I didn’t think so.
“I hope you’re right.” Jeanine rubbed at her knuckles.
I got lucky because one of the few customers who had stuck around was in dire need of some eggs, so I was able to slip away without seeming rude.
The tragedy that had hit us today was beyond what anyone could have ever predicted, and of course at the center of the tragedy was Mr. Simonsen.
Until we knew what happened to him, all of our businesses could suffer. Allison’s job as the market’s manager could be in jeopardy, too. I didn’t like thinking about myself at such a moment, but I couldn’t help it. I really wanted to know what had happened to poor Mr. Simonsen. I wanted to make sure that whatever it was, it wasn’t going to happen to any of the rest of us, Allison included.
I needed to talk to Abner. Right away. I continued toward his stall without stopping to talk to anyone else. I smiled and waved at Stella, whose bakery items normally got my full attention. She waved back, her lovely smile only making her very round figure more appropriate. Jack the Wine Man, who not only grew his own grapes, but probably crushed them with his own feet, was busy loading his truck, giving up on any real business for the day. I sniffed deeply as I passed Herb’s Herbs. Herb (really) and his business and life partner, Don, grew perfect herbs, their oregano being some of the best ever. The Herb Boys both worked their stall, but today Don was fast asleep in a folding chair with some sort of puzzle book on his lap. He didn’t look like he’d tip over anytime soon, so I didn’t disturb him.
I was stopped short when I got to Abner’s stall and found it empty. There wasn’t a flower or leftover leaf in sight. Had he been arrested? Had he just gone home? Fear for him—where he’d gone and why he’d left—tingled in my throat. In keeping with his secretive ways, he claimed to not have a phone of any kind, but if he did, Allison would surely know the number. I pulled out my cell.
“Come on, answer,” I muttered. Allison didn’t answer, though. And I had no idea where to begin to look for her.
As I closed the phone, one of the new vendors stopped next to me. Distracted, I nodded quickly at him but didn’t say anything. His name was Ian Cartwright, and he’d been working at the market for a few weeks, though we hadn’t had much opportunity to speak. He was young, in his mid-twenties, and created lawn and garden artwork. When I first heard the description of what he was bringing to the market, I laughed to myself, thinking we’d be seeing miniature gnomes or some such thing. But his artwork was actually made of copper and steel and was quite beautiful. He didn’t create anything stationary; every piece spun with the wind, some of the items seemingly changing shape as they moved. His work had already become a popular item. And he’d become a popular item himself. Ian had long, black hair that he pulled back into a ponytail, which highlighted his dark eyes and tanned skin. He was exotic and mysterious. This deadly artistic combination was sure to gain the interest of lots of female customers. Allison had told me that it was already working well for him.
“He went home,” Ian said.
“Well, at least he wasn’t arrested,” I said without thinking.
Ian laughed. “No, not yet.”
“How was he?”
“Not good. Pretty shaken up. Actually, he asked me to let you know that he’d left. Sorry, I couldn’t find you.”
“Oh.” Abner had asked Ian to talk to me? That was odd. Why hadn’t Abner talked to Allison or found me himself? “That’s okay. I wish I hadn’t missed him.”
“Yeah. I’m going to see him tonight. I’ll let him know you stopped by.”
“Wait. You know where he lives?”
“Sure. Oh, I don’t think I was supposed to admit that, was I?”
How did this kid know where Abner lived and I didn’t? I felt an unreasonable stab of jealousy and betrayal. Why was Ian considered a better friend than me? I swallowed.
“Don’t suppose I could go with you?” I asked, not
concerned about sounding either bold or rude.
Ian thought about it a moment. As he rubbed at his chin, I noticed the peace sign tattoo on the back of his right hand.
“Well, Abner will be mad at me, but I think he needs his friends right now, so sure, why not?”
I looked at Ian and wondered about the sort of wisdom a person in his mid-twenties had. I suspected that everything he’d just said had been on purpose. He was right about Abner needing friends, and he had planned on saying just the right words to get me to ask to go with him.
“Thanks.” I tried to even out my voice. I didn’t want Ian to know about the childish jealousy, but a quirk at the corner of his mouth, followed by a forced glance away from my eyes, told me I hadn’t hidden a thing.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
We made arrangements for him to pick me up early that evening, and parted ways. I searched for and tried to call Allison again, to no avail. When she had a moment, she’d call me back. The police and crime scene people were gone, and those vendors who’d stuck around no longer needed any extra help. I felt like I could go home.
As I threw my truck into gear, I wished silently that a day like today would never happen again.
And I wished even harder that Abner wouldn’t turn out to be the one responsible.
Three
The blackberry jam was a complete loss. There were worse things, of course, but I didn’t like to waste anything. I threw away the unusable product and then cleaned up the mess.
I’d inherited the farm, complete with barn, from my aunt Ruth and uncle Stanley right after I’d finished college. The barn had been totally renovated and turned into a kitchen that any professional baker or chef would envy. Along with the shelving and pots and pans made of heavy-duty steel and copper, there was an oversized six-burner stove, a three-basin sink, a large worktable, a refrigerator, and two large freezers that the Abominable Snowman would be proud to keep his ice cream in.
My uncle, who’d had more money than anyone had known, had planned on making his own jams and preserves as a retirement project. When he and my aunt died in a car accident ten years ago, their will had surprised the entire family. Not having any children of their own, they had made their twin nieces the recipients of their lifetimes of hard work and savings. Allison received enough money to pay off her house and have college tuition covered for one or two future children, and I was given the farm.
Farm Fresh Murder Page 2
