Farm Fresh Murder

by Paige Shelton

  Farmers’ market careers aren’t for the dainty or those who don’t want to get a little dirty. The nature of our work is physical, and it frequently takes place either in the out-of-doors or in open spaces. It’s wonderful and full of fresh air, but it’s also grimy.

  I rinsed off my face, arms, and hands and called it good. The damage had been done anyway. Then I decided I needed a good mental talking-to, so I sobered my face and looked directly into the mirror.

  That’s enough flirting. You’re here to ask serious questions. Get serious. The look of doubt that was returned did not instill the confidence I’d hoped for.

  At least my face was cleaner, I thought, as I left the bathroom.

  Ian was staring inside his open refrigerator.

  “It’s a good thing your landlord can’t see well. He’d have probably called the Centers for Disease Control if he’d noticed all the stuff on my face.”

  Ian turned and smiled. “Or he would have wanted the gory details on how you became infected. So, diet or regular soda? And I don’t suppose you like beef jerky? That’s all I have at the moment.”

  “Regular soda, and I’m not hungry, but I like beef jerky just as much as anyone else.”

  “Ice or not?”

  “Straight from the can or bottle is perfect.”

  Ian shrugged, pulled out two cans of soda, and walked around the couch.

  “Have a seat.” He waited until I sat on one end of the couch before he sat in the middle of it. He handed me the soda. “So, what’s up, Becca? I can’t imagine you’re here just to say hi, though I’m glad to see you.”

  “Yeah, actually I do have a question,” I said as I popped the top of the can.

  “Shoot.”

  “How well did you know Matt Simonsen?”

  “Oh. Not well at all.”

  “Did you work at Smithfield Market?”

  “Yeah, for about nine months.”

  “Then how come you didn’t know him well?”

  Ian’s brows came together. “Becca, have you taken a part-time job with the police?”

  “No, I just want to know. And . . .”

  “And what?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  Ian gave one of those knowing half-smile things as he looked away from my probing glance. He looked back up soon enough, though.

  “Becca, I didn’t think about you not knowing. I thought everyone knew I’d worked at Smithfield before, so therefore I must have at least been acquainted with Simonsen. I wasn’t trying to keep anything secret. Especially from you. I guess I just didn’t think it needed to be talked about. I told the police everything I knew about Simonsen. He and his son kept to themselves. I don’t think they looked favorably on my art, but they weren’t ever rude to me—just distant, like they didn’t have much time for my silliness, but that was fine. They were hard workers, old-timers, you know. There before the sun came up and gone only when their product was sold out or the market was closing. I never had any real conversations about the Simonsens with the other vendors, so I couldn’t tell the police anything more than that.”

  “Oh.”

  “Have I satisfied your questions, Officer?” Ian said with another smile.

  “Well, maybe. I have one more question, though.”

  “Ask away. I’m an open book.”

  “Did you know that Abner’s sister lives one block over from you?”

  “I had no idea,” Ian said. But he suddenly sat up on the edge of the couch as though he’d heard something.

  “What?”

  “Well, you might just be cut out for this questioning thing. You made me remember something. I can’t believe it didn’t come to me before.”

  “I did? What?”

  “Right before I left Smithfield, I saw Abner there.”

  I sat up, too. “What happened?”

  “I knew he looked familiar. I just couldn’t place him when I first got to Bailey’s. He was at my Smithfield stall, looking at my art, asking me all kinds of questions. Someone called his name, but I can’t remember who it was.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Female, I think. I was busy with a few other customers, so I didn’t pay attention, but he left right after that.”

  “I wonder who it was.”

  “I have no idea. Maybe more will come back to me if I think about it. I don’t think there’s much to what I’m remembering right now, but I’ll call Officer Brion and let him know. Good job, Becca,” he said.

  We both took sips of the sodas.

  “Thanks.”

  Because we’d both sat forward on the couch, we were now very much in each other’s space. So close that I hoped my breath wasn’t bad. His wasn’t.

  I really don’t think either of us intended for what happened next to happen. It was one of those moments where some other force takes over and just pushes two pairs of lips together.

  We each leaned toward the other. Ian put his tattooed hand on my cheek and hesitated, giving us both a moment to make sure this was the direction we wanted to go. It was. We both leaned farther and then kissed. It was almost like an extended junior high first kiss—gentle and practically innocent. Except that my heart rate didn’t think it was so innocent.

  Ian stopped first. He sat back slowly and pulled his hand away as though that magnet was still working hard to keep it where it had been.

  “Hey, Becca, I’m sure it was way too soon for that, but, well . . .”

  “It’s okay. Really, it is.”

  Ian’s eyes squinted as he inspected my own.

  “You . . . um, well . . .” he said.

  I laughed lightly. “I’d better go.”

  “Yeah, one of us probably should, huh?”

  “And you live here. I’d better go,” I repeated, forcing myself to get off the couch and get out of Ian’s garage.

  I don’t know whether I scampered or scurried, but I know I was quick about climbing down the ladder. Our kiss had done something to me that made me want to run away from Ian as much as it made me want to stay. I needed to clear my head—again.

  Using the lightning-quick movements I’d become accustomed to, somehow he reached the door before I did. He pulled it open and stayed out of my way as I stepped over the threshold.

  “Ian,” I began.

  “I know, I know. That was a mistake—you think you shouldn’t have allowed that to happen.” His smile was far too knowing for someone in his mid-twenties. His tone wasn’t whiny. Instead, I thought he was trying to make me laugh.

  “Actually, no, that’s not what I was going to say. I don’t think it was a mistake. It was an impulse, but from all I could tell, we both had the same impulse. No harm done.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm, I can’t figure out if your analysis is positive or negative for the potential of doing that again someday.”

  I shrugged.

  “So what did you want to say?” He leaned on the door frame and crossed his arms in front of his chest. His eyes were way dangerous, and I liked that.

  “I was just going to say that I’ll see you tomorrow, if you’re working.”

  “I’ll be working.”

  “Good. See you then.”

  “Great.”

  I turned and walked down the driveway. I didn’t look to see if he was watching me go, but I hoped he was.

  As I drove toward Abner’s sister’s house, I realized that Ian had answered my questions, but for all I knew, he was a serial murderer who hypnotized those who suspected him by first poisoning them with a bit of his spit and then kissing them. When my head was on straight, I’d have to go over what he’d said and figure out if it made sense. I couldn’t let his kiss overshadow my ability to think clearly.

  Right.

  I drove down Harvard, heading toward Yale. Higher education suddenly had a whole new meaning.

  Twelve

  Yale Avenue was similar to Harvard in that trees and big, beautiful ol
der homes lined the street. But there was one house on Yale that stood out from the others.

  Abner’s sister’s house was small and squat. It was adorable, but still small compared to the others surrounding it. It looked like a dollhouse cottage with its clean brick exterior and soft pink painted trim.

  I had no idea what I was going to say to Ms. Helen Justen as I climbed the steps and knocked on the screen door that had a puppy figure sculpted from thick aluminum in the middle of it.

  I heard and felt the fast pitter-patter of someone running to the door. It swung open and a very old woman with wild hair and a wild look in her eyes said, “I’m busy in the kitchen with my preserves. Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “Ms. Justen, my name is Becca Robins. I happen to know a few things about preserves. Would you like some help?”

  “Abner’s friend Becca?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Come in and back to the kitchen.” Helen turned and hurried away. Her flowered housedress flapped behind her, and her pink slippers sent sparks of static electricity up from the shag carpet.

  I was impressed with the timing of my visit as I entered the house. I couldn’t think of another time in my life when I’d happened upon a preserve “situation.” I hurried back to the kitchen, but not without first noticing all the pink: pink furniture, pink pillows, pink knickknacks. Everything was neat and well placed, and somehow didn’t remind me of Pepto Bismol.

  “I’m stirring,” Helen said as she looked up from a large pot. “I’m close to the boil.” Even though she was old and small, there was nothing feeble about her.

  “Smells good. Where’s the pectin?”

  “Over there.” She pointed to a counter on the other side of the small kitchen. I grabbed the pectin and took it to her.

  “Thanks, dear.” Helen smiled. “So, you’re Abner’s Becca? I’ve heard so darn much about you. All good. Abner thinks you’re the cat’s pajamas.”

  I laughed. “Abner and I are very good friends. He helped me a bunch when I first started my business.”

  “Really? That proves it, then—he adores you. He’s not one to offer help very much.”

  “I think you’re boiling,” I said, looking down into the pot.

  “So I am. Dump that pectin right in. I’ll keep stirring.”

  I dumped as she stirred. We both looked at the beautiful red mixture.

  “Strawberry, huh?” I said.

  “Yes, a friend has some of those plants that have more than one crop a year. I think she said she has three full crops—you heard of those?”

  “Sure. I don’t have that kind, though. I think they’re called Everbearing. My plants just bear fruit one time per year.”

  “What’s the difference?” she asked as we watched for the mixture to come to a rolling boil again.

  I shrugged. “My plants have longer runners—vines. Some say there’s a different taste, but I think if you take care of your plants, the berries can all taste great.”

  “Boiling. One more minute.” Helen pushed a button on the stove, and the timer showed the number 1.

  I hadn’t timed this last boil for years. I’d developed an inner timer. I just knew when it was ready.

  “Grab another ladle out of that drawer.” She pointed. “We can both fill.”

  I did as she asked and surveyed the readied jars on the table. Her system seemed efficient enough except for one fault that caught my attention. From the looks of things, she had hand-cut all of her strawberry pieces. I preferred to throw mine in for a fast spin in the food processor. It was quicker, of course, but I also liked the more evenly sized fruit pieces that came from the processor. It was a delicate balance, though. Too much processing wasn’t a good idea, but just enough could make each bite of the preserve mixture have just the right amount of correctly sized pieces of fruit.

  I wouldn’t say anything, though. I might be the expert, but she had probably been doing this for many more years than I had.

  The timer beeped, and Helen slid the pot next to the sink. She skimmed off the top foam and then lugged the pot to the table. We each went to work with our own ladles and measuring cups.

  “So, Becca, tell me why you came to visit me today,” Helen said as we both ladled and poured.

  “Ms. Justen . . .”

  “Helen, please.”

  “Helen. I’m worried about Abner.”

  She looked away from my eyes. “You know, the police were here yesterday.”

  “Oh yeah? What did they say?”

  “They wanted me to tell them where my brother was, but I wouldn’t. Though the officer—Brion, I think it was—was a very nice man. It seems that Abner has gotten himself into some trouble, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, it looks that way. Do you know where he is?”

  “I have some idea, but I don’t know for sure.”

  “Don’t suppose you’d tell me where you think he might be?”

  She looked back into my eyes, her own glimmering with the sparkle of having a secret. “Probably not, but not because I don’t think Abner wouldn’t want to see you. I just think it’s best if his location is kept secret until all of this nastiness is worked out.”

  “Helen”—I stopped ladling—“I’m not sure how it’s going to get worked out. The evidence is stacking up against him. He needs to tell the truth to the police.”

  “Keep filling, dear,” she said. I resumed the job. “Abner is innocent. I promise you that. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  I didn’t know exactly how much she knew, so I didn’t bring up the bloody axe.

  “Well, then he definitely needs to turn himself in. Justice will prevail.”

  “Not if he’s being framed.”

  “Who’s framing him?”

  “He won’t tell me, but I have my suspicions.”

  “Tell me, then. Who would frame Abner?”

  Helen sighed and inspected my face again. She wanted to tell me—tell someone—what she knew. She was the type of person who found it challenging to keep a secret.

  “Well, Matt Simonsen was a thorn in his side for years. They were not friends.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked innocently. I wanted her version, untainted by what Jessop Simonsen had shared with me.

  “Abner was, at one time, very much in love with Simonsen’s wife, Pauline.”

  “Really? When? This is about love?” Again, my tone rang with sincerity.

  “He’d have to give you the details; it was when they were very young. Pauline promised herself to Abner but Matt became very sick with pneumonia, and once Pauline had helped take care of him, she claimed they fell in love. They got married, and that was that.”

  This was some new information, though Betsy had told me that she’d heard Abner say something like If you’d died all those years ago . . . to Matt. Was that what he was talking about? The pneumonia?

  “So maybe he finally snapped and killed the man who took his woman?” I said.

  “No, I don’t think so.” Helen shook her head slowly.

  The wheels in my mind turned. “So what about Pauline? Do you think she could have killed her own husband to finally be with Abner?”

  “I don’t think that’s possible, either. She had her youthful wild moments, but she never struck me as homicidal. Plus, it’s been many years. I think if she was going to kill anyone, she would have done it before this.”

  “What do you think, then? Who could have killed Matt Simonsen and would frame Abner for it?” If I asked enough times, maybe she’d answer.

  “Again, I only have my suspicions—I want to be surer before I tell anyone. I do know this, though. Pauline was not only a beautiful young woman, she was rich, too. I wonder if that doesn’t have something to do with it. With her hand in marriage came lots of money.”

  “A dowry?”

  “Not really. It was her money. She was rich, but everyone knew about it. Everyone knew that whoever married Pauline would be marrying the most beautiful woman in town and w
ould become instantly rich. Anyway, whether it was her beauty or her money, she had a number of suitors. I think one of them killed Matt—even after all these years, maybe the killer couldn’t let go of his love for Pauline.”

  “But you’re not speaking about Abner?”

  “No, a different suitor altogether. Another one who happens to work at Bailey’s.” She gasped and put her hand to her mouth. She was about to break—not that she hadn’t wanted to, anyway.

  “Another one! No! Who?” I accidentally dropped the ladle to the floor, making yet another red splatter of the day. “Damn! I mean . . . Sorry, Helen. Stay put, I’ll get it cleaned up. But tell me who you’re talking about.” I put the ladle in the sink and took a wet cloth to the floor.

  She laughed at my butterfingered antics. “Really, you don’t need to worry about it. I can clean it up later.”

  “I got it. But tell me who you mean,” I said from my hands and knees. I didn’t want her loose tongue to tighten up.

  “You have someone there named Barry? He sells corn?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He was in love with Pauline, too.”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “Yes, pinky-swear.”

  I stopped cleaning midswipe. The list of Barry’s lies was growing. He hadn’t been straight with anyone.

  “Helen, I thought I heard that Barry was involved in a land dispute with Matt Simonsen years ago. Is that true?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

  Barry had lied to me, then later claimed he and Matt had been involved in a land dispute. I’d seen him on my way out of Bailey’s. Had he been the one who’d knocked on Allison’s door when I was hiding? I didn’t think so—he was tall, but surely I’d have recognized his voice. Barry’s truck was white, not brown. And the person who was knocking might have absolutely nothing to do with any of this. But something nudged at me, telling me that he was involved. But how?

  “Becca?” Helen said, pulling me from my thoughts.

  “Huh? Sorry about that. So, Barry? Really?”

  “Well, I don’t know anything for certain, but I remember that they were all very much in love with Pauline. There were other suitors, of course, but those three men loved that woman with a strength that they almost couldn’t control.”