by Jean Flowers
Farmers’ markets: not just for farmers anymore.
And a clear threat to the likes of Daisy Harmon’s small business.
Even as I enjoyed the feast for my senses and the purchases I’d already made (including, but not limited to, kale, cheese, and fudge, for a well-balanced meal later), I worried about how the small businesses in North Ashcot could survive the influx of such competition. The warnings in Daisy’s letter shouted at me, as if she herself, with her high-energy passion, were still alive in my head. I thought about her accusation that, besides the fruits and veggies that were on the table, something more lucrative was under the table. I sniffed the air as if I were an expert at discerning the presence of contraband or controlled substances.
I stopped for a minute to adjust my purse and bags of raspberry squares and jars of jam. It had been difficult, but I’d managed to eat half a strawberry rhubarb turnover on the way. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man I could have sworn was Reggie Harris. The same short, muscular build and cowboy walk. A baseball cap, which he always wore, proclaiming one or another sports team, and a windbreaker that I’d seen on him as he headed for the meeting last night. I wished he would turn around so I could be sure, but he continued walking away from me. Of course, the man might have been Reggie only in my imagination, since Daisy was on my mind. I pressed forward, slowed down by a family with a stroller, and whoever it was had gotten lost in the crowd.
I noted the proliferation of electronic scales in the tents and felt a wave of nostalgia for the farmers who tossed veggies in the air and came up with a fair price. A long way from the current professionally printed signs welcoming cash, check, or credit card with logos for all.
Spiffy banners on the vendors’ tented structures identified farms and orchards from Massachusetts towns like Montague, Colrain, and Shelburne Falls, and from as far away as southern Vermont.
A young boy, surely too young to have a work permit, lured me to his family’s tent, holding up an elaborately painted hair clip.
“Wouldn’t this be great to go with your pretty hair?” he said, a salesman already. “My mom makes these.”
Not for me, but I spied a pair of earrings that would be perfect for Linda and her long neck. Here was a chance to show my city friend what a small-town craftsperson could do. I bought them, thus encouraging the boy, who followed me out of the tent for a few yards, pitching a matching bracelet and a greatly discounted pinkie ring, before giving up.
A few minutes later, I realized I’d passed up a great opportunity for questioning a vendor. Two adults, who were probably the boy’s parents, sat behind the table, ripe for an interview. Another failure as a pretend sleuth, getting wrapped up in the moment and forgetting that my mission wasn’t shopping, but investigating.
I looked around for another likely candidate for a little quiz and spotted a beekeeping family. A middle-aged woman stood behind a table full of jars of honey in large and small attractive jars. Better yet, there was a man in farmer’s clothes on a seat behind her, and a young girl focused on a smartphone close by, but no customers at the table.
“Do you keep bees?” I asked, approaching the woman, hoping I was using the correct verb.
“I do indeed,” she said, looping strands of long, straight gray hair over one ear. “Josie,” she called to the girl, “bring that phone over here.”
There followed a multimedia lesson that included a one-minute video on Josie’s smartphone, outlining all I’d need to prepare my first hive. I accepted a FAQ sheet and a form to send in for a free kit that contained all the starter equipment I’d need plus a subscription to a newsletter. I listened to an ecology lesson from Josie—about a fourth grader, I guessed—on how important bees are in our food chain and how they’re disappearing because of our nasty pesticides.
I nodded and asked one or two relatively intelligent questions, then addressed the woman.
“By the way, do you know Reggie Harris?” I asked, in what might have been the world’s most blatant non sequitur.
She abandoned her smooth pitch and stuttered. “Well, we, uh, why are you asking?”
I shrugged. Casual. “I’m just wondering if you’d be among those planning to sell at a future farmers’ market in North Ashcot.”
“Yeah, everybody’s talking about it,” Josie said. “I heard them say it’s going to work out for us to be up there on Sundays. I—”
“Enough, Josie.”
The man, who’d been silent until now, leafing through a magazine, stood, towering over the woman. Only a little above eye level with me, but considerably heavier. He grabbed Josie by the arm, too roughly, I thought. Nothing brutal, I surmised, but enough to send a message. Josie winced but didn’t seem surprised.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Josie. Leave the lady alone.” He glanced at me with anything but concern for my well-being.
“But she—” Josie began.
“I said, leave the lady alone.” The man took the jars of honey I was about to pay for and set them back in their place on the stand. “She’s done here anyway.”
He was right. I turned and walked away, before I got Josie, and myself, in further trouble. Making progress, I thought. Someone is worried about what I’ll turn up. So what if my palms were sweating and my heart was beating a little faster than usual?
I could do this. I’d just have to find a booth with shorter staff members.
To catch my breath, I stood for a few minutes before a bulletin board perched on an easel at the end of an aisle. I glanced through typical notices of events in other parts of town. A summer theater production of Guys and Dolls (Really? In this century?), a fact sheet about farmers’ markets, extolling their virtues as local job creators as well as an opportunity for a better social life (people who shopped there had fifteen to twenty interactions per visit, as opposed to only two or three in a grocery store).
A hastily written memo stuck over more colorful, professional-looking flyers caught my eye. In thick black-marker letters, the announcement was a reminder of the meeting of vendors at one thirty, just after the market closed. Was that why Reggie was here today? If that was Reggie I’d spotted.
“I hear you’ve been asking around for me.” A deep, rough voice took away any doubt. I turned to see Reggie Harris in his Red Sox cap and windbreaker. It was at times like these that I was happy to be on a par with the average height of a U.S. male, especially since Reggie was a couple of inches below it.
I straightened up, taking advantage of every inch of my height to fend off feelings of intimidation. “I’m impressed by the communication system on this site,” I said.
He held up his cell phone. “Faster than service at the post office,” he said.
I laughed, as I thought I was supposed to. “Nice to see you, too, Reggie,” I said. “We could have carpooled.”
“Funny. What brings you all the way to Knox Valley, Cassie?”
“Where else can I go before we have our own market?”
He shook his head. “More funny.” Reggie pointed to a set of tables with attached benches and umbrellas where people had brought their food truck treats, including hot dogs. “Sit?” he asked.
Since he was asking nicely, I nodded and joined him at a round wooden table, evidently today’s tree trunk surrogate, with hearts and initials carved into the surface. Reggie offered to get me a drink or snack, but I found the food truck aromas less appealing than when I’d first arrived. Maybe because my stomach felt a little queasy in the face of one of the prime suspects on my murder list.
“Look,” Reggie said, “I know you’ve been working with Cliff Harmon. I know you know about the letter Daisy wrote that never got printed.”
“And the one you wrote back that no one other than the newspaper staff has seen.”
“Funny you should mention that,” he said. He reached into his light jacket and pulled out a she
et of paper, folded twice, and spread it out in front of me. “Here. Read it for yourself.”
I took the page. “You just happened to have this with you?”
“In case I run into people like you and Cliff.”
“Or the police?”
“The police don’t need to be involved in this particular debate. There’s nothing to be involved in, really. Read it,” he said, pointing at the letter, his face flushed. He seemed not so much angry as frustrated.
I glanced down and saw that the letter Reggie gave me was very short, addressed to the editor of the Town Crier.
To the Editor:
Allow me to remind your readers of the great advantages a farmers’ market can bring to our town. Besides the obvious fresh fruits and veggies, we’ll have an opportunity for our own local craftspeople to sell their wares. That means quilts, for example, which means more fabric and thread will be sold in our fabric shop. Also, handmade knitted goods and local honey, and tons more products. There will be something for everyone, both low-income families and foodies. And think of the savings on gas. Please, people, don’t dis this project without knowing all the facts. For more information, go to our website.
A website address followed. Nothing in the letter was a threat to Daisy in any way, and in fact, it singled out her shop as one of the beneficiaries. Coincidence? Hard to swallow.
I thought of challenging Reggie, asking how I could be sure this was the actual letter he wrote to Gordon at the Town Crier. He’d had plenty of time to write six variations through the course of the week. He could also make and print and keep multiple and different copies with him. One copy to sway Gigi by using flowers as an example, one for Liv’s card shop, and one to appeal to the bank tellers, probably. The wonders of the computer age. A twelve-year-old had the equipment to pull off any number of cons.
“Your letter seems innocuous to me,” I said, seeing no value in continuing a debate between two people, one of whom was no longer around to participate. I put the letter in my purse. I’d let Sunni decide its merits. Good deputy that I was.
“Darn right, it’s innocuous,” Reggie said. “Maybe you can help me out and tell Cliff Harmon to back off. I know he wasn’t happy with his wife’s stirring up trouble in the first place. Let the police do their job. He can do his job and you can do yours, and everything will be solved in the end.”
Probably Reggie didn’t know why I shrank back and bristled at his warning to do my job.
It took a minute to turn some phrases in my head, trying to find the best wording for the big question. “I’m curious,” I said. “What motivates you to work so hard to get this project through?”
“You mean what’s in it for me?”
So much for roundabout wording. “I know you’re a contractor. But there’s nothing that will need to be built if the market comes to town.”
Reggie leaned in, too close for my comfort. His upper arm muscles strained the sleeves of his jacket and seemed to ripple before my eyes; I felt his breath on my neck. “Are you implying something crooked is going on?”
I gulped. “Is it?”
“Listen, Madam Postmistress, I don’t have to report to you, but because I’m such a nice guy, I’m going to anyway. North Ashcot is growing, Cassie. Do you know our population is expected to reach five thousand in just a couple of years, and probably twice that in ten years? Yet we have no large market, just that convenience store that pretends to sell foodstuffs. Just to show you, they’re not complaining about the influx of real food that a farmers’ market would bring.”
Reggie was right about the quality of food in the convenience store—just the basic packaged supplies that would take you through an emergency. The nearest fresh foods were well past the central Main Street district.
“And that’s not all.” Reggie appeared to be waiting for my attention to return to him before continuing. “There are also no office buildings, very limited medical facilities, and only a handful of apartments. I have plans for our town. ‘Plan North Ashcot,’ I’m calling it. New developments everywhere, with housing, office space, specialty shops. A little bit of something for everybody.”
He seemed satisfied. But all I could think of was what a motive for murder, with so much at stake. I was relieved that at least he’d sat back and wasn’t breathing on me anymore.
The last thing I wanted was to show that I was nervous, that his intimidation techniques were working. I had only one move to prove otherwise. I stood and straightened my shoulders, leaving all five feet five of him hunched over the wooden table.
I had no second move, so I was relieved when a vendor came up to us.
“Excuse me,” the young man said. “I need to borrow Reggie for a minute.”
“He’s all yours,” I said, as if I were in charge of Reggie’s schedule.
The look in Reggie’s eyes, under the Red Sox cap, could have melted an umpire’s mask.
I abandoned the idea of hanging around for the vendors’ meeting. Some other Saturday, maybe. I beat it back to my car and headed home, leaving the old accordion man playing “Roll Out the Barrel” and the man who might be Anonymous in my rearview mirror.
15
On my trip home, I tried to focus on the lush environment on either side of the road. Rolling lawns with stately white houses set back and, now and then, a stone-based wishing well or Civil War cannons guarding the estate.
I opened my window and breathed in fresh air, listening to the swish of the tall, noble evergreens, remembering trips to Tanglewood, the summer home of the Boston Symphony Orchestra. One of the last outings I’d taken with my parents had been to a Friday-morning rehearsal on the great lawn. We’d brought a large thermos of coffee for them, a cooler of soft drinks for me, and the makings of a picnic lunch.
Had I expressed my appreciation at the time, or had I been a surly teenager, whining, talking about missing my friends back home? Telling my parents I wished I’d gone to the mall with Jamie and Ashley. Over the years, I’d gotten better about this kind of morose thinking—wishing for a redo of every holiday, every weekend, every breakfast with the parents I’d lost so early.
I shifted my attention to what I’d learned at the market, other than the fact that Reggie Harris deserved his spot on my suspect list.
Farmers’ markets had become significant sources of retail trade in the community. It now made sense to me that kickbacks, if they existed, might involve substantial sums of money or other favors, not simply a twenty-dollar bill slipped under a rickety picnic table. Even the vehicles that carried the goods had been upgraded from when I was a kid—no longer rattling trucks with wooden frames to keep crates of produce secured, but instead, shiny vans with fancy logos on the sides. In Knox Valley, the tent covers were new and multicolored, bringing the beautifully landscaped civic center, with its modern brick buildings, to life.
None of these observations, not even Reggie’s rudeness, was enough to take to Sunni as the work of an (almost) legitimate investigator. But there was still a lot left of Saturday. I needed to plot my next move and tackle the next suspects.
The obvious choice? The ladies of the quilting group. And, even better, they were my assignment from the chief of police.
* * *
I made a quick stop at my house to pick up a project that had been sitting on a shelf in my spare bedroom, waiting to be quilted. I’d finished the top layer, a simple nine-patch design, as recommended by Sunni and the others as a good quilt for first-timers.
“Just do squares. You’re not ready for triangles,” Sunni had said, sounding like my old geometry teacher.
She’d accompanied me to Daisy’s shop and helped me pick out novelty fabric with sepia photos of antique lamps and small furniture in browns and rust. Suitable for a lap quilt meant for Quinn.
“Do you think it’s too soon for a gift like this?” I’d asked her and Daisy.
“Do you mean, is there a list for dating, like for anniversaries? Twenty-fifth, silver; fiftieth, gold?” Sunni asked.
The three of us had a good time coming up with a parallel list for dating.
“First month, paper,” Daisy had offered. “Like a ‘Thanks for being a friend’ card.”
“Second month, food,” said Sunni, who, despite her small frame and trim figure, seemed always to be hungry. “How many months has it been for you and Quinn, anyway?”
“We met about a year ago. It’s hard to say when our first date was.”
“Okay, one year is good for a quilt,” Daisy had said. “But only a small one, a lap quilt for the living room, not one for a king-sized bed.”
“Got it,” I’d said, and we all had a good laugh.
Tears welled as I thought of that conversation and of a time when Daisy was so full of life. I imagined Cliff, less than a week after her death, reminiscing constantly, overwhelmed by good memories and a sense of loss.
I stopped in front of my house, not bothering to pull into the driveway. I squeezed between my neighbor’s new truck and a beige sedan I hadn’t seen before. I walked by the car and saw the driver. Officer Ross Little, in his dusty blue uniform, holding a map. Strange. Especially since I was pretty sure any car less than ten years old would have a GPS.
I bent down and addressed him through the open window. “What’s up, Ross? You got my message about the cancelled pickup this morning, right?”
His response—stuttering, fumbling with the map—indicated that he’d been napping.
