Denny turned when he heard the noise and stepped protectively in front of us. Of course, there was no real danger, and no damage was done, because all we saw at that point was the back of Brenton’s truck. Denny had no idea who the driver was.
“Thought something might be coming this way,” Denny explained as he turned back to face us.
Neither Allison nor I commented, but I had no doubt that she’d be in search of Brenton the second she was finished here. She continued the conversation like she hadn’t noticed anything unusual. I tried to follow her lead, but I was sure I wasn’t able to hide my distraction as well.
Maybe I’d misinterpreted the entire thing. Maybe Brenton didn’t want to spit on Denny’s truck. Maybe his dog biscuits hadn’t turned out well this morning and he couldn’t let go of the frustration. Maybe he was just in a bad mood.
But Brenton was never in a bad mood. Whatever was behind his behavior must have had something to do with the delivery truck, Ridgeway Farm, Denny, or perhaps someone else who worked there. What could have caused one of the most laid-back people I’d ever known to be so visibly perturbed?
My thoughts and Denny and Allison’s conversation were interrupted by the arrival of another vehicle. This time it was a Monson police cruiser moving slowly down the same aisle Brenton had taken. The driver moved carefully and purposefully toward the small office building. There was a spot there just for him. Well, there was a spot there just for the police. It was just that this officer visited the market more than any of the others.
Sam Brion, my “most recent love interest”—this is the way he introduced himself when I told him I thought I was too old to have a “boyfriend”—exited the cruiser. At first, he didn’t notice the three of us noticing him.
“Trouble?” Denny asked Allison.
“I doubt it. He and Becca are dating.” She sighed. “Though sometimes I suppose it’s troublesome for him.”
Denny laughed. I didn’t.
Once Sam was out of the cruiser, he looked around in that intense, police officer way he did whenever he arrived somewhere. He couldn’t help himself; he always had to get the lay of the land, even if there were no imminent threats.
He was in full cop mode, his uniform perfect and his hair slicked back with something I’d yet to be introduced to. He wasn’t telling me the product’s name. He only slicked back his hair when he wore the uniform. When he wasn’t working, his brown hair curled and made him look very non-police-like.
Sam turned and reached back into the cruiser. He pulled out a bright-red box with a large green-and-red bow.
“Ah, someone’s getting an early gift,” Denny said.
The look on Sam’s face made me smile. I didn’t know what was in the box, but I knew that whatever his reason for being at Bailey’s, it had nothing to do with police work. He was on an errand that included a big box that was far too flashy for his style.
He looked up and finally saw the three of us. His eyebrows rose before he waved and then leaned back onto the cruiser. It was his way of telling me that he didn’t want to interrupt the conversation and he’d wait for my signal or for me to join him.
Just as I was about to excuse myself, Billie and Ned came back, their arms loaded with a variety of soda cans.
I was momentarily alarmed by the look on Billie’s pretty face. Her eyebrows were together in a tight knit of concern, and she looked at Denny with something akin to panic.
“Everything okay?” Allison asked Billie.
Billie’s eyebrows unknit and then rose high. “Oh, everything’s fine,” she said with way too much breath. Everything wasn’t fine, but she clearly didn’t want either Allison or me to know what had bothered her. Billie pinched her mouth shut and looked away from everyone.
“Okay, well, let me know if you need anything,” Allison said.
“I’m sure everything’s just fine,” Denny said. He didn’t think everything was fine, either, but he was trying to cover for his sister.
The uncomfortable vibe was erased by Allison’s ringing phone and Denny’s movement up and onto the truck. Time to get back to work.
I sniffed a couple extra times, convinced I could become quickly addicted to the scent of real pine, told Denny I’d talk to him later about the trip up to his farm, waved good-bye to Allison as she hurried away, and then went to greet Sam. The mysteries of the past few minutes dissolved quickly from my mind when he opened the box and told me the contents were especially for me.
Two
“She’s out of control,” Sam said.
“Mm-hmm,” I said, my mouth full of cookie. I hoped my noise sounded like a disagreement. I didn’t think she was out of control at all.
“Yes, she is,” Sam said. “I didn’t even know she cooked.”
I swallowed. “Technically, this would be baking, not cooking. She’s very sweet to bake these for me.”
“You know, she asks me every day if we’re still together. I’ve never seen that woman scared of anything, but for some reason I think she’s scared we’ll break up.”
I laughed. “I don’t see that hap . . .” I stopped speaking.
Sam smiled and leaned back against the cruiser again. “It’s okay to say you don’t think that’s going to happen, Becca. Even if it does happen—which, by the way, I don’t see that outcome, either—it’s okay to believe enough in our relationship that you’ve started thinking that it might, just might, be something . . . lasting. I was going to say ‘permanent,’ but I thought you might faint or pass out if I did.”
I smiled and then put the rest of the cookie in my mouth. Sam and I had talked about my poor success rate in all things romantic. I’d been through two marriages and two divorces and had most recently broken up with someone who was wonderful (even Sam thought he was wonderful). But the timing for Ian and me had been wrong. Considering that Ian was ten years my junior, we’d decided that the timing might never be right. We promised each other that our friendship would continue. For a while I thought our friendship would work, and then I sensed a strain and thought it wouldn’t. Neither of us were quite sure how to be just friends, but lately it seemed we’d been able to reconnect without that difficult-to-understand, and even more difficult to explain, romantic tension between us. It was still too early to tell, but I hoped our friendship would ultimately be successful.
So did Sam. In fact, he encouraged it.
But there was no doubt in my mind, no question as to my feelings for the guy leaning against his police car, his hair slicked back, his uniform perfectly pressed, his job steady and real (though Ian was gainfully employed, my two ex-husbands had struggled with this). I was whipped, head over heels, in deep—whatever you wanted to call it. This was the guy for me, and I was pretty certain there’d never be another one to take his place.
I just didn’t like to say that out loud. Yet.
“I’m working on it,” I said after I finished the cookie.
“I know you are.” He stood straight again. “Vivienne wanted me to give these to you.” He repeated what he’d said when he handed me the box. “She was extremely relieved to hear we are still together, and I think she wants to bribe you with her cook . . . baking, not to dump me.”
Vivienne Norton was one of Sam’s fellow Monson police officers. She was burly in a manly way, but wore a thick coat of makeup and her hair bleached in a poufy, Marilyn Monroe blonde color. She was tough and more the silent type than anything. And, apparently, she could bake cookies—at least Christmas cookies—like a pro.
“Well, I’m certainly not dumping you today. These are delicious. Tell her it worked,” I said. I reached for a frosted reindeer.
“Good. I’m glad.” Sam looked at the truck across the lot. “So, Bailey’s is selling Christmas trees this year?”
“Ridgeway Farm is selling. Bailey’s is giving them the exclusive space. When Allison heard they were donating th
e trees for the parade, she wanted to do something for them. Denny Ridgeway, the owner—the guy heaving the tree off the truck—is a South Carolina legend, and the farm is apparently stunning. From all accounts, Denny’s a great guy. He invited us—you and me—up to the farm to cut down our own tree. On Sunday.”
“That actually sounds great,” Sam said, pleasant surprise, and maybe something else, lining his voice.
Though he was much more confident about our relationship than I was willing to express out loud, he wasn’t without a few issues of his own. There was a sad story in his past, a story that involved a fiancée who’d met a horrible demise. I still didn’t have the full story—he didn’t want to talk about it very often—but I knew it was ugly. I’d eventually know exactly what happened.
It was partially because of that tragedy, and the serious nature of his job, that Sam had missed out on a lot of great times. This was unfortunate, because he was a fun person. We were getting there together though, one fun moment at a time. Of course, those moments could only occur when we weren’t in the middle of fighting off a vicious murderer or when I wasn’t bugging him to share the details of a crime with me. I was fascinated by everything about him, including everything about his job. And, much to my surprise, he was also fascinated by everything about me.
We’d only been together as a couple for a little over a month, but it had been an intense few weeks, filled with emotion and the recognition of feelings we’d both had for a long time, but hadn’t either seen clearly or been able to act upon.
We were still in “that” part of the relationship: the over-the-top, breathtaking, and sometimes overwhelming part. My family thought all this fascination with each other would mellow, but I wasn’t so sure. I hadn’t ever been quite so fascinated by anyone.
“We’ll have fun,” I said.
We were interrupted by Barry of the Barry Good Corn stall inside Bailey’s. He walked with effort, his big and not-so-young body becoming more and more difficult to maneuver with each passing season. He seemed to be pushing himself to move quickly today, which was something he rarely did. He had his eyes to the ground and was headed straight for Sam’s cruiser.
“Barry?” I said.
He stopped, looked up, and then noticed the car.
“Hey, Becca, Sam.” He glanced at me, at the box of cookies, at Sam, and then toward the back of the stall he’d used to exit the market.
“What’s up, Barry?” I said.
Sam set the box of cookies back onto the car. He noticed Barry’s jumpy behavior, too.
“Oh, fiddle,” he said. “It’s not a police matter, but maybe you should head in there, Sam.”
“Why’s that?” Sam asked as he took a step away from the cruiser. I moved with him.
“Brenton’s pretty upset. He was yelling at Allison,” Barry said. “I keep my cell phone out in my truck. I was coming out to call Brenton’s ex-wife. I didn’t know what else to do. He’s becoming an unwelcome distraction, I’m afraid.”
I always find the moments that my perception is completely altered startling and bizarre. I had no idea Brenton had been married, and I’d known him for years. Brenton yelling at my sister didn’t jibe with . . . anything. There were moments when I thought he should maybe be a little upset about something, but he shrugged off those moments, usually with a friendly lift of his baseball cap and a gentle smile.
But his earlier behavior in the parking lot hadn’t been what I was used to seeing from him, either. Something must have happened—something horrible—to set him off. But what could possibly change him so much?
Sam looked at me.
“Don’t you dare tell me to stay here,” I said.
“I was going to ask you to call Brenton’s ex-wife with Barry,” Sam said.
“I can handle it by myself. I’d use your phone, but I don’t know the number. It’s on one of those . . . what are they called . . . speed-dial memory thingies, and my phone’s in my truck,” Barry repeated.
“Of course. Thank you, Barry,” Sam said.
As Barry stepped away, Sam and I hurried toward the market. The entrance was about halfway between us and the Ridgway Farm trio, but going through the back of the same stall that Barry had come through seemed like the better idea.
The canvas wall was also the outer wall of Ian’s metal yard art stall. I hadn’t seen him yet today, but he didn’t spend as much time at the market as he had when he was first building his business. He’d purchased some land and was in the process of turning it into a lavender farm and an art studio, so extended time spent anywhere didn’t happen often.
Sam lifted the wall of the tent and entered the empty stall through the opening. He held the flap for me but his attention was now focused inside the market and on the ruckus across the aisle.
“Brenton, that’s not reasonable,” Allison said. “Come on. Please come to the office with me and we can discuss this.”
Allison was good at everything, including situations rife with anger, but for the first time in a long time I thought I heard uncertainty in her voice.
Sam and I moved behind her and to the edge of the aisle. No one paid us any attention, but everyone, vendors and customers alike, was standing and watching the showdown, if that’s what it truly was.
“I just know the rules, Allison. I know that I’m supposed to get a vote. I would have argued and voted no. I would have convinced everyone else, too. They shouldn’t be here,” Brenton said.
“You do get a vote, Brenton, but this was an unusual circumstance. This isn’t a permanent vendor. Come with me to my office and I’ll point that part of the contract out to you.”
“I don’t want to go to your office. I want them out of here.”
“Who does he want out of here?” I asked Abner, the wildflower man, though I thought I knew who he was talking about.
“Those Christmas trees folks,” Abner said.
“Why?”
Abner shrugged. “Dunno. Allison’s been trying to get that out of him or get him out of here. Brenton’s causing quite the scene.”
“Sam,” I said as I put my hand on his arm.
“Already on it,” he said.
He had taken a step forward, and the thought that that was the first time I’d “taken advantage” of his position of authority flitted through my mind. I wanted him to be the police officer and get the situation in front of us handled. Something was wrong with Brenton; his tone was threatening toward my sister. I didn’t know how long the show had been going on, but it was time for it to be over, and Sam was here, in uniform and everything. My prompting him forward had been almost an unconscious maneuver.
Sam threaded his way around a couple of curious customers and was standing next to Allison a few seconds later.
“Allison,” he said in greeting.
She looked surprised to see him, but her face neutralized quickly.
“Sam,” she said.
“Brenton, how’re you doing?” Sam turned his attention to the angry man in the Yankees cap.
“I’m not happy, but this isn’t a police matter, Sam,” Brenton said.
“I don’t know. Someone sure seems to be disturbing the peace around here.”
Brenton’s eyebrows came together as he looked hard at Sam. A moment later, he looked around at the crowd that had gathered. It was as if he finally noticed the audience. He shuffled his feet, lifted his cap, and then put it back on his head.
“I’m not happy, that’s all,” he muttered.
Allison put her hand on Sam’s arm, but kept her glance toward Brenton. “I’m sorry about that, Brenton, and I want to better understand what’s going on. Come on, come with me to my office.”
Brenton hesitated, but only briefly. He looked at the crowd and then at Sam again. “Sure. Okay, sure.”
The disturbance was suddenly over and the crowd began to disp
erse and return to minding their own business and shopping lists. I joined Sam just as he asked Allison if she wanted him to attend the meeting with Brenton.
“No, Sam, he’s harmless. He’s just having an extraordinarily bad day, and I’m truly concerned about him. We’ll be fine.”
Sam didn’t like that answer, but he didn’t push it.
I didn’t know what to think. I agreed with Allison, but something had made one of the mellowest men ever behave as unlike himself as I thought possible. I didn’t say anything, but thought that Sam and I would follow behind Allison and keep watch by the entrance of the market, which just happened to be right where Sam’s car was parked. We could trail and spy on them casually.
“Hey,” a voice said behind me, stopping us from executing my sneaky plan.
“Linda, hey,” I said.
“Hi, Linda,” Sam said.
As my neighbor vendor and best friend, Linda was like family to me, and she and Sam had grown closer since we’d started dating. She baked fruit pies and played the part of prairie woman perfectly in her pioneer skirt and apron. She sometimes wore a bonnet, too, but as I’d become used to lately, the bonnet had gone missing and her short, blonde curls were free and bouncy.
“That was interesting,” she said.
“Do you know how it started?” I asked.
“Yeah, I was close by the whole time. I was talking to Abner when Brenton got to his stall. He was agitated, stomping around, rough with his inventory, hurrying and putting bags of dog biscuits up on his tables, but not neatly. It was strange. I was going to go talk to him when Abner and I finished, but then that woman walked in.”
“Which woman?” Sam and I asked at the same time.
“The one who works with the Christmas tree guy.”
“Billie?” I said.
“I don’t know her name; she wore a green beret. She walked by and when the two of them saw each other, they froze and stared—hatefully—at each other. I thought one of them might leap for the other one and we’d have some sort of brawl to deal with, but then the guy who works with the trees—the one who doesn’t look like Santa—joined her. He acted surprised to see Brenton, but he directed the woman out of there. They must know each other, and they must not like each other. At all.”
5 Merry Market Murder Page 2
