“How did Allison get involved?” I asked.
“She just happened to be walking by and Brenton yelled her name to get her attention. He got everyone’s attention. He yelled at her for letting the Christmas tree people sell at Bailey’s. He was adamant that he was supposed to have a vote about which vendors were welcome at Bailey’s—that we were all supposed to vote.”
“That’s true,” I said to Sam. “We vote on new vendors, but I’m certain there’s an exception for temporary parking lot vendors who aren’t paying for their space. I haven’t ever looked closely at my contract, but Allison was probably right, there’s probably some clause.”
He nodded, and we both looked back at Linda.
“Well, he wouldn’t let up and he wouldn’t tell her why he was so upset they were here. I think you two came in around the third round of back-and-forth,” she said as she paused and thought a moment. “It was all so un-Brenton.”
“I agree,” I said.
“There must be some sort of ugly history between Brenton and the Ridgeways,” Sam said.
“Yeah, there’s something there,” Linda said. She continued a beat later. “Don’t mean to be insensitive, but since you’re both here together, you two still coming to dinner the day after Christmas? Drew can hardly wait to use his new grill. I didn’t know where to hide it or how to wrap it, so he got his gift early.” Drew was Linda’s almost-two-months-returned and almost-brand-new husband. I’d been her number one back in July—our term for maid of honor—right before he’d left for Navy SEAL duty to someplace secret and dangerous. He was almost as amazing as she was, and they’d both been easygoing about my boyfriend . . . uh, love interest . . . switch-up. They had been as good of friends with Ian as they were with me, but they’d managed to remain friends with us both and with Sam, too.
“We’re planning on it,” I said as Sam smiled and nodded.
“Good. Well, I need to get back to work, but we’ll talk later. I really hope Brenton’s okay.” Linda hugged me quickly before she turned and wove her way back to her stall.
The Ridgeway trees hadn’t been at Bailey’s long enough to have contributed to our burgeoning crowd, so I chalked up the number of accidental bumps and excuse me’s I was getting to the pleasant weather and the growing holiday spirit. It didn’t feel like a big summer crowd, but a good-sized fall crowd at least. I wondered if the addition of the trees would give Bailey’s vendors a record December.
It was too late to follow Allison and Brenton. I turned to Sam, who was lost in thought, his face serious as he looked in the direction of the front office and the parking lot. He turned back toward me a second later, but I spoke before he did.
“You need to go check some things out? You need to maybe go ask some questions and see if you can figure out what was up with Brenton? Am I right?”
“Exactly.” Sam smiled.
“I know how you feel.”
“Yes, but I do such things in an official capacity. You’re just nosy.”
“Hopefully you’ll share whatever you find out.”
He raised one eyebrow and then said, “Come get your cookies. Vivienne might shoot me, or at least lock me in a holding cell, if I don’t make sure they’re in your hands.”
We ventured back toward the parking lot and his cruiser. The door to Allison’s office was shut tightly and neither Sam nor I could hear any loud voices. We both veered close enough to listen.
Just as Sam handed me the box of cookies, though, the Bailey’s Farmers’ Market world was disrupted again.
Bailey’s was on the edge of Monson, on a two-lane highway that led into the small center of the town in one direction and eventually to Columbia in the other direction.
A truck came rolling in from the direction of Columbia. It turned in to the Bailey’s lot and lumbered slowly forward toward the side of the parking lot opposite of where the similar Ridgeway truck was parked.
I noticed Denny, Billie, and Ned as they stopped moving the trees. Denny jumped down from his perch and joined Billie and Ned as the three of them stood in their own small group, pointing at and discussing the incoming truck.
On the side of the new truck, written in bigger, bolder letters than were used on the side of the Ridgeways’ was “Stuckey Christmas Trees.”
Tree illustrations also decorated the panel, which made the Stuckey truck much prettier than the Ridgeway truck.
“Uh-oh,” I said.
“What’s up?” Sam said.
“I’m pretty sure Allison mentioned that the Ridgeways had an exclusive, that there wouldn’t be any other tree sellers at Bailey’s.”
“You mentioned that to me. Maybe it’s a fluke. Maybe the Stuckey truck isn’t here to sell—maybe there are some mechanical issues and the driver just had to stop somewhere? He could just be here to shop.”
“Yeah, that’s probably it,” I said. I hoped that was the case.
The Stuckey truck came to a loud, squeaky, air-brake halt. The man who got out of the driver’s side looked nothing like Santa. He was tall, thin, and wiry, with short, dark hair and a beaked nose, which somehow fit his long face. He stood next to his truck on one side of the lot as Denny stood next to his on the other side. They both had their hands on their hips as they stared at each other, reminding me of an Old West showdown. I could almost hear the whistle of the Ponderosa theme in the background; if they’d had guns, both would have drawn them by now.
“Or maybe there’s a big problem,” Sam said.
We were all about to find out just how big.
Three
“I have the paperwork,” Reggie Stuckey said, the tone of patience gone from his voice. He’d seemed like such a pleasant guy until Allison told him that he wasn’t contracted to sell his trees at Bailey’s, and that Ridgeway Farm had the exclusive right.
Fortunately, this crisis was happening in the parking lot and not inside the market. The only customers privy to it were the ones who’d either just driven onto the lot or come out of the market and were curious about the small gathering beside the nicer-looking tree truck.
Reggie Stuckey had shaken everyone’s hand, including Denny Ridgeway’s. There was no doubt that the two of them didn’t like each other, though Denny was less obvious about his feelings than Billie and Ned were.
The gathering consisted of the tree farmers, Allison, me, Sam, and Brenton, who’d come with Allison out of her office. I stood toward the back of the crowd, and I was able to watch Brenton’s attitude change as the conversation continued. He was pleased that there was some sort of disagreement. Specifically, I suspected he was pleased that the Ridgeway group was somehow bothered or inconvenienced or something. I hoped Allison had been able to get to the bottom of his problem.
“I have paperwork, too, Reggie. I had meetings with the Bailey’s owners and later with Allison. They assured me I was going to be the only Christmas tree seller at Bailey’s this year,” Denny said. His patience was also being tested, though he was still trying to sound unperturbed.
Reggie blinked a couple times, but didn’t back down.
“I didn’t have meetings, but I certainly have the paperwork. I did everything by phone.” He looked at Allison. “I only talked to the owners, though,” he said to her.
She nodded.
As I’ve already noted, Allison’s pretty good at everything. She’d been unduly challenged in the last hour, but she was still cool and collected, her long, dark ponytail still in place and smooth. I’d been concerned enough for her that I’d already run my hands through my short, blonde hair about a hundred times. I was trying to stay quiet and keep calm, but I wasn’t sure how much longer I would last.
“Do you have the paperwork on you, Reggie?” Allison asked.
“I think so,” he said before he turned and climbed back into his truck.
“You want me to send Ned back to the farm to get our c
ontract?” Denny asked Allison.
“No, I’ve got a copy of that one. Of course, I wasn’t in on the conversations between you and the owners, Denny, but I’m sure that they and I specifically discussed that you were to be our exclusive tree seller. I know that’s what your contract says. Exclusivity is definitely something you talked about with them as well as me, right?”
“Yes, of course,” Denny said.
“I’m afraid I don’t have the contract, but I can call my office manager and have her fax it over to you. I can ask her to bring it over if you’d prefer,” Reggie said from the truck’s driver’s seat.
“Faxing would be fine.” Allison looked at Reggie as he scooted off the seat again. She bit her lip as she looked quickly at Denny and then back to Reggie. “Look, there’s some sort of confusion or mistake. I’m sorry to both of you, but I will get this figured out. Reggie, I’m not going to ask you to leave, but would you mind not unloading your trees until I get a look at the contract?”
Reggie’s face was getting redder by the second, but he’d been able to keep his tone of voice fairly calm. Only he knew for sure whether or not he had a right to be upset, and I thought he realized that Allison was trying to do the right thing.
Before Reggie could answer, Denny said, “Reggie, if you’re supposed to be here, I’ll help you unload, okay? Let’s just give Ms. Reynolds a second or two to sort everything out.”
Denny’s reputation as a kind and generous businessman had just shown in a big way. At first Reggie’s face got a little redder, but then he calmed; his shoulders seemed to relax and his cheeks faded to something a little less red.
“Sure, sure. I’ll call my gal,” he said.
“Who did you speak with from Bailey’s? Which owner?” Allison said to Reggie.
“I’m terrible with names, but I’ll see what my notes say. It was some woman, though. What’s your fax number?”
As Allison wrote down the fax number for Reggie, it felt like a good time for the group to disband. Denny led Billie and Ned back to the other side of the parking lot. Sam gave me the cookie box and distractedly told me good-bye. I had no idea what sort of police work or investigation might be involved in what had just gone on at Bailey’s, but I knew he’d be on the case.
“Where’d Brenton go?” Allison asked as I waved at the back of the police cruiser.
“I didn’t know he was gone. I didn’t see which way he went. What’s up with him, Al?”
“Come to my office.”
Allison’s desk was unusually clear. December was normally her “spring cleaning” month. It was when she sorted through her files, dusted under her computer, and de-cluttered her desk. Other than the inclusion of the tree vendor, or vendors, as the case may turn out to be, this December probably wasn’t much different than any other.
“He wouldn’t tell me why,” she said. “He just doesn’t like the Ridgeway people.”
“Brenton likes everyone,” I said. We sat across from each other, one on each side of her desk.
“Not everyone, apparently.”
“And how in the world could anyone not like the Ridgeways? They’re so . . . nice, and Christmas-y. They’re a South Carolina tradition and legend.”
“I agree, but we might be misjudging them. I was going to ask Denny if he would tell me what his ties were to Brenton, but then Reggie Stuckey pulled in.”
“Would the owners really have offered an exclusive to both Denny and Reggie? That doesn’t sound like the way they do business. They’re pretty good at that stuff.”
As if on cue, the fax on the small, wide, file cabinet behind Allison rang and connected.
“No, never, and I know something weird is up,” Allison said. “There are no female owners. They don’t even have a female working in their office.”
“Doesn’t sound very forward thinking,” I said.
Allison laughed. “No, they’re not sexist. It just happens to be that way. They did give me this job, and I’m pretty sure I’m female. They’re good guys.”
“So, Reggie said he talked to a female owner.” I thought about his words and tone. “Al, he didn’t sound at all like he was lying. Why would he, anyway? To pack up one of those big trucks and haul around a bunch of trees? Sounds like a lot of work just to cause some sort of stir or inconvenience.”
She gathered the fax and then turned back toward me. “I have no idea.”
She spread the contract pages out on the desk. There were three pages of mostly legal jargon, what was deemed necessary in our brave new litigious world.
“Well, it’s definitely our contract,” she muttered without looking up. She ran her finger down the first page and then moved to the second page, where she stopped halfway down.
“Hang on,” she said.
She reached to her side and opened a file drawer. She pulled out another contract and set it on the desk. This one’s pages were stapled together.
“Look at this,” she continued.
I stood and peered at where she was pointing.
She flipped up the first page of the stapled contract. She put her right index finger halfway down that page while her left index finger was still on the second, loose page of the faxed contract.
“Look at the Ridgeways’ contract—I marked the ‘exclusivity clause’ with a small line, a checkmark of sorts, just for my own sake. That line that I drew is on the Stuckey contract, too. Exactly the same line, in the same spot.”
“Reggie Stuckey duplicated the contract? How? That’s not a very bright move. It took you less than five minutes to figure it out,” I said.
Allison flipped to the last pages of each contract.
“This contract is meant to be used for all temporary vendors. Throughout it, the language is simply ‘Bailey’s Farmers’ Market’ and ‘Vendor.’ Until the last page. There, the vendor’s business name and the name of a representing officer are typed in on the computer. The Stuckey contract is identical to the Ridgeway’s except for the vendor and representative signature names.”
“So, Reggie . . . wait, I’ll say someone . . . copied everything, but used Wite-Out on the names and retyped them in?”
Allison laughed. “Yes. Look, you can even see the difference. The contract is, of course, written on a computer. You can see how someone actually rolled the Stuckey contract through a typewriter and added the names. The fonts are slightly different and the gs drop a little.”
“Where in the world does one find a typewriter nowadays? And how in the world did whoever did this think that they wouldn’t get caught?”
“I don’t know,” Allison said in response to both questions.
I sat back down as Allison continued to inspect the contracts.
“Are you just going to kick him out?” I asked after a moment.
“I probably could, based on this alone, but I think I’d better get the owners involved. I’ll tell Reggie not to set up until tomorrow, that the owners want to come out and first talk to him personally. The owners will want to get the police involved, too, I’m sure. It’s illegal to forge documents, but I’m not sure how illegal.”
“I can help on the police end,” I said, pulling out my cell phone to call Sam.
“Hang on,” Allison said. She pointed at the contracts. “Let me talk to the owners first. Let me make sure it wasn’t us or them who somehow did this.”
“What? Something more is bothering you, I can tell,” I said. I wasn’t using our twin intuition as much as I was just noticing the deep thought–invoked creases on her forehead.
“I just don’t understand why anyone would do this. I’m trying to picture the sequence of events. If Reggie wants to sell trees at Bailey’s, he calls me or the owners directly, and he’s told we’ve given an exclusive to someone else. Even if he knew who the exclusive was for, why would he bother to go to such extremes, and how did he get the co
ntract?”
“We have a mystery on our hands.”
“We always have a mystery, it seems. I’m glad this one doesn’t involve a dead body,” Allison said.
“True,” I said, but I’ll never forget the wave of disquiet that ran down the back of my throat, though my chest and then chilled my toes. I’d never been one for premonitions but I was a big believer in jinxes. And as sure as I was that Vivienne Norton, burly Monson police officer, knew how to bake Christmas cookies, the next morning I knew that the wave of wonky I’d felt had been a jinx falling into place and affecting just about everyone involved.
Four
“I have no idea where Reggie went,” Allison said. “After you and I talked yesterday, I called the owners and then came out to let him know that they’d be by this afternoon to talk to him. They told me not to call the police, either. They had an office temp helping out last month during a big paperwork filing crisis—their words, not mine—and the temp employee was a female. They wanted to talk to her before they talked to Reggie, so they told me to hold off. I came out to talk to him but he wasn’t here.”
I stepped onto the running board on the driver’s side of Reggie’s truck and peered through the side window. The cab wasn’t like some big-rig cabs I’d seen with a living/sleeping space in the back, but it was plenty roomy. The driver and passenger seats were both covered in black-and-red-checkered fabric that had seen much better days. A sturdy, green Thermos was on its side on the passenger seat, and the smoky cigarette smell I thought I noticed coming through the closed window was confirmed by an open pack under the Thermos. I could even see a few flecks of tobacco next to the pack. I confirmed once again that the door was locked before I hopped down and hurried over to the passenger side.
“I checked it, too,” Allison said. “Locked.”
5 Merry Market Murder Page 3
