5 Merry Market Murder

by Paige Shelton

  “Well,” I said, “then I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Anyone’s death creates a loss, and one that was so brutal . . . well, it’s tragic, just tragic.”

  The December sunlight was tinged with gray; I liked December sunlight and its subtle promise of the season. It was comforting, but today it only seemed to discolor Denny’s normally ruddy skin. I wondered if it was my imagination.

  “Denny, can I ask you another question? It’s one of those none-of-my-business questions, but I’d really like to ask.”

  Denny crossed his arms in front of himself. I didn’t think he was aware of how loudly his body language spoke. He briefly glanced over at Billie and Ned, who pretended not to be interested in Denny and me, and said, “Sure. Can’t promise I can answer, but ask away.”

  “What’s between you and your family”—I looked at Billie and Ned and then back at Denny—“and Brenton Jones?”

  “I don’t guess I know what you mean. I don’t even know who you mean.”

  I looked at him a long moment. He might have been lying, but it was hard to tell. He was stoic, and I sensed that the wall he’d put up with his crossed arms was impenetrable because he’d had practice building it before. On the other hand, he emanated such a natural honesty that he was either truly honest, or really, really good at lying.

  I continued, “I’ve known Brenton for as long as I’ve worked at Bailey’s, which is just about eight years. He’s never once been anything but friendly and kind. When he pulled into the parking lot the other day, I thought his eyes might burn right out of their sockets with the look he was giving your truck. He’s been agitated since the day you arrived. There’s something between you all. I know it’s no one’s business but yours, but I’m curious, very curious, and I was hoping you’d tell me at least a little something about your issues.”

  “I think you’re asking the wrong person, Becca. I don’t have a problem with this fella you’re talking about. You might want to ask him.”

  “I have.”

  “What does he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  It was Denny’s turn to study me. He did, his eyes suddenly focused and slanted. It never occurred to me that the mere act of me asking these questions could somehow make him suspicious of me, but that’s what I was sensing—he suddenly didn’t trust me.

  Instantly, I wanted to do or say something trustworthy. My “want to be liked” part wanted to be stroked. Had I just done or said something that might make Denny like me less? Denny Ridgeway and I didn’t really know each other. Just because we’d had a couple friendly conversations in the parking lot and had found a dead body together didn’t give either of us the right to expect full disclosure—in either direction. It was an interesting, eye-opening moment.

  But maybe it was okay not to be trusted. I’d ride it and see where it went. I let him study me without saying anything. I wasn’t demure; I probably couldn’t do that one even if I tried, and I wasn’t as stoic as he was, either. The corner of my mouth wanted to twitch, but I think I held it still.

  Finally, his features relaxed a bit, he looked away, and he said, “I wish I could help you, Becca, but I can’t.”

  “What about Billie and Ned?” I looked their direction.

  “What about them?”

  “That day I met all of you, Billie was just as upset as Brenton when she came out of the market after rounding up some drinks.”

  “She was?”

  I nodded.

  “Let’s go ask her.”

  Denny stepped over the low rope and took long strides toward his siblings. They both stood and smiled and I was struck by Denny’s position of power within the family. I’d briefly noticed it the first time I’d met the three of them. Denny was in charge, and they “snapped to” when he approached.

  “Billie, Ned, you both remember Becca?” Denny said.

  They both muttered, “Sure,” as they smiled and nodded.

  “Billie, Becca says you were upset a couple days ago, the day we all met. When you came out of the market with our drinks?”

  “I was?”

  “Yes,” I said. “You went into the market to get some soft drinks and seemed . . . shaken when you came back out.”

  Billie shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so. No, I don’t remember being upset.”

  Unlike Denny, Billie wasn’t gifted with either an honest aura or the ability to lie well. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and rubbed her finger under her nose as she avoided eye contact with everyone.

  “There you have it. She wasn’t upset,” Denny said.

  I squinted at him, but he hid any indication that he was seeing the same act I was seeing. He was good.

  “Well, that’s good to hear. I’m glad,” I said. “Of course, if anything isn’t up to par, let Allison know. She always wants to make sure all vendors are well taken care of.”

  “Thank you for that, Becca. Thank you,” Denny said. “And now, you’ll have to excuse us, but we need to get back to work.”

  They had no immediate customers, but I just smiled, thanked them for their time, and made my way back to Hobbit.

  “I don’t know if they’re killers,” I said to her as she greeted me with a friendly nose nudge to my thigh, “but I bet you a pound of Brenton’s dog biscuits they’re keeping secrets. I bet you ten more that those secrets just might lead us to Reggie’s killer.” I thought a moment. “Okay, well, I can’t be sure of the last part, of course, but I’d really like to know their secrets.”

  She sniffed as if to tell me she’d like to know, too.

  I opened the glove box and searched for something to write a note with. I found an old receipt and a nubby pencil and wrote:

  1. Why did Reggie have so much money? Textiles? Politics?

  2. Why did Brenton dislike the Ridgeways?

  3. What happened in South Carolina in 1987?

  4. How in the world was Brenton married to Stephanie Frugit???

  5. What are the Ridgeways hiding?

  “I know it’s been a long day, girl, but I have one more stop before we go home. You okay with that?”

  Of course she was. I stuffed the list into one of my overalls pockets and turned the truck around. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I happened to glance back toward the market; more specifically, toward the back of the Ridgeway truck. When I’d been writing the note, this area had been hidden from my view, and it turned out to be the area in which the three Ridgeway siblings had congregated. They didn’t see that I was watching what looked to be a heated discussion, or perhaps just a heated lecture from Denny. His face was back to a ruddy red and he was emphasizing his words with air-pounding hands.

  I was moving the truck so slowly that someone behind me honked, which caused the Ridgeways to look my direction.

  “Shoot,” I said, not because I was caught, but rather because I wished I were better at understanding what I’d done or asked to cause the ruckus.

  Maybe I’d have to find a way to spy . . . I mean, investigate, later.

  Eleven

  Frugit Orchard was almost right in the heart of Monson, except not. We were a small farming community, and most of our residential areas eventually led to open land. I went right through downtown and drove down a street lined with small clapboard houses. After a few blocks, the houses stopped and the land opened wide. The turnoff to the orchard was a “secret”—one that was often designated as a number of different rites of passage by Monson residents. When you’re sixteen and pass your driver’s test, we’ll tell you where the secret Frugit Orchard turn is located. When you get straight As on your report card, we’ll tell you, and so on. And Stephanie Frugit loved the legend. She exploited it at every opportunity. She mentioned it to reporters whenever she was interviewed, and she was interviewed frequently.

  The world of celebrity farme
rs was small, but in it, Stephanie Frugit was on a rung comparable to the biggest Hollywood stars. And even I had to admit she played the role well. She wore the right clothes, said the right things, and had created her own successful blog: “Apple Woman of South Carolina,” which received a ridiculous amount of hits every single day. Somehow Stephanie had a lot to say about apples and about being a single woman in the business world. Until today, I had no idea that she hadn’t always been single, and I wondered how many of her loyal readers knew. The fact that bigger-than-life Stephanie Frugit had once been married to mild-mannered Brenton was so hard to believe, however, I wondered if Allison had been mistaken.

  There was at least one way to find out.

  I turned down the “secret” road and steered the truck stealthily forward and through the woods. The air coming through the slightly lowered windows felt suddenly colder as the trees and their canopy of thick leafless branches got thicker. It was the perfect fairy-tale-like drive that always led to the perfect fairyland, particularly when the trees were in their full summer greenery, but even today there was a sense of entering a storybook.

  The orchard was huge, bigger than any farm I was accustomed to. This was beyond a farmers’ market farm, beyond a roadside stand farm, and much more expansive than Reggie Stuckey’s farm, which was tiny compared to Stephanie’s behemoth. Though Frugit Orchard was beautiful, it had a distinctly industrial feel to it; it was so large and so pristine, I could easily imagine robots shining fence posts and steering tractors. There was just no way this place could look the way it looked by using mere human labor.

  But there were no robots in sight as I exited the woods and arrived onto the orchard’s wide, deep front lawn.

  Back a ways and in the middle of a valley that was mostly apple trees was Southfork—or at least that’s what my mother called it, because it looked so much like the mansion from the Dallas television show. It was necessary that the house be big; anything smaller would have been dwarfed by the rest of the orchard. Since Stephanie was—or claimed to be—single, unless she had a lot of company, the house must have a constant noise of her echoed footsteps.

  Precise rows of apple trees fanned out over the rest of the visible land, seemingly into eternity. There was a barn behind the house, but it was hardly noticeable.

  Every time the sun rose, it did so from behind the property, glorifying each inch of acreage. I’d seen the place at sunup; it was stunning.

  It had been a few years since I’d ventured out to have a look at Frugit (our nickname for the entire orchard) and I couldn’t remember why I’d made the trip. I’d never once before seen Stephanie working outside, but today was different. She was at the edge of the house and the north orchards, standing on a fence slat and looking toward the trees. She was dressed in tight jeans and a red-and-green button-down shirt. I wondered if she’d been doing some sort of holiday photo shoot. Her long, strawberry-blonde hair was loose and evenly wavy. She glanced in my direction and even from a distance of about fifty yards I could see her wrinkle her nose at my old orange truck.

  “Be extra well-behaved while I go talk to the tall, intimidating lady with the great hair, okay?” I said to Hobbit.

  Hobbit whined, but it was in the affirmative.

  Stephanie didn’t hesitate, but stepped off the fence and walked purposefully toward me. I knew she was somewhere in her early fifties, but she seemed ageless. She was perfect: not only her hair, but her body, her clothing choices. I guessed she sported a precise pedicure under those tan leather cowboy boots. I steered the truck up the driveway and met her at the edge of the property.

  My door decided to protest a little more loudly than usual as I pushed it open. I plopped myself off the seat and onto the ground.

  “Good girl,” I said to Hobbit when I’d closed the door.

  “Can I help you?” Stephanie said as she shaded her eyes with one hand and put the other on a hip. In that pose, she belonged on a postcard.

  “I hope so,” I said as I walked toward her. She’d stopped moving, so I thought one of us should close the space. “My name is Becca Robins and I work at Bailey’s Farmers’ Market.” I extended a hand.

  I truly thought she’d ignore my gesture, but she surprised me and reached out. “Okay, well, what can I do for you?”

  “I . . . well, I was wondering about something.”

  Stephanie squinted and began to look impatient. “I’m not setting up a stall at a farmers’ market. My business is too big for that. My apples are too good. Seriously, I’d kill the other apple growers’ business. Not my style. I figure there’s room for us all.”

  I paused. Wait, what? She’s being altruistic? I was completely caught off guard.

  When my pause went on too long, she smiled quickly and then said, “So, have a nice day.”

  I spoke just as she turned to walk away. “Wait, no, I don’t want to talk to you about putting a stall in Bailey’s. I want to talk to you about your ex-husband, Brenton Jones.”

  I had her attention again. “Is he okay?”

  “Yes, he’s fine.”

  “What about him do you want to discuss?”

  “Well, first, I wondered if the two of you had been married, but you just confirmed that, so thank you.”

  Stephanie Frugit drew her eyebrows together but then relaxed them back to normal an instant later. She smiled. “You might be the first person I’ve ever met in a long time who thinks it’s okay to be so direct. You might not know this, but I’m a little like that myself,” she said.

  “I’ve heard.”

  Stephanie laughed. It was a loud, ringing laugh that made me want to laugh, too.

  “Come in, Becca Robins from Bailey’s Farmers’ Market. I can pour you either an iced tea or a whiskey. You want something stronger or weaker, you’ll have to go elsewhere.” She turned, leaving me on my own to figure out the latch on the closed gate before I could trail behind.

  I got the latch on the third try and waved at Hobbit as I closed the gate behind me. She lifted her nose in the air to cheer me on, her version of a fist pump.

  Even though we’d shaken hands, I hadn’t noticed Stephanie had been wearing gloves; but she was removing the second one, one finger at a time, when I joined her in the front entryway.

  Stephanie was tall with killer posture and shoulders that were so wide they’d be masculine on anyone else. I’d noticed that she walked smoothly but with such long strides that I’d have to jog if we ever decided to hang out at a mall together. She had the sharpest, most judgmental green eyes I’d ever seen.

  I felt downright frumpy just breathing the same air.

  “In there.” She nodded with her head. “Have a seat. I’ll go place our drink order. It’s whiskey for me. You?”

  “Iced tea would be great,” I said. Even if she’d wanted someone to drink with, I was driving and not a frequent drinker, and I was dating a cop. Even Stephanie couldn’t intimidate me quite that far.

  “Excellent,” she said. “I’ll be back momentarily. Make yourself at home.”

  The thought of throwing off my shoes and putting my feet up on something did cross my mind, but only as a semi-amusing idea. I ventured into the room she’d nodded toward and was pleasantly surprised again.

  It was big and full of expensive furniture, but it was all comfortable furniture: contemporary but homey. Chairs, couches, and tables were all well placed for entertaining. It looked like a room in which you could choose to read a book quietly, play a game of cards with a large group, or chat easily with a roomful of guests. In fact, it was so big that all of those could be done at once and everyone would still have some privacy. I took a seat on a chair that flanked the predictably large fireplace. I tried sitting forward on the edge, and back with my ankles crossed. Finally, I chose something that was in between.

  A large portrait of Stephanie hung above the fireplace. She was dressed in a
white, off-the-shoulder evening gown. The painter had exaggerated the lines of her collarbones and, again, I realized that the look would have been decidedly masculine on anyone else, but it wasn’t on her. On her, it was strong and feminine and somewhat ferocious.

  “Here we are,” Stephanie said as she came into the room carrying a tray with our drinks. She set the tray on the table next to me and asked how I took my iced tea.

  After the appropriate amount of sugar had been stirred in, she sat on a chair and faced me. “Are you dating Brenton or something?”

  “Oh, no, nothing like that. He and I have known each other for years. We’ve been friends.”

  “Great. So, why do you want to know about his marriage to me?”

  “Well, at first I wanted to confirm that the two of you had been married.” She nodded. I continued, “You know, he’s pretty soft-spoken. I’m trying to . . .”

  Stephanie laughed. “Imagine him with me?”

  “That sounds awful, but yes.” She’d mentioned that she liked direct.

  “Not really. I understand. It’s been a long time since I’ve truly talked about Brenton.” She smiled and looked back into the past for a moment. “We had a great time for a long time. We were young—really young, though.”

  “Too young?”

  Stephanie shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps, but only in the way our ambitions changed. When we divorced we still loved each other, it was just that neither of us could imagine living the kind of life that the other one wanted.” Her eyes opened wide and then she took a sip of her whiskey. “Wow, I can’t believe I just shared that with a virtual stranger. You’d better share something with me quickly before I resent inviting you in.”

  “I’ve been divorced twice and I didn’t like or love either of my husbands when we parted. I’ve reconnected with one, but only as a friend and that’s been fun, but I’m very jealous that you and Brenton were able to do what you did. I still hate the horrible feelings I had during my divorces.”

  She took another sip. “That was a good and fair share. But, hell, Becca, divorce is ugly no matter how ‘amicable’ it is.”