“That’s probably true.”
“Brenton still selling dog biscuits?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, very successfully. He has a big Internet business, too.”
“I’ll have to look it up.”
“You two don’t talk at all?”
“No, not for years.”
“But . . .”
“What?”
“A fellow vendor, Barry, said he was going to call you.”
“I talk to Barry all the time. He tried to call me two days ago, but he didn’t leave a message. I tried to call him back but I have yet to hear from him. Was he calling me about Brenton?” Concern creased her barely wrinkled forehead, but I was certain it would flatten out again quickly.
“You and Barry talk, but not you and Brenton?”
“Barry’s my uncle. What’s up with Brenton?”
“Oh. I see. You heard about Reggie Stuckey?”
“I did. Becca, what does this have to do with Brenton?”
“I don’t think Reggie’s murder has anything to do with Brenton, but many things happened at once and . . . well, do you know if Brenton has had a conflict with the Ridgeway family?”
Stephanie hid it well, but I was fairly certain I saw a shadow of surprise darken her green eyes.
“The Christmas tree family?”
“Yes.”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
I was 93.3 percent sure she was lying, but I didn’t want to call her on it. Just knowing she was lying might eventually tell me something important anyway.
“Did you or Brenton know Reggie Stuckey?” I said.
“The guy who was killed?”
“Yes.”
She took a smooth sip of her drink. Even the ice in her glass clinked in key.
I assumed that Stephanie Frugit didn’t get rattled, but her behavior had already surprised me. The woman I was sitting across from might be powerful and direct, but there was something warm about her, something she didn’t show easily. I’d caught her either on a good day or a bad day—only she knew which it was.
And she was momentarily shaken. She didn’t want me to see it, but her pale skin went a shade of gray, and tears pooled in her eyes, if only briefly. She normalized quickly.
“He was a nice man,” she said.
“I didn’t know him. I feel like I missed out. He didn’t advertise his tree farm well at all.”
“No.” Stephanie laughed. “Reggie Stuckey had loads of money. He only ran the farm for fun. He’d end up giving away more trees than he sold.”
“How did he get his money?”
“His family, textiles or something.”
“I’d heard politics, too.”
Stephanie shrugged and put the glass to her lips again.
“Do you know if Brenton knew him?”
“You’ll have to ask him.” She put her glass on a table next to her chair. “Now, tell me, Becca, why are you asking me all these questions? I deserve to know.”
I thought about it and then I did something I rarely did when I was snooping into places I had no business snooping into: I told her the truth. She listened intently as I told her about how sweet and wonderful her ex-husband was, but how he uncharacteristically fumed with what I’d interpreted as anger when he saw the Ridgeways and their truck at Bailey’s. I told her how he was happy that Reggie might have had a conflicting contract with Bailey’s, and how he had behaved almost violently. I told her about his trip to the police station and his quick release.
She listened with her focused green eyes. A couple of times I wondered if she ever blinked. When I was finished she simply said, “That’s too bad. I’m sorry for whatever is bothering Brenton. I’m sorry if he worried you and your sister, but I can assure you he won’t hurt anyone. It’s just not in him.”
“I didn’t think so, either,” I said. “But isn’t anyone capable of violence if they’re pushed?”
She shook her head and pulled her green eyes away from my less spectacular blue ones. “No, not Brenton. He’s kind to the core.”
I had the urge to say again that I thought so, too, but I held back, and that proved to be a wise choice.
“Look, Becca.” She turned her gaze back to me again. “People aren’t always who they seem to be. You just need to know that, and that’s all I can tell you.”
“I do,” I said. “We all have our ‘other selves,’ I suppose.”
“No, I mean this literally, people aren’t always who they say they are.”
“Say they are” is different than “seem to be,” I thought.
“Are you talking about Brenton or someone else?” I said.
“I’d feel like I was being disloyal if I told you anything more. Besides, if you’re nosy enough—and I do think you are—you’ll figure it out pretty quickly.”
“Any chance you’d share another small hint?”
She laughed her deep, ringing laugh and I once again had the urge to laugh with her. I just smiled instead.
“No, but I’ve had a great time with this—whatever sort of word volley this was. You ask good questions.”
“Not good enough or I’d have the answers.”
Stephanie reached for her glass and took one last gulp of the whiskey and said, “You might be closer than you think.”
Twelve
I discussed with Hobbit the conversation between Stephanie and me. Mostly, it was just so I could replay everything in my own head. I had an inkling that Stephanie Frugit had answered every question I’d had—and more. I just didn’t know how to decipher her code.
By the time we made it home, Hobbit was fast asleep, her nose nudged against my thigh and one of her back paws high on the passenger-side door. It was a shame to have to wake her, but wake her I did, and with urgency when I spied something unexpected on my front porch.
I’d had plenty of packages left on the porch, and lots of deliveries occurred when I was away from the house. But this item wasn’t a box or a container.
I pulled the truck along the driveway and parked as close to the porch as possible.
I thought about calling Sam but that seemed premature. I’d take a closer look first. Just in case, I made sure I knew which pocket my phone was in.
From the truck, it looked like a handmade doll. Chills ran up and down my spine and then made my teeth chatter. I’d seen enough horror movies to have witnessed dolls transforming from children’s toys to something menacing and deadly. But this one wasn’t opening its eyes, or pulling itself up to a standing position.
“Come on,” I said to Hobbit. “It’s just a stupid doll. I think.”
I got less spooked as we moved closer. When I realized the doll was adorned in red and green ribbon, I became more curious than concerned. It looked like my ornament collection was gaining a new addition.
The doll was about eight inches tall and crudely made of cornhusks, ribbon, and string. Barry of Barry Good Corn didn’t sell corn in December, but he still hung out at the market. A couple years earlier, he’d started selling dried cornhusks in the off season. Crafters used them, so he figured adding the product made sense. The husks wouldn’t ever make him rich, but they were an addition that gave him an excuse to be at the market even when he didn’t have produce to sell. I guessed that like the other ornament items, these cornhusks had come from Bailey’s, and they might have been stolen.
I knew it was a girl doll because it had a cornhusk skirt, the waist of which was tied with both a green and a red ribbon. The waist-length hair was made with a cut piece of husk, its multiple tips curling in all directions. It occurred to me that it must have taken a lot of time just to make the hair. The face was drawn in with black dot eyes and a simple black L nose, but the perfectly shaped lips were bright red, giving her a whole Christmas-elf-floozy persona. A paper clip had been stretched, bent, and a
gain used for the hook.
I inspected it from top to bottom but there was no other clue to lead me to its creator. There were no years noted and no state seals. She was just a cornhusk Christmas doll ornament and one, I had to admit, I thought was cute. It was the first market-product ornament I’d received that I would consider putting on a tree.
I looked up and around the property. Nothing had been disturbed, but someone had secretly dropped it off, probably knowing that I wasn’t home, although that wasn’t ever much of a mystery. My orange truck was pretty good at giving away my location.
There was no harm done, but it was still creepy. If I’d just found it and not the others before it, I might not have felt uncomfortable, but I did. I didn’t like the fact that someone had easily traipsed around my property and could have caused more harm without being noticed. I really didn’t like the idea that Hobbit could have once again been exposed to someone up to no good.
I looked at my dog. She was also inspecting the property with her eyes and her lifted nose.
“We might have to get some cameras, girl.”
She agreed.
I carried the doll into the house and checked every room and every closet, just in case. Nothing had been disturbed. Nothing was out of place. No one had tried to come in through a window, and the back sliding door was still locked, its glass intact. Simply, someone had come onto my property and left a doll ornament. Someone who had stocked up on Bailey’s products or shopped there frequently was stretching his or her creative skills.
After a full inspection of the premises, I called Sam, but he didn’t answer. I debated leaving a detailed message about the newest ornament but decided just to let him see it when he came over later that evening. I had plenty of cookies to bake to keep me busy.
I transitioned easily into baking mode. My mind was so busy thinking about ornaments, Stephanie Frugit’s words, and murder that I finished the cookies without really noticing that I’d started.
When the last batch was cooling and Sam still hadn’t arrived, I was anxious to do something else productive, so I switched on my old laptop. Once it finally warmed up, I began searching. I started with “1987 South Carolina” and was overwhelmed by the large amount of available links. On October 3, the South Carolina Gamecocks football team had played the number-two ranked Nebraska Cornhuskers. South Carolina lost 21–30. And 1987 was the inaugural year for former governor Carroll Ashmore Campbell Jr.
As enjoyable as I found the glimpse into the past, I wasn’t interested enough in any of the listings to pay them close attention. I skimmed, searching for something that might ring a relevant bell. As my eyes moved over the screen, I hoped to find the name “Stuckey” or “Ridgeway,” but nothing stood out.
I typed in “Ridgeway South Carolina 1987” and found a number of items regarding Monson and a couple of listings about the Christmas tree farm but nothing that seemed important to the murder of Reggie Stuckey, or at least nothing that I could interpret as being important.
I felt like a hamster on a wheel, getting nowhere quickly. Out of frustration, I just typed “Reggie Stuckey wife” into the browser and finally found something that might prove to be helpful—a chunk of information that might at least lead somewhere.
The first link listed was to a Wikipedia page for South Carolina state senator Evelyn Rasmussen Stuckey, who served from 1985 until 1987. The dates at the top of the page, of course, caught my attention immediately. I wasn’t politically savvy but I knew that state senators served four-year terms. I glanced at Evelyn’s picture and noted that she was an attractive blonde before I continued to read the entry.
Evelyn Rasmussen was born in Charleston, South Carolina, in 1958. She remained there until she’d completed her education, graduating from the University of South Carolina law school summa cum laude. Upon receiving her law degree, she escaped the city for the country life with a man she’d met at a small town gas station when she was on a road trip through the state. Evelyn married Reggie Stuckey in 1984 and settled outside the small town of Monson, South Carolina, but her ambition was bigger than any small town, and she ran for and won a local race for the state senate.
Though a seat with the state senate is usually one of the lesser-known political positions, Evelyn Stuckey was an immediate force to be reckoned with. Her intelligence, quick wit, physical height, and her loud, deep voice garnered attention from any reporter looking for something interesting and perhaps unique to cover.
And then, suddenly, in the spring of 1987, she disappeared. She stepped down from her senate seat, divorced her husband, and disappeared off the South Carolina political radar—any radar, maybe. Many have speculated why she took such a sudden turn, but no one has been able to obtain the real answer.
Following the entry, there was also a note added later, dated last December. It read: “It is believed that Evelyn Rasmussen has been living Smithfield, South Carolina. She hasn’t practiced law for some time, but there are rumors that she raises chickens and sells farm fresh eggs at area grocery stores and the local farmers’ market.”
“No!” I exclaimed when I read the additional note. Hobbit had been resting on my feet and she jumped to attention. “Sorry, girl.” I petted her head, easing her back to a reclining position.
I read the entire entry again and searched for any other sites that would shed more light on Evelyn, and then debated if I would call Mamma Maria and ask her about her potential fellow vendor tonight or wait until tomorrow.
I wanted to call someone, I wanted to jump up and down and exclaim that I’d figured it out! I’d really figured it out! But, what, really had become clear? Not much, I realized.
The 1987 egg, the state seal onion, the pretty blondeish girl doll: Were they all pointing at Evelyn Stuckey? Why? Had she killed her ex-husband? Or, maybe she just knew who the killer was. I’d wondered why I was the recipient of the ornaments, and I now thought I better understood. It was all tied together with the farmers’ market connection. If Evelyn Stuckey did work at the Smithfield Market, my secret ornament giver was trying to use the market connection to make sure I was able to find her. It was genius.
The sound of tires on my driveway pulled me off the chair and quickly over to the front door. I couldn’t wait to tell Sam everything.
But it wasn’t Sam pulling in; it was Allison, and she was alone. I was immediately concerned.
“Everything okay?” I said as I opened the door.
“Sure. Can’t one fraternal twin sister stop by and visit the other one?”
“Not when one of the twins has a family, it’s later than a normal visit, and she didn’t call first.”
Allison laughed and then pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket. “I brought your orders. The form you left on your table filled up quickly. I thought you should have it.”
I took the paper but continued to look at Allison. “You could have just called with a total number.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Allison said. “I was actually hoping to catch both you and Sam. Is he coming over this evening?”
“I think so.”
“Well, then you get the news first.”
“Is it something really good?”
“It’s interesting, but I’m not sure if it’s good or helpful to solving the murder. I didn’t want to talk about it”—she looked around—“well, anywhere but here or at Sam’s house. I gambled that you were here. I don’t want other market vendors or other police officers to hear what I have to say. Yet.”
“Really?” I said, still standing in the open doorway with Hobbit. “This must be good.”
“May I come in?”
I stepped back and welcomed her inside.
• • •
“Mel called this evening, right before I was packing up to leave. He doesn’t typically work late, so I was surprised to hear from him,” Allison said.
“And he was up
set?” I said as I handed her a glass of water.
Sam had arrived only about a minute after Allison had come into the house. The two of them sat on stools on the outside of the kitchen island counter as I gathered drinks and snacks.
“Yes, at himself. I think he waited until everyone else in the office went home before calling me because he felt so bad,” Allison said.
“Mel’s one of the market owners?” Sam asked as he set his glass on the counter. He’d had a long day, but still looked police-officer fresh and crisp.
“No, he works for the owners. He does whatever they need done, including filing and typing. He’s young and . . . well, as far as I can tell, he’s a pretty good guy. Anyway, he said that last week a woman from Reggie Stuckey’s office called and asked about selling trees at Bailey’s. Mel told them that could probably be arranged but he’d have to check with the owners first.”
“Sounds reasonable,” I said.
“Yes, well, he jumped the gun. He offered to send over a contract so that Reggie could look it over while he checked with the owners.”
“Oh,” I said. “That explains why Reggie had a contract.”
Allison shook her head. “No, not really. Remember that the contract was a doctored version of the Ridgeway contract. When the woman said she’d prefer a fax, he said that he printed out a new, blank copy right then and there and then sent the fax, but apparently it never went through.”
“A bogus number?” I asked.
“He thinks so.”
“Does Mel have the fax number he used?” Sam asked.
“Yes. I tried it. It goes to a disconnected number,” Allison said.
“I’m not sure why he was upset.”
“He thinks he should have told someone about the call and the incorrect number.”
“Hindsight and all. I’ll go talk to him tomorrow, but I don’t think he did anything wrong. If he doesn’t want the owners to know that he attempted to send Reggie a contract, he won’t be happy to see me, but I don’t think he needs to be worried,” Sam said.
5 Merry Market Murder Page 11
