“I didn’t know you had cranberry cream pie! I’ll be buying one of those today.”
“Deal. I’ll put your name on one.”
Pumpkin cream and cranberry cream. Sam and I would be set for dessert for the next few days.
Sam and I. The growing line of customers outside my stall didn’t give me much time to ponder how quickly I’d begun thinking in terms of “Sam and I” or “me and Sam.” But I knew it had happened quickly, and the concept was continually gaining favor in my mind.
Sheesh, maybe the holiday spirit’s getting to me, I thought.
I came up for air many jars of jelly, jam, and preserves later. Just as I blew my bangs out of my eyes, a familiar face appeared outside my stall.
“Ian! Hello again,” I said. “How’s it going?”
“Busy. I can’t believe how many people want to give yard art as gifts this year.”
“It’s good to be busy,” I said, having just gone through one of the busiest rushes I thought I’d ever been through, and was luckily to still be alive to talk about it.
“It is.” Ian smiled. I could see him building courage for something. I waited patiently. “Hey, I’m going to send you and Sam an invitation to a New Year’s gathering. You okay with that?”
“Of course. Sounds like fun.”
“Good.” Ian paused.
“What?”
“George and Gypsy will be there, but so will someone else. I wanted to you know beforehand.”
“I’ve heard. You and Betsy?”
“Yeah.”
“You happy?”
“I am, but does that seem weird to hear?”
“Not even a little bit. I’m happy you’re happy.” I was.
“She’s not as awful as you might have thought she was before you and I broke up.”
Betsy had tried to intervene in our relationship by forcing our breakup. She’d seen something early on that the rest of us had taken a little longer to recognize: that Ian and I weren’t meant to be long-term and Sam and I (there it was again, Sam and I) were meant to be together. She’d been obnoxious in the way she’d handled her revelation, but I could probably forgive her. Eventually.
“She just saw someone she liked and went after him,” I said. “She has great taste. I know.”
“She’s assured me she doesn’t make a habit of doing such things and she really wants to have a good heart-to-heart with you, and she asked me specifically not to tell you that. But I thought me stepping over that small boundary might help even things out.”
I laughed. “I’m good with even. I look forward to the New Year’s gathering. I’m sure Sam will, too.”
“Good to hear. Okay, well, I’m out of here again. More orders just today. It’s a good thing I can’t do much with the farm right now.”
“See you later, Ian.”
“You two are so civilized,” Linda said as she looked around our common wall again. Maybe we should just take that wall down.
“It’s awkward every now and then,” I said. “But doable.”
“Sam and Ian seem to get along just fine, too.”
I shrugged. “They do. There are times I wonder if the two of them plotted the whole thing—me falling for one so I could see the other one more clearly.”
Linda laughed. “No, Becca, that’s not what happened. I’m just impressed by y’all’s maturity.”
“Me, too, frankly.”
I stepped closer to Linda with the goal of peering around the wall to see how much inventory she had left. I thought about offering to cover her stall for the rest of the day just so I wouldn’t feel bad about asking her to do the same for me sometime down the road, build up the favor bank a little, at least.
But I was stopped when my toe ran into something. I looked down, but I must have propelled whatever it was to a spot under my front table. I crouched down.
“What’s up?” Linda said.
The object I’d kicked under the table was alarming, even though I didn’t think it was meant to be. I reached for it and stood.
“Is that a tree?” Linda asked.
“I think so.”
It was a crude design, made of metal, and only just resembling a pine tree. It was simply a flat piece of metal with scooped branches. The branches spread wider as they moved down the small tree. A hole had been carved or cut through the top of the tree, and a paper clip was once again used as the ornament hanger.
I pulled out my cell phone and called Ian.
“Hey,” he said. “You change your mind about the party?”
“No. Where are you?”
“On the way home. What can I do for you?”
“Did you drop a Christmas tree ornament by my stall?”
“No. I didn’t have one to drop.”
“By chance, have any pieces of your metal gone missing from your stall?”
Ian was silent a second. “Well, I don’t really have the raw materials at the market but one of my smaller pieces went missing yesterday. I thought it had either gone missing or I’d just forgotten that I hadn’t brought it.”
“Any chance it was made of thin metal, maybe with about a seven- or eight-inch flat part?”
“Yes. It was a small piece for a garden. It was a simple wind fan, short, not meant to be tall. Did you find it?”
“I might have found part of it.”
“Should I come back?”
“Only if you want to. I’ll show it to Allison. I think that the wind fan has been disassembled and used to make a Christmas tree ornament.”
“That’s strange.”
“I know.” I thought about telling him about the other ornaments, but I decided that Allison and Sam should know about this one first.
“I’ll follow up tomorrow. Just have Allison call me if she wants me to come back in. I didn’t mention the missing piece to her because I wasn’t sure if it was missing or I was just too busy to remember everything.”
“I understand. I’ll let her know. Talk to you later.” I clicked off the call.
“Becca, what’s the deal with the ornaments? It’s getting a little creepy,” Linda said.
“I agree. And, I don’t know.” I looked around the market and then at my stall. There were plenty of shoppers, but the crowd had lessened a little, and I didn’t have very many jars left to sell. “Uh, I need to find Allison. Do you mind . . . ?”
“Not at all. Go. Get this ornament thing figured out.”
Somehow I quickly zoned in on Allison. I happened to call her right at the moment she was stepping out of her office. My call sent her back inside, and I met her there a minute later.
“Uh, that’s interesting,” Allison said as she looked at the ornament. “And you’re 100 percent positive that this wasn’t from Ian? Just a friendly gesture?”
“I’m sure. He could tell by the tone of my voice that I needed to know the truth.”
“Becca, I don’t have any idea what’s going on, but it’s kind of harmless.”
“In a somewhat disturbing way. I really do think someone’s leaving clues as to who the killer is. I’m feeling it even more after my conversation with Evelyn, and Sam’s and my search of Reggie’s house. There’s something with the Ridgeways, Reggie Stuckey, and Brenton, maybe their pasts.”
“Brenton is the anomaly,” Allison said. “Reggie’s murder could have something to do with Christmas tree farming, but how does Brenton fit in?”
“I think we should ask him again. Just you and me. Let’s try.”
“I’d love to, but he called me this morning. He won’t be back at the market until the new year. We’ll be quiet tomorrow because of the parade, but he’s taking some extended time off. He claims that his Internet orders are getting backed up and he needs to get them taken care of. He left some flyers on his display table yesterday before he left
.”
Though I’d been preparing the cookies for the parade, the fact that the town preparations would begin tomorrow caught me off guard. I felt like I’d misplaced a day or two somewhere. I didn’t admit as much to Allison. “Brenton’s ex-wife mentioned something that might apply to him—that maybe he’s not who he said he is. How do we find out more about Brenton Jones without asking him?” I said.
“Sounds like a job for the police. Sam and the other officers have access to public records and such. They can track him, see what he’s been up to. They’re probably working on it already.”
“As far as I know, Brenton has been around Monson forever,” I said.
“He’s worked at the market almost since its inception in 1990. Oh, wait, hang on.” Allison reached to the file drawer on the side of her desk and opened it. She quickly found the file she was looking for, pulled it out, and placed it on the top of her desk. “Shoot. I guess he’s been archived. I forget who has and who hasn’t. This is Brenton’s file, but he’s been here so long that I sent his original application to the market’s archives. All the file has now is copies of his equipment request forms and a new phone and e-mail contact sheet. I can request the application be faxed over.”
Without waiting for me to comment, Allison picked up the handset of her phone and punched a number. “I have to leave a message. No one’s answering.” She left the message and then hung up the phone.
“I gotta say, sis, I feel weird about thinking that Brenton has anything at all to do with a murder,” I said. “He’s a friend. I feel disloyal, and I don’t like it.”
“Me, either,” Allison agreed. “I still don’t think he’s a killer, but his behavior has been so strange, so different. It bears looking at more closely. I don’t think he’s having some sort of mental breakdown or anything like that. I think he’s angry about the Ridgeways, plain and simple. I think he has some connection to them and that connection is either the reason Reggie Stuckey was murdered or a clue to who the killer is.”
“Really?”
“I’m not sure, Becs, but a look at his application just to see if there’s anything there won’t hurt anyone.”
“Why wouldn’t he just tell the police about the connection, particularly if he’s not directly involved?” I said.
“You well know that people’s motives for doing or not doing something can be personal and sometimes muddled.”
“True,” I said.
“What? You’re thinking about something else,” Allison said.
“Kind of. If Brenton’s ex-wife won’t tell me more about him, maybe someone else will.”
“Like?”
“Fellow market vendors.”
“I suppose you could try.” She looked at her watch. “But you’d better hurry. After today, most everyone will be involved with the parade for a couple days, and then there’s Christmas. I suspect vendors will be making their way out of here soon, if they haven’t already, and will be hard to find for a while.”
With that, we both stood. Still holding the tree ornament, I turned one way down an aisle while Allison turned the other. I’d interrupted her original plan but she didn’t miss a beat and was back on track to her market duties.
My first plan, my only one really, was to find Barry. He’d been the one to tell me about Brenton’s ex-wife in the first place. Stephanie was his niece, so he probably knew more about Brenton. But I was sidetracked along the way; I was so close to the Bailey’s entrance that I had a perfect view of the Ridgeway setup. I didn’t see Ned, but Denny and Billie were both there; Denny working with a tree, Billie sitting on a lawn chair again, but looking at some papers this time. They didn’t look busy, so I took advantage of the lull and hurried over to try to talk to Denny.
“Becca, how are you?” he said as though he didn’t remember the discomfort from our last conversation.
“Hi, Becca,” Billie said but she remained seated.
“Hi. Wow, you’ve sold some trees. That’s great!”
“Yes, we’re doing well,” Denny said.
“Mind if I ask how you are all keeping up at your farm? You have some employees?”
“A few, but right now Ned is there. It’ll slow down here tomorrow, but we’ll all deliver the trees to the parade and another employee will man the fort down here.”
I nodded.
“What’s that?” Denny said as he pointed to the metal tree I was still holding.
“That, I believe, is a Christmas tree ornament. I have a Secret Santa.”
Denny laughed and Billie glanced over briefly, but returned her attention back to the papers a second later.
I was still bothered that Denny didn’t ho-ho-ho.
“You and your fella will have something to put on your tree now. You still planning on coming up on Sunday?” Denny said.
“Yes, we’re looking forward to it.”
“Good, can’t wait to have you up there.”
“Denny, can I ask you another question that’s probably too personal to ask?” I said, waiting for him to cross him arms again, like the last time I’d asked if I could snoop more deeply than was probably acceptable.
But he didn’t cross his arms this time. He didn’t protest. Instead, his eyes actually twinkled. I liked that. “I get the sense that’s never stopped you before. Sure—I won’t promise that I’ll answer, but let’s have a seat.” He guided me away from Billie to the other end of the tree corral. There were no chairs, so I just assumed he wanted to move away from his sister if someone was going to ask him a potentially too-personal question.
“Look, I know you said you don’t know Brenton. What if I just ask if there’s some sort of connection between the two of you, but not what that connection is. It’s just you and me, Denny, and I’d really like to know.”
Denny thought a long, long time before he answered, but I steeled myself silent for as long as it took.
“Gosh, Becca, I don’t know . . . I don’t feel like I should tell you. It’s not my place, if you know what I mean.”
“So there is a connection?”
Denny put his finger next to his nose, a gesture that made me smile. He was almost the spitting image of the Santa from a book my parents read every year to Allison and me when we were little; the all-time classic and favorite, The Night Before Christmas.
But Denny didn’t magically disappear back up a chimney to his waiting sleigh and reindeer like the Santa in the book did. His eyes even stopped twinkling. “Yes, Becca, there is a connection.”
Again, I was struck by his choice of words. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. I wondered if he was doing it on purpose.
“It’s from a long time ago,” he continued, “but I’ll be 100 percent honest with you, my dear; I’m certain that Brenton had nothing to do with Reggie Stuckey’s murder. I think we have an odd and surprising coincidence regarding Brenton’s behavior and Reggie’s death.”
I wasn’t even going to go there, but I thought his journey from point A to point B was interesting.
“Do you know Brenton’s ex-wife?”
“Stephanie Frugit? Yes.”
He hadn’t missed a beat. I hadn’t meant to be tricky. It was just a question, but he’d answered so quickly. Somehow, some way, he and Brenton’s pasts were tied together much more tightly than he wanted to indicate. They’d known each other, and very well, if I was reading him right.
“I see,” I said.
Denny smiled and his eyes found their twinkle again. “You know, sometimes we say things on accident, but sometimes they’re on purpose.”
“You wanted me to know that you and Brenton had a close connection in your pasts? You didn’t want to say anything in front of your sister, though?”
Denny shrugged.
“Then why won’t you just tell me what the connection is? She can’t hear us over here.”
&n
bsp; “Not my place, Becca, not my place. Excuse me, I have work to do. If people want pretty places to put all those ornaments”—he pointed to the tree I still held—“then I’d better make sure all the branches are in good condition.”
As Denny disappeared into his man-made copse of trees, I turned back toward the market. That was one of the most frustrating conversations I could remember having in a long time—at least since the one with the Archers earlier that morning. I debated going over to talk to Billie, but I looked back to see that Denny was still watching me. I was sure he shook his head ever so slightly. If I wanted to talk to her, I’d have to find a way to catch her alone. I smiled and she and I waved at each other as I hurried away.
How was I going to find the connection? Denny said that he was sure that Brenton wasn’t the killer. Great, so then give up the rest of the information. Not his place, not his place. I didn’t think anyone had taken Brenton’s angry parking lot accusation that Denny had killed Reggie seriously, but despite that, it seemed Denny wasn’t retaliating. In fact, he seemed protective of Brenton’s reputation.
He was keeping the secret, whatever it was. Brenton wasn’t telling. His ex-wife wasn’t telling. Maybe I could get someone else to give it up. Who?
My head was swimming from questions and looking for clues, but I still wanted to talk to Barry before he left for the day.
Barry of Barry Good Corn had been growing and selling corn for longer than I’d been alive. He’d been in the corn business for almost forty years, and he often told stories from the “old days.” Those stories frequently mentioned fellow market workers, but at that moment I couldn’t remember one story he’d told that included Brenton. I wished I could.
“Becca, what’s new?” Barry said as I approached his stall. His bulk put a strain on the plastic folding chair he was sitting in. He held a magazine with a picture of a tractor on the cover, but I didn’t catch the name before he placed it on his knee.
“Can I come in?” I asked.
“Sure.” Barry stood and moved the chair. “Here, have a seat.”
“No, thanks, I’m okay. I’ll just be a minute.”
Barry had had a successful marriage for almost fifty years, and a good amount of its success was probably due to the fact that he wasn’t home all the time, even when he didn’t have much more to do than sit in his market stall and read a magazine just in case someone wanted to buy a cornhusk.
5 Merry Market Murder Page 16
