Surprisingly spry for his age, Buzz easily kept up with me, unfazed by the sometimes uneven ground or the tripping hazards of the occasional memorial stone that had been unseated over the years by frost heaves. I'd heard that the town had come into some money to reset them, and I was hopeful they'd be done before the market opened for the next season.
Buzz dithered over the piccalilli and pickle samples at the first stall and then took at least fifteen minutes deciding whether to try the garlic jelly or the onion jam at the next one. We'd only made it to the third space—Fordham Farms—when I heard a woman's angry shouts coming from near the first aid tent.
* * *
"Excuse me," I told Buzz. "I need to go take care of something. I'll be right back."
"No, wait. I'll come with you." Buzz grabbed the closest cracker with jam and followed me across the walkway.
I would have preferred not to give my prospective beekeeper an up-close view of the market's less appealing elements, but there wasn't a good way to keep him in the dark without making the situation seem even worse than it was.
My nemesis, Angela Henderson, was at the center of the argument outside the first aid tent. That didn't surprise me, but I hadn't expected her to be yelling at Leo Ricci, the leader of the Dangerous Duelers. He was dressed as a wizard in a long black robe with a pointed hat, and he carried a magic staff. He was far too short to be Gandalf or Voldemort, and too chubby to be Rincewind. I couldn't think of any other likely possibilities, so perhaps he was just a generic wizard. He was older than most of the other gamers, in his forties, and he'd been the gamemaster the last time I'd seen him, while the much younger Angela had been his second-in-command. She had her back to me, so she couldn't see my approach, but across from her Leo gave me a relieved glance. He and I had had a rocky start to our working relationship, but it had improved over time.
Angela reclaimed Leo's attention by giving his shoulders a solid shove and shouting, "You can't tell me what to do."
Leo stumbled back a couple of steps before regaining his balance. "I'm sorry, Angela. It wasn't my idea. We took a vote—"
"I didn't know about any vote," she said.
"Um." He took another step away from her. "It was on the Dangerous Duelers' agenda for our last two meetings, and we voted unanimously to terminate your membership at the second one. All in keeping with the rules."
"No, it wasn't," she said, closing the distance between them again.
Leo took another step backwards. "The agendas are archived at our website. You can check if you want."
"Websites can be faked," she insisted. "You did this. You've always resented me, and now you've gone behind my back to turn everyone else against me."
"I didn't," he said, holding up his hands in a gesture of innocence. "Honest."
Angela snorted. "You're a liar and a cheat, and you'll be sorry when I'm done with you."
"I'm already sorry," he mumbled, but Angela was so worked up that I didn't think she heard him.
Before Angela could attack him again, I said, "That's enough. Leo, why don't you go rejoin the rest of your players, and I'll have a chat with Angela."
Leo scooted backwards and took off at a gallop for the area outside the main market where the gamers had set up their pirate's ship, made out of painted plywood attached to a twin-sized bed. Its prow was piled high with pumpkins that had skulls and crossbones carved into them.
Angela spun to face me for the first time. Apparently she'd been among the first in line this morning to get her face painted by Gia Di Mitri from The Clip and Sip, or perhaps she'd had a private appointment before the market began, because her face had been transformed into a calavera—the ornate sugar-skull design popular for Day of the Dead festivities—with a makeup skill that few possessed. Freed from the restrictions of what was appropriate for even the most elaborate versions of regular makeup, Gia had outdone herself. Angela's entire face had been painted bone white, except for her lips and the tip of her nose, which were black. Then an intricately detailed red rose had been painted across her forehead. Her eyes appeared sunken, with a three-inch circle of black all around them and red flower petals decorating the outer edge.
"What do you want?" Angela demanded. "This has nothing to do with you."
"It does if it affects the market," I said. "Your shouting is upsetting people."
"Too bad for them." Angela didn't stick out her tongue, but her tone was as childish as her words. She'd apparently forgotten what costume she was wearing or wasn't bothering to stay in character. My great-great-great-grandmother had, by all accounts, had a calm, deliberate, and—above all else—mature personality from about the age of ten.
Supposedly, I took after her in personality as well as appearance, but there were times when I struggled to remain calm. "Look, I don't want to have to ask you to leave, but I will if you don't quiet down."
"You can't do that," Angela said. "This is public property. I've got the right to assemble."
"I can still ban you for being disruptive." At least I hoped I could. I'd have to ask Merle later. For now, though, I just wanted to show Buzz that this was nothing more than a minor blip on the market's radar, nothing that I couldn't handle, nothing that should concern him when deciding whether to sign on as a vendor for next year.
"You're just jealous," Angela said, pointing her spyglass at me for emphasis. "I make a better Maria Dolores than you do. She was a tough old broad, and you're all sweet and soft and weak. I mean, look at those silly little pumpkins on your fingernails. They're practically invisible compared to my art."
She waved her own fingers at me. The nails were mostly black with tiny, hand-painted white skulls and crossbones. I had to admit they were nicely done, if not my style. Still, I was quite happy with my more restrained orange pumpkins and green vines painted on a buff background, and I wasn't about to let her ruin my enjoyment of them.
"I like my pumpkins," I said with a shrug. "I think we're done here now, so I'll get back to my work and leave you to enjoy the Halloween activities."
I started to turn away to lead Buzz back to the market stalls, but Angela grabbed me by the wrist. "No. We're not finished yet. Even if you're not violating my civil rights today, I need to know that I'll be welcome at the market in the future. If you're going to be unreasonable, I'll report you to the mayor. My parents are close friends of his, you know. And big supporters during all of his campaigns. He would never have been elected mayor without them."
I liked the mayor, and I thought he liked me, but he was as susceptible as any politician to the demands of his constituents. I already had one local citizen—the potato farmer, Jim Sweetwater—complaining to him about me, and I didn't need another one. Especially someone who might have more impact than the ineffective Sweetwater did.
And to make matters worse, I was intensely aware of Buzz standing quiet and almost motionless at my side, taking in everything Angela said. A few more comments by her, and he'd be convinced that the market was a seething cauldron of political intrigue. Not exactly a selling point for joining the market.
Balancing the need to get Buzz away from Angela with the desire not to provoke her any further, I tried for an upbeat tone. "We can talk some more later if you wish. After I've taken care of some other matters."
"When?" Her tone was more suspicious than aggressive, which I took as a good sign. I had to admire her persistence, even if she was annoying.
"If you give me your number, I'll call you when I have some spare time."
Angela glared at me suspiciously but then dug into her apron pocket to pull out a business card with her name, along with her phone number and a website URL for an online shop selling custom clothing for cosplay events. "I'm coming looking for you if I don't hear anything by noon."
That only gave me an hour to convince Buzz to sign up with the market, and he didn't seem to be in a hurry to make up his mind about anything.
"You'll hear from me as soon as I have some time to give you my undivided att
ention." I turned to Buzz. "Let's go finish our tour of the market."
CHAPTER TWO
As I guided Buzz up the Memorial Walkway, the two neat rows of white-canopied stalls and the just-right-sized crowds—the numbers of visitors had increased significantly since my first day on the job, without becoming unmanageable or requiring long waits anywhere—filled me with pride. There had been some growing pains and glitches during my first season in charge of the market, but I'd dealt with all of them. Okay, so murder was a little more than a "glitch," but justice had been served, and again, with only one exception, the remaining vendors got along well with each other, and they were all reliable and popular with buyers.
I turned to Buzz, who was walking beside me. "Doesn't it look fabulous?"
"I know better than to judge a hive by its exterior. I've seen some gorgeous-looking hives, and it wasn't until I looked inside that I could see it was rotten at the core, with everyone dead or dying."
"Angela isn't deadly or contagious," I said. "She's just young and passionate. Nothing to worry about. I can and will ban her if she doesn't settle down."
Buzz leaned over to whisper in my ear, "She's following us, you know."
I hadn't noticed, but now that he'd mentioned it, I caught a glimpse of her long, dark skirt in my peripheral vision. "She's harmless, really. She just likes to dress up and pretend to be someone else. Don't let her bother you. I'll make sure she doesn't interfere with the smooth operation of the market."
"Angela isn't making it hard for me to decide whether to join your market next year," Buzz said. "It's more that I've got invitations from a dozen different places. They all look nice, they all have their perks, and they all have their Angelas. I need to figure out which one is best for me and my bees. Or if I should join any of them at all."
"I understand." I tried to rein in my impatience and sound sympathetic, but I didn't really understand his persistent waffling. Hesitating over options wasn't something I'd ever done. The decision process had always been straightforward for me. I did my research, made a list of pros and cons, risks and rewards, and then I went with the winner. Although, occasionally, I'd skipped the list and gone with my heart, like I'd done when I decided to move to Danger Cove. But either way, I never dithered endlessly, as Buzz seemed prepared to do with everything from the samples offered in the stalls to the more major decision of which market to join.
"Where should we go next?" Buzz asked. "I do want to meet all the vendors so I have as much information as possible before I make my decision."
We'd reached the first aid tent, and I needed to shepherd Buzz over to the other side of the Memorial Walkway again, away from another less-than-ideal representative of the market, Jim Sweetwater, who had swapped spaces with the tomato grower and was now in the second space on the right side of the path. I'd also had to swap the Thyme for Tea stall with the high school consumer sciences stall, because Sweetwater made the tea and herb grower feel uncomfortable, so they couldn't have adjoining spaces.
Before I could urge Buzz to the left, Cary Baines shot out from the first aid tent. "Maria Dolores! Maria Dolores! I'm done with the haunted house. And now I've found you."
"I can see that," I said, making a show of inspecting his black jumpsuit that zipped up the front and was covered with embroidered patches for a variety of brand names. Given his penchant for collapsing to the ground like a marionette that had had its strings cut whenever he felt overwhelmed, I'd have dressed him in a yellow shirt with a big blue bow tie and bright red shorts that revealed his skinny legs and knobby knees. Then, all he'd have needed was a fake long nose and a hat with a feather in it, and he'd have been the living embodiment of Pinocchio. Still, he made an adorable race car driver, and I hadn't had a chance earlier to admire his costume before sending him over to the haunted house. "I didn't know you were interested in racing cars."
"I'm not." Cary turned around to show me the "pit crew" printed on the back. "It's a mechanic's costume."
"Of course," I said. "You'll have to excuse me for not realizing it right away. I've never been all that interested in cars."
"Oh, but you should be," he said earnestly. "There's so much to learn about them. All the different models and fuels and configurations. I've been studying them since I was six years old, and I still don't know everything I want to know."
"I'll remember to consult you the next time I buy a car," I said. "For now, though, have you met Buzz Reed? He's a beekeeper, and he's thinking about joining the market next year."
"Nice to meet you, Buzz Reed," Cary said dutifully, but with his eyes downcast. "The winter honey bee death rate should be less than seventeen percent, but it's been ranging from twenty-two to thirty-six percent in recent years."
"Very true," Buzz said. "Are you interested in helping me find a solution for the bees?"
"I won't have time to save the bees," Cary said. "I've got a new job."
"Congratulations," Buzz and I both said.
I added, "Where will you be working?"
Cary tried to meet my eyes, something that was difficult for him, but his gaze refused to connect. "I can't tell you yet. Not until it's official tomorrow. But don't worry, Maria Dolores, I can still work at the market next year."
"That's a relief," I said, and I meant it. Cary was a willing and enthusiastic helper. He did need very exact instructions, though, something I wasn't always as careful about as I should be. "For now, perhaps you could open up the Pear Stirpes Orchard stall for Merle. He had to leave for a while. He should be back soon, but if he doesn't get back by noon, I need you to go down to supervise the demonstrations at the grill then. If Merle hasn't returned by the time you're ready to leave, you can put a Be back soon sign at the Pear Stirpes Orchard stall."
"I can do that." Cary trotted off on his new assignment.
I started to shepherd Buzz across the walkway to the point where we'd left off in our tour, but we'd apparently caught the eye of Jim Sweetwater. He was, not surprisingly after his foray into amateur sleuthing during the Labor Day market event, dressed as Sherlock Holmes. He hadn't gone to much effort with his costume, though, other than to wear a deerstalker hat and a long, caped gray coat open to reveal his usual overalls and button-down shirt. In place of his standard bow tie, he'd wrapped an ugly beige scarf around his neck. He clenched the stem of a cheap little pipe in his right hand.
I almost wished he'd stuck to his original plan to flout my request that vendors wear Halloween costumes this weekend. His exact words, repeated to me by a reliable source, had been, "Someone should tell Maria Dolores that we're not grade-school children who like to play dress-up."
Sweetwater had left his stall and was bearing down on us. I knew from past experience that ignoring him never worked. He was even more persistent than Angela was. If I didn't resolve whatever issue he had, he'd just follow me, and he wouldn't bother to be stealthy and quiet about it like Angela was. I looked over my shoulder, and sure enough, Angela was standing about ten feet away, staring at me. She might be quieter than Jim Sweetwater while she was stalking me, but she wasn't subtle about it.
One problem at a time.
"Good morning, Jim. I'd like to introduce you to—"
He interrupted with a wave of his pipe in Buzz's direction. "Don't tell me this is the best you can do for a beekeeper? Just because he looks like a bee doesn't mean he knows anything about keeping them."
"This is Buzz Reed," I said. "He's kept bees all his life, and I've heard rave reviews about his honey products."
"I've tended hives since I was twelve," Buzz said amiably.
Sweetwater ignored the beekeeper to ask me, "So we'll finally have a beekeeper? It took you all season, but you've finally gotten one to sign up?"
I glanced at Buzz, hoping that Sweetwater's rudeness wouldn't weigh too heavily against choosing the Lighthouse Farmers' Market. If I were really lucky, the rudeness might work in reverse by provoking Buzz into agreeing to join the market, just to spite Sweetwater. I used to manip
ulate one of my much younger sisters into doing what I wanted by suggesting she didn't want to do it.
Buzz just shrugged. "I haven't decided yet."
"Of course you haven't," Sweetwater said in a sarcastic tone. "Because no one's doing what's necessary to make joining us worth your while. I'd have had you or some other honey vendor signed up months ago if I'd been in charge."
I doubted Sweetwater would have had any better luck than I had, but there was a kernel of truth to his complaint. Someone else in his situation, someone who'd lived and worked in Danger Cove for years and therefore knew the local farmers better than I did, might well have had better luck in signing up a beekeeper. If anyone other than Sweetwater were interested in my job, I might have considered handing over control of the market to someone with more experience and better contacts, but I couldn't inflict him on the vendors who'd become my friends over the past few months.
"I'd rather get the right beekeeper than the quickest one," I told Sweetwater, trying not to let him hear just how annoyed I was.
Buzz nodded. "I never do anything in haste. It's a lesson learned in the apiary. Slow and methodical is always best."
"There's slow and then there's incompetent," Sweetwater said, sticking the hand not encumbered with the pipe into his overalls pocket. "Anyone who knew what he was doing would be able to find a good beekeeper in less than four months. Without feeling rushed."
"If you've got another candidate, I'd be happy to interview him or her," I said. "But right now is not the time to discuss it. I promised Buzz a tour of the market, and I need to be done before the cooking demonstrations begin at noon."
"We're not finished yet," Sweetwater said, reminding me of Angela, who'd said exactly the same thing. "Something needs to be done about the beekeeper situation."
I told him the same thing I'd told Angela: "We can talk some more later, if you wish, when I can give you my undivided attention."
A Secret in the Pumpkin Patch Page 2
