A Secret in the Pumpkin Patch

by Elizabeth Ashby

  "So that leaves just you and her fellow gamers as likely suspects?"

  "I'm afraid so. Plus there may be some random person she bumped into and upset. But among the people working at the market, I'm the only one who had any reason to want Angela gone."

  Merle's groan rumbled against my ear on his chest. "It would be best if you didn't say that sort of thing to anyone. Not even me."

  I pulled back to give him a reassuring smile. "I should be okay. Depending on exactly when Angela died, I might have a pretty good alibi. I saw her on the way to the cliff, and by the time she got there, I would have been with Scott Vicente and the state inspector, Lew Sturgeon. After that, it's a little murky, but if Angela didn't fall right away, and it happened after the fire at the grill, the fire chief can vouch for me, and he's a pretty reliable witness."

  "Still, I'd feel better if I sat in on your police interview."

  "So would I. Fred Fields told me Lester Marshall has been assigned to the case."

  Merle muttered something short under his breath, and his jaw tightened. "I definitely don't want you talking to Marshall without me present. He's… Well, let's just say he doesn't always wait for all the evidence before he makes up his mind about a person's guilt."

  "I'll remember that." I gave him a reassuring hug.

  "Good." He gave me a return hug. "Now, let's talk about something else so I can go back and tell Buzz we were chatting about personal matters."

  "We could talk about what we're going to do after this weekend is over and the market is closed for the season," I said. "I'll have a few loose ends to deal with and a review of my job performance by the mayor, but beyond that, I'm going to have a lot of free time. And your harvest season is almost over. Perhaps we could look into taking a trip somewhere. You know how much I enjoy traveling."

  "I'd like that too," he said. "But I was thinking we should make some more short-term plans at the moment. Like making a date to check out the haunted house tomorrow night."

  "Anything but that," I said, shivering. "I don't do haunted houses. The last—and only—time I went inside one, I was about ten years old, and as soon as everyone ahead of me started screaming, I decided it would be stupid to keep going, so I just turned around and found an exit. I've never quite understood the point of screaming instead of looking for a solution. I know it's supposed to be cathartic, but it's never worked for me. I doubt I'd enjoy a haunted house any more now than I did then."

  "Something else for our date then?" Merle said. "We could go watch the bonfires again."

  There had been bonfires on Labor Day weekend, and I'd enjoyed them, but I wasn't sure I'd have appreciated them as much if I'd still been worrying about the police investigation into Henry Atwell's death. Judging by Merle's and Officer Fields' distrust of Detective Marshall, I was afraid the investigation into Angela's death wasn't going to be wrapped up before the end of the weekend.

  "I don't know," I said. "Perhaps something more exciting than bonfires would be better."

  "We could go back to the orchard and watch the goats," he said. "From the porch swing."

  "That could definitely be exciting," I said, "but I was thinking of something like the Day of the Dead dancing on the beach. It starts at 8:00, and members of a local dance studio will be there for instruction and inspiration."

  "My wife always said I had two left feet, but if you're willing to chance it, I am."

  "It's a risk worth taking," I said. "At least if you trip me on the beach, the sand is softer than a regular dance floor."

  Buzz wandered over to join us, carrying several brochures and a jar of pumpkin barbeque sauce. "Very educational, that group," he said. "Although none of them is interested in keeping their own bees. At least not quite yet. They're a bit young still, and managing a hive isn't as sexy as some other types of farming, so they may change their minds with time. We really need to get more people involved in beekeeping, to offset the excessive mortality rates and maybe help figure out some solutions."

  "I'm sure you could influence them if you joined the market next year," I said. "You'd be able to show them what a great experience beekeeping is. I could even arrange for you to have the space next to the consumer sciences class if you'd like."

  "We'll see." Buzz stuffed the brochures into his fanny pack. "I have a temporary demonstration beehive that I like to bring to schools and market events, but I don't know if the bees would be happy at this market. Not if you have sirens blasting every week. Bees are very sensitive to sound, you know. Vibroacoustics help them communicate."

  "It's usually nice and quiet here." If I were being totally honest, I'd have had to admit that we'd had a good bit of noise from a combination of musical acts and assorted sirens during each of the long weekends this year, but I was hopeful the weekend events would be as peaceful in the future as the Saturday-only markets had been. "Just the distant roar of the surf and the normal, happy chatter of people enjoying the market."

  "Then why was there a siren today?"

  "Nothing serious," I told him. "Someone caught a towel on fire."

  He was bound to hear about Angela's death, but there was no good way to spin a death in the market, especially when I didn't even know yet whether it was an accident or an intentional act. Merle always told me not to volunteer information when I was being questioned by the police. It was probably equally good practice when dealing with an inquisitive beekeeper I was trying to impress.

  With a little luck, Detective Marshall would turn out to be better at his job than I expected, and he would quickly come up with conclusive evidence that what had happened to Angela was nothing more than a tragic accident that could have happened anywhere.

  Until then, it wouldn't hurt to keep Buzz in the dark about Angela's death.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Sweetwater's Sherlockian coat heading over to talk to the Baxter twins in front of the first aid tent. Keeping Buzz in the dark might not be as easy as I'd like. Sweetwater was sure to enlighten Buzz about the latest tragedy if I couldn't keep them apart.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Merle distracted Buzz with the promise of tasting some herb-flavored cheeses at the Danger Cove Dairy stall, and I went to see what Jim Sweetwater was up to. He didn't appear to be in need of the EMTs' medical help, but he must have had an urgent reason to leave his space. He didn't have anyone working for him today, so he was losing out on sales while he was gone.

  On the other hand, I could never understand why Sweetwater chose to do any of the things he did. He claimed to be committed to the market generally and to his own farm business in particular, but he certainly didn't act like it. Back in September he'd made a big show of investigating what had happened to Henry Atwell, going from stall to stall, hinting at various theories, none of which had been even close to correct, and traumatizing everyone with wild accusations.

  Fortunately, the vendors hadn't blamed me for Sweetwater's going rogue that weekend. It would have been different if the police or anyone with any real credentials had accused them of a violent crime, but everyone knew Sweetwater was a loose cannon who never followed up his talk with action, either at the market or in his role as the high school guidance counselor. His favorite words were "someone should do something," which had never once improved any situation he'd applied it to. Especially since any time the "do something" involved actual work and expertise, rather than big talk, the "someone" he was volunteering for the project was never himself.

  He did like telling people what they were doing wrong, though, even when he had to make up the supposed wrongdoing. Now, with the inspiration that might come with wearing the costume of the world's greatest fictional detective, I was afraid that he would forget how badly his last investigation had gone and get involved in Angela's case.

  I wasn't in the mood to watch him bumbling around, making Detective Marshall's job harder than it had to be. Especially since I was convinced Sweetwater didn't particularly care what had happened to Angela, any more than he'
d cared what had happened to Henry Atwell. All Sweetwater was concerned about was his own reputation. He clearly believed he was every bit as much of a genius as the character he was pretending to be.

  If his visit to the EMTs was his first step toward meddling in the police investigation, I needed to remind him that I was keeping an eye on him and wouldn't put up with any more of his antics. He'd caused enough problems at the previous two weekend-long market events.

  I strode up to the three men. On the off chance that Sweetwater had a legitimate reason for consulting the EMTs, I asked, "Is something wrong?"

  The Baxter twins shook their heads in unison. "Just enjoying the fresh air," one of them said.

  "It's a good day for that," I said before Sweetwater could disagree, which he would have done, if only on principle, since nothing I said could ever be correct. "And as long as I'm not interrupting anything important, I'd like a word with Mr. Sweetwater. We can do it at his stall so he doesn't miss out on any prospective buyers."

  "But I need to get the details of what happened to that unfortunate woman who fell off the cliff," Sweetwater said. "It's best to get the information straight from the first responders."

  "I'm sure that Detective Marshall knows that," I said. "And that patient privacy prevents the EMTs from discussing it with anyone other than the police."

  "But—"

  "No buts." I had a sudden idea about how to convince him to leave without making a scene. "I need your advice on something, and it can't wait."

  "Oh," he said, clearly surprised. "Well, then, let's go. Judging by all the problem areas I've noticed today, this is going to take some time."

  I reminded myself that I was responsible for the whole market, not just my own convenience. Keeping Sweetwater from meddling in the police investigation was worth a few minutes of listening to him critique my job performance. Perhaps I'd actually learn something from the conversation. Not that I thought I'd made any huge mistakes, but it would be useful to know what he thought I'd done wrong before I had to defend myself in front of Mayor Kallakala.

  As we walked back to his stall, Sweetwater adjusted the ugly beige scarf and then waved his prop pipe to punctuate his monologue about everything he thought had gone wrong so far that morning. One vendor's canopy was a few inches out of alignment, another vendor had arrived only fifteen minutes before opening instead of thirty, and yet another one was missing his official certificate confirming that he grew or made all of his products locally. For once, most of his complaints had nothing to do with me personally, beyond the clear implication that I should have done something to prevent the minor infractions.

  Once we finally made it to his stall and came to a stop in the back, surrounded by stacked crates of potatoes, I glanced around to make sure no one was paying us any particular attention. On one side of us, the teens in the consumer sciences stall were busy with a young couple and their toddler, and on the other side, JT was in the Pear Stirpes stall, totaling up the cost of several cases of the discounted, prior-season's batch of perry for a middle-aged man with a substantial beer belly. Or possibly a perry belly.

  Reassured that no one was paying us any particular attention, I interrupted Sweetwater's litany of nitpicky offenses. "You can send me a text with all the infractions, and I'll deal with them, but I have more important things to deal with right now. We need to keep everything calm and orderly in the aftermath of Angela Henderson's death. If you know anything about what happened to her, I expect you to tell the police right away. No holding anything back like you did before."

  "That wasn't my fault." Sweetwater stuck one hand in his overalls pocket and waved his pipe at me with his other hand.

  Like everything else about him, the silly prop annoyed me, and I could feel the muscles in my neck tightening. It wasn't even the right kind of pipe. It was a cheap little corncob version, the sort I associated with Popeye, not the more refined, carved briar pipe that Sherlock Holmes used.

  With considerable effort, I refrained from swatting the pipe out of Sweetwater's hand while he continued with his excuses. "I wanted to talk to Detective Ohlsen that weekend before things got out of hand, but he wouldn't make time for me. Someone should have made him listen to me."

  "No, you should have made sure he got the message," I said. "You could have told me what you knew. Or Officer Fields. Either one of us could have gotten the information to Ohlsen right away. So if you know anything about Angela's death, I want to hear it right now. And if not, you stay out of the investigation."

  "I don't know anything yet," Sweetwater said. "But at least I'm trying to get some answers. I wouldn't have to get involved if you'd take care of making sure poor Angela gets to rest in peace."

  "I'm doing everything I can," I said. "I'm cooperating with the police. I'll also encourage everyone else to do the same thing while staying calm and going about their usual market business."

  "That's not enough." Sweetwater's attitude telegraphed his belief that Angela wouldn't have died if he were the market manager. "While you've been standing around flirting with your boyfriend, I've been questioning witnesses."

  "Which is just what you should not be doing. None of us should. That's Lester Marshall's job." I knew Detective Ohlsen would have been outraged by Sweetwater's meddling, but at least Ohlsen knew both me and Sweetwater well enough that he wouldn't have blamed me for not controlling the wannabe Sherlock. I didn't have the advantage of a shared working history with Detective Marshall, so I didn't know how he'd react to Sweetwater.

  "You can't stop me from talking to people." The hand that wasn't holding his pipe emerged from his overalls pocket to pound emphatically on the top of a potato crate. "I can talk to anyone I want. It's in the market rules. Or it should be."

  I was getting closer and closer to deciding to ban Sweetwater from next year's market. I'd wanted to do it right after the fiasco over Labor Day weekend, but Merle had convinced me I should wait. He'd done some networking and concluded that while no one wanted Sweetwater to run the market, they did want him to remain as a vendor. Apparently they'd all either been counseled by him in high school or had kids who'd been counseled by him. For all I knew, some of the vendors actually liked and supported him, rather than feeling indebted to him. After all, he had worked at the local high school for twenty-some years without getting fired.

  I'd reluctantly accepted that his annoying personality wasn't enough by itself to ban Sweetwater, but I still thought he presented a danger to the market. I couldn't prove it yet, but I suspected him of having stirring the pots that had bubbled over into murder during the previous holiday weekends. He probably hadn't intended things to go that far, but he was still at least indirectly responsible for what had happened. If I ever found out that he'd intended the fatal outcomes, I'd have solid grounds to ban him in the future, but it was far more likely that he'd just been oblivious to, or possibly uncaring of, the consequences of his malicious words. He'd probably been as surprised as anyone that he'd actually accomplished something with all his talking and complaining.

  For the time being, I was just documenting all the reasons why he was more trouble than he was worth to the market. Until I had enough dirt on him, I was determined to hold on to my patience.

  I took a deep, calming breath before addressing Sweetwater. "I'm not saying you can't talk to anyone. I'm just advising you to stick to what you know best: potatoes. According to Merle, it's not a good idea to meddle in police business."

  Sweetwater snorted. "And you always do whatever Merle says. No matter what anyone else wants. Like how you gave him the best space in the market."

  The space nearest the first aid tent had originally belonged to a flower seller, but she'd been killed during the Independence Day weekend. After that, none of the vendors had wanted to be associated with the tragedy in any way, and I hadn't wanted an empty space to be the very first thing that buyers saw when they entered the market, so I'd asked Merle to take it. And then the space had been associated with death again wh
en another vendor died out behind the stall. By remaining in the ill-fated space afterwards, Merle had been doing me a favor, not the other way around.

  Sweetwater would never acknowledge that I'd had good reasons for my decision, so I just said, "You didn't tell me you wanted the space next to the first aid tent."

  "I shouldn't have had to spell it out. I told you my assigned space wasn't getting the visibility it deserved."

  "And I swapped your space with Tommy Fordham's, so yours is the second one that anyone sees when coming up the Memorial Walkway. Plus, it doesn't have any of the association with death that the Pear Stirpes stall has." It was just as well that Sweetwater didn't know I would have ignored his ridiculous complaint about poor visibility if Tommy Fordham hadn't asked for a new space, somewhere farther away from where his girlfriend had been traumatized by seeing a dead body. "You said you were pleased with the new assignment."

  "That's beside the point. A market manager shouldn't play favorites."

  "I'm fully aware of that," I snapped. "And I'm sure you're going to bring your concerns to the mayor before my end-of-season review. But for now, I'm putting you on notice that I expect you to stay out of the police investigation of Angela Henderson's death. If I catch you asking anyone for alibis or doing anything remotely Sherlockian, I'm turning you over to Lester Marshall to file charges against you for hindering his work."

  "Oh, Lester and I go way back," Sweetwater said dismissively. "He was lazy in high school, and he's lazy now. He'll appreciate any help I can give him."

  Now two people had pushed my patience to the straining point in a single day. First the state's agricultural inspector and now Sweetwater.

  I came close to losing control of my temper and banning Sweetwater on the spot. If I lost my job, so be it. Making sure the police could do the work of finding Angela's killer was more important than my career.