A Secret in the Pumpkin Patch

by Elizabeth Ashby

  I was saved by the pinging of my phone with a text from Officer Fred Fields asking me to meet Lester Marshall in the first aid tent to give my statement as soon as I could get there.

  * * *

  I texted Merle, who responded with a promise to meet me at the first aid tent after arranging for the always-helpful tomato farmer, Tommy Fordham, to take over convincing Buzz how great the Lighthouse Farmers' Market was.

  I waited outside the tent until Merle could join me, and we went inside together. The wheelchair had been moved into its usual spot in the back right corner, and in the opposite one, a stocky, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man was seated behind the folding table that served as my desk on market days. He wore a suit, rather than a costume or the more casual clothes of a typical market-goer, so I was fairly sure he was Detective Lester Marshall.

  Merle confirmed it by striding up to the folding table and holding out his hand to the man in the suit. "Marshall. It's been a while. Wish it were in better circumstances."

  "Yeah." The detective unwrapped one of the heaping pile of SweeTarts candy packets on the table in front of him. He must have snatched them from the basket in front of Dangerous Reads on his way past. "I was planning to stop by the market tomorrow to check in on my grandmother over at the quilting bee, but now it looks like I'll be too busy working unless I can wrap up the investigation in record time. Gram's gonna have my head if I don't buy some raffle tickets for the quilt they're working on. According to her, nothing—not even a suspicious death—is as important as quilting."

  Apparently this wasn't going to be a brief interview. I dropped into one of the two folding chairs across from Marshall. "What are the chances it'll be a simple investigation?"

  "I'm always hopeful." Marshall popped a SweeTart into his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. "I'm told you saw this Angela Henderson woman shortly before she died. What was that all about?"

  "I only saw her from a distance. It was around noon, and she was heading in the direction of the lighthouse. I didn't talk to her or anything, and I didn't pay much attention to her, really."

  "So you wouldn't know if she was crying or depressed or anything that might explain why she died?"

  That surprised me. Angela had struck me as much more likely to punch someone than to run away crying. "You think she might have jumped?"

  "It's possible." Marshall tore open another packet of candy and spilled the contents out onto the desk. "I heard she found out this morning that she'd been kicked out of that little cult she was in. People have killed themselves for less."

  "You mean the Dangerous Duelers?"

  "Yeah, that's the name," he said. "Maybe she had a duel with someone and she lost and couldn't live with the humiliation."

  "That's just their name, not what they do. At least, not for real. It's only a game. And I wouldn't call them a cult. They're just like any other group of people who get together to share an interest. Like your Gram does with the quilt guild. Most of the time, the Dangerous Duelers are just as harmless as the quilters."

  "Don't let my Gram hear you call the quilters harmless." Marshall considered an unopened packet of candies with the sort of intense deliberation that I hoped he would also apply to collecting and studying evidence. "Actually, the quilt guild has been involved in a few major crimes here in town. If the gamers are like quilters, I'm definitely taking a closer look at them."

  "That's probably a good idea. They can tell you more about who might have had an argument with Angela. She wasn't the type to give up easily or go quietly when she was kicked out of the Dangerous Duelers. I'm pretty sure she intended to appeal the expulsion, and if that didn't work, she'd probably have started her own group to compete with the first one. If I had to say what she was feeling, based on the brief glance I caught while she was on the stairs, it was more along the lines of determination than depression."

  Marshall asked, "If you're right, then she must have been meeting someone up on the cliff. Possibly one of the other cult members? Planning to threaten them if they didn't back her readmission to the group? Did you see anyone else up there?"

  I shook my head. "No. I wasn't paying much attention, though, so I could have missed someone who was already up by the lighthouse. I just think it's far more likely that someone pushed her than that she jumped, and if that's the case, the members of the Dangerous Duelers are obvious suspects."

  "I'll talk to them if the forensics report from the top of the cliff suggests there was a struggle. With a bit of luck, they'll say she went over of her own accord, and then I'll be able to wrap things up in time to make an appearance at Gram's quilting bee." Marshall tore open another packet and popped three more candies into his mouth. He chomped on them loudly while typing something into his phone.

  It was probably better for me personally if Marshall only gave lip service to the possibility that someone might have pushed Angela and instead spent most of his time on the suicide theory. The Dangerous Duelers weren't the only ones who'd argued with her this morning. I'd threatened to expel her from the market. Marshall had probably heard about that already, but if he didn't ask me about it, I wasn't going to bring it up. Even if Merle hadn't been seated next to me, radiating caution, I knew better than to volunteer to the detective that Angela had been stalking me all morning. That would only make me even more of a possible suspect than I was by virtue of having been the last one to see her alive. It also struck me that if Angela had indeed killed herself, it could just as easily have been because she was on the verge of being banned from the market, as opposed to being kicked out of the Dangerous Duelers, or possibly the cumulative effect of both events.

  I hadn't signed on for that sort of responsibility. I'd been fortunate during my years as a financial planner that none of my clients had taken a financial loss severe enough to tempt them to suicide, but it was something I'd always been aware could happen. The only client who had ever lost a substantial amount of money was the one who'd shown up here this morning, Eddie Weber. Even though he'd been acting against my advice when he'd lost the money, I'd felt some guilt because I hadn't been able to show him what a mistake he'd be making before he made it. I'd been relieved to find out later that he'd been more angry about the loss than suicidal over it. When I'd shut down my financial planning office, I'd done so with the expectation that I'd never again have any responsibility, no matter how distant, for a loss so severe as to trigger suicidal thoughts or actions.

  And yet, if Detective Marshall was right and Angela had killed herself, it was entirely possibly my actions as the market manager had contributed to her death. I needed to know the truth, even if it meant having to answer some awkward questions.

  Marshall set down his phone. "So, where were we? Oh, I know. You were going to tell me where you went after you saw Angela going up to the cliff."

  "I don't know the exact time, but I'd just left the porta-potty when I saw Angela on the steps to lighthouse. I headed in the other direction and ended up in the garden area, having a chat with the turkey farmer and the state agricultural inspector." Depending on when Angela had died, the two men might or might not be sufficient to give me alibi. Even if the turkey farmer or the inspector could say exactly when I'd arrived at the garden, there would probably be enough leeway in the official time of death that, in theory, I could have nipped up the cliff, and pushed Angela off it, before heading down to the garden.

  Marshall paused in his chewing of the SweeTarts. "There was an inspector here today?"

  "He still is around somewhere, as far as I know," I said, taken aback that the inspector's presence was the only fact that Marshall had considered important. "His name is Lewis Sturgeon."

  "I know Lew from way back," Marshall said, visibly relaxing. "If things go well with the investigation, perhaps I'll get a chance to catch up with him."

  I couldn't imagine anyone voluntarily spending time with the inspector, least of all someone as closely affiliated with Danger Cove as one of its detectives. Perhaps Sturgeon was mor
e pleasant when he was off-duty. "Is there anything else you need to know from me?"

  Marshall shook his head. "I know where to find you if the forensic evidence doesn't support my initial theory of suicide. But as long as Merle's here, I might as well get his statement too. Where were you around noon today?"

  "I was with Buzz Reed," Merle said. "He's considering joining the market next year to sell his honey, so I was introducing him to the vendors."

  "Good, good." Marshall typed another, much briefer note into his phone and then pocketed it. "I'm done here. I need to go talk to the forensics team up at the top of the cliff."

  Merle and I exchanged glances. Mine was one of confusion, wondering why Marshall had accepted such minimal statements from us, but Merle's expression was a clear warning that I shouldn't say anything further.

  * * *

  Merle and I stayed behind while Marshall left for the lighthouse cliff. Once the detective was out of sight, I said, "At least you've got a solid alibi witness in Buzz."

  "Not really," Merle said. "If Marshall had pushed, I'd have had to tell him that Buzz left to use the porta-potty shortly after you did and we agreed to meet back at the orchard's stall when he was finished. Cary had already left to go supervise the grill, so I was all alone for about twenty minutes while I waited for Buzz. I did chat with people who stopped by, sold a few bags of pears, but none of the transactions were memorable, and I think they all paid with cash, so there probably aren't any time-stamped banking records. I couldn't say who the customers were, and even if I could identify them, I doubt they'd remember the exact time they talked to me."

  Buzz burst through the flaps of the first aid tent. His whole body was quivering. "I just heard that someone died at the market today. And she wasn't the first."

  "Come have a seat, and I'll get you some water." Merle stood and went toward the cooler where the Baxter twins kept supplies for anyone who was dehydrated or in shock.

  "Have you been talking to Jim Sweetwater?" I asked. "Guy in a Sherlock Holmes costume?"

  Buzz nodded as he settled into the chair next to me. "He said this market is so poorly run that people would rather kill themselves than get stuck here."

  "Jim Sweetwater is a malcontent," I said. "If the situation were really that bad, he wouldn't stick around himself to sell his potatoes, would he?"

  Buzz accepted the water bottle that Merle handed him.

  "She's right," Merle said, coming back to stand beside me. "Sweetwater likes to stir things up. It's true that a woman died today—a market-goer, not a vendor—but we don't know much more than that she was found at the base of the cliff."

  "Was it the woman in a costume like yours?" Buzz asked.

  I nodded.

  "I think I saw her up by the edge of the cliff. I remember thinking it didn't look safe, and I was going to go check on her after I used the porta-potty, but she was gone when I came out."

  "The homicide detective will want to talk to you about what you saw," I said.

  "That's all I know. She was just standing there, looking out over the ocean. And the sun reflected off the brass of a really nice spyglass she had in her hand." Buzz took a drink of the water. "She did glance over her shoulder a few times, like she was waiting for someone and was irritated that the person was late. That's why I thought it could wait until I finished with the porta-potty before I went to check on her. I figured whoever she was meeting would be there any minute and he'd tell her to get back from the edge."

  "Did you see anyone heading up the steps toward the lighthouse?" Merle asked.

  "No, but I wasn't paying much attention. I really did need to use the porta-potty." Buzz tucked the half-empty water bottle into his fanny pack and stood. "And now I really need to get home. You've got my number, so you can give it to the detective. He can call me anytime if he thinks I've got useful information. But there's no way I'm staying here any longer. I've seen and heard more than enough to know that this market is not right for me."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. Take some time to think it over, though. Jim Sweetwater is a troublemaker, but I don't think he's going to be with us for long." Especially not if I could count this latest bit of meddling as the final strike against him.

  Buzz's eyes widened. "You mean he's going to die too?"

  "No, no, of course not," I said. "I just don't think he's a good fit for the market. Especially if he's telling tall tales that would make you think you were putting your life at risk by setting up a stall here. Most of the vendors you met today have been with us since the very beginning of the season."

  "I don't know," Buzz said, and for a moment I thought he might reconsider. Then he continued more firmly, "All of the vendors were very nice, and their products were all good, but I can't be around negative energy. I need to be calm around my bees, or the colony would get stressed too, and they're already vulnerable. I can't take that chance. You'll just have to find another beekeeper for your market."

  I knew when a plan wasn't worth investing any more time or money in, so I didn't try to stop him.

  Once Buzz was on the other side of the tent flaps, I turned to Merle. "So help me, if Jim Sweetwater says one word to me about the market's lack of a beekeeper after this, I'm going to do what my great-great-great-grandmother would have done."

  "I probably don't want to know, but I've got to ask. What would your great-great-great-grandmother have done?"

  "She'd have dragged Sweetwater up to the lighthouse cliff and tossed him off it."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Merle left to join his brewmaster, JT, in the Pear Stirpes Orchard stall, and I went to have another word with Jim Sweetwater, this time about scaring off potential vendors. Before I could get to his stall, though, Tommy Fordham called my name. I wasn't in any huge rush for my confrontation with Sweetwater since the damage was already done, and besides, Tommy only asked for help when he truly needed it. Today, he was dressed as the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz, in a ragged shirt and jeans that had straw sticking out of the sleeves and hems. The seat of his wheelchair had also been padded with straw to make it look like he was sitting on top of a bale.

  His girlfriend, Ginger Schwartz, wore Dorothy's blue pinafore-style dress over a short-sleeved white blouse that didn't seem warm enough for today's weather. She was a petite woman whose red hair usually fell in a single long braid down her back but today formed two loose braids that fell down her chest. At the moment, Ginger was dancing—possibly to stay warm, although she did love to dance—to the country music on the boom box tucked in among the display of heirloom tomatoes. She still managed to weigh the customers' produce and take payments even as she moved to the music.

  Tommy left Ginger to take care of business on her own and rolled to the back of the stall with me in his wake.

  "I'm sorry," he said as soon as we were out of easy hearing range for the customers. "It's my fault that Jim Sweetwater got to Buzz. I shouldn't have let Buzz leave my side, but I got distracted by a rush of customers that Ginger couldn't handle on her own. And then there was this guy who started asking us questions about Angela, and I figured you wouldn't want Buzz to hear about that until the police had figured out what happened to her, so I left Buzz out front with Ginger while I took the nosy guy back here where we could talk in private. The next thing I knew, Buzz was out in the middle of the Memorial Walkway, listening to Jim Sweetwater fill his head with nonsense. I went after him as soon as I saw them together, but the damage was already done. Buzz went flying over to where you were in the first aid tent before I could get to him."

  "Don't worry about it," I said. "It's not your fault that Jim Sweetwater's a jerk. And Buzz was bound to hear about Angela's death eventually."

  "I know, but it would have been better if you could have controlled the story instead of letting Buzz hear about it from someone who's trying to make you look bad."

  Buzz was a lost cause now, but there were other potential problems I might be able to head off. "Tell me more about this guy who was a
sking questions about Angela. Do you know who he is?"

  "No idea." Tommy pounded a fist on the arm of his wheelchair, causing it to shed bits of straw. "I should have just told him to leave me and Ginger alone so he wouldn't be anywhere near Buzz, but I was trying not to create a scene."

  "Could it have been a reporter from the Cove Chronicles?"

  "He asked enough questions to be a reporter, yes, but he's not local unless the Chronicles hired someone new," Tommy said. "It wasn't Matt Viera or Duncan Pickles. I've talked to both of them in the past."

  I didn't know Duncan Pickles, but I'd met Matt Viera before, and if he were here, he would have sought me out for an interview by now, either in his usual role as the arts reporter for the local paper or, more reluctantly, pressed into service to cover Angela's death in the absence of a hard-news reporter who could do the story.

  As Tommy had said, it was my job to spin Angela's death in as good a light as possible so the incident wouldn't scare people away from the market either the rest of this weekend or next year. I needed to find this new reporter and see if I could convince him that notwithstanding the tragic event, the market was generally a safe and fun place to spend a weekend afternoon.

  "If he is a reporter," I said, "I need to find him and see if I can influence his story. What did he look like?"

  "Average height, solid build, short blond hair, midforties," Tommy said. "Looked like he might have a military background. And he's good-looking. At least, that's what Ginger said. Fortunately for me, she was quick to add that she was just pointing out that some women might find him extremely attractive but she herself wasn't as interested in a chiseled jaw and equally sharp cheekbones as she was in a guy's ability to make her laugh. And I can definitely make her laugh."

  "Ginger's got the right attitude."

  "I certainly think so," Tommy said. "But I've got to say, meeting this guy, I have to wonder if being good-looking is a prerequisite for working at a newspaper. All the reporters with the Cove Chronicles look like they ought to be working in television or movies instead of print."