A Secret in the Pumpkin Patch

by Elizabeth Ashby

  "Who else would have told him?" Scott took back his phone. "No one in town holds the arrest against me. They knew about it from when it happened, and most have probably forgotten about it, and the rest have accepted my apologies for being stupid, and they've moved on. No reason to bring it up now. So Sturgeon can't be trying to alienate the local residents with these allegations. The only people he might affect are the people coming to the market from outside town, and I need them to keep my farm afloat."

  "All I know is that I didn't tell Sturgeon anything about you," I said. "And he's definitely going beyond the scope of his authority with this attack. If you'll forward the link to me, I'll have the market's attorney take a look at what can be done."

  "You mean Merle Curtis?" At my nod, he frowned, which seemed odd, since most people liked Merle. "I heard you and he are living together."

  And I had a good idea of who had told him: Jim Sweetwater. Until now, I'd harbored the hope that he'd limited his potentially slanderous complaints about my supposedly giving Merle preferential treatment—and vice versa—to conversations with me, but apparently Sweetwater wasn't being that circumspect. I was going to have to find out if any of the other vendors thought I was being unfair, and if so, Merle and I would have to discuss the situation before I had to defend myself in front of the mayor.

  "We've been dating," I said, "and I'm renting his caretaker's cabin, but that won't affect anything at the market. If you truly think that I was involved with Sturgeon's harassment of you, I'll ask Merle to refer the matter to another attorney."

  "I like Merle," Scott said. "I just can't have people saying my birds are doped up. The fact that they're grown in more natural conditions than the supermarket birds is my main selling point."

  "I understand," I said. "Merle and I will do whatever we can to keep anyone from lying about you or any of our other vendors. Just give us a chance."

  "All right." Scott moved to the side, away from a bird that was pecking at his work boots, presumably looking for treats underneath his feet. "But you'd better fix it, or I won't be back next year."

  "I completely understand," I said. "Until I can deal with Sturgeon, is there anything I can do to make up for the hassles you've experienced this weekend? I could give you an extra slot at the demonstration grill if you'd like. We've had a lot of interest in the demonstrations, and I would expect potential customers to be more influenced by getting to know you personally than by anything a stranger could say on social media."

  "I'll see if my partner can come over to do the demonstration. He makes the most amazing grilled turkey wings."

  "That sounds perfect. I'll have Cary let you know when we can fit you into the schedule." I watched Scott bend down to check something on a nearby turkey. He seemed to have completely gotten over his earlier anger with me. "Could I ask you for one small favor in return?"

  "Depends. What is it?"

  I turned to wave at the uniformed police officer who'd been joined by a forensics team member in the pumpkin patch and was helping to unroll some police tape to delineate the area around the spyglass. "Could you keep an eye out for anyone who might be goofing off in the vines, so they don't get hurt? And call me or Officer Fields if you see a problem?"

  "Sure." Scott stood, the turkey apparently not needing his attention any longer. "I was the one who called for medical assistance when the guy tripped this morning. He and his buddy were racing across the width of the garden. Same sort of stupid stuff I did back before I was busted."

  "Did you see anyone else in the vines yesterday?" I asked. "Someone who didn't seem to be looking for the perfect pumpkin?"

  His brows furrowed in concentration. Eventually, he shook his head. "Can't say I did. Lots of people wandered by, mostly customers coming to see my turkeys or, you know, acting like lovebirds themselves and heading for the little caves over there." He pointed at the rocky arm of land that wrapped around the garden and that was dotted with shallow little caves, each just big enough for one or two people to have a little privacy. "Most of the vendors were probably down here at one point or another too."

  "Anyone in particular?"

  Scott shrugged. "I lost track of everyone who stopped by. I'm seeing people I haven't talked to since high school. Of course, there are a few I'd rather not get reacquainted with. Like my high school guidance counselor. He still hasn't forgiven me for deciding to become a farmer instead of following in my mother's footsteps to become an engineer. I may be good with math, but that doesn't mean I want to work in an office. And the math comes in handy when I need a business plan to submit a loan application for new equipment on the farm."

  "What about the ones you were happy to see? What were they doing down here?"

  "It varied," Scott said. "Some wanted to barter for one of my birds, and others just wanted to discuss how we could refer customers to each other for complementary products. You've got a good group here, you know. Some markets have stricter pecking orders than any turkey flock, and the folks at the top of the hierarchy are a little too happy to let the rest starve. Not here, though."

  Too bad Buzz or the mayor wasn't here to hear the spontaneous testimonial. Still, it was reassuring to know that at least one person thought I was doing a good job. Now, if I could just keep everyone alive and out of trouble for a few more hours, I might get my contract as market manager renewed for next year.

  * * *

  I was about halfway between the garden and the first aid tent when a man dressed in a Batman costume—complete with a voluminous black cape and a face-obscuring black helmet— came running up to me.

  The possibility that he was the driver of the SUV that had almost run me over on Saturday caused me to freeze. Then, with a flourish of his cape, he whisked out a battered folder that I recognized as belonging to my ex-client, Eddie Weber.

  That didn't entirely reassure me. He still could have been the driver of the SUV, but at least for the moment, it seemed obvious that he had a vested interest in my being alive so I could give him some financial advice. Plus, unlike the deserted parking lot outside the grocery store on Saturday, here at the market I was surrounded by lots of people who would hear if I shouted for help. I could even see the distinctive bobby's helmet of Fred Fields' costume just a few yards away, near The Clip and Sip's facepainting station where Gia was putting the finishing touches on yet another miniature zombie's gruesome scars.

  "You really don't want to do this right now," I told Eddie. "I don't care what you say. I'm not going to review your portfolio. Not today, not ever."

  "I totally understand now." It was hard to tell through his mask, but I thought he winked at me before he opened the folder just enough for me to see that there was a bundle of cash inside. "I'm just going to leave this with you. I'll trust you to do the right thing."

  I was definitely going to do the right thing. It just wasn't what Eddie was expecting.

  I waved at Officer Fred Fields, who came trotting over.

  "Is there a problem here?" Fields asked.

  I looked at Eddie. "Well? Is there?"

  "No, no," he said, tucking the folder and its contents beneath his cape. "I was just saying hello to an old friend. And now I need to go. Lots to do here in Danger Cove today."

  Fields nodded amiably. "You might check out the haunted house if you haven't gone through it already. The historical museum's volunteers have outdone themselves this year, bringing local history to life. Or to death, I suppose."

  "Good idea," Eddie said, sidling off in the direction of the haunted house.

  Once he was a good distance away, Fields asked, "What was that all about?"

  "He's an ex-client who won't take no for an answer."

  "Want me to have a talk with him?"

  I watched Eddie get in line to buy a ticket for the haunted house. "I'm not sure he's done anything you need to deal with. He's just been a nuisance. I'm sure you have more important things to do than talk to him."

  "If you change your mind, I'll be on the pr
emises until all the vendors have left today. If you don't see me, just text, the same as we arranged before: HELP and your location."

  "Thanks. I don't think Eddie will do anything to me as long as there are witnesses, and I promised Merle I'd make sure to stay out where there are lots of people around for the rest of the day. But it wouldn't hurt to let Detective Marshall know that Eddie's been pestering me and might have a motive for wanting me dead. Maybe someone could ask Eddie for an alibi for the time of Angela's death. I know the detective doesn't believe me, but I'm convinced that she was killed by mistake and I was the real target."

  "I was thinking something similar when I heard about what happened across the street." Fields shook his head. "I don't like this situation at all."

  That was both worrisome and reassuring. Worrisome that a seasoned police officer thought I might be in danger but also reassuring that I wasn't imagining the possible danger to me, despite the way Detective Marshall had suggested I shouldn't worry my pretty little head about possibly being a killer's target. I still thought that Merle had been overreacting with his suggestion that I skip the market today, but I was definitely not going anywhere isolated until Angela's case was closed to my satisfaction, not just Marshall's.

  "I'm not too happy about the situation myself," I said. "Angela wasn't a bad person, and I can't help thinking she'd be alive now if I hadn't upset someone enough to want me dead. I just wish I knew what I'd done to make someone that angry. Then maybe I could convince Detective Marshall to take my theory seriously."

  "Lester won't listen to me either, but I'll ask my colleagues to keep an extra eye on you for the rest of the day. I'm confident you're already taking precautions, but just in case, here's a little bit of advice based on my years of walking a beat. If you feel even a little bit uncomfortable with anyone, assume the worst. Don't wait until you're sure that someone is a threat. I don't mind responding to a false alarm in the circumstances." He patted his belly. "I could use some extra exercise, and I'd rather you be safe than sorry."

  "Thanks," I said. "But I hope it won't come to that. There's been enough bad press connected to the market for one weekend."

  "That reminds me. I finally remembered what happened when Sturgeon left town and why he might have a grudge against Danger Cove. He was a building inspector for the town in those days, not an agricultural one working for the state. He was fired for not doing his job thoroughly. He claimed it wasn't his fault, that it was a boom time for construction and he couldn't keep up with demand if he looked at everything that was on his checklist for each building."

  "From what I've seen, he's making up for it now by going beyond the parameters of his job, looking into things that aren't even within his jurisdiction. Or maybe he's just doing it here as a way of getting some revenge on the town. He keeps threatening to shut down the market."

  "That's ridiculous," Fields said. "You know me, and I'm as big a supporter of following the rules as anyone, but if there have been any infractions at the market this weekend, they haven't been anything that would affect health and safety. Sometimes you've got to cut people some slack, or you'll increase the bad behavior instead of reducing it."

  "I suspect Lew Sturgeon doesn't much care about the negative consequences of his actions," I said. "He'd be just as happy if Danger Cove imploded. He'd think it was just proof that he'd been right all along about what a terrible place this is."

  "I'll keep an eye on him," Fields said. "Maybe ask around to see if anyone on the force has any ideas for how to handle him. Maybe someone who knew him better than I did twenty years ago."

  "Thanks," I said. "I'll see if I can find Matt Viera from the Cove Chronicles. He might know something about Lew Sturgeon. There's another reporter here this weekend, a guy by the name of Wayne Comstock, but he's not local, so he's probably never heard of Sturgeon before. And I'd just as soon Comstock didn't hear any more negative things about Danger Cove. I'm already worried that he's going to trash the market's reputation in his article because of what happened to Angela."

  "Wayne Comstock?" Fields said. "The name sounds familiar, but I can't place it. I must be getting old, forgetting names and town history."

  "You remembered what happened with Sturgeon eventually," I said. "I'm sure you'll remember what you know about Comstock too."

  Fields brightened. "I know what would help refresh my memory."

  "What?"

  "A pumpkin spice cupcake."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Fred Fields didn't get his cupcake. At least not right then. Just as he was about to head over to the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery pushchart, he noticed some minor shouting and shoving near the demonstration grill and jogged over to deal with it.

  Cary was already there but ill-equipped to deal with so many people who were anxious to get a taste of the grilled flatbread pizza with Fordham Farms' tomatoes, Danger Cove Dairy's mozzarella, and Thyme for Tea's herbs. While I would have liked to go see what the fuss was all about for myself, my work had to come first. Fields could handle the crowd while I went looking for the Cove Chronicles reporter, Matt Viera, to see what he knew about Lew Sturgeon. Matt hadn't been here on Saturday, so I expected he'd make an appearance before the end of today. He was dating someone in the quilt guild, so I headed for the quilting bee, hoping someone there would know where he was.

  Lester Marshall was there ahead of me, but he didn't seem to be acting in his official capacity. He was crouched down next to one end of the quilting frame beside a stocky woman in her late seventies. Her hair was exactly the same dark brown as his, although hers presumably had some artificial assistance. Rather than costumes, the quilters all wore quilted jackets with a Halloween theme. Marshall's grandmother's was made out of a wide variety of orange and brown prints in a simple pattern made more impressive by the tiny size of the pieced squares.

  Emma Quinn, a tall, sturdy woman in her seventies, was an accomplished quilter, as evidenced by the appliquéd pumpkins and vines on her quilted jacket, but her real skill was the way she organized the guild to carry out the bidding of the older, more fragile president of the guild. It wasn't unusual for Emma to be somewhat apart from the more visible activities, watching out for problem areas, so I wasn't surprised to find her off to one side of the quilting frame, reviewing the schedule of volunteers for the rest of the day.

  Emma told me that Matt Viera's girlfriend was giving a lecture on the role of quiltmaking men to a group of historians, and he'd gone with her. As far as Emma knew, no one from the Cove Chronicles was covering the market this weekend.

  I thanked Emma and let her get back to her scheduling. As long as I was there, though, I decided to check in with Dee Madison, the elderly and frail-looking president of the Danger Cove Quilt Guild. For once, Dee wasn't actually working on a quilt. There were so many volunteers at the moment that she'd given up her seat to let someone else experience the joy of hand stitching. Dee was making her way around the frame, literally patting people on the back, encouraging them to make even smaller and more regular stitches than the ones that looked tiny and almost robotically perfect to me.

  Wayne Comstock was following her, looming over her in what I would have considered to be an aggressive manner if he'd done it to me. Dee didn't seem particularly worried about him, although she did send him the occasional irritated glance. I hurried over to intervene before she could do something to Comstock that might cause him to be as biased against Danger Cove as Lew Sturgeon was.

  When I came close enough to be able to make out Comstock's words, he was demanding to know what Dee knew about Angela Henderson and where she'd been when the young woman fell off the cliff.

  Dee gave him a puzzled look. "Why on earth would you ask me that? Everyone knows where I've been all weekend. Right here, with my guild."

  "You didn't leave here, not even for a nap or something?"

  "I don't have time for naps. Not until I finish all the quilts I want to make, and that won't be for a long, long time." Dee called out a name that I di
dn't catch, and the woman I thought was Detective Marshall's grandmother got up from the far end of the quilting frame and trotted over to Dee, who began interrogating the woman about how many raffle tickets her grandson had bought.

  I knew better than to interrupt a discussion of quilt business, but Wayne Comstock didn't. He kept asking his questions, growing louder and more noticeably frustrated as the two women simply ignored him. They truly seemed completely oblivious of his presence, which I found amusing until it got to the point where I thought the reporter was going to explode with frustration. Dee was much too frail to withstand even the lightest assault, and Detective Marshall's grandmother, despite moving quickly and without any obvious signs of mobility issues, was old enough that I worried she might be more fragile than she appeared.

  I would have preferred to work with Matt Viera to get some positive press about the market, but in his absence, my only option was to try to charm Wayne Comstock into writing about some of the good things that had happened this weekend, not just the sadly fatal one. Or what he probably viewed as crazy old women with warped priorities.

  I tapped him on his muscular forearm to get his attention. "I don't think you're going to get anything out of Dee unless you plan to write about quilts, and that doesn't seem to be your field of interest. I'm sure I can find someone who's interested in talking to you if you'd like to come with me."

  Comstock gave Dee a disgusted look and then nodded in agreement, allowing me to lead him away from the quilting bee.

  "Let's start with the demonstration grill," I suggested. "Apparently the flatbread pizza is so good that people can't get enough of it."

  "Why would I care about pizza?" Comstock stopped suddenly, halfway between the quilters and the grill. "Does it have anything to do with how or why Angela Henderson died?"

  "Not that I'm aware of," I said, taken aback by his determination to concentrate on just the one topic, rather than being open to other leads. "But I'm sure you could write a great story about the three vendors working together for mutual success. It's not often that you see businesses working together instead of competing. And if that's not interesting enough, I can introduce you to the consumer sciences class. Teens doing something positive are always good for a feature story."