A Secret in the Pumpkin Patch

by Elizabeth Ashby

  "I don't care about stories," Comstock said. "I just care about finding the truth about what happened to Angela."

  "I thought reporters were always looking for stories. At least, that's what Matt Viera says."

  "I don't know any Matt Viera," he said. "And I'm not a reporter. I'm a private investigator."

  I glanced back at where Detective Marshall's grandmother had resumed her seat and was working on the pumpkin-colored quilt while he talked to her. "Do the police know you're here?"

  Comstock shrugged. "Don't know, don't care. I've got a job to do. That's all that matters."

  "And what job is that?"

  "To find out who killed Angela."

  "You don't think she committed suicide?"

  "I know she didn't," he said with conviction. "And so does my client."

  "Who would that be?"

  "None of your business."

  Why was he so reluctant to say who'd hired him to look into Angela's death? Perhaps he wasn't really a private investigator. I only had his word for it, and even if I insisted on seeing a license, I wouldn't know how to tell if it was legitimate.

  Merle must have worked with private investigators in the past. He would know how to find out if Comstock was who and what he said he was. Until then, I wasn't prepared to believe anything he said. For all I knew, he was the one who'd killed Angela, and now he was just trying to throw suspicion on someone else. Although, if that was the case, then it meant that it hadn't been a mistake when Angela was killed, and if I hadn't been the intended target, then I couldn't explain the incident with the SUV on Saturday. Since I hadn't gotten a good look at the driver, it was theoretically possible that it had been Comstock, but I couldn't think of any reason why he would have wanted me dead. Unless maybe he thought I'd seen him up on the cliff when I left the porta-potty.

  "Actually, it is my business to know what you're doing here," I said. "I'm the market manager, and we're cooperating with the police to find Angela's killer. If your investigation is going to compromise their case, then I'll have to ask you to leave."

  "I'm not here to compromise any case, except for the stupid theory that Angela killed herself," he said. "That's all I can say. The rest is confidential."

  "Even if the police want to know?" I nodded in the direction of Detective Marshall, who had his back to us. "That's the lead detective on Angela Henderson's case right over there. I'm sure he'd be interested to know why you think his theory is wrong."

  Comstock winced. "I probably shouldn't have been quite so blunt in my assessment of the police theory. We all want the same thing, after all. To find out who killed Angela and bring him to justice. That's what you want too, isn't it? Or are you only concerned with making sure the market isn't blamed?"

  "No, I'm sure that whatever happened, it wasn't the market's fault." I wished I could trust Comstock, since I completely agreed with him that Angela hadn't killed herself and Marshall remained stuck on that theory.

  "Then let me help to prove it," Comstock said.

  "Why are you so certain she didn't kill herself?"

  He shook his head. "She just wouldn't do that."

  "That's not a lot to go on."

  "There's more," he said, glancing at Detective Marshall before leaning closer to me. "Or less, you could say. I'm told she had something on her before she died, and it was missing afterwards. Something valuable. Something she never would have given up."

  The spyglass, I thought. Comstock knew about it but apparently didn't know it had been found.

  He must have noticed my surprise, because he added, "You know what I'm talking about, don't you? Maybe you even found it. You've got to tell me where it is. It's the key to the whole case. I'm sure of it."

  For the first time since I'd met him, I thought he was telling me the truth. But possibly not the whole truth. He was desperate to find the spyglass, but I wasn't entirely sure if it was to help Angela or to help her killer.

  How had Comstock even known the spyglass hadn't been hanging around Angela's neck when her body had been found? Had the police told him, or had he known because he'd taken it from her before pushing her off the cliff? I couldn't take the risk that I'd be helping her killer instead of trying to find the killer.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "There's nothing more that I can tell you."

  "If you change your mind, you've got my number." Comstock hesitated, clearly hoping I would reconsider and tell him something useful.

  I did wonder if was doing the right thing in keeping the information from him. Someone would probably tell him about the spyglass being found in the pumpkin patch. Even if the police weren't broadcasting the information, too many people knew about it for it to be much of a secret, and it would have been nice to have had an ally interested in proving that Angela's death hadn't been an accident or suicide.

  Our mutual indecision was interrupted by a voice beyond Comstock insisting, "This place is nothing but a tragedy waiting to happen."

  * * *

  I peered around Comstock to see the state agricultural inspector bearing down on us. Whether Comstock was truly a private investigator or not, at the moment I was just relieved that he wasn't, in fact, a reporter. The last thing the market needed this weekend was for Lew Sturgeon's unfounded complaints to be spread far and wide.

  "Several tragedies, in fact," the inspector continued.

  Comstock peered at him suspiciously. "You think Angela's death was part of a bigger pattern?"

  "He's not talking about Angela," I explained. "He thinks we're all going to die of food poisoning or something."

  Comstock ignored me to ask the inspector, "Where were you when Angela died?"

  "The woman who fell off the cliff? Around noon yesterday?" Sturgeon asked.

  The private investigator nodded, and I intervened. "You really don't need to answer Mr. Comstock's questions. He's not with the police."

  "I don't mind talking to him. Unlike some people, I've got nothing to hide." Sturgeon pulled out his tablet and scrolled through some notes. "I was in my car, catching up on some emails from 11:32 a.m. to 12:18 p.m. Then I was inspecting the turkey pen and discussing the problems there with the farmer for the next twenty minutes. I believe Ms. Dolores here can confirm the latter time."

  "Is that right?" Comstock asked me.

  "I don't know the exact times, but yes, I was with Mr. Sturgeon and the turkey farmer shortly after noon."

  Comstock grunted and left abruptly. At first I thought he'd just decided he had bigger fish to fry, but then I realized that Detective Marshall was bearing down on us.

  "Has Comstock been bothering you?" Marshall asked.

  "You know him?"

  "Yeah," Marshall said. "Private investigator. Or so I'm told."

  "You don't know him personally?" I asked. "Did you check him out? Make sure he's the real thing, all licensed and insured and everything?"

  "Not worth my time. Doesn't matter if he's legit or not. All I know is he called me earlier to see if I would tell him anything about the Henderson case. Told him to stay out of it and that he was wasting his time, since it was either suicide or an accident."

  Sturgeon took that as his cue to speak up. "There will be more 'accidents' here if my advice continues to be ignored."

  "No one is ignoring your professional advice," I said with as much patience as I could muster. "I am concerned, however, that you're not coming to this market with an open mind. I saw what you posted to social media about Scott Vicente yesterday."

  "That was personal," Sturgeon said. "I can say anything I want in my off-duty time."

  "You outed him for a childhood indiscretion," I said. "You had to know that could affect his reputation with his customers. And then you made a point of hassling him once you got to the market. You were definitely on duty while you were here. You told everyone you were a state agricultural inspector, and you were constantly taking notes for your official reports."

  "Now, now," Marshall said. "No need to get hostile here. I'm su
re Lew was only doing what he thought was necessary to protect the public."

  "Scott's juvenile record has nothing to do with public safety," I said.

  Marshall shrugged. "Is that what the stuff online was about? It's no big deal. Everyone in town knows Scott was busted for marijuana when he was a kid. He's been clean since then, so no one would hold his history against him now."

  "I think you're wrong," I said. "Customers who aren't from Danger Cove wouldn't know about the past or how trivial it was or that Scott's been a model citizen for all of his adult life. Mr. Sturgeon's malicious gossip could cause a great deal of harm."

  Marshall and Sturgeon shared a look that clearly meant they both thought I was being ridiculous. I didn't care what Sturgeon thought any longer, but I would have liked to stay in the detective's good graces, assuming it wasn't already too late for that.

  Unfortunately, it was obvious that nothing I could say was going to get through the impenetrable barrier of Detective Marshall's preconceived notions. His attitude suggested he believed that not only was I lacking in the experience that he, as a detective, had with criminal behavior, but I was also lacking in the more basic life experience that he, as a human being, had with understanding human behavior. He probably thought it was a wonder I could do anything on my own, from getting myself dressed in the morning to overseeing a wide range of vendors for the market. And he didn't even know about the trouble I was having in signing up a beekeeper. Or maybe he did. Sweetwater never missed any opportunity to recount my shortfallings to anyone who would listen.

  I might not be the most experienced or the most effective market manager ever, but there was one thing I could do—defend my vendors from defamatory attacks. "If Mr. Sturgeon isn't willing to make amends for his misbehavior, I'll have to report it to his supervisor at the state department of agriculture."

  Marshall laid a reassuring hand on the inspector's shoulder. "I'm certain that won't be necessary. Lew here didn't say anything that wasn't true, and instead of worrying about unimportant things, you ought to be doing something about Jim Sweetwater."

  I wasn't going to let Lew get away with his malicious behavior, but contacting his supervisor could wait until after the weekend was over. The supervisor probably wouldn't even get my message until regular business hours anyway. And it sounded like I had a more immediate problem. "What's Sweetwater done now?"

  Marshall gave Sturgeon a friendly push. "You don't need to stay for this. It isn't anything you need to worry about, and I'm sure you've got more important work to do. You know, checking for unhealthy vegetables and stuff."

  Sturgeon looked like he wanted to stick around, but after a moment's hesitation, he nodded. "Right. There're always more potential problems to look for and never enough inspectors to do the work."

  Sturgeon headed up the Memorial Walkway toward the rows of canopied stalls, although I got the impression he didn't really have a plan for what he was going to do next. He reached the beginning of the main market area and then paused as if uncertain about where to start.

  Detective Marshall reclaimed my attention. "Forget about Lew. He's just doing his job. It's time for you to do yours. You need to keep your vendors in line. Someone told me Sweetwater was accusing people of pushing Angela off the cliff. I don't need that sort of thing going on, upsetting people. If it keeps happening, you won't have to worry about Lew shutting the market down for safety violations. I'll shut it down until the investigation into Angela's death is closed. Which is likely to be weeks from now. Possibly months or even years."

  Uncertainty over whether the market would open next year wouldn't look good in the upcoming review of my job performance, but it wasn't as worrisome a threat as Marshall might think it was. If I could just keep him from doing anything for the rest of the day, the market would be closed for the winter anyway, and it wouldn't be any better for his reputation than it would be for mine if the investigation dragged on indefinitely. Still, it would be better for everyone if we could avoid any hint of the market closing for reasons other than the natural end of the growing season.

  "I'll talk to him, although he'd be more likely to listen to you."

  "I don't have time for that," Marshall said. "I've got a case to close."

  He was such a hypocrite. He certainly hadn't been too busy working on the case when he'd been visiting his grandmother at the quilting bee.

  Not that I could point that fact out, though. If I pushed Marshall too hard, he might well shut down the entire market, claiming—falsely—that the activity on the lighthouse grounds was interfering with his investigation. My time would be better spent warning Jim Sweetwater to behave himself. He probably wouldn't listen to me any more than Marshall did, but if Sweetwater ignored me and irritated the police again, it would be one more piece of evidence to support my banning him from next year's market. At least one good thing might come out of this weekend. Two, if Buzz finally made up his mind and signed up to join next year's market.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I was torn between going straight to Sweetwater's stall to have a serious talk with him and the much more pleasant prospect of detouring over to check out the pizza-making at the grill before the demonstration was over. It wasn't entirely selfish. I did need to check in with Cary since I hadn't done it earlier.

  I glanced toward the main market area and noticed that, for once, there were several customers buying potatoes. I could spare a few minutes to visit the demonstration grill before confronting Sweetwater. Not just because I was curious about the flatbread pizza that was apparently so amazing that it had caused a bit of pushing and shoving to be in the front of the audience, but also because I thought the collaboration among the three vendors would make a good story for the Cove Chronicles if I took some pictures and forwarded them to Matt Viera to follow up on. The market could use a bit of good press to offer some balance for the bad news about Angela.

  I took a handful of pictures and then went over to check on Cary. He'd already warned the pizza makers that their time was almost up, and he had their replacements lined up to one side. I didn't recognize the two women, but if I remembered the schedule correctly, the next demonstration was going to be for grilled apples sprinkled with cinnamon, a nice bit of dessert after the pizzas. The women were probably the wife and daughter of the farmer who usually worked alone in the fruit stall, but I wasn't certain.

  I pulled Cary to one side so we could talk privately. "How's everything going?"

  "Good," he said. "Except for the first demonstration today. It started three minutes late, and it was partly my fault. I was seventeen minutes late for setup this morning, and the pepper farmer was behind schedule, and I had to help him. If I'd been here on time, I would have been able to get that done sooner. I'm really sorry, Maria Dolores. It won't happen again."

  "Why were you late?"

  "I had to do something, and it took longer than I'd planned." Cary always had trouble meeting people's eyes, but he usually at least made an attempt, even if his gaze ended up skittering to one side. I'd grown used to it and accepted it as a natural part of how he interacted with people. The way he was avoiding my gaze and staring at his clipboard now wasn't natural for him. He was hiding something.

  There would be time after the market closed to find out what had caused him to be late and why he felt guilty about it. For now, I let it slide. "Have the audiences been enjoying the demonstrations?"

  Cary looked puzzled, and his eyes lifted to focus on one side of my face. "I don't know. You didn't tell me I needed to survey their reactions."

  "Never mind. It's not important."

  "I did count how many people attended each demonstration," Cary said, his usual enthusiasm returning. "Want to see the spreadsheet?"

  "Not right now," I said. "Perhaps you could send it to me tomorrow when I'll have more time to really study it."

  "I can do that." He stared down at his clipboard again. "Is it all right if I take a break? I need to do something for my new boss. It won't t
ake long, I promise."

  He seemed nervous, perhaps because he'd never asked for a break before and wasn't sure if it was appropriate, especially after he'd just admitted to being late for work this morning. If it had been anyone else, I would have insisted that he wait until after I had my talk with Sweetwater, but Cary seemed anxious enough already. Besides, I really ought to introduce myself to the women from the apple orchard and thank them for doing the demonstration.

  I smiled so Cary would know I wasn't upset. "Are you forsaking me for your new boss already?"

  He looked up and directly into my eyes for a moment. "Oh, no, Maria Dolores. You'll always be my weekend boss." He looked down at his clipboard again. "It's just that I'm supposed to do this thing today, and if I don't, maybe I won't still be able to work at—" He cut himself off suddenly. "I really want this new job."

  "And if it will make you happy, I want you to have it too." I held out my hand for the clipboard. "Go on. Do whatever you have to do."

  "Thank you, Maria Dolores," he said cheerfully, handing over the clipboard. "I will be back in eleven minutes."

  I shooed him off and went over to introduce myself to the apple orchard's representatives. Surely even Sweetwater couldn't do something so outrageous in the next eleven minutes that it would get the market shut down by either the inspector or the detective.

  * * *

  Cary hadn't been gone even three minutes when Scott came up from the far end of the garden and asked to speak to me privately. I didn't think anyone would pay us any attention while the sweet apple dessert demonstration was going on, as long as we weren't directly in the audience's line of sight. I moved a short distance away until we were about halfway between the grill and the track, where about a dozen animals and their people were lined up for the next Howl-oween parade that was about to begin.