A Secret in the Pumpkin Patch

by Elizabeth Ashby

  The final grill demonstration of the day—a less-than-stellar performance, apparently, by the farmer who specialized in onions, garlic, and the other members of the allium family—was over, except for the cleanup, and the last few audience members were drifting away. The Second Chance Animal Rescue group had packed up and gone home, either because all the animals had been adopted or because everyone—human and otherwise—was exhausted from the hourly miniparades. Maura Monroe and the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery's pushcart, a favorite place for Fred Fields to hang out, was gone, presumably having sold out for the day.

  I didn't see Fields anywhere, so perhaps he'd gone over to the haunted house or down to the beach for some reason. I turned in that direction in time to see Wayne Comstock, having apparently finished his search of the pumpkin patch, heading toward me. I didn't think he was looking for me specifically, since he was walking with his head down as if he were still searching the ground.

  He might not be looking for me, but I wanted to talk to him. I needed to know what he was really up to. If he didn't have a good enough explanation for why he'd lied about not being here on Saturday, I might be able to convince Detective Marshall to take a closer look at Comstock as a possible suspect in Angela's death.

  "Did you find the Great Pumpkin?" I asked him.

  Comstock started before looking up from the ground to scowl at me. It probably wasn't good for his tough-guy image to have someone sneak up on him so easily. But then he said, "It's no joke. Angela Henderson is dead."

  For once, I thought he wasn't trying to mislead me. He was truly upset about her death. Not just professionally concerned on behalf of a client.

  "I'm sorry. Did you know her well?"

  "Not as well as I should have," he said with what was clearly profound regret. "She lost me."

  "Lost you?"

  "I was supposed to be watching her," he said. "The cops already know I was on the job when she died, and my clients said I could tell you too. I was hired by Angela's parents to keep an eye on her yesterday. They'd heard about the dangerous stuff happening at the market, and they couldn't talk her out of spending her weekend here, so they wanted to be sure she'd be okay. It's my fault that she died. She realized I was following her, and she pretended to be going into the haunted house, but she must have slipped out the back somehow, perhaps climbed the rocks to avoid passing me on the way up to the lighthouse. I didn't realize she was gone until too late."

  I thought he was finally telling the whole truth. His self-recrimination was plain on his face. "So now you're trying to figure out what happened to her."

  "There's just no way she killed herself," Comstock said heatedly. "I've worked with suicide risks before. She wasn't one."

  "Have you found any information that might be useful for the police?"

  He sighed. "Not yet."

  "Don't let me keep you from your work, then." If a real private investigator couldn't find any useful information, then I probably couldn't either, and Detective Marshall didn't seem to be looking for anything that might contradict his suicide theory. Comstock had the best chance of catching Angela's killer. "I'll just wish you good luck. And if there's anything I can do to help, just let me know."

  "Likewise," Comstock said, pointing at Lew Sturgeon, who, instead of leaving the market, was down in the middle of the pumpkin patch, shouting at the farmer there. "If you need some muscle to back you up, just let me know."

  I finally caught sight of Fred Fields and his bobby's helmet. He was beyond the garden area, at the haunted house, where it looked like there had been some sort of minor medical emergency, since the Baxter twins were over there too, kneeling next to someone on the ground. Fields was busy keeping curious onlookers away from the injured person and didn't seem to have noticed the problem in the pumpkin patch. I could text him, but what he was doing was probably more important than dealing with the state inspector. So was Wayne Comstock's work investigating Angela's death. That meant I was the "someone" who had to do something about Lew Sturgeon. Again.

  Despite my reservations, I said, "I can handle the inspector on my own for now. Go find Angela's killer."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  By the time I arrived at the scene of the shouting, the farmer had lifted one of the larger pumpkins into his arms, and I had a bad feeling he was planning to smash it on top of Lew Sturgeon's head. It might be incredibly satisfying, and the inspector probably deserved whatever happened to him, but I couldn't let the scenario play out. The police would have to arrest the farmer, it would make the newspapers, and the market would become the butt of endless pumpkin-head jokes. If that happened, I could forget about the market ever getting taken seriously again, and it would almost guarantee that my contract wouldn't be renewed.

  "Packing up already?" I asked the farmer.

  He answered with a silent shrug, while the state agricultural inspector continued ranting about the blights, wilts, and mildews that he apparently considered more horrifying than anything that might be on display at the haunted house.

  I ignored the inspector and spoke to the farmer. "I didn't get a chance to pick out my own pumpkin yet, and it might take me a few minutes to choose just the right one. I'll look over my options now, if you'll do me a favor and go ask Officer Fred Fields to come over here when he's done at the haunted house."

  The farmer eyed me over the huge pumpkin for a long moment before wordlessly stalking off to place it in a nearby cart and then heading in the direction of the haunted house. He was a man of few words in the best of circumstances, so I didn't take his silence personally.

  I turned to Lew Sturgeon. "What are you doing here?"

  "My job," he said.

  That seemed to be his standard answer to everything, but perhaps if I pretended to believe it this time and gave him the chance to vent some of his irritation, he would then leave quietly with Fields when he arrived. I glanced around to see who might overhear Sturgeon's false claims about the town or the market. No one was within easy hearing distance. In fact, there weren't many people anywhere other than outside the haunted house. Most people had packed up and left, since it was almost closing time for the market. Good for keeping Sturgeon from infecting others with his hatred for Danger Cove, but it also meant that I was a bit farther away from assistance than I'd like if things turned nasty.

  I tried for a sympathetic tone. "It can't be an easy job, being an inspector."

  "That's the first thing you've gotten right all weekend." Sturgeon stomped a few feet into the vine-covered area to pick up a pumpkin the size of a basketball and carry it back to me. "See this? Do you?"

  I had no idea what he was referring to. All I saw was a pumpkin. An orange one. With a stem. I didn't think that was the answer he was looking for. I opted for simply shaking my head.

  "It's a nightmare," Sturgeon said, getting even more worked up, if that was possible. He held the pumpkin up with two hands and twirled it as if he were lining a basketball up for a free throw. "A nightmare. That's what it is."

  Where was he planning to throw the pumpkin? At me? At a passerby? Or just back into the garden? It was nowhere close to the size of the one the farmer had been holding, but it could still do some damage if Sturgeon threw it at someone. I'd never gone in for group sports and was a total klutz when it came to catching balls. I might have a better shot of tackling him, but I could imagine how he'd describe it in his report and what the newspaper headlines would look like. Not exactly endorsements of my abilities to manage a thriving, peaceful market.

  Where was Fred Fields? I didn't want to look away from Sturgeon for fear he'd consider it a sign of disrespect and his anger would go up another notch. He was shaking with rage already.

  "No one understands," he said, talking to the pumpkin instead of to me. "We're expected to do more and more every year, and the farmers are always coming up with new ways to hide the problems, so it takes longer and longer to do the inspections. But does anyone appreciate what we do? Oh, no. And if we miss something and da
ngerous food gets into the markets? Then it's all our fault."

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  "You should be." He tossed the pumpkin into the air and then smacked it into the ground like he was spiking a volleyball over the net. It went splat on the ground, sending up a fountain of seeds and pulp. His hands empty now, he pointed a finger at me. "People like you are the reason this job is so difficult. You complain about the hassles of getting inspected, but you couldn't have your market without us, not without lots of people getting sick or even dying. And yet you resent the fact that we get paid anything at all, so the department's budget keeps getting cut, so we work more hours and get less and less money for our time. It's gotten so we can't even afford to buy the very products we're inspecting." He nodded toward the other end of the pumpkin patch, where the turkeys were making their own ruckus, picking up on his agitation. "I certainly couldn't afford one of those fancy heritage-breed turkeys for my Thanksgiving dinner, but I bet you can."

  "We all have financial challenges." Some of the specialty products at the market would admittedly strain the budget of the average Danger Cove resident. I doubted Sturgeon was that strapped for cash, though. A state agricultural inspector with twenty years' experience had to be paid a living wage. If a high-quality turkey for Thanksgiving was a priority for Sturgeon, and if he had a proper budget, he could splurge on one of Scott Vicente's turkeys for a special occasion. Not that I could tell him that. Sturgeon was in no state to listen to financial advice, and in any event, as I'd told Eddie, I no longer did financial planning.

  Perhaps quitting my old career had been a mistake. Being a market manager had turned out to be considerably more challenging than I'd expected. Admittedly, I'd experienced a number of crises in my first season that no one should have had to face in this job. I was probably just a little burned out, and the winter break would re-energize me. Despite everything, I could still catch a glimpse a better future for the market next year and thereafter. Especially if I could sign Buzz on for the next season.

  While I was thinking, Sturgeon raced over to get another of the supposedly unhealthy pumpkins and carried it back to smash next to the first one. He cleaned his hands on his thighs, leaving dirt and pulp behind on his brown pants, the new streaks matching what had been sprayed around the hems.

  "Everything in this town is rotten," he shouted as he stomped over to get yet another pumpkin. "You're all the problem, not me. I wish every single person in this town would all fall off the lighthouse cliff. Then the whole world would know this place isn't as quaint and friendly as you make it out to be."

  Did he really mean that? Had he started on his fantasy of mass executions of townspeople by pushing Angela off the cliff? Perhaps it hadn't been a matter of mistaken identity, after all, but just a chance encounter with someone dressed as the epitome of Danger Cove values, my great-great-great-grandmother, and he'd seen it as his chance to hurt the town. And then he'd gone after me later for much the same reason, not because he'd tried to kill me once already and was just finishing the job.

  Even as I took a step back, I heard the huffing of someone running in our direction. I couldn't look to see who it was. I needed to keep my focus on Sturgeon and the orange weapon he held. The best I could do was to take another step backwards, placing some more distance between the inspector and myself.

  A heavy but nonthreatening hand fell on my shoulder, and Fred Fields said, "I understand you were looking for me?"

  Despite his casual words, I could hear his heavy breathing, and the hand on my shoulder shook slightly with the movement of his chest. I thought Fields was warning me to stay calm and pretend nothing was wrong, hoping to de-escalate the situation.

  "Yes, I did," I said. "I need to buy a pumpkin, and Mr. Sturgeon was showing me what to watch out for. But now I think it's time for him to go home."

  "It's definitely time for him to leave," Fields said. "Although not to go home. I just heard from a friend in Olympia."

  Sturgeon dropped the latest pumpkin, narrowly missing his own foot. "It's a lie. They're just blaming me for systematic failures. They've had it in for me since the day I started this job. And it's all because of what people here in Danger Cove said about me. They said I was taking bribes when I worked here. But I wasn't. No more than anyone else was. Just the occasional apple or loaf of bread."

  "I'm sure you'll be able to explain it in court," Fields said, unclipping handcuffs from his belt. "But I need to take you down to the station. There's a warrant out for your arrest."

  Sturgeon looked from side to side, clearly judging whether he could make it to the parking lot without being caught. Finally, he slumped and held his hands out for the handcuffs. "Just promise me you'll move me out of this town as soon as possible. I can't get a fair hearing here."

  "That can be arranged," Fields said as he snapped the handcuffs in place. To me, he added, "Our friend here has been charged with several counts of accepting bribes. Apparently he's been taking money from wholesalers to downgrade the quality of produce so farmers have to sell for less than it's worth. He was fired from his job last week, so on top of everything, they'll probably charge him with impersonating a state official now."

  Fields marched Sturgeon toward the parking lot. It seemed particularly fitting that Sturgeon's career as an agricultural inspector had come to an end here in the town where he'd originally been identified as a bad apple.

  It was satisfying to see Sturgeon under arrest, but I'd have been even happier to see Angela's killer taken into custody. Unfortunately, that was looking increasingly unlikely as the end of the market hours rapidly approached.

  * * *

  Now that I'd finally gotten rid of Lew Sturgeon and the threat he'd presented for the market, I just had one more major hurdle to overcome before the work day ended—getting rid of Jim Sweetwater.

  I headed back to the market area, noting on my way past the Dangerous Reads tent that there didn't seem to be any activity inside to indicate that someone had begun packing up. It was still early, though, and I trusted Meri to make sure it was taken care of before dark.

  I couldn't see Cary or Merle near the demonstration grill. They'd probably gone somewhere more private to talk, since the grill had been swarmed by volunteers from the Danger Cove Police Foundation, who were getting it ready to transport over to near where the grass of the lighthouse grounds gave way to the sand of Two Mile Beach. During this evening's bonfires and folk dancing, the volunteers would be selling barbecued chicken and ribs that had been so profitable for the Police Foundation during the Labor Day event. They were hopeful that the larger grill would allow them to sell even more this weekend. I hoped so too, both because the money was going to a good cause and also because it was one of the few things that had gone right this weekend. Their success would balance out at least one of the failures that Jim Sweetwater would be sure to bring to the mayor's attention during my performance review.

  Only a few quilters were still seated around the quilting frame, all bunched up in one corner, where I thought they were racing to finish it before the market closed in a few minutes. Some had stripped off their quilted jackets, like athletes in the heat of competition.

  The thought crossed my mind that I ought to go over and help the quilters meet their goal, but I quickly came to my senses. For one thing, I didn't know how to quilt, and even if I did know how, confronting Jim Sweetwater was more important. I couldn't put it off any longer.

  Fortunately, this would be the very last time I'd ever have to deal with him—at the market, at least, although he might well finagle a seat in my contract-review meeting with the mayor—so I might as well get today's ordeal over with.

  I steeled myself for the confrontation and headed for Sweetwater's stall. It was, like before, unoccupied, but his produce was still there, along with a sign indicating he'd be right back. I turned to look up and down the Memorial Walkway, searching for his deerstalker cap and long Sherlock coat, but didn't see him.

  From across th
e walkway, Tommy waved me over to his stall. "Are you looking for Sweetwater?"

  I nodded.

  "Try down where the Second Chance Animal Rescue group was set up earlier," Tommy said. "He followed Patrick Casey down that way a few minutes ago."

  That couldn't be good. Patrick was a big, hotheaded dairyman who had been suspended from the market during the Labor Day event after Sweetwater had accused him of murder and Patrick had reacted violently. He'd pulled his punch then, so no one had been hurt, but I'd been forced to discipline him, even though I knew Sweetwater had started it. Patrick might not be so lenient with Sweetwater this time.

  "Thanks," I said even as I began running down the Memorial Walkway. I really didn't want anyone except Lew Sturgeon and Angela's killer to be arrested during the market.

  I arrived at the Second Chance Animal Rescue's now-empty spot between the parking lot and a large shade tree in time to see Patrick fold his massively muscular arms over his chest and say, "I'm not going to rise to your bait this time. I don't know anything about that poor woman's death."

  Sweetwater waved his silly corncob pipe to emphasize his even sillier words. "Maybe you just don't know that you know something."

  That was when I intervened. "It's okay, Patrick. I'll take care of this. I'm sure you've got better things to do now, getting your stall ready to close."

  He nodded and trotted over to enter the parking lot.

  "And you," I said to Sweetwater. "We need to talk. You were supposed to be long gone by now, and you haven't even started packing up your stall."

  "It's against the rules to leave early," he said smugly before sticking the corncob pipe between his lips.

  "Not if you've been banned." As soon as I said it, I realized my voice was louder and more high-pitched than usual because of my frustration with Sweetwater. I was uncomfortably aware of interested heads turned toward us from the quilting bee, despite the efforts of Emma Quinn to keep them focused on their goals.