by Gin Jones
The potato farmer was the only vendor who didn't have any customers. His disapproving body language probably had something to do with it. He was standing to one side of his impressive display of potatoes and carrots and radishes, arms crossed over the bib of his overalls and one foot tapping impatiently as he glared across the path and slightly to his right, as if he could see the crime scene through the tarps hanging down from the backs of the canopies there.
As soon as Sweetwater saw me, he refocused his glare on me. "Why haven't they closed down the market?"
"You'd have to ask the detective in charge, but I don't much care what the thinking is as long as the market stays open," I said. "If you want to pack up and go home, I won't consider it a breach of the vendor contract this once, considering the circumstances. It's entirely up to you."
"No, no," he said, adjusting his bow tie. "I can't leave. Not before the police have interviewed me. I told young Faria that I had information for the detective, but he wasn't paying any attention. Someone needs to teach these rookies how to listen. I tried back when I was his guidance counselor, but it's obvious that all my advice fell on deaf ears in his case."
Was it possible Sweetwater really had useful information for the investigation? He'd withheld information from the police before, with fatal consequences, so I should have been grateful that he was willing to come forward this time. I just couldn't feel anything but irritation. His smugness was getting on my last nerve, and if I hadn't just left Merle's reassuring presence, dealing with Sweetwater would have already pushed the headache simmering just on the edge of consciousness into full-fledged migraine mode.
Sweetwater peered at me expectantly. He was itching to tell me what he knew, and from his smugness, I suspected it was something that, as the market manager, I should have known about already but didn't. I hated to feed his ego, but my own ego needed to take a back seat to the well-being of the market. If Sweetwater did have useful information, I would make sure Detective Ohlsen knew about it.
"What did I miss this time?"
"The fight at WoodWell."
I wondered whether Sweetwater's triumphant expression was because he really thought that was news or because he'd gotten me to swallow my pride for a worthless bit of information.
My patience with him ran out for the day. "Everyone knows about that. Even I do. I got there as soon as I heard Jazz was upset."
"Not the silly little disagreement with her." Sweetwater shook his head emphatically. "The big, dangerous one."
How many enemies had Henry made in a single day?
"There was another argument?"
"It was more than an argument. It was an escalating situation. It all started earlier today, just a few minutes after we opened. Henry reduced a young woman to tears, which was hardly unusual, so hardly anyone noticed except for me."
I noted that he hadn't told me right away, when the information might have headed off the later problems.
Sweetwater continued, "The woman left quietly enough, but she must have gone home and told her boyfriend, because about an hour later this big guy showed up and started yelling about how his girlfriend hadn't been allowed to buy something, and Henry had to apologize and give him the thing for free now or he'd be sorry."
"I've never heard of Henry apologizing to anyone."
"He didn't this time either. He said the woman was as clueless when it came to choosing a boyfriend as she was at choosing works of art. I thought the guy was going to jump over the display and strangle Henry."
"But he didn't." I was fairly certain Henry would have told me about a physical attack, or his granddaughter would have. Vendors had a contractual duty to report any violent behavior they observed, especially when it was directed at them. "I definitely would have heard about something like that."
"It didn't get that far out of hand." Sweetwater sighed, obviously wishing it had. "I think the guy caught a glimpse of a police uniform. There did seem to be more beat cops here at opening time than at any other market day since July Fourth. I didn't see who the uniform belonged to, except it wasn't Fred Fields. He was down by the first aid tent, so he wasn't any more aware of the incident than you were. Someone really should offer the veteran officers some refresher courses. They can fall into bad habits otherwise."
"I have the highest confidence in Officer Fields," I said. "He's very good at community policing."
"I don't know about that," Sweetwater said. "But whatever it was that spooked the boyfriend, he just swung his fist at a stack of bowls, sending the top one flying out of the stall until it smashed on one of the boulders beneath the lighthouse. Said he'd be back later to finish things when there weren't so many witnesses around. Pretty clear to me that he meant to do to Henry's head what he'd done to the bowl he'd clobbered."
Now I was beginning to see what Sweetwater had meant about the situation having been more dangerous than the argument with Jazz. The two incidents might even have been related, in a sense. After the run-in with the boyfriend, Henry might have been primed to lash out at the next person to bother him, and unfortunately Jazz had been a convenient victim. It made their falling-out make more sense. Henry and Jazz had had a reasonably good relationship in prior market days. I'd seen them chatting amiably during slow times, and once Henry had helped Jazz move her spinning wheel down to the parking lot at the end of the day. Even Sweetwater would have had a hard time blaming me for not anticipating that Henry might suddenly turn on Jazz.
In any event it did sound like the boyfriend might well be a viable suspect for the police to interview about Henry's death. "Can you describe the guy for the detective?"
"Better than that," Sweetwater said, patting the phone in the back pocket of his overalls. "I took a video of the guy. I'm just waiting for someone competent to check in with me so I can give it to him."
He said it in a tone that implied that of course the police would check in with him—didn't they always?—and that they'd hang on his every word, aware of their own inferiority and their inability to move forward in the investigation without his input.
In my experience, people who knew Sweetwater—including the local police—were more likely to tune him out whenever he talked since he was always offering unwanted and unhelpful advice. I had to admit that for once he'd caught my full attention with his story of the threat against Henry. If the killer could be identified and caught quickly thanks to Sweetwater's help, I might be more forgiving of his annoying behavior. A quick resolution of the investigation would be good for everyone, from the police, to the Danger Cove residents and tourists who would be able to enjoy the waterfront activities without fear, to the vendors whose sales wouldn't be adversely affected by frightened people staying away from the market. I might even get through the long weekend without an incapacitating migraine.
* * *
I was saved from any more of Sweetwater's lectures on my shortcomings, for the moment, by the arrival of Tommy Fordham.
"Could I have a minute of your time?" he asked, bringing his wheelchair to a stop behind me in the middle of the Memorial Walkway.
"Of course." I'd have agreed to chat with him even if I hadn't been looking for a good reason to get away from Sweetwater.
As we neared his stall, I noticed that his girlfriend wasn't back at her post, dancing to her country-western music as she weighed and bagged tomatoes. I couldn't see her anywhere at all. That didn't bode well for Tommy or the market.
"Where's Ginger?"
"That's why I need your help." He gestured for me to precede him inside and around to the rear of the display table.
The police tarp still hung from the back of the canopy, blocking any view of the crime scene and adding a sinister quality to what little light filtered through. While it was undoubtedly better for Tommy and Ginger to be protected from the depressing sight out back, the gloomy shadows were a persistent reminder of Henry's death. The customers didn't seem to be bothered by it, but it had to be weighing on Tommy and Ginger.
"I wish I could give you a different space to move to in the main market," I said, "but they're all filled. You could move out to the overflow area if you think that would be better than here. I can even get Cary to help you."
"Maybe tomorrow. Right now I'm more concerned about Ginger. She tucked herself into a ball in that corner and won't come out." Tommy pointed toward the where the far front corner of his display table touched the back of the adjoining space's cabinet filled with baggies of dried herbs. "All she'll say is that she's scared. Like she thinks the killer's going to come after her next for some reason."
Ginger was seated on the ground with her forehead on her knees and her arms around her legs above the tops of her cowboy boots. She rocked ever so slightly in an abbreviated version of what I'd seen Cary Baines do when he was overwhelmed.
"Have you asked the Baxter twins to take a look at her? They're pretty good with people's emotional needs, not just with their physical injuries. I'm sure they could refer her to a good counselor."
"I went and poked my head inside the first aid tent, but they're not in there. I didn't want her to be alone while I looked for them. I was on my way back here when I saw you."
"The police took over the first aid tent, but I'm sure the EMTs are around somewhere." I didn't know what to do for Ginger, and she didn't seem to even notice that Tommy and I were near her. "I'll go look for them if you want."
"Thanks. I have to be here in case she needs me." He kept his wheelchair facing Ginger but rolled backward to give her some space. "She's had to sacrifice a lot to be with me. I work long hours, and I definitely can't go dancing with her when I'm not needed in the fields. I do try to let her know how much I appreciate her, but I'm not sure it's enough. I mean, look at what I did today. Not only did I drag her to work—without pay, mind you—on a holiday weekend when there are all sorts of parties she could have gone to instead, but then, just to top it all off, I introduced her to a bloody corpse. Some boyfriend I've turned out to be."
"Don't be so hard on yourself." It wasn't like Tommy to be so negative. He was probably suffering from some shock himself. No matter what he'd experienced as a veteran, he couldn't have become totally inured to the sight of bloody bodies. "I'll get the Baxter twins for Ginger, and then you might as well pack up for the evening. It's not that much longer until closing time, and the bonfire construction on the beach is capturing more of people's attention than anything in the market."
"I can't leave yet," he said. "The rookie collecting everyone's contact information was pretty insistent that I had to stick around until I gave the detective my statement, since I was the first on the scene. I'd just as soon forget how stupid I was, letting Ginger follow me when I was getting some Black Krims to restock the display and I happened to see Henry's body on the ground. Hard to miss his tie-dyed shirt. I didn't realize he was dead, of course. Not until I turned him over and saw the blood all over his chest. He'd been face down, and I thought he'd fallen, maybe had a stroke."
With Henry's personality he'd been far more likely to have given someone a stroke than to suffer one himself. "Was he already dead when you found him?"
Tommy nodded.
"And you didn't see or hear anything before that?"
"Afraid not. He was kind of hidden in a shadow at the very back corner of the first aid tent." He nodded at the little boom box on the display table. "You know how much Ginger likes to dance, right? And she likes to get other people to join her. She turned up the volume and was teaching some steps to a couple of the gamers in pirate costumes out in the path, encouraging others to join in. We were all looking in that direction for a good while, not out back. Between the music and everyone's laughter, we couldn't have heard anything short of a firecracker. After about ten or fifteen minutes, everyone was exhausted and sweaty, and they all moved on. That was when I realized the pile of Black Krims was down to practically nothing. And you know the rest."
"Not quite all. I heard he was stabbed with his own chisel, but Henry was big and fit for his age. How could that have happened?"
Tommy looked away for a long moment, and I was afraid the Baxter twins might soon have another patient with PTSD to deal with. He finally took a deep breath and spoke. "I'd say someone probably caught him from behind, surprising him, and reached around to stab him. Henry never saw it coming."
I didn't ask why he believed that for fear he might tell me the gory details. I wasn't cut out for that sort of thing. Numbers, that was what I was good with. Not studying crime scenes. I'd probably have ended up on the ground in the corner with Ginger if I'd seen what she had. Not right away perhaps, but eventually, when the adrenaline had worn off.
"I'd better go get the EMTs," I said. "They'll know what to do for Ginger."
I just wished there was more I could do to help. Ginger wasn't going to feel safe again until Henry's killer was locked up. I couldn't blame her. I didn't feel particularly safe myself.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Baxter twins had relocated their base to a spot around the corner where the owner of Dangerous Reads had let them stack their supplies out front on a table that had held some clearance books earlier in the day. It was set up between the entrance to the bookstore's tent and the beginning of Keith Nettles' space. The EMTs loitered in front of their table, flirting with passersby again as if nothing more serious than a sunburn or minor scrape had happened all day.
I told them about Ginger, and one of them grabbed a medical bag from the table and trotted around the corner and out of my sight. I relaxed a little, confident that Tommy's girlfriend was now in good hands.
At the same time it struck me that Ginger might not have been the only one traumatized by Henry's death. She'd seen more than anyone else, but the mere fact of the murder was scary even without observing any of the gruesome details. The owner of Danger Cove Dairy had certainly seemed terrified when I'd told her about the murder, so perhaps others were as upset as she'd been. They might not be curled up in a corner, rocking to control their anxiety like Ginger was, but if they were scared already, the least little thing might trigger a meltdown. It was my job to make sure that didn't happen.
Unfortunately, there really wasn't any way to prepare for every possible scenario that might send one of the anxious vendors into panic mode. I just prayed there wouldn't be any more dead bodies to traumatize the vendors.
Just then I happened to catch a glimpse of blue choir robe. Even if there weren't any more real dead bodies at the market, there might be fake ones, which could be almost as bad. I didn't want someone who was already at the limit of composure to be pushed into all-out panic by a fake corpse. It was time to end the Dangerous Duelers' game.
I found Officer Fields and asked him to accompany me to the pirate ship built by the LARPers. Their leader, Leo, was huddled near the stern with about a dozen of his costumed players. Even as we approached, Angela, the female pirate I'd made note of earlier as a possible troublemaker, jostled one of the other players out of the way so she could stand next to Leo like a bodyguard or perhaps a second-in-command who was looking for a reason to mutiny. She had her hand on the hilt of her too-real-looking cutlass.
"Excuse me," I said from about ten feet away.
Leo stopped talking and gathered up his robe so he wouldn't trip over it as he walked toward me. Angela moved with him as if they were chained together. The rest of the players stepped out of the way and regathered in a clump at his back. They might have intended it as a supportive position, but it looked a bit like they were trying to hide behind him, and he wasn't all that big.
The clump of LARPers closed about half of the distance between us before Leo stopped and let go of the gathered fabric of his robe so the hem puddled around his feet. Angela remained glued to his side, looking far more deadly than my backup, Officer Fields.
"Now what?" Leo said.
"Have you heard about the death of one of the market vendors?"
"It would have been hard to miss it," Leo said. "One of the first responders
' vehicles ran over some of our game flags, and the ambulance clipped the back of our ship."
"Stern," corrected Angela.
"Stern," agreed Leo. "There's a scratch in the paint."
"Yes, well, the death has upset a lot of people," I said. "Which is why I'm asking you to postpone the rest of your game. I don't want to traumatize anyone who might mistake one of your play-acting victims for the real thing."
"You can't do that." Angela nudged the gamemaster. "Tell her, Leo."
He made a "settle down" gesture with his hand, which only made her more angry. She didn't argue with Leo. She just spun around and shoved at the three people who were blocking her until she'd made a path for herself to stomp away.
"That's not fair," Leo said. "You're not sending the quilters or the animal rescue group home. Just us. And you've been looking for an excuse to shut us down from the beginning."
"I did have some reservations about your being here when you first applied," I said, "but you were proving me wrong until now. I'd be glad to have you come back another weekend. Just not today. Staging pretend deaths would be disrespectful to the family of the real victim."
Leo nodded in the direction of where Keith was hawking his educational toys. "How come he can keep playing games and we can't?"
I turned to see that Keith was, indeed, engaged with a young pregnant woman and her partner, demonstrating a ring-toss game from his collection of samples. It seemed to have far more rules and complications and playing pieces than the simple posts and rings that I vaguely recalled from my childhood. Still, there didn't seem to be anything in the demonstration that could possibly frighten even the scarediest of scaredy-cats.
"Keith's toys aren't scary, and they're not going to make people think of bloody weapons or stabbed bodies."
"What about the way his games are practically right on top of the crime scene?" Leo said. "He was making people buy his stupid games in order to get a good view of the crime scene earlier. Wasn't that disrespectful?"
