by Gin Jones
On the other hand I was already heavily indebted to Merle, both personally and professionally. He'd probably been the deciding factor in my getting the job as the market manager, and then he'd gone on to mentor me and make me look good by providing free legal advice on the too-frequent occasions when the market had needed it.
Increasing my debt to him by accepting the use of the cabin could also complicate matters between us personally. I knew that financial advice wasn't always directly applicable to interpersonal interactions, but some of the principles did apply, like avoiding indebtedness, especially to family and friends. I liked Merle too much to want to create any unnecessary obstacles for us to overcome.
"What's wrong?" Merle asked. "Are you afraid of ghosts?"
"Not ghosts," I said, finally settling on my second roll, again taking the closest one without actually noticing what flavor it was. "I was thinking about the prospect of JT's late-night experiments in the barn-turned-brewery. Perhaps I should worry about explosions instead."
"It's always possible with distilling, but the caretaker's cabin is a safe distance from the barn in the event of an explosion. JT remarked on it once, which didn't reassure me as much as he thought it would."
I laughed. Perhaps I was worrying about nothing. Merle certainly didn't seem to think the offer was all that big a deal if he was making jokes about it. I did have a tendency to analyze things to death. Professional hazard, I supposed. Once a financial planner, always a financial planner.
Merle added, "The cabin's a safe distance from the main house too, in case you're wondering. You'd have as much privacy as you wanted."
"Thank you," I said. "I've made more than my fair share of decisions already today, so I'd like a little time to think about your kind offer."
"As long as you want," he said. "I know 'spontaneous' isn't your middle name."
"Does that bother you?"
"Not particularly," he said. "I've always been a patient person when something—or someone—matters to me."
Our platters arrived just then, heaped with shrimp scampi, buttered noodles, and wilted greens. Worrying about relationships, house hunting, and murder investigations could wait until after dinner.
* * *
A good night's sleep and a hearty brunch at the Ocean View B&B left me feeling considerably more optimistic about the final hours of the Labor Day market. Even though it wouldn't open until noon, I had to get there well before then. I expected most of the vendors to arrive early to avoid getting caught in the traffic and closed streets for the Procession of Saints, which started at the waterfront, so the participants could use the parking lot that also served both the lighthouse and Two Mile Beach.
I slipped into a parking spot just moments before Cliffside Drive was closed to traffic. The processioners were milling around impatiently, waiting for the official start to the walk. Statues ranging from doll-sized to larger-than-life were cradled in arms, hoisted on shoulders, or attached to decorated platforms in a parade that had the same exuberant, flamboyant spirit as Mardi Gras.
The two police cruisers and an ambulance near the entrance to the parking lot were a sobering reminder of the previous day's tragic event and an implicit warning that something similar might happen again. On the plus side, I wasn't entirely sure from the parking lot, but I thought the homicide detective and his forensic team had finished their work behind the first aid tent, taking the body and all evidence of a violent death with them, leaving only a few scraps of police tape fluttering from canopy legs.
Cary came up behind me to announce his arrival just then. I dug in the sling bag for the trash bags I'd picked up after dinner the night before. I sent him off to work on the debris left behind by both the police and the general public, confident that he'd have it all tidied up before customers began arriving in two hours.
The quilters were already settled around the quilting frame to get an early start on their latest project, and crates of produce and crafts were stacked outside the appropriate stalls in the market. Other than the quilting guild, the vendors outside the main market hadn't arrived yet. The Dangerous Reads tent had a sign to indicate it wouldn't be open until a 1:00 book signing, and I'd already received a text to say that the animal rescue volunteers were waiting until later so their animals wouldn't be exposed to the persistent heat any longer than necessary.
One notable exception to the empty spaces was Keith Nettles' educational-toy display next to the Dangerous Reads tent. He hadn't had time to replenish his stock, but he had his child-sized tables and chairs and his samples all set up, along with a large new sign that promised a small discount and free delivery for all orders placed by the end of the day. He must have arrived at least an hour earlier to begin his setup, unlike the regular vendors who'd known to wait until just before the street was closed to traffic.
Keith was standing in front of his space and peering in the direction of the parking lot, apparently puzzled by the lack of traffic. He was smiling, but his expression was considerably more forced than when I'd seen him the night before. I wasn't sure why he even bothered to pretend, since there was no one but me and Officer Fields to appreciate his performance. I couldn't vouch for the policeman's possible interest in the toys, but I wasn't going to be buying them. I'd done quite a bit of child-rearing when my much-younger siblings had been born, and it had been enough to last me a lifetime. I might not know exactly what I was going to do with the rest of my life, especially if the market manager gig didn't work out, but I was certain of one thing: I was never going to do any work that involved diaper changing or engaging kids with toys, educational or otherwise.
Keith obviously hadn't bothered to read the information sheet I'd given all of the vendors, including a reminder about the delayed market hours due to the Procession of Saints. I couldn't blame him for not knowing about the traditional procession simply from his own experience, since, despite the Danger Cove High School T-shirt and matching backpack that he wore again today, he actually lived in a small town I'd never heard of in Oregon, according to his application to join the market. He would have known, though, if he'd read the materials I gave him.
Keith caught sight of my approach and stopped even pretending to be happy. "Where is everyone?"
"At the Procession of the Saints." Even as I said it, I knew what his response would be: What procession?
"What procession of what saints?"
Bingo.
"One of the local churches holds its annual festival on the Sunday of Labor Day weekend, and there's always a Procession of the Saints—a parade featuring statues of pretty much any saint that anyone feels like sharing, from what I've seen—along parts of Cliffside Drive. It ends at noon on the other side of town. Everyone in town except the market vendors will either be in the procession or watching it until then." It was so tempting to add, If you'd read the information sheet I gave you, instead of relying exclusively on whatever your politically connected buddy thought to tell you, you'd have known that.
I managed to hold on to my patience and kept my thoughts to myself. If I ever decided to move on from the market manager job, I wanted it to be on my terms, not because a friend of a town employee had gotten me fired. I already had Jim Sweetwater doing everything he could to undermine me. I didn't need this guy and his political ally doing it too.
"It's not all bad for the market," I told Keith. "People will be looking for things to do after the Procession, and the waterfront is likely to be extra popular this weekend because of the above-average temperatures. You might as well relax now while you've got the chance. The market may only be open for four hours today, but it's going to be a busy four hours."
I anticipated having to listen to more complaining from Keith, but then I caught sight of Angela, the female pirate from the role-playing game, over by the historical garden between the market and Two Mile Beach. She was in costume again, despite what I'd told Leo about the game being on hiatus until another weekend, which gave me a legitimate reason to excuse mysel
f and go deal with the more pressing problem than Keith's inability to respect the market's rules.
"I'm sorry," I told him. "I need to go have a word with that pirate before she does something we're all going to regret."
* * *
I hadn't noticed originally that Leo was standing next to Angela. He'd been on the far side of her, and his black jeans and a black T-shirt that featured a wizard graphic were less distinctive than his pale blue choir robe. The dark outfit might cause him to pass out from heat stroke later on when the sun hit its full strength, but it didn't make him easy to pick out of a crowd.
As I approached the pair, Leo was shaking his head and saying, "I can't. It will ruin the game."
Before Angela could respond, I said, "The game was suspended. I'm certain that's what we agreed to, on pain of being banned permanently."
Leo must not have seen me coming, because at the sound of my voice, he started so intensely I thought he was going to fall over. Angela must have thought so too, since she reached out a hand to steady him.
"Don't be such a wimp, Leo," she said. "You've got to do the right thing and stand up to her. Harry Dresden would."
"I can't disobey the legally appointed market manager without making things worse," Leo told her irritably. "I'm looking at the big picture, making sure we'll be able to play here in the future. And you're not making it easier for me. I told everyone not to dress up today."
The way he worded his order made me wonder if the teams were still playing their game, just not in costume. He did have a notepad in his back pocket, which I'd seen him making game notes in before, and I wasn't sure why his players would be here otherwise, since they'd have had ample opportunity to check out the market yesterday, and it was far too early to enjoy the bonfires on the beach.
"What? This?" Angela looked down at her costume and waved one hand to draw attention to it from plunging neckline to cuffed knee-high boots. "Can't a girl wear a corset and cutlass without someone accusing her of cosplay?"
"Angela." Leo drew out the name in frustration. "You're going to get us all in trouble, and we won't ever be able to finish the game."
"Too late for that," I said. "Both of you—all of you, if your fellow gamers are here—need to leave right now and not come back to the market until Leo and I can work out some terms. I'll give you until noon to clear out completely, since you won't be able to get your cars out of the parking lot until then, but after that, if I see either of you or anyone else who's playing your game, I'll have you arrested."
"That's not fair," the girl and Leo said simultaneously.
"Unfortunately for you two, this isn't a game, and life doesn't have to be fair. I'd better not see either one of you here again after the road reopens."
Angela gave Leo a little kick with the toe of her knee-high boot. "Tell her."
"What if I know something about what happened to the dead guy?" Leo said.
"What do you know?"
Angela answered for him, as if she were his attorney. "He can't tell you. Just the cops."
That made it sound as if they were stalling, but I couldn't force Leo to give me his information. Not like the police could. Maybe later, when Angela wasn't around to muzzle Leo, he'd be more forthcoming to me. Until then, I knew my duty.
"You should talk to Detective Ohlsen." I looked around and saw Fred Fields standing outside the first aid tent. I pointed at him. "That officer can make the arrangements."
"And then can I stay?" Leo asked.
"Perhaps," I said. "I'll let Fred Fields decide."
"Angela too?"
"Not as long as she's in costume. Or thinking about staging a dramatic death scene."
"You're no fun." Angela stomped off toward the parking lot.
That particular insult didn't bother me. I'd heard it plenty of times before. And not just from my younger half- siblings. No one ever appreciated my rule-following, instruction-sheet-distributing, hyperorganization. At least not until they needed something from my stocked-for-almost-every-emergency sling bag.
CHAPTER TEN
I watched to make sure Leo followed through on his promise to talk to Officer Fields. The conversation outside the first aid tent didn't look promising from a distance—there was a great deal of mulish head shaking on Leo's part—but if anyone could turn things around, Fred Fields could.
There was an hour left to opening time, and I thought the market vendors could use some extra reassurance from me in the wake of the previous day's tragedy. Plus, it gave me a legitimate excuse to question them about what they knew about Henry's death.
I continued past Fields and Leo at the first aid tent and then on past the empty space next to it. Tommy was alone behind his table, looking a bit subdued as he carefully laid out his tomatoes for sale, so I stopped to ask him how Ginger was doing
"I think she'll be okay," Tommy said, pausing in his work. "She's tough. But it was too soon for her to come back today. Especially since we weren't sure if there would be any obvious reminders of what happened out back yesterday."
I automatically looked toward where the body had been near the back corner of the first aid tent. The police-issue tarps that had been hanging across the rear openings of the two closest stalls were gone, and from this distance, I couldn't see any sign at all of a disturbance in the mix of grass and rocks out there. Cary had already picked up whatever had been on the ground, so the only obvious reminders were some bright yellow scraps of police tape stuck to the back legs of Tommy's canopy. Cary probably hadn't considered anything above the tips of the grass to be part of his assignment to pick up the trash on the ground.
"If there's anything I can do to help, just let me know."
"There is one thing," Tommy said. "I could really use some singles and fives if you have them. More people paid with cash yesterday than usual."
"Of course." I dug in my sling bag for the envelope of one- and five-dollar bills that I brought for just this kind of emergency. "How many do you need?"
"Someone gave me five rolls of quarters yesterday, and I'd really like to swap them for bills."
I counted out fifty dollars in fives and ones and handed them to Tommy, who gave me the five heavy rolls of change. I stuffed them into the bottom of my bag and adjusted the strap on my shoulder. Carrying the extra weight around would remind me to think some more about what I could do to make up for what Tommy and his girlfriend had suffered this weekend.
"If you think it would help Ginger, I can move you to a different spot next week for the rest of the season." I felt a bit of malicious glee at the idea of making Jim Sweetwater swap spaces. The potato farmer had chosen his current spot at the beginning of the season and had been adamant that it was the only one that would work for him, although the spaces were identical in size. It hadn't been worth the hassle to override his choice until now, but I did have the authority to do it. I knew that if I moved Sweetwater from "his" spot, I'd never hear the end of it, but having to listen to the complaints might be worth triggering a migraine. If he was sufficiently annoyed, he might voluntarily quit the market so I wouldn't have to decide whether it was worth the grief I might get from his friends at town hall if I made him leave involuntarily. On the other hand, I really couldn't afford to lose yet another vendor.
"Moving to a new location might be a good idea," Tommy said. "I wouldn't ask for myself, but I've got to do what's best for Ginger. Assuming she doesn't abandon me before the next market."
If even Tommy was giving in to pessimism, the outlook for today's market was not good.
"I'm sure the police will catch Henry's killer." I did believe Detective Ohlsen would catch the culprit. I just wasn't sure it would happen before the end of the market's season, let alone by the end of this weekend. "And you couldn't have anticipated the murder. It's not your fault that Ginger was traumatized."
"I know. I just hope she knows it too. And that she's not permanently scarred by what happened." Tommy rolled his chair backward to grab another crate of tomatoes.
When he returned, he seemed more his usual self. "I do think she'll be okay. She's already starting to recover. She even asked me to tell the police she was ready to give a statement now and said she'd remembered something that might be helpful to the investigation."
"What was it?"
"Right before she saw the body, she noticed someone in a blue choir robe standing in the garden," Tommy said. "There couldn't have been many people dressed like that, so I'm guessing it was the same guy you had to keep shooing away from the memorial stones. The strange thing is he was just standing there, staring in the direction of the crime scene and taking notes in a little book. Like he was watching to see how long it took before someone found the body."
That was probably exactly what Leo had been doing. He could well have thought that the "body" was part of his game, and there were some points to be assigned, depending on who found it and how long it took.
Or Leo could have committed the murder himself, crept away to the garden afterward without anyone seeing him, and then pretended to be a casual observer. I couldn't imagine what his motive might have been, except that Henry had had a knack for irritating everyone who met him, and Leo could be equally confrontational in his own way, especially if Henry had tried to undermine the younger man's authority as the gamemaster.
Now I wished I'd been able to get Leo to talk to me earlier about whatever he thought was relevant to the police investigation, although I wouldn't have known then to ask him for an explanation of what he'd been doing in the garden when the body was found.
