Danger Cove Farmer's Market 02 - A Slaying in the Orchard

by Gin Jones

  If I found out that Sweetwater had started that rumor, he was definitely getting banned. Although I couldn't entirely blame him for the customers' panic even if he had started the rumor. It didn't take much for investors to get either bullish or bearish on a company. And it wasn't unreasonable to think that a deceased artist's products would go up in price if demand was greater than the remaining supply.

  "How much inventory is left?"

  "Back home, I'd say there are more than a hundred of these bins, but it's possible that only half of them contain his bowls and sculptures, while the rest are filled with old paperwork and supplies." She squatted beside the closest bin and pulled off the lid. It was filled to the top with relief sculptures individually covered in bubble wrap. "I didn't even look to see what's in the bins Grandpa brought yesterday. I just packed them into the truck and left them there unopened to bring back here this morning. I'm just hoping it's inventory, not more of his tie-dyed shirts."

  I checked the time. "I've got to leave for an appointment with Detective Ohlsen, but after Cary's done handing out tickets, he can help unpack whatever inventory you have here."

  Etta straightened with a two-foot-long relief sculpture in her hands. "Does the detective have any news on my grandfather's death?"

  "Not that he's shared with me or Merle. Ohlsen likes to listen, but he's not big on talking."

  "Would you tell him something for me?" Etta said.

  "Didn't he talk to you already?"

  "He did, but I was so upset yesterday that I didn't think of it until late last night. And it didn't have anything to do with what happened yesterday. It's about the body at the orchard."

  "Ryan Palmer?"

  She nodded. "My grandfather was a friend of the Palmers. For as far back as I can remember, they were practically the only people he'd ever leave his studio for. He'd go over to the orchard and have dinner with them every month or two."

  "Do you remember the last time he went?" I asked. "That might help to establish when Ryan Palmer died."

  Etta absently removed the bubble wrap from the sculpture, revealing a pirate ship sailing across the opening of Danger Cove. "It was maybe four or five years ago, I think, either a bit before or after the orchard was sold, but I couldn't tell you more than that. I didn't pay that much attention to my grandfather then. Too busy with high school friends. I just remember thinking it was sad that Grandpa only had two friends of his own. Not even that. I think he was mostly friendly with the husband. They grew up here in Danger Cove together, and the wife was from California, I think. Definitely not from here. Plus, she was Mr. Palmer's second wife. They hadn't been together all that long. They were married two or three years before the orchard was sold."

  "I'll tell Detective Ohlsen."

  "There's one more thing," Etta said. "Grandpa didn't like anyone very much, but he also didn't actively dislike many people. Although I suppose you wouldn't know it from the way he could lash out when he was angry. But the thing is, Mr. Palmer's stepkids were among the very few he considered to be evil rather than just mildly annoying. He always said they'd be the death of Mr. Palmer. I never thought he meant it literally, but now I can't stop thinking about it."

  "If your grandfather had known something about his friend's death, don't you think he'd have contacted the police?"

  "I think maybe he was planning to but then he got sucked into trying to make those bowls for Jazz," Etta said. "All I know for sure is that he got real quiet and thoughtful after Dad mentioned the body at the orchard during dinner Monday, when it was first in the news. Grandpa went straight to the studio, which was odd because he never works when it's dark out and he'd have to use artificial lighting. Any time he goes out there at night, it's usually because he's trying to work out a problem. He never came back into the house that night, and when I went to see if he wanted breakfast in the morning, he told me to go away. He'd started to work on Jazz's yarn bowls when I checked on him, and then I think he got frustrated because they weren't coming out the way he wanted them to, but he couldn't stop trying. He never could leave the studio when he was obsessed with a project, and it wasn't like there was any rush to talk to the police, since Mr. Palmer was already dead. So now I keep wondering if he meant to go see them after he'd made Jazz's bowls. And whether whatever he was going to tell them was what got him killed."

  If Henry had been killed because he knew something about Ryan Palmer's death, I could stop feeling so guilty about what had happened. And it would mean that none of the market vendors had killed him, which was the best possible outcome I could think of. On the other hand, it also meant that it would be harder for Detective Ohlsen to catch Henry's killer. The police were already having a difficult time finding a lead on Palmer's widow and her children. If the family was on the run, or dead themselves, the police might never find them. That would be a disaster for the Lighthouse Farmers' Market. Until the killer was caught, the market's reputation would suffer from the uncertainty, and worse, Henry's family would never get closure for their loss.

  My natural impatience made me wish I could do something to help get things moving along faster. I couldn't do the homicide detective's job entirely, but I could quietly ask the rest of the vendors for any potentially useful information they had. I needed to be careful not to actively interfere like Sweetwater did, but no one could blame me—or charge me criminally—for asking a few polite questions and then passing along any relevant information to Detective Ohlsen. Who, I suddenly remembered, was probably waiting for me now in the first aid tent.

  * * *

  The Baxter twins were standing outside the first aid tent again, flirting with passersby and making it look as if everything had returned to normal after the police's earlier take-over of the space for use as their headquarters. Inside though, an overflowing trash can and an official police jacket draped over a chair were reminders of who had been using the tent recently.

  And then there was Detective Bud Ohlsen seated in the back at the folding table that had originally been intended to be my office during the market, except that I'd never gotten the chance to use it for more than about ten minutes at a time, what with one emergency and another. The Baxter twins still insisted on setting it up for me every week. Their optimism in the face of past experience was inspiring.

  Ohlsen was the senior detective in Danger Cove, with over twenty years on the force. He was a big man, tall and thick around the middle, without actually running to fat. What had originally been dark hair was now sprinkled liberally with white, enough that each pale hair could have been a memento of a past case. There was a sheen of sweat on his face from the heat that had built up in the tent. With his hands laced together behind his head and his elbows spread wide, he leaned back precariously in the cheap folding chair. From my own experience, that seemed to be his favorite pose during interrogations.

  The only person he could be questioning at the moment was Merle, seated across from the detective. He wasn't supposed to be in the hot seat, so I hurried forward to join them.

  Merle turned and nodded a greeting. "Detective Ohlsen here was just telling me some good news."

  I glanced at the older man staring pensively at the ceiling of the tent. That did not look like the face of a bearer of glad tidings.

  "I could really use some good news this weekend."

  Detective Ohlsen let his chair fall forward so that all of the feet were firmly on the ground and dropped his hands to the file on the table in front of him. "It's a bit of a mixed bag, actually."

  Par for today's course. Even the jump in sales at WoodWell had been a mixed blessing, since it had led to a bit of chaos.

  "Perhaps you should give me the bad news first then," I said as I dropped into the chair next to Merle. "I've always preferred to get the problems out of the way before I start celebrating."

  "We don't have any leads on Henry's killer," Ohlsen said. "It may take a while before we have a real clear picture of what happened to him. But the good news is that we're m
aking progress on the case out at Merle's orchard."

  "They arrested my neighbor," Merle explained. "The goat farmer. Apparently he was an accomplice after the fact. Helped with the burial and cover-up."

  "That seems pretty straightforwardly good news. At least for the orchard."

  "It would be if the guy were cooperating," Merle said. "Unfortunately, it's not clear that he is. While Detective Ohlsen here won't give me any details, I'm guessing that my neighbor is claiming that I was involved too. I'm confident I wasn't anywhere near Danger Cove at the time of the killing, but I imagine he's saying I instigated it. Probably claiming that Ryan Palmer didn't want to sell the orchard to me, so I convinced someone to kill him to clear the way for my purchase."

  Ohlsen kept his face expressionless, not confirming or denying the speculation. "I like you, Merle, and you've been generous to the Police Foundation by donating beverages for events, but you know I can't play favorites. A good detective considers all possibilities, no matter how unlikely they are."

  "Especially when the detective is hitting dead ends with other leads. I get it." Merle turned to me again. "The grapevine tells me the police haven't been able to find Mrs. Palmer to see if her story matches my neighbor's. She might be dead, so they're looking for her two kids, but that's proving difficult too. They were in their late teens when they moved from California to Danger Cove, and apparently they didn't have any close friends here. No one kept in touch with them after they graduated from high school and left town."

  "I might have some useful information about that," I said before addressing Ohlsen. "I know where you might get some leads, Detective. Etta Atwell just told me that her grandfather was apparently a close friend of the Palmers, and she thinks he might have had some suspicions about what had happened to Ryan. Maybe he had the widow's contact information in his studio."

  Ohlsen opened the file in front of him and made a note. "I'll definitely talk to Etta again. But first I need to talk to you about yesterday." He looked at Merle pointedly. "I'm done with you for now. You can get back to your regular business."

  Merle shrugged. "I thought I'd stick around. As Maria's lawyer. Just to be safe. Like you, I prefer to be thorough."

  "I knew I shouldn't have admitted that I liked you." Ohlsen flipped over several sheets inside the file and then ran a finger down a list, although I doubted he really needed the reminders for questioning me. "So, Ms. Dolores, I understand you were here at the market the entire time it was open yesterday."

  "That's my job." Sweat was pooling underneath where my sling bag rested against my back, so I let the strap slide off my shoulder and placed the bag on the table. The rolls of coins inside clunked heavily. "To be here and solve any problems I can't prevent."

  He gave me the tiniest of smiles. "Too bad you couldn't prevent yesterday's biggest problem."

  "Don't remind me," I said. "I keep thinking I should have banned Henry weeks ago. He wouldn't have been happy, but if I had, he might still be alive."

  There was a muffled groan from Merle in the chair beside me. I probably shouldn't have volunteered that Henry and I had had a confrontational past. The stuffy heat inside the tent made it feel like I was undergoing an old-fashioned interrogation where the witness was placed in an uncomfortable environment to encourage a confession just to escape the hellhole. Merle would never let that happen, and I didn't think Ohlsen would do it on purpose, but he probably wasn't above taking advantage of an unintentional situation that worked in his favor.

  Ohlsen didn't say anything, just looked at me expectantly.

  "Henry was only a minor nuisance. Nothing I couldn't handle." Another groan from Merle. "Without any violence. I was considering asking him to turn over anything that involved interacting with customers to his granddaughter. Henry made really amazing products, but he antagonized a lot of the people who tried to buy from him."

  "I understand there was one customer in particular who was antagonized by Henry. And she had a boyfriend who returned the favor and made some threats." Ohlsen flipped a few pages in his folder. "Fortunately for him, he has a solid alibi for the time of Henry's murder. Do you know about any other arguments or threats from customers the morning before Henry died?"

  "I didn't even witness the one you already know about," I said. "I only heard about it later."

  Ohlsen nodded thoughtfully. "So tell me what you did witness. I understand you were at Henry's stall shortly before he died. Tell me everything from then until the moment you learned he'd been killed."

  As I began to tell him about the situation with Henry and Jazz, Ohlsen resumed his tilted back position, staring at the tent ceiling with his hands behind his head. His eyes drifted closed, but I was certain that if I stopped talking, he would notice. If pressed, he would even be able to repeat back the essential details of what I'd just been saying.

  I continued describing what I recalled of the morning's events, who I'd seen—and not seen—in the forty-five minutes or so between the beginning of Henry's time out and the screams that had come with finding his body.

  When I ran out of things to say, Ohlsen remained in his contemplative pose for a solid minute, which felt like much longer. When I couldn't stand the silence any longer, I said, "That's all I remember."

  Another long silence.

  "There is one other thing, actually," I said. "Not something I remember, but something I wondered about. I heard that Henry was stabbed to death, so I was thinking the killer must have gotten blood on himself. I definitely didn't see anyone wandering around the market with blood stains. And I'm pretty sure I'd have heard about it if anyone else had seen something like that, but no one said anything. I do try to check in with each of the vendors a few times a day, and if they're not busy, we chat about whatever the latest market gossip is. Henry's death has been on everyone's mind this weekend, but no one's mentioned noticing anything out of the ordinary."

  At that, Ohlsen came back to life, letting his chair fall forward again. He closed his file with a thump. "I can't talk about the details of Henry's death. Theoretically speaking though, one thing I've learned as a detective is that forensic issues like blood spatter are never as simple as television shows make it seem. And people are really good at covering up or getting rid of bloody clothes."

  The only person I could think of who'd changed clothes around the time of Henry's death was Jazz. Not her whole outfit, just her blouse. There was probably a reasonable explanation for it. The day had been hot, and as long as she was taking a break to freshen up her makeup, she could have decided she wanted to change out of a sweaty blouse. I didn't want to send Ohlsen on what was most likely a wild goose chase when he had two murder cases to investigate simultaneously.

  For once it was my silence that got Ohlsen to talking instead of the other way around. "That's all for now," he said. "If you remember anything else or hear anything useful from one of the vendors, give me a call. Otherwise, I expect you to leave the investigating to me."

  "No worries," I said. "I'm just passing information along. You might want to give the same advice to Jim Sweetwater. He's been stirring things up by playing amateur detective."

  "I'll have a word with him right away," Ohlsen said as we stood to leave, "but I'm holding you responsible if he messes up my case."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Outside the tent Merle stopped to complain good-naturedly to the Baxter twins about not warning him how hot it was inside the tent and then asked if I wanted something to drink.

  "Don't tell Ohlsen, but I'd probably kill for a bottle of your perry right now. It's probably not a good idea for me to indulge in anything alcoholic though. Not while I've got the impossible task of keeping Jim Sweetwater in line." As I spoke, I glanced up the walkway to make sure he was in his own space and hadn't left to interrogate Cicely Smythe. They were both in their own spaces, with Cicely pouring a new batch of tea and Sweetwater bagging up some potatoes for one of his rare customers.

  Merle caught my attention and pointed at t
he Danger Cove Police Foundation table. "I was thinking of the bottled water they're selling. My treat. Or we could go up to my stall and grab a nonalcoholic fruit juice if you'd prefer."

  "No. Water is good. For now." I could wait until the bonfires to have something stronger.

  At the Police Foundation's table, Aaron Pohoke and Dr. Cooper had been replaced by a pair of officers in uniform. I hoped it meant that the medical examiner's shift had ended, not that there'd been some new emergency, like another body at the orchard that required her expertise. The volunteers were doing a brisk business, so once Merle had paid for and received the two bottles of water, we quickly moved away from the crowd. I gulped down enough to take the edge off my thirst and then glanced around to see how the other vendors in the area outside the main market were doing.

  The Cinnamon Sugar Bakery pushcart was gone. Considering how popular it had been earlier in the day, the inventory had likely sold out, and the owner had decided it wasn't worth restocking this late in the day. The quilters were still working at their frame, and the Second Chance Animal Rescue's volunteers were apparently determined to stick around until they'd found a forever home for the last few animals they'd brought to the market.

  I turned in the other direction and saw Meri Sinclair chatting with a woman holding a stack of books just outside the Dangerous Reads tent. It must have heated up inside there almost as much as inside the first aid tent. To their right, Keith Nettles was packing up his stall. He no longer bothered with a fake smile and had apparently given up on making any more sales. Earlier he'd been working the crowd whenever he didn't already have a prospect inside his space, but now he was completely focused on packing up his toy samples.

  It struck me that there was something vaguely furtive about his movements. Perhaps he had actually read the market rules finally, or at least skimmed them but didn't realize the rule against leaving early only applied to the main market vendors. Or more likely, I thought, he was planning to do something on his way out that would make my job harder. Like abandon the canopy that I'd forced him to buy so I'd have to dispose of it. Since he was leaving early, I had to assume that his sales had never picked up to the level he'd been so pleased about yesterday. He wasn't likely to rent a space at the market ever again, and he might feel there was no downside to burning his bridges with me.