5 Merry Market Murder (6 page)

“Everything okay?” I asked her.

She turned and glared at me in the way that she glares at everyone. Jeannine was short and strong, and leaned more toward paranoid than friendly. Though we usually wore about the same amount of makeup—none—her closely cropped hair was dark and unruly and she was older than me, but I didn’t know her exact age. We’d all thought the Santa hat was a strange addition to her cranky attitude, but we’d become used to it.

“No, Becca, everything isn’t all right. Someone stole some eggs—some brown eggs, to be specific.”

“Really?”

“I’m missing a half dozen that I know I didn’t sell and I know I had with me when I got here this morning.”

Jeannine Baker’s farm-fresh eggs were delicious. There’s a noticeable difference in the taste of farm-fresh eggs and a store-bought-not-fresh-from-the-farm eggs, and Jeannine had a slew of loyal customers. I knew firsthand that she’d created a financially successful farm, but could never tell her about my accidental snooping. She saw conspiracy theories everywhere and would frequently misinterpret someone’s accidental, sideways glance for something suspicious or evil. Telling her I’d seen her bank records once when Sam and I thought she’d gone missing and were searching her house might make her so angry that she’d never be able to forgive me. Of course, I wouldn’t want someone seeing my bank records, either, and I wasn’t paranoid. It was just best to keep the secret.

“Oh, that’s too bad. Are you sure?” I asked.

“Of course I’m sure. I count my inventory twice every morning and I keep a running count throughout the day.” She held up a notebook with frayed corners.

“I’m sorry about that, Jeannine. Were you away from your stall at all?”

“Yes, I took a small break earlier.” Her mouth pursed tightly. “That must be it. Someone must have seen Barry in here and known that he’s not as vigilant as I am. They must have somehow snuck around back and grabbed them.” She moved her front table enough that I took it as an invitation to join her in the stall.

I doubted that anyone had stolen six eggs, but Jeannine definitely would pay close attention to her inventory. There must be some mistake, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to be the one to discover what it was and point it out to her. Nonetheless, I stepped into the stall.

“Look there.” She pointed to the ground underneath the back wall. There were distinct skid marks on the dirt floor, as though someone had scooted into the stall on their knees.

“Don’t you go through here to get your eggs in and out?” I asked.

“I do this.” She pulled up the canvas wall and secured the corner of it with a hanger hook, similar to what most of us used. “I walk only on this path. Those skids or marks or whatever weren’t there this morning.”

The space she walked through was to the side of the marks, far enough away that her route shouldn’t have caused the digs in the dirt.

“I never go that way over there. Ever,” she continued.

An evenly worn path marked her entry and exit. It was obviously the path that she always used, and though I hated to admit it, it was clear that something or someone had disturbed the other space. But it would be impossible to attribute the marks to an egg thief. Bailey’s was an open-air market; people could access the backs of the stalls easily, and so could animals. It wasn’t rare that someone would turn around and find a surprise visitor—dogs, cats—in their stall. Bo, the onion guy, even had a skunk visit once.

“Do you want to call Allison? Let her know there might have been a problem?” I asked as I took out my cell phone.

I was surprised she didn’t immediately say yes, but she thought about it and then shook her head. “No, it’s just six eggs. It’s my fault for taking a break. I’ll be better about watching, and maybe I’ll rig something up to catch the thief next time.”

“I am sorry, Jeannine. It’s always unsettling to have something stolen.”

“It won’t happen again, I guarantee it.”

I nodded.

I helped her get everything back into its proper place and arrange the small amount of remaining inventory before I exited the stall and took the final path to Allison’s office. Disappointingly, but not surprisingly, she wasn’t around. I knew that she must be busy and I didn’t have anything urgent, so I didn’t try to track her down. Instead, I ventured back toward my truck, which I’d parked behind my own stall.

The trip back held fewer distractions. Jeannine didn’t see me wave as I passed by her space, and I couldn’t see Brenton for all the customers in front of his. Traveling through the market was often a slow, diverging process. It was good to finally make it out my own back canvas wall.

Before I climbed up to the driver’s-side bench seat of my truck, I opened the door and rolled down the window a couple inches. The old, handle mechanism worked better when I did it that way.

I hoisted myself up and closed the door. It wasn’t until I’d turned the key that I noticed something sitting on the passenger side of the seat.

I actually said “Huh?” aloud as I glanced at the small item. It took a second to understand what it was, but when I did, I followed up with, “Uh-oh.”

Of course I couldn’t be completely certain because, really, one pretty much looks like all the others. But I thought that perhaps I’d found one of Jeannine’s missing brown eggs, and for a minute I wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.

The egg was unquestionably brown-shelled, but it also had parts that were green and red. For a long moment, I stared at it and thought about what I should do. Though it was a harmless egg, it was not something I’d ever found on the passenger side of the truck’s seat—or anywhere, for that matter—which made its presence foreign and alarming. Anything that I hadn’t put there would have been at least surprising. I never locked the truck’s doors because I usually didn’t carry anything valuable inside it, and the lock mechanisms, like the window, didn’t always work smoothly. It was rare, though, that anyone ventured inside it without an invitation or first giving me a heads-up.

It was the decorative nature of the egg, though, that finally caused me let down my guard and pick it up.

And it really wasn’t an egg; it was just an eggshell, the insides having been released through one of the holes that had been put in it at either end. It was like something I’d made in elementary school, when we’d put holes in raw eggs and then blown out the insides so we could decorate the shells. If I remembered correctly, I’d broken a few to the point of being unusable before I’d been successful. This shell had green and red bands colored around it with what I thought was marker and a paper clip hook through the shell close to one of the holes. It was a Christmas ornament; something that a kid had probably made. Who, though? My nephew, Mathis? Had Allison snuck it into the truck to surprise me? I doubted it. That wasn’t her style. Besides, Mathis would want to give it to me himself, and I didn’t think he was quite old enough to create such an item.

I turned the shell slowly. The red and green bands alternated, and in between two of them was a line of writing. I had to hold it just right to make out the black-inked numbers. I was pretty sure it read “1987.”

“Huh,” I said aloud again as I pondered what I knew about the year 1987. The one and only thing I could think of was that that was the year that Ian was born. “Ian?”

No, this wasn’t Ian’s style, either. Besides, he was an artist. Any eggshell he decorated wouldn’t be so amateurish.

“And Ian wouldn’t steal eggs from Jeannine. He’d buy them,” I rationalized aloud.

I thought about calling him, but that idea felt uncomfortable. I’d just ask him the next time I saw him. I also thought about going back into the market to ask some questions: Had anyone noticed anyone by my truck? Did anyone know anything about the egg? But I didn’t want to have to explain my surprise to Jeannine. I was pretty certain the egg had come from her stall, but there was no way to prove whether it had been purchased or stolen. Jeannine might want a full investigation into the matter, and it just didn’t seem that important.

No matter who had left the egg in my truck, I had to assume that it was a gift. I might appreciate it, given a little time to get over the nature of its bold, intrusive, and secretive delivery.

Finally, I sat it back on the seat and drove home to Hobbit. I’d see what she had to say about it.

As I steered the truck down the two-lane highway toward my small farm, thoughts of the egg gave way to thoughts about Christmas, the tree parade, more jelly, and the dozens more cookies I had to bake.

The jelly and the cookies would happen, one jar and one dozen at a time. I just had to take the time in the kitchen. The two parade days were always days that I looked forward to, and this year was no exception. I would bid on some trees, and I would lose because my budget wasn’t quite as large as those of the highest bidders. The money always went to a great cause, so it was good to be outbid, and good to know that people in and around Monson were so generous.

Sam and I would attend together this year, which would give us both a chance to think creatively about decorating our own tree. Our own tree?
My heart skipped a little at the idea, but not so much that it scared me. It was a new life to get used to, and something I was finding that I wanted more with every passing day.

My parents were in town this year, too. Though Mom would sneeze her way through the parade, she had never missed one unless she and Dad were away on an RV adventure.

My entire family would be together this year, and though we weren’t much into gift giving, we were all very into family. I did always try to think of a little something special as gift for them and for close friends. Often, my gifts were something made in my kitchen or something from the market. Jalapeño-mint jelly, along with some bread from Stella, a Bailey’s baker, would be perfect. I’d need to put some jelly aside today if that’s what I chose to do.

And, there was Sam. Our first Christmas together as a couple. What in the world would I get him? I hadn’t been able to come up with the perfect gift yet. We were only a week away, but I wasn’t going to get him just anything; my gift to Sam would have to mean something, though I didn’t even really quite know what I wanted it to mean.

I laughed at myself. Allison would roll her eyes. She’d said many times lately, “You two are like teenagers experiencing their first love. You’re cute and adorable and kind of annoying.”

I pulled onto my gravel driveway and waved at Hobbit, who was sitting up on her pillow on the porch, her tail wagging and her short front legs anxious for the truck to stop so she could greet me properly. Once the truck was in park, she left the porch and met me halfway with a few kisses and some full-body wags.

“Hey, girl! Anyone bother you today?”

The house, barn, and grounds seemed undisturbed. Not long ago, I’d found them disturbed to the point that afterward I’d become concerned about leaving her alone. I still had surges of concern, but I was getting better. And Hobbit loved her home, her pillow, and her porch; although she enjoyed the people she’d been able to spend extra time with during her time away from the farm, she was pleased to have her routine back.

We walked around the property and did our daily inspection. There were no signs of the pumpkin plants, the vines having been pulled and composted in early November. The strawberry vines were there, dormant and waiting to bloom again in the spring, but they looked exactly how they were supposed to look, so there was no reason not to think another good crop was on its way.

A new habit I’d formed whenever I arrived at home was checking the door on the refurbished barn/kitchen just to make sure it was locked securely before I ventured inside the house. Today it was locked, and it looked like no one had tried to enter since I’d worked in there the night before. For part of the evening, Sam had helped me with jelly and cookies. He wasn’t as skilled in the kitchen as he was at police work, but he was getting better. I didn’t think canning or preserving or baking cookies for that matter would become one of his favorite or frequent activities, but his help had been appreciated.

“I’ve got lots of kitchen work today,” I said to Hobbit. This caused her ears to first perk then sag. She wasn’t allowed into the kitchen and though she was pretty patient about work I had to get done, she’d rather we just hung out together and ignored work altogether.

I laughed. “I’ll try to hurry.”

I grabbed the egg from the truck and took it inside, placing it safely in a bowl on the kitchen counter—the kitchen inside the house, which was used for personal meals and recipe experiments that weren’t intended as sellable products. My aunt and uncle had left me the house, farm, and fancy barn kitchen. Uncle Stanley had originally planned to can jellies, jams, and preserves as a retirement activity. Neither of them had planned on being killed in a horrible car accident, but somehow Uncle Stanley must have known that he was creating something that someone would use.

Having paid bills and sorted through all the junk mail a few days ago, I’d cleared all the paper off the old, long dining table. It was now half-covered with jars and lids that were clean and ready, even though I would sterilize the jars in the barn before I filled them.

The dining room was bright with four big windows that faced the side of the property. Mostly, diners could look out to hilly countryside that backed into some thick woods, but in the fall, right before the pumpkins were harvested, you could see long green vines, big green leaves, and big orange gourds creeping over the hills. I hosted October family dinners just so everyone could enjoy the view.

I loaded the jars onto a tray to transport them to the barn. On the way out, I stopped at a big pot on the front porch and plucked some sprigs of fresh mint. I still had plenty and it was still growing well outside, though I thought I’d have to soon move it in to the back porch where it would get better winter sun.

More than anything, my short time in Arizona had taught me to be careful when working with jalapeño peppers. Once I was in the kitchen, I pulled on some disposable plastic gloves, grabbed a box of peppers from the refrigerator, cleaned them, and placed about ten on the worktable. Since I pureed the peppers it wasn’t technically necessary to also slice them, but I liked the end texture better when I did. Once the stems were removed, I cut each pepper into three or four rings and then put the slices into a food processor. I poured a cup of apple cider vinegar in with the peppers and then pureed until only small bits of pepper remained.

Once that puree was poured into a pot on the stove, I added some lemon juice and sugar and brought the mixture to a boil before reducing the heat and simmering for five or so minutes. Then I added some pectin and brought it to another minute-long hard boil, took it off the heat, and added the mint sprigs and a small amount of peppermint essential oil—the real stuff, never imitation. Finally, I added a little green food coloring, which was probably the biggest reason the jelly had been so popular. It was eye-catching, and the bright green along with my simple red-bordered label had been an almost perfect magnet for those searching for gifts. Once I filled the jars, I hot-water processed them all. As the first batch hot-water processed, I started a new batch and so on. I had a number of processing pots, so there were times when it sounded like the entire kitchen was boiling. By the time Sam called, I’d made about fifty new jars of jelly but hadn’t started on the cookies.

“So, you didn’t arrest Brenton?” I said as I answered the phone.

“Hello to you, too,” Sam said.

“Sorry. Hello, how was your day?”

Sam laughed. “I’ve had better days. Have you eaten?”

“Nope.”

“I’ll bring some sandwiches or something. Be there in a half hour.”

A half hour gave me time to finish the last jars, setting them all carefully on the center worktable. They weren’t supposed to be bothered for at least twenty-four hours, so these fifty wouldn’t make it to Bailey’s until the day after tomorrow. The jars Sam and I had made the night before would be tomorrow’s inventory.

Inside the house, I stirred up a huge pitcher of iced tea. I’d always been a fan of the drink—being southern almost demanded that you like sweet iced tea—and it had become Sam’s favorite, too. Apparently—or so he told me—after I’d served it to him the first time he’d come out to my farm to ask me questions regarding the murder of Matt Simonsen.

The times, they had definitely changed.

• • • 

“No, I didn’t arrest him. I probably could have, but I didn’t want to,” Sam said as he leaned back in the dining room chair. He’d changed into jeans and a white T-shirt, automatically transforming him into casual Sam. I liked both professional Sam and casual Sam, but casual Sam was my favorite, unless professional Sam happened to be my favorite that day. We’d finished off roast beef sandwiches and potato salad but were still enjoying the tea.

“I’m glad you didn’t arrest him.”

“I just wanted to get him out of there and away from Bailey’s until he cooled off. He hadn’t done much wrong, but he was on the verge of doing something potentially dangerous and something I was sure he would later regret. He’s a good guy.”

“He’s a great guy. What happened to upset him?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. He didn’t have to. He asked if he needed an attorney. I told him I wasn’t arresting him. I asked if there was anything going on that I could help him with.”

“And he said no?”

Sam took a sip of tea. I wondered if he didn’t know that I could sometimes see right through his avoidance. He wasn’t totally under my control. There had been plenty of times in our short relationship that he’d informed me that he wasn’t going to tell me something I really wanted to know. There’d been way too many murders in the Monson area recently, but we were typically a low-crime town, or so I’d thought. There was more going on in my community than I really knew, and I’d been surprised by some of the illegal activities Sam had told me about, though he hadn’t always shared perpetrators’ names.

“He said no,” Sam said.

“He didn’t. I can see he didn’t. You don’t want to tell me what he said, but can you give me a hint?”

“No.”

“Let’s see, he was accusing Denny Ridgeway of being the killer. Did it have something to do with the Ridgeways?” I said.

“Maybe,” he said with a smile.

Now he was getting information out of me. We’d sometimes dance around something, trying to get information from each other. Usually both of us caved, or each of us offered enough to the conversation to make the entire story become clear.