A Slaying in the Orchard Read online

  "It sounds wonderful." I usually drank my tea iced, which would have been more appealing on a hot day like today, but I didn't want to risk the lecture I'd get if I asked for a cold beverage, since ice would undoubtedly ruin the delicate flavor. I was enough of an aficionado to brew my own iced tea, rather than getting it bottled or made from a mix, but Cicely would probably have fainted if she learned that I didn't even know for sure what brand of tea bags I used, since I generally bought whatever was the cheapest at the local grocery store.

  While Cicely did some sort of final magic with the teapot, swirling the contents before pouring her perfect brew into a gold-rimmed, rose-patterned china cup, the pirate/pioneer couple I'd seen earlier wandered down from the consumer sciences space. The girl was eating from a baggie of the student-created granola, and the boy was stuffing a pamphlet into the closest thing to a pocket in his costume: the top of one of his cuffed boots.

  Cicely held out the teacup about three-quarters filled with a steaming pale yellow-green liquid. "Do you always have people in costumes at this market?"

  I took the offered cup of tea and managed not to comment on her own granny clothes that looked like castoffs from the character played by Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire. "It's just a one-time thing for this weekend. They're playing some sort of game. Pioneers versus pirates." I watched as the pioneer who'd inspired the question tugged the pirate's head down for a kiss. "Or perhaps not exactly against each other. They didn't tell me the rules of the game."

  "Why can't they be like normal people?"

  Again, it was with some effort that I refrained from pointing out, first, that she herself wasn't dressing in a "normal" manner for her age, and second, that her obsession with brewing the perfect cup of tea wasn't exactly standard operating procedure either. "I've always thought the lack of normalcy among both the vendors and the buyers was one of the main reasons why people liked farmers' markets."

  Cicely shook her head in a manner that could only be described as schoolmarmish before indicating that it was time for me to drink my tea. Presumably it had cooled from the perfect brewing temperature to the perfect drinking temperature.

  I took a sip. And then another one, forcing myself not to glug the entire cup down in what I assumed would be as offensive to Cicely as someone gulping fine brandy would be to a different kind of connoisseur.

  There was apparently no talking allowed while drinking, and that was fine with me. The stuff really was amazing. It was nothing like—I was reluctant to even call my usual beverage tea now, since it didn't deserve to share the name—the colored water I poured over ice.

  Finally, I set down my empty cup. I was a convert. Cicely could be as old-before-her-time as she liked, and I wouldn't complain. Not if that was what it took to create a drink that was more akin to a rare wine than an everyday cup of water infused with dried leaves.

  Still, I would have to keep an eye on Cicely to make sure she didn't go too far overboard in irritating the non–tea-drinkers. I'd just add her to the list of people who needed watching today, along with Henry Atwell, Keith Nettles, and the LARPers. As long as everyone else behaved, that shouldn't be too much of a problem.

  I wasn't expecting major problems from the general public. The worst that had gone wrong in the eight weeks since the disastrous Independence Day weekend was a truly epic temper tantrum by a toddler in the middle of the Memorial Walkway outside the first aid tent. That hadn't scared off the buyers then, and from what I'd seen, neither the role-playing pirates nor the surly Henry Atwell had done any permanent damage to the upbeat, acquisitive mood of the market today. Surely it could also survive a fussy, prim young woman impersonating her grandmother.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  At the thought of Henry Atwell, it struck me that I hadn't seen him heading back up to WoodWell. I checked the time on my phone, and sure enough, Henry's time out period had ended about five minutes earlier. That was odd. Despite Henry's distaste for interacting with his customers, he had an even stronger work ethic that kept him present during every single minute of the market's operating hours.

  I hadn't seen Jazz returning to her space after her break either. And she actually liked interacting with her customers. Perhaps she'd gotten stuck in a long line at the face-painting station. That much wouldn't surprise me. Gia was a genius with makeup, and everyone knew it.

  I left the Thyme for Tea stall planning to go look for Jazz and Henry, but Tommy Fordham caught my eye and called me over to his wheelchair.

  Tommy was one vendor I didn't have to keep constant tabs on, but I couldn't take him for granted either. Unlike a couple of other vendors I'd be happy to replace, he was definitely worth hanging on to if there was anything I could do to keep him here. I was counting on his great personality and his vine-ripened heirloom tomatoes to catch the attention of market reviewers making their "best of" lists. The tomatoes were certainly in huge demand, keeping him rolling at top speed around his space most of the day. He'd brought a helper with him today, and the line of customers had dwindled enough that the young woman could handle the customers alone, so I went over to see what Tommy wanted.

  "Make sure to save me a pound or two of the beefsteak tomatoes," I said.

  "They're already tucked away in the back with your name on the bag." Tommy waved for his new helper to come over and join us. "Have you met my girlfriend, Ginger Schwartz? She's learning all about the sales end of the business."

  Ginger finished with her customer and promised the next person in line that she'd be right back. She was tiny, not much taller than the seated Tommy. Her long red hair was tied back in a braid that fell to her hips, and she wore tight jeans with cowboy boots and a sleeveless jeans jacket over an off-white T-shirt. A little boom box playing country-western music was perched on the corner of the display table, so she two-stepped to the song on her way over to us. When she arrived, she reached out to ruffle the curly hair on the top of Tommy's head.

  Things were certainly progressing quickly between them. Back in July Tommy had been a little frustrated with how hard it was for a farmer to find time for a social life, laughing ruefully about falling face-first into his spaghetti at Gino's Pizzeria every time he asked a woman out. And now he was in what looked like a serious relationship.

  Ginger smoothed Tommy's hair again before turning and holding out her hand to me. "You must be the famous Maria Dolores."

  I gave her hand a shake. "That was my great-great-great grandmother. I'm just the regular Maria Dolores."

  "That explains a lot." Ginger nodded at the front of my T-shirt with the official Lighthouse Seal of Approval featuring a cameo of my ancestor. "I have that image of Maria Dolores stuck in my head, so it's weird when Tommy talks about you, which he does all the time. Even though he always says you're nice, I was afraid you'd be like the picture, staring at me judgmentally. I know it's silly of me. She was probably a very nice person, and in any event you couldn't be the same woman who was born in the 1800s unless you're a zombie or vampire."

  My ancestor had been, by all accounts, a good person, but she hadn't been the nicest person. She'd been somewhat rigid and judgmental, tendencies that I had inherited along with my bone structure and brown hair. I couldn't change the physical characteristics if I'd wanted to, but I did try to quash the undesirable personality traits.

  "I'm definitely human," I said. "But I do sometimes feel like I'm well over a hundred years old."

  "Like whenever Henry Atwell is within earshot," Tommy said.

  Ginger rolled her eyes and excused herself to go help some customers.

  Tommy watched her leave before he added, "What happened with Henry is what I wanted to talk to you about. Is everything okay with Jazz?"

  "It will be," I said. "I appreciated your help earlier. I sent Henry off on a time out and arranged for Jazz to take a break to get some makeup repairs from Gia Di Mitri of The Clip and Sip. No one can be upset for long around Gia. Later, I'll talk to Merle about mediating some sort of resolution to the disput
e."

  "Henry's granddaughter seems like a good salesperson," Tommy said. "Any chance you could convince Henry to stay home and let his granddaughter handle the sales?"

  "I've been thinking the same thing. It would be the perfect solution. He's a genius with his wood-carving tools, just not with people. I don't know if Etta would be willing to do it. And that's even assuming I could talk Henry into agreeing to the arrangement. He may hate dealing with the public, but he also hates giving up control of even the smallest detail of his work." That sort of obsessiveness was probably what made his products—and for the same reason, Tommy's heirloom tomatoes and Cicely's homegrown teas—worth both the top prices they commanded and the time it took for buyers to make a separate trip to the farmers' market to get them, instead of settling for what was available at the local grocery store. "I'll have a talk with Etta later and see what she thinks about the idea."

  Tommy looked past me and frowned. "I thought I heard you tell the guy in the blue robe to stay away from the memorial stones."

  "I did." I turned to see Leo ten or twenty feet past the first aid tent in the direction of the parking lot. He was next to one of the few stones to have been installed that far down from the lighthouse. Just beyond him was the end of the line for ordering lunch from the Danger Cove Police Foundation's grills.

  Leo didn't seem interested in food. He stood with his right arm bent, the elbow supported by his other hand, and his right fist propping up his chin. He stared pensively at the stone, as if searching the letters and numbers of the inscribed name and date for a hidden message. He wasn't making any move to touch the stone yet, but I couldn't take the risk that he was just working out his plan of attack before doing something that would definitely get him banned from the market.

  * * *

  I hurried past the first aid tent and the Baxter twins. By the time I approached Leo, he'd dropped his hands to his side and was glaring at me defiantly.

  "What?" he asked. "I'm not doing anything. Just looking. I'm allowed to look, aren't I? Or is there a rule about that too now? One that you just made up and that only applies to me?"

  "You can look all you want as long as you do it respectfully." I glanced down, reading the name upside down. It wasn't your basic Tom, Dick, or Harry, so it took some deciphering, and I wasn't sure how to pronounce it. Maybe Leo was just curious about the unusual name and wasn't planning anything nefarious. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt this one time. "How's your game coming along?"

  Leo peered at me suspiciously. "Why? Did one of the players bribe you to get some inside information?"

  "I was just wondering. It's my job to find out how everyone's day at the market is going."

  "Yeah, right." He turned to leave, muttering as he went, although I couldn't catch any of the words. He passed the Dangerous Reads tent in the direction of the beach, well away from any of the memorial stones, so I didn't try to stop him to find out why he felt so aggrieved.

  I did continue to watch him, partly to make sure he didn't trip over his robe and need assistance, but mostly to make sure he didn't double back to the stone as soon as he thought I wasn't paying attention.

  Leo continued on past the educational-toy display, which was now where it belonged next to the Dangerous Reads tent. Together, the bookstore and the toy store were lined up neatly against the parking-lot-facing wall of the first aid tent. Keith had even managed to get himself a canopy and install it. Or more likely, he'd managed to get it set up for him. The owner of One Man's Trash looked like a hippie-stoner, but he was a genius when it came to assembling kits that stymied everyone else. Probably because he didn't bother trying to follow the directions like a more logical person would do.

  Satisfied that Leo wasn't going to be my problem for a while—the Danger Cove police were responsible for everyone and everything over by the beach where people were starting to pile combustibles into neat pyramids for the Sunday evening bonfires—I decided to go see if Jazz was still getting her makeup fixed over at Gia's face-painting throne. Before I could turn around to head in the right direction, Jim Sweetwater came stomping over to me. His bowtie was awry, as if he'd been tugging at it irritably.

  "Someone's got to do something about the grill situation." He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb toward where volunteers from the Danger Cove Police Foundation had set up their simple plywood table flanked by a pair of gas grills, one for hot dogs and one for burgers, for sale to the lunchtime crowd. An officer had been injured on the job, so they were hoping to raise funds to help him through rehab. I recognized the grillmaster, Officer Richie Faria, but not the man wearing a three-piece suit who was taking orders and payments. They seemed to be working well together, and the line of customers, while long, was orderly.

  "I don't see any problem," I said. "What situation are you referring to?"

  "You said only the lottery winners could have grills, and just a tiny one, at that. How come the Police Foundation has two full-sized ones?"

  "The fire department"—I made a point of emphasizing that it wasn't my decision, since nothing I did ever met with Sweetwater's approval—"only limited the grills within the stalls, not out here in the open."

  "Still, it's not fair to the regular vendors. Someone needs to do something about it." Sweetwater either missed or consciously chose to ignore my explanation that it hadn't been my decision to restrict the number and size of grills.

  "You're welcome to have a chat with the fire chief if you want."

  "No, no," he said. "It's not my job to make sure people are treated fairly. And the lack of a grill permit is not really a problem for me personally. Nobody needs a demonstration to be convinced to buy potatoes, although I might sell more radishes if people realized how good they are when grilled. But really, I'm more concerned about my colleagues who are selling less popular crops. I just thought you'd want to know what they're thinking. They may be afraid to speak up, but I'm not."

  That last bit was undoubtedly true. Sweetwater never hesitated to tell me when I was doing something wrong. I'd thought initially it was leftover resentment because I'd gotten the market manager job that he'd wanted, but I'd since realized I wasn't his only target. He got a kick out of pointing out the mistakes of everyone around him. Possibly a habit he'd picked up from his lengthy career as a high school guidance counselor. I just hoped he handled his students' missteps in a more constructive manner than he did with adults.

  While I did believe that some of the vendors might be too reserved to lodge any complaints with me, I didn't believe Sweetwater was speaking on behalf of his fellow vendors in this case. The Police Foundation had voluntarily agreed to use only the market farmers' tomatoes, peppers, and onions for toppings on their hot dogs and burgers, and they'd lived up to their promise. Only Sweetwater had been left out of that deal, since the Police Foundation didn't have the facilities for making french fries to go with their other offerings.

  I took out my phone and made a note to check with the rest of the vendors to see if anyone else was upset about the grill situation. If so, I wanted to hear it directly from them, not from an unreliable source. What I told Sweetwater, was, "I'll mention your concerns to the chief before the next long weekend."

  That should have ended it, but Sweetwater wouldn't let it go. "You can't just leave it up to the chief to decide. I've known him a lot longer than you have, and he's always walked all over people who don't stand up to him. He won't respect you unless you take the initiative and make some solid demands. You're the manager, after all. You need to make things happen."

  Much as Sweetwater annoyed me, he did know the local players better than I did. And I would have liked to have had more grills at the market. Food demonstrations brought in a slightly different demographic of customers and had been shown to increase sales. I couldn't advertise the demonstrations properly if I didn't know well in advance who would have access to a grill and who wouldn't. I wasn't convinced the chief would budge on the number of permits, but there might
be another solution. Perhaps we could expand on the idea of the consumer sciences class working with the Police Foundation's grills. The market could set up a shared, commercial-sized grill somewhere safe, within easy reach of the fire truck, for all of the vendors to take turns doing demonstrations. It was too late for this weekend, but there was plenty of time to make the arrangements before the next major event, which celebrated Halloween and the end of the market season.

  "I'll look into the options," I said, even though I knew that nothing short of grills raining down from the sky would satisfy him.

  Whatever objection Sweetwater was going to make got cut off by a shout that seemed to have come from the far side of the first aid tent.

  "Help!" This time I recognized Tommy Fordham's voice. "Medic! Medic!"

  At almost the same moment, a woman screamed, and the Baxter twins abandoned the latest object of their flirting, grabbed the bags leaning against the first aid tent, and cut through the Pear Stirpes Orchard stall in the direction of the voices. Behind there, the first aid tent, which extended about ten feet further back than the canopied spaces, formed a secluded little corner, hidden from the view of anyone in the parking lot or the beach and generally ignored by vendors who had their backs turned to it. I hadn't realized until now that it might be an ideal spot for a bit of mayhem, like a back alley would be.

  I froze for a moment—even my legendary great-great-great-grandmother would have experienced a moment of panic in the circumstances—but then my own unflappable nature took over. In all likelihood it was a false alarm. Someone had probably stumbled across a "dead" pirate or pioneer from Leo's game. Tommy undoubtedly knew what real injuries looked like from his military experience, but I'd gotten the impression from Leo that some of the gamers went to considerable lengths to make their costumes—and presumably also their death scenes—look realistic. I'd warned him against doing anything that might be too upsetting to nonplayers, but he'd shown how little he cared about my warnings when he'd returned to studying the memorial stones. I was going to have to ask Officer Fred Fields to have a little chat with the gamers about not upsetting the rest of the people at the market.