Bushel Full of Murder (15 page)

Unfortunately, Peyton wasn’t at my parents’ house. Neither were Allison; her husband, Tom; or their son, Mathis. The best that my mom could interpret from Allison’s call was that Peyton wasn’t feeling well and Allison didn’t think it was fair to leave her alone.

I didn’t tell my parents my own interpretation, which was: whatever the reason for Peyton not wanting to go out, Allison didn’t trust her enough to leave her alone. Allison probably gave Peyton the impression that she was being a supportive family member, but I was sure Peyton was being watched closely.

Although Allison would have a level of patience with Peyton that I probably wouldn’t have, so there was a chance
my sister actually was just being supportive and I was the only suspicious one.

Since Peyton wasn’t going to be joining us, I called Sam and invited him and Harry. I hadn’t heard about the dinner until midafternoon, and since the subject of both of their investigations—Peyton—was supposed to be there, Sam and I had agreed that he shouldn’t join in the fun. Both he and Harry were pleased with the change of plans. They arrived only a short time later, and they brought Hobbit.

My parents were always delighted to meet new people. Even if this one was investigating their niece because of potential criminal activity, they were still willing to welcome him to their home and give him a full dose of Polly and Jason Robins.

Somehow they were able to dish out the third degree without the person on the receiving end figuring out what was going on or later becoming offended by what had happened. My parents liked to get to know people on a level a few floors deeper than the surface. They were fascinated by what made other people tick, deep down inside.

When I was younger, I’d never given them the credit they probably deserved for their keen intelligence. They were hippies, and hippies weren’t supposed to be smart, were they? Polly and Jason Robins were a couple of smart hippies.

Even though they’d participated in more rallies and causes than I could remember, they were different one-on-one, with a need to understand other people and other views before sharing their own. They didn’t argue and they didn’t try to change minds . . . one-on-one. In front of a building that had what they deemed questionable business
practices going on inside and with arms loaded with signs while singing clever chants, oh yeah, you bet they’d try to change minds. But never one-on-one.

And they never used any sort of persuasive pressure on a visitor in their home. Put simply, they thought that was bad manners. They were people people—all kinds of people people.

“How hard was it to leave the reservation?” Mom asked Harry as she handed him a glass of lemonade that she’d squeezed herself. She’d also baked a platter full of sugar cookies for our casual dessert. The lavender oil had been for frosting the cookies. She explained that oil was much better than extract when it came to adding flavor to icing or frosting. I doubted I’d ever attempt to make lavender frosting, but I hoped she’d continue to put it on her sugar cookies.

It was only about a year ago that my parents had come off the road after a two-year RV trip. They’d moved into one of the smaller homes they owned in town. They owned quite a few Monson area houses, which they rented out, but they wouldn’t tell Allison or me exactly how many. This one was cute and the perfect size for two people who didn’t need a lot of space. Dad had just built a wooden shade awning for the small back patio, and with it the evening was again comfortable enough to enjoy outside.

“The most difficult part for my family, and for those who I consider my family but aren’t true blood relatives—we’re all family on the reservation—was that I wasn’t going to be a reservation law officer. I’m a county officer. That was hard for them to accept, but the adjustment has mostly been made. My older sister still has issues with me.” Harry laughed.
“But I’ve never quite lived up to her expectations. I was supposed to be an artist.”

“What type of artist?” Mom asked.

“Beading. Jewelry.”

“Are you good at it?”

“Not anymore. I used to be. When I hit about forty-five, the eyesight started to get in the way and my fingers became much less nimble.”

“Sounds like you made the right career choice,” Dad said.

“I love my job,” Harry said. “Even when it might come in between friendships. I know that Peyton is your niece.”

Mom blinked. “You know, I don’t think Peyton is capable of committing a crime, but she’s just flighty enough not to think through her actions sometimes. Only the evidence will tell, but I have every confidence that she will be exonerated.”

“I hope so,” Harry said sincerely.

“Now, Sam, what can you tell us about Robert Ship’s murder? It’s so terribly tragic,” Mom said.

“Yes, it is. And unfortunately, Polly, I can’t tell you much. No one saw anything and there doesn’t seem to be a lot of evidence. We’re working on it.”

“Did you know that Betsy, the tomato lady from the market, was Robert Ship’s niece?” I said. “Harry and I found out when we went to visit her.”

“I did know that,” Mom said. “But, of course, I know the whole family. Or knew them. I guess we used to be friends, but that was a few years back. Nothing happened to break the friendship. Lives just go in different directions. They were a fun group of people when we knew them, and very earthy. They all had farms or gardens. I heard that Betsy’s
father, Nick, Robert’s brother, built a house that uses only solar power, which is impressive. Dad and I have thought lots about solar power,” Mom said.

“We have. I’m sure we’ll do something with it in the next year or so,” Dad said. “We’re just not sure exactly what.”

I knew that Harry had told Sam about our visit with Betsy, and I’d given Sam the glove I’d stolen. I told him it might have Betsy’s fingerprints inside just in case he thought they would need them. I asked him not to ask me how I got it and he’d obliged. I looked at him now to see if I could read whether or not learning about Mr. Ship’s brother was of interest, but his expression didn’t tell me anything.

“Do you know if they all still get along?” I said to Mom.

“Gosh, I’m not sure about recent relations. I know there was a problem with the solar panels Nick used, and Robert, being a city employee, thought it was his job to bring the issue to a town meeting. Ultimately the vote went in Nick’s direction. I don’t think Robert was upset about the end result, although he might have been, I suppose.” Mom thought a minute. “I don’t know. I don’t remember any bad feelings, but before the vote, Robert was pretty determined that Nick was breaking the law, big time. There was mention of ‘clauses and articles’ but the town council didn’t see things the same way Robert did. Yes, Robert might have been embarrassed.”

Sam and Harry exchanged a look. What had my mom said that caused the look?

“I understand the Arizona difficulties, Harry, but you and Sam don’t really think that Peyton could have killed Robert Ship?” Dad asked.

Neither of them said anything for a very long moment,
too long. I’d hoped for a quick, confident, and comforting answer in the negative.

“We don’t have much of anything pointing us to anyone,” Sam said.

I looked at Harry, whose expression was also unreadable, a stern poker face.

“Harry?” I said.

“I don’t know, Becca. I still have strong feelings that it’s Peyton on the video. And the money is either missing or what was used to purchase the food truck. I don’t know if she could have killed anyone.”

I swallowed. Had the money been something she stuck into the pipe? No, that amount of money would have taken up more space than the space in the pipe would have allowed, or the canvas bag I’d seen her with, for that matter. My imagination was sprouting again, this time sprinkled with fear and concern for her.

“Can we see the video?” Mom asked.

“Sure.” Harry pulled his phone from his pocket. A few seconds later, we’d huddled around him and he’d expanded the picture to fill the small but visible screen.

“That’s not Peyton,” Mom said when it was over.

“What makes you so sure?” Harry said.

“Two reasons. I’m sure she’s not nearly strong enough for that, and her curls aren’t that perfect. That’s a wig. However, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was someone trying to look like Peyton. Yes, I’m sure that’s not her.”

“Play it again,” I said, repeating the same request I’d made at the police station.

As the video played again, I realized my mom was correct. Peyton’s curls weren’t nearly that perfect. In fact, no one’s real curls were that perfect. Only a wig had such flawless curls.

“I think you’re right, Mom,” I said when the video had played two more times.

“Of course she is,” Dad said proudly.

“You have a point,” Harry admitted as he studied the screen again.

I got the distinct impression that Harry did agree that my mom
might
be correct, but he was also considering other contingencies. Perhaps the small screen only made the curls look so perfect, or . . . or whatever other contingencies law enforcement people took into consideration.

“All right then, Harry, tell us about the adventure in Arizona with Becca. She told us what happened, but I’m sure she left out some of the scarier parts. I’d like to know them now. Plenty of time has passed. I think we can handle the truth,” Mom said.

Harry put his phone back into his pocket and shot me a brief reassuring glance that told me he would still leave out some of the events that had transpired. He knew that even parents who’d had enough time and knew their child was fine still couldn’t always handle the whole scary truth.

True to the glance, he left out the worst parts of the story, but kept enough in so that my parents thought they were getting all the gory details.

After we all said good night, Harry took his rental back to Sam’s, and Sam drove me and Hobbit home in my truck.
I hadn’t realized I was so tired until Sam had to lift my groggy, half-asleep body from the passenger side to deposit me into bed. I didn’t remember anything after that.

Until my phone rang and buzzed loud enough to wake the dead. Well, almost.

“Becca, are you coming into the market today?” I was pretty sure it was Peyton’s voice on the other end of the phone, but it was tight and breathy.

I looked at the dark window and then reached over to the other side of the bed. It was still a little warm. With the noise coming from the bathroom, I deduced that Sam was in the shower.

“What time is it, Peyton?”

“About five thirty.”

“Well,” I said as I wearily sat up, “yes, I’m coming in, but it’s a little early.”

“Really? There are other vendors setting up and Allison just got us here.”

I’d cursed my sister’s perfection more than a few times
over the years, but my biggest issue was with her need to always be so on time. I’d tried to change her, but to no avail.

“Right,” I said. “You need me to come in?”

“Yes, right away if possible.”

“Give me a few and I’ll be there. You okay?”

“Yes, I just need to talk to you about something,” Peyton said.

“I’ll be there soon.”

After I ended the call, my muddy brain solidified a little more. It wasn’t unusual that Sam got up early, but normally he would go work out and then shower at his house. Sometimes he got ready at my house, but those days were rare. I didn’t have time to catch up and ask about it because his exit was hurried and his farewell was distracted.

After my own shower and some big gulps of coffee, I hurried Hobbit through her morning routine and then I tried to call Sam to see what was up, but he didn’t answer. Another bad sign.

Once Hobbit was taken care of, the sun was beginning to come up and I’d gotten rid of most of the sleep cobwebs.

My truck went only so fast even when I floored it, so though I was now in a real hurry to get to Peyton, I wasn’t going to be in danger of breaking speed limit laws.

I arrived at the back entrance of my stall earlier than I had in a long time. Most farm people, most of the farmers’ market folks, too, were morning people and woke up early naturally, particularly the old-timers, those who’d been farming for their whole lives. On those rare occasions when I was at the market before an old-timer or two, I was boosted
with temporary confidence and the hope that I might be like them someday.

I moved through the back wall of my stall with the plan to drop off one box and then go find Peyton out in the parking lot. But she surprised me and was sitting on my front display table when I came through.

“Need help?” she said as she hopped off the table.

“Sure. No, wait.” I looked at the box of jams I was holding. “Do we need to talk?”

“I’d like to.”

She didn’t want a casual conversation; that was obvious.

“Let’s go to your truck. These are just canvas walls,” I said.

“Good plan.”

I put the box on a chair and we made our way out of the market.

“Did you want Allison in on this? Did you talk to her already?” I asked as we passed her office.

“No, I didn’t. She’s so busy, Becca. I don’t want to bother her.”

I nodded. I wasn’t bothered, and I got what she was saying—Allison was always busy. While she would have easily lent an ear to Peyton, it was better this way.

We exited the market and walked over the empty parking lot. Basha’s cupcake truck was open, the counter door lifted up, and I could see the cupcake baker inside holding a pastry bag over a cupcake tin.

“Hi, Basha,” I said as we passed by her truck.

She looked up. “Ladies,” she said in greeting. There was
a small question to her tone, but I waved as if to let her know everything was fine.

She turned back to the cupcake tin.

“I don’t think she likes me,” Peyton said quietly.

“Why?”

“Probably everything.”

I nodded. Hard to argue with that one.

Peyton came around to the passenger side first, unlocked the door, and waited until I was inside before she shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side.

“The police called Allison this morning. They asked her to bring me into the station,” she said when she was settled inside.

I blinked, Sam’s morning departure now made a little more sense, but there were still lots of missing pieces.

“Did you go? How early? What happened?” I said.

“I didn’t go. Allison told the police that she could take me in around seven o’clock but that she had a conference call before then. She”—Peyton paused as if she was trying not to cry—“told them they could pick me up at her house or at the market.”

I put my hand on her arm. “She didn’t have any choice, Peyton.”

“I know, but . . . we’re related, Becca. It hurt.”

“Did you want her to tell them no or to hide you? Allison couldn’t do that, you know that, don’t you? It’s better for you this way, too.”

“I do, but still . . . anyway,” she sniffed, “they told her that they have some evidence they want to talk to me about.”

“Okay, well, that might not be so bad. Right? Just talk.”
I hoped she didn’t see me swallow hard. They had evidence? That was new.

She shook her head, causing her dark curls to bounce in such a little girl way that my heart hurt for her. But she wasn’t a little girl. She was a woman who should be old enough to make good choices.

“Peyton, it’s okay. Let me call Sam.” I pulled out my phone, punched the button to call, and hoped he’d answer.

“Becca?” he said.

“Hey, Sam. Do you need to see Peyton?” I said.

“I do. I’m just about to leave the station and head out to the market. Where are you?”

“At the market, with Peyton. We’re sitting in her food truck. She’s nervous, Sam. Can you tell me what this is about?”

I wanted him to tell me that it was no big deal, that he just needed to talk to her briefly. That she would be fine. But he hesitated before he said anything. I knew that hesitation—it wasn’t usually followed by good news.

“I do just need to chat with her briefly,” Sam said. Even though it was what I wanted to hear, I knew he was lying. There was something big going on, and there would be nothing brief about their conversation.

“Okay,” I said. “Sounds good. We’ll wait right here.”

“Be there in a minute.”

I disconnected the call, put my phone back in my pocket, and hoped I hid my concern.

“Sounds like it’s no biggie, Peyton. Let’s just wait and talk to Sam. He’s very reasonable.”

“Becca, I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m innocent of . . . everything.”

“Okay.”

“I need to get out of here.” Peyton started the truck.

“Wait a sec. No, this isn’t a good idea. Where are you going to go?” I said as the engine revved.

“I’m not sure. We’re close to the ocean. Maybe I can get out of the country.” She backed the truck and then pulled it away from the line.

I laughed, but my cousin was being one hundred percent serious. She wasn’t thinking clearly.

“No, we’re not going to do that. Stop the truck,” I said.

But she didn’t stop the truck. Instead she sped up through the parking lot, and then pulled the truck out to the two-lane highway, turning the steering wheel so forcefully that one side of the truck lifted off the ground momentarily.

“This isn’t safe,” I said.

“Hang on, Becca. Hang on tight.”