Cancelled by Murder (14 page)

I bought a coffee to go at Mahican's, resisting the pastries, since I'd seen photos of mouthwatering turnovers at Knox Valley. I headed out, hoping for answers. I figured at least I'd come home with a bunch of fresh asparagus and a bag of kettle corn for my trouble. More rewards than other ventures of the last week.

M
y forty-five-minute trip over two-lane country roads was well worth it. The Knox Valley Farmers' Market lived up to its Internet presence. I stepped out of my car to be greeted by a wandering accordion player, an old man squeezing out, of all things, a tune about big fun on the bayou. I estimated that we were a thousand miles from the nearest bayou, but that didn't keep me and other patrons in the parking lot, especially the large number of toddlers, from clapping (me) and dancing (not me) along with the music.

I laughed at a large sign at the entrance to the market, warning:
DON'T EAT VEGGIES THAT HAVE JET LAG
.

Only five minutes into my field trip and I was already in a better mood.

The market was more like an outdoor mall, combined with an amusement park and a crafts show, all in full swing
at ten o'clock. Was this what Reggie Harris envisioned for North Ashcot? I tried to picture the rows of colorful canopies lined up along our Main Street or close by. Too crowded, so I moved the scene in my mind to the school parking lot along Second Street. The proposal was gaining ground in my imaginary, reconstructed debate between Reggie and Daisy.

The accordion man launched into “America the Beautiful.” Appropriate, considering the aromas of apple cider and buttery popcorn. The smell of hot dogs sizzling on a grill near a food truck was a little over-the-top for my taste in the middle of the morning, but I could hardly object.

I started down the aisle that began with small samples of homemade fruit drinks (better than the bottled variety sold at our local grocery store) and led me on to the table of yet more turnovers and scones (fresher looking even than those served at A Hole in the Wall, plus the option of gluten-free treats); the flower tent (with more square feet than Gigi had at her disposal); baskets of fragrant herbs (not in sealed plastic bags); and enough jewelry, cards, knitted caps, woven scarves, and handmade soap to give every specialty shop on Main Street a run for its money.

Farmers' markets: not just for farmers anymore.

And a clear threat to the likes of Daisy Harmon's small business.

Even as I enjoyed the feast for my senses and the purchases I'd already made (including, but not limited to, kale, cheese, and fudge, for a well-balanced meal later), I worried about how the small businesses in North Ashcot could survive the influx of such competition. The warnings in Daisy's
letter shouted at me, as if she herself, with her high-energy passion, were still alive in my head. I thought about her accusation that, besides the fruits and veggies that were on the table, something more lucrative was under the table. I sniffed the air as if I were an expert at discerning the presence of contraband or controlled substances.

I stopped for a minute to adjust my purse and bags of raspberry squares and jars of jam. It had been difficult, but I'd managed to eat half a strawberry rhubarb turnover on the way. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man I could have sworn was Reggie Harris. The same short, muscular build and cowboy walk. A baseball cap, which he always wore, proclaiming one or another sports team, and a windbreaker that I'd seen on him as he headed for the meeting last night. I wished he would turn around so I could be sure, but he continued walking away from me. Of course, the man might have been Reggie only in my imagination, since Daisy was on my mind. I pressed forward, slowed down by a family with a stroller, and whoever it was had gotten lost in the crowd.

I noted the proliferation of electronic scales in the tents and felt a wave of nostalgia for the farmers who tossed veggies in the air and came up with a fair price. A long way from the current professionally printed signs welcoming cash, check, or credit card with logos for all.

Spiffy banners on the vendors' tented structures identified farms and orchards from Massachusetts towns like Montague, Colrain, and Shelburne Falls, and from as far away as southern Vermont.

A young boy, surely too young to have a work permit,
lured me to his family's tent, holding up an elaborately painted hair clip.

“Wouldn't this be great to go with your pretty hair?” he said, a salesman already. “My mom makes these.”

Not for me, but I spied a pair of earrings that would be perfect for Linda and her long neck. Here was a chance to show my city friend what a small-town craftsperson could do. I bought them, thus encouraging the boy, who followed me out of the tent for a few yards, pitching a matching bracelet and a greatly discounted pinkie ring, before giving up.

A few minutes later, I realized I'd passed up a great opportunity for questioning a vendor. Two adults, who were probably the boy's parents, sat behind the table, ripe for an interview. Another failure as a pretend sleuth, getting wrapped up in the moment and forgetting that my mission wasn't shopping, but investigating.

I looked around for another likely candidate for a little quiz and spotted a beekeeping family. A middle-aged woman stood behind a table full of jars of honey in large and small attractive jars. Better yet, there was a man in farmer's clothes on a seat behind her, and a young girl focused on a smartphone close by, but no customers at the table.

“Do you keep bees?” I asked, approaching the woman, hoping I was using the correct verb.

“I do indeed,” she said, looping strands of long, straight gray hair over one ear. “Josie,” she called to the girl, “bring that phone over here.”

There followed a multimedia lesson that included a one-minute video on Josie's smartphone, outlining all I'd need to prepare my first hive. I accepted a FAQ sheet and a form
to send in for a free kit that contained all the starter equipment I'd need plus a subscription to a newsletter. I listened to an ecology lesson from Josie—about a fourth grader, I guessed—on how important bees are in our food chain and how they're disappearing because of our nasty pesticides.

I nodded and asked one or two relatively intelligent questions, then addressed the woman.

“By the way, do you know Reggie Harris?” I asked, in what might have been the world's most blatant non sequitur.

She abandoned her smooth pitch and stuttered. “Well, we, uh, why are you asking?”

I shrugged. Casual. “I'm just wondering if you'd be among those planning to sell at a future farmers' market in North Ashcot.”

“Yeah, everybody's talking about it,” Josie said. “I heard them say it's going to work out for us to be up there on Sundays. I—”

“Enough, Josie.”

The man, who'd been silent until now, leafing through a magazine, stood, towering over the woman. Only a little above eye level with me, but considerably heavier. He grabbed Josie by the arm, too roughly, I thought. Nothing brutal, I surmised, but enough to send a message. Josie winced but didn't seem surprised.

“You don't know what you're talking about, Josie. Leave the lady alone.” He glanced at me with anything but concern for my well-being.

“But she—” Josie began.

“I said, leave the lady alone.” The man took the jars of honey I was about to pay for and set them back in their place on the stand. “She's done here anyway.”

He was right. I turned and walked away, before I got Josie, and myself, in further trouble. Making progress, I thought. Someone is worried about what I'll turn up. So what if my palms were sweating and my heart was beating a little faster than usual?

I could do this. I'd just have to find a booth with shorter staff members.

To catch my breath, I stood for a few minutes before a bulletin board perched on an easel at the end of an aisle. I glanced through typical notices of events in other parts of town. A summer theater production of
Guys and Dolls
(Really? In this century?), a fact sheet about farmers' markets, extolling their virtues as local job creators as well as an opportunity for a better social life (people who shopped there had fifteen to twenty interactions per visit, as opposed to only two or three in a grocery store).

A hastily written memo stuck over more colorful, professional-looking flyers caught my eye. In thick black-marker letters, the announcement was a reminder of the meeting of vendors at one thirty, just after the market closed. Was that why Reggie was here today? If that was Reggie I'd spotted.

“I hear you've been asking around for me.” A deep, rough voice took away any doubt. I turned to see Reggie Harris in his Red Sox cap and windbreaker. It was at times like these that I was happy to be on a par with the average height of a U.S. male, especially since Reggie was a couple of inches below it.

I straightened up, taking advantage of every inch of my height to fend off feelings of intimidation. “I'm impressed by the communication system on this site,” I said.

He held up his cell phone. “Faster than service at the post office,” he said.

I laughed, as I thought I was supposed to. “Nice to see you, too, Reggie,” I said. “We could have carpooled.”

“Funny. What brings you all the way to Knox Valley, Cassie?”

“Where else can I go before we have our own market?”

He shook his head. “More funny.” Reggie pointed to a set of tables with attached benches and umbrellas where people had brought their food truck treats, including hot dogs. “Sit?” he asked.

Since he was asking nicely, I nodded and joined him at a round wooden table, evidently today's tree trunk surrogate, with hearts and initials carved into the surface. Reggie offered to get me a drink or snack, but I found the food truck aromas less appealing than when I'd first arrived. Maybe because my stomach felt a little queasy in the face of one of the prime suspects on my murder list.

“Look,” Reggie said, “I know you've been working with Cliff Harmon. I know you know about the letter Daisy wrote that never got printed.”

“And the one you wrote back that no one other than the newspaper staff has seen.”

“Funny you should mention that,” he said. He reached into his light jacket and pulled out a sheet of paper, folded twice, and spread it out in front of me. “Here. Read it for yourself.”

I took the page. “You just happened to have this with you?”

“In case I run into people like you and Cliff.”

“Or the police?”

“The police don't need to be involved in this particular debate. There's nothing to be involved in, really. Read it,” he said, pointing at the letter, his face flushed. He seemed not so much angry as frustrated.

I glanced down and saw that the letter Reggie gave me was very short, addressed to the editor of the
Town Crier
.

To the Editor:

Allow me to remind your readers of the great advantages a farmers' market can bring to our town. Besides the obvious fresh fruits and veggies, we'll have an opportunity for our own local craftspeople to sell their wares. That means quilts, for example, which means more fabric and thread will be sold in our fabric shop. Also, handmade knitted goods and local honey, and tons more products. There will be something for everyone, both low-income families and foodies. And think of the savings on gas. Please, people, don't dis this project without knowing all the facts. For more information, go to our website.

A website address followed. Nothing in the letter was a threat to Daisy in any way, and in fact, it singled out her shop as one of the beneficiaries. Coincidence? Hard to swallow.

I thought of challenging Reggie, asking how I could be sure this was the actual letter he wrote to Gordon at the
Town Crier
. He'd had plenty of time to write six variations through the course of the week. He could also make and print and keep multiple and different copies with him. One copy to sway Gigi by using flowers as an example, one for Liv's card
shop, and one to appeal to the bank tellers, probably. The wonders of the computer age. A twelve-year-old had the equipment to pull off any number of cons.

“Your letter seems innocuous to me,” I said, seeing no value in continuing a debate between two people, one of whom was no longer around to participate. I put the letter in my purse. I'd let Sunni decide its merits. Good deputy that I was.

“Darn right, it's innocuous,” Reggie said. “Maybe you can help me out and tell Cliff Harmon to back off. I know he wasn't happy with his wife's stirring up trouble in the first place. Let the police do their job. He can do his job and you can do yours, and everything will be solved in the end.”

Probably Reggie didn't know why I shrank back and bristled at his warning to
do my job
.

It took a minute to turn some phrases in my head, trying to find the best wording for the big question. “I'm curious,” I said. “What motivates you to work so hard to get this project through?”

“You mean what's in it for me?”

So much for roundabout wording. “I know you're a contractor. But there's nothing that will need to be built if the market comes to town.”

Reggie leaned in, too close for my comfort. His upper arm muscles strained the sleeves of his jacket and seemed to ripple before my eyes; I felt his breath on my neck. “Are you implying something crooked is going on?”

I gulped. “Is it?”

“Listen, Madam Postmistress, I don't have to report to you, but because I'm such a nice guy, I'm going to anyway. North Ashcot is growing, Cassie. Do you know our
population is expected to reach five thousand in just a couple of years, and probably twice that in ten years? Yet we have no large market, just that convenience store that pretends to sell foodstuffs. Just to show you, they're not complaining about the influx of real food that a farmers' market would bring.”

Reggie was right about the quality of food in the convenience store—just the basic packaged supplies that would take you through an emergency. The nearest fresh foods were well past the central Main Street district.

“And that's not all.” Reggie appeared to be waiting for my attention to return to him before continuing. “There are also no office buildings, very limited medical facilities, and only a handful of apartments. I have plans for our town. ‘Plan North Ashcot,' I'm calling it. New developments everywhere, with housing, office space, specialty shops. A little bit of something for everybody.”