CHAPTER FIVE


SUNDAY MORNING, I SKIPPED the Methodist service in favor of coffee with Sandi at the diner. The South County News article scheduled for Monday, which Sandi had emailed me, didn't have any information I didn't already know.

She'd call me if she found something important, but I wanted to know anything she knew. I might see relevance in something she thought immaterial.

By nine-thirty, I assumed Sandi had forgotten or was still with her Saturday night date, whoever that had been. Sandi and I don't talk a lot about our love lives, not that I had much of one at the moment. She was devastated when her last relationship ended abruptly, even if she doesn't say much. Still, I try to be empathetic.

I put the tip on the table and began to stand just as she walked in, breathless.

Sandi nodded at me, then waved at the often-bumbling Sunday waiter and pointed at me. He would likely remember that she wanted tomato juice and oatmeal, a combination that made me want to retch.

"Hey, Sandi."

She slid into the booth across from me, grinning broadly. "I know where Peter Frost spent part of Friday morning."

"Do tell."

"He drove to Fairhaven to see about renting a boat slip."

If Sandi had told me he went to hell to make a reservation, I might have been less surprised. "You can see into his barns. There's no boat."

"I asked a few people. He may never have even been on one."

"No reason to," I mused. "I don't suppose he asked to rent Hal's space."

Sandi shook her head. "Bruce Blackner still has Hal's old boat in it. But Frost did ask if he could see Hal's boat. The guy who rents the slips told Frost it had been sold, so no dice."

My mind churned. Bruce told me about the manuscript on Thursday. He might not have told anyone else, but if he as much as mentioned it at the diner or told even one person, word that Hal was writing a book would be all over town. The fact that it was on Hal's boat when Bruce bought it, a place Hal didn't go often, would have added to the speed of the gossip chain.

"Melanie."

"Sorry. I was thinking. If he didn't really want a boat, he might have been looking for the manuscript."

"I agree. What the heck is in it?"

A few days ago that manuscript had seemed, if not important, funny. Now I couldn't even remember where I had put the damn thing. Had to be in my truck. "I only read the first four pages."

Sandi leaned back in the booth so the server could put her oatmeal on the table. When he walked away, she looked at me. "Was it long?"

I shrugged. "No, maybe forty pages. I'll go out to the truck and get it." I left her blowing on her hot oatmeal as I walked away.

After five hot minutes of looking under the seats, in the glove box, and under the floor mats, I gave up. I hadn't taken the manuscript into my apartment. That meant someone had taken it. What would Hal have written that was worth stealing?

Sandi looked at my scowl as I slid into the booth. "You didn't find it?"

"I think someone took it." I said this before I thought to remind Sandi not to screech. It's her worst habit.

Sandi reddened and gave a short wave to the waiter, letting him know her squeal didn't indicate a bug in her food or something, then turned back to me. "Did you lend it to Ambrose?"

I shook my head. "No. It was on the front seat of the truck when we found Peter Frost. Then the sheriff had the truck. I need to get that manuscript."

"So, go get it."

"It's Sunday. Gallagher won't be there, and I don't want to make a fuss with anyone else."

Sandi raised an eyebrow at that. "You aren't acting like you used to be a newspaper reporter."

"Yes, I am. If Gallagher has it in some kind of property storage, he'll just give it to me. He probably forgot. If I ask someone else, it'll be all over town that I'm looking for it."

I glanced at my watch. "I picked most of my vegetables already, but I need to swing by to load the pickup and get to the market."

"But you'll share with me, right?"

I grinned. "Don't I always?"

Sandi paused with her glass of tomato juice halfway to her lips. "When it's convenient for you."

 

THE SUNDAY AFTERNOON FARMER'S MARKET IN River's Edge is the only one in the county held then. It's probably the only one in any Iowa county, for that matter. Our farmers picked that time because there's no competition. It can't be Sunday morning, of course, since half the town goes to church.

I sat at the table I shared with Sam Harris and glanced around the market, which is in the parking lot of a small strip mall on the outskirts of town. There aren't usually more than fifteen or twenty tables, but most farmers bring a lot of plants or vegetables. Not too many fruit growers, except for all the strawberries and rhubarb in early spring and apples in late summer.

A couple, with twin girls who looked to be about two, selected sweet corn from the vendor at the table across from me. I didn't recognize them, but the market attracted people from neighboring counties, so I never knew everyone.

"You don't have any tomatoes?" The woman asked the guy.

I called to her. "Mine are really good." I smiled as she turned to face me.

The farmer she had been talking to was an old friend of my Dad's, and he winked at me as she walked over.

"My name's Melanie. Are you from South County?"

She returned my smile. "We drove down from Iowa City. It's so peaceful here."

The husband, who had stooped to look at the girls in the stroller, added, "And it's really fun to drive seventy miles with two chatterboxes."

They were both about thirty and fit. I marked them as graduate students or young assistant professors at the University of Iowa.

I nodded at the twins. "You two have more guts than I do." I gestured at the neatly arrayed tomatoes in front of me. "I picked these last night. I have a large garden behind the house."

I had almost said behind my house, but thanks to the late Peter Frost, I didn't have a house. Maybe I would again soon.

I sold them four tomatoes, and Sam convinced the twins' Dad that Sam's sweet onions were the best in the market.

When they had moved on, I turned to Sam. "Have you been to all the markets this year?"

"All but one. My son's birthday was two weekends ago."

We talked about his son's party in between customers, and when our pauses were longer than half a minute, Sam said, "I'm sorry about old Frost being found at your place."

I looked at him directly and then at shoppers at a table diagonal from us. "You don't know the half of it. Really awful. Especially for Ambrose."

"Yeah, I heard at the gas station that he found the guy."

Nothing in Sam's tone implied that he thought Ambrose killed Frost, so I didn't change the subject. "I know you don't live near our farm, but had you heard Frost was going to our barn sometimes?"

"Nope, but no reason for anyone to talk to me about his comings and goings." He glanced around and, seeing no one near us, continued. "I heard guys at the diner saying he owed the grain elevator a good bit of money."

Loads of raw corn aren't good for much except feeding hogs. The South County Elevator is also a grist mill. It processes corn and stores the resulting grain in its huge silos until it's bought.

A lot of farmers would pay the grain elevator even before buying propane to heat their houses. Certainly before shoes for the kids.

"Huh. Guess I don't know much about him. I assumed that, since he bought that farm when he was, well, old, that he had assets."

"Like I say, I didn't know him except to say hey. Just what I heard."

"Did you hear anything at all about anyone using our barn?"

"Using it? No. I thought your farm was tied up in some kind of estate deal."

"It has been. I don't know exactly what will happen now."

For the next twenty minutes we bantered with local people out to get their weekly vegetables. We also explained to town people from Fairfield or Keokuk things like the difference between the vine tomatoes they saw in grocery stores and truly fresh tomatoes.

In even the recent past, whether you grew up in a town or on a farm, you'd have known a lot about farming. Not so now that there were fewer small farms and more big operations. Hardly any town kids had nearby relatives with farms to visit.

Foot traffic slowed, so I turned to Sam. "I need some good organic fertilizer. I bought the last batch at the hardware store, and I'm not sure it did the trick."

Sam graduated two years behind me in high school, but even upperclassmen knew him as the best practical joker in the school. I wouldn't sit in any chair he held out for me without looking first, but he gives top-notch advice on growing vegetables.

"I pretty much make my own from our milk cows." He glanced around the twenty or so tables, until his eyes fell on two guys who were in their mid-thirties, roughly Ambrose's age.

Like Sam, they hadn't gone away to college, though I knew they had taken some classes at Iowa State and were active in the County Extension Service.

Sam nodded at the two men, who I thought were named Brad Thomas and David Bates. "Brad and David have some pretty good stuff. You pay them in here, and then they load from their truck to your pickup on the far side of the parking lot."

That suited me fine so I walked over to their table. The only produce they had were green peppers and turnips.

A large burlap sack had a handwritten label that said, "Brad and David's stinky fertilizer." A small sign listed the ingredients ("unadulterated crap") and said the men produced it themselves. Somehow, I doubted that.

Brad noticed me first. "Hey, Mel, how are you and Ambrose?"

David added, "Sure sorry you had to find old Mr. Frost."

"So were we. I wanted to ask…"

Brad interrupted me. "Do you know how he died?"

"No, and I wish the sheriff would figure it out." I spoke more abruptly than I intended, but I didn't want to talk more about Peter Frost.

David spoke before Brad could ask another question. "You in the market for some of our stuff?"

"Just a couple of bags. I have a good-sized garden behind Mrs. Keyser's house."

We talked price for a minute, and they came down a little when I offered them any tomatoes I hadn't sold by the end of the market. Since everyone sold them, I knew I would have at least a few left.

Sandi stopped by just before the market ended at three. By that time, the heat had begun to wilt any flowers or bedding vegetables that were not under a canopy. She wore a sundress and had her auburn hair in a French braid that made her look about eighteen. She laughed at one of Sam's jokes, and they chatted as I packed a basket to give to Brad and David.

I had too much to take back to my pickup in one basket, so I left Sandi and walked to within a few feet from David and Brad's table. They appeared to be wrapping up a deal with a scrawny woman who looked to be about forty.

The customer wanted them to deliver their product, and they were balking. When David saw me looking in their direction, he nodded and ended their conversation by saying they would drop off what she needed tonight.

I couldn't blame the woman for wanting it delivered. I didn't look forward to putting the stuff in my truck, even though it wasn't supposed to smell much once it had been aged enough to sell.

Brad pointed out their panel truck, and I drove my pickup to park beside it. After a couple minutes of me moving gardening equipment around, Brad threw two large burlap sacks of truly foul crap into the pickup.

I pinched my nose, mostly to make a point, since I could move a few feet to avoid the smell. "How long have you guys let this stuff sit?"

Brad grinned. "Not quite a year. That's why it's such a good deal."

I didn't say anything else. If I'd known it smelled as if it just came from the cow, I would have bought the stuff elsewhere. I'd have to make sure I emptied the pickup tonight. By tomorrow, even the cab would stink.

Sam had packed up when I got back to the table, so Sandi helped me carry two empty bushel baskets and a sack of peppers and onions back to my truck. I thought maybe she had learned something new, but she was just bored on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

"Will you let me read Hal's book when you get it Monday?"

"You're a glutton for punishment."

She shrugged. "If it's not related to Frost's death, it could be good for a laugh."

I decided not to say that nothing struck me funny right now.