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Returning home, Martha thought about the rest of her day. She’d ended up at the shop far longer than she’d intended when she had left the cottage that morning.
Penny is not going to be happy with me, she reflected, picking up her walking pace.
But, like the true friend she was, Penny was happy to see Martha and all slights were forgiven. As Martha entered the unlocked front door, Penny ran to the glass door leading to the back porch. Letting her out, Martha then slid the glass door closed and thought about what she needed to do next.
She realized that the cottage was still looking clean from the gals’ ministrations several days ago, but the big wooden farm table was missing something...
Flowers! Martha could recall any number of gorgeous bouquets that Lorna had placed there over the years. Sometimes, she purchased an exotic display from the farmers’ market; sometimes a simple floral arrangement from the Piggly Wiggly; and sometimes she’d collected interesting weeds from the riverside to place in a mason jar in the center of the old hickory table. Martha hadn’t had time to think about things like flowers with all that had transpired since her arrival, but now that she was going to be spending more time here, she decided to bring back her aunt’s tradition. Maybe it would warm the place up a bit. Plus, she needed to pick up a small gift for Delores and Jimmy to thank them for tonight’s dinner, and flowers might be just the thing.
Luck was in her favor because today was Monday and that meant the farmers’ market was open. Martha had heard some leaf peepers in the shop mention that October was the last month for the fall market and it wouldn’t open again until May. Idly, she wondered where she would be in May and whether she would ever again get to enjoy a lazy stroll through the open stalls.
Clipping on Penny’s leash, she threw on a baseball cap, put her wallet in her pocket, and headed out the door with a canvas bag from the pantry over her arm. Her walk carried her in a direction that paralleled the river, not taking her far enough west to enter the square, but rather staying along its east edge and meandering north on the Arrowhead Path. Gusts of wind came at her from the left, carrying just enough cool to make her happy she was wearing her long-sleeve waffle-weave shirt.
Martha looked down and smiled to see Penny pointing her head directly into the wind, picking up the out-of-town news. Briefly, Martha wondered at the genesis of the Arrowhead Path name, assuming it was an homage to the Native American presence in this area many years ago. She really didn’t know a lot about the history of Riley Creek and wondered how she might find out more.
Why haven’t I thought about this before? she wondered. She’d been coming here for years and only now wanted to know more—her brain was doing strange things to her, bringing on odd curiosities. Was this some phase of grief? How many stages were there again? Seven? Seventeen? She should research that too.
After a leisurely thirty-minute ramble, she began to hear the unmistakable sounds of a gathering. The hum of generators and buzz of voices, the squeal of delighted children—they all carried on the wind. Though just a fraction of the size of its summer equivalent, the fall market was special in its own way. Set up in the parking lot of the Green Maples Flea Market, it hosted stalls of various sizes and configurations. Many of the “stalls” were actually pickup trucks full of produce with canopy tents covering their open tailgates. Some sported makeshift tables displaying vendors’ offerings, and others had larger, more sturdy tables with substantial tenting protecting their tenants from the elements.
Everywhere, there were splashes of color from the flowers and plants that were on offer, and flashes of brilliance shone from jars of honey, salsa and other preserved goodies. People milled around happily, shopping bags over arms. Some had dogs along, like Martha, and she even spied a few water stations for canine companions. Martha hadn’t been here in recent years with Lorna since her visits had been brief, but she knew Lorna had come here to get fresh ingredients for dinner or to pick up a loaf of newly baked bread.
As soon as the memory of fresh bread hit Martha’s brain, her eyes spied Early Riser’s market stall, which was really three folding tables shaped into a U. An easel held a dry erase board listing the day’s offerings and prices (a few gaps showing that some items had already run out and been erased), and there were delectable-looking baked goods piled in bakers’ boxes along the length of all three tables. Looking through the gaps between customers, Martha spied focaccia with golden brown cheese and dark red roasted tomato bits, as well as the shop’s signature apfelstrudel, which she knew was made using Carl’s mother’s recipe. Open boxes of cookies, muffins and assorted cupcakes were—if the line of people was any indication—going fast. Lewis was bagging items for customers while Carl handled the cash and restocked items as they ran low. Since she’d seen Cat earlier, Martha guessed she was covering the bakery’s customers while her husband and son worked the farmers’ market.
Strolling with Penny past offerings of fresh cheese and eggs, homemade oatmeal soaps, and pungent fall herbs, Martha came to a setup she had never seen before, even in the sprawling farmers’ markets in the suburbs of Boston. A cornflower-blue vintage Volkswagen van with its side doors swung open had been fitted with a counter and a wide awning, under which sat four bistro tables with chairs. “Love Potion #9” was written in large bubble letters on one of the awning flaps, accompanied by a chubby white daisy with a round yellow center. Artfully arranged flowers decorated the pavement on either side of the van’s counter, from small bunches in jars to dramatic bundles of sunflowers in milk churns. The “potion” was being pressed from a large contraption and the van’s owners were passing it out in small cups to customers at the counter.
When Martha was next in line, a dreadlocked young lady working the counter asked, “Would you like a raw juice? Boosts your immunity, cleanses toxins. We’ve got plain beet, carrot, or apple, or I can make you a Super Boost with all three, plus lemon and ginger. Great for your energy.”
Feeling unsure, Martha began to explain that she just wanted some flowers, but was interrupted by a deep voice behind her.
“Two Super Boosts, please.”
She turned to look at Detective Perry whom she’d last met at the police station. Best she could recall, her last words to him as she’d left had not been very pleasant—something along the lines of him not knowing how to run an investigation and maybe something else about him trying to damage a dead old lady’s reputation.
Before she could snap at him for butting in front of her, he gestured to one of the small tables and said, “Join me?” She was not going to be rude to him in front of all of these people, so she plastered on a fake smile.
“All right,” she said. “But just for a bit.”
He retrieved their juices and met her at a far table. Once they were seated, he leaned down to tousle Penny’s fur. She responded by flopping over on her back for a tummy rub.
Cheap little tart, thought Martha. Have you no shame?
“Cheers,” he said, lifting his opaque plastic cup to her. Martha raised her own cup, but eyed its contents suspiciously. It might be good for her, but its reddish-brown color was... off-putting.
“I know, I know. Looks kind of awful, doesn’t it?” he said, but drank the entire contents down in one gulp. “I tell myself that one of these each week will counter all of the junk I eat when I’m on a big case. Not sure it does, but it definitely makes me feel less guilty.” He smiled. She hadn’t noticed what nice teeth he had when she’d seen him last. They were nestled in what appeared to be a day’s growth of beard that made him look a little rough around the edges, perhaps recently out of bed. Certainly more approachable than he’d been in his slacks and tie in the police station.
“And is my aunt’s case what you would consider a ‘big case’?” she asked, tasting the concoction. She was not sure she could recognize the flavor of any of the individual fruits or vegetables that were supposedly in the drink. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t exactly good, either.
“Of course,” he said, wiping his mouth. “We don’t get many murders in this one-horse town.” Again, he flashed a smile at her, but she was not biting.
“Look,” she said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but the last time we talked, you all but accused my aunt of murder. That didn’t go over well with me.”
Holding his hands up, Perry said, “Now, hold on a second. I said that we’d determined your aunt was deceased prior to Sentrich’s death, but her fingerprints were on the murder weapon. That’s not quite the same as accusing her of murder. Look, your aunt is officially off the list of suspects. Given her health condition, the coroner says no way could she have planned to kill Sentrich. But we do have to investigate his apparent connection to your aunt.”
Martha continued listening to him, her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed. “So in other words, you still think my aunt was mixed up in something illegal. And what do you mean, ‘health condition’?”
He held up his hands again, this time in resignation. “Do you think we could start again? We’re here at the farmers’ market, it’s a beautiful day, and I’m just asking to talk. What do you say?”
Since he had officially taken her aunt out of his list of suspects, Martha felt herself relax. A bit. But she still didn’t like his implication that Aunt Lorna was involved in something underhanded.
“OK. That seems fair,” she said.
“May I call you Martha?” he asked.
“Yes. Sure.”
“Martha, you may or may not be aware that your aunt had begun suffering from a mild form of dementia. It was detected during the postmortem and confirmed with her family doctor.” He paused, clearly realizing from her reaction that this was new information for Martha. “According to her doctor, though she functioned at a high level, the kind of organized planning necessary to carry out a murder was something your aunt could no longer manage.”
“I... I hardly know what to say. I didn’t know. Why wouldn’t she have told me?”
“Well, according to her doctor, she didn’t plan to share it with anyone until she needed help. Like so many older people with health problems, she probably didn’t want to inconvenience anyone.” Looking around the market, the detective asked, “Been here before?”
Martha snapped out of her momentary shock. “Not in a long while. It’s much bigger than I remember. But that’s great for the area, I guess,” she said, trying to take small sips of her detox drink. He had bought it for her, after all, and it would be rude not to finish it.
“Yeah, it’s a lifeline for some of our local small businesses and farmers. Some actually count on the market as a place to sell the majority of their yearly goods from late spring through fall. So, I gather you’ve spent lots of time in Riley Creek?”
“I think of it as the place I grew up,” Martha replied, “since I more or less did. My mom was Lorna’s sister, and my folks sent me here for the summers when I was a kid. It was easier than trying to find good summer camps and I loved being in the mountains with Lorna. I stayed in Boston for school, and then work, but always came home to visit as often as I could, which hasn’t been that often these past few years. And since my folks died, it’s really just been the two of us.”
“Oh, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s OK. Really. I don’t mind talking about it. In many ways, I was closer to Aunt Lorna than either of my parents. I think I was more like her than them; I always preferred slipping around the riverbank hunting crayfish to fancy schools and city life. I mean, don’t get me wrong, my parents were wonderful people. We were just... different. And then, once they passed, Aunt Lorna and I became even closer because we knew we were it for each other. And now...”
Here she became a bit wistful, speaking aloud the sense of loneliness that she wasn’t sure she’d comprehended before.
“How about you?” she asked, needing to deflect attention from herself before she lost control of her emotions in front of the detective.
“Well, I guess compared to you, I’m a late arrival to Riley Creek. I grew up outside of Raleigh, North Carolina, and when I finished up at the police academy there, I worked in Charlotte for several years. Eventually I wanted to get away from the city, so applied here. Been here for the last three years, which, best I can tell, makes me still a newbie in these parts.”
Out of habit, Martha glanced at his finger and saw no ring there. He caught her looking and she casually cast her eyes down to his feet, noticing for the first time a string bag bursting with fresh produce, a wrapped package she guessed was meat, and a long, thin baguette.
“What’s for dinner?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing special. I fancy myself a semi-serious cook, but since I mainly cook for myself, I guess I’ve managed to keep the critics to a minimum.” He studied her. “Since you’re just visiting, I’m betting a home-cooked meal sometime wouldn’t be unwelcome?”
“Um, sure, that could be fun.” Martha felt the need to change the topic. Was this the second man to ask her to dinner in the past week? “So, do you have any suspects yet? While I’m glad you took Aunt Lorna out of your line of sight, it is a little unnerving to think a murderer is walking around free.”
“Not as many as I’d like, but I do have a few leads. In fact, today is the first time I’ve taken a half day off since we found the body, so I should probably think about heading home and back to the station.” He picked up their plastic cups and carried them to a nearby recycling barrel.
When he came back, Martha said, “To be honest, I’ve been asking around a bit to see what I can find out.” She flushed, embarrassed to be comparing her novice efforts with those of a professional detective.
Perry looked a bit taken aback. “I understand you want to know why a body was found in your aunt’s backyard,” he said, “but this really is a police matter and you shouldn’t get involved in it.”
“I know,” she said, feeling a bit irritated, “but are you aware of a guy named Cenzo Imbroglio?”
Detective Perry looked confused. “Of course I know of him, but not in connection with Sentrich’s murder.”
“Well, you might want to look into him. He came into my aunt’s shop—my shop—today and all but threatened me. He said that my aunt owed him money and that he was Sentrich’s business partner and was there to collect. Super creepy guy.” Recalling Imbroglio’s discomforting presence, she shivered. “Maybe you guys oughta take a look at him.”
Whatever peace had settled on them seemed to have broken and she wondered what in the heck she was doing here with him. Perry seemed impacted by what she’d shared with him as he picked up his string bag ready to go. She roused Penny, and together, the three of them walked a few feet away from the camper.
“Oh, I still have to buy the flowers I came here for,” she said. But as she turned to go, the detective gently grasped her upper arm.
“There’s something I really shouldn’t tell you, but I’m going to so you’ll be sure to steer clear,” he said, looking around to make sure they could not be overheard. “We are looking at one more suspect, someone who was seen arguing with Sentrich in the days prior to you finding the body. I understand from Allison he’s an old friend of yours. Jason Turngate. Just give him a wide berth if you see him, OK?”
Martha swallowed, wondering whether to tell him to keep his warnings to himself and settling for a breezy, “OK. Sure.” She felt strangely protective of Jason based on their long-ago friendship. But if he was willing to trap small animals in torturous steel traps, was it such a stretch to think he’d bash a human on the back of the head?
“And let’s plan for that dinner sometime, OK?” Detective Perry asked her more softly as she was turning back toward Love Potion #9. For reasons she could not have explained, she pretended not to have heard him and kept walking.
Martha had purchased a large bunch of sunflowers for the kitchen table at the cottage and a pot of light purple hardy mums for Delores and Jimmy. She nestled the pot down deep in her canvas shopping bag and tucked the sunflowers alongside, their brilliant golden heads peeking from the top. There was plenty of time for her to get home, shower and enjoy a few chapters of her Fyfield mystery before heading to the Ritzenwallers’.
As she turned toward the parking area and home, her ear caught sounds incongruous with the cheery milling of the farmers’ market crowd.
“Oh, screw you,” a woman’s voice shrieked.
Wow, thought Martha, that sounds more like Boston than Riley Creek. She looked ahead and saw a navy blue convertible Mustang pulled into one of the few spots for disabled drivers along the edge of the lot closest to the walkway. The same young policeman she’d seen at the station days ago had pulled his patrol car up behind the illegally parked Mustang and was now issuing its owner a ticket.
“Miss Marshall, you can’t just park in a disabled parking space. It’s against the law.” The young officer, neck blanching, tried to calm the thin blond woman in front of him. Martha noted equal amounts of cleavage bulging from the top of her tight V-neck t-shirt and cheek spilling from the bottom of her even tighter running shorts.
“But I keep telling you, I twisted my ankle at the gym this morning and I need to park closer to the market.” Both hands were planted on her waist, as if through sheer force of will she could get the young officer to see things her way. Far from nervous in the presence of police, the blond checked her watch impatiently and heaved a sigh.
“Sorry, ma’am. You’ll need to move your vehicle now,” he said, pasting the ticket to the Mustang’s windshield when it became clear she had no intention of allowing him to hand it to her. He tipped his hat to her politely, and then moved back toward his patrol car.
Martha cupped her hand by her mouth and yelled, “Excuse me, are you Cherry Marshall?” She stated the name the way Donna Riggs had pronounced it, like the fruit.
“That’s Sherry, like the old-fashioned drink. Who’s askin’?” The blond eyed Martha with suspicion.
Drawing closer, Martha said, “You don’t know me. I’m Martha Sloane, from out of town. I wondered if you’d be able to talk to me a bit about Curtis Sentrich.”
Without missing a beat, Cherry said, “Well, right now, honey, I’ve got to move my car because this so-called po-liceman says I can’t be here, even though this was a free country last time I checked.” She nodded her head derisively at the patrol car, as if indicating a pile of dog doo someone had neglected to clean up. “But sure, for a six pack of root beer, I’d be glad to chat with you if you want to pop out to my place tomorrow. It’s my day off, though, so I don’t want to chat all day. I’m out at the Vacancy. Lucky number seven.” She reached over to pull the citation from her windshield, then jotted something on it before handing it to Martha. “There’s my cell number in case ya get lost.”
This was not quite the reaction Martha had expected from someone whose boyfriend had recently been found murdered, but she knew from her own experience that grief expressed itself in many different ways and she should not judge someone she didn’t know. But Martha did know the Vacancy, so they agreed on a time. As Martha and Penny turned to walk back to the cottage, Cherry (as in the drink, not the fruit) fired the Mustang’s V8 engine and screeched out of the parking lot.
All the way back to the cottage, Martha’s thoughts kept running from Perry and his invitation to dinner to his mention of Jason Turngate arguing with Sentrich. Arguing about what? The detective was handsome. And employed. But did she want to get involved when she had to start thinking of her return to Boston soon?
Her head spun. This rookie sleuthing was for the birds.