5 Merry Market Murder (14 page)

“His eyes are . . .”

Mamma laughed. “You get used to them, but they are kind of different.”

“Yeah.”

“Look, Becca, just go talk to her. She’s surly but she won’t hurt you. I don’t think.” Mamma’s eyebrows came together. “No, she won’t hurt anyone. I don’t think she has in all the years I’ve been here, and if Jack thought she was dangerous, he wouldn’t let her stay. I don’t think.”

It was my turn to laugh. “Your confidence is inspiring.”

“You’ll be fine. The worst she can do is tell you to go away, though I doubt she’d use pleasant words.”

“I’ll take that challenge.”

Mamma pointed me in the right direction. I set off down the main aisle and then took the second, narrower offshoot aisle and wove my way around a small curve.

And there she was. She didn’t look evil at all. She was smiling, maybe laughing, as she read something on a notebook she was holding.

Evie didn’t resemble the pictures of the dynamic Evelyn I’d seen online, except that her long, crossed legs meant she was probably tall. Evie had short, silver-gray hair, thick glasses, and an age spot–covered face. If she truly was Evelyn, she was only in her early fifties, but she looked much older. I couldn’t help but silently compare her to the other early-fifties woman I’d recently met. Stephanie Frugit looked as though she’d found a fountain of youth compared to Evie. As Evie laughed, she didn’t look the least bit unpleasant, but her demeanor changed quickly when she noticed I was smiling in her direction. Her smile flipped into a frown and her previously endearing age spots sagged heavily as her eyes squinted unhappily.

“Help you?” she said, though it was clear she didn’t mean it.

“Evelyn? Evelyn Rasmussen?” I said. I hadn’t had much of a plan, so jumping right in was the only option that came to mind.

Her sour face soured more. “Who’s asking?”

My non-plan went forward as I extended a hand. “I’m Becca Robins. I work at Bailey’s Farmers’ Market in Monson. I believe your ex-husband was Reggie Stuckey?” I waited, but she didn’t move; I wondered if she breathed.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news if you are that Evelyn.” I cleared my throat. “Reggie was killed. In his tree truck. In the Bailey’s lot.”

I’d never seen a smile come to life more slowly. It was sinister and made me hold my own breath, but once it was formed, Evelyn’s face transformed again—not back to its friendly happy version, but to something appropriately fitting her “evil” nickname.

“And you think that’s bad news?” she said.

I gulped.

Evie stood, her frame unfolding as I’d predicted: she was very tall. As a short person I made it a rule not to allow someone’s height intimidate me. I stuck out my chin and looked up at the woman as she stepped closer. She leaned over her display table—which displayed nothing at all—and signaled to me with one single pull of her finger.

“Becca Robins from Bailey’s Farmers’ Market. Come closer.”

Like a stupid fly to a spider, I went.

She leaned over and put her mouth to my ear. I figured there was only a small chance she’d bite it off, so I leaned in, too.

“I used to be that Evelyn, but that was a long, long time ago. I haven’t been her for many years—decades. I didn’t like her so I got rid of her and became someone I could better tolerate. I haven’t been married to Reggie Stuckey since I’ve become that better person. This will sound heartless, but I just don’t care that he was killed. I’m not the least bit sorry. I hated him when we parted ways, but thankfully that hate has turned into a quiet buzz of disinterest—thus, and I repeat, I do not care. If I still hated him I would care more, because I would be elated at the news. I’m not. I’m nothing at the news. Understand?”

I nodded, not pointing out that her previous smile had looked close to elation, or strong happiness, at least. “I do, but I wonder if I could buy you a coffee and ask you some more questions.”

Evie stood tall and I was sure her lifted eyebrows raised her entire height a couple inches; she’d become gigantic. “You are too gutsy for your own good, Becca Robins.”

I smiled. “So I’ve heard. You know, you might not be Evelyn Rasmussen Stuckey any longer, but you were probably accused of being too gutsy for your own good a few times, too, back then. Even now, you don’t strike me as afraid of anything.”

I stood my ground. I wasn’t afraid. Evil Evie wasn’t evil at all, but she wanted people to think she was because then they would leave her alone. I knew enough about people who came to work at a market every day to know that she still
needed
to be around people—perhaps at a distance, but she wasn’t ready to completely let go of human contact. It was either that or she didn’t want to give up her nicely placed corner stall space so someone else could get it. I gambled on my first idea.

“I can’t leave,” she said. “I’m running a business here. You should know about that.”

I leaned a little to my left and peered around her long, thin body. “Doesn’t look like you’ve got much to sell.”

As I was leaning and looking, a shot of surprise rattled in my chest. I was proud that I swallowed it before it could jump up and make a noise. There were items lined up on a small table at the back of the stall that caught my full attention, but I didn’t want Evil Evie to know I was bothered.

She laughed again. “You’re probably right.”

She’d changed. When I hadn’t backed down, she’d relaxed and become much less scary, which only reinforced the idea that she was putting on one big act. I’d known an Evil Evie or two.

I nodded and smiled.

“All right, Becca, you may buy me a cup of coffee and I will answer some of your questions, but do not ask me why Reggie and I divorced. I won’t answer that one, and it would be intrusive and rude of you anyway.”

I nodded. Why she and Reggie divorced was, of course, my main question, but she was probably correct: reasons behind divorce are no one else’s business. That, however, didn’t stop my second ex-husband from sharing the gory details of our divorce with the world, but that was just the way Scott did things.

“This way,” Evie said, her long legs leading us away from her stall.

As I followed behind, I ventured one more look at the back table. I’d seen what I thought I’d seen: decorated eggshells were lined up along the length of the table. They were crafted in a more professional manner than the egg I’d found in my truck, but there was no question that they were meant to be Christmas tree ornaments, or just decorations maybe; green, red, gold, and silver made up the combined color scheme. I didn’t think they were intended to be for sale; they were back and away from the few boxes of eggs placed in a pathetic display on a side table. I felt sorry for the poor eggs—the ones for sale, not the decorated ones.

It was only by chance that my eyes also skimmed the notebook that Evie had been looking at when I’d approached. She’d dropped it on the ground next to her chair. She must have forgotten about what she was looking at because if she’d remembered she would have at least flipped it over to hide the article.

I guessed it was a Smithfield paper but I didn’t take the time to look at the masthead. Instead, my attention was grabbed by the front-page headline: “Monson Christmas Tree Farmer Murdered in His Own Truck.”

So, Evie didn’t care? She’d been laughing as she’d been reading, she smiled when I first mentioned the murder; her behavior didn’t quite live up to the nonchalant attitude she claimed to have. I looked back toward her just as she turned to make sure I was close behind.

I smiled; she grimaced, but I didn’t think she’d seen me looking at the paper. She continued to lead the way.

• • • 

Bailey’s was well-outfitted with food carts, food stations, and a large, open tent with tables where people could eat. But I had to give it to Smithfield; they’d created a central food-court-like space that made it easy to peruse all the offerings at once, make a choice, and then enjoy your food and drinks in a space away from all other market traffic. I knew Allison wished for such a setup, but it would take some maneuvering of stalls whose vendors didn’t want to move, so our food stations were still more spread out than she’d like. Maybe someday, she’d said a number of times.

Evie marched to a coffee/tea cart, ordered two large black coffees, and then directed me to a table away from everyone else.

The crowd had already grown and since it was still morning, the coffee cart was one of the more popular offerings. I watched people watch Evie. Market customers didn’t pay her much attention, but fellow vendors did. Some squinted at her from afar, some purposefully looked away from her, and others scowled. I couldn’t imagine having such a horrible relationship with so many people I worked with and came in contact with. A spat or a disagreement here and there was normal, but such blatant dislike was alarming.

“Oh, look, we’re getting in the spirit. Finally,” Evie said as she set a cup of coffee on the table in front of me and handed me a green-and-red coffee stirrer. “It’s not much, but at least it’s something.”

“Some people start decorating for Christmas before Halloween.”

“That’s not the way it’s done, either. You’re supposed to clean up the dishes, get the turkey carcass from Thanksgiving ready for soup stock, and
then
pull out the decorations.”

I smiled. “You like Christmas.”

“Yes, I do.”

I would have reached a whole new level of rude if I’d pointed out how strange it was that this woman whose nickname began with “Evil” didn’t seem like the Christmas spirit type.

“Have you always?” I asked, making the best small talk I could.

“Yes, actually, I have.” Evie scowled. “Oh, I think it’s too commercial, and kids are bratty and awful about it, but I still just love it. Aw, shoot, it probably has something to do with the fact that I once owned—well, my husband did, anyway—a Christmas tree farm. I’ll admit that, I suppose. There was nothing like the smells, nothing like when it finally got cool enough that it felt like it might just snow a little. And when it did snow, and . . . oh, well, it was what it was, I suppose.” Evie looked down and then took a sip of her coffee.

And I suddenly felt sorry for her.

“When you two were married, did you live at the same farm he owned when he was killed?”

“Yes.”

“I stopped by there the other day. It’s beautiful.”

“Yes.” Another sip.

I tried to put myself in her shoes, but the view still wasn’t clear. I switched gears.

“You were a pretty successful politician.”

Evie harrumphed. “No, I was a state senator. The one other person I ran against was clearly an idiot. It wasn’t a difficult race to win.”

“But you did. And you garnered a lot of attention. And I’ve seen an idiot or two get elected.”

“This might surprise you, but I had a big mouth.”

“And you were . . . are smart.”

“Yes.”

“And, correct me if I’m wrong, you played it very well. You used your height, your loud voice, and your smarts, and people paid attention. A number of articles from that time mention that you were destined to go places.”

“And look where I ended up.” But there was no bitterness or sadness in her voice, just a calm acceptance.

“But you’re here because of decisions only you made. You stepped down. Why?”

“I didn’t want to do it anymore.”

Clearly, that was her oft-used answer. “How did it go from something you thrived at to something you didn’t want to do any longer?”

“Things happened.”

“What things?” It was like pulling teeth, but I was willing to keep trying.

“Life.”

“Reggie did something to you,” I said. I had no idea why I said it. Perhaps I wanted to say something that would cause her to react enough that she’d quit giving me rehearsed answers.

“No.”

But her eyes flashed this time. I’d hit a nerve. It was a deep nerve, one she’d buried, but I’d grazed it a little.

“Yes, he did! Reggie hurt you in some way, so you left politics. That’s what it was. Was he physically abusive?”

“No, he never laid a hand on me. He was a gentle man, though he might not have been considered a gentleman.”

She liked puzzles.

“The only other reason would be an affair. Reggie had an affair—no, that wouldn’t make sense. Why would you quit politics if your husband had an affair? That probably happens all the time. You must have had the affair.”

For a long instant, I thought she was going to confirm my suspicion. I could see the affirmation flash in her eyes and pull at the corners of her mouth. But, instead, she said, “Look, Becca, I’m not going to tell you what happened in my marriage. It’s none of your business. I quit politics. Why does the reason have to be something big? Maybe I just didn’t like it. Maybe I just didn’t like Reggie so I divorced him. Reasons don’t always have to be big and ugly.”

“They why don’t you want to talk about them? Why the mystery?”

“You must have missed the part where I said it was none of your business. But the other part is that it was a long, long time ago. A different life, a different time. Who gives a hoo-haw what happened back then anyway?”

“Well, since Reggie was murdered, don’t you think it’s natural to look at his past? And when someone finds someone like you and your interesting history in that past . . . well, how could it not be explored?”

“By Becca who works at a farmers’ market? Or by the police?”

I sipped my coffee. “Good point.”

Evie smiled, genuinely this time. “What you don’t realize is that I’ve talked more to you about my past than I have to anyone in a long time. I would probably tell the police to . . . well, to leave me alone, and I promise I wouldn’t talk to anyone here.”

“Okay. Then why me?”

“I’m not really sure. You’re kind of obnoxious, but in a persistent, confident, and cute way.” She rolled her eyes. “Perhaps you remind me of someone, though you’re awful teeny. Your nosiness would work well on someone tall.” She sat up straight.

“Don’t I wish.”

Evie laughed.

“Hey, can I ask about the ornaments? The eggshells in your stall?”

Evie shrugged. “I just enjoy crafting them. No one buys many of my eggs anymore. I don’t have many to sell. It’s something to do to pass the time in December.”

“You enjoy being at the market, don’t you?”

Evie looked around and then leaned forward. “I do, but don’t tell anyone. No one here knows who I am—or if they do, they keep it to themselves. I hope they never find out. I can be here, be outside—that was one of my favorite parts about the tree farm, all the time outside—be around people, but I don’t have to talk to many if I don’t want to. It’s a good spot for me.”

I made a mental note to ask Mamma not to spread the word that Evie used to be Evelyn. I’d ask her to talk to Addy about it, too, but something told me he wasn’t telling anyone.

“I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I wasn’t outside most of the time,” I said.

“Tell me about your market business.”

I told Evie about my farm and my products. She was fascinated, mostly by the strawberries. She’d never been able to grow a successful crop. I gave her a few pointers, which she seemed to appreciate.

And when she was done, she was done. She stood abruptly and told me she had to get back to her stall, but it had been good to talk to me. She wasn’t necessarily friendly but she wasn’t evil.

I sat at the table a moment and thought about the conversation Evie and I had had, and then I weaved my way through the market and back to Mamma and asked her to keep our new secret. She agreed, and I left Smithfield with a pumpkin cream pie and only a few more pieces to the Reggie puzzle. I felt strongly that an affair had been part of the reason behind Evelyn and Reggie’s divorce and her move away from politics, but who had had the affair? I understood that infidelity could be devastating, but if it had occurred, it had demolished everything. A marriage and promising career, both gone.