5 Merry Market Murder (20 page)

I wondered if I should break my silent promise to myself and try to persuade Sam to cross the line a little. Probably not.

“Now, tell me about the parade. I haven’t been in years. Too many people want to talk to me. I don’t like to interrupt festivities.”

It was true, I never saw Stephanie anywhere around town. Many people thought she was snooty because of her success. I might have thought that a time or two myself. I suddenly felt a little sorry for Stephanie Frugit. Her cagey non-answers still irritated me, but the thread of sympathy made me think twice. Even her minor celebrity status dictated some of her choices and decisions; I couldn’t imagine how debilitating a big dose of celebrity would be.

I described some of the trees, talked about the massive amounts of other decorations and the good-sized crowd, and promised her I’d e-mail her my jelly-filled cookie recipe.

By the time we’d returned to Elias, we were laughing about an incident that had occurred during last year’s parade and made statewide South Carolina news. A tree, one with lots of lights and strung with popcorn, had spontaneously burst into flame. No one had been hurt and the only damage done was the demise of the poor tree and its ornaments, but the reaction to the fire had been so quick and efficient that five different fire extinguishers had come quickly to the rescue. Rules against using flammable string with too many lights had been put into place for this year’s festivities.

Finally, Stephanie’s dismissal was friendly. It wasn’t that we’d become friends; we’d never meet for coffee, and she’d never have a booth at Bailey’s. In fact, she’d probably never shop there. But our short time together had changed my opinion regarding her reputation, and she knew that if she ever did want to visit Bailey’s, she’d now know a stall vendor other than her ex-husband.

Elias escorted me back to my truck on his four-wheeler, but as I hung on to him with one arm, I turned back to see Stephanie Frugit remount her horse. Once she was aboard, she sat tall in the saddle and a gentle wind blew her hair again. The sun bounced perfectly off the trees and leaves around her and she looked the part of the legendary status she’d become. We waved to each other.

I drove away from Frugit Orchard with little more knowledge than I’d had when I arrived, but a sense of satisfaction boosted my confidence nonetheless.

Someone in the Ridgeway family had had an affair. Did that have anything to do with the murder? I could only guess that it did and that the ornament clues I’d received somehow told the story. At least one of the two divorces—Reggie and Evelyn’s or Brenton and Stephanie’s—must have been the result of the affair. Had Reggie and Stephanie been a secret couple? Or maybe Brenton and Evelyn? I even had to consider that Reggie and Brenton or Stephanie and Evelyn had been the couple, but I truly didn’t think so. It seemed even less likely that Reggie and Stephanie had ever had any interest in each other. And Brenton and Evelyn? I couldn’t be sure.

Truly, I could not imagine the recoupling that I was trying so hard to picture. Nothing fit, nothing worked.

The knowledge that Brenton was a Ridgeway was just another piece to the puzzle, but I didn’t think it was the big piece I’d originally thought it was. The important thing that Brenton’s application hadn’t been able to tell me was
why
exactly Brenton changed his name—from what Stephanie had said, it had been his choice and not something his family had pushed him to do. Something had happened that had been stressful enough to contribute to their father’s death. What? Was it an affair, or something more?

I would be going to Ridgeway Farm, with Sam tomorrow, but I hoped for more answers today.

I’d never been to Brenton’s house, but I knew where he lived. I thought it was time to visit him. I hoped I wouldn’t run into Sam, and I really hoped that Brenton would be as pleased to see me as I was eager to talk to him.

Monson’s residential areas were separated into distinct though small burgs. Ian and his landlord, George, had previously lived in the Ivy League district, where the short streets were all named after the educational elite: Harvard, Princeton, Yale, etc.

Brenton lived in the alphabet neighborhood. When entering the neighborhood, the first street’s name was Alpine, followed by Butler, Cascade, Devonshire, Estate, and so on. Brenton resided on Fulmer, a street lined with trees similar to those in the Ivy League neighborhood, but made up of houses built closer to the 1950s than the Harvard-Yale early 1900s houses. Each plot of land in the alphabet neighborhood was extra-large, making each house seem oddly far away from its neighbors, but comfortable, with plenty of elbow room.

Brenton’s house was a wide, white, welcoming one-story with a black front door and black shutters framing the one large and two regular-sized front windows. The property would have been well suited to a white picket fence, but I knew Brenton would prefer the open space of his green front yard with no fence, even a picket one, closing him in.

I was surprised to find him outside in the front. He was on his hands and knees next to a big white bucket. It looked like he was patching a square of concrete on his front walkway. There was not a Christmas decoration in sight. He probably spotted my truck the moment I turned onto his street. He sat back on his heels and smiled hesitantly as I parked and waved.

I was probably making him uncomfortable, but I’d do what I could to make my visit easy and friendly.

I got out of the truck and walked toward him as he stood and wiped off his knees.

“Becca, everything okay?” he asked.

“Everything’s fine. Sorry, go ahead and finish. I can wait.”

Brenton looked around. I wasn’t sure what he was looking for. He turned back to me and said, “No, it’s okay. I got it smoothed out. It just needs to dry now. You want to come in?”

I inspected the concrete. It was definitely smooth. I didn’t think I’d be interrupting a project that needed more immediate attention. “I’d love to,” I said.

I hadn’t expected an invitation inside. I thought that at best he’d talk to me at his front door.

After he covered the bucket with a snug lid, he led me into the house.

“You want something to drink? I’m warm from working, but it’s a little cool out there. You want some coffee?” Brenton asked.

“Sure, thanks. Can I help?”

“No, have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks.”

Brenton’s front room was appealing in an older, masculine way. His tan couch and brown recliner were both well used, and his coffee table was covered in newspapers and handyman magazines, the main theme being woodworking projects. I wondered if he enjoyed woodworking or if he just liked to read about it.

Brenton’s dog biscuits were made from human food ingredients, which was one of the reasons so many people became loyal customers. Brenton took great care in using healthy “real” food, with no preservatives. His house smelled like a spicy bread bakery, and I sniffed with exuberance as I took a seat on the couch.

“Coffee will be ready in a second. Can I get you anything else? You hungry? I have some people food around here somewhere.” He smiled.

“No, thanks,” I said as I smiled, too. This was not the same moody Brenton I’d recently met; this was more like my friend Brenton, the one I’d known for a long time. I hoped he was back for good.

He sat in the chair and took off his Yankees cap.

I smiled again. “I hardly ever see you without that cap.”

He looked at it before he dropped it on the coffee table. “Well, it’s not just one cap, you know. I have a few and I do buy more. My customers have gotten to know me with it. It’s become part of my business. I didn’t plan it that way, but it’s good to have a trademark of sorts.”

“I didn’t know it wasn’t a plan,” I said.

“Yeah, Linda has her old-fashioned clothes, you’ve got your overalls, and I’ve got the cap.”

I laughed. “Believe it or not, these weren’t a plan, either. They’re comfortable and I’m not a very creative dresser. I still don’t really think about them much, but I suppose my customers would be surprised to see me in anything else.”

Brenton laughed, too. “Lucky accidents.”

His short, brownish, curlyish hair that I hadn’t seen all that much of was crushed a little, and I noticed that the cap also make him look a little younger than his fiftysomething years. I didn’t voice that observation.

After a brief lull, Brenton said, “What can I do for you, Becca? Sam said you’d be stopping by.”

“He did?”

“Yes, he was just here a little bit ago. He told me you probably wouldn’t be far behind.”

“Hmm,” I said. No wonder Brenton was being friendly. He’d been warned.

“Yeah, I think he knows you pretty well. You two are good together.”

I blushed. No matter that I was well over the age at which these sorts of comments should bother me—they still did. As usual, I chalked it up to the fact that I’d been through two divorces. I was still embarrassed by the failed marriages; I’d probably never feel deserving of someone thinking I’d made a positive contribution to a romantic relationship.

“So, you know then that I know you used to be Brenton Ridgeway?”

“Yeah, I know. But as I told Sam, I wasn’t really ever trying to hide it. Honestly, I thought everyone knew. It’s part of my reality. As I told him when he came by today, the day he took me down to the station I was angry enough not to want to discuss it with him or anyone, but . . . well, it’s been a long time since I was
that
person. I even thought Allison understood why I was so upset. When she wanted me to explain it to her, I was surprised she didn’t get it. I guess what I mean is that when I became aware that I was the one making my past a big deal because I’d done such a good job of keeping my secret, I was caught off guard and I behaved terribly. I’m taking some time off from the market. I’m going to have a good conversation with your sister after the New Year, after the Ridgeways are long gone, and after I’ve had time to get over my anger as well as my behavior. I was so angry—angrier than I’d ever been—when I saw my old family at Bailey’s. I left that existence, Becca, and I saw them being at Bailey’s as an invasion of my life. We’ve coexisted in the same area for a long time without needing to cross paths.”

I nodded. “That makes sense. Allison will be fine, Brenton. You don’t need to worry about any of that.”

“I hope not.”

“You haven’t gotten along with the Ridgeways for a long time?”

Brenton shook his head and half smiled. “Yeah, and here’s the crazy part—Billie and I had a chance to talk last night at the parade. We might have made up if I’d just stretched my comfort zone a little. I’ve never wanted to before, but when I saw her last night, I had a small urge to want to try to make things better. Isn’t that strange and ironic? All that anger, and them being at Bailey’s and me being forced to see them might mean I’ll be able to . . . well, to at least be civil to my siblings again. I would never, ever have guessed that would happen. Never.”

“That’s great. Family’s important.”

He waved away the comment.

“What in the world happened to cause such a falling-out?” It was the bottom-line question, and the answer to which may lead to the other answers that we all needed. I had to ask.

“I can’t tell you, Becca. It’s none of your business. I didn’t tell Sam, either. I’m not under arrest; he can’t hold it against me that I won’t tell him.” Some of that angry, defensive Brenton was showing, but just a little.

“But what if the answer leads to a killer? Don’t you think you should tell Sam, just in case?”

“I don’t know who killed Reggie Stuckey, but I don’t think my decision to part ways with my family, or the things that were behind that decision, had anything do with his murder. That was a long time ago, Becca.”

“Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”

Brenton looked at me with true surprise. “I don’t have even a small clue that could help. I haven’t spent time around tree farmers, or Reggie Stuckey, for years.”

“But the Ridgeways had, right?”

“They were all in the tree business. Maybe they had work, business things together. I just don’t know what any of them have been doing.”

I nodded slowly and hoped he’d add more. He didn’t.

“Let me grab the coffee,” he said as he stood and went back to the kitchen.

It seemed like knowing that Brenton’s last name used to be Ridgeway
should
answer a multitude of questions, but now I wondered if that knowledge would only lead to more questions.

After he handed me the coffee and sat in the chair again, I decided to try something else.

“Brenton, have you been making and leaving me Christmas ornaments?”

“What? No.”

“Shoot. I wish it were you.”

“What’s going on?”

I sighed. I counted on the fact that I wasn’t wrong about my instincts regarding Brenton. I counted on the fact that for years I’d known Brenton, the homemade dog-biscuit guy, and we’d been friends enough that we could trust each other with at least some of our more minor secrets. I could tell him about the ornaments and my idea that they were clues, puzzle pieces that might lead to a killer. If I shared a little, maybe he’d share more about his breakup with his family.

When I was finished describing each and every ornament, he said something that turned out to be the biggest surprise of our whole conversation, something that unfortunately only led to even more questions.

He sat forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees and his eyes absently locked on the baseball cap. “Becca, I might know who is making them. I’ll find out first and get back to you.”

“Really? Why can’t you just tell me now?” I said.

“Because I think you’re 100 percent correct. I think the ornaments are clues, and I think they might lead to a killer, but I just want a little more information before I make such an accusation.”

I gulped a mouthful of coffee. I’d hoped for more information, but this was even bigger than his family breakup. “Brenton, please tell me.”

“I’m sorry, Becca. I can’t. Not yet.”

“Will you at least tell Sam?”

“When I know for sure, he will be the first I tell.” Brenton smiled, but it was a gentle, somewhat sad smile. “But I’ll be sure and tell you second.”

“Thanks,” I said. I couldn’t help myself.