5 Merry Market Murder (21 page)

Sam was expecting my phone call, but he wasn’t expecting the news that Brenton told me that he may know who made the ornaments. I didn’t see how I could have kept that from the police. Sam said he would go directly back out to Brenton’s house to get the rest of the story.

I was a little thrilled that I’d been able to wrangle more out of Brenton than he had. Sam was just plain appreciative, and also worried.

He was also adamant that I was done investigating for the day. He didn’t want me talking to anyone else until he understood what Brenton thought the ornaments meant. He told me to go to Bailey’s or to help my parents get ready for the night’s parade festivities, or to help Allison with something.

I thought he was cute when he was so adamant, but I didn’t tell him that.

I was also out of questions. I’d asked everyone everything I thought was pertinent. I’d wanted to ask Brenton how it had been to be married to Stephanie Frugit, but that was just plain curiosity. Maybe someday I’d find out more. But I’d learned lots about past personal lives of people I knew, people I’d just met, and people I’d only heard of. If nothing else, my perspective had changed. Reputations weren’t always to be believed.

But sometimes they were—this thought, this simple idea, took root in the back of my mind and didn’t want to let go. People sometimes did, in fact, live up to their reputations. But though the thought wouldn’t leave me alone, I couldn’t attach it to anything important regarding the murder.

I shook my head, mumbled something even I didn’t understand, and then steered the truck downtown.

Both Allison and I had thought our parents would leave Monson shortly after the holidays. We thought they’d pack up the motor home and head out on another wide-open road adventure, but they hadn’t said or done one thing to confirm those suspicions. They’d moved into a small house they owned but had previously rented out on the edge of downtown, and instead of it seeming like a temporary situation, they’d been doing upkeep on it that made it seem more permanent.

I even thought I’d seen a sketch of some spring garden ideas. When I told Allison about the sketch, we decided not to question or push them to tell us their plans. They still had just enough hippie left in them that they might rebel against our wishes that they stick around. Rebellion would always be a familiar behavior pattern.

Jason and Polly Robins had probably experienced more than their two daughters ever could imagine. As parents they didn’t talk openly about all of those experiences, but frequently Allison and I would catch a look, a glance, a shared smile that tied them together, perhaps because the end result had been a short stint in jail, an adventure into something that was illegal, or at least skirted along the edge of legal.

Anyway, neither my sister nor I wanted the details. We were fine not knowing all of our parents’ secrets or even most of them.

Jason and Polly had changed since they’d left for their previous road trip about two and a half years earlier, though. They’d become more conservative in their dress and less vocal when it came to discussing issues that were important to them. They’d never been particularly argumentative, just firm in their beliefs—and firm that everyone else had a right to believe whatever they believed; live and let live. Now my parents just didn’t feel the need to talk about their causes as much.

Allison thought it had something to do with the fact that Mathis was, at the age of almost three, a sponge to the world and the people he loved and spent the most time with. He’d pick up a word or a mannerism so quickly that we all tried to be as well behaved as possible around him.

I disagreed with my sister on this point, though. I thought our parents were simply mellowing. They still cared fervently about their causes, but they preferred to spend their time baking bread, fixing the roof, or sketching plans for a spring garden rather than throwing themselves completely into causes.

And, despite the panicked nature that must have characterized Vivienne Norton’s plea for decorating help, I imagined my parents were thrilled to take on the task, even if it had required that my mother take extra doses of allergy medication. One of their biggest causes, their biggest loves, was their hometown of Monson. Being able to help make the Christmas parade a more enjoyable and better event was right up their collective alley.

I found them both on Main Street and both on ladders this time, but neither of the ladders was high or wobbly. They were placing poles with wide weighted bottoms next to each of the fully decorated trees. Then, they’d step up onto a short step ladder and thread a pennant onto the top part of the pole. Each pennant had been painstakingly drawn with the tree winner’s name.

“Did you paint all of these?” I asked Mom as I handed her the pennant she was reaching for.

“Your dad helped. It wasn’t too difficult.”

“Oh, Mom, I should be a better help to you.”

“My dear, you have a million things going on, and you’ve had to bake all those cookies. They’re delicious, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“Polly!” Dad called from a few trees down. He was standing next to a tree that was all silver and gold—tinsel, ornaments, miniature wreaths. At the moment, the entire tree was sparkling from a thin ray of sun, which had peeked through a slit in the gathering and darkening clouds.

“Yes, dear?”

“I don’t think I have the right winner. Who was highest bidder on this one?”

Mom reached into her back jeans pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Dell, the pharmacist.”

“Nope,” Dad said as he looked at the pennant, “this doesn’t say Dell.”

“Check the stack on the library steps.” Mom pointed behind him.

“Should I do it for him?” I asked.

“Don’t be silly. He’s right there, he’ll figure it out.”

“Is it really just the two of you doing this? There must be fifty trees this year.”

“Fifty-three, and no, Vivienne and a couple of the other officers helped with the other side. They had to leave. Sam called them in for something. They’ll be back if they have the time.”

I glanced down the street, past Dad and past the line of trees, to the building that housed the small police department. I wanted to run down and see what was going on, if Sam had any more news from Brenton, but I couldn’t have abandoned my mom even if she’d told me to.

I grabbed some poles and some pennants and followed along on her list as the three of us finished the task. Sam and I had bid on a few trees, but we hadn’t won any of them. The train tree went to someone I didn’t know from Smithfield.

After the pennants were set up, we brought out the tables and set them up in the middle of the street so that people could sit and visit or eat their treats, or just look at the trees. The tables had been stored inside the shoe store. Once we pulled them out, we taped holiday-decorated paper tablecloths onto them.

Neither rain nor snow was in the forecast, but the clouds made me wonder if we might end up with a little weather anyway. South Carolina didn’t see much snow, but we sometimes got a little in Monson. And, sometimes the white stuff would actually accumulate in the higher elevations. I’d even heard of a few incidents of blinding snow up toward the Ridgeway Farm. A light dusting would be a welcome addition to the evening’s event, but the paper tablecloths would quickly become soggy if there was too much moisture.

Mom, using her Mom superpower and her sometimes achy-with-a-storm-on-the-way knee, predicted that nothing would fall from the sky until at least the next day. I’d never known her to be wrong.

The setup duty from the day before had been the biggest chunk of work, so today’s labors were somewhat lighter, but I was glad I’d come along to help at least a little.

Once Mom okayed that we were done until the festivities began, or until a strong wind caused a disaster that we’d have to clean up, I convinced them to walk around the corner for a break at the local Maytabee’s Coffee Shop. My jams, preserves, and syrups had a good chunk of shelf space at the chain’s five South Carolina shops. The Monson location had just acquired a new manager and she didn’t know that I was one of their suppliers. I could shop them and my inventory anonymously. Today, I was startled to see that my product supply was low—I didn’t know if I’d missed an e-mail requesting more or if the new manager hadn’t figured out all the ins and outs of her job yet. I bought three coffees, and as I carried them to a table in the back I made a mental note to call or e-mail the owner for an update before Monday.

“We spoke with Allison briefly last night, but we haven’t had much time. Is she okay—I mean, after the terrible murder at Bailey’s?” Mom said after she took her first sip.

“I think she’s okay. It was bad, though,” I said.

“I can only imagine. Does Sam have any good leads?” Mom asked.

Both she and Dad had taken to Sam easily. They’d done the same with Ian and my two ex-husbands. Had they suspected I was facing something more challenging or dangerous than flakiness from my husbands, they would have jumped in and battled to defend me. And I was certain they felt a kindred connection to Ian, with his long hair and his seven tattoos, but they hadn’t squawked when he and I had parted romantic ways. They seemed to be very fond of Sam.

“I think he has a bunch of weak answers. Hopefully, something will lead somewhere.” I took a gulp of hot coffee. “You two have always been interested in the South Carolina political scene, right?”

“Sure,” they both said.

“Do you remember a state senator from the late eighties named Evelyn Rasmussen Stuckey?”

Mom and Dad both laughed.

“Of course,” Mom said. “We both worked on her campaign.”

I should have known that Mom and Dad would either have worked for a politician or against them. It hadn’t even occurred to me to ask them earlier. I needed to use my connections better.

“She was married to the guy who was killed, Reggie Stuckey.”

“That’s right! It’s been so long that I forgot about all that,” Mom said.

Dad said, “Evelyn’s husband was so behind the scenes that he didn’t have much to do with her work. I don’t think I ever even met him, but I knew he had a Christmas tree farm. I think he supported her career aspirations just fine, but then after his alleged affair—well, things were bound to go south from there.”

I blinked. “So it was Reggie who had the . . . an affair?”

“Well, we think that’s what happened. It was the best conclusion we could come up with at the time. Reggie had an affair. Evelyn was so embarrassed and horrified by the infidelity that she just quit. She didn’t want her personal life to become public.”

“The best conclusion?” I said. “You don’t know for sure that that’s what happened?”

“No,” Dad said. “Times were different back then, Becca. Affairs and scandals are the common stuff of today’s politics, and even though the same things went on back then, it was truly cause for a politician’s ruin. Something happened that saddened Evelyn or humiliated her to the point that she gave up on her ambitions. We all suspected that there was an affair, and I think someone had some pictures or something. Do you remember, Polly?” Dad said.

“Kind of.”

I took a sip of coffee and pondered the fact that in today’s world, a politician or one of their family members could exhibit unacceptable behavior and still remain in politics. “Was she maybe being blackmailed with the pictures?”

“Uh, not sure I remember that,” Dad said.

“It’s terrible that her career was ruined because of her husband’s indiscretion,” I said.

“Yes. Now such circumstances would create a few news stories, some twittering, or whatever that’s called, and it would most likely blow over. The politician could easily continue to serve. Different times back then. Evelyn just didn’t want to deal with it, I guess,” Dad said.

“Do you know who was the affair with?” I said. I’d literally crossed my fingers around my coffee cup with the hope their answer would give me a big, more important piece of the puzzle.

Mom shrugged. “That’s probably the biggest reason Evelyn quit, so the press wouldn’t take a deeper, closer look at the details. I never knew who the affair was with. As far as I know, she mostly kept it to herself.”

“I would think the press would have looked more closely when she quit. They’d want to know why. They’d find out about the other person and report the details,” I said.

“Well, maybe, but her quitting probably had a different effect then than it would nowadays. Yes, there was some investigation, but journalism was different and journalists liked Evelyn. Maybe they just respected her privacy,” Mom said.

“And,” Dad said thoughtfully, “I really do remember something about some pictures, but not much happened with them.”

“I can’t help but think blackmail was involved then,” I said.

Mom tapped her finger on her lips. “No, I think she simply didn’t let it get that far. Again, if I remember correctly, she just quit. She might have actually wanted the pictures to surface once she stepped down. She was very bitter toward her husband, who became her ex-husband very soon after she left the public eye.”