Merry Market Murder(18)

“No, Becca, everything isn’t all right. Someone stole some eggs—some brown eggs, to be specific.”

“Really?”

“I’m missing a half dozen that I know I didn’t sell and I know I had with me when I got here this morning.”

Jeannine Baker’s farm-fresh eggs were delicious. There’s a noticeable difference in the taste of farm-fresh eggs and a store-bought-not-fresh-from-the-farm eggs, and Jeannine had a slew of loyal customers. I knew firsthand that she’d created a financially successful farm, but could never tell her about my accidental snooping. She saw conspiracy theories everywhere and would frequently misinterpret someone’s accidental, sideways glance for something suspicious or evil. Telling her I’d seen her bank records once when Sam and I thought she’d gone missing and were searching her house might make her so angry that she’d never be able to forgive me. Of course, I wouldn’t want someone seeing my bank records, either, and I wasn’t paranoid. It was just best to keep the secret.

“Oh, that’s too bad. Are you sure?” I asked.

“Of course I’m sure. I count my inventory twice every morning and I keep a running count throughout the day.” She held up a notebook with frayed corners.

“I’m sorry about that, Jeannine. Were you away from your stall at all?”

“Yes, I took a small break earlier.” Her mouth pursed tightly. “That must be it. Someone must have seen Barry in here and known that he’s not as vigilant as I am. They must have somehow snuck around back and grabbed them.” She moved her front table enough that I took it as an invitation to join her in the stall.

I doubted that anyone had stolen six eggs, but Jeannine definitely would pay close attention to her inventory. There must be some mistake, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to be the one to discover what it was and point it out to her. Nonetheless, I stepped into the stall.

“Look there.” She pointed to the ground underneath the back wall. There were distinct skid marks on the dirt floor, as though someone had scooted into the stall on their knees.

“Don’t you go through here to get your eggs in and out?” I asked.

“I do this.” She pulled up the canvas wall and secured the corner of it with a hanger hook, similar to what most of us used. “I walk only on this path. Those skids or marks or whatever weren’t there this morning.”

The space she walked through was to the side of the marks, far enough away that her route shouldn’t have caused the digs in the dirt.

“I never go that way over there. Ever,” she continued.

An evenly worn path marked her entry and exit. It was obviously the path that she always used, and though I hated to admit it, it was clear that something or someone had disturbed the other space. But it would be impossible to attribute the marks to an egg thief. Bailey’s was an open-air market; people could access the backs of the stalls easily, and so could animals. It wasn’t rare that someone would turn around and find a surprise visitor—dogs, cats—in their stall. Bo, the onion guy, even had a skunk visit once.

“Do you want to call Allison? Let her know there might have been a problem?” I asked as I took out my cell phone.

I was surprised she didn’t immediately say yes, but she thought about it and then shook her head. “No, it’s just six eggs. It’s my fault for taking a break. I’ll be better about watching, and maybe I’ll rig something up to catch the thief next time.”

“I am sorry, Jeannine. It’s always unsettling to have something stolen.”

“It won’t happen again, I guarantee it.”

I nodded.

I helped her get everything back into its proper place and arrange the small amount of remaining inventory before I exited the stall and took the final path to Allison’s office. Disappointingly, but not surprisingly, she wasn’t around. I knew that she must be busy and I didn’t have anything urgent, so I didn’t try to track her down. Instead, I ventured back toward my truck, which I’d parked behind my own stall.

The trip back held fewer distractions. Jeannine didn’t see me wave as I passed by her space, and I couldn’t see Brenton for all the customers in front of his. Traveling through the market was often a slow, diverging process. It was good to finally make it out my own back canvas wall.

Before I climbed up to the driver’s-side bench seat of my truck, I opened the door and rolled down the window a couple inches. The old, handle mechanism worked better when I did it that way.

I hoisted myself up and closed the door. It wasn’t until I’d turned the key that I noticed something sitting on the passenger side of the seat.