Merry Market Murder(2)

“Any chance you make strawberry?” Denny asked.

“It’s my specialty,” I said.

“I’ll be by to get some today. I love fresh strawberry preserves.”

“Great. I look forward to it.” I smiled. His face was ruddy—not from the bite of North Pole cold, but from the labor of moving the trees. I really didn’t want to notice that his bright green eyes twinkled when he spoke. I was sure it was my imagination anyway.

“This is my sister, Billie, and my brother, Ned.” Denny nodded at his coworkers, bringing them back toward us.

“You all look thirsty,” Allison said.

“We brought some water bottles,” Denny said.

“We have a water hose we’re going to connect and run out to you for the trees, but you’re more than welcome to fill any of your drinking jugs or cups from water inside the office building. We have vendors inside the market who also sell soft drinks. Make sure you tell them you’re working here. The market owners like to help reimburse any drink discounts the vendors give.”

“That’s great. Thank you,” Billie said, her own bright green eyes twinkling, but not as much as Denny’s. Up close, she was still tall and skinny, but also strikingly pretty, with a heart-shaped face and only slightly wrinkled, milky-white skin. She wasn’t young, but she still pulled off “fresh-faced” as if she were. She wore a green beret over short, brown hair, which curled up around her ears and away from her face.

“You’re welcome,” Allison said.

“This is a great place,” Ned, the only brown-eyed sibling, added. “I’ve heard about Bailey’s for a long time. I’m sorry I haven’t been here before. We’re just far enough away that we don’t come around very often.”

Ridgeway Farm was about a half hour away from Monson. I’d never taken the trip up into the hills to see the farm that I’d heard described as, among other stellar things, stunningly beautiful and a sight to behold.

“We’re very proud of Bailey’s,” Allison said. “And we’re thrilled to have you all here.”

Billie and Ned excused themselves and set out in search of the soft drinks. As Allison and Denny discussed the logistics involved in having a space at the market, my interest wandered to the trees and the other items still inside the truck. Most of the trees had been unloaded, but there were still a few waiting, their green branches forming a dark mini-forest in a back corner. I also noticed five or six tree stands, an ax, and some wicked-looking spiked implements about ten inches or so long, which had rolled to the edge of the opening.

The air in the immediate area smelled so delicious that I kept taking deep pulls through my nose. I’d had moments with many things pine scented, but I’d never been around such a high concentration of the real stuff. The trees smelled so fresh and . . . piney. This smell could never be mistaken for a cleanser or a car deodorizer. There was something more to it, something that was mixed with natural elements like dirt and oxygen to form its own smell that was easy and comforting to the senses.

“You okay?” Allison asked with a laugh.

Until I opened them, I hadn’t realized that I’d closed my eyes.

“Oh. Sorry. The smell. I don’t think I can get enough,” I said.

“Never smelled a pine tree?” Denny asked with a smile.

“Well, I suppose I have, but I’ve never had . . .” Suddenly it seemed disloyal to my family to tell Denny Ridgway the reason I’d never had a real pine tree for Christmas. Fortunately, Allison jumped in.

“Our mother’s allergic to them. Sneezes like crazy when she’s around them. We grew up with artificial.”

Denny laughed, but it didn’t sound like ho, ho, ho.

“That happens,” he said.

“And then . . . well, Becca’s life hasn’t made a real tree all that convenient. She’s getting there, I suppose,” Allison said.

“Well, if you’d like a real tree this year, you may find one here, or come up to the farm. I’ll give you a personal tour and we’ll cut one down together.”

I looked at Denny for a long moment. Finally, I said, “I can honestly say that right at this moment I can’t think of anything I’d rather do. That sounds just wonderful.”

“We’ll plan on it then. How about the Sunday after the parade festivities?”

“May I bring a friend?” I asked.

“Of course! Bring anyone.” He looked at Allison. “You should come up, too.”

In the middle of the invitations, Brenton, Bailey’s homemade dog treat vendor, drove a path down the lot next to us. His truck was newer than most of the rest of the vendors’, but it was still faded and pocked with plenty of scratches and dings.