Merry Market Murder(35)

Billie shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so. No, I don’t remember being upset.”

Unlike Denny, Billie wasn’t gifted with either an honest aura or the ability to lie well. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and rubbed her finger under her nose as she avoided eye contact with everyone.

“There you have it. She wasn’t upset,” Denny said.

I squinted at him, but he hid any indication that he was seeing the same act I was seeing. He was good.

“Well, that’s good to hear. I’m glad,” I said. “Of course, if anything isn’t up to par, let Allison know. She always wants to make sure all vendors are well taken care of.”

“Thank you for that, Becca. Thank you,” Denny said. “And now, you’ll have to excuse us, but we need to get back to work.”

They had no immediate customers, but I just smiled, thanked them for their time, and made my way back to Hobbit.

“I don’t know if they’re killers,” I said to her as she greeted me with a friendly nose nudge to my thigh, “but I bet you a pound of Brenton’s dog biscuits they’re keeping secrets. I bet you ten more that those secrets just might lead us to Reggie’s killer.” I thought a moment. “Okay, well, I can’t be sure of the last part, of course, but I’d really like to know their secrets.”

She sniffed as if to tell me she’d like to know, too.

I opened the glove box and searched for something to write a note with. I found an old receipt and a nubby pencil and wrote:

1. Why did Reggie have so much money? Textiles? Politics?

2. Why did Brenton dislike the Ridgeways?

3. What happened in South Carolina in 1987?

4. How in the world was Brenton married to Stephanie Frugit???

5. What are the Ridgeways hiding?

“I know it’s been a long day, girl, but I have one more stop before we go home. You okay with that?”

Of course she was. I stuffed the list into one of my overalls pockets and turned the truck around. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I happened to glance back toward the market; more specifically, toward the back of the Ridgeway truck. When I’d been writing the note, this area had been hidden from my view, and it turned out to be the area in which the three Ridgeway siblings had congregated. They didn’t see that I was watching what looked to be a heated discussion, or perhaps just a heated lecture from Denny. His face was back to a ruddy red and he was emphasizing his words with air-pounding hands.

I was moving the truck so slowly that someone behind me honked, which caused the Ridgeways to look my direction.

“Shoot,” I said, not because I was caught, but rather because I wished I were better at understanding what I’d done or asked to cause the ruckus.

Maybe I’d have to find a way to spy . . . I mean, investigate, later.





Eleven





Frugit Orchard was almost right in the heart of Monson, except not. We were a small farming community, and most of our residential areas eventually led to open land. I went right through downtown and drove down a street lined with small clapboard houses. After a few blocks, the houses stopped and the land opened wide. The turnoff to the orchard was a “secret”—one that was often designated as a number of different rites of passage by Monson residents. When you’re sixteen and pass your driver’s test, we’ll tell you where the secret Frugit Orchard turn is located. When you get straight As on your report card, we’ll tell you, and so on. And Stephanie Frugit loved the legend. She exploited it at every opportunity. She mentioned it to reporters whenever she was interviewed, and she was interviewed frequently.

The world of celebrity farmers was small, but in it, Stephanie Frugit was on a rung comparable to the biggest Hollywood stars. And even I had to admit she played the role well. She wore the right clothes, said the right things, and had created her own successful blog: “Apple Woman of South Carolina,” which received a ridiculous amount of hits every single day. Somehow Stephanie had a lot to say about apples and about being a single woman in the business world. Until today, I had no idea that she hadn’t always been single, and I wondered how many of her loyal readers knew. The fact that bigger-than-life Stephanie Frugit had once been married to mild-mannered Brenton was so hard to believe, however, I wondered if Allison had been mistaken.

There was at least one way to find out.

I turned down the “secret” road and steered the truck stealthily forward and through the woods. The air coming through the slightly lowered windows felt suddenly colder as the trees and their canopy of thick leafless branches got thicker. It was the perfect fairy-tale-like drive that always led to the perfect fairyland, particularly when the trees were in their full summer greenery, but even today there was a sense of entering a storybook.