Merry Market Murder(38)

“You and Barry talk, but not you and Brenton?”

“Barry’s my uncle. What’s up with Brenton?”

“Oh. I see. You heard about Reggie Stuckey?”

“I did. Becca, what does this have to do with Brenton?”

“I don’t think Reggie’s murder has anything to do with Brenton, but many things happened at once and . . . well, do you know if Brenton has had a conflict with the Ridgeway family?”

Stephanie hid it well, but I was fairly certain I saw a shadow of surprise darken her green eyes.

“The Christmas tree family?”

“Yes.”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

I was 93.3 percent sure she was lying, but I didn’t want to call her on it. Just knowing she was lying might eventually tell me something important anyway.

“Did you or Brenton know Reggie Stuckey?” I said.

“The guy who was killed?”

“Yes.”

She took a smooth sip of her drink. Even the ice in her glass clinked in key.

I assumed that Stephanie Frugit didn’t get rattled, but her behavior had already surprised me. The woman I was sitting across from might be powerful and direct, but there was something warm about her, something she didn’t show easily. I’d caught her either on a good day or a bad day—only she knew which it was.

And she was momentarily shaken. She didn’t want me to see it, but her pale skin went a shade of gray, and tears pooled in her eyes, if only briefly. She normalized quickly.

“He was a nice man,” she said.

“I didn’t know him. I feel like I missed out. He didn’t advertise his tree farm well at all.”

“No.” Stephanie laughed. “Reggie Stuckey had loads of money. He only ran the farm for fun. He’d end up giving away more trees than he sold.”

“How did he get his money?”

“His family, textiles or something.”

“I’d heard politics, too.”

Stephanie shrugged and put the glass to her lips again.

“Do you know if Brenton knew him?”

“You’ll have to ask him.” She put her glass on a table next to her chair. “Now, tell me, Becca, why are you asking me all these questions? I deserve to know.”

I thought about it and then I did something I rarely did when I was snooping into places I had no business snooping into: I told her the truth. She listened intently as I told her about how sweet and wonderful her ex-husband was, but how he uncharacteristically fumed with what I’d interpreted as anger when he saw the Ridgeways and their truck at Bailey’s. I told her how he was happy that Reggie might have had a conflicting contract with Bailey’s, and how he had behaved almost violently. I told her about his trip to the police station and his quick release.

She listened with her focused green eyes. A couple of times I wondered if she ever blinked. When I was finished she simply said, “That’s too bad. I’m sorry for whatever is bothering Brenton. I’m sorry if he worried you and your sister, but I can assure you he won’t hurt anyone. It’s just not in him.”

“I didn’t think so, either,” I said. “But isn’t anyone capable of violence if they’re pushed?”

She shook her head and pulled her green eyes away from my less spectacular blue ones. “No, not Brenton. He’s kind to the core.”

I had the urge to say again that I thought so, too, but I held back, and that proved to be a wise choice.

“Look, Becca.” She turned her gaze back to me again. “People aren’t always who they seem to be. You just need to know that, and that’s all I can tell you.”

“I do,” I said. “We all have our ‘other selves,’ I suppose.”

“No, I mean this literally, people aren’t always who they say they are.”

“Say they are” is different than “seem to be,” I thought.

“Are you talking about Brenton or someone else?” I said.

“I’d feel like I was being disloyal if I told you anything more. Besides, if you’re nosy enough—and I do think you are—you’ll figure it out pretty quickly.”

“Any chance you’d share another small hint?”

She laughed her deep, ringing laugh and I once again had the urge to laugh with her. I just smiled instead.

“No, but I’ve had a great time with this—whatever sort of word volley this was. You ask good questions.”

“Not good enough or I’d have the answers.”

Stephanie reached for her glass and took one last gulp of the whiskey and said, “You might be closer than you think.”





Twelve





I discussed with Hobbit the conversation between Stephanie and me. Mostly, it was just so I could replay everything in my own head. I had an inkling that Stephanie Frugit had answered every question I’d had—and more. I just didn’t know how to decipher her code.