Merry Market Murder(43)

I didn’t like that I thought it was necessary, but I was pretty sure I would soon be installing a security camera.

There was a slightly deeper chill to the air this morning. In addition to donning my long overalls, I pulled a sweater over my long-sleeved T-shirt and kept the windows rolled up as I drove the thirty minutes to Smithfield.

The trip through the South Carolina countryside wasn’t meant to be done speedily. The two-lane highway had been built to accommodate the random, slow-moving tractor or trucks older than my own that couldn’t quite make it over fifty miles per hour anymore. There wasn’t a large amount of traffic to contend with, but sometimes you had to let a few vehicles pass the other direction before you passed something moving slowly in front of you. Doing so without a friendly wave was unheard of.

From this stretch of road it seemed that the entire world was made up of farms, one right next to the other, one crop suddenly becoming a different crop. Crops weren’t flourishing this time of year, of course, but that didn’t make the drive less interesting; it just changed where you looked.

December was the time to notice the handiwork that had gone into houses, barns, fences, and even mailboxes. I didn’t know where or when the tradition had begun, but at some point someone must have created such an interesting mailbox that it prompted others to follow along.

By the time I made it halfway through the trip, I’d enjoyed almost a full cup of Maytabee’s coffee, the sun had risen up over the small slopes of hilly countryside, and I’d noticed a variety of interesting mailboxes: a chicken, a pig, a horse, and a surprisingly odd, giant, silver dollar shape. There were others, but those were the ones that stood out the most, the ones that looked as if they’d recently seen some new paint.

I was always pretty sure there was no other place in the world I’d rather live; the drive this morning only reinforced my opinion.

The Smithfield Market’s parking lot was mostly empty, but a few trucks, similar in age and wear to mine, sat close to the entrance. Like Bailey’s, this market had a back unload/load area, so the vendors’ vehicles wouldn’t be in plain sight. It hadn’t occurred to me that I might be too early for vendors, but as I noticed the sparse turnout, I remembered that Smithfield typically opened a little later in the day in December.

I debated searching the town for another cup of coffee, but decided to go ahead and explore the quiet market grounds anyway. Again, like Bailey’s, the space was open, even if all the stalls weren’t set up and ready to sell yet. I might not see much, but I could walk around and at least enjoy the peacefulness before the customers started crowding the aisles.

While Bailey’s was set up in a U-shape, Smithfield was set up closer to a W-shape, with three aisles spreading out from the entrance and short aisles deeper inside connecting the three larger ones. I’d met the market’s manager, but I didn’t know where his office was located or if there was even one on the premises. Allison’s was in a small though visible front building; there were no such buildings at the Smithfield entrance.

The tent stalls at Bailey’s were protected by an aluminum topper, a ceiling of sorts. Smithfield vendors had only the cover of their individual tents; the set-up contributed to the open yet disjointed feeling of the market. It was a good market though, with a good, strong vendor list, just not as perfectly wonderful as Bailey’s—at least in my opinion.

As I stood inside the opening, I realized that either I wasn’t as early as I thought I was or there were a large number of early bird vendors who’d parked in their hidden-from-view load areas.

“Excuse me?” a voice said.

I turned toward the low drawl. The farmer who greeted me wasn’t much taller than me, and his overalls and long, red T-shirt made us look like we might make good twins for some sort of Grant Wood portrait. He was bald, his perfect oval head matching his peach-colored complexion, and his gray eyes were both steely obvious and quietly inconspicuous. He was somewhere between my age and my parents’ age but it was impossible to know exactly which one he was closer to.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi. Can I help you find something?”

“Sure. I’m here to visit Mamma Maria and I know where her stall is, but I’d also like to purchase some eggs. I’ve heard that someone named Evelyn has an egg stall here but I’m not sure where it’s located.”

The man’s interesting eyes opened wide before straightening to a tight squint. “You mean Evie?”

I shrugged. “I was told Evelyn, but that might be her.”

He looked around, down two of the three main aisles. He shifted his weight from one boot-clad foot to the other as he rubbed his chin. “Evie’s down that way.” He pointed to the left aisle. “But she doesn’t sell many eggs anymore.”