Merry Market Murder(44)

His comment begged the question, so I asked, “Why not?”

He blinked and then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, but if she doesn’t have any to sell or if you’d rather not buy them, we have another stall down that way.” He pointed to the right aisle. “Rebecca always has a good supply of fresh, fresh eggs.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” The man tipped an invisible hat and then hurried down the left aisle.

I didn’t know if he was odd, I was odd, or Evelyn—Evie—was odd, but the short interaction was disquieting. I shook it off.

“Mamma Maria first,” I mumbled before I set off down the middle aisle.

Though there weren’t many customers yet, the temperature had warmed a little from when I’d first set out in my truck. But I still needed the sweater, and market traffic might start building any minute just because warming weather sometimes caused the crowds to suddenly come out in force.

Mamma Maria’s stall was different than it had been the last time I’d visited her. There’d been a tall, refrigerated display case in the back corner that turned slowly and showed off her pies in all their glory—and glorious was a good description for her creations—but the display case was now MIA. The reason probably had something to do with her move to Bailey’s.

“Becca?” she said as she threaded her head and neck through the opening in her back wall. She balanced three pie boxes precariously, as the tent flap didn’t seem to want to open all the way. I hurried around to help her.

“It’s great to see you again, but I’m surprised. What’re you doing here?” she said as I took two boxes and set them on the front table.

“It’s great to see you, too,” I said. “Here, let me help you unload and then I’ll tell you why I’m here.”

“Great. I’ll take the help.”

We made quick duty of unloading the thirty-three pies she’d brought. Except for five of them, all had been presold, and most were her beloved pumpkin cream. She once told me that she sold more pumpkin cream pies between the middle of October and the end of December than she did her other pies the rest of the year.

“People get in the mood for pumpkin and they just stay in the mood until almost the new year,” she’d once said.

I understood completely and had her put aside one of the extras for me.

Once set up, she said again, “What’re you doing here, Becca? You’re up to something.”

“My reputation precedes me,” I said.

“Something like that.” Mamma laughed. “Ask me whatever you’d like to ask. I’m intrigued and interested that you want to talk to me.”

“Thanks.” The man with the gray eyes had made me wary, so I stepped a little closer to her and said, “Does someone named Evelyn sell eggs here?”

“You mean Evil Evie?” Mamma gasped and put her hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe I just said that. That was so rude. Forgive me. You’re a friend and I lost my sense of professionalism for a moment.” She cleared her throat. “There’s a woman named Evie who sells eggs over in the far aisle, but she’s strange, frankly. Not evil. Probably. Though that’s the nickname she’s been given—Evil Evie. It has a nice ring, I guess, and—oh, goodness, it’s just plain awful that that’s what she’s called, but unfortunately, it is.” Mamma sighed and rubbed her knuckle over her forehead.

“How is she strange?” I said.

“She’s abrupt, not friendly. She used to sell lots of eggs, but she brings in less and less inventory all the time. She’s withdrawn.” Mamma’s eyes pinched. “It’s actually quite sad, but anytime any of us attempt to befriend her, we’re met with biting, sarcastic remarks.”

I thought about whether or not to tell Mamma who I thought Evil Evie really was. It didn’t seem to matter much if I was wrong, so I said, “Is there any chance she’s Evelyn Rasmussen Stuckey, who was once a state senator and married to the man who was recently killed in the Bailey’s parking lot?”

Mamma blinked and then laughed. “Oh, Becca, I have no idea, but leave it up to you to find such a connection. Hang on a second, I know someone who might be able to help.” She stepped back, sat in folding chair, and pulled out her cell phone.

As I waited, I wondered if she still had a supply of plastic forks somewhere in her stall. The pumpkin cream pie that now had my name on it was beckoning to me more loudly than the conspiracy theories I had rumbling around in my head. I peered under tables and into whatever other areas that looked like a storage space.