“This way,” Evie said, her long legs leading us away from her stall.
As I followed behind, I ventured one more look at the back table. I’d seen what I thought I’d seen: decorated eggshells were lined up along the length of the table. They were crafted in a more professional manner than the egg I’d found in my truck, but there was no question that they were meant to be Christmas tree ornaments, or just decorations maybe; green, red, gold, and silver made up the combined color scheme. I didn’t think they were intended to be for sale; they were back and away from the few boxes of eggs placed in a pathetic display on a side table. I felt sorry for the poor eggs—the ones for sale, not the decorated ones.
It was only by chance that my eyes also skimmed the notebook that Evie had been looking at when I’d approached. She’d dropped it on the ground next to her chair. She must have forgotten about what she was looking at because if she’d remembered she would have at least flipped it over to hide the article.
I guessed it was a Smithfield paper but I didn’t take the time to look at the masthead. Instead, my attention was grabbed by the front-page headline: “Monson Christmas Tree Farmer Murdered in His Own Truck.”
So, Evie didn’t care? She’d been laughing as she’d been reading, she smiled when I first mentioned the murder; her behavior didn’t quite live up to the nonchalant attitude she claimed to have. I looked back toward her just as she turned to make sure I was close behind.
I smiled; she grimaced, but I didn’t think she’d seen me looking at the paper. She continued to lead the way.
• • •
Bailey’s was well-outfitted with food carts, food stations, and a large, open tent with tables where people could eat. But I had to give it to Smithfield; they’d created a central food-court-like space that made it easy to peruse all the offerings at once, make a choice, and then enjoy your food and drinks in a space away from all other market traffic. I knew Allison wished for such a setup, but it would take some maneuvering of stalls whose vendors didn’t want to move, so our food stations were still more spread out than she’d like. Maybe someday, she’d said a number of times.
Evie marched to a coffee/tea cart, ordered two large black coffees, and then directed me to a table away from everyone else.
The crowd had already grown and since it was still morning, the coffee cart was one of the more popular offerings. I watched people watch Evie. Market customers didn’t pay her much attention, but fellow vendors did. Some squinted at her from afar, some purposefully looked away from her, and others scowled. I couldn’t imagine having such a horrible relationship with so many people I worked with and came in contact with. A spat or a disagreement here and there was normal, but such blatant dislike was alarming.
“Oh, look, we’re getting in the spirit. Finally,” Evie said as she set a cup of coffee on the table in front of me and handed me a green-and-red coffee stirrer. “It’s not much, but at least it’s something.”
“Some people start decorating for Christmas before Halloween.”
“That’s not the way it’s done, either. You’re supposed to clean up the dishes, get the turkey carcass from Thanksgiving ready for soup stock, and then pull out the decorations.”
I smiled. “You like Christmas.”
“Yes, I do.”
I would have reached a whole new level of rude if I’d pointed out how strange it was that this woman whose nickname began with “Evil” didn’t seem like the Christmas spirit type.
“Have you always?” I asked, making the best small talk I could.
“Yes, actually, I have.” Evie scowled. “Oh, I think it’s too commercial, and kids are bratty and awful about it, but I still just love it. Aw, shoot, it probably has something to do with the fact that I once owned—well, my husband did, anyway—a Christmas tree farm. I’ll admit that, I suppose. There was nothing like the smells, nothing like when it finally got cool enough that it felt like it might just snow a little. And when it did snow, and . . . oh, well, it was what it was, I suppose.” Evie looked down and then took a sip of her coffee.
And I suddenly felt sorry for her.
“When you two were married, did you live at the same farm he owned when he was killed?”
“Yes.”
“I stopped by there the other day. It’s beautiful.”
“Yes.” Another sip.
I tried to put myself in her shoes, but the view still wasn’t clear. I switched gears.
“You were a pretty successful politician.”
Evie harrumphed. “No, I was a state senator. The one other person I ran against was clearly an idiot. It wasn’t a difficult race to win.”