Merry Market Murder(5)

“That actually sounds great,” Sam said, pleasant surprise, and maybe something else, lining his voice.

Though he was much more confident about our relationship than I was willing to express out loud, he wasn’t without a few issues of his own. There was a sad story in his past, a story that involved a fiancée who’d met a horrible demise. I still didn’t have the full story—he didn’t want to talk about it very often—but I knew it was ugly. I’d eventually know exactly what happened.

It was partially because of that tragedy, and the serious nature of his job, that Sam had missed out on a lot of great times. This was unfortunate, because he was a fun person. We were getting there together though, one fun moment at a time. Of course, those moments could only occur when we weren’t in the middle of fighting off a vicious murderer or when I wasn’t bugging him to share the details of a crime with me. I was fascinated by everything about him, including everything about his job. And, much to my surprise, he was also fascinated by everything about me.

We’d only been together as a couple for a little over a month, but it had been an intense few weeks, filled with emotion and the recognition of feelings we’d both had for a long time, but hadn’t either seen clearly or been able to act upon.

We were still in “that” part of the relationship: the over-the-top, breathtaking, and sometimes overwhelming part. My family thought all this fascination with each other would mellow, but I wasn’t so sure. I hadn’t ever been quite so fascinated by anyone.

“We’ll have fun,” I said.

We were interrupted by Barry of the Barry Good Corn stall inside Bailey’s. He walked with effort, his big and not-so-young body becoming more and more difficult to maneuver with each passing season. He seemed to be pushing himself to move quickly today, which was something he rarely did. He had his eyes to the ground and was headed straight for Sam’s cruiser.

“Barry?” I said.

He stopped, looked up, and then noticed the car.

“Hey, Becca, Sam.” He glanced at me, at the box of cookies, at Sam, and then toward the back of the stall he’d used to exit the market.

“What’s up, Barry?” I said.

Sam set the box of cookies back onto the car. He noticed Barry’s jumpy behavior, too.

“Oh, fiddle,” he said. “It’s not a police matter, but maybe you should head in there, Sam.”

“Why’s that?” Sam asked as he took a step away from the cruiser. I moved with him.

“Brenton’s pretty upset. He was yelling at Allison,” Barry said. “I keep my cell phone out in my truck. I was coming out to call Brenton’s ex-wife. I didn’t know what else to do. He’s becoming an unwelcome distraction, I’m afraid.”

I always find the moments that my perception is completely altered startling and bizarre. I had no idea Brenton had been married, and I’d known him for years. Brenton yelling at my sister didn’t jibe with . . . anything. There were moments when I thought he should maybe be a little upset about something, but he shrugged off those moments, usually with a friendly lift of his baseball cap and a gentle smile.

But his earlier behavior in the parking lot hadn’t been what I was used to seeing from him, either. Something must have happened—something horrible—to set him off. But what could possibly change him so much?

Sam looked at me.

“Don’t you dare tell me to stay here,” I said.

“I was going to ask you to call Brenton’s ex-wife with Barry,” Sam said.

“I can handle it by myself. I’d use your phone, but I don’t know the number. It’s on one of those . . . what are they called . . . speed-dial memory thingies, and my phone’s in my truck,” Barry repeated.

“Of course. Thank you, Barry,” Sam said.

As Barry stepped away, Sam and I hurried toward the market. The entrance was about halfway between us and the Ridgway Farm trio, but going through the back of the same stall that Barry had come through seemed like the better idea.

The canvas wall was also the outer wall of Ian’s metal yard art stall. I hadn’t seen him yet today, but he didn’t spend as much time at the market as he had when he was first building his business. He’d purchased some land and was in the process of turning it into a lavender farm and an art studio, so extended time spent anywhere didn’t happen often.

Sam lifted the wall of the tent and entered the empty stall through the opening. He held the flap for me but his attention was now focused inside the market and on the ruckus across the aisle.

“Brenton, that’s not reasonable,” Allison said. “Come on. Please come to the office with me and we can discuss this.”