Merry Market Murder(62)

“Well, I’m here now at least. We can get those lights strung and then do whatever else you’ve been assigned to do.”

“Deal.”

My plans to find Sam were diverted—all day. After the string of blinking white lights was hung across the front of the library and numerous strings in other places were attended to, we helped a couple of early artists with their tree prep. I had never paid attention to the amount of tinsel the town used for the parade, but I wondered if we should call Guinness World Records.

Though Bailey’s wasn’t closed, the first day of the parade was never a shopping day. Almost everyone who lived in and around Monson was somehow involved in the parade festivities: cooking, baking, decorating, or just family time in preparation for attending the first evening’s kickoff. It was Monson’s moment to shine, and everyone wanted to be a part of the elbow grease that created the shine.

After Main Street was decorated to the hilt, I helped with the food. Instead of one area for people to grab a snack or a hot or cold drink, we set up stations. Everyone donated everything, and money donation jars were also put out on each station. People paid what they could or what they wanted to donate to the charity for cookies, candy, soda, and hot chocolate. The stations always reminded me of Charlie Brown’s Lucy and her psychiatry stand. Every station was well stocked by late afternoon, with all remaining food and drink products stored in the library’s basement. Teenagers were recruited to check and restock the stations throughout the evening.

One of the yearly tree artists was Wanda Neil. I saw her unload boxes of decorations and asked if I could help her transport them to her tree. As evening approached, I ended up assisting her with decorating her goldfish tree. It was a theme she began a few years ago and it had given Wanda legend status. Throughout the year, Wanda purchased anything goldfish related she could find. She’d also taken to crafting them. Papier-mâché, woodwork, and origami were only the beginnings of what she used to create goldfish. By the time she was done placing all the ornaments on her tree, it was almost impossible to see any green for all the orange and black.

Wanda was probably about my age and had, like me, somehow acquired an inheritance, though no one understood quite where it had come from or how much it was. There were continual rumors as to the amount. I’d heard it was millions, and I’d also heard that she was almost broke and had been seen stealing food from a Dumpster behind a restaurant—I didn’t think that one was true.

Wanda looked like a delicate beauty but behaved like a strong farm woman. She had long, straight chocolate-brown hair that she always pulled back into a smooth ponytail. I’d never seen her flawless, white skin show one sign that it had seen either sun or exertion, but I knew it had seen plenty of both. Her eyes and long eyelashes matched her hair color perfectly and her small features were precise. She reminded me of an old-fashioned porcelain doll, except that she didn’t wear dresses, and I was certain lace would never cross her mind. She always wore old, faded, ripped jeans and T-shirts that had seen better days.

She had a good-sized parcel of land only a few miles from mine and though she had a plentiful garden, she didn’t sell what she grew. She did lots of canning and preserving though—pickling, too.

She worked her garden and land by herself. She weeded, watered, planted, and picked everything on her own. She also kept her old, large farmhouse immaculate, except for the kitchen. She kept her kitchen clean, but it was always in use. Something was always being chopped, cooked, or baked. It wasn’t possible that she could eat everything she prepared but whenever asked where it all went, she’d just shrug and avoid the answer. There were rumors about that, too. Some said she took all the food to homeless shelters. Others said she would secretly, under cover of night, deliver food to the poorer families in the community. I believed both of those were possible.

Wanda was also strange, weird, and odd. This was not just my opinion, but though she was eccentric, she was wonderful to be around if you didn’t try too hard to figure out what she was really talking about.

“Love this one,” she said as she held out a small, stuffed goldfish for my approval.

“It’s cute.”

“No, Becca, it isn’t cute. It has much more to contribute to the world. It is helping to make our space more pleasant,” she said adamantly.

See, not just my opinion.

“Of course,” I said. When Sam had met her, he’d commented on how it was a good thing she’d inherited money and property because she’d have a difficult time keeping a job.