Merry Market Murder(69)

I drove away from Frugit Orchard with little more knowledge than I’d had when I arrived, but a sense of satisfaction boosted my confidence nonetheless.

Someone in the Ridgeway family had had an affair. Did that have anything to do with the murder? I could only guess that it did and that the ornament clues I’d received somehow told the story. At least one of the two divorces—Reggie and Evelyn’s or Brenton and Stephanie’s—must have been the result of the affair. Had Reggie and Stephanie been a secret couple? Or maybe Brenton and Evelyn? I even had to consider that Reggie and Brenton or Stephanie and Evelyn had been the couple, but I truly didn’t think so. It seemed even less likely that Reggie and Stephanie had ever had any interest in each other. And Brenton and Evelyn? I couldn’t be sure.

Truly, I could not imagine the recoupling that I was trying so hard to picture. Nothing fit, nothing worked.

The knowledge that Brenton was a Ridgeway was just another piece to the puzzle, but I didn’t think it was the big piece I’d originally thought it was. The important thing that Brenton’s application hadn’t been able to tell me was why exactly Brenton changed his name—from what Stephanie had said, it had been his choice and not something his family had pushed him to do. Something had happened that had been stressful enough to contribute to their father’s death. What? Was it an affair, or something more?

I would be going to Ridgeway Farm, with Sam tomorrow, but I hoped for more answers today.

I’d never been to Brenton’s house, but I knew where he lived. I thought it was time to visit him. I hoped I wouldn’t run into Sam, and I really hoped that Brenton would be as pleased to see me as I was eager to talk to him.





Twenty





Monson’s residential areas were separated into distinct though small burgs. Ian and his landlord, George, had previously lived in the Ivy League district, where the short streets were all named after the educational elite: Harvard, Princeton, Yale, etc.

Brenton lived in the alphabet neighborhood. When entering the neighborhood, the first street’s name was Alpine, followed by Butler, Cascade, Devonshire, Estate, and so on. Brenton resided on Fulmer, a street lined with trees similar to those in the Ivy League neighborhood, but made up of houses built closer to the 1950s than the Harvard-Yale early 1900s houses. Each plot of land in the alphabet neighborhood was extra-large, making each house seem oddly far away from its neighbors, but comfortable, with plenty of elbow room.

Brenton’s house was a wide, white, welcoming one-story with a black front door and black shutters framing the one large and two regular-sized front windows. The property would have been well suited to a white picket fence, but I knew Brenton would prefer the open space of his green front yard with no fence, even a picket one, closing him in.

I was surprised to find him outside in the front. He was on his hands and knees next to a big white bucket. It looked like he was patching a square of concrete on his front walkway. There was not a Christmas decoration in sight. He probably spotted my truck the moment I turned onto his street. He sat back on his heels and smiled hesitantly as I parked and waved.

I was probably making him uncomfortable, but I’d do what I could to make my visit easy and friendly.

I got out of the truck and walked toward him as he stood and wiped off his knees.

“Becca, everything okay?” he asked.

“Everything’s fine. Sorry, go ahead and finish. I can wait.”

Brenton looked around. I wasn’t sure what he was looking for. He turned back to me and said, “No, it’s okay. I got it smoothed out. It just needs to dry now. You want to come in?”

I inspected the concrete. It was definitely smooth. I didn’t think I’d be interrupting a project that needed more immediate attention. “I’d love to,” I said.

I hadn’t expected an invitation inside. I thought that at best he’d talk to me at his front door.

After he covered the bucket with a snug lid, he led me into the house.

“You want something to drink? I’m warm from working, but it’s a little cool out there. You want some coffee?” Brenton asked.

“Sure, thanks. Can I help?”

“No, have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

“Thanks.”

Brenton’s front room was appealing in an older, masculine way. His tan couch and brown recliner were both well used, and his coffee table was covered in newspapers and handyman magazines, the main theme being woodworking projects. I wondered if he enjoyed woodworking or if he just liked to read about it.

Brenton’s dog biscuits were made from human food ingredients, which was one of the reasons so many people became loyal customers. Brenton took great care in using healthy “real” food, with no preservatives. His house smelled like a spicy bread bakery, and I sniffed with exuberance as I took a seat on the couch.