Crops and Robbers

Table of Contents

 

 

“Ms. Shelton writes in such a way that the sounds and smells of the farmers’ market come to life through the pages . . . Each page leads to more intrigue and surprise as the ending explodes . . . Great job, Ms. Shelton!”

—
The Romance Readers Connection

 

“A breath of summer freshness that is an absolute delight to read and savor . . . A feast of a mystery.”

—
Fresh Fiction

 

“Becca is a genial heroine, and Shelton fashions a puzzling and satisfying whodunit. The first in a projected series,
Farm Fresh Murder
is a tasty treat.”

—
Richmond Times-Dispatch

 

“An appealing heroine . . . As satisfying as visiting the farmers’ market on a sunny afternoon.”

—Claudia Bishop

 

“Watching jam-maker Becca Robins handle sticky situations is a tasty delight.”

—Sheila Connolly

FARM FRESH MURDER
FRUIT OF ALL EVIL
CROPS AND ROBBERS

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

 

CROPS AND ROBBERS

 

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / December 2011

Copyright © 2011 by Paige Shelton-Ferrell.

 

All rights reserved.

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ISBN : 978-1-101-55898-0

 

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A very special thanks to:

My agent, Jessica Faust, and my editor, Michelle Vega. You are amazing and I’m so fortunate to be able to work with you both.

Coming up with a title for this book was a challenge. But when I sent out an idea request via Facebook, many people contributed some great ones. It was Morgan McGuire, though, who had the perfect one. Thank you, Morgan. Someday I know you’ll be working on titles for your own books.

Luann Reeve, for your friendship and our lunches together. You keep me laughing and sane and let me ramble on aimlessly when I need to the most.

My family. I know you think I’m off my rocker sometimes, but you still cheer me on like I always make perfect sense. Much love.

Heidi Baschnagel, for helping me with so many recipes. I’d be lost without you.

And, Shannon Fitzpatrick, you’re pretty amazing. Keep up the good work.

I was on my best behavior. Everyone was on their best behavior.
It wasn’t easy.

If the floors of Bailey’s Farmers’ Market hadn’t been made of dirt, I’m sure they would have been swept and mopped to a sparkling shine. As it was, we’d cleaned and polished our display tables and racks until we were all afflicted with cleaner’s elbow. Our products were lined up perfectly; even Barry of Barry Good Corn had organized his stalks so they were all going the same direction.

I’d ironed my short overalls, for goodness’ sake.

Allison, my fraternal twin sister and the manger of Bailey’s, hadn’t ordered us to be so . . . orderly. We’d taken on the task ourselves. We knew how important the visit was going to be—to all of us, even if all of us weren’t going to be under consideration. In fact, I wasn’t high on the consideration list, and I was fine with that. My business was going so well that if it boomed any more, I was going to have to hire an employee. I wasn’t ready for such responsibility. I had plenty to do with my jam-and-preserves market stall and a steadily growing shelf presence at some local Mayta-bee’s Coffee Shops.

But, for the team, for the rest of the vendors whose businesses could use a little boom, I was willing to clean, iron, organize, and be extraordinarily friendly. For vendors like Barry, and Jeanine, the egg lady, and Herb and Don of Herb and Don’s Herbs, this visit could take them from just making a living with their market stalls to making a better living, maybe to making a really great living. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and we all knew how important it was. Well, almost all of us anyway.

Bo Stafford, onion vendor extraordinaire, had complained about the entire situation and refused to clean up his stall or organize even one of his tables of onions. Allison had told me to ignore his attitude, but that was becoming increasingly difficult. His stall was across and down three from mine. The only way I didn’t have to see his display of disarray and purposeful disrespect was if I stood toward the back of my own stall. And with the visitors scheduled to arrive at any moment, I wanted to be front and center and contribute to good vibrations, not bad.

Bo caught me peering at him out of the aggravated corner of my eye. He smiled sincerely and waved, which only made me feel mean. I should heed Allison’s advice and ignore his less-than-stellar behavior.

Bo and I had become closer recently because of our association with a community garden project. I’d spent many friendly hours digging in dirt with him and helping kids learn and love the world of farming. I’d gotten to know him on a whole other level, and I liked him more than I thought I ever would. In fact, he had a way with kids that I admired. I didn’t want to be angry at him.

I forced myself to look in the other direction, down the aisle. “Spiffy” was the word that came to mind when I glanced at Barry. Jeanine licked her finger and seemed to be trying to tame a piece of her very short hair. Herb and Don were inspecting each other. Even Abner, the wildflower man, had stepped it up; he wore very clean overalls, and I would have sworn I could see him practicing a smile or two. He wasn’t high on the association’s list of consideration either, but his flowers were so spectacular that one never knew if perhaps the Central South Carolina Restaurant Association might want to consider using his products for centerpieces or decorations. Anything was possible, and that was the feeling today—positive and hopeful.

Linda, my recently married good friend and neighbor-vendor, was decked out in her usual pioneer garb. She’d taken extra care to make sure her apron was spotless and ironed as well. I gently touched the spot on my left arm that was still healing from the gunshot graze I’d taken the night before her wedding. It was still sore but would return to normal someday. Her husband, Drew, was still on his top secret “military” (said in hushed tones) mission, but he was doing well and we’d heard that he was going to be home by Halloween. In an odd twist of events, her business was booming, too. She’d become a celebrity in her own right as the details of her mother-in-law’s murder had emerged. And, her pies were one of the products the board of the restaurant association specifically asked to sample. She had so many berry pies stacked in her stall that I only caught a glimpse of her pioneer bonnet every now and then.

The events that brought us to this fateful day had occurred so quickly that none of us had had much of a chance to gain our bearings.