Death By Drowning (13 page)

“I can’t hide. I can’t live a shallow, hidden life. If O’nan is alive and out there, then we must meet him head-on. A plan. Something. But I can’t live behind locked doors with the drapes pulled.”

“There’s no point in being stupid either. You’re in no shape to meet up with O’nan. A five-year-old girl could take you down. Don’t throw your life away because you don’t like restrictions.”

“The French philosopher Alexis de Tocqueville, witnessing the removal of the Choctaws in 1831 from Mississippi, asked one Indian why he was leaving his home and he answered, ‘To be free.’ I know how that man felt. I can’t live my life in the shadows. I’m always afraid. I will be paralyzed with fear if I do nothing but hide.”

“If I lift the restrictions, then will you will let me teach you how to properly defend yourself? No more gimmicky electronic gates. No more watchdogs.”

“I admit the watchdog idea did not turn out as I had hoped.”

“That dog does nothing but sleeps and eats.”

“Don’t forget poops.”

“And farts.”

“But he was shot three times trying to help me. Doesn’t that count for something?”

“Yeah, ’cause I wouldn’t take three bullets for you.”

“Not in the contract?”

“Nope,” he said, giving me a lopsided grin. “Just heal and defend when humanly possible. I decide what is humanly possible.”

“You’d take a bullet for me.”

“Why is that, Boss Lady?”

“Because you like me, you really do!” I kidded.

*

The next day I went to the bank and cashed in my last remaining money cushion – my $16,000 CD. Then I bought a shotgun.

16

The following Saturday was my first day back at the Farmers’ Market since last October. I had honey left over from the past summer, which I took out of my walk-in freezer and put in warming tanks. Then I put the bottles on the dashboard of any vehicle I could find to let the warm sun do the rest. Armed with my cashbox, table and chair, I was ready to face the crowds. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

Seeing my regular assigned spot empty, Jake pulled the car in easily. Matt had paid my Market fees for the season and had saved my spot. Jake placed my table under the tree along with my chair. While he pulled out the boxes of honey, I put on a clean tablecloth and my sign. Bags hung from my chair, my special apron was on and my fanny was sitting comfortably. I was ready for business.

Jake went over the rules with me again. Did I have my panic button necklace on? Was there a taser in the cash box? Was there one in my pocket? Did I have my asthma spray? Was there a friend who would accompany me to the bathroom? If someone unfriendly approached me, I was to act like I was having a heart attack. So on and so on.

“I am going to take a walk around,” said Jake. “I’ll be back in a few moments. You might not see me, but don’t worry.”

“Just blend in, Jake. Try not to scare the customers,” I teased, counting the change in my cash box.

“If anyone asks, what shall I tell them?”

“Say you’re my nephew from Oklahoma on my father’s side come to help at the farm.”

“Okey dokey,” Jake said, before he scrambled into the crowd.

It took me a moment to get my bearings. Everything seemed the same, but wasn’t. Farmers were looking at me out of the corners of their eyes, wondering what to do.

Miriam, the peach lady, broke the ice first. She stood with her arms akimbo and her apron pockets stuffed full of ripe peaches. “Well, look who’s decided to show up,” she teased. “Look, honey. I brought you the first white peaches of the season. Aren’t they precious!” She took them out of her pockets to show me. My mouth watered. Noticing my cane hanging off the chair arm, she peered into my face. “Irene said you looked good. I don’t know how after that terrible fall, but the Lord had mercy on you, Josiah.” She squeezed my arm. “Take these here peaches. They’ll help build up your strength. Let them ripen some more in the window. Gotta go – customers.”

I saw her whisper to several of her customers who then made a beeline for my table and bought honey. I didn’t care if they were mercy purchases. I needed the money. But bless Miriam, who was pushing customers my way.

After the initial breakthrough, there was a slow but steady stream of customers as word of my return weaved itself around the market. Some people stared. Some asked me for details. I pointed to my hearing aid and said I couldn’t hear them. Some kept their eyes averted. Some, like the Market Manager, just came right out and told it like it was. “Well, I’ve seen you look worse. Now let’s make a list. You’ve got a cane and hearing aid that I can see. Your teeth look different . . . but in a good different sort of way. You don’t happen to have a peg leg under that skirt like Captain Ahab, do you?”

“Funny, Ted.”

“I have my moments. Did you get the books I sent you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you read them?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t like Kafka or biographies on Kafka.”

“He’s the greatest writer that ever lived.”

“He was an insurance agent who wrote about people turning into big bugs.”

“If you’re not going to enlighten your mind, I want the books back.”

“I brought them.”

Ted grinned.

“You’re a pain in the tuckus sometimes,” I accused, returning his smile.

“I knew you hated Kafka.”

“I got the joke. It was that I had to lug them back to Kentucky from Key West that irritated me.”

“Didn’t you laugh just a bit when you opened the box?”

“I admit I did chuckle a time or two when I opened a box filled with fourteen books written by Kafka or about Kafka. You have a weird sense of humor.”

“You have no idea,” he said, raising an eyebrow at me.

I waved to the car. “They’re in there.”

“I’ll come back and get them later. Right now, I need your booth fee.”

Keeping my assigned spot was like buying a condo. There were yearly and daily fees. I pulled thirty from the cashbox and gave it to him. “Hey Ted.”

“Yeah?”

“Is Silver Creek Vineyard a member of this market?”

“Last time I looked,” he said, writing a receipt. Someone called Ted’s name. He turned and waved.

“What’s the story on them?” I asked.

“Sarah Dunne is Irene’s sister.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. What about Jamie?”

“My personal feeling?” He lowered his voice. “Jamie came every Saturday with an older employee to help set up. He was not allowed to work the booth due to his age, so he worked for Irene until the Market was over and then helped pack up. Very hard-working boy, but seemed very nervous. Always watching the other wineries, checking up on them to make sure they were following the rules.”

“Was Sarah having financial problems?”

“I heard that she had bank problems.”

“What kind of bank problems?”

“Loan problems.”

“Anything else.”

“That’s all I’ve heard. You’re not sticking your nose in Jamie’s death, are you? Look what happened to you trying to find out what happen to Richard Pidgeon.”

“Just curious,” I replied.

“It was curiosity that got you that limp. Leave it alone.”

It seems like people were telling me that close to a year ago. If I had listened to them . . . well, the past can’t be changed. I huffed, “No, it was a crazy cop trying to pin a murder rap on me that got me this limp. Go away now or I’ll call your wife and tell her that you are being a jerk to me today.”

“She thinks I’m wonderful and you won’t be able to shake her on that. I’ve got her trained to ignore your complaints.”

“That’s something I need to fix with her. Is she still a rabid liberal?”

“Crazy as a loon about freedom of speech and personal rights.” Ted shrugged. “What can I do? Someone taught her to read the Constitution.” Someone called Ted’s name again. He swiveled and waved to them. “Come over after the Market and we’ll feed you,” he said. “Nothing fancy, but wifey made a chocolate cake this morning and told me to extend an invitation if I saw you.”

My face brightened. “I would love to if I’m not too tired. Can I bring someone?”

“Who?”

“My nephew from Oklahoma.”

Ted gave a funny look. “If that’s what you want to call him, fine, but I know that you don’t have a nephew from Oklahoma. Bring him along. It will give my wife someone new to torment.” He then moved on to the next booth.

I made many more sales until the crowd began to thin out. Seeing that the sun was nearly overhead, I called Jake on the cell phone, which he immediately answered. “Can you start packing up for me?” I asked. “I need to move around. My muscles are stiffening up.”

Less than a minute later, he emerged from the crowd loaded with bags of local, fresh food. “We’re gonna eat good this week!” he claimed with relish. I oohed and ahhed at each item he pulled from the bags to show me. Fresh-picked asparagus, sweet strawberries, free-range eggs, delicate lettuce greens, several kinds of goat’s cheese, fresh baked bread, humanely harvested whole chickens. I wouldn’t buy meat from anyone unless the animals were humanely dispatched. I wished restaurants would do the same. It was one of my pet peeves – no pun intended.

As I began to move off, he said, “Stay where I can see you.”

Weaving carefully through the crowd, I made it to Irene’s booth, plopping down in her extra chair. I called Jake and told him where I was; waving so he could see me. Irene wasn’t there but Jefferson Davis, her husband was. “Hey Jeff,” I said, fishing out a soda pop from their ice chest.

He tipped his broad-rimmed hat. “Like your new ’do, Miss Jo.”

“It is all Irene’s doing.”

“So I heard,” he said, handing a customer a wrapper filled with spring flowers. “Thank ya kindly now. Come back now, hear.” He swiveled his chair towards me. “She said you wanted to ask me some questions. Shoot.”

“What did you think of Jamie?”

Jeff lifted his hat and scratched his head of graying hair, giving him time to reflect. “I was fond of him. After his daddy died, I took him fishing a lot. A baseball game now and then.”

“Did you like him?”

“Yes. He was a good boy. If he had growed, he would have been a fair-minded man.”

“Did Irene tell you that I found raunchy magazines under his mattress? I’m not talking Playboy, but real hardcore stuff. There was also a torn condom wrapper under his bed.”

Jeff’s creased face reddened. “No, she didn’t, and if it was anybody else telling me this, I would call them a liar to their face. I sure didn’t give him that stuff. Don’t hold with it. I hope you didn’t think that I would give a young boy such trash.”

“I was just wondering if he talked to you about sex or girls – anything that can help me.”

“We talked about school, fishing and future plans. This was a boy who didn’t cuss, didn’t talk trash. He was a serious person. Very concerned about his mother.”

“Why?”

“’Cause she was working herself into an early grave. Jeez, Josiah, you’re getting my feathers rustled.”

“I know these are irritating questions, but they’ve got to be asked,” I replied calmly. “Here’s the last one. I heard a rumor that Sarah was having financial problems, but she tells me everything was fine.”

“I think she is doing okay. If she was having money trouble, she didn’t tell Irene or me. We sure would have helped her out.”

I motioned for Jefferson Davis to pull me out of the chair. He obliged and stood me on my wobbly legs.

“I hope you can put this to rest for Irene’s sake. She hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep since Jamie died.”

“She says his spirit is restless.”

“Second sight runs in her people, but I wish she’d let this go. It’s upsetting.”

I gave Jeff a hug. “I will do what I can.” He gave me several bundles of day lilies and waved off the money I offered. I happily inhaled their mild fragrance. I noticed several city honeybees trying to gather pollen from Irene’s flowers. There must be a city hive nearby as bees have a territory of two miles but they like to stay close to home if they can. The thought that someone might have a hive on their rooftop was pleasing.

On the way back I ran into Morgan Mayfield, the owner of Sawyier’s Vineyard.

“Hey, baby cakes,” he said teasingly. “Folks said you looked like Quasimodo, but you look decent for an old gal who’s been banged up a bit.”

“I look damn smashing, Morgan,” I rejoined.

“And that is after being smashed,” countered Morgan.

I lifted my hair to show him my surgical scars. Then I lifted my dress to show him the huge scar that ran up my left leg. Pulling the hearing aid off, I let Morgan try it on.

“That’s nothing,” bragged Morgan, handing back the hearing aid. “Look at this. Tractor turned over on me.” He rolled up his shirtsleeve and showed me a nasty jagged scar that ran the length of his forearm. “And look at this,” he pulled at his shirttail, revealing a surgery scar on his lower abdomen. “Appendicitis. I’ve got another one but I’d have to pull off my pants to show you.”

“Oh, please do,” I teased. “Got any tattoos?”

“I’ll show you my tattoos, if you show me yours,” he grinned good-naturedly.

“I’ll have to get some first. Hey Morgan, I’ve got something serious to ask. You know anything about Sarah Dunne or the Silver Creek Vineyard?”

Morgan scratched his head. “They make good wine. All the grapes are Kentucky grown grapes, not grape juice imported in from California. I can’t stand it when local wineries do that. Sarah makes a merlot that I think is first class.”

“So Silver Creek has a good reputation.”

“I haven’t heard anything negative about them. Sarah is known for being honest, paying her bills on time. No fights with other wineries.”

“Not even the Golden Sun Vineyard?”

“That stuff about the first commercial winery is just business. It’s not personal. Beside I heard Peterson is going out of his way to help Sarah with that river tour he’s having this summer. Wish I had thought of that. Great idea.”

“Well, enough about them. How are you doing?”

“Life couldn’t be better, Josiah. Sawyier’s is doing great. I’m proud of the wines we are making. Here – let me get you some before you take off.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can. Don’t be so bossy, Miss Hossy.” He handed me several bottles of Sawyier’s Cabernet Sauvignon and Riesling wines. Giving me a big hug, Morgan invited me to hear him sing next week at the winery before he returned to his booth helping to pack up the few bottles of wine left.

Returning to my own booth site, I found the car packed and ready to go. “How much money did I make?” I asked Jake.

“You made the sum total of $624.00.”

Pursing my lips while making a mental calculation of the bills I needed to pay, I replied, “Not too shabby for the first Saturday back, but it won’t make me rich. Sales are going to have to pick up if I am going to be solvent this year.” I scratched my neck. “Well, I’ll think about that tomorrow.” I sat in my chair and watched Jake finish packing up in the Prius, which was not an ideal car for this kind of work. I pined for my rusted, beat-up van, which now took up space in one of the barns. After Jake got me settled in the car, I figured I had enough energy for a meal, so I directed Jake to Ted’s house.

We had a delightful late lunch and spirited conversation about politics. Ted’s wife loved Jake, even though they came from opposite ends of the political spectrum with Jake surprisingly being very conservative. While his politics were not my taste, I was proud of the way he debated Ted’s wife point by point as she was well known for being very informed on current events and Washington shenanigans. But before I became too exhausted, Jake gave them our thank yous and good byes.

On the way out, the wife gave me two biographies on Kentucky women she had finished reading – Laura Clay and Jenny Wiley. I loved reading biographies, so I was pleased and discontented at the same time. There was no point in telling her I had trouble seeing print now unless it was large. I was hesitant in telling people what was busted. It tended to make them queasy. Perhaps I could talk Franklin into reading them to me.