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  A SECRET IN THE PUMPKIN PATCH

  A DANGER COVE

  FARMERS' MARKET MYSTERY

  by

  GIN JONES

  &

  ELIZABETH ASHBY

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  Copyright © 2017 by Gin Jones

  Cover design by Janet Holmes

  Gemma Halliday Publishing

  http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

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  DANGER COVE BOOKS

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  BOOKS BY GIN JONES

  SNEAK PEEK

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  CHAPTER ONE

  I must have shared the standard investing advice—past performance is no guarantee of future success—a dozen times a day, every single day, in my previous career as a financial planner. Now, in my new work as the Lighthouse Farmers' Market's manager, I'd been repeating the exact same advice to myself while preparing for the last weekend before the winter hiatus. Just because the last seven Saturdays had been successful and largely problem-free didn't mean that the two-day celebration of Halloween would go as smoothly.

  Still, I was determined that the final event of the season would be one to remember. And, ideally, one that would get us listed in the various round-ups of favorite markets in the Pacific Northwest.

  Of equal importance was snagging a beekeeper for next year's market. All the good reviews in the world wouldn't help if we continued to have gaps in the range of products we offered. Honey was our biggest lack, and I'd been trying all summer, without success, to find a beekeeper. Plus, my contract to manage the market had only been for the first season. In order to get it renewed, I was going to have to prove that I could grow the market. The odds were against my expanding its name recognition by landing it on one of the lists of top markets in the Northwest, so I had to consider other ways to show that the market was a good investment for the town. Signing up a beekeeper would go a long way toward convincing the mayor to renew my contract.

  I finally had a solid prospect, thanks to Tommy Fordham, the heirloom tomato grower, who had convinced his friend, Terry "Buzz" Reed, to check out this weekend's event. I was cautiously optimistic that Buzz would be sufficiently impressed by the crowds and enthusiasm to sign a contract for a stall in next year's market.

  I'd been impressed myself with the variety of exhibits that were being set up when I'd arrived about an hour ago, before the market was officially open. The market consisted of two rows of white-canopied stalls facing each other across the Memorial Walkway that led from the parking lot on Cliffside Drive to the beginning of where the land turned rocky and steep, eventually rising to where the lighthouse stood at the edge of the cliff.

  To the left of the market were boulders that topped a steep drop-off down to the waters of Danger Cove, and to the right was a historical garden where, during the growing season, the garden club had maintained a recreation of the kitchen garden that the early lighthouse keepers had used to feed their large families. In anticipation of the imminent hard frosts, everything had been harvested a few days ago, and the remaining plants had all been turned under for the winter. Then the front half of the area had been transformed into a temporary pumpkin patch, complete with artfully arranged vines. The back half had been fenced in to hold about a dozen turkeys. The birds had been set loose inside their pen this morning and were pecking at insects in the dirt.

  Over beyond the historical garden, the concert stage had undergone its own transformation. It was now a haunted house, operated by Gil Torres, director of the Danger Cove Historical Museum. Each room was based on a bit of local lore, which had been carefully researched to separate out the facts from the legends. Beyond the haunted house, where the rocky arm of land along the edge of the ocean and grass gave way to Two Mile Beach, the locations for a row of bonfires were being marked in the sand. They'd be lit on Sunday night as a backdrop for Halloween partying and dancing on the beach.

  Back near the market, in the space between the canopies and the parking lot, were a variety of vendors who only participated in the special holiday weekends, not the regular Saturday markets. They all seemed to have adopted an unspoken theme of "Pumpkin All the Things." The Danger Cove Quilt Guild was raffling off a pumpkin-colored quilt, although they insisted it was a "cheddar" quilt. Outside the Dangerous Reads tent was a display of children's books with pumpkins on the cover, all topped off by a three-dimensional paper pumpkin made out of the pages of an old and tattered book. Over beneath a tree near the parking lot, the Second Chance Animal Rescue's pens held adoptable dogs, cats, and bunnies, many of them dressed in orange sweaters embroidered with jack-o'-lantern faces.

  I hadn't been able to resist the Cinnamon Sugar Bakery's pumpkin-shaped pumpkin muffins with cream-cheese stems and had scarfed one down before continuing along the Memorial Walkway to check on the regular vendors. Not counting the extra-large first aid tent at the beginning of the market, there were nineteen official spaces, each one covered with a white canopy. The canvas wasn't as new and bright as it had been three months ago on my first day on the job, but the enthusiasm of the vendors and the marketers alike was undiminished.

  The market had opened this morning without a hitch. I'd started to believe that my biggest worry for the day would be whether the beekeeper would show up as he'd promised, when the sight of a tall young woman over by the first aid tent made me reconsider. I knew her, and she could turn out to be a bigger problem than the lack of a honey-seller, at least short-term.

  She was dressed in almost exactly the same long, dark pioneer dress and white apron I wore, with her usually dark hair colored gray and pulled back into a severe bun—also, just like mine. I hadn't been so committed to historical accuracy that I'd given up the sling bag that held all my emergency supplies for the market, but other than that, the only significant difference between our respective costumes was the vintage-looking brass spyglass the woman wore like a necklace. I recognized it as having been part of the pirate outfit she'd worn to a previous market event.

  It didn't bother me that A
ngela looked better in the costume than I did. I was above average in height, but she was still several inches taller and significantly thinner than I was, even after I'd lost some weight and gained some muscle tone during the transition from a desk job to a more physically active career. It also didn't bother me that my costume was less than unique. In fact, I would have been surprised if I were the only one dressed as my great-great-great-grandmother and namesake, Maria Dolores. She was something of a legend in Danger Cove, as the first lighthouse keeper here and the rescuer of drowning sailors.

  No, what bothered me about Angela's presence wasn't the duplicate costume but that I had had a few run-ins with her during previous market events. Her name was Angela Henderson, and she was part of a group of role-playing gamers known as the Dangerous Duelers, who liked to stage their events on market days. That wasn't a serious problem in itself, especially this weekend. I understood why they'd enjoy mingling with all the other costumed people here to celebrate Halloween. During this one holiday event, the players weren't outsiders but were part of the crowd of people pretending to be someone else for a few hours. Even the normally conservatively dressed Lilly Waters, from the Smugglers' Tavern, had indulged in some psychedelic colors, channeling her grandmother as a Woodstock-era flower child. Bree Milford, the manager of the Ocean View B&B, had thrown herself into the fun too. She'd dressed as a hobo, a distinct contrast to her best friend's glamorous movie star costume, and Bree laughed every time her gorgeous friend tried to make sure they weren't standing too close to each other.

  I hadn't expected the vendors to have quite as much fun with the costumes as the Dangerous Duelers did, but neither had I expected any trouble from either group. I'd gotten to know some of the gamers, and they had added a fun bit of color to the market in the past, especially when dressed as pirates or pioneers, since local residents and tourists alike seemed to enjoy the living reminders of the town's early history. The group as a whole wasn't a problem. The problem was Angela. She could be aggressive, both verbally and physically. I was going to have to keep an eye on her to make sure she didn't blacken my ancestor's name. Or mine.

  I was about to go have a chat with her when I caught sight of Merle Curtis, the owner of the Pear Stirpes Orchard, jogging in my direction from the pumpkin patch. I'd much rather spend time with him than Angela any day, and she didn't seem to be on the verge of picking a fight with anyone at the moment. Dealing with her could wait a few minutes.

  Merle was responsible for my being the market manager. He'd recommended me for the job, given me a personal reason for moving to Danger Cove, and then offered me the use of his orchard's caretaker's cabin when I couldn't find any other place to live in town. He was an erstwhile trial lawyer from Washington, DC, who, after his wife had died, had shut down his practice and bought an orchard on the outskirts of Danger Cove. Merle was tall and lean, with dark hair and a slight Virginia accent that made me think of him as a gentleman farmer in the Thomas Jefferson tradition. To complement my costume, he was dressed like a pioneer from the Oregon Trail, in his usual jeans but with a loose-fitting cotton shirt and suspenders instead of his usual lime green T-shirt with the logo of his orchard printed on the front. In recognition of the chilly October breeze, he'd added a black, front-zip hoodie that all but obscured the fact that he was wearing a costume.

  "I'm sorry," Merle said as he came to a stop in front of me. "Something came up, and I need to get back to the orchard for an hour or so."

  "Not another dead body, I hope." The skeleton of the orchard's prior owner had been found during a bit of construction back in August, and Merle was still dealing with some of the legal fall-out at a time when he already had his hands full with the peak of harvest season.

  "Nothing serious," he said. "Just a problem with what some of the goats have been nibbling on. Now that I own them instead of renting them, there's no one to call when they act up. And JT is threatening to quit if I don't cure them of their taste for young pear trees."

  "You definitely don't want to lose your genius brewmaster," I said. "Do you want me to have my assistant manage your stall when he gets here? I loaned him to Gil Torres for the haunted house, but she'll understand if I need to call him back to the market."

  "I won't be gone that long," Merle said. "I'd already closed the stall temporarily when Buzz arrived, so I could give him a tour of the place. I'm not worried about lost sales, since all I'm doing is selling off the old inventory that isn't up to my brewmaster's new standards. It doesn't matter to me if the stall stays closed a bit longer, as long as you don't plan to give me a demerit for not being open for the full duration of the market's hours."

  "I think I can overlook it this once, in return for your help with Buzz." I was relieved to hear that the beekeeper had shown up as planned. Besides, I had no illusions about my powers of persuasion as compared to Merle's. If he couldn't convince the beekeeper to sign on with the market, then no one could. "What did he think of the market?"

  "He hasn't decided. Have you met him yet?"

  At a shake of my head, Merle turned to look over his shoulder toward the pumpkin patch. He pointed at a short, elderly man wandering in a random zigzag pattern that seemed to be heading generally in our direction. He wore black skinny jeans and a yellow sweatshirt that was cinched in with the strap of a black fanny pack at the top of a hugely round belly. His oversized, round black sunglasses looked like an insect's eyes. I couldn't see his back, but I wouldn't be surprised to see a pair of little wings attached to his shoulder blades. All he was missing was a pair of antennae to be the perfect anthropomorphized bumblebee.

  "We've already been over to the haunted house and through the exhibits outside the market," Merle said, "but you'll need to introduce him to the regular vendors."

  "I can do that."

  "I know you can." Merle held my hand while we walked over to where Buzz had come to a stop a few yards away from us in the middle of the Memorial Walkway.

  Buzz balanced uncertainly on one of the memorial stones. They were flat and rough, about twice the size of a brick's face. Near the base of the steps to the lighthouse, they were set solidly, a few inches apart, for a width of about five feet, but the path quickly petered out as it moved closer to the parking lot. For much of its length, like where Buzz was standing, there were just random single stones set several feet apart.

  He acted as if the stone were some kind of safety zone and he'd be in danger if he moved away from it. He glanced from side to side at the various pushcarts, tents, and canopied stalls, and twice raised a foot as if to start walking toward a specific vendor's stall in the main market area, only to set it back down again so he could remain in his safe spot.

  As we approached, I could hear him humming tunelessly. I wasn't sure if it was supposed to be an intentional buzz that was part of his bumblebee costume or if it was something he did unconsciously when he was trying to make a decision. Although, if it was that hard for him to decide whether to go up the left side or the right side of the market, I was going to have my hands full getting him to make the much more complicated decision about whether to sign a contract for next year's market.

  "Are you sure there's no one else who can deal with the goats today?" I asked.

  "I'm sure. But I'll be back as soon as I can. I promise." Merle let go of my hand and told Buzz, "This is the market manager, Maria Dolores. She can answer your questions about the market while I'm gone." Merle didn't wait for a response before loping away toward the parking lot.

  The humming stopped, and Buzz blinked at me. Up close, I could tell that he wasn't just elderly—he was ancient. He had to be at least ninety. Possibly even pushing a hundred. It made me wonder if there might be some validity to the claims that beekeepers had a longer life expectancy than most people.

  Still, I stifled a sigh. Even if the elderly Buzz agreed to join the market next year, there was no guarantee he'd be able to make good on the promise. At his apparent age, he might not survive even another day, let alone a full
year. And how on earth could he possibly do the heavier chores of beekeeping? I supposed the work wasn't as demanding as some of the more backbreaking types of farming, but there was still some heavy labor involved occasionally. I'd done some research, and producing honey wasn't as easy as what Winnie-the-Pooh had done, letting the bees do all the work and then scooping it up at will. The hives needed to be inspected regularly, sometimes moved to food sources for particular varieties of nectar, and eventually the heavy frames filled with honey needed to be harvested.

  I had to trust that Tommy Fordham wouldn't have recommended Buzz if he wasn't up to the job.

  "It's nice to meet you, Buzz. Why don't I give you a tour of the main market?"

  He nodded, seemingly relieved not to be in charge of choosing his destination any longer.

  Perhaps his indecisiveness could work to my benefit. My brothers and sisters had complained often enough that I'd forced decisions on them when they were young, but Buzz seemed to want someone to take the choices out of his control. The tour would give me a chance to show him what I could do to keep his life simple, with a minimum of decisions that he would need to make.

  Normally, I would have started a tour by going up the right side and then down the left, but if we did that, we'd have to pass Merle's closed stall and then we'd hit Sweetwater Spuds. Definitely not the right person to make a good first impression on Buzz. The produce was excellent, but the owner was an annoying thorn in my side. He never had anything positive to say about the market.

  I pointed at the row of stalls on the left, across from Sweetwater. "Let's start over there. Lots of those farmers rely on bee pollination."

  Buzz still hesitated, looking in both directions as if he were crossing a street and checking for traffic. Finally he took a step toward the left row of stalls. "Whatever you think best."