a better time. I continued toward my stall. I had an extra table that Bo could use; it wouldn’t be the same sort of walled table he used for his onions, but at least it would be something. I knew I could find other vendors willing to temporarily part with some of their display supplies.
Word hadn’t spread yet about Joan’s brutal murder in my barn. As soon as it did, I’d be answering everyone’s questions. I could only imagine the concerned and maybe suspicious glances. It would be the second body that I’d found in recent months. The first one was Madeline For-syth, and I’d been with a group of people when her body had been discovered. I was sure that once the latest news got out, people would think, if not say, something about me seeming to be the common denominator when it came to finding dead people. And I wondered how the story of my mother’s being at the scene with blood on her hands would change as it passed from person to person. The facts were horrible enough already; the exaggeration likely to occur over time and telling would make the story even more unbearable.
I couldn’t worry about that now, though. At the moment, no one was mentioning Joan, and everyone seemed to want to help out a fellow vendor.
Less than thirty minutes later, those of us who had tables or racks to spare had delivered them to the aisle outside of Bo’s stall. Allison and Bo were talking with one of Monson’s newest policemen, Officer Rumson, who was dressed in plain clothes and looked as though he hadn’t had time to brush his short hair that morning. Allison had said she’d called Sam. For whatever reason, he’d sent another officer, who I guessed had been awakened and called to duty.
From what I could observe and overhear, there wasn’t much to investigate. The tables were destroyed, but nothing else seemed to offer a clue to what happened. The tables had been touched by so many people over the years that it was a waste of time to dust for fingerprints. Bo was told he could clear out the mess whenever he wanted to.
Once Officer Rumson had taken a few pictures on a small digital camera and then traveled down the aisles to see if anyone had seen anything strange or unusual, we converged on Bo’s stall. We had it cleaned out and set up for business in record time.
Bo, never one to say a whole bunch, had difficulty expressing his gratitude, but we saw right through his gruff words of thanks; he truly appreciated what we’d done. Despite his rebel attitude toward the restaurant association, he’d have done the same for any of us. I didn’t forget that I had some questions for him, but for now, I kept them to myself.
Bo’s stall being vandalized the day after Joan’s murder was a coincidence the police would look at closely. Maybe I’d just talk to Sam and see what he thought. I wasn’t even sure if Bo had heard about Joan’s murder. I thought that if he had, he would have said something to me.
To beat the oncoming midday and afternoon heat, customers started to trickle into the market, so we all moved back to our own stalls, ready to sell before we could further discuss or think about much of anything.
Allison told me that Officer Rumson wouldn’t comment regarding whether he thought the destruction of Bo’s tables had anything to do with the murder. She seemed to think it was a random act of vandalism, but Officer Rumson agreed that security cameras would be a good idea. As the market got busy and we all went to work, everyone’s mood improved. Sometimes that’s the best thing—getting back to work and moving on.
My small inventory of jams and preserves flew off the display tables quickly, and I sensed that everyone else’s products were moving at an equal pace. I predicted that a lull in the activity would hit us about the time the heat hit its high. I was correct.
Allison stopped by my stall again around noon and asked if I’d heard from our parents.
“No, I haven’t tried to call them either,
Word hadn’t spread yet about Joan’s brutal murder in my barn. As soon as it did, I’d be answering everyone’s questions. I could only imagine the concerned and maybe suspicious glances. It would be the second body that I’d found in recent months. The first one was Madeline For-syth, and I’d been with a group of people when her body had been discovered. I was sure that once the latest news got out, people would think, if not say, something about me seeming to be the common denominator when it came to finding dead people. And I wondered how the story of my mother’s being at the scene with blood on her hands would change as it passed from person to person. The facts were horrible enough already; the exaggeration likely to occur over time and telling would make the story even more unbearable.
I couldn’t worry about that now, though. At the moment, no one was mentioning Joan, and everyone seemed to want to help out a fellow vendor.
Less than thirty minutes later, those of us who had tables or racks to spare had delivered them to the aisle outside of Bo’s stall. Allison and Bo were talking with one of Monson’s newest policemen, Officer Rumson, who was dressed in plain clothes and looked as though he hadn’t had time to brush his short hair that morning. Allison had said she’d called Sam. For whatever reason, he’d sent another officer, who I guessed had been awakened and called to duty.
From what I could observe and overhear, there wasn’t much to investigate. The tables were destroyed, but nothing else seemed to offer a clue to what happened. The tables had been touched by so many people over the years that it was a waste of time to dust for fingerprints. Bo was told he could clear out the mess whenever he wanted to.
Once Officer Rumson had taken a few pictures on a small digital camera and then traveled down the aisles to see if anyone had seen anything strange or unusual, we converged on Bo’s stall. We had it cleaned out and set up for business in record time.
Bo, never one to say a whole bunch, had difficulty expressing his gratitude, but we saw right through his gruff words of thanks; he truly appreciated what we’d done. Despite his rebel attitude toward the restaurant association, he’d have done the same for any of us. I didn’t forget that I had some questions for him, but for now, I kept them to myself.
Bo’s stall being vandalized the day after Joan’s murder was a coincidence the police would look at closely. Maybe I’d just talk to Sam and see what he thought. I wasn’t even sure if Bo had heard about Joan’s murder. I thought that if he had, he would have said something to me.
To beat the oncoming midday and afternoon heat, customers started to trickle into the market, so we all moved back to our own stalls, ready to sell before we could further discuss or think about much of anything.
Allison told me that Officer Rumson wouldn’t comment regarding whether he thought the destruction of Bo’s tables had anything to do with the murder. She seemed to think it was a random act of vandalism, but Officer Rumson agreed that security cameras would be a good idea. As the market got busy and we all went to work, everyone’s mood improved. Sometimes that’s the best thing—getting back to work and moving on.
My small inventory of jams and preserves flew off the display tables quickly, and I sensed that everyone else’s products were moving at an equal pace. I predicted that a lull in the activity would hit us about the time the heat hit its high. I was correct.
Allison stopped by my stall again around noon and asked if I’d heard from our parents.
“No, I haven’t tried to call them either,
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