Bushel Full of Murder (21 page)

Sam wasn’t there. Hobbit didn’t hide her displeasure, but she got over it when Jimmy, the night shift desk officer, rubbed her ears and gave her a bite from his ham sandwich.

“Hey, Jimmy, my cousin’s back there. Any chance Hobbit and I can go talk to her?” I nodded toward the door that led to a hallway and back to the jail’s holding cells.

“Hang on,” Jimmy said as he rummaged around his desk. “Where did I put that? Oh, here it is.” He picked up a small piece paper and looked at it. “Sam told me to say to you when you stopped by—yes, you may go see Peyton but you aren’t allowed to give her any food or beverages. He wants you to know that he’s not starving her. He’s feeding her, but it’s policy that no outside food or drink comes in unless he approves it.” Jimmy put down the paper.

“Of course he knew I would be coming in.”

“Of course.” Jimmy smiled. “Go on back.”

Happy from the treat, Hobbit trotted contentedly beside me as we went through the doors and down the hallway. She didn’t know Peyton well, but since I seemed in a good, albeit curious, mood to see my cousin, Hobbit was also game to see what would happen next.

I pushed open the door to the room with the holding cells and peered in. I didn’t want to wake Peyton up if she was resting. She wasn’t. From the doorway I could only see her bent legs, as if she was lying down. Once knee was crossed over the other and her sock-clad foot bounced to a beat I couldn’t hear.

“Peyton?” I said as Hobbit and I entered, but I got no response. “Peyton?”

I approached slowly, but Hobbit didn’t see such a need. She hurried to the cell and inspected the girl inside.

Peyton looked over and jumped at the dog face that suddenly appeared. Then she smiled, sat up, and pulled some earbuds out of her ears.

“Hey, girl,” she said as she reached her fingers through the cell and scratched the side of Hobbit’s face. “Becca, thanks for coming to visit, and for bringing Hobbit.” She pulled her hand back, and her smile disappeared. “Listen, I’m sorry about what I did. That was so stupid. I was scared. I’m so glad you weren’t hurt.”

“I’m fine, Peyton. Yes, it was stupid, but we’re okay.” I grabbed a folding chair that was leaning up against the wall and set it next to Hobbit.

“I’m so glad,” Peyton said.

I looked around the cell. I would have bet that Peyton was the first prisoner in the history of the Monson jail cells who had been allowed to have an iPod.

My mom had been detained briefly a year or so earlier and she’d been pretty well treated then, too. That was before Sam and I had started dating, but I remember thinking he’d been kind to get her some comfortable bedding and good food.

“Peyton, we need to talk,” I said. “Heart to heart. Cousin to cousin if you want to look at it that way.”

“Okay,” she said, but she shifted on the cot and looked around the room.

“It’s just us, I promise. Sam once told me there are no listening devices in here and I’m not going to tell anyone anything bad about you. You’re family, Peyton.”

I wasn’t completely lying. Sam hadn’t told me there were no listening devices, but I was fairly certain there weren’t. And I probably wouldn’t tell anyone that Peyton confessed crimes to me, if, in fact, that was what she ended up doing. But I might. It depended on many things, and I wasn’t even really sure what those things were.

But I needed to know. I needed to understand what was going on. She’d actually thought that we could make a getaway in her food truck? That was one of the most illogical ideas I’d heard, and I’d come up with plenty of my own illogical ideas over the years.

Peyton looked at me a long moment, her big brown eyes wide and still glimmering with fear.

“I trust you, Becca.”

“Good. Now, tell me whatever you’ve done. Tell me everything. If I can’t figure something out, you know Allison can. We’ll fix this somehow, Peyton.” I sat back on the chair, stuck my legs out, crossed my ankles, and folded my hands on my lap. Surely, it would be this easy.

She blinked and then shook her head slowly. She looked away from me, but I could still see those pretty brown eyes as they filled with tears.

“Peyton?” I said.

Hobbit sat down and whined at the pretty girl in the cell who was about to cry.

Finally, Peyton looked back up at me. “I know it’s hard to believe, Becca. It’s even become hard for me to believe, especially with that recipe they found on Mr. Ship. But I haven’t done one thing wrong. I never stole that recipe. I never took any money. I wouldn’t have hurt my manager, and I could never have killed anyone. Never! I made my own recipe based upon what I thought was in the restaurant’s version, but I didn’t steal anything. I made it on my own. Take that recipe that was on Mr. Ship, make it, and then taste mine. You’ll see they’re different—okay, similar but different. I am one hundred percent innocent.”

“Then someone is sure doing a good job of making you look guilty, of more than one thing. Honestly, Peyton, I don’t think you could have ever killed anyone. Ever. And I’m on your side, but did you maybe do something that led to all of this? Something small that has snowballed?”

Peyton shook her head again. “I worked at that restaurant, Becca. I left and then started my food truck. The accusations
started right before I left, but I didn’t leave because of them. I’d been planning on leaving. I’d wanted a food truck for a long time. It just so happened that I left right after the manager was accosted, but I didn’t even know about it until later, until that police officer started asking me a bunch of questions. He showed that video he has on TV, but that’s not me. Maybe it looked like I was leaving because I’d done something wrong, but that wasn’t it. I just wanted my own food truck. It’s that simple.”

“How did you come up with the money for the truck?”

“I saved my tips! I’m not kidding. You should see the place where I live in Arizona. It’s a dump, but cheap. I scrimped and saved everything I could.”

“How come you didn’t have a bank account?” I said.

Peyton looked at me with surprise. “I saved my tips—cash. I saved everything in a coffee tin, just like they do in old movies. I paid cash for the truck. I had to pay cash to my suppliers at first because that’s how they operate. They don’t give new restaurant owners credit of any kind. Okay, so maybe they would have preferred checks, but they didn’t make too big a fuss about the cash. Money’s still money. They were still accepting my money when I left.”

“You set up a business license?”

“Of course. It’s an Arizona license. It’s valid and current. They took cash, too.”

“Okay, so you didn’t do anything wrong, but maybe you made someone at the restaurant angry. Is that possible?”

“I can’t think of anyone I made angry. I wasn’t a perfect cook, but I got better as time went on. Maybe some people were angry about the accusations, but not everyone. I had
people on my side, too, even if it doesn’t feel like it anymore.”

“How in the world could that recipe have gotten into Mr. Ship’s possession?”

Peyton took a deep breath and then let it out. “The options for that answer are limited, Becca. It was either me, or someone else from the restaurant. There are just no other choices.”

“No one else from the restaurant is here, right?” I said.

“No,” she said with a shrug. “And . . . well, and the only other person who is from Arizona, as far as I know, is that police officer.”

She seemed to shrink when she said the words. She must have known by now that Harry and I knew each other. She might not have understood just how much I trusted and cared for him based upon our previous time spent together in Arizona. But I did. I cared for him and trusted him completely. I’d just told him as much this evening.

But maybe that was a mistake.

Really, how well did I know him?

Pretty well, actually. I knew him to be a lawman who was a good man to boot.

But still.

He was the only other person who could have potentially brought the recipe to town.

Wasn’t he?

Another thought dinged in my mind, but I didn’t want to vocalize it and give Peyton a glimmer of false hope.

“I’ll talk to Harry some more,” I said, though I had no
idea what else there was for Harry and me to discuss regarding the matters at hand.

“Becca, have Sam talk to Harry,” she said, her voice almost too even, as if she was trying hard to keep it that way.

“All right,” I said. Surely those conversations had been had.

“Anything else you can give me, Peyton? Anything?” I said.

“I wish there was, Becca. This whole thing is awful. I’d like it to just go away.”

“Okay.” I inspected her through the bars. “Then tell me something.”

“Anything.”

“If you used the money to pay for the truck, why do you still claim to have a bunch of cash? The cash you were going to use to set up an account with Mr. Manner.”

“Same answer, Becca, except you can add my sales. Saved tips, lived cheap, made money selling hot dogs. My truck is popular in Arizona. My food costs are low. I’m my only labor and I don’t pay myself much. I realize my methods are unusual but I couldn’t see any other way to make my dream come true. No other way.”

I nodded. “What were you digging up behind your truck the other day? You know, in that small plot of land. What did you dig up?”

Peyton blinked and then seemed to shrink some more, but she tried to recover. I’d managed to truly surprise her. I was pretty impressed with myself, though when she responded, I wasn’t sure how to follow up my crack
questioning technique with an equally successful way to get a real answer out of her.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, blandly but with an undercurrent of defiance.

“I saw you,” I said. It was the wrong thing to say. It was as if I’d just challenged her to a dual. Peyton didn’t shy away from such challenges. An image of her as a little girl with big curls and clenched fists by her side determined not to back down from anything popped into my mind.

“Wasn’t me,” she said.

Determined though she might have been, she wasn’t very good at lying.

“Okay,” I said. “Whatever you say. But, Peyton, perhaps there’s a chance you’re forgetting that it really was you, and maybe the truth would help clear you from the other trouble you’re in. Maybe you’ll remember doing what I saw you do, and maybe you’ll want to tell me why. I can help, Peyton. You’re family. I can help.”

“I wish I could tell you something that would help.” She looked at me with hard eyes. “But I can’t.”

The moment was up for interpretation, but nothing pinged for me.

“Peyton,” I said one more time.

“Thanks for stopping by, Becca. Be sure to give that cop from Arizona my best.”

She turned and lay back down on the cot. She plugged the earbuds into place and moved her ankle up to her knee. She started keeping beat with her foot again.

I’d been dismissed. Rudely so, but more important than
the fact that Peyton had been rude was that she’d been
suddenly
rude, and unhelpful. She’d gone from happy to see me to shut down and silent when I mentioned the suspicious behavior I’d witnessed.

I’d struck a nerve.

I decided it was a nerve I needed to bother some
more.

Again, I was early. I’d reached a personal best this week for being at the market early or on time.

Hobbit hadn’t been happy at my alarm, but she would forgive me. Getting ready had been weird. I’d missed Sam even more than I’d missed him the evening before, but I tried not to dwell on it.

I had plenty to distract me anyway.

Once at the market, I went directly to the spot where I thought Peyton had dug something up. In fact, I hadn’t seen her dig anything up. I’d just assumed that that was what she’d been doing.

My early arrival to the market was meant to give me some private time, but this morning I had an audience.

Apparently, it wasn’t just an old-timer vendors’ trait to get
to work before the sun rose all the way. The food truck vendors also got to work early. They were all there—except Peyton, of course—their counter doors lifted open and their inside lights illuminating them harshly amid the early dawn gray.

Basha was mixing batter, Hank was cleaning large pots, Mel was browning ground beef, and Daryl was prepping wing sauces. It was impossible to walk past the trucks without the vendors noticing me, so I greeted each of them, spending a few moments discussing the finer points of their morning routines. Fortunately, they were too busy to care much about what I was up to after our friendly greetings, and I didn’t think any of them noticed me sneak around them and trudge my way over to the disturbed dirt.

I brought a small flashlight that seemed extra bright because I was trying to be covert. Nevertheless, I shined it boldly into what was left of the hole, and I saw a lot of dirt. Just like I’d seen before. In fact, it looked no more or less disturbed than it had during my first inspection. It didn’t even seem windblown. I dug around a little. And found nothing. I clicked off the light, sat back on my heels, and looked around.

There wasn’t much to see on this side of the trucks. No one cared about this little plot of land. It was ignored, which made it a pretty good spot to bury something. But what? And why?

Though I thought no one had watched me come around, it looked like I had piqued someone’s interest. It wasn’t the one I expected though. Considering our last meeting, I thought Mel was the one most likely to follow me, but it was Basha who stepped surely in my direction. There was something about her approach that made me think she had a
specific purpose in mind, something more than just curiosity about what I was up to.

“What are you doing out here?” Basha said as she stopped in front of me. “And what in the world is so interesting? Why is this such a popular spot? I feel like I’m missing something.”

“It is?” I said. “Who else has been out here?”

“I saw your cousin out here, and Daryl and Mel were checking it out, too. I think I also saw that big guy from Arizona with the cowboy hat. What in the world is so interesting?”

“Basha, can you, by chance, give me a little more? Can you tell me who you saw out here first and maybe what they were doing?”

Basha’s eyebrows came together and she put her fists on her hips. “Well, let’s see. I think I saw your cousin first. Or maybe Mel. Then I saw you. Then Mel and Daryl. Lastly, that big man.” Basha looked at me. “You know him? The guy with the cowboy hat.”

“I do. He’s a police officer from Arizona. I met him when I was down there for a visit.”

“He’s . . . do you know if he’s single?” Basha blinked. She was attempting to look comfortable and modern-woman-like with her question, but no matter how much someone wanted to be a grown-up, asking such a question was never easy.

I looked at her in a new light. She was about Harry’s age. She was pleasant, and she made cupcakes.

“He is single, but I’m not sure if he’s available. We haven’t had that conversation,” I said. “I’ll do a little reconnaissance and get back to you.”

“Thanks, Becca. It’s probably silly. I’m from Greenville,
but if he sticks around awhile . . .” She laughed. “I sound desperate. I’m not, but it has definitely been some time since I saw someone who made me curious, you know?”

“I do know. And that’s too bad that it’s been some time. You’re sweet, and you make cupcakes.”

Basha smiled. “I’m no spring chicken, but I’ll take your compliments and thank you for them. What is going on out here, though?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I wonder the same thing.”

She looked at me like she didn’t quite believe me. And I’d been totally truthful. Go figure.

“All right then,” she said with a shrug.

“Wait,” I said as I stood before she could turn all the way around. “You’re from close to here. Do you know where the other food truck operators are from? I knew you were from different places, but I never asked for specifics from everyone.”

“Well, I guess I’m not sure, but I noticed that Daryl has his home state business license posted right on his inside wall. He’s from North Carolina, I’m pretty sure.” She paused. “You know what, I actually asked both Mel and Hank where their licenses were—it’s not a question I normally ask. I’m not quite that nosy, but after the man from your local business office was killed, I guess that sort of thing was at the front of my mind. I made sure my license was well posted, and will do the same for my temporary South Carolina license the second I get it. I didn’t dislike the man who was killed, but he certainly was adamant about the licenses. Made me double check all my expirations on everything.”

I nodded. “Do you know where Mel and Hank are from?”

“No, it was obvious that neither of them liked me snooping
into their business, so they didn’t say much and I didn’t bring it up again.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“Not really. Not as interesting as whatever is happening out here.”

“Right. Walk you back?” I said.

“Sure.”

I was much shorter than Basha, but I was suddenly in a hurry. Her long legs had a hard time keeping up with my shorter ones. When we reached the back of her truck, I told her good-bye and peeled off to walk down toward the other end of the line of trucks. I snuck behind Hank’s, crouching to look down at the license plate on the back. Mississippi.

I moved to the back again and hurried to the next slot. There was no back license plate on Mel’s truck. I was flummoxed, but moved out, around, and through the next slot, in between Mel’s truck and Daryl’s truck. Daryl’s truck had a back North Carolina plate, but Mel’s truck had no front plate.

That didn’t seem right.

I ventured through to the other side, the side where the chefs could see me.

“Hey, you okay?” Mel said to me from inside his taco truck.

I hadn’t tried to hide, but I wished he hadn’t been the first one to see me appear from the slot.

“Fine, how’s the browning going?”

“Great,” he said. He smiled. “It’s not one of the harder parts of making tacos, in case you were wondering.”

He was cute and charming. But where was he from? The question was on the tip of my tongue, but my gut intervened and told my tongue not to ask just yet.

I smiled at him as I furtively looked around for a business license. I didn’t see anything that resembled one.

“Can I help you?” Mel asked, the charming smile now gone, replaced by a question in his eyes.

“No, I’m good,” I said. “Just curious about how you all go about doing what you do.”

“I see. Well, probably a lot like you do. One step at a time.”

I nodded.

“How’s your cute cousin?” he asked as he moved the large pan with browning beef off the burner.

“She’s fine.”

He set the pan to the side of the truck’s small stove top and leaned over the counter.

“Should I ask her out?” he said.

“She’s in jail at the moment, but maybe when she’s released.”

He nodded. “Will do.”

Well, that wasn’t normal. I didn’t know much about human behavior, but Mel’s question about my incarcerated cousin and his indifferent follow-up response to said incarceration were not right. Not normal.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Gotta get my stall set up.”

It was a wonder I didn’t sprint to Allison’s office. As it was, I moved too hastily, as if I was scared and wanted to get away from Mel, which was partially true.

Her office door was locked, but I knew where the emergency key was located. I looked around, didn’t see anyone watching me, and reached up to the top of the door frame. I grabbed the dusty key and fumbled as I unlocked the door.

Thankfully, Allison’s computer had been left on, and all
I had to do was move the mouse to wake it up. Before I’d even gotten myself adjusted on the chair, I’d typed into a search engine: Paco’s Tacos food truck Arizona.

And only another second later, a picture came up and filled the screen. It was the same exact truck that was outside in the Bailey’s parking lot.

“I don’t understand,” I muttered.

I clicked on “Get to know Paco” and was taken to a new page. The man on the page who was identified as Paco wasn’t a blond surfer dude. He was a dark-haired Hispanic man with a wide smile and happy eyes.

I read aloud, “Paco Rodriguez came to the United States only a few short years ago. The greatest day of his life was when he became an American citizen. The second greatest was when he opened his taco truck. Click here to follow Paco’s Twitter feed—you can find his truck parked through the southern Arizona area seven days a week.”

I clicked on the Twitter feed link.

There had been nothing tweeted for over a month.

I went back to the home page but saw nothing that mentioned any employees—no names, no pictures.

I pulled out my phone.

“Hey, Becca,” Sam said when he answered. “I missed you.”

“Me, too, but listen to me, Sam. Listen closely.”

“I’m all ears.”

I relayed what I’d found, and then what I thought I might have found. Sam listened and then told me that he and Harry would be at the market in only a few minutes.

I hung up the phone and sat there, trying to put the pieces together. I had no idea what anything meant.

And I had no idea why Allison hadn’t arrived yet, but I knew she wouldn’t mind me doing what I’d done.

I closed her office door, locked it, and put the key back up on the dusty door frame, and then meandered back out to the parking lot.

And Mel’s taco truck was no longer there.

“What?” I said as I looked at the gaping space, which reminded me of a kid’s missing tooth.

And then I noticed that the truck hadn’t quite left the lot yet.

I took off in a sprint.