Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
On our way back to Happy Trails Campground, I filled Dottie in about how Cheryl told me about the stolen teacups that Buck was going to sell on eBay.
“You reckon I can get in on that eBay action?” Dottie asked. “They say one person’s junk is another person’s treasure.”
“Do I need to remind you that you also live by that rule?” I asked her, since she was the queen of curb alerts.
“Well, after I get off work, I’m gonna take a good long look-see at some junk I can sell on there.” She tapped her nails on the door and became eerily silent, which made me think she was already going through her soon-to-be eBay items.
She couldn’t get out of my little car fast enough. I’d not seen her that excited since Abby had the book club bedazzle a cover of the latest cozy mystery we were reading. She’d had Dottie lead that class.
“I’ll be back later. Be sure to check on Mary Elizabeth along with our other residents. Call me if anything happens with our First Lady,” I told her and waved out the window. “Don’t forget to let Fifi and Chester out!”
She threw her hand up, gesturing for me to go on because she knew I could always count on her and not be reminded.
Dottie had been the manager since well before I owned the place, and she’d been wronged by my now-dead good-for-nothing ex-husband, and I sure was glad she’d stuck around because I had no idea what on earth I’d do without her.
With my windows rolled down and my radio turned up, there was a little giddy-up in my step. I mightn’t’ve solved Florence’s murder, but I sure felt like I’d solved the case of the missing teacups. But how was I going to explain how I knew where they were? And smashed?
With everything going on, I’d completely forgotten about the Farmers Market happening in the grassy median downtown. Parking was going to be a bear, and finding a spot would be like trying to find some of John Swift’s cache, which was hidden in the Daniel Boone National Forest.
There was literally no parking along the sides of the roads or even in the laundromat parking lot, so I had to drive around the grassy median a couple of times until someone pulled out of a spot behind the amphitheater.
The second I stepped out of my car near the amphitheater, the sounds of the Farmers Market wrapped around me.
Bluegrass music drifted through the grassy median from a man sitting on a folding stool with a guitar balanced on his knee while children darted between tents, carrying lemonade cups and paper sacks full of kettle corn.
Somewhere closer to the courthouse side, somebody’s dog barked excitedly while another vendor announced they only had three loaves of sourdough left.
Spring had fully settled into downtown Normal.
The giant oak trees lining the grassy median had filled out with thick green leaves that shaded the sidewalks and picnic tables scattered through the parklike center of town.
Hanging flower baskets swayed from the black carriage lights running along both one-way streets while bright tulips, daisies, and purple lupines spilled from giant concrete planters near the walkways.
Families sat on quilts near the amphitheater while hikers in boots and backpacks wandered from booth to booth, carrying iced coffees from Trails Coffee.
If I hadn’t known there was a murderer walking around somewhere in this town, I could’ve forgotten all about Florence Sparks for at least five minutes.
Rows of white tents stretched from one end of the grassy median to the other, each booth decorated differently depending on the vendor.
Some had hand-painted wooden signs while others used chalkboards propped against folding tables, listing prices for fresh eggs, homemade soap, baked goods, or flower bundles wrapped in brown paper.
The smell of kettle corn mixed with fresh bread, coffee, barbecue smoke, and damp spring grass still holding onto the morning dew.
I slowly worked my way through the crowd while trying to stay focused on why I’d come downtown in the first place.
Which lasted until I spotted the Cookie Crumble Bakery tent.
“Well, hey there, Mae,” Christine Watson called from behind a display table overflowing with baked goods. “You look like you’ve got somethin’ heavy on your mind.”
Christine looked exactly like she always did.
Brown hair braided into pigtails, freckles dusted across her nose, and that bright, cheerful smile that somehow made everybody feel welcome the second they stepped near her booth.
She wore white baker overalls underneath one of her violet Cookie Crumble aprons embroidered with the bakery logo, and she was shod in a pair of black Converse sneakers dusted lightly with flour.
“Other than murder?” I asked while stopping in front of the table.
“Lordy, Mae.” Christine’s smile disappeared immediately. “Don’t say ‘murder’ beside the pastries. Folks’ll quit buying maple bars.”
The entire tent smelled like cinnamon, butter, sugar, and vanilla.
Wooden crates overflowed with dirty chai doughnuts, giant s’mores cookies, blueberry muffins, and maple-glazed Long Johns stacked neatly beneath glass cake domes.
A basket near the register held homemade dog biscuits shaped like bones with little tags that read “For good boys & girls.”
“Those for Chester and Fifi?” I asked while pointing toward the basket.
Christine nodded proudly. “Fresh this morning. I used eggs and milk from the Milkery too.”
I grabbed two bags of dog treats along with a cinnamon roll the size of my hand.
“You already sold out of the strawberry cream cheese Danishes?” I asked while eyeing the empty tray near the back.
“Thirty minutes after open.” Christine leaned both hands against the table.
“Dang.” I smiled and handed over cash then tucked the bakery box under my arm. “That just means I need to stop by the bakery.”
“I’ll save some for you.” She winked and made her way over to the line of customers.
I moved farther down into the crowd and couldn’t help but smile when I heard the familiar bow over fiddle strings.
When I turned to look, Otis stood near one of the picnic tables, sawing away at his fiddle while a teenager beside him played banjo so badly I figured Otis probably regretted inviting him.
I passed a booth selling goat milk soap from the Old Milk House.
Little bars wrapped in brown paper sat beside jars of honey and homemade lotion.
Another tent had baskets overflowing with fresh lettuce, radishes, carrots, and asparagus while a woman wearing overalls explained to tourists the difference between local wildflower honey and clover honey.
“Mae!”
I turned to find Cheryl Paisley waving me toward her booth, which was covered in crocheted dishcloths, knitted tea cozies, and tiny yarn chickens wearing bonnets.
A soft breeze moved through the grassy median, rustling the fabric sides of the tents while bluegrass music drifted over from the amphitheater, where Otis had finally found a tune the banjo player could keep up with halfway.
“Well, don’t you look busy?” I told her while stepping beneath the shade of her tent and balancing my Cookie Crumble box against my hip. Nearby, somebody laughed loudly while a little boy dragged his mother toward a kettle corn stand.
“I am busy,” Cheryl huffed while sliding a knitted potholder shaped like Kentucky into a brown paper sack for a customer. “Tourists love homemade foolishness,” she added, brushing her bangs out of her eyes while three women crowded around a display of crocheted porch goose outfits.
And there it was.
The porch goose craze had officially made it to Normal.
One goose wore a tiny campground manager outfit, complete with leopard-print leggings and pink sponge curlers hot-glued to its head.
Another had on a little park ranger vest with a toy flashlight clipped to the front pocket.
A third goose sat dressed in pearls and a pastel church hat while a handwritten tag underneath read Southern Tea Party Collection.
“You are makin’ goose clothes now?” I asked while staring at the display.
Cheryl straightened proudly. “I sold twelve last week online. Twelve. People are losin’ their minds over porch geese.” She pointed toward the campground manager goose. “That one’s inspired by Dottie.”
“Oh, absolutely not.”
“She’ll love it.” Cheryl grinned while tying off the customer’s bag. “I even made tiny cigarette earrings for it.”
The customer finally wandered off toward the flower vendors, and Cheryl immediately leaned across the table toward me. The fiddle music carried louder across the median now while the smell of barbecue drifted through the air from a smoker set up near the courthouse side of downtown.
“Did you find out who stole Buck’s teacups?” Cheryl asked quietly while folding her arms on top of the table.
I hesitated just long enough.
Cheryl’s eyes widened immediately. “Oh my gosh. You did,” she whispered while one hand flew up against her chest.
“Keep your voice down,” I muttered while glancing around at the tourists browsing nearby booths. A couple standing beside the goat milk soap vendor looked over briefly before going back to smelling lavender lotion.
“I knew it,” Cheryl said, slapping one hand lightly against the table hard enough to rattle a basket full of crocheted bees. “Buck acted like I was making the whole thing up.”
“Well, technically, we found where they ended up,” I corrected carefully while adjusting the bakery box under my arm. “But there’s still a lot we don’t know.”
“Where were they?” Cheryl asked while narrowing her eyes suspiciously. Otis’s fiddle suddenly picked up speed, drawing applause from several tourists sitting on picnic blankets beneath the oak trees.
I opened my mouth and immediately shut it again because there was absolutely no way to explain that Dottie and I had crossed police tape, snuck into a murder scene, hidden from the governor’s cleanup crew, and found stolen teacups inside Alice Charles’s room at the Milkery.
“Mae,” Cheryl pressed while leaning closer across the table.
“I can’t tell you yet,” I admitted, having lowered my voice further.
Cheryl studied my face for several long seconds before her expression shifted completely. “That means it’s bad,” she said softly while her eyes drifted toward the tea-party goose sitting near the register.
“Probably,” I answered honestly.
“Was it somebody local?” Cheryl asked carefully while straightening the tiny pearl necklace hanging around the church-lady porch goose.
Behind us, somebody shouted that fresh lemonade was five dollars while a dog barked excitedly near the amphitheater and the fiddle player launched into another song.
I hesitated again, which apparently told Cheryl more than enough.
Her eyebrows rose slowly. “Wait a minute,” she said quietly while lowering her hand from the goose display. “You’re tellin’ me whoever took those cups was actually at that fundraiser?”
“I didn’t say that,” I replied quickly while shifting the bakery box against my hip.
“But you didn’t deny it either,” Cheryl pointed out while narrowing her eyes at me. “Lordy be.”
I glanced around instinctively before leaning a little closer toward her booth. “All I’m saying is that some very strange things are starting to connect.”
Cheryl’s expression slowly changed from curious to downright stunned. “You found those cups with somebody involved in Florence Sparks’s death, didn’t you?” she whispered while gripping the edge of the table.
“I can’t say anything else right now,” I admitted carefully.
Cheryl blinked several times while looking down at the little tea-party goose sitting beside the register.
“Meanwhile, I thought this week’s biggest excitement was gonna be porch geese and somebody stealing yarn from Hobby Lobby.
” She shook her head slowly. “Turns out we’ve got teacup thieves and murderers runnin’ around downtown Normal. ”
My phone buzzed in my bag, and it was Hank.
“I’ll let you know when I can so Al can get your cups back to you,” I told Cheryl, leaving out the fact that they were all broken. I hit the talk button and put the phone up to my ear. “Hey there.”
“Hey.” Hank’s flat voice told me he had some news. “Florence was poisoned with Amanita bisporigera.”
“Layman’s, please?” I asked him.
“Destroying angel mushroom from the forest.” He sighed. “And when Tucker asked Tex about the mushroom, Tex told him there were some near the forest spa.”
“This doesn’t look good,” I said and headed back toward my car. “There are many places the mushrooms can be in the forest,” I told him, trying to explain how anyone could get those mushrooms. “Hikers poison themselves all the time accidentally.”
“It was in the roller bottle, Mae,” Hank said, shooting down my accidental death theory. “And Tex also admitted that Florence had come to get a massage in the forest a couple of times, and she complained the entire time. Even threatened to leave a bad review on Yelp.”
“But Tex?” I asked, trying to jar Hank’s memory of how amazing Tex was and just how impossible it seemed that he’d even do something like this. “And you haven’t heard what I’ve found out.”
“What?” he asked just as I got to my car.
“Meet me at the station,” I told him and turned the engine over as the phone kicked over to the hands-free Bluetooth. “I’m headed there now with doughnuts.”
“A bribe?” he asked.
“You see it as a bribe,” I said and backed out of the parking spot, heading my car toward the business district where the sheriff’s department was located. “I call it payment.”
But as soon as we hung up, Dottie called.
“Everything okay?” I asked while stopping at a light outside of the courthouse.
“Heck no,” Dottie said, and from the commotion behind her, I could tell all kinds of campground foolishness had broken loose. “The governor himself is here, and he’s nose-to-nose with Henry. Henry done laid himself across the bungalow threshold and won’t let the governor take his wife home.”