Free Dead In The Hamptons by Elizabeth Zelvin Page A

side of the stand.
    “We’d have to leave them at the end of the summer,” Jimmy cautioned her.
    “They cost thirty-four ninety-five each.” Barbara picked up the wooden sign, which had fallen to the ground. “Do you think it’s too much?”
    “No, no, petunia—” Jimmy hesitated.
    I grinned.
    “It’s okay, marigold, knock yourself out.”
    “Shut up, you.”
    “How about one thing at a time,” Jimmy said. “We came for strawberries, so let’s pick strawberries.”
    “The baskets are over here,” I said. “You want the big ones?”
    “Might as well,” Jimmy said.
    I handed him a stack of quart containers. They weren’t really baskets, just soft green cardboard with holes in the bottom.
    “They’ll fill up fast,” Barbara said. “How are we going to carry more than two each?”
    “How many strawberries do you need, pumpkin?”
    “Lots,” she said. “It’s a short season. The ones we pick ourselves are bound to be the ripest and sweetest. We can make fruit salad and strawberry shortcake.”
    “Just say ‘yes, dear’,” I advised.
    “Look, here are some big flat-bottomed baskets.” Barbara stuck her arm through the handle of one and dangled it from the crook of her elbow. “Line up the containers inside this and you’ll still have both hands free.”
    “Yes, dear.”
    The field started right behind the stand. Barbara led the way toward the far end.
    “The plants near the stand have probably been picked over already,” she said. “We can each take a row, once we’re not too close.”
    At first I couldn’t see any fruit. I said so.
    “Underneath,” Barbara said. She dropped to her knees and parted the powdery green leaves. “See?”
    Sure enough, a cluster of bright red pincushions peeked out at us, half buried in a tangle of stems. Barbara plucked the biggest one off its stalk.
    “Ahhhhh.” She took a bite. Chewed it slowly. Licked juice off her fingers. “Mmm. This is the real thing, all right, ten times the flavor of the ones you get in the supermarket.” She held it out. “Take a bite.”
    “I’ll pick my own, thanks.” I dropped to my knees beside her and teased a berry out from its nest of straw mulch and reddish brown earth.
    Jimmy knelt slowly, one knee at a time. He opened his mouth like a giant baby bird. Barbara popped the rest of her strawberry into it.
    “Mmm,” we said simultaneously. The strawberry was meltingly sweet.
    “So this is what they’re supposed to taste like.” Barbara popped another strawberry. “I’ll take this row. You guys go get your own rows.” She shooed us off.
    “There’s enough for all of us, poppet. And don’t forget to put some in the basket.”
    “Thank you for sharing,” Barbara said. The program way of telling someone to go to hell. “Go pick a strawberry.”
    “Yes, dear,” I said. I dropped a small strawberry down her neck as I inched past her. She yowched and swatted at me. She didn’t really mind.
    Being one with the earth felt kind of nice. As the sun climbed higher, my arms and face started to bake pleasantly. The fruity smell of strawberries and baked earth and something even sweeter, maybe wild roses around the edges of the field, tickled my nostrils. Companionable bees zoomed around the plants that were still in blossom. I ate one strawberry for every three or four I picked until my thumb was coated in juice. In the next row, Jimmy filled baskets, a model of industry. Every time I looked over at Barbara, she was chewing.
    “How many baskets do we get?” I called to her.
    “As many as we can till we get too hot.”
    “When my back gives out,” Jimmy said, “I’m outta here.”
    “You know, we could have bought them from the stand,” I said.
    “What, and miss the experience?”
    A faint shout from the direction of the stand made us all look up. I rocked back on my heels. Jimmy pressed his palms against the small of his back and flexed. Barbara popped another strawberry in her mouth and squinted toward