Free Crops and Robbers by Paige Shelton

anything about the farmers’ market world, but she seemed to trust Allison more than the rest of us and sought her out almost daily for advice or help.
    And Allison didn’t mind. She liked the young woman’s spunk and fire. She predicted that Erin would have not only a successful market business within a year, but a booming Internet business, too.
    They were on the other side of the area and I couldn’t hear what they were discussing, but it probably had nothing to do with murders or broken display tables. Erin listened intently as Allison explained something.
    As I looked at my sister, I wondered if she’d be in the same boat as Linda. After my last adventure investigating murders, she made me promise under threat of torture to stop being so nosy.
    But this was different, and Linda’s question about Betsy Francis was valid. What was with the makeover? It could be something easily explained, but I was curious enough to want to know more.
    Besides, investigating a makeover was much different than investigating a murder. A zip of rationalization ran up my spine.
    As if he was in tune with my thoughts, Sam appeared from under one of the pulled-back tent-flap walls. He was, again, crisp in his demeanor. When he was in regular street clothes, I noticed a drop or two of perspiration on his brow, but when he was on the job, he was cool under all sorts of pressure. And based on the look on his face, he was currently under some sort of pressure. He was not happy.
    I stood and watched as my mom and dad came into the tent behind him. They didn’t look happy either. Allison said something to Erin to send her on her way, and she hurried around us and out of the tent.
    “Mom, Dad, Sam,” I said. “What’s going on?”
    Allison moved next to me and crossed her arms in front of herself.
    “Girls,” Mom said, her voice cracking, “now I want you to remain calm.”
    “What?” Allison and I said at the same time.
    Sam rubbed his finger under his nose and clenched his jaw. He wanted to talk, but our parents must have asked him to let them tell us what was going on.
    “Becca, Allison,” Dad said, “they’ve . . . the police have found something that they promise they’ll try to figure out further, but for now . . . well . . .”
    “Someone, spit it out,” Allison demanded.
    Sam glanced at our parents and then back at us. “We found prints on the knife that belong to only one person. Your mother.”
    “No!” I said.
    “Not possible!” Allison said.
    Sam took a deep, hard breath and looked at us again, this time with a pained sternness. “Yes, it is. I’m still not convinced that your mother is the killer, so I’m not done investigating, but for now I have to follow the letter of the law. I have to arrest her.”
    “He’s being very kind. He brought us down here to tell you in person. He wouldn’t put the cuffs on, and he’s promising me good food in the pokey.” Mom laughed lightly. “Besides, I’ve been to jail before. I’ll use the time to work on something productive.”
    “Sam, no,” I said. The already stifling heat seemed to go up another ten degrees.
    “I don’t have any choice, Becca. I’m sorry about that.” He was sorry, I could tell, but that didn’t help much.
    “He’s right, dear,” Mom said. Dad put his arm around her.
    “We’ll get her out,” Dad said. “She didn’t kill anyone. We know that, and I believe Sam does, too. Your mother and I believe that Sam will figure it out.”
    Mom nodded and smiled, but I knew this was not the way she wanted to spend her second day back in Monson.
    “Come on, walk us out to Sam’s car,” Mom said as if she were leaving after a dinner party.
    The surreal march to the police car was clouded by my panicked thoughts. Why was this happening? How did my mother’s fingerprints end up on the murder weapon? How in the world were we going to clear her?
    Sam let her sit in the front passenger seat. Dad got in the backseat and went with them. We said