Free Crops and Robbers by Paige Shelton Page B

spend the evening with him.
    I began to pack up what was left of my inventory. The crowd was starting to build again, but it couldn’t be helped. I had other things to do.
    “Hi again, Becca,” someone said from the front of my stall.
    “Jake, hi!” I said.
    He set down what looked like a new version of one of Bo’s onion display tables.
    “You still planning on working at the garden tomorrow?”
    “Yep,” I said, trying not to sound doubtful. No matter what other things I felt needed attention, I knew I’d have to keep my commitment to the garden; the kids counted on it. I couldn’t let them down. “What’s this?” I looked at the table.
    “I had some wood. I knew Bo needed some new display tables. I threw this one together quickly. I hope to make some more for him.”
    “That’s terrific, Jake. Bo will appreciate it, I know.” I looked toward Bo’s stall, but I couldn’t see him. The rest of us might have rounded up some tables and racks, but Jake had made an almost exact replica of Bo’s original tables. It sat at a slant, higher in the back, and it had short walls that would keep the onions well contained. Jake’s talent with woodworking was yet another thing I didn’t know about him.
    “S’nothing,” Jake said. “He’s such a nice guy. And after yesterday and how he said Joan and the others treated him . . .” He winced. “Oh, that was bad timing. I heard about Joan’s murder, and it’s rotten of me to speak ill about the dead, particularly the murdered.”
    “Did you know her well?” I asked.
    Jake shrugged. “I knew her. We got along, but I wouldn’t say we were friends. She and her son were quite the team. They created an amazing restaurant. Good, affordable food. Good service. All the things customers look for when they go to a restaurant. I haven’t been a part of the association for long—less than a year—but I didn’t know anyone who hated her enough to kill her.”
    “Did she really just walk by Bo’s stall and ignore him?” I asked.
    “That’s what he said, but I wasn’t paying attention,” Jake said.
    “Bo said the other members don’t buy from him, but you do?” I asked.
    “Of course. He grows the best—well, other than what’s in my own little garden, but I don’t have enough time or space to grow enough of anything. My loyalty is to local vendors, not restaurant associations.”
    “Local’s the only way to go,” I said.
    Jake smiled and nodded. “Hey, you’re on your way out. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He picked up the table and hauled it toward Bo’s stall as I exited out the back of mine.
    On my drive home, I thought through my schedule for the next few days. My order for Maytabee’s Coffee Shops wasn’t due for another five days. I didn’t need to make that a priority. I’d be at the garden the next morning and then attending to my own crops unless something else came up. The pumpkins were really beginning to come in quickly, and though the strawberries were done for the year, I’d have to give some TLC to the plants. I couldn’t forget that I still needed to stock up on other fruits I could freeze and use for my winter inventory. Peaches were either at their peak or almost there; I made a mental note to make sure I put in an order with the peach vendor, Carl Monroe, the next day.
    It was still warm outside, but as I drove down the state highway, I sniffed in the hot, sweet air. I didn’t think there was ever a time I didn’t like living in South Carolina, but there were different reasons I liked each season, each month, actually. The end of July and the beginning of August signaled the deep part of summer. To me, tomatoes were at their sweetest and vegetables such as green beans were plentiful. I could eat the beans raw, and I often craved them.
    The fresh air and passing farms also allowed me time to think about my current predicament. I knew my mother didn’t kill Joan. The thought of her being convicted