Free Til Dirt Do Us Part (A Local Foods Mystery) by Edith Maxwell

do that. But you won’t have any trouble finding something else, I’ll bet.”
    “It’s an occupational hazard of working in high tech. Anyway, I have some feelers out.” Tina laughed. “And for sure, I’m not taking up farming instead.”
    “Hey, it’s working for me. Of course, having a great-uncle who offered me his farm right after I was laid off last year did help.”
    “I’ve been meaning to say something about that goofy farm name you chose. You take a perfectly good name, Attic Hill Farm, and change it to Produce Plus Plus? That’s crazy stuff, Cam.”
    “I know, but now I’m stuck with it.”
    “Are you sure? You know we haven’t even coded in C++ since you left. It’s C Sharp now.”
    Cam groaned. “Great. Maybe I’ll change it back to Attic Hill. I never did get around to getting a sign made for the road, and business cards are cheap.” Cam snapped her head to the right. There was a soft rapping on the glass of her back door. She checked the time. Seven o’clock.
    “Hey, I gotta run,” Cam said. “Somebody’s here.”
    “Hot date on a Saturday night?”
    The rapping sounded again.
    Cam called out, “Just a minute,” in the general direction of the door. “Not a chance,” she said to Tina. “I don’t know who it is, actually.” They said their good-byes, promising to get together soon, and disconnected.
    Cam walked to the door and pulled aside the white lace curtain, another of Great-Aunt Marie’s touches Cam hadn’t seen any reason to change.
    Nobody was there. But someone had stood near the house recently. The motion-detector floodlight illuminated the back porch and the brick patio beyond it. She unlocked the window next to the door and opened it slowly. She stuck her head out and looked both ways. She couldn’t see a soul.
    “Hello?” she called out into the cool darkness beyond the pool of light. No answer.
    Cam closed and locked the window. Maybe it had been Bobby, coming back to ask for help. Why hadn’t he stayed? He might have thought she had guests because she was talking on the phone. Who else would be rapping on her door if not him? She shuddered and shot the dead bolt.

Chapter 8
    A t two minutes before nine the next morning, Cam finished setting out her business cards on her table at the Newburyport Farmers’ Market. The other guest vendor had canceled, the market manager told her, so she was able to spread her wares out. A white tent top identical to the several dozen others shielded her from the morning sun. She fluffed up the lettuce heads and was straightening the bunches of leeks when the gong rang, signaling the start of market. Customers already milled about, chatting with vendors, hefting a fat eggplant here, a bunch of scallions there. Once the gong rang, business commenced.
    The Herb Farmacy was across the way. The farmer, who Cam had met at the Locavore Festival last spring, gave a quick wave before turning to a buyer. Cam greeted the cheese maker from Hickory Nut Farm next to her and proceeded to sell two squashes and a bunch of oregano, rosemary, and sage to an eager customer.
    She had been selling for about an hour and was tapping her foot to a bluegrass tune this week’s band was playing when two big hands covered her eyes.
    “Guess who?” a deep voice whispered in her ear.
    Cam grabbed Jake’s hands off her eyes and turned toward him. His smile was devilish, particularly combined with one raised eyebrow. He wore his usual today—black-and-white checked pants paired with a white double-breasted chef’s shirt. He carried two cloth shopping bags.
    “How’s my favorite farmer?” He bent his head down until their noses nearly touched.
    The usual rush she felt when she was next to him heated her cheeks. He seemed to have gotten over his snit from the night of the dinner.
    “I’m fine,” Cam said. “This is a great market, isn’t it? I’m thinking of switching to selling here instead of at the Haverhill market on Tuesdays.”
    “It rocks.