Murder at the Market

By Carolynn Verna

Sunshine Jones was happy with her life as a flower farmer in the small, Central Florida town of Isaco until she found the new market manager of Isaco's Farmer's Market dead on her office floor on the market's opening day.

Now the market is

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sarah Tierney
• Release date: Mar 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781737978503

Book preview

Chapter 1

Are you going to sit down at all today? Rosemary asked. I had just made what seemed like my 223rd trip from the cut flower garden to the walk in cooler next to my office. I had a room full of bouquets to make before bed and I was a woman on a mission.

I looked at my daughter, engrossed in a spreadsheet at the desk I had set up in my workroom. She had just moved back home to start her own bookkeeping business after working for three years in an accounting firm in Gainesville. I was her first client. I most definitely did not like how she was frowning at the screen.

All of this work that you are doing for the farmers market… It doesn’t seem like it pays off. The numbers just do not support your efforts. Last year, it was only your third highest income stream.

You know the market is not my primary income. It’s the start of a strategy. In the spring, the flowers remind people it is gardening season and they may buy a plant or two. I remind them I have more when my nursery opens during the week. By the end of spring, all the flowers I started in the greenhouse will fly out the door to their new homes.

Rosemary got up and took the bucket of apple mint I used as bouquet filler from me and hefted it onto the work surface.

The garden is so beautiful on the Friday before market, I said as I stripped the leaves off a bunch of white asters. It makes me a little sad sometimes that I’m always cutting my best blooms for other people.

My seasonal farm fresh bouquets are a huge draw at the Isaco Farmers Market on Saturdays and the weekly market is valuable advertising for my small flower farm and nursery. The sales are less than I would like, but the word of mouth is invaluable. I had worked so hard to create a business that supported Rosemary and me as she was growing. It took hours of hard, sweaty work to make the money to put her through college. She  graduated with no debt, which was source of pride, but I knew that the ‘round the clock almost frantic work schedule could not go on forever.

For now, Friday nights are all about the flowers. From the moment I wake until well into the night, I cut, trim, and arrange them. I live in the walk-in cooler. Early April is all about the pastel stocks with their delicate fragrance and columns of pink and white blossoms, delicate anemones, day lilies and the first shoots of my cheerful dahlias. Living in Central Florida allows me to grow year-round. Rows of pinks, pale blues, corals, whites, and reds ran alongside my little white Florida cracker farmhouse. The field next to the cut-flower garden had just been prepared for planting. This year, it would grow into a sunflower maze. If it went well, it would be a huge draw for the families in Isaco, my small town and the small towns surrounding us. If not, I would at least have a huge sunflower harvest.

My little five-acre farm grew about an acre of cut flowers. I kept several beehives, five sassy chickens, and three elderly pygmy goats. It had taken some time to make this small homestead picturesque and dreamy. The look of the farm drew people to come out and buy my goods as much as the goods themselves. In my years at Bliss Thyme Farms, I had lined the long driveway from the highway to the house and workshops with bright fuchsia crepe myrtles. I planted several varieties of hydrangeas all around the house. Deep purple clematis vines climbed the front porch posts, providing contrast to the canary yellow door. I painted the two workshops and greenhouse white to match the house and all four buildings had charming metal roofs. The effect was postcard worthy but meant constant work to keep up and maintain the gardens.

After I showed up in response to an advertisement, she had placed in the Gainesville paper, the original owner, Miss Hattie, took me in as a pregnant city girl who knew nothing about what it took to keep a proper farm alive. She always said, Sunshine, when I placed that ad, I was looking for some corn-fed Bubba to help me with the tasks I just can’t do anymore. The universe knew better and sent you to me. What would my life be without you two girls?

Quiet! I always answered, and we had both laughed. Rosie had talked before she was two and enjoyed the sound of her voice at full volume. Being young myself, I had a tendency to play The Clash and Nirvana too loud on my portable cassette player when I was working. The effect was cacophonic.

I looked over at the framed picture of Rosie and Miss Hattie. Chubby toddler hands were red with the strawberries she had smashed into her mouth. She was sitting on Hattie’s lap and the older woman had her head thrown back in laugher. Sixteen years later, I still missed her every day.

Hey. HEY. Mom. Are you listening?

I’m sorry. I was just thinking of Miss Hattie. How did she do it a of those years? How did she keep this farm up and running and take care of me when I was having you? I love it, but sometimes I get tired, and I am still years younger than she was when we came here.

I mean, to be fair, you aren’t just taking care of yourself. You have rebuilt this place over the last 10 years. If you weren’t paying to upgrade things and putting me through school, you wouldn’t have had to work so hard.

It was falling down around us. I had no choice. But you are right. I am still paying off last year’s repairs. I looked down at the remaining stems on the worktable. If you help me with these last couple of bouquets, we can finish and get to bed early enough to have a few good hours of sleep. I would like to get a little rest before loading in the morning.

I placed a bunch of herbs and flowers in a brown paper wrapper and put on a lavender Bliss Thyme Farms label to secure the paper in place, when my cell phone buzzed. I pulled the phone out of my back pocket to see a message from my sister, asking me to call her. I quickly texted back that I would call after tomorrow’s market and went back to work on the flowers.

Rosemary selected some catnip from the bucket to add to the bunch of bachelor buttons she was holding. I am worried about the truck being in the shop again. What if you need to buy a new one? I just looked at your books and I don’t know where the money would come from.

If it can hang on until the end of summer, I will be OK. Until then, you will just have to chauffeur your old mom around. I said and elbowed her in the ribs.

Hmph. Old. Right, she snorted. You may be in your forties, but you don’t look a day over 35. Which is almost the same age as your car. Maybe if we make a sacrifice to the old gods of Motor City, we can gain enough favor that the truck will live through at least another season.

We both laughed as we finished up the bouquets we were working on and placed them in the cooler. Everything was ready to go to load in the morning. We lined the white buckets of bouquets up against the door. We packed my Scarborough Faire potted herb gardens into bins to make loading easier. My baskets of seed packets sat close to the door and ready. I had even remembered my folding chair. The portable fan and the money box with the credit card reader waited near my tent just in case my booth space was on the field. Everything was all set.

I turned the work room light off and locked up. We followed the path up to the house lit by the festival lights I had gotten from a friend for my birthday the previous fall.

This place is magical. I said as we reached the farmhouse door, looking over fields of flowers and herbs.

It’s perfect, Rosemary said.

With that, we went in, walked up the narrow stairs, and collapsed into our beds. The morning would come early for us, and the next day would be a big day.

Chapter 2

You know I will never get this dirt out of the upholstery, Rosemary said as she tucked a loose strand of dark brown hair back into her braid and loaded a tray of mint and the herb, I had named her for onto the last space in the back seat of her silver sedan. She had put down beach towels on the seats, but the unprotected floor mats would soon be covered in pots of herbs and flowers. She dressed like me in faded jeans and a t-shirt. Unlike me, she was tall and dark and thin where I was short, pale and curvy. It was not uncommon for people to be surprised that when she introduced me as her mom.

I’m full too, Sunshine, any more plants, and you won’t be able to ride along to the market, Teagan said, looking over her shoulder at me. How many days this month has Max had your truck at the shop?

The bucket of flowers I was carrying blocked my view, and I stumbled toward my friend’s voice. I set the big white bucket of stock, bachelor buttons, and anemones on the floor of the front passenger seat, only spilling a little on my once dark but now faded old boot leg jeans and black Doc Martin Mary Janes. I climbed into the passenger seat of my best friend’s huge, bright pink conversion van.

Only three this month and four last month. It still runs. Max will get it running again. In the meantime, thanks for helping me get these plants to the market. I know picking me up was the last thing you planned to do at 5:30 AM on a Saturday morning. After we unload, Rosie, you can take off and go back to bed. Max said he would come and pick me up after the market closes. He’ll take me to the shop and help me load up the tables and whatever is left.

As I closed the passenger side door. Teagan and Rosemary exchanged a knowing look before Rosemary got in her own car. Teagan slid behind the wheel and started the engine. Her bright red lips quirked up in a smirk.

Do not start, Teagan Marie, I said.

What? I just find it interesting that Max could not fix the truck and seems to make the time to drive you wherever you need to go when it conveniently breaks down again. Teagan innocently raised one perfectly shaped, dark brow at her friend sitting next to her. Are you sure you want to wear that? she said, glancing at my favorite faded jeans and t-shirt that said, ‘TALK DIRTY TO ME’ and had a picture of a shovel and a compost bin. I know for a fact you have newer… um… cleaner jeans? Maybe you want to wear a cute sun dress or something? Doesn’t hurt to dress to impress. She showed her pressed khakis and pale pink polo. I knew would add a pink gingham apron to the ensemble once customers arrived. Maybe all he needs is a few subtle cues to encourage him to make a move. I know Max likes you, and Rosie knows Max likes you. We just wonder when the two of you are going to figure it out and get it together.

I turned away from my friend, pulled my thick brown hair into a ponytail, and looked out the window. I knew Teagan was probably right, but I hated to admit it. I had a good thing going right now. My small nursery and flower farm was earning enough that I was finally feeling comfortable, despite my accounting major daughter’s opinion. Rosemary had graduated at the top of her class. I knew the move back home would only be temporary while she set up shop in town. At this point in my life, I had achieved a level of contentment that I had fought for. I wasn’t one to embrace change, and Max had been a friend for well over a decade. I’m old enough to understand the value of a true friendship, even if the friend in question has eyes the color of the deepest darkest chocolate and a body built like a tank. His divorce three years prior had changed our relationship in ways I was not ready to examine… especially at 5:30 in the morning with a long day at the Isaco Farmers Market ahead of me.

Well, I said, changing the subject, Thank you so much for helping me out. It was a good thing we coordinated our market days for the season! I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been going to the market. Rosie could probably have taken two trips for the plants, but her car would never have been able to carry the displays and tables.

I looked at the back of the van, which was filled to the ceiling with the trademark shocking pink bins of cookies and muffins from Teagan’s bake shop, both of our market tents, tables, signs, buckets of floral bouquets, jars of honey, and small potted herbs. At least it smells heavenly in here. The van smelled of rosemary, lavender, chocolate, and almond paste, making Sunshine’s mouth water. You wouldn’t happen to have packed extra; I am starving.

Not only did I pack an extra scone, but I also packed a cooler of sodas and sandwiches. I knew you would be scrambling this morning and would not have time. Are our booths next to each other?

"As far as I know, we have the same spots as last year. I requested that we be put next to each other on my application, but the email we got from the new automated system didn’t give your booth number. My booth seems to be in the front of the pavilion. Where are you located?

Teagan braked for the red light just before their tiny town’s Council Hall and Market Square. I’m booth number 25. It looks like I am in the back. Maybe there was a mistake. We can always check with Olive when we get there.

Isaco is a tiny town in Central Florida, but it has a beautiful town council building and town square lined with majestic live oaks with Spanish moss draping over the ancient branches. Along the square was the First Baptist Church, the Jumping Bean Coffee House, the bank, and both of the fire and police departments. On the other side of the square stood the post office, an office building, and a realtor. Several shops were vacant. It was hard for retail shops to stay in business in small towns like this. There just wasn’t enough traffic to support them. That had changed once the town built the market.

Farmers had gathered in the field behind the council building for years, but three years ago the town had put up a covered pavilion with festival lighting and parking. The Isaco market had become the largest farmer’s market in three counties. It had been an enormous investment for the town but had been popular with farmers and craftsmen around Isaco and as far away as Gainesville and Palatka. The coffee shop and restaurant had opened nearby last fall,