Annie shook her head. “I can’t do a lot of traveling. I have young kids and, well, other responsibilities that keep me close to home.”
“I imagine the police talked to you,” Lia said, moving on to the murder. “That was one of your pots that was used in the murder, wasn’t it?”
“Oh lordy, yes.” A lock of hair blew onto her face, and Annie brushed it back. “And what a shock that was to hear! At least they saw right away it wasn’t me who broke it over the guy’s head. Other than the fact that I would never do such a thing, especially with one of my own creations, I was home at the time, looking after Ken and the kids. But it got into the papers that my pot was the murder weapon. Not the kind of hashtag I need attached to my business, believe me.” She grimaced, then swung her legs over the picnic bench to stand and shake out her skirt. “I’d better get back,” Annie said. “Carolyn Hanson will want me to keep an eye on her stuff while she takes her break. Thanks for the tea!”
Hayley looked after her while taking a swig from her water bottle. “Bummer about that bad publicity. One of your place mats was left on the body. Has that hurt Ninth Street Knits?”
Lia shook her head. “As far as I know, the place mat was never named in the media as one of ours. Gilbert Bowen’s candles, either, or the metal clown sculpture. Only Annie’s pottery, sadly for her.”
“Probably because it was the murder weapon. Annie made it sound like hers was the only income for her family, but she mentioned a husband. Doesn’t he bring anything in?”
“Ken had a good job at one time, from what I’ve been told. But he was in some kind of accident about a year ago and is still recovering. I suspect they’re struggling to keep their heads above water right now.”
“Yes, they are!”
Hayley and Lia turned to see a plump, gray-haired woman approaching with some effort from the direction of the barn. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” she said. She tapped at her ear. “New hearing aid. Picks up more than it should sometimes.” She came over to their table and introduced herself—“Florrie Goodwin, Zach’s wife”—before sinking down on Lia’s side of the table with a “whoof!”
“Oh yes,” Lia said, remembering having met her some time ago. “Zach is the craft fair’s beekeeper,” she explained to Hayley. “He sells honey, and you, Florrie, make jams and jellies, don’t you?”
“I do.” Florrie smiled. “In season, of course. Today I just brought lunch over for Zach. Anyway, I overheard you talking about Annie’s husband, and you’re new enough that I thought you might not know. Ken’s been in a bad way ever since that car accident. He might not ever be the same again.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that!” Lia said.
Hayley asked, “What happened?”
“Well, the long story is he was driving home late on a back road, came around a sharp curve, and slammed into a bulldozer that was parked where it had no business being. The short story is it shouldn’t have happened at all.” Florrie shifted her position, wincing as she rubbed at a knee.
“The bulldozer operator,” she continued, “was working a site. When it got to the end of the day, he called his boss, who told him to leave the dozer where it was and just put some cones around it. Said he’d send a flatbed to pick it up right away. It was still light out, so the guy did that and went on home. The dozer was sitting there hours later when Ken came around that curve.” Florrie drew a deep breath. “They said it was lucky he wasn’t killed, though from what he’s been going through since, he might feel differently.”
“That’s terrible,” Lia said, shaking her head.
“What happened to the bulldozer people?” Hayley asked.
“Not much. Some fines were paid after everyone pointed fingers at everyone else. The dozer operator said he did what he was told and thought the rest would be taken care of. The boss said he called for the flatbed that never showed. The flatbed people claimed they never got a call. For my money the blame goes to the top guy. Maybe he was thinking he’d save a few bucks by waiting till morning? Or maybe he got distracted and just forgot. Either way, the buck stopped with him, to my mind.”
Florrie pushed herself up with a soft groan. “Funny thing, though.”
“What?” Hayley leaned forward.
“That boss? It was Darren Peebles, the guy who just got killed here in the barn.”
Silence fell between Lia and Hayley, and they exchanged glances.
“Well, just thought you’d want to know the whole story.” She glanced at her watch. “Look at the time! I’ve got someone coming to check out our air conditioner. Better get going.” Florrie smiled. “Have a nice day!”
“Oh wow,” Hayley said after the older woman had gone. “What do you think of that?”
“I don’t know what to think. It’s a disturbing story.”
“It’s a good thing Annie has an alibi, because Florrie Goodwin just outlined a heck of a motive for her to knock off Darren Peebles. And with one of her own pots.”
“I’m not so sure about that alibi, Hayley. I hate to say it because she’s obviously dealing with a rough situation. But an alibi that places you at home with a husband and kids during the time of the murder isn’t exactly rock-solid. How hard would it be to slip out unnoticed when everyone else was asleep, especially young children and an ailing husband who might be on painkillers? Or for them to back up a fake alibi?”
Hayley grimaced. “You’re right, though I hate to admit that. I like Annie. “
“It’s not to say that’s what happened. It’s just something we need to keep in mind.”
“Sure.” Hayley brightened. “I just hope we can come up with someone else, someone who we wouldn’t feel bad about.”
“I hope so, too,” Lia said. “Because the only two suspects we know about at this point are my good friend Belinda and a young woman I think I’d hate just as much to find guilty of murder.”
Chapter 8
Lia returned to her booth to find a familiar figure browsing through her knits, though she didn’t get her hopes up for a sale. The plumpish forty-something woman, Ginny Norton, visited the craft fair regularly and seemed to love everything in it, from Maggie Wood’s quilts to Bob Langston’s suncatchers, as well as just about every item of Ninth Street Knits that Lia laid out. But Lia had never noticed her actually buy.
Lia put that down to limited finances and, perhaps, loneliness, since Ginny had dropped a few hints to that effect during their brief chats. The woman, who often dressed in colorful outfits—items that Lia found interesting but not always flattering—apparently lived alone after losing one family member after another, another fact she’d once bravely shared. The craft fair, Lia thought, might offer a way to socialize, as wandering a shopping mall did for some people. What she did for a living, Lia had no idea, and, she reminded herself, it was none of her business.