Abe and I had squeezed in a brief talk this morning, early for him, of course, but he was as much of an early morning person as I was. He’d been out until late at banjo practice, as I’d suspected. I hadn’t gotten the chance to tell him about any of my investigations. Details about a possible murder could wait until I was home.
Now I focused on the market. Mom had taught me to make a circuit of all the stalls first to see who was there and what their prices were. She and I went together, every week, to the Saturday market. The whole time I lived in Santa Barbara, that I could remember, the market was our Saturday morning ritual.
Today’s midweek market, located on State Street, had opened at eight and now at nine it was bustling, despite it being a work day. Moms pushed strollers. Senior citizens ambled with walkers. Even a banker type in suit and tie carried a full bag of produce and other foods in each hand.
At the very end was Mama Tamale, the stand selling hot breakfast tamales and burritos. It had been here even when I was a kid. Back in my restaurant I served cheesy, creamy Hoosier grits as comfort food. Here? There was nothing like a soft, caliente tamale to warm your insides and fill you up in the most satisfying of ways. The stand would be my last stop.
The bustling scene was also a welcome respite from all the questions running through my mind about Paul’s death and Mom’s, too. About Zoe’s addiction and her total lack of interest in seeing me last night, not to mention her warning about Katherine. Had that been residual dislike from high school days, or some newer resentment? My mood wasn’t helped by the fact that I hadn’t had a word back from Mel Washington, Adele, or Liz about Mom’s autopsy.
But right now I was going to luxuriate in feasting my eyes—and nose and taste buds—in all these gorgeous midwinter fruits of the land. Speaking of fruit, I paused in front of Le Citron, an organic citrus farm in San Luis Obispo, where I’d gone to college. Fat thin-skinned lemons, tiny kumquats, blood oranges, pink grapefruits, bright orange Murcotts, shiny little key limes, all were arrayed in shallow boxes tilted up at the back for better viewing. One bizarre-looking variety labeled BUDDHA’S HAND CITRON had two dozen yellow fingers with curled-in pointy tips poking up from the gnarled fruit base. It broadcast a strong lemon smell but looked menacing. I didn’t need any more menace this week. The farmer offered thinly sliced half rounds of a blood orange as samples, so I helped myself, tossing the rind in the provided compost bucket on the ground. The flavor was sweet and intense, slightly more bitter than a navel orange, but also less acidic.
I walked away having bought a few blood oranges and a half dozen Murcotts. Was I going to be able to find strawberries, too? February was a bit on the early side. I’d have to make sure they were from an organic farm, based on what I’d learned about the Agrosafe business and the harm their fumigant could do.
As I strolled, I sampled a fruity olive oil at one booth, then bought a bottle to take home. I added a bag of chili-lime pistachios from the Pistachio Man and four huge artichokes—despite not having a kitchen to cook them in—from a coastal farm to the north. When I reached the end of the first block, a sand-colored alpaca with huge dark brown eyes in a white face gazed soulfully in my direction. A thick rope tethered it to a stake in a grassy area right beyond the pavement. The tent next to the animal was filled with fluffy skeins of yarn, knitted scarves, and patterned sweaters, among other handmade items. A sign reading SHATERIAN’S ALPACAS hung at the back.
“Does the alpaca have a name?” I asked the little woman who sat on a high stool in the booth.
She looked up from her knitting, smiling through a round face framed by dark hair. “This one is Baby. She’s not a baby anymore, but she always reminds me of one. You can pet her if you want. She’s quite docile.”
I stroked the soft head, then glanced at the banner. “Shaterian’s is your farm?”
“Yes.” She stuffed the knitting in a bag hanging from a standing frame and stood, extending her hand. “I’m Ceci Shaterian. Alpaca tender, spinner, weaver, and maker of fine knitted objects.”
“Nice to meet you, Ceci. My name’s Robbie. I lived here when I was younger, but now I’m in Indiana. I’m back on a visit.” We shook hands. She was probably no more than a decade older than me, with eyes almost as dark as her hair.
“Must be a lot colder back there at this time of year,” she said.
“Absolutely. I’m loving not wearing a coat or hat in February.” I was wearing jeans today, since the morning had been cool, but shorts or skirts and sandals had been my uniform since I’d arrived. “Where do you raise these beauties?”
“Up in the foothills, on the way to Solvang. We have a small ranch, my husband and me.” A shadow passed over her expression. “We’d been in Oxnard for years, but had to move last January.”
She must be the alpaca farmer Paul had mentioned. “It’s nice where you are, though.” I gestured vaguely toward the mountains. Solvang was a quaint tourist town settled in 1911 by Danes hoping
