“Why would she bother about Dorothy? Why not just let it go?”

  “She was playing the bereaved lover, grieving for her man. How would it look if a fifteen-year-old claims she was Holmes’s great love? And maybe she was even a little jealous. Who knows?”

  I bit my lip. There were some things I was probably better off not knowing, but I felt like I needed to ask anyway. “Did Brett molest Dorothy?”

  Fowler stared down at his notebook for a moment. “She says he didn’t. I choose to believe her.”

  I chose to believe her, too, since the alternative was awful. But I hoped Annabelle would make sure Dorothy got some help.

  Fowler closed his notebook and put it back in his pocket. “You may be called as a witness, depending on what Ms. Davidson’s lawyer decides to do.”

  “She attacked me in front of a crowd of witnesses, including the chief of police. What can her lawyer do about that?”

  “Lawyers can do all kinds of things. But I don’t think getting Ms. Davidson off is in the cards. At least not on the assault. And we’ll do our damnedest to add a murder charge to it.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Do you need any help out here, with your injury and all?”

  I shook my head. “My uncle’s here, and I have friends I can call.” Of course, I didn’t trust any of those friends to make jam for me. Somehow I’d have to figure out a way to get to work, even if I had to do it one-handed.

  “Fair enough.” Fowler turned toward the door, then paused, looking at me. “Do you drink beer, Roxy?”

  “I’m a Colorado girl. What do you think?”

  He gave me another of those half smiles. “Maybe I can buy you a beer sometime.”

  I blinked at him. What the hell? “Maybe you can.”

  He replaced his Stetson on his head. “See you around, Roxy.”

  “See you.” I watched him go, then dropped onto the couch. I wasn’t at all sure whether he’d just made a tentative pass or not. But it wasn’t something I wanted to think about.

  Which led me to a subject I’d been avoiding. Nate. I really needed to call him and fill him in. But I was dreading it. I figured his reaction would be like Uncle Mike’s, only maybe louder. He’d asked me to go tell Fowler what I knew, and I’d tried. But the result hadn’t been what either of us expected. I knew he’d be upset, but I also knew I needed to talk to him anyway.

  Big girl panties, Roxy. Nate deserved to hear the story from me and not from some town gossip.

  I dialed his number and then listened to it ring, wondering if I could leave a message without being a total coward.

  “Yeah,” Nate answered, finally.

  “I’ve got some stuff to tell you, stuff that happened to me today. Do you have some time?”

  “I’ve got lots of time. I’m also at the turnoff to your place.”

  I stepped to the doorway and saw his car rolling down the road toward me. Which meant he’d already heard about Evelyn and Dorothy. Or a version of it, anyway. This should be loads of fun.

  “Okay. I’m here. Waiting.”

  A couple of minutes later, Nate walked into my living room and straight to me. He put his arms around me and held me close for a few moments. “Good lord, Roxy,” he muttered. “Christ almighty.”

  I moved against him, letting myself feel his warmth and the protection of his arms. It was just what I needed, and it made me feel guiltier than ever because I should have called him before I did anything else. “How did you hear?”

  “It’s all over town that Evelyn attacked you and tried to attack a teenager. Coco told me. Before she told Mom, which is saying something.” He leaned back to look at me. “Is there more to it than that?”

  I really wanted to say no, but big girl panties and all. “There’s a lot more. I’ll tell you, but Uncle Mike’s doing dinner. And I want you to stay after that. Can you?”

  “Sure. I’ll tell Bobby to start breakfast without me. Is it that bad?”

  I blew out a long breath. “Evelyn held a knife on Dorothy Dorsey. Herman went after her, and she went to stab him. I tried to grab her arm, but I grabbed the knife instead. But Fowler was there, and he stopped her.” Short, but fundamentally correct.

  “Good for Fowler. Did Evelyn kill Holmes?”

  “Probably. When Fowler took my statement, he said there was evidence against her, but I don’t know how solid it is. I’ll probably have to testify if she goes to trial for attacking me and Dorothy.”

  “You don’t want to?”

  “I’d rather forget the whole thing.”

  Nate sat down on the couch, pulling me down next to him. “That’s a lot more dramatic than the story I heard. You sure you’re okay?”

  I started to say I was fine, but I wasn’t. And I was tired of pretending I was, particularly since tears were beginning to leak down my cheeks. “I’m not, but I will be.”

  Nate put his arm around me again, leaning over to kiss my forehead. “You’re okay, Rox. You got through it.”

  I had. But I wasn’t sure that was enough. On the other hand, I was sure I wanted to stop thinking about it. I put my arms around Nate, resting my head on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “I’m glad I’m here, too. Do you want to go up to the main house?”

  “Eventually,” I murmured, leaning in a little closer. “Just now I want to cuddle. If you’ve got the time.”

  “I’ve got the time.” Nate pulled me deeper into his arms. “I absolutely have the time.”

  So for an hour or so, I didn’t think about Evelyn or Dorothy. Or the fact that I had a cut hand that might make it impossible for me to make enough jam for the next market.

  Chapter 26

  As it turned out, my jam production wasn’t a problem after all. I had more volunteers than I could use. Carmen spent several hours chopping fruit and then helping me pour the jam into the jars. Susa, pretty much a non-cook, did things like lifting the jars out of the canner. Nate helped when he came over in the evening. One night Coco showed up, claiming that she needed a refresher course in jam making. She was, of course, terrific. By the end of the week, I had enough jam for that weekend’s market and the one after that.

  All of which reinforced my earlier decision to start looking for an assistant as soon as I got a chance. Being a one-woman jam factory had some definite drawbacks.

  The Best in Shavano competition was a week or so later, which distracted everyone from the Evelyn Davidson adventure. I’d entered this year’s version of my pepper peach jam, using the full-strength Pueblo chilies, without much optimism. After all, at the time I’d entered, a lot of people in town had thought I was a murderer who’d gotten away with it. I figured since I was unlikely to win anyway, I might as well go with a jam I was proud of instead of a safe choice. Hence pepper peach instead of peach preserves.

  At least that particular misconception about my guilt had been largely taken care of, although some people still seemed to be regarding me with a mixture of suspicion and confusion. They thought I’d done something, but they weren’t quite sure what. Still, it seemed a lot more likely that Evelyn had killed Brett, given her attack on me and Dorothy. She’d been charged with assault, and she was still in jail. I only hoped the case against her was solid, and that they’d eventually charge her with Brett’s murder, too.

  The contest happened on the weekend after the Fourth of July so the organizers could take advantage of the extra people in town for the holiday. That meant the regular farmers market took place in the morning, and the competition got started in the afternoon in the same general area. There were always a lot of tourists hanging around the weekend after the Fourth, and I figured we’d probably sell out of whatever I brought to town.

  Dolce was still supposed to work as my assistant in the booth. I hadn’t told her I knew about Brett being her mentor, and I wasn’t sure I would. There was an argument to be made for keeping quiet and hoping the whole thing would just go away. But as it happened, Dolce was more mature than I was.

  “Mom told me what happened to you,” she said, “with Evelyn and Dorothy and all. Mr. Holmes was my mentor for a while at school. He was a creep.”

  “Yeah, I heard he created some problems in the mentorship program,” I said with what little tact I could muster. “I’m glad he got kicked out.”

  “So was I,” Dolce said. “Ms. Cantu said you were going to be a mentor next year. Is that right?”

  “I am.” I’d turned the paperwork in to Dolores’s office a few days after my afternoon with Evelyn. It was my payback to destiny for having saved Herman and me.

  “Could we work together? I mean, I work with you here, but that’s the business side of things. I don’t know anything about jam making, not really.”

  Dolce looked so hopeful I was a little dumbfounded. I’d wanted an assistant jam-maker. Maybe this was the answer. She could find out if she liked cooking, and I could find out if we worked well together. Although I was already pretty sure we would. “I’ll talk to Mrs. Cantu about it. It would mean leaving campus so you could work at my place. But since we know each other already, and since you live nearby, that might not be a problem.”

  “Great.” Dolce gave me a lovely smile and got to work charming the customers.

  Nate wasn’t doing a demo that day because he needed the time to get ready for his Best in Shavano competition. The final version of his pork chops used some of this year’s apricot preserves. He served it with roasted potatoes and a zucchini gratin. Dessert was, of course, the crepes with my rose petal jam.

  I was a little nervous for him, although I thought his food was delectable. I knew he’d been taking some flak from Bobby about the time he’d spent developing a recipe they’d probably never serve at Robicheaux’s. Their clientele liked their pork chops with applesauce and their potatoes fried.

  I plunged into selling jam for the rest of the morning, keeping the sample bowls filled and smiling to beat the band. We had more peaches available now and I was trying a new exotic jam every week. This week it was peach with bourbon and vanilla. There was a hint of almond extract in there, too.

  And of course we had the usual: raspberry, strawberry, apricot, and the tail end of last week’s exotic, raspberry peach.

  Lines of customers jostled one another at the samples counter. I kept track of the little kids who tried to raid the cracker supply, while Dolce threatened the wrath of God toward one nine-year-old who’d almost upended the bowl of apricot preserves. I was ringing up a customer who’d bought one of everything when a guy in a man bun and a vintage T-shirt leaned over the counter in my direction.

  “So where do you get your fruit?” he asked.

  I was tempted to point to the sign that said We use Colorado produce, but that seemed rude. “We buy our produce from local farmers. A lot of it comes from my uncle’s place, Constantine Farms. Their booth is just down the line here.”

  The guy’s eyes widened as he looked at me, and his face flushed a bit. He cleared his throat. “Are you the owner?”

  I nodded, smiling as I handed the bag of jam to the customer who’d bought it. “This is my place. I’m Roxy Constantine.”

  “Oh.” He picked up a cracker and dipped it into the pepper peach. Then his lips spread in a smile. “Oh, wow. This is great.”

  “Thanks.” Another customer handed me a couple of jars of raspberry peach. Normally I’m delighted to talk about my stuff, and compliments are always welcome. But we were crazy busy right then, and I really wished the guy would just move on.

  However, he seemed to have settled in. “So how long have you been in business?”

  “A couple of years.”

  “Where else do you sell?”

  “Just here in town for now. Although I sell a limited number of jars at a place in Salida. Most of our business is here at the farmers market.”

  “Oh.” He looked around the booth and seemed to notice the crowd for the first time. “Looks like you’re being swamped.”

  “It’s busy,” I agreed. To state the obvious.

  “Maybe I’ll come back and talk later.”

  “You do that,” I muttered as he walked away.

  After noon, business began to slack off a little. People were moving over to the craft fair next door with its array of food trucks. I heard a band tuning up in the gazebo, which meant another draw for the crowds. I took a moment to check the stock. We’d sold out of the bourbon peach and the raspberry peach. We had a few more jars of pepper peach, apricot, strawberry, and peach preserves. The raspberry was running dangerously low.

  “Do you need to go to the truck to get more jam?” Dolce asked.

  I shook my head. “It’s all out here and in the cases under the counter.”

  Dolce’s eyes widened. “Wow, we’ve really been selling.”

  “We have at that.” I glanced around the booth as I added jars to the stock we had out for sale. “I wonder how everybody else has been doing?”

  “We’ve been doing okay. Not record breaking but good.”

  I turned to see Annabelle Dorsey examining a jar of strawberry preserves. “Is this from this year?”

  “I put up a lot when the fruit came in.” That had been the weekend I’d been accused of murder. I’d been a jam-making machine that day.

  “I’ll take it.” She put the jar on the counter where I could ring it up, then handed me her money. “I need to thank you for what you did for Dorothy. And I need to apologize for her.” She raised her gaze to mine, looking flinty.

  “You mean when she ran off to the parking lot that time?”

  Annabelle shook her head. “When she threw mud at your truck and wrote a foul word. I didn’t know she’d done it until Fowler came to talk to us both.”

  I blew out a breath. “Oh, that. I didn’t know it was Dorothy at the time. I thought it was Brett Holmes. Dorothy already apologized.”

  Annabelle stared down at her strawberry preserves. “She’s been having a hard time. Apparently, she thought she was in love with that jerk. It’s been a nasty awakening. But learning about men is a life skill we all need.”

  I didn’t know much about Annabelle’s history with men, just that she’d divorced Dorothy’s father. Something about her expression made me think she hadn’t had a great experience. “She’s a teenager. All of us were dumb when we were teenagers. I hope there’s someone she can talk to.” Which was as close as I could get to saying Dorothy needed a counselor.

  “There is.” Annabelle picked up the jar. “At least he didn’t get away with it.”

  “No, he didn’t get away with it.” In fact, he’d made the fatal mistake of underestimating one of the women he’d jerked around. That didn’t mean I thought Evelyn was justified, but it did mean Brett’s sins had caught up with him. Poetic justice if you will.

  Annabelle turned and walked up the path toward her booth. I wondered if Dorothy was helping out today, but I wasn’t going down there to find out.

  At two I broke down the booth and put everything away, even though there were still a few potential customers hanging around. I wanted to get to the exhibit hall in plenty of time for the end of the Best in Shavano competition, the part with the live judging. I was also a little curious about where my jam had placed in that competition, although I still wasn’t optimistic.

  The entries in the various competitions were placed on tables ranged around the edge of the room. Jams had been placed next to pies, which made a certain amount of sense. They hadn’t yet posted the winners of the side competitions—they’d get around to that after they’d finished judging the restaurant contest that constituted the main event.

  I found a seat near the front, and Susa slipped into the chair next to mine. “How’s Nate doing?”

  “Too early to say. They haven’t started judging yet.”

  “Well, anyway, he looks yummy.”

  He definitely did, but all the chefs had cleaned up for their audience. They stood at the front, dressed in their chef’s jackets and toques or beanies. For a moment I felt a touch of nostalgia. Back in the day I’d worn that outfit, and worn it proudly. Of course now I cooked in jeans and T-shirts, and I wore those proudly, too.

  I found Nate easily, standing near the front in a black chef’s coat and beanie. I wondered if they’d been his uniform in Las Vegas since I was sure he didn’t wear anything like that to cook at Robicheaux’s. Spencer Carroll was nearby, dressed in crisp whites and a toque. I recognized a couple of the other chefs, too, one from the Jade Garden and one from Moretti’s. The other two were strangers.

  The contest entries were on trays in front of the chefs: three complete, plated entrées, with sides and desserts. They’d be taken up to the judges table, with each chef coming up to explain his plate. According to some texts from Nate that morning, they’d done their cooking in the commercial kitchen behind the event center, trying to share the stoves and ovens. Keeping your cool was probably part of the competition.

  I figured Nate’s stuff was better than the entries from Jade Garden and Moretti’s, but I wasn’t certain about Spence. High Country was a more haute cuisine kind of place than Robicheaux’s, and of course Spence had something to prove. A win might mean they’d keep him on as head chef instead of hiring somebody from Denver.

  An announcer came out to introduce the chefs and the judges, a newspaper critic from the Front Range, a rep from the Shavano tourist board, and a celebrity chef from Aspen. Nate looked calm as the entries were taken to the judges’ tables. I felt nervous enough for both of us.

  The tasting took around thirty minutes. I noticed the Aspen chef kept clearing his palate with water, but the other two judges dug in enthusiastically. I hoped they’d hit Nate’s entry early in the process since they’d probably be too full to judge the last ones fairly.

  Nate stepped forward after a few minutes. For some reason they hadn’t chosen to let the crowd hear the questions and answers from the contestants and judges, so I found myself watching the judges’ faces, trying to see if they were happy or not, if maybe they were licking their lips. Nate kept his bland smile in place as he answered the questions. One of the judges pointed to something on the plate, and Nate gave him a genuine grin as he answered. That had to be a good sign, I decided. Finally, he stepped aside to let Tal Nguyen from Jade Garden take his place.