Page 95 of Christmas Mittens Murder

“I’ll tell my mother you have fruit trees for sale, Mr. Harper,” Franklin said. “She’s been proposing we turn our front lawn into a garden. Grass isn’t a good environmental choice.”

“But we need it to play on,” Arthur muttered to his twin.

“We’ll keep it in the back.”

“You do that, son.” Otto tore his gaze away from the row Rafael had disappeared down and handed Franklin one of his brochures. “Give this to your mom. You can’t beat growing food, and it can be decorative, too.”

I thanked him. I would have loved to stay and ask about his conflict with Rafael. Find out what Otto knew about Val and Rafael’s split and reconciliation. And more. But my auntie responsibilities were more important. I couldn’t let these boys hear me talking about murder.

Chapter Twenty-four

A few tents away we came to Raj Olives. Narini was in the booth, currently selling a pint of mixed green and cured olives to a customer. Arthur had already speared a toothpick into a bread cube and dipped it in oil when Narini turned to us. Something passed over her expression when she saw me. It was only for a second, but I thought it was alarm or maybe nervousness.

“These are my nephews, Arthur and Franklin Halstead, Narini,” I said. “Boys, this is Ms. Raj.”

Franklin said something polite. Arthur’s eyes lit up around his mouthful.

“This tastes just like olives!” he exclaimed.

Narini laughed. “Because it comes from pressing olives. It sounds like you’ve had olive oil that maybe didn’t taste the same.”

“Yes,” Franklin said. “I looked it up. Many of the commercial brands are other oils falsely repackaged.”

“Sad but true,” Narini said. Today over leggings she wore a deep pink shirt that brought a glow to her skin, with a down vest layered over it.

Franklin picked up a bottle and examined it. “Your oil is quite expensive.”

“It’s because we pay a fair wage to our employees,” she said. “A lot of work goes into growing, harvesting, and processing the olives.”

“And you take the pits out, right?” Arthur hovered his toothpick over another piece of bread.

“We remove them from certain olives, yes.”

“You’ve already sampled, Artie,” I chided. “Leave some for other customers.”

Narini smiled. “He can have more than one.”

Franklin selected a fresh toothpick and dipped bread into a dark green oil. He savored the bite. “Definitely tastes of olives.”

Cam joined us and greeted Narini. At the same time, Thea strode up from the other direction. She slid behind the table and laid her arm over Narini’s shoulders in what looked like a proprietary stance. Narini seemed to shrink from the touch. She moved a step away. Relationship issues, maybe?

What really got my attention was Thea’s black motorcycle jacket. Rather than Rafael, maybe it was she who’d been surveilling us as we approached the market. I still didn’t know why anyone would. I mean, I didn’t think Cam and I had been obvious about poking around here and there into the homicide. We’d done it only in the interest of making sure Allie didn’t go to jail for a crime she didn’t commit. Still, the thought of the actual murderer being on to us was uncomfortable in the extreme.

“I’m here to buy,” Cam said. “Even though we can’t grow olives on my farm, a small-scale-production olive oil is too special not to take a bottle home.”

“It’s like totally delicious, Cam,” Arthur told her. “You should sample it.”

He swiped at his mouth with the sleeve of his yellow jacket, smearing it with oil. Because . . . ten-year-old. I knew Allie wouldn’t be upset. She was a way-too-relaxed mom to let a new stain upset her.

A mew sounded at my feet. I glanced down to see a black cat with white paws weaving around my ankles.

“Auntie Cee, look.” Franklin squatted and scooped the cat into his arms. He petted her head. She purred.

“What a sweetheart.” I stroked the cat’s back. “Yours?” I asked Narini.

“Never seen her before.”

Franklin sneezed. “Rats. Arturo, can you take her?”

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