A Dismal Harvest Read online

  A DISMAL

  HARVEST

  Published 2022 by Seventh Street Books®

  A Dismal Harvest. Copyright © 2022 by Daisy Bateman. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover images © Shutterstock

  Cover design by Jennifer Do

  Cover design © Start Science Fiction

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  ISBN: 978-1-64506-038-3 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-64506-039-0 (ebook)

  Printed in the United States of America

  A DISMAL

  HARVEST

  DAISY BATEMAN

  For

  Mom and Dad

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I can’t find the frog.”

  Claudia looked up from where she had been counting place settings and tried to get her mind around that sentence.

  “Did you check in the tank?”

  “I looked everywhere,” Iryna said. “I don’t know where he went.”

  “He was probably scared off by all the activity,” said Claudia. “This is a lot more noise than he’s used to hearing this time of day. I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m sure he’ll be back. Did the mini pierogies make it over okay?”

  “Yes, they’re fine. Carmen is putting them on the toothpicks now. I should probably go and help her.”

  Claudia agreed that sounded like a better use of Iryna’s time, but she promised to keep an eye out for her friend. Watching her go, Claudia had the familiar feeling of wondering what she had gotten herself into this time.

  Specifically, the answer to that question was that she was hosting a harvest dinner to benefit the local library, in her marketplace for sellers of artisan foods. Iryna and her wife Carmen were two of her tenants, owners of The Corner Pocket, Northern California’s premier combination pierogi and empanada stand. Claudia liked and respected them both, even if Iryna was occasionally subject to flights of sentiment about unusual things.

  The frog in question (Claudia suspected it might actually be several frogs, working in shifts) was a part-time resident of the marketplace’s bathroom. He, she, or they had been identified as a common tree frog, and since this stretch of the wind-blown Sonoma coast wasn’t big on trees, Claudia supposed he had settled on the bathroom as the next best thing. He was usually behind the toilet or the sink, though occasionally could be found hanging out stuck to the wall, like gravity wasn’t really a thing, and in one unfortunate incident he had emerged from under the seat at a critical moment. After that, Iryna had hand-lettered a warning sign, which was now posted next to the one about not flushing paper towels. There were occasional conversations about relocating him to a more appropriate environment, but no one was sure exactly how to do that, and in the interim “going to talk to the frog” had become a standard euphemism among the marketplace tenants.

  Coming back from her amphibianic musings, Claudia realized she had lost track of how many settings she had counted, or where she had stopped. Sighing, she put down the one she was holding and started over. In just over two hours the leading citizens of San Elmo were due to arrive, and she didn’t want to be caught without enough forks.

  Around her, the marketplace was a hive of activity. Long tables filled the central corridor, which was usually kept open for customers to stroll between the shops, or stop to eat an empanada and consult their guidebooks. In the stores, samples and appetizers were arranged on the counters and information about how the goods were made displayed on the shelves and walls. (Anything particularly portable that wasn’t a sample had been put away, to prevent anyone from taking the self-serve aspect too far.) All of the vendors had stayed on after their usual closing time, to help with service and answer questions, but the bulk of the food was being handled by the catering staff, who seemed more than capable.

  “Here, try this.” Claudia’s friend Betty materialized seemingly out of nowhere and handed her a spoonful of something green, which Claudia dutifully put in her mouth.

  “Delicious,” she said. “What is it?”

  “Kale pesto. I’m trying to decide if it needs more cheese.”

  Betty, in addition to her day jobs of helping to run the guest ranch she owned with her husband, cooking all the meals for same, and raising three children, had recently started her own catering business, and Claudia knew this dinner was the biggest thing she had taken on so far. Which probably went a long way to explaining why her usually unflusterable friend was showing signs of stress, for the first time since Claudia had known her. (Not that anyone who didn’t know her would have noticed. With her naturally effortless sense of style, Betty’s “frazzled” would count as most people’s “just spent an hour getting ready to go out.”)

  “I don’t think it’s missing anything,” Claudia said, on the subject of the pesto. “But I’d never say no to more cheese.”

  Betty nodded in a way that made it clear she hadn’t heard a word Claudia said, while her eyes followed one of the waiters as she overloaded a tray with water glasses.

  “Okay, maybe I’ll just grate some over the top. Thanks.” Betty took the spoon back and flitted off in the direction of the next crisis, leaving Claudia with a handful of cutlery and no idea what number she had gotten to. She was about to start again when there was a shout and a crash from the pickle shop, and a stream of invective from Helen, the store’s owner. Claudia looked at the place settings, then back at her marketplace, and it was clear where her priorities needed to be.

  “May the forks be with us,” she muttered, and went to see what the problem was this time.

  One and a half hours and fifteen near disasters later and, improbably, the tables were set, the food was plated and waiting to serve, and everything was about as ready as it was going to be. Which was good, because the guests were already starting to filter in, thanks to whoever had forgotten the front door was propped open. Through it, Claudia could see that the parking lot was filling up, and the overflow was heading up the road, toward the tiny cottage where she lived and on to the much grander house of her nearest neighbor. A few months earlier, that would have been another cause for concern, but one of the results of the rather lively summer Claudia had had was that she and Nathan Rodgers were on much better terms than they had been.

  Good enough, in fact, that he was there now, helping to set up the beer taps in the temporary bar. In his previous life (if a thirty-seven year-old can be said to have had a previous life), he had been the founder and owner of Fog Heart Brewing Company, a local brewery that had attained near-legendary status among beer nerds, until he got bored and sold it to a multinational conglomerate for what he would only describe as “a lot of money.” The resulting leisure had left him at loose ends, which had originally been the source of some friction when Claudia moved in and opened the market, and now meant that he showed up at random times, to talk about his latest ideas or just to see if she wanted to get some dinner. Claudia wasn’t sure what sort of relationship he thought they had, or even what she wanted, but she had come to like having him around.

  And it certainly didn’t hurt the attendance at the charity dinner when word had somehow gotten out that it would be the exclusive place to try the results of his latest project, an experiment with sour beers using locally grown fruit. Already, a number of men with ill-advised beards had come in and made a beeline for the bar, where they waited impatiently, clutching their drink tickets.

  Thinking of bees reminded Claudia that she should probably check in on her newest tenant. Most of the shops in the marketplace were set up for food sales, with sinks and power for refrigerators, but there was one that had space for neither, and it had been a source of trouble for Claudia in the past. It had recently become vacant, and a determination on her part to be choosier about who could occupy it meant she had been without rent on the space for over a month. So it was a relief when one of her tenants mentioned they knew a beekeeper who was looking for a place to sell his wares, and more so when she met Eugene Royal and he turned out to be a preternaturally cheerful black man with a verifiable group of hives set on an old orchard property about ten miles away.

  He had come to beekeeping after a career in corporate accounting, so Claudia wasn’t concerned about him being overwhelmed by this relatively modest event, but she thought it would be a good idea to make sure he hadn’t run into any unexpected trouble.

  She needn’t have worried. Eugene’s shop, In the Honey, was doing steady business, and its proprietor was clearly in his element. Betty had made a special appetizer using his lavender honey and mascarpone from the cheese shop, sprinkled with jewel-like pomegranate seeds on a slice of dried pear, and as Claudia cut the line to steal one, she reflected it was nice to be around people who knew what they were doing.

&n
bsp; “Not bad, eh?” Eugene detached himself from a group of visitors as Claudia licked honey off her fingers. “I wasn’t sure about the chips, but a-pear-antly they’re going over pretty well.”

  He laughed, and Claudia chuckled along. At some point in his transition to full-time beekeeper, Eugene seemed to have decided that what he needed was an extensive repertoire mostly of bee- and honey-related jokes and puns. They were uniformly terrible, but Claudia appreciated his dedication.

  Not everyone shared her point of view. Jeannie, Eugene’s teenage daughter, who had been labeling the sample tray with careful calligraphy, looked like she would like to turn herself inside out.

  “Dad—”

  “I know, I know. I need better material.” He shook his head in mock exasperation. “My toughest critic. But I guess you’re stuck with me, right?”

  This time Jeannie didn’t say anything, but the suffering in her eyes was plenty familiar to Claudia. It was a good twenty years now since she had lived in horror of her mother’s inclination to randomly burst into song, but she knew the feeling.

  “Actually,” she said. “I was just coming over to see if you could spare Jeannie for a bit. A couple of Orlan’s people didn’t show up and he’s short-handed right now. Would you mind?”

  It wasn’t entirely a lie, since the young workforce of the vegetable market wasn’t always the most reliable, and there were almost never enough of them on hand. But mostly, Claudia thought Jeannie might be ready to have some time around people her own age.

  From the speed at which her offer was accepted, it appeared Claudia had guessed right. (Though from the way Jeannie ran her hands over her hair and checked her face in the reflective surface of the sign on her father’s shop, it occurred to Claudia that she might not have guessed the complete reason for the girl’s agitation.)

  Her father watched her go with affectionate bemusement.

  “They grow up so fast, don’t they?”

  Claudia, who had no children, agreed on general principle. She might have said something about feeling the same way about her dog, but she was save from that particular faux pas by an elderly couple in matching purple suits who approached the table with questions about organic means of controlling mites in a bee colony. Eugene launched into a passionately opinionated response and, figuring her value here was limited, Claudia headed off to see what other kinds of trouble she could get into.

  For the first hour of the party, the guests circulated through the market, eating Betty’s canapés and asking the shopholders the same questions over and over. Then, at the appointed time, Julie Muller—who, in addition to being the chair of the Friends of the Library, was also the co-owner with her father of Dancing Cow Cheese, the marketplace’s marquee tenant—rang an antique cowbell and made a speech about the goals for the evening. Which essentially boiled down to “how about you give us some money,” but phrased in a way that caused Claudia to reflect on why Julie was a beloved leader of the local charity scene, and she was not.

  Still, if she had wanted to make people like her, Claudia decided she could do worse than to start with Betty’s cooking. The first course to come out was a warm salad of roasted butternut squash and chickpeas in a garlicky tahini dressing, garnished with slivers of prosciutto (omitted for the vegetarian option). After that, there was an amuse of a deviled quail egg topped with a sprinkling of the tiniest chives Claudia had ever seen, and a short break for the guests to take pictures of it with their phones.

  As the owner of the marketplace, Claudia supposed she might have expected to be seated at the VIP table. The fact that she was instead tucked in a corner with the members of the local mime troupe, however, she took as less of a slight than a sign that Julie knew her well enough to know where she would rather be. Out of costume, the mimes were a chatty bunch, and over the course of the dinner, Claudia learned more than she ever would have thought possible about face paints.

  She had been planning to dress for the event in her best jeans and a sequined top, both left over from her earlier life as a programmer in San Francisco, where variations on that outfit had constituted her “going out” look for the better part of two years. But trying it on, she had realized that the style was both dated (those two years were three years in the past now) and simply wrong. Who she had been then wasn’t who she was now and, frankly, San Elmo wasn’t a sequins sort of place. So she had reached into her closet for her only “nice” outfit: a jersey wrap dress in a shade of green that made her brown hair look less mousey, some fashionably ugly (and surprisingly comfortable) platform shoes, and a chunky glass necklace made by a local artist that had been Betty’s present on her last birthday.

  Part of her had worried about looking like she was trying too hard, but now that she was here, listening to an argument about whether the invisible window-washing sketch was a classic or just unbearably cliché, she was glad to have made the effort. She was aware of eyes on her, and the occasional finger pointed in her direction by people she hoped were just talking about who owned the marketplace, and she felt better knowing that for once she was dressed with some amount of appropriateness for her thirty-six years. Although, as the food kept coming, she was starting to regret the body-shaper.

  The main course of the meal was served family-style, and as Claudia helped herself to a mini stuffed eggplant with red pepper sauce and some ravioli filled with braised pork belly, she thought about the irony of a harvest-themed meal in California in October. The truth was, with the exception of the wine grapes, very little was being harvested at the moment, and for most things the season was either ending (tomatoes, sweet corn) or not yet started (citrus, crabs). There was no freezing winter to dread, just ongoing conversations about when the rains would come. (When the state quarters were being designed, someone had suggested that California’s should be the local version of the four seasons—flood, fire, earthquake, and mudslide.)

  She understood that it was traditional, but partisan enough to be annoyed that they had to be bound by the traditions of another place. Next year she would suggest to Julie that the party be held in June, when the peaches and tomatoes were rolling in, and the green beans and cucumbers were just hitting their stride.

  Then again, she thought as she watched her friend and tenant listening to some long-winded explanation from the town’s only dentist, maybe she wouldn’t. Julie seemed to have enough people telling her things right now.

  And she had to admit, it was nice to have the boost to business at this time of year. The weather in San Elmo might not exactly have seasons, but the tourists certainly did, and in the three years she had owned the marketplace, she had already learned that for the stretch between Labor Day and Christmas, sales could be few and far between. Part of Julie’s pitch for her to host this event was to build connections with the local community, with the idea that the people who lived in San Elmo might be inspired to start doing at least some of their shopping among the marketplace’s gourmet cheeses and small-batch pickles. Claudia wasn’t so sure about that, considering that the average income in the former fishing town didn’t tend to run to five-dollar-a-pound tomatoes.

  But averages weren’t populations, and Claudia had to admit that most of the guests at the fundraiser looked like they could spring for the occasional fancy ham. They were, she supposed, what counted as the small town’s leading citizens, the doctors and lawyers and full-time resident retirees. She even spotted the new chief of police, who had only been hired a week earlier. She was a tall woman in her midfifties, with black hair gone mostly to gray and lines around her eyes like she spent a lot of time outside without sunglasses. Her previous job had been running the police department in a larger town in the Central Valley, and according to Julie (who knew these things) she had been looking to make a move to somewhere quieter once her youngest left for college. Claudia had avoided meeting her so far, and she thought she would try to continue with that policy. Not that it had exactly been her fault that the former chief had been forced to resign in disgrace, but in Claudia’s experience, cops tended to stick together, and she had a feeling it would be a good idea for her to keep a low profile for a while.