A Suspicion of Strawberries (Scents of Murder Book 1) by Lynette Sowell

front of a large, covered open-air pavilion that looked like a red and black barn, without the walls. I caught glimpses of brightly colored produce displayed on tables and glass jars that glowed amber in the sunshine. Ben aimed the truck for an empty gap between two cars.
    “I didn’t bring my mud boots.” I stuck my head out the window and looked at the ground. Leftover rainwater mingled with the grass and red mud a couple of inches deep.
    “No problem.” Ben left the truck and came around the hood to stand at my door. “Piggyback.” He opened the door with a squeal of hinges.
    “You’ve got to be kidding. I’ll break your back.” I wasn’t overly round, but then I wasn’t like one of those toothpick women who can fit into teenager's clothes, either.
    “Seriously.” He turned his back to me. “C’mon.”
    I put my feet on the truck’s running board and slung my bag over my shoulder. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.” He caught my legs as I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, and he started to walk.
    We moved forward to a dry patch of grass, and Ben made little strangling noises. “Very funny,” I said.
    “I’m not joking,” he gasped.
    I loosened my grip on his neck. Evidently one of my arms had slid up to his throat. “Sorry about that.”
    “Ands, you’ve got to trust me. I won’t let you fall.” He stopped when we reached a damp patch of grass, and my feet slipped to the ground. Ben frowned before he took my hand.
    “I do trust you.”
    “More than carrying you piggyback?”
    “Of course I do.” I grinned at him. “I just didn’t want to fall into the mud.”
    He looked as if he didn’t believe me.
    “What’s wrong?” I knew better than to try to drag an explanation out of him, but first with him buying Doris Flanders’s property, and then what Jerry said about a house estimate. . .
    “I—I need to show you something, but later. Now’s not the time.” His brief hint of a smile told me he wasn’t mad, but his behavior puzzled me.
    “All right, later then. Let’s get the strawberries.” This was not how I had envisioned the afternoon. I’d pictured us holding hands, catching up on time spent apart. Sidestepping puddles. Trading stories and laughing. That and coaxing information out of Mike with Ben’s help. Instead I asked a question and received one-syllable answers. I trusted Ben. I just didn’t want to be dropped. What was the big deal?
    Silence hung between us as we wove between the vehicles and approached the pavilion. I had no idea what I’d said or done and stifled several questions before they slipped out. All I knew was I had started eating those words I’d spoken to Sadie. But you couldn’t very well communicate with someone who didn’t want to talk. Ben did say we’d talk later, so I tried to content myself with that knowledge. We rounded the puddles, and my sneakers ended up getting muddy anyway.
    “Ben, did I do something?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
    “No, it’s me this time.” He paused at a table of round, plump tomatoes, half of them ripe and red, the other half green.
    “These look good. I think I’ll get some.” I chose one basket of red and green, and paid for them. My mouth watered at the thought of fried green tomatoes. Comfort food, here I come . “What can I do to help you?”
    “Just be here.” Ben took one of the baskets from me. “Because. . .with one breath you sound thrilled to see me, and with the next breath you sound like you’re trying to push me away.”
    “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to come across like that.”
    “What have we been doing all these years?” Ben took the other basket from me. “Why didn’t I ask you to marry me sooner?”
    Where was this coming from? Here I’d been planning to coach Ben on what to look for when I talked to Mike. Not this. “I don’t know, Ben.” I couldn’t admit that the thought of getting married both thrilled and terrified me at the same