by Meri Allen
I shivered and continued up the hill thinking of the news video I’d watched. Where was Angelica Miguel? had become the question, more so than who killed Mike Spooner. The sexy tennis star was nowhere to be found. How could she have just disappeared? Was she a victim or a murderer?
I swung onto the shoulder of Town Road and headed east. As my feet pounded the hot asphalt, sweat dampened my chest and back. I wasn’t going to look my best when I arrived at the winery.
The man at the counter turned out to be the owner. I introduced myself, but he was so talkative I didn’t need to ask questions. “Shame about Mike Spooner and that tennis player. I’ll tell you the same thing I told that detective and all those reporters. I work every day and I don’t remember either one buying wine. Of course, we do sell to a few other package stores and wine shops, so they could’ve bought my wine anywhere.” He shrugged. “Buzzy Spooner did buy some a couple weeks ago. Told me she was working on a wine-flavored ice cream.”
Wine-flavored ice cream? Buzzy had certainly been thinking outside the box.
I thanked him and resumed my run, heading west toward the center of Penniman, the steady cadence of my footsteps helping to clear my mind. I passed the hospital, then turned toward the historic center of town. The sight of the white-columned church and the emerald grass of the green always calmed me. I pushed on, looping onto curving Fairweather Road, through the covered bridge, enjoying my footfalls on the sturdy wooden planks. Just before the turn onto Farm Lane, I cut across onto a narrow road through the sunflower fields.
“Road” was pushing it. Farm tractors used this path years ago during harvest time, pulling trailers of peaches and apples to market before Farm Lane was paved. It led through the peach orchards to a pond.
A nice place to camp.
I was drenched in sweat and my legs felt like jelly when I arrived at the pond. I bent to the water and splashed some onto my face and arms, reveling in the coolness. Then I walked the perimeter of the pond, scanning the ground. I was halfway around when I found the remnants of a campfire. A log nearby was probably used as a seat. A couple of dragonflies skimmed the water as I sat, stretching my legs in front of me, trying to imagine the person who’d built the fire.
A precise circle of rocks ringed bits of burnt wood and grayed coals. There was no trash anywhere I could see. The person who’d built this fire was tidy, careful. Meticulous, even. I thought of Stretch, how he smelled of wood smoke. Willow said he’d started coming into the shop a week earlier. Paulette said the fires had started about a week ago. I thought of his manicured hands. If he kept building fires and camping in the woods, they wouldn’t stay that way.
Behind me, a trail ran past an old cemetery and intersected with the road in front of the Love Nest, less than a five-minute walk away.
I swiped sweat from my brow and thought of Stretch’s hat. Wearing a cap in this heat was definitely strange. He was hiding his hair. Why?
Frustrated, I pushed off the log and ran up the trail. Maybe Stretch wasn’t camping in the woods. Maybe he was just an odd guy who liked ice cream. A lot. And smelled of wood smoke.
I pushed Stretch out of my mind and scanned the underbrush for the cute black kitten as I jogged back home, but there was no sign of him.
* * *
Back home, I showered then unloaded the boxes of clothes and books I’d taken from my old bedroom. I sorted through the clothing, some of which I hadn’t worn since high school. The sweaters still fit, not that they’d do me much good in July’s muggy weather. The pants, well, I sucked in my stomach, but I’d never see a size six again. Good thing the dress code at Udderly was casual and I could get away with the comfortable tops and miracle fabric travel leggings I’d had in my carry-on. I’d shipped everything else from Rome to my apartment in Virginia.
The detective’s card sat on my nightstand. Just looking at it made my palms sweat. Why was I so nervous? I had nothing to hide. I hesitated, my fingers over my phone. I did have something to hide. Even as I pressed the buttons I debated if I should mention Caroline’s scarf. “Do it fast,” I muttered. Whenever I had an unpleasant task—rip off a bandage, clean Sprinkles’ litter box—I’d repeat this mantra. I dialed the police station.
A woman’s voice, smoky and rich, answered. “Penniman Police Services.”
“May I speak to Detective Voelker?” I said.
“Detective Voelker isn’t in. May I take a message?”
Something about her tone—A little too helpful? A little too confiding?—made me hesitate. “This is Riley Rhodes at Fairweather Farm. I’d like to talk to him about something I remembered—”
“About Mike Spooner?” the voice whispered. “I’ll relay the message.”
I explained that the lipstick on the wine glass was Angelica’s shade of red.
“Go on,” the voice encouraged. “You can tell me everything.”
I froze. Was this legit, leaving a message? The voice made me feel I was gossiping, not sharing information in a murder investigation. “Um, that’s all.”
The line was quiet for a moment. “Detective Voelker will be in touch to follow up.” She sounded disappointed.
“Thank you.” I hung up and caught my reflection in the mirror on the back of the bedroom door. “What are you looking at? You didn’t like her tone.” You have to tell the police about Caroline’s scarf, Riley.
And the money jar. I smacked my forehead. I’d forgotten.
I ran down to Udderly, inhaling the rich scent of chocolate as I entered. Caroline paced by the Book of Spells, tapping her palm with a tasting spoon. “Last year we made one hundred gallons of sunflower ice cream for the festival. Our chiller can do five gallons at a time. It takes about two hours per batch … we’re open ten hours a day…”
Brandon carried an empty ice-cream tub and put it in the sink. “Out of Brownie Bomb. Good thing Flo started the brownies.”
“So we need to make five a day for five days,” I said as I washed my hands. “The festival is—”
“Saturday and Sunday.” Caroline’s brow wrinkled.
“And today is Sunday. We have,” I gulped, “six days.” Only six days? No time to panic. Stay positive. “We can do it.”
Willow carried a tub back. “Out of lavender honey, and we’re on the last fudge ripple.”
“Sheesh.” I was starting to see the problem. We needed to make not only the extra sunflower ice cream for the festival but also had to replenish all the other flavors. The weather had been hot and sunny—perfect ice cream weather. The shop had been swamped, so swamped that we were running out of flavors quicker than we could replace them.
I pushed up my sleeves. “Then we’d better get started.”
Udderly’s ice cream was so delicious because of Buzzy’s absolute insistence on freshness. “Cow to cone in two days” was her mantra. A free spirit in most respects, she was militant about making her ice cream with no preservatives, no chemicals, and only the freshest ingredients.
The organic dairy around the corner made milk mixtures to Buzzy’s specifications. Rich flavors like her creamy vanilla were made with a mix of fresh milk, sugar, and the highest butterfat cream. Mixtures with less cream and more milk were used when a lighter mouthfeel was desired. The mixtures were the canvases for her flavorful creations.
“I’ll get to work on Brownie Bomb,” I said. One of the most popular flavors, it melded pieces of fudgy brownies and bittersweet chocolate chips into dark chocolate ice cream.
The chime on the oven rang and I pulled out the pan of brownies, savoring the chocolatey scent. I cut two small pieces and handed one to Caroline. “Quality control,” I said. We bit into the still-warm brownies and sighed at the gooey goodness. “Acceptable.”
I chopped the brownies into bite-sized pieces as Caroline made a velvety custard base and added Dutch cocoa, a bit of brown sugar, and spicy vanilla extract, then poured the mix into the top of the chiller machine where a dasher spun the mixture inside a refrigeration unit to thicken.
It was almost eleven p.m. when Caroline and I cleaned the kitchen and trudged up to Buzzy’s house. My arms ached from lifting heavy tubs of ice cream and my feet were killing me.
The house was dark and only the single light by the front-porch steps was on. Again I bemoaned the lack of security. The outside lights weren’t automatic, and no one was home to put them on. I wondered if Sprinkles could be trained to do that for us.
The dim light reflected on a pink Mini Cooper parked in front of the house. A woman spoke from the porch as we approached. “Caroline, I was leaving these for you.” Her white blond, straight as a pin hair was distinctive, even in the dark. Emily Weinberg descended the stairs and threw her arms around Caroline. “I brought you some flowers. I wanted to say I’m so sorry about Mike.”
The cellophane wrap on the flowers rustled; it was too dark to see them but the scent of roses tinged the air. I couldn’t see Caroline’s expression as she pushed away from the embrace. “Thank you. Excuse me.” She pounded up the porch steps and ran inside, the screen door banging behind her. The door must’ve been unlocked. This peaceful life was getting to me—I’d forgotten to lock it.
Emily turned to me. “Hi, Riley.” Now she remembers my name. “I hope Caroline likes the flowers.”
Nice way to ambush Caroline, I thought as I gritted my teeth.
Emily swung her hair. “Mike and I knew each other in high school, well, you knew that. When Buzzy passed, I learned that my dad’s real estate firm was partnering with Mike’s on the Preserve at Fairweather Farm. It was nice to reconnect and it would’ve been great to work with him.”
“Preserve at Fairweather Farm?” That must be the name of the real estate development Mike was planning. I started to see where this conversation was going.
I took a deep, steadying breath. “This isn’t a good time to discuss real estate.”
Pru and Darwin walked across the lane, the porch light glinting on a tinfoil-covered dish in Pru’s hands.
Emily nodded to the Brightwoods. “I see you have company. Stay in touch. Good night.” She got into her Mini Cooper and spun in a U-turn back to Fairweather Road.
Darwin stroked his white beard. “Pru figured you two didn’t have a chance to eat and thought you’d like some dinner.”
“We didn’t.” I was starving. “Thank you.”
“How’s the sunflower ice cream coming?” Pru said as we went inside.
“We have a ways to go. Come in and chat for a few minutes.”
Darwin helped me set the table while Pru made tea. Emily’s flowers lay on the table, still wrapped. I plucked out a business card that was tucked among pink roses and white baby’s breath. “Emily Weinberg, Penniman Preferred Properties.” Emily had actually put her business card in with condolence flowers? My head felt like it would explode. I didn’t think Caroline had seen the card so I slid it into my back pocket. She’ll call you when hell freezes over, Emily.
Caroline came in from the hallway, slipping on a sweater. I couldn’t imagine wearing a sweater in the soupy humidity of a Washington, D.C., summer—another reason to stay here in Penniman.
“Pru’s spinach-and-mushroom quiche.” Darwin unveiled the golden brown quiche and served us. For a moment I thought Caroline wasn’t going to eat, but she surprised me and had two helpings. She looked better than Pru and Darwin. He could barely keep his eyes open, and Pru tried to hide a yawn.
“You two are so sweet coming over here with dinner,” I said. “I know it’s past your bedtime.”
“You’re the best,” Caroline said.
“We wanted to check in on you,” Pru said.
Darwin nodded. “The peaches are starting to come in—just right for the peach ice cream.”
“Great news,” I said, but thought, Peach ice cream? One more thing for my to-do list.
Pru and Darwin wished us good night and closed the door softly as they left.
“I don’t know how they do it,” Caroline said. “They’ve been helping at the shop even though they need to prepare for their Sunflower Festival open house on the farm.”
After we cleaned up, Caroline wished me a sleepy good night and trudged upstairs.
It had been a long day, but I felt wired. As I hung up a dishcloth, Sprinkles padded into the kitchen. I wondered if she’d have a visit from her friend, the little black kitten.
Instead, she threw a look over her shoulder at me, then stood at the door of the powder room switching her tail. I knew what this was—a command.
I folded my arms. “Really? Do you think I’m going to flush for you? You have perfectly good water in your bowl.”
Her tail switched again, a whip crack. Her eyes held mine.
“Oh, all right.” I flushed and she jumped onto the seat. She looked back at me as if to say, Give me some privacy. Understandable. I wouldn’t want anyone watching me drink water out of a toilet bowl either.
I stepped into the hall but peeked around the doorjamb to see how on earth she could reach the water. Her maneuvers seemed to contradict the laws of physics, but she really could! If her fancy cat friends only knew. But of course, they were probably compelling their humans to do the same thing. Cats.
I put on the kettle and flicked on the small TV on the kitchen counter. The newscast led with video of Angelica, “a person of interest.” The way the police were looking for her, it seemed they knew something. Was she guilty of murder? I flicked the TV off as the water in the kettle came to a boil. Where was she? With every moment that passed, I was more and more troubled.
I poured the hot water over some chamomile tea. Down the hall Sprinkles disappeared into the parlor, a room we’d hardly ever used except for sprawling on the floor with a Monopoly or Clue game. I heard a soft thud and hurried after her.
Several magazines were scattered on the floor. Sprinkles batted at a scrap of paper, hauled herself onto a footstool then onto the couch, and then clambered from its arm up to the back. Jumping was too undignified for a cat of her age and girth. I gathered the magazines and set them back on the coffee table, tossed the scrap of paper into a wastebasket, and tidied the couch cushions. Sprinkles settled in front of the window and stared into the inky darkness.
In the distance, a tiny spark of light gleamed on the hill not far from the barn next to the Love Nest. Was that fire?
I pulled my phone from my pocket, then hesitated. Was this a campfire set by the “bum” Paulette had been talking about? My mind jumped to Stretch. He seemed quirky, not dangerous. The campsite I’d seen earlier was made with care, but a spark could still fly to the parched sunflowers. It was only a quarter mile or so from the barn to the house. I’d make sure whoever’d made the fire put it out. I headed to the door.
Wait a minute, Riley, think. Mike was just killed! Let the police handle this. Even though I couldn’t imagine that Mike’s killer was camping by the scene of the crime, I put in a call to the police nonemergency number. If they had someone watching the barn and Love Nest, they could be there in a few moments. I spoke to the operator, then took a heavy flashlight from the mudroom. I slipped out the door, closing it softly behind me, and ran behind the house. I plunged through rows of sunflowers, hurrying as silently as I could toward the fire, glad that I was wearing dark clothing.
Another of Buzzy’s sayings played in my mind: “Curiosity killed the cat.”
I couldn’t help it. I’d pegged Stretch as the camper and wanted to know if my suspicion was correct. I crept closer, keeping to the shadows, angling my body to avoid brushing against the dried sunflower stalks.
As I approached the fire, the soft night
air carried the mouthwatering scent of frying bacon and wood smoke. I felt a pang of regret at calling emergency services. I should’ve introduced myself and sat down for a snack.
“Who’s there? Penniman Police!” A bright beam swung in my direction, blinding me. I raised my arm to shield my eyes.
“Officer, I’m Riley Rhodes,” I said. “I’m the one who called.”
“You should’ve stayed home, ma’am.” The officer lowered his beam. “Whoever was here’s gone.”
My skin prickled; I had that watched feeling again. I wondered if the camper had simply pulled back into the trees or the rows of tall sunflowers. He couldn’t have gotten far.
I played my beam along the ground. Just as at the other site, a log had been used for a seat. The fire had burned low, perfect for cooking. The scent of bacon was so strong that I wondered if the camper had spilled grease when he grabbed his skillet and took off.
“I’ve heard about people camping in the woods,” I said, hoping the officer had information to share.
The officer put his hands on his hips. “That, or one person spotted numerous times. We usually find a campsite like this, with the fire dying out. By the time we show up, they’re gone.” A soft breeze sighed through the sunflowers. “Pretty nice out, actually. Good spot for camping, but it’s been dry. Those sunflower fields could go up in minutes if a spark traveled.”
“You’re right.” I thought of Stretch. Was I being unfair to him, just because he looked a little worse for wear? I hated myself for offering him as a suspect, but there’d been a murder. “Have you seen a tall guy, with a black cap, hanging around town?”
He shook his head. “No, but we’ll keep an eye out.”
“Well, thank you for coming,” I said. “I’ll head home now.”
“I’ll give you a ride.” It wasn’t a question and I followed him to the cruiser. Turns out the officer was a big fan of Buzzy’s ice cream. We chatted a bit and he dropped me home. He turned the car back up the hill to his post at the Love Nest.
I scanned the yard, unable to shake that watched feeling. Finally I went inside, locked the door, and tripped on Sprinkles.