Cherry Scones & Broken Bones

by Darci Hannah

  “Wait,” Tate said, looking at Stanley. “You leased her that huge Escalade? Dude, that’s generous.”

  Stanley smiled at the compliment. “Told her it was my parting gift and hoped she’d be able to buy the truck at the end of the lease. The old girl deserved to start out anew. Carol and I came up for a quick weekend getaway, and to check up on her, you know, make sure her new hippie assistant hasn’t damaged the truck beyond repair.”

  “You know about Peter?” I asked.

  Stanley nodded. “Silvia couldn’t drive. She always had a younger male assistant drive her around and carry all her paints and supplies. Made her feel important.”

  “Did you ever wonder how she could afford to keep them?”

  “No,” he said. “I was always amazed that they’d put up with her.”

  I looked at Tate, suddenly thinking about Silvia’s affinity for younger men and her desire to paint them in the nude. “Mr. Gordon, you said that Silvia was having an affair with the pool boy. Do you remember his name? Where he lived?”

  “Of course I remember his name. I was paying the guy to mow my lawn, maintain my gardens and pool, and apparently entertain my wife! But he’s no longer a kid. He’s got to be in his mid-thirties by now. Jake Jones. The little bastard used to live in Palatine. I have no idea where he is now.”

  I checked the time on my iPhone. We’d been with the Gordons for fifteen minutes. Jack would be along any moment. We thanked the couple for their time just as two heaping plates of prime rib were served. It looked mouthwateringly delicious, causing my own empty stomach to growl. Tate picked up his helmet and ushered me out of Babette’s before I decided to join the Gordons and order my own slab of prime rib.

  I had to admit that there was an honesty about Stanley and Carol that would be hard to manufacture. Stanley had said that even though Silvia was a nightmare of a wife she had been good for his business, and I knew what he meant. I was convinced that they had nothing to do with Silvia’s murder. Heck, Stanley had even gone so far as to help Silvia on many occasions, the latest act of charity being her huge white Cadillac Escalade. That was very generous indeed. I felt that a light had been cast on Silvia’s little games and things were beginning to add up. But if the Gordons were innocent of her murder, they had still mentioned the name of a young man who might have reason to want Silvia dead. An unnamed young man had once tried to sue the portrait painter for sexual harassment. I wondered if Jake Jones had ever worked for Silvia after her divorce, and if so, had he been required to pose in the nude for a painting?

  Nineteen

  Because I was starving and couldn’t concentrate on anything but a plate of inch-thick prime rib, Tate and I stopped for a quick bite to eat at Ed’s Diner in Sturgeon Bay. It wasn’t a supper club, just a diner, and nearly everything on the menu was served with fries, hash browns or mashed potatoes, and gravy. Thankfully I was a French fry kinda gal. It was just our luck that Jack’s favorite waitress happened to be working a Sunday shift. Marge, a stocky, no-nonsense woman in her sixties with bedazzled drugstore readers on a chain and bright pink painted nails, cast me a look of extreme curiosity as she took us to our booth.

  “And will Officer MacLaren be showing up soon?” she inquired. Her tone dripped with innuendo while her manner, as she slapped an extra menu on the table, was pure mob boss warning. Marge had a real soft spot for Jack. Tate, oblivious to her look and her warning, handed the menu back.

  “MacLaren’s busy investigating a murder,” he told her.

  Marge feigned surprise. “Really? According to that leggy reporter on Baywatch News, it’s already been solved. Apparently, the young lady you’re sitting with did it.” Her beady dark eyes turned to me.

  “Marge,” I said soothingly. “You know Greta Stone is a sensation monger who has no evidence to back up her claim. You can’t believe everything you hear on the news.”

  “I know. But it’s easy, ain’t it?” She winked. “It’s a wonder that Stone woman still has a job. But we all know why. Don’t we, Mr. Vander Hagen.”

  “Sex sells, Marge. Never forget it!” He flashed her his cheek-dimples.

  Marge, staring over her bedazzled readers, quipped, “Well, some of us don’t need no fancy advertising degree to figure that one out.”

  While Tate and I waited for our cheeseburgers and fries, I decided to give Tay a call and find out what, if anything, she’d learned from her talk with Hannah and Peter.

  “I’m not getting anywhere,” she uttered before heaving a sigh. “Hannah believes the guy’s some all-powerful wizard and, quite frankly, I find it a little spooky. She was so normal before meeting that hippie. Well, normal’s a relative term, isn’t it? I mean, she’s always been impressionable, but never delusional. The trouble is, Whit, neither one of them is denying that they had something to do with the murder, but Hannah swears that Peter was with her all night. Peter swears that he was with Hannah all night. And I’m a little creeped out by the both of them.”

  I gave an involuntary shiver. “Holy cobbler,” I breathed. “We’ve got to shake her out if it. But for now, let’s just couch the whole Hannah, Peter, and their all-powerful-wizard voodoo-doll theory for a while. I’ve got some other leads I’d like to throw by you.” I quickly filled her in on my conversation with Erik Larson and his suspicion that someone had been in the room with Silvia when he’d delivered room service. I told her about my conversation with Giff and our most recent talk with the Gordons at Babette’s Supper Club.

  “Wait. Giff’s coming up to the Cove?” Tay’s voice was full of excitement. “When?”

  “Undoubtedly by dinner. He’s not one to miss a free meal. And, in case I forgot to tell you, we’re all dining tonight at the inn, you and Lance included. Listen, as I mentioned before, I don’t believe Silvia’s ex-husband had anything to do with her murder. However, he did tell me that the reason he divorced Silvia in the first place was because she was having an affair with a young man who was working for them at the time. His name’s Jake Jones. It would have been about ten years ago. Jake is in his thirties by now, and we have no idea what he looks like. All I know is that he used to live in Palatine, Illinois. The reason I’m suspicious is because he might be the one who tried to sue Silvia for sexual harassment.”

  “Gotcha,” Tay said, following my train of thought.

  “So, would you mind doing a little poking around on the internet while I grab a bite to eat with Tate?”

  “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. You’re with Tate?” Her voice rang with disbelief. “Do you think that’s wise in your current sleep-deprived, man-deprived, murder-suspect state?”

  “Definitely not with him dressed like a Viking.” I smiled at the man across from me, adding a wink for good measure. “Let me know if you find anything.”

  “Whitney! That’s a perfect storm of stupidity you’re facing,” she warned just before I ended the call.

  Silly me, I should have heeded Tay’s warning. The girl knew what she was talking about. Tate had always been my kryptonite. As we awaited our burgers and fries we discussed our conversation with the Gordons, painfully aware that a nosy old waitress was hovering nearby. We were deep in conversation when suddenly Tate reached across the table and placed his hand over mine. The move was intimate; Tate’s hand was strong and warm. But it was the look in his deep-set, clear blue eyes that gripped my heart. The whole wild-haired Viking thing he was rockin’ only added more fuel to the already blazing fire.

  “This is great, babe. I’ve really missed eating burgers with you and talking about murder suspects. Well, our burgers aren’t actually here, and we’ve never talked about murder suspects before,” he clarified. “But I like it. It’s a total turn-on. I liked the way you took control of the conversation back there with the Gordons. You’re really good at this.”

  The compliment served to further weaken my resolve, and I could feel myself blushing. “Thank you,” I said and gave h
is hand an encouraging squeeze. After a moment of intense silence, I blurted nervously, “Do you know what’s crazy? This morning when Jack interrogated me he actually said that he wished you were in bed with me last night. That way I’d have a lock-tight alibi.” Why in the name of sweet pickles did I repeat that?

  The dimples on the other side of the table were in full bloom; it took everything in my power not to reach across and sink my fingers into them. “Smartest thing MacLaren’s ever said,” Tate replied, cradling my restless fingers between his hands. “Tell you what,” he continued, gently massaging my hands. “I could be in your bed tonight … in case there’s another murder. Or, better yet, you could climb aboard the Lusty Dutchman and we could do a little midnight sailing. I’m always up for giving you an alibi, babe.”

  “I always thought that was a terrible metaphor, Vander Hagen.” The voice, distinctly male and very familiar, broke the mood. I yanked my hands from Tate’s grasp as Jack plopped down on the booth beside me. “And anyhow, it’s too late for that now.”

  “Jack,” I said, very aware that my face was on fire. “How did you find us?”

  The look he gave me was chiding at best. “I saw your car in the parking lot. I’ve got a cheeseburger coming as well. I thought I’d join you. In fact, I distinctly remember telling you to wait for me at Babette’s. I also distinctly remember telling you, Whitney, not to leave town.” Jack turned his disappointed honey-brown gaze on me.

  “When you said town, I didn’t think you literally meant Cherry Cove.” It was an honest reply, yet, apparently, this was not the answer he was looking for. “If it makes you feel any better we’re heading back now … well, after we eat.”

  “I’m here to make sure that you do. And why are you dressed like …?” Jack was having a hard time figuring out what exactly Tate was dressed like.

  “A Viking, bro.” Tate looked mildly offended. “And I’m dressed like this because I was going to the Renaissance fair with Whitney, before murder happened.”

  “You were going to the Renaissance fair with Whitney?”

  And there it was, the one thing besides murder that I’d been fearing all week. I thought I had escaped the social horrors of the Renaissance fair, but this was definitely worse. There were no diversions. There was nowhere to hide. I eyed the ladies’ room longingly, knowing that they’d never buy that feeble excuse. Nope, the three of us remained pressed together in a little diner booth surrounded by awkward silence and hurt looks. Correction: the three of us and Marge.

  “So, ya finally found out she was two-timin’ ya.” It was addressed to the table at large. Jack and Tate looked confused. Marge, her meaty arms holding three large plates, began doling out the burgers. “I suppose it shouldn’t come as any surprise that she’s a murder suspect as well.” The waitress then tossed out a cheeky wink, clearly finding the situation amusing. “Will anyone be needing ketchup? No? Okay. Enjoy your meal.”

  The cheeseburger sat like lead in my upset stomach as Tate and I drove back to the inn in silence. The meal had been a disaster. I even picked up the tab, hoping to smooth the feathers I had ruffled. But they’d been ruffled too far, Tate’s most of all. I was forced to admit that I had invited Jack to the fair, which caused Tate to realize that he’d been invited by Hannah. It began to dawn on him, then, for perhaps the first time since my return to Cherry Cove, that he no longer was the center of my universe. It had been his mistake to assume that he could just slip back into my life like a familiar comfy sweater, entirely forgetting the episode of his indiscretion. It had taken me the better part of a year to put that behind me. I had sworn off men. I had watched a lot of bad reality TV. I had even lost my job in advertising. But now, back in Cherry Cove, I realized that it was finally behind me. The blaze of my first love had died out, left to smolder in the ashes. And Tate, poor Tate had finally understood that Jack MacLaren was more than just a friend.

  Tempers had flared, words had been said, and I had ended up declaring that I was quite through with them both. They assured me that they felt the same. To make his point, Jack had shoved his last fry into his mouth, picked up his cap, and stormed off. Tate had been left with me. It was a long, painfully quiet ride back to the Cherry Orchard Inn.

  “You know where to find me if you need me,” Tate said, exiting the car the moment I parked.

  “Tate. Wait. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. Me too.” He shut the door and headed for his pickup truck.

  I watched him drive away, suddenly conscious of the fact that I was crying. The sight of the pop-up shrine to Silvia Lumiere on the front porch kicked my anger into high gear, but the fact that the mourners still lingered as well helped quell my blubbering self-pity a measure. But it was the hastily drawn likeness of me pinned to the railing with the tagline MURDERER written across the bottom that really set me off. “Those cherry-stomping idiots!” I seethed and dried my eyes.

  Disgusted, I left my car and walked up the front steps, ripping down the poster as I went. “You do realize that you’re on my front porch?” I cried. “Not only is this libel, but it’s a really terrible drawing!”

  A muffled voice from the back of the crowd piped up. “All we had was black pens and a red crayon.”

  “Well, it’s no wonder you all worshiped Silvia Lumiere,” I shot back. “She actually had talent! Now go home, all of you, before I call the police.”

  I didn’t wait to hear their replies. Instead I stomped back down the porch steps and marched around the three-story turret to the family wing.

  Sad, angry and utterly depressed, I sat alone at the end of my bed and stared at the suspect board. Who killed Silvia Lumiere? Everybody had a motive, but only one person had actually crossed that threshold and killed the woman.

  Before collapsing on my pillows, I had added the names Stanley and Carol Gordon, and that of Jake Jones as well, although any motive the Gordons had was weak at best. Even Jack had admitted this back at the diner. Jack also wasn’t happy that I’d employed Giff and his researching talents to look into Silvia’s background. I told him in no uncertain terms that I would use whatever resources I could if it meant finding Silvia’s real killer. I’d emphasized the word “real” because Jack, being a spiteful, pig-headed idiot, still refused to remove me from his suspect list. “Suit yourself,” I had told him. Then, to poke the wounded bear with an even pointier stick, I reminded him of the last time we had a murder in Cherry Cove, and of my leading role in apprehending the killer.

  Tate had piped up, reminding us that he had been there as well. We both looked at him. Tate blanched and fell silent. I fell silent then too, feeling terrible and guilty. They were both remarkable men, the best Cherry Cove had to offer, and I had hurt them with my cowardice and indecision. The truth was, I didn’t deserve either of them, and anyhow they were both quite finished with me.

  Oh, what had I done? I asked myself as new tears began to flow. Was I going to turn into a mean, nasty old woman like Silvia Lumiere? Manless, penniless, with only my cherry pastry talent to cling to? I gasped at the thought and sobbed even more.

  A good while later, I forced myself to focus on the problem at hand: namely, murder. Jack, my once dear friend and nemesis, was only one man. Damn his prideful, stubborn ways. I couldn’t deny that he was a great policeman, but that also meant he had to work within the boundaries of police procedure. I was an overzealous ex-ad exec who now baked cherry pastry for a living. I didn’t even know what proper police procedure was, nor did I really care. A murder had taken place at my inn; my own innocent pastry had been involved, and I was bound and determined to find the sicko who thought they could get away with it. Maybe Jack would even be wise enough to realize that he needed my help. And just to keep my advantage, I had never told him about the sexual harassment lawsuit or mentioned the name “Jake Jones.” Hopefully Tay, who was also happy to poke around on the internet, could find the guy for me.

  I dried my e
yes and saw the other name on my suspect board that jumped out at me. Stanley Gordon thought that his ex-wife was seeing a man in Cherry Cove, a man who couldn’t afford her. Erik Larson thought that there might have been someone in the painter’s room when he delivered her room service tray. He had also reminded me that if someone wanted to get back into the building after hours all they need do was go to the side entrance and use a key. Had Silvia given Fred Beauchamp her room key? Had Fred slipped back into the building without notice? Poor Silvia. It just might have been the biggest mistake of her life.

  I would check at the front desk and see if we were missing a key to Silvia’s room. Then I would pay Mr. Beauchamp a little visit. First, however, I was going to take a nap. Murder, being a suspect and losing the two men I wanted most, hadn’t made for a very pleasant day. Hopefully my evening would go a little better.

  Twenty

  “Really, how can you sleep at a time like this?”

  I awoke with a start only to find Giff leering over me, hands on hips and looking mildly put out. My heart was pounding in my throat as I sprang up, rubbing my swollen eyes. “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing yet, angel, but dinner’s about to.” A devilish smile played on his lips as he sat on the edge of my bed. He’d just driven up from Chicago, a five-hour drive in good traffic, but looked as if he’d just stepped out of a men’s fashion magazine. His dark wavy hair, now streaked with blond highlights, was glued in place with a lot of expensive product. His khakis were skin-tight and rolled at the bottom to reveal his fashionable red sneakers. And his navy blue tee looked so soft I wanted to touch it. Of course, I refrained. “Jani’s made her famous fried perch,” he informed me. “We’re dining alfresco on the patio. How intimate. Hannah and her hairy friend have just arrived, and Tay and her ‘jouster’ are on their way. I know all of this because I’ve been here a good half hour already, chatting with Jenn and helping Baggsie finish a bottle of his finest cherry wine. Not quite ready for general consumption, but he’s getting the hang of it. Whoa!” he said and leaned back a foot. “Did you actually cry yourself to sleep?”