Cherry Scones & Broken Bones

by Darci Hannah

  My reply was guilty silence.

  “Your eyes,” he said, wiggling his finger at my face. “So swollen and puffy. I’m guessing that didn’t happen because of a dead celebrity painter. This looks like the work of a man, Officer McHottie to be exact. Am I right?”

  “Partially,” I said, then blubbered with a flow of fresh tears, “Oh, Giff, it’s all my fault!” I proceeded to tell him my sorry tale of how Jack found me at a diner with Tate and how Tate realized I’d invited Jack to the Renaissance fair and not him. “I hurt them both,” I sobbed, “because I’m too much of a chicken to break up with Tate and too scared of being rejected by Jack. I was so mad at Jack for interrogating me as a suspect that I went behind his back on a quest to find the real murderer. That only made things worse. I left town, broke Jack’s trust, and was starting to fall under Tate’s spell again. In my defense,” I added, noting the scandalous intrigue that animated Giff’s face, “he was dressed as a Viking.”

  “No.” Giff’s dark eyes glittered with pleasure.

  “You know my weakness,” I said, sniffling. “We were getting along fine and suddenly our lunch turned intimate. That’s when Jack arrived. It all degraded from there. I’ve mucked it up good this time and now … now both men hate me!” I paused to stifle a sob. “I’m going to die alone! Hannah has Peter. Tay has Lance and I … I have no one.” I began to cry in earnest.

  Giff jumped off the bed and glared at me. “Um, HELLO! What am I? Arugula? The bane of every salad and the pariah of the lettuce aisle?”

  I stopped crying. “I like arugula.”

  “Nobody likes arugula,” he said, trying not to smile. “You only said that because you’re bitter, like arugula. Pick yourself up, Whitney. Dry your eyes and, for God’s sake, throw on some fresh makeup. The Giffster’s here and I’m not about to miss a Bloom family dinner because of two ridiculous men and an ex-ad girl wallowing in self-pity. By the way, angel, they don’t hate you. They’re giving you space. Not a bad thing when you’re trying to find a murderer. Now hurry up. I’m famished.”

  The artists holding vigil on the front porch had gone, and all the rooms but for one at the inn were vacant. A strange emptiness had settled in the quiet hallways and foyer, in the locked dining room and barren breakfast nook, and on the empty bakery shelves of Bloom ’n’ Cherries!. It was an emptiness quite foreign in the height of the tourist season. Mom and Grandma Jenn had worked hard to create a silver lining out of the inn’s most recent calamity. The elegant Victorian manor was ours once again and they had claimed the beautiful patio, strung with white lights and fragrant with summer flowers, to host our family dinner. Three smaller tables had been pushed together for the occasion. The long table, awash in candlelight, had been covered with a red-and-white checkered cloth and set for only nine diners.

  The two omissions had been startling. Jack and Tate, both being close friends of our family, had of course been invited. While I was napping, Mom had received a call from Tate. Then, just as she was getting over the shock that he wouldn’t be coming to dinner, Jack had called as well. He let Mom know that he wouldn’t be coming either. The news came as quite a shock to the family, particularly so because Mom thought Tate and I were back together, while Gran was certain that Jack and I were, to use her words, “having a fling.” Apparently they were as confused as I was regarding my love life. Not a good sign. For the sake of my sanity, I decided to forget about men and concentrate on a matter that was just as confusing yet emotionally kinder: finding Silvia’s killer.

  As Mom and Gran were putting the finishing touches on the delicious smelling food, Giff and I crossed the patio to join Dad. He was talking with Hannah and Peter. They were all standing on the edge of the lawn, sipping cocktails while watching a breathtaking sunset. I wanted to enjoy the beauty of the coming night as well, but I was still reeling from the recent discovery Giff and I had made. On our way to dinner, we’d decided on a quick detour behind the front desk. All the keys had been returned except for three. Two from the Pine Suite, currently being occupied by Peter, and one from the Sailboat Suite, where Silvia had stayed.

  Tay and I were concerned about Hannah and her growing fondness for Peter. Their unorthodox involvement, or lack thereof, in Silvia’s murder was also disconcerting. Hannah swore that Peter had been with her all night, but if she’d been drinking, or doing other mind-altering things, or if she had just been very tired, she might not have noticed the all-powerful wizard sneaking out of her condo in the wee hours of the morning to do his nasty deed.

  Hannah had provided him with the perfect alibi, but what if that was exactly what Peter had been counting on? The trouble was, I was also open to the possibility of ghosts, thanks to my brother. And thanks to reality TV. I was also certain that Sasquatch and the Loch Ness monster really did exist. However, vampires and voodoo magic were subjects I considered taboo, being too dark for my taste. Could a pot-smoking hippie with passive-aggressive anger issues really put a voodoo curse on his domineering employer? Or had Peter’s most recent head-popping ceremony been an act, one to make him appear that he had real powers? In short, was Peter using Hannah to cover his vengeful misdeeds? It was this suspicion that kept Peter near the top of my suspect list.

  “Hello,” I said, and gave Dad and Hannah a hug. All I could muster for Peter was a weak smile. After a round of pleasantries I turned to Dad. “Has Silvia’s room been thoroughly searched?” I asked.

  “As far as I know,” Dad replied. “The police were in there all morning. I don’t know what they’ve found, but it’s been taped off as part of the crime scene. Nobody’s to go in there until they give us the okay.”

  “Fair enough,” Peter chimed in. “The dead deserve their privacy, just as much as the living do.” This was directed at me. The guy was miffed that we’d checked his room. “Even at an inn, it’s a violation of privacy when someone enters your abode without permission.”

  “Right,” I said, suddenly not feeling very charitable toward this man. “So you heard that we opened your door this morning. We didn’t rifle through your things, if that’s your concern. When we found Silvia, the police went to take a statement from everyone staying at the inn. When we came to your room and no one responded to our knocking, we were afraid that something might have happened to you as well. It’s standard procedure to check on a guest when we feel that their safety might be compromised.”

  Peter shrugged, then grinned at Hannah. “I was otherwise detained.”

  “So we heard. I was unaware of the situation. I thought you were supposed to stay at the inn in case Silvia needed you?”

  Curious about this direct line of questioning, Dad gave Peter a hard look and crossed his arms. Giff, standing next to Dad, took his cue and did the same, only with greater dramatic effect. Hannah, however, didn’t care for my remark at all.

  “You know that last night was the one exception.” Her cheeks turned a bright crimson, whether from embarrassment or rage I couldn’t tell. “I’ve already explained it to you. Peter and I have been dating behind Silvia’s back. When you banned me from the inn he decided to rebel and spend the …” She looked at Dad and abandoned the explanation. “Anyhow, our alibis are sound enough … unlike some people.”

  That remark I recognized as spite.

  Giff, unable to resist, jumped to my defense. “Is it a crime that some people like to sleep alone?”

  “Dude,” Peter cut in, “nobody likes to sleep alone—not if they have a better option.”

  Dad, having distinctly puritan views on the matter of sleeping with the opposite sex before marriage, especially where his daughter and her childhood friends were concerned, wasn’t thrilled with the direction the conversation had taken. Before he could add his two cents, I jumped in.

  “Oh! I have a question for you, Peter. Do you have both of your room keys?”

  The soft, slightly unfocused gaze settled on me as he thought a moment. “Yea
h,” he replied. “Silvia insisted on having one. But I took it back Friday, after she had m’lady banned from the inn.” He cast the m’lady in question a look that implied the simple act was heroically defiant.

  “Do you also happen to have a key to Silvia’s room as well?” I asked.

  “Not on me,” he replied. “Sometimes she would give it to me, but not, like, for keeps. Only to use, ya know, like when she needed me to fetch something from her room. I always gave it back, though.” He grinned at Hannah. “I spent far too much time with the old soul-sucker. Why would I want her room key?”

  Fair enough, I thought. I then asked, “But you do have the keys to her Escalade, right?”

  Peter gave a nod before pulling a ring of keys from the pocket of his loose-fitting pants. “I keep the Lade keys. Silvia couldn’t drive.”

  “Did you know a man by the name of Stanley Gordon?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  “He’s Silvia’s ex-husband,” I explained, watching his reaction closely. “He’s the one who leased the car for her.”

  “Oh, him.” He gave a lazy nod. “Poor dude. Married to that. Yeah, I heard she’d been married. I even went with her to pick up the new Lade, but I thought she signed the lease herself. The truck was already waiting for us when we got there.”

  “So you didn’t meet Stanley Gordon? He’s the owner of the dealership the Escalade came from.”

  “I might have,” he replied, looking genuinely unconcerned. “How was I to know? But it wasn’t the dude who gave us the keys. That dude was, like, eighteen if he was a day, and a bit too greasy for Silvia’s taste.”

  Interesting, I thought. Silvia’s ex-husband and the financier of her luxury SUV had been staying only a few rooms down from Peter, and he’d been totally oblivious, or so he said. Was Peter really as chill and laid back as he appeared, or was it all just an act, one that had fooled Hannah? The thought begged to be explored further, but for now I was more concerned about the missing key.

  “I have another question for you,” I said, offering a friendly smile. “Do you know of anyone that Silvia might have given her room key to?”

  The soft, languid eyes sharpened a measure. “Got me.” He gave another shrug of his straight, lean shoulders. “Aside from setting up her paints and easels, and carting her around the peninsula for her unveilings, I didn’t really care what she did or who she did it with, as long as it didn’t involve me.”

  I was processing this little tidbit of information when Hannah’s eyes lit up. “Tay’s arrived. Swingin’ dingles! No,” she uttered as Giff and I were about to spin around. “Don’t turn around. Not yet. Let me warn you first.” Hannah lowered her voice even further and whispered, “Tay looks fabulous, of course. But poor Lance looks as if he went head-to-head with a—”

  “Mac truck,” Dad finished for her, cringing slightly as he stared over our heads.

  “And lost?” I asked.

  “We don’t know that,” Giff chided. “We’d need to see the truck, of course. I take the fact that he’s here and the truck isn’t to be a good sign. Now, will one of you introduce me? I’ve never before had the pleasure of meeting a knight in, or out of, shining armor.”

  Twenty-One

  There was no doubt that Lance had taken a beating. The poor man was covered in cuts and bruises and walked with a slight limp. His clothes were loose, his manner contrite, almost nervous, and anyone could see that he was putting on a brave face for Tay’s sake. However, beneath the polite smile and dogged appetite, one got the feeling they were witnessing a man highly aware of his own spiraling descent to the bottom of his trade. Unfortunately, I knew precisely how that felt. My fifteen-second misplaced Super Bowl feminine hygiene ad had driven it all home for me. Unlike Lance, my wounds had been on the inside.

  True to Tay’s initial instinct, the tournament at the Renaissance fair had been a disaster. The notorious Black Knight had tilted against the best knights on the circuit, but from Lance’s appearance, it didn’t look like he’d bothered to raise his own lance, or his shield either. I knew Tay really liked this man, but the air between them was filled with palpable tension. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the reason the couple had been late for dinner. Aside from the extensive number of bandages required to keep the man on his feet, and a dosing of strong painkillers, Tay and Lance had been arguing.

  Highly aware of this fact, the conversation at the table was kept light and superficial. Everyone raved about Mom’s delicious fried perch and Grandma Jenn’s fluffy biscuits and crunchy coleslaw. The grilled corn on the cob and cherry-melon salad were discussed ad nauseam as well. Dad gave us two updates on the orchard, both stating that the cherry crop was looking healthy and that the harvest would be good this year, in spite of the damage that had been done in May. Hannah talked about a new yoga routine and philosophized on working with goats again. Tay joined the conversation sporadically; Lance concentrated on keeping the appropriate amount of food in his mouth to deter others from asking questions; and Giff … Giff was staring at Lance with the same interest and intensity as a thirteen-year-old girl discovering social media for the first time. In short, he was enchanted. Done with polite banter and waiting patiently for that small gap between the bob of Lance’s Adam’s apple and another bite, Giff pounced.

  “A Knight’s Tale,” he said, pointing his empty fork accusingly across the table at Lance. All conversation stopped as Giff pressed on. “You’re doing a classic Knight’s Tale.”

  Lance, suddenly finding himself the center of attention, swallowed while painfully lifting a questioning brow.

  Giff continued. “You’ve all seen it, right? It’s a story about a young man of humble origins who masquerades as a knight. Suddenly this knight rises through the ranks until he’s finally on the winning streak of his life. He’s unseating all his foes to please the women he loves. But his lady wants real proof of his love. The only thing that will satisfy her is if our hero swallows his pride and loses every joust he’s in. It’s a big ask, but our hero does it. That’s what you seem to be doing, only I can’t understand why. Tay’s hardly the type of woman who needs extravagant romantic gestures.” This he punctuated with a playful wink at the lady in question.

  Lance’s face darkened behind a layer of bruising. “I’m not Knight’s Tale-ing the tournament!” he cried, bringing his fist down on the table with enough force to make the dinnerware shudder.

  “But you’re good,” Giff countered. “Tay’s told us you are. So why the limp lance routine? Why become the pincushion when you could be doing the pinning? Clearly you’re not ‘ba da ba ba bah, LOVIN’ IT,’ are you?” Giff, never one to refrain from calling up an old ad jingle to make his point, looked at the sullen jouster. “The only other reason for such a masochistic tactic is apathy, but, in most cases, it doesn’t cause such extensive bruising.”

  Lance noted the concern on Tay’s face and gently placed a hand over hers. He then looked across the table at Giff. “I’m off my game,” he admitted. “Call it apathy if you like. I’ve lost my edge and have been thinking about getting a real job.” From the shocked look on Tay’s face, this apparently was news to her. “The problem,” Lance continued, “is, um, I’ve developed a skill set that’s kind of hard to lateral out of. ‘Oh, you can swing a sword on horseback and hit a shield with a lance?’” he mimicked in his best interviewer voice. “‘Terrific! How are you with Excel?’”

  Giff was about to laugh when a swift kick under the table from me brought him to his senses.

  “Technical skills,” the forlorn knight continued. “Mine begin and end with Yelp reviews. To get a decently paying job in today’s workplace you have to know a bit more than that. And going back to college isn’t an option. I can’t take on any more debt.”

  Dad offered the beaten man a kind smile. “Look, I don’t know what a Renaissance fair jouster makes these days, but I’d be happy to take you on at t
he orchard. Tay might have already told you that we’ve been left shorthanded. We can always use a strong fellow like yourself. We don’t use horses, we use Gators, you understand. And in lieu of swords we use things like chain saws and pruning shears. Why, I’m even certain that Brock Sorensen would be happy to teach you Excel if you’re interested.”

  For the first time since entering the inn, Lance almost smiled. “Mr. Bloom, that’s a very kind offer, sir. But, um, I’m not so sure that working here would be a good idea at the moment.” If there was a reason, Lance didn’t elaborate. Hannah, however, believed she knew why.

  “I don’t blame you,” she chimed in. “I’d think twice about working here as well. First, the murder of Jeb Carlson in the orchard, and now that nasty woman who bought it at the bottom of the stairs this morning. I’m beginning to think this place is cursed.” As Hannah spoke the table fell silent. At least she had the decency to blanch before crying out, “Oh, come on, people! Don’t look at me like that. We’re all thinking it.”

  “Are we?” Mom asked, looking horrified. Dad clearly was none-too-pleased to have the word “cursed” bandied about at the dinner table after his kindly offer. Lance, however, appeared wary.