“Nate!” his wife scolded, her cheeks scarlet.
“Potter,” he adjusted. “In the back of your granddaddy’s farm truck.”
“Yes, sir.”
He sucked his teeth, expression stern. “You do it?”
“Nate!” his wife called again. “Stop.”
He gave her a dismissive glance. “What? She came right to my doorstep, and I’m not supposed to ask the question on everyone’s mind?”
His wife let her head fall forward, then turned on silent heels and dragged the dogs away with zero finesse.
“You think that’s the question on everyone’s mind?” I asked. “That doesn’t even make sense. If I’d killed Mr. Potter, why would I load him up and drive him around in my truck?”
Nate crossed his arms and shrugged. “How’d he get in there, then?”
“I don’t know!” I squeaked.
The dogs began to bark again, this time from somewhere distant and outdoors, probably the backyard.
“All right, then. Would you like to come in?” Nate asked.
“I don’t want to keep you from work,” I said. “You’re usually at the butcher shop by now. If you’re on your way out, I don’t want to hold you up.”
“Nah,” Nate stepped onto the porch, holding the door open for me to enter. “A lot of folks aren’t in any mood to see me today, so I stayed home. I can’t afford to lose business or my temper.”
I chuckled nervously as I moved forward on autopilot, powered by generations of deeply ingrained Southern manners. “I hate to impose.”
“Nonsense. I want to know what you know. Least I can do is offer you a seat and some coffee for your time. Polly will fix it for you once she motors back in here.”
“I brought cider,” I said, raising the gift bag in his direction and drawing the line at consuming anything a murder suspect offered me to drink. “There’s apple strudel in there too, from my granny.”
Nate took the offering with a smile. “Thank you kindly. Don’t mind if I do.”
I took one last look at Sally as he pressed the front door shut, then I focused on the room around me and the home’s apparent layout in case I needed to make a run for it, and he was blocking the door. I was half Nate’s size, but my desire to live made me about ten times faster than average in a crisis. Though I wasn’t sure I could outrun the hounds.
Nate pointed to the couch, and I sat. The home’s interior was as neat as a pin, decorated with items that had clearly been around the block a few times, and filled with giant dog toys. “What brings you by, Miss Montgomery?”
I attempted to clear my throat, but was unable to get the job done, I decided to just croak. “I wanted to ask you about the Potters. You’re their closest neighbor. Aren’t you?”
“I’m the only neighbor,” he said, his expression softening slightly, as if he’d deemed me a friend instead of the enemy. “If that pumpkin patch had more people living nearby, things could’ve gone a lot differently. I could’ve started a petition or something to force him to keep the noise down. Instead, it was just my complaints against his beloved business.”
“I see,” I said. “That’s tough. Your word against his.”
Nate nodded. “Wasn’t as if he ever tried to deny the noise. He just said there wasn’t an ordinance during his hours of operation, and that was that. When the cops wouldn’t tell him to keep it down, I tried airing the truth of it online, but people saw me as a villain. Out to pooh-pooh on their parade. Now everyone thinks I’m the guy who hates fun.”
And the guy who hated Mr. Potter, I thought, and now Mr. Potter is dead. “Is that why you stayed home today? People aren’t happy you complained about the noise at Potter’s Pumpkin Patch, and now he’s gone?”
“No one likes a complainer,” Nate said, “or a tattletale. Once word got out that I’d called the sheriff, folks started looking at me like I was a grinch trying to steal Christmas. Don’t people understand I have to get up in the morning? I need to sleep, but Potter had local bands over there two nights a week, sometimes more, and fund-raisers. Don’t even get me started on that car-crushing nightmare with the fire and the pumpkin catapult.” He rubbed his stubble-covered cheeks. “It had to stop.”
My throat tightened, and my stomach clenched. I wasn’t sure if Nate had just confessed to murder, but if he had, my odds of leaving his house unscathed were nil.
“Sorry!” Polly called, hustling back through the kitchen doorway. She looked out of breath and more than a little worse for wear.
Outside, the hounds barked and howled. I bit my tongue against asking if the Potters had ever complained about the yowling dogs that never seemed to quit.
“Why don’t you pour us some of this cider?” Nate asked, handing his wife the bag. “And I’d like a little piece of that strudel.” He dusted his palms together when she took the offerings, then turned back to me, dismissing her. “Potter was a real selfish piece of work. Him and his ever-expanding pumpkin patch. The darn thing’s been encroaching on our property line for years. Growing every season, slowly making its way right to my front door, as if I wouldn’t notice.”
Polly returned to the kitchen and unloaded my offerings with a frown. Thanks to my angle on the couch and her reflection in the window above the sink, I had a clear view of both Brumbles. She upturned a trio of mugs and pulled a knife from the wooden block on her counter.
I returned my attention to Nate, curious about his new accusation. “Potter’s Pumpkin Patch is partially on your property?” I asked, mentally tallying another reason Nate might’ve wanted Mr. Potter dead.
Polly laughed, but kept her head down and her hands busy, rinsing mugs and fiddling with the strudel.
Nate shot a dirty look at her back, then turned serious eyes on me. “Not yet, but it was getting there. If I’d have given him another five years, he’d have been selling pumpkins off that couch.” He nodded to the place where I sat, and his jaw set. “He was always taking more,” Nate said, his voice coming low and gravelly. “My peace and quiet. My personal space. My land. Now my reputation, as if I didn’t have good reason to complain! It was always more people, more cars blocking the roads, more noise keeping me up, and more trash blowing across the field. More. More. More! I was so sick of it.”
I swallowed hard and popped onto my feet. “I should probably go,” I said. “I’ve taken too much of your time already, and I just remembered Granny needs me at the orchard.”
Polly grimaced from the doorway, a mug in each hand. “They were up to something over there.”
“The Potters?” I asked, intrigued, but not enough to stay, and no longer interested in drinking anything the Brumbles served me, even if it originated from my place.
“Mm-hmm,” she said, stepping into the living room with us. “Maybe making moonshine. Who knows what? They probably did their debauchery inside that corn maze no one can solve.”
I dared a look through the window, following her gaze to the distant rows of corn. A shiver rocked down my spine. I hated the corn maze. I’d run off from Granny and Grampy in it once when the maze and I were both much smaller, and the experience had terrified me. There were black trash bags stuffed to look like massive creeping spiders stationed around corners, and ghosts made of sheets and dowel rods anchored among the stalks. I’d had nightmares for a year, and I’d never gone back into the maze. Whatever went on in there today was the Potters’ secret to keep because even my curiosity wasn’t strong enough to push me into the significantly larger and more elaborate maze today.
“No one wants to solve that maze,” Nate said. “They go in because they want to be in, not out. They can stay in the maze all night. Party all hours.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, trying and failing to imagine the Potters making moonshine and debauchery among the looming stalks of corn.
“Of course I’m sure,” Nate said. “I’m not the sort of man who spreads lies and gossip or hearsay. I know what goes on over there, and I don’t want any part of it. I’ve even g
ot trail cameras set up all over my property to be sure none of those rowdy hooligans comes this way.”
“Trail cameras?” Hank and his satellite imagery came to mind, but this was different. No trail camera could cover the kind of distance Nate was claiming, and it didn’t seem likely that any camera could get a decent photo of what went on behind the closely planted stalks. I gave the window over the couch another long look. “You can see inside the Potters’ corn maze from here?”
I turned back to evaluate Nate’s expression and wait for his answer.
He gripped the back of his neck and let his gaze dart away. “I can’t see inside the maze,” he amended, “but I can see everyone who goes in.”
Polly set the mugs on the coffee table and placed her hands on her hips.
I took another step toward the door. “I really should be on my way, but I do have one more question. If you don’t mind.” Nate and Polly exchanged a look but didn’t protest, so I went on before I chickened out. “When was the last time either of you spoke to Mr. Potter?”
“We saw him the day he died,” Polly said. “In town.”
“Not at the pumpkin patch?” I asked.
“No.” Nate scoffed. “We never go there. We had breakfast at the Sip N Sup, and passed him on the sidewalk. We exchanged howdy-dos, then I went to work and Polly headed home.”
My heartbeat sped with intense relief. “You were at work when Mr. Potter died?”
Nate nodded. “I hadn’t started yet, but I went outside when I saw the commotion. I recognized your granddad’s truck and thought it might’ve broken down.”
My mind raced. There would be witnesses to confirm Nate’s story. If he was at the butcher shop while I was at the pumpkin patch, he couldn’t be Mr. Potter’s killer. I turned my eyes to Nate’s wife. “And you were at home when he was discovered in my truck?”
She shrugged. “I suppose. I didn’t hear about it until hours later.”
“You were here when you heard the news?” I repeated, my heart rate increasing.
“Yeah,” she said, her eyes widening with fire and challenge. “Alone.”
My smile wobbled, then faded.
Maybe I’d been wrong to assume Nate was the only neighbor who had a beef with Mr. Potter, and maybe I really was standing in the home of a killer.
Chapter Fifteen
The cider shop was crowded by lunchtime as orchard guests made their way through the doors in search of a light snack or something sweet to tide them over. No one seemed to mind the standing-room-only situation, but I made mental plans to get another table or two into the space as soon as possible, at least until I could afford to expand into the loft above. Folks without a seat simply sipped their drinks and roamed the perimeter until a table opened. Meanwhile, they read old newspapers I’d collected from estate sales and the framed articles I’d hung on display, familiarizing themselves with Blossom Valley history. A few folks tried to buy my décor right off the walls, but I wasn’t running a Cracker Barrel. Nothing in my shop was mass-produced or intended for resale. That was one of the things I loved most about my memorabilia: Everything I’d collected was as authentic, as original and irreplaceable, as the folks who’d owned them before me or those who were featured in the content.
I cleared empty plates and glasses from the counter as a trio of guests took their leave, replaced immediately by another wave of newcomers. “Welcome!” I said, motioning them to the empty seats before me. “Make yourselves at home. Menu’s over the bar.” I pointed to the mirror and smiled. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
I stepped aside to give them a minute, opting to tidy the display I’d made at the end of the counter. A brightly colored poster board encouraged folks to register for a West Virginia hunting license and help keep our state “wild and wonderful.”
A pair of men in khaki pants and polo shirts stopped to give the sign a read. “Cider shops are drumming up hunters these days?” the taller man asked, looking first to his friend, then to me. “What’s your gain? You’re a fruit farmer, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, “but license sales are down, and that money supports our Division of Natural Resources, which is important to me. Plus, hunting’s a big deal around here. It’s a long-held tradition, part of our local culture and who we are as a community.”
The man nodded and rubbed his chin. “My granddaddy taught me to hunt,” he said, a little smile on his lips. “He taught me to track and trap. Respect nature. Eat what you kill and never waste. Probably why I don’t hunt anymore. I haven’t needed the food in years. Decades,” he said with a humorless shake of his head. “Probably not since I joined the Air Force right out of high school.”
His buddy grunted. “Time certainly flies, doesn’t it?” “You hunt?” the first man asked, looking my way once more.
“No, but my grampy taught me too. Half my high school missed class for opening day of deer season back then. They probably still do. Blossom Valley’s big on traditions and not so much on change. Overall, though, the state’s losing funds, and I wanted to raise awareness.”
His gaze grew distant, caught in a memory, I supposed. “It’s nice folks don’t have to hunt for food the way we did as kids,” he said. “You remember?”
His friend nodded. “Mama turned everything into jerky before we had a freezer. That or it got cooked and canned.”
The men laughed, and I wondered briefly at their ages.
“I had no idea how poor we were,” the quieter man said.
“’Cause we were happy. We didn’t need things to make us that way. We just were. We had siblings, friends, a roof over our heads, and the big blue sky over that. Nothing but clean air and freedom everywhere.”
I patted the display. “Well, if you have the extra money now, and want to help a good cause, you can pledge to buy a hunting license. I’ve got flyers with the office location where you can stop in and register.”
The men smiled as they added their names to my list of pledges.
“Thanks,” I said. “Cider’s on the house. What’ll it be?”
The quieter of the men handed me a business card. “How about twenty-five gallons of your best and a table at this week’s reenactment? We’re Bill and Jim, by the way. We fund the event every year, but this is the first we’ve attended in eons.”
I took the card, then shook each man’s now-extended hand. “Winnie,” I said. “I’m confused. Are you placing an order or asking me to rent a table from you?” Did I even have twenty-five gallons of cider to spare? Granny had plenty in cold storage, but they were standard flavors. Was that what these guys wanted?
“We’re offering you booth nineteen,” Jim said, nodding to the card in my hand. A number nineteen was scrawled in the top corner. “No charge. If you want it. I’d guess you’re going to need twenty-five gallons to start.”
Bill handed me a credit card. “How about we pay for the cider up front? Then you can donate the money you make on it to the DNR, or you could give a free cup to anyone who pledges to buy a hunting license. Whatever you think is best. We trust your judgment.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “We’ve been away from our roots far too long, and it’s nice to know there are folks like you who still care about our home state and all the living things in it.”
A bubble of gratitude swelled in my chest as I ran the credit card for twenty-five gallons of cider.
Two minutes later, I shook Bill’s and Jim’s hands once more, and they were gone.
Birdie passed them in the doorway before hustling in my direction. “Well?” she asked. “What’d you find out?”
I gave her a recap of my visit with Nate, Polly, and the hounds, then added, “He was ruder than I’d ever noticed at the butcher shop, and he seemed a little misogynistic. He kind of bossed his wife around, but none of that makes him a killer. In fact, he says he was in town when we found Mr. Potter,” I explained. “If his story’s true, he couldn’t have killed him. Mr. Potter died a
t his pumpkin patch, after I spoke with him and before I left.”
“I’ll ask around,” she said. “Find out if he’s lying.”
“I wouldn’t mind getting a look around the Potters’ property, if Mrs. Potter won’t mind. Nate seemed to think there was something going on over there worth checking out,” I said, not wanting to elaborate or mention the corn maze in case Birdie told Mrs. Potter, and Nate was right about the debauchery.
“I’m sure she’ll welcome you,” Birdie said. “No one wants to name her husband’s killer as much as she does. Now”—Birdie rapped her knuckles on the counter between us for dramatic effect—“what about Brittany Ann? Have you spoken with her?”
“Not yet, but I looked her up online, and she seems to be happily married. Not to mention a little young for Mr. Potter. I can’t imagine her being involved in an affair at all, especially not with an old guy.”
“Watch it,” Birdie said. “I’m older than Jacob Potter was.”
I cringed, mentally pulled my foot from my mouth, then lifted both palms in surrender. “I’m just saying, is all. Twenty years is a major age difference. Would you date someone my age?”
“Of course not,” Birdie balked. “Who am I? Mrs. Robinson?”
I decided to let that go and work on another possibility. “Maybe he was secretly her father? The child of a young man’s fling, covered up all these years.”
Birdie looked at me as if I’d grown a second head.
“Sorry. I’ve been watching Granny’s stories.” Her term for daytime soap operas.
“Clearly,” she said. “Brittany Ann’s parents are from Pittsburgh. The family moved here when Brittany was eight.”
“Right. I’ll talk to her, but I’m not going to insult her by asking if she was having an affair. It’s not my place and none of my business.”
Birdie smiled. “Keep me posted.” She hiked her big black purse high on one shoulder and brushed the tip of one pinkie against the corner of her mouth. “I’m headed out to the battlefield. The Marines are practicing in uniform today. I don’t want to miss that.”
“Enjoy.” I grabbed two pitchers of seasonal cinnamon cider and went to check on the crowded tables. Cinnamon was the flavor of the day, which meant it came with unlimited refills. I’d invented the in-house promotion to encourage folks to try new flavors after I’d been forced to pour out several gallons of expired ginger and lemon cider last summer. Free refills on the flavor of the day meant expanding guests’ palettes and turning over my stock before it aged out. I thanked my nearly completed business degree for that bright idea. Marketing Strategies 101 had been a brilliant and useful course. Unlike the Ancient European Art History class I was currently taking. Not that I didn’t enjoy the content, but I wouldn’t have willingly traded a thousand bucks for it, given a choice.
The Cider Shop Rules Page 14