Dead on the Vine

by Elle Brooke White

  Dead

  on the

  Vine

  A FINN FAMILY FARM MYSTERY

  Elle Brooke White

  To the beauty all around us.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to my agents Sharon Belcastro and Ella Marie Shupe for recognizing that there was a book in my social media anthropomorphisms of the strawberries in my garden. Thanks to everyone at Crooked Lane it has been an entirely enjoyable experience. I’d like to especially express my gratitude to Jenny Chen for her publishing wisdom and gentle editing. You’ve made this book better.

  Lastly I want to thank mother nature for your beauty and majesty. We share a beautiful planet and it should go without saying that we must treat it with respect and awe.

  Chapter One

  Charlotte was flying off to a life that couldn’t be farther from her fast-track advertising career in Chicago. Like a modern-day character from Green Acres, she was going from penthouse to produce farm. The skills that had ignited her meteoric rise with two unforgettable ad campaigns would be of no use to her there. She’d learned the hard way how fickle fate is when her peers had dismissed her after one bad ad. Yes, she could still sell a bowl of hot chili to beachgoers in a heat wave, but that was not going to help her run a small menagerie of livestock and fields of strawberries and tomatoes, clear over on the West Coast of the country.

  Charlotte landed in Los Angeles and relaxed a bit as she moved through the hustle and bustle of a major airport. She could still feel the energy of a big city, but this was not her final destination. The gentleman who had sold her a car over the internet met her outside the baggage claim area. That in itself was a cosmic departure from Charlotte’s signature mode—carefully considered decisions.

  He led her outside the terminal and handed her the car keys. There, parked at the curb, was her classic Buick Estate Wagon. Charlotte had been advised that if she was going to purchase a vintage automobile—this one from 1996—to do it in a region that has warm weather year-round to limit the amount of rust. She always wrestled with new and modern versus classic and timeworn, more often tipping the scales to the latter. Charlotte was both surprised and heartened that it looked as though this vehicle was going to meet her expectations. The exterior was painted bright white and had wood grain paneling along the sides. It also had the rare three rows of seating, with the back tapering off to the hatchback rear door. A light beige leather interior and vista roof completed the package. This would be perfect for trips to the garden supply store, for hauling pallets of berries to the farmers market, and for accommodating visiting and new friends on local road trips—in other words, for farm life.

  * * *

  As she exited the airport and found the freeway that would take her north, the Buick Roadmaster purred to life, making the drive on open road both pleasing and exhilarating. She rolled down the windows and breathed in the fresh air, to taste the freedom. She tested the radio and found an oldies station that just happened to be playing the Beach Boys. Perfect segue into her new life. She left the dial on this station and let the nostalgic, simple songs of love and fun and innocence permeate her soul.

  The catalyst for this move had come when Charlotte learned that she had been named as the sole beneficiary of her great-uncle Tobias Finn’s farm in Little Acorn, California. In many ways this was the answer to her prayers. She had a reason to leave her shame behind in Chicago, pay off her debts, and start over. Memories were starting to creep back into her mind from the one magical summer she’d spent on the farm as a kid. Getting back to nature seemed like a fitting fork in the road to take. The inheritance included a fifty-acre produce farm that both confounded and excited her. I’ve been to a farmers market, so how hard can this be?

  As an added bonus, Charlotte’s best childhood friends, the sister and brother team of Diane and Beau Mason, lived just a two-hour drive from the farm in Santa Monica. The plan was to meet up in the quaint town that Charlotte would soon call home and then head up to the farm together for a weekend reunion.

  Charlotte let the sights of the scenic drive inform her arrival. Unlike the overbearing summer heat in Chicago, the sun was shining but the air was cool and comfortable. She hadn’t been on a trip like this to the country since her parents had taken her, Diane, and Beau to a small cabin by the lake outside Chicago for her fifth birthday. She remembered how much she’d loved spending her days outside with nature and falling asleep to the sound of crickets. She’d drifted so far away from all that when she moved to the city and got an office job … This is going to be a great return to the outdoors!

  She smiled as she let her thoughts travel back to the time when she’d happened on a doe and her fawn in the woods and to the nights of capturing lightning bugs in a jar. Coincidently, she spotted a ladybug sitting outside on the driver’s side windshield. She’d seen her when she first got into the car but couldn’t imagine that the bug was still hanging on after forty minutes at sixty miles per hour.

  You’re a tough little lady.

  Charlotte put on her turn signal, slowed, and veered off to the side of the road. She shut the engine and leaned her head out the driver’s side window.

  “If you want to safely get off the windshield and go exploring, this is your chance, my polka-dotted friend.”

  The bug didn’t budge.

  “No? Here. Climb onto my hand, and I’ll make it easier for you.”

  Charlotte extended her fingers and pressed them on the glass directly next to the ladybug. From inside the car, she watched the bug lift her antennaed head in the direction of her fingers as if she was considering the offer. Suddenly, she hopped onto her thumb, and Charlotte slowly brought her arm back into the car. She noticed that there was one yellow spot among the black spots on the bug’s red body.

  “So, do I take it from your actions that you wish to continue on to my great-uncle’s farm with me? Why don’t you sit up here where it’s sunny and warm?”

  Charlotte rested her hand on the dash behind the steering wheel, and the ladybug walked off and took up residence a little to the left and in full view of Charlotte, who started the car up again and merged back onto the highway. She’d left her window open and undid her ponytail so that her long, curly red hair could fly free.

  “I’ve always heard that ladybugs bring good luck, so I am very grateful to make your acquaintance.”

  Further north she noticed that the towns became very agricultural. Charlotte passed flat acres of strawberries, followed by fields of broccoli, and then what looked to her like avocado trees. A knot formed in her stomach as she worried about how unsuited she was for this kind of work.

  Uncle Tobias was never a quitter.

  She summoned up the determination not to let him down.

  It was the top of the hour, and the oldies station took a break for the local news and weather. Charlotte listened intently as she realized that both were about to become an integral part of running a farm.

  The Santa Barbara agricultural commissions office released their annual crop report today, and as was the case last year and the year prior, strawberries led the top ten commodities, followed by broccoli and wine grapes.

  Good! She’d be growing the number-one crop.

  About twenty minutes later, she took her exit onto a narrower road that wove up and through the Santa Ynez Valley. She turned off, as her phone’s navigation instructed, and saw a quaint sign mounted on upright logs that read:

  “Welcome to Little Acorn, Home of the White Strawberry”

  Across and up ahead on the cobblestone main street, she spotted her friends and got a warm, comfortable feeling inside. She parked in the first spot she saw, excited to reconnect. Still sitting in the car, she took a moment to get acclimated to her sur
roundings. This was no sleepy hitching post. Little Acorn was abuzz with activity from its local people, who carried on their business with an air that was downright jovial. Charlotte let out a sigh of relief. This was the America of old movies, where people took pride in what they do and in themselves. She was far away from the second-guessing and paranoia of her life in Chicago. People weren’t trying to fit in or be somebody that they weren’t. They were answering to a higher power: nature.

  Charlotte watched a farmer selling baskets of strawberries from an old wooden pushcart with large wagon wheels. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, and this was probably a little crop he tended on his parents’ farm to sell for spending money. He already had the muscles of the man he would become, but his curly chestnut hair, poking out in all directions from under his backward cap, was all boy. He’d sold about half of the cartful, and true to Little Acorn’s advertising, he had a handful of baskets filled with white strawberries.

  Fascinating.

  Charlotte heard laughter and saw that her friends had disembarked from their car and were giggling with excitement.

  “You wait here, ladybug—we haven’t yet reached our final destination. I have a feeling that we are both going to love it!”

  Charlotte struggled a bit on the cobblestone walk, in her heels, and realized that she needed to let go of the last vestige of her city ways—her wardrobe.

  “You’re here!” Charlotte clapped as she approached her friends.

  “What a cute town!” Diane remarked and opened her arms wide to Charlotte. “God, I’ve missed you. And you’ve gotten even prettier. I hate you.”

  They both laughed and hugged again.

  “You are so tan—it must be all that beach time and endless summer.” Charlotte had stepped back to get a better look at her friend. In truth, Diane looked thin and tired. The dark circles dimmed her trademark eyes—large and expressive. They’d made a point of speaking or texting at least every other day, but Diane clearly had been dealing with some issues that she had chosen not to share.

  Charlotte had followed the reviews of the immensely popular restaurant where Diane worked as a sous chef, and hoped that she could coerce her friend into making a delicious meal for them. When they were teenagers, Diane had always used Charlotte as a guinea pig to taste her epicurean creations. Once she’d had Charlotte dress like a princess from the island of Monaco, and served her a five-course meal. The grand finale was a delectable Charlotte Russe made with ladyfingers, Bavarian cream, and fruit. Charlotte spoke with a French accent during the entire meal, and Beau joined the meal partway through, dressed as the king.

  Mostly Charlotte longed to curl up on a sofa with Diane, chat, and resume being best friends.

  “I’ve never seen an open air market like this in Los Angeles,” Diane cooed. “Are those watermelon radishes? I’m going to need to get a big bunch because I’ve got the perfect snack in mind. You clean the radishes but leave the stems intact, then melt some yummy sweet butter, dip the bottoms in, and set them aside for the butter to harden. Then I’ll serve them with some fine sea salt, and I promise you’ll think that you’ve died and gone to heaven!”

  “Yum-mee!” Charlotte noticed that Diane’s face was already glowing from her brighter mood.

  Dear Diane, it’s time for some of my special brand of Charlotte nurturing.

  Beau had been observing their reunion. “Are you two going to leave me out in the cold?” he asked, moving in for a sandwich hug.

  “Come give me a kiss, my Beau-bro. You are definitely my brother in spirit.” Charlotte pulled Beau close.

  As an event planner, Beau was a master of transformation, as evidenced by his launch party for a new chain of plant-based burger stands. At the flagship location, Beau had turned the parking lot into a rodeo where riders on horseback chased people dressed as vegetables. Spectators sat in the stands, where they were given free burger samples. He liked to describe himself as an “extravaganza maker” and even had that title on his business cards.

  Charlotte thought back to the antics they used to pull in the Chicago suburb where they had been raised, and giggled. Beau would create all sorts of fantasy worlds when the three of them were growing up, in part to fill the alone time because mama and papa Mason both worked. Now thirty, Beau never had shed his Peter Pan persona. He’d always approached life as a smorgasbord of delicious options, often taking the road less traveled. You might never make the same choices as Beau, but you couldn’t help but share his delight in finding them.

  “Are you wearing heels?” he asked, noticing their height difference. “If the cobblestones don’t get them first, you’re going to need me to help you move all this city attire to the back of your closet. You’re a country girl now. Look around you; it’s denim, red and white checks, and sundresses, my dear.”

  “This really is another world,” Diane remarked, interrupting their banter.

  A relaxed environment. Everyone seems so friendly and welcoming.

  She’d forgotten the warm custom of greeting and smiling at strangers. She promised herself that she would smile at everyone.

  A man in work clothes approached.

  My first chance.

  As the farmer walked past, he flicked his cigarette, eyed Charlotte and her friends, and spat. If Beau hadn’t jumped back quickly, the spittle would have landed directly on his shoes.

  “Oh dear.” Diane stood, her mouth agape.

  Charlotte was stunned at first but then reminded herself that farming was all about nature and natural things. Perhaps this was nothing. She studied the man as he joined another farmer outside the general store, and they both stared back at her. It looked like they were talking about her and her friends. The one who had spat looked to be in his early thirties. He had stringy blond hair that hung limp from his green bucket hat—as though it hadn’t seen a comb in months. He had a beard to match that also was left to grow willy-nilly.

  He’s not unpleasant looking, but he looks like he hasn’t been happy in a very long time.

  Seeing this, Charlotte started to feel sorry for him, and she reminded herself that you never really know what someone else is dealing with in life, so it’s best to be kind. The man next to him was a bit younger and, by his looks, could be his brother. He was clean-shaven and carried some extra weight. His manner was subservient compared to the other farmer’s. The younger farmer hunched over to make himself look smaller, and he listened to the angry man talk, but never made eye contact. The expression on his face was born of either apathy or total passivity. In either case, she wasn’t going to let one or two possible bad apples ruin an otherwise quaint, perfect place.

  “Okay guys, feel free to wander about and check out the local shops, but don’t get yourselves arrested,” Charlotte joked, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m meeting the lawyer at the title office, and then I’m off to my late uncle’s bank.”

  “Ta-ta—we’ll procure some biscuits, cider, and cheese for the afternoon.” Diane giggled.

  “Let’s go exploring,” Charlotte heard Beau say as he and Diane linked arms and trotted off in the opposite direction.

  Charlotte walked along the old brick sidewalk and admired the country shops. She hesitated in front of a bakery and coffee shop from which emanated the most enticing aromas, but instead of going in, made a promise to herself to pick up a basket of goodies on her way out of town.

  She reached the title office and admired its antique, tin-tiled white façade and hunter-green shingles.

  I feel like I’ve been transported back to the 1940s.

  A tinkling bell rang as she opened the door. She found the waiting area, took a seat, and dialed the estate attorney’s number.

  The lawyer was running late, he told her over the phone—something about a herd of cows crossing the highway. Charlotte wasn’t sure that she was ready for this rural lifestyle, but she had a prime seat in the waiting area of the title office that overlooked the entire main street through town. This gave her another chan
ce to assess her new surroundings and the people that lived here.

  So this is what Main Street, USA, looks like. How simply wonderful.

  * * *

  Charlotte, reeling from her meeting with the lawyer, decided to return to her car rather than continuing to explore the town of Little Acorn. She just wanted to get up to the farm. When she plopped down behind the wheel, she saw that the ladybug was just where she’d left her. Her spirits lifted, Charlotte rolled down the window and closed her eyes for a moment. This had been quite a day so far.

  “Well, that was a little awkward,” she heard Beau say from outside the car.

  It’s about to get more than awkward. Wait until they hear my news.

  “Just ignore those two. They’re clearly the exception rather than the rule, and as I’ve told you a million times, not everyone can appreciate the wonder that is Beau.”

  That was Diane—always diffusing a bad situation.

  “Success?” Beau asked Diane.

  “Are you kidding? Every second store offers delectable, homemade, savory and sweet foods. I don’t even want to tell you how much sweet butter I have in my bag. While you were perusing the five-cent candy jars at that quaint general store, I popped into a shop and got a good variety of baked goods and infused honey. Since we don’t know what we are about to face with the farm, I figured that we couldn’t go wrong with the cornucopia of fresh items I’m carrying. And wait until you see the size of the artichokes! I see an aioli in our future while we sit back and admire the back forty.”

  “And how about you, dear Charlotte—are you now in possession of your fabulous farm?” Beau asked.

  Charlotte slowly shook her head, and Diane leaned into the window, appearing to study Charlotte’s face.

  “The bank account that is now in my name contains a revolving amount consisting of direct deposits made by the produce distributor and then debits for payroll and bills. Each time this cycle happens, my account goes down to almost zero. In other words, my inheritance is a money pit.”