by Penny Pike
“I’d like to taste some of your apple wine,” I said. Obviously she didn’t recognize me from last night at the fire at Red’s farm, but then it was hectic and dark, and I had only been an observer. I wondered if she’d heard about the murder at Honey’s place.
Crystal set out a clean glass and poured a couple of tablespoons into it. “This is my Applewhite, one of my most popular wines. It’s crisp and dry, with a light taste of oak.”
I swirled the wine around the glass like the way I’d seen professional wine tasters do, then drank it down. “Mmm,” I said. “Very good.”
She got out a fresh glass, uncapped another bottle, and poured in a sample. “Now try this one. It’s more of a dessert wine, with a fruity flavor. I call it Sweet Tiffany.”
“Named after your daughter?” I asked, then downed the sip.
Crystal grinned. “Yes! How did you know?”
“I saw you at Red Cortland’s farm last night, after the fire.”
The smile faded as her eyes widened. “You were there? Are you friends with Red?”
“Oh no,” I said quickly. “Several of us are staying at the Enchanted Apple Inn and we heard about the fire, so we came over to see if there was anything we could do.”
“Oh,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “You’re guests at Honey Smith’s place. Then you must know about the murder.”
I blinked. Apparently word had gotten out, at least among the locals.
“You heard about it too?” I asked, wondering how she’d learned the news. This being a small town, no doubt information spread faster than melting ice cream on a slice of hot apple pie.
“Of course,” she said. “We don’t get many murders here in Apple Valley. When something like this happens, everyone hears about it. Aren’t many secrets in a place like this.”
Yeah? I wondered.
“Did you know Roman Gold, the man who was killed?” I asked, curious about what she might know.
“Never heard of him. Supposed to be some kind of writer doing an article on the Apple Fest, but he never talked to me. Someone said he sounded kind of pro-GMO. That wouldn’t have won him any popularity contests, at least not around here.”
“It does seem like a lot of farmers are upset about the new GMO apples. But I hardly think his interest in them would get him killed. After all, he was just writing about the situation. As a journalist, he’s supposed to remain unbiased.” At least, that’s what they told us in journalism school.
“Well, GMO apples don’t bother me,” Crystal said, filling another clean glass with some of her wine. I thought she was about to offer it to me while we chatted, but instead she swallowed a couple of sips herself.
“You’re not worried about them?” I asked.
“Oh, I sympathize with the growers, but my winery won’t be affected, since bigger and prettier apples aren’t really an issue for wine-making. Besides, it’s going to happen anyway—that’s progress—so we might as well accept it. Things happen that are out of our control. One day you have a farm. The next day it’s burned to the ground. One day you’re married. The next day he walks out on you. That’s life.”
She took another long swallow of wine and set down the glass a little harder than she should have. I was surprised it didn’t crack or shatter into pieces.
“What do you think is going on with those fires?” I thought she might have some additional insight to offer after chugging that wine.
She frowned. “What are you, some kind of reporter too?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m working in one of the food trucks at the festival. The Big Yellow School Bus. And writing a cookbook featuring food truck recipes.”
She brightened. “Why didn’t you say so? I give vendors a discount on my wines.”
“Great. Then I’d like two glasses of the Applewhite.”
She poured the wine into the two glasses I’d used for tasting, apparently not concerned that they should be perfectly clean. Was the alcohol level affecting her wine-serving protocol?
“As for the fires,” she said, “now, they’re a real concern. My guess is someone is setting those fires to send a message, and who knows who’ll be next? My winery? If I lose my business, I’ll be left with nothing. My daughter and I would be in serious trouble. We can’t live on her small income making crafts and setting up hay mazes and selling scarecrows. I hope they catch the bastard, and soon.”
So, it sounded as though the fires worried her, but the dead man wasn’t an issue. Interesting.
“That’ll be ten dollars for the wine,” she said. “With the discount. And ten for the two glasses. They’re souvenirs, unless you want plastic cups.”
Twenty bucks for wine and glasses? With a discount?
Wow.
I gave her a twenty and picked up the glasses. “Thanks,” I said. “Nice chatting with you.”
“You too. Come by sometime over the weekend so you can meet my daughter, Tiffany.”
“I think saw her last night. There’s a family resemblance.”
Crystal smiled proudly. “Yep. Got her mom’s nose and eyes.” She looked around. “Funny, she was here just a minute ago, helping me out. Now where’d she get to?”
I bit my tongue. No way was I getting involved in this potential drama. I already had more than enough drama to deal with on my own.
Chapter 9
I picked up my two glasses of wine and looked around for a nearby picnic table where Jake and I could sit down, take a break, and enjoy the drinks. I spotted a free one, sat down, and took a few minutes to relax, inhaling the smells of cut hay, hot cider, and horses around me. The trees in the nearby orchard dazzled with fall colors, and I wondered for a moment what it would be like to live in such beautiful country.
I glanced around and noticed almost all the food trucks were closed. Luckily I’d already collected a number of yummy recipes for my book, including apple donuts, apple sausage, and apple-cinnamon muffins. Most of the tents had lowered their front flaps, except for Crystal’s wine tent and a few other merchants. But the amusements and attractions were still open, including the nearby A-MAZE-ing Maze, which had a line of kids, teenagers, and adults waiting to get lost among the hay bales and scarecrows.
I searched for Tiffany, wondering where she’d gone to meet Nathan and what they were up to. I had a feeling Crystal wouldn’t be pleased. She seemed to keep a watchful eye over her grown daughter. But then, most mothers wouldn’t want their twenty-something daughters fraternizing with forty-year-old men.
Jake arrived a few minutes later. By then I was halfway finished with my glass of apple wine and thinking about having a second.
“Hi,” he said as he sat down on the picnic bench opposite me. He took up the glass of wine I’d brought him. “Thanks. I need this. It’s been a long day.”
“The wine’s not bad,” I said, taking another sip.
Jake glanced around, then turned to me. “Hey, are you ready to find your way through the labyrinth?”
It would be more like a rat trapped in a maze, I thought, wondering if I had a touch of claustrophobia. “Uh, sure . . . as soon as I’m done with my wine.”
We chatted a few minutes about our day. Both of our trucks had lots of customers and we were kept busier than either one of us expected. Plus, we were both exhausted. It felt good just to sit and enjoy the wine as we made dinner plans. Jake mentioned a roadside café he’d passed on his way to the festival called the Peel and the Core and suggested we go there. I hadn’t noticed the place, but it sounded interesting, and we decided we’d head over after a romp in the hay, so to speak.
Just as we finished our drinks, I saw Tiffany come out from the hay maze exit at the far end. She looked as though she was in a daze, stumbling along, unfocused. She shook her head, mumbled something to herself, then glanced around several times, as if checking to see whether anyone was watching her. Luckily she didn’t spot me spying on her. Not with my glass of wine in front of my face. Finally she headed for her mother’s winery tent.
What had happened in that maze to change Tiffany’s behavior so dramatically?
“What are you doing?” Jake asked, apparently noticing my interest in Tiffany.
“Nothing,” I said.
Jake followed my gaze.
“Don’t look!” I said, not wanting Tiffany to notice she had an audience.
Jake turned back, looking puzzled. “Don’t look at what? What exactly are you looking at?”
I sighed. “Tiffany, Crystal’s daughter,” I whispered as if she might overhear me from several yards away. “She just came out of the hay maze exit, looking as if she’d seen a ghost or something. It was very weird. Then she looked around to see if anyone was watching her.”
“Someone is,” Jake said, eyeing me. “You. Maybe that’s why she’s acting a little strange.”
I decided to tell him about my encounter with Crystal. “I saw Tiffany earlier with her mom in the tent, and then Nathan Chapman showed up, and then Tiffany disappeared out the back of the tent, and then when I stepped up to get our wine, Crystal started looking for Tiffany because she wanted to introduce me, and now Tiffany suddenly reappears from behind the hay maze.” Nearly out of breath, I inhaled deeply.
Another movement from the hay maze caught my eye.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. “Don’t look now, but guess who just came out of the maze?”
“Who?” Jake asked.
“Nathan Chapman!”
The man glanced around, just as Tiffany had done a few minutes earlier, then pulled out his flask and took a long swallow.
I caught Jake staring at him. “I said don’t look!”
Why is it when you say don’t look, people look?
Jake sighed. “Darcy, what’s the big deal? What do you think is going on?”
“I don’t know, but something is. . . .” I nodded toward the Wise Apple tent.
“Can I look?” Jake asked sarcastically.
“If you’re discreet,” I said.
We watched Tiffany approach her mom, who stood behind the serving table. I had to strain to hear their conversation.
“Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking all over for you,” Crystal said to her daughter.
Tiffany seemed to look through her mother. “Just . . . checking on the hay maze. Why?”
Crystal studied her daughter, her brow furrowed. “Checking on the maze? What on earth for? You hired college kids to do that.”
Tiffany shrugged and glanced away. “Uh, J.J. said there was a loose bale, so I went to check on it. It’s my responsibility if the bales come falling down on someone, you know.” Her voice was flat.
“Well, get J.J. to fix it. That’s his job.” Crystal looked about to say something more; then she closed her mouth. Her eyes narrowed. I glanced to see what had caught her attention.
Nathan Chapman was approaching the Wise Apple wine booth.
“Everything going well?” he asked cheerily, focusing on Crystal. Tiffany suddenly turned away and busied herself cleaning another wineglass.
“Fine,” Crystal said, eyeing him. She turned to Tiffany. “Tiff, go get me a few more bottles of the Applewhite. I’m almost out.”
Tiffany looked up at her mom, then stole a quick glance at Nathan. She nodded and exited out the back of the tent.
As soon as Tiffany was out of sight, Crystal turned to Nathan. “We need to talk,” she said, coming out from behind the serving table. “Over here.”
She walked a few feet away from the tent and out of earshot. Nathan followed her. I could only see Crystal, since Nathan’s back was to me, but it was clear from her expression she was angry. She said something I couldn’t make out; then Nathan shook his head, pulled out his flask, and took a drink. All I could hear were muted voices. It was obvious they were having an argument. I wondered what they were fighting about.
I had a feeling it was about Tiffany.
After a few heated minutes, Nathan gave a last shake of his head, then stomped off and out of sight. Crystal remained there for a moment watching him, then headed back to her own tent, just as Tiffany returned with the wine bottles. The young woman glanced around, frowned, and set the bottles down.
“Mother—”
Before she could say anything more, Crystal pulled down the front flap of the tent, closing the wine kiosk, and blocking my view of the two of them.
“Get in the back,” I heard Crystal’s muffled voice say behind the tent. “Now!”
Then nothing more.
“I guess that’s the end of wine service for now,” I said, turning back to Jake.
“What was that all about?” he asked.
“I told you something was up. I think it has to do with Tiffany and Nathan. I get the feeling Crystal doesn’t like Nathan. She must suspect something too.”
“You got all of that from just watching them for a few minutes?” Jake grinned. “Who are you, Sherlock Holmes?”
“Simple, deductive reasoning,” I said, using a very bad British accent.
“And you came up with that scenario?”
“Look at the facts, Watson,” I said. “Elementary, don’t you think?”
“I think you should write romantic suspense novels instead of cookbooks. You really think there’s something going on between Tiffany and a guy who’s twice her age?”
I shrugged. “All I know is Tiffany seems naive and kind of clueless, Nathan is some kind of alcoholic player, and Crystal acts like an overprotective mother.”
“Or maybe she’s jealous,” Jake suggested.
“Jealous? Why do you say that?”
“Nathan and Crystal look about the same age. Maybe they were involved at one time, but something happened and now he’s interested in the younger version of Crystal—her daughter.”
“I doubt it. Crystal only recently got divorced.”
“Maybe that’s why her husband walked—because she cheated on him.” His voice rose in excitement; his eyes were wide.
I slapped his leg gently. “You’re making fun of me!”
Jake laughed. “Why the big interest in this, anyway? Shouldn’t you be using that brain power to figure out who killed Roman Gold? For a reporter, that’s more your style.”
“I was a restaurant critic, not a reporter. And I have no idea who might have killed Roman Gold. Detective Shelton is supposed to arrive tonight. Maybe he can solve the murder.”
“Well, how about we take a break from the Crystal-Tiffany-Nathan soap opera and do the maze? I plan to win that bet we have going.”
I rose from the picnic table. Jake was right. What was I doing puzzling over this odd triangle? Maybe because, with my journalism background, it was my nature to be curious about people. But what went on inside hay mazes and closed tents was none of my business. There was a more pressing puzzle to be solved with the death of Roman Gold.
I had a growing concern that Honey’s freedom was at stake—and I might have been the one who pointed that stake right at her heart. If I ended up being responsible, I’d never forgive myself—and neither would Aunt Abby.
• • •
Jake and I paid the entrance fee to a forlorn-looking college guy with long stringy hair and a vacant look in his eyes, then got in line behind a group of loud teenagers. While we waited for our turn, I read over the large sign posting the rules and tips:
THE A-MAZE-ING SCARECROW HAY MAZE RULES:
NO SMOKING!
No alcohol or drugs.
No running. No horseplay. No bad language.
Stay on the path.
Use the bathroom before you enter. There are no facilities inside the maze!
The field is 2 acres, covering 2 miles.
Average time to complete it is 1 hour.
No admittance an hour before closing.
I checked the hours—ten a.m. to six p.m. We’d just make it.
If you get lost, do NOT call 911. Call or text us and we’ll send in one of our maze runners. If you call 911, you will be fined by the city for wasting offi
cers’ time and resources. (Note: This really happened to a family. The officers found them in 8 minutes. The family was uninjured but fined $500.)
Ha! I’d sleep overnight in the place before I’d resort to calling 911.
And finally the last rule, which was the same as the first:
NO SMOKING!
I pulled out my cell phone and tapped in “hay maze tips.” I figured it wasn’t cheating if I called it research. I found a site that read “How to survive a corn/hay maze without calling 911.”
Perfect. I scanned the suggestions.
Bring a flashlight if it’s dark.
I looked up. The sun was setting and it would be dark soon. Good thing I had my cell phone flashlight app.
Look for a watchtower and use it to see bigger sections of the maze.
The A-MAZE-ing Hay Maze didn’t appear to have any towers.
Carry a stick with a handkerchief tied to the top to locate one another if you get separated.
Clever! Except I didn’t have a stick or a handkerchief. The best I could do was take off my bra and wave it around if I got lost.
Use your cell phone GPS and Google Earth to find your way out.
Now, that was cheating. Seriously.
Orient yourself first. Listen for sounds of traffic, machinery, etc.
Notice where the exit is before you begin.
Keep an eye out for details along the route so you don’t go around in circles.
Good tips. I listened for the sound of cars passing by and made a mental note that the entrance—and the exit at the other end—was not far from the highway. As for details along the way, I doubted I would notice variations in the hay, but maybe the scarecrows placed along the way would offer some clues.
If you get lost, follow little kids. They seem to know how to get out. But if you have no sense of direction, perhaps don’t go in in the first place.