Death of a Bad Apple

by Penny Pike

  I laughed. “Are you saying I need one too?”

  “Nope. Just thought you might like a soapy body massage. I’ll even wash your hair.”

  I blushed and giggled as we entered the room. “You get the soap; I’ll get the shampoo.”

  Twenty minutes later we were clean and cuddling in bed. Jake put his arm around me, and I nestled onto his chest. In a manner of seconds I heard regular sounds of his soft breathing. I envied how easily he could fall asleep.

  I lay awake for the next half hour, going over the events of the day, the murder and the fires, and the detective’s interest in talking with Paula and Adam. What was up with Tiffany and Nathan? Who killed Roman Gold? Who was setting those fires?

  I sighed and began counting my breaths, something I did to help me get to sleep. The answers—if there were any—would have to wait until morning. I just hoped we all woke up and found ourselves alive.

  • • •

  I must have slept like the dead, because I didn’t wake up until Jake nudged me. He was already showered, shaved, and dressed. “Breakfast time,” he whispered, and kissed me.

  I bolted upright and glanced at the clock. “Why didn’t you wake me!” I fluffed my flat hair, rubbed my eyes, and swung my legs out of bed.

  “You looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you. I figured you needed the sleep.”

  “Yeah, but I need breakfast too! And I need to get ready for work. Where are my clothes? My shoes? My hairbrush?” I ran around the room collecting various items necessary to put myself together. “You go on down. Save me a seat and some food. And coffee.”

  Jake smiled at my wild-eyed dance of panic. “You sure? I’m happy to wait for you.”

  “No! Go! I’ll be down in five minutes.”

  He arched an eyebrow. Apparently he didn’t believe I could work a miracle in such a short time. I’d show him.

  As soon as the door clicked closed, I pulled on yesterday’s jeans and a fresh top and slipped on my dusty Toms. I ran a brush through my hair and then scrunched it to trade that “just got out of bed” look for an “I meant to wear it this way” style. As promised, I was down the stairs in five minutes flat. Maybe six.

  Aunt Abby, Detective Shelton, Dillon, and Jake were all seated when I arrived at the dining table. Paula was conspicuously missing, plus our hostess. And the dead guy, of course. Honey appeared seconds later from the kitchen with the first breakfast plates. The smell of apple sausage and apple waffles with caramel syrup perfumed the air.

  “Good morning, Darcy,” Aunt Abby said as I sat down next to Jake. The others smiled or nodded.

  I immediately took a sip of the coffee from one of Honey’s dainty porcelain cups. After a good jolt of caffeine, I managed to say, “Good morning, everyone.” I nodded at the empty chair. “Where’s Paula? Did you ask her—” Before I could finished my sentence, everyone looked up at the staircase.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Honey tremble as she set down a plate in front of Detective Shelton. “Oh my goodness,” she whispered. “I hope she’s all right. Maybe I should check on her—”

  We heard a door slam upstairs.

  Paula appeared at the landing, dressed in tight black capri pants, a plunging red sweater two sizes too tight for even her, and a long colorful knitted scarf that hung around her neck like a stole. She stopped when she realized we were all staring at her.

  “Ask me what?” she said, making a face as she continued down the steps. “You all look like you’ve seen a ghost. Did I forget to zip my pants or something?” She laughed, apparently thinking she was funny, then stopped again at the bottom of the stairs. “Oh. . . .wait a minute. You all thought . . . because I was late . . . that I might be dead or something.” She laughed again and seated herself on the other side of Detective Shelton. “Sorry. Not this time.” She smiled at the detective, who ignored her. Aunt Abby, however, caught Paula’s flirtatious grin and glared at her.

  I decided to provide a distraction before a food fight broke out.

  “So, Detective Shelton. How do you like it here in Apple Valley? A nice change from the city?”

  Honey reappeared with two more plates, then spotted Paula and frowned. She set the plates down in front of Jake and me and quickly returned to the kitchen.

  Detective Shelton shrugged. “Fine if you like peace and quiet. Me, I’m a city guy. I can’t sleep unless I hear sirens wailing, horns honking, trucks backing up, and neighbors playing loud music.”

  Paula laughed. “Me too,” she said. “Country life bores the hell out of me. I can’t wait to get back home and away from all this healthy fresh air.”

  Honey brought in plates for Dillon and Paula. After serving them, she sat down, plateless, and sipped her coffee. “Please begin,” she said, noticing her guests had waited until everyone was served.

  “Aren’t you having anything, Honey?” Aunt Abby asked. She looked worried for her friend and rested a hand on her shoulder for a moment. “This breakfast is delicious.”

  “I don’t eat much in the morning,” Honey said. “But I’m glad you’re enjoying it. The apples are from my orchard, of course, and the caramel syrup is my own secret recipe. Be sure to pour it on your waffle while it’s still hot.”

  Dillon and Detective Shelton didn’t hold back and dug in as soon as permission was granted. The rest of us savored each bite. All except for Paula, who ignored her plate of food and focused on her coffee.

  I wondered what Detective Shelton had learned the previous night, and whether the sheriff had confronted Paula about her real job, but it wasn’t the time or place to ask, so I decided to see if I could subtly find out more about her. She’d mentioned “home,” so I thought it would be a good place to start. “So, where is home?”

  “Here and there,” she said, adding more sugar to her coffee. “In my work, I travel a lot. You know how it is.”

  “In your photojournalism work, you mean?” I asked pointedly.

  “Uh, yeah. Always on the go.”

  “That’s funny,” I said, setting down my fork. Enough of this charade. “Actually I heard you’re in the apple business too.”

  “What?” she said, looking at me as if I were crazy.

  Honey glanced me, then at Paula.

  “No, of course not,” Paula said. “I told you before, I’m here to take pictures for an article. My publisher should be sending another writer down today. What’s with the questions?”

  Before I could ask another question, there was a rap at the front door. We turned to see Sheriff O’Neil let himself in. Was this a social call? Or business? I wondered.

  “Morning, everyone,” he said as he headed toward the dining table. “Sorry to disturb you, but I need to have another word with Ms. Hayashi.”

  Paula sighed. “Look, Sheriff, I told you and the cop here everything I know about the murder, which is nothing. This is starting to become harassment. I’m just trying to do my job and you’re not making it easy.”

  “And what job would that be, Ms. Hayashi?” Sheriff O’Neil asked. “Because you’re no photographer, like you told me last night. It’s time to cut the crap, lady. You’re a vice president at Eden Corporation, something you neglected to mention.”

  “You neglected to ask me,” Paula shot back.

  I glanced at the sheriff. I wondered if he’d held on to the information last night to see if Paula might reveal something important—or incriminating.

  The sheriff bit his lip, as if to keep himself from speaking in anger, then calmly said, “You realize, Ms. Hayashi, withholding information borders on interference with a police investigation. You could be prosecuted for obstruction of justice.”

  Paula threw her coffee spoon down on the table. “We have lawyers for that kind of thing,” she said. “Coming here was my assignment and I was supposed to keep it to myself. Who told you, anyway?”

  “I don’t name my sources.”

  I glanced at Dillon, but he was hunkered down, busy shoveling waffle sections int
o his mouth. I was certain he was the one who’d somehow tipped the sheriff. Then again, maybe Aunt Abby had told Detective Shelton and he’d shared the information with the sheriff. Or the sheriff figured it out on his own. Either way, the bad apple was out of the bag. I was just surprised it had taken so long.

  “Well, you’d better be careful relying on anonymous sources for your information,” Paula snapped. She rose from the table. “That’s pretty sketchy police work. I’ve committed no crime, so if I’m not under arrest, you’ll have to excuse me. One of the farmers is showing me the ins and outs of the apple business.”

  “I wonder if he’ll still be interested in providing all that information once he learns who you really are and who you really work for,” Sheriff O’Neil said.

  I thought it was interesting how tenacious the sheriff was being. I figured he would have held back that information until he had more on Paula, but maybe he was baiting her, thinking she might say or do something incriminating. He was certainly sharper than he looked.

  Paula’s face reddened even more under her heavy makeup. She licked her lips, as if trying to come up with a response, then threw her napkin down over her coffee mug and stomped out of the room and up the stairs.

  I looked at the sheriff. “So, where did you get your information?”

  The sheriff glanced at Detective Shelton, who cleared his throat but said nothing.

  Aunt Abby raised her hand as if she were in grade school. “Um, that would be me.”

  “Mo-om!” Dillon said. “I told you not to tell him! He’ll know it came from me.”

  “But he had to know, Dillon. Otherwise, that’s obstruction of justice, right, Wes?”

  “It’s okay, Dillon,” Detective Shelton said. “The sheriff and I already knew.”

  Dillon frowned at him. I sensed he was disappointed not being the only one who could dig up information.

  “So, what does that mean?” Honey asked. “Is Paula a spy? Is that GMO company really planning to take over our farms? It’s already happened at the Jefferson Farm. You know we can’t compete with apples that grow faster, require less water, are pest-resistant, and look perfect. That’s why Roman was here, right? To spy on us.” Tears welled in her eyes.

  I saw her statement as proof that she had nothing to do with Roman’s death. But the sheriff and detective might have felt she’d just provided a motive. Get rid of Roman and eliminate the threat.

  “There’s something else,” Sheriff O’Neil said, taking Paula’s vacated seat. He pushed her untouched plate aside and folded his hands on the table. “I talked with a few of the farmers—Adam, Nathan, Red. When I asked them where they were the night Gold was murdered, they admitted they were here at the inn.”

  Honey’s face flushed. “Oh, I’m sure they left before . . . before anything happened. It couldn’t have been very late.” She glanced at Aunt Abby, Dillon, Jake, and me. “You all saw them. Remember, Red stopped by and had some wine. Then Nathan dropped in and then Adam told us about the fire?”

  “But they came back later that night, didn’t they?” Sheriff O’Neil said to Honey.

  Honey frowned.

  “You were heard arguing with them,” the sheriff added.

  Honey flushed and shot me a look.

  Uh-oh. She knew I was the one who’d told the sheriff that I’d overheard her with the men. I hadn’t know how many, but apparently it had been all three.

  “Yes, well . . .” Honey looked down at her feet, obviously flustered. “Like I said, we were just having a discussion. It was nothing. I don’t even remember—”

  “Tell me about your conversation with them, Honey,” the sheriff insisted.

  She looked up at him, frowning. “All right, yes, they came back here that night. We talked about the drought, then about the festival. They were upset. Something about one of the vendors getting more space than the others. Honestly, that was all we talked about, Sheriff. It had nothing to do with the GMO apples or Eden Corporation or Roman or anything else. In fact, none of us had any idea Roman worked for Eden Corp.”

  I was no detective, but it was obvious from her lack of eye contact and nervous hands that she wasn’t telling the whole truth. And from the frown on the sheriff’s face, I had a feeling he’d sensed this too. Had the three men said something different to the sheriff about why they’d been by so late at night? Something other than their discussion about the festival?

  When he’d announced that both Roman and Paula worked for Eden, Honey seemed genuinely surprised. So, was she holding something back? And why?

  Chapter 14

  When the sheriff was done with his questions, we returned to our rooms and gathered our things for the second day of the festival. Friday had been well attended, but even bigger crowds were expected today. Aunt Abby still had plenty of prepping and baking to do, as did Jake. We headed over to the festival site in our food trucks and Jake parked next to us along the side of the road designated for the mobile vendors.

  Dillon and I helped Aunt Abby with her tarts, and soon the Big Yellow School Bus smelled like caramel-apple heaven. I caught Dillon sneaking a few “damaged” tarts, but I saved my appetite for one of Jake’s fresh apple-infused cream puffs, right out of the oven. With only a few minutes before the festival was set to open, I offered to get coffees for Aunt Abby and Dillon, then swung by Jake’s truck and suggested a trade—a coffee for a cream puff. We made a deal, and I went in search of a coffee vendor among the other food trucks.

  To my surprise, I spotted a familiar truck at the end of the line, and my heart leaped. The outside of the truck sported a cartoon drawing of a sexy witch stirring a large caldron of what was supposed to be witch’s brew—in this case, coffee. The Coffee Witch was in town!

  I waved to Willow, the young woman behind the service window. Willow was part of the Fort Mason food trucks crowd, and her bewitching coffees always garnered a long line of caffeine-addicted patrons. She’d been a big help with solving a murder a few months before and was always handy to have around for intel. Even while whipping up coffee drinks, she seemed to hear all the gossip. I wondered if she’d already learned anything interesting with the apple crowd.

  As usual, her mostly black hair was dyed blond at the tips, cut at an angle, and moussed into spikes. Fast, perky, and full of energy—no doubt fueled by caffeine—Willow was busy serving her magical elixirs that ranged from Simple Spells (vanilla lattes) to Potent Potions (double-shot mochas) to Enchanted Espressos (triple-shot espressos). I had a feeling the Coffee Witch would make a whole bunch of new fans here in Apple Valley, once they fell under her addictive spell.

  I waited my turn, then stepped up to the window. “Willow! What are you doing here?”

  “S’up, Darce?” Willow said, leaning over on her elbows. “You didn’t think you guys were gonna do this gig without me, didja? Thought I’d run up here today and check it out.”

  “I’m so glad you did! I could use a good jolt. Don’t tell me you have some kind of apple-infused coffee drink.”

  “They wouldn’t let me in if I didn’t,” Willow said. “Wanna try my cinnamon-apple latte? It’s really spicy and goes really good with all those apple desserts they’re selling around here. I’m calling it the Wicked Queen’s Cuppa Poison.”

  “Sounds awesome,” I said. “I’ll take four.”

  “Comin’ up,” she said, turning to her espresso machine. “Hey, I heard someone got murdered up here,” she shouted over the noise of the coffeemaker. “Déjà vu, eh?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Someone at the B and B where we’re staying was killed. What have you heard?” Back at Fort Mason, the Coffee Witch was the place to go for the latest dirt.

  She shrugged as she worked and spoke over her shoulder. “Guy in the Apple Fun Funnel Cakes truck said it was some writer. Probably stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong.”

  “Yep, that’s what we writers do,” I said.

  Willow laughed. “I didn’t mean you. Besides, you’re not a regular writer
.”

  I smiled patiently. In her early twenties, Willow was still young and didn’t always think before she spoke. Then again, maybe she was right. Maybe I wasn’t a “regular” writer, now that I was working in a food truck while writing a cookbook.

  “So, you gonna solve the crime again like last time?” Willow set the four paper cups of coffee into a carry tray and pushed it toward the open window.

  I handed her some bills. “Oh, sure. In my spare time, when I’m not slaving away in the school bus for Aunt Abby. Or maybe I’ll just let the cops handle it this time.” I grinned.

  “Well, if you need any help, let me know. Remember how I helped you solve that last murder?”

  I smiled as I took the cardboard tray filled with coffees. “Will do.”

  “Oh, hey,” Willow said. “See that tall old guy over there?” She pointed out the window. I turned to see Nathan Chapman talking with Paula Hayashi. He stood close to her, grinning, and had his hand on her arm. She, in turn, leaned in and touched his chest with her fingertip. Hmmm. Nathan without Tiffany? Paula without Adam? I wondered what these two were talking about.

  “Yeah,” I said, “that’s the guy running the festival. Nathan Chapman. What about him?”

  “Well, a few minutes ago, I thought there was going to be another murder.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  “Seriously. He was ordering one of my cinnamon lattes and all of a sudden he started coming on to me. Can you believe it? He’s, like, old enough to be my father. Jeez.”

  I thought about Nathan and Tiffany and their age difference, not to mention Paula and Adam. What was it with these May-December romances around here?

  “Anyway, he was asking me my name and where I was from and what time I got off and stuff, and then this chick comes out of nowhere and starts saying something and shaking her head and then he tries to calm her down and takes her over by that hay maze and she looks like she’s crying and he looks like he’s trying to comfort her and she finally stomps off. Then he looks around to see if anyone was watching and takes off.”