by Darci Hannah
Char ran around the counter and gave me an enthusiastic hug. The woman was fifty-two. Thanks to favorable genetics she looked forty-two, and because she was a shameless cougar, she dressed like a club-hopping thirty-year-old. “Whitney! Look at you!” She stood back and cringed a little at my disheveled Northwestern sweatshirt and blue jeans. It was a small blessing I was having a good hair day. It gave her artistic eye something to latch onto. “Cute hair,” she remarked without any enthusiasm. That topic exhausted, she lowered her voice. “So good of you to come home and help your parents at a time like this. Terrible news about Jeb. How are your folks holding up?”
“They’re shaken, but managing fair enough.”
“No doubt they are. And,” she continued in hushed tones, flashing a mischievous grin, “word on the street is you’re matching wits against MacLaren. Good girl. My money’s on you, kiddo. Tay and Hannah are in the office waiting for you.”
“Ladies,” I said a moment later, sauntering into Tay’s surprisingly neat office. I held up my bag of goodies from Uncle Joe’s. “I’ve brought us some thinkin’ juice.” I pulled out three bottles of wine, then upended the bag, depositing a box of Oreos on the desk. “And our favorite chocolate, cream-filled disks of inspiration. This,” I said, holding up the dry-erase board, “is for me.”
“Oh! Oh! We’re going to make a suspect board like they do on TV.” Hannah, face beaming, grabbed the box of Oreos.
“Exactly. Only in advertising we call it an idea board. However, suspect board is a more appropriate name for what we’re about to do, I suppose. It’s the same principle, though. We’re going to do a little brainstorming. We’re going to throw out any and all names, theories, and ideas associated with Jeb’s murder, write them on the board, and see if anything jumps out at us. It’s a way of seeing the forest through the trees, and, my friends, we have a lot of trees.”
“I like it,” Tay agreed, setting three wine glasses on her enormous lion-footed desk. Hannah uncorked one of the bottles and began pouring, while I opened the pack of markers and began writing everything we knew so far on the board.
“To Jeb,” Hannah said somberly, raising her glass. “So vibrant in life, so mysterious in death.”
Tay raised her glass as well. “Amen. And if you’re watching from above, dear Jeb, how about a little help finding the bastard who took you from us?”
I picked up the other glass. “My sentiments exactly,” I added, and clanked glasses all around. Then we set to work.
“What compels a person to take another person’s life?” This I asked while mulling over all the puzzling facts.
“Anger,” Hannah offered, then shoved an Oreo into her mouth. She washed it down with a swig of Chablis and blurted, “Hatred.”
“Okay, but we haven’t found anyone who clearly hated Jeb.”
“No. But your dad was angry with him. They were heard arguing.”
“They were making illegal wine in the old lighthouse,” I reminded her, writing it down. “Whoever our murderer is, I’m convinced they know about that. They also know about my dad’s anger issues and where he kept his croquet mallet.”
“Love, sex, and jealousy,” Tay rattled off. “Those can all be powerful reasons as well.”
“Indeed.” I wrote my grandma’s name on the board. “At the crime scene in the processing shed there was plenty of evidence that appeared to link my gran to the murder.” I drew a line from Grandma Jenn to the blender and the cherry pits. “These belong to Grandma Jenn. She even knows you can make cyanide from cherry pits, but after talking with her, I know she didn’t do it. She and Jeb were having an affair.” This I said looking straight at Hannah, hoping to shock her. The sheepish look on her face only confirmed that she’d known all about it too. “Am I the last person to learn about it?”
“Yep,” Hannah quipped. “Even Jani knows. Rumor is she saw them one night having dinner at the bowling alley. Jeb and Jenn were holding hands under the table.”
“Great. Okay, but look. My gran isn’t the murderer. She loved Jeb and, by all accounts, it was a happy relationship. There’s no motive. Could Jeb have had other women on the side? Or maybe an old flame who was jealous of Grandma Jenn—jealous enough to kill Jeb and frame her for murder? She did mention a name of someone who bothers her … does the name Edna ring any bells?”
“Edna Baker? Yeah, she’s the town busybody. Moved here a couple of years ago and wants to fit in like a local.” Tay reached across the desk and refilled my wine glass. “I do believe the old girl had the hots for Jeb. She was always baking him pies and muffins, trying to soften him up. She desperately wanted to win the cherry pie bake-off and throw it in Jenn’s face, but your grandma has that title in the bag.”
I nearly choked on a sip of wine. “Because she and Jeb were lovers?”
“Well, yes,” Hannah replied, grinning. “But that’s not why she won every year. Whit, her pie’s legendary. It is the best, but not only because of her crust and filling—it’s because of the cherries she uses. She told Edna once that she gets them from one special tree in the orchard that only she knows about. I think it’s just stuff, but I do remember Jeb saying something about Edna sneaking into the orchard last August. She was poaching cherries. Had a whole pail filled before Jeb found her.”
“Wow,” I said, and wrote Edna’s name on the board. Something large and oddly soft hit my leg. I looked down and saw Tay’s enormous cat, Izzy. He’d been aiming for the empty wine bottle on the floor behind me and missed. Taking no notice of me, or my leg, Izzy shook his head and made another attempt. This time he was successful. The wine bottle hit the floor and rolled. Izzy pounced on it, trapping it between his big, fuzzy paws. Then, to my astonishment, he tried to stick his head inside the bottle, finally settling on the fact that only his tongue would fit.
“I don’t have a cat, but is that normal?” I asked.
Tay peeked around the desk. “Not really,” she informed me. “Char’s spoiled him. She’s made a habit of letting him lap up a sip or two of her wine. Now he thinks he’s a sommelier. The little fur ball is compelled to sample every bottle.”
“Well, he won’t get much out of that one,” Hannah added, and grinned.
Tay, working her computer like a high-tech goddess, printed a picture of Edna Baker. “From the Cherry Cove Women’s League,” she informed us, handing it over. “She’s a real peach, that’s for sure. Slightly reminiscent of a bulldog, in both looks and tenacity.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, getting a good look at the picture. “Those eyes are so intense.”
“Yep. That’s our Edna. Once she sets those eyes on the prize, there’s no deterring her.” Tay grinned.
“Edna Baker is definitely someone I need to have a little chat with.”
“That’s all well and good,” Tay interjected, staring at the board. “But Edna Baker is seventy years old. And while using poison from cherry pits might be her favorite pastime, I seriously doubt that she’s capable of taking a club to a man’s face. Besides, she would have had to be at the inn last night to take the croquet mallet from your dad’s office, and she wasn’t there. When Edna enters a room, believe me, you can’t help but know it.”
“Point taken. But I still don’t think it would hurt having a little chat with her.” I turned to Hannah and asked, “What about the two who found the body, the McSweenys?”
“I had a fine talk with them on the orchard tour. Nice couple. They both claim to like yoga, but clearly one of them is lying.” Hannah rolled her eyes. “Oh, you mean regarding murder? I don’t think either one of them is a likely suspect. Again, there’s no motive. This is Ryan and Jillian’s first visit to the Cherry Orchard Inn, and I’m sorry to say it’ll probably be their last. And who could blame them? Stumbling upon Jeb’s body like that? It’ll haunt their nightmares long after the taste of cherry pie fades from their lips. Besides, I doubt they would have gone through th
e trouble of stealing your dad’s croquet mallet and framing him for murder. Although they might want to now, after being made to stay through the weekend by MacLaren.”
I stood with arms folded, staring at the board. It was like a bad day in advertising. We were racking our brains, trying to come up with suspects and motives, and every one of them was falling flat. Nothing was sticking. Then Tay handed me another picture. At first glance I thought it was a sun-gilded GQ model. Then I realized the man in the picture was Tate. I had to admit he was a very photogenic man.
“Jesus, don’t stand there ogling it. Tape it to the board!” Tay ripped off a piece of tape and handed it across the desk. “Like it or not, Vander Licious is a suspect. Think about it, Whit. He was there last night. It’s undeniable that he still has a thing for you. And since the two of you broke up, he’s become chummy-chummy with your folks. If that’s not a little odd, think about the fact that his friendship with Jeb gave him access to all the buildings, including the old lighthouse and Baxter’s office.”
“He did know about the illegal wine they were making,” I remarked, adding him to our suspect board. “And he was at the inn last night. Okay, let’s say he’s a suspect. What’s his motive?”
“I don’t know,” Tay said, looking pensive. “But if he had one he could have snuck off for a few minutes to do the deed. He could have easily made the poison, put it in the rum bottle, waited for Jeb to drink it, and then dragged the body into the orchard and clubbed him over the head. He has the strength to do it. The question is, why would he do it? He and Jeb were good friends. Tate helped out at the orchard whenever Jeb needed him.”
“I know. Grandma Jenn told me all about it, including how he used to recommend some of the high school kids he coached to work on the orchard. I didn’t even know he coached basketball.” I found the thought of Tate as a murder suspect far more depressing than I should have.
“You know what this means,” Hannah asked softly. “You’re going to have to talk with him. Jack likely won’t even consider him as a suspect due to their budding bromance. They’re friends, and for a geek like Jack to have a friend like Tate, it has to be a little blinding.”
“I think you’re underestimating Jack.” I don’t know why I suddenly had the urge to defend him, but I did.
“Hannah’s right, Whit. This could be your moment to finally best him.”
I considered this. But Tate wasn’t the only person worth looking in to. As unlikely as they were, there was Dr. Engel, Dad’s closest friend; Brock Sorensen, his new business manager I had yet to meet; and Hannah’s current heartthrob, Carleton Brisbane. Brisbane was a long shot, but he might know something, being Tate’s friend. All these men had been at the inn the night of the murder, but none of them had a motive to kill Jeb as far as we knew. Yet the names were there, and all of them deserved a closer look.
We were discussing our suspect board when Char walked into the office. Like a well-trained truffle pig, she’d smelled wine, and she’d brought her own glass to the party.
“I just thought I’d pop in and see how you girls were doing,” she said while helping herself to a glass. She took a long sip and stared at the board. “I don’t want to say anything here, but there is another reason for murder other than sex, love, jealousy, hate, and anger. You’re forgetting money, fear, and embarrassment.”
I was stunned we hadn’t thought of these and quickly added them to the board. “Okay, some new motives. Did anybody fear Jeb? Had he embarrassed anyone?”
Here Char quirked a perfectly plucked brow. “Well, it’s likely nothing, but there is one woman who isn’t a fan. Are you familiar with Lori Larson?” I shook my head, having never heard the name. “She’s lived on the peninsula for years,” Char went on. “Has a small farmhouse off of Old Stage Road. Lori fancies herself a cook, but she isn’t. She’s the queen of the frozen pizza, or so Joe tells me.” She tipped her stylish brown curls at the grocery bag on the floor, indicating the Joe she was referring to. “She works as a real estate agent. A couple of years ago her husband got fed up with the fact that she was never home and left her with the farm and the kids. She barely has time for those kids of hers, let alone the farm. And now, due to a hefty load of guilt, she’s convinced she’s the next Martha Stewart. The moment her husband left her she began entering all the local food contests to prove her domestic skills. Last year, bless her, she actually won second place for her strawberry jam at the county fair.” Char tipped back the last of her wine, picked up a bottle, and poured another.
“She’s come a long way,” she continued. “At least her jam has, but her baking is so ungodly terrible her own goats aren’t even tempted by it. Unfortunately, the first baking contest she ever entered was the cherry pie bake-off Jeb holds every year at the Cherry Blossom Festival. Because she had a cherry tree in her yard, she convinced herself she could make a pie good enough to win, having never baked a cherry pie before in her life! It looked a hot mess, and when Jeb took that first bite, he nearly broke a tooth on a cherry pit. He had to spit it out after realizing Lori hadn’t bothered to pit any of the cherries. He was highly annoyed, especially after Lori admitted that she didn’t know you were supposed to remove the pits first. Apparently, she doesn’t eat cherries. Her ignorance, as you can imagine, sent everyone into fits of laughter. Jeb, after that initial shock, made a little joke, saying that he never thought cherries would be the death of him … until he took a bite of Lori’s pie. He said no more on the subject, but the incident embarrassed Lori to the core. She never forgave him that.”
I looked at Tay and Hannah, alarm bells sounding off in my head. “My grandma never mentioned her. She sounds like someone I need to talk with. Can you give me her address?”
“Of course. I’ll write it down for you. But you might just want to talk with her son first. His name is Erik. He works on your orchard.”
Twenty-Two
Erik Larson. I had never met the kid, yet thanks to his mother and her pit-riddled cherry pie, and the fact that he worked on our orchard, he’d now landed at the top of our suspect board. If his mother had an ax to grind with Jeb Carlson, chances were good Erik knew about it. Heck, if he loved his mother enough, he might even have taken matters into his own hands on her behalf. The thought was unsettling.
From the picture Tay printed off, Erik looked to be a handsome, blond-headed youth, slightly reminiscent of a young Tate. But the eyes and mouth were all wrong. Tate most definitely knew him, since according to Hannah, Erik had been on the high school basketball team Tate coached, which was how he’d landed the job at the orchard. It was all so convenient, I thought. I suddenly recalled the huddle of high school kids under the white tent, knowing for certain that the tall blond-headed boy chatting-up the perky tawny-haired girl had been Erik Larson.
I’m not gonna lie. By the time our mission to talk with the boy had crystalized in our brains, none of us were in any condition to operate a car. Hannah, having started pre-gaming on the orchard tour, had drunk nearly a bottle of wine by herself and was taking a nap on the floor, curled beside the giant fur ball, Izzy. Tay, faring better than the rest of us but with a case of the giggles, took out her phone and snapped a picture. “This is totally going on Snapchat.”
“No,” I said, grabbing her arm. “No social media right now.” I lowered my voice and whispered, “We’re in the middle of an investigation.” I marveled at how cool that sounded coming from my lips.
“Right,” she said, giggling as she shoved the phone back in her pocket.
In order to talk with Erik, I needed to get back to the inn. My car was at Grandma Jenn’s, of course, which was just fine under the circumstances. I wasn’t in any shape to drive. I’d planned on picking it up later when I went to her house to bake my cherry pie for the bake-off. And right now the inn, perched on the bluffs across the bay, seemed unnaturally far away. It was also up hill. I turned to Tay. “Do you have some breath mints and, like, a b
ike I could borrow?”
“Bike?” She laughed. “Kids have bikes. I have something better.” She pulled a tin of breath mints from her drawer, took a handful herself, shoved them into her mouth, and handed the container to me. “Mom.” She turned to Char. “I need you to keep an eye on the store for a while longer. And Hannah too. Wake her up in an hour. She has a hot date with Briz tonight at the inn.” We both started giggling.
“No kidding,” Char remarked, looking impressed. “Didn’t think she was his type.”
“I don’t think she is,” Tay said. “But don’t ruin the fantasy, Char. Okay?”
A moment later, with fresh breath and our heads clearing, Tay and I rode through the town, sandwiched together on an ancient Vespa scooter. It might have had the whiff of a Thelma and Louise moment—two besties with wind-tousled hair racing through the town on a mission. But we were only topping ten mph, and the laughter from the passing cars killed it entirely. Also, we were wearing bulky helmets. Char insisted.
“Lance found this little beauty for me,” Tay called back over the ear-splitting PUT-PUT-PUT of the engine. Lance Van Guilder was her current boyfriend. “I’ve been training him to be a savvy picker. Found it in some guy’s barn and traded him an old suit of armor for it.”
This may have sounded like the farmer got the better end of the deal—a suit of medieval armor for a rusty, smoke-spewing bucket with wheels. But by all accounts it was an even trade, considering that Lance—with his long light brown hair, arms the size of tree trunks, and nearly-always-shirtless look—was a professional jouster on the renaissance fair circuit. The armor he wore was his own creation. And, according to Tay, his wasn’t the most accurate lance in the tilt yard.
“Nice,” I called back, holding on for dear life.
We had just crested the bluff, after puttering up a substantial hill, when Jack’s police cruiser pulled in front of us, lights flashing. An explosive “Dammit!” erupted from Tay and she pulled off the road.