Cherry Pies & Deadly Lies

by Darci Hannah

  “I … I didn’t know you had company,” he stammered. “I was at the processing shed putting out the fire. I … I met your friend there. Heard what happened. I just … I just, dammit, Whit, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  Giff, the little sadist, stood blocking the doorway, enjoying himself. “Oh, she is, my friend. Had a little scare, but she’s fine now. You know our Whitney, she takes a licking and keeps on ticking.” Giff loved quoting ads. “Where are my manners? You brought us wine. Would you like to come in? We were just going to bed, but you can join us if you’d like.”

  “No. No. I’ve got to get going. It’s been a long day. I didn’t know he was … I mean … I don’t know what I mean. I’m going to go.”

  “Now that was a shame,” Giff stated, leaning against the door and turning to me with a wide grin. “You haven’t dated a man in over eighteen months and here struts in Adonis himself, groveling at your bedroom door with flowers and wine. Some people have all the luck, but I see the problem. Were he my problem, I’d likely forgive him anything. But clearly he still has feelings for you. My advice? Don’t cave just yet, angel. You need to make that man walk through fire if he’s to have another chance at you.” Giff handed me the flowers.

  “I think he already has,” I said.

  “Well, yes, literally. But I’m speaking metaphorically. Don’t tell him just yet that we’re only friends.”

  And with that, Giff placed a brotherly kiss on my forehead, said good night, and walked out the door, taking the bottle of wine with him.

  ∞

  It was a habit, but as soon as Giff left I crawled into bed and opened my laptop. It had been a traumatic day, and exchanging a few lines with the enigmatic C-Bomb always helped me get to sleep. He could be anyone, anyone who loved cherries, and he might even be here at the inn. I conjured up an image of Carleton Brisbane, then pushed it from my thoughts. Dear heavens, that would spell trouble, especially if I wanted to remain friends with Hannah. But what was I thinking? Carleton was hardly a man who’d hide behind a name like C-Bomb, no matter how badly my pesky hormones wanted him to be. I pushed all thoughts aside and typed, Hi. You there?

  No answer. Of course not. It was nearly one in the morning, far too late for C-Bomb. I sat a few minutes longer, staring at the blank computer screen. I was just about to close my laptop when he answered.

  Good evening, Ms. Bloom. You left our little chat rather abruptly last night. I was worried. That’s not like you. Are things all right?

  Not really, I typed. In fact, they’re pretty terrible. I’m in Cherry Cove at the inn. I had to drive here early this morning because last night, while I was typing with you, I learned that one of our employees was murdered in the orchard. He was the manager of it, in fact. A dear old gentleman named Jeb Carlson. And just a few hours ago another employee was nearly murdered as well.

  Dear God! I’m aghast. Your parents must be devastated. Are you there offering moral support?

  That and I’m determined to find the murderer.

  He was stunned by this, clearly stunned, but also intrigued. Dear God! he typed. Isn’t that what the police are for? Do they have police in Cherry Cove?

  They do. Only one, and he’s a friend of mine. That’s part of the problem. I then told him a little bit about the situation as things stood.

  Well, I do love a good mystery. Tell me all about it. Draw me a timeline, describe the suspects, and I’ll see if something doesn’t jump out to me that you might have missed.

  I told him everything I could remember, including a little personal history about both Jack and Tate, which he annoyingly focused on.

  Tell me about Officer MacLaren, C-Bomb asked. What’s he like? What are his methods? Is he capable of finding a murderer?

  Jack’s an old friend. I grew up with him. He can be a real pain sometimes, but he’s also incredibly smart. He’s doing the best he can on this case.

  And is he, Ms. Bloom, good-looking?

  What kind of question is that? I typed.

  An important one. You’re easily distracted. If you want to find the murderer you can’t be distracted.

  I frowned at the screen, thinking he was teasing me. Yeah, he’s absolutely flipping adorable! But don’t be jealous. Officer MacLaren is also oblivious. He called me Whit-less today, his high school nickname for me.

  He’s got a sense of humor. And what about Tate?

  I’ve told you about Tate before, remember? He’s the reason I stay clear of Cherry Cove. In my absence, however, he’s been hanging out at the inn a lot, helping wherever needed. Truthfully, I’m a little envious. My parents adore him, as does everyone in Cherry Cove. But don’t worry. I’m not distracted by him any longer. This was somewhat of a lie, but I was holding to it. And what about you? I typed. Perhaps if you told me who you are, I could call you instead of typing to you over a computer? Oh! (says she, answering her own stupid question), I can’t call you because your wife will get suspicious.

  There was a long pause, and then, No wife, just a dog.

  It was my turn to stop typing. After all this time, the man was finally revealing something personal. He had a dog. I could really love a man with a dog. It was an opening. I pressed him a little more. So, you’re not married, but you do have a dog? What kind?

  A faithful one. Ms. Bloom, it’s getting late, so listen up. There are two things that stand out in my mind about this murder. While there are many persons of interest, I’m a little puzzled about Tate. He’s your ex-boyfriend. He lives in Cherry Cove. He’s gotten particularly close with your parents. He was a basketball coach at the high school and has a relationship with Cody Rivers, who was nearly murdered, and Erik Larson, the kid who disappeared when you tried to question him. What I find most interesting, however, is that terrible things are happening and yet this man seems oblivious to everything but seducing you.

  I looked at the screen to see if I was reading it right. Yep. I was. Incredible. You don’t seriously think Tate has something to do with these murders, do you?

  I’m not saying that. All I’m saying is that I think you should keep your eyes open to the possibility.

  Noted, I typed with a frown. And the second thing?

  The missing wine. How does wine just disappear from a lighthouse without a trace? If I were you, I’d get up at the crack of dawn and pay a visit to the old lighthouse. You might find a clue others have missed. Find the wine, Ms. Bloom, and you just might find the murderer.

  Good point, I typed.

  Cherry wine, he added, my favorite. Perhaps the next time you enjoy a bottle of cherry wine it will be over dinner with me. Good night now, Ms. Bloom, and good luck.

  Thirty-One

  I awoke to my phone chirping away. It was my wake-up alarm. Why had I set it? It was still dark outside. My head was foggy with disjointed dreams. Dear God, it was early.

  I had to bake pies! I sat up abruptly at the thought, then saw my Victorian love-nest surroundings. It was all coming back to me. I was in Cherry Cove, in my old bedroom. This was the day of the cherry pie bake-off. I had only two pies to bake today, and I had done most of the work already. That was a relief. But why the alarm? Snatches and pieces of memory were pushing through my sleep-muddled head, but they didn’t make much sense. Something about Tate looking magnificent, standing in my bedroom doorway with flowers and a bottle of wine. Did I drink the wine? Did I invite him in? Did we … ? I quickly looked at the mound of rumpled bedding beside me and made sure it was only pillows. It was, thank goodness. No sign of Tate anywhere. It had only been a dream.

  I forced my mind to back up. I was missing something. Try it again. A comfy bed void of Tatum Vander Licious. Giff, shirtless, opening the door. Giff giving Tate the wrong impression, bless him. My laptop on the bedside table. My laptop. I’d been talking with C-Bomb. We were talking about the murderer. He mentioned wine. The missing wine! Now I remembere
d. I was on a mission to find the missing wine.

  I eased out of bed, got dressed, and slipped downstairs to brew a pot of coffee. I might have been on a mission, but I wasn’t a sadist. I waited until there was just enough to fill a travel mug; then, with a key and a flashlight, I quietly slipped out the back door.

  It was not only dark but foggy as well. I thought about leaving a note for Mom and Dad, then thought better of it. Why advertise my whereabouts? Besides, I’d likely be back before anyone was out of bed. If not, there was no harm in letting them think I was still in my room, fast asleep.

  I hiked across the dark lawn, now striated with patches of fog, heading toward the long, meandering stretch of Lighthouse Road. I’d been wanting to investigate the lighthouse for a while now but it was C-Bomb who had reminded me of it. He’d also suggested I get there early, before anyone was awake at the inn. This was because Jack had taped off the lighthouse as part of the crime scene, and snooping around a crime scene, as he’d been so quick to remind me, was against the law. Jack couldn’t know I was at the lighthouse. No one should know, for that matter, except the mysterious C-Bomb. And I believed he was right. Find the missing wine and I’d find the killer.

  That was all well and good, but what I hadn’t expected was the eerie feeling that hounded me as I traveled down the rutted gravel road in the pre-dawn darkness. I’d walked this way hundreds of times before and never experienced such a feeling. It was all in my head, I told myself, trying hard not to think about the fact that there was a murderer on the loose. I then chided myself for not taking Giff with me. I should have wakened him, I mused, until I recalled that the whole idea of mornings, in general, sickened him. Waking Giff before dawn would be akin to poking a sleeping bear; a thing only fools attempted. Besides, he was judging the cherry pie bake-off. I wanted to stay on his good side. I wanted that darn Gilded Cherry taking up precious shelf-space in my kitchen.

  However hard I tried, thoughts of the prestigious Gilded Cherry trophy soon crumbled under the more pressing, unsettling sounds that floated through the foggy darkness. I consoled myself with the thought that dawn wasn’t far off, but that did little to stop my overactive imagination from turning every creak of a branch, every soft moan of the wind, every rustling of leaves into something sinister. It was also, admittedly, the wrong time to recall the old Indian curse and the legend that these woods were haunted. Everyone assumed that a human being was responsible for the death of Jeb Carlson … but what about that invisible, chilling presence Tay and I had felt in the cherry orchard?

  The rational part of me knew I was being ridiculous. But the other part of me—the open-minded, easily impressionable reality TV junky—was more than willing to entertain the possibility of a ghost or woodland monster. And why not? The world was full of unexplained phenomenon. Then again, there usually was a logical explanation for even the most baffling cases.

  I continued making my way toward the old lighthouse, gripping my steel flashlight with one hand and sipping coffee with the other. My flashlight wasn’t turned on. It was a bright one, and my eyes had already adjusted to the darkness. Besides, the light might draw attention. I was walking quickly; the screech of an owl induced me to run, and I didn’t stop until the lighthouse loomed before me.

  I’d like to say that the sight of the old brick tower, attached to the lightkeeper’s house of the same design, was reassuring, but it wasn’t. The lighthouse had been abandoned for over ninety years, and I’d always found it a little creepy. My brother, Bret, swore that it was haunted—swore that he’d seen the light on one night, and on another occasion witnessed the ghost of an old sailor pacing down by the rocky shore. I didn’t really need to think about that … but I was. The sight of the yellow crime scene tape across the front door of the keeper’s house was also unsettling, yet it was nothing compared to the fact that when I went to put the key into the lock, the heavy old door creaked back on its hinges. Jack would have locked it after he came here yesterday, wouldn’t he? Maybe he hadn’t, I told myself, because there was nothing left to steal. The door was already open, so I gave it a little push, turned on my flashlight, and walked inside.

  “Hello,” I called out, not really expecting to be answered. I swung the powerful beam in an arc, illuminating the dilapidated parlor of the old keeper’s quarters: a small room of crumbling plaster walls, boarded-up windows, and neglected hardwood floors. As children we used to think it fun to play in the lighthouse, but now I couldn’t imagine why. “Any one in here?” Apparently not. It had the feeling of a long-abandoned dwelling, complete with stale air and centuries of dust motes.

  Where had Dad stored the wine, I wondered, illuminating the untouched plaster where pictures had once hung, along with strips of musty old lace frayed by broken glass. When my light hit the floor, the answer became apparent. Footprints, a whole slew of them, overlaid by the tires of a handcart, disturbed the layers of dust. They all seemed to flow in a general direction. I set my now-empty travel mug on the floor and followed them.

  As the footprints moved through the old keeper’s house, I made note of the different sole patterns and sizes. Dad had moved through here, and so had Jeb. Dad was partial to boat shoes, and his were easy to spot. There was also a larger pair, a men’s twelve or thirteen from the look of it. Those most likely belonged to Jack. So what about the other sets? One of them, obviously, had belonged to Jeb, but which one? I studied the shoeprints all the way to a painted metal door. It was the door to the light tower. Dad had said that he wanted the wine to be unique—made in a lighthouse. Since the old lighthouse shed lay in ruins, this obviously meant that the wine had been aged on the cold cement floor of the light tower.

  I opened the door and saw that I’d been correct. It wasn’t a spacious room, but I could tell by the marks on the floor that this is where the barrels had been, tightly packed on either side of the circular, ascending staircase.

  I walked farther into the light tower, studying the jumble of footprints in the dust, and then suddenly froze. No, I thought. It can’t be. Not here! On the floor, partially hidden by the rise of the first step, was a twig-face—the same menacing twig-face that had been hounding me. Frightened, and with every nerve in my body aching with terror, I backed out of the light tower and ran for the door. He’s been here, my head screamed. The murderer has been here! And somehow he knew that I would be too.

  I came bursting out of the keeper’s house and paused outside the door, bending over to catch my breath. That was when I noticed something I hadn’t before. In the fresh, fog-dampened dirt there was another set of footprints. I recognized the pattern of the sole as one of the patterns I’d seen in the lighthouse. The tread was similar to what one might find on a good pair of hiking boots. My best guess put the size at around a men’s ten. What made this set stand out from the others, however, was not only that it looked fresh, but after leaving the lighthouse, the boot prints turned and headed straight for the woods.

  The words find the missing wine, find the killer sprang to mind. Darn right, I thought as anger consumed my better judgement. I was laying odds that hiking-boot guy was the killer, and there was no way I was going to let him terrorize the inn or me any longer. Although the sky overhead was brightening with the first fingers of dawn, it was still foggy. I kept my flashlight glued to the footprints and followed them into the woods.

  Granted, it had been quite a while, but I’d hiked these woods all my life and my recollection was that they were dense, interwoven every now and then with narrow deer trails. Therefore I was surprised when I followed the boot prints down an embankment and came upon a well-worn path. The moment my foot hit the exposed dirt, I felt that odd, skin-prickling sensation that suggested I wasn’t alone. I brushed it off as paranoia and followed the tracks. I had only gone a short distance when a twig snapped not far behind me, confirming my deepest fears. I turned, knowing even before I did that I wouldn’t see a thing. And I didn’t. I was met with the same ta
ngle of colorless, fog-shrouded branches and leaves. The sun was getting higher. The fog should be burning off shortly. I’d be fine.

  I took a deep breath and continued.

  The rustling of a bush—as if someone or something had walked past it—made me stop dead in my tracks. Maybe I should climb back up the embankment to the lighthouse? I hadn’t found a trace of the wine yet, and wasn’t likely to find it down here. I could always come back later. Yeah. Good idea. I’d come back later. I was about to turn and head straight for the embankment when I made the mistake of looking down.

  “Holy cobbler!” I whispered, staring at a pair of tire tracks. I was standing between them, and they looked suspiciously like the tracks of a Gator to me. But that couldn’t be right? I looked at them again, and my heart started beating a little wildly. I would have laid odds it was one of the orchard’s Gators, but what on earth was it doing down here? It came to me then: wine. This was how the barrels of wine had been taken from the lighthouse—on this private path hacked through the dense woodland near the rocky shore. And whoever took the wine had access to the Gators. Brock Sorensen had access to them, that’s who. Then, however, another face popped to mind, one I desperately wished hadn’t. Tate. Tate had access to whatever he wanted. C-Bomb had mentioned him—had pointed out his odd behavior. Everyone at the inn was focused on the murderer, but Tate was focused on me. Dear God, I thought. Please don’t let it be Tate! I probably should have turned around then, but I couldn’t. Violent curiosity propelled me forward.

  The fog was still thick as pea soup. It was hard to tell where exactly I was, or how far I’d followed the tracks, when the sound of another twig snapping hit my ears. In the still air, it had the same effect as a gun firing. My head flew up like a startled deer as the hair on my neck prickled. I turned in the direction of the sound. I was met by the same milky-white nothingness. But the sound was definitely getting closer. I picked up the pace, heading away from whatever it was that was following me.