She managed to look surprised. “It was! I found an injured cat laid out near a tree. It was barely breathing, and it looked as if something had attacked it. When I picked the poor thing up to take her to the rescue center, I found four babies underneath. Tiny ones.”
“Aww,” I said, half brokenhearted already. “Did they live?”
“Not the mama,” she said with a grim shake of her head. “I think she did all she could to protect the little guys, then stayed with them until the end. Two of the kittens were already gone when I found her. The other two are survivors though and pretty as a pair of peaches, but they’re going to need a lot of care.”
“What’s wrong with them?” I asked, fully drawn into the story of a mother’s love.
Dot grinned. “I’m glad you asked.” She unzipped her jacket and opened one side to reveal a tiny pair of orange tabbies curled in her inside pocket. “Kenny Rogers and I need a favor.”
I made a sour face. “You can’t name every animal you find Kenny Rogers.”
Dot’s love for the singer went back to middle school when we nearly wore out her grandma’s copy of his Greatest Hits album, and it surpassed all understanding. It was almost as extreme as her dedication to animal rescues.
“I can,” she said, “and I do. It keeps me from getting overly attached while I find them forever homes or release them after rehabilitation. Plus, I call one name, and everyone comes, so it’s a timesaver, and Kenny Rogers is basically the perfect name. Anyway, these Kennys and I were talking on our way over here, and they’re going to need someone to look after them, and also bottle feed every few hours. Trouble is, I can’t take them to work with me.”
I saw where this was going and leaned away shaking my head. “I’m terrible with animals, maybe even worse than you are with kids.”
“Yeah, but come on,” she said, “look at these faces. They’re already at least five weeks old. Maybe six. They can start eating regular kitten food once they’re weaned from the bottle. They have an appointment with Doc Austin in a couple days. I’ve already called and set it up.”
The kitties mewed, and I jumped, suddenly remembering where we were.
“Shh,” I said. “You can’t have cats in here. I’ll get fired.” My gaze fell back on the two little fluffballs inside Dot’s coat, and I felt my heartstrings tighten. “Are they boys or girls?” I’d learned long ago not to let the name, Kenny, fool me.
“One of each, but I can’t tell them apart yet.”
“Then how do you know?” I asked, genuinely interested again. “I thought kittens had to be a little older for that.”
Dot rubbed their little heads with one finger, stroking the fuzzy orange hair between their big blue eyes. “I took them to the rehabilitation center for advice, and the vet on duty made the call. Orange cats are usually male, but the business end of one of them said otherwise.”
“Gotcha,” I said. “It’s too bad she’s got a boy name when there are so many nice girl names.”
“Why don’t you name her?” Dot suggested. “In fact, name them both. I’m sure they’ll make excellent barn cats one day or a set of mascots for your cider shop, or even your personal cheerleaders.” She took one of their small paws between her fingertips and waved it. “Go, Winnie, Go!”
My eager heart thunked hard and something stung my eyes. “Fine,” I said, “Meet me around back. I’ll get a box.”
* * *
By midnight, I was in my jammies and pacing the floor of my little home until I thought I might wear a groove in the floorboards. Grampy had renovated the former storage structure across the field from their farmhouse into a simple dorm-style apartment after I finished high school. I was the envy of all my friends that summer, until most of them scattered across the country for college. When I’d turned twenty-five, Grampy hired a crew of local handymen to expand and revamp my little apartment into the respectable 1,100-square-foot home I knew and loved today. My place had everything a lady could want. From a small master bedroom and attached bath to an open living space and kitchen with an island bar. I even had a mudroom with stackable washer and dryer and front and back porches where I could enjoy the peaceful country views from my rocker. I still ached to hug him every time I stepped through the door.
My decorating style hovered somewhere between country chic and sentimental hoarder. I stockpiled memories and used the vast number of things I’d collected throughout my life to liven up the rooms. Collages of framed photos covered my walls. Most were images of my loved ones and me, sharing precious moments and trapped in time. I also had Grampy’s military photos and black and whites of him and Granny as children and newlyweds. Paintings and knickknacks I’d bought at flea markets and craft fairs stood proudly on shelves and side tables. Apple crates filled with books or blankets nestled in the corners of every room, looking as decorative as they were functional, and completely appropriate considering they’d once been used for orchard storage in this very building. My hand-me-down furniture was covered with quilts and throws made by relatives and locals. Mismatched pillows lined the sofa and chairs. The result was my perfect oasis, a nest where I normally found myself at ease. At the moment, however, my foggy head needed some fresh air.
Kenny Rogers and his sister, who I’d tentatively named Dolly, were snoring soundly in their box and not due for another feeding until dawn. I, on the other hand, had no chance of falling asleep until I ordered my thoughts, and that wouldn’t happen while I was cooped up inside.
I tiptoed to the back door and threaded my arms through the sleeves of one of Grampy’s old flannel jackets, then stuffed my bare feet into tennis shoes and slipped into the night. I breathed easier immediately, lifting the soft fabric of his sleeve to my nose and imagining I could still smell the pipe tobacco in the threads.
I puttered around the property on autopilot, nostalgic for better times, desperate to erase the events of the day from reality. I still couldn’t believe Nadine Cooper was gone. I’d taken a peek at her Facebook page after work to confirm that her friends and family had been notified. The page had been updated by her forty-year-old son in Nashville. He’d announced his mother’s untimely death with the emotion of a newspaper headline. She was dead. He was flying her body home to be buried with family once the coroner released it following the autopsy. Period. Not exactly a tear-jerking tribute, though he had signed the post with his title and a link to his real estate development firm. His callousness was nearly as shocking as the fact she’d had a son. Or that she was from Tennessee. The question, How well do you really know your neighbors, popped into my head. Not very well, I guessed. And it begged the question, How well did I really know anyone? I made a loop through the stately trees, lit by an enormous full moon and billions of stars, then turned back, knowing exactly where I needed to go.
The big pole barn beside Granny’s house was home to Grampy’s classic cars. Three vintage Mustangs, and an old Ford truck. Grampy left the barn’s contents to me and everything else to Granny when he passed. She’d never understood our fascination with cars, but it was never really about the cars to me. I just loved spending time with Grampy. He would have known what to do about Mrs. Cooper’s death and the sheriff’s accusing looks. Sitting behind the wheel of one of his cars might help me think. Maybe inhaling the scents of leather upholstery and recalling the timbre of his voice was what I needed to come up with a plan to fix my suddenly crumbling future.
I slowed outside the press building where Mrs. Cooper’s body was found. A smear of light bled under the closed door. The officials combing the crime scene earlier must’ve forgotten to turn the light off when they left. I hung my head and blew out a sigh. Granny was a stickler about wasting electricity, and right now, we didn’t have the money to blow on a single extra watt. I climbed the short flight of steps to the door. It would’ve been nice, I thought to myself, if the sheriff and his minions were a little more considerate. Then I wouldn’t have to face the murder building alone after dark.
I shored u
p my nerve and decided on a course of action. I’d stick one arm inside the building, hit the light switch, then run. I would not, however, under any circumstance look at the cider press, and if I was lucky, the door would be locked, and I could forget about it because I didn’t have my keys with me.
Satisfied with the cowardly plan, I hurried to the door. The knob turned smoothly under my hand. “Great,” I muttered, then steadied myself to reach inside. I forced ridiculous images of Mrs. Cooper’s ghost dragging me in and pressing me to death out of my head. One, two, three . . . I shoved the door open, but before I could reach for the light switch, the door banged shut, slamming hard against my face and sending me onto my backside.
“Oof,” I grunted as air expelled from my lungs in a massive gust.
A figure in head-to-toe black reopened the door then barreled over me. His toe caught on my flailing legs and he pitched forward as I toppled down the wooden steps.
The trespasser scrambled to his feet in the grass before disappearing into the shadows on quick, quiet feet.
I rolled onto my side and dug my cell phone from my coat pocket, attempting to take inventory of all my aching body parts and collect my marbles at the same time.
A headlight flashed on nearby, temporarily blinding me before an ATV roared to life and barreled out of sight.
I dialed 911, then pushed onto my hands and knees and shuffled toward Granny’s house as I answered the dispatch officer’s questions and formed a few horrific follow-ups of my own. Like, was it a coincidence that our first intruder ever had come on the same night, to the same place, where Mrs. Cooper’s body had been found?
Or had I just come face-to-face with a killer?
CHAPTER FOUR
Iran straight to Granny’s home once I found my bearings. She’d seen me coming and pulled the door open before I had the chance to knock. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t sleep after the awful day we’d had. A sob broke on my lips as she dragged me inside.
“Are you okay?” she whispered before locking the door. “Did you see the four-wheeler?”
Hot tears burned a path over my cheek as I nodded. “Someone was in the press building,” I croaked. “The light was on, and I went to turn it off.”
“Oh, dear.” Granny’s eyes widened as she scanned me head to toe. “Tell me everything that happened.”
I pulled in a few deep breaths, assessing my aches and pains. Adrenaline had propelled me to safety, but now everything seemed to hurt double. “I called the police. Someone’s on the way.”
Her gaze flickered to the shotgun leaning against the wall beside the door. “Have a seat. Breathe. I’ll get you something to nibble on. It will help with the shock.”
I hobbled to the table where I’d routinely nursed heartaches for nearly three decades. Over coffee. Over pie. Over breakfast or dinner. Always with Granny. I dropped onto the chair and set my hands onto the tabletop. The extent of visible damage to myself and Grampy’s jacket came swiftly into view. I wiggled free from the button up, then dragged it onto my lap for inspection. My hands and fingers were covered in scrapes and scratches, but the long tear in Grampy’s coat sleeve somehow hurt worse.
“I can mend that,” Granny said, hanging the coat on the back of my chair and patting my cheek before turning to the cupboard.
I pulled my knees up to my chest on the same kitchen chair I’d escaped to all my life and caught my heels on the seat’s edge. My body curled forward on instinct, arms locking around my legs, cheek resting on my knees. Everything hurt. The tumble I’d taken down the steps had rattled me to the core. I could only imagine the welts and bruises I’d find in the morning.
Granny poured two cups of coffee, loaded her shotgun, then checked my scrapes and bruises before handing me two aspirin and a dish towel filled with ice.
I wasn’t sure where to put the ice. I needed about ten more dish towels full.
“How about some pie? I’ve got at least ten kinds left over.”
It was hard to believe Granny’s kitchen had been crowded with extended family and friends just two short days ago, all stopping in to wish her a happy Thanksgiving or share the enormous feast she’d prepared. I unfurled myself to reach for the coffee. My toes found the grooves in the floorboards where I’d swung my feet for years before they could be planted firmly. I balanced the homemade compress on my throbbing shoulder as I sipped. “Thank you.”
The hundred-year-old kitchen hadn’t changed much over time, save for the necessary plumbing and electrical updates and the increasing number of family photos on the walls. The cabinets were original beneath a dozen layers of paint. The knotty pine floors were smooth from wear and the leaded glass windows reflected light as majestically as any cathedral. Between the enduring beauty of the room and the size of my granny’s love, it was no wonder my heart had healed so many times with so few scars. I hoped tonight would be no different.
Sheriff Wise arrived midway through my second slice of pie. Granny let him inside, then bolted the front door behind him and returned her loaded shotgun to its place against the wall. “Coffee?” she asked.
Sheriff Wise accepted the mug, already filled from a fresh-brewed pot. “Thank you.” His sheriff’s jacket hung open over an untucked thermal shirt and jeans. His sandy hair was dark and mussed. Damp from a recent shower, I suspected. The scents of his shampoo and soap still clung to his skin and hair. Clearly, we had dragged him away from home. He studied Granny and me before letting his sharp gaze flicker over everything else in sight, including the shotgun set behind him. “That thing loaded?”
“Bet your whiskers,” Granny said. “I’ve been shooting that gun since it was tall as me. I’m a crack shot and everyone around here knows it. Winnie too,” she bragged. “She was the Young Annie Oakley four years running. I taught her everything I know.”
I let my eyes fall shut and pressed my palms against them. Not exactly the kind of information I would’ve chosen to offer a man who’d all but accused Granny of murder a few hours ago. At least Nadine hadn’t been shot. I cringed again at the selfish thought. The poor woman was dead and all I could think about was myself. I lifted my face and found Sheriff Wise watching me.
“I’ve heard,” he said. “Folks around here love to talk, and they seem especially inclined to discuss you, Miss Montgomery. You’ve made quite an impression. Did you know?”
“No,” I said, mystified. I looked to Granny for understanding.
She beamed. She and Grampy had raised me, so whatever the town thought of me, it started with them. They’d blamed themselves when my too-young mother had run off to marry her high school sweetheart before he joined the military. I’d been the result of their torrid teenage love affair, so I’d been whisked away with them. Temporarily. A year later, Mom hauled me home to Granny and Grampy, then left again, without me that time, in search of a divorce attorney and a better adventure than “teenage single mom.”
I squared my shoulders and met the sheriff’s measured stare. “Would you like to see the building where I found the intruder?”
He watched me another moment, jaw working side to side, as if he might be mulling something over. I braced myself for what he might say next.
“I would,” he finally answered and headed for the door.
I wrenched upward with the grace of a ninety-year-old woman and tried not to whimper audibly from the pain.
Granny freed Grampy’s flannel coat from the back of my chair and helped me put it on. “Do you want me to come along?” she offered.
“No,” I said, buttoning all the way to my chin. “You should try to rest. I’m sure the sheriff will see me home safely before he goes.”
Granny pressed her lips into a thin white line. “All right. But you call if you need anything. I’m only a stone’s throw away, and I’ve got two spare rooms upstairs, plus Bessy. You don’t have to be alone or afraid.”
“How about I come by for breakfast?” I suggested. Then I could introduce her to Kenny Rogers and Dolly.
Granny nodded. “All right.” She swung her gaze to the man at my side. “Take care of my granddaughter.”
He tipped a finger to the brim of his hat, then opened the front door to let me pass.
I paused on the porch steps when he didn’t follow.
He waited for the soft snick of the sliding deadbolt before motioning me onward. “Who’s Bessy?”
“The shotgun.” I gave the hem of Grampy’s jacket a tug, hoping to cover most of the script on my rear and kept moving. My unfortunate pajamas had a smiling brown bear face on the shirt and a little embroidered tail on my backside underlined with the words: Bear Bottom.
It had seemed funnier at the store.
“Are you badly hurt?” the sheriff asked, moving to my side. “I’d be happy to take you to the hospital for a proper exam.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m not a fan of hospitals, and I’ve been in worse shape.” A dozen painful, but still fond, memories returned to me. Stitches after falling from one of our trees and catching my thigh on a branch. Dislocating an elbow while performing a daredevil rope swing maneuver into the swimming hole. Bruised ribs from falling off my first pony.
“The life of a country girl,” he said.
I slid my eyes his way, wondering if he’d somehow read my mind. “Yeah.”
I admired the white lights twinkling around us thanks to my Christmas at the Orchard efforts. Granny’s home was outlined in them, as were the gates, perimeter fence, and a cluster of nonfruit-bearing trees near the front of the property.
“Did you get a look at the intruder?” Sheriff Wise asked.
“No.” I wet my lips, feeling my heart rate rise at the mention of the man. “He was dressed in all black with a ski mask. He was practically a shadow out here.” A shadow made of bricks.
“Did you see which way he went?”
“No,” I said again and shook my head. “He took off on a four-wheeler, and the trees swallowed him up.”
Sheriff Wise grunted.
Apple Cider Slaying Page 4