“Winnie.” The sound of my name on his tongue turned me back around, and I hated myself for the way I still responded to him. Even after the lies and secrets and deceit. I hated him for not being honest with me and for not including me in his major life decisions when we were supposed to be getting engaged. Sadly, parts of me would always love him for the lifetime of shared dreams and tender memories that had come before the bad.
I returned to him silently, a determined smile in place. “Yes?”
Hank rolled his cool blue eyes up at me, peering through the thick black lashes his mama gave him and looking like someone who belonged on a billboard instead of inside a small-town diner. “I think we should talk,” he said, his voice low and pleading.
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth and my breaths quickened. I felt the heat of two dozen sets of eyes on me.
“I can’t. I’m . . .” My mind scrambled. What was I? Too mad? Too hurt? Plain unwilling? “Working.”
He nodded and slid one hand over mine when I rested it on the counter between us. “Another time, then. Why don’t I come over and pick you up tonight? We can go for a ride or walk through the orchard for old times’ sake. Sort things out.”
I closed my eyes against the rush of powerful memories. When I reopened them, I found Sheriff Wise watching from his stool across the way. There was inexplicable interest in his eyes, maybe even a little misplaced heat.
Hank lifted my hand in his and gave my fingers a squeeze. “What do you say?”
I jerked back to reality and yanked my hand away. “Stop.”
He recoiled as if I’d slapped him. “What? Why?”
“You know why,” I hissed.
He froze, hurt and anger plain on his face. “Winnie, it’s been a year,” he said. “It’s time we talk.”
My head began to shake before he’d finished speaking. Too many emotions squirmed and twisted in my heart and mind. It wasn’t his fault that my father had never bothered to contact me after my mother dumped me off with her folks and ran away, but Hank’s decisions to sneak off and plan a different life had cut me to the bone, and I couldn’t relive it. Not for him or anyone else. “There is no more we,” I whispered. Then, before I said anything more or a renegade tear fell, I took my coffee pot and ran away.
Sheriff Wise stared past me in Hank’s direction, his expression fathomless as I bolted for the ladies room. He’d clearly heard the exchange and judging by the sympathetic expressions all around the room, so had everyone else. It wouldn’t be long before the entire town heard about it too.
Freddie hit the order bell, and I changed directions, glad for the distraction. I set the pot back on the burner and blew out a long steadying breath. In keeping with my continuously horrific luck, Hank’s meal sat on the shiny service area between myself and the kitchen. I tipped my head back and let my eyes fall shut. A moment later, I pulled myself together and gathered the plates. Hank was right about one thing. It had been a year since our breakup, and I hadn’t gotten the closure I’d wanted back then, but I’d had enough time to let it go. I couldn’t allow what Hank had done in the past to keep interfering with my life in the present.
It was time to move on and deliver his giant breakfast.
“Got it,” I called into the busy kitchen before heading back to the counter with a slightly more genuine smile in place. My feet stopped short of Hank’s now empty seat. A crisp green twenty sat beside his still steaming mug of coffee. Behind me, the little bell over the front door jingled, and Hank strode along the sidewalk outside the windows disappearing into the crowded parking lot.
* * *
Granny and the kittens were at the fruit stand when I returned home. Christmas music piped through the CD player near the register, and Granny’s red nose was brighter than Rudolph’s. The temperature had plummeted by at least twenty degrees since yesterday, and winter was undeniably upon us. Thankfully, Granny wasn’t alone.
A small group of folks with stiff Northern accents chatted animatedly about their luck finding Smythe Orchard. They’d come to enjoy a day in the national park and overheard a few locals discussing the cider.
“We love cider,” the tall brunette said. “I buy the grocery store out of stock every time they bring it in.”
“I do the same thing,” her friend said, lifting another half-gallon into her arms. “But I’ve never had so many delicious gourmet choices.”
Granny smiled when she saw me. “Here she is now,” she announced. “The woman behind the best apple cider in town. My granddaughter, Winnie.”
“The best cider in town?” the taller woman cooed, “I think you mean in the state or maybe on the East Coast.” She and her friend moved in my direction, a pair of men in their wake. “Truthfully, this might be the best cider I’ve ever had.”
The unexpected compliment lifted my spirits and sent a rush of heat across my cheeks. “Thank you.”
“How do you do it?” she asked.
“I start with the very best apples,” I said, tipping my head toward the orchard. “Then, I play with the recipes, tweaking and fine-tuning until I get the results we sell here. The flavors have evolved over time. It’s an ongoing quest for perfection.”
“She’s been making cider and using it in recipes all her life,” Granny added. “She was raised here, and I guess the whole thing is just second nature to her. She’s something to behold in the kitchen.”
I leaned against her side and wrapped my arm around her back. “I get the dedication honestly. Granny cooks and bakes. Makes pies, jams, breads, anything you can think of from her homegrown fruits. She turns these apples alone into far more and better things than I could ever dream.”
The taller woman watched us, appraising. “You know what?” she said, passing her items to the man behind her, “I write for a travel magazine called Beautiful America, and I’m always looking for places like this to feature in our “America’s Best Kept Secrets” section. If you’re interested, I’d love to talk to you more about your orchard. Maybe take a tour. See how the magic happens.” She dug a business card from her purse and handed it to me.
Granny slapped her palms together. “We’re interested,” she said, “and everything you’ve got there is on the house. You can write about that in your blog too.”
I laughed. And that, I thought, is one small reason the orchard is in deep financial trouble. Granny hated taking money for anything. Not the strongest business model. But she was right this time. Beautiful America was a wide-reaching magazine for travelers that featured destinations no one heard of until their products showed up on the pages of the magazine. Beautiful America was online, but it was also in stores across the United States and several other countries, making this clandestine opportunity priceless. If this woman really followed through with a story on Smythe Orchard and my cider, it would boost our sales and increase our customer base instantly. “I’ll bring the tractor around,” I said.
While Granny worked her magic, retelling the tale of how she and Grampy had come across the failing orchard and simply knew they wanted to build a life on it, I looked the woman up on my phone. I used her business card as a guide and found she had enough followers on any social media platform to populate a small town. Photos of the orchard began appearing before my eyes with tags like #hiddengem and #sneakpeek. Better still, people were responding. “She called us hidden gems,” I told Kenny and Dolly as they rolled end over end in the grass, growling like a pair of wild lions.
“Easy,” I said. “Be nice to your sibling.” I took a step in their direction and they sprung apart. “Thank you.”
They darted forward, and I yipped as they jumped onto my pant legs and climbed furiously up my thighs. “Ah!” I jumped as their needle-sharp claws nicked the skin beneath my jeans. Doc Austin’s trimming of their nails had done little to diminish their ability to climb. “No, kitty.” I peeled Kenny off first and Dolly followed suit. Back together on land, they tore out of sight. I rubbed my stinging thighs. “Goofs.”
“Can you believe that?” Granny asked as their rented SUV bounced back down the long gravel lane. “What a nice lady and a needed stroke of luck.”
“She liked my cider,” I said, feeling a fresh surge of pride and enthusiasm.
“No. She loved your cider,” Granny corrected. “She took four different kinds with her.”
I beamed. “Which four?”
“Honeycrisp original, cinnamon, caramel . . .” She ticked the flavors off on her fingers and looked to the sky for help when she got stuck, “and the tart one made with the Granny Smiths.”
I pointed at Granny. “I think those should be the ones we set out for Mr. Sherman when he comes back to visit,” I said. “Being recognized in that magazine will have to impress him.” I mentally backtracked over the flavors Granny had listed. “I should probably think of a name for that last one before the cider shop opens. I can’t list it as ‘the one with Granny Smiths’ on the menu.”
Granny scooped Kenny off the ground and rubbed behind his ears. “You’re going to need a name for the cider shop too.”
I fought the urge to bounce a palm off my forehead.
She heaved a sigh, her gaze drifting to the horizon. “It’s hard to enjoy the moment when I can’t get Nadine off my mind.”
I rubbed Granny’s arm. “I know what you mean.”
“I should’ve been nicer to her.”
I smiled, remembering Mrs. Cooper’s commanding presence. “She didn’t make it easy,” I said, “and you couldn’t have known something would happen to her.”
Granny leaned against me. “Maybe, but being kind is always the right thing to do, and I let her get under my skin every time. Have you given anymore thought to what might’ve happened to her?”
“Continually.”
“Me too,” she said. “Any new leads?”
“No, you?”
“No.”
I let my head drop back, posture deflating. “What about your lunch with the ladies?”
“They all had plenty to say, but none of it was new. And a few of them were downright disappointed the sheriff didn’t come back this time.” She snorted. “Apparently he’s ‘dreamy’ and ‘a real catch,’ ” she said using air quotes. “I’m not clear on which one of them thought they were going to catch him, but it’s probably for his own good that he didn’t show up.”
I laughed. “There must be something in the water. Dot gave her number to Jake at the bank yesterday. She’s regretting it now because she’s four years older than him, but what’s done is done.”
Granny shot me a droll look. “The age difference didn’t seem to bother my stitching crew. Some of them have new hips older than the sheriff.”
I laughed. “Did you have a nice visit otherwise?”
“It’s always nice to be with friends,” she said softly. “Oh, I almost forgot. The crew got a whole pack of new orders today and an invitation to the state Knitwits convention. The Knitwits are a group of knitters, but they’re adding needlework to this year’s lineup and invited us to attend. Expenses paid.”
“That’s great!” I said. “You should definitely go. Your group does amazing work.”
She rolled her eyes. “They want to showcase our rude patterns.”
I laughed. “Oh.”
“And we need a group name and photo.”
I sighed. “More names. Maybe we can brainstorm together later.”
“Deal,” she agreed. “Maybe you can add some hard ciders to your lineup.”
The afternoon turned frigid and rainy as we chatted and planned for the future. For Mr. Sherman’s visit. For a cider shop on the property and for ways to bring more people out to celebrate Christmas at the Orchard.
When twilight demanded it was closing time, I joined Granny in her kitchen for hot cider and sandwiches. “It’s too bad you didn’t learn anything new from your girlfriends today,” I said, still stuck on the fact they thought Sheriff Wise was dreamy and not sure how to bring it up again. Sure, he had kind eyes when he wasn’t glaring at me, looked impressive in a uniform, and his jawline was square enough to make sculptors weep, but he was a real pain in my backside.
“The stitchers mostly wanted to talk about what you’ve been up to,” she said. “They wondered how I felt about you confronting Oscar and challenging the sheriff at every turn.”
“I’m not doing that,” I said. “I mean, I confronted Oscar, but I was polite about it, and I’m not challenging the sheriff.”
“Maybe not intentionally,” she said, “but I can see how some folks might view it that way. No judgment,” she hurried on, “and for the record I’m proud. Grampy and I raised you to have a backbone and to do the right thing anytime you can. Obviously I didn’t hurt Nadine, and you’re doing your best to make sure everyone knows it. I think that’s nice.”
“Trying is the key word there.” I paddled an orange slice around my mug of cider with a cinnamon stick. Failing was more accurate.
“Once the ladies left, I had the police station receptionist over for pie.”
“Oh yeah?” I asked, using the cinnamon to dunk a bobbing cranberry. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“I was processing.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “What did she tell you?”
“Nothing about Nadine’s murder. She said that was all under wraps while the investigation was open, and the sheriff specifically asked her not to talk to me about it. She had an interesting question for me, though.”
I stilled my cinnamon.
“She wondered how you were doing after being run off the road by a crazed lunatic in a big black truck.”
“I’m actually not sure how big the truck was,” I said, offering an apologetic smile. I winced under her intense look of disapproval. “I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t hurt and I didn’t want to worry you. There’s enough tough stuff going on in your life already without me serving up another tale of disaster.”
Granny shook her head slowly, heartbreak evident in her eyes. “We have to be able to tell each other anything. You know that, and we don’t get to decide for one another what they can or can’t handle.”
“I know.”
“Good.” She peeled the foil off an apple cake, then grabbed a knife to cut it. “Do you think the truck that chased you could have been driven by the same man who was in the press building the other night?”
The same one who’d left me the threatening note.
“Probably,” I admitted.
“Could that man have been Oscar?”
I tried yet again to visualize the trail master and compare him with the memory of the man who’d bowled me over leaving the press house. “I’m not sure.” I accepted a slice of apple cake and lifted it with my fingers, unwilling to wait on a fork. “All I know is that I’m desperate to figure out who’s doing these things and get him arrested before the threats go any further. I’m doing my best, but all I’ve gotten so far is discouraged.”
“Just don’t let it stop you,” Granny said. “You never know when you’re just one move away from getting what you want. That’s why I scheduled another lunch date for tomorrow. Even when our first few tries don’t pan out, we have to buckle down and keep going.”
I sucked a drop of cinnamon icing off my thumb. “Who’s coming over this time?”
“Pastor Gerber,” Granny said. “I figure, if there’s a soul in this town who hears everything, it’s him, and as a bonus, he can’t lie about it.”
“You’re hitting up the pastor for information,” I deadpanned. “Have you thought of the eternal consequences?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s just lunch. It’s not like I’m asking him to commit a felony.”
My phone vibrated on the table between us, and I turned it toward Granny with a smile. “It’s Mr. Sherman.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
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sp; “He’s coming!” I tossed the phone onto the table like a hot potato. “Oh my goodness. He’s really coming!”
Granny pressed her hands to her chest. “When?”
“Tonight,” I said. “Now.”
“Oh, dear.” Granny turned in a small circle, then burst into action. “How much time do we have?” she asked, snapping pink rubber gloves over her hands.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “He said he was finishing up at the bank and heading here on his way home.” According to my phone, it was approaching five o’clock, and thanks to daylight savings time, it was already dark. Luckily, Mr. Sherman and I had already decided the potential small business loan was for my cider shop, not the orchard, and he’d seen the orchard before anyway. Also, the Mail Pouch barn had electricity. Sure, it was only a light bulb on a swinging chain, but at least it wouldn’t matter that night had fallen, and all the taste testing could be done at Granny’s place.
We buzzed around the kitchen together, cleaning and organizing everything in sight while brainstorming the pastry selections we should offer with my cider. Twenty minutes later, Granny’s kitchen looked amazing, but there was no sign of Mr. Sherman.
“How does it look?” I asked, feeling a rush of nerves heat my cheeks and flip my stomach. I’d filled three of Granny’s glass tea dispensers with cold cider recipes, then lined them on a quilted table runner made by my great-grandmother. Beside those, I added two thermal dispensers with hot cider. Orange slices, cinnamon sticks, cranberries, and mint leaves floated visibly behind the glass of the cold dispensers. The contents of the final two dispensers, however, were a visual mystery, but hopefully a treat for the taste buds.
“Perfect,” Granny said. She set fresh glasses and mugs out for tasting, then lined the back side of her table with a mini-buffet of treats made from the orchard’s fresh ingredients.
I placed a stack of small plates, forks, and napkins beside the buffet. “What else?” I asked.
Apple Cider Slaying Page 13