Apple Cider Slaying

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  Hank blew out a long shaky breath, then extended his hand toward the pavilion. “Can I interest you in a seat by the fire?”

  I eyeballed the collection of smokers rocking with laughter, red plastic cups in their opposite hands, and caught the tail end of a fishing story. “Sure.” I scanned the pavilion for a table upwind of the smoke and far enough away from the other occupants that we might have a little privacy in case things went poorly. “How about here?”

  I took a seat on the picnic table’s top and planted both feet on the seat. “I’m sorry about the way I behaved at the diner. I was rude and I shouldn’t have been. It was juvenile and uncalled for. You were just being nice.”

  Hank took a seat beside me, leaving at least a foot of space between us. He dropped his folded hands between his knees and tilted forward at the waist, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief. “I overheard you and Gina in there. You’re seeing someone.”

  “No,” I said and laughed. “I’m actually a giant mess right now, but she thought I looked happy and assumed I was dating. I’m not.”

  “Are you happy?” he asked.

  I thought about the week I’d had. About my life and all the moving parts. “Yeah,” I sighed. “I am.”

  Hank pressed his lips tight. “Did I ever make you happy, Winnie?”

  My heart broke a little for him. For me. For what we’d lost and would never recover. I swiveled on the cold wooden tabletop for a better look into his eyes. A familiar pang of regret twisted inside me. “Listen,” I said softly. “I’m obviously still hurt about how things ended between us, which is ridiculous. I know, and I’m working on it. It wasn’t fair of me to put all the blame on you.”

  Hank stilled. “I never meant to hurt you. I know you think I lied to you.”

  “Not lied.” I shook my head, cutting him off, hoping to make him understand before I lost my nerve. “You didn’t tell me what you were up to, and I know you said it was meant to be a surprise, but it felt like betrayal. If I had really been the right girl for you, I would’ve seen what you did as romantic or exciting. But I hate surprises. I like to know things. I want to be included on major decisions like leaving my hometown, and I would never move out of state with someone who wasn’t my husband. Maybe not even then. I don’t know, but I hated that you didn’t know any of that. We’d been together for years.” My throat tightened, and my eyes stung. Why hadn’t he known those things?

  I wiped my coat sleeve under my eyes. “Obviously we were in trouble long before things ended between us. People who aren’t talking drift apart. I guess that was what we did. By the end, I didn’t know you anymore, and you didn’t know me.” I cleared the lump of emotion caught in my throat. “In the name of honesty and communication, I want to tell you why I’m really here apologizing to you tonight instead of hiding out at the orchard waiting for you to leave town again.”

  Hank watched me silently, his pale eyes searching. “Okay,” he said gently. “You can tell me anything, Winnie. I should have told you everything when I had the chance.” He scrubbed a heavy hand through his thick dark hair, then left it gripping the back of his neck. “Why are you really here?”

  “I want to ask you about Extra Mobil.”

  He frowned. “I work for their competitor. You know that. Don’t you?”

  “It’s a general question.” I waited, giving him a chance to change his mind.

  He didn’t.

  “There’s a local farmer buying up properties around town but not doing anything with them. I thought it was a little strange because this man is old enough to retire, and there hasn’t been any news of his farm expanding. Then, I saw him at the diner with a folder stuffed full of papers, and a lot of pages had the Extra Mobil logo on them. I wondered if you have any idea what that could mean?”

  “How can I even guess? You haven’t given me any information.” He turned toward me, bumping his knees against mine. “What’s this about?”

  I considered being coy, but I didn’t have the energy. “I’m trying to find out if this farmer might’ve had something to do with Mrs. Cooper’s murder,” I said. “I promised Colt—Sheriff Wise—I’d stop asking so many questions because whoever killed her knows I’m trying to find him and he’s threatened me multiple times already.”

  Hank’s fair skin paled. “What?”

  “I know I need to listen to the warnings, but I can’t seem to let it go. And honestly,” I ranted, “who’s to say the killer will leave me alone anyway? It’s not as if the threats say, Stop what you’re doing and I’ll leave you alone. Even if they did say that, why would I believe a killer?” I kneaded my frozen hands on my lap, wishing we were closer to the fire and at the same time wanting desperately to move farther away. What if someone overheard us? “I think the best thing I can do right now is just figure out who’s threatening me and get them into police custody. Don’t you? Then I won’t have to worry anymore.” I turned pleading eyes on Hank. “Right?”

  Hank looked as if he’d sucked a lemon. “Who are you?”

  I snorted a humorless laugh. “Winnie Mae Montgomery,” I said, offering him my hand.

  Hank accepted the gesture. “Well, it’s nice to meet you Winnie Mae Montgomery,” he said. “Let me think about this.” He rubbed his palms together, then cupped them around his mouth and puffed warm breath against his skin.

  I burrowed deeper into my coat. “Who would have guessed that Mrs. Cooper’s sudden death would turn my life upside down?” I whispered.

  “I suppose,” he began, “based on what little you’ve told me, that this farmer could be working with the oil company toward some end goal. Maybe he’s being paid to pick up the properties for some reason? Maybe the oil company wants control of the parcels but doesn’t want them to be in the company’s name. I can’t guess why. I’d have to think a little longer on that theory. Maybe this guy knows the oil company is coming this way in search of acreage to drill on, and he’s capitalizing on that by buying up land so he can lease mineral rights to them later. That could make a nice supplemental or retirement income.” He frowned. “It’s hard to say with so little to go on. Can you tell me who the farmer is?”

  I considered that a moment, but I didn’t want to put Hank in danger by sharing too much. If Farmer Bentley was the killer or involved with the murderer somehow, he’d want to get rid of everyone who knew about him. On the flip side, if Farmer Bentley had nothing to do with any of the bad things happening to me, I didn’t want to be the one unfairly spreading rumors and gossip about him.

  “Winnie?”

  “I’m thinking.” If I didn’t tell Hank, and he really wanted to know who was buying up the land, he might ask someone else. Then, people would know we’d been discussing this, which was bad for both of us. “It’s Farmer Bentley,” I said as quietly as possible, hoping the snap and crackle of the fire covered my words.

  Hank nodded. “Are the properties adjoining? Do they butt up to his land or to one another? Is he possibly trying to accumulate one large portion of land?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I don’t even know where all the properties are, only that he’s buying land and not using it. And he called the bank to ask about Mrs. Cooper’s land while I was there. I overheard it myself.”

  “I guess it wouldn’t matter if the acres are all connected if he’s only planning to lease the mineral rights to Extra Mobil.”

  I rolled the new theories and ideas around in my crowded mind. “Buying land has to be expensive,” I said. “Is there enough money in what you’re talking about to justify the initial costs? How soon would he see a return on the investment?”

  “I don’t know how much he’s paying for the properties, but given the right circumstances, mineral leasing can be lucrative.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, Hank.”

  “Don’t mention it.” He slid off the picnic table and offered me his hand. “I’m hungry and it’s freezing out here. How about we go inside and get some tater salad and d
ump cake?”

  I took his hand and laughed. “I love tater salad and dump cake.”

  “I know,” he said, giving my fingers a quick squeeze. “I did pay a little attention sometimes.”

  I spent the rest of the evening at ease, mixing and mingling with neighbors and friends. Gina made me line dance, which I pretended to hate but didn’t, and I ate my weight in dump cake while Granny showed off photos of the kittens as if they were her grandchildren.

  I let the warm moments settle into my soul, and I savored the carefree night.

  Tomorrow I’d have to find out where Farmer Bentley’s new properties were located and if they were connected. More importantly, I needed to know if Granny’s land was next on his list.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The kittens were sound asleep when I got out of the shower that night. I crept around, trying not to wake them. It was official—they owned me. I tiptoed to the kitchen for a hot cup of peppermint tea, then carried it softly back to my couch, where I’d booted up my laptop for a little light research. I started with a look at the county auditor site, where property owners were listed alongside details on the parcel numbers and purchase prices. Hank had asked me where Farmer Bentley’s new properties were located, and the auditor seemed like the right place to find out.

  I sat back several minutes later, frustrated. The database only showed one property in Farmer Bentley’s name, and that was his current residence. One he’d owned for thirty-one years. I sipped my tea and considered the facts. For starters, I’d heard the woman at the bank tell Jake that Farmer Bentley wanted to talk to him about Mrs. Cooper’s property, but what if that was a coincidence? What if the man on the phone was a different Mr. Bentley? What if Farmer Bentley had made the purchases, but I couldn’t find them because he’d made the purchases under another name?

  I scanned the website and discovered it could take up to ninety days for new sales to be recorded and reflected online. I could make a trip to the auditor’s office and ask a clerk in the morning, but that seemed like a quick way to irritate my stalker. Maybe I could just call.

  I pulled my feet onto the couch and tucked them beneath me, letting the smooth peppermint tea grease the wheels in my brain. If I couldn’t learn anything about Farmer Bentley’s alleged new shopping habit, which I assumed had a connection to Extra Mobil, then maybe I could learn more about Extra Mobil.

  I typed the company’s name into my browser and started with their official website. It didn’t take long for me to learn Extra Mobil had made a massive land grab in a neighboring county several years back and was already up and running to the tune of $700 million in revenues. Now, they were looking to expand. It was the sort of news reported all the time in West Virginia over the last few years. So often that I’d stopped paying attention as long as Blossom Valley wasn’t involved.

  I read several more articles on the nearby plant including a particularly interesting interview with Charles Crowder, the company’s CEO. Crowder used the opportunity to boast about his company’s positive financial impact on the county, reducing local unemployment numbers and raising the average household income. I had to admit the company’s annual revenue was impressive. There were a whole lot of zeros behind that second number. Maybe Hank was right about the farmer trying to work ahead of the game and call dibs on land to be drilled on, should Extra Mobil turn their eyes on our town.

  My stomach rolled. The idea of having a mega corporation like Extra Mobil set up shop in Blossom Valley with its loud, destructive, and invasive drilling equipment made me uncomfortable. We weren’t that kind of community. We were a cozy, country town with a national park and river. We catered to outdoor enthusiasts and fall foliage seekers. We weren’t industrial and we didn’t want to be. We didn’t have the space or constitution for it.

  I rubbed my eyes and finished my tea before it went cold. I needed a new subject.

  I brought up Nadine Cooper’s Facebook page. It had been updated again. Funeral arrangements were set and the extended family had begun posting their favorite memories of Mrs. Cooper along with prayers and well-wishes for her son.

  I followed the link to his page then breathed a little easier as I read. Apparently Timothy Cooper Jr. bought rundown buildings on the outskirts of Nashville then turned them into high-rent apartments and condos. I wondered again what Farmer Bentley planned to do with the properties he’d purchased and whether or not Timothy Cooper Jr. had wanted his mother’s land for himself. Blossom Valley was no Nashville, but it was gorgeous and normally peaceful in the extreme, the perfect setting for one of those celebrity spas or rehabs. Though I didn’t want either right next door.

  My mind wandered back to Colton as I scrolled through Mrs. Cooper’s Facebook photo albums. Why had he left a rapidly growing and successful career in Clarksburg to protect and serve a tiny town in the hills?

  “Wow.” I stopped on a string of Mrs. Cooper’s photos that appeared to be from a professional photo shoot. She wore a blue one-piece bathing suit with a plunging neckline and sheer white wrap. Although modestly done, the repetitive collection seemed completely frivolous and a bit risqué for someone with a forty-year-old son. These shots and all the others sharing the album had the same three-word hashtag: #MillionDollarMama. I laughed. Granny still used a VCR and landline while her arch nemesis had multiple social media accounts and shared photo sessions with hashtags. Maybe some of the crazy rumors were true. Maybe Mrs. Cooper really did have a secret double life.

  I rubbed my eyes as fatigue latched onto my bones and begged me to sleep for as long as possible. “One more search,” I said through a hearty yawn. This time I searched for the hashtag Mrs. Cooper seemed to favor. What the heck was #MillionDollarMama supposed to mean? Was it just something she’d made up to make herself feel good, or was it part of something much bigger like #RoyalWedding?

  The search results came back in bulk. Mrs. Cooper wasn’t alone. Million Dollar Mama was more than a hashtag on her endless photos and selfies. Million Dollar Mama was an identifier for patients of Dr. Manny Davis, a plastic surgeon in Winchester, Virginia.

  Mrs. Cooper had been seeing someone in Winchester all right, and she’d been representing him for years in online ads and new client recruitment pieces. No wonder her hiker friends thought she looked half her age. She was sneaking off to get plastic surgery, then telling them the results were from communing with nature!

  I tipped my head back and puffed an ugly laugh. Faker. That explained the bulging buttons I’d noticed on her blouse too. Granny’s nemesis had probably had a boob job!

  My phone rang, and all humor drained away as I stared at the unknown number. I imagined the killer somehow knew what I’d been doing online and had called to threaten me verbally. “Hello?” I squeaked.

  “Hey.” A warm and slightly familiar male voice greeted me.

  “Hey.” I waited, unsure, and frowned against the little screen. The voice sounded a lot like . . .

  “This is Colton,” he said. “Sorry to call so late.”

  “Colton,” I parroted, wholly confused. “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

  “No. Nothing like that. I just had an update to share, and I wanted to touch base with you after last night and see if you’re feeling any better.”

  “I’m fine,” I said, feeling a strange flutter of nerves. “I worked on the damaged barn floor a little. I think it’s going to be okay.”

  “That’s good news.” He sounded genuinely relieved. “How’d you do it? Sanding?”

  “I tried. That wasn’t getting me anywhere so I used a little wood putty. Tomorrow I’ll sand some more. Probably stain the whole floor.”

  “You might try lacquer,” he suggested.

  “Maybe. You said you have an update for me?”

  “Yeah.” He paused. “I got a call from the lab. That soil sample I took came back positive for high levels of herbicides.”

  I was right. “Someone really did sabotage our trees.”

  “Yep,” he sai
d. “I’ll figure out the who and why.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. “Any luck with the paint from Sally’s bumper?”

  “Still waiting on that.” He was quiet another moment. “How are you doing on your promise to leave my investigation alone?”

  I stared at the guilty glow of laptop light on my skin. “I’m doing great,” I said, quickly closing the lid and tossing the evidence of my lie onto the cushion beside me. “Very well. Thank you.” I dragged a decorative pillow over the laptop for good measure. “Why?”

  I held my breath through the long pause that followed.

  “I know firsthand how tough it can be to stop a curious mind,” he said. “It’s easy to make yourself crazy wanting answers to questions you shouldn’t have, but you can’t always ask them.” He chuckled softly, as if the words were part of an inside joke. “You don’t want to seem presumptuous. Don’t want to be that overconfident, clearly misled moron.”

  “What?”

  Colton cleared his throat. “How about this? If you get any strong urges to investigate, call me instead.”

  “Call you?”

  “Use this number. It’s my personal cell phone.”

  I rolled the unexpected offer around in my cluttered head. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. I don’t want you drawing any more unwanted attention from your stalker, so let me help. If you feel like falling off the wagon, I’ll be your sponsor.”

  I laughed. “So. I’m an addict now?”

  “Aren’t you?” Bass rumbled in his tone.

  I shivered as my gaze traveled to the partially hidden laptop beneath my throw pillow. I needed to tell him what I’d learned about Mrs. Cooper and my suspicions about Farmer Bentley.

  “Well, it’s getting late and I don’t want to keep you,” he said. “I just thought I’d check in.”

  “Okay. Thank you,” I added, a bit breathlessly.

  “Have a nice night.”