Killed on Blueberry Hill

by Sharon Farrow

  Three customers followed me inside. The ladies were regulars, here for their morning berry smoothies. Tying on her chef apron, Gillian greeted the trio by first name as she took her place behind the ice cream counter. I smiled as all three ordered their usual smoothies: Strawberry Peach, Triple Berry, and Blueberry Blast.

  Because my poster on the wall extolling blueberries looked slightly askew, I spent some time trying to get it to hang straight. Not only were blueberries my favorite berry, they were also the healthiest. The bright colorful poster listed all their benefits, especially the fact that they contained more antioxidants than any other fruit or vegetable. Blueberries also boost brain function, reduce DNA damage, and help prevent heart disease. And since his world revolved around blueberries, I assumed Porter had known that the anthocyanins in blueberries possess anti-diabetic effects on a person’s insulin sensitivity. Sadly, no matter how many blueberries Porter ate, they couldn’t counteract a diet packed with sugar and alcohol.

  Once satisfied the poster hung straight, I did a circuit of my shop: rearranging bags of blueberry pancake mix, restacking tins of wild berry tea, and making a note to reorder more bags of blackberry granola. I noted how well the berry jams and jellies were selling. And every berry-flavored syrup was currently on backorder. Since I made all the syrups, I felt a tiny swell of pride. My newest creation, a raspberry ginger syrup, had sold out within three days. I planned to whip up another batch as soon as the Blueberry Blow Out was over. This summer had seen a bump in tourism, and Oriole Point already ranked as one of the most popular resort areas along the lakeshore. Thank goodness the recent murders hadn’t turned tourists away.

  When more customers entered, I looked up from counting how many strawberry hullers and slicers remained on the shelves. One woman walked over to the table of berry-flavored coffees, as the others made their way to the pastry counter. I spent the next few minutes waiting for them to decide which berry pastry they wanted. And I agreed that all of them looked sinfully good. I’d just finished handing the last of them her lemon blueberry cheese tart when I heard Minnie say, “What’s up, punk?”

  Officer Davenport stood in front of Minnie’s perch, staring at the one-foot-tall gray and white bird as if she were an avian suspect. Trying to keep a smile on my face, I made my way over there. She’d better not tell me I couldn’t keep a bird in the store. I’d already okayed everything with city hall, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Janelle had found some obscure, punitive ordinance about parrots in berry-themed shops.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” Maybe if I treated her like a customer, she’d act as civilly as one.

  I wanted to roll my eyes when she turned her attention from Minnie to me. Her omnipresent sunglasses reflected the irritation on my face.

  “Your bird has quite a mouth on her,” she said. “She’s already called me a punk and told me to move my ass.”

  “Don’t take it personally. She’s a parrot, not a perp.”

  “A couple times she sounded Australian. Exactly where did you acquire this bird?”

  For the love of Woody Woodpecker, did Janelle think I got Minnie on the black market?

  Taking a deep breath, I replied, “She’s a rescue bird. An African gray. And you’re right about the Australian accent. She’s mimicking her original family, who were from Australia. They bought her three years ago when they were living in Niles. Minnie was little more than a chick then. The family was apparently quite fond of her, but they ran into problems during their move back to Melbourne this summer. Something about taking an exotic pet through customs. That’s how Minnie ended up as one of my aunt’s rescue animals.” I scratched Minnie’s head and she closed one eye. The other remained fixed on me. “I love birds, so Aunt Vicki knew I’d adopt her. How could I refuse? Minnie’s the best. Aren’t you, sweetie?”

  Minnie gave a piercing whistle before repeating, “Minnie’s the best. Minnie’s the best.”

  “Any more questions?” I asked Janelle. “Would you like to know about her diet? Expected life span?”

  “Any more questions?” Minnie said, then launched into a chorus of “Ba-ba-ba ba-ba ba-ran.”

  “That bird would drive me nuts. I don’t know how you can stand to listen to her all day. Don’t your customers complain?”

  “Not at all. They’re animal lovers.” I gave her a forced smile. “In fact, the only thing I hear the tourists complain about are the speed traps the local police set up. Is there anything you can do about that?”

  Now it was Janelle’s turn to take a deep breath. “Very funny.”

  “Not to them. Look, is there a reason for the visit today? Something you’re interested in buying?”

  “No thanks. I have no desire to waste money on a bottle of elderberry wine.” She jerked her hand in the direction of the shelf behind her. “Or raspberry oatmeal.”

  “I’m glad my customers don’t agree with you. We live in Michigan’s fruit belt, surrounded by orchards. That’s why I thought a store devoted to all things berry was a perfect business to open. And I was right.”

  She smirked. “As P.T. Barnum allegedly said, ‘There’s a sucker born every minute.’”

  Tired of the pretense, I stopped smiling. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to come with me to the police station. The chief wishes to speak with you.”

  My stress meter inched upward. If the police chief wanted to talk to me, it couldn’t be good. Fortunately, I had a great deal of respect for Gene Hitchcock, who had headed our village police force since I was a baby. With the exception of Hitchcock, Janelle, and Bruno Wycoff, the rest of the police force was part-time. And their inexperience showed. I dreaded the day Chief Hitchcock retired.

  “Where are the cashews?” Minnie asked.

  I fished out a cashew from the stash I kept for her in my apron pocket. “Why does he want to see me?”

  “He needs to ask you about Porter Gale’s death,” Janelle replied.

  “I was nowhere near Porter when he died on the ride. What could I possibly say? I assume some complication of his diabetes caused the death. I’m not a doctor.”

  “I’m not a doctor,” Minnie repeated. “Hi ho. Hi ho.”

  “We already spoke to the doctors at the hospital. Along with the techs who ran preliminary results on the deceased. Porter Gale didn’t die of natural causes.” At long last, Janelle whipped off her sunglasses. “He was murdered.”

  Chapter Six

  The walk from my shop to the white clapboard building that housed the police force measured only a few short blocks, but it felt like a mile. Officer Davenport refused to give me any further information on Porter Gale’s death. Or murder, as she had informed me. Unless someone confessed, I didn’t believe it. Porter had been in clear view of everyone as he rode to the top of the tower. And the ride was over in the blink of an eye. How could he be murdered in such a short amount of time?

  This was not only further bad news for the Blueberry Blow Out, but confirmed the Cabot brothers’ joking suspicions about how Porter died. And their egos were inflated enough.

  When we entered the village police station, several tourists milled about, all of them sporting flip-flops and beachwear. Ringing phones, a blaring radio, and the tapping of a computer keyboard filled the air. The voice of the police receptionist, Suzanne Cabot, added to the cacophony. Animated and gossipy, Suzanne could have been no one else but Andrew and Dean’s mother. Certainly, all three of them spent a great deal of time on personal grooming, even if her sons didn’t approve of her love of jumpsuits and “statement piece” jewelry.

  Speaking on a phone headset, Suzanne held a mirror in one hand while smoothing her teased, reddish-brown hair with the other. When she caught sight of me, she pointed at a side office. “The chief wants to see you,” Suzanne mouthed.

  “She knows, Suzanne.” Janelle shook her head as I followed her to the office.

  The office door had been left open and we peeked in. An empty desk greeted us. “W
ait here,” Janelle said. “I’ll see where he went to.”

  I sat down on the metal chair facing the desk. I doubted the search for Chief Hitchcock would take long. Built in 1903, the police station initially housed the Oriole Point Apothecary, and the small building had never been renovated. What little space there was seemed crammed with ancient filing cabinets and stacks of manila folders. I wondered again why the chief wanted to speak to me. What could I possibly tell him about Porter Gale’s death?

  “There you are. We’ve been waiting for you.” Detective Greg Trejo of the Michigan State Police entered the room. Although the state police and the sheriff’s department had arrived at the fairground after Porter died, Trejo hadn’t been among them. Also missing last night was the head of Investigative Services at the sheriff’s department, Captain Atticus Holt, known as “Kit” to his friends.

  Craning my neck past Trejo, I felt disappointed to see that Kit wasn’t behind him.

  Both Trejo and Holt investigated the Blackberry Art School murder last month, which also involved me. I first met Detective Trejo during a previous murder, and I had been put off by a brusque manner that outweighed his good looks. I was relieved to learn a real human being existed behind Trejo’s chilly outward demeanor. I thanked Kit Holt for that, who told me Trejo was not only his brother-in-law, but the doting father of three children. Since then, Trejo occasionally permitted me to see a friendlier side to his guarded personality.

  However, I preferred the company of Kit Holt. I thought he enjoyed mine, except I hadn’t seen him since returning from a trip three weeks ago. Probably a good thing. There were times last month when we seemed to drift away from friendship and edge too close to romance. And I didn’t need anything further to confuse me about my upcoming marriage. But I missed Kit. We had a lot in common. For example, he, too, had been named after a fictional character; his mother christened him after her favorite character from To Kill a Mockingbird, Atticus Finch. He also had a disarming smile, and the warmest brown eyes seen on any creature since Bambi.

  “How are you doing, Marlee?” After moving a spider plant to the side, Trejo sat on the ledge by the window. “You’re looking nice.”

  Dressed in my usual work attire—a BERRY BASKET T-shirt and jeans—I thought he was simply being polite. “Thanks. I expected to see you at the fairground last night.”

  “I took my family to Mackinac Island for a few days. We didn’t get back till after midnight. But I am looking into what happened to Porter Gale. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Is Kit working on it, too?”

  “Not at this time.”

  “Is he all right? I haven’t seen Kit since I left on my trip to Illinois. He even gave me a book to read on vacation.”

  Trejo glanced at the door, as if making certain no one could overhear. “Marlee, you know I’m married to Kit’s sister. He’s family. And I don’t want to see him get hurt.”

  “I don’t want to see him get hurt, either.”

  He remained silent a long moment, allowing me to hear Suzanne tell someone about the best place to eat sushi in Grand Rapids. “Kit likes you. He likes you a lot. It might not take much for those feelings to get stronger. And you’re engaged. Someone may get hurt if this continues.” Trejo gave me a warning look. “We talked about this while you were gone.”

  “We?” I felt as if I’d been excluded from something important.

  “Yes. I convinced him to keep his distance. Otherwise it’s not fair to Kit. Or you.”

  That last part sounded insincere. Then again, Kit and Greg had been family for almost a decade. Who was I to upset their lives? A silly shopgirl who got involved in too many risky things—like murder. “I only want the best for Kit. And I consider him a friend. Nothing more.” I hoped this was true. I honestly didn’t know.

  He nodded. “It’s better for all concerned. Especially with what we’ve learned so far about the Porter Gale case.”

  Before I could ask him if it was true Porter had been murdered, Chief Gene Hitchcock and Janelle walked in. The room suddenly seemed smaller. Our strapping, six-foot-five police chief took up a lot of space. Having a police chief of such imposing size probably helped to discourage criminals in our little village. Having the same last name as the famous movie director of thrillers didn’t hurt, either. Who wanted to mess with Chief Gene Hitchcock? Not me.

  “Hi, Marlee. Hope your parents are doing well.” Hitchcock gave my shoulder an affectionate squeeze before he sat down at his desk. I’d known him since I was a child, and his wife was my aunt’s best friend.

  “They’re great. And they’re coming to town for Labor Day.”

  “Good to hear.” Hitchcock’s attention turned to the paperwork on his desk. “We should all get together for a picnic that weekend.”

  Janelle let out an exasperated breath, which luckily her boss didn’t hear. A divorced mother of two, Janelle had moved to Oriole Point from Green Bay, Wisconsin, eight years ago. Coming from a big city, she seemed baffled by what a tightly knit community Oriole Point was. And she openly resented how residents left their cars and homes unlocked. I was the exception to that; ten years in New York City taught me caution. With time, she might understand the dynamics of a small village, but I thought it was taking her a little too much time. Nonetheless, Officer Davenport had become Hitchcock’s favorite on the force. No surprise, given her competence and the casual policing of the remaining officers. But she needed to acquire a little of Greg Trejo’s Vulcan-like professional demeanor. I found her way too easy to read.

  Right now, I sensed her impatience. Janelle leaned against the wall, her sharp, angled face revealing nothing. Of course she still wore her aviators. But her foot tapped the floor, impatient for questioning to begin. I didn’t blame her. I wanted to know why I was here. The sooner, the better.

  I cleared my throat, making Chief Hitchcock look up from his papers. “Officer Davenport said you wanted to ask me about Porter Gale’s murder.”

  “What?” Trejo stood up. “Why are you calling it a murder?”

  “Excuse me.” Hitchcock straightened. “Who told you Mr. Gale had been murdered?”

  I pointed at Janelle.

  Hitchcock shot her a look so disapproving, Janelle actually withered, like a time-lapse film of a dying plant. “Officer Davenport, I instructed you to bring Marlee to my office. You were told to say nothing else about the case.”

  “Sorry, sir,” she said, a flush creeping across her face. “But Miss Jacob asked why you wanted to see her. I assumed you would tell her as soon as she got here, so—”

  He cut her off. “Enough. When I give an order, I expect it to be followed.” Hitchcock shook his head. “And take off those sunglasses, Davenport. This is an office, not the beach.”

  Janelle removed her sunglasses, revealing a face crimson with embarrassment.

  Trejo and Hitchcock exchanged irritated looks. “At this time, Porter’s death is officially being viewed as suspicious,” Trejo told me. “Unofficially, we’re treating it as a homicide. We’re waiting for further test results before we make the announcement. Officer Davenport should not have said anything until then.”

  “I don’t understand why you think Porter may have been murdered,” I said. “I assumed he died of something related to his diabetes.”

  “Why do you say that?” Hitchcock narrowed his eyes at me.

  “After Porter won the men’s pie-eating contest yesterday, Ryan mentioned how stupid it was for a diabetic to eat that much sugar. That was the first I heard about his diabetes. I thought Porter was lucky not to have gone into insulin shock there and then.”

  “Do you have family members or friends who are diabetics?” Trejo asked.

  “Not that I’m aware of, but I know enough about diabetes to realize eating sugar isn’t wise. Especially an entire pie. Then an hour later, I watched as Porter took part in the tug-of-war. It was almost a hundred degrees, too. I can’t imagine all the exertion was good for his health.”

  “
Ah, the tug-of-war.” Chief Hitchcock pointed at the open door, and Janelle quickly shut it. “We’ve been told the Gales beat the Zellars. This led to a physical altercation.”

  “Yes. But not simply because the Zellars lost.” I explained about the piece of glass that triggered the brawl. “Theo Foster, my baker, told me that he saw Porter bury something in the sand. So Ryan may have been correct to accuse Porter of cheating.” I held up my hand before he could respond. “Not that I think attacking him was called for. Ryan should never have touched Porter. But there’s a longtime rivalry between the two families, and Ryan and Porter obviously didn’t like each other.” My voice died away. I’d seen enough legal dramas to know I was volunteering too much information. To do so in a murder case could prove disastrous.

  “The situation seems to have been cleared up once security officers arrived,” Trejo said. “And Porter Gale refused to bring charges of assault against your fiancé.”

  “I left right after the fight, but Porter’s wife, Sloane, told me the guys even shook hands.”

  Hitchcock pulled out one of the papers on his desk. The pile must be a printout of last night’s police report. “Witnesses agree the two men shook hands shortly after the fight. A few hours later, they were seen at a table drinking a beer together at Trappers Corner.”

  “Is there a reason they call it Trappers Corner?” Janelle asked. “Seems a funny name for the middle of the fairground.”

  “A long time ago, raccoons overran the area. After a bounty was put on the animals, trappers came from all over Michigan to take part. To collect their money, the trappers brought their skins to that part of the county, and it became known as Trappers Corner.” Hitchcock leaned forward. “Marlee, did you visit Trappers Corner at any point yesterday?”