Killed on Blueberry Hill

by Sharon Farrow

  “I did. Gillian only knows him by reputation, which as we all know isn’t a sterling one. Like you, she went to Oriole Point public schools. Wyatt attended Christian schools in Two Rivers.” I frowned. “An education that seems to have been wasted on him.”

  “I know he’s a party animal, same as half the young guys around here,” Dean said. “And I’ve heard from friends in Two Rivers that he sold prescription meds to students when he was in high school. My best friend’s brother bought pills from Wyatt every time an exam was coming up.”

  This was disquieting news. “What did he sell?”

  “Adderall. Weed, too, but that’s pretty easy to find. There are rumors he sells ‘Molly’ once in a while. According to my sources, Wyatt’s still selling to the high schoolers. I never had any interest in getting high myself. My drugs of choice are caffeine and gossip.”

  Learning Wyatt pushed drugs to teenagers troubled me even more than the thefts. “Have you heard anything about Wyatt stealing from the stores downtown?”

  Rather than being surprised by my question, Dean’s expression turned thoughtful. “Funny you say that. A few years back, my mom said the owner of Brouwer Jewelry filed charges against Wyatt for shoplifting. Don’t know what happened after that, though.”

  Unfortunately, I wouldn’t be able to find out anything from Sylvia Brouwer. She closed her jewelry store two years ago and retired to Georgia to be near her grandchildren.

  “Why do you ask?”

  I quickly told Dean what had occurred last night.

  When I was finished, he said, “Knowing you, I’m sure you aren’t mistaken about how much money was in the cashbox.”

  Dean knew me well indeed. I counted the end-of-day receipts twice every night. “Nope. I counted it before leaving the fairground and wrote down the total. When I got back to the store, I counted it again. I still have both slips of paper with the same amounts on it. After Wyatt left, the cashbox was two hundred dollars lighter.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  I finished cleaning the computer screen. “Go next door to talk with Denise. Maybe she’s had a similar experience with Wyatt. I learned Wyatt stole a wallet four years ago in Tess’s studio. Now I find out that he’s shoplifted from a local jewelry store. He could be stealing from shop owners and tourists all the time.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s using Adderall, as well as selling it. That screws up your thinking. And he might have flipped out over his uncle’s death and went back to stealing. Grief can make you do crazy things.”

  I threw him a sardonic look. “Right. Because that’s what people do when a relative dies: go out and steal something. No. He’s been dishonest for years. I should do something about it.”

  “Until they figure out who killed Porter, I’d stay away from the O’Neills and the Gales.”

  “Wait a second. How do you know Porter was murdered?”

  He laughed. “Not only does my mom handle every call that comes into the police station, she has a genius for eavesdropping. She’s been telling me and Andrew all week that Porter’s death was suspicious. I mean, c’mon. What thirtysomething guy just up and dies on an amusement park ride? The O’Neills have more important things to deal with right now than you getting robbed. It’s a bummer that Wyatt ripped you off for two hundred dollars, but now isn’t the best time to do anything about it.”

  I disagreed. It might be the perfect time, especially with Ryan soon to return. Once he did, the police were sure to question him about Porter’s death, and I already feared he ranked near the top of their suspect list. Yes, I wanted Wyatt’s thieving to stop. However, if Wyatt had been dishonest about stealing money and jewelry, he might also be lying about his uncle’s death.

  * * *

  When I walked into the Tonguish Spirit Gallery, I found Denise relaxing in her favorite Bentwood rocker by the back wall, immersed in a book. Surrounded by rough-hewn wooden bookshelves and a cushioned armchair, she called this her reading nook. I had tried to replicate such a cozy corner in my own shop, but my merchandise and the building layout didn’t allow it.

  At the sound of the chimes tinkling over the door, Denise looked up. “Marlee, how nice to see you.” She closed her book and laid it on the shelf beside her rocker. “You’re the first person to cross my threshold in over an hour. It’s one of those days. Come and sit down.”

  “Dean and I have cleaned everything in the shop. In another hour, we’ll be washing windows.” With a contented smile, I sank into the armchair beside her. I loved the chair’s plush, coppery-brown cushions. More than once, I’d considered buying it, even though the chair’s moose and fall leaf pattern didn’t match the décor in my house.

  “How about some tea? I have a hot plate in the back and a kettle.”

  “No thanks. I only wanted to chat. Didn’t mean to interrupt your reading.”

  “Rereading, actually. I’ve decided to dip into the Jane Austen novels again. It’s been years.”

  I laughed. “My English professor mom would be so proud of you.”

  “Just don’t tell her that I prefer French literature, aside from Jane, of course.” She began to rock back and forth. “I discovered Balzac and Flaubert in college and never looked back.”

  Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath. Denise burned incense or scented candles in the shop; today I smelled wood smoke, which meant she was burning a candle called Rustic Cottage. Like my beach yoga class, the gallery made me feel calmer, more centered. I attributed it to the CDs of Native American flute music playing softly in the background and the aromas of her carefully selected candles. I also enjoyed the textiles, pottery, paintings, and jewelry artfully placed around the store. Because Tess knew how much I loved the gallery, she often bought my birthday and Christmas gifts here. Last year, she spent an outrageous sum of money on an exquisite Star Quilt, which I slept under every night. I owed Tess one great birthday gift this autumn.

  Thinking about the quilt on my bed prompted me to look at the adjacent wall, where dream catchers of all sizes were on display. “I need one of those. How do they work exactly?”

  “The Ojibwe believe the dream catchers’ netted hoops were magical webs protecting people while they slept, especially children. The night air was thought to be filled with dreams, and the dream catcher attracted them. Bad dreams could not get through the ‘web,’ but good dreams passed through to enter the sleeping person below.” Denise gave me a concerned look. “If you need a dream catcher, your sleep must be troubled.”

  “Not my sleep. My waking hours.” I trusted Denise. While not a close friend like Tess and Natasha, she and I had shared a few dinners. We also loved superhero movies and went to see them together, regardless of what the latest reviews said. I valued her opinion and her counsel.

  I took a deep breath. “The news hasn’t officially come out, but the police suspect foul play in Porter Gale’s death.”

  “I’ve already heard. Suzanne Cabot popped in yesterday. Although I suspect she had less of a need to replenish her supply of lavender and sage candles than to let me know the latest gossip from the police station.”

  “How does she keep her job as their receptionist? Talk about loose lips.”

  “Maybe she knows so much about everyone who works there that they’re afraid to let her go.”

  We laughed.

  “Thanks to Suzanne, a lot of the shopkeepers are aware the police view Porter’s death as suspicious,” she continued. “Cindy at the cheese shop stopped by earlier to talk about it.”

  “The question is who wanted Porter dead. Given the success of Blueberry Hill, family members seem the most likely to benefit. Therefore the most likely to want him out of the picture.”

  “Blueberry Hill is a huge commercial enterprise. Anyone involved in the fruit-growing business here may have had a reason.”

  “True. But I only know the family members, and what I do know of them makes me uneasy.” Leaning forward, I told her about Wyatt’s theft the night be
fore, Tess’s experience, and Dean’s assertion that Wyatt had been charged with shoplifting.

  Denise rubbed at her temples when I finished, as if I’d given her a headache.

  “I only wish I’d known Wyatt made a habit of stealing,” I said. “I would have called the police after he left. Now I’m afraid if I don’t say anything, he’ll continue to steal. That hurts local businesses and puts the tourists at risk. If I can find another shopkeeper he’s stolen from recently, the two of us can talk to Wyatt and his family. I hope to convince his parents that Wyatt has a problem that needs to be addressed.”

  “You want to know if I am one of those shopkeepers.” She didn’t state this as a question.

  “Are you?”

  “Wyatt came into the gallery last month during Fourth of July week. I had a store packed with people, and only noticed Wyatt because he has such bushy red hair. He also acted odd. Jumpy. Laughing to himself.”

  “Did he seem high?”

  “I couldn’t say. But he acted strange. When you’ve worked in retail long enough, you develop a sixth sense about customers. As busy as we were, I kept one eye on Wyatt.”

  “What did you see?”

  She pointed at the glass jewelry case in the center of the store. “A customer asked to see a silver and turquoise bracelet from the case. She decided not to buy it, but left the bracelet on the counter after trying it on. Wyatt snatched it up when he thought no one was looking and stuck it in his jeans pocket. I grabbed him right before he got to the door.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He became angry that I’d stopped him. When I pulled the bracelet out of his back pocket, he turned as red as his hair. Wyatt immediately claimed he’d meant to purchase the bracelet, but wasn’t done shopping yet.” She smirked. “He had literally opened the door to leave when I caught him. I should have waited until he reached the sidewalk because he started to make a scene. I was jammed with customers, and I’d gotten my bracelet back. It didn’t seem worth the trouble to call the police, especially if he stuck to his story about planning to buy the bracelet. But he did try to steal it. An expensive piece of jewelry, too, by a Zuni artisan from New Mexico. Five hundred and fifty dollars.”

  I whistled.

  “I’d show it to you, but I sold it last week.”

  “Dean told me that Wyatt sells Adderall to the high school kids. Apparently he’s been doing it for years, since back when he was in high school himself.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. My cousin works at a treatment center in Lansing. Adderall abuse among teens has been on the rise for a decade. Prescription opioid abuse is also a serious problem.”

  “This is all so unpleasant. I hate to think those problems also affect our little village, but of course they do. If only there was something I could do.” I thought a moment. “If Wyatt is selling pills to teens, why does he need to steal from the stores?”

  “According to my cousin, that’s not uncommon. If his drug supply runs low, he’s not making as much money from dealing; therefore, he steals in order to get money to buy more drugs. A vicious cycle, especially if he’s a user himself.”

  “I hope Wyatt doesn’t involve his sister in any of this. Courtney is such a sweet girl.”

  “Courtney’s a good kid,” Denise agreed. “And such a horse lover. She comes here every month to see if I have any new jewelry with horse motifs. Her mom bought her a horse-themed charm bracelet for her birthday this past spring.”

  “Do you think Cara O’Neill and her husband know what’s going on with their son?”

  Denise stopped rocking and steepled her hands. “The only way to discover the truth is to confront them. You wanted a shopkeeper to help confirm that Wyatt is a thief? Well, here I am.”

  “You’ll come with me to the O’Neill farm?”

  “The sooner, the better. If his parents don’t know about his stealing and drug dealing, it’s high time they did. Before he—or an innocent like his sister—gets hurt.”

  “How about this afternoon?”

  “I can’t leave until three. That’s when Keira comes in for her shift.”

  I shot a grateful smile at the feathered dream catchers on the wall. While I didn’t need them to catch any bad dreams, I sent a silent prayer, asking them to help us catch a foolish young man before his life of crime became too dangerous. I couldn’t help but wonder if we weren’t about to catch a killer as well.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bright blue balloons floated above either side of the open front gate when Denise and I arrived at O’Neill Blueberry Farm. Puzzled, I continued up the driveway past a retaining pond and a long, white building that held the farm’s commercial space. A parking lot accommodated U-Pick visitors. At least a dozen U-Pickers, plastic buckets in hand, walked along the rows of mown grass between the blueberry bushes. In the distance I spied a mechanized blueberry harvester and several farm workers. One of the figures had shaggy red hair. At least I knew Wyatt was on the property.

  “What’s with the balloons?” I parked in front of the tri-level house that served as the O’Neill family home. A shiny black Lincoln that I didn’t recognize was parked there as well.

  Denise opened the door of the SUV. “Maybe it’s in honor of the Blueberry Blow Out. Balloons are a festive touch, if a little inappropriate this week.”

  “Could be a way of honoring Porter. He was the Blueberry King around here.” I hesitated before walking toward the house. “I saw Wyatt in the field with the harvesting crew. Maybe we should walk out there and talk to him first.”

  Before we could discuss it, the screen door flew open and Courtney burst out of the house. Running to greet us, I was surprised when she flung her arms around me, then Denise. She took a step back, her freckled face beaming. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Denise and I shrugged at each other. “We don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “We won! O’Neill Farm won Best Tasting Blueberry of the Year at the Blow Out this morning!” She clapped her hands. “O’Neill’s has never won before. It’s always Blueberry Hill or the Janssens or Zellars. But this year, the vote was unanimous. O’Neill Blueberry Farms grows the best-tasting fruit! We bought balloons at the fair to decorate the farm. And Dad is ordering signs saying ‘O’Neill Blueberries Voted Tastiest Blueberry In Oriole County.’ I already announced it on the website and our Facebook page and Twitter.” She stopped to catch her breath. “I thought you were here to congratulate us.”

  Denise smiled at her. “No, but congratulations, Courtney. Your family should be proud.”

  “Absolutely,” I said. “This is great publicity for the farm.”

  “If you didn’t know about the award, why are you here? Have you sold out of our jams and butters already, Marlee? We haven’t had a chance to make a fresh batch, not with everything going on. And this morning was crazy busy.”

  “No. Denise and I came to speak to your parents.” On one hand, I felt bad about bothering the O’Neills with news of their son’s activities. However, Porter had died a few days ago and none of the O’Neills seemed upset over it. Indeed, they had now moved into celebratory mode. Besides, clearing the air about Wyatt was best done before too much time elapsed following his latest theft.

  Her happy expression grew cautious. “Is something wrong ?”

  Denise cleared her throat. “Marlee and I learned about a problem concerning your family. We thought it best to speak with them directly.”

  “It’s about Wyatt,” I said.

  She looked disgusted now. “Is he stealing again?”

  Taken aback, I asked, “How do you know about any of this?”

  “He’s been caught before, starting back in middle school. And some jewelry store owner in town reported him to the police. He had to do community service: four weeks picking up trash along the freeway. Too bad he wasn’t shipped off to juvie. It would have served him right.”

  “That may be a little harsh,” Denise said with a small smile.

  �
�Not really. Wyatt steals from everyone. He lies. He sells drugs.”

  “Hold on.” I held up my hand. “You know your brother sells drugs?”

  “He’s been doing that since the doctors put him on Adderall in eighth grade. Before that he took Ritalin, only he was too young to figure out how to sell it back then. He’s supposed to have ADHD. I think he just likes to act like an idiot. He gets a lot of attention that way.”

  Denise and I exchanged troubled glances. “Do your parents know he’s selling drugs?” I asked.

  “Oh, sure. Like I said, he’s been caught a few times. The principal suspended him when he was in eleventh grade. My parents grounded him for the rest of the year when that happened, but it didn’t change anything. It doesn’t help that Mom treats him like he’s still in kindergarten. Like nothing is ever his fault because he has ADHD. It drives me and my dad crazy.” She crossed her arms. “What did he do this time? Did he steal something from your shops?”

  I told her about his theft last night, along with his attempt to steal a bracelet from Denise’s gallery. “We were afraid your parents didn’t know he was still stealing.”

  “They probably don’t. The last theft we heard about was last year. Wyatt stole a case of beer out of a liquor store in Berrien County. Mom paid off the store owner to keep it quiet, but my dad got really steamed. I don’t think he’ll let her bail out Wyatt again. If both of you tell them he hasn’t changed his ways, my moron brother might not get off scot-free this time.” She sighed. “I’m only sorry you came on a day when we’ve had such good news.”

  “I’m sorry. But Wyatt’s problems seem even more important than winning Best Tasting Blueberry,” I said. “And we’re worried he may be stealing from the tourists.”

  “Oh, it’s not only that. The family lawyers showed up this past hour.” Her freckled face creased in yet another wide grin. “Uncle Porter’s will has been read. And guess what? It leaves half of Blueberry Hill to my mom! Half of all the money, the business, and the property. Isn’t that incredible?”