Eleven

I needed to find Jack, and we needed to get back to the orchard. It was barely mid-morning, but all hell was breaking loose. I escaped the ER without incident, found a stairwell, and descended into the basement two steps at a time. I was running down the back hallway when I saw Jack emerging from the Medical Examiner’s Office.

“Hey,” Jack said upon seeing me. “You okay? Nasty lump. That’s gotta hurt. I was just about to come up and see how you were doing.”

Truthfully, I’d already forgotten about the pain in my head. “I’m fine,” I assured him, bending over to catch my breath. “Listen, we’ve got to get back to the inn. It’s been on the news. The press is already there. Can you believe it? They’re calling it ‘Blunder Under the Blossoms’! I was in advertising, Jack. That’s the kind of thing that sticks to a business. That’s the kind of thing that ruins lives! This is a PR nightmare.”

He stood a moment, studying me through narrowed eyes. “That incident in the morgue … clearly, you’re not cut out for this.”

“Are you listening to what I’m telling you, Jack? The press is there.”

“Of course they are. It’s murder,” he stated, holding me in a scrutinizing gaze.

“You knew they were there?”

“They were tipped off when the body came in last night. It’s bound to happen. They have police scanners and informants in every hospital. Unfortunately, and you might not want to hear this, but it’s journalists’ job to report the news. However, I specifically told your parents that under no circumstance were they to talk with the press, and they won’t. Don’t worry.”

“What? Don’t worry? Are you insane? How am I not supposed to worry? You saw the body! You know what happened. Even a toddler could see that my dad killed that man! How can you look so calm?”

“Because,” Jack said plainly, “I’m not a toddler.” It seemed he was about to elaborate on this when Doc Fisker walked out of his office. The man was eating a huge piece of cherry pie on a very tiny paper plate.

“MacLaren, it’s been a pleasure, m’boy,” he said. “I’ll sign the paperwork and wait for your call before I send it over, just like you asked. And Miss Bloom.” He turned to me, paused, and shoveled another gooey bite of pie into his mouth. “Whoa Nelly!” he exclaimed, his large blue eyes growing even larger. He wiggled the little plastic fork at my forehead. “You’ve got a nice egg on your head. Came down hard and cracked it on the table before we knew what happened. You’ll want to put some ice on that.” He took another bite. “Don’t be a stranger. Oh,” he exclaimed, parking his tiny fork deep in the flaky pie crust. “I meant to give you this.” He withdrew a disturbingly well-read copy of Fifty Shades of Grey from the pocket of his lab coat. His finger left a smudge of cherry pie filling on the cover. I didn’t want to touch it, let alone take it. Jack suffered no such qualms and took it for me. “When you’re done with that,” the doctor instructed, “pass it along to your mother. She’d get a kick out of it.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Jack replied, doing a remarkable job of looking professional. “I’ll see to it that Miss Bloom follows your orders to a tee. But for now, I think it’s best that I get her out of here. Look at her head. I’ve heard of people passing out in a morgue before but didn’t think it was true. Now we know.” The idiot grinned. The doctor did too. Jack then cleared his throat, took my hand, and pulled me along to the elevator.

The moment the doors closed he dissolved into a fit of laughter. “I’m sorry,” he said, gaining control of himself once again. “Doc Fisker. Gotta love the guy, but he’s one disturbed old dude. Pie in one hand, chick-porn in the other. That’s what happens when you cut open dead bodies all day for a living.” He shook the book at me in a mocking way. The elevator door opened and we stepped out. “Do you want this?” he asked.

I shook my head. “It’s all yours.”

“Oh, no-no. Only sci-fi and comic books for me.” He grinned, winked, and disappeared into the ER waiting room. A moment later he popped out again, bookless.

“Come along, Whit. Let’s get you something to eat,” he said, grabbing hold of my hand again. “As I was saying—or at least as I was beginning to say until I got distracted—you cannot enter a morgue on an empty stomach, especially when viewing the body of a friend or loved one. Doesn’t work.”

“But Jack, we don’t have time to eat. We need to get back to the inn.”

“And risk you passing out again? I think not. Dear God, your stomach’s been growling like a rabid dog ever since you landed in the front seat of my car, and now you have a very unsightly lump on your forehead. First rule of crime investigation: eat a good breakfast.”

“How can I eat knowing that the press is going to rake my parents over the coals?” My forehead throbbed at the thought.

“They’re gonna try. And damaging details will begin to emerge. It’s how it works, Whit. But don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry?” I cried helplessly. “My dad’s going to be lynched, and my mom will be left to run both orchard and inn, and let me tell you, I don’t think she’s up for it.”

“Whit, don’t fret just yet. It’s not a bad thing the press is there. It’ll get the guests talking. Everyone who has something to say about the murder will undoubtedly come forward and talk to the camera. People can’t resist the thought of being on TV, especially when they think they have some little but important tidbit to share. I hope the reporter talks to every guest staying at the inn. Makes my job easier.”

“Jack!” I admonished, standing beside his SUV. “Are you listening to yourself? My father … ” It was hard to wrap my head around the thought, but I’d come halfway to it and now I had to finish it. “My father probably murdered a man last night in his own cherry orchard! And now you’re going to sit back and let the press interview the guests so they can destroy what’s left of his dignity?”

Jack bent his head and looked me in the eye. “You believe your father murdered Jeb Carlson?” It appeared he found this interesting. That he did was like a blow to the stomach.

“Oh my God!” I breathed. “I saw the body before passing out! I’m not an idiot!”

He considered this a moment, then wisely added, “I never thought you were, but you did pass out. You didn’t get the full story. I now know something that only Doc Fisker and the murderer know, and thanks to that man’s weakness for your grandma’s cherry pie, it will remain a secret for a while longer yet.”

“What do you know?” I asked, flabbergasted.

Jack opened the car door for me. Only when I was seated and buckled in did he say, “What I know, Whitney Bloom, is exactly what I suspected in the first place. Your father didn’t kill Jeb Carlson.”