Thirteen

My head was reeling with all the new information I’d learned at Ed’s Diner. Jeb hadn’t been clubbed to death, he’d been poisoned with cyanide, something I knew little about. I had to believe that being poisoned was a terrible, agonizing way to die, and yet as scary as that thought was, the fact that the murderer had tried to frame Dad was somehow possibly worse. It meant familiarity. It could easily be one of the guests. Dad said most came back every year. Yet Jack was inclined to believe that the murderer was local, and very familiar with both Jeb and Dad.

And then there was the oddity of the cherry pits. If they had fallen from Jeb’s hand, why was he carrying cherry pits to begin with? I didn’t know. I might never know, but I did know, with near certainty, where he had gotten them. It was the one small detail I had purposely refrained from telling Jack. A girl, including one endowed with probing curiosity, needed to keep some secrets to herself. Especially if that girl had no intention of listening to her high school friend, even if he was a cop.

As Jack drove back to the Cherry Orchard Inn in contemplative silence, I sat beside him in the passenger seat thinking of the crime scene. According to his description it was in the back of the orchard, not far from the processing sheds, and now clearly marked with yellow caution tape. I would have no trouble finding it, but that was hardly a thing I would tell him. I was also curious about the poison used. Jack obviously knew a great deal about this poison. His reticence on the subject was proof enough. He didn’t want to talk about it, for the obvious reason that he didn’t want me to know. Because he knew that if I knew, I’d keep digging, and rightly so. He knew this because this was exactly what the old Jack MacLaren would have done. And self-proclaimed obsessive video game junky or not, he would never drop a stimulating subject before examining it to death.

I was just about to covertly read up on cyanide poisoning on my iPhone when my phone rang. It was Giff. He was using FaceTime, his favorite form of communication, especially since he knew I could see that he was lounging on my bed with a stack of Cosmos beside him. It was all for show.

“Hi there,” I answered, smiling at the screen.

“You driving? Jesus!” he exclaimed and leaned away from the phone. “Your forehead! Looks like an alien’s about ready to pop outta that little egg.”

Jack, overhearing, laughed.

Giff’s eyes widened. “The lady is not alone? I hear a voice … a decidedly male voice. Well, don’t keep me in suspense, princess. Introduce me.”

For his own entertainment, I was sure Giff was hoping it would be Tate. Giff knew all about Tate, and I suspected he had a bit of a man-crush on him as well. Dashing his hopeful look, I said, “I’m riding shotgun in a police SUV. Say hello to Detective Jack MacLaren, Giff.” I turned the phone for a quick face-to-face introduction.

Jack took his eyes off the road for a second and waved. “Nice to meet ya, Giff.” With eyes back on the road, he added, “And don’t worry. I’m not arresting her, not yet anyway. We went to school together. And, for the record, I had nothing to do with that lump.”

“Well, isn’t that a shame … on both accounts.” This reply elicited another grin from the driver. “I used to work for her. Apparently she thinks I still do.” Giff raised his voice slightly and added, “I’ve delivered your pies, angel. You now owe me all the juicy details.”

Jack cast me a look of warning as I turned the phone back to me. The moment I did, Giff raised his brows and waved his hands theatrically under his face while mouthing HOT COP ALERT. For some reason this made me blush. It wasn’t like that, not at all. This was Jack MacLaren.

“Okay, you want details?” I asked, ignoring the inappropriate teasing. “They’re gruesome.” I then proceeded to tell Giff a little about the murder—just enough to repay my debt. He knew the victim’s name, he knew that Dad was the prime suspect, and I had regaled him with my disastrous visit to the morgue, which enchanted him. What he didn’t know, however, was that Jeb had been poisoned first.

“It’s disturbing, isn’t it?” I remarked.

In true Giffster style, he replied, “Truthfully, angel, what I find even more disturbing than murder is the fact you have a cherry pie bake-off at the inn tomorrow afternoon and no judge. I’ll be there in five hours.”

The screen went blank. He’d ended the call. It took me a moment before I realized that Gifford McGrady had just taken care of one of the many nagging problems plaguing the inn, and my aching head.

Now to find the murderer. I googled “cyanide poisoning” and began educating myself.