Twenty

Grandma Jenn lived in a charming little Cape Cod less than a mile from the orchard. It sat at the end of a long gravel driveway, nestled in the woods and right on the shore of Cherry Cove Bay. She had moved there years ago, after selling the old Victorian mansion to my parents. I liked her house. It was quaint, cozy, and smelled like everything good from my childhood. It was the perfect home at the perfect distance—not too far from the orchard and only a short walk to the center of town. Although she’d grown up in the grand old Victorian, I really couldn’t imagine her living anywhere else but here. I got out of my car with the blender base and knocked on her door.

“My dear girl,” she said a heartbeat later, immaculately dressed and framed in the doorway, “it’s about time you came for a visit. I’ve made sandwiches. Turkey, avocado, and sprouts, your favorite. I see you’ve found my blender.”

The fact that she’d been waiting for me was a little unnerving. Taken off guard, I was speechless and willingly handed over the blender as I followed her inside.

She whisked me across the tiled entryway and down the hall, straight toward the large windows of the great room. Her house was just as I remembered it, full of sunlight and warm inviting smells. Beyond the windows sat her patio, and her rose garden about to bloom. The lake, flanked by greenery, red, pink, and white blossoms, and the stolid branches of oak and cedar sparkled in the distance like a sea of precious gems. On the patio a little wrought-iron table had already been set, topped with a flowered tablecloth, cloth napkins, delicate china, and silverware. Sandwiches awaited, along with a pitcher of iced tea with fresh mint leaves floating on top. It was strangely reminiscent of the tea parties we used to have when I was young. I didn’t know how much I’d missed this place, or her, until that very moment. It all came crashing down on me like a rogue wave on an unsuspecting beach, leaving me helpless and humbled. And I hated myself for the questions I was about to ask. I suddenly remembered Jack’s prophetic words: Sometimes when you’re digging for answers, you uncover things you’re not quite ready for—things that maybe you wish you hadn’t uncovered in the first place. This, I thought grimly, was definitely one of those times.

“What a terrible thing it is,” she began, breaking the silence while motioning for me to take a seat at the table, “the death of an old friend. It tears at your heart. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to mourn him as he should be mourned, but there’ll be time for that later.” She poured me a glass of tea and sat down as well. “So, you’ve found out that we were having an affair.”

The bluntness of her statement caused me to lose control of my jaw. It dangled. And I hastily took a sip of iced tea, hoping she wouldn’t notice. My gran was never one to beat around the bush, but dang it! This was hardly the topic I wished to discuss over tea and sandwiches. Then again, from her point of view, it was a wise opening gambit. Get it out in the open. Thrust the eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room under the spotlight.

I drank half the glass of tea before replying, “Yea, I might have heard something about that.” She folded her hands and raised her eyebrows, prompting me to expound, “Okay, I just heard about it—from Tay of all people. Gran, why didn’t you tell me?”

“For the simple reason, my dear, that it’s none of your business. And mostly because your life is so full already with adventures of your own. Why bother you with my affairs? I’m very little bothered with them myself.”

“I appreciate that, Gran, but since you and Jeb Carlson were more than just friends, unfortunately now it is my business. You knew that if I went to the processing sheds I’d find the cherry pits.”

She set down her glass and gave a slow nod. “When you mentioned they were at the crime scene, I knew that if you went to the main processing shed and looked in Jeb’s office, you’d find them. I had no idea you’d find my blender as well. I’d forgotten my name was on the darn thing. But you’ve only brought part of it, dear.”

My stomach was churning, and whatever appetite I might have had was now lost. It was unbelievable, the thought that this sweet old lady could have poisoned her geriatric lover. “Gran,” I breathed, “my God, why did you do it?”

She gave a little sigh. “Because he wanted to start drinking more smoothies,” she admitted. “I’ve been experimenting with a tart cherry one. I made Jeb sample it one evening, after a bout of vigorous hanky-panky. Not only did he love the taste of it, why, it perked him right up. In fact, he called it his fountain of youth. Made him feel as frisky as a twenty-year-old again.” She giggled. “Tart cherries do wonders for arthritis, you know, and with a little ginkgo biloba in the mix it keeps the memory sharp. Then too there’s all the antioxidants from the berries I add and that burst of carbohydrates from the vanilla ice cream.”

I shook my head like a dog in a bath, attempting to unhear the part about the vigorous lovemaking. That little detail I wouldn’t have minded her omitting. And, truthfully, I was a little shocked that she was using ice cream in a smoothie—it was more like a cherry milkshake. Undeniably delicious, however, and with added health benefits. I shook my head again and focused. Although she was having an affair with her former employee and pumping him with a youthful elixir clearly designed for the more physical aspect of their relationship (I shivered at the thought), on the bright side, there was no clear admission of guilt that I could tell. “Okay,” I said, “so you lent him your blender so he could make smoothies—”

“Not only my blender,” she cut in. “I measured out all the ingredients and put them in freezer bags. All he needed to add was the ice cream.”

“That’s really thoughtful of you,” I said, and meant it. “Okay, but I’m confused. Where do the cherry pits fit in? Did you add them to the smoothie as well?”

“Of course not!” she chided. “No person in their right mind should be eating cherry pits. You might not be aware of this, but cherry pits are poisonous.”

I stared at her a second too long. “I know they’re poisonous!” I said, as if I had known it forever and not just a few hours. “That’s why I went to the crime scene. That’s why I went to the processing shed. Remember when I told you and Mom that Jeb’s death was made to look like it was caused by Dad’s croquet mallet, but really he’d been poisoned first?”

“Yes, but I thought that was for Jani’s sake. We all know what a hothead your father can be when he gets a club in his hand, golf, croquet, or otherwise.”

“I wasn’t lying for the sake of Mom, Gran! Jeb was poisoned. And when I found the cherry pits at the crime scene I grew suspicious. You just admitted that the cherry pits were yours. I found a box of them in Jeb’s office.”

“Just one box?” She tilted her head. “There should be more than one box.”

“I don’t know. There probably was. I didn’t look. I was a little astonished by the fact that Jeb actually had a box of clean, dried cherry pits in his office. I’m nearly certain those pits are what killed him.”

Her hand flew over her mouth and she uttered, “Oh my God,” as if the correlation between Jeb being poisoned and the box of poisonous cherry pits had just been made. Maybe that ginkgo biloba wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

“Gran, let me be blunt,” I said, and forced her to look at me. “I’m not going to judge you. I know that men can take your heart, rip it out of your body, and dance on it without a thought to your feelings. But I need to know, did you or did you not grind up a bunch of cherry pits, soak them in rum, and put the poison-infused rum back into the bottle in Jeb’s desk, knowing he’d drink it?”

I interpreted the look she gave me to be more along the lines of incredulity rather than an admission of guilt.

“Of course not!” she cried. “Why would I poison Jeb when I loved him? He was my soulmate … although we could never live under the same roof.”

“I thought Grandpa George was your soulmate?” I said accusingly, feeling very protective of Mom’s dad. He’d died when I was young, but he was a good, kind man.

“Well, of course he was, dear.” She patted my hand to console me. “Georgie was a wonderful man, but he’s been gone a long time. A woman gets lonely, and Jeb has been a good friend nearly all my life. It was when his wife died that we found each other, in the biblical sense. But we both valued our independence, and we preferred to keep it strictly professional on the surface. For many years I was his boss, you know. That kind of thing is quite scandalous. Besides, it made all the furtive lovemaking—”

I held up a hand. “Got it. No need to elaborate. Remember, I’m not here to judge you. And for what it’s worth, I think it’s great you and Jeb found one another. But Gran, if you didn’t use those cherry pits to poison Jeb, why were they in his office?”

The pencil-darkened brows disappeared under the white hair. “I’ll show you. Wait here just a minute.” Grandma Jenn disappeared into the house and returned a moment later carrying a long, rectangular strip of what looked to be sewn fleece. She deposited it in my hands. I’d assumed it was a scarf, but it was sewn on the edges and had some weight to it.

“What’s this?” I asked, examining the brightly colored material. I saw that the ends were rounded, with little pockets sewn in for the hands.

“That’s my contribution to the church bazaar. I’ve been keeping it a secret so that nosy Edna doesn’t steal my idea and take all the credit for it. This, dear, is a therapeutic neck wrap. I felt that cherry pits had to have some use, so I came up with these. I fill them with a mix of clean cherry pits and cherry blossom potpourri and then sew them up. Pop it in the microwave for two minutes and you’ve got a warming wrap that feels and smells divine. Jeb was helping me. He cleaned and dried all the cherry pits from last summer’s harvest.” She paused, then, her robin’s egg blue eyes filling with tears. “I had no idea anyone would think to use them to poison him. I never would have asked him such a thing had I known.”

I went to her chair and held her. “Oh Gran. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, and yet I’m so relieved to learn about these,” I said, wrapping the therapeutic neck warmer around my neck. It made her smile. “But I need you to think, now. Who else knew about the cherry pits? Who knew about Dad’s croquet mallet, and his temper? Most importantly, who would want Jeb dead?”

She looked at me, her eyes vibrant with stifled tears. “No one,” she uttered. “Jeb had no enemies. Everyone loved him.” And then it hit her, that wisp of a thought, seemingly irrelevant until it wasn’t. “Oh … my … goodness,” she uttered.

“Gran, what is it?”

“I didn’t think of it until now, but Jeb might have been acting a bit strangely. Two days ago, right when we were all knee-deep in preparations for the Cherry Blossom Festival, Jeb came into the kitchen and pulled me aside. That wasn’t a usual thing for him. He seldom disturbed me at work. But I could tell something was bothering him. He told me that he needed to talk with me in private. He said it was very, very important. He used the word ‘very’ twice!”

“Did he? And what did he need to talk to you about that was so very important?”

“Well, that’s just the thing. I don’t know.” Her chin began to quiver and then her eyes welled with tears. “I don’t know, and I was too busy to talk with him—too busy to give him the time of day, and now he’s gone. I’ll never know!”

“Gran. Think. This could be important.”

“I know, and I just brushed him off and told him that I didn’t want to see him until after the weekend. You see, I’d assumed, as always, that he was just lonely and wanted to come over for a meal and a little … overnight affection. It had been a while since we hooked up.”

I closed my eyes and forced the image from my head. “Okay. Interesting but not overly helpful. Gran, what if Jeb had stumbled onto something he wasn’t supposed to … something he saw or overheard while preparing the orchard, or wandering the woods?” Then another thought hit me. “Gran, did you know about the wine they were making in the lighthouse?”

A sheepish look crossed her face, and she nodded. “Jeb told me,” she admitted. “We didn’t keep secrets from one another, only from the world about our relationship. I knew Jeb and Baxter were making wine. It was bringing Jeb such joy.”

“Tate knew about the wine as well,” I told her.

A perfectly penciled brow arched. “Oh?” she said. “Well, I suppose that he would. Jeb and Tate were very close. In fact, Jeb relied on Tate for a good many things, including his recommendations when it came to hiring summer help at the orchard. You might not know this, but Tate coaches the high school basketball team. He’s great with the kids, and those boys were nearly undefeated this year … until their record was tainted by scandal. Tate was devastated, but you can get more information about that from your old friend Jack. Do you think whoever murdered Jeb knew about the wine?”

“It’s definitely a possibility,” I replied, thinking.

“Oh, Whitney,” Grandma Jenn suddenly gasped, resting her silver-white head on her hands. “How absolutely dreadful. Jeb must have heard something and was trying to tell me about it! I feel just terrible about brushing him off. The least I could have done was to listen to him.”

“It’s better you didn’t,” I said, placing a hand on her trembling shoulder. She’d been under a lot of stress lately and hadn’t even been given the time to properly mourn the loss of her soulmate. “Maybe if you’d listened to what Jeb had to say, whoever killed him would be after you too. Jeb wouldn’t have wanted that, and neither would I. There’s nothing you could have done to prevent what happened, Gran.”

“Maybe not,” she said, looking unconvinced. “But there’s something very, very evil going on here, and I don’t like it one bit.”