Twenty-One

Why had Jeb Carlson been murdered? Poisoned with cyanide, struck in the face with a gold-plated croquet mallet, and left in a cherry orchard with a sprinkling of cherry pits and an eerie twig-face. What was the purpose of all that?

Everyone had immediately thought Dad was to blame. For those who didn’t know him, it was an obvious leap of the imagination. After all, nobody could account for his whereabouts during the time of the murder. He’d been heard arguing with Jeb an hour before the body was found, and, to add insult to injury, his croquet mallet appeared to be the murder weapon. It hadn’t helped any that he also had a history of sudden, violent outbursts when losing at sports involving croquet mallets, golf clubs, or tennis rackets. Using a croquet mallet as a murder weapon was a violent act, a man’s swift act of vengeance. Given all these clues, it could be that the murderer was framing Dad, as Jack pointed out, and perhaps only using Jeb as a means to an end.

Then, however, there was the discovery that Jeb had actually died of cyanide poisoning and not a club to the head. Poison was a subtler way to murder a person—a woman’s way, according to Tay. The fact that the murderer used cherry pits to create enough cyanide spoke of knowledge—not just about cherries, but about cyanide poisoning as well. Was it an accident that Grandma Jenn’s blender had been used? Or had the murderer intentionally wished to pin the blame on her, making her appear the diabolical plotter?

I had to admit, finding all those clues in the processing shed had sent me into a panic sweat. Thank goodness Gran had nothing to do with it, and I truly believed that. There was an unmistakable sadness haunting the fine lines of her eyes. As we talked, she was trying to be her usual joyful self, but the deep, personal loss was hard to mask. And as much as I hated to acknowledge it (purely for my own silly reasons), I believed she really had lost her soulmate. Which raised another question: Did the murderer know that Jeb and Grandma Jenn were having an affair? Could it have been female jealousy? An old woman scorned, perhaps? Did it have something to do with the cherry pie bake-off that Jeb organized and judged every year? Or was Jeb’s murder due to another matter entirely?

Grandma Jenn said that two days before his murder, Jeb was acting strangely. He’d been nervous, agitated by something, and wanted to speak with her in private. That wasn’t like Jeb at all. So, what had he seen or heard that had made him so nervous?

Instantly a face jumped to mind, but not any human face. The face I was thinking of was made of twigs—an eerie pagan relic staring from the crime scene like a ghoul. Had Jack seen it too? I would have remembered if it had been visible in the photos, because that’s not the kind of thing a person forgets. However, just because the twig-face wasn’t in the pictures didn’t mean it hadn’t been there the night of the murder. Jack could have kept it to himself, which would be just like him. Then again, if it had been there, why hadn’t anyone else mentioned it? Tate had gone to the crime scene. Dad too, and yet no one mentioned seeing the face. Had Jeb seen it before he was murdered? Or what if that face hadn’t been there at all until today? Clearly this was a matter that begged to be explored.

I thought about Jeb and that odd twig-face as I walked along the lakeshore. After what had turned out to be, once the business of murder was cast aside, a nice lunch with Grandma Jenn, I decided to leave my car at her house and head into town. I needed to do a little thinking without the distraction of the Cherry Blossom Festival … or of Tate, Jack, and that really hot bartender guy who was popping into my thoughts far too often for my comfort. Dang it! What the heck was wrong with me? This sleuthing business was really beginning to take its toll on my nerves. And I’d only been at it one morning! I wondered if Jack was having better luck making sense of it all. Then I reminded myself not to think about Jack. Instead I took out my iPhone and sent a text to Hannah and Tay asking them to meet me.

I continued along, passing the gingerbread charm of Candy Cove, the local candy store. A little way down from this was A Yarn Good Time, a home-spun little shop containing everything imaginable for the fiber arts. I passed three charming B&Bs, two beaches, a sporting goods store, the post office, the library and town hall (both in one building), the Cove Café, notorious for serving a cinnamon roll the size of a dinner plate, and Swenson’s ice cream parlor, an old familiar haunt and the site of my first date with Tate.

A wave of nostalgia swept through me at the sight of the white wood-frame building with its cheerful red-and-white-striped awning. Swenson’s served the best ice cream, burgers, and fries on the peninsula. I made the mistake of glancing at the patio. The red umbrellas had already gone up, reminding me that summer was just around the corner. At the back sat our old table, the one Tate had always requested because it was quiet, out-of-the-way, and had a spectacular view of the cove. Did I really miss him, I wondered? Or was it just my longing for a meaningful relationship? Either way, it was best not to dwell on it. I didn’t have time to dwell on it. I was in the middle of a murder investigation.

Prying my eyes from Swenson’s, I focused instead on the old turf-roofed Scandinavian gift shop next door. I noticed that it had been altered a bit. Then, as I rounded the gentle curve of the street, I gasped. Not only had it been altered, but it was now the police station! Oh, for cripes sakes! Had the whole village gone mad? Who puts a police station in an old-world Scandinavian log cabin? Apparently Cherry Cove does, and the thought wasn’t nearly as shocking as spying Jack’s SUV in the parking lot. Immediately my hand came up, shielding my face as I ran along the sidewalk. I was on a mission and had no time for a run-in with Detective McNosy. And then I heard the screaming.

My legs stopped working. I turned in the direction of the hideous noise and saw, to my horror, two little billy goats. They were perched on the thick grass roof of the police station, and they were staring right at me. Then they began screaming again, not bleating like normal goats. Apparently Jack had inherited not only the old Scandinavian gift shop but its crazy, hell-spawned animals as well. Wanting to giggle and enjoy the spectacle, I began running again instead, because the police station door had started to open. I ducked into Uncle Joe’s grocery store, bought the few supplies I needed, and continued on my way. A few minutes later I bounded up the front steps of Cherry Cove’s most iconic retail destination, Cheery Pickers.

∞

I was always a little taken aback when first entering Tay’s store. It was a candy store for the senses, smelling of scented candles and filled with the most eclectic collection of boutique clothing, home décor, eye-catching art, unusual antiques, handmade pottery, and costume jewelry. I’d taken only a few steps when I spied Tay’s mom behind the counter. At the sight of her I smiled and waved, remembering, as the name formed on my tongue, not to call her Mrs. Robinson any longer. Two years ago we’d been specifically instructed to use her first name, Char. This was because the name Mrs. Robinson, as Tay had drunkenly informed us one evening, was nearly synonymous with an older woman seducing a younger man, thanks to an old movie called The Graduate. None of us had seen it, but we giggled all the same, because Mrs. Robinson—err, Char—had started dating a man four years older than her daughter. Char and Todd were now engaged, which seemed to amuse Tay more than it annoyed her, probably because whenever they were together she lovingly referred to him as Daddy.

Char ran around the counter and gave me an enthusiastic hug. The woman was fifty-two. Thanks to favorable genetics she looked forty-two, and because she was a shameless cougar, she dressed like a club-hopping thirty-year-old. “Whitney! Look at you!” She stood back and cringed a little at my disheveled Northwestern sweatshirt and blue jeans. It was a small blessing I was having a good hair day. It gave her artistic eye something to latch onto. “Cute hair,” she remarked without any enthusiasm. That topic exhausted, she lowered her voice. “So good of you to come home and help your parents at a time like this. Terrible news about Jeb. How are your folks holding up?”

“They’re shaken, but managing fair enough.”

“No doubt they are. And,” she continued in hushed tones, flashing a mischievous grin, “word on the street is you’re matching wits against MacLaren. Good girl. My money’s on you, kiddo. Tay and Hannah are in the office waiting for you.”

“Ladies,” I said a moment later, sauntering into Tay’s surprisingly neat office. I held up my bag of goodies from Uncle Joe’s. “I’ve brought us some thinkin’ juice.” I pulled out three bottles of wine, then upended the bag, depositing a box of Oreos on the desk. “And our favorite chocolate, cream-filled disks of inspiration. This,” I said, holding up the dry-erase board, “is for me.”

“Oh! Oh! We’re going to make a suspect board like they do on TV.” Hannah, face beaming, grabbed the box of Oreos.

“Exactly. Only in advertising we call it an idea board. However, suspect board is a more appropriate name for what we’re about to do, I suppose. It’s the same principle, though. We’re going to do a little brainstorming. We’re going to throw out any and all names, theories, and ideas associated with Jeb’s murder, write them on the board, and see if anything jumps out at us. It’s a way of seeing the forest through the trees, and, my friends, we have a lot of trees.”

“I like it,” Tay agreed, setting three wine glasses on her enormous lion-footed desk. Hannah uncorked one of the bottles and began pouring, while I opened the pack of markers and began writing everything we knew so far on the board.

“To Jeb,” Hannah said somberly, raising her glass. “So vibrant in life, so mysterious in death.”

Tay raised her glass as well. “Amen. And if you’re watching from above, dear Jeb, how about a little help finding the bastard who took you from us?”

I picked up the other glass. “My sentiments exactly,” I added, and clanked glasses all around. Then we set to work.

“What compels a person to take another person’s life?” This I asked while mulling over all the puzzling facts.

“Anger,” Hannah offered, then shoved an Oreo into her mouth. She washed it down with a swig of Chablis and blurted, “Hatred.”

“Okay, but we haven’t found anyone who clearly hated Jeb.”

“No. But your dad was angry with him. They were heard arguing.”

“They were making illegal wine in the old lighthouse,” I reminded her, writing it down. “Whoever our murderer is, I’m convinced they know about that. They also know about my dad’s anger issues and where he kept his croquet mallet.”

“Love, sex, and jealousy,” Tay rattled off. “Those can all be powerful reasons as well.”

“Indeed.” I wrote my grandma’s name on the board. “At the crime scene in the processing shed there was plenty of evidence that appeared to link my gran to the murder.” I drew a line from Grandma Jenn to the blender and the cherry pits. “These belong to Grandma Jenn. She even knows you can make cyanide from cherry pits, but after talking with her, I know she didn’t do it. She and Jeb were having an affair.” This I said looking straight at Hannah, hoping to shock her. The sheepish look on her face only confirmed that she’d known all about it too. “Am I the last person to learn about it?”

“Yep,” Hannah quipped. “Even Jani knows. Rumor is she saw them one night having dinner at the bowling alley. Jeb and Jenn were holding hands under the table.”

“Great. Okay, but look. My gran isn’t the murderer. She loved Jeb and, by all accounts, it was a happy relationship. There’s no motive. Could Jeb have had other women on the side? Or maybe an old flame who was jealous of Grandma Jenn—jealous enough to kill Jeb and frame her for murder? She did mention a name of someone who bothers her … does the name Edna ring any bells?”

“Edna Baker? Yeah, she’s the town busybody. Moved here a couple of years ago and wants to fit in like a local.” Tay reached across the desk and refilled my wine glass. “I do believe the old girl had the hots for Jeb. She was always baking him pies and muffins, trying to soften him up. She desperately wanted to win the cherry pie bake-off and throw it in Jenn’s face, but your grandma has that title in the bag.”

I nearly choked on a sip of wine. “Because she and Jeb were lovers?”

“Well, yes,” Hannah replied, grinning. “But that’s not why she won every year. Whit, her pie’s legendary. It is the best, but not only because of her crust and filling—it’s because of the cherries she uses. She told Edna once that she gets them from one special tree in the orchard that only she knows about. I think it’s just stuff, but I do remember Jeb saying something about Edna sneaking into the orchard last August. She was poaching cherries. Had a whole pail filled before Jeb found her.”

“Wow,” I said, and wrote Edna’s name on the board. Something large and oddly soft hit my leg. I looked down and saw Tay’s enormous cat, Izzy. He’d been aiming for the empty wine bottle on the floor behind me and missed. Taking no notice of me, or my leg, Izzy shook his head and made another attempt. This time he was successful. The wine bottle hit the floor and rolled. Izzy pounced on it, trapping it between his big, fuzzy paws. Then, to my astonishment, he tried to stick his head inside the bottle, finally settling on the fact that only his tongue would fit.

“I don’t have a cat, but is that normal?” I asked.

Tay peeked around the desk. “Not really,” she informed me. “Char’s spoiled him. She’s made a habit of letting him lap up a sip or two of her wine. Now he thinks he’s a sommelier. The little fur ball is compelled to sample every bottle.”

“Well, he won’t get much out of that one,” Hannah added, and grinned.

Tay, working her computer like a high-tech goddess, printed a picture of Edna Baker. “From the Cherry Cove Women’s League,” she informed us, handing it over. “She’s a real peach, that’s for sure. Slightly reminiscent of a bulldog, in both looks and tenacity.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, getting a good look at the picture. “Those eyes are so intense.”

“Yep. That’s our Edna. Once she sets those eyes on the prize, there’s no deterring her.” Tay grinned.

“Edna Baker is definitely someone I need to have a little chat with.”

“That’s all well and good,” Tay interjected, staring at the board. “But Edna Baker is seventy years old. And while using poison from cherry pits might be her favorite pastime, I seriously doubt that she’s capable of taking a club to a man’s face. Besides, she would have had to be at the inn last night to take the croquet mallet from your dad’s office, and she wasn’t there. When Edna enters a room, believe me, you can’t help but know it.”

“Point taken. But I still don’t think it would hurt having a little chat with her.” I turned to Hannah and asked, “What about the two who found the body, the McSweenys?”

“I had a fine talk with them on the orchard tour. Nice couple. They both claim to like yoga, but clearly one of them is lying.” Hannah rolled her eyes. “Oh, you mean regarding murder? I don’t think either one of them is a likely suspect. Again, there’s no motive. This is Ryan and Jillian’s first visit to the Cherry Orchard Inn, and I’m sorry to say it’ll probably be their last. And who could blame them? Stumbling upon Jeb’s body like that? It’ll haunt their nightmares long after the taste of cherry pie fades from their lips. Besides, I doubt they would have gone through the trouble of stealing your dad’s croquet mallet and framing him for murder. Although they might want to now, after being made to stay through the weekend by MacLaren.”

I stood with arms folded, staring at the board. It was like a bad day in advertising. We were racking our brains, trying to come up with suspects and motives, and every one of them was falling flat. Nothing was sticking. Then Tay handed me another picture. At first glance I thought it was a sun-gilded GQ model. Then I realized the man in the picture was Tate. I had to admit he was a very photogenic man.

“Jesus, don’t stand there ogling it. Tape it to the board!” Tay ripped off a piece of tape and handed it across the desk. “Like it or not, Vander Licious is a suspect. Think about it, Whit. He was there last night. It’s undeniable that he still has a thing for you. And since the two of you broke up, he’s become chummy-chummy with your folks. If that’s not a little odd, think about the fact that his friendship with Jeb gave him access to all the buildings, including the old lighthouse and Baxter’s office.”

“He did know about the illegal wine they were making,” I remarked, adding him to our suspect board. “And he was at the inn last night. Okay, let’s say he’s a suspect. What’s his motive?”

“I don’t know,” Tay said, looking pensive. “But if he had one he could have snuck off for a few minutes to do the deed. He could have easily made the poison, put it in the rum bottle, waited for Jeb to drink it, and then dragged the body into the orchard and clubbed him over the head. He has the strength to do it. The question is, why would he do it? He and Jeb were good friends. Tate helped out at the orchard whenever Jeb needed him.”

“I know. Grandma Jenn told me all about it, including how he used to recommend some of the high school kids he coached to work on the orchard. I didn’t even know he coached basketball.” I found the thought of Tate as a murder suspect far more depressing than I should have.

“You know what this means,” Hannah asked softly. “You’re going to have to talk with him. Jack likely won’t even consider him as a suspect due to their budding bromance. They’re friends, and for a geek like Jack to have a friend like Tate, it has to be a little blinding.”

“I think you’re underestimating Jack.” I don’t know why I suddenly had the urge to defend him, but I did.

“Hannah’s right, Whit. This could be your moment to finally best him.”

I considered this. But Tate wasn’t the only person worth looking in to. As unlikely as they were, there was Dr. Engel, Dad’s closest friend; Brock Sorensen, his new business manager I had yet to meet; and Hannah’s current heartthrob, Carleton Brisbane. Brisbane was a long shot, but he might know something, being Tate’s friend. All these men had been at the inn the night of the murder, but none of them had a motive to kill Jeb as far as we knew. Yet the names were there, and all of them deserved a closer look.

We were discussing our suspect board when Char walked into the office. Like a well-trained truffle pig, she’d smelled wine, and she’d brought her own glass to the party.

“I just thought I’d pop in and see how you girls were doing,” she said while helping herself to a glass. She took a long sip and stared at the board. “I don’t want to say anything here, but there is another reason for murder other than sex, love, jealousy, hate, and anger. You’re forgetting money, fear, and embarrassment.”

I was stunned we hadn’t thought of these and quickly added them to the board. “Okay, some new motives. Did anybody fear Jeb? Had he embarrassed anyone?”

Here Char quirked a perfectly plucked brow. “Well, it’s likely nothing, but there is one woman who isn’t a fan. Are you familiar with Lori Larson?” I shook my head, having never heard the name. “She’s lived on the peninsula for years,” Char went on. “Has a small farmhouse off of Old Stage Road. Lori fancies herself a cook, but she isn’t. She’s the queen of the frozen pizza, or so Joe tells me.” She tipped her stylish brown curls at the grocery bag on the floor, indicating the Joe she was referring to. “She works as a real estate agent. A couple of years ago her husband got fed up with the fact that she was never home and left her with the farm and the kids. She barely has time for those kids of hers, let alone the farm. And now, due to a hefty load of guilt, she’s convinced she’s the next Martha Stewart. The moment her husband left her she began entering all the local food contests to prove her domestic skills. Last year, bless her, she actually won second place for her strawberry jam at the county fair.” Char tipped back the last of her wine, picked up a bottle, and poured another.

“She’s come a long way,” she continued. “At least her jam has, but her baking is so ungodly terrible her own goats aren’t even tempted by it. Unfortunately, the first baking contest she ever entered was the cherry pie bake-off Jeb holds every year at the Cherry Blossom Festival. Because she had a cherry tree in her yard, she convinced herself she could make a pie good enough to win, having never baked a cherry pie before in her life! It looked a hot mess, and when Jeb took that first bite, he nearly broke a tooth on a cherry pit. He had to spit it out after realizing Lori hadn’t bothered to pit any of the cherries. He was highly annoyed, especially after Lori admitted that she didn’t know you were supposed to remove the pits first. Apparently, she doesn’t eat cherries. Her ignorance, as you can imagine, sent everyone into fits of laughter. Jeb, after that initial shock, made a little joke, saying that he never thought cherries would be the death of him … until he took a bite of Lori’s pie. He said no more on the subject, but the incident embarrassed Lori to the core. She never forgave him that.”

I looked at Tay and Hannah, alarm bells sounding off in my head. “My grandma never mentioned her. She sounds like someone I need to talk with. Can you give me her address?”

“Of course. I’ll write it down for you. But you might just want to talk with her son first. His name is Erik. He works on your orchard.”