Thirty-Four

We’d barely made it through the door of the inn when MacDuff caught whiff of something warm, fruity, and delicious. I unhooked his leash and followed him to the kitchen.

Mom was at the counter in one of her Barefoot-Contessa-on-steroids modes. The sink was full of mixing bowls, measuring cups, and empty pans. She was busily arranging slices of warm cherry coffee cake on a doily-topped silver platter. It was unbelievable. I didn’t know how long she’d been up, but obviously long enough to bake three of her famous cherry coffee cakes. Dad was also in the kitchen, dressed in a dark gray suit with a light blue tie that matched the color of his eyes. He was lathering butter onto a slice of warm coffee cake. One look at the delectable treat in Dad’s hand and MacDuff’s little stub tail kicked into high gear.

“Whitney!” Mom cried, spinning around to look at me. Her white apron, smudged with cherry juice and white flour, covered a form-fitting black dress. She still had a great figure, I thought, but her face looked older, pinched with anger as it was. “Dear Heavens!” she scolded. Then, catching sight of MacDuff, her eyes softened. “Is that Jack’s dog? Of course it is. Thank goodness he found you. He called us this morning, as you must already know, to ask if you were here. Why wouldn’t you be, I thought. However, when I went to check your room and found you gone, your father and I grew worried. There’s a murderer on the loose, Whitney! What were you thinking?”

“Obviously she wasn’t,” Dad replied for me, feeding half his slice of coffee cake to the dog. They both seemed familiar with MacDuff. Was I the only one who hadn’t known Jack had a dog?

“We called Tate then,” Mom continued, “Tate being such a dear. He always did have a way of finding you.”

“Well, if you must know, Jack and I found him,” I retorted, experiencing another sharp pang of remorse at the thought of Tate as a suspect. By now he would be on his way to Sturgeon Bay with Jack for questioning. It was still hard to believe Tate knew who was stealing his boats. What else was he covering up, I wondered, staring at my parents—two of his most ardent supporters.

I couldn’t tell them about Tate, not now, and so I didn’t. Instead I added, “We found something else, Dad. We found your missing wine along with one of the Gators, likely the one Jeb used to get around the orchard. We didn’t know it was missing. The Gator, we think, was used to transport the casks of wine. Both are in a little cave under the bluff about half a mile down from the lighthouse. I left Jack and Tate waiting there for backup from Sturgeon Bay.”

“It’s all there?” Dad asked, his silver-blue eyes brightening. “You recovered my wine?”

“Not all of it,” I said, and then told my parents a highly watered-down version of my morning, omitting all mention of the eerie twig-face in the lighthouse, my near-abduction by Sasquatch, and Tate’s stolen fishing boat and possible involvement. It was just as well. Mom reminded me that Reverend Dahl was holding a special memorial service for Jeb in a few hours and that the whole community was coming together to pray for Cody. Mom’s coffee cakes would be part of the after-service fellowship, held in the community room in the basement of St. Paul’s. The entire town of Cherry Cove would be there, with the probable exception, of course, of Jack and Tate.

“We need to come out in force as a community,” Mom added, wiping a tear from her eye. “And we need to come out strong as a family, because … because this doesn’t look good for the Blooms. Not at all. A murder, a poisoning, and a fire in less than twenty-four hours! And I don’t even want to think about what might happen at the cherry pie bake-off this afternoon. We just have to get through the day, Whitney. But I feel so … so G-damned helpless!”

Mom never swore. It was sobering. Unfortunately, I knew exactly how she felt.

∞

“So, Jack thinks Tate knows who’s been stealing his boats? Interesting.”

“It is,” I replied, casting a thoughtful look at Giff, who was riding in the passenger seat of my car. We were running late for the memorial service. I’d showered and changed into a navy skirt, white tights, white blouse, and my favorite cherry-red sweater. But that’s not why we were running late. It was Giff’s lengthy Hollywood shower and slavish devotion to fashion that had really put us behind. I had to admit, though, that it worked for him. He looked like a movie star on Oscar night in his black tailored suit and a gold-and-black silk tie.

I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw MacDuff—another vision of silky black-and-white elegance, only he was sprawled across the back seat in peaceful slumber. Jack had sent a quick text asking me to drop him off at the Cherry Cove police station on my way to the church, but I was of half a mind to keep him. Then again, I lived in an apartment in Chicago. I couldn’t even afford a free cat, let alone a stately Springer Spaniel like MacDuff. I would have to return him, but I would visit. After all, the dog had saved my life.

I’d told Giff all about that too, sparing no detail. Giff was a creative soul. Whether or not he believed in Bigfoot didn’t really matter. He was still open-minded enough to be intrigued by the notion.

“Erik Larson,” he said.

“What?”

“The boy, Erik Larson. Think about it,” Giff suggested. “Who disappears the moment you try to speak with him? Erik Larson. Who is Cody Rivers best friend? Erik Larson. What if these boys were protecting a dark secret and one of them cracked—one of them decided to tell the boss’s daughter what was really going on? Would the other go so far as to kill him to protect this secret?”

“Holy cobbler,” I breathed. “Do you think Erik Larson was the person in the processing shed last night—the one who tried to kill Cody and me?”

“It’s super twisted, but kids these days are super twisted. I wouldn’t rule it out. Look, the kid worked closely with Jeb. He also had access to the processing sheds. I’ve never met him, but I’m told he’s a big, strapping young lad. And if he caught wind that Cody had sent you a message, he might have been desperate enough to try and stop him.”

“His best friend. Dear God, what are these kids involved in?” I uttered. Giff shrugged. “Well, what about Brock Sorensen and his sudden appearance near the processing sheds last night?” I asked.

“He might have been telling the truth,” Giff offered. “Look, I know Tay’s not a fan and rightly so. While you were out hunting Bigfoot this morning, I did a little checking up on him. The guy graduated at the top of his class from the University of Wisconsin, worked as an accountant for the Miller Brewing Company in Milwaukee, met his vegan wife while protesting the treatment of circus animals, got married, and shortly thereafter started working for a large organic grocery store chain. Got tired of that and moved here. He likes golf, he’s on a fantasy football team, and he subscribes to Aficionado, which he has sent to the inn. Sorensen make’s good money but he’s not ambitious. He’s plenty smarmy, but what motive does he have to kill Jeb?”

Giff paused for breath, then galloped on. “Sorensen was working late at the inn when Jeb’s body was discovered, but Tate was hanging around in the lounge. Both men accompanied Baxter when he went to the orchard to find the body, but only one of the two has any real tie to those two boys—Tate. You told me Tate was their basketball coach at the high school. You also said that both Cody and Erik had had a run-in with the law. They were caught stealing bicycles last summer, and then got their whole basketball team disqualified from the championship for using steroids. What if Tate knew about the steroids? What if he was the one supplying them?”

“No way,” I said, quick to jump to Tate’s defense. “Tate may have his fair share of shortcomings, but drugs aren’t one of them. He’d never use the stuff, or suggest others use them.”

“Maybe not, way back when you were still in love with him, but what about now? Remember, I’ve met him, angel. Maybe you drove the poor man to it.”

I shot him a dark look. “Thanks, but I doubt it. Besides, Tate’s in perfect health. No dark circles under his eyes, no sallow, saggy skin.”

“True. He’s beautiful as a Norse God, and I’d like to trust him too. It would be such a waste, locking away a man like that for life. But darling, consider this. What if Tate does know that those boys were stealing his boats? He also knew about your Dad’s secret wine. You told me once, when you were very, very drunk, that you and Tate used to break into the old lighthouse and make out in there. Tate’s very familiar with the layout, and I would bet he’d still know how to break in if he needed to.”

“Oh my,” I blurted out, interrupting him. “I just remembered something. Tate was on the phone this morning, taking with his housekeeper, Mrs. Cushman. She’s an older lady, and he put her on speaker phone. She mentioned that Lori Larson stopped by the marina this morning to drop off a plate of scones for Tate. Tay’s mom, Char, also talked about Lori Larson and a possible reason she might have had for hating Jeb. Lori’s a notoriously bad baker, and yet she was stopping by Tate’s house with baked goods. Why?”

“This Lori Larson wouldn’t happen to be Erik Larson’s mom?”

I looked at Giff and nodded.

“Looks like we need to pay Lori Larson a visit.”

“Indeed,” I said, stepping on the gas. “Lori Larson will be at the service, I expect. Erik too. The whole village of Cherry Cove will be there to say goodbye to their old friend Jeb Carlson, while praying for that poor boy, Cody Rivers.”