by Meri Allen
The usual place? The barn?
Memories tumbled back to high school. Saying Mike was popular with girls was an understatement. Buzzy always teased him and called him Romeo. Caroline and I had seen him bring dates here to the barn. We knew they weren’t just visiting the ponies.
Now Romeo was lying dead where he’d met so many of his Juliets.
A police car pulled up to the cottage. I put the note back where I’d found it and stepped outside onto the front porch to meet the cops.
* * *
I watched in disbelief as the peaceful road by the barn filled with police vehicles. Right after I directed officers to Mike’s body, I told them Angelica was gone.
The officer questioning me was tall, with a thick head of dark brown hair going gray at the temples and an impressive beard that called to mind sea captains and biblical prophets. He handed me his card: Det. Jack Voelker. Penniman Police Department.
“Angelica Miguel? The tennis player?” The officer’s eyebrows rose. “Do you know when she left?”
“No. No idea.” My heart rate ticked up. Was she okay? Did she have something to do with Mike’s death?
I had to tell Caroline about Mike. I tried to tamp down my impatience as I answered the detective’s rapid fire questions.
“Name?” he said.
“Riley Rhodes.”
“Address?”
I gave him the address of my tiny one bedroom apartment tucked away on a cobblestone street in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia.
“Occupation?”
“Librarian and travel blogger,” I said. He didn’t ask so I didn’t mention that I was a librarian at the CIA. That would definitely complicate things.
“What brings you to Penniman?”
When I answered ‘Buzzy Spooner’s funeral,’ the detective paused his note taking for a brief glance that told me he’d known Buzzy.
He angled his head toward the barn. “How did you know the deceased?”
“Mike’s the brother of my friend, Caroline Spooner.” Caroline. Who was asleep in the house just down the lane, who had no idea her brother had been murdered. “I have to tell Caroline about Mike. He’s her brother.”
An officer stood behind Mike’s sedan, taking down the license number. Voelker flashed a look at his counterpart. I read it clearly: they weren’t going to let us alone together, give us time to get out stories straight. Because I’d just told them we were friends. Because we might be suspects. No, we were suspects.
My hackles rose and I tried to keep my voice steady. “I told you everything. When I came out for a run this morning, Caroline was asleep in the house. Please, I have to tell Caroline about Mike.”
Voelker jutted his chin at his counterpart. “Accompany Ms. Rhodes to the house. Ms. Rhodes, you’ll have to come to the station later to sign your statement.”
“Yes, of course.”
A cruiser pulled up to Buzzy’s house as I hurried down the lane with my keeper. Another officer got out of the cruiser and introduced herself but I barely heard her.
I ran up the steps ahead of them. The house was quiet, filled with the scent of coffee and the cloying sweetness of the floral arrangements. I went upstairs, one officer behind me, her equipment belt jangling.
I hurried to Caroline’s bedroom and knocked softly on the doorjamb as I pushed it open.
“Riley?” Caroline’s voice was groggy. “I took one of Buzzy’s sleeping pills and I’m so out of it. Did I hear sirens?”
“Caroline.” I hurried into the room, sat on the side of her bed. Sprinkles lay next to Caroline and blinked up at me. Caroline fumbled for her glasses and gasped as she noticed the officer at the door.
“I’m sorry, I have awful news.”
* * *
The next hours were a blur. Caroline threw on some jeans and a T-shirt and joined the police in the living room. I thought she’d fall apart when she heard the news about Mike, but her reaction was the opposite: she’d gone still, her narrow shoulders bowing as if under an invisible weight.
After Caroline spoke to an officer, I made her a cup of tea and put in a spoonful of sugar. “Try to drink this.”
She took the cup but held it in her lap, her face devoid of expression. A volunteer from Penniman Police’s chaplain corps sat next to her. He spoke softly to Caroline—I couldn’t make out his words, but his accent was lilting, comforting. When she lifted the cup to her lips and drank, the small, normal act sent a surge of relief through me.
The front door opened and another officer came in without knocking. Murder made manners go out the window. A few moments later a yelp came from the kitchen. “Ow!” Sprinkles dashed into the room followed by the officer. “Geez, I tried to pet her and she bit me.”
“I’m so sorry!” Caroline set aside her tea, rushed to Sprinkles, and cuddled her. “Bad cat! Don’t worry, she’s had all her shots.”
I put an arm around Caroline’s shoulders. “Can she go lie down now?”
The officer shared a glance with the chaplain. “Yes. We’ll be back later to ask you a few more questions, Miss Spooner.”
“When can I see Mike?” Caroline’s voice cracked.
“We’ll let you know.”
I thanked the chaplain and officer, then accompanied Caroline upstairs where she sagged onto the bed. Sprinkles hefted herself onto a footstool next to the bed and then onto the pillow next to Caroline.
By the window, the canvas on the easel showed sunflowers reaching to the horizon, a mirror image of the scene out the window. Caroline must have spent hours last night working on it.
“Riley.” Caroline gripped my arm. “I can’t handle this, not with Buzzy gone too!” I held her as she wept.
* * *
I called Dr. Gilroy, the Spooners’ longtime family physician. He gave Caroline a mild sedative and tucked her into bed. He was a lovely man—he’d set my broken arm when Buzzy’s pony Buttercup had bucked me off when I was twelve.
“I’m glad you’re here, Riley.” Dr. Gilroy shook his head. “This is tough.”
I walked him to his car. As he drove off, a white Lexus SUV pulled up. Kyle jumped out and rushed to me as Nina exited the passenger door.
“Riley, how’s Caroline?” Kyle’s brow furrowed as he looked up the lane toward the police vehicles at the Love Nest.
“Sleeping. Doc’s given her a sedative.”
Nina’s eyes were troubled as she slipped an arm around Kyle’s waist and leaned her forehead against his shoulder. He pulled her close with a convulsive movement and my heart caught, remembering that Kyle and Mike had been best friends since high school. Kyle’s light blue button-down shirt was wrinkled, his thick gold hair mussed, and he needed a shave. “This can’t be real,” he muttered. “What happened? What are the police saying?”
Though my heart went out to Mike’s longtime friends, I couldn’t bring myself to go through another recounting of finding Mike’s body. “I don’t know,” I said.
“I’ll ask Jack what he knows,” Kyle said. “Tell Caroline that we’re here for her, okay?”
Nina gave me a sad smile, then followed her husband as they got into the car and drove up the lane. From what I’d seen of the taciturn police detective, I didn’t think Kyle would learn much.
A crowd gathered around me: Flo, Willow, some of the farmhands, Pru. Shock rippled through them as the news spread.
Though the morning was already warm, Pru rubbed her arms as if chilled. “I have to tell Darwin. He’s been working in the orchards since dawn.”
I recalled the emotional rasp in Darwin’s voice last night. He’d made it clear whose side he was on: Caroline’s, not Mike’s. I wondered how he’d take the news.
A truck from the dairy farm rumbled into the shop’s parking lot. “Oh, my, that’s the milk and cream delivery,” Flo said. “We have to open so we can get that in the refrigerator.”
I felt everyone’s eyes turn to me. We all needed to keep moving and stop thinking of the grim line of emergency vehicles park
ed at the Love Nest. With a police officer just downstairs, Caroline couldn’t get much safer.
“Let’s get to work.” I headed to the shop.
Chapter 7
Not much had changed at the Udderly Delightful Ice Cream Shop since I worked there in high school. The building was rustic and homey looking on the outside, but the kitchen where Buzzy crafted small batches of ice cream was sterile like a lab, with bright white walls, porcelain sinks, a black-and-white-checkerboard linoleum floor, and stainless-steel tanks and mixers. One wall was covered with chalkboard paint, and across the top in a rainbow of slightly smudged letters was one of Buzzy’s favorite inspirational quotes: “Bloom where you’re planted.”
After we’d put the milk and cream delivery into the industrial-size refrigerators, Flo and Willow lined up in front of me, Willow in a swirling sundress, Flo dressed in a sunny yellow T-shirt, jeans, and spotless white sneakers she’d threaded with yellow laces. Her reading glasses swung from a lanyard of primary-color beads. “What do we do now?” Flo said.
What do we do? I wanted to say, You’ve been working here longer than I have, but I stopped myself. Everyone was used to Buzzy, larger-than-life Buzzy, telling them what to do.
“We’ll keep things going until Caroline gets on her feet,” I said. “We finished all the ice cream in the dipping cabinets yesterday. Willow, will you please restock from the storage freezers in back?”
“Got it.” Willow dashed down the hallway, skirt whirling.
A teenage guy ran in through the workroom door. He was about my height (5′ 8″) but seemed to be all arms and legs, with shaggy brown shoulder-length hair and a wisp of beginner moustache. He wore baggy cargo shorts, a neon green T-shirt printed with a picture of crossed drumsticks that read Weapons of Mass Percussion, and a set of expensive headphones looped around his neck. He startled when he saw me and stopped short.
“Hi,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Ah, Brandon Terwilliger?” His voice went up at the end of the sentence, as if he were asking a question. I hid a smile.
“Brandon, I’m Riley. I’m helping out today. Please make sure the napkin dispensers are full and the cups and spoons are fully stocked, then start the waffle cones.”
Brandon pushed his thick black-rimmed glasses up his nose and dashed to the front of the store.
“You don’t have to run!” I took a deep breath. Things were only going to get more complicated and, well, awful, as the days and police investigation went on. Keeping things normal, or as normal as possible, was key.
I considered how not normal my life had been for the last few years. I hated the word “spy”—I know, I know, semantics. Though I understood that the ramifications of my missions were serious, my tasks were simple. Compartmentalizing was key. I’d need that skill here. The busy pace of an ice cream shop would keep my mind occupied and the awful image of Mike’s body at bay.
Getting Udderly up and running was something I could do. I’d worked here many summers as a teenager. The staff just needed someone to take charge until Caroline could hire a manager. I squared my shoulders to project confidence.
Willow pushed a cart loaded with tubs of ice cream to the front of the store.
“Willow, when you’re done with those, please write the chalkboards.” We listed the ever-changing flavors on two chalkboards—one we set outside, one hung over the counter.
“Got it.”
“Flo.” I turned to Flo.
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am,” Flo saluted.
I laughed. “Can you take a look at what Willow’s putting out and what’s left in storage? Take inventory? Then we can make a plan for what flavors to make next.”
“Right,” she said. “And check the special-events orders.”
My stomach dropped. “Special-events orders?”
Flo nodded. “Buzzy took special orders for parties.”
Ah, the first monkey wrench. “Where did she keep those orders?”
Flo scurried to the office, which, instead of having a door had a beaded-curtain in rainbow colors. She parted the curtain and flicked on the light. I followed, my eyes widening when I realized Buzzy had redecorated her office: the walls were painted purple and angel and cow figurines filled several shelves. An antique rolltop desk was covered with stacks of papers. I flicked through them.
“Are these all,” I gulped, “bills?”
Flo shrugged. “I only help at the counter and in the kitchen. Buzzy put special orders on there.” Flo pointed to a calendar on the wall, the old-fashioned kind that had a single number on a page that you ripped away every day. My heart caught as I realized the date hadn’t been changed since the day Buzzy died. I’d never change it. Ripping off those pages would be like ripping open a wound.
I could tell Flo felt the same way. She stepped back, so I flipped through the calendar. On today’s date, in purple ink, Buzzy had written in her looping script: “Two gallons of margarita for Debra Jo Burnette’s bachelorette party.”
My eyebrows raised. “Margarita ice cream?”
“One of her new boozy ice cream recipes,” Flo said. “It’s really a sorbet she called the Ultimate Frozen Margarita. It’s a big moneymaker.”
Boozy ice cream? I shook my head. “If we don’t have it in the freezer, I hope the recipe is in the Book of Spells.” That was what Buzzy called her binder of recipes, which was kept on a table by the chalkboard.
Buzzy had reveled in using creative ingredients. “Margarita,” I muttered under my breath. “Please take care of that inventory and see if we have the margarita made already.” Please be ready.
Flo pointed at the lowest drawer of the desk. “Okay, right after I get the cash register ready. The money’s in the box.”
I pulled open the drawer and lifted a dented metal cash box. “Some high-tech security system here.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Riley, it’s locked.” Flo jutted her chin at a lanyard with a circle of metal keys hanging behind the door. “It’s the smallest one.”
I fitted the key and opened the box. It was stuffed with stacks of wrinkled bills and a few rolls of change. I flashed to the money in the jar Mike had taken from the shop. I hadn’t seen it in the Love Nest. That’s what was missing.
Where was the money jar? Had Mike been killed for a few hundred dollars? Had he been killed in a robbery gone wrong? I’d have to tell the police. But wait Riley, then why was Mike killed in the barn? And what about that note?
Flo patted my arm. “You’re lost in thought, Riley. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Flo,” I said. “You live up the lane. Did you see or hear anything unusual last night?”
She shook her head. “I’ve been asking myself that over and over. It was quiet as usual. Heard some cars, but Farm Lane’s a cut-through. I slept like a log.”
I went to the front of the shop and placed the money in the cash register. It was the same one I’d used all those summers years ago. Like so much here, the shop was frozen in time. Even the muffled sound of the customers waiting to come in seemed the same, and the scent of the waffle cones freshly made.…
I called, “Brandon, how are the waffle cones coming?”
No answer. I went into the kitchen where Brandon was bopping to music on his headphones as he rolled waffle cones on metal forms. They were all perfectly golden. When he noticed me and jumped, I gave him a smile and a thumbs-up.
Back in the shop, Willow had all the tubs of ice cream open in the dipping cabinets, the flavors arranged in rainbow order, making a wonderfully colorful display. I glanced at the clock. We opened at eleven. Ten minutes to go.
On the chalkboard behind the counter, Willow had used an assortment of colors and stylish lettering to list all the flavors. She’d also decorated the borders with sunflowers and a sketch of a black and white goat. “Nice job, Willow” I said. “That goat’s adorable.”
“Thank you,” she brushed chalk dust from her fingers. “He’s one of my babies. We call him Hairy Houdini becaus
e he keeps escaping from his pen.”
Flo came into the shop waving a piece of paper. “Here’s an inventory. We need lots.” My heart dropped as Flo continued. “We’re wiped out because the shop’s been closed and no one’s been making ice cream since Buzzy passed. We do have butter pecan, mango tango, pineapple upside-down cake, salted caramel, raspberry chocolate chip, rocky road, cherry dark-chocolate chunk, bourbon-pecan praline, maple walnut, lemonade, and gluten free cookie dough, but we’re low on cookies and cream, funky monkey, brownie bomb, chocolate chip, and peanut butter cup crunch.” She drew a breath. “We have the stalwarts, thank goodness.” The “stalwarts” were chocolate and vanilla. “No margarita, and we need that margarita—remember. They’re picking up at seven—and we’ll have to get going on sunflower.”
“Sunflower?” I blinked.
Willow waved a hand, “Not till next weekend. That’s when we have the Penniman Sunflower Festival here on the farm. We’ll start making it this week.”
A vague memory surfaced. Caroline had mentioned something about a new flavor Buzzy had crafted for the town’s sunflower celebration.
“Ready to rumble.” Flo looped a purple apron over her head. Printed on the chest was the motto “Will Work for Ice Cream.” The clock ticked toward eleven.
Restless customers pressed against the door. I’d figure out the sunflower ice cream later. “Scoops?” I said.
Flo and Willow waved metal scoops.
Brandon carried out a metal rack of crisp, still-warm cones and set it on the counter behind us. The scent—buttery, sweet, with a hint of spicy vanilla—was intoxicating. If I could get through the day without devouring a dozen of these, it would be a victory.
“Okay, Brandon, open the doors and hang up the other ice cream board outside,” I said.
Brandon hefted the chalkboard and opened the door. As a tide of ice cream lovers surged through, a man with the broad shoulders of a linebacker lunged to the front of the line. His forehead wrinkled in an intense expression as he pushed toward Brandon. “You work here? Tom Snow, New England News Now. What can you tell me about the dead man in the barn?”
