Cherry Scones & Broken Bones

by Darci Hannah

  Copyright Information

  Cherry Scones & Broken Bones: A Very Cherry Mystery © 2019 by Darci Hannah.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2019

  E-book ISBN: 9780738758503

  Book format by Samantha Penn

  Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

  Cover illustration by Greg Newbold/Bold Strokes Illustration

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Hannah, Darci, author.

  Title: Cherry scones & broken bones / Darci Hannah.

  Other titles: Cherry scones and broken bones

  Description: First edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota : Midnight Ink, [2019] |

  Series: A very cherry mystery ; 2.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019001043 (print) | LCCN 2019003037 (ebook) | ISBN

  9780738758503 (ebook) | ISBN 9780738758381 (alk. paper)

  Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3608.A7156 (ebook) | LCC PS3608.A7156 C49 2019 (print)

  | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019001043

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Midnight Ink

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

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  Woodbury, MN 55125

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For John,

  my husband, partner in crime, and best friend.

  One

  I read once, probably while skimming through ads in an O magazine, that true success doesn’t come from one’s ability to dream big and shoot for the stars like some jacked-up mythological arrow, but rather from one’s ability to thrive where you are. Right where you are. And to be content. God help me, I was trying. But waking up day after day in the overdone Victorian love nest my mother had created out of my old bedroom was not bringing me contentment. It was, quite frankly, giving me a headache, and probably a rash as well.

  I turned off the alarm and rolled onto my back, staring up at the pink chiffon canopy suspended above my bed. It was ridiculous, sleeping in a bed cocooned in flowered chiffon and hung with fresh sprigs of lavender. I mean, how was a practical, twenty-eight-year-old overworked modern woman supposed to thrive in her childhood bedroom that had been purposely renovated by the queen of modern Victorian chic? Baby steps, I reminded myself. I took a deep breath and was just about to roll out of bed and put my plan into action when Mom’s voice floated through the bedroom door.

  “Whitney. Are you awake, dear?” She sounded excited. She also didn’t bother waiting for me to answer. The door burst open and Mom fluttered in just as I was propping myself higher on the absurd mountain of decorative pillows.

  “Oh good, you’re awake.” She beamed, peering beneath a swag of flowery curtain. “I’ve the best news. I’ve just heard it. Margaret left a note for me at the front desk. I saw it on my way back from the kitchen. Guess what?”

  I yawned and rubbed my eyes. “What?” I replied, lacking enthusiasm. My alarm had just gone off. Nothing enthused me at 5:45 in the morning.

  Mom’s soaring spirits plummeted at my lackadaisical tone. But she wasn’t one to be deterred. Her round blue eyes twinkled as she pinned on her brightest smile. “Silvia Lumiere just booked a room with us, from Saturday through Labor Day weekend! Nine whole weeks! Isn’t that marvelous? She’s never stayed at the Cherry Orchard Inn before, and now she’s staying with us for the remainder of the summer. See? I told you, Whitney. You’re a genius. Your new ads are working. We’re back in business, and in a big way. Silvia Lumiere!” Mom shook her head, sending the single flaxen braid down her back wiggling like a dog’s tail. “I would never have dreamed it, and you’ve done it. Oooh, everyone’s going to be so envious that she’s staying here!”

  I was genuinely tickled by Mom’s enthusiasm and the fact that she was proud of me. But the obvious reason someone would book a room at the Cherry Orchard Inn for nine weeks had escaped her. Murder, however craftily one could spin it, still tended to taint a business. And, quite frankly, I hadn’t spent a lot of effort trying to explain away, in clever advertisement or any other form, all the chaos that resulted when Jeb Carlson, our orchard manager, got killed this spring. Even though it was what had brought me back home from Chicago. What I’d done instead was lower our prices to the point of absurdity for the peak of tourist season in Door County, Wisconsin. If I’d learned anything over the last few weeks, it was that affordable luxury accommodations during the height of a Cherry Cove summer was the only force on earth powerful enough to combat the horrors of murder. And, if what Mom was telling me was true, it appeared to be working.

  I sat up a little straighter and cleared my throat. “Mom. That’s great news. But who is this Silvia Lumiere, and why is everyone going to be envious?”

  Mom was from hardy, cheerful, perpetually polite Midwestern stock and it took a lot to disappoint her. But I’d done it within two minutes of waking. It was a new record. I’d have to remember to text my younger brother, Bret, and rub it in. It took me a second more to realize that Mom was still talking.

  “You don’t know who Silvia Lumiere is? She’s a Chicagoan, Whitney. I’m surprised. How could you live in Chicago for six years and never have heard of Silvia Lumiere?” Apparently the thought was as preposterous as it was disappointing.

  “I was busy, Mom. And obviously not moving in the right circles. Is she an actress or something? Is she in commercials?”

  Mom gave a dismissive twist of her lips. “No, she’s a painter, dear. A famous one, known primarily for her portraits. She discovered Cherry Cove five years ago and since then has spent every summer here, painting her portraits and creating quite the buzz. She’s part of our local artists’ community. She’s also the darling of the Cherry Country Arts Council. Oh, Whitney,” she breathed, filling with a new wave of delight. “She’ll be here, at the Cherry Orchard Inn, painting on the lawn! Such an honor. Oh!” she exclaimed as another, even more titillating thought popped into her head. “We should have her paint a family portrait. Why not? She’ll be right here. We’ll have plenty of opportunity to pose for her. Oh, drat.” The quasi-expletive dropped from Mom’s lips as disappointment swiftly toppled delight. �
��Bret’s still out of the country,” she said. “I suppose I could call him and have him fly home for the sitting, if he’s not too busy.”

  Bret was somewhere in Europe chasing ghosts … literally. I wished to God it was metaphorically. That would be a heck of a lot easier to explain to people than telling them that your promising younger brother was traipsing across Europe, barging into haunted castles and stirring up the spirits that lived there. It was all for a reality TV show he was filming.

  I glanced at the time on my iPhone. It was swiftly approaching six o’clock, so I needed to get a move on. I got out of bed, looked at Mom, and smiled. “Bret doesn’t have to be here, Mom. This woman’s a portrait painter, right? We can just show her a picture of him and tell her to paint him in. In fact, I’d be happy to choose the picture.”

  Mom didn’t like the grin on my face and swiftly declined. “No. I’ll pick it out. It’s a portrait, after all. You can’t just delete it if you’re not happy with it. It’s there forever. For posterity. But you’re right. Although I’d love for him to come home, Bret doesn’t need to be here. Anyhow,” she continued, “since Silvia will be arriving Saturday evening, I think we should plan a tea in her honor for Sunday afternoon. I’ll rally the Cherry Cove Women’s League and have them pass the word around. I want you and Grandma Jenn to plan the menu.”

  I’m not going to lie. The thought of planning a fancy high tea reception for a celebrity guest was scintillating. The wheels of my mind were already spinning as I grabbed my running clothes off a lavender wingback chair. “Sounds like just the challenge I need,” I told her as I excused myself and headed for the bathroom. “I’ll get on it straight away … after my run.”

  “Run? I didn’t know you liked to run, dear?”

  “I don’t. I mean, who does like to run, right? I’m just embracing it for now as a way to stay in shape.” And a way to ambush the one man I couldn’t stop thinking about. But this I didn’t tell Mom. Mom had her own ideas about my love life. She still adored my ex-boyfriend Tate Vander Hagen despite the fact he’d cheated on me when I lived in Chicago. However, since his recent heroics during the Cherry Blossom Festival last month, I’d started seeing him again, strictly on a trial basis. But this time my heart wasn’t entirely in it. Which I blamed on the other man in my life, a man who wanted nothing to do with me. It was this attitude that had really gotten under my skin.

  “You should try goat yoga,” Mom suggested, standing at the bathroom door. “I saw it on the internet. It’s all the rage.” Apparently she was serious.

  I wrinkled my nose. “Mom. You can’t believe everything you see on the internet. I know goats. Goats aren’t exactly Zen-friendly. Nobody in their right mind would do yoga with goats.”

  I was about to shut the door on her when she added, “Hannah’s considering it.”

  It was all that needed to be said. Hannah Winthrop, one of my best friends, owned Yoga in the Cove. She was tall, blonde, and bendy … and perpetually hyped-up on caffeine. I could almost picture her trying such a class. The thought made me laugh.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said. “But today I’m just going to stick to running.” I cast her a wink and shut the door.

  Two

  It was my good fortune that the Cherry Orchard Inn sat atop a modest bluff across the bay from the picturesque lakeside village of Cherry Cove. Not only was the view spectacular, but, more importantly, it was a downhill coast to town—which was about all I could manage in my current non-runner’s physical condition. And I didn’t want to appear out of shape. Not in front of him.

  As I struck a moderate jog down Cherry Bluff Lane—the long, meandering driveway that connected the inn and the orchard to the main road—I was a little taken aback by the accuracy with which my plan was unfolding. I had studied this man’s movements for the past month, noting what time he passed Cherry Bluff Lane, how long it took me to jog from the inn to the end, and what time I needed to leave to make it look like ours was a chance meeting. Was that stalking? I hoped not! But if it was, I had to admit that I was darn good at it.

  The moment the main road came into view my heart beat a little faster. Certainly, it was already beating fast. Recreational running wasn’t my thing. But this new frenetic pounding was entirely due to the sight of the tall, fit, redheaded man running down the road with his faithful dog beside him. He was the one person in all of Cherry Cove that kept popping into my thoughts like an annoying cyber pop-up ad—and at the most inopportune times. I tried to blame it on my overtly romantic bedroom, but the truth of it was, it went far deeper than that. The runner, Jack MacLaren, was an old high school friend of mine and Cherry Cove’s only police officer.

  We had lost touch after high school. Then this past May, after years of pursuing our own careers, murder had thrown us together once again. It had even pitted us against one another, because Officer Mac­Laren hadn’t appreciated the fact that I was bound and determined to sniff out the killer myself. He eventually came around. In fact, he came around to such an extent that, having been swept up in the heat of the moment, he kissed me. And it was this kiss that haunted me by night and ambushed me by day. Because, dummy me, I’d walked away from it, and him.

  Jack had been humiliated and was avoiding me. Our friendship was in peril, and Jack’s friendship, I realized, was one of the things I valued most about returning to Cherry Cove.

  The moment I hit the main road, MacDuff, Jack’s adorable floppy-eared springer spaniel, made a beeline for me. If Jack couldn’t stand the sight of me, at least his dog could. We were pals. Besides, I had cheese.

  MacDuff was the first to spot me. I loved that dog nearly as much as Jack did, and the feeling was mutual. The moment I hit the main road, MacDuff dashed away from Jack’s side.

  I stopped running and gave the dog a long-overdue hug, slipping him a piece of his favorite snack as I did so. Jack ran past us, giving a dead-fish flop of a wave in greeting. He then called MacDuff to his side and took off down the hill, heading for town and his turf-roofed troll-cave of a police station.

  He wasn’t about to stop for me.

  MacDuff, clearly torn, was above all else faithful. After a mournful stare the black-and-white pooch ran back to Jack’s side. But I hadn’t stalked Jack MacLaren just to be blown off so easily. I picked up my pace and ran after them.

  “Hey,” I said, catching up to him at the bottom of the hill. Jack had a very long stride, not to mention the fact that he was a habitual runner. My five-foot-seven-inch frame was no match for the trim six-foot-four running machine. I was winded and plagued with a stabbing side cramp by the time I had his attention. “How … how’ve you been?” I forced a smile through the pain. “Haven’t seen you lately.”

  “Been busy,” he replied. “Tourist season, ya know. How’s Tate?”

  That was unfair, but understandable under the circumstances. “Haven’t seen much of him,” I replied truthfully. “Been a little busy myself.” We had come abreast of the public beach and were running through the parking lot side by side. I sucked in a lungful of much-needed air, adding, “Tourist season, ya know.” I looked at him, flashed a grin and fell to the unyielding pavement with a painful thud. At nearly the same moment every resting seagull leapt into the air with frantic wings and angry cries.

  Jack stopped running. “Whitney! Christ, are you okay?” He grabbed hold of my arm. MacDuff was licking my face, and I was paralyzed with embarrassment from tripping over a rogue cement parking block. Then I noticed Jack’s look of genuine concern. It was nearly enough to dull the throbbing pain consuming my hands and knees.

  “Yeah,” I said, attempting to spring to my feet. I fell a little short of the mark. “Totally,” I assured him. “I haven’t gone for a run in a long time and I forgot how dangerous this sport can be.” Jack let go of my arm as I counted off the dangers on my fingers. “Uneven pavement, exposed tree roots, curbs, parked cars, and the occasional rogue cement parking bl
ock.”

  “You’re bleeding,” he said, suppressing a grin.

  “Oh? So I am.” It was the first time I realized it. My knees were a bloody mess, skinned and peppered with gravel. Yet remarkably, they looked worse than they felt. I gingerly brushed them off and looked up at Jack. “You have an impressively long stride. You make it look easy.”

  “Whitney, you should have told me it was your first day running.”

  “I was trying to, but I get the feeling you’re still mad at me.”

  He was going to say something to that but instead closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He exhaled through his nose. That’s when I noticed the sweat. He was covered in it. It dripped from under his bright copper hair and rolled down his handsome, flushed, frustrated face. Jack had stopped running too soon.

  I touched his arm, causing his honey-brown eyes to spring open. “Let’s keep walking,” I suggested. “Would you mind it very much if I came with you to the police station? I could use a couple of bandages, and I’d like to pick your brain. Do you recall ever hearing the name Silvia Lumiere?”

  Jack looked puzzled. “The portrait painter?”

  “Ah, so she is real and not a figment of my mom’s imagination.”

  “What’s Silvia Lumiere got to do with you?” he asked as we headed for the Scandinavian-replica log home that was the Cherry Cove Police Station.

  “Apparently, Ms. Lumiere has just booked a room at our inn through Labor Day weekend. That’s nine weeks.”

  A ruddy brow lifted as Jack considered this. “That’s great. I thought you were having trouble booking guests after … you know, the incident?”

  I did know. And, until my madcap rate reduction, we’d had very few takers. I met Jack’s questioning look with a nod. “Yeah. It’s great for business. Still, most people don’t stay at the inn for more than a week. Mom thinks it’s a huge honor to have such a guest, but frankly, I’m a little suspicious. What’s she like, this painter?”