by Sandi Scott
Murder at the Apple Orchard
A Pet Portraits Cozy Mystery
Book #9
Sandi Scott
Copyright © 2018 Sandi Scott and Gratice Press
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at [email protected]
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction
Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Dedication
To my loving Husband and my twin boy's Erik and Justin
to whom I love with all my heart.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Letter from the Author
About the Book Cover
PREVIEW: Charlotte Murder
PREVIEW: Crêpe Murder
RECIPES
Apple Pie Filling
Apple Stuffed Tortillas
Caramel Apple Pie
Holiday Homemade Apple Brandy
MORE BOOKS BY SANDI SCOTT
Chapter 1
“So, what are you dressing up as?” Georgie asked her sister as they drove through rows of cornfields.
“For what?” Aleta replied.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Georgie huffed.
“Oh, Georgie, I think that it is about time I admit that I am too old to dress up for Halloween.” Aleta said. “Can’t I just enjoy the fall colors and football season and chili simmering in the crockpot without succumbing to the pressure that comes with picking a costume to dress up in?”
“As your older sister, I’m going to say no,” Georgie pinched her lips together.
“Two minutes, Georgie. Our entire life you’ve been telling people you are the older sister and it is by two lousy minutes,” Aleta chuckled. “And I don’t even know how true that is. If my memory serves, I don’t think mom ever talked about who came first. It’s always been you saying you came first.”
“She did say it. You were just always too busy thinking of yourself, like you are now,” Georgie replied. “I can’t believe you’d make me dress up for Halloween all by myself.”
“You always know that Stan will dress up with you. That was one of the cornier things he was always happy to do.”
“I can’t rely on my ex-husband to show up for trick-or-treaters. He might have to work.” Georgie pointed to a big billboard with a pumpkin-headed scarecrow painted on it. “That’s where we’re headed. Apple Harvest Orchard. Besides, Stan always wants to have a sexy theme like Hugh Hefner and a Playboy bunny or Han Solo and Princess Leia Slave Girl.”
“And what do you want to dress up as?” Aleta asked.
“Something scary. Halloween is the spooky time of year. The sun goes down earlier. The classic movie station runs scary movies all month. Witches, pumpkins, skeletons, black cats.”
“Can I just remind you that last year you decided to have your zombie theme and a couple of the parents trick-or-treating complained you looked too gruesome.”
“I was a zombie cowgirl. My face was blue and I had red lipstick on. Hardly what would induce nightmares.”
“For you and me, of course not. But for three-year-olds dressed like Thomas the Tank Engine or The Little Mermaid, it was a little over the top.” Aleta smiled, “Can’t you just wear a Halloween sweatshirt and call it a day?”
“And look like an old lady? Never.”
“Georgie, we are getting up there.”
“Speak for yourself. You’re the older sister.”
Aleta gasped and rolled her eyes.
“I know what would be perfect! Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. I’ll be Baby Jane and you can be her crippled sister. She wears normal clothes.” Georgie grinned and repeated for emphasis, “That would be perfect!”
“The normal sister is in a wheelchair.”
“I know a guy. A client. I painted a picture of him and his ferret, Reggie. His mother had passed and he kept her wheelchair.” Georgie smiled. “I know he’d let me borrow it.”
“Eww. Why is he keeping her wheelchair?”
Georgie looked out the windshield for an answer but came up with nothing. So she shrugged. “A keepsake?”
“Sort of a morbid keepsake.”
“Well, who knows, Aleta. Maybe he has his best memories of his mother while she was in the wheelchair. It might have been a very special time where they bonded and really communicated not just as son and mother, but as friends.”
“Or, he’s gone all Norman Bates and the wheelchair is just one of the many props he uses behind closed doors to wheel her dead carcass around the house,” Aleta shook her head.
“Hey, that would be a good theme, too. Norman Bates in his mother’s clothes and Norman Bates’ real mother all dried out and kindling-like.” Georgie nudged her sister with her elbow, “Good one, Aleta.”
“I wasn’t trying to come up with ideas, Georgie.”
“But isn’t that always when genius strikes?” She pointed down a desolate gravel road flanked by tall, crinkled corn stalks. “That’s the way to the Hopper’s farm.”
“Oh, your mega-client. How is that going?”
Georgie had met the Hoppers at the local farmers market. The tiny event had grown from just a few stands in a parking lot to a good-sized stretch of canopies. There were fresh fruits and veggies, handmade soaps, fresh herbs, as well as antiques, clocks made from slabs of tree trunks, and tie-dye shirts. At a small booth with hand-painted stemware, Georgie featured some of her pet portraits.
One of her clients, Mae Reese, painted unique designs on glasses and goblets she found at thrift stores. She had a Persian cat that Georgie did a stunning rendition of in charcoal pencil. As part payment of her fee, she made Georgie an offer she couldn’t refuse. “We can share a booth, and maybe that will help us save some cash and get exposure at the same time.”
Georgie jumped at the chance. She always thought the booth space at the market was too steep for anyone looking to make just a few extra dollars. But she wanted to showcase her artwork. This was a win-win, even if she just got one new client. And did she.
The Hoppers owned a farm where they raised corn and soybeans. They had a small stable of animals that were more like family than livestock. It included a milk cow, a goat, a horse they rescued from the glue factory, some ducks, and a prize-winning pig by the name of Cleopatra. They commissioned Georgie to do pictures of them all.
“I just finished a great painting of Dorsey, their horse. They rescued him from a farm that was going bankrupt. He’s like a faithful dog. He rubs his head against both the Hopper’s heads when they come near him. He jumps up and down when Mr. Hopper comes to the stable. It’s really something to see.”
“And how many more animals do they want you to paint?” Aleta aske
d.
“Well, let’s see.” Georgie tapped her chin, then repeated the long list of animals to Aleta.
“They named their pig Cleopatra?”
Georgie laughed. “They did. I have to say that for a pig, the animal really is exquisite. I’m looking forward to painting her. She’s got these fantastic folds over her face like a bulldog, yet she’s as pink as a seashell. Very beautiful.”
“So how many times did you have to drive out here?”
“A handful of times. That’s how I saw the signs for the apple orchard. My gosh, how long has it been since we went to an apple orchard?”
“I think kindergarten,” Aleta laughed.
“This is something we should make a yearly tradition of.”
“Didn’t you ever take the kids?”
“Those three monsters loose to pick their own apples?” Georgie huffed. “No way. I think they went with school once or twice.”
“Is that a sign for the turn-off?” Aleta pointed to a sign coming up on their right. As they got closer, they saw a sign advertising Betty’s Bed & Breakfast.
“It’s got to be coming up soon,” Georgie said as they drove.
It took a matter of minutes after passing the final row of cornstalks for the fall finery to emerge on both sides of the road. It was as if they suddenly drove into an autumn painting filled with rustic orange, brilliant gold and rich red leaves on the trees and blanketing the ground. Poised against a gray sky, the colors bloomed across the trees, lining the roads and back against the rolling hills as far as the eye could see.
Finally, a quaint wooden fence appeared on either side of the road. Bright orange pumpkins dotted the ground every couple of feet leading up to the sign that read “Welcome to Apple Harvest Orchard”.
There were arrow signs pointing this way, indicating where the public parking was located, which was the way to their general store, their hayride route and a map of their cornfield maze.
“This is exciting!” Aleta beamed. “How many apples do you think we need?”
“I don’t know. I say we pick until we can’t carry any more,” Georgie laughed. “We’ll make apple pie, apple cake, oh, and apple breakfast bars. I saw a recipe on the Internet. I can make a little apple sauce for Bodhi.”
“That dog is the epitome of spoiled.”
“A little apple sauce with no sugar will be a nice treat for him. He doesn’t like to be left out,” Georgie said. “He sat so still for a drawing I did, I got every wrinkle and whisker just perfect. I tried watercolor for the first time. It was fun.”
“I don’t think there is a pug owner in the state who has as many pictures of their dog around their house as you do,” Aleta smiled. “Do you know what Bodhi will be going as for Halloween?”
“Stan says a bumblebee. But I think that is too cliché,” Georgie waved her hand and shook her head. “It depends on what Auntie Aleta and mommy will be going as. If we went as Mother Bates and her sister, we could put an aluminum foil showerhead on his harness!” Georgie gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth.
“Okay, I’ll admit that sounds very cute,” Aleta said grudgingly.
They followed the directions from the workers in the orange vests, who waved them into a large gravel lot and showed them where to park Pablo, Georgie’s ancient Volkswagen bug, at the end of the row.
“Do you think I’ll need my sweater?” Aleta asked.
“Well, let’s see. You’re wearing your thickest LL Bean wool pants, a turtleneck with a coordinated flannel shirt and your waterproof, insulated duck boots. I’m suffocating just standing next to you.”
“Very funny,” Aleta shut the door, leaving her sweater behind. “What about you? Expecting to see a catwalk down one of the rows of apple trees?”
“For your information, I’m wearing last years red rubber gardening boots. These leggings are actually made for horseback riding and my sweater was found in the men’s department of the Salvation Army thrift store.”
“And your rabbit fur vest?”
“It’s faux, and I got it from a lady who had me paint her Maltese two years ago.” Georgie said, lifting her chin as she slung a red purse across her chest.
“Two years ago? How come I never saw it before?”
“I forgot I had it. It was buried in the back of my closet.”
“Jimmy Hoffa is probably buried in the back of your closet. You have too many clothes.”
“I didn’t know there was such a thing. Look,” Georgie pointed. “I think that’s where we check in and get our baskets. Uh oh! They have some ghosts outside the entrance. Look, a witch. I think that might be a zombie. Oh dear, I do hope that isn’t too scary for you. I didn’t bring my smelling salts.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of being annoying?”
“Nope,” Georgie linked her arm through her sister’s. They walked to the entrance, laughing as a delicious fall breeze gently blew from the northern side of the orchard carrying the sweet smoky smell of burning leaves.
Chapter 2
“All right, ladies. Here are three baskets for you,” said the young girl wearing an Apple Harvest Orchard sweatshirt and blue jeans. “You just fill these up, we’ll weigh them when you are finished, and you pay as you leave. However, we encourage sampling, so feel free to taste one or two varieties along the way.” She smiled, showcasing deep dimples.
“Thank you. We will,” Georgie replied as she grabbed two of the empty baskets and handed the third to Aleta. “You want to go grab a cider before we get started?”
“That sounds like a very good idea.”
The sisters walked through the general store that not only had bushels of apples to buy but also bright orange pumpkins and decorative corn stalks. It was almost impossible not to enjoy the smiling scarecrows and Halloween signs that read Eat, Drink and be Scary, Trick or Treat or Something Witchy This Way Comes.
There was a small courtyard with seats and tables right next to the sign that read “Fresh Apple Cider”.
“I’ll get the cider,” Aleta said as Georgie took a seat.
She went up to the window, and the next thing Georgie knew, her sister was smiling, laughing and hugging the man serving her the cider.
“I hope she gets it for free with all that hoopla,” she muttered to herself.
After almost ten minutes, Aleta returned with two hot ciders and slices of pumpkin pie.
“Yikes. What was that all about?” Georgie asked.
“That was Marvin Singer. He was a client of mine for many years,” Aleta gushed.
Marvin wore an Apple Harvest Orchard sweatshirt just like the young lady at the entrance, except his was stained, ripped and frayed like it had seen several very rough seasons. His head was bald, but he had a snow-white halo of hair around the sides and back of his head.
“He got an inheritance from some family member that was pretty significant; then we did a few things with it, making him quite a comfortable nest egg.”
“That’s nice. It has to make you feel good to see an old client who is happy with your work.” Georgie took a bite of pumpkin pie, “Is he married?”
“Why, are you looking for a new beau?”
“Bite your tongue. I was thinking for you.”
“He’s a widower,” Aleta said. “He and his wife had been married for over thirty years. She died a few years before he came to me. The guy has been living on his own for a while.
“That should make you feel proud that you helped him in his golden years.”
“It does. He said he’s very comfortable and works four different seasonal jobs throughout the year just to stay busy and get out of the house. This is his third year at Apple Harvest Orchard.”
“What a great idea. Just seasonal jobs for every season.”
“Yeah, I thought so too. He said that he might have to look for a new fall gig because there were rumors going around that the owners of the orchard were going to sell.”
“That would be too bad,” Georgie finished her pie in three
bites.
“How’s the pie?” Aleta teased.
“It’s good.”
The sisters chatted for a little longer before taking their bushels and heading out to the orchard. The crisp air held the sweet smell of apples. Just a short distance from the apple orchard’s general store was rows and rows of apple trees. The ground was covered with leaves. Thick, brown branches were loaded with fruit. Beneath their boots, the path was soft and moist.
Bouncing back and forth between the rows were children shouting happily as they stretched and reached for apples. Adults watched them as they talked, laughed, and enjoyed the peaceful setting. Scattered throughout the orchard were more pumpkins, hanging ghosts, and scarecrows.
“What apples do you want to pick?” Aleta asked.
“Well, part of me says don’t mess with tradition and grab some Granny Smiths for the pies. Red Delicious would also be a good contender. But those Honey Crisps are calling out to me. I think they would add a wonderful tanginess instead of the tartness of the grannies.”
“You’ve really thought this through,” Aleta said.
“We’re talking about apple pie here, Aleta. This is not a topic to be taken lightly.” Georgie pointed down the row of apples.
“Maybe we should mix them up,” Aleta bounced her eyebrows.
“Sometimes you astound me with your brilliance,” Georgie gasped and grabbed her sister’s arm. “I think that sounds perfect.”
During their hunt for the perfect apples, Georgie and Aleta talked about their kids, about what they’d watched on television, about books they wanted to read, desserts they were planning to try. They reminisced about William, Aleta’s wonderful husband who had passed away from cancer several years ago.
“He would have loved this,” Aleta mused. “Wandering down the rows of trees and watching people. He’d probably just pick an apple and eat it while he walked and let you and me do all the picking.”
“Probably. Stan would be busy trying to get me to climb a ladder so he could check out my backside,” Georgie grumbled, making her sister laugh.
