The Cider Shop Rules

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  Most of the comments and reviews were from people who’d treasured their experiences at Potter’s Pumpkin Patch, but there were a series of one-star rants from a user named Nathan Brumble. I clicked on Mr. Brumble’s name and found myself staring at a vaguely familiar face, only I knew him as Nate the Butcher. I cringed. Not the sort of professional I’d want to make an enemy.

  A creepy sensation raised the hair across the nape of my neck, and I turned to stare out the window above my sink. I focused hard on the shadows of trees and bushes, fences and scarecrows. Maybe I didn’t like the latter as well as I’d thought.

  My kettle sang, and I slapped a hand to my chest hard enough to leave a mark. I moved the wailing pot, then went to peek into the decorative mirror in my living room. As suspected, my skin, already pink from the heat of my shower, was red where my palm had collided with my collarbone. “Yikes.” I plucked the fabric a few times, hoping to cool my stinging skin. When it made no difference, I went back to the kitchen for my tea.

  A shadow moved across the porch, and someone pounded on my door before I reached the kettle. I forced my shaking limbs to redirect, first grabbing my baseball bat, Louisa, from her spot in the corner, then to take a closer look through my window.

  “Winnie?” Colton’s voice warbled through the glass. “It’s just me. I probably should’ve called first.”

  I set Louisa down, rubbed sweaty palms over my pajama bottoms, then opened the door. I tried to look as grown-up as I could in wet hair and pants with little frogs on them. “Come on in,” I said, stepping out of his way, then locking up behind him. “Everything okay, or did something else completely horrendous happen?”

  “I’m just checking on you,” he said, his gaze darting around the room. “You must be shaken up after a day like this.”

  “I am,” I said. “I made tea. Would you like some?” I set out a second mug just in case.

  “Sure.” Colton removed his hat and turned it over in his hands. “You want to talk about it?”

  I shrugged and filled the mugs, then dropped a bag of apple cinnamon tea in each. “I’ve had better days. My emotions are all mixed up, and my brain is scrambled, but I suppose that’s to be expected. I just can’t understand why anyone would hurt Mr. Potter, or Sally for that matter.”

  Colton took the offered mug and spoon. He paddled the little tea bag through the water, dunking and prodding it. “I’ll get to the bottom of those mysteries,” he said. “Right now, I’m concerned about you. You’ve been through a lot of tough things in the past year, so it would be completely normal if you were feeling exceptionally uneasy, irrationally heartbroken, or plain old terrified. Sometimes the compilation of bad experiences like the ones you’ve had can lead to a tipping point.”

  I pulled my tea bag out and blew over the steaming liquid in my cup. “I’m okay.”

  “It’s fine if you aren’t,” he said, following suit with the tea bag, then motioning me into my adjoining living room. “The human psyche can only take so much.”

  I sat on one end of the couch and wrapped my fingers around the warm cup. “Nothing bad happened to me today. The Potters, yes—but not me. I can hardly be upset about my car in comparison to what Mrs. Potter has experienced.” Or Mr. Potter, I thought morbidly.

  “You can absolutely be upset about your car,” Colton said, setting his teacup on the coffee table. “You can be upset about Sally, and about your truck, and about the raw deal you keep getting by finding these bodies. Heck, I’m mad for you. Surely someone else in this town can find the next one.”

  I grimaced. “Does there have to be a next one?”

  He raised and dropped a hand. “You know what I mean, and sadly yes. People die every day, and other people find them. It doesn’t always have to be you. Or murder,” he added belatedly.

  “Maybe it hasn’t hit me yet,” I said. “This day seems more like a bad dream than reality. None of it makes any sense.”

  “Agreed.” He stretched back on the couch, straightening long legs out in front of him. “If you need to talk, you know I’ll listen.”

  “Back at you,” I said pointedly.

  Colton cocked a questioning brow, and I took that as a request to elaborate.

  “Why didn’t you tell me your family was coming to visit?” I asked. Didn’t they get along? Was he ashamed of my town? Of his new position here? Of me?

  “I only found out a couple of nights ago,” he said. “The trip was planned on the fly when Blake agreed to fill in for someone in the reenactment. Then my folks decided to tag along because that’s what they do since they retired. They go. Anywhere. Anytime. Because they can. They don’t want to sit around and gather moss. Their words. Not mine.” He sighed. “I never expected you to run into Mr. ‘Tall, Dark, and Yummy’ before I did. They weren’t even supposed to get here until dinnertime.”

  “Dot named him that,” I said, feeling the senseless need to point it out again. “Not me.”

  Colton pursed his lips, but he didn’t comment. “I’m glad he was around to bring you home tonight. With everything that’s been going on, I wouldn’t have trusted anyone else.”

  Exactly what I thought. “If we’re being candid,” I said softly, testing the water and eagerly changing the subject, even though I’d brought his family up. “I will admit I’ve felt a little extra paranoid since finding Mr. Potter today. So, maybe I’m not dealing with it as well as I could be.”

  “Paranoid in what way?” he asked, sitting taller, on alert.

  “Well.” I wet my lips. “Sometimes I feel as if I’m being watched again. I’m usually here when it happens, maybe because so much of the awful stuff I’ve been through has happened on the property, but I also felt that way outside the Potters’ home tonight when Dot and I were running to my car, before I saw what had happened to her.”

  Colton’s body tensed. He lurched onto his feet. “You’ve been feeling watched? Here? When?” He moved to the window and stared out.

  “Earlier. Walking home from the cider shop,” I said, thinking back to the other times I’d felt the chilling sensation crawl up my spine. “Then in the car, as I was leaving to pick up Dot, and again right before you got here.”

  He turned to look at me, a strange mix of emotion on his face. Was it fear? Anger? Something else? “Have you seen anything or anyone on the property who put you on edge? Anything that set your intuition on alert? There are a lot of new faces in town for the reenactment. Could one of them have rubbed you the wrong way or reminded you of a past trauma?”

  I shoved onto my feet and went to meet him at the window. “I don’t think so. Why?” I watched his face fall back into the blank cop stare I hated, and I realized I wasn’t the only one acting squirrely. “Do you think there’s a chance someone was really watching me today?”

  His skin went pale, though his expression remained carefully unchanged.

  My gut twisted. “You told me Samuel Keller was in Kentucky. Your former team members and some FBI guys chased him there. So, who’s following me now?”

  Colton scratched his head. “Keller’s trail went cold around Lexington.”

  “What!” My heart leapt, and my stomach revolted. “When?”

  “About ten days ago. His case was transferred to the US Marshals, but every lead ran cold and they returned home to regroup the night I got the call from Blake saying he and our folks were coming into town.”

  A lump of fear lodged in my throat, bitter and hard with betrayal. “Were you going to tell me?” I croaked. “What if I’d been in danger and didn’t even know? What if I’d felt the urge to run, but told myself not to be silly and walked right into his hands?”

  Colton turned to me, his eyes dark and burning with regret. “I’m sorry.”

  I cupped my hands to my mouth and flopped back onto the couch when I feared my knees would buckle. “What were you thinking?”

  “At first, I was thinking they’d pick up the trail again. When they came home empty-handed, I was hoping Keller had board
ed a boat for Alaska. I knew that was wishful thinking, so I traded sleep to follow online leads and gather details from my old team. I made sweeps of half the county yesterday, checking every hotel, motel, and dive bar with his photo and a list of every alias he’s been known to use. No one saw him. Then you know how today’s gone.”

  My temper cooled a bit. “You should have told me.”

  Colton dipped his chin once. “I’m going to take a walk around, then head home. Call if you need anything.” He paused, one hand on the doorknob. “I mean it, Winnie. Even if you’re sure it’s nothing, just call. I’d rather respond to a thousand false alarms than not show up the one time you needed me.”

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  He bobbed his head and was gone.

  Chapter Six

  I tossed and turned until dawn, then gave up the effort and opened my laptop. Relieved of the pressure to sleep when I couldn’t, I went back to something I could do with some success. I snooped virtually.

  I opened Facebook and searched the page I’d been reading before Colton had arrived and rocked my already shaky world with news of Keller’s possible return. I followed the one-star pumpkin patch reviews back to Nathan Brumble, then I clicked onto his personal page. Nothing. No photos. No updates. No favorite movies or family members listed. It was as if he’d created the account just to leave the nasty reviews on the pumpkin patch. I navigated back to his reviews and read them again. Nate’s complaints ranged from excessive noise at late hours to trash in his yard, which he believed came from careless pumpkin patch guests. He claimed to have lost large amounts of sleep and clearly all of his patience. I’d definitely pay a visit to Nate’s home as soon as possible, preferably while he was at work.

  I typed Brumble into the website’s search bar and looked for his wife’s profile.

  I found a familiar face and clicked the link, surprised to see a woman I’d met multiple times when I’d worked at the diner. Funny I’d never put the two of them together. Polly had breakfast at the Sip N Sup with friends at least twice a month. She always ordered a yogurt parfait with granola and coffee.

  I scrolled through her feed, making plans to bring her some fresh cider and apple strudel as soon as possible. Her page was a gold mine of information on Nate’s beef with the Potters. Between cheery photos of her with her husband, their home, gardens, and activities were a series of short videos taken by Nate. All were of Potter’s Pumpkin Patch and the loud partying across the field. Cheers from crowds as local bands wrapped up and screams for more when the Crusher rolled loudly over previously destroyed cars. Worse was Nate’s low, muttering promise in the background about making Mr. Potter pay.

  I closed the page and took a deep breath, then scratched Kenny Rogers behind his ears. “Things aren’t always as they appear,” I told him. “Nate was mad and made a threat, but it doesn’t mean anything.” I’d vowed to kill my ex, Hank, at least a dozen times this month, yet he was still alive and kicking.

  I opened a new page and searched for Hellen Potter. I couldn’t help wondering if she, like Polly, had kept robust social media accounts while her husband had none.

  Hellen’s page was bright and welcoming with fall recipes and photos from the pumpkin patch, but no pictures of her husband as far as I could see. I scrolled back for what seemed an eternity in search of him, but it was months before he appeared. I slowed at a set of selfies taken last spring. She and Mr. Potter looked happy, yet he vanished from her page after that. Had they simply been too busy preparing for fall business to take more photos together, or had something happened between them?

  Maybe Polly Brumble wouldn’t be the only wife I’d visit after breakfast.

  I hurried to get ready, choosing comfort over fashion in my clothes and shoes, then pulling my wild hair into a manageable ponytail.

  My phone buzzed with a text from Blake as I scrubbed my teeth. He wanted to buy me breakfast, and seeing as I had no car or desire to cook, I accepted. Plus, Blake was good company and fun to look at. Breakfast with him was a no-brainer.

  * * *

  When we arrived at the Sip N Sup before they ran out of Freddie’s homemade biscuits and gravy, I knew it was going to be a great day. The familiar hustle and bustle of the busy diner made my feet itch to jump up and help out. I missed the clattering plates and rich greasy scents of salt, butter, and coffee that had long ago permeated the walls and faux-leather booths. Sometimes I even missed the soft swish of material as the ice-blue vintage waitressing uniform brushed my thighs. I took a minute to enjoy the large black-and-white-checkered floor and wide wall of windows facing Main Street before suggesting a booth near the entrance.

  Blake clasped his hands on the table after Reese, the young blond waitress, took our orders and went to fetch drinks. “I love this place,” he said. “I stopped by yesterday for coffee, and I wound up with a quarter-pound mushroom cheeseburger that tasted like my best dreams come true.”

  I smiled. “My granny says her mama told her that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I guess some things never change.”

  He rubbed his ridiculously flat stomach through his T-shirt. “Your great-grandmama was a smart woman. I might order one of those cheeseburgers to take with me. For lunch.”

  I laughed. “You can always come back, but trust me. If you manage to finish your biscuits and gravy, you’ll be too full to think about eating again for a while.”

  He looked skeptical. I didn’t blame him. The Sip N Sup made a great burger.

  “Did you know I worked here for ten years?” I asked, feeling wildly nostalgic for something I’d only given up eleven months ago. “I started on weekends in high school, then I stayed on full-time after graduation. I waitressed to pay for college as I went so I wouldn’t graduate with any student loan debt.” Also, probably to defer the inevitable. I’d wanted to open a cider shop, but until the orchard had been in danger, I’d lacked the confidence and motivation to make it happen.

  Blake looked impressed. “Not many people get out of college debt-free these days. That was quite a goal. And I’ve been to your cider shop, so that’s two gold stars for you. How long ago did you graduate?”

  I felt the heat of pride on my cheeks, then the sting of awkward misunderstanding on the back of my neck. “I’m still in college,” I admitted. “A senior this year.” Possibly the only twenty-nine-year-old in any of my classes. “We’re on fall break now, but we go back after Thanksgiving. I’ll graduate next May.”

  “Nice,” he said. “Be sure to send me an invitation to your party.”

  Reese arrived with a carafe of coffee and a pair of mugs. She set them all before us with a smile. “I’ll be right back with your breakfasts.”

  “Thanks,” I told her as she spun gracefully away, her corkscrew ponytail bobbing behind her. Reese made waitressing look like fun. She was never short on smiles or pep, and just being near her was somehow energizing. I wished she worked with me at the cider shop, but I could never offer her enough hours or guarantee the kind of tips she earned here.

  She returned a moment later as promised. “Here you go.” She arranged the plates, then added two sets of silverware neatly rolled in napkins. “Winnie,” she began, tentatively, casting a cautious look at Blake.

  “He’s fine,” I told her. “Go on.”

  She pursed her lips a moment, then leaned in conspiratorially. “I heard about what happened yesterday, with Mr. Potter in your truck, then the other thing, with your car. I’m real sorry about all of that. You have the absolute worst luck.”

  I sighed inwardly. Of course she’d heard. The Sip N Sup was often gossip central, and there had been hordes of witnesses for both discoveries.

  “Birdie Wilks was in here last night and told me all about it. She said she’d been with Mrs. Potter all day and didn’t have time to make dinner for Mr. Wilks, so she stopped by to pick up a potpie and some mashed potatoes. We got to talking while she waited.”

  “Did she say anything else?” I asked, hoping Re
ese was about to unload an incredibly useful clue.

  “Just that you’re looking into it for Mrs. Potter. As a favor to Birdie. I want you to know I’ll keep my ears open and let you know if I hear anything hinky.” Reese peeked over her shoulder to where a couple waited at the counter, bill in hand. “I’ve got to get the register,” she said. “Holler if you need anything else.”

  Blake forked a hunk of gravy-soaked biscuit. He popped it into his mouth and groaned. “This is fantastic.”

  “It’s Freddie’s personal recipe,” I said. “We’re lucky to get any because it’s normally gone by now. He must’ve planned ahead for all the visitors this week.” I worked the pepper shaker over my meal before digging in.

  Blake was quiet for several minutes, until his plate was nearly empty. “Maybe we should talk about the dead guy. Seems like every lady in town is rooting for you to solve his murder. You want to tell me what you know about him? Maybe I can help. It’s what I do, you know?”

  I considered his offer, sure it was probably a trap, then marched in anyway. “His name is Mr. Potter,” I said. “Was,” I corrected, cringing at the necessity of past tense, though even that was better than hearing him called “the dead guy.”

  Then I spilled every detail I had.

  “So, you’re going to talk to Potter’s neighbor today?” he asked. “The butcher with an ax to grind?”

  “I plan to visit his wife,” I corrected. “I want to know if Nate only complained online or if he and Mr. Potter had ever argued in person about it. Something like that could easily have escalated yesterday. There were a ton of people there at the time he was killed, lots of noise, and Crusher was scheduled to perform later. Maybe Nate had had enough.”

  Blake wiped his mouth and dropped the napkin beside his plate. “You want some company?” he asked. “I don’t have anywhere I need to be right away. There’s an informational meeting at the fort in an hour, but it’s optional. The real training and details will come in a day or two. Today is mostly for mingling and trading stories. I don’t usually pretend to be a militiaman from two hundred years ago, so I don’t have anything good to share.”