The Cider Shop Rules

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  “Yet,” I said, lifting a finger to make the point.

  “Yet,” he agreed. “So, what do you say? Need a ride to question a suspect’s wife?”

  I debated. “I hate for you to miss your militia’s mixer, and I’m not sure we’d make it to the Brumbles’ place and back to the fort in an hour.”

  “I don’t mind,” he said, deep sincerity in his tone.

  “Make it where and back in an hour?” Hank asked, manifesting at the side of our table with a smile.

  “Nosy,” I said, fixing him with my best warning face. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you, obviously.” He motioned for me to scoot over, and I obliged on instinct.

  “Why are you looking for me?” I asked, staring as he took a seat at my side.

  Hank’s attention flicked to Blake. “Oh, hey, man,” Hank said. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Hank Donovan, Winnie’s former fiancé.”

  “Blake Wise,” Blake said, extending a hand across the table.

  “We were never engaged,” I said flatly. “Stop telling people that.”

  I’d anticipated Hank’s proposal two Christmases ago, after five long years of dating. It had been well past time to do it, but he hadn’t. Instead, he’d announced plans to move to Ohio and work for a big oil company over his mama’s Thanksgiving turkey. Then he’d said I could come with him if I wanted and sat there waiting for me to leap with joy. I’d dumped him after dinner and stewed over it for a year. “We grew up in Blossom Valley together,” I explained to Blake. “We dated awhile, but that was over two years ago. More recently, he was a suspect in one of your brother’s murder cases.”

  Hank frowned.

  Blake nodded, recognition lighting his eyes. “I remember you. Colton told me all about that. What a crazy mess, right?”

  “Colton told you about him?” I parroted, feeling utterly gobsmacked. He’d told Blake about Hank, but not about me? I ignored the punch of disappointment in my chest. That was fine. I didn’t care at all. I shook it off and turned a pleasant expression on Hank. “I was just saying to Blake that I’d like to talk to Mr. Potter’s neighbors today. Maybe they saw or heard something that can be used to find his killer. I brought strudel and cider for Mrs. Brumble.” I patted the bag on the bench at my side.

  “I offered to go with her,” Blake said. “Questioning suspects doesn’t seem like the sort of thing a civilian should do on her own. She was in the middle of turning me down politely when you showed up.”

  Hank shifted to face me. “I’ll take you.”

  Blake shrugged. “I suppose that’s better than nothing. Winnie?”

  “Fine,” I said. “I don’t want you to miss your thing at the fort, and Hank’s already here.”

  Blake slid out of the booth and offered Hank his hand again. “It was nice to meet you.” He ended the shake and smiled my way. “I’ve got breakfast. Call me if you need anything.”

  “Thanks,” I said, shooing Hank out of my way. I left Reese a huge tip, then followed him to the door.

  I’d hoped to visit the Brumbles with Blake, a lawman trained to protect me if I knocked on a killer’s door and ticked him off, but I’d somehow wound up with Hank instead.

  I supposed the key to survival, if things went south, was just to outrun Hank.

  Chapter Seven

  “So that’s Sheriff Wise’s brother?” Hank asked, unlocking the doors of his pickup.

  “Yep.”

  We climbed aboard, and Hank gunned his engine to life before easing us out of the parking space. “Interesting.”

  I powered down my window, refusing to bite, choosing instead to enjoy the warm fall air. It was cooler today than yesterday, but just as beautiful. I opened and closed my fist outside the truck, allowing wind to beat against my palm and tickle the skin between my fingers.

  “Don’t pretend you’re mad I crashed your breakfast,” he said. “I know you well enough to know you’d have told me to kick stones if you didn’t want a way out of that date.” He took the corner out of town looking smug and overconfident.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Clearly you don’t know me at all, Hank Donovan.” A fact he’d plainly proven yet again. “I was having a perfectly nice time at breakfast, and it wasn’t a date.”

  He shook his head contrarily but said nothing.

  I ran my gaze around the truck’s new and spotless interior. “Ever miss the fancy little sedan you used to drive?”

  “Sometimes,” he said, promptly smacking into a pothole. “But not at the moment. My BMW wouldn’t have survived this road.”

  “That’s the truth,” I said. “I’d be housebound all winter if it wasn’t for Grampy’s truck. Sally’s awful on slush and snow.” I needed the pickup for inclement weather and anytime I wanted to haul more than a load of groceries. If I didn’t think it’d hurt Sally’s feelings, I’d buy a more practical car, a small SUV or a gently used pickup, something more sensible for country living, and I’d save Sally for warm Sunday drives. Unfortunately, I suspected Sally would think I was a traitor.

  “So, what was going on with you and Colton’s brother?” Hank asked. “If it wasn’t a date, then did Colton ask him to keep an eye on you?”

  I puffed my cheeks in an exaggerated sigh. “According to Blake, Colton’s never even mentioned me or my cider shop. Dot and I met Blake by chance when we were going for ice cream yesterday. It was weird. I don’t want to talk about this,” I said, frustrated. “How are things with you and the bridesmaid?” I asked, referring to the last girl I knew he’d been seeing.

  “Didn’t work out,” he said. “What kind of ice cream did you and Dot get?”

  “I got a chocolate malt. Dot got a vanilla shake.”

  “I want a root beer float. We should get ice cream on our way back.”

  “Might as well enjoy them while we can,” I said. “Winter’s coming for us eventually. Mother Nature can only put it off for so long.”

  “Excellent. Hey, how’d your granny do at the chili cookoff?”

  I cringed. “Turns out the Stitch Witches live in Marlinton.”

  Hank grimaced. “No.”

  “Yep.”

  “Bummer.” Hank slowed as he cruised past the Potter’s Pumpkin Patch. “Talk about dumb luck.”

  “Yeah, but she’ll be home by lunchtime today, so that’s good.” I sat up straighter, evaluating the eerily desolate property.

  The place was closed. Gate shut. Lot empty. Fields, hay bales, and pavilion silent. A complete contrast to the scene from yesterday, or even last night with all the well-meaning guests delivering food and the deputies combing the land.

  My heart went out to Mrs. Potter. Granny and I had had one another when we lost Grampy, so neither of us had to get through it alone, but Mrs. Potter had no one. I supposed Birdie Wilks would do all she could to comfort her friend, but I wished there was more I could do too. “Let’s stop and see Mrs. Potter first,” I said. “I hate that she’s all alone.”

  “Now?” Hank asked. “Or after we see Nate’s wife?” He slowed to a crawl between the two properties, waiting for instructions.

  I chewed my lip, unsure. “Now, I think.”

  “As you wish.” He pulled his truck into the driveway outside Mrs. Potter’s home and snuffed the engine.

  A shotgun blast echoed in the distance as I opened my door.

  Hank swung his hands overhead briefly, then let them drop. “I don’t understand why people have to do that,” he said. “There’s always a few who just can’t wait another few days for gun season. They have to jump the shark every year. Get a few deer before the season opens. Once they do, they probably don’t even bother paying for a proper hunting license.”

  I gave him a sideways look. “What?”

  “Did you know the money from hunting licenses supports our state Division of Natural Resources? Those funds support our wildlife, forests, and lakes.”

  I turned to frown at him for the little rant. First of all, I didn’t kno
w Hank cared so deeply about any of that, and secondly, there had to be a personal reason for it. Most of the things Hank cared about had a common denominator: They each directly impacted him. “People shoot all the time around here,” I said, feeling a bit silly for stating the obvious. “Whoever pulled that trigger might’ve been killing a copperhead or a bobcat, protecting their livestock, or just doing some good old-fashioned target practice. Why assume they’re shooting deer right before gun season?”

  Hank fixed me with a droll expression. “What kind of target practice only takes one shot?”

  “Maybe the shooter is really good,” I said. “Maybe she hit the bull’s-eye first try, and now she’s done for the day. Why do you care, anyway?”

  He climbed down from his truck, and I followed suit. We met at the front bumper.

  Hank stuffed his hands into the front pockets of his neatly pressed blue jeans and squinted against the mid-morning sun. “I saw a few clearings in the forests around the county that had strategically planted patches of corn near the tree lines. At least two of those had tree stands visible within thirty yards,” he said. “For poachers’ purposes, obviously,” he added, in case I couldn’t have figured that out for myself.

  Poachers were the worst. It wasn’t as if the deer stood a chance against a hunter with a gun to start with, but poachers took it a step further. What ever happened to the thrill of the hunt? The challenge? Skills like tracking? I put a pin in my mental tirade as something else came to mind. “How’d you see the corn and tree stands? Were you out hiking?” I asked, trying to imagine Hank in the woods by choice.

  “Satellites,” he said. “Everything’s visible with satellite imagery.”

  “Why are you looking at satellite images of our town? And while I agree poaching is wrong, I’m going to repeat my previous question. Why do you care?”

  Hank didn’t hunt. He never had. Hunting was primal and dirty. It was hours in the woods, sweating in camouflage, waiting for the perfect shot and often not getting it, then repeating the process the next day, and the next, until hopefully the stars aligned. Hunting was eating beef jerky from baggies tucked in vest pockets and drinking lukewarm water or coffee from a canteen or thermos all day. Worse, if a hunter had a shot, took it, and hit, hunting meant dragging a two-hundred-pound deer off a mountain, its body still warm with the life you’d taken. Not just anyone could do all that. Never mind the field dressing that came next.

  “I just do,” he said, tipping his head toward the Potters’ front door. “Now, come on. Someone saw us from the window. We’d better knock and stop lurking in the drive.”

  The front door swung open as Hank and I reached the porch. Mrs. Potter’s gaze traveled from his face to mine, then down my arm to the bag in my hands. “More food?”

  “Strudel and cider from Smythe Orchard,” I said, wishing I’d brought enough for two stops. I’d only planned to visit the Brumbles. “I hope you don’t mind me coming back so soon. Hank didn’t get a chance to pay his condolences last night, so I thought we could come together. We won’t stay long or be in your way.”

  Mrs. Potter swung the door wide. “I never say no to anything from Smythe Orchard. Come on in,” she said, sounding as exhausted as she looked.

  We followed her through the über tidy living room to a small kitchen, where casseroles and pies were stacked on one another.

  “Fridge and freezer are full,” she said with a wave toward the piled-up food. “I tried to send things home with folks, but no one wanted to take anything. I can’t seem to eat, so I suppose this will all go to waste soon.”

  I cast a look at Hank, hoping he’d take a casserole off her hands.

  He helped himself to a seat at the table. “I’m very sorry about what happened,” he said. “If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know. I’m not much of a cook, but I can help with the property or anything else less . . . domestic that comes up.”

  I handed her my offerings, then glared at Hank’s dumb head. “Less domestic?” Like, he won’t cook or clean, but he can what? Chop wood and change her oil?

  Mrs. Potter poured three glasses of cider. “Thanks,” she said. “I don’t need anything right now. Honestly, I just want to be left alone. Unfortunately, the moment I am alone, I wish I wasn’t.”

  “I understand,” I said. I’d felt the same way after losing Grampy. The orchard had been overrun with people paying condolences and wanting to help. I’d wanted to scream for silence, but then, in the silence, I’d longed for company. Nothing about loss was easy, but having Granny nearby had helped. Sometimes all a person really needed was someone to be still with. “Is there anything we can do to help while we’re here?” I asked. “Believe it or not, Hank and I are a pretty handy duo.”

  Mrs. Potter sipped and savored her cider. “Not today, but I’ll need help cleaning up outside after all those busy festival days. I don’t think anyone’s allowed out there right now. The sheriff’s got the whole place closed down while he and his crew tear it apart in search of clues.” She leaned against the kitchen table and glared at the closed curtains on her back window. “That nasty Nate ought to be happy now. No more noise to upset him. No more sounds of joy and laughter or music and dancing. Ever.” Tears welled in her eyes on the final word.

  “I’m going to talk to Nate’s wife,” I said. “I’ll bring her some cider and see if she has anything useful to say. Maybe she saw something from her home that will be helpful,” I suggested. “The Brumbles aren’t that far away.”

  Mrs. Potter dabbed the corners of her eyes with a napkin and nodded. “I have to cancel the pumpkin cannon tonight,” she said, her voice quaking. “And I guess I can tell the Crusher crew to pack it up and take it home. We won’t be needing it again this year.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said softly, feeling my throat tighten with empathy and deep understanding.

  Hank moved to her side, drawing her attention from the closed curtains. “I can make those calls for you, if you’d like.”

  Mrs. Potter released a small sob. She nodded and pointed to the refrigerator, where a pumpkin-shaped magnet held a list of contact names and phone numbers.

  Hank pulled his phone from one pocket and took a picture of the list. “No problem. I’ll get it done before lunch.”

  “Thank you,” she answered softly.

  “Mrs. Potter,” I said, “can I ask you about Nate? I know he complained about the noise, but did that just begin, or has it been going on awhile? And if the change is recent, can you remember when the complaints started?” I hoped to match his complaints with the timeline on Mrs. Potter’s Facebook account. Something had changed for the Potters in August, and I wanted to know what that was. I doubted Mrs. Potter would admit anything if I asked outright.

  “Nate started complaining last year,” she said. “He changed the hours on his butcher shop to open earlier and close later, which meant he was home less and needed more sleep. So, he thought we should have to follow suit with our business hours to accommodate the changes he’d made with his. Suddenly our festival was inconvenient to him, and we were supposed to fix it. He’s so selfish and close-minded he can’t even see how obnoxiously self-important his stance is. I mean, what kind of a person thinks their needs are more important than everyone else’s?”

  I offered a sad smile. “I’ll talk to Nate’s wife and see what she knows.”

  Mrs. Potter nodded, turning her attention back to the closed curtains.

  I stepped forward, focusing on the figures beyond the glass. Colton’s deputies were visible through the small space between the curtain panels, picking over the land and setting down little numbered evidence teepees. “How long have they been out there?”

  Mrs. Potter tightened her arms around her middle. “All morning. Half the night.”

  I hadn’t noticed them when Hank and I pulled up. They’d probably been going through the barns and buildings. I couldn’t help wondering if the farmhand I’d spoken to last night was still in the red barn, wa
tching as deputies searched for clues. I also couldn’t help hoping he wouldn’t mention running into me if he spoke with the sheriff.

  Colton suddenly turned the corner, flashing into view, as if my thinking of him had caused him to appear. He marched up the cobblestone walkway in our direction, heading for the back door in long, steady strides.

  I leaped for Hank, looping my arm in his. “Well, we’d better get going, Mrs. Potter,” I said. “Looks like the sheriff is on his way to see you, and I want you to have enough privacy to talk.”

  Hank’s eyes widened at the mention of Colton. “Good-bye, Mrs. Potter,” he added quickly, presumably knowing the length of lecture I’d receive if Colton caught me there again. “I’ll make those calls as soon as I drop Winnie back at home.”

  “Well, there’s no need to rush off,” she said, her words thinning behind us as we scurried away.

  Chapter Eight

  Granny’s truck was in front of her house when we got home. I needed more cider and strudel to visit the Brumbles, plus I couldn’t interview Nate’s wife with Colton right next door. What if he stopped by to ask Mrs. Brumble about Mr. Potter and found me there?

  I smiled at the small blue sedan parked with her truck. The owner’s press badge dangled from the rearview. Not only had Granny beat me home, but apparently her high school sweetheart had already come to welcome her back.

  “Looks like Owen Martin beat us to her,” Hank said, shifting into PARK behind the sedan.

  It wasn’t much of a surprise, I supposed. Owen was so smitten, he might’ve been waiting on the porch when she got there.

  “Five bucks says he brought flowers,” Hank said, popping open his door.

  “Obviously he brought flowers,” I said. “And probably chocolates.”

  Hank and I climbed down from the cab and shut our doors in near unison. We took turns scratching Kenny Rogers and Dolly behind the ears as they yawned and stretched on Granny’s porch steps.