His cheek ticked, impressed, I supposed.
I did a weird curtsy. “I’ll be back to see what you think.”
I headed over to the tables crowded with women I didn’t recognize. “Morning, y’all. What can I get you to start with?”
They ordered cider by the carafe, one caramel and one apple cinnamon, plus a tray of assorted sweets to share. Nothing easier than that order. I’d expected to test my waitressing and memory skills with so many in the group. “Be right back.”
The man had emptied the three warm flights before I returned.
“What did you think?” I asked, turning one thumb up, then slowly down.
“Good,” he said.
“You here for the big doings up at the fort?” I asked.
He nodded, selecting a glass of cold cider and holding it to the light for inspection. “Yep. Town’s bigger than I expected.”
“That’s true,” I said. “Our population may be small, but our geographical size is not. We’re mostly farmers, lots of retired folks too. Some nature lovers live here for the river and national park access. They don’t seem to mind the hour-or-more commute to wherever they work outside town.”
“Others own shops on family farms,” he said.
“Exactly.” I filled the carafes for the ladies, then grabbed a tray for sweets.
“I saw a lot of cops over at the pumpkin patch the other day,” he said, finishing the first cold cider selection. “There was supposed to be a car-crushing dinosaur, but the place was closed. Any idea what that was about?”
“The man who owned the pumpkin patch died,” I said, the words attempting to lodge in my throat. “Crusher probably won’t be back this season, but the reenactment won’t be affected at all. I think that’s mostly put on by out-of-towners.”
He watched me, perhaps waiting for something more, but I wasn’t saying another word on the topic. “I’m sorry about your loss,” he said finally. “Your town’s loss, I guess.”
“Thanks.” I arranged the women’s sweets with newly shaking hands. The mix of regret and anxiety washed over me unbidden, and suddenly I was back in the street, staring at Mr. Potter’s unseeing eyes in my truck bed, crowds of people whispering around me.
“Your sheriff any good?” the man asked, a testing look in his eye. “Makes all the difference if he is. Sometimes lawmen in small towns don’t know what to do when tragedy strikes. They get out of practice. Lose their edge.” He set the last empty glass on the counter with a small thunk.
I took a step back on instinct, that same strange feeling creeping along my skin. Instinct sent up red flags on the exchange, but I didn’t know this man. It wouldn’t make sense for a stranger to have killed Mr. Potter, and the blond outdoorsman before me looked nothing like the dark-haired, leather jacket–wearing fugitive whose mug shot was burned into my brain.
“There she is.” Blake’s voice cut through my internal meltdown and turned my head toward his approaching form.
“Restroom?” the man asked, low and curt.
I pointed without making eye contact, then rushed around the counter to greet Blake. I knew it wasn’t fair to judge, and it was impossible to know what others were going through, but that customer had given me the creeps. He’d probably made the comment about lawmen losing their edge because he’d had a bad experience with the law enforcement in his own town. I couldn’t let myself read into it. He’d had no idea I was being stalked by a fugitive and his comment had pushed me fifty yards closer to the cliff of insanity. How could he? Normal people weren’t stalked by cop-killing psychopaths.
Blake opened his arms, and I ran into them, pressing myself briefly to his broad chest and allowing my rattled mind a moment to re-center.
“Hey!” I said, releasing him before the hug became weird. “What brings you back so soon?”
“I think that’s obvious. Don’t you?” he asked with a gleam and a wink.
“No.”
“Your cider is downright addictive.” He strolled to the bar and helped himself to a stool.
I laughed, relieved. “Well then, what will it be today?”
The tables of women turned to watch him take a seat at the counter.
“Give me one minute,” I said, lifting a finger as I ran for their carafes and sweets. “Hold that thought.” I hurried the ciders and pastries to the women’s tables.
Blake watched, swiveling on his stool to keep me in his sights. “My family’s having dinner at Dante’s tonight after the reenactment’s first dress rehearsal. I thought it would be fun if you came,” he said, turning to track me back behind the bar. “What do you think?”
My mouth opened, but words failed. I tried again, and failed again.
He patted the bar. “Take your time. I understand the invitation is incredibly complicated. Not everyone likes Italian food.”
I stopped across the bar from him. “I don’t know.”
He smirked. “You’re going to eat dinner tonight, right?”
“Sure, but . . .”
“And Dante’s is a good place to eat. We asked around, and that seemed to be the consensus for a family dinner.” He rocked his head from side to side as if reconsidering his words. “It’s also a bit of an ambush. It’s been a while since we’ve seen Colton, and you know how hard it is to get information out of him. Plus, Mom wants to meet you. Accept my invitation and give her peace of mind.”
“You want me to go so I can give you details about Colton?” I asked, then immediately laughed. “You realize he doesn’t tell me anything either, right?”
Unless my life is literally in danger, I thought wryly. Then he tells me the bare minimum at the very last minute.
“My mom likes to meet our friends,” he said, looking overly innocent. “You’re my friend and Colton’s. You’re interesting, and local, and she wants to meet you.”
I considered that a moment. It felt like a setup. I just wasn’t sure what kind of setup or to what end. For that reason alone, I should’ve made a nice excuse and declined. Unfortunately, my incessant curiosity kept my mouth shut for a change. This was a perfect chance for me to get to know the people who’d raised Colton. Maybe even gather a little person-to-person insight on the man I’d grown so fond of for repeatedly saving my life. It was ridiculous that I needed a scheme or his mother to reach my goal. Most people talked to one another. Some more than others, but still. I’d never met anyone who hated to share as much as Colton did, and it irked me. What was his deal? His family seemed normal. Online at least, and his brother seemed fine. An extroverted yin to Colton’s introverted yang.
“I’ll drive,” Blake said, still flashing his handsome smile. “I’ll pay, and attire is completely optional.”
“What?” I blustered, snapping my gaze to meet his.
He grinned. “Just making sure you were listening.”
I consider him for another long beat, then gave up. “I’d love to join your family for dinner. Thank you for the invitation.”
“Sweet,” he said, lifting one fist in victory. “I told Colton you’d come if you were asked properly and given a little encouragement.”
“I thought you said your mom wanted me to come.”
His grin widened. “We all want you to come.”
This was definitely a setup. Movement outside the open barn doors caught my eye. The blond man hadn’t returned to his seat or paid for his cider, but he was putting distance between us now with long, steady strides.
He didn’t lose a beat as he lit his cigarette.
Chapter Ten
The rest of my day at the shop was a blur. I threw myself into the work, trying and failing to get the strange man’s face out of my head. I’d texted Colton to tell him about the encounter, then Googled images of Samuel Keller online. Keller had fair skin with a clean-shaven face and dark hair. This guy had been blond with tanned skin and scruff-covered cheeks. It wasn’t him, I told myself. Having a beef with law enforcement and smoking cigarettes does not make someone a fugitive or a
stalker. Regardless, he was a creep in my book. He’d stiffed me on his bill, and that ticked me off.
Colton didn’t respond.
Blake left without ordering. He’d only come to convince me to join his family for dinner, then he’d headed out, satisfied by my acceptance and promising to pick me up at eight.
Now, it was seven-fifteen, and I stood in front of my open closet doors, covered in a thin sheen of sweat from running home after work. The quarter-mile sprint wouldn’t have fazed me five years ago, but the closer I got to my thirtieth birthday, the less it took to get me winded. It didn’t help that I’d moved emotionally into full freak-out mode at a little after six, and my heart rate had been running double-time before I’d even closed the shop. I stared at my clothes, willing the perfect outfit for a likely ill-fated dinner to present itself. I had less than an hour to decide, then shower, blow-dry and curl my hair, tackle my makeup, and get dressed. I wasn’t sure that was humanly possible.
What I really needed was a good reason to cancel.
What had I been thinking accepting Blake’s offer? I’d agreed to go to dinner with Blake and Colton? And their parents? I didn’t need food. I needed therapy.
My phone rang, and I leapt for it. “Dot!” I cried, answering in desperation. “Help!” I gave her the skinny on my big fat problem, and she agreed to be at my place when I got out of the shower.
Twenty minutes later, I rushed to let her in, wrapped in a towel with still-damp hair clinging to my shoulders, neck, and cheeks. “I only have twenty-five more minutes!” I hollered, rushing back to the blow-dryer waiting in my room. I bent forward at the hips and tossed my hair upside down before the mirror. I pushed the dryer settings to HOT and HIGH, then blew my hair into a frenzy.
“No problem,” Dot hollered back, then went to stare at my pathetic wardrobe.
I wrenched upright several minutes later and set the blow-dryer on the vanity, then went to town untangling my dry but double-sized hair. “I’m a mess. This is a bad idea. What am I doing?”
“Take a few deep breaths,” she said. “It’s just dinner. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” I asked incredulously, raking the brush through my giant puffy locks. “Meeting Colton’s parents is a huge, enormous deal.”
“Colton’s parents?” She swiveled at the waist to grin at me. “Not Blake’s parents?”
“Their parents,” I corrected, heat coursing over my cheeks.
“Uh-huh.” Dot put her hands on her hips and evaluated me. “Maybe it’s time you told the brother who’s been chasing you around that your interest lies elsewhere.”
“Maybe you should mind your own business,” I suggested.
She smiled. “Now, what kind of a friend would I be if I did that?” She turned her attention back to my closet and began flipping through the hangers. “Folks are talking about Mr. Potter everywhere I go, but no one can make heads or tails of what happened to him. Have you learned anything else?”
“Not really,” I admitted. “I got a weird vibe from his wife when I visited, but that’s almost to be expected. Grief is hard, and she’s probably still in shock. I know I am,” I said. I was also extremely thankful for Dot’s change of subject. “I need to talk to Birdie and see if there was any discord between Mr. and Mrs. Potter that she’s willing to share.”
“What kind of discord?”
“I’m not sure, and it might be nothing, but Mrs. Potter stopped posting photos of him on her Facebook account a few months ago. It could be that something happened to create a rift between them, or it might just have been the timing. I imagine they probably both got busy around that time, gearing up for their fall business boom.” I tossed the brush onto the vanity with a clatter and evaluated my hair in the mirror. The results were scary, which was why I normally let it all air-dry while I slept. Now, I’d have to wear it up. I opened a drawer and dug around for an elastic band. “I plan to talk to the Potters’ neighbors soon. Nate Brumble made a few heated noise complaints online that I want to follow up on.”
“Whoa,” Dot interrupted. “Nate the butcher?”
I nodded as I secured my hair on top of my head with a tatty elastic band.
Dot turned to face me, and our gazes locked in the reflection of my vanity’s mirror. A bolt of fear lanced her shocked expression. “Maybe I’m still shaken up from what went on this summer, but I don’t think you should be upsetting an already-angry butcher. Maybe what you should do is listen to the sheriff this time and leave Mr. Potter’s death alone.”
I wet my lips and turned to face her. “Someone put him in my truck,” I whispered. “A killer put Mr. Potter in my truck, and I drove away with his body as if nothing was wrong. We stopped for ice cream.”
“I know,” she said, her words coming more softly, matching mine. “But someone also attacked Sally. What if that was a warning from the killer? What if smashing pumpkins was just the beginning? What if you get hurt again?”
“I won’t,” I said. “I promise.” I made the vow with as much confidence as I could muster, for her benefit and for mine.
Dot chewed her lip, debating.
I took the opportunity to change the subject again, this time in search of a topic that couldn’t upset either of us. “Did I tell you that Hank’s got a new mission?” I asked, letting a sly grin creep over my face.
Interest flickered in her eyes. “No.”
I turned back to the mirror. Time was marching on, and I was still in a towel and without makeup. “He’s running a one-man campaign to promote hunting.”
“Hunting?” Dot’s narrow brows furrowed. “Like deer hunting?”
“Like any hunting, I think.” The mood lifted between us as I retold the silly tale. “So, basically, he wants more people to buy hunting licenses so the state doesn’t begin making up the lost revenue by taxing companies like his. He’s even made flyers. ‘Real men hunt,’” I said, deepening my voice as I relayed the tagline.
“Oh boy,” she said. “This ought to be good.”
“It is,” I assured, rifling through my makeup bag for bobby pins to hold the loose bun in place.
She laughed, then went back to digging in my closet. “Well, deer are a crash and boom population,” she said. “On boom years, a lot of deer starve to death because there just isn’t enough food sources to go around. During those times, hunting helps thin the herd, I guess. But there are also a lot of hunting accidents every year where humans are the casualties. Hunters shoot themselves and other hunters far more often than the news covers. It happened in Blossom Valley about eight years ago.”
I tucked about a million bobby pins into my hair, careful that they held the style without becoming visible. Dot was right about the hunting accidents. I recalled several from my lifetime, the most devastating for me being the loss of our star high school running back. His dad mistook him for a deer and shot him on Thanksgiving. My friend didn’t survive. His mom had a nervous breakdown, his parents got divorced, and three years later, his dad committed suicide on Thanksgiving. Awful.
“There must be other ways to raise money for our parks,” Dot said. “I know! You could offer tours through town, visiting the sites of all your former crime scenes. Any place you’ve been hurt, located a body, or been abducted. . . be sure to include the hospital. You’ve been there quite a bit this year.”
“Ha-ha,” I said.
“Too soon?” she asked. “I can’t help it. I’m worried about you. I don’t want you looking into Mr. Potter’s death, even if Birdie Wilks thinks you should. You’re my best friend, not hers, and she doesn’t know how awful my life would be without you in it.”
I blinked back the sting of emotion clawing at my eyes. “I’m not going to get hurt,” I said. “At the moment, I’m going to dinner with two sheriffs and their retired parents. Unless I die of awkwardness, I will be one hundred percent fine.” I released a long, shaky breath and slumped in my seat. “What was I thinking?”
The concern in Dot’s eyes turned
warm and comforting as she approached me. “You’re probably thinking this dinner will give you an opportunity to get to know the sheriff a little better. He doesn’t like to talk about himself, but a person’s family tells you a lot about them. Literally and figuratively. Dinner with his folks will be eye-opening. You’ll get a peek at where he came from. Meet the people who molded him into the man you like so much today. Watching him interact with them will tell you more about him too. Here.” She passed me a black pencil skirt that hit below the knees with a peekaboo pleat on each side. The pleats were inlaid with black lace that showed a hint of skin when I moved or otherwise stretched the material.
I pulled the skirt across my lap. “I bought this for a funeral,” I said, working strategic tendrils of hair free from the bun. With any luck, the end result would appear carefree and enchanting instead of what it actually was, strategic and painfully executed. “I don’t want to look like I’m going to a funeral.” I plugged in my large-barrel curling iron to heat, then started on the makeup. “Maybe I should wear a dress.”
“All you have are cotton sundresses and semi-formals. How do you not have a little black dress? You know what? Never mind. Put this on.” She pulled a cream-colored camisole from my dresser. “I like the lace across the neckline. It’s sexy, and it coordinates with the lace inserts on the skirt. Now, we just need a blouse or sweater that will show it off.”
I stepped into the closet and shut the door while I put on my underthings and tugged the camisole over my head. I stepped into the skirt, zipped, then hurried back out to start my makeup. “This is hopeless. Blake will be here any minute, and I have nothing to go with this skirt. Unless I wear the black sweater I wore to the funeral.”
“You aren’t wearing a funeral outfit to dinner,” Dot snapped. “You worry about makeup. I’ll figure out the ensemble.”
The Cider Shop Rules Page 9
