The Cider Shop Rules

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  I topped off a couple of cups at a table near the entrance, and noticed Granny moving in my direction. She had a smile on her face and my old Radio Flyer wagon in tow behind her.

  She hugged me and greeted several guests before hoisting the wagon into the barn and retaking the handle. I followed her behind the counter, eager to get my hands on her fresh-baked goodies.

  “This all looks amazing,” I said, emptying the wagon she’d purchased forty years ago for my mother. Grampy had repainted the wagon for me when I was a toddler, and it was probably on its fifth set of tires by now. I’d ridden miles around town in the little red rectangle as he walked, checking over his shoulder to see I was still there, happy and safe. When I was old enough, I’d pulled it many more miles on my own. Hauling picnics and fishing or swimming supplies to the lake at the far edge of our property. Farther than I’d wanted to carry my things. I’d pulled everything from blankets and sunscreen to battery-powered radios and Dot in my wagon, and I’d done it countless times. These days the wagon was on a singular parade route, moving from Granny’s kitchen to my barn and back on a near-daily basis. Like today, the wagon was filled to capacity with Granny’s mouthwatering baked goods, and I was champing at the bit to steal a bite of a turnover before they cooled.

  “They’re hot,” she warned. “I just pulled them out of the oven and tucked them straight into these thermal doodads you bought me.”

  The thermal doodads were similar to what pizza deliverers used to keep the pies hot, and I’d found them for a steal online. Now, anyone lucky enough to be around for Granny’s delivery got the pastries hot from her oven instead of reheated in mine. I unzipped a bag and unwrapped a turnover immediately, then bit in. My eyes rolled back in my head and my lids fluttered as the warm, gooey center melted over my tongue. “Heaven,” I whispered, crispy bits of pastry shell clinging to my lips.

  “I had more when I left home, but folks kept stopping me on the way over here. I handed a bag off to Delilah to sell and reminded everyone else that when she ran out, they could get them up here with you.”

  I licked my fingertips, then took another bite.

  “I saw Birdie up here earlier,” Granny asked. “Any particular reason she flew out of here like her pants were on fire?”

  “I think there might’ve been,” I said with a mischievous grin. “Apparently the reenactors are rehearsing in uniform today.”

  Granny gave a dramatic eye roll. “Men in uniform.”

  “Yep.”

  “Don’t let Delilah hear about it,” Granny said, “or she’ll be nothing but taillights too.”

  Considering Delilah had been an army wife for forty years, that didn’t surprise me.

  I finished my turnover, then stacked the rest of Granny’s pastries behind the counter with a wistful sigh. If only I could eat them all and not double in size. The weight gain would be completely worth it, but frankly, I couldn’t afford a new wardrobe. My life savings had gone straight into opening the cider shop.

  I forced my eyes away from the tempting treats and dusted my palms together. “Done.”

  “Great. Do you need more apples or cider up here?” Granny asked. “I’m expecting Harper any minute, and I don’t have much to keep her busy. You know she won’t leave until she’s done something, and she doesn’t know how to sit still.”

  I smiled. That was true enough, and it made Harper an excellent orchard manager, but not much of a conversationalist. “Sure,” I said. “Send her my way with a load of cider. The men who finance the John Brown reenactment were just in here, and they bought twenty-five gallons of cider for me to give away tomorrow. A fresh cup to anyone who pledges to buy a hunting license.”

  “Nice.”

  “Yep, and they even gave me a table to use, free of charge.” Most vendors paid upward of two hundred dollars for a table at the event. “I’m going to pass out flyers about the orchard while I’m there. If folks like the cider, they’ll know where to buy more.”

  “Smart!” Granny said, turning her phone over in one hand. “Wait a minute.” She pulled a pair of glasses from her coat pocket, settled them across her nose, then squinted at the screen. “That’s Harper now. She’s looking for me.” Granny tapped her phone. “I’ll tell her to load up the cider and head this way.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I greeted and rang out a small group of people who’d formed a line at my register while Granny responded to Harper.

  I joined Granny in the doorway when I finished. Her gaze was fixed to Harper in the distance. She’d attached a mini-trailer to the riding mower, loaded it with cider, and was heading our way. The jugs jostled and bounced with every turn of the trailer’s wheels. “Wow. That was fast.”

  Granny nodded. “She’s a whirlwind.”

  “Hey, y’all,” Harper hollered, parking the mower several feet away. She swung one short leg over the seat and dismounted with a little bounce. “Looks like your Fall Harvest Festival brought out half the town. No wonder you need more cider up here!” Her signature braid hung low over one shoulder, beneath a Mountaineers ball cap mounted on her head. She was tan from hours outdoors despite the lateness of the season and dressed in her usual jeans, muck boots, and flannel shirt.

  I envied her zip and pep. I’d never been that way. Never mistaken for perky, I’d preferred listening to talking, and when I had something to say, it wasn’t always filtered properly. I’d learned early, for example, that people didn’t like to be corrected, even if they had no idea what they were doing or talking about, especially by a kid. And because I’d had a busy mind, my energy was spent inwardly more often than outwardly. Granny used to say I was an old soul, but in hindsight, I think she meant I was a strange child. I preferred libraries to concerts, and solitude to parties.

  Maybe I had been a strange child.

  Harper began to offload the gallons, and I took two from her hands. “Thanks so much for bringing these,” I said, toting them to the refrigerator behind my counter while she and Granny hauled more to my walk-in refrigeration unit in the back.

  I alternated between helping Harper and Granny and ringing up customers until the cider was all safely stored. The minute we’d finished, Harper dusted her palms and heaved a satisfied sigh. “I hate to run off so soon, but I’ve got to make a grocery run for Mama. She’s expecting twenty-three for Thanksgiving next week, and we need to stockpile before company starts arriving.”

  Granny grinned. “We completely understand.”

  Granny often had a houseful for the holidays, though our guests weren’t blood related. Granny liked to invite folks she knew would be alone otherwise, sometimes single people, sometimes older couples or single moms and their kids or folks whose spouses had to work. We didn’t have any actual relatives in town, but we were never short on family.

  Mr. Potter came to mind as I imagined Granny’s kitchen stuffed with neighbors and friends. His neighbors were a little odd and had possibly been spying on him using trail cameras. “Before you go,” I said, stalling Harper’s exit, “what do you know about Brittany Ann Tuttle?” I leaned in close to keep my voice from traveling, then explained my reason for asking.

  Harper’s face crunched in disgust, her mouth turned down in a horseshoe. “He’s old.”

  “Maybe love doesn’t see age,” I suggested, glancing at Granny for input.

  Granny frowned. “It’s still weird, and I don’t think that rumor is true.” She put one hand to her lips for a moment, a gesture I recognized as her falling deep into thought. “Harper, did you see Sue Ellen when you were on your way up here?”

  “Sure. She was helping Delilah unload a wagon of hayriders.”

  Granny nodded. “Be right back.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Harper said, sliding off her stool. “Thanks for the cider, Winnie.”

  “Anytime.” I lifted a rag and wiped the counter, then put their glasses in the dishwasher. I could only imagine what Granny was up to. Hopefully she planned to get some feedback from Delilah
and Sue Ellen about Mr. Potter’s alleged affair. I could use any reliable information I could get my ears on.

  I filled a pot with freshly delivered cider while I waited, set it on the stovetop to heat, then collected a few ingredients from my shelves. I tossed a pair of cinnamon sticks into the pot, then added the zest from my oranges and a bit of real maple syrup for punch and sweetness. It was the same recipe I’d sent samples of to a national cider competition last summer but hadn’t heard back about. Regardless of what the contest judges thought, cinnamon twist was my first and best-selling cider. When the shop began to smell like heaven, I covered the pot with a lid and set the temperature to simmer.

  According to my watch, it was nearing five o’clock when my final set of customers left cash on the table and sauntered into the blazing sunset. I didn’t close the shop until seven in the summer, but I’d been sliding that time back a bit each day, in keeping with daylight. As a general rule, once folks went home for supper, they stayed there this time of year.

  I watched the fiery orange glow creep through my open doors, and a shiver ran down my spine. My barn had seen fire last winter, and the reminder chilled me to the core. A killer had been coming for me then too.

  The lid on my pot began to rattle, and I jumped, spinning for a look behind the counter. I hurried in the pot’s direction, suddenly eager to get home before dark.

  “Well,” Granny’s voice sounded at my back, and I squawked in response.

  “Good grace almighty!” I wailed, pressing a palm to my chest for fear my heart might escape. “You scared the bejeezus out of me.”

  “Sorry.”

  I took a beat to catch my breath, then turned off the stovetop so my cider could cool. The flavors needed time to blend and set. I needed a minute to collect my marbles. “What’s up?” I asked, sounding more breathless than I’d intended.

  “I talked to Sue Ellen about Brittany Ann for you,” she said, sounding confused. “I told you that was where I was going, didn’t I?”

  I nodded, though I couldn’t remember what she’d said while my pulse was pounding so loudly in my head. “What did Sue Ellen say?”

  “She said the Tuttles are members of her husband’s church and quite a delightful couple as far as Sue Ellen can tell. Delilah agreed. She knows the Tuttles through friends and the card club.”

  “Okay.” I leaned my elbows against the counter, considering the report and knowing both Sue Ellen and Delilah couldn’t be wrong. Granny and her friends were excellent judges of character, and their abilities to see through people’s pretenses was uncanny, superhuman almost. I’d often wondered if that skill came with age and experience because I could use a little more aptitude in that department. “So, Mrs. Potter was probably wrong about the affair, but something must’ve given her the idea. It’s not as if she picked Brittany Ann out of the clear blue sky as her husband’s mistress. There has to be something to her suspicions.”

  “Exactly what I thought,” Granny said, eyes twinkling. “Then Sue Ellen told me that Brittany Ann often helps retired folks at the church with their taxes.”

  “Taxes?” I let that rattle around in my head a minute before guessing what it meant. “Brittany’s an accountant?”

  Granny shrugged. “I’m not sure, but Sue Ellen says she seems to know tax laws, and considering the Potters owned a thriving business, it seems reasonable that Brittany Ann could’ve been helping Mr. Potter with his finances. It certainly makes more sense than assuming the two were having an extramarital affair. Honestly, I don’t know why people are so quick to jump to that conclusion for everything. This isn’t one of my stories, and even those have more complicated motives than just libidos at work. Like when that socialite came back from the dead to catch her husband cheating.”

  I nodded. This was why I’d wondered if Brittany Ann was Mr. Potter’s love child. Too much television with Granny. Her “stories” had been on the air since before I was born, and she was right. Those shows were notorious for convoluted story lines.

  I grabbed a washtub to collect dirty cups and plates and made my way through the ghost town of a dining area, clearing tables and imagining why Mr. Potter would’ve met with an accountant without telling his wife. None of the ideas I came up with made me think the Potters had a good marriage. In fact, it was possible that Mr. Potter was planning to leave his wife. Wasn’t it? Maybe not for Brittany Ann, but for some other reason. Could that reason have been financial? Had he come into a windfall and not wanted to share?

  My footsteps faltered as I reached the farthest table from the bar. A solitary cup stood beside an open pocketknife that had been jammed through a napkin and into the tabletop. Crimson sunlight reflected off the shiny blade, stealing my breath and making an already-terrifying scene feel intensely gruesome.

  A one-word message had been scrawled across the red-tinted napkin. A threat that could only have been meant for me.

  ENOUGH.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Colton made it to the cider shop in less than fifteen minutes. He was dressed in his personal version of a sheriff’s uniform. Work boots, jeans, a jacket, and ball cap with the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department logo. His usual scowl was already in place as he strode through the barn doors. “You’re having quite a week.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” I said dryly, then turned to lead him to today’s threat. “There.” I opened a palm in the pocketknife’s direction. “I’m certain the message was meant for me. I’m just not sure who left it.” I crossed my arms to help support my failing bravado. “Enough,” I said, reading the napkin aloud. “Enough what, do you suppose? Enough asking about Mr. Potter’s death? Enough talking to you and your family about Samuel Keller? Enough drumming up hunting license registrants and support for the Division of Natural Resources?”

  Colton raised his brow, snapping latex gloves onto his hands while I ranted. “Hunting licenses?”

  I turned a pointed gaze toward the display at my counter. “Yeah.”

  “Get many names?” he asked, approaching the knife and note with an open evidence bag.

  “A few.” I took a seat at the next table to watch him work without getting in his way. “Granny and I got a bunch of ladies to register, and I got a huge order for cider from the men who fund the reenactment. They gave me a free table where I can give samples away and collect more names tomorrow.”

  He dropped the knife into an evidence bag and sealed it. “Nice.”

  I crossed my legs and bobbed my foot. “What do you think about the note? Any chance I’m wrong and whoever did that just wanted me to know they’d had enough cider?”

  “Unlikely. Any chance you’ve installed a security camera in here?”

  I barked a laugh. “I’ll be able to afford security cameras right around the time pigs fly and Boo spends an entire day on all four feet.” The truth of it stung. The cider shop did well for a new business, and I’d financed most of the barn’s renovation with the sale of two Mustangs, but I’d poured my life savings into it as well. Now my comforting, hard-earned nest egg was gone, and I had more bills than I’d ever known, plus another semester of college tuition to pay. “Maybe I can run over to the Radio-Shack and buy one of those teddy bears people use to spy on their babysitter.”

  “You need more than a nanny cam. You need a GoPro camera mounted to a helmet that you never take off. At least then I could review the footage and know who was seated at this table today.”

  “It was really busy for a while,” I said. “Mostly tourists I didn’t know.”

  He tapped his phone screen, sending or receiving messages, I wasn’t sure. “I think this message is from Potter’s killer. I know Samuel Keller was in here the other day, but the message doesn’t make any sense coming from him. Can you remember anyone who sat at that table this afternoon? Or the one next to it?” he asked, taking the seat beside me. “Maybe that person will remember who was there right before or after them.”

  I searched my fuzzy mind for faces and names from th
e day. “Most folks stop at the bar to order, then they find a seat, and I don’t see them again until they come up to pay. I don’t always take drinks into the dining area, so I don’t necessarily see where they sit, especially when it’s packed in here.” Except today, I thought. Today I’d been giving refills. I closed my eyes and searched my mind for those moments when I’d been looking for the red-rimmed cups I’d used to help identify my cider of the day. I could hear the white noise of voices and laughter, feel the heat generated from the crush of bodies in the space, the weight of my pitchers in each hand. But I hadn’t really looked at the guests. I’d been concentrating on the red rims. Frustration twisted in my core. I’d been here when the lunatic was jamming a pocketknife into my table, and I hadn’t noticed a thing.

  “It’s okay,” Colton said, probably reading my expression.

  I opened my eyes, a little surprised to feel the weight of unshed tears hanging there. “I was right here.”

  Colton set a big palm between my shoulder blades. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out. I’ll run the knife for prints, then ask around to see if there’s anything special about it. Maybe I can learn where it was purchased and how long ago. I might even find the purchaser that way.”

  “That’s pretty optimistic.”

  He removed his hand from my back, returned it to his lap, and smiled. “Thanks. I’ve been told I’m kind of a downer, so I’m trying to think more positively.”