“I don’t think you’re a downer.”
“No?” His voice hitched with challenge.
“I’d agree that you can be unnecessarily intense at times, and grouchy on occasion, but I suppose the former is a hazard of the job and the latter is often my fault.”
Colton’s lips twitched, fighting a smile. “You’re not wrong.”
A small laugh bubbled up from my chest, and I leaned against his side, allowing the strength of him to support me. “I talked to the Potters’ neighbors today,” I confessed.
He leaned away from me, forcing me to sit up straight. “You what?”
My chin inched up on instinct, and my shoulders squared in defiance. I was setting the tone here. Not Colton. I’d chosen to tell him about the visit, and I wouldn’t allow him to think he was bullying the information from me.
We locked eyes for a long beat before he relented his air of superiority. “What happened?”
Satisfied that he’d eased up on the angry face, I told him about the strange couple, the trail cameras, and the obnoxious hounds.
Colton pinched the bridge of his nose when I finished. “I’ll follow up with the Brumbles. Anything else I should know?”
“I think Mr. Potter might’ve been planning to sell the pumpkin patch or leave his wife,” I said.
Colton’s hand fell away from his face. “Why?”
“Mrs. Potter told Birdie that she suspected Mr. Potter was having an affair with Brittany Ann Tuttle. But when Granny asked around, Sue Ellen told her that Brittany Ann helps folks at church with their taxes. I don’t think Brittany was involved romantically with Mr. Potter. I think she was helping him with his money somehow.”
“I’ll talk to Brittany Ann too,” he said. “Meanwhile, I’m going to agree with the table-stabber. Enough already. You’ve got plenty to keep you busy here and with the Fall Harvest Festival. So, I’ll take over the questioning of our citizens,” he said, pressing a palm to his chest, “and you make the cider.” He turned a pointed finger in my direction.
“Fine.”
Colton stood. “Good. Now, we’re done here. Can I walk you home?”
“Why not?” I loaded a few jugs of cider into the wagon. I didn’t expect to rest tonight, so I might as well use the time to work on my anniversary flavor while I was up.
Colton checked his watch before taking the wagon’s handle. “I’ve got a meeting with the coroner and crime scene team at seven. I’m buying dinner, and we’re putting in some overtime, but I’ll swing by here to check on you later.”
I locked up the shop and turned to join him on the old dirt road back to my place. I wanted to tell him I would be fine. That I wasn’t afraid to be alone or in need of a babysitter, but that was all lies. “Okay.”
We moseyed toward the orchard in companionable silence. Colton’s cruiser was parked in the lot with our other guests. The fences were lined in twinkle lights, and the open space was filled with folks enjoying the festival. Scents of hot cider and cocoa sweetened the crisp evening air, and the ashy hint of a distant bonfire sent nostalgia over me like a tidal wave. These short autumn days had always been my favorites. Bundled in sweaters and caps, cheeks pink from the wind, heart warm from the company. Country music piped through the speakers at the big farmers’ market tent, and I hummed along to a tune I hadn’t heard since high school.
The warm feelings subsided slowly as the festival-goers came into better view. They all seemed too happy. None of them knew a killer had been here tonight, at my shop, on this property, maybe even mingling anonymously among them.
Then again, maybe one of them was the killer.
* * *
Thirty-five minutes later, I was on Brittany Ann Tuttle’s doorstep. I’d promised to stop questioning the citizens, but my house had been too still and my imagination too busy. A little wind had rattled my kitchen window, and I’d decided to take a drive and clear my head.
Somehow I’d wound up on the curb outside the Tuttle home.
Since I was here . . . I knocked.
The rambling farmhouse was old with chipping white paint, but it had a distinctly happy vibe. The walkway was lined in well-manicured flower beds and neatly cut grass. Tiny bicycles lay in the drive alongside abandoned balls, bats, and a pile of sidewalk chalk. A pastel-colored stick figure family of five welcomed my arrival. A tire hung from a rope in the giant oak out front, and a white swing swayed lazily on the covered porch.
The front door opened a moment after I knocked, releasing sounds of music and laughter into the night. A man in his early thirties greeted me with a smile. His sandy hair and beard were neatly trimmed, but in evident disarray. A toddler in a cape and diaper clung to his back, chubby arms wrapped around the man’s neck. A preschooler in a tiara and tutu gripped his leg as she looked me over.
“Hello,” he said, resting one palm over the toddler’s hands at his neck, and the other atop the strawberry-blond princess at his side. “Can we help you?”
The princess curtsied deeply and raised a wand. “I believe I can help you,” she said sweetly. “Have you come to bring me a puppy?”
I grinned. “No, sorry, no puppy.”
Her tiny form straightened, and she stood tall once more. “That’s okay. Do you like hot dogs?”
“I do,” I said, shifting my glance from her to the man. “I’m Winona Mae Montgomery. I live at Smythe Orchard with my granny.”
“Welcome,” he said. “We love the orchard. We were just there last weekend for the festival.”
“Five minutes,” a woman’s voice called from deep within the home.
The man swung the door wide. “Come on in. We’re just about to have dinner.”
“I don’t want to intrude,” I said. “I didn’t realize the time.” Truthfully, it was after seven, and I was surprised the little ones weren’t getting ready for bed, but what did I know about children? I’d grown up on a farmer’s schedule, so I’d been thankful to sleep in once school started.
“No intrusion. There are plenty of hot dogs for everyone,” he said with a wink.
I stepped cautiously into the front room, taking in the colorful surroundings. Toys covered everything in sight, and the woman’s voice had begun to sing the alphabet song.
“I’m Frank,” the man said, offering a hand. “This is F.J., Frank Jr., and Celeste, our little princess.”
“Mama!” The princess released Frank’s hand to curtsy again, then bolted away. “The apple lady is here!”
Frank Jr. buried his face into his daddy’s neck.
“Brittany Ann’s in the kitchen. Did you come to see her about the orchard?” He turned for the long hallway down the home’s middle, and I followed.
The kitchen was at the other end of the hall, bright with white cabinets and a blue-checkered floor. A baby sat in a highchair, kicking his feet and patting the tray. His lips were smeared in orange goop, pureed carrots, if the baby food jar on the table was any clue.
“Brit, this is Winona Mae Montgomery from Smythe Orchard,” Frank said, making the introduction.
“Hi,” I said as brightly as I could manage, wishing I hadn’t crashed the family’s dinner.
Brittany paused to consider me while Frank ushered the older children to the dinner table alongside the highchair. She rubbed her hands on her apron and tipped her strawberry-blond head over one shoulder. “Hi. Did we have an appointment?”
“No,” I said feebly, unsure where to go from there.
Her brows knitted. There was kindness and sincerity in her voice and expression, despite the fact I’d arrived unannounced and so far without explanation. I felt instantly awful for even listening to the rumor about her and Mr. Potter. “Did I order something?” she asked, moving her gaze to the nearly forgotten bag in my hands.
“Oh!” I lifted the gift in her direction. “No, I just wanted to bring you some cider from the orchard. There are a few turnovers in there too.”
“Thank you.” She accepted the offering warmly, though still clear
ly and understandably baffled by my appearance.
I tried to imagine myself in her shoes, singing the alphabet to a baby while making dinner for a brood. It was an image I’d never had the pleasure of seeing at my own house, Granny and Grampy’s house. I’d longed for my mother all my life, but I’d never imagined myself as a mother. The sudden weight of it pressed hard against my chest. Could this be me one day? Cooking and singing and becoming the thing I’d once wanted for myself? Would I do a good job? Make my family happy?
Frank kissed his wife’s cheek, then ferried bowls and plates to the table.
I didn’t know any adulterers, but I couldn’t imagine they came from happy, laughter-filled homes like this one.
“We love Granny Smythe’s apples and pastries,” Brittany Ann said. “Are you going door to door with freebies, or did something else bring you by tonight?” She tipped her head toward the table, indicating I really should join them.
“Honestly, a friend asked me to talk to you about Mr. Potter,” I said. “I can come back another time.”
“Nonsense.” Frank handed me a prepared plate. “The more the merrier, right, guys?”
The princess and Frank Jr. sang out, “Yeah!”
I took the plate with a laugh. Frank had cut one end of the hot dog in a deep X, creating four long, skinny “legs,” then spread those over a sea of macaroni and cheese and painted a ketchup smile on the top half of the hot dog.
“Tonight, we eat octopuses,” Frank said in a pirate-like voice.
“Octopi,” the princess corrected.
“Thank you,” I said again, feeling wholly humbled as I lifted one of the apple slices Frank had fanned out around the macaroni sea.
Brittany set a pitcher of water in the table’s center, then poured everyone a glass.
The princess took my hand. “Say grace! Say grace!”
I closed my eyes and gave silent thanks for people like these, who loved one another and their children. For folks who stayed the course and didn’t run. And for folks who’d invite a stranger into their home for octopus hot dogs just because that stranger rang the bell.
Frank took the kids away after dinner, and Brittany Ann led me to the back porch, where we could talk privately.
The rear porch was impossibly more inviting than the front. Another porch swing. A pair of rockers. Hanging baskets of mums in every color.
We each took a rocker and a minute to breathe.
“I recognize you,” Brittany Ann said. “Now that I’ve had a minute. You helped find out what happened to your neighbor after she was killed. You got shot.”
My stomach clenched with an onslaught of unwelcome memories, and the scar tissue seemed to burn along my side. “That’s right.”
“How are you?” she asked, her thoughtful gaze traveling over me.
An emotional mess, came to mind. Along with words like paranoid and nosy. But the truth was that I liked helping find Mrs. Cooper’s killer, even if I’d gotten hurt as a result. “I’m okay.”
“Is that why you’re here now? Trying to find justice for Mr. Potter?”
“Yes.”
Brittany Ann nodded. “I see.” She sipped her water, then watched me, a pensive expression on her pretty face. “I suppose someone found out I was seeing him and assumed the worst.”
“Something like that,” I said. “But you were helping him with his taxes?”
“No,” she said earnestly, then paused before speaking again. “What I’m going to tell you is between me and you. Okay? I’m only telling you because I think you mean well, and because you helped your neighbor when she needed someone to find the truth for her. Mr. Potter deserves that. He was a good man.”
“He was,” I said, “and I’ll do what I can, but I’ll also get help from the sheriff if I need it.”
She nodded again, this time chewing her lip.
“Why were you seeing Mr. Potter? Was he having financial trouble? Was his business failing?” The questions seemed insane given the wild popularity of Potter’s Pumpkin Patch and Nate’s accusation that the Potters were expanding, but what else could it be?
“Yes and no,” she said with a reluctant frown. “Mr. Potter was having financial trouble, but not because his business was failing. He brought his books to me for review when they weren’t adding up the way he’d expected.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
Brittany Ann looked at her hands, now twined on her lap, then raised a tentative gaze to mine. “Mr. Potter suspected his wife was skimming money from their business.”
Chapter Seventeen
I woke to the sound of a text notification just after sunup the next morning. Colton let me know he was leaving his post outside my front door. Granny and her ladies were setting up to open the orchard, and Colton was headed home for a few hours of rest.
I took my time getting ready, too exhausted to move any faster, then I went to Granny’s for breakfast.
She met me at the door with a mug of coffee and a smile. “You’re just in time!”
I accepted the offered mug and climbed onto my favorite chair at the table. A spread of breakfast pastries, breads, and sweets filled the center. I helped myself to a chocolate croissant.
A muffled commotion filtered through the house, accompanied by the occasional cuss word and followed with a round of prayers and giggles. The sounds were nearly masked by a festive holiday tune pumping from Granny’s thirty-year-old boom box on the countertop.
“What’s going on?”
“Hank and the ladies are bringing my kitchen tree down from the attic,” Granny said. “I love this part. It always feels like the official kickoff for the holidays, don’t you think?”
A series of thunderous bumps rattled the walls and elicited more cussing from Delilah, whose voice was clear now that the commotion was getting closer. Hank laughed, and Sue Ellen followed up with another round of prayer.
Granny peeked into the living room, where the staircase would soon deliver our friends.
“All right!” Hank’s voice arrived before his face a few moments later.
Granny stepped aside as the tip of a six-foot faux fir squashed through the doorway behind him.
“Things weren’t looking good for a while, but we made it.” He dragged the tree to the window and hoisted it upright on the far side of the room. “Here?”
“Perfect,” she cooed.
Granny’s kitchen tree had been handed down to her from her mother long ago, and while Granny and Grampy had always chosen a live tree for the front window in the living room, her mama’s fake tree had been the first official decoration of the season all my life.
Sue Ellen and Delilah rushed in to tug and arrange the branches, which had been squashed flat during storage and the commute downstairs. They pulled and twisted, working each branch. When they finished, the tree would be full and fat, its central support post hidden from view.
“Looks good,” I told him.
“Beautiful as always,” Sue Ellen agreed.
Delilah didn’t look convinced. “Looks like it’s been stuffed up in that hoarder’s paradise of an attic you have upstairs, if you ask me. But it’ll be gorgeous with a little time, lights, and ornaments. Did you bring the ornaments?” She swung her gaze to Sue Ellen, who blanched.
“I thought Hank had them.”
Hank gaped, openmouthed. “I was carrying a six-foot tree. Where did you think I put the ornaments?”
Sue Ellen shrugged.
“I’ll get the decorations in a minute,” Granny said, patting Hank’s cheek on her way to help her friends. “You’re a good boy, Hank. I don’t care what anyone says.” She winked at me behind his back and kept going.
“Can you stay for coffee?” I asked.
“Sure,” Hank said, a hopeful gleam in his eye. “I’d like that.”
I pointed to the machine on the counter. I was glad to offer, but not awake enough to serve.
He filled a mug, then joined me at the table. “Does it seem like
it should be Thanksgiving in a few days to you? I might be getting old, but I feel like we just had Christmas.”
Sue Ellen clucked her tongue, then stood back to appraise the tree before going at it again. “It’s felt like Christmas for me since Labor Day. We’ve been filling holiday-themed needlepoint orders for months.”
Delilah nodded. “We can’t keep up with the demand.”
“Are you selling your work at the festival?” I asked. “Under the tent?”
Granny peeked around the tree at me and pointed to a lidded tote near the door. “Sure. We take orders and sell our stock. Which reminds me. We need to replenish soon.”
Hank eyeballed the container of completed needlework. “Do you finally get to needlepoint some nice things now that Christmas is coming?”
I smiled. Granny loved to needlepoint but hated how many orders she received for rude or obnoxious pieces. I thought they were funny, but she thought the craft was a dying art that should be preserved the way she’d learned it, with delicate rows of flowers around Bible verses. Unfortunately, folks these days wanted delicate rows of flowers around goofy and contrasting words like COME BACK WITH A WARRANT.
Granny heaved a sigh, then eased out from behind the tree. She exchanged looks with her ladies, who both failed at hiding their smirks. “I’ve been doing a lot of movie quotes this year,” she said. “‘Son of a nutcracker.’ ‘Cotton-headed ninny muggings.’ ‘You’ll shoot your eye out.’ You know the ones.”
Delilah beamed. “I’ve been doing surprise-faced gingerbread men with broken legs and the words, ‘Oh, snap!’ It’s funny because it’s the sound his leg probably made when it broke and the thing young folks say when something is truly delicious.”
Hank hiked a brow.
I shook my head silently, warning him to leave it alone. “Well,” I said instead, after finishing my croissant and coffee, “I should get moving.” If I didn’t leave before Granny’s crew started hauling decorations from the attic, I’d be in for a day of untangling twinkle lights, and I had too many other things on my plate already.
The Cider Shop Rules Page 16
