I set my empty cup in the sink, then tossed Granny and her ladies a few air-kisses on my way out, feeling full and caffeinated. “See ya, Hank,” I called over my shoulder.
A brisk slap of air smacked my face as I moved onto the porch and peered across the field between our homes. “Where are you hiding, Waddles?”
I turned nervously in search of Granny’s new rescue goose, then made a break for it.
I stalled my pace a few strides from my home when Colton’s cruiser caught my attention, moving slowly up the lane in my direction.
He parked beside me and climbed out with a frown. “You’ll never guess who I just talked to,” he said, hands braced on his hips as he approached. “I’ll help you out. It was Brittany Ann Tuttle. She was completely floored to see me. Turns out I’m the second person to ask her about Mr. Potter since dinner last night. Crazy, right? You want to guess who the first person was?”
I shook my head. Negative.
“You sure? You shouldn’t need any help with this one.”
I pursed my lips, then pulled them to one side. I was busted. Again. And I knew from experience that whatever I said next would only make him grumpier.
Honk!
I yipped and spun in search of the dreaded sound. Waddles!
Granny’s goose sped through the tall grass like a torpedo locked on his target. Me.
I fled for my front door, taking the steps two at a time before Waddles’s long, telescoping neck and bruise-making beak could reach me.
Honk! Honk!
I ducked inside, then peered out through the window in my door. Waddles might not be able to fly up the steps with his injured wing, but he could hop if he wanted, and I wasn’t going to stand around and tempt him to figure that out.
Colton strode past the goose, who’d stopped at the bottom of my steps, and knocked on my door.
I eased the door open to let him in, then shut it tight behind him. “That goose wants to kill me.”
Colton’s lips twitched. “Let me help you take your mind off of it. Tell me what you were doing at the Tuttles’ place for dinner. More specifically, I’d like to know what you learned while you were there. Might as well see if the story she gave me today matches up with whatever she told you last night.”
I released a long breath, thankful Colton wasn’t too angry, then headed for the kitchen. “How about something to eat or drink while we talk?”
Colton waved me off. “No thanks. Just the talk today, I think.”
I stopped short and redirected myself to the couch. Colton took the chair, angling to face me. I spilled what I had, then waited for the verdict. Had Brittany Ann told us both the same tale?
Colton stretched back onto his feet when I finished and turned for my door.
“Well?” I asked.
“Well, what?”
“Did her stories match?”
Colton examined me carefully. “They did, but since you’re pushing, I’ve got to know. Why did you go to see her? I’d just asked you to leave this alone, and you’d agreed. Then you went back on your own word as soon as I left.” He heaved a long, tired sigh. “I don’t like being lied to, Winnie. You get away with a lot because you’ve got a big heart and good intentions, but the cute factor has worn out on you playing private detective. And to be honest, I’m having a hard time justifying a friendship with someone I can’t trust.”
“What?” I pressed a palm to my gut where his verbal hit had landed.
Colton opened my door.
“No. Wait!” I leaped in his direction, grabbing wildly for his hand. I caught his wrist with my fingers, and he pulled to a stop, appraising me with those sharp, soulful eyes. “Look. I know I have a problem. I don’t want to be this curious. I just want to understand why and how things happen. I want to fix problems and help people. I can’t stop myself. I know I need a support group, but that sort of thing doesn’t exist.”
“Then start one,” he said, pulling free from my grip.
“I’m sorry.” I turned my eyes to his, meaning the apology deep in my bones.
Colton ran a big hand through unusually mussed hair, tension leeching from his expression. “I’m working around the clock to find Mr. Potter’s killer and keep Samuel Keller away from you. I can’t do anything else. Not even babysit you while you’re off on your amateur missions of shenanigans and tomfoolery.”
“Hey,” I snapped. “Unfair.”
He expelled a dark chuckle. “Hardly. You have an uncanny way of getting into a killer’s clutches, and frankly, I can’t deal with that again.” His phone buzzed, and he gave the device a cursory look, then groaned. “I’m supposed to have narrowed Keller’s coordinates by now so the marshals can set up a capture. Instead, I’m here having this conversation with you. Again.” His face screwed up as he tapped the phone screen, presumably responding to the message.
“Did you say ‘marshals?’” I asked, my brain hurrying to catch up. “Like US Marshals?”
“Marshals capture fugitives,” he said, pulling his attention from the phone briefly. “Small-town sheriffs aren’t supposed to have to deal with this. Small-town sheriffs don’t normally bring cop-killing lunatics with them when they accept the office.” He tucked the phone back into his pocket. “For once, I’d like to spend a few days settling neighborly disputes, maybe a domestic issue here or there, a drunk and disorderly, something normal. Not another murder/fugitive doubleheader.” He opened his arms like an airplane before letting them drop back to his sides.
“I’m not trying to make your job harder,” I said, feeling a boulder of guilt roll onto my chest. “I can’t sit here and do nothing with a local killer and a fugitive circling me. That’s not who I am.”
When he didn’t respond, I pressed on. “Did you hear anything from the lab about the knife left in my café table? Were they able to get prints?”
“The knife belongs to one of the reenactors. I tracked him down, but he says he lost the knife in the national park during an informal rehearsal.”
I considered that a moment. “Did you check to see if that guy had a connection to Mr. Potter? Saying the knife was lost, then stolen by a killer to be used for a threat at my shop seems convenient.”
“I’m looking into it,” Colton said, his grouchy expression returning. “You need to stop.”
I raised my palms in surrender. “How about we call a truce on this argument, and I promise to try?”
He rubbed his forehead and muttered something about never winning. “Did you ever hear back from that magazine contest you entered last summer? Cider House something-or-other?”
“Cider Wars, and not yet.” Though it seemed to me that the winners would’ve been notified by now. Since I hadn’t received a call or an email, I could only assume I wasn’t one of them.
“Well, how’s your anniversary cider coming along?” he asked when his eyes met mine once more, clearly looking for something to keep me busy.
“Terrible,” I admitted. “I get in my head and overthink every ingredient until it’s all wrong. I need a taste-tester.” I dared a broad smile and waited.
“Does the job come with some of your granny’s turnovers or apple fries?”
“I do believe it does.”
And just like that, Colton was staying a while longer.
Chapter Eighteen
I put a sign on the cider shop door letting folks know they could find me at the reenactment until two, then I loaded Sally’s back seat with cider, sweets, and flyers. I packed a stack of promotional materials for the orchard as well as educational and motivational material on West Virginia’s Division of Natural Resources and hunting license registration.
I cranked Sally’s windows down to enjoy the brisk and beating wind. I wouldn’t be able to drive without the heater much longer, and I treasured the feel of fresh air against my skin. I pumped up the volume on my favorite song and crooned along, loud and off-key, but mostly just happy. There were a few things in my life I could do without at the moment, like a c
op-killing stalker and a second murderer making threats, but other than that, I wouldn’t change a thing. I thought of Granny and her ladies setting up the kitchen tree. My healed relationship with Hank, and my thriving cider shop. Colton’s acceptance of me for who I was and his priceless input on my recipes this morning. True friends like Dot. A strong community. And the indescribable beauty all around me. Lurking killers or not, my life was exceptional.
I pressed the gas pedal a little lower as Sally floated around endless sweeping curves and sailed over the magnificent stretch of road between mountains. Anticipation fluttered in my stomach as I made the final turn toward the state park. Sally’s gleaming white paint and historic beauty earned lots of attention from passersby and lookie-loos. Locals waved or honked. Visitors simply stared. I understood. Sally was a sight to behold.
Traffic crawled to a stop near the entrance to the John Brown fort and reenactment site. Vendors were already setting up for the day, and folks in period costumes greeted each car with a smile. I handed over my table number information and parking fee to a woman in a high-necked gown and bonnet, then I motored into the grassy field doubling as reenactment parking.
Folks streamed in all directions from their vehicles and through the designated area beyond the trees.
I gathered my things and hurried to find my table.
Twenty minutes later, I’d covered Table 19 with a red-and-white-checkered cloth, arranged baskets of fresh apples at the corners on top and on the ground near the legs, then lined flyers and promotional materials down the center. I created a display of Granny’s sweets along one edge of the space and set plastic sample cups for cider along the other. I moved around to the front to snap a picture for Granny and admired my work.
A familiar and contagious spout of laughter broke through the white noise and busyness around me and spun me on my toes. Dot stood several yards away, cheeks rosy and smile wide as she spoke with a couple I didn’t recognize. The blonde was petite, tan, and beautiful, leaning against a man who was better fit for a billboard than a Civil War reenactment. I hurried in their direction, eager to see Dot and fixing to tell her how much I appreciated her giving Granny that mean old goose.
“Winnie!” Dot called, catching me in her sights before I arrived.
I threaded my way around knots and clusters of tables and people getting set up for the day. “Here she is now,” she told the couple. “My lifelong friend and maker of the best apple cider on earth, Winona Mae Montgomery. Folks around here call her Winnie.” She turned her smile to me then. “This is Lacy and her husband Jack. They came all the way from New Orleans to support a friend in the reenactment. Lacy owns a pet boutique and makes treats for pets.” Dot let her jaw hang open in exaggerated awe. No wonder she was having so much fun. She’d met a woman who could teach her new ways to spoil every animal in West Virginia. With baked goods.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
Dot pointed to the unreasonably handsome man. “Jack’s a—” she paused, then puzzled. “I guess I didn’t catch what you do.”
He extended a hand in my direction. “I’m a Jack of all trades.”
I evaluated his stance, the tight expression on his brow, and the tension in his tone and jaw. “Are you a lawman?” I guessed. “A marshal?” Were they here to capture Samuel Keller? Was he here? I craned my neck for a look in every direction, seeking signs of lurking shadows and glowing cigarette embers.
“She’s good,” Lacy said, impressed.
“Very good,” Dot said. “Winnie’s solved two local murders in a year. She’s working on another one now.”
Jack made a strange noise in the back of his throat, then shot his wife a pointed look. “We should go. I promised Henry I’d meet him.” He looked to me with a strange curiosity and caution. “I’m not a marshal, just a man on vacation.”
“Wait. Wait.” Lacy tugged his hand where he urged her along. “How well do you know the local homicide detective?”
“Sheriff,” Dot supplied. “And better all the time.”
Lacy laughed heartily, as if I’d missed out on a colossal inside joke.
Jack’s expression broke as he watched her, and he smiled, pulling her into his arms and kissing her head as they walked away.
“Your turn,” Dot said from behind Doc Austin’s Adopt-a-Rehabilitating-Animal booth. She pushed a clipboard in my direction. “Would you like to sponsor a rehabilitating animal? Doc Austin donates his time and provides the facilities, but rehabilitation is expensive and can be a very long process.”
I examined the table and displays. A white linen cover with a large red plus sign at the center. Doc Austin’s veterinary practice logo on the side, along with the street address and phone number to his office. Dot had arranged photo books, testimonial accounts, and informational materials in the center. She’d also brought a set of large glass cookie jars with animal treats. Bones in one. Kitten treats in another. A third with some sort of birdseed. “If I sponsor an animal, are you going to expect me to keep it when it’s healed?”
“No.” She grinned, and I knew she was lying. “I’m only here to encourage folks to help reduce costs and save lives by pledging a onetime donation or monthly sponsorship.” She opened a thick scrapbook and pointed to the sad, sickly faces inside. “Just ten bucks a month can make an enormous difference to these guys. Like him.” She tapped a photo of a mangled snout on a pathetic-looking pig.
“What happened to him?” I asked, heart sinking and unable to pull my eyes away.
“He was the lost truffle hog those Northerners brought down here hunting mushrooms last summer, then couldn’t find before they left. He got his snout caught in a bear trap, nearly ripped it clean off. A hiker found him a few weeks ago and called it in to the ranger station. We came and picked him up. Doc removed the trap and has been working on rebuilding his damaged snout. The hog should live, but he won’t be hunting mushrooms anymore. Too much olfactory damage.” She tapped her nose for emphasis, then handed me a pen.
I pledged ten bucks a month and signed my name. Then I scanned the other sponsors on the list. My brows rose as I read the line above mine. “That couple from New Orleans just donated five thousand dollars and a year’s supply of Grandpa Smacker pupcakes and tuna tarts. I thought Grandpa Smacker made gourmet jelly.”
Dot spun the clipboard for a closer look and gaped. “Oh my goodness! Five thousand dollars! I have to find them and thank them!”
“Go,” I said, flipping her BE BACK SOON sign.
“I won’t be a minute,” she said, already darting past me into the crowd.
I headed back to my table.
Blake was sampling the cider when I arrived. His Civil War–era Marine uniform was adorable on him. The navy jacket emphasized his broad shoulders and lean body, but I especially liked the small red plume on his hat.
“I hope you registered for a hunting license,” I said, sliding into place behind the booth. “That cider is a ploy for convincing folks to register.”
He grinned. “I always register.” He tossed the empty sample cup into a nearby waste bin, then leaned his palms against the checkered cloth between us. “I came here to settle a score.”
“What score?”
“I invited you to dinner, but you left before you finished. The way I see it, I still owe you a meal.” He straightened to his full height and smiled. “What do you say?” Blake swept one arm out to indicate the row of food trucks and county fair vendors on his left. “Anything you want. On me.”
I laughed. “You don’t have to do that. It wasn’t your fault I didn’t finish eating,” I said. “I’m the one who took off.”
Blake seemed to consider this a moment. “Let me buy you a giant turkey leg, and I’ll consider us square. I’ll even tell you everything I know about the man who says he lost his pocketknife on the battlefield but you found it at your cider shop.”
My feet were immediately in motion. I inhaled the scents of a half-dozen food vendors as I led the way to the Leg Man
truck, then waited while Blake ordered two Stout Ladies, sauce on the side, and two sweet teas.
“Thank you. You really didn’t need to do this,” I said as we stepped over to the pickup window to wait. I put on my widest smile. “Now, tell me everything you know.”
Blake grinned. “I talked to the missing knife guy last night. He says he’s never been to your shop, and he wouldn’t go there because he doesn’t like cider.”
My jaw sank open. “Excuse me? That’s ridiculous. Everyone likes cider.”
“Apparently not this guy.” He tucked a few bucks into a tip jar shaped like a turkey when our order arrived, then accepted the legs and teas being passed across the counter. He gave one of each to me. “The pocketknife was a dead end. How’s your investigation going otherwise?”
“Not well.” I rolled my eyes. “Your brother yelled at me about it today. Apparently I’m not a very good friend because I can’t seem to mind my own business.”
Blake bit into his giant drumstick, head bobbing in understanding. He watched me while he chewed. “I can see how that would frustrate him,” he said eventually.
I shot him a sour look, then used my fingertips to peel the skin off my turkey before digging in. “I’m not trying to tick him off, you know? He acts like my every move on this is a personal affront, but it’s completely not. I’m not even thinking about him when I’m asking questions. I just want the answers.”
“Hit me,” he said. “Maybe I can help.”
I sighed. “How do we know the pocketknife guy isn’t lying? His were the only prints on the knife. Why should we believe him? He obviously lied about not liking cider.”
Blake laughed. “An excellent point. But seriously, I think he’s just some guy from Vermont who loves reenacting important events from the past. It’s what these people do,” he said, motioning around us. “They’re history buffs, and I doubt any of them has a secondary reason to be here. Especially not something deep and nefarious like murdering a pumpkin farmer and threatening a cider maker.”
I took another big bite of tender, juicy turkey and chewed.
The Cider Shop Rules Page 17
