The Cider Shop Rules

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  Blake nudged me with his elbow. “Come on. We should get back. They’ll want me on the field soon, and you’ve got cider to share.”

  I fell into step beside him, my thoughts caught in an endless loop of unanswerable questions. The most basic query being the most infuriating: Who killed Mr. Potter? A disgruntled neighbor? A thieving wife? Someone else? Why?

  Maybe if I couldn’t stop asking questions, I could at least learn to be more stealthy about it.

  “Isn’t that your ex?” Blake asked, pointing his drumstick ahead of us.

  I followed his gaze to Hank, positioned beside a table with stand-up posters and wide, waving banners declaring the importance of registering for a hunting license. Hank was in fatigues, something I’d never seen him wear before, and likely wouldn’t again. He’d probably purchased the ensemble exclusively for this occasion, the way other people bought costumes for Halloween. Hank smiled at a man collecting literature from his table and a young boy aiming an orange plastic rifle at a deer statue meant for target practice.

  Blake locked his arm with mine and towed me in Hank’s direction. “Let’s say hi.”

  I dragged my feet on my way to the table, unsure about Blake’s motivation. He and Hank hadn’t exactly hit it off before. “Hi,” I said as the man and child moved away. “Your booth looks good. Are you getting many registration commitments?”

  “A few,” Hank said, his gaze moving swiftly to the man at my side, then to our tangled arms. His jaw set. “Hello again, Blake.”

  “What’s up?” Blake wondered, congenially.

  “I think you’re supposed to be on the field,” he said, tipping his head in the general direction of the other reenactors.

  The crowd around us had begun to thin. Vendors had taken their places behind long, decorated tables. Folks in costume had circled up near the fort, which would soon be seized for the South.

  “I’m on my way,” Blake said. “I owed Miss Montgomery a proper meal after ours was interrupted the other night.” He lifted the massive turkey leg, as if Hank might’ve missed it. “Then, of course, I wanted to stop by and say hello to you.”

  “Of course.” Hank sucked his teeth.

  I held my breath, not knowing where the conversation was going and praying it wasn’t somewhere embarrassing for me.

  Hank lifted his chin. “How tall are you, man?” he asked, evaluating the difference between them. There weren’t many men taller than Hank in town, and while, like his dashing good looks, he had no control or influence over the height of his lean six-foot-one frame, it was, nonetheless, a source of pride.

  “Six-two.”

  Hank frowned. “And what do you do for a living?” he asked, nearly glaring at Blake’s borrowed Confederate uniform costume. “When you aren’t pretending to be a bad guy from the eighteen-hundreds?”

  “I’m the Marion County sheriff.”

  Hank rolled his head dramatically in my direction. “I suppose he already has a hunting license.”

  “Every year since I was fifteen,” Blake said with a proud smile.

  Hank considered him a moment. “But you’re Sheriff Wise’s brother.”

  Blake nodded. “Guilty.”

  Hank chuckled. He turned his charming expression to me. “Anything I can do to help with your investigation?”

  “Nothing I can think of.” But it felt good to have so much support on the matter, especially while I was still feeling guilty over the heated discussion I’d had with Colton this morning.

  “I can talk to folks for you when they stop at my table today,” Hank offered. “Maybe even keep you company on your next outing.” He frowned. “What is your next outing?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “According to Birdie Wilks, Mrs. Potter suspected her husband had been seeing another woman, but that turned out to be false. Now I’m wondering if I should talk to Mrs. Potter about the allegation and set the record straight.”

  “All right,” Hank said. “That makes sense. I’m here if you want company.”

  Blake pulled his phone from one pocket and stepped away from me. He tapped the screen a few seconds before putting the device away and flashing a bright smile. “Looks like you’re right, Hank. The men are looking for me. See you later, Winnie?”

  “Sure.”

  Blake patted my shoulder before breaking into a jog. “Take Hank with you if you do anything stupid,” he hollered, then vanished into a sea of Civil War soldiers.

  * * *

  I packed up my cider and sweets at half-past one. The reenactment had ended and was set to begin again at four for the afternoon crowd. Meanwhile, the soldiers and their costumed entourages mingled with the visitors and grabbed lunch from the food trucks. I took the initiative to beat the exiting crowd out of the park, then headed for the pumpkin patch. I wouldn’t likely make it back to the cider shop by two as planned, but anyone who beat me there could enjoy the Fall Harvest Festival while they waited, and I wouldn’t be long.

  I left Sally on the curb outside the Potters’ house and went in search of Mrs. Potter when she didn’t answer the doorbell. It was strange to see the pumpkin patch empty. The property had been crawling with people for weeks, then with friends and law enforcement on my more recent visits. Now there was no one. No laughing children climbing bales of hay. No couples sharing lemonades. No music piped through hidden speakers or car-crushing dinosaurs wowing a crowd. Just me and a distant squeaking sound I guessed to be an old wagon or wheelbarrow, hopefully being operated by Mrs. Potter or someone who knew where I could find her.

  I followed the sounds to a small figure in the distance.

  Mrs. Potter was in the picnic area, taking down decorations from the festival. She pulled a brightly painted gourd-shaped sign from the earth and dropped it onto the pile behind her. A small flatbed wagon, like the ones folks used to haul their pumpkin selections, was now covered in a stack of fall-themed signs and end-of-the-season décor.

  “Hello, Mrs. Potter,” I called, announcing myself before I got close enough to startle her.

  She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, before turning to look me over. “Winnie.” She nodded in my direction, then lifted the handle on her cart and moved in the direction of the next sign.

  I followed.

  “Have you gotten any ideas about who killed my husband yet?” she asked, her voice thick and croaky.

  “Not yet, ma’am,” I said, “but I’m working on it.”

  An unexpected shiver rocked down my spine as I recalled the recent threats made to me by that killer. Obviously, I was close to knowing who it was, or I had gotten close at some point and spooked the killer enough to warn me off. I just didn’t know when or what I’d done precisely that had started the threats. If I knew that, then I’d have a much smaller suspect pool. As it was, my pool included the entire town. None of the clues I’d followed had led anywhere, and considering I’d been parked in Timbuktu when Mr. Potter was killed, anyone could’ve come along, knocked him off, and loaded him into the back of my truck.

  Mrs. Potter wrenched another sign loose from the dirt and chucked it roughly onto the pile.

  Tension rolled off her in thick, oppressive waves, stealing my breath and making me reconsider my visit. But I couldn’t do that. I’d come all the way to the pumpkin patch to tell her what I’d learned. More than that, I wanted to see her reaction when she heard.

  I decided to lead into my news with a little small talk. “Hard to believe the season is over already.”

  “The season is over forever for me,” she grouched. “This farm was his dream. It was never mine. Now the whole place is filled with awful memories. His death. Frantic phone calls from folks in town when his body was discovered. The sheriff and his team sweeping the land for clues to Jacob’s murder. I can’t stay here.” She wiped her eyes again and turned away, back to the next sign. “I’m selling, and I’m moving. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

  I tried to gauge the full reason behind her tears. Was it grief alone? Or d
id I detect a bit of guilt in there as well? Shame, maybe? For what? Killing her husband? Stealing from him? Something else? Or maybe it was my imagination, and there was nothing there except the grief.

  “You can stop looking into it,” she said sharply over her shoulder. Her red and swollen eyes pinned me briefly in place. “Just stop whatever you’ve been doing. I don’t want to know who did this anymore. I just want to move on. I want this to be over.” She yanked another wooden sign from the ground, then turned to face me with it. “You should probably go now.”

  I imagined her taking a swing at my head with the oversized cartoon crow in a straw hat and bandana, and I stepped back as she tossed it clattering onto the pile. “Okay,” I said, keeping my distance. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I only dropped by to tell you I spoke with Brittany Ann Tuttle.”

  Mrs. Potter’s eyes widened. Her lips pressed into a thin white line, and her cheeks went scarlet. “What did she say?”

  “Mr. Potter was making regular trips to her place, but it wasn’t what you think. They met there for privacy and discretion. Her husband knew. He helped with the kids while she went over your pumpkin patch’s financial records.”

  Mrs. Potter’s brows pinched, and her gaze darted nervously.

  “Brittany is an accountant, Mrs. Potter, or she was, briefly, before having kids. Now she helps folks from her place, during off-hours when her husband is home.”

  Mrs. Potter’s jaw went slack. “What are you saying? He had her doing his books? I do his books!”

  I grimaced. “I know, and that’s probably why he didn’t come to you when he noticed the numbers weren’t adding up. He wanted confirmation before making any wrong assumptions.”

  Her arms crossed, and her stance widened. “He thought I was stealing?” she seethed.

  “You were in charge of the books,” I pointed out. Immediately regretting my big mouth, I added a hasty and too-late “Sorry.”

  Mrs. Potter stepped forward, and I retreated another foot. “I was not stealing.” She spat the words as if they were filth. “I slacked off a little recently. Sure. What else could I do? I’m only one person, and this is our busiest time of year. He was too cheap to hire enough help, so I had to step up. On everything. I barely have time to eat or sleep or think from September through November without this place encroaching on it. And he was doing what? Double-checking my work? It must’ve been nice to have the time to spare. Then he snuck off behind my back so he could smear my name without having the guts or decency to confront me first?”

  I took another step back. “Um.”

  “You know what? Get out!” she screamed. Her face flushed beet red and streamed with sudden tears.

  My heart rate hitched, and my body whirled on autopilot.

  “Get out! Get out!”

  I ran full-speed until I reached the safety of Sally’s interior, then locked the doors and peeled out without looking back. I passed a large red pickup truck on the corner and said a quiet prayer for whomever was inside. If the driver planned to check on Mrs. Potter, he or she might wish they hadn’t.

  I fixed my eyes on the road and concentrated on putting more distance between myself and the angry widow.

  Maybe Colton had a point. Maybe I should stick to cider making.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The scare Mrs. Potter gave me lasted the rest of the day. I concentrated on my work at the shop, had dinner with Granny, then went to bed early with the lights on. I woke with the sun the next morning, feeling strangely refreshed and newly motivated to work on my anniversary cider flavor.

  Colton had given me a lot of good feedback during his sampling session, and I’d fallen asleep contemplating ways I could incorporate the advice into something new and delicious. The biggest epiphany I’d had at night was the realization that my anniversary cider didn’t have to become a year-round best seller. It could be something seasonal. Something special.

  I’d opened the shop at Christmastime, so it seemed fitting that the anniversary flavor feel festive, and I homed in on that. I also recalled from my early marketing courses that making a product available for a limited time increased its demand and perceived value. I wouldn’t charge more for the special flavor, but I would make it available only in the month of December. Furthermore, I could add to the uniqueness factor by doing a special print run for the labels and feature a holly wreath or set of sleigh bells beneath the name.

  I cranked up the volume on my favorite radio station, now playing only holiday music until Christmas. Then I gave the contents of the pots on my stove a stir. Sweet scents of apples, cinnamon, brown sugar, and molasses wafted into the air, accented by a note of crisp cranberries. I danced around the island in fuzzy-socked feet, singing into my wooden spoon and feeling happy, hopeful, and ten years younger. It was barely breakfast time, but today was a great day.

  A jolt of enthusiasm punched through me as Granny and her ladies appeared outside my window, and I hurried to the door.

  “Hey, y’all!” I called, running into the frigid air. “Where’re you going?” The words lifted before me in little clouds of steam and ice crystals. “You want to come in for some hot cider?”

  The trio changed directions in a turn as precise and uniform as any high school marching band and headed up my steps. “Good morning,” they called, declaring appreciation for the invitation and their happiness to see me.

  I waved them inside and closed the door behind us. “I’m so glad you’re here. Let me get you some cider.”

  “No, thank you,” Sue Ellen said, stalling my pace to the stove. “It smells like heaven in here,” she continued, “but we just finished breakfast at Penny’s, and I’m fit to bust.”

  Delilah rubbed her flat stomach for effect. “It’s true. We’re headed up to the fort. We made biscuits and gravy for the soldiers, militia, and Marines.”

  “Rain check,” Granny said. “Do you want to come with us to the fort?”

  “There are lots of men in uniform,” Delilah said. “They’re all real nice too. I gave my phone number to the man playing General Lee last night when we went out to meet the cast, and he called right away.”

  “Meet the cast?” I asked. “There was a party to meet the reenactors? That’s new.”

  Delilah nodded. “It’s the first year they’ve done it, but it was a hit. So many folks come into town for this every year that the mayor thought it would be nice to celebrate them. It was a huge potluck with a local band.”

  “They strung lights through the tree limbs,” Sue Ellen added, “and made a big bonfire in the clearing. It was lovely.”

  “I’m sorry I missed it,” I said. “I had no idea, but I got a good night’s rest and had a very productive morning.” I hooked a thumb over one shoulder, indicating the simmering pots on my stove. “I think I finally nailed down the anniversary cider flavor I’ve been struggling with.”

  “Sounds like you had a great night too,” Sue Ellen said. “We didn’t get any sleep. Delilah insisted we pull an all-nighter making biscuits and gravy from scratch while she talked to General Lee.”

  Delilah huffed. “I helped, and we had to work all night. How else could we make enough for everyone? We have to feed a literal army.”

  “It’s a pint-sized militia and some men in a fort,” Sue Ellen said. “We didn’t have to make so much.”

  “Well, we had to finish the needlepoints,” Delilah said, a look of triumph rising on her brow. “Or at least I did after you fell asleep.”

  Granny exhaled deeply, then shot me a look that said she’d heard this conversation before. “I suppose we ought to go before it all gets cold,” she said, redirecting her ladies.

  I smiled. “Another time then.”

  I kissed Granny’s cheek, then went to open the door for her again. “What were you needlepointing all night?” I asked.

  Delilah pulled a fabric square from her pocket and passed it to me. “I goofed this one up along the bottom, but you get the drift.”

  I spread
the fabric across my palm. A small version of John Brown’s fort stood tall and proud at the center. The year of the original battle was stitched in red alongside the current year above the fort. The words BLOSSOM VALLEY, WEST VIRGINIA were stitched below the picture. “These are really neat. Everyone is going to want one.”

  “I hope so,” Granny said. “We’re going to price them cheap, then donate all the money to the local food bank.”

  “Great idea.” Granny’s number-one passion was people, specifically making sure they were fed, and I respected that to my core. In fact, it gave me an idea of my own. “Maybe I should make the sales from my anniversary cider go to the same cause.”

  Granny’s eyes lit, and she wrapped me in a warm embrace. “Do it,” she whispered. “I think that would be wonderful.”

  “Bye, Winnie. Come on, you two,” Delilah called from halfway across the field. “Gravy’s getting cold.”

  Sue Ellen stopped to roll her eyes at Delilah, then hugged me good-bye. “That gravy is piping hot in my thermal totes. She’s just in a big fat hurry to see General Lee again. They were up talking half the night. That’s the only reason she stayed awake to finish the needlepointing.”

  I smiled.

  Delilah called again, and the other ladies hurried to catch up.

  I headed back inside, still smiling. It was nice that Delilah had met someone. Now that my heart had healed from the bruising Hank gave it, I thought I might like having someone to talk to like that again. Openly and about anything. I had Dot, and I wanted her in my life forever, but she wouldn’t always be enough. The truth was, despite my train wreck of a mother and never-met-him father, I’d had an example of a perfect marriage in front of me all my life, and I envied it. I wanted what Granny and Grampy had. I’d be crazy not to.

  Of course, with love comes loss, and no one wanted that. I could still recall in vivid detail the way Granny had folded in on herself after Grampy died. There had been days when I’d worried she wouldn’t pull out of it, and I’d be alone. A selfish fear, yes, but the loss I’d experienced was so deep already, I didn’t think I could bear another.