The Cider Shop Rules

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  My thoughts ran back to Mrs. Potter as I turned off the burners on my stove to let the pots cool. She’d been so angry when I’d seen her last. Erratically so. A side effect of her recent world-altering grief, no doubt. Yet I’d run away when she ordered me out. Maybe I should’ve offered her a hug or come back later with a peace offering. What had I expected her to do or feel? I’d delivered awful news to her already-broken heart and pushed her over the emotional edge.

  Mrs. Potter was right to tell me to leave her husband’s death alone. She didn’t need an inept amateur investigator. She needed a friend.

  A fresh spark of hope and determination ignited inside me, and I knew what I needed to do.

  I grabbed a jug of cider and a pumpkin roll from the refrigerator, then slipped into my coat and shoes. I wouldn’t stay long or ask her a single question, but I wanted to let Mrs. Potter know she was cared for, and that I was there if she needed anything at all.

  * * *

  The red pickup I’d passed on my way out yesterday afternoon was in the Potters’ driveway when I pulled in. The license plate was personalized and issued in another county. RUN FST. Probably a family member who’d come to stay and look after her for a few days.

  I rapped lightly on the door, hoping not to wake her and prepared to wait.

  The door sucked open, and Mrs. Potter leaned dramatically against the frame. A heartbeat later, she jumped back, looking horrified. “Oh my!” She clutched her nightgown and gaped openmouthed at the sight of me on her porch. “Winona Mae! What on earth are you doing here?”

  I lifted the cider and pumpkin roll in her direction, confused by her odd nightgown. It wasn’t a nightgown, exactly. More like the top half of a red plaid pajama set, but it was far too big to be hers. The hem hung nearly to her knees, and I realized she must be sleeping in her husband’s nightclothes to feel close to him again. “I’m not here to stay,” I said. “I just wanted to bring you a little something and be sure you knew I was here for you if you needed anything. Granny too. Just holler.”

  She nodded, cheeks pale as she accepted my offerings. Her gaze darted over my shoulders. “Thank you. I’m going back to bed.”

  “Okay.” I gave a little wave, then turned and ran smack into the bare chest of a man carrying a pile of cut firewood. “Oops!” I called, reaching to steady the wood before it fell.

  The man looked past me to the open door where Mrs. Potter stood, still frozen, in a shirt that matched his bottoms perfectly.

  “Oh,” I said, as my brain caught up with the scene unfolding before me. “Wow. I did not see that coming,” I whispered, as much to myself as to the man. “I’m so sorry. Pardon me.”

  I covered my eyes with one hand, then split my fingers far enough apart that I could see where I was going as I hurried away.

  Apparently the red pickup didn’t belong to a family member who’d come to comfort Mrs. Potter last night. At least I hoped she and the man weren’t related. I certainly wasn’t going to ask.

  I really needed to stop visiting this house.

  Chapter Twenty

  The cider shop was inviting by day, but it was downright enchanting at night. Dot and I had strung rows of small round patio lights from the rafters for a wedding last summer, and I’d never taken them down. They gave the exposed, high-pitched ceiling an almost ethereal look. Not quite like the night sky, because there were thousands of stars to be seen outside, but the illusion of something magical, nonetheless.

  Seeing Granny’s well-dressed kitchen Christmas tree glowing festively in the window had put the urge to decorate under my skin as well. When the barn grew empty around suppertime, I couldn’t ignore the itch any longer.

  I packed up the fall-themed décor, then dragged tubs and boxes of Christmas items from my storage room in back and started turning the cider shop into a winter wonderland. I hung lanterns with flameless candles from each of the support posts, then wrapped the posts in holiday greens. I set boughs of holly on windowsills, tied them with wide velvet ribbons, and sprayed the bottom of each glass pane with faux snow. The real stuff would be here soon enough, but I enjoyed the effect in the meantime. I arranged poinsettias at the corners of the bar and drew a border of blue and white snowflakes around my giant menu mirror to replace the multicolored leaves.

  The tables were my favorite part of the transformation. I’d planned their apparel for months, in anticipation of our second annual Christmas at the Orchard event. Each table was draped in a new scarlet or silver cloth and topped with a leaded-glass bowl. Fake apples and real pine cones were piled high in the bowls and sprayed with silver glitter. The overall look screamed tidings of great joy.

  I bebopped my way through the work, singing along to “Jingle Bell Rock” on CD and enjoying the faint sounds of distant laughter from the Fall Harvest Festival going strong outside. Part of me tensed at every burst of wind against the barn doors or window frames, but I chose to stay in the moment and out of my head.

  When my phone buzzed with an incoming text saying Colton was there, I hurried to meet him at the door.

  His cheeks were pink from the biting wind, and his sheriff’s jacket was zipped to the top. He pulled gloves from his hands as he watched me.

  “Thank you so much for coming,” I said quickly, getting the prerequisite small talk out of the way. Satisfied, I jumped right in. “What did you find out about the pickup outside the Potter place?”

  He tucked the gloves into his coat pockets, not bothering to return the greeting or smile as I locked up behind him. “You texted me to ask me to run a license plate for you without explanation. Why would you do that?”

  I lifted a palm. “Do I question your reasoning when you ask for warm apple fries?” I asked, ducking behind the bar to retrieve the plate of flaky pastry–covered apple slices from the warmer where I’d prepped and placed them for this exact moment of resistance.

  I delivered the plate to the counter and set a side dish of melted caramel sauce beside it, then shoved the duo gently in Colton’s direction.

  He moved to the counter and dipped a fry into the caramel sauce without taking a seat. “Talk.”

  “I saw a truck I didn’t recognize outside the Potters’ place. Twice. And the vanity plate was from another county, so I wondered who it belonged to.”

  “What were you doing at the Potters’ place?”

  I frowned. “I upset Mrs. Potter yesterday when I told her what Brittany Ann said about her, so I went back to apologize and let her know I wouldn’t look into Mr. Potter’s death anymore. I just wanted to be there for her if she needed anything.”

  Colton stared. “But you’re still looking into his death. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

  “A little.”

  “Knock it off,” he said, taking another fry, then a seat at the counter. “Quit. Leave it alone. Keep your promise to me and to her. Just stop.”

  A wave of disappointment rushed over me, and I felt the whine building in my chest before it oozed slowly off my lips. “I can’t.” The words dragged on until I started to laugh. Because it was true. I had a problem.

  Colton held my gaze, unimpressed and not laughing with me.

  “I can’t help it,” I said, my mind working faster now. “I think I’m on to something that’s worth looking into, and I need your help. Stopping now could mean the killer gets away.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You realize I’m the county sheriff? That my men and I are currently conducting a professional investigation into this matter?”

  I poured him some cider to go with his apple fries. “I do.”

  “Yet you persist. I’m sure I’ll regret asking,” he said, “but please go on.”

  “Thanks.” I unloaded the entire tale. The intense way Mrs. Potter had responded to the news of her husband’s suspicion she was stealing. About the red pickup that arrived as I was leaving and about how it was still there this morning. Then I told him about the pajamas.

  “And they each had on one pie
ce of a matching set?” he asked, polishing off the fries and caramel dip. “You’re sure?”

  “I can’t be positive,” I admitted. “I didn’t ask or check the tags or anything, and maybe they’re siblings? Best friends from childhood? I don’t know, and I didn’t see him get out of the truck, so maybe it’s not even his pickup, but it sure seemed like something worth looking into. I mean, what if that guy was tired of his girlfriend being married and got rid of the husband? Or what if he’s married to an heiress with a prenup and Mr. Potter found out about the affair and threatened to tell and ruin his take on the money?”

  “I need to talk to your granny about the amount of daytime television she lets you watch.”

  “Valid, but what if Mrs. Potter wanted out of her marriage to be with this guy except she didn’t want to give up her half of the business she’s helped build? The way I see it, this possible affair changes things. Right?”

  Colton let his head drop forward a moment. When he lifted it, he took out his phone and began to tap the screen. He put the phone to his ear, looking wholly exhausted. “I need to run a plate.”

  I stifled a smile as I cleared his empty plate and glass. From there, I went to put away the now-empty storage tubs littered around my shop. It seemed rude to eavesdrop.

  Colton climbed off his stool a few moments later. “They’re looking into the truck’s owner. Preliminary reports show no priors.” He gave a long, appreciative whistle as he scanned the room, apparently noticing the change for the first time. “You do all this yourself?”

  “I did.”

  He turned in a small circle, taking it all in. “Well done.”

  “Thanks.” I smiled, hoping he wasn’t too mad at me for persisting on a mission I’d vowed to cease.

  “Would you say it’s closing time yet?” he asked. “ ’Cause I could use a ride back to the sheriff’s department.”

  “It’s been closing time,” I said with a wave of my hand, indicating the complete lack of guests. “Why do you need a ride? What happened to your cruiser?”

  “I left it at the station. The crime scene team finished with your truck, so I signed it out for you.”

  My heart leaped. “You brought my truck home?”

  “I knew you’d want it back as soon as possible, and the impound lot was closing. I didn’t think you’d mind giving me a ride back to the station.”

  I threw my arms around him in a quick hug, then went to grab my coat and keys. “Thank you so much.” The truck was old and used hard like a farm truck ought to be, but it was Grampy’s, and I loved it. He’d saved it from the junk pile before I was born, and he’d spent years collecting the parts it needed to run again. I’d logged countless hours at his side beneath the hood when it had gotten closer to completion. The truck represented a lifetime of my memories. It represented Grampy, and it was a touchstone to my life before his loss. “Let’s go.”

  I kept my eyes peeled as we made our way down the old dirt road toward my home, where Colton parked my truck, mostly for signs of Waddles, but also for Samuel Keller or Mr. Potter’s killer.

  “What are you thinking?” Colton asked. “I thought you’d be happy, but you seem on edge.”

  “I’m happy.” I smiled at him in the moonlight. “I’m just looking out for Waddles.”

  He laughed. “I used to have a rooster who chased me like that.”

  “Really? What’d you do?”

  “I ran,” he said, the words hitching with remembered fear. “I hated that rooster, and he only picked on me. I can probably thank him for my position on the middle-school track team and my endurance today. That rooster was a jerk.”

  “What was his name?” I asked, enjoying the image of Colton being chased by a bird.

  “Romeo.” Another little laugh burst free. “Mom named him that because we had so many chickens. Only one rooster.”

  “No wonder he was always in a bad mood,” I said. “Image how long your to-do list would be with a dozen wives.”

  Colton laughed louder then. “No, thank you.”

  We walked in smiling silence, our breaths puffing white in the cold night air. Our footfalls in sync against the hard ground.

  “Hey,” he said eventually, looking down at me from the several inches of height between us. “I’m sorry I said you weren’t a good friend. It’s not true. You’re a great friend.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I know you’re under a ton of pressure. Eventually you have to let off a little steam.”

  “Not on you.” He turned an intense, almost-alarmed look my way. “Never on you. I was wrong, and I don’t want you to think otherwise.”

  I nodded, struck with warmth and affection for him.

  “Blake says I expect too much of people. That I think if others don’t behave the way I want them to, then it’s a betrayal. He also says people are people, and trying to force them to fit my mold is wrong. Even if I’m right. He didn’t add that last part, I did.”

  I slowed my pace for a better look at him. He was opening up to me again. “Do you think Blake’s right about you?”

  “Maybe.” Colton’s lips twitched, fighting a smile. “Probably.” He began to walk faster, and I kept pace at his side. “Blake’s always been better with people. More patient. Less critical. More likeable.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I like you just fine.”

  “Yeah?”

  I nodded.

  He swung his attention forward once more, pulling his clear blue eyes away from mine. “Blake likes you too,” he said. “He thinks you’re interesting and fun. Says you’re made of good stock.”

  “Does it bother you that Blake’s been hanging around me so much since he got here?” I asked. “Not that I think you’d have any reason to be bothered,” I blurted, trying to take back the idiotic implication that Colton could be jealous of anything having to do with me. “I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” I said, backpedaling further.

  “What idea would that be?” he asked, a mischievous grin on his handsome face.

  My cheeks heated until I was sure they glowed from internal fire. How did I keep making it worse? “I don’t know. Nothing. Never mind.”

  “Well, I don’t mind. Blake’s a good companion for you right now. He’s a lawman like me, but without a fugitive trying to get to him, and he’s ex-military, so he’s trained to defend you if the need arises.”

  My stomach tightened at the reminder I was in constant danger. “Right.”

  A few paces later, Grampy’s truck came into view, gleaming in the porchlight outside my home.

  “You washed it,” I said, impressed and unexpectedly emotional as I rushed to run my palm along the cold metal fender.

  “I know the truck means a lot to you,” he said simply.

  “Thank you,” I whispered past a growing lump in my throat.

  “Anytime.” He handed me the keys and headed for the passenger door. “You know Blake’s interfering.”

  “In what?” I met Colton inside the cab and started the engine with a breath of relief. The truck was fine. I was fine. Colton was here, and I was safe.

  “He’s evaluating you. I don’t normally keep friends, and I’ve mentioned you more than once, so he’s curious.”

  I nearly choked on the concept as I navigated down the long lane away from the orchard. “He hasn’t been hitting on me?” I asked, laughing. “He’s trying to decide if I’m good enough for you?”

  Colton laughed too. “I think so, yeah. Are you disappointed?”

  “I’m relieved,” I said honestly, then frowned. “He told me you’d never mentioned me.”

  Colton gave a low groan of laughter. “Untrue, and exactly the reason he’s spending so much time with you. I’m not big on details, so he’s trying to get information through other means.”

  Suddenly all the awkward things that had been said between Blake and his folks at dinner came rushing back to me. Their son thought I was kind and funny and beautiful. Their son talked about me
all the time. Their son was interested in me, romantically.

  Their son Colton.

  I turned to face him on the dark country road a mile or so outside the orchard. I was thankful for the dark night and the new moon to hide the heat crawling across my cheeks. Thankfully, there weren’t many streetlights along the road for another quarter mile or so while I settled my racing heart.

  His heated gaze caught mine in the dark cab and stole my breath.

  Before I could look away, two blinding headlights flashed into existence and morphed into one broad beam outside his window. A massive truck plowed into Colton’s door a heartbeat later, sending us into a spin.

  Colton’s head hit the glass an instant before his limp body jerked in my direction, head and arms flinging uselessly against my side and shoulder.

  “Colton!”

  My ears rang, and my vision blurred as the impact set us on a new path. I gripped the wheel tightly as we careened off the pavement and through the frozen grass toward a massive tree at the edge of a drop-off. “Colton!” I screamed again, frantic and afraid.

  I jerked the wheel with everything I had, desperate to avoid the tree and save our lives, but my wheels passed the drop-off’s edge, and we began to roll.

  * * *

  “Winnie,” a deep and unfamiliar voice warbled softly nearby, pulling me up through the clutching darkness. “Winnie,” the voice cooed, deep and foreboding.

  I dragged my heavy eyelids open, forcing them to make sense of the nonsensical sights before me. Grass at eye level. A window frame. No glass. A hillside on its head.

  A pair of brown work boots took shape outside the broken window.

  My head throbbed as I worked to keep the boots in focus.

  “Ah, you hear me now, don’t you?” the voice taunted. A small orange glow landed beside the boots and was quickly snuffed out.

  Beside me, Colton groaned.

  I rolled my head in his direction. “Colton?” His arms hung overhead, as did mine, I realized.

  We were upside down. Inside Grampy’s truck. Held fast to the seat above by our safety belts, something Grampy had added despite their inauthenticity. A trickle of warmth curled over my cheek and onto my forehead. I swiped at it. Not tears. Blood.