The Cider Shop Rules

by Julie Anne Lindsey

  “The town’s going to feel empty tomorrow.”

  “It was a much better turnout than usual. Whoever’s kid had tournaments and forced the thing back a few weeks did us a favor. I bet some of our local businesses will finish their year in the black thanks to this.” I soaked a rag in the prep sink and wrang it out. “This means your family’s headed home. How are you feeling about that?”

  He shrugged. “Blake’s got work, and my folks are becoming a couple of vagabonds since retirement. They’ve decided to travel down the coast, after one of the reenactors said they were from Savannah. I swear my folks are like those co-eds who backpack across Europe, only Mom and Dad are in their sixties and have money.”

  I laughed. “So, nothing at all like co-eds who backpack.”

  “I guess they’re on a permanent vacation.”

  “Isn’t that what retirement’s for?” I asked. “Not that I’ll ever retire,” I said. “I’m too much like Granny, and we love this place too much to quit or leave it.”

  Colton cocked his head and leaned closer. “Really? There isn’t anywhere you’d like to go on vacation?”

  The question stumped me. I waited for something appealing to come to mind. New York or Chicago? LA or Hawaii? None of those places seemed like somewhere I belonged. “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I’ve never really been outside the state. We took lots of little trips when I was growing up, but we never had . . .” I searched for the right word. “Extra.” Time or money. Farming was hardly a rich man’s business, and it was absolutely a full-time job. I dropped the wet rag on the counter and made big, sloppy circles over the bar. “We camped, hiked, and fished, but mostly took day trips. It’s probably part of the reason I’m such a local historian and a West Virginia enthusiast. There’s not too many places around here that I haven’t seen.”

  “You smile when you talk about it,” he said. “Must be good memories.”

  “The best,” I said. “Plus, there’s just so much here to explore and such a rich history of diversity, tenacity, and innovation. Take these old Mail Pouch barns, for example. Advertising outdoors like this began in Wheeling. And the first women’s publication was printed in Harper’s Ferry, right up the road from here. And,” I said slowly, proudly, feeling my inner feminist rise, “the first woman to win a Nobel Prize in Literature was from Hillsboro. The first African American woman to serve in any government body was from McDowell County, and she served in the House of Delegates. Also, we had the first brick road, the first pilot to break the sound barrier, and an Italian American baker who wanted to make something coal miners could pack for lunch without spoiling. He created pepperoni rolls.”

  Colton smiled. “I’m not sure why anyone lives anywhere else.”

  “Exactly.” I folded my rag over the sink’s edge and smiled back.

  I watched him closely, gauging my timing. We’d had a good day, and I didn’t want to ruin it, but I had something I wanted to say. “I know how you can capture Samuel Keller.”

  Colton’s smile fell. His brows knitted, and his eyes narrowed. “Winnie.”

  “Hear me out,” I said. “He’s haunting me. He ruined Grampy’s truck. There’s a nasty bruise across my chest from the seat belt that aches and reminds me of him anytime I lift my arm. I’m under his finger, and I hate it. At least listen to my idea.”

  He stretched back, extending his arms and leaning away from me on the stool. “If it involves using you as bait, I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Use me as bait,” I said.

  Colton let his head hang forward a moment before lifting it once more. “No.”

  I scowled and pressed my hands against my hips. “We need to flood this town with lawmen until Keller blows a gasket.”

  Colton groaned. The sound rumbled in his chest like a growl. “That’ll spook him. The marshals are doing a good job right now. Slowly. Covertly.”

  “You mispronounced ‘ineffectively,’ ” I said, dragging the final word for emphasis.

  He groaned again, coming forward on his stool. He locked me in an intense and unreadable gaze. “Keller told you personally that he’d kill you if he felt hunted. And your suggestion is to make him feel hunted.”

  “Exactly.” I rushed around the bar and took the stool beside Colton, twisting the seat to face his so I could plead more effectively. “Keller’s going to keep coming at me as long as he’s free and you keep trying to find him. But you can’t stop looking for him because it’s your job. You have an obligation to protect our county and see that he carries out his sentence. I don’t want to spend the unforeseeable future in fear. I want to end this, and what better way to flush him out than to put a lawman on every corner? Have them walk the streets with his photo in hand, asking loudly who has seen him?”

  “He’ll come for you,” Colton said. “He’ll be angry, and he’ll strike to kill. I can’t have that.”

  “Or,” I said, “you can stay with me. Set him up to lash out, then arrest him. Again.”

  Colton’s eyes lit, and a coy smile curled his lips. “Clever.”

  “Thank you.”

  He rubbed his chin and tapped the bar with his thumbs, drumming out a plan. “I don’t have access to that kind of manpower. There are only two marshals on the case because they only have two to spare for this.”

  “Do they have to be real lawmen?” I asked. “Because I know where to find about sixty trained actors who just finished pretending to be Civil War militia and Marines. I bet they’d pretend to be lawmen for a good cause.” I wagged my brows. “And your brother knows them all personally now. He can ask some of them to stick around awhile and wear deputy uniforms. All they’d have to do is lurk and linger, flash Keller’s photo, say his name a lot. Make him feel generally pressed and pursued. So he knows we aren’t afraid and we aren’t obeying him.”

  Colton watched me, processing, contemplating. Listening. “He’ll know I’m with you when he doesn’t see me with my fake men.”

  “He would,” I said, “but have I ever told you how much Blake looks like you? Same build and stance. Same height and profile. At arm’s length you’re very different, but from afar, Keller would never know. Plus, Blake is a sheriff, he knows the job. He’d fill the role believably.”

  Colton scrubbed a hand over his lips, and I knew I’d won.

  The barn doors opened, and a little crowd of women drifted inside, going immediately to the walls to take in the décor.

  “I’ll let you think about it,” I whispered, then went to welcome my guests.

  Colton spent the rest of my workday on the phone, making calls and sending texts. He walked away on occasion, especially when a guest or two ambled in, but he kept me in his sights until the world grew dark and it was time to go home.

  He walked me to my door after work and paused there. “I’m running home for a shower, then I’ll be back. Blake’s on his way here now, so you’ll only be alone a few minutes. We’ll talk logistics and see about getting our hands on sixty believable federal agent’s badges. Then the reenactors can just wear suits.”

  “So, you’re going to do this?” I asked, rocking onto my toes with glee.

  Colton shifted, looking both tremendously hopeful and painfully nervous. “We’ve got forty-eight hours before eighty percent of the reenactors go back to their real jobs. It’s a Hail Mary at best, but we can try.”

  I set a palm on his chest and huddled in closer as the wind blew. “Don’t look so distressed. We’ve got nothing to lose, and you’ll be with me the whole time.”

  “How can you be so upbeat and confident when your life’s at stake?” he asked, heartbreak in his tone.

  “Because I trust you, and we make an excellent team.”

  His lips curved in a lazy half-smile, and he covered my hand with his. “How about when this is over, we take up a less-dangerous team sport? Like bungee jumping.”

  “Deal.”

  Pride swelled my chest even as fear worked to constrict it. Colton had listened to my idea, and he
’d found value in it. It was more than I could have asked for, and for the first time in months, I had hope that Samuel Keller would be found.

  Mr. Potter’s killer could breathe easier for a day or two because this weekend would be all about capturing a fugitive.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Blake and Colton stayed late at my place, then spent most of the next day at the cider shop, plotting to make our scheme believable. Blake left first to organize an informational meeting for the reenactors who had agreed to help. Colton walked me home at dinnertime, then left me with Hank, who was preoccupied with his own drama.

  “I can’t believe nothing I did made a difference,” Hank said, hunched over his laptop at my kitchen table. “People were really receptive to registering for licenses. Heck, even all those church ladies showed up. So, why does this article say numbers are still on the decline?”

  I went to stand behind him at the table and examine the article from over his shoulder. “Maybe all the new registrations haven’t been recorded yet.”

  He made a noncommittal noise and slumped over the keys. “It just stinks that so many people did their part, and it wasn’t enough to change the trend.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I think what you did matters,” I said, sliding around to look him in the eye. “You educated us. Most people around here have been buying a hunting license since high school, so you were kind of preaching to the choir on that, but not too many people knew those registration fees went to the DNR. And you can’t forget that most of the folks you spoke to up at the fort were from out of town. They might still go home and register to hunt in their state, or make a donation to their local wildlife program. You made people think, and you made them care. That matters.”

  Hank’s gaze slid back to his screen.

  “And don’t forget that Blossom Valley’s total population is less than some big city apartment complexes, so even if every eligible person registered, it probably wouldn’t have been enough to change the state’s overall percentage of registered hunters.”

  Hank looked up at me, marginally less miserable. “I hate when you use facts and logic to improve my mood.”

  “Glad I could help.”

  He worked the cursor over his screen. “I told my boss I could run a campaign that would get people registering again and sway lawmakers from targeting oil companies to make up the lost revenue. I don’t like having to go back and tell them I was wrong.”

  I rested my backside against the table and folded my arms to think. “How many people signed your commitment sheet?”

  “Almost four hundred.”

  “Hank,” I said flatly, “that’s practically half the people in this whole town. And you got all those signatures in a week. That’s impressive any way you look at it. You should be proud of those numbers. Why not suggest that your boss and the other oil companies take a lesson from what you accomplished here and run with it? They have the means to initiate a statewide campaign reminding folks that registering to hunt helps local parks and wildlife. The ads can encourage donations to make up for lost hunting registrations. There’s so much your company can do, and you have proof that people will listen.”

  “Maybe,” he said, unconvinced and clearly determined to be in a sour mood.

  I poured another cup of coffee and took my time with it. I hated Hank’s moods, and he had a lot of them. Funny how I hadn’t noticed while we were together. Only in hindsight and now in real time.

  He typed something on his keyboard, then looked up again. “Did I tell you that I talked to a couple of game wardens who were willing to check on the random cornfields I spotted near tree stands?” he asked. “They agreed the setup was likely meant for poaching.”

  “See,” I said, “you’re making a difference.”

  “Come here,” he said, swiveling the laptop in my direction.

  I carried my steaming mug back to his side and watched the grainy footage of deer eating corn in the forest. No hunter in sight. “You’re a regular one-man sting operation,” I said, giving him a playful nudge.

  “If someone shoots one of these deer, and I get it on camera, the hunter will be in big trouble.”

  “Is this live?” I asked, imagining Hank indefinitely glued to his laptop, waiting for a deer to be shot.

  “No. There’s no internet available out there, so I have to go to the cameras and download the footage to my computer to watch it. I don’t mind,” he added. “At least I don’t have to go through days of footage. The cameras are motion-sensitive, so they only record when there’s activity in the area, and they stop recording when there hasn’t been any motion for a set amount of time.”

  “Huh.” I processed the information slowly, making a connection I hadn’t made before.

  A broad smile spread across my face. I grabbed my coat from the rack and threaded my arms into the sleeves. “Nate has trail cameras along the edge of his property where it meets the Potters’. He said bad things go on in the Potters’ corn maze, and I blew it off. There’s no way any cameras on his property could get a good look at who goes in and out of the maze, let alone what happens inside it. And I’m positive Mr. Potter would’ve noticed a camera hidden on his property. But a camera on Nate’s property near the main road would have a good shot of where I parked the day Mr. Potter died. I was a long way from the pumpkin patch, but not so far from Nate’s place.” A thrill shot through me at the possibility that we’d had Mr. Potter’s killer on camera all along. I snagged my keys and headed for the door. “If Colton and Blake come back before me, tell them I won’t be long. I’m only going to drive by and see if there’s a camera near where I parked that day. I won’t stop or get out, and I’ll call if I see a camera, then Colton can go get it and review the footage.”

  “Hold up,” Hank said, stretching onto his feet and puffing his chest. “You’re not running off on your own with some unhinged nutjob after you. That’s how you always wind up nearly dead.”

  “Fine, come with me,” I said, “but don’t forget the last time I was nearly dead, I had the sheriff with me, and we were in one of Grampy’s vehicles.” I spun Sally’s key ring on one finger. “Ready?”

  Hank’s cheeks paled, but to his credit, his expression didn’t change. “After you.”

  * * *

  Sally carried us toward Nate’s place in a rush, eating up the dark, winding roads and bringing me closer to the camera I hoped existed.

  Hank sent Colton a text to tell him what we were up to as the lights at the pumpkin patch came into view.

  I slowed at the sight of Mrs. Potter and Wes talking outside the main barn. Wes was smiling, a good sign, and Mrs. Potter shook his hand. She headed for her house, and he turned for the field. “What do you think that’s about?” I asked Hank.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I think that’s a camera.” Hank’s attention was fixed on a cropping of trees outside my windshield. “See it?” He pointed into dark limbs and branches.

  I pulled Sally off the road, and Hank hopped out.

  I joined him, and the porch light flashed on at Nate’s house.

  “Who’s there?” Nate hollered. “What are you doing?”

  “Winnie!” Wes called from the Potters’ place.

  I jerked my head in his direction.

  He waved a hand overhead. “Thank you!”

  Hank stepped close to my side and lowered his mouth to my ear. “I’ll talk to Nate,” he said. “My family’s known him all his life, and I just spent an hour up at the fort telling him about my suspicions on local poachers. I can ask him for a look at his camera footage because I suspect someone’s hunting on private property, and I want to see if they’ve made it out this far. Heck, I could even tell him I think Mr. Potter was picking off the deer that came for his corn maze.” He straightened and looked me in the eye. “Trust me. I can get that footage. You can go talk to your friend.” He nodded toward Wes, who’d gone back to work. “I won’t be long. Besides, it’s probably best you k
eep your distance from Nate if he is guilty and knows you’re looking for proof.”

  The plan made sense, and while I didn’t want to bother Wes while he was working, I also didn’t want to wait alone in the car on a dark country road.

  “Okay.” It would be nice to know how he’d gotten his job back.

  Had Mrs. Potter changed her mind about selling the farm? Did she decide to run the place with her boyfriend? I took a step in that direction. “Call me if you need me,” I told Hank as I broke into a jog, eager to get beneath the bright lights of the pumpkin patch.

  “That’s supposed to be my line,” he called after me.

  “I said! Who’s there?” Nate hollered again, his band of obnoxious hounds baying and wailing at his side now. “This here is private property!”

  “Good luck with that,” I muttered, thankful I didn’t have to deal with the hounds again.

  I crossed the well-lit parking area toward the gates to the pumpkin patch, then slipped inside, closing up behind myself. The place was bright, but felt a little eerie without people. Darkness loomed on the perimeter, untouched by the spotlights Mr. Potter had long ago erected overhead.

  I stuck to the main path as I moved, keeping Wes in my sights and biding my time before calling out. I didn’t want to startle him or alert Mrs. Potter to my presence. As odd and grouchy as Nate was, Mrs. Potter’s affair and underhanded play for the farm’s money had me wondering if her husband lost his life because she’d wanted out and had no intention of settling for just half of their farm.

  Wes straightened in the field up ahead and surveyed his work. He nodded, satisfied.

  “Wes,” I called in my regular speaking voice, willing him to hear me at that decibel.

  He didn’t. He dropped his hoe and shovel into a wheelbarrow and lifted its arms to push.

  “Wes!” I called more loudly, picking up my pace to close the space between us before he went any farther.

  He set the wheelbarrow arms down and turned. “Hey! Winnie! I thought that was you. My mama said you stopped by. She said you were with the sheriff. I hope everything’s okay.”