MULBERRIES AND MURDER
“What kind of berry product do you need?” I asked.
“I need berries, not berry products. Mulberries.”
“This isn’t the season for fresh mulberries. But I can order bags of dried mulberries in various quantities. How many do you want?”
“Enough to cover my house.”
My heart sank. Speaking to a crazy woman was not how I intended to start the day. “That’s a lot of dried mulberries. I couldn’t even estimate how many mulberries you’d need.” I hesitated, not certain I wanted to get further involved in this conversation. “Can I ask why you want to cover your house with mulberries?”
“To protect me.”
“Protect you from what?”
“From danger.” Leticia leaned so close, her long tangled hair brushed my cheek. “Someone wants to kill me . . .”
Books by
Sharon Farrow
DYING FOR STRAWBERRIES
BLACKBERRY BURIAL
KILLED ON BLUEBERRY HILL
MULBERRY MISCHIEF
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Mulberry Mischief
Sharon Farrow
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
MULBERRIES AND MURDER
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Recipes
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 Sharon Farrow
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
KENSINGTON BOOKS and the K logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2261-4
Electronic edition:
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2263-8 (e-book)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2263-9 (e-book)
To my cousin Jim Hanson
Who has never given up the search for Bigfoot.
And to my fellow Halloween babies—
There is no better day to be born.
Every birthday is a costume party.
Plus there’s always cake and candy.
Chapter One
A ten-foot-tall pumpkin figure glared down at me.
“Can’t we have a normal fall festival for once?” I asked, recalling last year’s Trick or Treat bike race, which ended in a pileup at the Monroe Farm’s corn maze.
“How dull would that be?” Piper Lyall-Pierce stepped back to get a better view of the colorful sign that guarded the entrance to River Park.
It depicted a figure with human arms and legs, but an enormous pumpkin head. Given that Halloween was a week away, a pumpkin person seemed appropriate, except for its attire: a white lab coat accessorized by a stethoscope curled about its neck.
“There’s nothing dull about Halloween. You’re working too hard to put your own stamp on it. Or do I have to remind you about the trail bike race you dreamed up?”
“I am so tired of hearing about that race. Blame the corn maze, not me. And anyone can throw an ordinary fall festival. Not enough towns think to combine Halloween and healthy living. And a health fair is perfect.” As head of the Oriole Point Visitor Center, Piper had first—and final—approval of any festival or fair that took place in our lakeshore resort village.
“Halloween’s not a day devoted to sensible eating.” I looked up at the Haunted Halloween Harvest Health Fair banner billowing in the gentle breeze. “And while I admire your alliteration, one less word beginning with ‘H’ might have sufficed. Especially since everyone will end up calling it the Harvest Health Fair.”
“You’re all philistines. My facialist thinks a health fair is perfect for Halloween.”
I laughed. “Well, if Sonya says it’s a good idea . . .”
“We need a health fair at this time of year to convince people to eat less candy. I’d certainly love it if Lionel ate healthier. He refuses to listen to his doctor about the dangers of too much sugar. Last Halloween, he polished off an entire bag of Twizzlers.” Lionel Pierce was Piper’s husband, and the mayor of Oriole Point.
“Maybe Lionel needs a doctor as intimidating as this pumpkin guy. Or is it a she?”
“Isn’t it obvious? The lab coat is tapered at the waist. And she has long lashes. I instructed the staff at Greer Sign Painting to hint that she was female. After all, a giant pumpkin man puppet leads off the Halloween parade. We need a pumpkin woman to balance him out.”
“You’re the only one in town worried about gender disparity among pumpkin people.”
“I’ll tell you what you should be worried about and that’s your booth at the fair.” Piper led me into the park, now bustling with activity as vendors set up displays at their tented booths.
Despite the early hour, visitors already showed interest. The beautiful weekend weather helped, as did the locale. On the other side of the park ran the Oriole River. Many owners didn’t put their boats into dry dock until November, so I wasn’t surprised at the variety of watercraft making their way past the white stone lighthouse and out onto Lake Michigan. The lake view, combined with the park’s maple trees at peak autumn color, turned the scene into a dazzling vista. Then again, I’d be hard pressed to find a spot in our village that wasn’t picturesque.
Hailed as one of the most scenic beach towns in the country, Oriole Point, Michigan, had been dubbed “the Cape Cod of the Midwest.” Also the home of a famous summer art school, Oriole Point drew tourists and art lovers in equal numbers. And Chicago was only a two-hour drive away, making our village the perfect weekend getaway for stressed-out city dwellers. However, those of us who had to work with Piper had more than enough stress in our lives.
“Send Gillian back to the store for more products,” Piper instructed as we approached The Berry Basket booth currently overseen by my employee, Gillian Kaminski. “You’re selling little more than elderberry tea.”
“Not true.” I scanned our merchandise table. “We brought a nice selection to the park.”
“Marlee’s right,” Gillian said, stacking berry-flavored protein mixes on a table beneath the tent. “I’ve already sold a few things. And the fair doesn’t officially open for an hour.”
To confirm her statement, the newly installed clock bell tower at city hall began to toll. Piper appeared giddy at the sound. Another brainchild of hers, the bell tower was not
only unnecessary, but cacophonous.
When the ninth and final chime faded away, Gillian peeked at Piper over her wire-rimmed glasses. “Please make that tower bell quieter. It’s deafening.”
“And turn it off at night,” I added. “It wakes up everyone who lives above the shops.”
“Need I remind you that our original city hall had a clock bell tower that tolled the hour? Built by my ancestor Bernard Phinneas Lyle in memory of his mother, Ada Trent, who died in a tragic freak accident.”
The last thing we needed was another reminder about the homicidal grandfather clock that fell over and killed Bernard’s mom while she napped in her rocking chair. Since Piper was a descendant of the oldest family in Oriole Point, we never stopped hearing about the dubious misadventures of her ancestors. However, this one seemed more absurd than most of her tales.
“Why did he honor his mother with a clock tower if a clock was responsible for her death?” I remarked. “Seems a bit dark.”
“On the contrary,” Piper said. “Every time it tolled the hour, people remembered her. A pity the bell tower burned down in the fire of 1899.”
If it was as loud as this one, I suspected arson.
“This bell tower might not last too long either.” Gillian retied her blue chef apron, mandatory garb for Berry Basket employees. “Old Man Bowman is threatening to bring his shotgun into town and use the bell for target practice.”
“I’ll have that fool locked up for lunacy if he dares. And you two should spend less time concerned about the bell tower and more time worrying about your booth.” Her gaze swept over the berry teas, lozenges, hand creams, and bottled juices arrayed on two long tables. “We have vendors here from as far away as Texas. As a local business, you should be better represented.”
“As a local business, my shop is a five-minute walk away. If they want to see the rest of my inventory, they can stroll up the street. Or grab one of these.” I nodded at the Berry Basket mail-order catalogs stacked on the table. “But I’m not hauling piles of merchandise out here for a weekend event. Bad enough I took Gillian off the Saturday store schedule to work the booth.”
“I don’t mind.” Gillian fished a plastic hair clip out of her apron pocket. She expertly twisted her mass of curly hair atop her head, then secured it into place “When the weather is this warm, I prefer to spend every moment outdoors. Especially now that I’m back at school.”
Twenty-one-year old Gillian attended Grand Valley State University, working only weekends at the shop during the school year. She was my most dependable store clerk, and I regretted losing her full-time presence once summer came to an end. My other sales staff, the Cabot brothers, were capable and fun, but reminded me of Fred and George Weasley in the Harry Potter books. Which meant they could sometimes be a little too much fun.
Piper watched as a growing number of people headed toward the park along Lyall Street. “We lucked out with the weather. The forecast is seventy-two degrees and sunny straight through the weekend. But things are due to cool down soon.”
“October’s good for tourism,” I said. “The lake is still warm enough for swimming and it’s leaf-peeping season. The maples have put on a quite a show this year, too.”
“Don’t forget all the people coming to town for the parade.”
Piper shot Gillian an injured look for that comment. I knew Piper hated any reminder about how big an event the Halloween parade was. Although two Halloween parades actually strutted through downtown: a kiddie parade in the afternoon, with one for adults that night. The adult parade had grown in such renown and inventiveness, it had become like Mardi Gras along the lakeshore. And one of Oriole Point’s biggest tourist draws.
“The town needs more than a garish Halloween parade,” Piper said.
The parade had not been Piper’s idea, and its success served as a constant reproach. Instead, Odette Henderson, owner of Lakeshore Holiday, organized the first adult Halloween parade a decade ago. Envy over the parade probably lay behind Piper’s fevered determination to come up with ever changing events and festivals. I only hoped the town wouldn’t be subjected to another Roller Blade Bunco Party. Three people sprained ankles on the roller rink that night.
I looked around at my fellow vendors in the park, many sipping a drink from Coffee by Crystal, our local version of Starbucks. A wide array of “good for you” products were on sale, including aromatherapy candles, home blood-pressure monitors, flax heating pads, bamboo kitchen utensils, organic pet food, and magnetic therapy jewelry. Some booths offered services such as bicycle repair or a chiropractic adjustment.
As Piper’s ideas went, a health fair seemed perfectly serviceable. Although I wasn’t convinced of its tie-in to Halloween or autumn. I was even less convinced The Berry Basket needed to set up a booth. Especially since Elderwood Farm had one of the biggest displays here.
Piper followed my gaze. “Eyeing the competition, Marlee?”
“I don’t regard Elderwood Farm as competition. They only sell elderberry products, and they’re overpriced. They also claim their berries are organic. Which is questionable. That’s why I had Gillian bring so many elderberry products today. Lots of people in the area know what happened at the farm. They’ll prefer to buy our elderberry products, not theirs.”
“What are you talking about?” Piper asked.
“Two years ago, people got sick from their elderberry tonic,” Gillian said in a low voice, mindful of the visitors exploring the park booths. “Lab tests revealed a high arsenic content.”
“Arsenic?” Piper threw an alarmed look at the man running the Elderwood Farm booth.
“The groundwater near their farm was contaminated,” I explained. “They avoided cleaning it up for years and ended up paying hefty fines. I’d like to think they’ve fixed the problem. Still, I buy my elderberry products from other sources.”
“Now I regret accepting their request to be part of my fair. Too late to throw them out though. This sort of thing always happens, no matter—” A trilling ringtone cut short Piper’s rant.
She opened her Birkin bag to hunt for her phone. One of the things Piper spent her considerable wealth on were the classic Hermès bags; she owned an endless supply in every color. Today’s Birkin was a fuchsia pink that matched her manicure, leather pumps, and silk blouse. The fashion term “matchy-matchy” could have been coined for her.
After a quick swipe at her phone, Piper listened to the caller with an exasperated expression. “Are you joking? Of course the speakers for Slime Rhyme are expected to wear costumes! I can’t believe you even have to ask.” She tossed the phone back into her purse. “That’s the last time I hire my cousin’s son to assist me.”
Gillian and I exchanged puzzled glances. “Dare we ask what a Slime Rhyme is?” I said.
“Are you serious? How can you not know?” Piper shook her head. “If it wasn’t for me, this entire town would vanish into the mists like Brigadoon. Not that either of you would notice. Any more than you’ve noticed all the promotion I’ve done for every activity connected to the fair, including the Slime Rhyme.”
“Sorry,” I began. “But this past month—”
“I’ve hung posters everywhere,” Piper broke in. “Not to mention the promo I’ve done on Oriole Point’s Facebook page and Twitter account.” She lifted an eyebrow at Gillian. “Your father’s newspaper ran a full-page ad this past week.” Steven Kaminski was the editor of the Oriole Point Herald, one of two weekly papers in town.
“I’ve got a heavy class load for my senior year. And since moving closer to campus, I only come to Oriole Point on weekends to work at the store. No time for Slime Rhyme.” Gillian grinned. “Hey, that rhymed.”
“Fine. I’ll give the college girl a pass.” Piper turned to me. “But what’s your reason for being so uninformed about our latest holiday event? You’re usually pretty festive.”
“I haven’t been in a festive mood. Last month, a pipe burst in my upstairs bathroom. The plumber discovered the copper wa
ter lines have corroded. He called in a contractor to tear up the bathrooms, which is when I learned the electrical wiring has never been totally rewired. Putting me in violation of about five housing codes. Every minute I’m not at the shop, I’ve been overseeing an army of plumbers and contractors.” I shuddered. “Along with visits from the Historic Preservation Committee. They haven’t made the process easy.”
Piper winced. “You have my sympathies. They’re a tough crowd.”
Both Piper and I lived in historic homes: an 1891 Italianate mansion for Piper and a charming Queen Anne overlooking Lake Michigan for me. But along with the turret, original wainscoting, and spectacular lake view, my 1895 Painted Lady also came with ancient plumbing and wiring. And every repair or upgrade needed to pass muster with the members of Oriole Point’s Historic Preservation Committee. My latest requests before the committee made me feel like an accused witch pleading my case before a tribunal of witch hunters.
“I don’t blame you for being distracted,” Piper continued. “The renovation and repair process can drag on for months.”
“This time it only took weeks. The contractors swear today is their last day. With luck, I can now pay attention to something other than my house.”
“Then it’s time to bring you up to speed.” Piper pulled a stack of shiny flyers out of her bag. After placing the pile on our display table, she took one and handed it to me. “Next week is packed with activities.”
She hadn’t exaggerated. The flyer listed a dizzying number of events scheduled to take place at the Lyall Conference Center, named after the family of its principal benefactor: Piper. Because our town only held four thousand residents, most of us doubted the necessity of a conference center. But Piper found enough Oriole Point citizens with deep pockets who agreed to help finance the project. And in the year since the Lyall Center opened, it had brought increased visitors and their money to our small town. So chalk up another one for Piper.
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