“I thought the fair was only a weekend event.” I said. “This looks like a mega-convention. I’m surprised and impressed.”
Gillian whistled as she read the flyer. “I recognize some of these speakers. I can’t believe Ellie Vaughn will be here.”
My mouth fell open. “Ellie, the Pilates queen? I use her machines at the gym.”
Piper seemed pleased with herself. “She’s holding workshops all week.”
My amazement at the list of speakers grew. “And how did you convince Dr. Cameron Sable to appear at a small-town health fair? His wife Ingrid, too. They’re famous!”
Cameron Sable was a best-selling author on nutrition and healthy living, widely known for his Sable Diet. His wife, a board-certified dermatologist, had cornered the market on skin-care products reputed to be free of harmful chemicals. I knew Piper had connections in Michigan, but I never dreamed her influence extended all the way to Palm Beach and the family who ran a diet, cosmetics, and natural supplements empire.
“Wow,” Gillian said. “My Uncle Woody lost eighty pounds on the Sable Diet. He still orders their protein drinks. And I love Ingrid Sable’s skin toners and moisturizers.”
“Their two sons are giving workshops as well. In fact, the whole family arrives tonight. I’ve organized everything at the center to revolve around their appearances, which should be standing-room only.” Piper’s smile turned sly. “Best of all, they waived their fees.”
I looked up from the flyer. “Why in the world would they do that?”
“It all came about because I booked Victor Kang to give a five-day workshop.”
“The Victor Kang?” Kang was a motivational speaker as famous as Tony Robbins.
“Yes, the Victor Kang,” Piper told me. “His speaking fee was exorbitant, but I thought the expense well worth it. Then Mr. Kang canceled due to some family emergency. Since we had a contract, I was about to call my lawyers. But he spoke to the Sables and they offered to take his place. Apparently, Mr. Kang is close friends with Patrick Sable, the eldest son.”
“How generous of the Sable family to do such a thing,” I said.
She shrugged. “I doubt it’s entirely charitable. Their company launches two new products this season. All of them to be showcased at the fair. And they booked a number of TV appearances in Chicago afterward. In addition, Patrick Sable’s wife’s new book just hit the bestseller list. She’s set up book signings in the area for Beauty’s Bounty.”
“I still think they’re being charitable. You may want to express a little gratitude. Gratitude’s a cornerstone of Victor Kang’s philosophy.” I winked at Piper. “I’ve read his books.”
“I am grateful,” she said. “Grateful he had to cancel and the Sable family stepped in.”
“You should be grateful they’re not charging you,” Gillian said. “Experts are expensive.”
“So I’ve learned.” Piper snapped her fingers. “Wait a second. You’re a berry expert, Marlee. How would you like to participate in a Holistic Hints session on Wednesday? You could explain the health benefits of berries.”
“I don’t know.” I gave a mock sigh. “My speaking fee is pretty high.”
“Very funny.” She pulled out her phone and began texting. “I got an email last night from a sleep expert I booked. She agreed to give a talk about the hazards of too little sleep. But last night she fell asleep at the wheel and crashed her car. How’s that for irony? Now she’s in the hospital so I’m handing over her time slot to you. Two o’clock on Wednesday. Come prepared for a forty-minute talk, and twenty minutes of Q&A.”
“Hold on, Piper. I need to check my schedule and—”
She ignored me. “Wednesday, two o’clock. Be there fifteen minutes early.” Piper’s phone rang in the middle of her text. Her attention now shifted to her caller.
“I want the sports armbands to me by five o’clock!” she shouted. “No excuses!” Piper stalked off to continue her harangue.
I looked at Gillian. “Guess I’m giving a talk about berries on Wednesday.”
Gillian smiled. “Look on the bright side. You may find out what a Slime Rhyme is.”
“I only hope I don’t end up taking part in it.” While I rearranged the bottles of berry iced teas, Gillian greeted a trio of customers interested in the dark chocolate raspberry granola bars.
Time to get to my shop. I had a pile of spreadsheets to go over before I opened my doors.
After giving Gillian a quick wave, I turned to go. But I didn’t get far.
“Marlee Jacob, I need to talk to you!” The hoarse voice shouting after me seemed unfamiliar. And friends weren’t in the habit of calling me by my full name.
Curious, I looked over my shoulder and almost stumbled. A thin woman wearing faded Bermuda shorts, a baggy white blouse, and an oversized white cardigan hurried in my direction.
“Marlee Jacob, I need to talk to you,” she repeated.
I waited at the park entrance until she reached me. Even from a distance, I would have recognized the woman by her tangled mane of orange hair, which always looked in need of a comb. Every resident of Oriole Point knew who Leticia the Lake Lady was. Out of the coterie of eccentrics who lived in town, we viewed Leticia as the most mystifying. Certainly, she was the most aloof. She rarely came into the village itself, preferring to wander along the public beach and stare at the lake. So why was she here now? And what did she want to speak with me about?
She came to a halt in front of me. “You’re the girl who owns The Berry Basket?”
“I am.” Since Leticia was around sixty, I wasn’t surprised she called me a “girl,” even if I would turn thirty-one this December.
Leticia cocked her head at me. “You cut your hair.”
“Yes.” I reached up and touched the ends of my hair, which grazed my shoulders. Last month I’d chopped off about eight inches in an impulsive response to my broken engagement to Ryan Zellar. Luckily, I didn’t regret cutting my hair. Nor did I regret ending things with Ryan.
“I don’t like it,” she said. “Women should keep their hair long. It gives them strength.”
I smiled. “I thought that only worked for Samson.”
She didn’t smile back. “If you keep cutting it, you’ll look like her.” Leticia threw a disgusted glance at Piper, who still marched about the park, shouting into the phone.
Piper always wore her impeccably coiffed ash-blond hair in a stylish short bob. “I like Piper’s hair. And I’ll be lucky to look that good at fifty.”
“She’s a Gorgon,” Leticia snapped. “Stare into her eyes and you’ll turn to stone.”
I hoped she never said that to Piper. Although Piper would never have stopped to speak with her. Indeed, I knew no one who had talked to Leticia the Lake Lady. Except for her visits to the lake, she appeared to lead the life of a hermit. I couldn’t help but be curious as to why she was in the middle of town criticizing my haircut. And Piper’s.
“I’m sorry you don’t like my hair. Is that what you wanted to say to me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve come to ask for your help. I need berries. I heard you know a great deal about them.”
“That’s true. My store sells products made from all sorts of berries.” The Berry Basket stocked a wide variety of berry food items, which included berry-flavored coffees, teas, wines, muffins, salsas, and baking mixes. I also sold objects decorated with berries, such as aprons, ceramic ware, jewelry, and lots more. If Leticia the Lake Lady needed a specific item related to berries, I felt confident I could supply it.
“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 weekend. “That’s a lot of dried mulberries. I couldn’t ev
en 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.”
Chapter Two
Not the answer I expected. For a moment, I considered simply running away. But Leticia’s ivy green Bermuda shorts revealed a pair of muscled, sinewy legs. She might have no problem catching up with me, despite our age difference. Also I had never been this close to her. Now that I was, I realized she wasn’t as old as I had believed. Closer to fifty, not sixty.
I decided to play along. “Exactly who wants to kill you?”
“An enemy. One of the shadow people who wish me to remain silent.” Her hoarse voice lowered to a whisper. “And my ghost is in danger, too.”
As someone who lived in New York City for a decade, I was familiar with unbalanced people who wandered—and sometimes lived—on the streets. In a crowded city, I could hurry past or drop a few dollars into their hand. Not so simple in a small town when the delusional individual knew your name.
“Silent about what?”
“Dark deeds.” Leticia gave me a knowing look.
“A visit to the police might be a better idea than buying mulberries.” I took a step back.
She grabbed my arm. “The police can’t help me. They think I’m crazy.”
Worried it might agitate her further, I didn’t pull away. “If you have proof, the police won’t be able to say you’re crazy.”
“You think I don’t know what the town says about me? All of you believe I’m insane, including the police. But I’m not insane. Nor am I a fool. I am as clearheaded and focused as an assassin.”
I wished she’d chosen a different analogy.
“I must protect myself.” Leticia tightened her grip. “I need mulberries.”
“Please let go. You’re hurting me.”
“Sorry.” She released me. “I’m in danger. You’re the only person who can help.”
I glanced over her shoulder, hoping to see a friend I might wave over. No such luck. Since River Park lay so close to the beach and river, only tourists ambled down the sidewalk toward us. My fellow shopkeepers were either at their stores or manning the park booths.
“You’re not afraid of me?” Leticia seemed disappointed. “I’d heard you were a young woman to be reckoned with. One who helped catch more than one murderer in Oriole Point.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” I said with more conviction than I felt. “But I’ve had a few brushes with danger recently. Not sure I’m up for another one so soon. However, if all you require for protection are mulberries, I can provide them.” I did a quick estimate in my head. “Covering your entire house with berries won’t come cheap, though.”
“Cost is unimportant. I’m trying to save my life.” She seemed deadly serious.
I felt saddened by her belief that mulberries could protect her. And why did she think someone was trying to kill her? Was she a paranoid schizophrenic, prone to delusions? I did know she lived alone in a log home near the woods, like a character in a Grimm’s fairy tale.
As far as I knew, she had no friends or family in the area. Such isolation would worsen whatever condition she suffered from. I wished I had more information about her. But Leticia was not an Oriole Point native. I hadn’t grown up with her, as I had the other local eccentrics like Old Man Bowman. Leticia had moved to my hometown while I was off pursuing a career in New York City. When I returned two years ago, Leticia had already taken up residence in Oriole County. At the time, I’d been busy setting up my Berry Basket business and took little interest in the occasional rumor about her. I should have paid more attention.
“Do you know who wants to kill you?” If she gave me a name, I could pass it on to Gene Hitchcock, Oriole Point’s police chief. Although Kit Holt of the sheriff’s department might be a better choice now that he and I were dating.
“If I do, you’ll tell the police,” she said in that distinctive, throaty voice. “And as soon as the police know, my enemy will be alerted.”
“Despite that, the police can protect you far better than any berry.”
She gave me a contemptuous look. “A real expert on berries should know better.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
A group of tourists bumped into us as they hurried past.
“Let’s talk somewhere quieter.” Leticia once again took my arm, but much more gently. “At this hour, there won’t be many people out by the lighthouse.”
The Oriole Point lighthouse stood guard at the end of a long stone pier, where it had guided traffic on Lake Michigan since 1906.
Her suggestion made me uneasy. Did I really want to walk out on the pier with an unstable woman? Although if Leticia did push me off, I was a good swimmer.
It took several minutes to make our way along the river to the concrete ramp leading to the pier. I stayed close behind Leticia, who glanced back to make certain I followed. My spirits lifted when I saw at least a dozen people strolling along the pier. In addition, two cabin cruisers, a pontoon boat, and a motorized dinghy were currently headed up the Oriole River and past the channel markers. I recognized the people on the pontoon and waved.
Another several minutes passed as we stepped carefully beneath the skeletal elevated catwalk that connected to the lighthouse’s second story. The catwalk had been built a century ago to protect the lighthouse keeper from high waves when he ventured out on the pier during bad weather. The keeper would have had no need of the catwalk this morning. There was only a gentle breeze and no sign of whitecaps. Instead, the calm waters of Lake Michigan reflected a cloudless sky, glittering like liquid diamonds as it stretched to an unbroken horizon.
It appeared Leticia had no intention of speaking until we reached the lighthouse. Even after we did, she stood with her back to the white structure, gazing out at the endless expanse of blue water. I stood beside her, relieved we were not alone.
A trio of fisherman sat on collapsible chairs at the end of the pier, their equipment and nets scattered about them. They had set up an array of rods and lines, with two buckets at the ready for the next catch. One of the anglers suddenly reeled in a smallmouth bass.
“Congratulations,” I told him and received a wink in response.
Leticia still said nothing. I glanced up at the green-capped lighthouse, which towered thirty-five feet overhead. This may have been a mistake. I was the only one scheduled to work at The Berry Basket today. And I needed to open its doors at ten. That left no time for disturbing conversations with disturbed individuals.
I looked sideways at her. She boasted sharp, pronounced features that gave her an air of haughtiness: a long, narrow nose, thick pale lashes, deep-set blue eyes, and hollowed high cheekbones normally seen on famished supermodels. This close I could also see the sun damage to her skin. A pity she neglected her appearance. Sunscreen, along with a comb and brush, might work wonders. She also needed to rethink her pumpkin orange hair color. Peeking at her pale lashes again, I suspected she was a natural blonde.
“Why are you looking at me?” she asked, her gaze still fixed on the lake.
“Not much else to look at.” I gestured at the water. “My house is on the lake, so this is a common sight.”
“And I’m an uncommon sight?” She shrugged. “I suppose that’s true.”
“You don’t come into the village much. I’ve only ever seen you on the public beach, staring at the lake as you are now.”
I thought back to the times I’d glimpsed Leticia at the water’s edge. Always alone, pacing along the shore before she stopped and looked out over the water. She ignored everyone else on the beach. She also seemed oblivious to the weather. Leticia had been spotted on Oriole Beach during drenching downpours and zero-degree weather. I’d w
aved at her once or twice, but never received a response.
“I need to look at the lake.” Her hoarse voice grew softer. “It’s how I face my fears.”
“Are you afraid of drowning?”
“Not anymore,” she said brusquely. “I’m afraid of forgetting. And I cannot forget.”
“Forget what?”
“The past.” This was followed by more silence.
Okay, I’d wasted enough time. “If we came out here to admire the view, I’ll have to cut it short. My store opens soon. We can talk at The Berry Basket when you’re ready.”
“Not possible. I’ve stayed in town too long as it is.” Leticia shot a wary look at the fishermen, but they were occupied with their own conversation. “I went to your house this morning. The workmen told me that you had left to meet the mayor’s wife at River Park. I came straightaway.” She turned to look at me. “I need someone who has devoted their life to berries.”
That made me sound like a medieval nun. “I haven’t devoted my life to berries. I simply sell berry products.”
“But you know more about berries than anyone else in town.”
“Probably. Then again, we live in Michigan’s fruit belt. Over a dozen orchards and berry farms lie within a few miles of the village. The farmers will know even more than me. Although for over a century, my family did grow fruit in the area, including berries. But my father and his sister lost the orchards to the bank years ago.”
This turn of events came as a relief to my parents, who moved to Chicago. My mother was now a professor at Northwestern and my father ran a boutique hotel. At the same time, I went off to college, followed by several years as a producer for the Gourmet Living Network in New York City. My television career came to an end while I was producing the hit cooking show Sugar and Spice. The meteoric rise of the show’s stars, John and Evangeline Chaplin, fizzled out after John had an affair with one of the show’s interns. His wife Evangeline didn’t take his betrayal well. She served him an anniversary cake laced with poison.
Mulberry Mischief Page 2
