Death of a Bad Apple

by Penny Pike

  “No, Dillon’s fine. He’s in his room doing something on the computer. How’s Jake?”

  “Fine, Aunt Abby, but what’s this all about?”

  “Oh yes. Well, Wes called. He heard some news over the police scanner about a fire.”

  “Where? Near your house?”

  “No, no, up in Apple Valley. In fact, it was some kind of storage building. Apparently there was a fire and a bunch of local growers lost a big supply of their apples.”

  “Wow. That’s awful,” I said, still wondering why she was calling with this news.

  “But the interesting thing is,” she continued, “the storage thingy belonged to the Enchanted Apple Bed-and-Breakfast Inn. That’s where we’re staying.”

  “Was the inn damaged?”

  “No, I just called up there and the owner, Honey Smith, said her place is fine. But she sounded quite distraught. I asked if she wanted us to find another B and B, but she insisted we still come. Is that okay with you? I thought I’d check.”

  “Sure, I don’t think it’s an issue for us.”

  “I’m sure it is for her, what with losing her apple crop and shed and whatnot.” She paused.

  “Is there something else, Aunt Abby?” I asked.

  “No, no, that’s it. Except there was another fire a few days before that—at another farm. But Wes said not to worry. Sorry I bothered you. Enjoy your evening with Jake.”

  I thanked her for calling and told her I’d see her later, then hung up.

  “Huh,” I said to Jake, who’d been listening to the phone call. “You heard that, right? There have been a couple of fires up there.” I thought for a moment, then asked, “So, how does an apple storage facility catch on fire? Is there anything flammable inside?”

  “Not with the high levels of carbon dioxide usually used in cold storage,” Jake said. Then he looked at me and frowned. “Why? You think it was suspicious because there were two?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. But it does seem like the Apple Valley area is having its problems. Maybe there’s more going on there than meets the eye.”

  He pulled me close. “Well, you’re the apple of my eye. Let’s leave the investigation to the local police and get back to carving up raw fish.”

  Jake was right, I thought, as I took the knife he offered. I was probably making a mountain out of a valley. But that’s what happens when your background is journalism and someone yells, “Fire!”

  Chapter 3

  After a few disastrous attempts at turning rice and fish into Wayne Thiebaud works of food art, I managed to end up with misshapen rolls that looked more like something Pablo Picasso would have made. I took a picture with my cell phone so I could send it to the “Nailed It” section of Pinterest.

  Jake’s efforts, on the other hand, were suitable for his own TV show. He presented me with an amazing masterpiece that was sculpted to look like a panda bear, made from crab, shrimp, avocado, and rice with black olive accents. To my surprise, nothing was made from raw fish. He’d known all along my dislike for most sushi and stuck with the cooked stuff.

  The man was incredible.

  After a delicious and delightful evening, fueled by wine and filled with laughs, we headed to the upstairs loft for a little more creative fun.

  The next morning I drove home early to take a shower and get ready for another day in Aunt Abby’s busterant. I asked my aunt if she’d heard anything more from Detective Shelton about the fire at the bed-and-breakfast inn—or any other fires. She relayed what the detective’s counterpart at the Apple Valley Sheriff’s Department had said: The sheriff there suspected arson.

  Who, I wondered, would want to burn down a warehouse full of stored apples?

  I didn’t have time to think about it during the weeks that led up to our getaway. The days were filled with school bus food and Apple Fest preparations, broken up by too few dates and dinners with Jake. We were both so busy and tired from the business of food truck service, we hardly had time to enjoy each other’s company in the hours we had leftover. My expectations for relaxation and recreation grew each day, and by the time of our departure on Thursday night, I had a bucket list of a dozen things I wanted to do with Jake while in apple country. Not all of them were about sex.

  “All loaded?” Aunt Abby asked me after whipping up a simple but satisfying dinner of tomato-basil angel-hair pasta and salad. After clearing and rinsing the dishes, I’d gone back to the Airstream and retrieved my packed-to-capacity suitcase.

  “Ready!” I said. “Suitcase is in my car, along with an audiobook, two bottles of water, and a box of See’s chocolates to help keep my energy up on the two-hour drive. You?”

  She gestured at the three matching Minnie Mouse suitcases in the entryway. “Now if I can only get Dillon out of his cave and into the car, we’ll be off.”

  “I’ll help you out with the suitcases,” I said. “Is Detective Shelton able to join us?”

  Aunt Abby sighed. “Not tonight, I’m afraid. I’m hoping he can get away tomorrow, if nobody gets murdered in the city between now and then. We’ll see.”

  I grabbed two of the suitcase handles while Aunt Abby pulled the third. She yelled down the hall, “Dillon! Come on! We’re leaving.”

  “I’m coming! Jeez!” he yelled back. “What’s the rush?”

  Dillon appeared from his room wearing Ninja Turtle pajama bottoms and a hoodie zipped up to his neck, the hood hiding his hair. He carried a large paper bag in one hand and his laptop in the other.

  “I want to get up there and settle in so we can get an early start tomorrow,” Aunt Abby said.

  I pointed at the paper bag Dillon held. “You’re kidding. Your stuff is in there?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t need much. And the bag’s recyclable.”

  As if he really cared about that.

  “Let’s go,” I said, before the paper bag ripped and dropped his “stuff” all over the entryway.

  Aunt Abby led the way out the door, with her little Basil following at her heels. She’d made arrangements for him to stay at a posh doggy spa for the weekend, figuring he’d be bored cooped up at the B and B all day. One of the suitcases was devoted just to his toys and food.

  After helping her into the bus, I hopped into my VW Bug and followed her to the dog spa. Twenty minutes later we were on our way to the peace and quiet of Apple Valley. Planning to caravan on the way up, I followed Dillon and Aunt Abby for a while until I couldn’t stand the slow pace and drove on ahead. Jake had said he’d meet us there later tonight.

  I couldn’t wait.

  • • •

  Even though I didn’t cook, I loved reading cookbooks and imagining the food, so I listened to an audio recording of The Johnny Appleseed Cookbook on the two-hour drive to get in the mood. According to the introductory bio, the book was by the same guy who had penned the article about Apple Valley—Nathan “Appleseed” Chapman. I wondered briefly if the author was really a distant relative of the wandering orchardist or was Chapman just using the alias to cash in on the famous Appleseed name?

  By the time I arrived at the Enchanted Apple around eight o’clock at night, I was hungry again from listening to the apple recipes, and craving another one of Aunt Abby’s salted caramel-apple tarts. As I pulled up to the circular driveway in front of the lattice-covered entryway, I figured I might have to do some recon in the inn’s kitchen when everyone had gone to bed and see what I could find left over in the fridge.

  The large house was something out of a fairy tale, with its ornate gingerbread, dormer windows, and ivy-covered roof. The driveway was dark, except for a few garden lights that lit the path to the front door. As I pulled my suitcase out of the trunk, I glanced around to see if I could spot the burned building Aunt Abby had told me about, but no lights shone on the rest of the property, making it impossible to get a glimpse of the ruined storage facility. I thought I smelled a trace of smoke still lingering in the air, but it could have been from the chimney. A lit fireplace wo
uld be a nice welcome, since the fall air had grown chilly.

  I pulled my jacket tight, grabbed my suitcase, lumbered up the covered path, and rang the bell. The inn was painted Granny Smith green, with a red front door and an apple-shaped knocker. I was instantly greeted by a woman I guessed to be around forty, judging from a few gray hairs in her upswept hair and soft lines around her eyes. She wore comfortable jeans and a red sweatshirt embroidered with a basket of apples.

  “Welcome!” she said cheerily, and reached out a hand. “You must be Darcy Burnett, Abby’s niece. I’m Honey Smith.”

  I took her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Come on in,” Honey said. “Your room is all ready for you. Is Abby with you?” She peered at my car.

  “No, she and her son, Dillon, are bringing the bus. She should be here soon.”

  I stepped inside, dragging my suitcase, and followed her to the front desk a few steps into the entryway. She stopped suddenly and touched her chin with her finger.

  “Oh, um, I was going to have you sign the registry, but I think I’ll show you to your room first and let you get settled in. I’m hosting a wine-tasting for my guests at eight thirty, so you can register then. This way.” She flashed me a welcoming smile before leading the way.

  I followed her past a dining area, then a parlor. I caught a glimpse of flames crackling in a redbrick fireplace and inhaled the smoky aroma. Three couches circled the fireplace, making a cozy gathering place for the guests. A table in the center held a dish of what looked like dried apple chips, next to a tray of ornate wineglasses. The whole scene was relaxing and inviting, and I let out a breath as I hoisted my suitcase and followed Honey up the stairs.

  “We have a full house this weekend,” she said as we reached the second-floor landing. “All five rooms are filled. In addition to your group, we have a writer who’s doing a story on the Apple Fest for the newspaper—a man named Roman Gold—and his photographer, Paula Hayashi.” She gestured down the hall. “Your room is here.”

  I wondered where Detective Shelton would be sleeping, then mentally groaned. Oh, that naughty Aunt Abby. I prayed I didn’t have a room next to hers.

  The nameplate read PINK LADY.

  “I hope you like it.”

  I glanced back at the nameplates on the other doors: AMBROSIA, GOLD RUSH, PACIFIC ROSE, and WINESAP. Of course. All the rooms were named after apples.

  Honey inserted the key into the lock, gave it a jiggle and a twist, then opened the door a crack. She stood back and handed me the key. “See you in the parlor in half an hour?”

  I nodded, but before I could thank her, she spun around and padded away. Holding the handle of my suitcase, I turned back to the door and pushed it open, then flipped on the light.

  And gasped.

  “Oh my God! You scared the crap out of me!”

  I let go of the suitcase handle and took in the scene in front of me. Jake was sprawled on his side on the apple-decorated comforter, holding two wine flutes in one hand and a rose in the other. He wore his usual jeans, with a royal blue, button-down shirt. He looked amazing.

  “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t going to be in until late.”

  “I wanted to surprise you,” he said, grinning mischievously. “I let Honey in on my plan, came up early, and here I am. A glass of wine?”

  “I may need a couple of glasses after that surprise.” I sat down next to him and we both leaned in for a “hello” kiss. “Mmmmm,” I murmured. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Me too,” he whispered. He set the glasses and the rose on the nightstand and lay back on the bed, pulling me with him. Needless to say, we were a few minutes late for the wine-tasting.

  • • •

  Aunt Abby and Dillon had apparently arrived sometime in the last half hour, but being preoccupied, I wouldn’t have noticed if the place had caught on fire and burned to the ground. When we finally entered the parlor, I found my aunt sitting on the couch facing the fireplace, already enjoying a glass of wine, her cheeks rosy either from the cold, the fire, the wine, or too much makeup.

  “Darcy! Jake!” She raised her glass to the two of us in greeting.

  An older man in an expensive-looking suit and a younger woman in a silky black blouse and colorful leggings sat a few inches apart on the couch to the left. While the man sat stiffly, the woman had her legs and bare feet curled up.

  I went over and gave Aunt Abby a welcoming hug. “Glad you made it. Where’s Dillon?”

  “He’s in his room, doing something on the computer. You know him.”

  Dillon wasn’t especially sociable and preferred electronic gizmos to people. I had a feeling we wouldn’t see him until morning when it was time to prep Aunt Abby’s school bus for the festival.

  “How was the drive?” I asked after Jake handed me a glass of wine. We sat down on the couch on the right and nodded to the two other guests on the opposite couch.

  “Slow. The bus could really use a bigger motor or a jet pack or some wings or something. And Dillon drives like an old lady.” She took another sip, then smiled at the nice-looking man in the suit. He wore black-rimmed glasses, had a trim beard, and short, neatly combed salt-and-pepper hair. He nodded at her, then shot a look at the attractive younger woman next to him. She gave a tight smile and ran her red-polished nails through her long black hair that fell over one shoulder. In spite of their ages—he looked forty-something, she had to be in her early thirties—I wondered if they were a couple. Their body language said no, but something in the look they exchanged left me curious.

  Honey Smith swept in wearing a floor-length hostess gown that swirled around her as she moved. She’d added makeup to her pale face, and her hair was tucked into a French twist.

  “Welcome, everyone!” she said. “I’m so happy to have you here for the opening weekend of our Apple Fest, especially my old friend Abigail Warner. Now, let me introduce the rest of you.” She gestured toward Aunt Abby. “Abby owns a food truck in San Francisco. We grew up together in the city. Then I moved to the country and she stayed there. She’s here to share her delicious goodies at the festival this weekend.” She turned to Jake and me. “And this is her lovely niece, Darcy Burnett, who I understand is writing a food truck cookbook, and Darcy’s special friend, Jake Miller, who’s making cream puffs for the festival.”

  I blushed at the reference Honey used regarding Jake, but he put his hand on my knee, as if proud to be my “special friend.”

  Honey indicated the two strangers with her other hand. “Roman Gold is doing a story on the Apple Fest for an online publication. We’re all so excited about that. I can’t wait to read it. And this is Paula Hayashi, who’s going to take pictures for the article. We’re thrilled to have you both. Again, welcome, everyone. I hope you’re enjoying the apple wine and apple chips.”

  Everyone nodded, mumbled “yes” or “thank you,” then took sips.

  “This wine you’re drinking comes from the Wise Apple Winery,” she continued, “run by Crystal Cortland, who will be selling her wares at the festival. It’s made from some of the apples from my own orchard,” she said proudly. Suddenly her face clouded over. “Unfortunately there won’t be any new apple batches for some time—at least, not from my farm. You all heard about the fire I had a few weeks ago, when the storage building caught fire. It ruined the crop I’d stored up over the year.”

  Roman set down his glass and leaned forward. “I’m sorry about that. Any idea how it happened? I heard there were two fires, and that it may have been arson.”

  Ah, the reporter in him was already coming through.

  “That’s what Murphy O’Neil suspects. He’s our county sheriff. But he doesn’t know why or who or anything else. He and his officers are still investigating.”

  “Why would anyone do that?” Paula asked, frowning. “I mean, who would want to destroy a bunch of apples?”

  Honey shrugged. “No idea. I’m friends with most everyone in the area. We all get along wel
l, since we have so much in common. All I can think is that it’s some outsider.”

  “What do you mean, an outsider?” I asked, the reporter in me also kicking in.

  Honey pinched her mouth and shook her head. “Let’s just say, it could have been someone who’s in competition with our organic apples up here. If our crops are eventually sold off or destroyed, the competition could move in and replace them.”

  “But who’s in competition with organic apples?” Aunt Abby asked, frowning.

  The room went silent as we pondered the possibilities. Then Honey Smith said aloud the thought that had come to my mind.

  “GMOs.”

  Chapter 4

  Aunt Abby’s frown deepened. “GMOs?”

  “Genetically modified organisms,” Honey said, shaking her head as she spoke. “But don’t get me started.”

  I’d learned over time that when someone said, “Don’t get me started,” it meant I was in for a long tirade. Honey was no different. She continued, adding the occasional air quotes.

  “These GMO companies think their stuff is the fruit of the future. They’re growing what they consider ‘perfect’ apples, when in fact there’s nothing more perfect than a naturally and lovingly grown apple. Even the name ‘genetically modified organisms’ sounds hideous. These people are playing God with their genetic experiments, and we all know what happens when scientists start fooling around with Mother Nature.”

  I could think of a few good things offhand—test-tube babies for childless couples, crossed crops that yielded new and plentiful foods, the arrest of certain diseases—but I decided not to argue with our hostess. She sounded as if her mind was made up, and I didn’t want to do anything that might spoil this weekend. Instead, I took another sip of wine.