by Penny Pike
Ah, so we were both pretty good liars.
“Anyway, let me get you that aspirin. Or do you want Tylenol, Advil, Aleve?”
“Anything’s fine.” I massaged the small lump on my head. “I didn’t mean to startle you like that.”
“No worries,” she said, heading for the kitchen. I followed her, wondering why she hadn’t mentioned the men she’d been talking to outside.
“Is the bed comfortable? Are you sleeping all right?” She reached into a cabinet and pulled down three bottles of painkillers for me to choose from. I took the bottle of Advil and poured out a couple of pills.
“Oh yes, the bed’s wonderful. I just have trouble sleeping anywhere. I’m a bit of an insomniac. The littlest thing wakes me and then I can’t get back to sleep.” At that point, I wondered if Honey might suddenly realize I’d overheard her talking.
Instead, she said, “I know how that is. Since the fire here, I’ve had trouble sleeping too, and now with this latest one at Red’s . . .” She drifted off as she filled a glass with tap water and handed it to me.
I swallowed the pills and gave her back the glass.
“You know what might help?” she said, opening the freezer compartment of her refrigerator. “A warmed-up slice of my apple crisp, with a side of caramel-vanilla ice cream.”
I started to demur, but when I got a glimpse of the dish she pulled out of the refrigerator, my tongue froze in my mouth. Who could say no to a serving of warm apple crisp with a side of caramel-vanilla ice cream? Not me.
“Have a seat.” Honey gestured to the stool next to the kitchen island. I sat down, figuring resistance was futile. Not only was Honey insistent, but so were my taste buds. I had a feeling I would be wearing a larger clothing size after the weekend was over. But this little dessert break might also give me a chance to ask Honey about her clandestine nighttime conversation.
I watched as she cut two slices of the crisp, slid them onto a plate with a fancy spatula, and popped them in the microwave.
“So you didn’t find anything?” I asked, after inhaling the sweet fragrance of cinnamon, baked apple, and cloves as she pulled the dessert out of the microwave.
She turned to me and frowned. “What?”
“Outside,” I said. “You said you heard something outside and went to find out what it was. You didn’t find anything?”
“Oh no. Must have been jackrabbits or foxes. We get a lot of wild creatures around here. The apples attract almost every kind of critter. Deer are the worst.”
She continued to ramble on. Was I making her nervous?
“I’m glad it was nothing,” I said as she slid one of the desserts onto another plate and set it in front of me. The ball of ice cream next to the warm crisp was already beginning to melt. I took a bite of both.
“Oh, wow,” I said. And I meant it. “Best. Apple. Crisp. Ever.”
Honey looked pleased. “Glad you like it. It’s one of my favorites.” She hadn’t even touched hers.
“It’s funny,” I said after a few more bites. “I was lying in bed and I thought I heard voices. Maybe I dreamed it.”
Honey pushed the crust away from her dessert, as if examining the texture of the apples beneath. “Voices?”
“Yeah, crazy, huh? They seemed to be coming from outside my window.”
Honey set down her fork. “Oh, it was probably the TV. Sound travels in these old houses. I need to remember to keep it down.”
TV? I hadn’t noticed the sound of a TV on my way downstairs, or even when I reached the front door. No, it was voices I’d heard. Besides, a TV wouldn’t explain the men I’d seen outside.
Honey was lying. The question was, why?
I finished my apple crisp, practically licking the plate, and patted my stomach. “That was incredible!”
“Would you like more?” she asked. “There’s plenty.”
“Oh no. If I eat anything else, I’ll never get back to sleep. Thank you so much. That was delicious.” So good, I’d almost forgotten my headache.
Honey smiled and carried the plates to the sink. Mine was clean. Hers was untouched, aside from the forking it had received. “I hope you can get some rest now. Those pills should kick in soon. In fact, take the bottle, just in case.”
“My head feels better already,” I said as I stood up and took the proffered bottle. I knew I wasn’t going to get anything more from her tonight. And at this point it was too late to say I’d actually seen the others she’d been talking to. “Good night, Honey. Thanks again.”
“It’s my pleasure,” she said warmly. “See you in the morning for breakfast. Hope you aren’t tired of apples. We’re having apple pancakes with a warm apple compote, apple bacon, and apple bread toast.”
I was so full I could barely muster any enthusiasm, but I knew I’d be hungry again in the morning. “Sounds lovely,” I managed. “See you then.”
“And sorry about the door!” she added.
“I’m fine,” I said. With that I headed out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and back to bed, where Jake still slept, undisturbed. As I pulled up the covers and snuggled back into his arms, I couldn’t help wondering why Honey hadn’t told me about the men she’d been talking to outside. What was it I’d heard? Right under our noses? Ruin our festival? Run out of town? What had she meant? And who had she been talking to?
I closed my eyes. They popped open again as I had a last thought. While I was wondering what Honey Smith had really been up to outside, maybe she was wondering what I was really doing behind that front door.
There was no way I was going to sleep soundly the rest of the night.
• • •
“Ruin . . . run . . . right under our noses . . . ruin . . . run . . . right under our—”
“Darcy!” I heard a voice call from the shadows. I tried to find the source, but it was too dark.
“Darcy!” came the voice again.
I shot up in bed like a corpse coming back from the dead.
“What. . . .what?” I blinked and rubbed my bed hair. Disoriented, I looked around the strange room, softly lit by the morning sun peeking through the lacy curtains. I turned to see Jake lying next to me. He was frowning.
“Oh God, was I snoring?” I asked, blushing at the thought.
“No, you were talking in your sleep. I tried to wake you a couple of times, but you were in deep. Sorry if I startled you.”
I closed my eyes and instantly recalled the nightmare I was having.
“What did I say?”
“Something like ‘run, run.’ Was someone chasing you in your dream?”
I sighed. “I guess. I can’t really remember. Three or four people, holding lit torches . . .” I shivered at the thought and turned to Jake again. “What do you think it means?”
He shrugged.
“Don’t you analyze your dreams when you wake up?” I asked, surprised. “I thought everyone looked for clues to their subconscious wishes and fears.”
“Well, mine are mostly about food and sex. Pretty clear.”
I elbowed him.
“But I think maybe the fire at Red’s last night might explain yours.”
“The lit torches?” I said. “You’re probably right. As for the three figures, I think I can explain that.” I told him about hearing the mostly unintelligible voices from my window during the night, then going downstairs and trying to listen in on the conversation and getting hit in the head by the door when I got caught by Honey. I left out the part about the apple crisp, but I was sure it had contributed to my restless dream as well.
“So you don’t know who the other guys were?” Jake asked, rolling out of bed. He slipped on his plaid boxers and stood up.
I looked at the ornate clock on the nightstand. It was a little after seven. I reached for my robe and pulled it on. “No. All I know is, it looked like they were having an argument. But the men were gone by the time I got downstairs.”
“Well, I’m going to jump in the shower. We’re supposed to be at the
fairgrounds by nine to set up. The festival starts at ten.”
“Don’t use all the hot water,” I called after him. With my robe tucked tightly around me to fend off the chill, I moved to the window and looked out, trying to recall more details of the scene I’d witnessed in the middle of the night. Maybe the whole thing had been a dream.
I glanced back at the nightstand. There sat the little bottle of pain pills Honey had given me for a headache. I peered into the antique mirror that hung on the wall nearby and lifted my hair from my forehead. There was a small bruised lump the size of a quarter from where the door had hit me.
That was no dream.
• • •
By eight a.m., all the guests at the Enchanted Apple were gathered at the large oak table in Honey’s dining room for breakfast—all but Roman Gold. Even Dillon had managed to crawl out of bed and show up for Honey’s apple pancakes. And he’d actually changed out of his usual morning attire—his cartoon pajamas—and was wearing baggy jeans and a Star Wars LEGOs T-shirt.
“Did everyone sleep well?” Honey asked. She stood at one end of the table, holding a pitcher of orange juice. I was a little relieved to see it wasn’t apple juice. From all the apples I’d be eating over the weekend—and had already—I wouldn’t have been surprised if I began to sprout apple blossoms.
The guests either nodded or mumbled, “Yes,” to Honey’s question. We offered to wait for Roman before digging in, but Paula said Roman wasn’t much for breakfast, so we went ahead without him. Dillon broke the ice with the first bite and we all chowed down. Even after that midnight slice of apple crisp, I found I was hungry again. Must have been the country air. Besides, the apple pancakes with warm apple syrup melted in my mouth like apple butter.
After Honey made sure we were all served, she joined us at the table.
“I heard you had guests last night after we all went to bed,” Jake said out of the blue.
I shot him a look and tried to kick him under the table but missed. I even thought about stabbing him with my fork. What was he thinking, sharing what I’d told him about last night?
Honey made a face and shook her head. “No. I went to bed right after all of you. You probably heard my TV. I sometimes turn it up too loud.” She glanced at me.
Jake nodded, stuffed a bite of pancake into his mouth, and let it go. Thank God. But he’d made his point. For some reason, Honey was sticking to her lie about the midnight visitors. The question was, why?
“Well, I slept like a baby,” Aunt Abby said. “Honey, that bed is so comfy. I hated getting up this morning.” She turned to Dillon. “You didn’t stay up all night on that computer, did you, dear?”
Dillon, his mouth full of apple pancake, just shrugged. His room had been on the other side of Jake’s and mine, so even if he’d been up, he probably wouldn’t have heard or seen the late-night talkers with his earbuds plugged in. And if Aunt Abby was out like a baby, neither would she.
“How about you, Paula?” I asked the young woman who was sipping her coffee, eschewing the high-calorie breakfast. Her room had also been across the hall, but maybe she’d done a little sleepwalking and had seen or heard something.
She looked up, as if coming out of a deep trance. “Huh?”
“I was just asking how you slept,” I said, wondering what she’d been thinking about so intently.
“Oh, fine,” she said, setting down her coffee. She patted her mouth with her cloth napkin, then rose. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot to do before the festival opens. Thanks for the breakfast,” she said to Honey, nodding at her untouched plate. With that she left the table and headed upstairs.
The conversation turned to questions about the festival. We asked Honey what to expect, how big the crowd would be, what were the favorite attractions and foods at the festival. She was in the middle of telling us how many different types of caramel apples were available when Paula came back down the stairs.
“Honey?” Paula said, pausing on the bottom step. “Do you have an extra key for Roman’s room?”
Honey frowned. “Why?”
“He’s not answering my knock, and I know he has things to do this morning. I think I’d better wake him.”
My first thought was, So they weren’t sleeping together.
Honey backed her chair out and stood up. She went behind the counter in the front hall, opened a drawer, and pulled out a key. “I don’t usually hand out extra keys without getting permission, so I’ll go with you.”
“Whatever,” Paula said, shrugging. She turned and headed back up the stairs, with Honey right behind her.
We resumed our conversations. I was growing more intrigued about the festival with every detail Honey had shared. Other than the Chocolate Festival, I’d never done anything like this before and wondered how different it would be from our usual food truck business. I planned to gather a bunch of recipes for my work-in-progress cookbook, and I hoped the crowds liked Aunt Abby’s offering. How could they not? She’d worked hard to perfect the recipe for her salted caramel-apple tarts and always took a lot of pride in her work.
“Well,” Aunt Abby said, wiping her mouth, “I’d better get ready. Dillon, are you about finished with breakfast?”
Before Dillon could answer, the sound of loud pounding boomed from upstairs. Everyone turned toward the noise.
Then someone screamed.
I couldn’t tell if it was Honey or Paula, but the hairs on the back of my neck tingled. Jake stood up and rushed to the stairs. I quickly followed, then Abby, then Dillon. We reached the top landing, one after another. Honey and Paula stood outside Roman’s room, Honey with her hand to her mouth, Paula’s mouth wide-open. The door was open, the key still in the lock.
Jake walked over to them and I followed him. We peered in.
Roman Gold lay naked, facedown, on the bed. A pool of blood had soaked the pillow and sheets around his head and chest. Some kind of knifelike instrument stuck out at the back of his neck.
Obviously Roman Gold was dead. Stabbed to death in bed.
While we’d all been in the house.
Chapter 7
“Call nine-one-one!” Aunt Abby cried, peering into the room between Jake and me, but Jake was already on it. He had his cell phone to his ear and was clearly waiting for an answer. Honey started to enter the room, but Jake extended his other arm to keep her and everyone else out while he talked to the dispatcher.
“What’s the address here?” he said to Honey. She gave it to him and he relayed it to the dispatcher and disconnected the call.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” Honey kept repeating, her hand still covering her mouth. “Should we do something for him? Like cover him up?”
“We wait for the police,” Jake said, taking charge.
“What’s that thing sticking out of his neck?” Paula said. I looked at her. She didn’t seem overly upset that her coworker was dead.
Honey suddenly gasped.
“What is it?” Aunt Abby asked, putting an arm around the distraught innkeeper.
Honey shook her head. “Nothing . . . I thought . . . it was nothing.”
“She’s probably in shock,” Aunt Abby whispered to me. “I saw on Criminal Minds that some people who witness a crime can go into shock.”
Aunt Abby got most of her forensic information from television crime shows. I had a feeling she and Detective Shelton had some interesting discussions on the subject.
“Honey, why don’t you make everyone a cup of coffee or tea while we wait for the police?” I suggested. Giving her something to do might get her mind off the dead man in her guest bed.
Honey began to ramble again. “Who would do this? Right here in my bed-and-breakfast?”
“I think the bigger question is, how did the killer get in?” Paula said, reflecting my thoughts. She turned to Honey. “Did you lock the front door last night?”
From inside the inn, Honey’s keys were fairly accessible to anyone in the under-counter drawer that didn’t appear to be l
ocked. Anyone could have slipped into his room in the middle of the night, lifted the key, entered his room, and stabbed him. But it would have to be someone who knew about the location of the keys.
Honey looked bewildered. “I’m sure I locked it. At least, I think so. I . . .”
I remembered startling her as she came in the door. Could her embarrassment at bumping my head have caused her to forget to lock up?
Paula persisted, crossing her arms in front of her. “But you’re not sure, are you? And that’s probably how the killer got in.”
“How do you know there was a killer?” Honey asked, facing her accuser. “Maybe he committed suicide.”
Paula rolled her eyes. “Well, he sure didn’t stab himself in the back of the neck, now, did he?” Paula’s tone was growing increasingly hostile. Was she trying to blame Honey for Roman’s death?
“Do you think he was killed while we were sleeping last night?” Aunt Abby added, stating the obvious.
“Won’t know for sure until the coroner checks the body,” Jake said, “but it had to have been sometime between ten, when he went to bed, and eight thirty this morning, when we checked on him.”
“Hmmm,” Aunt Abby mused. “This is like one of those Agatha Christie plots, where everyone is gathered at the summerhouse, there’s a locked-room murder, and all the guests are suspects. Where’s Poirot when you need him?”
I nudged my aunt with my elbow. This was not the time to compare a real murder to a fictional one. Even though she had a point. It was a locked room. We were all gathered at the inn. And we could all be suspects.
The sound of sirens jarred us all from our discussion. Honey ran down the stairs to let in the first responders while I leaned over the railing and watched from the second-floor landing. The door opened before Honey could reach it and a man wearing a sheriff’s khaki uniform let himself in. It appeared Honey had a habit of not locking the front door, and the sheriff must have known this and felt comfortable enough to walk in. He was followed by a uniformed woman.
Honey pointed to the second floor, and the sheriff and deputy headed up. Right behind them, two paramedics rushed in, gloved and carrying large cases of medical equipment. Our small group shuffled back as the officers and EMTs shouldered past us and entered the room. One of the EMTs went directly to the side of the bed, knelt down, and felt for a pulse. The other stood by, talking on his radio. The female deputy hung back, waiting for orders, while the sheriff looked on.
