by Penny Pike
After a few seconds, the first paramedic shook his head and stood up.
“Deceased,” he announced.
“I’ll call it in,” the other one said. The EMTs lifted their bags and headed out, passing our little group by the door.
“Stand back, people,” the sheriff said, taking command. I looked him over, wondering if I could judge his competence from his appearance. He was tall, pale skinned, freckled, with a white mustache and a paunch. His hat covered most of his hair, but short wisps of matching white hair were visible below the brim. I guessed he was in his mid-fifties, so he’d probably had some experience on the job. But had he had much experience with homicides out here in peaceful Apple Valley? I couldn’t help wondering what Detective Shelton’s take would be on all this. We’d know soon enough, once he arrived.
We shuffled back like cattle and resumed our spots at the threshold of the room.
“Anyone been in here?” the sheriff asked.
“No,” Honey said. “Paula here and I discovered him when I opened the door. Then Jake called nine-one-one.”
The sheriff looked over at the body, eyed the weapon sticking out of Roman’s neck, and turned to us again. “Anyone know him?”
“I do . . . did,” Paula said. “We worked together. I’m his photographer. He’s a writer.”
“What’s his name?” the sheriff asked Paula.
“Uh . . . Roman Gold,” she answered.
The wide-eyed young deputy took down the name in her small notepad. She was short and hefty, her latte-colored skin was makeup free, and she was hatless, her dark hair collected into a thick bun at the back of her head. I wondered if homicide was new to her. She looked fresh out of the academy. Her name tag read JAVIER.
“What was he doing here?”
“Uh, writing an article on the Apple Festival,” Paula answered.
The sheriff turned to the rest of us. “I want you all to go downstairs and wait for me in Honey’s dining room. I’m going to need statements from each of you. Honey, can you put on a pot of that good coffee you make? Bonita, will you escort these people to the dining room and wait for me there? I’ll call the coroner and get Ravi over here.”
“Copy that,” the deputy said. She looked nervous in spite of the authority of the uniform and the heavy-duty, laden belt she wore. A rookie for sure, still trying to prove herself.
The sheriff looked as though he wanted to roll his eyes. Instead, he nodded a dismissal.
“If everyone will follow me, please,” Deputy Bonita Javier said before she led us down the stairs. We found our places at the dining room table, where a plate of cookies awaited us. After a few minutes, Honey appeared holding a tray filled with cups of coffee. She passed them out, then took a seat.
I realized Dillon had disappeared somewhere between the breakfast table and the discovery of the body. No wonder. The cops had arrived. Dillon and cops didn’t mix.
“How long are we going to have to wait here?” Paula said, checking her cell phone. “I have a lot of work to do.”
Apparently she wasn’t mourning the death of her friend so much.
“I don’t want to sound callous,” Aunt Abby said, “but the festival starts in less than an hour and I have a food truck to run.”
“Sheriff O’Neil will be down soon,” the deputy said, after taking a sip of her coffee.
Paula cleared her throat. “Uh . . . what about my coffee?” she said to Honey.
Honey looked at her. “Oh, did I forget you? Sorry. Would you like some?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
“I guess I could make another pot,” Honey said, making no attempt to rise from the table.
“Never mind,” Paula said, sounding irritated. She returned her attention to her cell phone.
We waited in silence, sipping our coffees. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Honey glanced at the deputy for permission to answer it, then hustled over. The sheriff came bounding down the stairs as Honey opened the door. She welcomed in a woman wearing blue scrubs.
“Ravi,” the sheriff said, greeting her from the bottom of the stairs.
“Murph,” the woman answered in greeting. I guessed she was the coroner. “Where?”
Sheriff O’Neil pointed upstairs.
She nodded. “Lead the way,” she said, and followed the sheriff up the stairs.
Honey returned to the table and sat down, wringing her hands. “Oh dear,” she mumbled several times.
“It’ll be all right,” Aunt Abby said to her, patting her shoulder. “They’ll find out what happened and who did this. Don’t worry.”
Honey nodded, but her absent gaze told me she wasn’t really listening. We spent the next few minutes in our own worlds—Paula texting, Honey worrying, Aunt Abby comforting, Jake frowning, Deputy Bonita sipping her coffee and jotting some notes. As for me, I just wondered how the hell I’d ended up at another murder investigation.
• • •
Half an hour later, the sheriff and coroner came down the stairs. We all looked up, anxious to hear the answer to the big question: What happened to Roman Gold?
The sheriff shook hands with the coroner at the front door and said good-bye. Then he ambled over to the table where we’d been waiting.
“Everyone, this is our sheriff, Sheriff Murphy O’Neil,” Honey said, introducing him. She turned to him. “Any idea what happened, Murph?”
The sheriff frowned. “Ravi thinks the vic was stabbed between two and four in the morning, judging by the body temp. He was probably asleep—no signs of a struggle.”
“What was that thing in his neck?” Paula repeated her earlier question.
Sheriff O’Neil dug in his pocket and pulled out a plastic baggie. He held it up. “Anyone recognize this?” He watched our reactions carefully.
Everyone shook their heads.
Except one.
The sheriff zeroed in on our innkeeper. “Honey?”
“It . . . it looks like one of my antique apple corers, but I don’t have any idea how it got—” She stopped suddenly. The look of horror on her face could have meant several things. Horror at the thought of Roman being stabbed with it? Horror that someone used her antique corer?
Or horror that she could be implicated in a murder?
“You want to show me where it came from?” the sheriff asked her.
She bit her lip, nodded, rose, and walked into the adjoining parlor. We watched from our seats as she pointed to a framed display of antique tools on one of the walls. I hadn’t noticed it before, among all the other antiques, knickknacks, artwork, and usual clutter found in many bed-and-breakfast inns.
Clearly, one of the six tools within the framed display was missing.
Honey’s eyes were wide as she stared at the display. “I . . . I . . .”
“Bonita,” the sheriff said. “Take Honey into the kitchen and make her some tea or something. I’m going to talk to the guests for a few minutes.”
Deputy Bonita rose from the table and collected Honey, pulling her gently away from her fixated gaze. She led her to the kitchen and they disappeared from sight. The sheriff took a seat at the table.
“All right, do any of you know anything about this man’s death?”
Interesting. If we’d been in the city, Detective Shelton would have questioned us one by one, individually and separately. Apparently out here in the country, the sheriff did things differently. We all shook our heads. When he asked where we’d been during the hours of two and four a.m., we gave our alibis. Aunt Abby said, “Asleep.” Paula said, “Me too.” Jake nodded and repeated, “Asleep.” Then it was my turn.
I hadn’t been asleep at two in the morning. And neither had Honey.
I confessed to the sheriff that I couldn’t sleep and had heard voices outside.
“What kind of voices?” he asked, one eyebrow arching.
“Well, I thought there were three or four people—two or three men and a woman—but I couldn’t be absolutely sur
e. It was dark and they were in the shadows. I went downstairs to see what was going on, but by the time I got there, the men were gone.”
“What about the woman?” he asked, taking notes in a small notebook he’d withdrawn from his pocket.
Uh-oh. I was just about to incriminate Honey. “I. . . .think it was Honey.”
“How do you know?”
“She came in the door when I got downstairs.”
Sheriff O’Neil looked up. “What were they talking about?”
“I couldn’t make out the words. . . .”
In fact, I remembered hearing something like “run” and “ruin,” but I couldn’t be sure, so I didn’t mention it.
The sheriff eyed me. “How did they sound?”
I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable with what I was about to say. But if I didn’t answer the question truthfully, I’d be committing a crime by withholding possible evidence.
I glanced at Jake and Aunt Abby, hoping they’d save me somehow from having to say anything more. Jake shrugged. Aunt Abby just stared at me, her eyes wide.
I took a deep breath, then said, “It sounded like they were arguing.”
Uh-oh. The murder took place in Honey’s inn. The weapon belonged to her. And she and Roman had disagreed about GMO apples during last night’s dinner conversation.
Had I just incriminated Honey Smith?
Chapter 8
Nobody else had anything to add, so the interrogation was short, if not sweet. Sheriff O’Neil let us get on with prepping for the festival, although we were already running late and knew we would barely make it on time. Oh well. I’d learned the hard way that a murder investigation always takes precedence over the food truck business—or anything else.
As soon as the sheriff was out the door, we headed upstairs to gather our things. Jake and I went to our room and brushed our teeth together over the single sink. I must say, it was comforting to share this ordinary task with him. He was adorable when he smiled with a mouth full of toothpaste. We got our jackets and my purse and locked the door after leaving the room. Although I realized locking up was no assurance that our stuff would be safe.
“Aunt Abby?” I said as I entered her room. Dillon was sitting on her bed, texting. I’d nearly forgotten about him. “Where have you been?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “Had stuff to do.”
“You mean someone to avoid, don’t you?” I asked, baiting him.
“Hey, I don’t know anything about who offed that guy,” Dillon shot back. “That’s the cops’ job.”
“You should have at least made an appearance,” I countered. “When the sheriff finds out you were in the house and didn’t come down for questioning, he’s going to want to talk to you.”
“Well, he’s not going to find out unless you tell him,” Dillon said.
I wondered if Honey would mention Dillon’s absence to the sheriff, but I had a feeling it wasn’t a top priority for her. She had other things on her mind, like who killed one of her guests practically under her nose. Not to mention the recent fires that complicated things.
“Stop it, you two,” Aunt Abby said. “Or I’ll smack the pair of you. And show some respect for the body in the next room.”
I made a face at Dillon. He grunted.
“Need any help, Abby?” Jake said.
“No, thanks,” she answered. “I need to put these two to work to keep them from bickering. You go on ahead.”
Jake turned to me. “See you there?”
I nodded and he headed down the stairs to his cream puff truck.
Dillon and I took orders from my aunt and ten minutes later we were on our way to the Big Yellow School Bus, our arms laden with chalkboard signs Aunt Abby had written up for the event to advertise her new apple delights. I looked for Honey to say good-bye for the day, but she was nowhere in sight. I wondered if she’d show up for a festival after all that had happened. As we walked to the bus, another car from the coroner’s office pulled up and two men got out, dressed in protective cover-ups.
They were here to retrieve the body.
With a last glance back at the not-so-Enchanted Apple Bed-and-Breakfast Inn, I followed Aunt Abby and Dillon into the bus, wondering where Honey had disappeared to.
• • •
The twentieth annual Apple Fest was already in full bloom when we pulled up, with food, fun, and festivities galore. Honey had mentioned that ten thousand people were expected to attend and over thirty local farms and ranches were participating in the opening weekend. In addition to the dozen food trucks, there must have been three dozen large white canopies where vendors like Apple Annie’s, the Big Apple, In Apple Pie Order, the Apple Polisher, Little Green Apples, and the Apple Cart were serving apple goodies. My mouth watered at some of the offerings—apple cinnamon rolls and strudels, apple cobblers and crisps, apple fritters and fries, caramel and toffee apples, apple butters, jams, and sauces, and apple wines and beers. They all claimed to be “Fresh from Farm to Fork.” I hoped I got a chance to taste everything. Research for my cookbook, of course.
Across from the food vendors were maybe forty or fifty picnic tables, many already occupied by apple lovers. Beyond them I could see a corral offering pony rides, a bunch of trampolines, electric scooters to ride around the paved paths, a petting zoo for the kids, and the A-MAZE-ing Hay Maze. The only thing missing from this circus were the elephants.
Apparently this crowd hadn’t heard or didn’t care about the murder at the Enchanted Inn.
We parked the school bus next to Jake’s truck, which already had a line. While Aunt Abby got out her apple treats to display inside the window, Dillon set up the signs and I put out napkins, plasticware, and packets of sugar, cinnamon, and allspice. We were ready for business in a matter of minutes and had a line by the time Aunt Abby slid open the service window.
The next few hours were mostly a blur of activity. Aunt Abby’s salted caramel-apple tarts were a huge hit. People came back for seconds and thirds, in between visits to the other food trucks and apple vendors. I hadn’t had time to think about the murder, but at some point it occurred to me that I’d seen no sign of Honey Smith at the festival. I figured, if she came, she’d at least stop by and say hello.
Maybe she’d learned what I’d told the sheriff about her arguing with those men. Would I find my suitcase on the porch when I got back to the inn? Worse, would I discover Honey Smith had been arrested for the murder of Roman Gold.
And would I be to blame?
Around four o’clock, after the crowd died down, the vendors began closing up shop. I helped Aunt Abby clean the kitchen area and put away the utensils, then took a much-needed break and headed to Jake’s Dream Puff truck to see if he was ready to close down. I wasn’t hungry, having snacked on Aunt Abby’s “failures” throughout the day, but it wasn’t too early for a glass of apple wine. Hey, I was on vacation. Sort of.
“I’ve got a few puffs in the oven,” he said through the service window. “I’ll meet you at the wine tent. It looks like it’s still open.” He pushed some cash through the window. “Get us a couple of apple wines.” He already had my heart. Now he could read my mind. I pushed the money back at him. “My treat.”
I turned around and spotted the tent with a sign that read WISE APPLE WINERY. In my rush to head over, I tripped on a cord and nearly lost my balance.
“Whoa there, missy!” said the man who had grabbed me and saved me from an embarrassing fall.
I looked up to see Nathan “Appleseed” Chapman grinning at me. His breath smelled of alcohol.
“Thank you,” I said, brushing myself off. “I need to watch where I’m going.”
“Well, it looked like you were in quite the hurry,” Nathan said. “Headed for the wine tent?”
I nodded. “Time for a break.”
“Listen, maybe I could buy you a drink later? I’ve got to meet someone, but I’d like to get to know you better.”
OMG. He was hitting on me! Did he not see me with Jake la
st night?
“Oh, that’s really nice of you, but I’m meeting my boyfriend in a few minutes.”
Nathan stepped back. “Well, if you change your mind . . .”
I nodded and quickly made for the Wise Apple Winery booth. When I got there, a middle-aged couple stood at the serving table with their glasses, chatting with a woman who was pouring wine. I immediately recognized the wine seller. It was Crystal Cortland, Red’s ex-wife. I’d seen her last night at Red’s place, after the fire. Standing silently behind her, wiping glasses, was their twenty-something daughter, Tiffany.
While Crystal talked with the couple enjoying her wine, I noticed Tiffany staring off to the side as if mesmerized by something—or someone. I glanced over to see what held her attention so intently and spotted none other than Nathan Chapman, gesturing to her and nodding to the left. I surreptitiously watched as Tiffany stole a look at her mother, then gave a tiny nod to the man. She set down the glass she’d been cleaning and disappeared out the back of the wine tent.
I turned to look at Nathan and caught him pulling a flask from an inside pocket. He took a quick hit and replaced the flask just as Tiffany appeared a few feet away. He glanced around, then followed her, keeping his distance. Moments later they were out of sight.
What, I wondered, was a man old enough to be Tiffany’s father doing with Crystal Cortland’s daughter?
Crystal, apparently oblivious of her daughter’s disappearance, continued her conversation with the couple. I sidled up behind them and listened as they thanked Crystal for the wine and moved on. I took their place at the front of the serving table.
“May I help you?” Crystal said with a smile. She wore what looked like several layers of clothing—a long skirt, a peasant-style blouse, a long thin wrap, and lots of chunky jewelry. Her blond hair was done up with combs, with wispy tendrils cascading at the back. Her red roots were just beginning to show, indicating her natural color was beginning to grow out.
