Death of a Bad Apple

by Penny Pike

  I slid open the door and let myself out, closing it behind me so as not to wake Dillon.

  “What are you guys doing out here?” I asked, helping myself to one of the empty wicker chairs that encircled a pond filled with lily pads. “Jake, why didn’t you wake me?”

  “You needed your sleep,” Jake answered. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  I looked at Detective Shelton. “Where’s Aunt Abby?”

  “She’s gone to the station to see Honey,” Sheriff O’Neil answered instead. “I told her Honey needed a few things and your aunt offered to pick them up and take them to her.”

  I nodded, yawned, and sipped the coffee, hoping it would make me more alert after being up half the night. I was still feeling the hangover effects of the deep sleep I’d been in and wasn’t quite ready to fully wake up.

  “How is Honey?” I asked the sheriff.

  “Bonita—Deputy Javier—said she had a good night,” Sheriff O’Neil replied. “Red visited and they watched some cooking show on TV.”

  Wow, I thought. Too bad the city jails weren’t more like the country jails.

  The men were quiet for a few moments as they drank their coffees, but I sensed there was something unsaid going on between them. I glanced at each one, then frowned. “Has something happened?”

  Before anyone could answer, Jake looked at something behind me.

  I spun around to see what had caught his attention, then gasped at the disturbing visage before me.

  “Dillon!”

  Dillon stepped out through the sliding glass door looking as if he’d been run over by a tractor. His hair stuck out on one side, while the other side was smashed down to a matted mess. His right cheek bore the imprint of the keyboard he’d lain on when he fell asleep, and dried drool had left a slimy sheen on his chin. The two-day stubble only added to his frightening appearance. I was glad no children or animals were staying at the inn. They’d have been scared out of their wits.

  “S’up?” he said, lumbering toward us like the undead. He dropped into another wicker chair and reached for my coffee that I’d set down on the small table next to me. Before I could grab it, he’d snatched it up and chugged it like water.

  Sheriff O’Neil stared at him while Jake stifled a grin. Detective Shelton just shook his head, giving me a brief thought. What if the detective ended up marrying my aunt and Dillon became his stepson? Yikes.

  And worse—would that make him my uncle Detective?

  “Are you all right?” I asked Dillon after he finished my coffee. He sat back and leaned his head against the chair.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Didn’t get much sleep. Tried to find out what was in that medical file.”

  The three men shared a look. I was sure something was going on between them.

  “What’s up with you three?” I asked.

  After a moment of silence, Jake said, “The sheriff may have learned something about that file.”

  Dillon frowned. “You did?” he said, eyeing the sheriff.

  I leaned in. “What did you find out?”

  Sheriff O’Neil shrugged. “Nothing yet. After Wes told me about Red’s medical file, I called a friend of mine—a nurse—and collected on a favor she owed me. She’s going to check it out, let me know what’s inside. I’m waiting for her call back.” He patted his pocket, where I guessed he kept his cell phone.

  “Good,” I said, although I didn’t hold out much hope for finding an answer to the murders in a medical file. Still, the information might lead to something.

  “However,” the sheriff added, “it may not be admissible in court.”

  Dillon groaned. “Dude, I spent all night trying to get in there and all you had to do was make a phone call? And it still might not work?”

  “Hey, Dillon,” I said to him. “If it hadn’t been for you, we wouldn’t have known about the file.”

  “Well, don’t get your hopes up,” Sheriff O’Neil added. “It may be nothing, but I thought it was worth checking out.”

  Dillon laid his head back down and closed his eyes. “Bet you didn’t find the e-mail Red sent to Nathan Chapman—or whatever the dude’s name is.”

  “E-mail?” I repeated.

  “What e-mail?” Sheriff O’Neil asked.

  Dillon shrugged nonchalantly. “I printed them out. They should be in Honey’s office.”

  Sheriff O’Neil got up and headed inside. A few minutes later he returned with a sheet of paper in his hand.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” the sheriff said, standing over Dillon.

  Dillon’s eyes fluttered open. “Dude, I just did.”

  “Don’t call me ‘dude,’” Sheriff O’Neil said. He sat down, held up the paper, and read it aloud. “‘Stay away from her or I swear I’ll kill you.’ That’s from Red,” the sheriff explained. “Then Nathan responded, ‘Get off my back!’ That’s it. They’re dated before the first murder.”

  The sheriff looked up at us. The detective, Jake, and I were stunned into silence.

  Dillon lifted his head and said, “Sounds like Red had some kind of motive to kill Nathan.”

  “But Red loves Honey,” Sheriff O’Neil said. “He’d never let her take the rap.”

  Detective Shelton frowned. “And it still doesn’t give us a link to Roman’s death.”

  “So, what do you think it means?” I asked, puzzling over the brief e-mail exchange. “Red says, ‘Stay away from her.’ Who’s her? Tiffany? Honey? Paula?”

  “I think we have to be careful about taking these messages out of context,” Jake said. “We don’t know what went on before or after this. And a lot of people say they’re going to kill someone and don’t mean it.”

  I knew, with his background as a lawyer, Jake was being cautious, but these e-mails sounded pretty incriminating. “What are you going to do, Sheriff?” I asked.

  “Arrest him,” Dillon answered for him. “Let Honey go and we can get the heck out of Dodge.”

  The sheriff’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and answered with “Sheriff O’Neil.” He listened, said, “Uh-huh,” a couple of times, then thanked the caller and hung up.

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you this,” Sheriff O’Neil said, sighing, “but with these murders, I have a feeling it’s going to come out eventually.”

  “Was that the nurse? What did she say?” I asked, anxious for any news that might help free Honey, even something from a medical report.

  “Yes, that was the nurse. It appears Red contracted an illness as a teenager, a viral disease called epidemic parotitis, to be exact.”

  “What’s pertonitis?” Dillon asked.

  “Parotitis,” the sheriff corrected him, enunciating the medical term. “It’s essentially mumps.”

  Dillon frowned. “What’s mumps?”

  “Years ago, it was a common childhood disease,” Jake explained. “Very contagious, but not usually fatal. I had a court case once where a man wasn’t vaccinated because his backward doctor didn’t believe in vaccines, so my client sued him when he caught the disease and ended up with testicular edema.”

  “I know what that means—swollen testicles? Ouch,” Dillon said, covering his crotch with his hands. “Sounds painful. How do you know when you have these mumps?”

  “You get a fever, headache, lack of energy, dry mouth, sore face . . .” Jake listed off the symptoms.

  Dillon felt his forehead, then ran his hand over his cheek. “My cheek is kind of sore, and my mouth is kind of dry, and my balls . . .”

  “Dillon!” I nearly shouted. “You don’t have it. Your mouth is dry from your mouth breathing, and your cheek is sore because you slept on your laptop, and we’re not going to discuss your testicles. I’m sure your mom had you vaccinated for mumps, measles, chicken pox, all that stuff—just like my mom did.”

  Dillon placed his fingers on the sides of his neck, obviously convinced he was coming down with the mumps.

  “So that’s it? Red had mumps?” I summarized
. “That really doesn’t help us with a motive for murder.”

  “Actually,” Sheriff O’Neil continued, “he caught something called mumps orchitis during puberty. . . .” The sheriff glanced at Jake and Detective Shelton. They both solemnly shook their heads.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Is that bad?”

  The sheriff took a deep breath. “Mumps during or after puberty can cause infertility.”

  That little tidbit of medical information quickly sank in.

  “Oh my God. Red Cortland could be infertile. And that would mean Tiffany wouldn’t be his biological daughter.”

  Chapter 22

  “So what?” Aunt Abby said. She stood in the doorway, flushed from her visit to the sheriff’s office or the cold weather outside. “Maybe Red and Crystal adopted her. Or maybe Crystal got artificially inseminated. Times have changed. It’s not a big deal anymore, even though back then it was.”

  I pull up a chair for her. “How’s Honey?”

  Aunt Abby shrugged. “Okay, I guess, if you like jail.” She shot the sheriff a look. “So, what’s the big deal about Red being infertile?”

  “Nothing,” I said, “if he’s always known he’s infertile. But what if he didn’t know back when they wanted to start a family?” I turned to Sheriff O’Neil. “When was the test done?”

  “According to the file, Red didn’t have the test until last year for new health insurance. They did a prostate exam and that’s when he found out about his infertility.”

  “Last year?” Aunt Abby repeated. “Wasn’t that about the time he left Crystal and got a divorce?”

  “She’s right,” I agreed. “Crystal said Red just walked out on her and Tiffany one day about a year ago.”

  Jake nodded. “Come to think of it, Crystal acted like she didn’t know why he left so suddenly.”

  We were silent for a moment. Some of the loose ends were beginning to come together.

  “So if Red didn’t know he was infertile until a year ago and he realized Tiffany wasn’t his biological child, he could have been so angry he just up and walked out,” I summarized. “After all, Crystal had to have been lying to him for all these years.”

  “Which brings up the question,” Sheriff O’Neil said, “who is Tiffany’s biological father?”

  “Maybe someone knew the answer to that and was killed because of it,” Aunt Abby suggested. “Like Roman or Nathan.”

  “I doubt Roman was around twenty years ago when this happened,” Jake said. “But maybe you’re right about Nathan. Maybe he found out who the father was and tried to blackmail Red.”

  “And Red killed him to keep him quiet,” Aunt Abby added, her eyes wide. “If that’s true, poor Honey!”

  The sheriff shook his head. “I’ve known Red all my life and he just doesn’t seem the rotten apple in this case. I think we’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  Again with the fruit metaphors.

  “There’s still no connection between the two vics,” Detective Shelton added, after sitting quietly for several minutes. “My gut says whoever killed Roman killed Nathan. Maybe Red killed them both for reasons that have nothing to do with his infertility. Like you said, Abby, these days the condition itself isn’t that big a deal. There has to be more to it.”

  “Maybe if we find out who Tiffany’s real father is, that would tell us something,” I suggested.

  “It won’t be easy,” Sheriff O’Neil said. “If Crystal had an affair, I doubt she’s going to tell us about it, and if she was artificially inseminated, those records are sealed too, per the donor’s wishes.”

  “Murph,” Detective Shelton, said, “maybe talk to Red again now that you know about this and see what he has to say. Maybe he’ll tell you something you just can’t learn from a medical file.”

  The sheriff rose. “I’m on it. I’ll stop by his farm and confront him, see if I can get him to tell me if he suspects anyone in particular who might be the father. And while I’m at it, I’ll try to find out if anyone was blackmailing him about it. Although I think it’s a long shot.”

  The sheriff headed out. I looked at Dillon, who’d lumbered into the dining room and retrieved his laptop while we were talking. He was busy keying away.

  I leaned over to him. “Dillon, what are you doing?”

  He didn’t answer, just continued typing rapidly.

  “Earth to Dillon?” I said.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “I said, what are you looking for?”

  He held up one finger to indicate “Wait a minute,” then went back to typing. I shrugged him off and turned to Aunt Abby. “Any ideas about what to do next?”

  “Not until we hear back from Sheriff O’Neil,” Aunt Abby said. “But I suspect Red is the key to this. I know Honey loves him, but a man who can simply walk out on a family because he isn’t the father of their child isn’t someone I’d fully trust. Maybe one of his friends knows something more that could help—like Adam.” Aunt Abby turned to Detective Shelton. “Feel like taking a ride, Wes?”

  He caught her drift and nodded. “I suppose.” He turned to Sheriff O’Neil. “All right with you, Murph?”

  “Of course,” the sheriff said.

  “Good,” Aunt Abby said, rising from her chair, “because I can’t just wait around for something else to happen. Time is running out.”

  “Are you sure you’ll be okay?” I asked my aunt. “He could be dangerous if you confront him.”

  She smiled at Wes. “I’m not worried.”

  “All right.” I turned to Jake. “Then how about we go back to the festival grounds? Maybe some of the vendors will still be there packing up their stuff. And maybe one of them saw something that might help.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Jake said.

  I had a thought. “Aunt Abby, Dillon, can we borrow your scooters?”

  Before Dillon could say no, Aunt Abby answered for both of them. “Of course! Good idea. You can cover more ground that way. Besides, they’re really fun!”

  Jake, Aunt Abby, and I headed upstairs to gather a few things, leaving Dillon working on his laptop. Detective Shelton also remained behind to make some calls. While we were in our room, Jake phoned the attorney he’d sent to help Honey, then left a message when the call went unanswered. We met Aunt Abby and Detective Shelton downstairs before they headed off to visit Adam Bramley.

  “Be careful!” I called after them, then felt like an idiot stating the obvious to the San Francisco homicide detective.

  While Jake loaded the two scooters into his cream puff truck, I decided to check up on Dillon one last time to see if he’d found out anything more. I stood over his shoulder and tried to read his computer screen.

  He turned around and gave me an annoyed look. “I hate when people do that,” he said.

  I stepped to the side. “Sorry. Find anything?”

  “Working on it,” he said.

  “Like what? More about Roman? Or Nathan? Or Red?”

  “Nope,” he said.

  “Then what?”

  “Ever heard of Cryo-Baby?”

  I made a face. “Sounds like a baby doll that cries real tears.”

  “It’s a sperm bank.”

  I blinked. “You’re hacking into the records of a sperm bank?”

  “I’m not in yet, but I found the only one located in the Apple Valley area. It’s called Cryo-Baby. It’s where people go to donate sperm and receive infertility treatments.”

  I sat down next to him. “You’re kidding! So, did you find out who Tiffany’s father is?”

  “Like I said, not yet. But I’m learning all kinds of things. Do you know how much money a guy makes from donating sperm? Like a hundred bucks!”

  I shook my head. “You’re not thinking of donating, are you?”

  “Why not? My sperms would make some real smart kids.”

  “It’s sperm, not sperms, and I don’t think you’d qualify.”

  “Would too. They give you a complete sperm analysis. I’d pass
all that. And there’s a whole section on physical appearance. With my awesome hair and eye color and height and weight, not to mention my IQ, I’d fall into the ‘high demand’ category.”

  “Yeah? What about your arrest record?”

  Dillon shrugged. “A little glitch.”

  “So you think you can break in to the bank and find out who might have donated sperm twenty years ago, when Tiffany was conceived? Although it sounds like a needle in a haystack, even if you do get in.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Dillon was not one to give up easily when it came to hacking. He loved a challenge, the more impenetrable, the better. He seemed to take special pride in every new success. “We’ll see.”

  “Darcy?” Jake stood at the front door, waiting for me. “You ready?”

  I got up from the table, gave Dillon a pat on the shoulder, and followed Jake out to his truck.

  • • •

  We arrived at the festival grounds and unloaded the scooters. Jake showed me how to make mine go: “Step onto the floorboard, turn the knob on the right handlebar to accelerate, let it go to slow down, and grasp the handle on the left to stop. It’s simple.”

  Yeah, right. I’d never ridden a scooter before, let alone an electric one. But if my sixty-something aunt could do it, then surely I could too. I released the kickstand, stepped on, got myself semibalanced, and turned the knob.

  Whee! Off I went!

  After practicing a few wide figure eights, I pulled up alongside Jake, then followed him down the path to where the vendor tents still stood. Most of the vendors had packed up, leaving behind empty tents, but a few still remained to finish up gathering their goods. I asked the Apple Spices guy and the Apple Butters lady if they knew anything about Nathan Chapman, aka Ethan Bramley, but they had little or no information to offer. Both said the man they knew as Nathan seemed to be a “nice guy,” “very sociable,” “popular with the ladies,” and the woman went so far as to say he “seemed to prefer coeds to cougars.”

  We scootered over to see if Crystal and Tiffany were still around and found Crystal packing up bottles of wine while her frowning daughter wrapped glasses and put them in boxes.