by Darci Hannah
Copyright Information
Cherry Pies & Deadly Lies: A Very Cherry Mystery © 2018 by Darci Hannah.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First e-book edition © 2018
E-book ISBN: 9780738758480
Book format by Bob Gaul
Cover design by Kevin R. Brown
Cover illustration by Greg Newbold/Bold Strokes Illustration
Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Hannah, Darci, author.
Title: Cherry pies & deadly lies / Darci Hannah.
Other titles: Cherry pies and deadly lies
Description: Woodbury, Minnesota: Midnight Ink, [2018] | Series: A very
cherry mystery; #1
Identifiers: LCCN 2017061036 (print) | LCCN 2018001204 (ebook) | ISBN
9780738758480 (ebook) | ISBN 9780738757803 (softcover: acid-free paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Murder—Investigation—Fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3608.A7156 (ebook) | LCC PS3608.A7156 C48 2018 (print)
| DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017061036
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Midnight Ink
Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.
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Manufactured in the United States of America
To Dave and Jan Hilgers,
my extraordinary parents and the true “Blooms” of Cherry Cove.
One
Murder. What a detestable word. It’s something a person doesn’t normally think about, and rightly so. It’s morbid, sad, senseless, violent, and utterly gruesome. Sure, it’s good for the ratings on the evening news and sales of the morning papers, but not much else. People delight in reading about murder, but the only ones truly excited by it are news junkies and sickos. I wasn’t a news junkie. And I was pretty darn certain I wasn’t a sicko either. No, murder had nothing to do with me or my life and I dearly wanted to keep it that way. In fact, murder was the furthest thing from my mind until that untimely phone call from Mom. The moment the word tumbled from her lips it dropped like a cannon ball, turning my insides to jelly, demanding my attention; demanding I return home to the sleepy little lakeside village of Cherry Cove, Wisconsin.
It was a very untimely phone call indeed.
Earlier in the day, before Mom’s earth-shattering call, I’d been in the kitchen of my tiny Northside Chicago apartment furiously baking. I ran an online bakery called Bloom ’n’ Cherries!, online because I didn’t have the capital for a storefront, and cherry-centric because I was born and raised on a cherry orchard. However, not wanting to pick cherries all my life, I’d turned to advertising instead. It was my life … well, up until a year ago February, when I’d been booted from my job as an ad exec in one of Chicago’s largest ad agencies. Desperately trying to get my foot back in that tightly shut door, I was baking every dessert in my cherry arsenal. This was because I was in the grip of a plan.
It was the brainchild of my former assistant Giff, aka Gifford McGrady. His brilliant idea was that I take my goods on the road and set up shop on Merchandize Mart Plaza outside my old office building. Mr. Black, my former boss, had a weakness for the smell of pert, tart red cherries oozing out of flaky crust, and Giff felt sure he would wander over to my stand. That’s when I’d pounce. I’d give my final appeal for getting my old job back. Really, I had nothing to lose but the last remaining shred of my dignity.
For my little sojourn into streetside selling, I’d pulled out all the stops. My cherry arsenal was loaded and ready, bursting with cherry tarts, cherry squares, cherry scones, cherry cobblers, and my pièce de résistance, deconstructed cherry pie. This was my own creation. It was a layered confection starting with a crisp, lightly sugared phyllo pastry crust and topped with a layer of sweet almond cream, tart cherries, brandied cherry glaze, and toasted almonds. This layer was repeated, then topped with a dollop of fresh whipped cream and a perfect, plump cherry in a drizzle of glaze. It was pure mind-blowing, unadulterated taste-bud bliss! One bite and Mr. Black would forget I’d ever made that ad.
By lunchtime, my kiosk version of Bloom ’n’ Cherries! was selling better than expected. My red-and-white-striped awning and cherry-bedazzled sign were hard to miss. But it was my array of yummy products, proudly displayed in clear plastic clamshells, with a fork on top held in place by a Bloom ’n’ Cherries! logo sticker, that were the real hit. My stand was a novelty on the plaza. A line had formed. One hungry customer was just about to buy a slice of deconstructed pie when I happened to catch sight of Mr. Black. He was coming out the front doors of our towering office building, crossing the plaza to head for a cab. Giff, meticulously dressed, was striding in his wake.
Then the smell of cherries hit them both. Giff stopped walking. Two strides later, so did Mr. Black. The man turned in my direction. He saw me and frowned. Before he could run to his cab I waved, catching his attention. There was nothing for it now. He had made eye contact. He had to come on over to my stand.
“You know that man?” my customer asked, looking skeptical. His question was answered the moment my old boss stood before me, hands on hips, staring at my sign. Giff stood beside him mimicking his stance, grinning slightly yet flashing caution.
“Hello, darling,” Giff said, the first to speak. “What a surprise seeing you here.”
It wasn’t a surprise at all. And Giff was a terrible actor.
Mr. Black stared at my sign. “Bloom ’n’ Cherries!,” he said cautiously. “Cute. Very clever. I’m glad to see that after all this time you’ve finally moved on. Best of luck to you, Whitney Bloom.” He turned to go.
“No!” I blurted, then caught myself. “Please. Sir. I want my old job back!”
I hadn’t meant it to sound so desperate or so blunt, but there it was. There was no taking it back now. I watched as a frightful range of expressions flashed across my ex-boss’s distinguished, middle-age face—shock, disbelief, horror, anger—until finally settling on laughter. Taking his cue, Giff laughed as well.
Knowing Giff’s laughter was purely mercenary, I ignored him and settled my gaze back on Mr. Black. “Sir, this isn’t a joke! I made a mistak
e, but should I be punished for it forever? This is America, land of second chances. All I’m asking for is another chance.”
His laughter died away. “My dear Miss Bloom, this may be America, but I doubt that even our founding fathers would be inclined to give you a second chance after producing that ad. There’s a picture of your face hanging in the lobby of the building, circled in red with a line through the middle. And even if you happen to slip past the guards, you won’t be setting foot in the agency. The moment you were out the door we changed the locks. Why, you ask? Because you single-handedly destroyed a reputable brand by making it the laughing stock of the entire nation. The product has been pulled from every store, and the client has been ruined—bankrupt and left with a warehouse filled to the rafters with unsellable products. That, Ms. Bloom, is quite enough destruction for one lifetime. Cut your losses while you can. We’re still trying to.” He turned to leave again.
“Please, Mr. Black!” I launched myself across the table, grabbing his expensive suit coat by the sleeve. “I’m desperate.”
Giff inhaled scandalously. “Whitney,” he admonished, prying my hand from my ex-boss’s coat.
Mr. Black was glowering. “Desperate? You’re desperate?” he seethed. “We lost ten million dollars because of you. What in God’s name were you thinking, making an ad like that and allowing the client to air it during the Super Bowl?”
“In my defense, sir, the client was very encouraging. And, all due respect, they loved my ad.”
“Of course they did! They were a parcel of yoga-pant-wearing, granola-crunching, feminine product enthusiasts. But the Super Bowl is not about feminine hygiene, Ms. Bloom. It’s about football, and all the things that go along with it—cold beer, greasy food, expensive cars, sexy women—everything that makes America great. It’s neither the time nor the place to unveil a … a feminine hygiene ad! Didn’t they teach you that at Northwestern?” His face was an alarming shade of red.
“It was never covered, sir. And it was a sexy ad,” I pointed out.
“For the first seven seconds,” he conceded. “The last eight were a horror show! As I told you fifteen months ago, you’re finished! End of story!”
Impulsively he grabbed up a cherry square, plucked it from its clamshell, and took an angry bite. His face softened a measure as he chewed. He looked at the pastry in his hand. “Dear heavens above,” he uttered. He looked at me again, clearly not knowing how to process the contradiction of physical anger and epicurean delight. “This … this is delicious,” he said accusingly. “Really delicious!” he spat, as if it angered him. “Take my advice, Ms. Bloom; go back to the orchard from which you came. You have a gift for cherries and little else.” He plucked two more clamshells off the table and stalked off.
Giff, stricken with silent apology, threw down a twenty, took one himself, and turned to follow.
“Holy gods of advertising!” exclaimed a male voice very close to me. It was my customer. I’d momentarily forgotten the line of people waiting to buy a cherry goodie. “Now that’s a side of the legendary Richard Black you don’t see. All things considered, that was particularly harsh, my dear. Here,” he said, opening his wallet. He placed a crisp hundred-dollar bill on the table and picked up two clamshells of deconstructed pie, and a tart as well. “Keep the change. By the way, I thought your ad was hilarious.”
Two
It was dark by the time I fought the traffic back to my small Northside apartment. Giff had called to apologize for his stunningly bad lapse in judgment. His apology was sincere enough, but I took offense when he started wheezing with laughter after regaling me with an uncensored version of Mr. Black’s tirade after my brazen ambush.
“Whit, darling,” Giff said, “look on the bright side. With the exception of one lowly little cherry square, you sold out today. Bloom ’n’ Cherries! was a hit, and that ad helped. You may never produce another television ad again—and really, who needs the headache and all the sleepless nights—but I’ll tell you something. You’re a cherry visionary. Nobody can work magic on those pesky little stone fruits like you can. Also, and never forget this, angel, but you look absolutely fabulous selling cherries.” The conversation degraded from there, and the call ended shortly thereafter when Giff reminded me of the one thing I didn’t wish to be reminded of—the real reason I’d left Cherry Cove in the first place.
Men! They always knew how to push your buttons.
Once home in my over-priced shoebox apartment I flipped on the lights, kicked off my shoes, and crossed to the fridge. There I selected a fine two-dollar Chablis from my collection of budget wines and poured out a glass. While indulging in the feel of that first cathartic sip, I cast a predatory eye over the lone cherry square. Dinner, I thought, feeling my stomach rumble on cue. But dinner was just going to have to wait. I was angry, depressed, and feeling rejected, and the only cure for that was baking. Besides, I had an order to fill.
I pulled the remainder of my cherry stock from the cupboard and got to work on the pie dough first, sipping wine as I measured out the ingredients for five flaky crusts. I sifted the flour, cut in the chilled butter and Crisco with gusto (imagining it was Mr. Black’s head), and, like a mad scientist, threw in the right amounts of sugar and salt. Next came the ice water, meticulously measured and blended last into the coarse mixture. I needed five pies, and I was doing my best to make every one of them invoke tears of pure epicurean joy at first bite.
After giving it a quick chill in the refrigerator, I attacked the dough, rolling out five large round disks. These I fitted into the awaiting pie tins with care, creating the first and most important layer of crust. Next I set to work on the piquant cherry pie filling.
Into my largest sauce pan went the sugar, corn starch, and cherry juice. Once the filling had thickened, I added the tart Montmorency cherries from our orchard and stirred in the fresh lemon juice and butter. This was then poured into the crusts, filling each tin equally. The last step was a woven checkered top crust with a dusting of sugar. After I’d placed a little foil around the edges to prevent the crusts from burning, it was time to send them into the oven.
The baking was going to take some time, and since I was still feeling glum I added more wine to my glass for good measure and seized the last cherry square. I took both over to the couch, where I plopped down like an overworked waitress at the end of a double shift. I was still feeling depressed. I wanted to drown my sorrows in cheap wine and gooey cherry pastry and wallow in the bittersweet glow of a good chick flick. Instead I made myself be a responsible adult, opening my laptop and checking my website to see if I had any new orders. I didn’t. But what I did have was another message from my mysterious online friend, C-Bomb.
The sight of the absurd online name made me smile. C-Bomb had first contacted me through my website, stating his name was short for “cherry bomb” and that he was a self-proclaimed cherry connoisseur. Since having sworn off all heterosexual flesh-and-blood men some time ago, I felt there was little harm in instant messaging with a man I would never meet—one who had a way with words, seemed sophisticated, and had a real sense of humor about cherries. In short, C-Bomb was a charming enigma, one who entertained me with idle banter, subtle sexual innuendoes, and his thoughts on the red tart cherry. He knew a good deal about me, which came off at times as a little creepy, but in reality it wasn’t hard to do given my website for Bloom ’n’ Cherries!, my short but memorable career in advertising, and all the social media I engaged in. At times, it appeared my entire life was on display. His was not, and I found that totally sexy. He wouldn’t even tell me his real name, or his age, or send me a picture. And googling the name C-Bomb elicited nothing but pages and pages of garbage. Strangely, I found that I liked that. Whoever he was, C-Bomb was mysterious. It gave my active imagination more fodder for fantasy, and with a name like C-Bomb the sky was the limit.
Hi, I typed.
So, how did it go? Did Mr. Black giv
e you your old job back? he replied.
Unfortunately, no. They’ve not only kicked me to the curb, but changed the locks as well, or so I’m told. I hit enter and took another gulp of wine.
I detect a hint of despair. Perhaps you’re forgetting the family business? Or the fact you have a passion for cherries? Did I ever mention that I’ve stayed at the Cherry Orchard Inn?
I sat up and stared at the screen. The Cherry Orchard Inn! It was the most charming, iconic inn located in Cherry Cove, and I should know. My parents owned that inn! It was the first time he’d mentioned it. I took another sip of wine and typed, No. I had no idea. When was this?
Tsk tsk. I’m not going to tell you when, nor will I tell you the name of the room. I will tell you that the view was spectacular and the food sublime, although I’m sure you’re well aware of both. Oh, and did I mention that I met your parents, Jani and Baxter? Such nice people. So generous! And don’t get them started talking about you, their charming daughter, unless you’ve got an hour to spare. Fortunately, I did, and I was all ears, especially when I learned about the man your mother thinks you should marry. Does the name Tatum Vander Hagen ring any bells? I was sorry to hear about him. However, the fact that you’re not in Cherry Cove anymore does give a man hope. Am I wrong to hope?
I frowned at the screen. I’m a little disturbed that you talked with my folks. And I’m not saying a thing about Tate unless you give me the date of your visit and the name of the room you stayed in.
So you can look me up in the books and find my real name? Never!
How else am I to know who you really are?
Well that’s the game, isn’t it? I’m your enigma. Someday, Ms. Bloom, I shall sweep you off your feet and kiss you, and all will be revealed.
What? When? Where? You don’t even know me … do you? I found it utterly mysterious, erotic, and, if I was being totally honest, a little unsettling as well. The guy could be in his fifties, married with kids … then again, he could be totally ripped, wealthy, single, romantic, and a wild beast in the sack. Swingin’ dingles! It was thoughts like these that kept me typing with this stranger.
