by Darci Hannah
You know I can’t answer any of those questions, he replied. Let’s just leave it up to Fate, that and the fact that there are no coincidences in life. By the way, thank you for sharing your deconstructed cherry pie recipe. It looks complicated. Maybe someday you’ll make it for me.
In order to do that I need to know who you are—unless you order it from the website. But I warn you, from this day forth I shall conduct a thorough background search on all who order that pie!
No. I mean in person. As I’ve told you, someday you will know who I am, but not today.
Oh, for cripes sake! Just tell me! I scream-typed, my mind swirling with all the possibilities. Frankly, none of them looked too good. Just then my phone began to ring. I glanced at the screen.
Mom.
Fudgesicles! I’d been meaning to call her all day.
It was late May and tourist season was just around the corner. This was the weekend our inn hosted its annual Cherry Blossom Festival, a fun-filled two days designed to showcase the orchard in all its full-blooming glory (nothing awakens the senses to the beauties of springtime like a stroll through a blossoming cherry orchard). It was a weekend filled with gentle pursuits. Along with the usual activities our inn boasted, there was croquet on the lawn, tennis for those who were so inclined, and unrestricted strolling through the blossoming orchard followed by a visit to the cherry-blossom scented hot tubs. On Saturday at mid-morning there was a hayride through the orchard with a tour of the processing sheds, followed by lunch under a tent erected on the lawn. At mid-afternoon, this same tent hosted a wine and cheese tasting, showcasing cherry wines from around the country and the best local cheeses. Other cherry products were on display and sampled under the tent as well, every one of them sold at the inn gift shop. And it was under this same tent where the signature event of the weekend took place: the cherry pie bake-off. Anyone could enter, although it was usually the locals who competed. Competition could get pretty steep since the prize was a one-hundred-dollar gift card, bragging rights, and the honor of keeping the “Gilded Cherry” trophy for a whole year.
Mom had been excited about this year’s festival and strongly suggested I come up for the weekend. I knew every room was booked and that they could use my help. But I also knew that if I showed up, Mom would insist I enter my deconstructed pie in the contest, and I just wasn’t feeling it. Not this year. She’d called four times in the past two days, and somehow I’d forgotten to call her back.
I had ignored her calls.
I was a terrible daughter.
“Mom!” I said, answering the phone. “I was just thinking about you. I’m so glad you called.”
If my voice was infused with enthusiasm, hers was anything but. “Whitney,” she whimpered into the phone. “I’m so scared. I’m so scared.”
At the tone of her voice the hair at the back of my neck stood on end and my insides turned to water. Mom was perpetually cheerful. She was never anything less than perky over the phone. “Dang it, Mom! Where are you? What’s going on?”
“I’m at the inn,” she whispered ominously, causing my entire body to prickle with foreboding. “Something terrible has happened. Oh, just terrible!”
“What? Mom, please, calm down and tell me what’s happened.”
“It was all going so well … so well until they found him.”
My hands were shaking. “Who? Mom, who did they find?”
“Jeb,” she whispered over the phone. “Jeb Carlson, and he’s very, very dead.”
“Are you kidding me?” I cried. “Jeb?” Jeb Carlson, an older gentleman who’d lived in Cherry Cove nearly his whole life, managed our orchard. He was a sweet old guy, cheerful, friendly, and utterly indispensable to our family. He knew everything there was to know about cherries, and was also the head judge of the cherry pie bake-off. It was really too much to think about. “Oh my God! How did he die? Did he have a heart attack or something?”
“Murdered,” she uttered into the phone.
My heart stopped for a beat or two at the impossibility of the word. It was unbelievable. Unfathomable. Nothing bad like that ever happened in the sleepy town of Cherry Cove. “Are you telling me that Jeb’s been murdered? During the Cherry Blossom Festival weekend? Is this your idea of a joke, Mom? Because if it is, it’s a pretty sick one.”
“No,” she said, and began crying. “No joke. I wish it was. And the worst part … the worst part is … ”
Really, how could it be any worse?
“And the worst part is, it appears your dad is the murderer.”
THUD! It was either my heart engaging or the other shoe dropping—either way, I felt shaken to the core. She was right. It was worse. Far worse.
Forgetting everything but the fact that I needed to get to Cherry Cove fast, I shut my laptop and began packing.
Three
Giff was out clubbing with hot Jonny from Creative when I called him. The bass at the club was so booming loud it was a wonder he even heard his phone ring. Then I remembered he wore tight pants and always had his phone set to vibrate.
“Whassup, Whitney Bloom? Calling to hear me apologize again? Not gonna happen. The Giffster only apologizes once per f-up, never more. You know that.”
“Yeah. No. We’re good. I’m just calling because I need to bail on brunch tomorrow, and I need you to do me a favor.”
“You what? Fail to launch tomorrow and like my flavor?”
“No. I said I have to bail on brunch,” I yelled into the phone.
“Just a minute.” I could hear him cover the mic on his phone. A moment later he spoke again; this time the bass was subdued, with only a few voices in the background, and there was the distinct flush of a toilet. “Okay, try it again.”
“I’m calling to tell you that I can’t meet for brunch tomorrow, and I need you to do me a huge favor.”
“Why not? Oh! You’re on a hot date!”
“No. It’s nothing good. Family emergency. I’m heading to Cherry Cove.”
“Oh my God,” he uttered when my words finally sunk in. “Not Grandma Jenn? Not that cherry-loving free spirit? She’s the coolest, Whit. Christ, I love the old girl to pieces.” I could tell he was drunk, the maudlin tones cloaking his deep, expressive voice. It was an impressive show of emotion, even for him.
“No. No. Grandma Jenn’s fine. It’s my dad. There’s a possibility he’s murdered someone.”
“Wa-wa-wa what!?” The voice on the other end shifted, filling with incredulity as it echoed off the bathroom walls. “Baxter Bloom? A murderer? Whitney, what the deuce is going on?”
“Hush!” I hissed. “For cripes sake, keep your voice down. I don’t know what’s going on, and the truth is, I don’t have any details. And, of course, I don’t think my dad’s a murderer! That’s why I’ve got go. The inn’s booked for the weekend and Mom sounds like she’s falling apart. I’m just calling to let you know I won’t be there. Also, I need you to deliver some pies to the gastropub. I’ll leave directions on the counter.”
“No problem, sweetheart. Consider it done. Anything else?”
“Wish me luck?”
“Luck? Angel, you’re not the lucky type, and even if you were, I’ve a feeling you’re going to need a pinch more than luck for this one.”
∞
Giff, although drunk, was undoubtedly correct. I wasn’t the lucky sort. Things seldom ever fell my way, and if they did, it was usually because I’d yanked them first. And it was shabby of him to remind me of it! Hard work and a go get ’em attitude were my trademarks. Although at times I could get a little overzealous. But was that a crime? And, for the love of Pete, I was feeling extremely overzealous at the moment … or was it anxious? Definitely anxious! Murder, I’m told, will do that to a person. But the murder of an old friend and valued employee—during the Cherry Blossom Festival weekend—with Dad as the prime suspect? How messed up was th
at?
Another thing that was bothering me was the fact that I didn’t have any details. Mom obviously had been in shock, and our conversation hadn’t been long. I’d know all the details soon enough, I told myself, once I made it to the Cherry Orchard Inn.
After packing my bags, taking the pies out of the oven, and talking to Giff, I realized I needed sleep. It was a five-hour drive up to Cherry Cove from Chicago, and after the day I’d had I doubted I’d make it without driving into the lake. I needed a few hours under my belt, so I programmed the coffee maker and set my alarm for two thirty in the morning.
It was well before dawn when I hit the road, driving with a hot thermos of coffee on the seat beside me. The air was crisp, the sky strewn with stars, and the roads all but empty. Five hours straight north up the shoreline of Lake Michigan, and the entire way I was wracked with guilt. I hadn’t been home in … dear God, had it really been eighteen months? I was a terrible daughter! And the thought that Dad might be thrown in prison for murder was more than I could bear. Tears blurred my vision as I sped out of the city in my cherry red Ford Escape. Every song streaming through my iPhone reminded me of home. Caffeine coursed through my blood as I pressed on the accelerator, crying, sipping coffee, nibbling dry cereal, and trying to wrap my head around the thought that somebody could murder a sweet old man like Jeb Carlson, and that anyone would think my dad was a suspect.
I watched the sun rise over Lake Michigan and shortly thereafter crossed the Bayview Bridge in Sturgeon Bay. I was on the Door County Peninsula, that little nubbin of a thumb halfway up the great state of Wisconsin, poking into Lake Michigan. I continued north on Route 42, noting the beauty of the greening hills and thick woodland sprouting with new life. Half an hour later everything came into view, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
It never fails to take your breath away, that first sight of the cove opening before you through dense wood and cherry-scented air. The town of Cherry Cove started at the bottom of a substantial hill and sprawled along the north half of Cherry Cove Bay. The crescent shoreline, dotted with rock and sandy beaches, white gingerbread gazebos, and Victorian-style buildings bedecked with newly planted flower boxes and hanging planters, was as picturesque as a town could be, in my opinion. And I wasn’t the only one who thought so. Cherry Cove had attracted the notice of plenty of high-end travel magazines as well, earning full-color centerfold spreads that beckoned tourists and residents alike. Flowerbeds lined the main road. Sailboats sat at anchor on the cool blue waters of the harbor. Beyond the bay sat a couple of islands, and beyond those the vast body of water known as the Green Bay. There was a red-painted barn, and a little Scandinavian-style log cottage covered with a thick sod roof, a nod to the Swedish and Norwegian settlers who came to the Cove in the late 1800s. Above the town, poking high over the tree-covered hills, was the white steeple of St. Paul’s Lutheran Church.
I slowed down at the top of the hill, staring at the horseshoe bay and the awakening town beyond it, and took a deep breath. Cherry blossoms! On my left the sprawling Bloom Family Orchard came into view, every neatly pruned Montmorency cherry tree heavy with white blossoms. My heart beat a little faster at the sight. I was nearly home.
I turned onto Cherry Bluff Lane, a private road that wound its way along the rolling orchard until ending at the Cherry Orchard Inn out on the point. The inn was a large, rambling, modernized Victorian building with a wide wrap-around front porch and a cone-roofed, three-story turret on one side. It was surrounded by beautiful grounds and impeccable terraced landscaping. For all its size it was still a quaint inn, with only ten guest rooms that were named instead of numbered. Every room had a different theme. It was all part of the charm. The inn itself sat on a hill that overlooked the wide bay and the town of Cherry Cove dotting the far shore. I had forgotten what a magical place it was—the inn, the orchard, the processing sheds just visible in the distance, and the dense forest beyond—all occupying some of the best real estate in Wisconsin.
The magical feeling was shattered the moment I saw the police SUV parked under the portico, reminding me that the Cherry Orchard Inn was now the scene of a crime. It would forever be tainted as the place of Jeb Carlson’s murder. The parking lot was full, and having no patience to even attempt to parallel park in the only space left (between a Mercedes and a Jag), I thought it safest to just snag the handicapped spot and be done with it. From there I ran under the portico, flew up the wide front steps, and bolted through the door.
The grand foyer, a spacious two-story entrance with a winding white staircase on the left spiraling to the balconied second floor, was empty. To the right was a cozy breakfast room. The French doors to it were open, and I could see that coffee had already been laid out on the antique sideboard in the back along with an assortment of sweet rolls, muffins, cherry pecan bread, and a bowl of fresh berries. The room itself, with six pretty little tables and several groupings around the stone fireplace, was empty. Beyond the grand foyer and the staircase sat the front desk. It was a modern piece, white with clean lines to match the window panes, the woodwork, and the stairs. Before me was the main dining room, and the patio beyond, but the French doors there were still closed. The dining room didn’t open until nine.
The person working the front desk must have heard me come in. A moment later a familiar face emerged from the office door and stood behind the counter.
“Whitney!” Margaret exclaimed, surprised yet clearly troubled. She lowered her voice. “I heard you were expected, though I didn’t think you’d come through the inn entrance.”
“Good morning, Margaret. I saw the cop car out front. I thought they’d all be in here.”
“No. Not here. Never here. And that fluffy-headed idiot was told to go straight to the family residence, and not to park out front for all to see. Though no one’s up yet, thank heavens. We’re trying to keep things as close to normal as possible here, under the circumstances. Your folks are in the family quarters. Go on back. I’ll buzz you in.”
Four
The family quarters were essentially two thousand square feet of private living space in the wing of the inn opposite the guest rooms. The bedrooms were upstairs, and the kitchen, dining room, sunroom, and Dad’s office were on the first floor. I walked down the back hall toward its front door, wondering where everyone was, when all of a sudden Mom popped into the hallway in front of me. She had come flitting out of the kitchen bearing a tray of fluted stemware and a pitcher of mimosas. She apparently hadn’t seen me coming from the hotel side, and turned in the direction of the sunroom, oblivious.
Either my mom had hit rock bottom and was planning on doing a little drinking, or she was hosting a brunch, which was odd, I thought, under the current circumstances. I hoped, for the sake of my poor father, it was the former and not the latter. “Mom!” I called out to her retreating back. At the sound of my voice she froze.
After a moment, the unflappable Jani Bloom swung her blonde braids in my direction. Her round blue eyes lit up with joy. “Whitney, darling! You’re here! Oh, and I just love what you’ve done with your hair!”
It was the kind of greeting I’d expect if we’d just met for coffee, not one for the current occasion. I hadn’t seen Mom in over six months. I hadn’t been home in nearly eighteen. I had just driven five hours because I was told there’d been a murder at the orchard and that Dad was suspect number one. Apparently, none of that seemed to matter. Mom was ogling my hair as if it were spray-painted gold and dripping with jewels.
“That cut’s so darling on you, so sassy and modern! It frames your beautiful face, highlights your big blue eyes, and is the perfect cut for those shiny blonde locks. I just love it!”
I’m not gonna lie. I was kind of in love with my sleek new face-framing bob as well. I thought it made me look older, more sophisticated—like an aspiring business woman should look. Not sassy.
Mom tilted her head to one side, smiled, and thrust out her tray. “M
imosa?”
Heavens, it was tempting. But what the devil was she thinking!? And who makes a pitcher of mimosas the morning after their husband has been accused of murder? I wasn’t entirely certain what was going on, but whatever it was, did it really require a tray of mimosas? Either I’d been away too long this time or Mom was losing it. Likely it was a little of both.
“Ah, no thanks, Mom. Where’s Dad?”
“Dad?”
“You know, my father? The man who, apparently, murdered Jeb Carlson last night? Do you remember our conversation, Mom? At all?”
Her blue eyes widened, then rolled sideways in the direction of the sunroom. Her cheeks flushed bright red. “Hush, darling,” she said. “Not so loud. Of course there’s been a murder, a terrible one, but we’ve all decided it’s for the best if we keep it quiet—just for the weekend, you know.”
“What?” I cried. “Mom, you can’t just brush something like murder under the carpet! We’re talking about Jeb Carlson here! He’s not just anybody, Mom. He’s family!” I was heaving with indignation as I spoke.
“Of course it’s not okay!” she replied quickly. “And I know how this looks. I’m sick to death just thinking about it. But what’s done is done. There’s no use frightening the guests in the meantime.”
I stared at her, and then my eyes fell to the tray of mimosas, the fluted crystal gently tinkling under her shaking hands.
“Dang it!” I breathed, and took the tray from her before she dropped it. “I’m sorry, Mom. I know how much this weekend means to you and Dad, just as I know how much Jeb means to this place.”
“We don’t want to do it,” Mom said, looking ill. “We all want to mourn him, as he should be mourned, but we have our guests to think about. They paid a pretty penny to be here, and the festival must go on.” She spoke bravely, but I could see through the façade. Her chin quivered and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. She then took a fluted glass off the tray I was holding and poured herself a mimosa. She gulped it down like water and continued reflectively. “It’s just a shame that nice young couple staying in the Swan Suite, Ryan and Jillian McSweeny, had to stumble upon Jeb’s body last night. You see,” she said, staring at me, “the McSweenys snuck into the orchard for a little nookie-nookie under the blossoms and found poor Jeb instead, a big dent in his head and dead as a doornail.” She hiccupped at the thought, stifling a flow of tears. “Imagine their shock at finding him like that.”
