by Darci Hannah
“Oh, my!” My abrupt entrance had startled the elderly woman in the bed next to mine. I felt a little guilty when I saw that a blob of Jell-O had wiggled off her spoon, landing in her coffee. “Hello there, dear,” she said, seemingly unfazed. “You’re awake. Nurse Sheila said you took a nasty tumble and cracked your head. I fell too, only I won’t be springing out of bed so quickly this time.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” I said, and truly meant it. She seemed like a nice old lady. Under any other circumstances, I’d undoubtedly be a bit more attentive. But the news had grabbed my full attention.
“Isn’t it just terrible,” she said, her bright old eyes wide with morbid intrigue. “There’s been a murder at the Cherry Orchard Inn. Can you believe it? Baywatch News had been up there all morning. They’ve got that woman reporter, Greta Stone, there now.”
“What?” I cried. Unfortunately, she wasn’t lying. It was surreal watching the live feed from the TV cameras as a Barbie-esque blonde stood in the familiar parking lot with the inn perfectly framed behind her. She was speaking to the cameras.
“The details are still unclear, but this is what we know so far. Last night, orchard manager Jeb Carlson was found dead in the cherry orchard by Ryan and Julia McSweeny, a young couple staying at the inn for the annual Cherry Blossom Festival. There are no suspects yet in custody, but the name Baxter Bloom, owner of both orchard and inn, has been put forth by an anonymous source as a person of interest. The cause of death is still unknown, and the local authorities are keeping a tight lid on this ongoing investigation. But don’t worry, I’m going to personally stay here until we can get to the bottom of this Blunder Under the Blossoms. Reporting from the Cherry Orchard Inn, for Baywatch News, this is Greta Stone.”
“Oh, that Greta Stone is a sly one!” the old lady exclaimed, then took a sip of her Jell-O coffee. “She’s hot on the trail, that one. It’s only a matter of time before she draws out the details. And I bet they’re juicy.”
In one painful clench, my heart emptied of all blood and my throat felt dry as sand. It was terrible! It was a nightmare! Poor Dad! Without another thought, I headed for the door.
“Wait! You can’t just run out of here like that, dear! Not with that lump on your head. What am I to tell Nurse Sheila?”
“Umm … thanks?” I said noncommittally, and dashed out the door.
Eleven
I needed to find Jack, and we needed to get back to the orchard. It was barely mid-morning, but all hell was breaking loose. I escaped the ER without incident, found a stairwell, and descended into the basement two steps at a time. I was running down the back hallway when I saw Jack emerging from the Medical Examiner’s Office.
“Hey,” Jack said upon seeing me. “You okay? Nasty lump. That’s gotta hurt. I was just about to come up and see how you were doing.”
Truthfully, I’d already forgotten about the pain in my head. “I’m fine,” I assured him, bending over to catch my breath. “Listen, we’ve got to get back to the inn. It’s been on the news. The press is already there. Can you believe it? They’re calling it ‘Blunder Under the Blossoms’! I was in advertising, Jack. That’s the kind of thing that sticks to a business. That’s the kind of thing that ruins lives! This is a PR nightmare.”
He stood a moment, studying me through narrowed eyes. “That incident in the morgue … clearly, you’re not cut out for this.”
“Are you listening to what I’m telling you, Jack? The press is there.”
“Of course they are. It’s murder,” he stated, holding me in a scrutinizing gaze.
“You knew they were there?”
“They were tipped off when the body came in last night. It’s bound to happen. They have police scanners and informants in every hospital. Unfortunately, and you might not want to hear this, but it’s journalists’ job to report the news. However, I specifically told your parents that under no circumstance were they to talk with the press, and they won’t. Don’t worry.”
“What? Don’t worry? Are you insane? How am I not supposed to worry? You saw the body! You know what happened. Even a toddler could see that my dad killed that man! How can you look so calm?”
“Because,” Jack said plainly, “I’m not a toddler.” It seemed he was about to elaborate on this when Doc Fisker walked out of his office. The man was eating a huge piece of cherry pie on a very tiny paper plate.
“MacLaren, it’s been a pleasure, m’boy,” he said. “I’ll sign the paperwork and wait for your call before I send it over, just like you asked. And Miss Bloom.” He turned to me, paused, and shoveled another gooey bite of pie into his mouth. “Whoa Nelly!” he exclaimed, his large blue eyes growing even larger. He wiggled the little plastic fork at my forehead. “You’ve got a nice egg on your head. Came down hard and cracked it on the table before we knew what happened. You’ll want to put some ice on that.” He took another bite. “Don’t be a stranger. Oh,” he exclaimed, parking his tiny fork deep in the flaky pie crust. “I meant to give you this.” He withdrew a disturbingly well-read copy of Fifty Shades of Grey from the pocket of his lab coat. His finger left a smudge of cherry pie filling on the cover. I didn’t want to touch it, let alone take it. Jack suffered no such qualms and took it for me. “When you’re done with that,” the doctor instructed, “pass it along to your mother. She’d get a kick out of it.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Jack replied, doing a remarkable job of looking professional. “I’ll see to it that Miss Bloom follows your orders to a tee. But for now, I think it’s best that I get her out of here. Look at her head. I’ve heard of people passing out in a morgue before but didn’t think it was true. Now we know.” The idiot grinned. The doctor did too. Jack then cleared his throat, took my hand, and pulled me along to the elevator.
The moment the doors closed he dissolved into a fit of laughter. “I’m sorry,” he said, gaining control of himself once again. “Doc Fisker. Gotta love the guy, but he’s one disturbed old dude. Pie in one hand, chick-porn in the other. That’s what happens when you cut open dead bodies all day for a living.” He shook the book at me in a mocking way. The elevator door opened and we stepped out. “Do you want this?” he asked.
I shook my head. “It’s all yours.”
“Oh, no-no. Only sci-fi and comic books for me.” He grinned, winked, and disappeared into the ER waiting room. A moment later he popped out again, bookless.
“Come along, Whit. Let’s get you something to eat,” he said, grabbing hold of my hand again. “As I was saying—or at least as I was beginning to say until I got distracted—you cannot enter a morgue on an empty stomach, especially when viewing the body of a friend or loved one. Doesn’t work.”
“But Jack, we don’t have time to eat. We need to get back to the inn.”
“And risk you passing out again? I think not. Dear God, your stomach’s been growling like a rabid dog ever since you landed in the front seat of my car, and now you have a very unsightly lump on your forehead. First rule of crime investigation: eat a good breakfast.”
“How can I eat knowing that the press is going to rake my parents over the coals?” My forehead throbbed at the thought.
“They’re gonna try. And damaging details will begin to emerge. It’s how it works, Whit. But don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry?” I cried helplessly. “My dad’s going to be lynched, and my mom will be left to run both orchard and inn, and let me tell you, I don’t think she’s up for it.”
“Whit, don’t fret just yet. It’s not a bad thing the press is there. It’ll get the guests talking. Everyone who has something to say about the murder will undoubtedly come forward and talk to the camera. People can’t resist the thought of being on TV, especially when they think they have some little but important tidbit to share. I hope the reporter talks to every guest staying at the inn. Makes my job easier.”
“Jack!” I admonished, standing beside his SUV.
“Are you listening to yourself? My father … ” It was hard to wrap my head around the thought, but I’d come halfway to it and now I had to finish it. “My father probably murdered a man last night in his own cherry orchard! And now you’re going to sit back and let the press interview the guests so they can destroy what’s left of his dignity?”
Jack bent his head and looked me in the eye. “You believe your father murdered Jeb Carlson?” It appeared he found this interesting. That he did was like a blow to the stomach.
“Oh my God!” I breathed. “I saw the body before passing out! I’m not an idiot!”
He considered this a moment, then wisely added, “I never thought you were, but you did pass out. You didn’t get the full story. I now know something that only Doc Fisker and the murderer know, and thanks to that man’s weakness for your grandma’s cherry pie, it will remain a secret for a while longer yet.”
“What do you know?” I asked, flabbergasted.
Jack opened the car door for me. Only when I was seated and buckled in did he say, “What I know, Whitney Bloom, is exactly what I suspected in the first place. Your father didn’t kill Jeb Carlson.”
Twelve
To say that the words Jack uttered were a relief would be an understatement. I may have passed out in the morgue prematurely—and what I’d seen in there would certainly forever be seared in my memory—but the entire episode had left me with a new appreciation for the importance of good detective work. It caused me to ponder the fact that Officer MacLaren might not be quite as inexperienced as Mom thought him to be. He had followed a hunch and had used cherry pie as a bribe. That spoke of cleverness. The fact that he was withholding the secret he’d uncovered from me until I’d eaten was downright maddening. The man was not above extortion.
Therefore, moments after leaving the hospital, I found myself sitting in a quiet booth in the back of a local Sturgeon Bay establishment called Ed’s Diner. The waitress, a sturdy middle-aged woman named Marge, knew Jack by name.
“Morning, Marge,” he said to her with a bright, innocent smile. “My friend Miss Bloom here will have the Big Breakfast: eggs over-easy, extra bacon, pancakes instead of toast, a glass of water, coffee, a bag of ice, and two Tylenol if you’ve got ’em.” The elderly waitress looked at me in a pitying way, nodded, and scribbled on her notepad.
“Wait,” I protested, attempting to break in and change the obscene order to something a little less full-blown gluttony (I had a rule never to eat so much in public!). Our waitress, however, didn’t appear to hear me. She was entirely focused on Jack. “Just a black coffee for me, Marge.” Jack gave his lean, uniformed stomach a meaningful pat. “Criminals hate a fit cop. Hate it even more when you run their asses to the ground.” He cast the waitress a playful wink.
“Oh, is that so?” A look of extreme skepticism appeared over a pair of bedazzled drugstore readers. “And here I thought that’s what your pricey SUV was for, Officer MacLaren.”
“There’s that too, Marge. But criminals are a little harder on a truck than your average kamikaze deer. And unlike the unfortunate deer, criminals have lawyers.”
Marge cracked a smile for the first time. “So what happened to you then, hon?” she asked, pointing a shocking-pink painted nail at the throbbing lump on my forehead. “Did the fit detective run you to ground as well? Or was it his handy SUV?”
I smiled up at her. “Neither, I’m afraid. I got this little beauty in the morgue.” That sent her off in a hurry. A moment later I was scarfing down every morsel of the giant breakfast while Officer MacLaren nibbled on a piece of bacon and nursed a coffee.
“Can’t have you passing out again,” he remarked, watching me eat.
“Not likely to happen,” I assured him with a mouthful of pancakes. “I’ve just conquered my fear of morgues and dead bodies.”
He thought this was amusing. “No one conquers that fear, but I would’ve appreciated it if you hadn’t lied to me. If you’d just told me that you’d never been to a morgue before, or that you’d never actually seen a dead body, I would have at least stood beside you. Had I been beside you and not across from you, I might have prevented that lump. There’s no shame in admitting the truth, Whit. But there can be real danger in trying to be something you’re not.”
I stared at him, my head throbbing, my eyes bulging, my mind racing. “We both know that you would never have taken me with you if I’d told you the truth.”
“True,” he said, and took a sip of coffee. “And now you know. But Whitney, this is where it ends.”
“Not quite,” I reminded him, and pushed away my empty plate. “You said that my dad didn’t kill Jeb Carlson. So who clubbed the poor man to death?”
Jack shrugged. “It wasn’t the croquet mallet that killed him.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute. I saw the man’s head—right before I passed out. The bruising was monstrous. Are you absolutely certain?”
“Pretty darn,” he replied. “Would you care to venture a guess as to what actually killed him?”
I took a sip of coffee, thinking. Unfortunately, I had nothing. He undoubtedly knew I had nothing but was insisting on testing me. “Well,” I began, “if it wasn’t a blow to the head that killed Jeb Carlson, I’d say … ” I thought a moment, then decided to throw caution to the wind and offered, “He was strangled.”
“Really? Strangled? That’s what you’re going with?”
“I thought I saw some bruising around his neck, just there.” As I spoke I indicated my own neck. But Jack wasn’t buying it. In fact, he looked amused.
“You didn’t have time to look at Jeb’s neck before you passed out, did you?”
“Not really, no.” The mere mention of my little accident was still humiliating.
“I thought you might be interested to know that all the bruising you saw, encompassing the entire left side of Jeb’s face and not his neck, occurred postmortem. It happened after Jeb was already dead.”
A shiver of disgust rippled through me. “Are you sure? Who would do such a thing to a harmless old man?”
“A murderer,” Jack added levelly. “Not your dad, at any rate. What Doc Fisker and I discovered was that Jeb was poisoned first. He was dead before the mallet struck. Which means that whoever poisoned him went to some trouble to make it appear that your dad was to blame.”
“Are you saying that someone’s trying to frame my father for murder?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Do you know if your dad has any enemies, Whitney? Is there some reason a person would want to damage his image, or try to get him out of the way?”
“No. At least, I don’t think that there is. My dad’s a great guy. Everybody loves him.”
What Jack thought of this I couldn’t be sure. His face was as smooth and reflective as pond water. He thought for a moment before adding, “Then there’s the possibility that this might not be about Baxter at all. Maybe it really is about Jeb, and your dad was just an easy target to pin his murder on. Did Jeb know something that he shouldn’t have?” It looked as if he was asking me this. I shrugged my shoulders in response. “Did he have a secret worth dying for?” Jack continued. “Did he make an enemy who might want him dead?”
“Let’s say he did. It makes the most sense to me.”
“That’s wishful thinking, Whit. The truth is, we don’t have enough evidence to support either theory. However, one thing we do know is that whoever the murderer is, they’re not a stranger. We’re dealing with someone who knows their way around the orchard, someone who knows the relationship between Jeb and your father; someone who knows that your dad has a prized croquet mallet that he keeps in his office.”
“Oh my God” was all I could say, suddenly feeling ill. I shouldn’t have eaten so much. “I never considered that.”
“This is what I tried to warn you about, Whitney. This is what makes investigating so dangerou
s. Murder, in most instances, is a very personal crime. You might not wish to acknowledge it, but the chances are good that you know the person who did this.”
“You … you don’t think it could be one of the guests?”
“We can’t rule them out just yet, but in my experience, it’s unlikely. Then, too, you’ve been away from here for quite a while. Maybe you won’t know who this person is.”
“If that was supposed to make me feel better, it doesn’t.”
“Could be a new friend of Jeb’s,” he offered by way of apology. “A girlfriend, perhaps? You heard what Doc Fisker said. Jeb was the last person to have that book.” I didn’t like where Jack was going with this. To be fair, neither did he. He took a sip of coffee, as if the bitter taste would erase the words from his tongue. I did the same. It didn’t help. “However,” he finally said, after thinking a moment, “I’m inclined to think it has something to do with the wine they were making in secret.”
“The wine!” I exclaimed, suddenly remembering about that.
“Exactly. If nobody knew about it but the two of them, why was it missing?”
“Maybe Jeb took it himself and hid it, before telling Dad it was gone.”
“If he hadn’t been poisoned, it might be a consideration. If Jeb in fact stole the wine and then your dad found out, it might be plausible that he would have used his croquet mallet in anger. But Baxter’s a smart man. If he was going to murder his orchard manager, say in a fit of unbridled passion—and say that he just happened to have his croquet mallet in hand—he wouldn’t leave it in the orchard”
“Of course not! Dad’s smarter than that.” For some reason this thought enlivened me.
“Everyone knows it’s his croquet mallet,” Jack went on. “Even the couple who found the body recognized it. Doc Fisker and I did a cursory check of the grip and shaft for fingerprints, and there’s plenty. He’s sending it off to the lab, but I’m not holding my breath. Our killer has proven himself to be very clever, and a clever criminal would know to wear gloves.”
