by Darci Hannah
“Do you really need to go in?” he asked through his soft, insinuating smile. “You could just come with me. I’m heading over to hitch up the hay wagon to the tractor right now. Come with me, Whit. Help me conduct the tour. No one knows more about this orchard than you do. Then, afterward, we can have lunch on the lawn with the guests. Or we can wait until three o’clock and join the wine and cheese tasting. What do you say?”
It sounded heavenly: a ride through the orchard followed by lunch. I wouldn’t have minded a little wine and cheese tasting either. In spite of my visit to the morgue, the lump on my head, and the fact that there was a murderer on the loose, it was a glorious day. And wine and cheese were my kryptonite. I could feel myself growing weak under Tate’s alluring gaze, and I hated myself a little for it. This is how it always happened, I reminded myself, until my inner voice was lulled to silence by those pleading eyes and adorable cheek dimples. Tate was charming. In my current state I was putty in his hands, and he knew it. I needed a support group to battle the likes of him. I needed the voice of reason to slap me in the face, but no one was about. It was just Tate and me … alone in a Gator. “I … I suppose I could … ”
Tate’s foot was hovering over the gas pedal, ready to engage, when I heard my name. We both turned toward the house at the same time. And when I saw my two best childhood friends running across the patio calling to me, I was taken with a wave of relief and another of joy.
My prayers had been answered. My support group had arrived.
Sixteen
Shoo! Shoo!” cried Hannah Winthrop, running toward Tate and waving him away like a flock of meddlesome geese. Moments before, at the sight of my friends, I’d alighted from the Gator, shocking Tate and leaving him in a predicament like a fish in a barrel. Although it appeared all in good fun, there was a thread of seriousness in Hannah’s swift, mother-hen actions. My besties knew what Tate had done to me, and like true friends, they always had my back.
Tay followed Hannah’s example, running after Tate as well and chiming in with “Move along, lusty dutchman. There’s an orchard tour that needs a guide, and you volunteered. Besides, we don’t want you scaring Whitney off so soon. She’s just come home.”
Tate, recovering quickly, flashed them a rueful smile. He then tossed me a private wink and hit the gas. For the first time since coming home, I breathed a sigh of relief.
Although my friends and I talked weekly, it had been a while since I’d seen those two grinning faces. The second I did, the hands of time stilled for a moment, bringing me back to Mrs. Olafson’s third grade class where the three of us had met. Tay and Hannah were still my dearest friends, but life had taken us all in different directions. I was the bird that flew the coop, heading for the big city and a career in advertising.
Tay, aka Taylor Robinson, stood all of five-foot-two inches, was incredibly hip and chic, and had a flair for design. Her clothes were unique and artfully put together; her hair was kept short and dyed a color red not normally found in nature; and she had a sharp wit and brand of sass we all admired. After high school, she had left Cherry Cove to study art and cultural anthropology at the University of Wisconsin; she’d come away from the experience with a deep and thorough knowledge of antiques, relics, and highly-sought-after gadgets of the past. Now, at the ripe old age of twenty-eight, Tay was the owner of Cherry Cove’s trendiest antique boutique, Cheery Pickers.
Hannah, on the other hand, was in many ways Tay’s polar opposite. She was a six-foot-tall willowy blonde with an open, cheerful nature. Hannah had gone to a four-year university like the rest of us, in her case to study business, but only found that she hated both college and studying. She was too much of a free spirit to be corralled in classes all day, and time was something to bend, not adhere to. After two years of giving it her all, Hannah dropped out of school and fell in love with yoga instead. She moved back to Cherry Cove and opened a small studio called Yoga in the Cove. She not only had freaky flexibility but quite a following on the peninsula.
For all the stretching, meditation, and mindfulness that Hannah practiced, you’d have thought she’d be the definition of centered and calm. But she wasn’t. She was like a pinball whizzing through a neon-lighted game board full of paddles and spinners, bouncing here and there on a whim. Yoga kept her centered, but all the coffee she drank, and the chaos that surrounded her, made her a blast to hang out with.
“Look at you two!” I said now, embracing them both. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! But what are you guys doing here?”
“Are you kidding me?” Tay replied, her chic red hair ruffling in the breeze. “This is an emergency!”
“Yeah. Poor Jeb. And he’d just signed up for my Yoga for the Inflexible class.” Hannah gave a sad shake of her head. She popped right out of sorrow and flew into panic. “And it’s the Cherry Blossom Festival! The inn’s in a tailspin! We’ve come to help out, Whit. And when your mom told us you were coming home this morning, we had a feeling Tate would try to ambush you.” Both of them stared at me, oozing concern. I wouldn’t dare say it lacked reason.
“I love you guys,” I told them, grinning nonchalantly. “But seriously, did you really think I’d fall under his spell so easily? Ladies, the city’s changed me.”
Tay laughed. “Yeah, we know. It’s changed Tate too. Don’t worry, my friend, we’ve got your back.”
Mom and Grandma Jenn had just finished an emergency meeting with the staff when we walked inside, and although my grandma knew I’d come home, it took her by surprise. The moment she saw me she leapt from her chair and ran over, crying joyfully, “Whitney! Whitney! Whitney!” A heartbeat later I was wrapped in her comforting, deceptively strong arms. I didn’t know how much I’d missed her until that moment. I’d always thought Grandma Jenn resembled Helen Mirren, with her lovely white hair and pretty face, but she had a spirit all her own. She was one of those ageless women, youthful, vibrant, and full of good old-fashioned wisdom. “Oh, how I’ve missed you,” she said. “And we’re so glad you’ve come. Dear Heavens!” she exclaimed, getting a good look at me. “What happened to your head?”
I brushed a finger against my forehead, nearly flinching at the flash of pain. “This silly thing?” I said breezily. “I had a little accident this morning. I kind of passed out in the morgue and cracked my head.”
Mom, Grandma Jenn, and Hannah looked horrified. Tay, however, burst into gales of laughter. It was infectious. “That’s not a great start, Whit,” she admonished after regaining her composure. “But the good news is that MacLaren actually took you there in the first place. That means he trusts you. You should feel special.”
“Oh, he didn’t want to take me,” I told them. “I sort of shamed him into it. The whole thing was Mom’s idea.”
“Jani!” Gran admonished.
“I told you, Mom.” Mom turned to address her mother. “If we want to get to the bottom of this murder, Whitney’s our only chance. She got into the morgue!” This she exclaimed as if it proved my investigating qualifications. Truthfully, I was a little flattered by their amazement.
“I did,” I said. “And this little battle wound is not without its reward. Mom was right to send me with Jack, because I did learn something in that morgue besides the fact that I don’t have the stomach for looking at dead bodies. I’ve been sworn to secrecy by Jack, but I feel you four can be trusted. What we learned at Door County General is that Dad’s croquet mallet didn’t kill Jeb Carlson. He was poisoned first.”
Mom was the only one relieved by this news. The rest understood the darker meaning of this revelation, which was that a murderer adept in the use of poison was still on the loose. This sparked a new conversation. I brought them up to speed on what I’d learned, including the secret wine Dad and Jeb had been making in the lighthouse and Jack’s picture of the crime scene. Mostly, however, we discussed our concerns for the weekend, mainly how to keep the guests safe. Then Mom hit on the on
e subject I’d been dreading—the cherry pie bake-off on Sunday.
“Now that you’re here, dear, I really think you should make your deconstructed pie and enter that in the contest. Some of the contestants have pulled out already. We want to show them there’s nothing to worry about. And your pie will make a statement. I’ll bet no one has tasted anything quite like it either. It’ll turn heads, and you’ll have every member of the Cherry Cove women’s league clamoring for the recipe.”
“Mom, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not?” she asked, frowning.
“Because Giff volunteered to fill Jeb’s shoes and be the judge. I told him about the murder. Giff is horrified, but he wants to help us out.”
“Gifford?” Mom asked. “But that’s wonderful, Whitney. He’s such a darling young man. I’m sure Gifford will do a wonderful job.”
“So, Giff’s really coming?” Tay asked. Her face lit up at the thought. Giff was no stranger to Cherry Cove, and he and Tay had a bit of a thing going on. They made the perfect couple, really, both having a love of fashion, art, and antiques. Giff was the only one who really appreciated all the nuances and artful touches Tay used in her boutique, and the two could sit around for hours discussing things I’d never heard of. They were definitely two peas in a pod. Unfortunately, they both liked men.
“He’s on his way now,” I told them, “and if I enter the cherry pie bake-off, Giff will hardly be an impartial judge. He’ll want me to win, if for no other reason than to get his hands around the great Gilded Cherry trophy.”
Hannah giggled. “Actually, you still can enter the contest, Whitney. It appears we have two judges this year. It was the second thing I thought about when I heard of Jeb’s death—the first being how terrible it was. But that pie contest is the finale of the whole weekend! Jeb, if he was here, would have wanted the tradition to continue.”
“That’s true,” Mom added, nodding her head. “This is cherry country, Whitney. Everyone looks forward to the bake-off. All the other orchards clamor for the title. It’s quite competitive, you know.”
The moment the words left Mom’s mouth, it got me thinking. The judge of our cherry pie bake-off was murdered in his own orchard—poisoned, actually—and the whole thing made to look like Dad’s fault. Could there be a connection? Jack hadn’t mentioned anything. Probably because he hadn’t considered it. But I had, and a burning desire to get into the orchard and view the crime scene consumed me. It was a moment before I realized that Hannah was speaking to me.
“I asked him to be the judge, and he said yes. Isn’t that wonderful? We now have two judges—two impartial judges—which means that you absolutely should enter the contest, Whitney.”
“She’s right,” Grandma Jenn added. “And since your folks are up to their eyeballs in problems just now, and since the hotel kitchen will be working double time, why don’t you come to my house and bake your pie? After all, I have a lot of cherries on hand.” She smiled.
“Okay,” I said, feeling irrationally nervous about the whole affair. “But who’s this other person who agreed to judge the contest?”
“Weren’t you listening?” Hannah chided. “Briz. Tate’s friend?” Her eyes widened in sudden recollection. “That’s right. You haven’t met him yet. I’ll have to introduce you two. He’s rich, worldly, ruggedly handsome, and beyond dreamy. He ticks all my boxes,” she added, counting his virtues on her fingers. “He’s perfect for me. Now all I have to do is convince him of it.” This she punctuated with a wry grin.
How could I say no to that grin? “Okay,” I told them. “I’m in. However, right now I need to take a little stroll through the orchard before Jack returns. Tay, Hannah, would you two ladies care to join me?”
“Of course,” Hannah declared, jumping to her feet. “It’ll be just like old times.”
“With the one glaring exception,” Tay reminded her, “that a good man has just been poisoned and bludgeoned to death out there.”
I happened to be looking at Grandma Jenn as Tay spoke and noticed that the spark momentarily left her eyes—only to be replaced by a look of extreme guilt. Dear God, the woman was hiding something. The thought left me cold and hollow inside.
Seventeen
I’m so excited you agreed to enter your pie,” Hannah said the moment we stepped out the door. “It’s about time we got some new blood in there. It’s always the same old ladies and housewives with their time-honored recipes. Nothing’s wrong with that, of course, but it’s time for a change. It’s time for a millennial shake-up, don’t you think?”
“Have you even tasted my pie?” I asked, heading for the gravel road that skirted the lawn and led into the orchard.
“Not yet, but I hear it’s amazing.”
“It’s sinful,” Tay chimed in, “and so cutting edge it’ll have all the gray heads spinning.”
“It’s tough to break with tradition,” I mused. “Everybody has their idea of the perfect cherry pie. Should it be sweet? Should it be tart? Should it have a double crust or lattice crust, or any crust at all … ?”
“Should it contain cherries soaked in brandy?” Tay added with an ironic grin. “Most definitely! It’s not every day you can eat a pie and cop a buzz at the same time.”
“Really?” Hannah was enthralled. “You can get drunk off Whit’s pie?”
“No,” I said. Cutting a sideways glance at Tay, I added, “At least normal people don’t. But what I mean is, my pie doesn’t exactly look like a normal pie. We should probably blindfold the judges.”
“Yeah, and feed them by hand with little forks,” Hannah added. “I volunteer to feed Briz.” A dreamy look appeared in her light blue eyes.
I stopped walking and looked at her. And then I giggled.
“Okay, Whit, stop laughing,” Hannah said, her fair skin blushing bright pink. Hannah blushed easily. And with her long white-blonde hair, she couldn’t hide it either. She resembled a strawberry cupcake topped with white icing. “For goodness sake,” she hissed, turning even darker, “he’s right over there.”
She pointed to the tent on the lawn where the orchard hayride was getting underway. The low sides of the large flatbed trailer had been festively decorated with scallops of pink and white crepe paper. The trailer itself was covered with bales of hay, and on the hay sat boisterous passengers, each one holding a glass of wine or a bottle of micro-brewed beer. It looked like the party was getting started. I could see Tate’s bright blond head on the far side of the trailer. He was helping a female guest board. I knew that in a moment he’d climb onto the tractor at the head of the wagon and begin the tour. He’d loop around to the front of the inn, cross the main drive, and drive down the gravel road that led to the front of the massive orchard. And since my friends and I were heading to the one spot in the orchard forbidden to all but the authorities, it was imperative that we weren’t seen, especially by Tate. Tate would be angry, and he’d tell Jack for sure.
“Quick! In here!” I said, and scrambled to get behind the thick hedgerow of yew bushes. Tay followed. Hannah, however, stayed where she was, seemingly mesmerized by an unseen force.
“Hannah!” Tay hissed. “For the love of Hogwarts, stop waving at that sexy man and get your double-jointed butt in here.”
“Sexy man?” I flashed Tay a sideways glance and a grin. Tay had a type, and as far as I could tell, the hayride was void of any that fit her tastes. With the exception of Giff, Tay liked her men tattooed, long-haired, and with an aversion to wearing a shirt.
The questioning look in my eyes wasn’t lost on her. “Carleton Brisbane,” she whispered. “Even I have to admit he’s uber yummy.”
“Isn’t he just, though?” came our friend’s airy voice from the other side of the bush. “So far he’s resisted my charms. Oh dang,” she said with a decided lack of concern. “I’ve been spotted. Tate’s waving me over. Now he’s holding out a b
ottle of beer. Ladies, looks like I’m going to have to take this one for the team. Save yourselves,” she added mockingly as she left us.
Curiosity got the best of me. Who was this incubus that could induce our friend to abandon us in the middle of a plan? It was unheard of. I dropped to my stomach and peered beneath the bushes.
At first all I could see was a trailer full of slightly drunken guests. Most, I could tell, were couples, snuggling close together as they shared a hay bale. There were a few small groupings of women plunked down between them—the women Tate had described to me. I saw a group that looked to be the friends on a girls’ getaway sharing a bottle of wine; two heavy-set older women who were either spinsters, widows, or librarians; and two others, much younger, who were either best friends or lovers. It was hard to tell, but my advertiser’s eye was always quick to categorize people into age groups and stereotypes. Then my gaze fell on a man who looked nothing like the rest.
So this was Carleton Brisbane. No wonder our friend had been quick to abandon us. He was no man-child but the real thing—a true, clean-shaven, smartly dressed, ruggedly handsome dude. His black hair was rich, glossy, and expertly cut to frame his strong face and highlight his bright aquamarine eyes. Although he looked at home casually perched on a bale of hay, he was more the type one found sauntering out of the pages of a country club lifestyle magazine, selling polo saddles and cologne that smelled like money. He wasn’t a young man, not like Tate or Jack. No, this man was older, polished; worldly. I had to applaud Hannah. Her taste in men was improving.
“That’s Briz,” Tay whispered, nudging me in the ribs as if I hadn’t guessed it already. She was peering beneath the bushes as well. “She had a thing for him all last summer, but he never took the bait. Tall bendy women can be very intimidating to a man.”
