Cherry Pies & Deadly Lies

by Darci Hannah

  “I think maybe there was something else.” I took out my phone and showed Dad the picture of the eerie twig-face at the crime scene. “Have you ever come across this before?”

  “Dear God!” he exclaimed. “What a horrible little image. It has a pagan air about it, and are those cherries for the eyes?” A look of mild disgust crossed his face.

  Mom, not wanting to be left out, craned her neck to investigate. It was instantly apparent that neither one of my parents had ever come across such a thing before. And they were unsettled to learn that somebody had placed it in the orchard at the crime scene after the fact.

  “Whitney. Stay out of the orchard,” Dad commanded. “In fact, no one’s to go in there until Jeb’s murderer has been apprehended. Is that clear? I know it’s the Cherry Blossom Festival, but this is beyond the pale. I’m going to make an announcement. Then I’m going to see to having the whole orchard cordoned off. What are you up to, or shouldn’t we ask?”

  “Oh, you can ask,” I said with a grin. “Tay and I are about to join the party on the lawn. There’s a young man I’d like to have a word with.”

  ∞

  When one is a woman standing five foot seven in heels, and her friend is even shorter, finding a person in a crowd is a bit like finding a needle in a haystack. Space under the tent was at a premium. Tay, however, was undeterred and declared that we needed to start at the bar and work our way to the back from there; she said that the wine would help us blend in. It was a good plan until we caught sight of Hot Bartender Guy. He looked cool as a cucumber standing behind the outdoor bar, popping cork after cork and filling up glasses like a champ. The moment he noticed us staring at him, he stopped pouring and grinned.

  “Ladies,” he said, appearing before us as if we were the only souls waiting to be served. “And what is it you’ll be having now? Will it be the white, or the red?” His smile was as mesmerizing as his Irish

  accent. I hadn’t expected that. The scene from earlier in the day came flooding to my mind—all the young waitress had been hovering around this guy, giddy with excitement, and no wonder. His soft, lilting accent and full-on charm were impossible to resist.

  “Wha … what do you suggest?” I asked, and went to lean an elbow on the bar in a coolly alluring posture. Unfortunately, the bar was wet. My elbow slipped right off, and I hit shoulder-first instead. It was not elegant or remotely cool. Hot Bartender Guy, adhering to the time-honored traditions of his profession, pretended not to notice.

  Instead, he leaned in and softly replied, “Well now, love, that would depend on you. If you’ll be wantin’ a hint o’cherries, I suggest the white. If, however, you’re feeling more adventurous”—the word was thick with innuendo—“the red is the choice for you.”

  “Oh, the red. Defiantly the red,” Tay and I offered in near unison. He poured out two glasses and handed them across.

  “How much?” I asked. I could see he thought this a ridiculous question.

  “Complimentary, o’course, on account of you being the boss’s daughter.” He gave us a wink and turned to go.

  It was then that I thought to ask if he could point us in the direction of Erik Larson. “And what is it you’ll be wanting with the young lad?” he asked.

  “Oh, we only want to talk. We need to ask him a few questions.”

  The light green eyes, like mossy pools glinting from the depths of a deep dark forest, narrowed slightly. “Well then, if that’s all, he’ll be that-a-way, I suspect.” Hot Bartender Guy pointed into the crowd. Not very helpful.

  “Thanks,” Tay said, and stuffed a fiver in his tip jar.

  With wineglasses in hand we circulated among the guests, engaging in small talk and getting a bit sidetracked with all the delectable cherry-inspired products—the local cheeses, the crackers begging to be doused with cherry spreads, cherry salsas, and cherry jams. We found Jack beside the fruit and chocolate table, shortly after he’d announced that the orchard was closed until further notice. Not wanting to look suspicious, we hovered there, making small talk and overindulging in dark chocolate pregnant with dried tart cherries. It was then, while in the middle of a conversation about the upcoming cherry pie bake-off, that I saw a patch of light blond poke above the crowd and disappear. Certain it belonged to the young man we were looking for, I excused myself and headed for the exact spot in the crowd I’d last seen the bright head. Once there, however, there was no sign of him.

  Tay came beside me. “Where’d he go?”

  “I have no idea, but one thing’s for sure. That kid can move.”

  We then talked with each harried waitress we passed, which was a mistake. Every one of them had seen the kid in a different location, a location he was no longer in.

  “Over there,” I told Tay, spying three busboys chatting by a bussing station at the far side of the tent. Two of them were quite young, probably fifteen or sixteen. The dark-haired boy with them was definitely older. Eighteen or nineteen was my guess. Likely the same age as Erik. When they spied us walking toward them, the dark-haired kid picked up a bin and disappeared into the press of people. The younger two—a stocky boy named Pete Gunderson, we learned, and a slender redhead named Trevor Macintosh—were eager to talk. The Gunderson boy was certain Erik was in the boathouse making out with his girlfriend, Kenna McKinnon. Young Mr. Gunderson also informed us that it was best we wait until they returned. He’d made the mistake of surprising them once and had gotten a bloody nose for the effort. The boys chuckled at the memory. Then, as if spooked by something, they both picked up their bins and went back to work.

  “Interesting,” Tay mused. “So, do we go to the boathouse or wait it out?”

  “Oh, we definitely go. The kid’s supposed to be working!” Incensed, I put my wineglass in one of the bins and headed for the back of the tent. Tay followed. We’d taken no more than fifteen steps through the crowd when I felt her hand on my shoulder. I looked up and saw Erik Larson standing behind a tent pole. Beside him was the other busboy, the black-haired kid who had slipped off the moment he spotted us. The two were discussing what looked to be a troubling matter. It was highly suspicious. I was about to sneak up on them when Tay made the mistake of calling out his name.

  Erik turned, saw us, and bolted through the crowd. His dark-haired friend disappeared as well.

  “This way!” I cried, chasing after the bright blond head bobbing through the press of people. He was young, athletic, and used the guests and overflowing tables to his advantage. He crashed into Pete Gunderson, knocking the boy to the ground in an explosion of glassware. Mrs. Schneider, the guest staying in the Cabbage Rose Suite, shrieked as a full glass of wine exploded from her hand. It appeared that the kid was circling through the crowd, heading back to the rear of the tent. The miscreant meant to give us the slip and disappear into the woods, a sure sign of guilt as I saw it. Well, not on my watch, mister!

  I decided to cut him off, and began working my way to the side of the tent where I could spring out of the crowd and give chase. I moved as fast as I could, cutting left to avoid a group of people chatting. A dang tent pole was right before me. I clapped a hand onto it and flung myself around. But I made it only halfway before slamming headlong into a man. The next thing I knew, I was on my backside staring up into the shocked yet dashing face of Mr. Carleton Brisbane.

  Twenty-Four

  Miss Bloom! Are you all right? And here I was begging Officer MacLaren for an introduction. I never meant to knock you off your feet.” He paused, grinned slightly, and added, “Well, not literally anyway. Carleton Brisbane.” He leaned down and smoothly offered his hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  I would have replied, but I was still paralyzed with awe. I’d seen the man from a distance and thought him attractive; close-up, he was movie-star dazzling. I now understood Hannah’s obsession and felt a little guilty that my thoughts were not as pure as my smile. Nor could I deny the swar
m of butterflies that invaded my belly under his dazzling, intimately focused gaze. I should ignore the butterflies, and this man as well. What kind of friend was I that I even entertained the thought of dangling a toe in my bestie’s clearly marked territory? But he was flirting! I didn’t have to flirt back, however, I sternly reminded myself. I should listen to my gut instinct and run away as soon as I could.

  Instead, smiling like a love-struck simpleton, I took his hand and replied, “Whitney Bloom. And I assure you, Carleton, the pleasure’s all mine.”

  A forced cough at that very moment alerted me to the man standing beside Carleton Brisbane. It was Jack. Although his hand was covering his mouth, his face was a study of patronizing admonishment.

  I felt embarrassed, and ashamed, and yet found myself unable to let go of Carleton’s strong, supportive hand. Holy cobbler! I was like the vampy friend in every bad reality TV show. I was barely upright, adrift in a flood of confusing thoughts, when a force like a tiny hurricane hit me from behind. There was only one direction for me to go—straight into Carleton Brisbane’s arms. They became the only two things holding me upright. Remarkably, the man was still standing; remarkably, I found that I didn’t want him to let me go. It was all so confusing … until Tay’s admonishing voice broke the spell.

  “Whitney, for cripes sake! Now’s not the time to … Oh, hey Carleton. Jack. What’s up?” At the sound of Tay’s voice, Carleton released me.

  “I was about to ask you the same question,” Jack said, taking a step forward. Somewhere inside our old high school buddy a switch had flipped, making him look remarkably like a hard-nosed detective. “It’s quite the gala,” he continued. “Should you two really be dodging through the crowd, upsetting the guests and swinging around tent poles? You’re apt to give folks the wrong impression. For instance, they might think you’re chasing after the busboys again.” This he said with a pointed look at me.

  “Well, they might, but they’d be wrong.” With a quick look at Tay for support, I launched into a harmless falsehood. “If you really must know, Jack, we’re working. Dad’s short-handed and we volunteered to case the event, you know, to see where help is needed. It seems that one of the busboys has abandoned his post.”

  “I can only imagine. Let me guess. Erik Larson? Kind of hard to miss the kid, especially with you two in hot pursuit and him running like the devil.” He shot me a look of stern disapproval before adding, “I doubt he’s coming back, which means that a busboy opportunity has opened up for you, Whitney.”

  Rising to the challenge, I told him, “I’ll get right on it, but first may I have a word with you, Jack?” Without waiting, I took him by the arm and led him outside the tent. Groups of people dotted the vast lawn, and yet there was no trace of Erik Larson.

  “So what’s this all about?” he asked.

  “I needed to talk with Erik Larson.”

  “And I told you earlier that I already have. Last night for twenty minutes. I have his statement at the station. The kid’s pretty shaken up, Whitney, but he’s not the murderer. Don’t take this personally, but did you ever consider that he might not want to speak with you?”

  “Oh, I know he doesn’t. He’s made that quite clear. The moment he caught wind that Tay and I were looking for him, he hightailed it out of here. If that isn’t suspicious behavior I don’t know what is.”

  “Whitney, Erik Larson is under no obligation to speak with you, and believe me, he knows you’re the boss’s daughter, just as he knows you and your friends are poking your noses into things you shouldn’t be.”

  “That’s your opinion, Jack. But I think something else is going on here. When you spoke to him last night, you didn’t ask him about that twig-face. You didn’t ask him because you didn’t know about it. But I think Erik knows about it. I think he might be the one who put it in the orchard in the first place, trying to scare me off. Now why would that boy, whom I’ve never met, want to scare me?”

  “Scare you? Whitney, now you’re just sounding paranoid. He’s a kid. Jeb was not only his employer but a mentor to him as well. All the kids here are a little on edge right now. Think about it. A man was murdered in the orchard last night, and they’re here working today. I’m here to keep an eye on things. Imagine my surprise when I saw you and Tay racing through the crowd after Erik. I thought something was happening. Now I see it was just you meddling again. The boy ran. He doesn’t want to talk to you. Do us both a favor and stay out of this. Okay?” Without awaiting my reply, Jack turned and stalked back to the tent.

  I stayed there a moment longer, scanning the grounds. Where would Erik go? Would he hide in the woods, or make for the forbidden orchard? I turned in the other direction and stopped. The Cherry Orchard Inn’s boathouse was a mere hundred yards away, sitting at the edge of the shore and extending into the bay. Pete Gunderson had said that Erik was there earlier, making out with his girlfriend. It was worth a look.

  I walked down to the shore and entered the darkened building, thinking that I probably should have brought Tay with me. It was always cooler in the boathouse, and oddly peaceful due to the lulling sound of lapping water. Dad’s hulking cabin cruiser was moored to the dock. High in the rafters, suspended on pulleys, was the family sailboat. The sails were stored in a locker on the other side of the building, along with two canoes and ten kayaks used by the inn’s guests. Because the lighting was dim at best, I went to the nearest light switch and flipped it on.

  A pale, aqua-blue glow filled the room, casting wavelike shadows along the walls and ceiling. I’d turned on the underwater lights. It wasn’t my first choice, but it was enough, a calm, indirect brightness that gave the illusion that things were moving. I walked around, peered in Dad’s boat, and called Erik’s name. Then the muffled sound of running made me look up. A shadow shot across the wall, heading for the door. With my heart pounding in my chest, I grabbed a canoe paddle and followed. The door never opened. I spun around and saw something move in the bin that held the life jackets. Gripping the paddle tightly in one hand, I took hold of a life jacket in the other. Then I flung it aside. Two masked eyes peered up at me, and then jumped. I dropped the paddle with a high-pitched yelp as the creature scampered past me and climbed into the rafters. It was only a raccoon, but I was spooked. With my heart pounding uncomfortably in my chest, I ran out of the boathouse, confident that Erik Larson wasn’t there.

  ∞

  Back under the relative safety of the tent, I heard my name. It was Hannah. She’d finally arrived for the wine and cheese tasting, looking happy and refreshed from her little nap on the floor of Tay’s office.

  “Whitney! Where’ve you been?” Her tone was admonishing, but her face exuded pure joy. Then she noticed my pallor, and quite possibly the sweat beading on my brow. “Good heavens! You look as if you’ve seen a ghost … which is ridiculous. It’s broad daylight.” She gave my cheeks a hard pinch, explaining that it was to bring the color back to my face. “There now. Much better. Okay, follow me. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  There was no great mystery who this person was, yet my heart sank nonetheless when I saw him—the suavely handsome Carleton Brisbane. He was standing beside Tay, chatting amicably, yet the moment he saw us approaching I realized it was not my pretty friend that he was staring at, but me. Tay cast me a cautioning look right before Hannah pushed me forward, declaring, “Carleton, this is Whitney Bloom, our best friend and the daughter of the couple who own this place.” She then turned to me. “Carleton said you two met earlier but then you ran off after some busboy.” Hannah wrapped her arm around Carleton’s and gave a dramatic eye-roll. “Whitney’s always running off like that. After graduation she ran off to Chicago, but now she’s back. And we couldn’t be happier! Have a glass of wine with us, Whit. Carleton was just telling us that he’s a huge fan of Bloom ’n’ Cherries! Were you aware of that?”

  “No,” I said, genuinely surprised.

  Carlet
on gently removed Hannah’s arm from his and said, “It’s true. I have a thing for cherries. I blame it on my mother, God rest her soul. Every year she used to make me a cherry pie for my birthday. I hated cake, you see, partially because nothing I’d ever tasted compared with her cherry pie. It’s been years since she passed, and every opportunity I get, I try to find a pie equal to hers. Hers was the best … until I tasted yours. Your grandma’s isn’t half bad either.” He winked, obviously knowing that my pies and Grandma Jenn’s were remarkably similar. “In fact,” he continued, “that’s part of the reason I’m here this weekend. I discovered the Cherry Orchard Inn last summer and found it utterly charming. A true cherry of a place,” he decreed and gave a little laugh. It was a bad pun, and yet I found myself thoroughly delighted with him for uttering it. “And when I heard about the Cherry Blossom Festival, well, I just had to be part of that too. I must tell you how sorry I am about the unfortunate turn of events that’s overshadowed the weekend. However, I consider the fact that you’re here—the woman behind that remarkable website, Bloom ’n’ Cherries!—to be the silver lining to the tragedy. And here I must add that you are far lovelier in person than that picture of you on your site. I know all about that because I’m one of your loyal customers.”

  “Wow,” was all I could say, because the wheels of my mind were spinning. Could Carleton Brisbane be my mysterious online friend C-Bomb? Holy cobbler, he just might be! His initials were CB—possibly the reason he called himself C-Bomb. Also, there was an air of mystique about him. Even though he was older, it wasn’t in a creepy way, and he was rich, dashing, and had a yacht. My hope meter soared.

  Carleton, noting my delight, rewarded me with his most disarming grin. Hannah, staring at us with extreme displeasure, frowned.

  “And do you know what else?” Carleton pressed on, leaning so close I could smell his fruity-wine breath. “I’ve been asked to be the judge of tomorrow’s cherry pie bake-off. Imagine my surprise when Hannah asked me. Of course, I agreed. How could I not when I heard that you were entering one of your fabulous pies?”