by Darci Hannah
“We’ll lead the way,” Jack told the driver. “I’ll call dispatch and have them contact the boy’s parents.”
Jack climbed into the SUV, made the call, and took the wheel. He pulled in front of the ambulance and turned on his emergency lights.
“Is … is that prudent, do you think?” I asked.
He looked at me as if I was from Mars. “We’re going eighty and the speed-limit is fifty-five. Yes, the lights are prudent.”
“No. I’m sorry. I mean, do you think it’s prudent allowing Brock Sorensen to ride in the back of the ambulance?”
“Why would that be a problem?”
“Because somebody found out about that note.”
“Yes. And unfortunately that somebody wasn’t me.”
“I’m sorry about that, Jack. It was wrong of me, but my point is that whoever knew Cody was going to talk to me went to extraordinary lengths to make sure he couldn’t. They were still in the building when I found him. I saw the would-be killer’s silhouette as he ran through the processing room just before it exploded in fire. He must have slipped out the back door, because when I tried to do the same it was blocked. Tay said one of the inn’s Gators was parked against it, trapping both Cody and me inside. I was making such a racket up front with the fire that she never heard the Gator. Now, to my point. The killer couldn’t have gone far on foot. Then, when I ran to get your cruiser, I stumbled upon Brock Sorensen lurking in the shadows by the tall pine trees—the ones flanking the parking lot. He was just standing there, smoking a cigar.”
“The man likes his cigars,” Jack said. Then, thinking, he added, “Wait. You think Sorensen was the person in the processing shed with you?” His ruddy brows furrowed at the thought.
“I don’t know. It was too dark to tell who was there. But what if he was? What if he was the one who beat and poisoned Cody? Wouldn’t he want to make certain the boy never talked again? Don’t you think it’s convenient that he offered to ride in the back of the ambulance with him?”
“Not if you consider that he’s also the business manager of both the inn and the orchard. He has a vested interested in this place and the staff.”
“But why was he in the orchard—that late at night?”
Jack thought a moment. “I don’t know.” His eyes shot sideways at me while he drove. “Do you think Sorensen poisoned and bludgeoned Jeb as well?”
“I have no proof, only suspicion. But think about it? He was at the inn last night. He has access to Dad’s office and the processing sheds. He could have put the poison in Jeb’s rum, knowing he’d drink it. Then he could have taken Dad’s croquet mallet and followed Jeb back to the processing shed. After Jeb drank the poison he could have clubbed him in the head and dragged him into the orchard. He’d have the strength to do it.”
“He would,” Jack agreed. “He could have done all those things, but what’s his motive?”
“That I don’t know, but he did tell me all about what’s been happening at the inn. He told me about the new software getting hacked, the rats in the kitchen, and the string of petty thefts. All of it seems to have started since he took over. Don’t you find that a little suspicious?”
Jack cast another quick glance my way, then fell silent. The knuckles of his hands were white as they gripped the wheel.
“Jack? Jack, are you okay?”
“No,” he replied very softly. “No, Whitney, I’m not.”
Twenty-Eight
Jack was distraught. This was his case, the biggest he’d ever had since becoming the Cherry Cove police officer, and he was feeling overwhelmed. I didn’t blame him. The death of Jeb Carlson had been bad enough. Although he knew that the killer was still on the loose, he’d never expected one of the young employees to be the next target. But we both knew why. All the fear, all the caution the young employees displayed suddenly made sense. They knew who the killer was, and the killer had been watching them. Had the killer been watching Jeb Carlson too?
“Cody’s a good kid,” Jack added, staring at the dark road ahead. “He took quite a risk sending you that note. Dear God, Whitney, I hope you’re wrong about Sorensen.”
“I hope so too,” I said. “But if he is the murderer, I doubt he’d do anything stupid around the EMTs. Right?”
Jack gave a solemn nod. “If the boy survives, I’m posting a guard outside his door.”
Once at the hospital, Cody was rushed to the ICU and treated for cyanide poisoning. He also had a concussion from the beating he’d received and multiple cuts and bruises. Jack, Brock, and I were relieved to learn he was breathing on his own again. However, he was in a coma. The ER doctor on duty was hopeful that Cody would have a full recovery, stating that my quick actions purging the boy of the poison had tipped the odds in his favor. Had I waited a moment longer, Cody Rivers, like Jeb Carlson before him, would be dead—another victim to lay at the feet of the Cherry Orchard Inn. I was relieved to learn that he would live, but the thought of how close to death he’d come shook me to the core. Another thought haunting my every waking moment was that this soulless killer was still out there, lurking in the shadows of the orchard and inn—or perhaps even worse, hiding in plain sight.
While Jack talked with Cody’s parents, I decided to turn my attention to the puzzling Brock Sorensen. “I’ll get some coffee and sandwiches,” I told Jack. “Brock’s coming with me.” This was news to Sorensen, but he got the hint and gave a nod. I looked back at Jack. “You take your coffee black, don’t you?”
“I do,” he replied, flashing a look of caution. “Although a double shot of Mr. Daniels just now wouldn’t go amiss.”
“I know what you mean. I’ll see what I can do.”
∞
“Do you need a ride back to Cherry Cove?” Sorensen had been talking on the phone as we walked to the hospital cafeteria. His conversation had just ended. “It’s been a terrible night,” he remarked. I had to admit, the guy looked haggard. “Don’t know how long MacLaren’ll be with Cody’s parents. Don’t envy him either. My wife’s coming to get me. Just wanted to know if you’d like a ride back with us.”
For curiosity’s sake, it was tempting. However, Hannah had texted that she was coming to pick me up. “Thanks for the offer, but I already have a ride. I’d like to meet your wife, though.”
Sorensen missed a step before casting me an emotionally charged look woven with overtones of amusement. “Curious, are you? I already told you that my wife’s a vegan. What I failed to mention was that she’s also a germaphobe and a bit OCD with a vacuum. We have the cleanest floors in the Cove.”
And her husband poisons harmless old men and boys, I thought to myself. Outwardly, however, I smiled. “You paint such a charming picture of your wife. Can you blame me if I’m curious? So, Brock, how do you take your coffee?”
“Decaffeinated, with soy milk and three packs of Stevia.”
I stared at him a heartbeat too long, realized he wasn’t joking, and turned to the woman behind the counter as Brock strolled toward the cashier. “Two black coffees, another with cream and three packs of sugar, and three of your freshest sandwiches.”
A minute later, as the cashier rang us up, I handed Brock the cup of creamy white coffee. “As I’ve been so pointedly reminded today, life is short. Live a little.”
He stared into the cup and frowned. “This looks caffeinated and fatty.”
“Exactly. That’s why it’s so delicious. Are you sensitive to caffeine or lactose intolerant?”
“Not particularly, but Gwyneth is.”
“But not you? And yet you suffer. That’s a heck of a cross to bear, Brock. Well, tonight your secret’s safe with me. Don’t stare at it. It’s not like it’s poison or anything. It’s coffee.”
This last statement was enough to pull his pensive gaze from his cup while eliciting a grimace. I could tell that he didn’t appreciate the way I was staring at him e
ither.
“No, it’s not poison, Whitney. Forgive me if I seem a little tired of the word.” He took his coffee and walked over to a table. I followed him.
“Damn. I can almost understand why there’s a Starbucks on every corner. I feel like a kid who’s finally found where his mom’s been hiding the real cookies, and not the tasteless, gluten-free, sugar-free ones in the cookie jar, if you know what I mean.” Apparently enjoying the taste of real coffee for the first time, Brock dropped his gaze back to the creamy liquid.
“Glad you like it. I’m a bit of a coffee evangelist. I drink far too much of the stuff and consider myself an expert. In my opinion, there are only four ways to serve coffee: black; with cream; with sugar; or with both—unless you want to add a shot of alcohol or liqueur. That’s different. Nothing, however, is more wholesome than good old fashion cane sugar. And soy? That’s a bean, not a mammal. We have no business milking it. Same with the almond. It’s a nut, and yet we milk that too. O the hubris of man!” I mocked, staring levelly into Sorensen’s green eyes. “I have no idea how one goes about milking such a thing, but it can’t be humane—although all my vegan friends will argue that one till the cows come home.” I winked, then tossed in a disarming grin.
Brock was smiling too. He was truly enjoying his sugar-laden, fatty, caffeinated beverage. His endorphins were fizzing over; his defenses were down. It was time to attack. “So,” I began, “I have to ask you a question. What were you doing on that path tonight?”
Behind the black-rimmed glasses, his eyes grew wide. “Why? You don’t think I had something to do with Cody?” When I didn’t answer, he added, “Whitney, I know we’ve only just met, but I’m a little offended.”
“I’m sorry, but you have to admit that the timing was suspicious.”
“Not to me. I had no idea anything was amiss at the processing sheds. It’s dark out. The orchard was deemed off limits to guests and no one was supposed to be in there. By the way, what were you doing at the sheds?”
“That Pete Gunderson kid passed me a note. I was to meet someone in the processing shed at nine p.m.”
“Who?” he asked. “Cody? Did Cody write that note?”
“Well, at the time I didn’t know. It didn’t say. But the point—”
Brock leaned in, cutting me off with a cry of “What? You were passed a note to meet an unnamed person in the same place Jeb was poisoned last night and you went—without telling MacLaren? That, Whitney, is the height of recklessness.” His look was so admonishing that I blushed. “You’re lucky you weren’t killed as well,” he added.
Oh, but I almost was, I thought bleakly, casting him a hard look. My curiosity had nearly been fatal. Was he playing me? Or was he genuinely concerned? I took a long sip of coffee and replied, “I’m well aware of the foolishness of my actions, and I regret not handling the situation better. But I need to ask you again. What were you doing hiding in those pine trees near the parking lot?”
An ironic smile crossed his lips. “I was trying to smoke a cigar— a Cuban—until I saw you running down the pathway. I had no idea what you were doing out there or what you were running from. I didn’t mean to startle you, Whitney.” He drained the last of his coffee, set the empty Styrofoam cup on the table, and continued. “You admitted a moment ago to having a passion for coffee. Well, cigars are my guilty pleasure, only I have to sneak them. Imagine what the wife would say if she caught me with one of those between my whitened teeth?”
I had to admit, given what he’d said about his wife, it did make sense. I gave a nod. “But why there?”
“At the end of my workday I like a little peace and quiet before I go home to crazy town. Don’t get me wrong. I love my family, but I have a two-year-old and a four-year-old at home and a lovely yet utterly neurotic wife. Those pines have become a bit of a sanctuary for me—off the beaten path yet close enough to the parking lot. Smoke too close to my car and Gwyneth would undoubtedly smell it. Lord knows I don’t need another lecture.”
“It must be hard to have to live like that. I don’t understand it, but then again, I’m far from being married. Let me ask you this instead. While you were lurking in the pine trees with your Cuban did you happen to see anyone coming down the pathway other than me?”
“None running as fast as you, but there were people—diners, guests, employees—all heading for their cars. However, if the killer was in the processing shed when you arrived, why would he make for the parking lot when there are so many other places to go? Think about it, Whitney. Heading for the parking lot from that direction would look highly suspicious.”
“Heading there alone, maybe. But not if he slipped in with a group of diners or guests.” I thought for a moment. “Brock, did Cody have any enemies? Has there been anyone at the orchard or inn acting a little strange lately?”
“That I wouldn’t know,” he replied, and began messaging his forehead. “In my opinion, everyone’s been acting a little strange lately.” He smiled wanly. “You might want to talk with Bob Bonaire, though. Poor overworked Boner. If you want to know anything about the younger employees, talk to Boner.”
∞
Jack looked haggard when I met up with him in the ER lobby. He took one look at the sandwich and coffee in my hands and sighed happily. “You’re an angel,” he said, taking his food. “So, did you learn anything from Sorensen?”
I shook my head. “The man confuses me. I can’t read him. There’s a sneaky, shifty quality to him that appears to be the result of his overbearing wife. He told me he was out by those pine trees smoking a cigar, because he has a thing for cigars and doesn’t want his wife to know about it. He could be telling the truth, or it could be a convenient cover.”
“If it’s any help, I’ve met his wife. She’s a beauty. That’s the attraction. But if I were in the man’s shoes I’d have strangled the witch by now. I’ve never met a more controlling, passive-aggressive soul in my life. I think Sorensen’s hanging on to an unhappy marriage. If Gwyneth turned up dead, it’d be a no-brainer. But murdering an old man and attempting to murder a boy … what’s his motive? Sure, he has access to all the offices and grounds, but Sorensen’s job is to make sure the inn and orchard make a profit. Very few people I know seek to destroy the hand that feeds them.”
“Generally, that’s true,” I agreed. “Unless the person is insane.”
Jack grinned at my cynicism and took a sip of coffee. “Damn. I really thought there’d be some whisky in here.”
“They’re a little short on whiskey down in the cafeteria, but I did have my eye on some heavy sedatives in the pharmacy. Then I remembered you were driving.”
“Good call,” he said. “First, however, I’m meeting with Sergeant Stamper and Officer Jensen from the Sturgeon Bay department. They’re helping with the investigation.” He sat down in a nearby chair to eat his sandwich.
“Cody knew something,” Jack continued, turning to me. “I saw it in his eyes last night after I was called to the scene. I didn’t think much of it then, but I had the feeling that he knew something about the murderer but was too afraid to share it. Also, he never told his parents about Jeb Carlson. Imagine your boss turning up dead in the very orchard he managed? I don’t know about you, but when I was Cody’s age I would have taken the news straight to my parents, hoping they’d help me make some sense of it all. Cody, however, never mentioned a word of it. His folks learned of Jeb’s death this morning on the news. And now, after our little chat, they know Jeb Carlson’s death was due to poison and not a mallet to the head as the news is still reporting. That little tidbit didn’t sit too well with them under the circumstances. Those poor people are fit to be tied, and I can’t say that I blame them. Had they known Jeb was murdered, and that his murderer was still on the loose, they would never have let Cody come to work today. God, Whitney, what have I done?”
“You can’t possibly blame yourself for this, Jack.” I looked
at him, at his strong profile, and felt a surge of pity. “You’re trying to find the murderer and therefore everyone who was at the inn last night must stay until they’ve been cleared. Right? Besides, the Cherry Blossom Festival is in full swing. Holy cobbler!” I breathed, thinking of something I hadn’t told him. “There was another twig-face. It was in the processing shed, right beside Cody. I nearly forgot about it until now.”
“What? Are you sure? Because if so, it means that either Cody’s been making them, or our killer has. And right now, my bet is on the killer.” Jack looked intently at me. “Whitney, why would the killer be targeting you with these faces? It makes no sense. You don’t even live here any longer.”
“You think I’m the target?” The thought was highly unsettling. “I don’t think so,” I was quick to assure him. “Isn’t it more likely that the killer knew Cody had written me that note and saw an opportunity to punish me as well?”
“Maybe. But what if the killer was trying to silence you both? Think about it, Whitney. As far as I know, you’re the only one seeing that odd twig-face. Look, I’ve appreciated your help, but for your own safety I have to insist again that you stay out of this. Stay out of the orchard and any other isolated places. And next time you get a note, or any other suspicious clue for that matter, tell me immediately.”
Just then I saw Hannah walking through the doors to the ER. She saw me and waved. “I will,” I promised, and stood. “I’ll be careful, Jack. Sorry I can’t stay, but it’s nearly eleven and there’s a very prestigious cherry pie bake-off tomorrow. Hannah’s here to make sure that I have something to enter.”
Twenty-Nine
Did … did he make it?” Hannah was gripping the steering wheel so tightly I thought it might pop off in her hands. I realized then how terrible it must have been, waiting back at the inn, guessing and second-guessing the fate of Cody Rivers.
