Cherry Pies & Deadly Lies

by Darci Hannah

  I placed my hand over one of hers. “He did, and he’s going to be fine. He’s in a coma right now but the doctors assured us he’s going to make a full recovery. He’ll be plenty sore for a while, though.”

  “My God, Whit!” she exclaimed, taking her eyes off the road to look at me. Tears stained her cheeks. “And you? How are you? I was so scared when you were trapped in that burning building. I thought I’d never see you alive again.”

  “Me too.” It was a sobering thought, and it was the first time I’d had the chance to think about it. I didn’t want to think about it.

  “I’m so sorry,” Hannah sobbed.

  “The road. Keep your eyes on the road,” I encouraged her, gently redirecting her head with two fingers.

  “Yeah. Right. But I was so mad at you before, and for what?” Her red-rimmed blue eyes darted to mine and back. “Over some … some stupid super-hot rich guy? You almost died, Whitney! You. Almost. Died,” she reiterated dramatically. “And all I could think about was what a shallow, petty, terrible friend I’d been. I mean, he’s just a stupid guy, right? And like, you’re my best friend. I swear it, I’m not going to let some arrogant, stuck-up yacht-man get between us again. Do you forgive me for acting like that?”

  How could I not? Hannah, for all her yoga and centered living, still gave voice to her every thought and emotion. She was honest and faithful, and those were the two best qualities in a friend. “Of course,” I told her. “And I’m sorry too, Hannah. I didn’t mean to flirt with him. I wasn’t trying, honestly, but I was kind of flattered by the attention. I mean, you have to admit, Carleton Brisbane is like a perfect ten. But he’s just a guy. They’re virtually all the same. It won’t happen again.”

  And with that it was settled. We were besties again.

  It was eleven thirty when Hannah dropped me off at Grandma Jenn’s to prep the elements for my deconstructed pie. Competition at the bake-off was fierce, and, after all I’d been through since arriving that morning, I was of a mind to win the darn thing.

  My car was still in the driveway from my earlier visit, parked next to hers. I couldn’t believe that my first suspect had been my kindhearted, free-spirited gran. Seeing my car there reminded me of what a long day it had been. The cafeteria coffee had helped but my energy was fading fast.

  The moment the door opened, a gentle calm settled over me. My gran was there, framed in the light of her doorway with a welcoming smile on her face. It was a look of unconditional adoration, and I felt like a child again, happy and carefree as she beckoned me to her kitchen.

  Everything I needed had already been arranged on her spotless granite countertops. It was as if she’d read my mind, but she hadn’t. Gran was the master baker. Everything I knew about baking and

  cherries, I had learned in her kitchen. As I baked the layers of flaky, sugar-dusted crust and mixed the brandy-infused cherry filling, we chatted and drank more coffee. I told her about the note, Cody, and the fire. I told her about the unsettling pagan twig-face that seemed to be taunting me as I hunted for Jeb Carlson’s killer. I even drew it for her in a shallow pan of flour. The image didn’t frighten her as much as the fact that Tay and I were the only two who’d seen it. I also told her of the skulking shadow I’d shot at in the processing shed and my suspicion of Brock Sorensen. We talked of the odd behavior of the young people working at the inn.

  After this, Gran deftly guided the conversation, prompting me to talk about the three men that occupied my thoughts more than they should have: Jack, Tate, and Carleton Brisbane. I even told her about Hannah and the flare of jealousy that had consumed her when Carleton began flirting with me. Grandma Jenn listened as I talked away, adding her thoughts, concerns, and some suspicions of her own. By the time I’d prepared and stored all the elements of my pie for tomorrow’s assembly, my heart felt lighter, my mind relieved of its weighty burden. There was no better medicine than cooking with Grandma Jenn. I was ready to drive back to the inn and fall into bed.

  There is no rest for the wicked, and even less for those who pursue them, I mused a bit sarcastically the moment I walked through the doorway of the family quarters. Giff was there, his face glowing with elation, his form-fitting V-neck and jeans streaked with soot. He was beside Tay, the two talking animatedly with my parents.

  The moment I entered, Mom, stifling a yawn, turned. “Whitney!” she exclaimed, happy to see me. “Gifford’s here, thank heavens. And what a night it’s been! How are you holding up, dear? How’s Cody?”

  I brought them up to speed on what was happening, after which Tay said, “Giff got here just as you all left for the hospital. Came right to the processing shed, rolled up his sleeves, and pitched in, selflessly helping the volunteer firemen put out the fire.” Her dark eyes oozed adoration as she looked at him.

  I took one look at my former assistant and rolled mine. Selfless? There was nothing selfless about it. Giff knew Tate was head of the volunteer fire department. He would go to any lengths to meet Tate in person, and from the wide grin on his face, I knew he had. Great. There’d be no living with him now that he’d met Tate.

  “And look what he found,” Tay continued, holding up what was left of the airsoft gun I’d used to shoot the suspected killer. The entire thing had melted in the fire, and the barrel now had a nasty right hook to it. “Todd’s not gonna be happy with this.”

  “I’ll buy him a new one,” Dad offered flatly, turning his all-knowing eyes on me. “Tay told us what happened in the processing shed. For cripes sake, Whitney! What were you thinking going in there alone?”

  “I was thinking,” I said, casting an apologetic look at my parents, “that I could get some information on the killer, and I nearly did. We believe Cody knows who’s responsible, but, as I told you, he’s in a coma. You can imagine how eager Jack is to talk with him, but he’s just going to have to wait. Jack’s also keenly aware that the boy’s life is still in danger. Cody’s parents are at the hospital, but Jack’s taking no more chances. He’s placing a guard outside his room.”

  I could see that Mom was horrified. Dad appeared overburdened with sadness. “There you have it,” I told them. “Two more tragedies at the orchard. Mom, Dad, why didn’t you tell me what’s been going on here?”

  Mom looked surprised by this. Dad looked pensive. “What do you mean?” he asked, his silver-blue eyes shooting to mine in guarded question.

  I had been up a long time. I was dead tired and over-caffeinated. It was not the best combination for level thinking or polite conversation. It was unfortunate that Tay and Giff were there as well, but I couldn’t help that. I felt myself snap. “What do I mean?” I cried. “How about the inn’s software getting hacked, or the rats in the kitchen, or all the petty thefts, not to mention Jeb’s murder. Dad! Mom!” I held them both in an accusatory stare. “Bad things are happening here and you never bothered to call me and tell me. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Mom, standing beside Giff, gave a little gasp and grabbed his arm for support. Dad just looked at me and shook his head in the way people do when they have nothing good to say. “Don’t take this the wrong way, my dear, but you’ve had enough problems of your own in Chicago. We didn’t want to burden you with our petty little problems here. This place is our responsibility,” he said, gesturing to Mom. “We’ve always managed the orchard and inn before, and we’ll continue to do so. We’ve just run into a string of bad luck of late, that’s all.”

  “Dad, this is more than bad luck. And what do you mean by ‘I have enough of my own problems in Chicago’? I can handle my problems in Chicago just fine. But this place is my home. I grew up here. For heaven’s sake, I’m your daughter! I think I have the right to know what’s been going on.”

  “It looks like you already do, dear,” Mom offered softly. “Who told you? Was it Grandma Jenn?”

  “Brock Sorensen, if you must know. By the way, don’t you find it a little odd that all this star
ted when you hired him? What do you know of the guy, Dad?”

  Dad’s silvery head tilted as he looked at me. “You think Brock has something to do with this? Whitney, he’s a good man. I know he is. This string of bad luck might have started around the time he took over, but believe me, without Brock and his diligent work we’d be teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. I look at it the other way around. I believe Brock being here is a Godsend. He’s not the cause of what’s been going on; he’s the poor soul who handles it. It’s his job to do so, and I pay him well to do it. Why would he jeopardize that?”

  I didn’t know. All I knew was that something very terrible was happening, and at times it appeared as if the killer was taunting me personally.

  Thirty

  I’ll tell you about Brock Sorensen,” Tay said. She and Giff were in my room, the three of us sitting on my bed, ensconced in a floral wreath of sheer bed hangings. It was midnight. We each had a glass of tart, fresh-pressed cherry juice. Grandma Jenn swore by it. She always drank a glass before bedtime. Tart juice aside, it might have had the feeling of a slumber party if we’d been hitting each other with pillows instead of discussing a suspected murderer.

  Tay looked pointedly at Giff. “Get this. That lean strip of jerky who calls himself your business manager is wonky as a stiffy in church—a thing that should never occur, but Lord knows that it does. Point in fact, the one I saw belonged to the man himself.”

  Giff was easily enchanted by scandal. I, however, found Tay’s remark disturbing. “Wha … wha … what?” I chirped.

  “It’s true,” Tay said. She proceeded to tell us a sordid tale that had taken place a few weeks before Sorensen was hired at the inn. Apparently he hadn’t been wearing his wedding band when he first arrived in Cherry Cove, showing up in December at Shenanigans, the local pub. There he hit on Tay, and she, being between boyfriends at the time, took pity on the “uptight, nerdy newcomer.” She took him home, some awkward snogging commenced, and just when things began to get hot and heavy, the man burst out in tears.

  “I didn’t know why,” she said. “He wouldn’t say. Instead he asked if I would make him some bacon.” Tay grinned. “I thought it was code for some kinky nerd thing, but no. He really wanted bacon.”

  Giff, amused, asked, “And did you make him some, angel?”

  “Yep. A whole pound, in fact.”

  After that, Brock had left, promising Tay he’d call, but surprise, surprise, he never did. A month later Tay spotted him in church with his skinny, lank-haired wife and two waif-thin kids.

  “He kinda freaked when he saw me,” she admitted with a look that made us all smile. “I mean, what had he been expecting? It’s a small town. He was bound to run into me sooner or later, although I got the feeling he thought he’d be safe in the pews of St. Paul’s Lutheran. He wasn’t. I could tell he was kinda turned on when he first spied me, but then he got really nervous. He did his best to avoid me, so I waited until he went to the little boys’ room and cornered him in there. I was pissed. I mean, look at this hair!” she demanded, pointing to her chic, bright red do. “I don’t judge, but the dude was married—with kids! What a dirtbag!”

  “Totally,” Giff halfheartedly agreed, running a hand through his thick black curls. “I take it you’re not a fan of the new manager?”

  Tay gave a noncommittal shrug. I couldn’t say I blamed her. I had mixed emotions about Sorensen myself. Although he didn’t come off as a creep, and he’d been very forthcoming about the disturbing incidents at the inn, his sudden appearance by the pine trees still spooked me. The timing was just poor, and I really couldn’t help but be suspicious of him. However, it was all circumstantial. I had nothing solid on him, and being a cheating pig doesn’t make a man a killer. But I would keep my eye on Brock Sorensen.

  “I mean, he’s supposedly a great accountant,” Tay continued. “I don’t run into him often, but when I do he’s cordial enough. But any dude who takes off his wedding band to flirt with chicks is despicable. He was here in Cherry Cove interviewing for a job and thought he’d sow some wild oats while he was at it. The fact that he couldn’t seal the deal’s not my problem. He’s still a dirtbag in my book.”

  I nodded, then asked, “What’s his relationship with Cody Rivers?”

  “I don’t know that they have one,” Tay replied. “The kid works here. They’re on friendly terms, I suppose.”

  “Unless he’s the killer and found out that Cody was going to talk to Whitney,” Giff offered. He set his empty juice glass on the bedside table and continued. “Think about it. Baggsie mentioned that the man would be foolish to jeopardize his career here by instigating a string of damaging events. But what if that was his intent in the first place? What if he was purposely trying to ruin this place, forcing it into bankruptcy so that he could snap it up for a bargain price? A major software hack, a sudden infestation of rats before a health inspection, a murder—these are all hits against the Cherry Orchard Inn brand—damaging hits. Whit knows a little something about damaging a brand. Isn’t that right, princess? She’s living proof that the results can be catastrophic.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “No problem, angel. But say Sorensen purposely damages the image of the Cherry Orchard Inn. Maybe the kids knew about it, and even applauded it in their stick-it-to-the man youthful way. But then he takes it one step further—”

  “—and kills Jeb Carlson,” I finished, picking up on the thread of his idea just like in our advertising days. “He kills Jeb because Jeb was onto him too. Jeb had begun to figure out what was going on and tries to tell Dad, but Dad’s too upset about the stolen wine to listen. Sorensen could easily be behind that too. Maybe that was intended to be just another hit on the image of the inn. But it’s too close to home. Jeb knows about Sorensen, and therefore Sorensen has to murder him. To cover his tracks, he frames Dad. It would be easy for him to do and it serves his purpose. Framing the owner of the inn is a catastrophic hit to the brand as well. It’s all over the news and people are talking. But the murder of Jeb Carlson is too much for the kids. Murder is real. They can’t talk to Jack because they’ve been warned against it. So they get nervous. Their lives are threatened. Then Cody’s conscience kicks in. He sees me snooping around and dares to take the risk because I’m not the police. He arranges a private meeting. Sorensen somehow finds out about it and tries to stop the kid before he can tell me what he knows. He then tries to kill me too, because I’m getting close to the truth.”

  “Oh my God!” Tay exclaimed, fear rippling across her pretty face and blossoming in her night-dark eyes. “Oh my God! I … I might have nearly boinked a psychopathic murderer!”

  “A married, cheating, closet-cigar-smoking psychopathic murderer with a penchant for bacon, darling,” Giff corrected her. “But that’s the least of our worries. If our suspicions are correct, Sorensen’s now onto our Whitney as well, and we can’t let that happen.”

  “Oh! Oh, show Giff that creepy twig-face we found,” Tay urged.

  I pulled out my phone, found the picture, and handed it to Giff. He studied it for a moment, then sat back.

  “You recognize it, don’t you?” This I didn’t find nearly as surprising as Tay did. Giff was a savant at recognizing logos, icons, taglines, and jingles.

  “Nothing that primitive, but yes, I have. That, my darlings, is either a fair self-portrait of a Sasquatch or a poor rendition of Green Man, a leafy icon of obscure Celtic origin thought to represent rebirth and leafy fertility, as in the cycles of the seasons. Very common throughout Europe. It wouldn’t be so unusual springing up in an orchard here, I shouldn’t think. Was Jeb superstitious?”

  I thought a moment, then remembered something Doc Fisker had started telling us. He’d been speaking of Jeb, and mentioned something about how in the spring he’d seen Jeb, Mom, Grandma Jenn, and Tay holding hands and dancing around the budding trees. He’d called it ‘suspiciously pagan.’ I said
as much to Tay, and she nodded.

  “Yeah. I forgot about that until you mentioned it, but it’s kind of become our spring tradition. Three years ago, Jenn thought it would be fun to have our own May Day celebration. She and Jeb kinda had a thing for Scandinavian folklore and talked your mother and some of us younger ladies into getting up at the crack of dawn on the first of May. We come to the orchard, throw on a white robe, put a wreath of wild flowers in our hair, and dance around the budding trees while holding hands. It’s a gas. I had no idea you didn’t know about it.”

  “No. I didn’t,” I told them, feeling a little low that no one had bothered to tell me about May Day. “Do you remember if Jeb ever made a Green Man face on the ground?”

  “No,” Tay said. “That I would have remembered.”

  Tay left shortly thereafter. Giff went to my brother’s room, where he was staying, but came back a few minutes later wearing only pajama bottoms and with a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. He was in the middle of a thought. The only thought I had was to get into bed.

  “Sorensen,” he said, and pulled the toothbrush from his mouth. “He has no motive that we know of to destroy the inn, right? But he came here from somewhere. Everyone’s got secrets, Whit. Tomorrow, before the pie judging, I’ll do a little snooping around on the internet and see if I can find one.”

  “Thanks,” I said, just as there was a knock on my door. Without thinking, Giff crossed the room and opened it. The toothbrush dropped from his mouth. Only one man in Cherry Cove could have that effect on a city boy like Gifford.

  “Hello, Tate,” I said, getting off my bed.

  Tate looked good, standing at the threshold while holding a small bouquet of wildflowers and a bottle of wine. His eyes, however, were glued to Giff, and not in a good way. It was then that I realized Tate’s face was as red as a glass of cherry wine.