by Darci Hannah
Giff paused for breath, then galloped on. “Sorensen was working late at the inn when Jeb’s body was discovered, but Tate was hanging around in the lounge. Both men accompanied Baxter when he went to the orchard to find the body, but only one of the two has any real tie to those two boys—Tate. You told me Tate was their basketball coach at the high school. You also said that both Cody and Erik had had a run-in with the law. They were caught stealing bicycles last summer, and then got their whole basketball team disqualified from the championship for using steroids. What if Tate knew about the steroids? What if he was the one supplying them?”
“No way,” I said, quick to jump to Tate’s defense. “Tate may have his fair share of shortcomings, but drugs aren’t one of them. He’d never use the stuff, or suggest others use them.”
“Maybe not, way back when you were still in love with him, but what about now? Remember, I’ve met him, angel. Maybe you drove the poor man to it.”
I shot him a dark look. “Thanks, but I doubt it. Besides, Tate’s in perfect health. No dark circles under his eyes, no sallow, saggy skin.”
“True. He’s beautiful as a Norse God, and I’d like to trust him too. It would be such a waste, locking away a man like that for life. But darling, consider this. What if Tate does know that those boys were stealing his boats? He also knew about your Dad’s secret wine. You told me once, when you were very, very drunk, that you and Tate used to break into the old lighthouse and make out in there. Tate’s very familiar with the layout, and I would bet he’d still know how to break in if he needed to.”
“Oh my,” I blurted out, interrupting him. “I just remembered something. Tate was on the phone this morning, taking with his housekeeper, Mrs. Cushman. She’s an older lady, and he put her on speaker phone. She mentioned that Lori Larson stopped by the marina this morning to drop off a plate of scones for Tate. Tay’s mom, Char, also talked about Lori Larson and a possible reason she might have had for hating Jeb. Lori’s a notoriously bad baker, and yet she was stopping by Tate’s house with baked goods. Why?”
“This Lori Larson wouldn’t happen to be Erik Larson’s mom?”
I looked at Giff and nodded.
“Looks like we need to pay Lori Larson a visit.”
“Indeed,” I said, stepping on the gas. “Lori Larson will be at the service, I expect. Erik too. The whole village of Cherry Cove will be there to say goodbye to their old friend Jeb Carlson, while praying for that poor boy, Cody Rivers.”
Thirty-Five
The town of Cherry Cove was jam-packed with parked cars, a scene reminiscent of the height of the summer tourist season, not a lazy weekend in late May. Having little choice, I pulled into the handicapped parking spot at the police station, the only spot available, certain Jack would understand. We then walked MacDuff around to the gated backyard, where Jack’s adolescent goats were busy grazing. The moment they saw us they ran for the gate. Giff was enchanted, until the two little billys lowered their heads, revealing their pointy horns. MacDuff ran in, barking. Giff shut the gate and leaned against it.
“Who is this guy?” he breathed, his dark eyes glittering with humor. “He’s got an awesome dog, two crazy goats, and lives in a turf-roofed police station. What a badass. Can’t wait to meet him in person.”
St. Paul’s Lutheran Church stood on a hill overlooking the town. It was a short walk, and although we were already late, Giff and I lingered. I’d like to think it was because of the beautiful scenery. The early morning fog had lifted, revealing the languid, dark blue water of Cherry Cove Bay. The midmorning sun hit the waves at such an angle that the water sparkled like a sea of diamonds, while hungry gulls cried overhead. The black roof of the Cherry Orchard Inn could be seen across the bay, sitting on the point and poking above the forested bluff. It was a sight I never grew tired of, and I’d missed it. Giff was swept up by it too. But there was something else—the town was deserted. Every living soul was already in the church, paying tribute to the man who’d been so brutally murdered in our orchard. Our orchard. That oasis of an inn on the bluff. It was going to be a difficult day.
Giff and I continued along the water, walking in companionable silence until somebody shouted my name. We both turned. Carleton Brisbane was running toward us. Giff, having never seen the man before, removed his sunglasses in reverence at the sight of his suavely elegant demeanor.
“Damn,” he breathed. “This town’s just full of delightful surprises. Who is he? He looks familiar, like I’ve seen him on the cover of a magazine or something.”
“Maybe you have. He’s Carleton Brisbane, a frequent visitor and Hannah’s latest heartthrob. He’s the other judge in the great cherry pie bake-off you’ll be working later. Don’t get any ideas, though. She’s guarding her claim on him like a hawk.”
“Noted. Then should I be concerned by the way he’s looking at you?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Angel, if I know anything, I know men.”
Perhaps he was right. When Carleton caught up to us he was smiling at me. Only me.
“I’m heartened to find I’m not the only one running late this morning,” he quipped. Then, shifting his focus to Giff, he thrust out his hand. “Carleton Brisbane.”
“Gifford McGrady. I’m a friend of Whitney’s. I hear we’re to be the judges today in the cherry pie bake-off.”
“Well, that’s great news. Miss Winthrop volunteered me for the honor. I do have a passion for cherries, especially a great cherry pie, but I’ve never done this sort of thing before. I’m happy to have another discerning palate to help make what is certain to be a difficult decision.”
“Not sure what kind of help I’m going to be,” Giff admitted. “Whit’s making me do it. Of course, she knew I’d agree. I’m intrigued by the notion of a giant gold-plated cherry trophy.” Carleton laughed, thinking Giff was joking. Giff played along.
“I’m going to be honest,” Carleton said. “I’m a little worried I won’t be able to uphold my end of the bargain. You may have to do most of the tasting, Mr. McGrady. I think I ate something this morning that I shouldn’t have—a truly horrible scone made by one of today’s contestants. I’ve been dealing with it for that last hour. It’s why I’m running late.” He grimaced and patted his stomach.
Mrs. Cushman’s story sprang to my mind again, particularly the part about the man who’d ended up with Lori Larson’s rock-hard scones. “Tell me, you didn’t, by chance, happen to eat one of the scones Mrs. Cushman was trying to feed to the fish this morning?”
The question shocked him. Carleton’s light green eyes narrowed. “Yes. That’s exactly what happened. How … how did you know about that?”
“It’s a small village,” Giff replied for me, tossing in a private wink. “I’m told one hears everything in this town. It’s a miracle the identity of the murderer hasn’t been bandied about yet by the Cherry Cove gossip mill.”
“Deeper secrets take a little longer to uncover,” I said, “and this one is pretty deep. Carleton, you really should’ve let Mrs. Cushman toss those scones in the lake. Never go against the wisdom of an old baker, especially where baked goods are involved.”
Carleton laughed. It was a charming sound. “Yes. Wise advice. I’ll just have to cling to the thought that I might have saved a fish or two. Seriously, though, how did you know about the scones?”
I thought about keeping the information to myself but caved under his probing look. It hit me, then, how similar these two men were. It was like staring at father and son, the older man embodying classic elegance while the younger man sported a modern, fresh, and slightly disheveled take on the original. The thought made me smile.
“Okay, but you need to keep this to yourselves. No adding it to the gossip mill.” The two glossy black heads nodded in unison. “Giff knows most of this already, but the short answer is, I heard Tate talking with his housekeeper, Mrs. Cushman. Jack and I had s
een a boat speeding across the lake this morning, and we asked Tate if one of his boats was missing. He called Mrs. Cushman to check, and one was.
“Someone stole one of Tate’s boats?” Carleton looked troubled. “I was at the marina last night. As you know, I have a room at the inn for the festival, but after that damnable fire in the processing shed I decided it might be safer on my yacht. I was sleeping like the dead. Didn’t hear a thing.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. With all that’s happened at the inn, you’re likely to think Cherry Cove is a pretty dicey place. It really isn’t, you know.”
“I know,” he assured me. “But it’s highly unsettling all the same. Did Tate ever find his boat?”
“No. Whoever stole it wasn’t heading back to the marina.”
“Did anyone see this person in the stolen boat?” Carleton looked both concerned and intrigued.
The trouble was, I had seen him … or it. I chanced a look at Giff. His expression screamed, For the love of God, do not mention the Sasquatch!
“Ahh, no,” I replied. “We were in the woods, just down from the lighthouse, when we saw the boat. It was too foggy.”
“What were you doing in the woods at that time of the morning, may I ask?”
“Looking for the missing wine.”
“Interesting. And what made you think you could find it when Officer MacLaren couldn’t?”
“Hubris,” Giff added. “Pure hubris.”
I cast him a reprimanding look and replied, “Truthfully, I don’t know, but I did find it, or what was left of it. Jack was in the woods too. We were both following the same set of footprints when we met up. Someone had been there with us—the same person who stole Tate’s boat, we think. Then we found out that Tate was in the woods too, looking for me. We all met up shortly after the person in Tate’s stolen boat raced away. We’re not sure who’s been stealing the boats, but we believe it’s the same person, or people, responsible for stealing Dad and Jeb’s cherry wine. It could be some of the high school kids. But I doubt they killed Jeb. Whatever the case, Jack and Tate won’t be at the service this morning. They’re both at the Sturgeon Bay police station. And we best get going too, before we miss everything.”
∞
The church was packed. It was standing room only, except for one tiny space in a pew Tay and Hannah had been protecting. I urged Giff to take it because I had another plan. Erik Larson was somewhere in the church, and I meant to find him.
Since Carleton was a visitor to Cherry Cove, I brought him with me to a little door, tucked away at the side of the church, marked Do Not Enter. We entered and quietly made our way up the rickety stairs to the roped-off balcony.
We took a seat in one of the antique pews, the sturdiest-looking one. Carleton sat quietly beside me, lost in thought as I began my observation of the mourners below. In the first pew on the left sat the couple I’d seen last night in the hospital, Cody’s worry-worn parents. A young girl sat with them, presumably his sister, and beside them, more family. Across the aisle I recognized the family of Jeb Carlson: his two vaguely familiar middle-aged children and their respective families. They didn’t live in Cherry Cove any more, and it gave me a jolt to see them sitting once again in the village church.
My own parents were three rows behind Jeb’s family, with Grandma Jenn beside them, crying silently into a handkerchief. My heart went out to her, especially now that I knew Jeb had been so much more than a friend. Sitting on the other side of my parents was Brock Sorensen. I assumed the thin, blonde-headed woman next to him was his wife, Gwyneth. Poor woman, I thought, and couldn’t help glancing at Tay. Tay and Brock. I shivered at the thought and continued searching.
Reverend Dahl, the rock of the little community, stood behind the pulpit. As he spoke to his parishioners his face was lined with agony—agony mirrored by everyone in the church. The sermon, I thought, had to be one of the hardest he’d ever given; how does one make sense of the senseless murder of an old man, or the beating and forced poisoning of a boy? He was speaking in solemn tones as he recalled the life of Jeb Carlson and all that he’d done for the community. There wasn’t a dry eye in the entire church, including a whole group of teenaged girls who were openly crying, albeit not for Jeb but for the handsome youth lying comatose in Door County General. I didn’t blame them one bit. What had happened to Cody Rivers was a glimpse into the brutal, desperate mind of the killer.
And yet, somewhere in the back of my mind was the fact that both Jeb and Cody knew who he was. It was a chilling thought. The killer could be anywhere. He could even be in this very church. The thought chilled me to the bone. That’s when the warm, solid hand of Carleton Brisbane was placed over mine.
“This must be incredibly difficult for you,” he whispered.
My response to this was to squeeze his hand just as tightly. It felt so good to be held by a man—a real man. For the second time that morning, I dared to believe I’d discovered the true identity of C-Bomb. And what a perfect discovery it would be, I thought. Carleton was polished, wealthy, incredibly handsome, and had the most mesmerizing green eyes.
“Do … you have a dog?” I whispered.
He quirked a brow, looked at me oddly, and then nodded. “I do. Molly. She lives on my yacht.”
“And … are you married?”
“I was actually hoping you’d get around to asking me that question, my dear.” Carleton leaned in and whispered in my ear, “No, I’ve never been. Not yet. And please know that I have no romantic feelings for your friend, Hannah. Only for you. Have dinner with me. I might even introduce you to Molly.”
It was hardly the time. We were in church—at a funeral. But I said yes, sure, we should do that sometime. Tate was my past, Jack was my friend, but Carleton … Carleton Brisbane could very well be my future.
I never gave a thought to what Hannah might think, because just about then I realized that Erik Larson wasn’t in the church. I scanned the pews three more times to be certain. I could be wrong, I knew. I needed to check the lobby. Dear God, how I hoped he was in the lobby. I could feel my pulse elevate at the thought, and what it might mean.
The sermon was drawing to an end. I quietly stood up, pulling Carleton with me, and left the balcony.
Thirty-Six
We snuck out the forbidden balcony door at the same moment the congregation began streaming out of the chapel. The lobby had been crowded when we came in. Now, however, the solemn mob was on the move, sweeping everyone along like a cleansing wave as it headed for the community room and coffee cake.
I stood on tippy-toes and craned my neck, attempting to find Erik’s face in the crowd. I had no luck, but I did spot Giff, Tay, and Hannah. “Over that way,” I told Carleton, still pulling him along, and realized too late that I was still holding his hand.
“Hey,” Hannah said by way of greeting. Her smile faded the moment her eyes dropped to our entwined hands. Immediately I let go.
“Can’t have Carleton getting swept away in the crowd now, can we?” Giff was quick to add, shooting both Carleton and me a reprimanding look.
“No,” I replied. “St. Paul’s has never seen such a turnout. I was afraid Carleton would be trampled by a coffee cake stampede. I’ve heard it can happen. By the way, have any of you seen Erik Larson?”
“Holy Mother of Mischief!” Tay cried, nearly coming to a stop. “No. No I haven’t,” she said, regaining her place in the surging crowd. “I knew something seemed odd, but I couldn’t place my finger on it.”
Hannah, momentarily forgetting her jealousy, added, “Erik worked with Jeb! He’s Cody’s best friend! He should be here!”
“Do we know if anyone’s seen him since he disappeared yesterday, during the wine and cheese tasting?” I asked.
The blank looks, the utter silence, did not bode well.
The moment we entered the community room, I caught sight of my parents. They
were standing with Jeb Carlson’s family, talking. At times like these there were no words that could bring comfort, and whatever Dad was saying, I could tell, fell short of the mark. Jeb Carlson’s son refused to shake his proffered hand. Then the words “irresponsible,” “money-grubbing capitalist,” and “lawsuit” rang out, filling the room.
“Holy cobbler!” I uttered under my breath. I was about to jump to my parents’ aid when Tay and Hannah blocked me. Carleton took the hint and steered me toward the refreshment table at the other end of the room.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “but you must have expected that people would be angry. That man’s father was murdered on your father’s cherry orchard. Their son,” he began, gesturing toward the Rivers family, “was nearly murdered as well. Tensions are running high, and understandably so. Nothing anyone could say now would be of help. Best let the storm blow over.”
“Blow over? I was in advertising, Carleton. A storm this size doesn’t just blow over without a healthy dose of damage control.”
“Damage control?” he said, and for the first time the sparkle left his compelling aqua eyes. “Death, scandal, lawsuits, costly repairs—this, Whitney, will be the end of your family’s cherry orchard and inn, I’m afraid.”
“My God. My God,” I uttered, feeling my stomach drop to my knees. “Isn’t there anything we can do? You’re a successful businessman, Carleton. You must deal with things like this all the time. There has to be something we can do to help my parents and save their business.”
