Cherry Pies & Deadly Lies

by Darci Hannah

  “Or a Sasquatch,” I added pointedly. “Ever since I arrived, I’ve had the feeling something is watching me from the woods. And then I keep seeing those twig-faces. They look like a Sasquatch! What if it’s him, Jack? What if it’s Finn? But why me? I never saw the guy before yesterday. And believe me, I’d know if I had.”

  I could feel Jack staring at me from the passenger seat. “I don’t know, Whit. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s because you’re the owner’s daughter. Your inheritance is at stake here. You’ve come all this way to snoop around, and maybe he feels that you pose the greatest threat to whatever game he thinks he’s playing.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling a little deflated. “I thought maybe it was because he’s attracted to me.”

  “Seriously?” Jack was grinning.

  “Of course not. It was a joke.”

  “I mean, he could be,” Jack added, and this time, I was happy to note, he wasn’t grinning. “Guys can do some pretty strange things to get the attention of the woman they fancy. Take Bill Bachman, for instance.”

  “What about him?”

  “He’s obsessed with Greta Stone, the reporter.”

  “What? Are you serious? How do you know about that?”

  “I noticed it last night, when I went over the tapes of the interviews Greta dropped off—”

  “Greta Stone was at your police station last night?” Why did that bother me so? And why did Jack look amused?

  “Yeah. I asked her to bring over the tapes. Remember when I told you that Greta was really great at getting people to talk on camera? Well, she got nearly everyone staying at the inn to talk, and also Bill Bachman. In fact, he was one of the only employees to speak with her. Mostly so he could flirt with her on camera, and partly to cast blame on your dad as the murderer. The guy could barely focus on the interview due to his eyes being glued to Greta’s—well, you know. He tried to speak with her a couple more times after that, but it was only a ploy to chat with her.”

  “Creepy.”

  “Nah. It’s just normal guy behavior.”

  “No, I’m talking about Greta Stone being at your police station. Creepy. You were just talking with her, right?”

  Jack grinned. “Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” I lifted a hand from the wheel and waved it nonchalantly, ignoring a very real surge of anger at the thought of Jack and Greta. It was unsettling, that feeling. More unsettling? I didn’t even know why I felt it. “You’re a grown man,” I added in an attempt to prove my point. “You can … you know, with whoever you like.”

  “Thanks,” he said, then quickly changed the subject to continue talking about the case. Unfortunately, I wasn’t paying much attention to what Jack was saying. I was too busy imagining him and the gorgeous, long-legged Greta entwined together up on the lush green grass of the police station roof. I didn’t know why I was picturing them on the roof, but I was. I pulled into a parking lot, thinking about Jack and naughty, naughty Greta! Grrrretah!

  “Whit. Were you just growling?” Jack was staring at me through narrowed eyes.

  “What? No. Just clearing my throat.” There was a very real possibility I’d just lied.

  “Really?” he said, opening the door. “Because I distinctly heard growling. You coming?”

  Bill Bachman lived in a unit of a building that once, quite obviously, had been a motel. It was the type of low, one-story motel that had sprung up all over the peninsula during the 1950s, and from the looks of this one it should have been bulldozed out of its misery years ago but wasn’t. The owner, who had put just enough money into the place to keep it from being condemned, rented out the tiny, ramshackle units on a monthly basis to those who couldn’t afford better. And from the No Vacancy sign out front, there were apparently quite a few folks working on the Door County Peninsula who couldn’t afford better. That was the dirty underbelly of the tourist industry: grossly inflated prices that drove the locals to live in places like old, run-down motels.

  I followed Jack to door number five and stood aside as he knocked. No one answered. “Bill,” he called out, “this is Officer MacLaren of the Cherry Cove police department. I need to speak with you.” No answer. Jack knocked again, and again.

  “How convenient for Finn,” I remarked. “Everyone connected to the guy mysteriously goes missing.” Jack shot me a troubled look and gave the door one more fervent knock.

  “You lookin’ for Bill?” The voice came from the graying head of a woman who was peeking out of door number six. “Not gonna find him here, hon. Bill cleared out twenty minutes ago. You just missed him.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “Nope. Not a clue.” The woman, a round, pleasant lady in her sixties, shrugged. “I saw him loading up his car. Officer MacLaren, isn’t it?” She looked Jack up and down and grinned. “Bill drives an old Chevy Impala,” she offered. “Dark green. You gonna write this down or what?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Jack pulled out his little notebook and scribbled.

  The woman continued. “I thought it odd, him packing up like that on a Sunday. I’ve never seen Billy out of bed before noon on a Sunday. When I asked where he was going, he said that he had quit his job at the Cherry Orchard Inn and didn’t feel like stickin’ around no more.”

  “He moved?”

  “Moved, or went away for a while.” The woman stepped out of her doorway and came over to us. “What’s he done?” she asked in a tone that invoked motherly concern. “Is he in trouble or something?”

  “No. We just need to ask him a few questions.” Jack was speaking gently to the woman, steering well clear of the fact that Bill was now a prime suspect.

  She stared at Jack a moment longer, then reached under the door mat and pulled out a key. “Here,” she said, handing it to Jack. “His friends know where he hides it. Billy may be a little squirrelly, and too fond of the weed for his own good, if ya know what I mean”—here the old woman winked—“but he’s a good boy at heart. Go on in and have a look around. Just replace the key when you’re done.”

  Bill’s apartment was tiny, and just a wee bit nicer than the outside of the building. Of course, he wasn’t there, and it didn’t take long to determine that he’d left in a hurry.

  “We really need to talk to this guy,” I told Jack, feeling panic taking hold. “He’s the only one who seems to know anything about Finn. How are we going to find him now? Got any bright ideas?”

  “Of course,” Jack said, pulling out his phone. “You know me. I’m full of bright ideas.” He hit a number. I assumed he was about to report an All-Points Bulletin on the dark green Chevy Impala, but to my extreme annoyance he didn’t. “Greta,” he cooed into the phone in a voice that was pleasant and cheerful, “hope you’re not busy. Hey, I need a huge favor.”

  Forty

  Why, you ask? Because men are silly, shallow, vain creatures, that’s why.” The look Jack cast me after this explanation was ironic and resigned, which annoyed me to an even greater extent. He was driving twenty miles an hour over the speed limit in his unmarked Jeep Wrangler, weaving through cars like a race car in a video game. It should have unnerved me, but it didn’t. I was too focused on the fact that he’d called sexy Greta Stone instead of real backup, and that her number was readily available on his phone.

  I leaned back in the passenger seat and crossed my arms. “Yeah, I get that. But why Greta?” As soon as the words left my mouth I instantly regretted them. I sounded whiny and jealous.

  Keeping his focus on the road, Jack replied. “You obviously didn’t watch the tapes or you wouldn’t be asking that question.”

  “Okay, so she’s beautiful—if you’re attracted to that long-legged, bimbo-esque, Barbie sort of look—but do you really think Bill, who’s obviously scared and running for his life, is going to fall for it?”

  The coppery head turned to m
e. “Whit, you’re overthinking this. You’re also overestimating Bill’s intelligence and underestimating the power of Greta’s long-legged charm.” At his mention of Greta’s legs, a wry grin touched his lips. I gave him the eye, which was enough to wipe the grin off his face. He whizzed past two more cars, then said, “Don’t be jealous. The first rule of catching criminals is to think outside the box, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  “Obviously. Way, way outside the box. And I’m not jealous.”

  “I’d believe you if it wasn’t written all over your face. Trust me. Greta’s okay once you get to know her. Sure, she’s the media, and a bit of a bimbo, but she’s our bimbo. She’s on our side, Whit.”

  “That I believe. However, you’re utter poop at reading expressions. This isn’t jealousy,” I lied. “This,” I said, gesturing to my face, “is skepticism. The reason this expression is glued to my face, if you must know, is because I don’t think your silly plan is going to work.”

  “You sure about that? Want to back it with a bet … like dinner at the place of one’s choosing?”

  “I could use a good dinner,” I said, and flashed a well-practiced, confident grin. “Oh, you’re on, MacLaren, on like Donkey-Kong!”

  ∞

  As much as I hated to admit it, Jack had a better grasp of male vanity than I did, or so it appeared the moment we stepped through the doors of Ed’s Diner in Sturgeon Bay. Marge, our waitress from yesterday, had gone deep undercover, hovering near the cash register while holding a tray laden with two cups of coffee and two slices of cherry pie à la mode. She’d been waiting for Jack. The moment he appeared, her eyes nearly popped out of her head with excitement.

  “Favorite booth’s already taken, love,” she offered with a wink. I wondered how long she’d been standing there practicing that line. “A friend of yours has arrived. A lady friend,” she added covertly, then noticed me standing behind him. She cast me a look that could only be described as confused. “Oh, Miss Bloom. Nice to see ya again.” She cast a questioning look at Jack before hoisting her tray. She then indicated for us to follow.

  Jack leaned near my ear. “Looks like you’re out a steak dinner.”

  ∞

  Great. Another blow to my pride delivered by Jack. First Greta, then his crazy plan involving Greta, and now a dinner I could hardly afford. Was he planning on inviting Greta to that too? Probably, I mused, staring at the glossy blonde head and blinding sheen of air-brushed make-up poking above the top of the booth. You can do this, Bloom, I told myself. She’s on our side, remember? Correction, Jack’s side. Grrrrrr.

  Before Jack had the chance, I plopped down on the bench next to Greta, enjoying the shock on her face.

  “Greta Stone. What a surprise seeing you here. You were at my orchard the other day interviewing murder suspects. Whitney Bloom,” I said, hoping my smile didn’t look as forced as it felt as I held out my hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  Greta’s smile was forced too, and she looked baffled as she shook my hand.

  I then turned to the startled man sitting across from her. “Oh my gosh! Bartender Bill! I didn’t know you two knew each other? What a surprise!”

  “Bill, honey?” Greta, regaining her composure like a pro, placed her hand over the bartender’s. “You’ve met Whitney Bloom? Of course you have. You work for her daddy.” For a hearty, corn-fed, cheese-curd loving Wisconsin girl, she was certainly oozing Southern charm.

  “He does,” I said. “But we’ve never been formerly introduced.” Before Bill could protest, I took hold of his other hand. Bill smiled cautiously. He was right to be cautious, because at that moment Jack slid into the bench beside him, trapping him between the wall and the table.

  “Bill,” Jack said softly. “We need to talk, buddy.”

  Apparently Bill wasn’t in the mood. A primordial fear seized him. His thin face paled, his body went limp, and his hand slipped from my grasp. Then, like some disjointed rag doll, he slid under the table. Marge was about to plop down the pies when he struck the floor, taking out her legs. Marge and her pies toppled onto the booth, landing on top of Jack. At that same moment, Bill shot out from under the table and headed for the door.

  “I got this!” I cried, peering under the table at Jack. He was kind of adorable, squished as he was between sticky pleather and grease-splattered polyester. He grunted in reply. Marge was flailing her arms and legs like an upturned turtle. I gave a thought to pulling her off him, but then thought better of it. Bill was getting away.

  I sprang from the booth and gave chase, my red church-going sweater billowing out behind me like a baby cape. I caught my reflection in the glass of the door as Bill ran out. I looked pretty flippin’ cool, I thought, and kicked it up a gear. People were watching! I didn’t see the giant shadow rise up in the glass until it was too late. I hit the door at full tilt and bounced back, landing flat on my bum and skidding across the floor. Gasps, oohs, and a late warning of “Oh for cripes sake! She’s gonna hit the glass!” filled the diner. I rolled to my knees and tried to stand, but I was trapped in my sweater. I was just about free when something grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet. It was, to my astonishment, Tate.

  “Whitney?” He was just as confused as I was.

  “What the heck are you doing … ?” My jaw dangled a bit as I stared at him. There was really no time for talking. “Quick,” I cried. “Bill Bachman. We need to get him before he gets away!”

  If Tate was anything, he was fast—high school wide receiver fast. Bill was just opening the door of his car when Tate grabbed him by the arm and spun him around.

  Intelligent people didn’t try to fight Tate, especially those with the build of a string bean. Bill, apparently, wasn’t intelligent. Desperate is what he was. And desperate people do stupid things, like kicking other dudes in the giblets. His aim was solid, and Tate, doubling over as a stream of colorful expletives poured from his mouth, went down like a stone.

  “Bill. Stop!” I cried. Like that was going to work! The guy was in flight mode, entirely forgetting about his car and heading for the busy road. I had no choice. I climbed on the hood of his car and jumped, launching into the air like a short-caped Wonder Woman in sensible white tights. I wasn’t nearly as graceful, but I did fly—six whole feet across the pavement into Bill. We both went down with a thud. Bill fought to get away. I held on like a clingy girlfriend, digging my nails into his skin. Jack and Greta caught up to us as we were flopping across the parking lot like a couple of dirty fish trapped in the same fishing line.

  “Help,” Bill croaked from beneath me. “For God’s sake, help me!” He was trying to look up at Jack.

  Jack pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and knelt beside us. There were still remnants of pie on his face and clothing. “I’d like to, buddy, but honestly, I don’t know where to begin.”

  Forty-One

  Bill Bachman was in a heap of trouble. He had thirty thousand dollars cash in his car and refused to answer Jack’s questions about where he got it, or his relationship to Finn Connelly.

  This infuriated Tate, given that he’d spent the morning at the Sturgeon Bay police station answering questions. Now it was Bill’s turn, and Tate wasn’t having any of Bill’s tight-lipped stubbornness. Removing the bag of ice from his crotch, my ex-boyfriend stood up from the curb, ready to make the guy talk the old-fashioned way, when Jack intervened.

  “Easy there, big fella. Haven’t you heard? We’re PC now. Can’t touch ’em no matter how badly we want to. Besides, the squad car’s here. Best leave this to the professionals. Don’t want to spend any more time in the station than you have to.”

  “But Erik’s life is on the line!” Tate protested. “He knows where Erik is, by God, and I’m going to make him talk.”

  “We’ll make him talk,” Jack assured him. “Don’t you worry. And while we’re doing that, you need to get Whitney back to Cherry Cove
. She told me she can take down creeps and win a pie bake-off. She took down a creep, all right. Let’s see if she can go two for two.”

  Tate was unusually quiet as he drove Jack’s Jeep back to town. The moment he spoke, it became instantly clear why.

  “Babe, I can’t believe you thought I was somehow involved in all this.” He looked sullen and hurt. “Has your opinion of me sunk so low? I was only trying to help those boys.”

  “I’m sorry, Tate. I wanted to believe you had nothing to do with it, but … well, I’ve believed in you before … ”

  “And I’ve let you down,” he finished for me, looking remorseful. “I know. But we’re not exactly talking apples-to-apples here. This is murder. It takes a huge leap of depravity to commit murder.”

  This was true. Murder wasn’t exactly the same thing as cheating, and I felt pretty awful that I’d believed the worst of him. For both our sakes, I thought it best to change the subject. “Did you know the kids were into drugs as well?”

  “No,” he said, and gave a remorseful shake of his head. “I thought the alcohol was bad enough. I mean, I even talked to them about it—the dangers of getting drunk and operating watercraft. Or how alcohol can alter your judgement, making you think you can do things you know you shouldn’t do.”

  “And they didn’t listen. Don’t beat yourself up over it. Men, I find, can be exceptionally difficult.”

  “Obviously not your friend Giff,” Tate challenged. “I had no idea you two were so chummy-chummy.”

  I crossed my arms. “We’re friends. Giff used to work for me. And, for your information, he is super difficult, but in a whole other way. That reminds me. I never did thank you for helping put out the fire last night. I heard you were quite the hero.”