Blackberry Burial

by Sharon Farrow

  “Not hiding. Working. We’ve spent a lot of time talking with BAS administrators. They’ve given us the names of the other students who attended the same session with Sienna. With so many different activities scheduled, it’s easier to question most of them at an event like this. As far as we know, nothing BAS related is going on tonight except for the luau.”

  “Then you questioned Zack and his friends earlier today?”

  “Ms. Kapoor gave us their contact info. We met with them this afternoon in one of the cabins.”

  “Was it at all productive?”

  “None of them confessed to murdering Sienna, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Do you think one of them did it?”

  The look he now shot me was cautionary, not lustful. “You know there’s only so much I can tell you. Officially.”

  “How about unofficially?”

  “Unofficially, I want to wish you congratulations on the limbo victory.” He chuckled. “Now I’d better join up with Greg. But I want to make certain you weren’t hurt. From where I stood, it looked as if Mr. Burwell pushed you pretty hard.”

  “I’m fine. It takes a lot more to damage me than a simple shove.” I didn’t add that just that—and a knock over my head—nearly did me in last month.

  “Let me know if you need a ride home later.”

  “I came with Ryan. He’ll see I get home safe.”

  Holt frowned. “Your fiancé is here? He should be keeping a closer eye on you if he is.”

  “He lost interest when the next slab of ribs went on the fire.” While I said this with a laugh, I felt as irritated as Holt looked. We’d been at the luau for over three hours and Ryan had spent no more than a few minutes with me. I didn’t begrudge him the time he spent with his cousins—or even the barbecued pork—but lately I had been feeling like an afterthought in his life. Although if he knew how interested Atticus Holt was in me, Ryan would be hovering over us like a jealous guardian angel.

  “The man’s a fool for choosing ribs over you,” he said in a tone that made my stomach do a little flip.

  “I’m going to assume you haven’t tasted Diego Theroux’s ribs.” I thought it safer to return the conversation to the murder case than Ryan and me. “Before you go, have you seen Gordon Sanderling tonight?”

  “I got a brief glimpse of him a while back. He made himself scarce when he spotted me. I may have been a little harsh with him last night after you told me what happened in the parking lot. I made it clear he was to stay away from you and Theo.”

  “Speaking of Theo, is he at the luau?”

  “Don’t know. But there are several hundred people here. Easy to get lost in this crowd.”

  “I agree.” If I had missed Holt and Trejo here, as well as Gordon Sanderling, I could have overlooked my baker hiding in a corner of the bayou. “Thank you for rescuing me from the inebriated Mr. Burwell. I do appreciate the police gallantry, Atticus.”

  “Kit,” he said. “My friends call me Kit. Only my parents refer to me as Atticus.”

  On an impulse, I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Kit.”

  I was sure that if the sun were out and not tiki torches, I would have seen him blush. With mixed feelings, I watched Kit Holt stride off toward the administration cottage. After he left, I felt abandoned. Maybe I should join Ryan and his cousins, even if it meant listening to a conversation centered on orchard economics and Zellar family memories. But when I reached the group near the barbecue pit, Ryan and his cousins were nowhere in sight. This was why Ryan hadn’t come to my defense when Zack knocked me down. He never knew the incident had occurred.

  Pushing through a noisy mob enervated by pork and alcohol, I decided to track down Tess and Emma. Thinking of Emma reminded me that Alison had reportedly drunk so much she had been put to bed in one of the Bramble cabins to sleep it off. I should check on her. This was probably the most this respectable mother of three had partied since her infamous bachelorette party, when she rode piggyback on a male stripper called Muscle Mario.

  The farther I climbed up the trail leading to the cabins, the quieter it grew. And the fragrance of the surrounding pine trees soon overwhelmed the smell of barbecue sauce and alcohol. I felt grateful for the change. The dirt and gravel path forked off at various points as I climbed deeper into the surrounding woods. The larger buildings on the right were the art studios. I headed instead for the Bramble log cabins, where students and faculty resided during the summer. Lantern posts stood at regular intervals for illumination, but it was still a shadowy path. First-time students often took a wrong turn, or stumbled on the uneven ground in the dark.

  When I reached the first group of Bramble cabins, I stopped. If Alison had been drunk enough to be put to bed, they wouldn’t have been able to get her much farther than this. I walked up to the porch of the nearest cabin and knocked on the door. When there was no answer, I opened the door and looked around. All I saw were four beds, the customary rustic table and chairs, and one of those electric lanterns that sat in the window of each cabin. The lantern didn’t afford much light, but it was bright enough to reveal the cabin was empty.

  I set off for the cabin directly next door. After my gentle knock received no response, I once more peeked inside. As soon as I did, I bit back a cry. This cabin was not empty, but it wasn’t Alison I saw lying on one of the beds. Instead, it was a naked man and woman who were so busy making love they never noticed me.

  I quietly shut the door and hurried back to the path. For a moment, I stood there, uncertain and shaken. It wasn’t the sight of two people having sex that alarmed me. What bothered me was that I recognized the couple. And while I had not learned Theo’s whereabouts tonight, I now knew with absolute certainty where Leah Malek and Gordon Sanderling were.

  Chapter 15

  “You’re mean, Marlee.” Since the shop was briefly without customers, Andrew took the opportunity to nag me again. “Why can’t I taste some of the wines?”

  “Because you need to keep a clear head while we’re working. This isn’t the BAS luau.”

  He snorted. “Luau? It felt like St. Paddy’s Day in Chicago, only with rum instead of green beer. And did the fire-eaters really get too close to Jenna Meisner and set her on fire? I have a dim memory of something going up in flames.”

  “That was Jenna, or at least her costume. Her fellow dancers ripped her hula skirt off before she got burnt.” I shook my head. “It also brought the luau to a close.”

  “You have to hand it to Piper. She sure knows how to throw a party.”

  It had turned into quite a night. I couldn’t forget the hula dancer’s near immolation, Zack’s drunken appearance, or the couple I discovered in one of the Bramble cabins. I hadn’t had much time to think about the implication of finding Gordon and Leah having sex. It probably meant nothing more than Leah still carried a torch for Gordon, and a pretty steamy one, too. She told me at breakfast yesterday that she had waylaid Gordon on the way to the showers at the school twenty years ago. They must have been lovers before, even if it was only a brief hookup. I imagined their old attraction to each other, coupled with the grief they shared about Sienna, had drawn them together once more. Whatever was going on between them, I didn’t think it was my business. Although I should inform Kit Holt. Or would that make me the snitch I’d already been branded as by Dawn Vance?

  “I’ve never tasted the white currant wine.” Andrew eyed one of the bottles on the table.

  “And you won’t be doing it today until you’re done working.” After a quick glance at my strawberry-shaped wall clock, I smoothed down my chef apron. “No sips when I’m not looking, either. Otherwise your head will feel even worse.”

  Andrew had been complaining about his hangover headache since he came to work. He wasn’t alone. Alison felt so sick from all the drinking she had done last night she refused to get out of bed this morning. At least we managed to get her back to my house without her becoming ill, like Zack. So far the BAS centenary week had had
a less than salubrious effect on everyone. And we still had a few days to go before the celebration was officially over.

  As a way of toasting congratulations to the BAS centenary, I’d set up a berry wine tasting. I was now second-guessing my decision. Given how much the BAS alumni had partied last night, offering free wine may not have been the wisest move. Except it was too late to cancel. The two o’clock event had been publicized for weeks and I had stocked an impressive selection of berry wines: blackberry, strawberry, cranberry, blueberry, white currant, and raspberry. I’d hoped to include huckleberry wine, but the last bottles sold out yesterday.

  For the third time, I rearranged the wine bottles on the expansive butcher-block table. Once I brought out the platters of cheese and crackers kept in the kitchen, The Berry Basket wine tasting could officially begin.

  A squawk rang through the shop, followed by a voice saying, “Give me a kiss.”

  “Shut up!” Andrew shouted.

  His plea was met with a loud “Shut up!” in return.

  Cradling his head, Andrew groaned. “Can’t you teach that bird to whisper?”

  “It would be easier if you taught yourself not to drink so many craft beers in one night.” I walked over to the four-foot-tall perch near the window. Unlike Natasha’s rampaging Yorkie, Minnie’s clipped wings prevented her from exploring the shop. She wouldn’t get anywhere near the pastry or ice cream counters. “Don’t blame Minnie for only doing what comes natural to her.”

  “Drinking beer at a luau comes naturally to me, too,” Andrew muttered.

  “Pay no attention to him,” I told my beautiful gray and white parrot as she bobbed her head at my approach.

  “Give me a kiss,” she repeated.

  When I held out my arm, Minnie hopped on. “Mommy loves you,” I crooned to her.

  “Why did you bring her to work on a day when I have such a splitting headache?” Andrew complained.

  “Hi ho, hi ho,” Minnie sang.

  “Don’t listen to the silly man,” I reassured her. “As if we knew in advance how the self-indulgent Mr. Cabot is going to be feeling.”

  “At least I’m trying to prepare for the road rally, which is more than you’re doing.” Andrew held up a spiral notebook. “I’ve spent all week trying to figure out what art-related clues we’ll have to solve for the rally. And we’ve got only forty-eight hours left to prep for it.”

  “You’re driving me nuts. There’s no way of knowing what kind of clues Piper has come up with. They may be puns, or wacky references we could never figure out in advance, or esoteric questions about the art world.” I thought a moment. “For example, where would Dutch painter Piet Mondrian go to find a subject and buy fruit? The answer would be Red Tree Market.” Andrew looked confused. “Because Red Tree is a painting by Mondrian and there’s a farm market called Red Tree on Blue Star Highway.”

  “Good one, Marlee.” He grabbed a pen from the counter and started scribbling. “Let’s brainstorm a few more. Actually, you brainstorm the clues and I’ll write them down. And get Tess to spitball some clues related to glasswork. By the way, Dean is only studying the Impressionists. He’s leaving every other painter to me. The lazy brat. I wouldn’t mind if we kicked my brother off the team. Less people to split the prize money with.”

  I looked at Minnie. “This is why I like being an only child,” I told her.

  She blinked and replied, “Where are the cashews?”

  I removed one of the cashews I kept in my apron pocket for her. “Here you go.”

  She quickly consumed her favorite snack. “Mommy loves me.”

  “That she does.” I smoothed back the feathers on her head and she shut her eyes in contentment.

  The shop door swung open, letting in a couple with two young children in tow. The boy and girl ran over to Minnie and me.

  “Does she bite?” The boy put out a tentative hand as if to pet her.

  “Sometimes.” I raised my arm to keep the bird out of their reach. “Minnie doesn’t know you, so don’t try to pet her. She may get nervous. But if you let her sit on her perch or on me, she’ll be fine.” I smiled at them. “And she talks.”

  Before I could prompt her, Minnie announced, “Peek-a-boo. I see you.”

  They erupted into giggles, which increased when Minnie added, “How are ya, mate?”

  “Mommy, Daddy, can we have a bird?” the girl asked her parents, who had joined us.

  “The bird sounds Australian,” the mother commented.

  “Her previous family was from Australia,” I explained. “They lived in the States for a few years, but had to return home. When they ran into problems about bringing an exotic bird through customs, they put her up for adoption. She’s mine now. Minnie’s never been to Australia, but she does have a few Aussie phrases in her vocabulary.” While I had so far counted over three hundred words in her vocabulary, I was certain she knew even more.

  “Tie me kangaroo down,” Minnie sang.

  “Amazing,” the children’s father said. “What kind of bird is she?”

  I looked fondly at the thirteen-inch bird perched on my forearm. “An African grey parrot. They’re one of the best talkers. And quite intelligent.” With my free hand, I scratched the top of her head. Minnie closed her eyes and murmured, “Scritch.”

  “Will she be at the store tomorrow?” the boy asked.

  I heard Andrew say, “I hope not.”

  “She’s not here all the time.” I placed Minnie back onto her perch. Attached to it were two metal bowls, one holding water, the other fresh vegetables. At the base of the perch sat an aluminum pan filled with sand to catch any droppings.

  Things had been so hectic, I had hardly been home at all. Feeling guilty for leaving Minnie alone all day, I decided to bring her into work this morning. She also loved talking to people. Certainly she was easier to take care of than Natasha’s Yorkie. And if I thought she needed a little nap, I’d move her to the back office, where a large travel cage sat on my desk. Things had worked out well so far, convincing me to bring her in more often.

  The little girl hopped up and down. “Can you get Minnie to talk again? Please.”

  My bird needed no encouragement. Unless she was eating or sleeping, Minnie kept up a running commentary, interspersed with whistles and perfect imitations of any noise she had heard. Both the children and their parents remained transfixed as Minnie regaled them with phrases, catcalls, and her special rendition of “Ba-ba-ba ba-ba ba-ran.” Apparently, her previous owners had a fondness for the old Beach Boys song “Barbara Ann.” The delighted children began to sing along, prompting Andrew to down more Tylenol. The Minnie show might have continued for some time had customers not started to arrive for my two o’clock wine tasting.

  Needing to oversee the wine table, I moved Minnie and her perch near the closed door leading to the kitchen and storage room. She’d be safely out of the way, and Andrew could keep an eye on her from behind the counter. I placed the perch on a large decorative crate where she could be visible over the heads of anyone in the store, and out of the reach of curious hands.

  “Here comes trouble,” Minnie called out as a group of women headed for the wooden table in the center of the store, where I had just set down platters of cheese and crackers. Nope, here come paying customers, I thought, and ones who were already examining my berry wine selection with appreciative smiles.

  “Could we try this one?” one of them asked.

  “Of course. This is a raspberry wine with a dark chocolate finish.” I poured wine into the sample glasses lined up. “Because this is a dessert wine, it’s usually not paired with cheese and crackers. A raspberry truffle is a more perfect fit.” I slid a glass bowl filled with chocolate raspberry truffles toward them. The women crowded round.

  The next hour saw my usual summer traffic, along with dozens more drawn in by my sandwich board out front advertising the wine tasting. Andrew was run ragged boxing up berry pastries, whipping up smoothies, and ringing up purchases at the
cash register. But I was so busy with the wine lovers, I couldn’t help him. Even with the hubbub of a store crammed with people, I could still hear Minnie’s nonstop remarks from the back of the store. And whenever she asked, “What’s up, punk?” it was greeted with gales of laughter.

  Scheduled to last an hour, the wine tasting was so popular I kept it going past that time. But I’d have to call a halt soon. My sample bottles were nearly empty, along with most of the cheese platter. Cindy from the cheese shop had supplied me with the various cheeses I requested, and I displayed a card informing customers that the cheeses came from her store. Even though she had been in business for over a year, Cindy had no idea my fellow shopkeepers and I referred to her store as “the cheese shop,” not Cindy’s Whey. Over the years, several people had opened—and closed—a cheese store in Oriole Point. A cheese business couldn’t seem to make a go of it here, and we fully expected Cindy’s to follow suit. It didn’t seem worth the effort to learn the name of yet another cheese emporium. But we liked Cindy and had our fingers crossed for her.

  For the past few minutes, a distinguished older gentleman had paid particular attention to my three varieties of blackberry wine. He mentioned he was visiting from Oregon, which I knew produced more blackberries than any other state in the nation. If Michigan dominated the blueberry and cherry market, Oregon was the blackberry champ.

  While I recommended Brie and Camembert as the best pairings for blackberry wine, I looked up to see Christian Naylor and Zack Burwell at the far end of the table. Busy slicing cheese for my customer, I could only greet them with a nod. I prayed Zack didn’t sample any of the wines. Fortunately, it was crowded, which forced both men to stand behind other customers.

  I kept throwing glances their way. Zack looked to be sober, albeit exhausted and pale. And Christian wore a forbidding expression. If they wanted to speak with me, I didn’t know how I could manage it. Dean and Gillian hadn’t arrived for their shifts yet, and Andrew and I were swamped with customers.