I went to open the gates and returned feeling her enthusiasm in my veins. Maybe this was the day my efforts to spread the word about Christmas at the Orchard finally paid off. Maybe it was the day folks finally caught on and came to see what the campaign was about. I nodded slowly, a broad smile spreading over my face. “I think you’re right.”
She wasn’t.
Two hours later, the only soul we’d seen had politely asked for directions, used the portable potty, then left.
I stayed as busy as my frustrated mind would allow, working steadily through the lists I’d created for Winterfest prep. I arranged horseshoes and pegs on the grass and spray-painted them in festive shades of red and green, made brightly colored signs to stand beside the games I’d planned, and gathered all the necessary materials for general holiday shenanigans. I wasn’t sure how Granny had accumulated two dozen sprigs of mistletoe, but I intended to put them all to good use.
I grabbed a sample cup from under the fruit stand tent and tapped the cinnamon cider dispenser. “I don’t understand it,” I said, swigging the cider and wiping my brow. “Everyone asks how we’re doing. Everyone says they support us. So where are they?”
Granny watched the quiet gravel lane. “They’ll come.”
“When?” I finished the cider and tossed the cup. Biting wind stung my sweaty face and temples. “What happens if no one comes to the festival?” It was a rhetorical question. We’d lose all the time and money we put into preparations. That was what would happen, and Smythe Orchard couldn’t afford that.
Granny reached for my hand. “Don’t give up.”
I turned my gaze to the empty parking lot. To the sign above the gates bearing the orchard’s name. Bearing Granny and Grampy’s name. “Okay.” I sighed, rolling my shoulders and trying uselessly to dislodge the tension at the base of my neck. “I have to take the kittens to a vet appointment Dot set for them later this afternoon. While I’m in town, I’ll mail the fliers I printed last night and take out an ad in the paper.” There was still time to turn things around. A lot could happen in a few days. Word could spread. Interest could form. The sheriff might even get his hands on the real killer and clear Granny’s name of all the ugly suspicions by then.
Granny patted my hand. “That’s my girl.”
I gave her fingers a soft squeeze and looked into her tired eyes. “Why do you think no one is coming?” I asked. The answer was probably obvious, but I didn’t want it to be. I didn’t want to believe people who’d known Granny all their lives were avoiding her or the orchard now. I didn’t want them to think bad things about the person and place I loved most in this world.
Granny hooked one ankle over the opposite knee and sighed. “I suppose people think that steering clear of me will put some distance between them and the gossip while they process everything that’s happened. No one wants to be seen fraternizing with the local Cider Slayer.”
“Well, that stinks,” I said.
“Yep.”
I freed the cell phone from my pocket and dialed the bank’s number. “I need to get Mr. Sherman back out here. If he agrees to the loan, then I can open the cider shop and folks are guaranteed to stop in for a drink.” I listened to the prompts and plugged in Mr. Sherman’s extension. “My cider shop will be the first like it in the county, maybe even in the state. Curiosity alone will drive people here.” I frowned when the call went to voice mail. “No answer.”
“He probably has caller ID,” she said.
“Probably.” It wasn’t the first time I’d called since our gruesome discovery. So far, he hadn’t called back.
Granny stretched onto her feet. “I’d better fix the kittens a little lunch. They need lots of nutrition at this age.”
“Thanks,” I said, gathering the dry horseshoes into my hands. “I’ll clean up my mess.”
I watched for several moments as she headed back to her place, then I dialed the bank’s main line. I couldn’t let one man stand between me and my dreams. Mr. Sherman might be avoiding me, but he wasn’t the only one I knew at that office.
“Jake Wesson,” a familiar tenor answered.
“Hi Jake, this is Winnie Montgomery.”
“Winnie!” He cut me off, enthusiasm dripping from the word. Jake was a handsome, kindhearted man who’d worked part time with me at the Sip N Sup during his high school days. He’d landed a job as junior loan agent at the bank after that. “How are you? How’s the diner? How’s the orchard?” He stopped. “Oh,” he caught himself. “I guess I’ve heard about that. How’s your granny holding up?”
“That’s actually why I’m calling.”
Jake had been the unpopular kid when I’d met him. Too smart and too thoughtful for the teenage girls to notice. Four years later, however, they were lining up for his number, and I found that secretly satisfying. As a woman four years his senior, I could appreciate a man with smarts and kindness. Right now, I was counting on Jake to use both.
I recapped the horrible highlights of my last couple days and explained how important the loan was for the future of our family orchard. “Is there a way you can get the message to Mr. Sherman?” I asked. “He’s not answering his office phone or returning my calls. I’m afraid he plans to cut me off without giving me another chance. What happened here wasn’t my fault or Granny’s.”
“Is it affecting business?” Jake asked.
I looked at the silent grounds around me. “Nope. Not at all. In fact, we’re celebrating Christmas at the Orchard all week. Maybe longer. And I’m planning a winter festival this weekend.”
“I’m really glad to hear that,” he said. “I’ll put a note on Mr. Sherman’s desk. Everyone knows how great your granny’s products are. I think I speak for the community when I say that losing Smythe Orchard would be like losing a member of the family.”
The notion hit me like a punch to the chest. I’d already lost one member of my family three years ago, and I wasn’t willing to lose another. “Jake?” I asked, another important point popping into mind. “Make sure Mr. Sherman knows that Granny didn’t do this. She wouldn’t hurt Mrs. Cooper or anyone else. And he noticed some discolored leaves on a few trees while he was here,” I went on. “They were sabotaged. I don’t know why, but the trees aren’t diseased. Whatever happened to those few won’t spread to the others. I read all about it online, and the symptoms don’t match any fungus or infection on record. I think someone deliberately did something to them, and I don’t want that to influence his decision on the loan either.”
“Who would do that?” Jake asked, sounding sincerely concerned.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted, “but I’m going to find out.”
“How?”
“Dot might know someone through the Division of Forestry who can help identify the problem.” I took a long breath to steady myself. “I just need one more chance to make my pitch for that business loan.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Jake promised. The compassion in his voice was nearly enough to bring me to tears.
“Thanks.” I pulled myself together before Granny returned with the kittens and set them on the ground.
“Did they eat any kibble this time?” I asked.
“No, but I warmed up a little shredded chicken from my fridge, and they loved it. Cats are carnivores you know.”
I shook my head at her. “Keep doing that and they’ll never eat kibble. You’ll be a short order cook to two ginger dictators for the rest of their lives.”
Granny waved her hand at me dismissively. “They’re hunters. They’re going to like chasing mice and moles and birds soon. They won’t need my scrambled eggs and leftover chicken.”
I made a face at that imagery. Hopefully they wouldn’t bring their catches home to me. The kittens crept into position before me and shrank back on their haunches.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I said.
They wiggled their little behinds, then pounced, attempting to climb me like a tree.
“No!” I squeaked, pulling a wig
gling orange fuzzball from each leg. “No!”
Granny laughed. “They’re just having fun,” she said. “Come here, Kenny.”
I rubbed my palms against stinging thighs. “I hope the vet cuts their nails.”
Granny giggled again as the kittens tumbled and rolled together around piles of apples and support posts wrapped in evergreens.
I watched the kittens and puzzled. “When I fill out the paperwork for the vet, should I call them Kenny Rogers and Dolly Smythe?”
“Sure. Or Montgomery,” she said, “they are your kittens.”
I shook my head. My ridiculous teenage mother had given me my biological father’s last name on the birth certificate, successfully setting me apart from everyone the moment I entered the world. She hadn’t bothered to take his name when they married, briefly, but I was saddled with it for life. Grampy knew how much my last name and Mom’s absence bothered me. He’d even offered to adopt me when I was seven, but my mother refused. She’d come home again from one of her extended absences and claimed she just needed a little money to get her life together so she could take me with her the next time she came. As usual, my grandparents gave her what she asked for. That was the last time I saw her.
I choked down the lifelong knot of emotion tightening in my throat. “Smythe.”
Granny nodded, cheeks pink. “Of course.” She’d stopped caring about our different last names long ago, but sometimes forgot it was still a needle in my skin.
I cleared my throat a few times, willing myself to get over the things that couldn’t be changed and focus on those that could. “I think I’ll see what I can do to tidy up the Mail Pouch barn before I go to town. I want things to be in order when I get a second crack at Mr. Sherman.”
“Need any help?”
I forced my most assuring smile and shifted my gaze to the driveway. “Nah. Someone has to be here when the crowds arrive.”
The Mail Pouch barn was about a hundred yards from the fruit stand, up a gravel road that had been taken over by grass and time. The barn was cavernous and well-cared for, but dirty and currently being used as storage. I had a lot of work to do if I wanted to impress the banker, a man who’d presumably made up his mind about me already.
I propped the doors wide and stifled a sneeze as the dry gritty air puffed out. Inside, dust motes floated before me like a million slips of silver confetti suspended in shafts of sunlight, and I began to drag everything outside that wasn’t nailed down. I lined the barn’s contents in rows, organizing it now to make disposal and repacking easier later. I stripped away my sweater and knitted beanie cap as I worked, overheating from physical effort. I cleared spiderwebs and old bird nests. Swept the floors and dusted everything in sight. Then, I began to create a visual representation of my future cider shop. I stacked pallets to represent the half wall and counter space where guests would place and pick up orders. I rolled massive wooden spools, left by the local cable company when they’d run service to the orchard many years ago, into formation as makeshift tables. Milk crates served as chairs.
I hauled away trash and brought in holiday décor. I added twinkle lights to the rafters and greenery for centerpieces until the whole thing looked like something straight off of HGTV. I smiled and took a moment to admire my work. It was probably better that Mr. Sherman hadn’t seen the space before. It had been a cluttered mess that would have required a creative imagination I doubted the banker possessed. Bankers were about facts and figures.
Maybe that was what I really needed to impress him.
Mr. Sherman had voiced a concern while he was here before. He’d assumed I didn’t fully comprehend the financial issues Granny was facing. After all, how could a simple waitress know the first thing about being a business owner. My smile widened as inspiration overtook me. I’d assured him I understood all about what it took to run the farm, but maybe I hadn’t made it clear that I also had a creative entrepreneurial mind and very soon, a business degree.
I went to grab my laptop.
Granny appeared in the open doorway a while later. “Knock, knock,” she said.
I blinked against the sharp golden sunlight, struggling to pull myself from the work as if I were coming up from underwater. “Hey.”
She stepped inside, kittens dancing around her feet. “You missed lunch. I thought I’d bring you something.” Her eyes went wide as she set a basket on the giant wooden spool beside my computer. She covered her mouth with one palm as she turned to take in all the changes I’d made. “My goodness. This is fantastic.”
I worked through the haze in my mind, barely recalling all the physical changes I’d made to the space before diving deep into the business side of things on my computer. I rubbed my eyes and shook out my hands at the wrists, fingers cramped from typing. My laptop’s battery was in the red. “I improved my business plan,” I said. I’d had a vague, blanket-style proposal before, but since pulling up a crate and getting serious today, I’d compiled nearly twenty-two pages of facts, figures, and details. “I still had the templates and notes from a class on entrepreneurship I took a couple of years back. I used them to make an official, professional plan for the cider shop.” A prideful smile burst over my lips.
Granny’s eyes went misty as she made a slow circle through the tidied space. “That’s wonderful.” She trailed her fingers over the makeshift tables and countertop. “I had no idea it could look like this in here.” She stopped to examine one of the signs I’d printed at home and brought back to post at key locations. The signs had photos to illustrate what things would look like once the cider shop was finished. I’d saved the images on my laptop long ago as a project for another business class. I’d opened a virtual cider shop for a grade back then, explaining in essay after essay how cider making was a blend of nature and science, and for me, a lifetime of memories. I’d originally collected images of cafés and tea shops from around the world to use as inspiration for the assignment. I’d printed them today for impact and hung them throughout the barn.
I powered down my computer, then went to wrap an arm around Granny’s shoulders. “We can do this,” I said. “I ran the numbers, and we can really do this. Once it’s up and running, the orchard will make more money than it ever has, which means you can save for retirement and give more to the community at the same time. We’ll rent the space for showers and private parties. Sell tickets for special tasting nights, and I can finally serve all the ciders I want, in any flavor I want, any time I want. We just have to get this business plan to Mr. Sherman.”
She nodded, speechless, as a fat tear rolled over her round cheek.
I moved to face her and took her hands in mine. “Granny. We can really do this.”
She pulled me against her and wrapped me in a hug. “Thank you,” she whispered, and I felt the sobs begin to come.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I had to shower and change before taking the kittens to the vet or facing anyone in public. Dust and cobwebs from cleaning the Mail Pouch barn had attached to my skin, hair, and outfit like a second layer of clothing, and that was no way to approach the banker. So, I traded my jeans and sweater for a nice-fitting pair of black chinos and a cream-colored blouse. Then, I blew out my hair and applied a little Maybelline magic to my lips and eyes. Looking my best seemed like a good idea once I’d resolved to see Mr. Sherman in person.
The kittens thoroughly hated the car ride. They mewed and climbed and panicked all the way into town. I made a mental note to buy a pet carrier for them to travel in. The box just didn’t do the job anymore, and I’d spent a significant portion of the drive afraid that they might get on the floorboard beneath my feet.
I stopped at the general store for the pet carrier and wound up with one hundred dollars’ worth of kitten supplies. I wasn’t sure quite how. I’d left Kenny and Dolly in the car, window cracked and hoping they wouldn’t use their needle-sharp claws on Sally’s leather upholstery, then wiped out the pet aisle before throwing my credit card at the cashier and jetting back to S
ally. The kittens hadn’t missed me. They were lazing in the sun on the dashboard until I tucked them safely into the carrier and got back on the road.
At the bank, I lowered the windows to half-mast and locked Sally’s doors before heading inside. I didn’t have an appointment. Just a little hope, lots of determination, and what I thought was a brilliant business plan. As for the kitties in the car, a cool breeze, secured carrier, and seasonal temperature would keep them comfortable until I returned.
I stood tall, chin up, and walked as confidently as possible in three-inch heels. I was a gum boots and sneakers girl, but businesswomen wore heels.
The air inside the bank was scented with cinnamon, and a quiet but upbeat Christmas tune was dancing through speakers.
“Winnie?” Jake’s voice broke the bank’s museum-like silence, and I turned with a smile. He stood in the doorway of a small windowed office with his name on the glass. “What are you doing here?” he asked, heading my way with a broad smile. “I get a phone call and a visit? Must be my lucky day.”
I kissed his cheek and grinned. “You inspired me earlier, so I drew up a proper business plan.” I handed him the manila folder in my semi-sweaty grip. “It’s the first time I’ve done it outside of class, but I think I got everything covered. I had a good start the first time Mr. Sherman came out, but I realized I needed a lot more.” I rubbed my palms against the thighs of my pants in case he wanted to shake hands for any reason.
“Mind if I take a look?” Jake asked. “I’m a business proposal junkie.”
“Would you?” I hadn’t expected the offer, but I loved it. “I was just here hoping to get it onto Mr. Sherman’s desk, but I’d love feedback if you’re willing.”
“Sure.” Jake tipped his head toward his office door. “Come on in. Can I get you something to drink while I go over things? Coffee, tea, water?”
“No.” My mind ran to the kittens locked in my car. “I can’t stay.” I sighed. “Dot talked me into taking a pair of kittens she found in the national park, and they have an appointment with Doc Austin in about ten minutes. This was only meant to be a quick pit stop.”
Apple Cider Slaying Page 9
