by Cindy Sample
Liz grabbed the check. I reached into my purse for my wallet, but she swatted my hand away.
“You have enough on your plate,” she said, “including your lunch. This is my treat.” When I started to protest, she shushed me. “It’s the least I can do for you.”
It was? And why was that? What type of escapade would Liz attempt to talk me into this time?
“I’m not donning that Saloon Gals get-up for the Apple Gala,” I warned her.
She chuckled as she handed her credit card to the server. “No worries. Amy delivered her son in July, and she’s already back performing with the troupe.”
“Really? She’s back to her pre-pregnancy weight this quickly? Shoot, it took me over…” Actually, I still hadn’t lost all of the weight I’d gained from Ben’s pregnancy. And at the rate I was going, Ben would be enjoying his own children before I did so.
“Amy is nursing the baby, so your costume fits her fine.” Liz fiddled with her clunky gold bracelet, twisting a miniature windmill charm, a souvenir from one of her many European trips, around and around.
“Spill it please, before you rip that charm off.”
“I’m that obvious?” she asked, and I nodded. “All right. I hate to mention this, but my problem ties into your current problem.”
“Which one?”
She chuckled. “That would be funny except it really isn’t. My problem is tied to Axel’s death. He agreed to let me open a spa store on his premises.”
“Really? That’s awesome.” I reflected on the various outbuildings comprising Apple Tree Farm. “Where were you locating your store? Aren’t the current vendor stalls all occupied?”
“For now. You know the vendor who sells the weather vanes? Or, tries to sell them. They haven’t been very successful. When I approached Axel with the idea of selling my natural beauty products, he was all for it.”
“I think it’s a great idea, but hasn’t Weather Vainery been there for years?”
“Years and years,” Liz replied. “But weather vanes aren’t so popular any more. At least, not in this century.”
Or any century, I privately thought. Weather vanes are lovely to look at, but who wants to climb up a roof to install one? Especially in our county where many houses are built on steep hills.
“Axel charged a monthly fee for the space,” Liz explained. “But he also participated in the vendors’ profits. Zero sales equals zero profit for him. He was about to replace her with a new vendor when I came up with my proposal.”
“How come you didn’t tell me about it?” I was somewhat hurt Liz hadn’t asked for my valuable advice––such as it was.
“You’re always so busy in the fall with your kids’ school activities that I didn’t want to bother you with it.”
Her explanation somewhat mollified me, especially after I glanced at my watch to discover I was already ten minutes late. “I need to get back to the bank. Now. What’s the favor you want?”
“Last Friday night, I stopped by Apple Tree Farm after everyone was gone. Axel told me to leave my merchandise in his office. He said he would take care of storing it. You know my products don’t come cheap.”
That I did, and I would be forever grateful that I received the girlfriend discount in order to keep my soon-to-be-middle-aged face wrinkle-free and glowing.
“I left the boxes with him, so there’s about six thousand dollars’ worth of Beautiful Image cosmetics stored somewhere on his premises. Axel planned on telling Vanna, the owner of Weather Vainery, to vacate by the end of the day this past Saturday. That would give me time during the week to set up my own shop. It was a perfect plan, except for…” her voice trailed off.
Except that one of the parties to her verbal contract would not be able to execute his half of the deal.
Ever.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I raced back to the office after promising Liz I’d try to use my Apple Tree Farm connections, which so far only consisted of my daughter and her boss, Nina, to locate her valuable merchandise.
I reflected back on my discovery of Axel, coated in powdered sugar from head to toe. It could have been worse––well, not for Axel, but for Liz, if the killer had chosen to cover the orchard owner in cosmetics that sold for $100 per ounce. Liz advertised that her Beautiful Image line could completely rejuvenate the user, but even these products had their limitations.
A field trip to Apple Tree Farm seemed in order for a myriad of reasons. Since I’d already planned on visiting several orchard and winery owners to discuss the bank’s current promotions, I could attempt a little investigating on the side.
It felt good to have a plan. Tomorrow I would help Liz with her missing inventory, chat with Nina about her grandson’s arrest, sell bank services to potential clients, and possibly solve the murder.
Plus treat myself to a caramel apple.
Now this was the way to multitask.
I arrived at the bank the next day prepared for the worst but hoping for the best. My “To Do” list ran two pages, with the first item practically screaming at me, reflecting Jenna’s shrill pleas to retrieve her backpack from Detective Reynolds.
Based on my daughter’s comments, we held a similar opinion of the detective, and it wasn’t particularly complimentary. Rescuing Jenna’s backpack from the evidence room would hopefully calm my daughter. Between school, her looming SAT exams and worrying about the fate of Tony Perez, Jenna seemed stressed enough to combust.
I dialed the Sheriff’s Office and asked to speak to the detective. She answered the phone in standard cop form.
“Reynolds.”
“Um, hello, it’s Laurel McKay,” I said, wondering if the intimidating detective would ask for further identification such as rank, serial number and murder victim.
“Yes?”
Geesh. You’d think she was being charged by the word.
“I’m calling about my daughter’s backpack and oboe that she left in Tony Perez’s car. Jenna desperately needs the contents for her schoolwork and band practice. I can’t think of any reason why you would need to retain it.”
“Perhaps that’s because you’re a banker and I’m a detective.”
Or perhaps it’s because you’re a bitch.
Uh, oh, I didn’t really say that aloud, did I?
“I do whatever needs to be done to solve my cases, Ms. McKay,” she replied.
Time to backpedal. “Yes, I’ve heard you have an excellent record of clearing cases. The Thorson family is lucky to have you in charge of this investigation.”
Based on her next comment, my saccharine sweet compliment had been digested and approved.
“We haven’t discovered anything incriminating in your daughter’s backpack,” Reynolds relented.
“Of course, you didn’t. Jenna had nothing to do with the murder. And I highly doubt Tony killed Axel either. He’s just a kid.”
“Tony Perez is eighteen years old. No longer a kid.”
“Do you really have enough evidence to keep him in jail?” I asked.
“That’s for the judge to decide, isn’t it? I’ll let you know when we’re ready to release your daughter’s backpack.”
The sound of the dial tone indicated the detective was done for now.
I, on the other hand, was just getting started.
An hour later, my four-cylinder Prius chugged up Highway 50 toward the area known as Apple Hill. A few puffy clouds floated overhead, more decorative than functional. The rain our drought-ridden state desperately needed didn’t appear to be in the immediate forecast.
My bank business development calls today would include Apple Tree Farm, Walter Eastwood’s Valley View Vineyard and Orchard, and two new venues that had opened a year earlier. Their owners had moved from the Bay Area, as had many of our newer residents, to enjoy pollution-free air, beautiful scenery, reasonably priced housing, and a low crime rate––the best of small town living.
After a brief drive, I turned off the freeway onto Carson Road. My intention
was to stop at Apple Tree Farm first and chat with Nina, assuming crime scene tape no longer crisscrossed its entrance.
When I arrived, I was surprised to discover the gravel driveway of the farm not only welcomed the public, but the parking lots were filled from one end to the other with cars, trucks, vans, and tour buses. Throngs of visitors are common on weekends, but this amount of activity seemed unusual for a weekday, especially in September. October was usually the busiest month for the apple farms.
Were the cars full of tourists seeking apple goodies and local crafts, or were they crime show aficionados in search of cheap thrills?
I snagged a parking place at the rear of a weed-filled lot that seemed a quarter mile from the bakery. Although my three-inch wedges made me feel taller and more confident in the office, navigating overgrown weeds while wearing my cute shoes was not a confidence booster. Next time I made the rounds of potential apple grower clients, I would wear practical shoes.
By the time I reached the bakery, the line for the order window wound around the tables and out the open door. Shoot. How would I snare Nina for a short conversation about her grandson? She was undoubtedly elbow-deep in flour, producing donuts by the dozens.
I glanced over to the arts and crafts building located across the parking lot. The seasonal vendors who operated from open-air stalls didn’t seem as busy as the bakery, so I drifted past jewelry, stoneware, and framed photos featuring local lakes and the nearby Sierras. Customers chatted with sellers of Christmas ornaments, children’s calico bonnets and dresses, New Age CDs, and purses.
My own battered black Coach purse, a birthday gift from my mother several years ago, exhibited substantial wear and tear, so I stopped at Glenda’s Leather Goods to look for a reasonable replacement.
My personal preference is a handbag with lots of inner and outer pockets. That way I can ensure that I will never find my keys when I need them.
I selected a reasonably priced black leather purse engraved with an intricate scroll on both sides. I poked through the interior––a slot for my iPhone, a small zippered compartment for my lipstick and a large pocket that could hold oversized sunglasses. How clever of them.
The stocky blond storeowner, her name emblazoned in sequins across a hot pink tee shirt, walked over to help me. “Isn’t that the best bag?” she said. “That inside pocket is the perfect fit for almost any sized gun. Whatcha carrying, hon? A Glock, Sig Sauer?”
My eyes opened as wide as the purse I’d been pawing through. The only weapon I carried was a mini aerosol hairspray. I could probably subdue an assailant at a distance of, oh, four feet.
“Wow. A purse that doubles as a holster,” I said to Glenda. “Who knew?”
She laughed and swatted me on the back. “Aren’t you a pistol?”
In my book, better to be a pistol than to carry one, so I probably didn’t need any of Glenda’s leather wares. Since I hadn’t seen her products in previous years, I asked how her business was doing.
“We’ve only been open since Labor Day,” she said, “but in the past three weeks I’ve sold a bundle of those handbags. After Axel’s murder here last weekend, I’d expect sales to increase even more. A woman’s got to protect herself.”
“You think Axel’s murder was a random attack?” I asked her.
“You never know what kind of crazies are out there. Just the other day some fruitcake complained he didn’t like the newfangled donuts Axel started selling this year. Maybe the murderer is a traditionalist.”
I was having a difficult time following Glenda’s line of thinking and wondering if the woman hung out with a few too many fruitcakes herself.
She must have noticed the confused look on my face because she explained, “Axel decided to change up the menu and add chocolate-sprinkle and powdered sugar apple donuts this year, instead of just the usual glazed and cinnamon crumb versions the farm’s been selling for the past thirty years. Some folks just don’t like change. Could be someone wanted to stop him.”
While I doubted an anti-powdered sugar serial killer was running amok, she was right on one count. Someone wanted to stop Axel from doing something.
And they had succeeded.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I said goodbye to Glenda promising to bring my weapon next time, so we could determine the best purse to conceal my artillery. If nothing else, it would hide my chocolate stash from the prying eyes and hands of my youngest.
My morning coffee demanded a pit stop so I wandered over to the rustic restrooms. After completing my mission, I was attempting to wash my hands under a cold trickle of water when someone walked out of the adjoining stall.
“Nina, I was hoping to talk to you,” I said. “The line at the bakery seemed to go on forever. I worried we wouldn’t have an opportunity.”
She swiped a wet hand at her gray braid, which threatened to take a bath in the sink, and reached for a paper towel before addressing me. When she turned, I was startled to see new deeply etched lines in her face.
A couple of tourists, identifiable by their turquoise sequined tee shirts that screamed we whine for wine plus matching sequined visors, entered the restroom. Nina motioned for me to follow her out of the building. She led me up a small incline to a grassy area with a few picnic tables scattered around. She sank onto a bench and indicated I should join her. I walked around the table and sat on the weathered wooden surface opposite her.
She blew out a breath and folded her hands together.
“Tough week,” I said to her.
Nina nodded. “The worst. It was bad enough learning Axel was dead, but when they arrested Tony, it became a complete nightmare.”
“I thought you might quit, but Gran said you’re staying on.”
“It was the least I could do for Dorie. They’re releasing his…” her voice faltered, “her husband’s body today so she’s busy planning the service. I thought she would close the place down, but Brent, the farm manager, and Eric talked her into keeping the farm open.”
“I can’t believe the size of the crowd here today.”
“Ghouls,” Nina exclaimed, her voice and body radiating disapproval. A family of four walked past sending us curious glances.
“Hungry ghouls,” I said, hoping to lighten her mood.
She sniffed. “We should charge double. At least, make money off of them.”
“How’s Tony faring?”
Nina slumped in her seat. “That poor boy. He’s never had it easy. My daughter, Rosie, got pregnant her senior year in high school then died giving birth to Tony.”
“Oh, how horrible,” I responded. What a tragedy.
Tears careened down Nina’s cheeks. I dug into my purse for tissues for both of us. I should buy that pistol tote bag. It had pockets big enough to store a drawer full of tissues.
Nina lifted the bottom of her apron and rubbed at her eyes. She smoothed the wrinkled cloth before continuing her sad story. “I can’t even describe the anguish I went through. But life has to go on, and a new life needed my love and attention.”
“Did you raise Tony?” I asked.
She nodded. “Never expected to raise a child in my,” she made air quotes, “golden years.”
“What about Tony’s father?”
She turned a bleak gaze at the tall conifers surrounding us, lost in her memories. I waited, not wanting to interrupt her thoughts. She suddenly grabbed hold of my hands.
“Virginia said you would find Axel’s killer. Someone has to because the police don’t seem to care they have the wrong person in jail.”
“Gran is a lot more optimistic about my sleuthing abilities than I am.”
“I think she plans on helping you.” That thought finally painted a smile on Nina’s wan face.
“So I’ve been told, but I really wouldn’t know where to start. The last time we spoke, you didn’t have any idea who could have done this. Now that you’ve had time to think it over, has anyone come to mind?”
Nina propped her elbows on the table a
nd her arthritic hands, with their oversized red knuckles, under her chin.
“I hate to point fingers at anyone, but Axel got into a huge argument with Brent, the farm manager, the middle of last week.”
“Do you know what the argument was about?”
“No, But Axel’s face was so red I was concerned he might have a heart attack or something. Unfortunately, I only heard part of their discussion.”
“A disagreement doesn’t automatically mean a motive for murder,” I said.
“Maybe not,” Nina replied. “But the one thing I did overhear was Axel threatening to fire Brent.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
We had a suspect!
Not a particularly good one since Brent hadn’t been fired last week as Apple Tree Farm’s manager.
Would the situation be different if Axel were still around? I decided to add Brent to the list of people I wanted to chat with today.
Nina needed to return to the bakery, but she promised to let me know if someone else popped up on her suspect radar. If anyone had an interest in finding Axel’s killer, it was the bakery manager. Otherwise, her grandson could end up in prison for the rest of his life.
Newly motivated, I wondered if any of the other vendors had useful information to share. I smiled at the balding man who offered a selection of wooden toys. I lifted up a carved replica of a Model T Ford, but grimaced when I saw the price tag, which was more than I spent on groceries for the week. I put it down thinking that Ben would probably only use the well-crafted item as transportation for his Marvel characters as they departed on their latest superhero mission.
I’d come back the next time I received a raise. Assuming I still had a job deemed worthy of a salary increase. Which meant I’d better finish my detecting so I could complete my sales calls.
An empty stall stood between the toy vendor and Silken Treasures. The silk-screened apparel was also outside my budget, but that didn’t keep me from salivating over the brilliant colors and patterns of the scarves and blouses.
