by Cindy Sample
“I doubt that young man murdered Axel.” I secretly thanked Walter for providing me with the opening I’d been seeking. “You’ve known Axel for a long time. Can you imagine anyone who would have done something so horrible?”
Walter started to lean back again then thought better of it.
“Not really. Axel is, I mean, was a great guy. Hard worker. Honest to a fault. Difficult to believe anyone would up and kill him. I don’t know if this has any bearing on what happened, but Axel struggled after last year’s season got off to such a slow start due to the King fire. He wondered whether to diversify like I did. Since his income came solely from Apple Tree’s fruit crops and the fall tourist trade, his revenues were way down. Plus he’d built a new house for him and Dorie that cost a bundle. I’m pleased I decided to expand into the wine business so we can stay open year round.”
“Apple Tree Farm has been in business for forty years. The Thorson family must have encountered rough times before.”
Walter shrugged. “There’s always stuff that needs to be repaired, improved, modernized. People buy property up here thinking they’re going to be gentlemen farmers, sitting on their front porch watching the dollars roll in. Then they’re surprised by how much work there is. Axel confided his new house cost more than he anticipated because Dorie kept coming up with bigger ideas. I told him to talk to Hangtown Bank about getting a loan, but I don’t know if he contacted them or not.”
I didn’t know either, but I could definitely find out. The one thing I knew for certain was that financial troubles occasionally lead to other troubles.
Like murder.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
While my conversation with Walter offered insight into the Thorson family’s financial situation, he provided zero assistance on the upcoming gala. As far as Walter was concerned, all we gals, referring to Adriana and myself, had to do was make him and Valley View look good. And raise money for the beneficiary of the fundraiser.
A piece of cake. Okay, not really, but a piece of cake did sound appealing. It was a crime to visit the quaint apple orchards and bakeries and not stop to sample some of their delicacies, but I’d already exceeded my carbohydrate quota with that delicious donut this morning.
I met with three more farm owners, all of whom seemed interested in my presentation. On my way back to the office, I stopped for a drive-through chicken salad, dressing on the side, and an iced tea.
Back at the bank, I chomped on my salad while retrieving the numerous messages on my office phone. The loan department wanted my help marketing a new mortgage product, the savings department needed an ad for a new high-yield CD, and the manager of a new Amador County branch requested a flyer promoting their grand opening.
And the board thought my job could be outsourced to an outside firm? Not hardly. Speaking of that outside firm, my final voicemail was from Adriana Menzinger requesting a meeting this evening. She evidently did not have two children awaiting her arrival at home on a Friday night.
As I debated which call to return first, my cell blared “Rule Britannia.” I grabbed my phone and greeted Liz.
“Did Adriana call you?” Liz asked. “She wants to get together with us tonight.”
“She left a message about a meeting. What’s this about?”
“Adriana wants to discuss the gala. She said even though Walter Eastwood agreed to move the party to his venue, nothing has been done yet. She knows I’m in charge of the entertainment, and you’re handling the event for the bank, so she thought we should brainstorm tonight. At Sienna.”
I loved Sienna Restaurant in El Dorado Hills, but dinner there didn’t fit into my dining budget. Her next words clinched the deal.
“Adriana’s treating.”
Five hours later, Adriana, Liz and I sat in a comfortable corner booth in the elegant Tuscan-themed restaurant. My daughter was still trying to work back into my good graces, so I’d co-opted her to babysit her brother. She acquiesced without a squawk. Despite this being a business meeting, I intended to enjoy the food, ambiance and company.
Technically, Adriana and I were competing against one another, she for the bank’s business, and me, for my job and financial welfare, but that didn’t mean we couldn’t engage in a cordial working atmosphere.
We concentrated on the first order of business, choosing our wine and placing our dinner orders. I leaned back into the cushions, which were comfy enough to enjoy a nap, something I sorely needed after my early Apple Hill foray, followed by punching out enough flyers to bring in droves of new customers to every department of the bank. My left sandal slipped off my foot. I wiggled my toes and decided to free my right foot as well.
I smiled with pleasure, which Liz immediately noticed.
“You look quite content, luv,” she said. “Have you solved Axel’s murder already?”
A startled expression crossed Adriana’s face. “You’re seriously looking for his killer? Are you nuts?”
Well, that was one way of looking at it. How nice of her to share her opinion with me.
“Laurel excels in solving crimes,” Liz defended me. “She’s the Jessica Fletcher of Placerville.”
I smiled modestly although I would have preferred Liz comparing me to someone a few decades closer to my age, such as my current favorite TV detective, Jane Rizzoli, of Rizzoli and Isles.
Adriana narrowed her dark, heavily-lined eyes at me. “It must be difficult to keep up with your marketing responsibilities if you’re always off chasing murderers.”
I stiffened my spine but kept my tone polite. “I’m excellent at multitasking. Just call me a Renaissance woman.”
She smirked as she eyed my curves. “I can see that. Michelangelo would have loved your––look.”
The server chose that moment to deliver the bottle of wine we’d ordered. Good thing he didn’t bring it sooner because I might have dumped my glass on the marketing maven.
A complete waste of chardonnay.
Liz interceded before we could come to verbal blows. “Shall we divvy up the responsibilities for this apple bash? Since I’m already arranging for the Sassy Saloon Gals to perform, I’ll find out if anyone hired a band.”
“Excellent,” Adriana said. “After my lunch meeting with Walter, I put together a plan utilizing social media and my other media connections. I placed an ad in the local papers and dropped flyers all over town. Since the marketing is taken care of that just leaves food and drink.”
She snickered. “That should be right up your alley, Laurel.”
My glass of wine maneuvered itself mere inches from Adriana’s white eyelet top. Liz jabbed her elbow in my ribs. I scowled at her but decided to sip my wine rather than waste any of it on Adriana’s apparel.
“Who did they hire to cater the event?” I asked.
“Serenity Thorson,” Adriana replied. “Axel’s sister-in-law.”
“Does she own a catering company?” I asked, unfamiliar with her name.
“She opened her bakery, Serenity Sweets, on Main Street a couple of months ago. It specializes in gluten-free and vegan items. Next to the Lifestyle Center they own. They teach yoga, tai chi, healthy living, etc.”
“Doesn’t Paul Thorson also do life coaching?” I asked. “I’ve always wondered what exactly life coaches do.”
“Maybe you should make an appointment with him. You never know when you might need some advice on your lifestyle, or,” Adriana paused briefly, “potential career changes.”
Despite Adriana’s insinuation, I was pleased with her remark. For the first time tonight, she’d provided me with some worthwhile advice. I might not need any life coaching myself yet, but Paul Thorson could easily shed some light on his brother’s murder.
And possibly throw in a gluten-free cookie or two.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Saturday morning, I drove Jenna to Apple Tree Farm. Her shift ran from nine until five, a more reasonable timeframe than the previous week. Dorie sent a grateful smile in our direction when Jenna
walked in. At first, it surprised me to see the widow behind the bakery counter until I realized she needed to augment her depleted labor pool. And keeping busy probably helped.
My second stop would be to drop off Ben at my grandmother’s house. Ben and Hank planned on a day of fishing, an excellent father/son bonding experience. I wouldn’t mind a relaxing day sitting on a shady riverbank, catching up with one of my favorite mystery authors, but I’d promised my grandmother we would investigate today, and I doubted she would let me forget it.
I parked on the street in front of Gran’s house. It looked like she was entertaining three generations since Mother’s white SUV was parked in the driveway, pristine as usual. Sometimes I wondered if my mother purchased a “buy one hundred car washes, get one free” coupon from the local Suds & Shine.
My hip brushed against the Prius, which after traveling up and down graveled roads this week, looked less like periwinkle and more like gray. I wiped a smudge of dirt off my black jeans while I waited for Ben to collect his fishing paraphernalia: a miniature version of Nemo he intended to use for bait and his lucky Forty Niner baseball cap. As we walked up the sidewalk, I noticed Hank had repaired some of the cracks previously eroding the front walkway. I could fault my ex for many things, but he certainly knew his way around a tool chest.
I banged the shiny brass knocker on the newly painted red front door. When no one answered, I pushed on the door and it opened with nary a squeak. Voices echoed from the kitchen. Ben darted in while I dawdled behind. I’d spent many weekends at Gran’s house when I was a child, while my mother, a new widow, put in long hours attempting to make a success of her new career in real estate. Every corner of the stately Victorian contained poignant memories of a young girl’s dreams.
The aroma of fresh coffee put a spring in my step as I entered Gran’s homey kitchen with its flower-sprigged blue wallpaper and kitschy décor. Three adults were comfortably seated in captain’s chairs around Gran’s maple table. Ben hovered over his father, ready to set off on their expedition.
The grown-ups greeted me with smiles, all of which faded when they discovered I’d arrived empty-handed.
“Where’s our goodies?” Gran complained. Her penciled brows displayed her displeasure.
“Did you leave the box in the car?” Hank asked. “I don’t mind getting it.”
“No one gave me a donut order, and I decided I’ve eaten enough apple-filled dough for the week.” For the year, for that matter.
Gran peered over her trifocals and shot me a dirty look.
“I need to talk to Serenity Thorson, the caterer for the Apple Gala,” I said. “She owns that new bakery on Main Street that specializes in gluten-free options. We could try out some of her stuff. It would be healthier for us.”
“I’ve made it to eighty-eight with a healthy dose of gluten every day,” Gran grumbled. “I don’t need to change my diet now.”
“I read about their new venture,” Mother said, “but I haven’t had an opportunity to check it out. I’m curious to see if they can make a success of it in Placerville.”
“I was surprised the bakery is doing the catering. Usually Bob’s BBQ handles that event,” I said. “Although Serenity is married to Axel’s brother and Apple Tree Farm was originally hosting the event.”
“Tragic thing, Axel’s murder,” Hank chimed in. “He dumped a pile of money into that warehouse expansion he did last year.”
“You bid on it, didn’t you?” I asked him.
He nodded. “Yeah, but Dundee Construction got the bid. Axel’s business must be booming if he could afford to do all that upgrading plus build that new mansion of his.”
“According to Walter Eastwood, Axel struggled to stay profitable this year.”
“Maybe he planned on expanding into winemaking or something besides the apple business,” Hank said. “That warehouse is big enough, plus I think he added a climate-controlled room.”
“That warehouse is huge…” My voice trailed off when I remembered my last visit to the enormous building. “I can’t believe it’s been less than a week since I stumbled over the poor man.”
“I’m worried about Jenna working there,” Hank said. “Do you think it’s safe for her?”
I exhaled before answering because I’d also considered his question. “I’m not crazy about her situation, but with several thousand people coming and going, she should be fine. I told her she can’t work any early or late shifts though.”
“I hope you also informed her to stop playing Nancy Drew,” Mother said.
“Yeah, one meddler in this family is enough,” Hank said.
Three generations of icy blue eyes stared at him.
“For your information, Hank, me and Laurel started our own detective agency. And my sharp-eyed great-granddaughter might come on board, too.”
This time a duet of “What?” from Mother and Hank blasted my eardrums.
“We got a case,” said Gran with a smug smile on her face. “With a retainer and everything.”
Really? Our client was paying us to meddle?
“Ma, don’t be ridiculous,” my own mother protested. “You can’t open up a detective agency at your age.” She sent me the look that used to terrify me when I was a teenager. And still did. “Laurel, stop encouraging your grandmother with this hare-brained idea.”
“We’ll just see about that,” Gran fired back. “I expect you’ll be eating your words when we find the killer.”
Mother rolled her eyes but restrained herself from further comment.
“Where’s Grandpa?” Ben asked. “He’s supposed to go fishing with us.”
Mother stiffened. “He also decided to play detective for a few days.”
“Hah. No wonder you’re in such a pissy mood,” Gran squawked. “Your hubby’s deserted you.”
“I am not in a p-bad mood,” Mother replied. “But I don’t understand why Robert let himself get dragged into this undercover operation.” She pointed an agitated index finger at me. “It’s your boyfriend’s fault. Encouraging my husband to partner with him again.”
“I had nothing to do with that decision. I’ve barely spoken to Tom lately.” Or kissed him. Or indulged in any shade of romance.
“I don’t understand why Robert can’t enjoy his retirement like the other seniors in our community. I told him to join Serrano County Club and take up golf. But he claims that whacking a tiny white ball isn’t nearly as much fun as searching for a killer. Men!”
Gran wrinkled her forehead. “Do you think they could use my help on this task force? Maybe as a decoy or something?”
Four voices shouted out, “No.” Even Ben recognized Gran’s suggestion was a bad idea.
“You might get hurt, Granny G,” he said, his face solemn. “That would make me sad.”
She leaned over and plopped a soft kiss on his freckled cheek.
Hank pushed his chair back and stood. “Time for us guys to get on the road. Barbara, I hope you can keep these two out of trouble today.”
Trouble? Us?
All we had on today’s agenda was visiting a bakery that specialized in healthy foods. We couldn’t possibly get into trouble.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Mother insisted on driving us into town, which was fine with me. I spent enough hours playing chauffeur. Plus the seats of her SUV were cushier than mine. Serenity Sweets was located in a historic brick building near the eastern end of Main Street. The rear of the building abutted Hangtown Creek, which in the fourth year of the California drought held barely a tablespoon of water.
We parked in a small public lot a block away from the restaurant. Pedestrians clogged the sidewalk, a common sight on Saturday. Placerville offered excellent antique stores, vintage clothing shops, wonderful dining, and historic “must see” tourist attractions including Placerville Hardware, the oldest hardware store west of the Mississippi.
We strolled down the sidewalk toward a royal blue awning with Serenity Sweets scrolled across it in an elabo
rate gold font. I pulled open the glass-paned door and motioned for Mother and Gran to precede me.
The scent of coffee mixed with other aromas, fruity as well as chocolate, permeated the small store. The glass cases were partially filled, or partially empty, depending on your perspective. Late stragglers like us would have to make do.
A petite young woman with a modified pixie haircut––short in the back with a sweep of long burgundy bangs covering one eye, walked out from the back. She wiped her hands on a blue apron that matched the awning out front and asked if she could assist us.
“Yep.” Gran pointed at the display cases. “Whatcha got for normal folks to eat?”
I doubted the adjective normal had ever been used to describe my grandmother, but I interpreted her request for the clerk.
“What my grandmother means is do you have anything that’s not gluten free?”
Gran nodded, her platinum Marilyn Monroe wig wobbling in unison. “Yep, we want something sinfully sweet.”
“I would like to try some of your healthier options,” Mother said. “Can you tell us more?”
Despite an explanation that involved a considerable amount of gum chomping, the helper’s descriptions were specific enough to suit the two women. And me. But I was an easy mark.
We each ordered something different. I chose a coconut vegan scone, and Gran and Mother decided to be adventurous and try some gluten-free options. They sat at a white wrought iron table with four matching chairs while I paid for our order.
As the teen counted out my change, I inquired if Serenity was around. She nodded, closed the register and went into the back. A minute later, a woman in her late twenties or early thirties joined me. Her raven black hair was styled similar to her assistant, although her bangs formed a short thick fringe across her smooth forehead, highlighting sculpted cheekbones and a pair of curious jade green eyes.
