Killed on Blueberry Hill

by Sharon Farrow

  DEATH BY BLUEBERRY

  I watched as the ride attendants helped people unstrap themselves and disembark. But Porter remained slumped forward even after the halter strap was released. Sloane sat next to him, and I saw her give him a brief shake to get him to move. I wondered if he had passed out drunk.

  When the attendants couldn’t rouse him, I became fearful. Porter had taken his insulin shot minutes ago. What if the combination of insulin, beer, and all the junk food he had eaten sent him into shock?

  “Wait here,” Ryan ordered. He ran over to the small crowd gathering around the ride.

  The crowd grew larger as fairground employees and Blueberry Blow Out workers came on the scene. Within minutes, EMS arrived. When paramedics put Porter onto a stretcher, Sloane grabbed his hand and kissed it.

  Ryan raced back to me.

  “Has he gone into insulin shock?” I asked him. “A diabetic coma?”

  “Neither.”

  “What do you mean? What happened?”

  “It looks like the Blueberry Hill Death Drop has earned its name . . .”

  Books by Sharon Farrow

  DYING FOR STRAWBERRIES

  BLACKBERRY BURIAL

  KILLED ON BLUEBERRY HILL

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Killed on Blueberry Hill

  Sharon Farrow

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  DEATH BY BLUEBERRY

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Recipes

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 Sharon Pisacreta

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  KENSINGTON BOOKS and the K logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-0490-0

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0491-7

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-0491-6

  For Barry

  Who hopes to spend all his days along the lakeshore

  Acknowledgments

  My heartfelt gratitude to everyone at Kensington for their support of the Berry Basket series, especially John Scognamiglio, Michelle Addo, and Arthur Maisel. A special thanks to the art department for their delightful fairground cover. I also want to thank my agent, John Talbot, a stalwart champion of the cozy mystery. Finally, a nod of thanks to The Blueberry Store of South Haven, Michigan. Their blueberry-themed shop inspired me to write these mysteries.

  Chapter One

  As owner of The Berry Basket store in Oriole Point, Michigan, I’m regarded as an expert on all things berry related. My involvement in two murders this summer tacked on amateur sleuth to my résumé. Now I prepared to add glutton to that list of accomplishments. Of course, I first needed to win the blueberry pie–eating contest to earn the title, but I felt confident I had the determination—and the appetite—to pull it off.

  Adjusting my rain poncho, I sat down at the picnic table.

  “You can win, Marlee. I know you can.”

  I glanced up to see the concerned blue eyes of my fiancé, Ryan Zellar.

  “But what really matters is that you beat Porter’s wife. The Gales can’t defeat us twice in one morning.” Ryan seemed genuinely pained by the prospect.

  Fifteen minutes ago, his brother had been beaten in the men’s pie-eating contest by Porter Gale. Ryan’s family ran Zellar Orchards, and the Gale family, led by Porter, owned Blueberry Hill, the largest blueberry farm in the state. To Ryan’s dismay, Blueberry Hill exceeded them in sales and global reach, resulting in a rivalry between the two families. I didn’t understand the enmity. After all, Blueberry Hill sold only blueberries, while Zellars grew everything from peaches and apples to four kinds of berries. It seemed silly to turn a healthy commercial competition into an orchard blood feud. But a feud it certainly was, and the reason I wore a plastic poncho on a sunny August day, readying myself to dive into a blueberry pie.

  “The odds are in my favor. I didn’t eat breakfast or lunch today, so I’m starving. And blueberry pie is my favorite. Last year, I finished off half a pie at the Fourth of July picnic.”

  “I remember. I swear, I don’t know where you put it.” His appreciative gaze swept over my trim body, visible beneath the transparent poncho. “I only wish I’d volunteered to compete in the men’s contest instead of Richard. Even if I don’t like the taste of blueberries, I couldn’t have done any worse than my brother.”

  “Don’t blame Richard. He did his best.” Indeed, Ryan’s youngest brother made a valiant attempt to bolt down his pie but broke out in a coughing fit midway through.

  “Give me a break. How does someone snort blueberry pie up his nose? And for Porter to win makes it even worse.” Ryan glared at the man who stood at the end of the table. “The man’s a diabetic, for God’s sake.”

  “What!” I looked over at Porter with alarm. Like Ryan, he appeared to be giving last-minute encouragement to his wife, Sloane, one of my fellow contestants. “If he’s diabetic, he shouldn’t be eating sugar, especially not an entire pie. What if he goes into insulin shock?”

  “Don’t get my hopes up. The man looks as healthy as an ox. He’s as dumb as one, too.”

  Ignoring Ryan’s sarcasm, I observed Porter more closely for signs he might become ill. But he appeared remarkably robust. I knew he was the same age as Ryan—thirty-four—but his powerful, stocky frame made a sharp contrast to Ryan’s lanky physique. Not that Ryan wasn’t muscular, but he didn’t give the impression of brute force like Porter did. I didn’t find it surprising Porter had eaten a whole pie in record time. He seemed like a person who wouldn’t let anything stand in his way, including a pie-eating contest at the fairground. Still, as a diabetic he should steer clear of sugary pie. He might not be dumb, as Ryan claimed, but Porter had proven himself reckless where his health was concerned.

  My attention turned next to Porter’s wife, Sloane, who looked more like a cast member of The Bachelor than a pie-eating contestant at the county fair. Although a pretty girl, Sloane wielded her cosmetic brushes with such zeal that she often brought to mind a Kabuki performer. Today was no exception. Since the contest required that she stick her face in a pie, I didn’t understand why she wore cherry-red lipstick, a shimmery bronzer, and false eyelashes. I thought her an unlikely candidate for such a contest. No doubt her husband “volunteered”
her for the event, as Ryan did me.

  I watched as Sloane tucked her shoulder-length mass of perfectly highlighted blond hair beneath a shower cap to prevent it from getting covered in pie filling. My fellow contestants did likewise. I should have followed their example. Instead, I skimmed my long hair back into a ponytail. Bad enough to be photographed with a face covered in blueberry pie. Doing so while wearing a shower cap and a rain poncho ranked too high on the cringe meter.

  Two women acting as the contest judges covered the picnic table with a white plastic tablecloth. A moment later, volunteers delivered our blueberry pies, each one set before us with a flourish. My empty stomach growled at the delectable sight and smell of fresh-baked buttery crust and blueberry filling. The flies agreed, and I shooed them away.

  “Don’t let Sloane Gale win,” Ryan reiterated.

  “Don’t worry. She’s probably never taken part in a pie-eating contest before.”

  Actually, I had no way of knowing what Sloane Gale might enjoy. Oh, we’d exchanged a few words at Oriole Point county events. Our lakeshore village numbered only four thousand residents, so none of us were strangers to each other. But I didn’t know much about her aside from the fact she married Porter Gale a little over a year ago, and that they had no children. I judged her to be a good decade younger than Porter, but her Vogue photo shoot makeup made it difficult to gauge her exact age. A younger millennial, for sure. And one unprepared for the indignity of taking part in a pie-eating contest.

  When a loud electronic hum rang out, all eyes turned to an elegant blond woman who surveyed the crowd from the nearby outdoor stage.

  Ryan groaned. “Why is Piper announcing your contest? Isn’t it bad enough she runs everything in town? Now she’s barging in on county business.”

  “You know the Blueberry Blow Out involves everyone in Oriole County. That includes the villagers.” I grinned at him. “Don’t forget I’m from the village, too.”

  “Not for long. As soon as we get married, you’ll be out in the country with me.”

  “That’s still up for discussion,” I reminded him, but his attention had shifted to Piper.

  “I need everyone to quiet down now,” Piper said in a tone demanding obedience.

  As the crowd near the stage grew silent, Piper frowned in the direction of the carnival midway, where a cacophony of bells, whistles, and calliope music could be heard. When it became apparent she had no control over the din coming from the rest of the fairground, she rolled her eyes. To Ryan’s consternation I liked Piper, despite her air of entitlement, which she wore as easily as a cashmere stole. Yes, she sometimes tried my patience, but since she was nearly twenty years older than me, I allowed her some leeway. Ryan did not.

  He was right about Piper getting involved in everything. Piper ran the Oriole Point Tourist and Visitor Center in town. And as a descendant of Oriole Point’s founding family, Piper Lyall-Pierce managed to take control whether the event took place at city hall or a tractor pull. Her social standing rose even further after she married retired executive Lionel Pierce, also known as our mayor. These things, along with her enormous wealth, put Piper at the top of the Oriole County food chain. Only I wouldn’t have thought Piper cared to take part in something as slapstick as a pie-eating contest. Then again, Piper couldn’t bear to be left out of anything.

  Tapping her microphone, Piper said, “Attention, everyone. It is time for the women’s blueberry pie–eating contest. Before we commence, how about another round of applause for the victor of the men’s event: Porter Gale, owner of the world-famous Blueberry Hill.”

  Whistles and cheers rang out as Porter took a bow. Oriole Point not only sat along the beautiful shores of Lake Michigan, our surrounding countryside was known as Michigan’s fruit belt. Tourism and the orchards provided much of the employment in the village and the county. The biggest of these commercial enterprises, Blueberry Hill enjoyed the grateful support of its workers, evident in the reception Porter now received.

  Ryan swore under his breath, increasing my worry. What if I didn’t win? I looked at the women who sat at the table with me. Could I beat all of them? Sloane, probably. But the others hailed from farms and orchards out in the country. As the only contestant who lived in the village, I had no idea what their eating capacity might be. Perhaps they ate more pie than I did. And faster, too.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to take part in the contest when Ryan asked me. I needed to say no more often. Especially to him. Only I felt I had little choice. Ryan’s sister-in-law Emily had won this contest four times. This summer a pregnant Emily suffered from morning sickness, and her sensible doctor disapproved of the mother-to-be gulping down an entire pie in a few minutes. Even the highly competitive Adam Zellar thought Emily should refrain from fairground contests this year. Of course there were four other Zellar brothers whose respective wives and girlfriend could have been drafted for the event. Ryan decided my two years as owner of The Berry Basket qualified me as the best woman to pig out on berry pie. Besides, the Zellars already regarded me as one of them, even if Ryan and I wouldn’t exchange vows until January. If I won today, the Zellars won, too.

  I smiled at the assorted Zellars waving at me from the crowd of onlookers. When Ryan’s dad gave me a big thumbs-up, I sent a silent prayer to the pie gods.

  Piper tapped the microphone once more, which brought the cheers and hoots for Porter to a close. I wondered what had happened to Walter Kluyper, owner of Kluyper Feed Store. He’d presided over the men’s event with lusty enthusiasm. Certainly, Walter seemed better suited as a pie contest emcee than Piper, who wore a black sundress covered with huge sunflowers that I suspected came from the latest RTW collection of Dolce and Gabbana. I’d spent several years as a producer at the Gourmet Living Network in New York City and knew my designers.

  “For those who have just joined us,” Piper said, “let me welcome you to the opening day of our annual Blueberry Blow Out. Because this is the height of tourist season along the lakeshore, many of you might be from out of town. If so, you will be interested to learn that Michigan leads the nation in highbush blueberry production. Every August, Oriole Point County celebrates the bounty of our blueberry harvest with seven days of festivities here at the fairground. We hope you enjoy the many activities we have scheduled, which include live musical performances, amusement park rides, vendor booths, and a variety of competitions. This brings us to the women’s blueberry pie–eating contest.”

  She pointed a blue air horn at the twelve of us in our plastic ponchos. “As soon as my air horn blasts, these ladies will race to see who can finish eating an entire blueberry pie first. And they must do so without using their hands. Before we proceed, I’d like to thank the Cooking Circle members of Oriole Point’s First Presbyterian Church for baking the pies.”

  A smattering of applause greeted this acknowledgment.

  Piper continued, “The first woman to eat her pie wins fifty dollars, along with the title of Women’s Champion Blueberry Pie Eater of Oriole County.”

  I made a face. There were lots of things I’d like to be known for instead of stuffing myself with pie. But I’d never turn down a blue ribbon. And because I hadn’t eaten a thing all day, my appetite for that pie grew every second. However, my thirst outweighed my hunger pangs. The afternoon sun beat down, causing my bare legs and arms to grow damp beneath the poncho. Reaching for the water bottle each contestant had been given, I let out a cry of protest when someone yanked the bottle out of my hand.

  “No drinking until after you’ve eaten the pie,” a familiar voice hissed in my ear. “Water cuts down on your appetite. You need to stay ravenous.”

  I lifted an eyebrow at Andrew, one of three retail clerks I employed at The Berry Basket. “It’s like a sauna out here and I’m dying of thirst. If my mouth is too dry, how do you imagine I’ll be able to eat an entire pie?” Snatching the water bottle away from him, I unscrewed the cap and took a long swig.

  “That’s enough.” He took it from
me once more. “Dean and I bet twenty dollars you’d win this contest. I have no intention of letting you blow this thing right before it starts.”

  “You and your brother shouldn’t be betting on the contest at all. And why are you here? You’re supposed to be manning our Berry Basket booth right now. Or did you convince Dean to take over for you? His shift doesn’t start for another hour.”

  “Don’t be silly. Dean isn’t about to miss this. He’s right there.” Andrew nodded at his older brother, who waved at me from among the crowd.

  People who saw the Cabot brothers for the first time often assumed they were twins. Both were tall, attractive, auburn haired, and as concerned with style and fashion as Piper, but without her disposable income. Despite their striking similarities, they were eleven months apart in age—actual Irish twins, given their Celtic ancestry. They also were the bearers of every snippet of gossip in town; their knowledge surpassed only by the rumor-spreading talents of their mother, Suzanne Cabot, who worked as receptionist at the local police station. Between the three of them, Oriole Point had no need of a newspaper or Twitter feed.

  Luckily, I’d grown quite fond of both brothers in the two years they had worked for me. There were times I felt more like their big sister than their employer. They were often as hard to control as kid brothers, too.

  My best friend, Tess, stood beside Dean, holding up her phone to let me know she was about to film my pie-eating efforts. Dean fished his own phone out of a back pocket and held it up, too. While I expected Tess to be here to give moral support, I should have known neither Cabot brother would miss the chance to watch their boss make a public spectacle of herself.

  “If neither of you are at our booth, who is? It can’t be Gillian. She’s working at the store today. Please don’t tell me you left our merchandise and the cashbox unattended.”