Killed on Blueberry Hill

by Sharon Farrow

  “I love him. Why else would I agree to marry him?” I sighed. “What has he done to make you dislike him so much?”

  “I don’t trust him.” Max finally released me. “And I don’t think you should, either.”

  * * *

  My conversation with Max troubled me almost as much as Ryan’s attack on Porter. Everyone thought highly of Max. I doubted he’d ever made a single enemy, notwithstanding Ryan’s jealousy. He never spoke ill of anyone. So why the warning about Ryan now? Despite what he said, was Max jealous that I agreed to marry Ryan after turning him down?

  Still in need of distraction, I headed for my Blueberry Bounce House, which shook with the movements of the children inside. I relied on the fairground’s seasonal carnies to watch over things, but all sponsors were expected to spend some time at the rides they were responsible for. While we didn’t actually operate the rides—although a few experienced growers did—many of us took tickets, allowing us to socialize with Blueberry Blow Out visitors.

  Since my “ride” was only an inflatable bounce house, I signed up for a two-hour shift this afternoon. When I arrived early, the young carny taking tickets went from bored to excited in five seconds. He immediately took off into the crowd, leaving me in charge of the bounce house’s leaping inhabitants. Two hours later, I felt just as excited to see another carny relieve me. As adorable as my bouncing children were, their nonstop shouts made my ears ring.

  I resumed my walk along the midway, hoping Ryan’s family had been able to calm him down after the brawl. Perhaps the unseasonably hot temperature had pushed Ryan to the edge. Our lakeshore summers rarely saw days above ninety degrees. When it got this hot, Oriole Point residents headed for the beach or open water. Those who couldn’t escape to the lake tended to become cranky. Maybe in Ryan’s case, crankiness veered a little too close to violence.

  I stopped in my tracks as terrified screams rent the air.

  Heart racing, I looked up in time to see the riders on the drop tower hurtle toward the ground. The biggest thrill ride at the carnival, the drop tower was even more popular than the roller coaster. Once riders were strapped in, the ride slowly lifted the gondola skyward three hundred feet. There they paused for a heart-stopping moment, legs dangling in midair. Then without warning the ride released and sent everyone plummeting toward the ground.

  We had always had a drop tower ride at the Blueberry Blow Out, but this looked to be a bigger and better variation. Not only did it carry more people, the ride climbed to a higher level, increasing the excitement. Given the size and expense, such a ride required a sponsor with deep pockets. A number of businesses often went in together, but this year the drop tower had only one sponsor: Blueberry Hill. And it had been renamed the Blueberry Hill Death Drop. The Blueberry Hill name shone in big white bulbs at the top of the tower structure.

  “Gaudy, isn’t it?” For the second time today, Cara O’Neill joined me. She pointed at the big illuminated sign above. “Porter asked the event coordinators to print an image of the ride on every ticket. Along with the Blueberry Hill name and logo. They almost agreed until I got wind of it. I convinced the sponsors to make a formal complaint. After all, someone has to stop my brother. Otherwise, he’ll make them change the festival name to the Blueberry Hill Blow Out.”

  “At least it’s for a good cause. Half the ticket proceeds go to charity.”

  “Don’t be too impressed. Porter picked a charity working for a diabetes cure. Research he hopes to benefit from one day. Nothing Porter ever does is selfless.”

  “Given his condition, I’m surprised he entered the pie-eating contest,” I said. “Unless they gave him a sugar-free pie to eat.”

  “My fool brother loves sugar. Real sugar. I’m amazed he takes his insulin shots. We probably have Sloane to thank for that. From what I’ve seen, she is conscientious about treating his diabetes. I’ll give her that much.”

  “Where did he meet Sloane? She’s not from around here.”

  “Porter met her at a fruit growers’ convention in Baltimore. She was some intern or college student they hired to help with registration. I’m guessing Sloane stood out. I’ve been to those conventions. Sexy young women are in short supply there. And she’s certainly his type: a living, breathing Malibu Barbie.”

  “Then she’s from California?”

  “I have no idea. She just looks like a Malibu Barbie I had when I was younger. But she’s not brainless. Sloane had to be one shrewd blond cookie to not only catch Porter’s attention, but keep it.” Cara shook her head. “After he met her, Porter spent the next two months flying to Baltimore to see her. Without a word to any of us, they got married in Vegas. By an Elvis impersonator, no less. Don’t know why we were shocked. My brother was ripe for the picking.”

  “Why?”

  “He’d been divorced for a while and missed not having a woman around to listen to him brag. His first wife, Madison—another blonde—could only put up with so much bragging. She left after two years.” Cara smirked. “I wonder if Sloane likes being Mrs. Gale more than Madison did. Porter’s a lot richer since our dad died. That’s probably convinced Sloane to stick around. A shame. I’d love to watch another wife walk out on Porter. It’s what he deserves.”

  Although I had known Cara O’Neill a long time, we qualified as only casual friends. Most of our dealings involved business. O’Neill Blueberries made the best blueberry butter and jam in the region, and I ordered these items from them every month. While grateful the O’Neill products sold well in my shop, I didn’t think she should be telling me how distasteful her brother was. Even if it were true.

  “Did you and your brother have a falling-out?” I asked.

  Cara’s mocking expression grew serious. “We were never close, but our dad didn’t help matters. He only had two children, and I’m the firstborn. Only I wasn’t the son he longed for, and he never let me forget it. When that son finally did show up, I became a footnote in the Gale family. Didn’t matter how hard I worked helping to run the orchard business. I wasn’t Crown Prince Porter, so none of it mattered.”

  As an only child, I had no experience of sibling rivalry. Even so, her family situation sounded heartless.

  “I realized he valued his son’s opinion about the business more than mine,” she continued, “even though Porter hadn’t even reached his teens. The day I married Brody and left Blueberry Hill felt like a release from prison. Only I’d been imprisoned by my own foolish hopes. Hopes that my father would show me a tenth of the respect and love he gave to Porter.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “My mom tried to make up for his treatment of me. But there was only so much she could do. Especially since Dad was such a strong personality.” Her voice hardened. “Porter enjoyed being our father’s favorite. He took advantage of it constantly. And didn’t he love it when my father’s will left everything to him: the business, the investments, all the money. Not a dime to me or my children. Imagine that. Eric Gale didn’t so much as mention the only grandchildren he has. While Blueberry Hill is dropped into his son’s lap. A son with no children of his own. Don’t you think that’s awful?”

  I thought it was indeed quite awful, but didn’t want to make her feel worse. “Porter and Sloane will probably start a family at some point.”

  Cara remained silent for a long moment. “I’m sure they will,” she said finally. “He and Sloane have been trying for months to have a child.” She pointed at the young woman making her way toward us. “Speaking of Barbie . . .”

  I noticed men of all ages ogling Sloane as she walked past. And why not? She was pretty, tanned, well endowed, and wore a clingy red tank top and matching shorts. Had she entered a swimsuit competition rather than a pie-eating contest, she would have won.

  “Hi.” She smiled. “I’m glad I caught you two together.” Up close, her contoured blush, multi-hued eye shadow, and glossy red lips seemed runway ready. It must take her an hour to apply her makeup. “Marlee, I saw you leave right after the big
fight at the tug-of-war. You looked really upset. I wanted to let you know Porter has no hard feelings against Ryan.”

  “Are you serious? Ryan attacked your husband. Before I left, I saw he’d given Porter a black eye and a bloody nose. And he choked him. My God, he might have killed Porter.”

  She waved her hand at me, and I got distracted for a moment by her gorgeous manicure. “Porter’s bragging about how he got Ryan Zellar mad enough to attack him after he lost the tug-of-war to Blueberry Hill. It’s the kind of thing Porter enjoys.” She giggled. “He acts like a ten-year-old boy sometimes.”

  “That’s an insult to ten-year-old boys,” Cara remarked.

  Sloane kept her attention on me. “The two of them have made peace.”

  I stared at her in disbelief. “No way. When did that happen?”

  “Soon after security arrived. To be honest, if they hadn’t shaken hands, the cops would have kicked both of them out of the fairground and banned them for the rest of the Blow Out. Especially after Ryan’s team accused Porter’s of putting glass in the sand. Neither of the guys wants to be banned from the festival. Ryan found us at Trappers Corner later on and apologized. There was no security around, so he must be genuinely sorry.”

  I felt a little bit better. At least Ryan realized he’d acted like a fool.

  “The guys even cracked open a few beers,” she went on.

  “Let’s see how long this lasts,” Cara said. “All of us fruit growers are going to be at the Blueberry Blow Out until the weekend. I can’t believe Porter won’t try and get back at Ryan.”

  Sloane threw her sister-in-law an irritated look. “I think I know Porter better than anyone else. And he’s put the fight behind him.”

  Cara laughed.

  Sloane now regarded Cara with a sly expression. “Aren’t the O’Neills sponsoring the Ferris wheel this year?”

  “Yeah. We’ve sponsored it every year for as long as I’ve been married to Brody. In fact, we’ve done it so often, all of us know how to operate it. Not that it’s rocket science. Wyatt should be running things right now.”

  “Really? Well, I just walked past the Ferris wheel.” Sloane lifted her perfectly shaped brows. “There was a long line of people waiting to board, but no one there to operate it.”

  Cara’s face darkened. “Are you serious?”

  She nodded. “I hope nothing’s happened to Wyatt. Then again, Porter always says your boy’s not good with responsibility. Looks like he was right. Maybe you should let the carnies handle everything. At least they have a work ethic.” Sloane flipped back her golden mane of hair. “I have to get back to Porter. But we should be happy to know the boys have called off their feud, Marlee.” Sloane waved those perfectly polished nails at us. “And I hope Wyatt turns up.”

  Cara watched as her sister-in-law sauntered off into the crowd. “I haven’t spent a lot of time around Sloane. Until now, I didn’t realize how lucky I was. Although I haven’t been lucky where my son is concerned. He is beyond lazy.” She spotted something over my shoulder. “What is that boy doing at the roller coaster? Wyatt!”

  It didn’t surprise me to learn Cara’s son, Wyatt, blew off his assigned shift at the Ferris wheel. Twenty-year-old Wyatt O’Neill had a reputation as a stoner and party animal. I visited the O’Neill orchards to do business every month, and Wyatt was the only O’Neill I had never warmed up to. My feelings also extended to his gang of male friends. As usual, they were with him now. All of them, including Wyatt, ignored Cara’s shouts to get their attention as they hurried to board the roller coaster.

  “Sloane’s right. He’s supposed to be at the Ferris wheel,” Cara said as the roller coaster began to climb the track. “Brody and I are trying to get Wyatt to take on more responsibility. He doesn’t do anything except work at the orchard part-time. That’s why we put him in charge of the ride. Instead, he’s running around with those friends of his.” She shook her head. “My son better grow up soon. His father isn’t as patient as I am.”

  “Do Wyatt and Sloane get along?” I remembered how Wyatt had nuzzled Sloane on the neck earlier—along with her angry reaction. “They’re almost the same age.”

  Cara looked even more dispirited. “Oh, he likes her. Far too much. Even before she came on the scene, Wyatt was jealous of Porter and his money. But when Barbie joined the family, Wyatt literally turned green with envy. He shares his uncle’s taste in women: young, blond, and decorative. My son thinks it’s unfair that Porter gets to be rich and have Sloane. I told him to start working harder and make a lot of money. That’s how he’ll get a woman like Sloane.”

  “Is Wyatt interested in taking over O’Neill Blueberries one day?”

  “He’s interested in having fun and spending money. Only he doesn’t want to work for it. Well, I’m not letting that boy slip away again. When he gets off that ride, his mama is going to be there to greet him. And she won’t be happy.”

  While I didn’t have children of my own, I thought part of the problem might be that she still referred to someone no longer in their teens as a “boy.”

  “At least Ryan and your brother are no longer at each other’s throats,” I told her.

  “It won’t last. But tell Ryan the next time he hits Porter, to swing much harder.” She shot me a harsh smile. “With luck, the blow might kill him.”

  Chapter Four

  Disturbed by the dynamics in the Gale and O’Neill families, I returned to the Berry Basket booth on the midway. The Cabot brothers were as thrilled as the bounce house carny to be relieved early. I felt relieved to be selling merchandise, talking with customers, and joking with the vendors on either side of me. As usual, work often became the only thing that made sense. Business grew so brisk, I sold out of all my jams, jellies, coffees, and cookies. Looking over my depleted stock, I reminded myself to bring more products tomorrow. I’d have to close early. There was little left to sell today.

  I also must have finished digesting that blueberry pie because I was ravenous. A glance at my watch told me it was after seven thirty. Although the summer sun hadn’t set, all the lights had been turned on, making the fairground even more festive. Time for dinner. First, I had to pack up what was left and take it out to my SUV in the parking lot. And the very thought of my brand-new SUV with THE BERRY BASKET printed on the sides brought a smile to my face. After loading up my vehicle, I stopped at my empty booth one last time to make certain I had taken everything away.

  “Hey, Marlee.” Loretta Janssen beckoned me from her own vendor booth. “Ryan was looking for you. I told him you were about to leave. He says if you came back for me to tell you to meet him at the Zellar tables at Trappers Corner.”

  A section at the fairground near the animal pens had long been known as Trappers Corner. Set apart from the rest of the activity, a huge white open-air tent was reserved for vendors, fairground employees, and performers. Sawhorses placed around the tent kept everyone else away. It offered a much needed respite from the din and hubbub, especially since we had our own picnic tables and a nearby food concession stand called Midway Café.

  After I thanked Loretta, I set off for the area with mixed feelings. I’d hoped to enjoy my dinner without an intense emotional conversation to accompany it. But I couldn’t avoid my fiancé forever. Nor could I ignore my conflicted feelings about our relationship. What I wasn’t conflicted about was my appetite. My stomach growled in response to an air laden with the smells of the unhealthy but delicious items offered at the concession stands. I was trying to decide if I wanted pizza or hot dogs for dinner when I caught sight of yet another Gale.

  Jacqueline Gale hurried past me, head down. This was the first I’d seen of her all day. She hadn’t been at either the pie-eating contest or the tug-of-war. Like Piper Lyall-Pierce, Jacqueline seemed an unlikely carnival attendee. I took her to be in her early forties—the same age as her stepdaughter Cara—but there was nothing else similar about the two women. Cara had the no-nonsense demeanor and robust figure of a farmwoman accustomed t
o long hours of outdoor labor. Jacqueline reminded me of Mia Farrow’s vulnerable heroine in Rosemary’s Baby, even to the closely cropped, golden brown hair.

  Aside from a charity function at Blueberry Hill, I’d had no interaction with Jacqueline Gale. She seemed a demure, intelligent, but somewhat uncertain woman—a mix that must have appealed to Porter’s father Eric. She’d been his first wife’s nurse before she died of a long terminal illness; there had never been any reason to suspect foul play. However, given the wealth of Eric Gale and his age, most of Oriole County assumed Jacqueline married the much older man for money and security. Jacqueline may have regretted her decision now that Eric had left everything to his son. At least, Porter allowed her to continue living in the main house at Blueberry Hill. He and Sloane resided in a much newer house on the property. But I wondered how long before Porter decided it was time for his stepmother to move on.

  As I watched Jacqueline’s retreating back, two men jostled me aside.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Watch where you’re going.”

  They ignored me. “Honey, don’t run away,” one of them called out. “Come back.”

  “Sexy lady, get back here,” the other chimed in. “Don’t make us chase you.”

  I realized they were harassing Jacqueline, who now quickened her pace.

  Both men increased their own speed. “Baby, stop running,” the taller guy shouted. “You can’t get away from us. We’re gonna catch you, honey. We’re stronger and faster.”

  Incensed, I took off after them. The men were carnival workers, their shirts marked with the distinctive BBO letters and employee name tags. I planned to grab those name tags and report these jokers to the event coordinators. Because they weren’t aware of me, I was able to run past them and catch up to Jacqueline. She turned a frightened face in my direction when I touched her elbow. A look of relief came over her.

  “Miss Jacob, isn’t it?” she asked in her soft, reedy voice. “From The Berry Basket? I’m so glad you’re here. Those awful men are following me.”