Killed on Blueberry Hill

by Sharon Farrow

  I spun around as the two oafs caught up to us. “Back off !”

  Both men jumped back. They seemed as startled to see me as Jacqueline was.

  “Who do you think you are, bothering this woman?” Hands on my hips, I stared them down. “Why are you chasing after her? Do you enjoy scaring women? Well, you don’t scare me. And I’m going to see you don’t scare her any longer. Security! We need security here!”

  The people in the surrounding area cast worried looks in our direction; some of them pulled out cell phones.

  The carnies backed away, too far for me to now read their name tags. “No reason to call security,” the shorter man said. “We’re just trying to be friendly.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said with as much scorn as possible. “Security!”

  The taller man scowled. “We only wanted to speak to the lady.”

  “Since she was trying to get away from you, it looks like she doesn’t want to speak to you. So I suggest you leave her alone.”

  He glared at me. “We got a right to speak to anyone we want. Because we work the carny don’t make us bums.”

  “I don’t care where you work,” I shot back. “You don’t have a right to harass women.”

  His partner looked around nervously. “Let’s go. There are friendlier bitches on the midway than these two.”

  The taller one peeked over my shoulder to wink at Jacqueline. “Hope to see you again, honey. Maybe next time, Wonder Woman won’t be around to spoil our fun.”

  I swore under my breath as they disappeared into the crowd. While I had inherited my love of berries from my fruit-growing paternal Dutch ancestors, my quick temper had been handed down by my mother’s Italian family.

  “Thank you, Miss Jacob,” Jacqueline said. “That was kind of you. And brave.”

  “Please call me Marlee. Are you okay? Do you know those men?”

  She shuddered. “I never saw them before. They started to follow me right after I left the restroom. Calling out for me to stop and talk to them. Saying all sorts of suggestive things.” Her hazel eyes widened. Unlike Sloane, Jacqueline never wore makeup, which enhanced her pale, waiflike appearance. “What kind of men do that right in the middle of a crowd like this?”

  “Psychopaths and losers. I’ll walk you to wherever you’re going to make sure those guys don’t bother you again.”

  “Thank you. What just happened makes me miss my husband even more. A woman alone is fair game. I don’t think I’ll be spending a lot of time at the fairground after today. Not without a man to protect me.”

  I didn’t want to remind her that it was a woman who had come to her rescue. If Jacqueline Gale chose to see herself as a helpless female, I doubted anything I said would change her mind. “I’m glad to see you here. Your husband always loved the Blow Out.”

  “I know. So does his son Porter.” She pointed at the white tent up ahead. “That’s where I’m headed to. I’m eating dinner with Porter and Sloane. To be honest, there isn’t anything at the concession stands I care to order. And Sloane didn’t pack a single healthy thing to eat in the coolers. Although Porter probably made sure she didn’t. But I did want to make an appearance today. To show my support for Blueberry Hill.”

  We pushed through the crowd. “Were you here earlier for the pie-eating contest?”

  “No. I arrived about ninety minutes ago. It was too hot to come earlier.” She fanned herself with what looked like a crumpled sun hat. “I know my stepson won. Foolish of him to eat an entire pie with his condition. I wish Sloane could talk some sense into him.”

  “I’ve heard she takes good care of him.”

  She shrugged. “When he lets her. Sloane may be young, but she’s far more levelheaded than he is. I’m afraid Porter’s like his father. Some men can’t be reasoned with. They want their own way, no matter how much you wish they’d compromise, even a little. Most of the time, it’s easier to give in.”

  I thought about Ryan signing me up for the two contests today. And how he got rid of my ceiling fan without telling me. Then there was his insistence I sell my family home. I feared I had already been too accommodating to Ryan.

  “At least Porter does remember to take his insulin shots,” Jacqueline continued. “He’s been diabetic for so long, it’s become second nature to him. And he remembered to pack them in one of the coolers. Unfortunately, the cooler is also crammed with bottles of craft beer, something else Porter should avoid. It’s maddening. I work in health care and there’s more to treating diabetes than insulin shots. Porter’s diet is appalling.” She sighed. “Eating an entire blueberry pie at one sitting. Sometimes, I think my stepson has a death wish.”

  While I doubted that, I knew Ryan would be ecstatic if it was true. “Did you hear about the tug-of-war?”

  “No. Did Porter’s team win?”

  “Yes.” I hesitated. “Although there was a bit of a disagreement.”

  Our conversation ended there. We had reached the picnic tables beneath the tent at Trappers Corner. I spotted only one empty table. The others were filled with people eating, laughing, drinking. I recognized all the fruit growers and their families, along with several game booth vendors, the man who made balloon animals, and the trio of women slated to perform country and western songs later tonight on the fairground stage.

  Ryan spotted me at the same time I saw him. Jacqueline waved at a table of people holding Porter, Sloane, and several Blueberry Hill employees. I also noticed a red cooler on a bench beside the table, the one that no doubt contained all the craft beer and insulin.

  Jacqueline gave my hand a quick squeeze. “Thank you again for helping me with those men. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t shown up.”

  I wanted to tell her not to automatically assume she was helpless, but I only smiled and said, “Thanks. But I bet you’re tougher than you know.”

  While Jacqueline went to join her family, I made my way to where Ryan sat. Although we hugged, I felt the tension between us.

  I looked around at the picnic tables reserved for Zellar, all marked by pieces of paper taped to the tables bearing the family name. One table held a pair of adolescent Zellars texting on their phones. At the table next to them, an exhausted Emily slept against the shoulder of her husband Adam, who spoke with a burly man standing beside him. I thought it was time for Adam to take his pregnant wife home. I wondered if all the Zellar men were as thoughtless as I now suspected Ryan was. Maybe the heat was getting to me, too, because I felt cranky and out of sorts. Or maybe I was just hungry.

  “Why didn’t you answer any of my calls or texts?” Ryan asked after I sat down.

  “I needed time to think. That brawl was pretty upsetting.” I was glad we had this table to ourselves, although an empty cooler sat on one of the benches. My stomach growled again as I noticed Ryan had been in the middle of eating a plate of French fries and two hot dogs. “I guess you didn’t wait to have dinner with me.”

  Ryan got to his feet. “I wasn’t certain you would show up. What can I get for you? The family brought sandwiches for lunch, but they’re long gone.”

  When Ryan went to buy the two slices of pizza and Diet Coke I asked for, I turned my attention to the Gale party several tables over. Other friends and employees sat at adjoining tables, which made one corner of the picnic area Gale territory. They were a rowdy bunch, and a hard-drinking one. I now noticed more than one cooler from which bottles of iced craft beer were hauled out. I’d been here only five minutes and Porter had drained one bottle and opened another.

  After the brawl, I wouldn’t have thought Porter and Ryan wanted to be anywhere near each other. Then again, Sloane swore the two had kissed and made up. Or shaken hands at least.

  The sight of Wyatt sitting in the Gale section did surprise me. Laughing with two of the Blueberry Hill employees, Wyatt reached into the nearby cooler for a beer as if he belonged among them. I wondered how this sat with his mother. Cara, Brody, and daughter Courtney ate tacos at a picnic table far to
my left. The last time I saw Cara, she’d been headed for the roller coaster and a confrontation with her slacker son. Things were probably tense between them at the moment, which might explain why Wyatt had forsaken his parents and sister for his uncle.

  Although I did suspect Wyatt had another reason for hanging out at the Gale tables. He never took his eyes off Sloane, who seemed to avoid looking at him.

  Ryan returned with my food, and all was forgotten while I devoured my pizza and soda. When both of us finished eating, we pushed away our paper plates and looked at each other.

  “Well?” I asked him.

  “Well, what?”

  “Exactly what happened after the security people showed up? I heard you and Porter shook hands. So it’s safe to say no one got arrested.”

  “Marlee, no one gets arrested at the fairground because some guys get into a fight. Especially when the fight involves two of the biggest fruit-growing families in the state.”

  “You make it sound as if Zellars and Blueberry Hill are Apple and Microsoft.”

  “In a way we are. We’re important to the local economy. Important enough that people should think twice about arresting one of us.” Ryan glanced over at Porter, now eating chips with one hand and knocking back a beer with the other. “Good thing the security guys got there when they did because I wanted to beat the hell out of him. I still do. It was my parents who finally got me to calm down. But I had to go home for a couple hours to really cool off.”

  “Relieved to hear that. I’ve never seen you so angry. Or violent. When I saw you choke him, I thought you’d gone crazy.” I shook my head. “I never want to see that behavior again.”

  “So I gathered.” He regarded me with an offended expression. “You didn’t think twice about leaving me after the fight. And you never bothered to check your phone or try to look for me. I stupidly hoped my fiancée would be on my side.”

  “Not if you’re wrong, Ryan. And you were wrong to attack Porter.”

  We stared at each other, and I grew nervous. Should I end it now? Should I tell him how uncertain I felt about our upcoming marriage and whether we were really suited to each other? Should I admit my cold feet had become positively frozen? Should I dare confess there were times I felt I didn’t really know him? Before I could say any of this, a round of applause went up from the Gale table, followed by a wave of laughter.

  Ryan and I watched as Porter got to his feet. Even at this distance, he appeared off balance. Drunk and diabetic, I thought with chagrin. Jacqueline must be feeling as frustrated as Sloane, who tried to take the beer bottle out of her husband’s hand. Only Porter held it out of her reach. She sprang to her feet and snatched the bottle away. Wearing a sheepish grin, Porter swept her up in a tight bear hug. After he released her, he walked over to the cooler and retrieved what looked like a plastic bag.

  I turned my attention back to Ryan. “We need to have a long talk. A serious one.”

  But Ryan continued to watch Porter as he took something out of the plastic bag, then rubbed it between his hands. It must be his insulin shot. No one at the Gale tables gave him more than a passing glance as Porter lifted up his shirt and injected himself in the abdomen. They must be accustomed to seeing him to do that, but it made me wince.

  “Ryan, are you listening to me? This is important. We’ve been arguing too much lately. And there are too many things we don’t see eye to eye on.”

  “What is this?” Ryan finally turned to me, this time with alarm. “Are you breaking up with me?”

  “Please, we need to take a deep breath and think about our future.”

  “I’ve done nothing but think about our future since I realized I was in love with you.”

  “I love you, too. But I’m not sure that’s enough.”

  “Are you crazy? What’s more important than that? Marlee, we love each other. And I’m tired of being alone. It’s time I had a family. I want to build something for us and our children. They’ll be part of Zellar Orchards one day. We should start working on that future together.”

  “But you never listen to me. You don’t seem to care at all what I want for the future.”

  “I thought we wanted the same thing. Why else would you agree to marry me?”

  “Because I love you.” I felt tears well up. “But is that enough?”

  “Enough?” He took my face in his hands. “I know you’re uncertain about marriage. So am I. My first marriage was a disaster. But I’m not uncertain about my feelings for you. Don’t destroy what we have. Not over minor things we can fix. Because what we have is important.” Now his own eyes filled with tears. “It’s the most important thing there is. I can’t imagine my life without you.” Ryan kissed me. “You’re my berry girl.”

  After I kissed him back, we kissed again for much longer, and I remembered why I was with him. Why I loved him. Why I had agreed to marry him. When we finally stopped kissing Ryan pulled me close, and we nestled together beneath the white lights strung along the tent.

  Too soon, the moment ended when Porter shouted, “Hey, Ryan and Marlee! Break it up! If you two lovebirds want some real thrills, follow me.” He walked toward us, even more unsteady than before.

  “What is he doing now?” Ryan muttered.

  Porter stopped before our table. His nose was swollen and he had a black eye. “No fighting,” I said quickly.

  “Nah, we’ve fought enough for one day. Now it’s time for fun. That’s what a Blow Out is all about. And if you two want some real excitement, hop on my Blueberry Hill Death Drop. Unless you’re afraid. Maybe all you’re ready for is an inflatable bounce house. Or a safe little carousel ride.” He smirked at Ryan. “That’s probably all a Zellar can handle. A ride that goes ’round and ’round but ends up nowhere. Just like you, Ryan.”

  I felt Ryan stiffen as Porter walked away, laughing. “Ignore him,” I said. “He’s trying to get a rise out of you. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

  Ryan took a deep breath. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Relieved, I threw our plates in the trash. Arm in arm, Ryan and I went to the midway, hopefully en route to the parking lot. But first we had to pass all the rides, each one filled with screaming fairgoers, flashing lights, rides swooping and spinning in the darkening sky.

  “I love carousels,” I said to Ryan, and he chuckled. “Bounce houses, too.”

  Although we both looked the other way as we reached the Blueberry Hill Death Drop, Porter shouted at us as he took his seat on the ride. “Hey, Zellar! I’m King of Blueberry Hill, baby. That means I’m King of the World around here!”

  With that, the ride slowly rose into the night sky. As it did, the sound of Porter’s mocking laughter faded away. Ryan bristled with anger.

  “There’s no reason to stay here,” I said. “He’s only going to say something again.”

  But Ryan’s attention now focused on the gondola of people high overhead, legs dangling. A moment later, they fell with dazzling speed. Screams—filled with delight and fear—accompanied the drop.

  “It’s time to confront him,” Ryan said, his voice tight. “No punches, but no fake handshakes, either. This has gone on long enough.”

  My heart sank at the same speed as the Blueberry Hill Death Drop.

  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.” Ryan stunned me by laughing. “The king is dead.”

  Chapter Five

  “Can you fly?”

  Slouched at a bistro table near the ice cream counter, the Cabot brothers shot weary looks at the African gray parrot who sat atop a four-foot-tall wooden perch near the shop window.

  “Why does your bird keep asking if we can fly?” Dean said, removing the paper holder from his blueberry muffin.

  “Maybe she wants to make us feel bad about not having wings.” Walking over to where Minnie sat fluffing her gray feathers, I filled one of the two attached metal bowls with the fresh veggies I’d brought from home.

  “I think she needs to be the center of attention,” Andrew piped up as he went through the store mail scattered before him.

  “Takes one to know one,” I murmured.

  “What did you say?” Andrew asked.

  Minnie whistled, followed by her perfect imitation of my cell phone ringtone. “How are ya? How are ya?” she asked.

  “Fine, sweetie.” I scratched the back of her feathered head and she closed her eyes in bliss. Being around Minnie put me in a more relaxed state, something I needed after yesterday’s shocking death at the fairground.

  “Kiss for Mommy,” Minnie murmured.

  I leaned closer and gave her a kiss. She responded by making several lip-smacking sounds. I’d only had Minnie two months, but it felt like she and I had been lifelong companions. Certainly her conversation never lagged.

  Indeed, I had adopted the most talkative rescue bird in the state—maybe the country. So far I’d counted three hundred words in her vocabulary, not including the phrases Minnie had picked up since living with me. I’d fallen in love with the beautiful parrot who often spent hours perched on my shoulder when we were home. But with tourist season in full swing, I had little opportunity to keep my gregarious bird company at my house on the beach. I now brought her with me to work, even if it meant keeping an extra perch on the premises, along with a sleep cage for the naps she took in my back office.