Killed on Blueberry Hill

by Sharon Farrow

  She and my customers enjoyed the interaction, except for a couple from Ohio who took offense when Minnie told them to, “Move your ass, people.” I blamed Andrew for that phrase; he loved to mutter it whenever the store became too crowded.

  Minnie’s presence also convinced my bird-loving baker, Theo Foster, to remain on the premises each morning after finishing his pre-dawn baking shift. Theo did not possess the best social skills due to a head injury he suffered as a child. But he’d recently come to trust me, Minnie, and the three other employees of The Berry Basket: Dean, Andrew, and college student Gillian Kaminski. All six of us were now at the store an hour before opening.

  Because the Blueberry Blow Out required added shifts at both the shop and the fairground booth, we agreed to meet at the store to figure out what schedule we could live with for the remainder of the event. Gillian worked full-time at The Berry Basket when on college break, but Dean and Andrew had other commitments. Dean ran The Dean Report, a highly successful blog describing life along the lakeshore. The blog’s amusing and gossipy observations recently earned it a place on Chicago Magazine’s Top 25 Midwest Blogs. The Dean Report garnered so much online attention, I placed ads for The Berry Basket on the site.

  As for Andrew, he worked part-time for a florist named Oscar in nearby Saugatuck. Andrew had no interest in flowers and only applied for a job at Beguiling Blooms because he thought it might be amusing to work at two places with the same initials. This kind of thing made sense only to Andrew. Given how attractive Oscar the florist was, it also made sense when he and Andrew became a romantic couple.

  All of us managed to keep The Berry Basket running smoothly, even during the busiest of times. But the Blueberry Blow Out was one of the largest summer events in the region, and the next few days promised to be hectic. Opening day had turned far more stressful than expected. I hoped if I buried myself in work, I could ignore further unpleasantness. However, the image of Porter Gale’s lifeless body being removed from the ride last night haunted me. Along with Ryan’s gleeful reaction.

  “Here’s what I was looking for.” Andrew held up the Oriole Messenger, one of two local newspapers our small town supported. The headline read: PORTER GALE DIES ON BLUEBERRY HILL RIDE, with a photo of a smiling Porter beneath it. “Can a death get any more ironic? Dying on a ride named after your own business. Unbelievable.”

  “And one named a Death Drop, too.” Dean finished off his muffin. “Not good news for the Blueberry Blow Out. Someone dying on a ride the first day is bad for business.”

  “No way. I bet even more people will want to ride the Death Drop now,” Andrew said.

  “If so, they’re nothing but ghouls.” I straightened the bags of dried raspberries stacked near the window. “And I agree with Dean. Porter’s death may put a damper on things, at least for a day or two. But Piper probably feels better about not being part of the planning committee now. Her feelings were hurt at not being included.”

  Actually, Piper had been outraged she’d not been asked to help organize this summer’s Blueberry Blow Out. But no one had forgotten how the Blow Out souvenir T-shirts she ordered last year bore the lettering: BLUEBERRY BOW OUT. Since they arrived the day before the event began, the misspelled shirts had to be sold at the fairground until new ones arrived by express mail. I thought it turned out well in the end. The BOW OUT tees had become collector items, even if it did mortify Piper.

  Andrew read aloud the account of Porter’s untimely death. I’d already read it, relieved it was basically a long obituary, with an emphasis on the success of Blueberry Hill and its products. It seemed unlikely the paper even realized Porter’s death was due to a foolhardy indifference to his diabetic condition.

  I preferred not to think about Porter Gale and turned my energy to counting the money in the cash register. Gillian opened shipping boxes beside me, pulling out an assortment of oven mitts decorated with cranberries. To my left, Theo Foster laid out the pastries he had baked early this morning. Today’s selections included blueberry cobbler, blueberry muffins, lemon blueberry cheese tart, and blueberry spice whoopie pies. Berry Basket pastries contained a variety of berries, but during the Blow Out festivities, I preferred an emphasis on blueberries.

  Oblivious to all the activity around them, Andrew and Dean relaxed at the bistro tables, apparently conserving their energy for the day ahead. In the background, Minnie sang a chorus of “Ba-ba-ba ba-ba ba-ran” on repeat. When Andrew finished reading the article, he sat back with a heavy sigh. “I don’t see how I managed to miss the tug-of-war fight and Porter dying on the Death Drop.”

  Gillian stopped removing oven mitts. “Why would you want to see either one? The fight must have been embarrassing.”

  “That it was,” I said.

  “And Porter Gale dying on a ride—one named after the family business!—is horrifying.” She shook her head at Andrew in disapproval. Younger than both Cabot brothers, twenty-one-year-old Gillian possessed a far more mature view on life. “A man died, Andrew. No one wants to see that.”

  Andrew and Dean exchanged skeptical looks. “I bet your dad disagrees,” Dean told her.

  As editor of the other local paper, the Oriole Point Herald, Gillian’s father no doubt would have liked to witness Porter’s death. As he would have liked to have made it his own paper’s headline. His bad luck that the weekly Herald came out on Friday, which meant he’d once again been bested by the Messenger, whose weekly issue arrived in county mailboxes on Tuesday morning.

  A scowling Gillian marched into the back room with the remaining box of oven mitts.

  “You know Gillian is sensitive when her dad’s paper gets scooped,” I chided the brothers.

  “Maybe he should put the paper out more than once a week,” Andrew said.

  “We don’t have enough news to fill even one weekly paper, let alone two.”

  “You have to admit it’s been a newsworthy tourist season so far, Marlee.” Dean sipped his cup of blueberry coffee. “More than enough for a daily paper.”

  He had me there. This summer’s Strawberry Moon Bash and Blackberry Road Rally had been marred by murder, lies, and scandal. And I’d found myself smack in the middle of it all. Indeed, I’d been lucky to survive the festivals.

  “Let’s be grateful Porter’s death is untimely but not suspicious.” I shut the cash drawer with a satisfying bang, its bell ringing out. Minnie immediately imitated the sound.

  “How do you know that?” Andrew turned to look at me. “I’ve never paid much attention to the farmers out in the country. In fact, I don’t think I ever met Porter Gale. But I heard him and his sister Cara didn’t get along.”

  “Our mom said Cara was cut out of their dad’s will last year. So were her kids. And Porter’s stepmother, Jacqueline, didn’t inherit much, either.” Dean lifted an eyebrow. “Revenge is one juicy motive for murder.”

  “Peeky boo, I see you,” Minnie said by the window.

  “And what about the young widow?” Andrew asked. “Sloane might be capable of other crimes aside from her over-use of blusher and Urban Decay eyeliner.”

  This finally got the attention of Theo, who stopped cutting slices of cobbler by the pastry case. “Did Sloane Porter kill her husband?”

  “Of course not,” I hurried to answer. Theo took things literally, including the Cabot brothers’ sarcastic humor. I didn’t need rumors of murderous Gale family members to be traced back to my Berry Basket staff. The store and I had been front and center in local crimes far too much. “Porter died of diabetic shock, caused by an overload of sugar. Compounded by alcohol.”

  “Who says?” Andrew persisted.

  “The newspaper article you just read.”

  “Not really. The reporter claims the probable cause of death might be complications due to diabetes.” He gave me an impish grin. “But what if Sloane killed him so she could inherit the Blueberry Hill business? It’s worth millions.”

  Theo’s eyes widened in alarm. He, too, had seen his share of murder
and didn’t need to be upset again.

  “That’s enough, Andrew. Porter wasn’t killed by his wife, his sister, or anyone.”

  Dean ignored me. “Lots of people might be happy he’s dead. He inherited one of the most successful businesses in the state. And he never let anyone forget it. Jealousy is as strong a motive as revenge. I mean, everyone knows the Zellars and Gales haven’t gotten along for generations. Look what happened at the tug-of-war yesterday.”

  Andrew grabbed his brother’s arm in mock alarm. “Omigod. Ryan did it!”

  “Maybe they’re all guilty, like Murder on the Orient Express,” Dean said with a laugh. “I hope so. A story like that would get a lot of hits on my blog.”

  Refusing to let the Cabots’ teasing provoke me, I glanced at the red strawberry-shaped clock on the wall. Thirty minutes until we opened. Time to send the Cabots off to the fairground. I only hoped they didn’t continue with this topic of conversation after they left.

  “The tug-of-war fight occurred due to a misunderstanding,” I said. “Ryan thought Porter buried a piece of glass in the sand so one of the Zellars would cut their foot during the contest. I’m sure it was an accident. An unfortunate one.”

  “It wasn’t an accident, Marlee,” Theo said. “I saw the muscular man, the one they called Porter, put something in the sand. I don’t know what it was. Except it was small.”

  “You were at the tug-of-war yesterday?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I’ve never been to a Blueberry Blow Out. I thought I should go because I work at a berry store. I was there all day. I saw you eat the pie.” His solemn expression lightened momentarily. “You ate it really fast. I was proud.”

  Andrew chuckled. “Our Marlee can eat. Especially anything with berries in it.”

  I walked over to the pastry case and faced Theo, but decided not to mention that he was supposed to be manning the Berry Basket booth at the time of the pie-eating contest, according to what Andrew had told me yesterday. “I didn’t see you at the tug-of-war.”

  “I didn’t see you, either. At least not until the boy on Ryan’s team got hurt. It was really crowded. And I wore a hat and sunglasses. But I liked the tugs-of-war. I watched the players all the time. That’s how I saw the Porter man put something in the sand.”

  “It looks like Ryan was right.” I frowned. “Porter did cheat.”

  “Uh-oh.” Andrew put on a sad face. “Your boyfriend is now the prime suspect.”

  “Will you stop? Porter died a natural death caused by his unnatural food and drink choices.”

  “Don’t worry, Marlee,” Dean said. “If Ryan is charged, his lawyer can get him off with the tug-of-war defense. Applicable only during the Blueberry Blow Out. Or any season of Survivor.”

  “Okay, guys, off to the fairground,” I said. “The booths open at ten, and you still need to transport everything there and set up.” I snatched up the mail from their table, along with Dean’s half-full cup of coffee.

  “I’m not done yet.” He reached for the cup, but I held it out of his reach.

  “Yes, you are.” I gave the brothers my steeliest “boss” look, which propelled them to their feet. “We’re done talking about murder. The Berry Basket will focus on nothing but fruit and festivities for the rest of the summer. And confine your gossip to what you love best: making fun of everyone’s fashion choices, and rumors about Old Man Bowman’s sex life.”

  “We can do that.” Andrew smoothed down his blue BERRY BASKET T-shirt. “But after the murders we’ve been involved with this summer, it will be a dull way to end the season.”

  “Fingers crossed, it will stay dull all the way to Christmas.” When I remembered my January wedding date, I added, “And beyond.”

  “Move your ass, people!” Minnie shrieked.

  As always, Minnie had the last word.

  * * *

  Eager to put thoughts of Porter Gale’s death out of my mind, I opened the store fifteen minutes early. After placing the OPEN flag in its iron holder outside my door, I took a moment to enjoy the beautiful morning. Shortly before dawn, a storm moved in, bringing an hour of heavy rain accompanied by thunder and lightning. The system had moved inland, leaving behind hazy skies and much lower temperatures. I took a deep breath, savoring the breeze blowing up the street from the water. The weather app on my phone informed me the temp was a delightful seventy-six degrees. Perfection. Tourists would divide their time between the beach, the village shops, and the festivities at the fairground. It promised to be a busy, lucrative day.

  Fellow shopkeepers began to appear, putting out their OPEN flags or sandwich boards. I spent a moment appreciating the scene from my shop door. The Berry Basket had a prime spot on Lyall Street, our main shopping thoroughfare. Over sixty galleries, stores, and restaurants comprised downtown Oriole Point, which benefited from the Oriole River running right through the center of the village. But Lake Michigan was the heart and soul of Oriole Point, as it was for every lakeshore town along the coast of western Michigan. A mere four blocks from my shop door glittered my favorite Great Lake. I loved to look down the street toward the water, the vista veering from shops and boutiques to the marina, then out past the channel markers where the blue expanse of Lake Michigan never failed to impress. To make it more picturesque, the white Oriole Point lighthouse stood at the mouth of the river, its red rotating light pulsing like a steady heartbeat.

  Born and raised in Oriole Point, I had traveled extensively and spent almost a decade in New York City. Yet the beauty of this lakeshore seemed to grow each year, along with my deep appreciation of it. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

  Denise Redfern, owner of the Tonguish Spirit Gallery next door, came outside with her flag. “Morning, Marlee. Gorgeous day. I couldn’t take much more of that heat. So humid, too.”

  “I know. If I wanted to live in the Everglades, I would have moved to Florida.”

  She reached up to hang her flag, beautifully decorated with the Algonquian thunderbird symbol. Not only was the Tonguish gallery devoted to Native American artwork, but Denise herself was a full-blooded Potawatomi, one of the tribes of the Algonquian nation. While the OPEN flags of most storeowners simply said OPEN in colorful letters, some of us ordered flags specific to our businesses. Strawberries were stitched onto my OPEN flag; the flag of the Wiley Perch restaurant displayed a giant leaping fish; Tess’s Oriole Glass flag boasted a splendid orange and black oriole. I did have reservations about the flag for the Gouda Life cheese shop, emblazoned with a chunk of cheese crowned by wavy fumes. Limburger, no doubt.

  “Terrible news about Porter Gale,” Denise said. “And the paper said his wife was sitting next to him. What a painful thing for her to witness. She’s so young, too. Only twenty-four.” She shook her head, the movement causing her long silver earrings to sway. “I was only a little older myself when my husband died. I remained in shock for nearly a year.”

  I looked over at Denise with surprise. A striking woman in her late thirties, Denise always seemed as unflappable and serene as the carved totems she sold in her gallery. While I knew she’d been widowed, Denise guarded her privacy and I wasn’t privy to much else. She moved here from the Charlevoix area several years ago, which meant the locals didn’t know much more about Denise aside from her remarkable good humor and reliability. For Oriole Point, that was sufficient . . . at least for people we liked and respected.

  Denise sighed. “Poor Sloane. Do you know her?”

  “Not really. She rarely comes to the village. I think she spends most of her time at Blueberry Hill. I went there for a big charity event before Eric Gale died. The place seemed like a compound: stables, swimming pool, tennis courts, guesthouses. Sloane probably had little reason to leave. Although I did see her a few times at the malls in Grand Rapids. And I’m sure she made shopping trips to Chicago.”

  “Wonder what the girl will do now.”

  “No idea. Maybe go back to Baltimore. Porter’s sister said that’s where he met her.”


  “I also wonder what will happen to Blueberry Hill.”

  That gave us pause. A national brand, Blueberry Hill had to be worth over a hundred million. I’m sure there was a board of directors, investors, and all sorts of other people who were an integral part of the Blueberry Hill empire. Yet, Porter Gale had owned and controlled a big chunk of that enterprise. So who inherited Blueberry Hill? Maybe Cara O’Neill would finally get a share of her family’s fortune and legacy. I couldn’t imagine a business such as Blueberry Hill being handed over to Sloane. As Andrew implied, the young woman seemed to devote a lot of energy to experimenting with makeup. A shame she wasn’t in line to inherit Sephora.

  Denise stepped to the curb, staring down the street. “Officer Davenport is out and about early. I don’t usually see her on Lyall Street until after lunch. After patrolling the beach access roads, she spends the rest of the morning at Coffee by Crystal.” She chuckled.

  “I wonder if taxpayers realize they’re paying her to ticket drivers and drink iced mocha lattes.”

  My grin vanished when I saw Officer Janelle Davenport turn in our direction. Although she was a good two blocks away, there was no mistaking the officer for anyone else. First, she was the only policewoman on Oriole Point’s small force. Second, she always wore aviator sunglasses, even indoors. It was either an affectation or a nod to what I knew was her favorite movie, Top Gun. Regardless, Janelle was not my favorite person in the village—not by a long shot—and I had a funny feeling she was on her way to see me. And that it had something to do with Porter Gale’s death. I wished now I had scheduled myself to work at the fairground this morning.

  I breathed easier when she stopped to speak with Sheila Sawyer, one of the cantankerous owners of the Sweet Dreams candy shop. Maybe Janelle was on Lyall Street this early on some other business. If so, I planned to stay out of sight. After a few more friendly words with Denise, I ducked back into the store. I thought about closing the door behind me, but when the weather was this mild, I preferred keeping it open. An open door encouraged foot traffic. I hoped part of that traffic didn’t include Officer Davenport.