“I met Ryan there a little before eight o’clock. I’d just closed up my Berry Basket booth, and I hadn’t eaten anything in hours. When I arrived, a lot of the fruit-growing families were having dinner at the tables. The Janssens, the Ramakers, the O’Neills, the Gales. Most of Ryan’s family had eaten, then went off to enjoy the rides.”
“Was Porter there?” Hitchcock obviously knew the answer but wanted to see if I could confirm it.
“All the Gales were there, including Sloane and Jacqueline. There were three or four tables of Blueberry Hill employees. Oh, and Porter’s nephew, Wyatt, sat with them.”
“Wyatt O’Neill?” Janelle asked.
I nodded. “I was surprised to see that. But only because his mother Cara wasn’t on good terms with Porter. Of course that doesn’t mean Porter never saw Wyatt. Or his niece Courtney.”
“Did you notice anything else unusual?” Trejo asked.
I shrugged. “It looked like Porter had been drinking. There were several coolers around the table and he kept pulling bottles out.” Since they continued to stare at me, I thought back to last night. “I watched Porter give himself an insulin injection. In the abdomen.”
“That confirms what everyone else observed,” Trejo said. “We’ve learned Mr. Gale required up to six shots a day. And he preferred receiving his injections by syringe, rather than by the newer NovoPen. Apparently it’s what he’s been used to since he was a kid.”
“Where did Porter Gale take the insulin from?” Hitchcock asked me.
“A red cooler that sat on the picnic bench. The same one a lot of people pulled beer from. He took out his shot and rubbed it between his hands.”
Trejo looked at Hitchcock. “Getting the medicine to room temperature,” he said.
“Soon after that, he teased Ryan and me for acting so lovey-dovey.”
Trejo threw me a sharp look, which made me uncomfortable.
“Porter told us to follow him to the Blueberry Hill Death Drop,” I went on. “He was being a little obnoxious so Ryan and I left to go to our cars. On the way we passed the Death Drop just as Porter strapped himself in. He yelled something about being King of Blueberry Hill, then the gondola rose to the top. A minute later, it came down and Porter was unconscious. Ryan ran over to see what was going on. That’s when we learned he had died.”
“I see.” Hitchcock drummed his fingers on the desk. “Are you certain you do not know anyone with diabetes, Marlee? Think.”
More bewildered than ever, I went through a list of relatives and friends in my mind. “No one, aside from Porter Gale. Although his sister told me yesterday that her son, Wyatt, is diabetic. Otherwise, I can’t think of a single person in my life who has diabetes. Is this relevant?”
“It might be.” Hitchcock moved a desktop photo of his family a few inches to the right. He seemed distracted. No, not distracted. Troubled.
“I don’t see how it could. And I don’t know why there are any suspicions about Porter’s death. His sister told me that he took dreadful care of himself. His stepmother, Jacqueline, said the same. And I saw some of his reckless behavior yesterday. It seems obvious Porter died as a result of too much sugar, too much alcohol, and too much exertion in the blistering heat. I don’t understand why I’m here. Or what you think I can tell you.”
“You can tell us where Ryan Zellar is.” Hitchcock fixed me with an unnerving stare.
“Ryan? He left on a fishing trip early this morning around six thirty.”
“Tuesday seems a strange time to go off on a fishing trip,” Trejo remarked. “I assumed Ryan would be helping out at the orchards and the Blow Out.”
“There are a mob of Zellars to help run the business. And weekends are even busier at the orchards because of U-Pick. Besides, his fishing trips never last longer than two or three days.”
“He does this often?” Hitchcock wrote something down on a piece of paper. This felt too much like an interrogation.
“Yes. Ryan has a college buddy who lives in Muskegon. His name is Joshua Edelman. Josh owns a boat, and the two of them go out on the lake about every eight weeks. Like I said, they’re gone no more than three days. They even fish in the dead of winter, but of course they can’t take out the boat then. They go ice fishing, usually near Traverse City.” Because Ryan preferred to socialize with his relatives, I welcomed these fishing trips. Ryan needed to spend time with people who weren’t part of his family. The Zellars had such strong family bonds, it verged on tribalism.
“When we called Ryan’s parents at the orchards, they said the same thing,” Hitchcock said. “They also claim he spent the night at your house. It looks like you are the last person in Oriole Point to see him.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Are you saying something happened to Ryan?”
“No, Marlee. We’re saying it looks suspicious. Ryan left town only hours after Porter Gale died. Earlier, he accused Porter of cheating and physically attacked him. In fact, if security hadn’t arrived when they did, reports claim he might have choked Porter to death.”
I didn’t know how to defend such indefensible behavior. “But they made up later.”
“True,” Hitchcock said. “Afterward, he and Porter were seen drinking beer together at Trappers Corner at approximately three thirty in the afternoon. Witnesses claim Ryan sat at the Gale table for nearly an hour.”
“Next to the red cooler containing Mr. Gale’s insulin,” Janelle added.
I looked at them with growing dread. “I don’t understand. Was there something besides insulin in the shot Porter gave himself?”
Hitchcock took a deep breath. “The medical examiner looked over Porter’s records and heard accounts from the two people who sat on either side of him during the Death Drop; one of whom was his wife. During the short duration of the ride, Porter is reported to have complained of a racing heart and heart spasms. He died within seconds of the ride coming to a halt. The M.E. initially assumed Porter Gale died of a heart attack.”
“This doesn’t seem like murder to me,” I protested.
“Porter’s personal physician, Dr. Wheeler, disagreed. He’s head of endocrinology at Oriole Point Hospital, where Porter’s body was brought last night. Dr. Wheeler’s been treating Porter since he was twelve, which is when he diagnosed Porter with type one diabetes. He took a much closer look at the first toxicology results and discovered high levels of potassium in the blood.” Hitchcock sat back, arms crossed over his chest. “That’s to be expected in a sudden cardiac death. But Dr. Wheeler had given Porter a complete physical one week ago and found his heart to be in excellent condition. So what else could account for the high amounts of potassium in Porter’s system?”
“You suspect something besides insulin was in the injection.” I still didn’t understand how this concerned Ryan.
“The state police confiscated the cooler holding the syringes and vials of insulin,” Trejo said. “Inside they found a plastic bag filled with emptied vials, and a separate bag containing those which hadn’t been used yet. Samples from all the vials were tested. All but one contained insulin or its residue.”
“And the one that didn’t?” I asked.
“Lab results showed residue in an emptied vial contained potassium chloride, not insulin,” Trejo said. “The effects mimic a heart attack. And a heart attack raises potassium levels in the blood. We’re lucky Porter’s doctor got suspicious.”
“What does this have to do with Ryan?”
“The red cooler sat at the Gale table for hours in Trappers Corner,” Hitchcock said. “It is highly unlikely Porter Gale switched his own medication. Which means someone who wanted Porter dead did compromise one of the vials.”
“It appears likely the murderer found an opportunity to place a vial of potassium chloride in Porter Gale’s cooler,” Janelle said. “A vial the victim would eventually use to inject himself with. If not that night, sometime in the next twenty-four hours. That means any person in close proximity to the cooler yesterday is a possible susp
ect.” She paused. “Assuming that person has a motive to want Porter Gale dead.”
I didn’t like where this line of questioning was headed. “The cooler probably sat at the table for hours. Anyone could have gotten into it. When I was there for dinner, a whole gang of Gale employees was at the table. All of them pulled beer bottles out of the cooler.” I tried to remain calm. “Has the vial been tested for fingerprints?”
“Of course,” Trejo said. “The only prints belong to Mr. Gale. But we assume the murderer would have made sure not to leave their own prints on it.”
“When did Ryan tell you about this so-called fishing trip?” Hitchcock asked.
“Not so-called. It’s been in the works for weeks. I told you, he and Josh do this about every two months.” I pulled out my cell phone. “I’ll call Ryan and you can ask him yourself.”
But Ryan didn’t answer. I called Josh next. Again, no success. Then I remembered they were out on Lake Michigan. “Hold on. They’re somewhere on the lake by now. They won’t have cell reception until they dock somewhere.”
“When are they planning to dock? And where?” Hitchcock asked.
“I have no idea. When they go on these trips, they follow the fish and whatever mood they’re in. They could be anywhere on Lake Michigan. Or even farther afield.” I twisted the diamond engagement ring on my finger. “In May they went on a fishing trip that took them through the straits of Mackinac and into Lake Huron.”
“Do they find a harbor every night, or drop anchor in the lake?” Trejo asked.
“Both. Josh owns a Crownline cruiser, which sleeps two. Sometimes they spend the night on the lake.” My hands trembled. I clasped them in my lap to prevent the police officers from seeing how anxious I was. “You can’t suspect Ryan of killing Porter. Does he seem crazy enough to murder a man over a tug-of-war game? Because there’s no other motive.”
“No other motive that you’re aware of,” Trejo broke in.
“Well, no. But it would have to be extremely serious for him to want to kill someone. And Ryan isn’t a murderer. He’s easygoing and calm and—”
“He flew into a rage yesterday and had to be pulled off the victim before he strangled him.” Hitchcock looked as unhappy as I felt.
“I know Ryan lost his temper at the tug-of-war. He regrets it. But it’s tied to this stupid rivalry between the two families. Nothing serious enough to kill someone over. And speaking of motive, I can think of other people with a good reason to want Porter out of the picture.”
“Such as?” Trejo asked.
“His wife, for one. Sloane stands to inherit Blueberry Hill. It makes no sense to turn all this attention on Ryan when she’s a much better suspect. What does Sloane have to say about all this?”
“Mrs. Gale has been under a doctor’s care since last night,” Janelle informed me. “When she learned about the tampered-with insulin, she became hysterical and had to be sedated.”
“Maybe she’s afraid she’s been caught,” I replied. “Or is overwhelmed with guilt.”
“Or maybe she’s innocent and can’t believe someone murdered her husband,” Trejo said.
“Cara O’Neill had no great love for her brother.” I felt guilty offering up Cara as a suspect, but better her than my fiancé. “She was cut out of their father’s will and resented Porter for it. I don’t think she ever forgave her father or Porter. The same with Porter’s stepmother, Jacqueline. For all you know, there’s a disgruntled Blueberry Hill employee who wanted to see Porter dead. Or a business competitor. Maybe a jealous woman from his past.”
Hitchcock held up his hand to stop me from continuing. “Rest assured every person who had access to the cooler containing the vial is a suspect. Unfortunately, the cooler with the insulin vials sometimes sat at the Gale table unattended. We’re in the process of tracking down everyone who visited the tent during that time. It may be a lengthy process.”
“Meanwhile, we need to look at possible motive. Porter was a wealthy, powerful man. Such men usually have enemies. Which of those people were at Trappers Corner yesterday?” Janelle twirled her sunglasses. She probably couldn’t wait to put them back on.
I couldn’t shake the memory of Ryan attacking Porter. For a few minutes, he had seemed consumed by rage. But a murderous rage? Impossible. Not Ryan.
“The murderer knew Porter was a diabetic, and that he used syringes rather than a NovoPen,” Hitchcock said. “This individual probably possesses more than a cursory knowledge of diabetes. Many diabetics only need injections once or twice a day. But Porter’s condition was severe enough to require six daily injections. An estimate of his injection schedule no doubt factored in.”
“How did Ryan react when he learned Porter had died?” Trejo asked.
“What do you mean? He was shocked, of course.” I hoped I sounded convincing.
“They weren’t friends,” Trejo said. “On the contrary, they actively disliked each other.”
“True. And Ryan didn’t cry about Porter’s death. But it wasn’t something he wanted to happen.” Except Ryan had laughed when he told me Porter was dead. The sound of his laughter had chilled me to the bone. But it didn’t prove Ryan killed Porter—only that he could be more ruthless than I imagined.
“One of the EMS drivers told the police that your fiancé appeared amused by the death.” Hitchcock sighed. “Marlee, I know this is difficult for you. You’re engaged to Ryan. But he attacked Porter earlier that day. He sat near the cooler that contained the murder weapon. And he seemed happy when he learned of the death.”
I shook my head. “Ryan did not kill Porter.”
“You need to inform us the minute you hear from him,” Hitchcock said.
Even though my legs felt shaky from this interview, I shot to my feet. “Ryan is not a murderer. And he doesn’t know anything about diabetes or potassium chloride or insulin. How would he even get an insulin vial to tamper with?”
Trejo looked surprised. “Are you telling us you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“About Ryan’s mother.” Hitchcock gave me a pitying look. “She’s diabetic.”
Chapter Seven
I didn’t remember leaving the police station. Or how I got to my SUV and on the open road. But my subconscious had a destination. The green pastures, barns, and silos rushing past my windows told me I was miles away from town and headed for Humane Hearts, the animal shelter run by my aunt. At least I had the presence of mind to call Gillian and let her know I’d be back at the store as soon as I took care of an errand. I didn’t want her to think I’d been detained indefinitely by the police. Or arrested. Although the thought Ryan might be arrested made me break out in a sweat.
Grateful the temperature had dropped, I hung my arm out the window. The breeze blew against my cheeks like a balm. As did the sight of grazing dairy cows and rolling fields of corn, soybean, and alfalfa. Just a few short miles from the sand dunes of Lake Michigan, the soil turned rich, helping Oriole County rank as one of the top three farming economies in the state.
Five generations of Jacobs have grown berries in Oriole County, starting with my great-great-grandparents. Our orchard connection stretched back to the Netherlands, where the family cultivated pears; at least one distant cousin there still did. I’d grown up on my grandparents’ berry farm, where Aunt Vicki now lived and ran her shelter.
While I had loved berry picking with my little pail, wading in the pond, and helping my grandmother tend her chickens, my parents found farm life far less entrancing. Since we lived with my grandparents, Mom and Dad pitched in when they could, but they disliked it. And they spent their working lives elsewhere; Mom taught at a local college and Dad ran a conference center in nearby Holland. After I turned eighteen and left to attend New York University, my parents relocated to Chicago, where they finally found their niche: Mom as a professor at Northwestern, and Dad as the manager of a boutique hotel on State Street.
Long before we left, however, life had become uncertain. By the ti
me I turned seven, both grandparents had died. This left my father and his sister Vicki to take over the business, which they did with disastrous results. Six years later, Dad and Aunt Vicki lost a hundred acres of orchards to the bank. At least they managed to hold on to the family’s “Painted Lady” on Lake Michigan, along with the orchard farmhouse and its last remaining twenty acres.
As the only Jacob son, his parents left the orchards to my father; Aunt Vicki inherited the Queen Anne house on the lake. This outcome pleased no one. My dad didn’t have a bucolic bone in his body. And my aunt had no use for a beach house. Although she hadn’t opened an animal shelter yet, she took care of an ever-increasing menagerie of cats, dogs, rabbits, and the occasional ferret. More important, she had two sons, but no daughter.
The lake house had been handed down to a female Jacob since Philip Jacob built it for his wife Lotte in 1895. Because I was the next female Jacob descendant, my aunt believed the house should be passed on to me, although given my young age it was placed in my parents’ name.
So brother and sister swapped properties, a deal they never regretted. As much as I enjoyed my childhood on the farm, I’d been thrilled to move into the pretty blue house overlooking the lake. A house Ryan now insisted I sell. He assumed he’d eventually get his way, as he did with so much else. Only in this case, his charm and stubbornness were not going to work. I glanced at the diamond solitaire on my finger. Why was Ryan at the center of so many of my present worries? I hoped to enjoy my engagement. Instead I felt conflicted and under siege. And the last thing I expected was Ryan to be a murder suspect.
When I braked at a four-way stop, my eyes were drawn to two sweeping black marks in the road. I’d made those marks during the Blackberry Road Rally while trying to outrace a homicidal maniac. To say it had been an eventful summer would be an understatement.
A few minutes later, I caught sight of the roadside sign announcing HUMANE HEARTS. Turning up the driveway to my aunt’s house, I waved at a large man in khaki shorts—bare to the waist—riding a lawn mower. He tipped his baseball cap at me before swerving his mower around a bed of lavender. Joe Coyle ran a successful landscaping company. Since he was also Aunt Vicki’s current boyfriend, Joe took it upon himself to tend my aunt’s acreage.
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