Killed on Blueberry Hill

by Sharon Farrow

  Chapter Nine

  Some people try to forget their troubles with margaritas or Krispy Kremes. I chose to bounce.

  I’d forgotten how much fun it was to bounce on things. No wonder kids jumped on beds, trampolines, and inflatable houses. How lucky for me that I had my own Blueberry Blow Out Bounce House. Since the fairground had just opened for the day, only three children bounced with me, but we were having a loud and enjoyable time. Not only was jumping good for the hamstrings, it worked as a much-needed tension reliever.

  After my conversation with Courtney, I hurried home, showered, and drove to the fairground. I’d scheduled myself to work at the Blow Out until four o’clock, when I would go on to work at the store until closing. After my hour taking tickets at the bounce house, I would man the Berry Basket vendor booth. I hoped to avoid the sight of the Blueberry Hill Death Drop, but I couldn’t help but hear the screams of people plummeting from the ride’s tower. Nor could I avoid thinking about what Courtney told me. Why would Ryan need money? And why would he turn to Porter Gale for financial help? It made no sense.

  I stopped trying to text or call Ryan. He should be returning to Oriole Point today or tomorrow. And what would I tell him when I saw him again? Call the police because they want to question you about Porter’s death? Which meant I’d have to inform him that Porter had been murdered. I prayed he would be suitably shocked. If he wasn’t, I didn’t know what I’d do. Thinking about that rattled me, and I bounced off one of the walls, narrowly missing a little girl who sang “Let It Go” from Frozen at the top of her lungs as she jumped.

  I bounced my way to the exit. Being upset about Porter’s death and Ryan’s possible involvement did not justify trampling a child in a bounce house. And I was wiped out. Bouncing for the better part of an hour will do that to you. As I stepped out of the inflatable house, two more children waited to enter. Behind them stood Piper Lyall-Pierce.

  “Marlee, how did you take tickets if you were jumping around in there?” she asked.

  “I’m capable of jumping and taking tickets. Don’t forget I have a college degree.”

  “The bounce house has a sign out front restricting entrance to anyone over ten. If I ran the Blow Out this year, I’d make certain everyone adhered to the midway rules. No exceptions.” She frowned. “You should see yourself. Perspiring, red-faced. With that ponytail, you don’t even look old enough to order alcohol, let alone run a booth and a ride here.”

  “Thanks.” I tightened the rubber band around my offending ponytail, then slipped into my sandals. However I knew Piper did not mean it as a compliment. But I didn’t have the money for her designer clothes or the personal glam squad who spent each morning readying her hair and face like she was Mariah Carey. Her two-person team had worked their magic again. Piper’s ash-blond hair had been styled into her trademark chin-length bob that not even a tornado could dislodge. Her impeccable makeup reminded me of publicity photos of Old Hollywood movie stars—the classy ones like Gene Tierney and Olivia de Havilland. And her butter-yellow top and white culottes decorated with splashes of navy came from a runway collection, not Kohl’s.

  I cocked my head at her outfit. “Stella McCartney?”

  “Don’t be absurd. Carolina Herrera, Resort 2016. After a decade in New York City, I thought you knew your designers better than that.” She shook her head at my white jeans and blue BERRY BASKET T-shirt. “Running that berry store has made you lose all sense of style.”

  “Sorry. All my money now goes into buying raspberry tea and blueberry vinegar.” With a smile, I greeted the carnival worker assigned to the Bounce House. An amiable guy in his early fifties, Rex was my favorite of the three carnies who took turns overseeing this attraction.

  Piper noticed him, too. “Good. You can leave now that someone’s here to take tickets. I want you to stop by the Blueberry Fun House that Lionel and I have sponsored.”

  “I’d like to, but I need to set up my vendor booth.”

  “That can wait.” Taking me by the elbow, she steered me along the midway. “Lionel and I shut the fun house down last night. One of the mechanical figures malfunctioned. I sent a carny to find the person who repairs the rides, but no one ever showed up. Inexcusable! The festival planning committee should have hired independent contractors.”

  “They did. Jenco Amusements Midwest owns the rides, the games, the concession stands. Most of the people who work here—the carnies—are part of the Jenco package. When they break all this down at the end of the festival, everything will be trucked to Ohio for a Labor Day event. That includes the carnival workers.” I pointed at the painted blueberry signs. “But the signage and artwork belong to the Blow Out committee. We can reuse them next year.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “The man who relieved me at the bounce house told me. He’s traveled with Jenco for over twenty years. The season is only eight months long, and he finds other work in the off-season. Or goes on unemployment.”

  “Haven’t you gotten cozy with the carnies. What next? Should Ryan be worried you’ll run off with the guy who sells the deep-fried candy bars?”

  “Don’t be such a snob. Not everyone was born with an entire set of silver spoons in their mouth.”

  “How droll. I don’t care how one earns their living, but I expect them to be reasonably competent. I haven’t found that to be the case with the carnies I’m working with.”

  “No doubt there are a few bad apples in the carnival barrel. On the first day of the Blow Out, I stopped two carnies from harassing Jacqueline Gale. They chased her through the crowd, whistling and calling her ‘honey.’”

  “Why would they harass Jacqueline? She’s on the plain side, and over forty besides.”

  “I don’t know if you’re being sexist, ageist, or rude. First, Jacqueline is a nice-looking woman. Second, the two guys chasing after her had all the sex appeal of roadkill.”

  “Point taken.” Piper pulled me closer to her. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to you since Porter died on his Death Drop.”

  “That was a horrible shock.”

  “Was it? Porter spent his entire adult life eating and drinking like a frat boy. I heard he was drunk when he went on the ride. Then there was that pie he ate for the contest. A lunatic way for a diabetic to behave.”

  “I agree.”

  “Now Lionel has learned the police suspect the death was not due to natural causes. If that’s true, the papers in Holland and Grand Rapids haven’t seen fit to mention it yet. Lionel doesn’t know more than that. And I’ve been too busy here to ask my own questions. After all, someone has to see to it the Blueberry Blow Out volunteers don’t make too many mistakes.”

  “I spoke with the police yesterday morning.” We halted by the cotton candy booth while I told Piper about the contents of the tampered-with insulin vial. The police had not instructed me to keep our conversation secret. And with Suzanne Cabot front and center as police receptionist, she’d get the news out there even if she were gagged. But I saw no reason to mention Ryan had access to insulin. Or that he owed Porter money.

  After I confirmed another murder might have taken place in Oriole Point, Piper appeared vindicated, not troubled. “And everyone thought the misspelled T-shirts I ordered last year spelled disaster. Hah! Let’s see the planning committee spin this.”

  “Piper, a man is dead.”

  “People die all the time. I can’t cry over all of them. And I won’t pretend Porter’s death matters to me. The only Gale I knew well was Heather.”

  “Porter and Cara’s mother?”

  Piper nodded. “She joined the book club I started years ago, right after I saw how successful Oprah’s was. Poor Heather. A sweet woman, far too good natured for Eric Gale.”

  “I heard she died of cancer.”

  “Lung cancer. Heather was a heavy smoker. I finally had to ban her from borrowing my books because they came back reeking of cigarette smoke. She didn’t even quit smoking until a year before her death, al
though she’d already been sick for a good three years.”

  “And the present Mrs. Eric Gale was her nurse.”

  “I don’t think Jacqueline is an RN. An LPN, maybe. When Heather grew worse, Eric Gale contacted a home health care agency in Grand Rapids. They recommended Jacqueline. I think her name was Jacqueline Turner then. She took care of Heather for five months, right up until hospice took over. Heather died two weeks later. I remember the funeral—standing room only. Everyone loved Heather.”

  “And Jacqueline became the second Mrs. Gale soon after?”

  Piper lifted an eyebrow at me. “Yes. A mere three months later. Heather’s friends didn’t take kindly to that. But Eric never cared how things looked. Did you ever meet him?”

  I shook my head.

  “He was a man who let money and success coarsen him, and he was already quite coarse. Heather allowed him to walk all over her. And Jacqueline seems just as mousy. Probably one of the reasons why he married her. Not that he had much time to enjoy his bride.”

  “How long were they married before he died?”

  “Let’s see. They got married April of last year. He died right before Thanksgiving.”

  “Do you think Jacqueline had anything to do with Porter’s death? It seems suspicious that three members of the Gale family have died in the past two years. And all since Jacqueline arrived at Blueberry Hill.”

  Piper didn’t often belly-laugh, but she did then. When she was done, she put her hand on my shoulder. “Marlee, you may not know how to dress well, but you do amuse me. My dear, two of those Gales were critically ill. The doctors diagnosed Heather with terminal lung cancer long before Jacqueline arrived to help care for her. I know her oncologist, and two of the hospice workers are still part of my book club. If there had been anything suspicious about Heather’s death, we would all have known about it.”

  “Maybe the first Mrs. Gale died a natural death,” I persisted. “But what about Porter’s dad? Eric Gale died only six months after marrying the younger woman who had nursed his dying wife. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

  “What I think odd is that you care about any of this.” Still chuckling, Piper once more took my arm and led me toward her fun house. “Eric Gale died of liver failure due to complications from his diabetes. That’s the main reason he married Jacqueline so soon after his first wife died. He didn’t have a lot of time left. To be blunt, he wanted a live-in nurse far more than he wanted another wife. And a wife was cheaper.”

  “Why did she marry him? It had to be for the money. After all, Jacqueline was more than twenty years younger than Eric Gale.”

  “The marriage probably guaranteed her a measure of financial security. But Eric never made any secret of the fact that Blueberry Hill would be passed down to his blowhard son.” Piper looked a bit guilty. “I probably shouldn’t speak about the dead like that. Only I was never a fan of either Eric or Porter. Some people do not know how to handle the responsibilities of wealth and privilege.”

  “Even if the deaths of his parents were natural, someone did murder Porter.”

  “I’d cross Jacqueline off the suspect list. Unless Porter’s will has a startling bequest to his stepmother, I don’t see how she profits by his death at all.”

  I sighed. “Probably not.”

  “You seem disappointed. Do you have some grudge against Jacqueline? If not, I don’t know why you’re bent on turning her into a murderess.”

  “She’s the common denominator in the three Gale deaths.” I had no intention of revealing that Ryan was under suspicion by the police. Before this murder case proceeded, I hoped to find someone with a better motive for the deed than the man I had promised to marry.

  “Only one of the Gale deaths is suspicious. And I won’t waste time worrying about it. Not when I have enough to worry about with this fun house.” She pointed at the structure in front of us, its walls plastered with blueberries. A dark blue picket fence festooned with giant foam berries encircled it. “When the lights shine on it after dark, the effect is sinister.”

  “I never thought of blueberries as sinister, but it is eye-catching.”

  “Once you see what Lionel and I have come up with inside, you’ll change your mind about how sinister blueberries can be. It cost us a pretty penny to alter the interior. There was nothing blueberry themed about the regular carnival fun house, so we did a thorough overhaul. I’m most proud of the Blueberry Burial Ground.”

  “Burial ground? This I have to see.”

  Before we could step inside, her husband Lionel walked out the front entrance of the fun house, which bore a sign saying TEMPORARILY SHUT FOR REPAIRS. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a voice as gloriously deep as James Earl Jones, Lionel Pierce possessed superb people skills, which helped him be elected our mayor. Even more noteworthy was his ability to gently keep Piper in check whenever she threatened to grow too overbearing. Most of Oriole Point thought the difficult-to-please Piper would never marry. But within months of meeting each other, the doyenne of Oriole Point and the retired African American executive became husband and wife. I found the match delightful, even if at times they behaved in too patrician a manner.

  “Piper, we need to call our own repairmen,” Lionel said after giving me a brief nod. “None of the carnival repair crew has shown up yet. We can’t allow our fun house to be closed for another night. Half the proceeds go to charity.”

  “How difficult can it be to keep an animatronic figure operating?” Piper said.

  “Two. Another one has broken down.” He grimaced. “Ellen’s not working correctly.”

  “You’ve named the mechanical figures in the fun house?” I asked.

  Piper ignored me. “I’m suing that fool who sold us the animatronics.”

  “Let me call in a favor from an engineer I know. I promise we’ll have things up and running again by dinner.” With a wave, he marched off into the growing crowd on the midway.

  Piper watched him with affection and approval. “This will be taken care of sooner than that. When Lionel goes into executive mode, he can move mountains. Meanwhile, I’ll take you through the fun house. If you see anything that needs tweaking, let me know. We can add more.”

  “No need to go crazy, Piper.” I followed her inside. “This isn’t the Haunted Mansion at Disney World.”

  But I spoke too soon. No sooner had the fun house door shut behind me than a five-foot-tall orange and black bird greeted me, its enormous beak gaping open.

  “Whoa.” I jumped back. “What’s this?”

  “A Baltimore oriole. Bigger than life-size, of course.”

  I eyed its large, shiny black claws. “It looks like a pterodactyl.”

  “Obviously, I had to pump it up. As lovely as orioles are, there’s nothing scary about them.” She patted the bird’s feathers. “But this one is. Wait till you see the others.”

  I followed her down a corridor lined with distorting mirrors. Between each mirror stood another version of a dangerous—possibly psychotic—oriole. I hoped my baker Theo didn’t venture inside. He adored birds, and seeing his favorite creatures turned into avian monsters might make him upset. Or simply confused.

  Things didn’t get better in the next room, filled with murderous-looking orioles perched on leafless black trees. At least these were closer to their actual size. All the birds had outstretched wings and wide-open beaks, preparing to pluck someone’s eyes out probably. To add to the avian menace, a recording of bird caws sounded from an unseen speaker. More startling was the man in nineteenth-century costume lying facedown on the ground.

  “Is he supposed to be dead?” I asked in a hushed voice.

  She tapped a small white sign. “This lets visitors know he is my ancestor Benjamin Lyall. We had to include him in the fun house. After all, he founded Oriole Point.”

  I looked down at the dummy. “Was that right before he was pecked to death?”

  “The dummy is asleep, not dead. You know perfectly well Benjamin camped along the Oriole R
iver in 1830. When he awoke the next morning, he saw flocks of orioles eating the berries of a mulberry tree. That’s when he decided to found a town right where he had camped and to name it Oriole Point.”

  “This looks like a crime scene.”

  “I should hope so. That’s the fun part.”

  “All I see are bare trees and demented birds. I know you’re proud of your family, but this is called the Blueberry Fun House. You need to throw a few blueberries in here. Even if you tell people they’re poisoned.”

  “Of course I have blueberries.” Piper beckoned for me to follow her.

  Because of the shadowy light, I stepped carefully to avoid the low-hanging branches. My ponytail got tangled in one of them and I pried it free. Visitors could easily trip in here. Or be impaled. As my hair got caught again, something smacked me in the face.

  In front of me swayed an oriole, which hung upside down from a branch. “Is this a strange oriole bat?”

  Piper stopped the bird from swinging. Because its fake claws were fastened to the branch, she attempted to right it, with no success. “It broke down. We have to fix this bird because it’s the only animatronic figure in here. It says ‘Nevermore’ and flaps its wings.”

  “You’re stealing lines from a raven?”

  “Only from the best.” She wagged her finger at me. “And I can’t believe you haven’t taught your garrulous parrot to say ‘Nevermore.’ Perfect for Halloween.”

  “So is this fun house.”

  “And we’re just getting started.”

  But after exiting the room, only a long shadowy corridor—one without distorting mirrors—awaited us. “Now what?” I asked.

  Strobe lights flashed on, sending pulsating beams everywhere. A second later, I felt a blast of air from the floor. Followed by another, and another.

  Piper turned to me with a wide grin, made unnerving by the strobe lights. “Compressed air jets in the floor. Anyone wearing a skirt or dress will be embarrassed.”