Killed on Blueberry Hill

by Sharon Farrow

  Squinting from the strobe lights, I felt my ponytail whip about from the air jets. “I’m still waiting for those blueberries.” The words had no sooner left my lips when balls dropped from the ceiling. I ducked as they were buffeted about my head.

  “Ping-Pong balls painted the color of blueberries,” Piper explained. “Because they’re attached to strings, you can’t step on them. A startling effect, don’t you think?”

  Even more startling was the sight of her sleek blond bob completely un-mussed by the constant jets of air. Piper’s glam squad must mix Gorilla Glue with her hair spray. I breathed a sigh of relief when we left behind the Ping-Pong balls and air jets via a door leading to a narrow hallway. I heard a rattling sound. Remembering the ping-pong balls and upside-down bird, I covered my head with my hands. Piper chuckled.

  A panel in the wall opened, and a life-size figure rolled out. Like the dummy of Benjamin Lyall in the first room, this, too, wore nineteenth-century garb. But the figure was female and severe looking: white hair pulled back in a topknot, its doll eyes dark and accusing.

  The figure lifted her right hand. “Beware the blueberry bog,” a robotic voice said.

  Although impressed with the fun house efforts of Piper and Lionel, I was disappointed she couldn’t get the most basic things about berries straight. “Blueberries grow on bushes,” I reminded Piper, “not in bogs.”

  “They do here.”

  I waited for something to happen. The ground to turn into a bog, maybe.

  Piper sighed. “Lionel was right. Ellen is not working properly.” She rolled the figure back into the hidden wall panel she had emerged from. “My ancestor Ellen Lyall deserves better than to be honored with a malfunctioning robot.”

  I peered at a white sign beside the hidden panel. It read ELLEN LYALL, WIFE OF ORIOLE POINT FOUNDER BENJAMIN LYALL, AND FIRST MATRIARCH OF THE COMMUNITY.

  Oriole Point’s original power couple reminded me of Sloane and Porter Gale. “Piper, do you think it’s possible Sloane could have killed her husband?”

  “Why not? Young, pretty wife. Lots of money to be gained.” She threw me a jaundiced look. “If Porter Gale was murdered, I’m sure the police are looking into her background even as we speak. I think she’s from Delaware.”

  “I heard he met her in Baltimore.”

  “I don’t care if she hails from Mars. Don’t spoil my fun house talking about the Gales.”

  Eager to finish the tour, I marched down the short hallway that led to the next room. I paused at the doorway. The shadowy room appeared empty. And the lighting did not extend to a dark, suspicious-looking floor.

  “The blueberry bog?” I tried to make out the shapes below me.

  “Step inside,” Piper said from behind me.

  Taking a deep breath, I entered the room—and fell into a sea of plastic balls.

  “It’s a blueberry ball pit,” Piper crowed.

  Falling at least fifteen inches to land in a ball pit had not been pleasant. I struggled to find my footing in the pit, batting large balls out of the way. “I can’t wait to see you in this pit!”

  “If you had looked a little closer, you would have seen the narrow walkway by the wall. When the fun house is in full operation, we have it better lit so no one can miss it.” Piper minced her way along the aforementioned catwalk while I floundered through the balls to the other side. “But most people will want to play in the ball pit.”

  “Except you.” I batted another ball aside. “And me.”

  A short ladder at the other end of the ball pit allowed me to climb out. “I’ve had enough fun. How do I get out of here?” I grumbled as I entered yet another corridor. At the end of this one, a closed door awaited. A sign with the words BLUEBERRY BRIDGE shone above it.

  I threw a warning look over my shoulder. “If I end up falling again, I’ll beat you over the head with one of those stuffed birds.”

  Piper pushed past me. “Don’t be such a stickin-the-mud. No more surprise falls. To prove it, I’ll go first.”

  The automatic door slid open at her approach. I hurried after her. The last thing I wanted was to be left alone in this loony bin. As the sign promised, a long swinging bridge spanned the room. At least everything was brightly lit, with no sinister birds or balls in sight. Instead, green trees and blueberry bushes decorated the walls. And lined up along one wall were at least a dozen mannequins. All of them wore costumes from different time periods, from the Colonial era to the early twentieth century.

  “Welcome as we bridge the years from 1760 to the present,” a taped voice announced from a speaker. “By following the lives and exploits of Oriole Point’s celebrated Lyall family, we can trace the evolution of our great nation.”

  Piper squeezed my hand. “I wanted to include my Lyall ancestors in seventeenth-century Cornwall, but Lionel said we should keep it strictly American. Besides, we only had room in here for so many mannequins.”

  “I don’t see what a bridge has to do with your family aggrandizement.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic. People enjoy walking across a swinging bridge. And the intro mentions how the room will ‘bridge the years.’ Rather clever, I think.”

  The bridge swayed as I took my first steps on it, but it seemed sturdy. And the roped sides of the bridge were tall enough to prevent someone from toppling over. Below I saw only the dark shiny surface of the floor reflecting tiny purple and blue spotlights on the ceiling. Although the bridge swung with every movement, the motion was no more than a gentle rocking.

  I stopped before each figure, trying without success to read the tiny font on the accompanying signs. At least the dummies were close enough so anyone on the bridge could stretch out an arm and touch them.

  “They’re all mannequins,” Piper said. “Lionel and I didn’t have enough time to get more animatronic figures created. Also, the expense was rather alarming.”

  “Who’s this?” I pointed at a female figure who wore a blond wig of corkscrew curls and a homespun gray gown covered by a white apron. In her hands she held a metal basin.

  “Prudence Edith Lyall. When her husband Josiah went off to fight in the Civil War, she joined the war effort by helping to nurse the wounded in several Union camps.”

  I moved on to the bewhiskered mannequin beside her, outfitted in suspenders, boots, and a hunting jacket. He cradled a shotgun in his crossed arms. “And this one?”

  “Artemus Lancaster Lyall. The figure beside him is his sister, Cornelia Martha Lyall. From 1875 to the turn of the century, the pair was known as the best hunters in Oriole County.”

  This explained why the Lyall sister also wore boots and a hunting jacket, along with a calf-length brown corduroy skirt. Instead of a shotgun, Cornelia wielded a large hatchet.

  “What did Cornelia hunt with a hatchet? Are you sure she isn’t a Lyall ancestor who went all Lizzie Borden and hacked someone to death?”

  “Cornelia and her brother both hunted with guns. But I only had one rifle to use in the display. That’s why I gave Cornelia the hatchet. Although if you read her bio, you’ll learn she did use a hatchet as a weapon in 1882.”

  I chuckled. “Did she run around the farm chopping off the heads of chickens?”

  “Don’t you know anything about the history of our town? In 1882, three rabid wolverines terrorized Oriole Point. Artemus and Cornelia hunted them down and killed them. Family legend claims she killed the last wolverine with a hatchet when it attacked her as she chopped down bushes.” Piper held up her hand. “Before you ask, it wasn’t a berry bush.”

  “I thought wolverines haven’t been seen in Michigan since the 1700s. Where did this trio of killer wolverines come from?”

  “How do I know? Maybe Canada. Anyway, Cornelia killed a wolverine with a hatchet, and Artemus shot two with a Henry repeating rifle. Those very ones, by the way. They’re part of the family antique collection.”

  “Wait a second. This is real?” I leaned closer to the mannequin brandishing the hatchet. When I reached to pluck th
e hatchet from the mannequin’s hand, Piper stopped me.

  “Don’t touch it. We have the objects affixed to the figures so they don’t fall off. But it wouldn’t take much to dislodge them.”

  “Exactly. Anyone on this bridge could steal the rifle or this.” I frowned at the shiny, lethal-looking hatchet. “What if some nutjob comes in here and decides to go postal?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. More likely a teenager would grab it as a joke.”

  “That’s just as bad. Piper, replace the iron hatchet with one made out of plastic. You can’t leave a hatchet within arm’s reach in an amusement park attraction. That’s like leaving butcher knives lying around.”

  She looked surprised. “How did you know there are butcher knives in the Blueberry Burial Ground?”

  “I didn’t.” I followed her across the bridge. “And I should confiscate the knives.”

  “You’ll never reach them.” Wearing a smug smile, Piper ushered me into a spooky chamber filled with tombstones and skeletons hung from the ceiling. A wind machine kept the skeletons swinging, their bony toes brushing the heads of any visitor over five feet five. The skeletons did hold butcher knives, but they were just out of reach. I feared Piper was as well, at least where this fun house was concerned. Although a closer look revealed it would be easy to pull a skeleton down and snatch its knife.

  “Okay, why is this a blueberry burial ground?” I read the names on the tombstones. They appeared to be Lyall ancestors. “Did they all die of blueberry-related botulism?”

  “No, but that isn’t a bad idea. I simply thought a graveyard was a perfect way to end the fun house ride. And visitors get to learn a little of my family history.”

  “A little? By the time people leave here, they’ll know more about the Lyalls than the Kennedy family.” With the exit door in sight, I quickened my pace.

  “I certainly hope so. The Lyalls have been much more decorous.”

  At the end of the room stood a raised grave—the tombstone above it larger than the others. As soon as I moved directly in front, the tombstone flew open like a door. A deafening growl filled the air before a furry animal lunged right for me.

  With a scream, I fell backward onto the floor. A large badger-like creature stared down at me. It was a stuffed animal, the growl recorded on some damn tape machine.

  “That’s one of the rabid wolverines!” Piper said, choking with laughter.

  I looked over my shoulder at her. “You’re lucky I don’t have a hatchet on me, Piper. Otherwise the next Blueberry Burial Ground tombstone would have your name on it.”

  Chapter Ten

  After the rabid wolverine attack, I retreated for what I hoped would be a few relaxing hours at my Berry Basket fairground booth. But every local seemed to make their way to me at some point during the day, all of them eager to talk about Porter Gale’s unexpected death. The fact that it occurred on his own Blueberry Hill Death Drop made the subject especially poignant. And irresistible.

  The police hadn’t yet released information regarding the tampered-with insulin. Today’s conversations revealed the general consensus that Porter died of some combination of diabetes, bad diet, and the stress of a death tower ride. Although several people did mention rumors claiming he had been murdered. The gossip meter would go through the roof once it became official. I also learned the Blueberry Hill Death Drop had grown even more popular since Monday night. I found this ghoulish, but not surprising. What did surprise me was the sight of Wyatt Gale operating the Ferris wheel that afternoon.

  More than one local who visited my booth remarked that the nephew of Porter Gale should have been at home with his grieving family, not at the carnival. I didn’t mention his younger sister began her day sunbathing on the beach. Except for their mother, I doubted any of the O’Neills grieved at all. Although, as Courtney hinted, Cara might be more guilt stricken than sorrowful. Unresolved family feuds left emotional wreckage behind. So did murder.

  At least Sloane had behaved as any woman would upon learning her husband had been murdered: sedated and under a doctor’s care. Unless she only pretended to grieve. My cynicism made me feel like a dreadful person. What if she was innocent of her husband’s death? Sloane was only twenty-four. And Porter died right in front of her. As Chief Hitchcock reminded me, shock and grief were natural reactions to something as unnatural as murder. But I’d been involved with three murder cases, beginning with the Chaplins. It had left its mark. I found it harder to trust people now, no matter how innocent they might appear.

  If Sloane Gale inherited the bulk of the Blueberry Hill estate, she had a strong motive for murdering her husband. Film noir and detective novels were filled with “black widows”; so was real life. Natasha, another sexy young widow in Oriole Point, had also been under suspicion in the murder of her rich husband. Because she was a friend of mine, I never believed Natasha to be guilty. But I understood why many people in town did. I also would have sympathized with her had she actually killed him.

  A former Russian beauty queen, Natasha Rostova married a local real estate tycoon twice her age and lived to regret it. A number of people in Oriole Point had reason to murder Cole Bowman, her abusive and malicious husband. One of them did. And I played no small role in catching the killer. The end result was justice served, the guilty punished, and Natasha left a relieved and wealthy widow. I wondered how similar her story was to Sloane’s. Who really knew what went on behind the closed doors of a marriage? Or was that my misgivings about marriage speaking?

  As though I had summoned her with my thoughts, Natasha emerged from the midway crowd like a Victoria’s Secret model slumming at the fairground. With a curvaceous figure often enhanced by short skirts and clingy dresses, and a wavy mass of almond-brown hair, Natasha Bowman turned heads just as much as she provoked gossip. A pity more people hadn’t taken the time to get to know her as I had. They would have learned how warm, funny, and generous she was. And more than a little indiscreet.

  Catching sight of me, Natasha waved with one hand, while she tugged at the arm of the older gentleman beside her. Naturally, she was with Wendall Bowman, the uncle of her dead husband. The twenty-eight-year-old former Miss Russia and the seventy-year-old retired inventor had been inseparable since Cole’s murder, and no one knew if their relationship should be viewed as romantic or avuncular. Wendall, known to everyone as Old Man Bowman, had helped rescue her from his abusive nephew. Was this gratitude on Natasha’s part . . . or something more? I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out, but Andrew and Dean spent hours discussing the subject.

  “First time I’ve seen either of you at the Blow Out this week,” I said when the pair reached my booth.

  Natasha bent down to give me air kisses. “I mean to come, but there is much to do. We drive to Chicago yesterday to handle more business. Uncle Wendall makes us leave too early. I do not know why. It is an hour earlier in Chicago. So I am tired before we get there, and then I must be busy with lawyers and people who sell buildings. They explain what I should do with all the properties I now own.”

  Along with dozens of acres in the surrounding county, Cole’s death left Natasha the owner of a number of commercial buildings on Lyall Street, including the one that housed my shop. I couldn’t have asked for a better landlady. Especially after dealing with her late husband, who made Scrooge appear warmhearted.

  “And there are tax things. What do I know about taxes? In Russia, we do not fill out tax return. Government takes it out of paycheck. I know government is not honest, but at least we do not worry about tax papers and file forms.”

  “If you need help, I have an accountant you can call,” I said.

  “Don’t bother, I’ve got three. And they’re all afraid of me.” Old Man Bowman grinned. “So are my lawyers.”

  Natasha shook her head. “It makes me crazy, all this lawyer talk, when all I want is to build my spa. And sell my house. And find new place to live. I am lucky Wendall is at the meetings with me. He has been rich a long time. They cannot
fool him.”

  “Damn right they can’t.” Old Man Bowman winked at me. “I had a few of ’em try to cheat me after my invention brought in big money. Put them in their place, I did. I sure as hell won’t let them pull any funny business with Natasha. Trust me, I know my way around those snakes in Armani suits.”

  I marveled he knew what an Armani suit was. I eyed his cargo shorts, loose cotton shirt, and Birkenstock sandals. This was Old Man Bowman’s daily uniform until winter arrived, at which time he donned a pair of socks and a jacket. As an added touch, his long white hair hung down his back in a skinny twisted ponytail. He made a striking contrast to Natasha, currently decked out in a turquoise summer minidress, five-inch espadrilles, and a Chanel straw handbag that jerked about on her arm.

  I looked at the handbag more closely. “Is Dasha in there?”

  The head of a Yorkshire terrier popped up and gave a tiny yip.

  “Of course I bring Dasha.” Natasha raised the purse so she and her Yorkshire touched noses. “I cannot leave my baby at home. She will miss her mama.”

  “She takes the little thing everywhere. Even to the lawyers.” Old Man Bowman rolled his eyes. “Back in my day, dogs stayed at home unless you needed them for hunting. Although with the kind of hunting I do now, I wouldn’t risk bringing a dog. Too dangerous.”

  Old Man Bowman had spent the last thirty years of his life trying to capture Bigfoot. Once every season, he went up north on another Bigfoot hunting trip loaded with traps, cameras, and guns—but apparently not dogs.

  “It looks like things are dangerous around here as well,” I said. “I’m assuming you’ve heard about Porter Gale.”

  “The Blueberry Hill man? Da, he is man who dies on the tower ride.” She crossed herself. “Is bad luck to give something the name of ‘death.’ The spirits do not like it. They think you make fun of them.”

  “Natasha’s right,” Old Man Bowman said. “Don’t tempt fate.”

  “I don’t think angry spirits had anything to do with Porter’s death. But someone must have been angry at him.”