He narrowed his eyes at me. “You saying we had another killing in Oriole Point?”
In another day or two, news of Porter’s murder would break. Maybe sooner, given that Lionel and Piper already heard rumors. I saw no reason to keep it a secret from Natasha and Old Man Bowman; they mainly socialized with me and each other. “Let’s say his death is suspicious.”
“Blueberry Hill is famous. That mean this Porter man is rich. Is why he is killed. People are jealous of rich people. And now I am rich, maybe I must be afraid.” Natasha cuddled Dasha even closer, as if her terrier might in danger, too.
“I bought Natasha a gun,” Old Man Bowman told me. “Nice little .38 special, perfect for a lady’s hand. Soon as we got it registered, I took her to the gun range. Now we go every week. She’s a natural. Can shoot your eye out at twenty yards.”
“Is true,” Natasha said with pride. “I am what they call a ‘shark shooter.’”
“She means ‘sharpshooter,’” he said in a stage whisper.
“I figured.” I wasn’t sure how comfortable I felt about Natasha shooting people’s eyes out, but at least she’d be able to defend herself if another abusive man entered her life again. Although Old Man Bowman would probably deal with him first. I beckoned him closer. “You’ve known the Gale family for decades. If Porter was murdered, who’s the likeliest suspect?”
He shrugged. “Might be a rival fruit grower. Porter didn’t wear his success well. Treated his workers like gold, but he loved to brag and embarrass the other growers. Made fun of them in public all the time. Led to a lot of bad feelings. And he did it long before his daddy died.”
I remembered the tug-of-war brawl, the air filled with tension even before the contest began. “The police will look into his dealings with all the growers, don’t you think?”
“The grower with the biggest grudge against him would be his own sister Cara,” he said. “No love lost there. Brother and sister been sniping at each other for twenty years. I was at the Sandy Shoals Saloon the day Eric Gale’s will was read. Cara came in with her husband Brody, both of them angrier than Bigfoot protecting his feeding ground. I don’t blame them, neither. Eric didn’t leave a dime to Cara, not even any trusts for her kids. No call for someone to do that to their own flesh and blood.”
“Cara told me her father always favored Porter. But if she was enraged about being left out of the will, why wait nearly a year to kill her brother?”
He gave me a knowing look. “There’s an old saying, ‘Revenge is a dish best eaten cold.’”
“Maybe.” I glanced down the line of vendor booths to where O’Neill Blueberries had set up shop. For the past few hours, their booth had been run by Jessica O’Neill, Brody’s cousin. But in the past hour, her place had been taken by Wyatt. Tipped back in his chair, he’d been texting on his phone every time I looked over.
I gestured in Wyatt’s direction. “Clearly, the family isn’t shaken up by Porter’s death. Wyatt spent the day running the Ferris wheel. Now he’s selling blueberry butter at their booth.”
“I respect that. Don’t pretend to feel something you don’t. And everyone in the county knew Porter and his sister could barely stand each other.”
Natasha sighed. “I do not know about this brother and sister. But I do know I want to have fun at the Blow Out. There is much we have to see. We rode carousel. And roller coaster, but Dasha not like. I went in Fun House, which was not fun at all.”
Recalling my own time in the Blueberry Bog, I agreed. At least Piper and Lionel must have gotten their repairs done; otherwise, the attraction would still have been closed.
“But Uncle Wendall promises to take me on something called Tilt-A-Whirl.”
“And the bumper cars,” he added. “I’ll give little Dasha credit. She likes the rides as much as Natasha does.”
“Of course. She is my brave baby.” Natasha kissed her again. “Oh, and I want to win one of those big stuffed animals at the shooting range.”
“One of the carnies told me the gunsights are crooked,” I told Old Man Bowman. “Adjust your aim accordingly before shooting.”
He laughed. “She’s the one who’ll be shooting, not me.”
Natasha looked insulted. “Yes. I am the shark shooter, not Wendall.”
“Sorry. I forgot.”
“And tell the man you’re going to marry to be a little friendlier,” Old Man Bowman said.
“What did Ryan do?” I asked.
“Acted like he didn’t know who I was. Here we were honking the horn and waving ‘hi’ to him, and he turned his back on us like we was both strangers.”
Natasha nodded. “Is true.”
While Ryan didn’t care for either Natasha or Old Man Bowman, I never imagined he’d be rude to them. “When did this happen?”
“Early yesterday morning at the gas station. I’d just got back in the car when Ryan drove up. He went to the pump at the other end.”
“I thought you both drove to Chicago yesterday morning.”
“Da. And early.” Natasha sighed. “I am tired as baby.”
“We stopped at a gas station in Indiana,” Old Man Bowman said. “Near the exit for Valparaiso.”
“It couldn’t have been Ryan,” I explained. “He’s on a fishing trip with his buddy Josh. And he would have been headed north toward Muskegon. Not south.”
“I’m telling you what I saw. Your boyfriend was at a gas station in Indiana yesterday morning around seven thirty.” He screwed up his face as if thinking. “We was maybe forty minutes or so from Chicago then. I stopped because Natasha wanted coffee, but I decided to buy some beef jerky for myself as a snack.”
“I’m sorry. Whoever you saw, it wasn’t Ryan. He would have barely arrived at Josh’s house in Muskegon by then.”
“There was a man with Ryan,” Natasha said. “Maybe it was this Josh.”
I didn’t know whether to be irritated that they persisted with this, or alarmed. “I doubt it.”
“Does his college buddy have pitch-black hair that he wears in a buzz cut?” Old Man Bowman shot me a shrewd look. “And a birthmark on his left cheek? This was a big guy. As tall as Ryan, but about eighty pounds heavier.”
“He had very big nose,” Natasha said. “Like murav’yed. What you call ‘anteater.’”
I needed a stunned moment before I could answer. “That sounds like Josh.”
Bowman nodded. “Then it was Ryan and his buddy. And they were in Indiana. Maybe they planned to rent a boat and go fishing somewhere south.”
“Josh has his own boat. He keeps his cruiser docked in Muskegon Harbor.” What was going on? Why did Ryan lie about going to Muskegon to fish with Josh? And what were they doing in Indiana? Were the two men headed to Chicago or farther south? If so, for what purpose?
“Well, I don’t care where they was headed,” he grumbled. “It’s only decent for a man to return another man’s friendly greeting.”
Natasha must have realized this news had upset me because she tapped the old man on the shoulder. “Leave Marlee alone. It is not her fault Ryan does not say hello. Maybe Ryan does not realize it is us.” She gave a careless lift to one shoulder. “Or he does not like us. That is why he turns away. What does it matter? I am finally at Blow Out and I want to win a stuffed animal. And maybe we can eat one of those ears of elephants. Now Marlee must sell her berry things. We have bothered her enough.” She bent down and gave me a quick hug.
With a resigned grunt, Old Man Bowman let Natasha lead him away. I envied them. They had nothing to think about tonight but carnival rides and sugary treats. While the only thing I would be able to think about was that Ryan had lied to me . . . again.
Chapter Eleven
When some people become angry, it’s best to leave them alone until their anger has cooled down. I’m not one of those people. The longer I thought about things, the more worked up I got. After my conversation with Natasha and Old Man Bowman, I spent my remaining three hours at the fairground growing more irritated b
y the minute.
If Ryan and Josh decided to change their plans, why keep it a secret? Unfortunately, I couldn’t reach him, although I tried a half dozen times. Since there was no cell reception out on the lake, I understood when Ryan told me he kept his phone turned off while on Josh’s boat. On occasion, he sent a brief affectionate text, but not often. It didn’t bother me. I wasn’t the clingy sort. And I had enough to do at The Berry Basket.
I didn’t mind if Ryan enjoyed spending a little time away from work—and me. As someone who had been single for thirty years, I enjoyed my alone time. Why wouldn’t he enjoy fishing with his best buddy? It never occurred to me that he might be doing something else. Was another woman the reason for these trips? I doubted it. Natasha and Old Man Bowman had seen him with Josh, which meant half of what Ryan told me was true. But why were he and Josh in a gas station outside Valparaiso, Indiana, instead of a hundred and fifty miles north in Muskegon?
Maybe they changed plans and decided to go to Chicago. Or perhaps they met up with someone in Indiana. But I was awake yesterday morning when Ryan left at six thirty. He explained how he needed to get on the road ASAP because Josh wanted to be on the lake before eight. Except he and Josh were in Indiana. No matter how I tried to spin it, Ryan was keeping something from me.
By the time I brought the vendor booth boxes back to my downtown store, Gillian had closed The Berry Basket. I was glad. No one could see me stomp about the store as I held an imaginary—and accusatory—conversation with Ryan. While I ranted aloud, I threw in too many arm gestures, knocking over a neatly stacked pile of kitchen towels decorated with raspberries. Refolding them helped calm me down.
“Get a grip on yourself,” I said aloud while smoothing the last of the folded towels. “Might as well save this energy for when Ryan returns.” If he kept to his usual fishing trip schedule, it could be as early as tonight. Certainly, he’d be back no later than tomorrow.
Drained by the long day at the fairground, I wanted to eat dinner and enjoy a little chat with Minnie. Because I’d been at the Blow Out all day, Minnie had stayed home. She must be dying for company, or at least a willing listener. But I couldn’t go home until I’d entered the daily receipt totals on the computer.
To keep me going, I ate one of the pastries that hadn’t sold out today: a mini blueberry cheesecake. Perched at my computer on the store counter, I counted the cash and change in the register drawer. Next, I opened the small metal cashbox I used at the fairground and tallied its contents. I’d just entered the last of these figures in my computer when one of my large hoop earrings fell off. Since both ears were sore, I pulled the other off as well. Even my jewelry wanted to call it a day. Before I could, someone knocked on my shop door.
It was after nine thirty and growing dark. But lots of tourists still walked past my window. Maybe one of them saw my lights on and hoped I might reopen for a quick peek. I’d done it before. After-hours visitors often resulted in sales. I closed up the cashbox on the counter, laying my earrings on top of it. But when I hurried to the door and opened it, Wyatt O’Neill stood outside. He held a cardboard box labeled BERRY BASKET.
“You left this under your booth at the fairground,” he said. “One of the other vendors spotted it. I had to drive my buddy Seth home. He lives only three blocks from here. Thought I might as well drop it off.”
“Thank you so much. I can’t believe I didn’t see it. That’s the box holding my berry syrups.” I reached for the box.
“Nah. It’s heavy. I’ll take it in for you.”
I held open the door to let him enter the shop. “Put it on the counter. Thank you again. We’ve all been putting in extra hours because of the Blow Out, and I think it’s starting to show.”
“Tell me about it. Bad enough I work at the farm, now I’m pulling shifts at the fairground.” Wyatt placed the box on the counter. “I don’t mind running the Ferris wheel. But I’m bored stiff at the O’Neill booth. I’m not doing that again, no matter what my parents say.”
“How are your parents?”
“Upset.”
“I’m sorry about your uncle.”
“Yeah.” He slouched against the counter. “I guess these things happen.”
According to what Courtney said at the beach this morning, the police had informed the O’Neill family that Porter had died under suspicious circumstances. Wyatt had to know this, yet he seemed to be taking a casual attitude about it. It could be a pose. Even though he was twenty, Wyatt affected the indifference of a teenager. The gangly young man looked like one, too: thick mop of shoulder-length hair, ripped jeans, Yeezy Boost sneakers, silver piercings in his ears and nose.
“I heard Sloane isn’t doing well.”
Wyatt’s indifferent mask dropped to reveal a concerned expression. “I feel bad for Sloane. She’s really upset. But I think she’s more in shock than anything else. The doctors gave her something to sleep. We all went to the house right after Uncle Porter died, and she was hysterical. Screaming, sobbing, knocking things over.” He shot me a questioning look. “Is that how people act when someone dies? None of us even cried when Grandpa Gale died.”
I walked over to my computer and shut it down. “I think it depends on how well loved a person is. Obviously, your aunt loved Porter.”
He grimaced. “I don’t think of Sloane as my aunt. She’s only twenty-four. I’m almost as old as she is. I bet she hasn’t had a lot of people close to her die. Probably why she fell apart like she did. Let’s be honest. It isn’t like she was married to my uncle all that long.”
“They’d been together over a year. And they must have loved each other.”
“Maybe. It looked like it was all about sex with those two. Not that I blame Uncle Porter. Sloane’s beautiful. But he didn’t appreciate her.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I saw with my own eyes every time I went to Blueberry Hill. Uncle Porter left her alone too much while he handled the business. She had nothing to do but swim, work out in the basement gym, and watch TV. All by herself, too. If Sloane was mine, I’d be with her twenty-four-seven.”
This confirmed not only what Courtney told me, but what I’d witnessed myself. Wyatt had a serious crush on Sloane. Although crush sounded like a juvenile term when talking about two people in their twenties.
“Now she’s really going to be alone,” he continued. “Sloane’s not close to her own family. She has an older sister somewhere that she likes, but I don’t think they see each other all that much. And her friends live back east. So Sloane is on her own. I feel terrible for her.”
“You seem to know a lot about Sloane.”
“I visited Blueberry Hill as much as I could. And I made time to talk to her. She liked talking to me, too. Otherwise it would have been just her all by herself on that huge property.”
“Jacqueline lives on Blueberry Hill, too. Their houses can’t be more than a couple minutes’ walk from each other. Didn’t the two of them spend time together?”
“Not much. Sloane and Jacqueline get along okay, but they have nothing in common. C’mon, Sloane’s young enough to be her daughter. And did you ever spend time with Jacqueline? She’s the single most boring person I ever met. I don’t know why Grandpa Gale married her. She’s not even pretty.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the way Jacqueline looks,” I said. “Not every woman cares about makeup and fashion.”
“It’s too bad she never let Sloane give her a makeover. Sloane’s been dying to fix her up. If anyone can make Jacqueline look decent, it’s Sloane.” His gaze fell on the empty plate on the counter; I’d eaten my mini cheesecake, leaving only crumbs. “Do you have anything left to eat? A muffin? Cupcakes?”
“There are a dozen blueberry mini cheesecakes left in the refrigerator. You can have all of them. Theo will be making a fresh batch tomorrow morning.” Hurrying into the shop kitchen, I grabbed a plate, fork, and the pastry tray in the fridge holding the remaining cheesecakes. After putting three of them on the pl
ate, I boxed up the remaining cakes for Wyatt to take home. As I tied string around the pastry box, I smelled a sweet fragrance coming from the store. I frowned. I knew Wyatt was a stoner, but he had no right to light up a joint in my store.
Marching back into the shop, I found Wyatt smoking pot. “You need to put that out. Pot is illegal, and the last thing I need is for a tourist or the local police to suspect I’m letting people get high in here.”
“The store’s closed. No one will see.” He took another toke.
“I’m not kidding, Wyatt.”
He pinched the end of his joint. “I didn’t know you were such an old lady.”
“And I didn’t know you were such an idiot as to smoke grass in downtown Oriole Point.” I pointed at four tourists who had stopped to admire my window display. “If the door had been open, they would have smelled your joint.”
I placed the pastries on the counter, reminding myself to not be hard on him. After all, his uncle had been murdered two days ago. “Here you are. I boxed up nine mini cakes for you to take back to your family. And I put three on a plate for you. Why don’t you sit at one of the bistro tables? If you’re thirsty, I have berry iced teas in the cooler. Bottled water, too.”
“Water.” He sat down at the table. “I hate tea.”
Once I gave him the water, Wyatt turned his attention to the mini cheesecakes. “These are good.” Ignoring the fork I’d given him, Wyatt chose to eat the cheesecakes with his hands.
“I’ll pass on your compliments to Theo.” I sat across from him. “I spoke to Courtney at the beach today. She said the police informed your family they have reason to believe Porter did not die a natural death.”
Wyatt unscrewed the water bottle and took a long swig. “Yeah. Looks like someone had a big-ass grudge against him. My mom and sister don’t believe it. They think Uncle Porter died because he didn’t take care of himself. You know, the diabetes thing.”
“Oh, no.” I looked at the cheesecakes in alarm. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have given you any pastry. Your mom told me that you’re diabetic, too.”
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