Killed on Blueberry Hill

by Sharon Farrow

  He moved the plate closer to him. “I can eat this. I’m only a little bit diabetic.”

  That sounded like being a little bit pregnant.

  “Mom had better stop telling everyone I’m diabetic,” he went on. “People will think I’m sick or something. Uncle Porter had a bad case of diabetes. Not me. I only need to check my insulin once in a while. But Uncle Porter had to shoot up a bunch of times a day.”

  “Did the police tell you how they think your uncle was killed?”

  He finished off the second mini cheesecake in a few bites, increasing my guilt. “Yeah. Something about his insulin being switched to potassium chloride. They explained it’s a metal salt. Got no odor, no color. The police said it had been dissolved in water.” Wyatt picked up the third cheesecake. “Easy to get hold of. Hell, most farms use it in their fertilizer. Mom said people take potassium chloride for some diseases. So I don’t understand how it killed Uncle Porter.”

  I had conducted my own research on the Internet, where I learned potassium chloride was available as a prescription medication to treat insufficient potassium levels in patients suffering from an electrolyte imbalance. Common side effects involved gastric upset. But diabetics such as Porter Gale who suffered from kidney problems already had high levels of potassium. By injecting himself with potassium chloride, Porter had effectively overdosed on the drug. Within minutes, it had produced severe heart arrhythmia and sudden cardiac death.

  I explained this to Wyatt, who seemed more interested in the cheesecake than the particulars of his uncle’s death. “The police will be looking for anyone who had a reason to want your uncle out of the way,” I said. “The person at the top of the suspect list is often the spouse. Especially if the dead husband or wife had a lot of money.”

  “Are you trying to say Sloane killed my uncle?” He smirked. “Get out of here. Sloane’s the best. She couldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “I’m not saying she did. But the police are certain to investigate her, particularly if she inherits Blueberry Hill.”

  “They’ll be wasting their time. Whoever did it knew a lot about drugs. Maybe it was Jacqueline. She’s a nurse. You know she still works one day a week at some free clinic in Grand Rapids. I bet Jacqueline could get her hands on anything she wanted there.”

  “Or the murderer simply researched a good drug to kill a diabetic with.”

  “Yeah, but Jacqueline’s the only person in the family who knows about medicine and diabetes.”

  “Actually, your entire family has a working knowledge of it. After all, your grandfather suffered from the disease. Along with you and your uncle. Besides, why would Jacqueline kill Porter? Do you think she’s angry because your grandfather left everything to Porter and nothing to her?”

  “Jacqueline wasn’t cut out of my grandfather’s will. She’s allowed to live in the big house for as long as she wants. Well, she’ll have to leave if she gets remarried. And she inherited sixty thousand dollars. Grandpa Gale wrote in the will that she would get ten thousand dollars for every month they had been married. Too bad she wasn’t a better nurse. She might have kept him alive longer. More money for her.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I guess she deserved it. Being married to an old sick guy can’t have been fun.”

  “I didn’t know Jacqueline had inherited the Blueberry Hill house. I thought Porter was just being kind.”

  “Kind to Jacqueline? He thought she was a drag. And he didn’t like her marrying his dad so soon after his mother died. But the will said she can’t be kicked out of the house. Although Uncle Porter always hated the place. That’s why he built that cool modern house when he got married to his first wife. Besides, Uncle Porter walked away with everything else.” His face darkened. “Pissed the hell out of my mom. Me too. My grandfather totally shut me and my sister out of his will. We’re half Gales. We deserve half of that Blueberry Hill money.”

  “I saw you sitting with your uncle at Trappers Corner on Monday night. You two looked like you got along.”

  “Sure. Why not? I mean, I am his nephew.” He paused. “Was his nephew. I didn’t see any reason to act all resentful around him, like my mom did. And I barely get by on my O’Neill paychecks. Why would I be stupid enough to get on the bad side of my rich uncle?”

  “Then he helped you out when you needed money?”

  Having eaten three mini cheesecakes, Wyatt turned his full attention on me. “Sometimes. We were family. And I worked at Blueberry Hill once in a while. But I had to keep that secret from my mom.”

  “Did your uncle pay you for working there?”

  “Damn right he did. Twice what my parents pay me. I think he only did it because he hoped my mom would find out. The two of them always tried to score points off each other. Drove my mother crazy that Uncle Porter always won.”

  I gave him a sobering look. “Not always.”

  “Yeah, I guess she did win.” He ran a hand through his tangled hair. “Uncle Porter’s dead.”

  “And someone killed him.”

  “Shows there are a lot of nutjobs in this world.”

  It didn’t seem to occur to him that one of those nutjobs might be in his own family. “Why do you think he was murdered?”

  “How the hell do I know? He was successful. I’m sure the other fruit growers wanted him gone. Maybe one of them had the balls to do it. A berry grower with berry balls.” He chuckled.

  “Wyatt, you don’t seem that upset by all this.”

  “What do you want me to do? Get hysterical like Sloane?”

  “No. But Porter was your uncle. The two of you looked friendly the other day at the Blow Out. It would be only natural to feel sad or shocked. A little upset, maybe.”

  He stood up, scraping the chair back. “I am upset. That’s why I needed to smoke a little weed. But you had to start acting like a stupid narc.”

  “Your uncle was murdered. That’s a terrible thing. You’re allowed to show emotion.”

  “Back off, Marlee. This is none of your business.” He snatched up the white box of mini cheesecakes. “But don’t be surprised if your boyfriend is acting happier than usual. Instead of hinting around that Sloane offed my uncle, you should be looking at Ryan. ’Cause he took more money from Uncle Porter than I ever did.”

  “Yes, I heard about that. I wonder if you know why Ryan asked your uncle for money.”

  “I don’t poke my nose into other people’s business,” he said with a sneer. “You should do the same. And why don’t you ask Ryan about this? Unless you’re afraid of the answer.” Wyatt yanked open the shop door. “But thanks for the cake, Marlee. And I won’t tell my mom how you fed me sugar even though you know I’m diabetic.”

  With his mocking laugh still ringing in my ears, I locked the door after he left. Every time I had an encounter with Wyatt, I remembered why I didn’t like him. I should have thanked him for returning the box to me and gave him the cheesecakes in return without any conversation.

  I shut off the lights in the store, except for the one above the front counter. But when I reached for the cashbox I’d used at the fairground, I stopped. Before I let Wyatt in, I had placed my earrings on top of the box. Now they lay on the counter beside it.

  With a sinking heart, I turned on my computer and opened the file where I had recorded today’s receipts. Lifting the lid of the metal box, I quickly recounted the money, then compared it to what I had recorded no more than twenty minutes earlier. The total was two hundred dollars short.

  While I had been in the back room to get cheesecake for Wyatt, he did more than light up a joint. He stole my money.

  Chapter Twelve

  By the time Tess entered the Sourdough Café, I was well into my second vanilla latte. She didn’t need my big wave to spot me; I’d snagged one of a handful of tables that only seated two. The rest of the café tables and booths were large enough to hold eight diners.

  Slinging her purse over the back of the chair, Tess sat across from me, a bit out of breath. “I di
dn’t expect an invite to an impromptu breakfast at Sourdough. And on a Thursday, too.”

  Because of our work schedules during high season, we usually only ate here for an early Sunday breakfast in the summertime. “There was an incident last night at the store.”

  She shot me a nervous look. “Does it involve a dead body?”

  “No. Only some petty larceny. But there is a connection of sorts to a dead—”

  “I assume neither of you need a menu,” Drea, my favorite waitress at the café, interrupted me. “You’ve both eaten here more times than our cook.”

  Tess and I smiled up at the young woman. “My usual,” I told her. “A California scramble, rye toast, no potatoes.”

  “Baked blueberry French toast for me,” Tess said. “And a cup of Earl Grey.”

  “Wait a second. That sounds good. I’ll have the blueberry French toast, too.”

  After Drea left, Tess yawned. “I forgot to set the alarm on my phone last night and overslept. If you hadn’t called, both David and I would still be snoring.” She spread a napkin on her lap. “Shouldn’t you be at yoga right now?”

  “Not feeling in much of a namaste mood today.”

  “Tell me about this petty larceny. Did someone break into The Berry Basket last night?”

  “Nope.” I sipped my latte. “I had an after-hours visitor: Wyatt O’Neill.”

  “I’m not a Wyatt fan. And I wouldn’t have let him in after closing. Or any of his friends.”

  “Have you had a bad experience with Wyatt?”

  “Tell me about your incident first.”

  “I’d finished tallying the day’s receipts and entered the numbers in the computer, when Wyatt showed up at my door. He had a legitimate reason for being there. I’d left a box of syrups behind at my vendor booth, and he was nice enough to return them to me.”

  She appeared skeptical. “Seems uncharacteristic, but go on.”

  “I let him in, of course. He mentioned he was hungry, so I went in the back to get some pastry from the kitchen. I was gone only three or four minutes.” I didn’t bother to mention he’d lit up a joint during the interval. “He ate, we talked about his uncle, then he left. That’s when I noticed the earrings I’d left on top of the metal cashbox had been moved.” I paused as Drea set down a mug of tea before Tess.

  “Let me guess.” Tess spooned honey into her tea. “Wyatt stole money from the box.”

  “Two hundred dollars.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “No. His uncle was murdered this week. The family has enough to deal with without me bringing charges of theft against their son. But I thought you should know.”

  “Why?” After blowing on her tea, Tess took a tentative sip.

  “Wyatt has shown that he’s a thief. A brazen one, too. You and David need to be on your guard if he ever turns up at Oriole Glass.”

  “Too late. We’re familiar with the light fingers of Wyatt O’Neill.” She sighed. “If I’d known he was still doing this kind of stuff, I would have warned you.”

  “Did he steal from your store? When?”

  “Four years ago, before you moved back to Oriole Point. It was during the Holiday Open House at Christmastime. David and I held a glassblowing demonstration in the shop. Business is always great for our demos, and we had a big crowd. Wyatt and three of his friends were there that night. I remember because they kept calling out stupid things for us to make, like reindeer tails. Everything went well until after we’d finished blowing our last glass figurine.”

  “What happened?”

  “A woman discovered her wallet was missing. Since she purchased an item from us right before the demo began, she had her wallet when she entered our store. Someone snatched it during the glassblowing. Her handbag didn’t have a zippered top, which made it easy for the thief.”

  “You suspected Wyatt?”

  Tess nodded. “He stood behind the woman during the demo. And a customer actually saw him take the wallet—an elderly lady too afraid to speak up while Wyatt and his buddies were in the store. Once they left, she told David and me what she witnessed. David doesn’t get angry often, but when he does, you better steer clear. He ran out of the store and came back holding Wyatt by the scruff of his neck.” She grinned at the memory. “David made Wyatt apologize and give the wallet back to the woman. When we asked if she wanted to press charges, she said no. I didn’t blame her. She was about to leave for Florida to spend the holidays with her family.”

  “Then Wyatt got off with a slap on the wrist,” I noted glumly.

  “Not quite. My blue-eyed Dutchman has a strong sense of justice. David called Wyatt’s parents and told them what happened. They were furious at what their son had done and swore they would deal with him accordingly. To be honest, we thought it was a phase Wyatt was going through. He was only sixteen. For all we knew, this was the first time he had pulled something like that.” Tess looked disgusted. “Given that he stole from you last night, it appears he’s still a dishonest little creep.”

  Almost finished with my latte, I hoped I had enough self-restraint not to order a third. “I’m surprised you never told me about any of this.”

  Tess shrugged. “Didn’t see any reason to. Like I said, you were living in New York at the time. And we banned Wyatt from Oriole Glass. He hasn’t set foot in our store since that night.”

  “Here we are.” Drea set down the colorful Fiesta plates holding our breakfasts. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “This will be fine. Thanks.” My mouth watered at the sight of the golden-brown, baked French toast, deliciously gooey with blueberries and syrup. I savored my first bite before saying, “This tastes like Emeril’s French toast. I bet the café is using his recipe.”

  “You and your celebrity chefs.” Tess smiled. “For all you know, Emeril got it from some cook in a small-town diner.” She enjoyed a big forkful. “As long as it tastes this good, I don’t care who came up with it.”

  “Back to Wyatt, I wonder how many other businesses in town he’s tried to rip off.”

  “We talked to several shop owners afterward,” Tess said. “Told them to keep an eye on Wyatt if he ever came into their stores. But we didn’t want to make a big public announcement about it. David and I figured Wyatt’s family would take care of the problem.”

  “It doesn’t look like the O’Neills are good at handling family problems. Neither are the Gales. Now I learn one of them is a thief. Makes me wonder what else those two families are capable of.”

  “Do you think an O’Neill or a Gale had something to do with Porter’s death?” she asked.

  “Who else?”

  “I agree. There’s a lot of Blueberry Hill money up for grabs. And we know Wyatt can’t be trusted.”

  “Sloane has become a rich young widow.” I lifted an eyebrow at her. “Let’s not forget two Gale men have died since Nurse Jackie arrived.”

  “There’s also Porter’s sister,” Tess reminded me. “You mentioned how bitter Cara seemed at the Blow Out. She may have killed her brother out of sheer resentment and hatred.”

  “As we discussed the other night, there is another suspect: Ryan. The police want to speak to him as soon as he returns.”

  “Only because of that fight at the tug-of-war. They have no other reason to suspect him.”

  For a moment, I considered telling Tess about Ryan owing Porter Gale money. But I only had Courtney’s and Wyatt’s word on that. Courtney was a kid, while Wyatt was a thief. I thought it wiser to hold off spreading rumors about Ryan’s debts to Porter until I had confirmation from a more reliable source.

  “I hope Wyatt doesn’t steal from another shop owner. If so, I’ll feel guilty for not calling the police last night.”

  “Since he stole from you only a few hours ago, I’ll bet he steals on a regular basis.”

  “We can’t let this continue, Tess, especially if he’s ripping off tourists, too.” I drank the rest of my latte. “I’ll ask around town and see
if he’s stolen from any other store owners.”

  “If he has?”

  “Then I’m going to the O’Neill farm to confront him and his parents. His life of crime is about to come to an end.” I slammed my empty mug down on the table. “And to think I gave him a dozen free mini cheesecakes!”

  * * *

  Whether due to the gorgeous beach weather or the Blueberry Blow Out activities at the fairground, store traffic was light that morning. I’d brought Minnie to work, but with few customers to talk to, she spent most of the time grooming her feathers or napping on her perch. Dean and I busied ourselves with tasks we normally did only when complete boredom set in: rearranging the shelves beneath the counter and cleaning the computer keyboard.

  “Where are all the tourists?” Dean asked for the fourth time as he stacked the berry teas in alphabetical order. “I wish I’d volunteered to work at the fairground today instead of Gillian. Although I guzzle too much blueberry lemonade when I’m there. It gives me gas.”

  “Probably because you’re drinking it too fast.” I pulled out the Windex bottle to spray the computer screen. “I bet everyone’s at the beach. Summer’s officially over in two weeks. The tourists want one last chance to swim in the lake. Plus, I think some big country and western singer performs at the fairground later today.”

  “The Blow Out is also hosting the competition for ‘Best Tasting Blueberry’ this morning. That’s a big draw. All the commercial growers will be there, along with amateur and hobbyist gardeners.”

  “I hope a hobbyist wins,” I said. “We don’t need more tension between the growers.”

  “Speaking of the fruit growers, don’t you think it’s weird the O’Neills are participating in all the Blow Out activities? Even if Cara wasn’t crazy about her brother, it doesn’t look right to have the family at the fair like nothing’s happened. Wyatt ran the Ferris wheel for hours yesterday.”

  “How well do you know Wyatt?”

  “Not well. Because I’m six years older than he is, we never had much to do with each other.” He took a closer look at the tea tins and switched a few around. “Gillian and he are close in age. You should ask her about Wyatt.”