Murder in the Mix (Books 1-3) Page 4

  I take off as he gives a dark chuckle. “You do that!” he calls after me.

  I hightail it right back into the savings and loan and hightail it right back out once they assure me the ornery Fox next door is not in fact employed by their fine establishment. It turns out, the loan department was on my other left.

  My phone goes off, and I pluck it out of my purse. It’s a text from Holland at the orchard. They’d like to discuss my pies.

  I glance back at the window to my left and glare at the obnoxious, albeit handsome, man still rocking away in his seat.

  It’s been a full day of smug men. Let’s hope Holland isn’t one of them.

  * * *

  Cider Grove Orchards is to die for this time of year. There is no season like autumn in Vermont, and autumn in Honey Hollow is the jewel in nature’s crown.

  The birch trees shudder in the cool breeze, and the maples and liquid ambers shed batch after batch of leaves in a colorful patchwork over the ground. Pumpkins of every size and color dot the entry to the orchard as I get out of my car and take in the scent of evergreens mixed with the apple orchard in the distance. My mother would bring my sisters and me here each and every September since we were little girls. The Grands have owned this place going as far back as time, and every school in all of Vermont has trekked up here at least once to experience the field trip of a lifetime.

  I head over to the old rustic barn they’ve converted into an office, and just as I’m about to head into the structure, the sound of women squabbling garners my attention. To the side of the building I spot Mora Anne and Merilee with their hands on their hips while they have it out with a few women I recognize from my mother’s walking group. Chrissy Nash, the mayor’s ex-wife—they recently divorced because he cheated. It was quite the scandal. Next to her stands a red-faced Eve Hollister—she’s in charge of the book club my mother is a part of. It’s more spice than it is anything nice, but not a single one of those women has ever complained about the content of those romance novels that keep them up at night. And there’s yet a third woman I can’t quite make out. She looks vaguely familiar, but I’m not sure I’ve seen her around town before.

  Huh. I head inside and find the secretary who lets me know that Holland is out back, so I make my way in that direction. Holland is a year younger than me—the youngest of three boys and two girls. For a while he dated my sister, Meg, but that petered out pretty quickly. Lainey swears that’s the reason she ran off to Vegas, but I’ve never given the theory much credence. Meg has always been a spitfire in every capacity. Some people will simply combust if they stick around in a small town like Honey Hollow. And Meg was about to explode into matchstick pieces. It was safer all around for anyone that she took off to sow her wild oats.

  From the back of the property I’m treated to sweeping views of the orchard where all you see for miles are bright green trees dotted with beautiful apples in every shape and color, hanging like Christmas tree ornaments, proud and ripe for the picking. I snuggle into my flannel a moment, thankful I went home to change into something far more appropriate to run wild at the orchards. As soon as I wrap up my meeting with Holland, I plan to pick an entire bushel of apples myself so I can whip up another batch of cutie pies to sell at the Honey Pot.

  “Holland?” I call out as I head toward the orchard to my left. There’s a tiny white sign that reads Jonagold, and I’m instantly in love with the peachy-yellow blushed little bulbs. I pluck the first one I see right off the branch and rub it against my flannel before sinking my teeth into its delicious goodness. I just know Holland won’t mind. I can’t help it. They’re so lush and amazing to look at and, dear God up in heaven, is this ever so sweet and juicy.

  I take a quick stroll through the grounds, enjoying every delicious bite of the quasi-forbidden fruit as thoughts of this psychotic day filter through my mind. There are some days in Honey Hollow that seem to go by in the blink of an eye and some that last forever. I’m pretty glad this blue-skied beauty of an afternoon falls in the latter category. Before long I head back toward the barn and spot a smattering of people on the other end of the orchard. The flatbed they use to haul the tourists around in is chock-full of people, and I bet that’s Holland there in the driver’s seat.

  The sound of footsteps rushing by steals my attention, and it’s only then I note an entire display of my cutie pies on the left side of the building. Almost every last one is gone save for a few in the back, and I can’t help but feel a smidge of satisfaction knowing they couldn’t keep their hands off my pies.

  I head over, anxious to have a quick bite myself. Those Jonagolds are delicious, but they’d be a heck of a lot more decadent slathered in caramel sauce. Just as I’m about halfway to the display table, a long, dark tendril lying over the ground stops me cold.

  We don’t get snakes this time of year—do we? But it’s not a snake. It almost looks like… hair? I make my way over cautiously, fully expecting to find a scarecrow turned on its ear, or a scarf that Mora Anne or Merilee whipped up with their witchcraftery, a term Keelie and I came up with a long time ago. I take a few more cautious steps forward and gasp. That’s no snake, and there’s not a scarf in sight.

  It’s one of the Simonson sisters, facedown in one of my cutie pies. And judging by that pool of blood she’s lying in, she won’t be needing a scarf ever again.

  She’s dead.

  Chapter 4

  In a matter of moments my screams cut through the silence, sending a dizzying blur of people running this way, and before I realize it, a thick crowd blossoms around me from out of nowhere.

  Mora Anne stalks my way, white as snow. “You did this! You killed my sister!”

  “No.” I shake my head, my voice hardly audible as she dives back into the crowd and screams my sister, my sister over and over again.

  It feels like moments drift by all too quickly, and at the same time it feels like an eternity, but before I know it, Keelie is standing before me, blinking into my face, her lips moving, but I can’t quite get a grip on what she’s saying. It’s all moving way too fast.

  The familiar frame of a man speeds in this direction. “Everybody back! This is a crime scene. All of you out of the area now,” he bellows, and it’s only then I snap out of my daze long enough to realize it’s Noah Fox, the one I had mistaken for a loan officer not less than a couple of hours ago.

  Keelie offers me a quick embrace. “I’d better help Holland wrangle these people into the barn. Better yet, get them off the property.” Police sirens cut through the chaos, and she points back at the road. “Daddy’s already here. Everything is going to be okay.”

  She takes off, and I breathe a sigh of relief as the crowd dissipates right along with her. Keelie’s father is the chief of the Ashford County Sheriff’s Department. He and Keelie’s mother divorced years ago, and a few weeks back there was a short-lived rumor he was dating Mayor Nash’s ex-wife.

  “Hey”—Noah Fox speeds my way and gently lays a hand on my shoulder—“you look a little pale. Why don’t we get you over to the barn with everyone else? I’ll be here until the police arrive.”

  “No, I’m not okay. And I’m not leaving. Merilee was my”—I pause a moment—“well, I guess I can’t call her a friend. It wouldn’t be right to lie about the dead. But she was my landlord right up until she handed me an eviction notice this morning. Besides, I’m the one that found the body. Body.” I shudder at the thought of anyone I know being relegated to such grisly terms. I blink up at him a moment. “And what are you doing here? Last I saw, you were gloating at your desk.”

  He whips out his wallet and flashes a license of some sort at me. “I’m a private detective.” He casts a suspicious glance around the vicinity. “I’ll be investigating the homicide along with the sheriff’s department.”

  “What? How do you know that? And how did you get here before the police? A private detective?” It comes out with disbelief. “I’m assuming that means you need to be hired. You’re like some seedy amb
ulance chaser, only with dead bodies. Oh my God”—I duck out from his grasp—“you’re not the killer, are you? Not that I’d expect for you to admit it.”

  He frowns and looks decidedly handsome in the endeavor, causing my heart to thump just once. Talk about guilt. My heart should not be thumping with lust while poor Merilee’s heart can’t even give a weak beat.

  “I heard it over the scanner.” He looks over his shoulder as a small army of patrol cars race up onto the property. “Look, I’m going to take this one on pro bono. I need to prove myself before I can build a clientele. Besides, I’ve worked for seven years as a homicide detective in Cincinnati.”

  “Cincinnati?” It comes out faint, mostly because I was just parroting it back to myself.

  Captain Jack Turner stalks over with his hand on his weapon, inspecting poor Merilee just as Mora Anne comes racing back to the scene.

  “She did it!” Mora Anne is quick to point a finger in my direction. “She killed my sister. We took her to court and gave her an eviction notice this morning and now my sister is dead!” she screams those last few words out hysterically. And suddenly I feel like screaming out my innocence in the exact same manner.

  “I didn’t do it, I swear!” I cry over to him, and Jack makes a motion with his hand for me to calm down. That even-tempered look on his face lets me know he fully believes me. And I know that he does. When my own father died, Joseph, the man who found me in the firehouse—it was Jack who stepped in and treated me like one of his own.

  “What are you doing here, Lottie?” Jack asks, looking every bit exasperated as beads of sweat quickly build on his upper lip and under his eyes. I’ve seen him sweat buckets for less. It’s simply the way his body reacts to life. Lord knows it’s not nearly hot enough to break a sweat today—never mind that it won’t be until next summer. Honey Hollow loves its winters so much sometimes it feels as if it never wants to let go.

  “I—I came by to see if they liked the pies I made for them.” I glance down at poor Merilee with her face still buried in one. “Holland Grand hired me to bake all the pies for the Apple Festival in a couple weeks, and I wanted to see if they were a hit. I couldn’t find Holland, but I found her.” My hand clamps over my mouth as I look back to where Mora Anne kneels at her sister’s side, the blood around Merilee’s torso quickly drying to a dark shade of brown.

  “I see.” Jack’s chest expands wide as the sky. “And how about you, son? What business do you have around these parts?”

  Noah shoots those lawn green eyes my way, and I swear on my father’s grave I’d like nothing better to do than stare into them the entire livelong day. How in the heck I got myself wrapped up with a dead Simonson sister is beyond me.

  “I’m with her.” Noah nods my way. That dark hair of his catches the light, and it looks glossy and soft enough to touch, but I resist the urge. At this point I should probably resist the urge to breathe. Lord knows what trouble I might find myself in next.

  “With her?” Jack looks amused. He’s quite the intimidating sight in his tan uniform, his badge blinding us like a distress signal every few seconds. He’s a husky man, tall as a tree and round as a barrel. Has a soft look in his eyes that could make even the most hardened criminal feel a slight inkling of affection.

  “Yes, with her.” Noah nods to me, and that slight comma-like dimple goes off. I’ve always been a sucker for a good dimple, but something tells me if I’m not careful, my love for those epidermal impressions might land me in the morgue next to Merilee.

  “And how do you two know one another?” Jack narrows his gaze at Noah first, then me.

  “We’re dating.” Noah lands an arm around my shoulder. “It’s something new. Very new.” He looks to me pleadingly and nods. “We were just talking about some kitchen appliances I was going to see if I could help her out with.” He gives a long blink and sorry nod as if it were true on some level.

  A gasp gets caught in my throat. For the second time in a short span, I can’t help but feel guilty about being excited about something while standing feet from the deceased. “Yes,” I say firmly while glaring at Noah. “It’s very new. It’s so new I hardly know about it myself. He’s with me,” I concede.

  “Fine.” Jack looks back to the scene as deputies and firefighters alike swarm over the vicinity. “Since you found the body, they’ll want a statement from you. Don’t go anywhere.” He glowers at Noah for a moment. “That goes for the both of you.” He takes off, and I pull Noah off to the side.

  “Are you insane? On second thought, don’t answer that. I already know the answer. You know they probably have this entire place under surveillance. If you’re the killer, they’re going to find out soon enough and arrest you.” My God, how I hope they have this entire place under a scrutinizing technological eye. I give a quick glance to the bare eaves and it looks doubtful. “What are you, anyway?” I look back to this fake loan officer turned PI. “Some serial killer from the big city? Cincinnati ran out of places to hide, so you chose Honey Hollow as your next foxhole? Nice fake last name, by the way. I bet the first one’s a fake, too.” I poke him in the chest with my finger and can’t help but note he’s hard as a rock.

  “No.” He gives a halfhearted laugh. “I promise you I’m no such thing. I’m telling the truth about my time on the force.” He winces over at the officers working in earnest just as a white van marked coroner rolls onto the scene.

  “Oh my God. It’s all so real.” I shake my head just as Keelie materializes between us.

  “Everything okay?” She shakes her head at me as if it’s not, and it isn’t. “What’s this my dad is spewing about a boyfriend of yours?” She looks to Noah, and her affect smooths out. “Hot honey on a cool autumn day.” She extends her hand. “Keelie Nell Turner, I work at the Honey Pot and am off by eight on Fridays.” She gasps a moment, retracting her hand before he can shake it. “You’re not the boyfriend, are you?”

  “He is,” I say, fully annoyed, craning my neck over her shoulder as one of the sheriff’s deputies rolls out the bright yellow caution tape just the way they do on TV. I can’t believe poor Mora Anne has to witness all this.

  “I am indeed the boyfriend.” He gives a quick grin. “Noah Fox.” He shakes her hand, and Keelie swoons as if she’s just met a celebrity.

  Keelie gasps again. “Holy stars up in heaven, Lottie! How in the heck did you pull this scrumptious rabbit out of your hat?” She looks genuinely stunned, so I swat her on the arm to break the spell.

  Noah steals a moment to gloat. “It’s new.”

  “It’s not new.” I swat him, too. “Would you stop saying that? We are not new. And we never will be. There is no we for goodness’ sake!”

  Keelie gasps again. I swear, if she does it one more time, she’s going to pass out. “Are you Mr. Sexy?” Her eyes grow wide. “Lottie mentioned you this afternoon.”

  Noah gives another smug grin, his chest expanding wide right along with his ego.

  “He is not Mr. Sexy.” I give a slight push to his arm. “I thought he was a loan officer. It turns out, he’s nothing but a fake detective.” I hop on my toes as I hiss the words at him.

  “I’m licensed in the state of Vermont.” He looks over to the crowd. “Which reminds me, I have a crime scene to tend to. Ladies.” He offers a slight wink my way, and I can’t help but groan with frustration.

  “This entire day is a mind warp. How can any of this be happening?”

  “I know, right?” Keelie stares off into the orchard, dazed as if trying to take it all in herself. “First Mr. Sexy. Now Mr. Fox. You’re on one heck of a roll.” She runs her hands up and down my back.

  “What in the heck are you doing?” I buck her off like a reflex as three officers turn their heads this way for a moment.

  “I’m trying to get your luck to rub off on me.”

  Noah comes back. His presence suddenly feels larger than life, and I can’t help but note how that baby blue dress shirt sets off his eyes and a tiny part of me hates my
self for it.

  “Any news?” I say as if the events of the day could somehow shift into something positive.

  His lips purse as he takes in a deep breath. “There is. They’ve got a lead on who a suspect might be.”

  “Great! Who is it?”

  His chest expands a moment, and I try not to notice how wide and steely it looks from this vantage point. “It’s you, Lottie. You’re the number one suspect.” His gaze stays trained on mine a moment too long before he heads back to the crime scene.

  “Oh, Lottie”—Keelie wraps her arms around me tight—“it’s going to be all right. Just you wait and see.”

  “Not for Merilee it won’t.” A flicker of something orange catches my eye at the base of the orchard, and I watch as the outline of a cat slowly fills in. It’s that orange tabby that hovered around Merilee this morning making another appearance, and my eyes widen.

  My God, this has been the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone before as far as those peculiar phantasms are concerned. And to think I had hoped to see her fall down those courthouse stairs.

  No, this is far worse than a skinned knee.

  Someone killed Merilee Simonson, and I’m the number one suspect.

  Chapter 5

  There are a few basic principles of baking that every baker worth his or her salt understands without question. First and foremost, if you’re following a recipe, you should always read it through to the end before you so much as lift a finger in the kitchen. Just about every other baking catastrophe could be linked to the fact a baker has decided to eschew that little sheet of instructions. Second, set out ingredients and any bowls, measuring cups, and spoons in advance to cut down the time it might take to hunt them down. It’s also a saving grace to know well beforehand if you’re missing a vital ingredient. Sure, you can substitute your way around an ingredient or two, but it’s no fun to run out of flour just as you’re about to whip up a last-minute batch of chocolate chip cookies. Third, you might want to clean up as you go. It can quickly get hectic amidst the chaos of dirty mixing bowls, errant spills, and a film of flour lining the counters and the floors. Baking should be a relaxing experience, never a bother.