Death of a Bad Apple (8 page)

Nobody else had anything to add, so the interrogation was short, if not sweet. Sheriff O'Neil let us get on with prepping for the festival, although we were already running late and knew we would barely make it on time. Oh well. I'd learned the hard way that a murder investigation always takes precedence over the food truck business—or anything else.

As soon as the sheriff was out the door, we headed upstairs to gather our things. Jake and I went to our room and brushed our teeth together over the single sink. I must say, it was comforting to share this ordinary task with him. He was adorable when he smiled with a mouth full of toothpaste. We got our jackets and my purse and locked the door after leaving the room. Although I realized locking up was no assurance that our stuff would be safe.

“Aunt Abby?” I said as I entered her room. Dillon
was sitting on her bed, texting. I'd nearly forgotten about him. “Where have you been?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “Had stuff to do.”

“You mean someone to avoid, don't you?” I asked, baiting him.

“Hey, I don't know anything about who offed that guy,” Dillon shot back. “That's the cops' job.”

“You should have at least made an appearance,” I countered. “When the sheriff finds out you were in the house and didn't come down for questioning, he's going to want to talk to you.”

“Well, he's not going to find out unless you tell him,” Dillon said.

I wondered if Honey would mention Dillon's absence to the sheriff, but I had a feeling it wasn't a top priority for her. She had other things on her mind, like who killed one of her guests practically under her nose. Not to mention the recent fires that complicated things.

“Stop it, you two,” Aunt Abby said. “Or I'll smack the pair of you. And show some respect for the body in the next room.”

I made a face at Dillon. He grunted.

“Need any help, Abby?” Jake said.

“No, thanks,” she answered. “I need to put these two to work to keep them from bickering. You go on ahead.”

Jake turned to me. “See you there?”

I nodded and he headed down the stairs to his cream puff truck.

Dillon and I took orders from my aunt and ten
minutes later we were on our way to the Big Yellow School Bus, our arms laden with chalkboard signs Aunt Abby had written up for the event to advertise her new apple delights. I looked for Honey to say good-bye for the day, but she was nowhere in sight. I wondered if she'd show up for a festival after all that had happened. As we walked to the bus, another car from the coroner's office pulled up and two men got out, dressed in protective cover-ups.

They were here to retrieve the body.

With a last glance back at the not-so-Enchanted Apple Bed-and-Breakfast Inn, I followed Aunt Abby and Dillon into the bus, wondering where Honey had disappeared to.

•   •   •

The twentieth annual Apple Fest was already in full bloom when we pulled up, with food, fun, and festivities galore. Honey had mentioned that ten thousand people were expected to attend and over thirty local farms and ranches were participating in the opening weekend. In addition to the dozen food trucks, there must have been three dozen large white canopies where vendors like Apple Annie's, the Big Apple, In Apple Pie Order, the Apple Polisher, Little Green Apples, and the Apple Cart were serving apple goodies. My mouth watered at some of the offerings—apple cinnamon rolls and strudels, apple cobblers and crisps, apple fritters and fries, caramel and toffee apples, apple butters, jams, and sauces, and apple wines and beers. They all claimed to be “Fresh from
Farm to Fork.” I hoped I got a chance to taste everything. Research for my cookbook, of course.

Across from the food vendors were maybe forty or fifty picnic tables, many already occupied by apple lovers. Beyond them I could see a corral offering pony rides, a bunch of trampolines, electric scooters to ride around the paved paths, a petting zoo for the kids, and the A-MAZE-ing Hay Maze. The only thing missing from this circus were the elephants.

Apparently this crowd hadn't heard or didn't care about the murder at the Enchanted Inn.

We parked the school bus next to Jake's truck, which already had a line. While Aunt Abby got out her apple treats to display inside the window, Dillon set up the signs and I put out napkins, plasticware, and packets of sugar, cinnamon, and allspice. We were ready for business in a matter of minutes and had a line by the time Aunt Abby slid open the service window.

The next few hours were mostly a blur of activity. Aunt Abby's salted caramel-apple tarts were a huge hit. People came back for seconds and thirds, in between visits to the other food trucks and apple vendors. I hadn't had time to think about the murder, but at some point it occurred to me that I'd seen no sign of Honey Smith at the festival. I figured, if she came, she'd at least stop by and say hello.

Maybe she'd learned what I'd told the sheriff about her arguing with those men. Would I find my suitcase on the porch when I got back to the inn? Worse, would
I discover Honey Smith had been arrested for the murder of Roman Gold.

And would I be to blame?

Around four o'clock, after the crowd died down, the vendors began closing up shop. I helped Aunt Abby clean the kitchen area and put away the utensils, then took a much-needed break and headed to Jake's Dream Puff truck to see if he was ready to close down. I wasn't hungry, having snacked on Aunt Abby's “failures” throughout the day, but it wasn't too early for a glass of apple wine. Hey, I was on vacation. Sort of.

“I've got a few puffs in the oven,” he said through the service window. “I'll meet you at the wine tent. It looks like it's still open.” He pushed some cash through the window. “Get us a couple of apple wines.” He already had my heart. Now he could read my mind. I pushed the money back at him. “My treat.”

I turned around and spotted the tent with a sign that read
WISE APPLE WINERY
. In my rush to head over, I tripped on a cord and nearly lost my balance.

“Whoa there, missy!” said the man who had grabbed me and saved me from an embarrassing fall.

I looked up to see Nathan “Appleseed” Chapman grinning at me. His breath smelled of alcohol.

“Thank you,” I said, brushing myself off. “I need to watch where I'm going.”

“Well, it looked like you were in quite the hurry,” Nathan said. “Headed for the wine tent?”

I nodded. “Time for a break.”

“Listen, maybe I could buy you a drink later? I've got to meet someone, but I'd like to get to know you better.”

OMG. He was hitting on me! Did he not see me with Jake last night?

“Oh, that's really nice of you, but I'm meeting my boyfriend in a few minutes.”

Nathan stepped back. “Well, if you change your mind . . .”

I nodded and quickly made for the Wise Apple Winery booth. When I got there, a middle-aged couple stood at the serving table with their glasses, chatting with a woman who was pouring wine. I immediately recognized the wine seller. It was Crystal Cortland, Red's ex-wife. I'd seen her last night at Red's place, after the fire. Standing silently behind her, wiping glasses, was their twenty-something daughter, Tiffany.

While Crystal talked with the couple enjoying her wine, I noticed Tiffany staring off to the side as if mesmerized by something—or someone. I glanced over to see what held her attention so intently and spotted none other than Nathan Chapman, gesturing to her and nodding to the left. I surreptitiously
watched as Tiffany stole a look at her mother, then gave a tiny nod to the man. She set down the glass she'd been cleaning and disappeared out the back of the wine tent.

I turned to look at Nathan and caught him pulling a flask from an inside pocket. He took a quick hit and replaced the flask just as Tiffany appeared a few feet away. He glanced around, then followed her, keeping his distance. Moments later they were out of sight.

What, I wondered, was a man old enough to be Tiffany's father doing with Crystal Cortland's daughter?

Crystal, apparently oblivious of her daughter's disappearance, continued her conversation with the couple. I sidled up behind them and listened as they thanked Crystal for the wine and moved on. I took their place at the front of the serving table.

“May I help you?” Crystal said with a smile. She wore what looked like several layers of clothing—a long skirt, a peasant-style blouse, a long thin wrap, and lots of chunky jewelry. Her blond hair was done up with combs, with wispy tendrils cascading at the back. Her red roots were just beginning to show, indicating her natural color was beginning to grow out.

“I'd like to taste some of your apple wine,” I said. Obviously she didn't recognize me from last night at the fire at Red's farm, but then it was hectic and dark, and I had only been an observer. I wondered if she'd heard about the murder at Honey's place.

Crystal set out a clean glass and poured a couple of tablespoons into it. “This is my Applewhite, one of my
most popular wines. It's crisp and dry, with a light taste of oak.”

I swirled the wine around the glass like the way I'd seen professional wine tasters do, then drank it down. “Mmm,” I said. “Very good.”

She got out a fresh glass, uncapped another bottle, and poured in a sample. “Now try this one. It's more of a dessert wine, with a fruity flavor. I call it Sweet Tiffany.”

“Named after your daughter?” I asked, then downed the sip.

Crystal grinned. “Yes! How did you know?”

“I saw you at Red Cortland's farm last night, after the fire.”

The smile faded as her eyes widened. “You were there? Are you friends with Red?”

“Oh no,” I said quickly. “Several of us are staying at the Enchanted Apple Inn and we heard about the fire, so we came over to see if there was anything we could do.”

“Oh,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “You're guests at Honey Smith's place. Then you must know about the murder.”

I blinked. Apparently word
had
gotten out, at least among the locals.

“You heard about it too?” I asked, wondering how she'd learned the news. This being a small town, no doubt information spread faster than melting ice cream on a slice of hot apple pie.

“Of course,” she said. “We don't get many murders
here in Apple Valley. When something like this happens, everyone hears about it. Aren't many secrets in a place like this.”

Yeah? I wondered.

“Did you know Roman Gold, the man who was killed?” I asked, curious about what she might know.

“Never heard of him. Supposed to be some kind of writer doing an article on the Apple Fest, but he never talked to me. Someone said he sounded kind of pro-GMO. That wouldn't have won him any popularity contests, at least not around here.”

“It does seem like a lot of farmers are upset about the new GMO apples. But I hardly think his interest in them would get him killed. After all, he was just writing about the situation. As a journalist, he's supposed to remain unbiased.” At least, that's what they told us in journalism school.

“Well, GMO apples don't bother me,” Crystal said, filling another clean glass with some of her wine. I thought she was about to offer it to me while we chatted, but instead she swallowed a couple of sips herself.

“You're not worried about them?” I asked.

“Oh, I sympathize with the growers, but my winery won't be affected, since bigger and prettier apples aren't really an issue for wine-making. Besides, it's going to happen anyway—that's progress—so we might as well accept it. Things happen that are out of our control. One day you have a farm. The next day
it's burned to the ground. One day you're married. The next day he walks out on you. That's life.”

She took another long swallow of wine and set down the glass a little harder than she should have. I was surprised it didn't crack or shatter into pieces.

“What do you think is going on with those fires?” I thought she might have some additional insight to offer after chugging that wine.

She frowned. “What are you, some kind of reporter too?”

I shook my head. “No, I'm working in one of the food trucks at the festival. The Big Yellow School Bus. And writing a cookbook featuring food truck recipes.”

She brightened. “Why didn't you say so? I give vendors a discount on my wines.”

“Great. Then I'd like two glasses of the Applewhite.”

She poured the wine into the two glasses I'd used for tasting, apparently not concerned that they should be perfectly clean. Was the alcohol level affecting her wine-serving protocol?

“As for the fires,” she said, “now, they're a real concern. My guess is someone is setting those fires to send a message, and who knows who'll be next? My winery? If I lose my business, I'll be left with nothing. My daughter and I would be in serious trouble. We can't live on her small income making crafts and setting up hay mazes and selling scarecrows. I hope they catch the bastard, and soon.”

So, it sounded as though the fires worried her, but the dead man wasn't an issue. Interesting.

“That'll be ten dollars for the wine,” she said. “With the discount. And ten for the two glasses. They're souvenirs, unless you want plastic cups.”

Twenty bucks for wine and glasses? With a discount?

Wow.

I gave her a twenty and picked up the glasses. “Thanks,” I said. “Nice chatting with you.”

“You too. Come by sometime over the weekend so you can meet my daughter, Tiffany.”

“I think saw her last night. There's a family resemblance.”

Crystal smiled proudly. “Yep. Got her mom's nose and eyes.” She looked around. “Funny, she was here just a minute ago, helping me out. Now where'd she get to?”

I bit my tongue. No way was I getting involved in this potential drama. I already had more than enough drama to deal with on my own.