The Cider Shop Rules Read online

  Praise for Julie Anne Lindsey’s

  Cider Shop Mysteries!

  PULP FRICTION

  “A budding romance and an age-old motive combine

  in a heartwarming cozy.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  APPLE CIDER SLAYING

  “Readers will appreciate the goodwill of Lindsey’s

  characters in this warmly written, cider-centric

  cozy series launch.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “An absolute delight! . . . A thoroughly inhabited,

  well-written story! . . . Julie Anne Lindsey’s love for

  West Virginia also shines through, making for a

  transporting and totally engrossing read.”

  —Criminal Element

  “Julie Anne Lindsey combines distracting twists

  with well-drawn characters in this multilayered

  debut that augers well for this new cozy series. She

  establishes a strong community with amiable

  personalities, comfortable relationships and interesting

  backgrounds . . . A most enjoyable introduction to the

  Smythe Orchard and the Cider Shop.”

  —Reviewing the Evidence

  Also by Julie Anne Lindsey

  Apple Cider Slaying

  Pulp Friction

  A Cider Shop Mystery

  THE CIDER SHOP RULES

  Julie Anne Lindsey

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Acknowledgments

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2021 by Julie Anne Lindsey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  The K logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2351-2

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2352-9 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2352-X (ebook)

  To my daddy

  Chapter One

  “What on earth is going on here?” I asked, wheeling my grampy’s old farm truck into the field just outside Potter’s Pumpkin Patch. I puzzled at the gorgeous, though insanely crowded, view through my windshield. The Blue Ridge Mountains in northern West Virginia were breathtaking in November, but that didn’t explain the hundred or so people milling in the distance. “What’s everyone doing at the pumpkin patch? Halloween was two weeks ago.”

  Families typically flocked from far and wide to spend the day at Potter’s Pumpkin Patch during September and October, but I’d never seen the place so busy mid-November.

  My best friend, Dot, a ranger at the national park and lifelong animal activist, strained against her seat belt on the passenger’s side, craning her neck at the crowd. “No way.” She slapped the dashboard and unbuckled with a soft squeal. “Winnie. Look!”

  “What?” I cut the engine, then followed her gaze through the glass, trying and failing to see whatever had gotten her so excited.

  She tugged the handle on the creaky passenger-side door and jumped out. “Crusher is here today,” she said, shooting me a wild-eyed expression, then shutting the door behind her.

  I pocketed my keys and met her in the overgrown grass, enjoying the warm autumn sun on my cheeks. It wasn’t uncommon to receive a few extra weeks of nice weather this late in the year, but 72 degrees and sunny was more than I could’ve asked for. Especially since the Fall Harvest Festival was in full swing at my family’s orchard. Hopefully the beautiful weather would keep the guests coming through our gates all day as well.

  “I used to beg my folks to bring me up here to see Crusher,” Dot said, gathering her thick auburn hair over one shoulder. “I can still remember how mesmerized I’d been by the original one, and it was just a green backhoe with red eyes painted on the bucket.”

  The new Crusher was worlds cooler. I’d never been a fan of the old one, mostly because I liked pumpkins, and the original Crusher destroyed them. The latest version was a rental from the monster truck show. The massive silver vehicle breathed fire from its grill and drove over pre-destroyed cars. Pumpkins were rarely damaged in the process.

  Dot slowed as we crossed from the field to the jam-packed gravel parking lot. A giant hand-painted sign featured the words FALL FAMILY FUN DAYS and a schedule of key events. Dot’s jubilant mood flattened as she traced her pointer finger over Crusher’s schedule. The next performance was several hours away. “Rats.”

  “Well, at least we know why the pumpkin patch is so packed,” I said. “The Potters have enough things going on here today to keep folks busy until dark. Plus, Crusher is always a hit. Maybe Granny and I should get a fire-breathing, car-crushing monster truck for the orchard.” I nudged her with an elbow, and she perked up.

  “That would be amazing.”

  We moved through the gates, admiring the controlled chaos. Potter’s Pumpkin Patch was an annual tradition for most locals, and it drew crowds from three counties. There were hayrides, cornhole tournaments, piglet races, pumpkin picking, and a corn maze few could navigate. Plus, on occasion, an appearance from Crusher. Children loved climbing and sliding on the stacked hay bales and playing in sandboxes filled with dried corn. Parents enjoyed the concessions stand and picnic pavilion, where they could rest while keeping their busy children within view.

  I couldn’t help wondering what my options were for increasing traffic at the orchard. Granny and I had delicious produce, baked goods and cider, plus hayrides, cornhole games, and a local jug band every Friday. Was that enough? Did we need more entertainment? A pair of orange tabby cats and a fainting goat lived on the property, but Kenny Rogers and Dolly wouldn’t do anything on command, and we had to keep Boo away from the commotion or he’d collapse.

  Dot raised a finger to a wooden arrow di
recting visitors to the petting zoo. Her brows lifted in question.

  “Let’s go,” I said with a grin. “I have to find Mr. Potter to pick up Granny’s order. Maybe he’s with the animals.”

  Dot’s blue eyes twinkled, and she picked up her pace. “Thank you!”

  Our orchard held an annual Fall Harvest Festival from Halloween until Thanksgiving. Traditionally, our special events picked up where the pumpkin patch’s left off. Until last year, our fall festival had been the final blowout before the season’s end. Afterward, the orchard would close until the next summer, but that all changed when I opened a cider shop inside the historic Mail Pouch barn on our property. Now our open season lasted through Christmas, and we could sell our products all year long.

  The cider shop had been a bang-up addition so far, and we needed more props and décor for the additional space. Normally, Mr. Potter’s leftover hay bales, cornstalks, pumpkins, and gourds found a good home at Smythe Orchard, but with the crowd around us, it was hard to think of any of those things as “leftover.” In fact, everything seemed to be in use.

  Dot buzzed with excitement when the petting zoo came into view. I smelled it before I saw it, then laughed as Dot climbed onto the bottom rung of the wooden fence like one of the children. She leaned her torso on the rough-hewn wood and stretched one arm into the pen, beckoning the mini-flock of sheep and pair of alpacas. “Come here, sweet babies.”

  I tucked a quarter into the feed machine beside her and gave the knob a twist. A pile of dusty brown food pellets dropped into the retrieval section, and I pushed them into a disposable cup for Dot to distribute. Dot loved animals like I loved old-fashioned caramel apples, deeply and without bias. Unlike my passion, hers kept her active, fit, and strong, while mine made my pants tight. “Here you go,” I said, offering her the small cup of animal food.

  She beamed up at me, quickly accepting the cup. “Aren’t they perfect? Don’t you just wish you could take them all home?”

  I gave the pack of spoiled livestock a sideways glance. They were all pretty cute, but I had my hands full helping Granny as needed, running the cider shop, and taking night classes at the local community college. Plus, Dot had already talked us into three animals in the past year. As a ranger in our national park and budding wildlife rehabilitation guru, Dot had a perpetual Noah’s ark worth of animals in need of forever homes, and I’d reached my limit.

  “I’m going to look for Mr. Potter,” I told her, scanning the crowds in search of his familiar face and deciding which direction to go. “I won’t be long.”

  The world was aglow around me. A vibrant fireworks display of autumn color stretched across endless fields and over mountains to a cloudless blue sky. The bold green grass beneath my feet bled seamlessly into the rich oranges and browns of a pumpkin field, the brilliant amber and scarlet of leaves on reaching limbs, and the distant walls of a massive corn maze. Blossom Valley was always beautiful, but dressed in her fall finest, she was truly a sight to behold.

  I slowed at the sound of a grouchy male voice seeping beneath the door of a large red barn, then changed trajectory. I was nearly positive the angry voice belonged to Mr. Potter, though I’d never heard him angry. A moment later, one door swung open, and he stalked into view, rubbing the back of his neck and grimacing blindly into the crowd.

  I waved a hand overhead and smiled brightly as I wound my way to him, dodging wayward toddlers and moms blindly pushing double strollers.

  Mr. Potter’s expression cleared a bit as I drew near. He cast a backward glance in the direction he’d come. The door had closed, successfully sealing whatever had upset him inside.

  “Morning, Mr. Potter,” I called, shading my eyes from the brilliant sun.

  “Hey there, Winona Mae,” he said cheerfully, despite the obvious frustration in his eyes. “I thought that was your grampy’s Ford over there.”

  I gazed across a sea of pickup models from this century, my eyes latching easily onto the bulbous red work truck Grampy had painstakingly restored. Some people thought it was a shame to use it for hauling and towing, but Grampy had insisted that was what the truck had been built for, so I kept up the tradition. The nice thing about old trucks was that I could usually fix them when they broke, thanks to years under their hoods at Grampy’s side. “It’s me,” I said. “You’ve got quite a crowd today. This is wonderful.”

  He bobbed his head in distracted agreement. “I’ve got your Granny’s order on a trailer behind my four-wheeler. I’ll take it over and load it up while you see the missus about getting your receipt.”

  “Okay,” I said, hesitantly. Normally, I would’ve insisted on helping him load the truck, but he looked like he could use a minute alone. “Mrs. Potter is inside?”

  “Yep.” He pulled a worn white handkerchief from his pocket and drove it across his forehead and upper lip.

  “I’ll meet you over there in a minute,” I said. “Just pull the tarp back, and I’ll tie it all down when we finish.”

  “No problem,” he said, already moving away. “Take your time. Enjoy the festival.” He raised a hand overhead, waving his good-byes.

  I went inside the small market space to pay for Granny’s order, a load of hay, corn, pumpkins, and gourds. The line was long, and the people impatient, but it gave me time to shop the racks of goodies. I added a pair of candied apples to my bill, paid, then went to collect Dot.

  “Thanks!” she said, eagerly taking the second caramel-covered apple.

  We moved in companionable silence for several minutes, concentrating on the crisp snap of green apple beneath the thick, sugary caramel coating. I moaned and let my eyes flutter with each delectable bite.

  “This was fun,” Dot said when we reached the field beyond the gravel parking lot. “Did you get everything you came for?”

  “I think so,” I said. “Mr. Potter is loading it up.”

  A few steps farther and his four-wheeler came into view, then parked among the pumpkins not far from my truck. The trailer was empty, and the tarp had been secured over my order, leaving only the tips of cornstalks and rounded sides of several large pumpkins partially in view.

  Dot plucked the bungee cords that were stretched over the tarp on her way to the passenger door. “You know what would go great with this delicious apple?”

  I scanned the area for signs of Mr. Potter, wishing I’d been at least a little helpful as he’d loaded up my order. There were people everywhere, but none looked like him from where I stood. I supposed he was in high demand on a day like today, and I’d thank him the next time I saw him.

  “Ice cream,” Dot continued, as I climbed onto the faded bench seat beside her and slid the truck key into the ignition. “This apple needs a French vanilla milk shake chaser.”

  “What doesn’t?” I asked, impressed and excited by her suggestion.

  We made our way back to town slowly, enjoying the view and finishing our apples.

  “You should send Harper to the Potters’ place,” Dot suggested between bites. “Maybe she’d come back with new ideas for your Fall Harvest Festival.”

  I’d been thinking the same thing.

  Harper Mason was Granny’s new orchard manager, a first for us. Once we’d realized there was no way we could run a busy orchard and a newly opened cider shop on our own, we started looking for help. I found Harper at school. She’d been taking business classes like me and also helped with an FFA group. Harper was self-motivated, hardworking, and happy, the perfect trifecta for an orchard manager. As an added bonus, she was local. No need to renovate an outbuilding for her housing, or cause Granny to share her home, not that Granny ever minded sharing anything. Harper had been on-site daily for most of the summer and into early fall, organizing and overseeing the harvest crews. She’d kept them on task and on schedule, protecting the fruit and saving us a ton of money in the process. These days, she stopped by a few times a week to check in and meet our off-season needs. She was basically an answer to prayer.

  “I’ll ment
ion it when I see her,” I said. “She and her FFA group have been making scarecrows for local farmers all week. She’s hung a few at the orchard for show, and they’re pretty good. They’ve added a little extra fun to the harvest festival. People stop and take pictures with them.”

  Dot shivered. “Not me. I’ve never liked scarecrows. I appreciate their work, but they creep me out.”

  I rolled my eyes. Dot was a horror movie–watching chicken. She’d probably seen some B-rated film where a scarecrow had come to life, and it’d stuck with her. I, on the other hand, loved scarecrows with their baggy borrowed clothes and hay-stuffed heads. They were the protectors of produce, the jesters of the land.

  Dot groaned as we floated over the final hill into town and stopped at the light behind four other cars. “Traffic.”

  It took a moment for my brain to put it all together. A crowd at the pumpkin patch in November, five cars at one stoplight, tourists flocking down Main Street... “I’ll bet everyone’s here for the John Brown reenactment.”

  “That’s in October,” Dot said, looking perplexed. “Isn’t it?”

  “Normally, yes.” The light changed, and I eased through the intersection behind the row of cars. “It had to be rescheduled this year. The guy playing John Brown has a kid who plays travel ball, and the team went to state.”

  Dot nodded. “That makes sense. I know I’ve been busy, but it’s not like me to miss a bunch of men in uniform rolling through town.”

  The reenactment of the raid at John Brown’s fort was a long-standing tradition in Blossom Valley. John Brown was a famous abolitionist who led militia in a radical movement against slavery, inciting slave rebellions and supporting their freedom by any and all means. The site of his eventual overthrow in a raid by US Marines still stood on a bluff overlooking the Shenandoah River. Civil War reenactors celebrated John’s memory, his work, and the enduring brick building where he took his last stand against Colonel Robert E. Lee every fall.