Apple Cider Slaying Page 2

  Mr. Sherman slowed to a stop beside me. “You want a storefront.”

  “I want more than a storefront.”

  His gaze slid away from mine and latched onto something over my head.

  “Something wrong?” I asked, pivoting in search of whatever had caught his attention and hating the fact my pitch had been disrupted before I’d really gotten going.

  He cocked his head and stared at the leaves on one tree. “What’s wrong with this one?”

  “Nothing.” I stepped closer to confirm the obvious truth, except once I did I wasn’t so sure. The leaves of the tree in question were slightly discolored and brittle-looking on the ends, but it wasn’t the result of a normal seasonal shift, so I changed my answer. “I’m not sure.” I moved around the trunk, examining the leaves on other branches and noticing a frightening pattern.

  Mr. Sherman followed my lead, scrutinizing adjacent trees. “I see it here too,” he said. “Are they sick?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Will this impact the fruit’s quality? The annual yield?”

  “Mr. Sherman,” I said, cutting him off and feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “I walk these trees every day, and this is the first I’m seeing this. I don’t know what it is, but I will find out.”

  Mr. Sherman pulled a small pad of paper from his inside jacket pocket. He clicked a pen to life and made a note.

  Suddenly every word I’d planned to say went right out of my head. Familiar feelings of dread and panic tightened my throat and constricted my lungs. I needed this loan, needed his approval. Things couldn’t go like this or Smythe Orchard would be no more.

  Focus, Winnie, I demanded internally. Tighten up before you blow it and Granny loses everything. My ears rang as I forced the panic away. I hugged the clipboard and its burden to my chest, hoping to still my pounding heart. “A year-round cider shop,” I croaked through a suddenly dry mouth and parched throat, “would be a great addition, not just to the orchard, but to the community. It would be so much more than a storefront, though we could certainly have a display area where Smythe Orchard’s fruit, produce, or prepackaged treats could be served.”

  Mr. Sherman gave me a small, sad smile. “You might not be aware, Miss Montgomery, but this orchard is in serious financial trouble, and there are clearly bigger problems here than you realize.” He shot a pointed look at the strange yellowed leaves.

  “You’re wrong.” I bristled, hating the condescension in his tone. I’d put up with shades of disdain all my life. For being young. For being a woman. For attending a community college instead of some big university. For being from Blossom Valley, West Virginia, a small farming community, instead of someplace people had heard of. “I know all about our financial troubles, Mr. Sherman,” I said. “That’s why I asked you to come here, and I know more than most people about how this orchard operates. I know the obstacles in front of me, and I know all about the labor-intensive, knuckle-busting, back-breaking hours given to the harvest and production of our products. I know the blood, sweat, and tears it takes to maintain a property like this one because my granny and I have been doing it, on our own, for three years.” I blinked through the stinging reminder that Grampy was gone. What we had left was this orchard and each other. I wasn’t letting either go without a fight. “And I also know the payoff,” I said. “The fruits of our labor, if you will.”

  Mr. Sherman listened quietly to my rant without making a move to leave.

  I rushed on before I lost his attention or my nerve again. “You might not know, Mr. Sherman,” I said, playing his words back to him and enjoying how it felt, “but Smythe Orchard provides things that the bulk of this community needs at prices they can afford. As a banker, you must be aware half our town struggles to make ends meet sometimes. Did you know those folks count on Granny’s fruits and jams for their kids’ lunches and for their dinner tables because she lets those families set the price?” I squared my shoulders and lifted my chin. “With this cider shop, we could do so much more. We would make more and we could give more.”

  Mr. Sherman nodded. “All right,” he said softly. “May I see the proposed business location?”

  I puffed a breath of relief. “Thank you.” I hurried past him, returning to my sales pitch as we made our way toward the Mail Pouch barn at the corner of Granny’s property. “Did you know that our Mail Pouch barn is a registered landmark?” I asked. “People have come here all my life just for the opportunity to take pictures of it. I’ve met photographers from Anchorage to Los Angeles and as far away as Sweden. These barns are more than iconic. They’re a much sought-after piece of American culture and history. There are government grants and loans available for their maintenance and upkeep. Grampy always took advantage, and the barn stands as strong today as the day it was built.”

  Mr. Sherman was silent behind me.

  I checked to be sure he hadn’t turned tail and run.

  “The Bloch brothers were the first to paint this barn,” I said, beaming with pride as we approached the apple sorter and press building. “The Bloch brothers were from Wheeling and they made popular flavored chewing tobacco but couldn’t afford to advertise, so they, like me, used their heads and made a plan. They utilized what they had, which was time and elbow grease, to get what they wanted, which was exposure. They offered to paint barns for free, as long as they could put their ad on one side. Simple. Effective. Legendary.” I said. “Which makes our barn the perfect venue for my cider shop.”

  I held up a finger as we reached the building. The apple press was normally a tourist favorite, but someone had closed the door. I doubted anyone would be forward enough to walk inside if I didn’t prop it back open. I climbed the three wooden steps and curled my hand around the knob. “Just one second,” I said. “I’m not sure why this door is closed, but I don’t want the next group coming by to think it’s off-limits.”

  Sure enough, a group of onlookers saw me at the building and headed our way. I swung the door open and stepped aside. “Go on in,” I said, cheerfully, “have yourselves a look around. This is where the magic happens.”

  They picked up their pace across the short strip of ground.

  Mr. Sherman made a strangled noise, his skin suddenly pale as the moon.

  “Mr. Sherman?”

  He lifted the end of his tie to cover his lips.

  I followed his horrified gaze into the building.

  A pair of black pedal pushers and two hot pink platform sandals came into view, hanging over the side of the metal tray table beneath the apple press. Slowly, my brain processed the rest of Mrs. Cooper’s body. Her unseeing eyes stared through me as blood slid over her cheek from an angry wound at the top of her head.

  The shrill scream that rattled the roof was mine.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Miss Montgomery?” A slow southern drawl poured under the closed door with such assured authority I nearly wept. “This is Sheriff Colton Wise. I’m going to need you to open up.”

  I nodded, though no one could see me. I wasn’t sure how much time had passed since I’d first seen Mrs. Cooper in the cider press, but forever seemed roughly accurate. I’d slammed the door against the cluster of tourists headed my way when I saw the body and locked myself inside.

  I’d shut the door in Mr. Sherman’s face.

  The knot in my stomach tightened.

  When Grampy installed the new locks to protect his equipment five years ago, I’d thought he was bonkers. Who would want to steal apple sorting or pressing machinery and paraphernalia? He’d said that I would understand some day, but I’d never dreamed I’d need the lock to protect tourists from seeing Nadine Cooper’s dead body.

  I flipped the deadbolt and moved out of the way.

  The door opened slowly, and a lean man with broad shoulders and kind eyes slipped inside. He wore jeans and boots with his sheriff’s jacket. His big hat was in his hands and pressed to his chest. “Winona Mae Montgomery?”

  I nodded, my dry and swollen
tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

  “Have you touched anything in here?” he asked, throwing a pointed look at Mrs. Cooper.

  I shook my head and tried uselessly to swallow the constricting lump in my throat. I’d seen the new sheriff a time or two since his election last fall, but we’d never officially met.

  “Have you been right here since you locked the door?”

  “Yes,” I managed to say.

  The sheriff offered a small but compassionate smile. “Do you know this woman?” he asked, glancing again at Mrs. Cooper.

  “Yes.” I willed myself to elaborate, but my thoughts moved too quickly for my sticky mouth, and I wasn’t convinced I wouldn’t throw up if I parted my lips longer than necessary.

  A rap came at the door, and Sheriff Wise pulled it open. He held it wide with his boot.

  The blast of sunlight brought tears to my eyes.

  “There.” He tipped his head toward the cider press, and a pair of EMTs charged in that direction with a yellow backboard and matching medical kits. Behind them, an elderly man shuffled along. The back of his black jacket had seven white block letters: CORONER. A woman with a toolbox fell into step at his side.

  “Winnie!” Granny’s frantic voice echoed through the open door, laced with fear and worry. I hated the sound of it; I never wanted her to be alone or scared.

  “I’m okay!” I yelled back. “I’m coming!”

  The sheriff swung his face in my direction. “Just a minute now. Can you tell me what happened in here?”

  “No. I opened the door, and Mrs. Cooper was there,” I said, finally finding my voice. “I was showing Mr. Sherman the property, and when I saw the door was closed, I opened it.” My heart pinched as a new thought emerged. Mr. Sherman will never give a small business loan to a failing orchard with a dead woman in the apple press.

  I hated myself immediately for the selfish thought. Against my will, more awful notions followed. Could the press even be cleaned after this? No way, right? We’d have to buy a new one, and presses cost a fortune. We couldn’t afford it. Maybe I could offset the cost of a new press by selling this one on eBay? I pressed my palms to the sides of my head and hoped lightning didn’t strike me on the spot.

  “Miss Montgomery,” the sheriff said, sharp blue eyes scanning the beads of sweat gathered on my forehead. “Would you like to step outside?”

  I flicked my gaze to the coroner poking and prodding Mrs. Cooper. The woman with the toolbox scraped a stick under Mrs. Cooper’s fingernails, and my stomach flopped. “Yes.”

  Sheriff Wise held the door while I scurried into the sunlight, sucking in deep lungfuls of fresh air after far too many shallow breaths inside the crowded barn. A deputy stood between Granny and an ambulance. A pair of cruisers were angled several yards away as a makeshift barrier.

  “Baby!” Granny wrapped me in her arms. “I’m so sorry you had to see something like that. Mr. Sherman told me what happened, and I headed right over here, but when I saw the guests outside the locked door, I knew I had to gather everyone back at the fruit stand before the authorities arrived.” Deep lines creased her brow. “By the time I did all that, and the deputies questioned me as well, I couldn’t get away again until now.” She wiped her shirtsleeve over her puffy eyes. “I just can’t believe any of this.” Her bottom lip quivered as she pressed my cheeks between her soft palms. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here for you.”

  My stomach rolled as I stepped out of her embrace. The heels of my uncomfortable shoes sunk into the earth. “I hadn’t even thought about the visitors,” I whispered. “None of those companies will ever book with us again, and it’s my fault that so many were here. I wanted the orchard to be busy when Mr. Sherman came so I would get my loan.” I rolled my eyes skyward and wrapped myself in a hug. He left before I had a chance to finish my pitch and show him the Mail Pouch barn. Now, he was never going to agree to that loan, and this day officially couldn’t get any worse.

  “Miss Montgomery,” Sheriff Wise began again. “Do you have any idea who might’ve wanted to hurt Nadine Cooper?”

  I turned my eyes to him, then they flickered traitorously toward Granny.

  He raised his brows and looked at her too. “Mrs. Smythe?”

  I cringed. He was sure to find out about Granny and Mrs. Cooper’s relationship. If we didn’t tell him, would it make us look guilty? What if Mrs. Cooper had run into Granny on her way home and the two had fought? I hadn’t spoken to Granny since Mrs. Cooper left. I had no idea what had happened next, and the orchard was crowded today. Someone could’ve heard them argue before Mrs. Cooper was killed. “Mrs. Cooper came looking for Granny today, but I haven’t had a chance to tell her until now.”

  “What did she want?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. She wanted to talk to Granny as soon as she could.”

  The sheriff crossed his arms and focused on Granny. “Any idea what that was about Mrs. Smythe?”

  “None,” she said. “I haven’t seen Nadine in two days.”

  He nodded, maintaining eye contact and tipping his head over one shoulder. “Were the two of you close?” he asked.

  I shut my eyes so I couldn’t give anything else away. The world seemed to spin faster.

  “We weren’t friends, if that’s what you mean,” Granny said.

  “I see,” he said. “How would you describe your relationship with the victim?”

  “I suppose I’d say we’re neighbors, and we tend to bump heads more than shake hands.”

  “Did you like Nadine Cooper, Mrs. Smythe?”

  My eyes popped open. Maybe I was wrong. The day could definitely get worse.

  “Of course,” Granny blurted. “I liked her just fine.”

  “Really? Because a lot of folks have the idea you two were enemies.”

  I turned to face the sheriff directly. “Why would you say that?” I asked. “My granny likes everyone.”

  He hiked an eyebrow, then let his features settle into a frown. “The way I hear it, your grandma’s relationship with Nadine Cooper was as tumultuous as the New River rapids.”

  Granny sighed. “You’re not wrong. I’ve known Nadine for forty-three years, and we’ve never had a conversation that didn’t end in someone’s ruffled feathers. Nadine and I weren’t friends, but we’re part of this community and that made us family. Does that make sense?”

  “No.” The sheriff widened his stance and continued to look Granny and me over with keen, judging eyes. “I think Nadine Cooper was practically your sworn enemy. So, I can’t understand why she was over here looking for you today.”

  “I don’t know,” Granny repeated.

  They both looked at me.

  I lifted my shoulders and palms. I’d already told them everything I knew. “She was mad again, and she wanted to talk to you ASAP. She didn’t say why.”

  Granny frowned. “She rarely does. That’s how she keeps the upper hand, by making me walk into her little ambushes.” Granny’s ruddy cheeks went pale and her lips formed a tiny O. She slapped a palm over her mouth. “Gracious! I didn’t mean to be so disrespectful. I just can’t believe this is happening.”

  I slipped an arm around her waist and tugged her against my side.

  The press building’s door opened once more and the coroner stepped into the frame. “Sheriff?”

  Sheriff Wise stared at us another long beat before turning and walking away.

  I released a shuddered breath and leaned my head on Granny’s shoulder, letting my tears flow free. “Who would do something like this?”

  Granny rubbed my back in big comforting circles. “The sheriff will figure it out. Don’t worry.”

  I wiped my eyes to stop the tears as she pressed a kiss to my head.

  A heavy shadow stretched over us a moment later, blocking the sun and sending a chill across my skin. Granny’s hand stilled on my back.

  I turned to find Sheriff Wise evaluating us once more. He frowned down his nose from the eight or so inches he had on my shri
mpy five-foot-four frame. His big hat was stuffed back on his head, and the shadow it threw across his face was utterly intimidating. “Mrs. Smythe. Where were you at noon today?”

  “Bringing the tractor back from the tour,” Granny said.

  “Alone?”

  “Of course. I dropped a group off at the pavilion to sample our wares, then I took the tractor over to the house for a quick sandwich and bathroom break. After that, I headed back up front to collect the next bunch of riders.”

  “So, no one can vouch for where you were, what you were doing, or who you were with between noon and one o’clock this afternoon. Is that correct?”

  Granny puckered her lips and brow. “Well, I suppose someone must’ve seen me driving back to the fruit stand. I was on a big green tractor.”

  I gripped Granny’s hand in mine and squeezed. “I think you should stop talking,” I said softly. “I think Sheriff Wise is implying something he shouldn’t be.”

  The sheriff narrowed his eyes. “The last call Mrs. Cooper received on her cell phone was from you, Mrs. Smythe.”

  Granny’s eyes widened. “That’s right,” she said, “I forgot. There was a message on the machine from Nadine when I stopped home for lunch, so I returned her call. She didn’t answer.”

  I folded my arms and glared back at him, suddenly more angry than frightened. “What exactly are you suggesting, Sheriff?”

  “Just that the body of your granny’s longtime enemy was found in a building belonging to your granny, after receiving a call from your granny, at a time that no one can confirm her whereabouts or activities,” he said. “It’s interesting, yeah?”

  Granny’s knees buckled slightly, and I held her tighter.

  “No,” I said. “It’s not interesting at all. You’re just restating the fact that someone left a dead body on our property while Granny was busy working elsewhere. You can twist and manipulate that statement any way you’d like, but it won’t change the fact Granny was nowhere near this building today until thirty minutes ago. Now, are you arresting her, or can we go?” I asked.