Apple Cider Slaying Page 8

  I beamed. “That’s what I thought.”

  The sheriff’s already semi-grouchy expression took a turn for the worse. “You didn’t confirm anything,” he said. “The trail master could be lying, and even if he wasn’t, he had no way of knowing who she was speaking to on the phone that day. It’s all pure speculation. There’s no way of knowing if any of the information you gathered is good or if you’ve just been given a complete runaround. Worse, if the trail master did have anything to do with her death, your appearance and interrogation of him today have given him a heads-up that will provide him time to rethink his alibi, cover his tracks, or plot an escape.”

  “Oscar seemed like an honest guy to me,” I said. “I don’t think he was lying.”

  “Oh, you just know when people are lying? That’s impressive,” he said, not sounding at all as if he meant it. “Maybe you can share your insights with me, and I can close all my cases this morning over apple bread and cider.”

  I frowned. “All I’m trying to say is that you have other, better, suspects than Granny, and every minute you spend looking at her is a minute the truly guilty party has to get away. Heck, a clever man might even realize you’re homing in on Granny and plant evidence to help you close your case.” The idea had rolled right off my tongue and out of my mouth before I’d had time to think it through. Once it was out, I was terrified it could be true.

  “Are you saying that you believe I’ll find evidence against Mrs. Smythe here? And when I do, I should disregard it because it was planted by the real killer looking to walk free?” He slid his narrowed eyes toward Granny.

  My heart rate rose. “That wasn’t what I was saying,” I said. Except it really was. Granny hadn’t hurt Mrs. Cooper and any evidence that said otherwise was a lie. “Why?” I felt my eyes widen as they locked once more on his steely gaze. “Did you find anything out there?”

  He watched me, jaw clenching, unspeaking. Another thought sprang to mind. “Were you at least able to track the four-wheeler?”

  Sheriff Wise shook his head and rubbed his eyes. There were dark crescents beneath them I hadn’t noticed before, as if maybe he, too, hadn’t slept well last night. “The tracks were lost once they reached the woods.”

  “But there were tracks,” I said. “Granny doesn’t own a four-wheeler. That’s just more evidence to support the fact I wasn’t lying about the intruder or being pushed down the steps last night. It also proves Granny wasn’t the killer. Whoever made those tracks was.”

  “What did you say?” Granny asked, body frozen over the fruit salad she’d been about to offer second helpings of. Her smart brown eyes fixed tight to Sheriff Wise. “Did you accuse Winnie of lying about what happened to her last night? What kind of young woman do you think I raised?”

  I popped a grape into my mouth. “Considering he thinks you’re a cold-blooded killer, I guess he figures the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  The sheriff shifted forward, resting his forearms on the table. “My point,” he said, “is that I can’t go around believing everything I’m told without substantiating it. That’s why I’m here. That’s what I’m doing. What I believe is irrelevant until I can prove it.”

  Granny put the lid back on her fruit salad and collected the sheriff’s bowl before he could finish.

  I forked a berry and smiled. “What about your day?” I asked Granny. “Did you learn anything from your guests before he ran them off?”

  “No. We were interrupted before anyone really started talking.”

  Sheriff Wise grunted. “There was plenty of talking when I arrived. You barely heard me knock.”

  The look in Granny’s eye said she’d heard the knock just fine. “They’d just arrived. We were still on the platitudes and comforts portion.”

  He laced his fingers together and knitted his brows. “The what?”

  “You know,” Granny said. “The small talk that happens before things really get going. After a tragedy, the small talk is different. It’s made up of comforting words and appropriate expressions of shock and pain. A certain amount of time has to be spent saying how sorry we are that the thing happened and checking to see how everyone is doing in the wake of it before we can go on.”

  “Grief before gossip,” I clarified.

  “It’s only proper,” Granny said. “You have to address the loss before you can speculate on how it happened.”

  He looked at me.

  I shrugged. “It’d be rude to just walk in and start throwing rumors around without saying you felt bad first.”

  “And we do feel bad,” Granny said. “It’s awful.”

  “So, she didn’t have a chance to learn anything new from her stitching crew before you interrupted,” I said. “How about you, Sheriff? Learn anything good today?”

  “I’m learning a few things sitting right here,” he said.

  I smiled and finished my fruit salad before dropping the bowl into the sink and kissing Granny’s cheek. “Maybe I’ll run into some of the stitchers at work tonight. I’ll apologize again if I do and tell them to reach out for a do-over.” Meanwhile, I needed a thirty-minute shower and massive bar of soap. Humility burned my cheeks as I recalled how awful I looked. And smelled.

  I grabbed my box and kittens, then headed for the door. I probably needed to clean the spots on my thighs where the little buggers had impaled me before the scrapes got infected.

  Sheriff Wise stood as I passed. “Now, where are you going?”

  “Home,” I said, pushing the front door wide enough to fit the box through.

  “I’ll walk you,” he offered, but I was already down the steps and heading across the field toward my place.

  “No thanks,” I called over my shoulder. “You’ve got a case to solve.”

  And I had some brainstorming of my own to do. If the sheriff had intentionally broken up Granny’s attempt to gather information, it was safe to assume he’d do the same to me, given a chance, so I had to work fast.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Thanks to a tri-county tractor pull at the fairgrounds and the local FFA banquet, the diner was too busy for me to glean any new gossip. Instead, I spun in circles for nearly four hours, delivering food and refilling drinks for a dozen strangers in logoed trucker hats and a stream of local families, their children boasting giant red, white, or blue ribbons.

  I made the most of the situation by including a half-sheet flier for Christmas at the Orchard with each of my customer’s checks. I taped a full sheet ad to the side of the cash register and inside every stall in the ladies’ room for good measure. I’d made the executive decision before work to amp up my efforts with the holiday event. The couples and handfuls of random shoppers weren’t enough, especially after losing a day to the forced closure by Sheriff Wise. We needed to draw in a crowd, and for that I had to think bigger than a few decorations and BOGO coupons. I needed to get folks talking about the orchard in positive ways again, taking pictures and sharing their experiences there, so I enhanced my original plan.

  I needed a festival.

  Now, Christmas at the Orchard would culminate in a rousing three-day weekend festival! The new fliers promised Warm Popcorn! Free Sample Ciders! Twenty-Five-Cent Hot Dogs and GAMES! The refreshments were a complete no-brainer with limited cost on my part, but I’d have to get creative about the games. There was plenty of work to be done, and I blamed Sheriff Wise for pushing me to drastic measures. I had to hustle harder if I wanted to pull in any extra money before the frigid temperatures arrived.

  I sent off every flier with a prayer and a smile while skating through a mental list of other ways to get the word out in a hurry. Smythe Orchard’s first annual Winterfest would kick off this weekend, and instinct told me that the time had come to sink or swim. The dull pressure in my chest worried there was a good chance I might sink.

  * * *

  I woke the next morning on a surge of adrenaline, ready to start making preparations for the festival. I’d stayed up late creating lists of ev
erything I’d need for supplies and decor. Sketches of potential displays littered the table and floor beside the couch where I’d fallen asleep. Schematics and logistics plans lay with fliers I’d printed for a mass mailing, and an application for buying ad space in the local paper was still on the printer.

  There was so much to be done. My heart kicked into gear at the possibilities. So many things I could accomplish. Such possibilities ahead.

  I fed the kittens while I reviewed my notes. Prizes: Coupons for our products. An item of Granny’s baked goods. A sampler of our jams. It was smart business to hand out samples. Folks would be more likely to try new things and come back for more if they received their first one for free. I turned the list of games around to read it more easily. Each could be made from things already on the property. Horseshoe toss—paint the shoes and poles to be festive. Guess how many apple seeds in a jar. Pumpkin bowling—paint the pumpkins red and green. Grapevine wreath decorating. Milk bottle ring toss. Tic-Tac-Toe Toss. Face painting. Photo ops. Photos taken outside the Mail Pouch barn would be great marketing for my future cider shop.

  My heart kicked and danced in my chest. If I could get enough interest flowing through town, some of the buzz was sure to get back to Mr. Sherman at the bank. Then maybe he’d come around on his own to see what all the fuss was about, and I would be there to finish the tour we’d started. I might even be able to convince him that loaning me money wasn’t a risk. It was an investment.

  I snuggled the kittens and looked into their big blue eyes as they worked on the bottles. They stared back in earnest and with full trust until I felt the bonds forming between us. They had an appointment with Doc Austin later, and I was eager to hear they were healthy and thriving. Their little bodies vibrated with happiness as I stroked their fur and rubbed their ears. When the bottles were empty, I set them near their new food bowls and went to dress for the day. If they were still hungry, they’d have to learn to like kibble.

  Forty minutes later, I was comfy in my softest pair of blue jeans and a holiday sweater I’d bought online. The soft navy wool had images of snow-topped mountains on it with a log cabin and a decorated pine tree front and center. Crisp white embroidery implored folks to HAVE A GOOD OLD COUNTRY CHRISTMAS. I’d fallen in love with it at first sight.

  The kittens and I arrived at Granny’s in time to walk to the fruit stand with her. She was in jeans and a red plaid button-down rolled thick at the cuffs. I suspected the shirt had been Grampy’s, and I hugged her.

  “Are you ready?” I asked.

  “Yep.” Granny passed me one of two travel mugs in her hands, then grabbed the handle on her collapsible blue canvas garden wagon and dragged it along behind her. The wagon carried boxes of treats she’d made last night and several fresh half-gallons of my specialty ciders from her stock.

  “I need to make more ciders soon,” I said. “We need to have plenty of options on hand for Christmas at the Orchard.”

  “Good idea. What do you need?” she asked. “I’ve got cinnamon sticks and nutmeg in the pantry, but I’ve been running low on pumpkin spice and a few other things since Thanksgiving.”

  “I’m not sure.” All my tasty flavors were just twists on a traditional base. Some of my recipes worked best with something tart, like Granny Smith cider, while others needed something sweeter like Honeycrisp. I’d have to see which varieties we had the most of and use those first. “I’ll check our inventory and get back to you.”

  “Text me when you know,” Granny said. “I’m going to the market today. I’ll pick up everything you need.”

  My heart swelled with gratitude. “Thanks.” I didn’t deserve Granny in my life, but I was immeasurably glad she was. Not many people had a best friend, personal cheerleader, and mother figure wrapped in one devoted package.

  “I love the idea of a winter festival,” she said, not for the first time.

  I smiled, watching our words lift into tiny clouds on the morning air. “I’m glad.”

  “People will love it,” she said. “The fall harvest festival is always a hit. I think folks will come back for winter games too.”

  I slid my arm around hers and squeezed. “We’re going to be okay,” I said.

  “I know.” She smiled back, confident and joyful as always. “We’ve got each other and that puts us both in good hands.”

  I leaned against her, feeling impossibly lighter. “Cider sampling is on the schedule for today, so I grabbed a few things from home to help entertain children while the adults take their time shopping. I thought I could set up an activity area under the fruit stand.”

  “Brilliant,” Granny said as we arrived at the tent. “How about this table in the corner?”

  “Perfect.”

  She relieved a short display table of its burdens, moving pine cones and fake holly branches to another location before straightening the white tablecloth for me. “There you go. One kiddie table.”

  I performed a deep bow, then unloaded my messenger bag.

  “What is all that?” she asked.

  I lined the items along the table where each could easily be reached by little arms. “I printed some holiday-themed coloring sheets last night and added the orchard’s logo to them. I found two plastic containers of my old crayons in the craft closet along with a set of holiday stampers and pads. I also have these giant rolls of snowflake stickers.”

  “You always loved to craft and color,” Granny said. “Such a busy and creative mind. You could probably start a preschool with the materials still in my attic.”

  “Hold that thought, because some of those things might come in handy when I start making the festival games.” I thumped a big stack of white paper onto the table’s center. “I cut a ream of printer paper into perfect squares for making snowflakes.”

  Granny patted my shoulder. “Of course you did.”

  “What do you think about leaving these scissors out?” I presented a basket of my blunt-nose and fancy-edged scrapbook scissors for her inspection. “I thought kids could use them to add a little pizzazz to their snowflakes, and if they want to write their names on them and leave them here, we can hang the finished products inside the tent for added ambience.”

  “Oh,” Granny cooed. “Everyone will love that.”

  I grabbed an armload of white gourds to weigh down the papers, then turned to survey the scene.

  “What’s the matter?” Granny asked, instantly picking up on my disappointment.

  I rubbed a palm against the wrinkles I felt gathering on my forehead. “I’m thankful for the warm temperatures that keep bringing people out,” I said, “but I wish we had a little snow to help sell the whole winter carnival idea. It’s hard to be in the Christmas mood when the forecasted temperatures keep being in the sixties.”

  Granny laughed. “That ends today,” she said. “You’ll be happy to know the morning weatherman projected falling temperatures throughout the day and snow flurries as soon as tomorrow. Besides, it’s December first, and Santa’s been ringing his bell outside the bank for weeks. Trust me. Folks know Christmas is coming.”

  I knew she was right, but I still thought a little snow would help.

  Granny unloaded her wagon with a grin. “I thought of you while I was watching my stories yesterday,” she said. “Cordelia Addington Wainsworth had a mandatory dinner party for her staff on The Young and the Pampered, and she served gourmet cider. Can you believe it? Gourmet cider.”

  Granny called the trio of soap operas that she’d been watching for the past thirty years “her stories,” and I’d believe just about anything happened on one of those. “Cordelia is the really rich lady no one likes, right?” I guessed. “She came back from the dead after that séance at her sister’s baby shower?”

  “That’s the one, but Cordelia was never dead. She faked her death to catch her sister having an affair with her husband. Hence the baby shower,” she said.

  I shook my head to clear the cuckoo. “And Cordelia served gourmet cider?”

&n
bsp; “Yes, and you should too,” she said. “The word gourmet makes everything sound fancier, then you can charge more.”

  I preferred, homemade or hand-pressed, but I liked where she was going with that.

  “Why not?” I said. My recipes were more like ongoing experiments, but I doubted anyone would pay money for something labeled that way. “Smythe Orchard now sells gourmet cider.”

  I raised my hand for a high-five, and Granny slapped her palm to mine.

  Aside from the apples themselves, cider had been one of the original products sold at Smythe Orchard. Grampy taught himself the process through research, trial and error. He’d lost a lot of apples at first, trying to get it right, but in the end cider had become part of his legacy.

  I’d loved apple cider since my very first taste, and I’d tried different ways to serve it as soon as I was old enough to realize how adding different ingredients changed the flavor. I’d created my first recipe during middle school home economics using Grampy’s Honeycrisp cider as the base. I hadn’t stopped revising since.

  Sometimes, I made cider at home with just a Crock-Pot and whatever apples were on hand, but for the orchard, I used equipment inside our press house and followed Grampy’s tried and true process. I washed the apples until they shined, then ground them into pulp and pushed the pulp through a press to separate the juice. From there, the juice was strained until only fine bits of apple and sediment remained. The results were heated to destroy pathogens and bacteria and to keep the natural sugars from becoming alcohol. I used the finished products to make my gourmet flavors.

  “Are you working on anything new right now?” Granny asked.

  “No.” I’d been sidetracked with plans for the cider shop before we lost Mrs. Cooper. Then, life had begun to unravel from there. Cider making was on the back burner, but it couldn’t stay that way, not with a winter festival coming up.

  Granny popped open her red camping chair near the register and sank onto the sturdy canvas with a smile. “I predict a crowd today, Winnie,” she said, beaming at the orchard gates and tapping her palms against the chair’s arms. “We might need to put up ropes and signs that read, LINE FORMS HERE, to control the crowd.”