Death of a Bad Apple (7 page)

Honey made a face and shook her head. “No. I went to bed right after all of you. You probably heard my TV. I sometimes turn it up too loud.” She glanced at me.

Jake nodded, stuffed a bite of pancake into his mouth, and let it go. Thank God. But he'd made his
point. For some reason, Honey was sticking to her lie about the midnight visitors. The question was, why?

“Well, I slept like a baby,” Aunt Abby said. “Honey, that bed is so comfy. I hated getting up this morning.” She turned to Dillon. “You didn't stay up all night on that computer, did you, dear?”

Dillon, his mouth full of apple pancake, just shrugged. His room had been on the other side of Jake's and mine, so even if he'd been up, he probably wouldn't have heard or seen the late-night talkers with his earbuds plugged in. And if Aunt Abby was out like a baby, neither would she.

“How about you, Paula?” I asked the young woman who was sipping her coffee, eschewing the high-calorie breakfast. Her room had also been across the hall, but maybe she'd done a little sleepwalking and had seen or heard something.

She looked up, as if coming out of a deep trance. “Huh?”

“I was just asking how you slept,” I said, wondering what she'd been thinking about so intently.

“Oh, fine,” she said, setting down her coffee. She patted her mouth with her cloth napkin, then rose. “If you'll excuse me, I've got a lot to do before the festival opens. Thanks for the breakfast,” she said to Honey, nodding at her untouched plate. With that she left the table and headed upstairs.

The conversation turned to questions about the festival. We asked Honey what to expect, how big the crowd would be, what were the favorite attractions and foods at the festival. She was in the middle of
telling us how many different types of caramel apples were available when Paula came back down the stairs.

“Honey?” Paula said, pausing on the bottom step. “Do you have an extra key for Roman's room?”

Honey frowned. “Why?”

“He's not answering my knock, and I know he has things to do this morning. I think I'd better wake him.”

My first thought was,
So they weren't sleeping together.

Honey backed her chair out and stood up. She went behind the counter in the front hall, opened a drawer, and pulled out a key. “I don't usually hand out extra keys without getting permission, so I'll go with you.”

“Whatever,” Paula said, shrugging. She turned and headed back up the stairs, with Honey right behind her.

We resumed our conversations. I was growing more intrigued about the festival with every detail Honey had shared. Other than the Chocolate Festival, I'd never done anything like this before and wondered how different it would be from our usual food truck business. I planned to gather a bunch of recipes for my work-in-progress cookbook, and I hoped the crowds liked Aunt Abby's offering. How could they not? She'd worked hard to perfect the recipe for her salted caramel-apple tarts and always took a lot of pride in her work.

“Well,” Aunt Abby said, wiping her mouth, “I'd
better get ready. Dillon, are you about finished with breakfast?”

Before Dillon could answer, the sound of loud pounding boomed from upstairs. Everyone turned toward the noise.

Then someone screamed.

I couldn't tell if it was Honey or Paula, but the hairs on the back of my neck tingled. Jake stood up and rushed to the stairs. I quickly followed, then Abby, then Dillon. We reached the top landing, one after another. Honey and Paula stood outside Roman's room, Honey with her hand to her mouth, Paula's mouth wide-open. The door was open, the key still in the lock.

Jake walked over to them and I followed him. We peered in.

Roman Gold lay naked, facedown, on the bed. A pool of blood had soaked the pillow and sheets around his head and chest. Some kind of knifelike instrument stuck out at the back of his neck.

Obviously Roman Gold was dead. Stabbed to death in bed.

While we'd all been in the house.

“Call nine-one-one!” Aunt Abby cried, peering into the room between Jake and me, but Jake was already on it. He had his cell phone to his ear and was clearly waiting for an answer. Honey started to enter the room, but Jake extended his other arm to keep her and everyone else out while he talked to the dispatcher.

“What's the address here?” he said to Honey. She gave it to him and he relayed it to the dispatcher and disconnected the call.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” Honey kept repeating, her hand still covering her mouth. “Should we do something for him? Like cover him up?”

“We wait for the police,” Jake said, taking charge.

“What's that thing sticking out of his neck?” Paula said. I looked at her. She didn't seem overly upset that her coworker was dead.

Honey suddenly gasped.

“What is it?” Aunt Abby asked, putting an arm around the distraught innkeeper.

Honey shook her head. “Nothing . . . I thought . . . it was nothing.”

“She's probably in shock,” Aunt Abby whispered to me. “I saw on
Criminal Minds
that some people who witness a crime can go into shock.”

Aunt Abby got most of her forensic information from television crime shows. I had a feeling she and Detective Shelton had some interesting discussions on the subject.

“Honey, why don't you make everyone a cup of coffee or tea while we wait for the police?” I suggested. Giving her something to do might get her mind off the dead man in her guest bed.

Honey began to ramble again. “Who would do this? Right here in my bed-and-breakfast?”

“I think the bigger question is, how did the killer get in?” Paula said, reflecting my thoughts. She turned to Honey. “Did you lock the front door last night?”

From inside the inn, Honey's keys were fairly accessible to anyone in the under-counter drawer that didn't appear to be locked. Anyone could have slipped into his room in the middle of the night, lifted the key, entered his room, and stabbed him. But it would have to be someone who knew about the location of the keys.

Honey looked bewildered. “I'm sure I locked it. At least, I think so. I . . .”

I remembered startling her as she came in the door.
Could her embarrassment at bumping my head have caused her to forget to lock up?

Paula persisted, crossing her arms in front of her. “But you're not sure, are you? And
that's
probably how the killer got in.”

“How do you know there was a killer?” Honey asked, facing her accuser. “Maybe he committed suicide.”

Paula rolled her eyes. “Well, he sure didn't stab himself in the back of the neck, now, did he?” Paula's tone was growing increasingly hostile. Was she trying to blame Honey for Roman's death?

“Do you think he was killed while we were sleeping last night?” Aunt Abby added, stating the obvious.

“Won't know for sure until the coroner checks the body,” Jake said, “but it had to have been sometime between ten, when he went to bed, and eight thirty this morning, when we checked on him.”

“Hmmm,” Aunt Abby mused. “This is like one of those Agatha Christie plots, where everyone is gathered at the summerhouse, there's a locked-room murder, and all the guests are suspects. Where's Poirot when you need him?”

I nudged my aunt with my elbow. This was not the time to compare a real murder to a fictional one. Even though she had a point. It
was
a locked room. We
were
all gathered at the inn. And we
could
all be suspects.

The sound of sirens jarred us all from our discussion. Honey ran down the stairs to let in the first
responders while I leaned over the railing and watched from the second-floor landing. The door opened before Honey could reach it and a man wearing a sheriff's khaki uniform let himself in. It appeared Honey had a habit of not locking the front door, and the sheriff must have known this and felt comfortable enough to walk in. He was followed by a uniformed woman.

Honey pointed to the second floor, and the sheriff and deputy headed up. Right behind them, two paramedics rushed in, gloved and carrying large cases of medical equipment. Our small group shuffled back as the officers and EMTs shouldered past us and entered the room. One of the EMTs went directly to the side of the bed, knelt down, and felt for a pulse. The other stood by, talking on his radio. The female deputy hung back, waiting for orders, while the sheriff looked on.

After a few seconds, the first paramedic shook his head and stood up.

“Deceased,” he announced.

“I'll call it in,” the other one said. The EMTs lifted their bags and headed out, passing our little group by the door.

“Stand back, people,” the sheriff said, taking command. I looked him over, wondering if I could judge his competence from his appearance. He was tall, pale skinned, freckled, with a white mustache and a paunch. His hat covered most of his hair, but short wisps of matching white hair were visible below the
brim. I guessed he was in his mid-fifties, so he'd probably had some experience on the job. But had he had much experience with homicides out here in peaceful Apple Valley? I couldn't help wondering what Detective Shelton's take would be on all this. We'd know soon enough, once he arrived.

We shuffled back like cattle and resumed our spots at the threshold of the room.

“Anyone been in here?” the sheriff asked.

“No,” Honey said. “Paula here and I discovered him when I opened the door. Then Jake called nine-one-one.”

The sheriff looked over at the body, eyed the weapon sticking out of Roman's neck, and turned to us again. “Anyone know him?”

“I do . . . did,” Paula said. “We worked together. I'm his photographer. He's a writer.”

“What's his name?” the sheriff asked Paula.

“Uh . . . Roman Gold,” she answered.

The wide-eyed young deputy took down the name in her small notepad. She was short and hefty, her latte-colored skin was makeup free, and she was hatless, her dark hair collected into a thick bun at the back of her head. I wondered if homicide was new to her. She looked fresh out of the academy. Her name tag read
JAVIER
.

“What was he doing here?”

“Uh, writing an article on the Apple Festival,” Paula answered.

The sheriff turned to the rest of us. “I want you all to go downstairs and wait for me in Honey's dining
room. I'm going to need statements from each of you. Honey, can you put on a pot of that good coffee you make? Bonita, will you escort these people to the dining room and wait for me there? I'll call the coroner and get Ravi over here.”

“Copy that,” the deputy said. She looked nervous in spite of the authority of the uniform and the heavy-duty, laden belt she wore. A rookie for sure, still trying to prove herself.

The sheriff looked as though he wanted to roll his eyes. Instead, he nodded a dismissal.

“If everyone will follow me, please,” Deputy Bonita Javier said before she led us down the stairs. We found our places at the dining room table, where a plate of cookies awaited us. After a few minutes, Honey appeared holding a tray filled with cups of coffee. She passed them out, then took a seat.

I realized Dillon had disappeared somewhere between the breakfast table and the discovery of the body. No wonder. The cops had arrived. Dillon and cops didn't mix.

“How long are we going to have to wait here?” Paula said, checking her cell phone. “I have a lot of work to do.”

Apparently she wasn't mourning the death of her friend so much.

“I don't want to sound callous,” Aunt Abby said, “but the festival starts in less than an hour and I have a food truck to run.”

“Sheriff O'Neil will be down soon,” the deputy said, after taking a sip of her coffee.

Paula cleared her throat. “Uh . . . what about my coffee?” she said to Honey.

Honey looked at her. “Oh, did I forget you? Sorry. Would you like some?”

“If it's not too much trouble.”

“I guess I could make another pot,” Honey said, making no attempt to rise from the table.

“Never mind,” Paula said, sounding irritated. She returned her attention to her cell phone.

We waited in silence, sipping our coffees. A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Honey glanced at the deputy for permission to answer it, then hustled over. The sheriff came bounding down the stairs as Honey opened the door. She welcomed in a woman wearing blue scrubs.

“Ravi,” the sheriff said, greeting her from the bottom of the stairs.

“Murph,” the woman answered in greeting. I guessed she was the coroner. “Where?”

Sheriff O'Neil pointed upstairs.

She nodded. “Lead the way,” she said, and followed the sheriff up the stairs.

Honey returned to the table and sat down, wringing her hands. “Oh dear,” she mumbled several times.

“It'll be all right,” Aunt Abby said to her, patting her shoulder. “They'll find out what happened and who did this. Don't worry.”

Honey nodded, but her absent gaze told me she wasn't really listening. We spent the next few minutes in our own worlds—Paula texting, Honey worrying, Aunt Abby comforting, Jake frowning, Deputy Bonita sipping her coffee and jotting some notes. As for me, I just wondered how the hell I'd ended up at another murder investigation.

•   •   •

Half an hour later, the sheriff and coroner came down the stairs. We all looked up, anxious to hear the answer to the big question: What happened to Roman Gold?

The sheriff shook hands with the coroner at the front door and said good-bye. Then he ambled over to the table where we'd been waiting.

“Everyone, this is our sheriff, Sheriff Murphy O'Neil,” Honey said, introducing him. She turned to him. “Any idea what happened, Murph?”

The sheriff frowned. “Ravi thinks the vic was stabbed between two and four in the morning, judging by the body temp. He was probably asleep—no signs of a struggle.”

“What was that thing in his neck?” Paula repeated her earlier question.

Sheriff O'Neil dug in his pocket and pulled out a plastic baggie. He held it up. “Anyone recognize this?” He watched our reactions carefully.

Everyone shook their heads.

Except one.

The sheriff zeroed in on our innkeeper. “Honey?”

“It . . . it looks like one of my antique apple corers, but I don't have any idea how it got—” She stopped suddenly. The look of horror on her face could have meant several things. Horror at the thought of Roman being stabbed with it? Horror that someone used her antique corer?

Or horror that she could be implicated in a murder?

“You want to show me where it came from?” the sheriff asked her.

She bit her lip, nodded, rose, and walked into the adjoining parlor. We watched from our seats as she pointed to a framed display of antique tools on one of the walls. I hadn't noticed it before, among all the other antiques, knickknacks, artwork, and usual clutter found in many bed-and-breakfast inns.

Clearly, one of the six tools within the framed display was missing.

Honey's eyes were wide as she stared at the display. “I . . . I . . .”

“Bonita,” the sheriff said. “Take Honey into the kitchen and make her some tea or something. I'm going to talk to the guests for a few minutes.”

Deputy Bonita rose from the table and collected Honey, pulling her gently away from her fixated gaze. She led her to the kitchen and they disappeared from sight. The sheriff took a seat at the table.

“All right, do any of you know anything about this man's death?”

Interesting. If we'd been in the city, Detective Shelton would have questioned us one by one, individually and separately. Apparently out here in the country, the sheriff did things differently. We all shook our heads. When he asked where we'd been during the hours of two and four a.m., we gave our alibis. Aunt Abby said, “Asleep.” Paula said, “Me too.” Jake nodded and repeated, “Asleep.” Then it was my turn.

I
hadn't
been asleep at two in the morning. And neither had Honey.

I confessed to the sheriff that I couldn't sleep and had heard voices outside.

“What kind of voices?” he asked, one eyebrow arching.

“Well, I thought there were three or four people—two or three men and a woman—but I couldn't be absolutely sure. It was dark and they were in the shadows. I went downstairs to see what was going on, but by the time I got there, the men were gone.”

“What about the woman?” he asked, taking notes in a small notebook he'd withdrawn from his pocket.

Uh-oh. I was just about to incriminate Honey. “I. . . .think it was Honey.”

“How do you know?”

“She came in the door when I got downstairs.”

Sheriff O'Neil looked up. “What were they talking about?”

“I couldn't make out the words. . . .”

In fact, I remembered hearing something like
“run” and “ruin,” but I couldn't be sure, so I didn't mention it.

The sheriff eyed me. “How did they sound?”

I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable with what I was about to say. But if I didn't answer the question truthfully, I'd be committing a crime by withholding possible evidence.

I glanced at Jake and Aunt Abby, hoping they'd save me somehow from having to say anything more. Jake shrugged. Aunt Abby just stared at me, her eyes wide.

I took a deep breath, then said, “It sounded like they were arguing.”

Uh-oh. The murder took place in Honey's inn. The weapon belonged to her. And she and Roman had disagreed about GMO apples during last night's dinner conversation.

Had I just incriminated Honey Smith?