Blackberry Burial Read online

  BLACKBERRY BURIAL

  With a jubilant bark, Charlie burst out of the bushes towards me. I let out a sigh of relief as he pranced back and forth, tantalizingly out of reach. Trying to calm down my racing heart, I held out the doggy treat. With a happy yelp, he took the treat from my hand. He only needed two bites to finish it off. Murmuring endearments, I scratched behind his ears as I tried to slip the leash over his head with my other hand. Thinking this was a great new game, Charlie snatched the leash and ran off.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I raced after him. “Charlie!”

  The leash clenched between his teeth prevented Charlie from barking, so I needed to keep close behind him. But he not only was the size of a small horse, he could run as fast as one, too. Five minutes later, he disappeared. This was ridiculous. Needing to catch my breath, I stopped and fished my cell phone from the messenger bag slung across my chest. I didn’t care if Piper was wearing designer stilts. Charlemagne was her dog, and she was going to come in here and track down her monster puppy.

  Before I could call her, loud barks broke out to my left. This time I was the one to burst through the bushes. He wasn’t getting away again. But Charlie stopped barking as soon as he saw me. I knew now why he had been quiet for the past few minutes. He’d been digging away in the dirt, which he resumed upon my arrival. I looked for his leash and spotted it a few yards away, half buried by the dirt he flung to all sides. I picked up the leash before Charlie could get to it first. As soon as I did, I also spied what appeared to be an animal bone. Most likely a deer.

  But when I turned to see what Charlie was digging up now, my heart sank. It was another bone, but not one belonging to a deer. In fact, it was far more than a bone.

  It was a human skull . . .

  Books by Sharon Farrow

  DYING FOR STRAWBERRIES

  BLACKBERRY BURIAL

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Blackberry Burial

  Sharon Farrow

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  BLACKBERRY BURIAL

  Books by Sharon Farrow

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Sharon Pisacreta

  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.

  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.”

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-0488-7

  First Kensington Mass Market Edition: November 2017

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0489-4

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-0489-4

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: November 2017

  To the beautiful villages and towns that hug the eastern coast of Lake Michigan, especially Saugatuck, Douglas, and South Haven. Discovering the charm and magical energy of this shoreline transformed my life.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank my agent, John Talbot, for selling the Berry Basket series so quickly, and for always being supportive. Another big thanks to the wonderful people at Kensington, particularly John Scognamiglio, Karen Auerbach, and Holly Fairbank. A special thanks to my best friend’s husband, Randy Mims, who told me everything I needed to know about road rallies. I’m grateful to the Saugatuck-Douglas Historical Society for hosting a meeting at Crane Orchards. The stories told by Crane family members about running an orchard in Michigan’s fruit belt were fascinating and invaluable. Finally, a special shout-out to the Oxbow Art School in Saugatuck, which served as my nonlethal inspiration for Oriole Point’s Blackberry Art School. I hope Oxbow and its gifted students continue to create beauty for another century.

  Chapter 1

  I was prepared to do a great deal for my business. Dying my hair raspberry red was not one of them. Now I only had to convince the photographer. For two years, the same photo had accompanied my bio on The Berry Basket website. However, months of badgering by my fashion-forward employee, Dean Cabot, finally wore me down. He so despaired of my old photo that I began to think it might be as hideous as he claimed. So here I was, posing for photos before the store opened, while defending my refusal to look like Batman villainess Poison Ivy.

  “I’m a natural brunette,” I reminded him for the tenth time. “Accept it. There’s no way I’m changing my hair color to match whatever fruit is in season. And we agreed on a nice simple photo to go on the store’s website and Facebook page. Nothing glam or bizarre.”

  “There’s nothing glam or bizarre about dying your hair a different color every month,” Dean protested. “Look how often Paige Lindstrom changes her hair color.”

  Paige was a numerologist who worked at Gemini Rising, the town’s New Age bookstore. Yes, she currently had pink hair, but before that she’d spent all her life as a Nordic blonde like her ancestors before her. “Paige also has multiple tattoos and body piercings. Should I cover my arms and face with berry tattoos?”

  Dean’s eyes widened. “Not a bad way to establish The Berry Basket brand. After all, your business is devoted to berries: berry-flavored syrups, wines, coffees, teas, pancake mixes, jams, smoothies, pastries. And not just foods, either. You sell books about berries, jewelry made in the shape of berries, ceramic berry bowls, berry hullers, berry-scented candles—”

  “I know what The Berry Basket sells. You don’t have to list our entire inventory.”

  “Marlee, you’re ‘The’ Berry Girl along the lakeshore. And you once produced cooking shows for the Gourmet Living Network. You’re one of a kind, so make your marketing platform as unique as you are. Go beyond what’s expected.” When Dean wasn’t working at the shop, he ran a popular blog called The Dean Report. The blog’s gossipy, irreverent take on life along the Lake Michigan shore had made it a surprising success. I was happy for Dean, even if he now fancied himself an expert on fashion, marketing, and life in general.

  “I do agree that dying my hair the color of raspberries would be unexpected.”

  “You should listen to me,” he said. “Customers would visit your social media sites—and this store—just to see what fruit you had dyed your hair to match.”

  Dean’s brother laughed. Slouched at one of the bistro tables near the ice cream counter, Andrew had a ringside seat for my photo shoot. “I’ll be first in line if Marlee colors her hair a nice juniper berry green.”

  Dean aimed his camera at me. “This photo’s going to end up as dull as the one it’s replacing. You might as well be posin
g for your senior class photo at Oriole Point High.”

  “Sounds good to me.” I readjusted my blue chef ’s apron with The Berry Basket logo emblazoned over the front. “Especially if you can make me look eighteen again. Now hurry up. We have to open in fifteen minutes.”

  Standing behind my store counter, I held up a white porcelain bowl heaped with fresh blackberries and raspberries. Dean could grumble all he liked. I was the owner of The Berry Basket and his boss. Not that I was immune to his influence; otherwise I wouldn’t be posing for dozens of photos holding bags of cranberry granola mix and blueberry beef jerky.

  “Let’s get a few of you scooping ice cream next.”

  “No way.” I smoothed my hair before he clicked away again. “You’ve taken pictures of me doing everything but scrubbing the shop toilet. We’re done after this.”

  A sudden rapping on the door signaled the end had come sooner than expected. I sighed with relief. “That’s Piper come to regale me with more road rally problems. Let her in.”

  Andrew jumped up to unlock the door.

  “If Piper’s here, we may as well call it quits,” Dean grumbled.

  He was right. When Piper Lyall-Pierce entered a room, she commanded attention—literally. She was a member of the oldest founding family of Oriole Point, along with being the wife of our mayor, Lionel Pierce. Piper was also the richest inhabitant of our lakeshore village. In a town catering to numerous Chicagoans who kept lavish vacation homes here, that was saying something. But even had she been a recent transplant who had married the grocer, Piper would instinctively take center stage. Which she did as soon as Andrew opened the door.

  Piper hurried into the shop without a glance at either of the Cabot brothers. That was remarkable since the brothers were tall, auburn haired, and attractive; they were often taken for twins, even though they’d been born eleven months apart. Today they were more eye catching than usual, decked out in matching white tailored shorts, yellow leather boat shoes, and yellow Oxford shirts. Such sartorial splendor seemed a waste; they were required to wear a Berry Basket chef apron over any outfit they had on. Maybe they’d decided to launch the latest fad of the season, something the boys had done since they were in elementary school and convinced their classmates to glue Pokémon cards onto their T-shirts.

  “Bad news, Marlee.” She marched up to the counter, ignoring the fact that Dean was still trying to photograph me. “We can’t use the Grunkemeyer farm for the Blackberry Road Rally.”

  I groaned. “I wanted to send the poster artwork to the printer this afternoon. Now I’ll have to hold off until we pick a new starting location for the rally.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” Piper flung her Birkin onto the counter. She owned an endless supply of the expensive Hermès bags in every conceivable color. Today her electric blue handbag perfectly matched the linen tank top she wore with her white summer blazer and slacks. When it came to fashion, not even the Cabots could outshine—or outspend—Piper.

  “Some tourists from Wisconsin went there yesterday to take photos of his barn,” she said. “I told Henry that if his wife painted that enormous portrait of their favorite cow on the barn, it would attract all sorts of attention. Well, one of the tourists tripped over a post auger and cut his leg. There’s talk of a lawsuit, even though the man didn’t even hemorrhage. But you know how people are nowadays. Worried about tetanus. Ready to sue over the slightest thing.”

  Having grown up playing in my family’s orchards, I knew how sharp the blades of a post auger were. I doubted the cut on the leg was all that slight. “Is the man okay?”

  She waved her hand. “Oh, he’s fine. Except his lawyer has accused Henry of being criminally negligent. Ridiculous. How is it Henry’s fault if some fool can’t see a post auger lying in the grass? Now he’s afraid a participant in the road rally might get hurt when they visit his farm. So we need a replacement for the Grunkemeyer farm.”

  I thought for a moment. “How about the Sanderling place? I drove by it last week on the way to New Bethel. It’s a little off the beaten track, but that might make things more fun.”

  Dean cleared his throat. “I don’t know how good a choice the Sanderling farm is.”

  “By the way, I don’t like these new road rally rules.” Andrew joined us. “Oscar wanted to be part of the rally, but he doesn’t qualify.”

  Oscar Lucas was the owner of Beguiling Blooms, a florist shop in a neighboring lakeshore town. In addition to working part-time for me, Andrew worked at Beguiling Blooms. It was fortuitous that Oscar the florist proved to be as beguiling as his blooms; he and Andrew were now a romantic pair.

  “He can be part of it next year when it reverts to being the Raspberry Road Rally,” Piper said. “But it’s not my fault Mr. Lucas never took classes at BAS. I’m only following the rules.”

  None of us mentioned that Piper was the one who drew up the rules for this July’s road rally—and every one that came before. Soon after she took over the Oriole Point Tourist and Visitor Center, Piper organized the first Raspberry Road Rally. Tourists and residents alike enjoyed taking part in the annual event, especially since the prize money was sizable. This year, however, Piper had dedicated the rally to BAS, otherwise known as the Blackberry Art School.

  An art colony since the late nineteenth century, Oriole Point had always attracted artists and bohemians from Chicago; several of them established an art school at the Blackberry Bayou. The summer sessions held in this rustic complex along the banks of the Oriole River were as widely known as those offered at the Oxbow Art School in nearby Saugatuck. This year, BAS celebrated its centenary, and alumni from around the country would arrive soon to take part in the festivities. Ever mindful of a way to boost tourism, Piper decided to honor the centenary by holding a special road rally named after the school. Because she loved to make things exclusive, participation in the rally was limited to students of BAS, past and present. While that included the Cabot brothers and myself, it did not embrace Andrew’s beguiling boyfriend.

  “I hope Andrew and I aren’t disqualified because we work for you, Marlee,” Dean said. “Since you’re helping Piper run the event, people may assume we know stuff about the rally the other contestants don’t. We don’t want to be accused of cheating.”

  Piper plucked one of the berries from the bowl I still held. “Marlee is only helping with promotion. Ruth Barlow and I came up with all the rally clues. I only brought Marlee on board because Ruth had the audacity to break her arm during our final planning stages. But Marlee knows nothing about this rally except where it’s scheduled to begin. And thanks to the Grunkemeyers, not even I know that now.” She popped the blackberry into her mouth.

  “I vote for the Sanderling farm,” I said once more, “if we can get permission from Gordon Sanderling.”

  “I don’t see how Gordon could object. It’s not even a working farm any longer.” She pulled out her cell phone from the Birkin. “I’ll give him a call. If he says yes, you and I can drive over there and check things out.” Piper shot me one of her rare approving glances. “I made the right decision when I appointed you as my promo person.”

  When Piper moved off to make her call, Andrew grabbed a few blackberries from my bowl. “If as many people sign up for this thing as rumored, the prize money will be the biggest ever. Dean and I plan to win it.”

  “Don’t start spending that prize money too soon. Tess and I will be stiff competition.”

  Dean looked at me in surprise. “I didn’t know you were signed up.”

  “How could I not be part of one devoted to BAS? Tess and I attended two summer sessions there as teenagers. Where do you think Tess discovered her love of glassmaking?” Our classes at BAS helped my best friend to become an award-winning graduate at the Rhode Island School of Design, where she met fellow glass artist David Reese. She and David had been a romantic and professional couple ever since. And while my printmaking lessons at BAS had little to do with my present career, it did inspire me to get
a marketing degree at NYU.

  I went over to the register to count out the day’s starting cash and coins. “The other road rally participants and I only know this year’s theme, which is ‘Art Along the Lakeshore.’ After all, ads for the rally have been in the local papers for weeks.”

  “If the clues are about art, our chances of winning look good,” Dean said. “Andrew and I attended BAS for an entire summer. Although I was a much better painter than he was.”

  Andrew smirked. “Please. You were so afraid of getting paint on your clothes, you only used one color: beige.” He turned to me. “His canvases looked like smashed Cheerios.”

  “Well, you must have been impressed. You copied everything I painted, only in blue.”

  “Liar!”

  “Keep your voices down.” I pointed to Piper, who was hunched over her phone by the window. “If the two of you want to increase your chances of winning, why not ride with me and Tess? Up to six people are allowed per car.”

  The brothers shot matching grins at me. “I can get on board with that,” Andrew said.

  Dean nodded. “This way, the four of us will have the painting, glasswork, and printmaking clues covered. Assuming those are the types of clues Piper’s come up with. Maybe we should find a potter to join us.”

  “You’re overthinking this,” I said.

  “All settled,” Piper announced as she walked over. “Gordon turned me down at first, but I mentioned that Lionel and I are redoing five of our bathrooms this autumn, and we’re looking for a company to contract with. That was enough to get him to come around.”

  “Exactly how many bathrooms do you have?” Andrew asked her.

  “Nine. No, ten. I forgot the one in the pool house.”