Chapter One
“Libby, I’m so happy to see you,” called Kate Hoskins, a major donor to the Dogwood Springs History Museum where I served as director. She waved as I climbed out of my car at the Witley Historic Orchard and Retreat Center.
“I’m happy to see you too.” I opened a door to the back seat, and my golden retriever, Bella, bounded out with her tail wagging.
The rolling hills around us were covered by trees laden with apples, the sky was bright blue, and the temperature was in the low seventies. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves, and birds softly called. It was a perfect early October day to visit an orchard.
“Your presentations are going to be such a fun addition to our twenty-five-year reunion.” Kate beamed and walked toward me. Her wavy red hair shone in the late afternoon sun as she bent down to say hello to Bella.
I reached back into the car and pulled out an easel and a stack of enlarged photos I’d mounted on solid backing.
Kate took the photos from me. “Do you need help carrying anything else?”
“No, today’s artifact is small.” I slid the easel under one arm and patted my oversized purse. “It’s in here.”
I’d brought along a historic item I thought they would all appreciate—a souvenir spoon from the grand opening of their alma mater, Grove University.
“Come on over and meet everyone.” She gestured to a group of people standing near a cluster of picnic tables outside a quaint red barn.
Kate and I walked across the gravel parking lot. Bella explored as far as her leash would allow, sniffing first at the driveway toward the road, then toward an old white farmhouse, which I identified from what I’d read online as the retreat center.
“You know, when you first called me a few weeks ago, I wasn’t sure about doing these talks,” I said. A small gust of wind sent a smattering of leaves tumbling across the ground and swirled my shoulder-length brown hair across my face. I smoothed it back into place.
“I could tell. It took a bit of a sales pitch to convince you.” Kate’s brown eyes twinkled. “Luckily, I’m good at those.”
She was. Normally, I didn’t make presentations at private events this small. But Kate, who ran her family’s large real estate firm in Kansas City, had quickly brought me on board with her plan. Here I was at the end of the workday on Monday, just as she’d asked.
Back in college, Kate and her friends had formed their own club, the Society of History Scholars, a group she readily admitted some had called nerdy. They’d leaned into that nerdiness and embraced it, a fact that warmed my heart, not just because they’d discussed history, but also because they’d had the courage to be true to themselves.
When Kate had heard about the Grove University reunion this upcoming weekend, she’d decided their club should reunite and add its own events. First, she’d rented the retreat center at the orchard for them to use for the week. Then she’d convinced me to come out tonight and every morning after breakfast for the rest of the workweek to share a story about one of my favorite historic artifacts from the museum.
She’d even checked with the orchard owners and invited Bella. Kate had met my dog downtown one day when she was visiting Dogwood Springs. I was taking Bella for a walk, and when I’d introduced them, Bella had tipped her head to one side and politely offered her paw to shake, totally charming Kate.
Not that I was surprised. My sweet Bella had never met a stranger. I couldn’t imagine a better dog in the whole world. She was incredibly smart, beautiful, and a big furry bundle of love. As we walked, I reached out and patted her back. A rush of warmth encircled my heart. Adopting Bella was one of the best decisions I’d ever made.
“Now that I’m here at the orchard,” I said as we neared the group standing near the picnic tables by the barn, “I’m really excited. I think you had a great idea.”
What could be better? The atmosphere was idyllic, and I’d be speaking to a group of history enthusiasts. I’d prepared presentations that could later double as programs for the entire Dogwood Springs community. And then there was Kate’s irresistible offer—she’d promised to double her latest generous donation to the museum if I agreed to her plan. As the director of a nonprofit, I’d worked hard to rebuild my life over the past year and a half, so how could I possibly say no to that?
We set my things down on one of the picnic tables.
“Let me introduce Hannah and Noah Porter, the owners of the orchard.” Kate gestured to a slender woman with short, tousled dark hair and a tall, bearded man with chestnut hair. “The orchard has been in Hannah’s family for more than a hundred years.”
“It’s beautiful,” I said to them. “I’d love to learn more about its early operation. And I’ve heard your apples and cider are delicious.”
They both smiled, and Hannah promised to tell me the history of the orchard.
Bella approached Noah and Hannah, giving them each ample opportunity to pet her.
“Hannah was one of our friends back in college,” Kate said, “so we had the privilege of spending time here on weekends when we were at Grove University. I loved coming here every fall to go apple picking.”
As always, when I spent time with Kate, I noticed how closely she paid attention when she talked with people, making each person in the conversation feel important.
“So many great memories from those days,” a man with sandy blond hair and a Grove University football letter jacket said as the others moved closer.
“These are the rest of our friends.” Kate gestured, then introduced them one by one.
She started with Chad Weaver, the man in the letter jacket, and his wife, Francie, who had long blond curly hair and big blue eyes.
“Chad’s a businessman in St. Louis.”
“Missouri Fan Gear,” he said.
I’d heard that name. “I think I know someone who orders St. Louis Cardinals shirts from you.”
“We sell a lot of them.” A note of pride rang in Chad’s voice, and he stood taller as if bolstered by the recognition.
“And you’ve probably seen Francie on TV,” Kate said. “She’s a news anchor on Channel 7 in St. Louis.”
Francie fluffed her hair and gave me a look like a benevolent royal. My role as a fan seemed to go without question.
A hint of disapproval flashed through Kate’s eyes.
I nodded to the news queen even though I didn’t watch the St. Louis station.
Kate turned to a plump woman with hazel eyes and mousy brown hair cut like a mushroom cap. “This is Jessica Evans. She also lives in St. Louis, and she teaches elementary school.”
“Fourth grade,” Jessica said.
“A great age,” I replied. “I always love it when older elementary kids visit the museum.”
Jessica gave me a hesitant smile. “At first, I thought I wouldn’t be able to be here this week, but it’s fall break at my school.”
Her words sounded forced. If I had to guess, I’d say she was one of those people who felt comfortable around children, but awkward around adults.
“That did work out nicely.” I smiled back at her, trying to put her at ease.
“The timing worked out for me as well.” A short man with thinning dark hair adjusted his gold wire-framed glasses. “Our school just began scheduling a fall recess into the academic calendar this year, and I couldn’t be more pleased. The students need an opportunity to reconnect with family and rejuvenate for the remainder of the semester. And it gave me the perfect chance to see old friends.”
“This is Derek Reed,” Kate said. “He’s the dean at a liberal arts college in Kansas.”
I shook his hand and told myself not to be nervous that I’d be presenting history to an academic.
“Last but not least, Tabitha Tucker.” Kate touched the arm of a woman with ash blonde hair and warm brown eyes. “She’s also a news anchor, but she lives in Omaha.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Tabitha said. “I’m looking forward to your presentations.”
“I hope you enjoy them.” I was struck by the similarities between her and Francie. Tabitha was more rounded than Francie, who was so thin she seemed almost angular, and her hair was not as light, but their hairstyles and makeup were almost identical.
Bella walked up to each person, head high and eyes shining with delight. She loved meeting new people.
Derek asked her name, and I introduced her. All the alumni responded as I hoped, saying she was beautiful, scratching her ears, and telling her what a good dog she was.
I looked at them, mentally reviewing their names. I knew them now, but I was fairly certain they would all blur in my mind later. “Please forgive me if it takes me a day or two to keep everyone straight.”
“Of course,” Tabitha said, her voice full of understanding.
Really, the only member of the group who stood out was Francie.
Having come straight from work at the museum, I was dressed up in black pants, a blazer, a blouse that set off my green eyes, and my customary pearls. Aside from Francie, all the others wore jeans and sweaters or casual jackets. Even though Kate’s outfit looked expensive, it was still casual, and Tabitha’s was particularly stylish with darling little brown boots. Francie, on the other hand, wore a dressy cream blouse, a cream wool poncho, and cream pants, which seemed ill-advised for a picnic.
In addition, according to Kate, the group had met in a freshman history class. If this was their twenty-fifth college reunion, they all had to be about forty-six. Francie, though, looked closer to my age, thirty-three. And was it my imagination, or was her forehead immobile?
I guess Botox wouldn’t be unusual for a TV personality in a market as large as St. Louis.
“Ready to get things started?” Noah gave the group a broad smile and held up a stack of small baskets. “We’ve got four varieties of apples ready for harvest.” He handed a basket to each alum. “Fuji, Winesap, Arkansas Black, and a few Jonathans.”
He pointed out the sections of the orchard where each variety grew and reminded them to look for apples farthest from the trunk, which would be the ripest, to keep the stem on, and to lift the apple in their palm and gently twist it to remove it from the tree.
Then he angled his head toward a spigot in the yard. “Afterward, you can each rinse off an apple to have with our picnic dinner and keep the rest to snack on throughout your time at the retreat center. Fresh fall apples, straight from the tree. What could be better?”
The alums looked out at the orchard, eyes shining as if energized by his excitement.
“We’ve got ingredients in the retreat center kitchen if any of you want to bake this week,” Hannah said. “My grandma’s apple pie recipe is in there along with the cutest apple-shaped wooden chopping board made by a local craftsman.”
“I adore baking,” Tabitha exclaimed. “I’m headed for the Jonathans. That’s what my mother always used in her pies.”
Chad and Derek grinned, and I overheard a few comments about how they hoped she planned to share.
“When you come back, Hannah and I will have dinner ready,” Noah looked at me. “Libby, if it’s okay with you, we’ll ask you to give your first talk as everyone starts dinner.”
“Sounds perfect,” I said.
“After dinner, we’ll have a bonfire and a hayride, just like we did so many times back in college,” Hannah added.
“This is delightful.” Kate drew in a deep breath, her eyes shining. “Hannah, thank you so much for arranging it all. And Libby, thank you for coming.”
Everyone else murmured their appreciation, including their thanks to Kate for her role, and the alumni wandered into the orchard, some individually, some in pairs.
I glanced around, getting my bearings for when I’d speak.
Hay bales were stacked in the corners of the picnic area, and red-checkered cloths had been fastened down on three of the five tables—two arranged side by side lengthwise and one centered in front of them.
“We’re going back to our house to get the food,” Hannah told me. She pointed at a newer, one-story blue house with solar panels on the roof that sat closer to the road. “Please, go ahead and set up for your presentation. I thought everyone could sit at the two tables that are pushed together, and you could stand at the one with the tablecloth that’s in front of them.”
“Great. I’ll run through my talk while you’re gone.”
I sat at a table and dug my notes out of my oversized purse. Bella flopped down on the pea gravel beside the table, happy to have made new friends. I reviewed my notes, readied my easel so I could quickly set it up, and reminded myself that there was no reason to be nervous simply because Derek was a dean at a college. I had a solid presentation with interesting stories from the early years when Grove University had been Grove College and had primarily served to educate teachers. As an academic, he’d probably be even more interested than the rest.
Fifteen minutes later, Bella got to her feet, her nose aquiver.
Noah and Hannah walked toward us, each carrying a dish.
“Is that fried chicken Bella and I smell?” I asked Noah.
“You guessed it.” He chuckled and set a platter in the middle of one of the two picnic tables connected longways.
I shortened Bella’s leash to help prevent the temptation to steal a drumstick.
Noah and Hannah made several trips and soon had the food set out family-style. I spotted potato salad, golden ears of corn, a Waldorf salad with chunks of apples with shiny red peel, a charcuterie board, pitchers of iced tea, water, and lemonade, and, of course, the fried chicken.
When we’d talked on the phone, Hannah had asked if I wanted to stay for dinner. I’d declined, clearly a mistake on my part.
After checking the table, Noah rang a large bell on a metal stand next to the barn. I’d seen bells outside historic one-room schoolhouses that looked almost identical.
“An antique?” I asked Hannah.
“I think it’s been here since at least 1938,” she replied. “My grandparents used it to call their ten kids to lunch and dinner.”
The alumni trickled back, chatting happily and carrying full baskets of fruit. Hannah passed out paper towels, and people gathered around the pump to rinse off apples.
“Does anyone know where Francie is?” Hannah asked.
The alums shook their heads.
“We started off together, but I got sidetracked talking with Tabitha about the year the Grove University football team went 11-0,” Chad said.
“It was our senior year,” Tabitha added. “Chad was the quarterback.”
“I’ll text her,” Kate said.
When she didn’t reply after a few moments, Chad pulled his phone from his pocket. “Let me try calling.”
But Francie didn’t answer, and she didn’t wander out of the orchard.
“Could she be on a call for work?” Derek asked. “Something she needed to discuss in private?”
“Maybe.” Chad’s forehead creased. “But I’d think she’d have heard the bell and at least come close enough to wave to us.”
Noah’s eyes tensed and he glanced over at Hannah. “I did think I heard the tractor. She couldn’t have …?”
Hannah shook her head. “I know I told you how funny we all thought it was back in college that Francie, the city girl, loved driving the tractor. And we do still have the same one that Dad repaired a million times before he and Mom retired to Arizona. But I can’t see Francie messing with it now, all these years later.”
Noah shrugged. “Yeah, I probably heard a truck on the road. Still, we’d better check. I’d hate for her to have thought she was going to give everyone a laugh by driving the tractor over the hill but accidentally rolled it.”
Chad’s face grew pale, and the rest of the group exchanged nervous glances.
“Let’s split up and look for her,” Kate said.
The alumni headed out in pairs, calling out Francie’s name.
Noah hesitated for a second, looked back at the blue house, and headed toward it to the southwest. “I think the sound I heard came from this direction.”
I gave Bella’s leash a gentle tug, went around the old farmhouse, and continued north. “C’mon, girl. We need to find Francie.”
Bella trotted to my side as we walked through the orchard. “Francie!” I shouted. I peered through the rich green leaves and down the spaces between the rows.
But I saw nothing but Fuji apples gleaming on the trees, and the orchard was eerily silent. Even the birds had stopped twittering.
Let’s see … The alumni had spent about fifteen minutes picking apples. If Francie walked straight away from the picnic area, she could have gone quite a distance, possibly out of earshot. And we had no idea what direction she might have headed once she left Chad. The orchard covered a lot of acres and—
A loud scream pierced the air.
My heart froze.
I spun, not sure which direction the sound had come from.
Bella, though, gave a loud bark and lunged toward the west. I ran behind her over a small hill.
After another few feet, I saw Tabitha hugging Kate.
Kate looked up at me, her eyes huge. “I couldn’t … I couldn’t believe it when I found her.”
As I came closer, the rest of the group appeared, running up from all directions.
There, near Tabitha and Kate, sat an old blue tractor straddling Francie’s body between its front and back tires.
One of the front tires had rolled past her feet and missed them. But the other front tire had rolled straight across her chest, leaving small clods of dried mud clinging to her cream-colored blouse.
To make matters worse, there was a bloody wound on the side of her head. And it didn’t look like she’d gotten that injury by falling and landing on a rock. The space between the orchard rows was grassy.
If I had to guess, I’d say someone had hit her in the head, knocked her out, and driven over her with the tractor.
Chapter Two
“Francie!” Chad rushed to where Francie lay partially under the tractor. He knelt beside her, clutching her hand and frantically begging her to respond.
Noah tapped at his phone. “I’m calling 911.”
The rest of the group seemed frozen in place, eyes wide, as if they weren’t sure what to do.
The sun slipped behind a cloud, and I pulled my blazer tighter around me.
Bella whined and tugged on her leash, peering down at Francie.
One of us needed to check her condition so we’d know what to tell the emergency operator, but Chad was too upset. I glanced around, but no one stepped forward.
“Bella, stay.” I looked her in the eye, then knelt next to Chad and pressed two fingers against the side of Francie’s throat.
My chest tightened when I didn’t feel a pulse.
“Hang on, baby.” Chad squeezed Francie’s hand and looked at me. “Should we move her?”
“No. We might make things worse.” I felt for breath coming out of Francie’s nose.
I caught a whiff of Francie’s lily of the valley perfume but couldn’t feel her breathing.
I pressed my lips together and laid a hand on Chad’s arm. “Chad, I’m sorry. I think it may be too late.”
He jerked back, covered his mouth with one hand, and moaned. Then he bent down, murmuring to Francie and gently brushing her hair back from her face.
I stood and turned toward the others.
Kate stepped closer to Chad, her chin trembling, and rested a hand on his shoulder.
Tabitha’s face had gone pale, her body rigid.
I got up, walked over to Bella, praised her for staying when I’d asked, and ran a hand over the soft fur between her ears, hoping to calm both of us. After a few seconds, the tightness in my chest eased slightly.
“Libby, are you … are you sure she’s dead?” the fourth-grade teacher asked. Jessica, that was her name. “That somewhere around here there’s a murderer? I mean, I can’t see how this can be an accident.”
“I’m afraid she is,” I said quietly.
Jessica gave a squeaky cry and wrapped her arms around her chest.
Derek patted her shoulder. His face was shuttered, as if somewhere in academia he’d dealt with many crises and learned to stay calm.
“Where’s Hannah?” I asked.
“She went to the end of the driveway to make sure the ambulance doesn’t miss the turn,” Derek said.
Noah, who stood off to one side, moved his phone away from his mouth. “They say they’ll be here soon.”
The rest of us nodded.
“Who could have done this?” Kate crossed her arms over her stomach and looked at me. “Has there been some sort of maniac on the loose in Dogwood Springs?”
“Things have been quiet around here lately.” I didn’t mention that there had been trouble in town a couple of months ago. It had been resolved.
“It’s not some random killing,” Noah said. “You’re the only people at the orchard this afternoon.”
Chad’s head jerked up, and Jessica seemed to shrink into herself. Tabitha looked even paler.
“None of us would have killed Francie,” Kate said.
“I’d say one of you had to.” Noah stepped back, his focus returning to the 911 operator.
The alumni stared at each other. An uncomfortable silence stretched, broken only by an occasional sniffle from Jessica.
Finally, a siren sounded in the distance. It grew louder and then was joined by a second, fainter wail.
Bella and I walked to the top of a small hill where we could see better.
Soon an ambulance turned into the driveway. Noah ran over to meet it near the barn and pointed to where it could park closest to Francie’s body.
The paramedics climbed out and dashed toward her, and a big gold SUV, emblazoned with “Blaine County Sheriff,” drove in and parked beside the ambulance.
A man in a tan uniform climbed out. He squared his shoulders, ran a hand over the gun in his side holster, tipped back his cowboy hat, and followed the paramedics.
Good grief. He looked like the Wild West version of a detective I knew from the Dogwood Springs Police Department, John Harper. Same tightly drawn mouth, same bushy eyebrows.
The sheriff, though, was much younger—maybe in his late twenties. His hair was dark brown, not gray, and his muscles were bulkier.
Plus, there was that hat. And more swagger.
I walked toward the others and, when I got close enough, I squinted and silently read the nameplate under his badge. “Sheriff Billy Harper.” I guess we were outside the jurisdiction of the town’s police force.
The sheriff strode toward Noah. “What happened here?”
“Thanks for coming, Billy.” Noah cleared his throat and then, with more composure than most people could have mustered, explained how the apple picking had gone terribly awry. He pointed at Francie and Chad.
“Francie Weaver, from Channel 7?” the sheriff asked.
“Yep. Libby said she’s dead.” He gestured toward me.
“Libby?” the sheriff turned to me, eyes narrowed.
I raised a hand halfway. “Libby Ballard, sheriff. I was here to give a history presentation for the group.”
“Good Lord,” he muttered, mostly to Noah but loudly enough that everyone heard. “Uncle John told me about her. The last thing I need is some nosy busybody who thinks she’s an amateur detective.”
My cheeks grew hot.
The sheriff walked over to the paramedics.
I might be a bit nosy, at least according to my ex-husband, and I admit I could be stubborn when I was trying to figure something out, but I was not a “busybody.”
And, of course, I didn’t intentionally eavesdrop on the sheriff’s conversation with the paramedics. But I did walk closer, and it was clear from how they shook their heads that I had been correct.
Francie Weaver was dead.
The sheriff spoke into his radio. Then he walked over to Chad, gently told him that the paramedics had been unable to save Francie, and expressed his sympathies.
Chad’s face crumpled, and he turned away. I could tell that deep down, he’d been hoping I was wrong.
I had too.
The other alums surrounded Chad, all expressing their sympathy.
“Hold on there,” the sheriff said. “Folks, I’m going to need to talk to each one of you. Until I’m done with those interviews, I’ll need you to remain silent. Why don’t you sit down at those tables near the barn?” He motioned toward them.
Derek patted Jessica on the shoulder again and angled his head toward the barn. They started walking, and Kate and Tabitha followed. After another second staring at the murder scene, I did as well. The sheriff followed us.
“I’ll have to ask you to bear with me,” the sheriff said after we’d sat down. “The coroner is on the way, and I’ve got deputies coming to help. They’re headed in from the north end of the county, though, so it’ll take a while.” His eyes narrowed at the food on the table. “I don’t think anybody was poisoned. I don’t see any reason why you can’t have some lemonade or even eat something if you’d like. Sometimes a little food is good after a shock.”
He was right. I had to respect him for mentioning it, and for how kind he’d been with Chad. Despite his comment about me, he seemed like he was trying to help.
Soon, six of us were sitting at the two picnic tables with food. Chad eventually joined us. He was subdued, but except for a comment under his breath that he could use a stiff drink, he was holding it together.
A few moments later, Hannah arrived from the end of the long driveway. The sheriff spoke quietly with her, and her eyes filled with tears. Without a word, she went around the table and hugged Chad, then went to sit by her husband.
While the sheriff watched, we passed around the bowls and platters of food, as well as the iced tea, water, and lemonade. No one put much on their plate except for Tabitha, who took an ear of corn, several cubes of cheese from the charcuterie board, and a giant pile of potato salad.
Stress eating. I’d done it myself—though not after seeing a dead body.
I stuck with lemonade and fed Bella a few cubes of cheese. She sniffed near the table when the fried chicken was passed, but I thought it would upset her stomach. I took an extra plastic cup when they came around, filled it with water, and held it out for her to lap up a drink.
Once she was done, she lay down beside me.
“Is the sheriff related to John Harper, the detective in town, and Wes Harper, the Dogwood Springs police chief?” I whispered to Hannah.
“Billy’s the son of their brother, Charles, the former sheriff, who passed away not that long ago,” she replied.
The sheriff cleared his throat loudly and glared at me.
I stopped talking.
Besides the tables where we sat, there were three remaining tables. One was in front of us only a couple of feet away, where I would have given my presentation. The other two were behind us, and one of them stood in a big puddle. The sheriff chose the one behind us without the puddle, which put him right behind me.
Perfect for me to listen in.
If I were so inclined.
Which would not in any way make me a busybody. Simply curious.
One by one, the sheriff began calling people over to his table starting with Chad, then Tabitha.
And I heard every word.
He didn’t ask all the questions I would have, though, like if each of them was alone when Francie died. But I had the feeling he wouldn’t welcome suggestions from me.
In the end, I didn’t learn anything interesting about either Chad or Tabitha, but after the sheriff finished with Tabitha, two deputies walked over to him. The sheriff told them that everyone on the property except for the paramedics was a suspect, and he instructed them to begin gathering evidence.
Next, he called Noah over to his table. After some routine questions, he asked Noah if he had anything more to add.
“You know, at first I thought that whoever killed Francie had to be one of the alums who are visiting,” Noah said. “I realized there’s another possibility.”
My ears perked up.
“Over the past couple of weeks, we’ve had a trespasser. They’ve been stealing apples, leaving the cores tossed on the ground after they eat them, and sneaking around. I’ve tried to catch the guy, but he’s fast.”
“You’re sure it’s a guy?” the sheriff asked.
“Pretty sure. I only got a glimpse of him. But I can tell you that he eats apples almost down to nothing.”
“Thanks, Noah. That’s a good lead,” the sheriff said.
Why would some random trespasser on the orchard property kill Francie? That seemed hard to believe. Unless she saw him doing something illegal—
“Libby?” the sheriff called. There was a note of annoyance in his voice.
Yikes. Had he called my name before, and I been so busy thinking that I hadn’t heard him? “Stay, Bella.” I pointed to the ground beside me.
I scurried over to sit across from the sheriff. He took down my name and contact information and had me explain again why I was at the orchard.
“How well do you know these people?” he asked.
“I know Kate Hoskins because she’s a major donor to the Dogwood Springs History Museum.” I’d already told him that I was the director. “She’s the one who invited me. The one who arranged all of this, I think.”
He scribbled a note on his pad and asked me to describe what had happened.
I did as he requested, giving a good deal more detail than Chad or Noah or Tabitha.
The sheriff wrote down everything I said, even asking me to repeat a thing or two. “Why were you the one who determined the victim was dead? Do you have medical training?”
“Uh, no.” Why had I felt compelled to check to see if Francie had a pulse? “I wanted to see if there was anything we could do for her.”
The sheriff ran his fingertips over the brim of his cowboy hat and narrowed his eyes at me. “And you knew what to do because crime follows you around like a curse, doesn’t it?”
“I have been unfortunate in that way since I moved to Dogwood Springs,” I mumbled.
He sat back and his chest swelled. “Now listen up, Miss Ballard. I’ve heard about your sleuthing from my uncle, John Harper. Even heard about your dog, who’s supposed to be so smart.” He glanced over at Bella with what might have been a flicker of respect. “My uncle’s been a lot more tolerant of your interference than I would ever be. I’m telling you in no uncertain terms that you need to keep your nose completely out of my investigation. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
“Solving crimes in the county is my job, not yours. You need to stick to telling those history stories and raising money for the museum, or I’ll arrest you for interfering with an ongoing investigation and toss you in the county jail.” He made a shooing motion with his hand.
I sat back down beside Bella.
“Sheriff?” Chad raised a hand. “I heard what Noah said about the trespasser.”
The sheriff stiffened as if perhaps he hadn’t thought about all of us sitting there, listening.
“It got me to thinking,” Chad continued. “Francie does get some crazy fans. Like this one guy who claimed he was in love with her. Thought that when he saw her on TV, she was really in his living room.” His jaw tightened. “I told her not to post anything about this trip on social media, but she wanted to give Hannah some publicity, so she mentioned that she planned to come here in October. Probably not that long before the trespasser showed up here.”
The sheriff scribbled on his pad. “An excellent tip. Did the authorities identify that guy, the one who thought he was in love with her?”
“Oh, yeah,” Chad said. “It wouldn’t be him. I was thinking maybe some other crazy.”
The sheriff looked back up. “Had she mentioned any social media messages or texts or calls that seemed suspicious recently?”
Chad shook his head.
The sheriff frowned and stood. “Ma’am?” He gestured to Kate. “Let’s talk over there, on the porch of the retreat center.”
Kate followed the sheriff over to the porch.
No more listening in.
Eventually, Kate returned, and the sheriff interviewed Jessica and then Derek, both on the porch.
At last, the sheriff walked back over and told Noah and Hannah that the orchard would need to be closed until they had finished collecting evidence. Hannah’s face grew rigid, but they both agreed.
Next, the sheriff told all the alumni that they would need to remain in town until he wrapped up his investigation.
“But what if we don’t want to stay out here at the orchard where there’s a murderer on the loose?” Tabitha asked.
“It’s fine with me if you move to a hotel in town,” the sheriff said. “You just need to let my office know where you’ll be.”
Noah and Hannah exchanged glances.
“Uh, Tabitha,” Hannah said. “You can check around if you like, but I’ve had a lot of calls lately. I think every room in town is booked for the reunion. I mean, you might be able to move away for a day or two, but later in the week, you’d have to move back.”
“She’s probably right.” Derek made a pained expression. “Grove University sent out an email last week, and I noticed their alumni events coordinator was listing hotel space in towns forty-five miles away.”
“Nobody’s going forty-five miles away,” the sheriff said.
Hannah and Noah whispered to each other and motioned the sheriff aside with them.
A minute later, he turned back to the group. “The orchard has a honeymooner’s cottage that’s being renovated and hasn’t been rented out yet. I’ll have a couple of my deputies stay there. They can take turns doing patrols, day and night.”
There was some grumbling from the alumni, but the sheriff didn’t offer them much choice.
Thankfully, Bella and I lived in town and were allowed to go home. And, as I stood, Kate whispered to me that I shouldn’t even think about a presentation the next day.
For the time being, the Witley Historic Orchard and Retreat Center would be home to two sheriff’s deputies, owners Hannah and Noah, and guests Chad, Tabitha, Derek, Jessica, and Kate.
As Chad said, the killer could be someone we didn’t know, someone who’d been waiting around the orchard for days for the chance to kill Francie. But, since Francie hadn’t mentioned any unusual contact from her fans lately, it seemed like a long shot.
Most likely, one of the alums was a murderer.
Chapter Three
As soon as I pulled into my driveway, I spotted my best friend, Cleo Anderson, near our detached garage. Cleo rented the top floor of our white two-story home, and I had the first-floor apartment.
The house was nothing fancy—a place most people would describe as old rather than historic, and updates over the years had been serviceable, not upscale. But it had more character than a cookie-cutter apartment, the lot had big trees, and in renting there, I’d met both Cleo and Bella, two of the best parts of my life in Dogwood Springs.
“Hey, Libby,” Cleo called as I got out to open my side of the double garage.
I gave her a weak wave.
“Are you okay?” The long bangs of Cleo’s blond pixie cut fell forward as she set a paintbrush down on a piece of plastic sheeting. Then she stood, scooted her oversized glasses up her nose with the back of her hand, and walked closer.
“Not really. Let me park and I’ll fill you in.”
Cleo was two years younger than me, and we were one of those pairs of friends whose bond was stronger because of our differences. I was quieter and more serious, a planner and logical thinker who dressed rather traditionally. Cleo was creative, dramatic, a swirl of bright colors, and sometimes a little loud. She was tall and trim, a bundle of energy whose brown eyes usually sparkled. When I’d moved in, she’d eagerly welcomed me and quickly became one of the best friends I’d ever had. After the shock of the murder, I felt a little better just seeing her.
Once I let Bella out of the car and shut the garage door, I joined Cleo at the side of the garage where she had lined up paint rollers and brushes.
“I was setting things out to dry.” Cleo bent down to pet Bella. “I spent the whole day painting at the apartment over my salon. It’s not the most relaxing way to spend my day off, but that place needs a lot of work.”
I nodded. She’d recently bought the building that housed her hair salon downtown. “You know Francie Weaver, the news anchor on Channel 7 from St. Louis?”
“Yeah. Channel 7’s not my favorite, but I watch it sometimes.” Cleo leaned down and patted Bella.
“I was giving the first of those history talks at the orchard. Before we started, the orchard owners let the alumni go into the orchard to pick some apples for snacks. Francie didn’t come back. Someone hit her in the head and then ran her over with the tractor.”
Cleo’s mouth fell open.
“Come on into my apartment.” I motioned toward the house. “I need to feed Bella.”
Cleo followed me, and I filled in more details as I gave Bella her dinner, which she gobbled down as if her dinnertime had been delayed days rather than a couple of hours.
I let out a long sigh and for the first time since we’d found Francie’s body, I finally began to feel calm.
“Poor Hannah.” Cleo leaned back against the edge of the kitchen counter. “I don’t know her husband very well, but this has to be horrible for her, having a friend murdered at the orchard.”
“Do you also know the sheriff, Billy Harper?”
Cleo rolled her eyes. “I know him.”
“He made it very clear that he doesn’t want me getting involved. Which is fine with me.”
Sort of.
I did feel like I should try to help. After all, I’d been there when the poor woman was killed.
Cleo raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to investigate? You’ve only lived in Dogwood Springs a year and a half, so maybe you don’t follow county politics that closely. Billy only got elected because his dad was the sheriff.”
I bit my lip, then shook my head. “I didn’t know that, but my answer’s still no.” Just because I’d had success solving local murders in the past didn’t mean I should get involved now. “I didn’t know Francie. The murder didn’t take place at the museum or at a museum event. Yeah, I was at the orchard to give a history talk, but that’s not the same thing.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m more than happy to let Billy Harper investigate this all on his own.”
Cleo narrowed her eyes and tipped her head to one side. “You staying out of a murder investigation in Dogwood Springs? I’ll believe it when I see it.”
***
The next morning offered another picture-perfect fall day. After I took Bella for a walk and got her settled for the morning, I headed down the sidewalk to work.
The air was crisp and refreshing, and after ten minutes, I reached the edge of downtown Dogwood Springs, which was awash in everything autumn. Chrysanthemums clustered near every shop door. The red maples that lined both sides of the street were ablaze with color. The scent of pumpkin spice filled the air, and a chalk sandwich board outside the bakery announced that apple muffins had been delayed but would be available after nine.
It really was a lovely town. Because of the tourist trade, it boasted several upscale restaurants, and Main Street was lined with charming shops. My favorite was an accessory shop called “It Always Fits,” but I was also quite fond of other downtown offerings—the three-story library, the independent bookstore, and, of course, the museum. Away from downtown, on the southern end of Dogwood Springs, Grove University was its own little world. Outside the city limits, gentle hills surrounded the town, and back roads led to a local winery, the beautiful springs the town was named for, and the orchard.
As I strolled along, I did my best to push past thoughts of the murder. I promised myself a muffin after I walked home to let Bella out at lunchtime, and I stopped to send my landlord a text about a drip in my kitchen faucet. Then I walked toward the Dogwood Springs History Museum at the far end of Main Street.
The museum, originally built in 1920 as the home of local businessman Charles Pennington, was a white two-story Greek revival that looked disproportionately large for its lot. Pennington, from what I’d read, had wanted to impress not just the neighbors but any visitors from St. Louis or Kansas City.
Fortunately for the town, he’d also wanted to be remembered. He’d left his home to be used as the Dogwood Springs History Museum and set up a trust fund that provided for my salary and that of two additional paid staff.
Fortunately for me, I had the best staff members a museum director could hope for: Curator Rodney Grant and Education Coordinator Imani Jones.
As I entered the back door of the museum, a wave of peace washed over me. Maybe it was what I thought of as the smell of history—lemon furniture polish, slightly musty paper, and a hint of mothballs. Or maybe it was the knowledge that the entire purpose of the building was to provide access and inclusion so that all could learn about the past. Hopefully, in understanding it more fully, they’d understand themselves and the modern world a little better. Whatever the cause, my chest felt more expansive each time I stepped into the building.
Down the hall, I heard voices. I walked through the conference room, which had been the original kitchen of the museum, and into the gift shop, where Rodney and Imani were unpacking a shipment of T-shirts. Each shirt featured the museum logo on the front but had different messages on the back.
“I’m getting this one,” Rodney said. He held up a pale blue shirt that read “So many museums, so little time.”
“It’s perfect.” I beamed at him. All three of us liked to visit other museums, but Rodney, a quiet man in his sixties with a ruddy complexion, kind eyes, and a dry sense of humor, had recently begun logging the museums he visited like a birder keeping track of species. I had expected when I ordered the shirts that he might like that one.
“These are fabulous, Libby!” Imani pushed back her box braids, then held up a bright purple shirt and turned it to show the back, which listed famous Black female inventors throughout history. “I’m getting one for myself and one for each of my nieces for Christmas.”
A T-shirt wasn’t Imani’s typical work attire, which normally ran to 1960s vintage dresses, but I could picture her looking adorable in it. Tall, willowy, and in her late twenties, with her long eyelashes and boundless energy, Imani looked good in anything.
Her brow furrowed. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be out at the orchard?”
“I’m glad you two like the shirts,” I said, “but I’ve got some bad news.” I told them about the murder and then excused myself to go up to my office to call a possible donor.
“So, no more presentations at the orchard this week?” Rodney asked before I left.
I stepped into the hall. “Kate and I only talked about canceling today, but I assume not.”
Which was unfortunate. After I’d finally agreed, I’d been quite excited about the artifacts I’d chosen to present.
I stepped back into the conference room to make myself a cup of strong Yorkshire black tea, then climbed the stairs to my office on the second floor. Even in the rooms that were off-limits to the public, a sense of history filled the museum. Sunlight filtered through dark wooden blinds, glinting off the wide, ornate crown moldings and baseboards and my large mahogany desk.
Normally, I loved working in this space. But half an hour later, I hung up the phone, even more dejected. The conversation with the potential donor from Springfield had started out fine when he asked if the museum would be willing to display a few items from a collection of beer cans and beer bottles belonging to a man who’d lived in Dogwood Springs thirty years ago.
I’d told him certainly, if they had a connection to local history.
They didn’t. And the more we talked, the worse things got. What the donor really wanted was for the museum to take a collection of more than six thousand beer cans and beer bottles, many of which sounded like they were less than twenty years old. None had a connection to the town—other than possibly having been drunk there—and he wanted a promise that we’d keep every one of them and display them all on a rotating basis.
Um, no.
As delicately as I could, I’d explained that we had a specific mission and a severe lack of storage space. And we required that the items be valued by an independent appraiser. We couldn’t simply take his word that the collection was worth $50,000 and give him a tax receipt.
That last part had been the kicker.
The potential donor’s response had been loud, angry, and profane.
I spun my chair away from my desk to face the window and stretched out my shoulders. Most people in the world were good, but there were definitely a few bad apples like the would-be beer can donor and the murderer at the orchard.
I was still staring out the window when footsteps neared my office, and someone cleared their throat.
I turned back around.
Hannah stood in my doorway. “Libby? Have you got a moment?”
“Sure.” I gestured her in and waved at the chair across from my desk. “How are you doing?”
I regretted the words almost as soon as I said them because I really didn’t need to ask. Her hairdo was lopsided, and her eyes had huge dark circles under them.
Hannah shifted in her chair. “Noah and I are hanging in there. It’s horrifying having someone killed on our property. And it’s even worse since it’s someone I knew.”
“I can only imagine.”
“I went over to my Aunt Alice and Uncle Doug’s this morning after breakfast. You know who I mean? Alice and Doug VanMeter.”
I blinked. “I didn’t realize you were related.”
Hannah gave a halfway smile. “Doug is my mom’s older brother.”
Interesting. Every time I thought I had the interconnections in this town figured out, I realized there were more, even among my closest friends.
“Doug and Alice thought that maybe you might be able to help me.”
My stomach tightened ever so slightly. I had a feeling I knew where this was headed.
“I didn’t tell Noah I was coming. He doesn’t understand—not really—how bad this situation is for the orchard. Money is tight. Maybe a little tighter than I’ve led him to believe.” She scraped a hand through her hair. “The sheriff let us reopen the orchard and the farm market to the public, but if we don’t have a steady stream of customers all fall, our biggest season of the year, I’m afraid we might have such a cash-flow problem that we’ll have to sell to this guy who wants to cut down all the apple trees and put in a subdivision.”
Ouch. That would be criminal in itself. “Surely the sheriff will solve this quickly.”
She arched a brow. “Do you really think Billy’s capable?”
I opened my mouth to assure her but then thought about what Cleo had said and about the conversations I’d overheard between the sheriff and the alumni. I kept silent.
“You don’t have any more confidence in him than I do.” Hannah shook her head. “Billy’s a nice guy, but he’s in over his head. He’s new to the job and, yeah, he had some success with minor cases like vandalism, but he’s never handled a murder.”
Which meant he was trying to prove himself. That might account for the swagger. But swagger wouldn’t identify a killer.
I picked up a pen and tapped one end against my desktop, flipped it, tapped the other end, then flipped it again.
Tap. Flip. Tap. Flip.
Did I want to get involved in investigating another murder? I had a museum to run and my own safety to think about.
“Please.” Hannah looked across the desk at me, her big hazel eyes filled with a mix of worry and fear. “The orchard’s been in business for generations. I don’t want to be the one who lets it fail.”
I wouldn’t either if I were Hannah. And I did feel like I should do something to help.
But …
My phone rang. I glanced over at where it sat on the desk. My friend Alice’s face filled the screen.
“Please, go ahead,” Hannah gestured to the phone.
I answered the call, but I didn’t put it on speaker.
“Libby, you may not have known, but Hannah is Doug’s sister’s girl and—”
“She told me. She’s right here.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Alice said. “I thought I could talk to you before she arrived. I certainly don’t want to put any pressure on you. But I sort of mentioned your name in passing, and she practically ran out the door. I think she’s desperate to have this situation resolved.”
I heard Doug’s muffled voice in the background.
“Doug and I don’t want you to feel obligated to investigate,” Alice said.
But they wouldn’t have mentioned my name if they hadn’t been hoping I would help, would they?
Although she was close to my mother’s age, Alice was one of my best friends and one of the kindest people I’d ever known. Plus, she was the head of the museum’s board of directors, the woman who’d hired me, and the museum’s No. 1 volunteer. She was one of those unassuming, capable women who operated behind the scenes, keeping many town organizations running smoothly. And she was so friendly that everyone in town loved her.
And her husband was just as nice. This was their niece, and she needed my help.
And I … well, I believed in justice. It was part of the fabric of who I’d always been, a value that had been further cemented when I’d been treated unfairly by my ex-husband.
I couldn’t stand idly by and let Francie’s killer go free because the sheriff didn’t know what he was doing.
I set the pen down firmly on the desk and hit the speaker on my phone. “I can’t promise anything …”
Across from me, Hannah sat up taller and her eyes lit. “But you’ll try?”
“I’ll try.”
Hannah’s breath came out in a rush. “Oh, thank you.”
“Thank you, Libby!” Alice’s voice rang out loud and clear over the phone line.
“I’ll get back with you soon, Alice,” I said into the phone. I hung up.
Hannah stood, and by the time I’d gotten to my feet, she’d rounded the desk and pulled me into a hug. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
“Your aunt and uncle and some other friends have helped me in the past when I looked into other murders. Let me see when they’re all available. We’ll need you to tell us what you know about everyone who was at the orchard yesterday.”
“Just name the time.” Hannah picked up a sticky note and pen from the desk and wrote down her cell number.
The phone on my desk rang. I glanced down and recognized the number of a woman who was interested in becoming a volunteer.
Hannah said she should let me get back to work, waved, and hurried out of my office.
It was time to switch back into museum-director mode. But as soon as the call was over, I’d be texting my friends to see if we could meet this evening.
We had a murder to try to solve.
Apples, Alumni & Animosity releases March 26, 2025, and will be available in Kindle, Kindle Unlimited, and paperback. If you’d like to pre-order a Kindle copy, please click here.