Blackberry Burial

Book 2: Berry Basket Mystery

by Sharon Farrow

Genres: Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Between a booming art scene and elaborate Independence Day festivities, July in lakeshore Oriole Point, Michigan, is always a blast. Especially when an explosive murder case crashes the fun . . . As owner of The Berry Basket, Marlee Jacob has learned a thing or two about surviving the summer tourist season in Oriole Point. So she gladly agrees to help run the annual road rally in honor of the local Blackberry Art School’s centenary celebration. While alumni arrive from around the country, Marlee hopes the expansive Sanderling farm will make an appropriate starting point for the race—despite rumors that the land is cursed . . . But when Marlee surveys the property, she stumbles upon a long-dead body hidden in the bramble. It’s a horrifying mystery to everyone except her baker, who’s convinced the skeletal remains belong to a former student who had gone missing twenty years earlier. As the Fourth of July activities heat up, Marlee must rush to catch an elusive murderer—before the next ‘blackberry victim’ is ripe for the picking! Includes Berry Recipes!

Release date: October 31, 2017

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 276

Sample

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 posing 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.”

I exchanged amused looks with the Cabot boys. “This has turned out well,” I said. “Piper gets to update her bathrooms and the rally has a new starting point. I’ll correct the posters and send them off to the printer today.”

“I only hope no one taking part in the road rally is superstitious,” Dean warned. “The farm is supposed to be haunted.”

“What?” This was news to me.

“Everyone knows that.” Andrew shrugged. “At least everyone our age does.”

I found this a bit insulting. Granted, Piper was closing in on fifty, but I was only thirty. Only six years separated me from the youngest Cabot brother.

“I’ve never heard anything so absurd.” Piper sounded as if she had taken offense as well. “Why would the place be haunted? As far as I know, nothing interesting has ever happened to a Sanderling, on or off the property. And Gordon leads a life as dull as his plumbing business. He uses the barn out there to store surplus pipes and sinks.”

Since Gordon ran the largest plumbing supply company in west Michigan, this seemed a logical use of the property. Certainly, none of this lent itself to rumors of a haunting. Of course, I wasn’t completely up to date on rumors in our village. Although I was born and raised in Oriole Point, my parents moved to Chicago when I was eighteen, while I headed off to New York University. After graduation, I remained in New York City, thrilled to be working for the Gourmet Living Network. Things became far too thrilling when one of the chefs on a cooking show I produced decided to murder a fellow chef, who also happened to be her husband. The resulting publicity and trial convinced me to return to my hometown two years ago and open up The Berry Basket. I had never regretted it. Not only was my business a success, I was surrounded by friends, my parents were only a two-hour drive away, and I was engaged to Ryan Zellar, maybe the best-looking country boy in the state.

“The only weird thing I remember hearing about the Sanderling farm is that UFOs were spotted there in 1975,” I said.

“What next?” Piper gave an exasperated sigh. “Leprechauns dancing in their pasture?”

“Everyone who’s ever gone there after dark has been totally creeped out,” Andrew added.

“I don’t know why anyone would be at the Sanderling farm after dark unless they were a Sanderling.” Piper narrowed her eyes at Andrew. “Or trespassing.”

“If it isn’t haunted, then it’s unlucky,” Dean persisted. “Even our mom talks about the Sanderling farm being a bad-luck place.”

“Why? Because their winery business went bust?” I asked. “If so, that’s pretty lame. People go out of business all the time.”

“There’s a bad vibe out there,” Andrew said. “You can feel it. Dean’s right. Pick another spot to start the rally. Otherwise you could jinx the whole thing.”

Piper snatched her Birkin from the counter. “If you ask me, it’s the Grunkemeyers who jinxed my plans by painting that silly cow on the barn. But Gordon has saved the day by letting us use his property. I won’t have any ghostly gossip putting a damper on things.”

“Maybe we can use the Sanderling farm again for next year’s road rally. The theme can be ghosts and ghouls.” I made a scary face. “Zombies, too.”

“Given how much work we have to do today for the rally, we’re moving as slow as zombies.” Piper flung open my shop door. “Let’s go, Marlee.”

“She’s right, guys. Before I change the poster artwork, we need to check out the haunted Sanderling farm. But if we’re not back by noon, call the police.” As I trailed after Piper, I turned to give them a wink. “Or a ghost hunter.”

Piper was not happy I insisted we take my car rather than her white Hummer. But she always drove well under the speed limit. I couldn’t bear the thought of crawling at thirty miles an hour while every other driver in the county zoomed past us. And as someone who tried to be ecologically friendly, I felt guilty whenever I found myself a passenger in her Hummer. None of us could figure out why Piper had such an affection for the gas-guzzling monster, especially since she and Lionel also owned a new Lexus, a Porsche, and two BMWs. But who had the time to figure out why Piper loved her Hummer? At the moment, I was trying to understand why there was a hulking Great Dane in my backseat.

In fact, I was so surprised when Piper had brought the dog out of her Hummer that I’d simply opened up my rear car door for him without a single comment.

“He’s mine,” Piper said, taking note of my stunned expression. “His name is Charlemagne.”

I kept looking at the dog in the rearview mirror as we now drove up Lyall Street. Like many things in the village, it was named after Piper’s family “I never pegged you for a dog lover,” I said finally. “Especially one the size of a small horse. When did this happen?”

“Lionel’s always wanted a dog, but they’re so messy and loud. Not that I don’t find some dogs quite adorable—especially the small ones—but they require too much attention. And you know how busy I am running the Visitor Center. However, after that nasty murder business last month, Lionel insisted we needed extra protection. Aside from our home security system, of course. We’ve only had Charlemagne a week. I do admit it was an adjustment at first.”

I suspected it was far more of an adjustment for her household staff.

“His previous owners called him ‘Charlie,’” she continued, “but Lionel and I thought a dog of such imposing dimensions deserved a grander name.”

“He is big.” The sound of his panting literally thundered in my ears. And every time I looked at my rearview mirror, a large pair of curious dark eyes stared back at me.

“I must admit I’ve grown fond him,” Piper went on. “Lionel adores him. He even lets Charlemagne sleep in our bedroom, although thankfully not on our bed. Not that all three of us could fit in the bed. Despite his size, he’s only a year old.”

I glanced over my shoulder. His body took up the entire backseat. “Is he still growing?”

She frowned. “I hope not. Anyway, I have your aunt to thank for him.”

A devoted animal lover, Aunt Vicki ran Humane Hearts, a sprawling animal shelter on over twenty acres of farmland in Oriole County. I had fostered a number of animals for her these past two years but managed to avoid adopting any of them. Like Piper, I thought I was too busy to properly take care of a pet. That changed with the arrival of a talkative African grey parrot dubbed Minnie, who was too delightful to resist. Within five minutes of meeting the clever bird, I had adopted her.

“You lucked out. Aunt Vicki doesn’t get a lot of purebreds surrendered to the shelter.”

“Vicki Jacob has connections, my dear. She had Charlemagne transferred from a Great Dane rescue organization in Indiana. Your aunt delivered him right to our doorstep.”

That didn’t surprise me. Last year, Aunt Vicki was responsible for rescuing a panther and two lions from some nutty survivalist in the Upper Peninsula. The gorgeous wildcats now resided at a wildlife park in California. I had no idea what had happened to the survivalist.

I snuck another peek at Charlemagne. Having been in my car a few minutes, I guess he decided it was safe to relax. When he threw himself down on the backseat to stretch out, I swear the car shuddered. “I’m not sure we’ll need him as our bodyguard today. I don’t expect the Sanderling farm to be particularly dangerous. Unless one of us steps on a post auger.”

“I’d love to know who told Carol Grunkemeyer she was an artist.” Piper shook her head. “You should see that cow on their barn. It’s huge. And orange! I swear, it looks like a drunken giant got hold of a paintbrush. One with no artistic talent, by the way.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“Why else do you think those tourists wanted to take a picture of it? What an awful thing to have up there for anyone to see driving by. And in a year when BAS is celebrating their centenary. Visitors may think the cow was painted by one of their students. I should ask Lionel if he can find some town ordinance about graffiti. He may be able to force her to paint over it.”

“Let it alone, Piper. Besides, the barn is on their property. It’s not like Carol painted on the walls of city hall. And I think it’s sweet. The Grunkemeyers loved their cow so much, they wanted to immortalize her after she died.”

“A shame they didn’t have her stuffed.” She smoothed down her chin-length blond bob, an unnecessary gesture since her hair was always sprayed and styled to perfection. “At least we’ll have nothing like that to worry about at the Sanderling farm. If memory serves, there’s a long driveway to the farmhouse and a graveled lot beside it. Should be more than enough to hold all the starting cars for the road rally.”

“How many have registered so far?”

“Twenty-nine cars have signed up, but I’m capping participation at thirty-five.”

“Why cap it?” I asked. “The more people who register, the bigger the winning pot.”

“Too many cars driving helter-skelter along country roads in search of clues can lead to disaster. By the way, I looked over your artwork for the poster. The colors are a bit too saturated. Tone it down before sending it to the printer. Although it’s far superior to some of our past road rally posters. Last year, Cindy at the cheese shop volunteered to design a poster and it had to be redone five times.” Taking a deep breath, Piper launched into a litany of past road rally mishaps.

I was content to let her take over the conversation. Now that we had left the village limit—and the tourist speed traps our local police had set up—I stepped on the gas, confident I could make good time along Blue Star Highway. The Sanderling farm was about eight miles from downtown Oriole Point, most of it along two-lane country roads. I was briefly tempted to stop by Zellar Orchards and spend a few minutes with Ryan. But it was Fourth of July week and I didn’t want to be away from the store any longer than necessary.

Enjoying the summer breeze, I hung my elbow out the window. If Piper hadn’t been sitting beside me, I would have plugged in my iPod so I could sing along with Adele, Beyoncé, Taylor Swift, and Rihanna on my Diva playlist. Instead, I listened with half an ear to Piper while enjoying the country scenery: farms surrounded by grassy pastures, cows milling near wooden fences, undulating rows of apple trees, fields of cornstalks, and blueberry bushes that stretched to the horizon. Interspersed with the bucolic charm were several barns converted into antique stores or quilt shops, roadside fruit and vegetable stands, and a one-room schoolhouse now serving as an art gallery.

I braked at the next crossroad, waving at the teenage girl who rode past on a shiny black horse. I recognized her as Courtney O’Neill, the daughter of a nearby blueberry grower. Gordon Sanderling’s property was only half a mile away.

When I turned up the long graveled drive belonging to the Sanderling farm, Piper was just finishing her tale about the Raspberry Road Rally of 2009, when two of the cars took a wrong turn and drove right into Turtlehead Creek.

“No one will end up in the creek this year,” I reassured her as I parked the car near the pebbled path that led to the farmhouse. “That new subdivision blocks access for miles.”

Charlemagne let out several deafening barks when Piper and I got out of the car. With leash in hand, Piper went to open the back door. While she did, I looked around.

Gordon’s acres appeared well maintained. The pasture that supported dairy cows three generations ago had been neatly mown, and the farmhouse looked like it had a fresh coat of gray paint. Numerous tire tracks in the gravel and dirt around the barn indicated recent activity. A third of the property still retained the last of the grapevines not destroyed by the fungus that had spelled doom for the winery. And a thick wall of trees stood about a hundred yards away on the east end of the property; dandelions dotted the field between the house and wooded area. If this was what passed for a haunted farm these days, kids must be easily frightened.

“Wait, come back!” Piper shouted. “Charlemagne, stop!” I turned in time to see the Great Dane bound past me. Still barking—this time in joy at being let loose—the overgrown puppy raced across the grass and headed for the trees.

“I’d go after him if I were you,” I advised Piper. “And when you get him home, I’d add a dog trainer to your staff.”

She stomped over to me. “Look at that dog. He’s moving faster than a cheetah. I’ll never be able to catch him, especially wearing these.” Piper pointed at h. . .