Death in the Park Read online

  I opened the front door and headed inside. Lana had married her high school sweetheart right after graduation. Even though the marriage didn't last more than five years, they produced a lovely son, my nephew Oliver, who was away at college. Zach and Lana had been the quintessential high school couple. Zach was quarterback on the football team and Lana had been on the cheer squad, the student council, the Kiwanis club and every other club listed on the school's roster. She had always been an overachiever. When she'd decided to move to the middle of nowhere to start a party planning business, Perfect Parties by Lana, none of us ever questioned her decision. We all knew she'd succeed because failure was not in Lana's dictionary. It took a year or two for her to get the business off the ground but now people came from miles away to hire Lana for weddings, anniversary parties and other festivities.

  "Lana," I called out, but only my voice echoed back to me. I headed to the kitchen, the main hub of the house. Lana's kitchen could have been easily described as organized clutter. To the untrained eye, it looked like a chaotic explosion of implements and cooking vessels, but I knew my sister too well. You could ask her to find something as small and insignificant as a potato peeler, and she could walk right to a drawer and pull one out. She'd hung three pot racks from the ceiling between the glass light pendants, and each rack was heavy with an array of pots and pans. The kitchen table she used for eating was a four by four square of vintage white enamel porcelain. A second table took up the entire center of the room. The long maple table was Lana's workspace for creating centerpieces or sweet-filled guest bags for parties. But this morning, the table was empty, along with the room.

  Adjacent to the kitchen was a front bedroom that looked out over the rolling front lawn, which, at the moment, was more yellow clover than lawn. This was the room where Lana created decorations for whatever event she was hosting in the barn. Again. Empty.

  My phone buzzed, and I pulled it from my pocket. It was a text from Lana.

  "Thought you were coming to help."

  "I'm standing in your house right now." I texted back.

  "We're in the barn. Sorry. I thought I told you."

  "I'm heading out." I bounded down the front steps and scanned the fields for my dogs. No sign of them but then the grass was tall enough to conceal two border collies.

  I hiked out toward the road. The rough hewn dirt path was the easiest route to Lana's party barn. On the outside, Lana's party barn was a newly constructed Gambrel style barn beautifully wrapped in white oak siding. The white trimmed sliding barn doors opened out onto a large patio of pavers. The building was large enough to accommodate three hundred lively party guests.

  The familiar sound of squeaky dog toys sounded in the distance. Auntie Lana must have bought my two furry kids new toys. I was certain Lana spent extra time at the pet store squeezing each toy to find the ones with the loudest, most annoying squeaks. It was her way of getting back at me for buying Oliver a drum set for his ninth birthday. Fortunately for both of us, Oliver quickly grew tired of his drums, and Newman and Redford were experts at destroying the squeakers in new toys.

  Both dogs were working hard at that as I reached the barn. The sliding doors were open, and I could hear Lana and her assistant, Raine, talking over a static-filled radio.

  When empty of Lana's beautiful decorations and matching round tables, the building was a cavernous, double story shell, crisscrossed by numerous beams and rafters, but my sister could transform the space into anything a bride-to-be or silver anniversary couple desired. I had yet to see one of her fantasy party-scapes in person, but she had sent me pictures over the years and every time I marveled at her ingenuity.

  Lana was armed with a hot glue gun as she leaned over the extra long table she used for buffets, desert displays or the occasional wedding guest candy store. Her brown eyes, Pops' brown eyes, peered up at me. Slowly but surely, silvery strands of gray were beginning to replace her coffee colored hair. Lana had decided she would embrace the gray rather than spend hours in a salon under a sticky cap of smelly chemicals. Emily and I figured that her decision was premature. A few gray highlights were pretty, but a full head of gray was a whole different thing.

  "There you are." Lana barely looked up from her task. "I need you to cut more hearts on the die cut machine. Raine and I have to glue them on the table runners. It's taking longer than I thought."

  I reached the table. Long, straw-colored linen runners were stretched out over the knotty pine table. Silver and white hearts, layered and folded up to resemble heart shaped butterflies dotted the linen fabric, making the table runners come alive with fluttery paper wings.

  I looked around. "Where is Raine?"

  "I'm over here," Raine called from the open loft on the second story of the barn. She leaned over the railing and pushed her black rimmed glasses back on her nose. She had covered her hair with a colorful scarf. "Lana sent me on a wild goose chase for a rogue pigeon."

  I laughed. "A wild goose chase for a rogue pigeon. Always a poet, Raine."

  "I was sure the bird flew up to the loft when I opened the doors this morning." Lana shook her head. "They make such a poopy mess." She turned her face up to the loft. "Never mind about the pigeon. Just come down and fire up this second glue gun."

  Raine's signature black lace up boots stomped down the ladder. This morning she looked subdued, dressed in jeans and a blouse for her work as Lana's assistant. But she was far more comfortable in swirly, rainbow colored skirts, beaded necklaces and bracelets and scarves. It was the perfect fashion look for her business, The Junction Psychic. Raine, who was just a few months older than my little sister, Emily, claimed that she could see the future, read palms and, most importantly, talk to spirits. And she truly believed she had a gift, a sixth sense, as it were. She wasn't out to trick people out of their money or make a name for herself. She was genuinely convinced she could predict futures and converse with members of the afterlife. I'd never seen proof that she was truly a psychic and Lana was convinced she was more than a touch delusional about it all, but Raine's charm had grown on me. I enjoyed hanging out with her, and she was quickly becoming a close friend. We'd decided that since we were both named after weather, we had no choice except to become good buddies.

  I settled myself in front of one of the party tables where Lana had placed the die cut machine and stacks of silver and white paper.

  "Cut them in stacks of three," Lana suggested. "That heart shaped die cut has lost some of its sharp edge. Too much paper and it won't go all the way through."

  "Three. Got it." I counted out three pieces of paper and slipped them into the machine. I rocked the handle forward and back and pulled the cut paper free. Three hearts fell onto my palm. I dropped the remnants of the paper into the recycling basket Lana had set near the table.

  "So, Sunni, are you excited about starting your new job?" Raine asked as she squirted hot glue onto the linen.

  "I've been so busy at the house, I've hardly given it any thought."

  "Oh?" Raine asked enthusiastically. "Busy? Has the infamous Cider Ridge spirit finally revealed himself to the new owner?" Raine was obsessed with the fanciful rumors about the Cider Ridge ghost. Not a day had passed since my arrival the month before that she hadn't offered her services for a séance.

  I caught Lana in a secret eye roll as I turned to Raine to respond. Lana and I were both the pragmatists of the family. Our feet were set firmly in the real world, while Emily and Neal tended more to be the dreamers. Sometimes I wished that I had just a pinch of Emily's starry-eyed, impractical view of the world. It just seemed more fun on her side of the spectrum. But hard as I tried, I just couldn't work up any enthusiasm for a séance or any belief that there were spirits floating through the dingy halls of the inn.

  "Actually, Raine, I meant I was busy with the remodel. And as I've told you before, no ghost in his or her right mind would pick that dusty, mildew riddled old house to haunt."

  "You're wrong. That is just the kind of house they lo
ve. And the Cider Ridge ghost is a man," Raine said matter of factly. She pulled her finger back quickly from the paper hearts. "Ouch. Curse you, hot glue. You got me again."

  Lana looked over from her end of the table runner. "That's because your mind is back on the spirit world. Focus on the real world, otherwise you're going to burn every finger." Lana turned her attention to me. "Do you know what your first assignment will be, Sunni?"

  "Not a clue. I assume Mr. Seymour will be handing me the topic tomorrow morning."

  Lana grunted quietly. "That editor, Mr. Seymour, is a clown. He wouldn't know an interesting story if it bit him on that bulbous red nose of his. You're overqualified for that position," Lana said for at least the tenth time since I got the job.

  The Junction Times was a once weekly paper that carried some news and current events along with advertisements from local businesses. It was mostly a throwaway paper, the kind that spent more time on the bottom of bird cages than in people's hands, but it was the only newspaper in town.

  "Well, I need that job so I can fix up the house and open the inn." I stopped my task for a second and turned to her. "The inn was all your idea, remember? You thought it would be the perfect accompaniment for your party business. The out of town relatives will have a nice place to stay and all that. Or have you forgotten?"

  Lana gave me her older sister brow lift. "I haven't forgotten. I was just making a point. The Junction Times is as dull and obsolete as the phone book. And that's because the editor has no vision. But I think you'll pop some life back into that newsroom. Just like you'll pop life back into that dilapidated old haunted inn." She winked as she said the word haunted.

  Raine caught the wink. "Oh sure, make fun. When Sunni finally gives me the O.K. for a séance, you'll be begging my forgiveness."

  Chapter 3

  I rubbed the kink out of my shoulder. After a thousand paper hearts, two paper cuts and one hot glue burn my sister gave me the rest of the day off. It was my last free afternoon before starting my new job. Lana's grim review of the local paper had dampened my spirits. I was hoping I could spark some life into the paper with witty or provocative articles, but something told me that wasn't going to be easy to do. I'd had one interview and one lunch with Parker Seymour, the editor of the Junction Times, and nothing about him said 'hey, Sunni, why don't you get in here and shake things up'. I was never one to follow the safest or most traveled path when it came to journalism. Unfortunately, that trait had led me right to a pink slip at my last job.

  Redford barked sharply and trotted ahead to greet Butterscotch, Emily's big Belgian mare. The horse had recently started a habit of wandering across her pasture to the inn. Redford and Newman had never been around horses until we moved to Firefly Junction. They took to Butterscotch instantly, somehow deciding that she was just a really big dog in a horse suit. And in a way, they were right.

  Butterscotch lifted her big head and twitched her neck to shake off some flies. Her thick white forelock bounced on her forehead as she trotted toward me. I held out my empty hands to let her know I had no treats. Disappointed, she slowed her pace but was still determined to greet me.

  She nudged my arm with her soft muzzle, and I rubbed the back of her ears. "If you've come to invite me for some strawberry tarts, I accept," I told the horse.

  I'd found that Butterscotch was always happy to follow me back to Emily's house. The dogs bounded ahead, anxious to get to Emily's, the auntie who had a cookie jar filled with dog treats sitting on the back porch. Getting a chance to scare a few chickens into a clucking frenzy as they raced through the yard was just a bonus.

  Mom always joked that Emily, or Emi, as we called her, had been left in a basket on her front doorstep by a family of woodland sprites. She was the only blonde in the family, and along with her dreamy cloud of white blonde curls, she had sparkling blue eyes. Lana and I were always miffed about that. The thing I always envied most about our baby sister, other than the amazing eye color, was that she was truly a free spirit. Aside from the dark period of time when Pops died, Emily always moved along with life at a happy, carefree skip. Emily and her husband, Nick, had decided to start an organic poultry farm on the property. They had finally gotten their land certified as organic, but the poultry idea went out the window with the first brood of adorable fluffy chicks. And as each ball of fluff developed a personality, Emily realized she could never raise chickens for meat. She even had a special place in her heart for Titus and T-rex, her two roosters. And they were two ornery birds that lived to terrify anyone who came near their big harem of hens.

  Emily's farmhouse was a two story turn of the twentieth century house with gabled roofs, a front porch and three tall brick chimneys. Patches of barn red paint peeled off from the wood siding. Like me, Nick and Emily had lots of restoration projects ahead. But when they moved to the property, they decided the chicken business was a priority.

  Nick, who was as likable as he was handy, had built three whimsical chicken coops that looked like tiny cottages, and Emily had painted them with bright colors. The chickens seemed to realize that they had very stylish coops as they proudly strutted and cackled in the yard.

  Butterscotch had stuck close to my side for the entire walk as if we were two pals out for a stroll together. Redford reached the coops first and decided to bark a loud greeting. Downy bits of feathers puffed up from a loud flurry of wings. The alarmed clucking brought Nick out the back door of the house.

  Emily had met Nick Cassidy on a river rafting trip she'd taken with our brother, Neal. Nick was just a year older than Emily, and it seemed they knew instantly that they were soul mates. (Obviously my little sister was far more adept at recognizing a soul mate than me.)

  Nick's hair was thinning prematurely, and he'd taken to always wearing a cap or beanie. Not so much because he was self-conscious about his hair but because the hot sun could be relentless out on the farm. He was a classically handsome man, with a nicely chiseled jaw and straight nose. He'd tried every style of facial hair from full beard and moustache to a tiny goatee. The humidity had made him shave it all clean. He was soft spoken and had a great sense of humor, and best of all, he treated my sister like a goddess. The first five years of their marriage had been wonderful, save the one incident when Nick decided to get Emily's name tattooed on his forearm. The tattoo artist had spelled out the name Emma instead of Emily and my sister took it as a bad omen. Nick went to a different parlor and had the artist turn the entire ink debacle into a very cool pirate ship. Emily liked the tattoo so much, the misspelled name was soon forgotten.

  Nick adjusted the brim on his blue cap. "Hey, Sunni, your new friend has an uncanny resemblance to our horse."

  I reached up to stroke Butterscotch's neck. "Couldn't ask for a better walking companion. She's a terrific listener."

  Nick laughed. "As long as her attention isn't diverted by a tasty patch of grass. Emi's in the kitchen finishing the berry tarts."

  "My timing is perfect then because I was hoping to offer my services as a taste tester."

  Nick patted his flat belly. "Too late. I already performed the task. I think these are her best yet."

  "Yum." I headed up the back steps and followed the rich scent of buttery crust to the kitchen. Emily had painted her kitchen cabinets a sage green and Nick had hung a dark copper hood above the stove. It was typical Emily style, earthy, appealing and inviting. Especially when the kitchen island was covered with a rainbow colored array of glistening fruit tarts.

  Emily had her golden curls piled up on the top of her head. She was wearing jean cut offs and a purple tie dyed tank top under her rooster print apron. She was just finishing pouring hot glaze on the last row of tarts as I stepped into the kitchen.

  "Sunni," she said excitedly, "I was hoping the scent of berries would lure you to the farm today."

  "That and your wayward horse." I pulled a plate from the cupboard.

  "Did Butterscotch wander over again? I swear she wants to move in with you." She waved her ha
nds over a row of tarts. "Take one of these. They're cool enough to eat."

  I picked one that was piled high with ruby red strawberries and placed it on my plate. I scooted up onto one of the stools Emily had sitting in front of the island. "Why did you make so many?"

  "Didn't I tell you?" She placed the pot with the hot glaze back on the stove and rinsed the sticky syrup off her hands. "Ballard Winter ordered some for her sandwich shop. I'm hoping word will get out and I'll have even more orders from other restaurants in the area."

  I took a bite. The blissful bite was a mix of tart berries, sugary glaze and buttery pastry. "Gosh, Emi, they are delicious. How will you make more? I thought this was the last of the strawberries?"

  "I've got some in the freezer. Plus, the forest area behind the farmhouse is brimming with blackberry and boysenberry bushes. They'll be exploding with big juicy berries by August."

  "Hmm, can't wait for those."

  Nick stomped his feet on the doormat at the back door before walking inside. "Can't wait for what?" he asked.

  "Blackberry tarts," I said as I took another bite of my treat.

  Nick washed his hands and ignored Emily's admonishing head tilt as he picked up a second tart.

  Nick sat down on the next stool. "How is it going at the inn? Has Ursula chewed Henry's head clean off yet?"

  I swallowed a bite before a laugh. "Not yet. I think Henry's head might be made of iron. Most of her harping just rolls off him. Although today, he got very defensive when she accused him of snorting his distaste at my color choice for the sitting room."

  Emily was placing cooled tarts in a plastic storage container. "What color did you pick?"

  "Cupid Pink."

  Nick wobbled his head side to side. "I might have snorted too."