wondered.
âDid you know Roman Gold, the man who was killed?â I asked, curious about what she might know.
âNever heard of him. Supposed to be some kind of writer doing an article on the Apple Fest, but he never talked to me. Someone said he sounded kind of pro-GMO. That wouldnât have won him any popularity contests, at least not around here.â
âIt does seem like a lot of farmers are upset about the new GMO apples. But I hardly think his interest in them would get him killed. After all, he was just writing about the situation. As a journalist, heâs supposed to remain unbiased.â At least, thatâs what they told us in journalism school.
âWell, GMO apples donât bother me,â Crystal said, filling another clean glass with some of her wine. I thought she was about to offer it to me while we chatted, but instead she swallowed a couple of sips herself.
âYouâre not worried about them?â I asked.
âOh, I sympathize with the growers, but my winery wonât be affected, since bigger and prettier apples arenât really an issue for wine-making. Besides, itâs going to happen anywayâthatâs progressâso we might as well accept it. Things happen that are out of our control. One day you have a farm. The next dayitâs burned to the ground. One day youâre married. The next day he walks out on you. Thatâs life.â
She took another long swallow of wine and set down the glass a little harder than she should have. I was surprised it didnât crack or shatter into pieces.
âWhat do you think is going on with those fires?â I thought she might have some additional insight to offer after chugging that wine.
She frowned. âWhat are you, some kind of reporter too?â
I shook my head. âNo, Iâm working in one of the food trucks at the festival. The Big Yellow School Bus. And writing a cookbook featuring food truck recipes.â
She brightened. âWhy didnât you say so? I give vendors a discount on my wines.â
âGreat. Then Iâd like two glasses of the Applewhite.â
She poured the wine into the two glasses Iâd used for tasting, apparently not concerned that they should be perfectly clean. Was the alcohol level affecting her wine-serving protocol?
âAs for the fires,â she said, ânow, theyâre a real concern. My guess is someone is setting those fires to send a message, and who knows whoâll be next? My winery? If I lose my business, Iâll be left with nothing. My daughter and I would be in serious trouble. We canât live on her small income making crafts and setting up hay mazes and selling scarecrows. I hope they catch the bastard, and soon.â
So, it sounded as though the fires worried her, but the dead man wasnât an issue. Interesting.
âThatâll be ten dollars for the wine,â she said. âWith the discount. And ten for the two glasses. Theyâre souvenirs, unless you want plastic cups.â
Twenty bucks for wine and glasses? With a discount?
Wow.
I gave her a twenty and picked up the glasses. âThanks,â I said. âNice chatting with you.â
âYou too. Come by sometime over the weekend so you can meet my daughter, Tiffany.â
âI think saw her last night. Thereâs a family resemblance.â
Crystal smiled proudly. âYep. Got her momâs nose and eyes.â She looked around. âFunny, she was here just a minute ago, helping me out. Now whereâd she get to?â
I bit my tongue. No way was I getting involved in this potential drama. I already had more than enough drama to deal with on my own.
Chapter 9
I picked up my two glasses of wine and looked around for a nearby picnic table where Jake and I could sit down, take a break, and enjoy the drinks. I spotted a free one, sat down, and took a few minutes to relax, inhaling the smells of cut hay, hot cider, and
C. J. Cherryh
Learning to Kill: Stories
John O'Riley
Brenda Sinclair
Christopher George
Stephen Lloyd Jones
Karl Iagnemma
Celya Bowers
Jill Gregory
Aria Cunningham