Death of a Bad Apple by Penny Pike

wondered.
    â€œDid you know Roman Gold, the man who was killed?” I asked, curious about what she might know.
    â€œNever 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 wouldn’t have won him any popularity contests, at least not around here.”
    â€œIt 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, he’s supposed to remain unbiased.” At least, that’s what they told us in journalism school.
    â€œWell, GMO apples don’t bother me,” 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.
    â€œYou’re not worried about them?” I asked.
    â€œOh, I sympathize with the growers, but my winery won’t be affected, since bigger and prettier apples aren’t really an issue for wine-making. Besides, it’s going to happen anyway—that’s progress—so we might as well accept it. Things happen that are out of our control. One day you have a farm. The next dayit’s burned to the ground. One day you’re married. The next day he walks out on you. That’s life.”
    She took another long swallow of wine and set down the glass a little harder than she should have. I was surprised it didn’t crack or shatter into pieces.
    â€œWhat do you think is going on with those fires?” I thought she might have some additional insight to offer after chugging that wine.
    She frowned. “What are you, some kind of reporter too?”
    I shook my head. “No, I’m working in one of the food trucks at the festival. The Big Yellow School Bus. And writing a cookbook featuring food truck recipes.”
    She brightened. “Why didn’t you say so? I give vendors a discount on my wines.”
    â€œGreat. Then I’d like two glasses of the Applewhite.”
    She poured the wine into the two glasses I’d used for tasting, apparently not concerned that they should be perfectly clean. Was the alcohol level affecting her wine-serving protocol?
    â€œAs for the fires,” she said, “now, they’re a real concern. My guess is someone is setting those fires to send a message, and who knows who’ll be next? My winery? If I lose my business, I’ll be left with nothing. My daughter and I would be in serious trouble. We can’t live on her small income making crafts and setting up hay mazes and selling scarecrows. I hope they catch the bastard, and soon.”
    So, it sounded as though the fires worried her, but the dead man wasn’t an issue. Interesting.
    â€œThat’ll be ten dollars for the wine,” she said. “With the discount. And ten for the two glasses. They’re souvenirs, unless you want plastic cups.”
    Twenty bucks for wine and glasses? With a discount?
    Wow.
    I gave her a twenty and picked up the glasses. “Thanks,” I said. “Nice chatting with you.”
    â€œYou too. Come by sometime over the weekend so you can meet my daughter, Tiffany.”
    â€œI think saw her last night. There’s a family resemblance.”
    Crystal smiled proudly. “Yep. Got her mom’s nose and eyes.” She looked around. “Funny, she was here just a minute ago, helping me out. Now where’d she get to?”
    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