Death of a Bad Apple Read Online Free PDF

I hopped into my VW Bug and followed her to the dog spa. Twenty minutes later we were on our way to the peace and quiet of Apple Valley. Planning to caravan on the way up, I followed Dillon and Aunt Abby for a while until I couldn’t stand the slow pace and drove on ahead. Jake had said he’d meet us there later tonight.
    I couldn’t wait.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Even though I didn’t cook, I loved reading cookbooks and imagining the food, so I listened to an audio recording of
The Johnny Appleseed Cookbook
on the two-hour drive to get in the mood. According to the introductory bio, the book was by the same guy who had penned the article about Apple Valley—Nathan “Appleseed” Chapman. I wondered briefly if the author was really a distant relative of the wandering orchardist or was Chapman just using the alias to cash in on the famous Appleseed name?
    By the time I arrived at the Enchanted Apple around eight o’clock at night, I was hungry again from listening to the apple recipes, and craving another one of Aunt Abby’s salted caramel-apple tarts. As I pulled up to the circular driveway in front of the lattice-covered entryway, I figured I might have to do some recon in the inn’s kitchen when everyonehad gone to bed and see what I could find left over in the fridge.
    The large house was something out of a fairy tale, with its ornate gingerbread, dormer windows, and ivy-covered roof. The driveway was dark, except for a few garden lights that lit the path to the front door. As I pulled my suitcase out of the trunk, I glanced around to see if I could spot the burned building Aunt Abby had told me about, but no lights shone on the rest of the property, making it impossible to get a glimpse of the ruined storage facility. I thought I smelled a trace of smoke still lingering in the air, but it could have been from the chimney. A lit fireplace would be a nice welcome, since the fall air had grown chilly.
    I pulled my jacket tight, grabbed my suitcase, lumbered up the covered path, and rang the bell. The inn was painted Granny Smith green, with a red front door and an apple-shaped knocker. I was instantly greeted by a woman I guessed to be around forty, judging from a few gray hairs in her upswept hair and soft lines around her eyes. She wore comfortable jeans and a red sweatshirt embroidered with a basket of apples.
    â€œWelcome!” she said cheerily, and reached out a hand. “You must be Darcy Burnett, Abby’s niece. I’m Honey Smith.”
    I took her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
    â€œCome on in,” Honey said. “Your room is all ready for you. Is Abby with you?” She peered at my car.
    â€œNo, she and her son, Dillon, are bringing the bus. She should be here soon.”
    I stepped inside, dragging my suitcase, and followed her to the front desk a few steps into the entryway. She stopped suddenly and touched her chin with her finger.
    â€œOh, um, I was going to have you sign the registry, but I think I’ll show you to your room first and let you get settled in. I’m hosting a wine-tasting for my guests at eight thirty, so you can register then. This way.” She flashed me a welcoming smile before leading the way.
    I followed her past a dining area, then a parlor. I caught a glimpse of flames crackling in a redbrick fireplace and inhaled the smoky aroma. Three couches circled the fireplace, making a cozy gathering place for the guests. A table in the center held a dish of what looked like dried apple chips, next to a tray of ornate wineglasses. The whole scene was relaxing and inviting, and I let out a breath as I hoisted my suitcase and followed Honey up the stairs.
    â€œWe have a full house this weekend,” she said as we reached the second-floor landing. “All five rooms are filled. In addition to your group, we have a writer who’s doing a story on the Apple Fest for the newspaper—a man named