Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Holly was so distracted by the feel of his hand on her bare skin that it took a moment for his words to sink in. His charisma and sharp intelligence, along with a dose of lucky good looks, were what made him such an enchanting television host—and when that magnetism was turned full force on a person, it was almost impossible to ignore the spell he wove.

Unless he accused said person of being a witch.

Holly yanked her arm away. Had he seriously just put the charm on her in order to weasel some ridiculous confession out of her? There was low and then there was low . She was angry with him, but even angrier with herself. She didn’t even like the man; how had she allowed herself to be drawn into the moment like that?

His gaze was inscrutable when he said, “That came out wrong.”

“Oh, so you didn’t mean to imply that I’m a witch?”

He didn’t answer.

Holly scoffed and backed up a step. “You’re unbelievable. I know you’re looking for some juicy TV drama, but you’re barking up the wrong tree, buddy. There aren’t any witches on this apple farm, and there never have been.” And still her skin crinkled with fear. He’d been there a single morning, and already he was edging toward a truth that had to stay hidden. Was this why he’d chosen Wicked Good Apples over any number of other haunted locations in the state? Did he suspect there was more than a ghost in their orchards?

Clouds began rolling in from the east, the blue sky darkening with the advent of an afternoon thunderstorm. Holly was so angry she barely noticed the encroaching pile of steely clouds. “Let me be clear, Connor Grimm: you can sit on your ass in the cold all night long looking for ghosts, but if you come after me or my family, I will bring you down with the wrath of fricking Zeus.” She stabbed her finger in the air. “And don’t you dare try the same tactics with my sisters, because Missy will definitely fall for it, and she’s a lot more sensitive than people realize.”

He frowned. “Tactics?”

“I know a play when I hear one. You thought you’d see if you could get the hick chick all flustered and then throw a comment like that at her.”

He took a step forward, but she practically snarled, so he paused. “Listen, Holly, it wasn’t the best timing, but I sure as hell wasn’t playing you.” He raked his hand through his hair and murmured, “I don’t know what I was doing.”

She might have believed him if she hadn’t heard his own assistant mention his slew of unhappy exes.

“And I don’t think you’re some ‘hick chick,’” he added. “I don’t know anything about you really, but I’d like the chance to learn. For work purposes.”

Holly gave a harsh laugh. “That’s never going to happen. We’re going to have the barest of professional relationships for the next few weeks, and then you can trot off and convince some other unsuspecting sap that his property is haunted.”

His eyes flashed with anger. “I don’t know if you’re really so conceited that you think the thousands of people who have witnessed the supernatural are idiots, or if you’re just trying to convince yourself it’s not real so you can mock what I do, but either way you have loyal customers who will attest to something strange going on here. You claim to love your orchards deeply, and yet you’re so quick to dismiss the accounts of the very people that butter your bread.”

Holly’s cheeks burned at the insult. “Really? Just who are these ‘loyal customers’ who claim to have all the answers you’re looking for?”

Thunder rumbled overhead, and he lifted his face to the sky before he answered. She tried very hard not to picture a streak of lightning sizzling the ground at his feet. “Amy Gordon, for one. I’m scheduled to meet with her in half an hour. I actually came out here to invite you along.”

“HA!”

“ ‘HA’ what?”

“ ‘HA’ as in Amy Gordon is a fraud. She’s pissed at me because she stepped on Prickles the last time she was here and then tried to sue me, but no lawyer would take on her case.” Amy was also dating Holly’s ex-boyfriend, and Holly wouldn’t put it past Amy to hold a grudge about that too.

His brows drew together. “Prickles?”

“Yes. He’s my hedgehog.” She crossed her arms, prepared to defend her choice of pet. A raindrop splattered on her cheek and she took a deep breath, trying to calm her emotions. The man had just accused her of being a witch; she didn’t need to give him any more ammunition with ill-timed weather events. “He’s adorbs, even though sometimes he gets loose and explores the barn. I should have sued her for almost crushing him with her big stupid feet.”

Connor dismissed her excuse with a shake of his head. “She might have issues with you, but in her initial interview her account didn’t sound fake.”

“You’re being misled,” she insisted. “I can prove that any ‘loyal customer’ claiming to have seen strange things at Wicked Good Apples is only yanking your chain.”

A soft rain began to fall, and Holly refused to notice how Connor’s T-shirt stuck to his abs or how the water dripped down his strong chin.

“All right, let’s make this fun,” he said, a gleam in his eye. “If Amy can convince you of her story, you’ll let me search your attic and basement for old letters, records, or ledgers. A house that’s been inhabited by the same family for two hundred years has to have a treasure trove of documents stuffed in trunks and boxes, and I’m looking for a particular name.”

She agreed instantly. The last time Amy had been at the farm was when she’d almost murdered Prickles with her ugly clogs, and there was no way Amy had seen a ghost in the middle of the day. Holly was already smug with the idea of rubbing Connor’s mistake in his face. “If you’re right I’ll let you search the attic and basement with me. But if I’m right, you promise to shoot only one episode.”

His jaw tensed as the rain came down harder, pelting the dirt and grass at their feet and jouncing the blossoms with fat drops. The fragrant scent of disturbed apple blossoms hung in the air even as a flash of lightning streaked across the sky. Connor held out his hand for the second time in so many days. “You have a deal, Celeste. Get dry and meet me at my truck in twenty minutes.”

She shook his hand with more force than necessary. “Get ready to eat humble pie, Grimm.”

He grinned. “Where did you learn your insults? The 1950s schoolyard bully’s handbook?”

Holly burst out laughing and was instantly aggravated with herself. “Less talking and more walking. I have a bet to win.”

Holly slid into the leather seat of Connor’s pickup truck, shook out her bright yellow umbrella, and slammed the door shut.

“Where did this rain come from?” Connor asked as he started the truck. It leaped to life with a sleek prowl. “I thought the forecast said it was supposed to be sunny skies all day.”

“Welcome to Maine. If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes.” She gestured out the windshield to a blue patch of sky on the horizon.

When she glanced over, she noticed he’d changed into his TV clothes, which consisted of dark jeans and the famous crisp white polo shirt with the words Grimm Brother embroidered on the pocket. She’d seen shirts exactly like it sold online for Halloween and cosplay. His hair was wet from the rain, and he smelled as if he’d applied a hint of fresh cologne—that same pine and spice scent that made her think of cool fall days creeping into winter. She owned an apple farm, which meant fall was one of her favorite times of the year, and she thought it was a little unfair that the man she disliked so much would smell so delicious.

Holly hadn’t gone out of her way to dress in anything special since she wouldn’t be on camera. She’d left her hair down to dry, and it fell over the shoulders of her T-shirt that proudly proclaimed her an Oxford comma lover. Her ensemble was complete with a pair of jeans that had a rip on the thigh, and tan work boots. She bit her lip. Maybe she should have at least found a pair of jeans that didn’t have a tear.

“My film crew is already at Amy’s.” Connor’s eyes darted to the time on the console. “We’re a few minutes late. I’ve already preinterviewed Amy, and I’m going to follow a similar line of questioning for the cameras. If you have any questions, feel free to speak up, but no browbeating the witness.”

“I don’t want to be on camera.”

“We’ll edit out your voice if her answers are of any interest.” He steered the truck down the rutted driveway and turned onto a back road, although to be fair, all the roads in that area were back roads. The windshield wipers swept away the last drops of rain as the sun began to peek from between gray clouds. “Should we set a time to investigate the attic?”

The smile he gave her was so mischievous that if her purse hadn’t jittered on her lap at that moment, she might have embarrassed herself by staring too long. Holly discretely shifted the bag and hoped he hadn’t seen it move, but his eyes were already back on the road.

“Don’t get cocky. I bring the worst out in Amy Gordon. You’ll see.”

He arched a brow and turned at a mailbox painted with a bright red cardinal. “You have history other than the lawsuit?”

“Oh yeah. We graduated high school together. She slept with my boyfriend senior year, and now she’s dating my ex.”

Connor stifled a groan. “This is probably going to be a mistake.”

Holly smiled innocently. “Don’t be silly. She can have Jeremy; he’s my ex for a reason. All I care about is exposing her for the fraud she is.”

He parked the truck and turned to her, his slate-gray gaze assessing her from her loose hair down to her boots, his eyes returning to linger for a brief moment on the skin showing through the tear in her jeans. “Now I’m certain I’m going to regret this.”

A big white van was already parked in Amy’s driveway, its rear doors flung open now that the rain had stopped to reveal more camera equipment than Holly would ever know what to do with. She followed Connor to the front door, and even though it was cracked open, he still rang the doorbell. A moment later a camerawoman appeared and gestured him inside.

Holly gawked at Amy’s living room, which had been transformed into a mini film set. A navy couch was positioned by a wall-to-wall bay window, the coffee table in front of it staged with a steaming mug of tea. All the other furniture had been pushed against the walls. Bright, white lights were positioned around the couch, and a big fuzzy microphone on a stick was propped against the wall, ready to hover over Amy’s head while she spoke.

Amy stood in the center of the room, assessing the changes with delight. She was wearing a black-and-white-striped dress accessorized with a chunky ruby necklace. A bit too Beetlejuice for Holly’s taste, but whatever. Amy’s blonde locks were curled and hair-sprayed stiff, and she’d applied an enormous amount of makeup. So much, in fact, that Holly was genuinely worried it might start melting under the heat of the lights.

The moment Amy’s eyes landed on Connor she beamed him a thousand-watt smile and strutted over with the swinging hips of a catwalk model. “Connor,” she purred, holding out her hand. Holly thought she probably wanted him to kiss it, but he only gave her a brief shake and released her fingers.

“Amy, thank you again for letting us film in your home. I brought with me Holly Celeste from Wicked Good Apples. I thought she might like to observe the interview and filming process.”

Amy’s ultra-bright smile faded. “I’m not sure I feel comfortable having her in the room when I’m talking about such … delicate matters. I might feel censored.”

Holly bared her teeth. “You won’t even know I’m here.” Before Amy could make a stink about her presence, she faded into the noisy background and claimed an empty wooden chair that had been pushed against the wall.

While Connor competently directed his team, Holly observed him with a pinched brow. He knew everyone’s name and asked about their trips north, inquired about their families, made jokes about the weather, gave condolences about colicky babies, and generally seemed to command the adoration of the entire room.

Ugh. He was such a showman!

At last the team was ready and the cameras began rolling. Connor was in full investigative TV personality mode as he sat beside Amy on the couch and said, “Amy, you’ve been visiting Wicked Good Apples since you were a child—is that right?”

Amy nodded. “They’ve always had the best apples. Everyone in town knows it. It’s a beautiful spot, even if the owners are strange.”

Strange! That little …

Connor’s gray eyes searched Amy’s face. “But everything changed last year when you stopped by for your annual apple picking trip. It was a typical Saturday afternoon, but what happened wasn’t normal at all, was it?”

Amy’s carefully crafted smile faltered a bit. “No, Connor, it wasn’t normal. We were in the far orchard, picking some of the heirloom apple varieties that you can’t get anywhere else these days, when I felt a sudden chill at my back.” She shivered. It wasn’t a theatrical shiver meant to impress, but rather an involuntary chill. Holly cocked her head in interest. “I turned to speak to my husband, but he’d wandered into another row, so I was all alone.” Amy swallowed and held out her hand.

Connor took her fingers without hesitation and squeezed comfortingly. Holly rolled her eyes.

“At least I thought I was alone until I saw the man. He was sitting on the ground underneath one of the apple trees, one knee bent, and he was whistling while he peeled an apple with a knife. He was dressed strangely, as if he’d just stepped out of the 1800s. He had on an old-fashioned gray coat with a vest and trousers. I could even see the silver chain of a pocket watch.”

“Was there anything else odd about him?”

Amy nodded. “He was wearing a roundish black hat.”

An assistant jumped forward and handed Connor a sheet of paper with the photograph of a black, bowler-type hat on it. He showed it to Amy. “Did it look like this?”

Amy nodded again and caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “Exactly like that. He had a waxed moustache, and one of his eyes was milky white. When he smiled up at me, his teeth were crooked.”

Holly was so caught up in Amy’s story that she set her purse on the ground, completely forgetting she’d unzipped it so air could circulate inside. Holly had scrolled the paranormal websites that had begun popping up a few years ago claiming Wicked Good Apples was haunted, but she and her sisters had never encountered a ghost on the farm. After a while Holly had concluded it was all conspiracy-theory nonsense, but then she’d never heard any person speak of the supposed ghost with a quiver in her voice the way Amy was doing right now.

“It was so chilly that my teeth were chattering, even though it was sunny and seventy degrees. I remember being startled, and I said something like, ‘Oh, I didn’t see you there.’”

“Did he answer you?” Connor’s tone was coaxing, his entire body turned to her as if he were riveted by her tale.

She nodded and her fingers twisted together in her lap. “He held out the apple he was peeling and said, ‘Care for a poisoned apple?’ I got scared and backed away, and he gave this mocking sort of laugh and said, ‘I wouldn’t have eaten it either—if I’d known.’”

Chills raced over Holly’s skin and her hands suddenly felt clammy. She wiped them on the thighs of her jeans, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from Amy. Amy was an uber bitch with a dramatic need for attention, but nothing about her story sounded fake. In fact, she seemed more scared and nervous than excited to share it.

Connor’s assistant handed him another sheet of paper, this one a photograph of an oil portrait of a man Holly had never seen before. Connor passed Amy the paper. The moment her eyes fell on the portrait, she flinched and shoved the photograph back into his hands.

“Is that him?” Connor asked.

Amy nodded, her fingers visibly trembling.

Connor focused on the camera. “It’s not just any ghost haunting Wicked Good Apples. The man Miss Gordon identified is none other than Councilman Jonathan Miller.”

Holly felt as if she’d just been slapped. Her cheeks heated and her vision wavered. She knew that name. If Connor was right about the spirit being Councilman Miller, then the ghost was real. The foundation of her family’s entire business had been built on Councilman Miller and what he’d done to her great-great-grandmother.

“What happened next?” Connor prompted Amy.

“I ran away screaming and found my husband. By the time we got back to the tree, the man was gone, but there was a peeled apple on the ground. My husband said anyone could have left it, but”—Amy forced her stiff hair behind her ears—“I knew it was his. My husband took me inside the barn to rest, and I was just getting over my terror when I stepped on this stupid hedgehog the owners had negligently left out.”

Now there was the annoying and self-righteous Amy Holly knew.

Holly was so focused on her inner turmoil over learning the identity of the ghost that she almost didn’t spot the dark patch of spines waddling toward the couch. When she saw them, she did a double take. Oh no! She snatched her purse off the ground and pulled it open. Prickles was gone. She zeroed in on the little hedgehog inching toward Amy’s spiky heels. If Amy stepped on him with those murder weapons on her feet …

Cursing her stupidity, Holly began to slink along the wall behind the cameras, stepping over cords as she crept closer to the front of the room. She’d brought Prickles with her to rattle Amy into showing her true colors. She hadn’t expected Amy’s story to strike her with such authenticity, and when she realized Amy believed what she was saying, Holly had decided against antagonizing the other woman with the hedgehog. Except then she’d forgotten her purse was unzipped and had set it down.

Connor was asking Amy a few follow-up questions, but Holly wasn’t listening anymore. She slowly dropped to her knees and began to crawl forward, blushing when she realized multiple crewmembers had torn their gazes from the interview to watch her antics.

Amy was chatting more animatedly now that the scariest part of her story was over, and Holly thought she might be able to reach Prickles without either Connor or Amy noticing. That hope was dashed when Connor’s gaze flickered from Amy’s face down to her, and his expression faltered for a moment.

Holly pointed to Prickles, who was waddling toward Amy’s delicately crossed ankles. What was it about this woman that Prickles loved so much? Maybe her feet smelled. Connor’s gaze followed Holly’s finger to the hedgehog, its tiny black nose twitching, and his eyes closed briefly in exasperation.

“Thank you so much, Amy. I know this has been difficult for you,” he said. Funny, it sounded like he was speaking through a clenched jaw.

“It was sooooo scary.” Amy scooted closer to him and rested her hand on his knee. “My husband never believed me. It’s the reason we divorced.” She pouted her heavily glossed lips, apparently forgetting she now had a boyfriend. “I was emotionally traumatized by Wicked Good Apples.”

Holly stopped crawling and gaped up at Amy. That bitch ! She was trying to set up groundwork to sue them!

Three things happened in rapid succession. First Holly sneezed, drawing Amy’s attention to where she was on her hands and knees six feet away from the couch. As Amy blinked in confusion, Prickles then gently brushed against her foot, making her jump to her feet with an all-mighty scream. And at that exact moment, a storm-loosened branch crashed through the massive picture window that faced the forest, the glass exploding into the living room in a spray of sharp shards.