Apple Pie A La Murder Read online

  A tall man in a dark suit stepped out of the unmarked car after finishing a conversation on his cell phone. I had never seen him before. Suit wearing was rare in these parts. He had black hair and a serious look on his face. He walked right up to me.

  “I’m Detective Blanchard,” he said and stuck his hand out. I smiled at him and shook his hand, but he didn’t offer me any pleasantries.

  “Can I get your name?” he asked.

  I obliged him. “I didn’t know Sandy Harbor had a detective,” I said. I was puzzled. Where he had come from? Sandy Harbor had a population of less than twenty thousand and everyone knew everyone. The detective was a stranger here.

  Detective Blanchard glanced at me and then looked in the direction the others had gone.

  “Let’s go into the restaurant, shall we? I have some questions for both of you,” he said motioning toward the front door.

  Apparently the detective wasn’t the talkative sort.

  Detective Blanchard opened the door for me and allowed me to enter first. I could still smell pine cleaner and lemon polish in the air. Henry must have stayed late to clean.

  We followed the others back into the kitchen. I would rather not have gone back in there, so I hung out by the door to the kitchen and looked at my feet.

  “Ay yup, he’s dead all right,” Yancey said after feeling for a pulse.

  We all turned toward the back door when it swung open. Martha Newberry appeared and when she saw Henry on the floor with a knife in his chest, she gasped.

  “Oh dear. Oh dear,” she said, looking from Henry to the policemen. She clutched her handbag to her chest and made a low sound similar to a groan.

  “Mrs. Newberry, perhaps you might not want to come in here right now,” George Feeney said and stepped over the body to take her arm.

  “Why, I was just stopping by to help Henry clean this morning. He called last night and said I didn’t need to come in. But I felt bad about it this morning so I stopped by to see if he needed any help after all. Oh dear.” She said again, her face crinkled up with worry.

  Poor Martha was pale as ice. I doubted she had ever seen anything like this. Martha was an elderly woman who sometimes picked up work from Henry a couple of days a week, helping him to keep the germs at bay. Every year she won the Garden Society award for her rose bushes and she was quite the social butterfly. She was a widow without any children and probably lonely all on her own.

  “Why don’t we go into the dining room?” George repeated.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “I was just, just, oh, I don’t know! I seem to be a bit addled at the moment, forgive me.”

  “That’s quite all right,” he said and steered her toward the kitchen door that I was leaning on. As she passed the kitchen counter, she reached out for a pink covered Pyrex dish that sat on it.

  “Oh, this will ruin,” she said, picking it up and taking it to the refrigerator. She averted her gaze from Henry’s body and slipped the dish inside. Poor thing. Whatever was in that dish, was already ruined, having sat out on the counter all night. She wasn’t thinking straight.

  George led her to the dining room, patting her on the shoulder. Martha was too elderly to be working a job. It was a shame she felt she needed to.

  “I would like to speak with the two of you,” the detective said, motioning toward Charles and I, led us to the dining room.

  I glanced over at Charles. He was still wide eyed. I took a deep breath. I didn’t feel like conversation, and apparently neither did Charles. We followed the detective back to the dining room. George had sat Martha at a corner table at the other end of the room, then went to fetch her a glass of water.

  The detective motioned to a booth and nodded at me. I swallowed hard.

  “Charles, I’ll speak with you in a moment. We’d like some privacy,” he said when Charles looked like he wanted to take a seat beside me.

  “Oh, okay, sure,” he said and walked off. He busied himself straightening papers around the cash register, but his eyes were on the detective and me.

  The detective began by taking my personal information and making notes. “Ms. McSwain, what is it you do for a living?” Detective Blanchard asked. He had brilliant blue eyes, and he tried to force himself to smile. He really wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

  I smiled at him to show him how it was done. “I’m a blogger.”

  “Oh? What do you blog about?” he asked.

  I felt my smile tighten. Why was it still so hard for me to tell someone that the man I had loved more than life itself had died? “Grief.”

  “Grief?” he said, eyebrows twitching.

  My smile tightened more. “My husband passed away several years ago and to help me get through it, I began writing a blog on grief.”

  He looked at me, his eyebrows furrowing.

  “I find it therapeutic and other people seem to find it helps them with their own grief.” Oh why did I always feel the need to explain myself? Shouldn’t the fact I had lost and grieved be enough? And why was this oaf seemingly confused by it?

  “Yes, of course,” he said and made a scribbled note on his pad. His handwriting was terrible, so I couldn’t make out what it said. I began to squirm a little. Why did he feel like he needed to keep notes on what I was saying when it didn’t had nothing to do with Henry’s murder?

  “And where were you last night?”

  My mouth dropped open and I shut it again. And why was he asking me this question? “I was home. I watched some television and went to bed around ten. I always get up early to run,” I said. I felt like I had to explain the early bedtime. After all, I might have been middle aged, but I wasn’t dead yet. I had a reason for it.

  “Ms. McSwain, how is it that you find yourself here at the restaurant at 5:00 AM? It doesn’t open up until six, correct?” he asked, not looking up at me.

  I swallowed. “Well, I had made Henry a pie, and I wanted to stop by on my way to the running trail to ask him how he liked it.”

  “Oh?” he said looking at me now. “Were you and Henry, friends?”

  “What? No. I was a customer. You know, it’s a small town where everyone knows everyone. My friend Lucy suggested I approach Henry and ask him if he would like me to bake pies for his restaurant.” Darned that Lucy, I thought.

  “I see. A business venture then?” he scribbled again.

  “Yes. A business venture.” I suddenly felt like a third grader that had found herself unfairly sent to the principal’s office.

  “And would that be your pie smashed on the floor next to the murder victim?” he looked me in the eye on this question.

  I forced myself to smile. “Yes, it would be. People usually have a more positive reaction to my pies.” I laughed, trying to lighten the situation, but got only a blank stare in return from the detective.

  He looked at me for what seemed a long time before he continued. I made a mental note that the detective wasn’t much for humor. “Is there anything you would like to add, Ms. McSwain? Anything that you feel would be of help?”

  Yes, how about, I didn’t do it! I refrained from saying it though. “I can’t think of anything else.”

  “Great, I’m sure we’ll be in touch. You can go now.”

  I looked at him for a minute, and he looked back at me passively. I quickly got to my feet and I gave Charles a wide-eyed look as I passed him and the detective called him over. Charles looked nervous. He had a right to be. I felt like I had been probed by a space alien. Surely that detective couldn’t suspect someone like me? I had never even had a traffic ticket.

  4

  *****

  I didn’t go home after speaking to the detective like I had planned. Instead, I drove over to a little corner coffee shop that served the strongest coffee in the state. While waiting in line, I dialed my friend Lucy.

  Just before it switched over to voicemail, she picked up. “Huh?” she mumbled.

  “Lucy,” I whispered. I got to the front of the line and ordered a latte
from the young woman at the register.

  “Huh?” I heard Lucy repeat.

  “Ya want that with whipped cream?” the woman asked.

  “Yes. Lots. And lots of vanilla syrup and milk.” I answered. I needed the caffeine in the nearly thick as mud coffee, but I also needed it to be palatable.

  “What’s going on?” Lucy asked, sounding a little more awake now.

  “Lucy, I need you to meet me down at Ed’s Coffee Shop. Now.” I whispered into the phone. I looked over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching me or eavesdropping. There were about a dozen other customers in the shop and they all seemed absorbed in their own lives.

  “Why? I’m still in bed,” Lucy said and yawned. “What time is it, anyway?”

  “Lucy, this is important. I need you. Right now,” I said.

  She must have heard the fear in my voice because she sounded more awake now. “All right, I’ll be right there.”

  “Three ninety-five,” the woman behind the counter said, ringing up my drink.

  I smiled at her and ended the phone call with Lucy without saying anything more to her. She would be here. She always was. I smiled at the woman and dug in my bag for my debit card. Where was that thing? I searched my wallet and then the pockets in my purse. I glanced at the woman and smiled. “I’ve got it right here. Somewhere.”

  She gave me a terse smile back as two more customers got in line behind me.

  I dug down among the random receipts, gum and breath mints and glanced over my shoulder and gave the people behind me an apologetic smile. Finally, I found it at the very bottom of my purse and handed it to the cashier.

  After she ran it through, I grabbed my drink and found a small table in the corner. I nervously looked at Facebook on my phone while I waited for Lucy.

  My daughter Jennifer had posted several pictures of herself at a party. I would have to speak to her about that. She needed to be studying, not enjoying college life. My aunt Mary posted pictures of her roses and my mother posted a recipe. I sighed. I was addicted to Facebook, even though there wasn’t much of anything interesting on there.

  I sighed, stirred my latte, and glanced at the clock on the wall. It had been ten minutes since I had called Lucy. I took a sip of my drink and grimaced at the bite of the coffee. It wasn’t the best coffee in town, but it was the strongest, hands down.

  Just when I was thinking about pouting about the length of time it was taking her, Lucy breezed through the door. Her blond hair was in a messy bun on top of her head and she wore sweats and a wrinkled tee shirt. Lucy loved me enough to rush out the door without making herself beautiful. She waved at me and stepped up to order a drink.

  I sighed. Telling Lucy my troubles would make me feel better, even if it didn’t change anything.

  She collected a black coffee and came and sat across from me.

  “So what’s up?” she asked.

  I leaned toward her. “Henry Hoffer was murdered last night,” I whispered.

  “What?” she exclaimed.

  “Sshh! Keep your voice down!” I hissed.

  “How do you know?” she whispered.

  I licked my thumb and reached across and rubbed it under her right eye. She really needed to remove her makeup before going to bed at night. She brushed my hand away and spit on a napkin and started cleaning up under her eyes.

  “I found the body,” I whispered, glancing around to make sure no one heard me.

  She stopped mid rub, eyes wide. “What? How?”

  “I went by to see if he liked my pie and there he was, laying dead in a pool of blood, a steak knife in his chest.”

  “Oh no! That’s horrible. What do the police say about it?”

  I shook my head. “There was this detective there. I didn’t know we had a detective, did you?” She shook her head, and I continued. “I think they might blame me.”

  “What? How could they blame you?” she said too loudly.

  I shushed her again. I looked around to see if anyone was listening and my eyes met Old Mr. Winters.’ He got up from his table from across the way and shuffled toward us. He pulled out the other chair at our table and sat down and looked at me.

  Lucy and I stared back at him.

  “You know, Henry and his employee Charles Allen had an argument the other day. I have never trusted Charles, myself. I bet he did it,” he said, his voice shaking with age.

  Lucy and I glanced at each other again.

  “How could you hear us from all the way over there?” I asked.

  He pulled his hearing aid out of his ear. “This is the Sound Tone 5000. The most sensitive hearing aid on the market.”

  I nodded, mouth open. “Well, what did they argue about?”

  “Money. Henry was tight with money and Charles hadn’t had a raise in a couple of years. So I hear,” he said and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile.

  Who knew old Mr. Winters was a gossip? I glanced at Lucy again. “We have to be going now. Thanks for the info,” I told Mr. Winters and patted him on the shoulder as we left.

  “Hey, that shoulda been worth a coffee, at least!” he called after us.

  “I’ll catch you next time,” I called over my shoulder.

  Out on the sidewalk, I leaned in close to Lucy. “Charles showed up not sixty seconds after I discovered Henry’s body.”

  Lucy gasped. “Do you think he did it?”

  “I don’t know. But if there’s a chance that they’ll blame me, then I intend to investigate,” I said.

  “Okay. I’m with you,” she said.

  Lucy was Ethel to my Lucy, if that makes any sense. We were going to figure this out before I ended up in an orange jumpsuit. I don't look good in orange, it clashes with my red hair.

  5

  *****

  In the morning I went for an extra long run. I needed time to clear my head. The image of Henry lying dead on the floor of his restaurant kitchen was etched in my mind. I blamed Lucy. If she hadn’t talked me into trying to go into the pie baking business, I never would have been there. I would have been just like everyone else in town, sitting in the local coffee shops, gossiping about it.

  Sweat dribbled down my forehead as I drove home. I brushed it away and took a swig from my water bottle. When I pulled up to my house, my daughter Jennifer was sitting on the front steps. I still hadn’t told her about what had happened. She was a worrier, that one.

  I pulled into the driveway and got out of my car. “Hi, honey, what brings you by the homestead so early in the morning?”

  She shrugged. “I had nothing else to do.”

  That meant she missed me. College was only forty-five minutes away, but it was her first year away from home. She wanted to experience dorm life, but she also missed her mama. She had always been a homebody, and I knew college would be rough on her. She stood up, and I pulled her close for a hug. “I missed you!”

  “Oh, Mom, you stink!” she said wrinkling up her lightly freckled nose.

  “It’s called sweat. You know, from exercise?” I let her go and put my key in the door. “Why didn’t you let yourself in?”

  “I forgot my key,” she said, following me into the house.

  “And why was it off your key ring, young lady?” I said stripping off my windbreaker.

  “I dunno. What are you making me for breakfast?” she asked, making a beeline to the kitchen and helping herself to the already brewed coffee.

  “Corn flakes,” I said and reached out a hand to rumple her red hair. She took after me while my son Thad looked almost identical to his father. Blonde hair and blue eyes and every bit as handsome. “Listen, Jennifer, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  There was a knock at the front door and we both looked in that direction. “Wonder who that could be?” I said and went to answer it.

  Detective Blanchard stood on my doorstep. We stared at each other for a few seconds.

  “Detective?” I said when I found my words. Then I realized I was standing here in fr
ont of him both stinky and sweaty, with my hair flying out from its ponytail, and no makeup. Yikes. A Southern woman has standards, you know.

  “Ms. McSwain, good morning. Please excuse my early appearance, but I wondered if I could have a few moments of your time?”

  He stood there in his perfectly creased suit smelling of a fresh shower and aftershave and I wanted to tell him no. I needed a shower first. And even after that, I had no desire whatsoever to talk about Henry Hoffer’s murder. Ever. “Uh,” was all I could manage.

  “It will only take a few moments,” he reassured me. He held his notebook in one hand and a cell phone in the other.

  I nodded and opened the door for him to enter. I really didn’t want to. Besides my being smelly, this man might want to hang a murder on me and I kind of held it against him.

  Jennifer turned around when she heard him enter, cup halfway to her lips and wide-eyed.

  “Detective Blanchard, this is my daughter Jennifer,” I said.

  He held his hand out and strode the distance between them. Jennifer shook his hand, eyes still wide.

  “Do you live here with your mother?” he asked her.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why do you want to know?” That’s my girl. She was just like her mother.

  “Jennifer, that’s what I was just getting ready to tell you. Henry Hoffer was murdered,” I supplied. I didn’t want my daughter to do something regretful, like tell the detective off. She doesn’t look good in orange, either.

  “What?” She said looking at me. “The old guy from the restaurant that carried disinfectant wipes everywhere he went? What happened?”

  “He was murdered,” the detective said.

  She looked at the detective. “And?”

  “And I have a few questions for your mother.”

  Jennifer’s head spun in my direction so fast, you’d have thought she was Linda Blair. “What did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything!” I said and tilted my head toward Blanchard. Way to take up for your mother. “I was the first one to discover his body. I had taken him a pie the night before and I stopped by to see how he liked it.”