Apple Orchard Cozy Mystery series Box Set 1

by Chelsea Thomas

  Teeny and I both wanted to know what Miss May thought about Charles' infidelity, but Miss May said she needed to think before we talked things over. So we drove in silence back up to orchard. Teeny squirmed around like she had worms in her knickers and I wound and unwound a piece of hair around my finger a hundred times. When we got home, I started a fire in Miss May's big stone fireplace. Then Teeny and I fidgeted and hair-twisted some more until Miss May plopped down in her chair, ready to talk.

  “The way I see it,” Miss May said, “is that I was wrong about Florence.”

  “So you think she did it?” I asked.

  “Let me put it this way,” Miss May said. “Before we got there, she didn’t have the motive. Now we know that scum-bucket was cheating? Whole new pot of spaghetti.”

  “I still can’t believe Charles was cheating on Florence,” Teeny said. “Scum-bucket. Ha. I have a few more descriptive names I’d like to call that—”

  “Watch your language, Teeny,” Miss May cautioned. “The man could still haunt you.”

  I sat up and crossed my legs. “But Principal Fitz said she didn’t even know about the cheating until today. If that's true, her motive came too late for her to commit the murder.”

  Miss May got up and poked at the fire. “But how do we know she wasn't lying?”

  I shrugged. “Why would Florence tell us about Jennifer unless she were innocent?”

  “I don’t know, Chels,” Miss May said. “All I know is she was out there chopping wood like a professional lumberjack the day after her husband died. She seemed like she was working through some heavy emotions.”

  Teeny perked up. “You think she was chopping wood to set something on fire? Like...she was going to burn evidence or something?” We all glanced at the fire.

  “No,” I said. “I think Principal Fitz was just taking out her frustration on the firewood.”

  Miss May raised her eyebrows. “So you think chopping firewood is her way of grieving?”

  Teeny shrugged. “I've done crazier stuff for no reason at all.”

  “Yeah, but you're nuts,” Miss May said. She and Teeny laughed.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said. “Maybe it was more than normal grief stuff. She was kind of like a machine.”

  Miss May climbed out of her chair and plodded into the kitchen with her heavy nighttime steps.

  “Where are you going?” I said.

  “One second!” Miss May said.

  I heard a door opening. Junk rustling around. A door thudding shut. Then Miss May crossed back into the den, holding a few skewers and a bag of marshmallows.

  “I think this debate calls for indoor s’mores. You two want some?”

  I laughed. “Yes, please.”

  Teeny held out her hand, “Never say no to a marshmallow. That's a fundamental rule of my life.”

  Miss May threaded a marshmallow onto a skewer and handed one to me. I slid up to the edge of my chair and held the marshmallow out over the fire. I turned it a centimeter at a time, making sure each side charred to a perfect bubbling brown. Miss May just held hers in the flame ‘til it caught on fire, blew it out like a candle, and took a bite.

  Teeny ate hers raw.

  I looked over at Miss May as I took a nibble from my marshmallow. “So what do we do now?”

  “You’re not going to like it,” Miss May said.

  “No,” I said, lowering my marshmallow. “Don't tell me you want to go talk to Jennifer Paul.”

  Miss May shoved her second marshmallow in the flames. It caught on fire and she blew it out. “You need a haircut anyway,” she said. “Those split ends are out of control.”

  Teeny nodded, “I wasn’t going to say anything, but your hair looks horrendous.”

  I sighed and shoved my whole marshmallow into my mouth. Split ends or not, I’d rather light my hair on fire than let Jennifer Paul take her scissors to it.

  Especially if she turned out to be a murderer.

  The next morning, Miss May woke me up by throwing the car keys at me while I was still asleep. I knew what that meant. Miss May wanted me to practice driving so I could take my road test soon. Although I had taken the wheel during the climax of our first investigation, driving regularly scared me. So when the car keys thunked against my bed that morning, I pretended to keep sleeping. Even when Miss May grabbed the keys and threw them at me again. And again. And again.

  After about five times, Miss May laughed. “You’re faking, Chelsea! C’mon. Get up!”

  Groan. “I want to stay in bed.”

  “Fat chance. We need to talk to the demon barber of Hastings Pond. And I’m not going alone.”

  Miss May pulled my feet. I glided off the bed and my butt thumped onto the floor.

  “Ow!”

  “Oh, come off it,” Miss May said. “You’ve got plenty of padding down there.”

  “You hurt the padding,” I said. But Miss May was already striding out of my room.

  I called after her. “You better not think I'm driving!” But when I looked back at my bed, the keys to the bus were sitting there, staring back at me. I grabbed them and tossed them into the hall.

  They skidded a few feet when they landed. I smirked. “And stay out!”

  ----

  When I got out to the bus a few minutes later, Miss May had taken up camp in the passenger seat.

  I stopped walking as soon as I saw her, and we glared at one another like we were in the middle of a standoff from an old Western movie.

  My shoulders straightened. The wind stirred my hair. Miss May stepped out of the van and narrowed her eyes. I swear she had spurs on her boots.

  “I’m not driving that vehicle,” I said, doing my best Clint Eastwood impression.

  “Then you're not riding in it.”

  Miss May and I stood there for at least thirty seconds, and neither of us budged an inch.

  “Nice day,” I said.

  “Yep,” Miss May replied, her voice sounding deeper and throatier than usual. “Looks like the snow’s melting.”

  My eyes narrowed until they were almost closed. “I’ll let it all melt, if that’s what it takes.”

  I had the sudden urge to spit chewing tobacco or unholster my gun. But I had no tobacco or gun, so instead, I kicked the dirt like a bull about to charge. Or a dog covering up its poop.

  Things were about to get good. Or bad. Or ugly.

  Just then, Teeny honked her way up the driveway in her convertible and broke the spell.

  She rolled the window down and called out. “What in the heck are you two doing?”

  “Waiting to see who has to drive,” Miss May said. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m here to pick you up. Texted Chels a few minutes ago!”

  I checked my phone. Yup. There was a text from Teeny. “I’m driving. See you in five!”

  “Oh,” I said. “Sounds good to me!”

  I ran over to Teeny’s car and climbed in the backseat. Miss May pocketed the keys to the bus and followed. “This isn’t over, Chelsea.”

  “Oh, I know,” I growled in my Eastwood voice. “We’ll finish this later.”

  For the first two seconds of the ride to Jennifer’s, I was glad that Miss May hadn't forced me to drive. But as soon as Teeny pulled out onto the street, I realized I'd made a huge mistake.

  To say Teeny drove like a crazy, one-eyed, adrenaline junkie would be a severe understatement. She drove like a legally-blind adrenaline junkie. She screeched around every turn. She blew through three red lights. And she had a near-miss with an elderly pedestrian at a crosswalk.

  I was so terrified during the drive that I didn't speak a single word. But when Teeny finally skidded to a halt in front of Jennifer's house, all my pent-up fear came spilling out.

  “What the heck, Teeny!? You drive like a maniac! I felt safer on my runaway sled.”

  Teeny waved me off. “Oh you’re fine. It’s just bumpy in the back, that’s all.”

  “Bumpy in the back!? We were up on two wheel
s for half that trip.”

  Miss May ruffled my hair. “This is why you need a license, you little backseat driver.”

  “More like this is why Teeny needs her license revoked.”

  Teeny huffed at me and crossed her arms.

  “Well we're here now,” Miss May said. “So let's move on.”

  “Works for me,” Teeny looked up at Jennifer's place. “I forgot how cute this place was.”

  “Cute” was a massive understatement. Jennifer's house slash salon was fairy-tale perfect. It was pastel pink, with a little white fence and a tire-swing in the yard. And there was a hand-painted sign over the garage that said, “Jennifer’s Hair Studio.”

  “It really is nice,” Miss May said. “And it looks like she’s getting an addition around back.”

  I got on my tippy-toes and peered into the side yard. Miss May was right. The small backyard looked like a half-finished construction site. Jennifer had bumped out her kitchen to make a small deck, but the work seemed to have stalled. Construction in Pine Grove halted during the colder winter months, but come next summer, her house would be bigger and better.

  It was all so nice, it made me furious.

  How did Jennifer Paul have her own house on Hastings Pond, but I was still sleeping in my childhood bedroom? What was wrong with me?

  “That addition is hideous,” I said, feeling vindictive.

  Miss May looked over at me. “Whoa, Chels.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But it is. It’s going to ruin the whole flow of the place.”

  “Looks nice to me,” Teeny said. “Adds good square footage. If she puts a little fence on the other side to balance out the house, you won’t even be able to tell it’s not original.”

  Teeny was kind of right, but I was unable to hide my petty jealousy. “It’s gauche. That’s what it is. Plus, Jennifer didn't even have enough money for donuts! How is she affording this?”

  Miss May put her finger on her nose. “And there’s the question of the hour.”

  Teeny crunched through the snow toward the front door. “So let’s ask her.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Miss May said.

  Gulp. “It does?” Showing up at Jennifer Paul’s doorstep and interrogating her about the gross addition to the back of her house was the last thing I wanted to do that day. Or ever. Judgment was all fine and good in my head, but confrontation was not really my bag. See: giving Jennifer free donuts to avoid conflict.

  I contemplated screaming, running into the half-frozen pond, and hiding under a chunk of ice, but that didn’t seem like a good long-term solution. Besides, Teeny had already rung the doorbell. And Jennifer had already answered it, signature snarl on her otherwise pretty face.

  “Miss May. What do you want?” She emphasized “you” like Miss May was the last person she ever wanted to see, but the smile on Miss May’s face didn’t so much as flicker.

  “Chelsea needs a haircut.” Miss May paused, waiting for a response. None came. “Can we come in to talk about it? We’re freezing our behinds off out here.”

  Jennifer looked over at me and Teeny. “Actually, now’s not really a good time.”

  “Why not?” Miss May poked her head inside Jennifer’s house. Jennifer stepped forward to block Miss May’s view.

  “If you must know,” Jennifer said. “I’m not open for business right now. Someone broke into my house last night. So I’m waiting for the police. They’re taking forever, no shocker there.”

  “A break-in?! In Pine Grove?” Miss May shook her head.

  “Are you really surprised?” Jennifer asked. “A murderer slaughtered someone on your farm not that long ago. Plus there was that whole local theater debacle. And I’m not just talking about how bad the play was.”

  “Hey now!” Teeny said. “That play was a work in progress.”

  “And ‘slaughtered’ is a strong word for what happened on the farm,” I added. “It was a crime of passion.”

  “This break-in must have you shaken up,” Miss May said, doing one of her expert pivots. “Forget Chelsea's haircut. You need comfort food. Why don’t I whip something up for you?”

  “Whatever,” Jennifer said. “I guess you can come in, if you don’t mind stepping over the debris.”

  Miss May entered. Jennifer watched as I edged past her, smiling with her teeth but scowling with her eyes. “Hey Chelsea. Were you even going to say hi, or just wait for me to fix that rat’s nest on your head?”

  I laughed in a weak attempt to break the tension. Also because I was too scared to form words. Interacting with Jennifer was even worse than riding in the back of Teeny’s convertible.

  11

  Antique Analysis

  Once Jennifer closed the door behind us, I had a few seconds to look around her place and I felt a flush of vindication. First, I had been right about her bad taste. Her individual pieces of furniture were nice enough. They looked expensive, actually. But the styles were poorly mixed, so the whole place felt forced and cluttered. It could have been eclectic and classy, if I had a few days to turn it around. Somehow, I doubted Jennifer would hire me any time soon.

  Second, and OK, fine, more important, the burglar had ransacked the place. Papers were everywhere. The glass coffee table was upside down and shattered. Cotton spilled out of sliced-open couch cushions. Good riddance, ugly couch!

  Whoever had been there had been looking for something specific. But it was hard to tell if the burglar had found what he’d come for. Or what she’d come for. Women can be burglars too.

  “My oh my,” Miss May took off her glasses and looked around. “They destroyed this place, Jennifer!”

  “Ya think?” Jennifer grabbed a handful of cotton from one of the gutted cushions. “They ruined like half my crap. I can’t pay to replace this stuff!”

  Miss May walked into Jennifer’s kitchen, then called back. “I see you’ve got one of our donuts leftover in here. Why don’t I warm one up for you? Take the edge off.”

  Jennifer crossed into the kitchen. “I already crushed a Valium up in my coffee and that did squat,” Jennifer said. “But sure, let’s try a donut.”

  I stepped toward the kitchen, but Miss May caught my eye and shook her head, so I stopped dead in my tracks. “Do you think they got what they were looking for, Jennifer?” Miss May continued with a pointed edge to her voice, like she was talking to me instead of Jennifer. “Do you think they found what they wanted?”

  Jennifer sat at the kitchen table, oblivious to Miss May’s signals. But Teeny and I got the hint. Miss May wanted us to poke around the living room to see what we could find.

  I turned back to the living room to look around. My plan was to be delicate and extra quiet, but Teeny was already on her hands and knees, searching under the couch.

  “Nothin’ under here!” she said.

  “Shh!” I kicked through scattered papers on the floor. Based on how many papers had been thrown around the room, it seemed likely that the burglar was looking for some kind of document. But how would I know it if I found it?

  Squatting down, I sifted through a few discarded files, looking for something that seemed suspicious. There were some birthday cards from Jennifer’s mom. There was a receipt for a new laptop. Almost three thousand dollars! Wild overspending, to be sure. But far from the smoking hair dryer we needed.

  All the while, I kept one ear on Jennifer and Miss May’s conversation in the kitchen. May had once been a big-time prosecutor in New York City, and she was a pro at getting the truth. I could tell Miss May was in full lawyer mode, but her sweet old lady disguise worked like a charm on Jennifer.

  “Do you think this burglary might have something to do with what happened to Charles Fitz?”

  “Doubt it.” Jennifer’s petulance was starting to waver.

  “Here, sweetie. Have a little more donut.”

  Sounds of chewing.

  “These are good, even after a couple days.”

  Sounds of a begrudging compliment.


  “Worked hard to make sure of that.” Sounds of genuine pride.

  “Mmmm.” More sounds of chewing.

  “Charles Fitz gets killed, then your house gets broken into the next day. Seems like there might be a connection.” Sounds of a master interrogator at work.

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t know that accountant guy. And I never invested with him or his crazy old dad, so yeah, no connection.”

  Sounds of lying? Sounds of the truth?

  I couldn’t tell. But Jennifer’s voice had regained its original edge. The donuts had placated Jennifer, but Miss May's questions were re-agitating her.

  When I snuck back into the living room, I noticed Jennifer’s antique roll-top oak desk in the corner. It was a beautiful piece of old furniture, out of place in the otherwise modern and tacky home. I tsked as I saw that the rolling part of the desk, the tambour, was torn loose and lopsided.

  In spite of my rush, I slowed down for a moment to properly mourn the magnificent desk. Not only had this roll-top drawn the unfortunate straw of ending up at Jennifer’s house, but someone had also destroyed it. Not to mention the irony that roll-top desks were invented to provide extra security for sensitive documents.

  I ran my hands over the smooth oak surface, and that’s when it hit me: Extra security, right! Roll-top desks were full of secret compartments!

  I ran my hands over the desk’s surfaces with more energy and intention. As my fingers reached beneath a dangling draw, I felt a slight give in the oak. I pressed harder and POP! A secret compartment slid open.

  It took all my effort not to squeal with delight. A real, live secret compartment in a real, live vintage roll-top! It was all my interior-designer-meets-amateur-sleuth dreams come true. But there was no time to revel.