Miss May pulled a blanket up onto her lap, and I went into the kitchen to get to work.
Half an hour later, “Breakfast for Dinner” was ready. Let me tell you, my pancakes and eggs game had elevated over the decades. The eggs were cheesy and delicious, thanks to Petey’s recipe. The pancakes, which I called “Chelsea’s Secret Recipe Pancakes,” were the fluffiest and lightest in the Eastern Hemisphere. Or at least in Pine Grove.
The first rule in my secret pancake recipe is that I never used pancake mix from the box. But the real trick was that I heated a little vegetable oil in the pan before I cooked the pancakes. When the oil sizzled, I dropped big spoonfuls of batter into the pan. The hot oil crisped the outside of the pancakes but left the insides so soft you could scoop them with a spoon.
I topped every pancake off with fresh butter from a local dairy farm. Added a drizzle of real maple syrup and a sprinkle of cinnamon, and you could only describe the pancakes with one word...
Yummmptious!
Miss May smiled as she sat at the table. “You could tell this was a rough day?”
“It was a rough day for both of us,” I said. “I need these pancakes just as much as you do.”
I stacked a few pancakes on a plate with scoop of eggs and slid it to Miss May. Then I sat across the table with a plate of my own, stacked with six of the fluffiest pancakes in the batch.
Miss May hollowed out a center hole in her pancakes, then poured a tower of syrup so it filled the hole. That was her quirky secret to “syrup containment.” I’ll admit, it was genius. But the last thing I want is to contain my syrup! Be free syrup! Roam the pancakes as you will!
Miss May took a bite and let out a slow moan. “Chelsea. We need to figure out a way to sell these pancakes in the bakeshop. People would buy them cold, I bet.”
“We’ve got the equipment in there. We could even put them under heat lamps.”
Miss May nodded. “Although I suppose we should take this one step at a time. And the first step is solving Granny Smith’s murder.”
I nodded. “I know. I wish people would be more helpful. Buster seemed downright obstructive.”
Miss May took another bite. “Investigating a murder is a sensitive subject. Throw in a few accusations, and people get their hackles in a bunch.”
I slid an extra tab of butter between two pancakes. “Do you think we’re doing a bad job? Stampeding when we should tiptoe?”
Miss May shook her head. “No. But we have to be more careful. Something like this happened when we were investigating Charles Fitz’s death. Remember? People started to get on edge when we’d say hello.”
“That’s an unfortunate downside of developing a reputation as a sleuth. People think you’re only talking to them because you suspect them of murder.”
Miss May grunted in agreement. “The worst part is that’s often true.”
I nodded and we ate in silence for a minute or two.
Miss May crossed to the fridge and pulled out a gallon of orange juice. She poured both of us a glass. “Also... I feel silly. Looking back on our first conversation with Wendell, it’s clear he wasn’t all there.”
I licked a drip of maple syrup off my finger. “I suppose that’s true. The songs about cleaning.”
“The messy apartment,” Miss May said. “My sister said he’d been singing like that for a while. And that also explains why Bev was so protective of him.”
I swirled butter with syrup and licked my fork. “That was a catchy song. But we’re not doctors. How are we supposed to know he was suffering from dementia?”
Miss May nodded. “That’s true. Some of his memories were so strong. Like that story about the swans. So detailed. So clear.”
“What does all this mean about his alibi?” I asked. “I mean... He clearly wasn’t house-shopping in the Catskills.”
“You mean the ‘skills?” Miss May asked with a coy grin.
“You caught that abbreviation.” I sighed. “I say things. I don’t know why.”
“Well you’re right, he wasn’t in the ‘skills,” Miss May said. “They’ve gotten a ton of rain up there the last few days. And there was no mud on Wendell’s tires. No sign that the car had left The Heights in months, in fact.”
I swallowed a bite of pancake. “So do you think Wendell could be our guy?”
“I don’t think so,” Miss May said. “Hard to plan a murder if you don’t know where you put your keys.”
I nodded. “Buster, however...”
Miss May sat forward. “Did he seem innocent to you?”
“Not at all,” I said. “He seemed like a spoiled man-child who might kill his senile father for losing a video game.”
“So Buster is our number one suspect,” Miss May said. “Which means this could be a case of matricide.”
I sighed. “I hope that’s not it. Hopefully, after all this, we find out Granny Smith died of natural causes.”
Miss May looked at me over her glasses. “A naturally occurring knife in her back?”
I hung my head. “Right. I need another pancake.”
20
Busting Buster
I woke up early the next morning. Shuffled downstairs. Grabbed a cold pancake from the fridge. Took a bite. Shuffled to the coffee maker. Flipped it on. Waited. Poured the coffee. Added ample cream. Even more ample sugar. Took a long, delicious sip. Shuffled out to the porch.
It was a good start to the morning.
Outside, it was colder than I had expected. A lone maple leaf skittered across the steps. I took a deep breath. The air smelled like changing seasons.
I didn’t exactly have a favorite season. I loved them all. But one of my favorite things in the world was the sense of transformation from one to the next. The in-between.
Autumn brought a deep, earthy musk to the air. Spring smelled like rain. That day I smelled someone’s wood-burning stove on the wind. Winter was in the air.
The screen door swung open and Miss May stepped out, grasping a big coffee mug of her own. Like most things Miss May owned, the coffee mug was shaped like an apple, with a tree branch for a handle.
Miss May took a deep breath, just as I had. “Beautiful isn’t it? So still. And I love how the sunrise gets filtered through the leaves in fall. It never looks like this any other season.”
I nodded. Sipped my coffee. “It’s hard to reconcile, how the world can be so beautiful and also sometimes old ladies get murdered in dark, slimy tunnels.”
Miss May shrugged. “There’s a balance to everything in life. No one would ever remember to pause and appreciate an early autumn morning if bad things didn’t happen .”
“I guess so.” I sighed.
Miss May turned. “Ready to go talk to Buster again?”
I gestured at my attire. “I’m wearing bunny rabbit pajamas. With little feet. And a hood with floppy ears.”
Miss May smiled. “I thought that was your new look. Hot Pine Grove fashion, on the cutting edge of the avant-garde.”
I chuckled. “I’m not Germany Turtle. Give me five minutes. I’ll be right back.”
Miss May wrapped her arm around me and squeezed me tight. “It’s going to be cold today. Wear a jacket, OK?
“I’ll be fine. Stop worrying about me.”
Miss May nodded. I took another deep breath, savoring the autumn scent. Then I finished my coffee in one gulp and went back inside.
When I glanced back at Miss May, I admired her stillness. She looked like she was part of the scenery. I felt lucky to have her in my life.
It’s always good to know at least one person who reminds you to bring a coat, I thought.
About half an hour later, Miss May and headed toward Wendell’s apartment in my sky-blue pickup. I drove. Miss May rode shotgun, with her feet on the dash.
For most of the journey, we were the only vehicle on the road. Then, as we climbed the hill to Wendell’s apartment, a hooded figure zipped past us on a bicycle.
I shook my head. “What a lunatic! That g
uy needs to be wearing a helmet if he’s going to ride like that. What is this, the Tour de France?”
“Chelsea! Don’t you know who that was?”
I shrugged.
“That was Buster!” Miss May tapped on the dashboard. “Turn around, turn around.”
I did a quick three-to-seven-point turn and had my blue pickup facing back down the hill just as Buster coasted to the bottom. “Now what?”
Miss May sat straight up. “Follow him! Step on it. But don’t be obvious. I guess, don’t step on it. Drive normal but don’t lose him.”
“Oooh, a chase scene,” I said. “And the perp’s on a bike. That’s fun.”
“So fun,” Miss May said. “Now get going before he pedals away!”
I headed toward Buster at the bottom of the hill. The entrance to The Heights intersected with a busy road below, but Buster cruised into the street without stopping.
Miss May shook her head. “Goodness gracious. This kid rides his bike like you used to drive a car.”
I turned right and followed Buster as he pedaled out of town. “He’s almost forty. Not quite a kid.”
“When you’re my age, everyone under forty is a kid,” Miss May said. “And if you’re under twenty, you might as well be in diapers. He’s turning right again. Stay with him.”
I hung back a few seconds, then followed Buster down a stretch of windy, remote asphalt. I realized where he was going.
My eyes widened. “What the heck? He’s going to the house on Beacon Hill!”
Miss May nodded. “I know. Chilling.”
“That means he did it, right?” I asked. “That’s the number one thing that criminals do. They return to the scene of the crime.”
Miss May shrugged. “We don’t know anything yet. Pull over here.”
Buster pedaled up toward the house on Beacon Hill. I pulled over at the foot of the drive.
“Should I follow him up?”
Miss May shook her head and pointed about ten feet away. “Park up there. Behind those bushes.”
I did as Miss May instructed. “OK. Now what?”
Miss May looked at me. “There’s a path through the forest that runs parallel to the driveway, up to the house. Let’s sneak up there and see if we can get a better view of Buster.”
I shook my head. “I should have brought tick spray. In fact, I didn’t bring any insect repellent at all.”
“Tuck your socks into your pants. Let’s go.”
About three minutes later, Miss May and I were about a hundred feet from the house on Beacon Hill, hidden in the brush beside the driveway. We could see Buster, but he couldn’t see us. Which was perfect for a stakeout situation.
By the time we settled into our hiding spot, Buster had already tossed his bike down on the front lawn. He paced in front of the house, in the middle of a heated phone conversation. We couldn’t hear anything Buster said, but he gesticulated with passion as he spoke.
“This is so weird,” I said. “He rode his bicycle back to the scene of the crime just to take a phone call?”
Miss May shrugged.
I continued. “Who do you think he’s talking to? I mean, it’s not like he’s the most popular guy in town.”
Miss May squinted to get a better view. “I wish we had one of those newfangled spy gadgets where we could point the cone toward Buster and hear what he was saying.”
“That’s above our pay grade,” I said. “Especially considering we don’t get paid.”
Miss May pointed at Buster. He hung up the phone and turned toward us. I tensed as he slogged through the tall grass.
“What’s he doing?” Miss May asked. “Do you think he can see us? Why isn’t he going inside?”
I gulped. “I don’t know but he’s coming right toward us.”
Miss May grabbed my arm. “Get down.”
Miss May laid flat on her stomach. I laid beside her. We kept our eyes on Buster. It was hard to say if he saw us or not, but he charged toward us with a look of determination.
He got closer. And closer. And closer.
He cursed and kicked his way through a pile of leaves.
“Does he see us or not?” I said.
Miss May held her finger to her lips and nodded back toward Buster. He had stopped walking about twenty feet from our hiding place, out in the middle of the field.
He crouched down and brushed away a loose pile of grass with his hand. Then he opened what appeared to be an ancient manhole cover. Like something you would see in New York City, except it was right in the middle of a big open field. The manhole cover must have been heavy, because Buster waddled like a penguin as he set the cover down a few feet away.
“This does not feel right,” I said. “What is he doing?”
Miss May shrugged. Then Buster crossed back to the hole he’d opened and lowered himself down. He disappeared into the hole a few inches at a time. Slowly at first. Then all at once, Buster was gone.
I whispered, “That must be another access point to the tunnels.”
Miss May nodded. “Granny Smith always said the house was the hub of an intricate underground web. I guess I should have believed her.”
“Should we go down there?”
Miss May shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not? Buster seems more guilty every second. And he left the manhole cover off.”
“Because,” said Miss May, “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Miss May. I thought we were here to catch the killer. Seems like the killer is—”
“Shh!” Miss May pointed back out at the field. “Someone else is here.”
I looked back out at the field. A second hooded figure approached the entrance to the tunnel. The second person moved with more fluidity than Buster. He or she slipped underground and out of sight in a matter of seconds.
My mind flooded with questions.
Who was that second person? Could that have been the person Buster argued with over the phone? And what were the two of them doing down in the tunnels?
Miss May nudged me. “Do you still want to go down there?”
I shook my head, seized by the terror of doubt.
“Why not?” Miss May asked.
When I spoke, my words were almost inaudible. “Because if something bad happened down in those tunnels... no one could hear us scream.”
21
Tunnel Vision
As soon as we got back in the pickup, Miss May jumped on the phone with Aunt Dee Dee.
“Dee. I need a favor.”
The phone wasn’t on speaker, but May and Dee Dee were such loud talkers I could hear the entire conversation.
“A big favor. And please don’t say no just for the heck of it. This is serious.”
“OK,” Dee Dee said. “Can we talk about this later? I’m on a conversation fast until tomorrow morning.”
Miss May rolled her eyes. “What’s a conversation fast?”
“It means I’m limiting all conversation for twenty-four hours. Sometimes one needs to free oneself from one’s thoughts. The best way to do that is to stop talking.”
“Whatever, Dee.” Miss May took a deep breath to center herself. “I’m sorry. That sounds like a good idea. And I appreciate you picking up my call even though you’re on your diet.”
“With you, I know it might be life or death. Is that why you’re calling? Is Wendell a killer? Do you need me to plant the secret listening device in his apartment?”
“Dee Dee, will you take this seriously?” Miss May asked.
“Miss May,” I whispered. “Relax.”
Miss May covered the receiver. “I am relaxed. Stay out of this.”
“I can hear you, May. Listen to Chelsea. You need to relax.”
“I am relaxed,” Miss May sounded even more tense the second time.
“Maybe you should go on a conversation fast, too,” Dee Dee said.
“I’d like to end this conversation, fast,” Miss May said. “Can I please tell you why I
called now?”
Dee Dee said nothing. Miss May continued.
“Thank you,” Miss May said. “I need you to keep an eye out on Wendell’s apartment. Buster’s not in the apartment at the moment, but I need to know as soon as he gets back there.”
“I’ll text you. How about that?” Dee Dee said. “But I need a favor in return.”
Miss May let out a little groan only I could hear. “Anything.”
“Next time you come up here, I want you to do yoga with me and Chelsea. I think you could use it.”
“Dee Dee—”
“Those are my terms, May!”
Miss May grimaced. Sighed. “OK. Fine. Bye!”
Miss May hung up, then turned and glared at me. “Interrupt much?”
I held up my hands. “I’m sorry. But you weren’t getting anywhere being so impatient with Aunt Dee Dee.”
Miss May nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Siblings can just be... They’re a blessing. They are a wonderful blessing. I love my sister.”
I laughed.
Miss May chuckled. “What? I really do! I loved all my sisters.”
Miss May’s other sister was my mom, of course. I suddenly wondered, if my parents had lived, would I still be so close to Miss May? It was strange to consider how different my life might have been. I loved my aunt, and I wouldn’t have wanted to spend any less time with her. But I would have seen her much less if I’d grown up with my parents.
Up to that point, I’d felt nothing but sadness about my mom and dad. But in that moment, a bittersweet surge of emotion rose to my chest. It was part gratitude, part confusion. Things don’t always make sense in the world, I reflected. But beauty tends to sprout from the ruins.
“Family is very important,” Miss May said, almost to herself.
“I know,” I said, untangling myself from my thoughts. “What now? Back to the farm?”
Miss May nodded and I drove the pickup back up to the Thomas Family Fruit and Fir Farm.
When we got back, instead of chatting with cute, rosy-cheeked children, I had to sit in the bakeshop and knead sourdough while Miss May had another impromptu meeting with KP to discuss their lopsided crop.
Granny Smith Is Dead Page 10
