Dropping Like Pies (Apple Orchard Cozy Mystery Book 11)

by Chelsea Thomas

  “We get it,” said Miss May. “It’s snowing outside. And it’s your job to turn people away. More specifically, it’s your job to turn the three of us away.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Hercules wiggled in his chair.

  “You didn’t have to,” said Teeny. “As soon as we walked in here your eyes widened like you had encountered a bear in the forest. It’s OK, Hercules. We’re not bears. We’re just the old ladies who serve you delicious food at an affordable price. How were your eggs this morning, by the way?”

  “They’re always delicious,” said Hercules.

  “I make them extra special for you,” said Teeny. “Three eggs over medium. Half mozzarella, half American. Caramelized onions and a slice of fresh tomato. You know that’s not on the menu, right? Pretty much only make it for good old Deputy Hercules. Would you like me to keep making you those eggs real special every morning?”

  “You wouldn’t take my eggs away,” said Hercules.

  Teeny shrugged. “I’ve been having trouble with my cheese distributor. It’s quite possible that the next time you come in the restaurant, all I’m going to have to serve you is Swiss.”

  Hercules sunk into his chair. “Swiss is disgusting. It’s all holes!”

  “It depends who you ask,” said Teeny. “But I’d be happy to help you out, make sure the distributor keeps bringing me all the cheeses you like. If you let us talk to Brian.”

  Hercules gasped. “Teeny!”

  “Sorry. That’s what life in a small town is all about, right? I scratch your back, you let me talk to prisoners when I ask.”

  Hercules looked over one shoulder, then the other. “I’m only doing this because I’m alone in the department. But Flanagan could be back at any second. So you have to—”

  “We’ll be quick, I promise,” I said.

  Brian leapt to his feet as he saw us on the approach. He grabbed the bars of his cell and looked at us with pleading eyes. “Ladies. You’re here to save me. I knew you’d come.”

  “You’re just lucky Hercules hates Swiss cheese,” said Miss May.

  “What do you mean?” asked Brian

  “Never mind,” said Miss May. “We don’t have a lot of time. Are you doing OK in here?”

  Brian nodded. “I’m OK. But my husband, Mr. Brian? He’s beside himself. The man can’t cook. He doesn’t know how to do his laundry. And he says he’s not going to be able to sleep without me home. He’s gonna be trapped alone for days with all this snow!”

  “What happened?” I asked. “How’d you end up in Flanagan’s crosshairs?”

  “I suppose you want the truth.” Brian looked down.

  “You suppose correct,” said Miss May.

  “And I suppose you detected my disdain for Coach Thornton during our conversation at the coffee shop?”

  “Once again, correct,” said Miss May.

  “Fine. I’ll admit it. Mr. Brian and I were neighbors with Ron.”

  “We figured that out already,” said Miss May. “I need more details.”

  “I hated Thornton, OK?” said Brian. “And so did Mr. Brian. We both despised the man. Coach was a bad person and a worse neighbor. Still, the first couple years after he moved into the neighborhood we were civil with Thornton. We brought him fresh-baked cookies. I gave him free coffee at the Brown Cow. We thought if we were nice to the guy he might start being a more respectful neighbor. But we were wrong.”

  “When you say the coach wasn’t a good neighbor, what do you mean?” asked Miss May.

  “I mean he was terrible. He never took care of his lawn. He blared obnoxious, terrible music at all hours. He parked in our driveway sometimes if he got home a little tipsy from the bar. And he wouldn’t even move his car the next morning when we asked.”

  “That is bad,” I said. “You said you tried to remain civil, um, at first. What uh, what exactly were the tactics you used when you decided to abandon civility?”

  “We started off with passive-aggressive yard signage. The first poster we made said, ‘I love my quiet neighborhood.’ But then we moved on to aggressive yard signage. Mr. Brian made a sign that said, ‘Noise pollution is mind pollution.’ But the signs didn’t bother Coach Thornton. After that things got ugly. Anytime Thornton blared his horrible music we played avant-garde jazz at an even higher volume. One night, we bought floodlights and pointed them in Coach Thornton’s bedroom window. That didn’t seem to bother him. Eventually we began calling the police on Thornton. But they didn’t do anything to help.”

  “No surprise there,” said Teeny.

  “There’s one more thing we did.” Brian turned away from us. “But I hate to admit it.”

  “You can tell us anything,” said Miss May.

  “We left little bags of Chad Michael Murray’s dog dirt on Coach Thornton’s front steps. And we lit the dog dirt on fire.”

  I shook my head. “Flaming piles of…”

  “Dog dirt,” said Brian. “Yes. It’s a euphemism for dog—”

  “I got it. And your dog is named Chad Michael Murray?” I asked.

  “He’s a terrific actor. Yes, we named our dog after him.”

  “I suppose Thornton called the cops on you about as often as you called the cops on him?” asked Miss May.

  “More often,” said Brian. “We received one or two citations over the years for our signage and our other, uh, little messages, but not much else.”

  “So Flanagan has a record of most of your misdeeds,” said Teeny. “She knows about the floodlights. She knows about the music. She knows about the…dog dirt?”

  “She does.” Brian turned back to face us. “But why would I kill Coach Thornton now after all these years? Mr. Brian and I had learned to cope with Thornton’s horrifying habits. But more importantly, the rumor in the neighborhood was that Thornton was planning to move to Florida at the beginning of next year. He was finally going to commit to full retirement, believe it or not. I resisted the temptation to murder the guy for all these years. There’s no way I would have finally taken the plunge now.”

  “Have you told the police that you were tempted to murder him for years?” asked Teeny.

  Brian shook his head no.

  “That’s good,” said Teeny. “I’ve learned the hard way that the more you openly discuss murdering someone, the more people think you might be a murderer.”

  “Good tip,” said Brian. “So what happens next? I’ve never found myself in this position. Do you three have protocol? Do you have a system? Will I be out of here tonight?”

  Miss May took Brian’s hand through the bars. “We don’t work that quick. But we know you’re innocent. We wanted to stop by to make sure you knew that we supported you. And we’re still working on the case.”

  Brian pulled his hand away. “Wait a second. That all sounds fine. But what if you’re here confirming that the police were correct? What if you’re gathering more evidence against me? What if I’ve said too much!?”

  “You only said too much if your guilty,” said Teeny. “Are you a guilty little rat, rat boy?”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Everything’s OK,” I said. “None of us think you’re a killer. OK, Brian? But you’re right to assume that anything you say, to anyone, might be a clue or might incriminate you. So hang tight. Try to stay warm. We’re going to go. It’s time for us to get back to work.”

  “OK, thanks,” said Brian.

  “Sorry I called you rat boy,” said Teeny. “Got caught up in the moment.”

  “No problem.” Brian smiled. “I know you get spunky. Love that about you.”

  Hercules sat up straight when we reentered the lobby. “That was fast.”

  “Blizzard,” said Miss May. “We gotta go.”

  “The guy is clearly guilty,” said Hercules. “Did he tell you about all the stuff he did?”

  Miss May nodded. “He told us plenty. But I have no comment on this investigation.”

  Hercules leaned in. “Did he tell you about
Chad Michael Murray?”

  Miss May let out a deep exhale. “Yes. He did. And that’s bad. But it’s not murder.”

  We stepped out into the falling snow, braced ourselves against the wind, and hurried back toward Grandma’s restaurant, where we had left the van.

  “That was not good,” I said.

  “It was terrible,” said Miss May. “Brian despised Thornton! To think, all this time, I thought Brian was this relaxed, Southern California charmer.”

  “I know,” said Teeny. “But everyone has a dark side. I know that better than anyone. I think I have multiple dark sides. Remember how bad I wanted to kill that chef? Everyone in town knew about it.”

  “Oh, I remember. But let’s stay focused on this investigation,” said Miss May. “I know I told Brian that we think he’s innocent but what do the two of you think about that conversation?”

  “I think Brian’s a little crazier than we thought but yes, I think he’s innocent,” I said.

  “Same,” said Teeny. “Crazy but innocent. I don’t think he would have admitted all that treachery if he had killed the coach”

  “Good,” said Miss May. “So we’re all on the same page. But I think we need to solve this as fast as possible. Because if Brian keeps talking he might incriminate himself beyond repair. He’s only been in jail a few hours. Imagine how much he might reveal after a whole night in prison or even a week? He might lose his connection to reality and confess to a murder he didn’t even commit.”

  “Oh calm down,” said Teeny. “You sound like me, May. You’re not usually one for conspiracy theories and unbridled worry.”

  Miss May nodded. “You’re right. Just the whole…the dog dirt thing. That chilled me. What if Brian was the bad neighbor?”

  “Look, we can go around in circles all night talking about that conversation with Brian,” I said. “The dog dirt thing was insane. I’m never going to forget it. But the fact is, if he’s guilty, he’s already in jail. So that’s a good thing. And since the three of us don’t think he is guilty, let’s turn our attention back to the other remaining suspects.”

  “James and Coach Sheila,” said Miss May. “Both had horrible experiences with Coach Thornton in the past. Neither has let go of the pain those experiences caused. I think it’s possible the two of them teamed up and orchestrated the murder together. Maybe they hired a third person to do the killing. I’m not sure. But why else would James have been visiting Sheila?”

  “I asked James about that!” I said. “I can’t believe I forgot about this. When he answered the question, he tripped over his words. It seemed like he was lying. At first James said he was there to check on someone. But then he corrected himself and said he was there to check on something.”

  “So that lines up with our theory,” said Teeny. “He was there to check in about a dead someone. AKA Coach Thornton. Maybe Sheila is in charge of the cover-up and he wanted to see how it was going. Or he wanted to get their stories straight for us or the police.”

  “I’m going to get to figure this out right now,” I said.

  “How?” asked Miss May.

  I pulled out my phone and dialed James’s number. “I’m going to ask him.”

  The phone rang twice. Then James answered with a terse hello.

  “Hey, James. Are you still around?” I asked.

  “Yeah. I’m just having a drink at the pub in town.”

  “Great. Stay put. I’ll see you there in five minutes.”

  We got back to Miss May’s van. She unlocked it and started to climb inside. “What was that about?” Miss May asked.

  “I’m going over to the pub to talk to James. You two blast the heat in here. I’ll be back soon.”

  “Chelsea,” said Miss May. “The blizzard.”

  “I know. But this is worth it. Trust me.”

  “Tell us—” began Teeny.

  I cut her off. “No time. Just turn on the heat and keep this thing running.”

  The door chimed as I entered Murphy’s. The classic Irish pub was empty except for one wizened old bartender and James, who was seated at the last stool at the bar. We made eye contact. He raised his glass of whiskey to me in a halfhearted way.

  I pulled out the stool next to James and sat.

  “Are you here to apologize?” he grumbled.

  “Apologize for what?” I said.

  “You were a bad host. Instead of showing me a good time you treated me like a suspect in a murder. Why do you think I’m here drowning my sorrows?”

  “You strike me as a man who has plenty of sorrows to drown. Without my help.”

  The bartender chuckled. James snapped at him. “What are you laughing at?”

  The bartender answered in an Irish accent. “The lady’s right. You’ve been complaining about your life ever since you sat down. Plenty of sorrows. But you’ll get no judgment from me. That’s why I bought this place.”

  James looked away and shook his head. When he turned back to face me, he had tears in his eyes. “Fine. I have plenty of sorrows without you. Happy?”

  “Why would that make me happy?”

  “Whatever.” James finished his whiskey and called out for another.

  “Anyway, I don’t want to argue with you,” I said. “Honestly I don’t think you’re such a bad guy.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I think you’re misunderstood. And I think you’re afraid to be honest. But I need your honesty to help me solve this case.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” James accepted another whiskey from the bartender with a nod of the head.

  “When I asked you why you were meeting with Coach Sheila, you said you were there to check on someone,” I said. “Who were you talking about?”

  “I said I was there to check on something. Not someone.”

  “I need you to be honest. Please.”

  “Listen to the lady,” said the bartender. “She’s famous around here. She’ll do you no harm unless you deserve it.”

  “But—”

  “Tell her what you told me,” said the bartender.

  “I’ve never told anyone that stuff other than you,” said James.

  “That’s the life of a barkeep,” said the bartender. “Secret keeper for the ages.”

  “You can tell me anything,” I said in a gentle voice.

  James and I made eye contact. I immediately remembered Miss May and Teeny’s frequent pleas that I use my feminine wiles in our investigative efforts. But I resisted touching James’ hand or leading him on.

  He softened. “Are you sure? You won’t judge me?”

  “I won’t judge you,” I said.

  The bartender must have sensed the importance of the conversation because he excused himself to go stock the supply room and left the two of us alone. We sat in silence for a few seconds. Then I nudged the conversation forward with the utmost care.

  “Why did you go to meet Coach Sheila ?” I asked.

  “Fine. I’m going to tell you because you said you won’t judge me. And because I don’t want you to keep thinking that I’m a murderer or something.”

  “I don’t think you’re a murderer.”

  James sipped his whiskey. “I made mistakes when I was younger, OK? When I graduated from Pine Grove high school, I had a lot of girlfriends. One of those girlfriends had a baby. Dominic. But I was so young. When Dominic was born I wasn’t happy. I was terrified. So I skipped town.” James finished the whiskey. “Once I left, Dominic’s mother told me I was a terrible father. She never wanted to see me again and she didn’t want Dominic to know anything about me. She told Dom that I died in an accident. And I didn’t fight it. I accepted that. Every day, down in Florida, I tried to live a normal life. But it was hard, knowing that there was a kid up here with my DNA. I kept tabs on him all these years. He’s fifteen now. And he plays basketball for Lakeland. He’s a defensive powerhouse, just like his old man.”

  “That must make you proud,” I said.

  “I do
n’t know how it makes me feel. Proud, maybe. But mostly bad.”

  “Were you visiting Coach Sheila that day to find Dominic and tell him that you exist?”

  James shook his head. “No. I’m trying to respect his mother’s wishes. I guess I feel like I owe her that much?”

  “So why were you there?”

  “I’ve been following Dominic’s basketball career. I saw that the coach, Sheila, she started cutting back his minutes. She wasn’t using him right down on the block, either. She was ruining his potential and she wasn’t taking advantage of his natural skills. I wanted to tell her that, so I did.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Not good,” said James. “Turns out, a couple months back, Sheila made the connection that Dominic was my kid somehow. She hates me because I hit the winning shot in one of those championship games. So she took it out on Dom. That lady is nuts, I’m telling you. She’s obsessed with those championships. I mean, did you see her office?”

  “Yeah,” I said, remembering the backwards frames. “But she hadn’t quite decorated yet. What was it like when you went in?”

  “Framed articles all over the walls about Coach Thornton.”

  My eyes widened. Miss May had been right. Sheila had un-decorated before we entered the office to avoid rousing suspicion.

  “The articles were all about Lakeland’s championship losses?” I asked.

  James shook his head. “It wasn’t that. Thornton had a heart attack on the court a few years back. That’s what forced him into semi-retirement. That crazy Sheila lady had all the articles about the heart attack framed and mounted on the wall. It was like she was a big game hunter or something and Coach’s heart attack was her lion’s head.”

  My pulse quickened. Was Sheila obsessed with Thornton’s death? I pressed my hands flat against my thighs to maintain my composure. “Was Pine Grove playing against Lakeland when the heart attack came on?”

  James nodded. “Yup. If you ask me, Coach Sheila caused it somehow. I bet she tried to kill Thornton all those years ago with poison or something. For a while maybe she was satisfied that he stopped coaching full-time. But she couldn’t take seeing him around town or at the games. So she finally killed him and buried him up on your farm.”