Dropping Like Pies (Apple Orchard Cozy Mystery Book 11)

by Chelsea Thomas

  “Whoa,” I said. “Please do not return the fries. They smell so good!”

  “Mr. Wentworth already said he’s not taking the fries back,” said Petey. “So I can’t do that anyway.”

  Miss May looked over at Wentworth and called out. “We don’t want your French fries, George! You eat them! They look delicious.”

  Wentworth chuckled. “They’re for you, May. Eat them or don’t eat them. I don’t care. But I’m not taking them back.”

  Humphrey poked his head out from the booth next to ours. “I’ll take the fries.”

  “No,” I said, pulling the plate close to me. “Miss May doesn’t want the fries, but I do. Sorry, Humphrey. And thank you Mr. Wentworth!”

  Humphrey grumbled and slid back into his seat. Miss May ate an obligatory fry and gave Wentworth a thumbs up. He smiled like a schoolboy on Valentine’s Day, then picked up his newspaper and used it to hide what I’m sure was a lovesick grin.

  “I think this is so cute,” I said.

  “Whatever,” said Miss May. “At least the fries are good.”

  Teeny approached and slid into the booth beside me. “Of course the fries are good. I’ve got the best fries in town. Don’t act surprised!”

  “We’re not surprised,” said Miss May. “Relax.”

  As Miss May, Teeny, and I devoured the fries, I told Teeny all about Jared Thornton and the record room at the library. I ate a big handful of fries when I finished the story and washed them down with a spoonful of marinara.

  “Good job, ladies,” said Teeny. “It seems like we’ve got the identity of the guy who was buried on the orchard. But I have one important question…”

  “OK,” I said.

  “Who in tarred nation is Jared Thornton?”

  “I think the expression is ‘who in tarnation,’” I said.

  “You get the point!” said Teeny.

  “You don’t know who that is!?” An elderly woman poked her head up from the booth on the other side of us. It was Petunia, the most infamous resident of Washington Villages, Pine Grove’s retirement community. Petunia had a reputation as a ruthless gambler and an even more ruthless friend. She always told the truth, but she often told it with a heaping side of sarcasm or anger. “I thought you three were expert detectives. But you must all be going senile if you don’t know who Jared Thornton is.”

  “Why don’t you tell us?” said Miss May. “We don’t have time to waste.”

  “I’m not wasting time, May,” said Petunia. “I’m helping you solve the mystery. Sounds to me like you need the assistance. It’s been long enough and from what I hear, you haven’t made any progress.”

  “We solved a completely different murder less than a week ago,” I said. “Maybe we’re experiencing a little fatigue.”

  “Maybe you’re getting fat and lazy and slow,” Petunia challenged. “Too many disco fries.”

  “I’ve been fat this whole time,” said Miss May.

  “You are not fat,” I said.

  “Whatever,” said Miss May. “What’s going on, Petunia? Tell us what you know about Jared Thornton.”

  Petunia leaned forward. “Jared Thornton was a lottery winner in the 90’s. Won fifty grand. Maybe more. I think he got his ticket in Blue Mountain. I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

  Miss May shrugged. “I don’t play the lottery.”

  “So you’re saying I only remember because I’m a degenerate gambler and I track all the lottery winnings at every gas station and convenience store in this county?”

  “Kind of, yeah,” said Miss May.

  “Fine. That’s a good point. I love the lottery. It’s a drug to me. Mark my words, I’ll win the jackpot one day. And I won’t give either of you one penny of my riches.”

  “What have we done to you?” said Teeny. “Besides treat you like a suspect in a bunch of murders.”

  “You treated me like a suspect in a bunch of murders,” said Petunia. “That’s anxiety inducing. You’ve taken years off my life.”

  “So because of us, you’re only going to live to two hundred and ninety-five instead of three hundred?” said Miss May.

  Petunia laughed so hard, I felt I like she was going to vomit up the smoke from every cigarette she had smoked her entire life. “I like that. You know me well. I do plan to live to at least two hundred.”

  “And I hope you do,” said Miss May.

  “Alright,” said Petunia. “Enough chit-chat. I’ve gotta get back to my sandwich. Good luck, ladies. Don’t mess this one up.”

  Petunia sunk back into her seat. I turned to Miss May. “Do either of you think Jared’s lottery winnings had something to do with his murder?”

  Teeny bit her thumbnail. “It doesn’t seem likely. Fifty-thousand dollars is a lot of money. But I don’t know a single person who could make that last from the 90’s all the way until today.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “But maybe that was Jared in the picture we found in the shredder. Remember his fist was in the air like he won something? That could have been from a photo shoot about his lottery winnings.”

  “That’s a good theory,” said Miss may. “But all we have right now are theories. And there’s one important detail we haven’t discussed at all…”

  “Whoever killed the person we found on the orchard wanted us to think that the victim was Coach Ron Thornton,” I said.

  Miss May pointed at me. “Exactly. The killer even went so far as to put Ron’s rings on the victim’s fingers. The whole thing was staged. So the important question is why? And who might have done this?”

  “That’s easy,” said Teeny. ““Option one: Ron faked his own death in order to escape from the Russian mob. Option two: Ron had given his cousin the rings as a gift. The murderer meant to kill Ron. But they got confused by the rings and killed Jared by mistake. Option three: some kind of insurance scam. I haven’t worked that theory out yet.”

  “Are all three of those theories lifted from one of your shows?” I asked.

  Teeny shrugged. “Yeah. So?”

  “I don’t know about any of those options,” I said. “But I do know we need more information.”

  “You say that like you have an idea,” Miss May said.

  I smirked. “Maybe I do.”

  43

  Shred Delicious

  I pulled Coach Thornton’s shredder into the kitchen and heaved it up onto the table with a groan. Then I looked over at Teeny and Miss May with a tired smile. “Our answer is somewhere in this device.”

  Miss May put her hand on her hip. “We already looked through this thing.”

  “But we gave up too soon,” I said. “I think there’s more in this shredder than the discarded pages of Thornton’s memoir.”

  “I agree with Chelsea,” said Teeny. “Who knows what might be in that shredder?”

  “OK,” said Miss May. “Let’s give this a try. I suppose shredders were created to destroy suspicious or personal documents. So we should investigate fully.”

  “That was a quick change of heart,” I said.

  Miss May chuckled. “You and Teeny are right. What can I say?”

  Teeny smiled. “You can say we were right again. Felt nice.”

  “Don’t push it,” said Miss May.

  I removed the top from the shredder. Tiny pieces of paper exploded from inside like confetti. I reached in with both hands and pulled out a scoopful of papers. Then I repeated the process a few times until every tiny shred was piled on the kitchen table.

  Miss May placed a tiny roll of scotch tape beside the pile of paper. I raised my eyebrows. “I think we’re going to need more tape,” I said, doing my best impression of that guy in Jaws.

  Fast-forward an hour, and we had managed to piece together about half of the shreds from the pile. That left us with a sizable stack of pages from Thornton’s discarded memoir. I grabbed a red delicious apple from a bowl on the table and took a bite. “Thornton did a whole lot of writing before he gave up. That’s impressive.”
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  “I guess,” said Teeny. “If you’re impressed by bland sports writing and a bunch of meaningless drivel.”

  “Come on,” said Miss May, biting into an apple of her own. “It’s not that bad.” Miss May grabbed one of the pages from the table and read from it aloud. “I’ll never forget the first time I won something. I was just a boy and it was a game of rock, paper, scissors. The match was against my dad. He hollered at me for a good five minutes after I won and accused me of cheating. So I decided at that moment and from then on, I would always cheat. If you’re going to be treated like a cheater no matter what, you might as well get the benefits, right?” Miss May tossed the paper down on the table. “OK. That’s bad. Sounds like Thornton was hateable, even as a child.”

  “You think his dad killed him?” said Teeny.

  “Coach Thornton’s dad is dead,” I said. “I read all about it in Chapter Ten: I’m Glad My Dad Died Young.”

  “Oh,” said Teeny. “Well…ghosts can kill, you know. And the more we work this case, the more I think there might be something paranormal afoot. I haven’t wanted to bring anything up because I know the two of you aren’t into paranormal mysteries. You like to keep yourselves grounded and rooted in the land of the living. But I’ve watched a couple episodes of this witch mystery, Fire and Brimstone, and ghosts are often the killer. Just saying.”

  “Thank you for that idea,” said Miss May. “But this isn’t that kind of show. We need a real world killer with a real world motive.”

  “We have plenty of options,” I said. “But I think taping all this paper together might have been a silly idea. We haven’t gotten anywhere.”

  “Hold on a second.” Teeny reached into the pile of white manuscript paper and pulled out a tiny yellow shred. “This looks like it’s from a Post-it note. Isn’t that strange? Who shreds a Post-it note?”

  “Maybe the note was attached to the manuscript and fell in,” said Miss May. “Let’s find the rest of the yellow paper to be sure what it says.”

  All three of us sifted through the shreds in quiet for a few moments, adding yellow paper to a small pile as we searched. After a few moments, I looked up, satisfied. “OK. I think we’ve got all the yellows.”

  Together, we slid the little pieces of yellow paper into place like we were working on a jigsaw puzzle. Gradually it became clear that there was a handwritten note on the paper. None of us spoke until the entire note was complete. Then Miss May read the message aloud. “Uh, let’s see here, it says, ‘Big Ron, I can help you with this but your situation is complicated. Better to talk in person. Signed, The Big Wimp.’”

  Teeny gasped. “Do you think—”

  “Wimple.” I reached out and touched the note. “It’s written in red pen just like she always used. But I’m confused—”

  “Wimple said she despised Thornton,” said Miss May. “But it seems here she was helping him with something important.” Miss May ran her fingers across the taped-up note. “Why would Wimple have pretended to hate Thornton if they were friends or collaborators?”

  “This is bizarre,” I said. “She even signed it ‘The Big Wimp,’ like those horrible nicknames never bothered her at all.”

  “Just saying,” said Teeny, “they could have teamed up to fight a ghost or a witch or something. It’s possible.”

  Miss May shook her head. “It’s not possible. But we need to talk to the Big Wimp. And we need to do it now.”

  44

  Wimpledon

  We drove to Mrs. Wimple’s house as the sun set over Pine Grove. Miss May was behind the wheel. I sat in the passenger seat. Teeny sat in back, nervously munching on pink sprinkles from a Ziploc bag.

  As we hurried away from the orchard, I rested my head on the windowpane and watched the amber light filter through the trees. The sunlight doesn’t have any idea about the urgent situation in Pine Grove, I thought. And neither do the trees. They’ll be here tomorrow just as they’re here today, steady and wise.

  I thought about the people I had always admired most, my parents and Miss May, and how they were so much like the trees. They were unflappable and dependable, no matter the circumstance. I had always aspired to be like them. The wisdom of a tree, I thought, is that it understands patience. Seasons pass, branches break, but a tree continues growing up. Always.

  Was Germany a sturdy tree?

  I didn’t know the answer to that question. But his habit of dancing freely in and out of my life had made me feel less sturdy. As I had that realization, the sunlight flooded through my window. As the light hit my skin, for an instant I felt better and I knew that no matter what happened in the investigation or in my love life, everything would be alright.

  The peace felt good. But it did not last long.

  Mrs. Wimple wasn’t home. There was no car in the driveway. There were no lights on in the house. All the windows were sealed shut and there were three locks on the front door.

  Miss May, Teeny, and I did our usual routine, trying to find a way inside. But as I circled the house, looking for a point of entry, no such entry point presented itself. I tried to open the windows but they wouldn’t budge. The same was true of the front door, the back door and the garage. When I met Miss May and Teeny back around the front of the house they were both looking up at the building, stumped.

  “I hate to say this,” said Teeny, “but I don’t think we’re going to be able to enter this house.”

  “Mrs. Wimple definitely locked the place down,” said Miss May. “Kind of suspicious.”

  “It’s very suspicious,” I said. “First, she lied about her relationship with Thornton. Now we get to her house and it’s more secure than Alcatraz. What is Wimple trying to hide?”

  “I have a better question,” said Teeny. “How are we going to find her?”

  “We could park a little bit down the street and do a classic stakeout,” I said. “Wait for her to get home?”

  Teeny did her tiny little golf claps. “Stakeout. I love that. That means we can get snacks. We can get snacks first, right?”

  Miss May shook her head. “I don’t think we have time for a stakeout. We’ve already found two bodies. And I’m not sure Wimple’s coming back anytime soon. We need to be more proactive.”

  My phone buzzed. I pulled it out and opened to the home screen, where a text message was waiting for me. I gasped. “Oh my…”

  Miss May rushed to my side. “What?”

  I read the text message allowed. “Chelsea, this is Geraldine Wimple. Meet me at Fort Hill Park by the benches in fifteen minutes. Come alone.”

  45

  Bench Press

  “Sounds like a trap to me,” said Teeny. “A classic trap. You’re going to show up there all by yourself. Then she’s going to kill you in cold blood for no reason.”

  “The reason would be that we’re about to bring Wimple to the police for murdering Coach Thornton,” said Miss May. “Wimple’s got plenty of motive to kill Chelsea.”

  “If Wimple is guilty and she knows we’re on to her, she would want all three of us dead,” I said. “Not just me.”

  “Maybe,” said Miss May. “But I’m not sure about this.”

  “I think it’ll be fine,” I said. “The benches at Fort Hill Park are brightly lit. And they’re right in the center of town. There will be decent foot traffic this time of night. And the two of you can hide in a bush nearby to make sure everything’s OK.”

  “I think we should call the police,” said Teeny.

  “We can’t,” I said. “If the cops show up to the park, Wimple will make a run for it. If she’s guilty she might disappear forever. But I don’t think she is guilty. I think she has important information that she wants to share. So we need to approach with care.”

  “You’re right, Chelsea,” said Miss May. “This might be some kind of a mysterious olive branch. And the park is public enough.” Miss May turned to Teeny. “I know the exact thicket of bushes where we should hide.”

  “Fine,” said Teeny. “But
I’m bringing my sprinkles.”

  I arrived at the rendezvous point a few minutes early and sat on a wooden bench under a lamp. Miss May and Teeny went around to a different entrance to avoid being seen by Wimple, and they took cover behind a bush, with a full view of my bench.

  Wimple had not yet arrived at the park when I got there. There was, however, a tipsy older man slouched on the bench across from me. As soon as I sat down I felt the man looking at me, eager for camaraderie and conversation. I tried not to make eye contact and to remain focused on my mission. But the man barged through the silence anyway.

  “Hey. You’re Chelsea Thomas. The mystery girl. Queen of the mysteries of Pine Grove. Don’t you kill anyone because Chelsea Thomas will karate kick you and all that stuff. What are you doing on that bench? I don’t like that one. It’s unlucky. Beautiful night, though.”

  I gave the man a tight smile. I wanted to be nice, but I also wasn’t in the mood for small talk with a stranger who knew everything about me. “Yeah. It’s nice. I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  The man scoffed. “No. Hardly anyone knows me. I live over in Blue Mountain but Pine Grove is so much more charming. So I come here to sit on the benches sometimes. But only the lucky benches.”

  I looked over my left shoulder and then my right. A feeling of unease spread down my arms and into my fingertips. Had Wimple planted the drunken man in the park to distract me? Was I sitting in a trap?

  “Why are you looking around like that? Oh. Ohhhhh. Are you here investigating a murder? I bet you are. Hey. I didn’t do it. I haven’t been the fighting type for over forty years. I was no good at it. And it hurt.” The man interrupted with a laugh so twangy and sharp that it sent a shiver up my spine.

  I sent Miss May a text message. “Should I wait here?”

  Her reply came back in an instant. “Stay if you feel safe. Leave if you don’t. I don’t like this guy.”