Dropping Like Pies (Apple Orchard Cozy Mystery Book 11)

by Chelsea Thomas

  “We don’t?” I asked.

  Teeny chuckled. “It’s so cute. You’re too young to remember four-one-one.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “I am not too young to remember four-one-one. I called that number all the time when I was growing up to find out the phone numbers of friends or other kids from school. But that was like twenty years ago. There’s no way four-one-one exists anymore.”

  “And that, Chelsea, is where you’re wrong.” Teeny reached into her purse and pulled out…a package of tissues. She opened her purse wider and rustled around for a few seconds. “I don’t have my phone. Can I borrow somebody’s phone please?”

  I handed Teeny my smart phone.

  “I don’t know how to unlock this,” said Teeny.

  I unlocked the phone and handed it back to her. Teeny promptly dialed four-one-one and put the phone to her ear. Thirty seconds later, she was in possession of Jared Thornton’s home phone number. Teeny dialed his number and waited for someone to answer. But she hung up after a few seconds.

  “The phone number is disconnected.” Teeny handed me my cell phone. “Maybe that’s because he’s dead.”

  “Or maybe that’s because four-one-one doesn’t work anymore,” said Miss May. “Perhaps Chelsea was right.”

  “Whatever, May,” said Teeny. “Chelsea’s going to search it on the Woohoo or Googoo or whatever now anyway. I did my best. It’s not my fault the guy probably doesn’t pay his phone bill. Chelsea, have you done the search yet?”

  “Do you mean Yahoo or Google?”I asked. Teeny gave me a withering look.

  I typed Jared’s name into the search engine and pressed enter. Seconds later, the screen populated with links and headlines bearing Jared Thornton’s name. I read the first headline and my chest tightened. “This says, ‘Local Man Goes Missing.’”

  Miss May and Teeny rushed to my side. “What is that?” Miss May put on her glasses to get a better view of my phone. “Is it an article about Jared?”

  I clicked the link and scanned the article. “Yeah. Jared Thornton was reported missing a while ago. It doesn’t seem like he’s been found.”

  “Hold on a second,” said Miss May. “Scroll up to the top of this article again. Wasn’t there a picture of Jared?”

  “I think. But I want to read the rest of the article. It might have valuable—”

  “Just go the picture,” said Miss May.

  I scrolled to the top of the article. There was a photo of Jared Thornton waving at the photographer. The picture was clearly taken during happier times. And Jared looked just like Ron. Big and burly. But he had a good humor about his face that Ron seemed to lack.

  “OK. Here’s the photo,” I said. “What we looking at?”

  “Zoom in,” said Miss May.

  I zoomed in on the picture and scanned it, but didn’t see anything of note.

  Miss May pointed at the screen. “Look. There’s no tattoo on his wrist.”

  “So what?” Teeny asked.

  “Remember?” Miss May prompted. “This whole time we’ve been assuming that all the Thorntons had matching tattoos on their wrists, like a family emblem or something. Jared does not have that tattoo in this photo. But when we found his alleged disembodied hand at the orchard—”

  “He did have a tattoo,” I said.

  “So someone forced Jared to get that tattoo on his wrist so that he would look like Ron when his body was discovered,” said Teeny. “Or they tattooed the dead body.”

  “That’s right,” said Miss May.

  “Is that a big deal or something?” asked Teeny.

  I nodded. “If we can find out who drew that tattoo, or who paid for it, I think we might find our killer.”

  48

  Waffle Good Time

  Over the course of my life, I’ve often passed an idle moment by imagining Miss May or Teeny with big, tough tattoos. Weird way to pass the time, I know.

  But the image has always cracked me up.

  Picture it now: Miss May with the face of a lion tattooed on her bicep. Teeny with a tattoo of an enormous cupcake on her arm. The possibilities are endless.

  Sadly for me, Pine Grove had never had a tattoo parlor so I never got close to seeing my imaginings come to fruition. Although when I was a kid, I did put a washable skull and crossbones tattoo on Miss May’s cheek while she was sleeping on Halloween. That was a fun one.

  The closest town to Pine Grove with a tattoo shop of its own was Peekskill, New York. The three of us had visited Peekskill on prior investigations. I had enjoyed my trips to the town, despite the sometimes dark circumstances that motivated our visits. Peekskill was packed with cute Victorian homes. It had a couple of trendy coffee shops. And the best part was that it had a gorgeous view of the Hudson River.

  The tattoo shop in Peekskill was called “Bay Street Ink.” The storefront had a nice spot right in the town’s business district and it had a classy 1920’s vibe I enjoyed.

  Miss May, Teeny, and I needed to learn more about the family crest that had been tattooed on Jared Thornton’s wrist before he died. The tattoo, even more than the rings, was proof that the killer wanted us to think Jared’s body belonged to Ron Thornton. And if we could find out more about the origins of the tattoo, we thought we could get a step closer to some answers.

  We parked and strolled down the little hill that led to Peekskill’s downtown area. Teeny clasped her hands together with anticipation. “I love this town. I’m addicted to it. Every time we leave, I find myself wanting more. It’s so quaint.”

  “It is a beautiful little town,” said Miss May.

  “And doesn’t one of these coffee shops sell delicious waffles?” Teeny inquired. “Asking for a friend.”

  Miss May laughed. “Which friend is that?”

  “Chelsea,” said Teeny. “She loves waffles. And I can tell she’s hungry for one. She probably wants it with walnuts and whipped cream and sprinkles.”

  “You read my mind, Teeny,” I said.

  “So let’s go,” said Teeny.

  I glanced over at Peekskill’s bustling coffee house and smirked at Miss May. “Even the best detectives need sustenance.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we each had a big, hot waffle in front of us. Teeny’s was as she had described, with walnuts and lots of sprinkles. I got mine with extra maple syrup. Miss May ordered hers with butter.

  Before I took my first bite, I looked around the coffee shop. It was packed with quirky locals, many of whom had waffles of their own. A woman in a wheelchair read a science fiction novel, using her free hand to sip from a big mug of coffee. A group of kids competed at a board game near the window. And an energetic employee straightened up the chairs surrounding our table.

  “Wowza.” Teeny wiped her mouth and chewed. “This is the best waffle I’ve ever had. It’s better than the waffles I make! I don’t even care what that means for my ego. This waffle is that good. Chelsea, why haven’t you had a bite yet?”

  “I got distracted looking around.”

  “The local character is almost as good as the food,” said Miss May. “But not quite. I’d suggest you get in there before it cools off.”

  The waffle was big and round and it took up the entire circumference of my plate. It had a crispy, golden brown crust that cracked when I slid my fork into it. Then I put a bite in my mouth. The inside of the waffle was warm and gooey. The batter was just sweet enough and I immediately craved my next bite.

  Miss May handed me a little silver cup that had been piled high with butter. “This butter is farm fresh. You have to try it.”

  I buttered a little corner of my waffle, ripped it off and took a bite. “Holy Christmas trees. I think I found my new favorite food.”

  “Maybe you should tell the tattoo artist that you want a tattoo of a waffle on your back,” said Teeny. “I bet they do that. They’ll tattoo anything on anyone these days.”

  I finished my bite and swallowed. “Hold on a second. I’m not getting a tattoo. No one said anything about tha
t. I don’t want you guys to push me into another crazy task all by myself.”

  “Relax,” said Miss May. “You don’t have to go through with the tat. But you do need to pretend.”

  “I thought we were just going to ask some questions. No one’s going to believe that I want tattoo of a waffle on my back!”

  “Fine.” Teeny picked up the syrup pitcher and sipped from it like it was a cup of tea. “Tell them you want the tattoo on your calf. That’s more believable.”

  A little alarm rang on Miss May’s phone. “Whatever you’re going to tell them, you need to figure it out. That alarm was for your appointment. It starts five minutes from now.”

  “You made an appointment for me?!” I couldn’t believe it. Miss May and Teeny had cajoled me into doing some crazy things in the name of sleuthing. This tattoo scheme took it to a whole new level. And I could tell by the look on Miss May’s face. There was no getting out of it.

  The door chimed as I entered Bay Street Ink and Miss May and Teeny followed me inside. A blonde girl stood behind a counter with a cold, bored look in her eyes. Unsurprisingly, she had a lot of tattoos. “Hey. You have an appointment?”

  The sound of a buzzing tattoo machine exploded from somewhere behind the blonde woman.

  Suddenly, my mind flooded with images of needles, gauze and antiseptic. I smelled hydrogen peroxide on the air. The tattoo machine buzzed even louder and my arms tensed in anticipation.

  How could I forget? Needles freaked me out. I didn’t want to get a tattoo. I didn’t even want to pretend to get a tattoo. What if the woman in front of me was the killer? I thought. Or what if it was the tattoo artist?

  Miss May nudged me aside and stepped forward. I assumed she felt my apprehension because she took charge of the situation. “The appointment is for me. I want to get tatted up.”

  Teeny gasped. “You do? You’re going to get the waffle? I thought the appointment was for—”

  Miss May cut Teeny off. “It’s for me. Chelsea Thomas. I’d like to discuss my ink with one of your artists before I get in the chair. Can that be arranged?”

  A flood of relief washed over my body. My shoulders relaxed away from my ears. I let out a deep breath and gave Miss May a look of sincere gratitude. Miss May remained focused on the tattoo shop employee.

  “Let me grab the artist,” said the woman. “Hang tight.”

  Miss May, Teeny, and I sat in leather upholstered office chairs that lined the far wall. I whispered to Miss May. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Yes I did,” said Miss May. “I saw the look in your eye. You were like a deer in headlights, except the headlights were made of needles.”

  I shifted my weight in my seat. “But I would have snapped out of it. I always do.”

  “Do you want me to tell the girl I changed my mind? Then you can deal with the tattoo artist.”

  “No. No thank you. You can do the honors.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Miss May.

  Teeny leaned forward to look Miss May in the eye. “Are you going to ask for the waffle with butter or without butter? I think you should get it with butter and syrup because that’s how you like your waffles. It might look nice with a few sprinkles too.”

  Miss May shook her head. “I’m not doing the waffle thing! I’m going to show the tattoo artist an image of the Thornton family tattoo. See if maybe that will help us find out if someone in this shop tattooed Jared before he died.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Teeny. “I forgot that’s why we were here. I thought this was going to be a whole big thing. But we just need to show the artist a picture of the tattoo on Thornton’s wrist.”

  “To be honest, I also got caught up in the tattoo fantasy,” I said. “Completely forgot that we had the picture.”

  “What picture?” A voice boomed down from above us.

  We all three looked up to the source of the voice. There stood an enormous man wearing a leather vest and a bandanna. He was covered head to toe in motorcycle tattoos and had a beard that stretched halfway down his chest. “I’m an artist. I don’t work off pictures. I work off my imagination. My imagination is a beautiful thing.”

  Miss May let out a nervous laugh and stood to greet the man. She was a tall woman but he dwarfed her. “Hi. I’m May. I’m the one who’s going to be getting tatted up today. I may not be your typical customer but it’s time for me to get my first tattoo. Heard this place is the best.”

  “I tattoo all different types of people.” The man grimaced. I half expected him to spit on the ground. “Any age, any gender. Doesn’t matter to me. Old skin is different to work with but it’s all good. I can handle anything.”

  Miss May nodded. “Great. I’m pleased to learn my old skin will not pose a challenge to you. Not much I can do about that.”

  “Where do you want your ink? Arm? Back? Rear?”

  Teeny covered her mouth. She giggled. “I don’t think she wants the tattoo on her rear.”

  “I tattoo people in all sorts of places. Nothing to be ashamed about. Any body part can be a canvas.”

  “I think I’ll get my tattoo in a normal place. Maybe the arm,” said Miss May. “But can we circle back to the discussion of the tattoo itself? You mentioned you don’t like working off an image. I understand that. It’s important for me that you’re able to express yourself and your creativity. But I have a family crest that I’m hoping to get tattooed. It’s not like I have a picture of a waffle or something inane. If I showed you an image of the family emblem, do you think you could interpret it into a tattoo? I’m not asking you to replicate anything. Just use the photo as inspiration.”

  The man groaned. “Let’s see the picture.”

  Miss May pulled up an image of Thornton’s tattoo on her phone. It hadn’t been hard to find a good photo online because Ron had been photographed hundreds of times during his coaching career and the tattoo was almost always visible.

  “Looks English or Celtic,” said the guy. “And boring, if you ask me. The shop doesn’t really do stuff like that.”

  “I thought you do anything,” said Miss May.

  “I said I’d tattoo any person on any part of their body. I won’t make boring art, however. That’s against my morals.”

  “OK. Let me try a different technique here,” said Miss May. “I don’t want this tattoo.”

  I shot a look at Teeny. Teeny widened her eyes and shrugged. I looked back over at Miss May.

  “If you don’t want this tattoo than why’d you show me a picture of it?” The man asked.

  “I’m investigating a murder,” said Miss May.

  The man bristled. “You’re a cop?”

  “No. I’m an amateur sleuth. All three of us are amateur sleuths. A victim in a recent case we’re investigating had this family crest tattooed on his body. But we need more information if we’re ever going to be able to find the killer. If this shop wouldn’t tattoo an image like this, can you point me to a shop around here that might?”

  “Let me see the phone,” said the man. Miss May handed her cell phone over. He zoomed in on the image. “There’s not a single shop around here that would ink this.”

  The man handed the phone back to Miss May. She placed it in her purse. “Why not? You’re telling me every tattoo shop in the surrounding area is too principled to tattoo a family crest? I know it’s corny, but still. I don’t understand that policy. Family crests are important to a lot of people. You’d do more business if—”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” said the man. “There’s no tattoo shop in the area that would have done this tattoo because this tattoo wasn’t done in a shop. It was done at home.”

  Miss May cocked her head. “Someone did this in their house?”

  The man nodded. “We call it a ‘stick and poke.’ It’s an ancient method, very traditional…also sometimes practiced in prison. Stick and pokes have gotten more popular in the last few years. Sometimes we host classes here that teach people how to do it. We also se
ll stick and poke kits so people can do it at home. Even if people are great, though, it’s easy to tell when they’ve inked themselves.”

  Teeny stepped forward. “Are those classes popular? Do you sell a lot of kits?”

  The man shook his head. “Haven’t had a class in at least a year. It’s a lot of work. And the kits don’t sell well on their own.”

  “Can you remember if you sold any in the past few months?” said Miss May. “If you can tell us that, it might help.”

  The big man scratched his head. “Let me think about it. We sell so few of these things, it’s not hard to remember who buys them.… We definitely sold one maybe two or three months ago.”

  “Can you look in your system and tell us who bought it?” I said.

  The man shook his head. “We don’t have a complicated sales tracking system like that. But I think it was an old man or something. Not like, ancient, but he had an old energy. I remember it was weird for a guy like that to buy a stick and poke kit.”

  The blonde woman looked up from her station behind the counter. “It was an older woman. I thought it was weird too ‘cuz she barely had any ink. Just one crummy tat on her wrist.”

  49

  Teeny’s Big idea

  We piled into my light blue pickup with urgency.

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Miss May. “Quick. Back to Pine Grove.”

  Miss May didn’t need to tell me twice. I slammed my foot on the gas and peeled out. Soon enough, the happy little village of Peekskill was in my rearview mirror, tattoos, waffles, and all.

  “So Sissy bought the stick and poke kit, right?” I asked.

  “Had to be her.” Miss May grabbed onto her door handle as I sped up. “Why would she have killed her own cousin?”

  “Why would she have faked Big Ron’s death?” asked Teeny.

  “Maybe Sissy and Ron killed Jared together.” I made a sharp right turn down a quiet back road. “That’s a sound theory. Chopping someone up and burying them feels harsh and aggressive for a woman. Even for someone like Sissy. So it seems to me she may have had help from a male.”