Engagement and Espionage: Solving for Pie: Cletus and Jenn Mysteries Series Book #1

by Reid, Penny

  “It’s this way.” Cletus, having added another splash to his glass, walked past me and into the hall. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

  “No! Not you.” The gun remained on Cletus, but her gaze moved to me. “You do it.”

  “Sure. I’ll just stay here.” Cletus, again, walked around me, and in doing so positioned me several more feet into the hallway.

  My heart climbed to the back of my neck because I was, quite literally, four steps from the panic room, Cletus was six, and Tricia was still across the room, at least twenty paces away.

  “You will not stay here,” she ground out. “I’ll take both of you. Go.”

  “Sure thing. Let me just finish my drink.” He took another step toward me. “You too, Jenn. Finish up.”

  I lifted my glass and took a sip. Cletus moved as though he would do so as well, but at the last minute he lowered the scotch and scratched his head. “Here’s what I don’t get. Why aren’t you telling us the plan? I mean, if we’re dead—or going to be tonight—what’s the difference? Unless you lied and that’s not part of the plan.”

  “It’s—”

  “I still don’t think you have a plan.”

  “I do have a plan!”

  “Then why aren’t you following the plan?”

  “I am!” She shifted her weight to her back foot, shaking the gun again. “I’m just waiting for my partner.”

  “Deb.”

  She said nothing, but her gaze cut to her phone on the coffee table.

  “The other chicken choker.” Cletus pointed at her with his scotch glass, also shifting his weight to his back foot.

  “Sure, whatever.”

  “I mean, that was the two of you, wasn’t it? The two of you killed those chickens.”

  “Deb wouldn’t do that to Mr. Badcock, they’re friends,” she said stiffly, still twenty paces away.

  “Ah. It was you and your sister at Badcock’s that night.”

  “Think you’re so smart?” she spat. “How long did it take you to figure that out?”

  “But it was Deb at Old Man Blount’s? Deb and Elena, right?”

  “Everyone hates Blount.” She took a step back.

  Cletus’s hip brushed against mine, forcing me to the side, and another step closer to the hidden room. “So Deb hit Diane Donner over the head with a broom and left her by the car to light the bee boxes. Deb was okay with breaking so many laws?”

  “No one cares about what happened to Blount’s boxes. That man is a stain on the farming community. And Diane Donner recovered just fine.”

  “But then, after Deb left, Elena dragged Diane out to the burning boxes and left her for dead.”

  Tricia grew very still, her glare clouding.

  I took the opportunity to take another small step toward the hidden door, Cletus did as well.

  “What? She did what?” Tricia looked up, looking less angry and more confused.

  “You didn’t know? Oh, I see. Your sister didn’t tell you. After Deb left, Elena figured she’d kill two birds with one stone—or rather, a bunch of bees and one lady.”

  Tricia shook her head. “She wouldn’t do that.”

  “Well, it was either Deb or Elena.” Cletus bumped me with his hip again and I sipped my drink, leaning against the false wall. All I needed to do was press in the right spot and the door would swing open.

  “Diane didn’t drag herself into the fire,” he added conversationally.

  “What makes you think Diane was near the bee boxes?”

  “The police told Jenn, when we showed up at the hospital. Diane almost died of smoke inhalation, but they kept that quiet from the public. Only me, Jenn, the police, and the person who dragged Diane to the bee boxes know it happened, and Elena knows it happened. And now, you know too.”

  Again, her arm straightened, but the shake of her hand didn’t look purposeful. “If you think this is helping keep you alive, you’re mistaken. You think I’m going to let you put my sister in jail for attempted murder? Now I have no choice but to kill you. You do realize that, right?”

  “Then what’s the plan?” Cletus huffed, coming to stand next to me, placing his hand on the wall above my head. “How are you going to make my death look like an accident?”

  “Shut up. You weren’t even supposed to be here. It was supposed to be her. Just her.”

  “And yet, here I am, and here you are, and you still have no plan.”

  “I swear to God, if you don’t shut up, I’ll shoot you right now.”

  “But . . . wouldn’t that mess up your plan?”

  She made a face of pure frustration, her eyes squeezing shut, a growl tearing out of her, and I knew the moment had come.

  I pressed the release button for the door.

  Cletus’s hand above my head pushed, and the door swung backwards.

  We bolted in.

  The gun went off just as Cletus shoved it shut again, locking us inside. The gun then went off several more times and Tricia shrieked, less of a growl this time and more of a desperate, “Nooo!”

  I slid down the far wall, unable to catch my breath. The sound of bullets ricocheting inside my house felt like a hammer inside my brain. “Oh God. Oh my God.”

  Cletus was there, removing the crystal tumbler from my hand, downing it in one gulp, and setting it on the floor. He gathered me to him and squeezed me tight, apparently forgetting all about trying to be careful. I curled around him, more shots and more screams sounded from beyond the wall, and then loud cries.

  “You did so great.” He kissed my cheeks, my mouth, his hands moving over me as though to convince himself I was real and all in one piece. “So great. So fucking great. You’re amazing.”

  “You’re amazing!” I grabbed his face as he leaned away, forcing him to kiss me again, but then a thunderbolt of alarm had me pushing him backward. “Cletus!”

  “I know. My family.” He reached in his back pocket and pulled out his phone, lifting it to his ear a second later. “Pick up, pick up, pick up—Ashley! Where are you? Don’t come over. There’s a homicidal maniac here and—no, I am not pranking you. It’s Tricia Wilkinson. She pulled a gun on us. Turn around and have Drew call Billy right now, you hang up and call Beau. Tell them to steer clear. Okay . . . yes, okay. She’s fine. I mean, she’s not fine, but—never mind. Call Beau. Bye. Love you, too. Bye.”

  A loud bang—not a gun—reverberated against the wall followed by an anguished grunt and words I couldn’t decipher. She was still there, shouting, and from the sound of it, hitting the wall with a piece of furniture.

  Cletus pressed a few buttons on his cell’s screen and put the phone on speaker, holding it between us, his gaze locking with mine.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello? Flo? Go fuck yourself. But first, put the sheriff on. Tricia Wilkinson is trying to kill us, and we could use some help. And for the love of God, don’t tell Nancy Danvish.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “How easy it is to judge rightly after one sees what evil comes from judging wrongly.”

  ― Elizabeth Gaskell, Wives and Daughters

  *Jenn*

  “I don’t understand why y’all didn’t just tell me the truth. I could’ve played along.” Leaning against the island counter in the bakery kitchen, my mother’s eyes shone with hurt.

  “It was my decision.” I stood straight, angling my chin, determined to defend and hold my position.

  After the last twenty-four hours—living through my father’s insults, and then that terrible meeting with my father’s business associates, and then my father’s violence, and then Tricia Wilkinson’s attempt to murder both Cletus and me, and then all the hours of police questions while Tricia was hauled away to jail—exhausted didn’t begin to cover how I felt.

  I wasn’t giving my mother—or anyone else—a single inch.

  Not a millimeter.

  Nothing.

  “If I was going to do it, I needed to make certain daddy believed it.”

  She frown
ed so deeply and intensely wrinkle lines penetrated the dense mask of makeup on her face.

  The moment she’d caught sight of my face this morning she’d burst into tears, loudly proclaiming in front of the entire bakery staff that she’d kill my father if it was the last thing she did.

  Cletus had mumbled, “Get in line.”

  I’d then steered her into the kitchen, dismissing the staff and promising to explain everything to my mother, start to finish.

  After we’d given her a brief accounting of events leading up to last night’s dangerous spectacle, plus a description of how we’d escaped Tricia Wilkinson’s clutches and how my father and Elena had been arrested this morning for assault and attempted kidnapping, she’d excused herself to touch up her makeup. Point is, the present density of cosmetics was thicker than her normal application.

  “You don’t think I would’ve been believable?” She sounded offended. “I know how to act!”

  “No,” I answered honestly. “I don’t think you would’ve let me do it.”

  Momma stared at me, no longer frowning, her freshly painted lips pressed into a stiff line. On the drive over, Cletus and I had talked through all likely outcomes and scenarios for this morning’s impromptu meeting with my mother. I’d prepared myself for fits and hysterics. I’d prepared myself for the cold shoulder and dismissiveness. Whatever she ultimately decided, that was just fine. I was prepared.

  But if she wanted me to come back to the bakery, and I knew she did, I wasn’t allowing her to use this situation as a way to guilt me into anything. Or use it to push my boundaries. Or buttons.

  “Our discussion from three weeks ago still stands. If you want me back at the bakery, I’ll be ready to return to work February first.” I’d decided to give myself another few days off now that Cletus and I could spend those days and nights together. Even if he hasn’t agreed to the nights yet.

  “February first?!” My mother shrieked, pushing away from the kitchen island. “Jennifer, I don’t think you understand how difficult your abrupt departure has been for me, for everyone around here. And now to discover it was all a ruse?”

  I held firm. “And, as we discussed, you have until the end of February to find a second pastry chef, and you will assign someone else to pick up all the supplies, except the bananas.”

  Those supplies included Mr. Badcock’s eggs again. Boone had told me this morning that the chicken farmer had been beside himself with gratitude when the twenty-one hens had been returned yesterday afternoon, safe and sound. Mr. Badcock even called and left a voice message on my phone when he’d learned I had been the one to share the tip with law enforcement.

  But the bakery supplies did not and would not include Mr. Blount’s honey—he’d sworn off beekeeping—or Nancy Danvish’s honey either. According to Boone, Farmer Danvish was more than a little miffed that Flo McClure had been placed on administrative leave for sharing police business. Furthermore, she was pissed that my father had been arrested, leaving the whole farm stay business in limbo. Therefore, she had once again declared she would not sell any supplies to me or the Donner Bakery.

  And that was just fine.

  I wouldn’t buy from Nancy Danvish again if she were the last beekeeper in all of East Tennessee, seeing as how she’d played a critical role in Tricia Wilkinson’s rampage last night. For now, I was holding a grudge. It was the first grudge of my life, and I can’t say I felt sorry about it.

  Sighing as though harassed, my mother’s attention flickered to Cletus—who’d been mostly silent since we’d entered the kitchen—and then back to me. “You being gone for the last two weeks lit a fire under me to find the new pastry chef. I guess that’s one positive to come out of this mess. And, if I’m being completely honest, I guess I see your point.”

  “Which point?”

  “The one about me trying to stop you from your crazy, dangerous plan.” She sighed again, like she wanted to argue the point, but then lifted and shook her hands. “No, no. You’re right. Knowing myself, I wouldn’t have played along. I would’ve tried to talk you out of it.”

  Cletus and I shared a quick glance. His eyebrows ticked up, ostensibly surprised by my mother’s logical and completely reasonable response. Truthfully, so was I.

  “And I’m not going to give you a hard time about it, especially since your father and that woman were arrested this morning for assault and attempted kidnapping. Thank goodness for Sheriff James! I hope they both rot in jail.”

  Along with Tricia Wilkinson, I thought. I didn’t know which surprised me more: the fact that my father and Elena stuck around her house in Green Valley to be arrested this morning, or that Tricia was still attacking the panic room door with my floor lamp when the police showed up last night. That woman certainly was, as Cletus would say, nuttier than a pecan pie.

  I did wonder if maybe my father thought I’d been bluffing about pressing charges, and that was why he and Elena had stayed in town . . . underestimating me to his detriment.

  “But I’m still allowed to be sore about it, about being lied to.” My mother, still not finished, pointed a finger at me, then at Cletus, giving us each a long, meaningful look. “Even if I do understand your reasons.”

  “That’s good of you, Diane,” Cletus said evenly.

  “Well.” She sniffed, peering down her nose as she inspected her fingernails. “My life coach says I can’t control other people’s actions, but I can try to understand them in order to improve and strengthen relationships.”

  “Life coach?” She had a life coach? This was news to me.

  “The Instagram life coach?” Cletus asked, scratching his newly tamed beard.

  He’d gotten a haircut and beard trim this morning first thing, explaining that he wished to look respectable for the meeting with my mother. I loved how much thought and care he put into trying to establish a relationship with her, especially since I could sense how crazy she made him.

  “Yes. My Instagram life coach.” Now my momma lifted her chin, standing straight, ready to defend and hold her position. “I am getting a lot out of our sessions, and I plan to continue. Indefinitely.”

  “That’s great.” Cletus unleashed his solemn head nod, but then surprised me—and clearly my mother—by saying, “I’m proud of you.”

  I looked at Cletus, wondering what the heck he was talking about. Proud of her? For seeking out and using an Instagram life coach? Some hack, probably.

  Goodness, I am in a grumpy mood.

  Rolling my lips between my teeth, I decided to keep my mouth shut on the matter until Cletus and I had a chance to discuss it in private.

  “Wait a minute.” The stubborn set of my mother’s jaw diminished, and her stare bounced between us, searching. “I still get to plan the engagement party, don’t I? I mean, y’all promised.”

  Again, Cletus looked to me. If I read his expression correctly, he didn’t care who planned the engagement party. Neither did I.

  So I said, “Of course. If you still want to plan it, go for it.”

  “Well, that’s a comfort.” She exhaled a relieved sounding breath, giving some of her weight to the counter. “I promise, it’ll be elegant and tasteful.”

  “Of course it will. I wouldn’t expect you’d know how to throw any other class of event.”

  “Thank you, Cletus.” My mother sent Cletus a warm smile, pushing away from the kitchen island. She stopped directly in front of me, seemed to hesitate, and then pulled me into a hug. “My dear girl, I am ashamed of your father and who he’s become. But I am incredibly proud of you.”

  I sunk into the embrace and the maternal comfort she offered. My mother hadn’t always—or often—been the kind of parent I’d wished for, but she’d always been free with hugs.

  Leaning away, her gaze skated over my face, inspecting the bruises and cuts.

  She made a soft sound with her tongue. “Mark my words, I will murder that man.”

  I gaped. She sounded entirely serious. I looked at Cletus to see what he t
hought of her statement and found him inspecting her with a very particular expression, like he’d just realized something profound or was having deep thoughts about a matter.

  Bringing my attention back to my mother, but before I could find my words, she turned and walked to Cletus, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I expect you to protect her, Cletus Winston.”

  “I will.” He nodded once, solemn and sincere.

  Her eyes seemed to narrow, and her voice held a distinctly threatening edge as she said, “See that you do.”

  * * *

  My grumpy mood seemed to disintegrate over the weekend. Mostly.

  Saturday night dinner at the Winstons’ helped. Watching, listening, and laughing as they all teased each other raised my spirits and served as a good reminder that the dark times in my life wouldn’t last forever. I might struggle, encounter roadblocks and sorrow, but then there’d always be a Winston family gathering on the horizon. I’d always have their banter and shenanigans to look forward to.

  An impromptu soap making session on Sunday with Ashley and Shelly also helped. Another reminder that good things were just around the corner. I had the luxury of being responsible for my own happiness. I could either decide to be happy, or decide to be miserable, or any variation within that range.

  Therefore, as of Monday morning, I decided to be content and introspective, but I was not yet ready to be happy.

  When I spoke to Cletus about it over breakfast before he set off to work—we’d driven to Daisy’s for pancakes and coffee—he’d seemed to understand. “Too much has happened in too short of a time. Forcing happiness now would be like painting over rust.”

  “Exactly. Oxidation doesn’t disappear with a coat of primer, you have to sandblast it first.”

  He grinned, giving me that look of his that I loved, like I was the most beautiful, desirable person he’d ever seen. But then he dropped his gaze to the table between us.