The Apple Pie Alibi

by D. J. Lutz

  “So the truth of the matter is, if I understand you correctly, the arrest warrant for my grandmother is not a legal document?”

  “You would be almost correct, Winnie. It is a legal document, but one based on the Captain’s version of the truth. The city is now in a losing situation. If I arrest your grandmother based on that warrant, the truth will come out in court and not only will she be freed, but any decent lawyer could get her to sue the city for wrongful arrest, denial of civil rights, abuse of power, and possibly even elder abuse.”

  “And if you don’t arrest her? What then?”

  “I will be fired. And if that happens, I’ll get the same attorney and sue for wrongful termination. So as you can see, at face value there doesn’t seem to be a way out of this that won’t involve a nasty trial, bad publicity, and result in at least one reputation ruined . . . Thanks for the taters. Love the salsa. What’s in it?”

  “I’ll tell you after all of this is over. I guess I owe you one, Parker. Sorry for the attitude. But what happened to the warrant? You mentioned the Captain wouldn’t find it. Did you destroy it?”

  “No, it’s still a legal document. But, I did what any self–respecting police officer would do when confronted with an illegal situation within the department.”

  “You gave it to Internal Affairs?”

  “You have been watching too much television, Winnie. We have one Captain, five officers, and three patrol cars, two of which work sporadically. So no, involving IA does not exist for us here. There is no IA in Seaview.”

  “Which means what? What did you do with the arrest warrant? Eat it?”

  “No, silly. I typed up a statement regarding what I heard the Captain say inside the confines of the station. Sent everything to the VCID in Richmond. They can weigh the evidence and decide if an abuse of power has occurred.”

  “Oh, Parker. Are you sure that was the right move? You could have opened a big can of worms.”

  Parker looked away, embarrassed.

  “Parker, that’s wonderful. I am so proud of you. This puts a whole new spin on things.”

  Grandma was right. Parker Williams was a keeper. I didn’t know how long I’d keep him, but I would hold on to him at least until my grandmother was safe. After that? We’d have to see what developed. I had hope and was all smiles.

  He was still shy about regaining eye contact. I tried to boost his spirits, saying, “And it’s no reason to hang your head so low. We’ll get through this just fine.” I decided it was time to shake things up. I leaned in through the window and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

  I thought Parker would have been happy to receive the kiss, but his eyes rolled back in disbelief. He lurched his head downward. Gads, was I that repulsive? Then I understood his response. He pointed at my midsection, saying, “Winnie, I think your cell phone is buzzing.”

  In all the excitement, I had forgotten about the phone clipped to my belt. Now standing still, I could feel the vibration. The caller ID mocked me by showing I had once again missed an annoying call from the fine people at Mint Street Bankers.

  “I never expected a call this early in the day. I should just call them back and explain everything was a mistake caused by my well–intentioned grandmother. Surely they have grandmothers. They’d understand, right?”

  He gave me the old hunched–up shoulders routine.

  “I’m staying out of it, Winnie. Once this legal mess is over, I’d like to ask you out on a date, so the last thing I want to do is get in between you and your closest living relative.”

  “Says the man who came to arrest her.”

  “Ahem, fraudulent warrant? Ring a bell?”

  After a resounding hmmpft, I tried to return the call but it went to a generic voice mail system. And since I didn’t know the extension of your party, I could not press the number now. I put the phone away.

  With a straight face, I looked at Parker. “I’ll just have to be ready next time. Not a big deal. Hopefully they’ll stop calling. Regardless, I’m not taking any job where the men in charge expect my heels to be higher than my IQ.”

  He thanked me again for the food and said that if Velma returned, she should stay out of sight for a while. The engine throttled down as Parker shifted into drive.

  I blew him another kiss as he drove off. I turned around to return to the diner only to see my grandmother at the front window. She was laughing and making childish faces at me. I could feel the love. Some decisions, like whether to keep my diet or give in and get a scoop of ice cream with a fresh–baked brownie, were easy. But what to do about the potential new job, the current job at the café, and now Parker? There were no simple solutions.

  Yes, there were, actually. My business career could wait. I needed to concentrate on helping my grandmother and building my relationship with Parker. Nothing else mattered at the moment.

  The first test of my resolve didn’t take long in coming. As I walked back across the street, my phone buzzed again. I stopped. The caller ID Lonely Kitty glared back at me from the glass screen. Francine, my old roommate, had acquired the unusual nickname when she applied for a job at a lounge of the same name, thinking it was an animal spa and boarding house. That wasn’t the case.

  “Winnie, is nine still a good time for a meeting?”

  “Um, I’m sorry. What were you saying? I mean, I couldn’t hear you. I, well, I was expecting someone different.”

  “Thanks for the ego lift, girl. I love you, too. Tricia has been on the phone all morning. She keeps mentioning big dollar figures. So, is nine good?”

  I had no answer.

  “Winnie? Are you there?”

  I felt like crying. On the one hand, I had just learned that my almost–boyfriend liked me enough to put his career on the line for my family. I also just missed a call that could have led to a well–financed albeit unintended career in business. The last thing I needed was the time–consuming distraction of an old friend coming into town, taking over my restaurant, and forcing me to suck up to a total stranger.

  I didn’t know how I would get out of this one. Anyone want a grilled cheese? That I could handle. Not much else at the moment. Where’s Tinkers when you need her?

  Grandmothers are good for a lot of little things—hugs, rhubarb pie, sage advice—that get you through life. I remembered mine saying, “You don’t always have to agree with your friends. You just need to remember there was a good reason they became your friends in the first place.” She was right. Francine was one of those good friends.

  “I’m sorry, Fran. When was the meeting time again?”

  “Nine, if you can swing it.”

  “No worries, Fran. Nine it is. But I still have to limit you to a half–hour. I need to finish setting up everything for lunch, and I plan on being over at the Seagull’s Nest by eleven.”

  I hated the fact I couldn’t spend more time catching up with the old roomie, but with my belief in my grandmother’s innocence came knowing that the real killer was still out there. Somewhere.

  9

  I walked to the office and set the agenda for the planning meeting. Maybe start with a serving of sweet potato biscuits? Add tea? No. Coffee? Tea was more for the afternoon. I could cook up a frittata, perhaps? Or something off the regular menu? Whatever I did, time was running short, and I needed to do something. I could always get a box of donuts from the gas station down the road.

  But, it would be poor form to have any meeting without at least a tidbit of Cat and Fiddle goodness to share. And nothing against the gas station, but I would not serve their donuts. Who knew how long those babies had been sitting inside a hot truck? Could have been days.

  My indecision cost me. Now there wasn’t even enough time for a simple French toast casserole, even though I had yet to meet a person who did not like mine. The point was moot since the muffin pans were calling my name. A–ha! French Toast Casserole Muffins! Perfect!

  These muffin pans weren’t the typical ones one would find at home. These were brush
ed steel, commercial kitchen pans yielding three dozen muffins at a time. Every time I lifted one, I made a mental note to spend more time at the gym. I needed something a little more wieldy.

  The mini–muffin pans had been staying silent, hoping not to be noticed one shelf down. But once I saw them sitting there, I knew smaller muffins would be just as tasty as the big ones. With the clock ticking, I could crank out a few pans, more than enough for the three of us. Mini–muffins for everyone, I thought, and with luck, we would have leftovers for a late–morning snack. Bonus!

  Off the pantry shelves I picked the needed ingredients: potato bread, white and light brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla. It all went into the basket. Then, after a bit of searching, I found the butter and fresh eggs hiding in the cooler, behind the heavy cream I took out. I wanted to add one more ingredient, cayenne pepper. But when I pulled the spice jar out of the rack, it was empty. I had already used all of it for the new police–officer–stalking–me breakfast special. How could we be out of such a common ingredient? Who stocks this pantry? Oh. Never mind. I plead the fifth!

  Crushed red peppers? No, too much. I reached for the coriander. A different effect, but still powerful enough to put some umami into the muffins. But then I found a can of minced jalapeño peppers. I tasted one and decided enough was enough. Fran was a friend. Why pack too much extra heat into a sweet muffin like these?

  With regular muffins safely rising inside the oven, I arranged three settings at the larger round table in the front corner—our most popular table, since it faced the picture window.

  The smell of warm muffins had wafted through the air just as Francine and Tricia walked up. I didn’t know how the day would unfold, but I had a positive feeling things would go our way now. Muffins right out of the oven, slathered with a spoonful or two of warm maple syrup, can elicit such feelings. You can’t argue with maple syrup. I wouldn’t even try.

  Without realizing it, however, as Fran and her friend Tricia walked in the door, my left hand brushed up against that dang cell phone. I couldn’t seem to get away from the device. The only solution was to turn it off. There would be time later to check for calls from Mint Street.

  “Good morning, Fran and Tricia. How was the stay at the hotel?”

  “No hotel this time,” Francine said. “We ended up at a bed–and–breakfast down the road, the Seagull’s Nest. The décor was very nice; and our room was to die for.”

  Would they have chosen the Seagull’s Nest if they had known the chef was a killer? And if not him, his pot–scrubbing assistant? My cynical side was resurfacing and about to get the best of me. Crap. Maybe it was a team effort? I filed the new suspicion away back into the inner reaches of my brain.

  “It’s a wonderful place, from what I hear,” I said. “Have you had breakfast yet? I’ve made muffins for us, if you would like some.”

  Tricia took in a deep breath. The smile on her face told me to bring out the platter of French toast muffins. Both visitors couldn’t help but salivate at the fresh–out–of–the–oven treats.

  “Winnie, I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble in making these, but they smell awesome,” Francine said. “The Seagull’s Nest had breakfast, too, but to be honest, it wasn’t all that good. The cook there puts too much salt in everything, especially the pancakes. Even the tea tasted salty.”

  I had never eaten George’s cooking. He placed so well in the culinary school, I assumed he must have had at least a semi–decent set of cooking chops. And salt was one of my favorite seasonings, too, but I used it only to enhance the flavors, not overtake them.

  “I’m sorry your breakfast experience wasn’t the best, Fran.” To restart her day on a better note, I tempted her with the fresh muffins and tea diffusers loaded with an assortment of imported flavors. “These should help. And how about some fresh tea?”

  Francine chose a nice cinnamon tea and lifted her cup so I could pour the hot water from the kettle. Tricia declined, saying “Thank you very much, but I’m not a tea drinker.”

  “I should have known better,” I replied. “You must be a coffee drinker, a Starbucks regular I imagine. I can make a pot if you’d like some. Not as pungent as their dark roast, but still packing a nice aroma. Unless you have already had some?”

  I stopped my speech for a moment, looking at Tricia. “Of course, you’ve had some already. This morning, yes? Within the past half–hour. Glass of water, then?”

  “No thanks on the water, Miss Kepler. But to affirm your statement, yes, I have already had my usual cup this morning. We had to drive across the bridge to Virginia Beach just to get it, though. Well worth it, in my humble opinion. I can’t get going without my grande double shot soy light mocha cappuccino with extra whipped cream.” She then asked me if it had been a lucky guess or was there an unexpected chocolate stain on her blouse somewhere.

  I giggled, since it was obvious with the matching slacks, top, and scarf that Tricia was a person who took much pride in her appearance and her wardrobe. Her dry cleaner hadn’t dealt with a stain on her clothing in years. I looked at the raw egg splatter on my black work shoes. Maybe she wouldn’t notice; hopefully she wouldn’t judge.

  “Oh, no. Your blouse is fine,” I said with all sincerity. “And it looks like you coordinated your outfits. That’s awesome. Or is that a company uniform or something?”

  The two women looked at each other. I knew there must be an inside joke going on here, but alas, I was still on the outside.

  “Winnie, you certainly are perceptive. How’d you know we went over to the Starbucks? Do you have spies everywhere?” Francine used a tone of voice that made light of our conversation, until she realized her friend Tricia was genuinely interested in how perceptive I was.

  I gave Tricia a wink. “To–go nose.”

  “What?” Tricia pulled her compact out of her purse and opened the mirror. She turned it several angles, trying to discern what I had observed. The vanity switch was always a good one to flip.

  “It’s nothing. Most people would never notice, so there’s no need to put on a whole new face,” I said. “It’s just a tiny little red skin prick on the tip of your nose. Gives it away.”

  To illustrate my point, I walked over to the counter and picked up a paper coffee cup and its white plastic lid.

  “People who order their coffee in a to–go cup never think about it, but the lids that come with it have tiny punctures on the opposite side from the opening you drink from. It allows air to flow into the cup as you drink; no vacuum problems this way. Helps the coffee go down smoother.”

  As the two women looked at the plastic lid from each angle, I continued my class on the structural engineering of coffee cups, saying, “The downside of using the lid is a miniscule flap called a chad. This flap is created when the hole is punctured through the lid.”

  I lifted the cup up to my mouth and pretended to drink. “Hold the cup up like this to get the last dregs of caffeine and viola, the skin on your nose comes in contact with the flap. Next time you have a cup, see if you notice the plastic nib rubbing your nose the wrong way.”

  Tricia’s fingers rapped the tabletop in a frenetic rhythm, and caused the silverware to quiver. Worry had set in. “I don’t know if I should be concerned more about a tiny red scar on my nose or the fact that a total stranger was just able to nail me on one of my daily habits. You should be a detective, Winnie.”

  “The thought had occurred,” I said. Like parents, like daughter? If flipping burgers at the Cat and Fiddle didn’t pan out, and if Mint Street never ever called back, at least I had a backup plan now. Winnie Kepler, private eye?

  As the girls continued chatting about the job fair, my mind focused elsewhere. If only I could recall any stray remark they may have already said, giving me a clue about the attitude or actions of George or Cosmo. I would soon enough be in enemy territory, that being the Seagull’s Nest, but I couldn’t pass up first–hand intel from two non–combatants who had just spent fourteen hours across enemy
lines.

  The conversation focused on the space requirements for the job fair. Tricia walked around the room, measuring for space. She looked like a film director, trying to set up the best camera shot.

  “I’m afraid it may take you some time to set things up, Winnie. The layout of your tables and chairs just won’t do. We’ll need a steam table off to the side, and can you hire about four or five temps? We’ll need them to serve the food and keep the wine flowing.”

  I raised my palm up as if to stop a car speeding through the intersection. “Hold on a minute. Isn’t this supposed to be a job fair? What you’re describing sounds more like a catered wedding reception or speed dating. We don’t even have a license to serve wine, you know.”

  “I thought you wanted to impress people with your managerial skill, Winnie. If you can’t make it happen, just let me know. We can still hold the job fair down the street.”

  “You know,” I replied, “I’ll take the moral high road here and say I think we can make this work. Just not the wine; it’s a Commonwealth of Virginia thing, you understand. Permits, licenses. Those take time to move through the bureaucracy. Thursday is just too soon. Anyway, how many people are you expecting?”

  “I’ve had just the one company call about holding the job fair. They have a team of about ten people. So we’ll make this a closed event, meaning no other company will be here.”

  “And job seekers? How many do you think?” The café was big, but not that big.

  “Could be hundreds. You know the community better than we do, my dear. If you were looking for a nice job here in Seaview, would you come?”

  I calculated the number of unemployed people I had seen wandering around town. One hundred would be a stretch, even on a bad day. Then the calculus of the event made good sense. Occam’s Razor, meaning the easiest solution is most often the best solution, could be applied here.