“This is why you’re not allowed to carry a gun on Thanksgiving,” Robert said to her.
Thanksgiving. Of course. As a small-town sheriff, EZ was obligated to support local events. She had bought tickets to the community Thanksgiving dinner at the civic center. And she was dragging Robert and me along with her. Just because she had to play the political games, didn’t mean she was going to suffer alone. Robert and I were also outsiders, so we were as close to a support group she had.
I smiled and ran upstairs to put pants on. Call me a rebel, but I was not about to wear a suit and tie to sit on a plastic chair at a folding table with a paper tablecloth. I put on my cleanest Ozzy t-shirt. As an afterthought, I did put on socks, just to show I was classy.
We walked the four blocks to the civic center, a bleak, flat-roofed, concrete-block building that was probably stylish for about 20 minutes in 1968. We were greeted warmly, but with that touch of restraint that meant we were still outsiders.
Robert and I were put to work setting up chairs. As sheriff, EZ got to stand around and drink coffee with the mayor. Having drunk civic center coffee, I preferred setting up furniture, even if it meant dealing with Robert repositioning the tables to optimize a finite space environment or some such nonsense.
Martha Stoltz, the Lockhaven equivalent of a culinary pop star, arrived with a pie box in each hand. Her husband and she had retired to Lockhaven after a career running a restaurant up in Pennsylvania Dutch country. Martha was widowed now, and her only hobby was making the pies that made their restaurant successful up north. And don’t get me wrong, her pies were nothing short of spectacular. But there was one pie that she only made on holidays, so the entire town, except me, just waited for any holiday that Martha would make Melassichriwwelkuchen. The locals just called it what the tourists called it in Pennsylvania—shoofly pie. And to make it even less appetizing, it was no ordinary shoofly pie. No, it was a wet bottom shoofly, which I still think sounds like something that you’d euthanize your dog for contracting.
I hated everything about the pie. It looked like molasses, it tasted like molasses, and it even smelled like molasses. This was apparently not surprising to the adoring fans since its primary ingredient, needless to say, was molasses. Fortunately for me, Martha used almond flour in the crumble, and I could avoid a major small-town faux pas by claiming I had a severe allergy to almonds as an excuse why I wouldn’t go near the Satan’s spawn of baked goods.
Martha’s biggest fans arrived soon after she did—George Stubbs and Alfie Farris. One was a bachelor, one a widower. Both had their eye on Martha. I’m not saying they weren’t legitimate suitors, but I suspect her appeal was less connubial and more financial. The Stoltzes did not lose money when they sold their restaurant.
Alfie took one of the pies from Martha, and, balancing it in one hand while hobbling on his cane, he brought it into the kitchen. Martha sent George out to her car to get the rest. In a few moments, George came through the door with five pie boxes. The reaction of the room was like a six-year-old spotting Santa Claus, assuming Santa was thin but paunchy and clean shaven. He too disappeared into the kitchen. The room looked longingly toward the kitchen. Martha always made extra pies for “her boys.” So, Alfie and George each had a shoofly pie just for themselves, making them the envy of the town.
EZ was the town sheriff, so no matter how casual she looked, she was always chatting and watching. She confided that most of it was mindless small talk, but after her years as a plainclothes cop with the County Sheriff’s office, she had learned to pick up little tidbits that came in useful down the road. Robert’s lack of social skills meant that he was unaware of any social interactions unless it came up to him face to face. And trying to make small talk with Robert was the fastest way to learn why you didn’t make small talk with Robert. I, on the other hand, saw things neither one saw. I make movies, so I hear the dialogue. I notice inflection. I analyze body positions. So even as everyone was getting ready to sit down, I saw the conversation in the corner was about to become ugly. I casually got up and headed over there. George was getting angry, and Alfie was just talking. I assumed they were arguing about who got to sit next to Martha Stoltz per usual. Then George took a swing at Alfie. Alfie dodged the punch and slammed his cane into George’s knee. George went down. Alfie brought his cane up to settle the argument. By the time I reached them, EZ had stepped between them. She helped George up, who took another swing at Alfie. EZ caught his fist, yanked his arm behind his back and dragged him into the kitchen. Alfie tried to go after him. I grabbed his hand, and he bounced his cane off my shoulder. I took his cane away from him, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him into the kitchen as well. Seventy-two years old or not, Alfie wielded a mean cane. Martha came into the kitchen in tears. Doris Crenshaw, who had no idea what was going on, per usual, just stood there in shock, clutching a turkey on a platter.
I walked Martha back into the dining room. I’d seen EZ read the riot act before, and it was no place for a little old lady. I sat next to her and tried to make small talk to drown out the yelling. There wasn’t a peep from George and Alfie, but EZ was in rare form. Suddenly it got quiet. EZ calmly walked out into a silent dining room. She looked around the room and smiled.
“George and Alfie apologized for their little disagreement. They have decided it’s best if they head home instead. They’ve taken their pies and left through the back.” She nodded at the pastor, who after a moment of panic, realized she wanted him to say grace to start the dinner.
I avoid Lockhaven social events because although the intent is community building and fundraising, it always becomes a competition as to who would provide the most gossip. If Doris Crenshaw’s turkey, as one example, wasn’t perfect, it would be the primary source of back-fence chatter until the Gingerbread Cotillion at Christmas. And that’s not even factoring in the one-upmanship that went on.
The dinner itself was actually pretty good, even for a buffet style. The mashed potatoes weren’t lumpy, the stuffing wasn’t dry, and frankly, Sue Ingersoll’s bourbon yams were nothing short of heavenly. The old girls, of course, found nothing they couldn’t do better. This is the part I dreaded. They were already having a field day with the fight, and properly warmed up, they dissected every bowl and plate of food. I acted like I couldn’t hear them from my table, but it was annoying. I made a mental note to add a scene in the next film where a gossipy knitting club was messily killed.
Not being in the mad rush for shoofly pie, I had ample choices. Martha’s apple pie, with the cheddar cheese baked in the lattice top, was my choice, and everything I had ever heard about Martha’s pies was true. I glanced over at her. She was just picking at her plate, fiddling with her ring. The girls tried to keep her distracted, but you could tell she was still upset about the fight between her boys. I decided to intervene.
“Martha, I like to take a stroll after a big meal,” I lied. “Would you like me to check in with your gentlemen friends?”
She looked relieved and nodded. I turned and almost made it to the door when EZ and Robert came charging up to me.
“Tommy,” EZ said, that was very kind of you, even if it’s an obvious excuse to get out of here before you got volunteered for the clean-up crew.”
I was hurt. Mostly because I hadn’t even thought of that angle. The two of them headed out with me. I looked at them.
EZ shrugged. “I’m the sheriff. I don’t do dishes. And we both know better than leaving Robert unsupervised.”
Robert seemed unfazed. “I only dismantled the refrigerator that one time. And you’ll notice the repairs have improved its efficiency.”
We stood in front of the building. EZ headed west. “I think George lives closer. Let’s check on him first. He’s the one I worry about. He’s got a temper and I want to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, like filing assault charges.”
I heard thunder in the distance. I hoped this would be quick so I could get back to my scripts before the rain rolled in.
The present…
Deputy Del pulled up in the only squad car. He hopped out and came over to us. Then he noticed George. He looked at George, then EZ, then George and then EZ,
“Del, knock it off. I’m not paying workman’s comp from you getting whiplash. Get a blanket out of your trunk and cover the body. The coroner will be here quick enough. We think he was poisoned. Let’s secure the house until the crime techs get here from Fort Lauderdale.”
Del grabbed a blanket from his car and covered George. He looked at EZ. “Poison?”
“Yeah. Probably in his shoofly pie.” EZ suddenly stopped.
“Crap.” She turned to me. “You two go check on Alfie. Del, secure the house and wait for the crime lab. I need to get back to the civic center.” She started down the street.
“What’s the hurry?” I called after her.
She turned. “Martha made four shoofly pies. One for Alfie, one for George, and two at the dinner. How many other pies were poisoned?” She started jogging down the street.
Robert and I hurried over to Alfie’s house. He opened the door and seemed genuinely surprised to see us.
“The sheriff asked us to check in and see if you’re okay after the spat.” Robert had convinced me not to mention the poison. If Alfie mentioned it, he was probably the poisoner. I agreed.
He ushered us into the house and asked if we’d like coffee. I was about to decline when Robert jumped in and agreed. Odd, since Robert didn’t drink coffee. We all went into the kitchen. Now I understood—the pie box was on the counter.
“Mr. Farris. Have you any of your pie yet?” Robert was still looking at the box.
Alfie shook his head. “Not yet. I like it for breakfast.”
I suppressed a shudder. We sat around the table making small talk. Or more accurately, I made small talk and Robert sat there, occasionally glancing at the pie box. Finally, the doorbell rang. Alfie brought EZ into the room.
“Sheriff, how are things at the civic center? I phrased it carefully.
She sat down. “Everything is quiet at the center. Everyone is fine. Everybody’s full and starting clean-up.”
Alfie sat there, sipping his coffee. “Sheriff, I may be old, but I’m not an idiot. What’s going on?”
EZ sighed. “Alfie, George Stubbs died.”
Alfie put the mug down. “You think I killed him? I didn’t hit him that hard.”
EZ shook her head. “No. Let’s just say it’s under investigation.”
Robert was still looking at Alfie Farris’ pie box. I wasn’t sure what he found so fascinating. It was a white pie box, same as in any store, with Alfie’s name scribbled on the lid. The little heart dotting the “i” was a little schmaltzy for me, but otherwise, with Martha’s background in the restaurant business, it meant she preferred packing up pies the old-fashioned way, but that hardly made the box worth staring at.
“Mr. Farris. Are you certain you haven’t opened the box since you got home?” Robert was persistent.
Alfie looked him. “I said no. I like my shoofly cold. I was just about to refrigerate it for the morning.” His tone was a tad sharper than it was before. Robert, of course, was oblivious.
Robert looked at him, and back to the box. “Then where’s the string?”
We all looked at Robert.
Robert looked at EZ. “Martha Stoltz packs her pies like she still runs a bakery. She boxes them up and then ties the box shut by wrapping string around it. If the box is untouched since the civic center, where’s the string?”
EZ thought for a moment. “You’re right. All her pies came into the building in those boxes tied up with string. Alfie, this is important, was your pie tied with string when you came home?”
Alfie thought about it. “Now that you mention it, I don’t recall seeing a string.”
EZ looked at the old man. “Alfie,” she said softly, “we think someone poisoned George’s shoofly. They may have poisoned yours. I’m going to take the pie and have it tested.”
EZ picked up her radio. “Del, this is EZ, get an evidence bag ready, I’m dropping off Alfie’s pie to run tests on. And listen, when the county crime scene boys get to George’s place, tell them to keep an eye out for the string that tied up the pie box.”
“They won’t find any,” Robert said quietly. “The boxes were opened at the civic center.”
Ten minutes later, we were back at the civic center with Alfie in tow. EZ had dropped the pie off for Del to deliver to the crime techs. The news about George had already gotten around town. The clean-up crew was silently going through their chores. Martha Stoltz was sitting at a table in shock. Alfie hobbled over to Martha and sat down next to her, stroking her hand. EZ, Robert and I went over to where Doris Crenshaw was loading the dishwasher.
“Terrible thing to happen. And on Thanksgiving.” Doris was upset. Knowing Doris, I suspected she was more upset about her carefully orchestrated social event being upstaged by George being murdered.
“Doris, were the pies left alone in the kitchen at any time?” EZ asked. I think she had the feeling the trail was getting warm.
Doris shook her head. “No. Martha and Alfie each brought one in and George brought in the rest. Then Minnie Lowes put them out on the table immediately. When Martha makes shoofly and two other types of pie, you don’t stash them in the kitchen—you show them off like trophies. In fact, Martha scolded Minnie about putting too many pies out.”
Robert glanced over at Martha and Alfie. “Minnie opened all the boxes?”
Doris went white. “You don’t think Minnie poisoned George! No, Martha pointed out she had brought two extra for her boys, and boxed them up again herself. She tucked them in the kitchen until the fight broke out and they were both sent packing with their pies.”
EZ patted Doris’ shoulder. “Relax Doris, Minnie had nothing to with it. Right, Robert?”
Robert looked startled. “Of course not. I need to go back to George’s house.” He set out at a fast walk.
EZ and I caught up to him as he neared the crime scene.
EZ looked a little red. I wasn’t sure if it was from the power walking or from Robert wandering off on his own.
“Care to explain why you need to come back here?” Her emphasis on the word “you” was obvious, except to Robert.
“I know who poisoned George Stubbs. I just need to prove it.”
Del was still waiting for the county crime scene techs. All four of us entered the house. I’m not sure why Deputy Del came with us, but then again, I wasn’t sure why I was there either. We stood in the entryway. The walls were covered with framed insects. Apparently, George was into bug collecting.
“Robert, this is an active crime scene. If you disturb anything, I will shoot you.” EZ was apparently still unhappy about our speed walk.
Robert had entered his own little problem-solving world when he left the civic center. He walked down the hall. The pie was still sitting in the box, half eaten. Apparently, Martha’s pies were that good that George couldn’t even wait to take it out of the box and slice it. The chair was overturned and a fork filled with shoofly was on the floor.
Robert barely looked at it. He doubled back to a door. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of rubber gloves. EZ and I looked at each other. I just shrugged.
Wearing his gloves, he pushed open the door. The walls were covered with more framed insects. There was a desk covered in what I assume were the tools of the trade of an insect collector—jars, a cup of pins, and various forceps.
Robert walked over and lifted a jar. He examined it and put it back down.
“That is what is known as a kill jar. Entomologists use them to kill captured insects quickly to prevent damage. This type uses sodium cyanide crystals. Cyanide is difficult to acquire, so I’d suggest the County Sheriff’s office ask if any of the local colleges have had mounted insects donated to them by Mr. Stubbs. If so, they may want to do an inventory of their chemical supplies.” He kept looking.
Then he picked up a mortar and pestle. He carefully sniffed near it and pulled it away quickly.
“Smells like almonds. This is where George took some of his sodium cyanide and crushed it into smaller crystals.”
“Why?” I had to ask. I’m the pretty brother, not the smart one.
“Camouflage,” EZ said, mostly to herself.
“Camouflage,” I repeated, still with no clue. EZ gave me a look that made me glad she was unarmed.
Robert was aware of my mere mortal brain capacity. “He crushed the cyanide down to make it blend in with the sugar in the crumble topping.”
“Wait, George poisoned his own pie?” Del asked. “That’s an awful lot of trouble for a suicide.”
I was glad he asked because I was thinking the same thing.
“No,” Robert simply said. “George poisoned Alfie’s pie.”
Now he had three of us looking at each other, hoping someone else would ask the stupid questions.
“George and Alfie were both courting Martha, but it appears Alfie was winning. Martha was wearing a new ring. She was playing with it during dinner.” Robert was used to working with people who didn’t follow him. “That’s what caused the fight. George is not a gracious loser. So, he decided to eliminate his competition.”
EZ cocked her head. “Of course. And George knew Martha would still bake an extra pie for each of them because the engagement hadn’t been announced.”
Robert nodded. “Exactly. And George knew that because of Alfie using a cane, Martha would send George out to get the rest of the pies. He went out to the car, found the pie labeled for Alfie, pushed the strings out of the way, forced the corner of the box open and sprinkled the crushed cyanide on the topping where it would blend in with the sugar in the topping. He closed the box, adjusted the string, and brought it in. Anyone who ate 1–2 teaspoons’ worth of the topping was going to die quickly.”
Del jumped in. “But if we found Mr. Farris poisoned, we’d figure out it was Mr. Stubbs pretty quick.”
EZ looked at the floor. “Alfie is an elderly widower. It would take days to find him. An elderly man, dead in his house? We wouldn’t think twice before calling it natural causes, or a stroke, or a heart attack. I doubt the county would even require an autopsy. It could’ve worked.”
The Killer Wore Cranberry: A Fifth Course of Chaos Page 18
