Bert gave a half smile, feeling all too uneasy about Karol’s last comment. What did she mean, out of the picture? Bert shivered at the thought, trying to shake herself free of the feeling. She figured she’d just dealt with one too many murder cases in the past to feel comfortable about such comments.
That seemed to be the nature of dating a homicide detective, she supposed.
“Anyway, enough about my troubles,” Karol waved her hands in front of her as if clearing smoke. “This pie was delicious. I hope it sells by the tons at the fair.”
Chapter Two
Bert smoothed out the dress she was wearing and adjusted the petticoat underneath. She’d taken the liberty of renting a period style costume just for the fair. While it looked authentic and made her feel a part of the scenery, she was beginning to regret it as the warm morning sun began to beat down on the large sandy lot where the Western Historical Fair was being held.
Metal fences, the kind you might see at a corral, had been set up around the entire area. A large wooden archway held the sign that read, “Welcome to the Past,” in playbill lettering. A stand-up booth sold tickets to patrons who wanted to come in and be a part of the event.
Within the confines of the fences, nearly forty tents and canopies provided shade to the vendors and exhibits of the fair. Nearly every volunteer was dressed to the hilt in period garb, just like Bert. Men walked about in cowboy hats and boots. Women wore dresses and petticoats with bonnets or sunhats to protect themselves.
Bert was chomping at the bit to get a break from her own booth and have a chance to look around at what other offerings the fair had in store. From where she sat, she could see a western ware table selling all sorts of handmade leather items. There were also various crafts of all sorts including wooden plaques, needlepoint samplers, displayable horseshoes, paintings, and so much more.
None of it even compared to the amount of food being sold. By scent alone, Bert knew someone was making and selling kettle corn nearby and her mouth was watering.
Bert’s booth which was on the first stretch of the dusty walkway near the entrance was decked out for the occasion. The main display was her pies, of course. They sat displayed on a table draped with a red and white cloth. She covered the pies with hand woven towels to keep them fresh throughout the day. Behind the pie table was an assortment of shelves, each one made from untreated wood by a local craftsman who happened to also be a member of Bert’s church congregation. He was talented and had offered to let Bert use some of them to display her books at the fair. “To give it an authentic and rustic look,” he’d said.
To one side were shelves of history books, all of them about the old west. Outlaws, trains, farming, and every possible look at everyday life during the mid to late eighteen-hundreds. Bert had also included some of her favorite volumes on the Civil War. On the opposite side from the history books were the novels. Louis L’amour, Zane Grey, Elmore Leonard, and many more famous Western authors made up the display.
She was just serving up a slice of cherry pie to an elderly gentleman and his wife when the roar of children echoed nearby. A whole gaggle of elementary age kids went by, all wearing the same color shirt. They oohed and aahed at every little thing around them.
Bert couldn’t help but smile. It was the third school group she’d seen since the fair had begun that morning. While she sympathized with Karol’s personal plight and her family pride, Bert couldn’t help but be glad that this event was inviting schools to experience the past.
History, especially local history, was an important subject that often got overlooked. It was great to see the kids get excited about it.
“I’m here,” came an announcement from behind her. Turning, she spotted her assistant Shiv setting her purse under the table where it would be hidden by the tablecloth. “Sorry, I’m a bit late. Finding parking was a nightmare.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Bert agreed, seeing just how packed the small area was. It was only ten and already the place was buzzing. It seemed that the Western Historical Fair was the place to be that morning. “Do you mind taking over pie duty for a bit? I just want to take a quick walk around and see what other booths and exhibits are here.”
“Sounds fine to me,” Shiv said with a smile, pulling an apron over her head and tying it behind her back. It had the Pies and Pages logo on the front. She hadn’t worn period garb and had instead opted for the classic jeans and a t-shirt. “I wasn’t supposed to dress up, was I?” she asked, realizing she was underdressed compared to Bert.
“No. Not at all. I just wanted to get into the spirit of things.”
“Good, because I’ve never been much of one for dresses,” she chuckled, greeting the next customer in line.
“Oh, and all books are marked at twenty-five percent off the retail price for the fair.” She pointed at the shelves.
“I’ve got it. Go and have a little fun. You’ve already been working all morning.”
“Thanks.” Securing her bonnet in place, Bert headed out from under the canopy and proceeded to walk among the crowds, slowly taking in all the sights. The very first thing she did was follow her nose to the kettle corn and bought a paper bag full. As she tasted the first kernel, she couldn’t help but smile with pleasure. Store bought just wasn’t the same as freshly made. She didn’t know how they did it, but it was delicious.
Weaving in and out of the groups of people, she spotted a much larger tent in the distance and realized that must be where the main Tate Riderman exhibit was being housed. She was interested to see these heirlooms that Karol was so dead set on retrieving for the sake of her family.
Again, Bert had to wonder why she couldn’t simply be happy that the items were being used for a good purpose—being used to teach history to young and old alike. She tried not to think about it, realizing she was being a little judgmental in her head. Karol was Carla’s friend, after all.
Stepping through the open doorway of the tent, Bert was immediately greeted with an array of items on display. Many of them were in glass cases, but all of them were behind velvet ropes.
It reminded her of the pictures she’d seen of the Chicago World’s Fair, her grandmother had shown her when she was little.
Making her way to the center of the exhibit, she spotted the prize of the collection—the saddle. Stepping forward between two onlookers, she got a closer glance at the fine hand craftsmanship that went into the item. The stitching was intricate and small, running along the edges. A cute little pouch hung off one side with a cross pressed into the leather, an emblem of the Union army. At least three signs said Do Not Touch.
She couldn’t help noticing that one man was leaning in awfully close. He was incredibly tall, at least six foot, which made it easy for him to surpass the barrier to get up close and personal with the display item. He wore a white cowboy’s hat and had an impressive handlebar mustache to match.
“Yes, sir. Very impressive. I’d love to have that in my collection,” he noted, turning his head to look at Bert.
Realizing he was talking to her, she smiled. “It is a beautiful piece of history, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am, it is,” he noted in a very thick southwestern accent. It almost sounded fake, like some of the actors in the old western films. Bert hadn’t ever been one for westerns, preferring black and white science fiction films instead.
“You’re a collector?” she inquired, continuing the conversation.
“That’s right. I have a great love of western history. My home is somewhat of a museum itself.”
“Have you seen the watch yet?” Bert asked, remembering that it was supposed to be gold and studded with diamonds. It had to be worth a fortune, which may account for Karol’s desire to retain ownership, even if she left it on display.
“Unfortunately, no. Haven’t you heard?” he asked, stroking one side of his mustache like a movie villain.
“Heard what?”
“It was stolen from the museum last Monday.”
B
ert gasped, putting the back of her hand up over her mouth. She felt like a southern belle in a period movie doing that. “You’re kidding.”
“It’s true. The museum owner worked to keep the news out of the papers.”
“I can imagine.”
“I didn’t want it impacting our fair,” a voice echoed from nearby.
The pair turned to see a small woman with short white hair standing right behind them, a big smile on her face.
“Ah, just the woman I was looking for,” the man boomed. “Nan Greatwater. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
Bert’s eyes widened. So, this was Nan, the Tate Riderman Historical Director—the person whom Karol so despised.
“Drake Panderson, I had no doubt that you would show up to our little event.” She held out her hand, and he bent down to give it a slight kiss.
“All too glad to support the museum, my dear.”
She smirked. “And you can forgo asking. The saddle is not for sale.”
“Ah, you beat me to the punch,” he noted smiling so wide that his mustached bent upward.
“I only expected the topic to come up, considering you’ve asked me every time you’ve visited the museum.”
He held out both hands in a sheepish shrug. “What can I say? I’m a lover of history.”
“History that belongs in the public eye, in the crusade of education and knowledge, not in someone’s private collection.”
He put a hand to his heart as if wounded. “You act as if I’m a greedy man who never lets anyone see my collection. If the schools only asked, I’d let them come to see my home.”
Bert was getting the impression that this man had a wealth of funds to spend on his hobby.
“But you never invite them yourself, do you?” Nan scolded. They seemed like an old married couple. Bert wondered if they had some sort of hidden romantic history.
“In any case, my dear, I’m sorry to hear about the watch.”
“Yes, my advisor Sybil Statesman was emphatically against me bringing the saddle, especially after losing the watch. However, I wasn’t going to let that little hiccup disrupt the fair or this exhibit. I knew many people like yourself would come just to see the saddle.”
“As always,” he said with a slight bow.
“The police are on the case and I have no doubt they will track it down.”
“I overheard somewhere that the watch was stolen without a hitch. The thief never set off the alarm system and seemed to phase in and out without ever breaking a single lock. Almost like a phantom.”
“You always did have a nose for gossip,” she scolded him again. She looked at Bert. “And you looked dressed up for the day, madam.”
“Yes, I’m running the Pies and Pages booth.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve heard good things. I will need to stop by before the fair is over.”
“I’ll save you a piece of pie,” Bert offered happily.
“Thank you, for that. If you’ll excuse me, I need to be going.” With a slight nod to both of them, she disappeared back into the crowd.
“That is quite the lady,” Drake noted, stroking his mustache again.
Chapter Three
Nan Greatwater hardly seemed like a bad woman. If anything, she seemed like a Samaritan to the arts, worried about the preservation of history and education. Perhaps the main reason she was reluctant to revert ownership back to the Riderman estate was simply that she feared the family members might decide to take it all away someday and house it in a private collection—not unlike Mr. Drake Panderson.
After all, if Bert was correct in her assumptions, Nan had dedicated her life to the museum.
This whole disagreement seemed to be a battle of the passions. One woman was passionate about the justice her family deserved while the other was passionate about her life’s work—history.
As Bert entered the back of the booth, she couldn’t help but notice a woman in a form-fitting dress and high heels standing over Shiv. “But your selection of history books is abominable,” she was saying, all while Shiv tried to serve pie to three separate paying customers.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t own the shop or pick the books. Therefore, I can’t help you,” she said, attempting to ward the woman off. She was standing awfully close to Bert’s employee.
“Excuse me. May I help with something?” Bert inquired.
The woman turned on her heel, which seemed like a poor choice of dress for a dirt field. “Are you the shop owner running this booth?”
“I am,” she noted. “And you are?”
The woman held out a firm and rigid hand. “My name is Sybil Statesman.”
“Ah, the advisor to Nan Greatwater,” Bert remembered out loud, shaking the extended hand.
The woman blinked a few times, surprised to be known. “So, you know of me then?”
“Only vaguely,” Bert admitted. “Is there something I can help you with today? A slice of pie? A book?”
“If you’ve heard of me, then perhaps you’ve heard of my book,” she jumped to the matter at hand, holding up a small paperback volume. It was called The True History of Tate Riderman.
Bert squinted at it, at the somewhat blurry cover image and the poorly contrasted lettering of the title. It appeared to be one of those low budget projects where the cover designer didn’t have a full grasp of what they were doing. Having worked in books for a short while now, Bert had already learned how to spot an indie book, especially a poorly executed one.
It was nothing against indie or self-publishing. She housed and sold many books by local authors and indie publishers alike. Many of them were just as good if not better than New York published books.
Of course, as in all businesses, there were some stinkers.
Just based on first impressions, this one looked like it could be a stinker.
Perhaps the content was good, but the poor woman had just gotten saddled with a bad designer. In any case, she’d never heard of it. “I’ve not seen it before.”
“Well, I was just informing your employee here that your selection of history books is abysmal.”
Bert was beginning to dislike this woman. She was pushy and condescending. Acting like a bookstore owner didn’t know what they were doing was one sure way to guarantee your book didn’t end up on their shelves. If Karol had interacted with Sybil at all, Bert would understand her disdain for the museum.
However, in an attempt not to jump to judgments, she smiled. “And what do you think is missing from my offerings here?” she asked, glancing at her shelf. It included titles by renowned historians and some of the best and most recognized companies out there.
“No one tells the real story of Tate Riderman the way I do,” she noted, holding her book closer to Bert. “The ins and outs of his life, his deeds, and his death.”
The booth manager raised an eyebrow. “I see. Well, I’ll have to look into it.”
“I have about twenty-five of them with me in my car if you’re willing to buy some stock right now,” she said, pushing the idea.
Bert frowned, finding it odd that she always had that many copies in her car. “I’d have to read the book for myself first.” She didn’t read every book that she sold. That would be impossible. She was, however, selective about what she kept in inventory. She’d had meetings with many a small-time author who she was thrilled to help sell more books. It was one of the reasons she opened the bookshop, to help the lesser known writers out there.
Of course, most authors who came to her were kind and all too grateful to see their own title on the shelf. They even received a direct commission of all sales for their books.
This woman, however, was being rude and pushy.
“Here. Take this copy on me,” Sybil insisted, shoving the volume into Bert’s hands. “Read it and let me know your decision. I can have the books over here at any moment you choose to house them.”
“T-Thank you,” Bert mumbled, taking the book reluctantly.
“I apprecia
te your time. I’ve really been trying to get some interest in this title and what better place to make some great sales than here at the fair?” she said, a hint of a more genial person coming through.
“Like I said, I’ll have a look,” Bert agreed, deciding to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Now, how about a slice of pie in exchange for the book?” she asked, bending around Shiv to get a look at the food.
Bert tried not to roll her eyes.
Chapter Four
The next day, Bert was up bright and early again to cook up all the pies for the day, as well as to give herself enough time to get dressed in her costume before heading out to the fair. She had set her alarm for an hour earlier than before because she’d ended up not getting to the fair in time and was still setting up when people had been arriving.
Today, she wanted to be ready to go when the gates opened to patrons.
Even with the slight delay, their sales had been through the roof. Two of the school groups had stopped, and the kids had all gotten slices of pie. Bert and Shiv had also sold over half of their books, and Bert was worried she wouldn’t have enough back stock to last through Sunday.
As she baked the pies, she tried to think of what other books she might be able to sell in place of the ones she’d sold out of. She scanned through her inventory and found a few different mystery series that happened to be set in a western type town or starred a western hero. After finding those, she realized she probably had a plethora of western and cowboy themed books in the romance section.
“There, now I have enough to last all weekend,” she told herself, packing the items into boxes and carrying them out to her car. She loaded up the back with them. It would likely be more than she could sell, but it was better to have too many than not enough. Next, she loaded up the pies and then finished getting dressed for the day.
She’d done all her baking in her regular clothes, to minimize the time having to wear the big frumpy and hot dress.
A Harvest Of Murder: A Pies and Pages Cozy Mystery Book 14 Page 2
