The Apple Pie Knights

by Deborah Smith

  Because phone calls to the Kitchen Stars contestants’ rooms are restricted, she couldn’t use a hotel phone to let Pike know she was there. He wouldn’t have been allowed to come downstairs unescorted, anyway. It’s like being sequestered on a jury for a high-profile murder case.

  Delta found a bellman who she’d won over with baskets of biscuits and gravy. He took a note upstairs to Pike. Pike notified Tom and me that Delta was stuck downstairs. We knew about her prank—she’d left a note with Pike when she took off, and our daughters had updated us throughout the event. (They were supposed to be having breakfast at a “Teens for the Arts” event at the Metropolitan Museum, chaperoned by security, whom they out-foxed.) But now we were stuck for a solution that, we hoped, would avoid alerting the show’s security people to what Delta had done.

  The maids happened to be making their rounds about that time. Pike asked one of them for help, and she alerted the other maids, who all like Delta. None of the other Kitchen Stars contestants give them a second look, but Delta talks food with them and has even set up a small kitchen in her suite, where they visit her after their shifts and show her how to cook their family dishes.

  Finally, we got word that the staff was putting Delta on a service elevator. But the Kitchen Stars security people are posted near all the elevators. No one comes and goes without a badge or a pass. Still, we thought Delta was in the clear. All she had to do was step off at our floor, carrying pillows to hide her lack of a badge, then knock on her own room door, say, “Maid Service,” and Pike would let her in. I’d distract the guard with my movie star glamour, so to speak. If it all happened quickly enough, Delta would be back “home” before anyone noticed.

  Unfortunately, Pike was not in a good mood about her prank. Being locked in the hotel has weighed heavily on all of us, but especially on a mountain sheriff from North Carolina who’s up for reelection—while being called “old-fashioned” and “behind the times” by some newcomers to the county who don’t care about reputations or perspective.

  So, without Tom and me knowing it, he’d decided to pull a small prank on Delta—well, not “small,” as it turned out—by waiting behind their hotel door, naked. He expected her to whoop, then hurry inside for a pillow fight.

  Tom and I left our suite and stood in the hall, knowing that Delta was on her way. We were chatting with the guards while adjusting our twins’ overcoats. We’d scored an approved outing for the day (with escorts) at some toy stores. Ivy and Cora were already on their way back to weekday boarding school, glad to escape with only mild punishments (it’s hard to punish teenagers when you admire what they did).

  That’s when one of the show’s other contestants wandered up from another wing of the floor. I’d tell you the name, but the lawyers (mine and the contestant’s and the Kitchen Stars producers’) advise me not to. I can’t prove that the underhanded piece of rotten meat filled with maggots did what he or she did, because so much happened at once. But I think it’s fair to say that Rotten Meat is the most likely suspect.

  “Show time,” I said to Tom. I walked briskly toward the guard who watched the elevators at Delta’s end of the hallway.

  Friends and neighbors, I realize the burn scars on my right side draw a different brand of attention than I used to get in my prime movie star and beauty queen years, but I also know that my left side is still capable of some fine “Boom Chicka Boom,” and that my overall package can still work it, baby. Not to mention that any man whose children love the Dazzle the Dragon Rider series wants my autograph for his kids, since I’m the voice of Dazzle.

  “ ’Tis a wee thing I’m remembering,” I said in Dazzle’s high fairy lilt, as I cat-walked toward the guard. “But did I not tell you I’d have the X-box game of Dazzle the Dragon Rider sent to your girls?” Smiling, I sauntered up to him and stopped with one hip thrust out, though I remembered that toddler Ben had smeared jelly on that leg of my pants.

  “Uh, Mrs. Mitternich, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

  A service elevator opened. But instead of Delta, out came a young room service butler carrying a tray on her shoulder. It held a champagne bucket with a tall bottle of bubbly in it, and two glasses. After the security guard gave her and her employee badge a nod, she headed straight for Delta and Pike’s door.

  Oh, no.

  I glanced back at Tom, who quickly herded Ben and Ned back into our suite while ordering a female security guard: “Go in there and babysit them for a minute. Just make sure they don’t eat anything that’s not food.”

  Another service elevator opened, and out walked Delta, peering through the fuzzy bangs of her brown wig. She was hidden from the waist up behind a stack of pillows. All I could see between the top of the pillows and the bangs were her eyes, crinkling at the outside edges the way they always do when she smiles. The guard stared at the pillows instead.

  Behind all that synthetic fuzz and goose down, he was getting the Biscuit Queen Butter-Your-Bacon Spell, but it wasn’t working.

  “I need to see your badge,” he told Delta.

  I stepped between him and her. “But really, didn’t you tell me you wanted a Dazzle the Dragon Rider for your little girl? I talked to my publicist, and it’s all set.”

  “Mrs. Mitternich, I don’t have any kids.” He dodged as I dodged, trying to intercept Delta as she headed for her and Pike’s door, where the butler was now knocking. The guard ordered: “Stop. Show me your badge.”

  “Maid service,” Delta called out from behind the pillows. “Maid service, Sheriff Whittlespoon. Oh, Pike. Pike.”

  Pike flung open the door, completely naked. “Get your sweet ass in here, you trouble-making—”

  The room service butler dropped the tray of champagne and ran for the elevator. Delta dropped the pillows, put her hands to her heart and headed for his outstretched arms. “Let’s put some grease on that sausage and . . .”

  The guard grabbed her and pulled her down the hallway.

  You don’t grab Sheriff Whittlespoon’s wife.

  Naked or not, he charged.

  Pike curled a thick forearm around the guard’s necktie’d neck and clinched it hard. “Son, he drawled, “you take your hands off her, or you’ll have to learn to breathe through your ears.”

  “Yes, sir,” the guard said.

  It was all very polite after that.

  Except for the pictures.

  Those are the reason Delta asked me to post this long story on our hometown bulletin board *before* the pictures show up in the national media today. Someone in that hallway—as you know, I have my suspect—wanted to expose Delta’s innocent prank and make her, and Pike, look bad.

  To those of us who know the heart and soul and integrity of Sheriff Pike Whittlespoon, this changes nothing. And to those who think a photo of him naked makes him less than a leader . . . I’d say that the citizens who respect and trust him *with* his clothes on will now respect him even more once they see him without.

  ———

  January 17

  The Wakefield Building, Asheville, 9:30 p.m.

  Kandahar Province, Afghanistan 1:00 p.m.

  Via phone

  Gus: I can’t find Lucy.

  Jay: I’ll ask Gabs. Hold on.

  One minute later.

  Jay: Gabs is texting Tal. Tal will know. You’re back at the base? You were gone for nearly a week this time.

  Gus: Lucy always answers. Carries her phone everywhere. And she answers within a few seconds. Dawn, midnight, 3 a.m. Anytime. Ten seconds, tops.

  Jay: She’s fine, Gus. Just give Tal time to ask around and find out. Let’s change the subject to something important. What do you and Lucy talk about in the dark of the night during all those round-the-clock calls? Knitting patterns? And where are those mittens you promised to make for me?

  Gus: Not funny, Jay
.

  Jay: I know. I’m just trying to distract you. I’m sure she’s fine.

  Gus: She’s never fine, goddammit.

  Jay: Whoa, brother. This is not the Gus I know. Are you all right?

  Gus: I’m sorry. No, and this is about Lucy. None of you are going to tell me the truth about her problem—I get that. My sisters have said everything from she’s just “reserved” and was raised “sheltered” and might even be a touch “autistic,” but “in a good way.” You’ve all made a scout’s honor promise to Lucy. Okay. She wants to tell me herself? Tap your cloven hoof once for “That’s true.” If you don’t tap, it means “No.”

  Jay: Tap.

  Gus: Is she dying from a disease?

  Jay: No tap.

  Gus: Thank you, God.

  Jay: You’re welcome.

  Gus: Is there any legal, medical, ethical, or other reason why she and I shouldn’t be more than friends?

  Jay: In my view, no tap.

  Gus: What the hell does that mean?

  Jay: It’s hard to type with a cloven hoof. No. No reason. Those are all the questions you get to ask, Captain. I love your pickle-queen sister dearly, and I don’t want to spend another decade trying to win her respect again. I may be my family’s pariah and an evil monster to the rest of the world, but I’m an honorable one—says the man who has a meeting with five lawyers this afternoon to discuss my takeover of Wakefield Industries, while my uncle goes on trial for attempting to murder your distant relative fifty years ago.

  Gus: Fair enough.

  Jay: Am I right to think the force of your beer hoodoo is powerful around Lucy?

  Gus: Very. Don’t ever repeat this. I know how it sounds. But from the moment Tal introduced her to me over the phone last fall, I knew something had stopped her fermentation too soon or infected her mash. She’s come out of it green and cloudy.

  Jay: Can she be . . . re-brewed?

  Gus: I don’t know, but by God, I going to try. I have to identify the cause, first. I’m getting a two-week leave in March. I’m coming to see her. I haven’t told her yet.

  Jay: A little worried about her reaction?

  Gus: A lot. Hold on. I’m getting a text. It’s Lucy. She says she lost her phone. Catch you later, Bro. Love ya.

  ———

  Jay to Gabby

  Via text

  JWLD: Gabs, my <3.

  Picklequeen: Yes, <3? Seriosly? U txtng me fm bdrm? U cn walk. R u >:) AGAIN? LOL Am cooking. Bring u dinner first THEN u owe me 4plA before 8===== > this time.

  JWLD: Tlk 2 me. Did U read JabberTlk 2day? Mohawk sheep @Free Wheelr? WTF?

  Picklequeen: U don’t need 2 B reading tht. 4get it.

  JWLD: Gus upset. Whazzup?

  Picklequeen: Not abt sheep. L8R. U need eat, rest, and me @play on yr big 8=====>

  JWLD: I want truth: whazzup Free Wheeler and sheep and what is upsetting Lucy?

  Picklequeen: We talk B4 or after BJ?

  JWLD: After. :-)

  ———

  January 19

  The JabberTalk

  Community Bulletin Board

  LawrenceTPotterJRMgmtAssistantTheCrossroadsCafé, 3:00 p.m. Thank you to paramedics Mr. Ben Schweitz and Mrs. T’neila Jones of the Jefferson County Fire and EMS, who braved the slick roads to take me to the emergency clinic in Turtleville. I am now back at Mom’s house with my leg propped up and Mr. Beagle-Doodle sitting beside me at my desk.

  Just have five stitches on my knee and a big bruise coming up on my shoulder where I ran into my uncle’s tow truck. Thank you so much to Ben and T’neila for finding my camera and backpack in the gully. I guess that’s enough winter bird-watching for me this week! However, I will continue my efforts to confirm a sighting of the rare Anas fulvigula (Mottled Duck).

  HolloTruckTowing, 3:10 p.m. Let’s set the record straight, folks. I’ve heard what’s being said about me at the café. I was NOT driving too fast on Free Wheeler Road. Ask Deputy Baird. This is what happened: My nephew, Larry Dipsh*t Potter, came tearing out of the woods like a banshee-booger was on his a**. He ran into my passenger-side fender and bounced off and cartwheeled off down into the gully. Case closed. I’ve got a dent in my fender. Anybody care? Huh?

  JackRoffWriter, 3:17 p.m. Hey, Al, can you sing me another line or two of that pity piece? I can’t quite place it. Oh, wait. Isn’t that the one that goes, I’ve got a dent in my fender and a hangover in my head, cause lovin’ you left a funky smell in my bed?

  WilsonGarageAndTaxidermy, 3:25 p.m. Al, you still owe me $42.07 on that brake job for your Mini-Snap.

  BobTangerMountainSculptor, 3:32 p.m. I don’t care about your fender, Al. Nope. In other news, Al, you drive a Mini-Snap? Isn’t that one of those tiny little cars people buy for their sixteen-year-old daughters? The kind that looks like it oughta have an electric pole sticking up the back and the words, “Bump A Rumper Ride” painted on the sides?

  LilyAnnSewsQuilts, 3:35 p.m. If you were a seam, I’d unravel you, Al.

  TeasBWallowStorage, 3:37 p.m. Nobody likes you, Al. That’s the dirt-dauber truth. BTW, Cove neighbors—20 percent off the monthly rent on two 9 x 12 units y’all, 3 months minimum. Just came open. Deputy Baird found out those John Deere fashions Al’s brother and his girls been selling at the Turtleville swap meet are imported illegally from overseas. They got some kind of chemicals in the fabric that make people break out. I should have known that camo tuxedo suit and wedding dress were too good to be true.

  CleoMcKellan, 3:42 p.m. This is not a good Christian response, Alward Sims, but I believe that he who bullies the defenseless will be visited upon by the spirit of the Lord and will have his fender smote. *As always, Trey McKellan please come home, son, we love you. Mama and Dad.*

  ———

  Conference call

  Via phone

  Lucy: Larry, are you sure you’re okay? Your mom says you’re a little upset.

  Larry: Only because of what happened to your phone, Miss Lucy. And neither of us got to see the rockycocker! You and I were so close!

  Lucy: Don’t worry about the phone. We’re just glad you’re not hurt worse. You should stay away from those woods, okay?

  Larry: I think you’re right. That rockycocker is not friendly. I’ll write in my research notes. “Not friendly. Growls like a large mammal species. Does not want to be cornered in the rhododendron for a photograph.”

  Instead, I should probably set up a remote camera on the edge of the farm’s property, pointed into the woods at Free Wheeler. Would that be okay with you, Miss Lucy? Do you think Miss Macy and Miss Alberta would mind . . . would we have to ask Miss Alberta? When she coached my T-ball team, she taught us how to trip the other players and make it look like an accident. They wouldn’t let her coach T-ball after that.

  Lucy: We’ll find out about the remote camera. Sure.

  Larry: Thank you for throwing your phone at the rockycocker, Miss Lucy. You scared him away. So we learned something else! Rockycockers eat phones. Or they take them to their dens and chew on them, like bones. I’ll put that in my notes.

  Tal: Good work, Larry. Just promise us you’re not going back into those woods. It was really lucky that Miss Lucy was nearby with the sheep when she heard you yell.

  Larry: I know! You have my word, Miss Tal.

  Tal: Okay. We’ll check on you later. Tell your mom that a box full of your favorite food is coming this afternoon from the café. And a scarf from Miss Lucy, to replace the one that the rockycocker took, along with the phone.

  Larry: I have to make a note of that. Rockycockers like phones and scarves. Does that mean they’re not vegetarians?

  ———

  Via Cove_Mail.com

  Yarnspinner:

  Tal, it was definitely a dog. A really smart one.


  Biscuitwitch:

  Hold on, here’s Doug. He’s been up in Cloud Rock with the mobile surgery van. The Wielands had a yearling filly lose the tip of an ear in a fight with a mare. He reattached it. Fingers crossed.

  HighlanderDVM:

  Hullo, m’ladies. I’m pretty certain this rockycocker of ours is Corporal Dignity Sentry Patton, unofficially retired of the US Army. AWOL. Disabled. Blind in one eye. Last seen in Germany after five years of distinguished service in Afghanistan. Lost two partners in combat. Severe PTSD. Attacked three officers at his base, several others after being transferred to rehab, and bit a general who visited the rehab unit. Right before he disappeared some months ago, he was condemned to be put to sleep.

  Yarnspinner:

  One of the Knights is a dog?

  HighlanderDVM:

  Yep. One of the other Knights is a Ranger who was in a hospital in Germany at the same time Corporal Patton disappeared. Codename Cowboy. Cowboy’s accused of aiding Corporal Patton.

  Biscuitwitch:

  Why are the Knights risking it? Letting a dangerous dog roam these woods?

  HighlanderDVM:

  I doubt they meant to. But these military dogs are smart, disciplined, loyal, brave—and when they go off the grid, just like any soldier under too much stress, they’ll do bizarre things.

  Yarnspinner:

  Why would he take my phone and scarf?

  HighlanderDVM:

  If he was trained to do reconnaissance work, he might think he’s bringing back important information about the enemy.

  Yarnspinner:

  That means the Knights have information about me, my doctors, my medications, my history, and all my contacts—and ways to access my bank account and credit cards. And . . . all my phone texts with Gus, because I save those to look at and re-read. They have my life.

  HighlanderDVM:

  Not to worry. Simple to shut down a phone. Cancel everything. We’ll do it now.

  Yarnspinner: