Can She Bake a Cherry Pie?

by Jaye Watson

  Emaline gaped, then forced her mouth shut. "Are you saying it was...murder?"

  "Sure as God made little apples" He reached across the table, took her hand in his. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to talk shop. And I certainly didn't mean to remind you of your grandfather's death."

  "Can you prove it?"

  His expression changed, hardened. All at once he looked the complete cop. "I will. No matter how old, no matter how close to death someone is, taking his last days from him is a crime." His lips thinned into a hard line. "Even if society didn't say it was, I would. He had a right to those days, however few there might have been."

  Mouth dry, Emaline could only nod. After a few labored swallows, she nodded. "I can't argue. But...but what if he was...was mean. Not all old people are kind and godly. Some are selfish and mean and cranky."

  His gaze seemed to pierce through her. "Like your grandfather."

  She swallowed. "Like Grandad."

  He held her prisoner with his eyes, dark and piercing. "Would you have killed him? Could you have stolen his last days?"

  She couldn't look away, couldn't lower her lids. "No...yes. Yes, I did think about it. I almost--"

  He held up his hand. "Don't say any more. I may be off duty, but I'm still a cop."

  Paralyzed, caught in the fierce gaze of a true predator, she sat unmoving for endless moments. "I was going to... to poison him. I brought it home from the lab. Prussic acid. It smelled just like almond extract. I even used an empty almond extract bottle.

  "I made the cherry pie. Just before I put the filling into the crust, I opened the bottle. Tipped it." She buried her face in her hands. "Oh, god, do you have any idea what that stuff smells like?"

  She'd never forget that faint whiff of the deadly contents of the bottle.

  "Marzipan. It smells just like marzipan. My mouth watered."

  A stranger sat across from her. A hard, stern stranger, who held her life in his big, strong hands. "How much did you use?"

  This time when she swallowed, it hurt, as if the membranes lining her throat had been sandpapered raw. "One...one drop. And I scooped it out. Honest!" She lifted her chin and pled with open hand, with wide eyes. "I scooped it out and took it to the toilet and flushed it. Then I screwed the lid back on the bottle and put it in the cupboard."

  "Is it still there?"

  Shaking her head was an effort, as if her neck was permanently fused into an immovable column. "I buried it. There wasn't much left. Probably less than ten milliliters." At his raised eyebrow, she amended, "Somewhere around a quarter of an ounce."

  "Enough to kill a good sized horse--or half a dozen people."

  "Yes. That's why I buried it. Even if the bottle breaks, it will be dissipated through the soil slowly. No one will be hurt."

  "Where?"

  She told him. Waited.

  At last he nodded. "I'll buy that. It's not likely anyone will dig it up." He nodded when the waiter offered more coffee. "Can you get the lady a fresh cup? Hers is cold."

  She waited until they were alone again. After one sip of the fresh, hot coffee, she said, "You're not going to do anything?"

  He shook his head. "Why should I? You didn't."

  "I almost did. I wanted to."

  "Intent to kill is not illegal. At least not unless you act on it. You didn't."

  "Because I was scared of getting caught."

  "Were you? Or was there another reason?"

  She thought back to that pivotal moment. Remembered the feel of the bottle in her hand, the bright red of the cherry pie filling, the aroma of pot roast. All she'd needed to do was tip the bottle a little more, and she'd have been free.

  And she couldn't do it. Underneath all the anger, all the resentment, had been a small, firm nugget of love for her grandfather. Old and cranky as he was, she still loved him. And she couldn't take away one single moment of his life, no matter how long it might be.

  "Doctor Hedley said it was probably the aneurysm that killed him. He said the symptoms were consistent..."

  "It was."

  "You know? How?"

  "I wasn't entirely satisfied. He might have been frail, but his doctor said his heart was strong. He was probably good for another year or two. So I asked for an autopsy."

  "You--"

  His hands went up in a placating gesture. "Before you say anything, let me tell you that I asked it as a favor, not part of an investigation. Unless something had been completely out of kilter, the results would have been included in a paper on hidden causes of death in elderly patients."

  Frowning, she eyed him long enough that he started to fidget. "I'll bet that's not according to protocol, is it?"

  His cheeks reddened slightly. "No. I could lose my job over it, in fact. And I should have shared the results with you, or at least with Dr. Hedley. But I didn't. There was no reason to tell you we had any questions at all about the cause of your grandfather's death.

  "He died of natural causes."

  "Over-eating?"

  "That easily could have been a contributing factor, yes. A full stomach putting extra pressure on the aneurysm. Just enough pressure so that it popped like a water balloon when it's stepped on."

  She laughed, and caught herself before her laughter became hysterical.

  He waited patiently until she was once again under control.

  Emaline wiped her streaming eyes, conquered the lingering giggles. Looked across at his hard face, a strong masculine face in which were eyes of astonishing clarity and vision. The kind of vision that saw to the heart and soul of those he questioned.

  "You knew I was thinking of killing him?"

  His head slowly moved from side to side. "I wondered. My mother nursed her dad for more than ten years while he slowly went from a vital, interesting human being to a sluggish, isolated vegetable. After he finally died, she told me she'd dreamed of killing him, not to put him out of his misery, but to free herself."

  "She didn't though?"

  "She came close, but like you, stopped before she went too far."

  He reached across the table. After a small hesitation, she laid her hand in his. For a long time they sat, silently gazing into each other's eyes. Into each other's soul.

  Then she giggled.

  "What?"

  "I just realized. If it was a full stomach that tipped the balance, then Grandad... Oh, dear!" And she dissolved into laughter.

  He waited impatiently. When her last chuckle faded, he raised one brow in inquiry.

  "He overate. He'd eaten two big servings of pot roast, mounds of mashed potatoes with gravy, half a can of green beans, and then pie. A quarter of a pie." Again she dissolved into giggles.

  "I guess you could say... you could say he got his just desserts."

  About the Author

  Jaye Watson is the alter ego of a sweet little old lady who doesn't want her grandchildren to know what dark and bloody thoughts she harbors in her heart of hearts. She would rather write about serial killers than romantic lovers, and much prefers a good treatise on deadly poisons to any collection of homestyle recipes. For amusement, Jaye plots new and different ways to kill off the people who cut in front of her in grocery lines and crowd her on the freeway.

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