by Angie Fox
Things had been a lot simpler then.
I shut off the car and retrieved the pie from the floor of the passenger side, where I usually stashed Frankie’s urn. The aluminum-foil-covered threat appeared innocent enough, but then again, so did Frankie’s urn.
I nodded to Mrs. Humphreys from my grandma’s old sewing circle and waved through the window to the gray-haired men playing chess in the window of Roan’s, before crossing the street and pushing through the front door of the Sugarland PD.
The place smelled like old bricks and coffee.
I made my way to a big wooden desk that had to have been there since the ’50s. Cammi Stapleton, who used to be a crossing guard at my old school, sat on a tall chair behind it and waved me over with two fingers.
“Hey, sugar.” She wore a tan uniform shirt and a badge that said Cammilla Jane.
“Cammi, is that you?” My sandals felt slick against the smooth, polished marble floor. It was a good thing they had some tread left on them. “You look so official.”
She did. This was a nice step up to a desk job.
The long wooden desk looked ancient, scarred and sanded and scarred again so many times the surface had a permanent tilt in places. The tablet computer Cammi held seemed totally incongruous by comparison. “I need to speak to Detective Wydell,” I said, placing the pie on top of the desk. “Official police business,” I added, lest she think this was a social call.
She glanced between me and the pie, her mouth forming a knowing smirk. “That’s a sweet thought, dear, but Gertie brought a dozen homemade chocolate donuts in this morning, and your man dug in like he’d never seen a glazed goodie before.”
Heavens, no. “This pie isn’t for eating,” I hurried to clarify. “Definitely not for eating. I found this pie on my counter last night.”
Cammi placed her tablet on the desk and gave me a good hard stare. “Forgive me, sugar, but that sounds like a decent place for a pie to be.”
“Oh, you see, I didn’t put it there,” I informed her. “Someone broke into my home and left me a pie.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, which is Southern for, ‘You’ve gone crazy.’
Duranja walked in from the back room, papers in hand. His mouth tightened when he saw me. “Ellis is busy.”
“I’m here reporting a suspicious pie,” I corrected, refusing to back down when he openly stared at me. “It was left inside my home. I was just telling Cammi. Nobody should eat it. This is evidence.”
Duranja looked down his nose at me. “Were your doors locked?”
“No,” I admitted. “Nobody forced their way in. But it was rude and strange.”
Duranja shot Cammi a look as if to say, ‘This is what I’m dealing with.’
“I’ve got to go work on a murder case,” he said, leaving me to it.
Cammi’s wrists went limp as she leaned over the desk on her elbows. “Are you seriously complaining about one of your neighbors bringing you a pie? Because, you know, that’s just friendly.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Or do you think maybe one of your spooks left it?”
“That’s not how it works.” I refused to be embarrassed by my reputation. Or my suspicions about mystery baked goods. “Look, it doesn’t matter what you think of the pie. Or what I think of the pie,” I added, going for generous, but instead making her lean back like I was contagious. “I need to talk to Ellis.”
“Your boyfriend’s out,” she said, no doubt wondering what he saw in me. “Working on a murder investigation.”
Of course. “Okay, when he gets back, you give this to him and tell him it’s covered up so he can pull prints from it if necessary.”
“Right,” she said, looking down her glasses.
She passed me a bright pink sticky note. “You write him a message, and I’ll see he gets it. And I’ll leave your pie wrapped up.” Her expression clearly said, ‘Because you’re crazy, and that’s what’s really wrong with this pie,’ but at least she didn’t voice it out loud.
“Thank you.” I wrote out a quick note and handed it back. She stuck it to the foil and placed the pie on top of the polished metal filing cabinet behind her, right beside the printer.
“You have a nice day now, Miss Long.” Crazy girl. Again, she didn’t say it outright, but I spoke enough Southern to know.
“You take care,” I said, adding a friendly wave.
I left with my dignity slightly dinged, but I supposed that was all right. At least I’d made it clear that no one should be eating that pie.
Crazy did have its advantages.
I was back in the land yacht and halfway to the library when I began to worry. They hadn’t taken me seriously. And baked-goods deliveries were common enough in the South that if Cammi didn’t stick the note on well enough…
I slowed at the crosswalk and waited for a couple of teenagers to make their way over Main. Maybe I shouldn’t have dropped it off with anyone but Ellis.
I should at least let him know what I’d done. I found a parking spot in front of Sheer Haircare and pulled out my cell phone. Ellis’s voicemail picked up and I repeated my concerns and my warning. “Make sure nobody eats that pie.”
With that warning in place—yet again—I pulled into the town square.
There were only three cars outside the library this morning, and one of them was a red and orange food truck. It might not have been a fixture like Roan’s Hardware or the old shoe store, but somehow, it looked right.
I parked, walked over, and knocked on the cashier’s window. To my surprise, Lauralee was the one who slid the plexiglass open. “Hey, Verity!”
“Well, hey yourself.” I grinned up at my best friend. She’d pulled her hair back into a messy bun tied under a bright green kerchief, and she wore a white apron over her pale pink shirt. “I figured you’d be at the diner.”
“They cut my hours again.” She cringed, leaning her elbows on the counter. “Thank goodness for the truck. Zoey has me doing all the prep work, and she just called and said I’m in charge of the whole truck again today.”
“Wow.” Zoey sure delegated fast.
Lauralee read my mind. “Shoot,” she said, with a wave. “The only thing that girl cares about is Beau Wydell and his budding art career.”
“Good thing she has you to mind the store.” Not everyone would be as dedicated as Lauralee, or as trustworthy.
She fiddled with her wedding ring. “This job is so much better, I can’t even tell you. No more waiting on six tables at a time and putting up with complaints about food I know I could have made better.” She pursed her lips in a conspiratorial grin. “Don’t tell Zoey, but I’ve been tinkering with the menu.”
“You’re kidding.” That might not be the best idea.
Lauralee bent down closer to me. “Thai-barbecue fusion is great, don’t get me wrong, but yesterday I did a little test run of cheesy jalapeno grits, just to gauge interest. And, girl, people ate. It. Up!” She bounced up and down a little. The truck shook with her. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so excited about something other than her family. “Pair it with some crispy fried chicken, or maybe one of my hot biscuit sandwiches that I make right here…”
“Do you have any now?” All this talk about food was making me hungry.
“Come back for lunch and I’ll have it all. With ham and redeye gravy.”
“You’re a tease.” My breakfast parfait had been good, but a fresh biscuit covered in gravy with grits on the side… “That sounds amazing.”
“Doesn’t it? I don’t know why I never thought of this before. Sugarland is ripe for a food truck.” Lauralee’s smile dimmed a little. “Not that I can afford to buy one, but hey—maybe someday.”
“You will,” I promised. I wished I could poof one into existence right here for her.
“It would be amazing,” she said, staring out past me, toward the large statue in the center of the square, the one that honored our founder. But I knew she wasn’t seeing Colonel Ramsey Larimore on his horse. She was i
magining what could be.
“I’d be good at it, I really would,” she said. “I could drop my other work and make this my one full-time job. I could be home at night for the boys instead of catering people’s parties and make them breakfast before school instead of running in to work the early shift at the diner.”
It did sound perfect for her. “In the meantime, I’m glad you have this,” I told her.
“That’s right. Be thankful for what you have,” she vowed. “I’ve got to get back to prep, but if you get a chance, stop by later and I’ll feed you for free.”
“Ooh, tempting,” I teased before I grew serious. “I’ll see where I’m at after I talk to Melody. I’m working on a big ghost-hunting case.”
“Be safe,” she cautioned.
I smiled and nodded. I wished people would stop saying that.
At least Lauralee was safe and happy. And hopefully on a good path. I walked up the wide stone steps of the library, cool air settling around me like a veil as soon as I entered the high-ceilinged lobby. Air-conditioning was a way of life in the South, but the library was one of the few places that kept it going all the time.
I searched for Melody in the large main reading room that opened off the lobby. Rows of neat wooden desks lined up like soldiers before a long, curved librarians’ counter that spanned the entire back of the cavernous space. I finally spotted her helping a customer at the reference area. She caught my eye, and I nodded toward the town history bookshelves on the left side of the room. I practically had them memorized and didn’t recall anything on the Adair estate. But I could do something else. What time was it in New York, anyway?
“Full house,” a familiar, throaty voice crowed. “Read ’em and weep, boys.”
I ducked into an alcove at the end of the row and glanced around the corner. It seemed the Civil War soldiers I’d met here on Cannonball in the Wall Day still had the poker game going. They were just a little harder to see now that the bookshelves were back in place after the festival exhibit.
Three confederate infantrymen sat in a circle on the polished wood floor, playing five-card stud from the look of it. Corporal Owens laid down his cards to the groans of his fellow soldiers.
The baby-faced corporal caught my eye as he gathered his confederate money. “Hiya, Verity.”
“Good to see you, buddy,” I replied.
Frankie really needed to keep his power off.
I leaned against the end of the bookshelf and pulled out my phone. One detail from last night bothered me as much as the murder case itself.
EJ, the woman who had been so kind to me, who had been so willing to believe me when I talked about historic preservation and my need to be on her land—I wondered if she knew she was Graham and Marjorie’s child. It would have been a big secret to keep, but people were funny about family reputations in those days. She might not know.
Although if she didn’t, I wasn’t sure it was my place to tell, not without proof.
Hopefully, Melody would be able to help me with that.
I dialed up EJ’s number and hit send. There was no good way to bring it up, but there was also nothing wrong with making conversation. Plus, it would only be polite to give her an update on the property.
“Hello,” she said warmly.
“Good morning, Ms. Adair. This is Verity Long, with the—”
“The heritage society, yes.” I heard a faint clunk, like she’d set down a mug. “I’ve had my aunt and uncle on my mind all morning,” she confided. “I found some old photos of Aunt Jeannie flirting with Sir Charles, the snake. And there’s one of Uncle Graham with his new electric razor. It looks like a medieval torture device, and I remember my mother saying he’d burn his whiskers straight off, but he sure loved that thing.”
“That sounds like Graham,” I mused.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve done some research on my own,” I said quickly. “I learned he owned a Tesla coil.”
“We didn’t tell my mother about that one.” She laughed. “Did you get the key and the photos? I overnighted them. They should be at your home by noon today.”
“I haven’t seen them yet, but I’ll keep an eye out.” In fact, I’d have to make sure I stopped by to grab them before someone else could. “Thank you,” I added.
I’d never worried about someone stealing my mail before, but after the problem of the pies, I couldn’t be sure of anything.
“It was my pleasure, dear. I hadn’t looked at those old pictures in such a long time, I’d almost forgotten what my aunt and uncle looked like.” Her voice softened. “They were so good to me. They always told me to dream big. When I was eight, I decided I wanted to have a tea party with all the animals in the menagerie. Obviously, they couldn’t let them out. They kept a cougar, for goodness’ sake. But one evening they had the staff prepare all our meals on fancy china, people and animals alike. We dined in the garden, and then we wheeled a take-out cart into the menagerie and fed each of the animals. Them in their fancy dinner clothes and jewels, me in my party dress, with a teacup in one hand and a cookie in the other.”
I could practically see Graham and Jeannie trailing a little girl in a pink taffeta dress, watching her sip sweet tea and love on their animals. Did she honestly not know she belonged to them? To one of them at least. “That’s such a wonderful memory,” I said. “They must have loved you like you were their own.”
“I know they always regretted not being able to have children, so they made do with me and my siblings.” EJ paused. “Eventually they made do with just me. My brothers and sister lost interest, but for me visiting the estate was like going home. I visited every year until I was about twelve. Then, Uncle Graham and Aunt Jeannie visited us in New York. I saw them at least once a year until they grew older. Uncle Graham went first, and then Aunt Jeannie not a month later. They were too close to be parted for long, I think.”
“And they left the estate to you.” Of course they did.
It not only seemed fair but right that EJ know who her birth parents were. I couldn’t be the one to tell her, though—not without any proof to show her.
She sniffed and then firmed up her voice. “My siblings weren’t happy to learn I was the only beneficiary, but my parents were fine with it. None of them had such fond memories of the property like I did. Besides, they would only have broken up the estate and sold it, and I could never imagine doing that.”
“It still is a beautiful place,” I assured her, “even after all these years.” I walked toward the lobby as the card-playing ghosts started talking smack. “I have some wonderful pictures of the old telephone, as well as some downstairs shots of that gorgeous foyer and chandelier. I’ll send them over.”
“It’s gotten to you, too, hasn’t it?” she asked, pleasure warming her voice.
“It has.” It was a beautiful place. Despite the murderous ghost who controlled it. “You should come back and visit.” I couldn’t see how she’d allowed herself to forget the estate and her heritage for so long.
“I’m too old to travel much anymore,” she said, dismissing the thought. “Besides, I have everything I need in New York.”
Maybe, but she’d left a lot behind.
I ended the call and stared at nothing for a moment, wondering how to tell EJ about her family and her legacy.
Perhaps the pictures I’d taken last night would help bring her back home. I emailed them to her and added a quick note of thanks. She didn’t have to share her inherited property—or even her memories—with me, but I was grateful that she did.
“Verity?”
My sister had walked up without me even noticing. Her hair was braided around her head in a circlet. I didn’t know how she did it. I’d probably tie my fingers together if I tried. She looked cute and professional in her knee-length pleated skirt and a sunny yellow blouse.
I pointed a finger at her. “I have a question for you.”
I gave her a quick rundown on what I’d learned about EJ and how much it w
ould mean to her to know the truth.
Melody tilted her head, thinking. “I’m not promising anything,” she began.
“But,” I prodded.
“I’ll do some digging. I’m getting pretty good at genealogical research. We do a lot of it here. The only trick with the birth certificate is that there may be a different, official copy filed with the state.”
“The one EJ has,” I said, the one listing her New York relatives as her parents.
“We’ll see if we can find the adoption papers,” she assured me. “This way,” she said, ushering me to one of the private rooms on the side.
“The briefcase contained more than the documents surrounding EJ’s birth and adoption,” I said, following. “I’m thinking the old judge, Larry Knowles, was a blackmailer.” We slipped into a private room with a wood desk and tall windows. “He had photos and information on several of our murder suspects.” Melody helped the door close all the way. “Marjorie Phillips had been arrested in Chicago for bootlegging, and Shane Jordan was laundering money for the mob.”
She nodded, her back to the door. “That lines up with what I learned about Mr. Jordan. Come look at this.” The microfiche machine on the far table displayed the front page of the Sugarland Gazette, dated February 12, 1930. The headline read Diamond Dealer In Deep!
“That’s our guy,” I said, leaning in to look at the photograph below it. There was Shane Jordan, a familiar scowl on his face as officers led him away in handcuffs. “I knew he was shady.”
“It turns out Jordan used the Adairs’ parties as a cover to meet his mob contacts,” Melody said, leaning close to turn the knob. A second photo showed Jordan and a man I didn’t recognize at one of the Adairs’ parties, taken just as they retreated through the glass door of the menagerie. Jeannie had been right in her suspicions. “They’d slip into the animal house for secret meetings. No one ever noticed, with so many people there.” She turned the dial to another photo of Jordan ushering another man in through the glass door. “I know you said he was in with some of the gangsters, but this guy did a lot more than clean the mob’s money. When he was finally arrested, it was for putting a hit out on a prosecutor threatening some of his connections.”
