Shot Through the Tart

by Chelsea Thomas

  Tom cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled once again. “I see you, Hudson. What’s going on in there? Are Miss May and Chelsea inside? Is everyone OK?”

  Flanagan groaned. “Take the job in a small town, they said. It will be quiet, they said. It’s a cushy gig, they said. Nothing ever goes wrong in small towns.”

  Wayne looked over at Flanagan. “Are you OK, Chief? You’re talking to yourself.”

  “Get out of the way, Detective.” Flanagan crossed to the window and opened it. “Attention townspeople. This is your Chief of Police speaking.”

  “We can see that,” said Gigley. “We all know you’re the Chief, Chief.”

  Brian from the Brown Cow stepped out of the crowd. “Yeah. Why did you announce that? We all know you.”

  “OK. Sorry.” Flanagan stuck her head out the window. Her luxurious red hair fell around her shoulders like a beautiful ginger waterfall. “This is an official police investigation. Please step off the property.”

  “We want to know what’s going on,” said Tom. “Zambia is my neighbor. I have a key to her house. I have a right to be here.”

  Flanagan grabbed her walkie-talkie. “Can I get back-up to Zambia’s house?”

  A voice came back over the walkie-talkie. “Sure thing, Chief. And this is Zambia who?”

  The chief sighed. “Zambia. The only woman named Zambia in town.”

  Gigley called back up. “You don’t even know her last name? That’s a disgrace. Our population is so small. You’re supposed to protect us and know all of us by name.”

  “Of course I know her last name,” said the chief. “It’s… It’s…”

  Wayne leaned in and whispered in Flanagan’s ear. She nodded. “Baker. Zambia Baker.”

  “Wayne just told you that,” said Tom. Flanagan grumbled under her breath, then forced a smile and a wave. “OK. Thank you all for your help.”

  Miss May leaned forward. “Chief. If you need a little help, why don’t you send us outside? Chelsea and I can talk to the townspeople. We’ll tell whatever story you want us to tell. The crowd will be comforted when they see that we’re OK.”

  Flanagan slammed the window closed and turned to Miss May. “Out of the question. You still have to give an official report.”

  “We’re going to say it was a murder,” said Miss May. “And you need to say the same. As a matter of fact, that’s what I’m going to tell the townspeople whenever I get out of here. This was a murder and your Chief of Police has no sense of urgency.”

  Flanagan clenched her teeth. “You two. Always so quick to cry murder. Let me do my job and stop jumping to conclusions.”

  I scowled. “It doesn’t take a detective to reach the conclusion that Zambia was murdered. Anyone with eyes could see that.”

  The chief grunted. “It seems to me that there are a number of possibilities. Maybe she slept funny. I don’t know.”

  Miss May and I crossed our arms in unison. We glared at Flanagan. The chief slumped over.

  “Fine. I’m going to investigate this as a crime. Happy?”

  Miss May tapped her foot. “Why would I be happy? I just want justice for a woman I’ve known my entire life. All you want is to move on from the murder of a woman whose last name you only just learned.”

  “I knew it was Baker. I’m just stressed. It was on the tip of my tongue.”

  Miss May shook her head. “Sure.”

  Flanagan licked her lips. She raised her finger and started to say something, then stopped herself. “No. I’m not going to engage with you right now. You amateur sleuth.” Flanagan said amateur sleuth like it was a dirty word. “Wayne. Interview them. Now.”

  Wayne nodded, then led me and Miss May down the stairs.

  A minute later, I was back at the kitchen table. I held Kitty on my lap. Miss May sat beside me. Wayne sat across from us, detective notebook open. He asked the normal questions. And I told him the truth.

  “I found out Zambia had been a good friend of my parents. So I came here to talk to her. I’ve been feeling a lot lately like I want to know more about them.”

  Wayne accepted my answer. He was patient and calm throughout the conversation. It might have been the first time ever that he didn’t subtly imply that Miss May and I somehow did something wrong by discovering the body.

  Once Wayne had finished questioning us, Miss May and I said our good-byes and headed toward the door, then Miss May turned back. “Wayne. Make sure Flanagan takes this seriously. The killer is still out there.”

  Wayne hissed through his teeth. “Let’s stay way from words like killer until the investigation is closed.”

  Miss May sighed. “Zambia was Adam’s costar in the play. They clearly knew each other very well. Now they’re both dead. Zambia did not die of natural causes.”

  “However she died, we’ll find out,” Wayne said, his patience waning.

  I shrugged. “Unless we find out first.”

  36

  Tarting Over Again

  Miss May and I went straight to Teeny’s restaurant for breakfast. We were hungry, sure. But we also knew that Teeny would be even hungrier for information. She had no doubt heard about the crowd at Zambia’s house. And we knew Teeny must have been dying to see us, no pun intended. I hate that pun. Hard to avoid when you’re constantly investigating murders, though.

  Teeny rushed up and hugged us as soon as we entered Grandma’s. “Can’t believe you two found another dead body without me. That is so frustrating. Also, so sorry to hear about Zambia. Should have led with that.”

  Miss May shook her head. “It was terrible. Chelsea discovered the scene on her own.”

  Teeny clucked her tongue. “Poor Chelsea. You’re always finding dead bodies. That must be hard for you.”

  I slumped against the wall. “Now that you mention it, yeah. It is hard for me. Stressful. Exhausting.”

  Teeny leaned in. “I hear the cops are trying to pass this one off as an accident. Come on. And Flanagan didn’t even know Zambia’s last name?”

  Miss May shrugged. “Everyone was shocked by that but it made sense to me. Zambia was like Madonna. She went by one name in this town.”

  Teeny shook her head. “No. If you’re going to be Chief of Police in a town this tiny, you need to know everyone’s last name. You need to know everyone’s mother. And if you don’t know the name of their pets, you should be fired.”

  Miss May chuckled. “Small town logic at its finest. I like that.”

  Teeny nodded over toward our usual booth. “Come on. I’ve got a fresh batch of tarts that need to be eaten.”

  Sure enough, a plate of tarts was already waiting on our table. Miss May cringed when she saw them. “This is a little depressing, considering how Adam died.”

  “I still think it’s pretty bizarre that he decided on such a tart-based interpretation of Phantom of the Opera,” I said.

  Teeny nodded. “I know. But they’re so delicious. I couldn’t resist whipping up an extra batch. I felt bad while they were in the oven. Then I ate one and I felt better. Then I felt bad again because I ate seven.”

  Miss May laughed and bit into a tart. “They are good.”

  I leaned forward to get a better look. “Strawberry filling this time?”

  Teeny pointed at me. “You know it, beautiful. Yum, Yum. But enough about the tarts…” Teeny flattened her palms down on the table. “Let’s talk suspects.”

  Miss May shrugged. “OK.”

  “You two discussed suspects without me, didn’t you?” Teeny said, detecting Miss May’s ambivalence. “That is so annoying. I’m part of this team. I’m valuable. Neither of you watch the mystery shows. I watch every mystery show, I know all the classic plots, all the twists and turns, and I know how these people think. That’s it. I’m taking the tarts away.”

  Miss May pulled the plate of tarts close to her torso. “We didn’t discuss the suspects without you. Relax. We just talked about the general type that we might be looking for.”

  Teeny held
up her hands. “And? What’s the general type?”

  “We think the killer escaped out the window,” I said. “So it was probably a skinny man or a woman.”

  “Most likely a man,” said Miss May. “Because they also overpowered Zambia with the pillow.”

  Teeny covered her mouth with her hands. “The poor woman was smothered with a pillow?! Horrific. Were there signs of struggle?”

  I nodded. “Great question. There were absolutely signs of a struggle. So I think it could have been a woman too, because it looked like Zambia put up quite a fight.”

  Teeny nodded. “So it’s just someone who could fit through a window, basically. That’s who we’re looking for.”

  “Or a door,” I said. “The front door was also open.”

  Teeny rolled her eyes. “Well what other clues do we have? The sign-in book?”

  “No, you were right,” I said begrudgingly. “That was a dead-end. I don’t think anyone has signed into that thing in years.”

  “What else?” Teeny asked.

  I took another bite of tart. The powdered sugar spilled onto my chin and dusted my shirt. That strawberry really was delicious. “I don’t know. I think it would be smart for us to circle back to the suspects we’d already discussed, prior to Zambia’s death. Seems to me we’re probably looking for the same killer. That’s usually the case in our cases.”

  “True. It almost always is,” said Teeny.

  “Master Skinner is a good suspect,” said Miss May. “But we already learned he was being painted by Daisy Johnson at the time of the murder.”

  “And Dorothy has an alibi too. She was pounding back whiskey at Peter’s Land and Sea at the time Adam Smith was shot,” I said. “Jefferson Nebraska confirmed it.”

  Teeny licked the strawberry filling off of her tart. “Do you have any other options? What about Petunia? She has an obvious gambling problem. Maybe Zambia owed her money.”

  “That’s a stretch,” said Miss May. “We’re looking for someone who had motive to kill both Adam and Zambia. You think they might have both owed her so much cash she was willing to kill?”

  “Yeah, that seems unlikely,” I said. “Also, could Petunia really have climbed out that window with no problem?”

  Miss May shrugged. “She could have just used the front door, remember?”

  “Ugh,” I said. “We’re getting nowhere.”

  Miss May leaned forward. “I keep coming back to Dorothy.”

  “Jefferson said he saw her at the restaurant,” I said. “I don’t like the guy, and he clearly doesn’t like me, but I don’t know why he’d lie to protect Dorothy.”

  Teeny sat straight up. “I have an idea. What if Zambia was a secret government agent. It sounds crazy, I know. But the government has secret agents, right? We can all agree on that. So why couldn’t it have been Zambia?”

  Miss May‘s throat rumbled with skepticism. “Where is this going, Teeny?”

  Teeny shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s all I’ve got. What if Zambia was a secret government agent? If that’s true, we get a whole new pool of suspects. The Russians, for instance. The Russians love to kill government agents. They do it all the time. It’s a Russian pastime.”

  Miss May laughed. “OK. We’ll keep that in mind.”

  Teeny nodded, pleased with herself. “Very well. Thank you.”

  I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. I pulled it out to see who was calling me. “It’s the police station.”

  “Answer it,” said Miss May.

  I nodded and picked up the call. “Hello?”

  “This is the Pine Grove Police Department. You have an incoming collect call from Germany Turtle. Do you wish to accept?”

  “Yes, I’ll accept the call.” I made eye contact with Miss May and mouthed, “Germany has been arrested!”

  37

  Turtle Soup

  Pine Grove, New York has one single jail cell, in the back of the modest police department. Over the course of our previous investigations, we’d ended up visiting a lot of our friends and family in that single cell.

  Flanagan had a habit of arresting people close to us. I would say she was a passive-aggressive police chief, but her behavior qualified as plain old aggressive. Anyone who’d ever met Germsany Turtle would know immediately that the man was not capable of murder. Apparently Flanagan disagreed.

  Flanagan was standing out in front of the police department when Miss May, Teeny, and I pulled up in Miss May’s yellow VW bus.

  “Good morning, ladies.” Chief Flanagan smiled. “Looks like that fog is finally lifting.”

  Teeny shook her head. “Too bad you got so much fog in your brain. Germany Turtle is less threatening than an actual turtle. Why did you arrest him?”

  Flanagan smirked. “Not at liberty to say. Well, I suppose I could tell you. But I don’t want to. See, I’m not in the habit of sharing information with meddlesome sleuths. I’m a real cop. I was the star of my rookie class. Then I paid my dues, worked my way up to chief. You’ll never get that far by teaming up with bumbling nitwits in your investigations.”

  Miss May laughed. “You’re in a mood.”

  “I sure am. I’m in a great mood. Finally got the bad guy. He’s going away for a long time.”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. Maybe you don’t remember who we are. Hey. I’m Chelsea. This is my aunt Miss May and our spunky friend, Teeny. We’re actually kind of famous here in Pine Grove. Because we solve murders before the police can. Have you heard of us?”

  Flanagan glared at me.

  I turned to Miss May and Teeny. “How many murders have we solved now? I’ve really lost count.”

  Miss May sighed. “OK, Chelsea. Your boyfriend is in jail so you’re upset. But let’s show the chief a little respect. She almost solved that last one.”

  Teeny laughed with a loud snort. “Good one. Oh boy. Legendary one-liner, May. They’re going to put that one in the movie they make about your life.”

  Miss May walked toward the police department entrance. Flanagan blocked her path. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Every prisoner in Pine Grove gets one visit on the day of the arrest. Germany Turtle called us. We’re here to visit.”

  “I can only allow one person in there with him,” Flanagan said. “New rule. For safety reasons.”

  Teeny scoffed. “Safety reasons? Are we talking about the same Germany Turtle? That strange little nerd who studied lions in Africa and thinks sweater vests and cowboy hats are a ‘daring combination?’”

  Flanagan crossed her arms. “One visitor. That’s final.”

  Miss May shrugged and turned to me. “Looks like you’ve got a date with Germany,” she said. “Try to find out the details of his arrest. I’m sure the police bungled the procedure. We can get him released pretty quickly if they didn’t follow protocol. Oh. And see if he has any more information about who might have killed Adam Smith and Zambia.”

  “It is unlawful for you to pursue this investigation,” snapped Flanagan.

  “We’re not pursuing anything,” said Miss May. “I’m just a nosy old lady who runs the apple orchard. And I love to gossip.”

  Miss May grabbed the door to the police department and held it open for me. I nodded at Flanagan as I entered the lobby. I gave her a little smirk as I entered. Her face reddened so deeply I thought she might explode.

  It felt good standing up to Chief Flanagan. Even if she still had the legal authority, we had the upper hand in the battle of wits.

  Deputy Hercules let me into a small interrogation room, where Germany sat behind a folding table. His hands were cuffed behind his back. And his ankles were cuffed together too. Several feelings hit me at once. Love, fury, sympathy, sadness. What came out of my mouth was a mangled expression of all of those feelings... Sort of.

  “Garf!”

  “Excuse me,” Hercules said. “Did you just say ‘garf?’”

  “Yeah, I did,” I said. “And what I meant by that was, uh, well, what I m
eant was, Germany are you OK? Why do they have you cuffed like this?”

  I rushed toward Germany and reached out to hug him. Deputy Hercules stepped in my path. “No touching. You have ten minutes. Ten minutes only.”

  “Good job, Deputy Hercules.” Flanagan entered the room. “I’ll supervise this one. Take a break. Drink one of those K-cups you like so much.”

  Hercules nodded and exited. Flanagan smirked and gestured at a folding chair across from Germany. “Please. Continue.”

  I went to a folding chair and sat across from Germany. He offered me a weak smile. “Have no fear, Chelsea. Although my wrists and legs are currently bound, my devotion to you is still boundless. My love cannot be confined or contained. Seeing you here gives me strength. The florescent light makes your eyes shine brighter than—”

  I held up my hand. “Germany. This is sweet. You’re wonderful. But you’re eating up our ten minutes and I don’t think Chief Flanagan is in a generous mood.”

  “I’m not,” Flanagan said with a big smile.

  Germany stammered and side-eyed the chief. “They didn’t tell me anything when they arrested me. I was just sitting at home, reading medieval poetry, when the chief showed up and placed me under arrest.”

  “And they said you were being arrested for the murders of Adam Smith and Zambia Baker?”

  Germany nodded. He shot a nervous glance over at Flanagan. “I’m not sure how much I should say with the chief here in the room. I haven’t seen many police procedurals on broadcast television, but as far as I recall the prisoner is often advised not to speak without a lawyer present.”

  I nodded. “That’s smart. I don’t trust the police in this town. They can’t solve any crimes, first of all. And they keep making silly arrests.”

  “This is not a silly arrest,” said Flanagan.

  I looked back at her. “You’re right. This man is clearly a killer. All killers read medieval love poetry in their spare time. Look at him. He’s a brute. Cold-blooded and ruthless.”

  Germany furrowed his eyebrows. “I hope you’re being sarcastic, Chelsea. Although I’m aware that I can be a passionate man and my recent discovery of theater has led me deeper into my emotions… I do not think of myself as a brute. Rather, I think of myself as a flower. A masculine flower, don’t get me wrong. But a pretty flower, nonetheless.”