Death, Taxes, and Pecan Pie

by Diane Kelly

I circled back to Nick and the others.

  “What did you see?” Bonnie asked. “Did she switch the scores?”

  “No. She went straight to a trailer and handed the scores over to someone inside. A minute or so later they handed her a white sealed envelope. She never even looked inside it before giving it to the mayor back here at the booth.”

  My mother stood up a little straighter. “So I was right. She’s innocent.”

  I hated to burst Mom’s bubble, but . . . “Not necessarily,” I said. “It might simply mean this particular contest wasn’t rigged.” Or it might mean nothing at all was going on here and I’d become one of those crazy conspiracy theorists, seeing crimes and collusion where none truly existed.

  The looks exchanged among the group told me that’s exactly what they were thinking. That I was nuts. That no matter how good I thought Bonnie’s pecan pie and my mother’s pies and pralines were, maybe the judges simply had different tastes and preferred another entry.

  I exhaled a long breath. “Y’all think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

  My mother reached out a hand and squeezed my shoulder. “I think you’re a sweet daughter who wanted to see her mother and mother-in-law win a baking contest, that’s all.”

  I forced a soft smile at her, but inside I was burning with humiliation. I’d worked hard to earn respect as a federal agent. I didn’t want to lose it by becoming biased and excessively distrustful. I had to maintain my objectivity. When my mother released my shoulder, I gave it a small shake, as if to shake off my embarrassment. But no matter how much I might shake my shoulders, I still couldn’t shake the sense that something odd was going on with the contests.

  Chapter Six: I Need a Hero

  A voice came over the loudspeakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, in just a minute or two our aspiring Pecan Princesses will be competing in the interview portion of the competition. Come on over to the stage and show your support for these young ladies.”

  Bonnie pointed a finger in the general direction of the stage. “Should we go watch?”

  “Might as well,” I said. “I’m curious how things will turn out.” Personally, I was rooting for either Jackie Geroux or Ainsley Drury. Both had shown incredible talent, and Ainsley had shown a sense of humor as well.

  We walked over to the stage and took seats on the hay bales. The contestants for Pecan Princess were lined up along the back of the stage, dressed somewhat alike in blue jeans and solid-color tees for this part of the program.

  The mayor ascended the stage and took the microphone from the stand. “The girls drew numbers earlier to determine the order in which they will speak. They will all be asked to answer the same question.” He turned to the girls. “That question is: Who is your hero, and why?” He shuffled the papers in his hand until he found the one that listed the girls’ names. “First up is Jacqueline Geroux.”

  Jackie came forward, stopping next to the mayor.

  “All righty, Jackie. Tell everyone here who your hero is and why.”

  The girl confidently took the microphone from the mayor, turned to the crowd, and without hesitation raised the mic to her lips. “My hero is my dance instructor, Miss Bailey, who is here in the audience today.”

  Jackie motioned with a graceful hand to a thirtyish woman in the second row, who put her hand to her chest as if to say Me? Really?

  Jackie’s eyes ran over the crowd as she spoke. “Miss Bailey has been my dance instructor since I started dancing at six years old. Over the years, she’s taught me ballet, jazz, and tap. But her lessons went so much further than that. She taught me to keep my feet on the ground. She taught me to stay on my toes. She taught me to keep my eyes on the mark so I wouldn’t spin in the wrong direction.”

  Wow. The girl sure knew how to work a metaphor. Who knew dance lessons could also be life lessons?

  “She taught me to keep moving, and to save my drama for the stage.”

  That last comment earned her some laughs from the audience.

  She smiled good-naturedly before going on. “She’s taught me how to get up gracefully when I fall down. How to work as part of a team. How to accept constructive criticism and still dance to my own beat. She’s taught me not to fear trying something new and challenging. She’s taught me to be proud of my blisters and bruises because they tell the world that I took a chance, that I tried, and that I might not have gotten it right this time, but next time I will.” She looked fondly down at her dance instructor once more. “Miss Bailey gave me a solid footing both on stage and in life. For that reason, she’s my hero.”

  Wow. Jackie had set a high bar—or should I say a high barre? Her touching, impromptu speech would be hard to beat. As the crowd applauded, Miss Bailey wiped a tear from her eye and Jackie returned the mic to the mayor and took her spot at the back of the stage.

  The mayor thanked her for her “beautiful tribute” before turning back to the audience. “Next up is Hillary Hansen.”

  Hillary stepped forward. Her speech, though sweet, was much less moving. Her hero, she said, was Taylor Swift, who “set an example for all young girls and showed us that hard work can pay off.”

  The mayor took the mic and consulted his list. “Next up is Cassidy Coleman.”

  Cassidy strode to the front of the stage to accept the mic. Like Jackie, she gestured into the crowd, pointing out her father. “My hero is my dad. He works really hard every day at the pecan plant, overseeing the packaging department. Sometimes he even has to work on the weekends. He never, ever complains about it, either.”

  Up ahead, I saw Cassidy’s mother turn to her husband, a slight frown on her lips. Hmm. Maybe Cassidy’s father didn’t complain to his daughter, but it looked like her mother might have heard a word of two of lament.

  Cassidy continued. “Daddy always made sure I had everything a girl could want. Every toy my heart desired. All the clothes I could fit in my closet. A brand-new car when I turned sixteen. He buys me everything I want and never complains about how much it costs.”

  My mother leaned her head my way and whispered, “Sounds to me like he’s spoiled her.”

  It was true. The girl didn’t have the sense to realize that by making her father sound doting and generous, she was making herself sound selfish and demanding.

  Cassidy looked down at her father. “Thanks, Dad, for giving me so much. That’s why you’re my hero.”

  One of the boys in a group of teens watching from sidelines put a hand to his mouth and pretended to throw up. The others laughed. I had to admit I’d found her speech a little nauseating, too. Fortunately, neither Cassidy nor her parents seemed to notice the boy’s antics.

  The mayor announced the next contestant, and the next, until it was Ainsley’s turn.

  When she took the mic, she offered an unusual choice as her hero. “My hero,” she said, “is Lucille Ball. My mom and I love to watch old reruns of I Love Lucy together. The show has timeless themes that are still relevant today. Lucille Ball had a great sense of humor. It’s ironic that her being so funny is what made Hollywood take her seriously. She made big strides for women in the entertainment industry and blazed a trail in her own way. For that I am grateful, and consider her my hero.”

  While the audience applauded, Ainsley returned the microphone to the mayor, who gave her a smile and a nod. “I love Lucy, too,” he said once the crowd had quieted. He went on to call the remaining contestants to the forefront. They named various heroes, including journalist Barbara Walters, author Jane Austen, and Christa McAuliffe, the teacher who perished in the Challenger space shuttle disaster.

  The sun slipped lower on the horizon as the mayor wrapped things up. “Thanks to all of our contestants for sharing their heroes with us today. Folks, don’t forget we’ve got one more cooking contest. The candied pecans will be judged half an hour from now, so head on over and check that out. The food booths have plenty of options for dinner, too, so be sure to grab yourselves somethin’ to eat. We’ll see you back here at nine o’clock when we’ll
announce this year’s Pecan Princess and kick off the street dance. Y’all have fun now!”

  With that, the mayor and the girls climbed down from the stage as the crowd scattered.

  My father stood and put a hand on his belly. “I don’t know about y’all, but I could go for some grub.”

  Nick rose from his hay bale. “Me too.”

  Mom took Jesse’s hand. “This little one’s been asking if she can try the corn on a stick.”

  We headed over to the food booths, grabbed some dinner, and sat down to eat. As we ate, I spotted Jordyn across the way, preparing the candied pecans for judging.

  Nick followed my line of sight. “Still think there’s something going on, don’t you?”

  “I can’t help it,” I said with a shrug. “My nerves are all tingly.” Though the others thought I was making something out of nothing, I simply couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. “I’m going to head over there, check things out.” While it was embarrassing to appear so stubborn and relentless, I’d never forgive myself if someone was being cheated here today, especially if that someone was someone I cared about.

  While the others stayed behind to finish eating, I ventured over to the candied pecan table to observe the contest. The same five judges were now tasting the candied pecans. Heck, even with the small samples they’d eaten, they must’ve ingested several thousand calories today.

  After the judges had noted their scores and handed them to the assistant, I followed her again. Just because the last contest didn’t seem to be fixed didn’t mean this one wasn’t, right?

  I followed her down the midway again, feeling frustrated and maybe even a bit ashamed. Was I going crazy? Were the pressures of my job getting to me, making me see crooks and con artists where none existed? I hoped not. I loved my job. The last thing I’d want to do was screw it up.

  As we hurried down the midway—unaware prey pursued by an unrelenting predator—I suddenly spotted Cassidy’s father coming out of one of the portable toilets off in the distance. Shortly after, I saw the small woman in the straw hat and sunglasses go in. Looked like she hadn’t left the festival after all.

  She came back out only a few seconds later, hiking her tote bag onto her shoulder. Surely she hadn’t been able to do her business that quickly. Maybe she’d changed her mind or had a false alarm. Or maybe I’m right and something is going on here. After all, there had been several available units in the row. Why not use one of those instead of waiting for the one Cassidy’s dad was in?

  I noted that she was wearing an off-white cotton blouse and beige Bermuda shorts. A bland outfit. No wonder I hadn’t been able to recall it earlier.

  I got on her trail and whipped out my cell phone to call Nick. “There’s been a new development,” I told him. “Come meet me.” Of course I was a moving target given that I was following the woman, who was on the go. I told him which way I was headed. We stayed on the phone until our paths intersected at the center of the midway.

  We joined up, ended our call, and put our phones away, continuing after the woman.

  I gave Nick a quick update. “She went into one of the portable toilets right after Cassidy’s father came out. And she wasn’t in there long enough to do her business.”

  Nick finished my thought. “Unless her business was collecting a wad of cash he’d left in the shack for her.”

  “Exactly,” I replied.

  “So you think she’s collecting a payoff for the judges of the Pecan Princess contest?”

  Ugh. That line of thinking only brought me back to the same conundrum as before. There were five judges. Would all five be susceptible to bribery? How many would it take to ensure a win? “I think we should follow this woman and see where she goes. That’s what I think.”

  As we walked along, I pondered the situation. Bribing multiple judges seemed less likely than bribing a single person, but the assistant I’d followed earlier had done nothing suspicious. She hadn’t switched envelopes or changed out the contents before the winner was announced. And what about the people responsible for tabulating the scores? Again, it raised the issue of multiple people having to be bought off.

  As we approached the food booths, the crowd grew much denser.

  “Excuse me,” I said, easing between people waiting in line. They parted to let me and Nick through. We escaped on the other side of the line only to find our way blocked by another wall of people in another line at another food booth.

  “Pardon us, please.” These people were slower to move aside. Ahead, the straw hat began to fade into the distance, popping up only here and there among the throngs.

  Tossing my manners to the wind, I began to push my way through the crowd.

  “My goodness!” cried a woman. “Were you raised in a barn?”

  Federal agent at work! my mind screamed. But I couldn’t very well tell the woman that or I might blow the case. Rumors traveled fast, especially in crowds like this.

  Behind me, I heard Nick apologize. “Sorry, she’s not feeling well.”

  When I attempted to squeeze through the next line, I came face to face with a woman attempting to squeeze through from the other side.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “Excuse me,” she snapped back, refusing to budge.

  I pushed forward. So did she. Unfortunately, she had a good thirty pounds on me, and next thing I knew my back was plastered against Nick’s chest. Lest I be flattened between them, Nick wrapped his arms around me and pivoted, setting me safely to his side. Once the pushy bitch had squeezed through, we slipped through the space she’d created to the other side of the line. But it was too late. The hat—and the woman wearing it—had disappeared.

  We searched up and down the midway, at each of the food stands. She was gone. A ghost who had dissipated into the dusk.

  Chapter Seven: Checks and Balances

  “Dammit!”

  My curse earned me a disapproving look from a white-haired woman nearby. But I didn’t care. If ever there’d been a dammit moment, this was it. The woman in the straw hat was the key to this mystery. And now that key was missing.

  Think, Tara. Think.

  The woman in the hat might be the key, but a key isn’t the only way to open a door, right? A door could also be knocked down by a battering ram. The bottom line was that no matter how money might be trading hands under the table, the only people who could determine the results were those controlling the final scores. Assuming the assistant running the scores and checks back and forth was innocent, maybe the tabulators were the bad guys here. But who were they, and how many of them were there? Good accounting practices dictated that there be three or more. But would all of them be willing to be bought? Sure, there were instances of widespread corruption. But in many cases it was only one or two bad actors who’d worked secretly and alone to commit their dirty deeds.

  “Let’s go find Cathy,” I told Nick. “I’ve got some questions for her.”

  We traipsed up and down the park, finally locating her in front of the stage, preparing for the final vote to be held after the evening gown competition later tonight. She was placing scorecards and pens at each of the judge’s spots.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m curious about the judging for the contests today. Can you tell me who adds up the scores?”

  “We hired an independent accountant to take care of that,” she said as she continued to move about.

  Nick and I exchanged glances. Was the woman in the straw hat the “independent accountant?”

  “So it’s just one woman tabulating the final scores?” I asked.

  “Uh-hum.” She offered a placating smile. “Doesn’t take a committee to add a few numbers.”

  For checks-and-balances purposes, it was never a good idea to have only one person control an accounting function. But I could see how having multiple people perform the task would seem unnecessary to those who weren’t numbers geeks and were unfamiliar with best financial practices.

  The woman we
nt on. “The accountant contacted our committee to offer her services. She pointed out that to protect the integrity of the contest, it’s good to have a licensed accountant take care of things, someone from out of town who people can trust since she wouldn’t know any of the contestants.”

  Yep, the so-called “independent CPA” sure knew how to pull the wool over people’s eyes.

  Cathy smiled and rolled her eyes. “You know how people are. They’re always claiming things are rigged if they think they should win and they don’t. I suspect we’ll hear less of that after today. Some of the entrants who’ve been trying for years finally won the contests. Pauline Lang’s been entering her pies as long as I can remember. Same with Rosario Garza and her cookies. They must have finally perfected their recipes.”

  Or found another way to get the grand prize. I had a hunch that the tabulator had done some research and realized that some entrants had been trying unsuccessfully for years to take home the blue ribbon. Those people would be the ones most likely to pay a bribe.

  “Does the accountant know who the contestants are in advance?” I asked.

  Cathy nodded. “She asked for a list so she’d know how to spell each winner’s name on their check.”

  Or so she could contact them in advance, offer them the prize for a fee.

  Not wanting to tip our hand just yet, I said, “Could you tell me the accountant’s name?”

  Cathy cocked her head, concern darkening her eyes as she seemed to realize how nosy I was being. “Why are you asking?”

  Yeah, Tara. Why?

  “I’m in charge of the PTA carnival at my children’s school,” I lied, congratulating myself on my quick thinking. “We could use someone to judge our contests, too.”

  “Oh.” The darkness left her eyes and she chuckled. “Sorry to sound suspicious. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t trying to meddle.”

  I was trying to meddle in the most meddlesome of meddling ways, but I wasn’t about to tell her that.

  “Her name’s Mary Smith.”

  Red flags popped up in every lobe of my brain. Mary Smith was a common name, meaning it would be much more difficult to specifically identify and track a person using it.