“I know,” I said. “Someone else has been working behind the scenes—with any luck, the sale won’t go through.”
“Really?”
“I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I’m guessing we’ll know in the next day or two.”
“Oh, that would be so awesome.”
“Don’t say anything to anyone,” I warned her. “And no more pranks, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” she said. “Thank you,” she added. “For talking to me—and for not saying anything.”
“No worries, Emily,” I said. As I spoke, the PA system crackled to life; it was time to announce the judges’ results. “I’ve got to go hear if my pie won,” I told her as I headed over to the tent. “We’re all good?”
She nodded, looking relieved.
Quite a crowd had gathered—primarily locals—to hear our selectman and Lobster Co-op president announce the results of the contests. I noticed Claudette White, in a sweater she’d knitted from wool she’d harvested and spun herself, looking hopeful that her sugar-free pie might take home a ribbon. Emmeline was there, too, in an orange dress with dangling pumpkin earrings, standing by her husband Henry, who was still looking apoplectic about his failed pumpkin. Although I didn’t know what Emmeline had concocted for the pie competition, I knew whatever she’d made was going to be hard to beat.
The announcements started promptly at noon. The sun was high in the sky, and despite the blackened field that had been the corn maze, there was still a festive atmosphere.
The pumpkin contest was first. The contestants’ pumpkins were lined up on hay bales, and there was no question who the winner was; Phoebe’s pumpkin looked like Cinderella’s Carriage lined up next to a bunch of Snow White’s dwarves.
Emmeline stood beside Henry, who was actively fuming, while Phoebe stood behind her monstrous pumpkin, a thin-lipped, superior smile on her face.
Tom Lockhart, who had the bad luck to be in charge of distributing the awards, stepped up to the makeshift podium to distribute third and second prizes, and then, to no one’s surprise, announced Phoebe the winner. “Let’s have a round of applause for Phoebe’s pumpkin… weighing in at 96 pounds and breaking the record for the largest pumpkin ever grown on Cranberry Island!”
Gertrude Pickens of the Daily Mail prepared to snap a photo as Phoebe walked up to accept her ribbon, beaming with pride.
At this not unexpected news, Henry exploded, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. “She’s a cheater!” he blurted. “She poisoned my pumpkin with vinegar and salt!”
“I did no such thing, sir,” Phoebe said. “And I resent the implication.”
“If my pumpkin dies, yours deserves to die, too!” he yelled, pulling a meat mallet out from behind his back.
“Henry!” Emmeline caught his arm.
“Out of my way, Emmeline,” he said. “My only regret is that I didn’t do this before the awards were given out.”
“It wasn’t Phoebe who killed your pumpkin,” she said.
He blinked. “Nonsense. She poisoned my sugar water. Now, get out of my way.”
“Henry,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “I poisoned your pumpkin.”
“I said, out of my…” Suddenly, her words seemed to sink in. “Wait. You… you poisoned Josephine?”
“It even has a name,” Emmeline said. “Yes,” she said. “I poisoned Josephine. I was tired of being a pumpkin widow.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve practically lived in that greenhouse since June,” she said, pumpkin earrings swinging. “I’m tired of eating dinner in the greenhouse. I’m tired of hearing about ‘Josephine.’ I just want my husband back!”
“You killed my pumpkin?” he asked, looking like he was about to burst into tears.
“I’m sorry, Henry,” she said. “But something had to be done.”
Phoebe sniffed, looking superior, and for a moment, I had a desire to take the meat mallet and finish off what Henry had been about to do. But Tom Lockhart was moving on. “And now,” he said, “the results of the baking contest.” He was opening an envelope when Charlene came up and whispered something in his ear, looking gleeful.
“You’re kidding me,” he said.
She shook her head. “Just got word this morning.”
“Before we get to the pie judging,” he said, “I have some excellent news.”
A murmur passed through the crowd.
“It looks like this won’t be the last year we have the Harvest Festival here after all. It turns out we’ve been holding the festival on an important archeological site for all these years,” he said.
There was a murmur in the crowd.
“Apparently the buyer has backed out… and there’s a new one.”
The murmuring got louder.
“Let’s give a big round of applause to Murray Selfridge! He’s just signed a contract to purchase the property.”
Confused silence. I could tell everyone else was wondering what I would be thinking: was Murray buying the property any better?
“Not to build on,” Tom reassured the islanders. “He plans to donate it to the island!”
Whoops broke out all around, along with applause. I glanced over at Emily; she looked absolutely elated. I winked at Catherine, who was standing beside Murray, and she grinned at me. I had to say one thing for Murray; he sure worked fast. I wasn’t surprised to see Gertrude Pickens making a beeline for him; she was going to get quite a scoop today.
“And now,” he said, “let’s proceed to the final judging.” I noticed Claudette stand a little straighter. “Third prize goes to Fred Winters,” he said. “For his Pumpkin Custard pie.”
“Really?” he asked, looking shocked. “It was my first try!”
There was applause as he took his ribbon.
“Second prize goes to Emmeline Hoyle,” he said, “for her pumpkin chess pie.”
“I should have put vinegar and salt in your pie,” her husband said sourly. She gave him a light whack on the arm and went up to accept her ribbon.
“And first prize,” he said, “goes to Natalie Barnes for her pumpkin caramel turtle pie!”
Lucy whooped beside me, and Charlene pumped her fist as I went up to have my photo snapped by Gertrude. Maybe, for once, I thought, she’d have something nice to say about me in the paper.
“Congratulations,” she said, and a moment later, the flash blinded me.
“I can’t believe they’re not going to build a house on the property!” Lucy said when we got back to the inn later that afternoon. I took the rest of my pie with me, after giving Gertrude a slice and promising to e-mail her the recipe.
“I know,” I told her as I slid the pie onto the counter. “For the first time ever, I actually think I like Murray Selfridge.”
“That was awfully clever of him. Not quite legal, maybe… but clever.”
“That’s Murray for you.”
“At least it was in service of good. John’s mother is a good influence on him,” she said.
“That’s what I told her.”
“I just wish I knew who set fire to the corn maze—and put that heart by the entrance.”
I shrugged. “I guess we’ll never know. So,” I said as I cut the last remaining slices of my Turtle Pumpkin Pie and handed one to Lucy, “that was an exciting day.”
“And a successful one,” she said. “I’m thrilled you won the pie contest!”
“You helped,” I reminded her.
“I spread pecans and brown sugar on top of it and put it in the oven,” she said. “That’s hardly a contribution.”
“Every little bit helps,” I said, slicing myself a thin wedge of pie and levering it onto a plate. “What a day.”
“No kidding,” she said. “And I thought life in a small town would be slow!”
“It’s anything but, I assure you,” I said as I sat down across from her at my pine kitchen table. “Did you decide wh
at to do about the farm?”
She took a deep breath. “I think I’m going to do it,” she said. “I feel like I’m absolutely crazy for saying it, but I just feel like… well, like if I don’t, I’m going to spend the rest of my life regretting it.”
“I think this calls for a toast,” I said, popping a bottle of sparkling apple cider and pouring two glasses.
“To Dewberry Farm,” I said.
“To the rescue of the Harvest Festival,” she said. “And the success of the Gray Whale Inn,” she added as we clinked our glasses, grins on both our faces.
* * *
Want to read more about Lucy and Dewberry Farm? Download your copy of Killer Jam, the first Dewberry Farm mystery, now!
Charlene’s Pumpkin Whoopie Pies
Ingredients
Cookies:
1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1 cup packed light brown sugar
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1 (15-ounce) can pumpkin
1 large egg
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
Filling:
6 ounces cream cheese, softened
3/4 stick unsalted butter, softened
Pinch of salt
1 1/2 cups confectioners’ sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/2 teaspoon almond extract
Directions
Preheat oven to 350 and line 2 large baking sheets with parchment paper. Whisk together flour, baking powder, soda, salt, and spices in a bowl. In a separate bowl, whisk together sugar, oil, pumpkin, egg, and vanilla. Stir in dry ingredients.
Using a 1-ounce ice cream scoop or a tablespoon, drop a scant scoop of batter or 2 scant tablespoons of batter onto a parchment-lined baking sheet to form 1 mound. Make 15 more mounds, arranging them 2 inches apart until baking sheet is full (you will have batter left over). Bake until cookies spring back when touched, 12 to 18 minutes. Transfer cookies to rack to cool, then form and bake remaining batter on the other parchment-lined sheet. You should have a total of 32 cookie-cakes.
While cookies are baking, beat cream cheese, butter, and salt in a bowl with an electric mixer until smooth. Add confectioners’ sugar, vanilla, and almond extract and mix on low speed until smooth.
Chill filling until firm 30 minutes to 1 hour. When filling is cool enough to keep its shape, spread 1 heaping tablespoon of filling each on flat side of half the cooled cookies, then top with a second cookie. If necessary, chill whoopie pies just long enough to firm up filling again, about 30 minutes.
Prize-Winning Turtle Pumpkin Pie
Ingredients
2 eggs
1 (15 ounce) can pumpkin puree
1/2 cup half-and-half
3/4 cup sugar
1 tablespoon flour
1 teaspoon lemon zest
1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg
1/8 teaspoon ground allspice
1 9-inch prepared pie shell, either butter crust (below) or store-bought
3/4 cup packed light brown sugar
1 cup chopped pecans
3 tablespoons butter
Directions
Preheat oven to 375. Combine eggs, pumpkin, and half-and-half in a mixing bowl and beat until smooth. Stir in the sugar, flour, lemon zest, vanilla, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice, then pour the pumpkin mixture into the prepared pie shell. Cover the edges of the pie with aluminum foil strips to prevent burning, and bake for 20 minutes. While pie is baking, mix the brown sugar, pecans, and butter together in a bowl until evenly blended. Carefully spoon over the top of the pie and continue baking the pie until the topping is golden and bubbly, and a knife inserted in the center comes out clean, about 20 minutes more. Cool on a wire rack.
Buttery Pie Crust
Ingredients
2 1/2 cups all purpose flour
1 tablespoon sugar
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup chilled, unsalted butter, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
6 tablespoons (more or less) ice water
Directions
Combine flour, sugar, and salt in food processor, then add butter and pulse until coarse meal forms. Gradually blend in ice water, tablespoon by tablespoon, to form moist clumps. Gather dough into ball and divide in half. Form dough into 2 balls; flatten into disks. Wrap each in plastic; chill 2 hours or overnight. Makes two 9-inch deep- dish pie crusts.
Iced Inn
Iced Inn
"Whose idea was it to have a wedding in December, anyway?" Charlene asked as she peered out the kitchen window at the darkening sky.
"I think it's kind of romantic," I replied as I pulled a pan of gingerbread cookies out of the oven and set it on a cooling rack. It was mid-December, and my niece Gwen was getting married to local lobsterman Adam Thrackton in just a couple of days. The wedding was going to be at our little island church, with the reception at the Gray Whale Inn, catered by yours truly. I had family coming in from California, along with a cousin who had recently moved to Bangor, just a few hours west.
"If you consider being snowed in with no power roman- tic," Charlene quipped. "Isn't your sister supposed to be coming in today?"
"She is," I confirmed. Adam's parents were arriving, too, and would be staying at the inn. I hoped the families would get along.
"Bridget still on board with the wedding?" Charlene asked.
"Last time I talked to her she was," I said. My high- achieving sister Bridget hadn't been thrilled when she learned her daughter's "shipping magnate" fiancé was actually a lobsterman. He had a degree from Princeton, so that helped, but even though she'd been grudgingly supportive after her last visit, I suspected she was still struggling with the idea of her talented daughter working as an artist on a small Maine island with her lobsterman husband. "They fly into Portland this evening; she's renting a car and driving up."
"If they don't get diverted," Charlene said. "There's a storm rolling in; it's supposed to snow at least a foot over the next few days."
I glanced out the window at the approaching clouds as I transferred the warm cookies from the pan to the cooling rack. "As long as it holds off until they make it here, we'll be fine. We've got plenty of firewood, propane, and enough food to feed an army for a month."
"I may just stay here then," Charlene said.
"You're welcome to," I said as I retrieved another ball of dough from the refrigerator and began rolling it out. As I worked, I inhaled a deep whiff of the warm, spicy scent that permeated my yellow kitchen. I'd decorated the inn for Christmas, with boughs of fresh greens on the mantle, wreaths--one of which was adding its balsam fragrance to the already deliciously scented kitchen--and a Christmas tree John and I had selected and cut down just the day before. He was busy on a last-minute order of toy boats for Island Artists, which had seen a holiday boom since starting an online ordering business, and I was busy getting ready for our guests. I'd made thumbprints, sugar cookies, and a batch of decadent caramel-fudge bars, but it wasn't the Christmas season for me without gingerbread. "You can stay anytime," I reiterated to Charlene, who seemed kind of glum. "We've got room."
"We'll see," she said, taking a sip of her hot chocolate and leaning her chin on one hand. "Romance is in the air right now, it seems. Even Marge O'Leary has a beau."
"What? I knew she broke her foot, but no one said anything about a beau."
"Frank Duggin is crazy about her," she said. "His boat's been having all kinds of troubles the last few months-- something with the fuel tank is the latest problem, I hear-- so he's been at the store more often than usual, and he's gotten to know her a bit. Now he's writing her bad poetry and leaving roses
on her doorstep."
"Good for her," I said. Marge's romantic past had been less than idyllic--her ex-husband was currently in jail for murder--and I was glad something positive was going on in her personal life.
"Not really," Charlene says. "She wants nothing to do with him. She leaves the flowers and doesn't read the poetry. At least she says she doesn't." Charlene grimaced. "She says she'll never get married again."
"You don't have to marry someone just because you have dinner with him," I said. "Maybe she should at least give it a shot. He's a nice man."
"It would probably help his cause if he bathed more," Charlene mused. "He smells like a bait cooler at a filling station."
"Eau de Lobsterman," I quipped.
"Even so, I heard Anna Potts is incredibly jealous."
"Of Marge?"
"She's had her eye on Frank for years," Charlene said. "She thinks Marge broke her foot just to get his attention."
"And people say life on a small island is boring," I commented.
"I know, right?" She looked out the window at the snowflakes spiraling down from the wintry sky and sighed. "Think I'll ever get married?"
I looked at my beautiful friend; her caramel-colored hair glowed in the afternoon light from the window, and her purple cardigan hugged her curvy form. Half the island's men would have given a limb to be married to Charlene, but she hadn't yet found anyone who floated her boat. There had more than a few false starts, the most recent being a naturalist who had visited the island for a summer tour and carried Charlene's heart away with him. Charlene had recently called it quits with him when she realized her dream of a full-time relationship wasn't going to be a possi- bility with a photographer who never spent more than a week in the same place. "I think you could have your pick," I told her honestly.
Four Seasons of Mystery Page 6
