Peanut Butter Pies & Dangerous Lies
Willow Monroe
Published by Pinwheel Books, 2019.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
PEANUT BUTTER PIES & DANGEROUS LIES
First edition. July 3, 2019.
Copyright © 2019 Willow Monroe.
Written by Willow Monroe.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Peanut Butter Pies and Dangerous Lies | Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Starla’s Sunflower Butter Pie (Standard 9” pie)
Peanut Butter Pies and Dangerous Lies
Chapter One
Who would have dreamed that Sugar Hill’s two-hundredth birthday celebration would end in such a tragedy?
Not me.
And surely not our very own hometown country singing star, Jimmy Bones - or his millions of fans.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
My days always start early, but with the birthday festivities in full swing, the Dixie Cupp Diner was busier than usual. Old friends and old enemies that I haven’t seen in years were dropping in for a quick lunch or a leisurely dinner - or maybe just to see what Poppy and I had done with the place since old Mr. Richardson retired.
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this celebration for anything,” I heard people say. “We’ve planned this vacation since we found out what the mayor had in store,” others said. The biggest and most often heard statement was, “We wouldn’t miss seeing Jimmy’s last concert for the world.”
They were talking about Jimmy Bones, of course who announced that this would be his last concert. He’s done that before, but this time it seemed like he really meant it.
Anyway, a couple of days before the concert, Gladys, our seventy-five year old morning cook, showed up for work wearing leopard print leggings. I thought maybe I was still asleep, trapped in some weird dream, but after a second and third glance, I realized I really was seeing what I thought I saw.
“What in the world?” I asked, eyeing her outfit.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Poppy cover her mouth with both hands to stifle a giggle.
“All of the women in Jimmy’s videos wear them,” Gladys said, shaking her skinny behind and then striking a pose in front of the grill with a spatula in one hand. “I’m just showing my support that he’s coming back home to Sugar Hill to help us celebrate.”
“And this is his last concert,” Poppy said, jumping into the conversation. “We know already. But, Gladys, really?”
“Look.”
Gladys snatched up her smart phone, tapped the screen and then aimed it in our direction. On the small screen was a broad-shouldered man who looked to be maybe six feet tall. He was surrounded by women in stilettos and leopard print leggings, gyrating wildly to some tinny rockabilly music.
It was probably the worst music video I’d ever seen - or heard. I checked to make sure my ears weren’t bleeding. How long ago had that video been made? I had no idea.
“Are they all like that?” Poppy asked, a pained expression on her face.
“Yes. He just loves women in leopard print leggings. They’re in every video he makes,” she said. And then, just to make sure we believed her, she added, “Nonnie Rupert read us an article out of the Enquirer that said so.”
Poppy and I simply stared. For one of the few times in my life, I was speechless.
“And I think I look pretty good if I do say so myself,” Gladys said. Then, she actually turned and did a little runway model strut across the kitchen. She stopped with one hand on her out-thrust hip, the other holding a metal spatula.
Poppy and I looked at each other and burst into laughter.
“Nonnie Rupert?” Poppy asked
The bells tinkled over the door announcing our first customer of the day.
“She’s the president of Jimmy’s local fan club. They meet here every month,” I explained.
“In the evenings?” Poppy asked. She’s rarely around in the evenings, spending most of them making wedding plans with her fiancé, Tom Brown. It was probably a good thing that she’d not been around to witness that sight.
I nodded. “It’s quite a—” I couldn’t think of a word to describe it so I let that go. “About eight or ten of them show up in their leopard print leggings and orthopedic shoes, thick glasses and blue hair.”
“Spectacle,” Poppy finished for me.
I nodded.
In the kitchen, Gladys fired up the grill while she sang and shimmied along with one of those horrible videos.
“It’s gonna be a long week,” Poppy whispered.
“Yep,” I said, snapping the lid on a Joe To Go cup and handing it to the young man wearing a hard hat. He grinned his thanks, paid Poppy and was on his way.
Soon, the rest of the early birds began arriving, the state road crew and construction workers, which kept us too busy to talk about much of anything. During a brief lull, I gulped down a cup of coffee and double checked that I had everything we needed for our dessert of the week – peanut butter pie.
“Why peanut butter pie again?” Poppy asked.
“Jimmy Bones used to come over to my grandmother’s house when he was a kid and beg her to make him a peanut butter pie. He loved those things. Would sometimes eat a whole pie in one sitting. In honor of his last public appearance, I thought recreating that memory for him was the least I could do,” I explained.
She nodded. “Good idea.”
Poppy Wendell and I have been best friends since second grade, so we fell into our roles easily when we took over the diner. She’s the numbers gal, keeps close track of our bottom line. I make decisions that affect the everyday running of the place like recipes and staff. It’s worked out well and neither of us have even thought about doing it differently.
“Maybe someone from the show will come by and pick up one of your pies for him,” Gladys said, pulling a big pan of her fabulous, flaky biscuits out of the oven.
They smelled amazing.
“Maybe Jimmy himself,” I teased her.
She gasped and placed a hand over her chest. I thought she was going to faint.
“If that happens, Gladys, I’ll be sure to give you a call,” I promised.
“It won’t,” she told me with some certainty. “He was becoming pretty much a recluse until he got married last year. That little lady sort of brought him out of his shell. She’s probably the one who talked him into coming here to do this last concert.”
In true country star fashion, Jimmy Bones had been married about eight times. His newest wife, Caroline, was much, much younger than him and an aspiring actress.
“And we’re going to sell little bite-sized peanut butter pies at the big show, right?” Poppy asked.
“A little bit bigger than bite-sized. Maybe palm sized,” I said, holding out my hand. “No one wants to carry a whole big pie around with them at the park. This way, they can buy them from our booth and eat t
hem right on the spot.”
Poppy nodded, agreeing with my thinking.
“I’ve ordered plenty of peanut butter and I’m going to pay Gladys a little overtime to make some more of those little pie crusts.” I said that last part louder so she could hear me over the music blaring from the kitchen.
“Well, the ones we’ve added to the menu are selling like hotcakes,” Poppy said. “I’ve heard more than one person say they like the smaller portions.”
That was the same report I’d gotten from Barbara Ellen Jones, our evening shift manager, so my thinking was correct.
“I guess I can put in a few evenings and help you get them ready,” Poppy moaned and then grinned so I’d know she was teasing.
“If you can tear yourself away from that fiancé of yours,” I teased right back.
We both laughed. Poppy and Tom Brown had been engaged for months, made loads of wedding plans and still had not set a date.
Our regulars began arriving right after that. Since most of them ordered the same thing every morning, it made my job easier. Our illustrious mayor was no different. He strolled into the diner carrying a thick sheaf of papers and took up his spot at the far end of the counter. I poured coffee into a heavy white mug, placed it in front of him, and told Gladys he had arrived.
“Thanks, Miss Starla,” he said. He took a sip and gave me a thumbs up, eyes shining with excitement.
“I swear, Mayor Gillespie, I think you’re more excited about this birthday celebration than anyone else,” I told him. I liked seeing this new twinkle in his eye.
“I am excited about it. We’ve put together quite an agenda of activities. Look,” he said and flipped a sheet of paper around so that I could read it.
Poppy leaned over my shoulder and read along with me. It looked like a tentative list with some activities marked out, others moved around. There was a 5K walk/run scheduled for Friday morning, a parade of course, and a talent show.
What made me smile the most were the numerous other activities showing off the talent of our young citizens. There was a children’s art show down at the library, a kids parade scheduled for Friday morning after the run and even a cookie baking contest in which the entrants had to be twelve or younger.
“I was hoping you and Miss Poppy would be so kind as to be the judges for the baking contest,” the mayor said.
“Well, of course, we will,” Poppy said before I could even open my mouth.
All I could do was nod.
“Good.”
“I’ll be sure and add that to our calendar so we don’t forget,” she whispered, pointing at the last activity.
I nodded. “Good idea.” Then I saw that our brand new K-9 unit was giving a demonstration on Saturday morning. “Kellen’s doing a great job with Axel, isn’t he?” I said.
“He is indeed,” Mayor Gillespie said, pride in his voice, as if he’d made that happen all by himself.
Tucker Ash, our Chief of Police, had worked hard convincing the town council that we really needed a K-9 unit. He’d brought in people from other counties to speak about the usefulness and how much it had helped the area. Really, all the mayor had done was write the check.
Wisely, Tucker had chosen one of his newest recruits, Kellen McClure, to try out for the K-9 handler and he took to it like a fish to water. Needless to say, we were all pretty proud of this young officer and his new partner. Earlier in the summer, the girl scouts had held several fund raisers to buy Axel a bullet proof vest.
Speaking of Tucker, our big, handsome, hometown hero sauntered into the diner, smiled and waved at everyone who was already seated. He slid into his usual spot a few stools away from the mayor. The two men shook hands and I thought I noticed a growing friendship between them.
I performed almost the same ritual for him as I had for Mayor Gillespie, pouring his coffee and letting Gladys know he was there.
“Gonna be a hot one out there today,” he said, glancing down at the small notebook he’d pulled out of his pocket.
“Late July in Virginia, no big surprise,” I said. “Surely, you remember.”
Tucker and I had grown up living next door to one another. He had been and still was one of my very closest friends so I was as happy to have him home as everyone else. He’d been away from Sugar Hill a long, long time, served as an investigator with the Army Military Police and then worked with the Virginia state police. Becoming our Chief of Police brought him back home.
“Uh-huh,” he muttered, running his finger down the list he’d scribbled in his notebook.
“I said...” Then stopped and laughed. He wasn’t paying any attention to me. These birthday festivities were the first thing on everyone’s agenda.
The Lord sisters arrived. The blonde Yoga gurus who ran a studio called A Beautiful Balance sat down in their usual booth, sitting ramrod straight as if they’d just discovered some dangerous new pose. I headed in their direction with herbal tea for both.
Just as I placed the steaming cups on the table, Tiffany Samples arrived. She owns the health food store here in town. The three of them had formed some kind of weird alliance with one goal—to win any contest or to best the Dixie Cupp Diner in any local event we entered.
Unable to help myself, I glanced at my blue ribbon display above the register. Yep, that empty spot still dusted my cookies, but I Tiffany only had one blue ribbon. On my way to get Tiffany’s decaf coffee and a pumpkin spice muffin for each of them, (no butter, please, we’re watching our weight) I stopped to make sure Mrs. Blake had everything she needed. The retired high school English teacher comes to the diner every morning, rain or shine, for tea and a bran muffin.
Wearing work boots and their bibbed overalls, the Farmer’s Club began arriving. That was what we’d been calling them since they started meeting every morning during the spring. We kept a big round table set up for them near the back of the diner with enough chairs for everyone.
Hurrying over, I began turning cups right side up and pouring coffee.
“Already getting hot out there,” one of them remarked.
“The heat don’t bother me, it’s the traffic,” another said.
“Yeah, this dang-blasted birthday celebration has brought everyone out of the woodwork,” the first one said, and they all laughed.
I took their orders and gave them to Gladys.
“What are you studying?” I asked, when I returned to find Tucker deep in thought.
He shook his head. “Just assignments for the week. With all of the festivities, we’re spread pretty thin, and even with overtime we’ve had to bring in a few officers from Harrisonburg.”
Vic Samuels, the newspaper editor arrived, looking as fashionable as always in skinny black jeans and what looked like a silk blouse. How she kept all that flaming red hair from turning into a frizzy mess with this humidity, I never knew. Unlike the others, I also never knew what she was going to order. Sometimes she had coffee, sometimes tea. Sometimes nothing at all. I think she just wanted to make sure Mayor Gillespie, Tucker, and the rest of Sugar Hill saw her.
This morning, she took her place on a stool next to Tucker (way too close to Tucker for my liking) and asked me about peanut butter pie.
“It’s your dessert of the week because of Jimmy Bones, right?” she questioned.
“It is. He loved my grandmother’s peanut butter pie. I thought it would be a good way to celebrate the memory of both of them and their friendship,” I explained.
I started to remind her about my plan to sell the little single portion pies at the booth we planned to have the night of the concert but then changed my mind. It looked like she had already lost interest in talking with me.
But I was in for a surprise.
“I don’t think he’s going to be that enamored with the idea,” she stated flatly.
Who was she, an outsider, to make an announcement like that? Jimmy Bones was born and raised right here in Sugar Hill. He loved my grandmother’s pies, practically grew up in her house. No one knew hi
m better than us, his old friends and neighbors.
Tucker gave her a sideways glance.
Mayor Gillespie looked up from his paperwork.
“What makes you say that?” I bristled.
“He’s deathly allergic to peanuts,” she said with a shrug.
Chapter Two
Now that she had everyone’s attention, Vic paused and took a sip of her tea, drawing out the moment. From the reaction of everyone around her, this was news to all of us.
I waited.
“I spoke with his manager, Davis Withrow, just yesterday and he told me.”
“It’s true, Starla,” Tucker cut in. “We’ve been instructed that there is not to be one peanut brought into the park during the show. They’re talking about having his security crew search people.”
“Can they do that?” I asked.
“Not really, but that doesn’t keep them from trying,” Tucker told me. “I do know there will be signs up banning peanuts in any shape or form from the area where Jimmy will be performing.”
I looked at Poppy.
She shrugged.
“Why am I just now hearing about this?” I asked, thinking about the thirty-five pound tub of peanut butter stashed in our pantry.
“I just found out late yesterday,” Vic put in. “And I made sure Tucker and Mayor Gillespie knew about it.”
And, of course, she had conveniently forgotten to mention it to me when she’d stopped by to pick up her take-out dinner order the night before. Not that we were bosom buddies or anything but still, common courtesy - never mind.
Tiffany and the Lord sisters came up to the register. “I have several peanut butter substitutes in the store,” Tiffany told me while Poppy rang up their order. “There’s almond butter and hazelnut butter.”
“Thanks,” I said, forcing a smile.
“If you ask me, we should never, ever put any kind of nuts or nut butter in our bodies,” Eva Lord stated loudly from where she stood behind Tiffany.
“Only seeds,” her sister agreed and they both nodded as if they had just decided what was best for the entire county.
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