Cherry Pie or Die

by CeeCee James

  She nodded and left the room.

  Mr. St. Claire cleared his throat. “Officer…?”

  Frank’s gaze snapped toward him. “Officer Wagner. I stopped by to let you know that you’ll be getting calls to come to the station today to make an official statement. And it’s by the authority of Sheriff Parker that no one make any plans to leave Gainesville for a few days.”

  Mr. St. Claire let out a scoffing laugh. “You can’t be serious. I can’t leave town?”

  Frank stared at him, his thick eyebrows lowering. “Does it look like I’m joking? You have a problem with that?”

  “Yeah, actually. I do have a problem. I have businesses to take care of, things to do.”

  Frank looked over at me, and I winced. I could feel it coming. He was about to put me on the spot. “Georgie, when’s this tour supposed to be over?”

  “Err.” I didn’t dare look at the St. Claires. “Technically, we just had today and tomorrow planned, with people free to leave after that.”

  Frank shifted his gaze back toward Mr. St. Claire. His eyes were piercing and blue. “So, it seems like two more days were already in your schedule. Now why exactly do you need to leave before then?”

  “Yeah, we planned to stay. Until one of our own was murdered, which kind of ruined the idea of having fun. You can’t really blame us for wanting to cut our vacation short.”

  “Blame, Mr. St. Claire? Odd word for you to use.”

  “I don’t see what’s so odd about it. You’re asking us to justify why we want to go home.”

  Frank’s jaw tightened. “No, I’m telling you why you’re not free to go home. You are all under investigation."

  “Surely, you can’t be serious!” Mr. St. Claire roared, while his wife’s mouth dropped open. Around me, more gasps could be heard. I didn’t see what was so surprising about that revelation. As far as we knew, we were the only ones there. Of course we were being investigated.

  I swallowed hard. That included me, too.

  “I want my lawyer!” Mr. St. Claire threw down his napkin.

  “You’re free to call your lawyer. Right now, we just need a statement. You have a problem for some reason giving a statement, sir?” Frank straightened, his shirt tightening across his broad chest. “Because that will definitely change how we decide to handle this.”

  Mr. St. Claire settled back in his chair. He patted his wife’s hand. “I’ll call him later. Don’t worry.”

  Frank eyed him for a moment more before addressing the rest of the group. “Like I said, we have your phone numbers. This is a normal part of the investigation, and we appreciate your cooperation. Please respond to the requests for a formal interview in a timely manner. Our goal is to get through this quickly and get you all back on your way. Just don’t leave town without getting it cleared.”

  He put his hat back on his head and, after a quick goodbye to Cecelia in the kitchen, headed back out the door.

  Frank left all of us sitting there in different degrees of shock, looking like it really had been a case of a coyote in the hen house, after all.

  Chapter 8

  As soon as Frank closed the front door, the room erupted into chaos. Mr. St. Claire yelled about the incompetence of the Gainesville police while dialing his phone.

  Mr. Peterson shouted randomly, “Calm down! Everyone, calm down!”

  Eliza Sue pulled at my shirtsleeve. “What do we do now? I’m scared!”

  In the midst of this, Sarah sauntered in. The young athlete took one look at all of us in the dining room and spun straight around to go back.

  “Wait!” Mr. St. Claire yelled, after spotting her. “Where’ve you been? You’re in the thick of this, too!”

  She turned toward us as if resigned, twisting her brown hair up into a sloppy bun. “In the thick of what? I have no idea what’s going on. I just want to get some breakfast.”

  Cecelia rescued her. “What can I get for you? I can make you some eggs.”

  “Coffee to start. And maybe some bacon?” the young woman asked.

  Cecelia nodded and disappeared back into the kitchen.

  “Where were you last night?” Mr. St. Claire asked again. His eyes glared behind his glasses. I took note of his aggressive tone.

  “I was doing this weird thing called sleeping,” Sarah snapped back as she sat down at the table. “It’s what normal humans do. Not that you would know anything about that.”

  My eyebrows rose. What was going on between those two? I wished I’d taken the opportunity to get to know Sarah better. I knew she competed in fitness competitions. She’d mentioned once that she ran kickboxing classes at her gym. She was unusual, because not many young women take vacations by themselves. Somewhere in her twenties, she was closer to Rachel’s age than anyone else in the group. With the St. Claires and Eliza Sue in their early forties, Mr. Peterson was the next closest in his thirties. There really was no one in the group she had anything in common with. I could understand why she went to bed early last night.

  Cecelia came in, bearing a mug of coffee and a plate of bacon. She set them before Sarah and then whisked out a napkin from her apron pocket. “Anything else, dear?”

  “No, thank you,” Sarah said, glancing up at her with a small smile.

  “Well, you just missed Officer Dudley Do-Right ordering us to stay here,” Mr. St. Claire snapped.

  I struggled not to sigh. That man was just acting unpleasant. Instead of reacting, I left the table, not wanting to rehash the entire explanation one more time.

  “I’ll see you guys later,” I told the group.

  Some fresh air was what I needed, but since Mrs. Green and her parents were still occupying the front porch, I headed for the back door.

  It was another beautiful day. Sunlight streamed through the bare branches of the maple trees, but the air held a crisp note that predicted it would be a cooler day. I walked down the steps and into the leaf-strewn back yard. The grass felt wet and marshy under my feet.

  Ahh. Peace and….

  “Georgie!” Mr. Peterson yelled, slamming the back door.

  I flinched. I just needed five minutes. Just five minutes alone. Carefully, I arranged my face into a welcoming look, and then spun toward him.

  “Mr. Peterson. You tracked me down.”

  “Yeah, well.” His good-looking face appeared gaunt this morning. He fished a cigarette from his front pocket and lit it with the expertise of a long-time smoker. Quickly, he exhaled a plume of white smoke. “We never did finish the conversation I started earlier.”

  “Oh, yes. That’s right.” I remembered.

  I glanced up at him as we slowly walked along the length of the house. He was quite a bit taller than my five-foot-two.

  “I’m going to tell you something, just between you and me.” He squinted and pointed his fingers holding the cigarette at me. “Can you keep a secret?”

  I thought about that for a second. What kind of secret was it? “Of course.”

  He took another drag. “I don’t trust that St. Claire fellow. He’s got something he’s hiding.”

  We paused under an old apple tree. “Oh, yeah? What makes you say that?”

  Mr. Peterson checked behind him. As if reassured that no one was coming, he quickly whispered to me, “I overheard something last night. When I was outside.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “It was when I was walking around the house. It was a hot night, and the St. Claires had their window open. She was telling him they needed to be careful. Very careful.”

  The hair at the base of my neck prickled at the tone of his voice. “And?”

  “He told her to shut up. That they were safe. She just needed to keep her trap shut.” His dark eyes stared into mine. “I tried to hear more, but that’s when I saw Eliza Sue come around the corner. I had to hurry over to her so she didn’t yell a greeting and give me away.”

  “Wow, the worst timing ever.” I kicked a pinecone, my hair falling into my face.

  Air hisse
d from between his gritted teeth in frustration. I looked at him in surprise.

  “You have no idea. Besides, I swear I know him from when I worked in Brooklyn. If he is who I think he is…. ” Mr. Peterson flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette, then tossed it over the hedge that separated the bed and breakfast from the neighbor’s house.

  I was about to respond when I heard an explosion of anger from the other side of the hedge.

  “Get your confounded cigarette trash away from my yard. You’re nothing but a tar chimney!” a grouchy old man’s voice yelled. The cigarette butt sailed back over the bush.

  I stared at it for a second before glancing around for the speaker.

  Mr. Peterson laughed. “You got it, old man.” He pushed the toe of his shoe into the butt, smashing it into the wet grass.

  Said old man popped up, scowling, over the hedge. He held clippers in his hand. “This old man can still take on the likes of you. You’re about as useless as a chocolate teapot. Get out of here.” He shook the clippers in his hand.

  “I’m sorry about that!” I reached for Mr. Peterson’s elbow and tried to move us away from the hedge. And then quieter, “Come on, let’s go back inside.”

  The man gave us another fierce glare. Mr. Peterson shot him a wink.

  “Come on, I said.” I tugged him harder by his arm. Reluctantly, he let me lead him to the back door. “Go inside and take a breather. Maybe get another muffin or something.” I opened the door for him.

  His eyes caught mine, and the humor drained away. “You’ll keep all of that a secret?”

  I nodded. “Don’t worry. I won’t say a peep.”

  He nodded and walked inside. As the door shut behind him, I breathed a sigh of relief.

  I wearily sat on the top porch step and stared out into the back yard. I had to find a hobby. I needed a real way to relax.

  The wind was growing sharper. I pulled my hoody a little tighter around me. That still didn’t cut it, so I stood to zip it. At my foot was another white cigarette butt, this one squashed and bent in half. A quick glance showed there were several others hidden under the edge of the porch.

  I walked the length of the bed and breakfast, opposite the way Mr. Peterson and I had just been. A maple tree marked the east corner, where the St. Claires’ room was. Cherry-patterned chintz curtains were pulled back from the window, and I could just catch a glimpse of a quilt-covered four-poster bed. I looked away so as not to appear peeping.

  It was then that I saw it. Stamped out at the base of the tree was another cigarette butt.

  Mr. Peterson had been here. Was this proof of what he’d overheard?

  Puzzling over it, I walked out into the back yard. Cecelia’s flower garden badly needed to be pruned. Black rose heads still clung to some of the bushes, while other flower stalks lay in wilted piles.

  I turned around and studied the back of the bed and breakfast.

  Nearly all of the windows had their curtains pulled back to allow the daylight in. All except one. The window above the St. Claires’.

  I frowned as I studied it. The window was nearly hidden by a large branch of the maple tree. But I still saw something that made me take note.

  There was no screen covering the window.

  A quick scan over the rest of the house proved all the other screens were firmly in place on the other windows.

  Weird. I’d need to ask Cecelia about that.

  Turning, I went deeper into the yard, taking care not to let my feet get tangled in the wet, overgrown grass. Marking the back property line was a stone fence. It stood about four feet high, and had been stacked there who knows how many years ago. Maybe even by the original owners.

  I loved this area, so rich in history. History was one of my favorite parts about being a paralegal for the estate lawyer. There were many antiques the clients knew nothing about. It’d been so satisfying to do the research and figure it out.

  But after Derek, I just couldn’t continue. There were too many unanswered question as to what had happened to him. I had to get away.

  I reached out to touch the bark of an apple tree growing next to the stone fence. Centuries ago, this home had an apple orchard. But now most of the trees were gone, leaving slowly rotting stumps.

  I held on to its trunk as I gazed past the rock wall. There wasn’t a lot to see, just an over-grown field, most likely once cultivated by a farmer. Now it was a sea of waving grass. I could just make out an old farmhouse and a smudge of trees in the distance.

  I glanced up into the gnarled limbs of the apple tree. The branches had grown haphazardly, intertwining in their search for the sun. There was a smooth spot marking one of the intersections, and I could picture someone using it as a seat. I wondered how many kids had climbed into its branches and daydreamed while eating an apple.

  Try it. Do it. I smiled at my goofy inner voice. Well, why not? I reached for a branch above my head and started to climb.

  Well, I did not swoop up into the tree like I had envisioned. Instead, my feet kicked helplessly as I searched for purchase along the smooth trunk. Visions of a fat hobbit trying to get over a fence filled my mind, and I let go, feeling foolish.

  Maybe a visit to the gym wouldn’t be out of line.

  It was then that I saw it. Something small. Something hidden in the weeds in the crook at the base of the tree.

  Another cigarette butt.

  But this one had red lipstick marks on the end.

  Chapter 9

  Who wears red lipstick? I rifled through my memories of the houseguests, trying to think. The only one who came to mind was Mrs. St. Claire. But she didn’t smoke.

  The cigarette butt was new. It didn’t show signs of being exposed to the elements very long. But that didn’t conclusively mean it came from someone at the house. After all, Mr. Peterson had thrown one into the neighbor’s yard. Someone else could have very well done that here.

  A gust of wind tore through the field and rattled the branches above me. It was too cold to be out any longer in just a hoody. I turned and hurried back into the house.

  Inside, the kitchen was warm and cozy. Cecelia was there, her mixing bowl on the counter. It made me happy to see it, remembering it from childhood. Made from stoneware, it had a blue flower on the front and blue stripes along the top.

  Cecelia had on her glasses and was sprinkling the counter with flour. She pulled her rolling pin from the drawer—another staple from my childhood. It was a deep honey brown with red handles.

  “How you doing, GiGi? Cold outside?” she asked.

  “Freezing.” I smiled at her use of my childhood nickname and rubbed my arms. “By the way, I think we made your neighbor mad.”

  She upturned the bowl onto the floured surface and began to work the dough. Her strong wrists flicked until the dough was punched down and somewhat round. She dusted her pin and began to roll.

  “Uh oh,” she said, frowning slightly. “Not Oscar.”

  “Oscar?” I asked.

  “Mr. O’Neil. He’s new to the area.”

  “How new?” Around these parts, new had its own meaning.

  “Oh, about nine or ten years. He and his wife moved here after he retired. Poor man. Lost his wife last year.”

  I cleared my throat. Her words hit that spot I hadn’t been prepared to protect.

  Cecelia didn’t say anything more. Her pin made soothing sounds as she rolled. I sat at the table and watched, fascinated. I’d always been this way, nearly hypnotized by pie making. The precise strokes that turned the lump of dough into a shape. The neat way she flipped it over the pin and laid it in one swoop into the pie pan. Then came the filling—today a bowl of cherries coated in sugar and spice that would turn into a red syrup that blended perfectly with a spoonful of homemade vanilla bean ice cream.

  She poured the filling in and gently nudged the cherries around to fill the pan. Next came a bit more flour to dust the counter and then the rest of the dough. In moments, Cecelia had the dough rolled out and wa
s cutting it into strips.

  “You know, I have a little something that I wasn’t sure if I should share.”

  My ears perked up. “Really? I can already tell I want to hear this.”

  She glanced at me. “It’s about Mr. Green.”

  My stomach dropped. “Okay….”

  Cecelia smiled faintly. “Once upon a time, I knew him. It feels like a lifetime ago.” She chuckled softly. “It was a lifetime ago. Funny thing is, he didn’t act like he’d ever met me when he checked in here.”

  “Seriously? How did you know him? From where?” I leaned my elbow on the table and cupped my chin in my hand.

  “Oh, years ago, back in my youth. I got a job in the city as a secretary at an investing firm. It was Mr. Green’s family’s firm, and he’d just started working there himself.” She smiled as she weaved a lattice across the pie top. “We were both so young.”

  “Really. Did you like him?”

  “Oh, he’d seemed so sophisticated and ambitious, like all those young investors are. Everything was about the killer instinct and making money. We actually went out to dinner once.” Her smile flickered again. “Maybe twice.”

  I straightened up. Cecelia had dated Mr. Green? “Once or twice? Once means he struck out. Twice means you liked him a bit.”

  “Maybe a few times more than that,” she finally conceded with a laugh.

  I covered my mouth, half incredulous. “I don’t even know where to put that.”

  “Well, it fizzled out. I moved out this way, met Gerald, and the rest was history.” She started to crimp the edge of the pie crust. “Like I said. It was a long time ago.”

  She dusted her hands on her apron, and then checked the temperature on the oven. Satisfied, she carefully lifted the pie and slid it into the oven.

  A man’s shouts rang through the house. I rolled my eyes. “I’ve got it,” I told her, and went to track it down.

  It wasn’t hard to find the source. I could hear the men arguing in the living room all the way down the hall. I walked inside to discover the St. Claires sitting together on the couch, while Mr. Peterson, Eliza Sue, and Sarah sat in the armchairs. The coffee table in the center of the group was strewn with cards.