by Rosie Sams
But when Melody looked up, she saw what she least expected.
Someone bringing her a treat.
The woman who had just entered the store was the meek and mousy local librarian, Gloria Fitzsimmons. She had long, dishwater-blonde hair that fell in pretty waves. Her dark brown eyes were hiding behind a pair of decades-old gold eyeglasses frames. A wide, simple smile that showed laughter lines around her not-quite-middle-aged eyes. Gloria was always super-friendly, and she and Melody always had a pleasant chat whenever she came into the bakery. It was either for treats for herself or to ask Melody to donate a cake or pie as the grand prize for a library fundraiser.
Currently, she was holding a plastic dessert carrier.
Melody whistled, almost under her breath. She had been trying to convince Gloria to enter a pie into the pie-baking contest during the Port Warren Harvest Festival. Gloria had demurred repeatedly—but now, with the festival only a few days hence, it looked like she was really going to enter!
“Gloria!” Melody exclaimed. “Is that a pie?”
“I think so,” Gloria said awkwardly, almost stammering in embarrassment as the cake holder wobbled precariously in her hands.
Melody ignored Gloria’s hesitation and swept around the counter to grab the dessert carrier before it was dropped. Placing it on the counter, she then gave her a hug.
“I’m pretty sure it’s a pie,” Melody said, half-giggling. She opened the cover. “Yes, it’s a pie, you goof.”
Gloria, who was red in the face now, said, “It might be a pie, but I don’t think it’s very good.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Melody said, winking at her friend. Melody literally was the judge—one of the judges of the Port Warren Harvest Festival Pie-Baking Contest, that was. She had won the contest so many times in a row that they had promoted her two years ago.
“Kerry!” Melody called to her friend and assistant, Kerry Porter, who was in the back of the shop. “Can you believe it? Gloria Fitzsimmons has brought us a pie.”
“A pie?” came Kerry’s somewhat muffled answer. It sounded like she was back in the refrigerator. “What kind?”
Melody took a sniff. “Strawberry rhubarb?” At Gloria’s shy nod, Melody said, “Definitely strawberry rhubarb!”
“I love strawberry rhubarb! I’ll be right out!”
Gloria said, “Oh, I’m sure it’s not very…”
The doorbell rang again, cutting her off. They both turned to see who was there. It was a tall, elegant but heavyset man named Perry Wexler, the co-owner of the Seafood Shanty, along with his partner, Horace Bean. Gloria saw him and gasped, grabbing the lid of the dessert carrier and slamming it back on top of the pie. The heat coming off her cheeks was already enough to power a whole block. If it was possible. She stood in front of her dessert carrier on the counter as if she were trying to hide it completely from view.
Gloria laughed. Besides being a good cook and a respected member of the community, Perry Wexler was also one of the judges of the Harvest Festival Pie-Baking Contest.
“Hello, Ms. Fitzsimmons. How are you?” Perry asked with a teasing, mock-serious tone. “You aren’t buying a pie from Melody to enter into the contest, are you?”
Gloria almost shrieked her answer. “No! Of course not!”
Perry chuckled, then turned to Melody. “I’ve finally decided to go for it.”
“The new puff pastry with Newberg sauce?” Melody asked.
Perry had been developing new seasonal recipes for the Seafood Shanty, and debating whether to try out a new dish: fresh shrimp and crab in a creamy Newberg sauce, served in puff pastry shells. His business partner and co-owner, Horace Bean, was of the opinion that cheddar biscuits would be more popular—and cheaper to make. But Perry’s ambition was to develop the Seafood Shanty into a larger, more upscale restaurant, a “destination restaurant” that would pull in visitors from around the area, and be more financially stable in the winter when tourists were nowhere to be found.
“Yes,” Perry said. “I’ve made up my mind.”
“What does Horace think about that?”
Perry grinned. “That I can make a fool of myself for three months if I want to, but if we don’t turn a profit on it…?” He shrugged. “Anyhow, I’d like to put in the order we discussed. When can you be ready?”
“I can get you a few test batches tomorrow,” Melody promised. “But full-scale production will have to wait until after the Harvest Festival.”
Perry laughed. “I’ll be too busy to do anything until then, too. Let’s say a small batch tomorrow that I’ll make up as a special for tomorrow night, and the larger batch next Wednesday or Thursday.”
“Agreed.”
Perry left, giving Kerry—who had come out of the back—and Gloria a nod as the doorbell chimed again.
As soon as he was out of sight, Gloria moaned. “He’s going to think I’m cheating.”
“Nonsense.” Melody turned around and bumped Gloria out of the way with a hip, then pulled the lid off the carrier.
The pie was beautiful. The top was a modified lattice top decorated with pastry maple leaves. The pastry was golden brown from an egg wash, with the edges of the crust were the same perfect color as the pastry in the center. Through the holes in the crust were the most delicate, scrumptious-looking strawberries Melody had ever seen, like jewels. The liquid of the pie had bubbled up here and there, juicy and fresh-looking. The smell of toasty pastry and sweet berries, mixed with the subtle sharpness of the rhubarb, made Melody’s mouth drool.
She sighed and put the cover back on the pie. “It looks wonderful.”
Sounding shocked, Gloria whispered, “A-aren’t you going to taste it?”
Melody said, “Isn’t this for the contest?”
“N-no? This is just a practice pie.”
Kerry wiped her hands on her apron, picked up a pie knife, and brandished it. “Get out of the way, Melody. There’s pie.”
A few minutes later, both Kerry and Melody agreed. Despite all her protests, Gloria was going to win the pie-baking contest, and, if she decided to open a bakery, that she would put Decadently Delicious out of business.
Chapter Fifty-One
The day of the Port Warren Harvest Festival soon arrived. The shops were all closed, and everyone drove, parked, rode a bike, walked, or took one of the shuttle buses to the beach. Delicately Delicious had a stall in the sales area of the festival, well stocked with cookies, pastries, and cakes. For diplomacy’s sake, Melody had decided against selling any pies at the festival. However, because Kerry and Melody’s other assistant, Leslie Mathers, had taken over the sales at the tent, Melody had a little time to enjoy the rest of the festival before she had to judge the pie-baking contest.
She watched her two assistants fondly. Kerry was plump and wore her hair in a messy blonde bun, and was pretty in a sunny, reassuring way. Everyone liked her. Leslie was more or less Kerry’s opposite, being slim, petite, and wearing her dark hair in a mischievous-looking pixie cut. Leslie was being given a second chance after making some mistakes while working for someone else and seemed eager to bend over backward to make things work with Melody.
At first, Kerry hadn’t trusted Leslie, but the two women, if not exactly friends, seemed to be getting along fine now. It didn’t hurt that Leslie was hungry to learn everything Kerry was willing to teach her.
Melody was soon sure that the tent was well settled, and her assistants didn’t need anything. So, she adjusted her large straw hat firmly on top of her shoulder-length auburn hair and pale, Irish, super-easily-burnt skin. That done, she took the leash of her dog, a super sweet blue and white French bulldog named Smudge. Together, they began wandering the rows of tents set up in the park next to the beach.
Smudge was a very good girl. Melody kept her on a leash more to protect her from other dogs (who could sometimes be aggressive) and over-friendly children than to keep her under control. So, when Smudge tugged on her leash and whined to be let loose, Melody only laugh
ed and let her pup run free. Probably someone had dropped an ice cream cone or some other delicious morsel.
Smudge dashed underneath a table. A split second later, a familiar voice said, “Why, hello there, Smudge. Were you looking for me?”
Melody smiled and walked around the corner, immediately spotting her boyfriend, Sheriff Alvin Hennessey. He had no doubt been called in to help with the security around the festival. Looking as handsome as always, he was wearing his gray-and-black uniform.
“Hello, Al,” she said, giving him a hug before bending over to pick up Smudge’s leash.
Smudge was grinning almost smugly at Melody as if to say I found him before you did. Melody gave the back of Smudge’s head a rub before straightening up.
“Mel,” Al said. “I was wondering where you went to. I was just at your tent.”
“I’m stealing a few moments of freedom,” she said. “Are you working?”
“Actually, no. I was on patrol earlier this morning, and now I have a few hours off.”
She put out her arm, and he took it. “Then let’s enjoy the festival for a while, shall we?”
He gave her a grin. The two of them hadn’t been dating for long, and Al was actually one of the shyest men she’d ever met. She wasn’t sure why. He was tall and handsome and had deep brown eyes that seemed to want to take up the whole world’s problems and make them his own. Sometimes, she found him completely tongue-tied over something as simple as holding hands. She found it adorable.
They wandered around, stopping to watch the kids on their rides, and then to pet some miniature goats at a petting zoo. Smudge seemed to think it was funny to make the goats bleat at her. Then they looked over more than a few stalls full of homemade crafts and ended up at the local judging contest tents.
Everything from oil paintings to green beans picked fresh from the garden were on display. Melody and Al worked their way to the food-judging area, where pride of place was given to the pie-baking contest. Rows and rows of pies had been set out, several pies for each contestant. The official judging pies were at the back of the row, each on a pretty, covered cake pedestal of crystal or glass.
It wasn’t time for judging yet—that would be in a few hours—but visitors could buy small samples for a dollar each.
“Any favorites?” Al asked.
The contest organizer, a local high-school history teacher, named Mike Sampson, leaned forward, and, in a stage whisper, said, “I shouldn’t say so in front of one of the official judges, but… there sure is!” Mike winked obviously at Al and Melody.
“Well?” Al asked. “Which one is that?”
Mike held up one hand, and, behind it, pointed directly and unmistakably at Gloria Fitzsimmons’s strawberry rhubarb pie. Most of the pie samples of said pie were missing from their pie plates: clearly, they had been popular.
Al dug his wallet out and handed Mike a dollar bill. “Don’t mind if I try a sample.”
“Better get one before it runs out,” Mike agreed, handing him a small paper plate with a tiny slice of pie and a plastic cocktail fork.
Al practically inhaled the slice of pie.
“How was it?” Melody asked. “Not better than mine, is it?”
From behind her, she heard a snort. She resisted the urge to look over her shoulder.
Al folded the empty plate around his fork and said, “I’ve had worse, that’s for sure.”
As Melody rolled her eyes—she had been hoping that Al would say something actually nice that she could repeat to Gloria—Al turned around. “Why, hello there, Ms. Kincaid. Do you have a pie entered today?” he asked.
Eleanor shrugged. “Just the best strawberry rhubarb pie in the county, that’s all.”
Without changing his expression, Al dug another dollar out of his wallet. “I’ll have a slice of Ms. Kincaid’s pie, too, please.”
Wordlessly, Mike served up a tiny slice of another pie. The samples for that pie were still somewhat plentiful.
“Well?” Eleanor asked.
Al chewed thoughtfully. “It’s going to be a close contest, I think. I wish the best of luck to the both of you, Ms. Kincaid,” he said.
“Eleanor,” she corrected him.
He nodded at her, then patted Melody on the arm. “I best take Ms. Marshall away from this tent for now. I wouldn’t want her sampling any pies ahead of time, Ms. Eleanor.”
And then, ignoring Eleanor Kincaid’s dirty look, he led Melody back out to the festival.
Outside, after checking over his shoulder to make sure Eleanor was out of hearing, he chuckled. “That sour look of hers was the look of a woman who knows she’s been beaten at her own game.”
Eleanor Kincaid had won the pie-baking contest the previous year—the first year that Melody hadn’t dominated the competition, that was.
From the look on Eleanor’s face, which Melody would have described as more than sour, Melody had to assume that Eleanor knew her victory would be a short one, too.
Chapter Fifty-Two
The hours rolled by sweetly, with Al on one side and Smudge on the other, until it was finally time to return to the pie-baking contest. Sales had been going well at the Decadently Delicious tent, and most of their product had already sold out.
Melody told Kerry and Leslie to close up the tent and put out the last few things with a “first come, first served” sign so they could all enjoy the contest. The day had turned out far more relaxing than Melody had anticipated. The break was nice, as it had meant a greatly increased workload the days before, as all three of them had worked hard to get everything ready for sale at the tent.
A crowd had gathered around the judging tent. Al cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Lady Judge coming through, here comes the judge!” Everyone laughed and let them through.
Mike Sampson had gathered the other two judges at the front of the tent already, Perry Wexler and the local doctor, Ambrose Mitchum, who was an excellent amateur chef, as well as possessing a discriminating sweet tooth. A rotund, avuncular photographer with the local newspaper, Quincy Atkinson, was on hand to take pictures and proceeded to do so. Each time, the flash seemed to go off in Melody’s face, leaving spots in her vision. Melody joined the other judges, handing Smudge’s leash to Al to hold during the judging.
“I’ll make sure she doesn’t get stepped on,” Al whispered, and she touched his arm gratefully.
Nearby were both Eleanor Kincaid and Gloria Fitzsimmons. Eleanor glared at everyone around her, while Gloria shifted nervously from foot to foot. Also nearby were Perry’s wife, Jillian, in a lavender skirt and jacket, and his business partner, Horace Bean. Before he and Perry had gone into business together with the Seafood Shanty, Horace had run a tiny coffee kiosk called Bean There, Done That. The kiosk had done very well, but Horace had had to sell it in order to invest in the Shanty. The new business owner had renamed the coffee kiosk business The Koffee Korner, which annoyed Horace no end. Even worse, the chain seemed to be doing better and better under its new management.
“Let the judging begin!” Mike declared. The crowd laughed.
“What’s this?” Perry asked. “I seem to find myself in front of a pie that needs judging. Whose is this?”
Mike said, “You’re not supposed to find that out until later, Perry. It’s supposed to be blind judging.”
“Blind judging this year?” Perry asked. “Whose idea was that?”
Horace elbowed Perry in the side. “Mine, Perry, we talked about this! How can judging be fair if—"
Perry raised a hand. “All right, all right! Can’t a man make a joke? Let’s try some pie!” He lifted the glass cover of the display stand in front of him, then held a hand out for a pie knife. Careful not to shatter the gorgeous maple-leaf crust on the pie in front of him, he lifted himself out a significant slice of pie onto a plate. “How do we do this? All three of us at once?”
Jillian snapped: “Perry, stop making trouble and just do whatever Mike says.”
Perry rolled his eyes a
nd mugged for the crowd, then handed the pie knife to Mike Sampson. Then he grabbed his slice of pie, dug out a forkful, and shoved it into his mouth. He tilted his head to the side, appearing to be lost deep in thought as Mike began to cut off another slice. Perry frowned, then put a hand on Mike’s wrist, as if to tell him to stop and wait for a moment.
“Perry? Did you take too big of a bite?” Horace said.
“Perry, are you all right?” Jillian said.
Perry’s face had gone visibly pale, his eyes were vague and unfocused. Suddenly, his face turned red, and he dropped his fork in order to clutch at his chest. Melody was half-expecting him to straighten up, saying, “Just joking!” But he didn’t. And clearly his red face and whistling breath were no joke.
Horace thumped Perry on the back. “Breathe, Perry, breathe!”
Perry shook his head, stumbling forward almost into the table full of pies, then backward into the back wall of the tent. Horace grabbed one arm, and Doctor Mitchell the other.
“Perry? Can you breathe?” Doctor Mitchell asked.
Perry was still shaking his head. Doctor Mitchell steered Perry toward the back of a folding chair and made him bend sharply over the chair—a form of the Heimlich maneuver. But if there was anything lodged in Perry’s throat, the maneuver didn’t help, and Doctor Mitchell stood him up again to begin performing sharp thrusts to Perry’s abdomen.
Nothing seemed to work. Within moments, Perry’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his knees collapsed underneath him. Doctor Mitchell pushed Melody out of the way to keep Perry from knocking her down. Perry landed on the grass behind the table and lay limp.
Jillian screamed.
“Clear the tent!” Al roared, his normally-gentle voice making everyone jump. More quietly, he added, “Not you, Quincy.”
The photographer stopped and nodded grimly.
Within seconds, almost everyone else had gone. Al called for an ambulance with his cell phone while Horace and Melody carried the folding tables full of pies out of the way.
