It wasn’t a graceful landing, but I was alive. Uninjured. Perhaps enjoying the luckiest moment of my entire life.
I took a deep breath and let it out. My warm exhale fogged the air in front of me. My hands trembled. I laughed. Then I looked up at the towering evergreens above me and screamed at the top of my lungs.
“I made it!”
A flock of birds took flight from a branch, and I screamed again, overjoyed.
“I’m alive!”
I wiped my nose. Of course, it was bleeding. Wouldn’t be a sled race without a bloody nose.
“I can’t believe my almost-last-thought was that I should eat more cheese,” I said to no one. Then I flopped back into the snow, took another deep breath, and puffed it out.
I listened for a few seconds. The forest was shockingly peaceful.
Just a minute earlier, all I’d heard were snapping branches, and the panicked voice in my head, and the thump-thump of the sled against the snow. But once the sled crashed and came to a halt, everything was serene. Looking around, I realized that the woods weren’t scary at all. In fact, I had been the disturbance.
It struck me how quickly the world can change, and how beautiful change can be.
That thought inspired me to find a way out of my present mess. So I stood up. Shook the snow off my jacket. And looked back up the hill in search of my runaway sled.
It didn’t take much hunting. Although I felt like I had flown a hundred feet in the air, the sled was barely five feet away, wedged between a log and a sheet of ice.
My knees wobbled as I trudged uphill, but I thought of the sled like my trophy, and I didn’t want to return to the festival without it.
I pulled at the sled to free it, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Come on,” I said. “Don’t make me leave you here to die!”
I pulled again. The sled didn’t move an inch.
I put my foot on the log for leverage and yanked as hard as I could.
The sled refused to move.
I grabbed onto the sled with both hands and pulled like my life depended on it. After a few seconds, my hands slipped, and I stumbled back and tripped over something.
I fell on my butt, which was luckily too cold to feel much pain. But when I twisted around to see what had tripped me, all the blood drained from my face.
There, propped up against a tree, was Charles Fitz.
Blue face. Eyes open. And a single, tiny icicle hanging from his nose.
Last time I had found a body, I had tried to strike up a conversation. This time, I was more reasonable.
I poked Fitz in the arm.
He didn’t move.
I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook.
Ice and snow drifted gently off his head and shoulders, like wintry dandruff. Still no movement from Fitz.
I was at a loss. I knew it made little sense, but I reverted to my old stand-by. Chatting.
“Charles?” I said. “Uh... Are you dead?”
Charles did not answer. And that was all the answer I needed.
Charles Fitz was dead. And he owed money to everyone in town.
5
Slay Riding
AFTER I MADE MY WAY out of the forest, I tracked Wayne down and told him I had found Fitz's body. At first Wayne thought I was joking, like this “I found a body” thing was an extension of our parking lot flirtation. But once Wayne realized I was serious, he treated me like Suspect Number One. Led me straight to the warming tent, sat me in a crappy plastic chair, and told me not to go anywhere.
It offended me that Wayne still thought me capable of murder. My aunt and I were fresh off solving a big case, but Detective Hudson still stationed a deputy nearby to make sure I didn't “go anywhere.” I was downright insulted. And disappointed. I had dreamed of running into Wayne at the festival and continuing to, uh, vibe with him. Being detained was not part of that dream.
After Wayne trekked out to the scene of the crime, my gaze drifted over to the deputy at the entrance to the tent. He looked like he was around twenty. Military buzz cut. Chest puffed out. This was probably the first murder that he had ever worked. I would say it was the second, but I didn’t recognize him from last time. Ugh. Was this really the second dead body I had found since I’d arrived in Pine Grove?
I sighed and felt at least four new wrinkles take hold of my face. After the murder on the farm, I had developed a theory that every dead body you find ages you at least a year. The frightful sight of the frozen Charles Fitz had aged me at least twenty. That single icicle dangling from his nose would haunt my sleep for years to come.
When I looked back at my guard, he was talking to Miss May. Smiling, laughing, chatting like they were old buds. I bet she was there when he was born, I thought. Or she rescued him from an apple tree when he was on a school trip to the orchard. Or maybe she was simply charming him, like she charmed everyone.
Whatever it was, the guard let Miss May pass. But as she bustled over to me, the smile on her face faded into a concerned frown.
“Word on the street is that this was a murder,” she said. “And guess who the prime suspect is?”
I shrugged. “The girl who keeps ‘stumbling’ into dead bodies?”
Miss May nodded. “Yep. But you didn’t do it. Right?”
“What do you mean, ‘right’?” I asked. “You think I killed Charles?”
“I had to ask.” Miss May handed me a paper cup. “Here. Coffee. Drink.”
Miss May handed me the coffee, and I took a grateful sip. It was from the Brown Cow. Steaming hot, with one pump pumpkin syrup, one pump chai, and a whole lot of milk, with a generous dollop of whipped cream.
“You got me my favorite winter drink,” I said. And it didn’t taste like coffee at all. Perfect.
Miss May nodded. “Nothing soothes the sting of a murder investigation like a hot hit of pumpkin spice.”
I tried to smile but couldn't muster more than a nervous grin. Being accused of murder had a funny way of killing a good mood.
Miss May read my mind, as she often did. “Oh, calm down. No one thinks you did it.”
“Are you sure?” I said. “I found the body. And you know what they say...whoever smelt it, dealt it.”
“So what if you smelt him first?” Miss May said. “Half the town wanted that guy dead.”
“But Wayne said Charles hadn’t actually stolen from anyone. Why would anyone kill the guy before he paid them back?”
“They wouldn’t. But they might kill him if they acquired new information. Maybe someone found out that Charles was planning on leaving town with the cash.”
“Do you think that’s what happened?”
Miss May shrugged. “I think Fitz is dead. And I don’t think it was an accident. Which means something is not how it seemed.”
“But Wayne said—”
“What did I say?” Wayne approached and shoved his hands into his pockets. He narrowed his eyes at Miss May. “And what are you doing in here?”
“Just talking to my niece.”
“As her aunt or as her lawyer?” Wayne asked.
Miss May cocked her head at Wayne. “She doesn’t need a lawyer, Detective. She hasn’t committed a crime.”
“Of course.” Wayne pulled a pencil and pad out of his pocket. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to have a few words with Chelsea. No aunts allowed.”
Miss May looked from me to Wayne, then to me, then she walked away without a word.
In one deft movement, Wayne grabbed a folding chair, flung it open, and sat across from me. “Miss Thomas. Hi.”
“Hi.” I gulped.
“Let's start with the sled race, if that's OK.”
I shrugged. Something told me I didn't have much of a say in the matter.
“Can you tell me why you were taking part in that event, Miss Thomas?”
“You mean because I’m an adult, and it’s weird?”
“I didn’t say that.” Wayne took off his winter his hat to reveal perfectly tousled salt an
d pepper hair. A touch saltier than I remembered it, but I liked salt. “I'm curious. That's all.”
I cleared my throat. Nervous habit. “OK, well...Teeny signed me up. She thought it would be funny. Plus, she wanted the theatre tickets, and she thought I would win. You know, because everyone else in the race was a kid.”
“So it was a scam on the kids?”
“I don’t think there was an age limit.” I bristled. “So no.”
Wayne scribbled in his notepad. “Sounds like a scam on kids.”
Suddenly my embarrassment turned defensive. A man was dead! Why was Detective Hudson wasting time talking about the sled race?
“Isn’t this a waste of time, Detective?” My voice came out louder than I expected.
Wayne looked up from his pad. “What do you mean?”
“Fitz is dead. And everyone hated him. Shouldn’t you be searching for the killer instead of sitting in this tent with me? It's not like I had a motive to kill the guy. I'm the only one in town who didn't have money with him. Heck, I don't have any money at all!”
Wayne resumed writing in his pad. “No money at all. Interesting.”
I shook my head and laughed, annoyed. “That's not interesting. It's true.”
“Sure,” Wayne said. “Now why don't you tell me about finding the body?”
I sighed. Thought back to the woods, and the crash, and my midair vow to eat more cheese. I told Wayne everything I could recall, even the tiniest details. I omitted the cheese bit, though.
“That’s a lot of specifics,” Wayne said once I finished talking. “Me? I’m going that fast on a little pink sled, I don’t think I remember anything.”
“As a designer, I've developed an eye for detail,” I said. “It's in the job description. Maybe that’s why I solved that last big crime, while you stood there with your fingers in your nose.”
Wayne glanced at me. He seemed surprised by my tone. “Now that’s not fair,” he said. “I only had one finger in my nose.”
Wayne’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, but I was too annoyed to even notice.
I uncrossed my legs and re-crossed them. “That's not funny,” I pouted.
“It's a little funny.”
“No. It's not,” I said. “I thought you were here to ask questions, by the way. Not tell jokes. Perhaps I should question you instead. You said the money was fine. Nothing to worry about. ‘Disperse, townspeople, nothing to see here!’ Then... bam! A few days later, Fitz is dead. Doesn’t quite add up, does it?”
Wayne leaned forward until he was inches from my face. “What doesn’t add up,” he said, “is how dead bodies started stacking up right about the time you get to town.”
“As far as I recall, we got to town right around the same time, Detective.”
“Sure. But I'm a cop.”
“And you'd be the first cop who ever went sideways?”
Wayne glared at me. “Hey. Watch it with those accusations. That's very hurtful.”
I softened. “Fine. Sorry. I don't think you're corrupt.”
“Thank you.”
“I'm just saying, Charles Fitz was a brick of ice when I found him. The killer obviously struck at least a few hours before I got there.”
“So maybe you were returning to the scene of the crime.”
“And I rode a sled there?”
“I don’t know your methods.” Wayne looked up with a small smirk, but I wasn't in the mood.
“Can I go?”
Wayne put his notepad down. “Fine. Go.”
I stood up and walked toward the exit. Although I tried to walk with confidence, I felt lightheaded. What had gotten into me? Why had I run my mouth to a cop?
Wayne called out to me, just when I was about to leave. “But Miss Thomas?”
I turned back.
“Don’t go far.”
6
Malicious Messages
WHEN I GOT BACK TO our booth, I packed up the leftover donuts, keeping one eye on Wayne. The detective didn’t spend nearly as long with any of the other festival goers as he had with me. Then again, I was the lucky winner who had found the body, so I guess that made me a more interesting witness.
Wayne spoke with Charles' wife, Florence Fitz, first. When I saw Mrs. Fitz — tall and skinny with a prominent nose — I immediately remembered her as my high school principal. I was used to seeing her in a position of power, but she looked weak and devastated as Wayne told her about Charles' death. Wayne was gentle and charming, but he could do little to salve Principal Fitz as she cried.
Later, Wayne spent a few minutes with Liz and some of the small business owners who had gathered at the dam earlier that week. Brian looked chill. Everyone knew he would never hurt a fly, even if that fly stole his life’s savings. But Gigley was red-faced and irate. Supposedly, he’d had more money with Charles than anyone. He stomped and ranted during his interview with Wayne and yelled about how he wanted his money back.
Last, Wayne spoke to Jennifer Paul, the hairdresser slash donut extortionist. Jennifer hadn’t been one of the business owners at Liz's secret meeting, so I wasn’t sure why Wayne wanted to talk to her. Maybe he wanted a haircut? I hoped not. Jennifer would ruin Wayne's effortless shag. I chided myself for wasting any time thinking about this stupid cop’s hair. He could do whatever he wanted. I hoped he shaved his head, in fact. Maybe then I would find him less attractive. Probably not, though.
When Miss May and I drove back to the farm that night, I could barely keep my eyes open. But Miss May's mind was churning, as always.
“I don't get it,” she said as we turned up Whitehill Road toward the farm. “Who would kill a man who still owed them money?”
I shrugged and slumped into my seat. But I sat up as we approached the orchard. Someone was sitting on the front steps of the farmhouse, blowing into their hands for warmth. As we got closer, I saw that it was Gigley. And it looked like he had only gotten angrier since we had seen him last.
Gigley stood as we approached. “Thank God you're finally home. I'm freezing out here!”
“We had to pack up at the festival,” Miss May said. “What's going on?”
“The cops think I killed Charles, that's what!”
“Well, you didn't, did you?” Miss May walked past Gigley and approached the front door.
“Of course not, May! You've known me thirty years.” Gigley looked after her.
“So you have nothing to worry about.” Miss May dug for her keys in her purse.
“We both know it doesn't work that way, May.”
Miss May turned back and narrowed her eyes. “So what? Why are you here?”
“I need you to find the real killer! Exonerate me.”
“Tom. Chelsea and I only solved one murder. We're not private investigators.”
“But I need you!” Gigley's chin trembled. His anger was morphing into desperation before our very eyes. “Please.”
Miss May looked Gigley up and down like he was a bad puppy. Then, after a long silence, she held the door open and stepped aside.
“Go inside,” she said. “We'll hear you out.”
THREE MINUTES LATER, Miss May and I sat across from Gigley at the kitchen table, waiting for him to talk. Miss May had a tray of her famous Appie Oaters in the oven, and the sweet, spicy smell filled the air. But not even that could ease the tension in the room.
“Go ahead,” Miss May said. “Plead your case.”
“Can't we wait until the cookies are ready?” Gigley said. “This would be much easier with fresh-baked cookies.”
“That’s why I’m making them,” Miss May said. “But you might as well start talking now.”
Gigley wriggled in his chair.
Miss May forged on. “Why don’t you begin by telling us why the police are so sure you hurt Charles?”
“Hurt,” Gigley said. “There’s an understatement. The kid’s dead as a door-knocker.”
“Doorknob,” I said, under my breath. I had a bad habit of correcting people for no good rea
son, so I was glad that neither Miss May nor Gigley heard me.
Gigley looked over at the oven. “The cookies smell ready.”
“They’re not ready yet, Tom!” Miss May poured a tall glass of water and handed it to him. “Here. Drink.”
Gigley took the glass of water from Miss May. He held it with both hands, like a little kid would, then he tilted the glass back and drank it all in one big gulp. The water seemed to calm him down.
“OK,” he said. “It's possible that I may have, maybe, perhaps—”
“Spit it out, Tom!” Miss May scooted to the edge of her chair.
“I sent Charles threatening emails! OK!? They were bad!”
Miss May and I looked at one another. She rubbed her eyes in disbelief. “What do you mean you sent threatening emails? What did you say in them?”
Gigley picked at his cuticles. The oven dinged, and he looked up. “Cookies!”
Miss May clapped to get Gigley's attention. “No cookies until you talk!”
“But—”
“No buts, Tom. What did you say in the emails?”
“I said I was going to kill him, OK!?” Gigley buried his head in his hands. “And I said it a lot. With flair.”
Miss May got up to retrieve the cookies from the oven. “Tom. Why?”
“Because, May! I had to!” Gigley stopped and looked out the farmhouse window. “I loved working with that kid’s dad. You know that? Old Bill was the most trustworthy guy in town. He took care of my money. He didn’t take silly risks. None of this ‘venture capital,’ ‘great opportunity,’ ‘now or never,’ nonsense. ‘Stocks and bonds are like rice and beans,’ he used to say. ‘Can’t go wrong with rice and beans!’ And he was right! But I was wrong to trust that kid of his. Charles Fitz. That rat.”
“We all trusted him,” Miss May said. She placed the warm cookies in front of Gigley.
“I trusted him with everything!” Gigley slammed his hand on the counter, then took a deep breath and continued in a more even tone.
“The first time I wanted to pull out my money, take my parents on a Viking Cruise down the river Rhine, he says now’s not the time. Fine. I can wait. Next time I want to make a withdrawal to buy myself a Steinway, he says we’ve got to wait. OK. So I wait. Then a couple of weeks ago, I wanted to make a withdrawal for a down payment on a new car. He said no. Again. And I couldn't take it anymore.”
Cooking the Books Page 4
