Cooking the Books

by Chelsea Thomas

  “It was packed,” I said. That was a hard day to forget. “But was it more packed than this?”

  “Ten times.” Miss May squeezed my arm. “People couldn’t stop talking about how beautiful you were. Just like your mother.”

  Miss May almost never talked about her sister. My mom. But when she did, she got this look in her eyes that was simultaneously faraway and intimate. Like we were the only two people in the entire world who understood that life is fleeting but beautiful. And that anything with the power to make you happy might one day also make you sad.

  Whewph! I was not in the mood to think deep thoughts that day, and Miss May’s mention of my mom was about as much as I could handle. So I shook the feelings off like a big, wet dog and motioned toward the door to the funeral home.

  “Should we go in? See what we can find out?”

  Miss May nodded. “Just remember to be respectful.”

  21

  Assault and Arrest

  WHEN WE ENTERED THE wake, my mind flooded with memories of my parents' funeral almost twenty years prior. The place hadn't changed one bit. Same plum-red carpets. Same simple wooden chairs. Same peaceful paintings of gardens and sunsets and other metaphors for endings and new beginnings.

  It took everything I had not to turn around and run down the street bawling. But I had a job to do... solve the murder of the guy in the coffin. So I looked around, on the hunt for clues.

  I started by taking a mental note of everyone in the room. Brian from the Brown Cow was kneeling at the coffin. Vice Principal Frank sat alone in the back row of chairs, head bowed in respect. Miss May and Teeny were standing along the far wall. Principal Fitz stood up front, accepting condolences from mourners. And Liz was badgering Mayor Delgado near the exit.

  As I watched Liz, I almost laughed out loud. I should have known that Miss May and I would not be the only people investigating at this funeral. Liz was gunning for whatever Pine Grove’s equivalent of a Pulitzer was, and she was clearly hassling the mayor for an interview about something. She didn’t seem to care all that much about showing respect for the dead.

  That’s when it hit me. There was no way Miss May would get any valuable information at this wake. And there was no way Miss May would seriously question any of the mourners, either. It was a plan that had sounded decent in theory, but in practice? Funeral sleuthing was not our style. Not even a little.

  I waited off to the side as Miss May and Teeny kneeled and said a prayer in the front of the room. When they stood and crossed to me, I could tell they felt the same way I did.

  “We’re not talking to anyone at this funeral.” Miss May folded up a prayer card and put it in her pocket. “It’s not right.”

  “I know,” I said.

  Miss May cast a look over at Liz, who was still questioning the mayor across the room. Miss May clucked her tongue and said, “I do, however, know how we might get the information we need.”

  “LIZ!” MISS MAY HURRIED across the parking lot to catch up with the departing reporter. “Can we talk?”

  “Can’t. Sorry.” Liz unlocked her car. “I’m on the cusp of something here.”

  “So are we.”

  Liz pulled her notepad out of her bag. “Are you willing to go on the record for this conversation?”

  “What? No! We don't want you to interview us. We want access to your information.”

  Liz shook her head. “I heard the three of you were running around playing detective. That’s against the law, you know. I think you should give me something I can use in my story, so I don’t have to run and tell the cops about your sleuthing.”

  Miss May laughed. “You will not bribe me, Elizabeth. Because if you do, I will tell your mother. And she did not raise an extortionist.”

  Liz shrugged. “Fine. Tell my mom. See if I care.”

  Liz opened the door to her car. Miss May caught her by the shoulder.

  “Wait!”

  Liz turned back with a sly smirk. “I thought you might change your tune.”

  “You probably already know everything we know,” Miss May said.

  “Try me.”

  “You know the guy who showed up dead at the inn worked in politics?”

  “Of course.” Liz scribbled something in her pad.

  Teeny looked over at me. “Politics,” she mouthed, confused.

  “Just go with it,” I said. Miss May was lying about Vlad's identity to help our investigation, and Liz was playing right into the ruse.

  “So you're also aware that the guy had travelled up from Brooklyn to try to get Charles to fund his campaign.” Miss May sounded so sure of herself, I almost believed her alternate facts.

  Liz scoffed. “Yes, May.”

  I stepped forward, eager to join in the ploy. “Then maybe you know the one thing we don’t know.”

  Liz turned to face me. “And what’s that, Chelsea?”

  “Why was Florence Fitz staying at the Dragonfly Inn last month?” I was so proud of myself for asking the right question at the right time, I spoke my next sentence as loud and clear as I could. “Because I think she was having an affair.”

  A shriek sounded from behind us, and I turned to see Florence Fitz, my former high school principal, charging toward me from the funeral home.

  “Chelsea Thomas! How dare you!?”

  I stammered. “Uh, sorry. Did you hear that? I didn't mean—”

  Florence smacked me with her purse. I tried to fend her off, but she kept right on smacking. “I cannot believe you are gossiping about me at Charles' wake. What is wrong with you!?”

  Florence pulled her purse back to take another swing, but Miss May and Teeny grabbed Principal Fitz’s arms and pulled her away.

  “Florence! Calm down!” Miss May said.

  “Get off me, Mabel!”

  Florence grappled with Miss May and shoved my aunt away. The frazzled principal spun around and noticed a dozen mourners gathered in the parking lot, watching the ordeal.

  “What are you all looking at!?” Florence said. “The crazy, sad widow, losing her mind for no good reason? I’ll show you no good reason. These, these harlots are out here gossiping about me.”

  I muttered another apology, but Miss May hushed me and stepped toward Principal Fitz. “Florence. Let me explain. We—”

  “No, let me explain.” Florence glared at me as she spoke. “Charles and I stayed at the Dragonfly last month to celebrate our anniversary. Does that answer your question, Chelsea? Or should I go on? Should I tell you about the love I felt for him? How I’ll treasure that weekend forever? Would you like me to go into detail about how those few days were precious, and I only wish I had realized it at the time?”

  Detective Wayne Hudson hurried out of the funeral home. “Mrs. Fitz. Is everything OK here?”

  “Everything is not OK, Detective. This girl is disturbing the peace at my husband’s wake!”

  Wayne looked over at me. “What girl? Chelsea?”

  “Yes. Chelsea Thomas,” Principal Fitz shrieked. “I would like her arrested.”

  I gasped. “What!?” I couldn’t believe it. My former principal was demanding my arrest? This was a nightmare come true.

  “That's right, you heartless monster,” Florence hissed. “I want you in jail. For life.”

  Wayne looked from me, then back to Florence, then back to me. “Uh... I’m not sure this situation calls for an arrest. But Chelsea, why don't you come down to the station for...some questioning?”

  “That's it?” Florence said. “You're taking it easy on her!”

  Wayne adjusted his jacket. “We'll proceed as necessary from there.” He looked at me. “OK?”

  I got the impression that Wayne wanted me to say yes to resolve the conflict as soon as possible, so I obliged.

  “OK. Sure. I’m sorry, Principal Fitz.”

  “No,” Florence said. “I want her arrested!”

  “I understand that, Mrs. Fitz. Don't you worry, I'm taking care of this.” Wayne turned back toward the
crowd of people. “Can someone help Mrs. Fitz back inside? Thank you.”

  Brian hurried over and walked Mrs. Fitz back in to the funeral home. Mrs. Fitz called over her shoulder at me, “You should be ashamed of yourself, Ms. Thomas.”

  “I'm sorry,” I said again.

  “We're all sorry, Florence.” Miss May held her hands over her heart. “You’re right to be mad.”

  Mrs. Fitz shook her head and disappeared inside the funeral home with Brian and the other mourners. I felt the pressure of a thousand eyes burning into my face, even though no one was looking at me anymore. This was going to take a long time to live down.

  I’d reacted in self-defense to being purse-smacked, but once the adrenaline subsided, the shame of what I’d done settled into my bones and stayed there. Gossiping with Liz in the parking lot of the funeral was no better than questioning people inside the funeral home itself.

  Worst of all, we didn’t even get to ask Liz a single question. We still had no clue why she was so interested in the mayor, for instance. Plus, our hunch about Principal Fitz at the Dragonfly had been a red herring. Mr. and Mrs. Fitz were on a stay-cation, after all.

  Wayne’s gruff baritone snapped me back to the present. “All right, Chelsea. Let’s go.”

  Oh right. I have to go the station. Wayne took me by the arm and led me over to his unmarked cruiser.

  Miss May stepped between us and the car. “Hold on a second! Is she being placed under arrest?”

  Wayne shook his head. “No one is being placed under arrest. We’re just going to talk.”

  “So it's more like a date then,” Miss May said with a smug grin. Groan. “In that case. I’ll see you both down at the station.”

  “It's not a... she's not... this isn't... Chelsea can ride with you if she wants,” Wayne said. I glanced up at him. Detective Hudson was not a man easy to fluster, yet my aunt had accomplished the feat with the mere mention of a date. Hmmm.

  Teeny waved Wayne off. “May’s backseat is broken. And I’m riding up front. Sorry. Chelsea’s got to ride right beside you. All alone. In that romantic little undercover car.”

  I flushed bright red. This awkwardness was more humiliating than being beaten with my principal’s purse. I wheeled on Teeny on Miss May. “Will you two stop?” Then I smiled up at Wayne and tossed my hair, doing my best impression of a confident woman. “I’m sorry. They’re being silly.”

  “It’s fine.” Wayne sounded a little nervous, and he cleared his throat. “But uh, you need to ride in the back. For legal reasons.”

  “Not a problem,” I said. Wayne opened the back door to the car, and I climbed in.

  22

  Detectives and Dialogue

  RIDING IN THE BACK of Wayne’s cramped squad car was the opposite of romantic. Could have been because of the thick slab of bulletproof glass between us. Or because I was still reeling from my encounter with the Widow Fitz. Hell hath no fury like a principal scorned, I thought with a shudder.

  Once Wayne and I got to the jail, the whole afternoon took a surprisingly pleasant turn. We entered the station to find a single round-faced patrolman stuffing envelopes in the back. Otherwise, the place was emptier than my Jersey City fridge.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked.

  “Softball game. Police versus Fire Department.”

  “You didn’t want to play?”

  “Two murders this close together? I’d rather catch bad guys than softballs.”

  I stifled a laugh. Wayne glanced at me. “What? That makes you laugh?”

  “I mean, yeah. You’d rather ‘catch bad guys than softballs?’ That sounds kinda silly.”

  Wayne half-smiled but buried his amusement with a cough. “Not silly. True.” Wayne nodded toward a desk along the window. “Take a seat. You want anything?”

  An invitation to a nice dinner? A glass of decent red wine? A lingering hug? The list went on... “I guess I’d kind of like to know what I’m doing here, if I’m not under arrest.”

  “I had to do something back there. Mrs. Fitz was upset. Understandably.” Wayne handed me a can of soda, sat down, and cracked a can of his own. “First her husband gets killed. Now she has to deal with people questioning her fidelity at his funeral?”

  “I wasn’t just going around yelling that she was a cheater. I tried to to be discreet.”

  “A swing and a miss,” Wayne said.

  “I thought you weren’t a softball guy,” I retorted. Where did I get the gall to talk to a policeman like this? Something about Detective Wayne Hudson drew out my snark. I liked it.

  Wayne chuckled. “Just because I prefer police work to team sports doesn’t mean I can’t pull a solid baseball reference now and then. I’m familiar with America’s pastime.”

  “Ugh, I bet you’re one of those guys who was good at every sport in high school.” Unlike me.

  Wayne offered a shrug and a coy smirk in response, which was a clear confirmation that I was right. “What makes you say that?”

  Uh, you’re a beefy hunk of a man with quick reflexes and a ton of confidence? “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess you just have that vibe. Not a jock vibe, but like a...competent vibe.”

  “Competent, wow. What a compliment.”

  “Coming from me, it is! I was so incompetent in gym class that I got the nickname ‘Racket Face.’”

  Wayne looked confused. I clarified, “Oh, well I was particularly sucky at tennis. So much so that the gym teacher would say, ‘Chelsea, you’re supposed to hit the ball with the racket, not your face!’ Hence the nickname.”

  “That’s rough,” Wayne said, with genuine sympathy. “I’m glad those tennis balls didn’t inflict permanent damage.”

  Oh my goodness, Wayne was staring at my face. Hard. As if...he liked what he saw. Well, time for me to shove my foot firmly into my mouth. “You don’t think I have a dented face?” I asked.

  “A dented face? No. Your face looks great to me.” GAAAAHHHHHH. Keep it together, Chelsea.

  “Oh. Cool, cool. Yep. Your face is also not dented.” I swallowed a sip of soda and it went down the wrong pipe. I immediately gurgled and coughed so forcefully that Wayne jumped to his feet.

  “Are you OK, Chelsea? Can you give me a thumbs up for OK?”

  I weakly raised my thumb and tried not to spit all over myself. I choked out the words, “Wrong pipe.” Wayne started to laugh. I narrowed my eyes at him. “Not funny!”

  “You look like a cat with a hairball,” Wayne snickered. “A cute cat, though. One of those fuzzy white ones or whatever.”

  “A Persian?” I sputtered.

  “Sure, that,” he said. The cough travelled into my nose and I sneezed. Wayne offered me a tissue. “Here. Gesundheit.”

  “Thanks.” Our fingers brushed as I took the tissue from him. A sizzle of electricity raced up my arm, leaving a trail of warmth that made me want to keep touching Wayne’s hand. Did Wayne feel that too? Maybe! I was feeling emboldened and I reached out, about to graze Wayne’s arm...but then I sneezed again, and I had to cover my mouth instead. RIP Romantic Moment.

  “Look, Chelsea, I just want to say...I know you’re trying to help, asking around about Charles Fitz. I know your aunt had a lot of money with him. But you could get really hurt if you keep poking around like this. And I’m not just talking getting smacked around with a lady’s purse, either.”

  “Who’s poking around?” I took a sip of my soda. It went down smooth this time.

  “At first I thought it was just your aunt snooping around and you were tagging along for the ride,” Wayne said. “But I’m starting to think you’re the real snoop.”

  “Am not,” I said.

  “You sure about that?” Wayne asked.

  To tell or not to tell? Gigley had warned me and Miss May not to trust the police when this much money was involved. But I had no reason to believe Wayne or any Pine Grove cop was corrupt.

  “Are you thinking about whether or not you can trust the cops?”

  I almost jumped
out of my skin. “No. Trust the cops with what? I don’t know anything.” I guess I’m keeping the investigation secret.

  Wayne jabbed his thumb toward Main Street. “You see those people out there?”

  “What people?” I asked. I looked out the window, but I saw zero people. “There’s no one out there.”

  Wayne harrumphed and snapped the blinds closed. “You know, ‘the people.’ The general population of Pine Grove. They pay taxes to keep this station open. They trust us. Everyone in this town does. Except for you and your aunt, apparently.”

  I shrugged. “Those taxes also pay for softball games?”

  “You think you’re funny?” Kind of. Wayne shook his head. “There are bad people involved with this thing.”

  “What do you mean? The bookie? Is someone else involved?” Sure, Vlad had not been not an upstanding citizen. But he was dead. Did Wayne have information we didn’t have? Was someone even more dangerous than Vlad involved in these murders?

  “There’s still a murderer on the loose.” Wayne cracked his knuckles. “Isn’t there?”

  I crossed my arms. “You tell me.”

  Wayne scoffed.

  “I’m serious,” I said. “Maybe I can help.”

  “Help how? You’re an interior decorator. Your aunt owns an apple orchard. You guys bake cookies for a living.”

  Wayne wasn’t wrong, but my ears flamed with annoyance. His tone was patronizing, and I didn’t like it. I sat up a little straighter. “That’s a diminutive assessment of what we do.” Also, technically I was an unemployed interior designer, but that didn’t seem worth a mention.

  “Stop the damn sleuthing, Chelsea. For real.”

  “We solved the last murder,” I mumbled. “We figured out who killed Vinny.”

  “Yeah, and I would’ve too. Except that some busybodies kept interfering.”

  “We’re not busybodies.”

  Wayne pushed his chair back and stood up. “You’re free to go.”

  “Detective Hudson. Wayne,” I said. “I thought we were having a conversation. Now you’re kicking me out?”