Cooking the Books

by Chelsea Thomas

  “So that’s how you knew,” I said.

  Miss May pumped the gas and followed the sign toward the Pine Grove Bridge. “That plus my intuition. Yes.”

  Intuition. Like my inkling that Florence was an evil principal all along. I held my tongue, telling myself it was still too soon to gloat. But inside, I did a little I-was-right dance.

  Miss May took a sharp turn and glanced at me. “You haven’t complained about my driving all day,” she said. “Have you noticed that? Not even when we drove to Florence’s house, and I was gunning it on the way over there.”

  “That’s true,” I said. “I haven’t yelped or squealed or anything, all day.”

  “Seems to me you’re getting used to riding in cars,” Miss May said. “Maybe that means you’re ready to start driving one?”

  I nodded. “Maybe I’ll sign up for my road test tomorrow.”

  “That sounds like a great idea.” Miss May smiled. But her smile faded as we approached the bridge. “Whoa momma!”

  There were ten squad cars up ahead.

  Three had blocked the entrance to the bridge. The others encircled the SUV. They all had their lights flashing, and armed police officers crouched behind every vehicle.

  Miss May skidded to a halt and jumped out of the VW bus.

  I called out, “Miss May! Be careful!” But Miss May had already plowed up to the first cop car. And when she turned back and waved me toward her, I knew everything was OK.

  I flopped out of the van and witnessed something I never expected to see.

  The principal and assistant principal from my high school, face down and hand-cuffed, at the foot of the Pine Grove Bridge.

  AFTER WAYNE STUFFED Florence and Marvin into separate squad cars, he walked over to me with a coy smile.

  “You and your little old aunt need to stop with this amateur sleuth racket,” he said.

  I smiled. “But we’re so good at it. And I don’t think Miss May would appreciate being called little, or old. FYI.”

  “I’ll keep that mind,” he said.

  I nodded. “Please do.”

  Wayne met my eyes, and then, as if in slo-mo, he reached out and brushed a piece of hair off my face. I held my breath. A hair graze! Just like in the movies! Oh my gosh, this was so incredibly, divinely romantic—

  “You’ve got a piece of food in your hair,” Wayne said.

  I hung my head and laughed. “Oh.” What do you say to that? “Can you tell what it is?”

  “Could be cheese.”

  I laughed. “I did resolve to eat more cheese recently.” Wayne flicked away the unidentifiable food. We looked at each other for a long moment.

  “You always keep a snack in your bangs?” Wayne asked with a smug grin.

  “No! Don’t you have prisoners to process or something?”

  “I do.” Wayne said. “Don’t tell anyone I told you this, especially not your aunt, but uh, good job.”

  “Thanks.”

  Wayne ambled away with big, confident strides. And thus ended the most romantic moment of my adult life. Cheese in hair or not.

  Miss May approached as soon as Wayne was out of hearing distance.

  “That looked like an almost kiss,” she said.

  “I had food in my hair.”

  Miss May nodded. “That’s what you get for skipping the shower last night. Was it cheese?”

  “So it would seem.”

  Miss May laughed, and so did I. Then we watched as the squad cars drove away and headed back toward town.

  “Two killers on this case,” Miss May said. “You think maybe next time we’ll catch three?”

  “I really hope there’s not a next time,” I said.

  Miss May looked at me. “Of course. Murder is a horrible thing. And Pine Grove’s had enough of it to last a lifetime.” Miss May watched as the cop cars pulled away and drove back towards town. “Still. I had fun.”

  I grinned. “Yeah. Me too. I guess. Even though you did all the real detecting.”

  “Every Sherlock has a Watson,” Miss May said.

  “So you’re Sherlock now?” I asked.

  Miss May patted me on the back and didn’t answer. But I could tell by the way she smiled that she liked the comparison. I didn’t hate it either.

  I wonder if Watson ever had food in his hair? I thought as we walked back towards the van.

  A question for another day.

  33

  Dancing on the Tables

  TEENY WAS IRATE WHEN we regaled her with all the grit and glory surrounding our latest case.

  She felt so left out that she closed down the restaurant for a whole day, just so she could milk every single detail about the case out of me and Miss May.

  At least, that’s why Teeny said she was closing down the restaurant. Actually, I think she just wanted a break from making hashbrown lasagna for all her rabid fans. She even suggested taking the dish off the menu. I nearly cried when she said that, but Teeny assured me she’d still make me a special HBL sometimes. Whew.

  Even though Grandma’s was technically closed, half the town showed up anyway to celebrate the arrest of Charles’ killers and to hear Miss May and me recount the tale. We’d solved the biggest scandal in Pine Grove’s recent history, and people were eating up the juicy drama. I suspect most people were also hoping to get a hint about the mystery that remained unsolved: Where had all the money gone?

  Gigley arrived about halfway through the party, and when he entered, the townspeople cheered and broke into a chant. “Gig-ley! Gig-ley!” Once the citizens of Pine Grove had realized Gigley wasn’t a murderer, his surly e-mails made him a hero. People hadn’t stopped quoting him for days.

  Gigley waved off his fans with a good-natured smile, but the chants didn’t stop. Eventually, Gigley joined in. Later in the day, we managed to talk him into reading some of his Carter Communications emails out loud, and he had the whole restaurant rolling in laughter like it was a comedy club. Fiery inferno! Hysterical!

  As the sun drooped into the west, more and more people showed up. Teeny opened one, then two, then ten bottles of wine, and what had started as a casual get together turned into a full-blown party. Missing money be damned. Pine Grove was having fun tonight.

  Liz held court in one corner, recounting her crucial role in alerting to the town to Charles’ misconduct. Miss May and Teeny remained in their booth, and Teeny played up her sister Peach’s involvement in the case more and more each time she retold the story. Rita showed up with little sleeping Vinny (who was sporting a giant pair of noise-cancelling baby headphones), and then Brian came, and so did Gigley’s secretary Deb. Familiar faces streamed in and out of Grandma’s, including KP, Sudeer and his wife, and my sweet cousin Maggie.

  Granny watched it all from behind the counter. At least, I think she watched it. She might have been asleep.

  The only person who was missing from the party was Jennifer Paul. I tried not to worry about it, but I felt bad about how things had gone down on the beach. Jennifer was not my favorite person, but she also wasn’t a murderer. And we had treated her like one.

  That’s why I was glad when I saw her slip through the front door a little later in the night. The room got quiet when she entered. Then, she yanked a gleaming pair of scissors from her bag and yelled, “Who needs a haircut?!”

  It was almost a too-soon moment, and the air sizzled with silence for a tense moment. Then the room erupted into cheers and laughter, and hands shot up in the air. Jennifer’s salon being out of commission had left a lot of shaggy-haired customers wandering around Pine Grove. Jennifer looked right at me. “Chelsea? How about you? Or would you rather go back into the city?”

  I hesitated. All eyes were on me. I took a deep breath and then shouted over the music, “Snip away!”

  Everyone hooted and hollered in support. Moments later, I was in a chair, half-choked by one of those hair-bib-thingies, and hair was falling all around me like snow. Jennifer was about halfway done with the job when the front doo
r swung open and Wayne stepped through the door. The room fell into a wide-eyed hush.

  Wayne’s voice boomed into the quiet. “The party is over.”

  This wasn’t good news for anyone, especially not my hair.

  “What are you talking about?” Gigley demanded in his sternest lawyer voice.

  “We got a noise complaint,” Wayne said. “Sorry, everyone.”

  Teeny stood on a table. “Tough luck! This is my property, and I’m not done having fun yet!”

  Wayne laughed. “OK, well, good to know you respect authority, Teeny.” He looked around. “But you got me. I’m just joshing you. There was no complaint.”

  “Why are you here then?” Teeny puffed out her chest. She was feeling extra Napoleonic since she’d had a few glasses of wine.

  “I’m here...with information about everyone’s money,” Wayne said.

  A buzz swept through the room as people muttered and shouted out questions about their money. Wayne raised his arms in the air. The crowd stilled, and Wayne continued in a grave voice. “The Pine Grove Police Department...”

  He looked out over the crowd and spoke with slow and deliberate poise. “Has recovered all stolen funds. You should all have your money back within the month.”

  There were three seconds of thick silence, then Gigley yelled at the top of his lungs, “We got our money back!”

  The crowd erupted in gleeful hoorahs. Teeny and Gigley danced together on top of a table. An old woman cried and hugged her dog. Brian and Rita took a shot of whiskey. Teeny pulled Miss May onto the table, and I saw my aunt dance for maybe the second time in my life.

  I hung back by the far wall, taking it all in. Wayne caught my eye from across the room. I smiled at him and ran a nervous hand through my half-cut hair. No food particles, but I hadn’t looked in a mirror since Jennifer had taken her scissors to my locks. So, fingers crossed, I guess.

  Then I felt a tickle on my feet. When I looked down, there was Petey, crawling around with a sudsy sponge, sweating as he worked.

  “Petey. What are you doing down there?”

  “Scrubbing baseboards,” he said. “Teeny says I can’t join the party until I’m done, unless I quit and go back to school.”

  “So then quit.” I reached down and offered Petey my hand.

  He grabbed it, pulled himself up, and tossed the sponge down into a disgusting bucket.

  “Hey everybody!” he said.

  The crowd turned and looked at Petey.

  “I’m going back to school!”

  Once again, the crowd erupted. But this time, they were chanting Petey’s name. I laughed and climbed up on the table to dance alongside Miss May, hair-bib-thingy and all.

  For one glorious moment, I felt completely carefree. The lights were dim, the music was loud, and I was dancing like no one was watching, even though everyone was watching, including Detective Wayne Hudson.

  I was on fire. I was unstoppable. I was also standing too close to the edge of the table.

  I realized my mistake two seconds too late. The table shifted, I tumbled sideways, and I fell gracelessly onto a chair and sprained my wrist.

  Oh well. At least I didn’t have cheese in my hair.

  THE END

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  Don't miss the next installation in the Apple Orchard Cozy Mystery Series, CANDY APPLE KILLER!

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  Apple Orchard Cozy Mystery Series, Book Three

  “Candy Apple Killer”

  By Chelsea Thomas

  DRIVING HOME FROM TOWN with the windows down, I savored the warmth of the late September air.

  Ahhhh, I sighed. Nothing bad ever happens in summer.

  But of course, that wasn’t true. Trouble knew no seasons.

  A year ago, I had been living in a glorified shoe closet in Jersey City. Adulthood had not been going great for me. My fiancé had said “I don’t” at the altar and had then stolen my interior design business and locked me out of our apartment.

  Homeless, jobless, and loveless, I had resigned myself to a life of Chinese takeout and self-pity parties. But my aunt, Miss May, had rescued me and recruited me to work on her apple orchard. Which is why I had returned to my small home town of Pine Grove, New York.

  At first, the transition had been jarring. In Pine Grove, people were friendly. Trees were everywhere. And my bedroom was disturbingly spacious. I had felt out of place all the time. But then I’d adjusted. I’d started to feel safe, and free, and like... Nothing bad ever happens in Pine Grove.

  Three dead bodies later, I realized I had been wrong.

  Yep. Three murders in less than a year.

  But thanks to Miss May’s sleuthing, and a little help from me, those cases were closed. For the past six months, Pine Grove had been crime-free...except for some teens who’d robbed the ice cream store. Miss May and I had decided to leave that one up to the police.

  Everyone in Pine Grove had breathed a collective sigh of relief that summer. No murders meant a happier town. I’d celebrated by finally taking my road test and getting my license. After just two and a half nerve-wracking tries, I became a certified New York state driver.

  Hence, my pleasant drive home from town in my trusty steed — a sky blue pickup.

  Miss May had her VW bus, which she’d said I could borrow if I needed it, but I was terrified of scratching or denting her beloved vehicle. KP had offered to let me drive around his Frankenstein-ed clunker, but I needed a car that wouldn’t require a ton of on-the-go repairs. I wasn’t exactly what you’d call ‘handy.’

  So I’d bought an old work-horse of a pickup from the local junkyard proprietor, Big Dan. Big Dan was trustworthy and notoriously generous — he’d often give things away for next-to-nothing when he could have easily made a profit. I had only paid two hundred bucks for my new truck, and that was after I’d negotiated Big Dan up from one-fifty.

  Best two hundred bucks I’ve ever spent, I thought as the wind whipped my hair into my eyes. I pushed my bangs to the side and clicked on the radio. Staticky country tunes crackled into the truck cab. I sang along, even though I didn’t know all the words. The lyrics were about heartbreak, and beer, and having the courage to forgive and forget.

  My phone rang. It was my ex-fiancé Mike. My gut lurched up into my chest. Uhhhhh, what?!

  I hadn’t talked to Mike since he’d literally run out of the church on our wedding day. I ignored the call.

  I’ll forgive and forget eventually. Just...not today.

  Besides, I had work to do. Earlier in the day, I had picked up tables, chairs and decorations for our next big event on the orchard — the twentieth annual “Candy Apple Hoedown.” The stuff rattled in the bed of the pickup, reminding me that I was late to help Miss May set up.

  Oh, and I didn’t know it, but I was less than a week from discovering my next dead body.

  Ugh.

  And I had thought small town life was supposed to be simple.

  WHEN I PULLED INTO the orchard, the trouble had already started. A woman paced back and forth in front of the bakeshop. She crossed her arms, then checked her watch. I had come to recognize these three actions — pacing, arm-crossing and watch-checking — as the signs of an unhappy customer. So I took a deep breath then hopped out of the pickup with a smile.

  “Hey there! How can I help you?”

  As I approached, I got a better look at the woman. Late sixties. Designer jeans. Sweater tied around her neck. Costume jewelry that I coul
d never afford. She shook her head like someone had snagged the last chocolate chip cookie out from under her.

  “I’ll tell how you can help me,” the woman said. “You can staff your establishment during business hours so customers aren’t forced to wait around in the hot sun. The only staff here is some sweaty farmhand and he refused to let me into the bakeshop."

  "Are you talking about KP?" I asked. "Big guy? Mustache?"

  "That sounds like the culprit. Vile creature. Barked at me like a dog."

  I laughed and waved the lady off. "That's just KP. He's from Kentucky. I'm sure he didn't mean any harm."

  "Well he harmed me," the woman said. "Why is this rotten farm so understaffed?"

  “Sorry about that,” I said. “We’re throwing a big party this weekend to announce the return of our famous candy apples. I was picking up supplies in town. How can I help you?” Let’s try this again.

  “You can introduce yourself, for one!”

  “Where are my manners? Of course. My name is Chelsea Thomas. My aunt runs this farm, and I help her out.”

  The woman sighed. “Chelsea. The name of my favorite neighborhood in Manhattan. Alas, my life there has come to an end.”

  I perked up. “Oh. Are you from the city? I lived there for a while. Chelsea’s beautiful.”

  “Don’t you want to know my name?”

  “I’m sorry. Yes.” Geez. This lady had a booby-trapped personality! “What is your name?”

  “Linda Turtle, of the Manhattan Turtles.”

  I coughed to cover a laugh. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Turtle.”

  “My husband is around here somewhere. I sent him to find help.” Linda pointed out into the orchard. “Ah yes. There he is now.”

  A sixty-something man trudged toward us from near the apple trees. Like Linda, he had a sweater tied around his neck. He was reluctantly balding, and he wore bifocals down on his nose.

  OK. I’ll say it. He looked like a turtle.

  Linda clapped in the man’s direction. “Reginald! Hurry up. I found someone.”

  “Coming dear.” Reginald quickened his pace.