Dead in the Doorway

by Diane Kelly

  We’d played a dozen hands, Gayle winning seven of them, when Roxanne said, “My dinner’s finally settled. Anybody else thinking about dessert yet?”

  “I am,” Gayle said.

  I looked around the table, unable to fight a grin. “Colette made something extra special for y’all tonight. I think you’ll really enjoy it.”

  While Roxanne rounded up dessert plates and forks from the kitchen, my roommate and I went out to my car and grabbed the peach pie from the warmer, keeping a close eye on our surroundings lest the prowler approach us. We went back inside and I ceremoniously placed the pie in the center of the table. “Ta-da!”

  “What is it?” Roxanne reached out and removed the foil. When she saw the pie underneath, her mouth fell open. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Gayle’s mouth fell open, too. “Lattice top. Big sugar crystals. That looks just like Lillian’s peach pie!”

  “But it can’t be!” Mary Sue insisted, staring at the pie and shaking her head. “The recipe was never found.”

  Rather than tell them myself that I’d found the hidden recipe, I decided to let their taste buds do the talking. I cut equal slivers of pie and put them on plates, admonishing nobody to take a bite until everyone had their piece. Once they did, I said, “Okay. On your mark. Get set. Go!”

  We all forked our first bite into our mouths. The fresh, fruity flavor was like sunshine on my tongue, the little kick of lemon and ginger teasing and tantalizing my taste buds. There was no question in my mind why the pie had won blue ribbons, why the neighbors had enjoyed it so much, why they’d missed it so badly once Lillian had passed on.

  Eyes bright with glee, Gayle put her hand to her mouth, incredulous. “This doesn’t just look like Lillian’s peach pie, it is Lillian’s peach pie!”

  “Glory hallelujah!” Roxanne raised her hands toward the heavens, waggling her red-tipped fingers. “I can’t believe it! I never thought we’d taste this pie again!”

  Becky closed her eyes and went limp, as if experiencing rapture, offering an elongated moan as well. “Mmmmm. I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

  Laughing, I turned to Mary Sue. With the other ladies having such excited reactions, I could only imagine how Mary Sue must be feeling. Lillian had been her best friend for decades. She’d be thrilled that Lillian’s pie wasn’t lost to history.

  Except she wasn’t.

  Her silvery eyes, once pussy-willow soft, now flashed dark and angry, as if a thunderstorm were raging in her head. Her gnarled hands fisted on the tabletop and her chest expanded and contracted like a bellows as she processed huge huffs of air.

  Whoa. I felt my grin slide down my chin as my mouth fell open. This wasn’t the reaction I’d expected at all. “Are you okay, Mary Sue?”

  “I’m fine,” she squeaked. “I just need some water. Excuse me.”

  She rose from the table and stalked stiffly into the kitchen.

  I glanced around the table, but none of the other women seemed to have noticed. They were all caught up in the excitement, chattering on, euphoric that Lillian’s long-lost peach pie was lost no longer. I pushed back from the table and followed Mary Sue into the kitchen. She stood at the sink, looking down into the basin, the window behind it reflecting the top of her head. Her cast-iron skillet sat on the counter next to her, a single piece of cornbread remaining in it.

  I stopped a couple of feet behind her. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  She raised her head and her gaze met mine in the window. Never before had I witnessed a look of such feral ferocity, heard such an inhuman growl come from a person. “You have no right to that recipe!”

  Before I realized what was happening, she’d grabbed the skillet by the handle and whirled on me, wielding it like a paddle. Her blazing gaze was locked on my head, as if she hoped to smash my skull. Luckily for me, she wasn’t strong enough to lift the pan that high or my life might have ended right there in Roxanne’s kitchen, my death certificate noting I’d died of blunt force trauma, the undertaker having to pick cornbread crumbs from my hair. All I could do was turn away and bear the brute brunt of her cast-iron skillet on my right hip and buttock. BAM!

  Had I actually heard a clang, too, as the skillet hit bone or was just in my imagination? The agony took me down to my knees. Yowza! Fearing she’d take the skillet to my head now that it was within range, I did the only thing I could: roll over onto my uninjured side and raise a leg in self defense. She swung the skillet at me again, but I fended it off with my foot.

  Collin had said he needed cold, hard evidence. The skillet might have been room temperature, but it was as hard as it comes.

  “Mary Sue!” Becky cried as she rushed into the kitchen. “What has gotten into you?”

  Becky grabbed the edges of the pan and wrestled with Mary Sue, who had an astoundingly strong grip on the handle. There was no doubt in my mind now. My seemingly dubious suspicions had been confirmed. Mary Sue had snapped and pushed Nelda Dolan down the stairs. I didn’t know the exact circumstances, but I knew with absolute certainty that Mary Sue had killed Nelda.

  I reached up to the counter and pulled myself to a stand, hobbling toward the wrangling women. Colette appeared in the doorway next, followed by Roxanne and Gayle. All of their mouths gaped as Becky and Mary Sue both held tight to the pan, Becky using it to steer Mary Sue back against the wall.

  As Becky pressed the pan against the elderly woman’s chest, pinning her to the outdated floral wallpaper, realization seemed to dawn on her, too. “You killed my mother, didn’t you? You killed her over that peach-pie recipe!”

  Three gasps came from the doorway.

  Mary Sue snarled like a rabid possum. “Lillian was my best friend, and she hadn’t even shared her recipe with me! I wasn’t about to let your mother have it!” She turned her head to address Gayle and Roxanne. “Nelda had no right to that recipe!” she roared. “No right to be in Lillian’s house!” She looked at me. “You had no right to that recipe, either!” Her roar abated and she burst into sobs, releasing her grip on the skillet and sliding down the wall until she was a mere heap on the floor, much like Nelda Dolan had been when I found her. “I didn’t mean to kill Nelda!” she managed between sobs. “I only meant to stop her!”

  When she’d swung that cast-iron skillet at me only seconds before, it was pretty clear she’d wanted to kill me, at least in that moment. No doubt she’d snapped when she’d confronted Nelda in Lillian’s house, too.

  Now that she’d learned the truth, Becky seemed to lose her strength. She dropped the skillet and it clattered to the floor. Colette rushed over and grabbed it before Mary Sue could do any more damage to anyone else. Gayle entered the kitchen and eased a crying Becky back into one of the padded dinette chairs.

  Roxanne shook her head. “I spent three hundred dollars on that shotgun to protect myself from a killer, and she was under my roof the entire time.” Her eyes met mine. “Don’t that beat all.”

  Speaking of beatings, my bum throbbed like the bass line in a nightclub. I looked over at Colette, in so much pain I couldn’t speak, hoping my eyes would make a plea for me. They did. She ran to the freezer, yanked the ice tray out, and asked where Roxanne kept her plastic bags. After filling one with ice, she handed it to me and I held it to my rear. Hobbling back into the dining room, I pulled my cell phone from my purse and dialed Detective Flynn. “I’ve got a bruised behind,” I told him, “but I’ve also got your killer. Get over to Roxanne Donnelly’s house right away.”

  CHAPTER 33

  QUEEN OF CLUBS

  WHITNEY

  To thank me for my role in resolving Nelda Dolan’s murder, Collin took me to a show at the science center’s planetarium Saturday night, followed by dinner at Merchant’s, an upscale bistro on south Broadway, not far from Tootsie’s. After a delicious dinner, we lingered over coffee and dessert. He’d ordered the blondie, while I’d opted for the butterscotch pie, but we’d ended up sharing both of them. As for the peach pie Colette had made for him
, he’d picked it up the night before, after seeing me to a twenty-four-hour medical clinic and driving me home afterward. Luckily, an X-ray confirmed that no bones had been broken when Mary Sue took her cast-iron frying pan to my backside.

  Collin leaned back in his seat and eyed me while sipping the last of his coffee. When he set his cup down on the table, he said, “I just realized something.”

  “What is it?”

  “I haven’t had a single thought about any of my cases since I picked you up four hours ago.”

  I raised my coffee mug to my lips so he wouldn’t see my smile.

  He cocked his head and arched a brow, his green eyes alight with a roguish gleam. “What about you? Has your mind been performing renovations this entire time?”

  I wouldn’t lie to him. I’d had a wonderful time tonight and enjoyed both the star show and his company. I liked that while he respected my capabilities as a carpenter and a house rehabber, he nonetheless treated me like a lady once I’d changed out of my coveralls and was off the clock. But there was no sense in letting the guy get too cocky, right? “I did have a fleeting thought about tin ceiling tiles.”

  “One fleeting thought.” His lips curved in a sly grin. “I’ll consider that a success.”

  When he drove me home, he walked me to my door and left me with a single, soft kiss that left my nerves buzzing as if I were operating a silent, invisible band saw. Would tonight lead to something more? I supposed that would be the next mystery Collin and I would solve together.

  * * *

  The next few weeks were a flurry of activity, and a resolution of outstanding questions.

  With numerous witnesses to her confession, Mary Sue had no choice but to plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter. We learned that she’d been taking a bill payment out to her mailbox that fateful Friday night when she’d spotted Nelda fishing the key from the frog’s mouth and using it to enter the flip house. Realizing Nelda was likely going inside to search for Lillian’s treasured recipe, Mary Sue became enraged. She marched over and used the key herself to gain entry to the house.

  Nelda had been standing on the landing, about to exit the house, when Mary Sue swung the front door open. Mary Sue saw the recipe box in Nelda’s hand and told Nelda that the peach-pie recipe wasn’t in the box. Mary Sue hadn’t known that Lillian kept her award-winning recipes in a box that was identical to the one on her kitchen counter, and that Lillian had hidden the second box under the last step on the lower staircase. Mary Sue thought Nelda was holding the recipe box from the kitchen.

  Knowing she indeed had the prized recipe in her hands, Nelda turned and ran upstairs into the kitchen. Mary Sue followed her, shocked to see the recipe box still on the kitchen counter. She looked inside to confirm its contents. It held only Lillian’s everyday recipes.

  Mary Sue asked about the box in Nelda’s hand and demanded to know where she’d found it. Nelda admitted she’d spotted Lillian stashing her will in the secret compartment under the bottom step after she’d gone to the print shop with Lillian to serve as a witness to her will. Lillian had invited Nelda over for a slice of pie afterward to thank her for serving as a witness. Nelda had used the guest bath downstairs and, as she opened the bathroom door to exit, caught a glimpse of Lillian slipping the will into the secret compartment under the stair.

  After Lillian’s death, Nelda had wondered if Lillian might have stashed her special recipes in the same place. When neither Wayne nor Andy came up with the recipe, she realized they weren’t aware of the secret compartment. She didn’t want to bring the matter up to either of them because she knew they’d share the peach-pie recipe with the other ladies. Like Lillian, Nelda had wanted the pie recipe for herself and only for herself, so that she could be the only one to bake it for Carl.

  Though Nelda hadn’t come right out and said so to Mary Sue, it was clear she’d been looking for an opportunity to get into the house and check under the stair. When she was closing the bedroom curtains late that evening and saw Dakota go into the house and leave the key in the frog’s mouth, she seized the opportunity. Unfortunately, Mary Sue spotted her and followed her into the house.

  After a heated argument in the kitchen, during which Mary Sue repeatedly tried to grab the box away from Nelda—no doubt causing the scratches on the woman’s hands—Nelda made a mad dash for the stairs. Mary Sue said she first reached out to pull Nelda back. But when Nelda easily wrenched free from Mary Sue’s grasp, Mary Sue snapped, going berserk just as she had in Roxanne’s kitchen the night she paddled me with her frying pan. I was lucky I’d lived to tell my tale. Nelda, unfortunately, had not been so lucky. Mary Sue said she hadn’t intended to kill Nelda when she pushed her, only to make her drop the box. She didn’t realize Nelda would hang on to it so tightly, at her own peril. Lillian had fled the scene, but later realized the recipe box could implicate her. She returned to fish the box out from under Nelda. Though she’d been tempted to remove the recipe card for the peach pie, she knew if she was found with Lillian’s recipe card in her possession, she’d become the prime suspect. She’d settled for copying the recipe by hand before she’d returned it to the box, so she could at least bake the pie for herself now and again. After copying the recipe, she’d wiped the box clean and returned it to the hiding place under the stairs.

  When Mary Sue felt that Detective Flynn was closing in on her, she’d panicked and faked the break-in at her house, hoping it would throw him off. Later, when she found the piece of tile I’d put in her recycling bin to replace the brick he’d seized, she’d suspected I’d been the one feeding him information, fueling his suspicion of her. Just another reason for her fury toward me the night of the second poker game.

  It was a dark, sad story. But at least the truth was out now, allowing everyone to begin the long process of healing and moving on. Because her crime had not been premeditated, because she hadn’t intended to kill Nelda, and because of her advanced age, Mary Sue was sentenced to three years in prison, the shortest term for the offense. I wondered if she’d arrange a poker group in prison, or if Roxanne or Gayle would try to smuggle her one of Lillian’s delicious peach pies. While the women certainly abhorred Mary Sue’s recent actions, they had many memories of her as a caring and thoughtful friend and neighbor, and had no plans to totally give up on her.

  We learned that Gayle had indeed been under the influence of the pain medication when she’d misled Detective Flynn about the time of day she’d gone to the flip house to retrieve the playing cards the day Nelda had died. She’d wrongly remembered it as being the morning, because she’d eaten pancakes when she returned home. Turned out Bert was a lousy cook. Pancakes were one of the few things he could make. He’d cooked pancakes for dinner that night because Gayle’s knee had been acting up and, as loopy as her pain pills made her, she couldn’t prepare their meal.

  Wayne Walsh finally found a get-rich-quick scheme that actually worked. He compiled his mother’s recipes into a cookbook called Pie to Die For. A tacky title to be sure, but when he offered to split the proceeds with Becky so she could use the funds to pay Dahlia’s and Daisy’s remaining tuition, the Dolans and the ladies of Songbird Circle silenced their protests. The case came to be called the Peach Pie Murder by the media. The notoriety of the case helped sell the cookbooks, and they flew off the shelves as fast as the bookstores and local gift shops could stock them. A few weeks later, Wayne followed up with a sequel of his mother’s recipes, Casseroles to Live For. It, too, was a great success.

  The grocery chain Dulce worked for bought exclusive rights to produce the pie under the Pie to Die For trademark. The deal earned the families even more funds and landed Dulce a promotion for bringing the opportunity to the attention of her regional manager.

  On recommendation from Buck and me, Dakota was hired full-time by a painting company we’d worked with on several occasions. He was making a decent living, enjoyed the work and camaraderie, and had recently moved into his own apartment and bought a used car. Things were definitel
y looking up for the young man.

  Daisy’s singing career had taken off, too. While she still yearned to be invited to sing at the Grand Ole Opry someday, she’d landed a coveted Saturday-afternoon slot at one of the honky-tonks on south Broadway, the perfect time to milk tourists for tips and grab the attention of a music producer on the search for new talent. She remained enrolled at the University of Tennessee, but drove home in the new orange Mustang to perform on the weekends.

  My derriere bore a big purple bruise for weeks. I had to sit on a soft pillow like some type of fragile princess or show dog until it healed, but my injuries could have been much worse.

  Fortunately, because Nelda Dolan’s death was ruled manslaughter rather than murder, the incident had only a minor effect on the market value of the flip house. While some lookie-loos came to our open house to see where she had fallen, many were quickly distracted by the beautiful new flooring and updated kitchen and baths. The house was on the market only two weeks before we had a solid offer for full asking price. Buck and I would enjoy a nice profit. Before handing over the keys, I retrieved the smiling ceramic frog from the porch and turned him over to Dakota, who wiped a tear from his eye.

  He swallowed hard as he took the frog from me. “I miss my granny.”

  I gave his shoulder an affectionate, supportive squeeze. “She’d be proud of you. You’re really making something of yourself.”

  He blinked back his tears and gave me a grateful smile.

  CHAPTER 34

  SALE-A-BRATION

  WHITNEY

  We gave the Hartleys the first grand tour of our finished flip house and closed the sale on the place in late April, just as the climbing roses along the side of the house had begun to bud and bloom. Immediately afterward, I made out a check to Mr. and Mrs. Hartley to repay them the remaining balance on the promissory note. It might not have been entirely professional to write XOXOXO! in the memo section, but they deserved hugs and kisses for everything they’d done for me. Buck and I took them out to dinner at Mrs. Hartley’s favorite Italian restaurant to celebrate. I handed them the check over an appetizer of roasted eggplant and garlic bruschetta, and a nice bottle of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo that Colette had suggested we order.