Killer Chocolate Pecan Pie

by Carolyn Q. Hunter

  Killer Chocolate Pecan Pie

  Pies and Pages Cozy Mystery Series, Book 17

  Carolyn Q. Hunter

  Summer Prescott Books Publishing

  Copyright 2018 Summer Prescott Books

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication nor any of the information herein may be quoted from, nor reproduced, in any form, including but not limited to: printing, scanning, photocopying or any other printed, digital, or audio formats, without prior express written consent of the copyright holder.

  **This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, places of business, or situations past or present, is completely unintentional.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Also by Carolyn Q. Hunter

  Author’s Note

  Contact Summer Prescott Books Publishing

  Prologue

  “What do you mean, ‘you’ve picked someone else to lead the choir this year?’” Gracie Jones demanded to know, slapping the hand-written letter with the church’s official logo on it down on Pastor Chimney’s desk.

  The pastor blinked a few times, glancing at the woman’s splayed fingers over the letter. She’d managed to cover his hand-written sermon for the week which he’d been working on. He slowly guided his eyes upward to gaze upon her face. “Gracie, I don’t believe we had an appointment,” he pointed out to remind her that he did, in fact, have a schedule to keep and that his secretary often handled special meetings.

  It was a futile attempt to ward her off, but he did not like being unexpectedly interrupted.

  The morning hours of each day, between five and seven, were his solitary time—his quiet moment in which he could pray, meditate, read from the holy book, and ultimately prepare his sermon for the week.

  This week’s mornings were especially important as it was his only time he had to prepare for the holiday sermon, scheduled for the upcoming Sunday before Christmas. It was only Monday now, but he wanted to get a good head start on what he would say to the congregants that weekend. These people looked to him as a spiritual figure. Many looked up to him, even.

  It honestly made him nervous at times. After all, he was just a normal man like the rest of them. Simply because he happened to stand up before them to talk about spiritual matters didn’t make him better or even different from them. He had his own worldly struggles and trails.

  Still, Christmas was a difficult time for many in the congregation, and he felt it was his duty—his responsibility even—to make sure he delivered a message that was both uplifting and encouraging in the ways of the Lord.

  He’d already have his hands full with charity functions and other Christmas related activities nearly every day of the week.

  While he left significant time open during the rest of the weekdays in which to meet one-on-one with members of his flock who were in need or desired council, he never ever allowed for interruptions during his personal study.

  “What is the meaning of this?” she snapped, lifting her hand off the letter and pointing at it instead. She was growing impatient with the pastor’s reserved silence, his lips tight and his eyes piercing. He reminded himself to have charity for her. She was, after all, still one of his flock.

  “Gracie, if you please, I’d appreciate if you set up an appointment with the church secretary. You know I have open hours later in the day.”

  “I’m here now,” she insisted, planting a wobbly hand on the desk. Perhaps if she had more strength, she would have hit the old oak desk instead to make a point. As it was, however, she was shaking as she stood before him—and it wasn’t just from anger. Her almost bone-like skinny fingers and the pale veins of her hands were additional signs that the woman needed rest and rehabilitation.

  Yet, here she was at six in the morning when she should be home in bed.

  “Gracie, I simply felt that this year, you and the choir would both be better served if we had someone else take over,” he informed her in a smooth and kindly tone.

  “Ha!” she exclaimed as if it were the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “Not likely. Without me, the choir won’t be anywhere close to ready for the Christmas Eve concert.”

  “I have great faith in Shay,” he noted, referring to the new choir director he’d appointed. Saying it was a mistake.

  Gracie’s eyes widened until Pastor Chimney could make out the details of the veins against the milky whites. For a split moment, it appeared she might cry, but she swallowed, her throat pulsing as she pushed that sensation down. “Shay? Shay Hannaford? You really think that woman can lead our choir . . . my choir . . . in this year’s Christmas Eve concert? You must be joking.”

  “She studied music in college. She is the current music teacher at Culver’s Hood Elementary.”

  “A children’s teacher. Not even a children’s choir director, but a children’s teacher. That isn’t experience enough to lead one of the best choirs in the city, Pastor Chimney,” she insisted, breathing heavily from the exertion of standing up. She plopped her hands down on the desk for support. The light caught her hair, piercing through the thin wispy white perm.

  “I dare say, it is,” he argued quietly and calmly. He stood up, just to be ready to catch her in case she collapsed. “Now, I had assumed it would be in the best interest for you, Gracie.” He reached out a hand to help steady her.

  She quickly slapped the offering away. “My best interest? You thought wrong,” she returned. “I’m still the best choice as choir director.”

  The pastor folded his hands gently in front of him, not sitting down. There would be no working on his Christmas sermon until he gently addressed this issue. “Gracie, you are a wonderful and dedicated member of this congregation.”

  “I know,” she sniffed.

  “And you have done a splendid job at directing the Christmas Eve program each year.”

  “All the more reason for me to keep doing it,” she insisted with pride.

  He held up on hand for her quiet and patience. “However, this year may just not be your year.”

  “But, Pastor Chimney.”

  “I am concerned for you, not only as your pastor but as your friend of many years. Your health isn’t what it used to be.”

  “I’m fine. I’m completely fine,” she shot back, removing her hands from the desk and standing up straight again. She instantly wobbled but balanced out. “See?”

  The pastor pursed his lips, quietly considering her. “Gracie, you need to rest. This year, just let someone else lead the choir. Come and enjoy the music as one of the audience members this time. There will be other years for you to direct again.”

  “You don’t know that,” she croaked, her voice strained in her throat and her eyes wet. Her face grew red and she turned away in shame, desperately wiping away at the tears.

  “If we just have a little faith, I know you’ll be up and running on a full tank again next Christmas.”

  “Just forget it, Pastor Chimney,” she whispered. “It’s clear where I stand.”

  “You’re a beloved member of our church family.”

  “I’m a cast off who was discarded as soon as I got old.”

  Pastor Chimney felt deep sorrow for the woman, realizing how difficult it was for some to face the elderly years. “If you
would like, you could write up the program for this year,” he offered, thinking it might be a good compromise. Writing the program to hand out to audience members would be an easy task that didn’t require a lot of moving.

  “Just forget it. I see what I’m worth to you,” she insisted, marching with a slight hobble toward the door and disappearing into the church’s dark hallway.

  Pastor Chimney sat back down, pondering how he could help Gracie feel wanted and needed this Christmas season.

  No one deserved to feel so lonely and shut out during the holidays. Instead of working on the sermon, he struggled to think of a solution.

  Chapter One

  “Good morning,” Carla’s voice chimed out in unison with the shop bell as she headed into the front door of Pies and Pages. A bluster of chilly wind followed her in for a moment, bringing the flakes of winter with it. She quickly shut the portal, returning the business to its former cozy warmth. “It’s colder than a witch wearing an iron bra out there,” she laughed.

  “Morning,” Bertha Hannah, the proprietor of the combination pie bakery and bookstore, greeted her best friend while chuckling at the little joke. Standing behind the counter in the open kitchen area, Bert busied herself boxing up a couple of pies. The travel boxes were brand new for the season—something cheerful that let her customers know just how wonderful this time of year was. Not only did they have the shop’s logo, but also had a wreath and garland pattern all around it.

  Ever since Bert had found out all the crazy wonderful things the local print shop could do—after printing off her own cookbook to sell in the shop the previous month—she’d been using them for all sorts of purposes.

  “Something sure smells good,” Carla complimented her friend, removing her jacket and hanging it over a chair and then taking a seat. Setting her oversized, and completely overstuffed purse on the table next to her, Carla looked like she was ready to travel.

  “I thought you were flying out today?” Bert asked, suddenly remembering that her friend was, in fact, supposed to be getting on a plane to see her children for the holidays. “I thought I wouldn’t be seeing you until after the new year.”

  “Oh, well, my flight isn’t for another few hours, so I thought what better way to spend my day than hanging out here with my best friend.”

  “And eating pie?” Bert questioned, one eyebrow jetting up in an arch.

  Carla chuckled. “That’s just a big bonus of seeing my friend.” Shifting in her chair, she leaned forward and took a long and loud audible whiff. “By the way, what is it that smells so good?”

  “My newest recipe. Chocolate Pecan Pie.”

  Carla’s jaw dropped. “That sounds divine.”

  “Trust me it is,” Bert agreed, closing the last box. “You want a slice?” she questioned.

  “Do you have to ask?”

  “Coming right up. On the house.” Bustling over to the glass display case that doubled as a warmer, she retrieved the pie and cut a slice. “I wish I’d known you were going to be here this morning.”

  “I’m here almost every morning until my own shop opens,” Carla pointed out an obvious truth. She owned the store called Christmas in July just a block over. It was a year-round holiday shop that specialized in ornaments, ceramic houses, lawn statues, and so much more. It always opened at ten, the same time as the pie shop. However, unlike the pie shop, Carla had a lot less work to prepare everything to open.

  Bert had to bake a new batch of pies every morning. Luckily, she had two great employees to help most of the time. This morning, one of them was supposed to show up to watch the shop while Bert went out.

  “I know you’re here most mornings, but I was planning on you not being here.”

  Carla’s brow furrowed with a hint of concern. “You didn’t want me around? What? Planning a big Christmas surprise?” she joked, trying to hide that touch of hurt underneath the surface.

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” the sixty-one-year-old pie cook replied with a sigh that could only be gained with age, waltzing over and placing the plate of steaming delicious pie in front of her friend.

  “Then what is it?”

  “I wouldn’t have volunteered to bring breakfast to the church choir.” She motioned toward the stack of pie boxes waiting to be loaded into Bert’s hatchback and taken across town to the church both she and Carla attended.

  “You’re giving them pie for breakfast?” Carla teased.

  “You have pie for breakfast almost every day,” Bert scolded, knowing for a fact that her friend came in daily for her helping of warm dessert.

  “I know, I know.”

  “Anyway, the point is, if I’d known you were going to be popping over before your flight, I wouldn’t have agreed to feed them this time around.”

  “Oh, well. That’s fine. I’ll just come along.”

  “You will?” Bert wondered. “Do you have time to go across town with me and back?”

  “I’ll drive myself. That way you won’t have to worry,” she said, standing.

  “Well, eat your pie first,” Bert ordered. “Those singers can wait a little longer.”

  Carla obeyed, sitting in the chair. Her cheerful demeanor slightly faded. A sadness hid behind her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about how I’d miss going to Christmas Eve at the Cathedral this year,” she sighed somewhat somberly, stabbing her pie and taking a bite.

  “Surely they have Christmas choir performances in Colorado.”

  “It won’t be the same,” Carla argued. “It’s been years since I missed the concert.”

  Bert put her hands on her hips. “And when was the last time you had Christmas with the kids?”

  “Well, they’ve come out and spent the holidays here a few times,” her voice trailed off.

  “But?”

  Carla twisted her lips, not wanting to admit what she had to say next. “But I suppose that now my kids are having more of their own kids, it is harder and more expensive for them to fly here.”

  “Yes. Don’t you remember when your kids were that age?” Bert inquired. She herself, never able to have children of her own, didn’t know all the intimate ins and outs of parenting the way Carla did. It was something Bert always felt a little sad about like she’d missed out.

  But, Shiv, one of her employees, was like a daughter to her. Not to mention one of the local church pastors—a fine young man by all accounts—was a foster child Bert had helped through his adolescence.

  So, it wasn’t as if she’d never had the blessing of looking after, loving, and caring for children—just never any of her own.

  “It was certainly a difficulty trying to travel anywhere with a whole horde of kids,” Carla finally admitted, eating the last bite of her pie.

  “And aren’t you excited to see the grandkids?”

  Carla’s face lit up like a lightbulb, beaming. “I really am.”

  “Well, there you go. You’ll have a great time.”

  “I know, I know. I just hate flying on planes . . .”

  “No surprise there,” Bert interjected, remembering the anxiety Carla always exuded whenever she had to get on a plane.

  “And I hate having to rely on my kids for room and board. Me, in their house, eating their food. One of the grandkids always has to give up their bedroom so I have somewhere to sleep.”

  Bert walked over and put a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “You spent your life taking care of them. Now, let them pamper and take care of you for a week or two.”

  Carla smirked with one side of her mouth. “I suppose you’re right about that.” Grabbing her coat off the back of the chair, she stood up and slipped it on. “We better get your pies over to the church before the choir becomes ravenous.”

  Bert laughed. “I suppose so. Why don’t I drive? I’ll make sure you’re back in time to get to the airport.”

  Chapter Two

  “So, are you catering to the choir all week long?” Car
la asked once they were finally on the road. Snow glistened off the city streets, sparkling in the dim morning light. Bert was glad the city workers had gotten up early to de-ice the roads. The same couldn’t be said for sidewalks or parking lots.

  “Yes, unfortunately. I may have bitten off a bigger bite than I can chew,” she admitted.

  “You’d have thought you’d learned your lesson after the fiasco with Thanksgiving.”