Killer Chocolate Pecan Pie

by Carolyn Q. Hunter

  “It’s a surprise, that’s for sure.”

  “I just ordered my drink. I can find a table while you order yours.”

  “That’s okay. I’m cutting back on coffee right now.”

  Nodding her understanding, Bert led the way to one of the small tables with two seats.

  “Were you close with Shay?” she asked.

  The woman sighed. “Yes and no. I mean, same sorority. We had that bond in common, for sure.”

  “Of course. Those sisters can end up friends for life.”

  “Still, Shay and I never got on as well as some of the other girls.”

  “Oh? How is that?”

  “I don’t know. We didn’t share a whole lot of the same interests. You said she was a member of your church congregation, right?”

  “That’s correct,” Bert said.

  The woman crinkled her forehead. “Before we go any further, can I just ask one more time why you’re interested in learning about her? I mean, I guess I should have asked online last night, but just didn’t think of it. I assumed you must be friends.”

  “Shay and I didn’t know each other too well besides going to church together.”

  “Are you writing a sermon for your church or something?”

  “Not exactly.” Bert decided the best route was complete honesty. She didn’t see any reason to lie. Telling the truth would probably get her more answers anyway. That was her experience in the past at least. “It’s a sort of funny story. Right now, the woman they are holding on suspicion of murder is another congregation member—a real old lady who has a mean streak but wouldn’t hurt someone physically.” Her mind immediately thought of the planned prank involving the pies, but she brushed it aside.

  “And you don’t think it was her, do you?” It was more of a statement than a question. “How do you know her again?” she asked, looking Bert up and down and likely assessing her age.

  “I wouldn’t say we were friends. However, that woman has asked me to investigate the case, actually.”

  Delila squinted, her blond eyebrows pushing together. “You some kind of private eye?”

  Bert tilted her head to one side. “In a way, yes. I’ve contributed to a number of investigations here in Culver’s Hood.”

  Delila leaned back with a nod, not asking more prying questions and just taking it at face value. Brushing her short blonde hair behind one ear she looked Bert right in the eye. “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, for starters, did Shay have any enemies? Anyone who didn’t like her?”

  Delila looked up, trying to consider the possibilities. “No one specific comes to mind. I mean, popular girls often rub people the wrong way, but not enough to incite a murder.”

  “I see.”

  “Actually, I’m surprised she was going to church at all.”

  Sitting back, Bert blinked in astonishment. “Why is that?”

  “It was part of the reason we didn’t get along. You see, I grew up with a pretty strict father with lots of rules. Shay used to make fun of me for it because I never joined in on drinking or gambling, even though my old man’s been dead a couple of years. Old habits die hard, I guess.”

  “You don’t drink or gamble, but you still joined your sorority sisters on a trip to Las Vegas?” Bert wondered.

  “There are a lot of fun things to do in Vegas that don’t involve those two things.”

  “I’ve heard they have great shows,” Bert said, reading her mind.

  “Yes, and it really was a wonderful trip. Shay, on the other hand, hardly came out to any of the shows with us. She preferred to stay in the hotel-casino and gamble.”

  “Really?” Bert wondered. This whole description hardly matched the girl she’d briefly met in church.

  Delila folded her arms. “I honestly think she had a problem. I don’t know how much money she lost on that trip, but I can say it was a whole lot.”

  “Where did all the money come from?” Bert asked, a hint of excitement in her voice. If there was one thing that was a catalyst for murder, it was money. Perhaps there was something here.

  “I have no idea. She doesn’t have rich parents or anything like some of the other girls.”

  “That is a bit odd.”

  “Maybe she was just using her credit card for chips or something?”

  Bert put her elbows up on the table, clasping her hands and trying to put these new pieces in the puzzle. “Did she maybe get a loan?”

  “Like I said. I don’t know.” She shrugged. “In any case, it sounds like she was turning over a new leaf, going to church, volunteering. It makes me happy to know she was on the right track before she passed.”

  Saying the word passed seemed like a way to gloss over the fact that Shay was murdered.

  “Candy Cane Mocha for Bert?” the barista asked, coming to stand near the table.

  “That’s me.”

  “Here you go,” he said, handing the drink off.

  “Do you have any more questions?” Delila asked, looking at her phone. “I have a meeting at work I need to get to.”

  “No, no. That’s quite all right. Thanks for your help.”

  “No problem.” Getting up from the table, she walked out of the shop.

  Bert stayed behind to enjoy her drink but decided to call Harry. Maybe this info could help him.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Bert? I thought you agreed to not do any investigating on your own,” Harry scolded her as he took a seat at the table in the Koffee Haus. When she’d called, he had said he needed a break anyway and would meet her for a cup of coffee. He’d also ordered a Candy Cane Mocha, which surprised Bert.

  It seemed awfully sugary for a man like Harry.

  Still, who said only women could get into the Christmas season with sugary drinks?

  “I’m not,” she protested in an attempt to lie. “She was friends with Shay and we just decided to meet up and talk about her.”

  “Were you friends with Shay?” he asked pointedly.

  “Why does that matter?”

  “Because I remember you saying you weren’t so close. Yet, you meet up with a friend of hers the day after she’s murdered?” His eyebrow was slowly rising in his usual accusatory way.

  “Fine, fine. You caught me,” Bert said, putting her hands up defensively.

  “You promised,” he snapped.

  “I know, I know, but Gracie asked me.”

  “I don’t care what she asked. She is a suspect in a criminal investigation. You aren’t a lawyer, or a private investigator and you most certainly aren’t a police officer. She shouldn’t have called you.”

  Bert looked down into the dregs of her coffee. Just some black sludge remained on the bottom of the mug. “Okay, Harry. I promise to let it go,” she admitted, honestly feeling a little relieved she’d been caught. She hadn’t wanted to go looking into the case in the first place but felt compelled to anyway out of loyalty to a fellow church member.

  However, her detective boyfriend was right. What if by some random chance Gracie really was the killer? Bert would be aiding her.

  Harry, seeing the guilt on his girlfriend’s face, reached across and grabbed her hand. His large fingers were warm and encompassing around her own chilly ones. “I get it, okay? You feel a duty to your church members.”

  Bert chuckled. “You know what is funny?”

  “Huh,” he asked in one sound.

  “Gracie and I have never been friends.”

  Harry raised a curious eyebrow. “How is that?”

  “Oh, she always insults me and my pies. She’s got an attitude that makes vinegar look sweet.” She pushed the mug away from herself and looked him in the eye. “Yet, when I talked to her today, I felt sorry for her. She has no family. No friends. She is completely alone for the holidays, sick and feeble with no one to care for her.”

  “What?”

  “Having the choir taken away from her was probably the final straw. It was the only thing that added any light to t
he season.” Bert let out a long and strained breath.

  “I understand,” Harry iterated.

  “No one should have to go through that during the holidays.” Bert wiped the space beneath her eyes, trying to catch any tears that may have escaped. She hadn’t even realized she’d been crying.

  Harry squeezed her fingers. “No one should be killed during the holidays either, but it happens almost every year.” He shook his head. “My dream that I’d have a Christmas free to spend with you was a long shot.”

  “I guess so,” Bert agreed. She’d been so worried about catching a killer, about helping a lonely older woman, that she’d completely lost sight that Shay was a person with her own dreams, wants, and desires. She probably had family somewhere as well (although Bert hoped they liked her more than her sorority sister did).

  Maybe Shay had been a bit of a loner when it came to social functions. Who could blame her after dealing with kids, teacher’s meetings, and the choir all week long?

  However, what about that gambling problem Delila had mentioned?

  “Harry? Have you encountered anyone with a gambling addiction before?”

  The detective’s lips tightened, and his eyes turned to confused slits. “Sure, I have. Why?”

  “I mean, just how addicted do people get?”

  He shrugged. “Pretty addicted. I mean, they’ll steal money in order to gamble.”

  Bert leaned in, cupping his hand in both of hers. “Well, according to Delila, Shay’s sorority sister, Shay had a gambling problem.”

  Harry was silent a moment, taking in the new info. “So?”

  “So, I think it might pertain to the case. What if she stole money from someone?”

  “From whom?” Harry asked.

  Bert licked her lips as she considered what she learned the day before. “Pastor Chimney mentioned donations were lower than ever this year.”

  The detective’s eyes widened. “You can’t be serious. You think the victim was stealing from the church?”

  “Maybe. Perhaps it was why she volunteered as the choir director? That would give her more time and access to the church.”

  “Are you suggesting that your pastor killed her?” he scoffed.

  “No, no, no. However, maybe Shay had gotten into some debt and needed to pay it off quickly,” Bert paused looking her boyfriend directly in the eye. “Maybe she didn’t get the money quickly enough.”

  Immediately, Harry put up both hands. “Hold on, hold on. This is just speculation.”

  “What else do we have to go on?” she insisted.

  “We have nothing to go on. I, on the other hand, have real evidence to go on. Fingerprints. An eyewitness. A motive.”

  He was talking about Gracie, Bert knew. With all the current findings in the case, it didn’t look good for the old woman. No matter how sad her backstory might be.

  “Besides. What you’re talking about are loan sharks. Illegal money lending with hitmen and cronies involved.” He shook his head adamantly. “That sort of thing happens way more in the movies than real life, and especially not in a smaller city like Culver’s Hood. Most of the time, murders happen over petty things like jealousy and money.”

  “But, Harry,” she tried to argue, sure there was something to be said for her theory.

  He patted Bert’s hand, pulling away. “I’m sorry, Bert, but things are what they are. Leave it be and try to enjoy your Christmas.” He stood up.

  “Your drink sir,” the barista said, handing him the mug.

  “Put it in a travel mug, will you?” he requested. Once he had his coffee, he was off, leaving Bert to wallow in her own thoughts.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Seeing as she had no other leads to go on, as well as having one irritated boyfriend, Bert tried to do as Harry said and forget about the murder case. Her concern for Gracie could only go so far. Heading back to her upstairs apartment above the shop, she distracted herself by looking over all the musical pieces for the upcoming concert while a black and white version of A Christmas Carol played on the TV in the background.

  She also kept a slice of her favorite pie of the season, chocolate pecan, nearby, nibbling on it bit by bit over the course of an hour. It really was delightful. All the usual fixings of the traditional pecan pie that everyone so loved, but with the added touch of dark chocolate. The crust was even made from a chocolate-chocolate cookie dough she’d created.

  They’d sold so many of those pies that month she’d lost count.

  As the day grew dark into a cold winter night, Bert left the sheet music in a pile on her coffee table and got ready for bed by soaking in the tub with a seasonal peppermint candy cane bath bomb that a loyal customer had gifted her. She also lit a few cinnamon candles, turned on some soft piano Christmas music and tried to relax.

  That night, she slept like a log.

  Arriving at the church the next morning, the folder of sheet music under her arm and a fresh pie in the other, she was excited to get into the spirit of things by rehearsing some of the best carols. She’d followed Harry’s advice to let the whole thing go and was feeling better about Christmas already.

  While she would be lying if she didn’t admit that Gracie’s pleas for help had struck a sympathetic chord with her—especially during this holiday season—she was also relieved to not be running around trying to solve a murder.

  She enjoyed sleuthing, that was true. However, during Christmas, it was no good.

  Sometimes, Bert felt as if she often took on responsibility for other people’s feelings and troubles when it really should be none of her worry. This year, she decided as she walked toward the church doors, she would only worry about herself and having a nice holiday.

  That included helping direct the choir.

  Just as she reached the door, a voice called out to her. “Oh, hello.”

  Turning, she noticed an older man who looked a tad familiar. “Hello?” she questioned, wondering if he was a member of the choir and just forgotten. However, that couldn’t be it. There weren’t as many men in the choir (it was always difficult to find men to volunteer to sing) and she knew each of the ones who’d been coming to practice personally.

  “Uhm, you go to church here?” he questioned.

  “Yes. I’m in charge of leading the choir this year,” she said, adjusting the weight of the pie box, deciding to set the sheet music folder on top and hold it with both hands. She didn’t want to drop it.

  “I saw there was a lot of commotion here the other day. Police and everything. Seemed crazy.”

  Bert sighed, not happy to have the murder brought up again. She’d hoped for a nice morning of Christmas carols, pie, and nothing else. “That’s true.” Glancing at the man’s features again, she suddenly remembered where she’d seen him. “Hey, you were the guy hanging lights outside your house the other day, right?”

  He smiled wide. “So, you remembered, huh?”

  “Yeah, you waved.”

  “And you waved back.”

  She laughed. “Actually, I only said Merry Christmas.”

  “That’s right,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and bobbing back and forth awkwardly. Could it be that he was flirting with her? Had he been waiting at his back window to spot her since he saw her last?

  “So, what happened? I watched the whole thing while I put up lights.”

  Bert wrinkled her forehead, realizing how important this info might be. Perhaps this man had seen something that could help the police. “Did you hear a pop noise that day?” she asked.

  The man paused, glancing up at the grey sky while trying to remember. “Well, sure. That’s nothing strange though. I mean, there are loading docks for a warehouse near here. When they open and close those bay doors, they can make a real loud noise.”

  “This would have been more like a gunshot,” she pointed out.

  He gasped. “A gunshot? Was somebody shot?”

  She nodded. “Did you hear anything?”

  “Maybe. Ju
st maybe. I did hear sort of a loud clicking noise.”

  Bert thought back to the short instance in the basement when she found the body and Gracie had thrown the gun down. It had an extra long round barrel. “Oh, my goodness. It was a silencer,” she proclaimed.

  “Huh?”

  “The gun had a silencer on it.”