Granny Smith Is Dead

by Chelsea Thomas

  “But everyone says you were his girlfriend,” I said, vomiting out the words before I could think of a way to phrase them.

  Willow scoffed. “We went on one date. And we split the check.”

  “Were you friends?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  Miss May sighed and rubbed her chin.

  “I’m serious.” Willow’s voice had an angry edge that grew sharper with each word she spoke.

  “I believe you,” Miss May said. “But I am curious about one thing. The other day...we saw you with Buster. Going into the tunnels.”

  Willow groaned. “He found out I like to paint down there. Yeah, sorry. I’m a vandal. Ruining our town by defacing an abandoned underground tunnel with my art.”

  “No judgment,” I said. “I love street art. I lived in Jersey City.”

  “Yeah. I can tell. You’re so hip, you ooze that Jersey cool.”

  I stammered. Willow was right. I was not hip. But it hurt to hear her say it out loud.

  “Anyway,” Willow said. “Once Buster knew I practiced painting in the tunnels, he started hanging out down there, waiting for me to show up. So he could get alone time with me. He was a creep.”

  “So you didn’t paint together?” Miss May asked.

  “No.” Willow’s voice was stern. “If he saw I had painted somewhere, he painted on the next wall over. Stupid happy faces. He was so persistent. Just like his horrible mom.”

  Miss May didn’t miss one second. “You knew Granny Smith?”

  Willow shook her head. “Aren’t the two of you detectives? Don’t you already know that Granny Smith called the cops on me all the time?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “She was terrible. That lady reported every drop of paint that left my can. And she reported me for stuff Buster did, too. To keep his name clear.”

  “Wow,” Miss May said. “We only knew about one arrest.”

  Willow laughed. “Yeah. The cops could only bring me for one stupid piece I did. The rest of the time Granny snitched in vain.”

  “How many times did she report you?” I asked.

  Willow counted on her fingers as she spoke. “She reported me for jay-walking. In Pine Grove. Another time she called the library and reported me for an overdue book. Not sure how she figured that out. She also reported me for recycling Styrofoam in town. I thought Styrofoam was recyclable, what can I say? I try to do my part for the earth. Do you want me to continue or do you get the picture?”

  “We get the picture,” Miss May said. “Granny Smith had it out for you.”

  “Yup. But why would I kill anyone over a library book or a crosswalk? She was annoying, but not like, I’m-gonna-murder-that-lady-annoying. More like, a mosquito, annoying.”

  I mumbled, “People kill mosquitoes.”

  “You know what I mean,” Willow said. “Granny Smith lady was a nuisance. That’s it. Buster was way worse.”

  Miss May looked over at me then back to Willow.

  “Did Buster... hurt you?”

  Willow groaned. “Oh man! No! Stop that. He was like a five-year-old boy. Excitable and running around and annoying.”

  “Like a mosquito?” I asked.

  “I didn’t kill Buster or his mom.” Willow shook her head. “Think about it. I wouldn’t be standing here talking to two famous local sleuths if I was guilty. I’d be halfway to Arkansas by now.”

  “What’s in Arkansas?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Whatever. I don’t know. Tall grass.”

  “She’s saying her openness with us is proof she’s innocent,” Miss May said.

  “Boom.” Willow crossed her arms. “Brian and Mr. Brian can be my character references. They knew Buster was creeping on me. Sometimes he’d just show up during my shift and like, stare at me helping customers.”

  “I believe you’re innocent,” Miss May said. “But I still need to know...where were you last night?”

  “Great,” Willow huffed. “Now I get more questions from the cops.”

  “We’re not the cops,” Miss May said.

  “I know you’re not.” Willow pointed behind us. “They are.”

  Wayne and Flanagan approached from the street, hands on their holsters.

  I attempted a smile but let out a nervous burp instead.

  Classy move, Chelsea. Classy Move.

  34

  The Un-Weeping Willow

  Miss May turned and greeted Wayne and Chief Flanagan with a smile. “Wayne. Chief Flanagan. So nice to see you.”

  Flanagan narrowed her eyes. “Uh-huh. What are you two doing here?”

  Miss May bounced down the front steps back toward the van. “Just chatting with Willow. Pie delivery. Boring stuff.”

  Flanagan stepped in Miss May’s path. “You’re still holding a pie, right there in your hand.”

  “Turns out Willow is a vegan,” I said with a helpful tone. “Doesn’t eat pie. At least not the way Miss May makes it. Her recipes emphasize butter. What did you call it, Willow?”

  “Butter crust pie. Disgusting.”

  “Right.” Miss May took another step toward the van.

  Flanagan once again blocked her path. “How did you know we would be here?”

  Miss May smiled. “Not sure what you’re talking about.”

  Flanagan laughed, more to herself than anyone else. “OK. See you around, I suppose.”

  Miss May opened the door to the van. It stuck a little, but she yanked it with immense force. “See you around, Chief.”

  “Oh Miss May?”

  Miss May looked back at Flanagan.

  “What do you think? Did Willow do it?”

  “No idea what you’re talking about. Ready, Chelsea?”

  “I’m ready.” I shot a quick look at Wayne. “Bye.”

  Miss May started the engine and gave two little honks as we drove away.

  I peeked at Flanagan and Wayne as they questioned Willow. I wondered if they would learn something we hadn’t. I hoped they wouldn’t.

  At some point, I realized, I had taken my wager with Wayne seriously. I wasn’t sure how I felt about going on a date with him. But I knew one thing... I did not want to lose.

  Especially because losing meant a killer might walk free.

  ——-

  When Miss May and I arrived at Peter’s Land and Sea twenty minutes later, Teeny had already been seated at our table and there was an egg and cheese sandwich waiting on each of our plates.

  I smiled when I saw the egg and cheese with my name on it.

  Teeny rubbed her hands together. “I knew you would be excited for that sandwich, Chelsea.”

  I sat down. “How can I not be? Petey’s eggs are... His eggs are...”

  “You don’t have the words to describe them, do you?”

  “I do, I’m just too hungry to think,” I said.

  Miss May took her jacket off and sat in the seat beside me. “We’ve talked about these eggs enough. What we need to do is discuss this case.”

  Teeny took a big bite. “OK. Did Willow do it?”

  Miss May looked around. “Can you keep it down, Teeny?”

  “Oh, these people don’t care,” Teeny said. “They’re so old they’ve been deaf since before Chelsea was born.”

  “That is ageist,” Miss May said. “But kind of funny.”

  “It’s funny. I’m hysterical.” Teeny leaned forward, her chin in her hands. “So. Hit me with some juice.”

  Over the next twenty minutes, Miss May and I told Teeny about what had happened at the Alfonsi house. We discussed Willow’s response to our questions. Miss May concluded that Willow was telling the truth. Then we explained that the cops showed up before we had a chance to see if Aldo was home.

  To be honest, the whole conversation was fruitless. Yes, Teeny said some funny stuff. And she suggested we hire a South African hitman to help solve the case “like from Blood and Bones.” Meanwhile I savored every ounce of my egg and cheese. But neither Miss May nor I knew how to proceed with the i
nvestigation. Willow was still a suspect, sure. So was her dad, Aldo. But neither had strong enough motive to kill. And Teeny was so hung up on Blood and Bones, her insight didn’t prove much help.

  Then I got a bite of egg and cheese sandwich that changed everything.

  I chewed for a full minute but couldn’t break down the food. So I spit the bite out onto my fork. Gross, I know. But I did my best to remain proper. Like how Queen Elizabeth might look if she spat food onto her fork.

  And then I saw it... a little piece of plastic folded up in my food. I sorted through the mushed-up bite with my hands, and Miss May halted the conversation.

  “Chelsea. What are you doing?”

  “There’s something in my food!”

  Teeny leaned over. “What the... That’s plastic! Oh no. That is not acceptable. Petey! Get over here. There’s plastic in Chelsea’s food!”

  Petey hurried over. “That’s impossible. I don’t use any plastic in my kitchen. Everything comes from the farm, arrives in a paper bag and goes straight into the food. After I wash it.”

  Teeny pointed out my gross egg bite. “Look for yourself.”

  “Yeah, that’s plastic.” Petey said. “That doesn’t look like food packaging, though. It looks like laminated paper.”

  I inspected the eggs. Petey was right. The plastic was a laminated piece of paper. “That’s odd.”

  I picked up the laminated piece of paper with my thumb and pointer finger and wiped it off. “You’re right. This is a note.”

  A cook emerged from the kitchen and yelled at Petey in Spanish. Petey shook his head, overwhelmed. “Is there anything else I can help you ladies with?”

  “You’re fine,” Miss May said. “Go.”

  “Good luck with your mystery.” Petey hurried away and argued with the angry cook.

  Miss May leaned in toward me. “So? What’s it say?”

  “It’s an address,” I said. “522 Juniper Drive. And the other side says, ‘3:15 pm. Be there.’ That’s in twenty minutes!”

  Miss May wiped her mouth and tossed her napkin on the table. “We better go. We’ll barely make it in time.”

  I nodded and led the way toward the front door, walking as fast as my stubby legs could take me. But when I burst out into the parking lot, I ran smack into Germany Turtle.

  “Chelsea. I sense you’re in a rush, but may I deliver a brief speech peppered with anecdotes, personal stories, and several jokes I stole from late-night television in the 80’s? I shouldn’t have told you that. The jokes are mine. All original.”

  I held up my hands to stop Germany. “Germany. I would love to hear your speech. It sounds ... unique. But I’ve got to go.”

  Germany hung his head. “Ah, yes. OK.”

  “Germany. This isn’t personal. We’re on the brink of a—”

  “It’s fine. I know how to receive a message of rejection from a beautiful woman. Please. It’s fine. Consider our date officially, formally cancelled. I will dine alone at The Little Broken Stick. Every Sunday night for the next six months. Lovely. I can’t wait.”

  Miss May pulled the VW around and screeched to a halt a few feet from where we stood. “Chelsea. We’re late!”

  “Germany, I... I’m sorry. Have a good day, OK?”

  “Not possible at this juncture but thank you for the customary well-wishes.”

  I jumped in the van and we sped away. Off to yet another mysterious rendezvous at a mysterious address.

  As we drove, my mind raced with questions.

  Was Germany really giving up on me?

  Who left that note in my sandwich?

  And why did they have to ruin a perfectly good egg and cheese?

  35

  Baklava and Backstabbing

  When we pulled up to the address on the laminated note, I double-checked the slip of paper to be sure we were at the right place.

  The building was one-story. Traditional bricks painted a stark Greek white with blue accents. And someone had painted the words Bob’s Kebabs above the main entrance along with a slogan: “No heartburn, guaranteed.”

  “Are you sure this is right?” Miss May asked.

  “This is address,” I said.

  “No heartburn, guaranteed,” Teeny said. “What a weird slogan.”

  “For real,” I said. “You know what else guarantees no heartburn? Don’t eat there in the first place.”

  Teeny chuckled. “Yeah. That’s like guaranteeing ‘we won’t food poison you.’ That’s nice, but it doesn’t put me in the mood to eat.”

  Miss May glanced out the window. “Bad marketing aside, why do you think someone asked to meet us here?”

  “Ooooh good question,” Teeny said. “What if it was the killer? Luring us here to kill us?”

  I shrugged. “That’s possible, although a Greek restaurant seems an odd place to snuff out your enemies. Still... The closer you get to the truth, the more dangerous your life becomes.”

  “That’s why I always travel with a karate expert,” Teeny said. “And if things get real bad, I can hide behind Miss May.”

  Miss May shook her head, chuckling. “Glad my girth will come in handy for something.”

  “But hold on,” I said, as the weight of the situation settled in my gut. “Do you guys seriously think the killer could have written that note? What if...the killer is Bob from Bob’s Kebabs?”

  Miss May shook her head. “You think he kills people with his kebab sticks?”

  “Maybe he’s like Sweeney Todd! Kills people, then serves them to his guests at the restaurant!” Teeny covered her mouth. “That’s disgusting. I take it back.”

  “Are we going inside or not?” I asked.

  Miss May shrugged. “Might as well.”

  ——

  Bob’s Kebabs was a long, narrow restaurant decorated like a fast food place. Plastic booths lined either wall with an aisle between. Except for a lone woman sitting in the back booth, the place was empty.

  A burly cashier called to us from behind the counter. “Seat yourself, ladies. This isn’t a Michelin star restaurant.” The man had a thick Greek accent, which pleased me. I assumed he had moved up to the suburbs from New York City, where there were still several booming Greek neighborhoods.

  The woman in the corner called out to us, also in a Greek accident. “They’re with me with me, Nikolai. Good people.”

  Nikolai jerked his head toward the woman. “Go. Sit.”

  I gave the woman a once over. She appeared to be in her fifties. Wearing a patterned shawl around her head and sunglasses. Odd. Why had this woman invited us to Bob’s Kebabs? And what was with the sunglasses? We walked toward her, one careful step at a time, but the woman waved us forward with an impatient flick of her wrist.

  “It’s OK, it’s OK,” the woman said. “I do not bite, girls. My dog has bitten many people. He is fierce. Protector. He bites so I do not have to.”

  I stopped walking. “Is your dog here now?”

  The woman laughed. “No. Please. Sit.”

  Teeny, Miss May, and I squeezed into the same side of the booth across from the woman.

  A waitress approached. She had no trace of an accent, just a perky smile and a lilting voice. “Hi! What can I get you?”

  I flipped open my menu but the woman in the shawl smacked it closed. “Greek pastry for the table. Thank you, Christina. University next year?”

  The girl beamed. “Yep, I’m a senior.”

  “So good. Happy to hear it. You know your first choice yet?”

  “No,” Christina said. “But I want to stay within a few hours of home. I don’t want to go too far from family.”

  “So cute. Yes. Stay with family,” the woman said. “Family time is meaning of life.”

  The girl nodded. “Anything else, Mrs. Spiros?”

  “That is all for now. Good girl.”

  The waitress hurried away. The Greek woman lowered her shawl and removed her sunglasses. I laughed when I saw who it was.

  “Liz!?”

>   That’s right. It was the editor of the Pine Grove Gazette in a full disguise, with an accent to match.

  Liz smirked and maintained her accent. “Please. I am Mrs. Spiros. I come here from Greece five years ago. And I know nothing of Pine Grove Gazette.”

  Teeny laughed, too. “Girl, you are crazy.”

  “You call it crazy, I call it necessary precaution in dangerous profession of journalism.” Liz leaned in, using her normal voice. “I have a secret identity at every ethnic restaurant in the area. Italian, Chinese, Mexican. And I’m Faith Featherwood at the organic supermarket.”

  Miss May’s jaw dropped. “You’re Faith Featherwood?”

  Liz nodded. “I’ve bagged your groceries several times. I helped to get your apples carried in the fresh produce section.”

  “I’m still confused,” I said. “Why do you do this?” And is it extremely culturally insensitive?

  Liz looked both ways to make sure the coast was clear. Then she leaned in again. “I hang around all the most popular spots in the county. My identities are anonymous. They allow me to listen and ask questions I could never get away with as a journalist. I keep my ears open for big stories, and it pays off. I was sitting in this exact booth, in fact, when I found out about the scandal going on with parking lot at Murphy’s.”

  “Whatever happened with that?” I asked.

  “It’s an ongoing investigation. That’s all I can say on that matter.”

  The teenage waitress returned carrying a large white plate, dotted with Greek pastries.

  OK, I’ll admit it. I gawked at those pastries like a teenager would gawk at her first crush. But they were crush-worthy pastries. Flaky. Gooey. Delicate yet hearty. I couldn’t help myself.

  “Wow. What are those?” I leaned in and took a smell. “Honey. And pistachios? Almond?”

  Christina nodded. “Yeah. Good nose! You’re right about all of those things. My favorite is the baklava in the middle. That one is ‘borma.’”

  The girl pointed at a cylindrical treat in the center of the plate. It was about one inch long and one inch wide. The outer edge was built from thin wisps of dough and the inside was stuffed with nuts. It looked like the whole thing was held together with a honey glaze.