Granny Smith Is Dead

by Chelsea Thomas

  Liz spent a minute stacking papers and clearing clutter from her desk, without speaking. I looked at Miss May. She shrugged. We waited. Then Liz entered a combination on a wall safe, tossed a few documents inside, and turned back to us.

  “Thank you for your patience. How can I help?”

  “What’s with the crazy safe?” Teeny asked.

  “You know I can’t tell you that, Teeny. Ongoing investigations. Detailed reports. High clearance stuff.”

  “That’s fine,” said Miss May. “We don’t need to know about all your ongoing investigations. But we have a question about one story you’re writing...”

  Liz sat back. “I’m writing dozens of stories.”

  “Right,” said Ms. May. “We’re wondering about that parking lot story you’ve been investigating.”

  Liz nodded. “That’s a big one. It will blow the lid right off the teakettle of this town. Intrigue, debauchery, corruption. It goes deep.”

  “Wait,” I said. “This is the one about the bar using too many parking spaces?”

  Liz interlocked her fingers. “That’s right. I’m afraid I can tell you more than that.”

  “I just have one question,” Miss May said.

  Liz turned up her palms, signaling for Miss May to continue.

  “You said you had a secret informant in that parking lot story, right? Someone told you what Murphy’s had been doing. That’s how you knew to write the story.”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

  “You already told us you had the informant,” Miss May said. “Mrs. Spiros told us, rather.”

  “Oh. Well... That’s all Mrs. Spiros can say on the matter.”

  “I know. You don’t want to reveal the identity of your source,” Miss May said. “I get that. Confidential informants are an integral part to the journalistic process. But this is important.”

  “A journalist never betrays her sources,” Liz stood. “I’m sorry. I took an oath.”

  “There’s no oath for journalists,” I said. “I’m sorry. It’s just, it’s a creed, and it’s not like the Hippocratic Oath, it’s more... I should stop. I’ll stop. Sorry. I’m being a know-it-all.”

  “It seems you do not know it all, Chelsea,” Liz said. “In addition to the Journalist’s Creed, to which I adhere, I also created a personal oath, which I’ve signed and notarized. I’m also a notary, so you know.”

  Liz crossed toward the door and opened it. “Please. I’ve got work to do.”

  “You want us to leave?” Teeny asked.

  Liz turned back. “That would be nice. Like I said. Deadlines.”

  Miss May stood. “OK. I thought you might be able to help us solve our first case with two killers. But I suppose the county news has better resources than you anyway. Maybe they can help and we can give them the story.”

  Liz narrowed her eyes. “Wait. This is about the Smith murders? I thought you got Ricardo for those.”

  Miss May shook her head. “Like I said. This case had two separate killers. We think.”

  I stepped forward. “But we need your help to confirm our suspicions.”

  Liz looked from me, to Teeny, to Miss May. The fate of our case hung heavy in the air. At last, Liz crossed the room and closed her blinds with a quick snap. “OK. I’ll tell you about my informant. But I get the exclusive?”

  Ms. May nodded. “You get the exclusive.”

  Liz took a deep breath. “My informant...was Granny Smith.”

  I gasped.

  “I know,” Liz said. “Dolores told me all about Murphy’s parking lot abuse. She had times, dates, photos. More intel than I needed. I would never reveal her identity if she were still alive, but since Granny Smith is dead, I’ll say it. The lady was a snitch.”

  Miss May nodded. “That’s what I was hoping you would say.”

  Liz looked confused. “Why?”

  Miss May turned to me. “Granny Smith snitched. What does that tell you?”

  I thought back over our investigation. My mind caught on that word.

  Snitch. Snitch. Snitch.

  Willow Alfonsi had use that word to describe Granny Smith.

  Beverly Brewster had used that word to describe Granny Smith.

  Then I recalled one other person who had used the word. He hadn’t mentioned Granny Smith by name, but he’d said “snitch” with an intense vitriol.

  Suddenly, I also knew who killed Granny Smith.

  I turned to Miss May. “Let’s get him.”

  45

  Parking Lot Pariah

  Once again, cars packed the parking lot outside Murphy’s Irish Pub. There was a big Murphy’s van in the corner, several beat up coups, and a few motorcycles.

  Miss May turned to me. “Ready to go inside?”

  “I’m ready,” I said. I wasn’t ready. I was never ready. But I went with a “fake-it-til-you-make-it” strategy, which so far had involved more faking it than making it.

  Angry, Irish punk music slapped us in the earholes as we entered. There were twenty to thirty big, bearded guys in the bar, pumping their fists and singing along to the raucous tunes. All the guys looked just like Jim and I assumed they were brothers or uncles or cousins.

  Miss May hovered near the coat rack and scanned the room. “Is Jim in here? They all look just like him. It’s like a Jim Murphy doppelgänger convention.”

  A big cheer erupted from the back of the room. I craned my neck to get a better look.

  “There he is. By the dartboard.”

  As we got closer, I saw that Jim had plastered a photo of Ricardo’s face over the dartboard. Jim stood about ten feet away. He threw a dart and landed it in the center of Ricardo’s forehead.

  Jim hoisted his fist above his head with a smile. “Twenty points! I win again.”

  “I wouldn’t celebrate just yet,” Miss May said.

  Jim spun around and saw us. He stumbled back. “Chelsea. Miss May. What are you two doing here? Back for another Guinness?”

  Miss May shook her head. “Not quite. What’s with the target practice?”

  “Oh that?” Jim let out a nervous half-chuckle. “That’s nothing. The bad guy is behind bars. So we’re celebrating!”

  I looked around. Three other big, bearded men nodded and muttered in agreement.

  “We always celebrate when bed people go to jail,” said one of the men.

  “Yeah. Jim lets us drink free,” said another.

  “It’s a wonderful tradition,” said a third.

  None of the Murphy lookalikes sounded genuine. But Jim jumped to confirm. “Exactly. What they said.” He extended a dart toward Miss May. “You should take a toss. You put the guy behind bars.”

  Miss May took the dart but she didn’t point it at the board. “Ricardo didn’t kill Granny Smith, Jim. You did.”

  Jim scoffed. “What, because of the parking lot? Yeah, everybody knew she reported that, but so what? I’m not killing an old lady just ‘cuz of a few parking spots.”

  “It wasn’t about the parking spots,” Miss May said. “Sure, that angered you. But that’s not why you killed her. You killed Granny Smith because she was the one who sent your dad to jail. She ratted him out to the cops, and she was the reason he died. Isn’t that right?”

  Jim snatched the dart back and hurled it at Ricardo. “That old lady was a rotten snitch! And she was wrong about my dad.” He turned back with a snarl. “He was innocent! I proved it, too. Six months after he died behind bars.” Jim’s face reddened, which was something considering his already ruddy complexion. “I was too late. He died serving time for a crime he didn’t commit. And she put him there.”

  “So she deserved what happened to her?” Miss May asked. “An eye for an eye?”

  A granny for a dad?

  “She killed my dad! And she ruined my life.” Jim yelled. “Do you know hard it was growing up in this bar without a dad? Without a single male role model?”

  One of the bearded guys crossed his arms. “Hey.”

  “Sor
ry, Uncle Chris. You tried,” Jim said. “Everyone thinks this town is this cute, wonderful place. Quaint coffee shop, cute little apple farm, nice Italian restaurants. But it’s dark inside this bar. Every day. Every night.”

  Jim hung his head. Miss May rested a hand on Jim’s back. “It’s OK, Jim. I understand. How about we keep this simple? Come down to the station with us. No karate. No handcuffs. I’ll drive you there myself.”

  Jim nodded. “OK. Let me say goodbye to the guys.”

  “Sure,” Miss May said.

  Jim crossed to the bar and turned off the music. Then he climbed up on a chair and called out. “Hey. Murphy men.”

  Every guy in the bar turned and looked at Jim. Woof. I guess they were related.

  Jim cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Scatter!”

  The doppelgängers erupted into chaos. They pushed over stools, flipped tables, threw table settings. And Jim took advantage of the mayhem. He jumped from the bar, into the sea of Irishmen, and immediately disappeared into the crowd.

  Miss May and I tried to follow but we couldn’t tell which bearded fellow was Jim.

  When I caught sight of the real Jim, he was already across the room and slipping out the back door.

  I pointed. “There he goes.”

  Miss May nodded. “Let’s go out the front. Head him off in the parking lot.”

  Miss May hurried out the front door. I darted after her, expecting to employ some serious karate to take down the burly, aggressive bartender.

  Instead, when we emerged from the bar, I saw Jim face down on the hood of a squad car. And Detective Wayne Hudson was tightening handcuffs on Jim’s wrists.

  I gasped. “Wayne.”

  “Oh. Hi Chelsea.” Wayne snapped the handcuffs into place as Jim struggled. “How about dinner this Thursday? Eight o’clock?”

  I stammered.

  Wayne laughed. “Sounds like a date. See you then.”

  Wayne smirked. Then he shoved Jim in the squad car, got in, and drove away.

  “I guess you lost the bet,” said Miss May.

  “No! We solved the case, not him,” I said. “I’m not obligated to go out with him next Thursday at 8 PM or any Thursday at any time!”

  Miss May chortled. “Whatever you say.”

  One of the bearded men poked their heads out of the bar. “Hey, where’s Jim?”

  Miss May and I exchanged a nervous. “We’ve got to run. Nice to meet you!”

  46

  Granny Smiths Galore

  The next weekend, Miss May, KP and I hosted a “Granny Smith Fest” at the farm. We held the event in memory of Granny Smith and Buster, a historic family whose lineage in Pine Grove had ended.

  The festival ran from 11 AM until 11 PM. We had cornhole. And we had apple-bobbing. We had music from Tom Gigley’s band, The Giggles. And, of course, we had food.

  As with most of our celebratory parties, Miss May and I spent much of the time answering questions about the investigation. Anyone who had a part in helping us solve the mystery stayed close by so they could describe their participation. Brian, Gigley, Beverly, and even Willow loitered around, retelling their big moments in the case.

  Of course, the townspeople had tons of questions about the quarry and finding the Buick. But whenever a query was directed at Big Dan he shrugged and repeated one simple phrase: “All I did was to press the panic button.”

  Miss May donated half of the proceeds from the party to the Daughters of the American Revolution, in honor of Granny Smith. And she made dozens of treats with our extra Granny Smith apples.

  It was a great way to use our apple surplus for a good cause, and each treat was more delicious than the last.

  Miss May cooked up Granny Smith Galettes and jarred tons of apple sauce. Big Dan made Granny Smith donuts, which were delicious. And the sleeper hit of the party was Teeny’s peanut butter and caramel dip, which perfectly complemented the tang of the sour apples.

  We sold out of the dip within the first two hours, but Teeny kept a reserve supply to set out for guests as they filtered in and out of the party.

  I approached Teeny as she set a fresh plate of apples and dip on a table. “This dip is awesome,” I said. “What’s the recipe?”

  Teeny smirked. “It’s a secret. But I’ll give you a hint...”

  I leaned forward.

  “It’s peanut butter and caramel.” Teeny tossed her head back and laughed.

  “Is that it?” I asked.

  Teeny shrugged. “There’s a secret ingredient, too. But that’s for me to know and for you to stay up at night thinking about.”

  “Please,” I said. “Tell me. It’s so good. You’re such a good dip maker. And you’re a great person. You’re a role model to me. Please tell me the recipe!”

  “Now you’re just peanut buttering me up,” Teeny said. “Besides. Every lady has her secrets, and this is mine. Well, one of many. I can’t remember most.”

  Teeny bounced away, gloating. I spotted Wendell sitting by himself, singing a song about sitting by himself. I approached and handed him a plate of Teeny’s dip with fresh slices of apple.

  “Hey Wendell.”

  He nodded.

  “I’m sorry about Granny Smith and Buster.”

  “Thanks. I didn’t have the best relationship with either of them... But I loved them.” I thought about all the complicated relationships I’d encountered recently. Miss May and Dee Dee. Willow and Aldo. Buster and Willow. Buster and Granny Smith. Wendell and Granny Smith. Me and Germany. Me and Wayne. Sometimes, love was ugly and twisted. But it was always worthwhile to love. I couldn’t explain exactly why, but I knew it was true.

  “If you ever need someone to talk to,” I said, “you come by the farm. OK?”

  “OK.” Wendell grabbed a slice of apple, dipped it, and took a big bite. He smiled. “This dip is incredible.”

  “Keep the plate,” I said. “And if I ever get the recipe, I’ll make sure I share it with you.”

  Wendell took another big bite, then another. I walked away as Beverly Brewster sidled up and sat down beside him. I wondered what the future held for their romance. Hard to say, but they seemed to love one another. Whatever that might mean.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I turned around. There was Wayne. Signature smirk on his face. Speaking of romance...

  “Hey Wayne,” I said.

  “I don’t have time for pleasantries,” Wayne said. “We have something important to talk about.”

  “The date?

  Wayne shook his head. “You should have called me before you went into that bar. You and Miss May could have gotten hurt. And I could have helped.”

  “We were following a hunch,” I said. “How did you end up at the bar, anyway?”

  “I was following three folders packed with evidence. Wiretaps. Proof of Jim Murphy’s plan to take over that parking lot.”

  “Hold on a second. You were there investigating the parking lot scandal? Not the murder?”

  Wayne shrugged and looked down.

  “I knew it! I won the bet! I solved the murder. You just happened to be there.”

  Wayne scratched his head. “I made the arrest.”

  “Sorry,” I smiled. “No date.”

  “Come on, Chelsea,” Wayne said. “It’s just dinner. Maybe some dancing, if your aunt puts on the right song.” Wayne smiled. It was a nice smile.

  I thought about it. Although I had once been enamored by Wayne, and his eyes, and his arms, and his hair, and OK, everything about him, he made me feel...like I wasn’t enough. Like I was always a little too short, in more ways than just my height.

  Maybe that wasn’t his fault, but still. Would going on a date with him shift our dynamic substantially?

  I opened my mouth to respond to Wayne when I heard a high-pitched barking.

  Woof! Woof!

  It sounded like a stuffed animal had entered the room and it had the squeakiest, cutest bark I’d ever heard.

  I turned aro
und. There was Germany Turtle. Holding a Cocker Spaniel puppy in his arms.

  I laughed. “Germany. Who is this?”

  “This is my new friend.” Germany scratched the puppy behind the ear. “He’s adorable, loyal and fun. He loves naps. And it would mean quite a lot to me if you would accept him as a gift. I know you love animals. And I’m happy to report this animal loves humans. He shows that love through licking and barking. It can be excessive, but I am sure one could train him to lick and bark less. I have named him Steve.”

  Wayne scoffed. “Who names a dog Steve?” He leaned down, lowering his voice to talk to Germany. “Look, no offense bud, but Chelsea and I were in the middle of something. So why don’t you take your little dog and go somewhere else?”

  I glared at Wayne. “Wayne. Don’t talk about Steve that way.”

  Germany grinned. “So you’ll take Steve? Mrs. Hercules donated him to the fire department along with the rest of Nacho’s litter. But nature has deformed Steve. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, one of his legs is shorter than the other three, therefore he is not fit to fight fires. It is my theory that the area where his normal-sized leg should be has been replaced by love. For Steve is the most loving, wonderful—”

  I stepped toward Germany and kissed him. Right on the lips.

  Sure, part of me just wanted him to stop talking. Maybe part of me wanted to prove a point to Wayne. But part of me was just charmed by Germany.

  He was a ridiculous human being. And he had no fashion sense. But who else would ever think to gift me a three and a half-legged puppy named Steve?

  As my lips met his, Germany held his hold body tense. Like a ruler. But then Steve jumped out of Germany’s arms, and Germany relaxed.

  “That’s better,” Germany said. “I was concerned if I returned your advance with the fervor I desired, I may have crushed small Steve. Puppy bones are softer than—”

  I kissed Germany again. That time, I definitely wanted him to stop talking. He kissed me back. I knew Wayne was right there. I knew the whole town was watching. I could hear Teeny hooting and hollering from across the barn.