by Krista Davis
“No wonder this is your favorite. It’s delicious!”
She sipped her tea. “Isn’t chocolate marvelous? It’s perfect any time of year and for any occasion.” She gazed at me. “Are you looking into Grainger’s death?”
I plunged a bite of pie into my mouth to buy time to think. Should I admit it?
“That was a silly question,” she said. “You wouldn’t have been in the alley otherwise.”
She reached across the table and rested her hand on top of mine. “Nellie didn’t murder Grainger.”
I couldn’t have been more surprised if she had thrown the pie in my face.
She pulled her hand back. “I’m so relieved that someone is finally trying to help that poor girl. She’s not one of my children, but she was almost a member of our family. I lie awake at night thinking about her.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m not a genius or anyone special, but I have a feel for people. I understand character. Not only didn’t Nellie have a reason to kill Grainger, but she didn’t have it in her. She’s not that kind of person.”
I’d heard that before. Anyone could be pushed over the edge if the circumstances were right. Like in self-defense, for instance. I didn’t tell her that, though. I wanted her to keep talking.
“I noticed a faint scent of bleach when I walked in. As I recall, at the trial it was argued that the smell of bleach meant the killer had bleached the knife.”
“Uttered by someone who isn’t in the restaurant business. I guess most people come in when the ovens are on and scents of cinnamon or apples fill the air. But when we shut down at night, this place gets a thorough cleaning.”
“What was going on in Grainger’s life at that time?”
“He was negotiating to do a show. One of those reality things. They were going to call it Star-Spangled Pies and base it here at the restaurant. I remember Grainger telling me we had the perfect cast. His father was the crazy old man yelling all the time and wanting to fire people on a whim. His long-suffering mother—those were his words, not mine—and sweet Nellie would be in the back of the house, complaining about the old man. Nellie and Grainger’s wedding would be one episode. I thought it was a great idea. If my husband saw how he looked when he wigged out, maybe he would tone it down. And his outbursts would be somehow easier for us to take if they were on film. We could justify everything he did as drama for the show.”
“And how did your husband feel about that?”
“The Sergeant was vehemently against it.”
“So he and Grainger were fighting about it?”
Her nostrils flared and she exhaled. “I loved my husband once and in some ways I suppose I still do. I loathe his outbursts. He won’t get counseling, and he doesn’t appear to grasp that his behavior is wrong. I know people chalk it up to his time in the military, but that’s not the cause. He grew up with a father who was a bully. It’s what he saw and learned as a child.”
Martha paused and stared at her fork. “His brother was murdered at the age of eighteen. Even my husband believed that his father was guilty. But the case was never solved.”
I stared at her, trying to comprehend their situation. It finally dawned on me why she was telling me all this. Even though we were alone, I whispered, “You think your husband murdered Grainger?”
Martha didn’t burst into tears, as I expected. She drew herself up straight. “You can’t tell anyone. He would kill me if he knew what I was saying to you right now. And I don’t mean that in the trite sense of the phrase.”
“Where is he?” I asked, worried that he might return.
“Playing golf with buddies. He won’t be back for hours.”
“But I’m under the impression that the killer was a baker. Or at least someone who could bake a strawberry-rhubarb pie.”
“It would have been very easy for him. He had access to everything he needed, except the poisonous leaves, right here in the restaurant. My husband may be loud and bossy, but he’s capable of baking a pie.”
“Was your husband ever a suspect in Grainger’s death?”
“I don’t believe so. The investigator, Kenner, treated him with utmost respect.”
“He would. They’re the same type. Weren’t you home with your husband that night? You would have known if he had gone out.”
“Our daughter Matilda had just given birth to her first child. I was staying with her to give her a hand.”
“So he definitely had the opportunity. But would he really have murdered Grainger over a TV show?”
A sigh rippled out of her mouth. “There was a confrontation between my husband and our youngest son, Logan. He’d been working at the restaurant as a waiter and he loathed it.”
“Logan is the artist?”
“Yes.” A smile flickered on her lips. “The Sergeant doesn’t think much of art as a career. Logan announced that he was quitting his job here and there was a confrontation between him and his father. Grainger stood up for Logan. I was so proud of him for that. Logan stormed out with Grainger protecting him. Logan and his dad haven’t spoken a word since.”
“But Logan is wildly successful! People talk about his paintings all the time.”
“Isn’t it wonderful? The Sergeant still talks about his art as trash.”
“But that’s not a reason to murder Grainger. I understand he disliked Nellie? Would he have framed her?”
“Poor Nellie. Do you know her? She’s kind and sweet and I would have been proud to have her as a daughter-in-law. But my husband had this strange notion in his head that she was beneath Grainger. I never understood it. We didn’t come from fancy families. Sometimes I wonder if he feels the restaurant escalated him to a higher social position. Did he think of it as Grainger, the co-owner, marrying an employee? For heaven’s sake, Grainger started out as a pastry chef himself working on little more than a pie assembly line at Apex Pie! What kind of insanity would it be to imagine we were something special?”
Martha toyed with her piecrust. “I have thought about this for a long time. Now that our daughters and sons aren’t children anymore, I fear that he sees them as rivals for his position of authority. Isn’t that awful of me to imagine? It’s a bit Shakespearean. The Sergeant has been bossing people around for so long that he doesn’t know how to accept them graciously and concede that they are capable adults. Our lovely children have scattered and done as they please. They are all slowly being disowned by him.”
It was incredibly rude of me and I knew it. But I couldn’t help asking, “Why do you stay with him?”
“He’s ill. Physically ill. If I left, he wouldn’t have anyone to help him through what will likely be the biggest challenge of his life. What kind of heartless person would I be to leave him when he needs me most?”
She was a complicated person. Or maybe she had too many allegiances with her big family and always put herself last?
“By the way, it’s not known that the Sergeant is not well. Please keep that under your hat.”
“I will.” No one needed to know that. “But I’m a little confused. I understand that he’s sick and you feel the need to stand by him through his illness, which may actually qualify you for sainthood, but you’re okay with telling me you’re afraid he killed Grainger?”
“Grainger may be dead, but I’m still his mother. Even if the Sergeant murdered him, the truth, no matter how hard it is to accept, must come out. I owe that to Grainger. And I owe more to Nellie, who has wasted five years of her life in prison for someone else’s crime. No matter what the outcome of the Sergeant’s illness, the fact that he is sick doesn’t diminish the need to right the situation for Nellie. She has a long life ahead of her and deserves to live with joy and freedom.”
I thanked Martha for the tea and pie.
She walked to the door with me. “I’m glad you came by, Sophie. I was able to relieve a lot of burdens that have troubled me. I’m counting on you to set everything straight. But I’m sure you understand—we did not meet here today. We have not spoken, and w
e don’t know each other, except through the Hope gala.”
I gave her a hug and told her my address. “In case you need anything.”
I walked across the silent patio, out the gate, and felt safer once I had exited the alley and was on the sidewalk again. I couldn’t help glancing around to be sure the Sergeant wasn’t watching. I didn’t see him anywhere.
I walked home slowly, trying to make sense of everything Martha had told me. It all boiled down to proving that the Sergeant murdered his own son. The mere thought turned my stomach. But how could I prove that? The only things I could think of were witnesses and that elusive knife. I wished I had asked Martha about the knife.
Witnesses were going to be next to impossible to find. Where had I been on that fateful night five years ago? I didn’t have the first clue, except for the fact that I was usually home in bed at five in the morning.
Chapter 20
Dear Sophie,
I have such problems transferring my pie dough to the pie pan. It always breaks or falls apart!
Pie Klutz in Blueberry, Wisconsin
Dear Pie Klutz,
Roll the dough out between two sheets of parchment or wax paper. Gently roll it (with paper) over your rolling pin, removing the back sheet of paper. Unroll it in the pie pan and remove the top sheet of paper.
Sophie
As I neared my house, I could see someone rushing toward my kitchen door. Natasha?
She knocked and peered in the window. Apparently impatient, she knocked again. “Sophie!”
“I’m coming,” I called, picking up my speed.
She walked out to meet me, looking positively radiant. “We have to talk,” she trilled.
I unlocked the door and greeted Mochie and Daisy. Natasha ignored them. It was beyond me how she could be blind to their enthusiasm. Daisy waggled from end to end, ready to kiss us, and Mochie head-butted my hand repeatedly.
Natasha couldn’t stop smiling. “Sophie, I’m about to pop. I just have to share the news with my best friend.”
She squealed like an excited teenager. “The most wonderful thing has happened to me. My dreams are finally coming true. Peter Presley has offered to be my manager. He already set up the pie bake-off with Tommy Earl to be featured on a national network! I’m so excited I can hardly breathe. He’s the one who catapulted Patsy Lee to stardom.”
I didn’t want to burst her bubble by mentioning that Tommy Earl had suspected as much. “You signed a contract with Peter?”
“I did!” She clasped her hands together under her chin. “Can you imagine, he thinks I’m too beautiful! I need to tone it down. He took me clothes shopping this morning. My brand is going to be Upscale Country Gal.” She raised her hands and drew them apart in the air as though she was imagining a banner. “Your meemaw’s dishes, only better.”
I hardly knew what to say. But Peter had made a star out of Patsy Lee, so maybe he could do the same for Natasha. “I’m so happy for you.”
I meant it, too. Natasha had been casting about for a long time, trying to find her way to stardom. It was time she caught a break. And if everyone could be believed, Patsy hadn’t been much of a cook or a baker, so it didn’t matter how Natasha cooked. She had a stubborn streak, though. I hoped Peter was used to dealing with divas.
“I had to share with you. You’ve always been there for me, Sophie. And now you’re not even jealous that I’ll be famous and you’ll still be stuck in this horrible old kitchen, plugging away at a boring and unfulfilling job.” She gasped. “Maybe I can hire you to be part of my entourage. Peter is bringing Brock on board. I’m sure we could find a place for you to do something. Maybe you could make travel arrangements for us.”
That was Natasha. She would probably get worse as her career took off. “Thank you for the offer. But I’m quite happy with my unfulfilling job.”
“Now don’t you worry, Sophie. Even when I’m rich and famous, I’ll still remember you. I’ll have Brock send you fruit baskets at the holidays.” She tossed her hair and placed a hand on the base of her neck. “Peter is just so sweet. He’s not my type, but I could fall for a guy like him. You know what he said? He told me, ‘Now that Patsy Lee is a star in the sky, there’s room for another star on earth.’” She rubbed under her eye with the back of her finger.
Was she tearing up?
“Isn’t that the most lovely sentiment you’ve ever heard?”
Why did I suspect that Peter was more interested in money and flattering Natasha so she would become his next Patsy Lee? “So what does an Upscale Country Gal wear?” I asked.
“You should see the clothes he bought me. Jeans, of course. Every country girl wears them. But I wear them tucked into boots with a long white shirt and a tweed blazer. It’s the ultimate in casual sophistication. That’s actually one of the reasons I came over. The bake-off is tomorrow at the Belmont Hotel. Would you come?”
“Absolutely. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Natasha tilted her head and reached out her arms toward me. “Thank you for being so supportive. Now I’m off to re-create my nanny’s coconut cream pie by adding avocado.”
I was used to Natasha’s modern-ingredient combinations. A lot of them didn’t appeal to me, but I had decided I shouldn’t be closed-minded about them. I couldn’t think of a single pie that would be improved by avocado in it, but I smiled to be encouraging. I closed the door behind her, wondering if Peter had figured out yet that he had a lot of work to do before Natasha would be ready for prime time.
* * *
The next morning I took my tea out in the backyard and enjoyed the cool morning air. Daisy roamed my yard frantically, her nose to the grass like she was following tracks. I couldn’t see anything, but her dog nose was on the trail of something. Probably a squirrel.
While she had fun, I thought about the Gibbard family. It had taken a lot of courage for Martha to speak so openly. Would I have had the courage to do that? Maybe, if someone had killed my child or my sibling. I wondered if other family members suspected the Sergeant as well but remained silent about it.
After lunch, Nina and I walked over to the Belmont Hotel. A crowd had already assembled to watch the show being taped. There was a buzz in the air, as if something exciting was about to happen.
Television cameras were present to record every minute. It wasn’t live, so I guessed some of it would end up on the cutting-room floor. I hoped all would go well.
Natasha was dressed in her new Upscale Country Gal outfit. I was wearing a sleeveless dress and would have wilted in jeans, boots, and a blazer. The stage lights were hot enough to make Tommy Earl sweat. I had no idea how Natasha managed to stay cool.
Wong chatted with Tommy Earl. I knew for whom she would be cheering.
I stopped by to wish him luck.
“Thanks, Sophie. I’m looking forward to this.” Tommy Earl rubbed his hands and chuckled evilly.
I eyed Wong. “You’re in uniform? Are you expecting trouble?”
Wong yawned. “Everyone’s working overtime right now. I’m bushed.” She winked at me. “But the hotel is on my beat, so I thought I should make sure everyone was safe.”
“Well, thank goodness for that!” I teased.
“Don’t worry. As soon as they start baking I’ll be back out on the street.”
I left the two of them and hurried over to Natasha. “It’s hot in here. Maybe you should take off the blazer? I’ve never seen anyone cook in tweed.”
Natasha patted me on the shoulder. “And that, Sophie, is why I am here about to go on camera, and you are not.”
Okay, fine. Maybe it was a good thing that her impending stardom hadn’t changed her. There was a certain comfort in things staying the same.
A man with a wonderfully deep voice was acting as the announcer. He reminded me of a game show host and was busy engaging the crowd that had gathered to watch the show. Next to him a young woman held up cue cards telling the audience when to applaud.
I stood in the wings with
Nina and Peter and watched, fascinated by the whole thing and more than a little bit relieved that it wasn’t me who was up against Tommy Earl.
Brock walked up to Peter. In a calm voice he said, “The third judge’s plane hasn’t landed.”
Things like that happened to me all the time in my job as an event planner. You had to go with the flow and do the best you could.
Peter looked around and nabbed Nina. “You’re our third judge.” To Brock, he said, “Introduce her as an experienced pie contest judge.”
Nina beamed. “Don’t I need some makeup?”
Peter peered at her and called over a makeup artist.
Before I knew it, Nina was in a seat next to Willa and a woman was dabbing concealer on her face.
I hurried over to Brock, eager to ask him some questions. “I’m glad to see you landed on your feet after Patsy Lee’s death.”
“It was a lucky break. I hardly know Peter because I didn’t work for Patsy Lee until after the divorce, but she must have said good things about me. Patsy Lee, for all her faults, was a class act in many ways.”
“Faults?”
“Aw, come on. Everyone has weaknesses. Peter said he appreciated my discretion. I’m not one to blab on social media.”
“A very valuable trait, especially these days when every misstep goes viral in an instant.”
“Hey, Sophie, have the cops interviewed you about Patsy Lee?” Brock asked.
“I wouldn’t have called it an interview, but Wolf asked me what I saw.”
“They’re on my back because I brought her the coffee. I get it. I had plenty of time to monkey with her drink. The thing is, I didn’t. I can’t understand how a drink that I brought to her could have been poisoned. It went from the person at Moos and Brews, into my possession, and straight to Patsy Lee. I know I didn’t poison it, so when could it have happened?”
“Do you think she might have done it herself? Was she in the habit of taking caffeine for an energy boost?”
“Patsy Lee was definitely a coffeeholic. No question about that. Four cups a day was the norm for her. But I never saw her add a powder or anything to her coffee. I knew how she took it and made sure it was perfect every time, with just the right amount of milk, no sugar.”