Visit www.rubyblaylock.com for my other books and to sign up for my newsletter. I'll let you know when new books are coming out and let you know how you can get my books for the lowest price possible.
I would like to dedicate this particular story to the women in my life who have always known that a good pie is worth its weight in gold and a bottomless, almost magical purse can be exactly what you need to solve all of life's little problems. You know who you are...
Visit www.rubyblaylock.com for my other books and to sign up for my newsletter. I'll let you know when new books are coming out and let you know how you can get my books for the lowest price possible.
I would like to dedicate this particular story to the women in my life who have always known that a good pie is worth its weight in gold and a bottomless, almost magical purse can be exactly what you need to solve all of life's little problems. You know who you are...
1
Bessie May Purdy reckoned that she may not know a lot about some things in life, but she was positive that she knew how to make a perfect pecan pie. She smiled smugly to herself as her grandson, Devon, pulled her car to stop outside the Annual Coopersville County Fair.
They parked in a smooth, grassy field just outside the collection of tents and roped off areas set aside for the fair. She cradled her baked delicacy like a newborn baby, anxious that it might get bumped or even worse--dropped--before she could get it to the judge’s table.
Mighty fine looking pie you got there, Miss Purdy, called the man at the admissions gate. I reckon you’ll be entering the bank’s Perfect Pie contest?
Bessie gave him a nod and a wink. And I’ll be winning that contest, too.
She turned to her grandson, who held a long red leash that was attached to a friendly, fluffy dog. Karma was, as far as she could tell, some sort of German Shepherd mix, and smart as a whip, too.
Devon, are you sure you’ll be alright wandering around here on your own?
Devon rolled his eyes. Yes, Grandma Bessie. I’ve got my phone if you need me, and I’ll just be killing some time before I take Karma here over to the dog show. I may need some help carrying that big old first place prize we’re going to win, he added with a grin, but other than that, I’m good. He looked around at the crowd, then smiled. I think I see some kids from school over there. I’m gonna go talk to them, okay?
He was gone before she could reply, but Bessie knew that her grandson would be fine. After all, he’d grown up in New York City, not in the tiny South Carolina town that she grew up in. He was streetwise and smart, and he had a very clever dog to protect him.
Bessie went in the opposite direction, towards the tent where the food judging events would be held. Pies were first, which she thought she had a most excellent chance of winning with her Blue Ribbon, Perfectly Perfect Pecan Pie. Of course, she wouldn’t call it that on the entry form. ‘Purdy’s Perfect Pecan Pie’ was slightly more humble, she reckoned.
Later on, jams and jellies, barbecue, and cakes would be judged on their finer qualities, but this fine August morning, it was the perfect pie that mattered most. Bessie had entered and won the contest a handful of times over the years, but this year was different. This year's prize was cash and the opportunity to be interviewed by the newspaper. Bessie thought that winning would provide the perfect opportunity to showcase her baking skills and maybe even drum up some publicity for Rosewood Place, the inn that she ran with her daughter, Annie.
The judging tent was long and white, lined on one side with some folding tables and chairs for the judges and a few folding chairs on the opposite side for the spectators. Bessie found her spot on the table, marked by an index card with her name and the pie’s details printed neatly on it. She placed the pie carefully beside the card, noting that there were already several others on the table, too.
Bessie scanned the other cards on the table, trying to gauge her competition. A few names sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t put a face to them. Their pies didn’t seem all that exciting. There were, predictably, several apple pies and one banana cream pie--a big mistake in this late August heat, she noted. One of the apple pies was burned around the edges, a sign of an amateur, for sure. Another had collapsed slightly in the middle, giving it a decidedly lopsided appearance. Then there was a peach pie that looked pretty, but that smelled slightly of soured milk.
All in all, Bessie fancied her chances fairly well. She adjusted her pie so it sat neatly behind her card, then reached into her purse and pulled out a plastic zipper bag, gallon-sized. From the bag, she removed one small, bright green parasol that was missing its pole. She opened the tiny umbrella and placed it over her pie, protecting it neatly without touching it in the slightest.
Satisfied that her perfect pie was perfectly protected, Bessie turned to leave the tent, hoping to grab herself a nice, hot funnel cake before the judging began. She almost bumped into the woman standing behind her, nearly upending the woman’s own entry to the contest.
Excuse me, the woman bellowed. Bessie blushed.
I’m so sorry, she said sincerely, I hope I didn’t damage your pie.
The woman, who glared at Bessie through heavily mascaraed eyelashes, glanced at the pie, then back at Bessie. It doesn’t appear to be damaged, thank you. She took a deep breath, then cleared her throat. "Are you
entering the contest, too?" She placed her pie beside a card that read Dianne Masterson. Bessie thought the name sounded familiar, but the reason why eluded her.
Dianne appeared to be somewhere near Bessie’s own age of seventy, give or take five years. However, her makeup looked as though it should have been worn by someone half that age. She’s trying too hard to impress, Bessie noted and smiled back politely.
I am. My name is Bessie Purdy and I’ve brought my favorite pecan pie for today’s competition. My husband used to love it, God rest his soul.
The other woman softened just a little. Widowed, too? My husband’s been dead nearly ten years now. I reckon places like this are the only occasions when somebody but me gets to enjoy my cooking, she said with a sigh. No children, she explained.
Bessie wasn’t sure how to respond to the woman’s statement, so she commented on the next most reliable thing to talk about in the south. Isn’t this heat awful? I do hope it doesn’t spoil some of these pies before the judges get to try them.
Well, I just saw the gal from the bank outside talking to somebody. You know, it’s the bank staff that is doing the judging today.
Oh?
Mm-hmm. Advantage First Financial--I’ve been banking with them for years. Good people. Helped me when my husband died, you know, sorting out his estate and everything.
Bessie nodded. I know them. I don’t bank there, but I’ve heard good things. Truthfully, Bessie realized that this was a bald-faced lie. She’d tried to open an account there once, a loan, to be specific, when she and her daughter, Annie, had first opened their inn. The bank manager--some bozo named Reed--had been so rude to her that she didn’t bother staying for the entire loan application process. The memory left a bitter taste in her mouth, like an unripened pear or a burnt cup of coffee.
Dianne glanced at her watch. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I really need to go visit the ladies before they get started. And I think they’ll be starting soon, she said, pointing to two people with nametags on who’d just entered the far side of the tent.
Bessie watched as Dianne disappeared through the open door of the tent. A slight breeze wafted in, bringing with it the sweet, fatty scent of frying dough and powdered sugar. She glanced at the scant few chairs scattered around the tent. The one closest to the opening wouldn’t be empty for long, and she didn’t want to miss any of the contest. With a sigh, Bessie resigned herself to waiting
for her funnel cake, and she waited patiently for the judges to finish arriving.
2
Bessie was pleasantly surprised when Devon arrived a few minutes later carrying a plate that practically overflowed with the delectable fried batter that Bessie had been craving so badly. The mother of all funnel cakes, this one was loaded with ice cream, strawberries, blueberries, whipped cream, and chocolate syrup. A cherry topped the goliath dessert, and Bessie’s eyes watered as he knelt beside her.
You didn’t have to do that, she scolded him gently.
Well, I couldn’t eat all this by myself. And besides, I want to be here when you win that grand prize. What is it again?
Two hundred dollars, she breathed. Oh, I’m so nervous, I don’t know what to do with myself. She grabbed one of the two plastic forks sticking out of the dessert and scooped up some ice cream. In the heat, it was already turning the bottom of the paper plate into a messy vanilla lake.
Didn’t you want to spend time with your school friends?
Devon blushed. They wanted to ride these lame rides. I can’t exactly take Karma on the Zippity Doo or the Brain Scrambler now, can I?
You want to leave him with me until the dog show? Bessie passed the dog a piece of funnel cake. It disappeared without a trace.
Um, no offense, but if I leave him with you, you’ll feed him ‘til he pops. He’ll be no good for the talent portion of the dog show, Devon explained, wiping whipped cream from the dog’s whiskers.
Bessie paused her own fork midway to her mouth. "I’d better stop eating this or I’ll pop, she said, but she put the fork in her mouth anyway. Last bite," she mumbled around the food.
The crowd around them--about forty people, she guessed--hushed themselves as someone tapped on the microphone.
Is this thing on? a voice joked, and nervous laughter tittered throughout the tent.
Bessie dropped her fork onto the plate and wiped her hands on a napkin. She smoothed her snow-white hair, which was pulled back in a practical bun, and swiped at the legs of her denim capris.
This is it, she whispered, moving herself to the edge of her seat.
Welcome, welcome, the voice continued. Bessie knew it from somewhere, she was sure of it, but she couldn’t see past the people standing at the front of the crowd.
In a moment, we’ll be tasting these fine pies, made right here in Coopersville from some of our very own residents. I know I’m looking forward to that, aren’t you guys? A chorus of agreement came from the audience.
Well, now, before we begin, let me remind you of the way this year’s competition works. This year's prizes are better than ever before, particularly the grand prize. The best pie on this table will earn its maker a cool two hundred dollars. Oohs and aahs from the audience, then he spoke again. Our second and third place pies will each receive fifty dollar gift cards to the local Piggly Wiggly grocery store.
Bessie didn’t shop at the Piggly Wiggly. It was in the neighboring town and seemed too far to bother with when Coopersville had its own small grocery store downtown. Still, she supposed some people in the audience must shop there because they all cheered at the announcement.
Now, I’d like to try something else a little different this year, if you will. Please, can I have all the contestants come and stand beside your pie? Just make a nice, orderly line along that side of the table, and we’ll stay back here to do the tasting.
Bessie’s stomach did a flip flop. Oh, well, this is different. She gave Devon a nervous grin before making her way through the small crowd. She spotted her pie, still covered, long before she reached the table.
There were, in total, eleven pies for the judges to taste. A young woman in a short skirt and sleeveless blouse walked along the judging side of the table and deposited five plastic forks--one for each judge--beside every pie. She smiled at Bessie as she lifted the bright green parasol that sheltered Bessie’s precious pecan pie.
That looks so good, the young woman confided quietly, then she moved on to the next pie and put down more plastic flatware.
After what felt like forever, but was probably only a few minutes, the judges began making their way down the table. Each took a forkful of pie from one section of each pie and ate it, making notes on little notepads as they passed. The first judge to reach Bessie’s pie frowned. She cocked her head to one side, her fork poised to pierce
the pecan filling.
It seems almost a shame to eat it--it looks so pretty. How’d you get that cute little lattice design on the edge of the crust?
Bessie smiled. Patience and a lot of extra pastry dough, she confided. She watched as one after another, the judges all tasted her pie. Every single one of them smiled in delight and a few took two bites. The last judge approached with his fork poised, ready to scoop up a hefty bite.
It took only a moment for Bessie to realize that the man about to lay judgment on her best pie was the same man--the bank manager--who had been so unbearably rude to her at the bank when she’d applied for a loan. He took a quick glance at her card, then looked her in the eyes.
Perfect Pecan? Quite the alliterative claim there, Mrs. Purdy, he said. If he remembered her, she couldn’t be sure. Still, when she saw the upturn at the corners of his mouth, the way his eyes closed involuntarily, and the way he breathed in every last crumb on his fork, Bessie knew her claim was an accurate one.
Wordlessly, Frank Reed moved along to the next pie, and Bessie let out a breath that she didn’t know she’d been holding. She tried to look at the other pies while she waited for the judges to finish, but she didn’t want to seem too obvious. Her eyes slid down the table to where Dianne was standing. Bessie noticed that the woman’s pie had a very dry-looking crust. Her suspicions were confirmed when the first judge tried to scoop out a bite and half the top crust crumbled inward, revealing a runny cherry filling.
If Dianne was worried, she didn’t show it. In fact, she seemed quite pleased with herself. Bessie watched as the judge tasted the pie, then washed it down with a long swig of water. Each judge tasted the dessert, then they all moved on to the last entrant, a tepid-looking apple pie. Finally, the tasting was done.
Frank stepped up to the microphone once again. Boy, that’s some good eating, he said, jovially rubbing his rather paunchy belly. It’s a good thing we’ll be slicing these up and selling them off for charity directly after the contest, he told them, Otherwise I might just need to get me a bigger pair of pants. He waited for the crowd to laugh at his joke, and a few did, so he continued.
Now, just give me and the gang here a few minutes to tally up our results and I’ll let you know who won our grand prize.
He stepped away from the microphone and rushed the other judges out the back entrance towards the bank’s private tent, presumably to discuss their decision in secret. Bessie hated the waiting. She wanted to know who won and then she wanted to go and get an ice cream cone to cool herself off. She also wanted to find Emmett Barnes, her beau and the chief of police in Coopersville. He was probably over at the antique car display, or maybe he was sipping lemonade while he watched the livestock displays on the other side of the fair.
Can I try your pie?
Bessie was surprised to find Dianne standing right behind her. You can try mine if you like. I just can’t help but notice how moist that pie looks, and how cute your crust is. Could I try a little bite?
Bessie nodded and stepped aside. Dianne pulled a fast food fork, wrapped in plastic and packaged with a napkin, from her bag. She dug around and found another one for Bessie. I always keep these with me. You never know when you’re gonna want to eat, right?
Dianne savored not one, but two sneaky bites of the pecan pie. Bessie stepped over to the cherry pie and poked it tentatively. The crust was too dry, the filling didn’t quite look like it had set up right. She took a polite bite and chewed it thoroughly. She wished immediately that she’d had a bottle of water with her.
Well, thank you, Dianne said at last. Good luck!
Bessi
e nodded, swallowing, again and again, to get the pie down her throat. You, too, she managed. She turned and scanned the tent. Devon was still at the back waiting patiently with Karma. He gave Bessie a cheerful thumbs up, so she waved back to him. She seemed to be suddenly filled with nervous energy and she didn’t quite know what to do with herself.
Finally, the group of bankers returned to their seats. Bessie couldn’t help but notice that their giddy smiles were gone, replaced with more somber expressions. She supposed that they were sad to be giving away money--they were bankers, after all--but Frank’s expression was as cheerful as ever. He approached the microphone confidently and smiled out across the crowd.
"It was a close one, I’m not going to lie. We had some really great entries this year and some of you obviously went above and beyond in your efforts to produce the perfect pie. But, at the end of the day, there can be only one
winner. Without further ado," he said, drawing out the last sentence with a long pause. Bessie tensed, waiting for her name to be called.
...Dianne Masterson, you are the winner of the two hundred dollar grand prize!
Bessie’s stomach felt like someone had just kicked it while wearing steel-toed boots. Of course, pride goes before a fall, her conscience whispered to her, but the logical voice inside her head reminded her that she’d tasted Dianne’s pie and barely managed to swallow it. Something felt so wrong with the judge’s decision, and Bessie didn’t think it was just a case of sour grapes that had left this bitter taste in her mouth.
Our runners up are Bessie Purdy and Lainie Norris! Ladies, come on up and get your prizes!
Bessie was standing close enough to Frank that she didn’t have to move. He leaned over and passed her an envelope with the grocery store gift card inside. Thank you, she managed, before turning away.
If you’ll please come with me, Ms. Masterson, I will collect your cash from the security tent. Frank took Dianne by the hand and instructed her to wait with him until the crowd had dissipated. Bessie watched Dianne walk past her to stand beside Frank. She thought it was odd that Dianne should have to go to the bank’s security tent just for two hundred dollars, but she assumed that perhaps there would be a news crew and photographers to take pictures for the bank. It really was just a lot of publicity for the bank, after all, but Bessie couldn’t help but feel dejected.
Pecan Pies & Alibis Page 1