Wine and Punishment

by Sarah Fox

  A colorful leaf fell to the ground at my feet as I stood there. I picked it up and twirled the stem between my fingers. Shady Creek really was a beautiful town, and I loved my new life here, despite all the bad things that had happened over the past several days.

  I didn’t know why someone was targeting me and the mill, especially since my tires had been slashed before I’d known of Eric’s death. That timing suggested that the incident wasn’t meant to scare me off from asking questions about the murder. Maybe someone wanted me out of town for some other reason. But the only person I could think of who felt that way was Grayson, and he seemed to have changed his view in that regard. So even if the slashed tires and egged windows weren’t connected to the attempted attack on me the night before, I didn’t think Grayson was responsible. But then who was?

  I let go of the leaf, letting it drop to the grass. I couldn’t seem to figure anything out.

  Yawning, I decided I needed to make up for my lack of sleep with a second dose of caffeine. It wasn’t yet noon, but I also had a hankering for something chocolatey. A mocha latte would hit the spot, I decided, so I walked over to the coffee shop and ordered one. As I waited for the barista to prepare my drink, I turned my thoughts to the Inkwell and all of the pub-related tasks I needed to take care of over the next few days. I had some invoices to pay and some supplies to order, but I also needed to prepare for the first mystery book club meeting that would take place next month.

  Thinking about the book club buoyed my spirits. The mystery genre was my personal favorite, and I was hoping the first meeting of this club would be as successful as the one for the romance club. Before that could happen, however, I needed to choose the first book for the members to read. There were so many great options that I hadn’t yet settled on a particular one.

  Maybe I’d take some time to browse the shelves and look for inspiration at Primrose Books, Shady Creek’s only bookstore. That idea raised my spirits even more. In my mind, there were few things better than being surrounded by books. I’d visited the bookshop several times since I’d moved to Shady Creek, and I’d never managed to leave the store without at least one or two purchases. Not that I minded. I didn’t think there was such a thing as owning too many books, and with shelves in my apartment as well as in the Inkwell, I had plenty of space to store each treasured volume.

  With a trip to the bookstore on the horizon and time to enjoy the festival that afternoon, I was able to offer a genuine smile when the barista handed me my mocha latte. The happy expression remained on my face as I passed Eleanor Grimes, seated alone at a table near the front window. She stared at me as I went by, her eyes anything but friendly.

  My smile faltered. Not sure what else to do, I pushed open the coffee shop’s door, ill at ease and eager to get away, but even as I left the woman behind, I could still feel the icy touch of her glare on my back.

  Chapter 21

  I strolled around the green as I sipped at my mocha latte, trying to shake off the edginess that had settled over me as I’d left the coffee shop. I had no idea what Eleanor Grimes might have against me, but I didn’t want to let her drive my spirits back down. I greeted some of the locals as I walked across the grass, receiving friendly responses from all of them, and that helped me to all but forget about Eleanor’s frosty glare.

  As soon as I’d finished my latte, I returned to the Inkwell and carried the coolers over to the tent. Aunt Gilda met me there shortly before noon and ushered me out of the tent with instructions to go and enjoy myself. Although I intended to stop in at the bookstore and check out the parts of the Autumn Festival that I hadn’t yet experienced, I had a prior commitment to attend to first. It was the day of the pumpkin pie baking contest, and I needed to show up for my judging duties in less than half an hour.

  Across the green from the tent where I’d left Aunt Gilda in charge of my cocktail samples, a long table had been set up beneath a white canopy. Earlier in the day, the white-clothed table hadn’t held anything other than some clipboards. Now, however, as I approached that end of the green, I could see close to two dozen pies lined up in two rows.

  “Oh, good, you’re here, Sadie,” Betty said as soon as she saw me.

  “Am I late?” I asked with surprise. I thought I’d arrived early, but Betty seemed a bit harried.

  “No, no,” she rushed to assure me. “I just wanted to take some time to familiarize you with the judging process. The other judges have been doing this for years now, so I’ll bring you up to speed before they arrive.”

  She handed me a pen and a clipboard with a judging form attached to it.

  “As you can see, all entries will be anonymous to ensure that there won’t be any bias.” She pointed to a column with the heading ENTRY NUMBER. Then she drew my attention to the other columns. “The pies are judged on three criteria—overall appearance, crust, and filling. Each of those is given a score out of five, with five being the best. For the crust and filling, I suggest you consider things like the texture and integrity as well as the taste.”

  “Sounds straightforward enough,” I said.

  “Oh, good. I’m sure you’ll do a great job.”

  “I’ll try my best.”

  Betty patted my shoulder. “We’ll be starting shortly. Louie’s about to set up the perimeter.”

  “Perimeter?” I echoed with confusion. I spotted Louie stringing caution tape from one tent pole to another. “Is that really necessary?”

  “We’ve learned over the years that it’s definitely for the best. It’s rather distracting for the judges if the contestants are hovering behind them. Plus, this way none of the competitors can whisper to the judges which pie is theirs.”

  “Would anyone really do that?”

  “That and so much more.”

  “Really?” I said with disbelief, but Betty had already turned away to greet a man and a woman who’d ducked under the caution tape.

  Fellow judges, I assumed, since Betty handed each of them a clipboard and pen. While Betty spoke with them, I waved at Louie and wandered toward the edge of the canopy. Several people had gathered outside the caution tape over the last couple of minutes. Most were women, but a couple of men were there too.

  “Hey, Sadie,” one of the men said as I wandered past him.

  He’d been at the Inkwell a few times, but I couldn’t remember his name.

  “Do you like cheese?” he asked.

  “I love cheese,” I replied, unable to hide the fact that I was puzzled by the question.

  “I own the Caldwell Cheese Company.” He tapped his blue baseball cap, and I saw that the logo was the one for his company. “I can make you up a basket of all your favorites.”

  The woman standing next to him jabbed him hard in the ribs with her elbow. “Bert Caldwell, you should be tossed out of the competition for attempting to bribe one of the judges.”

  “Is that what you’re doing?” I asked Bert, shocked.

  He gave me a sheepish grin. “No harm in trying.”

  I was about to distance myself from the onlookers so I wouldn’t fall victim to any further attempts at bribery, but then I noticed a familiar face heading my way.

  “Are you one of the judges?” I asked Grayson when he reached the tape barrier.

  “Nope. A contestant.”

  “You bake?” I said with surprise.

  He smiled. “What? You thought my double-wall ovens were just for show?”

  I could feel the warmth rush to my cheeks at the reminder of my snooping. I decided to ignore the question, especially since that thought had crossed my mind as I’d peered through his kitchen window. “You’re not going to try to bribe me, are you?”

  “I don’t need to.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You seem awfully sure of yourself.”

  “That’s because I bake a mighty fine pie, if I may say so myself.”

  He reached up and touched the side of my head, rendering me momentarily speechless. When I realized he was disentangling a clump o
f cobwebs from my hair, I felt my cheeks flush again. How unkempt did I look to him?

  I didn’t want to know.

  “Did you sleep last night?” he asked once he’d managed to shake the cobwebs from his fingers.

  I caught sight of two women off to the side, whispering to each other as they watched me and Grayson. Coming up with more rumors to spread about us?

  “Sadie?” Grayson drew my attention back to him.

  “A little,” I said, trying to ignore the whispering that was still going on. I met his eyes and once again found myself speechless. They were so blue, and the way he was so focused on me sent my heart skipping. I gulped and gathered myself together, saying the first thing that came to mind. “I’m sure there are plenty of mighty fine pies in the running.”

  “No doubt,” he agreed, “but I came in second last year, and I’ve tweaked my recipe since then to make it even better. I like my chances.”

  He grinned at me again, and my heart decided to dance a tarantella. Annoyed by my reaction, I frowned. Amusement sparkled in his eyes. I hoped it wasn’t because he knew the effect he was having on me.

  I decided I’d better make a quick escape. “I guess we’ll both find out soon enough if your confidence is justified.”

  “I guess we will.”

  He reached toward my face, and a flock of butterflies took flight in my chest. He brushed my hair back over my left ear and produced another clump of cobwebs. His grin widened, and I quickly turned my back on him, my face burning. I joined Betty under the canopy, fighting the urge to run my fingers through my hair in search of more cobwebs. I was relieved by the distraction when she introduced me to my fellow judges, Marnie Wilson and Clive Holbrook.

  “Any questions?” Betty asked once we all had our clipboards and pens in hand. When the three of us judges answered in the negative, she clapped her hands together. “Perfect. Then let’s begin.”

  My stomach grumbled in anticipation as we approached one end of the table. The scent of pumpkin and spices was making my mouth water, and I couldn’t wait to get started on the tasting. Betty sliced the first pie for us, and we each dug our forks in for a sample.

  When the first bite hit my tongue, my taste buds practically sighed with happiness. I had to remind myself to pay close attention to the subtleties of the sample, rather than just diving back in for more. The crust was a bit on the crumbly side, I decided after some thought, but the filling was delicious. I gave it a solid four on my scoresheet and went on to assign scores for the crust and appearance.

  The next pie looked beautiful, with pastry maple leaves decorating the top, but I found the filling to be a bit on the grainy side. We continued on along the table, tasting each pie and making notes on our scoresheets. By the time we had only three pies left to taste, I had a clear favorite in mind. None of the pies had been terrible, but some were only average, while a couple had amazed me with their scrumptious flavors.

  When I tasted the third to last pie, however, I almost got weak in the knees. Marnie’s and Clive’s eyes went wide as they tasted the sample, as mine must have done.

  “Sweet Sherlock!” I said once I’d swallowed. “That’s the best pumpkin pie I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Do you think anyone would notice if I stole the rest of it?” Marnie joked.

  “I’d notice.” I told her.

  “So would I,” Clive said. “Hands off.”

  “I at least need another taste or two,” Marnie said. “Just to be sure about what score I should give it.”

  “Same here,” I chimed in, and Clive agreed.

  We dug our forks into the pie again.

  After another couple of tastes, we managed to pry ourselves away from that pie to taste the remaining two. The first had a hint of caramel that seemed to enhance the pumpkin flavor. It wasn’t quite as outstanding as the previous one, but it was my second favorite at that point.

  The final pie wasn’t quite up to scratch. The crust was decent, but the filling was a bit on the sloppy side, and it looked and tasted under-baked.

  Marnie, Clive, and I spent a few minutes completing our scoresheets before handing them over to Betty so the numbers could be officially tallied. Once my judging duties were complete, I sidled back along the table to my favorite pie. Marnie and Clive weren’t far behind me.

  “I’m guessing we decided unanimously on the winner,” Clive said as he sank his fork into the pumpkin filling.

  “Mmmm,” was all I could say, since my mouth was full of pie.

  By the time we’d all had our fill, only a third of the pie remained. The only reason I’d stopped eating was because my stomach was getting uncomfortably full.

  I set down my fork and sighed with happiness. “I need the recipe for this one.”

  “Good luck with that,” Marnie said. “Competitors are usually very protective of their recipes. Missy Filbert has won four times in the past six years, and the rumor is that she keeps her recipe locked in a safe.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “She’s right,” Clive assured me. “There are bakers in this town who wouldn’t give up their secret ingredients on pain of death.”

  “But I really need to eat this pie again sometime.” I eyed the remains with longing.

  Marnie patted my shoulder. “Then I suggest you sign up to be a judge again next year.”

  “I’ll put my name down right now.”

  Betty hurried over and asked us to join her at the bandstand. “It’s time to announce the results.”

  We followed her across the grass, the crowd of spectators bunching around us, many with eager looks on their faces.

  “I’m sure my new recipe will be a winner this year,” a woman with curly gray hair said to the person next to her.

  “I adjusted my Great Aunt Lou’s recipe,” a rail-thin man in denim overalls announced. “I made the best even better.”

  “If it’s the best, how come you didn’t even place last year, Isaiah?” a short and stout woman asked.

  “Because Fanny Dawes sabotaged my oven.”

  “I did no such thing!” a voice piped up.

  A petite woman in her seventies—Fanny Dawes, I assumed—elbowed her way through the crowd toward her accuser.

  All around me, figurative feathers were ruffling. I feared the situation might escalate to fisticuffs, but then Betty spoke into a microphone from the bandstand.

  “May I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen? I’m pleased to say it’s now time to announce the winners of the annual pumpkin pie baking contest.”

  Fanny muttered something under her breath, but she and her companions turned their attention to Betty instead of continuing their bickering.

  I let out a sigh of relief. Apparently Shontelle hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d hinted that the contest would be far from drama-free.

  “But before I announce the winners,” Betty continued, “I’d like to say a heartfelt thank-you to this year’s judges, Marnie Wilson, Clive Holbrook, and Sadie Coleman.”

  My fellow judges and I smiled at the crowd around us as people applauded.

  “And now for the results,” Betty said when the clapping had died down. “In third place, we have Bert Caldwell.”

  Everyone burst into applause again. Bert appeared out of the crowd, a big smile on his face as he stepped up to the bandstand. When Betty presented him with his ribbon, he beamed at her and gave her a hearty handshake. Maybe he’d hoped he could bribe his way to first place, but he seemed happy enough with third.

  “Congratulations, Bert,” Betty said as he returned to the crowd. “And in second place we have Fanny Dawes.”

  “Second?” Fanny said with distaste.

  Someone gave her a gentle push toward the bandstand. Her nostrils flaring, she walked over to Betty and accepted her ribbon without ever cracking a smile or anything close to a pleasant expression. Clearly she wasn’t satisfied with second best.

  “And finally, with the best pie of the
competition, we have Grayson Blake in first place.”

  My eyes went as wide as they must have been when I’d first tasted the winning pie. Grayson had created that heavenly concoction?

  I wiped the surprise from my face as Grayson stepped up to the bandstand to accept his ribbon and trophy. I clapped along with the rest of the crowd, noting that some people seemed genuinely pleased for him, while others were obviously unimpressed because they hadn’t won the top prize.

  “And that concludes the pumpkin pie baking contest for this year,” Betty said once she’d handed over the trophy and ribbon. “Thank you so much to everyone who participated. I hope you’ll do so again next year.”

  I clapped some more and then put a hand to my pocket when I felt my phone buzz against my leg. I checked the device and saw that Rhonda had sent me a text message.

  I don’t think I can tell the police about Frank after all. I’ll feel like a rat!

  That wasn’t good. I understood where Rhonda was coming from, since she worked for the guy, but the police needed to know what she knew.

  Do you want me to tell them for you? I wrote back.

  Her response came right away. Would you? Thank you!

  They’ll probably want to talk to you at some point, I warned her.

  As long as I’m not the one to tattle on him, I’ll feel better, her next message read.

  It looked like I’d be getting in touch with the police yet again. I wasn’t keen on that idea, but I wanted them to have the information, and I wanted to help Rhonda feel better about the situation.

  I made my way through the crowd, intending to contact Detective Marquez right away, but when I spotted Grayson nearby I made a detour in his direction.

  “Congratulations,” I said with a nod at the trophy he had tucked under one arm.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate that you and the other judges enjoyed my pie.”

  “We more than enjoyed it. I’d go as far as to say it was pie ecstasy.” I almost sighed with bliss as I recalled the taste. “The flavor was delicate with a hint of mystery, and the texture of the filling was so smooth . . . like silk sheets against my tongue.”