Dropping Like Pies (Apple Orchard Cozy Mystery Book 11)

by Chelsea Thomas

  “Germany—” I dug my thumbnail into the tip of my pointer finger. I sensed what was coming next, and although I was half relieved, I was also half heartbroken.

  “Chelsea. This is for the best. We’ve had an incredible romance. We’ve danced upon metaphorical mountaintops and it has been the honor of a lifetime to spend merely a moment with you. The truth is, I’ve never cherished you as I should. Shortly after our courtship began, I set off for Africa. For the lions. Though no lion is as beautiful as you, nor as ferocious, I have long felt that studying those beasts is my calling. In the absence of my doting care, however, you and I have drifted apart.”

  “No—” I began. But Germany held up a hand to stop me. As he continued talking, I felt my world shift into slow motion. I could see Germany’s mouth moving and I could hear his words but I felt like I was floating outside my body. Germany was right. We had drifted apart and neither of us had given our relationship the attention it deserved. Deep down, I knew we weren’t meant to be together. But even knowing that, it was so hard to let go of love.

  Love is almost impossible to find. It’s a shame to let it go.

  I felt warm tears on my cheeks before I even realized I was crying. Germany wrapped me in his arms, and we stayed there for a long moment. It could have been minutes or hours. I had no idea.

  All of a sudden, Germany let me go and announced that he was headed off to catch a flight for Africa. I was left, alone in the house, with his final words ringing in my ears…

  “Be careful, Chelsea. You don’t deserve to die.”

  16

  Coaching Strategies

  I woke up Thursday morning to less snow than I had expected. According to the news reporter, and to Big Dan, the storm had taken a slight break to hover over New Jersey but would be back in full force soon. Nonetheless, the lack of snow was good news for our investigation. It meant Lakeland High School, where we would likely find Coach Sheila, would be open.

  I shuffled into the kitchen to find Miss May whipping up a fresh apple pie. The sight was surprisingly unfamiliar. Typically, Miss May baked all of her apple pies in the bakeshop, not in the kitchen at the farmhouse. In fact, she had never done any of her commercial baking in the farmhouse. I wasn’t sure the farmhouse even had the correct licenses for that.

  “Are you making your pies in the farmhouse today? Is the oven broken at the bakeshop?”

  Miss May smiled. “The oven in the bakeshop is working just fine. I’m making this apple pie just for us. Didn’t feel like trekking over to the shop in the snow.”

  I chuckled. “I can’t believe I didn’t figure that out on my own. I know we bake in the farmhouse together all the time, but it’s so rarely apple pie.”

  “Because we have a nice stockpile over at the bakeshop to pilfer from,” said Miss May with a devious glint in her eye. “But I secretly think this oven turns out better pies, anyway. This farmhouse has had this oven since I was young. All that cooking and baking gives an oven a special power that can’t be replicated by even the most high-tech replacements from the store.”

  Miss May gave her old oven a big, firm pat. “You’re a good girl, Bertha. You hear that? I love you.”

  “That’s an interesting way to talk your appliances,” I said. “But you’re right. This oven turns out good food. I wasn’t aware you were calling her Bertha now but I could get on board for that.”

  Miss May nodded. “She deserves a name. Something hearty like Bertha. I think it’s perfect.”

  “Is the pie almost done?”

  As if on cue, the kitchen timer dinged. Miss May pressed her palms together. “It is now.”

  Miss May slid her golden brown apple pie out of the oven and held it out toward me. Apple cinnamon wafted from the cracks in the top of the crust. The smell warmed my whole body. Even my eyeballs felt warm. Maybe it’s gross to admit… but I salivated.

  “That smells so, so, so—”

  Crash. Miss May dropped the pie and it shattered all over the kitchen floor. She and I both jumped back.

  “Oh my goodness! I dropped the pie.” Miss May sounded more shocked than I’d ever heard her. “I’ve never dropped a pie before.”

  I couldn’t help but giggle. Miss May, a former New York City prosecutor, was a calm and collected woman. She was unflappable. But with the shattered pie at her feet, she seemed like a little kid.

  “It’s OK,” I said. “Bertha will turn out another.”

  “I know,” said Miss May. “But I wanted a slice for breakfast. And this feels like a bad omen…”

  We cleaned up the pie, and I thought about Miss May’s concern that the shattered dessert was a sign. What really worried me was not the pie explosion itself, but my aunt’s reaction. Miss May wasn’t usually one to buy in to the supernatural. She her reaction to the fallen pie told me she was on edge.

  --

  Miss May, Teeny, and I arrived at Lakeland High School about an hour after the school opened that day. There were a couple of security guards hanging out in the lobby but they were distracted by a magazine spread, so we slipped by unnoticed. It probably didn’t hurt that Teeny, Miss May, and I all looked like quintessential teachers. A little messy, but studious and attentive, if I do say so myself.

  We entered the gym to find the Lakeland High School basketball team in the middle of an intense practice. The players were sprinting from one end of the floor to the other as Coach Sheila barked at them from the sidelines.

  “Let’s see those happy feet dance, ladies. Faster! Faster! Don’t make me get out there and show you the power of Women’s One-A-Day vitamins. I could beat any one of you on that court. I just don’t want to embarrass you. Move that tail, Blondie.”

  We huddled by the doorway, shying away from the practice. None of the three of us had much experience with team sports. It might even be fair to say we cowered away from Coach Sheila.

  “See,” Teeny said, “this is why I could never play sports in high school. I can’t let someone yell at me like that. I’d yell right back or throw a fit in the middle of the game.”

  “That sounds right to me,” I said. “I just think I’m too clumsy. I love the whole team dynamic, but I feel like I’d let everybody down. Then I would fall into a never-ending spiral of shame and despair until I missed enough practices that they’d cut me from the team without me having to actually quit.”

  Miss May shook her head. “You talk about yourself that way but it’s not true. You’re a great team player. You both are. And I think any of us could contribute something valuable to any team.”

  Teeny chuckled. “You think you could hit the hardwood right now and show those kids a thing or two about basketball?”

  “OK. Maybe not,” said Miss May. “But if knitting or baking is involved in this sport you can count me in.”

  A whistle shrieked from across the gym. “Take a three minute break, people. Don’t drink too much water or you’ll get cramps. Anybody who cramps up has to stay late. You hear me, slackers? Pace yourselves with the water.”

  The kids hurried off the court and lined up at a big water jug. Then Sheila turned and beelined right toward us. “What are you three doing here? If you’re looking for the big book of memories, I left it at the memorial. Figured someone would pick it up there. So if it’s lost it’s not my fault.”

  “We’re not here about the book of memories,” said Miss May.

  “Oh,” said Coach Sheila. “In that case, kindly get out. This is a closed practice. You want to see these boys play you can buy a ticket like anyone else. Get going.”

  “But we’re here because you won…a secret lottery,” Teeny said, biting her bottom lip. “Yeah. You won…a boat. You just have to talk to us, very briefly, so brief, and then we’ll tell you where the boat is.”

  Teeny was off the rails. This was not the first time she’d tried the free boat line, and I doubted it would be the last. Miss May held her hand out to stop Teeny. “It’s OK, Teeny. You don’t have to use the old boat trick. Something
tells me Coach Sheila here is a straight-shooter.”

  “I am a straight-shooter. I’m going to straight shoot you out of my gym if you don’t leave in five seconds or less.”

  “Hold on,” said Miss May. “You also strike me as a woman who believes in justice and fair play. You believe that everyone, no matter who they are, deserves to be treated with respect. Sometimes respecting people means pushing them to their limits, like how you push these boys. Other times, it means attending a memorial and making sure people sign the big book of memories. You and Coach Thornton shared that respect, didn’t you?”

  “Of course we did.”

  “Well, we’re investigating his murder and we’re determined to find his killer. We think you can help and we can’t waste any more time with this hostility. My friends and I respect your practice and would be happy to wait out in the parking lot until you’re finished. But we’re not leaving until we have a little chat with you. Because we think you might be able to connect us to the killer. And that would make you a hero in this case and in all of New York.”

  Coach Sheila stroked her chin. “You want me to help with your investigation? Fine. But then I need your help motivating one of my boys.” Coach Sheila pointed across the gym at a tall, sinewy basketball player with a mop of curly hair. “John Jensen. Used to be my number one scorer but he’s been in a funk.” Coach Sheila pointed directly at me. “I want you to play Jensen one-on-one. If you agree to that, I’ll answer any questions you have for your investigation.”

  I opened my mouth to speak. But Teeny beat me to it. “She’ll do it!”

  “Is that true?” Sheila looked me up and down. “You’ll play?”

  I stammered. “I don’t really play basketball. Never have, in fact. So…”

  “So you don’t want my help with investigation.” Sheila shrugged. “OK. See ya!”

  Sheila turned to go. I took a step after her. “Wait!”

  Sheila turned back with a small smile.

  “I’ll play.” I swallowed. “Doesn’t seem I have much of a choice. But I’m curious… How is a game against this,” I gestured to my short, stumpy body, “going to improve your player’s confidence?”

  “Simple. If he plays you and loses, the shame will drive him to get back to fundamentals and improve his game. If he grinds you to dust with his superior skill, as I suspect he will, then the victory could be just the spark he needs to get back on the right path. I know what makes this kid tick, and this is just the opportunity I have been looking for. A one-on-one matchup with an out-of-shape thirty-eight year-old woman is a gift from the heavens.”

  “I’m not that out of shape,” I said. “And I’m not thirty-eight. I’m barely in my thirties.”

  “Whatever you say, lady.”

  17

  Dribbling Disaster

  You don’t need to know the gory details of my one-on-one matchup with John Jensen, the former star of the Lakeland High School basketball team.

  But I’ll tell you anyway.

  I was out of breath in five seconds flat. I don’t mean I was a little winded. I mean I had to call a timeout so I could double over and regain my composure. What can I say? Jumping and running at the same time is hard.

  Teeny offered me water but I remembered Coach Sheila warning her kids against cramping, so I rejected the nourishment and headed back onto the court parched.

  The first time I got the ball I dribbled off my foot and went it went out of bounds. The first time John Jensen got the ball he sunk a shot from what seemed to be half-court. The ball made a crisp, satisfying swish in the net. John’s teammates cheered. Teeny cheered too. Then she caught herself and booed loudly.

  Teeny called out for me to be tough and to use my elbows. But every time I touched the ball, Jensen stole it from me with little effort. He began the game by scoring ten straight points. Then, as he squared up to the basket to score his eleventh and winning point, I slipped on my own sweat, fell backwards, and hit my head.

  I blacked out. Although I was only unconscious for about two or three seconds, when I came to I was dizzy and confused. Coach Sheila was standing above me with a broad smile and reaching down to help me up. I stood as she clasped me by the shoulders. “That was incredible. You are a terrible player but you’ve got toughness. And you brought Jensen back from the dead. Gave him just the shot in the arm he needed.”

  Coach Sheila looked over toward the other basket. There, John played in a pickup game with a handful of his peers. He ducked and weaved around every defender and played with an ease and grace I assumed he had been lacking in the weeks prior. He hit a deep, fadeaway three-pointer and his teammates cheered.

  “Happy to help,” I said, rubbing my head. “I won’t cramp up if I drink water now, will I?”

  “Of course not. Do you seriously not know that?” Coach Sheila looked frustrated.

  “Actually I was making a joke. But I am thirsty.”

  Miss May hurried over to the communal jug and poured me a paper cup of water. She handed the cup to me and I drank the water in one, big gulp. “Great job out there, Chelsea,” Miss May said with a glib smirk. “One step closer to finding our killer.”

  “Right! A promise is a promise.” Coach Sheila walked over toward the exit of the gym. “Follow me. We’ll talk in my office.”

  --

  A few seconds later, we arrived at the door to Sheila’s office. She unlocked it, then turned back to us. “Give me two minutes to tidy up and then come on in.”

  Miss May, Teeny, and I waited with patience as we heard Sheila shuffling around in the office.

  Teeny nudged me. “Nice job out there today, champ. You would have won if you’d used karate on that kid. I didn’t think he was so good.”

  “He was great,” I said. “And I think a karate chop would have counted as a foul.”

  Miss May laughed. “You could have tried it though. Would’ve kept the kid on his toes.”

  The door to Sheila’s office swung open. “Alrighty! You are now permitted entry to my humble office space.”

  Coach Sheila’s office was a small, cinderblock room about the size of a jail cell. I noticed three second-place trophies on a shelf. But the rest of the walls were conspicuously absent of sports memorabilia. Perhaps I expected more because of my experience at Coach Thornton’s house, and then again at the museum. But, unlike Thornton, Sheila didn’t seem to glorify her past. Maybe that’s because she hadn’t won any championships? But the barren walls still struck me as odd.

  Sheila took a seat behind a metal desk and motioned for us to sit across from her. We did.

  “How can I help you three?” Sheila ripped up in a protein bar with her teeth and swallowed a huge bite. “You’ve got two minutes.”

  “We want to learn more about Coach Thornton. You were one of his main rivals. And you told us at the memorial that the two of you were colleagues who respected each other. Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill him?”

  “Every coach in this league, for starters,” said Sheila. “Other than me, of course.

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “Why did every coach want to kill Ron Thornton?” Sheila took another big bite of her protein bar. It looked like condensed cardboard. “The guy was a cheater, like I said. When you play fair, it’s hard to lose to cheaters. It makes you angry at the game. Makes you angry at the system. It makes you think life is rigged. But perspective is important. Nothing in life is fair. And if you can’t beat a rigged system then you’re not a champion. That’s how I think about it.”

  “And that perspective is the reason you were able to maintain a respectful relationship with Thornton even though he beat you three times in a row?” Teeny leaned forward. “That must have hurt like pickle juice in the eyeball.”

  “I love that expression,” said Coach Sheila. “One of my favorites.”

  “You’ve heard that expression?” I asked.

  “Pickle juice in the eyeball. Of course. Classic.”

  I shr
ugged. That one was new to me.

  “And you’re absolutely right, Teeny,” said Sheila. “As far as I’m concerned, if you can’t beat a cheater then you don’t deserve to win.”

  “I don’t know if I agree with that.” Miss May furrowed her brow. “Rules exist for a reason.”

  Sheila leaned back in her chair. “Look, it was hard for me to get beaten by Ron back in the day. The first championship was rough. The second one felt like someone was forcing me to drink a glass of tar. And the third was worse than pickle juice in the eyeballs. I don’t know if you three have noticed, but there aren’t a lot of women coaching men’s sports.”

  “I’ve noticed!” Teeny lifted her chin and sat tall. “And I think it’s ridiculous! Us girls can do anything as good as the boys can. We can even chop wood and stuff. We just have to work a little harder at it.”

  “Exactly,” said Sheila. “It’s not easy being a woman in a man’s world. But that’s been my life, long as I can remember. That means I can’t complain and I can’t cry and I can’t have a fit. Because then all those men would say, ‘there’s that crazy woman crying again.’ So I keep it inside. I harden. It’s good for my spirit. And it’s good for my team. This might sound crazy to you but these days… I like losing. A good loss is like candy to me.”

  I noticed a stack of picture frames turned backwards and facing the wall behind Sheila. “What are all those frames?”

  “Those are nothing,” said Sheila.

  Miss May gestured to the empty walls. “Are you doing some re-decorating? Noticed you don’t have much on display in here.”

  “I got some stuff reframed last week because there was a big sale going on at the Frame Emporium. I just got these back. I’m going to hang them up later.”