Engagement and Espionage: Solving for Pie: Cletus and Jenn Mysteries Series Book #1

by Reid, Penny

  At 5:30 AM, I called Billy and asked him to drop off several items on his way to work: the four remaining engagement rings, a change of clothes for me, and the Emergency Quiche. He asked if the freezer also contained an emergency causing quiche, and I told him the truth: No, it did not.

  What I didn’t divulge was that I’d already used the emergency causing quiche in September of last year for the Labor Day picnic at the church, as I’d received advance notice that several members of the Iron Wraiths Motorcycle Club were planning to crash it. They’d arrived. I’d served them quiche. They’d lingered for ten minutes. They’d left due to an emergency. I hadn’t baked a new one yet.

  By 6:30 AM, the Emergency Quiche warmed in the oven, the four remaining candidates for Jenn’s engagement ring resided in the ample pockets of my cargo pants, and I required movement and exercise. Walking the perimeter of the Donner house, I searched the new, thin layer of snow for footprints or any signs of nefarious mischief. After an hour, and finding none, I reentered the house, peeled off my jacket, shucked my shoes, and made my way to the kitchen to check on the quiche.

  No sooner had I entered than I heard a smacking sound, which drew my attention to the kitchen table. My future mother-in-law’s hand had fallen to the tabletop where she was sitting, her palm landing in the key of preemptive C major—where C stood for complaining. “Please tell me you did not spend the night in my daughter’s room.”

  “You don’t remember me coming in last night and checking on you?” I crossed to the drip coffee machine and set about brewing . . . something.

  “I do remember. But I wasn’t in a state of mind to realize you’d stayed the entire night. In Jennifer’s bedroom, no doubt.”

  Taking my time making the coffee since my brain was tired, I spoke slowly and carefully, “Ms. Donner. I would not do that. I was in the living room all night. This is your house, your rules. Where can a person be a master of their dominion and destiny if not in their own domain?” Finished assembling all pieces and parts required to brew coffee, I pressed the on button and turned to her.

  The woman seemed surprised and a measure irritated by my statements. “Well, at last. We have something in common.”

  Either the woman was in a grouchy mood this morning due to her recent brush with death and subsequent brain injury, or she was showing her true opinion of my person, i.e. she didn’t like me much. If I hadn’t been exhausted, I would’ve skirted both possibilities, distracting her with talk of her lodge, or banal town gossip.

  Instead, since I was exhausted, and frustrated, and determined to marry her daughter and make aforementioned daughter happy, in an uncharacteristic bout of spontaneity, I said, “You seem determined to disapprove of me.”

  Diane stared forward for a long moment, her lips twisting to the side. “I suppose I am.”

  “Why is that?” Maybe if I knew, I could change her impression. Mind, I didn’t care if she liked me, but—as I said—Jenn’s happiness mattered.

  “You’re not—” her stare skated over my clothes, her hand waving in the air gestured to all parts of me “—what I’d hoped for my daughter.”

  “Is it the beard?”

  “No. I like the beard. Suits you. But it could use a trim. Your hair and sideburns could use one too. And you look so nice in a suit, too bad you don’t wear more suits.”

  “I think you mean, too bad I don’t have a job that requires suits.”

  Diane’s mouth tugged to the side, a fracture in her frosty exterior. “Yes. I guess that’s what I mean.”

  “Don’t want your daughter to end up with someone who works with their hands?”

  “You know, I don’t know.” She sat back, her gaze contemplative. “Kip always said that a man who works with his hands doesn’t know how to use his brain, but—” she blinked, hard, considering me again, like she was seeing me anew “—he was wrong about so many things. I wonder now if he said such a thing because men who are good with their hands threatened him, made him feel like less, so he tore them down. In retrospect, that seems to be his modus operandi. Did you know he couldn’t change a tire? Didn’t know how.”

  I said nothing as she clearly didn’t require any prompting to continue.

  “One time we were stranded just outside of Asheville after going to the Christmas markets at the Biltmore—we had an annual pass while the kids were growing up, highly recommend that, gorgeous and inspiring during Christmas—and got a flat. Isaac and I, we changed the tire.” She tilted her chin up, her shoulders squaring, looking more like her normal self. “And Kip, he was so upset with me, said I was unladylike.”

  “Who taught you?”

  “How to change a tire?”

  I nodded.

  “My grandfather Donner taught me—all us grandkids—when I was twelve. Said I had to learn how to do for myself because everyone in my life would eventually let me down.” Her words were flavored with bitterness and her lip curled. “He was right.”

  I pulled a mug out of the cabinet and poured myself a cup of coffee. “Jennifer has never let you down.”

  She nodded, her gaze somehow both calculating and yet softer. “You’re right. Jennifer hasn’t. I don’t think she knows how to let people down. I don’t think it’s in her.”

  I hadn’t spotted molasses or apple cider vinegar; as such, I sipped my plain black coffee. “Makes her an easy target.”

  The softness fled, and Diane Donner’s eyes narrowed in a way that felt dangerous. Motherly indignation. “A target for whom?”

  “For folks who wish to take advantage.” I said the unnecessary words. She knew what I meant, but maybe she thought I’d never say it out loud, maybe she thought I wouldn’t dare.

  Maybe she didn’t know me very well.

  Diane Donner crossed her arms, the motherly indignation flaring, mutating into threatening indignation. “You planning on taking advantage of my daughter?”

  “Naturally. And I suspect—and hope—she’ll take equal advantage of me.”

  Eyes wide, her mouth moved, and a sound of shock tumbled out. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

  “Take last night for example.”

  She gasped. “I thought you said—”

  “At Jenn’s request, I stayed, to make sure y’all were safe and didn’t require anything. I had dinner brought over. I checked on her momma throughout the night.” As I spoke, I pulled out the hot pads, withdrew the quiche from the oven, and set it on the range. “I arranged breakfast. I’m having snow tires installed on both her car and yours—you really should get on a schedule for that, every December to March—and I enjoyed every minute of it. Well, every minute until you woke up in a persnickety mood. But I’ve been told, and I’ve come to understand the truth, that being in love means my beloved takes precedence over even my own comfort, persnickety future mother-in-law notwithstanding. Are you hungry?”

  When I turned back to her, I found Diane Donner taking another survey of my person. I wasn’t in the habit of spelling out my good deeds, but this woman apparently required some evidence of my regard for her daughter. We likely had more in common than either of us would like to admit. Revealing that truth wouldn’t ingratiate the perpetually prickly woman to my cause. Thus, it was a truth better left unsaid.

  “What’s that?” Ignoring my evidentiary list of good deeds, she pointed at the pie plate on the stovetop, her question resoundingly beleaguered, as though the pie dish might be used as a collection basket to solicit money. “Please tell me that’s not pie.”

  “It is, of a sort. This is a quiche.” Selecting a plate from the cabinet, I cut her a slice.

  “Quiche?”

  Setting the eighth of quiche on her plate along with a fork, I placed them in front of her and claimed the chair across from hers. “I do not excel at the sweet, but I’ve been told I possess great talent at the savory.”

  “You mean salty.” Diane dusted imaginary lint from her dressing gown, an extremely frilly pink robe with light pink lace and embroidered
darker pink flowers.

  All right. I’d tried honesty and frankness to no avail.

  Moving on/new approach, time to change the subject to something worth discussing. “What do you remember about last night?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you were hit on the head, at Old Man Blount’s. What do you remember?”

  Diane stared at the table, shaking her head slowly. “I don’t remember a thing. I got out of my car and everything went black. Next thing I knew, I was in the hospital.”

  “You didn’t see anyone as you drove up? Any other cars?”

  “It’s all a blur. I drove up, got out, and then I was in the hospital. I wish I knew something to help catch the person who did this, but I don’t. If I remember something, Fredrick Boone told me to write it down, so I’ll do that. I can’t do anything about it right now. And honestly, the main issue weighing on me at present is what to do about those cows.” She rubbed her temple like it hurt, wincing slightly.

  Hmm. “Would you like me to pick up your cow’s milk and cream this morning?”

  “Those cows belong to me,” she sniped. Picking up the fork, she cut into the quiche, spearing a bite. “And Miller’s people said they’d be dropping it off at the lodge every morning this week. I have no need of you inserting yourself into the matter.”

  I grit my teeth, determined to make nice. “I thought you might want some of the milk here.” I checked the time on the oven, wondering if Jenn would mind if I left before she awoke.

  Diane Donner blew on the bite, peering at me like my words were a riddle. “Bring it here? Raw milk?” This seemed to confuse her greatly, and she continued to look at me like I’d grown antlers made of cheese until the bite of quiche fully entered her mouth. Abruptly, her entire demeanor changed, transforming from pedantic to startled.

  I perched on my chair’s edge, forcefully alert. “What? Are you—do you feel okay? Is it your head?”

  “Cletus Winston!”

  “That is my name.”

  “Where did you get this quiche? And is that sausage?” She cut a larger bite and shoveled it into her mouth, moaning.

  Splitting my attention between her rapturous expressions and the plate, I remained on high alert. “I made the quiche. And, yes, that’s my sausage.”

  “Is it the same sausage from the lasagna last night?” Diane Donner spoke while she chewed, a very unladylike display of ravenous enjoyment, and moaned again.

  It’s the sausage. Folks are always ravenous for my sausage.

  “Uh, well, sorta.” I scratched my cheek. “I use Italian sausage for lasagna, and a breakfast sausage blend for quiche.”

  “Where do you get it? The sausage?”

  “I make it.”

  Her fork clattered as it hit the plate. “You make sausage?”

  No longer on high alert, I stood, crossing to the coffee pot to pour another cup. “I do. And my sausage is famous.”

  “It should be more famous. Would you be willing to sell some to the lodge?”

  “I wouldn’t be opposed to it.” Sipping the hot coffee, I leaned back against the counter and surveyed her miraculous change in mood. Perhaps Diane Donner wasn’t a persnickety person, perhaps she was merely hangry and required more sustenance. “It’s wild boar sausage, if that makes a difference.”

  “That’s even better.” The woman licked her fork and inspected the plate for crumbs.

  “You want another piece?”

  “Oh, no. I shouldn’t.” She shook her head, but her gaze strayed to the pie plate.

  I brought my refreshed coffee cup and the quiche to the table.

  “I really shouldn’t.” She pushed her plate toward me, her attention rapt on the quiche.

  Without asking again, I cut a new slice, bigger this time, and deposited it on her plate. Once more, she attacked it, each bite larger than the last until her cheeks were pink, her hand rested on her belly, and she wore a smile of contentment.

  “Your lasagna was delicious, but that quiche is the best thing I’ve eaten in ages. Maybe ever.”

  “Folks always say that about my sausage,” I muttered behind my coffee cup, taking note that Diane Donner could be wrangled into a state of compliance with high quality food.

  Good to know.

  A strange but not strained silence settled, wherein I sipped from my mug and her eyebrows, eyes, and mouth moved through a range of expressions, like she carried on a discussion with herself inside her head and reacted to whatever each side of the conversation said last. Eyebrows up, then down, then one raised. Mouth a stern line, then a reluctant smile, then a thoughtful frown.

  Only because I found myself honestly curious, I asked, “What’s on your mind?”

  Her gaze refocused outward, and I got the sense she’d forgotten I was there. I braced myself for a dismissive comment.

  Instead, she surprised me by grinning and leaning forward. “Truth is, I’ve been thinking, Cletus, and—”

  “Doctor said no thinking for a week.”

  She ignored me, her eyes pointed up at the ceiling, full of dreams. “What if—well, you know we’re about to remodel the lodge?”

  “Jennifer has mentioned this.”

  “So my thoughts are, what if we turned it into a culinary experience?” Grin wide, eyes bright and full of expectation, she waited for my response.

  “A culinary experience,” I parroted.

  Protip: when you don’t wish to reveal your thoughts or opinions, repeat whatever the last words said were. At the present moment, I had no thoughts or opinions to reveal, as such, this approach worked just as well.

  “Yes! Have you heard of the farm-to-table initiative? What if we brought in a fancy, big city chef? Somebody accomplished, well-known. I think, with Jennifer’s social media accounts, those kinds of numbers would be a draw. And we could gradually turn the accounts into lodge accounts, give the new chef a platform. Slowly, of course. We don’t want to do a sudden bait and switch on folks.”

  “No, you want to bait and switch them over time.”

  She didn’t seem to hear me, content to rattle on, “We would make the lodge a culinary destination. The price of food—breakfast, lunch, and dinner—would be incorporated into the price of the room, like a resort, or a cruise, but boutique, higher class. I’ve been wanting to redo those rooms for so long with local antiques from all over the Carolinas and Georgia, historical elegance. And, and here’s the best part, we use the Miller cows. Publicize the fact that I paid $200,000 for them, make folks believe these cows are special, a reason to visit and experience their milk and cream firsthand.”

  I nodded along, understanding her intent immediately. “Why else would a genius like Diane Donner pay $200,000 for cows unless they were worth more than $200,000?”

  “Exactly! There’s nothing substantively better about a designer purse than one bought at a big-box store, but folks pay a premium for the status. People will believe the story because they want to believe the story.”

  “Works for politicians.”

  She and I both chuckled, and it took my brain a few moments to realize the present situation: I sat with Jenn’s momma, feeding her, and sharing a laugh. Not for the first time in my life, I appreciated the shrewdness of Diane Donner’s mind, but I’d never found a reason to like the woman before right this minute.

  Jennifer, I knew from firsthand experience, was just as clever as her mother, if not more so. Current scientific research maintained that most of a child’s intelligence is passed down from the mother.

  Diane tapped her fingers on the table, on her lips a small smile. “The more I think about it, the more I like this idea. You could even do a sausage making class.”

  “A sausage making class.” Uh, hell no. My sausage recipes were as secret as they were sacred.

  “And maybe a foraging class. You hear about that Hill fella? Rumor is he has a mushroom sniffing pig.”

  “One of the Hills has a truffle hog?” What? “How come I didn’t know
about this?”

  “I hate to break it to you, but you don’t know everything.” The amused brightness in Diane’s eyes told me she didn’t hate breaking this to me. “But, if it makes you feel better, I’ll tell you what my grandfather Donner used to tell me, ‘Understanding that I don’t know everything is the first step toward knowing everything.’”

  I made a noncommittal sound, bringing my coffee cup to my lips just to discover it was now empty.

  “Those cows are the key. I’m so glad I paid a fortune for them, and so publicly. Word will get out, and I’ll use it to my advantage. Did you know they’re Guernsey?”

  “I did know that.”

  “It’s supposed to help folks who have that lactose intolerance. That’s why Jenn’s desserts don’t give people tummy trouble. I just found that out. She is a genius, that daughter of mine. I think on all the years that her daddy made me think that she was slow. I must’ve been in a high fog or something. What was wrong with me? That I let my husband talk about my daughter like that? How do I make things up to her? How do I make it right?” Diane sniffed, her face crumpling.

  Once again, her temperament had shifted on a dime. The doctor said we were to expect mood swings, with a concussion, and here was the proof.

  “Please don’t get yourself upset. You just inhaled a bunch of smoke and were hit over the head. Maybe focus on your guilt a little later. When you’re recovered enough to deal with it.”

  “That’s good advice.” She sniffled, nodding, using a napkin to dab at her eyes. “But I don’t know that we get to decide when we deal with guilt. I think guilt decides when it deals with us.”

  She had a point there.

  “I just feel so much self-loathing over what I did to my children.”

  She started to cry in earnest, which made me fret. I’d never been good at dealing with folks in despair—men or women—so I did the only thing I could think of, I patted her hand resting on the table and said, “There, there.”

  “No.” She withdrew her hand and sniffled again. “Don’t tell me not to feel ashamed.”