by Doug Lutz
Praise For
The Apple Pie Alibi
“Do not read The Apple Pie Alibi on an empty stomach! It'll leave you hungry for justice as well as for dinner. Amateur sleuth Winnie Kepler is a force that you'll cheer for every step of the way, in romance and in finding her place in the world, as well as fighting to get her grandma off the hook for murder. Each slice of this story is a tasty morsel more complex than the last, slowly revealing rich and unexpected details. Good to the very last bite!”
– L.S. Engler, author and contributor to The Saturday Evening Post
“Lutz cooked up a fun culinary mystery with all the right ingredients—a cast of colorful characters, charming setting and grins along the way!»
– Nancy Naigle, USA TODAY Bestselling Author of the Adams Grove Novels
“I love reading about food and enjoyed the contest aspect along with the mystery. Anyone who enjoys food, cooking, and reading mysteries will think this book is a lot of fun!”
– Sallie Swor, culinary expert for Nashville’s CBS – WTVF, and author of the popular cookbook, You’ve Grown, Now You Can Cook.”
“A classic whodunit and feisty sleuth will keep you turning the pages of D.J. Lutz’s culinary cozy. Lots of great recipes!”
– Maggie King, author of the Hazel Rose Book Group Mysteries
“The Apple Pie Alibi is a masterfully written debut cozy mystery from D.J. Lutz. Protagonist Winnie Kepler is spunky, adorable, and one smart cookie—a delightful character who I thoroughly enjoyed.”
– Janice Peacock, best selling author of the Glass Bead Mystery Series
“D.J. Lutz’s culinary mystery, The Apple Pie Alibi, serves up a sweet and salty recipe for murder!”
– Teresa Inge, prolific mystery writer and President, Sisters In Crime – Mystery by the Sea Chapter
The Apple Pie Alibi
by D.J. Lutz
© Copyright 2017 D.J. Lutz
ISBN 978–1–63393–484–9
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other – except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters are both actual and fictitious. With the exception of verified historical events and persons, all incidents, descriptions, dialogue and opinions expressed are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Published by
210 60th Street
Virginia Beach, VA 23451
800–435–4811
www.koehlerbooks.com
To my family, especially my lovely wife, Elizabeth. Thank you for indulging a man and his dream. Without you all, this story would have never been written.
Table of Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
SECRET RECIPES
Acknowledgments
1
1:30 pm: G–ma V! Customer said something happened at the fair. U ok?
1:34 pm: Fine, Winnie. But Chef P isn’t tho. Def dead. Plz clean the coffee pots.
1:34 pm: What???
I waited. No answer. I just knew I shouldn’t have taught my grandmother how to text. Now someone’s dead, and I have to count the hours for her to one–finger type on a tiny keyboard. What was I thinking? Two minutes elapsed. I tried again.
1:36 pm: Who is Chef P? What happened? Sick, accident, murder? Do I need to come?
Still no answer. I could see the text window on my phone blink. Finally, an answer. Not the one I expected, but at least I had proof Grandma Velma was alive.
1:39 pm: Chef P is Pierre St. Pierre. Yes, he’s dead. No, don’t come. And wrap the silverware. Cafe s/b neat and tidy. Plz and Thnx. Talk L8r.
And that was that. I sent a few more text messages and received no further response. I also tried the old–school method of just calling, but it went straight to voicemail, which was full, of course. My grandmother had left me hanging with several questions. Did she mean no, as in Chef Pierre St. Pierre wasn’t sick? Or no, he wasn’t murdered? Or no, don’t drive over to the fairgrounds and get her?
And the coffee pots looked clean enough. To me, at least. Customers said a clean coffee pot ruins the flavor so I hesitated to scrub much more. I mean, it’s not like the time I forgot to add sugar to the lemon meringue pie. I am sure I wasn’t the only one who thought it tasted okay at the very least. Live and learn.
Without a single customer all day, I had been cleaning since the sun rose above the crepe myrtle trees lining the sidewalk across the street. It was a lot of work, but nothing I couldn’t handle. Velma left me, the college girl as she was fond of saying, in charge of her Cat and Fiddle Café while she competed at the fair’s Saucy Skillet cooking contest.
I felt a furry paw tap my right foot. Tinkers, the local cat about town and everyone’s favorite mouse catcher, had snuck in through a back window hoping to abscond with some leftover tuna fish or a bit of butter left unguarded by the sucker behind the counter. Since I was the only person in the café, the role of sucker fell squarely upon my shoulders.
I reached into the countertop cooler and found a foil pack of butter. Not the fake stuff; Tinkers was one of my best friends and as such deserved the best. “You should be down at the fair with everyone else,” I said. “Stick around here and the only thing you’ll get is an extra pat of butter. But Seaview is such a small town, I guess that’s butter than nothing.” It was a bad pun, but I laughed all the same. The fat orange calico ignored me, lapping up the butter and pushing the shiny packaging around like a hockey puck.
“Seaview’s not so bad, is it? The waitress at the diner is pretty cute, from what I hear.”
I turned my head, almost wrenching my neck. For a split second, I thought Tinkers spoke English. Then I saw the young police officer standing at the front doorway.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in. For a minute there, it looked like . . . Ah, don’t worry about it.”
The man chuckled as he made his way to the first stool at the counter. “You thought I was Tinkers? Hardly. Everyone knows she speaks with a British accent. No, wait. That’s my phone. Sorry.”
I giggled then became a bit flustered, since I had not expected a guy in uniform to appear out of nowhere. Trying to recover my composure, I grabbed a menu and a sparkling white coffee mug. My heart skipped. Puh–shaw, I’m getting way ahead of myself. Calm down, Winnie. He’s just here for food.
“I’ve only a few minutes; been on duty down at the fair. Can I have a sandwich? Something simple, something fast?” He glanced first at his watch, and then tapped a few times on his smartphone. Returning his gaze to the laminated menu, the officer asked, “What’s a Winnipeg Special?”
I picked up a glass jar of peanut butter and flipped it in the air, deftly catching it with one hand as I took the menu away with the other. “Me. I mean, it’s a sandwich. And you’ll love it. The sandwich, that is. And it won’t take long to make, either.” I kept on digging a verbal hole deep enough to hide in.
“I’ll just go. Back in a minute.” Embarrassed by my poor attempt at flirting, I waltzed over to the sandwich board opposite the front counter and started to assemble the needed ingredients. I faced away from my customer, taking a deep breath and then slowly exhaling, glad I h
ad not broken another jar.
“Pretty fancy footwork. I’d have dropped the peanut butter after the first step.”
“Just takes a little practice. And three to four jars plus a good broom. But here you go. This is the Winnipeg Special.” As soon as the plate hit the counter, I heard a wistful meow from down below. Tinkers was hoping something would fall from the heavens.
“Tinkers! Stop begging. No one likes a mooch.” I nudged the cat away with my foot. “She’s great for keeping the mice away, but sometimes she gets a little too friendly with the customers. Thankfully, the health inspector likes her.”
“I think she is on her best behavior right now. That cat caused far more trouble down at the fish market. Used up more than a few of her nine lives down there. The old man who runs the place chases her with a butcher knife. Wants to kill her sometimes, I think. Is that a pickle I taste in this peanut butter sandwich? And potato chips?”
Tinkers took the hint and scrambled back to the kitchen, snagging a fallen chip along the way. As I heard the cat escape through an open window, I suddenly remembered my grandmother’s plight. “Yes, both pickles and chips. But you said the man wanted to kill Tinkers, which reminded me. I’ve heard something about a death at the fair. Do you know anything about it? My grandmother is down there at the cook–off. It’s probably nothing, but I’m a bit worried about her.”
As if on cue, the officer’s radio crackled to life. A gravelly voice ordered all officers to report to the fairgrounds immediately. My first and only customer of the day put down the remnants of his sandwich, slugged down one last gulp of coffee, then stood up to pay his tab.
“On the house,” I said.
“Oh, no. I can’t accept free food. It could be construed a bribe.”
I glared at the man with my are–you–serious look. “Not sure why I would need to pay off anyone, but if you want, you can always come back tomorrow and settle up.”
He put on his hat, tipping it as if to say thank you. The radio’s static roared once more.
“Williams—why aren’t you here yet, rookie? I’ve got a troublemaker that needs locking up. She’s a real handful.”
We both could hear a commotion in the background as the caller ordered people to step back. The events were occurring fast, and backup was needed. My guy responded that he was on his way already. That’s when I noticed the name tag on the uniform pocket. In black letters laser–etched against a jet–black background: P. Williams.
As he finished, the radio squelched once again, this time just giving us a snapshot of the cacophony in real time:
“Velma Kepler! Put that drumstick down! You’re not allowed to—”
The radio went silent. Officer P. Williams stepped toward the door. “I’ll be back tomorrow, not to worry. I’ll pay cash, and leave you a nice tip.”
Then it hit me. “Wait!”
I locked the register, vaulting myself over the counter. The napkin holder went flying and the red ketchup squeeze bottle spun like a top. Once past the row of barstools, I looped my arm around his and dragged him out the door.
“You’re not the only one who needs to get to the fair. Let’s get moving!”
A flock of seagulls scattered as we left the building. Judging from the white splats on the windshield, a few had been roosting on the telephone line above an old red Ford pickup, the only vehicle in front of the Cat and Fiddle Café.
“This yours?” I asked, as I slid into the passenger side.
My knight in khaki and blue–black cotton armor got behind the wheel. “Yes, fortunately for you. And why the sudden need to get to the fair? I don’t even know your name.”
I snapped the latch on my seatbelt. “The name’s Winnie. Short for Winnipeg. And my last name is Kepler. You can put it all together while you get us to the fairgrounds. Now, Officer P. Williams—hurry!”
2
The cop slammed his foot on the gas pedal. Smoke billowed as he dropped the manual transmission into first gear. We went skidding out onto the road, fishtailing twice before steadying into the right lane. I peered out the back window to see if we had cut any traffic off, but everyone with a car must have already been down at the fair.
“So is that your place?”
“My grandmother owns it. When the rare customer gives her a hard time, she offers to sell me everything for a spare twenty. I work there for the money, but I’m a vegetarian. I would make a terrible owner unless I could change the menu entirely. After a cup or two of tea, she calms down and changes the subject, usually to something about my future and a so–called real job. She wants me to work in a big company, one that includes full benefits.”
“Is that such a bad thing? I mean, benefits are nice. I get medical, dental, and vision at the police department. Can’t complain.”
“Works for you, maybe. But after four years of living in a big city, an office job just isn’t for me. Too much hype and politics, and that’s just in the interview process. No, for me the Cat and Fiddle is perfect. I’ve been here a year now.”
I didn’t know why was I telling this stranger my life story. He knew my name, but other than Officer Williams, I didn’t know what else to call him. Tall and handsome?
“I’m glad the boys at the station told me to stop by sometime. They all love your crab cakes. And they told me your grandmother—well, she’s got spunk, they say. I’m partial to your red hair, though. Tall blondes are okay—but when they told me about you. Well, I had to, ah, well, you know, stop by for coffee.”
I straightened my shoulder–length hair and tugged on the seat belt in hopes of un–ruffling my shirt. It had crumpled when I jumped in the truck and buckled up. He liked my hair? I needed to find out more about this guy. How long had he been checking me out? Was he checking me out? Did I want him checking me out? My paranoid, self–conscious brain kicked into overdrive. I was a size twelve on a good day. At five foot ten, maybe I needed to hit the gym to lose that freshman fifteen I had carried with me for five years. My mind was racing. This was getting out of control. Stop, Winnie. Before you buy a package of rice crackers for dinner!
I took a deep breath. “So it sounds like you are new here. In town, that is. Yes?”
Ignoring my question, he pointed to the orange Event sign on the sidewalk; it had an arrow pointing to the left. As we drove off the paved road onto the white, oyster–shell path leading to the fairgrounds, my thoughts went back to my grandmother. The Cat and Fiddle had been my grandmother’s diner forever, it seemed. And while it was the most popular spot on the Eastern Shore of Virginia to get a crab cake sandwich, the café didn’t really qualify as fine dining. You wouldn’t find a linen tablecloth anywhere in the place, and the only crystal was on the face of the cuckoo clock on the wall.
This type of diner was typical for the area. And like many towns nestled just off the railroad tracks along the Eastern Shore, the small town of Seaview was quaint, which was local jargon for no stoplight, no chain restaurant, and no social scene for anyone under Social Security age. But there was hope. And he was sitting right next to me.
Velma and I cooked up some decent food, and the reviews were fine enough to get my grandmother invited once again to the fair’s annual cooking competition. It didn’t hurt she had won the contest before, several times. The row of Saucy Skillet trophies watched over the cash register, almost daring anyone to complain about the food. I aspired to be as good a cook as Velma, but I still had a long way to go.
The best chefs in town were at the contest. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to go see what was going on; being nosey was in my DNA. My parents were private detectives in Washington, D.C. Some people enjoyed making scrapbooks; my hobby involved solving mysteries. To date, my biggest job had been the case of the missing flounder sandwiches. Tinkers was lucky she didn’t get the book thrown at her for that one. Anyhow, if this was a true murder case, it would be my first.
My phone buzzed. I pulled it out of my purse and scanned the number on the screen. It was
not Velma, rather another call from another corporate recruiter responding to the résumé my grandmother had posted on the Internet on my behalf. Though I wanted to ease into adulthood, Velma had other ideas. What could I do? She was my grandmother, after all.
A few days earlier, a huge corporation, Mint Street Bankers, called me to interview with the hiring manager. They were looking for someone with a background in consumer psychology, and with my double major in business marketing and sociology, I matched on most of the keywords in their computer’s algorithm. I didn’t want the job, but Velma made me interview. I was happy with Seaview, the Cat and Fiddle, and even Tinkers with her daily visits. But once I was inside the plush conference room, something changed.
I felt good about my chances—the competitor coming out in me. Anyway, the manager introduced me to several of the higher–ups, said some nice things about me, and as I was leaving he let me know they would follow up. But no call back, at least not yet. Maybe I’m not the hotshot I thought.
“The chief’s down at the exposition hall,” Officer Williams said, pulling me out of my trance. “Just past the old railroad yard. We should be there soon.” He shook his hands at the line of cars waiting to turn off the main road. The fair was popular, drawing crowds from as far away as Maryland. And every car in front of us glared bright red taillights. “Maybe soon was too strong a word,” he lamented.
I rummaged through the glove box and found a few slips of paper, the registration and insurance papers. Underneath the documents, I discovered a box of 9–millimeter bullets, presumably for his service weapon. And then I found it. All the volunteer firemen in town had one; I had hoped a new police officer would be no different.
“This’ll help,” I said. I cranked on the window handle, rolling my side down. I unbuckled my seatbelt and stretched my torso outside. Before Officer Williams could pull me back, I slapped a magnet–mounted, battery–operated, red flashing light on top of the truck’s cab. The effect, aided by a few taps on the horn, caused cars to lurch to the side, right and left. An instant path opened just wide enough for our pickup.