TABLE OF CONTENTS
KILLER THANKSGIVING PIE
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
Killer
Thanksgiving
Pie
A Pies and Pages Cozy Mystery
Book Four
BY
Carolyn Q. Hunter
Copyright 2017 Summer Prescott Books
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KILLER
THANKSGIVING
PIE
A Pies and Pages Cozy Mystery
Book Four
PROLOGUE
* * *
The cough was getting worse. Tayler had been dealing with it for the last month, at least. When it had first come up, it seemed like nothing more than a normal seasonal cold. After all, since he’d been living outside on the streets, it was only natural, as the weather cooled down for the season, that he’d at least catch a bug or two.
Huddled against the brick wall in one of the alleys of the Old Market, he tried to suppress the urge to cough again. He’d spent most of his morning hidden behind the dumpster, wrapped up in his thick winter coat, and coughing like a wild man.
He had to admit, it was getting old.
In addition to the irritation of having the constant tickle in his chest, the pure fact that it was painful every time he coughed was enough to drive a man mad.
Of course, the chilly wind and the humid air weren’t helping any.
Another wave rose up in his chest and he let out a series of hacks that would make a witch jealous. He gripped his chest with one hand and covered his mouth with his palm. The coughing fit seemed to last for a good thirty seconds before subsiding. “Geez,” he groaned, leaning back against the wall and slumping further into the pile of autumn leaves which crunched under his weight.
If he couldn’t stop this coughing soon, one of the shop owners would realize he was back there and have the cops remove him. Finding a place to rest or sleep had grown more and more difficult the stronger the cough became.
It was hard to be a silent mouse just living his existence away in the shadows when he had a built-in alarm system he couldn’t turn off.
The last thing he wanted to do was move. The little pie shop where he had taken up residence the evening before gave off a lot of warmth and good smells during the daylight hours. He eagerly awaited their opening that day so he could smell the pumpkin and pecan pies which were their specialty during the Thanksgiving season. The mixture of brown sugars, roasted nuts, and flaky pie crust created a scent that made him remember better days.
It almost made him believe for a few seconds that he wasn’t homeless. The holidays always seemed the worst time to be in such a dire situation.
Another attack rose up in his chest and he doubled over in pain, his lungs expanding and contracting like a recurring fiery explosion inside his body. His vision began to cross, blurring the alleyway around him. A light-headed deliriousness overtook him as his chest throbbed with pain.
For a second, he thought of an old sci-fi movie he remembered seeing in the theaters years and years ago where some strange alien creature erupted from its victim’s chest.
He figured that maybe this cough was a similar feeling to that.
Lifting his palm away from his mouth, his eyes squinted up in concern.
There was bright red blood there on his glove.
Maybe, this was worse than he’d first assumed. He knew he should get up, should try and walk toward the hospital. Someone there, one of the nurses perhaps, might be willing to help him.
However, he was far too tired. He decided he would head that direction after he shut his eyes and got a little more rest, even if just for a few minutes.
Letting his eyelids flutter closed, he drifted off into a deep slumber.
CHAPTER 1
* * *
“The homeless in this city are becoming more of a problem each day, and we need to do something about it,” the garbled, angry voice blared from the old-time cathedral radio in the Pies and Pages kitchen. “I suggest we instate a new law that makes loitering illegal in any part of our fine American city. I say, any homeless person found here among our streets should be picked up by local police and relocated to another place. Let’s show the public a clean and safe city.”
Bertha Hannah reached over and switched the station to something jazzy, silencing the woman’s voice. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t know they were going to replay that this morning. Usually it’s just talk radio on this station.”
“That’s okay,” Andie Right said with a slight shrug and a sigh. “I’ve gotten used to her by now.”
“Some mayor, huh? What kind of woman thinks it’s okay to treat the homeless that way?”
Andie shook her head. “I don’t even want to think about her right now. If she had her way, I’d be out of a job.”
“Speaking of, I’d love to work at the soup kitchen again this year, Andie,” Bertha Hannah said as she went about her usual work of rolling out the dough for the morning’s pies. She’d let the crusts chill overnight in the refrigerator which made them perfect for forming into the handmade and delicate pastries she was quickly becoming famous for. “I mean, that is what you came by to ask me, right?” she smirked, knowing her old friend all too well.
“You mean it, Bert?” Andie asked, smiling as she clasped her hands, forgetting about the mayor. She was a woman about the same age as the pie shop owner. She had a gray poof of hair atop her head, the handiwork of the same salon every week for the past ten years. Her charming cream blouse and black skirt were her usual uniform when she was heading into work for the day.
“Andie, you know more than anyone that you can count me in. Ever since Howie passed, it’s been my personal tradition. After all, it’s not like I have any children or other living relatives to speak of. You and Carla are my family now.”
“Oh, hon, I know that,” she said, reaching out in an action of comfort.
“So, yes, I’ll be there Thanksgiving Day to help prepare a delicious meal for all of those in need.” She placed an empty pie tin over the rolled-out crust. Flipping the whole thing, the dough rested gently into the pan.
“Great. I’m really sorry to have bothered you like this, but ever since I’d heard you’d opened this adorable little shop, I just wasn’t sure you’d have the time this year.”
“I’ll always make time for charity,” Bert beamed, trimming off the edges of the crust, so it perfectly fit the shape of the pan.
“Fantastic. I’ve been so shorthanded this season, and the budget’s been so tight this year since our aid was cut in half, I was worried we’d not be able to have our annual Thanksgiving dinner.”
Bert looked up, with her mouth slightly open in shock. “They cut your funding? I didn’t know that.”
Andie’s mouth grew thin with worry. “Unfortunately, yes. The mayor saw to that. Things have been difficult, to say the least, and any donations have been pretty slim. I guess most people are putting their resources elsewhere. Our canned food drive made only a quarter of what we usually do.”
“That’s terrible.”
She shrugged. “That’s just the way of things sometimes. It’s my job to roll with the punches, you know.”
“Will you have enough for the dinner?” Grabbing the butter brush, she put a very light coat over the pie crust.
“By scrimping and saving, I think so.” Sighing, she shook her head and gave a mournful smile. “I just couldn’t stand to let all these men, women, and children go without something this Thanksgiving.”
Bert grabbed a pinch of brown sugar and sprinkled it along the crust, making it sparkle. “I think I have an idea how I can help.”
“Oh?”
“How about I make all of the pies for this year’s event?”
Andie audibly gasped. “Bert, oh heavens, you can’t be serious?”
She nodded. “I’m dead serious, Andie. It would be my absolute pleasure to do it.”
“Oh, thank you, dear.”
“What kind of pies do you think everyone would enjoy?”
“We can just stick with the staples. Pumpkin, pecan, and apple should do it.”
“Great. I’ll just make a note to pick up extra of everything during my shopping run tonight. That way I’ll be prepared to bake up a storm tomorrow and be ready for the Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday.”
“I really appreciate this.”
Bert shrugged. “Aw, what are old friends for?”
Andie looked at her skinny gold watch. “Looks like I better get a move on or I’ll be late. I still have a lot of preparations to make in the next two days.”
“I understand.”
“Thanks for letting me drop by and talk to you before business hours.”
Bert let out a laugh. “Andie, it’s six in the morning. Most people are still in bed while we’re up and working already.”
“Can’t waste a single moment of life,” she smiled, heading for the door and adjusting her purse over her shoulder. “I’ll expect you and your pies on Thursday morning.”
“I’ll be there.”
With one final wave of her fingers, Andie headed out into the chilly November morning.
* * *
It was getting close to ten o’clock in the morning—opening time for the Pies and Pages combination bookstore and pie shop—when Bert finished taking the last pie out of the oven. Arranging them neatly in the glass display case, she felt prepared for the bombardment of customers for the day.
Since she opened the shop in October, every week had been busier and busier, and she expected it to continue along that way until well after the new year.
Her best friend, Carla, owned a Christmas themed shop just around the corner. She had informed Bert that the Old Market district became a madhouse around the holidays.
She had been right.
Every day, the shop was full of more and more customers looking to pre-order a pie for Thanksgiving, to buy books as Christmas presents, or even just to grab a treat in between all the chaotic shopping.
Bert had plans for the month of December, including all sorts of special sales and promotions to entice new customers to stop by, but was completely swamped already with a long task list of things to do. In one respect, Andie had been right. Bert was far busier this year than previous ones.
However, Bert was determined to make time to volunteer and give back to the community, even if it seemed like a crazy idea.
She began making mental notes about how she would fit the process of baking pies for the soup kitchen in between running her own business. She figured her best option was to cook them during business hours, doing them little by little in between helping customers.
She was crossing her fingers that things would work out. It was already Tuesday, which gave her the rest of the day and the next to finish up the pies in time.
Sighing, she realized she really needed to find some other people to help out in the shop. Having even just one more employee would lighten her load considerably.
Checking her watch, she realized she had just enough time to take out the trash before she officially opened. There were many scraps and bits of rubbish from the morning’s duties that had already completely filled one bag.
Tying the red pull string, she hoisted the bag from the garbage and hefted it through the storage room, through the back door, and into the alley. Setting the bag down on the pavement, she fumbled with her keys to open the lock on the dumpster.
If she didn’t have the lock on there, random people tossed stuff in and cluttered it up.
Finally finding the necessary key, she undid the padlock, pulled down the safety bar, and lifted the lid. With one swoop of her arm, she tossed the bag inside and shut the dumpster closed.
Taking a deep breath and pausing for a moment to rest her hands on her knees, something strange caught her eye. A man’s boot appeared to be sitting off to the side of the trash.
Perhaps someone had tried to throw it away but then realized they couldn’t get the dumpster open and instead dropped it.
“People can be so inconsiderate,” she whispered, reaching down and grabbing the boot. She immediately gasped and jumped back. The boot wasn’t empty.
Blinking a few times to clear her sense of surprise, she got up her gumption and peeked around the dumpster. Sitting there against the brick wall of the building was a man. He had frighteningly pale skin and a hint of blood on his lips.
He appeared to be dead.
CHAPTER 2
* * *
“Detective Mannor. Thank goodness you could come,” Bert expelled as she saw the gruff man walk in the door. He had his usual gray trench coat on with the collar flipped up to protect against the cold. Additionally, in the last month since Bert had seen him, he’d grown out his beard a little more—not too long of course. It was professionally trimmed and well maintained. Still, it made him look like a cross between a biker and Santa. His white shirt and red tie, however, offset the whole thing with a sort of old-timey P.I. feel.
“Mrs. Hannah, good to see you again,” he grunted in a none too convincing tone.
“There is a dead man in the alleyway, Detective. I’ll show you the way.” Bert waved, heading toward the back storeroom.
Mannor immediately held up a hand for her to stop. “No need. I’ve already checked it out and the coroner is taking him back to the morgue as we speak.”
Bert tilted her head. “So, do you know who it is?”
“Hardly.”
“And you’re not going to do any investigating? Cordon off the crime scene?”
He brushed his mustache back and for
th and shook his head. “No.”
“No? Why not?” she protested. Since she herself had been involved in a number of homicide investigations, she was becoming more aware of the police procedures behind them.
“You have to understand. This time of year, we always get a few bums who up and croak in alleys, under bridges, you get the picture.”
Bert realized her mouth was hanging open. She was a little offended by the detective’s dismissive manner toward the deaths. These were humans too, men and women who ended up in a sad situation. “Doesn’t he deserve a good investigation, too?”
“I only showed up because you requested me, Mrs. Hannah. This doesn’t seem to be a homicide case. If anything, the guy died of a bad heart, maybe pneumonia.”
“Are you serious?”
He raised one hand to silence her. “Don’t worry. I have taken the liberty to sweep the alley myself, but didn’t find anything significant that points to foul play.”
Bert folded her arms. “So, that’s it then? It wasn’t a homicide and you’re off the case?”
Sighing and shaking his head, he looked her in the eye. “Look, if it makes you feel better, I’ll inquire about his identity myself. In the meantime, the coroner will do a full autopsy to find out an exact cause of death. If there is anything fishy going on, he’ll find it.”
Bert, who wasn’t totally satisfied, twisted up her mouth as she looked at the Detective. However, it seemed she didn’t have much of a choice in the matter, as usual.
“Look, Mrs. Hannah, not every death needs to be a murder, okay?” He clasped his hands together and pointed at her as he talked. Somehow, it felt condescending. “I appreciate all of the aid you provided in previous cases, but that won’t be necessary here. It’s a simple procedure of locating his family—if any—and notifying them that he has passed away.”
“And if the autopsy reveals it was murder?” she pressed, realizing she was sounding crazy at this point.
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