A Harvest Of Murder
A Pies and Pages Cozy Mystery Book 14
Carolyn Q. Hunter
Summer Prescott Books Publishing
Contents
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
Also by Carolyn Q. Hunter
Author’s Note
Contact Summer Prescott Books Publishing
Copyright 2018 Summer Prescott Books
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication nor any of the information herein may be quoted from, nor reproduced, in any form, including but not limited to: printing, scanning, photocopying or any other printed, digital, or audio formats, without prior express written consent of the copyright holder.
**This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, places of business, or situations past or present, is completely unintentional.
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Prologue
A light drizzle came down from the gray sky onto the city streets as Nan drove toward work. “I hope this storm clears up before the weekend,” she whispered, leaning forward and peering out the windshield as drops splattered down upon the glass.
Clicking her tongue, she pulled into a spot along the side of the road, hopped out, and paid the meter. With that, she finished her commute to work by heading up the sidewalk a few feet and standing at the bottom of a set of concrete stairs which led to double glass doors.
The Tate Riderman Historical Museum was in the heart of downtown Culver’s Hood in a newer building that had originally been a museum of contemporary art. However, with the steep prices of the rent for the location, along with decreasing interest in the exhibits, it had gone under.
That had been when Nan Greatwater, the director of the Culver’s Hood Historical Museum, had decided it was time to move their tiny little museum from the crumbling building it used to be in to the new and shiny one downtown. She’d been all too happy to find the location vacant, thinking it was about time the great American hero Tate Riderman got the recognition he deserved.
A renowned lawman of Nebraska, not to mention an icon of the Civil War, Tate Riderman was an integral part of Culver Hood’s legacy. Yet, most kids today didn’t know a thing about him—which was something that Nan was working hard to remedy.
“Good morning, Nan,” came the familiar voice of the museum’s main advisor.
“Morning, Sybil. How about this weather?” Nan asked, watching her slim and trim co-worker sauntering toward her in a classy white and black pencil dress with matching high heels. Sybil had always had a flair for fashion that Nan didn’t. She had to wonder, at times, how much Sybil paid for those gorgeous outfits she wore.
Nan also wondered how the woman wasn’t chilled in this weather. Autumn was right on the horizon and the cooler temperatures had already begun to appear.
“Oh, I just love it. Gray days are my favorite,” she admitted, sipping from her to-go cup of coffee she’d clearly picked up at the Koffee Haus on the corner.
Nan slipped the key into the door and unlocked it, stepping inside. “As much as you may love it, let’s both hope that Friday, Saturday, and Sunday are rain free.” She stood there shaking the water off of her jacket.
It was only Monday, but the two women had an overwhelming few days ahead of them. The coming weekend was going to be the first annual Western Historical Fair. Nan had attended the Renaissance Festival the year before and wondered to herself, “Why can’t we do this for the old west?”
Now, as the date was closing in, she was growing worried it was going to be too much to take on.
“Rain free? That shouldn’t matter too much. I mean, why are we renting all those tents if we’re just hoping for no rain?” she pointed out, clearly already calculating out how much they’d spent on rentals in her head. Nan could always tell when her advisor was hitting the numbers because her lips moved slightly as she counted to herself.
“We rented those tents to protect the items on display and the sellers who signed up to host a booth,” she reminded her friend, walking through the spacious lobby with her heels clicking on the tile. Opening a glass door off to the side, she stepped into the offices. “Besides, if it rains, fewer patrons will show up to the event and we’ll make less money,” she reminded her advisor, speaking in her language. She held the door to let Nan through.
“Speaking of display items, do you have a list of the exhibits you want to be moved outside for the fair?” Sybil asked, removing the light shawl she’d worn over the dress and hanging it on the coat rack near the office door.
“Yes, I do,” Nan noted, throwing her coat on the hook and walking around her desk. Opening a drawer, she pulled out a folder and handed it over to her co-worker.
Sybil flipped it open and scanned the items. After a moment, she held up one finger to the museum director. “Hold on just a minute.”
“What? Is something wrong?” Nan asked, sitting in her chair behind the desk.
“You want us to bring Tate Riderman’s saddle out to the fairgrounds?”
“Of course. It’s one of our biggest attractions here at the museum.”
Sybil closed the folder. “It’s also one of the rarest and most expensive items we own. You were worried about rain because of the patrons, but what about the saddle? If it gets even remotely damaged, not only will the monetary value decrease, but the historical value will as well.”
Nan folded her hands on the table. “We’d be very cautious and have someone watching it at all times. None of the fairgoers would be allowed to touch it.”
Sybil set the folder down on the desk. “As your advisor, I recommend taking this off the list. It’s simply too risky, especially with us still adjusting to this new location.”
Nan knew she was referring to the overhead costs of the building and space. “Trust me, this fair will bring in enough money and more to cover us for the year—if not longer.” She pointed at the list. “That saddle will bring in history buffs and collectors alike.”
“Exactly. Collectors. Rich Collectors, I might add, who will assume they have some right to bid on the item when it’s not for sale.”
“So, we tell them it isn’t for sale. No big deal.”
Sybil bowed her head with a sigh. “You might as well bring Tate’s diamond-encrusted gold pocket watch as long as you’re at it,” she noted with a hint of sarcasm. It was an inappropriate comment, she knew, but these were rare and expansive historical items that might not do well being moved or displayed in harsh settings.
“I am bringing the watch. It’s lower down on the list,” Nan commented.
“What!?” Sybil blurted out, picking up the folder again and flipping it open. Sure enough, the pocket watch was there as well. “I can’t let you bring that watch to the fairgrounds.”
“I’m the director and I say both of those items will be on display at the fair. End of story.”
“This is far too risky.”
“Too risky? Then why did we take out those handsome insurance policies on them?” She pointed with a pen at her advisor. “We took out those policies, so we could feel more comfortable actually showing them to the public.”
“The money from an insurance policy doesn’t replace history,” she snapped.
“The list is final,” she said, putt
ing an end to the conversation.
Shaking her head and rubbing her hands over her face, Sybil headed for the door. “I need to go for a walk,” she groaned.
“Sybil? Sybil, where are you going?” Nan called after the younger woman as she walked out.
Sybil ignored her, trying to catch her breath. She’d been so mad that she’d held it in and needed a bit of air. However, it was raining outside, and she’d not grabbed her shawl. Instead, she headed further into the museum, figuring she’d make the rounds two or three times before heading back to the office to try and talk the director out of such an unwise decision.
Passing by the worn leather saddle sitting behind a glass enclosure, she shook her head, imagining the item out in the open where anyone could reach over some guard ropes and touch it.
Next, she headed into the far room at the back of the museum where the watch was kept. Stepping through the doorway, she paused as if she’d been frozen in place by a chill in the air. However, it wasn’t the temperature that had caused the reaction.
It was the empty glass case at the far side of the room. The small door on the case was open, the lock undone.
The pocket watch was gone.
“Nan?” she cried, rushing back toward the offices. “Nan, call the police. We’ve been robbed.”
Chapter One
The combined woodsy scent of smoked sausage, freshly baked pinto beans, spicy hot peppers, and the delightfully comforting aroma of cornbread filled Pies and Pages kitchen as Bert opened the oven and pulled out the pie she had baking. Her mouth was already watering as she looked down at her latest creation, perfect for the upcoming weekend.
“Mmm, something in here smells amazing,” Carla called, as she stepped through the shop door, the bell tinkling above.
Bert looked up with a smile to see her best friend and another woman whom she didn’t recognize coming in. The stranger was about sixty, around the same age as Bert and Carla, and wore a simple black t-shirt with jeans.
“I’m surprised you think it smells so good, considering it isn’t a dessert pie,” Bert teased, knowing Carla had disliked the last savory dish she’d whipped up. It had been an attempt to draw in the brunch crowd and add a little variety to the menu at the combination pie and bookstore.
It had been a goat cheese and herb pie, but all the test runs she’d done hadn’t turned out as well as she’d hoped. Carla disliked it, Bert’s boyfriend Harry disliked it, even her loyal employee Shiv had a distaste for the dish.
Only Bert had enjoyed it, so it ended up in her personal recipe box but not on the menu.
“This smells nothing like that last pie you made,” Carla noted, walking to the counter and peeking over to get a glimpse of the tasty new dish. “It smells almost like a Mexican restaurant.”
The shop owner smirked with one side of her mouth, happy that her friend had noticed. “Actually, it’s slightly more Southwestern.” She lifted the pie and set it out for the two women to see. “I call it the Cowboy Pie.”
Carla’s face lit up. “Ah, for the fair this weekend.”
Bert snapped her fingers. “That’s right. First, I cooked up some spicy smoked sausage and topped that off with potatoes. All of that got browned. Then I added in sweet corn, jalapenos, pinto beans, and tomatoes.”
“And is that cornbread on top?” Carla asked pointing at the crispy crust over the pie.
“Yes, ma’am, it is. After everything cooks, I layered on a helping of corn batter and then cooked it in the oven until it was done.” She held out her hands as if presenting the pie to a judge. “The Cowboy Pie.”
“It does sound amazing,” she admitted.
“You’re in luck. Want to try it?”
“Do I ever,” Carla agreed, taking a seat at the closest table.
“And do you want to try it as well, ma’am?” Bert asked the other woman.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. How rude of me. I got so distracted by the pie I nearly forgot,” Carla said, blushing. She waved for her guest to come over and sit down. “This is my friend from out of town. Karol Riderman. Karol, this Bert, the fabulous pie maker.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Karol said.
“Nice to meet you. Are you in town for the Western Historical Fair?” Bert asked. “I made this pie especially for the event.”
“Bert is going to be hosting a booth there,” Carla noted.
Karol gave a slightly pained smile. “I guess you could say I’m here for the fair.” An awkward pause ensued while the newcomer swallowed a lump that had suddenly appeared in her throat.
Carla put a hand on her friend’s arm. “Karol is actually the only living direct descendant of Tate Riderman.”
Karol gave a timid nod. “Yes, my full name is Karol Waylin Riderman.”
Bert’s jaw dropped. “Wow. That’s awesome. I assume the historical society asked you to come and speak at the fair or something?” she inquired, impressed with this new development. While Tate Riderman wasn’t a big-time western figure, he was considered a bit of a local hero.
However, at the mention of the historical society, Karol’s nose scrunched up in a subtle sneer. “No, they didn’t ask me to come.”
There was obviously some sort of resentment bubbling below the surface, Bert realized. Clearly, an unhappy history had transpired between this heir of a hero and the very organization that honored him. Bert, trying to be polite, didn’t pry right away. Instead, she proceeded to cut into the Cowboy Pie. Puffs of delicious steam escaped through the fresh slices as she plated two pieces of the dish.
Carla was the first to jump in with an exclamation. “Karol has been working for years to regain possession of some of her family’s heirlooms,” she noted, as Bert set one of the plates in front of her and the other in front of Karol.
“Care for any hot sauce?” Bert asked. She was doubly interested in the story behind this little feud but often found that satisfied tummies produced better attitudes—as well as juicy details.
“None for me, thanks,” Karol said, picking up a fork and digging into her first bite. She chewed for a bit, swallowing before allowing herself to talk. “You see, when my great, great, great grandfather passed away, a friend of his swooped in and offered to handle the burial. Tate’s wife was in such distress that she could hardly hold herself together enough to cook a meal, let alone figure out a funeral.”
Bert hummed quietly, recalling the story. She slipped into the one empty seat at the small wrought iron table where the women ate. “Yes, I think I remember that bit from history class,” she noted, surprised she could remember anything from grade school.
“What people don’t know is that this friend took this opportunity to steal many of the family heirlooms. The most important ones being Tate’s saddle and his expensive pocket watch, a gift from an oil tycoon who took a liking to him. This friend held onto the items for some time. It was a number of years later, his grandchildren sold them off to a museum.”
“Which is where they are now,” Carla added, despite the fact it didn’t need saying.
Karol shrugged as she cut off the next bite of her pie with the side of her fork. “So, I’ve spent the last ten years trying to get the items back into my family.”
Bert glanced at Carla and then back at Karol. “But what would happen to the museum if that happened?” she wondered out loud.
“Well, originally, I had intentions of letting them keep the items on display, so long as the ownership reverted to my family. I wasn’t even asking them to pay us to display them or anything of the sort. I just felt like my family deserved some sort of justice in the matter. Those heirlooms had been stolen and sold off for cash. That act had never been rectified. I feel like it’s my duty to finally have them back in my family’s possession.”
“But, now you won’t allow them to keep the items?” Bert asked.
Karol scowled. “No. That woman who oversees the historical society has been nothing short of horrible to me throughout these past years. Originally, I simply a
sked to have them signed over in the family’s name. She refused. Next, I offered to purchase them back, all while letting her keep them at the museum.”
“And she still refused?” Bert gasped.
“That’s right.”
“Seems ironic, really. The museum is struggling financially ever since they moved to that new location.”
“Really?” Bert wondered out loud. She hadn’t heard that news, not that she kept up with local affairs or gossip. The only section of the newspaper she paid attention to was the comics and the movie showtimes.
“Yes. That’s what I heard at least.”
“It’s the main reason they’re hosting this fair—to make some extra money,” Karol added.
“I see.”
“My lawyer who is helping me in the matter agrees,” she noted, scooping up the last bite of the pie and gobbling it down.
Bert had to admit, she felt a touch awkward with the situation. She’d been excited for the fair and had been one of the first people to sign on to host a booth. She had all sorts of plans to sell slices of tasty home-baked pie while also having an assortment of western history books and novels at a discounted price. Now, she felt a bit torn. She supported the fair and was always one to get behind local art, museums, libraries, and anything else that benefited local culture. However, with Carla’s friend being so against the whole thing, she felt strange. “Well, I’m sorry I signed up for the fair,” she admitted timidly. She knew it was a half-truth but felt obligated to make some sort of supportive comment to Karol—who seemed worn down from all the disputes over the heirlooms.
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I don’t blame anyone but that horrible woman, Nan Greatwater. If she was out of the picture, maybe I could finally find some justice for Tate and the rest of my family.”
A Harvest Of Murder: A Pies and Pages Cozy Mystery Book 14 Page 1