The Smoking Bun (Apple Orchard Cozy Mystery Book 10)

by Chelsea Thomas

  It turned out the great parking spot didn’t matter much, because Hudgens was closed for lunch and wouldn’t reopen again until 5 PM for dinner service.

  Much to the amazement of Teeny and Miss May, I made a reservation for 5 PM using the Internet. But that meant we still had about three hours to kill so we headed off for a ladies’ afternoon in Manhattan.

  We were in a neighborhood called the West Village, which is one of New York’s trendiest, and most expensive, hot spots. The streets were lined with beautiful old brownstones and big oak and maple trees. And there was a café, bistro, or bar on every corner.

  Teeny looked down a long line of apartment buildings and scratched her head. “I swear I lived on this street for a few months in my twenties. But which building was it?”

  “No one is going to figure that out but you,” said Miss May. “I forgot you lived here at all! That wasn’t your pink hair phase, was it?”

  “Oh no, that was much later. I lived in the city during my hippie phase. Although I wasn’t very good at being a hippie. I spent most of my time walking around and looking at all the hippies.”

  “Good training for life as an amateur sleuth,” I said.

  Teeny turned the corner and stood bolt upright. “There it is. That’s the building.” She hurried down the block. Then she turned and walked back toward me and Miss May. “Nevermind. False alarm. These buildings all look alike.”

  The three of us decided to kill time with a cup of coffee at a hip coffee shop called The Dinosaur Cafe. The place featured sharp minimalist design, with high ceilings, white walls, and a few big pops of color, like a neon sign framed by a living wall of ferns. My interior design brain briefly went into hyperdrive as I imagined a few ways to improve the place — a well-placed shelf of merchandise, or a silhouette of the company logo on the door — but I refrained from mentioning to the cranky barista the ways in which I thought their decorating could improve. Probably for the best, I thought, since the process of ordering my cup of coffee seemed to get on the barista’s last nerve.

  There’s that famous hipster service you hear all about.

  After the three of us ordered our coffees, we took a seat outside. As Teeny and Miss May chatted about folks they knew who had moved into or out of the city, I noticed an interesting shop across the street and a little ways down.

  “Look at that place,” I said. “It’s an apothecary. I told you they’re popping up all over the city. I bet Rebecca tries to sell her oils and tinctures and creams to places like that.”

  “Seems like we should check it out,” said Miss May.

  I smiled. “Couldn’t agree more.”

  The apothecary had a minimalist appearance very similar to the style featured at Dinosaur. It had bright white walls and there were just a few jars dotting every shelf. Each jar had a little plaque in front of it that stated the price: $45 for “eye balm,” $75 for “rejuvenation formula,” $55 for a jar of something called “Better Sleep.”

  Miss May nudged me. “Check that out. More sleep for only $55? Not so bad.”

  “‘Better sleep,’” I said. “Whatever that means.”

  A trim young woman in high-waisted jeans and a crop top sashayed toward us. “Oh my God, you two are looking at the ‘Better Sleep?’ That is our best product. I put four drops on my tongue every night before bed and I’ve definitely been sleeping better. I could get you our smaller bottle for $40 if you’d like to try it out.”

  “We’re OK for now.” Miss May picked up the bottle and turned it over to read the label. “But I see here there are only a couple of ingredients listed, and then the label just says, ‘and other ingredients.’ Why is that?”

  “Oh, right,” said the woman. “Yeah, so apothecaries are not, like, regulated by any government agencies or whatever, so ingredients can be hard to come by.”

  “You have no idea what’s in it?” Miss May asked.

  “The owner here has personally tried everything on the shelf and she loves it all,” said the girl. “And I can vouch for it too.”

  “But…”

  “Yeah. I’m not positive what all the ingredients are.”

  “What if people have allergies?” Miss May asked.

  “Or what if it’s toxic?” I added.

  “Yeah, so I understand your concerns but we use all natural ingredients. I mean, sure, trace amounts of poison are in everything, right? Even like, the water. But--”

  “That sounds wrong to me,” I said.

  The salesgirl bristled and her tone sharpened. “We recommend anyone with severe allergies avoid using our products. Do you have severe allergies?”

  “What about this ingredient?” I asked, pointing to one of the labels. “Cassava?”

  “That’s one of our secrets. So good for your neck lines. Let me know if you’d like some.” She gave me a tight smile and bopped away.

  I frowned and turned to Miss May. “Is something wrong with my neck?”

  “No, Chelsea. Your neck is beautiful.”

  Teeny approached from across the store. “Are you two thinking what I’m thinking?”

  I nodded.

  Teeny smiled wide. “$55 is a great price for more sleep.”

  “‘Better sleep,’” I said with a groan.

  Teeny responded with an excited speech about the value of sleep. But her voice dulled in my mind as my I mulled over what the salesgirl had said about her products and a sense of dread climbed up my belly and into my heart.

  “Trace amounts of poison are in everything… right?”

  34

  Hudgens Huzzah

  Hudgens restaurant was the fanciest place I’d ever been in my entire life. It wasn’t a large restaurant, just one square room, but every detail screamed understated luxury.

  The hostess stand seemed to be carved from the same marble as the statue of David. A pianist with the hands of Liberace played jazz standards on a Steinway. The plates were trimmed in real gold. And I’m pretty sure there was an actual Picasso hanging on the wall.

  When we first entered the restaurant, I felt self-conscious in my normal-people clothes. No one had told me I would need to wear an evening gown to dinner, after all. But I straightened my shoulders and tipped my nose toward the ceiling as we walked to our table, and by the time we were seated I had forgotten all about my insecurities.

  I sat in my fancy chair, laid my silken napkin across my lap, and perused the gourmet menu like Queen Elizabeth herself.

  I ordered butternut squash soup to start, topped with fresh toasted pumpkin seeds and extra virgin olive oil. For dinner, I got homemade pappardelle in a sun-dried tomato sauce that had a wonderful, peppery aftertaste. I’d never experienced the literal sensation of something melting in my mouth before, but I swear, I didn’t even have to chew.

  Miss May and Teeny got food too, of course. But I was so involved in mine, I had no idea what they ordered or whether or not they even liked it.

  When the three of us realized that we were in for a fine dining experience, we decided to hold off on questioning anyone at the restaurant until after our meal. We didn’t want them to tamper with our food. More importantly, we wanted to savor every carefully curated bite.

  Even amateur sleuths deserve to be treated like royalty sometimes, right?

  Our waitress was a beautiful, middle-aged woman with perfect posture and a dainty gold bracelet. We didn’t mention the name Buck Johnson to her until the very end of the meal. Then, finally, Miss May broached the subject as the woman cleared our plates.

  “Did you know Buck Johnson when he worked here?” she asked. “I think he was head chef.”

  “I’m fairly new to the restaurant, ma’am,” said the woman. “Prior to this, I worked aboard luxury cruise ships. Prior to that, I was a server at the White House. It’s been quite the journey but Hudgens is where I feel most at home. Everything here is of the finest order.”

  Miss May thanked the woman and we waited on the check. After a few minutes, the hand with the gold bra
celet gently laid the bill on our table in a fine leather case. I snatched it up and slid my credit card inside. Miss May and Teeny protested but it was too late. I had already handed the heavy leather case to the server.

  “Let me pay for this,” I insisted. “You two are both like mothers to me, and we’ve never once celebrated Mother’s Day all together. Consider this a few years of restitution. You’ve both given me so many nice experiences in my life.”

  “Chelsea. You don’t have to do this,” said Miss May.

  Teeny nudged Miss May dramatically. “May. Quiet down. We’re about to get a free dinner.”

  I laughed. “For real. Thank you both. And to you especially, Miss May. You’ve given me a job and a true home. I’m grateful for that.”

  Miss May was not an emotional woman, but she dabbed gently at her eyes with her napkin. Before she could respond, a husky voice interrupted our tender moment.

  “Good evening, ladies.” A stocky, bearded man in a crisp blazer stood before us.

  “My name is Jeffrey and I’m the owner of this restaurant,” the man said. “Was everything to your liking this evening?”

  Miss May, Teeny, and I responded with a chorus of, “Yes. Amazing. So good.”

  Jeffrey looked pleased but there was an uneasy look in his eyes. “Wonderful. And I heard you were asking after our former chef, Buck Johnson?”

  Miss May nodded slowly. “We’re friends of his. Did you know him?”

  “I did know Buck. He was a terrific chef.”

  “Did you like him?” asked Miss May.

  Jeffrey flashed a pained smile. “Sure. Great guy. I’m sorry, is there a point to these questions?”

  Jeffrey shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then shoved his hands in his pockets. Hmmm. Why was the owner of Hudgen’s getting fidgety all of a sudden?

  “I take it you haven’t heard the news,” said Miss May with solemnity.

  Jeffrey shook his head. “News?”

  “Buck Johnson died this past weekend.”

  “Oh.” Jeffrey lowered his head. “What a terrible thing to hear. I’m not looking forward to sharing that news with my staff. Some of them knew Buck well. Do you mind me asking what the cause of death was?”

  Miss May pursed her lips. “Looks like a heart attack, maybe. But no one really knows.”

  “More depressing news in the culinary community,” said Jeffrey. “I’m not sure if the three of you are aware, but restauranteurs, chefs, so many of us in the restaurant industry have a reputation for living hard and fast. It’s not uncommon for us to die young. I’ve tried to stave that off with running five miles a day and a mostly healthy diet but it can happen to anyone. I’m sorry. I’m blathering. I’m just… I’m shocked. Please allow me to bring out a complimentary crème brûlée.”

  “That’s fine,” said Miss May. “We’re stuffed, really.”

  “I insist. For friends of Buck.”

  Jeffrey gave us a polite nod and then hurried back to the kitchen. The crème brûlée arrived a few minutes later, and it was transcendent. But I barely ate a bite. Miss May, Teeny, and I were too busy having a hushed discussion about our conversation with Jeffrey.

  None of us trusted that his reaction to Buck’s death was genuine. Nor could we shake the image of all those perfect little bottles in the apothecary, with their strange and witchy ingredients.

  Cassava. I knew I had seen it in Rebecca’s shop too, and something about it bothered me. I vowed to Google it later, since Googling at the dinner table was rude even during a murder investigation.

  In the meantime, all I could do was speculate and wonder…did those special potions for better sleep and fewer wrinkles have a deadly side effect? And what was up with Hudgen’s restaurant and their nervous owner?

  35

  Ninja Turtle

  We got home late that night. Way too late to locate Rebecca or to do much productive research on Hudgens or Cassava. So I cuddled up with a good mystery and a cup of hot cocoa by the fireplace.

  That particular evening, I cracked open my worn copy of Agatha Christie’s The Body in the Library. Reading Agatha Christie mysteries always gave me a warm, comfortable feeling, like I was getting a hug for the duration of the book. There was something soothing about British people and their manners, even when they were murdering each other.

  I thought of Teeny and her obsession with Jenna and Mr. Flowers and other BBC mysteries and assumed she felt the same way. British accents were so soft and friendly, they could discuss a stabbing with the utmost gentility. I wondered, did British people feel that way about their own voices? I made a mental note to ask the next British person I encountered. Although I figured that might be a while, since I lived in a small town in upstate New York.

  Miss May had gone to bed early so I had the entire first floor of the house to myself. Everything was so quiet I was able to get deep into the book in just a few minutes. But after an hour or two of peaceful reading, a knock at the back door startled me.

  I placed the book down on the coffee table, pulled the knitted blanket from my lap and got to my feet. For a moment, I stood there listening, to see if the knock would come again. There was quiet for a few seconds. But then…

  Knock, knock, knock.

  I padded into the kitchen and spotted a silhouette standing on the back porch. I gulped. What if it was the killer? Odd for them to knock, but hey, maybe they were British and too polite to break and enter.

  I looked around for a potential weapon. I settled on a wooden spoon from near the stove and brandished it like a sword. “Hello? Who’s there?”

  “Oh sweet mellifluous sound,” a man responded. “How I’ve longed to hear the dulcet tones of your voice, placid like the surface of the Caspian Sea on a day with no wind.”

  I smiled. “Germany Turtle.”

  I swung open the door and there stood my lion-loving boyfriend, still dressed head to toe in his khaki safari gear from Africa.

  “Hello,” he said with a slight bow. “Has it been years since I last saw you, or does it simply feel that way?”

  I pulled Germany close and kissed him as I laughed.

  He kissed me back and pulled away. “You have more beauty in a single fingertip than can be found on the entire continent of Africa and beyond. Your eyes sparkle more brightly than every diamond. Your hair cascades with more wonder than all the waterfalls combined. And your skin is smoother than the sands of the Sahara.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said. “You look good too. Come in! Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

  Germany turned up his hands. “You know I am a man who loves surprises.”

  I gave Germany another hug and then took his face in my hands. “Looks like you got a lot of sun,” I said. “Like, a lot, a lot! I like it. Makes your eyes pop.” I opened the refrigerator and looked at the contents. “You must be hungry. Let me see what I have. Apple pie, of course. Appie Oaters, you love those. There’s leftover pizza in here, too.”

  Germany perked up. “Pizza sounds great. The food in Africa has been very rice and bean oriented. And there’s been a lot of interesting game. I’ve dreamt many nights about devouring a slice of New York pizza.”

  “Do you want me to heat it up?”

  “Cold is even better,” said Germany.

  He took a big bite of pizza and closed his eyes in ecstasy. “Nowhere else in the world is this delicacy available. You couldn’t have prepared a more perfect food for me if you tried. Thank you.”

  I sat down across from Germany. “So talk to me. How are the lions? How long you here for? What’s going on?”

  “The lions are terrific. We’ve begun to understand their lifestyle more and more deeply with each passing day. One of the lion cubs, I call him Andrew, has taken a liking to me. But I’m afraid if we get too close, his mother will eat me so I keep my distance. He’s adorable though, you would love him.”

  Kitty hopped up on a kitchen chair and looked at Germany. “Hi there, Kitty. Did you know we were t
alking about cats?” Germany grinned. “Don’t worry. You’re still the cutest.”

  “Oh she knows,” I said.

  I ruffled Kitty’s scruff and she purred. I asked Germany several more questions about his time in Africa but he held up his hand to stop me before I finished. “Chelsea. I’m going to answer all your questions. Nothing will delight me more. But first I have something to tell you.”

  I took a closer look at Germany. He had an unfamiliar expression on his face. His mouth was tight and his brows were furrowed. And it didn’t make me feel good. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on,” said Germany. “I journeyed back in my adopted hometown of Pine Grove because I missed everything about this place, of course. But more than that I’ve been plagued by lonely, empty nights far away from you. On those nights I have found my mind wandering, thinking about you and our possible future together. I’m not here tonight to make any grand gestures or ask any big questions, so you can relax your shoulders.” I did as I was told. “But I want you to know that I have returned on this particular date in October because I wanted to be back home for Fall Fest. I know you love Fall Fest, getting your face painted, drinking pumpkin spiced everything, jumping around in big piles of hay…” I’ve never jumped in hay. It did sound fun, though. “So I think Fall Fest is the perfect occasion for us to discuss the nature of our relationship. And our future together.”

  Germany took a bite of pizza, like he hadn’t just invited a very large elephant into the room. My mouth went dry. I hadn’t seen the guy in what felt like forever and suddenly there he was, a few feet away from me, eating pizza and talking about the rest of our lives together.

  Was Germany going to propose to me at Fall Fest? What was I going to say? How long was he going to chew that bite of pizza?

  Germany swallowed. “You are planning on attending Fall Fest, correct?”