Nuttier Than Pecan Pie

by Rachael Stapleton

  Penny smirked at Eve. “I sure will, Mrs. Hart.”

  “Mrs. Hart was my mother-in-law. Clara’s my name,” she said, turning back to Eve with a quiver of disbelief in her voice. “Anyway, back to the theft. It’s always in the same spot. Gwen and I only ever move things to dust.” She tilted her head but kept her eyes on the tray.

  Eve tilted her head. “Gwen?”

  “Barker. She lives next door and helps me with the cleaning.”

  “Right, the Widow Barker, and the pie recipe that was stolen. Was it the one Pike used to win the contest last year?”

  Clara shook her head. “Heavens, no. That was one of Pike’s own desserts—a delicious maple strawberry pie. No, the recipe that was stolen makes the best pecan pie that ever existed.”

  “If you do say so, yourself,” Eve added with a grin.

  “Oh no, dear, everyone says it. My friend won the Annual ‘Get Pie-Eyed’ contest for ten years straight with that recipe.” Clara looked smug.

  “Isn’t it called ‘Maple Pie in the Sky?’” Penny asked.

  “No, no that’s new. Since it’s been sponsored by the Sugar Bush for so long, they decided a maple themed contest would be appropriate the last couple of years.” Clara simplified.

  “She’s right. It’s changed a couple of times. One year it was called Sugar Daddy’s and only the father’s competed, but you can imagine the flack we’d get now if we tried that. #Metoo.” Eve chuckled.

  “Anyway, Clara,” Penny said, clearing her throat, “You were saying… now the recipe is missing? Do you think they took it to try to win the contest? I mean, it seems a bit obvious. We’d track them down in no time, right? There can’t be that many pecan pies.”

  “Exactly, but not really—and please, where are your manners: call me Miss.”

  Penny looked as confused as a goat on AstroTurf. “But you—” Penny stopped short as Eve coughed into her hand. “What do you mean?”

  “Miss Clara means, they don’t know they have it.” Eve explained.

  “Someone stole a recipe and they don’t know it’s a recipe? I think I’m getting a headache.” Penny said.

  “Let’s head into the sitting room. You can lay down if need be.” Clara led the way down the hall, where she set down the tray on the sitting room’s coffee table, she turned back to Eve and whispered, “Headache! See! This is why I wanted you here. These young ones got no gumption. Anyway…” she raised her voice again as if Penny were the one wearing hearing aids, “It shouldn’t be too difficult to find.” She motioned Eve and Penny toward the vintage mid-century sofa. It might have been mustard yellow in color, or was that puce green? Eve couldn’t help but think of newborn baby diapers when she saw it. Still, it was well cared for and in good shape.

  “And why is that, Miss Clara?” Eve asked, taking in the cabinet with artfully engraved glass. It was perhaps the only surface in the room not covered in white doilies, instead it displayed dolls. Most of them were creepy, antique dolls like trophies. There must be hundreds of them, Eve realized, impressed with the extensiveness of the collection. Oddly enough, in the midst of the dolls was a vintage 1950’s floral recipe tin.

  Ah-ha! That must be where the recipe was stolen from.

  “I know who stole it.” Clara said.

  “You do!” Penny and Eve both blurted the words out at the same moment.

  Clara nodded emphatically. “Yes. And I need a busy body like you to help me get it back.”

  Eve clenched her teeth together. “Why, Miss Clara, I’m flattered—and yet somehow insulted,” she mumbled the last part, “but I’m just a receptionist and a glorified personal assistant to this one.” She pointed at Penny with her thumb like some wayward hitchhiker, “Trust me. It’s her you need.”

  Penny motioned to Eve that there was no way in hell she was taking this case.

  “No,” Clara said with a playful wag of her finger. She picked up a cookie and set it on her plate, talking as she went. “I might be old, but I’ve still got my wits about me, Eve Banter, and we both know nothin’ happens in this town without you knowing about it. Now quit playing modest, it simply isn’t you.”

  Eve furrowed her brows. “You sure got a way with words, Miss Clara.”

  Penny laughed. “It’s true, Eve. The whole town knows about you and your nosin’ about. It’s legendary.”

  “Don’t gloat, dear. It’s unbecoming of a lady.” Clara scolded.

  Penny furrowed her brows. Eve was really enjoying this. Clara’s tongue was sharper than a lumberjack’s chainsaw and nobody ever put Penny in her place—besides Eve, of course.

  The elderly woman settled into an armchair and leaned forward to pour. “You’ve noticed my doll collection.”

  Eve nodded.

  “My bisque dolls are dear to me,” Clara explained with a wistful smile on her face. “I just think they’re so lovely with their realistic, skin-like matte finish, not to mention the history behind them. Do you know antique German and French bisque dolls from the 19th century were often made as children's playthings? Can you imagine little ones playing with these fragile dolls? Nowadays. they’re made directly for the collector’s market. That one right there,” she pointed to a curly haired doll prominently displayed at the center of the cabinet, “that’s my favorite.”

  The doll, Eve noticed, looked familiar. “Is that Shirley Temple?” Eve asked.

  “Why yes! You know your dolls.” Clara clapped her hands. “It’s only worth a few hundred. But that one is special. It was given to me by my grandfather, George Remington, when we were vacationing in ‘61.”

  “Remington?” The name sounded familiar to Eve. “One of the founding families of the area?”

  “The very same. My father’s family had a lot of money, of course, and still owns a lot of land hereabouts. Remington Manor is an English Tudor‑style mansion located on the other side of the lake.

  Eve nodded. “I’ve heard of it,” she said. Who hasn’t?

  “Well, back in those days we used to summer there, exploring Bohemian Lake and the rest of the town. We had a ball.” Clara reached for her cup and held it with both hands as she took a sip, looking over the rim at Eve.

  “I lived here as a kid—before my parents divorced and half of us moved to Texas,” Eve said with a knowing smile. “It was a good place to summer.”

  Clara nodded appreciatively, “Yes, I remember you as a child.” She shook her head in judgement then set her cup back down on its saucer, and pressed on, her color lightening just a bit as she continued the story. “Anyway, that year,” she said, “my father died in Vietnam and when my grandfather heard, he suffered a heart attack and also passed.”

  “That’s awful, but did I hear you correctly? Didn’t you say ’61?”

  Clara gave Eve a grave expression. “Yes. I was fourteen years old!” Her eyes watered, but she carried on.

  “I’m confused. The U.S didn’t send troops to Vietnam until ’65?”

  “Officially, that is true. Of course, in reality there were still over 3000 U.S. military personnel at the time and sixteen American soldiers were killed that year including my father. I was supposed to be strong. But both my father and my grandfather were my whole world. My mother was never interested in me,” she added in a whispery voice, as if sharing a secret, “I think they felt bad about the way she ignored me and so they had spoiled me rotten to make up for her! Of course, that only made her resent me more.” She laughed sweetly and pointed to an aged black‑and‑white photograph in an ornate gold frame that sat among many others on the dark walnut side table against the wall. “That’s them there,” she said, then added thoughtfully, “Handsome devils, don’t you think.”

  Eve rose from where she sat on the sofa and crossed the room to the table. She stooped and peered intently at the photograph Clara had pointed out. It showed Clara and her mother in chairs—both in crisp white dresses and wide‑brimmed hats adorned with ribbons. Two tall, dark‑featured men stood behind them, hands thrust deep in the
ir coat pockets. Behind them rose the columns of an elegant structure and beyond that a blustery sky.

  “Oh, yes—definitely handsome. Your father reminds me of my second husband, only the teeth are different. Poor McDermott. He could just about eat corn through a picket fence. Just imagine a horse eating a carrot—”

  “Eve!” Penny chastised.

  “What? I’m not talking about her father.” Eve looked closer. “Anyway, you look very happy in that picture.”

  “That was taken the summer before I lost them.” Clara paused as her gaze drifted out the window to the snow-covered trees in the front yard. “No one understood what to do about my grief.”

  She sighed deeply as her gaze shifted back to Eve, who had returned to the sofa.

  Eve was mesmerized as Clara paused. She wasn’t quite sure what to say. Finally, she asked, “Did your mother not try to comfort you?”

  “Oh, no, no.” Clara fervently shook her head. “She chose to simply ignore me, since she had her eye on someone else by then. No, it was my dear friend, Cocoa Barker, who finally pulled me from my funk.”

  “Barker? You mean like the Barkers who used to own the newspaper?” Penny asked.

  “Yes, that’s right. Cocoa’s son, Ted was the old owner of the newspaper. He died two years ago. As a matter of fact, it was the same year his mother passed—only months later. So tragic.”

  “That’s right! She died right around the time of the Bohemian Lake Sugar & Ice Festival, didn’t she? There was so much hoopla about it because she’d won the pie contest so many times before that. Who won that year, anyway?”

  “I can’t remember, but I believe it was a pina coloada pie that won. It was nowhere near as good. Anyway, Cocoa was only five years older than me but she didn’t come from a rich family and so she was hired as a companion for me at the summer home. I didn’t really like her at first because I felt I was too old for a nanny. After Grandfather and Father died, my mother left to be with another man. I locked myself in my room and refused to eat anything. There was no one else—my grandmother had died years before. My aunt came to visit but she had her own children and problems to deal with. It was Cocoa and the rest of the staff who refused to give up on me. She brought me a tray with a slice of pecan and maple bacon pie every day for a week.”

  Now Eve was beginning to see the connection. “Her own recipe?” she guessed.

  “Yes. Grandfather and I loved bacon, fresh maple syrup and nuts on our pancakes. She said that was what gave her the idea.” Clara straightened. “Bacon was not used in everything back then, the way it is now. Naturally, we became best friends after that, and I remained in Bohemian Lake. Eventually, at my urging, she entered the Pie Bake-off.”

  “With the recipe she created for you?” Eve asked.

  “Yes, that’s right. As I said, it’s delicious. It’s the secret ingredient that makes it special, you know.”

  “The bacon?” Penny asked.

  “Oh no, there’s something more to it. I can’t say. For years she wouldn’t tell me what it was, but eventually I found out. When she won with her pie, it created an instant sensation in town. Everyone wanted to make it. Cocoa received a number of offers for the recipe. People wanted to pay her for it. But Cocoa refused all offers. She said someone even tried to steal it from her once so when she retired from the Bake-off, she carefully hid the recipe away where no one could find it.”

  Eve brought the conversation back to where it had started. “And now the recipe’s been stolen?”

  The color in Clara’s face faded, and she pursed her lips sadly. “Yes.”

  “Can’t you just recreate it?” Penny asked.

  “Well, I know the gist of it but I’m afraid my memory’s not so good and I never wrote it down anywhere else. Baking is exact, you know.”

  For a moment she seemed on the verge of tears. Then, abruptly, she slapped her knees and rose. “But we’re going to get it back, aren’t we?” She pointed toward the same china cabinet where the recipe box sat front and center, surrounded by a collection of antique dolls. “It’s time I show you the scene of the crime.”

  THREE

  E ve stood and walked to the cabinet, expecting Clara to hand her the recipe box. Instead she pointed to an empty spot on the shelf between two cabbage patch dolls. “There!”

  Eve glanced back at Penny, trying to figure out what in the sam hill Clara was talking about.

  “That’s where she was taken from,” Clara explained.

  “Who was taken?”

  “Why, Daulene Diana, of course.”

  She opened the recipe box and pulled out a polaroid of Clara holding a red-haired cabbage patch doll.

  “I’m afraid we don’t understand.” Penny said, coming to join the two.

  “Yeah, I thought it was a recipe that was stolen.” Eve studied the photo.

  Clara took a step back, folding her hands at her waist. “That’s where Cocoa hid the recipe all those years ago. I only realized it myself a few days ago. You see, when Cocoa’s son passed not two months after his mother, his wife, Gwen was overwhelmed. She not only had the newspaper business to contend with, she had all of Cocoa’s belongings and a house to sort through. She didn’t want hardly anything. She pretty much auctioned it off, but she gave me first pickings. She wouldn’t take any money for anything. Just told me to take whatever I wanted, and the rest she sold, dumped or passed along to the historical society.”

  “So, you took Cocoa’s dolls?” Eve asked.

  “Yes, as you can see, I collect porcelain dolls and though Cocoa’s dolls weren’t your run-of-the-mill collectibles, they were precious to her and I couldn’t see them go to a landfill. Daulene was her favorite and, actually, in the world of cabbage patch kids, she is one of the rarer dolls—which someone else knew as well because they tried to buy her.”

  The next obvious question came to Eve. “How would anyone even know that you had her?”

  “I have a website and a blog, dear. I often buy and sell just like any other collector.” She handed Eve a card.

  The card read: All Dolled Up.

  “Which reminds me,” Clara said, “I loved your last blog post. That prank you pulled with the—.”

  Eve’s eyes went wide. “Yes, yes. Thank you.” She said, effectively cutting her off. Penny still hadn’t figured out that Eve had sewed new labels in some of her favorite outfits. Eve was having so much fun eating all the extra doughnuts in the office while Penny put herself on a no-sugar diet. She was gettin’ so skinny, pretty soon she’d be able to wear her bra backwards. Of course, on the contrary Eve’s pants were getting a little tight. Perhaps she didn’t think this prank through. “Anyway, Pen needs to meet Wraith so we should carry on… So, you were looking to sell the cabbage patch kid?”

  “No, not at all. Daulene’s not on my website.”

  “I’m confused. I thought you said—”

  “I said I have a website and I do have other cabbage patch dolls on there. An antiques dealer inquired about buying one of my cabbage patch pet dolls—a koosa named Richie Flynn.”

  “What’s a Koosa?” Penny asked.

  “The Koosas of Wykoosa Valley were ‘pets’ for the Cabbage Patch Kids and came in three varieties- cats, dogs and lions. Anyway, the dealer said it was for a private collector. I allowed her to come to the house to have a look but when I’d returned from the kitchen with tea, I found her inspecting Daulene Diana instead of Richie Flynn who she’d come to look at.” Clara became a little flustered. “She told me how rare the red-wool-haired dolls were and offered me $1000 on the spot. Now I know red-heads are rare but Daulene’s only worth about $100 so I knew something was up.

  “She then asked me point blank if the doll had come from Cocoa Barker. I asked her to leave immediately. After she left, I noticed the panel in the back, and I realized she’d found the recipe.”

  “What do you mean by a panel in the back? Like one of those glow worms? Cabbage Patch Dolls didn’t have panels.”

  �
�No, Cocoa had obviously cut the doll and sewn a pocket in there.”

  “And you never felt the recipe inside before that?”

  “No. Daulene was dressed in layers. That’s what was so odd about the woman finding the secret pocket. It’s like she knew about it. I’m not sure why she didn’t just steal it right then and there if she’d wanted it so badly but for whatever reason, she didn’t. Then, late yesterday afternoon, when I got home from visiting Pike and my new great-grandniece, something about the house just didn’t feel right. That’s when I discovered Daulene was missing.”

  “And that’s when you called me,” Eve confirmed. “So, you think this woman might have had something to do with the doll’s disappearance?”

  “I think it’s certainly possible, don’t you?”

  Eve’s mind was working. “What was this woman’s name?” she asked after a few moments.

  “Bianca.”

  “Bianca? As in Bianca Hyena? The head of the Historical Society and Bohemian Lake Museum?”

  Clara nodded. “I guess so. I don’t get out much anymore. She said she used to work for an auction house. I guess she still procures items for certain clients.”

  Could Bianca Hyena have done such a thing? Would she have broken into Clara’s home over a doll or a recipe? Why would she have wanted the recipe in the first place?

  Clara was quite a tale spinner – that much was true.

  Eve and Penny gathered their things to leave, but Eve was torn. The practical part of her couldn’t help thinking that maybe Clara had simply misplaced the doll that contained the recipe – left it out on another shelf somewhere. People forgot where they put things all the time. Even Eve did it, all too often, much to her frustration. And Clara was into her seventies. These sorts of things happened.

  That was the simplest explanation. But was it the right one?

  Maybe Clara was telling the truth. Maybe someone – Bianca Hyena? – had stolen the recipe from the elderly woman... but again, Eve asked herself, why?