Apples and Alibis

by Gayle Leeson

  Hilda screwed up her tiny, lined face. “Gladys called here and ordered food? Gladys Pridemore did that?”

  I nodded.

  “For what?”

  “For some sort of party she was having on Sunday,” I said. “She told me she didn’t cook very much anymore.”

  She scoffed. “I believe somebody was pulling your leg.”

  “No, I talked with Ms. Pridemore myself.”

  “And you’re sure it was her?”

  “I had no reason to believe otherwise. The caller identified herself as Gladys Pridemore, ordered food, and gave me her address,” I said.

  “What did she order?”

  “Potato salad, deviled—”

  “Stop right there,” Hilda said. “Now I know someone was pranking you. Gladys Pridemore was deathly allergic to potatoes. She’d have never had them in her house. That’s why Gladys always did her own cooking. She needed to know exactly what was in her food and where it had been prepared.”

  “You don’t think she ordered the potato salad for her guests?”

  Hilda shook her head. “She would have never taken that kind of chance. I don’t know who called you, sweetie, but it wasn’t Gladys Pridemore.”

  AFTER HILDA DINSMORE left, I finished cleaning the doors and windows. As I wiped down the glass, I contemplated what she’d told me. If it hadn’t been Gladys Pridemore who’d called me on Saturday, then who was it? I concluded that it must’ve been Gladys’s killer. But why would her killer call and order food? Was the call to provide a witness to testify that Gladys Pridemore was alive at the time? No, that didn’t make sense. Ms. Pridemore was still alive when Jackie and I delivered the food, so, of course, she was still alive when I received the call.

  Maybe the caller hadn’t intended to kill Ms. Pridemore. Maybe she—or he—had merely intended to scare the woman and had ordered the food so that someone would find her in time to save her. But we hadn’t arrived in time.

  None of it made any sense. The cleaner my windows became the murkier my thoughts. Ms. Dinsmore had to be mistaken. Gladys Pridemore had to be the person who’d called the café and placed the order on Saturday.

  Then why would she order a dish that could kill her?

  I put away the cleaning supplies, locked the doors, and headed for the police station. I had to tell Ryan about my conversation with Hilda Dinsmore.

  I PARKED OUTSIDE THE building that housed Winter Garden’s post office, Chamber of Commerce, mayor’s office, and police station. As I got out of my car, I saw Ivy Donaldson walking toward the parking lot.

  I called to her and waved my arm.

  “Hey, Amy.” Ivy approached and waited for me on the sidewalk. “How are you?”

  “Have you got a second?” I asked.

  “I do.” She jerked her head toward a bench on the grass to our left. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Once we were seated, I told her about my visit with Hilda Dinsmore. “I was going to speak with Ryan about it, but he and Sheriff Billings already think I’m putting my nose where it doesn’t belong. Still, I can’t ignore how adamant Ms. Dinsmore was that my caller was not Gladys Pridemore.”

  “No, you can’t,” Ivy said, “and neither can I. But before you take this new development to Deputy Hall, let me check to see if Gladys Pridemore did indeed have a potato allergy.”

  “How? Wouldn’t the body have to be exhumed?”

  Ivy shook her head. “I kept tissue, blood, and hair samples. I’ll run the test tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Just doing my job,” she said, with a slight smile.

  “Doing your job would be running the test for Sheriff Billings. This is going the extra mile.”

  “My job is doing whatever it takes to uncover the truth.”

  “Gladys Pridemore was murdered, wasn’t she?” I asked.

  “You know I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.” She stood.

  I also rose from the bench. “Can you at least let me know about the potato allergy?”

  “Sure.”

  A sudden inspiration struck. “A few of us are having a girls’ night in tonight. We’ll be playing cards and enjoying some good food. I’d love for you to join us.”

  Ivy mulled this over for a moment. “At your house?”

  “At my mom’s house,” I said. “It’s the big house on the hill behind my place.”

  “Okay. I might stop by.”

  ALTHOUGH I’D WHOLEHEARTEDLY meant the invitation, I didn’t expect Ivy to actually come to our girls’ night. I was surprised and delighted when she did.

  Ivy handed me a bottle of Moscato when I opened the front door. “Here’s my contribution. I’m not much of a cook.”

  “Thank you. Come on into the dining room, and I’ll introduce you to everybody.”

  Since Ivy had been to the café on occasion, she was familiar with Jackie. She also knew Sarah because one or two of her investigations had led her to cross paths with Sarah’s boss, Billy Hancock. As for Aunt Bess, that woman’s eyes lit up as soon as I told her that Ivy was a crime scene investigator.

  Aunt Bess got up and moved a chair between herself and Jackie. “Here, Ivy. You come sit with me.”

  “Gee, thanks, Granny,” Jackie said, with a wry grin.

  “Oh, hush. I can talk with you anytime.”

  Jackie shook her head. “Why don’t we fill our plates? I’m hungry.”

  Jackie and I had set up the food buffet-style in the kitchen so the dining room table could accommodate our card playing. In addition to the pigs in blankets, the fried pickle slices, the crudites, and the party mix Mom had so faithfully tended today, we had diet cola brownies that Sarah had brought, oatmeal butterscotch cookies that Jackie had made, and chips and salsa I’d picked up at the grocery store. While everyone else began piling food onto their plates, I got out the wine glasses and the corkscrew.

  When we had reconvened in the dining room, I asked, “Would we prefer to talk while we’re eating, or would you rather play cards?”

  Aunt Bess took it upon herself to answer for everyone when she announced, “We’re not playing anything until Ivy has told me everything.”

  Ivy’s lips tightened. “What would you like to know?”

  “What’s the most gruesome crime scene you’ve ever come across?”

  “Granny! Not while we’re eating!”

  Ivy laughed. “Jackie’s right, Bess. I can tell you about crime scenes later—with all the gory details.”

  “Oh, good. I’ve got a Crime Scenes board on Pinterest, you know.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Ivy said. “I’ll have to check it out.”

  I noticed that Ivy had relaxed considerably once she’d realized Aunt Bess wasn’t going to ask questions about her personal life. Was Ivy truly all about the job, or was there a reason she guarded her privacy so stringently?

  “How about serial killers?” Aunt Bess asked. “We can talk about them as long as we don’t get too graphic, can’t we? I’d love to hear your thoughts on Nannie Doss.”

  “The name rings a bell, but I can’t recall any particulars of her case,” Ivy said.

  Aunt Bess took a sip of her wine and then pushed her plate forward so she could talk with her hands and not get her sleeves in her food. “According to Murderpedia—”

  “Murderpedia?” Jackie interrupted. “Is that a real thing?”

  “Of course, it is. How would I know about it if it wasn’t?”

  I saw Ivy raise her napkin to her lips to hide a grin.

  “As I was saying...” Aunt Bess’s glare dared Jackie to interrupt again. “This Nannie Doss woman was called the Giggling Grandma because she couldn’t talk about the murders she’d committed without laughing. Can you imagine anyone being so heartless?”

  “Unfortunately, I can,” Ivy said.

  “Aunt Bess, don’t you think you’d be better off reading about people other than serial killers?” I shuddered. “You
’re going to give me nightmares just talking about it.”

  “And who would you have me read about?” she asked. “Homer’s heroes?” She raised her sparse eyebrows. “Wait a minute—wasn’t that a television program?”

  “You’re thinking of Hogan’s Heroes,” Sarah said, gesturing with her fork. “I remember my dad watching that show.”

  “How is your dad?” I wondered if Sarah realized how glad I was to be able to seamlessly change the subject.

  SARAH AND IVY HAD GONE home, Aunt Bess had gone to bed, and Jackie and I were cleaning up the kitchen.

  “I didn’t know you’d invited Ivy,” Jackie said.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t mention it. It was a last-minute thing when I saw her earlier today, and I didn’t dream she’d actually come.” I placed a lid on the bowl of party mix. “I’m glad she did, though.”

  “Yeah. It was nice to get to know her a little.”

  “She’s awfully private, isn’t she,” I asked. “I wonder what her story is?”

  Jackie chuckled. “Have you moved on from Gladys Pridemore to Ivy Donaldson then?”

  “Hardly.” I told Jackie about Hilda Dinsmore’s visit to the café. “I told Ivy about it, and she’s going to run a test to see if Ms. Pridemore really was allergic to potatoes.”

  “And if she was?”

  “Then I believe Ms. Dinsmore is right and that Gladys Pridemore didn’t make that phone call,” I said.

  “But why would the killer call and impersonate Ms. Pridemore...and order food to be delivered to her house?” Jackie affected an old lady’s voice. “Hello, I’m going to kill Gladys Pridemore, and it seems like hungry work to me. Could you bring some food over so I can have an after-murder snack?”

  I laughed. “I agree. It makes no sense.”

  We stopped talking about Gladys Pridemore when we heard Mom’s car drive up.

  { }

  Chapter Eight

  D

  illy was our first customer on Thursday morning, but Walter wasn’t with her. I hesitated to ask about him because I was afraid maybe they’d had a falling out. Jackie, however, had no such qualms.

  “Hey, Dilly! Where’s your sidekick this morning?”

  “Walter had a doctor’s appointment this morning and had to go there fasting, poor dear.” Dilly shook her head. “I offered to bring him a biscuit, but he said he didn’t want to be lumped in with the raccoon, so I’m making him dinner this evening.”

  Jackie laughed. “You look out for that raccoon! Walter should consider that an honor.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Dilly looked over at me. “Amy, did you speak with Hilda Dinsmore yesterday?”

  I exchanged a glance with Jackie. Surely Jackie remembered that it was Ms. Dinsmore who’d told me about Gladys Pridemore’s potato allergy. “I did. She came in and asked for a vendor spot at the farmers’ market.”

  “I warned Hil that you might not have any openings,” Dilly said.

  “Oh, I’m sure we can make room for one more vendor,” I said. “I gave her a form, she filled it out, and I told her I’d look forward to seeing her on Saturday.”

  “Good.”

  Jackie topped off Dilly’s coffee cup. “Have you known Ms. Dinsmore long?”

  “Practically all our lives. Why?”

  “I just wondered how reliable she is—you know, about...” Jackie shrugged. “Setting up at the farmers’ market...and all.”

  “Honey, if Hilda Dinsmore tells you something, you can bank on it.” She frowned. “Have you had many people back out?”

  “Not too many,” I said, with a smile. “What can I get you this morning?”

  While I was in the kitchen making Dilly’s blueberry pancakes, Jackie came in to talk with me.

  “I’m sorry I was so awkward about that whole is-Hilda-reliable thing,” she said.

  I waved Jackie’s concerns away with my whisk. “Don’t worry about it. I understand what you were doing, and I’m glad you asked. I am interested to see what Ivy learns about the potato allergy, though.”

  “Me, too. What did Aunt Jenna say about her date after I left last night?”

  “Not a lot. I got the impression she had a terrific time, but she seemed a little guarded when I asked about it... I think she might be frightened that Dr. Bennett is too good to be true.”

  She groaned. “I’m afraid she might be right.”

  I followed Jackie’s gaze out the window into the dining room where Dr. Bennett was arriving with Shelly.

  “Please tell me it was a coincidence that they got here at the same time,” I said, through gritted teeth.

  “You want me to go out there and fire her for you?”

  “No. We can’t fire someone for flirting with my mom’s maybe boyfriend...can we?”

  “It’s possible.” She shrugged. “Virginia is an employment-at-will state. You don’t have to have a valid reason to let someone go.”

  “I don’t know about that, but I wouldn’t fire Shelly for such a petty reason.” I took my frustrations out on the pancake batter. “Besides, if Dr. Bennett is a player, I don’t want him anywhere near my mom anyway.”

  HOMER’S HERO OF THE day was Augustine “Og” Mandino, II, the bestselling author of The Greatest Salesman in the World. So, one would’ve thought Homer would be spouting sales advice, right? Wrong.

  “Why are your eyes shooting daggers at Shelly today?” he whispered to me.

  “It’s nothing.” I hadn’t realized I’d been so obvious in my irritation with Shelly.

  “Well, whatever it is, just remember this word of advice from Mr. Mandino. He said to treat everyone you meet as if that person were going to be dead by midnight.”

  “That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Hear me out,” Homer said. “If you—again, according to Mr. Mandino—extend to them all the care, kindness, and understanding you can muster without expecting any sort of reward, your life will never be the same again.”

  I nodded. “That’s excellent advice.”

  “Could I have a refill on my coffee please?” he asked.

  “Absolutely.” I got him more dark roast coffee and then went into the kitchen to prepare his sausage biscuit.

  As much as I admired the altruistic attitude of Homer and Mr. Mandino, I found it difficult to set aside my feelings and muster up much care and understanding toward either Shelly or Dr. Bennett. Although he’d greeted me with a cheery hello and a smile as big as Texas—like we were best friends or something—he’d still told Shelly he’d see her later when he left. And she’d said she was looking forward to it. Since I’d never known anyone to look forward to a doctor’s appointment, I could only guess the two of them had a date. Did the man honestly mean to go out with my mother one evening and with Shelly the next?

  I smashed my spatula down on Homer’s sausage patty, and it hissed. Grease popped onto my arm as if to scold me for being so rough. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Wonder if Mr. Mandino had anything to say about lothario doctors?

  Jackie came into the kitchen and handed me another order. “This is for Ivy.”

  I looked up. “Ivy’s here?”

  She nodded. “I’ll take Homer’s biscuit out.” She plated the biscuit.

  “Wait. Did Ivy say anything about the test? Or the potato allergy?”

  “Not to me. She probably doesn’t know that I know...you know?”

  “I should come out there and talk with her,” I said.

  “No,” Jackie said firmly. “You should prepare her breakfast and then speak with her privately when you bring it out.”

  “Of course. You’re right. I don’t want to call attention to her...to me...to the test—”

  Jackie sat the plate down and took me by the shoulders. “Amy, get a grip. Why are you so freaked out?”

  I sighed. “It’s everything. Shelly and Dr. Bennett...and I don’t want Mom to get hurt...and I’m afraid Ivy is getting ready to confirm that Gladys Pridemore was murdered..
.”

  “Can you do anything about any of those things?”

  “No. I guess not.”

  “Exactly. What you can do is prepare a delicious omelet with turkey breast, low-fat cheddar cheese, spinach, and peppers,” she said.

  “Yes.” I nodded. “Yes, I can do that.”

  She gave me a quick hug.

  “Jackie? Thanks.”

  “Anytime.” She took Homer his biscuit.

  After I’d prepared and plated Ivy’s omelet, I took it out to her. She was sitting at a table by the window and was watching a cardinal that had just flown up into a nearby pine tree.

  “I love cardinals,” she said.

  “They’re beautiful birds.” I sat her plate in front of her. “Do you need a refill on your coffee?”

  “Not yet. Can you sit a second?”

  I caught Jackie’s eye, and she nodded. “Sure.” I sat across from Ivy.

  “Thank you for inviting me to your mom’s house last night. I enjoyed it. Your aunt is a character.”

  “That’s putting it mildly. You’ll have to check out her Pinterest boards.”

  She chuckled. “I’ll do that.” She lowered her voice. “I ran the test this morning. Gladys Pridemore was allergic to potatoes and likely other members of the nightshade family.”

  “Nightshade? The poison?”

  “Just because two plants are in the same plant family doesn’t make them both poison. Most people eat potatoes all the time and never have any problem. But some people—Gladys Pridemore being one of them—have severe allergies,” Ivy said. “In addition to potatoes, she likely had an allergy to tomatoes, eggplant, and peppers as well.”

  “Then Ms. Pridemore certainly wouldn’t have ordered potato salad from the café.”

  “I’d imagine she’d have had to have been extremely careful with the ingredients in her food as well as where it was prepared. I doubt she ate out much.”

  I glanced around the dining room to make sure no one was listening to our hushed conversation before asking, “Do you think she was murdered then?”

  “I’ve had a strong leaning in that direction before I ever found out about the potato allergy,” she said. “But in light of this additional evidence, I need to bring Sheriff Billings up to speed. He’ll probably want to question you and Jackie about the call.”