CANDY APPLE
KILLER
by
CHELSEA THOMAS
Table of Contents
Title Page
Candy Apple Killer
1 Manhattan Turtles
2 Decorations and Disasters
3 Old Friends, New Enemies
4 Hoedown Homicide
5 Know When to Hold ‘Em
6 Fighting Back
7 Free KP
8 Turtle Power
9 Crystal Ball
10 Psychic Surprise
11 Fifty-Five and Over
12 Flower Power
13 Hawaiian Horror
14 Speculation and Spam
15 Late Summer Storms
16 Reginald's Rainy Day
17 Turtle No More
18 Tripping the Alarm
19 Teeter Totter, See-Saw
20 Fixture Fixation
21 Farm to Table
22 Long Island Bound
23 Breaking and Entering, Again
24 Ashes to Ashes
25 Potholes in Paradise
26 The Big Reveal
27 A Clean Getaway
28 The Plot Gets Chunky
29 Jailbird, Jailbreak
A Note from the Authors
Don't Forget to Join the Secret Recipe Club
Copyright & Disclaimer
Cooking the Books © Chelsea Thomas, 2018
Disclaimer—All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form, or by any means, including mechanical or electronic, without written permission from the author.
While the author has made every effort to ensure that the ideas, guidelines and information printed in this eBook are safe, they should be used at the reader’s discretion. The author cannot be held responsible for any personal or commercial damage arising from the application or misinterpretation of information presented herein.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to the actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Join Chelsea’s Cozy Mystery Fan Club. You’ll find out how to get free advanced copies of new cozies, early notice on book sales, and more.
Click or copy and paste this link into your browser:
http://www.chelseathomasauthor.com/jointheclub
Cover Design by Priscilla Pantin
Edited by Marjorie Kramer
[email protected]
To our families
Big Dan, Carrie, Mom, Dad, Marianne, Elizabeth, Emily and Teddy
With special thanks to
Christy Murphy, author of Mom & Christy’s Cozy Mystery Series
1
Manhattan Turtles
DRIVING THROUGH TOWN with the windows down, I savored the warmth of the mid-September air.
Ahhhh, I sighed. Nothing bad ever happens in summer.
But, of course, that wasn’t true. Trouble knew no seasons. And few people were more aware of that fact than I.
A year prior, I had been living what I'd considered a happy life with my fiancé, Mike, when he had dumped me. At the altar. On our wedding day. Then he had added insult to injury. He had stolen my interior design business and locked me out of the beautiful Manhattan apartment we had shared.
Homeless, jobless, and loveless, I had resigned myself to a life of Chinese takeout in a crummy Jersey City apartment. But my aunt, Miss May, had rescued me and recruited me to work on her apple orchard, which is why I had returned to my small home town of Pine Grove, New York.
At first, my transition from city life to country life had been jarring. I had felt out of place all the time. But then I’d adjusted. And I’d started to feel safe. And free. Like...Nothing bad ever happens in Pine Grove.
Three dead bodies later, I'd realized that I had been wrong. Bad stuff happened everywhere all the time, even in Pine Grove. But I'd also developed a knack for solving mysteries with Miss May. Thanks to me and my aunt, each of those murder cases had been solved and each killer had been caught.
Which brought me to that warm September morning, driving home with the windows down. As I cruised down Main Street, I realized it had been over six months since I’d found the last dead body in Pine Grove. The local denizens had been tense through much of that time. But as our unusually warm summer came to an end, the townspeople seemed relaxed and happy. And I felt that way too.
I had even chilled out enough to take my road test at the DMV a month prior, which I'd passed with flying colors. Yeah, I was a little old to be taking a driving test. But I hadn’t needed a car in college or in New York City. I’d been license-free for almost ten years and I was more than ready to be back behind the wheel. Hence, my pleasant drive home from town in my new trusty steed — a rusty sky-blue pickup I had purchased from the local mechanic, Big Dan of Big Dan’s Auto Repair.
I flicked the radio on as I drove and sang along with a country tune on the radio. The lyrics were about heartbreak, beer, and having the courage to forgive and forget. I didn't know that particular song word-for-word, but I did my best and mumbled over the parts I hadn’t memorized.
Then my phone rang. I checked the caller ID, and my gut lurched into my chest.
It was my ex-fiancé, Mike.
I hadn’t talked to Mike since he’d run out of the church on our wedding day. And I had no desire to speak with him at that moment. Or ever again. So I ignored the call.
I’ll forgive and forget eventually, I thought. Just not today.
Besides, I had work to do. Miss May and I were hosting the 20th annual "Candy Apple Hoedown" on the orchard that weekend, and I needed to hurry back to help set up.
Oh, and I didn’t know it, but I was less than a week from discovering my next dead body.
Ugh.
WHEN I PULLED INTO the orchard, the trouble had already started. A woman paced back and forth in front of the bakeshop, crossed her arms, and then checked her watch. I had come to recognize these three actions — pacing, arm-crossing, and watch-checking — as the signs of an unhappy customer. So I took a deep breath and hopped out of the pickup with a smile.
“Hey there! How can I help you?”
As I approached, I got a better look at the woman. Late sixties. Designer jeans. Sweater tied around her neck. Costume jewelry that I could never afford. And a down-turned mouth that looked like it had been set in place sometime during the Reagan administration.
“I’ll tell how you can help me,” the woman said. “You can staff your establishment during business hours so that customers aren’t forced to wait around in the hot sun. The only staff here is some sweaty farmhand, and he refused to let me into the bakeshop."
"Are you talking about KP?" I asked. "Big guy? Mustache?"
"That sounds like the culprit. Vile creature. Barked at me like a dog."
I laughed and waved the lady off. "That's just KP. He's from Kentucky. I'm sure he didn't mean any harm."
"Well, he harmed me," the woman said. "Why is this rotten farm so dreadfully understaffed?"
“Sorry about that,” I said. “We’re throwing a big party this weekend to announce the return of our famous candy apples. I was picking up supplies in town. How can I help you?” Let’s try this again.
“You can introduce yourself, for one!”
“Where are my manners? Of course. My name is Chelsea Thomas. My aunt owns and runs this farm. I help her out.”
The woman issued a forlorn sigh. “Chelsea. The name of my third favorite neighborhood in Manhattan. Alas, my life in the big, beautiful city has come to an end.”
I perked up. “Oh. Are you from the city? I lived there for a while. Chelsea�
�s beautiful.”
“Don’t you want to know my name?”
“I’m sorry. Yes.” Geez. This lady had a booby-trapped personality! “What is your name?”
“Linda Turtle, of the Manhattan Turtles.”
I coughed to cover a laugh. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Turtle.”
“My husband is around here somewhere. I sent him to find help.” Linda pointed out into the orchard. “Ah yes. There he is now.”
A sixty-something man trudged toward us from near the apple trees. He was balding. He wore bifocals down on his nose. And, like Linda, he had a sweater tied around his neck.
OK. I’ll say it. He looked like a turtle.
Linda clapped in the man’s direction. “Reginald! Hurry up. I found someone.”
“Coming, dear.” Reginald quickened his pace.
“This young woman is Chelsea. She claims she was not named after the neighborhood in Manhattan. I have, however, informed her that I love it and miss it and wish I were there.”
“It’s only an hour on the train, if you want to go into the city,” I said.
“We can’t afford the city,” Linda sighed. “My brilliant husband Reginald — say hi Reginald.”
“Hello,” Reginald monotoned.
“Reginald squandered our retirement on a foolish European investment.”
“I bought several thousand acres in the Netherlands that don’t actually exist,” Reginald said. “That’s what I get for trusting my brother.”
I stammered. “Oh. That’s terrible. The land...isn’t there?”
“That’s what he said, Chelsea. Keep up.” Linda shook her head. “Everyone is so slow upstate.”
I may be slow, but at least I’m not a Turtle.
“My apologies,” I said, doing my best to remain civil. “I’m sorry about your land.”
“Yes,” Reginald said. “As am I. As we all are in the family. My younger brother was never a good boy, yet I trusted his schemes. One after another. Until, well, we’ve told you of the land. It’s not real.”
Linda glared at Reginald. “We had planned to spend our retirement based in Manhattan, with frequent trips to Europe, or perhaps Bali or Dubai. Instead, all we can afford is this dumpy little town. So here we are. Pine Grove. Disgusting.”
If I weren’t on the job, I would have karate-kicked Linda Turtle in the face. But the Thomas Family Fruit and Fir Farm was famous for our friendly customer service, not our karate kicks, and I refused to let a couple of Turtles break me down.
“Well, Pine Grove is happy to have you,” I said. “And if you give this dumpy little town a chance, I promise you’ll grow to love it. We’ve been ranked a ‘Top Small Town in America’ for ten consecutive years.”
“Yes. But not by any publications that matter,” Linda said. “The Times, the Journal, etcetera.”
I smiled, or at least I bared my teeth in the vague shape of a smile. "To each her own. How did you say I could help you today?"
“Right,” Reginald said. “We were at the market this morning, where we overhead several people tittering in anticipation of your candy apples. I inquired about said apples, and an older woman directed us here. She was wearing a purple hat for which I did not care.”
“Reginald, hush,” Linda said. “You’re telling it all wrong!”
Reginald hung his head. “I sensed your disapproval as I spoke. Please correct me, darling.”
“The purple-hat woman did not direct us here,” Linda said. “She informed us that the apples would not be available until this weekend. And that we should not come here until then.”
“That’s true,” I said. “We don’t sell any candy apples until the hoedown.”
“Yes. The purple-hat woman regaled us with tales of the ‘hoedown.’ It sounded dreadful. Long lines. Local people. Horrid music.” Linda wrinkled her nose. “Hence, we are here now, to purchase candy apples. Though descriptions of your hoedown struck terror into my heart, descriptions of your candy apples delighted me and caused me to salivate.”
“We’ve both salivated over thoughts of the apples,” Reginald said. “We eat sweets as a way to forget the pain of my foolish land investment—”
“Land investment implies there was land, Reginald. There was no land. Nor was there an investment. You gave your money away like a fool.”
“Right,” Reginald said. “We eat sweets to forget.”
I tried to fight it, but my eyes widened, and my lips parted. These people are too much.
“You look shocked,” Linda said. “This must be the first time you’ve met a couple for whom travel to Bali is routine.”
Nope. This is the first time I’ve met aliens from Planet Snob.
That wasn’t a hundred percent accurate. I had dealt with plenty of demanding clients from Planet Snob in Manhattan through my interior design business. But the Turtles took elitism to a whole new level. They were...remarkable specimens.
Linda waved a hand in front of my face. “Hello?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m processing everything you’ve told me. Basically, you’re here to buy candy apples before they’re released.”
“You’re quicker than you look,” Linda said. “That’s what we’re after.”
I shrugged. “I’m sorry. The release is a big deal. We can’t sell any candy apples until the hoedown.”
“We’ll pay three times as much,” Reginald said.
“Reginald! Do not leap to squander more of our hard-earned money. This is what happened in the Netherlands! What’s gotten into you? Do you need to see a brain doctor?”
Reginald cringed, like Linda had slapped him. “I’m sorry, Linda.” He turned to me. “We can pay twice as much. Not a penny more.”
“Um. I’m not sure about that,” I said. “My aunt makes the business decisions. I help with the baking, and I do the decorating.”
“Get this 'aunt' of yours on the phone, then," Linda said. "We’ve already wasted ten minutes waiting for you to arrive and four more minutes talking to you. I refuse to waste more time standing on line at a ridiculous ‘hoedown.’”
“Someone looking for me?” A voice rang out from behind us.
Linda, Reginald, and I turned in unison as Miss May marched out of the orchard, lugging a bushel of apples.
“Mabel Thomas,” my aunt said. “Great to meet you. Most people call me Miss May.”
Miss May put the apples down and shook the Turtles’ hands. She listened as they retold their story about the woman in the purple hat. Once the Turtles finished talking, Miss May responded as I had.
“Sorry,” she said. “If we sold candy apples to you before the hoedown, half the town would be up here trying to get an early bird special, and we’re not ready for that.”
“That is so stupid,” Linda said.
Miss May smiled. “Not the first time I’ve heard that. I’m sorry I can’t help. Hopefully we’ll see you Saturday.”
“Perhaps you don’t understand,” Linda said. “Economically speaking. We’re offering you a two-times multiple on your candy apples. You can’t afford to turn us away.”
Miss May held up her hands. “I do understand, and I apologize for the inconvenience. If you’ll excuse us, Chelsea and I need to get back to work. Feel free to stroll through the orchard. It’s a beautiful day.”
With that, Miss May unlocked the bake shop and went inside. I followed her, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans.
Phewph. Crisis averted.
I glanced back at Linda and Reginald, who had returned to bickering. Each time Linda yelled, Reginald’s neck seemed to withdraw further into his shoulders. Just like a turtle.
It would only be a few days before one of them would be dead.
2
Decorations and Disasters
ON THE MORNING OF THE hoedown, I swung my sleep-deprived legs out of bed at the crack of dawn, and I didn't rest again until after I found the dead body.
But I’ll get to that later.
Miss May and KP had been awake si
nce before sunrise, decorating candy apples in the bakeshop. My assignment was to get the event barn set up before guests appeared for the hoedown at 5 PM. But I stopped into the bakeshop to say hi before I got started. OK, and for some baked goods. A girl needs fuel!
The place swirled with smells of cinnamon, caramel, and chocolate. And it looked like Santa's workshop, if Santa made candy apples instead of toys. Endless rows of finished apples lined the front and side counters. Coated in gooey caramel or toffee. Decorated with swirls of chocolate, sprinkles, and edible gold ribbons. There were blue sprinkle apples, and white chocolate apples, and apples crisscrossed with elegant butterscotch argyle. Miss May and KP worked at the back counter, dipping and decorating in focused silence.
My eyes lit up with wonder as I entered. “Miss May! These apples are incredible. Quelle artiste!”
Miss May kept her eyes trained on the apple she was decorating. “Not me, Chels. KP is the artiste.”
KP waved her off. “Ah, ain’t nothing.” He paused and turned to me. “A few years in the city, you forget old KP is the man behind the curtain?"
My cheeks flushed blotchy red. Chagrin was not my best color. “I didn’t forget!” I forgot. “How could I possibly? You are the Picasso of candy apples.”
“You're not kidding." KP held up a candy apple with a sideways nose, twisted mouth, and uneven eyes. “Cubism at its finest.”
I laughed. “That is very impressive.”
KP shrugged. “I did a Van Gogh, too. But it didn’t turn out so hot, so I ate it.”
I smiled, but I felt guilty that I had given Miss May credit for KP’s work. He had always loved doing the apples for the hoedown, and it was a tradition I had been part of for many years.
After my parents had died in a car accident, I had come to live with Miss May on the farm. I was only twelve years old, but Miss May — who viewed hard work as a panacea — introduced my nose to the grindstone right away. One of my favorite jobs had been helping KP prep the candy apples and I was disappointed that I had almost forgotten all about it.
As I watched Miss May and KP decorate on that foggy September Saturday, a pang of yearning noodled up my throat. I longed to be a little girl again, trotting along beside KP and acting as his go-for. Even when things stay the same, I lamented, they’re never quite what they seem when you’re a kid.
Candy Apple Killer Page 1