Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 127, No. 6. Whole No. 778, June 2006

by Albert Cornelis Baantjer

  “He’s leaving.” I hadn’t meant to say it aloud. I’m still not convinced that I did. It certainly wasn’t spoken any louder than a whisper, the kind you say to yourself when you’re not quite able to comprehend what you think you’ve just heard.

  Debbie stared at me, head tipped to one side. “Leaving,” she said, in that same kind of whisper.

  After his third set, I said to Tom, “Have you had a chance to look at my manuscript?”

  He snapped his fingers, something he did with authority. “Damn, I’ve been meaning to give that to you.” He opened his guitar case and took out a sheaf of papers held together with an elastic band. “I kinda spilled coffee on it. Sorry. And there’s a little jam about page one seventy, one eighty. It has potential.” He handed it to me. “There’s notes here and there. Let’s discuss it after the show.” He started for the back door.

  I took the manuscript to the best-lighted table. His notes were surprisingly thorough. Some were effusive in their praise. Others pointed out redundancies, ugly metaphors, and places where I used too many words. His comments on plot weaknesses and clichéd scenes were lucid and clear. Nothing he said was without support and, although I didn’t agree with all his remarks, I knew that if I followed his guidelines the work would be better. I was so engrossed that I didn’t notice that he was late for the fourth set.

  He always started on the dot of twelve. At twelve ten, I went outside to look for him. Debbie’s Parisienne was still there, now backed into its spot against the fence. She was leaning against the car, smoking, and breathing heavily. The cigarettes were taking their toll. Good, I thought.

  “Have you seen Tom?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to thank him.”

  “I’ll tell him,” she said, “when I see him again.”

  Back inside, Tom’s guitar was still on the stage. I knew he wouldn’t have left it behind. I went out back again. He still wasn’t there, and Debbie’s car was gone.

  Maybe Tom had decided to quit singing for good. That didn’t seem like him, though. I took the guitar home, sure that one day he’d return and want it back. I’ve kept it ever since. It’s the least I can do.

  “Lately, I’ve been dressing up as a grandmother when I’m home alone.”

  The Theft of the Blue-Ribbon Pie

  by Edward D. Hoch

  Copyright © 2006 Edward D. Hoch

  Nick Velvet, the most popular of Ed Hoch’s series characters, has been under almost continuous option for television over the past decade. With any luck, 2006 will finally see him make his American TV debut. French TV ran a short series starring the thief of valueless things back in the ’70s. How much longer must U.S. fans wait? For statistics on other Hoch characters, see this month’s Jury Box.

  ❖

  When Nick Velvet told Gloria he’d never at-tended a county fair, she couldn’t believe it. “Never? In your whole life? That’s like saying you’ve never been to a circus or ridden on a train. Everyone’s been to a county fair.”

  They were driving across northern New Jersey, bound for the fair in Jackson County, just over the Pennsylvania line. It was a hot August afternoon with only a few wispy clouds drifting across the blue of the sky. “I don’t think they have county fairs in Manhattan,” he told her. “At least I never heard of any. I grew up in Greenwich Village, remember.”

  “Still—” She twisted in her seat to face him as he drove. “Didn’t you have an aunt or uncle that you visited on a farm every summer? I sure did!”

  “They sent me off to a boys’ camp one summer and I hated it. I wouldn’t go back the following year. I guess I was always a city boy.”

  “So here we are, heading for the Jackson County Fair. What happened?”

  “Milo Marx is paying me to steal an apple pie — whichever one wins the blue ribbon at the fair tomorrow morning.”

  Marx was a well-known artist and collector of pop-culture artifacts who could have purchased ten thousand pies for what he was paying for this one, but Nick had stopped questioning the motives of his clients. Just one visit to Milo Marx’s home — really a museum in the making — convinced him that a blue-ribbon pie from the Jackson County Fair was the only thing that would satisfy him. “The entire place was filled with objects,” he’d told Gloria. “Books, sewing baskets, starfish, ironing boards, you name it. He finds a perfect shape or design in everyday items, or even in nature, and he collects them. He sprays the things with a plastic coating to preserve them, or entomb them, if you’d prefer. He’s heard that the apple pies at the Jackson County Fair are real works of art, and he must have one for his collection. He tried to buy last year’s winner and they refused to sell it to him. They said the pies only went to local people.”

  Nick had pointed out to Marx that he could hire a couple of kids to run in and steal the pie for a hundred bucks, far less than his fee, but the collector insisted, “It’s not as easy as it seems, with a building full of people watching. Kids might drop or damage it somehow. The pie must be intact to preserve the beauty of its design.”

  Nick and Gloria had left early Wednesday morning, taking Route 78 across Jersey to Middletown, Pennsylvania, then turning north to Jackson County. It was a rural area at the edge of the Poconos, and they passed a few dairy farms along with the usual fields of corn and various crops Nick couldn’t identify. The fair was at Clydestown, the county seat, a place of neat frame houses with a few brick buildings and churches clustered around a little park at its center. “Isn’t this lovely, Nicky?” Gloria said. “I didn’t know places like this still existed.”

  He slowed down a bit, spotting a sign with an arrow pointing toward Jackson County Fair, August 6-13. “This is it.”

  “We missed the first half of it.”

  “And we’ll miss the end of it, too.” Nick told her. “I’ll pick up the winning pie in the morning and we’ll be out of here.”

  “You sound as if you’ll just walk in there and they’ll hand it to you.”

  “Something like that.”

  They left the car in a massive field that had been turned into a parking lot for the week’s festivities. The cars and SUVs were almost outnumbered by pickup trucks, and there were even a few horse trailers for transporting livestock. “This is real country,” Nick decided, wading through the oil-stained grass and weeds already trampled half to death. They’d barely entered the Show Pavilion when they were greeted by a stout woman wearing a straw hat trimmed with daisies. “Welcome to the fair, folks! You from Scranton?”

  “How’d you guess?” Nick acknowledged with a smile.

  “Oh, I can tell city folks. I’m Beth Buckley, chairman of the organizing committee. If you want to see the Junior Fair Horse Show it starts in thirty minutes in the Horse Ring.”

  “We’re more interested in the apple-pie-baking contest,” Gloria informed her.

  Nick quickly tried to explain their interest. “We have a cousin who was thinking of entering.”

  “Oh? Perhaps it’s someone I know.”

  “I doubt it. She’s new to the area.”

  “Well, you’re a day early. The pie judging isn’t till tomorrow morning at eleven in the Fine Arts Building. It’s down this way, that building just beyond the Activities Tent.”

  “Thank you, Miss Buckley,” Gloria said.

  “It’s Mrs. Buckley, but you can call me Betty. Everyone does.”

  “How is the pie judging done?” Nick wondered. “Do you have a panel of judges?”

  “No, no! If we had a panel they’d eat up the whole pie and we couldn’t auction it off. We just have one judge, our local baker, Leonard Fine. He has the Fine Bake Shop out on Union Road. Makes the most delicious pastries!”

  “We’ll have to give him a try,” Nick promised. “How does he go about the judging?”

  “It’s a wonder to watch,” Betty told them, obviously warming to one of her favorite topics. “He sits on stage behind a table with the apple pies lined up, maybe six or eight of them, each
with a small slice taken out. He studies each one, touches the crust, tastes the slice, and makes a few notes. Sometimes he goes back to a pie for another taste. All this time he never changes his expression. And of course he doesn’t know who submitted which pie. They’re all numbered, and the women who baked them are seated there in front of him with their friends and family, just dying of the suspense. Finally he announces the winner and usually says a few words in praise of that pie. The woman who baked it comes forward to accept her blue ribbon.”

  “That’s all she gets?” Gloria asked. “A blue ribbon?”

  “It’s a great honor, believe me.”

  “Do men ever enter?” Nick asked.

  “We had a man win the second-place red ribbon a few years back, but he took a lot of kidding. Haven’t had any men since then. That’s not to say a man can’t bake a good pie or cake, though. Len Fine is the best proof of that. I’ve heard of some county fairs that have a men’s contest for pie baking, but we don’t have enough men interested in it here.”

  “You mentioned auctioning off the winning pie.”

  “That’s right,” Betty confirmed with a nod. “Actually we auction off all the pies. There’s always a husband or beau willing to bid on them. That’s why the judge only eats a small slice. The pies are delivered in covered plastic containers and they’re sold in the same container. The proceeds go to the 4-H Club. Of course the blue-ribbon winner always brings the highest bids. Last year it went for ninety-five dollars.”

  “That much?” Gloria asked with just a touch of irony.

  Betty glanced at her watch. “Look, I’m supposed to be at the swine evaluations in five minutes. You two enjoy yourselves and maybe I’ll see you at the pie judging in the morning.”

  “Well, the people are certainly friendly here,” Nick decided when she’d gone.

  “This is great, Nicky! You won’t have to steal the pie at all. Just bid on it and you’ll get it for under a hundred dollars.”

  “So it would seem. But apparently Milo Marx tried that last year and they wouldn’t sell it to him. Told him the pies were just for locals.”

  Gloria chuckled. “Maybe they add a little pot or something, like that Chicago restaurant owner you used to know.”

  “Can you picture that at the Jackson County Fair?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  They drove out to the Fine Bake Shop on Union Road and found it to be a bustling little place with a tempting selection of pies, cakes, and breads. While Gloria was purchasing an angel food cake with white frosting and multicolored sparkles, Nick asked if Len Fine was around.

  “He’s in the back,” a teenaged clerk replied. “Want me to get him?”

  Presently a handsome muscular man appeared, wearing a flour-covered apron over a bright red shirt. “I’m Len Fine. What can I do for you?”

  Nick produced a business card he sometimes used. “My name is Nicholas. We’re doing a feature on county fairs for Sunday Magazine, and I understand you’ll be judging the apple-pie contest in the morning.”

  “That’s right. Do it every year. Sometimes I judge the cakes, too, but this year I’m just doing the pies.”

  Nick produced a notepad and pen, giving his best imitation of a journalist. “What do you consider the most important factors in judging a good apple pie?”

  “First of all, the flavor of the apple must come through, and I always give high marks to appearance as well. The pie crust is important. I look for a crust that’s a bit flaky without falling apart. There’s a woman here in town, last year’s blue-ribbon winner, who has a near perfect crust recipe using egg and vinegar. I always know her pies. And her designs, occasionally with an intricate latticework covering, are the best I’ve ever seen. She may repeat her win again this year.”

  “I’d be interested in interviewing her,” Nick told him. “Could you give me her name?”

  “Sure, it’s Maggie Oates. She lives just a few blocks from here, and I know she’d love to see her name in the papers. I can call her if you’d like.”

  “That would be helpful, especially if she ends up winning again.”

  They parked in front of a two-story house with light green siding and a wide front porch. Maggie Oates was a pleasant, attractive woman in her thirties who greeted them at the door with a broad smile. “You’re the magazine folks Len phoned me about?”

  “That’s right,” Nick said, offering his card. “This is Gloria, my photographer.” On cue, Gloria produced her impressive-looking digital camera.

  “Come right in! My husband’s still at work but he’ll be home soon.” She led the way into the kitchen, a room that seemed to dominate the first floor of their modest house. Several pie tins were deployed along the countertop, and a finished pie cut into six pieces already had two pieces missing. “You’ll have to excuse the mess. It’s always like this at county-fair time. I like to work alone and ignore the clutter.”

  “Is this your entry?” Nick asked, eyeing the partly eaten pie.

  “That’s a test run. The final product is in the oven now. They taste the same, but my official entry has a fancier top crust. Want a piece?”

  “Sure,” Gloria answered before Nick could decline.

  Maggie Oates glanced at the cluttered kitchen table. “Let’s go in the dining room. It’s pleasanter there.”

  She brought the remains of the pie along with some plates and forks. The dining room, like the rest of the downstairs, had a neat but lived-in look about it. She quickly doled out a piece of pie for each of them and took another for herself. “This is my third one,” she admitted. “I like my own baking.”

  “It’s delicious,” Gloria decided after her first bite, and Nick had to admit it was tasty.

  “I make grape pies during the fall harvest and sell them from here,” Maggie told them. “I do a nice little business, and that pleases Wayne.” A car pulled into the driveway. “That’ll be him now.”

  Maggie’s husband was the sort who’d probably been a star athlete in high school before he acquired a pot belly and receding hairline. He seemed to like sharing in his wife’s sudden fame, and Nick hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed when the picture of the two of them that Gloria snapped never got published anywhere. A chime on the stove told Maggie that her apple pie was ready and she hurried to remove it from the oven. “I’ll let it cool a bit and then put it in its container for the judging.”

  Nick and Gloria joined Wayne in admiring the finished product. There was none of the latticework Nick had expected. The top crust was solid, but an artistic outline of an apple had been cleverly formed by air holes. “Where did you learn to bake like this?” Gloria marveled.

  “From my mother, of course. Isn’t that how all girls learn? Fran Oliver made the best cakes and pies in the county. Good as I am, I could never beat her. She won four blue ribbons at the fair and so far I only have one.”

  “You’ll get there,” Wayne promised, squeezing her shoulder.

  “I don’t know. Jenny Wadsworth was tough competition last year, and I’m sure she’ll have a pie in tomorrow’s contest.”

  “Jackson County pies seem to attract attention,” Nick remarked as they returned to the dining room. “We heard a report that some art collector even tried to buy one last year to add to his collection.”

  “That fellow Marx!” Wayne Oates said with a snort. “He was offering thousands of dollars for the prize-winning pie but Beth Buckley wouldn’t let him buy it. She got the county-fair commission to rule that only county residents could bid during the auction. She said the pies were for eating, not for display in a museum, and I suppose she had a point. He even asked Maggie to bake an identical pie for his collection but she refused.”

  “I was tempted,” Maggie admitted. “He offered a great deal of money. But by that time the county was really up in arms. It had become a matter of civic pride that the winning pie stay here.”

  “Speaking of pie, did you save a piece for me?” Wayne asked.

  “Right here
!”

  “I’ll just get a knife from the kitchen,” he said, but when he returned with it he realized he didn’t need it. “There’s only one piece left. I can handle that.”

  When the test pie had been consumed to everyone’s satisfaction, Maggie returned to the kitchen and placed the contest entry in a clear plastic container, sealing it with tape and adding a removable tag with her name, ready for delivery.

  “What happens now?” Nick asked.

  “I’ll give it to Beth at ten tomorrow morning and she’ll assign a number to it. Then it goes on the table for the judging.”

  “How long does that take?”

  “It depends on how many pies are entered. Betty cuts a thin slice out of each one and places it on a paper plate.”

  “For Leonard Fine,” Wayne supplied. “He’s the judge.”

  Nick smiled at him. “It would be a thrill to see your wife win another blue ribbon. Will you be there?”

  He shook his head. “I work security at the county hospital and we’re short-handed. I have to be on duty. If Maggie wins, take lots of pictures.”

  “We’ll do that,” Nick promised as they were leaving.

  They found a room at a motel outside of town. Over dinner Gloria said, “You could have stolen the pie from her kitchen and we’d be on our way home now.”

  Nick shook his head. “You’re forgetting it has to be the blue-ribbon winner. I have to wait for the judging. Just because she won last year doesn’t mean she’ll win again.”

  “How are you going to steal it?”

  “You’ll see.”

  But things rarely went as smoothly as Nick planned. Returning to their motel room, they found a middle-aged woman in a sweatshirt and jeans waiting for them. “Are you Mr. Nicholas, the journalist?” she asked.

  “I am. How can I help you?”

  “My name is Rita Wadsworth. Maggie told me you’re doing a story on her pies and I want to make sure you include me. I’m going to win the blue ribbon this year.”