by Kate Bell
A Freshly Baked Mystery Cozy Mystery Box Set, books 1-7
Kate Bell
Kathleen Suzette
Copyright © 2019 by Kate Bell, Kathleen Suzette. All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
Books by Kate Bell
Apple Pie A La Murder,
A Freshly Baked Cozy Mystery, Book 1
Trick or Treat and Murder,
A Freshly Baked Cozy Mystery, Book 2
Thankfully Dead
A Freshly Baked Cozy Mystery, Book 3
Candy Cane Killer
A Freshly Baked Cozy Mystery, Book 4
Ice Cold Murder
A Freshly Baked Cozy Mystery, Book 5
Love is Murder
A Freshly Baked Cozy Mystery, Book 6
Strawberry Surprise Killer
A Freshly Baked Cozy Mystery, Book 7
Pushing Up Daisies in Arizona,
A Gracie Williams Cozy Mystery, Book 1
Kicked the Bucket in Arizona,
A Gracie Williams Cozy Mystery, Book 2
Candy Coated Murder
A Pumpkin Hollow Mystery, Book 1
Murderously Sweet
A Pumpkin Hollow Mystery, Book 2
Chocolate Coated Murder
A Pumpkin Hollow Mystery, Book 3
Death and Sweets
A Pumpkin Hollow Mystery, Book 4
Sugared Demise
A Pumpkin Hollow Mystery, Book 5
Confectionately Dead
A Pumpkin Hollow Mystery, Book 6
Books by Kathleen Suzette:
Clam Chowder and a Murder
A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 1
Short Stack and a Murder
A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 2
Cherry Pie and a Murder
A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 3
Barbecue and a Murder
A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 4
Birthday Cake and a Murder
A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 5
Hot Cider and a Murder
A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 6
Roast Turkey and a Murder
A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 7
Gingerbread and a Murder
A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 8
Fish Fry and a Murder
A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 9
Cupcakes and a Murder
A Rainey Daye Cozy Mystery, book 10
Apple Pie a la Murder
A Freshly Baked Cozy Mystery
by
Kate Bell
Kathleen Suzette
Copyright © 2016 by Kate Bell. All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Author’s Notes
Classic Apple Pie
Dutch Apple Pie
Sour Cream Apple Pie
Killer Bread Pudding
Two Perfect Piecrusts
Chapter One
“It’ll be the death of you if you don’t get him to change,” Lucy said, nodding. “I know it’s driving you crazy. He has no idea what he’s doing and you have the answer to his problems.”
“Tell me about it,” I said, rolling out the piecrust to an even thickness.
She was right. I knew better than to try another slice of Henry Hoffer’s pies. The cherry pie resembled cherry flavored gelatin in a crust. His restaurant was called Henry’s Home Cooking Restaurant, but he wasn’t fooling anyone with the pies.
“Tell Henry you want to bake pies to sell at his restaurant. The pies alone will double his business,” Lucy said, relaxing at my kitchen table. A cup of coffee was in her hand and she had slipped her shoes off under the table.
“I don’t know about that,” I replied as I ran a hand over the piecrust dough. It was beautiful.
“Henry would be lucky to have your pies to sell,” she encouraged me. “Everyone loves your pies.”
Peeled and sliced Granny Smith apples were in a bowl on the counter beside me marinating in sugar and cinnamon, their juices pooling in the bottom of the bowl. My apple pies were as American as you could get.
“I’m glad you have confidence in my pies,” I said. I was making the pie, but I still wasn’t convinced Henry would agree to doing business with me.
I brushed the top of the pie with a butter and cinnamon sugar glaze and finished crimping the crust. Then I slid it into the preheated oven and closed the door, anticipating the wonderful apple cinnamon smell that was about to fill my house. It was one of the signature scents of fall. I had been baking a pie every day for years. Don’t judge. There was a method to my madness. Or at least, there was a reason for it.
I had grown up in Alabama and my grandmama was the best pie baker in the county. She made a fresh pie every day. It was fortunate for me that she lived right next door. By the time I was fourteen I could make a piecrust so flaky it would make you cry.
“Allie, I think you’re too modest about your baking talent,” Lucy said, taking a sip of her coffee.
I chuckled. “Modesty isn’t my problem,” I said. “I just don’t know if I really want this.”
When I moved away to college, I gave up the pursuit of pie baking for the pursuit of men, namely one Thaddeus McSwain, from Maine. We married and lived a happy life, having two children. A son we named after my husband, and a daughter, Jennifer.
But a drunk driver had cut my husband’s life short. My life and my children’s lives would never be the same. I began baking a pie every day shortly after his death. It was therapy.
My cat Dixie rubbed up against my leg and purred loudly.
“Hey guy, how are you?” I murmured as I squatted beside him and rubbed his head. Dixie was all black with yellow eyes, and like most cats, he seemed to be able to take or leave my companionship. I straightened up and set a timer for the pie.
“You’re a marvel, Allie,” Lucy said, picking up her cup of coffee and taking another sip. “There’s no one in Sandy Harbor that bakes as well as you do.”
I smiled. “Why thank you, Lucy. It makes me happy when people appreciate my baking.”
“This little endeavor is going to be a roaring success. I’m glad I thought of it,” she said, stirring her coffee. Lucy was six years older than me and had short blond hair that she sometimes dyed wild colors. She’s the best friend I’ve ever had.
“You kno
w I have a blog on grief to write, and I don’t have the time nor the inclination to start a side business,” I protested.
“But you’re baking a pie every day as it is. You may as well get paid for it. Maybe you’ll make enough money to help pay off the kids’ college loans.”
She was right. I was baking a pie every day. And when holidays rolled around, it seemed there was always someone asking me to bake something for them. I wasn’t sure I could handle baking more than a couple of pies a day regularly, but Sandy Harbor, Maine was a small town. How many pies could Henry sell? If he even agreed to it.
***
It was almost five in the evening by the time the pie had cooled enough for me to take to Henry. I didn’t want it to cool off completely because it was best while still warm. Add a scoop of vanilla ice cream, and you had heaven on a plate.
I put the pie in one of my grandmama’s ceramic pie keepers and I hoped Henry would appreciate all the gaily painted dancing apples on it. After all, presentation is everything.
Ralph Henderson was weeding one of the garden planters in front of the restaurant. I nodded at him and smiled as I passed. “Hello, Ralph,” I sang.
Ralph glanced at me, snorted, and turned back to his work. His large square body bent over the dark soil. I shook my head, but kept to myself and pushed open the restaurant door. Ralph was a quiet one that kept to himself.
Henry’s Home Cooking Restaurant was a quiet, out of the way place that served dependable fare. Most of the time it was tasty, except for his pies, of course.
The smell of pine cleaner hit my nose as I headed toward the back of the restaurant. The dinner crowd was starting to trickle in and Henry had been cleaning after the lunch rush. But that’s what Henry always did. There was one thing you could always count on at Henry’s. The place would be immaculately clean. Henry was a germaphobe.
“Hello, Eileen, is Henry around?” I asked the waitress.
Eileen was popping her gum, bent over a table scrubbing off dried food. She looked at me without stopping what she was doing. “Ayuh, he’s in the back,” she said and pointed toward the open doorway that led to the backroom. She flipped her long black hair over her shoulder and turned back to her work.
“Thanks, Eileen,” I said with a smile and a nod. As I headed back, I wished I had taken an extra second to look at my hair in the mirror. I had thrown it up into a messy bun, but my hair was thick and curly and I could sense it starting to escape. I was a redhead. Natural, of course.
“Charles,” I nodded as I passed the cook.
Charles Allen, head cook at Henry’s Home Cooking Restaurant, stopped stirring a huge silver-colored pot and stared at me. I was trespassing. He didn’t say a word though, and I continued on my mission.
The door to Henry’s office was at the end of the hallway and it was open. I stopped in the doorway and peered in. A half sheet of plywood was attached to the wall with brackets and served as a desk. It must have set Henry back twenty dollars. Henry was pouring over a ledger with tiny cursive writing on the pages and a neatly stacked pile of papers sat on the desk. Henry didn’t look up when I entered. His bald spot was growing and his blond stringy hair could use a good combing. He gripped a yellow number two pencil in one hand.
Come into the computer age, Henry.
I cleared my throat.
Henry jumped as if stung by a bee. “What? What do you want?” he asked, staring at me wide-eyed.
I smiled bigger. “Henry, I have a proposition for you,” I said holding the pie keeper in front of me. “I don’t want to insult you, but your pies are disgusting. Why don’t we go into business together? I make the best pies in the county, thanks to my grandmama’s training. I brought a sample for you to try. I’m sure you’ll be delighted with it.” Lucy had said to be confident, and it was oozing out of my pores.
I know it sounded harsh, calling his pies disgusting, but they were and you have to know Henry. He appreciated directness.
“I don’t want none of your pies,” he said. “Get out.”
See? What did I tell you?
“Henry, try my apple pie while it’s still warm. I guarantee you it’s the best you’ve ever tasted.” I smiled for all I was worth. A Southern woman knows how to charm.
“Get out of my restaurant unless you’re here to buy something,” he said through gritted teeth. His fingers tightened around the pencil.
“Now Henry, I’ve known you for twenty years. You can’t even bake a pie. You buy them at Shaw’s Market. Everyone hates your desserts. Think of all the money you could make if we joined forces to bring the people of Sandy Harbor delicious desserts.”
“I said, get out!” Henry exclaimed, narrowing his eyes at me.
“I just want you to try it,” I coaxed. “I guarantee you it’s the best apple pie you’ve ever eaten.”
“Out!” he said, pointing the pencil at the doorway. “Now! Or I’ll call Sam Bailey.”
Sam Bailey was the police chief, and he moved slower than a turtle jogging through peanut butter, so I had no worries there.
“Sam, you’re being unreasonable!” I exclaimed.
“I’ll show you unreasonable. Get out of my office!”
“Listen, Henry, I’ll leave. Right now. If you promise to at least try my pie. We can work out the details later.”
Henry stared at me, his face turning red.
“Fine, I’ll try your pie,” he relented. “But the dinner rush is about to begin and I need to concentrate.”
I smiled. That was more like it. “Promise to taste it while it’s still warm?”
He breathed out through his mouth and nodded his head without another word.
“Great, I’ll talk to you later. Oh, and I need that pie keeper back. It was my grandmama’s,” I said before exiting his office. I passed Charles on my way out. He stopped stirring again and stared at me.
I shook my head and kept moving. I don’t know why people have to be so difficult. It was a free pie for goodness sake!
Chapter Two
I woke up bright and early the next morning while it was still dark. Wrapping my pink fuzzy robe around me, I stumbled to the coffeemaker and poured water into the machine. As I ground up fresh French Vanilla coffee beans, I inhaled the lovely, rich aroma and yawned.
I was a runner in training for a marathon. Fall running was tough. But winter running was worse. All my body wanted to do was stay nice and warm in my cozy flannel pajamas and hunker down for the rest of the increasingly colder days. My late husband had laughed at me every morning that first winter we moved back to Maine. I wasn’t a runner back then, but the cold Northern winter had caught me by surprise. I cried almost every time I had to go outside and start my car.
When Thaddeus died nearly eight years earlier, my world had crumbled. We easily would have made it to sixty years of marriage. We rarely argued, and when we did, we somehow managed to find some sort of common ground. That or he gave in. Either way, we got along famously. Being married was all I had ever dreamed of as a little girl. And then it was gone.
I poured a cup of coffee and bit back the tears. The anniversary of his death was October ninth. I would wait until then to lose control.
Ten minutes later, I had my running shoes and gear on. I grabbed a water bottle and headed out. Driving to the running trail, I passed by Henry’s restaurant and decided to stop in when I saw Henry’s car parked in the back. He served a great scrambled egg and bacon breakfast. Simple, yet tasty. I decided I needed something in my stomach so I wouldn’t run out of steam. I made a mental note to teach Henry how to make real Southern biscuits and gravy and pulled into the parking lot.
The restaurant wasn’t open yet, so I headed to the back where I had seen Henry’s car parked. He had better of tried my pie while it was still warm, I thought as I knocked on the back door. There was no answer and when I knocked a second time, the back door creaked, slowly swinging open a few inches.
“Henry?” I called out. I waited for an answer, but none came. W
ould it seem rude for me to go in? Maybe he was in the bathroom and couldn’t hear me. I stabilized the door with one hand and knocked harder. Henry was so cranky, I didn’t want him to see me and call the cops for breaking and entering.
“Henry?” I called out again.
I pushed the door open a little wider. The back door opened to the kitchen, and I took two steps inside. “Henry?” I called out again.
Where could he be?
I took a couple more steps inside and called to him again.
Then I saw him. He was lying in a pool of blood in front of the wide stainless steel double-door refrigerator. I sucked air in, hard. Had he fallen and cracked his head open? Nope. The steak knife plunged into his chest ruled that out.
I screamed.
“What is it?” someone asked from behind me. I jumped and screamed again.
Charles stood beside me, mouth open, looking at Henry. “Oh. Wow.”
I looked at him, eyes wide, and screamed again.
“Can you stop doing that?” he asked. His face had gone pale and one puffy hand rubbed his chin.