by Kate Bell
In the morning I went for an extra long run. I needed time to clear my head. The image of Henry lying dead on the floor of his restaurant kitchen was etched in my mind. I blamed Lucy. If she hadn’t talked me into trying to go into the pie baking business, I never would have been there to find his body. I would have been just like everyone else in town, sitting in the local coffee shops, gossiping about it.
Sweat dribbled down my forehead as I drove home. I brushed it away and took a swig from my water bottle. When I pulled up to my house, my daughter Jennifer was sitting on the front steps. I still hadn’t told her about what had happened. She was a worrier, that one.
I pulled into the driveway and got out of my car. “Hi, honey, what brings you by the homestead so early in the morning?”
She shrugged. “I had nothing else to do.”
That meant she missed me. College was only forty-five minutes away, but it was her first year away from home. She wanted to experience dorm life, but she also missed her mama. Jennifer was a homebody, and I knew college would be rough on her. She stood up, and I pulled her close for a hug. “I missed you!”
“Oh, Mom, you stink!” she said wrinkling up her lightly freckled nose.
“It’s called sweat. You know, from exercise?” I let her go and put my key in the door. “Why didn’t you let yourself in?”
“I forgot my key,” she said, following me into the house.
“And why was it off your key ring, young lady?” I said stripping off my windbreaker.
“I dunno. What are you making me for breakfast?” she asked, making a beeline to the kitchen and helping herself to the already brewed coffee.
“Cornflakes,” I said, following her into the kitchen. I reached out a hand to rumple her red hair. She took after me while my son Thad looked almost identical to his father; blond hair, blue eyes, and every bit as handsome. “Listen, Jennifer, there’s something I need to tell you.”
There was a knock at the front door and we both looked in that direction. “Wonder who that could be?” I asked and went to answer it.
I opened the door and Detective Blanchard stood on my doorstep. We stared at each other for a few seconds.
“Detective?” I said when I found my voice. Then I realized I was standing here in front of him both stinky and sweaty, with my hair flying out from its ponytail, and no makeup. Yikes. A Southern woman has standards, you know.
“Ms. McSwain, good morning. Please excuse my early appearance, but I wondered if I could have a few moments of your time?”
He stood there in his perfectly creased suit smelling of a fresh shower and aftershave and I wanted to tell him no. I needed a shower first. And even after that, I had no desire to talk about Henry Hoffer’s murder. Ever.
“Uh,” was all I could manage.
“It will only take a few moments,” he reassured me. He held his notebook in one hand and a cell phone in the other.
I nodded and opened the door for him to enter. I really didn’t want to. Besides me being smelly, this man might want to hang a murder on me and I kind of held it against him.
Jennifer turned around when she heard him enter, cup halfway to her lips and wide-eyed.
“Detective Blanchard, this is my daughter Jennifer,” I said.
He held his hand out and strode the distance between them. Jennifer shook his hand, eyes still wide.
“Do you live here with your mother?” he asked her.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why do you want to know?”
That’s my girl. She was just like her mother.
“Jennifer, that’s what I was just getting ready to tell you. Henry Hoffer was murdered,” I informed her. I didn’t want my daughter to do something regretful, like tell the detective off. She doesn’t look good in orange, either.
“What?” she asked looking at me. “The old guy from the restaurant that carried disinfectant wipes everywhere he went? What happened?”
“He was murdered,” the detective said.
She looked at him. “And?”
“And I have a few questions for your mother.”
Jennifer’s head spun in my direction so fast, you’d have thought she was Linda Blair. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything!” I said and tilted my head toward the detective. Way to take up for your mother. “I was the first one to discover Henry’s body. I had taken him a pie the night before and I stopped by to see how he liked it.”
Jennifer looked at me, puzzled. There were plenty of questions she wanted to ask, but thankfully, she held them for now.
“Would you like some coffee?” I asked the detective. My mother would kill me if I didn’t show him hospitality, even if he was trying to lock me up for something I didn’t do. Did Maine have a death penalty? I made a mental note to Google it.
“No, thank you. As I said, I only need a few moments of your time,” he said.
I relaxed a little. Maybe I could get rid of him fast. “So, Detective, what did you need to know?” I said turning toward him. “We can sit at the dining room table if you’d like.”
“That would be great,” he said and followed me to the dining room. “I was wondering, how well did you know Mr. Hoffer?”
“Well, like I said before, it’s a small town. I certainly ran into him from time to time. And I ate at his restaurant probably once or twice a month,” I said taking a seat and offering him the one across from me.
He sat down and began writing in his notebook. “And did you ever see him socially?”
“What? Socially? No. Never.” That was a weird question. Why would he ask that?
“And do you know his wife, Cynthia?” he asked, looking into my eyes.
“I didn’t even know he was married until Charles told me yesterday morning,” I said, trying to sound convincing even though it really was the truth. This man made me feel guilty, and I didn’t know why.
“I see,” he murmured and made another note.
“I didn’t know Sandy Harbor had a detective,” I said, changing the subject.
He looked up at me. “I’m on loan from Bangor. It’s a temporary thing.”
“I see,” I said. He had shown up at the restaurant with the other police, so he wasn’t here specifically for Henry’s murder. I wondered why the police had felt the need to borrow him from Bangor.
He asked several other questions that seemed inconsequential and the fact that they seemed inconsequential made me think there was some deep, dark motive he had for asking them. Like he was trying to trip me up. That’s what detectives did, right?
“So, do you have any leads on the suspect?” I asked when it looked like he was getting ready to finish up. I couldn’t help myself. I had to know if he really thought I was a suspect.
“No, we’re just in a preliminary investigation right now,” he said pleasantly.
“Do you think it might have been a robbery?” I asked. “I can’t imagine anyone local murdering Henry.”
“Robbery? No. We didn’t find any evidence of a robbery.”
That was disappointing. “Well, I happened to hear that Charles Allen had an argument with Henry recently.” It was out of my mouth before I could stop it. I wanted to slap my hand across my mouth. I shouldn’t have said that.
His eyebrows shot up. “Really? And do you happen to know what that argument was about?”
“Money. I heard Henry hadn’t given Charles a raise in a couple of years.” In for a penny, in for a pound. I may as well tell him what I knew.
“I see,” he said and made a note. “Henry’s widow said Henry thought highly of Charles. I would think if Henry liked him, he would have made sure he was well compensated, but you never know in situations like this. I appreciate your help, Ms. McSwain. I’ve got to be going. Thanks again.”
“Mrs.,” I corrected him.
He looked at me quizzically.
“I’m a Mrs., even if my husband is gone,” I said and then felt foolish for bringing it up.
“Oh, I do apologize. I didn
’t mean anything by it,” he said, tilting his head to look at me.
“No problem,” I said. I could feel my cheeks turn pink and I silently cursed myself for saying anything.
“Well, I’ll get out of your hair,” he said and stood up.
I showed him to the door and hoped I wouldn’t have to see him again.
Lucy was standing on my doorstep when I swung the door open and when she saw the detective, her eyes got big. I quickly introduced them and he made his exit without making conversation with her. He wasn’t much of a talker, that one.
We stood on the step and watched the detective get in his car and drive off.
“Wow. He’s quite a looker,” Lucy said, still looking down the street after him.
“Quite a looker that wants to put me in an orange jumpsuit,” I reminded her and went back into the house.
Lucy followed behind me. “Hey, Jennifer!” she said when she saw my daughter.
“What’s up with my mom being a suspect in a murder?” Jennifer asked her.
Lucy shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know, but we are going to have to find the real murderer and clear your mom’s name.”
“I don’t like that he seems to suspect me. He told me Henry thought highly of Charles,” I said. They both looked at me.
“What?” Lucy said. “But old man Winters said he argued with Henry over money.”
“I know. I think we have some work to do,” I said. “Maybe Henry liked Charles, but not enough to give him a raise. And maybe that made Charles angry enough to kill Henry.”
Chapter Six
I whipped up some pancakes, and we gathered around the kitchen table and dug in. I had bought more than ten pounds of apples, so I chopped some up and added apple pie spice to them and folded them into the pancake batter. I was thinking today’s pie would be a Dutch crust apple pie. One of my favorites.
“So Allie, I have a question for you,” Lucy said and took a bite of her pancake.
“Shoot,” I said and immediately regretted it. Maybe I should remove all words that sounded murderous from my vocabulary.
Lucy looked at me pointedly and I knew she could read my mind. She was scary that way sometimes. I shrugged my shoulders.
“Did you do it?”
I looked at her. “Do what?”
“Murder Henry.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “How on earth can you ask such a thing? I would never kill Henry or anyone else for that matter! The nerve!”
“Okay, okay. I know you didn’t do it, but I had to ask. Just like in the movies, they always ask the suspect even if it’s not a very likely suspect,” she said and got up to pour herself another cup of coffee. She was wearing a short yellow miniskirt. It was completely wrong for the approaching fall weather, but Lucy liked her short skirts.
“Well, I can’t imagine anyone thinking I did it,” I said, feeling more than a little miffed.
“You do have a temper, Mom,” Jennifer pointed out.
I narrowed my eyes at her. “Maybe if I had kids that had listened to me when they were little, my temper never would have developed,” I said.
“All right, all right,” Lucy said sitting back down at the table. “We need to think about how to figure this out. You say you discovered the body and then Charles showed up right away?”
“Yes. Like less than a minute later, I’d say.” I took a swig of my now cool coffee. But even tepid coffee was tasty.
“Any chance he was hiding there in the restaurant?” she asked and poured more syrup on her pancakes.
“I don’t think so. I entered through the back door and then he came in behind me.”
“He could have been there earlier and committed the crime,” Jennifer said. “And then slipped out the front door and waited for someone else to discover the body.”
“Yeah, they say the murderer always returns to the scene of the crime,” Lucy said. “I think Jennifer has a good point.”
“The movies and television shows say that, but has that ever really happened in real life? It would be dumb because if you’re the murderer, you’re right there in front of the cops. Of course, they will question you. It doesn’t make sense,” I said and went over the details of what had happened in my mind. After thinking about it, I said, “but you know, Charles has a key to the front door. Jennifer could be right. He could have gone out the front and then re-entered through the back, but even so, I don’t know why he would.”
“Was the body still warm?” Jennifer asked. “Was it gross?”
“I don’t know, I wasn’t going to touch him. But when the police got there, he was already gone and probably had been for a while.”
“I think they need to question people that weren’t there. Obviously, I couldn’t have murdered Henry since Charles showed up right away. I wouldn’t have had time,” I pointed out.
“But you didn’t touch the body to see if it was warm. You could have done it hours earlier and he would already have been cold. I bet that’s what the police are thinking,” Jennifer pointed out, running a finger through the syrup on her plate and sticking it in her mouth.
I was beginning to wonder if this was my kid. What happened to protecting your family?
“We need to interrogate Charles,” Lucy said.
“Interrogate is a strong word. We need to keep our police jargon under control,” I said, pushing my plate back. I was losing my appetite.
“So let’s do it. Let’s go find him and let’s find out what he knows,” Lucy said.
I picked up my now empty plate and took it to the sink and rinsed the remaining syrup off of it. Would Charles even talk to us? He must know he’s as much a suspect as I was.
“Yes?” Lucy tossed at me when I didn’t answer.
“I guess,” I said. “I mean, I don’t know that he would tell us anything useful. Why would he if he is the murderer?”
“He might slip up,” Jennifer pointed out. “We can talk to him. It won’t hurt anything.”
I sighed. “I guess so.”
I didn’t have a good feeling about this. I needed to clear my name, but I also didn’t want to mess with someone that might have committed murder. If Charles had done it, then he had one kill under his belt and what was to stop him from making it two?
“I know, you can bake him a pie and we’ll take it over to him,” Lucy said. “Say it’s to comfort him because of the stress and trauma of yesterday.”
“That’s a great idea,” Jennifer said, nodding.
I looked from one to the other. What was I getting myself into? This had to be folly. I sighed. “Okay. But if we end up in orange jumpsuits, you are both going to pay.”
Chapter Seven
I had baked the pie and let it cool enough to handle, and then we were on our way. Jennifer opted out of the trip. Lot of support I got from her. We found Charles’s address on the Internet and didn’t even have to pay for it. Lucy drove while I held the pie and when we got to his house, I was more than a little surprised. Charles had a pretty nice house for a fry cook. It was a two-story Craftsman style. It looked to be more than a couple thousand square feet.
I looked over at Lucy. Her eyebrows lifted in an “oh my goodness, will you look at that” look, but she didn’t say a word.
We got out and went to the door. I rang the bell and waited. There was movement inside and the door swung open. Charles’s mouth dropped open in surprise.
“What do you want?”
“Why, Charles, I’m just being neighborly. I brought you a Dutch crust apple pie,” I purred.
“I don’t remember you being my neighbor,” he said, not taking his eyes off the pie I held. I hadn’t bothered using a pie keeper after what happened to the last one. Dead Henry or not, I couldn’t replace another one of grandmama’s pie keepers.
“May we come in?” I asked sweetly.
He looked at me and then down at the pie. “Yeah, sure. I guess so.”
We followed him into the kitchen. His house was surprisingly modern
looking. I say surprisingly because he seemed a little redneck. There was just something about him.
“What a lovely home you have,” I said and made a beeline for the kitchen, setting the pie down on the kitchen table.
“Thanks. What kind of pie did you say that was?” He was leering at the pie now.
“Dutch crust apple pie. Get me some plates and we’ll have a piece,” I said. I looked at Lucy, giving her a smile. Food really was the way to a man’s heart. Or, hopefully, to the information he knew about the murder. Or a confession. Whichever.
He got out plates, forks, and a knife and I served us.
“This is terrific,” he said around a mouthful of pie. He wasn’t holding back on the pie. Charles was no delicate flower when it came to food.
“Thank you, Charles. I uh, I was just wondering. Who do you think might have murdered Henry?” I thought I would ask the obvious question first.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Henry was the cantankerous sort. Could have been anyone.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. That wasn’t much help. “Yes, but you would think that if someone really wanted to kill him, they would have to have a reason. A really good one. No one just goes and murders someone without a good reason.”
“I dunno. There’s no telling. There are crazy people in this world,” he said and finished up the rest of his piece of pie.
“Here, help yourself to another piece,” I said, pushing the pie toward him.
“Why’d you bring this over here?” he asked. Suspicion was setting in, but it didn’t stop him from cutting a wedge twice the size of the first. “I been living in this house for six years and in this town my whole life, and you never brought me a pie.”
“I thought it would be nice. What with that horrible trauma we both experienced when we found Henry. I thought this would make us both feel better,” I said glancing at Lucy. She sat entranced, watching Charles shovel the slab of pie into his mouth.
“It’s great,” he said, and when he opened his mouth, a piece of crust fell out. Ew.
“Thanks,” I said, looking away. “But surely there has to be someone that Henry had a problem with, say in the past couple of weeks? Maybe, someone owed him money?” There. A little bait might help.