Lemon Tart

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “My name is Detective Cunningham,” the older one said, and as she looked at him she realized there was something familiar about him beyond his eyes that looked very much like Sean Connery’s and his hair that was so similar to Jack’s. He waved briefly toward his partner. “This is Detective Madsen.”

  Sadie nodded and looked at Detective Cunningham again. “Do I know you?” she asked.

  He nodded and gave such a slight smile that she wondered if she had imagined it. “We met a few years ago when you headed the Senior Center Health Fair—I was one of the speakers.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, smiling back and nodding as she made the connection. “You talked about crime prevention for the elderly. It was a wonderful presentation.” Sadie and her father had both found it very informative, even though she was still several years from her AARP card back then.

  Detective Cunningham nodded. “I appreciated the thank you card and homemade bread you sent afterward, it was delicious.”

  Detective Madsen cleared his throat—the universal cue to change the subject—and they both went quiet. Sadie stole another glance into the kitchen as she heard the first watery rumblings from the stove. She’d already put the water bath canner on to boil in preparation to process the jars of applesauce once they were filled.

  “Are we interrupting something?” Detective Cunningham asked.

  “I was making applesauce.” She looked into the kitchen again, fidgeting in her chair. “Well, actually, if you don’t mind, I ought to turn off the canner.” She stood up and hurried into the kitchen. But once there, she saw the washed jars on the counter and the pot of semi-mashed apples waiting for her on the counter—reflecting her neglect of the task she’d spent all morning preparing. She turned toward the detectives. “Is there any way you could ask me questions while I work on this? I’d hate to have to reheat the water in the canner. I’ve got another dozen and a half pints to put up today.”

  “Uh, sure,” she heard Detective Cunningham say.

  “Thank you,” she said with relief. Detective Madsen, however, scowled as he followed Detective Cunningham into the kitchen. They both pulled out chairs at the kitchen table. Sadie picked up her masher, dripping with partially mashed apples, and began mashing again. It took all her strength to press through the quarts of soft apples until the masher hit the bottom of the pan. Then she would pull up with a schlumping sound and press down again—over and over until the apples were properly sauced.

  Detective Cunningham began by asking about Anne’s background. While she mashed, Sadie told them everything she knew, which wasn’t much: Anne had moved from back East, didn’t that mean New York? She had rented the Tillys’ house nine months ago; Trevor’s birthday was September sixth; and Anne would be twenty-six in January or February—Sadie wasn’t quite sure.

  “Why did she move here?” Detective Madsen asked. She looked up in time to catch a fleeting look of annoyance on Detective Cunningham’s face, but it vanished quickly; she wondered what she’d done to upset him. She stopped mashing for a moment in order to assess the consistency of her sauce. She liked a smoother applesauce, not chunky, so she kept mashing, hoping it wasn’t her wanting to work on the applesauce that created the tension in the air. She didn’t see how it made any difference so long as she answered the questions.

  “I only know that she wanted to change her life and felt Garrison was a good place to do it.” With Fort Collins an hour to the west and Denver an hour south of that, Garrison certainly wasn’t any kind of metropolis, and most people outside Colorado didn’t even know it existed despite its early history as a major stopover for the Union Pacific Railroad. These days it was growing out of its agricultural foundations and gaining a reputation as a quiet respite far enough from Denver to enjoy peace and tranquility, but close enough to catch a plane when bigger horizons called. She finished mashing the first pan of apples and moved it to the counter. Then she slid the second pan from the back burner, took a deep breath, and started all over again; her shoulders were already burning.

  “Can I help you with that?” Detective Cunningham finally asked, standing as he spoke. Sadie blinked and blew the hair out of her eyes. Was he serious? She didn’t wait around to allow him to reconsider. Leaving the masher in the pot, she hurried to the pantry and pulled out another apron. It was dark brown with white lettering that said “If Mama ain’t happy . . . give her chocolate!” She handed it to him once he’d slid out of his jacket and with a smirk, he tied it on and moved to the pan. He was a big man and seemed to fill the kitchen in just the way a man ought to. Sadie pulled a ladle out of the drawer and, after putting the canning funnel on the top of the first jar, started putting the already mashed sauce from the first pan into the jars that she’d lined up on the counter. Canning went so much faster with two people.

  Detective Madsen rolled his eyes and scribbled some notes in his little notebook.

  “Does Anne work?” Detective Cunningham asked.

  “Did she work,” Detective Madsen corrected.

  Sadie snapped her head around in surprise, but Detective Madsen was looking at Detective Cunningham, not her. She quickly blinked back the tears brought on by Detective Madsen’s stark reminder of Anne’s death. Then she looked warily between the two men and wondered what she was missing.

  “She worked at Albertson’s,” Sadie replied slowly, still trying to pin down the undercurrent in the room but knowing for certain that she did not like Detective Madsen. “She was a cashier—but she had a job interview last week and was really excited about it. It was for an office job—a receptionist or something like that.”

  “Did she hear back on that job?” Detective Cunningham asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Sadie said with a shake of her head. “I’m sure she’d have told me if she did. I helped her with Trevor a couple days a week.”

  Detective Madsen frowned at the answer, but hurried to ask the next question, cutting off Detective Cunningham, who then shut his mouth and clenched his jaw. His mashing intensified.

  “And do you know anyone who might have a grudge against Anne? Her . . . ex-husband or boyfriend? Someone she was afraid of?” Detective Madsen asked.

  Sadie looked between the two men again as understanding dawned. I’m not the problem, she realized—and neither was her applesauce. There was something going on between the two of them that had started long before this conversation. She felt herself relax a little, grateful to know she wasn’t the one to blame for the extra tension in the room.

  “No,” Sadie said, shaking her head and filling another jar with the rich golden sauce. “Trevor’s dad isn’t part of their lives.” She looked up at Detective Cunningham. “All I know about him is that he pays her child support—enough so she could rent the Tilly’s house instead of an apartment. She doesn’t talk about him, but that’s why she came here—to start fresh. I think he really broke her heart, if you want the truth of it, and she needed to find a new life.”

  “But you don’t know his name?” Detective Cunningham asked almost before she’d finished speaking. He had a deep voice; her father would have described it as baritone, with a smoothness that surprised her. She wondered if he was a singer—her church choir was always short on baritones. Was Detective Cunningham a church-going man?

  “I don’t know anything about him or anyone else in her life before she came here. She kept her past very private.”

  “Was she dating anyone?” Detective Cunningham asked, sending a sparring look at his partner.

  Sadie shook her head. “No, she told me she was waiting for Mr. Right. She seemed more interested in caring for her son and for her home than in men. But I have to tell you, I wondered if there wasn’t someone.”

  “Who?” Detective Madsen asked, leaning forward as if desperate for the gossip. She really disliked him.

  “I told you, I don’t know. There were just times when she’d quickly get off the phone, or ask me to watch Trevor without telling me where she was going. I didn’t press,�
�� she explained. “It was up to her how much she told me, and if there was someone in her life, which I’m not certain there was, she’s entitled to her privacy.” Though now Sadie realized there would be no such entitlement. The police would dig and dig until they learned everything they could about her. It seemed so unfair, poking and prodding into her personal affairs.

  Detective Madsen’s face was hard as he made some notes and then began asking her about today’s events, anything Sadie had seen and why she’d run into Anne’s house after being told not to. Saving the lemon tart didn’t seem to impress him any more than it had impressed Officer Malloy, but she pretended that the rescue was her only motivation for going inside. Detective Cunningham kept mashing, allowing Detective Madsen to take the lead in the interview.

  “What were you doing that kept you at the sink all morning?” Detective Madsen asked.

  “Making applesauce,” Sadie said with a bit of a chuckle as she waved her hand over the pans on the stove, the jars, and the bowl of apple skins ready for the compost pile. Wasn’t it obvious? But Detective Madsen didn’t smile and she cleared her throat. She hated the accusation she felt in every word of every question he asked. “There is just as much enjoyment to be had in self-sufficiency as there is in a weekend trip to Denver or shopping for the perfect pair of shoes. Homemade applesauce is most certainly worth the effort.” It wasn’t until the end of her explanation that she realized how defensive she sounded, so she smiled to soften her words. She’d learned long ago that you could say nearly anything so long as you smiled.

  Detective Madsen looked at her as if she were some kind of loon, and she shifted her weight. “So you were at the sink all—”

  “How does this look?” Detective Cunningham broke in, lifting the masher and stepping to the side of his pan. She moved in his direction and looked at the golden mixture.

  “Very good,” she said appreciatively. “Would you mind filling these other jars while I put the full bottles in the bath?”

  “Bath?” Detective Madsen asked, seemingly annoyed by his own confusion.

  “Water bath,” Detective Cunningham answered, smiling in a very superior way at his partner. “To process the jars of applesauce.” He turned to Sadie. “My wife used to make the best applesauce you’ve ever had—she put ginger in it. Have you ever tried that?”

  “Ginger?” Sadie asked slowly, her eyes flicking quickly to his naked ring finger, which still showed a definite tan line. She filed the information away for later without stepping out of the moment. “I’ve never thought of that but I bet it’s absolutely delicious.” She put a finger on her chin and opened the spice cupboard. “Ground or fresh ginger?”

  Detective Madsen cleared his throat again.

  “I’m sorry, what was the question?” Sadie asked. She decided to add the ginger to another batch, not wanting to upset the younger detective.

  “I asked why you were at the sink all morning long.”

  “I started washing, peeling, and cutting apples about 6:30. While the first batch cooked, I worked on preparing the next one—it’s a rather intensive process.”

  “And what exactly did you see?”

  “I saw Mr. Henry leave for work at 7:25. The Bailey kids walked up to the bus stop around 7:40. Then Steve and Mindy Bailey both left around 8:00—in separate cars. Carrie went out around 8:05, probably to the gym; she’s been trying to lose weight since Jack left her last spring.” She stopped, hating that she sounded like such a gossip and feeling like she was airing out the family laundry in front of strangers.

  “You remember the exact times?” Detective Cunningham asked, pausing in his jar-filling and looking at her in surprise.

  Sadie shrugged, feeling as if she ought to be embarrassed—but she wasn’t. “I pay attention,” she said simply as she began twisting the rings onto the tops of the jars, finger tight, and setting each jar on the rack suspended above the now bubbling water. “Those things happen every day, well, except the applesauce—that only happens for a few days in October.”

  “Applesauce,” Detective Madsen muttered with derision, scribbling in his notebook some more. Detective Cunningham continued filling jars; though he made a fair amount of mess in the process, she was still grateful for his help. She knew not all men were as acclimated to a kitchen as Neil had been and she tried not to hold that fact against them. Detective Cunningham seemed content to let his partner continue the interview, but his face still showed his irritation every time he looked at the younger man. Sadie wondered again what the problem was between them. Weren’t partners supposed to be friends? Cagney and Lacey were, but maybe it was different for women.

  “Home canning is a dying art,” she said simply in response to Detective Madsen’s mutterings. Carrie’s car drove past her home, quickly hidden by the black walnut tree, and Sadie furrowed her brow. Detective Madsen caught the look.

  “What?” he said, standing to look out the window over the sink.

  “Oh, Carrie just drove by. She started a new job last week so I’m a little surprised to see her home.”

  “You said she went to the gym.” He watched her face closely. “Not work.”

  “Yes, the job is from 9:30 to 4:00 so she goes to the gym first, then goes straight to the office. Maybe the job was only a week long—she works for a temp agency, filling in at different places.” She would have sworn that Carrie told her it was a three-week assignment. But then again she didn’t know the specifics of her sister-in-law’s life the way she once had. When Jack left, things had changed between them. They were still friends, but it was awkward and they both seemed to be waiting for Jack to come home and put things back the way they used to be.

  “You didn’t see anything unusual this morning?” Detective Madsen asked, interrupting Sadie’s thoughts. She looked at him again and went back to putting the jars into the canner.

  “Other than the two police cars in two minutes, no,” she said with a shake of her head. “Detective Cunningham, would you mind lowering this rack of bottles into the canner?”

  Detective Cunningham nodded, wiping his hands on his apron as she moved out of his way. He held the rack nice and level as he slowly lowered it into the pan.

  Sadie smiled at his precision. “You’re welcome in my kitchen anytime,” she complimented him when he finished and put the lid on the huge pan.

  He chuckled silently and she hoped she wasn’t giving him the wrong idea—she was dating Ron after all—but neither did she want to appear ungracious about his help.

  “You didn’t see anything else out of place?” Madsen asked again.

  Sadie set the digital timer stuck to the fridge and pushed the start button. “Jack and Carrie’s tree blocks my view, so all I get to look at are the empty lots across the circle from me and nothing happens over there.” She attempted a smile at her joke but it went unnoticed by both men.

  Detective Cunningham finished filling his last jar, and she wiped the rims and put on the lids and rings. He didn’t sit down, but simply moved aside and leaned against the counter.

  “And you were here, inside, at the window all morning?” Detective Madsen pressed.

  “Yes,” Sadie said, her annoyance rising. “All morning.”

  “Making applesauce?” the disbelief in his voice was obvious and she couldn’t understand why it was so hard for him to believe her. The evidence was right in front of him.

  Sadie opened her mouth to tell him so, but Detective Cunningham didn’t give her a chance, reentering the game after his self-imposed time-out.

  “And there is no other access to the cul-de-sac?” Detective Cunningham asked. It may have been Sadie’s imagination but she felt sure his tone was softened on purpose in order to make Detective Madsen’s seem even harder. He still had on the apron, and his crossed arms covered everything but “give her chocolate!”

  “Our little cul-de-sac was considered the outskirts of town when it was built more than twenty-five years ago, and despite recent developments, we’re still su
rrounded by fields. It’s certainly not convenient to get in from that direction, but there is an old farm road that provides access to the barbed wire fence that runs a few yards past the property line behind Anne’s house and Mr. Henry’s. The neighbor kids ride their bikes and build forts in the trees on the south side.” Her own kids had loved playing in the field when they were young. Then she remembered that Anne had died there. She swallowed. She’d never feel the same about that field.

  Detective Madsen spoke again. “And did you have reason to go to Ms. Lemmon’s home this morning?”

  “No,” Sadie said. She finished preparing the remaining jars and set them aside so they could wait their turn for the water bath. She took off her apron and indicated for Detective Cunningham to do the same. Laying both aprons over a kitchen chair, she invited the two men back into the living room. They all took their original places as Sadie continued.

  “Anne usually stays up late—sometimes until two or three in the morning. And then she sleeps in. I’ve told her that she’s going to have to get a better schedule for Trevor. He’ll go to school in a few years and she’ll regret not . . .” She stopped and swallowed. Anne would never regret anything again. Sadie looked at the floor and took a deep breath, trying to hold back another round of tears.

  “So maybe you went over there,” Detective Madsen began. She lifted her head and looked at him—he couldn’t mean . . .

  “You said yourself that everyone else in the circle had gone for the day and based on the timer on Ms. Lemmon’s oven that left just you and—”

  “Well, Mrs. Hoffmiller, you’ve been very helpful,” Detective Cunningham cut in. “We may need to ask you a few more questions later. Will that be okay?”

  “Sure,” she said, stunned by the accusation Detective Madsen had thrown at her but still wanting to be helpful. She looked at Detective Cunningham. “Thank you for your help with the applesauce. You saved me a lot of time.”