“So, my next step was to figure it out on my own. I did research on student loan options, even printed out an application for one.”
“That’s a sensible choice,” she agreed.
“But he found the application and shredded it. He told me he wouldn’t allow me to go to school if he could help it. Claimed he’d just end up paying my loans.”
“But you’re a legal adult, correct? He had no real power to stop you.”
“You don’t know my father,” he whispered, just the memory of the man causing sweat to run down Charleston’s face.
“When was this?”
“Two nights ago. We really had it out, and then I left for the shooting range.”
“The shooting range?” she instantly felt her heart skip a beat. Wondering if she should try and get out of there, Bert moved to the edge of her seat.
The hint of a tear appeared in his eye. “Y-yeah. There is an indoor shooting range near here where I sometimes go to blow off steam.” A sniffle escaped, and he drew back in any sign of crying, obviously adept at hiding it. “Shooting guns was the one thing my dad actually did with me. He taught me.”
Bert paused, wondering if she should ask the next question on her mind. “Are you a good shot?”
He nodded. “Thanks to him, I’m one of the best,” he bragged.
“I see.”
“Anyway, while I was out I got to thinking about Mom.”
“You hadn’t seen her in a couple years, right?”
“That’s true, but I did manage to track her down at one-point a while back. I’ve sort of e-mailed back and forth with her for a while.”
That was one tidbit of information Soria hadn’t shared. By the way she talked, you’d think she’d never even humor her kids. More and more it seemed she still had a soft spot—at least for Charleston.
“I called her up and told her about what had happened, asked her for the money.” He was quiet for the next moment, leaving Bert in suspense.
“And?”
“She agreed to help me pay for college on one condition, that I move out of my father’s house once and for all. She wanted me out from under his reign and control.”
“I see. Did she offer to mail the money? Transfer it?”
“No. She didn’t trust my Dad. He might see the letter first and get rid of it or take it for himself.”
Finally, Bert understood. “She offered to come out and meet you in person.”
“We’d moved since she left, sort of Dad’s way of making sure she couldn’t find us, and I gave her the address.”
That explained the note in her purse.
“She told me she was going to drive through the night to be here yesterday morning.”
“And was she here?”
He hesitated, not sure if sharing the truth would be incriminating.
“I’m not the police. You can tell me.”
“She did come, but Abigail must have seen us together.”
Bert sighed, shaking her head. “Most likely, she’s the one who told the police your mother was here in town.”
Finally, after having paced the floor, Charleston sat down. “At this point, the money doesn’t matter. I’m taking over my father’s investments and will, therefore, have control of the money.”
Bert tilted her head. She hadn’t known there was any money involved. If Charleston stood to take over, it gave him a motive. Bert moved closer to the edge of her chair. “What kind of investments?”
“I’m not sure, exactly. I won’t find out right away until all the paperwork has officially gone through, but I know his will leaves them in my hands. I guess that was the one benefit of being a man in his eyes. If he had to choose between Abigail and me to take his money after he died, he chose me.”
This didn’t surprise Bert.
“He never talked about his work?”
“He was always starting some project or another—mostly fast food chains and stuff like that. One time he bought into a burger chain. Unfortunately, the location he owned went under and he lost money.” Charleston shrugged. “He must have made at least one good investment. How else would he have the cash to buy an expensive pie on a whim? No offense.”
“None taken.” Standing up, Bert slid her purse back onto her shoulder, wanting nothing more than to get out of there. Charleston seemed timid, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of murder.
“You’re leaving?” he asked, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.
“I have to open up my pie shop for the day.” Her voice faltered slightly, but she caught it.
“You’re still opening your shop after what happened?” he demanded, the rosiness returning to his face.
“I still have a business to run.”
He sighed heavily, leaning down and folding his arms. “I thought you’d at least come to the police station with me, since my mom sent you and all.”
These two kids really were strange, just like Soria had said.
“No, I have to talk to someone.”
Chapter 12
* * *
Bert barely made it back to the shop to open on time. Stepping inside, the smell of freshly baked pies greeted her. The scent alone, along with the warmth of the ovens, brought a sense of peace after the crazy morning she’d had.
She’d had to deal with three of the Blinkerton clan. Each of them had been so vastly different, but somehow the same.
Abigail was rude, demanding, and overbearing.
Soria was genial, but told white lies.
Charleston was a little weak in the spine and acted the part of a martyr.
However, Bert realized that any one of them could have resorted to murder if they felt they deserved something they weren’t getting.
The question now was, who would be desperate enough to do it?
For all Bert knew, Detective Mannor already had the right person in mind. Surely there was some sort of condemning evidence that had come up to point to her. Of course, showing up randomly after two years was odd on its own, but the fact that the murder had happened the same day seemed far more than coincidence.
Still, Bert had a hunch and she wanted to follow through on a few things to help pinpoint exactly where she thought this whole ordeal might be going.
She only hoped her day went according to plan.
Even after only being open for a week, she already had a few regulars who stopped in for their daily slice of pie. Some were ladies who enjoyed a dessert during their lunch break, others were men who stopped in for a relaxing bite after work.
It was only a handful, but Bert was proud of it.
One of those consistent regulars was a man named Marc Bailey, a local businessman and investor who had acquired a fondness for Bert’s fabulous apple pie. It also helped that Bert had inadvertently lent him a hand previously—getting him out of a very sticky situation during a murder investigation. Afterwards, Marc had grown fond of Bert, and even considered her a friend despite his normal outward seriousness.
He always arrived around four in the afternoon for his scheduled slice of pure sugary cinnamon and apple bliss.
Bert worked straight through the day, rolling out pies and making book recommendations, all to take her mind off the recent murder and the odd family drama attached to it. While the book side of things hadn’t really picked up steam yet, she had hoped to get more interest by her sidewalk sales. She also had plans up her sleeve to get the whole reading community involved.
Nothing seemed to beat a good read on a chilly autumn day, and she was formulating an advertising scheme to interest guests in possibly picking up a new book to read in addition to their slice of delicious pie.
As four o’clock drew near, Bert was relieved to see Marc approaching the front door of the shop. He wore a black knit cap over his long blonde hair, which matched his expensive and well-tailored business suit. It was partially to keep it from flying out in the wind, and partially to keep his ears warm.
His ruddy cheeks and foggy breath were simple indi
cations that the days were progressively getting colder.
“Hi, Marc,” Bert smiled upon seeing him.
“Hey,” he beamed, flashing her the winning all-tooth smile that she’d come to associate with the man. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit in an iron bra out there,” he joked, removing the cap and revealing that his hair was tied up in a bun.
Bert couldn’t help but laugh at his crass humor. In some part, it reminded her of her late husband’s ridiculous jokes. “I’ve got your apple pie all ready for you.”
Walking up to the glass display counter, he leaned in and looked at the other choices. “I was actually thinking of trying something different today,” he noted in his usual New York accent.
“You? Have something other than apple pie? I thought it was your favorite?”
“It is, but sometimes you’ve got to branch out.”
She laughed again. Even though he was in his thirties and Bert was in her sixties, she couldn’t help but feel that he was a kindred spirit—despite her poor first impression of him during the prior murder investigation.
“Okay, what’ll you have?”
“I’ve been hearing rave reviews around the Old Market that your chocolate-almond tart is to die for.”
“You want to give that a try?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“One slice of chocolate-almond tart coming right up.”
He began undoing his black scarf. “Could I get a cup of coffee with that? I think if I don’t get something warm in me soon I’m going to turn into a popsicle.”
“It isn’t even winter yet, Marc. How will you survive?”
“I won’t,” he grinned.
“Didn’t you grow up in New York?” she asked, filling a mug with delicious hot liquid.
“Yep, and thank heaven the winters aren’t nearly as miserable here in Nebraska.”
“Here you go,” Bert offered, setting the cup of hot coffee on the glass counter.
“You’re a life saver, as always.” He took it in both hands, letting its heat warm him. Sipping from the mug, he took a seat at the closest table.
“Speaking of saving lives,” Bert’s voice trailed off as she got the pie out of the heated display case and cut a slice. She paused, already feeling slightly awkward.
“What is it?” he asked, knowing there was something she wanted to ask.
“You’re in investing, right?” she walked over and set the pie on the table in front of him.
“Of course. You already knew that, though.” He picked up the fork and cut into the pie.
“I did.”
“So, what is it? Looking for advice?” He took a bite. An instant look of happiness washed over him. “Oh, my. This might be better than your apple.”
“Thanks,” she smiled. “What kind of investing are you in?”
“Stocks and bonds mostly.”
“Have you ever bought into a fast food chain?”
He took another bite and finished chewing it before answering. “I’ve run stock with them before, but that’s not what you mean, is it?”
“No. I was thinking more along the lines of actually buying a location, a franchise. Being an owner.”
“I’ve never done that, no.”
“Darn,” she sighed.
“Why?”
“I was just wondering if there was a way to find out who owns which of the locations of Koffee Hous in town.”
“Koffee Hous? They’re a pretty huge chain.” Sipping his coffee again, he considered this fact. “I suppose you could always talk to the district manager. He’ll probably know who the owners were.”
“You think that’s doable?”
“I know the district manager, if that helps.”
“It does,” she exclaimed.
“Why do you need to know, by the way?”
Bert folded her arms over her frilly red and black apron. “I just have a hunch about something and I’m trying to verify it.”
“Okay. I’ll drop him a line tonight and have him call you.”
“That sounds wonderful, thank you,” she gushed, truly hoping she would be able to settle things once and for all.
“Koffee Hous is a huge chain. I bet you’d make bank owning one of those places, if you were smart about it.”
“What exactly does an owner do. They aren’t the manager, are they?”
“No, no. They don’t have to do much of anything. They take care of water and electric bills for the building, repairs, things like that, but many of them aren’t very hands on. That’s up to the store manager.”
“I see.” She moved over back behind the counter.
“In any case, I hope you figure out whatever it is you’re looking for.”
“Me, too,” she agreed.
Chapter 13
* * *
It wasn’t until eight that same evening, just as Bert was locking the front door to the shop, that her phone began to ring. Making sure the deadbolt was firmly set, she rushed back behind the counter and picked up her phone from where it sat vibrating on the messy cooking counter, creating wafts of flour in the air.
“Pies and Pages, this is Bert speaking. How may I help you?”
“Hi, Bert. This is Thomas Raisin, the district manager of Koffee Hous in Culver’s Hood, Nebraska.”
“Oh, Mr. Raisin, thank you for calling on such short notice. I really appreciate it.” Bert tried to multitask while talking, using a damp rag to begin wiping up the loose flour on the counter.
“Of course. I’m more than happy to make a business call, even on a late evening such as this. Marc Bailey dropped me a line and told me to ring you up.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I asked him for a favor,” she admitted, shaking the cloth out over the sink.
“Well, a friend of Marc’s is a friend of mine. I understand you’re interested in buying one of our locations.”
Bert hesitated, realizing that there might have been a miscommunication somewhere along the way.
“Mrs. Hannah? Are you still there?”
“Yes. Yes, I am. I’m sorry, but I think you may have misunderstood.”
He paused, the sound of his breathing increasing slightly. “So, you’re not interested in investing in one of our locations?”
“I’m sorry, no.”
“I see. Then it seems we have nothing further to discuss,” he noted with a sharp clip of the tongue.
“Actually, I was hoping to get some information on the people who currently are investors in Culver’s Hood.”
There was a curious hum over the line. “Am I correct in my understanding that you own a pie shop in Old Market?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” she answered, not sure exactly what this had to do with the situation at hand.
“And you sell coffee there?”
“Of course. Sometimes my customers want something warm to drink with their pie.”
“Then, I can also assume you are interested in hearing about our current sales numbers, maybe even our business practices?” he accused, his voice growing gravelly.
“What? Not at all.”
“I realize you’re a minor, start-up business, and we are a large corporation. However, we in no way can share any information about our sales numbers, marketing, or any other aspect of our business plan—even with a quaint little shop like yours.”
She set the rag down and put her free hand on her hip. “Excuse me,” she barked, not appreciating his condescending tone. She’d never taken flak from overbearing businessmen before, and she wasn’t about to start now.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hannah, but this conversation is over.”
“No, it is far from over,” she ordered, her face growing hot from anger. She couldn’t believe the nerve of this man, assuming she was attempting to do some shady investigations of the competition. Heck, she hardly considered them competition at all.
“Goodbye.”
“Now, hold on just a darn minute, you. All I sell is plain black coffee. Customers can add th
eir own sugar or cream if they like, but I don’t have the menu or choices to rival yours.”
“My point exactly.”
“But I do sell delicious pie, which your company does not.”
“Mrs. Hannah, we sell a number of baked goods. I’m sure you understand.”
“Will you listen to me, for crying out loud?”
There was a distinct pause on the line. Bert figured the district manager wasn’t used to being spoken to in such a manner. A man in his position likely had store managers, employees, and other peons bowing down to him every day.
“I have no interest in learning the ins and outs of your business, your finances, your sales numbers, or anything else of the sort. I’m simple business woman with a simple dream and am trying to serve people pie and books, not because I’m looking to make a million bucks, but because I love it.”
She swore she could hear a coughing noise, probably a scoff at her passionate speech.
“My point is, I’m trying to get some simple information,” she sucked in air through her mouth, realizing she hadn’t breathed during her little tirade.
“And what, exactly, is that?”
“Who is the owner of the location on Third and Downhue?”
There was another moment of silence as Mr. Raisin thought. “And that’s the only thing you’re looking to know?”
“Yes, it is.”
He sighed contemptuously. “All right. I think I can accommodate that request.”
“Thank you. I apologize for snapping.”
“It is quite all right. I made some incorrect assumptions on my end,” he admitted, even though his voice sounded pained to do it.
“That’s fine. Just a miscommunication, I’m sure.”
There was a shuffle of papers and the click of a computer mouse. “Now, if I remember correctly, the owner at that location is very hands off. I’m not sure he has once ever set foot on the property. Whenever there was an issue, plumbing, heating, that sort of thing, he simply hired someone to go in and look at it without him being there.”
If Bert was correct in her assumptions, this wasn’t surprising.
“Still, he’s been the owner there for nearly ten years.” Another few mouse clocks echoed over the line. “Ah, yes. Here it is. I’m not sure I’ve met this man except for one time.”
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