Death by Deep Dish Pie

by Sharon Short

  Todd laughed. “Don’t underestimate me. Everyone has a price. I’m sure I’ll work something out with Cletus.”

  “He’ll have to show up, first.”

  “He’ll show up.”

  I didn’t share Todd’s confidence. If Cletus had done-in his big brother, Cletus could be on the lam and God knows where by now. But if the materials he’d taken from the Paradise Historical Society were anywhere around there, I surely didn’t know where he could have hidden them. And I wasn’t about to keep looking for them with Todd around.

  It was possible, though, that he could help me with one more thing. “I have to get going,” I said. “But I wonder if you—or maybe Dinky—have any idea where Trudy has gotten off to.”

  Todd looked at me, frowned. “Trudy?”

  Oh, for pity’s sake, I thought. The only one who’d paid any attention to poor Trudy was also missing. Maybe Cletus and Trudy had taken off together. I don’t know that I’d blame them—but with my suspicions of Cletus’s fratricide, that idea worried me even more than the thought of Trudy hitchhiking.

  “Trudy,” I said. “You know, the kid of the man from whom you were hoping to buy an entire company. A teen in black who usually wears a ferret chained to her neck. Kind of hard to miss.”

  “Oh.” Todd frowned, and actually seemed to be considering. “You know, I haven’t seen her since yesterday morning, before the pie-eating contest. She spent a long time in Alan’s office—which, in case you’re wondering, holds only a very up-to-date computer and contemporary furniture—nothing like this,”—he gave a toss of the hand that seemed to both take in the whole of Cletus’s room and dismiss it, all at once—”so I don’t think you’ll find the quaint old documents you’re after. I’m not sure what they were talking about. If she were my kid, though, it would be about private schools that don’t allow naturally pretty blondes to dye their hair black. In any case, when she came out, she was pretty upset, and took off. I don’t think she had any intention of going to the pie-eating contest.” He paused, thought some more. “And I guess she never came back.”

  I was very, very tempted to yank the Utopian tome out of the bookshelf and go ahead and whop Todd upside the head, anyway, just on general principles. How could an entire group of so-called adults be so dismissive of one very obviously needy teenager?

  He shrugged. “Maybe she’s out with her buddies in the woods.”

  I glared at him. “Maybe. I think I’ll go find out.” I started to step past him, then stopped, thinking of something. “You were the one who told me about her buddies’ setup in the woods. How did you know about it?”

  Todd put a finger to his lips. “My secret.”

  I rolled my eyes and started past him again, but he grabbed me by the arm. Unfortunately, I was now too far from the bookshelf to grab one of Cletus’s tomes. “And Josie,” Todd added, “I’d suggest you not tell anyone about Trudy and her little buddies’ setup. We wouldn’t want them to get in trouble, would we?”

  I had a feeling that Todd was really trying to keep himself out of trouble.

  13

  To get to the state route that would take me to Licking Creek State Park, where Trudy and her friends had their “utopia,” I had to cut back through Paradise on Main Street, which meant driving right past my laundromat. I couldn’t resist stopping in to see what was happening. I learned the following:

  a. I had a message from the vet: Slinky the ferret’s condition was the same—she was still in distress, but coping. (I’m still not exactly sure what a ferret’s coping techniques would be—requesting a tummy rub? Ferret Life magazine and an icy drink with a little umbrella stuck in the top?—but “coping” was the exact word the vet assistant used.)

  b. I had a message from Winnie: she was learning a lot of interesting facts about ginseng, and wished to discuss them with me the next morning, 7 A.M. sharp, at Sandy’s Restaurant.

  c. I did not have any messages from Trudy.

  d. I did not have any messages from Owen.

  e. Sally was very good at taking messages and filling in. The laundromat was not a mess. Three orders had been picked up with two to go. Larry and Barry were napping in the back room. Harry had a flair for art, as evidenced by his beautiful drawings, which he continued to quietly work on at the plastic kiddie picnic table, the little tip of his tongue poking out the left corner of his mouth.

  Sally looked pleased when I told her she was doing a great job and didn’t mind at all when I asked her to stay for the rest of the afternoon—she still had seven loads of laundry to go, but was thrilled to have already washed, dried, and folded nine other loads.

  “You know, Josie, for the first time in months, I’m going to have every bit of our clothes, our sheets, and our towels all nicely washed and dried and folded—and wrinkle-free, too, because I’ve been folding everything as it comes out of the dryer,” she said dreamily, looking happier than she’d looked in a long time. “And the hairspray did a great job getting the ink out of Harry’s shirt.”

  Getting caught up on the laundry, I’ve learned, can do that to a person. There’s a sense of order a person gets from having all the laundry washed, dried, folded, and put away. It’s kind of like keeping the flotsam and jetsam of life at bay.

  I ran up to my apartment and made a fried bologna sandwich, loaded with mayo and a crisp slice of lettuce, which I’d been hankering for ever since visiting Geri.

  I rinsed my sandwich down with a Big Fizz Diet Cola, then popped open another can and took it out with me to my car.

  Which wouldn’t start.

  I sat in my driver’s seat for a long moment, listening to my Big Fizz fizz. Then I turned the key again. And listened to a grinding sound.

  I had a new battery. I had a three-quarters full tank of gas. I had just paid money to have my car overhauled. I sure couldn’t afford to have it overhauled again, not when I was paying these large vet bills. My car had to start.

  But it wouldn’t.

  I pressed my eyes shut, thinking. Then I got my Big Fizz cola and went back into my laundromat. I called Elroy to have my car towed back over to his shop for another look-see.

  And then I sweet-talked Sally into loaning me her truck.

  A half hour later—my little Chevy towed away to Elroy’s, the Breitenstrater tablecloths transferred from my car to Sally’s truck, my third Big Fizz of the afternoon in the cup holder—I was pulling out of Paradise in Sally’s truck.

  I have to admit, I kind of liked the higher-up view that I got from the truck. My Chevy hugged the ground. And it was roomier—Sally had an extended cab truck.

  Although it felt kind of weird to be driving in a truck with three identical booster seats in the backseat. And Sally’s truck was even older than my car—and rattled more, which made it hard to think, and hard to hear WMAS, the Ma-sonville country station with continuous country hits and news on the hour. On the other hand, her radio worked.

  And I had wheels, at least temporarily. All I’d had to do to get them was to barter two months of free, unlimited use of my laundromat with Sally.

  I was just to the edge of town, when I saw the Mason County Bookmobile, in the parking lot of Rothchild’s Funeral Parlor. I pulled in alongside the bookmobile, then got out of Sally’s truck, and went up the steps into the bookmobile.

  Winnie was holding forth with a gaggle of little ones about Larry, Harry, and Barry’s age. Their mamas—two women I knew and the other I recognized from around town—were fanning themselves with Elles and National Geographics, while perusing the mystery and romance shelves.

  It was hot and stuffy on the bookmobile. The generator was doing its best to pump out air conditioning, but the bookmobile was old and it was a hot, sticky day. This did not seem to bother Winnie or the kids at all.

  In her blue Keds, gypsy-sixties hot-pink and orange-flowered skirt, white T-shirt, long black-and-silver-flecked ponytail tied up in a hot-pink scarf, and her huge silver loop earrings, Winnie sat cross-legged on the floor. She look
ed both elegant and beautiful, her face glowing with joy in her enthusiastic reading of the hilarious picture book Sheep in a Jeep, which starts off, “Beep! Beep! Sheep in a jeep on a hill that’s steep,” and ends up, “Jeep in a heap. Sheep weep. Sheep sweep the heap. Jeep for sale—cheap.”

  I could sure sympathize with those sheep. But no one would buy my heap, and I couldn’t afford another one, so sweeping up the one I had and making it go beep! beep! again was my only choice, a fact that depressed me, except. . .

  Winnie’s reading worked its magic on me, and I had to grin. Winnie loved that book—and the whole Sheep series—not just the funny images, but the funny and joyful rhymes that made the words sing and dance right off the page and into the readers’ imaginations. Plus, this was so Winnie. No scheduled story hour? So what? Where there’s a book and a few kids and a Winnie, there’s an impromptu story hour.

  The kids clapped and squealed with delight at the story, and at the end, Winnie pointed them toward the other books in the series—plus the Curious Georges and Madelines. Ten minutes later, three mamas and seven kids left, arms full of books, eyes full of eager anticipation of a lazy afternoon spent reading under a tree or on a shady porch, with a big glass of iced tea or lemonade . . . or maybe with a Big Fizz Diet Cola . . .

  “Josie?”

  I started, then focused on Winnie. No such lazy summer afternoon for me, as much as I wanted that.

  “Just couldn’t wait for my report on ginseng?” Winnie asked, looking amused.

  “Truth be told, I have something else I need you to dig into as soon as possible,” I said.

  “So we’re still meeting for breakfast?”

  I rolled my eyes. “We’d meet for breakfast, anyway, even if I didn’t need you to do research for me.”

  Winnie grinned at that, then trotted to the back of the bookmobile to the little desk that was bolted to the floor. On the side of the desk was a magazine rack. From behind a Cosmo, Winnie pulled out a manila folder.

  She waggled her eyebrows at me. “Everything you ever wanted to know about ginseng but were afraid to ask.”

  I laughed at that. We sat down on the steps to the bookmobile, sort of half in the tepid air conditioning, half in the shade of the bus’s entryway, with a little breeze working its way across the funeral home parking lot. Not exactly a tree and lemonade, but then, this wasn’t exactly pleasure reading.

  “I was amazed at how much there is to learn about ginseng,” Winnie said. “So this is kind of an overview. Your Uncle Otis was right. Even Daniel Boone harvested American ginseng from this general region. Ginseng of all kinds has long been prized for its health properties. But it’s a fragile plant. For American ginseng, harvesters are supposed to wait seven years before gathering it, and only in season. It’s actually an internationally protected plant under the CITES treaty, which stands for Convention in Threatened and Endangered Species, the same treaty that protects things like ivory.

  “Wild American ginseng is usually exported to Hong Kong, and then goes on from there to other Asian countries. And one pound of dried root from the wild gets $500—maybe as much as $1,800 a pound, depending on supply and demand. That’s about ten times what a pound of field-cultivated American ginseng would get.”

  My mouth fell open at that tidbit of information. No wonder Uncle Otis thought he was onto a get-rich-quick scheme—if he’d really found a growth of wild American ginseng in the nearby state forest.

  ‘And it grows around here?”

  Winnie nodded. “It grows in forests in the eastern U.S., with the bigger growth being in southeastern Ohio on down through North Carolina, in the Appalachian mountain range. The largest protected area is the Great Smoky Mountains, where it’s been illegal to collect ginseng since the national park was established in 1934, although it can be collected—following certain rules, of course—from the surrounding national forests. But, yes, it grows up here in southern and southeastern Ohio as well.”

  “I’m a little confused,” I said. “You and Uncle Otis talk about American ginseng, but I thought ginseng is one of those Asian herbs.”

  Winnie smiled, happy in her teacher’s mode. “It is. You see, there are two kinds of ginseng. Here in our country what we think of as ginseng is Asian ginseng. But what actually grows here is American ginseng, which is very highly prized in Asian countries because it only grows here. There’s actually a black market for American ginseng.”

  “Dating back to Daniel Boone’s time,” I said.

  “Right.”

  “Okay—Asian, American, what’s the difference?”

  “That’s what’s fascinating. There’s some overlap in the effects of the two types, but there are also some significant differences. Both types are considered ‘cure-all’ tonics—supporting circulation and normal blood pressure, increasing stamina and sexual potency. Ginseng has been prized in Asia for over two thousand years, but now American ginseng is more valued in Asia, whereas Asian ginseng is more valued in the West. I guess it’s a case of the ginseng always being greener, so to speak, on the other side of the ocean.

  “But American ginseng has ‘cooling’ properties, which means it has a more calming effect on the system. It’s often used for stress. Potentially, it can lower blood pressure. And Asian ginseng has ‘warming’ properties, which means it’s more of a stimulant and boosts energy. And it’s been known to raise blood pressure. It’s not recommended that folks with blood pressure or heart problems take either kind.”

  “Wait a minute—let me get this straight. One can lower blood pressure, but the other can raise blood pressure.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Now, from what I read, it can vary from person to person—in one person, either type might not have much of an effect on a blood pressure reading. But for another person, it could truly make a difference. That’s why it’s important to be careful about what you’re doing with herbs. They really are medicines. You should consult an herbalist if you’re going to have more than the occasional cup of, say, chamomile tea, if you want to take herbs in any large quantities at all—”

  “Winnie, you sound like an advertisement.”

  “Sorry, but it’s true.”

  I waved my fingers at her. “That’s okay. Let me just think for a moment.”

  Winnie, bless her soul, became very quiet as I sat there, trying to mix this new information in with everything else I’d learned.

  A station wagon pulled up—this time a dad and two daughters, and I skedaddled off the steps out of their way. Winnie went into the bookmobile with them.

  I paced up and down the blacktop in front of the bus, watching the heat shimmer off the parking lot, trying to think some more.

  Alan had seriously high blood pressure. Alan was on medication for that—and for heart problems, and for cholesterol problems. Alan was a walking heart attack waiting to happen—and it had happened. Would it have happened anyway? Was there simply enough ginseng in that one bite of lemon ginseng pie to push him over the heart attack edge—assuming the pie held Asian ginseng, and not American ginseng? But Uncle Otis had been poaching American ginseng for someone . . . maybe for the Breitenstraters . . . and Mrs. Beavy said Cletus had brought her ginseng tea . . .

  I turned and bounded up the steps. Winnie was showing the older girl the Nancy Drew books—both original and new series—while the dad was looking at picture books with the younger daughter. I caught Winnie’s eye and frantically gestured her away from the wonders of The Secret of the Old Clock.

  Winnie came over to me. “Can I use your cell phone?” I whispered. The dad gave me a look. Winnie smiled at him.

  “Sure,” she said, giving me a little shove toward the steps.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” Winnie said to the dad and the daughters.

  “What now?” she said to me after we were back outside.

  “Your research has been very helpful, Winnie,” I said. “I need to follow up on something it reminded me of—that’s why I needed to borrow your phone. Now, can you al
so see what you can find out about Good For You Foods International?” I told her about how I’d found out that it was the company Todd Raptor worked for. “Todd’s been working on a deal for his company to buy the Breitenstrater Pie Company.”

  “What? Oh my. Yes, I’ll see what I can find out. I’ll let you know tomorrow at breakfast. Just leave the cell phone in the driver’s seat when you’re done with it.”

  “Thanks, Winnie. And just one more favor?”

  She arched her left eyebrow at me.

  I told her briefly about Harry, Larry, and Barry, and how they had just learned of the joys of crayons, and how I doubted my cousin Sally had had much energy to get them to the library or to Winnie’s bookmobile.

  “I haven’t seen them,” Winnie said. And she’d have remembered them, too. She remembered everyone on her route. She glanced at her watch. “Hmm. I think I can squeeze in a quick stop by your laundromat. I’ll park in Sandy’s Restaurant lot if yours is full.”

  I grinned as she started up the steps back into her bookmobile. I had no doubt that by tonight, my little trio of first cousins once removed would be well stocked with picture books, and that by tomorrow morning, Winnie would have for me a full report on Good For You Foods International.

  She paused before entering her bookmobile. “Just one word of advice,” she said, staring at me over the top of her glasses. “Use my cell to also give Owen a call.”

  I didn’t respond to that. I waited until she was inside, called information, got Mrs. Beavy’s number, and started pacing up and down the parking lot again.

  On the fourth ring, Chip Beavy answered. I told him who was calling and that I was worried about his grandma, and he said, “Me, too. Mamaw’s not feeling well—she says her heart is racing. I’m not sure what to do.”

  “Chip, I think I know why, but first I need you to check something to be sure. Go to the kitchen, and look in her cabinet for me.” I described to him the cabinet she’d gotten the tea bags from and the ginseng tea bag box. “Now look on the box. Does it say if the tea is Asian or American ginseng?”