Killer Apple Pie

by Carolyn Q. Hunter

  Bert leaned forward, not wanting to intrude, but interested in what exactly was going on here. The stranger wore his shimmering blonde hair in a ponytail. A neatly trimmed beard gave him the look of a Viking. In contrast to the hairstyle, he wore a well-tailored pair of slacks and a button up red shirt with a black tie.

  “Marc, I’m up to my neck in it already. I just don’t have the money today.”

  “What about this joint? I’m sure your business is worth something, at least. Why not sell it?”

  Bert let out an audible gasp. Brinkley sell the bookshop? That just didn’t seem right.

  The man, whose name was Marc, glanced back briefly at the older woman behind him, but ultimately ignored her outburst.

  “I’m telling you, Marc, I’m working it out. Didn’t you see my sign in the window?”

  Bert glanced at the door and noticed the pink sign for the first time. Despite the lettering being backwards from the inside of the shop, she couldn’t help but feel sick in her stomach. Was one of her favorite shops closing their doors forever?

  “And you think selling a few measly books at a discount is going to save you? I recommend you think about more drastic decisions here, my friend, otherwise, I can’t guarantee what will happen.”

  Was this man threatening Brinkley? Bert considered going out into the street and finding one of the historic market’s security officers—an official brand of the Culver’s Hood police—and getting them to intervene.

  “Please, please, I’ll have it by Saturday. I swear.”

  The man paused, leaning on the counter with a sneer on his upper lip. “I’ll be back. I hope you have a better answer for me when I arrive.” Turning around, Marc barreled his way out of the store, almost pushing Bert over as he went along. He didn’t even bother apologizing for bumping her, acting as if she was just an inanimate object in his way.

  “Bert, h-hi,” Brinkley said, his face turning red with embarrassment.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, stepping up to the counter and placing a gentle hand on her friend’s arm. She knew he was a quiet, mild-mannered man—not the sort of person you’d ever see standing up for themselves.

  “I’m sorry you had to see all of that. It was nothing, really.”

  “It didn’t sound like nothing. This Marc fellow seems like bad news.”

  Brinkley could only shrug in reply. “It’s my fault, I suppose.”

  “Are you in some sort of trouble?” she asked, her womanly instinct to help solve the problem kicking in.

  “Naw,” he smiled, drawing his arm back from her.

  Tilting her head to one side, she raised a scolding eyebrow.

  The shop owner licked his lips. “Well, I may have made a few bad investments that are catching up to me.”

  “It’s bad enough to close the shop? I mean, I saw the sign. You have to sell all your merchandise and close down to pay off these . . . debt collectors?” she asked, glancing toward the doorway again.

  Brinkley swallowed a heavy lump in his throat. “Unfortunately, Bert, yes. I’m sad to say it’s true.”

  “But surely there’s another answer.”

  “Trust me, Bert. If there had been another way, I would have found it already.”

  Bert quickly had her purse on the counter and began digging around for her checkbook. “Surely there is something we can do. Maybe I can loan you a little money, just to get you past this rough patch. I have some savings built up. I was going to maybe use it for a European vacation or something, but this is more important.” She found what she was looking for and set it out. Pulling a pen closer to her, she poised it at the ready. “How much do you need?”

  The elderly gentleman’s eyes were beginning to mist, a sure sign that this was no little thing. “It isn’t only Marc. I’ve got Mr. Jankes breathing down my throat, too.”

  “Mr. Jankes? Who’s that?” she pressed.

  “He’s my landlord for this space. I’m six months behind on my payments to him.”

  “Six months? How much money is that?”

  Brinkley couldn’t bring himself to look at her, his wet eyes staring off into space. “Over nine thousand.”

  Bert’s jaw dropped.

  “And it’s even more than that for Marc,” he whispered, completely ashamed of his current situation.

  She realized she wasn’t breathing, the air caught in her lungs while she struggled for a new answer to this problem. She wanted to say something, anything, to help fix this, but her mind was a blank.

  Before she could finish formulating any sort of new idea or plan, a voice interrupted their pained silence.

  “Excuse me, sir?” said an older woman. She had her hair permed in a fashionable manner, and clutched a small purse delicately in her hands.

  Brinkley quickly blinked any tears away, trying to hide them from this customer. “Yes, Pearl, what can I do for you?”

  Bert noted how he called the woman by her first name, indicating that she was probably a regular just like Bert.

  “I saw that you were going out of business. Does that mean all of the books are on sale here?”

  “Yes. Yes, that is right. Any book you can find is eighty percent off.”

  “Very good,” she beamed.

  “Was there something specific you were looking for?”

  “As a matter-of-fact, there is.” She pointed toward an old tome sitting behind the counter, displayed on a little wooden tripod. “I’ve always loved that book right there, the copy of Macbeth. How much will you take for that?”

  “O-Oh,” Brinkley stuttered, a rush of embarrassment turning his ears red.

  “Well?” she pressed.

  “I spoke out of turn a second ago when I said every book was on sale. It was misleading. This book is not for sale.”

  “Well, why the devil not?” she exclaimed, her shaky voice raising an octave.

  “This belonged to my great-grandfather. It is sort of a family piece, you understand.”

  The woman, not listening to his explanation in the slightest, dug into her purse and retrieved a fifty-dollar bill. “I’ll give you fifty for it. Will that be enough?”

  “Oh, no ma’am. You don’t seem to understand. I have a nostalgic attachment to this book. It can’t be sold.”

  Bert completely understood where Brinkley was coming from. While it wasn’t worth much, the pie cookbook that had belonged to her mother and grandmother was something she was unwilling to ever part with—not on purpose anyways.

  Pearl grunted, flattening her lips together. Digging into her purse again, she came out with another twenty. “Fine, I’ll give you seventy for it, but that’s my final offer.”

  “It’s not for sale, I’m sorry,” he shook his head.

  She fished out another twenty. “Ninety, then.”

  Bert cut in, knowing that Brinkley wasn’t always the best at standing his ground. “Ma’am, he told you it’s not for sale. Now, why don’t you find a different book to buy?”

  “And who the devil are you?” she snapped, turning on Bert.

  “An old friend of Mr. Pennyworth. Please respect the shop owner and select a different book.”

  “This is ridiculous,” she shouted, shoving the money haphazardly back into her purse.

  “I’m very sorry about this, Ma’am,” Brinkley offered.

  “Absolutely ridiculous. You’re both just trying to make me upset.” Pulling her hand out of the purse again, she revealed an orange pill bottle.

  “Are you interested in something else, perhaps?” he asked, trying to smooth the waters.

  “No,” she shouted, popping two pills in her mouth and swallowing them dry. “I want that book,” she demanded, pointing at the copy of Macbeth.

  “I’m sorry, no,” he said.

  “Fine,” she grumbled, stomping her way toward the door. Stepping outside, she tried to slam the door shut, but the spring kept it from closing. Letting off a final huff of defiance she disappeared down the cobbled street.

  Chapte
r 3

  * * *

  “She’s a regular?” Bert asked once the woman was out of sight.

  “Unfortunately so. Pearl Wright is her name. She’s an avid book collector and had always been sort of a needy customer.” He groaned and looked toward the window.

  “Has she showed interest in that book before? Macbeth, I mean.”

  “Only once, the first time she came in. I told her it wasn’t for sale and she had a similar reaction. Since then, she’s known it wasn’t for sale. I guess today, since I’m going out of business, she assumed it was up for grabs.”

  Bert scrunched up her nose in distaste. “How can people act like that? Entitled and all.”

  He shook his head and leaned on the counter in a mournful way. “On the bright side, I won’t be stuck dealing with people like her anymore.”

  “Now just hold on. Surely there is something we can do to keep this place going,” Bert offered, still desperate for an answer to this problem.

  “No, I’m afraid not, Bert. I’m getting up there in years. Maybe it’s just time to close down, get out of the business for good.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “I’m getting too old for all of this. It just took something drastic like money problems to make me realize the truth and give me that push out the door.” He looked around himself, at all the many stacks of books, the shelves, the reading chairs, everything. “It’s just a shame that the whole store has to go down with me.”

  Bert was quiet for a moment after what the store owner said, strange and crazy ideas forming in her head. What she was thinking was impossible, ludicrous even, but she had the uncanny desire to act on a whim.

  In a life filled with order and routine, Bertha Hannah was about to step out of her comfort zone.

  “Maybe,” she hesitated, almost afraid to say it. “Maybe, I could buy the business from you.”

  * * *

  “Bert! Land sakes, what are you doing here? It isn’t Friday,” Carla Young exclaimed in joyous accord upon seeing her best friend walk through the front door of Christmas in July. The little shop, decorated to the hilt in yuletide festivities, had the sound of Silver Bells playing over the speakers. Carla was a loud and boisterous woman who had curly reddish-silver hair and bright red lipstick that framed her smile. She looked like a nineteen-fifties housewife version of Mrs. Claus in her red and white patterned dress and matching frilly apron.

  Bert was sure it was all on purpose. “Hi, Carla. How’s business?” she asked, walking over to the glass counter which contained various expensive antique ornaments and miniature Christmas houses.

  “A little slow, but good none-the-less.”

  “A little slow? Tell me you’re not thinking of closing shop,” Bert teased, wondering if this day could have any crazier surprises.

  Carla blinked, clearly confused. “Why in the world would you think we were closing shop?”

  “No reason,” Bert smiled, leaning on the glass case as if she were eager to share some big news.

  Carla tilted her head and smirked. “What is it? What’s going on?” she asked in a sing-song voice.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Bert played dumb.

  “Come on, don’t leave me in the dark,” she patted her friend’s hand eagerly.

  “Leave you in the dark? I’m not leaving you in the dark.”

  Carla grabbed Bert by the shoulders. “Do I have to shake it out of you, woman?” she joked, eager and insistent on hearing this news her friend was keeping hidden.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll spill,” she laughed.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Well, you know the bookstore just on the next street.”

  “Jefferson Booksellers?”

  “That’s the one,” she tapped the glass case.

  “What about it? Did you find an awesome new book to read? Do I get to borrow it?”

  She shook her head, holding back the laughter. “Nope. You’re way off. You’re never going to guess.”

  “Then just tell me,” she begged.

  Pausing for effect, Bert leaned in close to her friend, and then proclaimed, “I’m going to buy it.”

  There was another pause, but this one was in confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I said.”

  “You’re buying something?”

  “I’m buying the bookshop.”

  “What?” Carla cried, her smile fading and complete shock coming over her face.

  “That’s right. I’ll be taking over for Brinkley.”

  “Wait, you bought Jefferson Booksellers?”

  Bert tilted her head to one side. “Well, I haven’t bought it yet. I will get to the bank later today and see Mr. Cartwright about a loan. I mean, I’ve been a customer with him my entire adult life and have always managed my loans and mortgages responsibly. I think it should be easy.”

  “But, you’re going to buy it?” Carla asked for clarification.

  “That’s right.”

  “I can hardly believe it. How long have you been planning this and not telling me?”

  “Planning? There was no planning,” she admitted.

  “What?”

  “I just made an offer today on a whim.”

  There was an odd pause and then Carla began laughing. “You just decided on a whim to buy the bookshop? You? Bertha Hannah?”

  “Is that so hard to believe?” she defended herself, placing her hands on her hips and scowling at her friend.

  “It’s just surprising, is all.” Carla continued giggling.

  “It shouldn’t be. I do crazy things occasionally.”

  Carla shook her head. “No, you don’t. Everything in your life is meticulously planned.”

  “Not everything.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Bert sighed, dropping her scowl and giving a smile. “Guess you’re right. I’m a creature of habit, I suppose.”

  “That’s why I was so surprised to see you walk in. It isn’t Friday. I thought you would be at home today baking up pies for the youth function at church tonight.”

  Carla and Bert were two friends who’d originally met at church, but when Howie had passed on, they’d become closer than ever. For Bert, Carla was like her advocate.

  “Oh shoot. I was so caught up in all this excitement that I completely forgot.”

  “You forgot it was Wednesday?” she gasped, hardly able to contain her surprise.

  “Hardly. The whole reason I came down here in the middle of the week is because I foolishly destroyed my favorite cookbook.”

  “Oh, no. Your mother’s?”

  She nodded. “I’m afraid that’s the one. I knocked it into a bowl of water and now it’s unusable. I simply cannot bake without that book.”

  “Sure, you can. You know all the recipes by heart.”

  “You don’t understand. It’s part of the routine. I just can’t do it.”

  Carla smirked and shook a knowing finger. “That’s the Bert I know and love.”

  “I know it’ll be a real hassle for the pastor, but I’ll just call and inform him he’ll have to do store bought ice cream sandwiches for the kids tonight.”

  “I’m sure they’ll understand. Just don’t tell them it’s because your cookbook was ruined. I’m not sure they’ll believe you.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because not everyone knows about your little quirks like me, that’s why.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” she agreed, looking at a little miniature school inside the glass case. It had a glass pond out front with tiny children skating on it. “Either way, I still need a copy of that book if I can get my hands on it.”

  “When do you sign the paperwork?”

  “I’m meeting with both Brinkley and Mr. Jankes after the shop closes on Friday.”

  “Oh, Mr. Jankes is such a nice man. He’s the landlord over my shop, too.”

  “Brinkley didn’t seem to think Jankes was nice, but I guess I
couldn’t blame the man for being angry. After all, rent hasn’t been paid up on that shop for a few months.”

  “Is that what happened? Brinkley isn’t getting enough business to keep it up?”

  “I guess not. It seems like he owes quite a bit of money around,” she informed her friend.

  Carla took a seat on the stool she had behind the counter and thought pensively. “That worries me a little. If Brinkley can’t bring in enough business to stay afloat, you’ll seriously have to look at making some changes to the way he’s been doing things, otherwise, you’ll just go under as well.”

  “I don’t know about that. I think he just spread himself a bit too thin for too long, is all. I know I’ve done that myself when I was trying to bake for every church function, for state competitions, and for school fundraiser activities this last summer.”

  Carla’s eyes widened with delight, an idea brewing. “Pies!” she exclaimed.

  “What about pies?”

  “I’ve got it. I know how you can revitalize that bookstore. Everyone loves your pies, right? They’ve even won tons of competitions?”

  “Yes, that true. What are you saying?”

  “What I’m saying is, why not combine your two passions—pies and books?”

  Bert suddenly began to catch on, her face lighting up. “Wait, you mean turn it into a sort of pie shop meets a bookstore?”

  “Exactly!”

  She was already imagining the possibilities. “I could easily clear out that left side, the one that used to be a separate shop, and turn it into the pie side of things. It can have tables, plush chairs and couches, a perfect setting to enjoy a slice of heavenly pie and read a new book.”

  “Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant!” Carla clapped her hands with a new eagerness.

  “I just thought of a name for it, too,” Bert gleamed with delight at the idea.

  “Tell me.”

  Bert looked upwards, imagining the new sign on the freshly renovated shop. “Pies and Pages.”

  Chapter 4

  * * *

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jankes,” Bert offered her hand in greeting to the younger man. He was tall, slender, and had an old-fashioned flair of etiquette about him. His dark business suit and carefully trimmed hair added to an overall professional vibe.