Point taken.
I immediately went to the baking supply store in Albany and spent a small fortune on muffin pans, loaf pans, Bundt pans, tart pans and double broilers. I struggled home with my purchases and spent the rest of the day poring over cookbooks, convinced the only thing standing between me and culinary expertise was practice, practice, and practice.
I was wrong. The only thing standing between me and culinary expertise was me, me, me.
I can’t cook.
No, really. I know some people say that and the next thing you know they’re whisking up half a dozen eggs and pulling an amazing flan from the oven. That’s not me.
I really can’t cook. Unless you count pouring a glass of white wine as preparing a meal (which, let’s face it, I do), my culinary arts are limited to the preparation of mac n’ cheese from the blue box, sandwiches on toast, and Twinkies on toothpicks (toothpicks optional).
I did my best to expand my repertoire, but after nightmarish weeks of burnt cake, blackened cookies and lumpy dough, I was forced to conclude I really couldn’t cook.
Fortunately, I happened to be friends with one of the best bakers in North America. Julia Berry is a sensational cook. The things she could do with peanut butter and chocolate were just not right. When I wrote my first book, The Tuesday Morning Brownie Club, I consulted with Julia to ensure the recipe I’d chosen for Cherry Cheesecake Brownies could entice a man into bed. (It worked: Todd Alexander, Austin Romance Book Convention, 2008). Ever since then I’ve consulted with Julia for a thumbs-up or thumbs-down on my recipes. I feel slightly guilty for deceiving my fans regarding my alleged culinary prowess, but Paula assures me my books sell based solely on the brilliance of my writing.
Naturally, I’m inclined to believe her.
Over the years, Julia has been amused by my alleged baking skills, but when the Bracebridge Planning Committee asked me to judge the annual All Hallows Pie Contest, her pert little nose was out of joint.
“It’s only pie, Julia,” I said soothingly. “You know you’re more of a cake girl, anyway.”
She conceded the truth of my statement, but when I was asked to judge for a second year in a row she told me I was living a lie and she hoped I’d die from food poisoning.
I hadn’t given her curse much thought, but when I arrived at the Bracebridge Festival that afternoon I felt there might be something to it. The part about food poisoning, anyway.
I never thought I’d say this, but it was too hot for pie.
The sun streamed between the rows of boxwood and foxglove, and the heat combined with the rain earlier in the day produced an atmosphere like a moldering hothouse. I wiped my brow and glanced around the festival grounds. Stalls crowded along the perimeter of the park offered homemade jams and jellies, organic honey, personalized infant sweaters, Native American wind catchers, wooden toys, gourmet dog biscuits, knitted tea cozies, fresh sweetcorn and used books. St. Anne’s was hosting its annual rummage sale, and I watched two energetic old ladies wrestle over a dingy mauve cardigan.
I bought a hearth rug decorated with rabbits and weathervanes, and a pot of strawberry rhubarb jam. By the time I finished shopping my dress had bunched and creased in unattractive ways and I felt dangerously close to melting as I walked across the field to the refreshment tent.
Inside was even worse. There wasn’t a breath of air in the space, which was redolent of turkey sandwiches, body odor, and stale perfume. I got a glass of iced tea and gingerly sat down on one of the warm plastic chairs. As I fanned myself with a festival bulletin, I noticed Marshall and Bootsie crossing the field. I tried to slink down in my chair but it was too late.
“Elspeth!” Bootsie yelled and waved her hand. “Marshall told me about your agent! I’m so freakin’ excited!”
I smiled at her wanly as they approached. “I’ll call next Monday, Bootsie. In the meantime, why don’t you get together your first three chapters and make sure they’re perfect? It would help if you wrote a synopsis, too, of…what was it,” I swallowed bravely. “Of Demon Bondage?”
“You remembered!”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her no one could forget such an awful title as she continued.
“It’s ready! Seriously, it can’t get any better. When Marshall told me the good news I even went back and did a bit of editing. I added two more love scenes, including one in a hot tub which was kinda tricky since I wasn’t sure where the arms and legs went. Luckily, Marshall was there to help me figure it out.”
Marshall’s expression of beaming congeniality slipped a bit at such a public disclosure, but he quickly rallied.
“You did all the work, sweetie,” he said happily.
“Yes, I know. Anyway, I’ve put in a few tweaks here and there but it’s finally ready. I’ve always thought paranormal erotica and bondage go hand-in-hand, don’t you?”
As there was no possible reply to this question I turned to Marshall. “Thanks again for your help at the bank.”
“No problem, Elspeth. Chief Liddell arrived a few minutes after you’d gone. He said he was sorry he missed you.”
I bet he was, I thought. “I’m sure I’ll catch up with him later.”
Marshall smiled again. “Yes, that’s what he said.”
Bootsie led Marshall away, and he cast a wry smile and gave me a thumbs-up sign. “Fortune favors the brave,” he called out over his shoulder. I smiled back, but I was pretty sure fortune favored those not introducing Bootsie Spright to their agent.
I finished my drink and left the refreshment tent.
Whoever said music was the food of love obviously never heard Sissy G and the Wailers play the All Hallows Bracebridge Festival. I couldn’t conceive of sounds less likely to induce romantic notions, although a number of couples had dutifully taken the dance floor and swayed to the screeches from Sissy’s violin. I saw most of All Hallows had come out for the festival, and I observed my fellow townsfolk with a writer’s eye: the curmudgeon, the spinster, the misanthrope, the wealthy merchant, the malcontent, the amateur detective…I noticed Julia standing by a grove of hostas and waved her over.
She came running up looking sweet and cool in a baby blue sundress. “Do you have any new leads?”
I nodded. “Let’s find a seat.”
We found a park bench and I told her about the gun and the blackmail note. When I finished Julia observed me in admiration. “Wow, Betts, you really are a detective! Just like Ms. Weebles!”
I ignored the last part of her statement. “The blackmailer obviously thinks Jasper Ware was a hack, but why? Because he wrote mysteries? It doesn’t make sense. And if we assume the manuscript in the box was Jasper’s new book, why should he hide it? And why is it handwritten? Jasper told me he only used a typewriter for his books.”
“Maybe he did both,” Julia suggested. “Typing and writing?”
“I don’t think so. Once you start typing you wouldn’t go back to writing. It takes too long and hurts your hand.” I shook my head. “Jasper mentioned solving a real life mystery, and I have a feeling he was trying to discover the identity of his blackmailer. Maybe he already had and that’s why he was killed. But I keep coming back to that dagger. I mean an antique dagger! It’s surreal. Why would anyone take a dagger to a book reading?”
Julia grinned. “Maybe they read one of your books?”
“Not judging by my royalties.”
“Maybe someone hid the dagger earlier in the day?”
I shook my head. “Again, why? If the murder was premeditated and someone wanted to kill Jasper, why would they wait until there was a big crowd and why would they use a dagger?”
“Poetic justice?” Julia suggested. “So the crime would look like Jasper’s book?”
“It still doesn’t make sense. Alex Ware collects antique weaponry, but the police haven’t found anything missing from his collection and his fingerpri
nts weren’t on the weapon. And then there’s our client. Nora claims she gave that scarf away but what if she’s lying? What if she and Alex were having an affair and he killed Jasper and she killed Violet? The only problem there is that Nora’s housekeeper would have to be in on it too, and would have to be lying about the alibi. That seems like a lot of people to keep quiet. I just don’t know what to think.”
I sat back and looked over the grounds of the Bracebridge Festival, deeply troubled. I was sure that somewhere in the crowd of shiny, happy faces was a double murderer.
“Well, well, look at the two roses in the thorns.”
I grimaced. Grant’s compliments always sounded awkward, as if someone was paying him to say them.
“We don’t grow roses in All Hallows; the soil has too much clay,” I said shortly.
“A milkweed in your case then, Betts.”
Grant turned to the woman at his side and pulled her forward. “Ainsley Adams, this is my ex-wife, Elspeth Gray, and her friend and my colleague, Julia Berry. Julia does public relations work for Essex. Girls, this is Ainsley.”
We regarded each other intently. I saw a young girl in her mid-twenties, her blonde hair shaped into a bob and her make-up what you would expect from someone on television. I couldn’t imagine what she saw when she looked at me. My country wardrobe of twinsets and tweeds, which had seemed so classical and elegant, now seemed dowdy and old-fashioned in comparison to her sleek sheath dress. It didn’t help matters that she had a glass of something sparkling and cool in her hand, and I almost licked my lips as I watched the sweat run off the glass.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Elspeth,” she cooed sweetly. “Grant’s told me so much about you.”
I rather doubted Grant and Ainsley spent their free time talking about me, but I reluctantly accepted her pathetic little handshake. I hated limp shakers; they made me want to grind their bones to make my bread.
“Grant tells me you write romance books,” she continued. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time for fiction, but I’ll be on the look-out for yours next time I’m at the library.”
Great, I thought, I’ll tell Paula you want to read my books for free.
She shook Julia’s hand and we stood admiring the view of the hostas.
“Are you enjoying your stay in All Hallows?” Julia asked.
“I’m actually here on business, and Grant was kind enough to offer to accompany me. I’m reporting on your little murders, Elspeth.”
The way she said ‘your little murders’ got me riled.
Julia must have read my mind. “It’s quite a big deal here,” she said frostily. “Elspeth and I are investigating the case.”
I could have cheerfully strangled my best friend as Grant choked into his drink and Ainsley looked at us with her big, blue eyes.
“Oh yes, are you detectives?”
I felt myself flush with anger and hoped I didn’t look as hot as I felt. “We are private investigators,” I said firmly. “Now, where did you get that wine?”
She looked at me and smiled. “Grant had the foresight to pack a bottle. It’s out in the car. Grant, darling,” she batted her eyelashes up at him. “Can you be a dove and get Elspeth a glass?”
“Don’t bother; I don’t really like white wine.”
Julia suppressed an exclamation of surprise and Grant observed me in amazement. “Since when?”
“Since our divorce,” I shot back at him.
He didn’t respond and Ainsley gave a delicate cough. “It must be so exciting to be both a writer and a detective.”
“You have no idea.”
“Do you have any leads I can use for my news program?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, everything I have is privileged information.”
Ainsley pouted beautifully and Grant was reproachful. “Don’t you have any information you can share, Betts?”
“Sorry, not for the press, no comment. I see someone I really need to talk to, if you’ll excuse us? C’mon Julia,” I grabbed my friend and hustled her away.
“That was rude, Betts,” she said reproachfully.
I agreed as we headed for Alex Ware. “I know, but as you’re so fond of pointing out, we’re in the middle of a murder investigation.”
I approached Alex and adopted a sympathetic expression. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
He shook my hand and nodded. “Of course, poor Jasper…and Violet. It’s unbelievable something like this could’ve happened here. I don’t know if you remember my wife,” he pushed Coco forward. “M’dear, this is Elspeth Gray.”
“I know who she is, Alex. I’m not likely to forget the book reading.”
Alex looked uncomfortable. “Where are my manners? Let me get you some drinks.”
He hurried away, and I left Julia and Coco to follow him to the refreshment tent.
“Alex, did you meet Jasper upstairs the night of the book reading?”
He regarded me in astonishment. “How did you know about that?”
“Nora has hired Julia and me to investigate the murders.”
Alex shook his head and sighed. “Nora should stop wasting her money and let the police do their job.”
I decided to show him Nora wasn’t wasting a dime. “Bootsie Spright said she saw you go upstairs that night at Inkwell.”
Alex nodded. “Yes, as I’ve told the police, I went upstairs to talk to Jasper.”
“Did you send him a note?”
His brow wrinkled. “A note?”
“Yes, asking him to meet you.”
He shook his head. “No, I just followed him. Or I thought I’d followed him. He wasn’t there.”
“You followed him up the stairs and he wasn’t there?”
“He might’ve been there but I didn’t see him. I called for him but he didn’t answer, so I went back downstairs. I was only up there a few minutes.”
“What did you want to talk to him about?”
“None of your business.”
“Ware Realty?”
Alex’s expression turned ugly. “Ware Realty is my concern.”
“There’s a rumor that Ware Realty has been losing a lot of money.”
Alex grasped me by the arm and steered me under the refreshment tent. “Where the hell did you hear that?”
“I don’t remember. Is it true?”
“Absolutely not, and it’s none of your business.”
“What time did you leave the reading?”
Alex looked bored, but as he glanced down at his watch I noticed his hand was shaking. “I don’t really remember, but I guess it was around a quarter to ten. Coco was helping Rose Elliott and she got some blood on my cuffs. I didn’t want them stained.”
“And you went straight home?”
“No, first, I stopped and strangled Violet Ambler and then I went straight home.”
“You didn’t see Nora Ware while you were doing all that?”
He took a step towards me and I took a step back. His voice was low and menacing as he continued. “Here’s some friendly advice, Elspeth. Stick to romance books and stay out of detecting. You and Julia are going to get hurt.”
I watched Alex storm away and felt strangely shaken. Had I just had an encounter with a murderer? The expression on his face had been frightening. I’d decided to take a break from my investigation when Grant suddenly materialized at my side.
“What’s all this about being a detective, Betts, can’t make a living on love anymore?”
I regarded him coldly. “I’ll have you know that Julia and I have natural talent for deduction.”
He gave a snort of laughter. “Right, I’ll remember that the next time I lose a sock in the dryer.”
“Good-bye, Grant.”
He opened his mouth to protest but I’d already walked away.
I had a date with some pie.
* * * * *
Judging a pie contest is harder than it sounds. There are a lot of important factors that go into adjudication: overall appearance, texture, filling, creativity and finally, the overall memorableness of the pie experience. Okay, I just made the last part up, but there’s a lot going on with pie.
I have to confess, I’ve never been a big fan of lemon meringue.
That was then, this is now.
Number 27: I Likey-Like Lemon Meringue.
I looked it over critically and could find no fault in the fluffy mountain of perfectly browned meringue or the smooth, creamy layer of lemon underneath. The crust looked so good it was almost a shame to break it. I slid my fork down into the silky goodness and lifted it to my mouth, and as I sank my teeth in a gentle hum started low in my body and started to build.
My bosom heaved.
It was the best pie I’d ever had.
It was transcendent. It was exquisite. It was tart and tangy and bracing and sweet and sexy. It was the best thing I’d had in my mouth since Sergeant Jack kissed me.
I impatiently got through the rest of the pies and then returned for a second taste. It was as good as I remembered, and I let myself give one intense shudder of delight.
Oh, Number 27, how I’ve longed for a pie like you.
I slowly finished filling out my scorecards as I polished off the second piece. The moderator took my cards and went to the table to choose the top three pies. There was a moment of tense silence and then cheers erupted as the crowd saw the winners
Mayor Applebaum stepped forward and cleared his throat importantly.
“In third place, number 12, Chocolate Silk Dream pie, submitted by Dolly Norton.”
We all applauded politely as Dolly got her ribbon and stood next to her pie.
“In second place, number 44, Grandma Verna’s Dutch Apple pie, submitted by Jessica Chesling.”
Jessica looked disgruntled and I couldn’t blame her. She’d been runner-up two years in a row. She grumpily took her place on the dais as Mayor Applebaum continued.
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