by Darci Hannah
“Just doing my job as a volunteer firefighter. I’m glad you and Cody got out before something even … even worse happened. Jesus, babe, you could have been killed. Do you think it was Bill who started it?” Tate’s face darkened at the thought. “I should turn this Jeep around and beat him to within an inch of his life, Jack MacLaren be damned.”
“No, you shouldn’t. Bill’s in trouble enough. The irony is that he could have gotten clean away with all that money, at least for a while, but was stopped because of Greta. Jack knew Bill had a thing for her, but I never would have believed he’d risk so much for a cup of coffee and a slice of pie.”
Tate was unnaturally quiet. I stared at him, opened-mouthed, until he shrugged. “Well, you know, he’s a guy. And she’s Greta Stone. You met her. She was interviewing you back there, wasn’t she?”
“She was trying to. Her mistake was that she live-streamed the entire takedown on her cell phone. Great legs or no, when one calls someone’s dad a murderer on the news and doesn’t apologize, one doesn’t get the answers one is looking for. She asked me what was going through my mind when I took Bill down, and I told her I was thinking about the cherry pie bake-off at the inn. I took the opportunity to keep plugging the event, and my online bakery, until she got the hint and left.”
Tate chuckled. “So that’s why she left. I didn’t know. Was in too much pain to pay attention to Greta. Believe me, Whit, great legs aren’t so great when they’re attached to a grasping, self-centered bimbo. But hey, she helped MacLaren, so that was pretty cool. It’s the craziest thing, but now that he’s a cop he does pretty well with the ladies. You should be proud of him. He was your geeky little shadow back in high school. And I’m proud of you for entering one of your pies in the bake-off. About time. But you, ahh … might want to rethink your outfit. No offense, but you look like you’ve been rolling around in the gutter.”
∞
I was used to working fast, but rushing the presentation of a pie to be judged isn’t a great strategy. Thankfully, Grandma Jenn was still at her house waiting for me. She and Mom had gone straight there after Jeb’s memorial service. It had been a rough day for my gran, yet she was happy to hear that we were closing in on Jeb’s killer. The moment Tate and I walked through her door, she rushed us to the kitchen and made Tate tell her everything while I attempted to make a deconstructed pie look good enough for the cherry pie bake-off.
It helped that I’d made all the components last night. All I had left to do was assemble the layers. My first task was to cut the flaky sugared phyllo crust into triangular slices and place them on individual fluted papers. I then piped on the almond cream, topped it with the brandied cherry filling, and repeated the layers. Once my pie slices looked perfect, I place them on a round cake plate in the shape of a pie. When two plates of eight slices were completed, I garnished each with a dollop of whipped cream and put a cherry on top for good measure. Since Tate was starving and had been deprived of his lunch at Ed’s Diner, I made him a huge slice of his own.
“Ammashing!” he exclaimed through a mouthful of pie.
“And they look even lovelier, dear. These have got to be the prettiest pies the bake-off has ever seen. Now run along upstairs to the guest room. I hung a dress on the door that’ll look just darling on you.” Grandma Jenn placed the pies in a carrier and turned to Tate. “Be a dear, Tatum, and open the door. Whitney will be down in a minute.”
It was more like ten minutes, really, after squeezing into one of Grandma Jenn’s 1950s classics. I felt like an elegant June Cleaver as I swept down the front steps to the car in Gran’s vintage red cocktail dress, the one with the white polka-dots.
“Babe. You look stunning.” Tate was no judge of fashion, but his open adoration was a real confidence booster after I’d literally rolled in the gutter with a slimeball.
“She does indeed,” Gran chimed in. “That’s my lucky dress. I won a lot of cherry pie bake-offs in that dress.”
“I’ll bet.” Tate remarked, turning his dimpled grin on Gran. “After all, what self-respecting pie judge could resist a woman in a dress like that?”
The gathering under the tent was even larger than it had been for yesterday’s wine and cheese tasting, which made me a little nervous. So many participants, and so many cherry pie enthusiasts, Giff and Carleton being chief among them. They were already seated at the head table with their judges’ hats on. Giff waved when I walked through the door. Carleton was busy chatting with one of the contestants. Oddly enough, I felt a welling of pity when I realized that Lori Larson wasn’t under the tent. She’d baked a pie, had probably given it her best effort too. But all that seemed trivial, I supposed, when your son was missing.
“Whitney!” Hannah cried, shifting my attention. Her bright smile and infectious enthusiasm were enough to wipe all thoughts of murder and missing boys from my mind. She waved me over to the sign-in table, where she and Tay were working.
“You nearly gave us a heart attack, waiting like that until the last minute. Holy Mother of Sugar! Are those your pies?”
“Indeed they are.” Tay grinned. “Bursting with tart cherries, almond cream, and a hint of brandy. You need to try one, Hannah, only we’ll have Whit add more than just a hint of brandy.”
Hannah liked that idea and handed me my number. “Quick, fill us in on what’s happened.” As she scribbled my name on the sheet, Tate and I briefly told them about Bartender Bill.
“Bill Bachman, that little weasel!” Tay exclaimed. “Well, can’t worry about him now. Whitney has a pie contest to win. Probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but that old busybody Edna Baker has a real nice-looking entry this year, and she’s been kissing up to Giff something fierce. She’s invited him to her place tonight for dinner. I heard her tell him that she’s already baked him her famous Sunday night chicken potpie.”
“Edna,” Grandma Jenn seethed. “Ooh that’s low, even for her. What single young man can refuse a home-cooked meal from a woman who purposely dresses like Marie Callender’s grandmother?”
“Her ugly grandmother,” Tay added with a wink.
Grandma Jenn ignored our giggles. She continued her tirade. “And Gifford’s so skinny. That old frock she’s wearing practically oozes home-cooked goodness. And I have to admit, she does make a mean chicken potpie. I should have known she’d stoop to bribery. She used to promise Jeb all kinds of things before the judging began, most of which can’t be mentioned in polite society.”
Tate glanced at Edna and shivered.
“Shameless old busybody,” Tay added. “Char told me how Edna thinks you have a secret cherry tree, Jenn. Edna said that’s how you win every year—that and the fact you were literally in bed with … ” Tay wisely stopped there.
“Don’t worry, dear. It’s all true but for the part about bribery. Practically from the day she moved here, Edna’s been trying to find my prized cherry tree. Jeb even caught her poaching cherries from the orchard. But she hasn’t found my tree. It’s my best-kept secret. I tried to keep my love for Jeb a secret too, but I didn’t do a very good job of it. The truth is, I loved him. I should have said it sooner—more often.” Gran’s chin began to quiver, and her pretty blue eyes filled with tears. I wanted to hug her but my hands were holding pies. Tate, bless him, beat me to it.
“There now, Jenn,” he said, wrapping her up in his muscular arms. “Jeb knew it. Believe me, he knew it, and likely still does. Let’s get to our seats.”
I set my pies on the appropriate tables and joined them.
“Ladies and gentleman,” Dad said, talking into the microphone. The crowd fell silent. “Jani and I are overjoyed at this wonderful turnout for what has become a very special event here at the Cherry Orchard Inn. The cherry pie bake-off is the final event of our weekend-long Cherry Blossom Festival. As I’m sure you are all aware, this year’s festival saw its share of tragedy, and our dear friend and expert pie judge, Jeb Carlson,
is no longer with us. We thought about canceling this event, but then we thought what better way is there to honor Jeb’s memory than by making this year’s cherry pie bake-off the best one yet.”
After the applause died down, Dad gestured to the table at the front of the tent. “This year I’d like to welcome our two guest judges, Mr. Gifford McGrady, all the way up from Chicago, Illinois, and Carleton Brisbane, currently living on that lovely yacht moored in the Cherry Cove Marina. I’m sure you’ve all seen it—that giant white dream of a boat that Tate Vander Hagen’s trying to pass off as his own?” This elicited a wave of laughter. “This year, it was also suggested that the judges be blindfolded, focusing on mouth feel and taste instead of presentation. I liked that idea. Our very own Tay Robinson will assist Mr. McGrady. Hannah Winthrop will assist Mr. Brisbane. Now, without further ado, let the tasting begin.”
Each pie was brought to the head table, one at a time, to be sampled by the blindfolded judges. I had to admit, it was far more entertaining to watch than in previous years. The hand-feeding created its own hilarious challenges. Then, as the judges tasted each pie, they made witty remarks, each man trying to outdo the other with choice words and descriptive imagery. Giff was a master at this, yet Carleton caught on quickly. At times it was like watching stand-up comedy instead of a pie contest. But it felt good to laugh after so much tragedy. The entire community had come together for this celebration of the tiny stone fruit that had put us on the map. And it all came flooding back to me, why this place was so special. Cherry Cove was about friendships, and families, and helping each other through hard times. Sure, there were rivalries, but that was just a part of human nature. This was my home, and I’d missed it.
I cheered Tay and Hannah on as they struggled to feed their chosen judge. Giff had Tay in a fit of giggles. Sometimes he’d turn his head right before the fork hit its mark; sometimes he’d start responding to a heckler in the crowd.
Carleton, on the other hand, was being more flirtatious with Hannah, fanning the flames of her crush on him, which was hardly a secret. What was he playing at, I thought, leading her on like that when he’d asked me out to dinner? As I watched Hannah blush with joyful embarrassment, I felt a sharp pang of guilt. Because I knew how she felt. I’d fallen under Carleton’s spell too. But Hannah was my friend. I’d promised her I wouldn’t let a man get in the way of our friendship again, and I intended to keep that promise. It was a pity, but there was nothing else for it. I would have to cancel my dinner date with him.
The pies kept coming, and the judges kept plugging away, relaying their comments about each pie as the girls hastily wrote them down. They’d narrowed it down to just a handful of their favorites, mine and Edna’s among them, when Brock Sorensen caught my attention. He was standing at the side of the tent, indicating that he wanted a word with me.
“When I couldn’t find a real address for Finn Connelly, I decided to check all the information he gave me when he was hired back in February,” Brock whispered. “Nothing about the guy checks out. It’s all fake.” The cheating vegan looked utterly depressed by this revelation.
“What? But shouldn’t you have checked it when you hired him?”
“I should have,” he admitted with a self-admonishing grimace. “But he was a really good bartender—has an engaging mannerism about him. I didn’t want to risk losing him.”
“So you suspected the material he gave you wouldn’t check out?” I found this a little troubling.
“Not exactly. He said his green card had expired and he was in the country illegally. I thought, hey, there are millions of illegals in the US. What harm would it do to turn a blind eye to one more? Besides, he’s Irish. Women love his accent.”
Troubling as this was, Brock did have a point. “Okay, but from now on, never again. This Finn guy is a serious scumbag. I can’t say for sure he’s the one who murdered Jeb, but it’s not looking good. We need to find him.”
“I’m sorry, Whitney. I have no idea how to help you with that.”
I was pretty upset when I got back to my seat. Tate wanted to know why, so I told him.
“Damn it,” he whispered, his face darkening again. I understood now that for Tate, this had become personal. “I’m going to find that Irish bastard if it’s the last thing I do.”
It hit me, suddenly. “Tate, you knew that Erik and Cody were stealing your boats. Do you know where they went in them?”
Tate shrugged. “Not exactly. But I did follow them one night. They took the boats across the bay and about a mile or so down from the old lighthouse, well past the bluffs and the cave where we found all the missing wine. I watched them pull up on a weedy stretch of shoreline located on state land, in the middle of nowhere.”
I thought of the shoddy map Kenna drew—where she’d put her X—and suddenly grew excited. “Do you know how to get there? Could you find it again?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I could. Why?”
“I’ll tell you why,” I said, “after they announce the winner. Look, it’s between my pie and Edna’s. Their blindfolds are still on. Holy cobbler!”
“Dear God, did Giff really choose Edna’s?” Tate couldn’t believe it.
“Yes, he did,” Grandma Jenn added with a frown. “Never under-estimate the power of a potpie bribe. Looks like she’s pulled out all the stops this year, her pie included. Cherry chocolate surprise. She must have caught wind that Whitney was entering a nontraditional pie as well. Ooh, Edna.”
I shook my head. “Cherries and chocolate. That’s just about the best combination on earth. Hardly the thing a person like Giff could resist. Still, why do I feel as if I’ve just been bitten by the dog I’ve been handfeeding for five years?”
“Because you have. Hey, wait. Look. Briz has chosen yours! Whitney,” Tate said, staring intently at me, “it’s a taste-off!”
Forty-Two
It was a taste-off, one of epic proportions. There had never been a taste-off in the history of the cherry pie bake-off before—likely because there had never been two judges—and the entire tent was abuzz with excitement. Dad consulted the judges on the rules, and it was decided that everyone without an entry in the contest would get to decide the winner. The two pies were cut. A bite of each was placed on a tiny paper plate. Then, once every crumb of the pies had been plated, they were handed out to the awaiting spectators. After sampling each bite, the tasters were then required to head to the judges’ table and place a tally mark under the pie they liked best—either my deconstructed cherry pie or Edna Baker’s cherry chocolate surprise.
“Don’t worry, dear,” Grandma Jenn said, patting my hand. I was staring at her plate—at the dark smudge where the sample of Edna’s pie had been. “It’s good, but a little heavy on the chocolate. It overwhelms the delicate balance of cherry.”
I took the fork from Tate’s hand and scooped up his bite of Edna’s pie before he knew what hit him. He was about to protest but was too late. “What?” I mumbled through a mouthful of cherry-chocolate bliss. It was, I had to admit, surprisingly phenomenal. “Like you were really going to vote for her.” I swallowed and turned to Grandma Jenn. “It’s good, Gran. Really good.”
“But so is yours, dear.”
A crowd had formed at the judges’ table. Everyone was casting their vote, and I’m sorry to admit that the sight of the Gilded Cherry trophy, sitting up there for all to ogle, had really super-charged my competitive side. I wanted to win. I wanted to get my hands around that dang Gilded Cherry trophy! And Giff knew it.
I looked at Giff then. His blindfold was off and he was staring right at me, feigning surprise—surprise that he’d picked Edna’s pie over mine. As if he couldn’t taste the chocolate in there! And I wasn’t buying his manufactured air of “innocent mistake” either. There was nothing innocent in his impish grin. Edna’s pie was really good, but Giff was my friend, or at least he’d been my friend when he’d entered the ten
t. Either his judge’s hat had been too tight or Grandma Jenn was correct—Gifford McGrady had sold his vote for a homemade chicken potpie dinner.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the votes have been cast. Will Edna Baker and Whitney Bloom please come to the judges’ table.”
Grandma Jenn squealed and crossed her fingers.
As Edna and I stood together on the raised platform with the great golden cherry of a trophy before us, Carleton spoke. “We’ve had the pleasure of tasting fifty-seven delicious pies, and while you all are wonderful bakers, we’ve had to make a tough decision on which pie will be the winner of this year’s Gilded Cherry award. Gifford and I were doing pretty well until we came across the two extraordinary pies you’ve all just had the pleasure of tasting. We couldn’t decide, and it looks as if you couldn’t either. It was a dead split down the middle, with half of you voting for Whitney’s deconstructed cherry pie and the other half for Edna’s cherry chocolate surprise. And the pity is, there’s not even a scrap left for one more person to cast the deciding vote. What this means, ladies and gentlemen, is that we have a tie!”
The crowd cheered. Edna and I were both awarded the Gilded Cherry Trophy, and pictures were taken. Since there was only one actual trophy, it was decided that I would get it for the first six months and Edna would keep it for the remainder of the year. Both our names would be added to the prestigious list of winners. I’m not going to lie—it felt good to have the Gilded Cherry Trophy in my hands, even if it was for only half a year.
But it also meant that the Cherry Blossom Festival had come to an end. The nineteen guests staying at the inn had fulfilled their obligation; Jack had cleared them all as murder suspects and they were free to go home. They might have been traumatized by the murder of the orchard manager at the beginning of their stay, but thankfully the real terror of the weekend had been restricted to the staff. My parents had bent over backward to make sure everyone’s stay had been as pleasant as possible. And each guest had been given a voucher for a free weekend. It was the best my parents could do. Only the McSweenys had denied their voucher, stating that one visit to the Cherry Orchard Inn was enough.