Cherry Pie or Die

by CeeCee James

  Mr. St. Claire studied the glass on the table and then turned toward Mr. Peterson. “Well, I’ll say this. You seem to stir up trouble wherever you go.”

  Mr. Peterson’s mouth moved like he was about to tell him off. Instead, he set his glass down carefully. “Well folks, this has been fun. With that, I bid you adieu.” He gave us a small salute, and left the room to saunter up the stairs.

  Mr. St. Claire pushed his glasses up his nose. “And you, my little wife. Red temper to match your hair. You just had to jump right in the middle, huh? You sure upset Eliza Sue.”

  Mrs. St. Claire patted Rachel’s arm sympathetically. “I couldn’t handle her gleeful smirks after she dropped the gold-digger bomb. It was ridiculous, but it hurt Rachel. I’m not letting that go down on my watch. Besides, if Eliza Sue really was upset, where were her tears when she stormed off ‘crying’?”

  Rachel smiled gratefully at her friend.

  “You okay?” Mrs. St. Claire asked, patting her shoulder.

  “I’m okay. Just very, very drained.” Rachel’s face seemed to appeared even more drawn down with that word. “I think I’m going to go lie down until my parents get here.”

  We all gave soft encouragements for her to rest. She wearily walked down the hall to her room.

  Mrs. St. Claire looked at me.

  “Looks like everyone’s run off,” Mr. St. Claire said. He grabbed the deck of cards on the coffee table and slowly shuffled them. “You in?” he asked me.

  “Jared!” Mrs. St. Claire exclaimed. “How can you just change the subject like that?”

  “Like what? Everyone’s upset. I, on the other hand, had a long morning at the police station, and now I’m ready to relax and play some blackjack.”

  “Blackjack? I have no idea how to play that,” I said.

  “You got some cash? Cause now’s the time to learn.”

  I arched an eyebrow and he laughed.

  Mrs. St. Claire rolled her eyes and then slumped back into the couch. She blew out a deep breath. “I’m actually kind of disappointed Eliza Sue left. I was ready for a fight.”

  “A fight?” Mr. Peterson said. He side-eyed her as he dealt the cards.

  “She got me going, and I was ready to call her out. But she just ran away like a wimp.”

  “I’d call that a win,” her husband said, passing her cards.

  Mrs. St. Claire accepted them and fanned them in her hand. “Please. That was hardly a fight. She has no idea how bloody I can get.”

  Chapter 14

  “Everything okay in here?” Cecelia appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.

  “Just peachy!” Mr. St. Claire called.

  I took her appearance as a life line and walked in her direction. It really had been a long day, and I didn’t think now would be the time to learn a card game. Especially one for money. I remembered how Frank took all my collectors cards when we bet on Hearts. It’d been the first time I’d played it, and it hadn’t gone well.

  Of course, I got my revenge by winning them all back when we’d bet on who would catch the first fish of the season. He hadn’t stood a chance.

  We walked into the kitchen, where I started on the remainder of the lunch dishes. Cecelia’s brow furrowed with worry, and I felt her customary three pats on my back, her way of checking to make sure I was okay. I smiled to reassure her everything was fine.

  I washed in silence, stacking them in the dish drainer, and then dried my hands on a towel. “I think I’m going to head home for a bit, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not. But come back for dinner. I planned a little family meal.” Her gaze flicked to the kitchen table where we sometimes ate separately from the guests.

  “Everyone eating out tonight?” I asked.

  “As far as I know, everyone has plans. Eliza Sue, you know, usually takes her evening walk. I don’t think poor Rachel will be here. As for the rest, I’m surprised they haven’t scattered yet.”

  Well, I knew why they hadn’t scattered. Originally, we had an exploration of another old cemetery scheduled for today. But with everything that had happened, along with this morning’s trip to the police station, it seemed very inappropriate.

  “Anyway, as long as you’re going home, will you drop this off next door, first?” Cecelia turned to the counter, where there sat a big wedge of pie on one of her china plates. It was already covered in saran wrap and a red-checked cloth napkin.

  I picked it up, hoping I’d heard her wrong. “Take it where?”

  “You know, to Oscar. Mr. O’Neil. To kind of make up for what happened this morning. You said he had a run-in with Mr. Peterson. I know Oscar doesn’t come off that way, but he really is a kind man. I want to make it up to him.”

  Oh, that’s right. Wow, this morning felt like a lifetime ago. Her comment of “nice man” didn’t exactly blend with my experience. I eyed the pie.

  Cecelia smiled sweetly. Inwardly, I groaned. I couldn’t tell her no. Suck it up, buttercup. I grinned back. “You got it.”

  “Thank you, dear,” she said. “And if he doesn’t answer, just knock harder. He’s hard of hearing.”

  I have to admit, the thought of pounding on an angry neighbor’s door didn’t exactly fill me with sunny thoughts. I just hoped he wouldn’t answer with a shot gun. I grabbed the plate and waved at the St. Claires as I passed.

  The plate was warm in my hand, the pie still clinging to the last vestiges of heat from the oven. The crust was flaky, with a few syrupy cherries oozing to the side. It definitely was a fair peace offering for the cigarette butt earlier.

  I cut across the lawn and walked down his driveway. His empty trash can had blown over. I righted it and found its lid. Apprehension curled in my gut as I stared at the house.

  No shutters, no blinds, not a single curtain. All the windows stared back dark and lifeless. Even from here, I could see the white paint on the siding severely needed to be redone.

  Squaring my shoulders, I marched up to the porch. At the base of the steps were several old phonebooks that had been delivered at one point. The pages had swelled with rain water.

  I climbed the stairs. Paint peeled off the railing in white, razor-like shards. The boards creaked under my feet. A nearly leafless wisteria bush climbed the side of the railings, its vines aggressively pulling at the slats.

  A spider web brushed my face, and I jumped, nearly upsetting the pie. I quickly made my way to the entrance.

  “Hello?” I tapped on the door. A glance around the porch revealed a decrepit rocker, a broken pot still half filled with dirt, and enough piled up newspapers to fill several recycling bins.

  “Who is it?” a grouchy voice yelled from inside. It was the same voice that had yelled at us earlier, and my imagination started to run wild again with pictures of a shotgun.

  I swallowed and held the piece of pie before me like a shield. “I’ve got a pie from Cecelia Wagner. She asked me to bring it over to you.”

  There was shuffling and then the loud sound of something falling and hitting the wood floor. I tensed, but it hadn’t sounded heavy enough to be a person.

  Seconds later, the lock clanked back and the door opened a crack. One glaring eye framed by a crazy white eyebrow appeared in the gap of the doorway.

  “What do you want?” he growled.

  I pushed forward the plate. “Here. For you.” It seemed my grasp of communication had vanished at his appearance. I straightened my shoulders and said, a little clearer, “I’m Georgie Tanner. I work for Cecelia. She’s been baking and wanted you to have this. As an apology for one of our guests.”

  The eye glared down at the pie. He grumbled and shuffled back. The door opened some more, showing a man in a ratty red sweatshirt and striped pajama bottoms. Worn slippers were on his feet. His hair stuck up in the back as if he’d just woken up.

  He turned and left the doorway. I hesitated. Did he want me to follow him? With my finger, I pushed the door open a bit more. He was already halfway down the dark
hallway, heading for what I presumed was the living room.

  What I was not prepared for was the white blur that shot past him and toward me. Pie still in air, I danced around the little dog barking shrilly at my ankles.

  Mr. O’Neil acted like he didn’t hear a thing. Just kept on going, leaving me to deal with the white hooligan.

  “Shh!” I said. “You’re okay, girl. Boy? Shh. Good boy. Good girl.”

  The puffy dog seemed to simmer down at my feet and stared up at me. At least, I assumed the animal was staring at me. The fur fell to the bridge of its nose like an avalanche of snow.

  “Peanut!” Mr. O’Neil yelled. The dog took off running in his direction. Okay, then. I followed, glancing around and feeling like a house intruder casing a joint. Well, that was partly true. I was definitely checking things out, but there was nothing here I’d want to take.

  I walked down the hall, past an army of family photos that hung on the wall. A woman with white curly hair and a sweet smile was in more than a few. As I walked the wall’s length, her hair grew longer, darker, and the lines on her face disappeared. At the end, she sat in a chair with two little boys and a young version of Mr. O’Neil.

  It was sad how you could pass a person’s whole life with just a few steps down a dimly-lit hallway. A lump grew in my throat. Great. Not only would I have to show bravado, I’d have to do it sounding like Kermit the Frog.

  I entered the living room just as Mr. O’Neil settled with a wheeze into an old velour easy chair.

  “Where would you like me to put this?” I asked, glancing around. The room looked like a Hallmark store threw up knickknacks, glass dogs, vases, fake flowers, and porcelain dolls over every square inch. Everything was covered in a thick blanket of dust.

  Mr. O’ Neil crossed his legs, exposing a hole in the toe of one of the threadbare slippers. He waved his hand in the direction of the coffee table like he really didn’t care. I set the plate on the table and backed away, happy to be able to make my getaway.

  “Just a minute, young lady,” he snapped and pulled out a pair of glasses from a case on the end table. “What’s your name again?” He slipped them on and stared at me, his eyes considerably magnified.

  “Georgie,” I said. “Georgie Tanner.”

  “Georgie? What kind of name is that? You named after your father? Your parents wanted a boy?”

  I bristled a bit at that. I couldn’t help it. I’d heard that question my whole life, and normally I was quite used to it. But his tone carried a mocking accusation that I just couldn’t tolerate.

  “Quite the opposite,” I said. “I’m named after my paternal grandmother, Georgina Smith.”

  “Georgina, eh? Then she was named after her father.” He said that with an emphatic nod. I opened my mouth to argue, when I realized he might be right. I needed to check a genealogy site to be sure, but I seemed to have earlier memories of a great grandfather named George.

  “And your sons?” I asked. “Are either of them named after you?”

  “Eh?” Immediately, a wary expression fell across his face. “What do you know about my sons?”

  “From the pictures. On the wall.” Apparently, this was not safe territory. I took another step toward the front door.

  He scowled as he glanced at the hallway, where apparently he thought a portrait had betrayed his secrets.

  “Doesn’t matter now. Long ago,” he grumbled.

  My eyebrows lifted on their own at hearing him describe his children that way. Fortunately, Peanut decided to sniff around at my shoes. I squatted down to let the pup smell my fingers. When the white puff decided I was okay, I scratched the dog’s ears.

  “Cute dog,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Peanut. She’s a cute dog. Or is she a boy?”

  “Meh.” He shook his head. “She’s a girl, and her name is Bear.”

  Bear? I stroked the hair back to see her brown eyes. “I thought you called her Peanut.”

  “Darn dog. Sissy name and that’s all she answers to. Was my wife’s doing.” He trailed off, muttering. I saw this as my chance to escape. With one final pat on the dog’s back, I stood to go.

  “Okay. Well, I’ll be seeing you. I’m sorry about our guest. If you ever find anything like that again on your property, please let us know. I’ll take care of it right away.”

  There was no response. He had his arms crossed and seemed to be deep in thought. I cleared my throat. “I’ll be seeing you later,” I said, a little louder.

  He made a shooing motion with his hand, still staring off into space. I did my best not to react to his actions, and instead walked back down the hall to the door. On my way, I passed the doorway to the kitchen. It was there that I could see what had made the loud banging noise. A kitchen chair that had fallen backward onto the floor.

  I thought about righting it, but his voice rang out after me. “Go on. Get out of here.”

  What did Cecelia see in him? I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, closing the door behind me.

  Chapter 15

  I drove to my apartment, ran up the stairs, and then locked the door behind me. From there I went straight to my bedroom and fell flat on my face on my bed. Some days I just did not want to adult. Give me a coloring book and some Pez candy. I’ll let someone else make the decisions for a while.

  I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. Cobwebs had gathered in one of the corners. I needed to do some serious cleaning. It was weird how things I used to care about didn’t matter as much anymore. I used to be a freak about cleaning. Every last inch of my home had to be wiped down. Now, it was more like five minutes as I ran through the house and then called it good enough.

  Was it life that did that to me? Or death?

  I thought about little Peanut. Or Bear. Whatever that tiny fluff’s name was. She needed to get to the groomers. I wondered how long it had been.

  Mr. O’Neil sure was crabby. I wondered if he’d found more cigarettes on his property before and that’s what had him upset. I should have asked him if any had lipstick on the end.

  Remembering the lipstick on the cigarette butt reminded me of the paper I’d found. I wiggled around until I could get my fingers into my pocket and pull it out. I flattened it on my knee.

  The paper had a page number at the bottom—it was obviously from a book—and I reread the words to refresh my memory.

  The butcher, the baker,

  The candlestick maker

  Turn them out, knaves all three.

  A kid’s poem. It seemed so odd and random. What book had this scrap been torn from, and why had it been clinging to the bush in our yard? Was it just a piece of random trash that had been blown in by the wind?

  Or was it something important?

  I studied the paper again. Another thing that made the scrap odd was that someone had doodled an ink drawing up the side. But whoever had torn it out hadn’t thought the sketch was important, because the picture was ripped in half. I studied the drawing, trying to figure it out. Three swooping lines, and two triangles at the bottom.

  I had no idea what it could be.

  I’d have to think more about this later. Right now, I needed to take a shower. I placed the scrap in the top drawer as I got out clean clothes.

  It was nearly an hour later when I finally came out. Once in the bathroom, I’d decided against the shower in favor of a bath. Thirty minutes of soaking with my kindle pepped me back up.

  I was in the middle of towel drying my hair when my phone dinged. I wandered over to read it.

  —GiGi! Where are you? Time for Dinner.

  I chucked the phone on my bed and hurried to get ready. I’m going to be honest. One of my favorite things about moving back home was getting those home-cooked meals.

  The bed and breakfast driveway was free of most of the cars, but Frank’s was sitting in my usual spot. Figures. He’d better not give me a hard time about my interview earlier.

  I walked in and immediately was hit
with the scent of pot roast. I seriously sighed out of gratitude when I saw the kitchen table.

  Cecelia was old fashioned. There was freshly made bread and butter, mashed sweet potatoes, and green beans with bacon.

  Of course, there was also Frank.

  “Georgie,” he said dryly.

  “Frank,” I shot back.

  The kitchen counter was filled with dishes that had been washed and were now drying. I didn’t know how Cecelia did it. Both her and Grandma could whip up a meal and wash the dishes as they went. It was a gene Grandma decidedly did not pass on to me.

  “Glad you could make it,” Cecelia said, before handing me a bowl of salad. She grabbed the salad dressing and we headed to the table.

  “So, everyone ended up leaving, huh?” I asked her as I sat.

  “We have the house to ourselves.” She shook her napkin and smiled at us. “So nice to have a family dinner.”

  Spoons clattered against plates as we dished up and passed the serving platters.

  “So, Frank,” Cecelia started. “How are things going on the case?”

  He breathed heavily. His lean face appeared haggard.

  “What? It happens practically under my own roof and I can’t ask?” Cecelia clicked her tongue.

  “I just thought we could get through the sweet potatoes before you dove to the heart of the matter.” He smiled and kind of caught me off guard. It’d been a while since I’d seen him smile.

  “Well, honey. You know how I am. I like to know everything.” Cecelia buttered a piece of bread. “And, since you’re my favorite grandson, you should tell me.”

  “Coincidentally, I’m your only grandson, And yes, you do like to know everything, Grandma,” he replied, the smile still there. I watched him shift and rub his chest. I couldn’t help but frown. How could I have forgotten? He’d enlisted in the army immediately after high school. But his military career had ended when an IED exploded. He’d been in the military hospital for six weeks.

  I watched as he uncorked the wine bottle.

  “Want some?” he asked me as he carefully tipped the bottle over his glass.