Cherry Pie or Die

by CeeCee James

  This time was no exception. By the time I took a good look around me, I was in the Poconos Mountains, nearly two hours from home. Wow, I really did it to myself this time, I thought, as I typed in my home address.

  My drive home was filled with thoughts of Leslie. Who had hurt her? Why had she muttered the word revenge? Did it have something to do with the ghosts that supposedly haunted the building?

  I flipped my blinker and merged back onto the highway. Ghosts weren’t known for leaving behind buttons, if Frank’s clue was to be believed.

  This had to be about Mr. Green’s murder. Whoever it was must have returned to the scene of the crime because they’d left something behind. Something that could incriminate them.

  Leslie hadn’t said anything else after her last words, succumbing completely to unconsciousness from the blow to her head. Whoever it was mustn’t have known I was coming. I shivered. Was he or she still at the manor when I arrived?

  And then there were the tire tracks. Were they really connected? If so, what had made the perpetrator leave so quickly? Was this one of the guests of the bed and breakfast? Would I be eating dinner tonight with the person that had hurt Leslie?

  Chapter 20

  After my long drive, I went straight to my apartment. I wasn’t ready to head back to the bed and breakfast. I didn’t want to see anyone, didn’t want to have to put my customer service face on and smile. It was a great relief when I shut my door.

  I was alone. I quickly went to the desk and pulled out a spiral pad of paper, along with a pen, and took them to the bed. If I wanted to figure out who hurt Leslie, I needed to figure out who killed Mr. Green.

  Okay, what do I know? I clicked the end of the pen and started a list.

  A button.

  A strange scrap of paper with a poem.

  The possibility that Mr. Peterson knew Mr. St. Claire in Brooklyn.

  The conversation Mr. Peterson overheard between the St. Claires.

  The possibility that Mrs. Green was pregnant and it wasn’t her husband’s.

  The night rendezvous Eliza Sue spoke of between Rachel and Mr. Peterson.

  How Mr. Peterson had offered to accompany Rachel to the hospital.

  The tampered lamp and the penny.

  The fact that Cecelia knew Mr. Green from years ago and worked with him.

  The fact he was killed with replica 1779 dagger.

  The possibility that Mr. Green’s company committed fraud with a local union’s pensions, and because of the investigation, his company was now filing for bankruptcy.

  The questionable tire tracks left at the museum.

  I chewed on the end of my pen before reminding myself of my front tooth crown. The crown stemmed from a broken tooth I’d gotten as a teenager, trying to use a speed bump to jump the railroad tracks a week after I got my driver’s license. Frank had shaken his head at me like I was stupid, before sneaking me out the next night to jump the tracks in his new car.

  I smiled at the memory.

  The light in my room darkened. I glanced out the window to see clouds blowing in to cover the sun. A black line on the horizon warned of an approaching storm.

  I shivered. Amazing how quickly the temperature dropped with the sun blocked. The winds had picked up too, snatching the last leaves from the trees and cartwheeling them through the air. Okay, enough alone time. I needed to get back to the bed and breakfast and help out with dinner.

  I drove up to Cecelia’s. Frank’s police car was already there, parked in the narrow space between the house and the storage shed to one side. I turned off the engine and Old Bella gave her usual shudders and jerks.

  The wind felt like it had teeth as it bit through my coat. I guessed winter was here to stay now. Mr. Peterson was standing on the front porch smoking a cigarette. He had his jacket bundled up to his neck and was hunched inside.

  “You cold?” I asked.

  Smoke swirled around his head as he nodded. He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

  “Everyone’s inside, if you’re curious,” he said.

  I figured as much. Not a lot to do in this small town once everything closed down for the night.

  “Dinner ready?” I asked, by way of small talk. I knew it was about time. I could smell the ham from where I was standing.

  He shrugged, and I headed across the old porch. The screen door squeaked its normal welcome, and I walked inside.

  I was greeted with women yelling from the back bedroom.

  Not. Again.

  “Give me that!” one yelled.

  “Don’t you touch it!” said another.

  I inwardly groaned and hurried down the hall to the room.

  “Oh, hello,” Sarah said, catching sight of me as I peeked in. Her hair was in its customary messy bun, which was even more messy than usual, now sliding sideways down her head.

  “What the heck’s going on in here?” I asked, leaning against the door frame with my arms crossed.

  Sarah held a book in her hands that she glanced down at guiltily. She held it out toward me as if for my approval.

  Eliza Sue was shooting daggers with her eyes at Sarah. “You have no right.”

  “What is it?” I asked, accepting the book. Seeing it in my hands, Eliza Sue simmered down.

  The book was tiny, palm size, the cover held shut with a piece of string. I turned it over in my hands. The title said, “Christmas book compilation.” It felt very old.

  Eliza Sue crossed her arm. “I came around the corner and saw Sarah in here. Snooping around.”

  Sarah let out a screech. “That’s not true! You were!”

  Eliza Sue yelled back. The accusations started flying back and forth faster than I could understand, and it was escalating quickly.

  “All right! Cool it!” I yelled.

  “You say Sarah was snooping. Well, what were you doing in here?” Mr. Peterson asked. I turned, startled to see him behind me. I hadn’t heard him enter.

  “How dare you!” Eliza Sue was positively shaking. “Let’s talk about your private time with Rachel. Disgusting cheater!”

  Mr. Peterson’s nostrils flared. “That’s a lie!” he yelled. His gaze switched between Sarah and me. “I already told you she’s lying.”

  “I saw you that night,” Eliza Sue said. “Remember? But what can we expect from someone of your calibre with your ‘high’ used-car dealership work ethics?”

  His fists clenched. I honestly thought he might strike her.

  “All right!” I yelled. “That’s enough. You. Leave now.” Even though he was so much taller than me, I grabbed Mr. Peterson by the elbow and steered him out the door. And then to the women. I said, “I’ll take the book. Did the Greens leave anything else?”

  Eliza Sue shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Fine. You two head out. I’ll search this room, and then contact Mrs. Green.”

  “You’re going to mail it?” Eliza Sue asked.

  “Most likely. After I take inventory. That’s the bed and breakfast’s policy.”

  She nodded stiffly. “Good.”

  The women left.

  I listened a minute to check if there was any more yelling. It was with great relief when everything stayed silent. Quickly, I checked under the bed and found a pair of shoes. I set them by the door, wondering what Sarah was even doing in here. I yanked open the dresser drawer, but it was empty. There was a brush between the nightstand and the bed.

  Stuff in hand, I walked into the kitchen.

  Cecelia was a welcome sight after this long day. She was stirring liquid cornstarch into some of the ham’s drippings that she’d already pulled off to make gravy. Cecelia’s gravy could not be beat.

  “Hi, Auntie,” Still clutching the items, I walked over to give her a hug. “How’s the headache? You find all your groceries okay?”

  “Hi, you!” she said cheerfully, still whisking like a madman. She offered the side of her head on my shoulder as a quick hug back. “I’m fine. Everything’s
fine. But I haven’t seen you all day, so I’ve been worried.”

  “Oh. You heard about Leslie?”

  “Heard? Of course I heard! Even Joel down at the post office heard. He called me right away to make sure you were okay.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet. It’s always something around here. I need to call the hospital to check on the poor woman. Hey, do we have any extra boxes? The Greens left some stuff behind.”

  “Check in the pantry for a shipping box.”

  I walked in. Sure enough, there were several on the floor of all different sizes. I deposited everything but the book into one and set the box on the kitchen table. A basket sat there, too. It was Cecelia’s sewing basket. I recognized it from the years of being a rough kid and always ripping my shirt or jacket. Of course, the overalls had been indestructible.

  “What’s the sewing basket out for?” I asked her.

  “Oh, Eliza Sue said Mr. Peterson asked her to fix something for him. His shirt tore or something.”

  Obviously, that was way before this big fight. I doubt they’d be talking to each other again anytime soon. “I saw Frank’s car. Is he here?”

  She set the gravy to one side. “Oh, he’s out in the back someplace. Wind blew down a few branches. I should text him to let him know dinner is ready.”

  Her phone was on the table. I smiled as she sent off a text. It still felt funny seeing this white-haired lady be so tech savvy and reliant. She washed her hands and pulled a casserole dish from the oven. Then she slipped dinner rolls in to warm.

  “Did you find a box? What sort of stuff did they leave? Anything that requires special packing?” she asked.

  I paused, studying the book one more time, before walking over to show her. “This book is pretty valuable, I guess.”

  She glanced at it as she wiped her hands on the kitchen towel. “Really! That looks quite old. It almost looks like an heirloom. What an odd thing to bring on a vacation.”

  It was an odd thing. It made me even more curious about what was written inside. I lifted an eyebrow in an unasked question.

  She laughed at my expression. “Well, I want to know what it says, too.”

  The back door crashed open, and Frank came through, stomping his feet to rid himself of any leaves. He caught sight of me and nodded a welcome. “Starting to rain,” he said to his grandma.

  He walked over to the sink to wash his hands.

  I leaned against the counter next to him.

  “What do you want?” he asked, his voice gruff.

  “Oh, nothing,” I said, lifting the book to his eye level. “Just discovered something in Mr. Green’s room. I’m sure it’s quite boring, really.”

  Franks gaze flicked to the book and then back to me. He brusquely turned off the water and stomped over to get the towel to wipe his hands.

  Cecelia was just pulling out the rolls when he nearly bumped into her. She shooed him. “You’re right under my feet. You two go set that table.”

  He walked back to me, tongue in the corner of his cheek. “Found it, huh?”

  I nodded, waving the book in front of his face like a hypnotist’s sparkly watch. “Yep. Wonder what’s inside?”

  The corner of his lips quivered. Just the corner, but it was the beginning of a smile and I knew I had him. He reached a hand out. “Let me see it.”

  Of course, I was happy to hand it over. Police business and all that. I hovered at his shoulder as he slowly unwound the cord.

  “The table, Frank!” Cecelia yelled.

  “One second, Grandma!” He had the cord unwound. I held my breath as he cracked the cover.

  My heart did a double beat, I swear it did, when I saw those pages.

  Yellow. Soft.

  Just like the piece I’d found earlier.

  Chapter 21

  I must have made a noise then, because Frank’s eyes cut sideways at me.

  “I think if you flip through it, you’ll notice there’s half a page missing somewhere,” I said, swallowing my excitement and trying to appear calm.

  He didn’t answer, but gently flipped the pages to check. The old paper made a soft swish as he rifled through.

  He paused halfway and carefully opened the book more. I leaned in, chewing my bottom lip.

  There it was. The page was torn. And what was left was the remains of the drawing and what looked like a poem.

  He read it out loud.

  Rub a dub dub,

  Three fools in a tub,

  And who do you think they be?

  We both looked at each other when he finished.

  “That’s a kids’ poem,” I said.

  “I know what it is,” he said dryly. “Go get your missing piece.”

  “In a minute. What’s it say at the beginning of the book. Any dedication?”

  “I’ll ‘in the minute’ you two!” Cecelia scolded, her cheeks pink. She grabbed the dining service basket. “I’ll just do it myself, thank you.”

  “Sorry, Grandma,” Frank said, not looking the least bit sorry. He flipped to the front of the book.

  The Christmas Box

  A collection of stories and songs by James Halliwell-Phillipps

  The date below said 1830.

  “Wow,” I said as Frank simultaneously whistled. “You think this is really that old? Or a reproduction?”

  “There is a dedication here,” he murmured, after flipping another page. We nearly butted heads leaning down to read it.

  “Darling Samantha. May you know where I hid it. Go for it when it’s safe. Your loving mother, Elizabeth Hartwell.”

  “Treasure?” I whispered. “Is that what she’s referring to?”

  Frank actually rolled his eyes. “Girl, you still think you’re nine and we’re playing pirates. No, this isn’t about treasure.”

  “What? How can you know that?”

  “It says, ‘where I hid it.’ We don’t know what it is.”

  “And you are acting like an unimaginative stick in the mud, just like you did that one winter when your grandma told you that Jack Frost was the one who put the designs on the windows. You demanded to know who he was, including some proof.”

  “Well, I knew he was made up.”

  “We all did. We were having fun.”

  “Really. Are you pretending now?” His eyebrow rose in that “gotcha” kind of way.

  Darn it, he did have me. Once again, I’d managed to give him the only kind of argument he could use against me. It was a scenario I’d often repeated through the years with him.

  “Go get your paper,” he said.

  “I can’t. It’s at my apartment,” I replied.

  “Dinner!” Cecelia called. “Come and get it.”

  “You know what you’re getting for dessert,” he grumbled, sliding the book into his inside jacket pocket. “A big serving of ‘a cold car ride through a rainy night.’”

  I sent him a stiff smile and grabbed the two pitchers of ice water on the counter. Without another look in his direction, I sauntered into the dining room, head held high. I couldn’t believe how quickly Frank had me squabbling with him, just like when we were kids. He was beyond annoying.

  But I needed his help to figure this out.

  I slowly filled the water glasses while the other house guests filed through the door. I was a little worried at how Mr. Peterson and Eliza Sue would interact, but it seemed like, for now, they’d called a truce.

  Cecelia had done an amazing job decorating the table. The room glowed under the flicker of red candles at the table’s center. Surrounding them were silk leaves, pine cones, and baby pumpkins. Red linen napkins, heavy silverware, and white china plates completed the effect.

  Cecelia continued to bring out food in white tureens and platters. Ham, scalloped potatoes, marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes, baskets of rolls, butter and homemade raspberry jam, salad and dressing, along with gravy, lined the center.

  As I sat, I glanced around the table, happy to see faces relaxing, and even soft laughter break out
among the guests as the food was passed around.

  I was torn between taking my time and enjoying the amazing meal, and hurrying back to my apartment for the scrap of paper. I took a bite of ham and sighed. The food definitely deserved the time to appreciate it.

  My eye caught Frank’s, and he made a hurry up motion with his fork. Just for that, I grabbed a roll and slowly buttered it before asking that someone pass the jam.

  His eyes rolled toward the ceiling, and he sighed while I bit into it.

  “So,” I started, “What’s everyone been up to today?”

  “Not much,” Mr. Peterson answered. “Another day, another interview. Just hanging around town waiting for the good ol’ sheriff to say we’re free.”

  Frank narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything.

  “Mmm, this is so good,” Mrs. St. Claire said after a bite of sweet potatoes. “What do you think, Jared? Don’t you love it?”

  Her husband nodded next to her, his mouth full.

  “You know what this reminds me of?” Her voice carried over the rest of the conversations. “This reminds me of when Jared and I first met.” She smiled in anticipation of her story. “I was doing a food run for the local Girl Scouts. They were having their troop meeting at my house. Anyway, there I was looking for marshmallows…”

  “When you pinched my stuff,” Mr. St. Claire said with a wry grin. His eyes twinkled behind his glasses.

  Mrs. St. Claire laughed. “I didn’t pinch your stuff! What happened was we were in the same aisle. I got my marshmallows and threw them in the cart. I turned to look at something, before heading to the next aisle to search for the graham crackers.”

  “That’s when she pinched my cart.”

  Mrs. St. Claire shook her head. “I didn’t realize. You let me get away.” She swatted her husband’s arm in playful jest.