Cherry Pie or Die

by CeeCee James

  “I was admiring the view.” His eyebrow curled up, along with the corner of his mouth.

  She blinked coquettishly, her red-lipsticked lips drawing back into a huge grin.

  I studied Mrs. St. Claire, chewing slowly. I remembered her telling me just the other day how she’d met her husband. She’d said she met him in Florida on the beach. She and her husband seemed so innocuous, just a couple in their early forties out for their anniversary. Why would she lie about something like that? And what else had she told me that wasn’t true?

  Chapter 22

  After dinner and farewells, Frank followed me in his police car to my apartment. Even in this small town, it was always a little difficult finding parking. I finally edged the van into a space about half a block from where I lived.

  It was still sprinkling outside. Of course it was. I grabbed my jacket from the passenger seat and climbed out. Quickly, I shrugged into it and pulled up the hood, buttoning it as I hurried along the sidewalk.

  Frank was waiting for me at the entrance to the building. I punched in the passcode and the door unlocked. He yanked open the door and stepped back, allowing me to enter first. By the time we finally reached the fourth-floor landing after climbing dozens of stairs, Frank was puffing a bit.

  “You okay?” I asked, reaching into my purse for my house key.

  “Yeah,” he said, before coughing into his fist.

  “You’ve seemed kind of off today.” I led him to my door and unlocked it. I’d forgotten to leave a light on again. I stumbled across the room for the lamp while Frank waited by the door.

  “There!” I said as I flipped the switch. I glanced around the room, a little afraid I’d left the place in a total disaster, but it was okay. I kicked some socks under the coffee table and scooped up a few dishes and carried them to the sink.

  His hands were in his pockets. He watched me with the slightest smile. “Well?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I hurried into my room where I’d left the book scrap on my desk. Fragment in hand, I walked back to the living room.

  Frank was studying a painting on the wall. One I’d done just a few months ago. It was of a creek where we used to play as kids. A place that meant summertime and fun. Safety. Happiness. I stopped, overcome with a weird sense of exposure and shyness.

  He looked in my direction. “This is good,” he said. “Is that really your name in the corner?”

  Heat filled my cheeks. I tried to distract him, hoping he wouldn’t recognize the place. “Yep. Hey, I’ve got the paper. Come into the kitchen and I’ll make you some tea. Or something stronger.”

  He ignored me and turned back to the painting. The flush in my face was crawling down into my shoulders, and I stared at the ground. I’d never shared my work before, and to have him of all people studying it, well, I wished a hole would open up in the floor.

  He didn’t say anything, and after a moment, I dared to glance up at him. His eyes were contemplative. I was wondering if he was remembering a simpler time, too. His jaw moved like he was biting the inside of his cheek. Finally, he heaved a sigh and turned back to me.

  “Yeah. Good.” His words seem to carry a tone of respect. Then he was back to business. “Now, let’s see the paper.”

  I passed it over to him. Frank took it as he dug in his pocket for the book. He walked over to the couch and sat, leaning forward with the book on the coffee table. Carefully, he flipped to the torn page and then unfolded the scrap I’d found.

  I could already see by the color of the paper that it would be a match. He slid it into place.

  He read the finished poem.

  Rub a dub dub,

  Three fools in a tub,

  And who do you think they be?

  The butcher, the baker,

  The candlestick maker.

  Turn them out, knaves all three.

  Now the poem was complete and so was the sketch. It turned out that the part I had was the bottom flowing lines of a dress. The top part that had been left in the book was her face. Her hand pointed to the first line of the poem.

  The sketch was not original to the book. It must have been penned at some later date. It was so unusual, I couldn’t stop staring.

  “Odd. Very, very odd,” Frank mumbled.

  “I agree.” I took the book from him and carefully flipped through the rest of the pages. When I reached the back, something fell out to the floor.

  I reached down to pick it up, my jaw dropping as I realized what it was. “Frank! It’s the invitation! The special one Mr. Green said he got to come to the bed and breakfast!”

  Frank leaned over to read it. It was decorated with hearts and kisses. I turned it over.

  He snorted. “This was just a sexy invite from his wife. ‘Let’s hang out at the Baker Street Bed and Breakfast and Make History.’ With a kiss mark? It’s obviously from Rachel. He probably told Grandma that he got a ‘special invitation’ tongue in cheek.”

  I was incredibly disappointed. What he said made sense.

  “So, what are you going to do with the book?” Frank asked.

  “I’m supposed to take inventory of everything the Greens left and box it all up. I guess we’ll mail it next week.”

  “What else did he leave?” He leaned back on the couch, his arm resting across the top.

  I ran through the list of the shoes, brush, and other odds and ends. Nothing stood out as important. “I just don’t understand why the page was torn out.”

  “You and me both, girl.” Frank sighed. He snapped a picture of the torn page and shut the book. “I’m half tempted to take this in as evidence, but I can’t see a correlation yet.”

  “Well, if I come up with anything, I’ll let you know,” I answered. Neither of us said anything more. The silence grew. Suddenly, it felt awkward. I cleared my throat just as he coughed.

  “All right. I guess I’ll see you later. Tomorrow maybe,” he said, rising from the couch.

  “Yeah. Anything special happening tomorrow?”

  “As far as I know, the chief is going to release the guests. Everyone will be free to go home.”

  “No more leads?” I was worried.

  “We’re still investigating, but I think he feels we have all we need from them right now.”

  “What do you think?”

  He shook his head. “I think I’m going to hunt a murderer. And I’m going to catch him.”

  His eyes had a steely glint to them that made me shiver. I nodded. His boots thumped as he walked to the front door.

  “Okay then. I’ll see you tomorrow, then maybe,” I said.

  With a nod at me, he shut the door behind him.

  I went to the cupboard for a mug and started making myself some of that tea I’d offered Frank earlier. My mind mulled over that piece of paper.

  What were some reasons that I’d tear out a piece of paper? I thought about it as I put the mug in the microwave and opened a chamomile packet.

  I did it for grocery lists.

  And for addresses.

  The microwave beeped, making me jump. I lifted out the mug and steeped the teabag.

  An idea was growing in my mind. I grabbed my phone and carried my tea to the couch. It was cold in the apartment, so I curled up in one corner and pulled the throw blanket off the back to cuddle into. After wrapping it around my knees, I turned to the torn page of the book. Carefully, I typed the poem into the search bar. A link came up and I clicked it.

  What?

  My mouth dropped open. I read it again. Excited, I jumped forward, nearly upsetting my mug. As quickly as I could, I called Frank.

  He answered on the first ring.

  “Frank! Hurry and get back here! Your hunch was right. You have to take this book into evidence. You’re not going to believe what it means!”

  Chapter 23

  I gave him the code to the building, and ten minutes later, he was pounding on my door. I opened it with the biggest grin. I could barely contain my excitement.

  Frank was not so
excited, and stopped to inspect the door. “This thing almost opened just by me knocking.” He scowled at me. “A good-looking girl like you….” He spun back around as if he were still examining the lock. I could see the back of his neck redden. He was finally caught off guard by something stupid he’d said. Point for me.

  “Come on. Look what I found!” I called as I headed for the couch.

  Frank followed me. I clicked on the article and passed the phone over to him.

  He squinted at the screen and held the phone away, trying to focus.

  “Well?” I said.

  He read it out loud.

  “The original lyrics to Rub a dub dub.

  Hey! rub-a-dub, ho! rub-a-dub, three maids in a tub,

  And who do you think were there?

  The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker,

  And all of them gone to the fair.”

  He set the phone down. “And that’s exciting because…?”

  I couldn’t believe he didn’t get it. “Don’t you see? The scrap of paper. It was an address. Three Maidens’ Manor. Elizabeth Hartwell was directing her daughter to the house.”

  “How on earth could you have guessed that out of all the places in the world, she meant this one here in Gainesville?”

  “Well, I never would have if the book wasn’t here in this town, and if that scrap hadn’t been torn out. It made me think of times I’d torn off a piece of paper. The woman in the sketch is pointing to the first line, which made me think it was pretty important. So I searched it up, and that’s the line that stuck out to me. Something is hidden in that house.”

  “Problem one, it’s the second part of the poem that’s torn off, not the first part referring to the maids. And what do you think this has to do with Mr. Green’s murder?” he asked, settling back into the couch. He propped his mud-crusted boots on the coffee table and looked at me.

  “Err.” I leaned over and pushed his feet to the floor. “So far, I’ve only spent about two seconds on research. I don’t know why the second part of the poem was torn out, and not the first. But the book looks like an heirloom and was in Mr. Green’s room. I searched Elizabeth Hartwell’s name. Turns out both she and Samantha are related by however many greats-grandma to Michael Green.”

  “Really?” he asked. He looked slightly impressed.

  I shrugged. “Took all of a minute on that genealogy site.”

  His eyebrows rose and he nodded. “So it’s safe to assume Mr. Green wasn’t here by accident. He was here looking for something.”

  “But remember the invitation,” I added. “Was he looking, or was someone looking for him?”

  “That definitely makes the invitation more interesting. Whoever it was, they found him, all right. Question is, was it one of Grandma’s guests? Or was there someone else at Three Maidens’ waiting?”

  I grabbed my tea and took a sip, contemplating. “I wonder if this takes Rachel off the suspect list.”

  “You mean for life insurance reasons as her motive?” he asked.

  “No. Well, maybe. I was thinking more about her possible pregnancy that wasn’t her husband’s.”

  Frank sat straight up. “Wait. What? When were you going to let me in on that little nugget?”

  I bit my lip and set the mug on the table. “Oh, sorry. It’s just a rumor that the other guests have been gossiping about. I don’t even know if it’s really true.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me.

  Change the subject. “You know, I just remembered Leslie talking about someone who broke into the museum the night before. Well, guess what? Mr. Peterson was outside that night. A couple of people saw him.” I bit my thumb nail. “I have a bad feeling about him. Maybe it was him that broke in? When he first showed up, he told me he was a history buff. And, I forgot about this, but Eliza Sue had to fix his shirt today. He tore it or something. You think he could have lost the button?”

  He closed his eyes as his head flopped back. “You’re kidding me. Why do you not go to the police about this stuff?”

  “What? I’m supposed to report everything I think is weird? I’d be there every ten minutes. Besides, it’s probably nothing. Who would I even tell?”

  He thumbed the badge on his shirt and lifted an eyebrow. “They’re called police officers. Call the station and try it sometime.”

  “Well, I’m telling you now.”

  Frank had that smart-aleck smirk on his face that made me want to scream.

  “He’s already on your radar, isn’t he? You said you found a link between Peterson and Rachel back in Baltimore.”

  “Yeah, our anonymous tip.” He exhaled loudly and stood, scooping up the book. “You have anything else to share?”

  I shook my head.

  “Call me with anything else you find out.” He gave me a serious stare.

  I was tempted to enter a stare down. Instead, I opted to act casual, fluffing the blanket around my legs and reaching for my mug again. “Of course. Anything that seems serious, I’ll let you know.”

  “Anything you hear,” he reiterated.

  “Absolutely. Anything of importance.”

  “You are infuriating, woman,” he growled.

  I took another sip, staring at him over the mug’s rim.

  He shook his head, exasperated, and stalked to the door. At the doorway, he announced, “Anything you find!” before slamming it behind him.

  I smiled and snuggled deeper into the cushions. He may have knocked me off guard about the painting, but I’d definitely won round two.

  Chapter 24

  I woke up the next morning after another dreamless night. I’d really intended to go without the sleeping pill, but at the last minute, I chickened out again.

  “I’ll deal with it. I really will,” I told myself in the mirror. The last few weeks made me think I needed to get back to seeing a therapist again. Maybe I was ready to move on.

  But I’d do it on my own terms. Not in some middle of the night paralyzing nightmare.

  Cecelia had texted me to say it was going to be a continental breakfast, and I needn’t hurry down. Today, my plan was to help everyone pack and say goodbye, and then head to the hospital to check on Leslie. They wouldn’t give me any news over the phone, so I thought I’d try and go see for myself.

  Honestly, though, it was kind of disappointing and anti-climatic that the guests were leaving. I couldn’t believe the police hadn’t figured it out.

  Mr. Peterson came to mind. I hoped I wouldn’t shiver when I said goodbye to him. And to think of him and Rachel…. I just didn’t know what to believe.

  I had to park Old Bella near the end of the B&B’s driveway, it was so filled with cars. As I walked up to the door, I heard the sound of clippers.

  I peered down the property line. “Hey, Oscar! How are you doing today?”

  He looked up, clippers in hand. His eyebrows lowered over his eyes. “How am I doing? Got the gout, the start of shingles across my butt, and I need some Imodium. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  The little Pomeranian saw me and barked to catch my attention. “Hi, Bear. How are you, sweetheart?” The dog wagged her tail so hard her whole body wiggled. Her pink tongue hung from her panting mouth. She ran to the base of the bushes and squirmed through. I met her on the other side crouched on my heels. She nearly bowled me over in her enthusiastic ferocity to lick my cheek. Laughing, I steadied her on two legs so that she could give me a kiss.

  “Well, even my dog’s betrayed me, I guess,” Oscar grumped. He snipped back a few more branches.

  I gave her a kiss on her fuzzy-topped head, and then pushed the branches apart so she could scoot back through.

  “I don’t know about that,” I said with a smile.

  “Yeah, well, let’s see who she prefers after you walk her a time or two.” His brows rose. “You have time today? You probably don’t have any time today. You young people always say one thing and—”

  “Tomorrow afternoon would work perfectly,” I said. “I’
ll be completely free.”

  He harrumphed and continued to prune. But I thought he looked pleased.

  “All right, well, I need to head inside and help these guests get out of here. I’ll see you later.”

  “Well, we’ll see about that. And bring over another piece of pie!”

  I grinned as I walked up the porch. Mr. Peterson was coming out as I entered, tapping his cigarette pack.

  “Last day, and you’re getting rid of us. Are you going to have a party after we leave?”

  “Absolutely not. You’ve all been wonderful,” I answered, my customer service smile at a hundred watts.

  He snorted. “Yeah. I bet you think that.” He reached into his pocket for his lighter.

  I studied his shirt. I couldn’t help it. My eyes went to his buttons.

  He glanced down. “What? I got a stain on me or something?”

  I shook my head. “No, no. Sorry. Just spacing out for a second.” I smiled again, and went inside.

  The living room was empty for the first time since everyone had arrived. I wandered upstairs to check on the guests.

  Two doors were open upstairs. I peeked into the first and saw Eliza Sue. She was reading a book, her suitcase already packed and waiting by the door. She looked like a librarian, sitting there in her dark blue cardigan and matching shoes.

  “How are you doing?” I asked.

  She glanced up before sliding a bookmark into the pages. “I’m good. Tired. Ready to go home.”

  “Mind if I come in?” I entered when she waved me in. “Now, where’s home again?”

  “Baltimore. I work at an accounting company down there.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “The Time Before Dawn. It’s a non-fiction piece on the Dark Ages.” She held up her book so I could read the title. “I love history. You know what they say, those who don’t learn history are doomed to repeat it.”

  “That’s so true. You know, there was a time, years ago, when I considered being a history teacher.”

  “Really? Why didn’t you do it?” she asked.