As soon as we parked and got out of the big yellow VW bus, Brian, the owner of the local coffee spot, walked over to meet us. Even under such stressful circumstances, Brian had a serene, SoCal vibe that put me at ease.
“Miss May. Chels. Hey.”
Miss May greeted Brian with a hug. “Any idea what’s going on?”
“Nah. Not yet.” Brian rubbed his hands together to keep them warm.
“How about the text?” I said. “Any word on who sent it?”
Brian broke into his wide, California smile. “Look at you two. Barely rested after solving the biggest case in Pine Grove history, and you’re already working a new mystery.”
Miss May and I exchanged a look. We weren’t doing that... were we?
“We just want to figure out what’s going on,” Miss May said. “Like everybody else.”
“Whatever you say, Sherlock.” Brian chuckled. “Hey, I brought hot cocoa from the shop if you two want some.”
“We brought hot cocoa from our shop!” I said.
“Stiff competition,” Brian said. “Maybe we should conduct a blind taste test. Loser buys the winner an ad in next week's paper. ‘Best Cocoa for a Creepy Meet-Up.’”
“Your hot chocolate’s obviously better than mine,” Miss May said. “But if you'd like to go toe-to-toe on baked goods, you’re on.”
“I buy my baked goods from you!” Brian shook his head in good-natured disbelief, but his smile faded. “So you guys think this is about that slime-ball Fitz?”
“He’s got your money too?” Miss May looked concerned.
As Brian and Miss May chatted, I craned my neck to see who else was over by the picnic table. Gigley was there. So was Sudeer, and a few other small business owners from town.
“Everyone’s over there, huh?” I asked.
Brian nodded. “Yep. But I'm not sure what we’re supposed to do if whoever sent that text doesn’t show their face.”
Miss May pointed out towards the woods: “That may be them now.”
I looked over and saw a hooded figure approaching from the darkness, using a small flashlight to guide the way.
I took a few steps back toward the van, ready to flee if things turned ugly. But Miss May walked right out to meet the figure.
“Miss May!” I called after her. But she kept walking out into the field, so I trotted past the picnic table to catch up. The others followed a few steps behind me. And three seconds later, we were all standing mere feet from the mysterious Pine Grove Texter.
Miss May addressed the hooded figure without a trace of fear in her voice. “Who are you?”
The hooded figure just stood there.
“Did you send that text?” Miss May’s voice was sharp, purposeful. Again, the hooded figure did not respond. Miss May continued, annoyed. “Oh, come on. I can't be here all night. If you're not going to—”
The figure held up a leather-gloved hand to halt Miss May, then... it spoke.
“Welcome, all. Thank you for coming. I have a great deal to tell you. But before we begin, I must collect all cell phones, tablets, and other mobile devices.”
Miss May laughed. “Seriously!? It's you?”
“Who's you?” I asked.
The figure removed its hood, and the crowd erupted with whispers.
It was Liz, the editor — and only reporter — from the Pine Grove Gazette.
Miss May shook her head, “Nice entrance, Liz. Dramatic,”
“This is a dramatic situation,” Liz said. “Now. Make with the mobile devices.”
Gigley turned away from Liz to shield her from his phone. “I don't like this. Why do you need our phones?”
“Because,” Liz said. “You can never be too careful.”
“I’m keeping mine,” Gigley said.
“That’s fine,” Liz said. “I hereby adjourn this meeting.”
Liz turned and walked back towards the forest. Miss May turned to Gigley. “Tom, it’s Liz. Humor her.”
“It’s the principle of the matter,” Gigley said.
“Gimme the darn phone,” Miss May snatched Gigley's phone and called out to Liz. “Yoo-hoo! Got his phone! We’re all good!”
Liz turned back. “Are there any others who have an issue with my methodologies?”
No one spoke up, so Liz opened her purse and walked from person to person, nodding as they dropped their phones into her bag. Once Liz had all the phones, she reclaimed her spot at the head of the group.
“I have gathered you all here today, because I suspect Charles Fitz...has swindled you.”
“We knew that!” Gigley said. “Fitz got every business owner in town.”
Brian and Miss May grumbled in agreement. Within a few seconds the whole group was arguing loudly about what to do.
I could see that things were erupting into total chaos, so I decided to be proactive.
“Guys, let’s try to listen to Liz!” I shouted, but no one so much as looked in my direction. I tried again. “Quiet down, everyone! Liz has something to say!”
Miss May climbed onto the picnic table and stomped her big, booted foot. “Shut your apple pie holes, people!”
Everyone stopped talking and Miss May gestured toward me, calm as could be. “Chels, you have something to say?”
I froze. “Oh. So. Um, I was wondering... If everyone might want to perhaps listen to Liz? She could have helpful information.”
“Thank you, Chelsea,” Liz said. “I’m glad someone here appreciates my investigative leg-work.”
Miss May sighed. “Get down to business, Liz.”
“OK.” Liz cleared her throat and smoothed her jacket. “As I'm sure you are all aware, Charles Fitz is managing a large sum of money for every person gathered here. Further, each of us has requested a withdrawal, which Charles has refused or delayed the process. Thus, I suspect that Charles has spent our money, or worse, lost it in a risky investment. And I've gathered everyone here this evening to discuss a course of action.”
“What's the course of action?” I asked.
“I don't have one,” Liz said. “That's what I want to discuss.”
“You don't have a plan?” Gigley said. “Then why are we here?”
Liz shrugged. “A clandestine meeting seemed appropriate. Isn't this how scandals work?”
Sudeer stepped forward. “The first step usually involves contacting the authorities. Have you been in touch with the cops or the FBI?”
A voice boomed from the darkness behind us. “There’s no need.”
I turned toward the sound, and there was Detective Wayne Hudson, stepping out from behind a tree. With his broad shoulders and confident swagger, he looked like a cowboy. Except for the fact that he was hiding behind a tree, which was not cowboy-like at all.
I couldn’t help but take a good-natured jab. “Wayne. Were you hiding behind a tree?”
“I was conducting surveillance on Liz,” Wayne turned to Liz. “Last week, Charles Fitz filed a complaint that you've been stalking him.”
“That's ridiculous,” Liz said. “I just happened to be in the same places as him, on several occasions, every day.”
“It's fine,” Wayne said. “He didn't press charges. But he did express concern that you might be spreading rumors about him and his business.”
“What rumors?” Miss May asked. “Everything Liz said is true.”
“Sure,” Wayne said. “Except the part where Charles lost everyone's money.”
“He still has the cash?” Brian asked.
Wayne nodded.
“How can you be sure?” Liz asked. “Everyone here is waiting on a withdrawal.”
“Officer Flanagan and I have been watching Fitz since long before you have,” Wayne said to Liz. “We brought him into the station last week, and he gave us full access to his accounts. Turns out he’s had a dozen withdrawal requests in the last week alone. Everyone overreacting to volatility in the market. He needs time to process the requests. That’s all.”
“Or he's thinking about
skipping town with everyone's money,” Gigley said. “Isn't that what these 'wealth managers' do?”
“He can't skip town,” Wayne said. “We've got him flagged in the system. If he so much as pays a toll on the way out of Pine Grove, we’ll bring him into the station for questioning.”
Liz stepped forward. “I think you’re on his payroll! Charles told you to come here and lie to us, didn't he?”
“He did not,” Wayne said. “And I've more than proven my commitment to this town.”
“Eh,” Miss May said, ribbing Wayne. My aunt and I had played an integral role in solving Pine Grove’s last big crime, and Miss May wasn’t about to give Detective Hudson all the credit.
Liz wasn’t ready to back down either.
“I don't buy it,” Liz said. “I detect corruption, manipulation, deceit, and lies! And I will not rest until—”
Liz's phone buzzed. “Until...”
Her phone buzzed again. She checked it and her face dropped. “Oh.”
“What happened?” Gigley said.
Liz looked down. “I uh... I got my transfer from Charles. My withdrawal request came through.”
“All of it?” Gigley asked.
Liz nodded. “Every penny.”
“So the cop is right,” Gigley said. “Next time you host a secret rendezvous, can we do it someplace warm?”
Liz nodded and kicked at the snow, like a child caught misbehaving. “Sorry, everyone.”
“It’s fine,” Miss May rubbed Liz's back. “We appreciate all you do for us. And for this town. Right, gang?”
“That’s right,” Brian said. “But man, am I happy you were wrong!”
The group laughed in relief, but as I looked from face to smiling face... I couldn't shake an uneasy feeling.
As Detective Hudson turned to leave, I followed him out to the parking lot. I was on the hunt for more information.
WAYNE DIDN'T LOOK UP as he unlocked his car. “Are you following me?”
“Don't flatter yourself, Officer.” I surprised myself with my sass.
“Detective,” Wayne said as he turned to me. “So what were you doing?”
“I guess... I was following you.” I hung my head.
Wayne grinned. “Well, I’m not going back to hide in the trees, if that’s what you’re hoping.”
I grinned right back. “Why would I hope that?”
Wayne shrugged. “No reason.”
Wayne seemed relaxed as he leaned on his unmarked cruiser, but my insides were in full-on panic mode. Was this flirting? I had no idea. But Wayne was looking at me like it was my turn to talk. Oh right. It was my turn to talk!
“Actually. I wanted to talk to you,” I said.
“We're talking. Mission accomplished.”
“No. About... Charles. And the money.”
“I've already said way too much tonight,” Wayne said. “Sorry.”
Wayne turned back toward his car, but I caught his arm. He paused, looking at the spot where my hand had landed.
“You're sure everything is OK?” I asked. “Charles isn’t some kind of Bernie Madoff who wants to screw us all over?”
“I'm sure,” Wayne said. “Bernie Madoff was smart. Charles...not so much.”
“Good,” I said. “I mean, that’s not good. But I’m glad. I mean, I’m not glad, but—”
“I get what you mean,” Wayne said.
“OK. Thank you. Detective.”
I looked up. Wayne's eyes sparkled in the moonlight, and I wondered how my eyes looked. Probably bloodshot and watery, if history was any indication.
“Was there something else you wanted to ask me?” Wayne had apparently noticed me staring into his stupid twinkly eyes.
“Yes. Uh... Are you going to the Winter Festival this weekend? It's your first big festival since you moved to Pine Grove, right?”
“Festivals aren't my thing,” Wayne said. “I'll probably skip it.”
I tried to hide my disappointment. “Oh. Cool.”
“If I do go, will you slip me a free cookie or something?”
“For a hard-working detective like yourself, I don't see why not.” Again, I surprised myself with my flirty sass. Was I getting good at this stuff? Probably not.
Wayne smirked. “In that case, maybe I'll see you there.”
With that, Wayne climbed into his car and started it up. My face flushed as he pulled away. I had tried to play it cool, but I really wanted to bump into him at the festival.
I had no idea I'd be bumping into a dead body instead.
3
Deadly Donuts
JUST TWO DAYS LATER, the business owners and townspeople of Pine Grove had moved on from the drama with Charles, straight into the joyous spectacle that was our annual Winter Festival.
The event took place at the walking track in the center of town. Five minutes after the opening of the proverbial doors, hundreds of people milled about, red-nosed and eager to warm themselves with the festival’s hot food and beverage offerings.
The bright blue sky didn’t have a single cloud. A fresh layer of powder covered the field. Long, glistening icicles hung off the roof of the gazebo. A Parks and Rec employee stumbled around dressed like “Father Winter” in a big, fake beard. And dozens of vendors formed two long rows down the field, each offering a free treat for guests as well as selling local baked goods or crafts.
Mayor Delgado had put her streetlight manifesto on a brief hold and had instead dedicated almost half of the town’s winter budget to the festival. She said Pine Grove needed the PR after all the negative press following the “unfortunate incident”at the orchard.
Mayor Delgado refused to refer to Vinny’s death as a murder. When visitors or local bloggers asked her about that ill-fated wedding, she told them a man “slipped and fell in the creek.”
I thought sugar-coating a homicide fell into a moral gray area, but Mayor Delgado seemed to think the ends justified the means when it came to protecting Pine Grove’s reputation. Even if that meant lying. Or throwing a bunch of money at the problem.
Based on the size of the crowd and the smiles on people’s faces at the Winter Fest, Mayor Delgado’s investment had paid off. Every single attendee looked like they were smack-dab in the middle of a memory that would last a lifetime.
An old woman took a big sip of hot chocolate and came up with whipped cream on her nose. Chubby twin toddlers threw snowballs at one another. A young mother held her infant close to her chest to protect the newborn baby from the cold.
It was all so sweet, it made me want to cry. OK. It made me cry. But only one tear. Two tears, max. Fine. Maybe I cried three tears. Four at most.
It was the sight of those snowball-throwing kids that got me.
When I was a kid, I had looked forward to the Winter Festival all year. My parents would let me visit every booth, and time after time, I would get sick on samples. Then Mom, Dad, and I would help Miss May pack up her booth and we’d all head back to the orchard. May would make hot toddies and give me a ‘virgin toddy’ (which I realize now was just tea). Then we’d all sit around the fireplace while my parents and May traded family folklore.
That year was the first time I had been to the festival since my parents died. I thought about my mom and dad a lot, of course. But something about seeing those families playing in the snow at the Winter Fest brought an extra-sharp pang of nostalgia to my chest. Maybe because I wasn’t just missing my parents, I was also missing my own childhood self.
How strange, I thought, I don’t remember ever feeling cold when I was a little kid.
I smiled through my four tears and marveled that Memory Lane can be such a bittersweet place to stroll.
But then the harsh whine of an unhappy customer brought me skidding back into the present.
“Ten dollars for a dozen donuts!? I thought the crud at this ‘festival’ was supposed to be free.”
The crowd in front of our booth parted as a woman about my age pushed her way to the front of the line. She was s
hort, and she had thick, curly hair and cat-eye glasses. I recognized her as Jennifer Paul, one of the not-so-nice girls from my high school. Jennifer and I had always had a bit of a frenemy-ship, as in we were mostly enemies but I still felt an obligation to be nice to her.
That’s why I had been avoiding Jennifer since moving back to Pine Grove a few months ago. It had been tough because Jennifer was the only hairdresser in town. But I shuddered at the mere notion of spending an hour making small talk with Jennifer while she took scissors to my head. Especially because her haircuts weren’t even that hot.
It was embarrassing to admit, but I had been getting my hair cut down-county to avoid talking to Jennifer. One time I had even taken the train into Manhattan to one of those “hairdresser in training” places and gotten my cut there. My hair had come out looking like a drunk squirrel had styled it, but I still preferred that to being held hostage by Jennifer’s conversational sandbagging.
I could imagine how our 'small-talk' would go. She’d say something like, “How have you been?” I’d say, “Good.” And she’d retort with something like, “Really? Even after Mike ran out like that?! If I were you, I’d just crawl in a hole and die.” I couldn’t do it. So I hadn't.
As Jennifer approached my booth, I knew the jig was up. I had nowhere to run, and I had nowhere to hide. So I did the next best thing...I pretended not to recognize her.
“Hello miss! We’re selling donuts by the dozen, but everyone at the fest can also have one free sample. How about I slip you two for free, because of the misunderstanding?”
“What do you mean, 'miss?' It’s me. Jennifer Paul. From high school?” Jennifer looked at me with her face all scrunched up like I was the stupidest person on earth.
I averted my eyes, unsure how to respond. That’s when I noticed a burly man off to the left of the line who seemed to be checking Jennifer out. His skulking frame looked out of place among the buoyant townspeople. He had a dark ball cap pulled down over his eyes and a cigarette dangling from between his lips. From beneath the brim of his hat, he was staring at Jennifer in a not-completely-platonic way.
Figures, I thought. Jennifer tended to attract shady guys. In the right light her short stature and bouncing curly hair gave her a cute innocence, like a 30-year-old Shirley Temple. In the wrong light she looked like a shrunken ice queen with a thirst for blood.
Cooking the Books Page 2