Poisoned Pie (Pineville Gazette Mystery Book 6)

by Wendy Meadows

  “Betty, can you keep a secret?” Mary asked. Yes, Mary’s life and way of living and the cowboy days were worlds apart—and Mary knew that someday, oh, say in the year 1960 (or to be really wild, the year 2000), Pineville would be considered an old cowboy town compared to the towns that were waiting to come to life. Still, Mary loved the old days of the 1920s and 1930s and wished she could walk back through time and repeat those years over and over and over again.

  “Betty, honey, I’m not a gal that likes change,” she explained and carefully helped Betty stand up. “That ugly lamp was a gift from Mac Norwood and his wife. Mac Norwood is an old college friend of John’s. He is a very obnoxious person but a smart businessman. His wife shy and sweet and…” Mary caught herself falling into a pointless story. “Long story short, honey, I kept the lamp because I didn’t have the heart to offend Mrs. Norwood. But let me tell you, I’m sure grateful you broke the lamp for me.”

  Betty smiled. “Oh, Mary, I’m so relieved.”

  “Me, too,” Mary laughed. “Come on, let’s go get a broom and clean up the mess.” Mary walked Betty into the kitchen and, instead of going for a broom, decided to leave the mess for later. “Let’s have coffee and pie first. That ugly old broken lamp isn’t going anywhere.”

  Betty didn’t like leaving messes but decided that a broken lamp wasn’t an emergency. She happily nodded her head, sat back down at the kitchen table, and watched Mary carve two slices of delicious apple pie. “Oh, doesn’t this pie look simply delicious.” She beamed as Mary set down two brown and white plates on the table.

  “I think this batch of pies was my best yet,” Mary confessed in a humble voice. She hurried to gather up two cups of coffee, returned to the table, and sat down. She said a prayer of thanks, smiled, and looked at Betty. As she did a feeling of absolute comfort and peace washed through her heart. “No trouble…no murder…no monsters,” she whispered. “I’m safe in my kitchen, eating pie with my darling friend, waiting for my husband to come home. Thank you, Lord.”

  “Amen.” Betty smiled and then, unable to control her hunger anymore, picked up a fork and dived into her piece of pie. “Oh my…this is your best batch, Mary,” she exclaimed. “The cinnamon is just right.”

  “I used too much cinnamon last time,” Mary confessed, taking a bite of her own pie. It was delicious. The taste danced softly with the falling snow outside and then asked the smell of coffee for a turn on the dance floor. “Betty?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you really believe John is coming home tomorrow?” Mary said in an excited voice. “It feels like a dream. I mean…look at all the trouble we’ve been through since John has been gone.”

  “Oh please, honey, don’t make me think the horrible times we barely lived through,” Betty begged.

  Mary leaned forward and thought of the old mansion she had visited in California. “Los Angeles wasn’t too awful…besides murder, I mean. The palm trees and beach were really nice.” Mary saw warm palm trees swaying in a bright sun that roamed over the roofs of mysterious mansions that were home to people who made movies. “We caught the killer.”

  Betty kept her eyes low and studied the pie she was eating. “I felt like I had been thrown into a murder mystery movie,” she told Mary. “I admit the sun and the palm trees…even the mansions…were nice. But Los Angeles is a place I could never call home.”

  “Me neither,” Mary confessed. “Los Angeles was appealing, I grant you that. The idea of living in a fancy mansion, making movies, attending darling parties, all of those sparkling gems can make a person dream big. I’m happy and content living right here in Pineville working at the newspaper with my family and friends. I don’t need bright lights and big screens….just give me the diner, a good cup of hot coffee, and a slice of apple pie.”

  Betty stared at Mary. Mary sure was beautiful enough to be a movie star. The woman was breathtaking in sight. Yet, Betty saw, Mary would never be able to fit in with movie stars. Mary was humble and clean in heart—a woman who would never be willing to sacrifice her self-respect or integrity to land a silly acting role. Mary would never allow her soul or heart to become numb in order to be accepted by a cold business that swallowed people’s hearts. “I’m glad that you’re who you are,” Betty said, smiling. “Pineville wouldn’t be the same if you left.”

  Mary blushed a little at the compliment. “Perhaps I should move to Maine,” she joked in order to take attention away from her.

  “Oh, please don’t make my mind remember that horrible nightmare,” Betty begged Mary. “I still have dreams about the creepy mansion we were trapped in…and that woman…oh Mary, we saw…” Betty felt chills run down her spine. “I’ll stay south of the Dixie line, thank you.”

  Mary understood Betty’s statement. To be truthful, she never intended to travel north of the Dixie line ever again either. The murder case she had tackled while visiting Maine had been enough to keep her spooked for years to come. “I’m staying south of the Dixie line, too,” she promised Betty. She took a bite of pie and looked around the kitchen. “You know, Betty,” she said in a worried voice, “I haven’t told John about any of the murder cases we’ve solved together. He’ll eventually find out…but I haven’t been able to bring myself to confess the truth…not with John fighting in the war…flying all of those dangerous missions. He didn’t need his mind to become distracted from his duties.”

  Betty took a bite of pie. “I’m sure John won’t be upset,” she promised Mary. “Besides, it appears that all of those dark, awful, ugly days are behind us now, Mary.” Betty took a sip of coffee. “We’re back home in Pineville, safe and sound. Tomorrow you’ll attend the pie eating contest and then go to the train station and pick up your husband. By this time tomorrow night the two of you will be sitting right here at this kitchen table drinking coffee and eating pie.”

  “Oh, how I wish,” Mary sighed in a dreamy voice.

  “Wish?” Betty asked, confused. “But I thought you said John—”

  Mary kicked herself. “Oh honey, you know me. I always expect the worst when something good is going to happen.” Mary studied her pie and then continued. “I’m just worried something is going to happen and John won’t be able to come home. I know that’s silly…irrational, even…but…” Mary kicked herself again. “Mother tried to teach me to count the raindrops before running for an umbrella. I always ran for the umbrella before counting the raindrops.”

  Betty reached out and patted Mary’s hand. “I’m sure John will arrive on the evening train safe and sound and right on time,” she promised. “You’re a little nervous and that’s to be expected. After all, you’ve spend quite a long time pacing around a very lonely house worrying about your husband. Now that he’s home it seems too good to be true. But don’t worry, honey, all of your worries are now over. John has survived the war and he’s home.”

  Betty’s words wrapped around Mary like a warm blanket. “Thank you,” she told Betty in a loving, sincere voice. “I needed to hear those words.” Mary patted Betty’s hand. “I guess my nerves are a little uneasy. The thought of John coming home…the thought of John just being a few states away in New York…oh, I’m so thrilled…but so scared at the same time. What if this is just a dream?”

  Mary stood up and walked to the back door, opening it and peering out into the dark snow. “But it’s not a dream,” she whispered, allowing the icy cold to sober her worried mind. “My husband is home…” Mary kept her eyes on the falling snow for a few moments and then returned back to Betty. “I say we have a second slice of pie, more coffee, and then you can help me choose what dress to wear to the train station tomorrow. I want to look beautiful for John.”

  “Sound like a fun night,” Betty said, beaming. But poor Betty wouldn’t have beamed if she had known that murder was once again looming in the air.

  Mary struggled to put on a pair of new beige pumps she had bought two weeks prior. She nearly tripped and crashed into the phone table but managed to catch her balance
at the last moment. “Oh, the trouble we women go through.” She sighed, slapped on her pump, and answered the ringing phone. “Betty?” she asked, expecting her friend to be calling from home. Betty’s mother had made an emergency call during the night and ordered Betty home.

  “No, dear, it’s John,” John answered in a loud, upset voice. He tossed a cigarette into his mouth, leaned against the front hotel counter, slid his pilot’s hat down over his eyes, and sighed.

  “John, darling, what’s the matter?” Mary asked, immediately reading her husband’s voice. “Is your rib okay?”

  “Mary, sweetheart, the city is snowed in. Bad storm came through last night and buried everything in snow. The trains won’t be moving until tomorrow,” John explained. He tucked the phone into his ear and lit the cigarette with a match. “Nothing is moving out there, honey. There’s up to three feet of snow just outside my hotel.”

  Mary felt tears sting her eyes. Count the raindrops before you grab the umbrella, her mother had told her. “Oh, darling…this is so horrible.” Mary glanced down at the lovely soft pink dress she had chosen to wear to meet John at the train station. She had decided to skip the pie eating contest, as much as she loved it, after Betty had been called home. Focusing on John had become her main priority. The contest could wait until next year. All she had to do was drop the pies off at the fairground, spend a couple of hours at the paper, and then run to the train station. Or so Mary had planned. “Simply horrible.”

  “I know, sweetheart,” John agreed in a miserable voice. “I’ll have to wait and take the train out tomorrow. I’m…sorry, honey. I hate this even more than you do. I barely slept a wink last night. I was up watching the storm, pacing and worrying. I guess I knew the worst was going to happen, but I was hoping against the odds.”

  Mary felt a tear slide down her cheek. “Oh, it’s not your fault,” she told John, struggling to sound brave. “Tomorrow…will come.” Mary checked the time. It was almost nine o’clock. Mrs. Johnson would be arriving at the fairgrounds at ten. The pie eating contest would begin at noon. “The winter fair is set up at the fairground. I wasn’t going to attend…I’m wearing a pretty dress I bought just for you. I guess now I can upstairs, change, and watch the contest after all.”

  John closed his eyes. “Mary, honey…I’m sorry,” was all he could say.

  “It’s not your fault, darling,” Mary assured him. “I’ll keep myself occupied today. That will make the time go by faster. We’ll…be in each other’s arms before we know it. I promise.”

  “Before we know it,” John sighed. He was even more disappointed than Mary was. “We’re only a few states apart…I should just stick out my thumb.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Mary scolded John. “You have a hurt rib, John Holland. Now, you listen to your wife. You march yourself back to your room and rest that rib…after eating a good, warm breakfast first. Do you hear me?”

  A smile touched John’s lips. “That’s my girl,” he told Mary in a loving voice. “I’ll call you tonight around dinner time, okay? There’s a few guys waiting in line to use the phone so I better go.”

  “I love you, darling. Call me tonight,” Mary begged.

  “Tonight,” John promised. He hung up the phone, fought back a tear, and wobbled back to his room with the help of a wooden cane. Ten minutes later he was fast asleep. Staying up all night watching the weather had tired him out.

  Mary, on the other hand, was well rested. Sure, Betty had been called home in the middle of the night, but Betty had left so fast that Mary barely had a chance to open her eyes. She managed to go right back to sleep right after Betty had left. “I guess I’ll go change into a warmer dress, deliver my pies, watch the contest, grab lunch at the diner…spend a few hours at the paper, and then come back home.”

  After changing into a warm gray and green dress, Mary grabbed her white and blue coat, tossed it on, and began hauling all of the apple pies she had baked to a 1942 Willys American Sedan. Her old car had been destroyed in a flood that had wiped out a summer camp in Oregon. “Just a few more pies,” Mary said, battling the icy morning temperatures and ankle-deep snow. The world outside of her warm home was white, freezing, and harsh—yet so beautiful. Mary studied the low gray sky as she hauled her pies outside and wondered about Wilma’s weather prediction. “I guess we’ll see,” she said, lugging the last pie into the trunk of the car. “Now it’s time to…let’s see…” Mary studied the frozen, snow-covered windshield on the car and then focused on the driveway. The driveway was snowed but not deep enough to need a plow. Surely, she thought, her car could challenge the snowy driveway without getting stuck. “But first I’ll have to do something about this window.”

  Mary hurried back inside and grabbed a metal spatula, a bucket of cold water, and a dish towel. She hurried back out to the car and went to work cleaning off the windshield. It took a very long time because the cold water Mary kept pouring into the windshield to melt the ice kept turning into ice. The metal spatula was helpless to advance any form of victory and the dish towel ended up becoming stuck to the windshield. Mr. O’Malley, Mary’s neighbor, saw Mary fighting with the windshield and finally came to her rescue. By the time Mary got on the road it was way past ten o’clock. “Oh, what a morning,” Mary complained as she crawled down the snowy roads and drove out to the fairgrounds.

  Mrs. Johnson was waiting in the parking lot next to a milk delivery truck. For a woman of sixty-four she stood very strong. She also looked very upset. Her still-lovely face was wrinkled up into a sour knot. “Mary Holland, where have you been?” she demanded.

  “I know…I know,” Mary frantically apologized to Mrs. Johnson as a light snow began to fall from the sky. “The pies are in my trunk.”

  Mrs. Johnson, ignoring the icy winds that were grabbing at her short gray hair and brown coat, snapped her fingers at two men who were standing close by puffing away on wooden pipes. “Wilbur, Matthew, get the pies and take them to the proper tent,” she said in a deep motherly voice. Wilbur and Matthew Johnson, both single men in their forties, didn’t say a word. They just went to Mary’s car and began unloading the pies. Everyone in Pineville knew not to argue with Mrs. Johnson, even her own two sons. Why? Well, Mrs. Johnson was Wilma’s sister and folks knew that just like Wilma, Mrs. Johnson sure could pack a wallop. “And you, Mary Holland, why are you so late?”

  Mary folded her arms and tucked her chin down against a gust of hard wind. “I had a little problem getting the snow off the windshield of my car,” she explained, feeling grumpy. The last thing she wanted or needed was for Old Lady Johnson to scold her over a bunch of silly pies. Calling Mrs. Johnson “Old Lady,” even in her head, immediately made Mary feel guilty. Mrs. Johnson was a good Christian woman who was simply rough around the edges. She had raised her two sons using the Bible as her guide and truth and had remained a faithful wife of forty years to a man who had been killed by a falling tree. Just because John had been delayed gave Mary no right to be bad-tempered or disrespectful toward a woman she admired and respected. “I didn’t put a cloth over the windshield like my husband taught me to do. It was all my fault.”

  Mrs. Johnson read Mary’s eyes and sensed a deep sadness that only another woman could understand. “Well…you’re here now, dear,” she said, softening her tone, “and that’s what matters. Now, why don’t you go enjoy the festival until it’s time for the pie eating contest?”

  Mary raised her eyes and looked out toward the fairgrounds. The snow-covered field was decorated with bright winter tents of all colors. Some of the tents were food tents; ladies selling pies, cakes, cornbread, and other baked goods. Other tents held livestock and horses. Some tents held winter games while some were set up to host events like the pie eating contest. Mary spotted a few campfires that had been lit; the campfires were sitting at comfortable intervals from one another, allowing all the brave hearts who were daring enough to accept the morning cold a chance to warm up without crowding each other. “I…guess I could,” she said, s
truggling to sound like her old self. “Have you seen William?”

  “William?” Mrs. Johnson asked. “Ha, that bed bug won’t crawl out from his warm blanket until this afternoon. It’s like that every year. He arrives right when everyone is going home, ask a few questions, takes a photo or two, and then leaves.”

  Mary winced. It was no secret that William disliked winter almost as much as Betty did. “I was hoping this year would be different and—” She stopped talking when her eyes spotted Loretta MacNight leave a blue and white tent with a tall stranger. Loretta was wearing a fancy white coat and a very expensive white winter hat that made her appear European instead of American. Mary knew that if Loretta was wearing her best that meant serious business. “Mrs. Johnson, who is that with Loretta MacNight?” Mary asked in a quick voice. She pointed at Loretta.

  Mrs. Johnson turned and found Loretta with her eyes. “I don’t rightly know,” she answered Mary in a truthful voice. “It’s my business to stay away from Loretta MacNight. That woman is a sour pea that turns my stomach. I don’t go meddling in her business.”

  “I understand,” Mary said and decided to not bother with Loretta herself. So what if Loretta was with a stranger? Mary had her husband and the weather to worry about. Her interest in Loretta MacNight was quickly fading. “Well, I think I’ll go to the pie eating tent and get a good seat. I’ll walk around and enjoy the sights later.”

  Mrs. Johnson studied Mary’s eyes. “What’s bothering you?” she asked. “Every year at this time you’re bouncing around like an excited child, Mary. You love the pie eating contest more than anyone I know. Why? Who knows? A bunch of men eating pies is very silly to me.”