Poisoned Pie (Pineville Gazette Mystery Book 6)

by Wendy Meadows

  “William was hit with a gun,” Mary explained. “He has an ugly bump on his head and on top of that he has a horrible cold. I feel terrible bringing him into this mess. Betty is taking him to Doc Downing’s house right now.”

  “And you,” Mrs. Holland glanced up at Mary, “decided to remain behind and play detective?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have any other choice,” Mary confessed. “Mrs. Owlton, I have to solve this case. My husband is due in town tomorrow and I don’t want him returning home to find his wife neck deep in a murder case.” Mary let out a tired breath. “It won’t take long for John to find out by word of mouth that I’ve been involved in quite a few murder cases since he’s been gone.”

  “Yes, so I’ve heard,” Mrs. Owlton said.

  Mary nodded. “Pineville…Los Angeles…Maine…Oregon…nearly drowned in Oregon when a dam was deliberately sabotaged. I lost my car…I’m still not sure how I’m going to explain losing my car to John.” Mary sighed. “Mrs. Owlton, all I want…desire…is for things to go back to normal…the way they were before John left before the war. It seems that once John left…oh, trouble began. No, not trouble…murder.”

  Mrs. Owlton patted Mary’s hand the way a loving grandmother would. “Sometimes, dear, a good dose of trouble is good for a person.” Mary gave Mrs. Owlton a confused eye. Mrs. Owlton smiled. “Dear, out of all the women I know in Pineville, not a single one of them has any negative remarks toward you…not even Mrs. Mitter, who seems to hold a grudge against everyone. Folks in Pineville think well of you and that’s a sweet gift to have. But sometimes folks see what they want to see. Why, no one would have ever guessed that Mary Holland would have been involved with a spy.”

  Mary thought back to the first murder case she had tackled. A poor farmer who had been hiding a French spy had been killed by a corrupt FBI agent who was a spy himself. When Mary put the case into her mind it seemed unreal. Had she really been tangled up in a murder case involving a real-life spy? Why, John would lean his head back and laugh at such an idea. How could his sweet Mary ever become involved in such treacherous waters? “Mrs. Owlton—”

  “My dear,” Mrs. Owlton said, “sometimes a woman has a fire burning inside of her that has to be fed sometimes. Now, I’m not saying you’re a wild tiger running loose in our old world. All I’m saying is that I see a fierce sense of justice burning in your heart, Mary Holland. You’re not the type of woman to hide under the bed. And sometimes, dear, it takes a little trouble to make a woman realize what’s burning inside of her heart.”

  “All I want is for Pineville to go back to the way it was before John left,” Mary pleaded. “I’ve had my share of murder, Mrs. Owlton, and I hate…despise…the taste. I’ve been in dark cellars with some very dangerous monsters and I didn’t like it.”

  “But yet, dear, here you stand. You could have easily driven away with your friend Betty, but instead you walked over to my home.” Mrs. Owlton patted Mary’s hand again. “You may desire to return back to the past, dear, but don’t deny that what is happening to you is changing you into a stronger woman.”

  Mary pondered on Mrs. Owlton’s statement. Her mind began to wander through all the murder cases she had been involved in. She thought about the movie studio in Los Angeles and how she had found a killer living in a western house tucked away on a closed back lot. She thought about the creepy mansion in Maine. How she had nearly drowned in Oregon. She finished off by thinking again about the spy case she had managed to live through. Then, to her own amazement, Mary felt a tingling in her heart. What was the tingling? “I…do feel stronger as a woman,” she whispered. “I feel…able to finally see through the black and white words I write and…become part of…the world.”

  Mrs. Owlton smiled. “When I was a very young girl, dear,” she explained, “I, too, ventured into a dark closet.”

  “You?” Mary asked in a shocked voice.

  “Right here in Pineville, back in the old days, four murders happened. I helped the local sheriff solve those murders and nearly died doing so.” Mrs. Owlton returned her eyes back to the snow. “I’m far too old to dare such a thing now…a girl of twenty is far stronger than the old woman you see now.” Mrs. Owlton placed her hands behind her back. “Mary, we have a killer on the loose and a difficult mystery to solve….well, you do, not me.”

  Mary locked her eyes on the snow. “Okay, Mrs. Owlton,” she said, drawing in a breath of courage, “I guess I need to get to work, then. I’ll go over to Loretta’s home and have a look around.”

  “That’s my girl.” Mrs. Owlton gave her a proud smile. “If I see anything I’ll give you a call. I’ll be, in a sense, your eyes and ears in the snow.”

  “You’re wonderful.” Mary hugged Mrs. Owlton. “After I solve this case I want to sit down and have you tell me all about the things you did as a young woman.”

  “Oh now,” Mrs. Owlton blushed, “that might take longer than this old lady has left to live. Now, hurry. You have work to do.”

  “Right.” Mary said goodbye to Mrs. Owlton and trudged back out into the snow. She focused on Loretta’s house and decided to have confidence in Mrs. Owlton. Surely, she thought, walking through the dark snow, if Mrs. Owlton saw an intruder she would pick up the phone and yell.

  “Okay, Mrs. Owlton,” Mary whispered, reaching Loretta’s house, “here I go.” Mary entered through the front door, closed it, and let her eyes carefully walk around as she listened for any strange sound. At least I’m not trapped in a creepy mansion, she thought, looking toward the front staircase and then toward the hallway leading toward the kitchen. Mrs. Owlton had told Mary that the intruder had broken in through the attic window. “Well, that’s…a good place to look,” Mary whispered in an uneasy voice. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was investigate a spooky attic. But a reporter didn’t have the privilege to pick and choose—the quest for truth meant daring the darkest closets. “Okay…here I go.”

  Mary walked up the front staircase. She ended up standing in the second-floor hallway. To her left was a row of doors and to her right was the same. Directly in front of Mary, down a short hallway, was a closed door that she assumed led up into the attic. Mary took a second, examined the hallway—a hallway that reminded her of a rose garden—and when she felt confident enough, dared the attic door. To her relief the attic door was unlocked.

  “Okay, up we go,” she whispered and began to climb up a set of creepy old wooden steps. At the top stood a long, narrow attic filled with old furniture, boxes, and sheets. The attic, to Mary’s relief, wasn’t as creepy as the wooden steps. As a matter of fact, the attic appeared normal in every sense. As far as Mary could see there were no hidden monsters or scary snowmen hiding behind the furniture or boxes. The attic was just a plain old ordinary attic attached to a house made of wood and stone. Nothing scary about the attic at all…just wood and stone…some nails…nothing more.

  Or so Mary thought. When a hand reached out and grabbed her shoulder she screamed and nearly fainted. Someone was in the attic with her.

  7

  Wilbur nervously yanked his hand away from Mary’s shoulder and stumbled back to an old couch. “Mrs. Holland…don’t be scared. It’s me…Wilbur Johnson.”

  Mary spun around and stared at Wilbur with frightened, shocked eyes. The poor man was just as scared as she was. “Wilbur Johnson?” she asked in a shaky voice.

  Wilbur quickly shoved his hands onto the heavy gray coat he was wearing and then tucked his chin down so low that the fedora he was wearing hid his face. “I’m sure sorry I scared you.”

  Relief washed over Mary. Wilbur Johnson, a plump, short little man with a graying beard, had grabbed her shoulder, not some hideous attic monster. “Wilbur, what are you—” Mary stopped in mid-statement. Of course, she thought. “Wilbur, you helped Loretta install the poisoned pie, didn’t you?”

  Wilbur kept his head low. “Mrs. Holland, I didn’t know the pie was poisoned…honest. Loretta told me she was sweet on Brent Presley and wa
nted him to eat her pie. I…I’ve always kinda been sweet on Loretta myself, so I helped her place the pie…but I didn’t change the tape with the names, honest I didn’t. Loretta changed the names around…didn’t make any sense to me. Why didn’t she just have me put her pie in Mr. Presley’s row? Now the pie she claimed was for Mr. Presley was going to be given to the other fella, the one who died.” Wilbur slowly raised his head in shame. “I reckon I should’ve asked, but Loretta was being sweet on me…she even kissed my cheek…reckon my cheeks turned too red to let me think straight. I…didn’t really start thinking straight until after that fella died.”

  Mary struggled to make sense of the words Wilbur was speaking. All Mary knew was that Loretta had concocted a clever scheme that involved murder. She began to wonder if Mark Jones had really been involved with the poisoned pie at all. After all, Mrs. Owlton did tell Mary that she had seen Loretta leave her home alone the night Loretta came by her house to ask for a pie. Why would Mark Jones allow Loretta to leave alone? Certain questions that had been hidden under the snow began to bloom in Mary’s mind.

  “Why did you come to Loretta’s house, Wilbur?” she asked.

  “To tell Loretta that I don’t like being made a fool of,” Wilbur explained in a voice that hinted at anger. Of course, Wilbur Johnson’s version of being angry was stomping one foot and pointing a finger. The man was harmless; Wilbur possessed an innocent heart that people could easily take advantage of, and unfortunately, Loretta MacNight had done that very thing. “I got here about five minutes ago. I came through the back door…didn’t want Mrs. Owlton seeing me.” Wilbur studied the attic, not knowing that Loretta was listening to his every word. “When I didn’t find Loretta I decided to cheek the attic. Reckon that sounds plumb dumb, but you can never tell where people are at. Anyways, when I heard someone coming up the attic stairs I got nervous and hid behind that couch. When I saw that person was you…well, Mrs. Holland, I sure didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I’m just relieved that it was you that grabbed my shoulder and not Mr. Presley,” Mary said, hoping to be witty and bait Wilbur for more information. Maybe, she hoped, Wilbur’s simple mind was hiding more information than he realized.

  Wilbur glanced around the attic. “That Mr. Presley is a sour man,” he said in a low voice. “I reckon I’ll never know how my momma talked him into participating in the pie eating contest. Reckon I’ll never know why a man like that would want to get pie on his face to begin with.”

  Mary wasn’t sure, either. Why had Mr. Presley decided to join the pie eating contest? Surely, she thought, a man like Brent Presley wouldn’t become a willing duck in a silly old pie eating contest. Surely all Brent Presley had to do was politely turn down Mrs. Johnson’s invitation. Unless…Mary felt a strange idea strike her mind.

  “I might know why,” she said. “Right now I need to find Loretta. I’m afraid her life is in danger, Wilbur.” Mary studied the attic, walked her eyes over to the wardrobe closet, and then shifted them to a stack of boxes.

  Loretta, hearing every word Mary and Wilbur were speaking, desperately attempted to form a plan in her mind. If Brent returned for her, surely he would kill her. If Loretta allowed Mary to rescue her, even though Wilbur was present, at least she would still have a chance to save her parents. With no option but the obvious to rely on, Loretta began hitting the inside of the wardrobe closet with her shoulders. Mary’s eyes went wide and Wilbur nearly jumped out of his skin.

  Mary held up a cautious hand. “Quiet,” she whispered, and, on careful legs, she crept toward the wardrobe closet. Wilbur followed close behind. “Loretta…Loretta MacNight…are you in there?” Loretta, her mouth taped shut, moaned as loud as she could. “Loretta,” Mary sighed in relief. She yanked the wardrobe closet open and helped Loretta out. “Oh honey, I was worried sick about you.”

  Wilbur ran to Loretta and began to untie her. A few minutes later Loretta was free. “Who did this to you?” Wilbur demanded.

  “I’m…not sure…he was wearing a mask,” Loretta answered in a shaky voice, deliberately protecting Brent. Loretta knew if she pointed a finger at Brent, that would put the wrong set of events in place. Loretta had been ordered to kill Brent and the last thing she needed was for Sheriff Mables to arrest the man. No, she needed Brent free in order to be able to hunt him down. And now that she was free, Loretta thought, she was in a position of power. “I don’t know who the man was,” she said.

  Mary knew Loretta was lying but wasn’t sure why. “Well, you’re safe and that’s what is important.”

  Loretta stared at Mary. Mary and Betty also had to die. But she didn’t want to kill Mary or Betty. The two women were being so kind to her. Yet, Loretta thought, it was either obey or be killed herself, which meant that Mary Holland and her faithful sidekick had to die. But how? Loretta wasn’t sure yet. She needed time to think, time to form a plan, and time to act.

  “I think I’ll go downstairs and have a glass of water,” Loretta said. “That tape dried my mouth out.”

  “Wait a minute,” Wilbur barked. “Loretta MacNight, I drove all the way over to your house to tell you that I don’t like being made a fool of and you sure made a fool out of me this morning.”

  Mary folded her arms and waited for Loretta to respond. “Yes, Loretta, it does seem your amazing pie story does have some holes in it.”

  Loretta knew her back was in a corner. So she did what any woman in her position would do: She pouted. “Oh, Wilbur, I thought I could trust you. Some friend you are,” she said and then stormed out of the attic.

  Wilbur felt his cheeks turn red with embarrassment. “Loretta…I just meant…I mean…” he blubbered and chased after Loretta.

  Mary rolled her eyes. Poor Wilbur had fallen for the oldest trick in the book. But that didn’t matter. Wilbur was a small fish. Brent Presley was the fish Mary was after. But, she thought, walking out of the attic, what about Loretta? Why had Brent Presley shoved Loretta into a wardrobe closet and left her alive?

  “Unless he’s coming back for her,” Mary whispered and then kicked herself. “Of course…oh, how stupid. Now I have to figure out a way to get Loretta back into that wardrobe closet.”

  Loretta barged into her kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and watched as Wilbur nervously peeked his head in. Wilbur, she suddenly realized, was her ticket. “Wilbur, darling, perhaps I was being a bit too drastic,” she said in a quick voice. “Please—come here.”

  Wilbur entered the kitchen on nervous legs. “I—”

  “Wilbur, will you please deliver a message to Mr. Presley for me?” Loretta said, hurrying to speak to Wilbur before Mary arrived in the kitchen. Time was not on her side.

  “I suppose I can,” Wilbur sighed. He felt horrible for upsetting Loretta.

  “Please tell Mr. Presley that Loretta sends him her best wishes and would like to talk to him tomorrow. Please have Mr. Presley call me.”

  “Shouldn’t you go to the sheriff and report being tied up?” Wilbur asked in a concerned voice.

  “Oh, our sheriff couldn’t find an elephant in a bathroom.” Loretta pouted again. She had to reel Wilbur in real good. “Please, Wilbur darling, deliver my message to Mr. Presley. I would call him but…well, a personal message is more…well, personal.” Loretta looked at the kitchen door. “And one more thing, after you deliver my message, give me a call.”

  Wilbur nodded his head in agreement just as Mary entered the kitchen. Loretta took a quick sip of water. “Where are William and Betty?” she asked.

  “Betty took William to Doc Downing,” Mary explained. “The masked man hit him on the head and knocked him out.” She added: “Then Betty is going to speak with the sheriff.”

  Loretta forced her face to remain calm. Of course Betty would involve the sheriff. After all, poor William had been assaulted and knocked senseless. However, that meant the sheriff would surely be paying Loretta a visit. She had to prepare, which required patience. Mary Holland would have to be killed after the sheriff s
aid hello and goodbye. Loretta honestly didn’t want to kill Mary or Betty—Loretta didn’t want to harm anyone. All she wanted was everything to go back to normal. How she hated the entire mess. How she hated making an agreement with Mark Jones and Brent Presley. How she hated herself for the lies…the deceit…the betrayal.

  “I suppose Sheriff Mables will pay me a visit,” Loretta said.

  “He might,” Mary said. “Loretta, before the sheriff arrives I think we need to go back up into the attic.”

  “What for?” Loretta asked.

  Mary studied the gas stove as if she were in deep thought. “I think I might be able to identify the man who broke into your home,” she explained, pulling off one of her best acting tricks ever. “But first I need you to walk me through what happened to you tonight…every single step…ending with the attic. Hopefully we’ll be able to draw up some grand conclusions before Sheriff Mables arrives.”

  Loretta saw an opening appear. If she could send Wilbur away then perhaps Mary Holland could be lured back up into the attic…and…and…placed into the wardrobe closet. Yes, that was the ticket. Loretta would deceive Mary, overpower the woman once they arrived in the attic, and hide her in the wardrobe closet until later. “Wilbur, darling, you must leave now.”

  Wilbur looked at Mary with sorrowful eyes. “Tell Sheriff Mables that I’ll be home in a bit if he wants to talk to me.”

  “Okay, Wilbur,” Mary promised. She watched Wilbur leave out of the back door and then focused on Loretta. “Ready?” she asked.

  Loretta set down the glass of water she was holding and nodded her head. “We’ll begin in the hallway,” she said. “I was put in the hallway closet while William was attacked.”

  Mary followed Loretta out of the kitchen and walked back to the front hallway. Loretta, putting on her best acting face, went through a whole act of drama and tears as she explained to Mary how frightened she had been. “I thought…I was dead. And poor William…oh, the poor dear.”