WHISKING EVERYTHING

CHELSEA THOMAS
 CONTENTS

1. The Keys to the Kingdom

2. Raging Turnbull
3. Murder on the Menu
4. Spiked Apple Cider
5. Solar Eclipse
6. A Spike in Sales
7. Take the Long Wayne Home
8. Game Face
9. Not Horsing Around
10. No Use Crying Over Spilled Sprinkles
11. Driving Toward Answers
12. Murphy’s Law
13. Sam I Am
14. Booze Baby Blues
15. Not a Lick of Sleep
16. Dusting off Clues
17. Catering to Our Needs
18. Turnbull of Events
19. Bathroom Blues
20. Funeral Foes
21. A Whiff of Death
22. The Rat King Reigns Again
23. Deconstructing Wanda
24. Trailing Behind
25. Pedal to the Meddling
26. A Suspect Called Wanda
27. Secret Menu
28. Turnbull in a China Shop
29. Co-Ed Cooperation
30. Mustard the Courage
31. Turnbully
32. Hazy Memories
33. A Delgado of a Doubt
34. Arrested Development
35. Home Alone
36. Wanda Vision
37. Extra, Extra
38. Free at Last
39. Sleeper Hits
40. Miss May Goes to Washington
41. Killer Ideas
42. Big Dan’s Big Breakthrough
43. Gruel Intentions
Author’s Note
Copyright & Disclaimer

Whisking Everything © Chelsea Thomas, 2021

Disclaimer -- All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in
any form, or by any means, including mechanical or electronic, without written permission from the
author.

While the author has made every effort to ensure that the ideas, guidelines and information printed in
this eBook are safe, they should be used at the reader’s discretion. The author cannot be held
responsible for any personal or commercial damage arising from the application or misinterpretation
of information presented herein.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the
author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to the actual events, locales or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Want updates, free cozies and recipes? Join the Chelsea Thomas Reader Club at
chelseathomasauthor.com.

Cover Design: Priscilla Pantin

 1

THE KEYS TO THE KINGDOM

“I hope no one gets murdered tonight.” Miss May crossed the

kitchen in five big steps and pulled a denim jacket off the
hook near the door. “It’s apple-picking season. I need all hands on deck at
the orchard. And murders are so distracting.”
I sat at the kitchen table and pulled on a pair of muddy work boots.
“Kinda callous way to discuss homicide, don’t you think? You sound like
you’re talking about a chance of rain. Murder is more than just an
inconvenience.”
Miss May rolled her eyes as she buttoned up her coat. “Of course
murder is more than just an inconvenience. But it’s also a serious
inconvenience. This apple orchard has been in the family for over a hundred
years. I’m not going to let it go under on my watch.”
I cinched my boots and stood. “No one is going to get murdered tonight,
Miss May. It’s been almost a month since the last body showed up in town.
I don’t want to jinx anything by saying it out loud, but I think—”
Miss May held up both her hands like she was stopping traffic. “Don’t.
If you don’t want to jinx anything, refrain from concluding that sentence.
I’m serious. You know I’m not a superstitious woman, but we’ve had more
than our fair share of killings in this little town.” Miss May turned, and her
eyes darted around the room. “Where are the keys to my van?”
 “No idea,” I said.
Miss May patted her pockets. I closed my eyes to listen for the sound of
jingling keys but heard nothing. Miss May groaned. “So frustrating. I’ve
lost these keys three times already today.” She crossed to the kitchen
counter and sifted through a pile of mail. Still no jangle. “This is just
driving me crazy, Chelsea. We can’t be late for this town meeting. I want to
hear what this state official has to say for himself. Then I want to tell him
he’s wrong.”
I chuckled. “The guy is going to get an earful from everyone in town.
Nobody wants this light rail running through the heart of Pine Grove. I
don’t think you have to worry about your viewpoint not being represented.”
Miss May stopped sifting through the mail and turned toward me,
looking at me as though I’d missed an obvious point. “I’m a pillar of this
community, Chelsea. The orchard is a major destination for tourists and
locals alike. And I’m an acclaimed local sleuth. The people need to see me
at the meeting tonight. They need to see you, too.”
“Because I’m your niece, and they need to know I support you?”
“Because you’re also a leader,” said Miss May. “Besides, Teeny is
going to be beside herself if we’re not there on time. She’s saving us seats
and everything. Do you want to face her wrath?”
“I’ve got a candy bar in my purse. If she’s unhappy, I’ll toss it across the
room and then run away while she’s distracted. I don’t even know if she’ll
want the candy. She’ll just be outraged that I’m throwing around a perfectly
good piece of chocolate.”
Miss May slammed her palm down on the kitchen counter. “Where are
these keys?”
I took a deep breath and then let it out. As I exhaled, I thought about all
the places Miss May could have left her car keys. The Thomas Family Fruit
and Fir Farm consists of hundreds of acres and quite a few buildings. The
keys could have been anywhere. Then I had a genius idea. “Is it possible
you left them in the ignition?”
Miss May drove her yellow Volkswagen bus down the big hill from the
orchard and into Pine Grove like she’d commandeered Santa’s sleigh and
was running out of time to deliver all the presents. At one point, we hit a
pothole with such ferocity that I banged my head on the ceiling. I
complained, and Miss May laughed, which is how things usually went.
For a second, Miss May’s lack of compassion annoyed me. Then I
remembered, this was the woman who had raised me after my parents had
died when I was a kid. And it was the same woman who had also rescued
me from a life of pathetic desperation after my ex had left me at the altar. I
couldn’t stay mad at her for more than three seconds because if I did, that
would have made me a jerk.
As we careened toward the center of town, I looked out the window at
the familiar sights of the drive from the orchard. I loved living in a small
town, and I loved the feeling of being so at home in a place. But lately, I’d
been feeling a little restless, like I needed to get out of town for a while.
After all, I had lived in New York City for years, and even with all the
murders, life in Pine Grove still moved at a slower pace. Sometimes, I
thought about my ex-boyfriend, Germany Turtle, and his life studying the
lions in Africa. I wouldn’t say I was jealous of him, but I did wonder, on
occasion, what it would be like to spend my days in such an exotic and
different place.
I knew there was a simple solution to my unrest, which was just to go
someplace else. Travel. Take a trip. So that was exactly what I planned to
do, as soon as we made sure our orchard wasn’t going to be destroyed by a
train.
I snapped out of my reverie as we rolled into town like we were in a
high-speed chase. The Pine Grove Town Hall was housed in a two-story
brick building near the center of our little village. Miss May double-parked
out front. I noticed a yellow VW Beetle nearby and thought about doing a
quick “punch buggy no punch backs” but then thought better of it. Now was
neither the time nor the place, and Miss May wasn’t in the mood to be
punched, I was sure of it.
We slipped into the town meeting room, a conference room on the first
floor of the building, making an unfortunate ruckus as we entered. Teeny
was seated in the front row. She craned her neck back and glared at us as we
stumbled into the room. Miss May mouthed the word, “Sorry,” as we found
a spot leaning against the far wall. Then our mayor, Linda Delgado, entered
and stood behind a podium at the front of the room.
Mayor Delgado was calm, cool, and collected. She wore small hoop
earrings and a tailored navy blue suit. Her hair was straight and perfect, as
always, and she had a businesslike demeanor.
“Greetings, greetings,” said Mayor Delgado, as if common pleasantries
were a waste of her time, “We’re here to talk about the state’s proposed
light rail, so let’s talk about it.”
Teeny’s hand shot up. “I thought the guy from the state was going to do
the talking. Is he here?”
I scanned the room for unfamiliar faces. There was a woman with curly
hair in a Yankees hat against the far wall who I couldn’t place. Another
unknown woman sat near the front. She was dressed elegantly and sat so
straight I thought there might be something wrong with her. Other than
those two, I recognized everyone else. They were neighbors and friends, not
state officials.
“I don’t see him,” said Miss May.
“Me neither,” said Teeny. “What gives?”
Linda held up a calming hand. “A representative from the state is
expected to arrive shortly. There’s no reason we can’t begin the discussion
now.”
 “The state representative will be here soon,” the well-dressed woman
piped up from the front row. “I’m sure he’s on his way.”
The town architect, Sudeer, piped up from somewhere near the middle
of the crowd. “I think a light rail would be a great addition to Pine Grove.”
Mayor Delgado couldn’t hide the surprise in her voice. “You do? I
didn’t expect to find any support here.”
I studied Sudeer’s face as he talked. The guy had seemed so young
when I met him during our first murder investigation in Pine Grove. But
since then, he’d developed a gray patch in his beard, and his voice was
deeper and scratchier. “If there were a railroad stop in Pine Grove, that
would bring up more people from the city. Weekend visitors are already
essential to our economy. I bet if there was a better rail connection, we’d
have more people moving here, too.”
Mayor Delgado turned up her palms and nodded. “I agree.”
A collective gasp erupted from the crowd. Murmurs rose from a
whisper to a deafening din. I had expected the mayor to reject the idea of
the light rail, and from the sound of the fervor, so had my neighbors. I
turned to Miss May. “Is Linda saying she supports this?”
Miss May ignored my question. Then she raised her hand and spoke
without waiting. “Mayor Delgado. The proposed light rail will cut through
several essential businesses and properties in Pine Grove, my orchard
among them. You can’t think this is a good idea.”
Sam Cohen, an older gentleman who was the proprietor of an ice cream
shop in town, stood. “Yeah. My shop is right in the path of the light rail.”
“Any properties that are disrupted by the rail would receive handsome
compensation,” said Mayor Delgado. “It’s called eminent domain. The
basic principle is—”
“We know what eminent domain is,” said Miss May. “But I won’t give
up my land without a fight.”
“Yeah,” said Sam.
 Teeny sprang to her feet. “I heard the state official who was in charge of
this project is a lying, weasel- loving scumbag.”
“Excuse me, it’s not nice to talk about people that way.”
“What do you care?” Teeny asked.
“That weasel-loving scumbag is my husband,” the woman in the front
row said. “And sure, maybe he’s proposing something you don’t like, but
that’s no reason to besmirch his character. Even if he is running late.”
Sam Cohen cleared his throat. “Sorry, lady, but I’d say your husband
has a knack for rubbing people the wrong way. He came to my ice cream
shop, ordered two scoops, took one lick, and then threw the scoops away.
That’s a waste and it’s rude. My hand-churned ice cream is delicious.”
The townspeople murmured in agreement. We all knew Sam made great
ice cream, and I could tell we were collectively offended by the idea that
someone would’ve thrown two good scoops in the trash.
A strong, female voice rang out from behind me. “Alex Turnbull is not
a scumbag, nor does he love weasels.”
I turned to find a poised African-American woman standing behind me.
She was dressed like a high-powered lawyer, and both her lips and her
fingernails were painted an intimidating blood red.
The woman introduced herself as Kelly Washington, Alex Turnbull’s
associate from the state government.
“Hang on, Alex isn’t coming?” Mrs. Turnbull asked from the front of
the room.
“He sent me, so I guess not,” Kelly said with a callous grin. She flipped
her hair off her shoulder, then she made her way up to the podium, where
she delivered a comprehensive presentation regarding the light rail and its
path through Pine Grove.
Kelly was so sharp and well-spoken that her presentation had a calming
effect on the audience. Although we all hated that she was the face of a
proposed light rail system that would destroy businesses and homes we
loved, she was thoughtful and articulate and hard to disregard.
Once the meeting concluded, we met up with Teeny out in the parking
lot. The three of us agreed that the state plans had to be stopped, one way or
another. Beyond that, we agreed Alex Turnbull was the weasel-loving
villain behind the light rail. We pitied his wife, who’d expected him to
appear at the meeting and had instead been stood up. We pitied Kelly
Washington, although not much about her appeared to be pitiable. Still,
Turnbull had sent her to do his bidding. She was a pawn in his scheme, or
maybe a bishop or a rook, but we knew we would need to get through to
him in order to get those light rail plans changed.
As it turned out, getting through to Alex Turnbull was easier than any of
us had expected. We went to Teeny’s restaurant, Grandma’s, after the
meeting, and he was sitting at a window table, enjoying a cup of coffee.
When Teeny realized who the guy was, she charged right up to him.
And that’s when the true conflict began.
 2

RAGING TURNBULL

T eeny’s nostrils flared. “You’re Alex Turnbull. How dare you

waltz into my town and try to flatten it with a railroad?”
Turnbull took a big, disgusting glug from his coffee cup. For some
reason, the sound of him swallowing was so loud it seemed like it had been
amplified by a Marshall half-stack on stage at Madison Square Garden. If
you’re wondering, a. what’s a Marshall half-stack, and b. how do I know
what it is? The answers are a. I have no actual idea and b. I had an interior
design client who was in a rock band.
“You’ve read about me in the paper. You know, I asked them to use the
photo that was a profile from the right side. For some reason they insisted
on using a profile from the left side. You may not be able to tell in the light
of this restaurant, but my right side is my good side. Admittedly, they’re
both terrific but I prefer the right.”
I cringed. Alex Turnbull was not a handsome man. He had a large wart
just below his nostrils. His thinning hair was greasy and matted down
against his head. His teeth were jagged and spaced far apart.
“Listen, mister,” Teeny huffed. “My mom taught me never to say an
unkind word about anyone, at least not to their face. Everyone who knows
me knows that the lesson didn’t stick. Still, I’m going to ignore the obvious
opportunity to comment on whether or not you’re handsome and instead
focus on what really matters… You’re trying to ruin my town.”
Turnbull lowered his coffee cup to the table with a stiff motion. He
closed his eyes for a second and then opened them and looked up at Teeny.
His pupils might as well have been on fire, that’s how angry he looked.
“Really. Over and over again, people tell me that I’m ruining their town or
their business or their life. Why do you little small-town people always fail
to grasp the magnitude of the impact these trains will have on your
community? Don’t you want to be connected to the city and Long Island
and Buffalo?”
Teeny widened her eyes. “No one wants to be connected to Buffalo. It’s
Buffalo.”
I took a step forward, trying to play the mediator. “Everyone I’ve ever
met from Buffalo absolutely loves it there.”
“Me too,” said Teeny. “I was just trying to make a point. The people of
Buffalo are wonderful, and the wings really are delicious.”
Turnbull placed both his palms down on the table. He didn’t take his
eyes off Teeny. “Yet here you are, protesting my railway.”
Miss May approached with her arms crossed. “Now hold on just one
second, sir. I was under the impression this was a state project. Isn’t it a bit
presumptive for you to refer to the railway as yours?”
“When I make a suggestion in this state, people listen. Sure, there’s red
tape. But I step over it. I duck under it. Goodness, I cut my way through the
red tape with scissors. What I say goes. I’m not just a mouthpiece for the
state government. I am the state government.”
“So you really are the one to blame for this light rail they’re proposing
for Pine Grove,” said Teeny.
“I’m the one to thank.” Turnbull emphasized the word ‘thank’ with such
guttural hatred I felt like I’d watched him spit on the floor of the restaurant.
“Maybe once we connect this forgettable little town with the rest of the
state, the place will finally get some good restaurants. I don’t know what’s
going on at this place, but the menu is boring and uninspired.”
Teeny lunged at Turnbull. Miss May and I each grabbed one of her arms
and pulled her back. She was very small, so it didn’t take a ton of strength,
but she kept throwing elbows like she had a real chance of shaking us.
Turnbull smiled. “I’m sorry. Was it something I said?”
“This is her restaurant, you weasel-lover,” I said.
“Interesting,” said Turnbull. “And the establishment is called
Grandma’s? Maybe I’ll have to adjust the course of the railway, make sure
it crosses directly through this diseased dining room.”
Teeny lunged once more, but Miss May and I retained our grasp on her
arms.
Miss May stood a little taller and tried to speak with poise even as she
kept her grip on the squirming Teeny. “This restaurant is a hallowed and
venerable institution in our wonderful little town. You may not be able to
recognize a local watering hole because I’m sure you’ve been forbidden
from entering yours for the past forty years. But this is where people come
when they want to see a friendly face or meet an old friend or introduce a
new friend to their favorite spot in town. Teeny’s cooking has garnered rave
reviews from dozens of publications, including your fancy, big city
newspapers. We’ve had hipsters lined up for days to taste her creative
contributions to the culinary world. If you don’t appreciate this place for
what it is, you might as well leave. And good luck pushing that railroad
through our town. Because you’re really, really going to need it.”
The disgusting little man spat into his own coffee cup and then pushed it
away. “That’s what I think of your restaurant and your town.”
Teeny’s loyal sidekick and her longtime helper at the restaurant, Petey,
approached. His fists were balled up, and his face was tomato red. “Can I
kick this guy out, Teeny?”
 “I think you’d better,” said Teeny. “And make sure the door hits him on
the way out.”
Petey took Turnbull by the arm and led him to the exit. As Turnbull left,
he turned and called back to the patrons dining at Grandma’s. “Enjoy your
slop, people. This place won’t be here much longer.”
As Petey and Turnbull exited out to the parking lot, I turned toward
Teeny. I expected to see a big smile on her face as Turnbull departed. But
her chin wobbled a little, and her eyes were downcast.
Miss May cocked her head and put a hand on Teeny’s shoulder. “Hey.
Are you OK?”
Teeny looked away. “The guy was right about my menu. I haven’t
added a new dish in months. I’ve had a terrible creative block, and he
sniffed it out on me in five minutes.”
Miss May and I consoled Teeny, and we told her she would never need
to see that Turnbull guy again.
The thing is… We were right. But not for the reasons we wanted to be.
 3

MURDER ON THE MENU

I sn’t it crazy how we all have a limitless capacity for self-doubt?

No matter how accomplished someone is or how delicious their
hashbrown lasagna is, there’s always a possibility that they’re going to
second-guess their own skills. I don’t think anyone is immune to this kind
of self-criticism, and Teeny’s frustration with her menu reminded me so
much of the self-criticism I’d experienced over the years.
When I’d first arrived in Pine Grove, I was a bumbling, stumbling mess.
Everything made me cry. Like, happy tears, sad tears, hungry tears… You
name it, I cried about it. Life seemed to me like it had been booby-trapped
and designed to hurt me. Moving back in with Miss May and solving
mysteries had helped me regain confidence in every aspect of my life, but it
had taken a while.
Sometimes, I think all the self-doubt I experienced when I moved back
to Pine Grove was somehow connected to losing my parents. I mean, the
first time I moved in with Miss May, it was because my mom and dad were
dead, and I was crushed. I was pretty young, and I felt alone in the world.
So when I had to move back in with Miss May AGAIN after my ex-fiancé
Mike left me at the altar… My theory is that the whole experience brought
up tons of emotions I maybe hadn’t dealt with yet.
 In the ensuing years, Miss May and I had figured out exactly what had
happened to my parents. Their death had affected us both in so many ways;
Miss May had basically given up her legal career as a New York City
prosecutor because of her conviction that my parents had been murdered.
Of course, solving the mystery of what happened to my parents didn’t
bring them back to me. But it still felt good to figure it out, and that had
brought me closure. Closure and confidence.
But still. I didn’t think I was going to feel confident every day for the
rest of my life. Goodness, no.
I experienced daily struggles accessing my confidence and harnessing it
to accomplish the things I needed to accomplish. But it always helped to be
around people who knew me and who knew that, even on my worst days,
somewhere deep down, I was still a strong, independent woman who didn’t
always trip over her own shoelaces.
Miss May and I talked about these topics and a few others as we took
the long way back to the farm that night. I think were both shaken by
Teeny’s spat with Turnbull and her loss of confidence. Teeny had a pretty
low tolerance for jerks, but she usually didn’t let them get to her like that.
As Miss May followed the long, winding road around Hastings Pond
and back toward the orchard, she let out a deep sigh. “Teeny is going to be
fine. She doesn’t think of herself this way, but that lady is the most creative
woman I know. She’s an artist with food, so it makes sense that she feels a
little blocked. All artists suffer from creative ebbs and flows. But I’m not
worried about her.”
I looked over at my aunt. Her large hands gripped the steering wheel at
ten and two. Her chin was held high. “Just like you weren’t worried about
me when I moved back to the farm?”
Miss May chuckled. “Oh, no, I was worried about you. I think everyone
in town was. Some people still are.”
“That’s not fair. I’ve solved like a billion murders with you.”
 “But you cried a lot for a while there.” The old Volkswagen groaned as
Miss May steered it around yet another twist in the road. “I think it might
be time for me to send this old girl in for a checkup soon. Has Big Dan been
busy lately?”
“He’s dating Teeny. So he’s probably pretty busy with that. But I’m sure
he’ll squeeze you in if needed,” I said.
The Volkswagen groaned once more as the road straightened out ahead
of us. Miss May side-eyed me. “Speaking of romance, how are things with
you and everybody’s favorite beefy detective?”
“Please don’t call him beefy,” I said. Somehow, my boyfriend,
Detective Wayne Hudson, was always being compared to meat, and
honestly, although it wasn’t entirely an inaccurate description, I just didn’t
want to think about the man in my life as beef. “But, uh, he’s good. We’re
good. Coupla hamburger patties in a bun.” Welp, so much for not calling
him beefy. Gross.
“Good,” said Miss May. “He’s a solid guy. Quiet but solid.”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” I said. “I’ve un-quieted him quite a
bit in the past few months. Now he basically never shuts up.”
Miss May chuckled. “Chelsea. You’re not foolish enough to think
you’ve actually changed a man, are you?”
I shook my head. “I haven’t changed him. I’ve drawn out his inner
chattiness. The guy is Italian. He loves to gab, and he’s got a gift for it.”
“Well, you tell him to share that gift with me next time I see him. I’m
tired of all this stoic detective stuff. The guy needs to loosen up and have a
little fun with someone other than you.”
Miss May slowed the van to a halt. The tires screeched. She definitely
needed to visit Big Dan and get him to work on the Volkswagen. “Why are
you stopping?” I said.
Miss May pointed out the front windshield. “Deer. There’s three. A doe
and two fawns.”
 Sure enough, three deer stepped out into the road from the adjacent
patch of forest. The mother went first and then came the two fawns, neither
of which stood taller than three feet. I clasped my hands over my mouth.
“Aw! So cute. Miss May, do you see them?”
“I’m the one who pointed them out to you.”
“Get a little closer. No. Stay where you are. Don’t scare them. Let’s just
watch from here.”
Miss May chuckled at my indecision, then we sat there for a few
minutes as the deer made their way across the road. And that’s not an
overstatement, by the way. It took the trio at least four minutes to make it
from one side of the road to the next. I wasn’t sure they knew there were
people watching them. Well, I suppose they definitely knew someone was
watching them because they were frozen in our headlights for good portion
of that time. But you get the idea.
Once the deer had cleared the way, Miss May resumed driving down the
old country road. But we hadn’t gone a hundred feet when we noticed a
slate gray Mercedes pulled over on the shoulder of the road. The driver’s
side door was open, and the hazard lights were flashing. An oversized
Harvard sticker took up almost half of the rear windshield.
Miss May rolled to a stop behind the car.
“You recognize that vehicle?” said Miss May.
I swallowed and shook my head. “Do you know of anyone in Pine
Grove who’s gone to Harvard?”
Miss May shrugged and stepped out of the van. I did the same. She took
a couple cautious steps toward the abandoned car. “Hello? Are you OK?”
“I don’t think anybody’s in there,” I said.
“Hello?” Miss May called out again, creeping toward the driver’s side
door. She stopped when she was parallel with the door and called back to
me. “You’re right. Car’s empty.”
 I flipped open the flashlight on my phone and rounded the passenger
side of the car. The back seat was empty and so was the front passenger
seat. I turned and pointed the flashlight beam out into the forest. The tall
grasses that divided the road from the woods had been trampled down
nearby. I also spotted a footprint in the gravel leading toward the tamped
down grass. “Looks like someone ran out into the woods.”
“Be careful,” said Miss May.
I followed the little path into the woods. The flashlight on my phone
wasn’t strong, so I could only see two or three feet ahead of me. But I
barely needed to see at all. As a kid, I had spent so much time in the forest
around Pine Grove. The ground beneath my feet was familiar even though
I’d never walked there before. The trees above felt the same way. Like the
whole landscape was filled with friendly, helpful plants who wanted to help
give me directions.
About ten paces into the forest, my flashlight settled on a man facedown
near the base of an old evergreen. I started to call out to him, but my voice
stopped halfway out of my mouth and took a nosedive back down into my
throat.
Because I was pretty sure the man wasn’t going to answer my greeting.
He wasn’t moving…
…and there was a railroad spike protruding from his back.
 4

SPIKED APPLE CIDER

I took a few careful steps closer to the man with the railroad spike
in his back. I could tell from his contorted posture and well, the
railroad spike, that the man was not alive. His thinning, greasy hair and
gray suit gave me the idea that the man might be Alex Turnbull. But I
couldn’t know for sure, so I circled the body and squatted down to get a
better look at the man’s face. His head was turned, so it would only be a left
profile view, but I knew that would be enough. Even if it was his bad side.
Or his good side? I couldn’t remember which was which.
Yeah, the irony of getting a profile view of a man who had so recently
assessed the merits of his right and left profiles was not lost on me. But I’ll
admit I couldn’t appreciate it in the moment. The whole world feels heavy
when you find a dead body. It’s like one second, you’re walking along like
everything’s normal, and the next second, all your limbs are filled with
rubble.
“Well, who is it?” said Miss May.
My breathing quickened. “I’m pretty sure it’s Turnbull. But, uh, maybe
we should head back onto the road. Whoever did this…”
“Whoever did this is long gone. There are skidmarks out on the street.
The killer left in a hurry.”
 Autumn leaves crunched and swooshed beneath my feet as I walked
toward the dead body. I knew from the sound that they weren’t the
desiccated brown leaves you find later in fall. The leaves beneath my feet
were still a little glossy. Red, maybe yellow. We weren’t too far into fall yet.
I didn’t need any sunlight to know the foliage above my head and beneath
my feet was vibrant and beautiful. The scene before me was anything but.
I took a deep breath and leaned in even closer to the dead body. So close
I could see the wart on his face. Miss May looked on, biting her thumbnail,
eyes trained on the body. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. It’s definitely Turnbull. Seems like someone really, really didn’t
want that railroad in town.”
“You can’t assume a motive so fast,” said Miss May. “The guy was
hateful. I’m sure he has countless enemies, some of whom might hate him
because of this light rail project but others who might hate him for entirely
different reasons.”
“He was killed with a railroad spike,” I said. “Kinda… sends a message,
don’t you think?”
“Still,” Miss May said. “Could be a misleading clue. We can’t make a
snap judgment. Although, yeah, railroad spike is a, uh, pointed choice of
weapon.”
I looked closer at the railroad spike sticking out of Turnbull’s back. It
was rusty and looked older than what I imagined they would use in a
modern track.
“Wondering about why that railroad spike is so old?” said Miss May.
I climbed back to my feet with a groan. “Read my mind.”
“I noticed a few more of those spikes in the back seat of his Mercedes.
This is what I’m saying about motive. Maybe the killer was trying to send a
message, or maybe it was a crime of passion and whoever did this just used
whatever they could get their hands on to do the deed.”
 “Why would this guy carry around old-timey railroad supplies? He
didn’t seem to particularly value history or… really anything other than
money and power.”
“I know, but apparently, the guy went around to public schools in his
spare time, extolling the virtues of rail travel. He brought antique artifacts
from the early days of the railroad to help his presentations come to life. Liz
had a couple of paragraphs on it in the piece she wrote about him.”
I sighed. “So the guy was killed with his own teaching tools.”
“Looks like it.” Miss May began shuffling through the leaves, back out
toward the road.
“Hold on a second,” I said. “I know I wanted to bail before, but… we
are alone out here. We might as well look for more clues.”
“Skidmarks on the road. Railroad spike in his back. Torn left
shirtsleeve. Cuts on his hands and arms. Flashers on his car were blinking.
Did I miss anything?”
Miss May turned and resumed trudging back to the road before I had a
chance to reply. I glanced back at the body. Sure enough, everything Miss
May had described was true. It looked like Turnbull had been fighting for
his life before the killer had taken it. He had fresh cuts on both hands, and
his shirtsleeve had been torn.
A cold wind whipped through the trees, and the leaves rustled overhead.
All of a sudden, I felt nervous and vulnerable out in the forest. Even if the
killer was gone, the woods at night could be a scary place.
I looked over toward Miss May and could only barely make out the
outline of her body as she headed toward the road. A sensation that
scientists everywhere refer to as “the creeps” hit me. My arms felt tingly,
and my neck hair bristled, and I was overcome by the urgent need to get
away from the corpse. My heart raced as I power-walked back out toward
the road. “Wait up, Miss May.”
“I’m not waiting in there. That forest gives me the creeps.”
 I held my breath as I shuffled the last few steps out of the forest. Then I
let out a huge exhale as I stepped out onto the road. Miss May wrapped her
arm around my shoulder. “Spooky. I know.”
Miss May’s round, kind face reassured me, and the creepy feeling in my
bones was replaced by a feeling of gratitude. Without thinking, I wrapped
Miss May in a big hug. “Thank you.”
Miss May chortled. “For what? I abandoned you in a haunted forest.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Thank you for… for… oh, no.”
I pointed over Miss May’s shoulder. A Pine Grove police cruiser drove
up and parked nose to nose with the abandoned vehicle. Chief Sunshine
Flanagan stepped out of the cruiser. Her hair looked great. Her body looked
incredible.
The expression on her face, however, looked very, very bad.
 5

SOLAR ECLIPSE

A s Chief Sunshine Flanagan approached me that night, I tried to

look past her annoying hotness.
Sure, the woman had gorgeous red hair that gleamed in the moonlight
like it was made of tiny auburn mirrors. And her legs seemed as though
they were longer than my entire body. And she had perfect cheekbones and
perfect teeth and perfect eyes. Listen, I’m not gonna say I was jealous. But
who wouldn’t be? Those physical attributes were often all anyone ever
spoke of when they spoke of Chief Sunshine Flanagan. I wondered if
Sunshine was ever bothered by this fact — that people almost certainly
judged her for her good looks and didn’t give her any credit for being a
person underneath all that great hair and flawless skin. I mean, seriously,
was she literally made of porcelain?
Miss May had always taught me not to judge a book by its cover.
Growing up, I’d always tried to honor that maxim. Especially when it came
to being nice to outsiders. Kids with funny hair or weird clothes. But it
struck me that night that maybe the expression should apply to beautiful
people too.
We’re all deeper than we seem on the surface. Flanagan was more than
just a cop in a model’s body. She was a complicated woman with feelings
and thoughts and — well, a deep dislike of me and my aunt. But still. She
was a person.
I’d never thought too deeply about Sunshine Flanagan prior to that
night. For much of my time in Pine Grove, I had assumed she was not-so-
secretly in love with Wayne. See: unfortunate but not inaccurate description
of his beefiness.
I’d also regarded Flanagan as something of a competitor beyond just the
romantic realm. She’d been determined to solve the mysteries of Pine
Grove before Miss May and I could. I’m sure you’re well aware Flanagan
never beat us to the end of an investigation, but I never blamed her for
that… Miss May and I were very good at what we did.
I got so caught up in trying to humanize Sunshine Flanagan that evening
standing on the side of the road beside the abandoned vehicle, that for just a
moment, I forgot about the dead body Miss May and I had found in the
forest. Then, Flanagan swung her ultra-bright, police-issued flashlight in
my face, and the image of Turnbull, spiked on the ground, rushed back to
my brain. Miss May and I were in a compromising situation, the only two
people at the scene of a horrific crime. We were going to need to talk our
way out of Flanagan’s suspicions, or we’d risk being arrested or detained.
Not the first time this had happened, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
“This car belong to either of you two ladies?” Flanagan turned and
pointed the flashlight at Miss May. “Never seen you driving it before.”
Miss May held up her forearm to block the light from her eyes. “Can
you dim that thing, Chief Flanagan? Why is it so strong, anyway? In case
you need to spot a criminal on the face of the moon?”
“The flashlight wouldn’t make a difference on the face of the moon,” I
said. “Light travels so much differently up there.”
Miss May glared at me. I winced. How had I found the opportunity to
be a know-it-all in such a tense situation? I called it a gift. Others might call
it being insufferable. Tomato, tomahto.
 “I’m not here to discuss how light travels in outer space. I’m here
because I got a call about an abandoned vehicle. I expected to be the first on
the scene. Should’ve known you two would be somehow connected to the
scene of the crime.”
I gulped. “Crime? We didn’t commit any crimes. That’s not what
happened here at all. I mean, you didn’t commit a crime, did you? Well,
you’ve committed the crime of looking ridiculously good in an objectively
dumpy uniform, but they don’t send people to jail for that. Do they? Do
you? I mean, you’re the cop, you tell me. How do you get your uniform to
fit like that? It’s tight in all the right places. You probably use a professional
tailor. Not me. I buy most of my clothes off the rack at Target or maybe
from the thrift shop.” Woof. I can be a blabbermouth when I get nervous. It
was kind of a problem.
Flanagan killed the flashlight and took a big step toward me. “It’s a
crime to leave a vehicle unattended on the side of the road in Pine Grove.
That’s what I was talking about. But based on your nervous babbling, I’m
going to assume something else is going on here.”
“Look,” said Miss May, “we were driving by, and we saw a car with the
flashers on. This is a small town. In a small town, when someone’s pulled
over and has their flashers on, you pull up behind them and ask if they need
help. Figured this car needed a jump or something simple like that. We got
out and we walked up to the car. As you can see, there’s no driver. No
passenger, either. I’ll be honest, we were discussing what our next course of
action should be. It’s no secret that Chelsea and I have solved quite a few
murders in this town. You know that better than anyone because we always
solve them before you. Now, that’s not a criticism. I’m just stating the
simple facts. We were about to head off into the woods because we saw that
the grass is trampled down on the other side of the car. But you got here
before we had the chance. There. I’ve told you everything. Can we go?”
 The whole time Miss May talked, Flanagan did not break eye contact
with me. “Is that how it happened, Chelsea?”
I took a deep breath to gather myself before I answered. Over the course
of our many investigations, my Chelsea-babble had sometimes been
helpful, but it had also gotten us into trouble. The babble was something I’d
been trying to overcome. Sometimes, less is more, especially when it comes
to spewing nonsense words at people who might arrest you. So I decided to
stick with a one-word answer. “Yes.”
I looked down. When I looked up again, Flanagan was still staring at
my face. Once again, I tried to imagine the complex, nuanced woman
Flanagan might’ve been hiding behind that tough-but-gorgeous exterior.
What had her parents been like? Did she like to cook? How did she end up
in Pine Grove in the first place? “Do you have a favorite TV show?” I said,
the words tumbling out before I had a chance to second-guess them.
“Why are you asking me that?” Flanagan’s nostrils flared, and she
brought her hand to her holster.
“I’m not sure. I am genuinely curious about your pop culture
preferences. But the truth is, I’m also nervous. Where’s the driver of this
car? What do you think happened to them? Shouldn’t someone start a
search party or something?”
Flanagan pulled her walkie-talkie off her police-issued belt. Oh. I guess
she was reaching for her squawk box, not her Glock. Easy mistake to make.
She pressed the button and spoke into it. As Flanagan ran through a list of
police codes, presumably describing the situation at hand, I cast a look over
to Miss May. She gave me a little nod of support. Once Flanagan had
finished talking and clipped her walkie back under her belt, she looked back
over at the two of us.
“You two have told the truth tonight?”
Miss May and I both nodded.
 “Thank you. It’s nice that you stopped to help a neighbor. That’s your
job as a friendly resident of Pine Grove. Now, do me a favor and let me find
out what happened to the driver. That’s my job as Chief of Police.”
 6

A SPIKE IN SALES

A s soon as we left the scene of the crime in the rearview mirror,

Miss May placed a call to Teeny and told her old friend all about
everything that had happened. The phone wasn’t on speaker, but it didn’t
need to be. Teeny spoke so loudly I could hear every word of her reply to
Miss May’s dramatic tale. She was shocked to learn that Alex Turnbull had
died, but the shock quickly turned to concern.
“Am I going to be a suspect in this murder?” Teeny’s voice was thin and
shaky. “Sometimes, I feel like I’m always a suspect, and it’s not fair. Miss
May, you’re almost never suspected.”
“I’m not as erratic as you,” said Miss May. “Also, I don’t threaten
people, publicly or privately. Not once have I called someone a weasel-
lover in front of the whole town. Also, I don’t make a habit of kicking
people out of my place of business.”
“Now you’re being mean,” said Teeny. “Real mean.”
“Are you saying you don’t do those things?” said Miss May.
“Well, yeah, I do them. But I never take action against anyone who
doesn’t deserve it. That Turnbull guy wanted to put a big, ugly railroad in
our quaint little town. And he insulted my sad little menu.”
I leaned over and called out, “Your menu is not sad, Teeny. You
shouldn’t let people get to you like that. You make the best food in all of
Pine Grove.”
“Pine Grove is so tiny, it’s barely a town, Chelsea,” said Teeny. “It’s not
enough for me to make the best food around here. I need to make the best
food in the whole tri-state area or even the whole country. Tell me I make
the best food in America.”
“You make the best food in America,” I said.
“You don’t make the best apple pie in America,” said Miss May.
“That’s why I sell your apple pie at my restaurant.” Teeny took a second
to turn away from the phone and bark orders at one of her servers. Then she
came back. “But I really don’t want to go to jail for a crime I didn’t commit,
May. I’m too pretty for jail.”
“We all are,” I said, chuckling.
“I’m not laughing over here, Chelsea. First comes jail, then comes
prison. Then I die getting zapped on the death throne like a mass murderer.
Is that what you want for me?”
“Pretty sure nobody calls it a death throne,” I said. “And no, I don’t
want that for you.”
As Miss May continued back toward the orchard, she repeatedly assured
Teeny that we would solve the mystery before Teeny ended up imprisoned.
Although Miss May acknowledged Teeny might come up as a suspect and
that Flanagan would have her eye on Teeny, Miss May didn’t seem
concerned, so I didn’t worry either. Miss May always had unshakable
confidence, and that’s probably why she so often emerged as a leader in our
investigations.
Miss May and Teeny were still gabbing when Miss May and I arrived
back at the orchard. The conversation continued as Miss May trudged up to
the farmhouse and tossed down her bag on the kitchen table. It persisted as
Miss May started up a fire in our big, brick fireplace. And it lasted up until
the moment Miss May curled up in her favorite chair and pulled her favorite
blanket up to her chin.
 Although the two had focused much of their conversation on Turnbull’s
death, by the end of their call, they were gossiping about an old friend who
had moved to Kansas and opened up an ice cream shop. Teeny wanted to
take a road trip to the shop to try their friend’s homemade sprinkles. Miss
May wasn’t sure she wanted to drive over a thousand miles for sprinkles,
but she didn’t dismiss the idea, either.
Once I heard the phone call end, I shuffled into the den and took a seat
on the couch beside the fire. Miss May has done a great job building the
blaze. The flames were over two feet high, dancing orange and red. I kicked
my feet out and extended my toes toward the warmth, a small smile
spreading across my face.
“It’s nice, right?” said Miss May.
“Remind me whenever I buy my first house, a fireplace is essential.”
“Are you on the market for a new house?” said Miss May. “This place is
already too big for the two of us. It’s going to be ridiculous if I’m living
alone in here.”
To be honest, my comment about getting a fireplace at my own house
had been intended as an offhanded remark. But Miss May’s concern that I
might move brought up some unexpected emotions. I didn’t want to
abandon my aunt, but I also needed to keep moving forward in my life.
Wayne and I had gotten, er, closer lately, and I suppose in the back of my
mind, I had begun to imagine us in a house of our own with a fireplace and
a yard and maybe an apple tree but not a whole orchard of them. But I
wasn’t ready to have that conversation with Wayne or Miss May, so I
laughed the comment off. “If you feel like the house is too big for you, you
can always gain weight,” I said.
Miss May rolled her eyes. “That’s all I need. Permission to pack on the
pounds. Do you know the other day I nibbled the country butter in the
bakeshop? Pure butter. I just took a bite.”
 “I’ve done that,” I said. “Butter is delicious. One time, I melted a couple
of tablespoons of that country butter in the cast-iron pan and crumbled two
crackers into the butter and stirred it up and ate the mush.”
Miss May tossed her head back and laughed. “OK. Now, that’s
disgusting.”
“Hey! I thought this was a safe space.”
I joined Miss May in laughter. Then our giggles subsided, and we were
left sitting there with only the sound of the crackling logs in the fire.
Although neither of us said anything to precipitate a change, the mood in
the room shifted from light to dark. I’d started to think about poor Alex
Turnbull, face down in the forest. I figured Miss May had begun to do the
same.
“Any idea who might have killed Turnbull?”
“A couple of potential suspects come to mind,” said Miss May.
“Sam Cohen one of them?” I asked, remembering Sam’s vehement
opposition to the light rail.
Miss May nodded. “The guy had obvious disdain for Turnbull. Sam has
always been a sweetheart. I know him pretty well. He’s had his ice cream
shop over there for almost as long as you’ve been alive. But I’ve also seen
him lose his patience from time to time.”
“You’ve seen him snap?” I said.
Miss May shifted in her seat and pulled her blanket closer around her
body. “That’s a strong word. But I’ve seen ripples beneath the calm. Let’s
put it like that.”
“You’d have to experience an impressive ripple to commit murder,” I
said. “Like, an underground earthquake that leads to an eventual tsunami
type ripple.”
“Not saying he’s guilty. Just that he is a suspect. I’m also wondering if
Mayor Delgado could have committed this crime.”
I let out a deep sigh. “Why? She seemed like she was for the light rail.”
 “Something about her demeanor at that meeting, the way she talked
about Turnbull, I can’t put my finger on it. But I had a feeling she didn’t
like the guy.”
“I mean, your hunches are usually right. But I feel like… We always
suspect Delgado. She might shut us down if we question her again with
nothing to back it up.”
“You’re right,” said Miss May. “If we start to really suspect Linda of the
murder, we’ll have to question her. We need to be far more gentle than we
have in the past.”
“So let’s start with Sam Cohen,” I said. “Maybe we can pay him a visit
in the next day or two.”
Miss May nodded. Then she rose to her feet, grabbed a fire poker, and
jostled the logs a bit. Sparks jumped up from the base of the fire, and the
logs crackled even more loudly than before. Then the fire jumped up
another three or four inches, and the blaze continued on with renewed vigor.
“Nice job,” I said. “I never know which log to poke.”
“It’s instinct,” said Miss May. “You get the hang of it after you’ve had
your own fireplace for a while.”
Three loud knocks sounded on the back door of the farmhouse. Miss
May and I exchanged a concerned look. “Who could that be?” I said.
“Teeny?”
Miss May shook her head. “Doubt it. She said she was going to be up
late at the restaurant tonight attempting new recipes.”
Another knock sounded on the back door. I hopped up and padded into
the kitchen, toward the door. Detective Wayne Hudson was standing on the
back porch. He gave me a little smile when he saw me. I smiled back, but
my stomach tightened.
I wondered if Wayne’s visit was for business or for pleasure…
 7

TAKE THE LONG WAYNE HOME

I opened the back door with a nervous, albeit questioning smile.

“Wayne. Hi.”
He entered the kitchen, and I stood on my tippy toes to give him a little
kiss on the cheek. The cheek kiss had become a customary greeting
between us, which I liked. It made me feel like an old-fashioned lady
welcoming her man home from a long day’s work. I wasn’t old-fashioned
nor did I know if Wayne had been at work that day, but it was a little detail
that made our relationship feel real to me.
Listen, I loved Miss May. But she wasn’t a cute woman. She was sturdy,
and trustworthy, and kind, but she wasn’t a romantic, by any means. And
my parents had died when I was too young to really think about their
relationship, to really consider them as fully-realized people and not just my
parents. The clearest memories I had of my parents were from big events,
birthday parties, Christmas, stuff like that. I often wondered if the little
things I remembered about my parents were details I truly remembered or if
they were tidbits that I’d gleaned from old home videos. Did it even really
matter? Thinking like that can lead even the most focused person down a
distracted rabbit hole, so I made a habit of pulling myself out by reminding
myself that I could never know for sure. Memory is subjective, and the one
thing I knew for sure was that my parents had loved each other and me.
That was the one truth that I could hold onto with certainty.
I pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and motioned for Wayne to
sit. When I spoke, I tried to use a gentle and casual tone in case he wasn’t
there to talk about the murder. “Take a seat, relax. I’ll make you hot
chocolate.”
“You’re acting too casual, Chelsea,” said Wayne. “We both know why
I’m here.”
I froze as I reached into the cupboard for a mug. Note to self: don’t lie
to your boyfriend if your boyfriend is a detective. I turned back to Wayne
and winced. “What exactly do you mean?”
“He’s talking about Turnbull.” Miss May entered the kitchen with her
blanket draped around her shoulders. “It’s pretty obvious.”
“Right, right,” I said. “Yeah, that makes sense. I’m sure you and
Flanagan connected on that topic earlier tonight. Funny, I’d made a mental
note to text you about that, but then Miss May and I got caught up chatting
with Teeny, and time got away from us.”
“You can relax, Chelsea,” said Wayne. “I’m not here to scold you for
weaseling your way into an investigation. We’re way too far along for that.
I mean, you shouldn’t have lied to Flanagan when she caught you on the
side of the road poking around, but I know you babble when you’re
nervous, so I accept that.”
I looked down. “I do. I babble. Babbling is something that happens to
me. It’s not even like I choose to babble, you know? One second, I’m not
talking, and the next second, I’m talking way too much and will you look at
that it’s happening now.”
“What did Flanagan tell you?” Miss May asked, taking another step into
the kitchen.
“She told me about the babble. Said the two of you claimed that you
hadn’t yet gone into the forest. Didn’t sound like she believed you. But
listen, Flanagan’s been real stressed lately. I don’t know what’s going on in
her personal life, but it seems like there’s something. So she’s not really
letting a lot get by her, if you know what I mean.”
“You mean she’s out for blood,” said Miss May.
Wayne turned up a palm, then sat back and crossed one leg over the
other.
I poured a cup of local milk into the saucepan and turned on the heat.
Then I shot a look back at Wayne. “You like your hot chocolate with extra
chocolate, right? And extra whipped cream? And caramel on top?”
Wayne chuckled. “When you say it like that, it sounds like you’re
making hot chocolate for a little kid.”
“Wait,” I said. “I was going to draw a happy face with the caramel.
Does that mean you’d rather have an elegant drizzle?”
Wayne winked at me. “Happy face works.”
I pulled another mug from the cupboard. “You want some, Miss May?”
Miss May sat across from Wayne at the kitchen table. Her chair creaked
as she settled into it, and she placed her elbow down on the table with a
thud. “Make mine just like you make his. Happy face and everything.”
I got to work making hot chocolate according to Wayne’s specifications.
I liked cooking or making drinks for Wayne. I suppose that was one of the
many little domestic things I’d grown to enjoy with Wayne in recent
months. I liked the idea of taking care of him. But I also liked the idea of
him taking care of me. I liked to imagine him chopping wood and fixing
things around the house and… Wait. Am I fantasizing about buying a house
with Wayne again? Don’t tell Miss May. We’ll get there when she’s feeling
ready.
About a minute later, I set two steaming mugs of hot cocoa down on the
kitchen table. I’d used fresh dark chocolate shavings and the local milk to
create the base of the drink. Then added a few generous dollops of Miss
May’s homemade, lightly sweetened whipped cream and topped it off with
some caramel sauce we bought from the ice cream shop in town (A Cherry
on Top, not Cohen’s Cones). I wasn’t in the mood for something sweet, but I
didn’t need to take a sip to know just how good the hot cocoas were. Miss
May had taught me to make her signature hot chocolate a while back, and
I’d grown to be a reliable barista when it came to that particular beverage.
Wayne nodded after he took his first sip. I smiled. “Good, right? Just as
good as last time?”
“Even better,” said Wayne. “It’s so chocolatey but also so creamy at the
same time. And the caramel is…”
“Is lightly salted,” said Miss May. “The sauce brings out the flavors in
the chocolate and the whipped cream and ties it all together. Chelsea added
the caramel to my recipe, and I’ll admit it’s a major improvement.”
I took a seat at the head of the table and enjoyed watching Wayne and
Miss May savor their hot chocolates. After watching them take a few sips, I
leaned forward with my elbows on the table. “So you just came by to warn
us that Flanagan is stressed out?”
“I came here to tell you you need to make sure to solve this one before
she tosses you or Miss May or Teeny in jail. And I have a proposition.”
Wayne set his mug of hot chocolate down and pushed it away a few inches.
“I’m tired of us competing when it comes to these mysteries. We’ve worked
together before, shared clues, stuff like that. But I think we should officially
work together on this one. Keep each other clued in every step of the way.
And yes, I made that clue pun on purpose. I think we should share clues.”
“Will Flanagan be OK with that?” said Miss May.
Wayne shrugged. “She says she wants to solve this one by herself. She
claims she doesn’t want me anywhere near the case. But I can’t just sit by
and do nothing while a murderer runs around town. That’s why I want to be
more involved with your process.”
Miss May and I exchanged an unsure look. A few seconds passed, and
then I turned toward Wayne. “Yeah. Of course. We’ll keep you clued in.”
 Wayne sat back and took another big sip of hot chocolate. “Awesome.
Cool. Very cool.”
As Wayne licked a little whipped cream off the top of his drink, Miss
May caught my eye. She didn’t need to use words to get her message
across. Miss May wanted to know if I really intended on including Wayne
in the investigation. But I didn’t have an answer for her, so instead, I
jumped up and began to clean the kitchen.
I glanced over my shoulder at Wayne and Miss May, sipping their
drinks at the table. I wondered if they could actually work together.
I knew there was only one way to find out…
 8

GAME FACE

W ayne didn’t stay long after he finished his hot chocolate. He

said there was a Knicks game on he wanted to watch. And
he correctly assumed neither Miss May nor I would want to watch it with
him.
Truth be told, it had been quite a while since anyone had turned on the
TV at the farmhouse. Miss May and I have had plenty of phases where we
would watch our favorite mysteries or singing shows together over the
years. But lately, the two of us had spent most of our relaxation time curled
up with a good book, most often beside the fireplace. There I am, going on
about fireplaces again.
I’d starting reading the novels of Agatha Christie when I was just a little
girl. I had read every Nancy Drew story twice, at least. By that point, I’d
also read all the Encyclopedia Brown books. And I enjoyed the Cam Jansen
series quite a bit. Cam Jansen was a girl with a photographic memory, do
you remember her?
Thinking back, reading all those mysteries might have had something to
do with why Miss May and I had become amateur sleuths in Pine Grove.
But I digress.
Although I’d read a ton of Agatha Christie, I still remember the day
Miss May gave me her copy of And Then There Were None. It was the
summer after my parents had died. Like most young orphans who moved to
a new town, I hadn’t found much of a friend group. Miss May and Teeny
had been my best friends, actually. OK, they still are, but it’s less sad now.
Anyway, I was sitting on the front steps of the farmhouse one summer
night, complaining about my aforementioned lack of friends and dead
parents, when Miss May disappeared into the farmhouse and said, “I’ll be
right back.”
When Miss May returned from the house, she was holding a tattered,
dog-eared copy of that famous Christie novel. Before I had a chance to
object, she had dropped the book in my lap and disappeared back inside the
house. I had stayed up late that night and the next in order to finish the
book. As I settled into life in Pine Grove, I made a few friends here and
there, and I hung out with my cousin Maggie a lot, but Agatha’s characters,
particularly Hercules Poirot, were my most steadfast companions, and they
continued to keep me company throughout my investigations in Pine Grove.
That was all basically a long tangent just to say I love Agatha Christie. I
always will, and you can’t stop me, so don’t even try.
That night, I grabbed a worn copy of A Murder is Announced and
headed up to my room to read. But not even Ms. Christie’s incredible
writing could keep me from my distracting thoughts about Wayne. I had
agreed to include him in our investigation because he was my boyfriend and
I trusted him, and I wanted to foster closeness with him. Miss May hadn’t
objected at that time, nor had she objected after Wayne had left the
farmhouse. But it was a pretty big step in my relationship with Wayne. I
mean, he was a local detective, and I was an amateur sleuth. That had been
a source of conflict between us many times since I had arrived in town. Was
I really ready to set that conflict aside? Would my relationship with Wayne
have the same kind of fire if we were on the same team? Did it really matter
since we were all in pursuit of justice and keeping the people of Pine Grove
safe?
 Twenty minutes of racing thoughts chased me out toward the barn,
where I soon found myself face to face with my friend and confidante, See-
Saw the tiny horse. See-Saw was just standing there when I entered the
barn, but she swished her tail to greet me, and I took that as an invitation to
blather about my feelings to her. Not that she had much choice. A horse in a
stable is kind of a captive audience.
Over the next few minutes, I repeated all the questions that had been
running through my mind. See-Saw listened with careful attention, only
stopping once to snack on hay and one more time to whinny and gnaw on
her own haunch. I’d learned over the years not to take it personally when
See-Saw groomed herself in the middle of one of our personal
conversations. That’s just how tiny horses are, and there’s no use trying to
change them.
After I was done inundating See-Saw with my questions and concerns
about including Wayne in the investigation, she looked at me with her big,
brown eyes. Her tail was no longer swishing, and she was a beacon of calm
and peace among the swirling seas of my thoughts.
“You think I’m being silly.” I dragged the stool over and sat closer,
facing See-Saw. “I’m overthinking things. That’s what you think.”
My tiny horse did not blink or look away.
“I get it. I see what you mean,” I said. “At some point, my relationship
with Wayne was going to have to progress beyond where it’s been. I
couldn’t continue keeping secrets from him during these investigations. It’s
not healthy or normal in a relationship. That’s how you end up like Mr. and
Mrs. Smith. And although we’ve worked together somewhat in the past, it’s
time for the walls to come down. I may have responded impulsively back in
the kitchen, but that was my instincts guiding me in the right direction.”
See-Saw sneezed.
“Do you think I should also talk to Wayne about, I don’t know… taking
the next step in our relationship? I mean, beyond sharing clues in an
investigation, we might be able to share a life, or like, a house? He’s always
so busy with work, and I’m always busy at the orchard or investigating
mysteries. Maybe the only way for us to get closer is if we share a physical
space. But how will I tell Miss May I want to live with Wayne? And will he
even want that?”
See-Saw turned in a little circle, then stopped when she was facing me
once again. I took a deep breath and let it out. “You’re right. I’m being
neurotic, and it’s unattractive and annoying. I’m just going to let the
universe unfold as it should. I’ve learned to trust my gut over the course of
these investigations, and now, more than ever, I need to keep that in mind.”
See-Saw turned away from me and faced the wall. That seemed to me to
indicate that our conversation was over. I felt good having unburdened
myself of my complicated thoughts. It felt nice to remind myself that my
instincts were sharp and usually right. I was no longer the blubbering mess
that had arrived in Pine Grove heartbroken and lost a couple years prior. I
was a strong woman who knew what she wanted, and I had nothing to be
afraid of.
Well, nothing but Alex Turnbull’s killer, of course.
 9

NOT HORSING AROUND

I woke up early the next morning, feeling calm and refreshed.

Conversations with See-Saw often left me with a clearer sense of
myself and the world around me. Maybe it was weird that I had a tiny horse
who was part pet, part friend, and part therapist, but so what?
As I shuffled into the kitchen that morning, it pleased me to see another
old friend digging through the refrigerator, grumbling in dissatisfaction. It
was KP, the man who oversaw the whole growing apples side of the orchard
in order to allow Miss May to focus on running the bakeshop. And, well, on
solving mysteries. KP had been a staple on the farm since my childhood,
and he was like an uncle to me.
“What’re you grumbling about?” I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee.
KP turned away from the refrigerator and looked over at me. “I ran out
of creamer for my coffee over at my cabin. Came over here to look for
some but your aunt only has this fancy, farm fresh stuff. I like my cream the
old-fashioned way: powdered.”
“So you’re looking for powdered creamer in the refrigerator.” I edged
past KP and grabbed the farm fresh cream from the shelf. As I added it to
my coffee, I chuckled at the thought of using powder in the place of the
rich, delicious cream.
 “May said maybe she had creamer in the cabinets. She doesn’t have any
in the cabinets. So I’m looking in the refrigerator just in case. There’s
plenty of delicious looking stuff in here but none of my powdered
goodness. It’s sacrilege, that’s what it is.”
Miss May sauntered into the kitchen through the back door with a glib
little smile on her face. “No powdered cream in the bakeshop, either.
Remind me again why I agreed to go looking for you?”
“Because this here is an apple orchard and I’m the one who grows the
apples. We need to keep the last two rows of Jonah Gold closed down for at
least another week, by the way. If we open them up now, we’re going to be
picked clean too early in the season.”
“Do whatever you need to do,” said Miss May. “Just try to stop using
powdered cream in your coffee.”
KP close the refrigerator with a sigh. “Now, I thought this here was a
judgment free zone, but both of you are judging me for the way I take my
coffee. This is America. Everything good comes in a powder.”
“Is that a line from the Constitution?” I asked.
KP grabbed his coat off a hook and yanked it over his shoulders. “I’m
going to town.”
Miss May and I headed straight to the bakeshop after we finished our
coffee. Autumn was the busy season at the orchard, and we had lots of
baking to do in order to prepare for the weekend rush coming up in a couple
days. That morning, Miss May gave me a detailed lesson on how to
construct what she had been calling her signature “Apple Pie Panini.”
I protested the panini-making practice and urged Miss May to instead
join me on a trip to question Sam at Cohen’s Cones, but she correctly
asserted that the place wouldn’t be open until lunchtime, so I agreed to take
her little class instead.
OK, I didn’t have much of a choice. Miss May is technically my boss at
the orchard. Either way, I was glad to learn how to make the Apple Pie
Panini because, as it turned out, Apple Pie Paninis are my favorite food.
Miss May had purchased a panini press from Teeny a couple of weeks
earlier. Teeny had bought at least a dozen of the presses back when she
started turning all her food into paninis at Grandma’s, so she had an extra. I
wondered if Teeny would be offended that Miss May was trying to out-
panini her, but Miss May assured me she’d cleared her new recipes with
Teeny. Sometimes, I worried that Teeny’s panini phase might’ve been part
of what killed her creativity, but I would never have been brave enough to
suggest that. I, like everyone else in Pine Grove, felt confident Teeny would
recover from her cooking slump, and I didn’t want to get in her way (or in
her head) during that recovery process.
Miss May began the lesson by teaching me how to make her signature
cinnamon raisin bread with milk, brown sugar, butter, eggs, flour, salt, and
raisins. I think those are all the ingredients, but I’m not sure. Oh, there was
yeast, too.
Then there was also Miss May’s signature cinnamon filling, which
consisted only of brown sugar, ground cinnamon, and melted butter.
I mostly watched as Miss May made the dough and then swirled the
filling inside. It took all my willpower not to break off a chunk of raw
dough and eat it. Then, as the bread baked, Miss May explained how to
make the rest of the panini.
“All you need are Granny Smith apples and mascarpone cheese,” she
said, pulling both ingredients from the industrial fridge in the bakeshop. “I
got the cheese from a little sundry shop in Blue Mountain. The guy sold me
a few pounds wholesale, which was nice. And the apples are from the farm,
of course.”
I peeled and chopped Granny Smith apples as the smell of cinnamon
raisin bread began to fill every corner of the room. Once the bread was
finished and had cooled, Miss May cut a couple of slices from the middle of
the loaf. The knife crunched into the bread and then slid through the soft
middle smoothly. Miss May then layered mascarpone cheese, Granny Smith
apples, and some more mascarpone cheese and made a little sandwich.
Finally, she tossed the whole sandwich onto the panini press. After a few
minutes, she pulled out the first Apple Pie Panini I had ever seen. It was
golden brown on the outside and delicious, creamy mascarpone leaked from
the edges like melted silver.
Miss May handed me the sandwich, and I took a bite. The result was so
savory and delicious. The bread was crunchy on the outside, but the apples
and the cheese were velvety smooth. And I loved how the saltiness of the
cheese complemented the sourness of the apples and the sugar in the bread.
It was a flavor symphony in my mouth, and I had to sit down before I took
my second bite. Miss May took a couple steps toward me. “Good?”
“Really good.” I took a few more bites, savoring each more than the
last. “It’s like a grown-up slice of apple pie that you can eat for breakfast,
lunch, dinner, or dessert.”
“I’ve been toying with the idea of adding bacon,” said Miss May. “But
we’ll see if I go through with that.”
“Don’t tell Teeny you’ve created this until after her slump is over,” I
said. “She might kill you for the recipe.”
“I told you, she already knows all about it,” said Miss May, taking the
sandwich from me and having a bite. “I think that’s part of why she’s so
upset about her own slump. It’s not fun to watch other people flourish
creatively while you struggle to stay afloat.”
Once Miss May and I had prepped the ingredients for a weekend’s
worth of Apple Pie Paninis, it was lunchtime, so we headed over to Cohen’s
Cones. Teeny hurried out of Grandma’s as we pulled into the parking lot to
pick her up. Her arms were crossed, and her steps were short and angry.
“I don’t want to talk. I have nothing to say. No breakthroughs have been
had. I tried to cook last night, but I ended up watching reruns of the North
Port Diaries instead. Season One is incredible. Season Two is better than I
remembered. And Season Three is transcendent.”
“Did you rewatch three seasons of the North Port Diaries last night?”
“And most of Season Four.” Teeny buckled her seatbelt and sat back.
Her feet didn’t touch the floor, and it was adorable. “Are we getting lunch
at Sam’s? I have the anger hungries.”
“I think that’s called being ‘hangry’,” I said.
“Whatever. I want ice cream for lunch. Can I get some?”
“I mean, we’re questioning him about a murder,” I said.
“If I don’t get some ice cream, there’s gonna be another murder to
solve.”
“Oh, I think I’d know who committed that one,” Miss May said.
We pulled up to Cohen’s Cones a few minutes later to find Sam out
front, wiping down a couple of picnic tables. It looked as though we
might’ve been his first customers for the day because he was the only
person there. Once Sam spotted us, he didn’t smile or wave. He just stood
there, clutching his dirty rag to his chest.
He spoke the second we hopped out of the van and started walking
toward him. “I know why you’re here. I mean, come on. Turnbull was a
jerk, but you think I offed the guy? Seriously?”
“Sam, relax,” said Miss May. “Here. I brought you something.” She
pulled a foil-wrapped Apple Pie Panini from her purse and extended it out
toward Sam.
“I don’t want your guilt food,” said Sam, pushing the sandwich away.
“Just take it, Sam,” said Teeny. “Or don’t, and I’ll eat it ‘cuz I’m
starving. It’s an Apple Pie Panini, and it’s creative and delicious and
wonderful. Much better than anything else you could find to eat in Pine
Grove lately. Trust me, I know. My kitchen is the source of nothing but
bland slop, and it’s ruining the culinary reputation of our small town.”
 Sam accepted the panini from Miss May, keeping one eye trained on
Teeny. “Alright. Sorry. Can I give you girls some ice cream in exchange?”
“That sounds great.” Teeny walked over toward the ice cream window.
“I’d like a large cup of chocolate and vanilla swirl with a large cup of
sprinkles on the side. Rainbow sprinkles only, none of that chocolate
sprinkle garbage.”
Sam went into his little ice cream hut and emerged half a minute later
with Teeny’s dessert. Or, uh, lunch. She immediately started to drink the
sprinkles like they were a glass of water. We all watched in amazement until
she noticed us looking at her. “What? So I’m sipping my sprinkles. Leave
me alone about it.”
“Sorry,” said Miss May. “We’ll look away.” She angled her body away
from Teeny. Sam and I did the same. We conducted the rest of our
conversation as the three of us looked off into the horizon, at nothing in
particular. Definitely not at Teeny guzzling rainbow sprinkles.
“You are wasting your time here,” said Sam. “I know how it seemed at
the meeting. But I’d never even talked to the Turnbull guy. There’s no way I
would’ve killed him. I was just mad like everybody else, ‘cuz I didn’t want
him flattening my ice cream stand.”
“So you hadn’t even talked to Turnbull, you say?” said Miss May.
“May. I’m not a killer.” Sam didn’t look away from the horizon. In the
distance, I saw a hawk land on the branch of an old oak tree. Sam waited
for the hawk to take flight once more before responding. “Look, you keep
Pine Grove safe, and I respect that about you. But this isn’t the first time
you’ve accused me of something horrible. You’ve never been right before.
What makes you think you’re right now?”
“It has something to do with the aforementioned conflict the whole
town witnessed at the meeting,” said Miss May. “And I never said I thought
you did anything.”
 “That’s why you’re here,” Sam snapped. “Don’t mess around with me.
We’re friends, May.”
“We’re just crossing our tees, Sam. You didn’t like the guy. He’s dead
now. We want some information, that’s all. Where were you last night after
the meeting let out?”
At that moment, Sam finally turned away from the horizon and looked
directly at Miss May. “I was at Murphy’s Bar, alright? Drinking away my
sorrows. Crying into a beer, thinking about the end of my time in Pine
Grove. I don’t want to sell ice cream in a town that wants to flatten me with
a railroad truck.”
“Railroad truck?” I said. “Don’t you mean just a railroad?”
“Or maybe a railroad car?” said Miss May.
“I misspoke,” said Sam. “You both knew what I meant.”
Miss May held up a hand to calm Sam. “OK. Was anyone else at the
bar? Who was working?”
“I was with Patrick Ewing. That guy is so lucky. Ewing’s Eats can stay
open forever. No one is trying to flatten it.”
“At least they’re offering money to anybody whose business is damaged
by the light rail,” said Miss May. “Goodness, listen to me. I don’t want to
stand here defending that railway. The proposal cuts right through the
orchard, too. We’d lose half our land, and no money can replace that.”
“Thanks for trying to understand,” said Sam. “But losing half of your
land is nothing compared to me losing my entire ice cream hut. This is the
perfect location! It’s got charm, it’s got wabi sabi. Nobody’s gonna go to
Cohen’s Cones in some other spot. I think everyone in town is stressed out
about this. That’s probably why Teeny has been struggling to cook so
much.”
Teeny charged up, walking with her head up like she was being dragged
by the nose. “Hey. Don’t talk about my struggles behind my back. This is a
temporary slump. I’m going to be fine.”
 Sam held up both hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I hope I’m not talking
out of turn here. I knew you could hear me. You’ve been public about what
you’ve been going through with the restaurant.”
Teeny let out a loud growl and then stormed away. She lost half her
sprinkles from her sprinkle cup as she climbed into the car but didn’t
hesitate as she slammed the door.
That’s how I knew Teeny was really upset. I’d never seen her ignore
spilled sprinkles before.
10
 NO USE CRYING OVER SPILLED SPRINKLES

“Y es, hello. Can I please get an extra-large double chocolate

milkshake if it’s not any trouble?” Teeny gave the girl
working the counter at Ewing’s Eats her kindest smile,
although it took obvious effort. “And while you’re at it, could you possibly
provide me with an entire cup filled with rainbow sprinkles? It’s a strange
request, I know, but I have a thing for rainbow sprinkles.”
The employee widened her eyes and stammered, sounding confused.
“Sorry. This is, like, my first week here. No one has ever asked me a
question like that before.”
Teeny clasped her hands together in a little grateful prayer motion. “Not
a problem at all. I’ll pay any price for the sprinkles. Within reason, of
course. I mean, I’m not made of money.”
The girl wrinkled her nose. “If the cash register will ring it up, I’ll give
it to you. Can I get you ladies anything else?”
“Sure,” said Miss May. “I’d like a garbage bag filled with cherries. I’ll
give you two thousand bucks for that.”
The girl took a step backward. “Now I’m really confused.”
“Just a milkshake and the sprinkles, thanks,” I said. “Also, is Patrick in
back? We’re old friends. Would love to say hi.”
 “I’ll go check. Maybe I’ll also ask about the sprinkle thing. And you
wanted a garbage bag filled with cherries or no?”
Miss May smirked and opened her mouth to respond, but I gave her a
little nudge. This poor girl didn’t seem built to withstand any sort of
ribbing.
“No on the cherries,” I said. The girl gave me a relieved nod and hurried
off to the back.
Miss May chuckled as the girl disappeared. “Didn’t Patrick have an
accomplished young Eagle Scout working here a little while back? Was it
here or somewhere else? That kid was incredible. So on top of it. This girl, I
hate to say it, not sure she has a future in food service.”
“You two are difficult. The girl is fine.” I turned to Teeny. “And what
was with your strange, peaceful demeanor while you were ordering, by the
way? It gave me the creeps.”
“Everyone in town is talking about how I’m losing my cool over these
menu troubles. I got so upset at Cohen’s Cones that I spilled sprinkles on
my way to the car. I can’t go around sacrificing sprinkles like that. I need to
access an inner calm if I’m going to overcome these issues. Besides, as the
saying goes, you get more sprinkles with honey.”
“That is not a saying,” I said.
“Well, it is now.” Teeny’s tone sharpened. She took a deep breath and
then repeated herself, like she was imitating the Dalai Lama. “I’m sorry. I
meant to say, ‘Well, it is now’.”
We grabbed a little table off to the side of the restaurant as we waited
for the girl to come back, hopefully with Patrick. When Patrick finally
emerged, he had his mobile phone pressed to his ear. He hung up when he
saw us and approached with a big smile.
Patrick was a tall guy with distinguished facial features, a strong jaw
and a calming, generous energy. He had a booming voice and always wore
khaki pants with a Ewing’s Eats polo. “Ladies. Welcome to the shop. I hear
you’re looking for an exorbitant amount of sprinkles. Don’t worry, it’s on
the house.”
“I told the girl I’d pay any price,” said Teeny.
“Not necessary.” Patrick gestured to our picnic table. “Mind if I take a
seat? I heard you three were looking for me. Who did I kill this time?”
Patrick erupted into a big, booming laugh as he sat beside me.
The guy was at least six and a half feet tall. He needed to contort his
giant legs into a pretzel to climb into the little picnic table next to me, and
sitting there beside him, I felt like a little girl beside a giant.
“You’re tall,” I said.
“And you are a talented baker and a kind woman and a good example to
all the young girls living in Pine Grove. You got your heart broken, sure.
You were a mess for a while, we all know that. But you rose from the ashes
like one of those magic birds, and now you’re better than ever.”
I blushed, both because Ewing had referenced my heartbreak and
because he had complimented me. He turned to Teeny and Miss May before
I had a chance to reply. “All three of you are respected members of the
community, and you deserve it. So let’s get to the meat and potatoes of this
conversation. You think Sam Cohen murdered Alex Turnbull out in the
forest last night. You’re here because he told you he and I were drinking at
Murphy’s. I’m his alibi. You want me to confirm or deny his story. That
about the shape of it?”
Miss May smirked. “Sam called you and told you everything. That’s
who you were talking to on the phone when you were approaching us.”
Patrick let out another big laugh. “Sam and I are competitors, sure. But
we were friends long before we both had little food stands in this town.
Worked at the same burger hut more years ago than I’ll ever tell anyone.”
Teeny pointed at Patrick. “The Great White Hut. Place was incredible.
You both were there at the same time?”
 Patrick nodded. “Mr. White trained us in the great American art of ice
cream, burgers, chicken tenders, hot dogs, and fries. Sam’s shop focuses on
the ice cream, and the fried food comes second. I focus on the fried food
and look at the ice cream as more of an add-on. There’s room for both of us
in this town. He’s godfather to my little girl. Not so little anymore. She’s
pretty freaky tall now, but you know what I mean.”
“Hold on a second.” Teeny crossed her arms. “Now that we know how
close you and Sam are, how will we know if we can trust you as his alibi?
You basically just told us you’d lie for him.”
Patrick shrugged. “You ladies already knew how close I was with Sam,
at least May did. Why would I try to hide that? Plus, you already heard we
were at the bar together. I don’t know about you, but I only drown my
sorrows with friends I know and trust.”
“So were you at Murphy’s with Sam last night?” said Miss May.
“Yes, I was.”
“What did you have to drink?” said Teeny.
“Peach schnapps. On the rocks.” Patrick stood from the table and
slipped his hands into his pockets. “Any other questions?”
“Sure,” said Teeny. “Can you train the girl up front on how to ring up a
cup of sprinkles? I don’t expect you to give them to me for free every time,
but I’m always going to ask for them.”
“I’ll do that.” Patrick gave us a little wave and then sauntered back
toward the rear of the restaurant. As I watched him walk away, I was
overcome by the feeling that he had lied to us. But I wasn’t sure about what
or why…
11
 DRIVING TOWARD ANSWERS

“E wing was lying.” Miss May flicked on her turn signal and
waited at the stop light just past Ewing’s Eats. “I know it.”
I finished buckling up my seatbelt. I turned around to get one last look
at the restaurant before we left it behind. The little white building was
simple, unpretentious, unassuming. It didn’t look like the kind of place run
by a murderer or a liar. “How can you know for sure? Patrick Ewing is such
a fixture in Pine Grove. Imagining that he’s lying… It’s like imagining that
the town itself is lying. He’s been so nice to me ever since I was a little
girl.”
“Me too,” said Teeny. “Well, I didn’t know Patrick when I was a little
girl. But I’ve known him for a real long time, and I agree with you, he’s a
sweetheart. Also, his sprinkles are the best in town, and he uses real
chocolate shavings in his chocolate milkshakes. That’s the kind of attention
to detail I trust.”
Miss May headed down the long, hilly road that led from Ewing’s Eats
back toward Pine Grove. I knew the route well because we’d travelled that
way so many times back and forth from Ewing’s on hot summer days. The
sky before us was filled with burnt orange sunlight as the sun sank down
behind the mountains. The light streaked through the half-naked autumn
trees and dappled the road before us with pools of shimmering color. The
snapshot was so perfect I almost forgot a murderer was loose in Pine Grove.
Then Miss May brought me back to reality.
“There are two reasons why I know Patrick Ewing was lying,” said
Miss May. “First, no one orders peach schnapps on the rocks. You two
would know that if you ever drank. Second, Ewing has been stone cold
sober for the better part of a decade.”
Teeny leaned forward from the back of the van. “No kidding. Were you
there when he hit rock bottom? Was it a dark wake-up call? How do you
know?”
“I know because I know,” said Miss May. “Not sure who told me, but I
can’t remember not knowing. Still, it’s not the kind of thing you broadcast
to friends and neighbors, not most of the time.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me though,” said Teeny.
Miss May sighed. “I did tell you, Teeny. In fact, I believe I told you
several times. You’ve had the same shocked reaction each time, and then, a
few months later or a few years later, you totally forget.”
I rested my elbow along the window and kept looking out at the
horizon. “So Sam slipped up when he told that alibi. Why would he pretend
he was out drinking at a bar with a sober friend?”
“Sam didn’t say Ewing was drinking,” said Miss May. “He said Ewing
was there. I think Patrick is the one who slipped up. He could’ve told us he
was sipping on a Coca-Cola as Sam drowned his sorrows in a Heineken.
But he forgot himself because he was lying, so he made up that ridiculous
fairytale about peach schnapps on the rocks. The thought of that drink
makes me shudder.”
“I’ve never had schnapps before in my life, but it sounds delicious to
me. Peaches are my favorite fruit.” Teeny smacked her lips. “I would take a
shot of it right now if I could.”
Miss May took a left turn which shifted the horizon to our right. I turned
my head so I could keep focusing on the beautiful setting sun. “It’s possible
Patrick has started drinking again. I doubt he has a tally of everyone in town
who knows about his sobriety. Maybe he fell off the wagon or got back on it
again, whatever the expression is.”
Miss May shook her head. “Patrick was a Marine. Once he makes a
decision, he sticks with it. He’s got real discipline. Back before you were
born, he won the Pine Grove dance-athon by dancing for thirty-nine hours
straight. The guy who came in second collapsed on the dance floor. He was
also a Marine.”
“This really is a pretty sunset,” said Teeny. “It looks like a Creamsicle.
Any chance either of you ladies want to stop for a Creamsicle?”
Miss May laughed. “Teeny, you’ve only had two meals today, and they
were both ice cream with a whole cup of sprinkles on the side. You can’t
possibly want a Creamsicle right now.”
Teeny shook her head. “Anything’s possible, May. And don’t you ever
forget it.”
The parking lot of Grandma’s restaurant was so full Miss May had to
grab a spot marked “Employees Only” around back. A quick peek inside
one of the restaurant windows revealed that every table had been taken.
“Looks like the people of Pine Grove are still loving your food,” I said,
gesturing toward the restaurant.
“What a bunch of fools,” said Teeny. “Don’t they know a washed-up
hack when they eat one?”
Miss May turned and gave Teeny a stern look. “Hey. You can knock
your own cooking as much as you want. But don’t talk about the people of
Pine Grove like that. They’ve supported you so much over the years, and
they’re not stupid for liking your food, they’re smart. Your recipes are
ingenious, creative, and comforting at the same time. Sometimes, I’m so
jealous of your cooking that I give up on making my own dinner and come
eat at your restaurant instead. Yeah, you’re going through something right
now. But you’re going to get through it, and you’re going to be better for it,
so quit complaining.”
Teeny stuck her tongue out at Miss May. “I hate your stern, supportive
speeches. They always make me feel better.”
I chuckled. “Then why do you hate them?”
“Because I don’t want to feel better,” said Teeny. “I want to wallow like
a little baby until my problem is magically fixed.”
“That’s not how I roll,” said Miss May. “Speaking of how I roll, I need
a plan here. What’s our next move? I don’t want to go back to Patrick or
Sam until we have a little bit more information.”
“Right. Sam lied or Patrick lied or they both lied,” said Teeny. “But that
doesn’t necessarily mean either of them is the killer.”
I nodded. “Yeah, people lie for a ton of reasons more mundane than
murder. I agree, we shouldn’t confront them again until we have more
backstory. Plus, if either one of them did it, we don’t want them to get
scared and leave town. What if I call Wayne and see what he knows?”
Miss May rubbed her chin. “I’m not so sure about that, Chelsea. Yeah,
we said we’d loop the man in on this investigation, but we’re just getting
started. I know he’s your boyfriend but—”
“I told him we’d combine forces on this one,” I said, frustration
reddening my cheeks. “Don’t make me go back on my word.”
“I know,” said Miss May. “I won’t. It’s just… Let’s sit on this
information for a beat and see what else we can learn. No sense in bringing
Wayne in until we have something that feels a little more conclusive for
real. We should let him focus on his job while we sniff out clues that might
actually prove helpful.”
Teeny leaned forward and stuck her head between me and Miss May in
the front seat. “I think we should go talk this over while we enjoy a nice
glass of pure peach schnapps. Doesn’t that sound yummy?”
Miss May made a gagging sound. “It definitely does not.”
 Teeny rolled her eyes. “I’m saying I think we should go to Murphy’s and
talk to the staff over there. I’m sure someone who was working last night
can give us the scoop on Sam and Ewing if indeed the guys were there. If
not, that’s valuable information too.”
I looked over at Miss May. “I think it sounds like a good idea.”
Miss May took a deep breath and then exhaled. “Fine. But I’m not
drinking any flavored liqueur.”
12
 MURPHY’S LAW

T he door to Murphy’s bar chimed as we entered. The place was

empty but for one red-headed, female bartender, who I assumed
to be one of the many eponymous Murphys. The long wooden bar was
cracked and peeling. As I walked toward it, I tripped over a loose tile on the
floor. The whole place smelled like beer that had been spilled and not
cleaned up.
“Should we grab a table or take a seat at the bar?” I said to Miss May.
Her eyes flitted about the room. I could tell she wasn’t thrilled by the
condition of the place and would’ve rather left altogether. But neither Miss
May nor I had ever backed down from a mission. “Let’s grab a seat at the
bar.”
Although stopping by Murphy’s had been Teeny’s idea, she’d decided to
stay back at Grandma’s at the last minute. Her restaurant was too crowded,
and she knew her staff probably needed help. She told us each to take a shot
of the sweetest liqueur they had in her honor. Both Miss May and I had
refused to commit to that promise.
The red-headed bartender made her way toward us. She looked to be in
her late forties. There were deep crinkles around her eyes, and she walked
with a slight limp. “You two here to drink or toss another Murphy in jail?”
The woman’s lilting Irish accent only emphasized her disdain. It was true,
Miss May and I had taken down one of the Murphys a while back for
murder. We hadn’t exactly been regulars at the bar since that investigation.
Somehow, neither of us realized our presence there might not be welcomed.
Miss May wasn’t disturbed by the woman’s hostility. “Just here to get a
couple of drinks. A couple of snakebites please.”
The woman took a step back and smirked at Miss May. “So now you’re
ordering like a real Irishwoman.”
Miss May shrugged. “We’ve got some Irish blood.”
I leaned forward with my pointer finger held up. “So sorry. What’s a
snakebite? Doesn’t sound particularly appetizing.”
“Equal parts beer and cider,” said Miss May. “Make ours with Guinness
and Bulmers, please.”
The bartender chuckled to herself as she turned her back to us and
began making the drinks. I leaned over and whispered to Miss May, “I
totally forgot we put Jim Murphy in jail. It doesn’t look like this place has
held up very well since then. Do you think it’s our fault?”
Miss May shook her head. “Not at all. The place wasn’t doing too well
to begin with, and most people don’t enjoy patronizing establishments
owned by convicted murderers. If this place has fallen apart at all since Jim
went down, he’s to blame, not us.”
The woman returned to her spot at the bar with a pair of pint glasses,
each of which had been filled with an amber liquid or, I suppose, a
combination of amber liquids. “Be careful how many of these you drink
tonight, ladies. Remember, snake venom can be fatal.”
“We’ll be fine.” Miss May slid the woman a twenty-dollar bill. “Keep
the change.”
The woman took the twenty and tucked it into the back pocket of her
jeans. That’s not the cash register, I thought. But I decided it was neither the
time nor the place to display my moral police badge.
“That’s the biggest tip I’ve ever gotten in Pine Grove. Why?”
 “Got a couple questions for you.” Miss May took a big sip of her beer.
“You got a minute?”
The woman turned her head to the side and laughed incredulously.
“These two women put my brother behind bars for murder, and now they
come into my bar thinking I’m going to help them in another investigation.
Can you believe that, Doc?”
I looked around, searching for the aforementioned “Doc.” We were still
the only people in the bar. “I’m sorry. Who’s Doc?”
“My dead grandpa.” The woman turned and narrowed her eyes. “You
got a problem with talking to the dead?”
I held up my hands. “Me? No. Not at all. I talk to dead people all the
time. Also, I talk to dead animals. Every night before I go to bed, I say good
night to my cat, Runt. Runt’s been dead for twenty-one years.”
The woman let out a big, glorious laugh. “Now that’s crazy. You talk to
a dead cat before bed? Why? Does the cat ever talk back?”
“Does your grandpa?”
The woman slapped the bar and laughed even harder. “He hasn’t yet,
Chelsea Thomas. But if he did, I’m sure he’d tell me to slap you across the
face and send you back out onto the street.”
Miss May gave the woman a little smile. “Listen, we just want to keep
the streets safe. There’s a murderer out there. I think we may need your help
to catch the killer.”
The smile vanished from the bartender’s face, and she placed both
palms down on the bar. “You put my brother in jail.”
“Jim’s a smart man. He came over from Ireland and built this place
from scratch. Did a beautiful job, too. I have to believe that when he
committed that murder, he knew he might have to accept the consequences.
He had that possibility in his mind, and he decided to do it anyway.”
The woman took a moment, searching Miss May’s eyes, perhaps for
truth or maybe for a touch of compassion. I knew that Miss May contained
multitudes of both ingredients. Finally, the woman slumped her shoulders
and let out a big sigh. “Fine. What do need to know?”
Miss May scooted forward in her chair. “Were you working last night?”
The woman shook her head.
“Can you let us know who was?”
“First tell me why.” The bartender poured herself a beer and took a big
sip. “Have you got another Murphy in your sights? Don’t tell me one of my
brood went out killing again. This is the exact reason we left Ireland all
those years ago. We got chased out.”
I scratched my nose. “Hold on. Are you saying you’re from a family of
killers?”
She took another big sip of beer and then wiped her mouth. “I’m saying
I’m from a family of people who fight the good fight, even when it’s not
worth fighting.”
“So that’s a yes on the murderers?” I said.
Miss May held her arm out to stop me. I was grateful for the gesture
because I honestly didn’t know why I was talking. Chelsea babble happens
at the worst times. “We’re not looking for another Murphy,” said Miss May.
“We think someone who was drinking here last night might have—”
Suddenly, a loud belch sounded from the back of the barroom. I turned
to look toward the source of the sound, and Sam Cohen emerged from the
men’s bathroom, stumbling and humming an old Irish folk song. Neither
Miss May nor I looked away from Sam as he approached the bar. Somehow,
he didn’t notice us. Then he took a seat at the far end of the bar, and he and
I made eye contact.
Sam’s face went white as I stood and approached him.
13
 SAM I AM

A s I walked toward Sam, he reminded me of one of the deer Miss

May and I had come across on the road that night we found Alex.
Sam’s eyes were wide, and he didn’t move a single fiber of his being. It was
as though both Sam and the deer thought that if they stayed perfectly still, I
wouldn’t know they were there. The deer had a good excuse for thinking
that way because, well, they were deer. They were operating on instinct.
Sam… I’m not sure what his excuse was.
“Hi, Mr. Cohen. Can Miss May and I sit with you?” The stool beside
Sam looked sticky. The varnish had worn off, and one leg was shorter than
all the others. I pulled it out and plopped down, ignoring the gummy residue
the stool left on my fingers.
Miss May sat on the stool on the other side of Sam. As she got settled,
he looked from me to her and then back to me. Then he flagged down the
bartender. “Another Guinness, please.”
I leaned forward and caught Miss May’s eye. She and I hadn’t discussed
a plan before I had jumped to my feet and started a conversation with Sam.
Miss May didn’t seem to think it was a bad decision. She gave me a little
nod, which reassured me.
“How’s it going, Sam?” said Miss May.
 The waitress deposited Sam’s beer in front of him and then walked
away, leaving us plenty of space to keep talking. He took a big gulp of the
dark ale and let out a sigh. “Killing is wrong,” he said. “I wouldn’t hurt a
fly. You know that, May.”
Sam’s voice was slurred but insistent and a little impatient sounding. “I
already told you I was here last night. Patrick confirmed the story. Called
me up as soon as you left. Said he was glad you didn’t stick around long
because you would’ve scared away customers. Do you ever feel bad for
ruining businesses in this town? Look what you did to Murphy’s. Don’t
know how this place stays open.”
Seems like you’re doing your part, I thought but refrained from being
judgmental out loud. I shook my head. “Jim Murphy killed someone, Mr.
Cohen. If that damaged the success of his business, it is not our fault.
People don’t run and hide when they see us, they stick around because they
think something exciting might happen. We brought a lot of tourists to this
town because of all the acclaim we’ve gathered.” I marveled at how quickly
I’d adapted Miss May’s logic.
Sam looked over at me, head swiveling so loose on his neck it reminded
me of an apple just before it fell to the ground. Barely hanging on. “You’re
taking the lead on questioning the suspect? I’m surprised. I always thought
Miss May did all the talking and you just sat around until it was time for
karate.”
“Sam.” Miss May spoke his name like she was talking to a disobedient
dog. He didn’t appear to have the strength to turn and face her completely,
so he looked over at her out of the corner of his eye. “May.”
“Ewing lied for you. Said he was here drinking but we both know he
doesn’t drink anymore. Claimed his drink of choice last night was peach
schnapps on the rocks.”
Sam stuck out his tongue and cringed. “Wow, Pat. That’s… That’s
disgusting.”
 “Teeny thinks that sounds good,” I said.
Sam chuckled. “But she probably thinks it taste like peach.” Sam took
another drink from his Guinness. “Pat must’ve got nervous when you two
began questioning him. Pat was here with me, but he was drinking a Diet
Coke, like he always does. He probably wanted his story to sound more
believable, so he pretended he was drinking peach schnapps. The guy is a
solid friend. Has been for so many years.”
Miss May slid her snakebite along the bar from one hand to the other.
“So you’re sticking with the story. You’re saying you were really here last
night.”
Sam nodded.
“Who was working the bar?” said Miss May.
“Irish kid. Red hair. Tall and skinny.” Sam nodded down to the woman
at the other end of the bar. “Kind of looked like her but young and male.”
I stood up from my barstool, trying to ignoring the sticky sound it made
as I peeled my pants off it. I walked a few paces. “This is confusing. You’re
saying you were really here last night. You’re saying Patrick was actually
with you. But there’s something you’re not saying. Sounds like you got
pretty drunk yesterday. No offense, but you seem kinda drunk again now.
Why?”
Miss May nodded. “It’s a good question, Sam. You’ve never been a
heavy drinker.”
Sam hung his head. “I can’t hold my liquor even a little. One time, my
uncle made a joke about how I’m a little booze baby. I denied it, but he was
right. You hear me, Uncle Frank? You were right.”
The bartender looked our direction. “You talking to a dead guy down
there?”
Sam gave the bartender a drunken thumbs-up. “Uncle Frank. Lost him
fifteen years ago. He died from falling down the stairs. He might’ve been
drunk.”
 “Talking to the dead is something we all have in common, then,” said
the bartender. She exited to a little room behind the bar before any of us had
a chance to reply. I wondered to myself why the bartender had chosen that
moment to interject in our conversation. She’d kept such a respectful
distance before then. But that’s life in a small town. Everyone always wants
to talk and be included in almost everything, all the time. Usually it’s a
good thing, a heartwarming thing. Other times, it intervenes in an important
murder investigation.
“So why’s the booze baby drinking tonight?” Miss May asked,
refocusing the conversation on what mattered.
“Booze baby doesn’t want to say. Booze baby not happy.”
“Don’t talk like a baby, Sam,” said Miss May. “I don’t want to lose any
more respect for you. Now come out with it and be honest. It’s past my
bedtime. So tell us what sorrows you were drowning last night. What
sorrows are you drowning right now?”
“I wasn’t drowning any sorrows,” said Sam. “I was confessing.”
Miss May’s posture straightened like she’d been yanked upward by a
string. “Confessing what, Sam?”
My breathing turned shallow, and I leaned on the gross sticky stool. Had
Sam Cohen murdered Alex Turnbull? Was that the confession I was about
to hear?
“I support the light rail, OK?” Sam grabbed his beer, finished the whole
thing, and slammed the pint glass down on the bar.
Miss May blinked a few times and sat back. “Why? I don’t understand.
The plans have the tracks going right through your spot.”
“I wanted the payout from eminent domain.” Sam nudged his glass a
few inches away from his body. He looked up at Miss May. In the glance
they shared, I saw decades of friendship and understanding. Miss May was
upset that Sam was in support of the light rail. She was upset he felt he
needed to be. “I switched to a milk powder for my ice cream a few years
ago. Ever since then, business has been flagging. But once I lowered my
cost of goods, I never summoned the courage to bring them up again, even
when the data told me I should. People just don’t like powdered milk in
their ice cream, May. I’m sure you’ve seen it in your business.”
“I only know one person who prefers powdered milk, and he’s pretty
much insane,” said Miss May. She put her hand on Sam’s. “But I’ve
enjoyed your ice cream all the same the past couple years. Didn’t even
notice the difference.”
“You would if I put the products side-by-side. Everyone would.”
Miss May sighed. “That’s why you were so against the light rail
publicly. Because in private…”
Sam hung his head. “The only person I’ve told is Patrick, other than the
two of you. Will you keep my secret?”
Miss May nodded. “Only if you go home and get some rest. We’ll cover
your tab, booze baby.”
Sam didn’t bother to protest. The poor guy just stood up and shuffled
out of the bar with his head and arms drooping. As he departed, Miss May
vowed to him that she would solve this mystery for Sam and everyone else
like him in town.
“We all have struggles no one else knows about,” said Miss May. “But
murder should never be among them.”
14
 BOOZE BABY BLUES

“T hat booze baby supported the light rail?” Teeny’s eyes were
wide, and she was smiling in the way only a woman who has
just heard incredible gossip ever does. “But he was so against it at the
meeting.”
Miss May shrugged. “There’s the face we show the world and then
there’s the face we see when we look in the mirror. For many of us, those
two people aren’t quite the same.”
“That’s the most profound thing that’s ever been said in my restaurant,”
said Teeny, gesturing around Grandma’s. It was after hours at the restaurant,
but there were still a smattering of locals there, picking at cold french fries
and chatting with one another. Brian from the Brown Cow coffee shop
shared a hot chocolate with his husband, Mr. Bryan, at a table by the
window. The two of them looked so cozy, it was almost like they didn’t
know that a murderer was on the loose in Pine Grove, yet again. An older
lady ate pancakes by herself in the back of the room, stopping every so
often to type out a text message on her phone. She too looked calm and
unbothered by the presence of the killer in our midst.
I turned back to Teeny and Miss May. “That was profound, Miss May.
You’re a really good sleuth. I think that’s why these people are so calm right
now, even with what’s going on.”
 Teeny pointed at me. “We’re all good sleuths. All three of us. I’m part
of the team, too. It’s not just the Thomas sisters.”
“We’re not sisters,” said Miss May.
“But you like it when people think you are,” said Teeny. “Admit it.”
“The only person who’s ever said that is John Wentworth, and he only
says it because he clearly loves me,” said Miss May. Her face flushed a bit.
I smiled. “And you love him too?”
“He’s fine,” said Miss May.
I nudged Miss May like we were a couple of girls in the schoolyard. Or,
I guess, sisters. “And he’s your boyfriend. And you’re his girlfriend.”
“I’m too old for labels, Chelsea. And I’m too old to waste my time
gossiping when there’s a murderer in my town. I want to talk about the
case. Now, I’m thinking—”
Teeny jumped to her feet. “Wait. I almost forgot. I’ve got a new dish on
my menu. I devised it while you two were with the booze baby. I don’t
know if it’s good or what. But I’m back on the horse creating again, and
that’s what matters. Wanna give it a try?”
Teeny darted off to the kitchen before we answered. Seconds later, she
darted back toward our table carrying a small bowl filled with what
appeared to be slimy green noodles. She placed the bowl in front of us with
a flourish and stepped back with a smile.
Miss May clasped her palms together and proceeded with a gentle tone.
“That looks interesting, Teeny. What is it?”
“It’s seaweed salad with umami salt and sesame oil. I found the recipe
on the website of this famous chef in Brooklyn. Apparently, people down
there love this seaweed stuff.”
I poked the seaweed with my fork. Although I’m an adventurous eater,
and I’d tried seaweed salad before, I was a bit skeptical. “And you just
happen to have seaweed in your refrigerator at Grandma’s?”
 “Big Dan had some at home. He’s a real healthy eater. Well, kind of. He
either eats healthy food or pizza and not much in between. Try it.”
The seaweed was cold and slimy, and it tasted like it had come from Big
Dan’s refrigerator, not in a good way. Both Miss May and I grinned when
we ate the food and told Teeny it was delicious, but she had grown
accustomed to our rave reviews of her food, and she snatched the seaweed
away before either of us had swallowed our first bite.
“It’s trash. It’s disgusting. What’s wrong with me?”
I shrugged. “It’s good. But maybe it’s not quite right for the people of
Pine Grove. And it doesn’t really seem like a classic Teeny dish.”
“She’s right, Teeny. You’re forgetting yourself. But don’t worry, I think
experimentation is valuable. You should think of this as one step closer to
your next incredible creation.”
Teeny flagged down a passing waiter. “Excuse me.”
The waiter, a teenage girl who had begun to look like all the other
teenage girls in town, approached. “Yes?”
“Please throw this away. And if you see Big Dan, tell him it was a huge
failure.”
“Aren’t you going to see him later?”
“Just go,” said Teeny, pointing toward the kitchen.
The girl hurried away. It was a strange sensation, trying something at
Grandma’s that wasn’t warm and wonderful and perfect. Teeny had mostly
hit home runs for the entirety of her cooking career. The seaweed salad
was… a strikeout, or maybe a foul ball, at best. I knew she’d find her way
back to her classic home-cooked goodness soon, and I was eager for the day
to come.
“Don’t be down on yourself,” said Miss May.
“I’m not. Like you said, it’s all part of the journey. Now, let’s got back
to what matters. I think Kelly Washington killed Turnbull.”
 Miss May scratched her head. “Kelly Washington was Turnbull’s
deputy, right? She’s the one who spoke at the town hall meeting.”
Teeny nodded. “Yeah. And a few people came in tonight and said
Washington is still in town, skulking, lurking, acting suspicious.”
“But it seems like she was Turnbull’s loyal guard dog,” I said. “I got the
impression Washington loved her boss.”
“Powerful men have complicated relationships with their female
employees,” said Miss May. “I saw it all the time back when I was working
for the prosecutor’s office in New York City. These guys can make you feel
like you’re special and wonderful and the hardest worker they know. They
bring you in with their compliments and kindness just to make you work
harder. After enough time, even the most loyal guard dog might turn on her
powerful male boss, if he keeps driving her to work without reward. She
begins to despise him inwardly. She takes shortcuts on her work. She
searches for a new job or fantasizes about returning home to run her family
orchard. The question is: had Kelly Washington yet reached that point?”
I cocked my head. “Is that what happened to you? Did you have a bad
boss?”
Miss May chuckled to herself. “It’s late. I’ll tell you that story another
time.”
“Maybe on the big, beautiful, getting-out-of-town road trip I’m planning
to start planning soon?”
Miss May shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
15
 NOT A LICK OF SLEEP

“S top licking me.” I groaned and rolled over in bed as Steve the
dog licked my face. “It’s too early, Steve.”
Steve, with his adorable, limpy gait, bounced around the bed like a kid
on Christmas, then kept right on licking. Then his co-conspirator jumped up
on the bed and meowed. Yep, it was Kitty, and she seemed determined to
stand on my face. A quick check of the time on my phone revealed it was
nine in the morning. Fine. Maybe it wasn’t too early for me to be woken up
by a joint attack from my furry friends. But that didn’t mean I had to like it.
I did kinda like it though. I mean, it was really cute.
I giggled as Kitty crossed my chest and headed toward my face. “You
are such a psycho, Kitty. Psychotic but cute.”
The little black and white cat stopped just before stepping on my cheek.
Her beautiful, green eyes caught mine, and I swear she smirked. Then came
my third wake-up call: Miss May’s voice calling up from the foot of the
staircase.
“Chelsea. Wake up. Come down here.”
“I’ve been awake for a long time,” I lied. “Couldn’t sleep. Been reading
in bed. Agatha Christie.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Miss May. “What book?”
 My mind scrambled, like what happens when you turn to Channel 4 on
an old-fashioned TV set. “Um… Um…” The fact that I couldn’t come up
with the name of an Agatha Christie book embarrassed me, especially
because I had truly been reading one the night before.
“That’s what I thought,” said Miss May. She banged on the banister
three times. “Come on down. We’ve got investigative work to do.”
Miss May handed me a cup of coffee as soon as I entered the kitchen. I
rubbed my eyes and took the cup with what I’m sure was a barely audible
thank you. Miss May was unconcerned with my timid manners that
morning because she had business on the mind. “Kelly Washington is on
her way here right now. I emailed her last night and told her I want to
discuss the light rail. Tried to give the impression that I was thinking about
coming out in favor of the project at the next town meeting.”
I set my coffee down so hard a few drops of liquid splashed out onto the
counter. “Why would you do that?”
Miss May ripped off a piece of paper towel and handed it to me. I wiped
up the spilled coffee and tossed the paper towel in the trash.
“I needed to get her here, and I thought the lie about the light rail would
do the trick. Turns out I was right. You’re not gonna wear that for the
meeting, are you?”
“I mean, I’m wearing dinosaur footie pajamas,” I said. “How long do I
have to change?”
Suddenly, I heard the sound of tires crunching over gravel in the
driveway. I peeked out the back door and saw a modest, white Toyota Prius
approaching. A New York State Assembly decal emblazoned the driver’s
side door. Kelly Washington was behind the wheel, but I’m betting you
knew that already.
I grabbed my head with both hands. “She’s here now. I’m wearing
pajamas that cover my feet. That is not acceptable.”
 Miss May chuckled as I darted out of the kitchen. I took the stairs two at
a time, which was a feat for me, especially that early in the morning,
especially with my short and stumpy body. Gasping for air, I exploded into
my bedroom and threw open the door to my closet. What should I choose to
wear for our meeting with Kelly Washington that morning? Maybe blue
slacks with a crisp, white shirt and navy blue blazer? It was an outfit I often
worn as an interior designer in New York City, especially when I was
meeting potential clients for the first time. The outfit was more formal than
anything I’d worn since moving to Pine Grove. You might be wondering, so
just come out and say it: the clothes still fit, and they weren’t even snug.
Sure, we eat lots of sweets and homestyle food up here in Pine Grove, but
we walk a lot too and I guess that helps. Solving murders burns calories.
As I hurried down the stairs in my business outfit, I stood tall and
smoothed the sleeves of the coat. For a moment, I remembered what it felt
like to be a successful designer working in Manhattan. Back in those days,
I’d babbled just as much as ever. But people had respected me and my work
before I even entered a room, and that respect kept my head held high.
I had a similar respect in Pine Grove, thanks to all the mysteries we had
solved. I didn’t have to wear a fancy suit to earn it, either. That thought
brought a little smile to my lips, and the smile grew larger as I entered the
kitchen and greeted Kelly Washington. “Ms. Washington, welcome to the
orchard. How are you?”
“I’m well,” said Kelly, shaking my hand. “And yourself?”
“I too am well,” I said, weirdly adopting the persona of a
businesswoman.
“Glad everyone is doing so well,” said Miss May. “Both you ladies look
terrific in your outfits. Here I am in jeans and a flannel like I am every day.
I feel underdressed in my own home.”
“Don’t be silly.” Kelly looked around the room and gave a nod of
approval. “This place is incredible, by the way. Elegant and country and
folksy all at the same time. I’m not sure how you do it.”
“A hundred years of leaving everything pretty much the same,” said
Miss May. “Except we switched over to the electric refrigerator a few
decades ago, and that helped quite a bit. Please, have a seat at the kitchen
table.”
Kelly sat at the head of the table. Miss May pulled a fresh apple pie
from the windowsill, cut a piece, and set it in front of Ms. Washington.
Kelly’s eyes widened at the sight of the pie. “Wow. Is this for me? Pie for
breakfast?”
Miss May sat next to Kelly, and I sat beside Miss May. “It’s an apple
orchard, Ms. Washington. If you don’t eat apple pie for breakfast here, then
where will you?”
Kelly giggled. “I suppose I could have just one or two bites. But then
we should really get to the discussion of whether or not I murdered my
boss, Alex Turnbull.”
“You didn’t believe my email,” said Miss May.
Kelly carefully selected her bite of pie and arranged it on her fork.
“Like you said, this orchard has been here for a hundred years. There’s no
way you’re going to come out in support of the light rail.” Kelly put the pie
in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully for a long moment. “This is good.
Thank you.”
Most people throw their heads back and moan in ecstasy as they eat
Miss May’s pie. Kelly Washington’s reaction was underwhelming by that
standard. But I suppose she had great practice at keeping her emotions in
check. Or maybe she just didn’t really like apple pie?
“If you knew I wasn’t telling the truth, why did you come here?” Miss
May asked.
“Well, that’s quite simple. I need to clear my name. Can’t have anyone
suspecting me of murder, and the fastest way to make my innocence known
is to convince the two of you that I’ve done nothing nefarious whatsoever.”
 Miss May shifted in her chair. “OK. You’re a straight shooter, and you
don’t seem to love my pie. I have to admit that catches me a little off-guard.
But. I can speak your language. So, here it is: I think some people are
talking because you’ve been hanging around town even after your boss was
murdered. Why is that?”
Kelly tittered. “The people around here can’t think a project of this
magnitude would stop in its literal or figurative tracks just because one
person died. This project is much larger than Alex Turnbull. I’m still in
town because the project is moving forward.”
“Did you get Turnbull’s job after he got murdered?” I said.
Kelly took another bite of pie and then dotted the sides of her mouth
with a napkin in a dainty motion. “Not even close. Though I did inherit
most of his responsibilities, I don’t expect a pay raise or change in title for
at least two to three years. Working for the government offers a great deal
of security and I expect my retirement to be comfortable, but there’s so
much red tape, and it can be difficult to climb the ladder, as it were.
Anyway, there are far cleaner ways to advance oneself in political fields
than murder. Bribery, extortion, all the old classics.”
“Interesting. Do you have experience with bribery and extortion?” Miss
May leaned forward and studied Kelly’s face. Kelly leaned forward in much
the same way, almost mocking Miss May.
“Absolutely not. I was simply making a point.”
“Are you aware of anyone who had tried to bribe or extort Turnbull
recently?” I said. “Surely the man must’ve had plenty of enemies. Who do
you think killed him?”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Kelly. “Sure, most politicians have
legions of enemies, sometimes tens of thousands if their constituents hate
them enough. But Alex was beloved in our department. He worked his way
up through the system with honesty and integrity. He was a fair boss and a
good leader. He had respect from everyone he knew, which is all too rare in
my field.”
“You respected him?” said Miss May.
“Of course.” Kelly answered the question so fast she almost spoke over
Miss May. “He was a great boss and a role model to me. He will be
missed.”
I once again noted that Kelly was far from emotive. Maybe she liked
Miss May’s pie after all. Maybe she was just that good at keeping things
close.
“If you’re here to prove your innocence, do you have anything that
makes it clear you couldn’t have killed Alex?” Miss May asked.
“I have my honesty and my forthrightness,” said Kelly. “I was hoping
you could spread the word of my open communication through town. I’m
sure you’ll find as you continue to investigate that there’s no way I could’ve
done this. In the meantime, I’d like you to do me the kindness of keeping
my name out of the mud and out of the mouths of your friends and
neighbors.”
“I can’t control what other people say or think or do,” said Miss May.
“But you can catch the killer?”
Miss May nodded. “We have plenty of times before.”
Kelly took one last bite of pie and stood up, pushing the plate away. “I’d
like to see that.”
16
 DUSTING OFF CLUES

M iss May walked Kelly out to her car. The two women shared
a few words as Kelly got behind the driver’s seat. Miss
May’s jaw was clenched as she climbed back up onto the porch and entered
the kitchen. I had been watching through the little window on the back door,
so I stumbled back when Miss May entered.
“Sorry. I was standing too close. For a second there, I thought it looked
like you two might fight or something. Were those fighting words out
there?”
“She told me she loved the pie. I told her she could come by anytime.
She asked what else we had. I described the Apple Pie Panini in great
detail. She said it sounded delicious. She left. Nothing scandalous, except
for the fact that everything she told us in the kitchen was a lie.”
Miss May grabbed Kelly’s leftover pie from the table and dumped it in
the trash. She then began tidying up the rest of the kitchen, and I followed
her around like a little puppy dog. “Everything was a lie? I didn’t notice
anything suspicious about Kelly. I mean, the lady is weird and stiff but so
are lots of people. What did I miss?”
Miss May hand-washed Kelly’s plate in the big farmhouse sink. Light
streamed into the window and perfectly illuminated her hands in the sink. It
almost looked like a commercial for dish soap or something.
 “Kelly Washington claims Alex Turnbull was her role model. She’s only
ever said kind things about the guy, and she says everyone who knew him
loved him. Did he seem that lovable to you?”
“No.”
“So I think that was a lie. And I think when people lie for no apparent
reason, there’s probably a reason.”
“Like that person is a killer?”
Miss May set Kelly’s dish in the drying rack with a clank. “I don’t
know. That’s what we’re trying to find out, right?”
Miss May grabbed a broom and began sweeping up the kitchen floor.
Dropping to my knees, I grabbed a dustpan from under the kitchen sink.
She swept, and I gathered the crumbs as we continued to talk.
“We have to clean while we discuss all this?” I said. “It’s hard for me to
dust and think at the same time.”
“You’re a strong, independent woman, Chelsea,” said Miss May. “Never
say sentences like that. I know you can clean and think at the same time.”
I crossed over to the garbage can and emptied my first round of dust
into it. “OK, I guess,” I said. “Let’s see… What other lies could Kelly have
told?”
“Good. You tell me. But first, get back here with that dustpan.”
I crossed back over to Miss May, and we got back into her cleaning
rhythm. As she swept, my mind cycled back through our conversation with
Kelly from a few minutes earlier. Then I thought back to how Kelly had
behaved at the town meeting. She had arrived late, her arms overflowing
with documents and papers. There were dark circles under her eyes, and
there was a small coffee stain on the front of her shirt. She looked like a
woman who’d been working a dozen hours or more without a chance to
freshen up or relax for a few minutes. “Yeah. It seems like there might’ve
been something more to her relationship with Turnbull. He wasn’t just a
good boss. The guy worked her too hard. Probably worked everyone under
him to the point of exhaustion. She looked poised on the surface but also
like she might collapse at the meeting the other night.”
“You noticed that too,” said Miss May. “The coffee stain, the dark
circles, the documents…”
I shifted the dustpan a little closer to the ground to help the sweeping
process go more smoothly. “Yeah,” I said. “And she didn’t seem at all
distraught by Turnbull’s death, did she? At first, I reasoned that she’s not an
emotional woman. She didn’t gush at all over your pie, for instance. But
thinking back now, her attitude toward Turnbull’s death doesn’t quite line
up with the way one might act if their role model had recently been found
with a railroad spike in his back. She’s all business, all the time.”
“People who are as ambitious as Kelly Washington don’t often have
time for real role models. They see everyone in their life as someone who
can help them get where they want to go and as little more than that.”
“Is that what it was like at the prosecutor’s office?”
“Go dump the dustpan,” said Miss May. “No use talking about me or
my experiences right now.”
The second load of dust and crumbs fell into the garbage can with a
little plume. I scanned the kitchen floors and turned back to Miss May. “I
think we got everything. I had no idea the kitchen floor was that dirty.”
“Kitchen floors hold secrets, just like people do,” said Miss May. “You
agree the guy was probably a bad boss?”
I stashed the dustpan back under the kitchen sink. “Yeah. But that
doesn’t mean Kelly Washington killed him. Maybe we should think back to
the scene of the crime. I bet if we analyze the clues a bit more deeply, a new
suspect will emerge.”
Miss May sat at the kitchen table and put her feet up on the chair across
from her. Her brown work boots were creased and well-worn. I knew from
a lifetime of observation Miss May wouldn’t kick those shoes off until her
workday was complete. I admired her for that even if I didn’t relate to it at
all.
“First big clue: the scratches and cuts on Turnbull’s arms and face. This
is clearly a crime of passion. He was taken by surprise. The killer attacked
him on impulse. So it was someone who knew him fairly well, I’d say, and
they were spurned on by anger.”
“Second big clue were the skidmarks on the road,” I said. “You said it
looked like they belonged to a truck, right?”
Miss May nodded. “Yeah, that’s my assumption. I’m hoping to take a
ride out to the crime scene with Big Dan sometime soon, confirm it with
him. I bet it might even be something bigger than a truck, like a U-haul or
something.”
I leaned against the counter and let out a deep sigh. “So this was a crime
of passion committed by a delivery driver.”
Miss May chuckled. “Right. Turnbull was best friends with Pine
Grove’s mailman. The two got in a heated argument, and the mailman went
postal.”
I smiled at Miss May’s little joke. Then I got an idea and popped off the
counter, thrusting my pointer finger into the air. “Crimes of passion are
most often committed by a spouse. What about Turnbull’s wife? He was
wearing a wedding ring that night, wasn’t he?”
Miss May nodded. “I believe he was, Chelsea.” Miss May made eye
contact with me. “We need to find Alex Turnbull’s wife.”
17
 CATERING TO OUR NEEDS

I smiled as two teenage girls entered the bakeshop. “Welcome.

Can I help you ladies with anything?”
There was a short girl and a tall one. But other than their heights, I
could barely tell them apart. Each wore baggy pants with an oversized T-
shirt. I smirked in amazement at how that fashion sense had clawed its way
back into the mainstream. The girls also had matching green streaks in their
hair and wore the same ‘offended for no reason’ look on their faces.
“We’re OK,” said the tall one, matching the offended look on her face
with the tone in her voice.
I nodded and resumed my task assembling Apple Pie Paninis behind the
counter. It was a Friday afternoon in fall, so I’d been busy all day. I’ll admit
it was hard to focus on the paninis with the murder investigation at hand,
but we had a business to run, and there wasn’t much other choice. In my
down time, I searched the Internet to try to find information on Alex
Turnbull’s wife. My wifi connection had been spotty, and I was frustrated.
I poked harder at my phone in frustration, as though that might solve
my connectivity issues.
The shorter girl came toward me. “What’re you doing to your phone?”
“Honestly, I have no idea,” I said. “Poking it and hoping for a miracle.”
“You’re that secret detective, right?”
 “It’s not a secret, and I’m not a detective, but my aunt and I have solved
some mysteries. Our friend Teeny helps out a lot too. Have you been to
Grandma’s restaurant in town?”
“That’s so cool,” said the girl, ignoring my question about Teeny’s.
“Wait. Do you, like, need your phone to solve the mystery? That’s really
high-tech. I thought amateur sleuths, like, kept things simple and didn’t
involve forensics or anything.”
I placed the phone down on the counter. “Just trying to find some
information on someone. It’s not for an investigation or anything.”
The girl gave me those eyes as if to suggest we both knew what I’d just
said wasn’t true. “Flick up from the home screen and turn off your wireless
signal. I don’t know why it works, but that will help you pull data from the
cell network and probably fix all your problems.”
I did as I was told and then tried searching Alex Turnbull’s wife, whose
name turned out to be Jamie, once more. It worked. The connectivity issues
were solved. I felt old, but I didn’t mind it. Most of us will never have
enough space in our brains for all the idiosyncratic needs technology places
on our lives. “That’s awesome. Thank you so much.”
The girl shrugged. “I don’t want to get murdered.”
Miss May entered the bakeshop at five PM exactly, closed the door, and
flipped the sign from open to closed. “Everyone is gone. And now we’re
finally safe in here.”
“If all the apple pickers are gone, why’d you need to come in here to be
safe? Seems like you could be safe anywhere,” I said, rounding the counter.
“I’m hiding from KP. He’s been such a grump ever since the powdered
milk incident. Remind me to pick some up from the store.”
“I can’t promise that,” I said.
“Chelsea—”
“I’m sorry. My limitations are clear. I can barely remember to do my
own errands, let alone remind others to do theirs.”
 Miss May quibbled with me for a moment about my unwillingness to
help. Then I told her what I’d learned about Jamie Turnbull. Alex’s wife
owned a catering business in an upscale town down-county, closer to the
city. It was a one-woman operation, where she did all the cooking and all
the decorating. According to her website, that was a point of pride. I learned
that Jamie would be catering a bar mitzvah that evening and, thanks to my
newly improved Internet skills, I’d procured the location of the event.
“I want to go to some kid’s bar mitzvah.” Miss May grabbed an apple
cider donut from the case and took a bite. “That sounds fun. I’ll tell Teeny
we’re on our way.”
I wore my business pantsuit for the bar mitzvah that night. Miss May
wore black jeans with a white shirt tucked in, which she claimed was the
most elegant attire she owned. Teeny wore a sparkly pink dress with cute,
matching heels and chunky costume jewelry.
She did a little twirl as she exited her house and walked toward the van.
Big Dan stood at the front door, watching her go. She stopped before she
got to the car and gave Big Dan a big wave. “Later, gator.”
Big Dan nodded in resignation. “Have fun. Attending a bar mitzvah. For
a kid you’ve never met. You want me to take a picture of you three,
commemorate the occasion?”
Teeny clasped her hands together. “Oh, good idea. We never get dressed
up like this. Would you mind?”
Big Dan cringed. “I didn’t think you were going to take me up on that.
My hand is cramping. And my eyesight is real bad without my glasses. On
second thought, I better go inside and lay down for a bit.”
Teeny nodded. “Alright. You take a break for a while. I’ll see you later.
I’ll bring you a goodie bag of bar mitzvah things. I wonder what the theme
will be?”
Miss May and Teeny bickered about one another’s formalwear
decisions the entire drive down to the bar mitzvah. Teeny was of the
opinion that Miss May hadn’t put in any effort. She claimed she knew for a
fact Miss May owned a formal dress because it was the dress Miss May had
worn to two funerals.
Miss May countered that she had only worn a dress because it was for
the funerals of people she knew, first of all. She further explained that she
couldn’t wear a funeral dress to a bar mitzvah because that’s just bad luck.
Miss May then implied that Teeny’s get-up would draw attention to us,
which was a bad thing because we weren’t invited to the party in the first
place and, as Big Dan had mentioned, we didn’t know the young Jewish
boy who was to become a man that evening.
Teeny reacted with consternation but finally admitted pink might not
have been the best choice. She halfheartedly offered to wait in the car like a
bad dog while we partied it up. Neither Miss May nor I could allow that.
We slipped into the party without any issue. The event was being held at
a large hall called Cielo Manor, which overlooked the Hudson River. The
building, although built in the eighties, was dotted with architectural
references to various decades and centuries. There were Greek columns and
a Roman frieze, plus a Japanese garden and very modern solar panels on the
rooftop.
The inside of the place was decked out in blue and orange streamers. A
bunch of brace-faced kids took a picture with a seven-foot tall skinny guy in
the lobby, tittering about how many likes they were going to get once their
photos were posted. Teeny charged right up to the giant like a little dog
yapping at the heels of a scarecrow. “Are you famous or something? Why
does everybody want a picture with you? Should I get a picture with you?”
“I’m Tim Bradley. Backup center for the New York Knicks. And sure,
let’s get a pic. You’re shorter than most of these kids. Should be funny.
Should I pick you up or squat down?”
“Squat. I don’t get lifted on a normal day, and I especially don’t get
lifted when I’m wearing a short dress.”
 The man who’d introduced himself as New York Knicks backup center
Tim Bradley squatted down, and a professional photographer snapped a
quick photo. “Cool, thanks. Good luck with the balling or the hooping or
whatever. Hey, does this party have an ice cream station?”
Tim laughed. His voice was deeper than his body was tall. “I think so. I
plan to make myself a sundae with sprinkles later.”
“My kinda man,” Teeny said. Then, she turned and motioned toward me
and Miss May with desperation. “Let’s go. We need to hit the sundae bar
before all these little kids make a mess of it.”
Miss May looked at Teeny imploringly. “You go ahead. Chelsea and I
are on a mission. To find the birthday boy.”
“Why? Why would you want to—” Teeny’s eyes widened. “Oh. Right.
The murder thing. But can I really go get ice cream?”
A few minutes later, Miss May and I were standing near the entrance to
the kitchen. I flagged down a passing waiter, and he stopped and offered me
a mini hot dog. “Um, no thank you. I’m just wondering, is Jamie Turnbull
in the back? I’ve been dying to meet her. She’s such a terrific… caterer. I’m
a big fan of caterers everywhere. Yeah. If there were trading cards for
catering personnel, I would definitely collect them. Jamie Turnbull is in my
top three. Then there’s Erin Johnson and my all-time favorite… Timmy…
Bradley.”
The waiter scrunched up his nose. I winced. Chelsea babble disaster.
“Timmy Bradley like the basketball player over there?”
“Different guy. No relation.”
An older server approached. She was at least seventy. Wearing cat
eyeglasses. Perfect makeup and coiffed silver hair. “You two looking for
Jamie Turnbull?”
Miss May and I nodded. The hotdog boy shuffled away once our
attention was focused elsewhere.
“You didn’t hear what happened?”
 “No,” I said.
“Her husband was taken out. Axed. Or, spiked, more accurately.
Stabbed in the back with a railroad thingy.”
I grabbed my chest and feigned surprise. “Oh my goodness. That’s
terrible. But does that mean that Jamie’s not here? She’s famous for
handling every detail of all her events. I can’t imagine—”
“Another caterer took the gig at the last minute. The parents were not
happy. People are saying the inside of the hot dogs are a little cold. You
know what that means… things are undercooked, people get sick... No
bueno. Turnbull’s funeral is tomorrow. I’m going, for networking purposes
and also to pay my respects. You ladies interested in the details? They’re
not public.”
18
 TURNBULL OF EVENTS

A lex Turnbull’s funeral was in his local church on Long Island. Miss
May and I took the three-and-a-half-hour drive alone because
Teeny needed to be at the restaurant early that morning. Truth be told, the
two of us probably needed to be at the orchard, too. But KP and a few of
our helpful seasonal teenage employees were reliable enough, at least for
half a day or so.
Our waitress friend from the bar mitzvah hurried over to the van as soon
as we parked. “You made it, thank goodness. I was getting worried I
wouldn’t know anyone here.”
Do we know each other? I thought.
“Look at this church. It’s gorgeous, spectacular, wonderful. When I die,
I’d like to have my funeral someplace just like this, except Jewish.” The
waitress pulled her glasses off and cleaned them on her sleeve. As she
prattled on about her ideal funeral setting, I looked up at the church. It was
a large, red brick building with what appeared to be a roof of mostly glass.
An enormous cross was perched at the apex of the roof, and the entrance
was adorned with dozens of funereal bouquets, which I presumed were
there to honor Alex.
When I snapped back to reality, Miss May and the waitress were already
headed into the church. Miss May had worn her funeral dress that day, at
my urging. I had worn my slacks and blazer, yet again. Something so
satisfying about wearing one outfit for multiple occasions and I hadn’t yet
tired of the confident feeling the pantsuit gave me.
“Oh, this is a good turnout,” said the woman. “I’m jealous, already I’m
jealous.” She used her pointer finger to do a quick head count of all the
mourners gathered in the lobby. “This looks like forty-eight, fifty people. I
might’ve counted that bald guy twice, he’s huge. Wow. Not bad for some
random bureaucrat.”
“I heard all his colleagues loved him,” said Miss May.
“With a turnout like this, that makes plenty of sense. But maybe some
people are just here because Turnbull died so tragically, and they want a
taste of the macabre. That’s how my mother was. She didn’t like to go to
funerals unless there was something fishy about the death.
Miss May and I exchanged a look. Our waitress friend had no idea we
were there to continue our murder investigation, thankfully. But I imagined
if she found out, she would’ve kept our secret, anyway. Sure, the lady
spilled the secret about the funeral location without any prompting. But
sometimes people who tell secrets are also the best at keeping them. They
just have a different kind of filing system than the rest of us.
Miss May leaned over and whispered into my ear. “Jamie Turnbull. Far
corner. All black.”
“Everyone’s wearing all black, it’s a funeral,” I whispered back.
“What are you two whispering about now?” asked the waitress, getting
very close to our faces.
“I have irritable bowel syndrome,” I said. “My aunt clocks the
restrooms whenever we enter a new building and lets me know where they
are.” Yikes. The IBS thing was a lie, but I definitely had verbal diarrhea.
“Way too much information,” said the lady. “I’m going to mingle. See if
I can make any promising professional connections. And offer condolences,
of course. You two have a great day.”
 Miss May chuckled and turned to me as the woman hurried away.
“Wow. You really knew how to shoo that fly. Nice lady but pretty strange.
And if you hadn’t mentioned your irritable bowel disease, I’m pretty sure
she would’ve hung around us for the whole funeral. Should we try to get
closer to Turnbull?”
I nodded and looked over toward Jamie. “Yeah. I was hoping to see if
she had cuts on her hands or face that matched Alex, but she’s all covered
up.”
Miss May snapped and bit her bottom lip. “Of course. We haven’t
remembered to check any of our prior suspects for scrapes. That might be
our biggest clue right there. If we find the scrapes, we find the killer.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “And I think we would’ve noticed if Kelly or
Sam or anyone else had been covered in cuts and bruises.”
“Good point.” Miss May stood on her tippy toes to get a better look at
Jamie. “I suppose it’s possible that the dead man sustained more damage
than the attacker. He had classic wounds of self-defense. He might’ve even
sustained them running through the forest. Those branches can be vicious.”
I nodded. “Hey, do you think fifty people is a good turnout for a
funeral?”
Miss May chuckled. “In Pine Grove, we have a different standard. Our
small town is tight-knit. Everyone knows everyone. Fifty people at a funeral
means, more than likely, you were widely hated. Even the grumpiest old
man in town has lines out the door when he dies. There’s a special
sentimentality in Pine Grove that makes life just a little bit richer.”
“Figured you’d say something like that. You’re always good for a
random dash of eloquence at a stranger’s funeral.”
“I play bar mitzvahs too,” said Miss May.
“Any chance you actually noticed where the bathrooms are? I’m
thinking the only way I’m going to get alone with Jamie Turnbull as if I do
a little mini stakeout. My plan is to hunker down in the bathroom and act
like I’m washing my hands for as long as it takes. Turnbull’s bound to come
in there at some point.”
“Not a bad idea.” Miss May gestured across the room. “It’s over there.
I’ll see what I can do out here.”
The women’s room had three stalls and three sinks. No frills, no muss,
no fuss. Perfect for a sufferer of imaginary IBS. I entered to find a woman I
vaguely recognized washing up at the sink. She was short and African-
American. I didn’t know where I knew her from, but her face was familiar. I
sidled up to the sink beside the woman and smiled at her in the mirror. “Hi.
Tough day.”
“Yup.” The woman’s voice was callous. We caught each other’s eyes for
a lingering moment in the mirror.
“I’m sorry, I can’t shake this feeling that I know you. Are you from Pine
Grove, or do you live in Blue Mountain maybe?”
“Nope.” The woman yanked a few paper towels from the dispenser and
dried her hands hurriedly. Once I saw her in profile, it snapped into place.
“Wait. You were at the town meeting the other night when we were all
discussing the light rail that Alex Turnbull, may he rest in peace, was
proposing for our town. Do you also work for the state?”
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t me. I need to get going.” The woman tossed the
paper towels in the trash and exited. Once the door closed, I just stood
there, looking at it. The woman had suddenly become a possible suspect in
my mind. I wondered if she had recognized me as a local sleuth from Pine
Grove. I wondered further if, perhaps more likely, she really was having a
tough day. We were at a funeral, after all.
I waited in the bathroom and weirdly pretended to wash my hands as
four more women entered and exited. I didn’t share a glance or a word with
any of the woman and chose instead to keep to myself.
Then Jamie Turnbull entered, tears streaming down her cheeks. She
zipped past me, entered the stall, and let out a heaving sob. It all happened
so quickly, but as Jamie entered the stall, I spotted something clipped to her
purse that made it seem very unlikely that she’d killed her husband with a
railroad spike that night.
19
 BATHROOM BLUES

I left the bathroom, cursing myself for washing my hands so many

times in a row. Dryness had never been much of an affliction for
me. In fact, I usually had the opposite, clammy problem. But I already felt
my hands cracking and itching from all the extra soap. I didn’t have much
time to lament my poor skin care choices because I had a nugget of gold to
share with my Miss May, about the keys that were dangling from Jamie’s
purse.
I gestured for Miss May to follow me out to the parking lot as I
“sorry’d” and “excuse me’d” through the crowded entrance hall. The
number of mourners had increased to at least seventy or seventy-five. I
wondered how our waitress friend felt about the increased crowd size.
I only had time to pace a few steps before my aunt hurried out of the
church behind me with big, wide eyes.
“If this is a big breakthrough,” Miss May said, “maybe we should
FaceTime Teeny.”
Seconds later, Teeny’s sparkling blue eyes were staring impatiently out
at me from my phone.
“Start talking and make it good,” said Teeny.
“I don’t think the killer could have been Jamie Turnbull.”
 “OK. Are you gonna tell us why?” said Miss May, sneaking a look back
at the crowd gathered in the entrance hall.
“Why tell you when I can show you?” I said. A quick scan of the
parking lot proved my theory. There, all the way at the end of the first row
of parked cars, was a yellow Volkswagen bug. I walked all the way down to
the car without answering any of Miss May’s questions. Then, when I
finally arrived beside the passenger side door, I pointed at the vehicle with a
smile. “Jamie Turnbull drives this car. I know because she had Volkswagen
keys attached to her purse. There was a little key ring with a cartoon image
of a yellow Volkswagen Beetle also clipped to the purse. These cars are
tiny. There’s no way that this vehicle could have left such large skidmarks
at the scene of the crime.”
Miss May rounded to the other side of the car, cupped her hands around
her eyes, and peered into the driver’s side. “Good job, Chelsea. I see
pamphlets for Jamie’s catering service on the front seat. There are also
several bags of chips littering the front passenger side.”
“Never judge a woman who eats chips while she drives,” I said.
“Driving increases hunger. That’s a scientific fact.”
“I wasn’t judging. Merely observing. You think a caterer might have
more elegant taste in food.”
I peered in and looked at the empty chip bags on the passenger side
floor. “Those are Baked Lays, Miss May. That’s basically the most elegant
chip they sell at the store. What would you expect the woman to snack on?
Kale?”
Miss May took a step back from the car and rubbed her chin. “I’m not
sure how much this helps us, to be honest.”
I threw up my hands in frustration. Sometimes, it seemed that whenever
I had a breakthrough, Miss May cast aspersions upon my theory. I wanted,
just once, for her to hoist me up on her broad shoulders and declare that I
was the smartest amateur detective she’d ever met, besides herself.
 “Seems irrefutable to me,” I said.
“But the woman owns a catering company. I’m sure that means she’s in
possession of a large catering van,” my aunt replied. “And didn’t you say
she’s famous for doing every job herself?”
I shook my head. “I see where you’re going, but I don’t think that
means anything. Jamie wasn’t on a catering job the night of the meeting in
Pine Grove. She was there to support her husband, even though he never
showed up. We would have noticed if a big, unfamiliar van was parked in
town that night.”
“And we wouldn’t have noticed a cute yellow Beetle?” Miss May put a
hand on her hip.
“As a matter of fact, I did notice,” I said. “I saw it out front when we
hurried in because I thought about doing ‘punch buggy’ but decided we
were in too much of a hurry. So. There.”
Miss May shoved her hands into the pockets of her dress and sighed.
“This doesn’t exonerate her, but I’ll agree it seems to imply Jamie is not the
most likely of suspects.”
“Right. Thank you. But… What in the name of Long Island are we
supposed to do now?” I said.
Miss May looked over at me and touched her pointer finger to her nose.
That had always been the way she told me I’d hit the nail on the head, so to
speak. I wasn’t ready to give up or go back to the drawing board just yet.
That’s when I remembered, I hadn’t yet told Miss May everything that
happened in the bathroom.
“Wait,” I said. “There was a suspicious lady in the bathroom. She was
short, with curly hair... I struck up a conversation with her, thinking I was
just being friendly. But it turned out I was being the cute little detective that
I am. I recognized the lady from the town hall meeting about the light rail.
She was there, lurking in the back and she left before it ended.”
“Probably worked with Turnbull for the state.”
 “I thought the same thing, but when I brought it up, the woman hurried
out. Let’s go back into the funeral and see if we can get a little more
information from her.”
Miss May pointed down the long row of parked cars. “Is that her
there?”
I looked in the direction Miss May had pointed. The mystery woman
was hurrying toward a black SUV.
I started toward the woman, beginning to conjure a story in my mind
which would explain why I needed to talk to her yet again. But the lady was
too fast, and by the time I made it to the end of the parking lot, she had
already gotten into her black SUV and disappeared down the road.
“Hey!” Teeny called from inside my phone screen. “You’re making me
dizzy! Put me down or hang me up!”
I gave Teeny a swift good-bye and jogged a few more steps before I had
to double over to catch my breath. Seconds later, Miss May sidled up and
clapped me on the back. “You didn’t have a much of a chance of catching
her, Chelsea. But you’re right, the lady is acting suspicious.”
I straightened up and looked over at Miss May. “So what do we do
now?”
Miss May shrugged. “We find her.”
20
 FUNERAL FOES

“I ’ve got a couple dozen Apple Pie Paninis pre-made. We’ve

got plenty of apple cider donuts and hot cider in the dispenser.
Chocolate chip cookies are good, sugar cookies are good, we’re running a
little low on oatmeal raisin, but I think we should be fine.”
Miss May lingered at the door to the bakeshop despite my assurances.
“You’re going to be all alone in here while I help KP out in the orchard.”
I came out from behind the glass counter, crossed to Miss May, and put
my hands on her shoulders. “Miss May, I don’t know how to say this, so
I’m going to be blunt. Both my parents died when I was a little kid. My
fiancé left me at the altar. My next serious boyfriend moved to Africa. I’ve
personally discovered over a dozen dead bodies. Though running a
bakeshop at an adorable apple orchard isn’t the simplest task in the world,
it’s one I feel I can handle.”
“You’re right. I’m not sure why I’m worrying. You’ve worked the
bakeshop plenty of times by yourself.”
“It’s because it’s the first time I’ve spent a peak autumn Saturday alone
in the shop. But you’ve got nothing to worry about. Well, except finding the
killer. If you figure out how we might be able to track down that woman
with the curly hair, let me know.”
 “You think on it too.” Miss May exited the bakeshop, zipping up her
denim jacket as she went.
Isn’t it funny how you never truly grow up in the eyes of those who
raise you? Miss May would probably always think of me as her little orphan
niece. She saw herself as my protector and my caretaker. And anyway, I
saw myself as Miss May’s unofficial daughter. I knew she trusted me alone
in the bakeshop, but the patterns you form in childhood are hard to break
and sometimes are not worth breaking in the first place.
My afternoon selling delicious baked goods to happy apple pickers was
enjoyable and fulfilling in a deep, soulful way. Investigating mysteries
invigorates me much of the time, but it’s also draining. People are rarely
happy to see you when you’re questioning them in a murder investigation.
But they’re always thrilled to see you when you’re standing behind a
polished case of cookies, muffins, and pies.
Wayne stopped by during a slow patch, so he and I got some alone time
in the bakeshop. He gave me a courteous albeit detective-like nod as he
entered. “Hey, Chelsea. Everyone I run into in the orchard is raving about
these Apple Pie Paninis. Good to know you and Miss May aren’t suffering
from the same slump that’s afflicting Teeny. Funny the way these things
move so cyclically, like seasons.”
“Wow. What… a deep thought. Hmm. Did that sound patronizing? I
know you think deep thoughts. You just don’t often say them out loud.”
“Yeah, I’ve been reading more lately. It’s got me waxing my words, or
whatever. Stephen King, mostly. Also Dean Koontz. Also R.L. Stine. Those
books aren’t just for kids, you know. They’re kind of scary. I get actual
goosebumps.”
I chuckled. Although Wayne wasn’t exactly the most intellectual guy, he
was always trying to better himself, and I liked that about him. Plus, he was
smart and funny in his own way. Wait. Why am I defending Wayne to you?
You know he’s great, and he’s my boyfriend, and I love him.
 Whoa. Did I just say love? Wayne and I had not exchanged that
particular sentiment yet. I wondered if we would soon. Quietly and to
myself, I vowed that he would have to be the one to say it first. Call me old-
fashioned. Or shy. Or just a coward. But I wasn’t about to say I love you
first if there was any chance Wayne might say something awkward or
noncommittal in return. Imagine, me pouring my heart out and Wayne
volleying back something like, “Cool.” I couldn’t deal with it.
I made an Apple Pie Panini for Wayne, and then the two of us sat at a
little café table while he ate it. Wayne loved the panini, as everyone had. He
claimed it was the first time he had ever tasted mascarpone cheese, but I
doubted that was true for an Italian of his age. Wayne just doesn’t pay
attention to what cheeses are called. He was less obsessed with food than
me, which was probably also why he had more muscle and less, uh…
padding.
“Do you ever wanna just… hop on a plane to Italy?” I said, out of the
blue. Wayne glanced at me out of the corner of his eye.
“I’ve thought about it, sure, but—”
“Or maybe, hop in a car and just start driving until you hit the Pacific?”
“Are you trying to tell me something?”
“I don’t know. I’m feeling… a little bit of small-town blues, I guess.
Like I wanna get out. Go somewhere. See some stuff that I don’t already
know the name of.”
“I get that. I do,” Wayne said. “But… Sometimes, spontaneity is kinda
hard for a cop, ya know?”
I did know. And as much as I would’ve liked to take a big trip with
Wayne, I worried that our schedules might be… incompatible. That maybe,
if I indulged my wanderlust, it would need to be something I did… on my
own terms.
Wayne chatted with me for a few more minutes about fantasy vacation
destinations, then eventually, our conversation turned to the investigation.
Thus, my commitment to loop the man in on all of our clues was put to its
first test. I passed the test with colors that were flying so high, if they were
balloons, they would have drifted above the atmosphere, popped, and
floated back down to earth.
That was a weird and long way of saying I told Wayne everything, up to
and including our dilemma about the escaped funeral visitor.
“Any ideas on how we can track her down?” I said.
“I might have an inkling or two. But this panini was so cheesy, it was
almost savory. I think I need something sweet to wash it down. Sugar really
helps my brain get going.”
Wayne pointedly looked over at the case of donuts near the cash
register. I hopped up and opened the case from the back. “Chocolate-
covered or cinnamon-covered?”
“My brain does best when I have a little bit of cinnamon and a little bit
of chocolate.”
Laughing, I grabbed one of each donut and brought them over to
Wayne. He took a bite of the chocolate first and then a bite of the cinnamon
before he even swallowed the chocolate. “Chocolate cinnamon,” he said
with a full mouth. “The best.”
“Yeah, yeah. So what’s your idea?” I said.
“Easy,” said Wayne, taking another bite of donut. “You said the lady
was from out of town, right? But we’re pretty far from the city and even
farther from Long Island, if she was from anywhere over there. My gut tells
me she stayed the night. Have you checked over at the Dragonfly Inn?
Teeny’s sister owns the place, right?”
I smiled. “That is a good idea, Detective Hudson. Just for that, you get a
hot, fresh cup of apple cider.”
After work that day, Miss May and I scooped up Teeny, and the three of
us went over to the Dragonfly Inn to talk to Peach. But Peach was not
working behind the main desk when we got there. Instead, a tall, bearded
employee, wearing a name tag that identified him as “John,” was stationed
behind the welcome counter.
“Ugh, this guy,” Teeny said under her breath. “Peach has hired and fired
him a hundred times. He’s the worst. Loves rules. Hates me.”
“So maybe Miss May and I should do the—”
Before I could finish talking, Teeny charged right up to the desk with
determination. “Hey, John. My sister around? I really, really need to see
her.”
“She stepped out. I’m not sure when she’ll be back.” John’s speech was
short and clipped. Sometimes, Teeny exaggerated people’s dislike of her.
This didn’t seem to be one of those times. It was also possible John was just
a weird guy. When he moved his mouth, it looked like he was being
controlled by a ventriloquist. “I’d be happy to help you with whatever you
need, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am. Call me Teeny, like everyone else. We’ve known
each other a long time, John.”
“True. But we haven’t seen each other in what feels like forever. It’s
been a while since I pulled a shift working at the Dragonfly.”
“Because my sister keeps firing you for being bad at your job!”
“You seem like a great employee,” said Miss May, stepping forward.
She put on her biggest smile. “I’m glad to see you back at the inn. How are
you doing, John? How have you been?”
“Well.” The reception phone rang, and John answered it. “Hello. Do
you not have your original ice bucket? Sorry. Only one ice bucket per room.
Rules are rules. Goodbye.” John hung up the phone with a forceful thud.
“John! Does Peach know you talk to her guests like that? If somebody
wants an extra ice bucket, just give it to them. What’s it going to hurt?”
Teeny crossed her arms and looked at John in genuine bewilderment.
“Oh, you have no idea. You start by giving people one extra ice bucket.
Then, before you know it, the monkeys are ruling the jungle.”
 I scratched my head. “Why… I don’t know… I’m not sure I’ve ever
heard that expression. Not even from Teeny, and she says a lot of made-up
expressions.”
“It’s not an expression that’s of popular use,” said John. “I meant it for
the purposes of our conversation. I’ll explain. The monkeys in this instance
are the guests. The jungle is a hotel. As of right now, I’m king of the jungle.
My preference is for the jungle to remain with me in charge.”
“Pretty sure my sister is king of this jungle,” said Teeny.
“Like I said. She’s not here. What can I help you with?”
Teeny held up a polite finger. “Just hold on one second. Thanks so
much.”
Teeny grabbed Miss May and me by the hand and led us to the corner of
the room. “This guy is a nut job. Did you see what he did with the ice
bucket? There’s no way he’s going to help us. If we ask, who knows, he
might have us arrested.”
Miss May looked back over at John. “I did forget how uptight he was.
But why does Peach keep him on the payroll?”
“She’s not famous for her bedside manner either,” said Teeny. “I think
she likes this guy because he makes it so she looks friendly. I get it. I might
do the same thing if I were her. That’s how we were brought up. Look good
by comparison if you can’t look good on your own.”
My mind flashed back to Teeny’s mother, Granny, the woman who sat
on the stool behind the cash register at Grandma’s and the restaurant’s
technical owner. Granny always seemed so sweet and inoffensive. It
surprised me to hear that she might’ve raised her daughters to be as
aggressive and cutthroat as Teeny and Peach. But Teeny and Peach were
undeniably… spunky. “Your mom must have been different when she was
young.”
“Oh, she was vicious,” said Teeny. “In a wonderful, wonderful way. Of
course.”
 John loudly cleared his throat. “Ladies. You’re conspiring.”
Miss May took a step forward. “We need information on a guest who
might have stayed here.”
“No. The answer is no. I don’t care who dies or whether or not I play a
role in a murderer getting away. The rules apply to everyone the same. Even
you three.”
“Told you so,” said Teeny.
All of a sudden, a gravelly voice barked out from behind us. “John. Quit
giving my sister and her friends a hard time.” Peach entered the lobby,
boots pounding across the old wooden floor as she crossed over to the
welcome desk. “What d’you need, Teeny?”
Teeny explained the situation and described the woman for whom we
were looking. Peach rounded the counter and hip checked John to get him
out of the way. Then she flipped through a few pages of her guest log with
her glasses perched on the end of her nose. Finally, she looked up with a
smile. “Yup.
I remember her. I’ve got your girl right here. She had a memorable
name… Wanda Stop? No! Wanda Go. Wanda Go’s your woman. And here’s
her address in New York City.”
I laughed. “Wow. Her full address, huh?”
“Sure. I have guests write it in the book. A few months after they leave,
I send them a thing in the mail offering a discount for a second stay. Works
like a charm.”
John looked down and mumbled, “This is all highly unethical.”
“Go home, John,” said Peach. “And shave your beard. I don’t like it.”
21
 A WHIFF OF DEATH

T eeny clasped her hands together and smiled. “Let’s go to the big,
beautiful apple right now.”
Miss May checked her watch and shifted her weight from foot to foot.
“I don’t know. It’s pretty late for a trip down to the city. I thought we’d go
first thing in the morning.”
“But there are bakeries in the city that are open twenty-four-seven. It
doesn’t matter how late it is. We can get ourselves a treat once we get down
there.”
Miss May chuckled. “We’re all tired, Teeny. We owe it to this
investigation to bring our full strength and alertness to the conversation
with Wanda. The bakeries will be open in the morning, too.”
“Midnight bakeries are more fun.” Teeny kicked the ground. “Whatever.
I’ll make myself a cupcake or something.”
“A single cupcake?” I asked, unable to keep from smirking at Teeny’s
pout.
Teeny shrugged. “I’ll make two, if Big Dan wants one. I made a big
batch of batter a couple days ago. Partitioned it out into single servings in
case I ever needed a little pick me up. It’s come in handy. I’ve had a
cupcake for breakfast every day this week.”
 Miss May laughed as she climbed into the driver’s seat of her
Volkswagen bus. Teeny and I followed her into the bus. The two of them
chatted the rest of the way about the merits of partitioning out single
servings of batters and doughs. I only half-participated in the conversation
because my mind was on one Detective Wayne Hudson.
Wayne had been right about the Dragonfly Inn. I’d enjoyed
collaborating with him on this little piece of the investigation, and I was
planning to make a surprise visit that night to thank him in person.
The thing about surprise visits is that they don’t always work out as
planned. Sometimes, you pop in on someone in the middle of the moment
they’d rather not share. Other times, you discover something you might
have never wanted to know about that individual. Other times, you think
you’re headed to your boyfriend’s place for a little bit of alone time, and it
turns out half of the guys from his old police department in the Bronx are
there watching a hockey game.
Wayne answered the door with a beer in his hand and a smile on his
face. “Whoa, Chelsea. I thought you were the pizza guy.”
I heard boisterous applause, then wild boos, then a stampede of curse
words and name-calling that I’d rather not repeat from inside Wayne’s
apartment. I stood on my tippy toes to look past Wayne. Three or four burly
men were squeezed onto his leather couch, yelling at a sports game on TV.
A couple of the guys wore NYPD-issued jackets. Wayne must have read the
confusion on my face. “A few of the guys were up north tonight. They hit
me up, and I invited them over to watch the Rangers in the season opener.
Pretty cool, huh.”
Wayne smiled like that fact was, indeed, pretty cool. I’d never included
ice hockey on my list of cool things, in spite of the… literal ice. But I did
enjoy ice skating. Anyway, who cares about that stuff! The point is, I was
suddenly faced with an awkward social dilemma, and we all know those are
not my forte.
 Would it be weird for me to go in and watch the game with the guys? Or
would it be more weird for me to just stand there and then leave? I had
entered what relationship experts might call a difficult situation. In a flash, I
remembered I had stopped and bought Wayne a six-pack of pumpkin beer
on my way over. I thrust the clanking cardboard container of bottles into his
arms. “I just saw this at the gas station, so, yeah, I thought of you, and I
thought you might like it. So enjoy. Pumpkin-flavored beer. Crazy times
we’re living in.”
One of the guys hopped over the back of the couch and trotted over to
the door. He had a big beard and an even bigger smile. “Hey, Wayne, you
need any money for a tip or something?”
The guy stumbled back a step when he saw me at the door. “Whoa.
You’re a hot pizza man.”
“She’s not the pizza man,” Wayne said.
The bearded guy reached out to shake my hand. “I’m Steve, I’m single,
I can bench three hundred.”
Wayne nudged Steve back a few steps. “Dude. First of all, you’ve gotta
stop introducing yourself with how much you bench. Second, this is my
girlfriend, Chelsea. The one who solves all the murders. The one whose
parents died when she was little.”
Steve grabbed his head and reeled back. “Ah. Chelsea. Of course. Wow.
I didn’t know you were Whiff’s girlfriend. Sorry, man. I’d like to say it
won’t happen again, but I seem to have a bad habit of doing stuff like this.”
I laughed. “Good to meet you, Steve. My dog’s name is Steve, too. He
has a limp.”
“Cute. But, just so you know, if Wayne ever breaks your heart… I can
leg-press five hundred.” Steve winked and then tried to jump back over to
the couch to resume watching the game. He stumbled a little and belly-
flopped onto the cushions, then shot his hand up to give us a thumbs-up.
 Wayne stepped outside to join me and closed the door behind him.
“That’s better. A little peace and quiet from those rabid animals who call
themselves my friends.”
“They seemed, uh, nice to me. But, uh… why’d they call you Whiff?”
“Long story,” said Wayne.
I crossed my arms and looked up at him. Wayne tossed head back and
groaned. “Fine. My first game playing softball in the police league, I struck
out four times. I ‘whiffed,’ as they say. The guys decided it would be a fun
nickname for me, and it stuck. Unfortunate but that’s the situation. I
would’ve rather that you never found out.”
I smacked Wayne in the arm. “Aw. You didn’t want me to know you
sucked at softball?”
“I’m a good hitter, but I was having an off night. I blame the
optometrist… You know, I needed new glasses, and I got the wrong
prescription. My vision was off.”
I nodded. “Sure.” Wayne looked cute standing there under the porch
light, all insecure about his silly nickname. I kissed him.
“What was that for?”
“Your tip about the Dragonfly worked out. I think we’re going to talk to
the lady tomorrow.”
Whiff stood a little taller and pulled his shoulders back. “See that?
Whiff doesn’t always strike out. Do you want to come in and hang out?
Watch the game?”
“No,” I said, a little too eagerly. Wayne chuckled at my hard rejection,
and I adjusted my tone. “Uh, I mean, no, that’s cool. You have fun with
your friends. I’ve got an early morning tomorrow. It was good to meet
them, though. I’d like to hang out with them for real sometime. Just maybe
don’t leave me alone with Steve.”
“He’s harmless.” Wayne put his hands in his pockets. “But actually,
there are some people I’d like you to meet soon.”
 I arched my eyebrows. “Who?”
“Kind of like, my mom and my dad and my brothers. There’s this
family Halloween party coming up, and I was wondering if you wanted to
come.”
I swallowed. I’d never anticipated that I’d feel weird meeting Wayne’s
family, but a strong sense of unease came over me.
Maybe it was because the first time I’d met my ex-fiancé Mike’s family,
things had gone horribly. The Gherkins clearly didn’t approve of me
because I wasn’t from rich stock like he was. I’d left the party upset, and
Mike didn’t seem to care. Doesn’t seem hard to understand that those old
feelings might have been coming up that night on the porch with Wayne.
But I didn’t grasp where my feelings were coming from in the moment. I
just knew I was suddenly sweaty, and I took too long to respond.
“Oh. Halloween. With your family. Nice.”
Wayne took a small step back. “I thought you would’ve wanted this.”
“No, I do. It’s great. I’m just… tired. We’ll go. It’ll be great. Maybe I
can dress up as a cop, and you can dress up as a baker.”
Someone cleared their throat from behind me. I turned to find a zit-
faced pizza boy just a foot away. “Sorry to interrupt your personal
moment,” he squeaked. “But I’ve got three large pies for someone named
Whiff?”
22
 THE RAT KING REIGNS AGAIN

“I can’t believe Teeny’s skipping out on a trip to New York

City.” I climbed into the driver’s seat of my blue pickup truck
and buckled my seatbelt. “When we first started investigating, she was
always offended if we left her out.”
Miss May was already waiting in the passenger’s seat, sipping from a
big mug of coffee, no lid or anything. That’s just how she rolled. “When we
first started solving local mysteries, Teeny wasn’t experiencing the worst
creative blocks she’d ever felt. She told me she was hanging back to take an
online webinar hosted by some YouTube chef. I couldn’t believe it. Teeny,
taking a webinar? Two days ago, she didn’t know what a webinar was. She
probably thought it was something to do with spiders. But now she’s taking
instruction from some kid with a webcam? Doesn’t make any sense. I told
her she just needs to relax and let it come to her. You can’t force
breakthroughs or change.”
I put Wanda’s address in my phone GPS and propped the phone up on
the dashboard, pulling out of the farm. “Sure, you can’t force change, but
you can help create a fertile environment for growth.”
“You sound like one of those TV talk shows that plays in the middle of
the afternoon. Dr. Bill or whatever.”
 “His name is Dr. Phil, and he’s in syndication, so his program airs at all
hours, thank you very much.” Miss May looked over at me. I avoided her
glance. “So maybe I watched a lot of Dr. Phil back when I was living in
Jersey City.”
“That’s how we know his advice doesn’t work. You were like the Rat
King of a garbage kingdom in that apartment. Take the Taconic South.”
“You don’t have to tell me how to get to the city,” I said, snapping just a
bit. “The Rat King could find her way home in a blizzard.”
“Is that right?” said Miss May.
I nodded.
“Well, Your Highness, you just missed the on-ramp to the highway.”
Although both Miss May and my GPS squawked directions at me on the
entire drive down to Manhattan, I still missed several turns on our journey
there. At one point, I navigated us into a dead-end alley in the Bronx and
had to back up for at least three blocks in order to get back out onto the
main road. All the while, I insisted to both Miss May and my GPS overlord
that I knew where I was going. But I can admit, now that the heat of the
moment has cooled, that I was struggling to focus on the drive that day. My
conversation with Wayne was playing on repeat in my mind. The guy
wanted me to meet his parents and his brothers. And, up until the moment
it’d become real, it was something I’d wanted as well. Why did it fill me
with dread?
Had we not scheduled a trip down to New York City for that morning, I
would have traipsed out to the barn to talk things over with See-Saw. But as
it stood, I had to keep all my thoughts private and try to work things out in
my mind while also following the map.
Yeah, sure, I could have talked about the issue with Miss May. But I’ve
always kept a sliver of myself tucked away from her. Miss May doesn’t
need to know about my emotional drama or my love life in detail. All that
kind of stuff is silly to her, anyhow.
 The more I thought about it, the more I realized my experiences with
Mike had created some kind of unintentional reaction the prior night with
Wayne. I had somehow conflated the two guys in my mind, and the idea of
things getting a bit more serious with Wayne felt a bit like a setup. Mike
had broken my heart, and his family had hated me. My relationship with
Germany Turtle, my last serious boyfriend, had also ended in heartbreak.
My poor heart was barely glued back together. Was I really ready to open it
up to being broken again?
“Chelsea. Stop driving. That’s the place.”
I slammed on the brakes right in the middle of a city block. The GPS
bleated at me. “You have arrived at your destination. You have arrived at
your destination.”
I grabbed my phone and turned the map app off. A chorus of honking
horns sounded from behind me. A quick glance in the rearview mirror
revealed a dozen cars backed up along the street, thanks to my sudden stop.
“Which one of these is the building?” I said, glancing at the apartment
buildings out my window.
“None of them. I’ve been calling your name for thirty seconds. We
passed our building a little while ago. Drive around the corner, grab the first
parking spot you see, and we’ll walk back to Wanda’s.”
“Parking is not going to be that easy.”
More horns blared behind me. Miss May gestured for me to drive.
“Whatever. Nothing could be more difficult than this.”
I turned the corner, and there were two beautiful parking spaces waiting
for me, like they might as well have been gift-wrapped by St. Nicholas
himself. I cruised into the larger of the two spaces with a grin. “The parking
gods are smiling on us today.”
“See? And you were all pessimistic,” said Miss May. “I’m driving
home, by the way. You’re distracted.”
 I climbed out of the car and met Miss May out on the street. “I am not
distracted.”
“You are. Something is going on with Wayne.”
I looked over at Miss May. She turned her palms up. “It’s not that hard
to figure out, Chelsea. You went out last night after we got back. But you
weren’t gone long. And I heard the TV on in your room until late. You only
watch late-night TV when you’re thinking about something.”
“Nothing is—”
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to pry. You keep what’s private private. But
know you can talk to me if you need to.”
Miss May led the way toward Wanda’s building on the next block over.
No longer distracted by my complicated thoughts or complicated city
driving, I was able to stop and admire the beauty of the street. We were in
New York’s Upper West Side, an area that had been a bit rough in the
seventies and eighties but had since been revitalized and claimed by New
York’s wealthy upper-class. Quaint old buildings called brownstones lined
either side of the street. Also lining the street were enormous oak and maple
trees stretching thirty feet tall, at least. An elderly woman sat on the front
steps of one of the brownstones, watching a blond toddler play hopscotch
on the sidewalk. A handful of autumn leaves drifted down from an
overhead tree, lilting back and forth like they were dancing to a waltz. The
toddler stopped his game of hopscotch to grab at one of the falling leaves.
He laughed as the leaf evaded his grasp, then I grabbed one off the ground
and handed it to him.
“What do you say, Ebenezer?” prodded the older woman.
“Thank you much,” said the kid.
Miss May chuckled as she and I kept walking. “Ebenezer. All these old-
fashioned names are coming back in style now. It’s adorable.”
“Ebenezer was pretty cute,” I said. “Also, hopscotch looks fun. I forgot
how much I used to like that game.”
 “You liked it, but you weren’t good at it. You skinned your knee so
many times jumping from one square to another, your parents considered
forbidding you from playing.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, rolling my eyes. I remembered the skinned knees,
but I didn’t want to admit it. My karate training had gifted me with steadier
hands and feet, but that hadn’t come until high school.
As we approached the end of the block, we heard an enormous crash
that sounded like an explosion.
“What was that?” I said, quickening my pace.
“Sounded like it came from over there,” said Miss May. She pointed
across the street and down the block a couple buildings. Sure enough, one
of the brownstones was being bulldozed. There was a large hole in the front
of the building, and it appeared we’d just missed the first crushing blow.
“Is that Wanda’s building?” I said.
Miss May checked the address on her phone and then looked up at the
building. “Yup. Something tells me she doesn’t live there anymore.
23
 DECONSTRUCTING WANDA

A trio of construction workers watched the demolition from the

street. The guys looked like triplets. Broad builds, orange vests,
yellow hardhats. Rugged jeans they’d had for years that had long since been
too small. White paint and flecks of dirt gave their brown boots a strong
sense of character and place. The boots seemed historical, like they’d one
day be on display in a museum, commemorating the lives and work of New
York City’s construction personnel.
Miss May charged up to the trio with an inquisitive look on her face.
“Hey, guys. Excuse me.”
The guys didn’t look away from the crumbling building, which was
pluming dust and debris. It appeared the wrecking ball was being pulled
back and poised to make another strike. The middle guy spoke to the other
two. “Five crashes and this building comes down. But we’re taking it from
the left, so I say it collapses into the vacant lot on the right. There’s a
science to this stuff.”
“So now you’re a scientist,” said one of the other guys. “I’d like to see
that degree. Written with what, Crayola?”
“My sister’s a doctor,” said the middle guy. “Does a lot to bring
pedigree to my family. The brains didn’t skip me, either. I was just lazy in
my twenties. Still lazy now, come to think of it.” The three guys chortled in
unison.
Miss May took another step toward them. “Hello?”
The middle guy responded, still not taking his eyes from the collapsing
building. “Sorry. Can’t answer any questions.”
“How long has this building been vacant?” said Miss May, undeterred
as usual.
“That sounds like a question to me,” the guy said. “Did that sound like a
question to you two guys?”
The cronies nodded in agreement. Miss May retreated a few steps and
stood next to me. We all watched the building being wrecked.
“Do you think it’s possible Wanda gave a fake address?” I said.
“Sure,” said Miss May. “But that seems like a pretty big coincidence to
me. The woman gave an address to a building that just happens to get
demolished a short while later? We’re investigating a mystery here and
that’s awfully mysterious.”
“Also strange that the guys won’t give you any information,” I said. “It
looks like they work for the city or something. Did you see the back of their
vests?”
Miss May looked over. Each vest had an official-looking state logo on
the back along with a long string of numbers which I presumed to be
licenses of some sort.
“Hmmm. I hadn’t noticed that. Could be this is a private demolition
that’s being overseen by city construction workers. I know from my time
working down here that the city rarely lets big projects go by without
getting a slice for themselves. The unions are vigilant about that stuff.”
A skinny, bearded man pushing a baby carriage walked up and stood
beside us. The guy had curly hair and thick-rimmed glasses. He looked to
be in his mid to late thirties, and his flannel shirt and tight jeans told me that
he was a New York City hipster, probably a member of the creative working
class who’d taken root in the Upper West Side to find some solace after the
birth of his baby. He was one of many new dads just like him in New York
City. Parents were afraid to give up their identity as city people and move to
the suburbs, so they found a quiet neighborhood to settle in for a few years
before they saw the value in suburban public school educations and finally
fled for Westchester or New Jersey. I’d had plenty of interior design clients
who fit this bill.
“Wow. There goes another historic piece of the neighborhood,” said the
guy.
Miss May turned to him. “Do you live around here?”
“Moved up from Brooklyn before little Oscar was born. Been here
almost two years.”
I laughed to myself. My assessment of the guy had been spot on. It felt
good to know that my people- reading skills, which I had so finely honed
while working in New York City, were still functioning at a high level. It
also amused me that this recent Upper West Side transplant seemed
concerned with preserving the history of the neighborhood. He, and others
like him, were often seen as the reason historical buildings were torn down
and replaced with big chains or yoga studios. I didn’t necessarily subscribe
to that theory, but it was the general understanding among many New
Yorkers.
“I should write a piece on this for the paper,” said the guy. “I think
people would be really interested to see a slice of life article about what’s
going on in the Upper West Side. Besides, there are economic implications
behind demolitions like this. I notice that city staff are overseeing the
demolition, so there might be a larger plan for this land than is now
apparent.”
“Are you a writer?” I said, taking the bait.
“Oh, of course. I’m talking like we’re old friends, but we don’t know
each other yet. I’m Mike. I’ve got a weekly column in the Wall Street
Journal, and I do some freelancing. Also, a weekly newsletter if you’d like
to subscribe. I like to update people on all the bad stuff happening in the
world. There are so many problems and so few solutions, it’s endless fodder
for content.”
“I think we’re OK, but thank you,” I said. What a terrible sounding
newsletter, I thought. I’d rather get a list of everyone in town who has a foot
fungus. I didn’t say that to Mike, though. Sometimes, I could keep my
Chelsea babble inside.
The guy walked away, grumbling about the misinformed voters of his
favorite borough. But something he’d said stuck with me. “I wonder if there
really is something more going on here,” I said to Miss May.
“That’s what I’ve been saying all along,” she replied. Then she pointed
to the construction trailer a few paces away. The door to the trailer was ajar,
and the light inside was on. “Maybe one of us could slip in there and find
out more.”
I hung my head. “I have a sinking feeling you’re not referring to
yourself.”
Thirty seconds later, I was standing at the foot of the construction
trailer, peering inside. The unit consisted of one rectangular room with two
folding desks and a small refrigerator.
Each of the desks had blueprints and plans spread out across the
desktop. There was a laptop open on the desk farthest away from the
entrance. A quick glance back at the demolition crew confirmed they were
all still enraptured by the looming wrecking ball. With a sudden lurch, the
wrecking ball moved toward the building. The three guys rubbed her hands
together in anticipation. I recognized my opportunity to strike. As soon as
the ball hit the building, I darted into the construction trailer and began
hunting for clues. The blueprints were no help. They contained the layout of
the building that was being demolished, probably for schematic or technical
reasons.
 The computer didn’t contain any answers either. The thing was out of
battery life, and I presumed it would’ve been password-protected, anyway.
Just before I left, I noticed a small filing cabinet tucked beside the
refrigerator. I opened the filing cabinet to find about a dozen folders, each
with a tab containing the name of an individual or family. I scanned the
names and stopped when I saw a folder labeled, “Go, Wanda.”
The folder contained a document outlining the demolition. A quick scan
revealed two words more important than any others on the document:
Eminent Domain.
24
 TRAILING BEHIND

“W hat are you doing in here?” It was the middle one of the
three construction guys, the one I assumed to be the
leader. I’d just closed the filing cabinet, but for some reason, I still took a
step in front of it as though I had something to hide. “Oh. Gee, this is
embarrassing. I came in here looking for a bathroom. My aunt — that
kindly old lady out on the street — she told me that often these trailers have
a toilet in them. But I haven’t found one yet.”
“This is an office. And it’s not yours. What kind of person barges into
private property to go to the bathroom? That’s like walking into someone’s
living room and laying down on their couch because you need a nap. You
may be tired, but that couch ain’t for you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. Sorry is not going to make this better. I mean, this is all not to
speak of the germs. We have private bathrooms because we don’t want to
have to mingle with the public. You know what I mean? The unwashed
masses? That’s you, lady.”
My face flushed. Never in my life did I think I would receive a lecture
on germs and cleanliness from a construction worker. Listen, I know not all
construction workers are dirty or gross, but I think they’ve got that
reputation for a reason. Typically, guys like the one with whom I spoke
aren’t too concerned about bathroom cleanliness.
“Unbelievable,” the guy snorted. “I can tell what you’re thinking.
‘Construction workers are dirty. Why do they care if a pretty lady like me
uses the bathroom? I’m clean and rich and too good for them anyway.’
Well, not me, ma’am.”
I hung my head. “That’s not what I was thinking. But can I go? I still
need to use the bathroom.”
“Glad to hear you didn’t relieve yourself in the corner like a wild
animal,” said the guy. “Get. Scram. Stay out of here.”
I exited the construction trailer in a hurry and rushed back down the
street, toward where we had parked the pickup. Miss May trailed behind me
a few steps. “You’re going fast. Very fast. Something bad happened.”
“I got caught in the trailer,” I said. “The guy dressed me down like I was
a filthy nobody. I thought you were on the lookout. Your job was to stop
people from getting in there.”
“The big ball went boom! Crash!” said Miss May. “I got distracted.
Demolitions are cool.”
Around the corner, and I climbed behind the driver’s seat of the pickup.
Miss May hopped in the other side, and we both buckled up.
“What did the guy say to you exactly?” Miss May asked. “You’re redder
than you got on that trip to the Jersey Shore in August of oh-six. And we
needed to take you to the hospital at the end of that trip.”
“More embarrassing memories, thanks,” I said. Before Miss May had a
chance to respond, I pulled Wanda Go’s file out from under my jacket and
tossed it in her lap. “The building was being destroyed because the city
needs to put some sort of treatment plant on the site. Wanda and everyone
else who lives there is currently being housed at the Broadway, a hotel in
midtown Manhattan.”
 Miss May flipped through the paperwork. “Chelsea. You’re telling
me…”
“Yeah. Wanda was displaced by eminent domain.”
Miss May scanned through the paperwork line by line, using a pointer
finger to keep track of her place in the document. “This is unbelievable. The
demolition team at the site today was assembled by Turnbull’s department.
He must’ve been behind this treatment plant.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Seems to me Wanda Go had good reason to want
Turnbull dead.”
“So you think she killed him because he destroyed her home. Then she
went to his funeral to gloat and dance on his grave, metaphorically
speaking,” said Miss May. “But why was she at the town hall meeting that
night?”
“Maybe she was looking for Turnbull,” I said. “Or perhaps she hadn’t
yet made up her mind about killing him. Maybe she wanted to first see if he
had continued on his path of destroying the homes of poor, innocent
people.”
Miss May took a deep breath and let it out. “Eminent domain is so
complicated. I think I believe in the concept, at its core. Sometimes, people
need to give up their home or property for the greater good. But I think,
more often than not, the city is lazy. They destroy homes like Wanda’s
because it’s easier or cheaper to put the plant there than to find a more
suitable location. They plot the most convenient course for their light rail
without taking the time to think about creative solutions that might spare
the people of Pine Grove their businesses or homes. It seems like Turnbull
was ruthless and never took the time to consider better alternatives.”
“And now he’s dead because of it,” I said. “Well, if this theory holds
up.”
I started the car and headed south from the Upper West Side toward
midtown Manhattan. Within ten or fifteen minutes I found myself in the
thick of midtown New York traffic. The honking near Times Square made
the honking we’d experienced on the Upper West Side seem like a lullaby.
Times Square was cacophonous and made me feel like I was going crazy.
Add to that the fact that Miss May was barking directions every block or
two, trying to guide me toward the Broadway Hotel, and I nearly lost my
cool. OK, I did, I lost it. I got real sweaty and worked up. But I kept it to
myself. Mostly.
After experiencing three consecutive near collisions, I ducked the
pickup truck into a parking garage just past Times Square.
“What are you doing?” said Miss May. “We still have half a mile to go.”
“We’re in New York City. We’ll walk it.” I jumped out of the pickup
and handed the keys to the little guy at the parking booth. “Can you keep
this close to the front? We’re only going to be an hour or two, if that.”
The guy looked past me over at my pickup. “Haven’t had a beat-up
pickup truck in here… ever. Are you coming from Canada or something?”
“We’re coming from a quaint little town called Pine Grove, New York,”
said Miss May. “Take the train up some time, and you might never come
back.”
As we walked the five blocks toward the Broadway Hotel, Miss May
called Teeny and debriefed her on the situation. After Miss May was
finished explaining all the details of Wanda’s building and the next step in
the investigation, Teeny was ready with a wild idea about what had
happened. I could have told you she’d have a theory, but I also could hear it
because she was on speakerphone. Miss May only ever talked on speaker
phone, which I didn’t understand, but that was her choice, and I respected
it.
“This is just like an episode of Blood and Bones. I think it’s from
Season Three or maybe it was Season Four. The story focuses on Pasta Bell,
an Italian immigrant visiting Montréal for work. Pasta Bell has an
incredible jawline and rock-hard abs. His mom dies in the episode because
someone demolishes her building while she’s asleep inside. Pasta Bell
tracks down the clues, with his shirt off most of the time. Turns out at the
end, the guy who demolished the building knew she was inside. Also, that
guy was her long-lost brother who the woman thought had burned alive
thirty years prior. ‘Cuz she lit his building on fire while he was inside.”
By the time Teeny had finished telling Pasta Bell’s tale, we were
standing at the foot of the Broadway Hotel. Teeny was desperate to know
what Miss May thought of her theory, but Miss May said a quick goodbye
and hung up.
“We’re here. What’s the plan?” I said.
“I guess we talk to Wanda and try to size her up. But this could be our
killer, so try to keep your karate muscles limber.”
Sometimes, it’s hard to track down our suspects. Other times, it’s pretty
easy. That day, it was easy to find Wanda because she was standing at the
front desk, yelling at an automated check-in machine. “I don’t want your
recommendations! I just want you to validate my parking.”
“Generating musical theater recommendations. Please hold.”
Wanda grabbed the machine by either side and throttled its imaginary
neck. “No. I hate musical theater. The storylines are too simplistic, and the
music is all hoity-toity.”
“It seems like she’s busy,” I said to Miss May. “Should we come back
later or something?”
Miss May shook her head. Took a step toward Wanda. “These machines
are so frustrating, aren’t they?”
Wanda turned to face Miss May. When she saw me standing there with
my aunt, she stumbled back a couple steps. Then she straightened up and
crossed her arms. “Mind your own business, lady. Whatever. I don’t care
about the parking anyway. I’m going to my room.”
“Can you help us before you go?” said Miss May. “We’ve never worked
a machine like this.”
 “No. I hate helping people.”
Wanda headed off toward the elevator bank. Miss May called after her.
“I’m sorry they destroyed your home.”
Wanda whipped her head around and glared at Miss May. “I don’t know
what you’re talking about.”
With a gentle step, Miss May walked toward Wanda. I followed behind
Miss May, shielding myself behind her broad body just a bit.
“My niece saw you at Turnbull’s funeral, in the bathroom.”
“I don’t know any Turnbull. I haven’t been to a funeral since my mom
died, may she rest in peace. Maybe it was my evil twin.”
“That’s a good plot line from Blood and Bones,” I muttered.
“What was that?” Wanda had a sharp edge in her voice.
“She didn’t say anything,” said Miss May. “It’s really terrible how
eminent domain destroys so many lives. Don’t you think?”
Miss May and Wanda looked at each other for thirty seconds straight
and had what I can only describe as a staring contest.
Wanda looked away first. She lost. “What do you two want with me?
You work for the state or something? Look, I know I put up a big fuss, but
I’m not suing anyone, am I? I’m going quietly, in my own way.”
Miss May shook her head. “We don’t work for the state. We’re sleuths.
Trying to figure out who killed Alex Turnbull.”
Wanda’s jaw dropped, and she clutched her chest. “Me? You think I
killed him? No, no, no.” Wanda pressed the button for the elevator with a
frantic tapping motion. “I didn’t kill the guy. But I’ll bet anything that I
know who did.”
“Who?” I said.
The elevator arrived and opened with a ding. Wanda gave me a callous
smirk. “I’m not telling you.”
She stepped inside the elevator. Miss May caught the door with her
hand just before it closed, and we entered the elevator, standing beside
Wanda. Wanda pressed the button for the garage and laughed to herself.
“Amateur sleuths, hunting me down all the way at this crummy hotel. You
two are wasting your time.”
“If you didn’t kill him, was it maybe someone else in your building?”
said Miss May. “Were there others who were angered by the plans for
demolition?”
The elevator opened into a small, dark garage. Wanda crossed toward
the same black SUV she had been driving at the funeral.
“Wanda. Just talk to us,” said Miss May. Wanda quickened her stride
and climbed into the SUV. Miss May hurried after. “If you didn’t do it, who
did?”
Wanda hopped in her car, threw an obscene gesture our way, and peeled
out of the garage with a screech.
The tire tracks left behind were bold and black. They fit the skidmarks
found at the scene of the crime perfectly.
25
 PEDAL TO THE MEDDLING

I ran after the black SUV, my feet slapping against the asphalt of
the narrow city street. Miss May called after me. “Chelsea.
Where are you going?”
“We can’t let her get away.” Wanda and I made eye contact in her side
mirror. In that small sliver of her face, I could tell she was afraid. I
wondered at the source of her fear. Guilt? Maybe.
Wanda’s SUV fishtailed out onto the main street. I darted after her and
looked around. By the time I made it out to the intersection, Wanda had
progressed about a block to my east, where she was stuck in traffic at a red
light. Already panting, I knew I wouldn’t be able to catch her on foot, no
matter how thick the traffic. So I darted to a Citibike station, pulled out my
phone, and with a few quick swipes, I hopped onto the nearest electric bike
as it unlocked from its station.
Citibikes are public bicycles rented to pedestrians by the city of New
York. I’d used them many times when I’d lived in Manhattan, and I was
grateful that my instincts had remained sharp.
I navigated the bicycle onto the sidewalk and pedaled in the direction
Wanda had driven. The signal ahead had turned green, and I could see her
making a quick right turn up ahead. Pedestrians jumped out of the way as I
pedaled. The whirring electronic motor spurred me along like the support of
a best friend.
I swerved to avoid crashing into a businessman who was eating a hot
dog. He dropped the hot dog on his clean, white shirt, exploding mustard
and ketchup all over his torso. “Hey. C’mon.”
“Sorry!”
Seconds later, I turned onto Broadway, one of Manhattan’s busiest
streets in one of Manhattan’s busiest districts. Huge, historical theaters
loomed over me on my left and my right. Taxicabs zipped up and down the
big avenue. Tourists wearing “I Love New York” shirts tottered into the
streets to take photos, apparently unaware of their proximity to crazy
drivers.
Wanda slipped in between the pedestrians and the taxicabs with such
adeptness, for a moment, I wondered if I was following a secret agent. Still,
however easy she made things look in her SUV, I made them look ten times
easier on my bicycle. My only job was to keep going straight and hope no
one opened the door in my path.
I heard a screech up ahead and saw Wanda’s SUV stop with a loud crash
and a burst of smoke. I was still about a block behind her at that point, but I
could tell it wasn’t good. Pedaling as fast as my short legs could, I crossed
the distance to Wanda’s crashed car in less than ten seconds. Then I jumped
off the bike, tossed it to the side, and ran up to the driver’s side window.
Those minutes were gonna hike up my fee for the bike rental, but…
priorities.
I looked in Wanda’s car. The airbags had been deployed. For a moment,
I assumed the worst. Then Wanda began to move, shoving at the driver’s
side airbag and coughing. She had a gash on her head, and she squinted in
confusion. “Look what you made me do. This Jeep was everything to me.”
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk. You didn’t need to run away like that,”
I said.
 Wanda coughed more. “How bad is the damage?”
A quick glance at the telephone pole on the crumpled front of Wanda’s
SUV revealed more damage than I cared to mention.
“It can probably be repaired.”
Wanda tried to open her door but didn’t appear to have the strength.
“I think maybe you should stay in your car and make sure you feel OK.
Maybe tell me why you took off like that. I’m sure the cops are already on
their way. What do you want me to tell them?”
“Tell them I didn’t kill Alex Turnbull.”
“But did you?” A creeping warmth spread from my neck up through my
cheeks. “Did you murder him because he set the plan in motion to destroy
your home?”
“No.” Wanda shifted slightly in her seat. She touched the wound on her
head and winced. “I was planning to… try and stop him, alright? The guy
was so horrible. I hated everything he stood for. I hated his face, and I hated
the way he treated me and my home. And. OK, listen, this is gonna sound
bad, but I thought about killing him. I bought a gun and everything. I
wanted him dead.”
“Turnbull wasn’t shot,” I said.
“That’s what I’m saying,” said Wanda. “Someone beat me to it. I never
got my chance. Totally would have done it though.”
“Do you have any idea who it could have been?” I said.
Wanda touched the gash on her head a second time, then looked down
and inspected the blood on her hand. When she spoke again, her voice
sounded woozy and disconnected. “Wow. That’s a lot of…” Wanda passed
out just as a police motorcycle pulled up behind the SUV. I backed away,
grabbed my Citibike, and pedaled away as Wanda’s rescue scene unfolded
behind me.
26
 A SUSPECT CALLED WANDA

M iss May and I sauntered into Grandma’s restaurant a few

minutes after its official closing. Petey, my favorite waiter,
scrubbed down one table after another with his signature white rag. Teeny’s
mom, Granny, worked on a crossword behind the cash register. Teeny
rushed toward us before we had taken five steps into the restaurant.
She was smiling her manic, Cheshire cat grin and rubbing her hands
together in excitement. “Finally, you’re here.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And you’re not going to believe—”
Teeny held up her hand to stop me from talking. I shut my mouth as if I
had been placed under a magical spell. “No talking until you try my new
dish. I mean that literal and figural.”
“Figurative,” I said, indulging my bad habit of correcting people for no
reason.
“That’s what I said. Figural.”
“Literal and figurative,” I said.
“Will you stop it, Chelsea?” said Teeny.
“Seconded,” said Miss May.
Teeny pointed toward the back of the restaurant. “Go to our booth and
eat what I have in the jars waiting for you.”
 “That’s kind of ominous,” I said. “But I am pretty hungry, so I guess
we’ll eat mystery whatever out of a jar.”
“It’s not just any mystery whatever, it’s my mystery whatever,” said
Teeny. “I want to know what you think.”
The jars that awaited us were tiny, about half the size of standard jam
jars. And they were filled with what appeared to be white gruel. Miss May
and I slid into the booth and took the jars in our hands. Mine was hot to the
touch, which surprised and confused me.
“What am I looking at?” I asked.
Teeny slid into the booth opposite us. “I call it ‘Teeny’s Egg Surprise in
a Jar.’ It’s mashed potatoes mixed with semolina hot cereal and a poached
egg. There’s some cream in the mixture and fresh chives on top. There’s
also a hunk of fresh baguette in the jar which you can use for scooping and
eating.”
I opened my jar and looked down at the white stuff. The food smelled
pretty good, but the poached egg looked a little slimy.
“Quit hesitating and try the surprise,” said Teeny. “Oh, that should be
my jingle for this dish. I’m gonna get into jingling to promote my new
food.” She began to sing. “Try the surprise, try the surprise, come to
Grandma’s and try to surprise.”
Miss May and I silently dipped our slices of bread into our little jars.
My bread punctured the egg which sent the yolk running into the semolina
and potato mixture. I made sure to get a bite with a little bit of each
ingredient on it. The yolk soaked right up into the bread, and the potato
smelled buttery and rich. I’ll be honest, it was a delicious dish. The potatoes
were silky smooth and warming. The egg was a perfect complement. And
the strong, fresh flavor of the chives offset the creaminess in a nice and
delicate way.
“This is really good,” I said.
 Miss May pushed her jar away from her body a bit. “I don’t know.
Seems a little confusing to me. Is it porridge? Is it an egg? The flavors are
good, but I gotta say… I don’t know what it is.”
“It’s foreign. It’s from the Philippines or something,” said Teeny. “Or, I
guess, it’s a gourmet reinterpretation of some Filipino thing. My YouTube
chef was talking about it this morning, so I whipped it up.”
Humphrey, the most regular customer at Grandma’s other than me and
Miss May, poked his head up from the adjacent booth. Humphrey was a
balding, older guy with a gruff but lovable demeanor. He wore a red
sweater that day, which looked cute on him. “I agree with May,” he said. “I
don’t understand what this food is supposed to be. Teeny made me eat it.
And she watched while I ate it. The whole experience was uncomfortable.
She said it’s going to cost nine dollars? That’s way too much. Look at this
jar. It’s one egg!”
“These are expensive ingredients, Humphrey,” said Teeny. “If I put two
eggs, I’d have to charge eleven.”
“That’s insane,” said Humphrey. “I’d rather buy two dozen eggs at the
store and eat them raw.”
“You sit down,” said Teeny. “I’m talking to my friends.”
“I’ll do you one better.” Humphrey tossed some cash down on the table
and exited. Teeny glared after him for a few seconds and then looked back
at me and Miss May with a smile on her face. “He’s totally wrong. Right?”
Miss May and I exchanged a look. The food was good, but I had a
sneaking suspicion most of the people of Pine Grove would feel as
Humphrey did. They came to Grandma’s for homestyle cooking, not
elevated Filipino fare. I turned back to Teeny and began to speak with an
apologetic look in my eyes.
“Don’t even bother.” Teeny snatched the jars away and cuddled them
close to her body. “Here I thought I had a breakthrough, and I can’t even get
support from my best friends.”
 “It’s really good,” I said. “I just don’t think—”
“Yeah, whatever,” said Teeny. “Too fancy, too snooty, not Teeny
enough. I knew you were going to say that. So annoying. Just stop bullying
me and tell me what happened with this Wanda woman.”
Ignoring Teeny’s comment about being bullied, Miss May carefully told
the story of what happened down in the city with Wanda. Once Miss May
had finished describing the demolished building and Wanda’s escape and
her eventual car crash, Teeny’s adventurous egg dish was the furthest thing
from any of our minds.
“So the lady says she didn’t do it,” said Teeny. “But was she telling the
truth?”
“Chelsea and I were talking about that on the way up here,” said Miss
May. “Chelsea?”
I nodded. “After the car accident, Wanda’s defenses seemed down. She
was in a stupor, injured, confused, and a little scared. To a certain extent,
she dropped her brash exterior and seemed more open than she had prior.”
“But the cops were on their way, so she had a pretty decent reason to
lie,” said Miss May.
“I guess,” I said. “But the detail she provided about buying a gun strikes
me as honest. I’m not even sure Wanda knows Turnbull was killed with a
railroad spike. It’s not public information. So she would have had no reason
to change that detail if she were lying. I think she ran because she thought
we figured out she had planned to kill Turnbull. Buying a legal handgun
and thinking about a murder isn’t a crime, but it doesn’t look great. Plus,
Wanda had just been displaced from her home, so maybe she was feeling
erratic anyway.”
“You call the hospital to check in on her?” said Teeny.
Miss May nodded. “She’s unconscious. They’re optimistic but no
visitors or phone calls for now.”
 “So she can’t be questioned anymore anyway,” said Teeny. “I’m on
team Chelsea. I think the lady was puking out honesty in her delirious state.
So what are we going to do next?”
“We talked about this on the ride up too,” said Miss May.
Teeny scooted to the edge of her seat, and her eyes got even wider than
usual. “Who’s next on the list?”
I sat back and placed my hands on the table. “It’s time to talk to Mayor
Linda Delgado.”
27
 SECRET MENU

“S he’s overthinking her menu, and she’s getting too fancy. It’s
obvious to me.” Miss May turned up the heat in her van and
zipped her coat to her neck. It was early the next morning, and we were
parked out front of Town Hall, waiting for the mayor to arrive. What better
way to pass the time than to try to solve Teeny’s problem for her, like any
good friends would.
“Yeah, I get that. I guess it seems like she’s trying to broaden her
horizons, but maybe she’s going in the wrong direction or something. The
people of Pine Grove don’t want egg porridge for nine dollars. They want
bacon and eggs for five bucks.”
“That’s part of the problem,” said Miss May. “But Teeny has never
made a name for herself on simple dishes like bacon and eggs. Sure, that
stuff is on the menu, but that’s not the reason most people come to the
door.”
“That’s true, I guess. Most people go to Grandma’s for the stuff that’s
creative and interesting and uniquely Teeny.” I looked out my window at
the little patch of forest behind town hall. A morning fog hovered near the
roots of the trees. It was the kind of day you could tell was cold without
even looking. “Should we try to come up with some ideas for her?” I said.
 Miss May shook her head. “No way. Once Teeny solves this problem
for herself, she’s going to feel empowered, and that confidence is going to
carry her through to bigger and better things. When you solve people’s
problems for them, you take away their chance to build that confidence, and
that’s not right.”
“Is that why you never intervened during my socially awkward teenage
years?”
Miss May nodded. “It’s also why I refrained from intervention during
your socially awkward early and mid-twenties.”
Miss May’s quip surprised me so much that I let out a loud burst of
laughter. She chuckled, then lowered her steamy window and looked out at
Town Hall. “Where is this woman?”
A playful, rhythmic knock sounded on the back of the van. I jumped in
my seat, turning my head back to see who it was. The back windows were
foggier than the front, so I couldn’t make out the identity of the knocker.
Then Mayor Linda Delgado approached Miss May’s open driver’s side
window. “Morning to my favorite constituents. Are you two simply passing
the time sitting in a cold car outside my office this early in the morning, or
is it safe to presume you have a reason to be here?”
None of the three of us spoke as we trudged into Town Hall toward
Delgado’s office. Delgado’s high heels clack-clack-clacked as we traversed
to her wing of the building. Each clack made me flinch, like a gunshot on
the linoleum staircase.
When we got to Delgado’s office, she opened the door and gestured for
us to enter. The perfectly square room was just as we had left it on our prior
investigation. Clean and neatly organized with a large oak desk and two
chairs opposite. There was an assortment of family photos and a crazy
number of diplomas on the wall.
Miss May and I sat in the chairs opposite the desk as Linda popped a
coffee pod into her futuristic little coffee machine and settled into the chair
behind the desk. “My first instinct is to blame you for wasting valuable time
in your investigation, but it’s so early I’m sure there are very few suspects
you could question right now. So there’s no use upbraiding you for that. My
second instinct is to defend myself. I think that’s a natural inclination. As
we all know, I am a public figure. I’m probably the most public figure in
town, despite the fame the two of you and Teeny have acquired. It would be
bad for me if anyone knew I was a suspect, yet again, in a murder
investigation. A political career can only survive so much scandal.”
“Chief Sunshine Flanagan is also a pretty public figure,” I said. “She’s
so tall and beautiful. Did you know she has her own fan page on Facebook?
I don’t think she created it, but it has a thousand followers. I guess she was
on national news after one of the investigations, and people started to
develop an obsession.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about the fan page,” said Linda. “Not ideal for your
chief of police to be a sex symbol or Internet celebrity but, alas, there’s not
much I can do to control the goings-on across the whole wide world of the
Internet. Did you personally ask Sunshine if she had anything to do with it?
Did you confirm that?”
“No, but… She’s not that kind of lady,” I said. “Beautiful but not vain.
Weird combination. Kind of annoying. She didn’t know about the fan page
either. Wayne said he told her about it and her face got redder than her hair.
Must be very strange to witness that phenomenon, by the way.”
“Right,” Delgado snipped. “So can we get to the questioning already?
Would you like to start with my alibi, or shall we work our way around to
that? Frankly, I’m not sure why you’re here. I supported the light rail.”
“You did. Publicly,” said Miss May. “But I’ve also been to about ten
thousand town meetings, and I know… how you conduct yourself. And I
know when there’s something you’re not saying.”
“So you’re here because of a hunch that, in spite of my very obvious
and outward support of this project,” said Linda, “you still think I wanted
Alex Turnbull dead… why? I can’t wait to hear this theory. And if you’ve
had this instinct all along, why did it take you so long to show up in my
office?”
Miss May and I exchanged a little look. Linda sat back and folded her
hands together. “Oh, how sweet. You thought I might be a murderer, again,
but decided to chase down a couple other leads first because you love me so
much.”
Linda stood from her chair, grabbed her coffee cup from under the
futuristic spout, tossed in a couple creamers, and took a sip. “This stuff is
never as good as it is from Grandma’s or the Brown Cow, but it’s easy, so I
do it.”
“They’re very convenient,” I muttered.
Linda smiled. “But we’re not here to talk about coffee. We’re here to
talk about whether or not I, a mayor of a town in New York, murdered a
New York State government official because of a New York State
sanctioned light rail project.”
“That’s right.” Miss May crossed her legs. “Did you?”
“Answer my question before I answer yours. What’s my motive in this
crime?” said Linda. “Most of the town opposed the project. I supported it.
Yet, for some reason, you have this hunch.”
“Yes,” said Miss May. “I’m not sure what yet, but there’s something you
didn’t like about this project. Maybe someone went over your head with the
planning, maybe Turnbull was strong-arming his way through the process,
wouldn’t let you be involved even though it’s your town. Maybe there’s a
pride wound involved.”
Linda tossed her head back and laughed. “The state has been going over
my head for a long time. If something like this was going to make me snap,
then it would’ve made me snap years ago. Also, if your theory is that I
killed Turnbull in order to get more control over the light rail project,
there’s a critical flaw there. As the mayor of this town, I know better than
anyone that killing the guy who’s pushing the project forward has very little
chance of altering the project overall. Killing Turnbull wouldn’t have
accomplished my theoretical goal. For that reason, I think it’s clear I’m not
a top suspect in this case. Any smart person would know that.”
Miss May crossed her legs in the opposite direction, apparently
struggling to get comfortable. I understood. Mayor Delgado was a
formidable opponent, and she’d clearly thought this through. “We disagree
on that point,” said Miss May. “Not only do I think that plenty of smart
people would’ve killed Turnbull with the sincere hope that it would kill the
project, I think there’s a real chance Turnbull’s death will kill the project.
The light rail through Pine Grove is what people in your line of work
commonly refer to as a public relations nightmare. Eminent domain, tearing
a small town apart? Not a good look. Add Turnbull’s death to that, it’s
nothing but bad press. But you wait a few months until the air clears, you
try to revive the project yourself, being more careful about optics. You
succeed, you run for higher office, maybe at the state level, maybe higher…
I know you have big ambitions, Linda.”
Linda sighed. “I think it’s a stretch. You two don’t have any good
suspects, so you’re grasping at straws.”
I noticed a diploma from Cornell University on the wall behind the
mayor. A tiny little lightbulb popped up over my head. Hadn’t I seen online
that Alex Turnbull also went to Cornell? “Huh, I must’ve forgot you went
to Cornell,” I said.
“Well, I did,” said Linda. “One of many top-notch universities I’ve
attended for various degrees. Just consider that further proof that I’m too
smart to have killed Alex Turnbull for these reasons.”
“Didn’t Alex go to Cornell too? Right around the same time?”
Linda sipped her coffee. “As a matter of fact, he did. I think he might’ve
even been in the same fraternity is my husband. But the school has tons of
students, and Delta Sig was pretty big too. They weren’t the same year, so I
doubt they even knew each other.”
Linda’s desk phone rang several times. She checked the caller ID. “This
is my first meeting of the day. Can you let yourselves out?”
28
 TURNBULL IN A CHINA SHOP

B usiness was slow with the orchard that afternoon and equally
slow at Grandma’s. So we scooped Teeny up from the
restaurant, and the three of us made the road trip up to the esteemed Cornell
University. Cornell was a few hours north of us in Ithaca, New York. The
town was known for its quaint main street and incredible natural gorges
which ran with crisp, clean water.
Teeny snacked from a bag of sprinkles the whole way up as the three of
us mulled over the details of the investigation, taking occasional breaks to
sing along with Madonna or another classic tune on the radio. Despite how
much we had talked about the investigation, however, as we pulled up to
Cornell’s gorgeous stone entry, Teeny needed a bit more clarification.
“So we don’t think Linda killed Turnbull so she could gain control of
the light rail project and use it to further her own political career. But we’re
thinking perhaps Turnbull and Delgado had a twisty, tangly past. The theory
is that something horrible happened while they were in college and if you
figure out what that horrible thing was, we might know Linda’s true motive
for the murder.”
“We know they went to college together, and now we’re just following
that lead because it’s our only lead.” Miss May turned the van, following a
sign for visitor parking.
 “Right. Because maybe Linda and Turnbull were in a secret society
together. And one of their fellow society members threatened to expose
them for a cheating scandal, so Linda and Alex teamed up and killed the
guy. Then Turnbull and Delgado tossed the body into one of these beautiful
gorges, and Linda and Alex made a vow of silence. Neither would ever
speak of the murder, and they would help each other climb the political
ranks in New York State. Then, Turnbull suddenly grew a conscience, all
these years later. He was going to come clean and tell everyone what he and
Linda did all those years back. Linda couldn’t have that, so she followed
him out of town, down that twisty, tangly road, and murdered him with a
railroad spike in the forest.”
“How much of that was from an episode of Blood and Bones?” I said.
“I just told you all of Melissa’s back story,” said Teeny. “The seeds of
her corruption were planted way back in college. They didn’t flourish until
she was adult. By then, it was too late for everyone.”
“This parking is so confusing,” said Miss May, following another sign.
“May,” said Teeny. “Did you hear what I just said? It was so dark and
ominous. I thought you’d have a better reaction.”
“Sorry. Dark, ominous, spooky. I totally agree. Can I park in this garage
or what?”
“Yeah, I think you’re good in this garage,” I said. “Find a spot, and we
can get out and start snooping around Linda’s secret death club or
whatever.”
“In Blood and Bones they were called ’The Skulls’,” said Teeny.
“Great.” I chuckled to myself. “Let’s go find The Skulls. What a
wonderful way to spend a beautiful autumn afternoon.”
Cornell’s central campus boasted a large quadrangle punctuated by a
beautiful clock tower, like an exclamation point at the far end of its
impressive greenery. Surrounding the clock tower were old stone buildings
that looked as though they belonged at Hogwarts or on the grounds of
another magical wizarding school for gifted teens.
As we stepped onto campus, I was reminded of my old college days
down in North Carolina. A girl with a pixie cut read a book, propped up
against a large oak tree. A couple of guys played frisbee on the manicured
lawn. Loud rap music boomed from somewhere in the distance.
Miss May pointed at the girl reading at the base of the tree. “Look,
Chelsea. It’s you.”
“Hopefully she’s having a better time adjusting than I did,” I said.
“Those first few months were tough.”
“What’s with that horrible, loud music?” Teeny asked. “This place
would be perfect and serene if not for that noise pollution. Hold my
sprinkles, May. I’m going to find someone to complain to.”
“No complaining, Teeny,” said Miss May. She took a step back and
surveyed the scene. “We’re here to find out more about what Linda’s life
was like when she was at Cornell. Is it true that she didn’t know Turnbull?
Was there something connecting them that she’s hiding from us?”
“Like membership in the Mighty Skull Society,” said Teeny.
“I thought they were just called The Skulls,” I said.
“I added the ‘mighty’ myself because I think it sounds cool,” said
Teeny. “Imagine if Mayor Delgado was a Mighty Skull? That would be
such good gossip back in town. First, I guess I’d need to tell everyone what
a Mighty Skull was. But maybe we could have a screening of Blood and
Bones at Grandma’s to get everyone all caught up, and then we can reveal
that Linda was the president of this horrible, secret society.”
“She was president now?!” I laughed. “Slow down a second, and let’s
all try to remember why we’re here. As far as I can tell, we’ve got a few
options. Our first option would be to go to the library and comb through old
newspapers. Most collegiate databases are searchable now, going back
decades. We might be able to find an article where both Linda and Turnbull
are mentioned and connect them that way. It seems like a decent starting
point.”
“Another option would be to try to infiltrate Turnbull’s fraternity,” said
Miss May. “Remember Linda said her husband was in the same frat as
Turnbull? Chelsea, isn’t it true that most fraternities designate one of the
fraternity members as the de facto historian?”
I turned up my hands. “I dunno. Sure, Duke had a lot of frats and
sororities, but… I wasn’t really active in the Greek scene.”
“You always get much more information from people than you do from
documents. People lie, and they make jokes, and they reveal themselves to
you in ways some old newspaper article never could.”
“OK. I guess that’s true,” I said, trepidation in my voice. I had a feeling
this was going somewhere I wouldn’t like.
“Linda mentioned the name of the fraternity was Delta something,
right?” Miss May asked.
“How are we going to find it?” I said.
Miss May leaned into the distance and cupped her hand over her ear
with a little smirk. “We’re going to follow the sound of the booming bass.”
A few minutes later, the three of us found ourselves at the foot of what
could only be referred to as Cornell’s fraternity row. The row consisted of
several brick buildings, each emblazoned with Greek letters signifying
which fraternity lived inside. Delta Sig was housed in the tallest of the
buildings, and it was the source of the aforementioned booming bass.
College coeds streamed toward the building, wearing far too few articles of
clothing, carrying cases of beer. Every so often, a girl would whoop or
holler spontaneously and hoist her arms above her head in triumph.
“Looks like they’re having a party,” said Miss May.
“So let’s put on our Cornell tube tops and short-shorts and head inside,”
I said with a laugh. As soon as I spoke, I was flooded with regret. I had a
bad feeling I knew what was coming next…
 Miss May turned to me and smiled. “I don’t think Teeny or I could get
away with that costume… But you could.”
29
 CO-ED COOPERATION

B efore I went to the frat party, I went to the school store and
purchased a Cornell sweatshirt, a Cornell backpack, and a
Cornell keychain. I wanted to fit in at the party, and back when I was in
college, all the students dressed in school gear all the time.
I thought it was a good plan, and Miss May and Teeny applauded as I
emerged from the bathroom decked out in my new attire.
“You look like a hot coed,” said Teeny. “Say a smart college thing, so
you can really fit in.”
I winced. “Please don’t make me say college stuff. This is embarrassing
enough as it is. I’m thirty years old.”
Miss May held her fingers to her lips. “Quiet down, Grandma. You’ve
got youthful skin, a bright smile, and shimmering eyes., Plus, you’re short,
and that makes you seem young, too. Short people always seem like
babies.”
“Aw, you think I seem like a baby?” Teeny asked, seeming genuinely
flattered. “Thanks, May.” Then she turned her sharp blue eyes back to me.
“If you really want to fit in, Chelsea, you’ll say some college quotes. They
don’t have to be smart, but they need to be hip and fresh. Try saying
something is doped or sick or super lit. That’s the lingo, right?”
 I clasped my hands together. “I don’t know. I don’t think ‘doped’ has
ever or will ever be a saying, but… I don’t know what is. That’s what I’m
telling you. You probably pick up more college lingo watching TV than I do
in real life. I’m not a super cool city girl anymore. I work at the bakeshop at
an orchard. My two best friends are old ladies.”
Teeny pursed her lips. “How do you call me an old lady after I
complimented your college look and used the phrase ‘super lit’?”
“Yes, Chelsea,” said Miss May. “Don’t you know us old ladies hate
being called old ladies? Our minds are young under all this gray hair.”
“I don’t have a single gray hair on my head,” Teeny said.
“Just because you dye them doesn’t mean they’re not gray on the
inside,” said Miss May.
“Oh, whatever. Please do some quotes,” said Teeny. “For me.”
I took a deep breath and exhaled. “Fine.… I’m so excited for this next
semester. I have an early psych class, and I hate it because I like waking up
late. Pass me a beer, bro. Hey, do you guys want to play some beer games
tonight after class?”
A scruffy guy who was walking past me turned back with his eyebrows
furrowed. “I’m sorry, what?”
“She asked if you want to play some beer games after class tonight,”
said Miss May.
“But we’re not in class,” said the guy. “And I don’t think I have any
classes with you. You must’ve thought I was someone else.… Later.”
Miss May and Teeny giggled as the guy sauntered away. My face
flushed, and I tugged at my elbow in the Cornell sweatshirt. I quietly hoped
the lights at the frat party would be turned down low. Otherwise, I’d need to
hide in the shadows if I had any hope of avoiding being found out for the
old lady I was. Ouch. It does hurt when someone calls you an old lady.
Even if it’s yourself.
 I slipped into the huge fraternity building unnoticed, eyes cast
downward and feet moving me quickly over the threshold. Once I was
inside, the smell of stale, spilled beer, undoubtedly a side effect of raucous
beer games, assaulted my nostrils. Thumping rap music assaulted my ears.
A handful of guys nudged me aside as they bee-lined down the hall,
chanting the word, “Keg,” over and over.
I followed behind the guys, halfheartedly joining in their keg chant and
hoping they would lead me toward the main party room. I made a mental
note not to say phrases like “main party room” once I made it deeper inside.
Though I had not been to many frat parties in college, I had been to enough
to know that the party took place in the whole house, and there was no
designated space for the festivities. This was a frat house, not the event barn
at the orchard.
Soon I found myself in a classic frat house living room. There were two
tattered, tweed sofas. A huge television played music videos that showed
scantily clad women singing and dancing. There was an open pizza box on
the coffee table. Oh, and there were about fifty college students drinking
and chatting and dancing throughout the room.
A nerdy-looking guy adjusted knobs on the stereo. A skinny girl kissed
a muscular guy, leaning against a far wall. In the adjacent kitchen, a group
of kids played a game I recognized as beer pong, throwing a ping-pong ball
into beer cups and drinking the beer from the cup where the ball landed.
My mission was to find the so-called Delta fraternity historian and pick
his brain on the notorious Alex Turnbull. As I looked from face to face,
none of the guys struck me as having the appearance of a local historian.
Nor were any of the guys wearing buttons or pins that designated their roles
within the frat. I don’t know why I’d expected that. Again, this was a frat,
not a museum with a name-tagged docent. I decided to grab a slice of pizza
and settle into a seat on the couch in order to blend in and strategize. It was
a bad plan. As soon as I sat down with my slice, a tipsy guy approached and
sat beside me. He was tall, with curly hair and a broad smile. “That pizza is
two days old.”
I lowered the slice just before I chomped down on my first bite.
“Thanks for the warning.”
“It’s still good,” the guy said. “But you look like the kind of girl who
might like to know something like that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said.
“Oh. I’m sorry if I offended you. It’s just… You’re wearing all that
Cornell gear, so I assumed you were, like, really into school and stuff. At
first, I thought maybe you were lost in thought and mistook this party for,
like, the library or something.”
“I’m not, like, especially into school. I mean, we, uh, the kids here who
go to Cornell, like me and you, we wear school gear all the time,” I said.
“Don’t we?”
The guy shrugged. “I guess. Usually, I only wear my school stuff when
I’m at the gym or on a run or something. And now my mom makes me wear
it whenever I go home for a few days so people back in my town remember
that I go to a good school. It’s lame, but I do it because my mom is scary,
and I scare easily.”
I tossed the slice of pizza back in the box. My duty to locate the frat
historian was not lost on me, but the guy who’d cornered me on the couch
had a friendly energy, and he seemed open, so I decided not to run and hide.
“I like that you’re not afraid to admit that you scare easily,” I said.
“You haven’t met my mom,” said the guy. “Everyone’s scared of her.
She’s got huge hands and a booming voice. I mean, booming. She was the
evil lunch lady all four years at my high school. Not a lot of fun. She’d only
sell me broccoli.”
“But now you’re here, and you’re having tons of fun,” I said. “So that’s
cool. I think fraternities are cool generally. There’s so much history in this
house, right? I bet some famous guys have come through here.”
 You may have noticed my artless attempt at turning the conversation
toward the history of the frat. What can I say? The guy was drunk, and I
didn’t feel the need to be overly subtle.
“Totally,” he responded. “We haven’t had any presidents or anything,
but three of our alum have had roles on notable television shows. And
we’ve had a couple baseball players. Some political guys. Not presidents,
like I said. But, like, local politics and stuff. Oh, and one of my friends who
graduated last year just got a really cool job working on an oil rig outside of
Texas. He’s lonely but he’s making bank.”
I leaned forward so that the guy could hear me better. “That’s cool.
What are you, the frat historian or something?” I know, I know. But it was
worth a shot!
The guy shrugged. “We’re all pretty much historians. You gotta know a
ton of stuff in order to get into this frat. It’s like there’s a five-hour exam as
part of the hazing.”
“For real?” I said. “Back when I was in college, hazing was way more
aggressive than that.”
“What do you mean back when you were in college?” said the guy.
“That’s not what I said.” I swallowed. “I meant, in all the old college
movies, hazing was crazy. Like in Animal House and stuff?”
“Oh,” said the guy. “Yeah, apparently Delta used to do the worst stuff to
new pledges. But then some guy like twenty years ago took it way too far,
and they instituted all these new rules and regulations, so now we pretty
much just administer written exams.”
Interesting. So Delta had a bad history with aggressive hazing. Turnbull
had been a student at Cornell about twenty years ago, and I wondered if he
had anything to do with it. The guy was only getting drunker as he
continued sipping his beer or whatever was in his red cup, so I continued
with my blunt approach.
 “Do you know who ruined hazing for Delta? Was there, like, one super-
villain or something? Like in the movies?”
“Yeah.” My frat brother friend made the sign of the cross, kissed his
fingers and pointed up to heaven. “Poor guy just died, I heard. People are
saying he might’ve been murdered.”
I tried to stay casual, but I wanted to jump up and scream: “Alex
Turnbull. He was the hazer? What did he do? Who did he hurt?” Instead, I
kept my voice calm. “Oh, no. I’m sorry. It must suck to lose someone from
the Delta family, even if it was someone who graduated a long time ago.”
“Just paying my respects, man,” said the guy.
“So sad,” I said. “What was his name, anyway? And what did he do that
was so bad it made the university change the rules?”
30
 MUSTARD THE COURAGE

O ver the course of the next hour, my curly-headed friend and I

talked over every heinous incident of hazing ever perpetrated by
the infamous Alex Turnbull. My friend felt uncomfortable speaking ill of
the dead, but he made it clear that no one who was a present member of the
fraternity condoned the actions Turnbull had taken back when Turnbull was
a student at Cornell. My friend explained to me that, although hazing had
been common then, the new generation of Deltas was far too socially
conscious and morally driven to commit acts of violence in the name of
brotherhood.
That term, “acts of violence,” was the term the curly-headed guy used. I
pressed him for more information after he used that term. The guy told me
that, although one might assume he would need to keep the incidents in
question under wraps, there had been an open investigation conducted by
the university, so every incident of hazing had been described and revealed
in great detail. Plus, he was drunk, and I think he liked me, so he was
forthcoming with the information.
I found Miss May and Teeny passing a single Budweiser back and forth,
perched on a bench near the fraternity. The two were giggling like college
girls, surely gossiping about one old friend or another. I made my voice
deep and authoritative as I approach. “Hey. No open containers on campus,
ladies.”
Miss May waved me away with the flick of the wrist. “Oh, buzz off. A
passing frat boy handed us this beer. Said it’s legal drink on campus as long
as you’re over twenty-one and asked us why we were here.”
“We told him we were professors,” said Teeny. “May said she was an
English professor who specializes in old murder mystery novels. I said I
was a professor of insect biology.”
I rubbed my forehead with my hand. “Insect biology? How did you
come up with that?”
“I have no idea,” said Teeny, clearly surprised by herself. “But I held
that kid here for fifteen minutes, babbling on and on about the dangers of
Lyme disease. It really is a tricky illness, and these kids need to know that
they should be wearing high socks with their pants tucked into the socks if
they ever go out in the forest. Deer ticks are absolutely sinister. You know, I
had a cousin once who got Lyme—”
Miss May put her hand on Teeny’s arm. “Teeny, you’re doing it again.”
“And so I am,” said Teeny. “Sorry. What happened in there?”
Over the next few minutes, I told Miss May and Teeny all about the guy
I had met in the frat. They were shocked to hear that a former Delta
member had perpetrated so much horrific hazing. By the time I revealed
that Alex was the hazer, Teeny had scooted so far to the edge of the bench
that her bottom was barely perched there. “So what did Turnbull do? You
got specifics?”
Oh, I had gotten plenty of specifics. My curly-headed friend had seemed
to delight in every salacious detail. It struck me that perhaps he found some
joy in vicariously reliving the hazing tales of the olden days, rather than
having to perpetrate the heinous deeds himself. But his eyes had a certain
mischievous sparkle as he told the story, and each and every one was worse
than the last.
 “Most of Turnbull’s hazing involved mustard,” I said.
Teeny gasped. “How? Did he make the other brothers eat mustard on
hamburgers? That is just terrible. Ketchup goes on hamburgers, not
mustard. Everyone knows that.”
“He once made a kid drink an entire gallon of mustard,” I said.
Miss May stifled a gag. “In one sitting? Was it French’s yellow?”
“Yep. Everyone else sat there and watched as this one kid sipped glass
after glass of French’s yellow. Apparently by the end of the night—”
Miss May held up her hand to stop me. “I don’t need to know any more
info. You sure Turnbull masterminded this?”
“That’s what my friend said,” I said. “Do you wanna know any of the
other stuff Turnbull did with mustard? Most of the hazing involved
consuming a huge amount of the stuff.”
“I want to know.” Teeny jumped to her feet. “Did he squirt mustard all
over people’s heads, too?”
“One kid only ate mustard for a month.” I shuddered at the memory.
“Ended up in the hospital with something called mustard poisoning.”
“Too much mustard can ruin even the best dish,” said Teeny. “It’s a very
potent flavor.”
A college girl with dyed green hair glided by us on a skateboard,
laughing. Seconds later, a blue-haired guy came running by, shouting after
her. “Give it back, man. That’s my board.”
The girl called back over her shoulder. “Catch me if you can, loser.”
The blue-haired boy sprinted toward the girl. She jumped off the
skateboard and ran under a stone archway, disappearing into another quad.
The kid followed her under the arch. Seconds later, the sounds of their
laughter echoed as they argued over the skateboard.
I laughed to myself. “College kids seem so young all of a sudden. “I
feel like I can barely tell an eighteen-year-old from a fifteen-year-old
anymore. But when I was fifteen, I always knew right away when a kid was
older than me.”
“The more years you pick up, the more they blend together,” said Miss
May.
Teeny crossed her arms. “Speak for yourself, May. I always know
exactly how old someone is the second I talk to them. I know when they’re
younger than me, I know when they’re older than me. It’s easy.”
“I don’t believe you, but I’m also pretty sure I don’t care,” said Miss
May, turning back to me. “So Turnbull is a world-famous bully. Did you
learn anything else helpful with your little curly-headed boyfriend in
there?”
I nodded. “Yeah. That it’s not cool to wear collegiate gear to a party
anymore. Actually, I’m not sure if it ever was. I guess we’ll have to find
someone cool and ask them.”
“Anything else?” said Miss May, beginning to sound impatient.
“Of course.” I smiled. “You know I saved the best for last.”
“Spit it out,” said Teeny. “I mean, goodness. If you don’t tell us what
you learned soon, I’m going to make you drink a whole gallon of mustard.”
“I think Mayor Delgado’s husband was one of the kids Turnbull
tormented.”
31
 TURNBULLY

T he next morning, I woke up, and the farmhouse was empty. There
was coffee on in the kitchen, and both Kitty and Steve were
down there waiting for me, but Miss May was nowhere to be found. I
grabbed one of my favorite mugs, a giant one shaped like a cat’s face, and
poured myself a huge cup of coffee. Then I shuffled from the kitchen into
the den, then into the dining room, calling Miss May’s name.
Steve padded along beside me, his little footsteps a stark contrast to the
scraping shuffle of my slippers along the hundred-year-old hardwood
floors. Miss May and I had planned to go talk to Mr. Mayor Delgado that
morning, so her absence surprised me.
“Where’s Miss May, Steve?” I said.
Steve stopped walking when I stopped walking. When I spun around in
the dining room, with my hands on my hips, looking for my aunt, Steve
spun around right alongside me. Yes, his spin was a bit gimpy, but I loved
how he imitated my every move. We hadn’t trained Steve to do stuff like
that, he just had. He was a good little dog, and I loved him.
A quick peek out the kitchen window confirmed that Miss May’s VW
bus was parked just where she had left it the night prior. I knew she was
somewhere on the property and decided not to keep looking for her.
Chances were, Miss May was working early in the bakeshop. If that was the
case, she might need my help. My help was no good until I had coffee,
anyway. So I decided it was best for both of us for me to relax for just a bit.
I sat at a little stool at the kitchen island and contemplated my breakfast.
I wondered if it was an oatmeal day or if perhaps I preferred a piece of fruit
or a couple pancakes. Then I remembered Miss May had left a tiny,
personal-sized apple crumble in the refrigerator for emergencies. A smile
crossed my lips. My breakfast dilemma was an emergency, right?
I pulled the apple crumble out of the oven ten minutes later. The
crumbly stuff on top browned a little extra in the reheating process, and I
exclaimed aloud when I took my first bite. “This is so good. Oh my
goodness, Miss May. Is this a different recipe or something?” Another bite
confirmed Miss May must have changed something in her apple crumble
technique. Her crumble had always been incredible, but this concoction
stood out above every other iteration I had ever tried. “This is so good.”
“I doubled the nutmeg.” Miss May’s voice, tired and groggy, croaked
from behind me. I turned back. There she stood in the kitchen doorway,
rubbing her eyes. “You like it?”
“It’s… It’s delicious. But what’s going on here? Are you still asleep?”
Miss May hadn’t slept longer than me in my entire life. I’d rarely seen her
tired or groggy in the morning. A jolt of anxiety shot through my body.
“Are you OK?”
“I’m fine, Chelsea,” said Miss May. “Got up way too early this
morning, thinking about Mayor Delgado’s husband. Worked in the
bakeshop. Made the coffee. Then I got tired again, so I went back to bed.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. Miss May’s story checked out, and I no
longer had any cause for concern that something alarming had caused her to
sleep in. “What’re you thinking about Mr. Delgado?”
“Are we sure we want to question him?” Miss May asked. “When you
were talking at Cornell yesterday, you acted like the curly-headed kid had
confirmed Turnbull had bullied Delgado. But that’s not quite what he said,
is it?”
I set my fork down. “Miss May, we already covered this. I told you,
when I brought up Delgado’s name, the curly-headed kid got really weird.
He clammed up right away and wouldn’t tell me anything. Five seconds
later, he jumped up and said he needed to go check on something. The mere
mention of the name Delgado ended an otherwise long and relaxed
conversation.”
“You were talking to a drunk college kid,” said Miss May. “Maybe
someone called his name or he just got distracted or something.”
I shook my head. “You didn’t see the look in his eyes. I’m convinced
Turnbull did something especially cruel to Delgado. Yesterday, you said we
should go talk to Mr. Delgado. Have you changed your mind for real?”
Miss May shuffled over and took a sip of my coffee. “No. If you have a
hunch, you have a hunch. I just wanted to talk it over one more time.”
“So shall we had over to the Delgado house soon?” I said. “Is that still
the plan?”
“Just as soon as I feel fully awake,” said Miss May. “It’s much harder to
wake up for the second time than it is the first.”
We arrived at the Delgado house around nine AM. Miss May reasoned
that Linda would already be working at Town Hall by then. But Mr. Mayor
worked from a home office, so if we waited for Linda to be gone, we would
be able to question him without her influence.
Unfortunately, Miss May’s reasoning proved wrong. When we arrived
at the mayor’s stately white home, located just a few blocks from the center
of Pine Grove, both her and her husband’s vehicles were in the driveway.
And it sounded like the couple was arguing inside the house. Miss May
slowly cruised past the front of the house in her VW bus and then circled
around, parking behind a thicket of bushes near the side of the home. She
kept the windows down as she drove and listened the whole time to the
raucous sound of Linda and her husband shouting.
Once the bus had been parked behind the bushes, Miss May killed the
engine. “Can you hear what they’re saying?”
I stuck my head out the window to see if I could hear better. “No. But
they both sound pretty angry. Sounds like Linda’s doing most of the
yelling.”
Miss May nodded. I felt guilty as we sat there and eavesdropped on
what sounded like a marital dispute, but if Turnbull had bullied Delgado,
both the mayor and her husband were suspects in a murder investigation.
Miss May and I were doing what we needed to do in our pursuit of truth
and justice.
“Do you think they’re arguing about Turnbull?” I said to Miss May.
Miss May shrugged. “Not sure. Why don’t you slip out and try to get
closer to the house? See what you can hear from the side yard.”
I looked over at Miss May with big, pleading eyes. “Really? Can I
maybe not? If I get caught eavesdropping, I’m not going to know what to
say, and something dumb is going to come tumbling out of my mouth. The
mayor is an intimidating woman and—”
“Hold on.” Miss May held up her hand for me to stop talking. Then she
pointed toward the Delgado house. Through the gaps in the thicket of
bushes, I saw Mr. Delgado storm out of the home, jump into his car, and
speed away.
Miss May started the bus and headed in the direction Delgado had gone.
“What are you doing?” I said.
“Following Mr. Mayor Delgado so we can stop in and ask him what
he’s done.”
32
 HAZY MEMORIES

“T hat way. Go after him, Miss May,” I said, pointing in the

direction Delgado had disappeared. “Faster.”
Miss May put on her blinker and slowly pulled out of the parking spot.
“I’m not an unsafe driver, Chelsea. I’m not going to suddenly become one
just because you insist.”
“Not because I insist,” I said. “Because the guy who might very well be
Turnbull’s killer is getting away.”
“Fine.” Miss May looked over at me. “Buckle up.”
Miss May waited with extreme patience as I fumbled with my seatbelt
and then clicked it into place. Then she slammed her foot down on the gas.
The wheels of the Volkswagen bus spun a few times, and then we peeled
out, in pursuit of Mr. Delgado, suspected killer and bullied fraternity
member extraordinaire.
Our car chase that day was the least climactic car chase perhaps in the
history of car chases. We caught up to Delgado at a stop sign a block later.
A few blocks after that, he turned into the parking lot for the local ice cream
shop, Cherry on Top. Miss May did not follow Mr. Delgado into the parking
lot.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “Let’s go get him.”
 Miss May furrowed her eyebrows and looked in her rearview mirror.
“No. Something is not right here. It’s barely past nine AM. Why would Mr.
Delgado be going for ice cream?”
“Maybe he’s cheating on Linda with the owner of the shop.”
“Emily is not that kind of girl,” said Miss May. “We both know that.”
“Well, we’re driving a giant, yellow Volkswagen bus. No one else in
town drives this car. Maybe Mr. Delgado spotted us in his mirror and pulled
over so we could question him.”
Miss May moved her head from side to side, apparently considering my
theory. “You might have a point there. One of us needs to get a less
conspicuous car. My yellow bus and your light blue pickup don’t do us any
favors.”
I shrugged. “Spies never have inconspicuous cars. Think about James
Bond. He’s always driving the sexiest cars you’ve ever seen. He still gets
the job done.”
“At least his cars are sexy,” said Miss May. “Ours are clunky and old.”
“Since when is clunky and old not sexy?” I said. “Good thing you didn’t
make that little remark in front of Teeny.”
Miss May had been circling the block, headed back toward the Cherry
on Top. Once we got close, she turned into the parking lot. But she stopped
short in the entrance to the parking lot of the little strip mall.
“Why’d you stop?” I said.
Miss May pointed out her window, where Mr. Delgado could be seen
pounding on the door of the ice cream shop and tugging on the handle. He
was muttering something, but I couldn’t make out what. Miss May rolled
down the driver’s side window and called out to him. “Mr. Delgado.
Everything OK?”
He kept tugging on the locked front door. “Not really. Whenever I need
ice cream, Emily’s closed. What kind of shop is this? I’m literally
screaming for ice cream!”
 “Very few ice cream shops are open this early in the morning,” said
Miss May. “You don’t sound good. What’s going on?”
Delgado pounded on the front door. “Nothing. I want ice cream. Can’t a
man want a little early morning ice cream?”
Miss May looked over at me and whispered, “Let’s get out. But don’t
come at this straight on. Let me take the lead.”
As we approached, Mr. Delgado stepped back from Cherry on Top and
threw his hands in the air. “She’s not in there. No use trying.”
“We’re not here for the ice cream. We’re here because we saw you
pounding on the door, and we were concerned.”
Mr. Delgado looked away and shook his head. The man was short and
balding with a plump stature. He wore khakis and a tight business shirt. The
business shirt bulged at the buttons, and his stomach plopped out over his
pants. My man must’ve had it tough in the fraternity, I thought. Short, no
apparent athletic ability… Part of me wondered how he got initiated in the
first place.
“I bet if Emily knew there was demand for early morning ice cream,
she’d open early a couple days a week,” said Miss May. “You’re married to
the mayor. Maybe she could let Emily know that some folks are clamoring
for a morning treat. You think Linda would help you out with that?”
Linda’s husband scoffed. “I doubt it. Are you under the impression
that’s how marriage works? One partner wants something and the other tries
to make it happen? Makes sense you’ve never been married.”
The note of bitterness in Mr. Delgado’s voice surprised me. I bristled
and crossed my arms. “Don’t talk to my aunt that way, please.”
Miss May held up a hand. “It’s fine, Chelsea.” She gave Mr. Delgado a
little smile. “Most of my life, I was never interested in marriage. When I
was a young woman, I was building my career. Then I had the farm. And
Chelsea. I don’t regret anything.”
 “I’m sorry, Mabel,” Delgado said. The guy sniffled and clenched his
teeth. “Bad week.”
“That’s right,” said Miss May, voice heavy with compassion. “You
knew Alex Turnbull personally, didn’t you? I heard the two of you went to
college together. You were in the same fraternity.”
I glanced over at Miss May. Her eyes were focused on Delgado’s. She
licked her lips. “Is that not right? You and Alex Turnbull were friends?”
“Alex Turnbull was a monster,” Delgado snarled.
Miss May straightened up. “How do you mean?”
Mr. Delgado’s declaration that Turnbull was a monster sent a shiver of
adrenaline through my veins. It seemed my theory had been right. Mr.
Delgado hated Turnbull, and it must’ve had something to do with the
hazing.
Miss May pressed Mr. Delgado for more information. He resisted at
first and stuck to generalities, claiming Turnbull was a mean-spirited guy
who no one ever liked. But Miss May kept at it. Eventually, though,
Delgado’s voice started to quaver. “Fine. He made my life a nightmare
when I first joined the fraternity. Made me drink so much mustard, it
damaged my tastebuds for life. Everything is bland to me now.”
“He made you drink mustard?” Miss May uttered the question as though
she never contemplated mustard-based hazing rituals before.
Mr. Delgado went into great detail, which I’ll spare you, describing all
the varieties of mustard he’d been forced to eat, er, drink. There were
several unbelievable mustard-based horror stories. At one point, I almost
laughed. You hear the word ‘mustard’ enough times in a row, it starts to
sound silly. That’s not good if you’re in the middle of a murder
investigation, so I bit my tongue and looked away.
“Does Linda know how Turnbull treated you back in college?” Miss
May asked, once Mr. Delgado was all finished.
 “Of course she knows, May,” said Mr. Delgado, that scorn returning to
his voice. “We’ve been married forever. She knows every sordid, vinegary
detail. She’s known for so many years. But she still won’t come out and say
anything publicly about Turnbull’s abuses, not even now that Turnbull is
dead.”
“Why would she do that?” said Miss May. “Linda is a politician. It
doesn’t make sense for her to publicly scorn someone else who works in
government, especially on the heels of their apparent murder.”
The word murder hung in the air like a dark rain cloud crawling from
the Pacific horizon toward a Hawaiian beach. Once Miss May had uttered
it, there was no taking it back.
Mr. Delgado’s eyes widened like he had just seen lightning strike in the
distance. “Suddenly, I’m not in the mood for ice cream anymore. I should
go.”
He started toward the parking lot. Miss May stepped in his path. “You
didn’t like Turnbull. He made your life a nightmare. You said it yourself.”
“I don’t need to talk to you about this anymore, Mabel. If I was going to
kill Turnbull, I would’ve done it back in college. Why would I let it simmer
this long?”
“You weren’t strong in college. You wanted to fit in. Not make waves in
the frat. Then he showed up in your hometown and wanted to bulldoze half
the places you love.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Maybe Turnbull designed the plans for that light rail to crush Pine
Grove because he knew you lived here,” said Miss May. “This was the
mustard all over again.”
I had rarely seen Miss May apply the pressure so intensely. It was one
of her secret tactics, not often used. Mr. Delgado wiped sweat from his
forehead. “Stop harassing me. You’re just like him. Just like him.”
“Where were you that night?” said Miss May.
“I was with Linda,” said Mr. Delgado. “You can ask yourself.”
33
 A DELGADO OF A DOUBT

“B ack up one second. You never said why the guy was at the ice
cream shop so early in the morning.” Wayne sat back in our
booth at Grandma’s and fixed his eyes on me. We had met at the restaurant
for lunch, and I had already told him about what happened with Mr.
Delgado, but somehow, Wayne was fixated on the novel concept of ice
cream for breakfast.
“I guess he was stressed out, and he wanted ice cream. Have you never
heard of someone eating ice cream when they’re stressed?” I said. “It’s very
common.”
“I’ve heard of women eating whole pints of ice cream when they’re
stressed,” said Wayne. “That’s how it happens in movies.”
I widened my eyes. “Wow. So us women need to deal with our anxiety
by eating ice cream but men don’t?”
Wayne shrugged. “Most of the guys I know emotional-eat hotdogs or
pizza. You know I like a pepperoni slice after a long day at work. But I’ve
never woken up with a hankering for ice cream like Mayor Delgado’s
husband. He has put on a few pounds in the last couple years, though.
Maybe this is a habit for him.”
“Oh, the fine local detective has been observing people’s weight,” I
said, smiling. “How about me? Have I put on a few?” I regretted the
question as soon as I had asked that. It was like an older woman asking
someone to guess her age. Very few ladies would float that query and for
good reason. We preferred not to know how old we looked, or at least to
continue lying to ourselves, or some combination of the two.
Wayne took his hand in mine. “You’re more beautiful than the day I met
you in the apple orchard. Smarter than I ever thought a person could be.
And your karate chop is formidable.” Wayne sat up and looked around the
restaurant. “But all this talk about ice cream is getting me hungry. I’m
surprised no one has taken our order by now.”
“Me too,” I said, looking around for Teeny. I searched the restaurant
with my eyes for Petey. But he walked in the opposite direction when he
saw me. “Something weird is going on in here.”
“Nothing weird is going on.” Teeny charged toward us holding a couple
of shallow bowls. “We just changed the menu, that’s all.” She placed a bowl
in front of me and another in front of Wayne. Each had been filled with
some kind of gray slop. “I’m an uninspired chef, so I now serve only
uninspired food. Beginning today, the only menu item served at Grandma’s
restaurant is gruel.”
I had noticed earlier that Wayne and I were the only two diners in the
establishment. At the time, the observation had struck me as odd, but at that
moment, I understood. “You’re scaring people off with the gruel, Teeny,” I
said. “The place is totally empty.”
“Good! I don’t want anyone in here until I’ve figured out a good new
dish to serve. You can eat the gruel because I don’t care what you think.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said.
“You know what I mean. Now, don’t fill up on that, OK? I’ve got more
gruel for dessert.”
Teeny hurried away, and I looked down at the bowl of gray slop. It
looked like she had made a pot of farina and let it sit around all day. Wayne
took a bite and shrugged. “Not half bad. Reminds me of prison food. But
more upscale.”
“You’ve eaten the food at prison? Why?” I said.
“Back in the Bronx, we all had to work a shift at the prison once a
month. One shift, I forgot my lunch. The rest is history.”
I pushed my bowl over to Wayne as he devoured his. “You can have
mine, too. I have apple pie for lunch back at the farm. No offense to Teeny’s
prison gruel, but I’d rather eat crickets.”
Wayne nodded and pulled my bowl closer to him. “So what are you and
Miss May going to do next? Do you think Mr. Mayor was telling the truth?
Was he with Linda at the time of the murder?”
“Miss May thinks he was telling the truth, yeah,” I said. “I’m less
certain. The guy was so freaked out. And you should’ve heard him arguing
with Linda. They were really going at it.”
“Maybe Linda killed Turnbull to defend her husband’s honor,” said
Wayne. “Crazier things have happened, especially in this town. I hope
Delgado is not a killer, though. She’s a decent mayor.”
“She’s fine, I guess,” I said. “We called her office to try to get ahold of
her. Apparently, she’s golfing with some senator all day somewhere upstate.
Her office said she’s going to be out of pocket until late tonight.”
“Convenient. You buy it?”
I watched in confusion as Wayne slammed back bite after bite of
Teeny’s purposefully disgusting slop. Although I was tempted to point out
that the behavior struck me as disgusting, I decided to remain focused on
our more pressing conversation. “Hard to say. Everyone knows politicians
play golf, so the story is not far-fetched, but she could also be stalling. I’m
sure Carl called Linda after we confronted him at the ice cream shop.”
“Yeah. Sounds like Miss May came at the poor guy pretty hard.”
“Poor guy? We’re talking about a potential killer here.”
 “Keyword, potential,” said Wayne. “If I had to bet on it, I’d say neither
Linda nor her husband killed this Turnbull guy. It’s too risky for a high-
profile person like Linda to go off killing people, and she’s never struck me
as the type to snap. Plus, Mr. Delgado sounded like he was annoyed at
Linda for her inaction, which makes it seem unlikely that she murdered
Alex in her husband’s defense. As for Mr. Mayor, this is such an old wound.
Why would he have killed Turnbull now, after all these years?”
“I see your point,” I said. “But it’s a big question mark.”
Wayne finished his bowl of slop and moved on to mine. He’d never
eaten anything I cooked with such ferocity. I wondered all of a sudden if the
guy I was dating just had bad taste in food. That’s something I can fix, I
thought. Not hard.
“So you two are in a little bit of a slow patch in the investigation right
now,” said Wayne. “Miss May is working at the orchard. You’re here with
me. Pretty much just waiting to get ahold of Linda Delgado?”
I sighed. “Pretty much. We need to confirm that alibi, and it’d be good
to talk with her in person again, to see if she’s being honest whether or not
she was with her husband at the time of Turnbull’s murder.”
Wayne dumped an extra packet of sugar into his coffee and stirred it. I’d
already seen him toss three packs of sugar into his cup during our
conversation. Once again, I questioned his taste. But who was I to talk? For
the longest time, I had only been willing to drink my coffee if it tasted like a
milkshake.
“Speaking of stalling,” said Wayne. “I noticed you haven’t brought up
that family Halloween party again since we talked the night of the hockey
game. My mom is trying to get a headcount, so she knows how many
spider-shaped cookies to make. She wants to have enough for everybody to
eat a dozen cookies, apparently. The woman goes crazy on holidays, I’m
telling you.”
 “Hold on a second,” I said. “We’re still talking about Delgado. Do you
think it’s a bad idea to wait for a few hours? Should we be pursuing another
suspect?”
“Sometimes, waiting is the smartest thing you can do. Often, criminals
show themselves at just the moment they think you’ve looked away. So
how many spider cookies should my mom make?”
“I already told you I was going to come.”
“But you hesitated,” said Wayne.
“I did not—”
“You did. It’s fine. But it definitely happened. She also needs to know
how you feel about deviled eggs where the yolk will look like a creepy
eye.”
Suddenly, Teeny burst out of the kitchen and darted toward our table.
“Chelsea. We’ve got to go.”
“Go where?” I said.
“We need to go to the police department. Miss May has been arrested by
Sunshine Flanagan.”
34
 ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT

T he town lawyer Tom Gigley was waiting out in front of the police
station when we arrived. Teeny charged up to him with her hands
held high. “Tom. Why are you here? May called you, too?”
“Teeny, calm down,” said Tom.
“That was a mistake,” I muttered. Telling Teeny, or any woman, to calm
down… Tom should’ve known better.
Teeny puffed up her chest and glared up at Gigley. “Don’t tell me to
calm down, Tom. My best friend is locked up in jail. I know what it’s like in
that place. The food is decent, but the accommodations are sparse. Miss
May is a homebody. She wants to be surrounded by her things and her
blankets and her fireplace. This is no place for a woman like that.”
Tom held up his hand and took a step back from Teeny. “I understand
what you’re saying. As I’m sure you know, we have a shared goal here. We
both want to get Miss May out of jail as soon as possible. In order to do
that, we’re going to need to keep a level head and approach Chief Flanagan
calmly. I want to know why Miss May is being held. Ultimately, I want to
appeal to Flanagan’s human side and convince her to let Miss May out
within the hour. Detective Hudson, do you think that’s possible?”
Wayne cleared his throat like he was a kid who didn’t expect to be
called on in class. “Oh. Sure, it’s possible.”
 “I’m not hopeful,” I said. “Sunshine Flanagan has never been
understanding with us. She acts irrationally, and she makes snap judgments,
and she’s almost never right.”
“That’s not really true,” said Wayne.
I spun and looked at him. We both knew Flanagan had been interested
in Wayne as a romantic partner, and his soft spot for her surprised me.
“I’m not saying the lady’s an angel or anything, but she’s got a tough
job. The state’s always breathing down her neck, and we’re underfunded,
and she has to deal with a lot of red tape in the department. Out here,
sleuthing around, you don’t have any red tape. I think that’s maybe part of
the reason why you guys solve mysteries so much faster than us.”
“That would imply that you solve the mysteries at all,” said Teeny.
“Last time I checked, Pine Grove police hadn’t solved a single murder in
town. Miss May is responsible for every single criminal that you’ve put
behind bars.”
“You and Chelsea helped,” said Tom. “Everyone knows you’re a three-
person team and that you each bring your own strengths to the table. Miss
May is measured and reasonable. Teeny, you’re a ferocious bulldog who
won’t back down from a hunt. And Chelsea has the karate skills.”
“I’m not just the muscle,” I said. “Sometimes, I’m the brain and the
brawn.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” said Wayne. “Chelsea, you’re so brainy and
brawny, all the time. But do you think maybe we should save this
discussion for later? Mr. Gigley, have you spoken with the chief yet? Have
you been inside? How was the temperature in there?”
“A little chilly. I recommend a sweater if you have one.”
“I’m talking about the emotional temperature,” said Wayne. “Are things
heated? Are Miss May and Chief Flanagan going at it?”
“Of course,” said Gigley. “I haven’t made much progress inside yet. I
entered to find Deputy Hercules behind the reception desk, playing a game
on his phone, I believe. Hercules told me Flanagan couldn’t see me, and he
refused a request to see Miss May. I reminded him that, as her lawyer, I
have a legal right to consult with my client. At that juncture, Hercules
became scared and told me he’d be with me shortly. That’s when I came
outside to meet the three of you.”
Teeny shook her head and groaned. “You’re too polite, Tom. Outta my
way.” She nudged Tom aside and entered the police department with her
tiny fists clenched. The rest of us followed, bumping into one another as we
squeezed through the department doors.
Teeny stopped in the middle of the lobby and glared at Hercules.
“Where is she, kid? Where are you keeping my friend?”
Hercules’ voice squeaked as he replied. “Miss May is in our biggest
cell.”
“They only have one cell,” said Tom.
“We want to see her. Now.” Teeny took a big step toward Hercules.
“Make it happen.”
Wayne went around the reception counter and turned to face the rest of
us. “I’m going to take care of this, Teeny. Just hang on for a second.” He
pulled his walkie-talkie off his hip. “Hey, Chief. Can you come to the lobby
for a second? We got a situation brewing.”
Flanagan’s voice squawked back a reply. “No. You come back here.”
Wayne gestured toward the back of the police station. “I better do that.
Everybody, stay here. Get a snack from the vending machine. Hang tight.”
Hercules came out from behind the counter and walked toward the
vending machine. Wayne snapped in his direction. “Hercules. No snacks for
you. You’re on duty. Back behind the desk.” Hercules did an about-face and
walked back to his station behind the desk. As Wayne charged down the
hallway, I looked after him admiringly. That was my boyfriend, taking
charge and trying to help out. I doubted whether or not he’d have an impact
on Flanagan, but I sure hoped he would.
 A few minutes later, Wayne emerged from the back of the station with
Chief Flanagan trailing a few steps behind them. Her maroon lipstick
looked perfect. Her posture was rigid. I swear I saw the outline of abs under
her uniform. “Mr. Gigley can have five minutes with the accused, Mabel
Thomas, in the interrogation room. Your time starts now, Tom.”
Gigley nodded and headed toward the back of the station. I walked right
alongside them. Flanagan held up her arm to stop me as I walked past her.
“And where are you going?”
“Sometimes, I’m an, uh, assistant at the firm,” I said. “Just got hired
today. Isn’t that right, Tom?”
Tom looked over at me. With a pleading look, I begged him to go along
with my lie. He sighed. “That’s right. Just as my paralegal. I’d like to have
her in there to take notes.”
Thirty seconds later, Tom Gigley and I were seated across the table from
Miss May in a barren, white room. Miss May had jumped up and hugged
me when we entered the room. She assured me she was OK. Then she
insisted we all sit down and get to business.
“OK, May,” said Tom. “We want to get you out of here, but—”
“Quiet down, Tom,” said Miss May. “I’m sure you’ll figure out a way to
get me out of here as soon as possible. I need to spend this time discussing
Alex Turnbull’s murder with my niece.”
Tom sat back and groaned. “Why am I here?”
“Because without you here, we wouldn’t be able to have a private
conversation,” said Miss May. “Don’t forget, I was a lawyer too.”
“So you’re using me,” said Tom.
“I’ll also pay you if you let me carry on this conversation,” said Miss
May.
“You know I’m not taking your money, May. Just get on with it,” said
Tom.
“What happened?” I said to Miss May. “Why are you under arrest?”
 “I went down to the city to see if Wanda was awake.”
“What? When? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was acting on a hunch, and I moved fast. One second, I had the idea,
and the next second, I was already on a train, headed down. I tried to call
you, but it went to voicemail.”
“So what happened?” I asked. “Is she awake?”
“As soon as I entered her hospital room, a nurse forced me to leave.
There was a cop out in the hallway too, he gave me the evil eye. But
Wanda’s eyes were open. She’s alive. She seemed cogent to me.”
“You couldn’t find out anything?” I said.
Miss May shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. Anyway, as soon as I got
off the train in Pine Grove, Flanagan arrested me. She was waiting there for
me. Apparently, that cop at the hospital recognized me and told her I was
there, interfering in an investigation.”
I turned to Tom. “Can Miss May be arrested for that?”
Tom shrugged. “If Flanagan has reason to believe Miss May was
engaging in unlawful activity, then yes, Miss May can be held here. But
Flanagan will need to press charges pretty soon if she wants to keep Miss
May here for long. At least, that’s how I think it works.”
“What do you mean that’s how you think it works?” I said. “You’re a
lawyer.”
“I do mostly trusts and estates, Chelsea,” said Tom. “Small-town
lawyers don’t have tons of experience with stuff like this.”
“But in your small town, people get murdered all the time,” I said.
Tom’s face reddened. Miss May shot me an admonishing look. “You’re
doing a good job, Tom,” she said. “Chelsea is just upset because her dear
old aunt is locked up. But she doesn’t have any reason to worry. I’m fine
here. In some ways, I’m better off than the rest of you. The killer can’t get
me if I’m behind bars.”
“So what do I do now?” I said.
 “First thing tomorrow, you go see Wanda at that hospital. She seems
scared. I think she has something to say. She might know who the killer is.
And I think she might be ready to talk.”
35
 HOME ALONE

T he farmhouse was lonely that night without Miss May around. At

first, I passed the time by cleaning. Before long, every room on
the first floor of the farmhouse was spotless. The area under the sink was
neat and organized. All the blankets in the den were folded and put away in
the chest. Old magazines were thrown away and replaced by newer issues
on the coffee table.
I listened to Christmas music as I cleaned. But not even Michael Bublé
could drown out the voice in my head. The voice in my head was loud and
persistent and repeated over and over, “I hope Miss May is OK. I better
catch the killer. I hope Miss May is OK.”
I was straightening the chairs around the kitchen table for the third time
when I finally snapped, pulling my headphones out of my ears and tossing
them down on the ground. “Stop freaking out, Chelsea. Get it together. Miss
May wouldn’t want you to worry like this. She would want you to relax
tonight and to get your head straight before you question Wanda in the
morning.”
Steve the dog trotted in. He took the headphone cord in his mouth and
offered it up to me. “Thank you, Steve.” I took the headphones from him,
wound the cord around my fingers, and shoved them in my pocket.
 I had a sudden burst of inspiration, looking around the kitchen and
feeling so trapped and upset. “I’ll plan my trip. To California! I need to get
outta here, Steve. I gotta hit the open road! I gotta feel the wind in my
hair!”
About an hour later, I’d swiftly but meticulously mapped out a
meandering, wonderful route that would get me from New York to
California. I’d been wanting to venture out of Pine Grove for so long, I felt
a wave of relief at finally taking action toward that goal. Sure, maybe it was
a weird time to plan a vacation, while my aunt was in jail. But I knew she’d
approve. After a few minutes of gloating about my planning triumph, I
started to feel anxiety creeping back in.
I glanced down and saw that Steve the dog was still looking at me. “I’ll
make a cup of tea. How does that sound? Do you think that will calm me
down?”
Steve didn’t know. He was always calm. Both he and I knew it.
The teakettle whistled, loud and shrill. I jumped up from where I had
been sitting at the kitchen table and whistled back at the kettle, acting
annoyed. “I’m coming, you impatient brat. Calm down.”
I felt bad telling the kettle to calm down, but I reasoned that I was
mostly talking to myself. I removed two mugs from the cabinet above the
sink by instinct. After I put the second mug back and closed the cabinet, I
paused, just looking at it for a moment. Life was lonely without Miss May,
but it didn’t have to be. I pulled the second mug back out from the cabinet,
placed it down on the counter, and filled it up with water to make
chamomile tea.
Moments later, I was standing on the doorstep of KP’s cabin, knocking
with my elbow. “KP. You in there?”
He opened the door, squinting as though he were emerging from a four-
hour-long movie in the middle of the day. “Chelsea Rae. What are you
doing here?”
 “Brought you tea.”
KP stepped aside and motioned for me to enter his little cabin. “Well,
get in here already. You’ll freeze your knees off standing out there like
that.”
Once I had entered, KP closed the door behind me and took his mug of
tea. “What is this? Dramamine? You trying to drug me?”
“It’s chamomile. It helps you relax in stressful times.”
KP took a sip. “Doesn’t work. Still worried about May.”
I looked around KP’s cabin. The remote for the television and sound
system were lined up perfectly on the edge of the couch. The dishes were
done and put away. There wasn’t a speck of dust in the whole place.
“You been cleaning in here?”
“So what if I have?” KP asked. “I’m a clean guy. Clean all the time.
Don’t look at me funny.”
I smirked and sipped my tea. “You really are worried about Miss May. I
cleaned too.”
“Look, I got more friends than just the two of you, OK?” KP said. “But
if May goes away for murder, it would be just the two of us on this huge
farm. You know anything about the apple side of this apple orchard? I don’t
know anything about baking. I’d be in way over my head.”
“So you’re concerned for practical reasons,” I said.
“Exactly.” Groaning, KP climbed to his feet, crossed to the kitchen, and
wiped down the counter. He then adjusted the placement of the salt and
pepper shakers on his kitchen table. Finally, he opened the curtains on his
window, so they were perfectly even on either side.
“Hey, KP,” I said. He turned back. “Don’t worry. I’m going to catch this
killer. I’m going to get Miss May outta jail.”
“I’m not cleaning cuz I’m worried.”
“I know,” I said, smiling.
 KP jerked his thumb over toward the TV and said, “Come on, then.
Let’s watch a movie.”
36
 WANDA VISION

T he next morning, I stepped out onto the porch with a thermos full
of coffee, feeling refreshed and invigorated. I don’t know if the
chamomile tea was what had helped me, or maybe the funny old movie I
had watched with KP, but my shoulders were back, and my eyes were clear
and determined. We were going to catch the killer. We were going to set
Miss May free.
Besides all that, it was a perfect and gorgeous October day. The blue
sky was dotted with puffy, white clouds. A squirrel scurried up the trunk of
a nearby tree with a nut in its mouth. I could smell the smoke of someone’s
fireplace on the wind.
Then Teeny pulled up the driveway, and everything changed. The
engine on her little pink convertible growled, and the speakers blasted
eighties hair metal. She honked her horn when she spotted me and motioned
for me to come out onto the driveway to meet her.
Teeny shouted something, but I couldn’t make out the words over the
growling engine and the loud music. I turned up my palms as if to say, “I
can’t hear you.” Teeny responded by yelling whatever she had yelled the
first time for a second time. I repeated my gesture. Then she killed the
engine and the music and jumped out of the car. “I think I’ve had my
breakthrough.”
 Teeny was wearing pink pants and a pink denim jacket along with a
bright pink headband. Still, somehow, her smile was even brighter than her
attire. “I’m free from my creative slump.”
“Congratulations.” I sipped my coffee and approached the pink
convertible. “So what’s the new dish going to be?”
“I’m not just going to tell you, Chelsea,” said Teeny. “That would be
insane. I’m still tinkering in the kitchen and getting everything figured out.
But the days of serving gruel and dessert gruel at Grandma’s restaurant
have almost come to a close, I can promise you that. This is one of the
biggest challenges of my professional career, Chelsea. For a moment, I was
no better than a common cafeteria worker without a single ounce of genius
inside me. But now, I’ve returned to glory, and glory has welcomed me with
open arms, the beautiful woman that she is.”
“Wow. You’re really feeling yourself.”
“Don’t judge me,” said Teeny. “I’m trying to celebrate here. Now get in
the car, so we can go catch this killer. I need to get back in my kitchen soon,
innovating, as I do.”
I know what you’re thinking. Why did I agreed to let Teeny drive? A
short and sweet answer is that she didn’t give me any choice. When I’d
debriefed Teeny on the situation the night prior, she had insisted that she
drive down to the city in the morning. I had protested, but there’s no use
protesting with Teeny. The more you pull in one direction, the harder she
pulls in the opposite direction. And Teeny always pulls harder than the
competition.
The trip down to Manhattan in Teeny’s convertible is little more in my
memory then blurry buildings and blaring horns. The woman drives fast.
She doesn’t signal when she changes lanes. And she talks trash the entire
time that she’s behind the wheel.
Here are my three favorite phrases Teeny used while driving that day…
One: “Look at this human skunk, cutting me off. Not today, Stinko.”
 Two: “I’m the queen of the road, and I say, ‘Off with your head!’”
Three: “Drive into the Hudson and drown, creep. That’s what you get
when you look at me funny on the road.”
Now, one might assume that Teeny is one of the millions of drivers out
there who has what’s commonly referred to as road rage. But I don’t think
that’s the right term for what she’s got. See, Teeny was never angry when
she was saying phrases like those listed above. In fact, she was mostly
laughing. It was like she was playing some kind of game, but no one else
knew that they were participants. The more I begged Teeny to focus on the
road, the more creative she got with her language. Eventually, I decided to
join in. I called the driver of a speeding eighteen-wheeler a “dead frog on
wheels.” Teeny cackled and repeated the phrase. I’m not sure if I’ve ever
seen her happier without sprinkles in her mouth.
Our carefree if not somewhat aggressive fun ended the moment the
elevator opened onto Wanda’s floor at the hospital. The place was swarming
with cops, and a somber energy hung in the air. An older cop sipped coffee
in the waiting room. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his hair looked
unwashed. A younger cop reviewed notes in a notepad, leaning against the
vending machine. A concerned doctor spoke with a third police officer, a
grave look in both their eyes.
Teeny clutched my arm. “This doesn’t seem good. Did Miss May say
what room Wanda was in?”
“Two-eleven. But there’s no way of getting back there through these
cops.”
Teeny pointed at an open door nearby. The door led into a hospital
hallway and wasn’t being guarded by any of the police officers. “You sure
about that?”
As I crept toward room two-eleven, my mind raced. Why were all those
police officers in the lobby? Had Wanda escaped? Or had something worse
happened?
 I rounded the corner and walked right into the chest of a burly, older
cop. “Can I help you?” he said.
I clutched my arm, like it was in serious pain. “Sorry, sir. Just headed
back to my room.”
I shuffled away before the cop could ask any follow-up questions. A
quick glance at the room numbers confirmed I was getting close to two-
eleven. Two-seventeen. Two-fifteen. Two-thirteen. Then I stopped dead in
my tracks.
A team of doctors and police officers wheeled a covered gurney out
from room two-eleven. The white top sheet was stained with blood.
I took a step toward room two-eleven, but that same burly cop showed
up and blocked my path. “What room number are you?”
“Oh. My room is actually on the sixth floor. But I came down to visit
my friend, Wanda Go. She’s in room two-eleven.”
“You’re not visiting Wanda today, kid. Sorry.”
I swallowed and looked into the cop’s eyes. “Why not?”
37
 EXTRA, EXTRA

T he Pine Grove Gazette was housed on the second floor of a two-

story building in the center of town. The editor of the Gazette,
Liz, seemed to work twenty-eight or twenty-nine hours a day. Not possible,
I know. But her light was always on, and her computer keys were always
clacking.
Teeny and I had headed straight from the scene of Wanda’s death to
Liz’s offices. I had a plan, and our esteemed local newspaper editor was an
integral component.
Liz opened her office door after my first knock. “I know, I know. Miss
May is locked up. I’m already writing a story on it.”
Teeny and I entered the office. Liz closed the door behind us and sat
behind her desk. Although Liz was young for a newspaper editor and
couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, her office was outfitted like that
of a veteran newspaperman. Framed articles decorated the walls. Wood
paneling was everywhere. The furniture was heavy and leather. She
motioned for us to sit across from her. “You can sit for a moment, but
you’re not going to tell me anything I don’t already know. Like I said, I’m
working on the story now.”
“Can we just talk before you assume you know why we’re here?” said
Teeny.
 Liz lowered the lid of her laptop halfway and got a serious look in her
eye. “You’re not here to convince me to write a story about Miss May.
Interesting. If it’s not that, I’m assuming you’d like to discuss your recent
struggles in the kitchen. It’s true, I’ve been considering writing a piece on
your creative slump, but I didn’t want to make you angry. I’m glad you’ve
come to me with this. Is it true you’ve been serving only gruel?”
Teeny set her lips tight. “My slump is over, thank you very much. Well,
it will be soon. It’s hard to add a new item to the menu in the middle of a
murder investigation, you know.”
“It’s not just a cup of sprinkles, is it?” said Liz. “Because I don’t—”
“No, it’s not just sprinkles,” said Teeny. “But I could tell from the tone
of your voice that you’re clearly ignorant. Cups of sprinkles are delicious to
those of us with a refined palate.”
Liz closed the lid of her laptop the rest of the way. She sat back and
turned up her palms. “Agree to disagree. Why are you here?”
I jumped in before Teeny had a chance, and I told Liz most of the details
of our investigation. She had a sharp mind and had proven a strong ally in
many prior investigations. I didn’t hesitate to reveal every sordid detail of
the case, ending up with our suspicion of Wanda and Wanda’s recent death.
“So your top suspect turned up murdered. That’s happened before,” said
Liz. “But I’m confused. Are you here to bring me in as the third sleuth now
that Miss May is locked up? I’m sure I’d do a great job, but I’m already
stretched thin at the paper.”
Teeny scooted up to the edge of her chair. “We don’t need you to
replace Miss May, Liz. But how dare you reject us, anyway. You would be
lucky to count yourself among our ranks. We keep this town safe, and
people here love us.”
“My writing also keeps this town safe,” said Liz. “I’m secure enough
not to need the love of the people. Good journalism exists on its own. The
stories happen with or without me. I’m a mere conduit.”
 I leaned forward with a polite smile. “Sorry. Yes, you’re a conduit. And
sure, Teeny, everyone loves you. Go ahead and believe that. But we’re not
here because we want you to replace Miss May or write a story about her
imprisonment. The reason we’re here is because we want you to help us
break her out. Teeny and I talked the whole way home about possible next
steps in this investigation, but we don’t want to continue without Miss May.
Her strong judgment and resolute morals keep us on the straight and
narrow. That’s especially important as danger mounts, which it has.”
“Hence the second stiff,” said Teeny, spitting her words like venom.
Teeny and Liz locked in angry eye contact for a minute. Finally, Liz
blinked and turned to me. “Tell me how I can help.”
“The way I see it, local journalism is one of the most powerful tools in
small towns. Everyone and their mother and their brother and their aunt and
their uncle reads the Gazette. Then they meet up at the Brown Cow or
Grandma’s to talk about it the next day.”
“A very powerful tool, yes,” said Liz. “And you want to harness my
power for something?”
“We’re hoping you could use some of that power to convince Chief
Flanagan to let Miss May out of prison.” I picked up speed on my next
sentence in order to cut off any possible objections from Liz. “I know, I
know. You’ve got integrity, and you are a master journalist, and you don’t
want to be pocketed by local sleuths like us. But we think that this is an
opportunity for you to use your reporting to influence change. And isn’t that
the point of good reporting?”
Liz tilted up her chin and looked down her nose at me. “It is.”
“So what do you think? Is there any way you could use your position to
pressure Flanagan into freeing Miss May?”
“I told you, I’m already writing a story. But I wouldn’t be able to have
the article off the presses until late tomorrow, at the earliest.”
 “But what about the Internet?” said Teeny. “One time, on an episode of
North Port Diaries, seven people were arrested because of a post an angry
librarian made on Facebook.”
Liz checked her watch, as if to send the message that not even Miss
May’s freedom was worth much more of her time. “I suppose I have a
decent social media following.”
I jumped out of my chair. “You have a huge social media following.
You’re basically a powerful online influencer in Pine Grove. If you say on
your Facebook account that Brian has fresh banana nut muffins at the
Brown Cow, he sells out of the banana nut muffins in less than an hour.”
“It’s the Liz effect. There’s a term for it.”
“Exactly. So why not use that Liz effect for something more important
than banana nut muffins?”
“Banana nut muffins are very important,” said Teeny. “Brian makes
them with a little bit of cinnamon in the dough, and they’re just perfect
when they’re warm.”
I shot Teeny a look.
“This is more important, though,” she said. “Of course. Miss May’s
freedom is more important than a good muffin. Even if that muffin is warm
and swirled with cinnamon and walnut chunks. I think I’m hungry.”
Liz stood and paced. “I suppose I could call Flanagan’s policing into
question. That was one of the possible angles of my original story. The
details of Miss May’s arrest have been lacking. We’re also nearing the time
when Flanagan should free Miss May, anyway. As far as I know, there
haven’t been any charges pressed. At its core, this is a civil liberties issue,
and I never turn away from defending the rights of the people. Miss May
doesn’t pose a flight risk. She’s not a little old lady, not with broad
shoulders like those, but she’s an old lady, nonetheless.”
“We won’t tell her you said that,” I said.
 “She’d be fine with it,” said Teeny. “I’m the one who’s offended. Miss
May and I are vintage, and we’re back in style.”
Liz opened her laptop back up with a flick of the wrist. Seconds later,
her fingers were flying across the keyboard. That’s the benefit of good
computer skills courses in elementary school, I thought. Liz looked like a
master pianist at her laptop, all focus and dexterity. Neither Teeny nor I
could look away.
“Are you making a post now?” said Teeny.
Liz held up her pointer finger to indicate that we should wait a moment.
As the finger remained in the air, she kept typing with only her left hand, at
that point showing off her virtuosic computer skills. Ten seconds later, she
paused, took a deep breath, and hit enter. Then she slammed the laptop
closed.
“Let my post work its magic. Miss May should be out within the hour.”
38
 FREE AT LAST

M iss May entered the farmhouse with an exaggerated sigh and

tossed her bag down on the kitchen table. “Home sweet
home. It’s so nice to be back.”
“It’s so nice to have you back.” Teeny entered from the den with a big
smile. At first, all I could see where the bright whites of her teeth.
Miss May yelped and stumbled back. “Whoa. Teeny. Chelsea didn’t tell
me you were here.”
Laughing, I put an arm around Miss May. “It’s OK, Miss May. Don’t be
scared.”
Miss May shrugged me off. “I’m not scared. It was just a surprise.”
“That was the idea,” said Teeny. “Aren’t I a wonderful surprise?
Chelsea wanted to warn you that I’d be inside, but I made her promise not
to. To be honest, I can’t believe she kept the promise. Good job, Chelsea.”
“It’s only because I’m scared of you,” I said.
“Great.” Teeny hurried across the kitchen and pulled out one of the
chairs, gesturing for Miss May to sit. “Relax, relax. You’re not in the
jailhouse anymore. Shake off those prison jitters and review my newest
creation.”
Miss May slowly sat, keeping an eye on Teeny as Teeny bustled over to
the stove. “You broke out of your slump. Congratulations.”
 “Don’t congratulate me yet. First, you need to taste what I’ve created. I
figure we’ll fuel you up and then put you to work to help solve this case.
We can’t do everything, you know.”
Miss May sighed. “I’m just disappointed I wasn’t able to get alone time
with Wanda before the killer nabbed her. And I’m sorry she died. We
could’ve stopped this one, girls. It’s all I thought about while I was locked
up. It’s our job to protect people, and Wanda Go slipped through the
proverbial cracks.”
I sat across from Miss May at the table and leaned forward, searching
her eyes. “You can’t feel bad, Miss May. If anything, the hospital staff and
all those cops should feel guilty, not you. It was their literal job to keep
Wanda safe and to bring her back to full health after the car accident.
Instead, they looked away, and the murderer slipped in and killed one of
their patients.”
“Exactly,” said Teeny, working over the stove. “We’re not paid
professionals, we’re amateurs. Sometimes, it feels like it’s our job to
provide all the safety in the world, but, quite frankly, it’s not our job at all.
This is a community service we do, and if we go around beating ourselves
up over every Tom, Dick, and Wanda who gets murdered, we’ll never get
anything done. The only thing we can do now is bring the poor woman
justice. That’s why I’m making you this brain food.”
“To be clear, you and I also have brains,” I said to Teeny.
“Sure,” said Teeny. “But after we discovered that body, the first thing
we wanted to do was free May so she could help. True or false?”
“True, but… That’s because everything you wanted to do was based on
something you’ve seen on TV. You had alien theories, you had Russian spy
theories, you had theories about doppelgängers and stepfathers with creepy
mustaches.”
Teeny dropped what she was doing at the stove and marched right up to
me. “You never trust the stepfather with the creepy mustache, Chelsea.
Promise me that right now.”
I held up my hands. “OK. I won’t. I’m sorry.”
“I think I see what the problem was,” said Miss May with a chortle.
“It’s hard to figure out who might have wanted both Wanda and Turnbull
dead. Clearly, Wanda would’ve wanted Turnbull dead because Turnbull
bulldozed her apartment. And Turnbull would have wanted Wanda dead
because she wanted to make that process difficult for him, probably by
shooting and killing him. But who could have hated both of them enough to
commit both murders?”
“Alright, quick pause on talking about murders,” said Teeny. “First, we
eat. Then, we talk.”
Miss May nodded. “Brain food. I almost forgot. Can you reveal what
this magical breakthrough dish is yet?”
“Yes. But before I serve you, there are a few things I need to say. You
two are great friends, OK? You stuck with me through my creative slump,
and you believed in me the whole time. More important than that, you told
me when the stuff I was cooking didn’t taste good or was too fancy or too
weird. I’m sorry I made you both suffer through that bizarre seaweed
concoction that I created. It’s not the right fare for Pine Grove. I shoulda
learned that lesson when Petey’s place, Peter’s Land and Sea, went under.
Maybe that kinda fancy food is right for some skinny man in Paris or Japan,
but we don’t have a lot of skinny men around here.”
“We really don’t,” I said. “Although, Big Dan has skinny legs.”
“He does. Isn’t it cute?” Teeny said. “Anyway, I’m excited about this
new dish I’m going to serve you today because it’s simple and basic. I think
that’s what I was missing this whole time. Things started to get
overcomplicated, you know? But Grandma’s is known for food that warms
the soul and feels like a big hug with every bite. Once I realized that, I
knew what I had to do… It was time for me to re-invent one of America’s
favorite breakfasts… oatmeal.”
 Teeny hurried over to the stovetop and ladled out three big bowls of
oatmeal. She placed the bowls on the table and then sat beside us,
distributing spoons. The oats were thick and had an orange tint. A carefully
sliced apple was served alongside the bowl. I leaned down and took a big
whiff. My nose was greeted by a subtle autumnal smell I knew I recognized
but couldn’t quite place. “This isn’t just normal oatmeal, is it?” I said.
Teeny shook her head and clapped her hands together in her tiny golf
claps. “It’s Teeny’s signature pumpkin spice oatmeal.”
Miss May waved her hands over the bowl, attempting to waft the smell
farther toward her. “What all is in there? Let’s see… Allspice. Nutmeg.
Cinnamon.”
“Pumpkin, of course,” I said.
“Brown sugar?” said Miss May.
Teeny nodded. “Pretty good but you’re missing a couple ingredients.”
“OK. Let me taste it.” Miss May took a bite of the oatmeal, and so did I.
Though my goal upon trying the oats had been to identify the missing
ingredients, all that washed away when the oatmeal hit my tongue. A
memory I thought I’d forgotten took its place. A too warm for November
day. Me and my parents and Miss May seated around a picnic table near the
event barn in the orchard. The morning sun warm on our backs. Eating
pumpkin pie, even though it was too early in the day for pie.
“This tastes like home,” I said. I feel weird admitting this, but I teared
up as I took a second bite. “It reminds me of my parents.”
“Me too, Chelsea,” said Miss May. “They loved their pumpkin pie.”
Teeny beamed. “I’m so glad you like it. It’s really good?”
“It’s really good,” I said, bringing a much deeper meaning to the word
really. Like… I really meant it. The oatmeal, and the feeling it gave me,
were really, really real. So much more real than most things any of us
experience from one day to the next. “Is there ginger in there?”
 “Oh, definitely,” said Miss May. “And cream. And salt. But there’s
something else, too…”
“Want me to tell you?” Teeny asked. “It’s applesauce. Just like you use
in the Appie Oaters, May. See how you’re an inspiration to me?”
“Pretty sure I use applesauce in those cookies because you had the idea
to use up even more extra apples,” said Miss May. “But sure, I’ll take the
credit.”
We ate in silence for a few minutes. Good food has a way of shutting up
even the most talkative people. Then, when I was about halfway through
my oatmeal, I lowered my spoon thoughtfully. “Kelly Washington. She
might’ve wanted both Turnbull and Wanda dead.”
“How do you figure?” said Teeny.
“She worked closely with Turnbull. We’ve already theorized maybe
there was more to the relationship. Like, some simmering animosity. Or
Kelly’s unbridled ambition. And it seems Wanda Go had been following
Turnbull from town to town. Maybe, somehow, she witnessed the first
murder and threatened to go public.”
Miss May didn’t speak for a long while. Instead, she kept right on
eating her oatmeal. She pushed her bowl away after she had her final bite.
Nodded at the same time. “Good idea, Chelsea. I’ll try to arrange a meeting
with Kelly first thing tomorrow.”
39
 SLEEPER HITS

I fell asleep easy that night. We had a plan and a new suspect, and
I felt good. But when I woke up, it was still dark out, and I was
very, very sweaty. That did not feel good.
The thing is, something had occurred to me as I slept. We’d gotten so
distracted by Wanda’s death that we overlooked an important detail.
When I first woke up, the time on my phone said five AM. I laid there
thinking, mind racing, for what felt like a long time. A second time check
told me only five minutes had elapsed. There was no way I could wait the
two hours until Miss May usually awoke. We needed to talk right then.
Miss May’s bedroom was not what you’d expect the bedroom of a top
sleuth to look like. Everything was apple-themed, for instance. Apple
curtains covered the windows. The bedspread was covered with images of
all sorts of apples. And there was a carpet shaped like a red delicious in the
center of the room. I crept inside the room, wincing, guilty for what I was
about to do. But it would be worth it if it prevented another murder.
Miss May woke as soon as I touched her shoulder and shook. She
blinked a few times and turned to me. “What’s wrong? Bad dream? You can
sleep in my bed if you want.”
“Even half-asleep, you’ve got jokes?” I said.
Miss May propped herself up on her elbows. “Seems like it.”
 The thought of climbing into bed beside Miss May actually tempted me.
Her bed was so much bigger and cozier than mine. I always liked getting
under the covers because all the apples on the comforter made me feel like I
was up high in an apple tree. I sat on the edge of the bed instead, and Miss
May scooted over to make a little room for me.
“We forgot about Mr. Mayor,” I said. “Turnbull tormented Deldago
back in their fraternity days. Made the guy guzzle mustard or whatever. We
were planning to question Linda about Turnbull’s murder and her husband’s
alibi, but then Wanda got killed.”
“And that changed everything,” said Miss May.
“Not really.” I scooted a bit farther onto the bed. “Both Mr. Delgado and
Linda are solid suspects in Turnbull’s murder. If Wanda witnessed the
murder, then either of the Delgados might have killed her to keep her
quiet.”
“But neither of the Delgados are connected to this eminent domain issue
in the same way Wanda is,” said Miss May. “I think the eminent domain
conflict is at the heart of this. That became clear to me when you told me
Wanda had turned up dead. That bumps Kelly Washington up in priority on
our list of suspects. Though it’s possible that the Delgados could have done
it, I think it’s much more likely Kelly is behind the killings. So we need to
talk to her first.”
I pulled my feet up onto the bed and crossed them under me. “If you
figured all that out as soon as you learned Wanda had been murdered, why
didn’t you announce this theory as soon as I picked you up from jail?”
Miss May smirked. “Sometimes, I like to let things simmer, see if you
independently arrive at the same conclusions as I do. Now let’s try to go
back to sleep. Something tells me we’ve got a big day ahead of us.” Miss
May rolled over and pulled the covers off the empty side of the bed. “Come
on. Climb into the apple tree.”
 We found Kelly and a couple of state engineers at Cohen’s Cones,
mapping out schematics for the light rail project. Sam put his head in his
hands when we pulled up in Miss May’s bus. But Miss May greeted him
with a warm and neighborly smile as she climbed out of the VW.
“Don’t hide your head in your hands, Sam. I understand why you feel
the way you feel about the light rail. I understand why you support it.”
Sam shoved his hands in his pockets. “But I feel like such a traitor. I’m
taking a government payout. And if the light rail goes through, it’s going to
mess with other people’s businesses, too.”
“Other people are other people,” said Miss May. “Goodness, I’m one of
those other people. But I don’t blame you. The world can be a tough place,
and we all do what we need to in order to survive.”
“But I’m not doing this to survive. I’m doing this to fund my
retirement,” said Sam.
“How old are you?”
“Pushing seventy,” said Sam. “…five. Seventy-five.”
Miss May chuckled. “Then you’re doing this to survive.”
“Mabel Thomas.” Kelly Washington stopped toward us with a
politician’s smile. “Here for an early morning ice cream cone? I recommend
you order fast. I’m not sure this place is going to be in business much
longer.”
Surprisingly vicious, I thought. But now that we’d returned to this
woman as a suspect once again, I understood her in a much more vicious
light. Kelly was a political ladder climber. And if the rungs of that ladder
were made of other people’s sorrows, she’d step on whatever dreams she
needed to on her journey to the top of her personal mountain.
“We’re here to say hi to an old friend,” said Miss May.
“Interesting you happen to stop by when I’m here with my guys,” said
Kelly. “You sure that my presence has nothing to do with it? Pretty big
coincidence.” Kelly hadn’t so much as looked in my direction up to that
point in the conversation. It was a phenomenon I had grown used to over
the years. Often, back in New York City, people had assumed my ex-fiancé
owned our shared interior design business, when in fact I was the primary
owner and designer. What happened due to gender biases in the city
occurred just as frequently due to age biases in the country. Miss May was
older. Taller. Seemed more adult. It didn’t bother me, but I did secretly
yearn for Washington to look me in the eye. Give me a little respect.
“Yes. A sizable coincidence,” I said. It wasn’t my finest conversational
contribution, but it was something, OK?
“Seems to me Sam’s doing the smart thing by supporting this project,”
said Miss May. “I’m starting to think it’s… dangerous to oppose the light
rail. I’m sure you’ve heard Wanda Go was murdered. She took a public
stand against your office’s last project, down in the city. You bulldozed her
house anyway.”
Kelly bared her teeth in the shape of a smile. “So you’re here because
I’m still on your list of suspects. I’m a busy woman, and I have a lot I need
to do today, so I’m going to cut to the chase. Alex Turnbull was a mentor to
me, sure. But I did lie to you before, about his… demeanor. He was a tyrant
who caused everyone in his path to quiver with fear. Wanda Go wasn’t
among the quivering masses. She took a stand against Turnbull, and he
dressed her down during a press conference that aired live on Channel One
in New York City. Wanda took that personally and made it her mission to
stop the project that would eventually bulldoze her home. She failed, and
Alex got murdered.”
“But now Wanda has been murdered too,” said Miss May.
“If that’s what you want to believe, sure,” said Kelly. “The way I see it,
the woman was overcome by guilt. Seems to me she took her own life in
the hospital. But your theory is strong, too. What were you thinking,
exactly? I slipped in past the dozen police officers, killed Wanda, and exited
without being apprehended or questioned by actual police?”
 “In my experience, actual police don’t do much of anything,” said Miss
May. “And yeah, that’s pretty close.”
“I mean, you just admitted the guy was a monster,” I said, shifting my
weight from one foot to another.
Kelly turned away and laughed. “Everyone who achieves anything in
the political world is a monster. Turnbull is just like all the others. He
wasn’t special. The guy was a liar. He was a manipulator. He took bribes
from anyone with enough cash in their pockets. He told his wife he had to
work late in the city all the time, but then he got drunk with contractors and
fraternized with immoral women instead. He cheated every single time I’ve
ever played golf with him. Passed me over for a dozen promotions in favor
of less intelligent, less accomplished men. But that’s not something I would
ever kill over. No. Instead, I used it as motivation. I’m going to succeed
despite Alex Turnbull, and it’s going to be that much more satisfying when
I do.”
One of the engineers called over to Kelly. “Boss. Can we get approval
on this real quick?”
“Just one second, Jeremy. I’m waiting to see if this little lady is going to
try to place me under citizen’s arrest for a crime I didn’t commit.” She
turned to Miss May and crossed her arms. “You decide what happens next,
Ms. Thomas. But make it quick because I’ve got a light rail to build.”
40
 MISS MAY GOES TO WASHINGTON

M iss May jumped into the driver’s seat and closed the door. I
clicked my seatbelt into place, looking out at Kelly
Washington in confusion. “We’re leaving. Why are we leaving?”
Clunk clunk. Miss May put the van in reverse and backed out onto the
street. “We’re leaving because Kelly Washington didn’t kill either of those
people.” Clunk clunk. She tossed the VW into drive and headed toward
town. “We’ll be in our booth at Grandma’s in just a minute. I’ll tell you and
Teeny everything I know at the same time.”
Autumn leaves swirled as the bus carved its way down the road toward
Pine Grove. Instinct told me to cajole Miss May into revealing her theory
before we got to Grandma’s. But I knew there was no point. She had never
been a woman who liked repeating herself, and I’d already interrupted her
sleep the prior night.
Grandma’s was empty that morning, as it had been the last few days,
probably because word had gotten around about the gruel. Teeny welcomed
us to our booth with three hot coffees and then slid into the seat beside me.
“Thank you for waiting for me, May. I know it’s because you love me so
much, and you think I’m going to make a keen observation.”
“It’s because I didn’t feel like repeating myself this morning,” said Miss
May. “I’m running on a sleep deficit. Chelsea woke up early, then crawled
in the bed with me this morning, and she kicks even more than she used to.”
Teeny nodded. “Restless leg syndrome. It gets even the best of us.”
“Hold on a second,” I said. “I expected this place to be packed today.
Haven’t you told anyone about your pumpkin spice oatmeal?”
Teeny shook her head. “I can’t make the recipe in big batches yet. It’s
not easy to get your hands on that much pumpkin on short notice in October
in the Northeast. But I’ve got a guy. Don’t worry. Just tell me what
happened with Kelly Washington.”
“She’s not the killer.” Miss May said it that time with even more
confidence than she had back in the van.
Teeny took a sip of her coffee. The mug was so big it obscured all but
her bright blue eyes as she drank. “Tell me how you know, May. Lay it all
out there like the expert, British detective you are.”
“Not British. Not going to make a show of this, either. But it’s pretty
simple.” Miss May added sugar and cream to her coffee. “Kelly Washington
was having Alex Turnbull followed.” She said it like it explained
everything, but it definitely didn’t. Honestly, the statement confused me.
“Kelly didn’t say that,” I said.
“She didn’t need to say it, Chelsea. She revealed so much personal info
from Turnbull’s life. Remember? Kelly said that he had affairs down in the
city and took bribes from contractors. She knew that he cheated at golf.
That woman had more information about Turnbull’s private life than she
should have.”
“I’m missing something,” said Teeny.
“Sprinkles in your coffee?” said Miss May.
“No, but that’s a great idea,” said Teeny. “I’m missing something in
your theory. If Kelly was having Turnbull followed, doesn’t that make it
more likely she’s the killer? She must have suspected him of wrongdoing if
she was having him followed like that. Maybe she learned something that
angered her, so she killed him.”
 Miss May shook her head. “I don’t think so. When you’re dealing with
politicians like this, you need to think the way they think. Politicians have
one another followed because they want to gain information that they can
leverage against one another later.”
“I think I get it,” I said. “You think Kelly was hunting for information
she could use to extort Turnbull later. Or maybe she was hunting for
information she could have used to get Turnbull fired so that she would be
able to take his job down the line.”
“Exactly,” said Miss May. “So that’s why Kelly couldn’t have killed
Turnbull. She would have been working against her own purposes. Now
that Turnbull has been murdered in such a public way, there’s no way Kelly
is going to get the promotion. She’s too close to him. In the government,
when scandal strikes, no one within spitting distance of that scandal can rise
to power. It looks corrupt, and everyone wants to avoid the appearance of
corruption.”
“Oh, OK, I’m catching on. Besides,” said Teeny, “why would Kelly
have killed Turnbull if she had been executing a plan hoping to extort him
or get him fired? Extorting someone is so much easier than killing them and
much less messy. I assume.”
I chuckled to myself, impressed at Miss May’s logic. “This is why we
had Liz use her social media sway to break you outta jail. It’s times like
these I’m grateful for all those years you spent as a New York City
prosecutor.”
“Once you’ve met one big city politician, you’ve met them all,” said
Miss May, sipping her coffee. “That’s why I had to quit the law and bake
pie instead.”
“So what do we do now?” Teeny asked. “Should we watch a bunch of
episodes of Jenna and Mr. Flowers to get some ideas?”
Miss May shook her head. “No need. Kelly may have accidentally
proven her own innocence this morning. But she also provided a clue that’s
going to lead us directly to the true killer.”
41
 KILLER IDEAS

“C helsea, you can take it from here.” The leather upholstery on

the booth squeaked as Miss May turned to me. “You tell us who
the killer is.”
I tossed back my head and groaned. “I don’t know, Miss May. I hate
when you play games like this. If you know the identity of the killer,
shouldn’t we be running through the streets trying to apprehend them?”
“Just think,” said Miss May.
Teeny bounced in her seat and dropped her jaw. “Me. Me. I know. Me,
May.”
I gestured toward Teeny. “Might as well pick her. I’m stumped on this
one.”
“Go ahead, Teeny,” said Miss May.
“Kelly Washington said a lot of stuff when she was complaining about
Turnbull, right?”
“Sure,” said Miss May. “She said plenty of stuff. But you’re not off to
an illustrious start here, Teeny. Get to it.”
“One of the stuffs she said was that Alex Turnbull used to sneak down
to the city and get drunk with his cronies and fraternize with women of ill-
repute. Is that also correct?”
“You know it is,” said Miss May.
 “Hey,” said Teeny. “You could just come out and tell us all this yourself,
but you’re making us jump through hoops. So you’re going to sit there and
be patient while I jump through mine. I need to think out loud, and there’s
nothing wrong with that. That’s just my learning style.”
“Are you learning or explaining?” I said, enjoying the opportunity to
mess with Teeny a little.
“Neither. Both. Don’t know.” Teeny took a deep breath, and when she
exhaled, her big blue eyes were that much clearer. “This whole time, we’ve
dismissed Alex’s wife, Jamie, as a potential suspect. She was driving that
tiny little Beetle the night of her husband’s murder, and the tire tracks don’t
match up with the tracks we found at the scene of the crime. But if Jamie
found out what Alex had been up to down in the city with those tempting
women in their tiny little dresses, she might’ve snapped and killed him.”
“It’s definitely possible,” I said.
“But that’s not even Jamie’s only motive in this case,” said Teeny. “Take
a minute and try to think about being the wife of Alex Turnbull. Her
husband made a career out of destroying people’s land and businesses and
homes. He shows up in a cute little small town, and by the time he leaves,
the place is a gross nightmare land with ugly railroads everywhere you can
see. It must be hard to be married to a guy like that, especially if you’re a
woman like Jamie. She’s a caterer, right? That means she’s maybe similar to
the kind of people we know here in Pine Grove. Caterers work hard to
supply delicious food for important life events like weddings and baby
showers and bar mitzvahs. You don’t usually get into that job if you’ve got
an ugly, cold heart like Alex Turnbull. You get into that job because you
like to see people happy, and you like to help create beautiful memories
everywhere you go.”
A wave of realization swept over me. “Alex Turnbull destroys
memories. Jamie Turnbull helps create them. Maybe that’s a big
assumption. We don’t know Jamie’s character or her reasons for being a
caterer… But I get your point. Maybe Jamie thought Alex was a promising
young politician when they met, and then he turned into a callous, greedy
lord of eminent domain.”
Miss May nodded. “When you couple that possible motive with
Turnbull’s secret affairs down in the city… You’ve got two strong motives
in the murder of Alex Turnbull. His wife despised him and everything he
stood for. And she found out he was running around in the city with other
women, and she lost control.”
Teeny busted out the biggest smile I’d seen from her in weeks. “So I got
it right? My theory was the same as your theory?”
Miss May chuckled. “You got it right.”
Teeny thrust her fist in the air. “I’m having one breakthrough after
another these days. It’s like I’m a whole new woman.”
“Ah. But why would Jamie Turnbull kill Wanda Go?” Miss May said.
“I know,” I said. “Wanda basically said it to us before she passed out
that day. She knew Jamie was the killer. Wanda had been following
Turnbull from town to town, and she was planning to kill Alex herself. She
must have seen what Jamie did to him.”
“But the detail of the mismatched tire tracks remains,” said Miss May.
“Any theories there?”
“We just made a big assumption about those tire tracks,” said Teeny. “I
say it’s time for us to call in an expert.” She pulled out her phone and made
a call. “Hey, Daniel. Can you meet us on the side of the road in about five
minutes?” She waited for a moment as Big Dan responded. “I don’t know
how to be more specific. It’s over where Alex Turnbull got the railroad
spike shoved into his back. Alrighty. See you soon.”
Fast-forward five minutes and Miss May, Teeny, and I were waiting at
the side of the road for Big Dan to arrive. Teeny paced back and forth with
her hands on her hips. “Where is this guy? I said five minutes.”
 “He owns a business, Teeny,” said Miss May. “And you didn’t give him
any directions. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”
Teeny pulled out her phone and made a call. “Daniel. We’re here, and
you’re not here yet. Are you just lazing around or what? Lives are on the
line here.”
Just then, Big Dan’s tow truck rounded the bend and parked behind us.
He jumped out of the driver’s seat, holding up his phone, then pointedly
hung up when he saw Teeny. “I got here pretty fast, I thought. I was in the
bathroom.”
“That’s extra information, Daniel,” said Teeny. She pointed to the tire
tracks. “Tell us what you think of those.”
Big Dan put his hands on his hips and looked down at the tracks.
“Looks like someone peeled out to me.”
“Yeah, we get that. We’re not total boneheads,” Teeny said. “But tell us
more detail. We need the make and model of the car that had these tires on
it. We need to know exactly what tires they were. We need to know
everything.”
“That might be a problem,” said Big Dan. “I know way less than
everything.”
“What can you tell by looking at these tracks?” said Miss May.
“Pretty much nothing,” said Big Dan, sounding unusually chipper. “The
only thing I know for sure is that these tracks have been here for a couple
years.”
“A couple years?!” I exclaimed.
“How do you know that?” said Miss May.
“Because I’ve noticed them every day on my drive home from work,
and it’s been a couple years.”
Teeny clapped her hands down on her thighs. “Well, this is
embarrassing. We call ourselves expert sleuths, and we didn’t even notice
these tire tracks on the road for two whole years. How observant is that?”
 “You expect us to have memorized all the skidmarks on all the roads in
town?” said Miss May.
“I expect us to have memorized most of them, yes,” said Teeny.
“Although I have a pretty bad memory. Daniel, what did we eat for
breakfast today?”
“No clue. And I don’t expect you guys to have memorized any of the
tire tracks around town, if that helps,” said Big Dan. “I just noticed them
because I work on cars, I guess.”
“If these tire tracks aren’t related to this case,” Miss May said, “I think
we’ve got our killer. We need to go make sure she doesn’t get away.”
42
 BIG DAN’S BIG BREAKTHROUGH

“S o is it safe for me to go now?” Big Dan checked his watch. “I

need to get home tonight in time to watch the news. The
worldwide trauma and devastation makes me feel calm. Funny, right?”
Teeny stood on her tippy-toes and gave Big Dan a hug. “You go watch
the news, and we’ll go make it. Thanks for your help.”
“Try to make news without getting hurt, OK?” Big Dan said, stepping
away from the hug. “And in the future, give me a little warning if you’re
going to give me a hug.”
“So you can check and make sure your collar is straight and your breath
is fresh?” I said with a smirk.
“No. So I can run.” Big Dan gave me a little smile without showing any
teeth. “I’m just kidding. I love hugs. So much.”
Teeny smacked Big Dan on the arm. “Get out of here already. You’re so
annoying.”
“And you’re perfect in every way,” said Big Dan, plodding back toward
his tow truck. “Be careful, ladies.”
“He loves me so much,” Teeny said, smiling after Big Dan.
We all stood and waved as Big Dan started his tow truck and pulled
away. Then Miss May turned to me like a general on the battlefield. “Get
out your phone, and find out if Jamie Turnbull is catering any events
tonight.”
“What should I do?” said Teeny.
“Stand here with me and wait for Chelsea to find out the information,”
said Miss May.
“I’m not just going to stand here,” said Teeny. “I know. I’ll use my
phone, and I’ll race Chelsea. Whoever gets the information first gets
bragging rights for a year.”
I had already typed Jamie’s name and the name of her business into my
search engine. “Sure. But I got a pretty big head start.”
“Like that even matters.” Teeny quickly jammed a bunch of buttons on
her phone. Then came a series of beeps and boops. Finally, Teeny sighed.
“Fine. You win. I just turned my phone off, and I don’t know how to turn it
back on.”
I handed my phone to Miss May. “Looks like Jamie Turnbull is catering
a wake over in Blue Mountain tonight. Kind of ironic, considering she is
probably a murderer.”
“We can’t show up at a funeral and make a big scene and a citizen’s
arrest,” said Miss May. “It’s untoward, it’s unkind, and it’s unladylike.”
“So what are we going to do?” I said, accepting the phone back from
Miss May.
“We’re going to wait for the bereaved to make their departure, and then
we’re going to apprehend Jamie while she’s cleaning up,” Miss May said.
Teeny stood up on her toes again. “Oh. I have an idea. Let’s wait long
enough so she has to do the entire cleanup process, then let’s burst inside
and arrest her. No one likes cleaning up after a big event like that. It’ll
really stick it to her.”
“Pretty sure we’re just going to wait for the right moment and make our
move,” said Miss May. “But I appreciate your talent for conniving spite.”
 Blue Mountain, New York was a little village a few miles away from
Pine Grove. The town had even fewer residents than Pine Grove and took
up less area on the map. The main drag consisted only of a couple of shops
and a post office. The funeral home was housed a few minutes outside of
town in an old Victorian mansion, which was fitting given its morose
purpose.
I called Wayne on our way over to the funeral home at Miss May’s
instruction. He listened carefully as I spoke and responded as though I was
his superior at the police department. “Sure thing.” “You’ve got it.” “I’m on
my way.”
Wayne’s respect filled me with confidence and a sense of purpose. The
guy had never solved a mystery of his own, but he was strong, steadfast,
and good at what he did. Sure, there were techniques Miss May and I used
that he might benefit from perfecting, but he was a police officer, for
goodness sake. The guy had training, expertise, and a gun. It made sense for
us to ask him to meet us there.
When we arrived at the creepy Victorian funeral home, Miss May
parked behind a bush at the end of the short driveway. Wayne hadn’t arrived
yet. We’d gotten a pretty good head start as we left town. So it was just the
three of us sitting there as one mourner after another exited the Victorian
mansion, got into their cars, and pulled away. Within moments of our
arrival, a stream of cars was exiting, and we realized our mission was on an
expedited timetable.
“Looks like every last mourner is going to be done within the next
couple minutes,” said Miss May. “And the catering team has already
brought out a few bags of trash. We’ll have to make a move before Wayne
gets here.”
I nodded. “I was thinking you might say that. You’re probably right.
Time is limited, and Jamie Turnbull is lingering on the front porch. Looks
like she might even head out before the rest of the team.”
 Teeny shook her head and let out a half sigh. “So she’s not even going
to stick around for all of the cleanup? What a despicable leader. First, she
goes around murdering people, and now she makes her crew do all the dirty
work. It’s just not right.”
“Not everyone runs their business as generously as you do,” said Miss
May. “When you’re not out investigating murders, that is.”
“My staff understands that when I’m out with the two of you, it’s for
good reason,” said Teeny. “Don’t make this about me, May. You’re working
KP to the bone at that orchard. Poor guy is the one running that whole place
himself.”
“Quiet down, you two,” I said, scooting up in my seat. “Look. Jamie’s
walking on the porch. She’s headed for her little VW bug.”
Miss May opened the driver’s side door and began to get out.
“Where are you going?” I said.
“I’m going to stop her,” said Miss May, with a hint of “duh” in her
voice.
Seconds later, Miss May led the way toward the old funeral home.
Teeny and I trotted at her heels, trying to keep up. Miss May called out to
Jamie just as Jamie unlocked her VW Beetle.
“Mrs. Turnbull. How are you?”
Jamie froze with her hand on the doorhandle of the Beetle. She
stammered as we got within twenty feet and then ten. “Why are you…
What are you…”
“I think you know why we’re here,” said Miss May. “And I think you
probably have a lot to get off your chest. Maybe we can sit on the front
porch and talk for a few moments. I’m sure the owners of this funeral home
won’t—”
Jamie didn’t wait for Miss May to finish. Instead, she yanked the door
to the Beetle open, started the car, and revved the engine. Miss May stepped
directly in the path of the Beetle. So did Teeny, and so did I.
 “You’re not going anywhere, Mrs. Turnbull. Turn off the car and talk to
us.” Miss May put her hands on her hips like Wonder Woman. So did
Teeny. So did I. The three of us must’ve looked just a touch ridiculous,
standing there like superheroes, but I felt pretty cool in the moment.
Jamie leaned on her horn for ten seconds straight. I winced and closed
my eyes, but I did not give up any ground. Then came another blaring honk.
A gaunt woman in a black dress emerged from the home and descended
halfway down the porch stairs. “Mrs. Turnbull. Is everything OK?”
Jamie laid on the horn for a third time. The gaunt woman turned toward
me, Teeny, and Miss May. “Who are you three? Let my caterer go. You’re
blocking the driveway.”
In that millisecond of distraction, Jamie revved the engine, drove up on
the lawn, and zipped around us. I turned and watched as she careened back
onto the little driveway and out into the street. Then I turned back to Miss
May. “Keys. Gimme the keys.”
Miss May dug in her purse for the keys. We didn’t have any time to
lose, so I took off running down the driveway. Miss May called after me.
“I’ve got them. Chelsea.”
She drew her arm back like a Heisman-winning quarterback and
spiraled the keys through the air. I kept running as the keys hurtled toward
me. Then… Clink. They landed in the palm of my hand just as I arrived at
the door of Miss May’s van.
The van spun out as I slammed on the gas and took off in pursuit of the
little Volkswagen Bug. A quick glance in the rearview mirror confirmed I’d
left tire marks in my wake. The irony of the moment was not lost on me,
even in the heat of pursuit.
The back roads of Blue Mountain were windy and hilly. Neither
Volkswagen buses nor Volkswagen Beetles were well-equipped for that
kind of terrain. Jamie chugged slowly up every hill, and I chugged just
slightly more slowly behind her. It must’ve been a funny car chase. Two
bubbly, slow cars huffing and puffing uphill.
Before long, we found ourselves screeching around one corner after
another in Blue Mountain’s tiny town center. I tapped on the wheel as I
drove. “Come on, Chelsea. Get her, get her.”
A train horn blared in the distance. A few seconds later, the horn rang
out again, that time sounding much closer. It was then I realized Jamie was
on a crash course with the freight train that ran through Blue Mountain. We
were on a one-way road, headed toward the tracks. The train was bearing
down on us, and Jamie showed no signs of slowing down.
The train got closer and closer as Jamie approached the intersection.
Nonetheless, she drove faster and faster. Then, just when it seemed she
would collide with the locomotive, Jamie screeched to a halt and jumped
out of her vehicle. I did the same and pursued the murderous caterer on
foot.
Jamie ran for a few feet alongside the speeding train. Then she tripped
and fell. That was my moment, and I knew it. I doubled my speed and
tackled Jamie just as she climbed to her feet. The two of us hit the ground
with a thud. She pushed me off her, then jumped up and took a swing at me.
My years of karate at Master Skinner’s dojo kicked in. Without thinking, I
raised my forearm and blocked her punch. Then I countered with a punch of
my own and a kick right into Jamie’s gut. She doubled over. I took both her
arms, spun her around, and restrained her with a vice grip Master Skinner
had taught me when I was a kid. I’d forgotten I even knew that particular
move, but in the moment, my muscle memory kicked in. I was grateful for
the way our bodies can remember things our heads don’t always know.
Jamie struggled to free herself, but my grip was too strong. I hadn’t
realized it, but the train disappeared into the distance sometime between
Jamie’s first punch and my apprehension of her. I only noticed when I heard
a voice call out from the other side of the tracks.
 “Police. Don’t move.”
Yes, it was my boyfriend, Detective Wayne Hudson. He’d shown up just
in time to slap cuffs on the perpetrator and to hug me with a vice grip of his
own.
As Wayne led Jamie away, she called both of us idiots. She claimed she
had murdered Alex Turnbull to save our town and countless other towns he
might have destroyed had he been allowed to live. She screamed that he
was a cheater. She cried as she climbed into the squad car and got taken
away.
Murder was wrong, but I couldn’t help feeling that Jamie was a little bit
right. Sometimes, justice is a complicated master.
43
 GRUEL INTENTIONS

T he next night, everyone in town came to Grandma’s for a big

party. Murder investigations are stressful on everyone, not just
the people who kill and die and lose loved ones, and parties are a great way
to relieve some of that stress. Miss May and I got there early to help Teeny
set up, but she had already decorated the place to the nines.
“Welcome to Teeny’s Pumpkin Spice Wonderland,” said Teeny, holding
the door open for us as we entered. “As you can see, I’m back in full force.”
She stepped aside and gestured to her restaurant. Cardboard cutouts of
pumpkins decorated every wall. Tissue paper pumpkins dangled by strings
from the ceiling. The whole place smelled like nutmeg, cinnamon, and
ginger.
Miss May laughed. “This is incredible, Teeny. You are already a better
baker than me. Now you’re a better interior designer than Chelsea, too.”
“Neither of those statements are true,” said Teeny. “But I’ll accept the
compliments, anyway. You think everyone in town is going to like what
I’ve done with the place?”
“I think once they try that pumpkin spice oatmeal, they’re not going to
care where they’re eating it,” I said.
“That’s fine,” said Teeny, sounding impatient. “But are they going to
like the decorations or not? I worked really hard to cut out all these
pumpkins.”
Petey the waiter approached. “We both worked really hard on the
pumpkin decorations. Hi, Chelsea. Hey, Miss May. Congrats on another
murder solved. You two are pretty incredible.”
Teeny stomped her tiny foot. “All three of us are incredible, Petey. Who
signs your checks, buddy?”
“I already said you were incredible before,” said Petey.
“But now my friends are here, and I want them to hear it too.” Teeny
reached out and patted Petey on the back. “Sorry, kid. I’m just so pumped
about this oatmeal that I’m losing all sense of right and wrong. Why don’t
you take the rest of the night off? Go home and play video games or
whatever you kids do.”
“I think I’ll stick around for the party, if that’s OK,” said Petey. “I heard
Tom Gigley and The Giggles are playing all Halloween songs this time.
Tom told me he would play ‘Monster Mash,’ but only if I put in a special
request.”
Miss May shook her head and laughed. “Everyone in this town is so
difficult. Isn’t it lovely?”
I hooked my arm through Miss May’s elbow. “It really is.”
By the time Teeny opened her doors at six o’clock, a long line of
townspeople had gathered out front. Humphrey, Teeny’s elderly grumpy
customer, was the first to step foot into the restaurant. His little bald head
crinkled as he looked around at the pumpkins in amazement. “Wow, Teeny.
This place has been transformed. And what is that smell? Smells way better
than that runny jar of egg mush.”
“It’s my newest creation,” said Teeny. “Pumpkin spice oatmeal, done
the Teeny way. I’ve heard the flavors are so bold and dynamic, it’ll take you
right back to your childhood.”
“My childhood is a real long way away,” said Humphrey. “It’s a big
journey. You really think it will take me back?”
 “I know it will,” said Teeny.
Tom Gigley and his band, The Giggles, set up in the far corner of the
room. The Giggles had played several of our closing parties before, and
they’d become something of a staple in town. The local radio station had
even begun to play on original Giggles song called “Legal Troubles,” and
when Tom deviated from the Halloween playlist to perform “Legal
Troubles” that night, a few people sang along. Petey requested “Monster
Mash” and the band played it, as I knew they would. And once everyone
had finished a bowl or two or three of Teeny’s oatmeal, the staff pulled the
tables away, and a dance party broke out in the middle of the restaurant.
Brian from the Brown Cow boogied with Ethel from the retirement home.
Sudeer danced with his wife and his little kids, holding hands and twirling
in a circle. My old frenemy turned friend, Rita, held her toddler Vinny in
her arms and mumbled the words to the songs as The Giggles played.
Although the issue of the light rail and eminent domain hadn’t been
fully resolved, or stopped by Turnbull’s death, the complications from a
double homicide had halted the project indefinitely. The orchard, and my
family’s legacy, my aunt’s business, my livelihood… were all safe, for the
moment. That seemed to be part of what everyone was celebrating too.
Except for Linda Delgado, Sudeer, Sam Cohen and the few other supporters
of the project. That handful of party guests seemed to be slightly more
subdued than the rest of the town.
Looking around, I felt a bittersweet tightness clutching at my chest. I’d
been dying to get out of Pine Grove, feeling confined and stuck and bored.
But looking around at all the warmth and positivity of my little town, I felt
preemptively homesick. I’d planned this big road trip, and I was excited to
go. Being on the road would be a whole new kind of adventure for me. Still,
I’d miss Pine Grove. And Wayne. Which reminded me… I had to talk to
Wayne about his mom’s Halloween party and the number of spider cookies
she needed to make.
 After a little while, the band took a little break to enjoy some oatmeal of
their own. I spotted Wayne in a booth by himself, surrounded by empty
oatmeal bowls. I slid into the booth opposite him. “Thanks for your help
yesterday.”
“Thanks for catching another killer. And also for being beautiful. And
also funny.”
“OK, OK. I get it.”
Wayne smiled at me. “What can I say? You’re great, and sometimes, I
have to tell you that.”
I smiled, then glanced down. “Wayne… You know how I’ve been
feeling restless? Pent up? Wanderlustful?”
“Yeah…”
“Well, I sort of… quickly threw together a plan for a road trip to
California. And I didn’t even think about it. I just was so hasty because I
didn’t want to get distracted from the investigation. But I won’t be here on
the day of your mom’s party.”
Wayne listened as I explained, and then over-explained, and then kept
explaining, about how I’d planned my California trip so last minute and I’d
totally spaced out... and, well you get it.
Finally, Wayne had mercy on me and stopped me from talking with a
laugh. “Chelsea. It’s OK. If you didn’t want to go to the party, you could’ve
just said so. You didn’t have to flee across the country.”
“That’s not—”
“I know, Chelsea. I know you didn’t plan a road trip to California just to
avoid meeting my mother. I’m messing with you.”
“Maybe… I can have Thanksgiving with your family to make up for it?
Or Christmas? I’m not sure yet how long I’ll be gone. The trip is kind of
open-ended.”
“Oh. So it could be a couple months?” said Wayne.
 I shrugged. “I guess so. I mean… I did this all kind of impulsively. I’m
kind of doubting if I should even go, but… I should. Right?”
“Yes. You should go. I’ll miss you, but I want you to go. You work hard
at the orchard, and you solve so many mysteries. You deserve a little
vacation. Let’s just hope no one dies when you’re out there.”
“In California or in Pine Grove?” I said.
“Both.”
Suddenly, a piercing scream rang out from somewhere in the restaurant.
I jumped to my feet and looked around. Several others did the same.
Then Rita stumbled into the main dining room from the adjacent party
room. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. She tried to form words but
couldn’t manage more than a few garbled consonants. I rushed over to
Rita’s side, and so did Miss May. We each put a hand on Rita’s back.
“Hey. Everything’s OK. What’s going on?” said Miss May.
Rita’s arms shook as she lifted a pointed finger in the direction of the
party room. Miss May leaned forward. “Something’s in there?”
Rita swiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. Her other
hand remained fixed in the direction of the party room, outstretched finger
shaking like she’d just been shocked. “Dead body. In the party room. It’s
the mayor’s husband, Mr. Delgado!”

The End
 AUTHOR’S NOTE

Dear Reader,

Whether you’re new to Pine Grove or you’ve been here for all 15 books in
the series — hello and thank you for reading this story!

I write all these books with my husband, Matt, and this was one of our
favorites yet. There’s something about writing cozies that take place in fall
that’s just so exciting for us!

The next book in this series is “Dead Velvet Cake.” I think you’ll love this
adventure because it’s our most suspenseful story yet.

And you won’t believe what happened to Mr. Delgado.

Click here to read.

Chelsea