Poisoned Pie (Pineville Gazette Mystery Book 6) Page 8

  Loretta folded her arms. Had she really expected two local women to understand the wondrous elegance the world had to offer? Had she really expected two local women to honestly enjoy anything other than the awful coffee Wilma served at the diner? No. “You two are simply impossible,” she complained. “I—” Loretta stopped when she heard the telephone ringing. “My parents,” she gasped, charging out of the kitchen and running into the front hallway. She reached the phone on the fourth ring and snatched it up. “Yes, hello?”

  “You have twenty-fours to kill Brent Presley or you die,” a vicious voice warned Loretta. “You also have twenty-four hours to kill the nosy reporter and her friend. I’m watching you.”

  Loretta heard the click on the other end. She slowly turned and saw Mary and Betty staring at her. “Who called you?” Mary demanded.

  Loretta put down the phone. She didn’t answer Mary. Instead she closed her eyes, saw the faces of her parents appear, and knew what had to be done.

  “Why wouldn’t Loretta tell us who called her?” Betty asked Mary, walking through the snow. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Loretta staring at her through the living room window.

  “I’m sure we’re going to find out the reason,” Mary worried. She pointed to her car and continued. “We have to focus on Mr. Presley right now,” she explained. “William has a gun on him. He has strict orders to keep Loretta in his sights. I don’t believe Loretta will attempt anything…yet.”

  “Yet?” Betty worried.

  Mary reached her car and, struggling to appear casual, she climbed into the driver’s seat. “I miss my old car,” she sighed.

  Betty happily climbed into the passenger’s seat. “Oh, it’s cold in here,” regretting her decision.

  Mary brought the car to life. “Snow, ice, and cold…winter delight.” Mary recited an old poem her mother had once told her. “Inside, the children sit warmly around a glowing light. Stories of snowmen, gingerbread men all dancing in sight. Oh, what a wonderful, wonderful night.”

  “Tell me that after my teeth stop chattering, honey.”

  Mary grinned and drove away from Loretta’s house. “Honey,” she said in a thoughtful voice, “Mr. Presley isn’t going to be very receptive toward us. The man was harsh toward me back at the fairgrounds. We’re going to have to really play smart and be super careful,” she warned and then quickly noticed Mrs. Owlton back away from her living room window. “Hey…” Mary nearly slammed on the brakes but kept going. “Of course…”

  “Of course what?” Betty asked.

  Mary eased to a stop at the end of the street, looked to her left and then to her right, spotted rows and rows of fancy, beautiful, snow-covered homes, and then took a left. “Betty, we have someone else to visit before we tackle Mr. Presley.”

  Betty frowned. “Who?”

  Mary pulled her car over to the curb and parked. “Mrs. Owlton.”

  “Mrs. Owlton?” Betty asked in a shocked voice. “Why, she’s the nosiest person in Pineville and—” Betty slammed her mouth closed and looked at Mary with wide eyes. “Oh…Mrs. Owlton…who lives right across the street from Loretta?” Mary beamed. “Now why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Because you’re worried about your mother,” Mary replied in a supportive voice. “Besides, I only just now thought of it myself because I saw peeking out her window.” She patted Betty’s arm and jumped out into the snow. A cold, hard wind grabbed her woolen hat and nearly yanked it off. “Snow is getting awful,” she yelled out to Betty. She raised her eyes, examining a gray sky that was turning darker by the minute. “We better hurry.”

  Betty joined Mary. “Which way?”

  Mary tossed her thumb down the street. “We’ll have to go to the back door of Mrs. Owlton’s home or we’ll risk the chance of Loretta spotting us. Come on.”

  Betty tucked her head down against a blast of wind and followed Mary down a cozy, snow-soaked, street lined with beautiful two-story homes complemented by sweet-smelling chimney smoke. Oh, how Betty wished she were home, in her own kitchen, baking cookies and reading a book. Instead she was running down a snow-covered sidewalk with Mary, chasing after clues that would force the closed mouth of a murder case to open and speak. “Sure is getting colder, Mary.”

  “Sure is,” Mary agreed. She took Betty’s hand and quickly made her way around the block. “We’ll cut through the Wilsons’ yard and end up in Mrs. Owlton’s yard,” she explained and without saying another word dashed through a lovely lake of snow, ran past a two-story brick home that had chimney smoke dancing from its chimney, and slipped into the backyard resting behind Mrs. Owlton’s home. “We need to hurry.”

  Betty was breathing too hard to reply. She followed Mary up to an antique wooden door that had an owl carved into it and waited as Mary knocked. A minute passed and just when Betty saw Mary preparing to knock again Mrs. Owlton opened the back door. “Oh, I was wondering when you would stop by,” she said in a curious voice.

  “Hello, Mrs. Owlton,” Mary greeted the old woman in a pleasant voice. “Lovely…day, isn’t it?”

  Mrs. Owlton studied Mary’s snow-covered coat and head. “Uh-huh.” She nodded her head. “But not such a nice day for a Loretta MacNight, is it? I wonder why,” she said to Mary in the same curious voice. “I wonder if something has happened to the fella that was staying with her. I wonder if that’s why Mr. Presley has been riding around the block.”

  “Mrs. Owlton,” Mary said, beginning to shiver from the cold, “haven’t you heard the news?”

  “What news?” Mrs. Owlton asked, braving the icy winds that were rushing past her old body and invading a warm kitchen.

  “There’s been a murder, of course,” Mary said in a voice that she knew would capture Mrs. Owlton’s attention.

  “A murder?” Mrs. Owlton gasped. She raised her old hand and touched her mouth. “Oh dear…oh my…”

  “Mrs. Owlton, may we come inside?” Betty begged.

  “Oh, of course.” Mrs. Owlton hurried Mary and Betty into the warm kitchen. The kitchen, unlike Loretta’s, was welcoming, friendly, and broken in. However, Mary noticed the room still held the aroma of delicate money. The stove, the refrigerator, the furnishings, and the cabinets spoke of dollar signs. Still, Mary thought, looking down at a dark wooden floor, the kitchen wasn’t snobby. “May I get you girls come coffee?”

  “Please,” Betty said. “But…American coffee.”

  “What else?” Mrs. Owlton asked Betty as if she were insane.

  Mary grinned. She walked Betty over to a square kitchen table covered with a handmade blue and white tablecloth and sat down. “Your kitchen smells lovely…like…cinnamon.”

  “I bake many pies,” Mrs. Owlton said in proud voice. She smiled and touched her gray hair that was resting in a tight bun. “A little cinnamon is good for life. That’s what my dear Jacob use to tell me.” Betty blushed. Mrs. Owlton smiled. “Dear, at my age,” she told Betty and motioned at the floral pattern dress she was wearing, “a little spice goes flat very fast.”

  Mary grinned. Mrs. Owlton, even though well in her years, still had a good sense of humor. Betty just blushed again. “Mrs. Owlton,” Mary said, “please don’t be offended, but I need to ask you a very personal question.”

  Mrs. Owlton poured coffee into two brown cups and walked them over to Betty and Mary. “Mary Holland, I’ve watched you grow up,” she said, handing Mary a cup of coffee. “I attended your parents’ wedding. My husband was the doctor that delivered you into this world. I don’t think there’s anything personal that you can’t ask me.”

  Betty had forgotten what a delight Mrs. Owlton was to be around. She took a careful sip of her coffee and smiled. The coffee was delicious. “Mrs. Owlton, have you been watching Loretta MacNight’s home?” she asked.

  “I sure have,” Mrs. Owlton stated in a proud voice. “Loretta MacNight began entertaining a stranger. I don’t like strangers. I also don’t like trouble,” she nearly spat.

  “Trouble?” Betty asked.
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  Mrs. Owlton walked over to a lovely blue counter, grabbed a basket of muffins she had baked earlier, and brought them over to the kitchen table. “I know the MacNights,” she told Betty, handing the woman a muffin, and then looked at Mary. “I know what kind of people they are.” She handed Mary a muffin and then sat down. “Mr. and Mrs. MacNight are good people. It’s not their fault Loretta MacNight is a snot. Sometimes children turn out sour in the oven…nothing parents can do about it. The Bible said take a rod to them, which is the good way, but folks today seem to tolerate sin more than the Good Word of the Lord. Shame.”

  Mary thought back to a few spankings her dad had given her when she was a child. Each spanking she had deserved—and each spanking sure taught her not to be bad anymore; a sore tush was a powerful reminder that actions of evil ended in painful defeat. Yet, Mary knew her dad had spanked her backside out of love, to teach her a lesson, and to make sure she remained on the narrow path instead of the broad path. “Loretta MacNight is…a difficult woman,” Mary agreed.

  “Loretta MacNight is a snot.” Mrs. Owlton overrode Mary’s statement. “She’s also a very ugly duckling. That’s why I was so surprised to see a handsome man entering and leaving her home. I’ve been seeing that man coming and leaving for almost two weeks. Every time Loretta MacNight leaves her house he’s right there with her…except last night. Loretta rode off alone but didn’t stay gone for too long.”

  Mary relaxed. Mrs. Owlton wasn’t going to be difficult. “Mrs. Owlton, did you see anyone arrive at Loretta’s house after she left?” Mary took a bite of her muffin. Banana…with cinnamon…and very good.

  “I sure did,” Mrs. Owlton stated in a confused voice. “I saw Brent Presley, the new fella down at the bank, park in front of Loretta’s home.” Mrs. Owlton watched Betty take a bite of her muffin the way a child would eat while listening to a suspenseful story. “That wasn’t the first time I saw Brent Presley in this part of town, either.”

  Mary took a sip of her coffee. “Oh?” she asked.

  Mrs. Owlton folded her arms and lifted a proud chin into the air. “I saw a man leave some kind of package on Loretta MacNight’s porch. Not long after that, Brent Presley took that package.”

  Mary looked at Betty. Betty continued to munch on her muffin. “Mrs. Owlton, when Loretta left her home last night and Brent Presley arrived…what happened?”

  Mrs. Owlton made an I’m not certain face. She glanced down at her dress, thought for a minute, and then said: “The man stayed for about ten minutes and then left. Can’t say I rightly know what went on inside of Loretta MacNight’s home.”

  Mary took another bite of her muffin, chewed, and then washed the muffin down with some coffee. “Mrs. Owlton,” she asked, “the person who delivered the package Mr. Presley took, what did he look like?”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” Mrs. Owlton beamed, “the fella who delivered the package was no other than Ned Prats.”

  “Who?” Mary asked in a confused voice. Maybe Mrs. Owlton knew who Ned Prats was, but she didn’t.

  “Oh, that’s right, you wouldn’t know who Ned is, would you?” Mrs. Owlton apologized. She stood up, poured herself a cup of coffee, took a piece of peppermint from a crystal candy dish sitting on the kitchen counter, and walked back to Mary and Betty. “Doc Downing allows me to eat peppermint for my indigestion,” she explained, sitting back down and sighing. “When I was a younger woman I loved to eat peppers on everything. Why, I practically put peppers in my sweet tea. But as time went by, I began having stomach troubles.” Mrs. Owlton sighed again. “Why, I was bedridden for nearly six months…nearly, died, too. Let’s see…that was over twenty years ago. My, where does the time go?”

  Mary waited for Mrs. Owlton to complete her story. Sure, she was anxious for the old woman to confess the identity of Ned Prats, but Mary had learned anything during her years it was that you never interrupted an old woman while she was in the middle of a story—unless you wanted to get whacked by a wooden cane. “Time goes by quickly.”

  “Time is not my friend,” Mrs. Owlton sighed and continued with her story. “Anyhow, I had to learn to start liking plan foods with no taste. But oh, say five years back, I just got plain sick of eating like a mule and decided to eat what I wanted. To my delight I was able to eat good foods again. When I went and told Doc Downing the good news he prescribed me peppermint. Ain’t had an ounce of stomach problems these past five years, either. Of course, I prayed to the Good Lord to heal my stomach before I started eating the foods I love again. I know the Good Lord heard my prayer.”

  Mary smiled. The faith of an old woman sure was amazing. “Mrs. Owlton, that’s a wonderful story.”

  “It sure is.” Betty smiled, gobbling down the rest of her muffin and asking for another. She was sure hungry. Mrs. Owlton handed Betty a second muffin and watched the woman go at it.

  “Mrs. Owlton?” Mary said. “If it’s okay to ask, who is Ned Prats?”

  “Ned Prats is the man who runs things at the bank over there in Cappes,” Mrs. Owlton explained. “My sister still lives in Cappes, you know.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know that,” Mary answered honestly and waited.

  Mrs. Owlton took a sip of her coffee. “Ned Prats was married to my sister’s closest friend for over forty years. He’s a widow now.”

  “So you’re good friends with Mr. Prats?” Mary asked.

  Mrs. Owlton put down her coffee cup and shook her head no. “It isn’t proper for a woman to become friends with a man when she’s married. When I visited my sister and saw that she was entertaining Ned Prats and his wife, I simply remained polite and silent, the way a woman should. That don’t mean my eyes can’t recognize the man.”

  “Mr. Prats must be…old?” Betty asked.

  “Oh, about sixty,” Mrs. Owlton replied without being offended. “My sister is quite younger than me, dear. My mother was nearly fifty when my sister came into this world.”

  Mary took a sip of her coffee. “Mr. MacNight is in his sixties,” she whispered.

  “Sixty-two to be precise,” Mrs. Owlton told Mary. Mrs. Owlton thought for a moment. “You know, Ned has a relative here in Pineville—but I can’t for the life of me remember who it is. My brain is still sharp as a tack but every now and then it fails me.”

  Mary absently took a bite of the muffin she was holding, chewed, and then went for some coffee. “Mrs. Owlton, when was the last time you saw Mr. and Mrs. MacNight?”

  “Oh, Mrs. MacNight paid me a visit…oh, a little over two weeks ago. She said she and her husband were taking a trip to Brazil and asked me to keep an eye on Loretta. Mrs. MacNight has always been a pleasant woman.” Mrs. Owlton glanced at Betty. “I wish I could say the same about your mother, dear.”

  Betty gasped. “My mother?”

  “Now don’t become offended,” Mrs. Owlton told Betty and then smiled. “Sometimes a sweet peach grows from a lemon tree.” Mary grinned. Betty just stared at Mrs. Owlton with shocked eyes and then simply went back to eating her muffin. What could she say? It was cold, a man was dead, and the muffin she was eating was good. Why get upset? After all, Betty knew, her mother wasn’t the…most pleasant woman in Pineville.

  “Mrs. Owlton,” Mary asked, “have you seen Mr. and Mrs. MacNight recently?”

  “Oh sure,” Mrs. Owlton said, shocking Mary, “I saw Mr. MacNight just this morning. He drove past Loretta MacNight’s home while Loretta and her strange friend were away.”

  Mary locked eyes with Betty. “The mystery deepens,” she said in a worried voice.

  “Oh dear,” Betty fretted but didn’t let her worry stop her from eating a third muffin.

  6

  Brent Presley’s car was absent. Mary sighed. “I guess we’re going to have to wait,” she told Betty, parking her car in front of a modest green two-story home that faced the two-story brick home Brent lived in. She glanced around. “I’m not sure how long we’re going to be able to wait,” she pointed out. “The snow is falling heavier by the minute. If we
wait too long I may not be able to drive you home.”

  Betty wanted to beg Mary to drive her home. The snow was getting worse and she feared that her mother might become trapped…alone…all alone. If that happened Betty would never hear the end of her mother’s sob stories about how she had to fend for herself through a terrible snowstorm. “Maybe…we should…leave?” she asked in a worried voice. “I don’t want to upset you, Mary, and I do realize how important our being here is…but…poor Mother.”

  Mary studied Brent’s silent home. The windows were dark and no smoke was coming from the chimney. “I suppose so, honey,” she said in a regretful voice. “I’m afraid this snow has won over us.” Mary pulled away from the curb and got moving. “I wonder where Mr. Presley is,” she said. “I also wonder what kind of meeting he had with Mark Jones.”

  “Me, too,” Betty told Mary, grateful that the car she was riding in was moving instead of sitting still. There was always something special about a moving car—as long as the car was safe, of course. A moving car represented movement…movement to the local grocery, bakery, diner…and then movement back home, to a place where a person was safe and secure.

  Mary stopped at a four-way stop sign, looked this way and that, and then turned left onto Gingerbread Valley Hill Road. “Betty, could it be that Loretta was lying about the pie eating contest?”

  Betty watched Mary’s car drive past houses that had become cozy one-story homes. Each home sat cuddled up in a snowy yard that held snow-covered cars, bicycles, and even summer footballs. “Because Mrs. Owlton saw Mr. Presley enter Loretta’s home after Loretta left.”

  Mary nodded. “Loretta created a very complicated story that involved a great deal of chance working on her side…” Mary grew silent as she drove down Gingerbread Valley Hill Road. “I don’t doubt that the pie I gave her was the poisoned pie that killed Mark Jones. But the question is…how? If we believe and trust Loretta’s story then we know how…but what if Loretta is lying?”