Blueberry Blues (3 page)

"No ring,” she whispered, but I was already scanning the photos.

They started out innocently enough, with islanders smiling in front of heaps of clams. I fast-forwarded to the photo of Gerald, hoping we could zero in on the person with the bottle in her hand.

"This is the photo,” I said, tracking down the shot. We zoomed in, but neither of us could identify the person holding the bottle; his or her face was lost in the shadow of a tree.

"Check the ones right before and right after,” Charlene suggested. I did, but there was no sign of the mystery person – or the bottle. I leaned back in my chair, defeated.

"What now?” I asked.

Charlene peered at the screen. “Look – he did a whole series of the pie table.” I clicked on one of the shots; it showed Charlene in her cow apron, a pie in each hand. “My God,” she said. “I had no idea I looked so enormous in that apron!”

"It's a bad angle,” I said, flipping through the photos quickly, looking for something – anything – that might shed light on what had happened that day. I was almost to the end of the series when Charlene grabbed my shoulder.

"Stop,” she said, pointing to the screen.

I looked, and did a double-take. There, in the corner of the table, was the person with the bottle. Only in this shot, there was no shadow obscuring the face, and the bottle in plain view – right over one of the pies.

"I can't believe it,” she said, letting out a long, low whistle.

***

"Can I help you?” Andi Jordan eyed me coolly over her wire-rimmed glasses. Her office was on the second floor of the
Daily Mail
building, an old shingled house right near the center of Bar Harbor with a view of the village green. A sun catcher glinted in the window, and there was a photo of a chunky golden retriever on her desk.

"I've got some new information you might want to include in your next article about the clambake,” I said.

"Oh? Did they find out what the problem was?” she asked, leaning back in her chair. “Was it the clams?”

"Ipecac,” I said.

She blinked. “You put ipecac in the clams?”

"No,” she said. “I didn't put ipecac in anything. And it wasn't in the clams. It was in the pie.”

Andi was quiet for a moment. “Did some sort of toxicology report come back?” she asked.

"Not exactly,” I said. “But I thought you might be interested in this.” I laid the photo Irving had printed for us on her desk.

She leaned forward to study the photo, and the color leached from her face. “Where did you get this?”

"Your photographer took the photo,” I said.

"You have no right to it. I paid for the shoot. These photos belong to me.”

"You set me up,” I said. “You put ipecac in the pie so you could get a big story out of it.”

"No,” she said, grabbing the photo and crumpling it into a ball.

"That's just a copy,” I said. “I have the original right here.” I held up a CD.

I thought I saw tears welling behind the glasses. “I can explain,” she said, her voice husky.

"I'm listening.” I sat down in one of her visitors' chairs; Charlene pulled up the other one.

"I didn't mean to cause any harm,” she said. “It's just... I need this job. It's the only one I could find, and with the newspaper industry doing what it's doing, there's talk of laying me off already.”

"I heard the paper was increasing circulation.” Charlene examined a flawless pink fingernail. “You were just hoping to move up the ranks, is my guess.”

She said nothing.

"So you've been manufacturing stories,” I said.

Andi swallowed.

"There weren't really rats in the kitchen at Eagle Lake Cafe, were there?” Charlene said.

The reporter looked down at her keyboard.

"Or cockroaches at the Moonshine Inn,” I said.

"You can't tell my editor,” she said, almost moaning. “I'll lose my job!”

"Too late,” I said. “I'm sorry. They're printing a retraction tomorrow.”

***

“Well, all's well, that ends well,” Charlene said as she popped a chocolate chip cookie into her mouth. She'd brought over the paper as soon as it hit the store; I'd thanked her by baking a batch of her favorite cookies – chocolate chip with dried cranberries and walnuts mixed in. “And don't they say that all press is good press?” she said through a mouthful of crumbs.

"This last article certainly is,” I said, holding up the latest copy of the
Daily Mail
. The new headline was buried on page four, but it was definitely an improvement:
Innkeeper Exonerated: Local Reporter Suspected Of Poisoning Pies
.

“Think Andi will keep her job?” Charlene asked.

"I doubt it,” I said.

"She seemed nice enough. Just... desperate.”

"Nice people don't try to ruin local businesses just to make themselves look good,” I said. “Still, I do feel sorry for her. She's young. I hope she's learned something.”

"At least Gerald is out of the hospital.”

"I'm glad to hear it,” I said.

"And I've got more good news,” Charlene said, looking impish.

"Uh oh,” I said. “What? You have a date with the photographer?”

"Yes,” she said. “We're going to dinner Friday night. But that's not what I was talking about.”

I shook my head, marveling at my friend's ability to attract men. “What is it, then?”

"I hope you had fun baking all those pies this year.”

"Oh, no,” I said, sinking down into my chair. “No.”

"Yes,” she said, her impish look breaking into an evil grin. “You guessed it, Nat. They think you did such a terrific job that they've decided you should host it every year!”

I stifled a groan at the thought of rolling out the dough for all those lattice-topped pies. And the memory of half the island regurgitating them on my lawn . “Fine,” I said, “if nobody else will step up to the plate.”

"I knew you'd say yes,” Charlene said. “You always do.”

"It's my Achilles heel,” I said. “But next year? I'm making cobbler.”

Double-Berry Lemon Muffins

Ingredients

1/2 cup lemon yogurt

3 tablespoons vegetable oil

1 tablespoon lemon juice