Lemon Pies and Little White Lies (9 page)

Ella Mae waved her hands as if to dispel his worry. “Between my aunts and Reba, we’ll pack the church.” She paused. “I wonder if he’s planning to serve food. If so, I could lend a hand.”

“Apparently, some of his mother’s cousins—people he’s never met—are driving down from Pennsylvania and made it clear that they expected to be served funeral pie. Mr. Mercer has no idea what they’re talking about, but I suspected you might.”

“I do indeed, though it’s definitely not a popular pie among my customers. You really have to like raisins to enjoy that pie. And I mean
really
.”

When Hardy’s mouth twisted in a grimace, Ella Mae had to laugh. “Are you the victim of a childhood raisin trauma?”

“I never cared for them. Despite that, my mama put them in everything. Cookies, bread, oatmeal, cakes, chicken, casseroles. Even in the meatloaf.”

“Meatloaf?” Ella Mae shuddered for Hardy’s benefit. “Well, if Mr. Mercer’s relatives want a funeral pie, I’ll make them one. Please tell him that I’ll take care of the refreshments. No charge. With relatives like that coming to pay their respects, he’ll need as much kindness as we can offer. I’ll also add a few shoofly pies to the menu to mollify his mother’s cousins. It’s Hugh’s favorite, so I’ve made it. . . .” she trailed off.

Hardy, who was adept at reading people, gave Ella Mae’s hand a paternal pat. “He won’t stay away forever. He can search the far corners of the world and not find anything better than what he has here.” He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze and stood up. “I’ll tell Mr. Mercer about your generous offer. Thank you, Ms. LeFaye.”

After saying good-bye to Hardy, Ella Mae went into the kitchen to dig through her recipe box. She hadn’t made a funeral pie in a very long time and wanted to make sure she had an authentic Amish or Pennsylvania Dutch recipe. Uncertain as to the origin of her recipe, she ended up searching the Internet for the history of funeral pie.

“The idea was to use shelf-stable ingredients,” she told
Chewy, who appeared to be listening raptly. He sat on his haunches, his ears perked and his head cocked to one side, and gazed up at her. “Things that don’t spoil,” she continued. “Like raisins, sugar, allspice, cider vinegar, and flour.” She clicked a link and was taken to another site. “According to this woman who posted her family’s Depression-era recipe, the funeral pie was supposed to be so cloyingly sweet that the grieving family would forget their sorrow while having a slice. Do you think that would work?”

Chewy wagged his tail in reply.

“Shoofly pie is really sweet too. I’d better make some savory tarts to offset the heaviness of all those raisins and molasses. And we need something really special for Finn Mercer. Anything with melted cheese is comforting, right?”

Chewy barked in agreement.

“Yes, a triple cheese pie with a biscuit crust. I’ll imbue it with the same warm and cozy memories I used for Mrs. Drever’s pie.”

Ella Mae jotted down a shopping list and ushered Chewy into her pink truck. After a visit to the grocery store and the farmer’s market, she stopped at the hardware store for plastic sheeting and a staple gun. She returned to the pie shop, covered the broken window with plastic, and then spent the rest of the day making balls of dough.

On Monday, while waiting for the glass repairman to arrive, she e-mailed invitations to Elders across the country. Ella Mae didn’t want to limit the attendees to her kind, so she sent a press release to cooking and baking magazines, pastry shops, culinary arts schools, and popular foodie blogs.

By day’s end, she had a new window and her inbox was filled with messages. People were clearly interested in the event and in winning one of the handsome cash prizes, but reading through the e-mails became quickly overwhelming.
Ella Mae picked up the phone and called Aunt Verena. Her aunt had vast experience in organizing grandiose charity events and would know how to handle the array of inquiries.

“Just forward everything to me, dear!” Verena boomed. “You have enough on your plate, and I love the idea of luring folks to Havenwood. Your press release was so appealing that I’m looking forward to Founder’s Day myself. It sounds very exciting!”

“We could use a different kind of excitement around here,” Ella Mae said. “I don’t want to find any more bricks in my dining room.”

“The best response to a threat is not to let it bother you. Keep on keeping on,” Verena advised, and hung up.

Ella Mae got to the pie shop early on Tuesday and began to roll out dough for piecrusts. She planned to make the food for Joyce Mercer’s memorial service before working on pies for the shop, but she had barely lined two pie plates when Reba entered the kitchen with uncharacteristic reserve.

“There’s a ridiculously hot guy on the front porch askin’ to see you. Says he’s Mrs. Mercer’s son.”

“Would you ask him to come through?” Ella Mae said, wiping her hands on her apron. “He probably wants to talk to me about the food I offered to make for his mother’s memorial service.”

Reba smiled. “We raised you right, your mama and me. Be back in a tick.”

A moment later, Reba pushed open one of the swing doors and led a man wearing jeans and a leather jacket into the kitchen. “Go on in, darlin’. I’ll brew us some coffee.”

“Thanks, Reba.” Ella Mae moved forward and pulled out a stool. “Would you care to sit?”

Finn Mercer ran a hand through his sandy hair and nodded. “I really wanted to thank you in person. Before
tomorrow, that is. Complete strangers have been incredibly kind to me. Yourself included. No wonder my mom loved this town so much.” He dropped his gaze and Ella Mae felt a rush of sympathy for him. She knew how it felt to lose a mother. She’d walked around like a hollow shell for months. And unlike Finn, she had the tiny flicker of hope that her mother could return to her one day. Joyce Mercer was truly gone, leaving her son alone in the world.

Ella Mae also understood loneliness. She knew how it ate away at a person’s dreams, how it became a black hole inside the heart, devouring light and laughter.

“I’m sorry about your mom,” she said gently. “That’s what everyone says, but I know what you’re going through. It’s like a constant ache that only goes away when you sleep. It weighs you down and empties you out. But it
will
ease up. Not right away, of course. Things will be absolute crap for now, but it’ll get better. And if you ever need to talk with someone . . .” she gestured around the kitchen. “I’m easy to find.”

Finn gave her a small smile. He was attractive in a rugged, outdoorsman sort of way. She could picture him wearing a flannel shirt and striding into the forest to chop trees for firewood. In fact, he smelled faintly of wood chips. She glanced from his scarred and weathered hands to his wide chest to his face. His eyes were a golden brown and when he smiled, the spark of warmth in his glance reminded Ella Mae of Chewy.

“Officer Hardy told me that you and Ms. Reba found my mom. I’m glad you were there. I just wish that . . .” He paused to collect himself. “Anyway, thanks for checking on Coco too. She’s back at my mom’s place even though the guys are still working.” He shrugged. “I figured my mom wanted that new kitchen, so they should go ahead and finish it.”

“How’s Coco handling the noise?”

“It’s all detail work now, so there isn’t much. I might
not be cooking for weeks in any case. The neighbors have brought more food than I know what to do with.”

“That’s the South for you,” Ella Mae said. “Where do you live?”

“Baltimore. Mom used to be just down the street, but after Dad passed she went on a cruise just for widows and met Mrs. Drever. The two of them hit it off and started visiting each other. My mom fell in love with Havenwood and moved here.” He traced circles in the flour dust on the worktable. “I thought she was crazy to leave Baltimore, but not anymore.” He shrugged again. “There’s something really peaceful about this place. Peaceful but not boring. Sorry, I’m not making much sense.”

“Sure you are.” Ella Mae began to roll out another ball of dough. She wanted to look at something other than Finn Mercer. He was so easy on the eyes that she was gazing at him a little too keenly. “We’re so isolated that visitors often assume we’re a sleepy little hamlet, but there’s tons to do in Havenwood. However, it’s when I don’t feel like doing a thing that I like this place the most. You won’t find more comfortable rocking chairs, hammocks, or porch swings anywhere.”

Finn’s brow creased and he spoke very quietly, as if afraid the tremors in his voice would prevent the words from escaping. “Mom used to spend every morning on her porch. Coco keeps going out there and staring up at the rocker near the door. She keeps looking for Mom. I do too . . .” Ella Mae saw Finn’s face crumple in pain before he hid it in his hands. Without warning, he got to his feet and turned toward the door.

Hurriedly wiping her hands on her apron, Ella Mae came around the worktable and stood in front of Finn. Wanting to comfort him, to ease his ragged grief if only for a few seconds, she put her hands on his shoulders and gently pulled him toward her. “It’s okay. Don’t be ashamed to cry over losing someone you loved. Don’t ever be sorry.”

Finn’s body was stiff beneath her touch, but then he suddenly gave in and his chin sank against Ella Mae’s shoulder. His arms slid around her back and she echoed the motion. They held each other for a long moment. Finn silently cried and Ella Mae whispered to him. She breathed in his woody scent and tried to ignore how good it felt to be embraced by this stranger.

Eventually, Finn stepped back and dried his eyes with his jacket sleeve. “This isn’t the impression I was hoping to make.” He managed a wry smile. “I’d better go before I totally lose it. But seriously, thank you for everything. Especially that hug. That’s the best thing that’s happened to me in weeks.”

Me too
, Ella Mae thought. Aloud, she reminded Finn to stop by if he needed anything and, stealing a quick glimpse at his blotchy face, let him out the back door.

As soon as he was gone, Reba burst into the kitchen and placed two coffee mugs on the counter. “The coffee was ready five minutes ago, but when I peeked through the window and saw that you two were cuddlin’ like a pair of—”

“I was just comforting him,” Ella Mae interjected. She was about to elucidate when someone knocked on the door.

“Maybe that glorious man is back for another dose of ‘comfort,’” Reba said. “Well, I’ll be! It’s Mrs. Drever!”

Reba hurried to let the older woman in. “I’m real sorry about your friend,” she said, and touched Mrs. Drever lightly on the arm. “Such a terrible accident.”

“That was no accident,” Mrs. Drever declared firmly. “Joyce Mercer was murdered.”

Chapter 5

“Murdered?” Ella Mae stared at Mrs. Drever. “What makes you say that?”

“For starters, my chimney damper was open the day I left,” Mrs. Drever said. Her anger made her Scottish burr more pronounced. “I’ve been burning hearth fires for decades, and I’d never close the damper knowing Joyce would use the gas logs. She was cold-natured, same as me. Whenever she visited during the evening, we’d take our books into the sunroom. We’d read, eat chocolate, and drink wine. It was lovely.”

Ella Mae heard the pain in Mrs. Drever’s voice. “Maybe Mrs. Mercer closed the damper by accident.”

Mrs. Drever shook her head. “I showed her how to turn the logs on and off. Joyce was a sensible woman. Too sensible to mess with the damper or take a bath with a foggy head.” She jabbed her finger at the air. “Listen to me. I looked through Joyce’s things. She’s missing insulin, and there’s no way Joyce would have given herself an extra dose. I think
someone shut the damper, injected her with her own preloaded syringes, and dumped her in that tub. As soon as I saw the teapot, I knew she’d been killed.”

Ella Mae and Reba exchanged concerned glances.

“We thought the scene was strange too, but with no signs of struggle and no clear motive, we assumed Mrs. Mercer’s passing was an accident.” Ella Mae studied Mrs. Drever. “Why would someone want to murder your friend?”

“Don’t answer that yet,” Reba commanded gently. “You look wrung out. Take a seat while I get you somethin’ hot to drink.” She briefly left the kitchen and returned bearing a steaming cup of coffee for Mrs. Drever.

“Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Drever’s face was etched with sorrow. “I think I was the intended target. I believe the killer didn’t know what I look like, so he or she simply attacked the woman in my house, assuming Joyce was me.”

Stunned, Ella Mae placed a sugar and creamer set in front of Mrs. Drever. “Why would anyone want to harm you? And if that’s truly the case, the killer might return to correct his mistake. You should be talking with the police right now. I’m just a baker.”

At this, Mrs. Drever let out a dry chuckle. “You are far more than that, my girl. You’re the stuff of legends—the stories I heard when I was a child. The tales that helped us survive the long winters when the wind raked the rooftops and water froze in the blink of an eye. We passed the time hearing about people like you.”

Ella Mae looked at Mrs. Drever in alarm. There was no point pretending. It was clear that the older woman couldn’t be fooled. “How could you know? You’re not one of—”