Chapter 4
Hang near-empty frames of honey near the
hives for hungry bees to clean.
 
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
 
 
“Give me a minute, Abby,” said Maisey. The proprietress strolled from the pie shop counter to the front door and flipped the sign to CLOSED. “I swear, these old bones are creaking from the changes in the weather—fog and rain one day, sunny and warm the next. Let’s sit a spell and catch up. Pie’s on me.” Maisey walked back behind the counter and brought out two white coffee mugs.
Abby’s gaze swept the fifties malt shop decor, which Maisey kept scrubbed to a high shine. “I don’t think pie is what I need, Maisey,” said Abby. She dropped her daypack on the floor and climbed onto a worn red-leather stool at the counter. With Kat working long hours on the murder case, Abby had decided not to burden her with her at times seemingly irrational feelings. And even though Maisey would be a sympathetic listener, Abby didn’t much like talking about emotional stuff. To her, that was akin to exposing a nerve in a root canal. And, besides, her grandmother’s voice was ever chiming at the back of her mind: Be steady, my girl, and this, too, shall pass. But it hadn’t. And maybe it wouldn’t.
Maisey poured coffee into Abby’s mug. She put a slice of pie on standard white restaurant ware for Abby and slid a fork next to the plate. “Dive into that mile-high meringue there. You’ll be right as rain in no time.”
Abby picked up the fork and poked at the pie. “You sound like my grandmother.”
“Honey, where I come from, there’s nothing like pie to fix what’s troubling you. And that’s not meant as a platitude. It’s just a low-country recipe for feeling better when nothing else is working.” Maisey sat down on a stool next to Abby. Her contagious smile could have reassured a death row inmate that all would be right in the world as long as there was time for pie and coffee.
Abby pushed her fork into the soft golden peaks of meringue, cut down through the custard-type filling and the crust, and then lifted the pie-laden fork to her lips. “Tastes like lemon.”
“You see,” said Maisey. “That just goes to show you that you can’t judge a thing from the surface. You’ve got to dig deeper. That there is vinegar pie.”
“Really? Can’t taste the vinegar.”
“Of course not. You’re not supposed to. That recipe has been in my family for generations.” Maisey lifted the pot and poured herself a cup of coffee. “We always made raisin and vinegar pies for the wake after someone had passed on. The women in my family called them funeral pies.”
“Lovely. I just wish I had more of an appetite.” Abby set aside her fork. “I’m sorry, Maisey, but I can’t eat more.”
Maisey stirred two spoons of sugar into her coffee. After taking a long, slow sip, she put the mug back down and stared at Abby. “How long has this been going on? The not eating.”
Oh, brother. Must we leap right into it? Abby sucked in a deep breath. She shifted her attention to the glass-enclosed pie display so she wouldn’t have to see Maisey’s eyes, her expression etched with concern. As Abby’s thoughts flew to Paola, crumpled in the semi-dark car, next to her dead husband, a wave of nausea swept over her. “I suppose I lost it the night I found the two of them in the parking lot. It turned into a very long night. There was food—a lot of food—but I couldn’t eat it. Anxiety and nausea got in the way. Still do.”
“Talk to me, Abby. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I don’t know where to begin.” Already, her mind reeled with befuddlement, doubts, and fear.
“Why don’t you begin with when these symptoms started?”
After blowing a small puff of air between her lips, Abby asked, “Maisey, have you been at someone’s side while they’re dying?”
Maisey nodded.
“Imagine the sheer terror of having someone point a gun at you and say, ‘Time’s up.’ When it happens to someone you’re close to, you try to make sense of it. You feel guilty that you weren’t taken, too.”
“Are you talking about your younger brother now or Jake Winston’s murder?”
“Both, I guess. I know how horrible I felt when my brother died. I see Paola as a sister. Now she’ll go through that terrible emptiness, the anger, and the guilt. It’s all so senseless.” Abby took a sip of coffee and stared at a tiny bubble in the white meringue.
“Abby, dear, all who are born will die, and the good Lord knows the exact moment when each child will return. You have to take comfort in that.”
“If only everyone had faith as strong as yours. I think of Jake and Paola staring into the killer’s face. The window was down on the driver’s side. They were sitting in the car, getting ready to join the party. The killer wasn’t about to let that happen. Was the shooting a punishment for Jake’s cheating ways? I don’t know. And what if Jake couldn’t help himself, couldn’t control his behavior? Don’t know that, either.”
“What do you mean by his lack of control?” Maisey raised a quizzical brow.
“What if something else explained why Jake behaved badly, like if he had a brain tumor? I’ve heard some types grow slowly and account for bizarre behaviors.”
“Did his wife ever say Jake had one?”
“No. I was just trying to fathom why he changed from a loving husband to someone who wasn’t.”
“Who can say? These things happen. They’re terrible when they do. Everyone gets hurt.”
Abby shifted on the swivel stool. “He was gone when I got to him. She was bleeding from her wound. Probably believed she was dying, too. And I left her there in the dark to go for help.”
“You gave her a chance at life,” said Maisey. “Isn’t it possible that you had your own fears to deal with and still you got her the help she needed?”
“Yes, but I wasn’t facing certain death at that point. The killer had gone.”
“But you didn’t know that there weren’t accomplices still at the scene, did you?”
“No.”
“So any sane person would be frightened and traumatized. And yet you couldn’t let yourself feel. You had to keep your wits about you to function, isn’t that right?”
“I suppose.” Abby massaged her neck muscles, which seemed tenser now that she was talking about the murder.
Maisey’s fingers hugged her mug of hot coffee.
“I’m a mess now,” Abby said. “When darkness sets in, so does anxiety.” She tilted her head from side to side. “I lock the doors and windows before sunset, and then later, when I hear a noise, I recheck the doors. Sometimes, it’s for the second or third time. And I worry that someone could be watching me through vertical slats of the blinds.”
“Someone?” Maisey put down her mug and looked endearingly at Abby. “Darling, don’t you mean Jake Winston’s killer?”
Abby nodded. She plucked up one end of her scarf and held the fabric against her eyes, as though doing so could push back the tears that threatened to erupt.
“You poor, darling,” Maisey said. “And you’ve always felt so safe on your farmette.” She placed a large motherly hand on Abby’s shoulder. “It kills me to see you suffering this way.”
Abby leaned her face against Maisey’s warm hand. “I’ve hesitated to talk to anyone about this. You’ll keep it between us, won’t you?”
“Yes. I won’t breathe a word of it to anyone.”
Choosing her words carefully, Abby said, “In a way, I feel responsible for what happened to Jake and Paola.” Her voice cracked.
“No, Abby, there’s no way. Jake Winston’s death was not your fault.” Maisey rose from the counter stool, leaned down, and hugged Abby. “Why on earth would you say such a thing?”
Abby sniffed hard against the threat of more tears. “If only I had been truthful with Paola. If I had told her my concerns about Jake, then maybe they would have put things off and got him checked out.”
“We’ve all known men like that, Abby.” Maisey traipsed behind the counter and looked at Abby. “I’d heard that they had some counseling with the priest before getting back together. That right?”
“Oh, they did, but Jake missed several sessions. And Father Joseph isn’t a trained mental health professional.”
“Well, maybe your friend Paola chose to see the best in her husband,” said Maisey. “Maybe she forgave his bad behavior and focused on the good between them.”
Abby chewed her lip. “Maybe.”
“Listen, dear,” Maisey said. “A wife may be willing to look the other way, but that doesn’t mean she’s blind. There are always signs.”
“And he didn’t seem to care about her finding out, or he was just oblivious. Only moments before they were to renew their vows,” said Abby, “Jake hit on me. I wanted to slap him into Father Joe’s rock garden.”
“So, what did you do?”
“I walked into the church, leaving them to work it out.”
Maisey stared at the counter, as though trying to take it all in.
“Bottom line, in all the time we spent doing things together, I listened to Paola talk about him. She loved him, so I said nothing. It might seem irrational, but it feels like I failed her.” Abby reached down the counter for a dispenser with some white napkins. After pulling out one, she held it to her nose and sniffled into it. “If I’d just spoken my mind, maybe—”
“What? You think your friend would have canceled the wedding? And if she had canceled the ceremony, there would have been no murder?”
“Crossed my mind.” Abby thought about her incident poster on the living room table, which had spokes from Jake to people in his orbit, and about how many times those individuals also connected with Father Joseph. It was entirely possible that the killer might have confessed. But Father Joseph, though he might have counseled the killer to turn himself in, would never break the seal of the confessional. So Abby had decided against trying to extract any information from him.
“Are you listening to me, Abby? No one could have foreseen that tragedy coming. Back in the day when you worked as a cop, you must have seen how bad boys behave. Did it ever make sense to you?”
“No.”
“Some women can’t resist bad boys. That’s no one else’s business. You have to get that through that noggin of yours that Jake’s murder was not your fault.”
Abby wadded the napkin and laid it near the pie plate. “His prowess with women might have been a blessing for him, but for her it had become a curse.”
“Oh, my dear, it’s far easier to stand on the outside and judge a marriage than to be on the inside, dealing with its hidden dynamics. With that said, I hear the sadness, the fear, and the guilt in your voice. But, my girl, when we face the hardest lessons in life, we suffer. I once heard a man say he didn’t take pain pills, because the pain was teaching him something. If he avoided the pain, he could never get to the root of what was causing his suffering. The police will find Jake’s killer. Let them do their job. And you focus on how to heal your suffering.”
Rapping at the pie shop’s front door caused Maisey to look up. “Well, someone doesn’t believe the sign on the door means we’re closed. I better go and see who that is,” Maisey said, putting down her mug and ambling away.
Abby straightened her posture. She considered what Maisey had said. The woman made it sound simple. Eat a piece of the pie, talk a little with a friend, face your darkness, and let it go. But if Maisey knew what Abby kept secret inside, what would she say then?
Maisey opened the door. “Well, good afternoon, Chief. What can I do for you?”
Chief? Abby’s gaze shot up to the mirror angled overhead. Seeing Chief Bob Allen stroll in caused her stomach to clench.
“Got any banana cream left?” Chief Bob Allen asked.
“Tonight the wife’s hosting a quilting bee. That Schultz woman over at the antique shop was supposed to bring the pie by this time, but she claimed a store full of customers made leaving impossible. Wife sent me the SOS.”
“I’ve got two left in the display case. Do you want both pies?”
“That’ll work.”
“Well, you better come to the counter while I box them up,” said Maisey, heading back to where she and Abby had been sitting. Opening the display case and pulling out the two pies, Maisey said, “I’ll bet Edna Mae’s quilting business is booming with this burst of cold weather. Last year we had a heat wave around Halloween.” From under the counter, Maisey pulled a couple of pre-folded boxes. She assembled them and placed a pie in each box.
Chief Bob Allen took a seat two stools down from Abby.
“Mackenzie,” said the chief, looking over at her.
“Chief.” Abby nodded and turned her gaze on Maisey’s dexterous fingers as she taped the partially open lids so as not to ruin the toasted peaks of meringue. When she’d finished, she slid the boxes in front of the chief and began writing out the sales slip.
“Have you found Jake Winston’s killer yet?” Maisey asked. She handed him the bill.
“Nope,” said the chief, his expression showing no emotion. “It’s early.” He looked up into the angled mirror and met Abby’s gaze. She shifted her attention back to her coffee.
“I guess you know that none of us can rest until you’ve got the evildoer behind bars,” Maisey said. She folded her heavy arms over the bib portion of her white apron.
“Yep.” Chief Bob Allen reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. After handing it to Maisey and waiting for the change, he leaned in close to Abby.
“You know, Mackenzie, Lieutenant Sinclair tells me he’s been going over your statement. Finds it more than a little curious that no one can vouch for your whereabouts when the two vics were shot.”
“Yeah?” Abby looked directly at him. “My location for when the shot was fired is in my statement. And Officer Katerina Petrovsky was with me at the party.”
“But she was not with you when Winston was killed. Sinclair tells me that no one can verify where Emilio Varela was, either, despite his statement that he was in the cellar. You two are friends, aren’t you?”
The muscles in Abby’s shoulders tensed again. Heat flushed her cheeks. “Yeah? So, what’s your point?”
“You know how this works. Two people are missing from the party at precisely the moment when a fatal shot was fired. One or both of them are the last people to see the victim alive. That gets our attention.”
Abby forced herself to stay calm. She drilled the chief with a cold stare. “I can’t speak for where Emilio was. Check with the sous-chef. She was the one who pointed to the back door when I asked her if she knew where he had gone.”
“Yeah, about that . . . The sous-chef says she didn’t know the chef’s whereabouts or why he’d left the kitchen when they were so busy. She claims she can hardly remember you but believed you’d returned to the party and joined the other guests.”
“That woman pointed to the parking lot. That’s precisely where I went. And like I said in my statement, I had cases of honey for Chef Emilio to give the guests.”
“Well, try this on for size. Your former partner, Officer Petrovsky, said you and the Varela siblings were good friends, but you didn’t think much of Jake Winston. It’s a sentiment echoed by the Varela family. I can’t understand why no one in that family liked the guy. He supported his wife—she didn’t have to work—and he gave her brother Emilio that chef’s job. It seems Emilio liked working there. He just didn’t like working for Jake.” The chief stroked his jaw.
Abby stewed in silence.
“So you can see why one could make the leap in logic,” said the chief. “If you and Emilio got rid of Jake, it would end Emilio’s misery and help your friend Paola out of a difficult marriage.”
Abby felt an adrenaline rush. A wave of nausea. She swallowed the bilious taste seeping into the back of her throat. “You can’t be serious. Emilio could quit working for Jake anytime he wanted to. As for Paola wanting out of the marriage, she didn’t want out. And if she did, that’s what divorce is for. She had just renewed her wedding vows with her husband. I don’t know what your problem is, but your inferences are beyond ridiculous. I’m going to assume it’s your idea of a joke, because if it isn’t, it borders on harassment.” Her heart thrummed. Abby gripped the counter’s edge to steady her trembling hands.
“We’re just having a friendly chat here, Mackenzie. No need to get so worked up.” Chief Bob Allen straightened on the stool.
Abby shot a look at Maisey, who seemed equally surprised at the exchange. Abby rose. She reached for her daypack and hoisted it over her shoulder. “Thanks for everything, Maisey. It’s getting late. I’d better go.”
Maisey raised her hand, as if in blessing.
Abby wouldn’t look at the chief. She flew out of the pie shop door. On the sidewalk, she stopped and then turned around. Remembering her grandmother’s ring, she opened the door and called out to the chief.
“Paola wore my grandmother’s ring when she was shot. I’d like that ring returned.”
Chief Bob Allen rebalanced the pie boxes in his arms and strolled toward her. “Check with the hospital staff,” he said. “Why would a newly reminted bride be wearing your grandmother’s ring?”
“For good luck. What else?”
The chief chortled. “Well, that didn’t work, did it?” he said.
Abby winced. What is it about me that sets you off, or do you enjoy being mean-spirited?
“Talk to Sinclair. It’s his case.” The chief pushed past her and walked away.
Abby marched off in the opposite direction. She located her Jeep and climbed inside. Gripping the steering wheel to calm her trembling, she leaned her head against her arm. The little girl inside her wanted to cry, but the grownup Abby knew how to choke back tears until she could get to the farmette. Don’t react. Keep your mouth shut. Don’t ever let them see you cry. A life lesson she’d learned on the force.
 
Old-Fashioned Vinegar Pie
 
Ingredients:
 
Pie filling:
1½ cups granulated sugar
¼ cup unsalted butter, melted
4 large organic egg yolks (reserve the whites for the
meringue)
1½ tablespoons white vinegar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
3 tablespoons lemon zest (optional)
One unbaked 9-inch pie crust
 
Meringue:
4 large organic egg whites
¼ teaspoon cream of tartar
6 tablespoons granulated sugar

Directions:
Preheat the oven to 350Illustration.
Prepare the pie filling. In the bowl of an electric mixer, cream together the sugar and butter. Add the eggs, vinegar, and vanilla, and mix well. Then stir in the lemon zest.
Pour the pie filling into the pie crust and bake for 50 to 55 minutes, or until the custard is firm. As the pie bakes, check the color of the crust. If it becomes too dark, place aluminum foil over the pie. Remove the pie from the oven and place it on a rack to cool. Allow it to cool completely before making the meringue.
Once the pie is cool, preheat the oven to 350Illustration and prepare the meringue.
Place the egg whites in the bowl of an electric mixer with the whisk attachment. Add the cream of tartar. Beat the egg whites until peaks form. Using a dessert spoon, slowly add the sugar, beating between each addition, until the egg whites are stiff and the sugar has dissolved.
Spread the meringue over the top of the cooled pie, making sure the meringue touches the crust all around. Bake until the meringue has turned a toasty brown, about 10 to 12 minutes. Allow the pie to cool before serving.

Serves 4–6