I sighed, and took another sip of my tea. I needed coffee for this. I put a pot on to brew and checked the clock again. What was the murderer’s game? He had nothing to win by tormenting me with these comments. I hadn’t committed the murder and I didn’t know who did. So why send the comments to me?

  I had just poured myself a cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sound of the chimes. Maybe caffeine was the last thing I needed right then.

  I looked through the peephole before opening the door. Martha stood smiling up at the door. I gave a sigh of relief and opened the door.

  “Good afternoon, Allie,” she said cheerily. “How are you today?”

  “I’m fine Martha, how are you?”

  “Good, good. May I come in?”

  “Oh of course, where are my manners?” I said, standing back from the door. She had her walker with her handbag and the same shopping bag I had given her the apple pie in. She maneuvered the walker through the door and into the living room.

  “Oh my, is that fresh brewed coffee? That smells so good!” she said and hobbled into the room

  “Would you like some?” I asked. Maybe having company while I waited for Lucy would do me some good.

  “I would! Oh, and I brought you this,” she said motioning toward the shopping bag. “Take it off my walker will you?”

  I did as she asked and removed the back from the walker handle. “What is it?”

  “Just a little something I whipped up. I’m sure it doesn’t compare to that delicious apple pie you made me, but it’s rather tasty, if I do say so myself,” she said. “May I sit down?” She asked and headed for the sofa before I could answer.

  I reached into the bag and pulled out a pink Pyrex covered dish. Something about it triggered something in my memory, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. “Why, what is this?”

  “It’s a bread pudding. The recipe has been in my family for years. Do help yourself. I’ve just finished a late lunch and couldn’t eat another bite, but that coffee smells wonderful. Coffee goes so well with bread pudding, don’t you know?”

  “Sure,” I said absently and headed toward the kitchen. I removed the lid to the pink bowl. The aroma of cinnamon and vanilla wafted out along with something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on. “What is that scent? Do you have a secret ingredient in your bread pudding?” I called from the kitchen.

  “Oh yes, indeed I do. Indeed I do,” she said and chuckled.

  I got a coffee cup out of the cupboard and poured her a cup of coffee. “Cream and sugar?” I called, still trying to put my finger on what the secret ingredient might be.

  “Oh yes please, both,” she said. “Plenty of cream.”

  I knew baking ingredients inside and out. In the South, people sometimes used ingredients that you wouldn’t associate with baking, like mayonnaise or sour kraut in my mother’s super moist chocolate sour kraut cake. I decided maybe older ladies from the North probably did the same and Martha’s bread pudding must be one of those recipes. I was going to have to pry the recipe out of her because the smell was making my mouth water.

  I put cream and sugar and two cups of coffee on a serving tray for us both. It would be nice to have someone to visit with and take my mind off the threats I had been receiving. I was sure that Martha direly needed someone to talk to about her late husband, anyway. I had been feeling guilty that I had not followed through on my promise to spend some time with her.

  “Oh thank you, dear,” she said with a smile. Her Maine accent was thick and dear came out sounding like deaya. “You get yourself some of that bread pudding and sit awhile.”

  “I’m going to do just that,” I said and headed back to the kitchen for a bowl of bread pudding. “This smells delicious!”

  “And it is!” she called. “But it needs to be eaten warm with cream poured over it. The cream brings out the flavors.”

  I brought my bowl into the living room and sat on the sofa across from her. I rarely ate in the living room, but I thought it might be more comfortable for her in here. I poured cream over the bread pudding and inhaled. It was heavenly. I looked up and saw she was watching me intently. I put the bowl down and reached for my coffee and added cream and sugar. I felt odd eating in front of my guest, even if she had brought the pudding for me.

  “So how have you been doing, Martha? Are you okay since Henry’s murder?” I asked, stirring my coffee.

  “Oh yes, I’m fine. It was a start, I’ll admit. Such a sad thing,” she said picking up her cup. “Why don’t you try the bread pudding, dear?”

  I looked down at it. I suddenly didn’t feel hungry, and I wasn’t sure why. Just then I burped up a little of the frozen pizza I had nuked and eaten for lunch. “Oh, excuse me! I’m afraid lunch isn’t sitting too well.”

  “Then what you need is something bready like that pudding. It will absorb the stomach acids.” She smiled at me again and nodded her head.

  I wasn’t sure I had ever heard anything like that before. “So what did you put in it?”

  “Only the best ingredients. Real butter, none of that fake stuff, cream, sugar, a very nice brioche and an assortment of spices. I say if you’re going to bother to bake, then use only the best ingredients.” She took a sip of her coffee and leaned back.

  “I feel the same way,” I said and burped again. “Oh dear, I don’t know what’s gotten in to me. I never have reflux issues.” I got up and trotted to the kitchen. “Sorry, Martha!” I called over my shoulder.

  “That’s okay, dear. But you’re letting your bread pudding cool down.”

  I swallowed an acid pill and returned to the living room. “That should fix it. I’m afraid I shouldn’t eat any of that delicious bread pudding though. I should let my stomach settle.”

  “Oh, but you must eat it while it’s warm,” she said, frowning.

  “I think I’ll wait a bit. I can warm it in the microwave later.”

  “Oh, but that won’t be the same. You need to eat it now. While it’s still warm,” she said.

  “I’ll be careful when I warm it up. I’m sure it will be fine. I can tell from the smell that it’s a lovely bread pudding,” I reassured her. I felt bad about not eating it right away. We bakers could be particular about our desserts. We needed to be appreciated.

  “No, dear, eat it now,” she said firmly.

  “I will. In a bit,” I said, narrowing my eyes at her. Where had I heard this conversation before?

  “No, dear. Right now,” Martha insisted.

  I looked at her evenly. She stared right back at me, not budging. What was with her? Why did she want me to eat it now? I mean, I got the importance of eating certain desserts warm, but not at the expense of the eater’s health.

  “Are you going to try it?” she asked, pursing her lips.

  “Yes. Later,” I answered.

  Martha tossed her walker aside and sprang to her feet. She produced a large butcher knife from her handbag and lunged at me. “I said eat it now!”

  I screamed and dodged the knife, jumping to the end of the couch. If I hadn’t seen it for myself, I would never have believed that little old Martha Newberry could move so quickly. She was beside me in a minute, holding the knife to my throat. “Martha, what are you doing?” I squeaked out. I could feel the sharpness of the blade against my neck.

  “I want you to eat that bread pudding. Now. Soon you won’t have any stomach issues at all,” she said and gave a small chuckle.

  “Why are you doing this, Martha?” I squeaked out.

  She gave me an eerie smile. “Because you’re nosy. Charles told me you had been asking around about Henry’s killer. Then Ralph told me the same thing, and that detective has made a couple if visits to my home. If it weren’t for you, that detective would have thought it was a transient that killed Henry. He told me so. Now you get over there and eat that bread pudding.” She took a step back, just enough to let me slide over on the sofa. She made a motion with the knife that said I better get sliding.

  “But, why would you kill Henry?” I asked, thinking I might stall for time. “And what’s the bread pudding got to do with it?” I thought I knew what it had to do with it, but I needed time to think.

  She laughed. “I suppose it doesn’t matter if I tell you. Henry killed my Walter. I have thought of nothing else but revenge since that day. So I brought him some bread pudding. My special bread pudding. But no, you had brought an apple pie to him and he insisted he had eaten pie already and refused to try my bread pudding. So things got ugly. And they’ll get ugly for you too, if you don’t eat up. I’d hate to make a mess of your lovely living room.”

  I swallowed hard and remembered the pink Pyrex dish on Henry’s counter top. The same pink Pyrex dish that was now sitting on mine. Martha was crazy. I gave her a weak smile. “My, Martha, you move much faster than I had imagined that you could.” I needed a plan, but as long as that huge butcher knife was staring me in the throat, I wasn’t sure what that plan could be. Maybe if I rushed her and knocked her down, I wouldn’t get more than a little scratch. But Martha had proved remarkably agile for someone her age, and I wasn’t sure what other tricks she had up her sleeve.

  “So, were you the one sending me messages on my blog?” I asked, stalling for time.

  She laughed again. “You’d be surprised how much lifting weights does for you. When I came home without my Walter that night, I knew I had to do something. I’ve been lifting weights and doing yoga ever since. I came up with a plan to poison Henry in the mean time, but I kept up with the workouts. I feel so much better, you know. I also took a computer class at the junior college. For research purposes. Now stop stalling.”

  She was nuts. Bonafide nuts. I reached for the bowl, not sure what I could do at this point. “Martha, you said that Henry killed your husband. How did he do that? I don’t remember hearing about a murder.” I slowly poured more cream on the bread pudding. May as well make my last meal a good one. I wondered what kind of poison was in it.

  “By serving him roast beef that was so tough he choked on it. Then he just watched him die instead of helping him,” her voice cracked and she looked near tears. Ordinarily I would have had sympathy for her at this point, but I’ve decided to keep my sympathy for non-killers.

  “Well, perhaps he didn’t know how to do the Heimlich maneuver?” I suggested. Seemed reasonable to me.

  “Don’t you dare take that killer’s side of things!” She said. “Now eat!”

  I almost snorted at that. She thought it was better to take her side? Without thinking about it, I threw the bowl of bread pudding at Martha’s face. She blocked it with the hand holding the knife and screamed. I slid to the right and jumped to my feet, but Martha was fast and she knocked me to the ground.

  I managed to get a hold of the wrist holding the knife and she shoved me to the floor. Martha was strong and getting the knife out of her hand was proving difficult. We rolled around on the floor between the coffee table and the sofa while I stared at the tip of that knife. I needed room to move, but I was blocked in. I began screaming, hoping the neighbors would hear. I knew the Smiths weren’t home, but I was hoping someone would be in hearing range.

  “Shut up!” Martha bellowed and put her free hand on my throat and squeezed. She was breathing hard, but showed no sign of weakness.

  It had to be her non-dominant hand on my throat, but she still had quite a grip. I needed to check into weight lifting. I pulled my head back as far as I could, but I couldn’t get away from her. “Let go, Martha!” I screamed.

  “I told you to eat the bread pudding while it was still warm!” she said and managed to move her body on top of mine.

  I breathed in as deep as I could. Her weight made me feel like I was going to suffocate. “Get off!” I forced out.

  “I don’t know why you have to make this so difficult,” she panted and tried to break her knife wielding hand free.

  I couldn’t believe that this little old lady was putting up such a fight. “Maybe if you would have read my blog on grief, you could have found a more constructive way of handling things,” I suggested.

  “I’m handling it just fine, dear,” she grunted and pulled her knife hand free.

  I closed my eyes and screamed as she pulled the knife back and plunged it toward my chest. Suddenly the weight of her body was gone, and I heard her scream.

  I opened my eyes and saw Detective Blanchard holding Martha by the scruff of the neck with one hand and his other arm was wrapped around her waist.

  “You just calm down, Martha,” he said and took a few steps back, still holding on to her.

  She screamed again and started crying. “That woman attacked me!” she said, pointing her finger at me.

  “What?” I said coughing and trying to get to my feet. “Are you crazy?”

  “Hold still, Martha,” he said and wrestled the knife out of her hand. Martha quit struggling then and sobbed loudly. The detective reached with one hand into his pocket for his cell phone and hit speed dial.

  “Are you all right? Do you need an ambulance?” he asked me.

  “No, I’m fine,” I said, shaking myself. I sat back on the sofa, breathing hard.

  Detective Blanchard placed the call for backup while I caught my breath. I stared daggers at Martha as she sobbed loudly. And to think, I had felt sorry for her in her grief.

  I looked at the detective. I owed him one. A big one.

  19

  *****

  I was sitting at a corner table at the Center Street cafe, waiting on Detective Blanchard. He came through the door and his broad frame blocked out the morning sun. I had invited him there for breakfast as a thank you for saving my life. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had to offer him. That and I planned on baking him a pie later. The day before had been the first time I hadn’t baked a pie every day since right before my husband’s funeral. The day before the funeral, I had been tied up in knots with grief and realized that people would be coming to the house afterwards and I needed to serve them something. I baked sixteen pies that day, until well into the morning hours. I had needed something to keep myself busy, and that did it.

  I smiled at him as he took a seat across from me.

  “Good morning,” he said with a relaxed smile on his face. It was a nice change.

  “Good morning, Detective Blanchard,” I replied.

  “Please, call me Alec,” he said. This was the most personable I had seen him since I had met him.

  “Alec, I really just wanted to say thank you for saving my life,” I said. “I know this isn’t much of a thank you.” I blushed at the absurdity of trying to thank someone for saving your life with breakfast.

  He chuckled. “I’ve never gotten breakfast as a thank you before. It’s totally unnecessary, but much appreciated.”

  “And I’m going to bake you one of my famous pies and bring it by later. I’m thinking apple blueberry. How does that sound?” I asked, glancing from my menu to him and back again.

  “That sounds wonderful!” He beamed. “The truth is, I was wondering when I would get to taste one of your pies. The talk all over town is that they are the best in the state.”

  “Really?” I said and felt myself go pink again. “I had no idea that I had a reputation!”

  “Indeed you do,” he said with a grin and turned to his menu.

  “How did you happen to come by at that moment? If you hadn’t, I shudder to think what might have happened,” I said and took a sip of my coffee. The coffee there wasn’t fancy, but it was caffeinated and I had to respect that.

  “I had my suspicions about Martha and I was coming by to talk to you. I wondered if in your highly inappropriate investigations you had heard anything that might prove I was right,” He said, looking me in the eye. “I heard you screaming, and fortunately, your door was unlocked.”

  “What kind of suspicions? I swear I hadn’t thought of her as a suspect at all, especially with her old and feeble act she always put on.” I was still stunned that she was the murderer.

  “She was there the morning of the crime, which honestly didn’t mean a thing to me at the time. But it seemed that everyone I interviewed had had some contact with her afterwards. At first I thought it was just a small town and also, because she had seen Henry dead on the floor and everyone seemed to want to comfort her. But the more I heard about her going to other people and asking questions, the more I thought there might be something there. I’m just sorry you came so close to being her second victim.”

  I nodded, taking this all in. “I guess it’s good I’m not a detective then. I am dumbfounded. So, did Martha tell all?” I asked. I wanted to make sure that she didn’t hold out on anything.

  “She did. She’s a bitter little lady,” he said and chuckled. “I’ve seen a lot of things in my twenty years of being a detective, but nothing like this. I really didn’t want to believe it.”

  I sighed and sat back in my seat. “I’m just glad it’s over. I feel badly that poor Henry had to die though.”

  “It’s a shame. It always is when someone is murdered,” he said. “I think I’m going to have the veggie omelet.”

  “I think I’ll have the same,” I said. He sat back, and we looked each other in the eye. His were bright blue. Mine were green. He was a handsome man, and I was glad I was no longer public enemy number one to him. I wondered if he was single and a twinge of guilt washed over me. I had no need of a man. No one could replace my husband. We were perfect together and any relationship I might have started would only end in frustration when another man couldn’t measure up to Thaddeus. Because no one could. It was impossible.

  Still, it was a thought.

  THE END

  CLASSIC APPLE PIE

  7-8 small Granny Smith apples, peeled and sliced

  4 Tbsp. butter, cold and divided

  3 Tbsp. all purpose flour

  1/3 Cup white sugar, 1 teaspoon set aside

  1/3 Cup brown sugar

  1 1/4 teaspoon cinnamon, ¼ teaspoon set aside

 

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