Berried Alive Read online

  “Who are you talking about?” Miss May asked, for once not four steps ahead of me.

  “You know, the sticky note perp from the Brown Cow? She followed us out of the coffee shop that day to where people were protesting. She said a bunch of stuff to me about how sad it was that a Massive Mart might be built in our little town. It had to be her. She covered Rosenberg’s house in TP just like she covered Brian’s counter in sticky notes.”

  “Wow. Truly impressive detective work,” Susan said, bowing her head slightly.

  “I’m glad we could help,” Miss May said. I took a satisfied bite of egg sandwich and nodded in agreement.

  Susan turned to me. “I also wanted to discuss something else with you, Chelsea.”

  I looked up from a big bite of egg sandwich. “Me? OK, sure.”

  “Gwyneth says you have brilliant ideas for my home. I’d like to hire you as my interior designer.”

  My jaw dropped. “Wow. That sounds amazing. Although, are you married to the ideas I shared with Gwyneth?”

  Susan laughed. “The hammocks and hanging plants? I love it. Sounds like just the change I need right now.”

  Suddenly, Alan Greenspan let out a loud, mournful yowl and scampered to free himself from Gwyneth’s arms.

  “What is it Alan?” Gwyneth asked in her nasal drawl. “Mr. Greenspan. What’s the matter?”

  Alan meowed again. Gwyneth set him down on the floor, and he darted across the room...

  To where Deb sat with Sandra Day O’Connor.

  Sandra leapt from Deb’s arms, and the felines ran toward one another like long-lost lovers. The whole scene played out in slow motion, and sparks flew as Alan and Sandra came face to face in the middle of the room.

  The cats circled each other. Sandra nudged Alan in the face. Alan withdrew, then returned her nudge. Then the two cats licked one another and purred.

  Deb rushed up and burst into tears. “Sandra! You found the one! Finally, you found the one!”

  The crowd broke into applause as Sandra and Alan played together. And Teeny elbowed me with a big I-told-ya-so smile on her face. “I knew those kitties would hit it off. Oh! They are going to have the cutest kittens!”

  38

  A Surprise Visitor

  LATE THAT NIGHT I STROLLED down to the barn to chat with See-Saw. Arthur was in jail and I felt good about that. But one or two nagging questions remained, and I figured talking things through with See-Saw might help.

  As per usual, See-Saw seemed disinterested for most of the conversation. And she used the bathroom twice while I told her about my showdown with Arthur. But See-Saw’s unimpressed nonchalance was a good thing. I didn’t want to develop an ego about my sleuthing, and there’s nothing like a horse taking a poop in the middle of your story to keep you grounded.

  Finally, See-Saw went to sleep, and I figured that was my cue to leave. But when I turned to walk back toward the farmhouse, I ran straight into the chest of a denim-clad man.

  That’s right. It was Germany Turtle.

  “Germany! I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

  Germany waved me away. “Please. Stop apologizing. I have a bad habit of surprising women in barns. You, specifically. I’ve surprised no other women in barns. That would be creepy. I’m not a barn-stalker. So please, allow me to rephrase my original statement as... I have a bad habit of surprising you in barns. This barn, to be exact. And for that, it is I who shall apologize. I’m sorry for taking you by surprise.”

  I laughed. “You have a strange way with words, Germany.”

  Germany gave a little bow. I guess he took that as a compliment? “Words are putty in my hands. Sometimes I form them into a beautiful bust. Other times, I manage little more than hideous lump. Alas, such is the struggle for many artists.”

  “I see what you mean,” I said. “Although I rarely turn my words into anything other than confusing, awkward sentences. I guess I talk too much when I’m nervous.”

  “Are you nervous now?”

  “No.” I answered quickly.

  Germany nodded. “Nor should you be. Despite my earlier comments about barn-stalking, I am not dangerous. I am, like my namesake the turtle, a gentle omnivore slow in races.”

  We stood there for a few seconds just looking at each other. I broke the silence. “Did you just come here to tell me not to be nervous?”

  Germany shook his head. “What a terrible waste of time that would be. Although I can’t imagine time could ever be wasted in your presence.”

  I blushed. “Then why did you come here?”

  Germany smiled and reached into a little leather man-bag he had slung over his shoulder. He dug in the bag a few seconds, then pulled out a little maneki-neko. A knocking cat! Just like the one I had found on my window.

  I smiled. “It was you?”

  Germany nodded. “It was, my lady. After we first met I squeezed my brain like a sponge, thinking of ways I could impress you. I constructed several pie charts, a bar graph, and a Venn diagram exploring the best route I could take to your heart. Finally, I realized sleuthing is your main passion in life. So... I vowed to help solve your mystery. The mystery of the dead builder and the crazy homeless man, who I later learned was a forest person. May he rest in peace.”

  I blinked, confused. “So you investigated the crime, left the cat... All that because you liked me?”

  I felt a strange warmth in toes. Like suddenly, I was standing on one of those fancy heated tile floors. I couldn’t help it. Germany made me feel good.

  Germany nodded. “Well said. I did all that because I like you.”

  “But then... Why didn’t you come tell me what you had learned? Why did you set up that elaborate knocking-cat ruse? That wasn’t easy to unravel!”

  Germany shrugged. “I thought you would like if the clue itself was a mystery. Also, if I’m being honest.... underneath my bravado, charm and charisma, I can be shy. Did the clue prove useful in your investigation?”

  I shook my head. “That building in the city was a red herring. The address led us to Wallace, which led us to the briefcase, which helped lead us to the killer. But that was just a convenient byproduct. “

  Germany laughed. “I thought that might be the case. But I hope you derived enjoyment from the cat?”

  “I did,” I said. “So is that it then? You worked up all your confidence just to come here and tell me you were the one who left the cat?”

  Germany took a deep breath. Then, as he often did, he delivered a speech. “Yes, I came here to reveal my identity as the man behind the knocking cat. But I also came to tell you much more than that. I came to tell you I’ve gained five pounds in muscles since we last spoke. I have a raw beef diet to thank for that. My meals have repulsed me. But I consumed the beef to build muscle. Because you’re clearly attracted to men with physical mass. I’ve also deduced that you’re drawn to men in a position of power. Therefore, I have joined the volunteer firefighters here in Pine Grove. Full disclosure: I will not be a firefighter. I’ll be working to train the firefighting dogs. Fire hounds. Puppy fire people. But my superiors have assured me I will get to wear a uniform while I work with the hounds. They have also assured me, in writing, the uniform will accentuate the bulkiness of my budding biceps and triceps.”

  I smiled. “You don’t have to get muscles or train fire dogs to impress me, Germany.”

  “Oh but I do,” Germany said. “For one day I shall ask you out. For ‘realsies.’ That day is not today, for I’m not yet beefy enough to suit you. But that day is coming. And on that day, I intend for you to say yes. For who can deny a date with a man who trains dogs in the skill of saving people from burning buildings?”

  With that, Germany bowed. It was a deep, deep bow. And he left without another word.

  After Germany exited, See-Saw stirred from her slumber and whinnied.

  “I agree,” I said. “He’s cute.”

  The End

  Want to try baking up a Chelsea's Cinnamon Buns on your own?r />
  SIGN UP FOR OUR MAILING list, "Thomas Tuesdays," and we'll send the recipe straight to your inbox. This recipe includes a fun backstory about how the real Chelsea and Teeny love Cinnamon Buns too. Plus a picture of the girls together!

  Sign Up Now

  Turn the page for a free preview of Book 5 in the Apple Orchard Cozy Mystery Series...

  GRANNY SMITH IS DEAD

  Book 5 Preview

  Apple Orchard Cozy Mystery Series, Book Five

  “Granny Smith is Dead”

  By

  Chelsea Thomas

  Chapter 1: Revolutionary Revolt

  THIS NEXT MURDER I'm going to tell you about shocked everyone in Pine Grove.

  But I can't just jump right into the killing. Or the suspects. First I need to introduce you to the victim. Here goes.

  It was a busy, breezy, beautiful autumn afternoon on my family’s apple orchard, the Thomas Family Fruit & Fir Farm, when I first met Granny Smith.

  That day, I was working in the bakeshop on the farm, selling cider donuts and other delectable baked goods. The previous hour had been slow, so I was lazily doing pirouettes behind the counter to pass the time. I knocked over a broom, which dominoed into a tray of fritter samples, which scattered across the floor.

  As I was sweeping up the fritter crumbs with the fallen broom, I spotted Granny Smith wandering around the orchard. She was cute from afar, wearing a polka dot dress and a big pearl necklace. And her hair, a towering white beehive, was sturdier than an old oak in the wind.

  But as Granny Smith approached me, I could see she was anything but cute. She walked with her chin held high in the air, her nose pointed almost directly skyward.

  She looked down at me over her bifocals and snarled, “Finally I found an employee at this zoo. Do you know there's a miniature horse wandering among your guests?”

  I plastered a customer-service-smile on my face and responded, “Aw! So you've met our resident tiny horse, See-Saw. Isn't she adorable? And she gives great advice, too. Next time you see her, feel free to ask her to provide some insight on your life.”

  Granny Smith shook her head. “I will do no such thing. I do not seek advice from anyone, human or beast.”

  I kept smiling, although the muscles at the corners of my mouth tired with the extra effort. “That makes sense, I guess. How can I help you today, ma’am?”

  “What do you mean, ‘ma’am’? You mean to tell me you truly do not know who I am?”

  I shrugged. “I'm sorry. I grew up here, but I only moved back from the city a year ago. My aunt, Miss May, runs this farm. I help her here in the bakeshop and—”

  “Yes. I know who you are,” Granny Smith said, emphasizing the word 'you.' “You’re Chelsea Thomas. Your parents died tragically when you were but a pre-pubescent worm. You abandoned your home town for your schooling and stayed in the big city until some ridiculous man broke your heart and stole your interior design business out from under you. Now you're back in Pine Grove, tail between your short, stumpy legs, living a small town life. ‘Solving mysteries’ with your aunt.” Whoa! This lady really did know me. Maybe she knew me a little too well... “Shocked at the breadth of my knowledge about your life? We’ve met several times over the years. The fact that you don’t remember me is quite a shock. I’m one of the most notable residents of this quaint little town.”

  I bit my fingernail. Granny Smith’s name was about to become one I would never forgot. But that day, staring at the bifocalled tyrant with her towering hair, I had zero clue who this woman was.

  Granny Smith lost patience with my thinking face. “I'm Granny Smith! Town historian,” she declared, her high, snobby voice threatening to break the glass of the pastry case. “Descendent of Captain John Smith, famed colonial governor and admiral of New England? 1580. Died 1631. Much too young. Not ringing any bells yet? My family essentially founded this town. You have me to thank for these donuts you're selling in this wonderful orchard.”

  As I watched the old woman talk, my memory came flooding back to me. “Of course! Granny Smith.” The meanest old lady in town. “So nice to see you again.”

  “Yes, yes. Save the pleasantries,” she growled. “You've already bungled our reintroduction. Now I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Sure. What do you need?”

  Granny Smith handed me a sheet of paper. “Tomorrow, I'm hosting my 30th annual tour of Pine Grove’s historic homes. I would like you to supply this information to your customers today and help me spread the word about the momentous occasion. I'm known as quite an entertaining tour guide, although you might not guess it from looking at me.”

  I took the paper and scanned it. “Sounds like a lot of fun.”

  Granny Smith flomped a pile of fliers onto the counter. There aren’t even this many citizens of Pine Grove, I thought as I looked at the enormous stack of papers.

  I picked one up and read the text aloud, “Pine Grove Historic Homes Tour. Secrets of the Traitorous Brewster Family Revealed!” I looked back up at Granny Smith. “Secrets of the traitorous Brewster family revealed? I'm confused...that’s part of the home tours?”

  Granny Smith. “Oh yes. So glad you asked. Do you know the Brewster family? Are you aware of their traitorous history?”

  I shook my head. “I think I may have gone to school with one of the Brewsters but I haven't heard anything else...”

  “Yes I'm sure you have gone to school with one of the Brewster brood. There are so many. Johnny Brewster, Edwin Brewster, James Brewster, the one they call Pickle, and a few others. I can’t keep them all straight.”

  I pointed in the air, having an “aha” moment. “Pickle! Yup. I think we had math together my sophomore year.”

  “That doesn't matter, Chelsea. What matters is that I have recently discovered evidence that the first Brewsters in town were traitors during the Revolutionary War. They harbored British soldiers. Gave the lobsterbacks a safe place to stay while George Washington and his troops were on the battlefield.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Really? I had never heard that.”

  The town lawyer, Tom Gigley, approached from nearby. “I haven't heard that either. Is that true? How do you know?”

  “Oh it's most certainly true,” Granny Smith said. “I unearthed documents while exploring the tunnels that run beneath the town. They were constructed during the war to help the Americans, but I suspect the Brewsters use the tunnels for nefarious and traitorous purposes. Anyway, I found letters from Jebediah Brewster that he wrote to relatives in England. Jebediah bragged about how the Queen’s soldiers sipped tea in his kitchen. The same kitchen Sally Brewster cooks her disgusting brownies in now.”

  I leaned in. “I'm sorry. Tunnels?”

  Granny Smith shook her head. “Don't tell me you don't know about the tunnels.”

  Gigley stepped forward. “There are a series of labyrinthine tunnels that run beneath Pine Grove. They are believed to have been built during the Revolutionary War but they were used for many years after the end of the war. The union put them to use as part of the Underground Railroad and in the Civil War, in fact. And some say that Russian spies use the tunnels during the Cold War, trying to find new ways into New York City. Most of us old-timers know that the tunnels are there. But nobody really knows how to navigate them except for Granny Smith.”

  Granny Smith beamed. “That's right. I'm the keeper of the tunnels. I'm the keeper of all the secrets in this town. That's how I know all about the Brewsters and their disgraceful past.”

  Granny Smith turned to Gigley. “Mr. Gigley. Come to my historic homes tour this weekend. I’ll tell you all about what the Brewsters did. It wasn't limited merely to sharing tea with the enemy. No, their offenses went far beyond the realm of traditional British hospitality. Those Brewsters were a fundamental thorn in the side of the budding American nation.”

  A woman’s voice squawked from behind us. “You shut your donut hole with those lies, Granny Smith!”

  I turned and saw Sally Brews
ter shoving her way toward us through the bakeshop. Sally was chubby. Wearing a sweatshirt emblazoned with the face of a calico cat, a pair of baggy jeans and a rumpled leather fanny pack. She was rough around the edges, to say the least, but I took an immediate liking to her.

  Granny Smith took a step back as Sally got closer. “I will do whatever I please with my donut hole, Brewster. I wasn't telling lies. I was merely explaining that—”

  “You weren't explaining nothing! You’re tarnishing my family name.”

  Granny Smith laughed. “You do plenty to tarnish the Brewster name on your own. Shouldn't you be out there somewhere tarnishing it right now, in fact? Maybe riding an all-terrain vehicle through the forest, drunk on Budweiser Light with the rest of your clan?”

  “I only drink Bud Regular,” Sally said. “And we only took those four-wheelers out in the forest once or twice. To celebrate the holidays! There has never been a bad bone in any Brewster body. Now you take back all the bad things you said about us. And rip up those slanderous, libelous, no-good fliers!”

  Granny Smith shrugged. “If you have nothing to hide, why not include the Brewster property on the home tour? It was built prior to 1800. It certainly qualifies.”

  Sally scoffed. “I won't include my beautiful family home on your ridiculous, snotty tours. You'll get in there and you'll probably make up more lies. No way. You can't come anywhere near our place, you stinky old dingbat!”

  Granny Smith shrugged again. “Spoken like a true traitor.”

  Sally laughed. “Traitor? I'm a patriot. Half my t-shirts have the American flag on them. I even have a pair of jeans with the American flag on the tush.”

  Granny Smith rolled her eyes. “Those clothes may host the image of the American flag but your entire wardrobe was surely made in China. American-made things cost money. And you and all your clan have fallen into disreputable destitution. A well-deserved fate for those who turn their backs on their country.”