Page 9 of Poison Apple Crisp
“Sure thing.” Brenda hands it to him.
Noah inspects the inside of the book. “Brenda, this isn’t signed by the author who penned the novel. This is signed by Desmond himself. Where did you get this?” he asks before returning it to her.
“An anonymous donor.” A smile inches on her lips. “And that signature—isn’t it creepy? Desmond Meadows was still alive after it was published. It was one of his personal copies he was gifting to a friend. Let’s just say, I’m hoping this book lands in the right hands.”
Everett gives a wistful tick of the head. “There are a lot of crime buffs that would pay big money for that.” He looks to me. “If you’re not familiar with Desmond Meadows, he’s the guy that was accused of killing his wife and disposing of her. The body was never found, and he went missing for some time before they found him facedown in a river. It was ugly.”
Noah nods. “And they were just about to take him to trial. They have footage of him disposing of garbage bags near his home. His girlfriend is still out there and wanted. She was spotted helping haul the trash bags to the dumpster.”
“Wow, that’s dark,” I say.
Brenda shrugs as if she was indifferent. “Speaking of dark, we need to get this party moving so we can all head home and get to bed. I’ve got a fiancé to entertain, if you know what I mean.” She chortles as she looks to Rachelle. “How about one more round of dessert before I do the official welcome?”
They take off and I note Cokie glaring in their direction. “I’m feeling a bit hungry for dessert myself.”
The crowd grows rowdier by the second as Everett, Noah, and I peruse the silent auction. I hardly mentioned that I had my eye on a set of cast iron skillets, and Noah was quick to bid on them. And then Everett promptly outbid him.
This happened three more times, and if Everett’s bids can hold their own, I might be the happy new owner of not only that set of cast iron skillets, but a pair of shearling boots, a stack of gorgeous iridescent journals with matching fancy pens, and a basket full of every coffee, pumpkin spice tea, and dessert you can think of. Personally, I’m hoping to at least make off with that last one.
Soon the lights flicker and all attention is given to the podium, where Cokie welcomes us to another year of learning and fun. After a few minutes, she gives the limelight to Brenda Phillips who takes the podium next. Brenda fidgets with the microphone, adjusting its height, and a horrible squeal goes off, forcing me to turn my head, and when I do, I spot Cokie and a fairly decent looking bald man having what looks to be a hostile, yet oddly hushed exchange. He points over to the podium, and Cokie pulls his arm down quickly before nodding rather aggressively.
He glances around before straightening the jacket of his suit by way of a tug of his lapels before calmly striding over to the podium and giving Brenda his full attention. He’s landed no less than two feet from Rachelle Dalton, and now the two of them look as if they’re both giving Brenda the stink eye.
Strange.
But then, I suppose his behavior, much like hers, has something to do with behind-the-scenes school politics. Something tells me the parents here are capable of just as much drama as the kids, if not more.
“Welcome everyone, again.” Brenda’s voice booms across the room at deafening decibels. “I want to thank you all for coming out myself. Please don’t hesitate to part with a little of your hard-earned money this evening. All proceeds go straight to the general fund, which will be used to purchase brand new computers for the library study hall, for the seniors’ trip to Washington, D.C., and the renovation of the very floor you’re standing on. We plan on having an entire overhaul completed on the gym before basketball season starts up.” A weak applause breaks out, and I note Rachelle leaning toward a woman with chestnut-brown waves. She has a broad forehead, a dusting of freckles, and a rather irate look on her face. She looks charged as she nods to Rachelle about something, and soon they’re both shaking their heads in disgust. I happen to glance down, and what I see freezes me solid.
It’s Pinky! The woman with the chestnut waves is the same woman that shoved Brenda earlier.
Ha!
Hey? Maybe that tiny fluffball of trouble was simply here to mitigate an argument? Maybe my powers are growing once again and we’re moving past the homicide stage and on to something far more civil, like a catfight?
Brenda holds up one of my individual apple crisps.
“And when you have a chance, please indulge in the terrific desserts. These apple crisps are going to be the end of me. I’ve had ten if I haven’t had thirty.” She starts to laugh before she takes a gasping breath. “And—and if you’d like, you can thank the baker herself.” Her voice grows weak as she gives a little cough. “Lottie Lemon.” She looks my way. “These are just so delicious—” Her voice croaks as she pushes away the papers sitting on the podium in front of her with a violent swipe.
Brenda grabs ahold of her throat and begins to gag as her face turns a bright shade of red, then purple, and then just as quickly, she’s as blue as a berry.
Brenda falls to the floor, clutching my apple crisp in her hand just as the room breaks out into gasps and screams.
The woman in pink kitten heels runs over to her and quickly checks Brenda’s vitals before looking up at the crowd and shaking her head.
Brenda Phillips won’t have to worry about her wedding cake or any other details regarding her big day.
Brenda Phillips is dead.
Chapter 3
The room breaks out into screams of terror, and with the excellent acoustics in here, it sounds as if we’ve just hit the climax in a murder-centric opera.
“Lottie.” Noah pulls me in a moment. “Did you see anything suspicious?” He ticks his head. “Maybe you can find that dog you mentioned and see if you can shake some clues out of it?”
“I’ll do my best.”
His eyes ride up and down my body.