Snoop to Nuts

Book 2: Nut House Mystery Series

by Elizabeth Lee

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Murder gets nutty in the latest in Elizabeth Lee's delectable Nut House series

Lindy Blanchard’s family pecan farm is known county-wide, but it’s the goodies her grandmother sells at their store, the Nut House, that really bring in the crowds—until someone turns one of her tasty treats deadly…

The “Most Original Pecan Treat” contest at the Ag Fair is the talk of Riverville, Texas, especially when it’s clear that Miss Amelia Blanchard’s Heavenly Texas Pecan Caviar will take home a blue ribbon. Which is why everyone is amazed when her dish doesn’t even place—and even more shocked when one of the judges, Pastor Jenkins, keels over dead, right after taking a second taste of Miss Amelia’s food.

No one in town truly believes that Amelia would even hurt a fly, but all the evidence points to poor Pastor Jenkins’ death being caused by poison in the caviar. Now, unless Lindy figures out who wanted to frame Amelia for murder, her meemaw may have baked her last famous pecan pie…

Release date: January 6, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

I believed right from the beginning that it was the prize-winning hog scooting down the crowded midway at the annual Riverville, Texas, Agriculture Fair that started it all. With so much uproar and carnival noise and screaming and running, everybody was drawn to the doors of the tents and echoing metal Ag buildings to watch the two-hundred-fifty-pounder with a blue ribbon attached to his collar as he zigzagged through tall legs in skinny jeans, leaping legs in wide-cut jeans, bowed legs in ancient jeans, and bare legs in jean shorts, on his way to his familiar sty back at the ranch where he was born.

I figured, much later, that it was all that hollering and laughing and betting, while a calliope ground out tinny music and ladies on the Ferris wheel squealed and teenagers kept thumping each other in the dodgem cars, that covered somebody (probably the person who let the pig loose in the first place) creeping into the Culinary Arts building to add something deadly to my grandmother, Miss Amelia’s, Heavenly Texas Pecan Caviar.

Not that the hog wasn’t the hit of the day, with a lot of money being made as bets were placed on how long it would take Deputy Hunter Austen of the Riverville Sheriff’s Department to capture him. My childhood friend, Hunter, stood tall in his well-pressed uniform practicing a couple of twirls with a rope someone from the rodeo, down near the Colorado River, tossed to him. I watched from the crowd as Hunter twirled a last time and sent the rope cutting precisely around his body and over the head of the frightened hog. He held on tight and lost some of his cool as the hog kept right on going, dragging Hunter behind him with his heels dug into the red dirt until finally the poor creature ran out of steam and stopped. Hunter took only a minute to sit on the ground and get his breath before jumping up, brushing dirt from his sharp-pleated pants, and taking a few overenthusiastic bows as bystanders clapped and whistled, with me whistling the loudest for my old friend.

The hog was led back to his pen in the hog building, which still left me with almost an hour before the judging of the Most Original Pecan Treat, the last and most important of the culinary arts contests at the fair. New this year, the Most Original Pecan Treat was thought, by the cooks of Riverville, to be the highest honor of all the honors handed out. The best of the best. “The crème de la crème, Lindy,” Cecil Darling, an Englishman and owner of The Squirrel Diner, told me as if in secret. Cecil loved to rub Rivervillians’ noses in our lack of “continental couth.” I had smirked at him, nastily thinking how he’d better not plan on winning with his spotted dick or whatever he called it, since nobody had a chance to win with my grandmother’s Heavenly Texas Pecan Caviar in the running.

The whole Most Original Pecan Treat contest was setting up to be the biggest event the fair had ever put on. There’d been whispers around town that Miss Amelia was the one to beat, and local chefs were ganging up to bring her down and end her years of dominating the culinary arts of Riverville. Didn’t matter. My meemaw had a leg up on the others with her cooking and baking the best of everything day after day at the Nut House, the family pecan store in town.

Ethelred Tomroy, one of Miss Amelia’s oldest and crankiest friends, even came into the Nut House one day to brag about her surprise entry and warn all who would listen to watch out. “Got me a winner,” she said and leaned back in her run-down oxfords and nodded her gray head so the bun at the back was bouncing.

I hung around to congratulate Hunter on his hog-tying skills and maybe get him to take me on the Ferris wheel, as he’d promised. I couldn’t be late for the judging, though. Miss Amelia was nervous as it was, with the whole world seeming to be lined up against her. I wanted to get there early to calm her down. I’d never seen my grandmother so twitchy and ill at ease over one more blue ribbon.

At home that morning Miss Amelia had me check and recheck the ice packs in her cooler, making sure the temperature was right for her special dishes. Since she’d already taken more ribbons than she could shake a stick at, she was mostly worried about the two bowls of her Heavenly Texas Pecan Caviar. One was for the judging and one for the Winners’ Supper afterward.

“Gotta be just right,” she muttered over and over as she bustled around the ranch’s large kitchen, making the caviar, then choosing the perfect bowls—finally settling on bowls with the Blanchard crest on them: three pecans nested in three green leaves above three wavy lines representing the Colorado River.

She’d checked the labels on the bowls again and again, muttering that things had to be just right. All of us around the breakfast table assured her there was nothing to worry about. Of course she was going to win the last, and most important, culinary event of the year.

My mama, Emma, dressed for the fair in her green Rancho en el Colorado shirt and jeans that were maybe a little too snug, hugged Miss Amelia and held her away to give her the order to “Calm down now, ya hear? You’re jumpy as spit on a hot skillet.”

“You’ll be there for the judging?” Miss Amelia had looked around and smiled nervously at all of us except Justin’s friend, Jeffrey Coulter. Justin and Jeffrey were roommates during their undergrad years at Oklahoma University. Jeffrey, who’d been visiting a week now, was busily reading the financial section of the Riverville Courier and sniffing from time to time at how little news he could get of the New York Stock Exchange. Jeffrey, one of those people perpetually wrapped up in his own concerns, ignored Miss Amelia, as he usually did, not having much patience with the worries of elderly relatives.

“We’re gonna be there to celebrate with you,” my younger sister, Bethany, said. At twenty-three, Bethany was still young enough to be lost in her own world, but even she looked up from the bride magazine she was engrossed in, nodding and promising she would be there real soon to help set up, since she was the decorator in the family and the person running our new event pavilion, where she was planning big weddings and political events and all kinds of celebrations. Bethany spent a lot of time thinking about free-flying doves and billows of white tulle, and cakes built up to look like the Alamo.

On the midway, I moved under the canvas overhang of a taco stand to get away from the hot sun and see if I could pick out Hunter in the crowd. People pushed everywhere around me. I waved and shared happy smiles with women from Miss Amelia’s church, old school buddies, and other ranchers. Texans do know how to have a good time, and Ag Fair was a time for a big celebration in our community of many pecan farms.

No Hunter. Either some police business had come up or he was still laughing about his hog-tying adventure with friends and forgot about taking me on the Ferris wheel, which made me a little mad because Hunter and I were old friends, maybe even a little more than friends and I didn’t like being stood up.

I checked my watch. If he didn’t show up soon, there wouldn’t be time to do anything. Bethany was probably there already, tending to what she called “staging” Meemaw’s entry, fussing over whether the green and white bowl looked better against a backdrop of green plastic pecan leaves or whether the cut-out family crests should be sprinkled indiscriminately or made to form a border around the bowl of caviar—all things that bored me to tears.

Maybe, I thought, as I spotted Freda Cromwell, Riverville’s worst gossip, and looked around for the fastest escape route, I should have been paying more attention to Miss Amelia lately. She’d been looking concerned about something, not smiling as much as usual. Summer days in this part of Texas could be long and hot. Meemaw did a lot of baking and cooking, what with the tourist buses coming to town, stopping at the Nut House, and buying up all her baked goods and pecan candies and barbecue sauces. Maybe fatigue was normal for a woman in her seventies. But with Miss Amelia, any crack in that strong façade made me worry.

Anyway, no matter what was causing it, I’d decided to lend a hand in the store whenever I could though my work out in the greenhouses took up most of my time.

Now where was Hunter? He could be maddening. So straight and serious about his job, being one of Riverville’s three deputies, and so goofy and kid-like when off duty and ready to have fun.

But this was the last day of the fair. The Ferris wheel would be grinding to a halt soon and the roadies would begin to tear it down.

Feeling a little disappointed, I turned to walk back down the midway. I was thinking that maybe I’d stop in the Pecan Culture Building to take a last look at my own pecan cultivars, each with a blue ribbon attached. First in every horticulture category. First in new varietals. Best of Show for my strain of pecan tree that was a cross between the Carya illinoinensis and Carya ovata—the first drought resistant and the second an early budder. Of course, I’m a trained botanist but other ranchers hired botanists, too, and nobody, as yet, had come up with a strain of pecan trees that came close to what I was producing.

I decided to treat myself to a deep-fried ice cream, then stood licking fast and watching the crowd. Many walking by yelled out support for Meemaw in the contest. They waved and punched thumbs in the air. Others congratulated me on sweeping the new varietal judging.

I licked my ice cream as I settled in the shade of the overhead canvas and took in the sounds and sights and people all around me. I thought about how me and Meemaw sure made a pair. Meemaw with blue ribbons for her Very Special Pecan Pie, her Classy Tassies, Pecan Round-em-up Grilling Glaze, and still to come, for her Heavenly Texas Pecan Caviar.

I envied her pure Texas charm in the face of beating out all the other cooks in town. Never a wicked gleam in her eye and not once did she lord it over Ethelred Tomroy, her cranky friend, who took second place in just about everything year after year after year. And she graciously put up with Ethelred’s grousing over the bad judging, the need for new contest rules, and her complaining that the contests were “Nothing but popularity contests anyway. They just like you better than they like me.” Which was true since Ethelred Tomroy rarely had a good word for anybody. Still, the contest judges were usually drawn from the clergy or were officers in the Pecan Co-op or members of the Agricultural Fair committee and therefore above reproach.

I straightened my jeans and pulled my ranch T-shirt away from my sticky skin. I took a moment, stepping out into the straight-up boiling sunshine, to pull my hair out of the ponytail I usually wore and brush it out around my face with my fingers. I figured, at twenty-nine, I still had a responsibility to look as good as I could look. Maybe I wasn’t in the marriage market—too busy working with my pecan trees to have time for flirting and dating, but still there was no reason I had to look like I’d just stepped out of a greenhouse, with dirt under my fingernails, hair slicked back out of my eyes, and streaks of honest Texas sweat running down my face.

I made my way past the pink, blue, and white umbrellas shielding fair food booths. I stopped to talk to kids I knew from high school, who were no longer kids and now pushed baby strollers. That took time since I had to bend over each baby and coo and carry on, and sometimes remark on the lovely hands because the baby was so . . . well, not ugly but . . . “different looking.”

Soon all that was left were a few minutes to maybe visit a game booth, win myself a giant panda or a Texas flag. But there was Ethelred Tomroy steaming toward me with a fixed look on her face. With only a few seconds before impact, I took evasive action, ducking behind a couple of old cowboys wearing white hats wide enough to shade a barrel of beer.

I skirted the big hats and lolling cowboys then stepped behind a Coca-Cola stand. I thought I’d outsmarted her until she came barreling around the front of the stand to corner me.

“Well, Lindy Blanchard, just the girl I was lookin’ for.” Ethelred, sturdy and solid in a flowered housedress with perfect sweat circles under her arms, blocked my escape. She held her clasped hands in front of her, stopped to pant a little, and leaned back on her oxfords. “You coming over for the judging? Think I got your grandmother beat this time. You gotta have some of my Pecan Surprise Tomato Puff. Never taste the beat of it.”

“Good luck to you, Miss Ethelred.” I pasted on my best phony smile. “I’m sure all you ladies have an equal chance to take the prize.”

“Well, maybe this time things will be fair. We got that new pastor from Rushing to Calvary leading the judging. I’ve been waiting for somebody with a little more sophistication than the usual around here.”

“Didn’t he come from Tupelo?”

“Sure did.” She nodded hard, sending stray steel gray hairs waving around her head. “Elvis Presley’s hometown. Mississippi people know good food when they taste it. None of that business about flavors having to go together and things like that. Nope, I’m sure today will be a new day in Riverville, Texas. You just wait and see.”

She smirked but looked pale behind the sweat beads on her face. “Saw you took Best of Show with those tiny pecan trees of yours. All I can say about that is you better not go messing with Texas nuts. Fancy education or no fancy education, we’re happy with the nuts we got and don’t cotton to change.”

I checked my watch. “I think the judging’s about to begin, Ethelred.” I held the watch up for the woman to see. “Shouldn’t you be getting on over there?”

Ethelred’s protruding eyes bulged. “Goodness, don’t want to be late for this one. No sir, don’t want to be late.”

And she was off as I watched her bent back move away from me. I was fuming and running things I should have said through my head when an arm slid around my waist and a familiar voice was at my ear.

“You see me get that hog, Lindy?” Hunter, red-faced and still extremely proud of himself, stood beside me. “Rope landed just where I sent it. Couldn’t have been a better throw, don’t you think?”

His straight and firm mouth bowed up into a huge grin. He still wore his uniform because he was supposed to be on duty, walking around, nodding to people, representing the Sheriff’s Department and Sheriff Higsby, who had an election coming up in the fall.

“My favorite part was when you fell on your behind.” I brushed off his arm.

“Kind of felt like rodeoing there for a while.” He laughed at himself the way he often did.

“Where’ve you been?” I pushed at his chest. “Now there’s no time for the Ferris wheel.”

“Sure there is. They didn’t pull it down. Won’t for a couple of hours.”

“I’ve gotta be over to the Culinary Arts Building for Meemaw’s last contest.”

“Oh, that’s right.” He struck his forehead with his hand. “Forgot.”

He grinned again. “So how about I buy you some fried butter instead? Hear that’s going over real good this year.” He pointed to a stand with cutouts of sticks of butter flying around the selling window.

“Yeah, and a Roto-Rooter man to clear out my arteries.”

“You’re no fun. How about Kool-Aid Pickles, or fried cheesecake.”

“I’ve got to go.”

He smiled the kind of smile I’d warned him about. The kind that made me loose in the stomach. We’d agreed not to get serious or anything “yucky,” way back when we were twelve and fourteen. The agreement still held, though once in a while wide open cracks threatened to tear down all old agreements. Like now. With that smile of his.

“I’ll see you for the judging,” he said. “I gotta walk around the beer tent one more time. Just to let the boys know I’m still on duty.” He gave me a wave and was gone, lost in the throng of happy Texans.

Chapter Two

The familiar smells in the huge, echoing Culinary Arts Building were of sugars and roasted pecans and every spice I ever imagined existed. Standing in the wide-open doors, I took in all the women dressed in their Sunday best, and all the men, old and young, in new and old cowboy hats and worn-down boots and plaid shirts and fringed shirts. All of this was a part of a world I knew so well, with everybody smiling and gossiping and excited to be there. This was my home—Riverville and all its people. This was the place I loved most. Even while I’d been away at Texas A&M, I’d missed my town. I’d missed the pecan farm and the whispers of the tall, old trees, the smell of the Colorado River running through our property, the sweetness of the Nut House, the hot afternoons out on the porch waving to passing neighbors.

It still felt good, being a part of the farming scene again, with the November harvest and packing, the excitement of spring rains, the budding of the stately trees, my meemaw introducing a new delicacy at the Nut House. Now I had my own place in it, with an apartment over the Nut House, where I looked down on Carya Street and watched the citizens of Riverville going about their slow, hot days, and slower, warm evenings, finding time to stop and talk, ask about a sick person here, a person in need there.

I worked hard, hoping to make life easier for all of us ranchers with a strain of pecans that could withstand deep Texas drought, could fight off scab and funguses, and hold the blossoms better. All of this to take some of the misery out of the lives of the farmers and ranchers at the mercy of Mother Nature, the way my daddy, Jake Blanchard, had been at the mercy of the rains and winds and heat.

I was stopped on my way to the center of the room, where the judging tables were set up, to be congratulated by Hawley Harvey, investment banker in town and a trustee on the board of the Rushing to Calvary Independent Church. Hawley was one of those jolly, round guys who shouldn’t ever wear anything with fringe on it, like the vest he was wearing today. And, of course, the way-too-wide cowboy hat and new boots that screamed “I never saw a horse in my life.” He makes me think of Santa Claus, with his happy “ho, ho, ho”-ing. The only thing that puts me off about Hawley is that he likes to hug young women and kiss them on the cheek—big wet kisses. He leaned in for that hug—okay—but I leaned out so the kiss didn’t quite make it to my cheek, just hung in the air between us.

“Congratulations, Lindy. Heard about your big win. You ever think about investing any of those big bucks you’re going to be making, come on over to the Dallas Building any day. I’ll take good care of you. Making some serious money for folks around here, you know.” He nodded hard, though I hadn’t challenged him. “You go ask Simon George and Elder Perkins. Turn you into a millionaire, too, like I’m doin’ for the church. Yes siree. Hope you’re coming to the ground breaking for our spectacular addition.” The short man smiled ear to ear. His bright new boots almost brought him eye to eye with me, but not quite.

I assured him that Ben Fordyce, the family attorney, saw to all of our investments. But Hawley Harvey, never a man to be overshadowed, shook his head and gave a chiding tongue cluck. “Man knows his law. But I know how to protect yer nest egg. Turn it over and over until it grows like one of those weeds you botany people study.”

I politely elbowed my way past him to Miss Amelia’s table, where her Heavenly Texas Pecan Caviar was set out in the large bowl still covered with a sparkling white cloth. Small paper dishes and napkins and plastic spoons were arrayed on the paper-covered table on top of Bethany’s leaves and family crests.

Miss Amelia’s steel gray hair had been carved tall by Sally Witbeck over at the New York Salon of Beauty. Meemaw had even rubbed a little color into her cheeks and had a dusty line of shadow on her eyelids. She nervously rearranged her plates and napkins, then stopped to look around the huge room as if searching for someone. Her face lit up with pleasure when she spotted me.

“Lindy, I’m so glad you’re here.” Meemaw kissed my cheek and looked deep into my eyes. “What do you think?”

She waved toward her space on the table. “You think it’s too much? Bethany wanted to bring over silver spoons but I told her it’s a rule; the judges have to use those white plastic things the fair committee provides. But you know Bethany. Doesn’t listen, like all Blanchard women. So I just said, ‘Go ahead.’ But I took ’em off.”

“I like it, Meemaw. Looks pretty.”

“I was thinking it should have been like a Nut House logo, if I had one different from the ranch. Would’ve been a little classier, which is only right for my Heavenly Texas Pecan Caviar. But you know Bethany. Gonna do what she wants to do.”

“Don’t you worry. It’s not the decoration that’ll knock the judges’ socks off.”

Miss Amelia snapped her mouth shut and looked deep into my eyes. She looked tired, which wasn’t usual for my high-speed grandmother. “Don’t you go gettin’ your hopes up, Lindy. There’s more important things in this world than winning another blue ribbon, you know.”

I grinned at her. “I don’t buy the humble act, Meemaw.”

Meemaw would normally have laughed along with me, but not today. She frowned, twisted her hands together, and gave me a look that signaled how tightly she was wound.

Ethelred Tomroy, sitting on a folding chair at the place next to Miss Amelia’s, turned her body around to face us. Ethelred looked worn out, too, maybe from all the lobbying she’d been doing for herself. “I hear tell people think Cecil Darling’s gonna take it today,” she called over. “Got something down there called spotted dick. Some kind of English pudding with pecans and a cream sauce . . .” She quieted as Mrs. Vernon Williams, Superintendent of the Culinary Arts Building and a member of the Riverville Chamber of Commerce, took her place at one end of the long judging table and raised her hands for quiet.

“As if an Englishman could make anything better than a good Texas woman,” Ethelred hissed as the festivities got under way.

Mrs. Williams, in her stylish red suit, red high heels, and helmet hair, called for the contestants to uncover their dishes.

There was a general oohing and aahing as the treats were revealed. People hurried to check out what Miss Amelia had prepared since she was always the odds-on favorite.

“Why, goodness’ sakes, what’s that called?” little Dora Jenkins, wife of the new pastor at the Rushing to Calvary Independent Church, one of today’s judges, asked, admiring the mélange of jalapeños, bell peppers, black-eyed peas, chopped pecans, and diced tomatoes, all tossed with herbs and spices.

“Heavenly Pecan Texas Caviar.” Miss Amelia smiled at the thin woman in a blue straw hat that matched her blue straw purse.

Dora looked up, wide-eyed. “Well, for goodness’ sakes. Won’t Millroy like that one, though?”

Miss Amelia looked over at Dora’s sister, Selma, standing behind her. Selma’s nervous eyes blinked and moved back and forth, from Dora to Miss Amelia, as if finding the whole business of an Agricultural Fair beyond her comprehension. The woman was dressed neatly in a pale blue summer dress that went almost to the floor, covering the one built-up shoe she wore.

“Morning, Selma,” Miss Amelia greeted Dora’s older sister. “Hope you’re well.”

“I certainly am, Miss Amelia.”

“And how’s that lovely garden of yours doing?”

“Just fine, thanks to all the nice people of the church and the help y’all been giving me.”

“We’re happy to do it, Selma. I’ll be over your way next Tuesday. My weeding day, if I remember right.”

“I hate to ask it of you, Miss Amelia. I mean, with the Nut House and all, I just don’t see how you have the energy.”

“Don’t you worry about me, Selma. I’m doing fine. Long as I got my health, nothing’s going to stop me.”

The women moved on to take a look at Ethelred’s Pecan Surprise Tomato Puff. Selma, with her one high shoe on her one short leg, dragging just a little behind the other.

Mama rushed in, a little late as usual, and a little out of breath. “Didn’t start yet, did they?” Emma asked.

“Glad you made it.”

I turned into a big hug from Bethany, who’d come up behind us with Jeffrey Coulter, our houseguest. He stood away, looking off into the distance then turning to Justin, saying something he found funny as Justin walked up with Martin Sanchez, foreman out at our ranch.

I nodded to Jeffrey. Enough of a greeting. To tell the truth, I couldn’t wait until Jeffrey Coulter went back to New York City. When Justin was in college, studying business, Jeffrey had come home with him once, for a weekend. That had been enough for me—all that snobbery and condescension, but even then Bethany had acted silly and smitten with the good-looking guy.

Watching as Bethany turned back to Jeffrey now, and directed a very coy, Southern lady wave at him, I was afraid the same thing was happening. Although I hadn’t said a word to Justin about his friend, I was getting the feeling even he was sick and tired of having the man around. Two weeks more. The guy was supposedly looking at properties for his father, a New York City investor who wanted to build a mall between Riverville and Austin. For all the properties he was inspecting, it seemed to me he was mostly underfoot, and mostly half sneering at our country ways.

“You take a look at the other entries?” Emma, her short, tousled hair held back with a green headband, leaned in to whisper. I shook my head.

“Where are the silver spoons?” Bethany’s eyes flew wide as she hunted around the table. “Somebody took my silver spoons!”

“Shh . . .” I cautioned. “Can’t have ’em out. Committee rules.”

“Oh, pooh on the committee’s rules. I know what’s tasteful and what isn’t. Plastic spoons aren’t.” She turned to smile up at Jeffrey, giving me a twist in my stomach. I hadn’t witnessed such blatant flirting since Angela Hornbeck had a crush on Hunter in seventh grade. I’d practiced raising one eyebrow for hours in the mirror, hoping to outdo Angela, who knew how to bat her eyelashes, raise her eyebrows, and flick her blond hair around—all at the same time. Good thing Angela Hornbeck moved to England after high school and married a lord or a duke or something like that and lost interest in Hunter.

Still in a huff, Bethany stepped forward to straighten a few of the family crests she’d laid out, then back to take Jeffrey by the arm and squeeze it a little, anticipating the arrival of the judges.

Suzy Queen, wife of Morton Grover, who owned the Barking Coyote Saloon, hurried over to throw her arms around Miss Amelia and give her a big smack on the cheek.

Dressed to kill in a fuchsia Spandex dress that barely covered the essentials, Suzy Q’s black hair was puffed out a foot around her head. She wore makeup enough to decorate a clutch of clowns and smiled from ear to ear at all of us. Suzy latched on to my elbow and pulled me around into a big, perfume-laden bear hug.

“Most of us are only hoping to take a white ribbon, Lindy. It’ll be a life-changing moment fer yer meemaw to win this one. Winningest woman at the fair. I’d say everybody but Ethelred’s pulling for her.”

She hurried off on high heels tall enough to tip her over at the first dip in the cement floor.

The girls stepped up next. Meemaw’s very special friends. Miranda and Melody Chauncey had been a part of Riverville since the day they were born. That was over eighty years ago now and still the twins,