Cherry Pie or Die Read online

  Cherry Pie Or Die

  A Baker Street Mystery

  CeeCee James

  Copyright © 2017 by CeeCee James

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  *For my Family*

  Contents

  Blurb

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Blurb

  After a traumatic life event, Georgie Tanner returns to her hometown to start her life over... at 31 years old. Add sporadic memory loss to the mix and Georgie is a certified hot mess.

  Luckily, Aunt Cecelia is there with a job for Georgie. She might not feel able to take on the world, but she’s think she’s up for taking tourists through Gainesville, Pennsylvania's historic downtown. The place is as American as apple pie, steeped in rich Revolutionary history, Amish settlements, ghost stories, and colonial manors. Georgie knew it was a safe place to go to piece back her memories.

  After all, what could go wrong in a sleepy town like this?

  Until she leads a group of tourists through the Three Maidens’ Manor, a battle site converted into a museum. When the power goes out during the tour, Georgie thinks it’s a crazy fluke. But when it returns, she has six panicked guests, and a dead man in her midst.

  Who would want to kill him? And more importantly, which one of them was the murderer?

  This book is a work of fiction and although it does discuss events and places from the American Revolutionary War, the setting of the book is a fictional town utilizing facts from the war in order to enhance the story.

  Chapter 1

  The day was unseasonably warm for autumn, in just the type of way that made me regret wearing my cranberry-colored merino wool sweater. It looked amazing, but it was all I could do to ignore the sweat gathering in my bra. The sweater was one of the last surviving remnants from my dead career as a paralegal at a law firm, and I wore it with a mixture of emotions. Despite the heat, I was stuck wearing it now, with only a silk camisole underneath. I pushed up the sleeves and gripped the steering wheel with sweaty hands.

  Usually, early October was known for blustering winds and even an occasional snowfall here in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. But on my drive this morning, I was surprised to notice a few bright red Cardinal flowers still blooming along the road, competing with the orange and gold leaves.

  I drove my repurposed catering van down the bumpy dirt driveway to park in front of the Baker Street Bed and Breakfast, leaving clouds of dust behind me. The van did its usual clunks and shudders before finally turning off.

  This was my Aunt Cecelia’s business. Well, she wasn’t really my aunt, but that’s a complicated story. She ran the bed and breakfast out of her home, along with a tour company. Our little town, Gainesville, sat right in the thick of many rich American Revolution historical landmarks. We got an influx of tourists every year wanting help as they explored the area.

  That’s what made Cecelia’s bed and breakfast different. She’d come up with a unique vacation experience that coupled quaint bedrooms and home-cooked meals with a tour that took her guests to all of the best historical sites.

  I tucked my short hair around my ear—a new haircut for a new life, and I loved it—and looked at the B&B now. The climbing roses that added so much charm to the front of the house trailed up trellises that bordered each of the front windows. The roses were wild and wispy, and had lost most of their leaves. I wrinkled my nose. It was kind of getting late in the season to prune them back. I needed to find more time to get the chores done, that precious commodity that always had me chasing after it.

  We had seven guests staying at the B&B at the moment, and the first two—a married couple—strolled out onto the front porch. They must have been watching for me by the window. Michael and Rachel were their names, although I referred to them as Mr. and Mrs. Green.

  Mrs. Green waved and slid on a pair of enormous sunglasses that, even from this distance, I could see held a touch of class.

  Something that the used catering van was surely lacking. Still, this van had been the sole bargain the car salesman from Champions used car lot had shown me after our last vehicle threw an engine rod. Only one previous owner, the salesman had claimed, and super low miles! I should have been more suspicious when he added, “Don’t worry, the smell will air out.” But my wallet was on the slimmer side at the time, so it seemed like a deal to me.

  Well, it’s true the van had low miles, but the scent of barbecue sauce continued to linger in the air, especially on a hot day like today. I reached into the glove box and spritzed a bit of vanilla air freshener, then rolled down the window and climbed out.

  “Hi, there,” I said, with my million-watt customer smile, as I walked up the steps. The wood creaked under my leather boots. “How was last night? Did you have a good night’s sleep?”

  “Hi, Georgie! It was wonderful. So peaceful out here,” said Mrs. Green, running perfectly manicured fingers through her long, blonde hair. Carefully, she coiled it over one shoulder. She was a young woman, in her late twenties, but dressed in clothing suited to someone much older. Still, she was sophisticated, with her designer shoes and expensive purse.

  Her husband was tall, somewhere in his sixties, with hair as white as the first snowfall on the Pocono Mountains. The town didn’t have too many May/December residents, but I’d seen a fair number as guests.

  “You both ready to go exploring?” I asked as I skirted around them on my way to the front door.

  “You better believe we are,” Mrs. Green answered. So far she’d been an enthusiastic participant in the last two places we’d gone to. I’d been impressed, dressed as fancy as she was, that she didn’t mind delving into some of these dusty buildings and cemeteries. “But you-know-who is dragging her feet again.”

  Mr. Green chuckled while I bit back a groan. I knew exactly who Mrs. Green was referring too: Eliza Sue Remington, a self-proclaimed spinster in her early forties. That woman dressed as though she thought spinsterhood was her true calling in life, with her brown hair rolled into bobbing curls, elastic-waisted jeans, and blue tennis shoes.

  “Well, I’ll go check on her then. I’ll be right back,” I said.

  As I reached for the door, it swung open, and a third guest joined us. This was Mr. Peterson, a good-looking single man in his thirties from Boston, who claimed he was a serious history buff. He held an unlit cigarette.

  “All ready to go,” he said. “Just getting my last cancer stick in.”

  I smiled. “I’ll let everyone know I’m here, and then we can take off.”

  He lit his cigarette and took a drag. “Good luck with that.” He nodded, giving me a wink.

  I shook my head and walked inside. There was no doubt that man was a bit of a player, but because he was handsome, he thought he could get away with it.

  The inside of the Bed and Breakfast was kept in a vintage style. Cecelia ha
d purchased the home straight after her retirement, and had renovated it carefully to preserve all of its old charm. I could hear her now, singing as she bustled about in the kitchen. Sugary scents of French toast and coffee filled the air. I walked past the dining room and saw that, with the exception of a few coffee cups and a glass of orange juice, breakfast had been cleared.

  I entered the living room. Sitting on the couch, with bored expressions pasted to their faces, were the St. Claires. They were the other married couple, somewhere in their early forties, and were celebrating their wedding anniversary. They’d shared with me how they’d already been to Florida and South Carolina, and that Pennsylvania was their last hurrah before returning home.

  “We first met down in Florida,” Mrs. St. Claire had told me. “Out on the beach. Jared saw me and couldn’t wait to get me into his home. Va Va Va Voom!”

  It seemed by his countenance now that Mr. St. Claire was quite ready for his home once again. His head was propped on his upright arm that leaned against the couch, and he stared across the room with a sour expression. Glasses perched on his nose in dents that indicated he’d been wearing them for many years.

  Seated next to him, his wife was busy on her phone. Her unnaturally-bright red hair spoke of frequent trips to the hair salon. She glanced up as I entered. Her eyes were highlighted by thick blue shadow and ringed with extra-long fake lashes.

  “Good morning, everyone! You ready to go?” I said with a smile, trying to inconspicuously fan out my sweater. “Three Maidens’ Manor is going to be a lot of fun!”

  Mrs. St. Claire gave me a cheery hello, while her husband’s bored face changed into a wry grin. I turned to see what he’d been staring at.

  Eliza Sue was at the drawing table, trying to open a small paper bag. Strewn across the table were her jacket, one of those fancy metal water bottles with a screw top, and a jaunty red sun hat. The bag was wrinkled, and I could only imagine how long she’d been trying to pack it with her belongings.

  “Oh, hello, Georgie,” she called to me. She flipped the bag to open it again.

  “What’s going on over here?” I asked, walking to the table.

  Her brown curls quivered as she tried to jam the thin coat into the bag, but the bag kept collapsing due to the jacket’s size. My hands twisted together behind my back, wanting to help her.

  “It’s just that this”—she blew away a fat curl that had fallen across her face—“this bag won’t stay open.” Frustrated, she gave the bag a few more flicks. The rustling papery sound of it was giving me anxiety.

  I glanced over my shoulder at the waiting guests. Mr. St. Claire took off his glasses to clean them, and maybe to hide an eye roll. His wife nudged his shoulder and whispered to him to stop.

  Their little interaction made me smile. People watching was one of my favorite things about this job. I’d been running this tour for just under a year, after being offered the job by Aunt Cecelia. I called her Aunt Cecelia because she and my grandma had been best friends. My parents had died in a car accident when I was four. I barely remembered them, a fact that hurt more than I thought any actual memories would. It had been my grandma who had raised me, a quick-witted, loving woman who always had a hug. She’d spent so much time with Cecelia, that Cecelia had been just as likely to make cookies with me or threaten to tan my hide if I was late getting home as my grandma.

  And, at the age of thirty, I guess you could say Cecelia rescued me. Just over a year ago, I was working nearly sixty hours a week in Pittsburgh as a paralegal to a lawyer who specialized in estates. A lot of the families in that area had Revolutionary war memorabilia that had been passed down through the generations, and part of my job was helping people figure out the value of those old heirlooms. It was fun, but exhausting. I’d been engaged to a man who always made me laugh and made me feel loved. You know what I mean by loved? That kind of feeling you get when you’re scared to do something, but then you think of that special person and it makes you brave enough to do it anyway.

  Derek. I smiled as I thought of him, now. He had some quirks that had driven me crazy. He’d liked to whistle all the time, but only three or four notes. He’d adored sneaking up behind me to scare me. He’d stubbornly insisted that tacos were better in a soft shell than a hard one, and he snored like crazy. But he’d loved me.

  And I loved him.

  Then one day changed everything. And when it did, Grandma was gone. So it had been Cecelia who reached out to help me try to pick up the pieces.

  I sighed and pushed the thoughts about Derek from my head.

  The front door slammed behind me and the Greens and Mr. Peterson rejoined us.

  One more person, Sarah, a dark-haired athletic girl who’d proudly announced to us that she’d just won Iowa’s Regional Amateur Women’s Physique Championship, came in from the kitchen. The six guests stared at me, and then at Eliza Sue, as if trying to telegraph with the usual shuffling noises and coughs that they wanted me to make her hurry.

  By now, Eliza Sue had managed to get her large water bottle and hat in the bag, but was still struggling with the coat. Her forehead wrinkled and her lips pouted as she tried to stuff the garment inside.

  “Can I help?” I asked, with my hand held out. She looked at me for a moment then passed over the mess. As quickly as I could, I rolled up the coat to make it more compact and slid it next to the metal water bottle. The two items stuck out of the bag, looking like baguettes.

  “If you’d like,” I said, “your hat can sit right on top.” I placed the hat over the other items and handed the bag to her like a sack of groceries.

  “Okay.” I turned back to the group with a clap of my hands. “Is everyone ready?”

  A chorus of agreements rose around me. With a wave to Cecelia, who’d poked her white head out from the kitchen to wish us good luck, I led the guests to the waiting van.

  The sunlight was bright and the scent of fresh-cut grass hung in the air. I squinted at my watch as I opened the van’s side sliding door. We weren’t running too late. Everyone climbed in and found a spot on one of the green vinyl seats.

  I waited until they were all settled. Then, with a cheery smile, I said, “Good morning again, everyone!”

  They greeted me back, with the exception of Eliza Sue, who still fretted with her bag. Finally, she scrunched it into the empty space under her seat.

  “You’re all in luck,” I continued. “As you can see, it’s a beautiful day. The drive out to the manor will be especially gorgeous. First, we’ll be visiting the Three Maidens’ Manor, and I guarantee there’s some history there that will make your blood run cold. Then, I have lunch planned at the Boar’s Head Tavern, and finally, I’ll be dropping you all off back here, where you can continue with your dinner plans. Sound good? Everyone ready to go?”

  After hearing their agreements, I slid the van door shut and hurried around to the driver’s side. Once in the seat, I adjusted the rearview mirror, only to discover Mr. Peterson smiling back at me. He gave me another wink. I quickly averted my eyes and started the engine.

  Old Bella, as I lovingly—and sometimes not so lovingly—referred to the van, gave a few harsh coughs before finally turning over. Another quick glance in the mirror showed the vehicle spewing its customary blue plume of exhaust, and I knew she was ready to go.

  I shifted into gear, and with a lurch and a squeal from someone in the back seat, we were off.

  Little did I know what we were really heading into.

  Chapter 2

  The drive to the manor was as incredible as I’d promised. I hummed happily, autumn being my favorite time of year. Spring was pretty amazing, and summer was nice, but you’d be hard pressed to find more vibrant fall colors anywhere else in the US. I’d sure missed it living in the city. It was like someone’s grandma had laid her crazy quilt over the mountains. And the air! You couldn’t beat that country air.

  I breathed in deeply now, with my arm resting on the van’s open window. Like I said, the warm temperature
had resurrected the old barbecue ghost, but the fresh air had nearly chased it away.

  We rattled down the country road that led to Three Maidens’ Manor, my driver’s seat bouncing hard on its worn-out springs. I had the seat pulled up as close as I could to be able to reach the gas and brake pedal, short girl problems.

  I drove up the driveway and parked in front of the three-hundred-year-old building. It was a historical site now, but had once been an original Gainesville settler’s home. And the grisly history of the building went back just as far. I jumped out, with everyone else slowly following.

  As I waited for Eliza Sue to gather her things and disembark, I caught Mr. Peterson giving the young Mrs. Green a quick once-over with a small smile. Mrs. Green noticed his smile and brushed her long, blonde hair off her shoulder. She lifted an eyebrow above her tortoiseshell sunglasses, and he held her gaze as if challenging her. Slowly, she looked away.

  Interesting.

  I glanced at the elderly Mr. Green to see if he’d perceived the flirty look, but he was busy talking on his cell phone instead.

  By now, Eliza Sue stood next to us, puffing as though getting out of the van took an exorbitant amount of effort.

  I saw the bag in her hands. “Eliza Sue, would you like to leave that on the bus?”

  She shook her head adamantly and clutched it closer. “I like to keep my water with me.”

  “Okay, then. Are we all ready?” I asked.

  Mr. Green continued to talk on his phone, but gave me a slight wave in acknowledgement. The rest of the group responded positively as well. I led the little band up the porch to the entrance of the building. They followed me like good little ducklings after their mother.