Albert Baantjer - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 127, No. 6. Whole No. 778, June 2006

“How’d you guess?” Nick acknowledged with a smile.

“Oh, I can tell city folks. I’m Beth Buckley, chairman of the organizing committee. If you want to see the Junior Fair Horse Show it starts in thirty minutes in the Horse Ring.”

“We’re more interested in the apple-pie-baking contest,” Gloria informed her.

Nick quickly tried to explain their interest. “We have a cousin who was thinking of entering.”

“Oh? Perhaps it’s someone I know.”

“I doubt it. She’s new to the area.”

“Well, you’re a day early. The pie judging isn’t till tomorrow morning at eleven in the Fine Arts Building. It’s down this way, that building just beyond the Activities Tent.”

“Thank you, Miss Buckley,” Gloria said.

“It’s Mrs. Buckley, but you can call me Betty. Everyone does.”

“How is the pie judging done?” Nick wondered. “Do you have a panel of judges?”

“No, no! If we had a panel they’d eat up the whole pie and we couldn’t auction it off. We just have one judge, our local baker, Leonard Fine. He has the Fine Bake Shop out on Union Road. Makes the most delicious pastries!”

“We’ll have to give him a try,” Nick promised. “How does he go about the judging?”

“It’s a wonder to watch,” Betty told them, obviously warming to one of her favorite topics. “He sits on stage behind a table with the apple pies lined up, maybe six or eight of them, each with a small slice taken out. He studies each one, touches the crust, tastes the slice, and makes a few notes. Sometimes he goes back to a pie for another taste. All this time he never changes his expression. And of course he doesn’t know who submitted which pie. They’re all numbered, and the women who baked them are seated there in front of him with their friends and family, just dying of the suspense. Finally he announces the winner and usually says a few words in praise of that pie. The woman who baked it comes forward to accept her blue ribbon.”

“That’s all she gets?” Gloria asked. “A blue ribbon?”

“It’s a great honor, believe me.”

“Do men ever enter?” Nick asked.

“We had a man win the second-place red ribbon a few years back, but he took a lot of kidding. Haven’t had any men since then. That’s not to say a man can’t bake a good pie or cake, though. Len Fine is the best proof of that. I’ve heard of some county fairs that have a men’s contest for pie baking, but we don’t have enough men interested in it here.”

“You mentioned auctioning off the winning pie.”

“That’s right,” Betty confirmed with a nod. “Actually we auction off all the pies. There’s always a husband or beau willing to bid on them. That’s why the judge only eats a small slice. The pies are delivered in covered plastic containers and they’re sold in the same container. The proceeds go to the 4-H Club. Of course the blue-ribbon winner always brings the highest bids. Last year it went for ninety-five dollars.”

“That much?” Gloria asked with just a touch of irony.

Betty glanced at her watch. “Look, I’m supposed to be at the swine evaluations in five minutes. You two enjoy yourselves and maybe I’ll see you at the pie judging in the morning.”

“Well, the people are certainly friendly here,” Nick decided when she’d gone.

“This is great, Nicky! You won’t have to steal the pie at all. Just bid on it and you’ll get it for under a hundred dollars.”

“So it would seem. But apparently Milo Marx tried that last year and they wouldn’t sell it to him. Told him the pies were just for locals.”

Gloria chuckled. “Maybe they add a little pot or something, like that Chicago restaurant owner you used to know.”

“Can you picture that at the Jackson County Fair?”

“No, I guess not.”

They drove out to the Fine Bake Shop on Union Road and found it to be a bustling little place with a tempting selection of pies, cakes, and breads. While Gloria was purchasing an angel food cake with white frosting and multicolored sparkles, Nick asked if Len Fine was around.

“He’s in the back,” a teenaged clerk replied. “Want me to get him?”

Presently a handsome muscular man appeared, wearing a flour-covered apron over a bright red shirt. “I’m Len Fine. What can I do for you?”

Nick produced a business card he sometimes used. “My name is Nicholas. We’re doing a feature on county fairs for Sunday Magazine, and I understand you’ll be judging the apple-pie contest in the morning.”

“That’s right. Do it every year. Sometimes I judge the cakes, too, but this year I’m just doing the pies.”

Nick produced a notepad and pen, giving his best imitation of a journalist. “What do you consider the most important factors in judging a good apple pie?”

“First of all, the flavor of the apple must come through, and I always give high marks to appearance as well. The pie crust is important. I look for a crust that’s a bit flaky without falling apart. There’s a woman here in town, last year’s blue-ribbon winner, who has a near perfect crust recipe using egg and vinegar. I always know her pies. And her designs, occasionally with an intricate latticework covering, are the best I’ve ever seen. She may repeat her win again this year.”

“I’d be interested in interviewing her,” Nick told him. “Could you give me her name?”

“Sure, it’s Maggie Oates. She lives just a few blocks from here, and I know she’d love to see her name in the papers. I can call her if you’d like.”

“That would be helpful, especially if she ends up winning again.”

They parked in front of a two-story house with light green siding and a wide front porch. Maggie Oates was a pleasant, attractive woman in her thirties who greeted them at the door with a broad smile. “You’re the magazine folks Len phoned me about?”

“That’s right,” Nick said, offering his card. “This is Gloria, my photographer.” On cue, Gloria produced her impressive-looking digital camera.

“Come right in! My husband’s still at work but he’ll be home soon.” She led the way into the kitchen, a room that seemed to dominate the first floor of their modest house. Several pie tins were deployed along the countertop, and a finished pie cut into six pieces already had two pieces missing. “You’ll have to excuse the mess. It’s always like this at county-fair time. I like to work alone and ignore the clutter.”

“Is this your entry?” Nick asked, eyeing the partly eaten pie.

“That’s a test run. The final product is in the oven now. They taste the same, but my official entry has a fancier top crust. Want a piece?”

“Sure,” Gloria answered before Nick could decline.

Maggie Oates glanced at the cluttered kitchen table. “Let’s go in the dining room. It’s pleasanter there.”

She brought the remains of the pie along with some plates and forks. The dining room, like the rest of the downstairs, had a neat but lived-in look about it. She quickly doled out a piece of pie for each of them and took another for herself. “This is my third one,” she admitted. “I like my own baking.”

“It’s delicious,” Gloria decided after her first bite, and Nick had to admit it was tasty.

“I make grape pies during the fall harvest and sell them from here,” Maggie told them. “I do a nice little business, and that pleases Wayne.” A car pulled into the driveway. “That’ll be him now.”

Maggie’s husband was the sort who’d probably been a star athlete in high school before he acquired a pot belly and receding hairline. He seemed to like sharing in his wife’s sudden fame, and Nick hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed when the picture of the two of them that Gloria snapped never got published anywhere. A chime on the stove told Maggie that her apple pie was ready and she hurried to remove it from the oven. “I’ll let it cool a bit and then put it in its container for the judging.”