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

Nick and Gloria joined Wayne in admiring the finished product. There was none of the latticework Nick had expected. The top crust was solid, but an artistic outline of an apple had been cleverly formed by air holes. “Where did you learn to bake like this?” Gloria marveled.

“From my mother, of course. Isn’t that how all girls learn? Fran Oliver made the best cakes and pies in the county. Good as I am, I could never beat her. She won four blue ribbons at the fair and so far I only have one.”

“You’ll get there,” Wayne promised, squeezing her shoulder.

“I don’t know. Jenny Wadsworth was tough competition last year, and I’m sure she’ll have a pie in tomorrow’s contest.”

“Jackson County pies seem to attract attention,” Nick remarked as they returned to the dining room. “We heard a report that some art collector even tried to buy one last year to add to his collection.”

“That fellow Marx!” Wayne Oates said with a snort. “He was offering thousands of dollars for the prize-winning pie but Beth Buckley wouldn’t let him buy it. She got the county-fair commission to rule that only county residents could bid during the auction. She said the pies were for eating, not for display in a museum, and I suppose she had a point. He even asked Maggie to bake an identical pie for his collection but she refused.”

“I was tempted,” Maggie admitted. “He offered a great deal of money. But by that time the county was really up in arms. It had become a matter of civic pride that the winning pie stay here.”

“Speaking of pie, did you save a piece for me?” Wayne asked.

“Right here!”

“I’ll just get a knife from the kitchen,” he said, but when he returned with it he realized he didn’t need it. “There’s only one piece left. I can handle that.”

When the test pie had been consumed to everyone’s satisfaction, Maggie returned to the kitchen and placed the contest entry in a clear plastic container, sealing it with tape and adding a removable tag with her name, ready for delivery.

“What happens now?” Nick asked.

“I’ll give it to Beth at ten tomorrow morning and she’ll assign a number to it. Then it goes on the table for the judging.”

“How long does that take?”

“It depends on how many pies are entered. Betty cuts a thin slice out of each one and places it on a paper plate.”

“For Leonard Fine,” Wayne supplied. “He’s the judge.”

Nick smiled at him. “It would be a thrill to see your wife win another blue ribbon. Will you be there?”

He shook his head. “I work security at the county hospital and we’re short-handed. I have to be on duty. If Maggie wins, take lots of pictures.”

“We’ll do that,” Nick promised as they were leaving.

They found a room at a motel outside of town. Over dinner Gloria said, “You could have stolen the pie from her kitchen and we’d be on our way home now.”

Nick shook his head. “You’re forgetting it has to be the blue-ribbon winner. I have to wait for the judging. Just because she won last year doesn’t mean she’ll win again.”

“How are you going to steal it?”

“You’ll see.”

But things rarely went as smoothly as Nick planned. Returning to their motel room, they found a middle-aged woman in a sweatshirt and jeans waiting for them. “Are you Mr. Nicholas, the journalist?” she asked.

“I am. How can I help you?”

“My name is Rita Wadsworth. Maggie told me you’re doing a story on her pies and I want to make sure you include me. I’m going to win the blue ribbon this year.”

“Is that so?” Nick took out his key card for the door. “Please come in. We’ll certainly want to get your name in the story.”

Inside the cramped motel room the woman glanced at the queen-size bed as if wondering whether they both slept in it. “Now tell us about yourself,” Nick suggested. “Have you always lived in Clydestown?”

She sat uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa, clutching a large manila envelope. “Born and raised here. My husband and two sons work our dairy farm out on the Post Road. Maggie Oates and I have been rivals for years in the apple-pie judging. I won two years ago and she won last year. I’m out to reclaim the championship this time. When I phoned her tonight and she said you’d interviewed her, I checked the motels until I found where you were.”

“That was clever of you,” Gloria offered.

“I’ve got pictures of my prize-winning pie from two years ago if you’d like to see them.” She unclasped the envelope and slid out some color photos.

“Very nice,” Nick commented, passing them on to Gloria.

“The judging here has always stressed the appearance of the pie as much as its taste.” She added, “Sometimes I think the appearance of the baker counts, too, at least with Leonard Fine.”

“Isn’t it a blind judging?”

“Yes, but everyone recognizes Maggie’s special crust flavor. I try to be clever with my crust design, but she still beat me out last year.”

“You don’t approve of Fine’s judging?”

She shrugged. “The women all love him. We all wish we had a husband who could bake like he does.”

“If he picks your pie, be assured you’ll be seeing more of us.”

“You may keep the pictures for your story if you wish.”

Nick hesitated. “Let me just keep one and you take the rest.”

“Will you be at the judging in the morning?”

“I certainly will,” he assured her. “Good luck.”

The next morning they finished breakfast, picked up a New York paper, and drove out to the fairgrounds, arriving before ten so they could witness the delivery of the pies. Beth Buckley had positioned herself at the entrance to the Fine Arts Building, accepting apple pies in their plastic containers. “Hello there,” she greeted them. “I hear you’ve been getting around our town, talking to our baker and some of the ladies.”

“They’re talented people,” Nick assured her. “Gloria bought one of Fine’s angel food cakes and we had some last night.”

Already there were three apple pies in front of Beth Buckley and as they chatted Maggie Oates arrived with hers. Beth used a marking pen to write a number on the nametag and the same number on the plastic container. Then she removed Maggie’s tag and placed it with the others in a cigar box. “All set,” she told the young woman. “Good luck!”

“How many entries are there?” Maggie asked.

“Yours is number four, and I know we’ll be getting one from Rita Wadsworth.”

“Here she comes now,” Gloria observed, seeing her approach from the parking lot.

“That makes five,” Beth said as she accepted Rita’s pie. “Good luck to you both.”

“Come on, Maggie,” Rita urged. “We might as well sit together and show everyone we’re friends.”

Maggie followed her inside with some reluctance and Beth commented, “They’re not really friends at all, not during the fair. Last time they had a big argument about the merits of single-crust pie versus double-crust.”

Nick and Gloria strolled around a bit, watching children on the Ferris wheel and teenagers caring for their animals. One girl was leading a llama toward the Livestock Building and Gloria commented, “In my day we had pigs and goats.”

“Times change even on the farm.”

“Some things don’t change. They still have milking contests.”

They were back in time for the judging, just as Beth Buckley was up on stage slicing a slender piece from each pie and placing it on a paper plate. The pies themselves were in their original containers, opened so the judge could study their design. The spectators and contestants themselves were at the foot of the low stage, straining for a look at the entries and trying to guess who’d submitted each pie. There were still only five in the line, and when Nick asked Beth about it she shrugged. “I guess Rita and Maggie are strong contenders. They frightened most of the others away. But we’ve still got some great-looking pies.”