“Which ones?” Annie hooted.
“Whichever is closest,” Myra laughed. “When Charles offered to cook dinner, I ordered the pies from the Flakey Tart, and they were happy to deliver them.”
“Ah, the Flakey Tart. Do they still have one of their shops in the Stillwell Center in Ashville?”
“They do. In fact, they are opening another one in Smuggler’s Cove.”
“On the Navesink?”
“That’s the place.” Myra began to slice the pie.
“You know, I have never been to that area.”
“You’re kidding?” Myra wiped the knife with her finger and stuck the juicy compote into her mouth. “Scrummy.” Myra used the British slang for deliciously tasty.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Annie stabbed the blueberry pie with a fork and shoved a chunk into her mouth. “And don’t tell.” Annie stuck out her pinky, and Myra twisted hers around it.
“I wonder how many secrets are hidden behind our little fingers?” Myra joined Annie as they began to demolish the pie.
“Well, if we finish this ourselves, we can add it to the list,” Annie joked.
“You better wipe the evidence off your lips.” Myra giggled.
The two women were standing in the middle of the kitchen when Lizzie popped in. “Busted!”
Myra and Annie froze. They stared down at the half-eaten pastry. “Oops.” Annie took the fruity dessert from Myra’s hands and set it on the counter. “We were assessing it for those plastic chemicals they say are in everything we eat.”
Lizzie laughed out loud and said, “You are not a very good liar.”
“I’m still practicing.” Annie grinned. “Not to worry; there’s still some for everyone else.” She glanced at the ravaged pie. “Well, maybe not.”
“I have an idea.” Myra sliced the remains into three slim pieces. Then she cut into the other pie and made the same size slices. “This way, they’ll think they’re getting a tasting.”
“Sly devil,” Lizzie cackled.
“As long as they don’t ask for seconds.”
They pleaded in unison, “Please sir, I want some more!”
The ringing sound of the wall phone interrupted their joviality.
Myra shrugged and answered. “Hello?”
“Where’s my pie?” Charles boomed. She could hear the echo of his voice from the lower level and through the receiver.
“Coming, darling.” She hung up and continued to laugh.
Chapter Eight
The Art of the Scam
Tallahassee
10 years ago
Maxwell Hawthorne was not particularly interested in attending his college reunion, but his wife insisted. She insisted on a lot of things, and the pressure to provide her with the lifestyle she was accustomed to was mounting. Max had a good job working for the State of Florida. He was an auditor at the State House in Tallahassee, a position his father-in-law, Adam Whytecliff, managed to secure for him. Whytecliff was a real estate developer who seemed to have friends in high places. But the job wasn’t good enough for his daughter. “Max, there is no upward mobility,” his wife Karen whined. “You could be somebody!”
Max would respond with, “I am somebody, Karen. Somebody you married.” He knew he had made a huge mistake marrying a homecoming queen. It wasn’t as if Karen was the prettiest, either. Her daddy made sure she got the crown. Anything for his little princess. But Max was starstruck when they met during their senior year. For Karen, he would be her project. She would mold him into something grand. He was handsome, bright, and athletic, a perfect specimen for success. However, he simply wasn’t ambitious enough for her liking, and she was constantly reminding him that he wasn’t living up to his potential.
