Chapter 1
Tension rolled through the spectators, thick in the air, like a bolt about to strike. I shivered.
This wasn’t exactly life or death, but with the murmur of the crowd and the weight pressing in from all sides, it felt important. My name is Anna Albertini, and I come from a huge family in a small town. I’d taken today off from my job as a lawyer to come and support my grandmother.
I stood off to the side and looked toward the dais where the five finalists for the Silverville St. Paddy’s Day Shamrock Pie Contest stood proudly in front of their creations. Every concoction was green—green crusts, green fillings, green sprinkles—each topped with a mountain of whipped cream and a dizzying display of gold and shamrock-shaped decorations.
My stomach twisted as I watched my Nana standing dead center, beaming in her new green-checked dress.
Nana O’Shea looked like every Irish grandmother found in fairy tales, the sweet ones, with her hair a halo of blondish-red curls threaded with silver, twinkling green eyes, and a mischievous grin that said she’d spike your cocoa if you weren’t careful. She reminded me of an older Maureen O’Hara, with the same kind of confidence that comes from knowing the secrets of the universe. Probably.
She stood next to the local optometrist’s wife, Gloria Walton, who most certainly wasn’t beaming.
Gloria stood a solid six inches taller than Nana and carried herself like someone who’d given up smiling sometime around 1998. Heavy lines carved around her mouth and eyes, though she couldn’t have been more than sixty. She and Nana looked about the same age, which had to sting.
The three judges took a slice from each pie and carried their plates over to the side table. They took careful bites, chewed like they were decoding state secrets, and scribbled in their little spiral notebooks.
Last year, we’d tried to get them to use tablets, the nice kind, with styluses and everything, but that had gone about as well as asking a cat to swim laps. So we’d gone back to paper and pencils, which seemed to suit everyone’s sanity just fine.
The judges this year were three of the many town elders: Marjorie, who ran the soup kitchen; Jacob, a retired police officer; and June, the librarian who could still silence a room with one raised eyebrow. If anyone in Silverville knew pies, it was those three.
I caught Nana’s eye and winked. She smiled back, confident as ever.
She’d won the last two years in a row, and judging by that sparkle in her eye, she was ready to make it a hat trick.
I had to admit, I’d tasted her pie recipe that she tweaked every year, and once again, this year’s concoction was phenomenal. Nana O’Shea believed in magic and fairies and sparkles, and somehow that came through in her baking. I watched the judges take another bite, nodding, smiling, and scratching more notes.
That looked good. Really good.
Most towns celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with a parade on one day. Not us. We had a full week of Irish themed celebrations, and today kicked it all off.
Around us, the late-morning air hung heavy with the scent of sugar, cinnamon, and fried dough from the fair booths. Kids perched on hay bales, their green plastic hats slipping sideways. The crowd had gone utterly silent, except for the low hum of the generator running the beer tent and the faint squeak of the Ferris wheel starting up again at the edge of the town square. I could feel the tension in my chest for Nana. I really wanted her to win.
Jacob dug into Gloria’s pie and took a generous bite. I held my breath.
She usually landed second place, which meant this could be her year. I hoped not.
With Nana finally opening her little shop in town, selling lotions, potions, and everything in between, from wellness teas to magic crystals, it would be nice for her to take home another win. She could hang that ribbon right in the front window with her two most recent wins.
Jacob’s face twisted. He started coughing hard and spit the bite into a napkin. The other two judges followed suit. June wiped her tongue on her sleeve like she’d licked a battery.
“What in the world?” I whispered.
“Lotion. Or something horrible.” Jacob stumbled away from the table, still hacking. His red eyes watered streaks down his weathered face.
Gloria leaned toward her pie and sniffed. “What is that smell?” She went pale and swung her gaze to my grandmother. “Your peppermint-scented lotion.”
Nana reared back, looking small beside the taller woman. “That’s ridiculous.” She leaned forward to sniff the pie herself. Her frown deepened. “Well, that does smell like it.”
“You used it in my pie!” Gloria threw up both hands as if she might shove Nana, but she froze when movement surged from the crowd.
My sisters, my cousins, and I all moved at once, barreling toward the stage. Nobody laid a finger on Nana O’Shea. Gloria hesitated as we reached the edge, her hands still raised. Then she slowly lowered them. Smart woman. I would have taken her out myself.
Jacob, still gasping, pointed toward the table. “I’m sorry, but that pie is disqualified. That ain’t food.”
“It’s been sabotaged,” Gloria sputtered. “I want a full investigation.” She looked around wildly. “Sheriff? Sheriff, where are you?”
The sheriff ambled forward from the back of the crowd, looking every bit like a silver-haired Sam Elliott with a powdered donut in one hand. “Now, Gloria, hold on,” he started.
