“And, if I’m not mistaken, I tend to win. Four years in a row now. Am I counting correctly, dear?”
I first entered the Portland Springfest pie competition five years ago, not too long after Noah and I bought our cabins in Lake Savage. Ruth immediately approached me at the festival and introduced herself, saying all the right things. I thought I’d made a friend.
Then I got first place in the competition.
The next year, she stuck a finger in my pie when no one else was looking, screwing up the top crust completely. She dared me to report her, but I didn’t because it wouldn’t be a good look for the new, younger baker to accuse sweet Grandma Ruth of cheating.
I got sixth place that year. The following three years I’ve gotten second place.
Ruth and I have been enemies ever since.
“Do you like mince pie?” I say to her, keeping my eyes glued on the pie-judging table.
“Why?” she asks sharply.
“Just wondering.”
I’m not going to poison the grandma. Definitelynot.
A man steps away from the table and toward the small audience watching the judging from behind the rope divider.
“Now we will begin the taste portion of the competition. Judges will look at crust, filling, and consistency. This section of the contest is worth twenty-five points out of seventy-five points total. Another twenty-five is the overall appearance of the pie, and the last twenty-five points is our overall assessment including creativity, originality, and anything else that stands out.” He nods and turns back to the table, where a woman in an apron is about to cut into the first pie.
“I bet your pie tastes like you fucked it, like in thatAmerican Piemovie where the kid sticks his dick in,” Ruth hisses at me, then cackles quietly.
“What?” I whip my head to Ruth. She didn’t really say that, did she?
Ruth ignores me and watches with a fake-ass smile on her face as the woman in the apron slices into her pie and doles out portions onto small plates. The judges all make delighted faces as they chew, nodding and whispering and taking notes.
I shake my head at Ruth, but she pretends I don’t exist. What a crazy lady. She looks so calm and sweet in her grandma outfit and her… heeled boots? My eyes fix on her black boots with the pointy heel, sticking out from her long floral dress. Isn’t she in her eighties? Shouldn’t she be wearing some very stable, flat, supportive, and incredibly ugly shoe?
And… didn’t Noah talk about the Recipe Killer lady wearing high-heeled boots?
My eyes widen, but Ruth still ignores me, that angelic smile on her face as she watches the judges.
Nah. Can’t be.
I bite back a chuckle—which earns me a quick glare fromRuth—and pull out my phone. I tap out a message to Noah about the boots and the dick-in-pie comment for a laugh.
Noah
I KNEW IT
Me
can you imagine?
Noah
yes, yes I can. I told you. She definitely looks like a killer today
Me
wait, are you here?
Noah
I’m back by the donut food stand, come find me when you’re done whispering about dicks in pies with Ruth
