Marriage and Murder: Solving for Pie: Cletus and Jenn Mysteries Series Book #2 Read online

  Marriage and Murder

  Solving for Pie: Cletus and Jenn Mysteries Series Book #2

  Penny Reid

  www.pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

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  Copyright © 2021 by Cipher-Naught; All rights reserved.

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  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

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  Made in the United States of America

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  Ebook Edition:

  978-1-942874-66-9

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: Beard In Hiding

  Other books by Penny Reid

  Dedication

  For my son, who knows everything.

  Chapter One

  *Cletus*

  “I don't know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.”

  J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

  “This is all very . . . fancy.”

  “How do you mean?”

  My eldest brother glanced around us, at the long tables covered in shining silk tablecloths, white porcelain dishes, sterling (I checked the back) silver flatware, ornate centerpieces nickel-and-rust-colored metalwork hearts, and up at the pearlescent handblown glass chandeliers strung above.

  I followed his eyes to their last destination and mumbled, “I reckon it’s a little fancy.”

  “Where’d Jenn’s momma get all this stuff? Last time Sienna and I had dinner here, it looked totally different.”

  Here being the Donner Lodge dining barn—and I meant barn in the loosest sense of the word. The building had never been used as an actual barn, nor had it been built with the intention to house live animals. Just dead ones. For consumption.

  Jethro scratched the back of his neck, looking down at his clothes. “Should I go home and change?”

  “You should always strive for change, Jethro. But your garments are perfectly adequate.” Plus, we were more or less wearing the same thing: black pants, button-down suit shirt—his gray, mine red because I’d been explicitly instructed to wear a red shirt—no tie.

  If he went home and changed, then he’d pressure me to as well, and I didn’t want to change. I’d already changed three times today, which was one more than my absolute maximum: from my PJ’s to my work clothes, from my work clothes to clean jeans and flannel to help set up, and from that perfectly acceptable outfit to my present stuffier attire. Of note, changing back into pajamas at the end of the day didn’t count, especially if I opted to sleep in the buff.

  Jethro’s pained eyebrow pinch told me I’d failed to persuade him. “What about that guy?” He lowered his voice, gesturing to a fella across the room in possession of a silver tray. “He’s in a tuxedo. Should we be wearing suits?”

  “That man is a waiter, Jet. You want to dress like a waiter, go for it.”

  “Point is, the waiter is in a tux. I don’t think Sienna knows it’s formal dress, but I could be wrong. Whatever. You didn’t tell anyone this would be so fancy, Cletus.”

  More than just the waitstaff were beginning to materialize in the fancy barn. As such, I lowered my voice, “I didn’t know it would be so fancy, Jethro.”

  He crossed his arms, disbelief persisting. “How is that possible? You know everything about everybody, and you’re telling me you didn’t know your own engagement party was going to be—”

  “A stuffy shindig? A bourgeois bash? A hoity-toity hellscape? No. I did not.”

  Jet seemed to be bracing himself for an outburst of nerves or anger. He knew surprises tended to muddle and aggravate me.

  I’d arrived here at 3:10 PM after a full nine-hour shift at the auto shop, fatigued and looking for a beer just to discover Jenn’s momma’s event planning had ventured beyond the pale. Far, far beyond the pale, to the land of excessive extravagance and profligacy.

  The decorations, the sit-down, seven-course meal, the string quartet. Okay, fine. I could’ve shouldered the burden of such trappings. But who in their right mind wants to sit down for five hours and eat portions the size of dimes and quarters when hunger could be satiated by a plump sausage in five bites and three minutes?

  I don’t know. I’ve never met the person. What a monumental waste of time.

  My main issue had been the guest list, which I hadn’t been privy to—nor had I requested access to—until fourteen minutes ago. Good Lord, the woman had invited everyone in East Tennessee and all their neighbors but none of their children. An intimate engagement party is what she and Jenn had promised me last year when the wedding planning had begun. This evening would be as intimate as an orgy in Times Square and would likely be better attended.

  Jethro exhaled loudly. “Well, we need to do something, and quick.” He examined his clothes. Again.

  “I agree.” Meanwhile, I eyeballed the chandeliers. “You still got that baseball bat in your car?”

  After a moment’s pause, he hit my arm. “No, Cletus! I didn’t mean wreck the place.”

  “That was said in jest, brother. Obviously, I’m not taking a bat to the chandeliers. Besides, what did you mean?” I finally allowed some of the exasperation I’d been sitting on this afternoon to manifest.

  “I meant we need to do something about what we’re wearing.”

  “You’re starting to sound like Roscoe. Clothes shouldn’t make the man, ain’t nobody care if your shirt has a designer label or a generic one.”

  “But Diane will care if your family are the only ones present not in suits and formal dress.”

  I waved him off, grumbling, “Do what you want, but I'm not changing.” Besides, what could I do? The time for the doing of something had passed. “Serves me right, I reckon,” I mumbled.

  “Serves you right? For what?”

  I shrugged, pressing my lips together to seal them. I didn’t want to admit the truth; I’d been ignoring the wedding and all the planning associated with it, including tonight’s ostentatious affair, because doing so had served both altruistic and selfish interests (but mostly selfish). And now I’d been slapped in the face with a brouhaha bombshell, paying the price for my lack of attention.

  “You look unhappy.” He eyed me anew.

  “So what if I am? If it makes the woman happy, then . . .” I narrowed my eyes on the heart centerpieces, wondering if the welding had been Shelly’s handiwork. They were quite im
pressive, to say the least, and looked like they belonged in an art gallery or a museum, not on tables in a faux-barn.

  “Which woman are we talking about?” Jethro questioned. “The future wife or the future mother-in-law?”

  I glanced at the gaggle of folks filtering in through the wide barn doors. Thus far, I recognized 90 percent of those present. But I wouldn't say I was exactly friends with these people. In short, I wouldn't invite a single one of them—except Jethro, of course, maybe the sheriff and Janet James, perhaps the tuxedoed waiter—to my birthday. Nor would I attend any of theirs if invited.

  Thus, Jethro’s question had been exceptionally pertinent. This party wasn't what I wanted, and I felt certain it wasn’t what Jenn really wanted either. But the planning of it sure had made Ms. Donner happy. The woman had been positively glowing since Christmas in particular, her happiness leaked out of her like spring showers on fertile soil, and the entire Donner Lodge was feeling the impact of her incandescent bliss. Business was booming, her staff blooming, and I was happy Jenn’s momma was happy.

  But more importantly, I was ecstatic Jenn’s momma was distracted.

  Diane had stopped crying over her failed marriage and she’d ceased plotting the demise of her ex-husband ever since we’d handed over the reins for the wedding, exponentially more so since the holidays. The divorce papers had finally been signed and her ex had all but disappeared from our lives—though I made it my business to keep tabs on the man—Jenn’s momma had buried herself in party planning, seemed to find joy in being exhausted by details.

  In turn, Diane Donner’s distraction had made me very, very happy.

  ’Til right now.

  Jethro placed a hand on my shoulder, redirecting my attention to his. “I've never known you to be unhappy and do nothing about it.”

  “Well, you've never known me to be on the precipice of marriage either. In marriage, sacrifices must be made. Compromises.”

  Jet’s eyebrows ticked up as his hand fell away. “You? Compromise?” He looked truly flabbergasted.

  “I am capable of compromise.” I sniffed, checking to see if the bar had opened for customers. It hadn’t.

  “When have you ever compromised?”

  “Just wait and see.”

  I’d—somewhat cheerfully at the time—resigned myself last year to the fact that the entire wedding would be a compromise, back when Jennifer and her momma had suggested Diane take over. Looking around at the opulence now, I suspected the next few months leading to the actual wedding would be more akin to complete surrender than a compromise.

  This chafed like wet pants on a ten-mile hike.

  “All right then, start compromising with what you’re wearing. Diane Donner sees us dressed like this, she’ll have a conniption. We got to go home and change.” This last part he said on an urgent whisper.

  I made a noncommittal sound. There must’ve been over fifty guests here already, and this thing didn’t technically start for another ten minutes. Soon we’d be surrounded with hangers-on and the grating sounds of snobby southern small talk, which is like Yankee small talk except there’s significantly more “Bless their little hearts” and sharing of recipes.

  “Cletus. For the last time, we can't wear what we have on. Look at them—not the waitstaff, Sheriff James and Jackson. They’re in suits, they got jackets. The only jacket I have in my car is a leather one.”

  “What? You don't want to look like Indiana Jones during my engagement party?” I didn’t look at the sheriff or his son, not wanting to inadvertently make eye contact with the Deputy Jackson James, an action that might be misconstrued as an implied invitation to join us. I wasn’t in the frame of mind to interact with acquaintances at present.

  “Listen, this is what I'll do.” Jethro put his hand on my shoulder again. “I’ll send a text message to everybody on my way out, let them know this thing is fancy dress, and pick up our suits from the homestead. Then I’ll come right back, and you can change.”

  “I don't want to change, Jethro,” I said stubbornly. “I've already changed too many times today. I'm not changing again.”

  “Come on, Cletus. Be reasonable.”

  “Hey guys.” Jackson James’s approaching voice had me lifting my eyes to the ceiling after Jethro mouthed the words, Be nice.

  I didn’t get a chance to mouth back, Or what? before Jackson drew even with us, asking, “Where are your jackets? Folks are arriving.”

  For the love of all tarnation—

  “I’m on my way to go grab them,” Jethro cut in, locking my eyes in a death stare. “We just finished helping with the setup. And so now I'm driving back to the homestead to go get our suits. Goodbye.”

  With that, the eldest of my brothers turned on his heel and marched out of the faux-barn toward the parking lot, leaving me with Jackson and his skinny tie.

  I looked him down and up, not hiding my perturbed hostility. “Where and when did y’all get the suit memo?”

  “Pardon?”

  “How did you know to wear a suit?” I spoke slowly, carefully. If I had to repeat myself a third time, I was liable to grab his head and shout in his ear.

  “Oh, well, I just assumed.” One side of his mouth smiled, the other side communicated wariness, like my question might be a riddle. “I've never known Mrs. Sylvester—I mean, sorry, Ms. Donner—to throw a shindig that wasn't suit and tie required.”

  I nodded faintly, considering his words and all the information he’d just disclosed, likely without meaning to do so.

  Fact: Jackson had attended one or more Diane Donner “shindigs” prior to now.

  Fact: I had never attended a Diane Donner shindig prior to now.

  Fact: I had never been invited to a Diane Donner shindig prior to now. But Jackson had.

  Fact: The Jameses and the Donner-Sylvesters were friendly previous to the divorce in the sense that they attended parties together, which—I supposed—made sense. Being a shrewd person of business, Jenn’s momma would want to court the sheriff’s good favor as often as possible. Whereas my momma and our family hadn’t any favors to offer someone like Diane Donner. Until recently.

  “Plus, you know, Ms. Donner tries to one-up herself. Momma always has to buy a new dress each time. It’s expected. Since this is the first Donner Lodge party in years, I figured it’d be something intense.” He glanced around, taking his time to register all the splendor. “I was not wrong.”

  I didn't like the idea of Jackson knowing more than me about anything, let alone Jenn’s family’s customs. Therefore, I offered a terse grunt and looked at the bar again. Finally! Open for business.

  “Excuse me,” I said, stepping around the blond officer and making a straight line for the promise of whiskey.

  “I saw Jenn yesterday at the station.” Jackson’s voice followed me. I didn’t need to look over my shoulder to know he followed me as well.

  “Was she under arrest?”

  “What? No.” Jackson laughed between saying hi to the folks I brushed past. “She was bringing bakery stuff to the deputies and staff who couldn’t make it tonight ’cause they’re on duty.”

  Upon reaching the bar, I held my thumb and index finger about two inches apart and said, “Whiskey. Neat. And a lot.”

  Patty Lee, who sometimes filled in at the Donner Lodge but mostly tended bar at Genie’s, her momma’s place up the road, gave me an apologetic smile. “We’re only serving beer and wine tonight. Ms. Donner’s orders.”

  No . . . whiskey?

  Beer and wine only?

  I made a mental list of whiskey brands I enjoyed in order to calm myself and did my utmost to keep the pitch of my voice steady as I said, “Patty. I can see the whiskey. It’s right behind you.”

  She grimaced, looking undecided.

  “Put it in a mug and I’ll say it’s tea. No one has to know.”

  After another moment’s hesitation, and before I had to threaten her with blackmail, she nodded. “Fine. But don’t tell anyone else. Got it?”r />
  “It shall remain our secret until the day I die.”

  Her lips tilted to the side like the solemn vow amused her, but she nodded and turned.

  Jackson stepped up next to me, chuckling. “Nervous?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. If you say so. But for the record, I’d be nervous.”

  If Jackson hoped I’d ask follow-up questions, he’d be sorely disappointed. My plan—now that my drink was en route and I’d begun to overcome my initial shock at the grandeur of the evening—was to find an inconspicuous locale, then hover and blend until duty called. I would use the time to drink whiskey and ruminate. A solid plan.

  But before I could grab my drink and dash, my brother Billy’s unmistakable tenor reached me just as he did. “There you are.” Billy placed a hand on my shoulder after giving Jackson a quick nod of greeting. He then lowered his voice. “Where’s your jacket? Do you need a jacket? I have an extra in the car, and a tie.” Of course Billy wore a suit. He always wore a suit these days.

  I wasn’t usually one to make faces, preferring to keep my thoughts to myself unless situationally necessary to achieve specific aims. But right now? After arguing the point with Jethro for ten minutes and being surrounded by a sudden swell of strangers?

  I made a face. “I don’t want one of your suit jackets. Thank you.”

  “You don’t even need to change,” he said, calibrating his voice to entirely reasonable, earning him a glare.