Death, Taxes, and Pecan Pie Page 3

  “That crust didn’t crumble. I bet he’ll take points off for that.”

  “That pie looks runny. No way it’ll win.”

  Mom and Bonnie clung to each other, part in support, part in anxiety, as the judges tried samples from their pies. While most of judges maintained poker faces, when the restaurant critic tried pie number 9—Bonnie’s entry—his brows lifted ever so slightly.

  My mom leaned in to whisper in Bonnie’s ear. “Did you see that? His eyebrows went up. He liked your pie!”

  Bonnie beamed.

  The lunch lady seemed to like Bonnie’s entry, too. She wet her index finger with her tongue and used it to pick up crumbs from Bonnie’s sample, licking her finger clean before moving on to the next piece.

  When the judges had sampled all twenty-four pies, Jordyn collected their scorecards, slid them into a manila envelope, and scurried away.

  Cathy raised her bullhorn again. “While the scores are being tabulated, I’m going to dismiss our wonderful judges who volunteered to judge today’s pie contest. But before I do, let’s put our hands together to show our appreciation.”

  The crowd applauded as the judges stood, raised their hands goodbye, and drifted away from the table. I supposed it made sense to send them off before the winner was announced. Some people took these types of things very seriously. Maybe too seriously. Some sore loser might try to smash a pie in their faces. Given all the things I’d seen on my job, I’d learned people could go a little nuts when their emotions got the best of them.

  The assistant returned a few minutes later. Instead of the large manila envelope, she now held a white, letter-size envelope in her hand, along with a big blue rosette-style ribbon that read BEST PECAN PIE. Pecan Crossing’s mayor trailed after her, a corn dog in his hand. I knew from previous experience that the mayor served not only as the ceremonial grandmaster of the parade, but also as emcee for the various contests and shows.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” Cathy called through the bullhorn. “Let’s give a warm welcome to Mayor Ledesma!”

  The crowd applauded again, though I noticed they kept it shorter this time. Looked like everyone was eager to find out who would earn bragging rights and take home the five-hundred-dollar cash prize.

  The mayor stood behind the table as Jordyn made a show of handing him the envelope.

  Bonnie and my mother stood up straight and leaned forward, as if that would enable them to hear the results sooner. The silver-haired woman squeezed through the bunch to stand right in front of me, blocking my view. I frowned at the back of her silver head. What am I, invisible? Nick looked down, noticed that the woman was in my line of sight, and switched places with me so I’d be able to see when his mother or mine won the contest. I simply couldn’t imagine anyone else baking a better pecan pie.

  The mayor bit off the tip of the corn dog, handed it to the assistant to hold, and chewed the bite while releasing the seal on the envelope and pulling out the check and a folded piece of paper inside. After he swallowed, he took the bullhorn from Cathy, squeezed the talk button, and said, “The winner of the Pecan Palooza Pecan Pie Bake-off is”—he looked down to read the name from the paper before looking up and pausing for effect—“Pecan Crossing’s own Pauline Lang!”

  The silver-haired woman in front of me squealed and clapped her hands. Was it my imagination, or had she taken a step forward before her name had even been announced? Hmm. Looked like she was pretty sure of herself.

  As a smiling Pauline accepted her ribbon and check and shook the mayor’s hand, a photographer from the local paper, the Pecan Crossing Chronicle, snapped a picture. Pauline folded the check in two and tucked it into her purse. She pinned the ribbon to her blouse, wearing it like a war medal. She grabbed what remained of her pie before heading off.

  My mother and Bonnie turned to each other.

  “Oh, well,” Mom said with a shrug. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  Not so willing to accept defeat, Bonnie frowned. “So much for getting a fancy fountain for my backyard. I should’ve saved my entry fee for that.”

  Nick put a supportive hand on her back. “I thought you had it locked up, Mom.”

  “I thought so, too,” Bonnie said. “Looks like we were wrong.”

  Chapter Three: Eat, Praline, Love

  An excited announcement came over the loudspeakers. “Everyone grab a pecan tassie or an ice-cold drink and head on over to the stage to see our aspiring Pecan Princesses perform in their talent competition!”

  We followed the crowd to the center of the park. Bales of hay placed in rows served as seats for the audience. One bale served double duty as feed for a gray gelding ridden by a mounted member of the Pecan Crossing Police Department. The horse nuzzled a bale on the third row, ripping a mouthful from the ties that bound it together.

  The contestants sat on the front row, anxiously waiting their turn to perform, a couple of them fidgeting noticeably. Good thing the judges were positioned on the stage with their backs to the contestants or those girls would lose points for lack of poise. Cassidy’s parents had managed to snag seats on the row of hay bales directly behind their daughter. My family and I found space on bales near the back of the crowd.

  The mayor ascended a set of portable stairs that had been pushed up next to the stage and stepped up to the microphone. “Good afternoon, folks! Y’all are about to see some of the best young talent we’ve got here in Pecan Crossing. But first, let me introduce the judges of this year’s Pecan Princess Pageant.” He nodded to the four women and one man seated at the front corners of the stage. “We’re honored to have a former Miss Texas, Mrs. Betty Sue Witt. Mrs. Witt traveled here all the way from her home in Florida, where she owns a ballet studio.”

  As the mayor raised a palm, a woman with a platinum-blonde bob stood and turned to the crowd, offering a warm smile. My quick math told me the woman had to be in her late sixties or early seventies, yet she maintained a lean physique and a face every bit as attractive as Helen Mirren’s. I hoped I’d age half as well. Must be all that exercise she got twirling around on her toes.

  Once the former Miss Texas had retaken her seat, the mayor introduced the other judges. A scout for a Houston modeling agency. An actress with a theater company in Tulsa. The editor of a fashion magazine. The male judge was a freelance makeup artist who’d worked on Broadway shows in New York and on movies in Hollywood. It was an impressive panel and, given that none were locals, presumably unbiased as well.

  “Now,” continued the mayor, “let’s let these girls show us their stuff!” He consulted a notecard. “First up is Hillary Hansen, who will delight us today with her musical and vocal talents. “

  The crowd applauded as Hillary, a pretty green-eyed blonde, carried a tall stool and an acoustic guitar onto the stage.

  A guy in the crowd who had both a beer belly and a bottle of brew in his hand called out, “Let’s hear some Skynyrd!”

  His buddies joined in, chanting, “‘Free Bird’! ‘Free Bird’!”

  When the girl cast him a confused glance, clearly not familiar with Lynyrd Skynyrd, the men snickered.

  Hillary climbed onto the stool, softly cleared her throat, and launched into Taylor Swift’s hit “Teardrops on My Guitar.”

  Beer belly groaned. “Kill me now,” he muttered.

  Jesse crossed her skinny little arms over her chest and looked at the man, her eyes narrowed to fiery slits. “Well, I think she sounds nice.”

  The man looked back at her, taking in her face. “Wow, kid. You’re scary!”

  Jesse’s lip quirked up in a satisfied smile.

  When the girl on stage concluded the song, she stood, curtsied, and carried her guitar and the stool offstage.

  The mayor stepped back up to the microphone. “Next up is Jacqueline Geroux. Jackie will be performing a dance that she choreographed herself. Let’s give it up for the fast feet of Jackie Geroux!”

  As the crowd clapped, a dark-skinned girl ascended the stairs. She’d traded
her evening gown for a glittery gold dance costume, complete with long satin gloves and high-heeled tap shoes. Her feet gave off a tap tap tap tap as she took long, graceful strides to the center of the stage. She looked to her right and gave a nod to the guy in charge of the audio equipment and lighting. He cued up her music, and the speakers spurted the starting strains of “Feet Don’t Fail Me Now” by the Louisiana Men.

  Jackie launched into a tap dance routine so fast, her feet were a blur. She spun and snapped, went up on her toes and down again, and tapped from one end of the stage to the other and from front to back as well. Wow. That’s some amazing coordination.

  When the song ended, the crowd erupted in applause, everyone recognizing her tremendous talent. She blew a kiss to the crowd as she left the stage.

  The mayor took his place on the platform. “I don’t know about y’all, but I ain’t never seen feet move that fast before!” He looked down at his notecards. “All righty, folks. Next up is Miss Ainsley Drury. Let’s give her a big Pecan Palooza welcome!”

  Ainsley turned out to be the ginger-haired girl. She’d traded her purple polka-dot evening gown for a bright yellow and red ruffled midriff top and a long fitted skirt along with a hat covered in fruit. She bounced up the stairs with a grin on her face.

  From next to me, my mother said, “What in the world is she up to?”

  From the speakers came Carmen Miranda’s classic song “The Lady in the Tutti Frutti Hat.”

  Ainsley began with some basic samba dance steps. Just when we’d thought she’d only planned to dance, she reached up, plucked an orange from the front of her hat, and tossed it high into the air. While it soared skyward, she snatched a shiny red apple from the left side of her hat, throwing it up into the air, too. She then caught the orange on its way down, snatched a large yellow lemon from her hat, and sent both sailing into the air. She wagged her brows at the crowd and smiled along with us as we laughed at her antics. She continued to simultaneously samba and juggle, all the while grabbing more fruit. Before we knew it, she was juggling the orange, the apple, and the lemon, along with a banana and a lime, never once dropping a piece of fruit. Impressive hand-eye coordination. As the song neared the end, she wrapped up her juggling routine, impressively returning the pieces of fruit one by one to her hat. Well, all but the banana, which she peeled and took a big bite of as her final flourish. The crowd went crazy, laughing and clapping.

  As she bounded off the stage, the mayor took the mic once again, chuckling. “I can honestly say I have never seen anything quite like that before!”

  One by one, each remaining teen vying for the title of Pecan Princess showed off her talents. A gymnast rolled out a long mat and performed a tumbling routine. Another girl recited an excerpt from one of Flannery O’Connor’s southern gothic stories. A pianist played a classic Chopin medley on a portable keyboard.

  Cassidy ascended the stage dressed in a tattered Civil War–era dress. After placing her props—a short length of picket fence and a leafless potted tree—on the stage, she flopped to the floor and acted out the “I’ll never be hungry again” scene from Gone with the Wind. A clichéd choice. Her execution was lackluster, too. I didn’t see any Oscars in her future. Nevertheless, her father stood, his hands held high as he clapped, giving his daughter a standing ovation. When he glanced around and realized he was standing alone and that others were offering merely polite applause, he scowled and flopped back down onto the bale of hay.

  Given the diversity of the girls’ performances, it might be difficult for the judges to rank them. It would be like comparing apples and oranges—literally where Ainsley’s fresh take on Carmen Miranda was concerned. Nevertheless, some of the performances stood out. Jackie’s tap dance had been as skilled as anything I’d seen in a traveling Broadway show, and Ainsley’s act had been a hoot and a half. And that gymnast sure could flip.

  When the last act was over, we rose from our hay bales.

  “Who’s hungry?” Dad asked.

  “I could eat a horse,” Nick replied.

  As if he’d understood Nick’s words, the police horse let out a loud whinny.

  We migrated back to the food booths, bought lunch, and sat down at a picnic table to eat. As we chowed down, my eyes noticed the woman in the straw hat and sunglasses again. She was standing in line at the pretzel booth. Her tote bag hung partially open, one of the straps having slid down her arm. As she waited, she turned her head away, as if looking for something or someone off in the distance. A heavyset Latina who’d just received her pretzel turned to squeeze past her.

  Wait.

  Did she just drop something into the other woman’s tote bag?

  Before I could be sure, the woman raised her hand to tear off a chunk of pretzel. She shoved it into her mouth as she sauntered off. The woman in the hat turned back to the clerk, stepped up to the counter, and ordered a pretzel of her own. She reached down and rummaged in her tote bag for her wallet. Given that she didn’t seemed surprised by anything she spotted in her bag, I figured I must have been mistaken about the other woman dropping something into it. I turned back to chat with my family.

  As we finished eating, my mother glanced at her watch. “We better get going. It’s almost time for the pralines to be judged.”

  We gathered up our trash, tossed it in the can, and walked over to the praline table. Mom’s pralines were identified as entry number 11, but I could tell they were hers just by looking. She chopped her nuts a little finer than most for a more even flavor and texture.

  We stood off to the side, waiting for the contest to begin. The same set of five judges who’d judged the pie contest were seated behind the table, and the same volunteer who’d introduced them earlier went through the litany again.

  I took my mother’s hand and gave it a supportive squeeze as the judging began. While I prided myself on my arrest statistics and firearms skills, Mom prided herself on her skills in the kitchen. Winning this contest would be an affirmation for her. She’d spent untold hours slaving over a hot stove through the years. She deserved this.

  The judges looked each of the entries over, apparently taking their visual appeal into account. Then they sampled each of the two dozen entries. When they tried my mother’s pralines, the lunch lady nodded almost imperceptibly, an unconscious signal that her taste buds had been wowed. The local chefs exchanged knowing glances, as if they both realized they’d tasted the best praline a mere mortal could produce.

  I leaned in and whispered in my mother’s ear. “Did you see that? It’s a good sign.”

  “I hope so,” she whispered back.

  When the judges had sampled all of the pralines and jotted down their scores, they handed them to the assistant, Jordyn, who scurried off to have them tabulated.

  As the judges dispersed and we waited for the assistant to return, Bonnie turned to my mother. “What would you spend the prize money on?”

  My mother reached down to put her hands on Jesse’s shoulders. “This precious little thing.”

  Jesse grinned and tilted her head back to look up at my mother, who stood behind her. “Really?”

  “Well, you and your cousins. I was thinking we’d get a trampoline for the backyard. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “A trampoline?” Her mouth gaped. “Heck, yeah!”

  My mother leaned over to Bonnie and said in a stage whisper, “Of course I’ve got an ulterior motive. I hope a trampoline will wear the kids out. They’ve got so much energy I can hardly keep up with them when they visit.”

  “Hey!” Jesse said, pushing out her lip in a mock pout. She knew her grandmother was only teasing and loved her and her cousins to pieces.

  Though it was only four or five minutes, it seemed forever before Jordyn returned with another envelope in her hand.

  My mother bit her lip and crossed her fingers on both hands. Jesse, Bonnie, and I crossed our fingers, too. Not that Mom would need this type of voodoo, but it couldn’t hurt.

  The mayor took
the envelope and used his finger to pry it open. He pulled out the folded paper inside and looked up at the expectant crowd. “The winner of the praline contest is . . .” He unfolded the page and read from it.

  I closed my eyes, willing him to say my mother’s name. But instead of her name, he said, “Marlene Blakely!”

  Dang it! I opened my eyes to see a woman with wavy brown hair stepping up beside the mayor, a broad smile on her face as she accepted her check and blue ribbon.

  “Wow!” Marlene gushed. “I certainly never expected this!”

  “Neither did I,” muttered my mother under her breath.

  I gave her a sideways, one-arm hug. “For what it’s worth,” I told her as I laid a head on her shoulder, “I think you’re the best cook ever.”

  I released my mother and turned to her.

  Her expression was a combination of disappointment and irritation. “Maybe I’m just a sore loser,” she said, her lips pursed, “but I feel like I’ve been cheated.”

  Chapter Four: C Is for “Cookie.” It’s also for “Cheat.”

  We left the praline booth and spent an hour letting Jesse ride the kiddie rides. A mini carousel; bumper boats that floated in a shallow vinyl-sided pool; a large slide that the kids rode sitting on potato sacks. Jesse must’ve gone down the slide fifty times before we cut her off.

  My mother consulted her festival schedule. “The cookie judging is next. Let’s head over. Maybe Bonnie and I can get some ideas for new recipes.”

  I didn’t have much interest in the cookie contest, given that none of us had skin in the game and I wasn’t much of a baker myself, but I was happy to go for my mother’s sake. We walked over and, while the men and Jesse waited in the shade of a tree, we women walked past the table, eyeing the entries.

  My mother read the labels out loud. “Pecan sandies. Oatmeal pecan. Chocolate pecan. Pecan pumpkin.”

  Her recitations reminded me of the scene from Forrest Gump wherein Forrest’s friend Bubba tells him all the different ways shrimp can be prepared. Shrimp kabobs. Shrimp creole. Shrimp gumbo. Of course I didn’t point this out to my mother. She’d only tell me she didn’t raise me to be a smart-ass.