Marx was a well-known artist and collector of pop-culture artifacts who could have purchased ten thousand pies for what he was paying for this one, but Nick had stopped questioning the motives of his clients. Just one visit to Milo Marx’s home — really a museum in the making — convinced him that a blue-ribbon pie from the Jackson County Fair was the only thing that would satisfy him. “The entire place was filled with objects,” he’d told Gloria. “Books, sewing baskets, starfish, ironing boards, you name it. He finds a perfect shape or design in everyday items, or even in nature, and he collects them. He sprays the things with a plastic coating to preserve them, or entomb them, if you’d prefer. He’s heard that the apple pies at the Jackson County Fair are real works of art, and he must have one for his collection. He tried to buy last year’s winner and they refused to sell it to him. They said the pies only went to local people.”
Nick had pointed out to Marx that he could hire a couple of kids to run in and steal the pie for a hundred bucks, far less than his fee, but the collector insisted, “It’s not as easy as it seems, with a building full of people watching. Kids might drop or damage it somehow. The pie must be intact to preserve the beauty of its design.”
Nick and Gloria had left early Wednesday morning, taking Route 78 across Jersey to Middletown, Pennsylvania, then turning north to Jackson County. It was a rural area at the edge of the Poconos, and they passed a few dairy farms along with the usual fields of corn and various crops Nick couldn’t identify. The fair was at Clydestown, the county seat, a place of neat frame houses with a few brick buildings and churches clustered around a little park at its center. “Isn’t this lovely, Nicky?” Gloria said. “I didn’t know places like this still existed.”
He slowed down a bit, spotting a sign with an arrow pointing toward Jackson County Fair, August 6-13. “This is it.”
“We missed the first half of it.”
“And we’ll miss the end of it, too.” Nick told her. “I’ll pick up the winning pie in the morning and we’ll be out of here.”
“You sound as if you’ll just walk in there and they’ll hand it to you.”
“Something like that.”
They left the car in a massive field that had been turned into a parking lot for the week’s festivities. The cars and SUVs were almost outnumbered by pickup trucks, and there were even a few horse trailers for transporting livestock. “This is real country,” Nick decided, wading through the oil-stained grass and weeds already trampled half to death. They’d barely entered the Show Pavilion when they were greeted by a stout woman wearing a straw hat trimmed with daisies. “Welcome to the fair, folks! You from Scranton?”
“How’d you guess?” Nick acknowledged with a smile.
“Oh, I can tell city folks. I’m Beth Buckley, chairman of the organizing committee. If you want to see the Junior Fair Horse Show it starts in thirty minutes in the Horse Ring.”
“We’re more interested in the apple-pie-baking contest,” Gloria informed her.
Nick quickly tried to explain their interest. “We have a cousin who was thinking of entering.”
“Oh? Perhaps it’s someone I know.”
“I doubt it. She’s new to the area.”
“Well, you’re a day early. The pie judging isn’t till tomorrow morning at eleven in the Fine Arts Building. It’s down this way, that building just beyond the Activities Tent.”
“Thank you, Miss Buckley,” Gloria said.
“It’s Mrs. Buckley, but you can call me Betty. Everyone does.”
“How is the pie judging done?” Nick wondered. “Do you have a panel of judges?”
“No, no! If we had a panel they’d eat up the whole pie and we couldn’t auction it off. We just have one judge, our local baker, Leonard Fine. He has the Fine Bake Shop out on Union Road. Makes the most delicious pastries!”
“We’ll have to give him a try,” Nick promised. “How does he go about the judging?”
“It’s a wonder to watch,” Betty told them, obviously warming to one of her favorite topics. “He sits on stage behind a table with the apple pies lined up, maybe six or eight of them, each with a small slice taken out. He studies each one, touches the crust, tastes the slice, and makes a few notes. Sometimes he goes back to a pie for another taste. All this time he never changes his expression. And of course he doesn’t know who submitted which pie. They’re all numbered, and the women who baked them are seated there in front of him with their friends and family, just dying of the suspense. Finally he announces the winner and usually says a few words in praise of that pie. The woman who baked it comes forward to accept her blue ribbon.”
“That’s all she gets?” Gloria asked. “A blue ribbon?”
“It’s a great honor, believe me.”
“Do men ever enter?” Nick asked.
“We had a man win the second-place red ribbon a few years back, but he took a lot of kidding. Haven’t had any men since then. That’s not to say a man can’t bake a good pie or cake, though. Len Fine is the best proof of that. I’ve heard of some county fairs that have a men’s contest for pie baking, but we don’t have enough men interested in it here.”
“You mentioned auctioning off the winning pie.”
“That’s right,” Betty confirmed with a nod. “Actually we auction off all the pies. There’s always a husband or beau willing to bid on them. That’s why the judge only eats a small slice. The pies are delivered in covered plastic containers and they’re sold in the same container. The proceeds go to the 4-H Club. Of course the blue-ribbon winner always brings the highest bids. Last year it went for ninety-five dollars.”
“That much?” Gloria asked with just a touch of irony.
Betty glanced at her watch. “Look, I’m supposed to be at the swine evaluations in five minutes. You two enjoy yourselves and maybe I’ll see you at the pie judging in the morning.”
“Well, the people are certainly friendly here,” Nick decided when she’d gone.
“This is great, Nicky! You won’t have to steal the pie at all. Just bid on it and you’ll get it for under a hundred dollars.”
“So it would seem. But apparently Milo Marx tried that last year and they wouldn’t sell it to him. Told him the pies were just for locals.”
Gloria chuckled. “Maybe they add a little pot or something, like that Chicago restaurant owner you used to know.”
“Can you picture that at the Jackson County Fair?”
“No, I guess not.”
They drove out to the Fine Bake Shop on Union Road and found it to be a bustling little place with a tempting selection of pies, cakes, and breads. While Gloria was purchasing an angel food cake with white frosting and multicolored sparkles, Nick asked if Len Fine was around.
“He’s in the back,” a teenaged clerk replied. “Want me to get him?”
Presently a handsome muscular man appeared, wearing a flour-covered apron over a bright red shirt. “I’m Len Fine. What can I do for you?”
Nick produced a business card he sometimes used. “My name is Nicholas. We’re doing a feature on county fairs for Sunday Magazine, and I understand you’ll be judging the apple-pie contest in the morning.”
“That’s right. Do it every year. Sometimes I judge the cakes, too, but this year I’m just doing the pies.”
Nick produced a notepad and pen, giving his best imitation of a journalist. “What do you consider the most important factors in judging a good apple pie?”
“First of all, the flavor of the apple must come through, and I always give high marks to appearance as well. The pie crust is important. I look for a crust that’s a bit flaky without falling apart. There’s a woman here in town, last year’s blue-ribbon winner, who has a near perfect crust recipe using egg and vinegar. I always know her pies. And her designs, occasionally with an intricate latticework covering, are the best I’ve ever seen. She may repeat her win again this year.”