“I’d be interested in interviewing her,” Nick told him. “Could you give me her name?”
“Sure, it’s Maggie Oates. She lives just a few blocks from here, and I know she’d love to see her name in the papers. I can call her if you’d like.”
“That would be helpful, especially if she ends up winning again.”
They parked in front of a two-story house with light green siding and a wide front porch. Maggie Oates was a pleasant, attractive woman in her thirties who greeted them at the door with a broad smile. “You’re the magazine folks Len phoned me about?”
“That’s right,” Nick said, offering his card. “This is Gloria, my photographer.” On cue, Gloria produced her impressive-looking digital camera.
“Come right in! My husband’s still at work but he’ll be home soon.” She led the way into the kitchen, a room that seemed to dominate the first floor of their modest house. Several pie tins were deployed along the countertop, and a finished pie cut into six pieces already had two pieces missing. “You’ll have to excuse the mess. It’s always like this at county-fair time. I like to work alone and ignore the clutter.”
“Is this your entry?” Nick asked, eyeing the partly eaten pie.
“That’s a test run. The final product is in the oven now. They taste the same, but my official entry has a fancier top crust. Want a piece?”
“Sure,” Gloria answered before Nick could decline.
Maggie Oates glanced at the cluttered kitchen table. “Let’s go in the dining room. It’s pleasanter there.”
She brought the remains of the pie along with some plates and forks. The dining room, like the rest of the downstairs, had a neat but lived-in look about it. She quickly doled out a piece of pie for each of them and took another for herself. “This is my third one,” she admitted. “I like my own baking.”
“It’s delicious,” Gloria decided after her first bite, and Nick had to admit it was tasty.
“I make grape pies during the fall harvest and sell them from here,” Maggie told them. “I do a nice little business, and that pleases Wayne.” A car pulled into the driveway. “That’ll be him now.”
Maggie’s husband was the sort who’d probably been a star athlete in high school before he acquired a pot belly and receding hairline. He seemed to like sharing in his wife’s sudden fame, and Nick hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed when the picture of the two of them that Gloria snapped never got published anywhere. A chime on the stove told Maggie that her apple pie was ready and she hurried to remove it from the oven. “I’ll let it cool a bit and then put it in its container for the judging.”
Nick and Gloria joined Wayne in admiring the finished product. There was none of the latticework Nick had expected. The top crust was solid, but an artistic outline of an apple had been cleverly formed by air holes. “Where did you learn to bake like this?” Gloria marveled.
“From my mother, of course. Isn’t that how all girls learn? Fran Oliver made the best cakes and pies in the county. Good as I am, I could never beat her. She won four blue ribbons at the fair and so far I only have one.”
“You’ll get there,” Wayne promised, squeezing her shoulder.
“I don’t know. Jenny Wadsworth was tough competition last year, and I’m sure she’ll have a pie in tomorrow’s contest.”
“Jackson County pies seem to attract attention,” Nick remarked as they returned to the dining room. “We heard a report that some art collector even tried to buy one last year to add to his collection.”
“That fellow Marx!” Wayne Oates said with a snort. “He was offering thousands of dollars for the prize-winning pie but Beth Buckley wouldn’t let him buy it. She got the county-fair commission to rule that only county residents could bid during the auction. She said the pies were for eating, not for display in a museum, and I suppose she had a point. He even asked Maggie to bake an identical pie for his collection but she refused.”
“I was tempted,” Maggie admitted. “He offered a great deal of money. But by that time the county was really up in arms. It had become a matter of civic pride that the winning pie stay here.”
“Speaking of pie, did you save a piece for me?” Wayne asked.
“Right here!”
“I’ll just get a knife from the kitchen,” he said, but when he returned with it he realized he didn’t need it. “There’s only one piece left. I can handle that.”
When the test pie had been consumed to everyone’s satisfaction, Maggie returned to the kitchen and placed the contest entry in a clear plastic container, sealing it with tape and adding a removable tag with her name, ready for delivery.
“What happens now?” Nick asked.
“I’ll give it to Beth at ten tomorrow morning and she’ll assign a number to it. Then it goes on the table for the judging.”
“How long does that take?”
“It depends on how many pies are entered. Betty cuts a thin slice out of each one and places it on a paper plate.”
“For Leonard Fine,” Wayne supplied. “He’s the judge.”
Nick smiled at him. “It would be a thrill to see your wife win another blue ribbon. Will you be there?”
He shook his head. “I work security at the county hospital and we’re short-handed. I have to be on duty. If Maggie wins, take lots of pictures.”
“We’ll do that,” Nick promised as they were leaving.
They found a room at a motel outside of town. Over dinner Gloria said, “You could have stolen the pie from her kitchen and we’d be on our way home now.”
Nick shook his head. “You’re forgetting it has to be the blue-ribbon winner. I have to wait for the judging. Just because she won last year doesn’t mean she’ll win again.”
“How are you going to steal it?”
“You’ll see.”
But things rarely went as smoothly as Nick planned. Returning to their motel room, they found a middle-aged woman in a sweatshirt and jeans waiting for them. “Are you Mr. Nicholas, the journalist?” she asked.
“I am. How can I help you?”
“My name is Rita Wadsworth. Maggie told me you’re doing a story on her pies and I want to make sure you include me. I’m going to win the blue ribbon this year.”
“Is that so?” Nick took out his key card for the door. “Please come in. We’ll certainly want to get your name in the story.”
Inside the cramped motel room the woman glanced at the queen-size bed as if wondering whether they both slept in it. “Now tell us about yourself,” Nick suggested. “Have you always lived in Clydestown?”
She sat uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa, clutching a large manila envelope. “Born and raised here. My husband and two sons work our dairy farm out on the Post Road. Maggie Oates and I have been rivals for years in the apple-pie judging. I won two years ago and she won last year. I’m out to reclaim the championship this time. When I phoned her tonight and she said you’d interviewed her, I checked the motels until I found where you were.”
“That was clever of you,” Gloria offered.
“I’ve got pictures of my prize-winning pie from two years ago if you’d like to see them.” She unclasped the envelope and slid out some color photos.
“Very nice,” Nick commented, passing them on to Gloria.
“The judging here has always stressed the appearance of the pie as much as its taste.” She added, “Sometimes I think the appearance of the baker counts, too, at least with Leonard Fine.”
“Isn’t it a blind judging?”
“Yes, but everyone recognizes Maggie’s special crust flavor. I try to be clever with my crust design, but she still beat me out last year.”