Wings, Pies, and Lies: A Cozy Mystery

By Kay Turner

Out of work reporter Jackson Hopkins and his pet Silkie chicken Snowflake decide to take a trip home to the small town of Peach River, North Carolina for some peace and quiet, and to enjoy the town's annual pie festival during its celebratory year. But their visit takes an unexpected turn when one of the leading contenders in the main event is found dead, and his mother is accused of the crime. It'll take their best investigative efforts to find the true culprit before the authorities arrive from the city and clear his mother's name. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kay Turner
• Release date: May 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798227513502

Kay Turner

A native of the south and lover of all things southern, including lemonade and lightning bugs. She writes cozy mysteries with a touch of humor, heart, and laughs to brighten your day.  You can visit her online at her website for the latest updates on all her works.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I s this the last one , Nana? I huffed, shoving another piece of poster board up on the table, but I doubt she could hear me too well. A cloud of excited chatter mixed with the cheery music from the main stage, all normal parts of any festival, but it made regular conversation a tad tricky. Plus, we had the added obstacle of the poster boards absorbing the sound. They weren’t small posters either, I’m not a super short guy and they came up to my waist, the fronts were plastered in old news articles from the Peach River Pie Festival of years past.

Yes, Jackson. Thank you so much for carrying them for me. That’s the last display piece I need for our exhibit. Sweeping out from behind the second table loaded with paper flyers and posters, my Nana, or Pearl June Hopkins as she was known to most people, snagged the poster out of my hands and darted away. The peach fabric of her long pleated skirt floated around her ankles like a living cloud, tossed up by the morning breeze rolling off the nearby French Broad River, and a few strands of silver hair slipped out of the claw clip at the back of her hair. Her hands were a blur as they reorganized stacks of photos of all sizes to be displayed properly, I lifted two fingers to each side of his glasses and pushed them up, my curiosity already drawing me over for a closer look.

This goes all the way back to the first festival in 1956, doesn’t it?

Yes. She nodded, sweeping one arm across the table, but somehow without disturbing a single page. We made this exhibit since it’s our anniversary year. It has a complete history of the contest winners dating back to 1956. But you can see that. Seeing it was an understatement. There were photos of all sizes. Black and white, sepia-toned, and the more recent ones in color. But every one of them featured someone proudly showing off a blue-ribbon wearing pie. Meringue topped, latticework, and all. I’d had a good breakfast this morning, but those pictures combined with the sweet scent of freshly baked dough floating in the air, and my stomach gave up the fight. Rumbling in anticipation of all those lovely delights, I stepped back just as another breeze whistled through the trees, cutting right through the sturdy fabric of my denim jeans and jacket and I shivered. Jamming my hands into my pockets to keep the chill out of my fingers, March was really crawling in with a chill here in the North Carolina mountains, and I was starting to wish I’d dressed a little more warmly when I noticed something odd. In the later pictures of the festival, like the last thirty years or so, one face was featured front and center.

Old Mrs. Brooker hasn’t earned her title as pie queen for nothing. How many years did she win? It looks like thirty or so here? I lifted an eyebrow.

Yes. Nana nodded. There was always a little something special that no one could put their finger on, but always made her pies better than anyone else’s. She always swore that she would take that secret to her grave, but based on how her daughter has been carrying on. I wouldn’t be surprised if she earns that title too. But I could be wrong and it falls to someone else. Some of these recipes have been in their families for years, and it would be a huge honor to finally get them published in a real cookbook. I still can’t believe that your mother managed to talk a publishing company into selling a community cookbook of our little town-

Ba-Bock!

Uh-oh! That wasn’t a good cluck. I spun on my heel, already preparing myself for the worst possible diaper change, but the stroller with my pet Silkie hen Snowflake was still sitting where I had parked her. An arm’s length away, but behind the tables in Nana’s personal area where she kept her jacket and purse. Snowflake was standing up, her nest of blankets inside her cat-turned-chicken stroller all tangled around her feet, and her furry feathers all puffed out to super marshmallow size. She spread her wings and flapped, her warning that she was about to charge, and the top of her head almost brushing the shade I had pulled over her. The netting that boxed the whole space in wouldn’t let her flop out on the ground unless I unzipped the roof, but she could easily go raptor mode and tear it apart with her nails. Hey! Easy, girl. What’s wrong? I whispered in the most soothing voice I could, taking slow, steady steps so that it didn’t alarm her. She twisted her head to the side, fixing me with that wide-eyed scared chicken stare, and I swear it was like she was trying to beam a message straight into my brain.

Does she need a diaper change, or did she drop her hat? Nana asked.

She’s still got her hat, but it could be the diaper. The miniature straw hat she normally wore on top of her poof had dropped down, dangling across her chest by its elastic strap like an exotic necklace, and the light pink ribbon around the brim perfectly matched her diaper and harness. Which didn’t look too saggy and full yet, but if she was uncomfortable, that was all that mattered. I frowned, easing down into a squat, and untied her leash from the stroller handle. C’mere. Let’s see what your problem is.

I had just laid both of my hands across her wings when I heard something strange, the dull thud of footsteps quickly growing stronger. Snowflake peeped, opening her beak to let a little piece of black tongue poke out, and stretched her neck to peer around me. That was a little odd, she was very calm for a chicken, especially since it was just me and her since I didn’t have any other birds. But for her to openly reach for a stranger was very rare, unless they had something she wanted. Slowly turning on my heel, a well-dressed woman in a black skirt and white jacket was striding towards us. Her curly red hair dangled around her shoulders and her narrow features pinched forward in a severe pucker. If it hadn’t been for the red lipstick giving her a splash of color to match her hair. I