Free The Claim by Jennifer L. Holm Page A

about my pies. The dark, rich inside did look delicious.
    I sliced the last remaining two pies, added a generous spoonful of fresh cream to each plate, and returned with my tray to the dining room.
    Mrs. Frink stood up and announced to the room, “You are all in for a treat. Jane has baked us her famous pies!”
    The room burst into applause and the men hooted.
    “Why else do ya think we come here?” one man shouted back playfully.
    I blushed and sat down.
    “Your pie looks lovely, as usual, my dear,” Mr. Swan said, and then took a hearty bite.
    Around the room the guests were digging into their slices, and I tucked into my own piece. But no sooner had the pie hit my tongue than I knew something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
    Mrs. Frink’s eyes met mine helplessly, and she brought her napkin up to her mouth.
    Mr. Swan was valiantly trying to swallow his bite, and William had started to cough. Sally looked absolutely pained, and Mr. Biddle hastily drained his glass of water.
    But it was Mrs. Biddle, ever the lady, who unceremoniously spat out her mouthful onto her handkerchief. “It tastes like—like—” she sputtered, her lips pasted with crumbs.
    I spit out my own mouthful and studied the rich, brown filling. Was that a piece of a worm?
    “Like—like—”
    “Mud,” I finished.
    “Mud!” Mrs. Biddle shrieked.
    And then toppled to the floor in a dead faint.

CHAPTER SEVEN
or,
Stolen Goods
    We discovered the culprit the next morning.
    Willard was curled up in a tangle of sheets, moaning in agony from a terrible stomachache. He had eaten the rich molasses filling out of two of the pies and then cleverly replaced the molasses with mud, thinking no one would be the wiser. Brandywine had apparently participated in the crime and lay nestled next to Willard in the linen closet, where they had spent the night hiding. Millie had discovered them when she went to fetch fresh sheets.
    “Will you look at the thieving bandits,” Millie declared.
    “Willard Woodley!” I said sternly.
    “I’m sorry, Miss Jane,” Willard said, clutching his stomach.
    Brandywine whimpered piteously.
    “Willard, you are more trouble than you are worth!”
    He shook his head mournfully and blinked up at me, his face pale. He looked very much as if he were about to be sick all over the clean linen. “My belly hurts bad, Miss Jane!”
    “Well, of course it does! You ate two pies’ worth of molasses!” I said.
    “You’re lucky you haven’t been sick all night,” Millie added.
    “But I have,” he admitted glumly, pointing to a bundle of soiled sheets in the corner.
    “Oh, for heaven’s sakes. As if we don’t have enough work around here already.” I extended a hand. “Come on now, let’s get you cleaned up, and then I’m taking you home to your mother.”
    Millie and I gave the boy a bath, which he was very unhappy about, and also some weak tea to settle his stomach. When he was feeling a little better, I took him by the hand and led him from the hotel.
    As we made our way along Front Street, I noticed sly glances from several men we passed and heard soft snickering. As usual a group of men was loitering on the whiskey barrels in front of the bowling alley. They started guffawing in earnest when they saw me coming.
    “Well, lookee. It’s Jane Peck! Got any of that pie lying around, Jane?” one of them cackled.
    I blushed so hard, I swear my cheeks were redder than my hair!
    “Heard you made a real good pie last night, Miss Peck,” another one laughed.
    “Here’s mud in your eye!” Red Charley shouted, taking a swig of whiskey.
    “Willard,” I scolded, utterly humiliated. “Look what you did!”
    “The pie
was
good,” Willard said in a mutinous voice.
    I glared at him, and he managed to look sheepish.
    “I ain’t never gonna do that again, Miss Jane,” Willard promised in a solemn voice.
    “That is most certainly true, because you are fired,” I informed him.
    Willard looked stricken. “You can’t fire me,