Celtic Justice (The Anna Albertini Files #7)

Chapter 1

Tension rolled through the spectators, thick in the air, like a bolt about to strike. I shivered.

This wasn’t exactly life or death, but with the murmur of the crowd and the weight pressing in from all sides, it felt important. My name is Anna Albertini, and I come from a huge family in a small town. I’d taken today off from my job as a lawyer to come and support my grandmother.

I stood off to the side and looked toward the dais where the five finalists for the Silverville St. Paddy’s Day Shamrock Pie Contest stood proudly in front of their creations.

Every concoction was green—green crusts, green fillings, green sprinkles—each topped with a mountain of whipped cream and a dizzying display of gold and shamrock-shaped decorations.

My stomach twisted as I watched my Nana standing dead center, beaming in her new green-checked dress.

Nana O’Shea looked like every Irish grandmother found in fairy tales, the sweet ones, with her hair a halo of blondish-red curls threaded with silver, twinkling green eyes, and a mischievous grin that said she’d spike your cocoa if you weren’t careful.

She reminded me of an older Maureen O’Hara, with the same kind of confidence that comes from knowing the secrets of the universe. Probably.

She stood next to the local optometrist’s wife, Gloria Walton, who most certainly wasn’t beaming.

Gloria stood a solid six inches taller than Nana and carried herself like someone who’d given up smiling sometime around 1998. Heavy lines carved around her mouth and eyes, though she couldn’t have been more than sixty. She and Nana looked about the same age, which had to sting.

The three judges took a slice from each pie and carried their plates over to the side table. They took careful bites, chewed like they were decoding state secrets, and scribbled in their little spiral notebooks.

Last year, we’d tried to get them to use tablets, the nice kind, with styluses and everything, but that had gone about as well as asking a cat to swim laps. So we’d gone back to paper and pencils, which seemed to suit everyone’s sanity just fine.

The judges this year were three of the many town elders: Marjorie, who ran the soup kitchen; Jacob, a retired police officer; and June, the librarian who could still silence a room with one raised eyebrow. If anyone in Silverville knew pies, it was those three.

I caught Nana’s eye and winked. She smiled back, confident as ever.

She’d won the last two years in a row, and judging by that sparkle in her eye, she was ready to make it a hat trick.

I had to admit, I’d tasted her pie recipe that she tweaked every year, and once again, this year’s concoction was phenomenal.

Nana O’Shea believed in magic and fairies and sparkles, and somehow that came through in her baking.

I watched the judges take another bite, nodding, smiling, and scratching more notes.

That looked good. Really good.

Most towns celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with a parade on one day. Not us. We had a full week of Irish themed celebrations, and today kicked it all off.

Around us, the late-morning air hung heavy with the scent of sugar, cinnamon, and fried dough from the fair booths.

Kids perched on hay bales, their green plastic hats slipping sideways.

The crowd had gone utterly silent, except for the low hum of the generator running the beer tent and the faint squeak of the Ferris wheel starting up again at the edge of the town square.

I could feel the tension in my chest for Nana. I really wanted her to win.

Jacob dug into Gloria’s pie and took a generous bite. I held my breath.

She usually landed second place, which meant this could be her year. I hoped not.

With Nana finally opening her little shop in town, selling lotions, potions, and everything in between, from wellness teas to magic crystals, it would be nice for her to take home another win. She could hang that ribbon right in the front window with her two most recent wins.

Jacob’s face twisted. He started coughing hard and spit the bite into a napkin. The other two judges followed suit. June wiped her tongue on her sleeve like she’d licked a battery.

“What in the world?” I whispered.

“Lotion. Or something horrible.” Jacob stumbled away from the table, still hacking. His red eyes watered streaks down his weathered face.

Gloria leaned toward her pie and sniffed. “What is that smell?” She went pale and swung her gaze to my grandmother. “Your peppermint-scented lotion.”

Nana reared back, looking small beside the taller woman. “That’s ridiculous.” She leaned forward to sniff the pie herself. Her frown deepened. “Well, that does smell like it.”

“You used it in my pie!” Gloria threw up both hands as if she might shove Nana, but she froze when movement surged from the crowd.

My sisters, my cousins, and I all moved at once, barreling toward the stage. Nobody laid a finger on Nana O’Shea. Gloria hesitated as we reached the edge, her hands still raised. Then she slowly lowered them. Smart woman. I would have taken her out myself.

Jacob, still gasping, pointed toward the table. “I’m sorry, but that pie is disqualified. That ain’t food.”

“It’s been sabotaged,” Gloria sputtered. “I want a full investigation.” She looked around wildly. “Sheriff? Sheriff, where are you?”

The sheriff ambled forward from the back of the crowd, looking every bit like a silver-haired Sam Elliott with a powdered donut in one hand. “Now, Gloria, hold on,” he started.

“No, I will not hold on. This is fraud and tampering and whatever else you can think of. I want her arrested.” She jabbed a finger toward my Nana.

Nana lifted her hands. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh yes, you did. It had to be you. You’re the only one with the key to the Elks fridge.”

My stomach cramped. The appliance was locked up like a gold vault with just one key, ever since Tommy Maloney had been caught sneaking out vodka bottles for his family reunion two years previous.

Nana blinked. “Well, yes, but only because I was the last one to put my pie in last night. I didn’t sabotage anything.”

I winced.

“Was anybody with you?” the sheriff asked.

Nana hesitated. “No.”

Gloria planted her hands on her hips. “My pie was just fine when I dropped it off. I passed you going in. Nobody else entered after you, did they? Did you give the key to anybody?”

“No,” Nana said, “I’m definitely the last person to have visited the kitchen before today when we all retrieved our pies, but I wouldn’t put lotion in your pie. You know that.”

“I do not know that. I think you’ve been cheating for years.”

A sharp gasp ran through the crowd like a ripple across water.

“Now, that’s enough,” Nonna Albertini, my other grandmother, said. She strode toward us from the Elks’ ladies float, where she’d been wiring on extra clovers.

I blinked. Nonna Albertini and Nana O’Shea didn’t like each other. Ever. Nobody knew why, or at least, nobody in the know would tell. They’d created a détente when my parents got married, but they couldn’t be more different. Yet here Nonna was, defending Nana.

Nana’s rosy mouth dropped open and then snapped shut again.

Nonna Albertini crossed her arms. “Listen, I think pie contests are stupid, as you all know.” Her Italian accent thickened with every syllable. “I do not have an Irish pie in this, but I tell you now, Fiona would never cheat.”

My eyes flew to my sister Tessa. Her brows nearly touched her hairline. She gave me the smallest shake of her head. I shrugged. None of this made sense.

Tessa stood a few feet away, her reddish-blond hair glowing under the weak March sunlight, those unmistakable Irish-green eyes wide with disbelief.

She wore jeans and a soft green sweater that matched her eyes perfectly.

If anyone could blend casual comfort with quiet beauty, it was Tessa.

She looked like she’d stepped out of a Celtic postcard, minus the harp.

“I don’t care what you say, Elda,” Gloria snapped. “The only person who could have sabotaged this pie is Fiona. No one else had the chance, unless you use lotion to cook, of course.”

Nana’s green eyes flared. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. You think I’d waste good lotion on you?”

My breath caught. Nana was going to battle for herself, and soon she’d start spitting curses. I edged back as Tessa did the same. No way did I want to get caught in a thrown curse.

Even the sheriff hesitated. His hand hovered near his belt buckle, and he shifted his weight as if preparing to dive for cover. In his black-checked flannel and faded jeans, he looked like he could move fast. “Now, listen. Everyone just take a deep breath.” His badge gleamed at his belt.

I looked around for my boyfriend, but Aiden must still be working on one of the family floats with my cousins. So I took a deep breath and eyed my grandmothers.

Nana O’Shea stood petite and pale, all soft curls and Irish fire. Nonna Albertini was her opposite, tall and striking, dark hair pinned back, eyes flashing like polished brown marble. Gloria, tall and broad in her good spring dress with pink ribbons, glared at them both.

The crowd collectively held its breath, waiting for the fireworks.

Donna, my oldest sister, moved toward me from the other side of the crowd. She had the same elegant features as Nonna with deep brown eyes, strong cheekbones, and a natural grace that turned heads without her even trying. Her beauty was classic and calm. “What is happening?” she whispered.

“I have no idea,” I whispered back, not looking like either of my sisters with my brown hair and greenish-gray eyes. Tessa took after the Irish side, Donna the Italian, and me? Who knew? Shaking my head, my attention returned to the drama. “Where are our parents?”

“They’re still by the float, getting it ready for the parade. They have no idea this is going on.” Tessa’s voice was low.

I hesitated. “I’m not sure what to do.”

“Don’t do anything,” Tessa murmured. “Either Nana is going to issue a curse, or Nonna is going to get out her wooden spoon and start smacking people. Let’s stay here.”

Donna nodded. “Let this unfold.”

The sheriff finally approached the platform, apparently willing to risk the curse, and cleared his throat. “All right, everybody, just take a step back. Why don’t you two come to the station with me, and we’ll figure this out.”

Nana looked down from the dais at me. “Yoo-hoo, Anna. Hi, dear. Looks like I need a lawyer.”

My stomach dropped. Of course I would help my Nana, but this was ridiculous.

Before anyone could react, a small explosion shook the air. The sound snapped through the square, sharp and angry, echoing off the buildings. Smoke spiraled into the sky.

I hated that sound. Small or not, an explosion was an explosion, and I’d been around a few in my life.

We all froze, the crowd going silent. The smell of burnt sugar from the pie table mixed with smoke on the breeze. Then came the murmur with low, nervous gossip rippling through the people.

Nana O’Shea gasped, one hand to her chest. “Good heavens, was that my shop?”