When Jefferson Trestlehorn returned to his home late that night, he was in a foul mood. Now he understood why city cops were such assholes.

He lit his pipe and puffed thoughtfully. The coroner still hadn’t made it out from the county seat in Brent, but he’d be there in the morning – and he’d probably be bringing some damn big city detective with him, to boot. The Chief, on the other hand, would be in town inside of an hour, which gave Jefferson some time to think things through.

It seemed to Jefferson that the Mayor had acted real strangely. Of course, that didn’t make him guilty, but nonetheless…

It was then that Jefferson noticed the apple pie sitting on his coffee table. He sighed. Donna Lee had been courting him pretty energetically for a while now – he was, after all, one of the few remaining bachelors of a certain age in this town since his Beulah died. The pie was, no doubt, intended to be an illustration of her cooking skills.

Jefferson got a knife.

Pie went well with hard thinking.