Death by Deep Dish Pie (27 page)

“This is Dr. Rachelle Hartzler. I've got good news. Slinky is going to be just fine. I don't think she was poisoned at all. She just threw up a huge wad—huge, at least, for a ferret tummy—of what looks to be plastic and brown paper. And she's looking much happier now. Any idea where she could have gotten into something like that?”

The image of Mrs. Oglevee—madly, happily chomping away on pages from an old diary—flashed in my head yet again.

“Yes,” I said softly. “Yes, I think I know where Slinky got into that.”

Which meant I suddenly knew where I could find the old diary and letters Cletus had taken from the Paradise Historical Museum over Mrs. Beavy's garage . . . and possibly the reasons behind Alan's death and Cletus's disappearance.

“Just what the hell do you think you're doing? It's not enough that you trashed my truck—now you're trying to undo all the hard work I've done in here?”

Since I was on my tiptoes, on the second-to-the-top step of a foldout ladder, trying to carefully remove the ferret-gnawed ceiling panel, which had been patched and freshly painted white, I chose not to answer Sally's question. If I could tilt the panel just so, I should be able to get it out without scratching the paint job too badly . . .

I tilted it too far. The panel thunked down on my head, then crashed to the floor and cracked in two. Sally yelped. I yelped too, but not out of despair over the panel. I'd lost my balance and was falling.

Fortunately, Sally caught me by the armpits. We stumbled around a bit, then finally steadied ourselves and faced each other.

“I really wish I'd never given you Uncle Otis's key to the theatre. Would you mind,” Sally said through clenched teeth, “telling me just what the hell is going on here?”

I pointed to the hole in the ceiling. “Cletus Breitenstrater hid an old diary and some letters in a garment bag—” I pointed back to the formerly leaking closet. “—Which he took from there—” Pointer finger back up. “—and which he then stashed up there.”

Sally crossed her arms and glared at me. “And you know this, how?”

I thought about trying to explain about Slinky puking up plastic and brown paper and how I realized Slinky must have eaten that while hiding up in the ceiling, then gotten, well, plugged up from eating too much, and how it was just possible that there wasn't a bit of the diary or garment bag or letters left and how if there wasn't, then we might not ever know what Cletus was going to put in the revised Founder's Day play that Alan didn't want anyone to know, probably because it would somehow get in the way of him being able to sell Breitenstrater Pies to Good For You Foods International. . .

“Never mind,” I said. I didn't feel up to going into all of that with Sally. “I can get it myself.”

“And break more ceiling tiles so I have to fix them later? Forget it. I just might make my deadline on this damned project, and I'm not letting you mess it up for me.” Sally folded up the stepladder. “Just wait a minute.”

She left the room and came back a few minutes later with a flashlight and taller ladder. I held the flashlight while she unfolded the ladder, then handed her the flashlight. She climbed up until her head and torso disappeared into the ceiling.

“Josie, there's not a damned thing up here except dust and dirt,” Sally said, her voice muffled. She started to back down, then stopped. “Wait, I think I see something.”

Then I heard a dragging sound and Sally started moving back down the ladder, emerging with an armful of plastic, and covered in dust.

She coughed and sneezed. “Is this what you're after?”

“Yes, I think so,” I said. She handed the plastic down to me and started down the ladder.

By the time she was kneeling on the floor at my side, I'd unrolled the plastic. It was the garment bag I'd stored the costumes in. A large hole had been gnawed away from the bottom. Inside, I saw something small and square and brown. I unzipped the bag carefully and looked at the old letters—and one old diary, which Slinky hadn't gotten to, except for a few gnaw marks around the edges.

Sally was staring down at the half-letters and the diary, fascinated, her anger over her truck and the ruined ceiling tile forgotten.

“What is this?”

I picked up the diary. “Let's find out,” I said. I opened the plain brown leatherbound book carefully, then stared for a long moment at the precisely scripted phrase on the first page: The Private Diary of Gertrude Breitenstrater . . .

The wife of Clay Breitenstrater. One of the original six settlers of Paradise. The great-great-grandma whose recipes Thaddeus Breitenstrater had used to start the Breitenstrater Pie Company.

We started reading . . .

We have stopped for several days now in a land that is, as Clay keeps telling us, as beautiful as Paradise it-self. The trees sway gently in the breeze; birds sing; a stream babbles. This is what Clay points out during our daily devotions. We have determined to settle here, to create our own perfect society, Clay says. I try to believe him. I try not to think of the biting gnats. Or of my fear of Indians. Or of my favorite dressmaker in Philadelphia. Or of my mama's most wonderfully delicious blueberry pies. Or wonder why Mr. Foersthoefel eyes me so readily, or why Mr. Schmidt keeps twitching. Dear Clay assures me they have completely reformed of the ways that forced Clay's father to fire them from the bank, as has Clay. I know this is true of dear Clay, of course
—
he is so good! So true! No matter what mama says!
—
and
—
oh
—
I must believe in the ideals he's teaching us. I will believe. My mama says I have wasted my fine education by marrying a dreamer like Clay, but I believe in his vision of a perfect society . . . although I do not relish this idea that men and women are to sleep in separate buildings. Clay assures me we will have . . . visiting rights . . . with each other. This I cherish. In the meantime, Mrs. Foersthoefel, I am sorry to say, snores, and Mrs. Schmidt, I am certain, covets my cameo brooch . . .

Three months in this wilderness. We are now in the heat of summer and though I would not tell Clay, Paradise seems a bitter name for our little settlement. Life here is hard. My hands have grown too rough for holding, it seems, for Clay allows me to confer upon him . . . visiting rights . . . only when I insist. He is joyous, though, for he has traded for several necessities and useful things this strange root called ginseng, even with Daniel Boone himself. Mrs. Foersthoefel has confided in me a method she knows of making wild elderberry wine. Clay would not approve, for imbibing does not fit the perfection of society which we seek here . . .

Clay is very busy. Three new families have joined our little group. The children are darling and I love to help their mothers with them, but my heart is heavy with the fear I shall never have any of my own. Clay has put a stop to our . . . visiting rights. He says he must, in order to gain “purity of thought.” Mrs. Foersthoefel
—
who is now with child herself
—
has perfected her elderberry wine recipe and taught it to me. Lacking blueberries, I have begun making elderberry pies, although the crust is not as tasty as my mama's . . .

Our settlement has grown to more than 50, as word of our Society of Paradise has grown. Everyone loves Clay's sermons. Everyone loves my pies. I should be happy, but . . . Clay's thoughts have achieved a remarkable level of purity. And as winter comes, the winds grow cold and bitter . . .

We have now been here a year
—
through snows, and ice, and winds, and now, again, a lovely spring that fits the name of our settlement and group. The Society of Paradise. Everyone seems happy
—
the men and women in our separate houses. We have now grown to 83 people. Clay has convinced everyone that visiting rights should be no more, as our achievement of Paradise on earth is a sign that the end times are near . . . and so we should bring no children into these end times. I try to believe, but yet I ask myself, what good is Paradise without children or visiting rights? My only solace is how everyone loves my pies . . .

Is it my wish for visiting rights that has brought this upon us? Adolphus has arrived, laying claim to the land Clay swears his father deeded him, with official-looking papers. Clay assures us all that the land we have settled is properly ours. Adolphus has stirred worry with whispers among the men which come to the women from the few who still have . . . visiting rights . . . that the land was given to Clay by their father as a way to make him leave Philadelphia after all the trouble at the bank
—
something about pilfering in accounts
—
but that now their father has transferred the deed to Adolphus so he can settle the land properly. Word has traveled back of our Society of Paradise and our belief in the end times and their father wants an end, Adolphus says, to this nonsense. Oh, what is the greater sin ? My wish to go home to Philadelphia ? Or the fact that my brother-in-law Adolphus has brought with him his secretary . . . Leo Toadfern . . . and that he is, indeed, a strapping, handsome man who eyes me as though he would truly enjoy some . . . visiting rights. Perhaps I should just offer him elderberry pie ?

Leo, as it turns out, truly likes my visits with elderberry pie . . .

A horrible tragedy! Clay and Adolphus got into a terrible fight! Clay struck Adolphus down, and Adolphus hit his head on a large boulder. Poor Adolphus
—
it was not Clay's intention. At Clay's request, Adolphus was buried deep in a cave
—
a strange request, but one honored by several of the menfolk. Clay has left to return to Philadelphia to explain things to his father and face his due judgment. We are, he says, to continue in our good work, until he returns . . .

Fall is upon us. No word from Clay. Some say we should continue with our Society of Paradise. Others say, nay, we should build on the trading the menfolk have been doing. We are not so far from the settlement road west that we cannot build commerce. I wonder . . . would travelers like to stay at a tavern, even one run by a woman ? Leo could build one for me. I could sell my pies.

I am with child. Some have questioned this, given Clay's encouragement to avoid visiting rights. I do not answer them. But now that Leo has finished with my tavern
—
and rooms above for myself and my child
—
I think perhaps it best to stop bringing Leo his favorite elderberry pies . . .

Sad and strange news for me today
—
just a few weeks after my son's birth. (I have named him Thaddeus.) Some boys went into the cave where Adolphus was buried months ago
—
and there found Clay's body. Leo and some others have buried him alongside Adolphus. None talk any longer of our once having been the Society of Paradise. None of the old buildings we first made remain. We are now just Paradise, a small settlement, ill named, yet growing, and on fine spring days such as these, it's easy to think, for a moment, perhaps, in some strange way, the name does fit . . . though some whisper a curse will come upon us because of the tragedy between Clay and Adolphus.

Leo Toadfern married today a fine girl, Mabel. I brought to the wedding feast an elderberry pie. Mr. Foersthoefel
—
widowed now
—
suggested perhaps I too would like to remarry, to give my son a father who could teach him the ways of manhood
—
hunting and fishing and the like. I watched Thaddeus picking berries
—
just the best ones
—
from bushes growing wild near the church
—
and declined Mr. Foersthoefel's offer. He is too old for me. I think, instead, I'll teach Thaddeus how to make elderberry pies . . .

“Do you know what this means?”

“Sure,” Sally said. “The really vague history about these three couples coming to this area and settling Paradise is really vague for a reason—our town was started by some weirdo cult.” She chuckled.

I gave her a long look. “Okay—that's true, according to this. But also according to this, Gertrude and Clay Breitenstrater didn't have sex—”

“Which seemed to really bug her. I say, Gertrude, you go girl—”

“Sally, read between the lines. She did go. To Leo Toad-fern. And Clay killed Adolphus, and then himself, and never had any kids.”

“Yep, and the whole town just covered it up with the lame story we've all come to accept as our history, ‘the Foersthoefels, Schmidts, and Breitenstraters were moving west,'”—Sally was doing a frighteningly perfect imitation of Mrs. Oglevee from junior high local history class—”but it was so perfect here they stopped—' “

Sally stopped too, and stared at me, realization finally hitting her. “Wait a minute—Gertrude's kid—what was his name?”

“Thaddeus.”

“Yeah, Thaddeus Breitenstrater, was really Leo's kid, not Clay's, which means the Breitenstraters are really Toadferns . . . or maybe we Toadferns are really

Breitenstraters . . .” Sally stopped, looking stunned at the revelation.

“It means,” I said, “There are no Breitenstraters. And the Breitenstraters all along should have carried the Toadfern name. Which means that, from what I understand about how the Breitenstrater Pie Company is set up, the company was never Alan's to sell in the first place.”

Sally scowled at me. “How you figure?”

“Because Geri explained to me how the business was passed down from generation to generation. Alan's great-grandfather, Thaddeus Breitenstrater II, was the last of the Breitenstrater line, but he hoped his only son would have lots of children and that the company could take care of all Breitenstraters. So he set up the company to be divided equally among all Breitenstraters, with the oldest of the heirs to be in charge of the company, unless that person decided to turn over control to another family member. Thaddeus's son had just one son, who had two sons—Alan and Cletus, and Alan had two kids and Cletus had Dinky.