Death by Deep Dish Pie (6 page)

Then my worries wandered to that night's meeting. What was Trudy up to, wanting to go to a routine Paradise Historical Society meeting—and why had I agreed to bring her? I should have just hired Chip Beavy, the Widow Beavy's grandson, as I usually did, to watch my when I had to be gone for extended hours. But I'd felt sorry for Trudy, who'd seemed so lost and needy . . .

I opened my eyes, shook my head. This worryfest was doing no good.

I picked up the freebie Breitenstrater mini-pie from El-roy. Apple-filled. My mouth watered. Breitenstrater pies really are wonderful. Luscious fillings bursting at the flaky crust seams. The mini-pies are really more like popovers—the same fillings as their regular pies, but the fillings are put on one-half of a small circle of crust, and then the crust is folded in half to make a puffy half-moon. The edges are crimped together and the pies glazed and baked.

The mini-pies were the last Breitenstrater Pie Company innovation since 1983 (except, of course, Cletus's ill-fated and thankfully short-lived creation of a gooseberry-rhubarb tart). But that's okay. Nothing wrong with making simply yummy pies: apple, cherry, blueberry, pecan, pumpkin, sweet potato, raisin, chocolate cream, lemon meringue, butterscotch, coconut cream. All the regional diners serve Breitenstrater pies. People buy them for special occasions: holidays and graduations and parties. And when people move away—say, to retire to Florida—they always ask visiting kin to bring along “A Little Taste of Paradise.”

I closed my eyes again—this time in anticipation of the yummy mini-pie—and bit into it. A half-chew later, my eyes were open and I was staring at the mini-pie. It tasted okay . . . but just okay. The inside was only half-filled. And did I detect staleness in the crust? I checked the sell-by date on the wrapper. This mini-pie was supposed to be good for another month or so. And it was still tasty. But it sure wasn't up to the usual Breitenstrater standard.

I'd heard that the pie company had been losing sales, had recently cut back on ingredients and quality to save costs. An Alan decision, I reckoned, which to me didn't make sense. Who'd want to buy mediocre pie?

I ate it anyway. Pie is pie. I gazed through the trees at the bits of looming, gray stone mansion, thinking about how the Breitenstraters—usually quiet captains of local industry—seemed to be everywhere lately, with odd goings-on. We had Cletus working with Mrs. Beavy on some project she wouldn't discuss . . . Dinky back in town with a friend, Todd Raptor, who was supposedly having an affair with Geri Breitenstrater (Alan's wife). . . Trudy playing Goth girl and hanging out at my . . . and now—the clincher—a less than perfect Breitenstrater pie.

Yep, something unusual—more unusual than usual, that is—was definitely up with the Breitenstraters. I pulled away from the side of the road and headed back to town with the feeling that I was about to find out what.

4

I planned, really I did, to take the straight and narrow (figuratively speaking) back to Paradise. But to borrow another old saying, it turns out the road to Paradise is paved with good intentions.

Now, what happened was that for the second time in two days, I did a good deed for a Breitenstrater. And again, I have to wonder, if I hadn't done this good deed—if I'd have just whizzed past Cletus Breitenstrater walking down the side of the country road—if all that happened later—the murders, the explosion, everything else—would have happened. Because if I hadn't picked up Cletus, he wouldn't have gotten to the Paradise Historical Society meeting where, it would turn out, Alan Breitenstrater was already waiting for him.

But it was still a hot summer day, even if it was early evening, and Cletus—at least fifty pounds overweight and wearing a suit—was wandering in a zigzag on and off the blacktop road. I couldn't just leave the man wandering out there to have a heart attack.

So, of course, I pulled off to the side of the road and put my car in park and leaned over and hollered through my already-lowered passenger window (my car doesn't have air conditioning) as Cletus walked by, “Mr. Breitenstrater? You need a lift somewhere?”

Cletus jumped, as if he hadn't noticed my car—which he may not have—then turned and came back. He hunkered down and looked at me through the passenger's side. Good Lord. The man was wearing a bright red tie—and his sweating face matched the shade perfectly. He pulled a hanky from a pocket, wiped his brow and said, “Yes, my dear? May I help you?”

I held back a smile. “My name is Josie Toadfern. I run the in town—your niece has been visiting there lately. And my Aunt Clara Foersthoefel used to work for your company.” That's the way of small towns. An introduction means establishing how you're already connected to the other person. “I'm on my way back into town and thought you might want a ride. It's a hot day out.”

Cletus thought about that for a minute. “Well, my dear, I'd be delighted to keep you company if you'd like.”

Then he opened the door and got in. I glanced over at him as we drove. He had a round face and a round belly and even round fingers that clutched a brown paper sack. His suit was silk, the color of butterscotch, the very color, in fact, of the butterscotch that filled Breitenstrater butterscotch pies. I wondered if he also had a chocolate suit and a cherry suit and. . .

He twisted open the bag, pulled something out, and tossed it out the window.
Pop!
I jumped. Oh Lord, was my car misfiring? I'd just replaced the muffler, too.

The wind was lifting the forelock of Cletus's hair, which had been stiffened into one salt-and-pepper unit with hair gel. “I'm sorry I don't have air conditioning,” I said. Dear Lord. The man was used to riding in Jaguars. “But if you want to roll up the window, Mr. Breitenstrater . . .”

“Just call me Cletus,” he said. “You know, Trudy has told me all about you.”

“Really.”

“Oh, yes. It is so kind of you to accept her presence at the . I'm afraid she's going through a tough time right now. And it was kind of you to invite her to the meeting tonight. She told me about it and I knew I just had to come, too.” Cletus grinned. “I have a little surprise for everyone. But Dinky and Todd took off with my car, and Geri's gone shopping, and Alan . . . well. . .”

Cletus's voice trailed off as if he'd thought better of saying anything more about his brother, the true ruler of the Breitenstrater clan.

“Anyway,” he went on, “Your Uncle Otis has also said nice things about you.”

I clenched the steering wheel harder than necessary, then lightened my grasp. I've heard tell of steering wheels snapping off in my make and model of Chevy. “You know my Uncle Otis?”

“Why yes, dear. And your cousin Sally. They are working on the renovation of the old Paradise Theatre, you know. You do know that, right?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to breathe evenly. Cletus and Uncle Otis knowing each other? This could not be good. “I recommended them for the work. Uncle Otis has always been something of a handyman, and Sally is really quite talented, looking to start her own business—”

But Cletus wasn't really interested in Uncle Otis and Sally's interests. “Yes, I've had many a fine discussion at the old theatre with your Uncle Otis.”

“You have?”

“Oh yes. I'm quite interested in architectural restoration, you know.”

Lord, what wasn't this man interested in? He reached in his paper bag again, grabbed something, threw it out.

Pop!

I jumped. “Mr. Breitenstrater, what are you throwing out of my car window?”

“Cletus.”

“What?”

“Just call me Cletus.”

“Okay, Cletus.”

He tossed another something-from-his-bag out the window.
Pop!
“They're mini smoke bombs. Kind of like super-sized snaps—with a lot more pop.” I'd noticed. “Haven't you ever thrown snaps?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“Well, you'd love these. Lots more oomph. Of course, I love fireworks of all kinds. Roman candles are really my favorite, but there's something lovely about the simple pleasures of a Morning Glory sparkler, too. I've loved fireworks ever since I was a boy. And I know about every kind there is, too. Bottle rockets, aerial repeaters, Tasmanian devils . . .”

Pop!
Swerve. “I'm thrilled to know that, Cletus, really, but you need to stop.”

“Why?” He threw another one, of course.

”Because beside the fact you're polluting, you're making me very nervous.”

“Well, if you're nervous, you really ought to try ginseng tea. I've been recommending it to everyone.”

I remembered Mrs. Beavy from the day before, with her stained blouse, talking about that.

“Now, when I was researching Utopian histories,” Cletus was going on, “I learned that in one group American ginseng—which grows in the woods near here, you know, and which in fact Daniel Boone—and this has been documented—gathered and sold—”

I shook my head, staring at the road. How did we just go from building restoration to fireworks varieties to Utopias, ginseng and Daniel Boone?

Pop! . . .
and then another sound. A siren. A police siren. Right on my tail.

I looked in my rearview mirror. Sure enough. There was a Paradise Police cruiser right behind me. I slowed—Cletus threw another supersized snap—”Stop that!” I hollered at him—and eased over to the side of the road and stopped.

Which is how I ended up being late getting back to my , which is why Trudy ended up going to the Paradise Historical Society meeting herself, which is why . . .

Anyway. I looked over at Cletus—and saw that the brown paper bag had disappeared. Cletus looked over at me and smiled.

“Josie Toadfern.”

I turned at the sound of my name, spoken in a taunting tone, and faced John Worthy, leaning in my window. John Worthy—who disliked me with extreme intensity. My ex-high-school-boyfriend . . . and our current chief of police.

“Hello, Chief,” I said.

“I thought I wrote you up on your muffler just a few weeks ago?” he said.

“You did. And I got that fixed.”

“So the sound and smoke were from what, then, Josie?”

“They were,” I said, “because Mr. Breitenstrater here—”

“Cletus—” Cletus said helpfully.

“Cletus
was throwing supersized smoking snaps out of my window. I asked him to stop, but—”

John peered over at Cletus. “Good evening, sir,” John said, his voice instantly getting much more respectful. “I'm sure Josie must be joking, but I have to ask as due course of the law. Were you throwing snaps out the window?”

Cletus made his round eyes even rounder and spread out his pudgy hands to show that they were empty.

”Ah, thank you, sir,” Chief Worthy said. “Now, Josie, I'm going to have to write you up again—”

“The muffler is fixed! I swear! If you'll just retrace, you'll find snap—leftovers—or whatever it's called—”

“Residual is the proper term,” Cletus put in.

“Okay, snap residual along the road, and—”

“Mr. Breitenstrater, I'm not sure how you came to be in this woman's company, but I'm sure you can't be comfortable riding with the likes of her. I'd be honored to give you a ride if you need one, sir.” Then Chief Worthy turned his attention back to me. “Josie, I'm going to have to write you up. There's a pretty big fine that goes with . . .”

I moaned, leaning my head against the steering wheel.

Suddenly, my glove compartment fell open and everything in it came flying out.

“Oh, look, how clumsy of me,” Cletus said loudly. “I guess my knee brushed against the door. Sorry, Josie. Oh—and look—there are my snaps after all.” Cletus gave a little laugh. “Sorry about that, Chief Worthy—just a temporary lapse of memory that I do have them and that, yes, it was I, using them. So no need to cite Josie. You'll just need to write me up, I guess. We're kind of in a hurry. Paradise Historical Society meeting, you know. Very important.”

Chief Worthy frowned. “Well, sir, I do appreciate your honesty. I'll let you off on a warning, this time.”

I had the feeling that he would let Cletus—who was now stuffing the contents back into my glove compartment—off on a warning every time.

“As for you, Josie, I'll be watching you.”

With that, Chief Worthy got back in his cruiser. He followed us all the way into town, right on my bumper, so I stayed just a few miles below the speed limit. Not too fast. Not too slow. Just right.

Cletus and I were quiet, except for once, when I said, “Thanks.”

And he said, “No problem, dear. I always root for the underdog.”

Not exactly the way I wanted to be described, but still. In his own way, he was being sweet.

By the time we got to my , Trudy was already gone. Cletus walked the few blocks down to the old Paradise Theatre—tossing his supersized smoking snaps on the sidewalk as he went, causing folks to hop, look annoyed, and then just smile patronizingly at him because, after all, he was a Breitenstrater.

Trudy had left a fill-in in her place—a skinny young man in black leather pants, black dyed hair, a black T-shirt, and, clipped to his left eyebrow, a sapphire rhinestone earring that looked suspiciously like something Mrs. Beavy would have worn.

I peered past him to my . Everything was neat and in place. Trudy had left a note that all orders had been picked up and that she'd bought, on her lunch break, a fresh package of washable markers for the kids' corner—didn't I know markers came in neon colors now?

I had to smile at that.

I looked up at the young man, studied him for a moment. “Aren't you Chucky Winks?”

Chuck Winks' boy—Chuck Jr.—aka Chucky, aka East Mason County High School's all-star baseball player as a high school sophomore . . . until the final game of the season, when he'd suddenly lost his nerve, dropped two balls at second, then struck out at the bottom of the ninth, blowing his school's chance to finally, for the first time ever, beat West Mason County High School in something. Anything. (West draws the kids from in and around Masonville. East gets everyone else in the county. The schools are, no surprise, big rivals.)