Never Say Pie (A Pie Shop Mystery) (17 page)

“It was two women,” I said. “They were talking about Jacques and they even mentioned me. In fact they said they were going to have a talk with me. Now I realize that was code for drowning me.”

“Why? Why would anyone want to drown you? What do you know that they want kept quiet?”

“Nothing. Nothing that you don’t know too. Everything I know I’ve shared with you. Why don’t they pick on you for a change?”

“Who’s they?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No idea. My only enemies are Heath and his brother. Heath’s dead and I don’t think his brother was invited to the party. These two were in the pool house and I was in the sauna. If they’d known I was in there —” I shuddered at the thought. “They could have turned on the heat and locked me in. And I’d be steamed by the time someone found me.”

“Are you sure you don’t have a persecution complex? Accidents happen.”

“Especially to me,” I said.

“First it was the walk-in freezer. Then the pig chasing you across
the field. Am I missing something?”

“I suppose you think I brought those things on myself because of my inquisitive nature.”

“It has occurred to me.”

I stood up. There was no convincing Sam and with him here the someone or someones who’d shoved me in the pool weren’t going to try again. “I’m going
home.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“I can manage. Thanks anyway.”

“I’ll follow you just in case. Keep your cell phone on. Or did it get soaked?”

“My purse and phone were in the sauna, safe and sound.”

It’s against the law in California to use a hand-held wireless cell phone while driving and I didn’t have a head set. But Sam conveniently overlooked the law, or maybe he didn’t notice I was holding the phone to my ear when he called me to make sure I was okay, although he was close enough since he was tailgating me all the way back to town. I took his actions as a compliment. Despite his casual attitude to my “falling” into the pool in a drunken stupor I could hope he might be having second thoughts and believed my story. Whatever the reason, he seemed more concerned than he had at the pool and kept up a steady stream of conversation as we drove in tandem back to town. Which was not like him under any circumstances as far as I knew. I was sure grateful for the bathrobe and I’d have to return it to the sauna, preferably when no one was at home to ask any embarrassing questions.

We both pulled up in front of my shop at the same time and Sam opened the car door for me. My legs were not working very well so I tumbled out and he caught me for the second time that night.

After a few minutes he took my keys, unlocked the front door, and carried me up the narrow stairs to my apartment. No easy job. I am not exactly tiny and the staircase is narrow, but somehow he got me upstairs. I was asleep before he even left, dreaming disturbing dreams of being locked into a sauna by Heath’s brother.

The next morning I had a headache that I could not blame on excessive alcohol despite what Sam said, but being the consummate professional I am, I started setting up for the bake-off, hauling chairs and tables into the shop from the storage area in the garage and covering them with Grannie’s colorful tablecloths.

Fortunately Grannie and her friends Helen and Grace showed up early. They were dressed for success in casual but elegant pants outfits, matching flat shoes and enough jewelry to start a pawn shop. They all three looked much more alert than I did, but none of them had been pushed into a pool last night as far as I knew. Instead they’d had the time of their lives.

“We had the best time last night,” Grannie said hanging a colorful pink begonia in the store window.

“What was it, a bridge game?”

“No, it was karaoke night,” Grannie said. “They played all the oldies. You should have heard me.”

“I have heard you sing in the shower. I always said you should have a bigger audience,” I said.

“What about you? Didn’t you go to a party?” Grace asked me, putting knives and spatulas on the serving tables.

“Yes, at the Foggy Meadow Dairy Farm where a guy from the Food Fair works. It’s out on Route 92. Have any of you ever seen it? It’s a beautiful place. Very upscale. Like the cheese they make.”

“That’s the kind of man you should cultivate, someone with property.” Grannie said, and the others nodded in agreement. Grannie had waited to get married until she found a man with money and property. The others had done well too. Otherwise they wouldn’t be at Heavenly Acres, which cost an arm and a leg.

“Unfortunately it isn’t his farm,” I explained. “It’s the Dolans’. Jacques is what’s known as a farm-sitter. He takes care of people’s farms when they’re on vacation. For all I know he doesn’t have a cent of his own, but he sure knows his cheese and how to throw a good party.”

“Jacques,” said Helen thoughtfully. “He sounds French and you know how they can be very sexy. Does he look like Yves Montand?”

I had to admit I didn’t know who she was talking about.

“Good looks are not enough,” Grannie said, coming into the kitchen with her hands on her hips. “Sexy and romantic are all well and good, but you want someone who’s around for the long term. This Jacques may return to France and then where will you be?”

“I’ll be right here with you,” I said. “Jacques is really cute, he’s got a to-die-for accent, and he’s a lot of fun. You’ll have to meet him,” I said so the whole gang could hear me. As usual, they quickly responded and they didn’t disappoint.

“Cute and fun? Is that what you’re looking for? You’re not seventeen anymore,” Grannie said with a disapproving look.

“Take your time to look around and find someone to take care of you,” Helen advised.

“I think I can take care of myself,” I said. “I want a partner, not a caretaker.”

“I know how you feel,” Grace said soothingly. “I was young once. There’s no rush. You deserve someone special. So hold out for what you want. Someone with a solid career, money AND good looks and someone who treats you like a queen.”

I knew Grace was referring to her late great husband who’d left her plenty of money. I had no idea if he was good-looking. I’d have to take her word for it.

“I don’t think they make them like that anymore unfortunately,” I said as I filled the coffee maker with the finest Arabica beans. I’d never met a guy with money and looks who’d treat me like a queen and I wasn’t expecting one. If I followed these instructions and adopted Grace’s standards I’d never get married. Of course I wasn’t doing so well with my own lax standards so what was the difference?

“As for looking around, there aren’t many men in town in my age bracket. And the ones that are, are dropping like flies,” I said.

“You’re referring to that critic, I suppose,” Grannie said. “I’m glad you didn’t fall for him.”

“Not likely. How could I fall for anyone who didn’t like my pies?” I thought of Sam, who fell into that category. Wasn’t that a sign to back off and quit hoping he’d come around? The pies, it was all about the pies. Pies were a symbol of all that was good in the world. They were sweet or savory, crisp on the outside and soft on the inside. They underwent a transformation in the oven from a soggy mixture to a crisp juicy product when baked. Every society in the world had their version of pie. The English had the popular steak and kidney pie at every corner pub. The Spanish had their empanadas, the Greeks their spanakotyropita, the Aussies their meat pies and so on.

“Sometimes it’s necessary to make compromises,” Helen said. Maybe she realized as I did, that no mortal man living within driving distance of Crystal Cove could meet all their qualifications.

The bell over the front door of the shop rang and the first of the pie bake-off contestants arrived with a Boston Cream Pie in hand. She was followed by Nina with a pecan caramel pie. It was so beautiful I wondered if she’d really made it. Never mind. I was not cut out to be the pie police. A deputy maybe, but I could never
arrest a friend. I was glad to see her after meeting her not-so-
wonderful husband and I welcomed her warmly, praised her pie, introduced her to Grannie and her chums, and offered everyone a cup of coffee. Nina looked like she needed it even more than I did. Her makeup was as perfect as her pie, but her eyes were red-rimmed. Lack of sleep? Or crying over something. I hoped it wasn’t her pie. I’ve been known to do that myself and it’s not worth it.

A few minutes later the shop was full of contestants. Some I knew, like Tammy and Lindsey, and Martha and her sister. But others were new to me and would hopefully turn into fans unless they were such great pie bakers they didn’t need The Upper Crust. I should have nixed the pie contest idea when I could. Damn that Heath for forcing the issue. I started to worry. There were some dynamite-looking pies on the table. What if one or several of the bakers started their own home pie-baking service and gave me a run for my money?

Of course Lurline came with a giant cupcake in a pie shell. I smiled and told her it was brilliant. But what was it? A giant cupcake or a pie shaped like a cupcake? Whatever it was it was meant to be a public relations promotion for Lurline’s you know what. In fact her pink van was parked at the curb outside my shop so that no one could miss it.

Grannie, who was standing at the door beaming and ooohing and ahhhing over each and every pie, was handing off pies to her two friends. If this was such a good idea, why hadn’t she thought of it? Soon the long extended table in the middle of the room was covered with pies of every shape and form. Actually most of them were pie-shaped.

“What a job you’ve given us,” Grannie whispered to me when she finally closed the door. “How do we taste all these pies? You know with wine tasting they spit out the wine after they taste it.”

“Don’t you dare,” I cautioned her.

“Just kidding,” she assured me. “We’ll manage.”

I was just about to rap on a champagne glass to get everyone’s attention. It was an impressive sight I can tell you—about twenty or twenty-five women, each standing behind their pies, which were displayed on the long table. Then the door opened and a woman I’d never seen before walked in. She was about fifty, but as everyone knows, fifty is the new forty, and she looked it. She also looked like she’d heard “When in doubt it’s better to be overdressed than underdressed.” She wore a form-fitting jump suit which I guessed was the latest in the fashion world. Along with high-heeled gladiator sandals. Up until that moment I hadn’t seen anyone in Crystal Cove who looked like they’d stepped out of a fashion magazine.

But the most surprising thing was that she spoke in such a deep voice I was instantly caught off guard. For a moment I remembered reading about a woman who’d appeared in an article on transgender relationships.

“Hello everyone,” she said in a booming voice. “I’m Gay Grimshaw, the new food and lifestyle critic for the
Gazette
. Here to do a story on the pie bake-off for the newspaper. Which one of you is Hanna Denton?”

Eleven

Grannie caught my eye
with such a shocked look on her face I was momentarily stunned into silence. Was it someone she knew? Or was it just the voice combined with her looks that surprised my grandmother? When I recovered, I said, “I am,” and I went to the door. The new food critic shook my hand so firmly I thought she’d crushed my fingers. She looked so professional with a camera hanging around her neck and a briefcase under her arm that I didn’t think to ask for her credentials.

“You’re taking Heath Barr’s place I suppose,” I said.

“That’s right,” she said. “You knew Heath?”

“Not really. He wasn’t very popular around here,” I said, careful not to speak too ill of the dead. I hoped she wasn’t a friend of his.

“I can see why after reading his column. He sure did a hatchet job on you.” She looked me up and down as if she wondered if I was the one who’d done a hatchet job on him.

I smiled weakly, glad that the contestants were all chatting and the noise level in the shop rose to a crescendo so no one was paying attention to our conversation. “How did you get the job so … so soon after …?”

“After he bit the dust? Just blind luck. I needed a job, they needed a food and lifestyle critic and I couldn’t be happier. Great job. Great town. But no one knows about it. I’m going to put this place on the map.”

I wasn’t sure what “this place” meant. She saw my confusion. “I mean the town and your shop.” She looked around at the walls, the glassed-in cases, and the tables laden with the contestants’ pies. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

“Thank you. I don’t mean to criticize Heath, considering what happened to him, but you’re a welcome change from your predecessor.”

“That Heath.” She shook her head. “Hiring him was a mistake and a half. Makes me look good anyway. That’s what I told Bruce.”

What about killing him? Was that a mistake too? I knew a lot of people who didn’t think so.

“I can’t believe they’ve filled the position so fast.” I also couldn’t believe anyone would want this volunteer job. Or was it? Especially someone with the equipment she had and the ambition to put me and the town on the map. Where had she come from and what was her goal really?

“Sometimes you’re in the right place at the right time,” she said brushing her hands together as if she’d just disposed of something undesirable. Like Heath Barr. Was a part-time job for a small-town, once-a-week newspaper worth committing murder for?

“How true,” I murmured. “Actually that’s how I got the pie shop here. My grandmother over there retired just as I needed a job and a home.”

“That’s the kind of human interest story I’m looking for,” Gay said her eyes sparkling brightly. “As a companion piece to the pie contest.” She lifted her camera and snapped a picture of me before I could protest I wasn’t looking my best.

I couldn’t help but think—if Heath’s job had been as a correspondent for the
Los Angeles Times
instead of the
Gazette
I might have wondered if Gay had had anything to do with his demise, but I brushed the thought aside. She was so much more likable than Heath, we should throw a welcome party for her. If she’d killed Heath in order to fill his shoes, I wasn’t going to complain. “I hope you’ll stay awhile and taste some of the pies.”

“I plan to taste all of them. In the interest of scientific objectivity, of course,” she said with a wink.

Now this was a woman after my own heart. But if she was a woman after anyone’s heart there was something different about her. Her voice, her handshake, and her manner were hearty in the extreme. I wished I could ask someone like Kate what she thought, but she’d just come in the back door and was tying on her apron to begin her judging duties.

I picked up the glass again, got everyone’s attention, and welcomed them to The Upper Crust’s First Annual Pie Bake-Off. “My grandmother Louise Denton and her friends from Heavenly Acres as well as my assistant Kate will stop by each pie for a taste and then after a brief consultation, we’ll announce two winners, one in the savory category, the other sweet, based on overall appearance, crust, taste, and use of local ingredients. I hope everyone will stay around afterward for pie and coffee.”

I made the rounds just looking, leaving the tasting to Grannie, Helen, Grace, and Kate. The pies all looked fabulous. I had overcome any jealousy I’d had and instead congratulated myself on throwing a newsworthy contest. I hoped it made me look confident and self-assured. It reminded me how much I loved the friendly small-town atmosphere contained in my little shop today and I thought I might even do it every year, maybe twice, once in the winter and once in the summer. As I wandered the room I didn’t sense any friction in the air. It was billed as a competition, but I hoped no one would mind losing. Martha, my poultry farm colleague, told me she was having so much fun she didn’t care about who won.

“Your Snicker’s Bar Pie looks scrumptious,” I told her. “I didn’t know you baked.”

“I don’t,” she said. “I made the crust from chocolate cookie crumbs, then layered whipped cream and chopped Snicker’s bars. You can’t go wrong with candy bars. They’re my secret vice. I had an excuse to buy a whole box to make the pie.”

When I stopped to look at Nina’s Pecan Caramel Pie she said, “You didn’t tell me there was going to be a photographer here. I hate having my picture taken.”

“Why? You’re obviously photogenic and you look great,” I said. “I didn’t know the photographer was coming. I’m surprised they’d replaced Heath already. Can you believe someone standing in line to be the food and lifestyle critic of a small home-town newspaper? And for no salary?”

“No salary? Heath was making plenty,” Nina said. She stopped suddenly when Grannie came by to taste her pie.

Or did she stop suddenly because I was about to say, “How do you know?”

“I envied you,” I told her. “When I read that glowing review of your caramels. Did it boost your sales?”

She shrugged. “Who knows? Did it hurt your sales that he hated your pies?”

“It hurt my feelings,” I said confidentially as the judges passed by. “But my sales? I don’t think so. I didn’t really understand where he was coming from.”

“He was from LA,” she said.

“I mean I didn’t understand his basis for judging food. Maybe if I’d had a chance to meet him like you did. What was he like?”

“How should I know? He bought a caramel and moved on.”

I didn’t quite understand how she knew that he was from LA and that he was making plenty of money when “he bought a caramel and moved on.”

“I can see why he loved your candy,” I said. “But what about the bread, the chicken, and my pie? I don’t get it.”

I realized that Nina’s expression had changed. She was looking over my shoulder, her eyes glazed over. I was spending way too much time on the subject of Heath and his reviews. He was gone. It was over. She’d moved on and so would I. Literally.

I wished her good luck and made the rounds admiring a golden-brown onion and cumin quiche in the savory category. The baker, a friend of Grannie’s named Olga, said the classic buttery pâte brisée crust was flavored with rosemary, Parmesan, and thyme. It smelled heavenly and I told her I’d love the recipe. I was sure she’d get the savory pie prize until I saw a classic chicken pot pie chock full of chunks of chicken and vegetables, some fist-sized Cornwall pasties, and a cheesy calzoni that looked so authentic I swore it could have come straight from Italy. How were they ever going to come up with a winner? Or two winners, one for savory, one for sweet. I was hoping to get every single recipe, including Blackberry Crumble Pie, Raspberry Cream Tart, and Mixed Berry Cobbler.

Fortunately it was not for me to judge. I just had to drift around the shop, chatting briefly as I went, careful not to show favoritism, careful not to launch into a tirade about Heath or mention murder in any context. I wanted to turn back the clock to pre-Heath days, and I was sure everyone felt the same way.

When the judges finished their tasting and adjourned to my kitchen to compare notes, I refilled coffee cups and talked with the contestants. All the while our new friend Gay was snapping pictures. What great publicity for me and the shop. Whoever killed Heath had done me and just about everyone else a big favor by giving us Gay. Maybe they’d done a favor for his brother who might inherit some money. Who cared who killed him? Sam did, but not me. Just as long as no one thought I’d done it.

When the judges came out of the kitchen I asked Grannie, as the once and always Crystal Cove Pie Queen, to announce the winners.

“First place in the savory category is the Caramelized Onion and Goat Cheese Pie by Madeline Hooper.” The applause was loud and sincere. Madeline, who I’d never met before, flushed, stood, and took a bow. Grannie gave her a French Victorian silver plate. Where had that come from? Gay’s flashbulbs flashed. I raised my eyebrows questioningly at the gorgeous plate. Grannie just smiled enigmatically.

“In the sweet pie category, the prize goes to Martha Hutchens for her Snicker’s Bar Pie.”

I must say I was surprised. I’d thought her pie was clever, but kind of gimmicky. Seeing Martha’s surprised look and delighted smile, I clapped loudly and congratulated her when she walked off with Helen’s classic tea set. I wondered if she’d find a use for it on her poultry farm.

After the prizes, the judges and I passed out plates and forks so everyone could taste any pie they wanted. I was so overwhelmed with the success of the event and the participation of women I didn’t even know, I couldn’t eat a bite. Even though I knew I’d be sorry tomorrow. And to think I’d resisted the whole idea.

Since I had all the recipes, I was thinking of making them into a book and marketing it as “The Upper Crust Prize-Winning Pie Recipes.” I’d use Gay’s pictures to illustrate it if she was willing, and give the proceeds to a charity.

When the crowd finally left and Grannie, Helen, Grace, and Kate had helped me clean up, I drove Grannie and her friends back to Heavenly Acres. I thanked them profusely and they said they’d had a wonderful time. It turned out the silver plate was something Helen inherited from an aunt and was happy to give it away. Especially to Madeline, who she assumed didn’t have a plate like that.

“Who does?” I said. “It looks like one of a kind.”

“Not exactly,” Helen said, “but it is valuable. If you like that kind of thing.” Helen was into modern design these days as evidenced by the necklace she wore made of what she called “patina noodles.” The silver strands did indeed look like noodles and it made a stunning statement when worn with her black sweater.

Grannie waited until the others had gone inside the stately entrance to the retirement home until she said, “What did you think of Gay?”

“She seems nice, and she’s different from Heath. That’s a good thing. Had you met her before? You two are colleagues now. Both journalists. Working at the
Gazette
.”

“I didn’t say anything to her since I’m undercover and she isn’t,” Grannie said. “I hope I’ll be allowed to tell people one of these days.” She sighed. “I don’t like having secrets from my friends.”

“No, of course not,” I said. I didn’t like having secrets either, but if you break the law and fall into swimming pools or dumpsters, it requires a certain secrecy from even your best friends.

“I have a favor to ask you,” she said. “I have a staff meeting at the
Gazette
tomorrow but I can’t go. I hope they won’t think I’m not interested.”

“You have something else going on?” I asked. I assumed, wrongly, I guess, that retired people had nothing to do but an endless series of bridge and croquet games, all optional.

“I’m the caller at the morning bingo game. I was wondering if you’d go to the meeting in my place. I think Bruce, Mr. Scarsdale, will just hand me the letters I’m supposed to answer. I don’t see why I have to be there in person. And what if someone saw me? They’d wonder what I was doing there.”

“Sure, I’ll be glad to go. I’ll just hang a closed sign on the store if it’s just a quick meeting. But will I need a note from you to say it’s okay if I take your mail? I don’t think Bruce is very fond of me to tell the truth.”

“I don’t know why he wouldn’t be. Everyone likes you.”

“Yes, well … maybe he does. Maybe I caught him at a bad moment one day when I dropped in. It was right after the murder. He was probably distressed, seeing it happened on the premises. He seemed curt.”

“He’s not curt with me, but I notice people are nicer to old people.”

“I’ll look forward to that,” I said.

“Being old?” she asked.

“Having people be nice to me.”

She smiled and patted me on the arm. “You tell me who isn’t nice to you and I’ll give them a piece of my mind,” she said.

“I’ll make out a list,” I said. I smiled to show I was joking. But she didn’t look convinced. She looked worried. “I’ll be glad when this murder is solved.”

“Me too.” I watched her walk through the glass doors of the main building lobby. I wondered if Grannie really had to call the numbers at the bingo game. Or did she just not want to go. I did want to go. It gave me an excuse to visit the scene of the crime, get a sense of what was going on there and if anyone suspected me of the break-in.