Death by Deep Dish Pie (11 page)

I fished a bandanna out of my pocket, wiped the sweat from the back of my neck and my eyes and peered around. Ah . . . there was the next white cloth marker. Thank God.

I trudged on, holding Slinky aloft in her birdcage as if she were some strange lantern guiding my way. And maybe she thought she was. She was standing up, alert, staring straight ahead, as if fascinated by her journey.

Three white markers and at least a dozen bug bites later, I came to a stream, along the bank of which were six tents. No one was around. A spot had been cleared for a fire ring. I went over to it. Rocks surrounded the ring and a water pail stood nearby. A recent fire had been put out, the embers carefully raked over. Trudy and her buddies were following proper fire-building techniques—but in an area that was not authorized for fire-building. They could get in big, big trouble for that.

I heard a rustling sound, looked up, and saw Chucky—Charlemagne—emerge from one of the tents. He grinned at me. “Hi, Ms. Toadfern. Welcome to New Paradise!”

I opened my mouth—not sure what I was going to say—when Trudy popped out of the same tent—buttoning up her blouse.

She glared at me, then looked embarrassed, then glanced at Charlemagne, and finally saw Slinky aloft in her birdcage.

“Slinky!” she cried and ran toward us.

New Paradise was, Charlemagne and Trudy explained to me, a Utopian experiment that they and their friends—also misfits, they said, and the same kids that had come to the meeting at the theatre—were trying. It was Trudy's idea. She'd grown up listening to her Uncle Cletus talk about Utopias and his research into them and fascination with them, and she decided it was time to create one herself with her friends. She stroked Slinky, who was curled up in her lap and clearly happy to see her.

It seemed fairly harmless—and understandable. Trudy surely hadn't had an easy time of it. And lately, neither had Charlemagne, given all the taunting he'd gotten at home and school and from his coaches for one simple mistake in one baseball game that was far too important to everyone—including the former Chucky.

I didn't know the stories of the other kids, but I reckoned they also had tales of feeling misunderstood. So they all came out here whenever they could—Charlemagne and Trudy told me—to talk about life and love and the meaning of it all and how they sure weren't going to make the same stupid mistakes their dorky parents had.

As I listened to them talk, so incredibly enthusiastic and young and sincere, I couldn't bring myself to tell them that of course they'd make the same stupid mistakes their dorky parents had, of course they'd goof up and fail. The whole idea that goofing up is avoidable—that perfection can be attained anywhere on earth—was why Utopian communities had never thrived—although a few had flourished for an impressive time. But always, the human need to satisfy self, the need to grow and explore away from the little group, would take over eventually. As it should.

And in the process of fulfilling those needs, people always make mistakes. Always have. Always will.

But if all they were really doing—as they said—was talking and sharing ideas and wearing black (to symbolize unity) and—as I reckoned from Trudy emerging from the same tent as Charlemagne, doing some making out (I hoped it wasn't going farther than that. Had anyone talked to Trudy about birth control? I wondered), then where was the harm?

On the other hand, they probably weren't telling me all they were doing or into. At the very least, they were trespassing and fire-building on state property. And I didn't want to think about the penalties that both the county sheriff and Ohio's Department of Natural Resources might bring down on my head for not ratting on them.

On the other hand, these two were talking with me and trusting me—something they didn't feel about any other adults in their lives—and I didn't want to betray that. I was caught in the middle, knowing the legal, right thing to do, and wondering what the moral, right thing to do would be.

I would have to talk to Cletus Breitenstrater at the pie-eating contest, since he'd put these ideas in Trudy's head, and since he apparently knew about where Trudy was going, based on what Todd had said. And Todd knew, too. Why?

“Josie, how did you find us here?” Trudy asked.

Todd, of course, had told me. But something else told me that Trudy wouldn't like that answer. Cletus apparently knew what Trudy was up to, based on what Todd had said, so I ventured a white lie.

“Cletus told me,” I said. “When I went to return Slinky to you at the house. He—he said he was worried about you and wanted to make sure you came to the pie-eating contest, that it was really important to your father that you're there.”

For a long moment, Trudy stared at me, trying to decide whether or not to believe me. Finally, she shrugged. “I'll be there.” She scratched Slinky between the ears. “Odd, though. I thought Uncle Cletus was going to church with Dad, Dinky, and Geri.”

“Must have changed his mind,” I said. “Listen, I returned Slinky to you.”

“I said thank you.” Trudy sounded defensive.

“I know. But I need a favor from you. Is there any way that you can keep Cletus from announcing the basis for his new play at the pie-eating contest today?”

Trudy laughed. “You know he's going to go ahead with it sometime. What's the point?”

“Well, I know your dad wants to make some big announcement, too. Maybe if he can make it without your Uncle Cletus stealing his thunder, your dad will be in a better mood. And then I can convince your dad to go ahead with the fireworks, even if Cletus does his play, and convince Cletus to supply the fireworks, even if he has to postpone his own announcement.

“Maybe I can convince him that saving the new play as a surprise would be good publicity. Or something. I think it can work. I had a lot of time to think about this last night—while I stayed up watching Slinky.” Okay—that was a stretch beyond a white lie, but if the guilt factor worked, fine.

Trudy raised her eyebrows. “You really think you're going to get my dad and my Uncle Cletus to get along with each other? They haven't done that in years.” She looked away. “At least, not in ten years.”

“I have to at least try.”

“Why does this matter so much to you? Why do you care if my dad and Uncle Cletus get along?”

”To tell you the truth, it's pretty much a matter of me being selfish. I want the Paradise fireworks to go on.”

Trudy rolled her eyes. “Who cares? Everyone can just drive up to Masonville. They have a better fireworks display anyway.”

“That's not the point, Trudy,” I said. “Partly it's a matter of community pride. And partly it's for a very personal reason. I have a cousin, who I love very much. He's really my only close family. And I take him every year to see these fireworks.”

“So he can't see them in Masonville, either?”

“He's autistic. He has certain patterns he follows or else he gets very confused and upset. I always take him to the same spot every year to see the fireworks. It's not just any fireworks he wants to see. He wants to see them from our spot.”

“I see,” Trudy said, although she looked confused. “You must love your cousin a lot.”

“I do.”

She looked down at Slinky, stroked her neck. If the ferret had been a cat, she would have been purring.

“Well, Josie, I'll do what I can with Uncle Cletus. If he's going to listen to anyone, he's going to listen to me.”

I grinned. “Thanks, Trudy.” I stood up, feeling only slightly guilty that as soon as we got this whole fireworks thing worked out, I was going to have to talk to someone—these kids, Cletus, somebody—about their compound out here. They needed a legal place, where adults were at least nearby, to play out their Utopian fantasies.

“Hey, before I hike on out of here,” I said, “do you all, well, when nature calls, is there a poison-ivy-free place, to, you know—”

Charlemagne stood up. “This way.” Then he led me to a spot by a tree. I waited until he was out of sight, then counted to ten, before I took care of business.

*   *   *

Word had spread through Paradise that at this year's Breitenstrater Founder's Day Pie-Eating Contest, either Cletus was going to make an announcement, or Alan was going to make an announcement, or both of them were, or they were going to get into a fight over it. At least, everyone knew,
something
exciting was bound to happen. And so, the parking lot in front of the long, one-story white building was full.

The front lawn of the Breitenstrater Pie Company—a large expanse of grass befitting a golf course, broken only by a large, elegant sign with the company name and by the tables and podium set up for the pie-eating contest—was full of Paradisites eager to see what would happen.

The podium was set up on a staging platform, on which there was a long table covered with white tablecloths, on which sat ten pies. The top two winners would get the honor of riding with Alan Breitenstrater in his Jaguar in the Breitenstrater Founder's Day Parade. Of course, Cletus always competed and won, so the real competition was among the other nine contestants. This year, in front of each pie was the name of the employee who would compete by eating that pie—that was a little different, I thought. And a little formal. The names had never been put in front of the pies before.

The pies, I knew, were chocolate cream—Cletus's favorite. And the tablecloths would be a mess. But I would get them to my laundromat as soon as this was over and get them clean.

I'd gone home and showered after leaving Slinky with Trudy, who promised to come to the pie-eating contest and talk her uncle and dad into behaving and letting the fireworks go on as usual. I'd changed into a fresh T-shirt and shorts and sandals, and dotted makeup over my bug bites. Now the contest was about to start. I'd wandered through the crowd several times, looking for Trudy—but she was a no-show.

And so was Cletus. Usually, up until the last minute of the contest, Cletus worked the crowd, nagging everyone to cheer him on, as if he didn't know the whole contest was rigged in his favor, and rambling on about his latest research interests.

The other nine contestants were seated behind their pies. Alan, with Dinky, Todd, and Geri close by him, hovered near the podium, looking nervous.

I'd seen several people I knew, including Winnie and Chief John Worthy. I'd chatted with Winnie and waved at the chief when he glared across the crowd at me.

“Josie?”

I turned and saw Owen. He was looking at me with a sweet sadness that made my heart lurch and my tummy drop. I was glad to see him. Why had I—even for a moment—thought that Todd Raptor was sexy or cute? I moved toward Owen to hug him, then remembered that he hadn't called me all week since we'd visited Guy. Of course, I hadn't called him, either. We'd been avoiding each other, knowing we wanted to avoid the conversation that would have to come sooner or later about Owen's conflicting stories about his past.

Now I stopped short, smiled, and tried to look casual and sexy all at once. It would have helped if I hadn't been holding a handful of extra-large garbage bags to use to gather up the bibs and tablecloths.

“Oh, hi, Owen,” I said.

“Josie—I'm sorry I haven't been very communicative this week. I really meant to come by the theatre a few times to see how you and Sally were getting on.”

“Oh, you knew I was working with her on that?”

“Word spreads in a town like this,” he said, echoing my earlier thoughts, but sounding bitter. “Listen, I came here because I knew I'd find you here. Can we talk after this?”

“Sure—yes. I'll have to get the tablecloths to my laundromat, but—”

”I'll help you with them. Then we'll talk,” he said.

I felt anxious—and surprised at how much it mattered to me what he had to say. After all, we'd only been going out less than a year, but what he wanted to say to me suddenly mattered a lot more than anything else. I knew it had something to do with his odd comments to Craig Somerberg.

“Uh, Ladies and Gentlemen, it appears that my brother Cletus is running a bit late.” That was Alan Breitenstrater addressing the crowd, which hushed and turned its attention to him. Owen and I did, too.

“You know how he is. Probably off researching pie-eating contest histories to share with us all.” A polite twitter went up that was awkward—we couldn't not laugh at Alan's little joke, but then again, by laughing, we were laughing at his little brother. Nothing was ever simple with the Breitenstraters.

“After the pie-eating contest I have an important announcement to make. But while we're waiting for Cletus to arrive, I'll make at least part of the announcement now. Breitenstrater Pie Company has developed a new line of health-food pies! For example, a tasty lemon cream pie dosed with ginseng powder! And we have plenty of samples”—Alan gestured to the cart of pies right behind the podium—”for everyone to taste . . . I'll even serve the samples myself!”

A general hum went up from the crowd that could be interpreted as a tiny moan of appreciation for the free pie samples—or a groan. Lemon ginseng cream health pies? What on earth was Alan thinking? No one eats pie for its health benefits—at least, not its physical health benefits, although I personally believe that on some days the only thing for one's mental health is a big piece of apple pie—a la mode, of course.

“If sports power bars can be huge moneymakers, so can health-food pies! And Breitenstrater will be at the forefront of this new pie-marketing revolution!” Alan was warming up to his speech now. “Why, just as Nike is to sports shoes, the Breitenstrater name will be to health-food pies. And to help us with this transition—”

“Uh, Uncle Alan—” that was Dinky, suddenly up on the podium beside his uncle, speaking into the microphone. “I'm afraid the heat is getting to the lemon ginseng pies—their no-fat filling is looking a little, uh, unhealthy in this sun.”