Never Say Pie (A Pie Shop Mystery) (13 page)

“It’s touch and go,” I said.

“I hope there’s more touch than go,” she said with a little smile. “On another matter, any luck finding the food critic’s murderer?”

“I don’t know. Sam won’t tell me anything except to butt out. I suppose he’d love to pin it on one of my vendor friends since they all hated Heath.”

“Hey, put me on that list. I hated him too. He didn’t know what he was talking about,” Kate said untying her apron as she got ready to leave. “I don’t understand how he got to be a food critic.”

“As I understand from the
Gazette
editor, Heath volunteered to write a column, so how could they turn him down? Like every other newspaper, they’ve got money problems. So it’s a matter of you get what you pay for. They paid nothing, they got nothing. Or worse than nothing, they got flawed reporting. They got food reviews that were slanted and I haven’t figured out why. What did he have to gain by trashing some and white-washing others for no good reason? If I knew that I might know what or who killed him.”

“Does Sam agree with you?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Sam plays his cards close to the vest. Although I don’t think he plays cards or wears a vest, but you get the picture. All he’ll say is that he hasn’t ruled out anyone and that includes me.”

“Typical,” she said shaking her head sadly. “I wouldn’t blame you if you gave up on him. He’s not the only single guy in town and I hope he knows that.”

“Are you sure? If there are any more single guys like Heath they ought to watch their backs because they’re dropping like flies. On the plus side, you’ll be glad to know Sam seemed almost sympathetic when I emerged half frozen from the walk-in freezer and then he bought me lunch.”

“The way he sprinted up the stairs to your apartment I thought maybe he wanted something in exchange.”

“He did want something all right, but it’s not what you think. Anyway, thanks for filling in for me. I’m counting on you to be a judge along with Grannie and her friends in my first annual pie contest. Which we have Heath to thank for.”

“As long as I get to taste everything, I’m in.”

After she left, I paced back and forth, too full of nervous energy and too apprehensive about Heath’s recovered phone to do much baking. I thought about Sam across the street listening to the incriminating messages on Heath’s phone, knowing there was no hope of my listening to them.

Since Kate was such a good saleswoman, I had no choice but to start baking to refill the empty shelves and my freezer. I flipped through my files looking for something new. Something challenging.

I eyed a recipe for peach cobbler. Fortunately I had a basket of sweet and juicy yellow peaches from the orchards outside town. It was a crime to do much to them but sweeten them, thicken the juice, and bake them with a crust on top. Which I did. Peach juice bubbled up from under the crust. The smell was tantalizing. It wasn’t a fancy pie, but it smelled like summer and I had no doubt I could sell it, if I didn’t eat it first.

Next I decided to make a classic Shaker Meyer Lemon Pie. Meyer lemons are not as tart as their everyday cousins. Even the peel is slightly sweet, which makes them the perfect choice for a pie. Not everyone knows that Frank Meyer was once sent to China as a plant hunter and it was there he “discovered” the fabulously sweet lemon which now bears his name. The filling is simple—thinly sliced lemons, eggs, sugar, salt, and vanilla all encased in a double crust. I put it in a hot oven for fifteen minutes, then turned the heat down for thirty minutes and presto—magic. The crust was golden and the inside was luscious.

Since it was midsummer I made two more fruit pies, as much to keep busy as to fill my empty shelves. One was a sour cherry pie with a coconut crumb topping, the other was an open-faced apricot pie with a glaze made of apricot jam. It looked as good as it smelled cooling on a rack in the kitchen and I was proud of myself for not giving in to whining about how unfair life was that Sam got to listen to the phone messages I’d turned over to him.

Tomorrow my fruit supplier was coming to replenish my supply of strawberries, cherries, peaches, and apricots, and I’d be ready to plunge in again. New recipes, new customers, but the same old problems.

After I made a savory tart I thought Sam would like, I took a break and went outside from the steamy kitchen to the cool fresh air. I stood in front of my shop and studied the police station, wondering if Sam was over there at this very moment listening to Heath’s phone messages without me. If so, did it occur to him how unfair it was that I was left out?

At five I closed the shop and finally ambled over to the police station with a caramelized onion and Roquefort tart. It was a shameful ploy to worm my way into his office, but how else could I get in? It turned out Sam was swamped with the usual kind of Crystal Cove police department activities. For Crystal Cove it was a minor crime wave. No more murders, thank God, just a raccoon in someone’s garbage. And a case of loud shouting outside Bartley’s Bar and Grill. And then the gunshots reported by someone on Mulberry Street.

“Gunshots?” I said startled.

“I have to check it out,” he said, heading for the door.

“Wait, can’t I come with you? Maybe I can help. Interview witnesses or call for reinforcements or something. Mulberry Street is a nice neighborhood. Could be a mistake,” I suggested.

“No, you can’t. This is police business. You have no idea how dangerous this could be.”

I clamped my lips together while he strapped on his gun. I’d never seen Sam wear a gun before, and I knew I couldn’t wait here not knowing what was happening on Mulberry Street. But I said nothing. I just watched him go. I gave him five minutes, then I got in my car and followed him.

Mulberry Street is lined with large houses on big lots with tall trees and large lawns. When I got there a man was standing on the curb waving to me.

“What happened?” I asked as I pulled up to the curb.

“It was nothing,” he said. “Just a car backfiring.”

“I knew it couldn’t be gunshots in this neighborhood,” I muttered to myself.

I watched Sam out on the street next to his official police car
with the flashing lights on the roof. I leaned out of my car window, not knowing if it was okay for me to get out. I was surprised to
see
Nina Carswell, as I would always refer to her, come running out
of the house across the street. It wasn’t so surprising that she lived in an upscale neighborhood in a large two-story house with flower boxes and a manicured lawn, while I made do with a tiny apartment—the same tiny apartment I’d grown up in. After all, she was married to Marty Holloway, veterinarian, I reminded myself. There was money to be made from people who owned pets, large or small. The really surprising thing was she was barefoot, dressed in a terry-cloth robe, and her hair was wrapped in a towel like a turban. Of course she wasn’t expecting a police car to arrive on her street, and I assumed she must have been curious when the PD arrived. So curious she jumped out of the shower or her spa to see what was happening.

I saw her cross the street and walk up to Sam where they had a brief animated conversation. I didn’t know why I had to stay in the car if there was no danger so I got out and after Sam had gone somewhere else I said hello to Nina. I told Nina I happened to be driving by and saw the commotion. By that time I noticed Sam was talking to some other neighbors. I didn’t think he saw me.

“Oh, my God, I was so scared,” she said. Her eyes looked huge rimmed with eye liner, and her face though carefully made up seemed pale to me. “Did you hear the shots?”

“No, but I heard they weren’t shots after all,” I said in what I hoped was a soothing voice.

“That’s what the chief said. I’d better go home. I was in the spa when I heard the gun shots, I mean the car backfiring.” She gave a rueful glance at her robe, bare legs, and feet. “I’m still shaking,” Nina said. “I was terrified when I heard the shots. I can’t believe they weren’t shots after all. This is usually a quiet neighborhood.”

“Where’s Marty?” I asked looking at their big house.

“Out on a house call,” she said.

“Sounds like a good business.”

“It is, except being the only vet around, he’s always on call.”

“Good thing you’ve got your caramels to keep busy.” I had no idea if they had kids or not. Or just her job as a candy maker.

“Sometimes it’s not enough,” she said quietly. She had a sad look in her eyes. Maybe she wanted kids and couldn’t have them, or she wanted a real career but Marty wouldn’t let her.

“You have a full-time job,” she said. She almost sounded envious. “I’ve never even made a pie.” She knotted her hands together and flexed her fingers as if flexible fingers were a requirement for baking. Actually it wouldn’t hurt. I wondered if she was lonely. Why else would she be out on the street in her robe talking to me instead of back soaking in her spa? If I had a spa that’s where I’d be soaking my sore shoulder and various muscles.

“There’s always a first time,” I said. “I’m having a pie contest coming up on Sunday. You could make a caramel pie or caramel cream pie or any kind and enter it. It’ll be fun.” It occurred to me she might need some friends and she ought to show up for the contest where she could mix and mingle.

“Maybe,” she said.

I saw Sam waving at me out of the corner of my eye. “See you later,” I said to Nina and went over to say hello to Sam as casually as I could.

“I thought I told you not to come. You’re lucky it wasn’t a gun fight.”

“A gun fight on Mulberry Street?” I asked. I didn’t wait for an answer. “It must be hard to follow up on these false alarms.” I stood on the sidewalk as neighbors finally went back to their houses. “On the other hand it’s a relief. No gunshots, no problem.”

“Better than having a murderer at large,” he said grimly. “Yesterday it was a lost dog. And a stolen newspaper from someone’s front porch.”

“I suppose some murders go unsolved for years.” If I was hoping to cheer him up, I’d said the wrong thing.

“I haven’t got years,” he said.

I realized now how important it was that I’d found Heath’s phone. So why didn’t Sam act more grateful? Or more willing to let me in on listening to the messages.

“Well, good-bye,” I said, hoping he’d say let’s get together for something. Anything. But he didn’t.

All he said was, “Go home, put a cold pack on your head for ten minutes, then go to bed.”

I nodded, then I drove myself back to the shop. Sam’s car was already in front of the police station. Inside he was listening to the messages on Heath’s phone and I wasn’t. I knew perfectly well that he wanted me out of police business. That didn’t make it any easier to walk away and forget it. My only hope was that he’d share any information he picked up off the phone. But it didn’t seem likely.

Eight

I was too tired
to fill a plastic bag with ice. The last thing I did before I fell into my queen-sized bed with the kind of spa/hotel quality sheets Grannie never had was to look out my window to see if Sam’s light was still on at the police station. It was. I ground my back teeth together in frustration. Then I swallowed two aspirin and finally fell asleep.

When I woke up the next morning the
Gazette
was on my doorstep. I was afraid to pick it up and read it. I was sure there’d be a story about Heath, at least an obituary. But would there be a story about the break-in at the newspaper office? Or did no one know about it except for Sam and me, and the editor who wanted to keep it quiet?

I sure would have been happy to keep it quiet.

There it was, Heath’s picture on the front page. He looked like a normal thirty-something guy with longish hair and a look on his face as if he’d just tasted something he didn’t like or maybe he was trying to impress someone by looking critical. They’d also reprinted his last column on the Food Fair. Fine. All I needed was a repeat of the scathing review of my pies. My fellow vendors wouldn’t be happy either. I skimmed down to his obituary.

“Heath Winston Barr,
Gazette
Food and Lifestyle critic, is dead of a fatal homicidal attack while in his office on July 7. The question readers are bound to ask after ‘Who Did It?’ is ‘Can anyone be a food critic?’ The answer is yes, with this caveat. Not everyone can get paid for his work. Heath Barr fell into the category of volunteer. Which means he loved his work covering the Crystal Cover Summer Food Fair. His reward was honing his palate and discovering the fine foods grown and produced in Central California. Unfortunately someone disagreed with Heath’s opinions or his actions, which led to his untimely death at age thirty-seven. The police are investigating the crime and Chief Genovese requests that anyone with information leading to the arrest of Heath’s killer please contact the department at 800-734-5782.”

I turned the page of the paper and found another story in the crimes column. This was about the break-in at the newspaper office. “The
Gazette
editor reports nothing missing, but the search goes on for the intruder because of possible links to the murder of Heath Barr.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. While I was trying to decide whether to call Kate or Sam first, the phone rang. It was Jacques, the cheese salesman.

“Bonjour, my belle,” he said in that charming but faux accent of his.

“Hello Jacques.
Comment ça va
?”

“I was fine until today. Now I am terrible. That horrible man Heath. I thought he was dead but he lives on.”

“You’re referring to today’s newspaper.”

“I certainly am, no joking. But forget that. I’m having a party after the market on Saturday night at my farm. I want you to see it. The goats, the cows, the sheep. See how the cheese is made, take a look at the gift shop, drink some wine, taste some cheese, and forget that bastard Heath Barr, may he rot in hell.”

“It sounds like fun. Can I bring a friend?” I didn’t know if I’d bring Sam or Kate or Grannie.

“
Mais oui, certainment
,” he said. “Go on the website, Foggy Meadow Farm, for directions. We’re about an hour outside Crystal Cove.”

“I’ll come as soon as I shut my booth down,” I promised.

“Do not be misled. We have no fog in our meadow,” Jacques added before he hung up.”

Next I called Sam. He answered on the first ring.

“Did you see the paper?” I asked.

“Got it here. I’m hoping it will bring about some new leads. So if you don’t have anything new to tell me, I have to hang up.”

“I’ve already told you everything I know. I have a couple of questions. Will there be a funeral? Did he have a next of kin? And of course I want to know who killed him.”

He laughed mirthlessly. “The answers are ‘I don’t know, and I
don’t know.’ What I do know is who broke into the newspaper
office the other night. There’s a reward for information.”

“I thought the newspaper was broke. They couldn’t even afford to pay their food and lifestyle critic. And they’re offering a reward
so they can find out who broke in and took nothing? Are you going
to collect it?” I asked.

“Nothing?” he said pointedly.

“Nothing the newspaper was entitled to. Imagine what would have happened if
they’d
found the phone. You’d still be in the dark. Are you still in the dark?” I didn’t expect an answer, but I couldn’t resist trying to pry something out of him.

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I’m still focusing on the vendors that Heath criticized. Unless you’ve heard something new.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve already checked out Martha and her chickens. You can cross her off your list.”

“Not so fast,” he said dryly. “She looked like a tough cookie to me. She sure didn’t want to hand over her knife. I had to threaten her with legal action.”

“Can’t blame her for that. Any lab results from those confiscated knives?”

“Hanna …”

“All right, all right. Forget I asked. Anyway Martha can’t stand to kill her chickens, how could she kill a food critic? Which leaves Lurline, Jacques, Tammy and Lindsey, and Bill and Dave.”

I picked up a pen and drew circles around the names of the vendors, but I just couldn’t cross anyone’s name off the list.

“Maybe you should look into the people Heath gave good reviews to like Gino, the pizza man, or Nina.”

There was a long silence. Finally he said, “And their motives would be?” he asked. I was afraid he was just humoring me, but I couldn’t resist explaining.

“Maybe Heath was shaking them down. Giving them good reviews in exchange for money. They got tired of it, went to his office to pay him off but murdered him instead. He deserved it. I mean that’s what they might have thought. He wasn’t a nice person.”

“Gotta go,” Sam said. Without even thanking me for my theory. “I’ve got another call.”

I sat down at my kitchen table and asked myself why I bothered to talk to the man. I had bared my soul to him, traipsed all over hell and back to get information and he didn’t appreciate it one bit. I was going to tell him about the party at Jacques’ and ask if he wanted to go with me, but it was too late. I’d go alone. I threw a discarded apple core from the basket on the floor across the room in the direction of the galvanized trash can in the corner. It landed with a satisfying thunk. “Take that,” I muttered.

If Sam was invited to the party I’d ignore him completely. I’d do my sleuthing on my own and refuse to share my information with him. I’d be the life of the party, square dancing in the barn, taking wagon rides around the farm and finally watching the wheels of cheddar cheese age. I didn’t need Sam to have a good time, in fact he could be a damper on a good time. Grannie would be more fun. But I didn’t think she’d agree to go with me. Never mind, this was a chance to bond with my fellow vendors, and I’d find out if Jacques was all talk or if he was interested in me.

I didn’t have any hope that Sam was interested in anything but solving the murder of Heath Barr. How I wished Heath had never come to Crystal Cove. And I wasn’t the only one. Heath himself, as he took his last breath before his throat was slashed, must have wished the same.

I needed a challenge in the pie department so I painstakingly pitted the sour cherries the delivery man had dropped off from his farm for a Twice-Baked Sour Cherry Pie. I’d made my usual all-butter crusts earlier, rolled them out into thick disks and refrigerated them. I heated my oven to 425 degrees and rolled one into a twelve-inch circle. I pre-baked the crust for a half hour while I prepared my sour cherry filling, adding sugar and tapioca to the cherries. I took the golden brown crust from the oven and filled it with the cherry mixture. Then I cut my remaining crust into half-inch thick rounds. I laid the rounds of dough on top of the pie, brushed them with cream and baked it again until my crust was
dark golden brown and the filling was bubbling and smelling
delicious. I was grateful to be able to forget Heath’s murder for an hour while I baked.

But with my pie baking in the oven I stood at the huge restaurant sink filled with dirty bowls and spoons thinking, why did Heath come here? Was it a career move? Did he think there was a future for him at the
Gazette
even though they refused to pay him? Was it the food fair that brought him here? Even after he saw the facilities and realized what his unpaid job was? Or did he come to our lovely little town because of some woman. If so, who was she? I needed to find her and ask her. I could start by asking Lindsey, Tammy, and Lurline, who were sure to hear more gossip than I did. I knew that he’d dumped on them, but that just enforced one of my theories.

If Heath was pursuing someone, maybe she was married like Lindsey and Tammy. I let my mind wander and I decided maybe whoever killed Heath couldn’t get away from him except by killing
him. I couldn’t see how anyone would want to be with him. But then I’d only had one conversation with him. That was enough for me.

When the pie was done I was so happy with it I thought I’d make one like it for Jacques’ party.

The week dragged by. Or slid by, depending on how you looked at it. Sam left me alone, which made me wonder if he’d solved the murder but just didn’t tell me. Maybe he was already working on another case. Or he found me boring company and had discovered someone more interesting than a pie baker—like a cupcake maker. I refrained from calling him or knocking on the door of the police station. Instead I worked hard, baking, selling, schmoozing with customers, encouraging them to sit outside at my sidewalk café. I even ordered two tables with bright umbrellas and had them set up on the sidewalk with the others. And still Sam didn’t drop by. Not that I cared. I was just glad to see my business taking off.

Since my pie contest was a done deal I had to make time to promote it with posters around town at the library and in store windows. I had to. Grannie and her friends were judges and I had a call from Nina who asked me if I was sure she should enter.

“Of course you should,” I said. “There will be loads of people here and they’re all amateurs like you. You have an advantage being in the candy business already. You deal with sugar and butter every day.” Then I told her about a web site with lots of pie recipes.

She thanked me and said she’d give it a try.

Fortunately my bruises were gone, my head didn’t throb and I was ready for a big weekend, the fair, the party at Jacques’ and the contest on Sunday. Who said life in a small town was boring? Not if you make your own excitement.

What happens when life gets a little too exciting, for some people that is? Good question. On Saturday I was at the fair again, happily selling peach pies with lattice crust, strawberry-rhubarb double-crust pies, the local favorite—olallieberry pie, apple fritters, and double chocolate tart in a graham cracker crust. I didn’t expect to see Sam, so I didn’t worry about making anything savory. I was just handing out samples and answering questions like,

“Do you have a cookbook I can buy?”

Answer: “No, but I recommend
The Pastry Lover’s Guide t
o
Perfect Pies
.”

“Do you use all organic ingredients?”

Answer: “Our ingredients are all wholesome and natural.”

“What’s the most popular pie you sell?”

“Apple is the all-American pie, but my customers are very adventurous. Today’s special is wild Huckleberry with Crème
Fraiche.” Wild huckleberries were hard to find. I paid some kids top dollar for them when they were in season and put bags of them into my huge stand-alone freezer.

When Grannie came by she volunteered to take over and I
ac
cepted immediately. I was glad she wasn’t too busy with her advice column yet to help me out. As I left I saw she’d immediately
attracted more customers. I probably should have her come more often. I never knew if she was glad to be done with pie sales or if she ever missed the whole scene. She’d rolled up her sleeves and was chatting up a few customers so I took advantage of my freedom and made the rounds. I’d promised to introduce her to the knife man, but did I have time to do it the right way? With a proper buildup and a casual manner?

The first thing I noticed was Nina was not at the caramel booth. Instead a man was standing behind the counter looking bored. No samples. No customers. It had to be her husband, Marty Holloway, though I didn’t recognize him. I’d never really known him.

“Hi,” I said. “Where’s Nina?”

“She’s taking a break,” he said.

“Oh. Maybe I’ll run into her,” I said.

“I doubt it,” he said. “She’s out of town.”

Out of town? She’d just officially entered my pie contest. “So you’re filling in for her,” I said. “You must be Marty. I’m Hanna.”

“I heard about you,” he said.

The way he said it made me wonder what exactly he’d heard. I looked at the display of caramels. The boxes were stacked on top of each other and looked almost industrial. Not a sample in sight. It wasn’t what Nina would have done. “How’s business?” I asked.