Never Say Pie (A Pie Shop Mystery) (5 page)

It turned out Sam asked if they would mind stopping by his office for a very brief interview tonight, since they were here in town anyway. But if it wasn’t convenient, he’d be glad to re-schedule.

Everyone agreed to do it then and there. No one wants a visit to the police station hanging over their head. I sure didn’t. And so went the evening. The evening we’d planned to get back at the food critic ended in a different way altogether. Somebody got back at the critic all right, but I didn’t think it was one of us.

One by one the group filed over to Sam’s office at the police station across the street. When they came back they seemed deflated. Not the way you want to start out a weekend of pushing your products. Standing on your feet for eight hours smiling and greeting customers, peddling your pies, your sausages, or whatever takes a lot of energy. And a strong belief in yourself. Selling all day is exhausting, if you’re any good at it that is. As Kate said, you’re selling yourself as much as your product.

By the time it was my turn to sit in the hot seat across the desk from Sam, I was already feeling drained and on edge at the same time. I wasn’t ready for tomorrow’s Food Fair yet. I also had a problem keeping my mouth shut when I should, and I knew by now that Sam would take advantage of that. So I waved goodbye to my new friends and told myself to button my lip and only answer his questions with yes or no.

Three

The police station was
empty except for Sam. He had a couple of deputies, but they were only on duty when there was an emergency. I assume a murder qualifies, so maybe they were out interviewing suspects. If there were any besides us. Or was his staff at home with their families? I couldn’t picture Sam with a family. If he had one, would he be as good a police chief as he was? The only thing he’d ever told me about the years he’d spent away from Crystal Cove was his tragic story about losing his partner in the line of duty. It was obviously a painful subject so I would never bring it up again and neither would he. Especially if we never got together to talk about anything but a local murder.

Sam’s office was small and sparsely furnished, but his desk was large, with stacks of files off to one side. His window was open and the cool air that wafted in smelled as fresh as the ocean. He waved at the chair opposite the desk. I sat, but he didn’t.

Instead he leaned against the wall that was painted utility gray and covered with awards and diplomas and pictures of policemen looking proud and serious. He crossed one leg over the other. After a half dozen interviews he looked totally at ease and at home except for telltale worry lines between his eyebrows. He hadn’t returned to quiet Crystal Cove to solve murders, but this one had landed square in his lap. Was he worried about his ability to solve it? If so, he never let on. I have to add that Sam, whether worried or not, is more gorgeous than any policeman had a right to be. Since this was his office, I guess his looking at home there shouldn’t be surprising. I wondered if he’d learned anything important in the past half hour, like who he suspected of killing the up-tight, super-critical food critic. If he had, I’d be the last to know.

“Go ahead,” I said, instantly jettisoning my plan to keep quiet. “I know what comes next. You’ll ask me where I was at such and such a time. Whenever Mr. Barr was killed.”

“I don’t have a time frame, but if you’d like to tell me where you were this afternoon, I’m all ears.”

“In my shop baking where I am every afternoon. I have the pies to prove it, some may be still warm from the oven—Dutch Apple, Lattice-topped Strawberry-Rhubarb, Open-face Apricot …”

“Okay, okay I got the picture,” he said holding his hand out to stop me.

“But I didn’t have any customers after two women came in and bought a quiche for lunch.”

“That’s too bad,” he said.

“Too bad that I don’t have more customers, or too bad because now I’m a suspect?”

“Both,” he said.

“Oh, come on, Sam. You know I’m not a murderer.”

“Personal feelings have nothing to do with my job.”

“I didn’t know you had any.”

“That’s the way I want it. I deal in facts, not feelings. And if I had any …”

“You’d keep them to yourself, I’m sure,” I said. Why did I even try to crack this man’s façade? It was hopeless. Even when there was no murder in Crystal Cove, he was still all business. He still found material for his “Crime Beat” column in the
Gazette
. But with a real crime on his hands, he was impossible.

I sighed. “What do you want to know?”

“I’d like to see your saw blade.”

I reached into a canvas bag I’d slung over my shoulder. I hoped to see some flicker of surprise or admiration for my toting the supposed murder weapon without being asked in advance, but all I saw was a brief raised eyebrow as he donned a glove and reached for the handle of the tool.

“I guess you’re surprised,” I said. “You thought I’d refuse to surrender my knife or I’d have to dash across the street and retrieve it before I cleaned off all the blood.”

“Nothing you do surprises me anymore,” he said, exhaling loudly. Then he sniffed the red stain on the sawtooth blade and said, “Obviously you’ve contaminated your knife.”

“If you mean I used it, yes. That’s not blood by the way, it’s raspberry from the tart I cut up for you. I know you don’t eat dessert, but I continue to hope I can change your mind.” I reached into my bag again and handed him a generous slice of a ruby-red fresh raspberry tart. “I thought you’d be glad I hadn’t cleaned the knife. I guess I was wrong.”

He stared at the piece of pie for a long moment. Was he trying to decide whether to use it as evidence of God-knows-what or whether he should eat it?

“The crust is puff pastry,” I said, “then a layer of raspberry jam with fresh raspberries and a glaze on top. It should be served with ice cream or
crème fraiche
, but …”

“Thank you,” he said brusquely, setting the pie on his desk. “I appreciate the thought and the tart and the tool, but let’s get back to your whereabouts this afternoon.”

“I didn’t have any whereabouts. As I told you I was in my shop. If you’d looked in from the street you would have seen me in the kitchen. What about the others, did they have alibis?”

“I can’t answer that,” he said with a frown. “That’s confidential information.”

I leaned forward in my chair. “I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I had a weapon and I had a beef with the victim so that puts me under suspicion. If there’s anything I can do to clear my name, I’d be glad to do whatever … or …”

He shook his head. “Thanks but no thanks, Hanna. All I want you to do is answer my questions. I understand where you’re coming from. I know you have a lot of energy and drive. I understand why you’re motivated to get to the bottom of this crime. But you have enough on your plate without worrying about my investigation. Your job is to channel your talents into your pie baking and my job is to solve crimes. Just relax, stand back, and let me do what they pay me to do.”

I hated hearing that condescending tone he used. If I didn’t know him, I’d even call it a holier-than-thou tone. But he really wasn’t holier than anyone. Actually he sometimes almost looked a little sheepish when pulling rank. If you’d asked me if Sam resembled an animal, I would have said wolf, but not now.

He’d obviously forgotten that I’d been helpful in solving a murder at Grannie’s retirement home only months ago. The only murder anyone could remember in the history of the town. Until now. He could act like I was a simple pie baker with homicidal tendencies, but I don’t think he believed it.

“Just for the record,” I said, “I wouldn’t kill anyone no matter how much they trashed my pies. In fact I’ve never seen this Barr guy. I don’t know what he looks like. I don’t suppose you have a photo?”

“You don’t need to see what he looks like. I have your statement. I have your cutting tool. Let me know if you come up with an alibi for your afternoon. A customer who came in or a friend who called you. Anyone who can verify your story.”

My story?
It sounded like he thought I made it all up. I clamped my mouth shut to keep from saying something I’d regret.

“Until then I know where to find you if I need more information. You’re free to go.”

“Thank you,” I said, choking back a retort. I wasn’t ready to go. I refused to be dismissed like a school girl. I had questions for Sam.

“If you won’t tell me what the others told you I’ll have to ask them myself.”

“That’s up to you. I can only advise you to keep out of this. My advice to you is …”

“I know, stick to baking,” I said. If only. “How can you even ask me to do that when you suspect me of murder? Or don’t you? And if you don’t, I want to know who you do suspect, but I guess you’re not going to tell me anything, am I right?”

“Yes,” he said loudly as he pounded his fist on his desk. “You are right. I am not going to confide in you in regard to this murder. It’s my job, not yours. If I need your help I’ll ask you.”

In my dreams. He was never going to ask me for help. At least I had the satisfaction of snapping his cool, calm, and collected demeanor. But did that help me accomplish anything I wanted? He still probably suspected me and I had no clue what the others had told him.

So I stood with all the dignity I could muster after being shouted
at by the chief of police and told in no uncertain terms not to meddle. I’ve been through worse than that. I was fired from my job in the city under a cloud of suspicion when I didn’t deserve it. I’d fallen hard for someone who didn’t deserve me. I came back here when I vowed I never would. When I left at age eighteen, I thought I was too good for this town. Twelve years later when Grannie offered me her pie shop I grabbed onto it like a life saver, which it had been. Maybe Sam was right. I needed to devote myself to my new career and forget about the nasty food critic. And now because Heath was no longer on the scene, I wouldn’t have to hold my pie contest. Good thing Sam didn’t know anything about that problem or he’d figure I had enough motive to kill the critic.

I walked slowly to the door, chin in the air as if I had a stack of books on my head and was practicing to be a runway model. I turned before I left and looked Sam in the eye. I spoke calmly. For me that is. “Mr. Barr is dead. I’m not guilty and I’m not sorry. You can put that in your police log or in your column.”

I didn’t slam the door behind me. I closed it firmly before Sam had a chance to respond. Then I stomped back to my shop without a backward glance. Instead of flaking out and turning in early, my adrenaline was pumping and I was much too charged up to do anything but work. As I sometimes did, I used baking as a therapy tool and went out of my way to think up some savory new items for the fair the next day so I wouldn’t dwell on the investigation revolving around me.

First I made individual Argentine
empanadas
with ground beef,
chopped hard-boiled eggs, onions, green olives and spices, all encased in a flaky puff pastry crust. Next I put together a batch of cheese
bourekas
, those Middle-Eastern cheese-filled pastry pockets. I thought people would want something small and savory to munch on as they strolled the market on a warm sunny Saturday. It’s always good to introduce the locals to different tastes as well as the old reliable standards like the pies I’d told Sam about. I’d see how business was tomorrow and then make any adjustments to my menu for next week.

I wondered if anyone but us vendors knew about Heath’s demise. Whoever knew, whoever didn’t know and didn’t care … we’d all be back at the fair, one week after we’d been soundly bashed by the critic. The good thing was we had no need to be afraid of being criticized by him ever again. As for myself, I could kiss my pie contest good-bye now that Heath was out of the picture. As far as I knew, the
Gazette
had never had a food critic in the past and maybe would never have one again. I wished I knew who to credit for the loss of his presence. Not that I approve of murder. But I wasn’t crying buckets over it either. Maybe if I’d met the man I’d feel sorrier that he was dead.

The next morning I arrived early at the fair after a restless night. I didn’t sleep well. Maybe because I was not only worried about a killer on the loose, I was even more worried about being mistaken for that killer. By the chief of police of all people. I dressed in layers, a pair of cut-off denim shorts then some stretch pants, a tank top covered with an oversized sweater which felt good at eight this morning, but by noon would be way too heavy. Then I packed my station wagon to the brim with pies, along with my portable cooler. The awning and the structure of the booth would be set up by the fair work crew. All I had to do was arrange my pies and sell them.

My stalwart student worker Manda arrived at the fair shortly after I did and after we set up and unpacked the pies, I took advantage of her presence to walk around before the opening bell.

I loved that time of day. Sellers were unloading their trucks and vans as the sun was just warming the pavement of the school parking lot. The fresh-picked leafy green vegetables looked crisp and succulent. The corn in green husks was piled high, waiting to be shucked. Strawberries, peaches, and nectarines were at their prime, oozing juice and sweet flavor. Everything was so calm and peaceful it was hard to imagine anything bad happening around here. In fact, I couldn’t help thinking positively. Something good was bound to happen. Sam would catch the murderer. It would be a stranger, an outsider. No one we knew. Why would a stranger kill Heath Barr? I had no answer for that. But when we found out we would all be relieved and grateful to our police chief. I would sell all my pies.

I was dying to talk to my fellow vendors to find out what happened when they met with Sam the night before. After their interviews they’d each taken off without saying much and looking shaken. I hoped they too would be feeling more upbeat today.

But it didn’t look promising. As the sun rose and the booths opened, none of my new friends seemed willing to talk to me. What had Sam done to them? Threatened them with arrest if they got in touch with me or each other? Warned them that I was a problem? Told them I was trouble with a capital T? Or was it just my imagination?

First I dashed across the aisle to approach Lurline, who said she was too busy to talk. She did give me a lemon coconut cupcake though. Maybe that was to divert me, or to buy me off. If I could be bought off, cupcakes were the way to do it. I said I’d see her later and walked back to my pies licking the frosting off my lips. And wondering. Was it just my own anxiety or was Lurline acting strange?