Death Bakes a Pecan Pie

by Livia J. Washburn

  “Of course not,” Phyllis told her without hesitation, although at times she did wish Eve hadn’t ever written that novel. Still, she couldn’t begrudge her old friend such success. It wasn’t just the money—Eve was fairly well-to-do—but Phyllis knew she took a lot of pride in the artistic achievement, and justifiably so.

  Ronnie reached down to scratch Buck’s ears and said, “Now who exactly is it that’s going to be here this evening? I can’t remember all of them.”

  “Melissa Keller,” Sam said. “She’s the one playin’ Phyllis.”

  “She’s playing Peggy Nelson,” Eve corrected him. “They’re not exactly the same.”

  “Well, yeah, sure. There are bound to be some differences. Take that Harkness fella, the one who’s playin’ me—”

  “Tom Faraday is the character’s name,” Eve said.

  “Yeah, him. He’s not as ruggedly handsome as I am. I still say they should’ve gotten Sam Elliott.”

  “Maybe he’s involved in some other project right now,” Phyllis said. “Movie stars have conflicts like that all the time, I’ve heard.”

  Eve picked up naming the guests who were coming to dinner. “Julie Cordell is playing Catherine Whittington, and Heidi Lancaster plays Liz Garrett. They’ll both be here.”

  “You and Carolyn, right?” Ronnie asked, wagging a finger between the two women. Carolyn rolled her eyes, but Eve nodded.

  “And the producer, Alan Sammons,” she went on, “the director Lawrence Fremont, and the couple who wrote the script, Jason and Deanne Wilkes.”

  “Why didn’t they let you write it? It’s based on your book, after all. You know more about it than anybody else.”

  With a laugh, Eve shook her head and said, “Oh, goodness, I don’t know anything about how to write a movie. Of course, I suppose you could say I didn’t know anything about how to write a novel, either, but at least I was an English teacher for a long time and had read and studied a great many novels. I know something about how they’re put together. From what I’ve heard, writing a movie is much different. It’s all so technical.”

  “Did they let you read the script?” Sam asked.

  “No, I didn’t get an approval clause.”

  “But what if they, well, ruin the book?” Ronnie said.

  Sam said, “A fella once asked a writer named James M. Cain how he felt about Hollywood ruinin’ one of his books. He’s supposed to have pointed to some shelves in his house and said, ‘Hollywood didn’t ruin my book. There it is, right there.’ That’s the way I’d feel about it, if it was me.” He grinned. “And if I got a good-sized check from ’em, to boot.”

  “I never heard of this Cain guy, but he sounds pretty level-headed.”

  “Never heard of . . . What about Double Indemnity? The Postman Always Rings Twice?”

  “Nope.”

  Sam was muttering something about cultural deprivation while Phyllis said, “I’m sure the people did a good job on the script or they wouldn’t have been hired to write it in the first place.”

  “Of course, from what I’ve read, it’s the director who’s the real auteur,” Eve said.

  “You mean author?” Carolyn asked.

  “Yes, that’s the literal translation, but it means something a little different in film criticism.”

  “That explains it. I’m not an expert in film criticism.”

  Eve held her hands out in front of her and said, “It’s the director’s vision that really determines what a film is like. With Lawrence Fremont, every scene, ever shot, has to be perfect, or he’s not satisfied.”

  Sam said, “Which is why his shootin’ schedules run long and his movies go over-budget.”

  Phyllis looked at him. “IMDb?”

  “Yep. I’ve been studyin’ up. He also has trouble gettin’ along with the producers and the other studio executives, he always meddles in the editin’ process, and he’s either chewin’ the actors out or playin’ practical jokes on them.”

  “A jokester!” Carolyn said. “I don’t like him already. I’ve seen enough childish pranks to last me a lifetime.”

  “He’s a very distinguished director,” Eve protested. “He was nominated for a Golden Globe once.”

  Phyllis said, “I’ll leave the rest of you to talk about this. I need to go check on dinner.”

  She had settled on brisket tacos with homemade organic flour tortillas, grilled peppers and onions, sliced avocadoes, tomatoes, ranch style beans, Texas caviar, spinach pomegranate salad, tortilla chips, salsa and pecan pie. A lot of work had gone into the preparations, but most of it was already done. As a result, the various aromas drifting through the house were mouth-watering, and one of the most appetizing was the smell of fresh-baked pecan pie.

  “I’ll come with you,” Carolyn said. “I just watch movies sometimes. I don’t study them like Sam and Eve do.”

  As Phyllis turned toward the kitchen, she motioned for the Dalmatian to follow her and said, “Come on, Buck. It’s time for you to go to the back yard, before our guests get here.”

  Buck looked at Sam, who said, “Go on.” Satisfied with that, Buck trotted out of the dining room, following Phyllis and Carolyn.

  Phyllis let him out on the back porch, where his roomy doghouse was located, then closed the door and turned to the two pies sitting on the counter. The sliced brisket was warming in the oven, but the pies had come out earlier and were cooling now.

  They looked good, Phyllis thought, even if she did say so herself. The deep brown of the pecan halves, the rich, lighter brown of the filling, and the ring of perfectly crimped crust all worked together to provide an enticing visual appeal. Food had to taste good, of course, that was the most important thing, but it was even better if it was pleasing to the eye, as well. That was what elevated food from sustenance to an art form, if she wanted to be a little pretentious about it, Phyllis thought as she leaned over the counter and took a deep whiff of the aroma wafting up from the pies. The best meals engaged all the senses.

  Carolyn was looking at the pies, too, and asked, “Have you thought about doing something different with the crimping to give it an original look? Perhaps a wide curving crimp rather than the pinch look.”

  Phyllis considered what Carolyn had said. For many years, they had been friendly rivals when it came to cooking and had competed against each other in countless recipe contests, such as the one coming up at the Harvest Festival. Carolyn never took part in that one, since she was one of the festival organizers, but Phyllis planned to enter the recipe she had used for these pecan pies. Of course, if she could tweak it a little and make it even better, she was open to doing that. She trusted Carolyn’s motives completely. Even when they were competing, they were always scrupulously fair and honest and never tried to sabotage each other.

  “I’m not sure what I’d do,” she said. “The festival isn’t until day after tomorrow, so I still have time to experiment a little.”

  She opened the oven to take out the brisket. Any more time and it ran the risk of being dry..

  “I hope they get here soon,” she said.

  The doorbell rang, as if whoever was at the front door had been waiting for that cue.

  But things like that only happened in the movies, Phyllis thought as she untied the apron she wore. She took it off quickly and draped it over the back of a chair at the kitchen table. She wore a nice dress and stylish shoes—not heels, she was past the age when she was going to wear heels for anybody or any occasion—and had gotten her hair fixed earlier today. She had talked Sam into putting on a coat and tie, which was no easy feat. Carolyn looked nice as well, and Eve always had the knack of looking elegant, no matter what the occasion. Ronnie was in her usual jeans, but at least she wore a nice shirt instead of a sweatshirt.

  Phyllis and Carolyn went back through to the dining room where the others were waiting. Then Phyllis led the way to the front door, stepping briskly now because she didn’t believe in keeping guests waiting. She put a smile on her face and opened th
e door.

  “Hello,” she said. “Please, come in. I’m Phyllis Newsom.”

  “And I’m Melissa Keller,” said the woman in the forefront of the group on the porch as she returned the smile and put out her hand. Phyllis took it and Melissa Keller shook her hand with a warm, friendly grip.

  “What’d I tell you?” Sam said. “Like lookin’ in a mirror.”

  Chapter 3

  Not exactly a mirror, Phyllis told herself. Melissa Keller was several inches shorter than her, and the actress’s face was slightly fuller and rounder. Her hair, although cut in a similar style to Phyllis’s, was more silver than Phyllis’s blend of gray and brown. Of course, she might well wear a wig while she was playing the part of Peggy Nelson. Movies could really transform a person’s appearance with wigs and make-up.

  But all things considered, the physical resemblance between the two of them was pretty close for movie casting. Still smiling, Phyllis stepped back and went on, “Welcome to our home. All of you, please come in.”

  Quite a group began to enter the foyer, bringing a touch of chilly November air with them. Phyllis recognized the actors, at least vaguely, because like Sam she had looked them up on the Internet, but the ones who worked behind the camera weren’t as familiar to her.

  The next person through the door behind Melissa Keller was a tall, thick-bodied man with graying dark hair that grew in tight curls against his skull. He thrust out a big hand with sausage-like fingers as he said, “I’m Alan Sammons. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Newsom.”

  Sammons looked like he ought to be some sort of blue-collar worker, but Phyllis knew he was actually a powerful Hollywood producer. His hand practically swallowed hers as he shook with her.

  Behind Sammons came two middle-aged women, one tall and angular and a bit dour-looking, the other shorter, fluffy-haired, and pretty. The taller one introduced herself as Julie Cordell, adding, “I play Catherine Whittington.”

  Phyllis heard Carolyn take a sharp breath behind her. If a physical resemblance was important, then the movie’s casting director hadn’t done a very good job with this role. Julie Cordell didn’t look anything like Carolyn, and Phyllis wasn’t sure even movie magic could make that happen.

  As if reading her mind, the smaller woman said, “Don’t worry, dear, Julie is an exceptional actor. She’ll do a fine job.” She took Phyllis’s hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “I’m Heidi Lancaster.” She looked around the foyer and exclaimed, “And you’re Eve! Oh, I’m so glad to meet you at last. I’ve really enjoyed playing your part so far.”

  Heidi Lancaster threw her arms around Eve and hugged her, an embrace that Eve returned. They didn’t really look that much alike, Phyllis thought, but something about their personalities meshed. Whether that was Heidi acting or something natural, she couldn’t tell.

  “Robert Harkness,” said the man who came through the door next, and Phyllis was surprised by the accent in his voice. He definitely wasn’t an American, but he was tall and rangy, like Sam. Harkness spotted him immediately and shook hands.

  “Glad to meet you,” Sam said. “Hope you don’t mind my askin’, but—”

  “I’m from Australia,” Harkness replied. All trace of the accent disappeared as he went on in a passable Texas drawl, “But I can play American. How’s that sound?”

  “Mighty good,” Sam admitted.

  “If you’ve got any pointers, though, Sam, I’d be more’n happy to hear ’em.”

  “Sure.” As unpretentious as ever, Sam clapped a hand on the actor’s shoulder and said, “Come on in the livin’ room and sit down, so we can get to know each other.”

  That left four people outside on the porch, and the next two came in together. They were a little mismatched at first glance, the man being older, shorter, and stockier, while the woman was younger, very blond, and attractive enough to be an actress herself, although she seemed to be dressing down to de-emphasize that.

  “Jason Wilkes,” the man said to Phyllis. He used the index finger of his left hand to push up the pair of glasses that had slid down his nose. “And this is my wife Deanne.”

  “The writers,” Phyllis said. “I’m very glad to meet both of you.”

  Eve had been chattering away with Heidi Lancaster, but she turned now and said, “Jason, Deanne, I’m so happy to meet both of you at last. I feel like we already know each other, we’ve talked so much on-line.”

  Deanne Wilkes smiled and hugged Eve. “It’s good to meet you, too,” she said. “You gave us such wonderful material to work with, Eve. I really hope that you’re pleased with what we’ve done.”

  “I’m sure I will be. I can’t wait to see the finished film.”

  Alan Sammons said, “Well, you’ll have to wait a while, I’m afraid, Eve. We won’t be releasing it until the spring, at the earliest. I’m trying to talk the studio in hyping it as a summer blockbuster.”

  Phyllis didn’t know all that much about the movie business, but even so, what Sammons had just said immediately struck her as a bad idea. No movie based on her and her friends could hope to compete with all those special-effects-laden superhero and science fiction and thriller movies that came out during the summer. They would just overwhelm it.

  But maybe Sammons knew something she didn’t—given the fact that she wasn’t a successful Hollywood producer and he was, he definitely knew something she didn’t—so she just smiled and didn’t say anything.

  Now there were just two more guests, and one of them pushed ahead of the other in a not-too-polite fashion. This man had been hanging back as if he wanted to be the last to come in, but then he must have changed his mind.

  He was a fairly short man, maybe five-eight, and slender, but he carried himself with a spring in his step and a confident attitude bordering on arrogance that made him seem larger. With a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard and deep-set eyes, he reminded Phyllis of a smaller version of Abraham Lincoln. The Lincoln of the late 1850s, perhaps, before the war had taken such a toll on him and left him haggard. As a retired American History teacher, Phyllis wasn’t surprised that she would think of such a thing.

  The man was dressed casually, in boots, jeans, and a denim jacket. He nodded without smiling and said, “I’m Lawrence Fremont.”

  “Welcome, Mr. Fremont,” Phyllis said. He didn’t offer to shake hands and neither did she, although she did smile pleasantly. “Please, come in and make yourself at home.”

  He nodded and moved past her, hands in his pockets now, clearly not wanting to shake with anybody. That was all right, Phyllis told herself. Some people were like that and had every right to be, she supposed.

  The final guest was a man in his forties with graying hair, a brush of a mustache, and a face that reminded Phyllis a little of a friendly bulldog. He took Phyllis’s hand, closed his other hand over it as well, and said in a mild voice, “Thanks so much for inviting us, Mrs. Newsom. It’s not often a bunch like this has a chance to get out and associate with normal people. I’m Earl Thorpe, by the way. First AD on the picture.”

  “AD?” Phyllis said, then recalled seeing the abbreviation somewhere in her reading about movie-making. “Oh, the assistant director.”

  “Yeah.” Thorpe’s mouth curved in a grin under the mustache. “Just a flunky, I’m afraid. I’m the only non-celebrity in the group. But Mr. Fremont said I had to come along, or else there would be an odd number of people here tonight. Even worse . . . thirteen people.”

  “That’s true. Well, whatever the reason, Mr. Thorpe, I’m very glad you’re here.”

  “Please, call me Earl. I’m just a guy, nobody special.”

  Phyllis kept smiling, but she wondered if Earl Thorpe’s self-effacing manner actually covered up some resentment. Lawrence Fremont had shouldered past him pretty rudely, after all, and she supposed it might be rather intimidating working around all these high-powered Hollywood egos all the time.

  But none of that was any of her business, so she just ushered Thorpe on into the foyer and clos
ed the door behind him, then raised her voice and said, “Please, everyone, let’s go in the living room and sit down for a few minutes before dinner.”

  The living room was a little crowded with fourteen people in it, but there were places for everyone to sit. Lawrence Fremont settled immediately in the big armchair that was Sam’s usual place, but Sam was already sitting in one of the chairs near the fireplace with Robert Harkness in the one beside him as the two men talked. Melissa Keller, Julie Cordell, and Heidi Lancaster were on the sofa, Carolyn and Eve on the loveseat, and the others in the armchairs and straight-backed chairs Phyllis and Sam had arranged around the room.

  The only one who wasn’t sitting was Ronnie, and as she stood just inside the arched entrance from the foyer, Alan Sammons patted the arm of the chair where he sat and said, “There’s room for you right here, miss.”

  “That’s all right, thanks,” Ronnie said as she headed for the one empty chair next to Phyllis.

  “And who are you?” Fremont asked the girl as he steepled his fingers in front of him.

  “That’s my granddaughter Veronica,” Sam said, taking his attention away from his conversation with Harkness for a moment.

  “My Lord, would you look at the clear skin on that girl,” Melissa Keller said. She laughed. “If you could sell that in Hollywood, honey, you’d be richer than everybody in this room put together.”

  That comment made Ronnie blush, something that was very rare.

  “Nothing is more valuable than youth,” Jason Wilkes said. “It’s the only commodity that’s always diminishing.”

  “Did you just write that?” his wife murmured with just the faintest hint of a dagger in the words.

  “I didn’t plagiarize it, if that’s what you mean,” Wilkes replied.

  Deanne just smiled and shook her head.

  Well, married couples sometimes sniped at each other, Phyllis told herself, even the happiest ones.

  Heidi Lancaster said to Ronnie, “Do you live here, too, dear?”

  “Yeah, I’m a senior in high school, and I want to finish it out here,” Ronnie said. “My folks are in Pennsylvania.”