Death Bakes a Pecan Pie

by Livia J. Washburn

  “Is there a story that goes with that?” Fremont asked bluntly. “Something we could use in the picture?”

  Eve replied before Ronnie could, saying, “No, not at all. Ronnie didn’t move down here until well after the time period my book is based in. Tell me, is everything set up for the filming you’ll be doing at the park tomorrow?”

  Alan Sammons nodded and said, “Yeah, some of the crew members are over there now making sure everything is set up and ready to go. We’d like to get all the shots we need in one day. Isn’t that right, Lawrence?”

  Fremont waved a hand dismissively. “We’ll see how it goes. However long it takes to get everything right, that’s how long we’ll shoot.”

  Sammons frowned a little. “They’re just establishing shots.”

  “Every frame is important, Alan, you know that.”

  Phyllis had a feeling that this was a discussion the two men had had before. It might have even turned into an argument from time to time. Such things were probably common in the movie-making business, though. Weren’t there always clashes between art and commerce?

  Sammons said, “We put out a casting call for local extras, since we want it to look like the festival is busy. There should be a good crowd there, shouldn’t there, Eve?”

  “Oh, yes,” Eve replied. “There’s always an excellent turnout for the festival. Carolyn here is one of the organizers, you know. She’s been part of it from the very first.”

  “Is that so?” Sammons asked as he smiled at Carolyn. For such a burly, bear-like figure, he had a certain charm about him, Phyllis realized. Or maybe that was just a side-effect of the power and influence he wielded in his profession.

  Clearly a little ill at ease among these strangers, Carolyn said, “Yes, the festival benefits a cause that’s very important to me.”

  “Feeding the hungry,” Sammons said with a nod. “I couldn’t agree more. I was very happy to agree to make a donation to your local food pantry. I’m sure they do good work.” He turned his head as if something had occurred to him and went on, “Veronica, are you interested in doing any acting?”

  “Me?” Ronnie asked in surprise. “I’m not in drama class in school or anything like that.”

  “The most important thing is presence, and you have that,” Sammons said.

  “Hold on a minute—” Sam began.

  “We want local people to show up and serve as extras tomorrow, like I said, and you should be one of them. I think the camera would love you. Lawrence might even be able to find a line of dialogue or two for you. Isn’t that right, Lawrence?”

  “I’d have to look at the script,” Fremont said coolly. “If there’s something appropriate, then maybe. But if there’s not . . .”

  Jason Wilkes said, “Deanne and I could write a line or two if we need to, Alan. Isn’t that right?”

  “Of course,” Deanne agreed, but she didn’t sound any more enthusiastic about the idea than Fremont did.

  Sam stood up and said, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I don’t know how Ronnie’s folks would feel about her bein’ in a movie, and since she’s a minor—”

  “I’ll call them and ask them about it,” Ronnie said, considerably more animated than she had been earlier. The prospect of being in a movie must have broken through her outer layer of teenage irony and detachment. Phyllis wasn’t sure she liked the idea any more than Sam did, but on the other hand, it was probably harmless enough.

  Either way, it seemed like a good time to stand up and say, “Why don’t we all go into the dining room? Carolyn, if you’d give me a hand with the food . . .?”

  Chapter 4

  To Phyllis’s surprise, Julie Cordell offered to help out in the kitchen.

  “Call it method acting,” she said to Phyllis and Carolyn as she followed them through the dining room and into the kitchen. “I used to love to cook, but I haven’t done much of it in recent years. Just too busy all the time, I guess. I want to do a good job of playing your character, though, Mrs. Wilbarger.”

  “Please, call me Carolyn. And as Eve would be the first to tell you, Catherine Whittington isn’t really all that much like me. She’s really opinionated and judgmental, you know.”

  “I can see how she’d come across like that, all right,” Julie said. Phyllis detected a hint of being careful in her voice.

  “What about Ms. Keller?” Carolyn went on. “Since she’s playing Phyllis’s part, maybe she’d like to—”

  “I think Melissa’s more interested in the mystery angle,” Julie said. “I know she read the novel several times to prepare, and she read some other mystery novels, too, since this is the first time she’s ever played a detective. In the past, she’s always been the best friend or the mom or the mother-in-law. If you give her a chance, Phyllis, I’m sure she’ll pick your brain.”

  “I don’t know if there’s anything in my brain worth picking, but that’ll be fine,” Phyllis said as she carefully removed the aluminum wrap covering the sliced brisket.

  “Oh, everything looks and smells wonderful,” Julie exclaimed as she looked at the food covering the counter and stove. “I’ll give you a hand taking it into the dining room. You have to tell me all about these dishes, Carolyn.”

  “Well, Phyllis came up with most of the menu . . .”

  “And you know as much about any of it as I do,” Phyllis said as Carolyn paused. “The two of you go ahead and talk.”

  Julie Cordell was warmer and more friendly than she had seemed at first, Phyllis realized. It just took her a little while to relax and unbend. Well, that wasn’t a complete surprise. Phyllis had read that a lot of performers were actually very shy, even introverted, and had been drawn to show business as a way of breaking out of their shells. Some never did except when they were on screen or on stage or in front of a microphone. Julie might well be that sort.

  She picked up the brisket and carried it into the dining room, following Carolyn and Julie as they chatted and placed the covered plates of tortillas and the grilled onions and peppers they were carrying on the table. Some of the guests were standing around talking while others had already taken places at the table. Phyllis didn’t care where anyone sat and hadn’t tried to make any sort of seating arrangement, so that was fine. This was as much a friendly get-together as much as it was a formal dinner party, or at least she hoped that would be the case.

  After several trips to the kitchen, the food was on the table, and she was ready for everyone to sit down. “All right, if the rest of you will take your seats . . .”

  Two empty chairs were together on the left side of the table. Melissa Keller started toward one of them, Robert Harkness toward the other. Then both of them stopped abruptly and looked at each other, and Phyllis saw what she had missed earlier in their eyes: a deep and abiding dislike of each other.

  That reaction lasted just a second before Melissa turned to Phyllis with a smile and said, “Where are you sitting? I ought to be next to you. I have all sorts of questions for you, so I hope you’ll be patient with me.”

  “Of course,” Phyllis said. “Right over here.”

  The chair at the head of the table was empty, and so was the one to its left. Since this was her house, Phyllis sat at the head and Melissa sat beside her. If it had been up to Phyllis, Sam would have been at the other end of the table, but Lawrence Fremont had already settled into that seat, just as he had taken Sam’s usual armchair in the living room.

  That annoyed Phyllis a little, but she brushed it off. When it was just the four of them here in the house, or the five of them with Ronnie, they ate around the kitchen table. That was the real center of things in a family, so it didn’t really matter what happened in the dining room. Dining rooms were for other people.

  Phyllis couldn’t help but think about the chilliness she had just sensed between Melissa and Harkness, though. They were playing people who cared very much for each other. Would they be able to do that if they felt such genuine hostility?

  That was why th
ey called it acting, Phyllis supposed.

  ◄♦►

  The meal went well, with everyone except for Lawrence Fremont complimenting Phyllis on the food. Fremont didn’t seem to be the sort to pass out very many compliments to anybody about anything, so she didn’t take that badly, just chalked it up to his personality.

  Julie and Carolyn continued hitting it off, Sam seemed to be enjoying talking to Robert Harkness, and Eve and Heidi might as well have been long-lost sisters reunited at last. Melissa smiled at the loud, animated conversations going on around the table and leaned over to say quietly to Phyllis, “Your little get-together is a success, I’d say.”

  “A get-together is exactly how I thought of it earlier,” Phyllis admitted. “I wasn’t sure what to expect—”

  “You thought we’d all be a bunch of stuck-up Hollywood snobs. Or else we’d be sniffing lines of cocaine off your dining room table. Right?”

  “I don’t think I ever thought that.”

  “Well, I can’t claim that everybody in this room has always been clean and sober. Dig around in any gathering and you’re going to find some skeletons, you know?” Melissa laughed. “What am I saying? Of course you know. You’re the crime-busting grandma. How many murders have you solved now?”

  “I . . . don’t really keep track of things like that.”

  “Maybe you should. You might be closing in on a record.” Melissa took a drink of iced tea. “This is really good. Here in Texas you drink iced tea all year ’round, right, even in the winter?”

  “Why wouldn’t you?” Phyllis asked.

  That made Melissa laugh again. “I’m going to make a mental note of that. Now tell me . . . how in the world did you manage to catch all those killers? And don’t you ever get scared, dealing with the people you must run into in that line of work?”

  “I don’t consider solving crimes my line of work. If I never get involved with another one the rest of my life, that would be just fine with me.”

  “Really?” Melissa didn’t sound convinced. “You mean you wouldn’t miss it? The thrill of matching wits with some cunning murderer?”

  Phyllis shook her head. “It’s not a thrill. Too often it’s just sad and tragic, the things people are driven to do to each other.”

  “Well, I can’t argue with that. But you still haven’t told me how you do it. Exactly how do you solve a murder?”

  “You have to just . . . Oh, I don’t know. You listen to what people say. You pay attention to what they do. Sometimes people will say or do something for no real reason. It’s just random chance. But that’s rare. Almost everything has a reason, even if people aren’t aware of it most of the time. So when they do something that doesn’t quite fit, there’s something behind it. When they say something that isn’t quite right, you have to ask yourself why.”

  “How can you tell it isn’t right? How do you know when somebody’s lying?”

  “I taught American History to eighth-graders for many, many years.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Melissa said with another smile and laugh. “It was a long time ago, but I remember eighth grade . . . I think. Is there a bigger bundle of hormones and neuroses in the world than an eighth-grader?”

  “Not that I know of,” Phyllis said with a smile of her own.

  Melissa nodded slowly and said, “I wish I had time to just sit down and visit with you for a few days. You know, sort of soak in your wisdom.”

  “I’m not all that wise.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. But time is money, you know.” Melissa’s eyes rolled a little. “Just ask Alan. If he makes it through the end of this shoot without strangling Fremont, I’ll be surprised.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, no, I’m exaggerating, I guess. Alan’s a big guy, but he’s not violent. I’m sure he feels like it sometimes, though, the way Lawrence drags his feet and shoots take after take. And then he’ll do something for a laugh that slows things down even more.”

  “That’s an odd combination, isn’t it? I mean, Mr. Fremont has a reputation as such a perfectionist, and yet he also pulls pranks on people.”

  Melissa shrugged and said, “He claims it relieves tension on the set or on location, and that makes the shooting go better. Who knows? He’ll play some practical joke, then stop everything cold while he chews somebody out, and it can be anybody from an award-winning actor to a grip. And then he’ll shoot twenty takes of a simple cutaway shot.” She shook her head. “Directors. They’re all crazy. But don’t quote me.”

  “I won’t, don’t worry.” Phyllis paused. “Is that why Mr. Sammons is here instead of back in California? To . . . keep an eye on Mr. Fremont? I would think that most producers just stay in their offices, don’t they?”

  “That’s right.” Melissa sighed. “Don’t quote me on this, either, but Alan’s got a lot riding on this picture. He needs a hit, but he doesn’t need Fremont going ’way over budget. He’s not a bad guy, so everybody’s trying to do their best and keep things rolling along at a good pace. We want to bring this project in on time . . . if Lawrence Fremont will let us.” She sat back in her chair. “I shouldn’t be talking like this. He makes good films. In the end, I suppose that’s all that really matters.”

  Phyllis could tell that she was talking about Lawrence Fremont with those last comments, not Alan Sammons. Phyllis looked along the table to the other end, where Fremont sat toying with his food, not really talking much to anyone. There was no chance he had heard anything Phyllis and Melissa had said. The hubbub of conversation around the table provided a certain amount of privacy.

  She didn’t like Lawrence Fremont, she realized. He just wasn’t a very likable man. But from what Melissa had been saying about him, he was a complex one, and Phyllis was willing to bet that he wasn’t very happy. People who were driven by something inside them, as Fremont seemed to be, often had conflicting sides of their personality, and having those sides at war with each other could be exhausting. At least, she supposed that was true.

  There was something to be said for a simple life. Actually, there was much to be said for it. But some people just weren’t cut out for that.

  When the meal was mostly over, Phyllis stood up and said, “I hope you’ve all saved room for desert. I have some pecan pies in the kitchen.”

  Melissa got up quickly and said, “I’ll help you with them.”

  “Thanks.” Phyllis looked around the table and added, “We’ll be right back.”

  Jason Wilkes said, “Ah, if somebody could point me in the direction of . . .”

  “I’ll do it,” Sam said.

  Phyllis and Melissa went into the kitchen, where Melissa gazed at the pies waiting on the counter and said, “Oh, my goodness, don’t those look good. If I could bake worth a lick, I’d ask you for the recipe, Phyllis, but I don’t think it would do any good. Boiling water is a challenge for me!”

  Phyllis opened a drawer, took out a knife, and said, “Let me just go ahead and cut these and plate them before we carry them in . . .”

  While she was doing that, Sam ambled into the kitchen. Phyllis glanced over at him and saw that he was frowning.

  “Sam, what’s wrong? You showed Mr. Wilkes where the bathroom is, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah. Thing is, he didn’t go in there by himself.”

  Phyllis’s eyebrows rose. “What?”

  “Yeah. His wife followed him in. Brushed right past me like I wasn’t there.”

  “Good grief. Surely they’re not in there . . . I mean, they’re not . . .”

  “Fooling around?” Melissa asked, then shook her head. “Not those two.”

  “That’s right,” Sam said. “From what I heard through the door, I reckon it’s more likely one of ’em’s gonna try to kill the other one.”

  Chapter 5

  Phyllis could have carried two of the pies, and Sam could have taken one with the plates, but Melissa picked up one of the plates as soon as Phyllis finished cutting the pie into slices. Phyllis cut the other two an
d took them into the dining room. Melissa and Sam trailed her, with Sam carrying a tall stack of dessert plates.

  Along the way, she glanced down the hall at the bathroom’s closed door. Jason and Deanne Wilkes weren’t in the dining room, so they still had to be in the bathroom. Sam had overheard them arguing and Phyllis couldn’t help wondering what the disagreement was about, but she told herself again that it was none of her business.

  Of course, as Carolyn had pointed out more than once, that had never stopped her before . . .

  She put a smile on her face and asked, “Now, who’d like a cup of coffee with their pie?”

  “That sounds great,” Alan Sammons said. “Thanks.”

  A trace of the Aussie accent crept back into Robert Harkness’s voice as he said, “Yes, please, that would be wonderful.”

  Several of the others asked for coffee. Phyllis said, “I’ll go get that and then serve the pie—”

  “Oh, let me do that,” Melissa offered. “I couldn’t bake a pie as good as these to save my life, but I can put the slices out on saucers. It’ll be good practice for playing you, Phyllis.”

  “Peggy,” Eve said. “Not Phyllis.”

  “Sure, that’s what I meant.”

  As Phyllis started back to the kitchen for the coffee, she saw Jason and Deanne emerge from the bathroom. Both looked tense, even angry, but as they approached the dining room, they made obvious efforts to conceal those emotions. Phyllis knew what she had seen, though, and she trusted that Sam had been right about what he’d overheard.

  She arranged cups on a tray and started pouring coffee into them. While she was doing that, Eve came into the kitchen and asked, “Do you need any help?”

  “No, this isn’t a problem.” Phyllis paused. “You can tell me if you know what’s going on between Mr. and Mrs. Wilkes, though.”

  Eve sighed. “You mean the argument they just had in the bathroom?”