The Diva Sweetens the Pie

by Krista Davis

  On our way home Daisy and I passed the mansion where Bernie lived. My ex-husband, Mars, had moved in with him after leaving Natasha.

  Mars bounded out on the front porch. “Soph!” He opened the door and shouted inside, “Sophie’s out here.”

  A political consultant, Mars looked as clean cut as most of his ambitious clients.

  I released Daisy’s leash so she could scamper up the stairs to him. Neither Mars nor I could bear to give her up in our divorce, so we had worked out a custody schedule. She wriggled all over as he petted her.

  “Bernie’s been looking for you.”

  I checked my pocket. “Forgot my phone. Sorry about that. What’s up?”

  Bernie rushed out on the porch, looking more disheveled than usual. He raked a hand through his hair. “I’m so glad you turned up. What a morning! For a while there we thought Patsy Lee had gone missing.”

  I suspected I knew why that might have happened, but decided it was best not to mention where Patsy Lee might have been. As long as she was back, everything was fine.

  Bernie loped down the stairs to the sidewalk. “I hate to impose, especially since you’re already in charge of the pie-eating contests, but the guy who was supposed to accept pies from the professional bakers called in sick—”

  “No problem.” I patted his shoulder. “That sounds like fun. I bet Nina will help, too.”

  “No!” Bernie waved his hands crosswise. “She’s a judge and can’t know who submitted the pies.”

  “Good point. I forgot about that.”

  “Does that mean I can have Daisy this weekend?” asked Mars. “She’ll be stuck in the house all day today, anyway, if you’re at the pie festival.”

  My initial instinct was to say no, but he was right. Daisy would have more fun spending the day with Mars. “Sure.” I handed the leash to Mars and knelt to give Daisy a hug. I looked into her sweet brown eyes. “You two have fun.”

  I snuck one croissant out of the bag from Big Daddy’s and handed the rest over to Mars. “Maybe you and Nina can share these.”

  To Bernie, I said, “I’ll grab a shower and some breakfast and meet you at the festival.”

  I hurried home and hopped in the shower, then searched my closet for a sleeveless cotton dress. The plain salmon-colored dress fit loosely, which came as a pleasant surprise. I added simple hoop earrings and slipped on cushy white sandals. I pulled my hair back and up into a loose French twist because I would be handling food. I didn’t want to risk shedding onto a pie!

  There was no way I would be able to function unless I drank a mug of hot tea before I left. I took a few minutes to boil water and pour it over an Irish Breakfast tea bag. I added a little sugar and a splash of milk.

  Mochie waited by his empty food bowl, patiently watching me. When I didn’t respond quickly enough to the silent messages he was sending me, his paw slid under the edge of the bowl. He knew banging his bowl would get my attention! Laughing, I rushed over with a fresh bowl and filled it with Tasty Tuna, which he seemed to like. I kept him company while I ate my croissant and downed the tea.

  Mochie moseyed over to his favorite spot in the bay window, which faced the street. Sunbeams weren’t hitting it yet, but passing people and lively squirrels were already providing entertainment. Mochie began to groom his face, and stopped, his right front paw midair, when a squirrel dared to look in the window at him.

  I locked up and set off for the festival. The park already buzzed with activity. Throngs of people milled among the vendors’ tents, buying pie for breakfast. Moos & Brews was having a busy morning. It seemed like almost everyone was carrying coffee cups with their logo of a cute cow head.

  Bernie handed me preprinted sheets that listed the people who had entered the contest, the name of the bakery or restaurant they worked at, and the type of pie being submitted. All I had to do was give each pie a number and mark it on the sheet. That sounded easy enough.

  “You’ll be the only one who knows which pie belongs to which person,” said Bernie, handing me a box of gloves.

  “That’s a lot of power,” I teased.

  “I have total faith that you will not use your powers for evil.” Bernie winked at me. “Now, if we don’t lose Patsy Lee again”—he glanced at his watch—“and she turns up on time, we should be good to go. Be sure to use those food-prep gloves. I don’t want anyone handling food without them.”

  Not two minutes later the bakers began delivering pies to me. Dutifully wearing the food-prep gloves, I gave them numbers and arranged them on the table according to the type of pie. Most were sweet, like chocolate meringue pie and peach bourbon pie. But some of the bakers had gone with savory pies. I hoped I would get to taste chicken Florentine pie, but I had my doubts about spaghetti pie.

  I was giving a pie a number when I heard, “Hi, y’all! Patsy Lee is here!”

  I glanced over at her and picked up on the relief on Bernie’s face.

  Daisy showed up next, and delicately took the ribbon decorating the pie table in her mouth. “Is that a threat?” I asked her. “If I don’t sneak you a slice of pie, then you’ll pull on that ribbon?”

  She wagged her tail as though she understood and posed for a newspaper photographer.

  “There you are,” said Mars.

  “I told you Daisy would lead us to Sophie,” said Nina.

  “Daisy, can you lead Mars and Nina to buy tape so I can attach the numbers to the bottoms of the pie pans?” That way a stiff breeze wouldn’t accidently mix them up.

  Nina nodded. “A good move. I guess this wind is bringing in the change in weather.”

  Roger approached the check-in table with a pie in hand.

  “Roger Mackenzie,” he said formally, speaking as though I didn’t know him.

  He wore a bold blue golf shirt that brought out the azure in his eyes against skin so pale I knew he wasn’t an outdoorsy type.

  I laughed and played along. “Sophie Winston. What kind of pie are you entering in the contest?”

  “Full Moon Pie.”

  “Moon Pie? Like the cookies filled with marshmallow?”

  “Sort of along those lines.”

  “That sounds good!” I paused. I didn’t think he was working at a bakery. I decided I had to treat him just like everyone else. “What’s the name of your business?”

  “The Upper Crust.”

  I didn’t expect that. “Oh! We were just discussing your bakery. Where is it located? I’ll have to drop by.”

  “It’s opening in October. We were hoping a win might get us some publicity.”

  If nothing else, the interesting flavor combination might get them some mentions in the local press. “Good luck!” I handed him a blue tag that said Professional Pie #15 and walked over to the table of sweet pies, where I placed it in the middle.

  When I returned, I saw that Roger had ambled over to the table next to me, where Patsy Lee reigned. He stood a few feet away and watched her as though he was too shy to approach. I noticed that in between chatting with eager fans, she caught a glimpse of him. She showed no reaction, but her glance lingered on him briefly.

  Tommy Earl snapped his fingers at me. “Sophie!”

  “Sorry.”

  He pulled on food-prep gloves to remove his pie from a box. “Are you watching Patsy Lee or Roger?”

  “Both,” I admitted sheepishly. “Do you know Roger? He’s about to become your competition.”

  “Hardly. Can’t say I’m too worried about him.” Tommy Earl leaned forward and whispered, “Keep your distance. Roger’s known for inappropriate advances. Can’t get a job anywhere. He’s ruined his reputation and no one is willing to take a chance on him.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” I looked at the pie Tommy Earl was handing me. Without any doubt it was the most gorgeous pie I had ever seen. Dough leaves lay on the edge all the way around. The middle bore the traditional crisscrossed pastry in a most unconventional way. The ribbons of pastry dough were different widths and some were even braid
ed. On top of that, Tommy had artistically added pastry flowers in different shapes and sizes. It didn’t have to taste good, I would give it a blue ribbon for sheer beauty!

  “Darlin’s,” I heard Patsy Lee drawl. “I’m desperately in need of coffee. Brock?”

  He gave her a thumbs-up. “I’m on it.” Brock turned to me. “Where’s the closest place with great java?”

  “I’m partial to Moos and Brews. It’s two blocks in that direction.” I pointed to be sure he understood.

  “Back in a flash. Can I get you anything?”

  “That’s very thoughtful. Actually, I would love an iced coffee.” I offered him cash, but he waved it away.

  Mars delivered the tape I had requested.

  By the time I was through taping the numbers onto the bottoms of the pie plates, Brock had returned. He handed me the iced coffee I had requested.

  I sipped through the straw immediately. “Thanks, Brock. This hits the spot. It’s great.”

  “Hey, Sophie!” Bernie pointed to a line of pie-bearing chefs.

  I got back to work, handing out numbers, placing the pies, and wishing good luck to each baker.

  Patsy Lee declared, “I need to stretch my legs! Y’all pardon me for a bit.”

  She walked over behind me. In the tiniest voice that I could barely hear, she said, “Bernie tells me you solve mysteries.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I need your help. I have a little problem. Your tact in the matter the other night leads me to believe that I can count on you to be discreet.”

  “I think you’re under the wrong impression. I’ve solved a few murders—”

  “Sugah, I need someone to do somethin’ very private for me. Someone who can keep a secret. Lunch today at Bernie’s restaurant? He has guaranteed me a private dining room so we can talk.”

  What could I say? The least I could do was listen to her. Maybe I could even point her in the right direction to get whatever help she needed. After all, she had been running from someone. “Okay.”

  “Thank you, Sophie. Now, I’m off to see if Brock has cleared the ladies’ room for me.” She waved her hands under her chin. “I swear this humidity is about to do me in. And I think the food at that diner this morning isn’t sitting well with me.” She toddled off in search of Brock.

  I continued to take in pies, but my mind was on Patsy Lee. She returned to her position at the book-signing table and winked at me.

  After a submission of chicken pot pie from Star-Spangled Pies, I looked up to see the man Brock had pointed out the day before. Was he the dark shadow?

  He stood in the crowd with a young girl. Now that he was closer, I recognized him. Most weekday mornings when I was filling the kettle with water for tea, I saw him through the window over my sink. He strode by on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, never smiling, always carrying a dark brown leather briefcase. He had a preference for dark gray suits. His loafers were generally scuffed and comfortably worn. He wasn’t part of the local gala scene or I would have noticed him at some of my events.

  I was still a little bit creeped out by him, but as I watched, he took on a harmless and kind appearance. He patiently coaxed the girl to submit a pie. He placed a bony hand behind her back as if he wanted to propel her toward the youth table.

  The girl was darling. Her hair was cut short, just long enough to cover her ears. A rose-colored headband pulled it off her round face. She had a summer tan, which made her blue eyes even more prominent. She gazed at the junior pie submission table with a serious expression. The dark shadow whispered something to her. She took a deep breath and stepped across the grass slowly, walking as if she were headed to her doom.

  Willa, the pastry chef from The Laughing Hound, strolled over to me. “Hi, Sophie.” She studied each pie.

  “Hi. No pie to enter?” I asked.

  Willa smiled. “Bernie said it wouldn’t be fair for us to enter, since he’s in charge this year. I’m one of the judges this time. It’s kind of fun to be a bystander. Did you notice this pie with the tiny strips of dough on top twisting around in a giant circle? It’s a work of art. It must have taken an hour to get them all perfect like that.”

  “There’s one with roses and leaves that’s equally amazing.”

  Willa clucked in dismay. “Will you look at this one? That’s from a form. You press it into the dough and it cuts the shapes. Patsy Lee will recognize that in a minute.”

  “It’s pretty, though.”

  She glanced at me. “It’s probably Tommy Earl’s pie. He’s known for shortcuts. That kind of trick belongs in the home baker category, not the professional one.”

  I knew it wasn’t Tommy Earl’s pie. It took every ounce of forbearance I could muster not to defend him. There were a lot of other pies, so telling her that one wasn’t Tommy Earl’s wouldn’t be the equivalent of pointing his out to her. Nevertheless, it was supposed to be entirely anonymous. I had to keep it to myself.

  At that moment Roger walked by.

  “Perfect timing,” I said, and quickly introduced Willa to Roger.

  He gasped. “Willa!” He reached out to hug her. “It’s been so long. What are you doing these days?”

  “I’m the pastry chef at The Laughing Hound.”

  “Oh, my gosh! I’ve had your pie! Of course, I’ve eaten every pie offered in Old Town. But yours are simply outstanding.”

  Another baker walked up to me with a pie, so I excused myself, but I could hear Roger telling Willa about his PiePalooza event.

  The hour flew by as last-minute bakers arrived, one still painting finishing touches on his pie as I checked him in.

  Willa returned to examine the pies on the table again.

  “Something wrong, or are you eager to start judging?”

  “Did I leave my coffee here? I’ve lost it somewhere.”

  “Sorry, but I haven’t seen it. I would have noticed it on the table with the pies.”

  I reviewed my list and noted that all the entries were present. When I looked up, Bernie stepped in front of the microphone to introduce Patsy Lee, who was seated behind him.

  Chapter 6

  Dear Sophie,

  We’re having a pie-throwing event at my school to raise money for a class trip. What’s the best kind of pie to throw?

  Messy Mona in Sweets Corner, Massachusetts

  Dear Messy Mona,

  The obvious answer would be the kind of pie the victim likes. But generally I think that a cream pie with a meringue or whipped-cream topping would be more gentle against the face. Definitely avoid double-crust pies!

  Sophie

  Bernie tapped the microphone. “Thank you for coming to Old Town’s Pie Festival! We shall kick off the festivities by judging pies in three categories: professional, home baker, and junior, which means the baker is under the age of fourteen. After each pie is judged, the remainder will be cut into sample bites for you to try. But it’s not over after the judges award the ribbons! Then the serious pie eating will commence with the pie-eating contest!”

  The crowd applauded and cheered.

  “But first,” Bernie continued, “the star of our show, everyone’s favorite pie baker, one of our own who used to be a resident of Old Town, the fabulous queen of cooking shows, Patsy Lee Presley!” Applauding, Bernie stepped away from the microphone to make room for Patsy Lee.

  The number of people in attendance astonished me. Of course, I was looking forward to trying some of the pies, too. Apparently, I wasn’t alone.

  Many people clutched Patsy Lee’s latest cookbook, Sweetie Pie: Recipes from Patsy Lee’s Kitchen. She obviously had a devoted following.

  Patsy Lee stood up and slowly walked the few steps to the microphone to speak. A selection of stunningly beautiful pies provided by vendors graced the table in front of her, with copies of her latest books standing in a semicircle behind them.

  I suspected she had applied her makeup with cameras in mind. Her eyes were artfully lined to be prominent but ladylike
. Her foundation was packed on like mud, but would look perfect in photos and on the news. If there were flaws on her skin, no one would be the wiser.

  She had worn the big pearls and bracelet again, this time with a sleeveless dress in shades of lime and turquoise.

  The temperature was unusually pleasant so it was surprising that beads of sweat were starting to erupt into tiny craters in the impeccable makeup on her forehead. Was she shy about making live appearances?

  I wondered if Tommy had been correct about her age. She didn’t look over fifty. In fact, I would have guessed her to be in her midforties, which wasn’t easy to pull off in person.

  She wobbled a touch and braced herself against the table when she said brightly, “Hey, y’all! Patsy Lee is here!” She paused and swallowed hard. “I am so honored—”

  Patsy swayed and took a deep breath. She placed a hand on her collarbone and seemed to be gathering herself. Ever the pro, she forced a smile. “I am so honored to be here. Y’all know there’s nothin’ I love better’n a homemade pie ’cept maybe my fans!”

  With that, Patsy Lee pitched forward and fell onto the vendors’ pie display on the table face-first. The motion of her body pitched the table forward. The microphone squealed and howled as it crashed to the ground. The beautiful pies around her slid off, smashing on the grass, and poor dignified Patsy Lee Presley lay at an angle on the toppled table, her face in a pie and her legs in the air.

  A moment of silence followed as everyone absorbed what had happened.

  As Bernie and I rushed to her rescue, screams and wailing began.

  “Nina! Call 911,” I shouted.

  It didn’t look good for Patsy Lee. She had landed with her face smack in a butterscotch cream pie. I slid my arm under hers and lifted, with Bernie doing the same on her other side. I could hear cameras snapping photos.

  Brock scooted a chair behind her. We sat her down. Her eyes were closed and butterscotch filling clung to her skin. But her head rolled back and to the right as though she had no control over it anymore.