The Diva Sweetens the Pie

by Krista Davis

  Bernie hurried over to us. “I hate to sound so insensitive, but we’re shy one judge. We only have Nina and Willa.”

  “Mars?” I suggested.

  Bernie wrinkled his nose. “Wouldn’t it be better to use someone who has some degree of expertise? Sophie?”

  “I can’t judge. I know who brought the pies.”

  At that exact moment Natasha strode in, looking cool and, while I hated to admit it, rather stunning. She wore a robin’s-egg blue pantsuit, with a widely spaced black windowpane pattern on it. Her sandals and purse were black like the buttons on the suit jacket and her oversized hat. She wore large sunglasses.

  “How can she stand long sleeves and trousers in warm weather?” asked Nina.

  In a polite monotone Bernie said, “I don’t believe there’s much under the jacket.”

  He was right. While nothing racy was showing, she didn’t appear to be wearing a blouse.

  “No.” Bernie said it softly but emphatically. “No! I am not inviting her to judge.”

  “Tommy Earl would be perfect, but he submitted a pie.” I stopped short of mentioning how beautiful it was because I didn’t want to influence Nina. “What about Patsy Lee’s ex-husband? Think he might do it in her honor?”

  “Do you know how to reach him?” asked Bernie.

  “I bet Brock does.” It wasn’t until I uttered Brock’s name that I remembered Patsy Lee’s rendezvous the night before. I excused myself and hurried toward Wolf, who stood just outside the area that was still surrounded by crime scene tape.

  “Wolf, this might not be important at all, and maybe Brock already mentioned it, but Patsy Lee met with someone at a town house last night. Evidently, she didn’t want Brock to know about it, but he caught her sneaking out after she said she was hitting the sack.”

  “That’s interesting. Thanks, Sophie. Do you know which house it was?”

  I nodded. “I walked by it this morning with Daisy.”

  “The next time you’re over that way, it would be helpful if you got the address.”

  “Sure. I’d be happy to do that. One other thing.” I felt awful betraying Patsy Lee’s confidence, but given the circumstances, I guessed it didn’t really matter anymore. “Patsy Lee asked me to have lunch with her privately. She had some kind of problem that she wanted me to help her with.”

  Wolf looked at me blankly. “What kind of problem? Are we talking wardrobe, recipes, or murder?”

  “I honestly don’t know. She said something about a possible murder—if she didn’t solve the problem—but I took that as just an expression.”

  “She didn’t give you a clue?”

  “Honestly, she didn’t. But something was bothering her.”

  “Thanks, Sophie. I don’t really know what we’re dealing with yet. We’ll know more once the coroner’s report is in. She could have died of natural causes.”

  I turned away, but he nabbed my arm. “Do me a favor and don’t mention anything about her nocturnal adventure last night to anyone. Okay?”

  “Nina was there, too. I’ll let her know.”

  “Good grief.” Wolf massaged his brow with his hand. “I hope she hasn’t blabbed about it yet.”

  I scurried over to Nina. “Wolf wants us to keep the information about Patsy Lee’s excursion last night under wraps. No telling anyone.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “You haven’t mentioned it to anyone?” I cringed in anticipation of her answer.

  “Only Bernie . . .”

  I sucked in air and let out a sigh of relief. Bernie was a decent and pretty discreet fellow. I gazed around for him. He was on his phone. I made a beeline for him.

  He hung up his phone and smiled at me. “Peter Presley was a great suggestion. He sounds quite broken up about Patsy Lee’s death, but he’s very amenable to filling in for her. Said it would give him something else to think about and take his mind off losing Patsy. He’s on his way.”

  “Great! Uh, Bernie? Wolf has asked that we not mention anything about Patsy Lee’s rendezvous last night.”

  “Makes sense. No problem, Sophie. I haven’t said a thing. Poor Patsy Lee. She couldn’t even meet with a friend without people gossiping about it.”

  I let out a deep breath of air. “Time to unload the pies?”

  “I’m way ahead of you. Remy and Mars are unloading them as we speak.”

  “Mars?”

  I spied him carrying pies from the truck and ran over to him. “Where’s Daisy?”

  “Relax, Sophie. While you were working this morning, we went to the dog park. She’s at home, stretched out on the floor and fast asleep in the air conditioning. You’d better get these pies arranged for the judging.”

  I was trying to remember which pies were savory and which were sweet, without checking each one specifically. Some were easy to identify, but I finally had to consult my chart. I didn’t want them mixed up. It wouldn’t be fair if the judges hit a garlic cheddar pie in between a raspberry pie and a peanut butter pie.

  Peter Presley arrived promptly.

  I introduced myself to him. “I’m so very sorry for your loss. It was a shock to all of us.”

  “That’s mighty kind of you, Sophie. I lost my Patsy Lee a long time ago. I guess I always hoped she might come back to me. What happened today was all the harder because that door slammed shut on me forever. I’m just glad that I could be here for her today.”

  Bernie announced that the judging was about to commence. To my surprise the crowd on the plaza quieted down. Were they hoping to hear the comments the judges were making?

  The three judges considered the amateurs’ pies first. When they had made their decisions and moved on to the pies by professional bakers, I cut the amateurs’ pies in pieces, as small as I could, and placed them on tiny tasting plates for the public.

  I could hear Willa insisting that the pie with a top crust made through the use of a form could not win. “A professional baker should know how to work artfully with the dough,” she insisted. “Besides, the flavors are questionable. I’m not even sure what it’s supposed to be.”

  They moved on to the next pie.

  “Peter, what’s wrong?” asked Nina.

  He stood staring at a pie as if paralyzed. “Did Patsy Lee bake a pie to enter?”

  “Of course not,” said Willa. “She was a judge.”

  “Well, this is Patsy Lee’s pie. It looks just exactly like it.” He took a bite and shook his head. “I’ll be! It tastes exactly like her pie, too. I know this pie like I know the back of my own hand. No question about it.”

  I edged closer to them to see which pie he was talking about.

  Chapter 8

  Dear Sophie,

  What is mincemeat pie? My husband says it’s chopped-up meat. I say it’s a nut pie. Dinner at my favorite restaurant is riding on this.

  Hopeful Wife in Buttermilk, Kansas

  Dear Hopeful Wife,

  Originally, mincemeat contained beef, suet, or venison, which was mixed with sugar and alcohol to help preserve it. Today it’s more commonly a combination of dried fruit, spices, brandy or spirits, and sometimes the more adventurous still add suet.

  Sophie

  The pie in question had meringue piped on top instead of mounded. A smooth thick band of chocolate, probably pudding, ran underneath it dotted with something white. I couldn’t quite tell what it was. Marshmallow, maybe? I wondered what would happen if one poured warm pudding on marshmallows. I might have to try that.

  Peter took another bite. “There’s whisky in this. I’m tellin’ you, ladies, it’s Patsy Lee’s recipe.”

  They huddled together, but I couldn’t hear their discussion. They moved on and sampled the rest of the pies.

  They had a suspiciously long discussion before they announced the winners.

  Finally Willa took the microphone. “Like me, I’m sure many of you were friends and fans of Patsy Lee Presley. I would be remiss not to mention Patsy Lee. I feel confident in saying that she would
love nothing more than to be here with you right now. She was a dear friend of mine for many years. I’m reeling from her loss. To be honest with you, it was the very last thing in the world I ever expected today. But I know one thing for sure, Patsy Lee would have been the first to say that the festival must go on.”

  The audience applauded in a respectfully subdued manner.

  “The moment you’ve been waiting for is here,” said Willa. “I have to tell you that each and every pie was absolutely delicious. There wasn’t a single pie that we wouldn’t have been delighted to eat. These were very difficult decisions. I’m thrilled that you will be able to sample some of the pies yourselves to see which one would have been your winner.”

  Willa yielded the microphone to Nina, who handed out ribbons to the winners in the home baker category. I was very happy to see awards for youngest and oldest contestants where it didn’t matter what their pies looked like or how they tasted. The ninety-one-year-old grandmother of ten and the six-year-old girl both received excited applause and whistles from the crowd. Nina went on to award ribbons for the prettiest pie and best piecrust.

  When she announced the winner of the best pie by a baker under the age of fourteen, a little boy ran up to claim a trophy. I gazed at the crowd in search of Dark Shadow and the little girl. He patted her shoulder gently. With a stoic expression she watched the winner take a bow.

  “And now,” said Nina, “the coveted prize for overall best pie in the home baker category! Honey Armbruster!”

  Patsy Lee’s fan—and Old Town domestic diva—Honey ran up to the microphone like she thought she was getting an Academy Award. She sobbed as she spoke. “I wasn’t sure I would be here this afternoon. I am utterly bereft at the loss of the greatest person I have ever known. Patsy Lee wasn’t just a sweet and thoughtful person, she was the guiding influence in my life and in the lives of so many others. I’m especially proud to have won today in her honor. I feel like she’s smiling down at me. . . .”

  Her voice broke up and she handed the microphone over to Peter before rushing off.

  He sniffled for a moment before he started. “I knew Patsy Lee way before y’all did. Back in the day she tried her recipes out on me.” He patted his belly. “Which is how I got to look this way. I wish Patsy Lee could be here herself to feel your love and admiration. She was a remarkable woman. I, uh, I’m glad I could be here for her. And now, with no further delay, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you’ve been waiting for. The prize for most beautiful pie goes to Tommy Earl!”

  The crowd cheered and applauded.

  Tommy ambled toward Peter.

  Peter wasn’t through, though. “And the prize for tastiest pie goes to Tommy Earl! And”—he paused for a moment to heighten the drama—“the prize for best overall pie by a professional goes to”—he paused for seconds that felt longer—“Tommy Earl!”

  Tommy grinned and was proudly accepting his ribbons when someone shouted, “It was rigged!”

  Everyone turned to look at the person in the crowd who made that claim.

  My knees went weak when I saw that it was Natasha. Bernie had been right all along. She was up to something.

  Tommy froze as though he didn’t know what to do. He looked at Natasha, wide-eyed.

  What was she thinking? She hadn’t entered the competition. She hadn’t tasted the pies. Why would she be so unkind and disruptive? To get revenge on Bernie for not including her in the festival? I sighed, and made my way through the gathered people to Natasha, who stood next to Roger.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed.

  “He always wins.”

  “Did you see his pie? It was a masterpiece.”

  “I know for a fact that there were better pies.”

  “You couldn’t possibly know that. You haven’t tasted them. And you didn’t even submit a pie. Why would you care?”

  Roger started to inch away from her.

  Natasha folded her arms over her chest.

  “Look,” I said, “let Tommy have his day in the sun and maybe you can compete in another pie festival.”

  “I contest the outcome of this contest,” Natasha announced loudly.

  Oy. Why didn’t she realize that she upset everyone when she acted this way? “You behave yourself!” I hissed. “You’re always preaching etiquette and good manners. This is completely out of line and inappropriate.”

  She gasped and clasped one hand over her mouth.

  Roger glanced at me from the corner of his eye, his head down like a small child who had been caught misbehaving. What was going on with him?

  Bernie arrived, his face flaming. “Could we speak privately?”

  Natasha started to follow us, her head held high. But she reached back and grabbed Roger by the arm to tug him along.

  As we paraded to the front, just ten feet away from the microphone, we passed the dark shadow and my breath caught in my throat.

  We gathered in a small cluster with the judges and Tommy.

  Bernie, who seldom lost his temper, spoke in an even but decidedly irritated tone. “What’s this about, Natasha?”

  “The other pies didn’t have a chance. It was fixed for Tommy.”

  Tommy snorted. “You think I bribed the judges or something? Get over it, Natasha.”

  “I will not. My pie should have won.”

  I unfolded the list of pies I’d been carrying around. “Your name isn’t on here, and I think I would know if you had handed me a pie.”

  Roger’s face was red as an overripe tomato, and suddenly I realized why Natasha’s name wasn’t on the list. “The Moon Pie that Roger entered—that was your pie?”

  Chapter 9

  Dear Sophie,

  I see other moms bake the cutest pies for special events. They’re decorated with flowers, turkeys, leaves, and zoo animals. Am I the only one who isn’t artistic? How do they do that?

  No Van Gogh in Hungry Hollow, Pennsylvania

  Dear No Van Gogh,

  There’s a very easy little trick—use a cookie cutter! You can cut out shapes for vents in a double-crust pie or add shapes to the top of a pie.

  Sophie

  Peter Presley pointed at Natasha. “You? You’re the one who made that pie?”

  Natasha’s lips grew tight. I suspected she was preparing herself for a fight. “Yes. I baked the pie. Bernie wouldn’t allow me to submit an entry. I had to do it under Roger’s name.”

  I expected Peter to blow up about Natasha using Patsy Lee’s recipe, but he was surprisingly calm.

  “Well, well, well,” he said. “Sugah, you didn’t win because that was Patsy Lee’s recipe. Didn’t you think she would recognize her own pie?”

  Natasha jerked her sunglasses off, turned her head, and glared at Roger so hard, I thought he might feel the burn.

  “I cannot believe you, Natasha.” Bernie shook his head in dismay and waved his hands. “I knew you’d pull some kind of stunt. So that’s that. Tommy is the winner. End of story.”

  “I demand a bake-off,” Natasha said calmly.

  Tommy leaned toward her. “You’re on!”

  Bernie held up his palms. “I will have nothing to do with that.” He ran up to the microphone and declared, “Tommy Earl is our winner! Ladies and gentlemen, we now invite you to taste the pies. We’re handing out tickets, free of charge for tastes of two pies of your choice. Once you have tried two pies, you may get back in line for more tickets and sample as often as you like until they are all gone. Enjoy, everybody!”

  I was relieved that was over. Nina tugged at my sleeve and nodded in Peter’s direction.

  He hadn’t taken his eyes off Natasha.

  Willa smiled and gazed right at Peter. “I could use a good cup of coffee after all that pie. Who’s in?”

  “I am!” said Nina. “I’m parched. Peter?”

  “Sorry. I’m filling in for Patsy Lee as the official judge of the pie-eating contest.”

  Nina shot me a look as she walked away. I knew what she had noted. Peter ha
d homed in on Natasha like a hummingbird on sugar water. I couldn’t help wondering if he was flirting with her.

  My current beau, Alex German, strolled up to me, rubbing his palms with glee. Former military, he still had incredible posture. His dark chocolate hair was neatly trimmed. He wore white shorts with a navy short-sleeved golf shirt. That was about as casual as he got. “Where do I go for the pie-eating contest?”

  That wasn’t like the Alex I knew at all. “You’re joking.”

  “Absolutely not. I love pie.”

  Really? Neat and proper Alex was about to be snarfing a messy pie? “This I’ve got to see. Good luck!”

  I excused myself and hurried over to the tables where the pie samples had been consumed. There wasn’t a single piece left. But there were plenty of crumbs.

  I hastily cleaned off the tables, while Remy lined up chairs behind the tables for the pie-eating contestants.

  I hustled over to the microphone. “Welcome to the official pie-eating contest! We have several tables set up. No registration is necessary. If you have always wanted to try, come on up and join us. We have several of these fantastic awards to hand out to the winners.” I held up trophies topped with plastic slices of pie. “There will be one adult winner and one winner between the ages of five and twelve. Participants will eat in the traditional method with their hands behind their backs. Any sign of illness is an immediate disqualification. Parents must sign a waiver for children under eighteen to participate. Come on up and join the fun! Our official judge today is none other than Peter Presley! He will determine who eats the most pies in the allotted time. In the event of a tie, Peter, at his discretion, will choose the winner based on who is wearing the most pie and the biggest smile.”

  Minutes later the tables were packed with contestants. I remained at the microphone. “Peter, are we ready?”

  He gave me a thumbs-up.