A Pocket Full of Pie
Page 1
Copyright © Leena Clover, Author 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Pocket Full of Pie
A MEERA PATEL MYSTERY
By Leena Clover
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Thank You
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Glossary
Sneak Peek – For a few Dumplings more – Book 3
RECIPE - Black Bean Burger
RECIPE - Mutton Rogan Josh Curry
RECIPE – Cheesy Jalapeno eggs
RECIPE – Orange Tequila Grilled Chicken
RECIPE - Cheese Pakora Fritters
Author’s Note
Book 3 – For a Few Dumplings More – coming Aug 9, 2017 – get your copy here
Order Link https://www.amazon.com/dp/B072V3T2BV
Book 2 – A Pocket full of Pie – coming July 7, 2017 – Get your copy here
Order Link https://www.amazon.com/dp/B072Q7B47P
Check out Meera’s yummy recipes and a sneak peek into Book 3 at the back of this book. I have also included a glossary of Gujarati/ Indian terms and their meanings.
Chapter 1
The gentle waves of the lake lapped against the shore. I huffed and puffed, trying to catch my breath.
“Maybe this wasn’t a good idea,” I complained.
Becky turned around and jogged back to me. She made it look so easy.
“Come on, Meera! We’ve hardly come two hundred meters.”
She jogged in place, annoying me with the hint of laughter in her voice.
“I’m not fit for this,” I let out, and sprawled on the tiny jogging path.
“Which is why you need to do this,” Becky taunted me with a matter of fact voice.
The mid November morning was cool with temperatures in the mid 50s. My friend Becky had dragged me out to Lake Willow Springs and the 3 mile walking cum jogging track that went around it.
“The fresh air will do you good,” Motee Ba, my grandma, had nodded eagerly.
Her eyes had met Becky’s and a silent message passed through them. I was in a sort of funk, feeling sorry for myself, and people were plotting to get me out of it. I love these people, don’t get me wrong, but I was in a weird frame of mind.
My name is Meera Patel, and I’m a 20 something grad school dropout who shelves books for a living. I live in a small college town in central Oklahoma. My dad Anand Patel is the head of the electrical engineering department at Pioneer Polytechnic, the local university. I put in some time at the local diner because I love to feed people and experiment with recipes. I live in a big ranch style house on the outskirts of town with my brother and my grandparents. I met Becky in third grade and we’ve been inseparable ever since.
“Meera! You need to get fit!” Becky protested, trying to lift me off the ground.
The concrete path was cold and I could feel the chill through my thick sweats. My cheeks felt pink and my nose was cold.
“Do I have to?” I grumbled. “We stay on our feet long enough at the diner.”
“That’s different,” Becky shook her head. “You need to get your heart rate up. Stop cribbing and look around. It’s such a beautiful morning.”
She gave me one last look and started running away.
“Wait,” I called out, extending a hand. “At least help me get up.”
Becky laughed and ran on.
I scrambled on to my fours, feeling my knees scrape against the rough path. I puffed again as I pulled myself up. My chest heaved with the effort and I decided to walk rather than jog. Some exercise was better than nothing, right? I promised myself my special French toast for breakfast. That put a spring in my step.
I trudged around the corner, trying to spot Becky in the distance. I took deep breaths, enjoying the misty morning, letting myself relax. I told myself I needed to get in shape. Then I spotted a welcome sight. A park bench!
It was a classic bench, painted green, set on a patch of grass a few feet off the walking track. It looked out on the water and another bench that graced the walking track on the opposite shore of the lake.
I collapsed on the bench and leaned back, taking in the area with my eyes half closed. It was a better way to enjoy the scenery, surely. Someone else had the same thoughts as me. A guy was lounging on the other corner of the bench, a hat pulled low over his eyes.
“What’s up?” I said politely and closed my eyes.
Becky would be back any second to pull me off the bench.
A couple of minutes passed. I opened my eyes and glanced sideways. The guy was too well dressed to be homeless. A red and blue plaid shirt was tucked into well pressed khakis. A wedge of berry pie peeped out of his jacket. Crumbs of pie crust littered the bench and the ground by his feet.
He still hadn’t returned my greeting. But I didn’t take it to heart. The dead don’t talk back, after all.
Some unknown reserve of energy I didn’t know I had propelled me up.
“Becky,” I roared, and ran flat out toward her.
A man dressed in nylon shorts and a half shirt ran toward me from the opposite direction. I waved him down.
“Something wrong?” he asked, not happy about having to break stride.
I pointed to the bench and poured out everything. Actually, I just blabbered gibberish. A bunch of drool rolled out of the side of my mouth and I wiped it away. The man jogged back to the bench and jabbed the man in the shoulder, something I hadn’t dared to do.
The jogger looked at me and his eyes confirmed my suspicion. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and dialed 911. Becky had finally turned around and was coming toward me. Her mock anger changed to concern the moment she saw the look on my face.
“What’s the matter, Meera?”
My finger shook as I pointed toward the bench. Flashing red and blue lights filled the park and three police cars converged on the road that led to the walking track.
A familiar stocky figure ambled down, looking important.
“Did you call the cops, Meera?” he demanded as soon as he saw me.
“No, I did,” the other runner explained.
There wasn’t much to say. The cops took in the scene and cordoned off the area.
“Is he …?” I asked slowly.
Stan looked me over and nodded.
“He’s gone, Meera. It’s been a while. What are you doing here anyway?”
I told him about our morning sojourn.
“Nothing wrong with trying to get fit,” Stan Miller said. “I run five miles a day and do weights. I circle the lake on the weekend
s. But it’s too much for me on a work day.”
I mentally curled my fists. I really needed to shape up if Stan Miller was daring to give me fitness advice.
Becky was still in shock, and I hadn’t heard a word out of her.
“You ready to go home?” I asked gently.
She barely nodded, staring in fascination at the man on the bench.
“Can we go now, Stan?” I asked, not sure of the response.
Stan gave a curt nod. “I know where to find ya’ll.”
The truce with Stan Miller hadn’t come easy. He had put me through the wringer the last few months. I had been the top suspect in the murder of Stan’s girlfriend. Although his allegations didn’t hold water, it had prompted me to do some leg work and actually prove myself innocent. Stan had apologized for his boorish behavior, and we had called a truce.
The truce was still in place, judging by his current conduct, but I had a feeling it was about to expire soon.
I turned the key of my Camry, uttering a silent prayer. The car started after a couple of tries and I heaved a sigh of relief. I didn’t fancy asking Stan Miller for a ride.
Becky was quiet as I eased out of Willow Springs Lake Park onto Willow Drive. I swung a right onto Cedar and stopped at a traffic light.
“What are you thinking?” I asked Becky.
“I know that man,” she said quietly.
“What?” I cried, as the light turned green and I took my foot off the brake. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“I don’t exactly know him, know him,” she corrected herself. “I’ve seen him before.”
I caught a green light at the highway intersection and turned right, speeding past Sylvie’s Café & Diner and my pal Tony’s gas station. I took a left onto Goat Farm Lane.
“Where?” I asked, slowing down.
The only houses on this road were ours and the Miller farm next door, which belonged to Stan Miller’s uncle.
“Last night, at Sylvie’s.”
Becky works at Sylvie’s Café. She is their full time cook and is good at it. I help out for a few hours every day, experimenting with recipes, adding some bold items to their menu.
“So what?” I asked. “Last night was quite busy, being a Sunday and all. Some 250-300 people must have come to the café.”
Becky nodded. “I worked extra.”
“What made you remember this guy then?” I asked.
“He was there with his girl friend. Sorry, fiancée. They were celebrating their recent engagement.”
I pulled into our driveway and parked close to the house. We got out and trooped in through the back door.
It was barely 7 AM and my grandmother was boiling water for tea.
“Your Pappa’s chai is almost done,” she told me, her voice still groggy from sleep.
My grandfather is a stickler for his Masala Chai. Motee Ba wakes him every morning with a cup of his ‘bed tea’ and two digestive biscuits.
“I made a pot for you,” Motee Ba signaled to the dripping coffee.
I thanked her and poured the steaming coffee into two large mugs. I dunked sugar and half & half into our mugs and handed one to Becky.
“Drink up,” I ordered.
She took a few rapid sips and her color improved.
I was beating eggs in a bowl, adding in paprika. I dunked some thick Texas bread into the egg mixture and pulled out a container of salsa from the fridge. I had made it the previous evening.
Soon, I set two loaded plates on the kitchen island and urged Becky to eat.
“So he came to Sylvie’s. So what?” I finally voiced the unspoken question.
“Did you see the pie, Meera?” Becky whispered.
I raised my eyebrows.
“That pie came from the diner. I know, because he ordered extra. That’s why I remember him. They had a huge dinner, ordered pie a la mode, and then he ordered half a pie to take home with him. For the road, he said.”
“We don’t know what happened, Becky,” I consoled her.
“I know, but I have this feeling …”
“Hey, when do you want to talk about the Thanksgiving menu?” I tried to distract her.
Becky’s feeling turned out to be much more than that.
Chapter 2
I showered and got ready for work. The day passed quickly. The student body was busy with final projects and assignments. The library was packed with kids trying to cram a semester’s worth of knowledge, watch class videos, and discuss coursework with their class mates.
I drove to Sylvie’s, eager to hear if there was any more news about the man. A spanking new building slightly opposite Sylvie’s caught my eye. The fresh yellow paint almost seemed like an eye sore to me. To most other people in the town, it was fresh and cheerful. A large neon sign with ‘Nancy’s’ in cursive hung in front of it. It was pink when lit up. A smaller sign proclaiming ‘the fancy diner’ hung below it, in case anyone had a doubt about the purpose of the building.
I shook my head and pulled up in front of Sylvie’s. Swan Creek may be a small town, but we are loyal to our own. I didn’t see any newcomer making it big with a diner, especially not in that spot.
Sylvie welcomed me with her signature hug as I breezed through the door. Her husband Jon called out to me from the kitchen and waved a spatula at me.
“Gumbo almost done,” he called.
Sylvie and Jon Davis are as much a part of my family as Motee Ba or my Dad. They were the village that raised us motherless kids. Becky came out, trying to hide a frown.
“Meera, child, how are you?” Sylvie asked lovingly, trying to hide the concern in her voice. “Becky told me about earlier.”
Jon came out and placed two plates of gumbo on a table. He motioned to Becky to take a break. I collapsed in a red vinyl booth and stirred my spoon through the gumbo, mixing a little rice in it. I looked out and Nancy’s sat smack dab in the line of my vision.
“I suppose we have to get used to it,” I groaned.
“They’re a business, Meera,” Sylvie reasoned. “Just like us. Can’t stop anyone from earning an honest buck.”
“I would like to see them do that,” Becky hissed, swallowing a big spoonful of the fiery gumbo.
“None of our regulars are going there any time soon, Sylvie,” I said loyally.
Honestly, I wasn’t too sure.
The grapevine had been buzzing with all kinds of tidbits. Some said they had snow white table cloths on each table. Others said they had fresh flowers. French food was talked about, and artisan bread. We were all a bit nervous about the impact it would have on Sylvie’s but no one wanted to voice their fears.
The small TV set over the counter was on and the news had come on. I saw a view of our local lake and some police tape.
“Turn that up, please,” I urged Sylvie.
We listened agog as the announcer talked about the man who had been found on the bench by the lake.
“Police are looking into the cause of death of young Jordan Harris,” the news anchor said.
“The 27 year old was in Swan Creek to celebrate his engagement with a Pioneer Poly student. Police have been tight lipped but our reporter couldn’t help but notice the pie crumbs that littered the park bench where he was found. We all know there’s only one place in Swan Creek that people go to for their pie fix. Does the pie figure in the cause of death of young Harris? Stay tuned for our updates…”
Sylvie turned the TV down, looking worried. The unspoken question was topmost in our minds.
“Becky says he was here yesterday,” I spoke up. “Do you remember him too?”
Sylvie nodded.
“Jordan’s been coming here for years. They made a cute couple. I gave them the best table. He was with that blue eyed blonde girl that comes around here often.”
“Jessica,” Becky supplied.
“Yes, her!” Sylvie nodded. “The one that talks a lot. Always has a word for Jon or me.”
The Davises saw a wide variety of people at the diner.
Some were barely civil to them, just tossing money their way for a meal. Some were polite but distant. Very few people actually took the time to show genuine interest in the people there.
Sylvie turned to Becky.
“Are you sure it was our pie? Couldn’t it have been something else from the super market maybe?”
Becky’s gaze said it all.
“I wrapped it myself, I remember. And I saw our logo on it. Tell her, Meera.”
I backed Becky up.
“There’s no doubt, Sylvie. I saw it too. But I don’t see what the problem is.”
“You know them cops,” Jon said, coming out of the kitchen. “They tend to pick at the most obvious. What if they say our pie killed that boy?”
“Oh Jon, why would anyone say that?” I laughed.
The other three faces remained serious.
“We’ll know soon enough,” I muttered.
Becky tipped her head out of the window. There were lights inside Nancy’s and a battered old wagon had drawn up. A couple of women got out. One of them was older, wearing a navy polka dot dress that stopped just above her knees. Her chin length bob was slightly retro. She was wearing sturdy shoes and stockings. The other woman looked thirtyish and frumpy next to the older one. They turned around and looked at Sylvie’s, and caught us standing together, staring at them.
Sylvie waved and smiled, motioning them to come meet us. Five minutes later, the two women were inside Sylvie’s.
“Hello, I’m Nancy,” the older woman said, offering her hand. “Nancy Robinson. And this is my girl Nellie.”
We shook hands all around and Sylvie offered them coffee and pie.
“Thank you for your kindness, but we have a lot to do before tomorrow,” Nancy declined politely.
“Tomorrow’s our opening day,” Nellie supplied.
“All the best to you,” Sylvie said sincerely.
“Thanks a lot, dear,” Nancy Robinson gushed. “I hope you’re not worried about business?”
Sylvie just smiled and Jon grunted from inside.
“There’s not much common between us, really. We serve a different clientele. The slightly posh one, you know.”
I was working up to say something really nasty to the woman. I wasn’t getting good vibes from her.