Mannor raised an eyebrow. “In that case, I’ll be doing a little more investigating, won’t I?” He folded his arms and leaned down for a good look into her face. “But, it still won’t be anything for you to worry about, now will it?”
Bert tightened her lips, a glare coming over her face.
“In either case, it’s a matter for the police. Why don’t you concentrate on making those delicious pies of yours?” he asked with a smirk.
“Fine,” she agreed, heading back behind the counter.
“Anyway, speaking of pie, do you mind if I have a slice?” He took a leisurely seat at one of the tables. Bert wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him relax. Usually, he was running about ordering officers, interrogating witnesses, or even arresting suspects.
Bert figured she probably was acting a little bit over the top in this situation. The detective was right. There was no real sign of foul play involved in this poor man’s death. Bert just hated to see any person get overlooked just because they were homeless.
Realizing she needed to let the whole thing go, she put a smile back on her face. “What kind of pie would you like?”
“How about pecan?”
Bert was already in the process of getting the slice out of the dish, having thought ahead. “Got it.” She lifted the plate with a smirk and waltzed over to set it in front of the detective. The slice was perfectly caramelized on top, creating a crispy brown shell along the filling. The nuts had crisped up in the baking process as well and gave off an aromatic steam.
“Thanks a million.”
“I assume you’re wanting a coffee with that?”
“Yes, thanks,” he agreed.
Bert headed behind the counter, grabbed a clean mug, and poured the steaming hot liquid. Moving back out, she gave it to him.
“Thanks. This’ll really hit the spot on a cold morning like this.”
“I assume you don’t have any pressing cases right now?” she said, amused by his laid-back behavior.
“Well, there is something I’m working on, but we aren’t sure it really is an issue or not yet.” Lifting the mug, he took a big swig and made a satisfied sigh. Picking up his fork, he sliced into the corner of the pie and ate it. A little smirk raised the corner of his mouth. “My goodness, Bert. This may be the best pie I’ve ever had.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’ve said that about every pie you’ve had here.”
“I’m simply telling the truth.”
Somehow, Bert got the feeling that Detective Mannor was trying too hard.
“What is in this that makes it so good?”
“Well, it’s your usual pecan pie made with brown sugar, molasses, and pecans. However, I add a touch of cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger. I find it brings out the flavor of the nuts quite nicely.”
“Well, I’d say you have a winner,” he replied, lifting his fork as if he were toasting her.
She’d had enough. Placing her hands on her hips, she gave a slanted look to the policeman. “Okay. You’re up to something. What is it?”
“I have no idea what you mean,” he shot back, sipping his coffee again. “Besides, even if I had something on my mind, it’s police related, and I can’t share it with you.”
Bert wasn’t buying it, but knew that the man was more stubborn than she was.
She wouldn’t get anything out of him.
CHAPTER 3
* * *
After closing down the shop that evening, Bert decided to stop by the soup kitchen to see Andie again. She’d spent much of the day going over the schedule in her mind. She was having trouble seeing where she could possibly fit in making enough pies for the Thanksgiving dinner at the kitchen. However, on her way out she had an idea pop into her head.
Climbing into her car, she drove out of the Old Market district of town and into the main downtown hub of Culver’s Hood, Nebraska. The area had a major library, the police station, the firehouse, and—of course—the soup kitchen.
Most of the homeless people of the city could be found in the downtown area begging for extra cash or a little food. The soup kitchen provided them with some place to go to rather than staying out on the streets.
It wasn’t perfect, but it at least fed some people in need.
Pulling up outside the front doors, the nightly arrangement of patrons was already waiting in line for a warm bowl of soup, some freshly baked bread, and a cup of hot coffee.
Bert nodded genially at a few of the men as she walked into the building.
Stepping among the tables, she glanced behind the counter to see if Andie was there. The only person standing there was a young and pretty Hispanic woman dressed in the usual hair-net and apron. She was ladling out soup to the men and woman waiting in line.
“Hello,” Bert greeted the woman as she approached the counter.
“Evening,” the girl smiled in reply. There was a small twinkle in her hazelnut eyes. “Can I help you with something?”
Bert, not wanting to stand in the way of the line, took the liberty of stepping behind the serving counter. Checking the woman’s volunteer nametag, she smirked. “Shiv, is it?”
“That’s right, but you can’t be back here in the kitchen area. It’s against regulation.”
“Don’t worry. I’m a volunteer.”
“Oh?”
“Well, Shiv, I was actually looking for Andie. I wanted to ask her about the ovens here for Thanksgiving Day.”
“The ovens?” Shiv raised a confused eyebrow.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You see, I’m going to be baking the pies for Thanksgiving dinner here in the kitchen.”
The girl’s eyes widened with recognition. “Oh, that’s right. Andie did mention that someone had volunteered to donate the pies.”
“Yep, that’s me. Unfortunately, I’m a little strapped for time and was hoping there would be oven space the day of. That way I could prepare the pies ahead of time and then bake them right here in the kitchen.”
Turning her head slightly, Shiv eyeballed the row of three rusty old industrial ovens. “I guess you could, if you’re willing to trust those junkers.”
“Junkers? Do they not work anymore?”
“Oh, they work, just not well. It’s like everything else here,” she admitted with a solemn look in her eye.
For the first time since arriving, Bert took an honest look around the room. Beat up and dented metal counters lined the walls, chipped tile floors lay below her feet, tarnished cooking utensils hung on the walls, and there was even a small metal cage just below the stove. It was almost like standing on the set of some horror movie.
“Dare I ask what that cage is for?”
Shiv sighed, dropping her voice to a low whisper so that the patrons couldn’t hear. “A catch and release rat trap.”
“There are seriously rats here?” Bert asked, whispering
“Sometimes they get in through the vents at night. Not often, but enough that it’s a concern. I’ve told Andie she should invest in some rat poison, but she insists on only using catch and release methods. I swear, if the health inspector finds out he won’t hesitate to close us. He’s always looking for a reason to shut down the soup kitchen.”
“Why would he want to do that?” Bert asked.
“He’s in the mayor’s pocket. Like her, he thinks it encourages homeless people to hang around downtown. He cares about how the city looks, but just goes about it the wrong ways, I think.”
“Wow, I’m sorry to hear all that. I mean, Andie told me things were tight, but I wasn’t aware it was this bad.”
“Well, that’s just how things work sometimes. Less and less money is given to help those in need and more is put toward useless junk like parking meters.”
“All of these setbacks must make cooking here difficult.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call this cooking.” She stirred the grayish soup with an adamant twirl of her wrist.
“Oh?”
“Canned soups with a little added veggie? Frozen bread that we bak
e up in faulty ovens? Instant coffee? No, it isn’t cooking. Even a little touch of spices, some thyme, a pinch of paprika, could really make this more palatable. Heck, I’ve even asked if I could have the ingredients to bake some fresh loaves of bread, but Andie just says there is no money for it.”
Bert leaned on the counter. “That really is sad. I bet you would make a good cook if given a chance.”
“I’d love to do some real cooking, work in a real kitchen. However, this place helped me eat many times when I was growing up, so it only seems fitting to give back.”
“Goodness,” Bert mumbled, her face growing warm and red. It always hurt Bert’s heart to see the kind of people who were forced to turn to community services. Shiv seemed like such a sweet girl, and she hated to think of her living on the streets.
“You’re surprised to hear that I used to eat here?”
“No, no, not at all. I’m glad you had someplace to go. I just feel a little embarrassed for going on and on about pies and giving back to the community, about helping these people, when you yourself used to be in the same situation not that long ago.”
“Don’t worry about it, okay? I’m happy to be here to help.” She slopped some more soup into a bowl and handed it over the counter. “At least it gives me something to do while I figure things out, look for a job.”
Bert blinked slowly as an idea popped into her head.
“What? You’re surprised I don’t have a job, too? Let me guess, you think I’m entitled and lazy?”
“Oh, my goodness, no. Not at all. I was actually thinking that, if you’re okay with it, you could come and work for me at my shop.”
“Oh, yeah? Doing what?” Shiv replied in a somewhat interested tone.
“Actually, I run a pie shop.”
Shiv looked up from her work over the pot of soup and directly at Bert. “Y-you mean that Pies and Pages place?”
“Why, yes. So, you’ve heard of it?”
“Heard of it? Only every food blogger is talking about you.” she shrugged, a hint of embarrassment in her cheeks. “I mean, I usually like to go to the library and read about the latest food trends. Food has always been sort of a passion for me, I guess. In some ways, spicing things up helped me get through some tough moments in my life.”
Bert held out a hand. “Well, I’m pleased to meet a fellow foodie. My name is Bertha Hannah, but you can call me Bert.”
“Wait, you’re serious about a job?”
“Darn right.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough about you to know that you’re a girl with character. You work hard, and you have passion. I think you’ll make a great addition to my shop.”
Shiv half smirked and tilted her head. “How do you know I won’t just rob you or something?”
Bert placed a hand on the girl’s forearm. “Trust me. I’m a great judge of character.”
“Bert, oh my, I didn’t know you were here,” a familiar voice echoed from the back room.
“Andie, just the woman I was looking for.” Bert looked at Shiv one more time and patted her arm. “We’ll talk later, I promise.” After that, she headed back into Andie’s office.
CHAPTER 4
* * *
Luckily for Bert, everything looked like it was going to work out. Even if the ovens were a little faulty, she was willing to take the chance on them if it meant she could relax a little more on her pie making duties. Better than that, she had a new employee coming in to help in the shop once the Thanksgiving weekend had ended. (She was refusing to do any sort of Black Friday sales and instead was closing down until Monday in protest of the “tradition.”)
After her visit to the soup kitchen, Bert made a quick visit to the nearest big box store—the kind that sold everything in bulk sizes—and picked up everything she would need including three sugar pumpkins, two bags of brown sugar, two large packages of raw pecans, and extra cinnamon, cardamom, and nutmeg for good measure.
The next morning, she got up extra early—around three a.m.—to go to the shop and get to work on the pies. Despite the hour, she felt invigorated with the spirit of the holiday. The idea that she would be giving to people in need, people who might be able to come out of it like Shiv, seemed like a real blessing.
(Of course, the cup of pumpkin spiced double-shot coffee from The Koffee Hous was helping to boost her spirits as well.)
By opening time at ten o’clock, she’d already finished all the pies for the Thanksgiving event, which were ready to bake as soon as she arrived at the soup kitchen the next day, as well as the ones she would sell in the shop during the day. Now, all that needed to be done, was prepare the orders that customers were going to pick up for their own Thanksgiving dinners.
“Good morning,” Carla called as she stepped in the front door.
“Hey, Carla. I thought you’d be over at your own shop this morning,” Bert commented upon seeing her best friend waltzing between the tables and leaning on the counter.
“Oh, I have Jordon watching it.”
“I think you maybe take advantage of that girl, you know?” she pointed out.
Carla waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind that. Look at this morning’s paper.”
Bert put her nose in the air in a fake show of pride. “I already did. The comics and arts sections because that’s all that’s worth looking at.”
Carla lifted her own copy of the paper and slapped it on the glass counter. “You didn’t see this?” she insisted, pointing at the opened page.
Glancing down, the pie shop owner shrugged. “A local camera shop was robbed three times this week?”
Rolling her eyes, her friend laid her finger on the page. “No. This,” she exclaimed.
Bert’s eyes wandered over and read the title of the article. Rise in Homeless Deaths. Police Suspect Poisoning. She immediately gasped, grabbing up the paper from her friend.
“I know you said you found that guy behind your shop yesterday when we had lunch together. I just never realized he could be poisoned.”
“I knew he was hiding something,” Bert snipped.
“Who? Detective Mannor?” Carla asked, twiddling her thumbs as she eyed the variety of pies in the case.
Bert twisted her lips to the side. “Who else? He was acting so strange yesterday, like he didn’t want me to figure something out.”
“That the guy behind your shop was murdered?”
Bert nodded. “I specifically asked him about it. I mean, he is a homicide detective. Why else would he show up on the scene?” She shook her head.
“Maybe because you asked for him?” she suggested, wiggling her eyebrows.
Bert tilted her head at her friend. “No. He was here because he’s on the case of these strange deaths of homeless people. Now I find out that they’re being poisoned.” She flipped the paper up in front of her and read the details of the story.
“Doesn’t that seem a little weird? I mean, the reporters are saying it could be like a serial killer or something.”
Scanning the words, Bert gave a knowing nod. “Either they are all being poisoned on accident, by the same source, or someone is targeting them.”
“With rat poison? I think it’s on purpose. We have a psycho running around the streets killing people,” Carla squeaked nervously.
“Is that what it is?” Bert asked, looking more closely at the article.
“Anticoagulant rodenticide is what it says. That’s rat poison, you know.”
“How do you know that?”
She shrugged. “About a year back we had a few in the shop, so I bought the stuff. These are old buildings, you know.”
Bert nodded.
“I’d heard that it’s real dangerous, though, because rats have adapted to the poisons over the years. The companies have had to increase the potency, making it harmful or even deadly to humans. I made sure to do all my research before using the stuff. I didn’t want to accidentally poison myself or one of the customers.”
Bert half smirked. “I don’t think you can poison yourself unless you eat it.”
“You never know,” she replied with a serious, furrowed brow.
Bert tried not to laugh at her friend.
Carla didn’t notice the humored smirk on her friend’s lips. She was too deep in thought, tapping her fingers on the counter. “Maybe the food at the soup kitchen you always volunteer at is contaminated for some reason.”
“Well, that place isn’t exactly up to code, but I doubt rat poison would find its way into the soup. Besides, they don’t even have it on the premises. Andie and one of her volunteers told me so last night. They use strictly catch and release tactics.”
Carla shook her head. “You couldn’t catch me doing that. I want them dead and gone for good.”
“Yeah, but some people think it’s more humane to catch them, and I tend to agree.”
Carla waved her hand again. “Whatever suits you.”
“In any case, unless the pots and pans there are contaminated with rat poison—which I highly doubt—I’d say we’re dealing with a killer here. Someone is targeting the homeless and somehow feeding it to them.” Bert groaned, leaning in on the counter herself. “This time of year, it could be almost anyone. All sorts of charities, businesses, and organizations are handing things out. Charitable food pantries, day old breads from the bakery around the corner, even the thrift store gives out free coffee to the homeless.”
“What are you going to do about it?” Carla pressed.
Bert looked up at her friend and shook her head. “Absolutely nothing. Detective Mannor is right. This is a police matter, and they can handle it on their own. They don’t need an old busybody like me poking around into their business.”
“I suppose.”
Bert stood up from the counter. “In any case, I’m way too busy this week to be worrying about murder. I’ve got more pies to make.”
Carla smiled. “Speaking of pies, do you think I could get a slice of pecan before I head back?”
CHAPTER 5
Killer Thanksgiving Pie Page 2
