Pies Before Guys

by Kirsten Weiss

  The kitchen door drifted back and forth, its motions slowing creakily.

  I gaped at my boyfriend. Uh, what? “Why, Detective Carmichael,” I joked, pressing a hand to my heart and laughing uneasily, “this is so sudden.”

  He released me, stepping away. “I’m serious.”

  Charlene rose from her stool by the door, her joints cracking. It was getting late in the evening. She must be exhausted. On her shoulders, Frederick yawned.

  “Oh.” I gnawed my bottom lip. Well then, why the heck had he given me that Rhett Butler kiss? And hang on. Serious? Serious about my whereabouts? I looked about the sparkling kitchen for answers and found none.

  “So were you here?” he asked.

  “Sorry,” I said, all business. “Yeah, I was here, with Charlene.” Baffled, I stared at his chiseled face. Did I need an alibi? What was going on?

  In the dining area, a chair scraped across the floor.

  “And I guess Abril and Doran are still here.” A wash of heat flushed through me, as if I’d been standing too close to the pie oven. Doran would have said goodbye before leaving, wouldn’t he? “But you would already know if they were because you came through the dining area. What’s going on?”

  He pulled his cell phone from his blazer’s inside pocket and handed it to me. Professor Starke’s tanned face stared blankly from the screen, his blond hair mussed. Blood trickled from one corner of his mouth.

  I gasped. “That’s—Is that . . . ?” I took an involuntary step back and bumped into the metal counter.

  “What?” Charlene asked. Her white cat’s ear flicked, his tail coiling around her neck. “What’s happened?”

  “Do you recognize that man?” Gordon asked me.

  I nodded, swallowing. “That’s Michael Starke—Professor Starke. He was here thirty minutes ago.” And he’d been alive. It didn’t seem possible that he wasn’t anymore.

  I scrubbed a hand over my face, heaviness dulling my chest. What had happened? A car accident? And poor Abril—did she know yet?

  Gordon reached into another pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of goldenrod paper. He opened it. “He was the star of your poetry reading, right?”

  “Not my poetry reading,” I bleated. “I mean, yeah. I guess.” Why was I so defensive? This was awful, but it had nothing to do with Pie Town.

  “Who? What?” Charlene grabbed his phone from my hand and sucked in her breath. “Great googly moogly, that’s the blowhard blond professor. Who killed him?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to determine,” Gordon said. “You said he left thirty minutes ago. Are you sure?”

  I looked to Charlene, and she shook her head.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. This was awful. How could this have happened? I reached to scrape my hand through my hair, then remembered it was in a bun. “The reading ended around eight, and then I was back here loading the dishwasher for the most part. I didn’t see him go. Abril and Doran may know exactly when he left.”

  “When’s the last time you did see Professor Starke?”

  I shot a wary glance at Charlene. “Um, he was the last person to read. Abril came into the kitchen to warn me that he and another professor, Professor McClary, were arguing. So I went to see what was going on. Fortunately, Charlene calmed them down, and Charlene and I returned to the kitchen. I didn’t see anything after that. Did you, Charlene?”

  She shook her head. “Has Starke got a small red mark on his right ear?” she asked.

  Gordon nodded.

  “Tell your coroner not to worry about it,” she said. “That was me. Whacked him with a spatula. It’s got nothing to do with the murder. How was he killed?”

  I smothered a groan.

  Gordon’s expression didn’t change. “You hit him with a spatula?”

  “Well, he deserved it,” she said. “He and that Aidan fellow—”

  “Aidan?” Gordon asked.

  “The whole English department must have been here,” she said. “Dean Prophet; that guy who looked like a Russian hippie, Jezek; and Aidan McClary. One of those arty-farty Irish poets. If you ask me, his parents must have been hippies. Anyway, things were getting heated, so I decided to cool things down.”

  “By hitting Mr. Starke with a spatula.” Gordon’s tone was flat.

  “It was only a rubber spatula,” she said. “I wouldn’t have used a metal one. Not on an ear.”

  “The point is,” I said quickly, “we didn’t see him leave.” And not that Charlene had assaulted a future murder victim. I forced a smile.

  “Don’t look at me that way.” Charlene folded her arms over her green knit tunic and jerked her chin at me. “I’ve got an alibi.”

  Gordon rubbed the back of one thumb across his brow. “All right. I’ll have a word with Abril and Doran.” He strode toward the swinging door.

  I hurried after him and touched his jacket sleeve.

  “Did you remember something else?” he asked, turning.

  “So what was that big kiss all about?” I asked. “Not that I minded or anything, but under the circumstances . . .”

  He grinned. “Potential conflict of interest diverted.”

  I gave him a questioning look.

  “Just in case you were a material witness in the murder and got me knocked off the case. Again. I wanted to get that kiss in first. The chief is starting to wonder about all the Pie Town–related murders this town has been having.”

  “Pie Town–related? That’s not true.” Just because I’d found a body or two in the past, and . . .

  Oh. They kind of all had been indirectly linked to Pie Town. “Did Chief Shaw really say that?” I asked, anxious.

  “Don’t worry about it.” He pulled me into another quick embrace. “I may have more questions for you later.”

  He vanished through the swinging kitchen door.

  “Don’t worry about it?” I sputtered. How could I not worry about it?

  Charlene stared at the door, her eyes narrowing.

  “He had to be joking, right?” I asked her. “Chief Shaw can’t really believe Pie Town is at the center of some sort of... criminal conspiracy!”

  “Well . . .” She adjusted Frederick around her neck.

  “Well what? Don’t tell me the town thinks Pie Town is a murder vortex.”

  “No, of course not. But you know how Shaw is. Er, how much does he know about your father?”

  My father. My stomach hit the kitchen’s black fatigue mat. Shaking myself, I returned to loading the dishwasher. “I don’t know what happened to Professor Starke, but this had nothing to do with Pie Town or my father.”

  I took my time setting the dishes and coffee cups in their racks and tried not to think of the man who’d given me his genetic code. I wasn’t like my dad. Everyone had to know that. Besides, my father was a lot of things, but he was no killer. Just a weird sort of enforcer for the mob.

  Totally different.

  I added soap to the dishwasher and turned it on. Spraying a cloth with cleaning fluid, I wiped down a lot of things that didn’t need cleaning.

  “You know what this means,” Charlene finally said, “don’t you?”

  “Gordon really doesn’t like it when he gets tossed off murder cases?” But everybody knew that.

  Doran jogged into the kitchen, his dark brows slashing downward. “Abril’s professor was murdered?”

  “We don’t know what happened,” I said. “Not for sure. Gordon finished interviewing you already?”

  “I told him I didn’t know anything or anyone and got here late. Your boyfriend let me go.” He paced between the counters. “This is bad timing,” he muttered.

  “Bad timing?” I tugged at the hem of my Pie Town tee. “What do you mean? You didn’t know Professor Starke, did you?”

  “No,” he said, “of course not.”

  “Then what?” I asked.

  Charlene’s mouth pursed.

  “The thing is,” he said, “I can’t stay.”

  “Don’t
worry about it,” I said. “We’re ready to close.”

  “No. I mean . . .” He stared at the floor’s rubbery mat, a shock of his raven-black hair falling across one eye. “I’m moving back to Southern California.”

  My heart caved in on itself. For a moment I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. “Oh,” I finally managed. And then, “Oh.” Reaching behind me, I gripped the edges of the counter.

  “It’s just too expensive here,” he said rapidly. “The rent, the commute, the taxes, everything. There are plenty of gigs, but I can’t figure out how to make the finances work.”

  “I get it,” I said. “When I first started Pie Town, I was sleeping in the back room. But don’t tell anyone. It was probably some code violation . . .” Code violations. I trailed off, thinking of our father, who was so far on the wrong side of the law both his ex-wives had disowned him.

  Doran’s forehead crinkled.

  “Anyway,” I said, mouth dry, “I’m just glad you were here for as long as you were. It’s been really great getting to know you.”

  At least he regretted leaving. That meant he cared, right? Maybe we’d developed the beginnings of a real relationship.

  “Yeah, but . . .” He frowned. “I’m going to get back out there. I’m worried about Abril.” He pushed through the swinging door into the dining area.

  Charlene and I didn’t speak for what seemed like an eternity.

  “We were among the last to see Starke alive,” she finally said. “We’ve got a case.”

  I shook myself out of my malaise. “No. No! You heard Gordon.”

  “I heard him tell you Shaw thinks every crime in San Nicholas is Pie Town–related.”

  Crumb. “He didn’t exactly say that.” But if he was drawing connections between murder and Pie Town, would others?

  “Gordon also said there was no conflict of interest. That means we can investigate.”

  “No conflict of interest yet.” My voice rose. But truth be told, I was almost enjoying the argument. It beat thinking about my brother. “If we poke our nose into another murder, he’s going to go ballistic.”

  Her blue eyes narrowed. “Are you going to let a man’s opinion run your life? I thought better of you, Val.”

  Frederick raised his head from her shoulder and glared at me. I’m 99 percent certain the look was because I’d woken him up, and not because he agreed with Charlene.

  “Well,” I said, “no, but it is his job.” Gordon had been pretty even-keeled about Charlene and me investigating in the past. But I didn’t want to push it. Not that I was worried about our new relationship or anything, but I respected him. Gordon was a good cop. He knew what he was doing, and this was his case. “Gordon’s a real detective.”

  “We’re real detectives! That man died leaving Pie Town, our shop—”

  “My shop.”

  “And he must have died nearby,” she said.

  “We actually don’t know where he died.”

  We stared at each other, because it hadn’t taken Gordon long to get to Pie Town. Charlene was right. Whatever had happened to Professor Starke, it had been close.

  I grabbed my hoodie off its hook near the door. As one, Charlene and I raced through the swinging door. We bumped shoulders and pinballed into the dining area.

  Gordon had already gone, leaving Abril slumped in one of the pink booths, a dazed expression on her face. Doran sat across from her. Speaking in a low voice, he held one of her hands.

  “Abril,” I said. “I’m so sorry about your professor.”

  Blankly, she looked up at us. Doran’s leather jacket was slung over her slim shoulders. “I can’t believe it. Professor Starke was just here. He was alive.”

  Charlene sighed. “By the look of things, Starke had a good run. That’s the best we can hope for.”

  “But . . .” Abril shook her head. “He was so young.”

  Doran’s forehead wrinkled. To him, everyone over thirty was ancient. I was closing in on that number. What did he think of me?

  “Don’t worry, Abril,” Charlene said. “We’ll figure out who killed him.”

  She blinked. “You will?”

  We would. Of course, his murder had nothing to do with Pie Town. Not a thing. Nada. But there was nothing wrong with making absolutely, positively sure.

  “We’re on our way to the crime scene now,” Charlene said.

  Doran looked up at us, his brows drawing into the familiar slash that signaled his annoyance. “You are?”

  “Um . . .” In for a penny, in for a pound. Gordon was going to flip his lid.

  Judging from Doran’s glare, he felt the same way.

  “Not if you don’t want us to,” I finished. I mean, what would we really learn? I was probably panicking over nothing.

  Charlene whacked my upper arm, and I winced.

  “No,” Abril said, and I slumped with a mixture of relief and disappointment.

  That was that, then. No Baker Street Bakers. I’d just . . . let Gordon take care of things. There was no reason to get involved. None at all. Except for the fibers twitching in my gut warning me that Pie Town was once again in jeopardy. Maybe pie would settle my stomach.

  “You should investigate,” Abril said. “I’ll feel better if you do. Professor Starke deserves justice.”

  “What?” I asked. “Are you sure? I mean, of course he does, but—”

  “I think Abril knows what she wants,” Doran said coolly. “And you’ve done this before.”

  “No time to waste.” Charlene grabbed my arm. “Let’s go.”

  I let Charlene lead me onto the sidewalk. Doran was down with my detecting? He’d seen Charlene and me do our thing before, but he’d kind of made fun of it. And in this case, I wasn’t even sure I was down with it. Because if Professor Starke’s death had nothing to do with Pie Town, sticking our noses into it was a sure way to make that connection.

  The restaurant across the street was dark. But light and the clank of weights poured from Heidi’s twenty-four-hour gym next door. Two blocks down, red and blue lights flashed faintly.

  “That way,” Charlene said, pointing.

  We hurried down the empty sidewalk. The iron street lamps glowed amber. Mossy baskets filled with pink and orange impatiens hung from the base of the lights. It was one of those balmy September nights the Northern California coast was frequently blessed with. Fog hung off the coast, bringing the promise of nature’s air-conditioning, while stars gleamed faintly above.

  Running footsteps pattered behind us. I spun, hands fisting.

  Abril and Doran panted to a halt on the sidewalk.

  “We’re coming too,” Abril said. Beneath Doran’s motorcycle jacket, she tugged down the hem of her Pies Before Guys t-shirt.

  Doran gave her a fierce look. “We’re involved. We’re helping.”

  My heart lifted. My brother wanted in on the Baker Street Bakers! And it immediately dropped. But what was this “we’re involved” stuff? Doran wasn’t involved. At least, I hoped he wasn’t, because that might make him a suspect.

  Nah. He totally couldn’t be a suspect.

  “This is no place for amateurs,” Charlene said loftily.

  Doran quirked a skeptical brow, and my cheeks warmed. We weren’t licensed PIs. No matter what Charlene said about our experience, we were all amateurs.

  “Okay,” I said, not meeting Doran’s gaze, “we’re wasting time. Let’s go.”

  We reached the corner by a brick, Italian restaurant. The blue and red lights flashed brighter. A block away, police cars and other emergency vehicles clustered on the side street. Their lights cascaded, dizzying, across the faces of low adobe buildings and flat-roofed bungalows. Police officers milled in the street.

  “There’s no way they’ll let us get close to the crime scene,” I said.

  Charlene smiled. “Oh, we’ll get close.” She pointed to a purple stucco one-story on the other side of the action. “Come on.”

  We circled the block and approached the crime scene
from the opposite side.

  One hand raised, a uniformed officer strode toward us. “You can’t walk through this way.”

  My stomach wriggled. We’d been caught.

  “We’re not trying to go through,” Charlene said. “We’re having drinks at our friend’s house.” She canted her head toward the purple stucco.

  The young officer hesitated. “All right,” he said. “Go on through.”

  I could feel his eyes burning holes in the back of my Pie Town hoodie as we sped up the concrete walk to the little purple house.

  “Charlene,” I muttered, “what are we doing?” The cop would figure out soon enough we didn’t know anyone here.

  “Take it easy.” Charlene thumped on the arched front door.

  After a minute or two, a rusty male voice shouted, “What?”

  I started. I knew that voice.

  “It’s me,” Charlene said. “Let us in.”

  “Charlene?” The door opened, and an impossibly tall, elderly man peered out. He rubbed his drink-reddened nose. “I suppose you want my roof.”

  “What else?” she said. “We’ve got a cooling corpse on the street.”

  Looking at me, he said, “Hi, Val.”

  “Hey, Wally.” I glanced anxiously over my shoulder as if the young cop might change his mind and arrest us.

  He chuckled. “You don’t miss a trick. Come on then.” Wally, a.k.a. Tally Wally, opened the door wider. Stoop-shouldered, he led us through a neat house decorated with World War II memorabilia and to a small backyard. We followed him up a creaking exterior staircase to the roof.

  “Had this built for the wife back in the seventies,” he wheezed. “She read some article about Morocco and rooftop patios.”

  “I remember,” Charlene said. Frederick snuggled his head against her neck. “Amy was a good woman. We had some nice parties up here.”

  “A lot of fun, she was,” he said wistfully, clambering over a ledge and onto the roof. “Amy mixed a mean margarita.”

  He helped Charlene and me over the ledge, and then Doran followed us and gallantly assisted Abril.

  Hm. Doran had never so much as opened a door for me.

  We walked to the front of the roof.

  “Damn it,” Wally said. “I forgot the binoculars.”

  “No worries.” Charlene pulled a set of mini binoculars from the pocket of her green tunic. “I’ve got it covered.”