Pies Before Guys

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Okay. The night he was killed, at the poetry reading, he read a poem called ‘Death in a Parking Lot.’”

  She smiled. “Yes, he finally did it.”

  “Did what? Read the poem?”

  “Write about it. He’d been talking about it for ages. That story got under his skin.”

  “What story?” Edging closer, I braced my elbows on the desk.

  “Sorry—I assumed ... Let me back up. So ‘Death in a Parking Lot’ is based on a true story.”

  Whoa. My pulse beat a little faster. “What story?”

  “I don’t know exactly, but Michael said it was true. It became his.”

  “Became his? What do you mean?”

  “I mean he’d become obsessed with it and made it his own.” Brittany leaned forward, her brows furrowed, expression intent. She tapped her finger on the metal desk, making her point. “Writers do that. He said the death happened in the college’s parking lot.”

  Uneasy, I angled lower in my chair, and it edged backward. “The college he worked at? The college you attend?” Was there a connection between the poem and Starke’s death?

  “Right. He was planning on writing a play about the death.”

  “Who died in the parking lot?”

  “No one. I checked.”

  “You checked,” I repeated flatly. Why?

  She sucked in her cheeks. “I was curious. But see for yourself. If someone died in that parking lot, it didn’t make the news. And you know it would have made the news. Nothing ever happens around there, so when someone dies, it’s a big story.”

  “Then it wasn’t true?”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s like I said. He’d made it his own. That’s what all great artists do.”

  “You mean he’d embellished.” But how much?

  “Art represents life, but it isn’t life. If he’d just taken something that was real and repeated it, it wouldn’t be art.”

  I fiddled with a stray pencil. In other words, the poem probably didn’t have anything to do with his death. Gordon and I had gone dumpster diving for nothing. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill Professor Starke?”

  She blinked rapidly and studied a metal storage shelf loaded with boxes of paper napkins. “No. He was a wonderful man. A bit of a dreamer.” She smiled. “I guess he didn’t really see me as clearly as I liked to believe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shrugged. “I wasn’t exactly English professor material.”

  “What about his relationship with his ex-wife, Professor Hastings?”

  She met my gaze, and her eyes now were damp. “They weren’t like exes. They weren’t bitter, I mean. They had a great relationship. He followed her to this college after they’d divorced. Dorothy wouldn’t have killed him. Anyway, his relationship with Dorothy was one of the things that made him so attractive. You can tell a lot about a guy by the way he acts with his ex.”

  I thought of my own ex, Mark, who’d broken off our engagement. Though it had hurt like crazy then, now I was glad he’d ended things. But we still tended to avoid each other.

  “Michael didn’t even complain about the alimony,” she continued, “and I guess it was pretty generous.”

  Alimony? I perked up. I hadn’t even considered that. Now that Starke was dead, would Dorothy lose her alimony payments?

  “Do you . . . Do you know who killed him?” she asked.

  “Me? No. If I did, I’d tell the police.”

  Her shoulders dropped. “Oh.”

  I asked her a few more questions. When I got nothing useful in answer, I thanked her.

  She scrawled a number on a notepad and ripped out the paper, handing it to me. “If you need anything else, call me. I’ll do anything to help.”

  “Thanks.” I showed her out, locking Pie Town’s damaged front door behind her.

  “Get anything good?” Charlene asked from the counter.

  Marla, Wally, and Graham looked up, interested.

  “I’m not sure.” I trotted back to my office and woke up my laptop, searching for a death at the college. There was nothing.

  I tried other word combos but came up empty. A female professor from the college had died five years ago in an accident. Her car had gone over the cliffs on a bad stretch of road in San Nicholas. But nothing on campus. And if Starke’s TA was right, that accident had been before Professor Starke’s time anyway.

  Uncertain, I rubbed the back of my neck. Was there something to Starke’s poem or not?

  CHAPTER 15

  As I’d feared, we were closed again on Thursday. But I’d called our pie-making class “winners” to assure them class was on that night. They all arrived on time.

  Our suspects stood assembled in the sparkling Pie Town kitchen. They wore our pink aprons and hairnets and eyed each other with mutual suspicion. To my relief, Dorothy had brought Aidan, so all my suspects were here.

  “So.” Rudolph rubbed his beefy hands together. “Your winners all work at the college. Should I be suspicious?”

  I took a step backward, my body heating. “Your English department was the backbone of the poetry reading. And I had two extra spaces for tonight’s class. I thought it would be more fun for you to have a class with people you knew, like Professor Jezek and Professor Hastings.” I nodded toward Jezek, standing to one side, near the kitchen knives hanging from a wall magnet. He looked haggard in his tweed coat, his dark eyes sunken, his domed head covered by a hairnet.

  FYI, no one really looks good in hairnets.

  “It’s team building,” Charlene chirped from her perch near the door to the flour-work room. Tonight, she was sporting a sea-green tunic and brown leggings.

  Aidan’s intense gaze narrowed. “Dorothy wasn’t at the reading,” he said in his Irish lilt. Aidan somehow managed to look dashing, in his black button-up shirt and apron. So, okay, maybe some people did look good in hairnets.

  “No,” I said, “but I ran into Dorothy at the White Lady, and we got to talking.”

  Aidan whirled on her. “When were you at the White Lady?”

  Dorothy tossed her golden curls, an effect ruined by the hairnet. But her seventies-era beaded earrings swung daringly in compensation. “I do have a life, you know.” Outside of you, was the unspoken end to that sentence.

  Aidan’s sensual expression grew pained.

  I launched into my lecture before the couple’s crackling-ice tension could shatter. “The history of pie stretches back to the ancient Egyptians, who baked the filling in reeds as containers. But the first pie recipe, for a rye-crusted goat-cheese-and-honey pie, was published by the ancient Romans. By the fourteenth century, pie was a popular English word.”

  Narrow shoulders hunched, Professor Jezek took notes in a small black leather notebook. His gaze darted nervously between Rudolph, Dorothy, and Aidan.

  The latter looked slightly bored and kept one hand on the small of Dorothy’s back.

  “These early pies were made of meat and foul,” I continued, “with the birds’ legs hanging over the filling as handles. The crust was known as a coffyn, with a y, probably because these early pies were baked in long, narrow tins, reminiscent of coffins.”

  “This is truly fascinating.” Rudolph folded his arms over his stomach, bulging beneath a Pie Town apron, and grinned. “I’d no idea the humble pie, pun intended, had such an intriguing history.”

  “It really is.” I smiled at the jolly dean. “Most of these early pies were more crust than filling, but the crust wasn’t eaten. It was just there to hold the filling.”

  “Worthless.” Charlene sniffed. “The crust is the best part.”

  “And that leads us to our flour-work room.” I strode to the metal door and opened it, motioning our guests inside. Charlene came last, shutting the door behind her.

  On the long butcher-block table in the center of the room, I’d arranged place settings. Measuring cups on the right and small bowls of flour, water, and butter along the top.

&
nbsp; “A piecrust at heart is only three ingredients,” I said, “flour, water, and some type of fat.”

  Aidan stepped in front of the place setting beside Dorothy. Professor Jezek and the portly dean stood on the opposite side of the table, and I stood at its head.

  “Flour, water, and butter, plus my secret ingredient.” Charlene brandished a plastic bottle marked SECRET INGREDIENT.

  “What’s your secret ingredient?” Dorothy asked, and shivered in the cool room.

  “It’s secret,” Charlene said, smug in her comfy knit top.

  The ingredient was apple cider vinegar. Though Charlene swore to me that she added another secret ingredient that did not go on our recipe cards.

  Dorothy raised a blond brow and opened her mouth to speak.

  “It’s all on your recipe card,” I said hurriedly. “But the key to a good piecrust is balance and temperature. Piecrust recipes usually have several chilling periods. At Pie Town, we use this temperature-controlled flour-work room to make sure our butter doesn’t get too warm. If the butter melts, the water in it will react badly with the gluten in the flour, and your dough will be more bready than flaky.”

  Aidan sniffed a plastic bottle of “secret ingredient,” winced, and extended it to Dorothy.

  “What’s the ideal temperature?” she asked, ignoring him.

  Aidan’s forehead wrinkled, his teeth chattering.

  “We like to keep the dough between sixty-five and seventy degrees Fahrenheit.” I glanced uneasily at Aidan. What was bugging him? It wasn’t that cold. “And we keep this room at sixty-five degrees, because we use butter in our piecrusts. It melts more easily than other fats, and that makes it harder to work with. But it just tastes and browns better. When you’re working at home, you’re making one pie at a time, so it’s fairly easy to maintain a consistent temperature. But in a bakery, with ovens heating the kitchen, we need a separate space for our dough—this flour-work room.”

  “I’d no idea there was so much science behind baking,” Rudolph said.

  I beamed at the dean. “Few people do. But don’t worry, all this information will be on the recipe cards I’ll give you later.”

  Aidan grunted. “I don’t know why I bother. Trying to teach me to bake is biscuits to a bear.”

  “This is his Irish way of saying it’s a waste of time,” Dorothy explained, and smiled.

  The air conditioner kicked in, humming.

  “Not when you know the tricks,” I said. “And by the end of the night, you’ll know them all. There’s a reason we have the saying ‘Easy as pie.’ Pies are simpler than they may look.”

  I led them through measuring out their ingredients.

  Charlene demonstrated the proper technique for rubbing in butter and flour with their fingers.

  Dorothy playfully flicked a pinch of flour at Aidan’s nose.

  His handsome face creased in a lightning smile.

  We wrapped their balls of dough in plastic and set them in the refrigerator. Because cleanup is what turns so many people off baking, I showed them how to use a plastic scraper to clean the bits of dough off the table. We followed with a wipe across the table with a clean dishcloth.

  “I’ll bet you wish you could clean up problems at the college this easily,” Aidan said to Rudolph.

  The dean stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Alas poor Michael,” Aidan misquoted, “I knew him well. And we all knew his story too well, boyo.”

  “By which you mean . . . ?” Rudolph asked.

  “The plagiarism,” Aidan said. “It should have disqualified him for tenure.”

  “Aidan,” Dorothy murmured.

  “Not that again,” Rudolph said.

  “It’s rather an issue for an English professor, don’t you think?” Aidan asked.

  “Yes, it would be if it were true,” Rudolph said. “There was no evidence—”

  “My evidence!”

  “Wasn’t evidence,” the dean finished.

  “There is evil at that college,” Professor Jezek intoned, his thick gray mustache quivering.

  Dorothy rolled her eyes. “Boys, boys . . .”

  The older man pointed a quivering finger at her. “You mock, Dorothy Hastings, but you of all people have felt this evil. You’ve been touched by the darkness.”

  “And you’re a lunatic,” she said.

  “Because I see something is very wrong with this department?” His bushy gray brows lifted.

  “Because of you and your damn trees.” Dorothy slapped her dishcloth on the table.

  I started. Hold up. Professor Jezek and Starke had been neighbors. Had it been Starke’s trees Jezek had complained about when he wrote those letters to the online paper?

  “So much loss.” Professor Jezek shook his graying head. “First Theresa, then Michael.”

  My breath caught. Theresa? I edged closer. Who was Theresa?

  “And the last with Dorothy’s own sword,” the dean said, lowering his voice.

  “I didn’t kill him,” she flared.

  “Of course you didn’t,” Aidan said. “Obviously, someone was trying to implicate you.”

  “Or they grabbed what was handy,” Dorothy said. “It was a mugging. Michael was at his car, someone saw him, he looked well-off—”

  “But did he?” Professor Jezek asked.

  “None of this is helping anyone.” The dean’s round face creased. “Perhaps we should return our attention to our hostess.”

  I cleared my throat. “Anyway, since apples are in season, I thought we’d bake salted-caramel apple pies tonight.”

  I led them through making the salted-caramel apple sauce. Then I let them take turns using the apple peeler and corer.

  “The best apples for pies are Granny Smiths,” I said. “Combined with the sugar, they give the perfect balance of crisp and juicy.”

  At their kitchen workstations, they mixed sugar and spices into their ceramic bowls of sliced apples. “Now here’s another secret to perfect apple pies,” I said. “We’re not going to use the mixture you just created.”

  “What?” Dorothy jammed her hands on the hips of her loaner apron. “Then what was the point?”

  “For the perfect apple pies,” I said, “you should let your apple mixture sit overnight. The sugar will draw the liquid from the apples. That way, when you bake them the next day, you won’t get a soggy filling.”

  “So what do we do with the juice?” Dorothy asked. “Just throw it away?”

  “No, no, no,” I said. “That juice is gold.” I pulled bowls of apples I’d mixed that morning from the refrigerator, and swapped them for the bowls in front of my students. “I made these last night. Now, you’re going to pour off the juice into the sauce pans at your workstations.”

  I worked with my students as they reduced the juices to a thick syrup and poured it back into their bowls.

  I returned to the flour-work room for their wrapped and labeled rounds of dough. So no one accidentally got their fingers mashed, I ran the dough through the flattening machine myself.

  Looking wary, they spread their dough in the pie tins. My students mounded the tins with apples, then poured salted-caramel sauce over the fruit mixture. I showed them how to lay a second sheet of dough on top without breaking it.

  “Crimping the crusts is just a matter of tearing off any extra dough along the edge.” I demonstrated. “Now, fold the bottom crust over the top. Then, using both hands, take your thumbs and index fingers and pinch the dough together.”

  “Mine’s in tatters,” Aidan said, frowning.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “No one will care when they try your pie. Now comes the part where we get to show off.” I handed out extra sheets of dough and plastic cookie cutters shaped like apples and cornucopias and leaves.

  Charlene led them in cutting out pieces of dough and decorating their pies, then brushing them with egg whites.

  Since we were baking only four pies, we weren’t using the big oven today. I
slid the pies into one of our smaller ovens.

  “And now, while we wait for those to bake,” I said, “we’ll make a no-bake chocolate cream pie.”

  I had them whipping up cream pies in no time.

  “Yes, that’s perfect,” I said to Professor Jezek.

  “Thank you.”

  Catching a whiff of vodka on his breath, I smoothed my apron and frowned. Did he have a secret flask in the pocket of his rumpled blazer? Was he drinking and blending? The older man whipped the chocolate cream with furrowed brow. The roar of his machine muted the conversation nearby.

  Aidan left his mixing bowl to glare at Rudolph. “I was passed over for tenure because of that plagiarist.”

  Casually, I edged closer to Aidan.

  The dean grimaced. “You were passed over for tenure, because it’s unclear if you even plan to stay with the college.”

  “Of course I plan to stay with the college!” The Irishman reached up as if to claw back his wavy black hair and remembered at the last moment it was in a net. His hand dropped to his side. “Is this about my immigration status?”

  “No, it’s not,” Rudolph said. “That would be against college policy.”

  “Aidan.” Dorothy came to him and put a hand on his arm. “Now isn’t the time.”

  Aidan stabbed a long finger at the dean’s chest. “You and your damned policies. They always managed to work in Starke’s favor.”

  “That’s not true,” the dean said.

  Dorothy laughed. “Of course it was, and it made you crazy, Rudolph. I know you tried to cut funding for Michael’s teaching assistants. But he always tied you up in policy knots.”

  The dean removed his round glasses and polished them on the shirt beneath his pink apron. “I don’t know where you heard that—”

  “From Michael,” she said. “He told me you were furious and that he laughed in your face.”

  Rudolph replaced his wire-frame glasses. “I assure you, Michael was exaggerating.”

  “That I can believe,” Aidan muttered.

  “Just because I can’t give you the extra hours you want,” Rudolph said, “is no reason to attack me, Dorothy.”

  Dorothy needed extra hours?