Pies Before Guys

by Kirsten Weiss

  “It’s ridiculous,” the professor sputtered. “I’m not a suspect. I lose by Michael’s death.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “The alimony I received from Michael was substantial. Now that he’s dead, it’s gone. I’m on my own.”

  But she had the same type of job her husband had had. Their income shouldn’t be that different. Was losing the alimony a hardship or an inconvenience? Something must have shown on my face, because she continued.

  “Michael had family wealth.” Dorothy looked toward the metal shelves, lined with supplies, and blinked rapidly. “When we were married, I lived quite well. And when we divorced, Michael agreed I should continue living in the manner to which I’d been accustomed. He was . . . good that way. But that’s over now.”

  It was also probably why she hadn’t wanted to marry Aidan. As I’d suspected, the new marriage would have ended the alimony.

  “The question,” Charlene said, “is what do Aidan and Starke have in common, besides you?”

  “A question I’m sure the police will be asking,” she said bitterly.

  “What do you know about Michael’s poem ‘Death in a Parking Lot’?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “Aidan seemed to think it was plagiarized,” I said. “Did he say anything about it to you?”

  “N-no. But he wouldn’t. He knew I hated the conflict between him and Michael. It was like two dogs fighting over a bone, and I was the bone.”

  “Michael told some people that the story about the death was true,” I said, “that he planned on writing a play about it.”

  “That explains why he didn’t say anything to me. He always kept his work from me until it was done. He never spoke about works in progress, not to me.”

  “Professional jealousy?” Charlene asked.

  Dorothy’s mouth twisted. “Not exactly. He just . . .” Her hands fluttered, and the teacup in her lap rattled. Hastily, she set it on the metal desk. “He didn’t want me to see his work until he was satisfied with it.”

  “Have you told the police about Professor Jezek?” I asked.

  “Not yet.” She looked away. “I suppose I need to.”

  “Tell us about this business with the trees,” Charlene said.

  “Piotr and Michael are—were neighbors. Piotr complained that Michael’s trees were blocking his ocean view and wanted to cut the tops. But Michael wouldn’t have it. He loved the shape of the trees and felt lopping off the tops would ruin them.”

  “And you think Professor Jezek might have killed over it?” I asked, dubious.

  “Piotr claimed the trees reduced his property value by several hundred thousands of dollars.” The professor stood, scraping back the chair. “And he’s crazy. Have you seen his office?” She shuddered. “I’d say crazy makes a good motive.” She looked as if she wanted to say something more, but she strode to the door.

  Beside Charlene, Dorothy turned. “Aidan just wanted things so damned badly, you know? Tenure, respect . . . me.”

  Charlene edged aside, and Dorothy Hastings left.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Charlene asked.

  I rubbed my palm with my opposite thumb. “That Dorothy lied about that poem?” But why would she?

  “That, and I’m wondering how a professor at a community college can afford an ocean view. Michael Starke had family money, but what’s Jezek’s story?”

  The door edged wider, and Doran sidled into the office. “Learn anything?” His motorcycle jacket dangled from one finger.

  Charlene shot me a look.

  “Maybe,” I said, noncommittal. “Is Abril here?”

  His face fell. “Not yet. But I think I’m barking up the wrong tree.” He jammed a hand in the front pocket of his black jeans. “She’s obviously got a thing for your busboy.”

  “Hunter?” I said. “No way.” Sure, he was cute, but Abril was about a zillion times smarter than him.

  “I don’t know if I’m helping anything by staying here,” he continued.

  My heart crashed to my soft-soled shoes. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of leaving San Nicholas now?”

  “I told you I was going.”

  “Yes, but . . .” But what? But a part of me had hoped that Charlene’s dastardly honey trap would work? I’d rather he stuck around because of me.

  Charlene folded her arms over her knit tunic. “So you’re bugging out, just like your old man.”

  His blue eyes flashed. “I am not.”

  “You just said you were.”

  “I didn’t say I was leaving. I said I wasn’t sure I was helping.”

  She sniffed. “Sounds like an excuse to me. Are you saying that Abril deserves your help only if she’s in love with you?”

  “No, of course not—”

  “Because that’s pretty crummy.”

  I cleared my throat. “Charlene, that’s not fair.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  He shook his head. “She’s right. I don’t know what I was talking about. I was in a bad mood and shooting off my mouth, but I’ll stick this through. What do you want me to do next?”

  And that was the problem. After the near electrocution and two murders, I wanted to keep him out of it. But he was a grown man.

  “Research,” Charlene said. “One of the professors at the college was killed in a car accident five years ago. We need to know everything there is to know about it.”

  He nodded. “I’m on it.” He strode from the office.

  I sagged against the desk and blew out my breath. I really needed to get over my abandonment issues. Just because Doran and I were related didn’t mean we were going to be best friends. He’d had a life before me, and he’d have a life after. And so would I.

  Charlene drew her phone from her tunic pocket. “So that’s that. Doran will be out of our way and happy, and maybe he’ll turn something up.”

  “Yeah. That was a good idea. Thanks.”

  She glanced up from her phone. “What’s wrong?”

  “What? Nothing,” I lied. “I was just thinking—Starke read more than one poem at Pie Town. What if we’re looking at the wrong poem?”

  CHAPTER 19

  “The wrong . . .” Leaning against my office door, Charlene absently petted Frederick. “Oh, for Pete’s sake. That other poem was all about death and destruction too, wasn’t it?”

  I stared at the metal supply shelves opposite and tried to remember. But the only thing that came to mind was I needed to buy more toilet paper.

  “I think so.” I winced and levered myself off the desk. “But I can only remember the last line. Die, die, die.”

  “I thought he said pie, pie, pie.”

  “What do pies have to do with death and destruction?”

  “Have you seen the state of our dishes when Hunter takes them to the washer? Talk about destruction!” She brightened. “Does this mean you’re going dumpster diving again? I forgot to get pictures the last time.”

  “No. It means we talk to Abril.” I called her, and a phone rang outside the office door.

  Charlene jerked it open.

  Abril stood in sweatpants and a gray hoodie that looked a lot cuter on her than it would have on me. “Oh. Hi.” She tucked the phone into her pocket and wiped her palms on her thighs. “You wanted to talk to me?”

  I peered behind her but didn’t see my brother. Maybe he was giving her some space. Or maybe he’d left.

  “Yeah,” I said. “We were thinking that we should take a look at Starke’s first poem.”

  Her face cleared. “Oh, I’ve got that one. We workshopped it in his class. It’s at home.”

  “Great!”

  She shuffled her feet. “Um, do you need some help here? It’s getting kind of crowded out there.” She pointed with her thumb over one shoulder.

  “Is it?” I hurried from the office and into the restaurant.

  Every table was filled. Ten customers queued at the register. Petronella raced from the kitche
n carrying two slices of choco-peanut-butter pie and deposited them at a four-top.

  “Oh, boy,” I said. “Yes, we need help. Thanks for offering. Abril, you can take the kitchen.” She wasn’t dressed to work the counter, and she hated working up front anyway.

  I studied the chalkboard menu. Half the pies had been crossed out—we were running low but didn’t have time to bake whole pies. I glanced at the near-empty glass shelves beneath the counter and at the tables. The single-serving pies in mason jars were popular and assembled more quickly. We had time to bake more.

  “I’ll work the register,” I said. “Charlene . . . You do you.” As she lived to remind me, she was piecrust only, and that duty ended in the morning. Besides, she couldn’t go inside the kitchen with the cat.

  She saluted with one finger and ambled into the dining area. “Gotcha.”

  Blood pumping, I took orders and made change, whirling from the counter to the order window. My fingers whizzed across the register.

  A tall, gray-haired man stepped to the counter. “I’d like a choco-peanut-butter pie in a jar.”

  “Excellent choice!” I preferred fruit to cream pies, but chocolate plus peanut butter was hard to beat. I whipped to the glass display case, slid back the glass door, and grabbed a mason jar. Ringing it up, I handed him the jar.

  He leaned over the register. “It’s all right,” he said. “We’re here to help.”

  “Here to—?” Something thunked against a front window, and I looked up, alarmed. People milled on the sidewalk outside.

  I turned to the gray-haired man, but he was gone.

  “What’s going on?” I asked a white-haired gentleman queuing in his place. “Is there a festival I don’t know about?”

  “It’s for the UFOs,” he said, blue eyes watery. “They’re on their way. And I’ll have a slice of chocolate cream pie.”

  “UF—” My jaw hardened. “Charlene!”

  She squeezed from her spot at the counter and blinked innocently. “Yes?” On her shoulder, Frederick yawned.

  I rang up the customer, handed him a numbered tent card, and clipped the order onto the window rack, spinning it to face the kitchen. “Charlene, why do you think all these people are here?”

  “Top-notch marketing, I reckon. You’re really doing a bang-up job.”

  My insides seemed to caramelize, and not in a good way. “UFO marketing?”

  She stroked Frederick’s white fur. “I told you the pie-plate UFOs would attract attention.”

  I ground my teeth. “Charlene, what exactly did you tell these people?”

  “These people? Twitter doesn’t work that way. I don’t know who sees what I post.”

  The bell over the door jangled, and more people squeezed into the restaurant. Sweat dampened my forehead. Soon we’d be over the fire code, if we weren’t already.

  “I’d like a slice of raspberry pie,” the woman on the other side of the register said.

  “Sure. Just one moment, please.” I grabbed my cell phone from my apron pocket, started to open my Twitter app, then thought better of it. I called Gordon.

  “Miss me?” his voice rumbled.

  “Yes.” I tucked the phone between ear and shoulder and rang up the customer. “But that’s not why I’m calling. I’ve got a mob scene at Pie Town. I love the business, but it’s more than a little unnerving.”

  Brittany squeezed through the door, and I frowned. What was the ex-TA doing here?

  “I was just going to call you about that,” Gordon said.

  “You know?” I straightened, nearly dropping my phone.

  “One of your neighbors complained.”

  I shut my eyes. I could guess which neighbor—Horrible Heidi. “I’ve never had to deal with a crowd like this before.”

  I made change for the customer, gave her a numbered tent card, and put the ticket in the wheel, spinning it toward the kitchen. “What do I do? Close up shop?” Please don’t make me close up shop. A hard bite of guilt followed on the heels of that thought. Public safety came before profits.

  “Is it really that bad?”

  I looked around the packed restaurant. The line went to the door. People stood in the aisles and ate pie from mason jars. “It’s incredible. I mean bad. It’s really bad.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there in five. In the meantime, close up if you think you need to and start getting people out.”

  “Can I have one of those cherry jar pies?” a rotund, red-faced man asked.

  “Absolutely. I’ll be right back.” I wove through the crowd and flipped the sign in the glass door to CLOSED. A lady mashed against the other side of the door made a despairing face, and I started.

  “Sorry,” I mouthed. I hurried to the corner booth, where my regular gamers were hard at a match involving dungeons and damsels in distress. “Guys, I’ve got a problem.”

  Red-headed Ray looked up, and his broad face creased with concern. “What’s up?”

  “Charlene told people that aliens were coming to Pie Town, and now this place is dangerously crowded. Can you—?”

  “Help move people outside?” Ray asked. “Sure.”

  I’d been about to ask them to give up their table, but that worked too. “Great. Thanks! Start with the people eating from mason jars. They’ve been served and can eat outside. Just tell them we’re over the fire code, and it’s a safety issue.”

  “Are we?” Ray asked, motioning toward his girlfriend, Henrietta. She began scooting from the booth.

  “Possibly,” I said. “Probably. Thanks!” Making apologies, I pushed through the crowd to the counter.

  At the register, the red-faced man’s brow furrowed with impatience. “My cherry pie—”

  “Here you go.” I grabbed a mason jar from the glass display case and handed it and a plastic fork to the man. “On the house. Thanks for waiting. And we’ve just closed due to the extreme crowd, so I’m afraid you’ll have to take it outside.”

  “Outside, inside, I don’t care. It’s pie.” He waddled into the crowd.

  The sweat had migrated from my forehead to the skin above my lips. It was okay. It was going to be okay. But a million awful scenarios raced through my mind.

  I smiled at the next customer in line. “What can I get you?”

  I worked my way through the line. Thankfully, none of the customers objected when I asked them to eat outside. There was nowhere to sit inside anyway—the gamers’ corner booth had quickly been claimed.

  Ray and Henrietta shuffled people onto the sidewalk. Some of the tightness between my shoulder blades eased.

  I glanced out the window and whispered a curse. The crowd on the sidewalk had spilled onto the street. We were a traffic hazard.

  A black-and-white police car stopped in the road. A grim-faced uniformed officer stepped from the car.

  The front door opened, and Gordon walked inside, striding to the counter.

  Heart lifting, I handed a jar of cherry pie to the last waiting customer. “Thank you. If you wouldn’t mind—”

  “Taking it outside,” the blonde said. “I heard.” She sniffed and walked to the door.

  “It looks like you’ve got things under control in here,” Gordon said.

  “Thanks to Ray and his friends.”

  The student engineers escorted an elderly couple to the door.

  “The crowd’s focused on your restaurant,” he said. “Your pie is fantastic, but what’s going on?”

  I winced. “Charlene might have led people to believe an alien invasion was taking place at Pie Town.”

  Gordon’s mouth quivered with repressed laughter. “Of course she did. I’ve got to ask. How?”

  Charlene popped up at his elbow. “Twitter! The power of social media.”

  Marla swiveled her barstool to face us. “False advertising is illegal.”

  “It’s not false advertising.” Charlene shook her fist. “It’s a pie-tin UFO! Does no one in this town understand historical parody?”

  “I do,” Graham said
beside her.

  “Me too,” Tally Wally said.

  I gripped the top of the register. “I’m really sorry, Gordon. I had no idea.”

  “I know,” he said, “but you need a license for an event like this, to pay for extra police services.”

  “If I’d known—”

  “The mayor’s office has gotten involved. I’m going to have to write you a citation.”

  A citation? Charlene! “I understand,” I ground out, humiliated. It wasn’t like Gordon could sweep this under the rug. Every merchant on Main Street could see something was going on at Pie Town.

  “There will be a fine,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “A fine?” I wailed. How much was that going to cost me?

  “Now, Officer Carmichael,” Charlene said. “Let’s discuss this in my office.”

  “No!” I calmed my breathing. “No, Charlene. It’s all right. We’ll pay the fine.”

  Gordon drew me aside. “I won’t say I told you so—”

  “You just did.”

  “Look, I get it,” he said in a low voice. “My parents are getting up there in age, and I want to take care of them without interfering in their lives. They’re grown adults. But Charlene—”

  “Has been a troublemaker her entire life. This stunt has nothing to do with her age.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “She was in the roller derby.”

  Marla drifted past. “I was in the Ice Capades.”

  I rubbed my temple. “I’ll have a talk with Charlene.”

  He grinned. “Better you than me.”

  “I’m sure she didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  An elf-sized woman carrying a pink box above her head bobbed through the crowd.

  “But it did,” he said, “like you just happening to find Aidan’s body, or inviting several persons of interest to Pie Town for a baking lesson/interrogation. Would you have done any of that without Charlene egging you on?”

  “Yes.” Meh, probably not. But I didn’t regret it!

  “I’m worried that she’s going to push you too far.”

  “Come on,” I said. “It’s not like that. I’m not some high school victim of peer pressure. I do things because I want to do them.”