Pies Before Guys

by Kirsten Weiss

  “He could have tried to blackmail weird Professor Jezek.”

  “Or just let something slip,” I said. “And what about that poem? Aidan accused Starke of stealing it. I don’t suppose it matters now if he did, since they’re both dead.”

  “Unless that poem was the reason they were killed,” she said.

  “We need to learn more about that professor who died in the car accident.”

  “Ask Gordon. He might know.”

  “It was before his time, but . . . all right. All he can say is no.”

  Abril pushed open the door and leaned in. “Val, there’s a reporter here to see you.”

  My stomach tightened.

  “I told you the UFO marketing would work.” Charlene rubbed her hands together.

  I blew out my breath. “Abril, can you take over in here while I talk to him?”

  “Her,” Abril said. “And sure.”

  “Thanks.” I hurried into the pie shop.

  The swinging door banged behind me, Charlene following.

  The reporter, a twentysomething in jeans, looked up from her phone and turned away from Marla. Uh-oh. Had Marla been talking to her?

  “Val Harris?”

  I gulped. “Yes.”

  We shook hands.

  “I’m Kada from the San Francisco Times. We wanted to do a follow-up on the little UFO scare your restaurant started.” The reporter held her phone closer to my mouth. “I’ll be recording, if you don’t mind.”

  Oh, goody. “We only intended to do something whimsical with pie plates. We had no idea people would take it seriously.”

  “Except, of course,” Charlene said, “UFOs are real.”

  “But not pie-tin UFOs!” I laughed maniacally.

  “Pie tins are real too,” Charlene said.

  “Real crazy,” Marla muttered.

  “Let’s chat somewhere more private.” I steered Charlene and the reporter behind the counter and into my uninspiring office. “So you had some questions?” I motioned her toward the chair in front of my desk.

  “What gave you the idea of the hoax?” the reporter asked, eyeing the chair and staying standing.

  Sweat dampened my forehead. “Again, it wasn’t intended to be a hoax.”

  “It was an homage to a hoax,” Charlene said. “The McMinnville pie-tin hoax.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I mean, everyone knows those were faked.”

  “People still dispute that,” the reporter said.

  “Pie-tin UFOs are traditional,” Charlene said. “For example, they were featured in the classic “The Night of the Flying Pie Plate,” an episode of The Wild Wild West that aired in 1966.”

  “Right,” I said, my voice rising. “I mean, it was totally obvious that wasn’t real. In today’s day and age, even amateurs can fake realistic pictures. Why would anyone take pie plates on a string as anything more than fun?”

  Charlene smiled reminiscently. “Robert Conrad. He once attended one of my team’s roller derbies. I fell right over the fence into his lap. Twice.”

  The reporter blinked.

  For once, Charlene’s bizarre ramblings seemed to be working in my favor. If we could derail the reporter, maybe we’d come out of this okay. “And who doesn’t love pie?” I asked.

  “I don’t,” the reporter said.

  What? “Not even quiche?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  Seriously? Who doesn’t love pie? The paper obviously had sent someone with an ax to grind.

  “I understand a murder’s been linked to Pie Town,” the reporter said.

  “No,” I bleated. “That happened several blocks away.”

  “Maybe she mean’s Joe’s murder earlier this year?” Charlene leaned one shoulder against the closed door and rumpled the calendar.

  I glared at her. “Which had nothing to do with Pie Town. The murderer was caught. And it had nothing to do with the pie-plate UFOs. We have our own custom-made pie tins, you know,” I babbled. “So, if anyone looked closely, they could see the Pie Town name on the tins.”

  “Pie Town’s been open only a year?” the reporter asked.

  “Roughly. But as you can see, business is booming. We carry sweet and savory pies, as well as a selection of breakfast quiches. And you probably noticed our mini pies and pies in ajar. We also wholesale, and we’ve got a pie club, for those who want fresh pies delivered on a regular basis.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ve reviewed your website.” She pocketed her phone. “Well, that should do it. Thank you for your time.”

  I saw the reporter out of the office, then whirled on Charlene. “Honestly? Did you have to bring up the murders?”

  “I didn’t bring them up. She did.”

  “I just don’t think death, pie, and UFOs make a good combo. Maybe we could not talk about these things around reporters?”

  She sniffed. “At least I’m thinking of solutions.”

  “Yes. Thank you. As marketing ideas go, the pie-tin UFOs were clever.”

  “Clever! What about getting Doran to fall for Abril so he’ll stick around?”

  “That was—”

  “What?” Doran asked from behind me.

  “Really poorly timed,” I muttered. I turned. “Hi, Doran. It’s not—”

  My brother folded his arms over his motorcycle jacket. “You two were trying to manipulate me so I’d stay in San Nicholas?”

  “No! No,” I said. “I mean, of course we noticed that you and Abril might have a connection and thought, wouldn’t it be great if . . . ? But that was all.”

  He shook his head. “Unbelievable. I thought our dad was a master manipulator. He had nothing on you. Here.” He thrust a USB stick into my hand. “It’s what I could find on that professor who died. If you ever really wanted it.” He turned on his heel and reached for the door.

  “I did! We do! Doran—”

  He slammed out of the office.

  Charlene clapped her hand on my shoulder. “He’ll get over it. What he needs is a visit from a pie-tin UFO.”

  Augh! “No Charlene. No, he doesn’t.”

  “The great thing about family is they’re stuck with you. He’ll get over it.” But her smile slipped, and I knew she was thinking about her own adult daughter, who still hadn’t forgiven.

  CHAPTER 24

  Sickened, I fled to the kitchen and got busy whipping pies out of the massive oven and onto cooling racks. At the metal counter, Abril plated pies for customers.

  This wasn’t Charlene’s fault. As much as I wanted to blame her, I’d gone along with her cockamamie scheme. Or at least, I’d let it unfold. But of all the stupid plans I’d let her talk me into, pushing Doran and Abril closer had been the worst.

  I slid the humongous wooden paddle into the oven and lifted a blueberry pie off the rotating racks.

  I hoped Doran could forgive me.

  My lungs constricted. And that crack about me being like our father . . .

  Our father might not technically be a criminal, but he was so close to the line the distinction was moot. And I had been acting a lot like him—playing fast and loose with the law, climbing on statues, manipulating my brother . . .

  And all those little legal infractions . . . It disturbed me more than a little that Gordon didn’t seem to mind. Was he seeing me for who I was? Or like Starke, was he projecting an unrealistic, idealized, non-pseudo-criminal version of Val?

  Someone knocked on the kitchen’s alley door, and Abril and I started. All our deliveries had already arrived.

  “Do you want me to get it?” she asked, brown eyes wide.

  “I will.” I strode across the black fatigue mats to the door and yanked it open.

  Two tattooed and middle-aged women scuttled past me and into the kitchen.

  “Whoa,” I said. “This is a private kitchen, and you’re not wearing hairnets.”

  “This is bigger than hairnets,” the taller of the two, with spiky violet hair, whispered.

  I whipped two hairnets
out of the box I kept on a nearby shelf and handed them over. “In a commercial kitchen, there’s nothing bigger than hairnets. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s not the worst thing we’ve done.” The shorter, more voluptuous woman snapped the net over her trim, graying hair.

  The other shrugged and pulled hers on as well. “Whatever.” She cut a glance at Abril and lowered her voice. “Look, we know they’ve got to you.”

  “They’ve . . . What?”

  She narrowed her eyes at Abril. “Maybe we should speak alone.”

  I sighed. “Fine. My office is this way.” I led them from the kitchen and glanced into the restaurant. Charlene sat at a counter stool, speaking earnestly to Tally Wally. This should have worried me, but I had bigger fish to fry.

  I ushered them into my Spartan office and shut the door. “What’s this about?”

  “The government.”

  “Oh. You mean the pie-tin UFOs,” I said. I’d gotten better at recognizing this brand of cray-cray. “Look, I helped Charlene with that UFO photo above the Father Serra statue. They’re fakes. She thought it would be a fun marketing gimmick, and I went along with it.” Boy, had I been wrong.

  The two women gave each other long looks.

  “We knew you’d say that,” the violet-haired woman said.

  “Because it’s true!” I breathed deeply, trying to calm myself. Maybe it was the breathing. Maybe I just snapped. But I had one of those horrifying brain-lightning moments, when life becomes brutally clear. “On second thought, that wasn’t completely true.”

  The women started, leaning closer.

  “I didn’t just go along with it,” I said slowly, dredging out the admission from a place I didn’t much like. “I enjoyed it. I have fun with all Charlene’s lunacy, even when she’s dragging me through a muddy forest looking for Bigfoot.”

  The gray-haired woman folded her arms. “Everyone knows Bigfoot’s not real.”

  “I know, right?” I reached to claw my hand through my hair and remembered the net. “The point is, everything that’s happened has been my fault, not Charlene’s.” I felt ashamed I’d ever blamed her. Blaming Charlene for stirring up trouble was like blaming a dog for peeing on a tree. It was what they did. “As much as I love Pie Town, if it weren’t for Charlene and our murder investigations—”

  “Murder?” the violet-haired woman yelped.

  “—or the pie-plate UFOs, which by the way, say Pie Town on them—you can see it in the photos—”

  “Faked!” Gray Hair’s eyes widened in consternation.

  “It’s me. I wouldn’t have climbed that stupid statue if a part of me hadn’t wanted to see if I could do it. I worry that Gordon doesn’t see me for who I am, but I’m not even sure if I see me for who I am.”

  “Who’s Gordon?” Violet asked.

  “My boyfriend. He’s a local detective, and he’s wonderful. He’s smart and tough and kind and honorable. And he’s over six-feet tall and has that square-jawed cowboy look. I once saw him shoot a gun out of a man’s hand.”

  “Seriously?” Gray asked. “I thought that only happened on TV.”

  “Anyway, I’m babbling. But this has helped me sort through some things.” Though taking responsibility for one’s poor choices doesn’t feel as good as it should. “I know what I need to do now.”

  “What do you need to do?” Violet asked.

  “I need to face up to my actions. I’ve been wishy-washy, complaining about doing things that I really wanted to do. I didn’t want to take responsibility.” My brother had held up a mirror to me, and I hadn’t liked it. But I didn’t have to be like my incorrigible father. Just look where that had got him!

  “That isn’t exactly what I got from your freaky monologue,” Violet said.

  “Thanks for listening anyway.” I leaned against the desk. When I saw Gordon tonight, I’d put everything on the table. “Is there anything I can say to convince you that the UFO photos were all a big promotional joke?”

  “You can show us proof of the UFOs,” Violet said.

  “Then I think we’re done.” I opened the office door and inclined my head toward it.

  “We understand,” the shorter, gray-haired woman said. “The pressure can be overwhelming.”

  “You can say that again,” I muttered.

  “But we’re here to help.” Violet put a business card on my battered desk, and, reluctantly, they shuffled out.

  As bonkers as the UFO fans had been, they’d given me clarity.

  It was time to procrastibake.

  CHAPTER 25

  I brandished a french fry. “And so, Doran’s furious, and Charlene’s unrepentant. But as much as I’d like to blame her, I realize it’s on me.”

  Gordon nodded and sipped his beer.

  The British-pub crowd swirled around us. A jukebox blared a Beatles tune, and people shouted over the noise in the cramped bar. Gordon and I sat at a damp corner table, our knees touching.

  “And not only is it on me,” I said, “but I liked it.”

  A smile tipped the corner of his mouth. “You really didn’t know that?”

  I tugged on the end of my ponytail. “What is wrong with me?”

  His gaze roamed leisurely over my body. “Nothing that I can see.”

  “I’ve been telling myself I’ve been going along with Charlene’s schemes to make sure she doesn’t get into trouble. But I was deluding myself. I don’t know what to do now. I mean, do I stop? How would I tell Charlene?” Acting like an adult and staying out of police business was the smart play. The safe play. So why was it so hard?

  His mug froze at his lips. “You’re actually considering quitting the Baker Street Bakers?” His handsome face clouded.

  “I know Charlene lives for that sort of thing, but it’s either quit or—Oh, by the way, Brittany says she was here at the pub when Charlene’s house got firebombed. And Professor Jezek said he came here after our pie-making class, when Aidan was murdered.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  I turned my beer glass on its coaster. “Sorry. Of course you do.”

  “I knew about Jezek, not Brittany.” His emerald gaze never left mine. “I couldn’t verify his alibi. He claimed he was here until closing at midnight the night Aidan was killed, but no one remembers him.”

  “So he lied?” I asked.

  “Maybe. Or maybe he sat in the corner, and no one remembers him. Why do you consider Brittany a suspect?”

  “Brittany was at the poetry reading.” I shifted on the wooden chair. “And she said she was over Starke, but she didn’t seem to be. She still idealizes him.”

  “I interviewed her, but I didn’t get that at all.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing.” I stared glumly out the steamy window. Outside, people huddled around barrels on the concrete patio.

  He set down his mug. “It might not be. As much as it pains me to say this, you and Charlene have a strange knack for detecting.” His mouth twitched. “It’s unorthodox and random and based largely on luck—”

  “Thanks,” I said dryly.

  “And you’ll never get your private investigator’s license with your haphazard techniques.”

  My face warmed. There was no way I was going to get licensed and manage a pie shop. There wasn’t enough time in the day.

  The woman behind me pulled out her chair, jostling mine. We apologized to each other, and I turned back to Gordon.

  “But,” he said, “I can’t argue with the results. Even if they have nearly gotten you and Charlene killed on more than one occasion.” He rubbed his square jaw.

  I goggled at him. “What are you saying? That you want the Baker Street Bakers to keep interfering with police investigations?”

  “No, of course not.” He rested his hand on mine, and his thumb caressed the inside of my wrist. “But you’ve been pretty good about staying on the right side of that line.”

  I straightened. “And that’s the problem too. Doran sees that as well—my just skirting the
law, I mean—and it reminds him of our father.” Memories of my father’s abandonment flowed back. They tasted like gall.

  “You’re not an enforcer for the mob.” He squeezed my hand. “There’s a difference a mile wide.”

  “But the reason my father hasn’t been arrested is because his techniques are nonviolent. He still works for the bad guys. And gets paid by them.”

  His voice lowered to a rumble. “As I recall, he didn’t have much choice going in. And it’s not easy getting out.”

  “I can’t believe you’re defending him.”

  He exhaled heavily. “I’m not. I don’t like what he did to your family. But sometimes we have to take people as they are, not as we’d like them to be. And your father’s not all bad.”

  I shoved my plate aside. “He’s not good.”

  “But you are.” His brows drew together. “What I don’t understand is where this is really coming from.”

  “I told you. Doran—”

  “Is pissed because you and Charlene sat back and let him fall for Abril.”

  “You make it sound like he’s being unreasonable.”

  He raised a brow.

  “We did sort of encourage them for our own selfish purposes,” I admitted.

  He cleared his throat. “Doran’s an interesting guy. But I don’t think you need to turn your life upside-down for him,” he said gently.

  “I’m not!”

  He canted his head and said nothing.

  “How are your parents doing?” I asked in a lower voice. Gordon had returned to San Nicholas after an exciting career as a big-city cop to keep an eye on his aging parents. I could only imagine how the potential cancer diagnosis must have shaken him.

  He released my hand, sliding back in his chair, and looked out the window. “Not too well. Bladder cancer scare aside, I’m going to have to take away my dad’s driver’s license.”

  My heartbeat seemed to slow. Poor Gordon. “Oh no.” Would I have to have that talk with Charlene someday? As terrifying as her driving could occasionally be, I hated the thought of her losing her independence.

  “I tried talking to him about it last night. He didn’t react well.”

  “No, I guess he wouldn’t.”