Death in a Parking Lot
A woman taken,
Her ghost,
A silver shimmer on asphalt,
A gleam of the wrong fender,
In the wrong spot.
Frederick growled.
“It’s all right,” Charlene said, “this horror won’t last much longer.”
I continued.
A woman found,
Upon the water,
But no one knows,
Her spirit wanders
The fateful lot.
I work my way through
And try to forget
But I stand, keys in hand
And wonder
What I am not.
Frederick rolled over and tried to wedge his head between the orange and brown seat cushion and the back of the wing chair.
“ ‘Wonder what I am not,’ ” I repeated. “Abril thought the author was conflicted about witnessing a murder. But what if he’s conflicted about stealing the story?”
“He ought to be conflicted about writing that piece of garbage.”
“And ‘work my way through’—through the pain? Through trying to forget? Through college, like Abril suggested?”
“Worked his way through this literary desecration? What a slog.”
I paced in front of her chipped coffee table. “The subject of the poem is standing, keys in hand. So, he’s probably in the parking lot, right? Whoa. What if Theresa Keller was killed in the college’s parking lot, and then her car and body dumped over the cliff? It would fit. It’s all here!”
“That’s a jump.” She shifted on the couch, and the plastic beneath her crinkled. “But she worked at the college. If one of her colleagues saw her die, the odds are good she was killed in the college parking lot.”
“But what’s this line about a car being in the wrong spot? Her car? Someone else’s car? The killer’s?”
“All right. Let’s imagine I kill you behind Pie Town.”
“I’m not liking where you’re going with this,” I said, “but okay.”
“And then I’ve got to get your ugly pink van over the cliff. I’ve got to drive it, because you’re already dead.”
“My delivery van is not ugly.”
“So,” she continued, “where’s my Jeep?”
“Where you left it, back at Pie Town?”
“Exactly.”
“But why’s that the wrong spot?” I asked. “You have the right to park your Jeep near Pie Town, just like the professors have the right to park in the college lot.”
She slumped on the couch, and it exhaled burnt-fabric smell. “Someone who wasn’t from the college? They have parking permits in their windows, don’t they?”
“But all our suspects are from the college,” I said. “Are we on the wrong track?”
“Not necessarily,” Charlene said. “Assuming Starke did steal this story, he might have been free with the details.”
“It seems like a weird detail to add if it doesn’t mean anything,” I grumbled.
“That poem is so bad, it makes me want to bleach my eardrums. And you’re worried about consistency?”
“Well, yes. Maybe if we do another close reading—”
She stood. “No. ¡Nada más! No more, no closer. Let’s take another look at those files Ray and Henrietta stole. My laptop’s in the kitchen.”
We shifted to Charlene’s modern kitchen. Wide, black granite counters. A butcher-block work island. An expanse of white cabinets. If I didn’t have a massive kitchen of my own at Pie Town, I’d be super jealous. The kitchen in my tiny home couldn’t compare.
She shifted a coconut from the work island to the counter and opened her laptop.
I pulled up a barstool and sat beside her, then inserted Ray’s USB drive.
We studied the complaint about Theresa Keller but learned nothing new. A coy administrator hadn’t included the name of the complaining parent or the student in the file.
“That’s weird, isn’t it?” I drummed my fingers on the butcher-block island. “I mean, if they wanted to keep a record, shouldn’t they have listed who complained?”
“They were probably trying to preserve the privacy of a minor.”
“But the student wasn’t a minor. He was over eighteen.”
We kept reading, until we got to the personnel evaluations of our suspects by Dean Prophet.
Charlene whistled. “Jezek was right. Prophet is a royal pain. Look at this. ‘The professor is too well-liked by her students. The professor went fifteen dollars over budget on her student anthology. The professor kept poor notes of student meetings. These should include the time of meeting, main topic, next steps, and any further appointments set.’ ”
“It does seem a little picky.”
“A little? That’s just for Professor Keller. Here’s what he said about Starke. ‘Incorrectly filled out form F-592 three times. Does not organize time for maximum impact. Disorganized office.’ All the professors have disorganized office spaces according to this. ‘Unprofessional appearance.’ What’s unprofessional in California? Naked?”
I smothered a yawn. “Fascinating.”
“There’s not a single good word in these evaluations.”
“But if that was a motive for murder, Dean Prophet would have killed off his entire staff.”
She cackled, reading further. “Professor Jezek ‘has not grown as a team member’? What does that even mean? Good thing you don’t waste time at Pie Town with this evaluation nonsense.”
She picked up her phone and tapped the screen.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Posting to my followers about our investigation.”
My eyes bulged. “You’ve been—” Why, oh why, didn’t I follow Charlene’s social media accounts? “You can’t tell anyone about these evaluations. Ray and Henrietta could go to jail.”
“I’m just letting them know we’re close to cracking the case.”
“Are we?” Had I missed something?
“No, but social media is about entertainment. You’ve got to give your followers what they want, and what they want is action.” She made punching motions. “Suspense!”
“You posted online about a case we’re not supposed to be investigating. I’m pretty sure that could be construed as interfering in a police investigation.”
“It’s not interfering. Your detective encouraged me to post online.”
I gaped, disbelieving. “Gordon did what?”
“Said it made things easier for him.”
I fumed. Easier for him to keep track of what we were up to.
“I don’t post any actual clues,” she said. “Except for the poem. I’m crowdsourcing.”
“You’re what?”
The refrigerator hummed, coming to life, and I started.
“It’s when you consult the wisdom of the mob on a question,” she said.
“I know what crowdsourcing is. I just didn’t know you’d posted that poem online.”
She clutched the phone to her chest. “Want to know what the mob thinks?”
Did I? “All right,” I said, reluctant. “What?”
“This stinks—@Sadsquatch21. Makes me want to puke—@FoxMuldersaPutz42.”
“All right. I get it.”
“Soon it will be trending. I could use a drink. How would you like a piña colada with fresh coconut?”
I took a long, slow breath. Exhaled. “Charlene, what if the killer is following your account?”
“I’m not posting anything important. Only the weird and interesting clues, like that dog’s breakfast of a poem.”
I scrunched the hair close to my scalp. Are you kidding me? “That poem may have been the trigger for two murders!”
“It’s in the public domain. So, what about that drink? Fresh coconut makes all the difference.”
“Excuse me.” I strode into her living room and called Gordon.
“Val. It’s good to hear from you.”
My insides turned liqu
id at the sound of his voice. Then I remembered I was angry. “Did you tell Charlene to post the clues from our investigation online?”
“No. I told her not to post anything important on the Internet.”
I rubbed my temple. “That’s like giving her a green light.”
“She’s going to do what she’s going to do. I can either toss her in jail or try to direct her forces for good.”
“Are you crazy? This is the honeymoon-phase thing again, isn’t it?”
“The what?”
“The honeymoon phase of our relationship,” I said. “Nothing I do seems wrong, and you’re not seeing me or us clearly. Worse, you’re letting Charlene get away with interfering in an investigation.”
“Uh . . . I’ve been watching her social media accounts. We’re not at the interfering-with-an-investigation stage.”
“In your opinion.” I dropped into the wing chair, and there was a wild yowl. I leapt to my feet.
White tail low, Frederick streaked from the chair and out of the living room.
“What was that?” he asked.
“Frederick. And it’s not just about Charlene’s online activity. It’s about everything. I mean, I don’t want to push this whole Baker Street Bakers thing, you being the investigating officer and all.”
“Yeah, I don’t want that either.”
“But you’ve been very . . . easygoing on the whole investigation issue. You haven’t told me to get a PI’s license once since this started.”
“Do you want me to be a nag?” he asked.
“Of course not. It’s just . . .” I heaved a breath. “It reminds me of what happened with Mark.”
“Your old boyfriend?”
“I mean, you’re not him. You’re nothing like him. But Mark and I were crazy about each other. I thought it was real and he was awesome, and then we got engaged, and so I moved to San Nicholas to be with him and started Pie Town. And then the blinders fell off, and he saw me for who I really was and dump—And we broke up.”
“You think I don’t see you for who you really are?”
I glanced toward the kitchen door and lowered my voice. “You practically encouraged Charlene to interfere in your investigation. And for me to do the same. You’re a cop! And I think a pretty good one.”
“Thanks,” he said dryly. “Are you saying you think you’re not seeing me clearly?”
“I didn’t—” Was I? “I guess that sort of follows,” I admitted. “It’s a natural stage in the dating process.”
“That’s disappointing.” There was a long silence.
My stomach twisted. “Gordon?”
“Sorry, I’ve got to go,” he said, his voice hard and flat. “Let’s talk later.” He hung up.
Feeling sick, I stared at the phone. Let’s talk later? I clutched it tightly in my hand.
But I was right, wasn’t I? We did need to see each other clearly. And I didn’t want to go through another Mark Jeffreys situation. Mark and I had both gotten swept up in the moment and made dumb decisions. I didn’t want to do that with Gordon.
I cared about him too much.
Charlene emerged from the kitchen brandishing a machete. Its flat blade glinted, menacing. “Do I need to have a word with that boyfriend of yours?”
The phone slipped from my nerveless fingers. “No! Whoa! Whoa! Where’d you get a machete?”
“From the garage.”
I eyed the weapon. “You don’t need to threaten Gordon with a machete.”
“Threaten Gordon?” She examined the blade. “This is for my coconut. How else am I supposed to crack it open? Now, if you’ll just hold the coconut—”
“No, Charlene. I prefer to keep my arms and hands attached.”
“Fine. Be that way. I’ll find a clamp in the garage. Where’s Frederick?”
“Um.” I ducked and scooped up my phone. “I accidentally almost sat on him, and he left.”
“Again? He’ll never warm up to you that way. What did Gordon say?”
“He kind of hung up on me,” I said.
“Hung up on you? Gordon Carmichael? That doesn’t sound like him. Maybe he had a police emergency.”
“I told him I thought we weren’t seeing each other clearly.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Oh, what? What does oh mean?”
She scratched her head with the tip of the machete. “Well, it’s the sort of thing one says when you’re trying to break up with someone.”
“I didn’t suggest breaking up,” I said, my voice rising.
“You want him to break up with you?”
“No!” My stomach burned. “That wasn’t what I implied at all!”
But had I?
CHAPTER 30
Bushy brows furrowed, my regulars grumpily eyed Tuesday morning’s full tables from their counter seats.
“I told you no publicity is bad publicity,” Marla purred, sipping her coffee. The diamonds on her fingers glittered beneath the hanging lamps.
“I don’t like it,” Tally Wally said. “There are too many people. At this hour, it’s not natural.”
Carrying four slices of breakfast pie (a.k.a. quiche) and salads, I hustled from behind the counter. “It won’t last.” Though I wouldn’t entirely mind if it did.
I dropped off the food, collected the plastic number tent, and raced back to the counter.
“Where’s Charlene?” Marla asked.
“In the flour-work room,” I said, “and no, you can’t go back there to gloat. Not without a hairnet.”
She pouted, but I knew she wouldn’t try anything. Marla Van Helsing wouldn’t be caught dead in a hairnet.
Outside the front window, a handful of demonstrators marched, brandishing picket signs. UFO AWARENESS! ALIENS ARE PEOPLE 2! THEY’RE HEEEERE!
I wasn’t sure if they were upset about Charlene’s hoax or if they were part of the promised support team. But I didn’t have time to care. I was too busy racing from counter to tables, delivering food.
Charlene burst from the kitchen waving her cell phone. “We made the AP!”
“Advanced pie-making?” Marla gave Charlene’s outfit the up-and-down look. Her lips curled at the sight of the purple-and-black-striped leggings. “Nice tights.”
In fairness, they did match Charlene’s purple tunic.
“Leggings! And it’s the Associated Press.” Charlene scowled. “My pie-tin UFOs are national news.”
But not international, where Charlene’s daughter might see the article.
“In the Weird News section, no doubt,” Marla said.
Charlene’s wrinkled cheeks pinked, and I knew it was true.
“Congratulations, Charlene.” I made change for a customer and handed him a plastic number tent and a Pie Town t-shirt. “Your pie-tin promotion was a stroke of genius.”
“Hers?” Marla asked. “If it wasn’t for me, no one would know about your little promotion.”
“People knew about it,” Charlene said. “I posted on Twitter.”
“And speaking of strokes,” Marla said, “you’re looking flushed, Charlene. Have you been taking your fiber, like the doctor ordered?”
“I go for a walk every day,” Charlene said. “At least my only exercise isn’t on a mattress, like some people.”
“Jealous?” One corner of Marla’s mouth tilted upward.
Charlene growled. “When the Baker Street Bakers solve these murders, I’ll be in the news, and you’ll be sucking eggs.”
I changed the subject. “Have you seen any police?” Charlene had called the SNPD to warn them about the protest. I just hoped we weren’t going to get hit with another fine. I still hadn’t received my ticket for the first one.
“They’re not rioting,” Charlene said. “No cops are necessary. They’re simply exercising their First Amendment rights to raise awareness about alien visitation.”
“So—”
“Those demonstrators are free-riding on our publicity,” my piecrust specialist said, indignant. And in a l
ower voice, “And no, the cops haven’t interfered. But I don’t think we should rile any of them.”
“Gotcha.” I whirled to the order window and snapped a ticket in the wheel, spun it to face the kitchen.
On the other side of the window, Abril snatched the receipt from the wheel and vanished.
Gordon strolled into Pie Town in his work uniform—a blue suit—and I straightened behind the register.
Charlene whistled. “Time to kiss and make up?”
Catcalls sounded down the length of the counter.
“Oh, grow up,” I said pleasantly, not meaning a word of it.
Petronella burst from the kitchen. “I heard whistling. What’s going on?”
“Take the counter, will you?” Chest tight, I hustled through the Dutch door to the detective. “Gordon, we called the police station when we heard demonstrators might show up. I had no idea—”
He raised his hand. “That Pie Town would make the national news? Congratulations.” He bent to kiss my cheek and pull me into a hug.
“But the crowd—”
“Is under control,” he said. “I spoke with the mayor. She’s sent out a press statement.”
Aghast, I pressed my hand to my mouth. “The mayor? She’s going to bill me for the extra police, isn’t she?”
“I don’t think so. She’s set up information booths at both ends of Main Street. Her staff is handing out business maps and brochures for next month’s pumpkin festival. I think they’ve already sold some t-shirts.”
“But last time—”
“Last time we got caught flat-footed. Today we had a warning, and the mayor was able to take advantage.”
“Thanks to my article.” Marla waved at him. “You’re welcome, San Nicholas!” She patted her platinum hair. “I suppose I should go speak to the mayor. I’m sure she’ll be interested in my ideas for promoting the town.”
“Please go,” Charlene said acidly.
Marla, nose in the air, strode from the restaurant.
“I’ll show her,” Charlene muttered.
“Have you got a minute?” Gordon asked me. “In private?”
Stomach curdling, I led him into my pokey office. “Gordon, if this is about—”
He pulled me against him and kissed me, long and hard, and when we broke apart, I braced my hand on my desk to stay standing.
Pies Before Guys Page 24
