The scents of ground meat, ham, potatoes, and too many spices to count filled my home. I was in such a good mood all night that I even gave the little stinker of a cat of mine scraps of meat and vegetables here and there. She turned her snooty nose up at the vegetables, but the meats were gobbled up in one swallow.
I sighed and put my hands on my hips as the sun rose, the pink-and-tangerine hues piercing my windows from the east, making my cabinets the target of a beautiful kaleidoscope.
I was doing a really good job of distracting myself, that’s what I was doing.
Plus, a dollop of positive thinking and some head-bopping eighties music never hurt a soul.
“Tippster, I’ve got the stuffed jalapeno special with artichoke hearts, jalapenos, bacon, cream cheese, and sharp cheddar. Next up we have the brie and blackberry jam in a pretzel dough pies. I’m not sure if I should call those savory or sweet, so I’m just calling them yummy. Those are going to be a surprise special. Three dozen beef empanadas with potatoes, peas, and Daisy’s special seasoning.” Daisy gave me the stuff in glass jars and, while I’d tried to guess the exact ingredients until I was blue in the face, she wouldn’t budge on telling me if I was right or wrong.
Didn’t matter, it was darned delicious, and that was all I needed to know, really.
As I walked around the kitchen, assessing the mess and the finished products, I ticked off my list. I was calling that a night of success.
The thing about being half-delirious, working all night, is that I’d come up with some new recipes. Absolute exhaustion sure did bring out the creative side in me. “Now for the newcomers. This year, we have dark-chocolate-cherry pies that I made in a rectangle for some reason. Then we have this beauty.” I held up the nearly perfect half-moon in the air and treated myself to a bite. They were the freshest from the oven and I groaned out loud. They were that good. “This portobello, gorgonzola, caramelized onion is fantastic. That pinch of red pepper flakes gives just the kick in flavor it needed. That along with the spinach, artichoke alfredo pies should be a hit with the vegetarians. I get a lot of those. Gotta keep all the customers happy.”
At this point, I’d gone on for so long that Tippy had retired to her bed again and stretched out, her belly protruding a little more than usual. I’d spoiled her during my baking spree.
“And wait…there was one more…Oh, of course. How could I forget you, ham, Irish cheddar, and broccoli? You’re one of my best sellers. Always a classic.”
I’d lost my mind. Up all night, one whole pot of coffee down, and now I was talking to myself.
What a great way to start the busiest part of my life.
Worth every second.
“Every one of these recipes has made the cut. I’m prepped for the usuals. And you…” I was now speaking to the raspberries growing outside my windows. “You will be in my pies yet, little ones. Just you wait and see.”
I spent the next hour cleaning up my mess and packing my pies, some for Roger and for dinner that night. The rest would go into the freezer, quick meals along with a salad for those busy, feet-wrenching days I was bound to have.
Still, all the baking in the world and a speaker blasting eighties pop couldn’t make me shake that underlying thought that something was up with the storage unit. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t understand how anyone could get into my unit without a key. According to the manager, there was only one and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that mine was in my purse, right where it belonged. I’d even second-guessed myself and made sure it was there over and over.
Something was going on, and I suspected Mr. Slinger had something to do with it.
Or…he was just a scoundrel, either way.
Still on an energy wave from my last cup of coffee, I picked up the phone and dialed Roger. I knew I wasn’t supposed to be investigating or snooping or he would lock me up, but I had to tell him. My gut told me that there was something to Mr. Slinger holding all of those boxes. It all just smelled a little off to me, like leftovers that had been in the fridge for too long.
Two calls later and either Roger was ignoring me or he was busy. I guessed the previous one, but danced off to my shower. I needed it after my wild night.
While I was drying off, no matter what I did, the thoughts of Mr. Slinger couldn’t be shaken. It was still early and so, regardless of what Roger said about me not snooping around, I knew something had to be done.
If I went to my storage unit this morning to look around, that wouldn’t technically be snooping or sleuthing. It would just be a curious girl at her storage unit who was concerned about the safety of her possessions while at said shady storage unit. I did have all those cases of canned and dry goods still there.
I parted my hair down the center of my head and whistled while I made a braid on either side of my head. I curled them upward and with the help of a dozen or so bobby pins and a pretty red silk ribbon, I made a crown on top of my head. A crown for a hand pie queen.
Already knowing what I was going to wear, I took out my cutest cherry red cap-sleeved skater dress and paired it with a matching pair of ballet flats that had a bow on the top. My lips were painted the same color as my dress and I took my time with my makeup despite my rush to get to the unit.
A girl had to look her best for the first day of the season after all.
With my tote bag and water bottle in hand, along with a basket full of each type of pie for Roger, to drop off after I visited the unit, I locked my door behind me and skipped down the stairs toward my destination.
Nothing could ruin my day—nothing.
Chapter Twenty-Four
May 1—the start of the beach season.
Last year on this date, fog greeted me when I headed down to the beach but, although I was leaving early, with the intent of stopping at the storage units along the way, the sun blazed down. The local radio station, with its chatty morning announcers, went on and on about how we were going to have a record-breaking heat for the date. Albeit that would be about eighty-five on the sand, the warmth would lure people out, and they’d stay longer than on a chilly day.
My laden cart was securely strapped on the trailer, and I was grateful for the parking vendors would enjoy this year, a decision made by the council at the behest of the chamber of commerce just a few days before. If it had been the case the previous year, I might not have used the storage at all.
Not that I’d known much then. As a brand new business owner, I’d been feeling my way through thicker fog than any that ever surrounded my Victorian on the hilltop. Stopped at the bottom of the hill, I came back again to considering how the position on the point overlooking the ocean might have had anything to do with Richard’s murder. After all, I had cold refused him time and again. And if it had been just me saying no I might have thought he’d have gone to court to try to force me for “the public good.” I wasn’t sure entirely how that worked, but if he could convince the council that my land, right in the prime position could be say…a public park or something right at the edge of their property which, mysteriously, ends up being a green space for their gated resort visitors only?
But since that wouldn’t work for the scattered others, it wasn’t going to be the case. I turned right onto the street with the storage units, but half a block down I ran into a street closure. On opening day? Really?
I tried to see far enough ahead to get an idea of what was going on, but the slight curve in the road made that impossible and with my trailer a U-turn was more of a dog-and-pony show than I wanted to deal with if it was maybe only going to be a ten minute wait or something. So, after carefully pulling over on the side of the road, careful not to get my wheels into the sandy shoulder, I parked and got out.
Several others were doing the same thing, and of course my cart attracted attention. A half-dozen tourists approached me with lots of questions about my business, what I sold, where they could find me and, since I was now blocked in by lots of other vehicles, my inner businesswoman took over an
d began to hawk my goodies. I climbed up on the trailer and pulled out a tray of my brand new chocolate pies.
“Now, these are special.” I told a portly middle-aged woman woman wearing a big straw hat and flip-flops adorned with giant hot pink sunflowers. At least I think that was what they were supposed to be although I’d never seen any sunflowers in that color, not even in the catalogues I had perused in January when planning my garden for this year. Maroon, yellow, gold, orange…but hot pink? “I have never sold these before and have only this limited supply.”
“Oooh.” She rose on tiptoe, eyeing my pies. “I hope you don’t run out.”
I shrugged. “I probably will, the filling is the silkiest, creamiest chocolate you have ever eaten…and the crust. Well, my testers all swooned at the crisp light texture. Anyway, I’ll be down on the walk soon, if we ever get out of here. I’ll save you one.”
She shifted from foot to foot, and her eyes gleamed, as did those of several other tourists who were forming a circle around me. She’d be a customer as long as she was in town, and I thought others could be too. If I could, I’d have cut up a couple and passed them around, but it was hard to get to my implements with the cart fastened down as it was.
I had to do something, though. I wished for a second I had the fans my nemesis did to waft the scent into their noses, but a cart filled with pies smelled pretty good anyway.
“I have sweet and savory and”—I lowered my voice and, to my pleasure my audience leaned in — “one that crosses that line.” I felt a bit like a snake oil salesman of old. At least I wasn’t claiming that my treats could cure what ailed you. Unless it was hunger or a desire for an amazingly delicious dessert or lunch or dinner… Maybe I should be doing more for the breakfast crowds. I might be making my pies sound yummy but the main reason for that was the fact they were…incredibly yummy!
Sunflower lady actually licked her lips “Could you —”
She was cut off by two young guys I recognized as local surfers making their way through the crowd. Why now? I was doing so well creating buzz. “Make way. We need to all turn around. It’s going to be hours.”
“What happened?” I asked. If my sales pitch was over, I might as well find out what was going on.
“A boulder on the highway at the end of town,” the surfer with long blond hair told me. “It’s actually not that close, but they want people to use the other streets so they can get the highway guys through here.”
His buddy, who had short dark hair but the same lean surfer bod put in helpfully, “I think they are going to blow it up. It’s too heavy to move.”
“Can we watch?” All my customers were now focused on the idea.
“We can walk down there and video it,” said a man in his late sixties. He and—she had to be his wife—dressed in matching Hawaiian shirts and khaki shorts, sensible sandals were quivering with excitement. “Mabel, it will be even better than the hotel we saw imploded in Las Vegas a few years ago. We can show it to everyone!”
“On Instagram, dude?” Asked blond surfer guy.
The older lady fumbled in her big purse and pulled out a movie camera that had to be older than I was. “On our movie screen, young man. Very retro.”
At least she knew it was retro.
The entire crowd was planning to march down to the other end of the street where it joined the highway when a siren sounded, and a couple of toots of the horn, behind us. A voice on a megaphone boomed, “Everyone clear this area please. For your own safety, turn around and go back the way you came. Officers will direct you to other routes to your destination.”
Because it was so hard to find your way around our few streets, one of which—this one—came off the highway for a mile or so then rejoined it at the other end. I started to look at the police car to see if it was Roger then realized that traffic was not his beat.
I stowed my tray of pies and waited while all the other drivers sorted out their cars and got off the street before driving a bit farther down the street and pulling into the storage unit. The cops were too busy to stop me, fortunately, and once I was in the lot, I wasn’t on the street anyway.
I had been about two seconds from selling those chocolate pies, but the other drivers had all promised to find me, and I thought the delay had been well worth the time and inconvenience.
Now… Now I had things to do.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I have to admit, I sat in my car in the parking lot of the storage unit place for more than one lovey-dovey song on satellite radio, just waiting and watching. And honestly, nibbling on a chocolate hand pie, I felt like one of those cops on TV on a stakeout.
Stakeouts were fun.
I wondered if Roger was really watching my house to keep me safe or was he still keeping an eye on me to see if I’d reveal myself as the murderer.
Either way, I felt better with him around, even if he still did suspect me.
He said he didn’t, but on those true crime shows they said police officers were allowed to lie to suspects in order to solve their crimes.
Roger didn’t seem like much of a liar, whether it was allowed or not.
The rear-view mirror revealed I had no chocolate or pie crust on my face, so I got out and proceeded to walk to the unit after locking my car. A picture of Roger’s face popped into my head as I walked over the threshold and toward my unit. I paused for a second right where I’d seen Richard’s body, but the mess had been cleaned up like it never happened. In fact, it looked like the cement floors had been buffed to a shine, which was weird considering how they looked before the murder. Like they hadn’t been so much as swept since the building was erected. Maybe a few bloodstains was the push the owner needed to get this place looking better.
Now, to look at that lock.
I hiked my purse up higher on my shoulder and peered around to make sure no one saw me snooping. It wasn’t like I was checking out anyone else’s lock though. Just mine. And there were no other customers in sight.
I had to find out how whoever it was got into my unit and placed a knife in my cart. Nobody but me had a key to the unit. I’d never given one to any friend or other merchant. And the contract I signed when I rented the unit clearly guaranteed that I did not have to give any owner or other employee of the Beachview Storage Units a copy of the key.
Nobody should be able to get into the windowless concrete block rectangle that I paid far too much for. The price per square foot was higher than many homes in the area, and I’d had many moments of regret at making the choice, one I would not be renewing when my contract was up. My cart would never again live in this place, and I’d empty the rest of my stuff out as soon as possible, even if I had to pay for the rest of the six month term. I did think it would be only fair to let me out of it after the trauma I endured but either way, I would no longer make use of the unit.
Nobody should be able to get in. But someone had.
They’d done it to pin the murder on me, and it came very close to working.
Shuddering at the thought of how it could have gone, I walked over, the small heels of my shoes clicking on the impeccable floor.
The lock opened like it always did. With the tiny little flashlight I now kept in my purse, I investigated the thing, turning it this way and that, confident there was something shady to be seen. I supposed there were a limited number of locks in the world and this was a common brand. I’d bought it in the hardware store in town, but how would someone know what key they even wanted. It wasn’t as if there was a number on the lock itself to allow someone to try to match it. Just in case, I looked for one. No. No number.
With the lock accounted for, I checked the hasp. Perhaps someone could remove it and open the door that way. But that particular theory was dashed when I realized the hasp was welded in place…or something like that. Under any circumstances, it was no removable.
Entering, I looked around at the concrete block walls. For just a moment I thought like a gothic novel heroine and pressed a few of t
he blocks on the back wall as if one of them might cause a secret door to open. Maybe to a hallway behind the row of units. Okay, I pressed every block I could reach, but none of them led to a secret passageway.
My bags and boxes were still piled along the wall, not exactly as I left them because the police had searched them, leaving me grateful they hadn’t torn open the bags of flour, probably because they were factory sealed. The boxes of canned goods were opened but not damaged. There wasn’t really anything else to look at except the floor, which was continuous from the common area, not a crack or a line of any kind, not a depression…nothing. Dust because they hadn’t been able to come inside to clean.
Just to hide a bloodstained murder weapon.
Dust. It wasn’t heavy or anything, but enough my footprints and those of the police or whoever had been in here had disturbed it in the middle and along the back wall and everywhere except on the opposite side of the door where nobody had any reason to go.
Then my jaw dropped. Because there were footprints by the opposite side, where the hinges were the door swung open on. Many storage units, most I’d seen in fact, had pull down doors but this one had a gate that opened on hinges. And there was no reason that a footprint would lie against the wall, by the hinges, halfway inside and halfway outside the gate.
In the interest of fairness, I tried to reproduce it as best I could without disturbing the existing print. Because if my suspicions were correct, it was very important evidence. The bottom of the gate was a fraction of an inch from the concrete and there was no way I could slide my foot under that. Even if I had been able to get close enough to the wall to make that print happen.
It was amazing that the floor buffers hadn’t made the part of it that stuck outside go away, but I could see why they couldn’t.
Someone must have opened the gate from the opposite side.
A Pie in the Hand (Pacific Pies Cozy Mysteries Book 1) Page 9
