Pies & Peril

by Janel Gradowski

  "Thank you for having lunch with me. It was wonderful to catch up with you." Amy hugged her former boss while trying not to sneeze down her back. Thanks for confirming my suspicions about Kevin and Lucy. "I'll see you again soon."

  She walked out of the salon. The heat had ramped up in the few minutes she had been inside the flower-scented hairstyling mecca. So much for a cooler day. She sniffed. The fried onion odor had seeped into her dress while she and Thalia sat inside Louie's. The burnt onion smell was tenacious. Adding a liberal spray of Elegance's signature perfume, always on hand in the business's rest room, didn't mask the scent so much as changing it to a slightly floral oniony aroma. The stench was worth it, though. She had wanted to see if Lucy often visited Louie's, to possibly chat her up in the future and figure out if she was playing the role of employee with benefits. That sure-to-be-unpleasant conversation wasn't necessary. Mandy Jo was obnoxious, but she was also smart and observant. Thalia had even seconded the theory that extra-curricular secretarial duties were being performed. Disposing of Mandy Jo could've been more appealing than facing her special brand of revenge.

  By the time she had walked the couple blocks to Maxson's Bakery, Amy was actually looking forward to the wintry atmosphere. Elliot and one of his mint-green-clad workers were chatting behind the counter when she walked into the bakery. The sloping glass cases were once again filled with teeth-staining, brightly iced cookies and cupcakes. More people might stop by for a bit of dessert after lunch if they didn't have to worry about looking like a technicolored ghoul when they smiled after eating one of the treats.

  "Hello. I was in town again and wanted to check on the donations."

  The jar next to the cash register still had only a small pile of change and a couple bills inside it. Elliot shook his head when she looked at him. "Still a rather negligible amount, I'm afraid."

  "I see that." Was it because people didn't want to donate or because the bakery didn't have many customers? "I guess it might take a while."

  "Can you handle the counter for a few minutes?" Elliot asked the woman who was working with him. When she nodded, he turned to Amy and asked, "Would you care to stroll to the park with me? I could use some fresh air on such a lovely day."

  So much for hanging out in refrigerated comfort, but it could work to her advantage. "That sounds wonderful. The park is beautiful right now. We could look at some of the memorial benches. I would like to get your opinion on which one would be more appropriate."

  "I would be delighted to help make a decision on the style of bench to purchase in Mandy Jo's honor. Also, I have a proposal on how to fund that memorial, since donations are a bit on the dismal side."

  Amy chewed on her lip. The conversation was like a double crust mystery pie. What surprise was hidden by the perfectly browned top crust? She could be dealing with a metaphorical liverwurst and onion pie. The proposal would most likely involve a way for Elliot to weasel out of chipping in. A proactive counter-measure was in order. "Oh, how wonderful. I have an idea for you, too. I just found out that Elegance Salon is willing to chip in for the memorial. My husband is also willing to contribute, since Mandy Jo's husband's business was one of his clients. If your bakery would pick up some of the cost I could order the bench within a few days. It would be fabulous if I could get this little project off of my cutting board and into the skillet, so to speak."

  She glanced at Elliot. His lips were pressed into a straight, thin line. He motioned toward a fork in the path as they entered the park on the other side of the river. "As I've said before, while I think the memorial is a touching tribute to the champion pie baker, contributing a large sum is not something I would care to do at the moment."

  He stopped to crouch and examine an evergreen topiary that was shaped like a rabbit. Did he really think ignoring her would work? Letting her comment pretend to blow away like a parking ticket in the wind was not acceptable. What was the big deal? She looked up at the fluffy, marshmallow-y clouds drifting overhead. A reason for Elliot's thriftiness drifted into her mind. He could be opposed to the memorial because he had something to do with Mandy Jo's death! But, wouldn't a guilty conscience make him more agreeable to shelling out the money?

  After a thorough inspection of the prickly faux bunny Elliot cleared his throat. "I have an idea for a way that Mandy Jo herself could contribute to the proposed memorial, with a bit of assistance from you."

  Good grief. He was tiptoeing into the green pasture of delusion. How was she supposed to help a dead-and-buried woman make money? Was he insane?

  Elliot continued, "If you could get the recipes for some of Mandy Jo's prize winning pies, like the cherry one from last year or the lemon meringue masterpiece from a few years ago, I would be more than happy to make them at my bakery, even tout them as being made from her prize-winning recipe. For every piece sold I could donate one quarter of the profit to the memorial."

  "How am I supposed to get Mandy Jo's recipes?" Maybe she should talk to Kristi about mental health counseling. "It's not like we were buddies. You know as well as I do, she hated me. She wouldn't even talk to me unless she had some new insult to hurl. We weren't recipe swapping pals."

  He swished his fingers like he was sweeping away a levitating cloud of silliness that had just burped out of her mouth. "To the best of my knowledge, Mandy Jo wasn't friends with anybody. As a fellow contest competitor, and if my memory serves me correctly, former co-worker, you would have some leverage in obtaining a recipe from her husband." He sniffed and added, "I should think finding money for your precious bench would give you incentive."

  She had come up with the idea to memorialize her arch enemy because she felt guilty about marrying Alex and possibly being the catalyst for Mandy Jo's plunge into a state of perpetual hostility. Now she was stubbornly pursuing donations and Elliot was just as mulish in his refusal to contribute even one cent of his own money. The man was slipperier than a butter-coated pan in a hot oven. Well, she could spin conversations to her advantage. "Why don't you just come up with your own recipes and name them in her honor? That would be such a nice gesture on the bakery's part."

  Elliot wrinkled his nose. Was he unhappy with her proposal, had caught a whiff of her Eau de Louie's Hamburgers, or both? He said, "I have always suspected that she employed some kind of secret ingredient in her pies which would make it very difficult to duplicate the recipes."

  Amy smiled sweetly. "But you're an experienced baker. Consider it a culinary challenge."

  "It would be much easier to just have the actual recipe to work from."

  "There is a negative zero percent chance of me getting one of her recipes. I barely know her husband, and I think Mandy Jo's dislike of me rubbed off on him. Plus, the only time I have spoken with another member of her family was when I had to peel her horny cousin off my husband at the funeral. I can't just waltz into Kevin's house and raid Mandy Jo's recipe box."

  She crossed her arms and waited. What kind of passive-aggressive retort would he come up with now? His eyes bugged out, despite the glaring mid-day sun, and his spray tan seemed to fade a bit. Had he figured out how absurd his request was?

  "Kristi is looking for me," he whispered. "Something must have come up at the bakery. I need to go."

  Amy turned around as Elliot sprinted past her. His wife was standing on the main sidewalk. Her expression was rather blank as a breeze tugged a strand of burnt orange hair from her messy topknot. Had she sent Elliot a distress call with hand signals behind Amy's back or had he used her as the excuse to get away from the sticky conversation?

  * * *

  Carla tossed her cell phone on the kitchen counter, so she wouldn't make a snap decision and dial the number before thoroughly considering all of her options. She was in the middle of an internal battle. Should she call Bruce and invite him over? Or spend a quiet night by herself? The hospital had called a few hours earlier asking her to trade shifts with another nurse, so she had an unexpected night off. The first thing she did was buy groceries.
She had resorted to vending machine cookies and chips for her lunch the previous night, which even to her standards was worse than the usual frozen entrees she scarfed down in between patients. Now her kitchen counter was covered with grocery bags full of more frozen meals and the supplies to make a few quasi-homemade dinners for one. Or two.

  The need for food was satisfied. Now she craved something, more precisely, someone, else. Bruce had invaded her life like a fast moving infection, but she didn't want to find the medicine that would drive him away. Staying nonchalant and aloof while talking about him to Amy was getting difficult. Hell, it was hard to tell herself this was just another casual affair. Her happily single until dead motto was in danger of being kicked to the curb by the impressively muscled detective. The naughty clandestine affair they'd had two years earlier burned itself out in a few weeks without even a wisp of lingering smoke left behind. No second thoughts. No what ifs. No regrets. At that time he had said he didn't have the time or desire to be in a committed relationship either. His job was demanding and stressful along with forcing him to work odd hours. Very much like her job in the ER. They were kindred spirits who had found each other a second time. Now it all felt different. It seemed like they were both taking the fledgling relationship seriously, whether they intended to or not.

  After marrying and then divorcing her high school sweetheart, she had vowed never to fall for a guy so hard ever again. It wasn't worth the pain and heartbreak. When she got too old and tired to work third shift in the emergency room, she would switch to days and grow old with a herd of cats to keep her company. At least that's what her plans were until she did Amy the favor and cozied up with Bruce again.

  That did it. She had thought of him for too long. She snatched her phone off the counter. He picked up on the second ring. "Hey, beautiful."

  "Hey, yourself. What are you doing?"

  He exhaled. "Whatever you want."

  Zing. Who needed a treadmill when he could send her heart rate skyrocketing? "Well were you planning on doing something before I called? I don't want to interrupt."

  His voice was like smooth, smoky whiskey when he said, "Ordering pizza or some other kind of take-out for dinner."

  "It's serendipity. I just bought groceries. Why don't you come over, and I can make dinner?"

  "Sounds good to me. I'll be there in about half an hour."

  Carla looked at the grocery bags then glanced down at her outfit. Yoga pants and a tank top. Not date night attire. She haphazardly tossed the frozen entrees into the empty freezer and stashed the bag of shelf-stable foods in the small cabinet pantry that came with the condo, but she barely utilized. She sprinted to her walk-in closet. The casual outfit was tight and a bit skimpy, but was more gym rat than sexy. A pair of jean shorts and a chili pepper red halter top would send the correct message. Bonus that the shirt was the same color as the tomato sauce she would be making. She was far from graceful or accomplished in the kitchen. Drips and spills were a frequent occurrence when she stepped up to the stove.

  She changed into the new outfit then made a stop in the bathroom to apply fresh lip gloss and a spritz of tropical flower-scented body spray. Still a few more minutes before Bruce was due to arrive. Arranging groceries was a better way to occupy herself than fiddling with her hair in nervous anticipation of Bruce's arrival. She rearranged the meals in the freezer, separating them into stacks categorized by main ingredients – chicken, beef or vegetables. Then she retrieved the bag from the pantry and pulled out the ingredients she would need to use for dinner from the other staples. Amy would be appalled to see she had bought a pound cake from the store bakery, but baking really wasn't her forte. Little, individual hot fudge trifles made with store-bought cake, jarred hot fudge sauce, and whipped cream from a can were a private indulgence that she often made after struggling through a chaotic shift. Usually she cut the cake into cubes and froze small, one-serving size bags of the chunks so she could thaw them in the microwave. Tonight the luscious components would make dessert for two.

  When the doorbell rang she sucked in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. It didn't help to calm the crackling excitement racing through her body. She opened the door and smiled at the cop with the six-pack abs holding up a six-pack of beer. "You didn't need to bring anything. I have beer and wine."

  He winked. "I thought you were supposed to bring booze for the hostess when you got invited to a dinner party."

  Carla shut the door. A trace of musky aftershave drifted behind him. As she took the beer and walked into the kitchen she said, "I don't think it's a dinner party when there are only two people involved."

  "It can always turn into a party when beer is involved." He slid his hands down her sides and settled them on her hips as she swung open the refrigerator door. She shoved the clanking six-pack inside and whirled to face him. He waggled his eyebrows. "Ulterior motives. I have them."

  She wriggled closer. Thank god the air conditioning was cranked up. His hands were so hot it felt like they were melting through the back pockets of her shorts. As he nibbled down the side of her neck she spotted the pound cake on the counter and thought about Amy. Might as well get the stuff about murder suspects out of the way so she could enjoy the rest of the evening without feeling guilty. "Speaking of motives, Amy stopped by yesterday. She was doing her civic duty and had dropped off some frozen meals at Kevin Pierce's office. I know she's under a lot of stress after finding a body and then receiving the threats, but she thinks Kevin is having an affair with his secretary. If that's true, knowing how malicious Mandy Jo was, it could've been safer for either one of them to kill her than risk the paybacks."

  He leaned back and drummed his fingers on the countertop. "I haven't caught wind of an affair. Maybe you're right about Amy seeing into things because she's stressed out, but I'll dig a bit and see what I can come up with. It certainly isn't unusual for a hubby to get rid of his nagging wife so he can upgrade to a newer model."

  "There's one more thing," she said as she slid closer to him again. She wanted to help Amy, but she didn't want to distract him too much with the case. Not at that moment. "Have you ever thought of the possibility that the murderer and the person threatening Amy could be two different people?"

  He laughed. "You're full of theories today, or is this more of Amy's doing?"

  "Amy thought of it, but I do think she could be right. Somebody could be tired of losing to her in the baking contests, so they're trying to scare her away from the pie contest redo next month."

  "Are cooking competition competitors that ruthless? The department is taking the notes as death threats. That's a serious offense."

  Carla's stomach rumbled. She needed to make dinner so she wouldn't run out of energy later. As she bent to retrieve the pasta pot from the lower cabinet beside the refrigerator she said, "Amy has won things like a refrigerator and cheese for a year in other contests. I wouldn't think the couple hundred bucks to win the Summer Festival competitions would be worth the risk of going to jail. It's hard to imagine a person getting that wound up over a pie, but you know people do some very bizarre things."

  "I know that." He shook his head. "There have been so many times I've wondered what people were thinking when they committed a crime and how they thought they wouldn't get caught."

  "Maybe they weren't smart enough to plan beyond the actual crime and consider the consequences."

  "True. Does Amy have any idea who the person sending the notes could be, if it isn't the murderer?"

  "I don't think so, but she's bound to come up with something soon. She has a pretty vivid imagination, so I hope you don't end up on a wild goose chase following her theories."

  "It won't hurt for me to poke around a bit. Just tell Amy to be careful. If there really is a second person sending the notes, there could be two people after her if Mandy Jo's killer thinks she's onto them." Bruce moved behind her again as she emptied the jar of spaghetti sauce into a saucepan. He draped his arms around her waist. One hand slipped lower and set
tled in the front pocket of her shorts. "What can I help with?"

  She swallowed and pointed at the collection of liqueur bottles on the small, mirrored cart she used as a bar in the living room. "Grab the vodka. I'm making spicy vodka sauce with pancetta."

  He kissed her shoulder as he released her to trek to the cart. The bottles clinked as he poked around looking for the correct spirit. He held up a bottle in each hand. "Vanilla or regular?"

  "What do you think?"

  He set the vanilla-flavored variety back on the cart. "I hope it's the normal stuff, but I never know. You do hang around with a rabid foodie. I took a date to a fancy restaurant once, and she ordered scallops with vanilla sauce. It smelled like fish cookies."

  "Ewww." She took the bottle from him, twisted off the cap, and poured a few glugs into the pan with the tomato sauce. "Sounds like something Amy would order and then make me try, because it's innovative or a new trend. I just want food that tastes good, but she'll try anything because it's rare or unique."

  "I promise. I'll never make you try weird foods."

  He nuzzled her neck as she emptied the package of pre-cubed pancetta into a hot frying pan. The sizzle matched the sensation of molten blood pulsing through her veins. She gasped when he gently nipped her earlobe. "Thank you."

  "For promising to never make you eat funky food?" He forged a line of tiny, gentle kisses across the back of her neck. "Or doing this?"

  "Both." A splash of water sizzled and sputtered on the glass of the flattop range. The pasta water was boiling, but she had been so busy trying not to self-combust she hadn't realized it. "Can you hand me the package of pasta?"

  He sighed. "I suppose now that you've started cooking you can't put dinner on hold?"

  "It'll be done in a few minutes." She grabbed the box of linguine from him. It rattled like a maraca as she tried to pry open the cardboard flap. She was shaking like she had drunk a pot of coffee. "Good things come to those who wait."