A Slice of Murder

by Chris Cavender

  As we walked in, I started flipping lights on, as was my custom each morning when we arrived. It let any passersby know that we were going to indeed be serving today, something that until the day before had never really been in doubt. It felt good to be back there, among all things cozy and familiar.

  Maddy and I had a routine, and we went to work. The pizza dough was my area of expertise, and though my sister had been thoughtful enough to make it the day before, I’d tried a slice last night and it hadn’t been up to my standards. I gathered the yeast, water, salt, and bread flour together, then added a few of the things that set my dough apart from the rest. I had a shaker filled with my own blend of herbs, and I also used a touch of olive oil in my dough mix. As the yeast soaked in warm water, I set about measuring the other ingredients, almost working on autopilot, I’d done it so many times before. I knew pizzerias that used frozen or even partially baked crusts, but I liked the feel of dough in my hands and was happy to give my customers something a touch different. The same thing went for my pizza sauce, which was another specialty of mine. I made it myself, with tomatoes, onions, garlic, and a few spices I thought gave it a distinctive taste.

  While I worked on the basics, Maddy prepared our toppings and got ready for our sandwich orders. I refused to make the buns myself, but I couldn’t see using store-bought either, so I had a deal with Paul, our baking neighbor, to supply the buns for the shop every day. He gave me a great price, and I took him some pizza every now and then. It was an arrangement that suited both of us.

  After the yeast was ready, I began mixing the dough in the floor mixer until it was all thoroughly integrated. I kneaded the dough by hand, put it into a bowl, added a light layer of olive oil, then covered it and put it in under a proofing lamp. After I set the timer for sixty minutes to give the yeast a chance to work, I turned to Maddy.

  “Do you need any help with your toppings?”

  She ignored me. Then I noticed that her iPod earbuds were in.

  “Maddy,” I asked again, this time more forcefully.

  She looked up at me. “Did you say something?”

  I mouthed words but didn’t utter a sound.

  “I can’t hear you,” she said as she jerked the earpieces out. I could hear the music playing through the earpieces, though the sound was thankfully muted.

  “That’s because I wasn’t saying it out loud. You’re going to go deaf listening to that thing cranked up so high, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Sorry, ‘Mom,’ I’ll try to do better. What did you want?”

  “Do you need any help?”

  She waved a knife in the air. “No, I’ve got it.”

  “I’m going to make up another batch of dough and freeze it. Then I’m going to go get our buns from Paul.”

  “Tell him I said hi,” she said as she put the knife down long enough to re-place the earbuds.

  I finished the backup batch of dough, locked up behind me, then walked down the brick promenade to Paul’s Pastries. It felt good being out in the brisk morning. My arms could feel the effort I’d put into the dough, and I cherished the first break of my day.

  At the bakery, I glanced in through the large windows under the dark green awning that jutted off the ancient brick facade. His shop’s name was written in white letters on the awning front in a very friendly, welcoming font. Behind a huge array of display cases filled with the most delectable goodies, Paul was working at replenishing the shelves. Tall and thin, he was in his mid-twenties and sported a goatee as black as his hair. Paul had gone to law school after graduating college in two years, and after he passed the North Carolina state bar exam, he’d shelved his diploma and opened up his shop. He’d gotten his law degree for his father, but now he was doing something for himself. I couldn’t say whether his education made him a better baker or not, but it was good having him around. The world had enough lawyers, in my opinion, and not enough bakers.

  “Good morning,” Paul greeted me as I walked in. “I was hoping I’d see you today.”

  “Sorry about yesterday. I’ll pay for the bread I didn’t get.”

  “Don’t be silly, Eleanor. I’m just glad you’re opening again.” He lowered his voice, though no one was in the bakery but the two of us. “If I can do anything—and I mean anything—to help you, I will. I’ll even give you legal advice. All you have to do is ask.”

  I knew what a concession that was for him to make. “I appreciate it, Paul, but I’ve hired Bob Lemon to help.”

  “He’s a good man,” Paul said. With a twinkle in his eyes, he added, “No doubt Maddy had something to do with that.”

  “You can tell he’s sweet on her, too?”

  Paul laughed. “Everyone in Timber Ridge can tell. Hang on a second; I’ve got your buns in back.”

  Paul ducked through the swinging door and reappeared with a tray full of his wonderful hoagie rolls. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks. Would you like us to bring you some lunch today?”

  “That would be great,” Paul said. “After baking half the night, it’s nice to have someone make me a meal.”

  His schedule was nearly opposite ours, since Paul started his day at one A.M. and finished up by two in the afternoon. It was a timetable that would have killed me. Then again, I was a good ten years older than he was.

  “It must be tough finding someone to date with your hours,” I said.

  “Why, Eleanor, I didn’t realize you felt that way about me.”

  That flustered me. “Paul, I didn’t…I wasn’t…I didn’t mean me.”

  His laughter put me at ease. “Relax, I was just teasing you.”

  “I deserved it,” I said. “It’s none of my business.”

  “You should hear my mother. She doesn’t care that I’m not practicing law, but she’s absolutely determined that she have grandchildren while she’s still young enough to enjoy them.”

  “Mothers can be that way, can’t they?” I took the tray from him, butted the door open with my back, and waved to Paul by smiling and nodding my head as I walked back to the Slice.

  I used one of our outdoor tables to set the tray of fresh bread on, then got out my keys and unlocked the door. The metal tables came in handy, one of the reasons I kept them outside year-round. Some folks surprised me by eating out there in all kinds of weather, but it was more for my convenience than theirs at this time of the year.

  Maddy was just finishing up with her preparation station, though I still had time on the dough timer before I could punch it down and store it in the refrigerator. It was time to make the dough for our thin-crust pizzas, using a different set of ingredients and another procedure altogether. I put the yeast, high-gluten flour, and salt into the flour mixer, then added twenty cups of water to the mix. I set the timer for thirteen minutes, turned on the mixer, and forgot about it. It was a low-maintenance procedure, and there were days that I wished everyone would order thin-crust pizza. After the timer went off, I kneaded the dough, then shaped it into balls and stored it in the refrigerator. By the time I finished with that, the regular-crust dough was ready, so I punched it down, divided the dough into four pieces, rolled them into balls, then put them in the refrigerator as well.

  The kitchen was nearly ready to open.

  I just hoped at least one customer would come in.

  Someone was pounding on the front door twenty minutes before we were due to open. I thought about ignoring the summons until noon, just like I I’d been doing with the telephone. With our skeleton staff of two, I wasn’t about to take anything but walk-in orders until this mess was resolved, and that could be a very long time indeed.

  Ultimately, though, I was afraid whoever wanted to get in so urgently was going to break down the front door.

  I was surprised to see that it was Greg Hatcher, our delivery guy. Greg went to college three days a week and worked for me two more in the pizzeria, adding three nights of delivering as well. He looked more like a linebacker, with his thick build and his ever-short h
aircut, than the professional poet he aspired to be someday.

  As I unlocked the door, I asked, “Greg, what are you doing here?”

  “I came in to work my shift,” he said. “Come on, Eleanor, it was only one day I missed. I really was sick, too. Yesterday was my day off, and I stayed in bed and slept. I’m much better. You’re not going to fire me, are you?”

  “Have you read a paper or watched the news?” I couldn’t believe there was anyone in Timber Ridge who hadn’t heard about Richard Olsen’s murder.

  “No, I watched a Doctor Who marathon on the SciFi Channel. Why, what did I miss? Did the world end or something?”

  “It might have,” I said. “Richard Olsen was murdered two nights ago.”

  “Richard who? I don’t know the guy. Did he live in town?”

  “He did,” I said. “I found the body when I delivered his pizza, and the police think I had something to do with the murder.”

  Greg’s shoulders slumped. “It’s all my fault, then, isn’t it?”

  “You had no way of knowing,” I said as I patted his shoulder. “It’s okay, Greg.”

  “I don’t see how,” he said. “Eleanor, I really was sick. Katy wanted to come over, but I told her to stay home. I’m so sorry I got you into this mess.”

  “I’m not about to let you accept responsibility for something that wasn’t your fault. We’ll get through this. But until we do, we’re not accepting any take-out orders, and I’m not answering the telephone. It’s only walk-in orders for now.”

  “That’s fine,” Greg said. “I can wait on customers, sweep up, bus tables; whatever you want.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind working here, given how most of the community probably feels about me right now? Rita’s already quit.” I decided not to say anything about Josh just yet.

  He smiled, and I could see what Katy Johnson saw in him. “Then you really do need me, and trust me, there’s no place I’d rather be. Who’s coming in later to help out?”

  I’d glanced at the schedule, out of habit more than anything else, and had seen Josh Hurley’s name. “Sorry, it’s just going to be you.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Greg said disgustedly. “Josh isn’t coming in. It figures. He’s been listening to his dad again.”

  “Josh wanted to work,” I said in his defense, “but I told him he couldn’t when he showed up here. His father and I had some words, and I really didn’t have any choice.”

  Greg seemed to digest that, then said, “Okay, if he was willing to work, that’s all that counts with me. I’ll give him a call later to see how he’s doing.” Greg looked around the place and saw the chairs were still turned up and sitting on the tables. “In the meantime, I’ll start getting the dining room ready.”

  “Thanks, Greg,” I said, touched that he’d stay, given the circumstances.

  “Don’t thank me,” he said with a smile. “Just make sure I get paid on time.”

  I must have looked at him oddly, because he added, “Hey, I was just kidding about my paycheck, you know that.”

  “I know. I just hope I can make payroll until this blows over.”

  Greg shrugged. “If you have to hold on to my pay if things get rocky, don’t worry about it. I can get by.”

  I knew how much he depended on his income from working for me to put himself through school. “Don’t start lying to me now,” I said, trying to force a grin.

  “Hey, if you feed me once a day, I can squeak by.”

  As Greg started setting up our dining area, I went back into the kitchen, where Maddy was listening to her iPod again and digging into the refrigerator. When she saw me, she took the earbuds out. “I’m hungry. Do you want something to eat before we open?” She must have heard Greg working out front. “Eleanor, somebody’s here.”

  “Greg Hatcher’s working the front today,” I said.

  “I didn’t think anyone was coming in.”

  “He didn’t hear what happened, and I didn’t have the heart to turn him away.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” she said as she got out some dough and started forming a crust. We formed our pizzas by knuckling and stretching the dough to fit the pan. Some folks liked to see their crusts hand tossed, but Joe had been the one who’d mastered that technique, so it had died with him. Once the pizza was shaped and a ridge formed around the edge, Maddy poked holes in the bottom of it to let steam escape and handed it to me.

  “You dress this one,” she said.

  I added a ladle of my homemade sauce, then used an elaborate variety of toppings. Whenever I couldn’t decide what kind of pizza I wanted myself, I made one with just about everything on it. The menu called it a smorgasbord special, but Maddy and I called it a garbage pizza when we were alone.

  I popped it onto the conveyor, then called out to Greg, “Pizza’s in the fire.”

  “Great, I’m starving,” he called back. “Should I unlock the front door, or would you like the honors?”

  “Go ahead,” I called out. “It’s not like we’re going to be swamped.”

  Maddy poked her head out through the kitchen door. “Eleanor, you should take a look at this.”

  “Why, is there something worth seeing?”

  “Come on, just do it.”

  I wiped my hands on a dishrag and walked through the door.

  To my surprise, there were at least a dozen people waiting outside in the cold to get into the Slice. “What’s going on?”

  Greg said, “They’re hungry. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I unlock the door so they can come inside?”

  “Sounds good,” I said, a hint of laughter in my voice. Some residents of Timber Ridge might be staying away from my pizzeria, but clearly not all of them.

  Maybe, just maybe, we’d be able to make it after all.

  The three of us grabbed bites to eat when we could, and I made a bunch of pizzas and sandwiches over the next few hours, staying in back while Maddy and Greg handled the customers and the cash register. I probably should have at least showed my face every now and then, but I just couldn’t deal with the stares, the well-meaning comments, or the open speculation of my fellow townsfolk.

  Still, it wasn’t fair to my coworkers for me to stay in back and make them take the heat of scrutiny, so at the first lull, I bit my lower lip, put on my best fake smile, and walked through the kitchen door to the dining area.

  I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but the eight customers dining at the time barely even acknowledged my existence. Nancy Taylor, our postmistress, nodded in my direction, and Emily Haynes, a dental hygienist for Dr. Patrick, smiled at me, but that was it.

  “Good to see you out front,” Maddy said as she approached. “Why don’t we trade off for a while? You can work out here, and I’ll take over the kitchen duties.”

  She’d never offered to cook before, though she was perfectly capable of making just about everything I could. “Why the change of heart?” I asked.

  “What are you talking about? I love to make pizza.”

  That got a chuckle that I couldn’t repress in time. A few folks glanced over at us, but when everyone went back to their meals, I asked, “Since when?”

  “I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” she said as she handed her order pad to me. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

  I was beginning to regret my impulse to come out front as I stared at the customers. Greg was refilling drinks and busing tables, so I decided to stay at the register.

  Nancy Taylor approached with her bill, and as I made change for her, she said, “I think you’re so brave, Eleanor.”

  “I don’t know that I’m particularly courageous,” I said.

  “Coming in here, knowing what some folks around town are saying about you? I’d say that’s brave.”

  As she took her change, she lowered her voice and added, “Not that there aren’t other folks around who shouldn’t be dropping their heads in shame.”

  “What are you talking about
, Nancy?”

  “For one, Travis White was mad enough to kill Richard himself; you know that, don’t you?”

  Travis was a polite, white-haired man who worked for the gas company. He ate at the Slice at least twice a month, and I’d rarely heard an ill word from him. “Travis? Are you sure?”

  “He lives beside Richard. The two of them have been arguing about their property line for years.”

  “That’s not really a motive for murder, Nancy,” I said. I’d heard them each grumbling about the other, but I couldn’t imagine it evolving into homicide.

  She frowned, then said, “Well then, did you know that Richard cut down Travis’s favorite tree? He claimed it was on his side, but Travis knew that wasn’t true. When Richard offered Travis twenty dollars for the firewood right in front of me last week, I thought Travis was going to kill him then and there.”

  “I didn’t hear about that,” I said. I knew how much some folks got attached to things they owned, but could sweet old Travis kill someone over a tree?

  “No one else was in the post office when it happened, but I was there.”

  “Thanks, Nancy,” I said loudly as Emily came up with her bill.

  “Keep your chin up,” Nancy said as she left.

  Emily said, “That goes for me, too. I don’t think you did it for one second.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

  “At least not with a knife.” She pretended to ponder it for a moment, then added, “No, a poisoned mushroom would be more your speed. Or maybe arsenic in his sweet tea.”

  I looked at the book tucked into her purse and saw that it was an old favorite written by Charlotte MacLeod. “You have much too vivid an imagination,” I said.

  “There’s no such thing,” she said as she winked at me.

  After the dining room cleared out, we had our normal afternoon lull, and Maddy and I did dishes and got ready for the next rush while Greg stayed out front, studying between times spent waiting on the occasional customer. I didn’t mind him working on his school assignments while he was on my time. I figured his presence in front meant that I didn’t have to waste half my day there, so it was well worth his minuscule salary.