Death by Deep Dish Pie

by Sharon Short

  Trudy raised her eyebrows. “You really think you’re going to get my dad and my Uncle Cletus to get along with each other? They haven’t done that in years.” She looked away. “At least, not in ten years.”

  “I have to at least try.”

  “Why does this matter so much to you? Why do you care if my dad and Uncle Cletus get along?”

  ”To tell you the truth, it’s pretty much a matter of me being selfish. I want the Paradise fireworks to go on.”

  Trudy rolled her eyes. “Who cares? Everyone can just drive up to Masonville. They have a better fireworks display anyway.”

  “That’s not the point, Trudy,” I said. “Partly it’s a matter of community pride. And partly it’s for a very personal reason. I have a cousin, who I love very much. He’s really my only close family. And I take him every year to see these fireworks.”

  “So he can’t see them in Masonville, either?”

  “He’s autistic. He has certain patterns he follows or else he gets very confused and upset. I always take him to the same spot every year to see the fireworks. It’s not just any fireworks he wants to see. He wants to see them from our spot.”

  “I see,” Trudy said, although she looked confused. “You must love your cousin a lot.”

  “I do.”

  She looked down at Slinky, stroked her neck. If the ferret had been a cat, she would have been purring.

  “Well, Josie, I’ll do what I can with Uncle Cletus. If he’s going to listen to anyone, he’s going to listen to me.”

  I grinned. “Thanks, Trudy.” I stood up, feeling only slightly guilty that as soon as we got this whole fireworks thing worked out, I was going to have to talk to someone—these kids, Cletus, somebody—about their compound out here. They needed a legal place, where adults were at least nearby, to play out their Utopian fantasies.

  “Hey, before I hike on out of here,” I said, “do you all, well, when nature calls, is there a poison-ivy-free place, to, you know—”

  Charlemagne stood up. “This way.” Then he led me to a spot by a tree. I waited until he was out of sight, then counted to ten, before I took care of business.

  * * *

  Word had spread through Paradise that at this year’s Breitenstrater Founder’s Day Pie-Eating Contest, either Cletus was going to make an announcement, or Alan was going to make an announcement, or both of them were, or they were going to get into a fight over it. At least, everyone knew, something exciting was bound to happen. And so, the parking lot in front of the long, one-story white building was full.

  The front lawn of the Breitenstrater Pie Company—a large expanse of grass befitting a golf course, broken only by a large, elegant sign with the company name and by the tables and podium set up for the pie-eating contest—was full of Paradisites eager to see what would happen.

  The podium was set up on a staging platform, on which there was a long table covered with white tablecloths, on which sat ten pies. The top two winners would get the honor of riding with Alan Breitenstrater in his Jaguar in the Breitenstrater Founder’s Day Parade. Of course, Cletus always competed and won, so the real competition was among the other nine contestants. This year, in front of each pie was the name of the employee who would compete by eating that pie—that was a little different, I thought. And a little formal. The names had never been put in front of the pies before.

  The pies, I knew, were chocolate cream—Cletus’s favorite. And the tablecloths would be a mess. But I would get them to my laundromat as soon as this was over and get them clean.

  I’d gone home and showered after leaving Slinky with Trudy, who promised to come to the pie-eating contest and talk her uncle and dad into behaving and letting the fireworks go on as usual. I’d changed into a fresh T-shirt and shorts and sandals, and dotted makeup over my bug bites. Now the contest was about to start. I’d wandered through the crowd several times, looking for Trudy—but she was a no-show.

  And so was Cletus. Usually, up until the last minute of the contest, Cletus worked the crowd, nagging everyone to cheer him on, as if he didn’t know the whole contest was rigged in his favor, and rambling on about his latest research interests.

  The other nine contestants were seated behind their pies. Alan, with Dinky, Todd, and Geri close by him, hovered near the podium, looking nervous.

  I’d seen several people I knew, including Winnie and Chief John Worthy. I’d chatted with Winnie and waved at the chief when he glared across the crowd at me.

  “Josie?”

  I turned and saw Owen. He was looking at me with a sweet sadness that made my heart lurch and my tummy drop. I was glad to see him. Why had I—even for a moment—thought that Todd Raptor was sexy or cute? I moved toward Owen to hug him, then remembered that he hadn’t called me all week since we’d visited Guy. Of course, I hadn’t called him, either. We’d been avoiding each other, knowing we wanted to avoid the conversation that would have to come sooner or later about Owen’s conflicting stories about his past.

  Now I stopped short, smiled, and tried to look casual and sexy all at once. It would have helped if I hadn’t been holding a handful of extra-large garbage bags to use to gather up the bibs and tablecloths.

  “Oh, hi, Owen,” I said.

  “Josie—I’m sorry I haven’t been very communicative this week. I really meant to come by the theatre a few times to see how you and Sally were getting on.”

  “Oh, you knew I was working with her on that?”

  “Word spreads in a town like this,” he said, echoing my earlier thoughts, but sounding bitter. “Listen, I came here because I knew I’d find you here. Can we talk after this?”

  “Sure—yes. I’ll have to get the tablecloths to my laundromat, but—”

  ”I’ll help you with them. Then we’ll talk,” he said.

  I felt anxious—and surprised at how much it mattered to me what he had to say. After all, we’d only been going out less than a year, but what he wanted to say to me suddenly mattered a lot more than anything else. I knew it had something to do with his odd comments to Craig Somerberg.

  “Uh, Ladies and Gentlemen, it appears that my brother Cletus is running a bit late.” That was Alan Breitenstrater addressing the crowd, which hushed and turned its attention to him. Owen and I did, too.

  “You know how he is. Probably off researching pie-eating contest histories to share with us all.” A polite twitter went up that was awkward—we couldn’t not laugh at Alan’s little joke, but then again, by laughing, we were laughing at his little brother. Nothing was ever simple with the Breitenstraters.

  “After the pie-eating contest I have an important announcement to make. But while we’re waiting for Cletus to arrive, I’ll make at least part of the announcement now. Breitenstrater Pie Company has developed a new line of health-food pies! For example, a tasty lemon cream pie dosed with ginseng powder! And we have plenty of samples”—Alan gestured to the cart of pies right behind the podium—”for everyone to taste . . . I’ll even serve the samples myself!”

  A general hum went up from the crowd that could be interpreted as a tiny moan of appreciation for the free pie samples—or a groan. Lemon ginseng cream health pies? What on earth was Alan thinking? No one eats pie for its health benefits—at least, not its physical health benefits, although I personally believe that on some days the only thing for one’s mental health is a big piece of apple pie—a la mode, of course.

  “If sports power bars can be huge moneymakers, so can health-food pies! And Breitenstrater will be at the forefront of this new pie-marketing revolution!” Alan was warming up to his speech now. “Why, just as Nike is to sports shoes, the Breitenstrater name will be to health-food pies. And to help us with this transition—”

  “Uh, Uncle Alan—” that was Dinky, suddenly up on the podium beside his uncle, speaking into the microphone. “I’m afraid the heat is getting to the lemon ginseng pies—their no-fat filling is looking a little, uh, unhealthy in this sun.”

  Again, a quick little polite
nervous twitter ran through the crowd. Alan Breitenstrater clearly did not appreciate his nephew’s interruption or his humor. His face was quickly turning red, and he looked very upset and unhappy.

  “So, Uncle Alan, why don’t you fill in for my dad in the pie-eating contest, and then finish your announcement while the crowd tries the new pies? C’mon, everyone, what do you say? Let’s have Alan Breitenstrater in the pie-eating contest for once!”

  The crowd, of course, gave a big cheer—while Alan suddenly stared with horror at the pie behind Cletus’s name. Maybe he really hated chocolate cream?

  Suddenly, he picked up the pie and threw the whole thing into the trashcan next to the table—but not without first smearing at least a quarter of the pie’s filling down the side of the table cloth. Great, I thought. This was going to be extra challenging to clean up.

  Alan took over the microphone from Dinky. “Sure I’ll fill in—but I’ll have one of these wonderful lemon ginseng health pies, instead.”

  A ripple of applause went through the crowd as someone—with all the people around Alan, it was hard to see who—took a lemon ginseng pie from the cart behind him and put it at Cletus’s spot.

  Dinky frowned, but said into the microphone, as Alan took his seat at Cletus’s spot and tied on his bib, “All right contestants. I’ll count down, and then I’ll start timing. Uh, Uncle Alan, your stopwatch?” Alan handed over his stopwatch to Dinky, glaring at him as though he feared his nephew would run off and hock it at a second-hand shop. Dinky fiddled with the stopwatch—until Geri showed him how to use it—and then held it aloft. “All right, the two who finish their pies first get to ride with, well, I guess with me this year, huh, Uncle Alan, since you’re competing!” The crowd gave a little laugh, which cut off when Alan scowled angrily up at Dinky. “Contestants, hands behind your backs.”

  The other nine contestants looked at Alan, to be sure to give him a head start, just as they would have for Cletus. “Three, two, one, on your mark, ready, Go!” hollered Dinky.

  Alan started eating his lemon ginseng health-food pie first as the crowd began chanting encouragement, then, after thirty seconds or so, the other contestants began tucking into their not-so-healthy chocolate cream pies.

  But a few seconds later, suddenly Alan Breitenstrater reared up from his pie and stared out at the crowd, wide-eyed. His chin and mouth were covered with lemon ginseng cream . . . but the rest of his face was red and contorted in a pained expression. He gave a high keening gasp that sounded, for all the world, just like Slinky’s wail.

  And then Alan fell face-forward into his pie.

  The other contestants looked up, their chocolate cream-covered faces all turned toward Alan.

  Geri was the first one over to Alan.

  ‘Alan? Alan?” She shook his shoulders, but he didn’t respond. “Oh my God, someone call 911! Alan’s had a heart attack!”

  8

  And so it was that Alan Breitenstrater died of a heart attack while eating a lemon ginseng health-food pie at his own company’s pie-eating contest.

  Right after his collapse, there was a moment of stunned silence. Then Geri screaming for someone to call 911. Then people starting to rush in around Alan and the table with the pies. Then Dinky, Todd Raptor, and a few of the contestants trying to keep everyone else back while Chief John Worthy moved Alan to the ground and (from the murmurs that passed back through the crowd, since we didn’t have a direct view) then did CPR on him, to no effect.

  To Chief Worthy’s credit, he kept going—no matter the mess of the lemon ginseng health-food pie—until the ambulance came, its sirens blasting, right up by the pie-eating contest table. Two patrol cars rushed in behind them—their officers, plus Chief Worthy, representing the whole of the on-duty Paradise Police Department at the moment. The paramedics rushed out with a portable defibrillator, working on Alan until it became obvious that Mr. Alan Breitenstrater, CEO and president of Breitenstrater Pies, Inc., and feared descendent of one of Paradise’s founding families, was beyond recovery.

  The paramedics covered his body and lifted him on a gurney into the ambulance, which left silently and slowly. I reckon there’s rarely any need to rush to the county morgue.

  Todd and Dinky escorted a sobbing, inconsolable Geri to a patrol car. All three piled in and were driven away.

  Chief Worthy and two other officers started asking the crowd to go home. People began wandering off, but I gestured to Owen and Winnie to come closer to me.

  Owen was wiping his brow with a handkerchief, his hand shaking. Winnie just looked drained and tired. I felt shocked, too, but I didn’t have time to examine my feelings and neither did they. I’d been thinking, while the ambulance crew was trying to save Alan, and I had a theory. To see if it was right, we all had work to do.

  “Listen up,” I whispered. “Owen, you get the lemon ginseng health-food pie—the one Alan fell into—and close its box and put it in this bag.” I thrust a trash bag at him. “Winnie, you get the chocolate pie—the one Alan threw away in the garbage can—and put it and the tablecloth in this bag.” I thrust another trash bag at her. “You’ll both be working the end of the table where Alan was. I’ll cover for you by making a distraction at the other end. Just do it fast, and bring the pies to my laundromat, and for pity’s sake, whatever the two of you do, don’t eat any of either pie.”

  Winnie looked at me in horror. “Josie, why would we want to eat from a pie Alan Breitenstrater died in? And why do you want us to—”

  I swatted her on the arm. “Shush up! I didn’t mean I thought you were going to cut yourself a nice slice and eat it along with a nice cup of coffee—or, I guess, herbal tea, in the case of the ginseng pie. Just, if you happen to get some of the pie on your hands, wipe it off quickly, don’t lick it off absent-mindedly. And as to why I want you to do this—trust me. I had plenty of time to come up with a theory while we waited for the ambulance. I’ll tell you at the laundromat. Now, hurry, before someone takes the pies away.” Nervously, I eyed a Breitenstrater Pie Company security guard heading over our way.

  Winnie, giving me her raised-left-eyebrow-you’d-better-have-a-good-reason look, took her bag and headed toward the garbage can.

  Owen just stood, staring into space.

  “Owen!” I whispered. “Are you okay? Did you hear what I just said?”

  Owen startled, then refocused on me. “What? Oh. Yes, certainly, Josie. It’s just—it’s awful to see someone die like that, unexpectedly.”

  Sure it was, I thought, watching him head toward the table. Funny, though. I got the feeling he wasn’t really talking about Alan Breitenstrater.

  But I didn’t have time to wonder about that. The security guard had noticed Winnie (digging through the trash) and Owen (eyeing the health-food pie, well, distastefully) and was hotfooting it over to them.

  I needed to distract him somehow. And as the good Lord would have it, the moment I realized that, the most recent Breitenstrater TV ad—the first one to ever run nationally—popped into my head.

  I ran over to the last table in the row of three tables on which there were four untouched chocolate cream pies. And I grabbed the end of the tablecloth. And yanked as hard and suddenly as I could.

  Of course, on TV, that tablecloth snapped out from under the pies as smooth as silk. In real life, the few people still milling around started yelping as the pies went flying like pie grenades, then hit the ground, sending chocolate cream pie filling splattering up. Fortunately, only a few people had their pants legs splattered, although one toddler in new white tennis shoes ambled right on through a pie that had somehow landed whole, right side up, even as his mama ran after him hollering. The pie ruckus made everyone in the area turn and glare at me. I just gave a little wave back. They all knew they could come by my laundromat later for free stain-removing advice. The important thing was that the ruckus distracted the security guard from Winnie and Owen, and made him come trotting over to me.

  “Josie Toadfern, what in tarnation do you th
ink you’re doing?” he hollered.

  I peered closer at the heavy-set man huffing at me. His face was mottled red, his brows pulling together so hard and fast that they changed the pitch of his security-guard company-issued ball cap.

  “Why, Chuck Winks, I about didn’t recognize you in that uniform.” I lifted my eyebrows. “You look right nice in it, too.”

  Truth be told, Chuck Winks Sr. looked miserable in his uniform. It was too tight, and, from the scowl on his face, it was also too itchy in several unmentionable spots. His forehead was shiny with sweat.

  “Hmrnph. Had to get an extra job to start putting something aside for retirement. It’s become clear Junior isn’t gonna be the major league star I thought he’d be,” Chuck groused. “And after all those years of me coaching his Little League teams. He wants to quit now. Can you imagine?”

  Yes, yes, I surely could. I couldn’t blame Chuck Jr., aka Chucky, aka Charlemagne, one bit, in fact. A quick glance past Chuck Sr.’s shoulder gave me the happy view of Winnie and Owen casually ambling away from the contest table with their pie-laden trash bags. I smiled sweetly at Chuck Sr.

  “Now, don’t give up on Chucky just yet,” I said. “Maybe his baseball experience is really just leading him to some other destiny.” I patted Chuck Sr. on the arm. “You shouldn’t worry so much.”

  “Aww, easy for you to say. You ain’t got a pinched nerve from pitching for years to your boy,” he said, holding out his right arm. “See that? I can’t bend it out all the way without all kinds of pain—”

  “Josie Toadfern, what’s going on over here?”

  I cringed. That was Chief John Worthy. He came up along beside Chuck Sr. and me.

  ‘Yeah, Josie, what was it with the pie thing?” Chuck Sr. asked, suddenly all business. He looked at Chief Worthy. “I was just asking her about that.”

  I pulled my face into reverent surprise. “You mean to tell me the two of you haven’t seen the latest Breitenstrater Pie Company ad?”

  I looked from Chuck Sr. to Chief Worthy. The corner of his left eye twitched, which it often did whenever he glared at me.