by Sharon Short
Of course they’d seen it, and I let them think about the ad for a moment: in it, Geri Breitenstrater, dressed up like an angel, sat at a cloth-covered table, a pie before her. She took a bite when suddenly an actor dressed like the devil—forked tail and all—popped in, grabbed the edge of the tablecloth, and whipped it out from under the pie, without the pie even moving. Then Geri took another bite, calmly, as if nothing weird happened, while a voice-over stated, “Breitenstrater Pies. A Little Taste of Paradise—no matter what the circumstances.”
Rumor had it that Alan had paid some mega ad agency in Boston to create the TV ad—a real departure from him standing in front of the camera, stiff as a board, holding a pie and saying in a monotone, “The Breitenstraters have been making pies for many generations, based on my great-great-great-great-grandmother Gertrude’s recipes. Breitenstrater Pies—A Little Taste of Paradise.”
It was the first nationally run Breitenstrater ad, made in an effort to boost sagging sales, and rumor had it that it cost so much, Alan had let two long-term employees go to cover the expense . . . but of course, he kept driving the company-leased Jaguar . . .
Maybe, I thought, there were lots of people who would like to see Alan dead. A whole company’s worth. Would his announcement have anything to do with more layoffs or ads?
“So what about the ad?” Chief Worthy said impatiently, pulling back my attention.
“I have to take the tablecloths to my laundromat for cleaning—I have a contract with Breitenstrater Pie Company to do all their linens. And I just thought—” I paused, gave a little sniffle, “—that I’d remove the tablecloths that way as an homage, you know, to Mr. Breitenstrater, because he was so darn proud of that ad.”
″Aww, Josie,” said Chuck Sr. “That is just so darned sweet.”
Chief Worthy, on the other hand, was not impressed. He leaned a little closer to me, glaring. “You need a little practice,” he said, “because you’ve made a mess.”
”Don’t worry about it, Josie, I’ll go round up some guys to clean up those pies,” Chuck said.
Chief Worthy waited until Chuck Sr. ambled off. “I’m not so easily fooled,” he said. “What’s really going on?”
“Just what I said already. But, along the lines of what’s really going on, do you really think Alan Breitenstrater had a heart attack?”
“What? Of course he did. Why would you—”
“Now hear me out. Did you see how he stared all worried at the chocolate pie and insisted on a substitute? Plus Cletus isn’t here. Neither is Trudy, but she’s a teen, so I can see where she might not want to be at a pie-eating contest. But Cletus’s absence is mighty curious, don’t you think?”
Chief Worthy gave me a hard look. “Are you trying to tell me that you think Cletus somehow rigged Alan’s heart attack?”
“No. I’m just trying to tell you that something’s going on that bears investigating. I mean, Alan and Cletus each had important announcements to make today but Cletus didn’t show up—and I don’t have to tell you how much he loved this contest—and Alan died before making his full announcement. And did you see how Alan stared at the chocolate pie that was reserved for Cletus? Like he was frightened? I’m just saying—something’s definitely wrong with this picture, and what if it does play into Alan’s heart attack somehow? Don’t you think—”
Chief Worthy jumped in before I could finish. “What I think,” he said, his face red and his lips tightly clenched, “is that you think too much about stuff that’s none of your business.” He bared his teeth in what was supposed to be a grin, reminding me of one of those aggressive monkeys on the cable TV nature channels.
“And that,” he finished up, “is why everyone calls you Nosey Josie.”
And that comment, as I told him later, is why I never finished giving him my theory and had to investigate it all on my own.
* * *
But I did share my theory with Owen and Winnie when we met up in the tiny parking lot next to my laundromat. They got there ahead of me and were standing out in the parking lot beside their cars when I pulled in, each holding the plastic bags I’d given them as if they held toxic waste instead of pies. Which, given my theory, maybe they did. At least the lemon ginseng pie bag.
I let us into my laundromat—we were alone because I close my laundromat on Sundays—and told them my theory as I flipped on the ceiling fans and the big floor fans. Even with the shades pulled down over the plate-glass front windows, the laundromat gets hot in a hurry.
Winnie put her bag on a table and sat down in a folding chair. “You mean to tell me,” she said, eyeing her bag warily, “that you think Cletus worked with someone to poison the chocolate pie and then didn’t show so Alan would have to step in and eat it? Dear, old gentle Cletus?”
“Dear, old gentle Cletus has lived under his brother’s thumb for a long time—not to mention all the guilt he’s been made to feel about Dinky’s role in Jason’s death.”
Owen came over, bearing three ice-cold cans of Big Fizz Diet Cola. He’d gotten them from the pop machine in the front corner of my laundromat, using the key I keep under the cash register counter to open up the machine. Friends are entitled to freebies.
He sat down next to Winnie. I stood, leaning against the folding table that now held the pie bags. We were quiet for a moment, clicking open our pop cans, taking long drinks, just enjoying their good coldness and the little breeze the fans had whipped up.
Then Owen said, “So why did we get the ginseng pie, too?”
“Because of how Alan looked at the chocolate one. I think both pies were poisoned—maybe Alan got wind of the chocolate pie poisoning somehow, and Cletus knew he was suspicious, and the lemon ginseng pie was a backup.”
“Your theory is mighty complicated,” Winnie said.
“So is the Breitenstrater family,” I said.
“Okay then, who was working with Cletus to pull this off?” Winnie asked.
“Geri, Dinky, and Todd were up there with Alan at all times. Which one of them handed Alan the lemon ginseng pie?” asked Owen. ‘After all, whoever was working with Cletus—given Josie’s theory—would have to know which pie to pick, because all the pies were supposed to be sampled later.”
“I wonder what this’ll do to lemon ginseng health-food pie sales,” Winnie said, with a chuckle. Owen and I just looked at her. “Sorry,” Winnie said. ‘Anyway, it was hard to see who handed Alan the pie, but Geri was closest to the pie cart.”
I shook my head. “I thought it was Dinky who handed Alan the pie.”
“I’m not so sure,” Owen said. “From where I stood, it looked like Alan might have grabbed it himself. Although Todd was right behind Alan.”
“My bet is that Dinky is in on this plot with Cletus,” Winnie said. “After all, he was driving the night poor Jason died—and he’s had to live with Alan’s blame and hate all these years. Not that I really blame Alan. May he rest in peace.”
“But why would Dinky and Cletus act now? They’ve lived with Alan’s rage all these years because Alan gives them a comfortable life—if I understand the Breitenstrater clan correctly,” Owen said.
“You do,” Winnie and I said together.
“So I’m guessing Geri acted either with Cletus—or even alone,” Owen said. “Assuming foul play.”
“I have it on good word that Geri really does love Alan—never mind the gold digger rumors,” I said. I didn’t want to go into how I’d come to have a conversation with Todd Raptor about that.
”Plus Geri seemed so upset by Alan’s heart attack,” Winnie said.
“Geri’s emotions could be an act,” Owen said. ‘And she’s a lot younger than Alan. Maybe she didn’t realize what she was getting into when she married Alan and wanted out. Sometimes people get into situations they don’t really mean to.”
Owen gazed into his Big Fizz can, and I stared at him. That last statement, I thought, didn’t sound like his usual theorizing.
Winnie didn’t notice that we’d be
en sidetracked—Owen by whatever was going on in his head, and me by yet another surge of doubts about Owen. Did I really know this man?
Winnie demanded, “Okay, but what about Cletus’s absence?”
“What? Oh,” Owen said, looking up suddenly from his can. “Cletus is interested in chasing after so many pursuits—everything from fireworks to Utopian history to herbal medicines—like a kid chasing butterflies. I would think it wouldn’t be too hard to find some way to distract Cletus from the pie-eating contest, if Geri was working alone and not with him, just to make sure the wrong brother didn’t get the poisoned pie. What do you think, Josie?”
“I’m afraid we’re not going to agree again, because my suspicion is with Todd Raptor.”
“Because he’s a newcomer to town?” Owen’s question—and his look—was suddenly sharp.
I glared at him. “No,” I said. “Because—because—” Okay, it was at least partly because Todd was a newcomer to town. But I wasn’t about to admit that to Owen. Or that Todd had acted sleazily this morning . . . or that for the first few minutes, before his come-on act turned sleazy, I’d found myself attracted to him . . .
“Skreee! Skreee! “
Winnie clapped her hands over her ears. “Oh my Lord, what’s that? A ceiling fan gone bad?”
I closed my eyes. I wasn’t going to have to answer Owen’s question, at least not for the moment. I’d been saved by the distress call of a ferret.
We found Slinky in her cage on my desk in my combo storeroom/office. She calmed down when we came into the room.
“Awww,” cooed Winnie, who loves anything small and furry. If she found a hairy snake, I swear she wouldn’t see it as an aberration. She’d name it and take it home.
She unsnapped the front door to the cage—which was at least more secure than the birdcage—and scooped Slinky out.
“Careful!” I hollered. “Don’t let her get away!”
But Slinky just snuggled up against Winnie’s shoulder, stopped keening, and sighed contentedly. If ferrets could take personality tests, Slinky would rate as an extrovert.
I rolled my eyes at Winnie and yanked off the note that was taped to the cage door. I read it aloud.
“Dear Josie—I’ve decided to hit the road, see the world, so to speak. Things are just too stressful at home. But I figured I’d have a hard time getting rides, hitchhiking with a ferret. So I’ve told Slinky she’ll just have to stay for awhile with Aunt Josie.”
Owen and Winnie snorted in lieu of full-blown laughter. I glared at them. I knew they were laughing at the thought of me as an aunt to a ferret, but I was much more worried about Trudy hitchhiking. Not a good or safe idea for a teenage girl.
Trudy’s note went on: “I know you care about her because you found her for me at the theatre. Sorry I gave you such a hard time before. I’ve left a bag of ferret chow . . .”
I glanced at my desk. Sure enough, a half-full bag of ferret chow—with its top folded down and clipped—stood right by the cage. The rest of Trudy’s note consisted of detailed instructions for feeding and bathing Slinky, for changing the shavings at the bottom of Slinky’s cage, for ensuring that Slinky got plenty of exercise . . .
I closed my eyes and moaned.
The only pet I’d ever had as a kid was a gold fish . . . and it died after a few days. I found it outside of its bowl. I was twelve then, and I imagined it hadn’t liked me and so launched itself out of its bowl in a fishy suicidal fit, maybe because I’d sung it lullabies for the three nights I’d owned it, rocking it in its little fishbowl to mimic the ocean waves I was sure it pined for.
And now, with everything else going wrong, I was supposed to play auntie to a ferret—while worrying about Trudy.
“Oh, c’mon, Josie,” Winnie said. “This will be fun! Look how cute the wittle itty-bitty-baby-ferret is.”
She was talking in universal baby goo-goo dialect. I opened one eye, just in time to see her giving Slinky a little smooch on her quivering nose. I squinched my eye back shut, fast.
“Winnie, why don’t you take Slinky,” I said.
“I have two dogs and five cats,” Winnie said. “Or I would.”
I opened my eyes and looked at Owen, pleadingly.
He held up both hands, in a silent but clear denial of my plea. “Josie, why don’t you tell us what else we can do to help you figure out if your theory is right about the poisoned lemon ginseng pie. Wasn’t that what we were talking about before we discovered your”—he glanced over at Winnie, who was still cooing at Slinky—”your niece.”
He snickered. Winnie joined in. Then they both started laughing. I took Slinky from Winnie, put the ferret in her cage, and snapped the door shut.
I glared at them. “When you finish your little laughfest, why don’t you come out into the laundromat and I’ll tell you.”
Five minutes later, both of them looking contrite, Winnie and Owen joined me in the laundromat, where I was pretreating the chocolate stains on the tablecloths. The pies I’d already pulled out of their sacks. Given what I had in mind, we’d have to carefully package them up and refrigerate them.
Winnie was carrying Slinky in her cage. Owen was right behind her.
“We’re sorry,” Winnie said.
“We’ll ferret-sit whenever you need us to,” Owen offered.
“Thanks,” I said, not looking up. I was still mad.
“C’mon, Josie, talk to us,” Owen said.
I looked at him—with his big pleading blue eyes and his cute little blond goatee and mustache—and my stupid, silly heart melted.
I sighed as I wiped my hands on a towel. “Oh, all right. Winnie, I want you to find out everything you can about Todd Raptor. I suspect him not because he’s a newcomer”—I gave Owen a sharp look. He just grinned. Damn it. He was even cuter when he grinned like that. “—but because he’s mixed up somehow in the Breitenstrater business. He’s supposedly a friend of Dinky’s—but that’s pretty hard to believe.” Winnie nodded. Being native Paradisites, we knew what a hard time Dinky had making friends with anyone for long. “And while you’re at it, see if you can find out why Dinky’s suddenly back in town. Last we knew, he had a fancy job somewhere out in California. What happened to that? We already know Geri’s background.”
Winnie was listening intently, taking notes in shorthand on the notepad she keeps in her purse. Winnie loves research. This would be a snap for her, and I knew she’d be thorough.
“Owen, you know those friends of yours who are chemistry professors out in Kansas City? The ones you went to school with in Seattle?”
“Sure,” Owen said, looking suddenly uncomfortable, glancing away.
“Well,” I went on, “I’d like you to see if we can package up these pies and ship them out to your friends for them to analyze the contents—see if either of the pies are poisoned. Do you think they could do that?”
“Sure,” Owen said. He cleared his throat, then looked at me directly. His gaze was closed to interpretation. “I mean—of course they could.”
“Fine. As for me, my job is going to be to see what I can learn from Trudy’s friends out in the forest.” I filled them in on Trudy and Charlemagne and the New Paradise Utopia. “Plus I’m going to pay a call on Geri. I need to tell her about Trudy, anyway. Maybe I can get her to talk to me.”
Winnie looked up at me, grinned. “Josie, as usual, you’ve got a plan. Who knows where it will lead this time?” She glanced at her watch. “Oops—I’m running late. My hubby’ll worry if I don’t get home soon. I’ll get started on this research right away.”
She grabbed her purse, tucked the notepad back in, waved at us, and trotted out the front door.
And that left just Owen and me alone together in the laundromat.
* * *
For a long moment, we just stared at each other.
It was tempting, looking into his big blue eyes, to just push aside all the questions I had in my head. But I couldn’t. I forced myself to think clearly—not get swayed by tho
se gorgeous eyes of Owen’s, that vulnerable and kissable mouth, that. . .
I cleared my throat, glanced down. “Owen,” I said. “We have to talk.”
“I know,” he said, stepping so close to me that I could feel his breath on my forehead.
“The other day, out at Stillwater, when you were talking to Craig Somerberg . . . what you said didn’t fit with what you told me about your background.”
“I know,” he said, putting his hand behind my neck, and rubbing his thumb in a little rotating motion at the nape. He knows I love that. Stop it, you bum, I thought; but I didn’t say that. Instead, I just moaned.
“And you haven’t called all week,” I said, damning myself for how my voice had gone thick.
“I know,” he said, and started kissing me.
To my credit, I resisted. For at least a full two seconds. And then I started melting into Owen’s arms. Can you blame me, really? It had been a whole week since we’d kissed . . . and what harm could it do to warm up to whatever he was going to tell me with a little kissing . . . and . . .
This time we were not interrupted by the keening skree of a panicked ferret.
Instead, we jolted apart at the sound of a thunk.
Slinky’s cage had crashed to the ground.
And Slinky had somehow gotten out. I must not have fully shut the cage door. Her snout doused in white cream . . . or maybe meringue . . . she had passed out directly between the chocolate cream and lemon ginseng pies.
9
“Oh, Lord,” I moaned, staring down at Slinky’s still, prone figure. “I’ve killed the ferret.”
“Actually, technically, it seems that one of the pies led to Slinky’s demise,” said Owen. “At least this appears to support your theory that the pies were poisoned. But which one?”
I glared at him, ready to snap that this was no time for being clever. Okay, I’d never really liked Slinky. But I didn’t want Slinky to die, either. And, obviously, I hadn’t done a good job of latching the cage door. So, technically, it was still my fault, even if Slinky’s insatiable appetite led her to sample the Breitenstrater pies.
