Never Say Pie

by Carol Culver

  My story? It sounded like he thought I made it all up. I clamped my mouth shut to keep from saying something I’d regret.

  “Until then I know where to find you if I need more information. You’re free to go.”

  “Thank you,” I said, choking back a retort. I wasn’t ready to go. I refused to be dismissed like a school girl. I had questions for Sam.

  “If you won’t tell me what the others told you I’ll have to ask them myself.”

  “That’s up to you. I can only advise you to keep out of this. My advice to you is …”

  “I know, stick to baking,” I said. If only. “How can you even ask me to do that when you suspect me of murder? Or don’t you? And if you don’t, I want to know who you do suspect, but I guess you’re not going to tell me anything, am I right?”

  “Yes,” he said loudly as he pounded his fist on his desk. “You are right. I am not going to confide in you in regard to this murder. It’s my job, not yours. If I need your help I’ll ask you.”

  In my dreams. He was never going to ask me for help. At least I had the satisfaction of snapping his cool, calm, and collected demeanor. But did that help me accomplish anything I wanted? He still probably suspected me and I had no clue what the others had told him.

  So I stood with all the dignity I could muster after being shouted at by the chief of police and told in no uncertain terms not to meddle. I’ve been through worse than that. I was fired from my job in the city under a cloud of suspicion when I didn’t deserve it. I’d fallen hard for someone who didn’t deserve me. I came back here when I vowed I never would. When I left at age eighteen, I thought I was too good for this town. Twelve years later when Grannie offered me her pie shop I grabbed onto it like a life saver, which it had been. Maybe Sam was right. I needed to devote myself to my new career and forget about the nasty food critic. And now because Heath was no longer on the scene, I wouldn’t have to hold my pie contest. Good thing Sam didn’t know anything about that problem or he’d figure I had enough motive to kill the critic.

  I walked slowly to the door, chin in the air as if I had a stack of books on my head and was practicing to be a runway model. I turned before I left and looked Sam in the eye. I spoke calmly. For me that is. “Mr. Barr is dead. I’m not guilty and I’m not sorry. You can put that in your police log or in your column.”

  I didn’t slam the door behind me. I closed it firmly before Sam had a chance to respond. Then I stomped back to my shop without a backward glance. Instead of flaking out and turning in early, my adrenaline was pumping and I was much too charged up to do anything but work. As I sometimes did, I used baking as a therapy tool and went out of my way to think up some savory new items for the fair the next day so I wouldn’t dwell on the investigation revolving around me.

  First I made individual Argentine empanadas with ground beef, chopped hard-boiled eggs, onions, green olives and spices, all encased in a flaky puff pastry crust. Next I put together a batch of cheese bourekas, those Middle-Eastern cheese-filled pastry pockets. I thought people would want something small and savory to munch on as they strolled the market on a warm sunny Saturday. It’s always good to introduce the locals to different tastes as well as the old reliable standards like the pies I’d told Sam about. I’d see how business was tomorrow and then make any adjustments to my menu for next week.

  I wondered if anyone but us vendors knew about Heath’s demise. Whoever knew, whoever didn’t know and didn’t care … we’d all be back at the fair, one week after we’d been soundly bashed by the critic. The good thing was we had no need to be afraid of being criticized by him ever again. As for myself, I could kiss my pie contest good-bye now that Heath was out of the picture. As far as I knew, the Gazette had never had a food critic in the past and maybe would never have one again. I wished I knew who to credit for the loss of his presence. Not that I approve of murder. But I wasn’t crying buckets over it either. Maybe if I’d met the man I’d feel sorrier that he was dead.

  The next morning I arrived early at the fair after a restless night. I didn’t sleep well. Maybe because I was not only worried about a killer on the loose, I was even more worried about being mistaken for that killer. By the chief of police of all people. I dressed in layers, a pair of cut-off denim shorts then some stretch pants, a tank top covered with an oversized sweater which felt good at eight this morning, but by noon would be way too heavy. Then I packed my station wagon to the brim with pies, along with my portable cooler. The awning and the structure of the booth would be set up by the fair work crew. All I had to do was arrange my pies and sell them.

  My stalwart student worker Manda arrived at the fair shortly after I did and after we set up and unpacked the pies, I took advantage of her presence to walk around before the opening bell.

  I loved that time of day. Sellers were unloading their trucks and vans as the sun was just warming the pavement of the school parking lot. The fresh-picked leafy green vegetables looked crisp and succulent. The corn in green husks was piled high, waiting to be shucked. Strawberries, peaches, and nectarines were at their prime, oozing juice and sweet flavor. Everything was so calm and peaceful it was hard to imagine anything bad happening around here. In fact, I couldn’t help thinking positively. Something good was bound to happen. Sam would catch the murderer. It would be a stranger, an outsider. No one we knew. Why would a stranger kill Heath Barr? I had no answer for that. But when we found out we would all be relieved and grateful to our police chief. I would sell all my pies.

  I was dying to talk to my fellow vendors to find out what happened when they met with Sam the night before. After their interviews they’d each taken off without saying much and looking shaken. I hoped they too would be feeling more upbeat today.

  But it didn’t look promising. As the sun rose and the booths opened, none of my new friends seemed willing to talk to me. What had Sam done to them? Threatened them with arrest if they got in touch with me or each other? Warned them that I was a problem? Told them I was trouble with a capital T? Or was it just my imagination?

  First I dashed across the aisle to approach Lurline, who said she was too busy to talk. She did give me a lemon coconut cupcake though. Maybe that was to divert me, or to buy me off. If I could be bought off, cupcakes were the way to do it. I said I’d see her later and walked back to my pies licking the frosting off my lips. And wondering. Was it just my own anxiety or was Lurline acting strange?

  Later when I had a chance for a brief break, I dropped by the sausage booth. Bill said he was short-handed. Dave couldn’t make it and he was all by himself. I murmured something sympathetic and he told me again I should come by to see their ranch. “You can’t appreciate our pork products until you see how we coddle our pigs. Fresh air, good food and movable pens, and healthy soil. You ever see how pigs live?” he asked.

  I had to admit I hadn’t. Even more than seeing how the pigs lived in their movable pens, I wanted to hear how his interview with Sam went, but this wasn’t the place to ask him about it. There were too many potential customers milling about, all in search of the best buys in home-grown pig products. I also wanted to see how they raised pigs to sell and how they made their sausage. I knew what they said about sausage making. You may love the final product but you don’t want to watch them make it. But I did. I really did. Since I couldn’t discuss anything about the murder here or what had happened in the police station, I decided then to take Bill up on his offer.

  As for Jacques, the European cheese maker, he was not his usual outgoing self. Maybe he was saving himself for the paying customers. Or worried the police were going to corner him and ask more questions. Or just into his performance as a cheese salesman extraordinaire. He was setting up to make sandwiches out of his white cheddar cheese, torpedo onions, escarole, and sourdough bread. “All the ingredients are from our own Food Fair,” he announced to the crowd that was starting to gather to watch this French chef with his white chef’s hat and large striped apron. No wonder he didn’t have time for m
e. But I made time for him. He was the epitome of what it takes to make it at the market. He looked great. He talked fast with a to-die-for accent. He was enthusiastic. And had some fantastic food to sell. He had a small hot plate where he was grilling the sliced onion with chopped garlic.

  “Brush the bread with some of the olive oil in the pan,” he said waving his brush in the air with a flourish. No wonder he attracted a crowd and the fair had barely opened. He had a flair for drama. After he assembled the sautéed onions, the cheese, the escarole between two slices of sourdough bread from Lindsey and Tammy’s bread booth, he flipped the sandwiches into the pan and cooked them until the cheese was gooey and oozing out onto the crust. It all looked and smelled heavenly. When he cut up the sandwich into little sample bites my mouth watered, but standing at the edge of the crowd I didn’t get even one bite.

  Frustrated I hadn’t had a chance to grill Jacques as he was too busy grilling the sandwiches, I bought a high moisture Jack cheese studded with rosemary from him. He thanked me, then he leaned forward and said, “How are you doing?”

  “Okay,” I said. “You?”

  He nodded, then waited on some other customers. I sensed he was disturbed—either by Heath’s murder or by Sam’s questioning him. He certainly wasn’t his usual flirtatious self. Or maybe I was the one who wasn’t my usual self. I left to go back to my booth so Manda could go to her SAT class at the high school. Who knows what would have happened if I’d done better on my SATs. I might be chief of police now myself. Sometimes I thought my life would have been more exciting if I’d gone into law enforcement—not police chief, but something like bounty hunter or private investigator where intuition would be an asset. Sam was competent and very smart and good at what he did. He was also authoritative, which is important. I told myself making a profit off of pies is challenging enough and the job has been good to me.

  I wished Sam would hurry up and solve this mystery. Not just to clear my name and my friends’ names and let us get back to normal life, but for his own sake and his reputation in town.

  I hated having him tell me to go back to the kitchen. I knew where I belonged. I was kidding myself thinking I could do both—bake pies and help find clues. On the other hand, I was involved in this murder whether Sam liked it or not. I’d had a run-in with Heath and that put me on the suspect list. How could I not be involved? I sighed.

  There was nothing I could do. I didn’t have training and even if I did, Sam would never let me get near a suspect. Unless he didn’t know about it. All I could do for now was to keep my eyes and ears open and if I heard something, I’d pass it on to the authorities. In the meantime, Sam was right. Baking pies was my job. I was good at it. I needed to concentrate on what I did best.

  “I need a gimmick,” I said to Grannie and her chums when they stopped by.

  “Nonsense,” Grannie insisted. “You have quality pies. Why do you need a gimmick?”

  “Because everyone else has one,” I said, averting my eyes from Lurline’s booth where she was icing cupcakes with the initials of the customer while they waited. “Actually someone suggested I hold a pie contest.” I waited expecting Grannie and her friends to throw up their hands and say, “A pie contest? What for? That’s the most ridiculous idea I ever heard.” But they didn’t.

  “How would that work?” Helen asked.

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure. Never mind. The person who suggested it is … out of the picture.” That was for sure. Heath Barr was as far out of the picture as possible. I could forget about the pie contest.

  Helen put her hand on my arm. “I actually like the idea of the contest,” she said. “You’ll be the judge. People will bring their pies to your shop and you’ll have a bake-off. The customers can vote.”

  “Or your grandmother could be the judge,” Grace said with a nod toward Grannie. “You could charge an entry fee and give the money to charity. Or not. All you need is a prize.”

  Now I was getting worried. They were really into this contest thing. I should have kept my mouth shut.

  “I have a silver tea service. I never use it,” Helen said. “Not since I moved to Heavenly Acres.”

  “But Helen,” I protested, “you might want to have a tea some afternoon for your friends.”

  “If I do, I’ll invite them up on the hill,” she said referring to Heavenly Acres Retirement Home located on a hill above town with an ocean view. “We have tea every afternoon in the dining room or on the terrace. It’s a lovely atmosphere and very nicely done with the little cucumber sandwiches and all.”

  “But what about your heirs? Won’t they want to inherit your tea set?”

  “I offered it to my daughter, she turned me down. So it’s yours for a good cause. Whatever the cause. Whether it’s to encourage home baking or promote your pie shop.”

  “That’s very generous of you,” I said. The way she said it made the contest sound like a public service. “I’ll think about it. Are you sure it’s a good idea? What if someone out there is a better baker than I am?”

  Grannie shook her head in disbelief. Helen and Grace assured me it wasn’t possible. Still I had in no way committed myself yet.

  Grannie then sidled up to me and said in a loud whisper. “Is it true about the food critic?”

  I nodded. “You mean …”

  “That he was murdered?”

  “That’s what they say,” I said.

  She shook her head. “I should never have retired. This town has gone to rack and ruin since I gave up the shop.”

  “You’re not saying I had anything to do with this homicide or any other unnatural death are you?”

  “Of course not, it’s not your fault. It’s the times we live in. I thought I’d be safe up at Heavenly Acres. But now I’m looking over my shoulder. Until they catch the murderer.”

  “You are safe. Just don’t criticize anyone in the Gazette and you’ll stay safe.”

  “Then you think it was someone Mr. Barr dumped on who offed him,” Grannie said.

  I hid a smile when I heard Grannie talking like a mobster. “That’s my theory.”

  “Then Sam will catch him.” Grannie thought Sam rivaled any detective, whether Sam Spade, Columbo, or Sherlock Holmes.

  “You think it was a him?”

  “No woman could have done such a horrible thing,” Grannie said with a frown. “Slit his throat with a cake knife.”

  “Where’d you hear that?” I asked. As if I didn’t know. The retirement home was a hotbed of gossip that spread faster than an outbreak of influenza.

  “Oh you know. Here and there,” she said vaguely.

  “Which reminds me,” I said, “I want to check out the knife seller. I’ve never seen his booth.”

  “Over there,” she said with a nod in the direction of the high school. “I passed by it earlier. His display is quite attractive and he’s not bad himself. Go ahead, we’ll watch the booth.”

  After that description I expected a guy who ran a booth called The Perfect Edge with a dazzling selection of knives, cleavers, spatulas, and other kitchen tools to look tough, with bulging muscles and maybe wearing camouflage. But this man looked like the grandfather I never had with a smiley face and a thatch of white hair. I didn’t blame Grannie for not providing me with a grandfather. She’d had two husbands, the latest after I’d left the nest. And she’d done a great job being mother, father, grandmother, and grandfather to me, all the while running a pie shop too.

  “What can I do for you my dear?” the man said with a smile on his round face.

  “I’m Hanna over at The Upper Crust. I’ve got one of your knives.” Or I did have one until Sam took it. And I’ve got an unmarried grandmother who needs a man in her life. “It’s perfect for slicing and serving my pies.”

  “Hello there, Hanna from The Upper Crust. It’s nice to hear something good about my kitchen knives. If only everyone was as positive as you are. But unfortunately …” He stopped and took a deep breath. When he picked up a long serrated br
ead knife with a smooth wooden handle I saw his hand shake.

  I waited, hoping to hear more. But maybe neither of us wanted to bring up the topic of murder.

  “As with all tools,” he said. “They can be used for good or bad. Which is what I told the police chief just a short time ago when he confiscated all my remaining stock of the model you mentioned.”

  I wanted to say, He didn’t accuse you of murder, did he? But maybe this kindly grandfather figure wouldn’t tell me if he did. Maybe he’d be shocked to hear what his knife-spatula had done yesterday. If Sam hadn’t told him.

  He reached up on the display board behind him where he had all kinds of knives and spatulas hanging in an artful display. Even Kate couldn’t have made a better arrangement. He grabbed a knife set and held it out. “I recommend this one. Made of rosewood,” he said, “hand crafted. Has to be rubbed with mineral oil to protect the wood and preserve the grain.”

  I ran my finger over the blade. This was a lovely knife, but not useful for any kind of tough job like cutting meat. Or cutting throats. “It’s beautiful,” I said. If only I and my colleagues had bought this ornamental wooden set instead of the deadly one, would Heath Barr be alive today? That was presuming one of them committed the murder and I didn’t really believe that, did I?

  I looked at the knives on his counter and focussed on another combination knife/spatula that I really liked. Charley, the knife seller followed my gaze.

  “That’s the Italian artisan knife, made by hand in Piedmont by old-world craftsmen. The rest of my knives are machine-made. They do the job but they’re strictly utilitarian. I’m the only one in California who sells this beauty. For those who want the best. That’s you, if I’m not mistaken,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. Ah yes, this was the grandfather I’d always wanted. The kind who would have taught me to ride a bicycle and carved ABC blocks for me in his garage. He put the hand-made knife into my hand and I felt the smooth wood against my palm and the shape that fit my grasp as if it were made for me.