by Carol Culver
“I see.” So there I was. Stuck with a pie contest. Grannie would be happy and so would her friends, the potential pie judges.
He pulled a small hand-held computer/reading device from his vest pocket, hit some buttons and read to me in a monotone. “Are you a great pie baker? Do you want to taste some fabulous pies? If so, The Upper Crust Pie Bake-off is for you! Sunday at 11:00 AM is the first annual pie contest at The Upper Crust Pie Shop. Wear your apron for photo opportunities, bring your best pie, sweet or savory, with a home-made crust and at least one local ingredient, and your recipe. Prizes galore. Tastings and good times for all.’”
I stood there open-mouthed. Unable to say a word. Tastings? Home-made crust? What more was there to say? It was a done deal. Heath had sure done a job on MY pie contest. Or was it his?
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Bruce said. “As I mentioned, we’re short-handed.”
Taking a clue from Sam, I wedged my foot in the door. “I can understand that. So is this where Heath actually worked? Where he wrote that blurb? Or did he just come by and leave off his column?”
“Come by? Hardly. He actually lived in his office.” Bruce gestured to a door toward the rear of the entry-way.
“And died there too I heard,” I said.
He nodded. “What a shock. If I’d known … But he said it was just temporary and since he was donating his time and his columns… We don’t have money to pay a food and lifestyle critic. But he said he wasn’t doing it for the money. He just wanted to get some experience as a journalist. He said staying in his office was just temporary until he found a place to live.”
Someone yelled for Bruce from somewhere else. “I really have to go,” he said. “It’s been crazy here. Heath killed right here, the police … And suddenly everybody wants to be a newspaper writer.”
“Even if they don’t get paid? Even if their life is in danger?”
“Looks that way. They say there’s no such thing as bad publicity.” He nodded curtly. I was dismissed.
I turned to go. Then I looked over my shoulder. He was still standing in there looking at me. I thought you had to go, I wanted to say. So go. I smiled and waved and walked out the door. But I didn’t want to go until I’d found out something. Something besides the fact that I was hosting a pie contest thanks to Heath. I waited a few minutes and opened the door again. No Bruce. The reception area was empty except for a few empty chairs, a scarred end table, and an empty desk. All a testimony to hard times in the publishing business.
I heard voices coming from another office. I tiptoed to the door that supposedly led to Heath’s office and temporary home. No yellow crime scene tapes, but the door was locked. No big surprise there. The police had probably taken everything away including Heath in plastic bags. I pressed my ear against the door. I heard the faint sound of music that sounded like the ring tone from a cell phone. I could almost place the artist, but not quite. Could that be Heath’s cell phone left behind and still working? Or someone else’s phone like a worker from the coroner’s office who dropped it? Didn’t he miss it? Where was it? Why hadn’t someone taken it before now? What I wouldn’t give to get hold of that phone. If it was Heath’s, the police would have wanted to take it and any messages for him would be on it. And who knew what else?
I took my cell phone out of my purse and scrolled down until I found the number I’d called Heath on the other day. I pressed send and instantly heard the same song. And quickly ended the call. So it was his phone. This time I recognized the popular country song “Everybody Wants to Go to Heaven.” How appropriate was that? Did Heath have a death wish?
I was getting close to finding out something. My heart was pounding so loud I was afraid everyone in the building could hear it. If Sam had stripped the office and declared it off limits, why hadn’t he taken the cell phone? If Heath actually lived in his office and was killed in his office and his phone was still there, what else was in that office?
It was so frustrating. Why hadn’t I studied Beginning Lock Picking instead of taking Algebra Two? Of all the useless high school classes, that was the one I needed least. But Locksmithing 101, now that was something I could really use.
I finally gave up and left the office. I went down the stairs and out onto the street. I said hello to several people I knew on the town square, then I walked around to the back of the two-story brick newspaper building. It was as old as Grannie, maybe older. When I was a kid, the boys in the neighborhood got jobs delivering the Daily Gazette on their bicycles. Now it was delivered weekly by a man in a car.
I looked up and wondered if one of the windows on the second floor was Heath’s. Next to the rear of the building was a dumpster and a fire escape. I wanted badly to reach that fire escape, but it didn’t touch the ground. It was probably weight-operated and likely only descended to the ground when activated by the weight of a person leaving the building in a big hurry while flames licked at his or her boots.
If a person could get on top of the dumpster, and stand on the lid, then that person could reach the bottom rung of the fire escape with her hands and pull herself up. That person was me. No one wanted to get into that office and get that cell phone more than I did, except for Sam of course, but he wasn’t there. He didn’t know I was here and he’d better not find out. Knowing him and how proprietary he was about evidence and crime solving I could just imagine his reaction. He’d explode with fury just when everything seemed to be going so well between us. Who would have thought he’d suggest we go together on a fun trip to a farm? I didn’t want to do anything to upset our new and improved relationship. I didn’t want to sit by and let a murder go unsolved or a piece of evidence go missing either.
Just then a delivery truck drove up to the back of the newspaper building. Two guys in overalls jumped out and dumped stacks of boxes labeled Orion Pulp and Paper Products on the ground. I had a moment of grief for the fallen trees it took to make that much newsprint. Some day all newspapers would be electronic. But not yet. The men looked at me like they’d never seen anyone standing in back of a building on a Monday morning looking suspicious. I smiled to assure them I was a harmless nobody and walked back to the street where my car was parked. If I was going to do something like break into an office, I’d better wait until dark. Besides, I’d left Manda minding the shop and she had an appointment with her college counselor that morning.
The day sped by even with that cell phone on my mind. I concentrated on pies. I had to leave Kate with an inventory when I took off with Sam for a day. I made a Chocolate S’Mores Pie with a gooey marshmallow topping and a graham cracker crust of course. I followed that with a couple of banana cream pies. Then I switched gears and made a deep-dish Pizza Pie, Chicago style with sausage and peppers.
I kept thinking of the cell phone. I was terrified someone else would hear the phone ringing and find the phone before I got there. I prayed the battery would run down or if someone did hear the Kenny Chesney song that Heath favored they wouldn’t give it a second thought.
During midsummer in central California it doesn’t get dark until eight or nine o’clock. By eight I was pacing the floor of the pie shop waiting. I’d dressed in black jeans, a black T-shirt, and non-slip running shoes—the outfit of choice for spies and intelligence gatherers. I couldn’t wait another minute. I had to have that phone. I had to find out if it was still there. If it wasn’t, I was back to square one, where I did not want to be.
Instead of driving to the town square like some other people in our community I walked the five blocks, hoping no one would see me and ask me what the hell I was doing dressed from head to toe in black like a ninja. I should have waited another hour or worn normal summer clothes. But I wasn’t thinking like a spy. I was thinking like a pie baker.
Fortunately I saw no one and hopefully no one saw me. That was the good news. The bad news was that when I turned the corner and the newspaper building came in view, I saw two cars parked in front. My heart sank. I never thought anyone would be ther
e. Why now? Why tonight? It’s not like it was The New York Times and they had to get the news out as it happened. This was a small-town gazette, for God’s sake.
I walked around the deserted town square for a half hour. Every time I passed the newspaper office the damn cars were still there. Finally I couldn’t wait any longer. Every minute that passed could be the moment when someone heard that phone ring and called the police or broke in, or worse.
I stood next to the big yellow dumpster wishing I had a way to climb up and onto it. Once on the dumpster I could reach the bottom of the fire escape and climb up to the window, which I hoped was Heath’s office and which I also hoped was not locked. I didn’t think I’d have the nerve or the strength to break the window. Isn’t that what “breaking and entering” actually meant? If I didn’t break the window I really wasn’t “breaking” was I? I hoped I wouldn’t be forced to listen to Sam explain exactly what it meant.
The second or third time I walked around the building I saw the ladder. If I’d brought a flashlight, I might have seen it sooner. But if I’d been shining a flashlight around I might have been seen by someone who’d call the police and I didn’t want to think about what would happen then.
The ladder was old and wooden and weighed a ton. Propped up against the brick wall it was hidden behind a tangle of vines that clung to the bricks. I dragged it to the dumpster and nearly tore a ligament propping it up. Hoping the rungs weren’t rotten, I climbed up, one foot at a time, and finally stood on the half cover of the dumpster. I stretched and reached for the lowest rung on the fire escape.
The adrenaline was pumping through my veins. I was bursting with pride that I’d come that far. Next time I changed ringtones I’d pick the song about coming a long way, baby as a warning not to get too cocky.
The fire escape was rickety and rusty. It must have been there for decades and never used. But it got me to the window I had my hopes fastened on. I pressed my face against the glass. I couldn’t see anything. I tugged on the sash of the window. It didn’t move. I squeezed my eyes shut to keep from crying. Maybe I would have to break the glass after all because I sure as hell wasn’t going to climb down empty-handed.
With a burst of energy I pulled the window sash once again and it jerked open a few inches. Then with my fingers gripping the frame it moved a little more until I could just squeeze in. Before I did, I glanced down for a moment and felt a wave of vertigo. I’ve never been good at dealing with heights.
A few minutes later I was standing in Heath’s office. The air was warm and stagnant. It smelled like disinfectant and cigarette smoke. Heath smoked? I was surprised—it was so rare of anyone in my age bracket to smoke. But then how did I know how old the guy really was? The disinfectant indicated the blood had been cleaned up. I assumed there was a lot of it considering how he’d been killed. I held my breath and wished I’d brought a flashlight. Never mind. If I had, I might be noticed. So I stumbled around the office my arms outstretched so I didn’t bump into anything while listening for sounds coming from the other offices. Someone had to be in there with me or why were those cars out in front?
First things first. Find the damn phone before it rang again and brought someone in to look for it. I crawled on the floor, I explored every inch of the place with my hands and knees. Nothing. My eyes were getting used to the dark and I could clearly see the only items in the room were a desk, a chair, and a couch. Presumably the couch Heath slept on. I went to the adjacent bathroom, which had a small window. Light was coming in from one of the town’s only street lights. The room smelled like Clorox. There was a medicine cabinet. It was empty. I was starting to worry. I’d risked life and limb and reputation by breaking into this office and for what?
Then I heard voices. Who was it? The janitor talking to himself? Bruce the editor working late? I went to the door and pressed my ear against it.
“Don’t forget the ice,” a woman’s voice said.
I heard footsteps then a man’s voice said, “I got it.”
Ice? Drinks? A staff meeting? Then why no lights? An assignation? Then why meet here in this dingy office?
I waited what seemed like a lifetime and didn’t hear anything else. Hopefully they’d gone to drink their drinks or suck on their ice somewhere else. Now I had to do what I hoped I wouldn’t have to do, call Heath’s cell phone. If it was here, it would ring and I’d track it down. Unless the battery was dead.
I found his number and pressed “Send.”
It rang. I raced around the office like a mad woman trying to track down the sound. I started to hate that song. I imagined whoever was out there suddenly dumping their icy drinks and running to this office, bursting in and demanding to know what I was doing there. Not only that but taking the phone from me. If I had the phone, which I didn’t.
I bumped into the couch. It had to be there. I tore the cushions from the frame and tossed them on the floor. The ringing got louder. So much louder I panicked. They’d hear it. I knew they’d hear it. I ripped the inner fabric lining of the couch and slid my hand then my whole arm down past the springs. My hand bumped into the phone and with fumbling fingers somehow I turned it off.
I gripped the phone so tightly my hand froze. I don’t know if I heard footsteps or if I imagined it, but I put the couch cushions back and sprinted for the open window, backed out onto the swaying fire escape, and forced my feet to take one rung at a time as I went down to the waiting dumpster. But instead of landing on the lid, I slipped and fell deep into the dumpster itself. I landed with a thud on top of a plastic trash bag. On the way down I scraped my arm, bumped my knee, and hit my forehead on the metal latch.
I sat on the floor of the dumpster for a long moment, many moments while I caught my breath. I listened carefully in case someone was at the window up there calling me, telling me to give up because the police were on their way. Or maybe there was someone quietly hanging out the window looking down, wondering who the prowler was. Waiting for me to stand up and give up. There wasn’t a sound. Hopefully the two late-night workers were busy with whatever it was they were doing, proofreading or making hot love before they went to press.
I sat there rubbing my knee, thinking I was lucky the dumpster wasn’t full of smelly garbage. Instead there were plastic trash bags full of paper. That figured. This was an office, not a produce market.
I leaned back against the metal side of the dumpster. My head hurt, my knee ached and I was exhausted. I had the phone. No one caught me. And now I wanted to go home. I stood on shaky legs so I could climb up and out of there. But even though my hands could reach the top, the walls were so smooth I couldn’t lift myself out. I had to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from calling for help. I pictured a shriveled corpse turning up in this dumpster weeks or even years from now. It was MY corpse, with one hand tightly clenched around some newspaper reporter’s cell phone and no one knew why.
When I finally pulled myself together, mentally at least, I began piling the trash bags in the corner of the dumpster until the mound was high enough for me to climb up and reach the ladder. I swung one leg over the side, then backed down quickly until my feet hit the ground. I didn’t waste a minute before I staggered home through the empty streets. Just before I left I noticed there were no cars in front of the newspaper office. Had the drinkers left? Moved their cars to avoid detection? Or were they never there at all? At this point I didn’t care. I just wanted to get out of there.
Six
I wanted desperately to listen to Heath’s cell-phone messages, but neither my brain nor my body were working very well. I tottered upstairs, removed my dark camouflage outfit, and fell into bed.
The next thing I knew the sun was streaming in my bedroom window and I heard voices outside on the sidewalk.
“I can’t believe she’s not here,” Kate said.
“Maybe she’s sleeping in.” That was Sam’s voice.
Sleeping in? I was a baker. I got up at five every day, rain or shine. Not today. My brain felt like i
t was full of cotton. I reached for Heath’s precious cell phone under my pillow and hid it under my bed. Then I leaped out of bed and stuck my head out the window.
“I’m here. I’ll be right down.” But I couldn’t go down looking like a zombie, not in front of Sam. I brushed my teeth, combed my hair, and pulled on a pair of white linen shorts and a black tank top. I was horrified to see I had a bruise on my forehead and a gash across my knee. It took a bit of work with my makeup kit to cover the evidence of my late-night escapade.
“Sorry,” I said breathlessly when I opened the door to the pie shop. “I’m running a little late. Are we on, Sam?”
He nodded and gave me a long look from my sandals to the top of head. His gaze lingered on my forehead. I wished it was because he found me so stunning he couldn’t tear his eyes away, but maybe he was thinking, Why did Hanna plaster makeup on her face when she doesn’t need it to look beautiful and furthermore why is she acting so strange today?
I forced a smile. “Don’t look at me that way, Sam. So I overslept. It happens. Thanks for coming, Kate.”
Sam went outside while Kate and I went into the shop and I showed her the list of orders. I opened the freezer and took out a half dozen pies. Kate helped me fill the shelves in the shop and we labeled everything. She took notes on a small pad of paper, then she paused and looked closely at my face. “What happened to you?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said. This was hardly the time to launch into the story of my expedition last night. “I’m fine. Call me if you have any problems.” I grabbed a sweater and my favorite deep-dish apple pie which I thought had a nice balance of tart and sweet thanks to the fresh-squeezed lemon and orange juice mixed with the Granny Smith apples in the filling. I hoped the pie would make up for the fact we hadn’t told Dave and Bill we were coming.
Kate stood in the doorway as I got into Sam’s sporty convertible. She beamed her approval of my not only taking the day off but spending the day with Sam. As we pulled away, I glanced back. Kate had a funny look on her face as if she’d just remembered something important. But she sounded normal. “Have fun you two,” she called.
