The Quiche and the Dead

by Kirsten Weiss

  I stiffened. What the blasted blue blazes was the problem? I admit having someone else pay to store my junk had seemed like a bonus when I was living in Pie Town. Money before pride is my motto. But how long did it take to open up a storage locker and point out my boxes? I didn’t have many.

  “Why was Joe involved with someone on the library board?” I asked.

  His blue eyes widened. “I didn’t think he was.”

  “Then why might he have been investigating someone on the library board?”

  “Investigating?”

  “Joe was murdered,” I said. “I told you, Joe and his buddy Frank were armchair detectives, and the notes on one of their investigations mentioned the library board. Ergo, he might have been killed because of his investigation.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Someone killed him.”

  He sputtered. “Are you accusing me of killing him?”

  “Don’t be absurd,” I said. “You only joined the library board recently—not enough time to become part of a murderous cabal.”

  “The library board isn’t a cabal! Have you been inside our new library? It’s architecturally stunning. The board has a lot to be proud of, especially since the library is self-sustainable.” The statement sounded canned.

  “The new library is a temple to the written word and the envy of three counties.” As a committed logophile, I found the new library was my favorite escape. “But Joe’s notes state he was conducting an ongoing investigation of the board.”

  “There’s nothing to investigate at the library board.”

  “You haven’t noticed anything odd since you joined?”

  “It’s a library board! They manage a library, where people borrow books. There’s not even any money exchanged to embezzle.”

  “Embezzle? Why would you bring that up?”

  “I didn’t. I just—what are you accusing us of?”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything.” I gazed out the window. A breeze stirred the ferns, and a hummingbird paused to sample a hanging fuchsia.

  Mark was right. What dark deeds could Joe have investigated at the library? The only crimes committed there were literary. So if he hadn’t been looking at the library board, maybe Joe was investigating someone who happened to be on it? Someone whose name he didn’t want to write down for privacy reasons? “How does the board work?” I asked.

  He rolled his eyes. “We meet every two months. Board members are appointed by the town council and serve four-year terms. We oversee the library’s policies and procedures and help out with the fund-raising.”

  “You’re doing a helluva job. The new library must have cost a mint.”

  “That was a bond measure, before my time. Look, it’s a library board. I understand why you’re desperate to clear Pie Town’s name, but there’s nothing here.”

  “You’re probably right, but the board members must have lives outside the library. I’m assuming they’re on the board because they’re prominent members of the community?”

  Mark puffed out his chest, and I realized I’d accidentally complimented him.

  “The board members are good, hardworking people,” he said. “If they weren’t, I wouldn’t be involved with them.”

  That was true. Mark knew networking, and he would hook up with winners who could give him a boost. “Then maybe Joe and Frank were conducting an investigation on behalf of someone on the board?”

  “Maybe,” Mark said, his eyes dulling.

  “Where can I find that board member you were with the other day? Antheia Royer?”

  “You’re not going to bother her with your insane theories.”

  I crossed my legs, tapping my foot in the air. “Right now, I’ve got no theories, insane or otherwise. I only want to ask her why Joe had a note in his journal about a case at the library board.”

  “Didn’t you already ask her that?”

  “But I didn’t ask her who, if anyone on the board, might have introduced Joe to this so-called case. I’m sure she’ll want to help. When we met, she seemed sympathetic,” I lied.

  “I’m not letting you bother her.”

  “It’s no bother. But don’t worry about it.” I rose. “I can find her on my own.”

  “Wait.”

  I paused, hand on the doorknob.

  “We have a committee meeting in thirty minutes,” he said. “If you come with me now, you can ask her about Joe.”

  And Mark could try and control the conversation. Annoying, but I’d set myself up for that. And if it was a more than two-person committee, I’d be able to meet some other board members.

  “Fine,” I said.

  We drove in separate cars to the library, its exterior dark, polished stone with faux fossils embedded in the walls. Tall windows glittered in the setting sun. Mark met me at the tinted-glass front doors and led me through wood-paneled halls. Heads bowed over desks typed at sleek computer keyboards, hushed, reverent.

  “Second floor,” Mark said.

  A slender, dark-haired man in a business suit intercepted us by the wide staircase. He looked like a young Bela Lugosi, pale, with deep-set, dark eyes. His nose wrinkled. “Mark! How nice to see you. And this is . . . ?”

  “Val Harris,” Mark said. “She needs a quick word with Antheia. Val, this is the head librarian, Hunter Green.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  The librarian checked his watch and frowned. “I’m not sure about bringing a visitor. The meeting’s about to start.”

  “We’ll be done before that,” I said, tugging Mark up the stairs.

  We climbed to the second floor, and Mark led me to a glass-walled meeting room. The librarian trailed behind us.

  Antheia looked up from her e-book reader and stuffed it into a quilted, lipstick-red purse. Smoothing her red blazer and pencil skirt, she tucked a stray, silvery-blond hair behind her ear. “Good evening, Mark, Hunter. And . . .” She cocked her head, questioning.

  “Val.” I put my hand out. “We met the other day at my shop, Pie Town.”

  She shook my hand, her grip limp and unpleasant. “Oh. Yes. Of course.” She glanced at Mark. “No one told me we were going to have guests for our committee meeting.”

  “We’re not,” Mark said. “Val had this idea that Joe was working for someone on the library board and wanted to ask you if you had any idea who that might be.”

  I glared at him. That was not what I’d said, but okay, it was a conversation starter. “As I mentioned the other day, Frank or Joe may have been doing some detective work,” I amended.

  “Detective?” Antheia gave a short laugh. “I thought you were joking. I can’t imagine who would hire them.”

  “Can you imagine why someone might be interested in the board members?” I asked.

  “Val!” Mark glowered at me. “She didn’t mean it like that,” he said to Antheia.

  He’d scolded me like a child, and my face heated with anger and shame. In fairness though, my question hadn’t exactly been subtle, and I forced my fists to unclench, my breathing to slow. This was his board, and he wanted to impress the members. I needed to cool it.

  Antheia’s smile was brittle, not reaching the fine lines around her eyes. “That’s all right, Mark. As far as I’m aware, none of us are cheating on our spouses. And if we were, we’d be more likely to hire a real detective, not a Baker Street Boy.”

  “Their notes mentioned a blond,” I said.

  “Mark and I are the only blonds on the board. And I certainly didn’t hire Joe or Frank.” She checked her watch. “We really should start the meeting. I’m afraid you’ll have to go now, Val.”

  “We can’t start without Turner,” the librarian said.

  “That man is always late.” She scowled. “I don’t have time to wait for him.” She stood. “I’m sorry, Mark, Hunter. Please give my regrets to Turner. I’ve got to go.”

  “But we were going to review the bylaws.” Mark’s brows sloped downward. “You’re our lawyer.”
r />   “And I have to reschedule. Sorry!” She scooted out the door. The glass panel whispered shut behind her.

  Weird.

  Mark whirled on me, hands on his hips. “You had to bring up cheating spouses. Three months ago her husband left her for an aerobics instructor.”

  “But I didn’t bring that up.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “No, I didn’t.” I appealed to the librarian. “I didn’t!”

  He folded his arms, expression stony.

  “You need to leave before Turner gets here,” Mark said.

  “Turner Morris, the board’s treasurer?” I’d been doing my Internet research and knew who the board panjandrums were. I’d also discovered Antheia was the board’s secretary. Frank’s notebook had said, Library bd.—sec—the Case of the Bloated Blond. Was Antheia the sec in question? Because she was certainly blond.

  “Go!” He hustled me out of the meeting room, down the stairs, and out of the library.

  I stomped to my VW and got in, breathing hard. The ejection from the library prickled my insides with embarrassment. Had I gone too far questioning Antheia? Or not far enough? I could return inside and try to catch Turner, but I doubted I’d get far with Mark snarling in the background. Why had Antheia run? Had I struck a nerve asking about Joe, or was it just bad memories of a broken relationship? I glanced at Mark’s green BMW, parked beside my car.

  Okay, let’s assume the bloated blond was a client of Joe’s rather than a suspect. If Antheia was going through a nasty divorce, an investigator could come in handy. But if she wanted to take any evidence to court, Antheia was right, a real PI would be a smarter choice than two enthusiastic amateurs. Also, Antheia didn’t look particularly bloated. Maybe Frank’s case note had nothing to do with her at all. So why had she fled under my lightweight questioning?

  I needed more information about Antheia.

  Bam-bam-bam.

  I yelped, banged my knee against the steering wheel.

  Through the window, Charlene grimaced at me.

  I opened the door.

  “How did it go?” Charlene leaned into my car, Frederick dangling rakishly over one shoulder.

  I rubbed my knee. “Were you following me?”

  “No, I saw you and Mark in the library with the head vampire and decided to wait for you in the parking lot.”

  “Head vamp . . . You mean the librarian?” So I hadn’t imagined his Bela Lugosi vibe.

  “Who do you think?”

  “You do know he’s not really a vampire.”

  She goggled at me. “Well, of course not! Everybody knows real vampires don’t swan about in the daylight.”

  Duh. I hunched my shoulders.

  “And who would name their child after a color?” she asked. “Hunter Green indeed. Either it’s a bad alias, or his parents were evil. And that can only mean one thing.”

  “It can?”

  “The apple never falls far from the tree. That means the librarian’s evil too. Did your ex-boyfriend take you to a library board meeting?” she asked. “That seems promising.”

  “No, a committee meeting. I asked Antheia about Joe, and she suddenly remembered she had somewhere else to be.”

  “Suspicious. Antheia’s not the sort to ditch on her responsibilities.”

  “Oh? What sort is she?”

  “The boring, reliable type.”

  A seagull swooped down and landed on the hood of my VW. I made shooing motions. It sat and made itself comfortable.

  “Antheia Royer must be the blond,” Charlene said, “but it’s hard to peg her for a murderer. If she didn’t kill her husband—who everyone knew was stepping out on her—then what could Joe have done to make her snap?”

  “She did run away when I started asking questions. Mark said I hurt her feelings because her husband ran off with an aerobics instructor.”

  “Antheia’s emotions are running high with the pending divorce. Last week I caught her sobbing over an avocado in the Grab and Go. I wanted to cry too when I saw the price.” She chuffed me on the shoulder. “You look as if you’ve had a rough day. Why don’t you come over to my place and watch some Stargate? That always cheers me up. I’ve got all ten seasons, plus Atlantis. Not that Stargate Universe though.” She wrinkled her nose. “Too dark.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got to stop by the print shop.”

  “Why the print shop?”

  “For the Pie Town coupons.” I’d submitted the design online, and the coupons would be ready to pick up tonight.

  “Coupons aren’t going to save Pie Town. Good, old-fashioned detective work is what we need. Come to my house, and we’ll plan our attack.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Go pick up your coupons and come over.”

  “Maybe we can strategize while we cut the coupons.” Hiring the print shop to slice the coupons into trim rectangles would have cost more than the actual printing.

  She held up her hands in a warding gesture. “Hold on, missy. That would be overtime. Besides, I’ve got arthritis. I can’t use scissors.”

  “Fine. I’ll do them on my own.” It wasn’t as if I lacked spare time.

  “So you’ll come?”

  “I’m really tired—”

  “I’ve got Oreos. Mint flavor.”

  “Okay.”

  Chapter 11

  Rubbing my eyes, I stumbled out of my office in my pajamas. I started the coffee urn and set water to boil to poach some eggs. Last night, after Charlene’s sci-fi marathon, I’d picked up a pack of bacon and a bag of frozen hash browns on a whim. Now I stared at the bacon, parked inside my walk-in fridge. There was no way I was going to eat an entire package of hash browns on my own. And bacon?

  Feeling reckless, I tore both open and fried a few slices with the potatoes. My bedroom might be a closet, but the Pie Town kitchen was a palace of high-end utensils, industrial refrigerators, and sparkling metal countertops. I might never go hungry, but I needed my own place and a life outside Pie Town that didn’t involve Charlene and a DVD player.

  Carrying the urn to the front counter, I poured myself a cup of java. I turned, mug to my lips, and froze. Through the blinds, I saw words in drippy black paint splattered the front windows. I read them backward: KILER GO HOME.

  I swayed, staring through the window at the fog-shrouded street. Killer? I didn’t know whether to laugh at the misspelling or scream. Someone actually believed I was a killer? What next? Would a posse of townsfolk march on Pie Town brandishing torches and pitchforks?

  And my window! My hands trembled.

  Carefully, I put down the coffee, got dressed, and called the police station. A sleepy-sounding dispatcher promised they’d send someone over.

  I hung up. Was I making mountains out of molehills? It was only graffiti. But it was graffiti because of a crime that had been committed here, in Pie Town. If it hadn’t been worthy of telling the police about, the dispatcher would have told me, right?

  I dumped my cold coffee into the kitchen sink. Pouring myself a fresh cup from the counter urn, I sat in the front booth to wait.

  A black-and-white glided through the fog and halted in front of my shop.

  I unlocked the front entrance and stepped onto the brick sidewalk. Barbells clashed faintly in the gym. The light streaming through its windows barely penetrated the thick, morning fog.

  Frowning, Officer Carmichael stepped out of the squad car and stared at the graffiti. “Not the best way to start your morning.”

  “No. I wasn’t sure if I should have called the police or not,” I said. “It’s not an emergency.”

  Drawing his cell phone from the breast pocket of his uniform shirt, he snapped a picture. “Under the circumstances, you were right to call. When did you find this?”

  “This morning.” Last night I’d returned around midnight, parked in the alley, and came in through the rear entrance. “But it could have happened any time after I’d closed up Pie Town around five o’clock.”

  “It
was probably some bored kids, but I’ll make sure there are extra night patrols past your shop.”

  “Thanks.” The idea of patrols made me feel a bit better. “I don’t suppose you have any tips for removing graffiti from glass? I want to get this paint off before we open.” Not that I was expecting a lot of foot traffic this morning, but I wanted the graffiti gone.

  He winced. “Paint on glass is tough. Try dish soap and warm water. Spread it on the window with a sponge and let it sit a few minutes to loosen the paint. Then you’ll have to go after it with a glass scraper. Have you got a glass scraper?”

  “No.”

  “The hardware store will, but they don’t open until nine.”

  My shoulders sagged. How many people would see this before I was able to clean up the vandalism?

  He gave the windows a speculative look. “I have a glass scraper in my garage. If you want, I can get it and lend it to you. I only live a few minutes away.”

  “Would you? I’ll owe you one.”

  “No, you won’t.” Returning to his black-and-white, he drove off.

  I trudged to the kitchen and filled a bucket with soapy water. Someone hammered on the rear entrance. I checked my watch. Charlene. I walked to the heavy door and let her in.

  Darting inside, she rubbed her biceps, bunching the soft fabric of her emerald-colored tracksuit. “Brrr. Chilly out there. So how many crusts do you think for today? Down to a quarter of the usual again?”

  “Bring it down to ten.” The local charities couldn’t accept my pies—nothing personal, it was the law. I’d frozen what I could for our own use later, but we were still wasting a grotesque amount of food.

  “Ten! Business has got to be getting better.”

  I nodded to the dining area. “Someone painted graffiti on the front windows last night.”

  “What?” She stormed out of the kitchen.

  Carrying the bucket, I followed her into the dining room.

  She stopped short, staring at the window. Her cheeks pinked. “That is it. I have reached my limit.”

  My hands grew clammy, and I tightened my grip on the bucket. “You’re not quitting?” Keeping Charlene with business so slow squeezed my bank account, but the thought of her abandoning Pie Town twisted my gut.