The Quiche and the Dead

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Quitting? Don’t be ridiculous. No more Stargate until we catch Joe’s killer. We should have been on a stakeout last night instead of watching TV.” She motioned toward the window. “We’ll never get that off!”

  Water sloshing in the bucket, I lumbered to the glass door and unlocked it. “Officer Carmichael said it’s tough but doable.”

  “Johnny Law was here?”

  I told her about my chat with Carmichael and soaped the outside of the windows. The water was warm, but the air was cold, the fog a sullen gray drift obscuring the opposite side of the street.

  She snorted. “Kids! That’s wishful thinking. It was the killer. Kids would have written something rude. The killer wants us to stop investigating.”

  “The graffiti says go home, not stop investigating. And they didn’t even spell killer right.”

  “Trying to make it look like kids did it, so the police don’t look too closely at the vandalism. Not that there aren’t some rotten kids in San Nicholas. That Freddy Brinks is always scuffing up my picket fence.”

  Heavy footsteps padded up the sidewalk toward us.

  “And Achilles Kopeckni—any parents who could give their kid that name deserve what they get. But when he messed with my petunias, it was a bridge too far. And don’t get me started on—”

  A man in a blue jacket and khakis emerged from the fog. I tensed. For a moment I registered only his bulk, that Charlene and I were alone and vulnerable, and no one would hear us if we screamed. Then I realized I knew him, and my muscles slackened. “Mayor Sharp.”

  The librarian, looking miserable in a rumpled trench coat and thick scarf, followed behind him.

  The mayor stopped in front of our windows, his lips pursed, and tugged on the brim of his blue baseball cap. “Ladies. What’s going on here?”

  “Only some graffiti,” I said.

  The librarian’s eyes flashed. “Kiler go home? I expect better from our schools. Poor quality education is a crime.”

  “It’s a crime against our window,” Charlene said.

  “According to town code,” the mayor said, “graffiti needs to be removed within forty-eight hours. If you leave it up, it will only attract more.”

  “What does it look like we’re doing?” Charlene asked. “We don’t carry buckets of water around to build muscle tone. That’s what the gym’s for. What are you doing out here?”

  “Hunter and I were out for a morning walk,” he said. “If I have to talk city business, I may as well get some exercise.”

  A police cruiser pulled up to the curb, and Officer Carmichael stepped out. He nodded to us. “Ladies. Mr. Mayor. Mr. Green.”

  “If you’re here,” Sharp said, “you should take a report on this before they wash it off.”

  “I already have.” He handed me a paint-spattered glass scraper. “Here. This should help.”

  “Is that city property?” Sharp asked.

  “No, it’s mine. I’m lending it to Miss Harris so she can clean her window. There’s a forty-eight-hour rule on removing graffiti.”

  Sharp grunted and walked away. The librarian wandered after him.

  I repressed the urge to stick my tongue out at their departing backs.

  A pickup truck crept past, its tires whooshing on the damp street.

  Charlene sniffed. “‘Never trust a man who looks like Bela Lugosi,’ my mother always said.”

  “Did your mother know many men who looked like Bela Lugosi?” I asked.

  “Only Lugosi. She never trusted him. And I don’t trust anyone who pals around with that librarian. The only reason Sharp got elected is no one cares about local elections.” Charlene sniffed. “The whole council is a pack of sharks.”

  “Shoal of sharks,” I said absently. Could Charlene’s mother have actually known Bela Lugosi?

  “People should care,” Carmichael said. “Most interactions between citizens and government happen at the local level.”

  “And on that note,” I said, “thanks for the glass scraper. That falls into the above and beyond category.”

  He shrugged. “It’s just a glass scraper. I’ll come by later to pick it up.”

  “Men are so jealous of their tools,” Charlene said. “I think there’s a phallic connection between their tools and their—”

  “Yes, Charlene,” I said, my face going hot. “Don’t you have some piecrusts to work on?”

  Grumbling, she stomped inside.

  Carmichael grinned. “Never a dull moment with Charlene around.”

  “She said she knew your parents,” I said, wanting to prolong the conversation for reasons I didn’t understand.

  “Probably. My parents know nearly everyone in San Nicholas.” A shadow crossed his face. “Or at least they used to. Since they’ve gotten older, they seem to have turned inward.”

  “They’re still in San Nicholas?”

  “Mm.” He nodded. “That’s a twenty-four-hour gym. I’ll talk to the manager. Maybe someone in there saw your vandal. We don’t have a citizen’s watch here in San Nicholas, but since the gym is open all night, they could be a good neighbor.”

  I forced a smile. “Great idea. I should reach out to the owner.” On a cold day in Hades. Heidi still had that SUGAR KILLS sign in her stupid window. But . . . We were neighbors. We didn’t have to be friends, but maybe we could help each other out.

  Officer Carmichael strode inside the gym, and I got to scraping. There was something oddly satisfying about removing the black paint. In this small way, I was setting things to rights.

  An hour later, I stood back and rolled my stiffening shoulders, examining my handiwork. This was going to take forever. Bits of black paint remained streaked on the windows, but you could no longer tell what the graffiti had said.

  Two gamers walked into Pie Town, heads bowed, hands in the pockets of their thick jackets. The bell above the front entrance jingled. Had I put the coffee on? My heartbeat slowed. Yes, I had.

  Petronella pushed past them to stand beside me. “Charlene told me what happened.” She ran her fingers through her spiky black hair. “We don’t see much vandalism in San Nicholas. Someone TPs Miss Pargiter’s house every Halloween, but no graffiti.”

  “Probably because there’s a forty-eight-hour rule about removing it.” I attacked a thin line of paint with the scraper.

  “Is there? What happens if you don’t get it off?”

  “A fine, public flogging, the stocks. That sort of thing.”

  She pursed her lips. “Is it okay if I take the day off?”

  I paused, clutching the scraper to my chest. Was she taking time off to job hunt? My stomach twisted. If things didn’t pick up soon, I would have to let someone go. I drew a slow breath. “I guess so. Business has been slow lately.”

  “Thanks.” She shifted her weight, gazing at the streaky window.

  Three more gamers slouched into Pie Town, glossy, hardbound gaming books beneath their arms.

  “At least we’ve got some dedicated clients,” I said.

  Petronella snorted. “I’m not sure they even noticed anyone died here. Not that that’s a reason not to come to Pie Town,” she added quickly. “Well, I should get going.”

  “See you later.” I hoped.

  I attacked the window with renewed vigor. Another hour later, shoulders burning, I tossed the paint scraper into the bucket. You had to look hard to find any stray flecks of black. For now, that was good enough. The fog had lifted, the end of Charlene’s shift was nigh, and I couldn’t ask her to stay longer to manage the kitchen while I worked outside.

  I lugged the bucket into the dining area. The gamers didn’t acknowledge me, their heads bent over piles of books, papers, dice.

  In the kitchen, I chucked the dirty water down the drain and cleaned the scraper. Charlene sat in a chair, reading a tabloid. The front bell rang.

  “You should check on that,” she said.

  I changed aprons, smoothed my hair, and pushed through the swinging kitchen door to the counter area.r />
  Joy poured herself a cup of coffee from the urn, a newspaper tucked beneath the arm of her gray suit jacket. “Now I understand why my uncle and his buddy hung out here every morning,” she said in her flat staccato. “The coffee’s not bad, and no one bothers you. I thought not having any waitresses was weird, but American waitresses are revoltingly chipper.”

  “They have to be,” I said. “Most of their income comes from tips.”

  “True. But I like the atmosphere here.”

  “Today the atmosphere is dead.” And speaking of dead, what had happened to Joe’s friend Frank Potts? He’d died about a month before Joe. Everyone seemed to assume it was an accident, but was there a connection?

  “About that.” She tossed her hair. It fell in a black curtain behind her shoulders. “I realize playing detective is a bad idea, but the police here are useless.”

  “Oh?”

  “Not only have they gotten nowhere on whoever broke into my uncle’s house, not to mention his murder, but this weird, old, homeless guy has been hanging around the comic shop. When I asked that cop who was in here the other day about it, he said I could refuse service and tell him to leave.”

  “Did he?” So her chat with Carmichael had been less of a tête-à-tête and more a banal business meeting. My insides warmed.

  “Well,” she said, “the homeless guy did leave. If he hadn’t, I could have charged him with trespassing, which is a misdemeanor. Your cop is a fount of information, which I think he uses to keep from having to actually do anything.”

  “I’m not sure that’s—”

  “Anyway, Joe never mentioned problems with homeless people hanging out in the store. Hopefully, creepy guy is a one-off. But since the police are useless, I’ve been going through my uncle’s things. Maybe I can find the reason why someone killed him.”

  I bit my bottom lip. The police weren’t useless. Well, maybe Shaw. And though he might not care about the casebook, Joy might. It rightfully belonged to her. Or did it? It had originally been Frank’s. At some point, we were going to have to return his casebook to someone. “Have you found anything?” I asked.

  “Not yet.” She scanned my empty shop. “What’s happening to your business is really unfair. Is there anything I can do?”

  I nodded toward the gamers. “Right now my only business comes from your customers. They shop at your comic shop and then come here to play.”

  “I thought they looked familiar. Maybe I should expand our game inventory. I hear board games are coming back.”

  “There is one thing—how late were you open last night?”

  “Until eight. Why?”

  “Someone painted graffiti on my front window. Did you see anyone suspicious when you locked up?”

  “No, but there’s a lot of activity on the street after eight because of those restaurants. I can’t imagine someone hitting you until later, when the diners have all cleared out and things have quieted down. What was the graffiti? A gang sign?”

  “No.”

  “So what did it say?” She leaned forward, moistening her lips.

  I edged away from the counter, unwilling to tell her the full text of the message. “It said, go home.”

  “That’s it? Go home? Weird.”

  “Yeah, right?” I swallowed. Charlene was right—Joy hadn’t put on a ski mask to break into the house she’d just inherited. But there was something odd about her.

  “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for vandals.” Strolling to a window booth, she sat, unfurling her paper.

  I swiped a cloth across the gleaming counter and returned to the kitchen, flooded with the scent of baking fruit pies. I liked having a customer, but what was Joy really doing here?

  Charlene folded her paper. “There’s going to be a thick fog tonight, perfect conditions for our stakeout at old lady Pargiter’s.”

  “What else can you tell me about Antheia Royer?”

  “You’re not weaseling out of our stakeout?”

  “No, I’ll do it. But Antheia was avoiding my questions. And aside from Mark, she’s the only blond on the library board.”

  “Okay, let’s see, Antheia . . .” She looked toward the ceiling. “Nasty divorce.”

  “We already knew that.” I went to the fridge and pulled out the ingredients for chicken potpies.

  “But did you know her husband is suing her for alimony? He spent the last ten years finding himself with his so-called jewelry-making business, and she supported him. Now after cheating on her, he wants her to keep on paying.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair.” Should I even bother baking full-size pies, or stick with the minis? People did take home the large potpies for the family, but the minis were a popular lunch item. I nodded. I’d stick with the minis.

  “Fair? It’s a travesty! In my day, men worked. They took pride in supporting their families. Not that there’s anything wrong with women in the workplace. I’m all for independence. But he’s a moocher.”

  “What kind of law does she practice?”

  “Wills and trusts. She did mine.” Charlene grinned. “She undercharges.”

  “Where does she work?” I laid out the basil and vegetables—carrots, celery, onion, and snap peas—and unhooked my favorite chopping knife from its wall hanger.

  “Now? Out of her house, I think. She’s semiretired.” Charlene stood, and her bones cracked. “What say I surveil her? See who’s coming and going?”

  “No, I don’t think we need to go that far. Besides, it’s broad daylight. If she sees you, she’ll get suspicious.” I chopped the celery.

  She raised her chin. “I’ll have you know I’m a master of disguise.”

  “Oh? What have you disguised yourself as?”

  “I was Cleopatra last Halloween, and everyone told me I was her spitting image.”

  “Cleopatra? For you, that seems a little passé.”

  “I was going to be a jaguar person, but the clerk at the costume shop got things mixed up and gave my costume to someone else. It was either Cleopatra or a vampire. And vampires are so last decade.”

  I chopped veggies, and we arranged to meet at Miss Pargiter’s for our next stakeout.

  “I’ll call and tell her we’re coming,” Charlene said, “so she doesn’t go after you with the weed whacker.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” I wanted to drop a pie off for her after work. Miss Pargiter had looked thin beneath her bulky sweater, and I wondered if she was eating well. Maybe I’d bring two pies. It wasn’t as if there was a shortage.

  “Right-o. Oh! And I’ll bring you season two of Stargate. They really get going in that season. You’ll love it.” She barreled out the back door, waving over her shoulder.

  I put the pies in the oven and went to sit in a window booth with my laptop. Joy had vanished, likely back to the comic shop, and I figured the more people on display, the better. Could I ask the gamers to move to a window booth? No, best let gaming gamers lie. They were my most consistent customers, and I wanted to keep them happy. I sensed happy meant “undisturbed.”

  I searched for Antheia Royer online. If she had a page for her legal practice, I couldn’t find it. Charlene had said Antheia was semiretired. Maybe she didn’t feel the need to keep up a Web site? Her bio on the library board page was brief and unenlightening. The Internet was failing me. How had private investigators researched people in the days before the World Wide Web? WWNDD? What Would Nancy Drew Do?

  Thoughtful, I returned to my office and dug through a stack of business cards wrapped in a rubber band. Ripping a card from the deck, I called my lawyer.

  He picked up the phone himself. “Robert Arnold.”

  “Hi, Robert. This is Val Harris from Pie Town.”

  “Val! I heard about the trouble at your shop. How are you doing?”

  “Um, business is a little slow, but I’m doing okay. I was thinking of getting a will made, and wondered if you could recommend anyone.”

  “Is the death in Pie Town making you ponder your own mo
rtality?” The lawyer chuckled. “Well, it’s never too early to make a will or trust. There’s Pete Dickson. He’s good, and he’s local.”

  “Pete Dickson . . . What about Antheia Royer?” Oooh. Subtle.

  “She knows her stuff, and she’s inexpensive, but she’s also semiretired, working out of her home.”

  “Oh? Can you give me her contact info?”

  “Sure, wait a sec . . .” Pens rattled, and something rolled across a desk. “Here it is.” He gave me Antheia’s telephone number and address, not far from the center of town. “But I’m not sure if she’s taking new clients. Hold on, let me ask Renee. I think she’s still doing some legal secretary work for her.”

  Over the phone there was a muffled shout and conversation.

  “She’s cut way back,” the lawyer said, “but Renee says she’s still working.”

  “She must have done well for herself to take an early semiretirement.” Antheia hadn’t looked much beyond fifty.

  He chuckled. “Doubtful. She undercharges. I think she’s always been in it more for the love of the work. If you can’t get her, Pete’s fees are quite reasonable.”

  “Thanks. This is a big help. Is Renee only working for you part time?”

  “She works part time for a lot of the lawyers around town. Between you and me, Renee does most of this town’s legal legwork.”

  “I’ll bet she knows where the bodies are buried.”

  He barked with laughter. “Not that she’s talking.”

  Renee could be an interesting person to chat with.

  I thanked the lawyer and hung up. He was the second person who’d told me Antheia undercharged. If she wasn’t taking many new clients, where would she get the money to pay alimony? Did her husband know something I didn’t, or was he just a cockeyed optimist?

  Chapter 12

  A shadow fell across my table, and I looked up. A rotund gamer wearing a black superhero T-shirt loomed over me.

  He cleared his throat. “Uh, we wanted to ask you something.”

  I glanced at the booth with the gamers.

  They watched us, silent.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Are you going to be making breakfast pies, like that guy said? Because those sound good.”