by Carol Culver
A Good Day to Pie: A Pie Shop Mystery © 2011 by Carol Culver.
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First e-book edition © 2011
E-book ISBN: 9780738727790
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Dedication
For Aunt Mary, with love and thanks for the Kimpton family memories.
Carol Grace
Acknowledgments
With thanks to my wonderful agent Jessica Faust for her encouragement, support, and her great ideas.
“I swear your grandmother has a better social life than you do.” From the overstuffed chair in the corner of the small commercial kitchen, my friend Kate Blaine gave me a look that was somewhere between pity and concern.
I winced, because I suspected “social life” was a code term for “sex life.” And I suspected it was true.
“Everyone has a better social life than I do,” I said lightly. “I’m up at dawn, chopping, slicing, rolling, mixing, you name it. By the end of the day I can barely make it home to collapse in front of the TV to watch the Food Network.” I pointed one floury finger at the flat above the store. “Good thing I don’t have to commute.”
To illustrate just how busy I was, I proceeded to measure and mix the ingredients for a basic pie crust.
Kate got up, poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot on the vintage black and white porcelain stove, and peered over my shoulder. “Wouldn’t that be easier with a food processor?”
“This is a small pie shop, not a factory,” I said, shaping the dough into two flat circles with the palm of my hand. “Grannie did it all by hand and so do I. It’s the only way to make a good crust. One at a time. At least for now. Later, when I’ve got dozens of orders to fill and a line around the block, I’ll automate, but for now I’m mixing the old-fashioned way. Grannie’s way.”
Kate eyed the empty butter wrapper with suspicion. “I thought your grandmother used lard.”
“Well, yes, but Martha Stewart and I use butter. Tastes better. But I’m not a complete Luddite. See, I bought a new high-tech rolling pin.” I held out my new pin with the chrome caps and the pink silicone surface. “Go ahead, try it. Totally nonstick. Ergonomic. Comfortable to hold, don’t you think?”
Kate rolled the pin over the dough and it stuck to the silicone mat even though the manufacturer promised it wouldn’t.
I sprinkled some extra flour on the dough. “Roll from the middle, then turn one quarter,” I said. “Act quickly while it’s still cool. That’s the secret. Once you let the dough get warm, it gets sticky.”
She sighed and handed it over to me. “Some people have the touch, some don’t. I’ll do the eating, you do the baking. What happened to your grandmother’s old wooden rolling pin?”
I pointed to the stoneware utensil crock on the counter that held her scarred and battered rolling pin along with a whisk, a ladle, and an oven thermometer.
Above the stove I’d hung a framed photograph of Grannie wearing a blue ribbon the year she won first prize at the county fair for her Fuji Apple Southern Pecan Caramel Pie. She seemed to be looking right at me as I rolled smoothly just as she’d taught me when I was barely tall enough to reach the counter. “I thought I’d like having her here with me in the kitchen,” I said to Kate, “but when I roll out the crust, I can hear her saying, ‘The chunks of butter are too big. It’s too thick. No, too thin. Try it again.’ So let’s put her in the window. She won’t mind and maybe she’ll attract customers.”
We were standing in the window, me in my baggy T-shirt and faded jeans covered with a large white apron with The Upper Crust stenciled in red across the bib, and Kate in her designer jeans under the “Grand Opening” sign trying to decide where to put the picture. The low clouds and patchy fog that are common along the California coast in summer hadn’t burned off yet. By noon it would be another beautiful cloudless day in paradise. A woman with a hybrid labradoodle wearing an all-season stretch dog coat walked by and I almost lost my balance.
“Oh my God, that’s Mona Grimes,” I said. “Grannie’s best customer. Where has she been all this time?” Since I opened the shop three weeks ago, the business had been painfully slow. I’d sold a grand total of seventeen pies since I reopened the pie shop. And two of them were to Kate.
I jumped down from the window ledge, pasted a welcoming smile on my face, and opened the front door just in time to see Mona walk right on past and down the street. Not even a backward glance from her or her dog. Slowly I closed the door and stood with my back to it, blinking back tears of frustration.
“Probably on her way somewhere,” Kate said.
“Somewhere? Where is there to go in this town?” Crystal Cove prided itself on its small-town ambience. The little town I once found claustrophobic—the one I escaped from some fifteen years ago—was the one I’d recently returned to. Sometimes I missed the perks of big-city living and a job with a regular paycheck. “The destinations around here include the bank, the park, the library, and the occasional neighborhood block party.”
“That’s not fair,” Kate said. “We have a small farmer’s market that you haven’t even visited, we have great beaches you say you don’t have time for, and we have an old-fashioned downtown that you ignore.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll get to the market.”
“Don’t just go to the market, rent a booth and sell your pies there.”
“But Grannie never …”
“I know she didn’t, but that doesn’t mean you can’t.”
“And who minds the shop while I’m at my booth?”
“I will or you can hire a high school girl. You don’t have to be everywhere.”
“So you think I should expand. Today the farmer’s market, tomorrow you’ll have me setting up franchises.”
“I want you to be where the customers are.”
“They’re not here in droves yet, but I’m hopeful.” She was right. It was time for me to think outside the box. But I always had an excuse. “At the moment I can’t close up to go anywhere d
uring the day or I might lose customers.” I knew what she was thinking. What customers? “So first things first. I’m going to sell some pies. Now. Today. Why shouldn’t I? Fortunately it’s not like I’m selling turnips. It’s pie. Who doesn’t like pie?”
“Hanna, nobody doesn’t like pie. It’s the world’s most unpretentious food. It reminds people of their grandmother, or your grandmother.”
“Then why haven’t I been named Crystal Cove Entrepreneur of the Year? What am I doing wrong besides staying inside the shop?”
“Nothing. You’re making delicious pies. Their loss.”
Fortunately, the oven timer went off before I lost my cool and started to blubber uncontrollably about my slow business. I rushed back to the kitchen to take a strawberry rhubarb pie out of the oven.
Kate followed me and collapsed in her chair. I couldn’t blame her. With three small kids to chase around at home, she came to the bakery to relax and sample my pie and keep my spirits from flagging. Not an easy job these days. She closed her eyes and let the steamy air and the scent of fresh-baked pie oozing its tart-sweet juice wash over her.
“I’m in heaven,” she murmured. “Pie heaven.”
“While you’re there, would you ask God to send me some more customers?”
“God says be patient. If you bake it and take it where they are, they will buy your pie. She also says to tell you to hang in there. And you should hire me as your official taster and PR person. But you’re the expert. Didn’t you do marketing when you worked in San Francisco?”
“Yes, but that was then. I want to be in the production side of things now—we’ll see how it works,” I said vaguely.
“Okay, we’ll be partners,” Kate said. I could tell she was excited about it. Being a stay-at-home mom wasn’t enough for her. She was smart and ambitious, and we did work well together. But I couldn’t be anybody’s partner. Not now. Not ever again. I’d learned my lesson the hard way.
I tried to explain. “I don’t do partners. Too many complications. I work better alone, like Grannie.”
Kate shrugged. “Whatever. I’ll work for you then.”
I nodded, not surprised she didn’t ask me why I shied away from a partnership with my best friend. Even though she might want to know. That’s why she’s my best friend. She’d never pressed me about what happened to me in the city, why I’d been so eager to come back and take over the pie shop if I was such a raving success where I was. Why she didn’t hear from me for a long period. And I hoped she wouldn’t ask. There were some painful memories I’d wanted to bury, and that’s where they would stay: buried.
Determined to lighten the mood, I took the battered old rolling pin and waved it in her direction. “I pronounce you my royal taster and Public Relations Official and future franchise director. You get a ten percent cut of every pie you help me sell.”
“I’ll take my commission in pies.”
“You got it.”
Kate closed her eyes and sank farther into the overstuffed chair Grannie had left behind. She wore a blissful smile on her flushed face. The prospect of a slice of warm strawberry rhubarb pie with a double crust hot out of the oven will do that to you.
As if in answer to Kate’s prayer, the bell over the door to the shop rang and I dropped the rolling pin, dusted my hands off on my apron, and ran out to the shop. A fit-looking gray-haired woman in a sweat suit and running shoes stood in front of the refrigerated glass display case and stared at the Luscious Lemon Meringue Pie and the Velvety Key Lime Pie topped with swirls of whipped cream. Finally, was this someone who appreciated a tart-sweet citrus pie as much as I did?
“Hi. Welcome to the Upper Crust. What can I do for you?”
“Is Louise here?”
“No, actually she retired a few months ago. I’m Hanna, her granddaughter, uh, taking her place. Not that anyone could replace her, of course, but I’m trying. Did you have a favorite pie that you don’t see here because …”
“What’s that one there?”
“That’s Extreme Chocoholic Chunk Pie. It’s very rich. Most people can only eat one tiny slice, so it goes a long way. One pie will feed twelve to eighteen people. There’s a crunchy chocolate cookie crust and when you bite into the filling you’re hit with the blend of exotic spices like cinnamon and nutmeg and mace and a touch of rum, then the intense flavor of the chocolate wraps around your tongue …”
I was convincing myself but losing her. I could tell by the way she wrinkled her nose.
“Your grandmother made her chocolate pie with a pudding mix and a graham cracker crust. It was delicious.”
“She had the magic touch,” I agreed. “But after all those years of getting up early to bake pies, she’s earned the right to sleep in and play Bridge all day instead of slaving over a hot oven.” Her life was sounding better and better to me, and I was looking ahead at thirty years of this. I didn’t mind baking the pies; thinking up new, innovative recipes was a challenge I welcomed. It was selling them that was so hard.
“Tell her Zelda said hello.”
“You should stop by and see her. She’s up the hill at Heavenly Acres.”
“That place with the miniature golf course and the huge swimming pool?” she asked incredulously.
I knew what she was thinking. How did Grannie make enough from pies to afford to move to the five-star retirement home? She didn’t. Her ex-husband died last year and left her a bundle of money.
I didn’t say that, I just nodded. “In the meantime, I have a strawberry rhubarb pie still warm from the oven with your name on it.”
I could see her waver.
“You used Louise’s recipe?”
“The crust is different. Mine is all butter.”
“You should ask her how she made hers. She’d never tell me. She always said she used a touch of magic.”
“I know. She told me the same thing. Why don’t you take a pie with you, and if you don’t like it I’ll refund your money.” I could hear Grannie’s voice in my ear. Refund your money? Are you out of your mind? That’s no way to run a business. But I was desperate for a sale.
“Fine,” she said.
I took a cardboard box from the shelf and slid the fresh strawberry rhubarb pie inside. She paid me and I thanked her.
“You brought me luck,” I told Kate, trying to act like it was no big deal. “I sold a pie.”
She jumped up and gave me a high five. “I was just thinking. Maybe in some cases, a whole pie is too much of a commitment. What if you offer a piece of pie and a cup of coffee, an introductory special?”
“Grannie never wanted to turn the place into a café. Making coffee and tea didn’t appeal to her, and then what if they wanted their pie à la mode? She’d have to get a big freezer and ice cream.”
“May I remind you it’s yours now. Give it a try, why not?”
“Well, maybe. I’ve got that little patio table of hers upstairs and some matching chairs.”
“I’ll watch the store, you go get them.”
“Watch the store? For what? The hordes of customers?” I snorted. “Come up and help me.”
Shortly afterward, we had Grannie’s little glass-topped table with the wrought-iron legs and its matching chairs set up opposite the pie case. Ever hopeful, I pressed my face against the glass door and gazed outside, but all I saw through the fog was the one-story wooden-frame police station across the street with the small cropped lawn and bushes framing the windows. On the door was an enlarged badge with a logo of blue waves and green mountains and the name of our town—Crystal Cove—in bright yellow, a symbol of the three hundred days of sunshine we get per year. After the morning fog burns off, that is. But not an officer in sight. No crimes. No activity. No surprise. But where were the men who used to come in, kid around with Grannie about the lack of felonious activity in town, and take out a pie for the staff ?
In a burst of optimism, I measured some Sumatra coffee into my own 12-cup brew maker I’d installed on the counter of the pie shop kitch
en, thinking If I brew it, they will come.
A middle-aged man came in wearing a classic cotton golf hat, shirt, and Bermuda shorts. He said he was new in town. He’d heard about my pies. I wanted to ask who, where, and when and how, but I didn’t. But I did talk him into a lemon meringue since a lot of men don’t like things too sweet. I was off to a ripping start. Two sales already in one morning. But Kate still wasn’t satisfied. She wanted the shop to be full of happy pie eaters. She went out in front and looked up and down the street. So did I. I could tell she was restless. So was I, but I had nowhere to go. She looked at her watch. Said she had to pick up the kids or her dry cleaning. Or maybe both.
“Okay,” I said. “But come back for lunch if you can. I’ll make a savory pie. A Wild Rice Quiche. You’ll love it.”
“I know I will, but how will that help your business?”
“You’ll sit at the table next to the window, and when people walk by they’ll think you’re a customer and they’ll say, ‘Hey, wonder what that woman is eating,’ and they’ll come in and see.”
“When they do, I’ll lick my lips and rave about your pies. And they’ll say, ‘I’ll have what she’s having.’” She paused and put her hands on her hips. “Wait a minute. I’m just a stooge. You’re using me, aren’t you?”
I nodded. “What are friends for?”
After she left, I went inside and set Grannie’s picture on an easel I found in the storeroom. Then I walked back outside and looked in the window to get the perspective of a casual prospective customer. I was proud of the gigantic pie I’d painted on the window with the white blobs of paint indicating wisps of steam billowing from the browned crust.
The picture of Grannie told people she was still there in spirit. At least I hoped that’s what it told them. I was trying to update the shop without sacrificing the cozy ambience people expected. I thought I was getting close—not too fussy, not too cute, but not too spare either. The kind of place I’d want to hang out in if I was a customer.
I went back to the kitchen and was about to roll out the crust I’d made, when I thought about Grannie and her recipes. How her pie crusts were so flaky, so mouth watering, so irresistible. On a whim, I reached into the back of the cupboard for a can of vegetable shortening and made a flaky crust just like she used to do. Fifteen minutes later, I took it out of the oven to cool while I made the filling, sniffing it to see if it had that delicious crusty smell I remembered so well when it filled the bakery and the apartment upstairs with warmth, comfort, love, and Grannie’s special magic.
