Pie Hard

by Kirsten Weiss

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  He yawned. “Charlene told me what happened. I wanted to make sure you are okay.”

  Because yawns are contagious, I yawned too. “Where is she?”

  “In the yurt.” His nostrils widened, and he grimaced as if stifling a yawn.

  “She told me to stay in here because of the ladies,” he continued.

  I gritted my teeth. Don’t yawn. Don’t yawn. We’d be doing this all night if we weren’t careful. “Oh, no. They weren’t naked, were they?” If he interrupted one of their skyclad ceremonies, I didn’t know who would be more traumatized.

  His broad brow creased. “Naked?”

  “Never mind,” I said hurriedly.

  The door banged open, and Charlene climbed in. Her nose wrinkled. “Phew! You stink.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and stomped around the bookcase to my sleeping area. I rummaged through the closet for my PJs.

  “We need to talk this over while it’s still fresh in your mind,” Charlene said.

  “Nothing’s fresh in my mind,” I said. Cotton PJs in hand, I returned to the dining nook and leaned against the kitchen counter. In a converted shipping container, you never have far to walk.

  “Right.” Ray crossed his arms, his windbreaker rustling. “Why didn’t you tell me about the fire? You should have called. I was at the hotel earlier. I could have protected you.”

  “Why were you there?” I asked.

  His gaze shifted to the sliding glass doors. “Investigating. Why didn’t you call?”

  “It all happened kind of fast,” I said, “and then I went to the police station.”

  His broad face furrowed. “If you’d told me you were going to the hotel, I could have helped.”

  “I wasn’t going there to investigate,” I said.

  “Then what were you doing there?” he asked.

  “It was personal,” I mumbled.

  “You may as well tell him,” Charlene said. “The cops know. Everyone else will soon enough.”

  Unwelcome heat stole up my cheeks. “Frank—their new producer—he says he’s my father.”

  His coppery brows drew downward. “He says? You mean . . .” His face cleared. “Oh.”

  “I went to the hotel to have it out with him.” Mostly. Before Charlene could call me on the fib, I told him everything that happened.

  Ray pulled a sheaf of loose paper from the backpack near his feet and started scribbling. “What time did you arrive at the hotel?”

  I glanced at Charlene for confirmation.

  “You left Pie Town around a quarter to eight,” she said.

  “A little before that, I think,” I said. “I was in the bar at eight p.m.” Unlike Frank, I’d been on time.

  Charlene sat at the table across from him and tried to peek at his notes.

  “How long do you think you waited for Frank in the bars?” he asked.

  “Twenty minutes.” I have a rule—if someone’s more than twenty minutes late, I leave. “Then I went to talk to the receptionist. That took maybe another five minutes or so, and then I walked to the building—”

  “Another five minutes?”

  “Probably.”

  “So, we’re talking thirty minutes between the time you arrived and walked into that outbuilding.” He held up his timeline for us to admire. Ruler straight lines, color coding, handwriting that would make an architect proud. Damn, he was good.

  “There is one weird thing,” I said. “When I finally got back to the hotel, my gas tank was empty. I swear I had gas in it when I arrived.”

  “If the arsonist followed you,” Charlene said, “he would have had enough time to siphon gas from your van and splash it around that room.”

  “That would explain my suddenly empty tank,” I said. “Maybe the arsonist didn’t want to leave a paper trail by visiting a gas station. Locking me inside that building couldn’t have been premeditated,” I said, trying to convince myself. “There’s no way he could have known I’d end up there, because I didn’t know I would until the last minute.”

  “So the goal must have been to burn that room,” Charlene said. “You walking inside must have been a bonus.”

  “But why?” Ray asked. “Why destroy the Pie Hard equipment?”

  “And how did he or she set the fire with you inside?” Charlene asked, accusing. “Didn’t you notice anything?”

  “I smelled gas,” I said. “The fire must have been ready to go before I walked into that room. And I remember hearing a door close after I walked inside. I assumed someone came in, but the arsonist must have been leaving. Then he must have slipped out the other door while I came in the front and barricaded that door. Maybe he rigged some sort of fuse to go after he left.”

  “But why?” Ray repeated. “Why you? Why gasoline from your van? To frame you? How could the cops trace the gas to you? And why destroy that equipment at all?” He glanced around. “Have you got a white board?”

  “Why would she have a white board?” Charlene asked.

  He shook his head. “It’s okay. I’ll bring one tomorrow.”

  Charlene looked a question at me.

  I shrugged.

  “Look,” Ray said. “I can’t be a part of the Baker Street Bakers unless you let me know when and where you’re investigating.”

  Charlene sucked in her breath. “Now, we agreed to help you, but the Baker Street Bakers are bakers only. And you’re a student engineer.”

  He brandished his time chart. “But I’m useful.”

  “He has a point,” I admitted. I didn’t like that he’d been at the Belinda Hotel investigating without us knowing. Bringing him onto the team was a way to keep him safe.

  Charlene glared at me, and I shrugged.

  “And I can bake,” he said. “Next time, I’ll bring my famous double-fudge brownies. Ooh! Or maybe lemon bars. And you can’t help me if we don’t work together.” From his backpack, he pulled out a rolled sheet of yellowed paper. He flattened it on the small table. “I’ve drawn a map of the hotel—”

  “Why do the edges look burnt?” Charlene asked.

  His face pinked, his freckles darkening. “I used one of our gaming maps. They’re standard grid sheets,” he added hastily, “even if they do have art around the edges.”

  She squinted at a sticker on the square marking the outbuilding. “Is that a wizard?”

  “It’s Val,” he said. “I didn’t have any female character stickers.”

  I grinned. “I’m a wizard.”

  “Only because you’ve got a pointy head,” Charlene said.

  “Now we need to figure out where everyone was when Regina was killed and the fire set,” Ray said. “It’s a simple process of elimination.”

  Charlene snorted. “Simple until everyone lies to you. Murder is a serious business, young man. It’s no place for an amateur. Son, this is as far as you go.”

  “What happens if Val gets arrested?” Ray asked. “Then you’ll need a partner to help clear her name.”

  I did not like that prospect. “He did help us figure out the timeline for tonight’s arson.” We would have gotten there, but he made it happen sooner rather than later. Ray was efficient. “Maybe we could use his engineering perspective.”

  “I could draft a chart of motives,” Ray said.

  “There are only three motives,” Charlene said. “Love, greed, and revenge. That doesn’t make much of a chart.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “but I can create a table with each person’s specific motive.”

  “We’ve never done tables before,” I said. “Charlene, maybe you can help him.” If she was busy managing Ray, I would be free to manage Frank.

  Charlene blew out her breath. “Fine. Welcome to the Baker Street Bakers. But since you’re not a professional baker, you’re only an associate member.”

  He sprang to his feet, knocking over his chair. “You won’t regret this. I’ll tell Henrietta.”

  Charlene’s eyes widened. “Wai
t. What?”

  He stuffed his papers into his backpack. Limp gone, he hurried to the door and hopped from the trailer.

  “Your girlfriend’s not a baker either,” Charlene shouted after him. “Henrietta can’t investigate!”

  “We’re just friends!” He hollered over his shoulder and squeezed into the Escort.

  “He’s not going to invite Henrietta onto the team,” she said. “Is he?”

  The Escort made an ugly grinding sound and inched down the hill.

  “We’ll give them Internet research to do,” I said. “They’ll be fine.”

  “You thought you’d be fine interrogating your father at a luxury hotel.”

  “It’s Internet research. They’ll be totally safe.” I shifted against the counter. Someone on the Pie Hard crew was a killer. I had to keep Ray off their radar. I only hoped I could.

  CHAPTER 10

  My van’s headlights lit the brick alley. The sky above was a deep, cobalt blue, hinting at the coming sunrise. Through gritty eyes, I slowed, scanning the shadows beyond the dumpsters.

  In spite of my smoke-roughened throat and general exhaustion, my heart was light. We had a big wholesale order due this afternoon, and the weather report had predicted a warm, sunny Saturday. Between the order and the beachgoers, Pie Town would be busy.

  Two people emerged from the shadows. One carried a spotlight.

  I slammed on the brakes and rocked forward. The van screeched to a halt beside our dumpster.

  I rolled down the window. “Seriously?”

  “Good morning, Valentine.” Frank tugged down the cuffs of his tweed jacket and grinned rakishly. “The morning hour is when the baking magic happens, and I understand we don’t have any usable shots after last night’s fire.”

  I leaned my head out the window.

  The assistant cameraman, Luther, blew into his hands, and jammed them into the pockets of his bulky, black jacket. A breeze ruffled his pumpkin hair.

  Ilsa leaned against the brick wall and scowled. She flicked cigarette ash off the sleeve of her white baker’s jacket. “Don’t like.” The Frenchwoman waved her hand in a banishing motion.

  A camera aimed at me, its light blistered my retinas. I assumed the cameraman, Steve, was behind it.

  I sputtered. “But . . . how—?”

  “How do we go on after our little disaster last night?” Frank smoothed his hand over his slicked, brown hair. “Let’s just say I can be tenacious.”

  “More importantly,” Ilsa said in her thick accent, “we have been asked not to leave town.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Don’t like?”

  Frank shrugged. “Since Regina’s production company is stuck paying our hotel bills, we may as well work.”

  “Regina’s company?” I asked. “I thought she was just the field or line producer.”

  “She was,” Frank said, “but she very cleverly formed an L.L.C. for tax purposes.”

  The pastry chef jerked away from the brick wall, her blond highlights dull in the dim light. “Are you going to let us in? Or must we stand out here and freeze while you chitchat?”

  It wasn’t that cold, but she had a point. I hopped from the van and unlocked the alley door to the kitchen while Luther hooked a mic to my Pie Town tee. He smelled of stale beer.

  “Say something,” the sound engineer said to me.

  “Something.”

  “You’re five-by-five.” A breeze ruffled the red and orange Hawaiian shirt sticking out from the bottom of Luther’s jacket.

  “What?”

  Luther’s ruddy face pinched. “That means loud and clear.”

  “Oh. Got it.” I walked inside and flipped on the lights. The fluorescents glinted off metal counters, the massive pie oven, and the butcher-block work island. Canisters of dry ingredients and utensils lined the shelves.

  “Why hasn’t your crust expert arrived yet?” Ilsa asked.

  I glanced at the wall clock above the window to the diner. “She should be here any minute.”

  The pastry chef clucked her tongue. “Late.”

  “Where’s Nigel?” I asked Frank.

  Luther shucked off of his jacket. At least one of the buttons on his Hawaiian shirt had gone into the wrong hole, creating a hillock of fabric. “Anywhere I can put this while I work?”

  I pointed to the wall hooks behind the swinging kitchen door.

  He hung his jacket and patted the pockets of his photographer’s vest, as if searching for something.

  “And to answer your question,” Frank said, “Nigel didn’t need to be here for these shots. He’s busy at the hotel preparing some business ideas for Pie Town. You’re going to love what he’s got planned.”

  That sounded ominous. “What has he got planned?” Worried, I pulled down our thick, three-ring recipe binder from a shelf and opened it on the counter.

  Frank waved away the question. “Never mind Nigel. This morning is about Ilsa and your pie team.”

  “Who are not here?” Ilsa tapped her wristwatch. “Does your staff make a practice of arriving late?”

  The alley door slammed open, and Charlene bustled in. She unsnapped her violet knit jacket. Beneath it she wore a green knit tunic, matching leggings, and tennis shoes.

  “At last,” Ilsa said. “The queen arrives.” She turned and strode into the flour-work room.

  “I guess that’s me then,” Charlene said cheerfully, unhooking the gold watch around her wrist and dropping it in her jacket pocket. “Tah.” With Luther and the cameraman at her heels, she followed Ilsa inside the flour-work room and banged the door shut.

  I pulled out plastic-sheathed recipes for strawberry-parfait pie, lemon-blueberry cream pie, and an almond toffee pie. “Maybe I should just go with them,” I said to Frank.

  “Would you normally supervise Charlene?” he asked.

  “No, she’d boil me in cooking oil, but—”

  “They’ll be fine. Charlene’s a grown woman.”

  With the baseline personality of a fourteen-year-old. “But—”

  The alley door opened, and Abril hurried into the kitchen. Catching sight of Frank, she stopped short. “Oh!” A deep flush crept up her face. Her long black hair was coiled beneath a hairnet. Like me, she wore a pink Pie Town t-shirt with our logo: Turn Your Frown Upside Down at Pie Town!

  Frank cocked his head. “And you must be . . . ?”

  Abril stood frozen, lips parted.

  “This is Abril,” I said, “poet and pie maker. But I’m not sure she wants to be on TV.”

  Abril shook her head frantically.

  Frank bowed. “Then you needn’t be, dear lady. We’ll blur your face in any shots. Will that be acceptable?”

  She nodded, her brown-eyed gaze darting around the kitchen.

  “The crew wants to get some shots of us baking later,” I said. “Right now, they’re in the flour-work room with Charlene. And today’s specials are on the counter.” I nodded to the recipe pages I’d removed.

  She walked to the industrial refrigerator, pulled ingredients out and set them on the table to prep.

  Frank leaned toward my ear. “Doesn’t talk much, does she?” he asked in a low voice. “I’ll just make myself some coffee.” Without waiting for a response, he plugged in the coffee urn, inserted a fresh filter, and dumped in the coffee grounds.

  I tried to disguise my annoyance. I didn’t like people who didn’t work for me messing with my equipment. At least he knew how to make himself useful.

  Snapping on my work gloves, I got busy chopping onions and veggies for our breakfast pies.

  Frank drifted into the diner. When I peeked through the window, he was sitting on a barstool reading the morning paper.

  Abril and I organized ingredients for our fruit pies, slicing and dicing fruit, as busy as two Saturday morning bakers could be. We assembled the ingredients in giant, metal bowls.

  Luther emerged from the flour-work room and shivered. “Brrr. It’s freezing in there.”

  “I s
hould have warned you,” I said. “It’s temperature controlled to keep the butter properly chilled.”

  “No kidding.” He went to stand beside our giant oven and tilted his head back, holding his hands, palms out, by the narrow door. “Ah, this is good. Mind if I stand here?”

  “Fine by me.” More than fine, since I’d been meaning to talk to him about Regina. I glanced at Abril, but she had her back turned to us both. “It’s difficult to believe someone would set your equipment on fire.”

  Luther’s expression hardened. “Is it? People are jerks. A lot of that equipment was my own. It’s insured, but the insurance company will never give me the full replacement value.”

  “Who could have wanted to wreck your equipment?” I glanced again at Abril, who purposefully ignored us. “After what happened to Regina, I’m starting to wonder if someone has a grudge against the show.”

  Bacon popped and sizzled on the stove.

  “Well, there’s you.” He grinned. “I don’t know why anybody signs up for this torture. But I guess the dream of fame trumps looking like a moron on cable TV.”

  “A moron?” I shook myself. We’d look fine. More importantly, I was no arsonist. “Luther, I did not—”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He waved his hand, dismissive. “Frank told us the real reason you were at the hotel.”

  My stomach plunged. Had Frank told people he was my father? We hadn’t even had a chance to talk! “He did?”

  “Hey, like I said, I get why you might be having second thoughts. So. Do you trust him?”

  My face heated. “I don’t—I’m not . . .” If Frank had shared my dysfunctional family history with the crew, would the story be part of this wretched show?

  He leaned closer, his alcohol fumes overcoming the scent of frying bacon. “Hey,” he said, “relax. Frank told us about the show plans in the team meeting. That we’re going to play it straight. There’ll be no weird editing to make you look dumber than you are, though opening up a bakery has got to be one of the stupidest ideas ever. Bakeries hardly ever make it past their first year.”

  The show! Luther was talking about the show. “Oh,” I said, relief mingling with disquiet. The bakery business was rough—we operated on razor-thin margins. I couldn’t think about all the reasons I might fail. “To be honest, I’m more concerned about the murder and the fire than how Pie Town looks on TV. How is your crew dealing with everything?”