“They ain’t my crew.”
“I know. I mean—”
“There’s one thing you should know about reality TV crews.” His fleshy lips twisted. “They’re ruthless.”
And Luther wasn’t? “But you all traveled together. You must have known Regina well.”
His shoulders sagged. “Yeah. Regina was an okay lady. She didn’t deserve any of this.”
“Any of this? Did something else happen to her?”
His mouth tightened, and he shrugged.
“After everything that’s happened,” I said, “I can’t believe Steve came to work today.”
“Why not? He was here yesterday. Besides, Steve has Ilsa to console him.”
Abril’s shoulders twitched.
“You mean . . . Regina’s husband and Ilsa?” I asked, stunned. If this was true, they both had motive to want his wife dead. “They’re a thing?”
“Don’t like.” Ilsa’s voice rang through the workroom door.
“Don’t like it! It!” Charlene shouted. “Use the damn pronoun!”
“You shout about pronouns, when this piecrust is an abomination?” Ilsa asked.
Abril turned, acorn-colored eyes widening, and looked to the workroom door.
Luther smirked. “Here it comes.”
“Here what comes?” I asked. “You said there wouldn’t be any tricks.”
“I said no funny editing. If Ilsa or your partner blow a gasket, that’s another story.”
“You’re not even French!” Charlene shouted through the closed door. “Your name is German.”
“I was born in Alsace!”
Peeling off my gloves, I speed-walked to the flour-work door and jerked it open. “How are the crusts coming?” A blast of chilled air flowed into the bakery, and I shivered.
Charlene folded her arms over her apron and glared at Ilsa. “My crusts are perfect.”
“A perfect disaster.” Ilsa sniffed.
“What do you know?” Charlene said. “The French didn’t even invent pies. It’s an American dish.”
“Pies date back to medieval Europe!”
“Not American pies.”
“I know pastry, and this . . .” She grabbed a ball of dough and dropped it with a thud on the long table. “. . . is dense as granite.”
“Her crusts are famous,” I said, indignant on Charlene’s behalf. “We’re known for our crusts.”
“I am sure you are,” Ilsa said. “The Hindenburg is also famous. The Titanic is famous. Krakatoa is—”
“Now you just stop right there.” Charlene shook her finger at the pastry chef.
“I have seen enough.” Ilsa turned on me. “You. Show me your work.”
“S—sure,” I stammered, eager to separate Ilsa and Charlene. I loaded rounds of dough onto a lined tray. “We were just about to start filling crusts.”
“Don’t like.” She whisked her hand in front of my face. “I will see you create from the beginning with the cutting and chopping and mixing.”
“But we’ve already done the prep work,” I said.
“Don’t like. Do it again.”
My neck stiffened. “Sorry, I don’t have time. We’ve got a big order due this afternoon. We’re filling crusts with what we’ve got.” I pushed open the door with my hip and set the crusts on the counter beside the flattening machine.
Cameraman Steve and Ilsa followed.
Charlene slammed the door shut behind us. “And good riddance.” Her voice echoed from the flour-work room.
Ilsa leaned against the metal counter and crossed her arms.
Ignoring the chef’s sniffs, tuts, and growls, I flattened the dough, lined the tins.
Luther raised his head, sniffing the air. “Do I smell coffee?” He drifted toward the swinging kitchen door.
“You’re supposed to be assisting me,” Steve snapped.
“Shout when you need help.” Luther vanished through the door to the diner.
Abril and I returned to our usual rhythm of crimping and filling. Abril’s hands shook every time Ilsa harrumphed. Her slim shoulders tensed with each roll of Ilsa’s eyes.
Charlene emerged from the workroom and sat on her blue chair by the wall. She watched us, her gaze narrowed.
Abril folded the eggs, cheese, and hash brown mixture into a crust for a breakfast pie.
Ilsa sighed heavily and shook her head.
“I can’t do this.” Abril raised her hands and stepped away from the counter. “I can’t be on TV.”
“But your face will be blurred,” Charlene said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Abril said. “I can’t do it.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “You don’t have to.”
Charlene rose and walked to her. “Oh, yes you do.”
Abril shook her head. “But—”
“Let me tell you a little story,” Charlene said. “A story about a pie maker who got jilted at the altar.”
I hadn’t been at the altar! Grinding my teeth, I glanced at the cameraman. “Charlene, I don’t think this is the time.”
“As I’m sure you’ve guessed,” Charlene said, “I’m talking about Val.”
“Charlene!” I forced a smile and turned to Steve.
He zoomed closer.
“And did Val give up after being publicly humiliated?” Charlene asked. “Her dream wedding in tatters? Her fiancée taking up with a yoga instructor? No. And when someone dropped dead after eating one of her breakfast pies—”
“Abril,” I said quickly, “could you help with something in my office?”
She gave a quick smile of relief. “Yes, please.” Abril followed me into my barren office, and I shut the door.
“I know they’re going to blur my face on the show,” she whispered, “but it’s still . . . Everything I do is wrong.”
“No, it isn’t. You’re doing fine. Ilsa doesn’t like anybody. That’s the way she works. But I’ve watched some of her shows, and she does usually come up with good suggestions. She’s difficult, but we can both learn from her.”
“Maybe.” She plucked at her bottom lip. “But she makes me nervous.”
“You’ve got nothing to feel nervous about. You’re only baking the way I’ve asked you to, so any criticisms she has of your techniques is on me.”
“But what about Charlene?”
I tugged at my hair. “I know! I wish she’d quit bringing up all my failures on TV, but there’s no way to stop her.” Plus, she was my landlord, which gave her added leverage.
Her dark brows swooped downward. “I meant, everyone loves her crusts, and Ilsa said they were a disaster.”
“Oh. Right. Don’t worry; we’re not ditching her piecrust recipe.” Charlene would revolt, and so would half my customers. “Are you going to be all right?”
Abril raised her chin. “I am a blur.” She blinked. “That’s a poem. I need to write that down.” She pulled a purple notepad and pen from her apron pocket and hurried from my office.
Instead of returning to the kitchen, I walked to the dining area. I turned the sign in the diner window to OPEN and unlocked the door.
Abril emerged from the kitchen and set out the day-old hand pies with their half-off sign and a basket for payment.
A stream of retirees trickled in and poured themselves coffee from the urn.
Marla wandered in behind the retirees, and my eyes narrowed. Every strand of her bottle-blond hair was in place, as if she’d just come from the beauty parlor. Which was, of course, impossible at this hour. She was definitely trying to get in on the reality show action, and Charlene would not be pleased.
I greeted everyone, spending more time chatting than I normally would to avoid Ilsa. When I couldn’t put it off any longer, I returned to the kitchen.
In the corner by the pie safe, Frank spoke in a low voice to Ilsa. Her face pinched, but she nodded. I don’t know what he said to her, but for the rest of the morning, she watched silently as we worked.
At nine, the bell over the d
oor jingled, and I glanced through the window into the diner.
Ray, in his comic book t-shirt, limped to the register. Henrietta ambled beside him in her usual shapeless, Army green.
I hurried through the swinging door to the register. “Hi, guys. What can I get for you?”
“Pie Hard’s back?” he asked. “Is Ilsa Fueder here?”
Unfortunately. “Yeah, she’s in the kitchen.”
“Do you think she’d give me an autograph?” He flushed. “I know it shouldn’t matter, after . . .” He looked down the counter. “But I’ll kick myself later if I don’t ask.”
Henrietta crossed her arms and looked in the opposite direction.
Frank swiveled on his barstool. “Are you two friends of Valentine’s?”
“They are,” I said.
“Ray saved Val from getting run over by a car,” Henrietta’s lips pinched as if that wasn’t a good thing.
I frowned. Henrietta’s round face was grim. Even her sandy hair looked angry. Was she upset that Ray was detecting? Maybe she could get him to give it up.
“In that case,” Frank said, “I’ll speak to Ilsa and get you an autograph.”
Ray’s broad face broke into a grin. “Thanks! And I’ll have one of those mini breakfast pies with bacon,” he said to me. “Henrietta?”
Marla waved at Frank from her table in the center of the restaurant. “Yoo-hoo! I’m ready to sign that waiver.”
“Of course.” Frank joined her at the table
“I’ll have the spinach and goat cheese mini.” Henrietta turned on her sensible shoes and strode to the corner booth.
Shooting me an apologetic look, Ray paid. I stuck the ticket in the wheel and spun it to face the kitchen.
Abril grabbed it, nodded, and a moment later set a tray on the window with both mini pies and a side of greens.
I carried the pies to the corner booth. “Here you go. So, Ray—”
He cut his gaze to Henrietta and gave a tiny shake of his head. He hadn’t brought her into the Baker Street Bakers.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“No, thanks.” Henrietta laid her hand atop Ray’s and gazed at me through lowered eyelids.
Ray blushed.
So much for “We’re just friends.” These two were an item. Henrietta seemed unhappy with me for some reason.
“Besides, Ray, you should be cutting back,” she said. “You need to save to get your car fixed.”
“What’s wrong with your car?” I asked.
“It’s making weird noises, but it still runs fine.”
“For now,” Henrietta said.
“It did sound odd the other night,” I said.
She whipped toward him. “Other night?”
Ray flushed.
Crumb. What had I done? “Okay, you know where to find me,” I said quickly and retreated to the kitchen.
My assistant manager, Petronella, arrived and took over for me in the kitchen while I worked the register. The breakfast rush was light—mainly retirees who met here for pie and gossip. The real rush would come at lunchtime, when the beachgoers got hungry.
The cameraman migrated into the restaurant and filmed the diners. Frank roamed the checkerboard floor getting permissions and interviewing happy customers.
The bell over the front door jangled. Chief Shaw strode into Pie Town, two beefy, uniformed cops beside him in a policeman sandwich. They bee lined for Ray and Henrietta in the corner booth.
The cameraman swiveled toward the police.
“Ray MacTaggart?” Shaw asked.
“Um, yeah?” Ray said.
“I figured you’d be planted here,” Shaw said. “I’d like you to come to the station with us.”
Henrietta gasped, paling.
I slid from behind the counter. What did my best customer have to do with the police?
Frowning, Ray slid from the booth and hitched up his jeans. “Sure, but why?”
“Because you were at the scene of two capital crimes—murder and attempted murder by arson. And that doesn’t look good, son.”
CHAPTER 11
“Another Pie Town murderer!” Marla sagged in her chair, her wrinkled hand to her platinum-blond head.
“Ray’s not a murderer,” Henrietta shouted.
“Now, now, it’s only a few questions,” Chief Shaw said, and his entourage led Ray from Pie Town.
Henrietta slithered from the booth. Her olive-green cargo pants squeaked on the pink vinyl. “Val, you have to do something!” She rushed to the counter.
“I feel faint,” Marla said.
“He’s only being questioned,” I rasped and rubbed my neck. My throat was still raw from the fire. “He wasn’t arrested.” But taking him to the station meant things were serious.
Henrietta clawed a hand through her sandy hair. “But he’s being questioned because of you. He told me you three were investigating that woman’s death. That’s why he was at the hotel that night. That’s why they’re blaming him for the crimes.”
“Is that why you’re upset with me?” I asked.
“Shame,” Marla intoned. “But I’m sure it isn’t all Val’s fault. Charlene no doubt dragged her into it.”
At the counter, Frank, Luther, and Tally Wally swiveled their bar stools to face me.
Wally rubbed his ruddy nose. “Val, did you get young Ray involved in a murder?”
“He got me involved.” It sounded whiney, and I stuffed my hands in my apron pockets. “Henrietta, I’m sorry this happened, but honestly, it was Ray who called me. I didn’t drag him into anything.”
Cameraman Steve edged closer, lens aimed toward me. It shook slightly.
This was awful. Steve’s wife had been murdered, and we were discussing it like it was no big thing. What must he think?
Frank put his hand on the camera and gently forced it down. He shook his head and said something in a low voice to the cameraman.
Steve’s salt-and-pepper brows lowered. Mouth tight, he hurried through the Dutch door, past the register, and into the kitchen.
Luther arched a brow and blew on his coffee.
“Ray never would have tried to be a detective if you hadn’t gotten him hit by that car.” But Henrietta’s angry expression wavered.
“I didn’t mean to,” I said. Had I somehow encouraged Ray? Because it felt like the opposite. “It was a strange concatenation of events.”
“Charlene’s cat is here?” Tally Wally spun his lean form on the barstool to face the door. “I don’t trust that animal.”
“No,” I said, “concatenation means series—”
“Then why don’t you say series?” He swiveled back toward me.
“I will next time,” I said, weary. But I really liked that word.
At the counter, Luther bit into a hand pie and angled his head toward us. A glob of cherry filling dripped like blood down his chin.
“The point is,” Henrietta said, “Ray’s a part of your crazy team now. I didn’t think you left team members in the lurch.”
“We don’t,” I said, fighting for calm. I liked Henrietta. It bothered me that she thought I was the enemy. “I can’t help him in the police station, but we will figure this out. Ray has no motive. They’ll release him soon.”
Marla harrumphed and blew into her coffee mug.
Frank shook his head.
I drew Henrietta away from the counter and whispered, “It had to be someone from the Pie Hard crew.”
“Who?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Yet. And if it makes you feel any better,” I said more loudly, “Shaw considers me as much a suspect as he does Ray.”
Marla snorted.
“It doesn’t,” Henrietta said. “I’m going to the police station.” She turned and strode out the door.
Smiling sympathetically, Frank refilled his coffee from the urn. “She must care a great deal for that young man. Don’t worry. She’ll figure out this isn’t your fault.”
Irrational, childhood indignation boil
ed in my chest. Frank hadn’t earned the right to comfort me. “Can we talk?” I jerked my chin toward my office.
“Sure.”
Luther’s gaze burned a hole in my back as I walked to my office and held the door for my father. I followed him inside and shut it.
He leaned against my battered metal desk. “How can I help?”
“You can’t. I don’t know you. Frank, it’s been twenty-five years.”
He blew out his breath, his shoulders slumping beneath his tweed jacket. “I suppose that’s fair. You have no reason to trust me after all this time.”
So why did I want to trust him? I braced my back against the door and crossed my arms against the desire. “How can I even believe you’re my father?”
He whistled. “So that’s how it is.”
Silence stretched and strained between us. My ribs felt broken, and squeezed my breath from my lungs.
“How much did your mother explain to you?” he finally asked.
“She didn’t.” Talking about Frank hurt her too much. I stared hard at the dusty shelves lining the wall.
He winced. “If it makes a difference, I didn’t want to leave.”
“It doesn’t. And don’t try to tell me Mom drove you away.”
“No, she didn’t.” His lips pursed. “I was reckless when I was younger.”
I edged sideways, nudging the wall calendar on the door. “What does that mean?”
“Your mother and I agreed it would be best for you and for her if I left.”
“Mom . . . agreed?” I asked, incredulous. My mother had been devastated by his desertion. There was no way this could be true.
“I gambled and got involved with some bad people. But I don’t gamble anymore,” he said, quickly, shifting against my desk.
Could there have been more to the story then she’d told me? It was possible, because she’d never said much. When he left, I was too young for that sort of heart-to-heart. Later, when I understood he wasn’t returning, I stopped asking. I thought I stopped caring, but the twist in my gut revealed the lie.
“That’s when she moved to L.A.,” he said.
“To Orange County,” I corrected. “And where did you go?”
“Vegas.” He stretched out his legs.
Pie Hard Page 10
