I raised a brow. “So you could quit gambling?”
His smile was rueful, and he clasped his hands together. “It wasn’t easy, and I fell off the wagon more than once.”
“And now?”
“Now I work with other gamblers to help them with their addiction.”
“As a life coach,” I said, my voice flat, disbelieving.
“My clients don’t need any more shame. Life coach is a kinder title than addiction counselor.”
“A life coach who just happens to worm his way into Pie Hard as a producer when the first one dies.”
“That was a bit of luck.”
“Not for Regina.”
He shook his head. “No, of course not. That was terrible. But it was for me. It gives us a chance to work together, don’t you see?”
“But how did you pull it off?”
He leaned forward, conspiratorial. “The executive producer was a client of mine.”
My arms dropped to my sides. “What brought you here in the first place?”
“I wish I could say you did. The truth is, a client brought me to San Nicholas. I can’t tell you who. That’s confidential. When I learned I was going to San Nicholas, I immediately thought of you.” He dug into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulled out a leather wallet. “I may not have been in your life, Val, but I’ve kept up with you. Your mother sent a card every Christmas.” He opened the wallet and pulled out a photo, extended it to me.
Unwillingly, I stepped forward and took it. An ache ripped through my chest. It was a photo of me with Santa. I was thirteen—a bit too old for Santa’s lap—but Mom insisted on one every year.
It was really real. Frank was my father. There was no other way he could have had this picture. I thought the Santa photos had been our private joke. It turned out she’d been sharing it with someone else.
“You and Santa, every Christmas.” He handed me another photo, and another, until my twenty-first Christmas.
Mom had been diagnosed with breast cancer then. The photo shoot embarrassed my twenty-one-year-old self, but I couldn’t deny her.
“When the pictures stopped coming, I knew she was gone.” He stared at the dingy linoleum floor.
“Yeah.” My voice cracked, and I blinked rapidly. I was not going to cry in front of this man. “And did you ever send anything to her? Like child support?” I already knew the answer. He’d been in touch with her, and he’d known where to reach her. He just never bothered.
“I tried,” he said, “but she didn’t want any. She sent my money right back.”
My lungs compressed. “What?”
“After a while, I stopped trying.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” I paced the small office. He couldn’t be telling the truth. My mother had struggled when I was growing up. We always had a roof over our heads, but we moved around a lot in search of greener pastures and cheaper rents. At first, I was too young to understand why I had to switch schools every two years or wear unfashionable hand-me-downs. Later, I learned to bargain shop like a pro.
“Your mother was a proud woman,” he said.
I gnawed my lower lip. That, at least, was true.
“Taking my money was the last thing she wanted,” he said.
“Hm.” Absently, I rubbed my arms. Could I risk believing him?
“I knew you might not want to see me,” he said, “but I couldn’t resist looking in on you here. I’m proud of what you’ve accomplished with Pie Town. I know it couldn’t have been easy.”
It hadn’t been. It still wasn’t, and I winced at what I knew Nigel would find in my financial statements.
I straightened off the door. Business might be tight, but Pie Town wasn’t going under. It was typical of new businesses to have challenges at the start. I had nothing to be ashamed of. I’d rather think of Pie Town problems than my father. “Thank you for telling me this.”
“I’m only sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner.”
“Couldn’t?” I asked.
His gaze darted away from me—to the tile ceiling, the ramshackle bookshelf, the closet door. “Didn’t. I was away for so long; I didn’t know how to find my way back. And then your mother was gone, and it was too late.” He levered himself off the metal desk. “I know this is a lot to take in. And I understand that you aren’t ready to play the role of daughter, and that you may never be. But I would like the chance to get to know you, if you’re willing.”
Someone banged on the door.
I twitched, startled, and opened it.
Charlene stormed inside. “Mademoiselle Don’t Like is going to be the next to die, because I’m going to wring her neck.”
I rubbed my forehead. “Ilsa?” I’d forgotten all about the French chef. I was supposed to be demonstrating my pie latticing technique. “I left her alone with Abril. Is she okay?”
“Abril is latticing strawberry-rhubarb pies like a champion. That French witch told Abril her work is passable but unimaginative.”
“It’s pie lattice,” I said. “How much imagination does it take?”
“Tell that so-called pastry chef!”
Frank smiled. “I’ll talk to Ilsa. She has high standards, but her skills can only work in your favor. Trust the process.” He left the office, vanishing around the corner.
I moved toward the door.
“Trust the process?” Charlene asked, halting my progress. “What happened? Did you learn anything more about your you-know-what?”
“I think he really is my dad.” I handed her the photos. “He had these. My mother sent them to him.”
She flipped through the pictures and handed them back, her expression pained. “All right. So he’s legit. How did that get him to being the Pie Hard producer?”
“A strange concatenation of events.”
“A strange what?”
I sighed. “Dumb luck. Frank really does know the executive producer. And I think he wanted to help me in his own, strange way. Come on. Let’s rescue Abril.”
When we returned to the kitchen, Abril was calmly sliding pies into our rotating oven while Cameraman Steve filmed.
Abril smiled. “Good, you’re back. They wanted to film you instead of me, since I’m only a blur.”
I looked around the kitchen for the Frenchwoman. “Where’s Ilsa?”
The cameraman jerked his head toward the rear door. “Alley. Smoke break.”
“I hear Ilsa was a little rough,” I said, glancing at Charlene.
Abril hung the giant, wooden paddle on its hook and wiped her hands on her apron. “She had some interesting ideas about making the crusts more decorative. She said she’d show me tomorrow. You were right. When you get to know her, Ilsa’s actually pretty nice.”
Charlene sniffed.
The alley door opened, and Frank and Ilsa strolled inside, laughing. She smiled at him. “I will go shopping now.” She turned to Abril. “Tomorrow, you will be amazed at what you can do!” She bustled through the swinging door to the diner.
“Ilsa’s leaving?” I asked. “Does that mean filming is over?”
“You must be wondering at our schedule,” Frank said. “The fact is, since the police have told us not to leave town, we’re taking things a little more slowly than usual. But that just means this will be a great show. Did you know that Pie Hard rarely comes to pie shops?”
“Imagine,” Charlene said dryly.
“I’ve spoken with Nigel,” Frank continued, “and he’s working up some great ideas to improve your bottom line. Ilsa’s got some tricks up her sleeve too. I think you’ll be happy with the results.”
“So, no more filming today?” I asked, hopeful.
“We’ll keep Steve and Luther here. They’ll stay out of your way and get more shots of the baking. At lunch, I’ll interview more of the diners to get their take on the food. Nigel gave me a list of questions.” He fumbled in the pockets of his tweed blazer. “Meanwhile, I’ve got an errand of my own to run. Steve, you good without me?”
/> The cameraman nodded, somber.
“Great. I’ll be back in time for lunch.” Frank hurried from the kitchen.
“Don’t mind me.” Steve brushed a dusting of flour off his photographer’s vest.
In the dining area, someone dinged the counter bell.
“I’ll get it.” Abril whisked through the swinging door.
“That pie oven is a great visual,” the cameraman said. “I’ve never seen one that big. I’d like to get some shots of you removing pies.”
“I’m behind on my crust count.” Charlene stalked into the flour-work room and slammed the door. The utensils and pans hanging on the nearby wall rattled.
I glanced into the oven. “You’ll have to wait a few minutes. None of the pies are ready for extraction yet.”
“Ready for extraction. Good one.” The cameraman shot me a pained smile. “And I’m sorry I accused you of sabotaging the show. I wasn’t thinking straight. I haven’t been thinking straight since . . .” He coughed and looked to the alleyway door.
“It’s all right. I understand.” I paused, my voice softening. “I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you.”
He shook his head. “I want to work. If I wasn’t working, I’d be sitting in my hotel room drinking. Regina wouldn’t want that.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to know your wife better.” I had to figure out a way to ask him about Ilsa. Ray was being questioned by the police, and someone on the crew had locked me inside a burning room. But the thought of sticking my nose into such a private matter made my stomach writhe.
“Regina was an amazing woman,” he said. “Nothing got her down.”
“She must have been, to keep Ilsa on the show after everything.”
Steve lowered the camera. “Ilsa?”
Ruthless. I would be ruthless. I gritted my teeth. “I heard about the affair.”
“That’s over,” he said, looking everywhere but at me. He dug into the pockets of his khaki vest. “It’s been over for a year now. And yes, if you’re wondering, Regina did know, and she forgave us both. Ask Ilsa if you don’t believe me.”
I blew out my breath. That had gone easier than expected. “I believe you. Do the police know?”
He shuddered. “I hope not. If the police find out, it will only muddy the waters. Ilsa had nothing to do with Regina’s death. I’m telling you, we were over and done. The police should be looking at . . .” He clamped his mouth shut. “Never mind.”
“Looking at whom?” I asked. “If you know something, you should probably tell the police.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. It’s even older news than Ilsa and I.”
“The police are considering this a murder investigation. Someone burned your equipment and nearly killed me. If you know something, tell them. The sooner the police sort this out, the safer everyone will be.”
“I’m sure they know about Luther by now.”
“Luther?”
As if summoned, the sound tech ambled through the swinging door. The bottom buttons on his Hawaiian shirt gaped, exposing his hairy stomach. “How’s it going in here?”
“Fantastic,” Steve said to him, “since you don’t have to be involved.”
“Why not?” I asked.
Luther tapped his headset. “No sound necessary for the background shots. Hey, Frank called. He wants us to join Ilsa’s shopping expedition.”
Annoyance creased Steve’s brow, but he nodded. “You know the location?”
“I wouldn’t be much good if I didn’t.” Without waiting for a response, Luther exited the kitchen, the door swinging behind him.
“See you later,” Steve said. He paused by the door. “And let’s just say this wouldn’t be Luther’s first time playing with fire.” He disappeared through the door.
My brows furrowed. What was that supposed to mean?
I peeked into the industrial oven. Grabbing the paddle off the wall, I whisked pies from the oven and slid them onto the tiered cooling racks.
Abril and Petronella walked into the kitchen. “Is he gone for good?” Abril asked.
“He’s gone for now,” I said. “Is that why you wanted to work the counter? To avoid him?”
“I’m sorry,” Abril said. “I know no one will see my face, but it feels strange to have a camera aimed in my direction.”
“I think it’s cool,” Petronella said. “We’re gonna be infamous.”
“Thank you both for hanging in there,” I said. “This is definitely above and beyond the call of duty.”
“I like working here,” Abril said. “I want Pie Town to do well, and if that means a reality TV show . . .” She exhaled heavily. “I’ll do it.”
The counter bell dinged. “I’ll get that.” I hustled into the dining room. It was too early for the lunch rush, and only half the seats were filled. Marla still sat like a barnacle at the center table and sipped coffee.
Gordon stood at the register, his handsome face serious.
In spite of everything, I smiled. I might not know exactly where we stood, but there was just something about his firm ruggedness that was irresistible.
“Is your father here?” he asked.
“Frank?” I was suddenly too hot, though the overhead fans were spinning and the air conditioners humming. “No. He stepped out but said he’d be back for lunch.”
Gordon nodded. “We need to talk.”
CHAPTER 12
Forks clinked on plates, coffee mugs rattled, the sounds of a regular day at the pie shop. But inside me, everything had stilled. “About the murder? Are you back on the case?” I asked. Please tell me you’re back on the case. I pressed one hand atop the counter and leaned toward the detective.
“No.” A muscle pulsed in Gordon’s jaw, but he looked crisp in his blue suit. The badge clipped to his belt glinted at the opening of his sports jacket. A bulge at his other hip gave away his holstered weapon.
“This is awful.” I reached to claw my hands through my hair, and then remembered I was wearing a chignon and a net. So I settled for wringing my Pie Town apron. This would be the second time Gordon had lost a case to Chief Shaw, because of me.
The diners along the counter watched us covertly.
“I suppose you haven’t heard anything about Ray then,” I said in a lower voice.
“I heard he was brought in for questioning.”
“It’s nuts. Ray has no reason to hurt the Pie Hard crew. He’s no crazed stalker.” Though I wondered if he’d given the police his “walking for exercise” excuse the night he’d found Regina’s body. If he had, and they didn’t believe it—
“That isn’t why I came to talk to you. Have you spoken to your . . . ?” He trailed off. “Can we speak in private?”
Stomach tight, I opened the Dutch door and nodded to the short hallway leading to the kitchen, the bathrooms, my office.
He followed me into the hall, and we paused outside the office door.
“Have I talked to my father?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Yes,” I said. “It looks like he really is my dad.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, and I gnawed my bottom lip. There was a lot of anger still festering, but a part of me had always wanted us to connect. “The worst of it is, I’m starting to feel sorry for him.”
“You are?” He bent his head to me, his gaze probing.
“I guess he and my mother broke up after he got himself into trouble gambling. Frank says he and my mom both agreed it would be best. But I can’t be sure if he’s telling the truth. My mother never spoke much about him, and I couldn’t bring myself to ask.”
“I don’t know what to say. I can’t imagine what it would feel like to be abandoned by a parent. But I do know that you’ve been amazing about it all.”
“Have I?” I laughed bitterly. “I’m still not ready to forgive Frank, even if what he said is true. I’ve spent too many years despising him.” I sighed. “But I was a
kid. Of course I didn’t have the whole story. I only saw the aftermath. Maybe I haven’t been fair.” The adult, intelligent thing to do would be to forgive. Seeing Frank in person—as a person—lightened some of the anger, but I wasn’t there yet.
“Hm.” He stared at his polished shoes.
“Thanks for letting me vent.” He might not be my boyfriend, but he was a good person. And I still hadn’t given up hope. “You said you wanted to talk to me about something?”
“What?” He looked up. “Oh. It’s not important. Look, I should go.” But he didn’t move.
Our gazes locked, and my heart jolted. His green eyes seemed to darken.
I swayed toward him.
“See you.” He turned on his heel and walked into the diner.
I pressed my palms to my cheeks. Ugh! I’d misread that situation. What else had I misunderstood?
Okay, be practical. He might not be my boyfriend, but he was a source. “Wait!” I scurried after him and stopped behind the cash register. “What about Ray?”
“I’ll see what I can find out,” he said over his shoulder and walked out the glass front door.
Chagrined, I watched the door close slowly in his wake. He’d sent postcards! Was he interested in me or not? In any case, I wasn’t going to chase after him.
Charlene pushed the kitchen door ajar with her shoulder and fiddled with the latch on her gold watch. “What did Carmichael want?”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
“So, he just came to see you? I told you he liked you.”
I cleared my throat. “I don’t think so.” His asking after my father had been more than the casual inquiry of a friend. But Gordon had said he was off the case, so it couldn’t be related to that. Could it? I shook myself.
She smiled. “I remember when my husband and I first met. He took his sweet time too. But it was worth it.” She blinked rapidly and rubbed the corner of one eye.
Heart squeezing, I glanced away, giving her a moment. “What are you still doing here?”
“I stayed to see if I can—” She went rigid. “Marla!”
Blandly, Marla looked up from her coffee. “Yes, Charlene?”
“I knew it!” Charlene thundered through the Dutch doors like a big-rig with a killer clown at the wheel. She slammed her hand on Marla’s table. The salt and pepper shakers rattled. “I should have known you’d horn in on Pie Hard.”
Pie Hard Page 11
