Pie Hard

by Kirsten Weiss

  Bored with waiting, Charlene stepped inside and planted her fists on her slim hips.

  Her white cat, Frederick, draped over her shoulder like a stole. His purr made the shipping container vibrate.

  “Good,” she said. “You’re back. I was starting to worry.”

  “Tea?”

  “Why not?”

  I filled another mug with water and set both in the microwave. “Frank and I went to the British pub. Ilsa and Luther were there. Want anything?”

  She shook her head, her loose, white curls dancing. “Ilsa and Luther? Now there’s an unlikely couple.”

  “I don’t think they’re together. Not that way, I mean.” I filled her in on what I’d learned, which amounted to “not much:” an unsubstantiated hint that Luther had experience with fires, and that Ray was free.

  Another knock, softer this time—Charlene reached behind her and opened the door.

  Hair done up in a loose bun, Maureen stood at the base of the steps. She wore a red and black caftan with a coin bra over it—like a steampunk belly dancer. A coin belt jingled about her broad hips. The red-headed goddess handed Charlene a couple of photos. “These are the pictures I was telling you about.”

  The microwave dinged.

  Charlene jammed the photos into the pocket of her green, knit jacket. “Thanks!” She slammed the door shut.

  I winced. “Charlene! You almost hit her in the face.”

  “She’s fine.” Charlene busied herself pooling Frederick on the table. “You were saying about the pub?”

  “I’d finished. What are those pictures she gave you?”

  “What, these?” She blinked and patted her pocket. “Nothing. Goddess stuff. You wouldn’t be interested.”

  What was she hiding? “What’s in the photos?”

  “Nothing to do with the case,” she said, bracing her elbows on my kitchen counter. “Just some personal business. So how are you and Frank getting on?”

  “Fine, I guess. It’s still weird. I want to do the right thing, but it’s so hard to forgive. I almost wish he were a bad guy. Then I could despise him and not feel so bad about it.”

  “On the bright side, he still could be a killer. He was gone from your life for a long time. Who knows what he’s been up to?”

  “That’s not a bright side, and you’re changing the subject. You’re hiding those pictures. What’s the deal?”

  She turned to my tiny dining table and stroked Frederick’s white fur. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Charlene . . .”

  “Oh, all right.” She faced me and braced her hands on her hips. “They’re photos of aliens in a tree.”

  I blinked. “What do you mean in a tree?”

  “You know, in the actual wood.”

  “Do you mean, petrified aliens?” Was that a thing?

  She looked at me sideways. “I don’t know about petrified, but don’t worry; the photos aren’t from around here. They’re from Australia.”

  I stiffened. “Why would I be worried?”

  She angled her chin down. “Everyone knows you’ve got alienophobia.”

  “Everyone?” I laughed shortly, unsmiling.

  On the table, Frederick’s ears twitched.

  My wacky phobia wasn’t something I advertised. The only reason Charlene knew about it was that she once dragged me on a UFO hunt. My phobia was only a mild case. It wasn’t like I had a panic attack every time a raccoon waltzed across my rooftop—which was a good thing, because these woods were raccoon central. And was alienophobia truly a word?

  “I might have told Maureen not to show you the photo,” Charlene admitted. “And then she might have asked why. You can’t lie to one of those goddess types. They just know.”

  “You told—” I shook my head. “ I think I can look at a picture of wood without freaking out.” It was just a photo. So what if my pulse was speeding? If my breathing had quickened, I could chalk that up to Charlene’s blood-pressure-raising ramblings.

  Her blue eyes widened innocently. “Oh? So, you want to see it? You’re sure?”

  I busied myself making the tea. “What is it? An odd pattern in the wood grain?”

  “You have to look at it to know.”

  I shrugged. “Never mind.” I didn’t need to prove myself. “There’s no point.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  I cleared my throat. “Anyway, Frank seems to be making a real effort to connect.”

  Her brow furrowed. “He ought to.”

  “But I can’t stop thinking that this reconnection is conveniently timed with a murder we happen to be investigating.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “You think he’s got something to hide?”

  “Don’t you?”

  She slumped into a chair beside the fold-out table. “Yeah. I do. I’m sorry, Val. I want this to work out for you. He’s your father. But—”

  “But you don’t believe it’s an accident he’s crawled back into my life now. Neither do I.” So why was disappointment curdling in my gut? I’d known what kind of guy he was for twenty-five years.

  “We’ll figure this out,” she said, her tone soothing.

  I swallowed my angst. “There’s something else. That guy, Doran, showed up at the pub.”

  “The ninja with the hair that’s always falling in his eye?” she asked.

  “That’s the one.” I sat across from her and set her mug beside Frederick. I turned mine in my hands. “He’s not from around here, but he keeps turning up.”

  “So he has been following you. Isn’t it weird when something you joke about winds up being true?” She snapped her fingers. “Oh! What if Frank’s here to protect you from the ninja?”

  A headache sprouted behind my eyeballs. “He’s not a ninja!”

  Frederick raised his head and shot me an irritated look.

  I forced my grip on the mug to relax and took deep breaths. “Sorry. You know that already. I’m a little tense.”

  She patted my arm. “Who wouldn’t be under the circumstances? You’re under a lot of pressure, what with the Pie Town finances, and Carmichael avoiding you, and the camera putting on ten pounds.”

  “Gordon’s not avoiding me.” Was he?

  She jabbed a finger at me. “Ah, ha! You are worried about finances.”

  “The budget’s a little tight, that’s all. The finances are fine. But I do think it’s strange that this ninja—” My gaze flicked to the white-painted ceiling. Don’t encourage her. “This guy keeps showing up. Especially after Regina’s death and the fire.”

  “I’ll ask Ray to see what he can dig up about this ninja online. He looked like a Millennial, so he’s probably all over the Internet. The younger generation can be so narcissistic.”

  I smothered a laugh. So sayeth the woman who’d lured a reality TV show to San Nicholas.

  She took a sip of tea and made a face. “Tastes healthy.”

  Frederick’s stomach rumbled.

  “I’d better get home and feed the cat.” Lovingly, she picked him off the table and draped him over her shoulder. “Will you be okay here alone?”

  “I doubt I’m in any danger with a yurt full of goddess worshipers on my doorstep.”

  “Then I’ll see you in the morning.” Yawning, Charlene ambled from the tiny home. The door banged shut behind her.

  Even though it wasn’t that late, I changed into my pie-patterned PJs and settled down on my futon to think. My brain tank was on empty. When I should have been pondering the murder, all I could think about was my father.

  Someone rapped lightly on my door.

  “It’s open.” Rising to my feet, I stepped to the other side of the bookcase that acted as a wall for my bedroom.

  Maureen stuck her head inside, the bells hemming her black caftan sleeves tinkling. “We’re about to start the dancing. Do you want to join us? It’s lots of fun.”

  “Thanks for the invite, but I’ve already changed into my pajamas.”
/>   “Don’t let that stop you. I’m wearing a coin bra.” She shimmied, and the coins tinkled over her caftan.

  I smiled. “How could I compete with the costumes?”

  “We’re cooperative, not competitive. But if you don’t feel up to it, there’s no pressure. Can I ask you something though?”

  I plucked my laptop off the table and folded it shut. “Sure.”

  She stepped inside my tiny house. “You thought the yurt delivery truck was a UFO, didn’t you?”

  I stared, thunderstruck. I hadn’t even admitted that to Charlene. “How did you . . . ?”

  “I’m a psychiatrist. You’d be surprised how many people come to me with abduction experiences.”

  Abductions? “I’ve never been abducted,” I said, my voice rising. “I just watched X-Files when I was too young.”

  “In any case, you have nothing to feel embarrassed about—many people share your phobia.”

  Outside, someone began drumming. Another drummer joined in, the beats playing off each other.

  I coughed. “I’m not embarrassed, just impressed you connected the dots.” I scrambled for a change of subject. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Certainly.”

  “My assistant manager is studying to be an undertaker. She needs to interview a psychiatrist about the mourning process. Would you have time to talk to her?”

  She pulled a business card from the bell sleeve of her embroidered caftan. “Give her my number.” She glanced around my tiny home—kitchen, work/dining area, bookshelf blocking the bedroom. “Look, if you want to talk about it while I’m here, I won’t charge you. But there’s much cheaper therapy to be had. There’s nothing better to get you out of a bad mood than dancing, especially in your pajamas.”

  I forced a smile. “Thanks, but I’m beat.”

  “If you change your mind, come on out.” She backed from the trailer and shut the door behind her.

  I returned to my futon and picked up the tea cooling on the end table. Through the glass doors, the women danced and whirled, veils flying in a colorful blaze, and for a moment, I regretted not joining in.

  Mug in hand, I walked outside and waved at the Goddess Gals. The air was crisp with salt and eucalyptus, and I inhaled, feeling the pound of the drumbeat reverberate through my bones.

  In the corner of my gaze, something shifted. I whipped my head toward the motion.

  A tall shadow, eerily elongated, moved through the eucalyptus trees.

  Heart thumping, I glanced toward the Goddess Gals. One of them could have gone into the woods to hug a tree, but why now, when the party was in full swing?

  The shadow vanished into the thicket.

  A breeze lifted my loose hair, pebbling my flesh.

  I’d swear the wind carried a whisper of laughter.

  CHAPTER 14

  Unable to sleep, I arrived at Pie Town an hour earlier than usual and parked in the narrow alley. Stars glittered in the ribbon of sky between the brick buildings. Light streamed from Pie Town’s kitchen window, making golden trapezoids along the garbage bins.

  I clutched the steering wheel in a vise-grip.

  I’d turned that light off.

  I knew I’d turned it off. Last night Frank followed me from room to room, complaining, while I double-checked that the lights were off and locks bolted.

  My breath made a noisy trail in the frigid van.

  Someone was in Pie Town.

  I shook myself. It was probably Charlene. I usually beat her to work, but she had her own key.

  I slipped from the van and crept to the door. It’s only Charlene. I tested the knob.

  Locked.

  Trying not to make a sound, I unlocked the door and sidled inside. Crates of fresh raspberries sat stacked on a metal counter. A delivery man must have arrived early, and Charlene had accepted the supplies. My shoulders slumped. So, not a robber. I’d been paranoid.

  Three pies sat atop the pie safe, where the staff put day-olds they were taking home. A clunk emerged through the closed door of the flour-work room.

  Just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be careful, and I shot the deadbolt on the metal alley door. Dropping my purse on the metal countertop by the sink, I walked to the flour-work door, opened it.

  Charlene, a jacket over her apron, her hands coated with flour, glanced up from the long, floured table. “You’re letting the cold air out.” A delicate, black net encased her fluffy white hair. I provided disposable hairnets, but she insisted on bringing her own. And also that black was sexier.

  I stepped inside and gently shut the heavy, metal door. “What are you doing here so early?” I asked in a low voice.

  “Couldn’t sleep.” She dumped a bowl of chopped butter into a giant mixing bowl mounded with flour. “You?”

  “Same.”

  Into the bowl, she drizzled a brownish liquid from a bottle hand-labeled SECRET INGREDIENT. “This way, we can get a jump on work before filming starts.”

  “Yeah.” I made no move to leave. “I want to believe Frank,” I said, plaintive, “but I can’t. I’ve spent my life thinking he’s a lying rat. His appearance here now is just so . . . coincidental.”

  “Maybe he’s a secret agent,” Charlene said. “That would be exciting. It would also explain his mysterious appearance here right before a murder. He’s trying to stop that ninja. Or there could be another agent on the Pie Hard crew. Maybe KGB?”

  “They’re called the FSB now.” I was starting to get the hang of Charlene’s conspiracies. I didn’t think she believed them, but they were more fun than facing the truth.

  Her face fell, and she gave a quick shake of her head. “The secret agent theory won’t fly. Any secret government agency worth its salt would have created a false Internet history for Frank if that was the case.”

  “Right.”

  “Or . . . Frank is presenting himself as himself, so he wouldn’t have a false history. He couldn’t be your father if he was pretending to be someone else. What irony. Only his real identity can get him close to the KGB agent.”

  I tried to unknot Charlene’s logic, gave up. “I don’t think the KG—FSB theory works either. Why would a foreign agent infiltrate the Pie Hard crew?” I asked. “To steal your secret recipe for the Russians?”

  “I’ll bet it’s that kraut pastry chef—”

  “Ilsa’s from France.”

  “Her first and last name are German. That’s just the sort of mistake the Russians would make. Ilsa could be the spy.” She edged closer to me and glanced around the flour-work room. “I think she figured out my secret ingredient,” she whispered.

  Anyone with a working nose could figure out her secret ingredient was apple cider vinegar. “Assassins, ninjas, spies . . . are there any illegal professions we’ve forgotten?”

  “Mafia?”

  “That’s about as likely as a UFO abduction.” I laid my hand on the kitchen door, cold beneath my palm.

  “I don’t think I’ve heard you joke about aliens before.” She emerged from behind the table. “Maybe having those goddesses around has been good for you. You might even loosen up, take a chance, try new things.” She leaned toward me and clasped her hands under her chin.

  “I’m not going to Area 51 with you, Charlene.”

  She sniffed and dropped her hands to her sides. “You can be such a stick in the mud.”

  “I’m not totally risk-averse. I did open a pie shop.”

  “And what have you done for yourself lately?”

  I bit the inside of my cheek. Maybe I should have gone dancing with the goddesses last night.

  “Take ’em off,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Your shoes. Take them off.”

  “Why?”

  “Sheesh,” she said. “You act like I invited you to walk across hot coals with Tony Robbins.”

  She once had. “I just don’t see the point.”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “Is that the
point? And there’s flour all over the floor. I’m not taking off my shoes.”

  “Take. Them. Off.”

  “Fine.” Leaning against the door, I pulled off one tennis shoe, then the other. “Happy?”

  “Socks too.”

  I tugged off my socks and shoved them inside the empty shoes.

  “Now walk around,” she said.

  I walked around the long table, the flour cool and soft between my toes. “Now what? Am I supposed to have some sort of Zen revelation?”

  She grinned. “I just wanted to see if I could make you do it. You’re such a sucker.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’ll let you get back to the crusts.” Grabbing my sneakers, I opened the door and strode into the kitchen.

  A slim figure in black, face covered by a ski mask, froze beside my antique pie safe.

  Fear screwed me to the rubber floor mat.

  We stared at each other for a long moment.

  Then the moment broke, and my nostrils flared. “Stop!”

  He whipped around. Grabbing a day-old pie from the top of the safe, he hurled it at me like a discus thrower.

  I shrieked and ducked as the pie whizzed over my head.

  It splattered against a cupboard.

  I threw one shoe, the other. Both sailed past his left shoulder.

  Charlene raced from the flour-work room and hurled a spatula. “Take that, Russkie scum!”

  It pinged harmlessly off the burglar’s chest.

  “Damn.” She raced inside the flour-work room.

  He dashed for the alley door. Not noticing I’d bolted it, he struggled with the handle. He swore and ran back toward the pie safe and the swinging kitchen door to the dining area.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” I wasn’t going to let this jerk get away. I’d had enough of being smoked out and scared. I grabbed a skillet off its wall hook and flung it. The pan zipped over the black-clad intruder’s head. Even though I couldn’t see him through the ski mask, I’d swear, he grinned.

  The pan ricocheted off the ginormous pie oven and hit him low on the back of the head.

  He grunted and staggered into the pie safe. He fired two more day-old pies at me, discus-style.

  I dropped into a crouch.

  The pies hit the cupboards. They smacked wetly to the floor.