Pie Hard

by Kirsten Weiss

  Ilsa tossed her blond-streaked hair. “That is only because I was demonstrating. See?” She whipped a braid together in seconds flat. “It is a matter of practice. You try.”

  Glancing nervously at each other, Abril and I braided thin strips of dough. I grinned. Mine looked okay. Not bad on the first try.

  Ilsa sneered at my braid. “Don’t like. Again.”

  I sighed and did it again. Again. And . . . again. Eventually, I got the hang of it.

  “Now,” Ilsa said, “flowers and leaves.” She ran a ball of dough through the flattening machine twice, and then laid it on the lightly floured surface. Dipping the plastic cookie cutters into the flour, she shook them, and a soft snowfall drifted to the board. “We use these plastic cutters because they leave an impression in the top of the dough.” She cut a series of serrated leaves from the dough and pointed to the etched veins of the leaves. Ilsa cut more leaves and flowers, arranging them across the pie in an elaborate lattice, braid and floral design.

  I had to admit, it looked better than anything I created.

  “You now,” she said.

  Cutting the leaves and flowers was easy as pie. Laying them out in a manner acceptable to Ilsa was more challenging.

  Abril got there before I did. Smiling, she extended the pie she was working to Ilsa. “Like this?”

  Ilsa nodded, grudging. “Good.”

  “There’s something hedonistic in this frenzy of foliage,” Abril said. “The crusts twine around each other as if in an embrace.”

  We stared at her.

  Okay. Awkward. I cleared my throat. “Abril’s a poet.”

  “What kind of poetry?” Ilsa arched a pale brow. “Erotic?”

  “And her crust is a lot more elegant than mine,” I said quickly. “I don’t think I have an artistic eye.”

  “No,” the pastry chef agreed. “You do not.”

  I tugged on the hem of my Pie Town tee. Now Ilsa was just being mean.

  “Once you know the pattern,” Abril said, “it’s easy.”

  “You should sketch your designs on paper first,” Ilsa said, “so you have templates to follow.” She glowered at me. “Especially you.”

  “And we need to get back to our regular work, or we won’t have enough product for today.” I wiped my hands on a towel hanging from a wall peg. The show might be good P.R., but I still had a business to run. I wish they would have saved the filming for a Monday—when we were closed.

  “Don’t you understand?” Ilsa asked. “This is the level you must aspire to if you wish to become a premier pie shop. You complain business is bad? Then be better!”

  Abril shot me an anxious look but said nothing.

  My smile stretched tighter. “There’s always room for improvement.” Nigel must have told her what he’d found in the Pie Town accounts. I wished she hadn’t mentioned it in front of Abril. When the show aired, the world would know our little problems. “And your piecrust looks gorgeous. Yours too, Abril.”

  “But the pie is not baked,” Ilsa said. “You do not yet know how it will look. Now brush those crusts with egg whites. I will finish the rest, and you can work on your . . .” Her mouth twisted. “Breakfast pies.”

  We did. Ilsa even pitched in, and we got our baking schedule back on track.

  I was starting to warm to her. When her pies came out of the oven, they were stunning—golden brown and overflowing with rose and peony blossoms. I wouldn’t go wedding-cake on every piecrust, but we could pick a few specials to decorate. These crusts would look fantabulous around the holidays.

  “I’ll take care of the dining area.” Abril left the kitchen to set up the coffee urn and prep for our early morning customers.

  “Thanks for teaching us this,” I said to Ilsa. “The crusts definitely make these pies look special.”

  She sniffed. “You doubted?”

  Steve moved in for a close-up.

  “It’s nothing personal.” I dried my hands in my apron and tried to ignore the camera. “Pie Town means everything to me. My mother and I dreamed of opening this for years.”

  “Where is your mother? Why is she not here?”

  My vision blurred. No waterworks. Not on TV. The loss still hit me at random and uncontrollable moments. I blinked rapidly. “She passed away. But I wish she could have seen Pie Town. That’s only one reason why I need it to work, and I’m glad you’re here. But the fire at the hotel has put me on edge.”

  “And now this morning’s break-in,” she said. “It seems someone is out to get you. Perhaps the fire was aimed at you and not Pie Hard.”

  “But the problems began with Regina’s murder,” I said. “Has the crew learned anything new about her death?”

  She turned and stared down her elegant nose at me. “I do not think this is the time or place to discuss such matters.”

  I hoped that meant she was willing to talk later. “When would be the right time or place?”

  “Never.” She looked sidelong at me through thick lashes. “Or perhaps there is some information you would like to share with me? You seem quite close to the handsome detective.”

  “He’s not investigating Regina’s death.”

  “So you do not deny being involved with him romantically?”

  I opened the industrial oven for no reason, releasing a blast of pie-scented heat. Squirming inside, I peered at the pies, gliding past on the rotating racks. “I can neither confirm nor deny,” I said blithely.

  “But he questioned me about Regina,” the pastry chef said. “Why is he off the case now?” Her blue eyes narrowed. “Because the police suspect you, and as your boyfriend—?”

  “No!” Okay, sort of, but I wasn’t going to admit that. Especially not with Steve filming our conversation. “I had nothing to do with Regina’s death or that fire.”

  “So you say it is coincidence someone broke into Pie Town?” She canted her head. “Or did someone? People will do all sorts of things to create drama on TV.”

  “You think I faked the break-in?” I blinked, more surprised than outraged. “Charlene saw the whole thing.”

  “Exactly. Your partner.” She straightened her shoulders. “And speaking of whom, now into the breach I go. Wait to make the pecan pies until I return. And be sure to roast half the pecans, and only half. That is the secret to a flavorful pie.” She snapped her fingers. “Steve? Come.” She strode to the door of the flour-work room, knocked once, and walked inside.

  The cameraman trailed after her.

  I wavered. Should I follow and play peacemaker? I knew how Charlene would react to the suggestion of adding cocoa to her precious piecrusts.

  Abril, face ashen, hurried into the kitchen, the door swinging behind her. “Val, you need to come quick.” Wisps of ebony hair had escaped near her delicate ears.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Luther. He collapsed.”

  CHAPTER 16

  I raced through the swinging kitchen door and into the dining area. On the other side of the counter, Tally Wally and Frank tugged a greenish Luther to his feet. A morning coffee klatch of retirees stared, forks and mugs raised halfway to their mouths.

  “What happened?” I stopped short, one hand on the Dutch door.

  “A little under the weather.” Luther scratched his belly where his Hawaiian shirt and saggy pants did not meet.

  “Don’t worry.” Tally Wally heaved Luther into a chair beside an empty table. “It’s nothing he ate.”

  Luther rubbed his eyes. “The floor. It’s swimming.”

  Frank caught my eye. “Don’t worry, Val. We’ll take care of this.”

  “How?” I asked. “Does he need a doctor?”

  “He needs rest,” Frank said. “I’ll call a cab to take him back to the hotel. I don’t think he’ll be much use today.”

  “You’re no Regina,” Luther said accusingly. “You don’t take care of me.”

  Frank braced his hands on his hips. “Is holding the AC’s hand supposed to be part of the job?” />
  The front bell jingled.

  Nigel, looking perfect in a plain, white button-up shirt and khakis, strode through the front door. He carried a leather portfolio beneath one muscular arm. “Cheerio, everyone. I am ready for my close-up.” He winked, his brown eyes twinkling.

  “Have you got a car outside?” Frank asked. “Luther needs to return to the hotel.”

  Nigel made a quick U-turn. A minute later, he leaned through the front door. “Luther’s chariot awaits.”

  Together, the men poured Luther into the double-parked car.

  I followed, watching anxiously. The summer air still had that early morning smell, and dew glistened on the impatiens hanging from the iron lamp posts. Across the street, a woman swept the sidewalk in front of her art gallery. From the gym next door, barbells clanged faintly.

  Frank handed money to the driver and shut the car door. “Sorry about that, Val. This has been a difficult shoot for everyone.”

  Luther’s problems seemed long-term, but I nodded.

  “My coffee’s getting cold.” Tally Wally limped into Pie Town, and the rest of us trooped after him.

  “I’ll just set up in your office then,” Nigel said, “shall I?” Without waiting for an answer, he strode through the counter’s Dutch door and turned toward my office.

  Nigel saw the dark underbelly of my finances. I’d been exposed, so there wasn’t much point in getting huffy about him taking over my private office. I sighed and stared through the windows at the departing car. One benefit of owning your own business is a sense of control, but I saw now that it was just an illusion.

  “Quite a morning you’ve had,” Frank said. “First a break-in, now Luther.”

  “I’ve seen worse,” I said, my words clipped.

  He eyed me speculatively. “I’ll bet you have. We’ll wait for Charlene and Ilsa to finish so you and your partner can meet with Nigel together. Besides, Ilsa has our only cameraman.”

  “Great.” Smile taut, I turned on my heel and walked into the kitchen. A part of me dreaded hearing what Nigel was going to tell me. I could stand having my ego taken down a peg or two if he had solid ideas for boosting business.

  I didn’t hear any battle cries echoing from the flour-work room, so I kept busy doing what I’d normally do—baking up a storm.

  Curious, I slid trays of pecans into our smaller oven. I’d never heard of roasting only half the pecans for the pies, but I was willing to try nearly anything once.

  Soon, my mood improved. Baking always lifted my spirits. There’s a certain satisfaction in making something tangible—especially something people rave about. A big order was due today for one of our best customers, the Bar X—a western-themed event space down the coast. If Nigel could tell me how to land more clients like the Bar X, it would all be worth it.

  Abril and I filled piecrusts and slid them into the industrial oven. She removed the finished pies with long, wooden paddles and placed them on cooling racks. The kitchen filled with sweet and savory scents.

  My assistant manager, Petronella, clomped through the alleyway door in her motorcycle boots. Her spiky, licorice-colored hair gleamed, loaded with product.

  “Hey,” I said. “One of the women in the goddess group at my house is a psychiatrist. She said she’d let you interview her if you still need someone.”

  “I’m saved,” Petronella said. “What’s her number?”

  I found my purse on the hook by the flour-work room and dug around until I found her card. “Here,” I said, pleased to help.

  “You’re a lifesaver. Thanks.” She stuffed the card in her back pocket, looped an apron over her head, and pushed through the swinging door into the dining area. She worked the counter, flitting between the register and customers in spite of her clunky boots.

  Sundays, in general, were busy—locals stopped by for breakfast and brunch. Later, beachgoers flooded in for lunch and they picked up pies for takeaway in the afternoon. Sundays were good days. The trifecta of murder, my father, and Nigel’s upcoming critique of my finances threatened my happy-baking bubble.

  I mixed the pecan-bourbon mixture in one of the giant mixing bowls, and then added the half-and-half, roasted-to-raw, pecan mix.

  Charlene and Ilsa emerged from the flour-work room. My crust specialist wore a thoughtful look on her face. Ilsa’s blue eyes glittered with triumph. Neither appeared worse for wear.

  The cameraman followed behind them, and took up a position beside the dishwasher.

  “How did it go?” I asked.

  “The proof’s in the pudding.” Charlene slammed a tray of nearly-black rounds of dough onto the counter.

  “You did not fill the pecan pies yet?” Ilsa asked.

  “No, and the bourbon pecan filling’s ready to go.” I nodded to a giant, clear-plastic pitcher filled with pecan pie goo.

  Her eyes narrowed. “And you only roasted half the pecans?”

  “Yep. Just like you said.”

  “Excellent,” Ilsa said. “Use these crusts.”

  Obediently, I ran the near-black crusts through the dough flattener and lined a dozen pie tins. Ilsa layered semi-sweet chocolate chips over the bottom. I poured the bourbon pecan filling into the crusts, and Abril slid them into the industrial oven.

  Nigel edged into the kitchen. Grinning, he leaned against the industrial dishwasher beside the cameraman.

  “The cocoa crusts can, of course, be used with a variety of pies,” Ilsa said. “But as your piecrust specialist can attest, it’s a simple matter of adding cocoa to your existing dough recipe.”

  “Ilsa and I have come up with some other great ideas,” Nigel said, smoothing his goatee. “But while we let those pies bake, why don’t you and Charlene come with me for a chat in your office?”

  I couldn’t avoid the bad news any longer, and my stomach lurched.

  “Val handles the finances,” Charlene said, untying her apron. “You don’t need me.”

  “I don’t mind,” I said. “Besides, we’re partners, right?” I wanted her moral support.

  We followed Nigel, and Cameraman Steve followed the three of us into my office. Nigel arranged two chairs from the dining area for Charlene and me. The chairs lined up at an angle beside an easel covered in a black cloth. A lamp on a metal pole spotlighted the chairs.

  He motioned us to our seats, and I winced against the bright light.

  Nigel went to stand beside the easel, and we waited while Steve locked his camera into a tripod.

  Steve looked up. “Okay. Go.”

  Nigel nodded, expression solemn, and turned to us. “I’ve reviewed your accounts,” he said. “It seems like you may have expanded your operations prematurely, but what’s done is done. What you need now is more consistent and predictable daily orders. You’ve also quite cleverly set up your business to minimize customer service—with the self-serve coffee, for example. You’ve been able to keep labor costs low this way, and this is something you should continue.”

  Chest tightening, I nodded. This was nothing I didn’t already know. What worried me was what came next.

  “What you need,” he said, “is to expand your wholesaling business. And to attract more customers, you need a niche.”

  “Aren’t pies our niche?” I asked and shifted on the pink chair.

  “Yes,” he said, “but this is Silicon Valley, and people expect more.”

  Charlene snorted.

  “What’s wrong, Charlene?” He rose, facing the camera, and raised a brow. “Don’t you crust me?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You need to add more excitement and intrigue to your menu.” He strode to the easel.

  “To pies?” Charlene’s brows rocketed skyward. “What do you want us to do? Add a hidden surprise?”

  “No.” He whisked the cloth from the easel and revealed a placard with pastel drawings of bell jars banded with colors. In a neat row beneath them had been drawn similarly colored shot glasses. “Pie in ajar, and samples in a shot glass.”

  “Pies,”
I said, skeptical. “In a jar.” Pie belonged either in a tin or someone’s mouth—not a jar.

  The office door opened, and Ilsa walked inside carrying a tray of four-ounce Ball jars filled with layers of pie. Beside them were shot glasses filled to the rim with pie filling. She set them on the dented desk.

  “They are beautiful,” she said. “They are unique. And, they are smaller than your five-inch mini pies.”

  My mouth watered. Holy Hannah, they looked good. I might need to rethink my pie philosophy.

  Charlene sucked in her cheeks. “So are our hand pies, and hand pies are traditional. Do you know we have a recipe from the California Gold Rush?”

  “But hand pies are mostly dough,” Ilsa said.

  “That’s what makes them good,” Charlene said.

  “These jars have crust at the bottom but are mostly filling,” the pastry chef said. “It’s a different experience, more of a snack. Of course, these are all crumb crusts.”

  Charlene stiffened on her chair.

  “It would be different,” I said, darting a glance at my friend. “I can see how the jars would bring in a hipper crowd. But I’m not sure how it would boost our wholesaling.”

  “Trust me,” Nigel said, “it will. Hotels, restaurants, and other businesses will want these, because their customers will want them. You can also promote them as party favors for special events.”

  I rubbed my chin. The Ball jars did have an old-west feel. Would the owner of the Bar X go for it?

  “But that isn’t all.” He removed the placard, revealing an image of a pie tin filled with slices of different kinds of pies. “A sampler pie tin.”

  The cameraman moved closer to me, zooming in.

  I leaned forward, intrigued. A sampler tin. Why hadn’t I thought of that? “And we’d charge the regular price for a full tin?”

  “Exactly. That way, everyone in the family or business can get exactly the slice of pie they want. And a sampler like this is different, unique.”

  I nodded, excitement rising in my belly.

  “But wait, there’s more.” He dropped that placard and revealed another labeled PIE SUBSCRIPTIONS in elegant blue script.