“Word is . . .” Graham leaned over the counter and accidentally knocked his cabbie’s hat sideways.
I caught it before it could hit the floor.
“The bomb was planted by the m-o-b,” Graham whispered.
“Hard to believe they’d bother with tiny San Nicholas,” Wally said.
“I dunno,” Graham said. “We used to be a hotbed for mob activity during Prohibition.”
“Bootleggers,” Wally agreed, nodding.
I opened my mouth to protest, but what could I say? Thanks to Frank, I was connected to the mob. “Where did you hear that?” I asked weakly.
Graham pressed a finger to his broad nose. “A little bird told me.”
Wally patted my hand. “People’ll get over it. Just you wait and see.”
I blinked, dazed. This couldn’t be happening. Were my regulars afraid to come to Pie Town because of yesterday’s car bomb?
Of course they were. Who wanted to be near a bomb magnet? “Right. Sure. Can I get you anything?”
Graham raised his white coffee mug. “As long as the urn is full, I’m good.”
“Same here,” Wally said.
“Well, ring if you need anything.” I stumbled back to the kitchen.
Petronella glanced up from the pie she was filling with blueberries, did a double take. “Something wrong?”
“Stop baking,” I said. “It’s going to be a slow day.”
“Tuesday is always slow.” Petronella’s face turned a shade paler. “The bomb. You think people are going to stay away. But this is different—”
The bell over the front door rang, and my heart leapt.
“See?” she said. “Customers!”
I glanced through the window to the dining area. The blond reporter and her cameraman strolled inside. Ignoring the ORDER AT REGISTER sign, they settled into a booth.
I muttered a word that was definitely Not Safe for Work. “Press.”
Abril shook her head. “I’m not going out there.”
“Do you want me to go?” Petronella asked.
“No.” I straightened my spine. “I’ll take their orders.”
I walked into the dining area. Pasting a smile on my face, I handed them menus. “Hi! When you’re ready to order, just come to the counter and ring the bell.”
The blonde smiled toothily. “Slow day?”
“You know how it is.” I shrugged. “Tuesday mornings.”
“How are the breakfast pies?” the cameraman, middle-aged and grizzled, asked.
“Do you like bacon?”
He nodded.
“Then I recommend the bacon and browns.”
He stared at the menu as if unconvinced. “How big is the mini?”
“Six inches in diameter,” I said. “It’s a meal and comes with a green salad.”
“You don’t know my cameraman,” the reporter said. “We’ll take two. I’ll have his salad.”
So much for counter ordering. It wasn’t as if I had anything better to do. I nodded toward the urn. “Coffee’s self-serve.” I bustled into the kitchen.
“What do they want?” Abril asked.
“Two mini bacon and browns.” I loaded up a tray with plates of salad and warm pies and carted them out to the reporters. Steaming mugs of java sat on the table in front of them.
I slid the plates onto the table. “Here you go. And here’s the check. Ring the counter bell if you’d like anything else.”
“Is it true your father is a mob boss?” the blonde asked.
The checkerboard floor lurched, and I grabbed the back of the pink booth for balance. “What?” I asked, hoarse. A mob boss? That was worse than enforcer.
The cameraman slid from the booth. “Hey, you don’t look so good. Maybe you should sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
But he drew up a chair, and my legs folded beneath me.
“I see you’re not denying it,” the reporter said.
“I can’t deny what I don’t know, and I don’t know Frank. He left my mother and me when I was little, and I met him for the first time as an adult last week. I don’t know anything about him aside from what he’s told me, and he sure didn’t tell me that.”
“Becks,” the cameraman said to her. “Come on.”
An odd expression crossed her face. It might have been sympathy. “All right,” she said, “I believe you. And the mob thing is unsubstantiated, though that car bomb . . .” She shook her head.
I swallowed. “How did you know Frank was my father?” She shrugged. “Birth and death certificates are easy.” The reporter eyed me. “But I guessed the mob angle was too good to be true. The reunion thing could be a story though.” She made a frame with her hands. “Father and daughter reunited by Pie Hard murders.”
I rose, gripping the chair. “This isn’t the way I wanted to meet my father.”
“But it’s the way it happened.” She leaned closer. “He saved your life at the hotel when there was that fire. You two were nearly blown to pieces yesterday. Whatever’s going on with the Pie Hard crew, you’re both involved. Tell me what you know. Making the truth public could save your lives.”
I stood. “If I knew the truth, I’d tell the world. But I don’t know who’s behind these murders or why.” I speed-walked into the kitchen and let out a deep breath when I was safely inside.
Abril slid pies from the massive, industrial oven. “These are the last of them. Are you sure you want to stop baking?”
I glanced at the wall clock over the window to the dining room. “Cut the recipes in half for now. I’m going to run out and grab a paper. I’ll be right back.” Instead of cutting through the dining area, I used the alley door. I didn’t want to give the reporter another chance to pepper me with questions.
Beneath gray skies, I walked to a kiosk on Main Street. Avoiding the wad of gum on the handle, I extracted a free local paper. The car bomb was front page news.
I stood beside an iron lamp post, moss flower basket dangling from its hook, and read.
An anonymous source in the lab stated that the bomb had been placed under the driver’s seat.
Frank kept the Tesla’s top down, so placing a bomb there would have been easy. It was out in broad daylight, and though the parking lot wasn’t packed, it wasn’t empty either. If the killer placed the bomb there while we were questioning Luther or in the crab shack, he’d taken a risk, but not an impossible one.
I scanned down further. The source could neither confirm nor deny whether the bomb looked like a mob hit.
I groaned. Confirmation didn’t matter—the article neatly planted the seed of mob involvement. How had the press caught on to the mob angle so quickly, when it had taken Gordon days to make the connection? Was there a leak in the SNPD? Frank and I sure hadn’t said anything.
“Hi, Val,” a man’s voice boomed from behind me.
“Ugh!” I clutched my chest, crumpling the paper to it, and whirled to face Ray. “Hi.” I started breathing again.
A backpack hung over his rounded shoulder. He wore a loose blue pea coat over a t-shirt with a comic book villain on the front. “I heard about the car bomb.”
Again, he hadn’t heard the news from me. I opened my mouth to apologize.
“It was bad enough losing Ilsa and seeing Regina . . .” He looked across the street at the olive oil shop. Rows of green bottles lined its windows. He cleared his throat. “But you’re a real friend. I couldn’t take it if you died. So don’t.”
I blinked, touched. “Okay. I won’t. Thanks.”
“You okay?”
“Not a scratch.”
“I was coming to Pie Town to talk to you,” he said, “if it’s okay. We need to get this guy and fast.”
I grimaced. “I agree. But there are some reporters there I’d rather avoid. Do you mind if we go through the alley entrance?”
“Cool.”
He followed me around the corner, into the alley, and inside the kitchen.
Charlene peeked through the
window to the dining room and shook her head, growling. “I don’t like this. Not one bit. It’s quiet in there. Too quiet, if you ask me.” She turned around. “Oh, hi Ray.”
“Yesterday’s bombing might have scared people off,” I said. “I think we can expect today to be slow. We’ll keep baking, just in case we get more reporters, but cut back fifty percent.”
Abril twisted her hands in her apron. “You don’t think this will last, do you?”
Ray shifted his weight, his face tightened with impatience.
“I don’t know. I hope not.” Please, please, please let things get back to normal.
“Buncha cowards,” Charlene said.
“If you two want to go home,” I said, “I understand.”
Petronella’s jaw jutted forward. “I’m not letting some jerk chase me away from Pie Town. This is my job.”
Abril bit her bottom lip. “My mother is sick today. It would be better if I could go home to watch my little brother.”
Charlene growled, low and menacing.
“That’s fine,” I said quickly. “Like I said, it looks like it’s going to be a slow day.”
She nodded and untied her apron.
“Ray, you said you wanted to talk?” I asked.
He set his backpack on a section of counter that was not covered in flour and pulled out a sheaf of wrinkled papers. “I’ve been making charts.”
Charlene rolled her eyes.
“Let’s go to my office,” I said, “and we can look them over. Petronella, are you okay on your own for a bit?”
She tossed her spiky hair. “I’m the assistant manager. Of course I’m okay alone.”
Ray, Charlene, and I trooped into my office, and I shut the door, rustling the calendar on its back.
“What have you got?” I asked.
“I thought we should diagram the suspects and motives.” He unrolled a long sheet of poster-sized paper. “Do you have tape?”
“Um, I think so.” I rummaged in a desk drawer, found a roll and handed it to him.
He taped the paper to a blank spot of wall beside the bookcase. “Okay, no one has a real alibi for Regina’s murder, so let’s look at the motives. Nigel owed Regina money.” He traced a blue line between a box that read NIGEL and a center box that read REGINA. “He might have killed her so he wouldn’t have to repay.”
“Except now Steve wants him to pay up,” Charlene said.
“But he might not have expected that.” Ray drew a line between Regina’s square and another. “Then there’s Steve. The husband is usually the guilty party, and he was having an affair with Ilsa, so we know there were problems in the marriage.”
The office door jerked open. Gordon, in his blue suit, strode inside. He took in Ray, holding the paper against the wall, and Charlene’s innocent expression. “Val, have you been investigating without a P.I.’s license again?”
“Um . . . Yes?” I squeaked.
“Good.” He sat against my desk. “What have you got?”
“What have . . . ?” Slowly, I shut the drawer and walked around the desk. “You mean you’re not going to arrest us for interfering in an investigation?”
“I’m off the case. Remember?”
“Cool,” Ray said. “We can have a real policeman in the Baker Street Bakers.”
“You’re only an associate member,” Charlene barked. “You can’t invite new members.”
Gordon’s mouth quirked. “Just tell me what you’ve found.”
Ray quickly explained the chart.
“There’s something I haven’t had a chance to tell you,” I said to Ray. “I only learned it yesterday, but Regina had Lou Gehrig’s disease. If Steve wanted to get rid of her without a divorce, it would have been a lot simpler to just wait it out.”
“Maybe he wanted her gone now so he could be with Ilsa?” Ray asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Ilsa said they’d broken it off, and I believed her.”
“And if he wanted to be with Ilsa, why kill her?” Charlene asked. “You’re a cop, what do you think?”
“I think your thought process is fascinating,” Gordon said.
“Then there’s the new director, Frank.” Ray glanced at me apologetically. “Sorry, Val, but we have to consider him, even if he is your dad.”
“No, Ray,” Charlene said, her voice soothing. She laid a hand on my shoulder. “Now isn’t the time.”
I waved my hand, dismissive. “It’s okay. All I’ve been doing is considering him. He got Regina’s job, but I don’t think it’s a motive for murder, since it was only temporary.” What if Frank was as evil as the mobsters you see on TV? What if he was killing other people on the show to put pressure on Nigel to pay up? I shuddered.
“Don’t go there,” Gordon said gently.
“It’s not Frank,” Charlene said.
“Why not?” Ray asked.
“Because he’s Val’s father. She’s not related to a killer.”
“I don’t think it works that way,” I said, glumly. “But thanks.”
“And then there’s Luther,” Ray said, pointing to an orange square. “I don’t know why he’d want Regina dead, but he’s got issues.”
Gordon rubbed his chin.
“Which doesn’t make him a killer,” I said.
“Next is Ilsa’s murder.” Glancing nervously at the detective, Ray unrolled a hand-drawn map of the hotel and taped it to the wall. The paper was yellowing, with scorch marks around the edges. An X marked the spot of Regina’s body.
Charlene squinted. “Is that a treasure map?”
Gordon coughed into his hand and turned quickly away.
Ray’s cheeks reddened. “It’s grid paper from a roleplaying game.”
“Those don’t look like grid squares,” Charlene objected. “Those are octagons.”
Ray taped it to the wall. “Because players—I mean people—can move in more than four directions. The point is the map is to scale.”
“And that X mark is awfully fancy,” she said. “It looks like a pirate’s X. How’d you find out where Ilsa’s body was found?”
“That’s a good question,” the detective said.
Uneasy, I shifted my weight. Ray was definitely not the killer, but where had he learned of the murder spot? Not from either of us.
“I checked with the hotel,” Ray said.
Why would they give out that information? I shrugged off my suspicion. It was a small town. He probably had a source. And Ray was no killer.
“It looks great,” I said quickly. “No one seems to have an alibi for Ilsa’s death either. Everyone claims they were in their hotel rooms. Unless you heard something else?” I asked Gordon.
He shook his head.
“The crew’s rooms are all on the first floor overlooking the golf course,” Ray said. “It would be easy for someone to slip out, kill Ilsa, and slip back into the hotel. But what’s the motive?”
“Obviously,” Charlene said, “Ilsa knew too much. She was blackmailing the killer and was meeting him on the course for a pay-off. And the killer strangled her. Right Carmichael?”
The detective lifted a shoulder, dropped it. “It’s a theory.”
“But Ilsa wasn’t well liked either,” I said. “She fought with Nigel—”
“That was just for show,” Ray said, “to make good TV.”
“And she snapped at Steve and Luther,” I continued. “Though she did seem weirdly protective of Luther when I tried to question him at the British pub.” On the other hand, was she merely protective of information he had? Was there something he still hadn’t told me? “You’re missing a suspect.”
Ray cocked his head. “Who?”
“Doran,” I said. “He’s been around every time something’s gone wrong.”
“You mean the guy you call the ninja?” Ray asked.
“What’s his last name?” Gordon rose and walked to the wall. He studied the pirate map.
“I don’t know,” I said. “He says he’s a freelance
graphic designer, but he didn’t have his card on him.”
“You mean he wouldn’t give it to you,” Charlene said.
“If he’s a freelance designer,” Ray said, “he’ll have a website. Doran can’t be that common a name. I’ll find him.”
“Let me know when you do,” Gordon said.
“Just make sure you keep your investigations to the Internet, Ray,” Charlene said. “Bad enough someone tried to blow up Val.”
He raised his reddish brows. “Are you going to stick to the Internet?”
“I don’t need to,” I said. “I’m already a target, which means I have nothing left to lose.” I looked around the office at my friends, and a cold knot hardened in my stomach. The truth was quite the opposite—I had too much to lose. I suspected the killer knew it too.
CHAPTER 25
Restless, I wiped down the counter. It gleamed dully beneath the overhead lights. I put down my cloth and gazed at Pie Town’s empty tables. It was happening all over again—a violent crime, followed by vanishing customers. Could my bakery handle that sort of disaster twice in one year?
The cellphone in my apron pocket rang, and I checked the screen—Gordon. Heart lifting, I answered. “Hi.”
“You made the six o’clock news.” A dog yipped in the background.
So Pie Town was famous, and not in a good way. I stared out the front windows. Fog had returned with the setting sun. Outside, Main Street was a gray mass. A hunched silhouette passed in front of the blinds. “Are you at the dog park again?” Dog park duty had to be the worst for a real detective. Sure this was a small town, and detectives sort of did everything. I suspected this was Shaw’s way of keeping Gordon away from the case.
“Some kids overturned the picnic table. A friend called to let me know you were on TV.”
A friend and not a colleague? He’d told his friends about me? In spite of everything, the thought warmed me. “I’m closing up now. Can I swing by the dog park?”
“It’s a public park. I can’t stop you.” He paused, his voice growing husky. “And I wouldn’t want to.”
Charlene strolled through the front door. To her mustard yellow tunic and leggings, she’d added a quilted brown jacket and Frederick.
“Great,” I said. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
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