Pie Hard

by Kirsten Weiss

  “And since Luther’s being arrested,” I said, “there’s no harm in me throwing a small farewell get-together tonight for the Pie Hard crew.”

  Gordon rubbed his chin. “Am I invited?”

  “You’re first on my list,” I said. “Doran, you’ll come, right?”

  His expression turned sullen. “No way.”

  “He’ll be there,” Gordon growled.

  “Great,” I said. “Frank, you can get Steve and Nigel to Pie Town tonight after closing, can’t you? Seven o’clock?”

  “Yes,” he said, “but why would I want to?”

  “Because it’s in your best interests for the real killer to be put away,” Charlene said. “And because Officer Carmichael will make you.”

  “I thought Officer Carmichael was off the case,” Frank said.

  “I am,” he said. “But what I do on my own time is my own business. And there’s no bad time for pie.”

  I wanted to kiss him. Gordon totally got me.

  The detective laid his broad hands on my shoulders. “And Val? We need to talk.”

  He waited until Frank and Doran had walked into the gabled hotel.

  “All right, copper,” Charlene said. “Spill. There’s no way you’d let Val have a gathering of the suspects unless you’re working an angle.”

  He quirked a dark brow.

  “Why did you go along with our plans?” I asked him.

  “Because the only thing Luther’s ever killed is liver cells. That arson you mentioned involved a drunken attempt to set a damp pile of leaves on fire. It was in his ex’s yard, and too close to the house for comfort. She soaked him and the leaves with the garden hose. She thought the incident was, and I quote, funny, and didn’t press charges. But with a confession in hand, no one’s going to look any further.”

  “You mean Shaw won’t,” Charlene said.

  One corner of his mouth lifted in a slow, lopsided smile. “I mean,” he said, “your get together might be just what the detective ordered.”

  * * *

  I flipped on the overhead lights. It was twilight, and long shadows stretched across Pie Town’s booths and tables and checkerboard floor.

  Charlene, her white cat draped over one shoulder, lounged at Pie Town’s counter and sipped a cup of coffee from the urn.

  Gordon, in his ecru fisherman’s sweater and jeans, rapped on the front window, and I let him inside.

  He glanced at the clock over the counter. Seven o’clock exactly. “I see I’m not late.”

  “No, and Frank’s promised to bring everyone.” I wasn’t sure how it would go with Doran, but he and Frank had returned relatively peacefully to the hotel together.

  “How are you holding up?” Gordon touched my upper arm, and my heart flipped.

  I shook my head. I still couldn’t quite wrap my brain around the situation. Not only had my long-lost father returned—he also brought a son he hadn’t known about. It seemed churlish to complain about the family drama. I was alive. Ilsa and Regina weren’t so lucky. “It’s been a weird week.”

  “That’s an understatement. I’ve done more digging into Frank’s background. As far as I can tell, he’s exactly what he claims—an odd sort of enforcer. There aren’t any hints of violence in his past, though I can’t say the same for his colleagues. He’s not in good company, Val. You need to be careful.”

  I scrubbed a hand over my face. “I know. Even if I wanted to—and I’m not sure I do—I can’t welcome him back with open arms.”

  He coiled a muscular arm around my waist. “We’ll figure this out.”

  A warm glow bubbled through my veins. “You mean a girlfriend with mob connections hasn’t scared you off?”

  “Not by a longshot.” His head bent toward mine.

  My breath hitched, my heart banging against my ribs.

  Charlene wolf whistled. “Get a room.”

  He pulled me into his arms and kissed me, his mouth strong and firm. My knees turned to jelly, and I half-collapsed against him. He tightened his grip.

  We broke apart, breathing hard.

  “We don’t do that often enough,” he said.

  “I agree.”

  “Then what’s been stopping you?” Charlene asked.

  The glass front door opened, the bell over it jingling.

  “Where’s the party?” Frank trooped inside with Steve and Nigel, plus a grumpy-looking Doran.

  Nigel looked around warily. He’d changed into a Belinda Hotel golf shirt and pressed khaki slacks. “Not to throw a spanner in the works, but I’m not sure I’m in the mood for a party—as kind as your offer may be.”

  The door jangled open, and Ray huffed inside. “I’m here!”

  “We see that.” Charlene motioned to the empty barstool beside her. “Park it.”

  Ray hustled over and sat, swiveling his seat to stare at everyone and rumpling his comic-book tee.

  “I could use a drink.” Steve rubbed his hand over his face. The cameraman’s stubble scritched beneath his palm.

  “I don’t have an alcohol license,” I said. “But a lot’s happened, and I thought we should . . .”

  “Honor it?” A faint smile played at the corner of Charlene’s mouth. She’d spent way too much time with the goddesses.

  “Right.” I motioned toward a grouping of pink tables in the center of the checkerboard floor. The paper place mats were set with forks, napkins and empty coffee cups. Three of my new sampler pie tins sat in the center of the table—two filled with selections of fruit pies, one with savory.

  Doran hesitated, then sat on Charlene’s other side at the counter.

  What was left of the Pie Hard crew sat. The tension between my shoulder blades released.

  Gordon took up position beside the door, and I poured coffee for everyone from the urn at the end of the counter.

  “What’s a cop doing here?” Doran asked. “What am I doing here?”

  “Unfortunately,” I said, “you’re a part of this. When you broke into Pie Town it muddied the waters.”

  “How’d you know it was me?” Doran asked.

  “It couldn’t have been Ilsa, Steve or Frank. They were together. And you were way too curious about Pie Town . . .” I’d guessed. It happens.

  “Curious?” Steve leaned forward, his photographer’s vest scraping against the table. “What’s there to be that curious about?”

  Doran looked away. “Family stuff.”

  “By now,” I said, “I’m sure you’ve heard the whole story. Frank is my father. He’s Doran’s as well, and he works for the—”

  “Production company,” Frank yelped.

  “A collection agency,” I said.

  Steve stared from Nigel to my father.

  “Just how in debt are you?” Gordon asked Nigel.

  The consultant’s dark skin flushed. “Half a million.”

  My eyes widened. “Please tell me that’s dollars and not pounds.”

  “Aren’t dollars enough?” he asked bitterly.

  “I’m surprised they let you get that deep in the hole,” Gordon said.

  Nigel massaged his temple. “I was hitting it big with Pie Hard. And the debt was spread around different bookies. But I wouldn’t have killed Regina. Regina and this show were the only things keeping me afloat.”

  “And Regina was generous,” I said. That was what had gotten her killed.

  “Too generous.” Steve shifted in his chair. “I don’t see what the point of this is. Luther’s confessed.”

  “Right,” I said, “Luther. Why did Regina really keep him on when he was causing so much trouble with his drinking?”

  “She had a soft spot for him.” Steve shoved his hands in the pockets of his khaki vest.

  “But it was more than that,” I said, “wasn’t it? She felt a kinship with him. They both were fighting demons—his was alcohol, hers was the betrayal of her body—the ALS.”

  “So why would Luther kill her if she was bending over backwards for him?” the detective aske
d Steve.

  The cameraman and Nigel shared a look.

  “Luther could get pretty wild when he was drinking,” Steve said.

  “Could he?” Gordon asked mildly. “I didn’t notice it, and I pulled him out of three bars in the last week.”

  “Because he failed her,” Nigel muttered.

  “What?” Charlene asked, cupping a hand to her ear. “Speak up.”

  “He felt he failed her,” Nigel said. “A part of Regina believed that if she could save Luther, she could save herself. But Luther let her down, and he knew it.” He shrugged. “What is it about always hurting the ones you love? I’m sure he didn’t mean to shove her over the cliff.”

  “How does that explain Ilsa’s death?” I asked.

  “It wouldn’t,” Nigel said, “unless . . . Ilsa was protective of him, right?” He turned to Steve. “We all noticed it. Maybe she found out he’d accidentally knocked Regina over the cliff and was protecting him. But when he realized she knew, he killed her.”

  Gordon crossed his arms. “Interesting theory.”

  “But wrong,” I said.

  Nigel stood. “This is absurd.”

  I held my breath. We had no right to keep him here, but if he left, our plan would fail.

  “I know what you’re doing with your grand gathering of suspects,” Nigel said, “and—”

  “Sit down,” Gordon said sharply.

  Nigel wavered. Expression mutinous, he sat.

  “Let’s go back to the arson that destroyed so much of your equipment,” I said. I couldn’t figure out why someone would lock me inside. But the killer had splashed gasoline around the room before I got there—gasoline from my van’s gas tank.”

  “The killer splashed gas around the pavement and side of the van to make sure we figured out where it had come from,” Gordon said. “I could smell it.”

  “Using gas from the Pie Town van was a crime of opportunity,” I said, “meant to throw suspicion on me. And then, when I actually turned up inside the room, the opportunity to make it look like I’d got caught in my own arson was too good to pass up.”

  “But why?” Abstracted, Nigel rubbed the collar of his golf shirt.

  “To throw suspicion away from the real killer,” I said. “That’s what it’s always been about. I thought the break-in at Pie Town was part of it, but I was wrong.” I nodded to Doran at the counter.

  “Luther has a history of arson,” Gordon said. “He made an unserious attempt to set his ex-wife’s house on fire, and there was no damage.”

  “Ilsa couldn’t have killed anyone.” Steve folded his arms over his broad stomach. “She’s dead. That leaves Luther.”

  “No,” I said, “the fire was a red herring. The initial intention was to make Ilsa or Luther look guilty. Seeing my van in the parking lot was a lucky break, and when I turned up in the room, even luckier.”

  “Good thing I was around,” my father said. “You were nearly killed.”

  “Yes,” Charlene said. “Your arrival was suspiciously timely, and for the first time you got to play the hero for your daughter.”

  “I don’t think I like your implication,” Frank said.

  “When Ilsa was killed,” Gordon said, “it was obvious she wasn’t the arsonist.”

  “Which left Luther,” Nigel said. “But it doesn’t sound like you think he was responsible.”

  “Do you?” I asked.

  “No,” the consultant said, staring at the Formica table. “Luther was a wreck but never violent. At least, I didn’t think he was until the detective told us about him trying to burn his wife’s house down.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “You didn’t know much of Luther’s history, because you joined the team when you joined Pie Hard. But Luther’s history with Regina and Steve went back further.”

  “What are you saying?” Steve asked.

  “I’m saying that only one person knew where all the skeletons were hidden.” I was right. I knew I was right—but my heart thumped against my ribs. I drew a deep breath. “The same person who lost—” I put the word in air brackets. “—his waste paper basket.”

  The others looked bewildered.

  “I think you’ve lost the plot,” Nigel said.

  “He needed the bin from his hotel room as a container for the gasoline he stole from my van,” I explained. “He knew it would be ruined by the gas, so the morning of the fire, he called reception to complain about a maid taking it. I expect he just left it in the outbuilding when he was finished.”

  “Wait,” Ray said. “Are you saying stealing the gas was premeditated?”

  “Stealing it from a car in the parking lot was,” I said. “Finding my van was just good luck. For the killer.”

  “And only one person,” Gordon said, “could have called the executive producer and gotten him to admit who Frank really was, then leaked it to the press. I called your exec. He admitted he told you everything, Steve.”

  “What if I did call?” Steve lifted his chin. “I had a right to know who I was working with, especially after my wife and Ilsa were killed.”

  “Your problem,” I said, “is that the husband is always the first suspect. You had to do everything you could to throw suspicion others’ way.”

  The cameraman’s jaw slackened. “Why would I kill Regina? She was already dying.”

  “And burning through all your money in the process,” I said. “Between the trips to India for miracle cures and her new live-like-you’re-dying lifestyle, how much did you expect to have left when she finally died?”

  Steve braced his meaty hands on the table. “It was my money too. I was completely supportive.”

  “That’s rubbish.” Nigel tilted his sleek head. “You whinged about her spending constantly.”

  “Ilsa figured it out,” I said. “You and Ilsa once had a romantic relationship. She knew exactly how you felt about Regina’s illness, and she knew what kind of person you were. That’s why it was so easy for her to break it off. Why did she confront you? Was she blackmailing you?”

  Steve pointed at my father. “The guy’s a mobster! It’s his fault my wife’s dead.”

  “And when you learned the truth from your producer, you decided Frank made an even better patsy.” I forced my muscles to slacken. Gordon was here. We could do this. “Which leads us to the car bomb.”

  “You think I blew up his car?” the cameraman asked. “That was a mob hit! They’ve had their fingers in everything.”

  “In one of your old TV shows, Movie Myths,” I said, “you got a crew to blow up a boat. It made the news, because a stuntman was injured. The explosion happened off the coast, nearby.”

  “You knew who to go to when you wanted explosives to blow up Frank’s car,” Gordon said. “And we have his statement.”

  Well, Gordon had his statement, being the police.

  I started. Even though I’d guessed at the truth, Gordon hadn’t told me he’d found the supplier.

  “I’m telling you,” Frank said, “it wasn’t my car. I borrowed it.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Steve sputtered.

  “It wasn’t hard to track down the crew you worked with on Movie Myths,” Gordon said. “And your old buddy decided pretty quick he didn’t want to be an accessory to—”

  Steve leapt from his chair and threw it at Gordon.

  The detective ducked, and the chair ricocheted off his arm.

  Steve jumped onto the seat of a booth. He dove through the front window and onto the sidewalk. Glass tinkled to the pavement. The front blinds fell sideways and rattled onto the tabletop.

  Swearing, Gordon bolted out the door.

  Frederick, blue eyes wide, yowled.

  A shot. Shattering glass. A scream. A car alarm.

  Charlene and I raced out the front door, bumping shoulders in the entry. Doran and the other crew members flowed onto the sidewalk.

  Smoke poured from the gym’s window next door. A man in sweats and a t-shirt, his face gray, lay on the sidewalk.


  Gordon did CPR, pumping his chest with the heels of his palms. “Val, take over.”

  “What happened?” Stomach churning, I dropped to the sidewalk on the other side of the fallen man and began chest compressions.

  “Steve shot a flare into the gym,” Gordon said, watching me. “The man wasn’t hit, but he collapsed, I’m guessing a heart attack. I’ve called an ambulance.” He jumped to his feet. Swerving around an iron lamp post, he raced down Main Street.

  Doran knelt beside the fallen man’s head and applied mouth-to-mouth.

  I shot him a grateful look.

  Charlene came to stand beside us. “Who’d have dreamed Steve could move that fast?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I panted, my arms aching from the chest compressions. Come on, breathe. “Gordon will catch him.”

  “Want to switch?” Doran asked.

  A far-off siren wailed.

  “What’s wrong?” I grinned. “Can’t you handle it?”

  “You really are my big sister, aren’t you?” He blew into the stranger’s mouth.

  “Would that be such a bad thing?”

  He tilted his head between breaths. “No.”

  CHAPTER 32

  The ambulance pulled away from the curb, its blue lights flickering on the darkening street. Firemen removed the flare from the front of the health club. The gym owner shooed her clients away from the broken window and scowled at me.

  Woeful, I gazed at the matching broken glass in my own front window. The blinds flapped and rattled in the breeze.

  “So,” my father said. “I wasn’t the bad guy after all.”

  “No,” I said, “but you’re a bad guy.”

  His shoulders slumped. “That’s not fair.”

  “Dad, it is,” I said sadly. He might not have been able to help what he’d become, but I couldn’t pretend he wasn’t on the wrong side of the law.

  He gazed down Main Street after the departing ambulance. “I guess it is. I never meant for any of this to happen—for you to be hurt, for me to work for . . . you know.”

  “And me?” Doran’s raven’s-wing brows slashed downward. “I suppose you never meant for me to happen either.”

  “Truthfully,” my father said, “no. But if I had known, I would have left you and your mother alone, like I did Val and her mother.”