Death Bakes a Pecan Pie

by Livia J. Washburn

  “Did you see her do that?”

  “Well . . . no.” Melissa frowned. “I’m trying to think back. You know the pie container had a hands-off note on it.”

  Phyllis nodded. “I assume someone took that off and opened the container when it was time for lunch.”

  “Yeah, by the time I went through the line and got my food, it was half gone.”

  “Did you get a piece of it?” Phyllis asked.

  Melissa shook her head. “No, like I told you a couple of nights ago, I try to avoid sweets as much as I can.” Her eyes widened slightly. “I know who did have a slice, though. Deanne Wilkes. I saw her eating it.”

  “What about her husband?”

  “He was nowhere around, as far as I remember.”

  That was during the time Jason had been holed up somewhere drinking, Phyllis recalled. But he could have ventured out long enough to get something to eat.

  “I walked by there again a little later and the pie was all gone,” Melissa continued. “I remember not being surprised that it was popular, but that’s all. At that point, nobody knew it was going to be important, so I didn’t really pay that much attention.”

  “I don’t imagine anyone did,” Phyllis said.

  “Except the killer,” Sam said. “Whoever did it was countin’ on the crowd and the confusion makin’ it hard for anybody to recall anything for sure.” He waved a hand at everything going on around them. “It wasn’t this bad yesterday, but almost.”

  “The police won’t actually question everyone who was here yesterday,” Melissa said. “That would be too big a job, and anyway, they believe they’ve already arrested the killer.” She looked at Phyllis. “That’s why it’s up to you and me . . . and we’re not going to let Julie down.”

  ◄♦►

  Phyllis sympathized with Melissa’s determination to clear her friend’s name. She had felt the same way when her friends had come under suspicion of murder.

  However, right now there wasn’t much she could do, so she felt like they might as well try to enjoy the festival. For the next couple of hours they strolled around the park, checking out all the arts and crafts and snacking on food from the various vendors. From time to time they sat down at one of the tables to rest for a few minutes.

  Somewhat to Phyllis’s surprise, Melissa went along with them. She talked about some of the previous cases in which Phyllis had been involved and questioned her about her methods of solving them.

  “I’ve still got a movie to finish, you know,” she pointed out. “I want my performance to be as true to life as I can make it.”

  During one of those breaks, Deanne Wilkes walked up to the table and asked, “Is it all right if I join you ladies . . . and you, too, of course, Mr. Fletcher?”

  “Of course,” Eve said. “I didn’t really expect to see you here today.”

  “It’s something to do. No offense, but this isn’t exactly the most exciting town I’ve ever been in.”

  “Where’s Jason this morning?”

  Deanne shrugged and shook her head. “I don’t have any idea. He was gone when I woke up. He may have flown back to L.A. for all I know—or care.”

  “He’ll be in trouble with the police if he did,” Phyllis said. “None of you were supposed to leave town.”

  Deanne frowned and said, “Really? Is that still a thing? I thought since Julie was arrested, it was all over.”

  “She didn’t do it,” Melissa snapped. “She’s innocent.”

  “The investigation hasn’t been closed officially, as far as I know,” Phyllis said.

  “Well, I’m not leaving town until everybody else does, obviously,” Deanne said. “The script might still need some rewrites, and since Jason’s not around, that leaves it up to me, doesn’t it?”

  Carolyn asked, “Are they still going to do that scene with the scarecrow the way it was written? I think that would be terrible now.”

  Melissa sighed and nodded. “I haven’t talked to Alan or Earl about it yet, but I don’t see any way of getting out of it. I mean, Peggy Nelson still has to discover that body one way or another, doesn’t she? Even if Deanne tweaks the script a little, the whole movie is about the murder, so it has to take place.”

  “Maybe I could have somebody else find the victim, though,” Deanne said, “if it’s going to be too hard for you to play that scene.”

  Melissa shook her head determinedly. “No. I’m a professional. Good Lord, if I can stand to kiss Bob Harkness, I can do this!”

  “Bob’s not that bad,” Deanne said.

  “Yeah, well, you haven’t ever . . . Wait a minute.” Melissa leaned forward and looked intently at the blond screenwriter. “Deanne, you and Harkness, you’ve never . . . Good Lord, you’re blushing! You have!”

  “It’s none of your business what I’ve done,” Deanne snapped as she abruptly got to her feet.

  “Poor Jason,” Eve said.

  “Poor Jason?” Deanne repeated with an incredulous look. “You’ve met the guy. Any problems Jason has, I promise you he’s brought them on himself. If that little Teddy bitch can’t see that, it’s her look-out.” She turned and stalked away.

  Phyllis watched her go and mused, “So there is something going on between Jason and Teddy.”

  “Maybe,” Melissa said. “I hadn’t heard anything about Deanne and Harkness, though, or seen any signs of it. I’m not really surprised, though, after what happened between her and Lawrence.”

  All the other eyes around the table swung to stare at her.

  “Deanne and Fremont?” Phyllis said after a moment.

  “Yeah. It was a while ago. Those were the rumors, anyway, and I don’t know of any reason not to believe them.” Melissa placed her hands on the edge of the concrete table. “Listen, Lawrence Fremont liked women, liked them a lot, and he went after anybody who struck his fancy, as they used to say. I’ve heard stories about him going all the way back to New York, in his theater days.”

  Phyllis nodded. “There was a young actress who committed suicide, and it was suspected that her involvement with Fremont may have contributed to that.”

  “You have done your research.”

  Carolyn said, “Are you sure the poor young woman’s death really was suicide? Could it have been murder? Could Fremont have been involved? If he was, that might be connected somehow to his murder.”

  “I didn’t find even a hint of that in anything I read,” Phyllis said.

  “I don’t really believe it, either,” Melissa added. “Lawrence was a horndog, no doubt about it, and he might lose his temper and throw a punch at another guy, but I never heard anything about him abusing women except with the power he wielded.”

  Carolyn sniffed and said, “That’s bad enough.”

  “Yes, it is. He could be very . . . insistent.”

  Phyllis looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

  “No, I just . . .” Melissa sighed. “Okay, you’ve got me. But it was twenty-five years ago. One of the first features where I had more than a walk-on part. Lawrence was still a rising star when it came to directing, but he was a star. I figured it couldn’t hurt my career, you know?”

  “That’s terrible,” Eve murmured.

  “You mean terrible that he pressured me into it?” Melissa laughed. “I wasn’t a kid. I knew what it meant to make it to the big leagues. In those days, you went along to get along, you know what I mean? Nobody regarded it as any big deal.”

  “It was a big deal,” Eve said, “but actually I was talking about the way you found the body of someone you’d been close to, even if what happened was years ago.”

  “Honey, I’m not sure it made any difference. That was so long ago it seems like prehistoric times now. I’ve worked with Lawrence on three or four other pictures. It never came up again. We’d both long since moved on.”

  Phyllis thought for a second and then asked, “What about Julie?”

  “What about her?”

>   “Was she ever involved with Fremont?”

  Without hesitation, Melissa shook her head and said, “Absolutely not. She’s not his type and never has been. Anyway, I think this is the first picture she’s been in that he directed. He never would have had the opportunity to try to pressure her into anything.”

  Phyllis made a mental note to look up that assertion and see if it was true. With the Internet, it would be easy enough to check out all the movies in which Julie had appeared.

  “Is there anyone else working on this picture he might have gone after in the past?”

  “Not that I can think of,” Melissa said. “Of course, I didn’t know that anything had ever gone on between him and Deanne, so maybe I’m not as well-informed as I thought I was.”

  “You said you saw Deanne eating some of the pie . . . Maybe she thought—”

  Melissa slapped a hand down on the table and said excitedly, “Maybe she thought that when she and Jason were hired to write the script for this movie, she could start something with Lawrence again. But then she found out that he was already mixed up with Becca! That could have made her mad enough to want to get back at Lawrence. That’s motive, and we know she had some of the pie, so that’s means, and with everything that was going on yesterday, nobody’s ever going to be able to pin down opportunity.” She sat back in satisfaction. “That’s every bit as good a case as the cops have against Julie. Better, even. Is Detective Largo still around? We need to talk to her.”

  Eve said, “I really don’t think Deanne would do such a thing.”

  “You like her because she’s a writer,” Melissa snapped. “Well, I don’t think Julie would kill anybody.”

  Phyllis said, “We don’t have any actual evidence against Deanne. It’s all just speculation.”

  “That was enough for them to arrest Julie.”

  “Yes, but we won’t get them to back off on that by giving them an option that’s not really any stronger.”

  “What about that argument I saw Earl having with Alan?”

  “It’s the same thing,” Phyllis said. “A plausible theory, but nothing more.”

  Melissa sighed and slowly nodded. “I guess you’re right. I got carried away there for a minute, but the only thing that’s going to save Julie is evidence, and we don’t have any. But we’re going to keep looking, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” Phyllis said, “we are.” She checked the time on her phone. “Right now, though, the judging for the pie contest is coming up soon.”

  Chapter 20

  They hadn’t eaten any actual lunch, but during the morning and the first part of the afternoon they had snacked enough on pretzels, sausage-on-a-stick, chili, caramel corn, and cotton candy that no one needed a full meal. Phyllis felt rather like she’d had one as they walked toward the area of the park where the pie contest was being held.

  Melissa came along, although she was obviously still distracted by the theories they had come up with regarding Lawrence Fremont’s murder.

  Those scenarios were still percolating in the back of Phyllis’s brain, too. This was as complex a case as she had encountered: a victim with plenty of enemies and therefore plenty of suspects; a murder that had taken place in the midst of a crowd that created confusion and obscured the facts; a bizarre angle that made no sense at all in the way the corpse had been dressed as a scarecrow and propped up for someone to find.

  The sight of all the pies spread out on the tables distracted Phyllis from those bewildering thoughts. She told herself sternly that for a few minutes, she was going to forget about murder and concentrate on something more pleasant.

  And this array of delicious-looking pies was definitely pleasant. There were all kinds: apple, peach, cherry, lemon, key lime, pecan, pumpkin, sweet potato, strawberry, rhubarb, cream pies, custard pies, cobblers, tarts, meringues, pies with cross-hatched top crusts, pies with solid top crusts, chocolate, coconut, buttermilk pies . . .

  Sam was equally impressed. “Dang,” he said in an awed voice, “that’s a veritable plethora of pies.”

  “I know what the words mean,” Eve said, “but I’ve never heard them applied to pies.”

  “It’s somethin’ Howard Cosell used to say, just not about pies. Got to admit, the description fits.”

  A good-sized crowd had gathered in front of the tables. The judges, two women and one man, were ready to begin sampling the entries. One of the women took on the job of cutting a small slice from each pie, then dividing it into three even smaller slices. Even doing that, the judges might be a little sick of pie by the time they finished with this task, Phyllis thought.

  A lot of talk and laughter went on among the spectators as the judging continued, but the judges themselves seemed to take their job seriously. Phyllis mentioned that to Carolyn, who nodded and said, “As well they should. It’s quite an honor to have your pie picked as the best of the Harvest Festival.”

  Melissa said, “These contests are important to you, aren’t they, Phyllis?”

  “Well, they’re hardly important in the big scheme of things, of course,” Phyllis said. “But I admit, I have a competitive nature, in this one area, anyway.”

  “Sometimes there are prizes,” Carolyn added. “Mostly, though, it’s just the recognition of your hard work and creativity that counts. That makes you feel like you haven’t been wasting your time. Any artist likes that feeling.”

  Eve said, “You aren’t comparing baking a pie to writing a novel or painting a picture, are you?”

  “Or making a movie?” Melissa said.

  “In every one of those things, you put various ingredients together in a certain way unique to yourself, and when you’re done, you have something that never existed before,” Carolyn insisted. “I don’t see any difference.”

  She had a point there, Phyllis thought, and Eve and Melissa seemed to see it, too. Eve said, “Well, if you’re going to put it like that . . .”

  Sam nudged Phyllis and said, “They’re fixin’ to taste your pie. Y’all can discuss creative philosophy later.”

  The judge with the knife cut a slice of Phyllis’s pie and then divided it for the others. Phyllis watched their expressions closely as they ate the samples. She could tell they were all trying to maintain poker faces, but she was convinced that she saw pleasure in their eyes. The odds were high today, but she told herself that she had a shot in this contest.

  The judges moved on and continued tasting the remaining entries for another ten or fifteen minutes. Then they withdrew to the front porch of the caretaker’s cottage to confer about their decision. When they returned to the tables after several long minutes, one of the female judges picked up several of the pies and moved them to a cleared area on the table at the end of the line. Phyllis caught her breath as she saw the judge include the pie she had brought to the park today.

  When six finalists had been selected, the judges converged on that half-dozen and sampled them again.

  “The winner and five runners-up, I reckon,” Sam said as they watched.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Phyllis said.

  “And your pie is one of ’em.”

  Melissa squeezed Phyllis’s arm and said, “Good luck. Not that you need it.”

  “Everybody can always use a little good luck,” Phyllis said, not taking her eyes off the judges now.

  The three of them put their heads together for another low-voiced conversation, then one of the women picked up a pie and announced loudly, “The lemon chess is the winner!”

  “Oh, no,” Melissa moaned. “You didn’t win.”

  “But she was one of the runners-up,” Sam said. “That’s not bad in a contest with this many pies in it.”

  “No, it’s not,” Phyllis said. She had felt a tiny twinge of disappointment when the judge picked up someone else’s pie, but it lasted for only a second before a sense of satisfaction replaced it. She knew she had done good work. So had the person who’d baked the lemon chess pie. It was all good.

  “All the pies a
re now for sale,” the male judge announced. “Ten dollars each, with the proceeds going to the food pantry!”

  The crowd surged forward as people began claiming the various pies.

  “I’ll try to buy yours,” Sam told Phyllis.

  “No, you should get one of the others,” she said. “You eat my cooking all the time.”

  “You haven’t heard any complaints from me, have you?”

  “Just get something that looks good to you.”

  He ventured into the melee and came back grinning with a cherry pie in his hands. “Always had a soft spot for a good cherry pie,” he said.

  It looked good, all right. Phyllis could tell just by looking at it that the golden-brown crust would be light and flaky, and the delicately crimped rim around the outside wasn’t browned too much, which was always a tricky balance to strike. It had taken her a long time as a young baker to get down the knack of making a crust so that the pie could bake long enough without burning the edge of the crust.

  “Let’s go sit down and sample that bad boy,” Melissa suggested.

  They all got plastic forks and small paper plates from stacks on one of the portable tables, then found a place at a concrete picnic table to sit down. Sam had a plastic knife to cut the pie, but before he could do so, Ronnie walked up and said, “I hope there’s enough of that so I can have a piece, too.”

  “Sure, I reckon we can divide it up so there’s enough to go around. Where have you been?”

  “Here in the park,” Ronnie replied, gesturing vaguely. “A lot of my friends are here.” She looked at Phyllis. “You haven’t solved the murder yet, have you? I don’t want to miss out on that.”

  “No, I’m not even thinking about it right now,” Phyllis said.

  Melissa nudged her with an elbow and said, “Maybe you should. Look over there.” She nodded toward the lake.

  Phyllis looked in that direction and saw Jason Wilkes strolling beside the water, arm in arm with Teddy Demming.

  “So he didn’t fly back to L.A. after all,” Melissa continued. “It doesn’t look like he’s making any secret of being with Teddy anymore, either.”