A Pocket Full of Pie

by Leena Clover

  “My Nellie’s gone to culinary school,” Nancy went on. “She’s a trained professional.”

  “Oh?” Sylvie said kindly. “We’re looking forward to sampling your menu then.”

  Nancy took our leave and turned around. Nellie leaned forward and whispered in Sylvie’s ear.

  “Was that your pie they found on that park bench?”

  Nancy shushed her daughter.

  “What did I tell you Nellie? We don’t want to smear anyone’s name. The police haven’t released any details yet.”

  The duo waved at us and walked out.

  “What the …” I fumed the moment the door closed. “What were they trying to say anyway?”

  Sylvie was trembling and Becky’s cheeks had turned red.

  “This is what I’m afraid of, child,” Sylvie explained. “We saw enough of this earlier when that Miller boy hounded you about that missing girl.”

  “Let’s hope he’s a bit smarter now, Sylvie,” I tried to calm everyone down.

  “Imagine the nerve of that woman,” Becky finally spit out. “She’s already starting to spread nastiness. I bet that’s exactly what their marketing plan is – smearing our name.”

  “Girls, girls,” Sylvie called out, “don’t get aggravated for no reason. How about that dinner prep?”

  The diner got busy with the dinner rush and I fried batches of my special fried chicken. Becky finally calmed down as she assembled yet another Blue Plate Special with chicken kabobs on a skewer. It was a curry inspired recipe I had come up with and it had become very popular at the diner.

  “When’s Tony coming back?” Becky asked.

  “Later tonight,” I told her as I squirted some creamy yogurt and mint sauce over the kabobs.

  Tony Sinclair is the third point that props up the triangle of our friendship. I had a big crush on Tony in high school, but being the jock he was, he deviated to the cheerleader types. Then we went off to college and did our thing. Our lives hadn’t quite turned out as planned, and now we were both back home. Tony was mourning his ex and we had decided to be just friends for now.

  After a couple of hours, I was beat. I said my goodbyes and drove home, hoping Tony would get home soon. The day had been a bit drab without him.

  Motee Ba, literally ‘Big Ma’, was at the stove making dinner.

  Motee Ba just crossed 70. Together with Pappa, my 83 year old grandpa, she is the backbone of our family. My grandparents raised my brother Jeet and I after our mother went away several years ago. I don’t know what I would do without her.

  “How was your day, Meera?” she asked. “Dinner in thirty minutes.”

  I showered and trudged into the kitchen, looking for something to munch on.

  Motee Ba pointed to a platter of samosas on the table.

  “I made these earlier for Jeet and his friends. Just a few left for you.”

  I grabbed the tiny samosa dumpling and savored the flaky pastry cover. The potatoes and peas filling was mildly spiced and I gobbled a couple rapidly.

  “Did you watch the news?” I asked my grandmother.

  She nodded, looking worried.

  “I don’t know what this means for Sylvie and Jon.”

  “Relax, will you?” I burst out. “I said the same thing to Sylvie. Why make trouble where there isn’t any?”

  “It’s early yet,” Motee Ba refused to back out.

  The clock struck nine and Motee Ba gave me the signal. I struck the dinner gong, letting everyone know it was time for dinner. My grandparents lived in British East Africa for several years and they have some habits that are a remnant of the Raj. The dinner gong is just one of them.

  My brother Jeet tumbled in and dragged out a chair noisily.

  “I’m starving!” he exclaimed and made a face when I mimicked his words as he said them.

  At 19, he is always starving.

  A tap tap sound came closer and my grandpa hobbled in, trying to walk fast with his cane. He slumped into a chair and looked around.

  “Andy!” Pappa roared, calling out to his son, my father.

  My dad is always last to the table, engrossed as he is in his books and papers.

  “Why don’t you get started?” Motee Ba motioned to Jeet, lifting the lid off a lentil stew and stir fried green beans.

  Dinner commenced noisily, and my father finally joined the milieu. We leaned back one by one, sated after a simple Gujarati dinner.

  “I hear you had quite a day today,” Dad looked at me.

  Motee Ba had brought him up to speed, apparently.

  The enormity of my experience hadn’t really sunk in yet. I shrugged.

  “No tomfoolery this time, girl,” Pappa boomed, tapping his cane. “I’m warning you.”

  “Pappa,” I protested. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what, Meera,” my Dad said calmly.

  “I had no choice,” I protested, referring to the time earlier in the semester when I’d had to defend myself.

  “Sylvie may be in trouble,” Motee Ba told everyone. “We don’t know for sure yet, but you all know how harmful rumors can be.”

  Dad gave Motee Ba a questioning glance. I told him about the pie crumbs found at the scene.

  “I think you’re jumping ahead, both of you,” Dad said, picking up his plate and putting it in the sink.

  Jeet started rinsing the plates and loading the dishwasher.

  “Say someone tries to implicate Sylvie,” Motee Ba mused. “We won’t just look the other way, will we?”

  Pappa was silent, and Dad walked out, back to his study. I answered the question they didn’t want to.

  “Of course we won’t, Motee Ba.”

  Chapter 3

  I woke early the next morning and chomped through a bowl of cereal, eager to get to work. Becky hadn’t turned up for our morning run and I was glad. I turned into Tony’s gas station, hoping to meet him.

  I leaned against the heavy glass door, and whiffed at the familiar scent of Zest soap in the air. Tony grinned at me from behind the counter, looking fresh out of the shower, his wet hair curling around his ear.

  “Hey Meera!” he called out.

  “Have you heard?” I asked, unable to hold back any more.

  He looked up as he rang up my large mug of the special holiday blend. His eyes were full of concern.

  “That must’ve been quite a shock!”

  I had dreamed about the dead guy. I was finally beginning to get creeped out as the shock wore off.

  “I actually talked to him, you know,” I exclaimed. “I said, ‘wasup’, and I was waiting for an answer.”

  Tony came out from behind the counter and wrapped his arms around me. I let myself be hugged properly.

  “Nice day you chose to be out of town.”

  We walked out to my car and stood side by side, leaning against it. I sipped the hot coffee, trying to draw some much needed energy from it.

  “How are Jon and Sylvie taking it?” Tony asked.

  “They’re worried. What if …”

  “Try to relax, Meera. We don’t know enough to worry.”

  “But we know Stan,” I told Tony.

  “Let’s hope he’s a bit smarter now,” Tony sighed.

  The day passed in a blur and I was rushed off my feet. I was putting in extra hours to make up for the Thanksgiving break.

  I was bone tired by the time I drove up to Sylvie’s. There was a lot of activity at Nancy’s. Colorful red and white balloons fluttered in the evening breeze. White fairy lights were strung across the building. The parking lot was packed and some more cars lined the curb.

  I parked my car in Sylvie’s lot and stood looking at what was happening. Becky came out of the diner.

  “They had a big to do this afternoon. It’s their opening day.”

  “Looks festive,” I commented and went inside with Becky.

  The kitchen was prepped for the dinner rush. A few pies were cooling on the counter. A half cut pecan pie lay under a glass dome.

/>   “You girls hungry?” Sylvie asked as Becky came out with two trays.

  “Grilled cheese with three slices, just the way you like it.”

  She placed the two trays loaded with a sandwich and bowls of tomato soup. We made quick work of the food.

  “When are we talking about the Thanksgiving menus?” I asked, looking up at Sylvie and Becky.

  “How ‘bout tomorrow?” Sylvie asked. “You look done in today, child.”

  I nodded and went in as a large group of locals entered. Earlier this summer, Becky and I had convinced Jon and Sylvie to modernize their menu a bit. The diner was now becoming well known for the veggie burgers and pakoras, my Indian spiced fried chicken and gourmet sandwiches.

  “Black bean burgers today?” I asked Becky, referring to the daily specials and she nodded.

  I shaped the patties and placed them gently on the grill. I placed slices of pepperjack cheese on top of each. We served them with a chipotle sour cream and sliced avocadoes with seasoned fries. It wasn’t for the faint of heart. But we love our chili over here in the South, and the burger was becoming popular once people got over the idea of going meatless.

  An hour passed in a blur. Then there was a buzz outside. I looked at Becky in alarm and we rushed out. My heart sank as I spied the now familiar flashing lights of a cop car in the parking lot.

  The door opened and Stan Miller walked in, flanked by two more policemen. Becky and I stood on either side of Sylvie, ready to support her if necessary.

  “Jon Davis?” Stan asked.

  “You know who I am, young man,” Jon snorted. “Get on with it.”

  “We are investigating the death of Jordan Harris. You need to come with us.”

  My eyes widened as I put my hands on my hips.

  “Wait a minute, Stan,” I spit out. “What do you mean, go with you? Why?”

  “I’m just doing my job, Meera,” Stan looked at me reproachfully. “I need to take their statements.”

  “Then why didn’t you just call and ask them to come over? Why all this drama?”

  Stan turned red.

  “We wanted to catch them before they fled.”

  “And where are they going to flee?” I asked gently. “Stan, these people have been living in Swan Creek since before you and I were born. This diner is their livelihood. They’re not going anywhere. Why would you think so, anyway?”

  “Well, there’s some talk of a tainted pie …” Stan began.

  “Do you have proof?” I demanded.

  “It’s too early for any of that, Meera,” Stan admitted.

  Sylvie had come out and was calmly listening to our exchange.

  “We’ll come over right now and give your statement. But we are coming there on our own.”

  Stan nodded and stepped outside reluctantly.

  I called Motee Ba and Tony and brought them up to speed. Becky was asked to keep the diner going.

  I was about to usher Jon and Sylvie into my car when Tony’s pickup screeched to a stop. He gently helped the couple into the back seat of his cab. I rode shotgun and we headed to the local police station.

  I don’t know how but Motee Ba had managed to beat us there.

  Stan ushered Jon and Sylvie into an empty room. He held up his hand as I was about to follow.

  “Just them at this time,” he warned.

  I paced the lobby with Tony. Motee Ba sat still in a hard plastic chair, her back ramrod straight. I admired her tight control.

  “Sit down, Meera,” she ordered after I had paced the short space for the hundredth time.

  After what seemed like hours but was barely forty minutes, the door opened and Sylvie and Jon came out, ushered by Stan.

  “Thanks for this,” Stan told them.

  “We have nothing to hide,” Jon said simply.

  Without a word, we filed out and headed back to the diner. Becky rushed out when she saw us, and sighed in relief as she saw Sylvie get out of the car.

  “How about something to drink?” she asked, and I nodded.

  We soon had a hot drink in front of us. Sylvie recounted what had happened.

  “That boy just stopped breathing. They think it could be some kind of reaction to what he ate.”

  “You mean poison?” I burst out.

  Jon shrugged.

  “They are not actually saying anything, because they don’t know for sure themselves.”

  “Is it the food, or isn’t it?” Motee Ba asked impatiently.

  She was beginning to lose her cool.

  “They just don’t know,” Sylvie said in a tired voice. “But they do know the boy ate dinner here. Many people saw him. And we are not denying that.”

  “Wait a minute, though,” I interrupted as I thought of something.

  “Didn’t that girl eat the same thing? And hundreds of people who came to the diner that day.”

  Jon nodded along.

  “That’s what I told them. But then they found that pie. Looks like it’s the last thing he ate.”

  “Someone called in a tip about tainted pie,” Sylvie sobbed. “Imagine, my pie causing harm to someone.”

  “But that’s a load of crap,” Becky burst out. “Who would do that? And if there was something wrong with the pie, why aren’t more people turning up sick?”

  “Maybe they fell sick and just haven’t told us yet?” Tony ventured and Becky and I both smacked him on the head.

  “We’re talking something more serious than a headache,” Motee Ba reasoned. “I don’t see anyone in this town doing this kind of thing. Calling in to the police, making mad allegations? Why, that’s just plain devious. Who would do that?”

  My eyes met Becky’s and we both pointed out of the window. Dance music blared out of speakers mounted outside. Nancy’s was lit up like a Christmas tree. Nancy Walker had hinted at a tainted pie.

  “They would!” I pointed a finger out of the window.

  No one said anything for a minute.

  Then I narrated what had happened the earlier day when the mother-daughter duo had come in to say Hi.

  “That’s just bad karma,” Motee Ba said bitterly. “I wouldn’t start a new venture by lying about the competition.”

  Tony stood up and walked up to the counter. He cut a wedge of pecan pie and slid it onto a plate. He came back to the table and forked a piece into his mouth.

  “That’s what I think of tainted pie,” he said.

  Jon slapped him on the back, and Sylvie pinched his cheek.

  “We sell the most amount of pies around this time, what with Thanksgiving and all,” Sylvie said. “I’ve got advanced orders for dozens of them pies.”

  “I checked the order book earlier today,” Becky confirmed. “Most people will be coming to pick up their order the day before Thanksgiving. The ones who are traveling will get theirs a day or two early. And then the late orders are willing to pick up their pie as late as Thursday afternoon, just before dinner.”

  “That’s less than a week to fill all those orders, Sylvie,” Motee Ba reminded her. “I will be pitching in as usual. Let’s forget all this nonsense and draw up a plan for how to cook all these pies.”

  Sylvie smiled.

  “We plan to be open for the holiday this year. Many of our regulars have requested a Thanksgiving meal. It’s going to be reservations only. We’ll serve at 2 PM and close at 4. That still gives us time for our own dinner.”

  Tony’s parents were hosting all of us for Thanksgiving this year and I was looking forward to it.

  “Stan seemed slightly more reasonable today, didn’t he?” I admitted grudgingly.

  “But he does get carried away. Why did he have to come here with all those lights flashing?” Motee Ba complained.

  We said our goodbyes as Jon and Sylvie closed up for the day. I followed Motee Ba’s car as we slowly drove home.

  “Things don’t look good, Meera,” Motee Ba said quietly as she brushed my hair later that night, tying it into two plaits.

  This was a night
ly ritual when I was growing up, and Motee Ba still does it any time she or I are disturbed. It’s our way of letting off steam.

  “Sylvie and Jon have always stood by us,” I was serious as I thought of what lay ahead. “I’m going to do my best to see them through this.”

  Chapter 4

  The next few days were busy. Becky insisted we stick to our plans and still go on that morning run.

  “Think of all the extra calories we’re going to consume for Thanksgiving,” she warned. “You won’t fit into your swim wear in the Spring. And we just have to do something different this year for Spring Break. You promised!”

  “That’s in March!” I cried. “Why do I have to work on it now?”

  Becky relented only about one thing. Instead of Willow Springs Lake Park, we went to the track at Pioneer Poly. I just couldn’t bear the thought of running through that park again, wondering what lay around the corner.

  The extra hours at work were hell on my feet. I was glad my sneakers went with my usual garb of jeans and long sleeved tees. In the evening, I helped Sylvie with shopping and prepping for all her pie orders and worked on a couple of new recipes for the big Thanksgiving dinner.

  “Try this,” I said, sticking a sauce laden spatula in front of Becky. “This is my second batch.”

  Becky licked the spoon and frowned for a second. Then her face broke out in a smile as she fanned her tongue.

  “That’s awesome. Sweet at first but then the warmth of the spices seeps through. What is it?”

  “Just my spiced cranberry relish. Do you think it’s good enough for the day?”

  “People are gonna love it,” Becky enthused. “It’s sweet, tart and spicy. Different!”

  I grinned with pleasure, and turned as the phone rang.

  Sylvie beat me to it. She spoke for a couple of minutes and then hung up. She picked up the order book lying on the counter and wrote something in it. Mostly, she just struck out a few lines.

  “Sylvie?” I raised my eyebrows, trying to stay calm.

  She shook her head, looking beat.

  “More cancellations. At this rate, we won’t be needing too many pies this year.”

  “What about our regulars?” I asked. “Jon’s and Pappa’s friends, and the ladies in your Bingo group.”