Pies Before Guys

by Kirsten Weiss

  Doran—black t-shirt, black jeans, black motorcycle jacket—popped up on the other side of the tiny black car. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Did you find out anything about Professor Starke?” Abril asked.

  “No. It’s Monday morning,” I said slowly. “He died last night.”

  She flushed, her dark skin turning scarlet. “Sorry. How’s Charlene?”

  “She’s fine. Do you want some quiche? Orange juice?” I motioned toward the ceramic dish on the table.

  “What kind?” Doran’s almond-shaped eyes narrowed. He braced his elbows on the top of his low car.

  “Asparagus-and-mushroom. Sorry, no meat.” I was a flexitarian.

  “I guess.” He shrugged.

  I hurried into my tiny house and to my kitchenette, which anchored its center. Grabbing plates, silverware, and glasses, I returned outside.

  Abril sat at the table. Doran paced the cliff side.

  “Have you heard . . . ?” Abril’s hands fluttered helplessly. “I mean, has Detective Carmichael said anything?”

  I sliced wedges of quiche. “No, and I can’t—”

  Another, louder motor growled up the drive.

  Charlene’s yellow Jeep exploded from the tree line and screeched to a halt beside Doran’s car. She stepped from the Jeep, Frederick draped around the neck of her violet tunic like a stole. “Good. You’re all here.” She pointed a gnarled finger at the quiche. “Is that made with one of my piecrusts?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Doran ambled to the table.

  “Then I’ll have a slice.” She sat across from Abril. “All right, young lady, spill. Tell us everything you know about Professor Starke. And not just the good stuff.”

  Abril laced her fingers together on the table and looked down at them, then blew out her breath. “That’s the thing . . . Now, I’m not sure if he was a very good person.”

  “Excellent,” Charlene said. “That’s a start. Why?”

  I passed out plates of quiche.

  Abril flushed guiltily. “I mean, he was a great professor. And a great poet.”

  “But?” I asked.

  “But there were a lot of rumors about his TAs.”

  “TAs?” Charlene asked.

  “Teaching assistants,” I explained, handing her a fork. “What sort of rumors?”

  “I didn’t want to say anything before,” Abril said, “because. . .” She looked toward the cliff and the blue expanse beyond.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “You knew and respected him, and of course you didn’t want to spread rumors right after he’d died.” Abril was the sweetest person I knew, but Charlene was right. It was time to talk.

  “What rumors?” Charlene asked, leaning closer. “Occult ceremonies? Virgin sacrifices? Bodies in the basement?”

  Abril looked everywhere but at us. “Every year he had a new TA, and they were all women.”

  “Aha!” Charlene pounded the end of her fork on the picnic table. “And he was schtupping his TAs?”

  My face warmed with embarrassment, which was ridiculous. We were all adults. So why did I feel the urge to protect Abril’s sensibilities?

  Abril shifted. “That’s what people said. But . . . I didn’t want to believe it. I mean, I—He has such a good relationship with his ex-wife—”

  “Professor Hastings?” I asked.

  She nodded. “How’d you know?”

  Charlene shrugged modestly. “The grass doesn’t grow under our feet.”

  “You were saying?” I prompted.

  “Anyway,” Abril said, “I didn’t think it was true. I mean, there are a lot more women than men taking upper-level English courses, so it sort of made sense he’d have female TAs.”

  “What’s changed your mind?” I asked.

  She looked up, her brown eyes serious. “Someone killed him. They had to have a reason, didn’t they?”

  “That’s blame-the-victim mentality,” Charlene said. “But in this case, you’re probably right.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “For all we know, the murder could have been a mugging gone wrong.”

  Charlene snorted. “In San Nicholas?”

  “I feel terrible.” A puff of wind tossed strands of Abril’s near-black hair. “Professor Starke was looking for places to hold readings, and I suggested Pie Town. It was a bit far from the college, but he thought the space would be fresh.”

  “Our pies are always fresh,” Charlene said.

  “I meant emotionally fresh.”

  Charlene stared at her blankly.

  “Cool,” Doran translated.

  “I know what it means,” Charlene snapped. “I’m hip to the lingo.”

  “And now he’s dead.” Abril’s knuckles whitened. “I was the one who pushed to come to San Nicholas. If we’d stayed on the other side of the hill, where the college is—”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Doran said.

  “My brother’s right,” I said. “How could you have known?”

  “I knew he and Professor McClary didn’t get along. Everyone knew. They’ve always been competitive, and then . . .”

  “Professor McClary started dating Professor Starke’s ex-wife?” I prompted.

  “You know that too?” she asked.

  “We did some checking on the Internet,” I said.

  “But the Internet isn’t enough.” Charlene poured herself a glass of OJ and looked around. “Where’s the champagne?”

  “I don’t have champagne.”

  “What’s a mimosa without champagne?”

  I crossed my arms. “I believe it’s called orange juice.”

  “The point”—Charlene brandished her glass—“is, like this sad specimen of orange juice, we need more. More info, that is. And you two are going to get it.”

  Whoops. I had a sick feeling I knew where this was coming from. I cleared my throat. “Uh, Charlene—”

  Charlene aimed a crooked finger at my brother. “Doran, I want you to help Abril put a list together of possible suspects from the college. Look for students and any teachers who may have held a grudge. Abril, cross-reference the list with your memory of who was at Pie Town last night.”

  I frowned. “Doran’s not from the college. How’s he supposed to—”

  Charlene stomped on my foot, and I bit back a yelp.

  “You’re a graphic artist,” she said to him. “You think differently. You can help prompt Abril.”

  “Sure,” he said, a little too eagerly, “if you think it will help.”

  “Meanwhile,” she said, “Val and I will . . . do something else.”

  “Right.” I wasn’t sure I liked this idea. “Um, Charlene, you know, I may have some champagne in my house after all. Will you help me find it?”

  “Your house is less than five hundred square feet. How hard can it be to find a bottle?”

  I ground my teeth. She was doing this on purpose. “I need your help,” I said flatly. “Inside.”

  Feet dragging, she followed me up the two steps and inside my tiny house. “What?”

  I shut the door behind us. “What are you doing?” I asked, backed up against the counter that marked off the kitchen.

  “I’m finishing what you started—nudging Abril and Doran together—so you can keep him in San Nicholas.” She stepped sideways, bumping a chair with her hip. Tiny houses are really only made for one.

  “That wasn’t—That seems kind of manipulative.”

  She arched a white brow. “And your point is . . . ?”

  What was my point? “Let’s go to the college.”

  “Why?”

  “You told them we’d be busy doing something else, and the college is where all our suspects are.”

  It was time to do some real investigating.

  * * *

  Our heels clacked on the linoleum floor, the sound echoing in the dismal hallway. Fluorescent lights flickered dolefully in the white-tile ceiling. The hall smelled like
old shoes and mildewed paper.

  I loved it.

  I’d been an English major myself, and the college reminded me of my old, underfunded state school. I still didn’t know how my mother had managed to send me to college, and my chest grew heavy. I hadn’t known of my mother’s cancer then. She’d hidden it from me.

  A door burst open ahead of us. The Shirley Temple blonde from the photos charged out, the hem of her brown corduroy blazer billowing in her wake. Dorothy jostled my shoulder in passing hard enough to knock me against the wall.

  “Watch it!” Charlene shook her fist at the woman’s retreating back.

  “Ow.” I rubbed my shoulder.

  The rotund dean, Rudolph Prophet, stuck his graying head through the open doorway. His lips pursed, cherry red against his neat gray beard, and I was struck again by his Santa look. But when you live in a town named San Nicholas, you start seeing Santas everywhere.

  “Dean Prophet!” I hurried forward. We didn’t have an appointment (natch), and we’d located his office only by dint of the signboard at the end of the hall. I hoped he’d talk to us.

  He adjusted his glasses and frowned, as if he was trying to place us.

  “I’m Val Harris, from Pie Town. And, er, you remember Charlene?”

  His ruddy face broke into a grin, and his stomach jiggled like the proverbial bowlful of jelly. “Ah, yes, the woman with the spatula! You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to whack a professor.” He sobered. “Apologies. I feel like I shouldn’t be making jokes at a time like this. You’ve heard about Professor Starke, I presume?”

  “Yes,” I said, “it’s why we’re here.”

  “Indeed. Then come inside.” He ushered us into an office overlooking an elm tree and overflowing with stacks and folders filled with paper.

  Charlene rubbed her wrinkled cheek. “I see the paperless office hasn’t made its way to academia yet.”

  “It has.” His round face flushed. “But I’m a bit behind the times, I’m afraid. Perhaps it’s the old English professor in me, but there’s something tactile about paper and ink that I can’t resist.”

  I smiled. I knew the feeling. As much as I loved my e-reader, there was something about flipping the pages of a book....

  Charlene pointed with her thumb over her shoulder, toward the closing door. “What was up with her?”

  “Ah. Professor Starke’s widow, Dorothy.” He shook his head. “Sorry, that’s not quite accurate. They were divorced. But still, she’s taking it hard.”

  “So why’s she taking it out on you?” Charlene’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t have anything to do with his murder.”

  He started. “Murder? I thought—I mean, I knew he’d died, of course. But are you certain it’s murder?”

  “Stabbed with that sword he was carrying,” Charlene said.

  “Saber,” he said absently, and dropped into the swivel chair. It made a pained shriek at the impact.

  I shifted a stack of folders and took one of the gray chairs across from him. “Who do you think could have done this?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “What were Professor Starke and Professor McClary arguing about?” I asked. The dean must have overheard—he’d been near enough to notice Charlene’s spatula attack.

  He stiffened behind his neatness-challenged desk. “I really can’t say. I’m legally and professionally bound not to discuss matters of employee confidentiality.”

  “They were sure going at it in Pie Town,” Charlene said. “There was nothing private about that conversation.”

  “But I’m afraid I didn’t hear any more than you.” He nodded to Charlene. “You got to the men before I could. You seemed to have things well in hand, so I thought it best to let it be. Sometimes a woman’s touch is more effective than the heavy hand of authority. What did you hear?”

  “McClary accused Starke of plagiarism,” Charlene said, “and Starke called McClary a hack.”

  “Plagiarism?” He leaned back in his chair, and it creaked alarmingly. “It’s the first I’ve heard of it. But tempers were high that night. I’m sure he was exaggerating.”

  “But why were tempers high?” I asked.

  He lifted his thick hands in a helpless gesture. “As I said, I can’t discuss employees of the college.”

  Oh, come on! I pressed my knuckles into the thighs of my jeans.

  “An employee of your college was brutally murdered last night,” Charlene said.

  “And I’m sure the police are looking into the crime.” He steepled his fingers. “The question is, why are you so interested?”

  Charlene straightened in her chair. “Because we’re the Baker Street—”

  “Because we think Professor Starke may have left something behind at Pie Town and aren’t sure whom to return it to,” I lied.

  He leaned forward and braced his forearms on the desk. “Oh? What?”

  “I really couldn’t say,” I said demurely. Take that! “I suppose I should give it to Professor Hastings?”

  “I don’t know who his proper heirs are,” the dean said. “As I mentioned earlier, Dorothy and Michael were divorced. But if you give it to me, I’ll make sure it gets to the right people, along with the contents of his office.”

  I stood. “We didn’t bring it with us today, but thanks for the info. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Forehead furrowing, he rose. “I have?” He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a card. “My number. In case I can be of further assistance.”

  I whipped out a Pie Town card—pink and white with our smiley face logo—and handed it to him. “Call anytime.” I cringed. That had sounded like a pickup line.

  Charlene made a disgusted sound.

  “I’m, uh, sure we’ll be seeing you.” I wrenched open the door and collided with Gordon.

  Heat washed my face. Oh, crumb.

  “Hi, GC!” Charlene sketched a wave, and he flinched. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  Charlene knew he hated being called GC. Everyone knew it stood for Grumpy Cop, which he totally wasn’t. Most of the time. Judging by the thunderous expression on his chiseled face, now was not one of those happy times.

  He blew out his breath. “I’d like to say I am surprised, but why aren’t I?” He smoldered in a charcoal suit—his detective “uniform”—and I was smote with guilty lust.

  “Um,” I said, “I can explain.”

  “Why bother?” But he lightly gripped my elbow and steered me to an opposite corner of the hallway. “Seriously?” he whispered. “You do realize you’re now interfering with an investigation, which is illegal.”

  “Is it?” I asked, my voice cracking.

  Outside, the college’s carillon bonged the hour.

  “Look,” he said, “it’s one thing to listen for gossip in Pie Town or chat with people you know, but that’s not what’s happening here, is it?”

  I shriveled inside. “Not exactly.”

  “You’re lucky it’s me on the case and not Shaw.”

  Due to a series of unfortunate circumstances, twice I’d managed to get Gordon kicked off murder cases. Since San Nicholas is a small town, Chief Shaw had taken over. It’s not that Shaw was a bad guy, even if he had developed an unreasonable obsession with Pie Town. But to say he had a butter-knife wit would be too kind.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just that Abril was really shaken. That professor died leaving Pie Town, and with Chief Shaw . . .” I trailed off, realizing exactly how lame all those excuses were. “We won’t interfere in your investigation.”

  “I know you won’t. But I will arrest Charlene if I catch her sniffing around again.”

  “You know I can’t control Charlene,” I hissed, panicked.

  “She doesn’t get a pass because she’s geriatric.”

  A student, shoulders rounded by a full backpack, ambled around us.

  I lowered my voice. “But she’s . . . You know how she is!” Crazy in a good way. “That’s got to count for something.”
<
br />   “I know she’s managed to drag you into her insanity time and time again.”

  “This wasn’t—” On second thought, maybe now wasn’t the time to tell him coming to the college had been my idea. “I’ll let her know what you said,” I told him grudgingly.

  He patted me on the shoulder and strode past Charlene and into the dean’s office.

  Charlene hustled to me. “Hoo-hoo! I saw the way you wrapped him around your little finger. Nicely done.”

  Ha. That’s what she thought. “No. Charlene, Gordon told me we were interfering in a police investigation by talking to the dean. We could be arrested.”

  “Pshaw! He’s not going to arrest you.”

  “He’s a good cop,” I said. “He’ll do what he has to. And we need to confine our investigations to Pie Town.”

  “No can do. This case is rooted here in the college. Can’t you smell it?”

  All I smelled was floor polish and the faint scent of my own despair.

  She rubbed her wrinkled hands together. “Now all we need to do is put the word out to the others that Starke left something in Pie Town last night and see who bites.”

  “Huh? I just said that to Dean Prophet because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.”

  “But it was a good idea,” she said.

  “Charlene—”

  “Carmichael said you could talk to people in Pie Town, right?”

  “Not exactly,” I said, worried. How far was she going to push this?

  “Then the solution is simple. If we can’t go to them, we’ll get them to come to us.”

  “He didn’t actually say we could talk to people in Pie Town.”

  “It’s genius!”

  I sighed and trailed after her down the hallway. Get them to come to us?

  Sure. Why not? After all, what could possibly go wrong?

  CHAPTER 5

  Footsteps thudded above me. Frowning, I glanced at Pie Town’s kitchen skylight. It glowed hazily in the afternoon sun. “Who’s on the roof?” I asked Petronella.

  My assistant manager slid a long, wooden paddle into the giant pie oven and snagged a pie off its rotating rack. “Charlene was saying something about UFO pictures.” Her motorcycle boots matched her black jeans, but I’d no idea how she managed to stand in them all day, fatigue mats or no.