Pies Before Guys

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Pies Before Guys Page 19

by Kirsten Weiss


  Someone knocked on the kitchen’s swinging door, and Abril and I raised our heads from our workstations. It was six thirty a.m. The only people here were our elderly regulars, serving themselves coffee and day-old pie.

  “Yes?” I scrunched my forehead.

  Tally Wally poked his head inside the kitchen. “There’s a fellow out here who wants to see you. I told him it was all self-serve at this hour, but he’s not getting with the program.”

  “Thanks.” I wiped my hands in my apron. “I’ll be right there.”

  He nodded and vanished through the swinging door.

  I finished filling the pie and walked into the restaurant.

  Professor Jezek stood on the other side of the cash register, his mustache quivering. “I have come to demand you stop harassing me,” he said, exhaling stale alcohol fumes.

  Looking interested, Marla swiveled her barstool to face the post-middle-aged professor. Her diamonds winked.

  Charlene stormed from the kitchen in a floury apron. “What’s happening?”

  “This gentleman was about to file a restraining order against you,” Marla drawled.

  “You set my couch on fire,” Charlene snarled, whipping the apron over her burnt-orange knit tunic. “You should be arrested.”

  Now Tally Wally and Graham turned to face us.

  “That floral-print couch?” Graham asked.

  “In your living room?” Tally Wally said.

  “That’s the one,” Charlene growled.

  “That was a good couch,” Graham said.

  “Good grief.” Marla flicked her bejeweled hands, dismissive. “It was an outdated eyesore. This gentleman did you a favor.”

  “What couch?” Jezek scraped back his straggly gray hair.

  “Don’t what couch me.” Charlene shook her finger at him. “If the police haven’t interrogated you yet, they will.”

  His watery eyes blinked. “What are you talking about? What couch?”

  Marla glided from her stool and extended a hand to the professor. “Marla. Marla Van Helsing. And you are . . . ?”

  “Professor Jezek.”

  She arched a brow. “A professor?”

  “Nearly half your age,” Charlene said. “And a felon. He chucked a Molotov cocktail through my front window last night.”

  “I did not!”

  “Maybe we should speak in private,” I said. “My office is this way.” I walked toward it, hoping they’d follow. To the groans of the regulars at the counter, Charlene and Jezek did.

  I shut the door behind us, and the veterans calendar on its back rustled.

  “What is this about a Molotov cocktail?” he asked in a low, intense voice.

  “Where were you after we left your house last night?” I asked.

  “At home. Why?”

  “Because when we arrived at my house,” Charlene said, “someone tried to set it on fire.”

  He ran shaking hands over his mustache. “So it continues. But why attack you?”

  “What continues?” I asked.

  He staggered, laying a hand on the metal supply shelf for balance. “The unclean force at the college. Rudolph has pushed someone too far.”

  I sat against my metal desk. “Rudolph? The dean?”

  “The man puts too much pressure on everyone.” His shoulders hunched. “He is fanatical. His expectations for staff behavior are unrealistically high.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Charlene folded her arms over her Pie Town apron.

  “We are only a community college.” Head twitching, he paced the small office. “But he insists his professors publish regularly, as if we were a four-year or graduate school. Dorothy came close to a breakdown last year because of his demands. Her strength is teaching. She spends most of her nonteaching hours working in the theater with the students. This is what she should be doing, not publishing. It’s ridiculous. You saw how he acted at the pie-making class.”

  My mouth puckered. The dean had seemed pretty nice in a jolly, Santa sort of way.

  “Dean Prophet’s crusts were the most even,” Charlene growled.

  “Is that why the college has a TA program?” I asked. “Because he’s trying to emulate universities?”

  He shrugged. “No, these programs are becoming more common at community colleges. But I have no doubt Rudolph sees the program as another point of prestige for his department. The man is mad.”

  Mad? For having higher standards? “Is that who you’re afraid of?” I asked. “The dean?”

  He stopped beside a set of metal supply shelves. “Dean Prophet?” His eyes widened. “Haven’t you been listening? He’s too rule-obsessed to jaywalk, never mind commit murder.”

  “The crosses over the door,” Charlene said. “The ritual we interrupted.”

  “It wasn’t a—” He shook his head. “As you grow in the light, you attract unclean spirits. And such a spirit walks at that college. It’s infested a human soul.”

  “But who’s been infested, specifically?” I asked.

  “If I knew, don’t you think I’d tell the police? Two of my colleagues are dead, murdered. And now you say you have been attacked.”

  “We took a look at Starke’s house,” Charlene said. “Those trees really are blocking your view. Must be frustrating.”

  “Frustrating? I offered to pay to trim them myself. Michael refused. He enjoyed making others miserable.”

  “Others?” I asked. “Who else did he make miserable?”

  “I meant in general.”

  “Where did you go after our pie-making class on Thursday?” I asked.

  “To the British pub.”

  “Would anyone remember you were there?” Charlene asked.

  His graying head reared backward. “Remember? You talk as if I need an alibi! Why would I kill Aidan?”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t,” I said smoothly. “So, about that alibi . . . ?”

  “I was at the bar. I don’t know if anyone would remember me or not.”

  “A witness saw you slash Professor Starke’s tires,” I said.

  “It’s a lie,” he rasped. “Stay away from me. Stay away from the college, if you know what’s good for you.” He wobbled from the office.

  The calendar slipped off its nail and to the linoleum floor.

  “I’m not sure if that was a threat,” I said, “or an honest warning.”

  “I don’t trust him.” Charlene jammed her hands in the pockets of her orange tunic.

  “Me neither,” I said, retrieving the calendar and returning it to its nail. I was going to need a better hook if I was going to keep inviting angry suspects into my office. “I wonder where Brittany was last night?”

  “The TA?”

  “I keep thinking of something Gordon told me when he was trying to talk me into getting a PI license. Follow every lead. Is Brittany a suspect or a lead? She gave us useful information about Starke. But why did she return during the UFO, er, event? To give us more intel? Or is something else going on?”

  “She did have an affair with Starke. There’s bound to be some lingering emotions. It’s probably exciting for her—knowing a murder victim. She’s young. She can paint herself as a tragic heroine.”

  “Maybe that’s all there is to it.” I dug Brittany’s phone number from my desk drawer and ran my thumb along one edge of the thin paper. “But I wonder where she was last night.”

  “If she was setting my couch on fire, she’s not going to admit it.”

  “No, but let’s see what she has to say.”

  I called her number, and she answered before the first ring had ended.

  “Hello?”

  “Brittany, this is Val Harris, from Pie Town.”

  “Oh, hi! Did you learn anything? What’s going on?”

  “I saw you in Pie Town the other day. It was so crazy, I didn’t get a chance to talk to you. Did you have more information for us about Professor Starke?”

  “I wasn’t—” Her laugh was high and false. “No
, I just saw all those people and was curious. What about you? Have you learned anything new?”

  “Not really, but someone threw a Molotov cocktail through Charlene’s window last night.”

  “Charlene? Who’s that?”

  I glanced at my piecrust maker. “You met her at the Father Serra statue.”

  “Oh, right! That’s terrible! Is she okay?”

  “We’re fine. Look, we noticed your Mustang in the area earlier,” I lied, “and wondered if you’d seen anything.”

  There was a long silence.

  “I know it’s a long shot,” I said, “but we’re asking anybody who was nearby. We didn’t get a very good look at the person who did it.”

  “I . . . didn’t. I’m sorry.”

  My jaw set. I hadn’t told her Charlene lived in San Nicholas, but I had sort of implied it. “Too bad.” I forced cheerfulness into my voice. “What were you doing in San Nicholas?”

  “Just driving through. I was meeting someone at the British pub.”

  “Hey, who was playing there last night?”

  “I don’t remember. It was just noise.”

  “And Thursday night?”

  “I don’t remember. I guess I was at home.”

  “Well, thanks anyway.” We said our goodbyes and hung up. “She was in San Nicholas,” I told Charlene. “At the British pub. And she seemed uncomfortable.”

  “You weren’t being exactly subtle. And the pub’s always been popular. It’s got a double-decker bus out front.” She raised a foot and scratched the ankle of her orange-and-white-striped sock with her tennis shoe. “So what are we thinking? Starke broke her heart, so she killed him?”

  “I guess it is a long shot. But there’s someone else we haven’t talked to.”

  “Dean Rudolph Prophet.” Charlene nodded. “Make the call.”

  I dialed his office number.

  “Dean Prophet.”

  “Hi, this is Val Harris.”

  “Ah, Ms. Harris. What can I do for you?”

  I laughed and hoped he couldn’t hear the false note in my voice. “Charlene and I are a little desperate. There was some vandalism at her house last night, and we’re asking all our friends who were in the area if they saw anything.”

  “In the area? I’m not sure which area you mean.”

  “San Nicholas,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, I was home last night in San Mateo.”

  “Oh,” I said, “I thought I saw your car.”

  “Mine’s rather common, I’m afraid. You must have mistaken mine for someone else’s.”

  Dishes crashed in the dining area, and I winced.

  “Well,” I said, “sorry to bother you.”

  “It’s no bother,” he said. “I’m sorry to hear about the vandalism. Nothing too dire, I hope.”

  “Nothing we couldn’t deal with. It’s just frustrating. And expensive.”

  “People have no respect for each other anymore,” he said sadly. “We’ve lost our sense of community. Though I can see you haven’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your interest injustice for Professor Starke.” He chuckled. “Are you any closer to unraveling the truth?”

  “That’s in the hands of the police,” I said stiffly, because I knew when I was being made fun of. And I guess I couldn’t blame him for doing it.

  “I hope they can manage it,” he said, “for all our sakes. The college has lost two good professors. The murders have devastated the students and staff.”

  I muttered condolences, and we hung up.

  “Well?”

  I shrugged. “He said he was at home. So he’s got no alibi, but—”

  “But we can’t prove he was our firebomber.”

  “No.” I shivered. We weren’t any closer to understanding who had killed Aidan and Starke.

  But the killer knew who we were, and I feared he wasn’t done.

  CHAPTER 23

  Because pie waits for no man, I returned to the kitchen.

  Petronella wiped her brow. Beneath her hairnet, her black spikes looked a little wilted. It was warm in the kitchen, the scent of baking sugar flowing from the giant pie oven. “I can manage the orders,” she said.

  “I know, but things are getting busy out front,” I said. “Why don’t you help Abril?”

  Hunter staggered into the kitchen carrying a plastic bin. Its black bottom was littered with broken plates.

  My assistant manager eyed him. “Or I can do that.” She wiped her hands on her apron and strode into the restaurant.

  Figuring Hunter could deal with broken plates without my supervision, I whipped an order off the wheel. I plated a slice of pecan pie and shoved it through the order window.

  Charlene trailed into the kitchen. “I almost wish that engineer was on the case with us again. Ray knew how to organize facts.”

  “We can organize facts,” I said. “For example, Professor Jezek said he went to the British pub on Thursday night, when Aidan died. And Brittany said she was there last night, when your house was attacked. We should stop by there tonight.”

  “Sure, sure.” Charlene plucked a fresh apron from a hook on the wall and wrapped it around her orange-y tunic. “But what we need are visual aids.”

  “Tonight—”

  “Hold on.” Charlene ambled to the industrial fridge, grabbed a metal tray, and loaded it with pies in mason jars.

  Hunter shoved open the rear door and stomped into the alley. Plates crashed into the dumpster, and I briefly shut my eyes.

  I plated a quiche Lorraine and added a side salad. “I thought you were boycotting our pies in a jar.” She had issues with the low ratio of piecrust to filling.

  “That’s why they make good visual aids.” She smacked a banana cream on the butcher-block work island. “Piotr Jezek’s bananas.”

  “Is that a metaphor?”

  Hunter returned to the kitchen and slammed the alley door shut.

  “And Dorothy Hastings is cherry.” She set a jar layered red and brown beside it. “Rudolph Prophet is pecan, and Brittany is olallieberry.”

  “Does she deserve olallieberry? She did leave me hanging from Father Serra.” The olallieberry was a crossbreed between two crossbred berries. It was delicious, with hints of blackberry, dewberry, and raspberry.

  Charlene straightened. “Brittany is olallieberry.”

  “I like pumpkin,” Hunter said.

  “Wrong season.” She glared at him. “And Aidan’s chocolate cream.”

  “We know Aidan was pushing Dorothy to get married,” I said, “at least partly so he could stay in the US. She didn’t want to, probably because she would have lost her alimony from Starke.”

  “But with Starke dead, that alimony was gone, which would have given Aidan a motive to kill Starke. But Aidan’s dead.”

  “We don’t know what’s in Starke’s will,” I said. “Could Dorothy have benefited?”

  Hunter sat on Charlene’s stool near the flour-work room. His head swiveled back and forth, tracking us.

  “I’ll check the court records,” Charlene said. “It’s a little early, but maybe probate’s been filed.”

  “All right.” I picked up the olallieberry mason jar. “Brittany. Am I stretching for suspects? Odds are you’re right, and she was just curious about the case and that’s why she returned to Pie Town.”

  “Let’s face it,” Charlene said glumly, “there’s still a lot we don’t know about Starke. The killer could be someone else entirely, someone we haven’t even met.”

  “Or someone you don’t know,” Hunter said.

  “Thank you, Hunter,” I said. “But I’m betting he or she was at that poetry reading.” Another reason to track down that so-called secret society.

  “Let’s go back to the night of Professor Starke’s death.”

  “Rudolph, Jezek, and Aidan were at the reading. Brittany was there too.”

  “I couldn’t make it,” Hunter said. “I had a date.”

  “Why don�
��t you see if any tables need busing?” Charlene ground out.

  He shrugged. “Nah. I was just out there.”

  The ticket wheel spun, and I grabbed the order form. A strawberry-rhubarb pie to go.

  “But the ex-wife,” Charlene said, “Dorothy, wasn’t at the reading.”

  “The Wizard of Oz chick?” Hunter asked.

  I grabbed a pie off the rolling rack and a flattened pink box from the shelf. “No, not that Dorothy. But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t lurking outside. She doesn’t have an alibi for that night.”

  Charlene brushed flour off her apron. “But she couldn’t have firebombed my house. She was busy with Gordon.”

  “You’ll need to break her alibi.” Hunter nodded.

  We stared at him.

  I unfolded the cardboard, locking the sides into place. “You’re right. Unless we can break that alibi, we’re wasting time.”

  “Cool.” He rose and grabbed a plastic bin. “I’m glad I could help.” Hunter ambled through the swinging door into the dining area.

  “If you make him a Baker Street Baker,” Charlene said, “I’m quitting.”

  “Never gonna happen.” I grouped the pecan, banana cream, and olallieberry mason jars. “Rudolph, Jezek, and Brittany are alibi-free.”

  “At least we haven’t turned up any good motives for the dean to have killed anyone. We may be able to count him out.”

  I boxed the pie, taped the ticket to the top, and shoved it through the order window. “But he was at the reading the night Starke died. We don’t know where he was when Aidan died too, and they worked together.” I sighed. “I don’t suppose being irritated with his staff makes a good enough motive for murder.”

  “Of course not.”

  Dishes crashed in the dining area, and we flinched.

  Hunter pushed through the swinging door, broken plates littering the bottom of the plastic bin he carried. “Sorry. But at least these are less dishes to wash,” he said cheerfully. He dropped the container on top of the dishwasher, and the crockery crashed.

  “Anyway.” I forced the word through clenched teeth. “Banana cream. Professor Jezek was seen slashing Starke’s tires. He was really mad about those trees—”

  “They were blocking his view.”

  “And if Aidan saw him attack Starke—”

 

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