Slice of the Pie
By: Maxwell Miller
© 2019 William Gray Entertainment Media
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This work includes some scenes which some readers might not like. Reader discretion is advised. Please do not engage in any potentially dangerous or illegal behavior; do not attempt to recreate any scenes in this or associated works… they’re for entertainment purposes only. They aren’t real. Nothing in this work is intended to constitute professional advice. Please seek a licensed professional in your area, if needed. There is a recipe at the end of this work containing eggs and dairy, among other items, in the ingredient list. Please do not prepare or consume food you are or may be allergic to or which in any way contrasts with your normal dietary and/or cultural standards. The food item described contains sugar and other ingredients which could exacerbate existing health conditions. Please be mindful of this and don’t consume/prepare without consulting an appropriate professional, as needed.
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Other Books by Maxwell Miller
Becca Baker Series
Sinister Sunday
Icing on the Cake
Caleb Conaway Series
The Pope’s Last Wish
Grandma’s Last Wish
Thanks for considering this work.
Enjoy.
Chapter 1
Someone screamed.
Not right now, she thought. I’m too busy.
Becca turned, wiping her hands on her clean new green apron. Frowning, she glanced down at the mound of dough resting on the counter. Behind her, a bell dinged. Jumping, startled by the noise, she cast a frustrated glance toward the offender. A small digital clock attached to the pink tile wall buzzed, the numerals flashing as it created a cacophonous stir. Throwing her hands up, Becca grunted and marched toward the alarm, slamming a palm into it to shut it up.
“Scones,” she said, her tone laced with mild anger. Swinging open the door of the nearby stainless-steel industrial refrigerator, Becca ignored the sudden blast of frigid air as she grabbed the long tray of pastries. A mix of pumpkin and banana, the popular flour confections rested on their wax paper bed, waiting to be consumed by her patrons.
“Becca, hurry up!” Tank said, poking his bald head in around the corner.
“What is it?” she asked, frowning as she sat the tray of scones down on the first available space on the counter. Taking a deep breath, she wiped a stray hair away from her face and looked at her employee. “Do you think it’s too early for pumpkin? I mean, I know it’s only August, but some people like to begin their autumn stuff early. You know? All the stores already have all their pumpkin spice stuff out,” she said.
“There’s someone sobbing by the bathroom, Becca. Come on! Worry about the scones later,” Tank said.
Sticking her tongue out at the man as he turned and retreated back to the front of the house, Becca took a second to compose herself. For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why someone would be screaming or causing a ruckus in her quaint little establishment. By the bathroom? Placing a green fingernail on her chin, she contemplated the significance of that tidbit. Then, shaking her head, she elected to simply get whatever it was over with. Probably just some star-crossed lovers, she thought.
Emerging into the narrow corridor that led to the bathroom, Becca paused instinctively to greet the guests she encountered at a nearby table. Two lithe, attractive young women with high ponies and the air of professional ladies, they looked up from the coffee and cherry galettes as the proprietor approached. The taller of the two, a blonde woman with bright blue-gray eyes and a smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose, smiled and reached out one slender hand to greet Becca.
“HELLO. I just wanted to tell you that your pastries and coffee are simply THE BEST in town. We try to come here every day,” the woman said.
“Oh, thank you,” Becca gushed. “I am so glad you are enjoying things. And did you know about our new loyalty program? We have cards around here somewhere. Uh, just ask Tank about them,” she said, hearing the sobbing clearly.
“Oh, I WILL. Thank you. Now, can you please tell me what ‘Tarte Au Sucre’ means? I just love the dish,” the woman said.
“It’s, uh, it’s just a sugar pie. Something I, uh… I’m part French Canadian,” Becca said. She didn’t want to be rude, but the noise from the back was beginning to bother her. She didn’t want it to expand into something larger. Something that might begin disturbing her guests. “Excuse me, but I have to, uh, tend to some other guests,” she said. And, without further ado, Becca walked briskly away.
Chastising herself for compromising her composure, she nonetheless regretted not having acted sooner when confronted with the pathetic vision at the end of the hallway.
A skinny young woman with dirty black hair and sallow skin sat with her legs pressed against her chest, crying as she rocked slightly back and forth. Positioned between the short pastel wall between the back door and the men’s restroom, she sniffled and sobbed, oblivious to the world around her. She didn’t even realize Becca’s presence for what felt like several minutes, preferring instead to revel in her misery.
Perhaps it insulated her from something traumatic? Standing there, watching the poor soul lamenting some unspoken ill that had befallen her, Becca couldn’t help but feel a prick of sympathy for the lass. However, that soft, almost maternal instinct lost as it battled her pragmatic desire to rid the shop of all potential distractions. The trendy music emanating from the hidden speakers mixed with the casual din of amicable conversation was what guests wanted to hear. Not some random person expressing their lachrymal glands over… over whatever it was that the girl was sad about.
People came to her store to escape the daily grind. Everything about the establishment had been carefully curated toward that experiential goal. From the warm aroma of freshly brewed coffee to the rows of loose-leaf tea labeled in elegant cursive script, it all had been
designed to offer prospective guests a feeling of welcome reprieve. Bend, Oregon was home to a growing population of young professionals who liked to work and play hard. However, sometimes they needed an opportunity to rest and recharge. And Becca wanted to give everyone permission to do just that.
For a small fee, of course.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Becca asked, bending down and nudging the girl with one gentle hand. She’d waited long enough. If she allowed the girl to cry forever, the dolefulness would kill the pastry shop’s vibe.
“He’s… he’s DEAD,” the girl said.
Blanching, Becca raised one hand instinctively to her mouth. She inhaled heavily. Glancing around furtively, she tried to make sure no one else had heard the words. Or ingested their import.
Suddenly, things had escalated from a minor disturbance to a potential major situation. Becca felt her limbs quaking. Trembling from the emotional effects of hearing that there might just be a newly minted corpse in her bathroom, she tried to calm herself enough to respond to the burgeoning crisis. “Who is dead?” she asked dumbly, feeling stupid as soon as she had uttered the words.
“My… my friend,” the girl said. She sniffled and looked up at Becca with wide doe eyes. Hazel, they reminded one of fresh cinnamon. With her swollen face and black mascara smudging in goopy streaks by her small pixie nose, she had the appearance of a tortured soul. The grief that afflicted her manifested itself in her every movement and gesture. As she wiped her hands on the front of her fashionably torn pants, she pointed. Her hands trembled.
Taking a deep breath, Becca decided to just cut the proverbial manure and get down to business. Hesitating with her hand on the cold steel handle, Becca paused. She didn’t know if it were to give the girl a last chance to admit that she’d just constructed an elaborate prank. Becca almost expected for the kid to jump up, smiling, admitting that the whole charade had been captured live for some popular streaming service. However, when the seconds passed and it became clear that this was not the case, Becca began to wonder if she might just be scared of what she might find on the other side of the door.
Finally, tensing her jaw, Becca reminded herself that her mother hadn’t raised a coward and opened the door.
Gasping, she raised a hand to her mouth. Staring at the beautiful corpse on the tile floor, Becca felt the blood drain from her face. She knew she needed to say something. But words eluded her. She had no idea of what might be appropriate for a dead body stationed in a hipster pastry bar.
“I guess I should call the police,” Becca said, more to herself than anything else.
She startled when someone gently grabbed her by the elbow from behind.
“Excuse me,” Becca said, raising one eyebrow. She fought the urge to raise her tone. Angry and afraid, she felt inimical ire and defensiveness rising inside her bloodstream. Forcing herself to take a calming breath, she focused on the man who’d interrupted her discovery.
A short, pudgy man with a swarthy complexion, he exuded confidence. Wearing dark glasses and an expensive suit, he managed to somehow smell like a mix between citrus and sunshine. His beefy hands, while smooth, seemed like they’d seen manual labor at some point in their tenure on the planet. He smiled, revealing a mouth full of even white teeth that contrasted well with his perfect olive skin tone. “I’m Mario Esposito,” he said.
Blinking, Becca tried to think. The man had spoken as if she’d be expected to instantly recall the name. But she was new to the area, having moved there less than a year before finding a corpse in her bathroom. Plus, she didn’t think suits who oozed fake charisma and projected the persona of a C-grade mafia don were the type who circulated in her social circles. Of course, her personal life consisted of either worrying about her daughter or trying to run a small business.
“Um, I’m sorry, but we’ve got… something going on,” she said.
“I know,” Mario said, his tone low. “And I’d like to help,” he said.
Glancing down, Becca noticed that the sobbing girl had left. Or retreated? Or been removed? “Where’s the girl?” she asked. “There was a girl here, just a minute ago. She’d been the one who screamed. At least, I THINK it was her. But she certainly was there,” Becca said, her words tangling together. She felt her heart racing. Her chest grew tighter. She had to remember to take a breath.
“It’s okay. I had someone take her outside. It’s too traumatic being here, right next to the place where she found her friend’s body,” Mario said. “Speaking of which, would you like to step out, too? You know, keep from causing a scene?” he asked, his tone concerned. He reached out with one hand, placing it gently but firmly on Becca’s arm. He frowned, however, when she pulled it away.
“Who ARE you? And why are you here?” Becca asked. “I’m sorry, but I really need to call the police,” she said. A headache brewed behind her eyes. Raising a hand, she reflexively began massaging her temple. “I can’t deal with this right now,” she muttered.
“That’s my son in there,” Mario said quietly. “And I really think you should listen to what I have to say before making any rash decisions,” he said.
“Wait, what?” Becca asked. She sniffled and looked up at the man. Something about his casual demeanor and arrogance thinly veiled as charm offended her right then. The fact that the guy possessed the utter gall, the sheer audacity to try and control the situation, IN HER STORE, when it was his own flesh and blood growing colder by the second on the floor just feet away…
“Please. I’m not telling you. I’m asking. Okay? I mean, what’s it going to hurt, to listen to some old man? Put up a sign, keep people out. No one has to know what happened. Not yet. Why have the cops come barging in, sirens flashing, breaking up everyone’s good time?” Mario asked.
Chewing on her lower lip, Becca had to admit the man had a point. She didn’t particularly LIKE the fact, but that didn’t change the reality that he’d made a solid argument. Holding up one finger, she pursed her lips and gave him a defiant look. “One minute,” she said, adopting the sternest possible tone she could muster.
As she walked through the back door into the cool, crisp afternoon breeze, she couldn’t help but feel as if she’d been trapped in one of the more bizarre episodes of The Twilight Zone.
Swiveling around when she heard the door signal that Mario had followed her along into the cluttered, cramped alleyway, she confronted him. “What’s so important that you had to say it out here?” she asked. She jabbed one finger into his chest. “You think you can just intimidate me? Because I’m some little old pastry chef?” she asked. “I grew up in Maine. Okay? And I lived in Dallas. So, I’m not some weak pushover. My mother said I’m pioneer stock,” Becca said.
Mario smiled.
It took a full second to realize that smiling was the exact opposite of the proper response.
“YOU,” Becca said. She advanced toward the man.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Mario said, holding up both hands, palm-out. “I’m very sorry,” he said.
Deciding to let the errant smirk slide, Becca backed off. She gulped in several deep breaths, trying to calm herself. “What is up with today?” she asked. She sighed and shook her head. “You don’t sound very sorry. But I don’t care, okay? Will you please just tell me what is going on?” she asked. A million squirrels chased each other inside the verdant central park of her mind. She needed to do so much, and she regretted her patent inability to forget the demands of her business in the wake of the human tragedy unfolding before her.
“Well, I was trying,” Mario said. Then he cleared his throat. “Sorry,” he said. He moved one shiny shoe around in the dust that coated the alley. “So, that’s my son,” he said.
“Yeah, you mentioned that,” Becca said.
“I did, didn’t I?” Mario said. He chuckled. Then he looked down at the ground, his expression growing somber. “Does anyone ever want to see their child go?” he asked.
Becca squinted as she examined the man. She didn’t know wheth
er to believe the grief were real or if it had been a feigned expression carefully calculated to attain some myopic goal. Was he aiming for sympathy? Unable to ascertain the guy’s motives, she decided to wait.
But she couldn’t help but feel a gentle tug at her heartstrings, nonetheless. Seeing the poor father struggling with his emotion touched her. Even if she didn’t particularly want to be touched.
“Will you let me handle this?” Mario asked. He looked up earnestly, making direct eye contact with Becca. His eyes displayed a hint of moisture.
Blinking, Becca turned and looked first left, then right. She didn’t quite know what to make of what she’d just heard. “You… want to handle… this?” she asked, her tone incredulous.
“Yes,” he said, nodding. “I do,” Mario said. He held up one hand to ward off any further interruptions. “This is my son. I changed his diapers. I fed him. I cleaned up his little chin and read him stories before bed. He used to love his fire engine pajamas. We’d snuggle up with him in his favorite pajamas and watch old movies,” Mario said wistfully. He sniffed and wiped at his face. “Us Italians and our stupid emotions.”
His hands trembling, Mario took several moments to compose himself. “Okay, so, I know the DA. We can have someone come down, dispose of the body. It’ll be done very discreetly. We can have someone pull right up out back here,” he said.
“The DA?” Becca asked, raising one eyebrow. It was just starting to sink in that this was all really happening. That there was actually a deceased person in her pastry shop’s bathroom. “Isn’t there supposed to be a coroner or something?” she asked.
“Well, technically, it’s supposed to be a District Medical Examiner. But, you know, the law in Oregon says that if there isn’t one, the Public Health Officer will serve as the interim M.E. Except, when there isn’t a Health Officer, it falls on the District Attorney,” Mario said.
“Okay, tell me why it’s not creepy that you just happen to know all of this?” Becca said. “And explain why it’s not just some bizarre coincidence that we just happened to have a corpse appear right in the middle of all this?”
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