Slice of the Pie

by Maxwell Miller

  Lawrence held up one masculine hand. He smirked. “What is it we’re talking about here?” he asked.

  Becca fidgeted and looked away, unsure whether to be overcome by chagrin or resolve. She could either push forward or retreat. In the back of her mind, she wanted to know where they stood. Having a kinda-sorta, on-again, off-again boyfriend wasn’t something that made her feel confident about herself or her life. She wasn’t getting any younger. She thought she deserved to have some measure of commitment from the man. Yet, every time she came close to broaching the subject, things intervened. It irked her to high heaven to not know how to classify the deputy. Yet, right then, there were far bigger issues that needed to be addressed.

  Shaking her head, Becca fought the urge to begin crying. She knew that would just make her seem like a basketcase. A hysterical fit of lachrymal lunacy wouldn’t give anyone any confidence in her ability to objectively conduct a serious investigation into potential homicide. She sniffed and wiped her eye. “I just thought it would be relevant. I mean, it’d be something new. An adventure. I really think I’d enjoy it. AND be good at it,” she said, adding that last sentence to counteract what she knew was coming.

  “Now, why do you think you’d be good at it? This, I kind of want to hear,” Lawrence said.

  “Well, I always loved reading those stories. You know, Agatha Christie and all that,” she said, blushing and looking down at the floor.

  “So, reading every mystery from the thrift store makes you an expert now?” Lawrence asked, smiling.

  “Oh, shush. You made it through academy,” Becca said, waving a dismissive hand in the air. She’d had enough of taking crap from the man. “How hard can it be?” she asked. Then she smiled. “You know, they say that reading helps people be more creative and empathetic. I’m clever. And people would talk to me who’d never talk to you. I’m just a baker. No one would feel intimidated by me,” she said.

  Lawrence sat back. He nodded slightly. “Okay, I hate to say this, but you might actually be starting to make sense. You do have a point about that last part,” he said.

  “It’s the confessions and whatnot that solves cases. Even when it’s an open-shut one, where everyone knows it was the spouse,” Becca said. “How are you going to get a confession? When the death is probably going to be ruled natural causes or whatever?” she asked.

  “Manner,’ Lawrence said.

  “Excuse me, what?” Becca asked, thinking that the man possessed the audacity to chide her for her lack of manners right then. She sat forward, bracing herself for an argument. She’d had a long, rough day, and she wasn’t about to put up with any more of the man’s stuff.

  “Manner of death,” Lawrence said. “If there’s no evidence of any preexisting illness, I doubt even a DA bought-and-paid-for by the mafia would list it as natural. It’d be too obvious,” he said.

  “Okay… well, what’s that got to do with anything?” Becca asked.

  “A lot. Undetermined or accident could give us enough leverage to push to have the case looked into further. Though, to be honest, I doubt the county would get involved, since it occurred in the city. Major pissing match. And we’d probably lose, anyway,” he said.

  “No one is asking the county, or anyone else, to get involved. At least, not yet, anyway,” Becca said. “Though I could really use your help, I think,” she said, her tone coy.

  “Oh, here we go. I guess that’s it, then? This is a done deal? You’ve made up your mind to do it?” Lawrence asked.

  “I think so,” Becca said.

  “Well, you have a lot to think through. I mean, what if you find out he did it?” Lawrence asked.

  “Who? Mario?” Becca asked, surprised at the force of her reaction. She couldn’t fathom that as a possibility. It profoundly disturbed her, to even begin considering that.

  “Yes, Mario. Wouldn’t be the first time a father killed their son,” Lawrence said. He cleared his throat. “Look, I need to start getting ready. I really do. But we can talk about this further,” he said. “Honestly, if the brass gets even the vaguest HINT that I’m helping an unofficial investigation, I could get in big trouble,” he said.

  “When has Lawrence Yazzie ever shied away from danger? Trouble is practically your middle name,” Becca said.

  “You trying to get kissed? Because that is how you get kissed,” Lawrence said.

  “No, I don’t feel like that right now,” Becca said, queasy at the mere thought. She needed to get a few things settled before she fell into that trap again. “However, I would need your help. And expertise,” she said.

  “Well, of course, you would. I’m just telling you to be careful for all of our sakes.”

  Chapter 6

  “Charlie’s mom will NOT stop calling,” Tank said.

  Resting in her clawfoot tub, fragrant white bubbles floating on the surface of the scalding water Becca had submerged herself in, she took a sip of wine from the fluted glass resting nearby. She cast an angry look toward Catterina, who appeared to be seriously debating the merits of jumping into the bath. Wagging one finger, Becca smiled as she watched the feline reluctantly retreat.

  “You still there?” Tank asked, his tone urgent.

  “Yes, I’m still here,” Becca said, sighing. She sank lower into the water, closing her eyes. She chided herself for calling in to the pastry bar. Part of her just refused to give up. She couldn’t let go. Becca went to sleep thinking about her little enterprise, dreamt about it, then woke up eager to tackle the many challenges faced by someone who aspired to sell scones and sticky buns for a living. However, sometimes, that inability to divorce herself from the constant grind caused friction. “I really just wanted you to tell me everything is under control and that all of our customers were so happy,” she said.

  “That sort of happened. I mean, word’s kind of spread around that something happened here. You know? It’s not exactly a small town, Becca,” Tank said. “And, speaking of which, will you please call Miss Sanderson back?” he pleaded.

  Becca grunted. She could think of a nearly endless stream of possible things she’d rather do than speak with Delilah Sanderson right then. She’d rather eat expired fruit cake. Or canoe over Niagara Falls. Or tightrope walk over Manhattan. Or eat bat brains. Or lick insect repellent off the sweaty feet of a politician. “I have to be in the right mood to talk to Delilah. She just never shuts up,” Becca said.

  She smiled. Despite the semi-harsh words, Becca enjoyed an odd sort of friendship with the eccentric old woman. When Becca had first moved into town, Delilah had been among the first to not only welcome her in, but to embrace her. The woman’s extensive community connections and knowledge of the inner workings of the city’s high society- she’d provided the intel on just which palms to grease and whose kids to compliment on their jump shot- had been vital in securing the coveted piece of real estate that was now Three Sassters. But the rich old bat was a horrible gossip.

  “She cheats at rummy, too,” Tank said.

  “You actually played rummy with her?” Becca asked, raising one eyebrow. She couldn’t help but laugh. “I feel sorry for you.”

  “Yeah, well… Charlie invited me over one day. I figured I could go over. I was watching my daughter that day. And it sounded like Delilah really liked kids, so… Anyway, she caught wind of the, uh, the incident, and now she will NOT stop calling. I can’t even take calls from our corporate clients because she keeps clogging up the line. Seriously, Becca. You need to talk to her,” Tank said.

  “I was enjoying a bath and relaxing for the very first time today,” Becca said, resignation in her voice.

  “Becca, the Keller account threatened to cancel their orders. We cater their breakfast every day. They got a busy signal five times, Becca. The CEO’s personal administrative assistant told me, and I quote: ‘I didn’t spend 6 years at the UO so I could sit on hold for an hour.’”

  Widening her eyes, Becca sat up suddenly. She nearly knocked her wine off the edge of the tub as she f
lailed. The cat, surprised by the quick and unexpected burst of movement, darted out of the bathroom. Snatching up the glass, Becca drained the alcoholic beverage in one swift gulp. Stepping out of the bath, water dripping off of her in thick beads, she hurriedly dried off with the nearest towel and began moving toward the hallway. However, Mousse lay on the floor just outside the doorway, causing Becca to trip and nearly fall.

  “Mousse!” Becca yelled. However, when she saw the look of sheer terror and abject guilt on the poor dog’s face, she couldn’t maintain her surge of anger. “I’m sorry, pupper,” she muttered, adopting her best pet voice.

  “So, you’ll call her, then?” Tank asked, still on the line.

  “Yes, Tank. I’m calling her right now. Thank you for telling me. Though, honestly, you probably should have led with the Keller bit. You know, save some time,” Becca said. She immediately felt bad for being snippy. “I’m sorry, Tank. It’s just been a really long day. And this is NOT the sort of news I wanted to hear,” she said.

  “No worries, Becca. It’s perfectly fine. I was in the Army, remember? You don’t have to sugarcoat things with me. Plus, you’re right. I probably could have saved us both a lot of time by getting straight to the point,” he said.

  “Oh, Tank. I love you. You really are a great employee. I couldn’t run Three Sassters without you,” Becca said. “If we don’t go under because of that corpse in the bathroom, I’ll give you an ownership stake,” she said.

  “I already have an ownership stake,” Tank said.

  “Well, guess you’ll just have to settle for my gratitude, then. Thanks. Tell the fam I said hello. Have a great night, Tank,” Becca said. She hung up.

  Pacing back and forth, running her hands through her hair, Becca realized belatedly that she was naked. Smiling wryly, she shook her head and snorted, glad that no one had been around to see her. Stopping, Becca took a moment to appraise and appreciate the little nook she’d created for herself. Denise called it her aerie. A small sanctuary separated from the hectic world around her, it was Becca’s hermetic chamber, the place where she went to escape and rest. She had her bedroom/office downstairs. But it was too close and connected to the other occupants of the home for it to be an effective refuge.

  “I can be naked up here,” Becca said. There was something freeing about the thought.

  Sighing, she was quickly forced to return to reality. Striding across the small space, Becca plucked a purple robe down from a bronze-colored metal hook on the wooden wall. Throwing it over her shoulders, she slumped down on the old seventies-green futon and made the call she desperately wanted to avoid. Becca wasn’t surprised when Delilah answered on the first ring.

  “I thought you’d never call,” Delilah said. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. But your boy at the store has been covering for you. I mean, I get that he needs the job, but he could’ve just said that you demanded he stall. I’m not DUMB, now. I may be a bit kooky. Memory’s not what it used to be. Senility is a real bummer. But I still have most of my cognitive capacities intact,” she said.

  Becca sighed. She paused before speaking to make sure she didn’t say anything she might regret. Considering the anger simmering inside, she figured it was a safe bet that she’d let something slip. And Delilah Sanderson was not the sort of woman one wanted to be on the wrong side of. The epitome of the territorially aggressive head of the coffee klatch, the lady knew all the many sly ways one could use to really throw a wrench in someone’s day. “No one ever said you were dumb, dear. Far from it. We all admire how smart and PERSISTENT you can be,” Becca said.

  “You’re darned right I am persistent. I grew up during the Depression. I had one uncle in the Teamsters and an Aunt who fled Croatia. CROATIA. Do you think anyone ever cared about a Jew from CROATIA?” Delilah asked.

  Fighting the urge to offer an exaggerated sigh shortly before hanging up and drinking herself to sleep, Becca chewed her nails and stood up. She began pacing once again. “Delilah, I promise, Tank was not trying to put you off. I needed some time away from the pastry bar, dear. That’s all. And, sweetie, if I may be honest with you, you should just try to reach me directly if this ever happens again, okay? I really want to talk to you,” Becca paused, tasting the acrid bile that had risen in her throat in response to the blatant lie. She forced herself to smile, hoping the gesture would translate into her tone. “But when you keep calling, our corporate clients can’t place their orders for the next day.”

  “Why don’t you do it all online? I mean, do you take this business seriously, or what? Have them do it by the week, at least. Is this the same Becca Baker? You know, my memory isn’t always the best. I am speaking with Becca Baker, right?” Delilah asked.

  Becca could picture the woman literally squinting as she stared at the phone, suddenly overcome by confusion. She shook her head, fighting to remain calm. She really just wanted the woman to get on with whatever it was she needed to say. “Those are great ideas. I’ve been a little busy,” she said. She hated to admit that the crazy woman had a valid point. It was equally reprehensible to be forced to acknowledge that Becca wasn’t always the best when it came to technology.

  “Well, I guess I am sorry for disrupting your business. You DO make some great… what are those things called? The creamy pie thing?” Delilah asked.

  You guess you’re sorry, Becca thought. She stamped one foot on the ground out of sheer frustration. It took her a second to remember that her interlocutor had asked her a question. “The creamy thing? Uh, is it the Nanaimo bar pie?” Becca asked, remembering that Delilah had a particular penchant for consuming the Canadian-inspired dessert.

  “YES! That,” Delilah said. “By the way, I’ll order two for an upcoming event. I’m having some of the girls over for book club. They still seem to think I’m obligated to provide refreshments. I’d ask them where their dignity went, but I don’t think they’d be able to get a hold of the memory care nurses quick enough,” she said.

  Softly hitting her forehead with her open palm, Becca groaned. She needed space. Silence. If she didn’t get Delilah off the phone quickly, she was going to snap. “I’m really sorry, dear, but will you please tell me what was so urgent that you needed to spend all afternoon bothering my staff? I love ya. And I don’t mean to be brusque. But I’ve got a very bad headache and I’ve had a really rough day. I’ll make you a dozen pies when I feel better. Okay? Just, please, tell me what you need,” Becca said.

  A long, pregnant silence ensued. After what felt like a full minute, Delilah spoke in a low, wounded tone. “You didn’t have to be so mean,” she said.

  “I didn’t mean to be mean, dear. But I’m sure you heard about what happened at Three Sassters today. So, if you wouldn’t mind, please, just out with it,” Becca said. Her chest felt tight as she walked back and forth. She rolled her neck and stretched her shoulders as she waited.

  “Well, I mean, THAT was why I called. I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Delilah said.

  Bull, Becca thought. But she managed to somehow keep from blurting anything out. Pausing, she decided to simply wait. It didn’t take long for her patience to be rewarded.

  “People are talking. You know, that Esposito family is trouble. Someone says he fled Boston. They think he’s not actually named Esposito. They say he’s under witness protection, but that he’s still up to his old tricks,” Delilah said, her tone suddenly conspiratorial. “The Pastor’s wife thinks Mario chose Bend because it’s so small and out-of-the-way that no one cares. She thinks he’s trying to play both sides of the fence,” she said.

  “Does she think that because he’s Catholic? Or because he’s not from Oregon?” Becca asked, smiling. It felt good to be talking frankly with Delilah for once.

  “Shush, you. I think it’s perfectly reasonable to question someone like him. And everyone at church likes you, even though you’re an Athiest or whatever it is you are. And you’re not from Oregon,” Delilah pointed out.

  “Okay, well, thank yo
u for thinking of my safety and security. Especially now that a dead body turned up in my pastry bar. Is it possible the concern might have been a little better if you’d shown it BEFORE corpses started appearing?” Becca asked.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time? Because you’re not acting at all like the Becca I know,” Delilah said.

  “You didn’t ‘catch’ me, dear. I called you. And YES, it’s been a bad day. I told you that. Now, PLEASE, what do you need?” Becca asked.

  “Oh, well, I heard some rumors that the body belonged to Mr. Esposito’s son. People think it might have been a mafia hit. Mary from the lady’s choir said that the corpse was a bloody mess. Says someone heard at least TWENTY gunshots,” Delilah said.

  “So, you need me to confirm the details of the deceased? You need me to help fuel the gossip mill?” Becca asked, trying to keep her tone level. However, she felt her blood pressure rising drastically. Closing her eyes, she paused, rubbing her temples. Her heart raced. Anger flooded her veins. Clenching and unclenching one fist, she fought the obscene urge to throw her phone across the room. The fact that Delilah had almost literally destroyed her business simply to have more salacious snippets to share with her friends boiled her blood.

  “I’m concerned about you, is all,” Delilah said.

  “You have zero shame,” Becca remarked, laughing derisively. Then, realizing the woman wouldn’t give up until she had something to share with her little claque, Becca conjured up some details from memory. “Okay, Delilah. I’ll give you what I have. But that’s it, for a full two days. You have to promise not to call for two whole days,” Becca said. She remained silent until she’d extracted a firm commitment from the other lady. Nodding, she proceeded to recite information dredged up from the swampy sediment of her subconscious.