by Carol Culver
Copyright Information
Never Say Pie: A Pie Shop Mystery © 2012 Carol Culver
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First e-book edition © 2012
E-book ISBN: 978-0-7387-2778-3
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DEDICATION
For my sister Phyllis, pie lover, mystery reader,
and proofreader extraodinaire.
One
“Hanna Denton, pie baker?” The gray-haired woman in the green apron looked up from her list of Food Fair vendors and did a double take. “I didn’t think you’d be so … so … young.”
Since I’m not THAT young, I realized she had me confused with someone else.
“Maybe you’re thinking of my grandmother Louise who used to own the pie shop in town. She retired and left the business to me.”
“Then who’s minding the store?” she asked with a puzzled look.
“Nobody, we’re closed today.” I said “we” because it makes it
sound like a substantial enterprise, but my pie shop is a one-woman operation and always has been. Once it was Grannie, now it’s me. I hoped to get across how seriously I took my commitment to the fair. I have been known to multitask, but not today. Today I was putting my all into the fair. “I put a sign on the door telling my customers they could find me here at Booth Eleven with all their favorite pies. Lemon Meringue, Blueberry, Double Chocolate Cream, Butterscotch Pecan, and …”
“Yes, I see,” she said cutting me off a trifle impatiently. “You could have also given us a plug, something like the fair is a happening place for friends to meet and shop, a showplace for fresh fruits and vegetables and hand-made artisan goods.” Clearly this woman whose nametag said she was Shirley Nordegard must be in the PR field and more power to her. The new Food Fair was a way for all of us local cooks, gardeners, farmers, bakers, and crafters to expand our market to the world of locals and tourists, if they came. If she had anything to say about it, we’d be mobbed.
“Uh, I didn’t quite have room on the sign for all that, but I’m counting on a big crowd after the story about it in the Gazette and even a mention in the LA Times. Beautiful weather today,” I added. No big surprise there. Coastal California between Monterey and San Diego has abundant summer sunshine, except for the occasional fog that drifts in every evening but always disappears the next morning. Just like in Camelot.
I picked up my official folder from Shirley and drove my vintage station wagon around the Crystal Cove High School parking lot to my assigned spot between nuts and candied fruits. I knew my way around. This was the same high school I’d attended once upon a time. The same parking lot where I’d hung out between classes and after school with my friends smoking a forbidden cigarette or flirting with a certain bad boy, equally forbidden. I was no longer a carefree student, I was a serious businesswoman with a lot to prove: that I was as good a baker as my grandmother, as well as a saleswoman. The Food Fair was a chance to get out of the shop into the fresh air and lure some new customers to a new venue.
The sun was at that moment burning off whatever fog had the nerve to linger and the market was already buzzing with activity. Vendors like me and my neighbors, the nut and fruit people, were unloading their wares from vans and trucks and putting up canopies over their booths hours before the official opening at nine o’clock. It didn’t take me long to set up, especially when Manda, the high school girl who works for me part time, came by to help me unpack and my best friend, Kate, showed up to add her decorator’s touch to the booth as well as a huge banner she hung with “THE UPPER CRUST—Pies made by Hanna Denton from all the best ingredients.” I debated about whether to say they were also “the freshest” or “all local,” but “the best” covered all the bases and wouldn’t leave me open to perjury.
When Kate finished carefully stacking the pies on the table, then cutting up small sample bites of different kinds of pie, she stood in front of the booth to get a customer’s perspective.
“Well, how does it look?” I asked, tying an apron around my waist.
“Fantastic,” she said. Of course she would say that, she’s the one who’d made it look that way. I’d only baked the pies. “Now for your hair and some makeup.”
“I thought I was selling pies.”
“You’re selling yourself too. Don’t forget that.”
She sat me down on a wooden stool that came with the booth and whisked out a comb and brush, eye shadow and mascara from her shoulder bag. “The eyes. That’s what people notice,” she explained.
“Funny, I thought they’d notice the pies,” I murmured. But if she wanted to give me a quick makeover, who was I to resist?
Then she gave me the same treatment she’d given my booth and same critical look when she’d finished. She stepped back, tilted her head, squinted and finally said I too looked fantastic.
“Just in time,” I said. “We open in fifteen minutes.”
Finally feeling prepared, I said hello to the guy in the next booth who was selling walnuts, pecans, and several varieties of peanuts seasoned with chili-lime, Cajun spice, or mesquite barbecue. I gave him a sample of Butterscotch Pecan pie thinking of the nut connection and he appeared to be favorably impressed. Then he offered me a small cup of selected nuts and I told him they were spiced just right. Next I introduced myself to the woman on the other side who was selling candied pineapples, cherries, apricots, and even watermelon rind. Who would have thought? She had bins all set up and would mix and match the fruits or just sell small bags already made up.
“I use local honey for sweetener,” she explained, offering me a chunk of candied watermelon.
“Then they’re really good for you,” I said. “And delicious too.”
Kate motioned to me and I returned to my booth. “Look who’s right across from you,” Kate said in a loud whisper.
“Oh, my God, it’s Lurline, the cupcake lady,” I said. “How did I miss her? I should have known. Everywhere I go, she’s there.” First she was as cute as a cupcake herself, dressed in pink. And she drove a converted postal truck pain
ted pink, selling cupcakes wherever she stopped. Shirley may have thought I looked young, but next to twenty-something Lurline I was a senior citizen and definitely under-dressed in my jeans and apron. “Just the kind of competition I don’t need. Why couldn’t I be across from someone selling broccoli and spinach? Not that they’re not nutritious and delicious in their own way, but …”
“No, this is better,” Kate insisted. “This way people who are interested in dessert will find you here and look who else is around besides the nut guy and the fruit lady. There must be cookies and cakes. It’s all good. Go have a look, I’ll stay here and mind the booth.”
I took her up on the offer and though I didn’t find any cookies or cakes, I was impressed by all the vegetables arranged in colorful pyramids. I stopped to look at bunches of baby Swiss chard, potassium-rich red beets, dark green kale, fresh pungent herbs, and English peas in pods. Then I thought about cooking all those vegetables at the end of a long day at the market and I hurried on.
A few booths down the wide aisle I ran into my old high school—I won’t say friends, but I did know them from the good old days—Lindsey and Tammy who were selling about a dozen kinds of bread and rolls.
“Wow,” I said, impressed by the crowd of customers already lined up for their freshly baked goods. And by the way they’d transformed themselves into bakers. The last time I saw these two girls some months ago they were selling sex toys at home parties. From dildoes to croissants. Talk about versatile. I guess once you’ve been bitten by the entrepreneur bug you just can’t quit.
“You must have been up all night baking,” I told them, although they looked just as fresh as their bread. I knew something about the all-night baking thing. It was only thanks to all that eye makeup that I looked as bright as I did. My eyes were riveted on a beautiful flaky brioche that had my name on it. But I cautioned myself to hold back for now. I could easily eat my way through the food stalls, but it was going to be a long day and I had to pace myself.
I swear Lindsey blushed at my comment. Could it be she and Tammy had broken the Food Fair rules and had not baked all that bread themselves? I’d never ask and I wouldn’t expect them to tell.
“Hanna,” Lindsey said, “this is so much fun. Let’s trade. Take a loaf of bread or two in exchange for a pie?”
“Sure,” I said. I chose an Asiago Cheese baguette and a crunchy whole grain loaf studded with seeds.
“Oh and try our new Mediterranean Olive Loaf.” Tammy pulled out a spatula with a serrated edge and cut me a slice.
“Where’d you get that gizmo?” I asked.
“From the guy who sells them.” She waved in the direction of the next aisle. “Ever seen anything like it?”
I shook my head, said I’d see them later when they came by my booth for their pie, and walked away with the two loaves under my arm.
The next booth that caught my eye was called Farmstand Artisan Cheese. A very attractive guy dressed in white chinos and a crisp striped shirt who also caught my eye offered me samples of his best organic cheeses. “All made from raw cow’s milk on our farm just out of town,” he said in an all-purpose European accent.
“What’s that one?” I asked.
“A Triple Cream,” he said whipping out his wide spatula with a serrated edge to cut me a slice which he spread on a cracker. Looked like the same type of knife Lindsey was using. “Smooth, creamy, and elegant,” he added.
“Delicious,” I said, swishing it around in my mouth like a fine wine.
He nodded his approval of my good taste and gave me a sexy smile that matched his accent. Were either the accent or the smile fake? You never knew. Whatever. He had the perfect personality for a food salesman. What I’ve found out is that marketing and hustling can be as important as kitchen skills. Something a basically shy person like myself had to keep in mind.
“Firm yet buttery, with an earthy flavor,” I added thoughtfully. “Reminiscent of white mushrooms.”
“I’m impressed,” he said with a grin. “You obviously know your cheese. You’ll have to come up to the creamery and let me give you a tour. So tell me, what’s a nice girl like you doing up so early on a Saturday morning?”
“Actually I have a booth of my own. I’m Hanna, and I’m a pie baker. Booth Eleven.”
“Oh, are you the one with the mini pies filled with organic rhubarb and the warm chocolate chip cookies?”
I rocked back on the heels of my clogs. That’s all I needed, competition in the form of tiny pies and hot-out-of-the-portable-oven cookies. “No, I’m not. But if you stop by I’ll give you a taste of the best pie you’ve ever eaten. Guaranteed.” I know I’m not the best self-promoter in the world, but I’ve learned I just can’t afford to be modest about my pies—no matter what the competition. Granny never was and look where it got her. A long and fruitful career and a nifty annuity package at Heavenly Acres, our local up-scale retirement home.
“It’s a deal,” he said reaching out over his cheese display to hand me his card. “Call me Jacques.”
Notice he didn’t say his name was Jacques, just to call him that. I could do that.
When I turned around I almost ran into Sam, the chief of police in our little town and the former bad boy I once had a major crush on in high school. He was back, tough and rough around the edges and more dangerous than ever—to me—not to the town, which he promised to protect and serve.
“Sam,” I said brightly in my pie saleswoman voice, “what brings you to the Food Fair?” I was glad I’d had the eye and makeup treatment just in time.
“Just the usual. Checking for counterfeit goods, drug paraphernalia, and pedestrian safety.”
“I know law enforcement is a full-time job including Saturdays, but I hope you drop by the booths and stock up on your fruits and vegetables and maybe a pie or two. You name it, we’ve got it all in one convenient location. You are a locavore, aren’t you?”
“A locavore?” Sam hardly ever smiles, even after turning his life around from one side of the law to the other, but I think I saw one corner of his mouth tilt slightly upward. “Why not? I’m committed to eating locally as much as the next person. I’m here for the food and I’m here because it’s part of my job. Mix with the crowd and keep an eye out for any potential criminal activity.”
I glanced over my shoulder. Not a pickpocket in sight. But if there were, I’d be protected by the not so long arm of the law. I noticed Sam was wearing street clothes the better to blend in with the local Yuppies. Khaki pants and an Oxford cloth button-down shirt were the uniform du jour for the men in our little corner of paradise. Or shorts, T-shirt, and flip-flops. I’d never seen Sam in a uniform, which I understand police chiefs don’t have to wear.
He asked where my booth was. I pointed off in the opposite direction, looked at my watch and said I had to get back. He walked with me while he suggested I watch out for anything suspicious.
“Oh, I will. You mean like motorcycle gangs, or cheating at bingo in the church basement?” Either one was so out of the question in Crystal Cove it was laughable.
But Sam didn’t laugh. I should have known. He said,“That’s right.”
I was grateful Sam was there to keep the city safe. So was everyone else. We took our secure little town for granted and we had no reason to think it would ever change. As long as Sam was on duty, it probably never would.
Kate was delighted to see Sam, and me with Sam, since she had this naive romantic idea that we’d be perfect for each other. Even if she was right, she was having a tough time convincing either one of us. I couldn’t deny he made my skin tingle and my pulse speed up, both back in high school and now. But I’d be damned if I’d let on I was interested in rekindling a teenage flirtation. I knew enough about Sam to know he had a mind of his own and a will as strong as the Santa Ana winds that blow across the desert and can knock down trees and even power lines.
“You had some customers,” Kate said. “Even before we’re officially open. I gave them a sample of your lem
on meringue pie and they ordered one for next Saturday. Here’s their name and address. And look what the cutlery guy brought by for you with his compliments.” She held up a six-inch spatula with a serrated edge. “It’s some kind of promotion deal. When customers admire the knife you tell them where they can get one like it. Booth Fifty-Six.”
“It looks like the same gizmo I’ve seen two of already today.”
“Probably is,” Kate said. “He must be handing them out to every vendor, fruits, nuts, everybody. He even gave me a demonstration of how it slices and serves whatever you’ve got. Not just pies, but meat loaf, lasagna and the edge is sharp enough to cut through steak. Just what you need.”
I took it out of her hand and ran my finger gingerly over the sharp blade. Kate said she was going to make the rounds of the fair to see what my competition was and buy some vegetables.
Sam left too. He didn’t buy anything from me, but then he had a thing about sugar and butter. He said he never ate it, but most people can’t resist a piece of homemade pie if you put it in front of them. But Sam is not most people. There’s a good example of his strong convictions. It seemed another one of his convictions was to avoid me whenever possible, even though my pie shop was across the street from the police station. He’d been doing a pretty good job of it since I’d returned to my hometown almost a year ago, except when he wanted to pick my brain or ask me about some resident’s background or connections. I told myself I didn’t care. I was happy to help if he needed me. But that was not why I’d come back to Crystal Cove. I was here to avoid getting mixed up with men who had an unhappy relationship in their past or a hang-up about commitment. Unfortunately that covered just about all the men in my age group. I was also here to make a living on my own which I was finally doing, thank you very much Grannie for your support.
The Food Fair officially opened and crowds flooded the parking lot. I handed out samples and took orders for pies from some of my regular customers, which I’d deliver later. I sold pies to strangers too and answered questions about our quaint little town. I told how Crystal Cove had been discovered in 1542 by a Portuguese explorer named Cabrillho.