Never Say Pie

by Carol Culver

“You’re not mistaken that I lean toward the most expensive whatever it is,” I admitted. “This is beautiful.” I glanced at a small discrete price sticker and gasped. “Maybe after I make my first million. The one I already have works fine. Not as nice as this one, but it’s very sharp. Cuts meat and everything.”

  “The Model X-40,” he said. “That’s the one the chief took.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. It does such a great job I wanted to order one for everyone I know,” I said.

  He nodded. “Too great a job. It seems there’s been a problem.”

  “I think I know what problem you’re referring to. I had a visit from the chief also. I’m guessing he’s looking for everyone who ever bought one of your X-40 serrated spatula-knives.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t help him. I don’t keep a list of buyers. I know I should. Other vendors do so they can send flyers to their customers to alert them of special sales and so forth. I’m just not organized enough.” He shrugged.

  “I understand,” I said. “I should be doing that too, but I’m not. It’s all I can do to get myself and my pies here once a week and keep up with the customers without worrying about keeping lists or records. But it’s true, it would be a good business tactic. If I had a list I could send notices about my holiday pies in advance so I could be prepared.”

  He agreed that would make good business sense. Then he politely asked me what kind of pies I made and I promised to bring him a sample.

  Still thinking of Grannie and her single state, I tried to check out his ring finger to see if he was married, but I couldn’t tell so I said, “I imagine your wife is a big help with the paperwork.” I know it sounded sexist, but I had to say something.

  “She was,” he said sadly. “Until she passed on three years ago.”

  I finally tore myself away, wondering how much Sam had told him about the “problem” with his spatula-knife X-40. I took a moment to congratulate myself for finding out that the charming old fellow wasn’t married. Now I was getting as bad as Grannie and her friends with their zeal of matchmaking. But how can anyone blame me for wanting to locate Husband Number Three to fill Grannie’s life with love and happiness and a collection of upscale cutlery.

  So Sam was one step ahead of me. Today anyway. Tomorrow was another day. I might be wrong, but I hoped and believed that I had a better chance of getting people to talk than Sam did. If I wanted to. Sometimes the police can frighten people. I liked to think I could get information from people by coaxing them. Which would you rather be, frightened or coaxed?

  I hurried back to my booth with the news I’d met the man of Grannie’s dreams.

  “What’s Sylvester Stallone doing here at the Food Fair?” she asked.

  “Not Sly, but a charming artisan who’s adorable. I’ll introduce you.”

  “Not today.” She shook her head. “My hair is a mess and I need a facial.”

  “Okay, next week then. I have a good feeling about this.”

  “Your friend Kate was here,” Grannie said, changing the subject because she was obviously uncomfortable at my clumsy attempt to set her up with an attractive man. “She bought some meat pies and some other stuff and she said she’d be at the picnic tables having lunch.” Grannie pointed toward the far end of the food section where hungry customers could chow down on their farm-fresh goods before leaving the fair. “Why don’t you run along and have a coffee or something to eat with her? I’m having fun selling your pies,” she said. “I’ve run into a few friends I hadn’t seen in ages. Why didn’t I think of this?”

  “If you’re sure,” I said.

  She nodded emphatically.

  Picnic tables had been set up at the edge of the Food Fair to encourage customers to buy and eat and then go back and buy some more food to take home. It looked like it was working. Kate waved to me from the far end of the area where she was wedged in between other happy fair-goers chowing down goodies like home-made mini-pizzas with brioche crust, fresh fruit drinks, kettle corn, and pâte spread on whole-grain crackers.

  I squeezed in between two groups on a bench across from Kate and she opened a plastic container of olives stuffed with blue cheese and offered them to me along with a spicy tofu wrap.

  “I didn’t know you were into health food,” I said eyeing the low-cal flax and whole-wheat wrap suspiciously.

  “Let’s just say I’m into all kinds of food in a big way, from flax to this gooey cinnamon twist. Take your pick.” I chose the twist and washed it down with a paper cup of coffee laced with cream she offered me.

  After popping an olive in her mouth, she looked to her right and then to her left. Then she leaned forward. “I heard something disturbing.”

  I nodded. “I think I know what you mean,” I said softly.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded.

  “It’s not easy to talk about around here, especially with my mouth full of blue cheese.”

  She tilted her head to one side and looked around at the crowd. Probably wondering how safe it was to say anything confidential.

  That’s when I overheard a man at the picnic table behind me say something interesting.

  “You say it was murder?” he asked in a low raspy voice.

  Oh my God, the “M” word. My ears positively sizzled. That was the word I wasn’t supposed to say or hear or investigate. No wonder my whole body went on the alert.

  “She said it, not me,” another guy answered. “You know how women are. Can’t keep their mouths shut.”

  “Can’t live with them, can’t live without them,” the first one agreed. “You know where she was last night?”

  I didn’t hear an answer and I didn’t want to turn around and stare even though I was dying to know who the guys were. I purposely dropped the plastic fork Kate had given me and leaned down to pick it so I could sneak a look at the speakers from the other table. All I saw was a pair of shoes as one of the guys got up to leave. He was wearing sandals, the kind appropriate for wading in swamps with thick rubber soles and brown leather straps.

  “I’ve got to run,” I told Kate, standing up abruptly. “Back to work.” But I didn’t intend to go back to my booth, I wanted to follow the guy who mentioned “murder” and “last night.” It couldn’t be an accident. It had to have something to do with the one and only murder in Crystal Cove and I had to follow up on it. And it had landed in my lap so to speak. But by the time I turned to go, intending to follow the guy in the sandals, he was gone.

  I felt Kate’s curious gaze follow me as I walked away, no doubt wondering why I was acting so strange and muttering “Damn, damn, damn,” to myself. I tried to tell myself it was probably nothing. I was overreacting. Playing detective when I was strictly instructed not to. The men were probably talking about a movie or a TV program. No way did a murderer discuss his or any other crime at a food fair picnic table. The whole idea was laughable, but somehow I didn’t feel like laughing.

  Four

  I not only had to postpone Grannie’s intro to Mr. Right Number Three, aka the knife seller, but I also had to take over my pie booth that afternoon and let Grannie get back to Heavenly Acres for her afternoon Bridge game.

  I was able to forget anything to do with the “M” word for a few hours because business was brisk. I handed out samples, engaged buyers in conversation about my fresh-baked, luscious pies, my quaint little shop, and my colorful grandmother. You name it, I was Chatty Kathy, as Grannie used to call me, praising our charming small town and, of course, my own pies.

  Then Sam came by and it all came back to me. I had walked out of his office last evening with my “I’m not guilty and I’m not sorry” statement. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so rash. I could have said “I’m not guilty, but I AM sorry.” But I wasn’t. He knew that. So why pretend different?

  “Good to see you,” I said with a smile, hoping he’d forgotten our last conversation. “Have you had lunch?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not here to eat.”

  I stifl
ed what my response would have been—Well, what are you here for? Instead I said, “Well then how about something to take home like a bourek or an empanada?” I wrapped a crisp bourek in a special tissue paper and held it out.

  He studied it carefully. Either he’d never seen one before or he was a true aficionado of Middle Eastern cuisine. Then he said “Thanks,” and actually ate it while he stood in front of my booth watching me talk a woman into buying the last Strawberry Cream Pie from my portable cooler.

  “The strawberries are organic and picked locally,” I said. “They’re so sweet I hardly had to use any sugar.”

  “How many will it serve?” she asked.

  “That depends,” I said. “Six large pieces or twelve slivers suitable for dieters.”

  “Dieters? I never invite dieters to my house. It looks so good I could eat the whole thing right now.” She sighed. “But I won’t.”

  “I admire your restraint,” I told her, sliding the pie into a box.

  When the woman left, I swallowed my pride and apologized to Sam for being snippy the night before. “I shouldn’t have said I wasn’t sorry Heath was murdered. It must have sounded heartless.” I was hoping he’d say, Hanna, you’re definitely NOT heartless, but he didn’t.

  He said, “You’re not the only one.”

  I waited hoping he’d elaborate, tell me who else was glad Heath was gone out of their lives. I could imagine everyone who Heath had criticized was on that list, but who else? He didn’t say. What he did say was, “That was an outstanding boureka, best I’ve had since I left San Francisco.”

  “Was it at that little place out on Geary Street that made the best Mediterranean food? I loved that shop. I don’t know how they did it. But I’m determined to find out. So in between traditional pies I keep trying something new. Grannie thinks I’m crazy for deviating from her old standards, but making the same apple pie every fall gets boring.”

  “It was a place called Aziza,” he said. “With hand-woven carpets on the walls.”

  “That’s the one. I used to go there for the stuffed grape leaves and the dolmah.”

  “So did I.”

  I looked at him and I wondered how we’d missed each other. Was it by minutes? Or was it by years? Maybe it was fate. We were not meant to meet again until now. But why? He propped his arm against the post that held up the sides of my booth as if this was nothing but a casual visit by old friends hanging out together at the Food Fair.

  I didn’t understand. Was he on duty or not? Was this an official visit or what? Had he caught the murderer and now he was taking a break? Whatever it was, it was a big change from the way he’d acted last night. And a welcome one.

  “I’m surprised I never saw you there,” he said. “And you’re surprised I ever ate anything but donuts.”

  I shook my head. “If you did, you wouldn’t be in such good shape now.” Then I bent over to brush a non-existent smudge from the counter so he couldn’t catch me staring lustfully at his body. “Were you a cop then?” I asked. I thought I’d slip in a personal question when he wasn’t on guard in hopes of uncovering something from the mysterious middle part of Sam’s life. I knew about his high-school years and I knew about his small-town police chief career, but not much about what happened in between except for an incident where his partner was killed. Would he ever tell me the whole story?

  “No, I wasn’t,” he said. “What were you doing besides eating boureks?”

  “I had a job. I went to work, I came home, and I hung out with friends. That’s my story. What’s yours?” I asked.

  “Same,” he said.

  Just when I was about to give up on his lack of communication skills, Lindsey and Tammy came by on break from their booth, each clutching loaves of their bread under their arms.

  “Sam,” Tammy said, batting her eyelashes at him just like she did in high school, “any luck finding the murderer?”

  Finally someone asking the question I wanted to ask but didn’t have the guts to. I watched to see what Sam’s reaction would be. Instead of instructing them to mind their own business, he just shrugged and said, “Not yet.”

  If I’d asked he probably would have given me the lecture where he glares at me and tells me to stick to baking, but somehow Lindsey escaped that fate. I wished I knew her secret.

  “But you must have some idea. Who are the ‘persons of interest’?” Tammy asked. “And don’t say it’s everyone. You don’t think any of us girls had anything to do with it, do you? Even though we hated his guts.”

  “Shhh.” Lindsey poked her and motioned for her to tone down her rhetoric.

  “It’s not a secret,” Tammy protested. “Everyone must know by now someone bumped off our food critic and good riddance.”

  I’d never been a fan of Tammy’s, not in high school where she was one of the popular girls and I wasn’t and not now either, but at that moment I admired her for having the nerve to speak up. Because I sure didn’t.

  “The investigation is on-going,” Sam said cryptically. Of course he’d say that. He was his usual close-mouthed self.

  “I told you he’d said that,” Tammy said to Lindsey. Then she turned to me. “Hanna, we came to pick up a couple of pies. What’ve you got?”

  “How about a peach and apricot in a cream cheese crust?” I reached for the pie I’d baked in a deep tart tin with the wavy edge and held it up so they could see the browned top. The juices had bubbled over, leaving a crisp fruity crust.

  “Ooooh, it’s so beautiful,” Lindsey said. “I’ll take it.”

  “Take another. I owe you,” I said. I suggested a tart All-American Key Lime Pie with a graham cracker crust made with lime juice, evaporated milk, and egg yolks. Lindsey snapped that up too and they toddled off with their treasures. If they were suspects in the Heath Barr murder, they sure didn’t seem worried about it. I ought to be more like them. Relax. Stick to business. Ignore the murder. Don’t try to help the cops.

  “You act like you like your work,” Sam said when they’d gone back to their booth. I was surprised he was still there. He could have followed Lindsey and Tammy. They definitely wouldn’t have minded at all.

  “I do like it. I’m selling something that makes people happy. They don’t need it, but they want it. They may not be rich, they may not be driving a Mercedes, but almost anyone can afford a pie. I assume someone like Lurline who makes cupcakes or Nina with her caramels feels the same as I do.” I took a breath. Enough about me.

  “What about you, Sam, do you enjoy your work? With you, it’s hard to tell. Would you rather rescue cats from trees and arrest drunk drivers than be challenged by a devious murderer?”

  “What makes you think he’s devious?” Sam asked.

  “Well, he hasn’t been caught,” I said. I waited for him to say he was ready to make an arrest, but he didn’t. “By the way, what makes you think it’s a man?”

  “Touché,” he said with a nod indicating that I just possibly might be thinking straight. “I’m only going on history, which isn’t always reliable. Most violent bloody murders are done by men. Which is not to say a woman couldn’t slit a man’s throat.”

  I shuddered trying not to picture the scene. “I’m really glad I never met the man,” I said. “Aren’t you? I mean aren’t you glad you didn’t meet him when he was alive? Or did you?”

  He shook his head. “I would have preferred that to meeting him when he was dead,” he said somberly.

  “In his office you mean,” I said, then I waited for him to confirm or deny it. I knew I was pushing my luck by trying to find out more, but I could always hope.

  He didn’t comment so I continued along a different line. “I don’t think you ever answered my question. If you don’t want to talk about your work, how about the town? Are you glad you came back?”

  “Now that I know where to find my favorite ethnic food items, things are looking up,” he said with a pointed look at the shelf behind my counter.

  What? Sam saying something flatter
ing? “If you’ve got any special requests, I’m always looking for a culinary challenge.” I’ve never believed that old saw about the way to a man’s heart, but maybe, just maybe … If I could keep my mouth shut and stick to baking. But could I? And would I want to?

  Right now I wanted so badly to tell him what I’d overheard at the picnic tables, but I wasn’t going to. Even if I had a written confession or caught the killer in the act, I was not going to say a word. If that’s the way Sam wanted it, then that’s how it was going to be.

  He left after I had a rush of customers and I wondered when I’d see him again. You’d think because it was a small town and his office was across the street from my shop we’d be running into each other five times a day and twice on Sunday, but it didn’t happen.

  On that Sunday I was restless. I knew I had to wait until Monday to follow up on the Heath Barr problem. If you can call a murder a problem. I’m not good at waiting. I’m impatient and my restless nature has gotten me into trouble more than once. So far I’ve talked my way out of it, but there’s always a first time. I wanted badly to pay a visit to the newspaper offices to make sure Heath hadn’t told anyone there about the pie contest idea, but they were closed on the weekend. That didn’t stop me from walking over to the town square and knocking on the second floor office of the Gazette just to see if anyone was there. What do I know about the news business? Maybe they had odd hours, I thought.

  But it was closed. Not only closed, but it had a wide yellow tape across the door that said “Crime Scene.” So it was true. So Heath had been murdered right there in his office. I didn’t need Sam to confirm it. I felt a chill go up my spine. That should have been enough to scare me away, but I rattled the doorknob anyway. Nothing happened. I left and came back to my shop hoping no one saw me at the crime scene.

  I had two reasons to visit the Gazette headquarters. Besides making sure Heath hadn’t shared his idea of a pie contest with the editor, I planned to place an ad in the paper advertising my pies. I wanted the populace to know they could find me at the Food Fair on Saturdays with the same mouth-watering pies available throughout the week at the shop.