by Carol Culver
“I learned she runs a first-class operation,” I said. “I’d rather be a chicken on her place than … some other things,” I finished lamely. “What did you think?”
“I was just glad she didn’t invite us to lunch. I couldn’t stand to eat one of those two-legged creatures she’s given names to. It’s enough to make anyone a vegetarian.”
“Let’s give one of those restaurants in your book a try,” I suggested.
We had a wonderful late lunch at a place called Heathcliff on a cliff above the crashing waves. Grannie picked it out after reading reviews from her guidebook. She ordered a classic shrimp Louis, a mound of huge prawns on a bed of lettuce and avocado covered with creamy house-made Louis dressing. I chose calamari, fried in a delicate batter and served with a spicy marinara sauce. The French fries that came with it were twice fried, the waiter explained after I raved about them.
“First cooked at a lower temperature for the inside,” he said, “then a high heat where they’re fried to order. A sprinkle of salt, a dip in our chef’s special sauce and you’re tasting paradise. Am I right?”
I assured him he was completely right. “My compliments to the chef,” I said.
As the creator of hand-made food I know how much it means to receive a sincere compliment. And how devastating a negative review can be. Heath’s review of my pies still rankled a week later. I knew I should forget the critic’s comments, especially considering his recent demise, but I just couldn’t. I was guessing my cohorts were in the same boat. Although Lindsey and Tammy seemed more upbeat than ever when I saw them on Saturday. As if the critical comments just rolled off their backs like so much fluff.
We had coffee and Grannie insisted on paying. Then she checked her watch and said, “I’d better get back.”
“Too bad. I wanted to take you to a pig farm next.”
“A pig farm, how delightful. I’d love to go but not today.”
“Pigs are not dirty if that’s what you’re worried about,” I said. “They’ve been given a bad rap. Besides, they have some interesting heritage breeds at Bill and Dave’s Blue Sky Ranch. Where else would you get up close and personal with a rare hog like a Large Black or a Tamworth?” The pictures of the very attractive pigs on Dave and Bill’s brochure were enough to tempt me to make a visit, even if I didn’t have another motive like a murder investigation on my plate. But not today and not with Grannie. I could go alone but I’d rather find someone else to drive there with me.
“We’ll go another day. But I need time to freshen up for bridge. Tell me, are you really interested in the pigs or the farmers or do you think …”
“I’m not interested in Bill or Dave in the way you mean. And they don’t look like murderers. I just want to get a feel for their operation. And for them. Who does what? How do they divide up the work? How do they get along? Are they doing well? I’m interested in connecting with everyone Heath dumped on in his review. We have a lot in common.”
“You mean you’re all possible suspects.”
I frowned. Had I told her that or had she figured it out? “Have you been talking to Sam?” I asked as we headed back to town on the PCH.
“No, have you?” she said.
“Yes but I wish I hadn’t. He told me to stick to baking pies. He does not want my help solving the murder of the newspaper critic.”
“Even after you cracked the last murder case?”
“Especially because I cracked the last one.”
“That won’t stop you, will it?” she asked.
“Not at all. Especially when I’m involved.”
Grannie shook her head and advised me not to get involved. She said that solving the critic’s murder was not my job.
“I know that,” I said. “I’ll only do what I have to.”
“Stay home and bake pies,” she said.
I couldn’t believe she’d mouth the same platitudes that Sam did. She, a former single woman who once ran a business. She, a retired pie baker who’d just taken on a new career. I opened my mouth to remind her, then remembered I was sworn to secrecy and wasn’t going to bring it up unless she did first.
She pursed her lips in the disapproving way she had. When I dropped her off at Heavenly Acres she’d recovered. She gave me a cheerful wave as if she’d forgotten all about my disobedient ways. It was just as well. I was going to that pig farm with or without my grandmother’s approval.
“By the way, the pie contest is off,” I said when she turn to wave to me.
“Too bad,” she said. “I was looking forward to it.”
“Another time,” I said.
She smiled and gave me the OK sign with her hand.
Five
I’d no sooner parked Grannie’s old station wagon in front of my shop when Sam showed up. I could almost believe he might have been watching and waiting for me. Two days in a row where he was actually seeking me out? What was going on? On the other hand, it could have been a coincidence. He walked out of the police station just as I pulled up across the street, but what were the odds? Had he attached a radio transponder to the underside of my car so he could keep track of me? I only wished he wanted to keep track of me. If he did, it was nothing personal. And if it weren’t for this murder, I was convinced I’d probably never see him.
“Enjoying the good weather?” he asked as he ambled up to my car, as if we were just neighbors having a little chit-chat on a Sunday afternoon. It was also as if it was a rare event to see the sunshine in our town in the middle of summer. Neither was true.
“Very much,” I said. “Don’t tell me you are taking the day off? When there’s a murder to be solved?” I knew as soon as the words left my mouth I’d overstepped the boundaries he’d set up.
He gave me his thin-lipped, narrow-eyed look as if to say How dare you discuss my work with me? If I want to bring up the subject I will. But that’s not for you to do.
“No rest for the weary,” he said, and his tone was positively friendly. I must have been wrong about the look he gave me. “I hear you’ve been out to the chicken farm.”
“Why yes,” I said. I wondered how the hell he knew where I’d been. At least I knew enough not to show my dislike at being under survey. “That’s the joy of small-town living. Everyone knows everything about everyone. How about some iced tea and a piece of Key Lime Pie?” Before he could say no, he didn’t eat pie, I rushed on. “It’s my latest low-fat, summer-time version. Made with nonfat condensed milk, low-fat yogurt, and instead of a heavy whipped cream topping, I made a lovely golden meringue.”
While I was talking, I was unlocking the front door of the shop and opening all the windows. He didn’t say no, so I asked him to help me drag a small wrought-iron table and chairs outside. I love the sidewalk café look. There was a breeze off the ocean but the sun was still warm. It wouldn’t hurt for the citizens of Crystal Cove to see how it’s done. That it’s okay to stop and relax and drink tea or coffee with a slice of pie in the afternoon. I hoped someone might see us eating and drinking al fresco in front of the pie shop. They’d think, it’s so continental. So civilized. And soon they’d take up the custom. Maybe I’d have to stay open on Sundays when the whole town was out and about. Maybe I’d get the aprés-beach crowd. I set two pieces of pie and two glasses of iced tea on the table.
“How did you like the farm?” he asked after he took a bite.
I frowned, annoyed that he was rubbing it in. Why didn’t he come out and say, I not only know where you’ve been, I know where you’re going next. “Very impressive. If I had to be a chicken, I’d live there,” I said.
“Until the Beardsley Processing van pulled up,” he said.
“So you know about that. Were you out there too?” If he was, why didn’t Martha say anything?
“I just got back.”
“That explains it then,” I said. “We crossed paths. Martha must have been thrilled to see you. You made quite an impression on her. I thought maybe you’d come by to return my knife.”
; “That’s not possible. Until after I finish my investigation.”
“I suppose you’ve got quite a collection of knives by now since the old guy who makes them was handing them out.”
“I can’t comment on that.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh for heaven’s sake. So how’s your investigation going?”
“Slowly. This guy Heath was a loner. He came to town a few months ago to work at the Gazette. No one seems to know much about him.”
I was amazed to have Sam telling me something new. I couldn’t help following up with another question. “Doesn’t he have a family? Someone who misses him? Someone who hated him? Loved him? Although I don’t know about that. I only spoke to him on the phone and he wasn’t very nice. It wasn’t just me. He gave negative reviews to good products. Have you talked to Bruce, the editor of the Gazette? Why did they hire him? Why did they keep him?” I moved to the edge of my chair. I leaned forward. This was just what I wanted. A chance to ask questions, maybe have a real conversation with Sam. A sense that I was useful. That I could contribute. That he valued my input.
“I talked to Bruce,” Sam said, “and he says Heath convinced him he needed someone controversial for the paper. Someone to shake things up. Someone who’d increase circulation with his pithy reviews. Who wouldn’t just whitewash the vendors. And the price was right. Heath was working for nothing.”
“Donating his time?” I said. “Why would he do that?” Sam didn’t answer. I didn’t expect him to. I just knew I had to see Bruce myself. No need to mention I’d been to the newspaper office and seen the crime scene tape across the door, no matter how innocent my trip was.
“So you’ve been out for a Sunday drive. What else is on your agenda?” he asked, forking a piece of pie while I watched to see how he liked it.
“In terms of field trips? I don’t know. My new friends all want me to come by and see their places. The sausage guys, Jacques the cheese maker …”
“I plan on a trip to the pig farm too,” he said.
“When? Because I could go next week. We could go together,” I suggested. “It would save gas.” I held my breath. He’d never agree. He was after something more than a few pork chops, that was sure. “At your convenience,” I added.
“Okay,” he said.
I tried not to act surprised. But why was he doing this? Would I get to ask the questions I wanted to? Was he using me? Or was there some way I could use him?
“I can go this week. If I can get someone to cover for me here.” I watched out of the corner of my eye while he ate his pie. Something was going on. One, Sam eating pie. Two, Sam agreeing to go with me to visit a possible suspect. It wasn’t like him.
I was feeling so pumped up I forgot not to mention the “M” word. “I know a murder in a small town or anywhere for that matter is a terrible thing, but doesn’t this one coming as it has give you a good reason for hanging on to your job?”
“You’re referring to the fact that the city council wants to abolish my position.”
I nodded. That’s what he’d told me. Many small towns had consolidated or farmed out their law enforcement because of budget shortfall. But if he had to solve a murder every few months, this town needed him.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you of this murder,” I said.
“What?” I was afraid he was going to fall off his chair.
At least I had his attention. “You have the motive, which is that your job depends on having something to do like solving murders, and I’m guessing you don’t have an alibi for Friday afternoon. Am I right?”
“As it happens I was in a conversation with one of my deputies in my office. Are you satisfied?” he asked. The look on his face was partly amused, partly amazed at the gall I had to even think such an outrageous thing.
“If you ever need a new deputy, I’m available,” I said. “I don’t know what it involves exactly, but I like to think I could qualify.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment. For the second time today I’d surprised him. If I did nothing else today, I’d consider it a successful twenty-four hours. I decided not to wait for his reaction. “You said you were thinking of running for mayor,” I said. “What happened to that idea?”
“I’m still looking into the possibility. The election is in the fall. I have an exploratory committee to check out the situation. I want to know who else is running. The good thing is our current do-nothing mayor is finally retiring. I can’t believe I’d have much competition, seeing as the salary is minimal. But I don’t want to run if I can’t win.”
“On the other hand, how do you know if you can win if you don’t try?”
“Good point,” he said.
Again I had the feeling he was humoring me. It was better than being ignored, so I continued.
“Who’s on your exploratory committee?”
“Kate’s husband and a few other guys.”
“What about a woman? What about me?” I don’t know what got into me, but as long as I didn’t get totally rejected, I decided to keep trying. What did I have to lose, except my reputation and a few sleepless nights of worrying?
“I know a few people in town,” I told him. “People who buy pies. People who sell other stuff like Jacques, Lindsey and Tammy, and Nina who sells caramels. You remember her from high school. She married Marty Holloway. I meet a lot more people now that I’m at the market on Saturdays.”
“You don’t want to spread yourself too thin,” he said as if he was my career counselor. “But I’ll check with my committee and let you know.” He stood as if he was ready to leave.
“Let me call Kate about filling in for me one day this week so we can go to the pig farm.” I took my phone from my pocket afraid if I let him go without a definite commitment I might not see him for weeks. No one could say I wasn’t trying to keep in touch.
But his phone rang and he pointed to the police station and walked across the street. Maybe that’s one reason Sam isn’t married, I thought. He’s never not on call. He’s always working, even when he’s not working. He doesn’t have a social life, or if he does no one knows about it.
Like Heath, the food critic. No one seemed to know anything about him. Was he married to his job even though his job was a part-time writer for a small-town newspaper? If he was working for nothing, how did he support himself? Did he take kickbacks? Is that why he gave me and my friends bad reviews, because we didn’t offer him anything? Someone must know the answers to these questions. I would find out who that was. Then Sam would be happy to swear me in as his deputy and I’d be in on all the excitement in town and have something useful to do on Saturday nights like breaking up fights over runaway livestock or stolen newspapers.
I called Kate to ask if she had some time to fill in for me. She was playing volleyball in her back yard with her husband and two girls. Being my best friend, she called time out and took my call. She didn’t hesitate to ask why I needed her and where I was going.
“Does this have anything to do with that murder?” she asked.
“I don’t know. It might. But solving the murder is not my job. It’s Sam’s. If it was I’d be interested in who else hated the guy besides my friends at the market. Hated him enough to kill him.”
“Where are you going?”
“Sam and I are going out to visit the pig farmers, Dave and Bill. I’m going because I’m interested in organic healthful farming. Sam’s going because … I’m not sure. It must have something to do with the murder but I didn’t ask. I hope he doesn’t suspect the guys who own the place, they’re such nice, gentle people. But who knows? Anyway, I need you to mind the store. If you have time.”
“I can’t do Monday it’s a Minimum Day at the kids’ school, but I can come Tuesday.”
“Fantastic. I owe you for this.”
“I don’t have to bake anything, do I?”
“No, I’ll be sure I’ve got a big inventory of fresh and frozen pies. All you have to do is sell. Which you are supe
rb at doing. How can I repay you?”
“Well, if you can baby-sit for me then we could have a date night without kids,” Kate said.
“Of course. You know you can ask me any time. I’m free every night, unfortunately.”
“I predict your free nights will be over soon. Once Sam realizes he can’t live without you,” Kate said.
I didn’t want to dash her hopes so I didn’t say what I thought, that there was no one Sam couldn’t live without. But who knew? He’d surprised me before. Maybe he’d do it again if I stayed out of his way so he could solve this mystery himself. I left a message for him that I was free Tuesday to go to the pig farm.
I solved one mystery all by myself on Monday when I went to the newspaper office again. This time the yellow crime scene tape was gone from the outer office door. Yes, at last! I knocked on the door, a list of questions for the editor in my bag about Heath Barr. But when he opened the door he didn’t look glad to see me, in fact I thought he was going to shut it in my face.
“Bruce Scarsdale? I’m Hanna Denton.”
“The pie woman, yes I know. This isn’t a good time.”
“I’m sorry. You must be busy.” I tried to look around his big bulky body to see who else was there in the office.
He waved an arm toward an empty desk in the reception area. “We had to let our secretary go and we’ve had a murder on the premises,” he said. It was hard to tell which thing upset him most. Maybe everything. His face was pale, almost ashen under a stubble of beard as if he hadn’t been home for a few days. Or maybe that was his normal harried editor look. I’d never met him before. I’d put ads in the paper but never in person.
“I’m sorry for your loss … losses,” I said.
“If you’re here about the article Heath wrote about your pie contest, don’t worry, it’s already gone to press. It’s the last thing he submitted before …” He stopped, choked up or just verklempt. “Nothing stops the presses,” he assured me. “Not time or high tide.” As if the citizens were out there waiting for the latest news which only his weekly rag could provide.