by Meera Lester
“Sharing pie is a good way to get to know a neighbor, Abby. Especially one so good looking.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m picking up what you’re putting down.” With a lighthearted laugh, Abby said, “See you soon.” With the bourbon pumpkin pie in hand and hope in her heart, Abby strolled out of the pie shop. It was just possible, her luck might be changing.
Bourbon Pumpkin Pie
Ingredients:
Pecan topping:
½ cup all-purpose flour
1 packed cup dark brown sugar
1½ sticks (6 ounces) unsalted butter, at room temperature
½ cup pecan halves
Pie filling and crust:
1¼ cups pumpkin puree (fresh or canned)
½ cup milk
¼ cup bourbon (Wild Turkey or your favorite brand)
3 large eggs, separated
1½ tablespoons cornstarch
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
¼ teaspoon ground cloves
¼ teaspoon salt
1 pie crust (store-bought or premade), baked
Directions:
Preheat the oven to 350.
Prepare the pecan topping. Pour the flour in a medium bowl and add ¼ cup of the brown sugar and 4 tablespoons of the butter (½ stick). Combine with your fingers until the mixture is crumbly. Add the pecans and mix well. Set aside the topping.
Prepare the pie filling. Place the remaining stick of butter and the remaining ¾ cup of brown sugar in a large mixing bowl, and using an electric mixer, beat them together at medium speed until fluffy, about l minute.
To the butter–brown sugar mixture, add the pumpkin, milk, bourbon, egg yolks, cornstarch, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and salt. Beat until well combined and set aside.
In a medium mixing bowl beat the egg whites until stiff with an electric mixer. Gently fold the beaten egg whites into the reserved pumpkin mixture until all traces of white disappear.
Pour the pumpkin–egg white mixture into the prebaked pie crust and sprinkle the reserved pecan topping over the pie.
Bake the pie on the middle rack of the oven for 1 hour, or until golden brown. Remove the pie from the oven and check the doneness by inserting a knife one inch from the crust edge. If the knife comes out clean, the pie is done.
Allow the pie to cool before serving.
Serves 4
Chapter 10
Sowing a seed is the hope—not the guarantee—
of fruit to come.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
On Saturday Abby circled the Root Cellar parking lot for ten minutes, hoping someone would back out a vehicle so she could pull in. Frustrated that she’d be late for Kat’s birthday dinner, she reluctantly parked behind the Pantry Hut, a restaurant supply shop. Ordinarily, she would never choose to park in a lot where she’d have to walk up a dark alley.
Bundled against the cold in a calf-length flared coat over wool slacks, a silk shirt, and scarf and carrying her purse and Kat’s gift bag, Abby set off down the alley sandwiched between the Pantry Hut and the Root Cellar. When she had walked halfway into the alley, a car pulled in perpendicular to the entrance and stopped, its engine idling. The automobile blocked Abby’s exit. She stepped into a shadow. Hid. Waited. Watched. It was an old habit: Take evasive action for protection when faced with an ambiguous situation. Assess for danger.
Was she overreacting? Where was the threat? Abby tried to shake the sense of vulnerability eroding her confidence. I’m okay. She remained hidden, observing. Why aren’t you moving, dude? What are you waiting for? The next taxi to Timbuktu? From the store, a woman wearing a hoodie that concealed all but a forelock of platinum hair approached the passenger side of the car.
The vehicle door opened from inside. Dome light came on. Abby could not see the woman’s face. But she could tell that the driver was a man wearing a multicolored, slouchy beanie over a ponytail. With the gift bag and purse in a vice-like grip, Abby watched the car roll forward a few inches and brake. The red lens cover was missing on one of the taillights. Alarm bells went off. Without success, she tried to throttle the energy coursing through her. She pressed her body against the wall and tried to still her shaking hands. Abby stared at the taillight. The memory of the murder resurfaced. That night, a car had rolled by her hiding place, and the killer or someone else in the car had waved a flashlight, searching for her. Was it the same sedan? Same driver?
Rooted to the wall, in the shadows, she watched the car merge into traffic. Her stomach churned. A bilious taste seeped into the back of her throat. She doubled over with dry heaves.
“Are you okay?” A man wearing mechanic’s overalls and a single hoop earring, which glinted in the moonlight, pulled his arm free of his companion—a pregnant woman bundled up against the chill. He hastened toward Abby as the woman waddled behind. “Ma’am, you all right?” he asked.
Abby repeatedly swallowed until the wave of nausea subsided. “Yeah. Dry heaves.”
“Pregnant, right? With our last one, wife puked nonstop for three months. You want us to walk somewhere with you?”
Abby steadied herself. There isn’t always going to be a Good Samaritan in the alley to help you out. You’ve got to face this fear. Abby cleared her throat. “No, no thanks.” She slowly emerged from the shadows and walked toward the man. Maybe she was trying too hard to make a linkage between the cars. Taillight covers are broken all the time. A coincidence? Maybe. But then again, deep down, she didn’t believe in coincidences.
“Where you headed?” the man asked. His tone reflected genuine concern.
“Root Cellar,” said Abby. She lifted the gift bag. “Birthday celebration.”
“Oh, cool,” said the man. “In that case, the Root Cellar is located on the left after you exit the alley.”
“Uh-huh.” Abby forced a smile that she didn’t feel and set off again. She’d grown weary of being over-vigilant every waking hour, distrustful of everything and everyone around her. Her whole life, she’d been strong in the face of adversity, but this challenge of dealing with nightmares and intrusive imagining was unrelenting and insidious in the way it robbed her energy and made her question her sanity.
By the time she’d reached the heavy wooden door of the Root Cellar, she’d decided to have only one celebratory glass of wine and to make it an early evening. Afterward, she’d lock up her farmhouse, soak in a bath, and drink some warm honeyed milk to beckon sleep. And when the weekend was over, she would call Olivia and secure the earliest appointment available. It would be a calculated move meant to seal Olivia’s lips in a doctor-patient relationship. Abby would get help with her panic attacks and ongoing anxiety while at the same time ensuring no one else in town, especially Lucas, would ever know. Without the county’s critical incident stress management team to help her, like when she’d worked on the force, Abby reckoned this would be her best option.
Entering the warmth of the tavern-style bar and eatery, with its Tuscan paintings, mica-lighted booths, and walls glazed in old-world shades of umber, red, and gold, Abby hid her anxiety behind a party face. She threaded her way through the crowd to the tufted leather booth on the second level where Kat stood waving. Dressed in a fitted black dress with sheer sleeves and a bateau neckline, Kat had chosen a simple pair of black pearl drop earrings, which looked sublime against her fair skin, blue eyes, and nearly white blond hair, moussed in 1920s-style finger waves.
“Well, don’t you look fabulous,” Abby said, handing Kat the gift bag. “Hope you like it.”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” Kat said after bussing Abby’s cheeks. “But I’m glad you did.”
“I had fun finding it,” Abby said. And it was the truth. She loved poking around in antique shops, consignment outlets, and thrift stores. Such outings were even more fun when Kat was with her. After removing her scarf and coat and relegating them to the booth, Abby pushed her reddish-gold mane over the shoulders of her sea-green silk shirt. She slid into
the booth, then scooted to the middle so she wouldn’t have to shout to be heard over the clatter and chatter. From the mid-booth vantage point, she also had a clear view into the heart of the tavern. It was another old cop trick picked up from her days on the force—always sit with your back to the wall and in a spot where you can see what’s coming.
“So . . . you started without me.” Abby grinned and pointed to the empty wineglass on the table.
“Exactly why I like this place,” said Kat with the smile of a Cheshire cat. “When I told the headwaiter that it was my birthday, he brought me a complimentary glass of wine and said something in Spanish. Felice, I think.” Kat eagerly reached into the bag, took out the candy box, and loosened the ribbon from around the antique tongs.
“Feliz cumpleaños,” Abby said. “Means happy birthday.”
“Yeah, that was it.” Kat admired the scrollwork on Abby’s gift of tongs.
“Where is he?”
“Well, unfortunately, when I got here, he had just finished his shift and was on his way out. And here I was, hoping we’d have the whole evening to flirt. Bad timing.”
“I guess. There’ll be other times,” Abby said with optimism, although not entirely sure that Kat and the headwaiter would last long enough for there to be another time. Keeping track of Kat’s boyfriends wasn’t easy. There were a lot of them, and they were a diverse lot, to boot. If Kat were a seed saver, she’d have the most interesting collection around.
“Wait until you see him,” Kat said. “The girls in Dispatch weren’t wrong about him.” She gestured with her hands, as if she’d just touched a hot burner. “What a hunk.”
“You are so off the hook, Kat. Have you even had a date yet?”
“No. But, boy, I can tell we click. He’s already given me his phone number.” Kat batted her eyelids like a coquette. “I don’t think it’s going to take him long to make a move. And if he doesn’t, I will.”
Watching Kat set aside the silver tongs to study the box, Abby had to marvel at Kat’s self-confidence when it involved men.
“This is so like you, Abby,” Kat said, looking pleased. “Working seven days a week and you can still find time to search out something special. It’s perfect. You need to apply the same diligence to finding a good man.”
Abby appreciated Kat’s enthusiasm but didn’t want to go there. “Look inside the box.”
Kat eased off the lid and took out a foil-covered truffle. “What do we have here?” She peeled back the foil from the confection to expose a triple-layer cube of white, milk, and dark chocolate. “Zowie, Abby. Do you know me or what?”
“So, these were made by Paola. Eight in all. Each is different,” Abby explained. “There’s an apricot-coconut, one with raspberry filling, and a sea-salt caramel, but my favorite is the limoncello–white chocolate truffle.”
“Wow.”
“You’ve got to pay attention to what happens on your tongue when you eat one of these treats. Paola once told me that each truffle must tell its unique story in a single sensational bite.”
“So I shouldn’t park myself in front of the tube, watch Antiques Roadshow, and mindlessly gorge on them?”
“I didn’t mean that. Just, you’ll enjoy them more if you savor each morsel.”
“Got it.” Kat rewrapped the triple-layer chocolate and returned it to the box. She peeled back the foil on a chocolate truffle dusted in gold luster and licked her fingers. “Wow . . . chilies with the chocolate.”
“I think Paola calls that one Aztec Royale.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to expand my horizons from those plain milk chocolate bars in the family-size bags.”
“Atta girl. Aim for a more sophisticated palate.” Abby chuckled.
“I’m all for that, but just so you know, I got plenty of that ‘try this’ and ‘try that’ from my last boyfriend.”
“The chef with the tats of vegetables over his forearms? You ended it, right?”
“Well, not exactly. I thought I’d dumped him. But then he called to see if I wanted to go away for a weekend. You know, to one of those fancy bed-and-breakfasts near a winery. Tastings. Mud baths. Massages. The whole shebang. How could I say no to that?”
“If anyone deserves the whole shebang, it’s you, Kat.” Abby glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes seemed like a long time to have been seated and not served. Not even a menu. She checked out the bar area—not a single stool open and already the crowd stood shoulder to shoulder, waiting for tables. Abby resigned herself to what might be a long evening, instead of that early night she’d planned.
“So, Kat,” said Abby, figuring that this was as good a time as any to broach the subject of the case. “When we last spoke, you said Lieutenant Sinclair was on his way to interview Paola about the murder. Learn anything?” Abby pushed back against her seat and crossed her legs.
“Not really. Docs say it’s a little too soon to be grilling Paola.”
“What about the bullet? It had to pass through both sides of Jake’s skull, which would have slowed it down before it passed out and hit her. I’m assuming that she slipped down and forward in a defensive position or that it might not have hit her at all.”
“That’s what the bullet trajectory suggests.”
“Maybe she saw that the killer had a weapon and ducked. Did you find the casing? Know the caliber or anything else about the bullet?” Abby realized that the rapid-fire sequence of her questions made her sound terribly eager for information. Kat was her best friend, but Abby knew it would be prudent not to let Kat know she was secretly working the case.
“None of us are ballistics experts, even if we do have the casing and the lead from the bullet.” Kat scanned the room, then threw a hand up to flag down a waiter. “We know the ammo was nine millimeter.”
Abby’s thoughts raced. “Well, street thugs like to spray and pray with their semiautos, and nine is cheap ammo. The military uses it, too. And Brianna Cooper kept a Sig Sauer model P229 in the middle drawer of her desk at the winery. With it were boxes of nine-millimeter ammo.”
Surprise claimed Kat’s face. Her eyes narrowed. “And I suppose her desk drawer just happened to be standing wide open, with the gun and ammo in plain sight?”
Abby arched a brow. “Kind of. So, didn’t Brianna tell you all about the gun? Because I know if you have the casing and lead from the bullet, it’s possible to match them to a suspect gun. I mean, if you had a suspect gun.”
Kat looked suspiciously at Abby. “Which we don’t. But you can bet we’ll be having a chitty-chat with Ms. Cooper. I’d love to have a look at that gun of hers.” Kat put the truffle box back into the gift bag and dropped in the tongs. “I’ll just put this under my coat so I don’t forget it when we leave.”
Abby reckoned it was time to shift the conversation. “Did you know Lucas Crawford has a sister?”
“News to me,” said Kat. “Where’s she been hiding?”
“Living and working up the peninsula, I guess. I recently saw Lucas in the pie shop, and she was with him. Olivia is her name. Seems nice.”
A waitress approached and diverted Abby’s attention.
“About time!” Kat whispered.
The waitress, dressed in a black shirt, tie, trousers, and a crisp white ankle-length apron, set a basket of warm bread and pats of butter on the table and handed them menus. “We’re swamped tonight,” she said. “What can I get you ladies to drink?”
“Two white zins,” Kat said. “And I have a couple of questions about the specials—eggplant parmigiana and the osso buco with polenta.”
As Kat quizzed the waitress about those and other menu options, Abby allowed her gaze to sweep the room. When the waitress had left, she told Kat, “Don’t look now, but the mayor and his wife are dining over in the corner, and Chief Bob Allen is there, too, sitting with his back to the wall.”
Kat strained to see him. “Well, that’s a surprise. The mayor has the chief on speed dial. They were at each other’s throats yesterday. The mayor
says the chamber of commerce members are on his back and have convened an emergency meeting to see how they can attract more people to our downtown during the holidays. Local businesses should be seeing an uptick in shoppers, but it’s been just the opposite. Solving the case would help, of course, but, like the chief says, we don’t need city hall on our backs, telling us to get on with it.” Kat pursed her lips and then continued. “Really . . . like we’re somehow not taking the murder seriously. And like the mayor could rustle up some more resources if we just told him that’s what we needed, when we all know he can’t deal with the budget shortfall this year.”
Abby leaned in and said, “Sorry, Kat. It sounds like you are under a ton of stress.” She decided against talking about her own issues.
“Yeah, well, everyone needs to take a deep breath and a step back.” Kat plucked a slice of bread from the basket on the table and buttered it. “Lieutenant Sinclair is a micromanaging controller, and Chief Bob Allen is constantly checking our work. We’re in a pressure cooker, for sure, but all for the greater good, I guess.” She pushed the bread basket toward Abby.
Abby waved the basket away. “Well, I’m an outsider now, but it seems that focusing on Emilio is a waste of time and resources. He’s—”
“Not a suspect anymore. Passed a poly yesterday. We’ve moved on.”
Abby hid her delight by shaking out her napkin and laying it across her lap. No point in harping about Emilio now. Maybe she’d have some bread, after all.
“It’s good for Emilio but not swell for us,” said Kat. “Somebody killed Jake. And so far we’ve got zip.”
Abby understood the difficult challenges facing the cops during the initial phase of an investigation. “With all the people in Jake’s orbit, there must be quite a pool of possible suspects, especially women with whom he’s had affairs, resentful boyfriends, and ticked-off spouses.”