The Quiche and the Dead

by Kirsten Weiss

  Shaw stepped closer, forcing me to crane my neck. “You weren’t entirely honest with the police yesterday.”

  I gnawed my lower lip. Maybe there was a way I could ease into the casebook imbroglio. “You mean, about the cases Joe and his friend, Frank, investigated? I didn’t mention it yesterday, because I only just learned about it.”

  “His little busybody Sherlock Holmes club?” Shaw waved away the idea. “Trivia.”

  “But maybe he was involved in something that got him killed?”

  “Come on. It’s not as if those old geezers stumbled across a conspiracy in San Nicholas. Most murders are over money, jealousy, or rage. And then there’s negligent homicide.”

  “Negligent?”

  “For example, if someone accidentally put something into a pie they shouldn’t have.”

  “But . . . we didn’t! And I heard someone broke in to Joe’s house last night. Wouldn’t that suggest something?”

  “It suggests we’ve got a local scumbag robbing the homes of the recently deceased.”

  “But—”

  “You withheld some other information, young lady. Something important, and I’d like to know why.”

  Charlene had pegged Shaw all right. He wasn’t taking Joe’s cases seriously. And what hadn’t I been honest about yesterday? Crikey! Joe and the coffee! “I’m sorry, you’re right. I forgot to mention that Joe had complained of having a bad taste in his mouth. But I didn’t mean to not tell you. There was so much going on after he collapsed.”

  “Bad taste? I’m talking about what Mr. Devlin ate. You told me all the victim had consumed was some quiche and a cup of coffee.”

  “Well, maybe more than one cup. He tended to linger. Wait, victim? Are you saying you found evidence of foul play?”

  Shaw’s high cheekbones colored. “He ate something with fruit filling in it. It seems to me that you sold him more than a quiche.”

  I looked to the counter and its array of rectangular hand pies. “A hand pie?”

  “Why didn’t you mention it?”

  “The day-olds are self-serve. If he took one, he just dropped the cash in the basket. I wouldn’t have known about it.”

  He sneered. “You wouldn’t have known.”

  “Are you saying it wasn’t my quiche, that a pie killed him? That’s impossible. Lots of people ate those hand pies yesterday and no one else got sick.”

  “The hand pies were confiscated—”

  “I noticed that, and I’m glad. That will prove it wasn’t one of mine.”

  “And the investigation is still ongoing. Did you have any conflicts with your neighbor?”

  “With Joe? No.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “I liked Joe. He was funny. He came in here every morning for coffee. If we’d had a conflict, he wouldn’t have kept returning, would he?”

  “So the quiche was a peace offering?”

  I laid a hand over my stomach. Not the quiche. It couldn’t have been the quiche. “No, Joe and I didn’t need to make peace, because we didn’t have a problem. I made the quiche for Heidi from the new gym to welcome her to the neighborhood. She said she didn’t want it, so Joe took it.”

  “Heidi, the neighbor you are having a conflict with?”

  “That was only fifteen minutes ago! How . . .” Oh, curse my mouth for flapping ahead of my brain. “I met Heidi for the first time yesterday, right before I didn’t give her the quiche.”

  “Only yesterday?” He raised a brow. “It didn’t take long for you two to get into an argument.”

  “We didn’t argue.” I’d taken her smackdown like a big lump.

  “Were you upset, distracted when you were baking yesterday?”

  “No! I argued with Heidi after I baked the quiche.”

  An odd growl emerged from one of the booths, and I twitched. I glanced toward the window booth. Officer Carmichael appeared to be throttling his computer.

  “Well, we didn’t exactly argue,” I repeated in a lower voice. “Heidi suggested I change the Pie Town slogan, that’s all, and I said—I don’t think I said much of anything. You can ask her.”

  “I have.” He squinted. “Your eyes are pink. Are you on drugs?”

  “No!”

  “I’ve heard what goes on in kitchens, all the drugs you chefs take to keep going.”

  “I’m a baker, not a chef. And I don’t do drugs. I didn’t sleep well last night.” Because I’d lain awake thinking either the killer had been burgling Joe’s house and knew who I was, or Pie Town was somehow responsible for Joe’s death. Does it make me a horrible person that I preferred the first option? Because if something Joe had eaten here had been responsible for his death, I wasn’t sure how I was going to live with myself.

  “Guilty conscience?” Detective Shaw raised a brow.

  I wracked my brain for a clever retort, but my rusted razor wit failed. My chin lowered, throat tightening. Joe had been an amateur crime solver, had run a comic shop, and had lived in a garish Victorian, and I’d only known one out of three. He’d had loads of life under his belt, and he’d been cheerful, someone worth knowing better. But I’d missed my chance. “But Joe’s cases. He kept a casebook—”

  “Don’t leave town, Miss Harris.” Shaw gave me a last long look, as if to impress upon me the gravity of the situation, and sauntered out.

  Leave? I couldn’t if I wanted to. Short of packing it in and joining a monastery, I had nowhere to go. Everything I had was in Pie Town.

  I rubbed my jaw with my knuckles. If there was anything wrong with the quiche, then there were only two obvious suspects—me and Charlene. I couldn’t confess our break-in and drop Charlene into the proverbial fire. But I couldn’t walk away either, not when we were holding on to potential evidence.

  Feeling sick, I plodded into the kitchen. At the central, metal table, I arranged a steaming mini-potpie on a plate, grabbed some tableware, and returned with them to the dining area.

  Officer Carmichael mouthed curses at his computer tablet.

  I laid the pie in front of him, along with the utensils wrapped in a napkin. “Here you go. The coffee’s serve yourself. Feel free to go up and get a refill from the counter.”

  He didn’t look up from his computer. “It wasn’t the quiche,” he said in a low voice. “Your food’s fine.”

  I swallowed, hoping it was true, wondering why he was telling me. “The pie’s hot. Be careful.”

  He grunted, pecking at his computer with two fingers.

  I returned to the kitchen. Walking to a wooden shelf, I straightened the plastic jugs of spices. It wasn’t the quiche or a hand pie. I hadn’t killed Joe, and Heidi hadn’t been an intended target. And Carmichael was sitting in my window. . . . Why? Not just for a convenient lunch spot to abuse his computer. But he wasn’t afraid of my baking. His presence in my window booth was sort of a vote of confidence, and after last night, I was glad to have him nearby.

  I only hoped passersby didn’t assume he was on a stakeout.

  Chapter 5

  “How well do you know Joe?” I ran a ball of dough through the flattening machine. Sunlight streamed through the skylight, glinting off the metal refrigerator doors, the ovens. I’d turned off the big oven, with its rotating racks that guaranteed an even bake. It was a restored, fifty-year-old behemoth that could bake fifty pies at a time. But there was no sense in wasting energy.

  No customers had poured into Pie Town after Carmichael’s departure. I baked anyway, using the small ovens, my gloved hands coated with flour, under the premise that if I baked it, they would come.

  Except they didn’t.

  Petronella adjusted the net over her black hair, tucking the cigarette more firmly behind her right ear. I’d never seen her actually smoke. Was the cigarette an affectation or a talisman? “I knew him.”

  I spread the dough on the lightly floured work island and cut it into rectangles. Since traffic was low, now was a good time to experiment. I’d mix my fresh strawberries with mas
carpone cheese for hand pies. “I’m sorry. You really held it together yesterday when he . . . I’m sorry,” I repeated, feeling lame.

  She blinked. “He went to my parents’ church. I didn’t know him know him. But I saw him around a lot, especially here, and we joked around. He was a cool guy. Easygoing.”

  Yeah. My vision blurred, and I blinked. Time to change the subject. “Did Charlene tell you she once dated Joe?”

  “What?” Petronella laughed, laying out my piecrust pieces in rows on a baking sheet. “You’re kidding. Those two had a thing? I’m glad. Charlene needs someone in her life. Her daughter hasn’t been back to visit once since she left for Europe four years ago.”

  “Not even for the holidays?”

  Petronella shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  “She blames Charlene for her father’s death,” Petronella said.

  “Why?”

  “Mr. McCree had a heart attack surfing. Her daughter thought Charlene should have stopped him, that he was too old.”

  “Wasn’t it his choice?” I fed another round of dough into the flattener.

  “Of course. Charlene didn’t make him go into the ocean. She hates surfing.”

  I had a low opinion of my father for the simple reason I’d never met him. But this grudge against Charlene didn’t seem fair. It did, however, explain why Charlene rarely spoke of her daughter. “How is it that I know you want a degree in funerary services, dream of traveling to Iceland, and have a thing for Russian poets? But I didn’t know much about Joe aside from he owned a comic shop, was a widower, and hated the Giants.”

  She scrunched up her face. “What else do you need to know?”

  “Who was he?”

  “That would have been a better question for Frank,” she said.

  “Frank.”

  We fell silent. Joe and Frank used to sit together in the corner booth. Portly and balding and with the kind of tweed cap taxi drivers wear in the movies, Frank had passed away about a month ago. I’d gone to his funeral, but hadn’t known anyone there aside from Joe, Petronella, and Charlene, so I hadn’t stayed for the wake. Frank had been quieter than Joe, laughing at his jokes, smiling at the cashiers. But I hadn’t gotten very close to him either. I’d been skimming the surface of San Nicholas.

  “Well,” she said, “if we’re gossiping—”

  “We’re not. Hey, would you mind zesting a lime?”

  “I can tell you that Charlene’s loaded.”

  I blinked and had to grab for the round wheel of dough as it emerged from the other side of the machine. That would track with Charlene’s comment about other properties she owned. “Then why is she working here?”

  She grabbed a lime from a metal basket and scrubbed it along a grater into a striped bowl. “Because she wants to, I guess. Oh, and her husband used to chase me out of their yard when I was a kid. There was a shortcut out by the creek I liked to take.” Smiling, she turned the lime, zesting away.

  “She doesn’t talk about her husband much.” And I hadn’t prodded, because Charlene was a widow, and I’d sensed his death was still an open wound. “What did he do?”

  “A professional—what do you call it?—sommelier.”

  “Is that why her daughter is in the wine business?” I cut the second piecrust into rectangles.

  “Yeah. I wish I could go to France. Or is she in Belgium? She’s somewhere with cheese.” She handed me the bowl, and I dumped the zest into a larger, metal bowl piled with strawberries and mascarpone. I dropped in an egg, dribbled in agave syrup, and mixed it all with a metal spoon.

  “I’m pretty sure they’ve both got cheese,” I said. “What about you?”

  She pressed the lime, squeezing the juice into the bowl. “What about me?”

  I knew she had dreams beyond Pie Town. But I wasn’t sure if she was serious about the degree in funeral services.

  The bell above the front entrance rang.

  Petronella glanced at me and widened her eyes.

  Whoa, a customer!

  Peeling off my gloves, I darted from the kitchen. In the corner booth, two more young men had joined the gamers and frowned over sheets of paper covered in arcane charts.

  A Eurasian woman about my age stood at the counter, her hand poised above the bell as if unsure about committing. To ring? Or not to ring? That was the question.

  “Hi,” I said, “can I help you?”

  “Maybe. I hope so.” Her gaze swept the glass counter, filled with unsold pies. “I’m Joy Devlin, your new neighbor.” She had the long, lean body of a gym rat, but the rumpled, black business suit and sensible heels didn’t shout free weights and yoga lessons. She yanked tight her ponytail of straight, ebony hair.

  “Are you Heidi’s partner?” I asked.

  Expressionless, she shoved her wire-frame glasses further up her nose. “Who’s Heidi?”

  So she wasn’t allied with my new, bursting-with-health arch-nemesis.

  “Joe Devlin was my uncle,” she said in a rat-a-tat monotone. “He left me the comic shop, along with his house. I just came from the police station. I don’t suppose you serve anything stronger than coffee?”

  “Only pie.”

  Her tawny eyes narrowed. “Strawberry-rhubarb?”

  “Would you like a slice?” Strawberry-rhubarb was my favorite, another point in her favor.

  “Better bring out the whole pie. It’s been that kind of day.”

  My kind of girl. I handed her a coffee cup and nodded toward the urn. “It’s on me. The pie too. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” she said.

  “Yes, I do. Would you like me to heat a slice?”

  She nodded.

  Joy sat in a window booth, and I warmed a slice of pie, bringing it to her on a plate with the rest of the pie in its tin.

  She nodded toward the empty bench opposite. “You were here when it happened?”

  I slid onto the seat across from her. “Yes.” I hoped she wasn’t going to ask if he’d died in pain. I wasn’t sure how I’d answer that, because the pain had looked ferocious.

  She stabbed at the lattice piecrust, and it broke into flakes. “I suppose that’s something. At least he died doing what he wanted, out and about. He and his buddy, Frank, talked a lot about this place. They were thrilled when you moved in.” Her brows pulled together. “And now they’re both gone.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s so strange not to see them together in their booth.” I nodded toward the corner. “I wish I could tell you more,” I said. “Detective Shaw seems to be the officer in charge. He was on the scene pretty fast. You might want to talk to him.”

  She tilted her head, questioning, her ponytail cascading over one shoulder.

  “We called nine-one-one,” I explained. “Everyone came. Police, fire, ambulance.”

  “I know. Shaw called me.”

  “Oh,” I said. So why was she asking me?

  “Joe was a good guy. He was old, but . . .” Her breath hitched. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

  “Did he have any allergies?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Were you close?”

  Her shoulders slumped. “I visited most weekends. And in thanks he left me his house and a comic shop I can’t sell and will now be forced to run.”

  “His house?” I never should have let Charlene flimflam me into raiding it. I drummed my fingers on the table.

  “It’s a run-down Victorian. God knows how much it will cost to renovate. And some jerk broke into it last night.”

  “Really?” I squeaked. “Was anything taken? Do the police know who did it?”

  “I can’t tell. The police were useless.”

  “So why can’t you sell his store?” I asked, anxious to change the subject.

  “Want to buy a comic shop?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “That’s why.”

  “But why do you have to run it?”

  “I’ve been unemployed for
two years now. Strangely, the market for herbalists is glutted in California. A house for me is here. A business is here, and I’ll make that comic shop turn a profit or die trying.” She frowned at her pie.

  “Have you ever run a comic shop?”

  She shrugged. “I spent enough time in it with Joe. The accounting is easy enough. His employees are comic geeks—they’re familiar with what sells.” She took a bite of pie. “This is good, by the way.”

  “Thanks.”

  Charlene waved frantically at me from the kitchen. What was she doing here, again, twice in one afternoon? Watching to make sure I didn’t spill the beans? Beans! I’d forgotten to put a vanilla bean into the strawberry-mascarpone mixture.

  I rose. “If you need anything, let me know.” Leaving it to Joy to decide if I was referring to food or comfort, I hurried through the swinging door.

  Charlene grasped my arm and pulled me into my office. Whipping off her cloche hat, she shook loose her snowy hair. “Did you tell Petronella anything?”

  “And you say I’m obsessed with Pie Town. Your shift ended hours ago.”

  “Did you say anything to Petronella?”

  “What would I tell her?”

  “Nothing. She’s a good girl. I wouldn’t want to get her mixed up in the conspiracy, not after last night. The fewer people we tell, the better. I realized something when I was looking at the casebook this morning.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. So murder and burglary wasn’t enough for Drama Queen Charlene, and it was a conspiracy now? “What did you realize?”

  “It’s not in Joe’s handwriting.”

  “And that means . . . ?”

  “It’s Frank’s casebook, not Joe’s. Frank must have written up the cases in the book before he died, and Joe took his book for some reason.”

  “Nostalgia? As a memento mori?”

  Her eyes flashed. “I’ll bet Joe investigated the last cases in honor of Frank.”

  “It’s hocus-pocus. You can’t twist the facts to fit your theories.”

  “Why not?”

  “Charlene, if you believe the casebook has to do with Joe’s death, we need to confess and give it to the police.”