“It’s kind of you to say ‘we.’ I’m the one who took the book. I’m the one who dragged you into this mess.” She sank against my metal desk, her shoulders slumped. “Do you really think Shaw will listen to anything I have to say? When he looks at me, all he sees is a useless old fool. Maybe he’s right. I used to live an interesting life. We all did. And then Joe and Frank were reduced to their little club, and I’m . . . I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Charlene . . . That’s not . . . You’re not useless.”
She blew out her breath. “Useless or not, there’s no sense in feeling sorry for myself. If Shaw won’t take Joe’s death seriously, I owe it to him to bring him justice.”
“The police are on this. Shaw’s investigating Joe’s death as a possible homicide.”
“He thinks someone in Pie Town accidentally slipped cyanide into Joe’s meal.”
“Shaw did mention negligent homicide,” I admitted. Was she right? Was Shaw so fixated on human error that he was blind to an actual murder?
“You should have heard him questioning me. ‘Aren’t you a little old to be working with the public, Mrs. McCree?’”
“But—”
The bell above the entrance tinkled faintly.
“A customer?” Charlene asked.
“Doubtful.” Today had been awful.
The counter bell pinged.
“Excuse me.” I scuttled from my office to the order area and felt the blood drain from my face.
My ex, Mark, stood jammed between two bar stools, his blue suit bunching up against the counter. He ran a hand through his dirty blond hair, trying to tame the shock that always seemed to drift out of place.
I itched to brush it back and clenched my fists, jamming them into my apron pockets.
A middle-aged blond standing next to Mark spoke to him in a low voice. He bent to hear her, laughed.
Another man examined an empty coffee cup. Bullnecked and bald, he wore jeans and a polo shirt, and looked to be in his midfifties. I knew him from somewhere, but I couldn’t place him. He wasn’t a customer—I’d have remembered that.
I cleared my throat to mask the frenzied banging of my heart. “Welcome to Pie Town. How can I help you?”
Mark turned.
I tried to look surprised. “Hi, Mark. What are you doing here?” My voice wavered, and I twisted my mouth into a smile.
“Hi, Val.” He studied a plastic menu. “The place looks great.”
“Thanks!”
“Have you, uh, got a minute?” he asked.
I glanced at Joy, my lone, nongamer customer. She took a thoughtful bite of her strawberry-rhubarb.
“You’ve caught me on a slow day.” And because I couldn’t bear to look at my ex-fiancé, I stretched out my hand to the blond. “I’m Val Harris.”
We clasped hands, hers cool and loose in mine. Her smile was brisk. “Antheia Royer.” She motioned to the man beside her. “And this is Jack Sharp.”
Mark’s face turned a shade darker. “Sorry, I should have introduced you. Antheia’s on the library board with me. Jack’s on the town council.”
“Chairman. And that makes me mayor this year.” Sharp shoved his large hands in the pockets of his jeans, multitasking a bicep flex at the same time.
“Oh, right. San Nicholas has a rotating mayorship.” I glanced at Mark. “When did you join the library board?” My hands bunched in my white and pink apron. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Now he’d think I cared. But Frank’s casebook had mentioned the library board in the Case of the Bloated Blond. And last night’s burglar had seemed interested in that casebook. Could Antheia be the blond? The burglar had struck me as bulky, but beneath the right loose-fitting clothing, Antheia might fit the bill. So could Mark for that matter. Or the mayor. Charlene was right. What was the point of telling the police about the burglar when I had nothing helpful to say?
“I joined a couple months ago,” Mark said, his expression cool. “A lot has changed for us both, since . . .” He pulled his shoulders back. “I heard about your murder.”
“My murder?” My voice snapped an octave higher.
“The papers haven’t said anything about a murder.” How could the autopsy be finished? Because my mother had been under fifty when she’d died, the state had required an autopsy. It had taken weeks before I was allowed to bury her. If Joe’s was a potential crime, maybe his autopsy had been fast tracked. But if the police suspected murder, wouldn’t they have been more heavy handed with me?
Sharp shot Mark a warning look. “That’s unofficial.”
My stomach clenched. I couldn’t deny it any longer. The burglar, the cops . . . It was murder, and that meant Pie Town might be deserted for a lot longer than a day or two, even if my food wasn’t responsible. I didn’t want to think about what it meant that Charlene and I were holding possible evidence—the casebook—or that the person we’d run into last night might be the killer. On the bright side, he might have been a run-of-the-mill sleazebag, looking to take advantage of an empty house.
“Are you here for a pie?” I asked.
“Uh, no,” Mark said. “We were passing by, and I wanted to stop in. I know you have a five-year lease—”
“You should, since you negotiated it,” I said.
“And I’ve got another client who would love to take it over.”
Dizzy, I braced my hands on the pink countertop. I knew my presence made Mark uncomfortable. But I wasn’t staying in San Nicholas to annoy him. Leaving would mean losing Pie Town. Mark understood that. “Pie Town opened five months ago.” My voice was steady. Good. “We’ve been doing well, but I’m not ready to expand to a new location yet.”
Mark leaned across the counter and dropped his voice. “Val, I understand what this place means to you, but there’s no shame in starting over somewhere else. This is a small town. People aren’t going to forget a murder in your pie shop. Get out now while you’ve got an offer on the table.”
“Joe might have died here,” I said, stung by the betrayal, “but his death had nothing to do with Pie Town.”
Joy looked up from her pie.
“Did you know that Joe and his friend, Frank, liked to investigate funny little cases around town?” I asked, all business. Who cared if Mark couldn’t stand to see me in San Nicholas? After all, our relationship was over. But maybe the mayor could help us talk to Shaw, convince him the casebook should be investigated.
Mayor Sharp laughed. “What jokesters those two were.”
“Jokesters?” I asked.
“Their ridiculous cases. Well, when you get older, I guess you need something to keep busy.”
Or maybe the mayor wouldn’t help. I slogged onward. “Before he died, Joe was investigating a case having to do with someone who worked on the library board. He called it the Case of the Bloated B—” I stopped. If the blond in question was Antheia, I didn’t want to be insulting. “I can’t remember. Did you know him, Antheia?”
She glanced at Sharp. “We were both members of the San Nicholas Business Association. You should join.”
I nodded. “Did he ever talk to you about—”
“It sounds like you and old Joe were buddies.” Mark fiddled with his cuffs.
“We were neighbors,” I said. “You know how it is. He came in here nearly every morning for coffee, but so did a lot of people. And when the police figure out what happened to Joe, my customers will return. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a slice of pie?”
Sharp patted his washboard abs. “I don’t do sugar. But good luck, Val. San Nicholas needs small businesses. I hope to see you at the next association meeting.”
“I’ll be there,” I lied, plastering on a smile. I enjoyed chatting with customers, but networking? No thanks.
Mark pushed his business card across the counter to me. “If you change your mind about the lease.”
I glanced at the shiny card. Mark’s photo smiled wistfully at me from one laminated corner. He had a new mobile number, but he couldn’t have made the
change because of me, since I never called him. Our contacts had been limited to monthly, unsuccessful e-mails from me asking to get my stuff out of his storage locker. He always found reasons not to be available. At this point, I wasn’t sure why I even bothered. I had nowhere to put my things anyway.
“Thanks for stopping by,” I said, and watched them leave.
Joy strolled to the counter and poured herself a cup of coffee. “I couldn’t help overhearing—since you were practically shouting—do you really think my uncle was killed over one of those cases?”
“No. I mean, I’m not sure. No. I just wanted to get them out of here. Was I shouting?”
“Speaking loudly. If it makes you feel any better, your ex looked pretty hot under the collar too.”
“Did he? How did you know . . .” I trailed off, my toes curling. Small town. Was there anyone in San Nicholas who wasn’t in on our breakup?
She lowered her head, gazing at me over her glasses, and stirred sweetener into the coffee. “Joe told me about his cases. I’m not even sure they qualified as petty crimes.”
“Did the police tell you they suspected foul play?” I asked.
“They were careful not to tell me much of anything, aside from the fact the investigation is still ongoing, and I can’t bury my uncle yet. I learned more in fifteen minutes at Pie Town than an hour at the police station.”
“They’ve been cagey with me too.”
“It’s obvious they think something’s wrong, but murder?” Joy asked. “That’s got to be idle gossip.”
“But this gossip came through the chairman of the town council.”
Joy’s brows crumpled downward. “I shouldn’t think the cops would be reporting to the town council on investigations. Have you got a box? I think I’ll take the rest of the pie to go.”
Sliding a flattened cardboard box from behind the counter, I unfolded it. I loved my retro, pink boxes with their white script, an inversion of our logo, even if I’d spent way too much time designing them.
Was Mark right? Was today’s drop in customers more than a blip? Had San Nicholas marked Pie Town for death? One thing was for sure—the longer Joe’s demise remained unsolved and unexplained, the longer my pies would remain unsold.
A lump swelled in my throat. I’d put everything I had—all my savings, all the money from my mother’s life insurance—into Pie Town. I couldn’t lose the pie shop, couldn’t fail. I’d be failing her all over again.
“Are you okay?” Joy asked.
“Fine.” I smiled and boxed the rest of her pie. “Seriously, if there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”
“Thanks.” Tossing her ponytail, she strode outside.
I walked into my office. A good coupon, that was what Pie Town needed. Buy one pie, get the second half off? No, who wants two pies at once? Maybe a 10-percent-off coupon. Or even 25 percent. I halted in my office doorway.
Charlene snapped a photo of my beast of a wedding dress, which had somehow found its way back to the bookcase. She shuffled away, pursing her lips. “Forget everything that happened last night,” she said, not looking at me. “You’re innocent in this, and it was wrong of me to drag you into my troubles. Consider our investigation over.”
“Does this mean you’ve decided to take the casebook to the police?”
“I don’t know what I was thinking”—she waved her hand, lethargic—“that I could be some hotshot detective? Shaw’s right. I’m past it.”
“Shaw actually said that to you?” I asked, indignant.
“I called Shaw and told him everything, everything but your involvement. He wasn’t interested.”
“What?”
“He told me Joe’s cases were a joke, and it was my bad luck to run into a burglar.”
“But . . . the burglar wanted the casebook!”
“I told him that, but as he pointed out, I couldn’t really prove it.”
“But I was there too. I saw it. I’ll call him.”
“Forget about it, Val. The only reason I’m not in jail is he thinks I’m feeble. If he learns I covered up your involvement, he’ll only get suspicious. Of you.”
“But—”
“He knows everything he needs to know, and he doesn’t care. It’s over.”
Oh, no it wasn’t. Pie Town was empty. Joe was dead. Charlene was giving up. It was wrong, all of it. “The casebook, did you bring it with you?”
She clutched her phone to her chest, forehead wrinkling. “No. What do you want with it?”
“I think it deserves another look.”
Chapter 6
I turned the sign in the window to CLOSED. Outside, fog grayed the rooftops. Sunset wouldn’t be far behind and neither would Charlene. She’d promised to return with Frank’s casebook.
Joining Charlene as the newest Baker Street Boy was probably a cosmically bad idea, but I was all out of good ones.
I unlocked the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. A chill wind blew through me, carrying salt and damp, and I shivered, clutched my arms. Turning the key in the lock, I hurried down the cracked sidewalk toward the comic shop. I halted beneath an ornate streetlamp. A shiny, new, brass arrow proclaimed: FINE DINING. It pointed away from Pie Town.
Was the universe conspiring against me? Where did that arrow come from? It was likely pointing to that fancy new seafood place and not intended to imply Pie Town was less than fine. But I wondered how I could get an arrow that said Pies. I should have thought of this myself.
Shaking my head, I walked into the comic shop. Heat blasted me as I entered.
A shaggy-haired blond with broad shoulders and a beer gut looked up from behind the counter. “Hey,” he said.
“Hi.” Could he have been the one who’d broken into Joe’s house? I didn’t think last night’s burglar had such a round stomach, so I was probably safe. But I edged between the racks, putting distance between us.
I wandered the gray-carpeted aisles, past shelves of gilded action figures and plastic-wrapped comics arranged in cardboard bins like old records. Thumbing through a bin, I picked up a comic featuring a teenage vampire killer. If I was going to ingratiate myself at the comic shop, I had to buy something, and this beat the other muscle-bound superheroes.
I walked to the counter, laying the comic beside the register. From high on the wall behind it, a row of villain masks glowered.
The clerk grunted. “Good one.”
“Thanks. Have we met? I’m from Pie Town.”
His cornflower-blue eyes lit. “The pie shop? Man, we were so happy when you opened up.” He patted his gut. “I had to cut back though. I’ve got a weakness for cherry pie.”
“You’re not alone.” And now I would segue into a subtle but incisive question about who might have killed Joe.
And I had no idea how I was going to do that. “I’m sorry about Joe. He was a good guy.”
“Yeah.”
“You must have known him well.”
“He was the boss.”
I tried again. “Some people are saying he was murdered,” I said.
He rang up my comic. “Murdered? No way.”
“But I suppose everyone has enemies.”
The clerk gave a short laugh. “Joe? Enemies? Who?”
“That’s a good question.” I handed him a fiver. “Who do you think?”
“I don’t. I mean, whenever a customer got annoyed, Joe would figure out a way to smooth it over. He was really good with that. Want a bag?”
“Sure. Did customers get annoyed often?”
“Comic book readers are lovers, not fighters. I mean, sure, they’ve got fantasies about being bad-ass superheroes—who doesn’t? But inside, they’re teddy bears.”
“Did Heidi ever come into the shop?” Maybe she’d slipped some arsenic into Joe’s coffee as part of a dastardly plot to put Pie Town out of business.
“Who?”
“Heidi. From the new gym next door.” Okay, maybe that theory was over the top. But was it so wrong to want her to
be the killer?
“Oh, the hot blond.”
I straightened. Wait, the gym owner had come in? She hadn’t struck me as a comic book person. Maybe she did have some secret, dark relationship with Joe, and—
“Nope,” he said. “She never came in here.”
I slumped. Rats.
He handed me my change, then slid the comic into a white, paper bag and laid it on the counter. “Enjoy the vampire slaying.”
“Thanks.” How had Joe managed his investigations? So far, the only thing I’d uncovered was that I was a terrible detective, and that was no surprise. But I had one suspect—Joe’s niece and comic store heiress—and I was on the case. “Is Joy available?”
“Joy?”
“Joe’s niece? The new owner?”
“Oh, yeah. Miss Devlin. Yeah. She’s here.” He stood rooted behind the counter.
“May I see her?”
“Oh. I guess. Wait a second.” He vanished into a back room.
Maybe it wasn’t me. Maybe this kid was just a tough nut to crack. Oh, who was I kidding? If I couldn’t even interrogate a guy selling comic books, I had no business looking into Joe’s death.
Joy emerged from the back room, rubbing a palm into her eye. “Who . . . Oh.” She slid her glasses from the top of her head onto her nose. “Hi, Val. What are you doing here?”
I raised my plastic bag. “On a quest for reading material. I was closing up and thought I’d drop in, see how things were going.”
“Come on in.” Turning, she disappeared into the back room.
Cautious, I followed. Boxes teetered in cobwebby corners and atop dusty, metal cabinets. Joy sank into an executive chair behind a scarred, wooden desk. She motioned me to a folding chair, and I sat.
“Rough day?” I asked.
“Joe had things well organized.” She sniffed. “But it’s weird going through his stuff without him.” She picked up a man’s tweed cap and laid it atop an old-fashioned, ten-key adding machine. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with half the things in the house.”
“Do you have to do anything right away?”
“No, I guess not.” She nudged a mechanical pencil with the tip of her finger, and it rolled across the desk. Stooping, she opened a drawer, pulling out a bottle of brandy and two shot glasses. “Want some?”
The Quiche and the Dead Page 6