“Okay.” I didn’t, but I could see that Joy did.
She poured the shots and handed me a glass. “To Joe.”
“To Joe.”
We clinked glasses. I shot back the brandy and choked down a cough.
She relaxed into her chair, and it creaked beneath her. “I’m still trying to wrap my brain around the idea that Joe might have been murdered. The police wouldn’t give me a definite cause of death, but they’re keeping Joe’s body. They must think his death isn’t natural. Is it possible?”
“It looks that way.” Joy had been awfully quick to tell me she wasn’t thrilled by her uncle’s inheritance—a case of the lady protesting too much? But would someone kill for a comic shop and an old Victorian?
“Who would have wanted my uncle dead?” she asked.
“We didn’t exactly talk enemies lists.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Starting up a business. Baseball. I can’t believe he was an A’s fan.” Oh, hey. Who was interrogating whom here?
“Me neither, but that was Joe.” She poured two more shots. “To baseball.”
Gulping it down, I winced. The more I drank, the more she’d pour. I gripped the shot glass between my hands, trying to hide that it was empty. “Did your uncle mention any enemies?”
“No. Oh, there were plenty of people he didn’t like—mostly politicians, but everybody hates them.”
“He didn’t say anything about the new gym, by any chance?”
“The gym?” One corner of her mouth moved ever so slightly. “My uncle wasn’t a gym person.”
Okay. Enough about Heidi. It had been a desperate idea anyway. “What about those cases he investigated?” I asked.
Joy’s lips quirked in a tight smile. “His little two-man club was a fine excuse for him and Frank to drink beer and make up stories.”
“Make up? So they didn’t conduct investigations?” I looked at the stained linoleum floor and chewed my lip, disappointed. Maybe Shaw had been right to dismiss Charlene’s confession.
She raised a brow. “I think the point of armchair investigating is not leaving the chair.”
That didn’t bode well for Charlene’s theory that someone killed Joe over a Holmes-style case. But the burglar had seemed interested in the casebook. Or throttling me.
I eyed her. Last night’s burglar had looked bulkier than Joy, but I wasn’t sure I could trust that impression. And what if she had an accomplice? On the other hand, why would she need to break in to her uncle’s house? She had every right to be there.
“It must have been an accident,” Joy said. “Maybe my uncle ate something he shouldn’t . . .” Meeting my gaze, she flushed.
I sucked in my cheeks, my temperature rising. “You’ve got no reason to believe me, but there was nothing wrong with that quiche. There’s nothing poisonous in Pie Town’s kitchen.”
“You’d have to be the stupidest criminal ever to poison my uncle in your own pie shop. Besides, the police searched your kitchen for poisons after he died.”
“Where did you hear that?” I asked.
“Detective Shaw told me, and that they hadn’t found anything toxic.”
My face tightened. “That’s more than Shaw told me.” And it seemed to knock out his negligent homicide theory. Was someone at Pie Town a suspect, or did Shaw simply enjoy watching me twist? I dragged my fingers through my hair, pulling loose my chignon. “I hope that detail makes it into the papers.”
“You haven’t read the local news today, have you?” She reached into her giant, leather purse on the floor and pulled out a rumpled newspaper. Unfolding it, she slid it across the desk toward me.
DEATH AT PIE TOWN, the headline shrieked. “Page one,” I said weakly. Scanning the article, I sprang from my chair. “They interviewed Heidi? That . . . How could she?” I choked on a dozen ripe swear words, because when you’re in the hospitality industry, you have to learn not to curse.
Nothing in the article said that a pie had killed him, but the article was carefully worded to insinuate our guilt. The nail in the coffin was Heidi’s lecture on Killer Sugar.
My hands trembled, and a loose insert slid to the floor. I bent to pick up the glossy sheet, an ad for Mark Jeffreys Realty, complete with that stupid photo. Folding the insert, I stuffed it inside the newspaper. “I’m surprised you ordered a pie.”
“I grabbed that newspaper after I left. But I know your kitchen is innocent.”
Rising, I shook my head. “After this article, you’re the only person in San Nicholas who will believe that.”
“I’m not sure if anything in there is actually libelous,” she said.
I groaned. “It doesn’t matter. Even if it was libel, I couldn’t afford to sue.” I checked the byline—Chet Atkinson, one of Mark’s buddies from high school. No wonder Mark thought I was prepping to flee the scene. I held up the newspaper. “Can I keep this? I want to show it to my piecrust specialist, Charlene.” My crust maker knew this town. She might have some ideas for handling the negative publicity. I considered asking Mark for help with his journo friend and dismissed the idea. Mark didn’t want anything to do with me unless I was signing over a lease.
Joy raised a brow. “Charlene? Charlene McCree? Is she your piecrust person?”
“Best in five counties.”
“You are aware that she’s nuts?”
“What do you mean?”
She barked a laugh. “You’re kidding. She’s been working for you, and she hasn’t buttonholed you about Roswell yet?”
“Who’s Roswell?”
“You’ll see.”
“How do you know Charlene?”
“She and Joe were friends. I think they even went out on a couple dates. Trust me. Nuts.”
I shifted my weight. “Um, you do mean she’s nuts in a delightfully eccentric way, not poison-in-the-piecrust way?”
She lifted a brow. “You’ll see.”
Chapter 7
Newspaper beneath my arm, I returned to Pie Town and locked up behind me. Light from the overhead lamps glinted off the countertops, the empty booths, the checkerboard floor. Devoid of customers, the dining area seemed less whimsically retro and more past its sell-by date. Fog pressed against the windows. Drawing the blinds, I shivered and hurried to my office.
Charlene, seated in my chair, looked up from my desk. The white cat around her neck yawned.
I yelped and scuttled backward. “What are you doing in here? And with your cat!?”
“I’ve got a key.” She lifted her chin, her mercury curls quivering. “And Frederick gets lonely. Don’t freak out, we didn’t go through the kitchen. Wouldn’t do to have cat hair in the quiche.” She cackled.
Was Frederick lonely or my widowed piecrust maker? Whatever the case, she looked more cheerful than she had that afternoon. “How did you get a key?”
“Well, I didn’t want to wait outside, not when there’s a murderer lurking about.”
Which didn’t answer the question, but at least she wasn’t wearing her cat burglar attire. In spite of Frederick, she looked suspiciously staid in a prim white blouse, tailored gray jacket, and straight skirt. “And why are you dressed like an insurance agent?” I asked.
She handed me the leather-bound casebook. “I’ve been going through Frank’s notes, thinking of our plan of attack.”
“Charlene, I spoke with Joe’s niece today—”
“You did? Good! I’m glad to see you’re taking the dragon by the horns.”
“Don’t you mean ‘bull’? And do dragons even have . . . ?”
Charlene glared at me over her glasses.
Never mind. I handed her the newspaper, folded to the DEATH AT PIE TOWN article. “Have you read this?”
“Why would I? No one believes anything in that rag. It’s filled with lurid tabloid tosh.”
“But Pie Town was practically empty today.”
She scooted the chair around the desk and looked me in the eye. “Exactly. That’s why we need to
solve this crime.”
I shook my head, throwing in the dish towel on penetrating her circular logic. “Joy said none of the cases were serious, but—”
Charlene wagged a gnarled finger at me, her brows lowering. “At least one was deadly serious. Joe didn’t tell his niece everything, because he didn’t want to worry her. People get up to all sorts of skullduggery in this town.”
I sat against the desk, dislodging my stapler. “Skullduggery?”
“Not to mention mayhem.”
“But . . . San Nicholas is boring!”
“That’s why they do it.”
“Augh.” Tucking my chin, I batted the casebook against my forehead.
“I think we should tackle the Case of the Mysterious Lights and the Mystery of the Thudding Footfalls,” Charlene said. “We’ll interview the witnesses tonight. The Case of the Whispering Wanderer is a dead end. All we’ve got there is the case title—not a single note. We’ve no idea what that one’s about. Tomorrow, you can use your feminine wiles and tackle your ex-fiancé at the library board and that handsome policeman about the Case of the Bloated Blond.”
I dropped the casebook to my lap. While I could lattice a piecrust like nobody’s business, I was no PI. “I don’t have any feminine wiles! I’m wileless. And, ew . . . I’m not talking to Shaw unless I’m confessing I was in Joe’s house with you. He’s a jerk.” And there was no way I was going to Mark for help. He’d only think I was trying to get back together. There were so many bad, bad things that could happen if I went to him for help. What if I got misty? Or started having feelings for him? Or he thought I had feelings for him? Ew, ew, ew.
“Don’t bother talking to that idiot Shaw. It won’t do any good. I was referring to that Carmichael fellow who had lunch in here this afternoon. He’s sweet on you.”
“Officer Carmichael?” I ran my thumb over the casebook’s binding. “No. He’s just doing his job.”
“Sitting in the window eating lunch for all to see, at a restaurant accused of poisoning its patrons? It was a thoughtful gesture. And he wouldn’t do it if he wasn’t interested in you.”
I rubbed the nape of my neck, my cheeks tingling. “He’s probably nice to everybody. And how did you know he was here? You’d already left.”
“It’s a small town. People talk.”
“He might have been eating lunch here because he was suspicious. Maybe he’s part of the investigation.”
“He’s a beat cop.” She jabbed an invisible opponent with a gnarled fist. “All rough and tumble, life on the mean streets. Murder investigations are kicked upstairs to the likes of Shaw, and that’s our mutual problem.”
“Well, if I see Officer Carmichael again, I’ll ask if he’s heard anything. But I’m pretty sure he’ll say it’s confidential.”
She arched her brows. “And your weasel realtor of an ex-boyfriend?”
“He’s not a weasel.” I cradled Frank’s casebook to my stomach.
“He’s a realtor.”
“There’s nothing wrong with realtors.”
Frederick’s tail curled on her blouse.
“So are you going to see him tomorrow or not?” she asked.
“Not. It would be weird.”
Charlene banged her fist on the desk, rattling the pencils. “Joe’s dead! Pie Town’s at stake! Not to mention our freedom!”
“Charlene, there was nothing wrong with our pies. Officer Carmichael told me so.”
“Ah-ha! So he does have a soft spot for you!”
“But you can’t tell anyone about the quiche. It’s confidential. The point is, we’re off the hook.” I didn’t like that Shaw thought Charlene had been alone in Joe’s house. If I weighed in, would he pay more attention? He hadn’t listened earlier when I’d told him about the casebook.
“But Joe’s still dead,” Charlene said, “and the cops will never find out who killed him the way they’re going. Now are we going to investigate or not?”
“Fine,” I huffed. “We’ll investigate.”
Standing, Charlene ripped Frank’s casebook from my hands and opened it, flipping the pages. “Here we go then. The Mystery of the Thudding Footfalls. Miss Pargiter is being plagued with trespassers. She lives on a cliff over the ocean—”
“Probably kids.”
“What?”
“If she lives near the beach,” I said, “it’s probably kids.”
“No, it isn’t. I said she lives over the ocean, not over the beach. You can’t swim around those cliffs. There are rocks and tides and no sand at all. So I’ve called and told her we’d visit her tonight.”
“And is that why you’re dressed like an insurance agent?”
She smoothed the front of her blouse. “This is the attire of a professional investigator. Do you expect me to wear a deerstalker hat and smoke a pipe like Joe?”
I grinned, delighted by the image. “Did he really?”
“I told you, he was deadly serious about his investigations.”
“Because a deerstalker hat doesn’t sound deadly serious.”
She lifted a parka from the back of my chair and shrugged into it. “Stop your bellyaching and put a jacket on. It’s cold out, and we’ve got an investigation. Someone killed Joe, and someone wanted that casebook enough to break into his house.”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean, maybe?”
“Maybe it was just a regular burglar, and when he saw we had the book, he thought it must be valuable, so he wanted it too.”
She stared at me. “Seriously?”
“Fine. Sorry. You’re right. But I want to check something first.” I slid the laptop across the desk and typed poison bad taste in mouth into the search engine.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Joe said he had a weird taste in his mouth. I’m trying to see what poisons might have caused it.”
“So?”
But there were too many possibilities. “Strychnine, arsenic, bad mushrooms, castor beans—”
“Forget that for now. We’re burning moonlight.”
“Fine.” I grabbed a sky-blue peacoat hanging from the corner of the bookcase and put it on. Why was I still in denial? There was a chance that casebook was a part of his murder. Even if it wasn’t, I couldn’t let Charlene investigate on her own. She might break a hip. And I’d liked Joe too.
“Better take a scarf as well. It’s a damp night.”
Going into the closet, I pulled a suitcase from behind my mattress and dug out a thick, cable-knit scarf.
“And a hat,” Charlene called.
And a matching hat. I wrapped up, pulling the hat low.
“Mittens might not be a bad idea either,” Charlene said.
“I don’t have any mittens.” Backing out of the closet, I swung a messenger bag across my shoulder.
“No mittens? How can you reach the ripe age of twenty eight—”
“How do you know I’m twenty-eight?”
“It’s on your driver’s license.”
“How did you see my driver’s license?”
“How can you not have any mittens?”
“I’m from Southern California, and stay out of my wallet.” I strode out of the office and through the kitchen to the rear entrance.
“Well, you’re in Northern California now. Find yourself a pair of mittens. Or gloves. Or even fingerless gloves. Though I prefer my fingers covered. Have you seen those fingerless mittens with the little flaps that convert them to real mittens when it’s cold?”
“Yes.” I opened the door.
An eerie whisper floated through the alley, raising the hair on the back of my neck. I stopped short, and Charlene bumped into me. “Do you hear that?” I said in a low voice.
“Hear what?”
A garbage can lid rattled.
“Crimmmmminal.”
I cocked my head, listening. Garbage cans clattered. “Someone’s out there.” I darted into the alley, stumbling to a halt near Charlene’s dented Jeep. If there was
someone in the alley, did I want to confront them? I clenched my fists. Yes. Yes, I did. I wanted my control back. I owned a pie shop, and I was in charge, dammit!
Another hiss drifted through the chill air, and I whipped around, trying to track its source.
I didn’t see anyone in the alley, but it was dark and there were cars and garbage cans and dumpsters to hide behind. Heart thumping, I edged around the Pie Town bin.
A raccoon waddled past.
Charlene braced a hand on her Jeep. “See, it’s only a raccoon. Now, I might have a knitting pattern for mittens. Do you knit?”
“No.” Element of surprise gone, I checked behind another dumpster.
Nothing.
Locking Pie Town’s alley entrance, I strode to my VW. I opened the passenger door for her.
She edged away. “How old is this car?”
“Um, I’m not sure.” It had been my mom’s, and she’d gotten it used.
Shaking her head, Charlene got inside. “Well, at least it’s dark. I’d hate for anyone to see me in this wreck.”
Sighing, I turned the ignition. The Bug rattled to life. “Where are we going?”
“Drive north on Highway One.”
I piloted the VW down Main Street. Restaurant windows glowed, inviting, through the fog. We crossed the old bridge over the creek, and I paused at a stop sign, beside a barnlike nursery surrounded by a tumble of flowers. If I moved into Charlene’s tiny house, I could have a garden.
“You drive like an old woman,” Charlene said.
“You are an old woman.”
“I’m in the prime of life. Besides, I’ve been told by reputable sources that I’m ageless.”
“Uh-huh.”
“At least I drive decisively.”
“It’s dark, and it’s foggy. I don’t want to hit anyone.”
“No one’s out walking in this weather. And if they are, they’ll hear you coming. When’s the last time this car’s had a tune-up?”
Three blocks later, we were on Highway 1, winding up the coast. At least, I assumed the coast was there. I couldn’t see more than ten feet past my headlights in the thick fog.
“Make a left up ahead.”
I slowed, peering through the windshield. “Where?”
The Quiche and the Dead Page 7