The Quiche and the Dead

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Here!”

  I turned hard, bumping over the edge of a grassy divider. The tires rolled onto smooth pavement, and I relaxed my death grip on the wheel.

  Charlene directed me along winding, residential roads. My headlights illuminated a spooky-looking Victorian with an intricate porch railing. Dark cypresses brushed against the green-painted house. Their spiky branches trailed greenish gray, old man’s beard over its gray, gabled roof.

  I parked in the gravel beside the picket fence. “The kids must love this place on Halloween.”

  “Not really.” Charlene stepped out of the Volkswagen and shivered. “Miss Pargiter’s creepy. Some say she’s eccentric, but I say she’s nuts. And she smells funny, like old people do.” The cat draped around her neck sneezed. “Plus, last Halloween she gave out raisins.” Making a face, she giggled. “I’ll bet she had a devil of a time getting that toilet paper out of her tree!”

  I walked down the dark path, shells crunching beneath my sneakers, and did not ask if she’d TP’d Miss Pargiter. I was starting to understand the ignorance-bliss mind-set.

  Something struck the front of my left shoulder, and I gasped, slamming backward.

  “Watch that lamppost,” Charlene said.

  “Ow.” There was a freaking lamppost in Miss Pargiter’s front yard. Painted black, it was little wonder I hadn’t seen it. The four light globes branching from its top were unlit.

  Rubbing my shoulder, I followed Charlene up the porch.

  She knocked on the front door.

  Inside, a light flicked on. Floorboards creaked, as if someone shuffled across them. Something skittered in the nearby bushes, and my shoulders twitched.

  “What did I tell you?” Charlene asked. “Creeeeeepy.”

  Frederick yawned, exposing his pink tongue.

  “It would be a little less creepy if the porch light was on.”

  The door flew open, a squat figure in bulky knits silhouetted against the light. The cord from a hearing aid curled from her right ear. “What!”

  “Miss Pargiter?” I asked. “I’m Val Harris. Charlene called and said we’d be stopping by?”

  Adjusting her glasses, the white-haired woman looked Charlene up and down. “I don’t need any more insurance.”

  “We’re here about the trespassers,” Charlene shouted. “You remember? This is Val. The one with the wedding dress?”

  “The one who was left at the altar by the football player?” Miss Pargiter squinted at me. “She doesn’t look like a sap.”

  “I wasn’t at the altar,” I said. “And I’m not a sap. What . . . Charlene, what have you been saying about me?”

  “Tweeting.” Charlene shrugged out of the parka, managing not to dislodge the cat around her neck.

  Frederick’s whiskers twitched.

  “And if you followed me on Twitter,” she said, “you’d know.”

  “All right.” Miss Pargiter stepped back. “You can come inside.”

  I took a breath and took the plunge, following Miss Pargiter into a blue-wallpapered hallway. It overflowed with knickknacks, the walls lined with old family photos. My shoulder brushed against an overloaded coat tree. It tilted, and I lunged, grabbing it before it could hit the parquet floor.

  “Watch yourself,” Miss Pargiter said.

  I fumbled with the coats. They slipped off the tree, coats hooked atop parkas hooked atop sweaters, and all wanting to slither to the floor.

  “Speaking of watching yourself, why don’t you turn that light on in your yard?” Charlene asked.

  “I can’t. Bulbs are burned out.”

  “Would you like me to replace them for you?” I asked, finally getting the coats straightened.

  “No. Want some raisins?” Miss Pargiter nodded toward a tall end table holding a bowl filled with tiny raisin boxes.

  “No, thanks.” I examined one of the photos on the wall. A young man and woman sat on the railing of what looked to be this house’s porch. They grinned, heads together.

  Charlene rolled her eyes. “Raisins,” she said in a low voice. “She’s cracked.”

  I frowned at my piecrust maker. “We came from the pie shop,” I said loudly.

  Miss Pargiter spun around. “Oooh, where Joe Devlin got killed? Nasty business. These are dark days in San Nicholas. Not like when we were young, eh, Charlene?”

  Charlene’s lips pinched. “Some of us still are young.”

  “Ha!” Hobbling into a living area, Miss Pargiter navigated sofas and chairs and tables overflowing with bric-a-brac. Big square windows, blackened by night, faced west. “Sit anywhere.”

  “If you can find a place,” Charlene muttered. Shifting a stack of National Geographics, she dropped into a faded lounge chair.

  “I’ll stand,” I said. “Charlene mentioned you were having problems with trespassers?”

  Miss Pargiter squished between two piles of stuffed animals on a plaid sofa. “If you call Bigfoot a trespasser.”

  I stepped back, staring, and my calf struck a low end table. “Bigfoot.”

  “Well, it might not have been Bigfoot, but it was big.”

  Charlene leaned forward. “As big as a jaguar?”

  I made a face at my piecrust maker. Again with the jaguars?

  “No,” Miss Pargiter said, “this was loud. Jaguars are stealthy, like big cats.”

  Charlene slapped her thigh. “Jaguars are big cats!”

  “Forget the jaguars,” I said. “What did you hear, and when did you hear it?”

  “I hear it on nights like these.” Miss Pargiter looked to the window, an ebony square against the night. “It comes out of the mist, like those pirates in that movie.”

  “The Fog?” Charlene asked. “Good movie, but the remake sucked.”

  I clenched my jaw, skull buzzing. I’d done it again. I’d let Charlene suck me into another tidal wave of topsy-turvydom. “Thank you, Charlene. That’s helpful. Miss Pargiter, did Joe Devlin come by within the last month or so and ask you about these sounds you heard?”

  “Sounds I’ve been hearing. They keep coming. And yes, he was here three weeks ago, poor man. Do you think he was killed because of my trespassers?”

  The burglar had been interested in that casebook for a reason. Could Joe’s death have something to do with Miss Pargiter’s mystery?

  “What did you tell him?” Charlene asked.

  “It comes on foggy nights. Big thumps and crashing. But when I go outside, there’s no one there.”

  “You go outside?” My brow wrinkled. “But if it is a trespasser, isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Not with Betsy. I always keep her loaded.” She reached behind the couch and drew out a long, metal barrel.

  Sucking in my breath, I pulled away and eyed . . . a weed whacker. “That’s a weed whacker.”

  Miss Pargiter grinned. “Metal tipped. Look.” She swung it toward me, and I ducked behind an overstuffed chair stacked with newspapers. A breeze passed above my head.

  “Oh!” She laughed. “Sorry. I’m not used to whacking people.”

  I cleared my throat. “Was there anything else you told Joe?”

  “Not told him, no. But I showed him my trampled bushes. He even staked them out that night, but he said he didn’t find anything.”

  So much for sticking to the armchair. Joy had either been wrong or lying. And Joe’s investigation here had been recent enough that it might indeed be connected to his death. Had he witnessed something he shouldn’t have?

  “We’d like to see where Joe held his stakeout.” Charlene rose majestically from her chair and slipped into her parka. “Where Joe went, we go. No stone left unturned.”

  Miss Pargiter’s smile widened. “I’ll bring Betsy. You’ll be perfectly safe.”

  “Oh,” I said in a small voice. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Nonsense!” She patted the weed whacker. “Betsy and I are a team.”

  We followed Miss Pargiter outside, the crush of the ocean waves sounding through the dark
ness. Invisible ants marched up my spine, and I glanced across the street. Fog obscured the house on the opposite side. Was someone watching us? Shaking my head, I buttoned my peacoat, turning up the collar to shield my face.

  Charlene nudged my arm. “A stakeout’s not a bad idea. This is the sort of night the jaguars would be on the prowl.”

  I stumbled over a tree root. “There are no jaguars in San Nicholas.”

  She minced down the brush-covered slope. “Fine. We’ll call it Bigfoot.”

  “And there’s no Bigfoot either.” A pine branch whipped me in the chest, stinging, and I wheezed. We should have brought flashlights. But silly me, I hadn’t known we’d be trekking through the woods on an arctic, foggy night.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Charlene said. “The Bigfoot sightings have all been inland, in the mountains around Shasta.”

  “That’s not true.” Miss Pargiter’s voice wavered through the fog. “There’ve been sightings in the mountains by Santa Cruz. That’s not far south of here.”

  “Bigfoot isn’t a creature of sand, sun, and sea,” Charlene said. “He prefers the shade and solitude of the mountains and forests.”

  “There are mountain forests five miles east of here,” Miss Pargiter called from somewhere in the blackness.

  “She’s right.” I pushed beneath a sticky tree branch. “The tiny house you showed me is in a lovely mountainy area. I’m really looking forward to moving in.”

  “When the job’s done,” Charlene said.

  “Now mind the cliff.” Miss Pargiter’s disembodied voice floated through the fog.

  I stepped into air.

  Charlene grabbed the collar of my peacoat and hauled me backward. “Mind the cliff, she said!”

  I clutched my chest, breathing hard. Waves crashed beneath me in the darkened void. Oh. My. God.

  Miss Pargiter appeared at my elbow. “There used to be a fence, but . . .” Whistling, she made a diving motion with her hands.

  “I remember this place,” Charlene said. “When I was a child, I used to run here at night with my friends, imagining pirates, ghosts, and monsters. It seemed bigger then.”

  “It was bigger,” Miss Pargiter said. “I’m losing a few inches of cliff to erosion every year. Someday my house will be in the ocean, but not before I’m long dead.”

  “Where are these trampled bushes Joe was interested in?” I asked.

  “You’re standing in them,” Miss Pargiter said.

  I looked around. My eyes had begun adjusting to the dark, but I wouldn’t be able to detect any broken branches or footprints until daylight. Footprints! I smacked my head with my palm. We’d likely trampled those too. Not that it mattered. Bigfoot hadn’t killed Joe, and neither had a jaguar. This was one colossal waste of time.

  Charlene sat on a tree stump. “Pargiter, go get us some coffee to keep warm. Val and I are on a stakeout, and it’s going to be a long night.”

  “I’m not your serving girl.” Miss Pargiter sniffed.

  “I don’t think we need to stay here all night,” I said.

  “Fine then,” Charlene said. “You can return to your snug office closet and your comfy, cozy mattress on the floor.”

  Charlene played hardball.

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I sat beside her on the stump. “We do have to open Pie Town in the morning.”

  “The noises usually come around midnight,” Miss Pargiter said.

  “There you go. We only have to stay here”—Charlene checked her watch, its blue light illuminating her craggy face—“five more hours.”

  My chin sunk to my chest. Pulling my scarf higher, I buried my nose in its soft wool. Since we’d taken my car, I could force the issue and drag Charlene off. But that seemed low-down. Someone had killed Joe, and if it was over one of his cases, then we had to see this through. I jammed my hands into my pockets.

  “Told you, you should have brought mittens,” Charlene said.

  “I’m going to wait inside.” Miss Pargiter disappeared up the hill, her footsteps fading.

  A specter of fog spiraled past. Above us, a clawlike branch swayed, creaked. My skin prickled. Could Joe have seen something in the fog that had gotten him killed? “We could wait inside too,” I said. “If Miss Pargiter could hear the trespassers from her house, why can’t we?”

  “We’re following in Joe’s footsteps, and Joe waited here.”

  A gust of wind spattered my face with mist. I pulled my knit cap lower. It was going to be a long five hours.

  Chapter 8

  “Val.”

  A talon grasped my shoulder, and I jerked awake, sliding off the tree stump to the ground.

  “What?” I shook my head, groggy. The fog cocooned us in chill and dark, but the time I’d spent studying the backs of my eyelids had improved my night vision. A cypress tree loomed above us, its branches reaching over the cliff, toward the ocean crashing below.

  I stood and wiped the seat of my jeans. My palms came away sticky. I should have known there’d be sap on that tree stump.

  “Someone’s coming,” Charlene whispered. Around her neck, Frederick’s fur stood stiff, his blue eyes wide.

  A stick snapped. A thin stream of rocks and dirt rattled down the hill.

  Pulse rabbiting, I looked for a place to hide and spotted a low juniper bush. “Quick, under there,” I hissed.

  Charlene grabbed my sleeve. “I’m not hiding in a juniper. They make me itch.”

  The footfalls grew heavier.

  “We don’t have time—”

  A roar cut through the air. Charlene shrieked and dodged behind me, gripping my shoulders.

  Light blinded me, and I squinted, shielding my face with my arm.

  The light dropped.

  Blinking, I rubbed my eyes.

  Miss Pargiter stood before me, weed whacker whirring in her hand. Her lips peeled into a snarl. “What are you doing here?”

  “Miss Pargiter?” I edged backward. “It’s Val and Charlene. We’re on a stakeout?”

  “Oh. Right.” She lowered the weed whacker.

  A plastic blade thwacked the hem of my jeans, and I yelped. “Turn off the weed whacker!”

  “I heard someone out here.” Miss Pargiter cut the battery and silence fell, punctuated by a backbeat of ocean waves.

  Charlene emerged from behind me. “Pargiter! You know we’re the ones out here.”

  “Of course you are. I heard someone else.”

  “Then you’re hearing things,” Charlene said.

  “Did you surprise Joe when he was on a stakeout?” I asked.

  “I might have given him a start,” Miss Pargiter said. “I was bringing cocoa!”

  Not for us, I thought sadly. “Okay. Thank you. If we learn anything more, we’ll be in touch.” Stiff necked, I lurched up the hill, one foot skidding on the loose soil. This had been a fool’s errand from start to finish.

  “Val! Wait!” Charlene hurried after me.

  “I think we’ve solved this mystery,” I said. “It’s late. I’m cold. I’m going home to Pie Town.”

  “Joe thought enough of this problem to stake out Miss Pargiter’s cliff.”

  “Miss Pargiter attacked me with a weed whacker!”

  “That’s not much of a weapon.”

  “It’s metal tipped,” Miss Pargiter said.

  I raised the hem of my jeans, displaying the tear in my cuff.

  “It’s almost midnight,” Charlene said. “Let’s stay a bit longer.”

  “We’ve made enough noise to scare off any trespassers,” I said.

  “She’s right, Char.” Miss Pargiter hung her head. “I’m sorry. I blew your stakeout.”

  “That’s all right,” Charlene said. “We’ll return on the next foggy night.”

  I ground my teeth. Oh, no we wouldn’t. Figuring out who killed Joe was one thing. But the solution to that mystery did not lie in Miss Pargiter’s backyard. No house was worth this, even if it was an adorable jewel box with an ocean view.


  “Don’t you worry,” Charlene said. “We’ll find out who’s terrorizing you.”

  Rubbing my sticky hands on my jeans, I stopped beneath a cypress tree. “Is that how you feel, Miss Pargiter? Scared?”

  “Well, it’s not very nice, knowing someone’s out and about who shouldn’t be.” Her voice wobbled. “I’m all alone in that house. Not even a cat.”

  Charlene patted the sleeping Frederick. With the cat as a neck warmer, little wonder she hadn’t complained about the cold.

  Miss Pargiter clutched the weed whacker to her chest. “I’ve called the police, over and over, and they tell me it’s kids and not to worry. But whoever it is, they’re in my yard. What if one of them fell off the cliff? What if they’re not kids at all?”

  My chest squeezed with guilt. “Okay. If someone’s out there tonight, I think we’ve scared them off. But we’ll come back, and closer to midnight next time, so we don’t have to spend quite so much time out in the cold.”

  “I’ll make hot cocoa.” Smiling, Miss Pargiter pinched my cheek.

  We saw her inside the Victorian. She waved at us from the window, and we piled into my VW. Buckling up, we puttered off, creeping through the fog.

  Headlights flashed behind us. Squinting, I adjusted my rearview mirror.

  Charlene tsked. “She’s lonely. When you get old, your friends start dying, and young people don’t want to talk to you. She should think of sharing a house with other women her age, or going to one of those independent-living facilities.”

  I glanced at the piecrust maker. Was Charlene lonely? Was this the real reason she’d dragged me into her madcap detecting these last two nights? “At least Miss Pargiter is still mobile and independent.”

  “For now. Did you see how she was leaning on that weed whacker? I think it’s more crutch than weapon.”

  I frowned. No, I hadn’t noticed that. I glanced in the rearview mirror. The car’s headlights had fallen back. I pressed the accelerator, speeding up.

  “If I ever go the way of Miss Pargiter,” she said, “I want you to put me on an ice floe and push me out to sea. Let the elements have me. I’ll be one with nature, floating.”

  “There aren’t any ice floes in California, and you’ll never be like Miss Pargiter.”