“Why not?”
“You’ve got Frederick.” I reached over and scratched the cat’s head, resting on her shoulder.
Frederick yawned.
“So assuming I kick off in a blaze of glory,” Charlene said, “then I’ll have a Viking funeral. A flaming boat, sinking into the sunset.”
“That’s got to be illegal.”
“It’s my dying wish!”
“You’re not dying.”
“It’s important to plan ahead,” Charlene said. “Joe was good about that sort of thing. Poor man. His spirit won’t rest easy with a murderer at large, and tonight was a complete bust.”
“Not complete. We’ve proved Joe was here on a stakeout only a few weeks ago. He thought enough of the case to sit on that cliff on a foggy night.” We hadn’t seen anything tonight, but he might have witnessed something important and not told Miss Pargiter.
I turned the VW onto Highway 1. The headlights behind us followed, vanishing into the stream of cars. “What do you think of Miss Pargiter’s hearing? Could she be imagining the footsteps?”
“Joe didn’t think so.”
“What if the burglar was looking for something in Joe’s house aside from the casebook?”
Charlene gave me a hard look. “That burglar tried to get it away from us. But if you insist on checking Joe’s house for more clues, I’m always up for a spot of B and E.”
“B and E?”
“Breaking and entering.”
I tugged at my scarf. “I thought it wasn’t breaking in if we had the key. Besides, his niece is living there now. At least, I assume she is. She told me she inherited the house.”
“Did she now? She’s awfully free with her information when talking to the woman who might have killed her beloved uncle.”
“I’m not a murder suspect.” But I pressed deeper into my car seat and wondered if Charlene was on to something. “Joy told me she wasn’t exactly happy about inheriting the comic shop.”
“She ought to be happy. That place is a gold mine.”
A pickup zipped behind us and flashed its high beams. It whipped around my Bug, buffeting the car with its wind.
“Really?” I asked.
“Are you kidding? Those Silicon Valley engineers love their comics.”
“But we’re not in Silicon Valley.”
“We’re close enough. And Joe’s comic shop has got a name. It’s the comic shop on the Peninsula. The engineers come here for the comics and stay for the microbrewery.”
I smiled. It had been ages since I’d been to the microbrewery. Not since Mark and I had broken up. I wondered if they still made those beer-battered artichoke hearts.
“Pie Town’s getting a name too.” Her lips pursed. “Or at least it was until Joe’s death. Now it’s getting a different sort of reputation.”
“Between us and the police, we’ll figure this out.” My grip tightened on the steering wheel. If this went on for much longer, Pie Town wouldn’t survive.
“It feels right,” she said, “carrying on in Joe’s name. The new Baker Street Boys. We’ll have to think of a new name though.”
“How about the Baker Street Leftovers?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Do you always think in terms of food?”
I checked the mirror. There was no one behind us. “Yes.”
Dropping Charlene off at her house, I returned to Pie Town and spent a restless night dreaming of empty booths and bank accounts.
* * *
I was not bright eyed and bushy tailed the next morning. Not that it mattered. Unwanted pies filled the glass display case, unused coffee cups sat upon the tables, unoccupied bar stools bellied up to the counter.
I’d told Hannah not to bother coming in today and hadn’t bothered to turn on the big oven. On the bright side, I now had plenty of time to design my coupons.
Petronella slammed into the kitchen, her black hair spiking into the air. “Will those gamers just order something? All they do is hog up the booth and drink coffee.”
“Yeah, I feel I should reward their loyalty. They do buy pie.”
“Not enough.” She folded her slim arms across her apron. The pink and white blazed against her black T-shirt.
“I’m going to talk to them.”
Her eyes widened, and she clutched my arm. “You can’t. They’re gamers. They’re not like you and me.”
“Pie is the great equalizer.”
“Nooooo.”
Exiting the kitchen, I approached the gamers’ booth. Four shaggy heads huddled over a table littered with books and papers and dice.
“You can’t do that,” one of them said.
I cleared my throat. “Hi.”
Four pairs of eyeballs swiveled to regard me.
“Is there anything else I can get you?”
They stared, a frozen tableau of gamers.
“Some pie? On me?”
“Seriously?” the bearded redhead asked.
“Seriously.”
They looked at each other, wary. “Usually no one comes to the table,” the redhead said. He seemed to be their leader.
“Business is a little light today. You don’t have to eat anything. Stay as long as you want. I only thought, since it’s so slow, and since you’re here so often, I might offer you all a free slice of pie. As a thank you.”
“Well, cool! I’ll have a cherry,” their spokesman said.
I took their orders. The bell rang above the door, and I turned. Officer Carmichael strode to a window booth. He sat and set up a computer on the table.
I knit my lip. What would he say about the mysterious casebook?
“Hssst!”
I looked to the kitchen.
Beside Petronella, Charlene stuck her head through the window and made a shooing motion toward the cop.
The clock over the counter read noon. Charlene had left work hours ago. What was she doing at Pie Town? Again?
Ignoring her, I glided to his table. “Hi, Officer Carmichael. How are you?”
He frowned at his computer. “I thought you didn’t take table orders.”
“Desperate times. Desperate measures.”
“Then I’ll try a mini curry-chicken potpie.”
“Sure thing.” I hesitated, then headed to the kitchen.
Petronella and Charlene sidled up to me as I passed through the swinging doors into the kitchen. “Well?” Charlene asked.
“He wants the curried chicken. The gamers’ orders are a little more complicated.” I handed Petronella the gamers’ ticket. She nodded and walked into the kitchen.
“I don’t care about the cop’s dining choices.” Charlene adjusted the hem of her black yoga jacket. “What did he say about the murder?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Well, find out. You’ve got a police officer right there sitting in your booth, and a good one, too.”
“A good booth?”
“A good cop!”
“I thought you said he was new here. Why do you think he’s any good at his job?” Heading into the kitchen, I grabbed a curried potpie from the center island and stuck it in the toaster oven to warm.
Charlene trailed behind me. “He may be new to the SNPD, but he grew up in San Nicholas. Carmichael moved away for college and never looked back, until now.”
“You seem to know a lot about him,” I said.
“His parents were always yammering about how smart he was, which was really annoying. But he couldn’t help being son to Mr. and Mrs. Bragalot.”
I eyed her. No one could accuse Charlene of boring the populace with tales of her far-off daughter. Time might heal the wound between them, but how much time did Charlene have left?
“Fine,” Charlene said. “I’ll admit he was a smart kid. Driven.”
“Why do you guys care about that cop?” Petronella asked. “He talks to himself, and he’s always hanging around here.”
I had no good answer for that. “Why are you here?” I asked Charlene.
“I forgot to collect my paycheck.”
I looked at the cooling racks, laden with pies that wouldn’t be sold, and my stomach knotted. Pie Town had finally managed to break even the month before Joe’s death, but I’d eaten through all my resources to get there. Now my pie shop was at square one—worse than square one. We’d had more customers when we first opened than I did today.
Someone rapped on the back door, and Petronella went to open it.
“What’s wrong?” Charlene asked in a low voice.
“Nothing.” I smiled tightly. “Your check is in my office. I’ll get it.”
“I can wait,” she said. “Now go and gather some intel.”
“Charlene, he can’t talk about an ongoing investigation. Not with me.”
“Would that have stopped Magnum? Now get out there. All he can say is no.”
“Or ‘you’re under arrest.’”
“For being a concerned citizen? Nonsense.”
The timer dinged, and I removed the potpie. “Good-bye, Charlene.” I swished out the swinging doors into the dining area. A cup of coffee sat at Carmichael’s elbow, so at least he was down with the self-serve concept. I slid the pie onto the table. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.”
I hovered, trying to figure out a casual way to slip in my questions, and wondering why my blood seemed to be fizzing.
He looked up. “Is anything wrong?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Not about the Pie Town case. Even if I could talk about it, I’m not on it.”
My cheeks warmed. I’d known he wouldn’t talk to me. “Is that what they’re calling it?”
“No comment.”
“I heard someone tried to break in to Joe Devlin’s house the other night.”
“Can’t talk about it.”
I slid into the seat opposite him. “Do you know Miss Pargiter?”
His green eyes crinkled. “My kindergarten teacher?”
“Possibly,” I said. “She’s been having trouble with nighttime trespassers. She told me that she’s called the police station repeatedly, and they’ve told her it’s kids and not to worry about it. But it’s unnerving for her to hear people in her yard, especially so late at night.”
One corner of his mouth edged down. “And the dispatcher told her not to worry about it? Or was it another police officer?”
“She didn’t say. But Miss Pargiter’s a little eccentric. Maybe the police aren’t taking it seriously for good reason.”
Petronella entered the dining area, a tray of pie slices balanced on one hand. Shooting me a curious look, she placed the pies before the gamers.
“I haven’t taken any of her calls,” he said, “but I’ll ask around.”
“Thanks.” I returned to the kitchen.
Charlene waited for me inside the swinging doors and followed me into the kitchen. “Well?”
“He couldn’t talk to me about the case.”
“You were talking about something.”
“Miss Pargiter’s trespassers.” I leaned a hip against the sparkling, stainless steel countertop. It should have been dusted with flour, Hannah and I bumping shoulders as we filled pies. I sighed. There was no sense baking if no one was buying.
“Nice job, Mata Hari. Now Carmichael will talk to Pargiter, and he’ll know we’re investigating Joe’s death. Then he’ll report us to Shaw. And if Shaw doesn’t arrest us for murder, he’ll throw us in the clink for impeding an investigation, and then Joe’s murder will never be solved.”
“But if she’s having trouble with trespassers, we can’t do anything about it aside from call the cops.”
Charlene threw up her hands, her mouth twisting in disgust.
The bell rang above Pie Town’s front entrance, and my heart leaped. Another customer! “Excuse me.”
“You’re only going to spoil them with all this service,” Charlene said.
Ignoring her, I walked into the dining area.
Joy stood in the entry, a long, camel-colored coat draped over one arm. A matching purse dangled from her hand. Tossing her black hair over her shoulder, she marched to Officer Carmichael’s booth and stuck out her hand.
“I’m Joy Devlin,” she said in that flat voice, “the new owner of the comic shop next door.”
He shook it, his expression wary. “Carmichael.”
“May I join you?”
“Sure.”
Petronella gathered up some empty coffee cups from the gaming table and walked into the kitchen, shaking her head.
I strolled to Carmichael’s booth. “Charlene’s warned me I’m spoiling everyone with table service, but there’s not much else to do today. Nice to see you, Joy.”
“They told me Joe died from a heart attack brought on by castor bean poisoning,” she said, “and it couldn’t have been from anything he’d consumed here. Even if it had been, normally the castor beans wouldn’t have killed him. Not that fast. I guess Joe had a bad heart.”
“Castor beans?” I asked.
“They?” Carmichael asked.
“Detective Shaw,” Joy said. “He wanted to know if my uncle was into any alternative medicines. But Joe was more of a better-living-through-science type of guy.”
Carmichael’s lips pressed into a white slash. He bent his head to his computer.
“Did he say anything about the break-in at Joe’s house?” I asked.
“Since nothing was taken, he said it’s low on their list of priorities.”
“But . . . it might be connected to your uncle’s murder!”
“Shaw didn’t think so,” she said. “He said thieves will strike the empty houses of the recently deceased, and news of Joe’s death got around town pretty fast. Can you believe people could be so awful?”
“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t believe the break-in was a random robbery.”
Carmichael gave me a look, his green eyes piercing. I shifted to face Joy.
“You might want to submit a press release,” Joy said, “so the rest of the town knows what really killed my uncle.”
“Don’t,” Carmichael said. “The less the killer knows about the investigation, the better.”
Frustrated, I scrubbed a hand across my face. “Look around. This is ruining me.”
“It’s important,” he said.
I knew he was right, but civic duty was falling fast on my list of priorities. “Fine,” I said in a strained voice. “Can I get you anything, Joy?”
She looked at the chalkboard above the counter. “How’s the mini pumpkin potpie? Aren’t pumpkins out of season?”
San Nicholas was a big pumpkin-producing town. The full-grown pie, baked in a pumpkin shell, was a big hit during the season. But it was early March, and fresh pumpkin was three months in the rearview mirror. “I froze some pumpkin, which I realize makes it sound not as good, but it’s yummy in the potpie. Until I run out, it’s my Wednesday special.”
“I’ll take one,” she said.
“Coffee’s on the counter.” I nodded toward the urn and returned to the kitchen, thinking hard. They weren’t taking the break-in seriously. Would anything I could tell them change that? I couldn’t wait and hope. I had to do something.
Carmichael hadn’t seemed happy about Joy’s knowledge of the poison. Had Shaw messed up? As heiress to the comic shop and house, Joy should be a suspect. Maybe she had an alibi that put her out of the picture, but I’d read enough mystery novels to understand that the benefit of poison as a murder weapon is delay. The killer doesn’t have to be on the scene when the victim drops. He could sneak poison into something the victim usually ate or drank—such as a castor bean into a bag of coffee beans, waiting to be ground. What did castor beans look like anyway? And even if the real cause of death was a heart attack, if it had been triggered by castor bean poisoning, it was still murder.
Charlene waited inside the swinging doors, tearing open an envelope. “I found my check.”
“Good.”
“What did he say
?”
“He didn’t. Joy told me her uncle was poisoned with castor beans, but he died from a heart attack.”
“Nasty. That’s what they make ricin out of.”
“Where did you learn that?”
“The Internet.”
“There’s something else. You were right, they don’t think the break-in at Joe’s is linked to his murder.”
“Like I said, it’s up to us, my girl.”
“But if I tell Detective Shaw the burglar wanted the casebook—”
“I already told him. You keep your mouth shut, missy. It’s bad enough Joe is dead. I don’t want to spend my golden years visiting you behind bars for withholding evidence. Do you have any idea what prison is like? Gang fights and shivs and trading cigarettes for favors.”
“If he didn’t arrest you, he won’t arrest me.”
“You sure of that? Shaw thinks I’m old and harmless. What’s your excuse?”
“Youthful stupidity?”
“What else did Carmichael say?” she asked.
“Not to tell anyone that Joe was poisoned with castor beans.” An order I’d just violated. Striding to the rack of potpies, I weighed Joy’s mini-potpie in my hands. It was still warm from when I’d baked it this morning.
She stuck her tongue in her cheek. “Makes sense. If the killer thinks Pie Town’s being blamed, he might drop his guard and make a mistake.”
Which meant Pie Town wouldn’t be cleared until someone caught the murderer. Dammit. “We should check out the mysterious lights on the docks next.”
“You should go talk to your ex about the library board and that bloated blond.”
“I saw Mark yesterday,” I said. “It will make him suspicious if I see him two days in a row. The docks make more sense.”
Charlene sighed. “You can’t avoid him forever. I’m surprised you’ve avoided him as long as you have.”
I wasn’t. My world was Pie Town. Mark knew it and avoided my shop, which was his loss. I sniffed. The pumpkin potpie’s sweet/spicy mélange mixed with the other kitchen scents, and my stomach rumbled.
Leaving the pie at their table, I strained my ears for other nuggets of crime-solving info. But Joy sipped coffee, asking Carmichael about the local business association. Meh. Passive listening was not going to cut it if I was going to be a successful Baker Street Leftover.
I grimaced. Charlene had been right. That name was no good.
The Quiche and the Dead Page 9