The Quiche and the Dead

by Kirsten Weiss

  Bless the lad and his selective memory. He remembered the fateful quiche, but not that it had been accused of killing a man. “Do you guys want one?”

  His stomach growled.

  “I could make a breakfast pie,” I said, “but it will take an hour.”

  He hustled back to the table and conferred with his fellow dragon slayers. They nodded. “We can wait,” he said.

  “Maybe with bacon?” I asked.

  They agreed, enthusiastic, and I motored into the kitchen. Fortunately, I was a breakfast person. I had enough bacon, eggs, and Gouda cheese for a pie. And of course, plenty of piecrust at the ready.

  I let a few strips of bacon fry while I whisked eggs, spices, and milk in a bowl and thought about Joe. Frank’s notebook bothered me. Why had Joe held on to it? For nostalgia? Or had he suspected something had been wrong with Frank’s death? It seemed an odd coincidence that the two Baker Street Boys had died within a month of each other. A memory niggled at me. I mentally reached for it, but it slipped away.

  Setting the bowl on the metal counter, I diced green onions, shredded cheese. The motions soothed me, as they always did. Bacon crackled, its scent filling the air. I checked the pan. The bacon looked nicely crunchy. Laying the strips on a paper towel to drain, I added to the egg mixture cheese, onions, and the bag of uncooked hash browns. The latter had somehow ended up in the walk-in refrigerator rather than my freezer, and the mistake worked in my favor. They needed to be thawed for this recipe, and these spuds were already soft. I dumped the mixture into a pie pan, lined with one of Charlene’s crusts.

  Dusting off my hands, I slid the pie into an oven and set the timer.

  Joe’s buddy, Frank, had died at home, but the details eluded me. Maybe there was some information in the online paper. I walked to my office and flipped open my laptop. Online, I found a short obituary, saying he’d died at the age of seventy-nine after a fall down the stairs in his home. His death could have been an accident. Or not.

  I rubbed my forehead. I’d been spending too much time with Charlene. Everywhere I looked now, I saw treachery.

  I drummed my fingers on the metal desk. The obituary also mentioned Frank had been survived by a daughter, Tandy Potts. I remembered pressing her hand at the funeral, but we hadn’t spoken. A Web search of her name turned up lots of mentions, but no addresses or phone numbers. Charlene would know if she was local. I reached for the phone and snatched back my hand. Did I want to get Charlene involved?

  The oven timer pinged. Hurrying to the kitchen, I slid the quiche from the oven and wove the remaining, uncooked bacon on top, making a lattice. It smelled fantastic, a cheesy, bacony, buttery blend, and my stomach growled. Would the gamers be willing to share?

  Brushing maple syrup over the bacon, I reminded myself I wasn’t hungry. I put a pie shield over the crust and returned the quiche to the small oven, raising the temperature and setting the timer.

  I needed to learn more about Frank’s death. Mark wasn’t going to help me, and even if he was willing, I wouldn’t ask. Not after our last encounter. Though I still wanted my stuff back, especially the giant spiral fossil a friend had brought me from Morocco. I really liked that fossil.

  I shook my head. Forget the table decor. I could ask Officer Carmichael about Frank, but then he’d guess I was looking into Joe’s death. Apparently, law enforcement frowned on outsider involvement in investigations.

  There was a shout from the diner. “Aw, come on! My orc can’t be dead.”

  I leaned one hip against the counter. I could ask Joy. She’d seemed down with my amateur sleuthing. Which was odd, since the two proper reactions to amateur sleuthing are laughing or running.

  Joe might have talked to his niece about Frank’s death, and Joy was right next door in the comic shop. Besides, maybe she’d stumbled across her uncle’s casebook. If Frank and Joe had been murdered, the killer had been inside both of their homes—someone they knew? Joe was smart. He wouldn’t let a potential killer inside, unless that killer was someone he trusted, someone like his niece. Maybe the killer had planted the castor beans in Joe’s kitchen before he’d had time to grow suspicious. Or maybe Joe hadn’t been suspicious of anyone, because he hadn’t been investigating Frank’s death.

  This was all speculation. Great galloping gum boots, I was turning into Charlene.

  The oven timer pinged from the kitchen.

  Removing the quiche from the oven, I tilted it carefully to pour off the bacon grease, then set it on the cooling rack. The bacon lattice had pulled away from the edges, making a perfect circle atop the pie. I sighed, inhaling, and my muscles relaxed. Bacon makes everything better. Beneath the lattice, the quiche—sorry, breakfast pie—was golden yellow and firm to the touch. Maybe I should branch out into breakfast? Sell quiche by the slice like my other pies? Mini-quiches?

  I blew out my breath. If I didn’t turn things around, I wouldn’t be baking anything. Pie Town would close, and I . . . I had no idea what I would do. There had never been a plan B. Everything I possessed had gone into plan A.

  I tasted something sour in my mouth. By my estimates, I had a month to get Pie Town back on track before I’d be visiting my lawyer about bankruptcy proceedings. After that, I’d have to throw myself on Mark’s mercy and see if he could get me out of the lease. The thought turned my stomach.

  When the quiche was cool enough, I cut it and brought it to the table with a stack of plates.

  The gamers shoved aside their books, papers, and dice.

  “The pie tin is still hot,” I warned, sliding trembling slices onto the plates.

  They watched, unspeaking. Candied bacon has that effect on people. “If you like Pie Town,” I said, “tell a friend. I could use the business.”

  The redhead forked a bite of quiche into his mouth. His eyes rolled back. “Genius,” he mumbled. “Where did you learn to bake?”

  I paused, surprised. The gamers usually didn’t engage in conversation. “My mother. Most of the recipes are from her family, Pennsylvania Dutch. The others she modified from old magazines. She was always trying out new recipes.”

  He tucked into his pie, and I left, feeling I’d been dismissed. But in a good way. I had a great product. Now if only I could get more customers in here to taste it.

  Officer Carmichael stopped by for lunch, claiming his window booth and ordering a beef potpie.

  Feeling weightless, I brought him the steaming, mini-potpie and his glass scraper. I scooted onto the seat across from him, my jeans squeaking on the pink faux leather.

  “Your neighbor has said she’ll keep an eye out for any vandals,” he said.

  “Who? Oh. Great. Can I ask you a question?” After all, I wasn’t investigating. I was asking questions. There was no law against questions, was there?

  “That depends on the question,” he said.

  “Joe and his friend, Frank Potts, had some sort of Sherlock Holmes club. They solved cases together, from their armchairs. Frank died a month ago, and now Joe’s dead, murdered.” My heart beat faster. I wasn’t admitting to having the casebook, but I had to make sure the police were on the right track.

  “What’s your question?”

  “Do the police think there’s a connection?”

  “Do you think there’s a connection?”

  “The thing is, Charlene showed me one of Frank’s casebooks—”

  “Are you playing detective? Because if you were, I’d have to tell you that you could be guilty of impeding an investigation.”

  My mouth went dry, and I pressed one hand to my heart. “No! That’s crazy talk. I heard some things and am reporting them to you, so the police can look into them.”

  “I’m not the investigating officer. If you know anything, you should tell Detective Shaw.”

  I must have made a face, because he continued, “Shaw’s not that bad.”

  Shaw didn’t seem that good either. “Charlene told detective Shaw about the casebook. He wasn’t interested.”

  “The
re you go then.”

  “I heard Frank fell down the stairs,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “In his home.”

  “Yes.”

  Well, namaste, Mr. Talkative. I met his gaze. “He and Joe met here for coffee every morning. When Frank died, it really upset Joe. Do you think he could have been investigating Frank’s death?”

  “If you have any information, you need to talk to Shaw.”

  I looked at my hands, palms flat on the Formica tabletop. Should I call Detective Shaw to back up Charlene’s story about the burglar grabbing for the casebook? The last time I’d encountered Shaw, he’d practically accused me of murder. “I don’t think Detective Shaw wants to hear anything from me.”

  “He wants to close this case.”

  “Charlene doesn’t think much of him.”

  His lips quirked. “Charlene doesn’t think much of anyone. Shaw did peg Joe’s death as a possible homicide, and he was right.”

  And a little too quick? Joe was elderly. The signs of poison hadn’t been obvious. He could have had a seizure. Why had Shaw jumped to the death-by-poison solution?

  “What’s wrong?” Carmichael asked.

  “Nothing.” I slid from the booth. “I’ll talk to Shaw. Enjoy the pie.”

  * * *

  The gamers left at four o’clock, and I closed the shop. No one else was coming to Pie Town today. Heat warmed the back of my eyelids, and I rubbed my face.

  I wandered down the sidewalk to the comic shop. Pale young men in saggy clothes browsed the aisles. Joy sat behind the counter, gnawing on a pen and staring at a laptop computer screen.

  “Hi, Joy.”

  She pointed to a far corner with her pen. “Action figure sale is over there.”

  “It’s me. Val.”

  Looking up, she brushed a chunk of black hair behind her ear. “Oh. Sorry. How’s business? I would have come by for lunch today, but . . .”

  “You can’t eat pie every day. It’s okay. I get it. How well did you know Frank Potts?”

  “Joe’s buddy? Not very well. Why?”

  “Doesn’t it seem weird that Frank would die falling down the stairs, and then someone poisoned his fellow investigator a month later?”

  “Maybe.” She ground the tip of her pen into the wooden counter. “What’s your point?”

  “Frank and Joe kept casebooks, notes on their investigations. Have you found any of your uncle’s? If he’s got notes on Frank’s death, then that means he thought it was suspicious too. Maybe he was investigating.”

  She gave me a long look. “I found some old notebooks in his office. Come on.” Rising, she turned toward the back office.

  “Um, you’ve got a few customers.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I can come back later.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll be in the back room,” she yelled. “Steal anything, and I’ll rip your throat out.”

  We seemed to have differing philosophies on customer service. “Or you can do that.” I hurried after her.

  The office looked as I’d seen it last, boxes stacked in the corners. For a supposedly organized guy, Joe had a disaster zone of an office.

  Hands on the hips of her gray slacks, Joy stood in the center of the cramped room and turned. “I saw them in one of those filing cabinets.” She pointed at a set of dented cabinets, piled high with boxes and bracketing a copy machine. “You take that one.” She wove around a garbage bin to another tall set of metal drawers.

  Wary, I edged toward the cabinet, my eyes on the teetering boxes. If Joy was plotting my death by comic books, it would be an easy sell in this mess. I tugged on a drawer. It stuck, and the boxes on top wobbled. I pushed the latch, tarnished by decades of fingerprints, and slid open the drawer. It was filled with manila folders. I opened the drawer beneath and the one below that.

  “Here they are,” Joy said.

  Gently, I slid the drawer back, eyeing the boxes quivering above me, and edged away.

  She handed me a classroom style, spiral-bound notebook.

  I flipped through its pages. They dated back years, cases of lurkers in bushes (the grocer, sneaking a smoke), stolen surfboards (unsolved), and lost dogs (returned to owners unharmed). They read like stories, and I chuckled over the Mystery of the Footsteps in the Garden. “This is too old,” I said. “We need his recent cases.”

  “I think this is it.” She handed me another flimsy notebook. As in Frank’s book, the case details were sketchy—the Case of the Thudding Footfalls, the Case of the Harbor Lights, and the Case of the Bloated B. Why hadn’t he spelled out blond? Had Joe a less flattering word for Antheia Royer? It was a good bet the B didn’t stand for Baker. I flipped forward to the fourth Chapter heading. Two words: Frank Potts.

  Heart racing, I flipped through the rest of Joe’s casebook. It was as empty as Frank’s had been. “He was investigating Frank’s death, or at least he thought it was worth investigating.” I frowned, hunching over the book. “But there are no actual case notes.”

  “He only wrote up the notes after the case was solved.”

  “But there was a case.” Something fluttered beneath my breastbone. “Frank Potts was a case. Frank might have been murdered too.”

  Chapter 13

  Joy hung up her office phone. An overhead fluorescent flickered.

  “What did Shaw say?” I asked.

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her glasses glinting in the light from her orange, seventies-era desk lamp. “He thanked me and said he’d keep it in mind.”

  “He doesn’t want to see the casebook?” I slumped in the folding chair.

  “He didn’t ask for it.”

  “But, that’s . . .” I sputtered. Shaw wasn’t taking this seriously.

  “Look,” Joy said, “Shaw told me Frank’s death was an accident.”

  “Your uncle didn’t think so.” I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “We’ve done all we could. We’ve given Shaw the information. If he thinks it’s worth following up on, he will.”

  Yeah, if he thought it was worth it, and it seemed he didn’t. I rose. “Right. My duty here is done. Um, can I borrow this book?”

  She hesitated. “I’ve got a photocopy machine. I can copy the pages for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  It didn’t take long. There were only four pages to copy.

  Photocopies in hand, I said good-bye and walked to my car, parked in the alley behind Pie Town. Shaw was an idiot. I got into the car and locked the doors. Could I take this to Officer Carmichael? Maybe, but he was beneath Shaw in the chain of command. And as he’d told me, it wasn’t his case.

  Frank had been a case, and my mind dizzied at the ramifications. Had someone killed Frank because of Antheia or mystery lights or Miss Pargiter’s trespassers? And what about the Whispering Wanderer? That wasn’t in Joe’s book, only Frank’s. Or had someone killed Frank for another reason? There were six cases now, and I wasn’t sure where to start. The Baker Street Boys had been busy.

  I started—Antheia. She had called Joe a Baker Street Boy. She knew more about his investigating than she’d admitted. And my questions about Joe had unnerved her. They said poison was a woman’s weapon. Maybe pushing an old man down the stairs wasn’t outside the realm of possibility for her either. Antheia wasn’t bloated, but she was no waif. She could manage it, especially with surprise on her side. My hands tightened on the wheel. She was either guilty, or she knew something. We needed to talk.

  * * *

  I pulled up beside Antheia’s house, a craftsman-style bungalow painted moss green with white trim. A wooden sign was stuck in her front yard, and I sucked in my breath, half expecting to see Mark’s grinning realtor mug. But the sign advertised her legal services.

  The front windows were dark, impossible to see inside. I checked my watch. Five-thirty. Was confronting a potential murderer a good idea? The answer to that was easy: no. Was I going to do it anyway? The VW’s metal frame ticked, cooling, contracting
. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel.

  Yes.

  I reached for the car door handle.

  No.

  I pulled away and folded my hands in my lap. At the very least, someone should know where I was before I leapt into the proverbial breach. Sighing, I dug my phone from my purse, dialed. I only had one person to call.

  “Charlene?”

  “Hi, Val. If you’re calling about the stakeout, I’ll pick you up at eleven. Be sure to wear warm clothes this time. I’ll bring the snacks. Would you prefer sweet or salty?”

  “Sweet.” Stepping out of the car, I walked down the brick path to Antheia’s porch. “I’m outside Antheia Royer’s house. Since she didn’t answer my questions the last time I tried, I figured I’d try again.”

  “Do you want me to meet you there? I’m good at drawing people out.”

  I climbed the porch steps. “I’m here already. If our last encounter is anything to go by, she probably won’t even let me in.” I knocked on the white-paneled door. It swung open beneath my fist. I froze, hand raised, scalp prickling.

  “If all else fails,” she said, “maybe you can suggest sponsoring a library event. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for Pie Town, and the jaguars—”

  “The door’s open.” Either Antheia was one of those free-wheeling types who always kept it unlatched, or something was wrong.

  “What?”

  “Her front door’s open,” I said. “Hold on.”

  “Do not go inside. Do not—”

  I lowered the phone from my ear and leaned inside the small, square foyer. “Hello? Antheia?” The walls were cream colored, large white-painted beams running from floor to ceiling. The floor was blond, natural wood, none of that laminate stuff. Low bookcases created a break between the foyer and an office area to the left, with a wide, wooden desk, and a living area on the right. “Hello?”

  Ignoring Charlene’s squawks, I sidled inside. “Antheia?”

  I walked down a step, hovering at the entry to the office. One of the curtains hung loose, allowing waning sunlight to slice across the floor. The rest of the room was in shadow. Something seemed odd, out of place, and the open door had my heart jumping. No bodies lay on the pink and ivory oriental-style carpet. No bloodstains puddled on the wood floor behind the desk. No Antheia slouched in the leather executive chair.