The Quiche and the Dead

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Off icer Carmichael fixed my outside lamp,” Miss Pargiter said.

  “I didn’t know you and Miss Pargiter were friends,” I said in a low voice.

  Charlene bumped past us.

  He grimaced, taking the boxes from my hands. “I came by to talk with her about the trespassers. I thought . . .” He flushed. “I decided to make her dinner.”

  “Oh.” Wow. Cops did that? “The pies will freeze. I can leave instructions—”

  “Do you want to join us? You and Charlene, I mean.”

  Heat radiated in my chest. “Sure! Sounds fun.” I stepped back and bumped into an umbrella stand. Wait, did this mean he hadn’t stopped by Pie Town because today was his day off? Not that it was realistic to come into the same place for lunch every day. But maybe he wasn’t annoyed with me after all.

  “As long as you don’t ask me about the case.” He shut the door behind us.

  “Oh. Right. Sure. Hold on, only one case? Does this mean the police believe Antheia’s murder and Joe’s death are linked?”

  He pressed his lips together and gave me a look. “Tell me you’ve stopped your little investigation. After Antheia’s death—”

  “I’m not investigating. And I won’t ask about the case,” I said. I followed him down the cramped hall, through the doily-splattered living room. Miss Pargiter and Charlene huddled on a couch, heads together, whispering.

  Officer Carmichael led me into a kitchen straight out of the fifties. Mint-green tiles lined the walls. The refrigerator was ancient, with one of those locking doors. I shuddered, remembering my mother’s stories about kids getting locked inside and suffocating.

  He laid the pies on the white tile counter, beside a bunch of spinach, a cardboard basket of mushrooms, and a tub of mascarpone. “Please tell me that wasn’t a dead cat on Mrs. McCree’s shoulder.”

  “Not dead, deaf. That’s Frederick.” The kitchen smelled of chicken and melted cheese, and my mouth watered. “He’s also got narcolepsy.”

  “A deaf, narcoleptic cat? Are you sure he’s not lazy?”

  “It’s possible. In fact, probable.”

  I leaned against the counter. Warmth emanated from the oven. A pot of water simmered on the stove. I wracked my brain for a conversational gambit that did not include deadly refrigerators. Unfortunately, most of my conversations lately had started with, “What can I get you?” and ended with “That will be . . .”

  Conversation, witty conversation . . . Witty conversation might be aiming too high tonight. Right now, I’d settle for stilted intercourse. Discourse! I meant discourse!

  “I have coupons now.” I reached into my jacket pocket and handed him two—25 percent off any size pie.

  “Thanks.”

  I winced. I have coupons? What kind of conversation starter was that? “Have you always been a cop?”

  “Since I graduated from college.”

  “So what do you enjoy about police work?” And that sounded snarky. Tonight I was a reverse Oscar Wilde.

  “Nights like this are the reason why I got into policing—to help people. Unfortunately, most of the time I end up dealing with lying scumbags.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s made me cynical, but it’s also made me value honest people like you.”

  Honest people like me. My appetite evaporated. Charlene and I hadn’t quit our investigation. I’d flat-out lied to him about it, because it was easier than telling the truth. I was as bad as . . . Mark.

  My throat thickened. “It must be hard to trust people when you see so much of their dark side.”

  “Some days it seems like everyone’s lying—the witnesses, the accused, the lawyers. It’s nice to come to a home like this, have a quiet meal with good people, and remember why I became a cop.”

  “Why did you return to San Nicholas?”

  “My parents are getting older. My dad’s been having a hard time, and my mom hasn’t been able to cope. It was time for me to come home.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did. And thanks for sitting in my window this week when nearly everyone else is staying away. You’re a good guy, Officer Carmichael.”

  “Call me Gordon.”

  “So that’s why Shaw called you GC. I thought most cops called each other by their last names.”

  He folded his arms across his broad chest, his expression pinched. “They do.”

  I waited a beat, confused by the unexpected, crackling-ice tension. Mine hadn’t been the most sparkling conversation, but I didn’t think it had been that awful.

  “And you?” he asked. “What do you like about Pie Town?”

  “Baking, the people, having my own place,” I said, relieved we’d moved on to a safer topic. “In fact, I love pretty much everything except the hours.” And the murder.

  The hours, at least, I could fix. I’d been thinking of closing on Mondays. Now seemed a good time to make that switch. “But I’ve always loved baking,” I said, “ever since I was a kid making a mess in my mom’s kitchen. And I love the independence of being my own boss.” I’d been so proud when I’d opened Pie Town. My mom would have loved it, with its kitschy, 1950s feel and all the old family recipes. My eyes grew damp, and I blinked. “So how can I help?”

  He gave me a startled look.

  “With dinner,” I said.

  “You can wash the spinach.”

  I set to it, watching him rinse the mushrooms and pat them dry with a paper towel. He sliced them expertly, dropped them into a bowl, and scooped the mascarpone on top of them, then set them in the microwave.

  “You’re—seriously?” I asked.

  “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” he said. “These mushrooms are my secret weapon.”

  “In the microwave,” I said, disbelieving.

  “Ten minutes and mascarpone. It’s all you need.”

  “And the spinach?”

  He dumped the whole leaves into the boiling water and stirred with a wooden spoon. After a few minutes, he pulled the spinach out and ran cool water over it in a strainer. He squeezed the water from the leaves, then mixed them with a packet of Japanese seasoning.

  “Where’d you get that?” I asked.

  “Japanese grocery store.”

  The joys of living near San Francisco. I peeked in the oven. A casserole bubbled inside, its edges browning. “I take it there’s no ethnic theme to this dinner.”

  He laughed. “The theme is: stuff I can make.”

  “It smells fantastic. And your casserole looks done.”

  He removed the casserole from the oven.

  I watched, skeptical, as he took the mushrooms from the microwave. Then I stopped staring and set the table for two more.

  It had been ages since I’d sat around a dinner table in a real dining room, and nostalgia swamped me. Gordon had us in stitches with stories of his policing, and the mushrooms could have come out of a French kitchen. Too bad I was rebound girl and a big fat lying liar, because I could really like Gordon.

  Who was I kidding? I did like Gordon. He was funny and handsome and cooked for elderly ladies. Unlike my ex, he seemed to care about the difference between truth and a lie. Unlike my errant father, he cared about family obligations. He made mushrooms that tasted divine, even if they did come from a microwave. He smiled at me, and my insides quivered in response.

  Stupid rebound.

  Chapter 15

  After dinner, we ate the rhubarb pie with Gordon’s ice cream melting into the lattice crust.

  “Watch this.” Charlene exhumed a laser pointer from her purse and zipped the pointer’s red light around the Persian carpet. Frederick deigned to open one eye and tracked it, his ears twitching.

  “Impressive,” I said. “Good job, Frederick.”

  Curling his lip, he feigned sleep.

  Charlene fixed Gordon with a gimlet eye. “So, young man, when are you going to make detective? I heard you took the exam.”

  My insides writhed. Did Charlene have no personal boundaries?

  “San N
icholas is too small a town for two detectives,” he said. “It doesn’t have the budget.”

  “You should be the detective,” Miss Pargiter said. “So many interesting crimes in San Nicholas.”

  Would Miss Pargiter spill the beans about our stakeout? I shifted in my cushioned chair, looking for a diversion. “That photo behind you, who is it?” I raised my chin toward a framed picture on the wall. The same young man I’d seen pictured in the hallway mugged for a close-up.

  Miss Pargiter twisted, squinting at the black and white photo. “My brother. He’s gone, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “Oh, he didn’t die. He left. We had a tremendous fight about one of his girlfriends, and he left town. I haven’t seen him since. Never saw her again either.” She shook her head. “Such a silly thing to cause so much pain. I think about him every day.”

  “By now he’s probably dead,” Charlene said.

  I glared. “Charlene!”

  “Well, why else wouldn’t he call?” Charlene asked. “This isn’t the dark ages. Even Pargiter’s got a cell phone.”

  We cleaned up and said our good-byes, and Miss Pargiter urged me to call her Emily.

  I got into Charlene’s Jeep. Fog swaddled the windows, and I tightened my jacket against the cold.

  “Officer Carmichael is a nice young fellow,” Charlene said, her expression sly. “I heard he was detective at his last job. He must have had a good reason to return to San Nicholas and take a demotion.”

  He wanted to take care of his parents, the way I’d taken care of my mother at the end. “Hm. I’m glad he spoke with Miss Pargiter about her trespassers, but talk about bad timing. What are we going to do about tonight’s stakeout? Come back later?”

  “We’ll have to.” She waved at Gordon, standing on the porch, hands on his lean hips. “Officer Carmichael is too much of a gentleman to leave before making sure we’re safely on our way.”

  She revved the Jeep, and we drove to a white-washed adobe restaurant and bar, its Spanish roof tiles darkened with damp. Waving to the hostess, Charlene led me down a set of wooden stairs to a patio bar overlooking the ocean cliffs. I ordered cups of coffee, and Charlene grabbed two folded blankets from a bin. A couple rose from a swinging bench, blankets in hand, and we snagged their abandoned seat.

  “We have to sit outside, if you don’t mind.” She pointed to the cat draped over her shoulder. “Can’t bring him into the restaurant bar.”

  “I don’t mind.” Even if it was cold, there was something magical about the muted roar and salty scent of the ocean, hidden beneath the fog bank.

  “I suppose this place is called the White Lady because it’s white?” I asked.

  “Oh, no,” Charlene said, “because it used to be a speakeasy. Bootleggers smuggled alcohol up from the ocean. And of course, it’s haunted.”

  I groaned. “Let me guess, the ghost of a bootlegger’s girlfriend?”

  “I think she was the bartender’s girlfriend. She threw herself off this very cliff when she caught him with another woman. The dimwit should have known better. He was the local lothario—not worth all the fuss if you ask me.”

  I shivered, wrapping the soft blanket around me tighter. “You knew him?”

  She laughed. “Hell, no. That was well before my time. There’s also a naughty male ghost who likes to hang out in the women’s restroom.”

  “Good to know.”

  “And speaking of naughty men, that Officer Carmichael likes you.”

  My cheeks warmed. “He brought Miss Pargiter dinner, not me.”

  “But he was happy to see you there.”

  “I’m not interested in Gordon.”

  “You ought to be. He’s handsome, smart, and kind to cats and old people.” She sighed. “It’s hard to believe I’m not a teenager anymore.”

  “Come off it. You’ll never be old.”

  “And you’ll never have a boyfriend if you turn your nose up at someone like Gordon Carmichael.”

  “I’m not turning my nose up. I’m just not ready.”

  “The best way to get over an old love is to find a new one.”

  “Yeah, but that usually doesn’t turn out well for Rebound Guy.”

  “Gordon Carmichael strikes me as the sort who’d be willing to take that chance.”

  “Forget it, Charlene.”

  “Hard to forget a man like that.” She leered. “He sure knows how to fill out a uniform. Ha-cha-cha.”

  “Charlene?”

  “And he looks good both coming and going. Did you get a look at his a—”

  “Charlene!” I cleared my throat, desperate for a change of subject. “I’m turned around. Does this cliff face Miss Pargiter’s house?”

  She shrugged. “No, she’s behind us on the south side, facing the harbor.”

  The swinging of the bench soothed me. I huddled beneath the blanket. I couldn’t think of a better place for a stakeout. Plus: drinks and a bathroom. Even if it was haunted by a pervy ghost, it beat a sap-covered tree stump. “Too bad we can’t sit here and watch for her trespassers with a pair of binoculars.”

  “Alas, no. But after all this is over, if you want to go ghost hunting—”

  “That’s okay. And there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  “Legend says that on foggy nights, you can sometimes hear the White Lady’s sobs.”

  “Cut it out, Charlene.” The branches of a cypress creaked above us. The back of my neck prickled.

  “It’s no joke,” she said. “Lots of people have heard her.”

  “It’s probably just the sound of the ocean.”

  “And if you see her, it means you’re going to diiiiii-ieeee.. . .”

  A cold hand clutched my shoulder, and I shrieked, jerking off the bench.

  Mayor Sharp guffawed beneath his scarf, wrapped high about his neck and mouth. His bald scalp shone as if polished above the navy blue wool. A matching peacoat stretched tight across his muscular arms and chest. “Sorry,” he said, not sounding very regretful. “Did I scare you?”

  Glaring, I picked up the blanket I’d dropped to the tiled patio. What the heck was the mayor thinking, grabbing me from behind? We barely knew each other. “Charlene was telling me a ghost story.”

  “Charlene’s full of stories,” he said. “I wouldn’t believe most of them. Has she told you about the leopards?”

  “Jaguars!” Charlene swatted at the air. Frederick twitched one ear and growled.

  “Right, Charlene. Jaguars.” He braced his hands on the back of our bench, stilling its motion. “Now, what’s this I heard about you interfering with a police investigation? Are you two following up on Joe and Frank’s little game?”

  “Where did you hear that?” I asked.

  His brows rose above the scarf. “I really can’t say. How did you learn about their recent investigations?”

  “I really can’t say.” I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders.

  “Ah-ha, so you admit it.” He wagged a thick finger at me.

  Good grief, even his fingers were muscular. And I admitted nothing.

  “I see what’s going on here,” he said.

  “You do?” Charlene arched a brow.

  Oh, cripes. I gazed longingly at the cliff and its long drop into the fog. The White Lady might have had the right idea.

  “I’ve noticed business has dropped in Pie Town since Joe’s death,” he said. “You’re trying to clear Pie Town’s name. I don’t understand why the police have been so slow to release information the public is demanding, but never fear. I’ve made a statement to the press, and there will be an article in the weekend edition of the San Nicholas Times exonerating Pie Town.”

  I blinked, my heart lightening. “There will?” I’d thought the police were trying to keep things under wraps, but I wasn’t going to argue.

  “Small businesses are the lifeblood of San Nicholas,” he said. “We need to help them, not hurt them. By all accounts, you did everything you could to
save Joe. You should be rewarded, not censured.”

  “Well, thanks. But all I did was call nine-one-one.” I curled my hands. Could I have done more?

  He clapped me on the shoulder. “I’ll see you for lunch at Pie Town tomorrow. That should help get the word out that your pies aren’t fatal.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  He strode into the adobe restaurant.

  I stared after him, hope fluttering in my chest. An article in the local paper? Would that do the trick?

  Charlene snorted. “Well, it took him long enough.”

  “I don’t care how long it took, do you think it will work?”

  “That depends on what you expect to happen.”

  “More customers in Pie Town.” I sat up straight, bouncing my toes on the paving stones. Pie Town was saved!

  “Oh, that? Probably.”

  “This is fantastic! We should celebrate. Let me buy you something stronger.”

  “Not before a stakeout,” she said.

  “But . . .” I gnawed my bottom lip. The stakeout was a moot point now that Pie Town had been cleared of murder.

  “But what?” Charlene asked.

  But Miss Pargiter was expecting us tonight. She’d be disappointed if we didn’t return. And Antheia was dead, and my questions might have been the cause.

  “But the stakeout’s not for another two hours,” I said, plaintive.

  “All right then.” She patted my knee. “Maybe just one peppermint patty.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Hot chocolate with a shot of peppermint schnapps. It goes down smooth on a cold night like tonight.”

  I couldn’t say no to that, so I got one for each of us from the patio bar and brought them back. Sitting beside her, I took a sip. The drink warmed me in all sorts of ways. “Frank’s daughter, Tandy.”

  “What about her?” she asked.

  “I couldn’t find any contact information for her. Do you know how we can find her?”

  “No, but Joy might. They were the same age. Now, here’s what I think we should do this week—”

  “I’m thinking of closing on Mondays,” I said.

  She sat forward, her knuckles whitening on the mug. “You can’t close Pie Town! The mayor said he’d make a statement!”