“No, no, only on Mondays. It was crazy for me to have Pie Town open every day of the week.” When I’d started up, I didn’t have the cash to hire an assistant manager, so Pie Town was all me, all the time. In the excitement of opening my pie shop, I hadn’t minded the long hours. Later, Pie Town had given me somewhere to put my energy after the breakup with Mark. But if the mayor’s press statement got us back on track, I might recruit Petronella to be assistant manager. I’d ask Charlene to take the job, but she’d placed clear boundaries on her hours from the start. She was piecrusts only. She also lacked a certain maturity.
Her shoulders sagged. “That’s a relief. Pie Town’s about the only job I could stand.”
“So, why do you think there are jaguars in San Nicholas?”
“You can hear them calling at night, and their tracks are sometimes found in the mountains.”
“But jaguars aren’t native to Northern California.”
“Of course they’re not native. A family of Spanish rancheros brought them to San Nicholas. They used to have bull and bear fights at the ranchos, and the rancheros thought bringing in jaguars would spice things up.”
“You’re kidding.” A gust of wind buffeted us, tossing the branches of the cypress trees. A strand of loose hair whipped my face.
“It’s in the history of San Nicholas. Check the library.” She blew on her drink.
“And the jaguars escaped?”
“No, they were killed in a fight with a bear and a bull.”
I squinted at her. “Wait a minute, these aren’t ghost jaguars, are they?”
“It’s said that people who see them diiiiiieeee.”
“Oh, for pete’s sake.” She’d had me going for a moment, and I smiled into my mug. When my hair silvered, I wanted to be a hell raiser like her. I sniffed. The hot chocolate and peppermint mix was a steaming cup of awesome. If I’d had a thermos, I would have ordered three more to go.
Ten minutes before eleven o’clock, we left the White Lady, and Charlene drove us to Miss Pargiter’s. The fog had thickened, forcing us to creep along the winding roads lined with cypresses. We seemed to have entered a no-streetlight zone, and most of the houses were dark. The Jeep’s headlights struggled to cut the fog.
Charlene pulled up and stopped.
“Are we here?” Unclasping my seat belt, I squinted out the window but was unable to make out the looming shapes.
“That’s funny.” Charlene leaned across me and rummaged in her glove compartment. “Pargiter said she’d leave the porch light on for us. The garden lamppost is out too.”
“She must have forgotten and gone to sleep.” I swallowed, uneasy, and realized I was still clutching the seat belt. I released it, and it clattered against the metal frame.
A gust of wind opened a gap in the mist, revealing Miss Pargiter’s tall Victorian. A swirl of fog dashed in to fill the void, and the house disappeared.
My flesh pebbled. Though there were houses and people nearby, a sense of vulnerability and isolation descended.
Charlene removed two flashlights and shut the glove compartment. “I knew having that hot cop over would be too much excitement for her. Come on.” She stepped out, peering into the fog. No light winked on in Miss Pargiter’s house.
Flashlights aimed at the sodden ground, we found the rough dirt path and picked our way down the slope.
“What if Gordon decided to hang around to try to catch the trespassers himself?” I whispered.
“Then be sure to identify yourself fast and drop anything you’re holding so you don’t get shot.”
“That isn’t funny.” I slid on the hill’s loose soil, skidding a few feet before catching myself. A branch whipped me in the thigh.
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
“What if he sends an extra patrol around? He offered to do that for Pie Town when we were vandalized.”
“You’re right. Better turn the lights off. We don’t want the coppers to mistake us for trespassers.” She clicked off her flashlight. I heard a stumble, a crash, a curse.
“Charlene?” I swung my flashlight beam about, but all I saw was mist.
“I’m all right,” she said. “Stupid log!”
“We should be close to that cliff. You’d better use your flashlight, at least until we find that old tree stump.”
“What do you think I tripped over?” She aimed the light down at the stump.
Finding a section to sit on that looked free of ants and sap, I squatted beside Charlene. We clicked off our lights and sat in silence. Fog cocooned us, blotted out the stars. After twenty minutes, I began imagining we were marooned on an island surrounded by a sea of fog.
A low moan raised the hair on my neck.
“What was that?” I hissed.
“The lighthouse. Sometimes you get odd air inversions, and the sound carries farther than normal. This time of night, toward the witching hour, the world quiets. You see and hear things you wouldn’t normally see—”
“Charlene—”
“Unseen worlds come to life. It’s said that ghosts—”
I heaved a sigh.
“Lighten up. Didn’t you ever tell ghost stories around a campfire?”
“I grew up in campfire-free Orange County.”
“Not even a campfire at the beach? Kids these days. You’re so used to having all your entertainment spoon-fed into your brain, you’ve lost your creativity.”
“I am too creative.” Digging into my pockets, I pulled out a 25-five percent-off coupon, and handed it to her. “I designed that coupon myself.”
Her flashlight flicked on, off. “You call that a font? Use something a little more interesting than Times New Roman! And that’s not the kind of creativity I was talking about.”
“I know what you meant, and you’re right. The world’s changed and not all for the better.”
“It’s mostly for the better. Refrigeration, air-conditioning, being able to get a credit card without my husband’s permission. That’s all better.”
A light appeared in the fog, about one hundred yards off the cliff.
I rubbed my eyes. The light was still there, hanging in space. It drifted, erratic, an eerie golden orb tracing a meaningless pattern.
Goose bumps rippled my flesh. “What’s that?” I whispered.
Charlene hissed and grabbed my arm, pinching.
“Ow.”
Leaping to her feet, she fumbled in her jacket pockets and drew out her phone, aimed it at the light. The camera clicked, and she checked the screen. “It’s no good. I need someone to give it perspective. Val, stand over there, closer to the cliff.”
I didn’t budge, my legs numb, paralyzed. “What is it? I can’t orient in the fog. It looks like it’s hanging out in space.” My laugh was high pitched, thin, and I clutched my hands together, jamming them between my knees.
“It is hanging out in space. It’s Roswell all over again!”
“Roswell?” I squeaked, my hands turning clammy. “You mean UFOs? Even if there were such a thing as UFOs, why would they and ghost panthers—”
“Jaguars!”
“—and all sorts of other weird stuff happen in San Nicholas?”
“I have no idea. Now are you going to stand over here or not?”
I gulped. Here’s the thing. UFOs scare the bejeezus out of me. They have ever since I was a kid, and age and rationality had done nothing to erase the primal fear gripping my throat.
But I was an adult now, and aliens were not going to zip me away to another planet. Forcing myself to stand, I edged in front of her. I scuffed my feet on the loose earth, unsure where land ended and a hundred-foot plummet to stone and ocean began.
“A little to the left. Now a little bit more. Smile!” She took the picture and looked at the screen. “You aren’t smiling. Let’s try another. This one for Twitter.”
I grimaced, and the cell phone clicked.
She checked the screen. “Great photo of the UFO. You, however, look constipated. But we have evidence!” She
danced an awkward jig. “Take that, men in black. The truth is out there, and it’s on Twitter!”
The uncanny light was probably from a boat, its light distorted by the fog and the angle of the cliff we stood on. I said nothing, nails biting into my palms, and we watched its slithering movements. We stood there for what seemed like ages, the lighthouse calling, mournful, and then the light blinked out. The tension in my neck and shoulders released.
Charlene checked her watch. “I guess the show’s over. It’s past midnight and no trespassers. Do you want to call it a night?”
“May as well.” We’d seen an odd light, and I hadn’t been sucked into a spacecraft for a joyride around the Milky Way. What had Joe made of the light, if he’d seen it at all? I didn’t think it was connected to his murder—Antheia’s death pointed to the library board. But it was disturbing, and we’d promised Miss Pargiter we’d help.
We plodded up the hill.
“I don’t suppose you know Antheia’s husband?” I asked.
“You want to question him about her murder? Good thinking.” Nodding, she released a branch.
I ducked, and it skimmed the top of my head. “The spouse is the most likely suspect, especially since they were in the midst of a rough divorce.”
“And he’s exactly the sort to strangle his wife with her own curtain tie. I’ll bet he was too lazy to get a murder weapon of his own.”
“Mm.” This investigation was sounding less appealing. “He probably won’t talk to us.”
“He’ll talk to me. We’ll go to his house tomorrow morning, show up on his doorstep, and use the element of surprise.”
I staggered into Miss Pargiter’s yard. “Um, maybe we should call ahead. And it’s going to have to be a quick interview. Pie Town opens tomorrow at noon.” Since we weren’t serving breakfast (yet), Pie Town opened at twelve o’clock on weekends. I liked to use those extra hours to power-nap. These were desperate times, but I’d been looking forward to sleeping in. As much as I loved Pie Town, I was starting to feel battered.
“Fine.” She stomped to her Jeep and unlocked my door. “I’ll be there to pick you up at seven forty-five, sharp.”
Charlene drove me to my gym and dropped me off.
I showered and changed. Skin glowing, I hoofed it toward Pie Town. The streets were silent aside my footsteps echoing on the sidewalk. I stopped, stilling my breath, ears straining. Another footstep sounded, halted. It was only an echo, but I hurried on, lengthening my strides, until I reached Pie Town’s front entrance. My reflection wavered in its windows, rectangular, black chasms. The dull clink of weights sounded from inside Heidi’s gym.
Unlocking the door, I scuttled inside and threw the lights on in the dining area. The night had spooked me, the combination of fog, mysterious lights, and Charlene’s stories spiking my adrenaline. Did she ramble on about the supernatural to get a rise out of me, or did she really believe that stuff? Maybe it didn’t matter. Charlene enjoyed her wild theories, and tonight had been more fun than my last five months of self-imposed alone time. I walked a hasty recon through my pie shop, flicking lights on and off as I went, assuring myself that I was truly alone.
Chapter 16
At seven o’clock, I rolled out of bed. Standing in the narrow lane between the mattress and the closet wall, I stretched, luxuriating in a good night’s sleep. As much as I loved the sunrise, I didn’t need to see it every day.
One more stretch, and I wriggled into jeans and a black knit top while standing on my mattress. Charlene’s tiny house would be a sky-high step up from living in Pie Town. I edged out of the closet and into my office. Light streamed from the skylight, illuminating spirals of dust motes, glittering off the paper clips on my old desk.
Coffee. Binding my hair into a ponytail, I slouched into the kitchen, grabbing a mug from an industrial drying rack.
The bell in the dining area tinkled.
I started, then released a breath. The bell had fooled me before, but I was alone. I still hadn’t gotten used to the tremors caused by passing big rigs that sometimes jangled the bell and the kitchen’s hanging knives.
Someone pounded on the door. My muscles spasmed, the cup slipping from my hands. Grabbing for it, I bounced it off my fingertips and caught the mug, gripping it to my chest. I raced into the dining area.
Joy stood on the other side of the glass, her long hair cascading loose about her shoulders. Her mouth pinched, and lines formed between her dark brows. She wore black yoga pants and a matching jacket with a white stripe down the sleeves, and a sense of betrayal stabbed at me. Was she using Heidi’s gym? I shook myself. So what if she was? It was a free country, and I needed to get over my issues with Heidi. So what if my neighbor was a powerhouse of evil?
Unlocking the door, I pulled it open.
Joy pushed past me. “You’re closed?” she asked, her voice neutral. “I know business has been bad, but I didn’t think it was that bad.”
“We open at noon on weekends. We’re only open earlier on weekdays because the locals wanted a place to drink coffee.”
“Oh.” She blinked through her round glasses. “Sorry. When I saw closed, this time of day, I assumed it meant you were . . .” She removed her glasses and polished them on the hem of her yoga tank. “But that would have been a different sign.”
As in Out of Business? How many other people would think we were on the road to shutting down for good when I changed the sign to say we were closed on Mondays? I still wasn’t sure closing Mondays was a good idea. But I couldn’t afford to pay staff if there were no customers, and Mondays had always been slow.
“I’m still here,” I said, “and there should be an article in the local paper this morning clearing Pie Town.” I needed to get a copy.
“That’s a relief.” She stared at me. “You’re here early. What time do you start baking?”
“Around nine. I had some . . . stuff to do.”
She leaned a hip against one of the booths. “It never ends when you’re self-employed. Joe was organized, but there’s so much to go through.”
“Coffee?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll be right back.” Ambling into the kitchen, I boiled some water, dumped it into my French press. The scent of coffee wafted through the room.
I brought the press and two mugs to the counter and poured. “Creamer and sugar’s on the counter.”
She pulled a pink packet from one of the sugar holders and shook it, tore it open. “So Pie Town’s off the hook,” she said, stirring her coffee with a plastic spoon.
“We’ve been off the hook for days, but the police decided not to inform the public.” Which Joy already knew. Was she fishing for gossip, or making idle conversation?
“Does this mean they’ve found my uncle’s killer?”
“I don’t think so.” I told her about my encounter with the mayor last night and the promised vindication. “Maybe there’ll be some info in the article.”
She glanced at the slim, gold watch around her wrist. “The paper should be out by now. I’ll go check.” She darted outside, the entry bell ringing in her wake. A few minutes later, she returned, flipping through the local newspaper.
Which meant the Pie Town article wasn’t front-page news. My heart nose-dived.
“Here it is.” Opening the paper to page four, she smoothed it on the counter.
Page four? That made it a second-tier article. Most people probably wouldn’t even read it. After less than a week, was Joe’s murder already old news?
Stepping around the counter, I read over her shoulder.
“Poison administered by person or persons unknown,” Joy read. “You were right. They still have no idea who did it. So how can they say Pie Town . . . ? Oh, here it is. Poison administered hours before he died. Here’s a quote from the mayor. ‘In spite of the heroic actions and quick thinking of the Pie Town staff, emergency personnel were unable to revive Mr. Devlin.’ Well, it doesn’t say your pie wasn’t at fault—”
�
�Quiche.”
“But it does say the poison was administered before he got to Pie Town.” She frowned.
“But it doesn’t tell us if they’re any closer to finding Joe’s killer.”
“No.” She folded the paper in quick, violent motions, and dropped it on the counter. “That means no one in your shop would have seen anything.”
“Well, no, but . . . Wait, is that why you’ve been spending so much time here? To interrogate the staff?”
A flush crept across her cheeks. “Some detective I am. Your staff is never around to question.”
“So you were investigating?”
“Of course. Joe knew me better than my parents did. I want whoever did this caught.”
“I do too. Look, do you remember Frank’s daughter, Tandy?”
“Yeah.” She picked up her mug and turned it in her hands. “I mean, we played together when we were kids, but I don’t see her too often.”
“Maybe we could talk to her about her father’s death. Judging from that casebook we found, Joe thought there was something suspicious about it. He might have spoken with her. Could you set up a meeting?”
She licked her upper lip. “I guess. As I said, we kind of lost touch, but I think I’ve still got her number. Last I heard, she was living in San Francisco.”
“Do you think I can entice her to Pie Town with a free potpie lunch?”
“Throw in a slice of dessert, and yeah. When do you want me to bring her by, assuming she’s available?”
“As soon as possible.”
“If Pie Town is off the hook,” she said, “what’s your interest in my uncle’s death?”
Should I tell her? The bell over the front entrance jingled. Charlene stalked in, wearing a nubby, sand-colored tunic, leggings, and sneakers.
“Are you ready?” Charlene asked.
I checked my watch. “Oops, sorry, Joy. I’ve got to go. You can take the coffee. I’ll get the mug from you later.”
“Cheers.” She walked out, nodding to Charlene.
“Where’s Frederick?” I asked.
“Antheia’s husband is allergic.”
“You got in touch with him?”
She nodded. “He wasn’t happy about it, grumbled about the hour of the call. But I told him we had some important information about Antheia’s death. He couldn’t say no to that, even if he is a horse’s ass.”
The Quiche and the Dead Page 16