The Quiche and the Dead

by Kirsten Weiss

  “What about the Case of the Whispering Wanderer?”

  “Forget the Wanderer. Frank didn’t leave any real notes on it—not a name, not a place, nothing.”

  My heart squeezed. “All I want to do is bake pies.” Was it so much to ask? I knew baking pies. I didn’t know detecting, and finding another body had left me sickened and sad. Roy must have been killed right after Charlene had called him. A coincidence? I couldn’t believe it.

  “Of course you want to bake pies.” She patted my knee. “You’re good at it. But you must have other dreams. What do you want from life, Val?”

  “I want to unload that wedding dress.”

  She waved a hand, brushing that away. “That’s a negative. You must have some positive desire.”

  “And Mark’s still got some of my stuff in his storage locker. I want to get it back.”

  “Think more positive.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “You know that little arrow-shaped sign that hangs from a lamppost on Main and points toward the fancy restaurant?”

  “Yes?”

  “I want one that points to Pie Town.”

  “That’s it? Pay the Downtown Association and get the sign. And dream bigger, Val.”

  I heaved a sigh. “Where’s Frederick?”

  “On warm days, Frederick likes to sleep in the sun. Inside, of course, near a window overlooking a tree. The narcolepsy leaves him helpless, and the raccoons mess with him when he’s outside.”

  A red ball bounced into the street. She slowed, stopped. A harried-looking woman in a gray sweat suit ran out and scooped up the ball, throwing it to two small boys on her front lawn.

  “Not to mention the jaguars,” I said.

  The Jeep crawled forward. “Don’t be daft. Jaguars are nocturnal.”

  I was pretty sure raccoons were nocturnal too. “As much as I want to write all these deaths off as unconnected events, I don’t believe it. Roy must have known something about his wife’s death. Charlene, are we . . . We’re not forcing the murderer’s hand, are we? Did Antheia and Roy die because—”

  “No. They died because they were up to no good, or they had the inside track on the killer. Do you think Joe’s death was your fault?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “There you go then. Now we need to find the monster responsible for these murders before he kills again. I can’t afford to lose any more friends. Or enemies, for that matter.”

  I gnawed my bottom lip. “There’s another thing. Roy was looking to Antheia to support him, but she didn’t strike me as particularly wealthy. She was semiretired, and you and someone else told me she undercharged her clients. She couldn’t have been making that much money at her law practice.”

  “An inheritance?”

  “Usually inheritances are off-limits during divorces.” A friend of mine in Orange County had gone through a divorce and given me an earful. “It’s unlikely Roy was going after money someone had left his wife. Where did hers come from?”

  “Not from the library board. That’s a volunteer position.”

  “What else can you tell me about her husband?”

  “Not much. Our relationship cooled after I put sugar in his gas tank. He never could prove it, but he knew it was me.”

  I stared at her. “Charlene?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why did you put sugar in Roy Royer’s gas tank?”

  She slowed at a stop sign. “He sprayed Frederick with the garden hose. Said he was digging up the garden. This was in the days before the narcolepsy, when Roy was living in Antheia’s house, and Frederick still thought he was a wildcat. He’d prowl the neighborhood, hunting mice and climbing trees, as any good cat would. But he didn’t dig up gardens. And if you ask me, the garden hose incident triggered his condition.” She heaved a sigh. “Besides, he never put candy out at Halloween. He’d shut up the house and pretend no one was home.”

  “We’re talking about Roy now, not Frederick, right?”

  She shot me a look and swerved around an SUV backing from its brick driveway. “Nobody looks where they’re going anymore.”

  I clung to the grab bar. “Okay. Are there any other reasons besides his dislike of cats and Halloween that someone might have wanted to kill him?”

  “He hasn’t remarried yet, so I doubt his girlfriend will get his money.”

  “She was an aerobics instructor, right?”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “Roy’s girlfriend couldn’t have been Heidi, could it?” She certainly had the body of an aerobics instructor. Heidi might be teaching classes at her gym. Maybe she really was the killer! Imagining Heidi in handcuffs, I repressed a wishful smile.

  “I think his girlfriend was from out of town. If it was Heidi, we would have known.”

  “But Heidi only moved here three months ago.”

  Charlene rubbed her chin. “You might be on to something. It would explain why Heidi opened up a gym in San Nicholas, when the town’s already got one. We should go talk to her.”

  I shuddered. My last two rounds with Heidi hadn’t gone in my favor. I wasn’t loving the prospect of a round three with the gym owner. “She’s let it be known that she’s anti-pie. Maybe you could go undercover as a prospective gym member.”

  “I have been meaning to take up yoga again.” She slammed on the brakes, flinging me forward.

  I braced my hands on the dashboard.

  A white cat streaked across the street, ears flat against his head.

  “That looks like Frederick,” I said.

  Charlene laughed. “In all the—In the week you’ve known Frederick, would you put him down as a runner? He’s safe in his warm spot in my living room.”

  Or was he? I didn’t believe the cat was really deaf. Maybe he wasn’t that lazy either. Maybe he just liked being around Charlene. “We need to learn more about Antheia.”

  At a violet-colored saltbox, she turned onto Main Street. “Well, you know whom to talk to about her.”

  Mark. Ugh. “I’ve only spoken to two board members—Mark and Antheia—but there are others. They must have some insight into her life.”

  Her mouth twisted. “And what’s your excuse going to be for talking to them? That you want to join? Your ex will have a fit if he hears. Oh! What if we slip them coupons for a free potpie lunch at Pie Town, good only this Sunday? Then they’d come to us.”

  “Sunday’s tomorrow!”

  “You’re right. You won’t have time today to get them the coupons.”

  What were we doing? Gordon was right. We shouldn’t be investigating. “We might as well have one of those drawing room murder reveals, where we invite all the suspects and accuse them one by one.”

  She slid to a halt at a red light in front of the fire station. “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “I was joking. Turn left here.”

  “Left? But Pie Town’s right.”

  “Can you drop me at my gym? I need to shower.”

  “You need a new place.”

  “Well, there’s this tiny house I’ve got my eye on.”

  “Not until we bring Joe’s killer to justice.”

  “Come on, Charlene. I’ve helped. I’m helping.”

  Her jaw set. “A deal’s a deal.”

  “I need a house.”

  “And maybe you’ll get one. We’ll learn more tonight. There’s supposed to be another good fog.”

  “What?”

  “A stakeout, my girl!” Pulling in front of my gym, Charlene jerked the Jeep to a halt. “Don’t worry. I’ll wait.”

  Chapter 18

  Customers! I hummed, ringing up a middle-aged woman.

  Customers filled the booths, noshing on hand pies, ordering pies to go. . . . Forks clattered on plates. The dining area buzzed with chatter. A couple—out-of-towners—sat beside each other, heads close. Had Pie Town turned a corner?

  I gave the woman her change, then scooted to the front door, took a deep breath,
and taped a sign to its window: CLOSED MONDAYS.

  One of my part-timers, Hannah, bobbed past the kitchen window, her blond hair neat beneath its hat. Petronella was off, as she was on all weekends. Would she return? Or would another job lure her away?

  I walked toward the counter, stopped, returned to the door, and took the sign down. Was I nuts? I couldn’t close Mondays. I needed any bit of business I could get. I tapped the edge of the sign on my chin. But business was always slow on Mondays. I returned the sign to the window and walked to the kitchen, my gaze darting over my shoulder at the door. Bad idea? Good idea? Worst idea ever?

  Shaking my head, I pulled apple pies out of the oven and set them on cooling racks. Apple was one of our best sellers, with its crumbly cinnamon topping. There was just something homey about an apple pie, and people gravitated toward them. Baked apple, cinnamon, and nutmeg steamed the air, but my gaze kept darting to the window into the dining area.

  Mayor Jack Sharp strolled in, a golf shirt stretched tight across his brawny chest. A middle-aged couple in business-casual/designer-expensive attire wandered in with our Bela Lugosi librarian trailing behind. They stopped in the dead center of the checkerboard floor. Faces tanned, hair thick and wavy, the couple wore matching sweaters draped around their shoulders and looked like they’d come from their yacht. They seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place them. The mayor pointed to an empty booth. The couple and the librarian settled themselves in it, and the mayor strode to the counter, dinged the bell.

  I hustled out of the kitchen. “Mr. Mayor! Welcome to Pie Town. And thank you.”

  He leaned across the counter, conspiratorial. “You saw the newspaper,” he said in a low voice.

  I tapped the stack of papers by the register. “I appreciate what you said.”

  “We’ll take a lamb, beef, and two turkey mini-potpies for lunch, and put together a selection of your fruit hand pies, too, will you? And four coffees.” Turning, he ambled to the booth before I could ring him up.

  The coffee was self-serve, but the mayor had done me a solid. I rang up the order, hoping the other customers wouldn’t notice the special service.

  Returning to the kitchen, I grabbed four of the mini-pies from the cooling rack and laid them on plates. I arranged a half-dozen fruit hand pies on another, larger plate, and whisked them to the mayor’s booth.

  “Here you go.” I pointed out which pie was which, then filled four coffee mugs and brought those to the table along with the bill.

  “Thanks,” Sharp said. “Val, I don’t think you’ve met Turner Morris and Charity Douglas. They’re both on the library board.”

  I blinked. That’s why they’d looked familiar. I’d seen their pictures on the library board’s Web page. “How interesting! What do you do on the library board?”

  Turner laughed, his teeth flashing against his tanned skin. “As little as possible. The real power is at city hall and with Hunter.” He motioned toward the vampiric librarian. “But I’m the official treasurer.”

  “I’m only a plain old board member,” Charity drawled. “All I do is sit in meetings and vote.”

  “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to serve on a board,” I fibbed. I hated, hated, hated meetings. “What’s the library board responsible for?”

  “We bring in the money.” Charity motioned to the librarian. “Hunter here manages the actual library.”

  “The board’s contribution is very important,” the librarian said quickly.

  “And we’re involved in special projects,” Turner said, “such as the bond measure and overseeing the construction of the new library.”

  “It’s not as hard as it sounds.” Charity adjusted the navy sweater about her shoulders. “You should consider board service.”

  “Mm-hm,” I said, vague.

  “Jack told us about Joe and Frank’s little investigation of Antheia.” Charity propped her chin on her hands. “And that you’ve got the inside track. What was she up to? And what was Joe up to, for that matter?”

  “The inside track?” Shifting my weight, I shot Mayor Sharp an apologetic look. “I’m afraid the mayor’s misinformed. I only know they were investigating, but not what they found. Do you have any idea?”

  She arched a dark brow. “Not a clue. Antheia was an effective board member, but we weren’t friends outside the library. Still, I can’t imagine she was involved in anything underhanded.”

  The librarian blew on his coffee. “Are you certain those two geezers were investigating her? Joe owned a comic shop, he wasn’t a PI, and Frank was a CPA. Could it have been some kind of joke?”

  I scratched my cheek. Charlene had told me Joe had taken his investigations with Frank seriously. But so far, the cases had been bafflingly wacky. “I couldn’t say. Besides, it’s a police investigation now.”

  The man, Turner, frowned. “Joe left a message for me before he died, asking to talk, but he never said why.”

  Mayor Sharp’s mug slipped, and coffee spattered the table. “Whoops! Sorry, folks.” He blotted the mess with a paper napkin. “Have you told the police about Joe’s call?”

  “Since we never spoke, what would I have to tell them?” Turner asked. “Joe must have talked to a lot of people before he died. And even if he was playing detective, I wouldn’t have had much to tell him. I also didn’t know Antheia much beyond the board, but I admired her tremendously. The whole thing sounds cockeyed. Joe couldn’t have been investigating her. Why would he?”

  “Antheia was killed,” I pointed out.

  Sharp cleared his throat. “A burglary, the police say.”

  “And what was stolen?” Charity perked up.

  “The police are keeping that confidential, I’m afraid,” the mayor said.

  Why were Charlene and I the only two people who seemed to think something sinister was afoot? And why was I using words like afoot? Suffering cats, Charlene was getting into my head. Soon I’d be seeing Bigfoot in the bushes. “But Antheia’s husband was found dead this morning.”

  The others gasped.

  “What?” Jack paled, then reddened. “Dead? No one told me.”

  “It happened this morning,” I said. “Charlene and I were, um, nearby when the body was discovered.”

  “What happened?” the mayor asked.

  “He fell into the creek,” I said.

  “An accident then,” Mayor Sharp said. “And even if it wasn’t, Roy wasn’t on the board, so there goes your library theory. Excuse me, I need to make a call.” Sliding from the booth, he walked outside.

  “It wasn’t my theory,” I said to the three, “it was Joe’s.”

  “Are you sure?” Charity smoothed her glossy, brown hair. “If Joe wanted dirt, he would have come to me. I’m gossip HQ, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

  Turner smirked. “And it’s killing you that you don’t know the mysterious circumstances behind Antheia’s death.”

  She stiffened. “It is not!” Charity caught my eye. “Don’t look so shocked. We served on a board together, we weren’t buddies. I saw her once a month at our meetings, and that was it.”

  It was time to get detecting. I smiled. “But you are gossip central.”

  “Not gossip from Antheia, about her. You heard that Antheia’s husband sued for alimony after abandoning her for some hoochie aerobics instructor?”

  I nodded.

  “Here’s the thing,” she said. “Antheia was as clever and greedy as Roy. The alimony suit must have killed her.” She made a face. “Obviously, not literally.”

  “Greedy?” I asked. “But her practice seemed pretty low key. She worked from home. Why didn’t she go work for a big law firm if she wanted to make money?”

  “She is dead,” the librarian murmured. “And she was a valued board member. Perhaps we should be more discreet.”

  “She’s gone,” Charity said. “Gossip won’t hurt her anymore. And I didn’t say she liked to work for her money. When her parents died, she was the executor and somehow managed
to get the biggest share of their estate. Her siblings were hopping mad. That was years ago, but I don’t think they’ve spoken since.”

  “Where are her siblings?” I asked.

  “East Coast.”

  The Baker Street Boys weren’t in the phone book. Angry East Coast relatives hadn’t hired Joe to investigate their sister. “You do know a lot about Antheia.”

  Charity toyed with the gold anchor charm around her neck. “I had an affair with her younger brother. She was always rather frosty to me afterward.”

  Turner stared. “You never told me that!”

  She flipped her hand. “Before your time, darling.”

  “Still!”

  Minutely shaking his head, the mayor returned to the table. “It’s true. Roy’s gone.”

  It wasn’t the sort of thing I’d lie about. Making my excuses, I fled to the kitchen. Yikes. How did Mark stand board meetings with those people?

  I got busy filling blueberry pies, keeping an eye on the mayor’s booth. After an hour, they rose and ambled out. I hustled over to clean their table, piling their plates in a big plastic carrier.

  The receipt was gone.

  No money had been left in its place.

  Disbelieving, I shifted the plates in my carrier. Nope. No money.

  I stalked into the kitchen. The fair-haired Hannah stirred a metal bowl of pecan pie filling for the waiting line of piecrusts in their tins.

  Setting the carrier by the sink, I stared through the window into the alley. “Hannah, did you take the mayor’s bill?”

  She turned, wooden spoon in hand, her blue eyes widening. “The mayor? You mean Mr. Sharp? No.”

  I’d been stiffed. By the mayor! What burned is it might have been my own fault. Usually I rang people up when they ordered, they paid, and then they got their food. So I’d been the one to goof up the process. But I’d also left the bill on the table with the coffee. They should have paid. But the mayor had done me a huge favor with that newspaper article. I thought over my conversation with him at the White Lady. Did he think I’d invited him to lunch at Pie Town? I gnawed my bottom lip. I’d have to be more up-front about the bill next time he returned.