The Quiche and the Dead

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Now open the gate,” Charlene said. “This is a twenty-four-hour place, isn’t it?”

  Grumbling, he ducked into his guard shack. The electronic gate swung inward.

  “Wow,” Charlene said. “It really is twenty-four hours. I didn’t think we’d be able to get in.”

  “Is that why you agreed to come?”

  “I agreed because I want to see what else your ex has got in that storage locker.”

  “It can’t be incriminating, or he wouldn’t have given me the key.”

  She chuckled. “He was in such a twist over his new girlfriend, he would have given you anything to end that conversation.”

  We glided past rows of orange-roofed storage lockers lit by overhead lights and stopped before number 311.

  “This is it.” Stepping out of the Jeep, I unlocked the padlock, yanked up on the handle. The metal door rattled and clanked as I raised it.

  Charlene gasped. Rows of toilets and boxes of plumbing bits and bobs jammed tight against each other.

  My jaw slackened. “I’ll never find my stuff in all this . . . this . . . What is all this?”

  “Ye, gods.” She pointed a quavering finger. “Are those incandescent lightbulbs?”

  Standing on my toes, I grabbed a lightweight box from the top of one stack. “Looks like it.”

  She took the bulbs from me and clutched them to her chest. “One hundred watt! You don’t think he’d mind if I took a few?”

  “Yes, I do.” I thought about that. “Take as many as you want.”

  “Right then.” Loading her arms, she scuttled to the Jeep and laid the contraband lightbulbs reverently on the dashboard. “I hate those fluorescents. The lighting is poor, and they wash out my skin. Where’s your stuff?”

  I handed her more boxes of lightbulbs, then shifted the heavier boxes outside the shed.

  She sat on the Jeep’s hood and watched me drag a toilet from the unit. “How many of these old houses is he selling?” she asked.

  “No idea.” I panted, pulling out another toilet. It scraped across the macadam. “These are heavier than they look.” No wonder Mark had dragged his heels on letting me into his storage shed. Gradually, I cleared a path toward the back.

  “Eureka!” I strode from the unit, box clutched in my hands.

  “What’s in there?”

  “My mom’s old pie tins.” I loved those stamped pie tins.

  “You talk about her a lot, but I’ve never heard you talk about your father.”

  And I’d never heard her talk about her daughter. “He wasn’t in the picture.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” She harrumphed. “You deserved better.”

  I set the box beside her on the hood of the Jeep, unsure how to reply.

  “Your mother must have been a remarkable woman,” she said.

  “For being ditched by her husband?” Like I’d been ditched by Mark. Were the women in my family doomed to repeat the same mistakes?

  “For raising such a strong, kindhearted young woman on her own.” She reached into the cardboard box. “Oh, look, dishes. Are these yours?” She pulled out a blue and white plate.

  “Yes,” I said, grateful for the change of subject.

  I scrounged about and finally unearthed my other three boxes. They mostly contained knickknacks, but they were my knickknacks. “Check out this fossil a friend brought me from Morocco.” I hefted it from the box and unwrapped the newspaper covering, traced my hand along its million-year-old spiral.

  “Morocco?” Her eyes grew misty. “I’ll never forget my time in Marrakech. The hookah pipes. The mint tea. The sheikh. You wouldn’t believe the size of his—”

  A light blazed in my face, and I jerked away.

  “A little late to be out, isn’t it?” a masculine voice asked.

  I twitched, fumbling the fossil.

  Gordon grasped it with one hand. “Nice Ammonoidea.”

  “What?” I asked, dazed. Gordon Carmichael? Here?

  His badge glinted. “The fossil. I was a geology minor. What are you doing here so late?”

  Charlene straightened. “We have a key, and the security guard gave us permission. What are you doing here?”

  “Part of my patrol. I saw your headlights. Emptying your locker couldn’t wait until morning?”

  “It’s not my locker, and I’m tired of waiting.” I stomped my foot, realized what I’d done, and blood rushed to my cheeks. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

  Charlene jerked her thumb at me. “Her ex has been holding her things hostage in his storage shed.”

  Gordon looked around. “What’s with all the toilets?”

  “Those aren’t mine,” I said quickly. “It’s his stuff. I had to get past it all to get to my boxes.” Was I going to get Mark in trouble?

  More importantly, did I care about that traitor?

  No, I did not.

  “Need some help?” he asked.

  “That would be lovely, Officer.” Charlene rubbed her elbow. “My back.”

  His brow wrinkled. “Right. So is this stuff going in or do you need to move more out?”

  “In,” I said. “I’ve got all my things.” There hadn’t been much, but if I was ever going to move into that tiny house, minimalism was my new mantra.

  He lifted a toilet into his arms and walked it into the shed.

  Charlene shot me a meaningful look.

  I grabbed a box and handed it to him on his return. “This can’t be a part of your regular duties.”

  He shrugged. “If a call comes in, I’ll go. But there’s not a lot happening tonight.”

  “I’d imagine there’s not a lot happening in San Nicholas any night,” I said.

  “Aside from all the accidental deaths.” Grabbing another box, he vanished into the storage unit.

  “This is kind of a long shift for you, isn’t it?” I asked when he returned for another box.

  “Cops work long hours, and my shift is almost over.” He headed into the shed.

  “Ask him out,” Charlene hissed.

  “No,” I whispered.

  He returned and grabbed another toilet.

  “It’s a shame,” Charlene said, “but Val’s never been night diving.”

  “Is that so?” he asked.

  “I’ve never been any kind of diving,” I said, not knowing where Charlene was heading with this. Big sharks. Cold ocean. No thanks.

  “Officer Carmichael dives, don’t you?” Charlene asked him.

  I glared at her.

  “When there’s a body in a bog,” he said, “I’m the one they call. I’m part of the dive retrieval team.”

  “Are there bogs in San Nicholas?” I asked.

  He laughed. “I hope not.”

  Charlene bounced on her heels. “In fact, you teach, don’t you?”

  Lifting a box, he gazed into my eyes.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  “Are you looking for diving lessons?” he asked.

  I cleared my throat. “Aren’t there great whites off the coast?”

  “That’s what they say.” He shifted the box in his arms. “I’ve never seen one.”

  “You wouldn’t when they’re speeding silently up from beneath you,” I said.

  He quirked a brow. “You’re not seriously afraid of sharks? One of the great things about diving is you finally get to see what’s beneath the waves. It peels away some of the mystery.”

  “I love a good mystery.”

  “Yes,” Charlene said, “she’s been talking about dive lessons for ages. Said she wants to shake things up, take a chance.”

  “No. No, I really don’t.”

  “Diving could help you get over your fear of the ocean,” he said.

  “Not of the ocean, of the sharks. They’re pretty big animals.” With razor-sharp teeth.

  “I’m starting a new class in a week,” he said. “Ask at the dive shop down by the pier. But I gotta tell you, I was trained to dive by a couple of marines, and I’m old school
when it comes to dive training. It won’t be easy.”

  “Charlene’s just kid—”

  “She’ll be there,” Charlene said.

  I frowned at her. “If it fits my work schedule.” And I’d make sure it wouldn’t. I liked Gordon, but I wasn’t going to become shark bait for some guy, even if he had startling green eyes and knew how to cook mushrooms. Besides, once he learned the truth about the mountain of lies Charlene and I had told (again), he’d run away as fast as his long, muscular legs would carry him.

  “Oh, it will fit.” Charlene smiled, her teeth gleaming.

  He took another box into the depths of the storage shed.

  “Pie Town keeps me busy,” I muttered.

  “Fortunately,” Charlene said, “she has staff to lighten the load. She’s thinking of making Petronella assistant manager. But don’t tell anyone.”

  He emerged from the storage unit. “My cousin, Petronella?”

  “She’s your cousin?” This town was so small it was almost incestuous. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to her about it yet.”

  “I won’t say anything,” he said. “I take it things are turning around at Pie Town?”

  “I think so. I hope so.”

  “She made coupons,” Charlene said.

  Smiling weakly, I handed him a box. We finished loading the shed, and I pulled down the door. It rattled into place, and I locked it.

  “I’ll see you both home,” he said.

  “Um,” I said, “we’re taking my things to Pie Town.”

  “Pie Town it is.”

  Charlene and I piled into the Jeep. Gordon followed us, the headlights of his squad car illuminating the Jeep’s interior. Was he seeing us safely home or making sure we weren’t up to anything nefarious? I didn’t believe he’d happened to stumble across us at the storage facility. Was Gordon carrying out an investigation on the side?

  He watched us load the boxes into my kitchen, then drove off behind Charlene’s Jeep as I pulled Pie Town’s alley door shut.

  Chapter 23

  I glanced through the kitchen window into the dining area and twisted pie dough in my gloved hands.

  It was a good Tuesday.

  Not the best Tuesday ever, but we had a normal Tuesday afternoon crowd. And considering what we’d gone through, normal was thrilling. Takeaway sales had been brisk. A couple sat across from each other in one of the booths. A trio of mothers, their children asleep in their strollers, gossiped over slices of pie and coffee. The chiropractor, Mr. Peters, sat with perfect posture alone at the counter. The gamers were in their usual spot. I checked my watch. Two o’clock. The lunch rush was over. Pie Town was back on track.

  But weariness pressed on my shoulders, hollowed out my chest. I couldn’t shake the fear that Mark was connected to the murders somehow, and a sense of betrayal mixed with my suspicion. In short, I was a red hot mess.

  Petronella rang up a sale and handed a box to a grandmother in a thick coat. My assistant drummed her fingers on the counter, watching the customer leave, then whisked into the kitchen. “People are asking about the breakfast pies.”

  “Are they? Good.” I’d put a sign up that morning announcing the pies would be available in two weeks. The bacon pie was a winner, and I thought I’d go with the spinach quiche as well. But I needed time to work out at least one more breakfast pie recipe before we launched. “Petronella, I wanted to talk to you about becoming assistant manager.”

  “Assistant manager?” She raked a hand through her spiky black hair. Her nails had been painted sparkling ebony.

  “Before Joe’s death, I’d been thinking of hiring two more people. If this trend continues, I want to go ahead with that and bring in an assistant manager. I thought you might like that job, and a raise to go with it.” Fear twinged my gut. Was I being overly optimistic? I’d taken such a financial beating lately, the thought of spending more money terrified me. But this felt right.

  Her dark eyes widened. “I would!”

  I sagged against the counter. “Great. Maybe we can sit down tomorrow and develop the job description.”

  “Yes! Okay!” She spun and pointed at Hannah, filling apple pies at a metal work station. “More fruit in that pie!”

  The bell over the front entrance jingled, and Petronella strode toward the kitchen door.

  “I’ll get it,” I said.

  She stopped midstride. “You will?”

  “You manage things in here.” Dusting off my apron, I walked into the dining area.

  Captain’s hat in hand, Loomis stood in the center of the room. His bulky peacoat hung open, exposing a knotted rope for a belt about his stained trousers. His white hair stood up in odd places, as if tossed by the wind.

  I stepped behind the register. “Hi, Loomis.”

  He ambled to my counter. “I’m here to keep my promise to you, and also to see Charlene.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve missed her. If you’d like to come back later, I won’t hold you to lunch.”

  He lifted his chin. “A promise is a promise. Is that potpie I smell?”

  “We have chicken, beef, and potato curry today. We have mini-pies for lunch if you’d prefer to dine in, and full size for takeaway.” Of course, people could take away any size pie they wanted, but I was pushing sales.

  “Pity about Charlene. Are you expecting her later?”

  “She’s only here in the mornings.” Unless she was on detective business.

  He winked. “Oh, well. I tried. But I think you promised me mincemeat.”

  “A slice, full size, or hand pie?” I slid a menu to him.

  Perusing it, he scratched his beard. “Hm . . . It’s a Devil’s choice you’re offering. All right, I’ll take a mini beef potpie and one of those mincemeat hand pies. I’ve got to watch my girlish figure.” He paid, and I handed him the receipt.

  “Sea hag!” One of the gamers thumped the table with his fist.

  “You want to hear about sea hags?” Loomis bellowed. “I’ll tell you about a sea hag.” He stomped over to their booth.

  Feeling protective of the gamers, I wavered, unsure if I should intervene.

  Loomis spoke to them in a low voice, and they burst into laughter. One of the gamers shifted sideways in the booth. Loomis sat, joining them.

  Returning to the kitchen, I plated a still-warm mini-potpie. When I returned to the booth, Loomis was telling a ribald tale about a seal, a sailing ship, and a septuagenarian.

  I hurried away before I could hear the rest of the story and bumped into Joy, seemingly welded to the floor. Her steel-colored purse slithered off the shoulder of her gray coat to the floor.

  “Whoops, sorry.” Kneeling, I scooped up the purse and handed it to her. “How are you doing?”

  Her face crumpled. “Sometimes I think everything’s okay. And then it hits me. Joe’s gone. Murdered. Someone actually killed my uncle.” She blinked rapidly.

  “Hey,” I said, “I’m sorry. I can’t believe it either.”

  “None of this makes any sense!”

  I guided her to an empty booth, and we sat. “Has something happened?”

  “The cops aren’t taking this seriously. Yes, my uncle did keep castor beans, but they were under the sink in his bathroom cupboard, not in his kitchen. There’s no way a bean or two accidentally made their way into his coffee grinder, no matter what the cops say. And I looked for Frank’s casebook, the one Tandy said Joe took. I couldn’t find it anywhere.”

  “You couldn’t?” I squeaked. How could I admit Charlene had stolen it? I bunched my apron in my hands.

  “When I talked it over with my dad, he said he was going to hire a real private detective. I’m sure not getting anywhere.”

  “That’s, um, a good idea.” Great Buddha, if a real detective started looking into this, would he figure out Charlene and I had the casebook? I had to tell her. Or maybe we could somehow slip it back to her? Through a window? Under a doormat?

  “Have you gotten any farther on those casebook pages I
photocopied?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. I think I understand why Joe and Frank thought the new library was a waste of money.” I told her about the cost.

  Her brow wrinkled. “That does seem like a lot, but . . . well, it’s the government, isn’t it?”

  We both considered that for a long moment. The bell tinkled over the front entrance, and a chemical smell wafted in. Wrinkling my nose, I turned.

  “That’s him,” Joy hissed. “That’s the homeless guy.”

  A slim, white-haired man loped to the front counter. His clothing was stained, rumpled. What looked like a cake knife was stuck through his belt.

  Joy squeaked. “He’s got a knife.”

  “I’m not afraid of a cake knife.” I slid from the booth.

  “You ought to be.” She pulled her cell phone from her purse. “I’m calling the cops.”

  “Don’t. He probably wants some pie.” I was the proprietor, and this was my shop, and I would deal with this with a smile. A fake, terrified smile.

  I slithered behind the counter, making a barricade of the register. “Welcome to Pie Town. What can I get for you?”

  Bracing one hand on the register, he leaned forward. I edged away, clutching a stack of menus to my chest.

  He rested his free hand on the handle of the cake knife. “I’ll take an apple pie.” His voice was ghostly, ethereal. “To go.”

  “Full size or mini?”

  “Fullllll.”

  Laughing maniacally, I rang up the pie. “Sure thing!” See, just a pie. No biggie, I told myself.

  He handed me the money, and I made change.

  “And I see you’ve brought your own pie cutter,” I said brightly.

  “What?” He glanced down. “It’s a palette knife,” he whispered. “I’m a painter.”

  I edged closer, head lowered as if we were sharing a secret. “And are you also a . . . wanderer?”

  He blinked. “Huh?” It came out as a wheeze.

  I reached beneath the counter and grabbed a fresh apple pie. “Did you know Frank Potts or Joe Devlin?”

  “Yesssss . . . Frank was an old friend.”

  “But you’re not from around here,” I said, boxing the pie.

  His face creased. “Not for a long time.”

  Laying the pie on the counter, I rested one hand atop the closed box. “I’m sorry, this may sound odd, but I knew Frank and his friend Joe. Frank and Joe used to solve little local problems together. One of their notebooks mentioned a Case of the Whispering Wanderer. Could that be you?”