by Carol Culver
Grannie now had her meals at Heavenly Acres, wine included, and all my old friends had either left town or gotten married to their high school sweethearts. Which left me the odd girl out. Not that I cared. I hadn’t come back to the Cove to find love. Finding the perfect man was almost as hard as making the perfect crust. Isn’t that what drove Grannie all these years, looking for perfection? According to her old customers, she’d found it and I hadn’t. I’d given up on finding the man, but not the crust. As I told Kate, I had no time to socialize, not when I was trying to prove to myself, Grannie, and the world I could start a new business that was once a thriving old business. And now I had to expand as well.
I followed the recipe for Wild Rice Quiche, beating the eggs with a wire whisk. I’m sure Kate would have said I should use an electric mixer, but there’s something satisfying about doing things by hand and seeing real tangible, edible results when you’re finished. Especially after shuffling papers in an office for a few years.
After topping my quiche with a mixture of aged Parmesan and Harvarti cheeses, I slid it into the oven and had just poured myself a cup of coffee when the bell rang again. I jumped up from the stool at the counter and faced two women with kids in strollers who looked vaguely familiar. The women, not the kids.
“Hanna Denton, is that really you?”
Damn, these were girls from my high school class I hadn’t seen for years. Part of the popular crowd that didn’t include me. Tammy and Lindsey had married their high school boyfriends. I hadn’t. I didn’t know what I’d say to them, unless it involved pie. I could only hope they were hungry. Too late to brush the flour out of my hair and change into a clean apron and some skinny jeans so I wouldn’t look like such a slob.
“We heard you were back in town,” Lindsey said, tossing her long blond hair over one shoulder.
Tammy, looking not a bit older than the day we’d graduated with her feathered bangs and chin-length brown hair, paused and sniffed the air. “Smells good in here.”
“How are you?” I said, wishing I’d taken the time to put on some eyeliner and brushing some color on my cheekbones. I’d been up for hours and I was sure I looked as tired as I felt.
“We should get together,” Tammy said. She was scanning the pies in the case. My hopes were rising like a cheese soufflé. Then she said, “Do you have any cupcakes?”
“Uh, no, just pies. Lemon Meringue, Key Lime, Strawberry Rhubarb …”
“We heard somebody in town is making cupcakes. Thought it must be you.”
“Not me.” Cupcakes. Why didn’t I think of that? That’s all I needed was some competition in the bakery department. “How about a cup of coffee?”
They exchanged glances.
“On the house, of course.”
“Hanna, you can’t give away coffee,” Lindsey said, opening her purse. “We can afford it. This is my treat.”
I went to get the coffee. Maybe someone would walk by and see a veritable crowd in here. I could only hope. Because no one wants to hang out in an empty pie shop no matter how inviting the interior or how mouth-watering the pies. So much better to be where the action is.
We sat around the tiny table. Half listening to them gossip about old classmates, their divorces, and their own kids who were both blissfully asleep in their strollers, I fantasized about getting more tables for more customers eating pie and drinking coffee and the sound of money in the vintage cash register. Maybe I’d put tables out on the sidewalk. It would be more than a bakery. It would be like a European café. I’d serve tarts and quiche. Or was that too pretentious for little Crystal Cove?
“…. won’t believe who’s the Chief of Police,” Tammy was saying.
“No, who?” I asked. Whoever he was, he wasn’t a customer, and he should be.
“Sam Genovese. You remember Sam?”
I almost spilled my coffee. Of course I remembered him. How could I forget? What was he doing here?
“Thought we’d never see him again, didn’t you?” She gave me a funny look. She couldn’t possibly know I had a history with Sam, could she?
“Never,” I agreed. The town bad boy was now the Chief of Police? I stared out the window at the police station as the sun broke through the clouds and shone on the center of law and order. If he worked there, why hadn’t I seen him or anyone from the station come into the shop? Because he was avoiding me or my pies, obviously. When Grannie was here, the cops were her best customers.
“Almost as unbelievable as you back here making pies,” Tammy said. “Just like your grandmother.”
“Not exactly. She taught me everything she knew, but I have some new recipes. You’ll have to try one.”
“Not me, I’m on a diet.” Lindsey sucked in her cheeks and gazed at the walls I’d painted persimmon and the mirror on the wall that I thought made the shop look bigger. “Looks different,” she said. I wasn’t sure whether she meant it looked better or not.
“Oh, there he is now.” Tammy stood and stared out the window. Across the street, a tall man in street clothes got into a squad car and drove away. I forced myself to stay seated, though I wanted to run outside for a better look. From where I sat, it could have been Sam. It could have been anybody.
“If that’s him, why isn’t he wearing a uniform?” Tammy asked. Which made it unnecessary for me to ask that same question.
“Duh. He’s the chief. And he’s a detective. They don’t wear uniforms. Don’t you watch ‘The Closer’?” her friend asked.
Instead of answering, Tammy turned to me. “What do you think? Would you have recognized him?”
I shook my head and changed the subject. I didn’t come back to Crystal Cove to rekindle an impossible teen crush. And I wasn’t running away from anything. At least that was my story and I was sticking to it. I was here to carry on a family tradition, which is what I told my grandmother. Also to make a big change in my life. I didn’t want to talk about Sam for fear of dragging up old memories, both mine and Tammy’s and Lindsey’s. Enough speculation about Sam. “If there’s a pie you’d like to special order, I’d be glad to make it for you. Parties, holidays? They make great birthday gifts for that special person. And I deliver.”
Lindsey stood and pushed her stroller to the door where she paused and looked thoughtful. “Actually, I’m having a sex toy party next week and I wanted to serve something, something, you know, sexy. Any ideas?”
“What about ‘I’m too sexy for my crust’ Italian Bittersweet Chocolate Silk Pie?”
“Ooooh, that sounds good.”
“I thought you were on a diet,” Tammy said to her friend.
Lindsey frowned. No one likes to be reminded they can’t eat pie. “I have to serve something at my Pleasure Party, don’t I?” she said.
“For how many?” I asked.
“Fifteen or twenty. All women, of course. My husband’s out of town so I’m doing a ‘Girls Night Out’ thing.”
“I suggest having a blueberry pie to go with it. Did you know blueberries are a powerful antioxidant and they fight wrinkles, not that you need to worry about wrinkles, but still …”
“Okay, one of each. And Hanna, if you want to stay for the passion products …” She didn’t seem at all embarrassed that she hadn’t invited me. Maybe she thought since I’m probably a swinging single I didn’t need any sex toys. “I would have invited you but I wasn’t sure you were around.”
“Oh, I’m around,” I said, “but I can’t really come to the party. I never mix business with pleasure.” I might have sounded a little stiff, but a pleasure party with girls was the last thing I’d want to do no matter how desperate I was for company. Lindsey gave me instructions, when to arrive as well as her address. Fortunately, she didn’t insist on my staying for the “fun.” As soon as she mentioned her address, I thought “big time.” Because her street was definitely in the best part of town.
After they left, I went back to the kitchen and took a look at the quiche in the oven. It was puffed, set, and golden brown aro
und the edges. Just perfect.
When Kate came back, the temperature outside was climbing into the mid-seventies. Crystal Cove prided itself on its eternal spring weather. If I’d had my sidewalk café set up, we could have sat out there. I cut two pieces of quiche and poured two glasses of white wine Grannie never would have served, and we sat at the table in the window.
“What would you think of my expanding out on the sidewalk?” I asked with a wave of my hand toward the street.
“Now you’re thinking,” she said with a smile. “Great idea. I picture little tables with umbrellas.” That’s the thing about Kate, she’s so upbeat. She keeps me thinking positive when sometimes in the middle of the night I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake coming back here.
“By the way,” I said. “Guess who dropped in? Our old friends Tammy and Lindsey.”
“Good. They’ll tell people and you’ll have more business. Tammy goes to water aerobics with the old crowd and Lindsey knows everyone in town. And they’re both way up on the food chain, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
“And why didn’t you tell me Sam was back in town?” I asked. “I could have been prepared.”
“Must have forgotten,” she mumbled, her mouth full.
“Do you like my crust?” I asked, turning my attention to the quiche.
“Mmmmm, hmmmm,” she said.
“I used Grannie’s recipe this time.” I chewed thoughtfully. “It’s good but it’s not great. I’ve got to ask her what her secret is.”
“If she tells you, it won’t be a secret. Don’t worry about it. This is delicious. She never did savory pies, did she?”
“I don’t think so, but I wanted to try something new. Maybe that’s my problem. People around here don’t like change.”
“Then we’ll have to educate them. As your PR person I’ll get busy. I’m going to write a profile of you for the Crystal Cove Gazette and take a photo of you and your pies.”
“That would be great.” I managed to sound enthusiastic, but I was tired, worried about the future, and worried about running into the Chief of Police. Sooner or later it was inevitable, considering he worked across the street. We’d probably have an awkward conversation that would go something like this:
“So, what brings you back to little Crystal Cove?” I’d ask. Or I might insert “boring, monotonous, dull, but scenic Crystal Cove.”
“The job. And you?”
“Same.”
“Good to see you.”
“You too.”
I’d force a smile. He wouldn’t. He never smiled. Unless he’d changed drastically.
“So … how are you?” I’d ask, because I really wanted to know, damn his blue eyes.
“Fine. How about you?”
“Great. Couldn’t be better.” I’d say it so sincerely he couldn’t doubt I was feeling and, I hoped, looking fabulous.
And that would be it. We’d get our awkward meeting over with and then get on with our lives, such as they were. The past would stay in the past. I had no intention of bringing it up, and he probably wouldn’t either.
Fortunately, Kate had no idea my mind was wandering. She retained the enthusiasm of the cheerleader she once was and the ability to focus, which I seemed to have lost. I still have a hard time believing Kate and I ever became best friends. I was the geek, she was the popular girl, but we were on the newspaper staff and went out and did interviews with teachers, students, and townspeople together. We shared many laughs and we still do.
“You’re doing terrific,” she said, wiping the crumbs from her mouth. “Your savory pie was divine. But no one knows about it. That’s why you need me to spread the word.” She pulled out a small digital camera from her purse and had me pose with a pie in my hands.
“Wait, I didn’t even comb my hair.”
“You look fine,” she assured me. “Very natural. Besides, it’s the pies we want to feature, not you.”
She gave me a thumbs up, promised to get me the publicity I needed, and drove away in her SUV filled with the kids’ car seats. If I’d stayed around fifteen years ago, would that be me? A happy and contented small-town housewife with two kids and a husband who adored me? No point in dwelling on what might have been. I’d had some interesting experiences and some not so interesting, which made me determined to appreciate my new independent life here.
The phone rang and I reached into my apron pocket.
“Hanna,” my grandmother said. “You’ve got to come over here right away.”
I frowned. “Why, what is it?”
“There’s been a … an incident. The police are here and they’re asking questions.”
“What do you mean an incident? What kind of questions?”
There was no answer. She was gone. Disconnected. Grannie is not the type to cry wolf, so I hung a “Closed” sign on the door of the shop and immediately drove up to Heavenly Acres in Grannie’s ’71 two-tone Buick Estate Wagon while I pondered what kind of an incident it could be in this quiet, geranium-and-forget-me-not town that would require the presence of the police? A stolen iPod? A lost diamond ring? Someone skinny-dipping in the infinity pool? Or overindulging at Happy Hour? Whatever it was, she needed me and I was going to be there for her.
I drove up the hill past the iron gate with the Heavenly Acres sign on it, and into the parking lot marked “Visitors.” As I got out of the car, I took a moment to admire the sweeping view of the sparkling azure cove the town was named for. The tasteful one-story buildings were built around a patio fringed with palm trees. Once again I realized how lucky Grannie was to have the money to afford the monthly fees at this upscale facility where the staff-to-resident ratio was three to one, there was water aerobics in the afternoon, first-run movies every evening, Yoga and Pilates on Wednesdays, but best of all there were nonstop Bridge games in the card room.
A tiny fear niggled at me. Not about the incident that prompted her call, but selfishly I worried about where I’d be at her age. No ex-husband to foot the bills for me. I’d be lucky to find someone who’d marry me so he could share Grannie’s flat and have pie twice a day.
I found Grannie pacing back and forth in the formal reception hall along with other residents who were milling around, staff in uniforms, and administrators in what I call smart, casual outfits appropriate for a Friday afternoon at an active adult community such as Heavenly Acres. Grannie herself looked fit and chic for her age, wearing a linen pants ensemble, giving me hope that I’d inherited her genes if not her fortune. When she came into the money from Hubby Number Two, she offered me her shop with living quarters upstairs, then picked up the phone and ordered herself a new wardrobe from Talbots. Next she applied for a spot at Heavenly Acres and signed up for all the activities that didn’t interfere with Bridge. It was as if she’d never been simply “the Pie Lady.” She was now “the Bridge Lady.”
Right now she was slightly pale and so shaky she looked like “the Scared Lady.” But why?
“What’s going on?” I asked.
She blinked rapidly and looked over her shoulder. Then she pointed toward the South Wing. “My room.”
Her room was actually a small apartment with a gleaming miniscule kitchen she never used, not even to boil water, because she said after years of making her living baking, she was happy to let someone else do it. Like me. Beyond the kitchen was a large bedroom with a luxury bath, and a small living room filled with brand-new furniture straight out of the Pottery Barn catalog with sliding doors to a patio. She’d furnished her patio with redwood chairs, a table with an umbrella, and an actual lemon tree heavy with ripe fruit.
“Sit down,” I said. “You look like you need a drink.”
She sat on the Italian-designed white sofa, buried her head in her hands, and braced her elbows on her knees. I went to the sideboard and poured her a glass of Scotch, added a little water the way she always did it, and handed it to her.
She reached for it and gave me a wan smile. “They think I did it,” she said.
/> Puzzled, I leaned against her mahogany dish cabinet and entertainment center and studied her face. “Did what?”
“Killed Mary Brandt. The woman who died on Wednesday.”
“But that’s ridiculous. I don’t know who Mary Brandt is, but people of a certain advanced age do die from time to time. Why would anyone think someone killed her, and for heaven’s sake, why would they suspect you? Surely it was natural causes.”
“If you knew her, you’d know people like her don’t die of natural causes. She’s the type that gets murdered.”
Murdered? At Heavenly Acres? Good grief, had Grannie gone completely off the deep end?
“What do you mean? What type gets murdered?”
“The type that cheats at Bridge. Everyone knew it.”
Grannie lived by a few rules, Never eat at a place called Mom’s. Never sleep with a man who has more problems than you, and never, ever cheat at cards or love.
“She wanted to win that badly?”
“She wanted to go to the tournament. We were tied for points. She couldn’t beat me fair and square so she had to use other means. Right after she ate a piece of my Cranberry Walnut Cream Pie. The one you made for me.”
“So what did her supposed cheating have to do with her dying?”
“It wasn’t supposed, Hanna. It was real. She’s dead, gone, and deceased. Here’s what happened. I’d put up with her hand signals, her sighs, her looks, her twiddling with her glasses long enough. On Wednesday right after lunch I got mad. We’d just started playing when I let her have it. I told her what everyone knows. ‘You’re not fooling anyone,’ I said. ‘We all know you’re sending signals to your partner.’ That’s Donna Linton, by the way, who’s turning bright red when I say that because she knows, of course, she knows. ‘Well, you’re not getting away with it this time,’ I say. She says something I don’t understand. Then she turns white as the tablecloth, drops her cards, and slumps over.”