by Carol Culver
“That’s awful,” I murmured. “How did it happen?”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment. I was afraid I’d gone too far. Afraid he’d say it was none of my business.
“A domestic disturbance. He was out with a rookie because I wasn’t there. I should have been.”
“Where were you?”
“I took the day off to take a kid to school. I’m a big brother.”
“I thought …”
“You thought I was an only child. I am. Big Brothers is a program I got involved with in the city. You mentor a kid, someone who needs a little help. I got assigned to this boy …” He broke off. “You don’t need to hear all this.”
I shrugged as if it didn’t matter whether I did or not. But it did matter. I wanted to know what happened in those years I lost track of him. I wanted to tell him I cared, but I was afraid to. I didn’t move. I just stood there waiting, hoping …
“The kid reminded me of me. Bad home situation. Full of himself. Acting out at school. You know I did. So it was parent day at his school. I went. Not that he asked me to, he wouldn’t do that. In fact he told me he didn’t want me to come. I went anyway. And that was the day Eric got shot by the guy who was beating up on his wife. The domestic disturbance I missed.”
“You might not have made a difference,” I said. “Or you would have been shot, too.”
“Or I would have been shot instead of my buddy who had a wife and two kids. But I wasn’t.” He said it so matter-of-factly I almost thought he’d put it behind him, but there was something about the way his eyes were narrowed that made me realize it was still a big part of him.
“What happened to the boy, the one you were mentoring?”
“Michael? His uncle came and took him to Nevada. I went to see him, but he’d already gone.”
“Still, you made a difference.”
“Did I? I don’t know.”
“Well …” I waited a long moment, then I went to the kitchen and came back with a strawberry pie just out of the oven.
“Would you take this as a welcome-back present for the guys at the station? I don’t see enough of your uh … staff … force, I mean.” What did you call a group of policemen anyway?
“That’s because they’re all on a fitness regime,” he explained. He sounded better. Back to the present. I wasn’t sure if I’d opened a can of worms by asking all those questions.
“It’s a badly needed program of exercise and diet,” he explained. “Which is partly why I got this job. To shape up the officers. To remodel the whole department. When I got here six months ago, the staff was about five hundred pounds overweight, collectively.”
“Does this fitness program of yours have anything to do with the police avoiding my shop?”
“It could.”
“Okay, I see you’ve got a job to do. Shape up the department. I agree that pie should be eaten in moderation, but some pies are really good for you. Take this strawberry rhubarb here. It’s all natural and all delicious. You have fruit—the strawberries and rhubarb, which is actually a vegetable with high-quality fiber, and dairy in the buttery crust into which I added some whole grain. I call it the ultimate food.”
He didn’t say anything; he just looked at me as if he was trying to reconcile the former local nerdy hippie-wannabe girl who once died her hair black and purple with the homey, flour-covered baker in front of him. No makeup, brown hair pulled back in a rubber band, and my body covered with an apron. So I’d changed. Well, so had he.
“I’ll cut you a piece right now,” I said, setting it down on the table.
“I don’t usually eat dessert,” he said. “And besides, I just finished a piece.”
“Well, this isn’t dessert, it’s a food group,” I said and without waiting for his answer, I took the pie and hurried into the kitchen for a knife and two clean plates. I cut two pieces of warm strawberry rhubarb pie oozing ruby-red juice, and then I poured two cups of coffee. I was counting on the fact that hardly anyone can resist a piece of warm pie when it’s put in front of them, no matter how much will power they have. I put everything on a tray and came back into the shop.
But instead of digging in, he was standing at the window looking across the street at the police station.
“What’s up?” I asked. “Another emergency?”
He shook his head. “You know at one time I hated that place, the police station. I thought they were out to get me. Old Officer Jarvis would drag me in and ask me questions like where was I when … something happened. Whatever it was, he was sure I was behind it. Or he’d ask why did I skip school the month of whenever. Not that I didn’t deserve it. I broke enough rules and got into enough trouble in my time.”
“I’m not a psychologist,” I said, “but does your return to Crystal Cove have something to do with what happened in the city or your showing the town and yourself that you’ve redeemed yourself ? You’ve not only done a complete turnaround, you’re going to bury your past, solve a murder, and keep us all safe from harm while you’re at it.”
“Not bad,” he said with a pointed glance at me, “for an amateur. But if I were you I’d stick to pie baking and leave the pop psychology to someone else.”
Of course he’d say that. Especially if I’d come anywhere close to guessing the truth.
He turned and regarded the plates and the forks and the cups of coffee along with the old-fashioned sugar bowl and matching creamer with some suspicion. But he sat down again and so did I. I wanted so badly to acknowledge the elephant in the room, the subject we were both avoiding, and say, “How did it go with my grandmother? How did she do?” but I continued to keep it to myself.
I held my breath until I saw him take one bite and then another of the pie. When he finished, he set his fork down and finally spoke. He got down to the real reason he was here. He wanted to talk about pie, but not this one.
“The cranberry pie you made for your grandmother on Wednesday…” Sam said.
“Yes?”
“Whose idea was it?” Sam asked.
“Mine,” I said. “I’m the one who offered to make the pie for my grandmother’s Bridge group.”
“Were you the one who decided on the type of pie?” he asked.
I hesitated. Did I dare lie? Was there any point to it? Did he already know the answer? “She asked me for Cranberry Walnut.”
“I don’t suppose you knew that a drug called warfarin interacts with certain foods like cranberries, spinach, cabbage, coriander …” he said.
“Of course not,” I said hotly. “How could I? I’m not a pharmacist. And I had no idea what anyone was taking. If they were taking anything. Although considering the facility, I would think some, maybe most of the residents are taking something.”
“Someone knew Mrs. Brandt was taking warfarin to prevent blood clots and served her cranberries, which interacted with her medicine,” Sam said sternly.
“Was she? Did it?” I asked.
“Her relatives say she was on several meds but not sure which ones she took that day. Whatever she was taking interacted with the pie she was eating and had a deadly effect,” he said.
“Just an unfortunate accident, then,” I said hopefully.
“No, Hanna. This was no accident.”
“You don’t really think my grandmother had anything to do with her … death, do you?”
“Do you?” he asked.
“Of course not,” I said squaring my shoulders and looking him in the eye. “She wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
“She said it was your idea to bake a cranberry pie.”
“I …” I knew what was going on. I’ve seen enough TV dramas to know how they divide and conquer. Put the suspects in separate interview rooms and ask the same questions and try to catch the suspects in lies or evasions. “I’m not sure. Maybe it was. I had a bag of cranberries in my freezer and I like to combine them with walnuts. So does Grannie. We think alike when it comes to pie.” I paused. “Actually, I believe someone r
equested something with cranberries in it, and as a businesswoman I’m always happy to honor requests. Besides being a businesswoman, I’m really just an ordinary citizen. If you ask me, this was just an unfortunate accident.”
“I’m not asking you. This is a homicide due to an overdose of a common medication.”
“Maybe Mary ODed on purpose. She knew she’d been caught cheating and rather than deal with the shame of it, she killed herself.”
His jaw dropped and he looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.
“Or not,” I said quickly.
“Let’s look at the facts,” he said, “instead of wandering off in crazy-land. Mrs. Brandt was a wealthy woman. She was also an outspoken woman at the facility where your grandmother lives. I understand she’d made a few enemies. More than a few. Which is why I’ll be interviewing everyone who was there the day of the demise as well as Mrs. Brandt’s family, who are very anxious to get to the bottom of this.”
And divvy up her property, I thought.
“As are we all,” I said. “In regard to lie detector tests, I understand they’re not at all reliable.” I’d actually done some investigating on the Internet last night and stored up a few facts. “Did you know that the man who started the CIA’s polygraph program thought that plants could read human thoughts?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Also the alleged anthrax killer passed a polygraph test.”
“Thank you, Hanna. It looks like you’ve been doing some research.”
“Anything I can do to help,” I said sweetly.
“What you mean is anything you can do to help your grandmother.”
“I confess to that. She’s an honest, sincere, kind, wonderful woman and you’re right. I’d do anything to help her.”
“Would you lie to the police?”
“I don’t need to.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
I didn’t intend to either. I wasn’t under oath.
There was a long silence. Finally he spoke. “I understand the funeral will be this weekend with a memorial service at the retirement home and the interment following up at a later date after the autopsy.”
“Autopsy? Is that normal procedure?”
“The family has ordered an independent autopsy.”
“But why? I don’t get why everyone including you assumes she was murdered. A paranoid old woman tells her family someone is trying to kill her, then she has a stroke during a particularly tense Bridge game and dies at the hospital. Yes, she ate a pie with cranberries in it, and she was taking certain drugs whatever they were, but isn’t it possible they didn’t cause her death? I can’t imagine how big a dose it would take to kill a person. Or how many pieces of pie. And you insist this is a murder.”
“That’s right,” he said. “Whether Mary was killed by an overdose of a drug or the interaction between her drugs and the pie she ate, it was not an accident. It was homicide. I understand how upsetting it is for everyone in this town to think there’s a killer around, but we have to face the facts. That’s what they’re paying me for.” He paused and gave me a steady look. “If you have anything else to tell me, I’d be glad to hear it. My door is always open.”
“Yes I know. I heard your speech.”
“Then you have my number.”
I looked at my arm and nodded.
“That’s all for now,” he said. “I’ll see you at the service. If not before.” He put some money under his empty pie plate and walked out.
I stood there in the doorway thinking of everything he’d told me and wondered if he regretted saying so much about his past. It certainly showed me a side of Sam I’d never seen, and it left me with mixed feelings.
I considered all the things I might have said in defense of my grandmother, but didn’t. Like why would Grannie murder Mary? Sam would be all over that. Motives, that’s what Sam would be looking for. I could just see him thinking as he grilled Grannie: Did she have a motive? Was she ambitious?
Unfortunately for this murder investigation, Grannie was ambitious. Sam would probably figure that out eventually if he hadn’t already. He’d hear from someone, perhaps Grannie herself, how much she wanted to win at Bridge and go on to the tournament. He’d learn that Mary was her chief competitor in earning master points. I didn’t think for one minute I’d convinced Sam of my or Grannie’s innocence. And all because I made and she’d served a cranberry pie.
I could picture myself confessing I’d tampered with Mary’s meds and made the pie. If I had to, I would to save my grandmother, and she would do the same for me. Next thing you knew we’d be sharing a small cell in the county jail after being convicted by a jury of our Crystal Cove peers of murdering Mary with pie and an overdose of pills. We’d have visitors for sure. There would be an exercise facility outside so we’d keep in shape. Grannie would spend all her money on a hot-shot lawyer who worked tirelessly year after year to find the real killer and set us free. Maybe we could even help out in the prison bakery while doing our time.
I shook my head to erase these disturbing images. Instead, I forced myself to think about the memorial service and the gathering afterward for pie and coffee. Lots of pie. Many kinds of pie.
As I carried the plates to the kitchen, I took some satisfaction in seeing Sam had eaten every crumb and even paid for the privilege with a wad of bills he’d left under his plate. But I’d never forgive him for frightening my grandmother. I swore I’d get even with him for that. Sure, it was his job. Sure, he’d made something of himself since he left town. Yes, he was back in town to keep us all safe from harm, and to do something for his own damaged psyche after his partner was killed, but still …
That afternoon I was determined to find out more about the Brandt family. Since Sam was convinced Mary was murdered, the only way to save my grandmother was to find the real killer. She knew it and I knew it. Wasn’t it possible one of the family members wanted to see Mary bite the dust so he or she could inherit her money? I figured she must have had money. The Brandt family sure did. They were well known around town. But maybe not wealthy enough. Who does have enough money? It didn’t take a genius to see their motive would be greed.
Everyone who reads mysteries knows the two chief motives for murder are love and money, followed by ambition, greed, revenge, jealousy, and insanity. If anyone loved Mary I hadn’t heard about it. If anyone was going to profit from her death it would have to be her family. I looked up Brandt in the slim Crystal Cove phone book and found a Hartley Brandt listed on Vista Lane in the hillside section of Crystal Cove, the side of our town with the winding streets and the lush vegetation carefully tended by gardeners, and the views of the cove from the McMansions perched on the steep acreage. Was Hartley Mary’s husband or her son? I could have called first, but I wanted to catch Mary’s relatives unawares in the guise of a condolence call. I knew it sounded naïve and crazy, but I hoped to stand outside and overhear them arguing over Mary’s fortune, accusing each other of doing her in or talking about who they suspected of killing and threatening her.
I hung a “Closed” sign on my door with a little cardboard clock indicating I’d be back in an hour. I could only hope someone cared and that they’d come back later. I’d dressed the part of the entrepreneur/baker in a navy blue T-shirt I had made with “The Upper Crust—It’s All About the Pie” printed in orange letters. Over that I had layered a natural linen blazer paired with khaki capri pants. Casual, as in Crystal Cove Casual, but personal too. I put a warm apple pie with double crust oozing a cinnamon/brown sugar juice into my wicker basket. Nobody doesn’t like apple pie, I told myself.
Failing stumbling on a revealing shout-out or conversation, I hoped to be invited in and somehow learn something. Anything. If I was so lucky to hear something incriminatory, I’d discreetly tell the new police chief, as he suggested last night at Heavenly Acres, and generously let him take credit for what I’d done and make the arrest on his own. I didn’t want any credit, I just wanted to clear my gra
ndmother’s name and see her win the Bridge tournament. Was that too much to ask?
The house was your typical beige stucco Southern California McMansion with a red tile roof surrounded by a rolling lawn and oak trees. There was an iron gate with one of those push-button devices where you have to have a code at the entrance to the driveway, so I parked on the street and walked up the path to the front door, the basket with the pie over my arm, dodging the leaves of a huge ficus plant that almost blocked the entrance. The ocean breeze blew through the leafy trees and the air smelled like old money.
I paused at the massive red door with the brass knocker just in case they were in there bickering over their inheritance or plotting to cut someone out like I’d imagined, but there wasn’t a sound. The driveway, however, was lined with expensive cars, including a Lexus, a Mercedes, and another I didn’t recognize. I refused to be awed or jealous. Grannie’s old Buick wagon suited me fine. It was one of a kind. And I liked living above the shop in the cozy apartment filled with her furniture.
When I rang the doorbell, I was rewarded for my gutsy unplanned arrival when a gorgeous guy not much older than me opened the door. He stood there barefoot, in shorts and a T-shirt. He had a towel over one shoulder and water was dripping from his forehead.
He stared at me for a long moment, then gave me a big smile.
“Hanna? Hanna Denton?”
“Blake? Blake Wilson?” The Blake Wilson who was a high school football star, class president, and general hottie who now looked like a male model? He recognized me, a high school nobody? “What are you doing here?” I asked.
Even after fifteen years I remembered why all the girls were crazy about him. “I could ask you the same thing.”
“I came about … about Mary Brandt.”
“You knew my grandmother?”
“Not really. I came to pay my respects. I was sorry to hear about her … passing away.”
“You and everybody else. It’s been a regular parade. First the police, then the neighbors, now you.”