A Good Day to Pie

by Carol Culver

  “I remember that,” Grannie said. “Then she formed the committee for change. Out with the old and in with the new. Happy hour. Hip Hop Dancing. Jazzercise. It worked. Now we’re allowed to wear what we want in the dining room as long as it’s in good taste, and we can eat with bibs tonight. Not dignified. That’s what they’d say.” Everyone nodded. She didn’t have to explain who they were.

  “Whatever you say about Mary,” Charline said, “and I’d never speak ill of the dead. She was a pistol. You have to give her credit for doing what no one else had the guts to do.”

  Like cheating at Bridge, I thought.

  “All so we girls have the privilege of wearing pants at the dinner table,” Grace said. “And the men don’t have to wear coats and ties anymore.”

  “She made a lot of enemies though,” Helen said thoughtfully. “Besides old Edward Vaughn. He’s still bitter. I didn’t see him at Mary’s memorial service. Not here tonight either. That group doesn’t forget easily.”

  Charline nodded. “Like elephants.”

  I leaned forward, hoping to hear more. Perhaps a list of her enemies. Sam probably already had the list on his computer. As usual I was playing catch-up. If only he was at our table, I could gauge his reaction. I scanned the room again. I didn’t see him.

  “You notice they’ve all boycotted the dinner tonight. Mary wouldn’t have been surprised. She’d say good riddance,” Grannie said.

  “Don’t know what they’re missing,” a guest named Fred said. He was introduced as a friend of Grace’s. “You can’t live on the coast and not eat crab.”

  “You know the story of Cioppino?” Helen asked. Without waiting for an answer she said the fish dish was invented in San Francisco in the thirties on the wharf. “The fishermen would haul in their catch and everyone contributed something to the pot. So every day the Cioppino was different, but always delicious.”

  We all agreed and there was a moment of silence while everyone helped themselves to the warm sourdough bread baked there on the premises and served in the basket on the table.

  Grannie paused and looked around the room. “No old-timers around tonight to make us feel guilty.”

  I studied her expression. I couldn’t see a trace of guilt anywhere. How Sam could suspect her baffled me. Despite the video of her with the drugs in hand. She had innocent written all over her.

  “I don’t suppose they’ll come to line dancing tonight either,” Charline said.

  “You can thank Mary that you didn’t have to dress up tonight,” Grannie told me with a pointed look at my casual sweater and pants. She seemed to be going overboard in her praise for Mary. Trying very hard to say nice things about someone who wasn’t very nice. As if Grannie was afraid someone was listening, someone who was trying to pin Mary’s murder on her.

  “But I do see some of the women in long dresses and men in jackets and ties,” I noted.

  “Sure. You can still dress up. If that’s what floats your boat. Nobody says you can’t. Old habits die hard,” Helen said.

  I could see that dinner here at Heavenly Acres was still an occasion. It was the highlight of the day, after a hard day of cards, stretching exercises, flower arranging, Ping-Pong, Yoga, Trivial Pursuit, and shuffleboard. Something to look forward to no matter what the menu.

  “Crab Cioppino is a messy business. Put your bib on,” Grannie instructed me, as if I was five years old again. Messy business or not, it didn’t stop the residents from looking their best on all occasions.

  Grannie’s friends made a big thing out of my joining them for dinner. Said it was an honor to have me. As if I’d turned down a few dates to be there. I admit, it was flattering, but I cautioned myself not to get carried away. Not to get too comfortable hanging with the aged. This life was not for me. Not yet. Not for thirty-some years, as Grannie reminded me. And even then, how would I afford it? At the rate I was going, at seventy I’d be right where I am now, struggling to make ends meet by baking pies.

  Hungry after my bout with the aerobics group, I dug into my Caesar salad with homemade croutons and grated aged Parmesan cheese. With food like this, no wonder the monthly fees were astronomical at Heavenly Acres.

  “Do you eat like this every night?” I asked Charline who had brought a date, an attractive man about her age who she introduced as Kevin, “a good friend.”

  “It’s always good,” she said, “but the Crab Feed is special. The crab season is almost over, so this may be our last crab dinner. No matter what the menu, we all get two free guest invitations a month, the rest we have to pay for. I’ve never been so popular,” she said, and she gave her friend Kevin a flirtatious smile. She turned to me and said, “Louise is thrilled to have you here.”

  “I’m thrilled to be here,” I said. My attention was riveted by the waiters bringing huge steaming bowls of Cioppino to the tables. The smell of saffron, crab, and spicy tomato sauce made me salivate. The huge Dungeness crab claws were cracked, but it was necessary to pick up the claws and extract the chunks of sweet meat with your small crab fork or your fingers.

  The waiters brought stacks of fresh napkins and wipe-n-dries.

  “I brought a few pies with me,” I told Grannie.

  “Enough for everyone?”

  “I think so.”

  “We’ll have them in the lounge with coffee,” she said. Then she stood and rapped on her glass with her knife.

  “I want to invite everyone to the lounge after dinner for a slice of pie from my granddaughter Hanna’s shop, The Upper Crust.” she said. “Stand up, Hanna, and take a bow.”

  I stood and said a few words about how happy I was back in town carrying on the pie tradition. And that I hoped to see them at my shop for pie and coffee tomorrow morning. I was offering a Saturday morning Heavenly Acres special for all residents. They clapped enthusiastically.

  After dinner I thanked them for their hospitality and I went to the lounge, where Grannie and her friends helped me serve pie. The kitchen staff had provided us with plates and forks and were pouring coffee. I realized that one of the young women might have been the one who Mary had accused of stealing her earrings. I was glad to see she still had a job here. I hoped Mary’s family had not pursued her claim of being robbed by the poor girl. Why did I believe her and not Mary? I just did.

  It was gratifying to hear so many compliments about my pie.

  “This chocolate with the marshmallows. What do you call it?” a lady who was definitely not one of the ninety-something oldies asked me. I could tell by the quilted chambray vest she wore with a pair of tapered white silky slacks and some trendy wedge sandals.

  “Rocky Road,” I said.

  “It’s delicious,” she said, introducing herself as Jenny Moller. “I must come by your shop. Are you open every day?”

  “Every day but Sunday,” I said. Except for when I’m out playing detective. “If you call ahead, I can make any kind of pie you like. Of course, berry pies are popular this summer. Or cherry crumb, or cherry peach crumb. Or deep-dish peach, my personal favorite, in an all-butter crust.”

  “I wonder … I’m having a little party in my apartment next week. Dessert and coffee.”

  “For how many?”

  “Oh, ten or twelve.”

  “How about one fruit pie like California Raisin and Maple Crunch Pie. It’s so different I guarantee you’ll be the first to serve it at Heavenly Acres. And I guarantee everyone will like it or your money back. I suggest serving that along with a Rocky Road or a Black-Bottom Raspberry Cream Pie. It’s got a crust made of crushed chocolate wafers, the chocolate filling is rich and decadent, and it’s topped with fresh raspberries and whipped cream.” She looked interested so I closed the deal by adding, “It’s rich, creamy, and decadent.” Then I reached into my pocket and gave her my card. She promised to call me with an order.

  I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Grannie hadn’t heard me guarantee she’d like the pie. She never guaranteed anything like it in her life. She didn’t need to. Ev
eryone loved her pies. She was an institution. Some day I would be too. Fortunately, no one knew I was implicated as an accessory to murder—never a good recommendation for a baker.

  I finally caught a glimpse of Sam across the room with a cup of coffee in his hand. Was he eating a piece of my pie? No, he wasn’t. He was staring at me though. He couldn’t be surprised to see me there.

  “Wherever there’s pie, you’re there,” he said after making his way through the crowd to the table.

  “Or vice versa. Maybe that could be my slogan,” I said.

  “Do you need one?”

  “I’d like to sell more pies,” I said. “Since I can’t count on you and your police buddies. Guess what? Saturday is California pie day.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure, since I just decided to celebrate it. Actually I just made it up. Some people need an excuse to eat pie. It’s my job to give them one. I was thinking I might set up tables outside with umbrellas like in France and I’ll have specials. I’ll make savory pies like French Canadian meat pies as well as the old summer French favorites like quiche. I’d appreciate it if you’d spread the word. Or is that a conflict of interest?”

  “How’s that?” he asked. “What kind of conflict?”

  “Between cupcakes and pie.”

  “Come on, Hanna, there’s enough room in this town for both of you.”

  What about in your life, I wondered. How much room is there for someone else? I could ask myself the same thing.

  “How did you like the dinner?” I asked. “I didn’t see where you were sitting.” What I really wanted to know was, who did you sit with and what did you learn?

  “I was over by the windows,” he said. “Are you here in your professional capacity?”

  “Always,” I said. “I just made a future sale. What about you? You don’t have to worry about sales. You work for the county.” I lowered my voice. “You get paid whether you arrest someone for the murder of Mary Brandt or not.”

  “I have a duty to solve crimes any day, anytime. Whatever it takes. I like my job. And I like the town.”

  “I know. I heard your speech, remember? You like the hills and the beaches and the safe small-town atmosphere.”

  “I want to keep that atmosphere. I can’t do that if there’s a dangerous murderer loose.”

  “What if there isn’t one? Would you still feel necessary? Wanted? Appreciated?”

  He ignored the questions. “There is,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll find him or her. Don’t take any chances. Leave it to me.”

  I didn’t say I would. I didn’t say anything. At an impasse, we walked out together without speaking. I saw Grannie’s bright eyes following us and I knew what she was thinking. Hanna and Sam, together again. Hanna and Sam sneaking off for a quickie. Better she should think that than think There goes Hanna defending me from murder charges. I didn’t want her to worry.

  “I don’t know what you talked about at dinner, but I heard Mary Brandt had formed a committee to change the rules around here, like the dress code.”

  I slanted a glance at his face. No reaction. Why was I not surprised? It struck me like a sledgehammer that Sam already knew everything I knew. He knew it earlier and he knew it better. What was the point of my sleuthing when he had an office here and he had the badge of authority behind him? Although he didn’t wear a badge, everyone knew who he was. My shoulders slumped. I exhaled. All my confidence was eroding.

  “I told you not to try to help me,” he said.

  “I know what you told me, but can I help it if people tell me things?” I was tired. I’d been up since five baking and I’d exercised and swam laps. As usual he didn’t answer me. “All right. I’m not confiding in you again. Ever. You don’t need me. I know that. You already know everything I know, don’t you?”

  “Probably. The point is that it’s dangerous to go around poking into people’s lives.”

  “I assume you’re referring to my faulty oven. For your information, I’m not poking into anything or anyone. I’m listening, that’s all. Isn’t that what they teach you at the Police Academy?”

  “That’s right. But you’re not at the Academy. You’re a private citizen. Trust your public servants to do the job. That’s what we’re here for.”

  Why did I always have the feeling he was reading something out of a manual? That he didn’t take anything I said seriously? Maybe he’d accuse me of killing Mary so I’d rat on my grandmother and vice versa. All he had to do was wait until I folded and charge me with murder. Until then we would both pretend to be looking for the real killer. I wished I could think of a way to quiz Blake’s mother the way he had, but how to finagle a visit to her house without making her so mad she’d clam up? It was much easier to confine my investigation to the retirement home. I decided to zero in on old Edward and/or Bob. I didn’t care which one of them did it, I’d take whatever I could get.

  “If you continue to act like a detective, you’re going to draw attention to yourself. You’ll feel threatened, and you may actually be threatened, and I’ll have to provide you twenty-four-hour, round-the-clock police protection,” he said. “It’s a tough job, but somebody has to do it,” he said.

  Was Sam actually lightening up? I could only hope. “Would that somebody be you?” I asked.

  “Since we’re understaffed,” he said. “I’d have to volunteer.”

  I had a vision of Sam guarding the front door of the pie shop. I’d forget about Mary Brandt and I’d invite him in. We’d talk about old times. It would get late. I’d whip up a French Canadian Meat Pie, the savory tourtiere made with ground beef, pork, and chicken stock under an oven-browned pie crust. It’s the kind they usually eat at Christmas, but delicious anytime, especially on a foggy California evening in a deserted pie shop. I’d pour two glasses of red wine. He’d forget he ever mentioned my grandmother or suspected me of anything except trying to be a modest success in this town. He’d follow me upstairs. I’d take off my apron—no he’d take it off for me. His hands would linger …

  I shook my head and took a deep breath. I was getting too excited. Forget that vision. Face reality. Instead of any personal police protection, Sam would probably send one of his overweight deputies to stand at the door with strict instructions to lay off the pie, while Sam was out joy riding in Lurline’s Cupcake Wagon.

  “Or I’ll put you into the witness protection program,” he offered. “You’ll have to change your identity, but you’re good at that.” He gave me a rare half smile and my knees buckled. I blamed it on fatigue, not leftover teenage lust.

  “How do you mean?”

  “You’re not at all the same as you were in high school.”

  “You’ve changed too.”

  To be certain, I studied his face. I was wrong. Behind the lined forehead, the blue eyes, and the reluctant tight smile, there was the same Sam Genovese I’d once been madly in love with. Teenage love combined with angst and uncertainty and insecurity. It was still all there, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself I was over him.

  “Well,” I said, trying hard to project a mature, cool but friendly air. “I’m sold. You convinced me. No more sleuthing. Time to pack up my pie pans and head home.”

  “Good girl,” he said, looking relieved. I bit back a smile of triumph. He believed me. I’d fooled him. He put both hands on my shoulders and leaned forward. The hall was empty. The voices inside the lounge faded away. I didn’t know what he’d do next. I don’t think he did either. I held my breath, knowing I should leave but unable to move.

  Then I thought about any leftover pie and I decided to take a piece to old Edward Vaughn tonight, seeing as he didn’t attend the dinner. Who would turn down a woman with a piece of pie in her hand? That way, I’d have a chance to talk to him before Sam did. And Sam would never know. I’d have a different attitude than a policeman. Non-threatening. I could do it. And if that worked out, next I’d stop in and see poor Bob, still recovering from his attack. H
e might like a slice of chocolate marshmallow pie, which would inspire him to tell me how he felt about Mary. I knew what Sam would say but he’d never find out, and if he did, well, my story was that I was only serving pie. Could I help it if people insisted on telling me they’d committed a crime?

  “It was good to see you,” I said to Sam. He looked a little surprised to see me step back and not give in to temptation. As if he thought I’d fall under his spell like I once did and follow him around town like a lovesick bullmoose crossing the highway, oblivious to the traffic.

  “I’m printing out discount pie and coffee coupons for all the merchants to hand out,” I said. “I’ll put some in your mailbox tonight.” I looked around. The crowd was thinning out. “Well, I’ll collect my pies and say goodbye to Grannie.”

  “Not staying for line dancing?”

  “Are you?”

  He shook his head. “Need any help loading your car?”

  “No thanks.”

  What was going on here? Sam hanging around, making small talk, offering to help me? Maybe he’d picked up on my independent vibes, and my overeager willingness to forget sleuthing. He seemed eager to make sure I left before I did something unapproved by himself. Which was almost everything I did, outside of pie baking.

  “I hope you’re not going to do anything unauthorized,” he said. “Remember, no breaking and entering. You need a search warrant to enter anyone’s dwelling unauthorized.”

  “I couldn’t do that,” I said earnestly, “anymore than you could bake pies. Did you even taste my pie tonight?” I knew the answer. He hadn’t. “What do you have against marshmallows?”

  “Those white blobs? They’re made of sugar, aren’t they?”

  “You’re hopeless. Fortunately I have other fans.” I gave him my best cool smile. “Bye.”