by Carol Culver
I was taken aback for a moment. It was true, I probably wasn’t as good as Grannie. How did he know? She probably told him. I preferred to think I wasn’t worse, I was just different. Then I remembered the day he had his attack.
“I must apologize if my coconut cream pie was responsible for your … uh … illness the day of Mary Brandt’s service.”
“Not at all,” he said graciously. “I’m allowed to eat anything I want, in moderation of course. The day in question I may have overdone it.”
Overdone the ED pills, I thought, or the pie? Or both?
“Did you know Mrs. Brandt?” he asked.
“Not really, but I’ve heard a lot about her,” I said cautiously.
“It’s all true,” he said wryly. “Believe me. I have a hard time believing she’s really dead. Even now. My shrink has been treating me for something called Geriatric Depression. I hold her responsible.”
Depression? He looked so cheerful.
“I have mood swings,” he explained, as if he’d heard my unspoken question.
I was puzzled. “Mrs. Brandt is responsible?” I asked. “But she’s dead.”
“Is she? Did you see a coffin? A body? I didn’t.”
I had to admit I hadn’t seen a body. But I wondered if Bob was manic or truly depressed or maybe a little deranged. If what Grannie said was true, wasn’t it more likely he was just extremely happy that Mary was dead? He sure didn’t look depressed to me.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Bob doesn’t seem depressed. But the Bob Barnett you see is now on medication. And he will be until he knows for sure she’s gone.”
Now I was getting worried. He was referring to himself in the third person. Was it possible Mary wasn’t dead or was Bob a little crazy?
He picked up a small bottle of pills from the small table at his side. I noticed they were in the same type of pillbox as Mary’s pills. That special pharmacy was sure getting a lot of business from Heavenly Acres.
“My collapsing at the Brandt woman’s memorial service was because I hadn’t taken my medication that day. I was upset.”
“Because you lost a good friend,” I suggested, knowing that wasn’t the case. At least not in Grannie’s version. Maybe he was too embarrassed to talk about his ODing on his ED pills.
“No,” he said loudly. “That woman was no friend of mine. I can say it now. I’m not sorry she died.” He sat down and buried his head in his hands. Good thing he was on antidepressants. If he had a bipolar disorder, that would explain these sudden mood swings. I’d hate to see him if he wasn’t on his medication.
“If she hadn’t died, I would have had to move. I couldn’t live under the same roof as that woman. Before I met her, I’d never seen a psychiatrist. Now I go every week. Without these little pills that are not commercially available, I’m a different person. Because here I’m what’s known as a resident with unusual health needs.”
I nodded as if I understood. All I could think of was how Mary died from some special pills.
“I don’t even know what I was capable of before I got the right medication,” he said.
Like murder? Like more sexual activity? I squinted trying to read the tiny print on the label. What were those pills?
“You’re not the only one who had strong feelings about Mrs. Brandt. Either they loved her or they … didn’t.”
He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. I remained standing, not knowing what else to do or what else to say. Of course, I wanted him to confess to her murder.
“Put me down in the ‘didn’t’ column,” he said. Then he looked up. “Thank you for the pie.”
I took that as a dismissal, said goodnight, and tiptoed out, wondering if Grannie had noticed that Bob was … how to put it? A little off.
Before I collected the leftover pie from the pantry, I stood in the doorway of the rec room watching the residents move forward in a line facing the wall. They were listening to instructions from the teacher while the music blasted out into the hall. Laughter floated in the air along with the lyrics to “Achy Breaky Heart.” I have to say it looked like they were having a good time. I couldn’t make out any faces in particular, but I assumed Grannie and her pals were all in there dancing side by side, doing the same steps with flushed faces, breathless and giddy from all the exercise. I hoped Bob would be up to dancing one of these days. If only he could see Mary’s dead body. Maybe that would make him feel better. Now I knew he had extra pills to substitute in Mary’s pillbox and a strong motive for getting rid of her. I wanted to tell Sam what I found out, but what would he say? That was a no-brainer. He’d say “Stay out of it.”
I spotted Grannie dancing and asked myself who would have thought when she was my age struggling to make a go of the pie business that she’d end up in a full-care facility, surrounded by new furniture, good food, good friends, and enough activities to keep an army fit and stimulated. All that and a boyfriend too. Unless Bob Barnett was fooling around with other women, like the one in his room tonight. It was possible. If she could cheer up the poor guy, who was I to complain? I didn’t know whether to mention her to Grannie or not. Probably not. I loved seeing her dancing and having fun with her friends, forgetting at least temporarily about being a murder suspect.
When I left Heavenly Acres, the fog had crept in like a cool gray blanket that hugged the ground. I stood outside looking at the lights in the windows, hearing the music wafting out into the night air. And I bounced ideas around in my head. Bob or Edward? Mary’s daughter or …? It had to be one of them. It just had to be.
I turned on the heater in Grannie’s old car for the short ride home. The lights were on in one corner of the police station across the street. Sam working late? Why? Going over statements from residents and suspects? Otherwise, it was another typical quiet night in Crystal Cove. It was good to get back to the shop and my little apartment above the store. And as much as I resented his know-it-all attitude, it was good to know Sam was on duty in case he was right and someone wanted to harm me or my oven.
I went in and made up a stack of hand-printed discount coupons for pie and coffee, and cut them into strips so I could hand them out to anyone and everyone. I put some in an envelope and went across the street to deposit them in Sam’s mailbox with a note thanking him for doing his part to beef up my business. I glanced at his lighted window and I thought I saw a shadow of a figure inside. I thought about tapping on his window, but I was afraid I’d be greeted with a firearm. Yes, even in this peaceful little town where nothing ever happens. So I went back home feeling a little let down.
Alone in bed with Grannie’s giant scrapbook filled with pie recipes, I wondered if life here above the shop in Crystal Cove was a little too quiet. That’s what Blake hinted at. Not that I wanted to go back to the city. Not that I was ready for communal life at Heavenly Acres either, but I was ready for a more active social life. Not line dancing or Bridge, but something. Something besides sex parties and pie baking.
But first things first. Find out who killed Mary Brandt. I took out a blank sheet of typing paper from my desk and wrote a list of suspects. To be perfectly fair, I put Grannie’s name on top just as Sam would have done. Her motive—ambition. Next I listed Melissa, Mary’s granddaughter, and next to her name I put her motive—greed (jewelry). Number three was old Edward, who hated Mary—his classic motive was self-protection and revenge. Grannie’s boyfriend Bob was next. I’d call his motive fear, desperation with a large helping of insanity. Of course, there was also the worker woman who wanted to get back at Mary too.
Now what? How was I going to find out which one of them did it and prove it to Sam’s satisfaction? And did I really have all the suspects on this list? I added Linda, Blake’s mother, and her motive—greed, but I thought she was a long shot and almost totally inaccessible to me.
I needed a break. I switched gears and started looking for recipes that would appeal to my new drop-in customers tomorrow for my Saturday morning specials. I
found a recipe for Apple Pie Bars. I didn’t remember Grannie ever making them, but there was a photo showing these gorgeous squares of apples sandwiched between a rich buttery crust and a crumbly topping. Not as overwhelming as a pie, not as ordinary as turnovers, which had gone up in smoke, but with the same homey goodness. I could almost smell the cinnamon and the sweet apples swimming in their juices. Okay, one down and two to go.
I had no idea how many would come to the shop tomorrow to celebrate pie day. Maybe I’d be overwhelmed. I could only hope. I sat up in bed in a pair of Victoria’s Secret red and white cotton pajamas and bright pink terry flip-flops, looking through Grannie’s notebook. I flipped past Pheasant, Cider and Chestnut Pie, especially after I read the first line of instructions: “Pheasants can be tricky birds to roast.” No way was I roasting a pheasant, no matter how comforting and delicious a pheasant pie could be.
The next pie that caught my eye was called simply Spinach Pie. The picture got me. It showed an individual pie made with pizza dough and stuffed with a combination of frozen spinach, chopped black olives, shredded mozzarella cheese, pepperoni, and pepper. I immediately thought of adding mushrooms to the mixture. I could make the little pies as small as I wanted. Brushed with oil and baked at a high heat on a pizza stone until the crust was golden brown, they would be perfect for lunch or a snack.
Just one more item and I could go to bed. Reluctantly, I passed on a Shepherd’s Pie. It looked fabulous with its crust of cheesy mashed potatoes baked in the oven until they were browned and crisp on top, soft and buttery underneath. Under the crust was a mixture of beef, carrots, onions, thyme, sage, and white wine. My mouth was watering, but I turned the page. A summer day was not the right time for Shepherd’s Pie. A foggy summer evening was what it called for.
Then I saw it and I knew right away it was the right thing for tomorrow: Torta di Riso, Rice Tart from Italy. A savory pie from Italy by the way of British chef Jamie Oliver. I’d never had it, never made it. I wondered if Grannie had made Torta di Riso. I knew she’d come to my Saturday special tomorrow, and I’d have her taste all three of my pies. I shouldn’t be so insecure, but so far she hadn’t said a word of praise about my pies, which worried me. Was it because she didn’t like them but she didn’t want to hurt my feelings by saying so, so she said nothing? If she wasn’t going to come clean, I’d have to watch her carefully so I’d be able to tell how she really felt.
I read over my list of suspects, put the list under my pillow for inspiration, and went to sleep.
_____
In the morning I wasn’t any closer to narrowing the search. I got up at dawn, fired up the oven, hung a sign in the window touting California Pie Day, and started my baking. It was exciting to make something new and to have hopes that my efforts would be appreciated. At last. Even with the discount coupons I’d be making money.
By nine o’clock I was almost ready with a good selection of pies. I had just poured myself a glass of fresh orange juice left over from the Torta when Sam appeared at the door. He looked more serious than I liked to see him. That look had come to mean there was trouble. I hated to ask.
“You’re early,” I said. “My coffee and pie hour doesn’t start until ten.”
“This is not a social call. Where were you last night after the crab dinner?”
My heart sank. The old questions. The baseless accusations. “Why, what happened?”
“Answer the question.”
“If it’s not a social call, what is it? Should I get my lawyer?”
“Do you have one?”
“No.”
“Then just tell me, where did you go after I saw you?”
“I was here.”
“What time?”
“I don’t know, maybe nine. I saw your light on across the street. I dropped off the coupons then I came back and went to bed. Now it’s your turn. Why are you asking?”
“I just got a call from the coroner. Edward Vaughn died last night.”
“Oh, no.”
“Friend of yours?”
“I just met him last night.”
“So you admit it.”
“Of course. Why not?”
“Because there was a half-finished piece of pie in his apartment when the EMTs got there.”
“I brought it to him because he wasn’t at the dinner last night.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“I am telling you. And after I saw him, I went to see Bob Barnett.”
“He’s still alive,” Sam said dryly. “So far.”
“This is déjà vu all over again,” I said hotly. “Every time someone eats a piece of pie and keels over, you blame me. If you think my pie is responsible for killing people, then half the residents would be dead today. That man Edward was old, he was taking medicine for whatever he’s got. Have you asked his doctor what he’s got and what caused his death?”
“I have. But as possibly the last person to see him alive, I don’t think it’s out of line to ask you some questions.”
“Go ahead.”
“Any idea if he had any enemies?”
I couldn’t help it. I felt good that he was there asking for my opinion. Even if he did suspect me. “I think he had a lot of enemies. He was one of the Old Guard. They objected to the changes the new people brought. Like Mary Brandt and her shocking new ideas for making Heavenly Acres a more informal, casual place. He chewed out her grandson for violating the dress code. She got into a fight with him over that. They were definitely enemies. If you’d acted more swiftly, you could have pinned her murder on him or vice versa. Now it’s too late. They’re both dead.” I can tell you I felt pretty smug trapping Sam that way. At least he hadn’t accused Grannie or me of killing Edward Vaughn. Not yet. But give him time and I wouldn’t be surprised if he came up with a motive, a means, and an opportunity for both of us. “But wouldn’t it be perfect if Edward did kill Mary,” I suggested. “That way he’s been punished, which saves you from an expensive trial.”
“And Edward? In your scenario did he die a natural death?”
“I think so. Yes. Because …” I said, pacing back and forth in my small shop while Sam stood just inside the door leaning against it with a frown on his face. I loved being asked for my opinion, whether it concerned culinary matters or murder. It made me feel like I had something to say that other people wanted to hear. Like Sam. “What possible motive would I have for knocking off this old codger? I was bringing him a piece of pie out of the goodness of my heart.”
“Spare me,” he said. “I’ll admit I have no reason to think you killed him, but I have a strong suspicion you had some reason for visiting him last night, other than the goodness of your heart.” Again he fixed his gaze on my breast as if he might detect a suspicious change in the rhythm of my heart. I was glad I was wearing an apron over my beat-up old sweater. “What was it?”
“As usual, I was only trying to help you,” I said.
He took one of the small wrought-iron chairs and straddled it as if he was making himself comfortable for a long haul of interrogation. This was getting downright tiresome, his accusing me of breaking the law.
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he said as if he knew what I was thinking. “I just want to know if anyone else was with Edward Vaughn or how he seemed. Normal? Sick? Weak? Worried?”
“He was alone when I got there, and he was still alone when I left about ten minutes later. I gave him a piece of pie. He thanked me. We had a discussion about Bridge, what a fine challenging game it is and how women just don’t take it seriously enough and that’s why he doesn’t play anymore. Then someone called to remind him to take his meds. He seemed fine. He was old and set in his ways. But that’s not unusual, I understand. Some of us are young and set in our ways. He didn’t look sick at all, if that’s what you want to know. He seemed vigorous. He has, I mean, he had strong opinions.” I paused while Sam wrote something in a small black book. What happened to his notebook computer? And was it wrong of me
not to tell him I’d sneaked some of Edward’s pills?
“What did he die of ? Heart attack? Stroke?” I asked hopefully. Anything but poison.
“Don’t know yet.”
“I’d be interested in knowing. And now I have to get ready for my Saturday customers.”
He sniffed the air. I thought I almost heard his stomach rumble.
“Would you like to try something just so you know I’m not trying to poison anyone? But you. I’m kidding,” I assured him.
“What are you offering?” he asked.
“How about Butter Pecan Apple Crumb Pie, which is what I gave Edward Vaughn last night? No? I understand. How about I eat a piece while you watch so you’ll know there’s nothing wrong with it? For you, I have a Spinach Pie with a pizza crust.” I didn’t wait for him to answer; I went straight to the kitchen and slid a small savory pie from the baking sheet onto a small plate. I put the last slice of Butter Pecan Apple Crumb Pie on another plate for myself. After I poured two cups of fresh coffee laced with cream, I brought it all to the table on a worn olive wood tray that had been in the bakery as long as I could remember.
He looked at me, then at the tray on the table, as if he was weighing his options. To eat or not to eat? To trust me or not? If he walked out of there without eating anything, I swore I would never help him in his work again. Which probably was just what he wanted me to swear to. Call me overly sensitive or too proud, I didn’t care. He could call me names, arrest me, or send me to jail. But he could NOT turn down the food I made. There was something so elemental about making food for someone and sharing it. It was a part of my psyche and my heritage.
If he walked away from that food on the table, I would do something desperate. I would start a petition to get him removed from office. On what grounds, incompetence? No, that wouldn’t work. Indifference? He was the opposite. He was too eager to find crimes where none existed. Old people dying. What could be more normal, more organic? Why was it so hard for him to accept? Maybe it had something to do with that grandfather he told me about. Maybe he hadn’t gotten over losing him. I knew how hard it was to get over a loss. I’d lost my partner and lover in one fell swoop. Not to death, but to desertion, which hurt almost as much.