by Carol Culver
“So did you get a sense of who the police believe killed Mary?” I asked. I hoped no one would say it was Grannie. Or me. I hoped I’d hear a new name, a new suspect.
Suddenly the room was too quiet and my voice was too loud. Everyone in the room turned and looked at me with shock and amazement that I would ask them to pin the murder on one of them. They shook their heads and studied their cards.
Why did I bother to ask? I knew that if Donna ever admitted she thought it was murder she’d vote for Mary’s family. Grannie just knew it wasn’t her or any of her friends. A good number of people like Bob Barnett didn’t care, as long as she was dead. I realized I hadn’t told Grannie that I’d stopped in to see Bob.
“Well, ladies, I’ll pick up my pie pans and go. Thank you so much for putting up with me.”
“Don’t go,” they chorused.
“You’re just catching on,” Donna said, but I’m sure she and everyone else were relieved to go back to the real game.
“You’ll have to come back soon for your next lesson,” Hazel said.
“I’d love to, but you need a real player. Have you found someone to fill in for Mary? How will you ever find someone to take her place?”
I knew Donna missed her old partner terribly, whatever her foibles like cheating were. She must be auditioning players to see if they were up to her standards so she could continue playing and proceed into the finals toward the county championship. So it was really nice of her to let me play with them tonight. If you can call what I did “playing.”
“We’re looking,” Grannie said vaguely. “But Donna can afford to be choosy. In the meantime, we play three-handed Bridge or we get someone to sit in with us.”
I made the rounds of the card room, offering seconds on pie and coffee before I left. I hadn’t made any headway into solving any crimes, but I’d done some good PR for my pie business and received many warm compliments on my baking skills before I left.
“That chocolate mousse was divine,” one red-haired woman wearing Bakelite earrings with card suit symbols in red and black told me. “So light and smooth. Your grandmother must be so proud of you.”
“She taught me everything I know,” I said. “But I’ve still got a lot to learn.” At least according to Grannie I did. She used fresh coconut in her cream pie, she used a prepared pudding for her chocolate pie and nothing else would do. I wondered what she thought of the crust on the blueberry pie or if she noticed I used frozen berries. She probably did and I’d probably hear about it. She didn’t know why I had to change any recipes when they were all right there in her card files.
Maybe that’s why I wasn’t as successful as she was yet. But I couldn’t give in on my principles. I had to use my creativity or I’d die of boredom baking pies the same way over and over. No matter how good they were. I had to find my own way. Where was the fun in making the same pie year after year? Where was the fun in following somebody else’s plan? Of course, I was into the pie business for more than fun. I planned on making enough money to support myself too.
In the lobby, I paused to offer the night receptionist, whose name tag said “Monica,” a slice of pie. She thanked me and I cut a piece of blueberry with its flaky double crust oozing with purple juice and gave it to her on a paper plate.
“Looks yummy,” she said. “Did you make it yourself ?”
I nodded.
“Even the crust?” she asked incredulously.
“I know, it’s a lost art, but I don’t cut corners,” I told her, then handed her one of my Upper Crust cards. She said she’d stop by the shop to check it out.
I turned from the front desk and almost ran into a man in a San Francisco Giants jacket and straight-leg jeans. He had a suitcase in his hand and I overheard him tell Monica he was returning the key to his grandfather’s apartment. Edward Vaughn’s apartment? I wanted to know but I didn’t want to ask. If I told him I was there the night he died, would he too suspect me of murder?
“Wait a minute,” he said to me with an eye on the pie pan in my hand. I froze, expecting him to accuse me of something. “Are you the lady who makes the pies around here?”
I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Here it comes, I thought. He’s going to blame me for poisoning his grandfather. I was getting used to it. I stiffened and took a deep breath. “That’s me. I’m Hanna Denton.”
“I’m Adam Vaughn. I talked to my grandfather the night he died. He told me you’d brought him a piece of pie. That was you, wasn’t it?”
I nodded. Why try to deny it?
“You made his day,” he said. I heaved a sigh of relief. He wasn’t going to blame me for anything. That was enough to make my day.
“Me? Really?” I said modestly.
“He didn’t have many friends.”
Wonder why? Maybe because he stopped playing Bridge, boycotted fun dinner parties, and yelled at kids for wearing jeans like the ones you’re wearing right now.
“I didn’t know that,” I said. “But I heard he hadn’t come to dinner that night and I had some extra pie so I thought …” Of course, I didn’t tell him what I really thought, that his grandfather had killed Mary Brandt. I hoped it was him; then justice would be done and we could all forget about it. All of us, including Sam.
“I owe you for making him feel good during his last few hours on earth. And allowing him to pontificate on the subject of Bridge and bend your ear on something, whatever it was. He said you were a good listener, which in his opinion is rare among the younger generation.”
“It was my pleasure,” I said, basking in the glow of the compliments. A good baker and a good listener. If only everyone felt that way about me. “When you’re a baker like me, you’re always looking for people who appreciate your efforts. I guess it’s not only bakers—everyone wants their work to be valued. So I’m glad he enjoyed the pie. And I was interested in hearing his views on Bridge since I’m hopeless at it.”
I realized with a start that Adam had said Edward had enjoyed the pie. Maybe just giving it to him was enough to make him happy. An unexpected visit from a good listener and an unexpected gift. Sometimes that’s enough. Maybe when I’m in my nineties someone will knock on my door and listen patiently while I rattle on about some subject and knock the young seventy-somethings who were against the status quo. Until then, I’d remind myself I was lucky to have found a job I loved. I got to make people happy every day with every bite they ate. Not many business owners could say that. There was Lurline, of course. Maybe someday we could compare stories. Once this murder mess was over.
I saw Adam Vaughn looking at my wicker basket. Did he suspect I had leftover pie inside?
“I still have some pie left over from the Bridge game tonight. Can I interest you in a slice of blueberry or chocolate or …”
His eyes lit up. Now that’s the kind of reaction I liked to see when offering pie. No “I don’t eat desserts” or anything. Just pure joy at the thought of a piece of fresh homemade pie. That’s what I saw in this stranger’s face.
“I’ve just been packing up my grandfather’s clothes to give to charity,” he said. “If you would join me for a cup of coffee, I’d gladly take you up on your offer.”
All I could think of was finding out if his grandfather had killed Mary Brandt. Chances were he didn’t, and even if he did, Adam didn’t know about it. And even if he knew about it, he wouldn’t tell me. But what the hell? Why not give it a chance?
I led the way to the TV lounge where coffee was always ready, and there were only two old codgers sitting in front of the wide-screen television watching Jeopardy and shouting out answers.
I poured coffee into two paper cups and cut two slices of coconut cream pie. Sometimes asking people to choose just throws them into confusion. So I chose the coconut. For one thing, it looked beautiful if I do say so myself with its towering peaks of whipped cream kept cool in the fridge. I stifled all memories of Bob Barnett and the day he passed out at Mary’s memorial service with a smear of
coconut on his lips. Coincidence, that’s all. I knew what had caused his problem and it wasn’t my pie. He didn’t blame me either.
“Tell me about your grandfather,” I said, noting with relief that the two oldsters had turned off the television set and left the room. “Was he happy here at Heavenly Acres?”
“At first he was, that was years ago. But lately he had a lot to complain about. The other residents, the staff, the food, the activities. You name it, he wasn’t happy about it. There was one woman he really couldn’t stand. Mary something. She epitomized everything he despised about the younger generation. Their lack of manners and consideration and their arrogance. I believe that’s one reason he stayed in his room so much, so he wouldn’t have to run into this woman by chance. In a way, she ruined his life.”
“That’s a shame,” I murmured. I didn’t know whether to tell him she’d died or assume he already knew. If she ruined his life, maybe he thought his grandfather was justified in taking hers. But how?
“That’s why it was so refreshing to hear him say something nice about someone. Especially since he died later that night. I was hoping to get a chance to tell you that you made a difference. I’m going to spread the word to the rest of the family as well. Believe me, we’ve all had our problems with Grandfather.”
“I hope the excitement of my visit didn’t contribute to his death in any way,” I said. I took a sip of coffee. “What was the cause of his death?”
“I’d say old age, but he had a weak heart and other problems. You might have seen his medicine tray in his apartment, a regular pharmacy. Coumadin for his heart, something for his blood pressure …”
He went on to list his grandfather’s other medications, but he had me at Coumadin. That was the brand name for warfarin, the drug that supposedly killed Mary Brandt, in conjunction with the cranberries in the pie. Would an autopsy show that somehow my pie had contributed to another death? I wisely kept my mouth shut but I couldn’t shut off my brain.
If only I could tell Sam. Not about the pie, but about the warfarin. But he’d just tell me it was none of my business. I drained my coffee cup, and Adam finished his pie and thanked me. I thanked him. We said goodbye in the parking lot. I loaded my car with the leftover pie and hurried down the hill in the fog, thinking I should order some new amber fog lights for the old Estate Wagon.
Unfortunately, there were no lights in the police station. Where did Sam live these days? Why hadn’t I asked him? Had he moved in to the house next to Lindsey’s? What did it matter, I didn’t have his cell phone number. I’d forgotten to transfer the number from my arm to a piece of paper. And he wouldn’t give me any credit for my information.
All the same, I called the police station and left a message. I had to tell him. No matter what he said. I tried to sound calm and reasonable, but I may have sounded desperate. I felt bursting with all kinds of information and theories and I had no one else to share them with other than Sam. Where was he?
I put away the pies and changed into a pair of Blue Angel duck flannel pajama pants, a gray T-shirt with a red Stanford logo, and a pair of white bunny slippers. Red, white, and blue. Maybe a little too patriotic; but one of the perks, maybe the only one, of living alone is that you can wear anything you want to bed. It was a comfortable outfit for a damp, cool summer evening and it was ten o’clock. I had no plans to go anywhere else tonight.
Too restless to go to bed even though I’d been up and running since five this morning, I sat down at Grannie’s old kitchen table and wrote out a recipe. A recipe for murder. I was used to first listing ingredients, putting them together in a certain logical way, and anticipating a finished product. How different could it be to plan a murder than a pie?
First, I listed the victim or victims. Mary Brandt and Edward Vaughn. Should I list Bob Barnett too? Maybe his “accident” wasn’t one at all. Then, the phone rang. My only hope was that it wasn’t Grannie telling me about another mysterious death at Heavenly Acres. Or they’d start calling it “On Your Way to Heaven Heavenly Acres.” Or “Closer to Heaven at …” Or “The Next Step to Heaven ….”
“What now?” Sam asked without even bothering for the usual “Hi, how are you?” Or “Is this an emergency?”
“Just wondered if you were in the neighborhood you might want to stop by. Are you on duty?”
“Always,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. “Are you at home?”
“Yes.”
“Got any coffee?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll be by.”
Ten minutes later, I opened the door to the shop and realized then I should have changed clothes, because Sam was still dressed to kill, so to speak, in a navy blazer, Oxford cloth blue shirt with plenty of cuff showing, khaki pants, and leather loafers. He kept staring at my shirt, then his gaze shifted to my flannels and on to my bunny slippers.
“Good to see you,” he said, following me up the stairs to my tiny apartment. “I hope I’m not keeping you up.”
“Are you referring to my flannels or my bunny slippers or the bags under my eyes?”
“None of the above. Your lifestyle, really. I’ve seen your light on at five in the morning.”
“You noticed? I’m flattered. I thought you’d be busy analyzing fingerprints or whatever you do over there.” I poured him a cup of coffee and we sat down at Grannie’s old kitchen I’d refurnished myself. I had a list of things to ask him, but somehow at that moment I couldn’t remember one of them. For once I wanted to forget he was a cop and I was under suspicion. I just wanted to be me.
“I can do fingerprints if I have to,” he said. Then he took off his blazer and laid it across the back of the chair. He rolled up his sleeves and looked around. It didn’t take long to take in the whole apartment. When Grannie left, I had the wall between the bedrooms and the living room knocked down to make a bigger living space. I didn’t ever entertain up here, and I was suddenly acutely aware that my queen-sized bed was visible from all corners, including the small kitchen. I didn’t need a big kitchen when I had the one downstairs.
After a survey of the place and of me, he reached across the table and took my hand in his and studied it with an intent gaze. “Along with fingerprints, I also read palms.” He spread my fingers out flat on the table and focused his gaze on the lines on my palm.
I swallowed hard. He was kidding, of course. Sam reading palms like a fortune teller? Impossible. Almost as impossible as Sam kidding. But there he was. And there I was.
“See this?” He traced a line across my palm. I nodded. “This is your heart line. Hmmm, long and curvy, like you.”
I felt my face flush. “What does it mean?” I murmured.
“It means you express your feelings and emotions. You don’t hold back.”
“I guess that’s true. I guess some people wish I would.” I gave him a pointed look. He didn’t seem to get the message. He smoothed my palm and my pulse sped up. I wondered if he could tell. “What else?” I asked. This was better than sparring with him. Much better. In fact, I’d forgotten why I’d called him. Or maybe I just didn’t want to remember.
“The life line,” he said, moving his chair closer to the table, so close I could smell the musky masculine scent that clung to his skin, his hair, and his clothes. He traced my life line across my palm with his index finger. Back and forth. I took a drink of coffee but it didn’t help at all to calm my racing heart. This was not good. He was toying with me with some woo-woo witchcraft and I was enjoying it. Too much.
“See the way it swoops around in a semicircle?”
I nodded.
“It means strength and enthusiasm.” He looked up and met my gaze. “That figures. That’s you.”
After all we’d been through, was this man paying me a compliment? I looked deep into those dark blue eyes and I wanted to believe it. I wanted to make up for the past. Forget what happened in high school. Make up for all those years in between where we both got hurt and were back
here to recover. I wanted to find out who he was and, more than that, I wanted—I needed to—find out who I was. If I didn’t do it now, then when?
After an eternity, he let go of my hand, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. There were creases at the corner of his eyes and ridges in his forehead that had never been there before.
It’s after ten o’clock at night, I wanted to say. You’re tired. I’m tired.
“Where were you tonight?” I blurted, though it was none of my business. I couldn’t believe he dressed like this to patrol the streets.
He ran his hand through his hair and pulled himself together, physically and mentally. “City Council meeting. Emergency. Or we wouldn’t be meeting tonight. But there’s a problem. I can’t say anymore because it’s top secret.”
“You’re on the City Council?”
He folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. “I was asked to appear.”
“Why, what happened?” I asked.
“They’re considering abolishing the police department,” he said.
I dropped my fork. “The whole thing? Including you? Why? Because nothing ever happens here? What about Mary Brandt’s murder? Who’s supposed to solve that?”
“That’s the interesting thing,” he said. “Mary’s son-in-law, your friend Blake’s father, is the one who suggested it. He had some compelling reasons. One, the city can’t afford a police department. And two, the city doesn’t need a police department.”
I jumped out of my seat and put my hands on my hips. “Because he knows someone in his family killed Mary. It could have even been him since everyone knows Mary made his life miserable. But he doesn’t want the police to find out, so he’s abolishing your department to get rid of you just like he got rid of Mary. The family gets her money and you and your men get sacked. Don’t let him do it.”
Sam tilted his chair back and looked at me like I’d blown a fuse. Maybe I had. “Calm down,” he said. “Of course I don’t want to close the station and lose my job. I like it here. But lots of small towns are getting rid of their police departments. Like soda fountains and barber shops, they’re a dying breed. I knew that when I came here.”