A Good Day to Pie

by Carol Culver

  “I get that, but dumping the department in the middle of a murder investigation?” I asked.

  “I admit that’s rare. But let’s not jump to conclusions about Mary’s son-in-law. You’re the one who said ‘An old woman dies of a stroke …’ No, ‘A paranoid old woman tells her family someone’s trying to kill her, then she has a stroke and dies at the hospital …’ That is what you said, isn’t it?” His eyes narrowed. Damn him for his perfect memory.

  “Okay, I admit I said that, but you forced me to change my mind. I know you don’t buy into Mary’s family doing her in for her money. So after talking to Edward Vaughn’s grandson, I have a new theory.” I didn’t wait for him to tell me to shut up. “It may help you keep your job because it involves a possible murder, which means the city needs you, but it boots me and Grannie and the family off the list of suspects.”

  “You’ve thought of everything,” he said. He could have been sarcastic, but I hoped he wasn’t.

  “My position is the same as it always was. I didn’t kill Mary and neither did my grandmother. I don’t really care who did it, as long as nobody blames me or her. And justice is served, of course,” I added as an afterthought. “As long as the murderer isn’t some demented sociopath who’s looking for his or her next victim. If it is, I’m scared. Not scared he’ll kill me, but that he’ll tie his next murder to my pies again. Like with Mary, like Bob, and now like Edward. If he does, nobody’s going to buy pies anymore and I’ll have to close the shop.

  “But enough about my job,” I continued. “If you lose your job, there would be nobody to patrol the streets, to investigate suspicious events and make us feel safe.”

  “Do I really make you feel safe?” he asked with a kind of intense expression I hadn’t expected.

  “You make me feel safe,” I said. “And that’s about all I can take now. Truthfully, you also scare me and you annoy me and you worry me.”

  He nodded. “Good,” he said.

  “But I owe you,” I said, determined to finally say what I should have said sooner.

  Puzzled, he asked, “For what?”

  “That night of the prom. I know what you did.”

  “Yeah, I got into a fight and I cut out.”

  “You saved my life,” I insisted.

  “That’s going a little far. Those guys wouldn’t have killed you, they were just having a little fun.”

  “I don’t think so and neither do you or you wouldn’t have taken them on by yourself. It wasn’t a fair fight.” I’d never forget how my date, Ronnie Ferguson, ran the other way when he saw the gang from the other school approaching. Then out of the blue there was Sam. While I hid, he took them on.

  “I would have thanked you but you were gone. I never saw you again. Until now. I never knew what happened to you and no one else did either.” There were plenty of rumors, but no one knew for sure.

  “That’s the way I wanted it,” he said.

  “I owe you,” I repeated. “I have to do something. What if I start a letter-writing campaign saying how much the community needs a local police department and a chief. You.”

  “That’s not necessary. I’ll take care of it,” he said. As proud as ever. Did he ever let anyone do anything for him? Then he paused and focused his gaze on something far away, something nobody could see but him. “Maybe there’s no need for a police department. Once we find out who killed Mary Brandt.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you? That you’re not needed.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “As for me,” I said, gearing up for a possible putdown and a lecture on how I was not allowed any theories or ideas. I simply had to take advantage of Sam’s presence in my tiny apartment. The atmosphere had changed. We were back to being, I don’t know, friends or colleagues or sometime adversaries. Maybe after this murder was solved, we could be something else. Or not.

  “Here’s my latest idea,” I said. “I ran into Edward Vaughn’s grandson tonight at Heavenly Acres and my latest theory is that he killed Mary Brandt.”

  “The grandson?” he asked with a puzzled frown.

  “No, old Edward.”

  “For God’s sake, Hanna, that’s why I don’t want you messing around in this investigation. You are once again stretching things to the limit. Even for you, this is preposterous. What possible reason …”

  “I’m getting to that. When you hear the story, you’ll be convinced, just like I was.” I wasn’t at all sure he’d be convinced, but I had to try.

  “The grandson convinced you his grandfather was a murderer?”

  “Of course not. He doesn’t know his grandfather murdered Mary Brandt.”

  “But you do.” Sam choked on the last dregs of his coffee and shook his head with disbelief. He even gave me a wry smile. He was that amused by my theory. But I didn’t care. I’d have the last laugh. I knew what I knew. At least I thought I could build a good case.

  “Don’t laugh. You haven’t even heard my theory.”

  “I have a feeling I’m going to.”

  I sat down again, propped my elbows on the table, and leaned forward.

  “Edward Vaughn hated Mary Brandt. Everyone knew that. I heard it straight from his mouth the night he died when I went to take him a piece of pie. Of course, he wasn’t the only one who hated her. But to Edward and the old guard, she represented changes that threatened the life they knew at Heavenly Acres. Substituting tea parties for academic lectures, jazz concerts for chamber music, jogging trails around the rose garden, and field trips to hear the San Francisco Gay Men’s chorus. Yes, I saw a sign-up sheet for it on the bulletin board. They tried to stop her. But it was like trying to stop a tidal wave. The old people were dying off and there were fewer and fewer of them. So he retreated to his room. But … and here’s what happened in my opinion … he bided his time until he could knock her off. He had the means.”

  I held up my hand, palm forward. “He was taking warfarin. I saw it in his room. He only had to read the warning label to know how it interacts with certain foods, and he could double her dose by opening the little vials provided by the compounding pharmacy she used and dumping more drugs inside. I have a couple of his pills here I took the night I went to see him. I bet they’re the same as Mary’s, easy to tamper with. I’m guessing when we have them analyzed, we’ll see that’s what killed Mary.”

  “You stole some of his pills? That’s a misdemeanor.”

  “Arrest me, then. You would have done the same if you’d been me. The only reason you wouldn’t is your badge. Am I right?”

  “No, you aren’t,” he said.

  Why was Sam being so difficult when I had just solved his crime for him?

  “Stole is too strong a word. I removed some evidence, that’s all. Just two pills. Believe me he had plenty. And I would have given them back, but …”

  “But he died before you could.”

  “He certainly had the motive and the method,” I continued. “All he had to do was walk into the card room before the game, see the cranberry pie, and fiddle with her pills.”

  “Too bad he didn’t get caught on the surveillance camera,” Sam said.

  “He couldn’t because Grannie turned it off. You saw her.”

  “What good luck for him to find a cranberry pie on the premises,” Sam said with obvious disbelief.

  “Grannie ordered cranberry because somebody asked for it. Somebody put a note in the suggestion box asking specifically for cranberries. I wonder who that was?” I asked him. I paused to let the brilliance of my discovery sink in. “Now do you believe me?” How could he not?

  “I can see why you like this scenario,” Sam said. He got up, went to the small four-burner stove Grannie had used for thirty years and poured himself another cup of coffee. At least he hadn’t rushed out of there. Not yet. At least he was still letting me rattle on while politely listening. Off topic, I wondered what he thought of the life I had here. Maybe nothing. Maybe I didn’t figure as large in his thoughts as he did
in mine. “Everything works out so neatly.”

  I nodded. It was neat. No need for a long, messy trial. “But I’m open minded,” I insisted. “I want you to know that. In fact I’m going to the lawyer’s office Monday morning to see what I can find out. Even though I strongly believe I have fingered your murderer, I want to be completely, absolutely sure.”

  “How did you manage to get into the law office?” I could tell he was impressed.

  “I made an appointment with the lawyer to make out my own will right after the Brandt family has their appointment.”

  “You need a will?”

  “Everyone needs a will. Even you. I thought you knew that. But that’s not why I’m going. I’m going to be sitting in the waiting room as the family comes out of Seymour Evans’ law office and observing their reactions and listening to what they have to say.”

  “Oh, God, what next? I thought you’d convinced yourself it was old Mr. Vaughn.”

  “I have. But I want to convince you too, so I’m not leaving any loose ends. I’m trying to keep an open mind. Just in case I’m wrong. If somebody walks out of the lawyer’s office with a big smile planning on buying the yacht they always wanted, I might suspect them of murdering Mary for their inheritance.”

  “How?”

  “The same way. Poisoning her with a combination of cranberries and the anti-clot medicine that interacts with it and causes internal bleeding.”

  “How did they know she’d be eating cranberries?”

  “They could have put a note in the suggestion box. Anyone could have. That’s why I made that pie; someone, not my grandmother, asked for it.” I sat down again, hoping I’d convinced him I was an equal-opportunity accuser.

  When Sam didn’t say anything for a long time, I asked, “What would happen if the city closed the police department?”

  “Various options,” he said, looking past me toward the window. “Crystal Cove could merge with a few other small towns. Or have the sheriff handle everything in the county. It means there would be a slower response to an emergency. We can only hope there wouldn’t be any emergencies. In any case, there would be no need for a Chief of Police.”

  “Where would you go?”

  “I’d like to stay here.”

  “I understand that. I like it here too. But …”

  “You mean what would I do? I thought I might run for mayor.”

  “Seriously?” All I could think was if his being Chief of Police was a surprise; his being mayor of the city that once kicked him out was even more preposterous. I hid a smile but not very well.

  “You think that’s funny?”

  “I think it’s a great idea. That would show Mary Brandt’s son-in-law.”

  “Especially if he ran against me.”

  “Using the money he inherits from Mary,” I said, light bulbs going off over my head. “It would be a struggle of good versus evil. Of course, if he’s guilty of murdering Mary, he wouldn’t be much of an opponent. Now I hope it’s him, for your sake.”

  “Thanks,” he said dryly.

  “You’ll put him away and then you’re a shoo-in. You run unopposed and bingo, you’re the next mayor. What does the mayor do, by the way?”

  “He sits in an office on the town square and hears complaints. Then he takes action. Cleans up the streets. Improves the schools. I don’t know. I’ll ask Clint Eastwood what he did when he was mayor of Carmel.”

  “So he’s your role model.” I wouldn’t ever tell him, but Sam did have a certain chiseled Clint Eastwood look about him, complete with the narrowed eyes. The look that said, “Make my day.” “Just curious. What kind of salary does the mayor of Crystal Cove get?”

  “Something like one hundred a month.”

  “One hundred dollars a month?” My voice rose an octave or two.

  “I wouldn’t do it for the money.”

  “Obviously. Is it the power?”

  “The power. The office. The desk. The name on the door. All those things.”

  I thought he was kidding. Sam wanting power and his name on the door? Unbelievable. And totally out of character. “Taking a job that pays one hundred dollars a month? I assume you don’t need the money.”

  “That’s right. I put some aside in my last job.”

  I waited with baited breath, but he didn’t elaborate. Or say how much was “some.” Must have been a big chunk if he could afford to take the mayor’s job. Maybe it was time I stopped feeling sorry for Sam. Finally, I couldn’t stand it any longer. “What were you in—real estate, fashion design, software, piracy?”

  That time he almost laughed. Why? Were those jobs so off target? Then how else does someone make a lot of money these days? He didn’t say. Instead he stood and grabbed his jacket.

  “Let me know how it goes at the lawyer’s office,” he said.

  I couldn’t believe he said that instead of forbidding me to ever speak of my insane plan again. “Oh, I will. I’ll be making out my will. Any ideas who I should leave my pies to?”

  “I don’t know about the pies, but you should leave your brain to medical science. It would be a service to mankind.”

  He left before I could ask what exactly he meant by that. Maybe it was just as well I didn’t know.

  _____

  On Sunday, I went to the beach by myself. I needed a break. Of course I packed a picnic lunch, and it was a gorgeous day. Low tide and big breakers.

  The next day, I got Kate to sit in for me at the shop, just in case …

  “I’m ready to sell pies,” she assured me. “When customers come, I just hope you’ve got enough inventory. I made a sign I’m going to put in the window. I’ll throw a net out the door. Because damn it, I will not let these pies go to waste.” She waved a hand at the shelves with double-crust apple and at the refrigerated case with traditional lemon meringue. Nothing exotic today. Just good old reliable standard favorites.

  “You’re really going to write a will?” she asked. “Is that why you’re dressed up?”

  “That’s the idea,” I said. “I assume one should dress up to go to a lawyer’s office. Even if it’s only a few blocks away.” I was wearing an actual suit. From the back of my closet I found an outfit I often wore to art gallery openings or concerts in San Francisco. A Calvin Klein single-button stretch black jacket with a skirt that hit me just below the knees, along with my black low-heeled, open-toed shoes. I thought I might never wear these clothes again. They were a symbol of everything I wanted to leave behind. But I didn’t feel any bad memories clinging to the clothes. Surely that was a good sign. Maybe I’d crossed over an invisible barrier. If I could dress up again, maybe I could trust again and even love again. Or maybe I was getting carried away with the symbolism. Sometimes a black suit is just a black suit.

  I was pleased to see everything still fit me after a month of pie baking and eating. I told myself I was lucky that my problems of making a living, my lack of funds, and the effort to fend off accusations of murder kept my nervous stomach from ingesting too much food. Some people eat a lot when they’re under stress; others, like me, can’t eat much at all. Except when there’s a chance to taste something especially delicious; I can always make an exception.

  I arrived a half hour early at Seymour Evans’ office above the bank on the main square in town. His secretary, whose name plate on her desk said Marjorie Wilkins, looked startled to see me. Didn’t she have an appointment book? Wasn’t she the Keeper of the Gate?

  “I have an appointment,” I said.

  “You’re early,” she said, looking at her watch. “He’s in a meeting.” She peered over her reading glasses at me, wondering what kind of a person would arrive a half hour early to write their will.

  I just smiled and said I’d wait. Then I took a seat on a small leather couch in his lobby and picked up a recent New Yorker magazine from the table. The prints on the wall were reproductions of old masterpieces. Stodgy, but in keeping for a stodgy lawyer. Maybe I hadn’t yet caught on to the new improved d
emographics of my hometown.

  If I strained my ears, I could actually hear voices coming from the conference room but I couldn’t make out any individual words. If only someone would come out or go in. You’d think I’d had enough of citizens dying or passing out, but I wished someone would faint from hearing the news of their inheritance and have to be carried out. Thus giving me the opportunity to see who was in there and get a sense of who got what and how much it was worth them to knock off Mary Brandt.

  Or maybe Marjorie would leave for a moment and I could press my ear to the door. But she just sat there as unmovable as one of the life oak trees outside, every gray hair in place, staring at a computer screen, her veined hands on the keyboard. I felt certain she knew exactly what was in Mary Brandt’s will. What would it take to get her to tell me? Maybe I should have brought a pie. That would have loosened her tongue. The group would be served coffee if the stainless steel coffeemaker burbling on the small table was any indication. The aroma filled the air. A collection of mugs hung on a wooden rack. Would it kill her to offer me some? After all, I was a client bringing in business. But maybe she was saving it for the heirs of Mary Brandt of which I was not.

  “I suppose Seymour is pretty busy these days,” I said.

  She looked up as startled as if a statue had come to life.

  I continued. “What with people dying and all. Not that I’m planning to die anytime soon, but I hear it’s a good idea to make out a will. I mean, you never know.”

  She gave me a condescending look as if I’d stated the obvious and she found it annoying when she was trying to work. With a sigh, she explained. “Mr. Evans is the only attorney in town. He handles everything. Wills and estates, property disputes, real estate, probate ….”

  “What about criminal defense?”

  “What about it?”

  “Does he defend criminals?”

  “If he has to, but this is Crystal Cove,” she explained with a pained expression on her face.

  Oh, of course. No one ever commits a crime here.