by Carol Culver
“I’m sure someone has. But I don’t advise it.”
“Did you advise Mary Brandt?”
He shifted in his high-back executive leather chair. “She was my client. I advise all my clients if they wish to be advised.”
“I understand from her friends at the retirement home she didn’t take advice kindly.”
“As an attorney I can only offer my advice, I cannot force my clients to take it. You are in the pie business, I understand. Do your customers always take your advice?”
“Well …” What was he getting at? Every time I tried to interview someone they turned the tables and started peppering me with questions. Was it happening again? “I do make suggestions depending on what the occasion is or their preferences—savory or sweet pies, fruit or chocolate, a party or an intimate dinner, a Bridge game or …”
“Then you understand that although you may have a good option for the client, they do not always take your advice. If your business is anything like mine, you are dealing with humans and their frailties, such as stubbornness, denial, hope, greed, pride, and prejudice. I take my position very seriously. I assume you do too.”
I crossed and uncrossed my legs. How did I get into a philosophical discussion with this lawyer about the similarities between pies and wills when there really weren’t any?
I had to try one more time to find out something. Anything.
“If I wanted to punish someone after my death, what should I leave them so they would know how I felt? Nothing? Or something insignificant? Or something that only they would understand was an insult?”
His nostrils tightened as if I’d suggested leaving someone a dead skunk. “I can’t advise you on anything like that. I wouldn’t tell any of my clients to take revenge on someone. For one thing, revenge is a dish best served cold.”
“Isn’t that from The Godfather?” I asked.
“Actually it’s an ancient Klingon proverb,” he explained.
“Really?” I knew I should have paid more attention to those Star Trek movies. “I’m not sure what it means,” I said. “Or how it applies to me and my will.”
“It means that revenge is more satisfying when it’s unexpected or long feared.”
“As in after death. Just as I thought.”
“If you are looking for revenge …” he said with a frown.
“Not me. Just … anyone. Like Mary Brandt, for example. Did she get her revenge after her death or before?”
He must be wondering why I was fixated on Mrs. Brandt.
“I am not aware that she was a vengeful person,” he said with a slight telltale flush on his round face.
How could he say that? To know Mary was to know Vengeance was her middle name. Either he didn’t know her or he couldn’t violate the lawyer’s code of secrecy. I thought I had my answer for all the good it did me. I decided to change the subject.
“Can you tell me if you think I should have a reading of the will like you did today? I understand it’s not necessary, but call me a prima donna, I really like the idea of a little drama.” I glanced at a painting on the wall. Under the frame was a small plaque. 1820. Oil on Canvas. Reading the Will. Sir David Wilkie. It was a dramatic scene, full of color and action, with old people, babies, and children on the scene, and of course a lawyer reading from a manuscript. It looked like a valuable original painting. I wondered idly who Seymour was going to leave it to when he died.
“Quite right. In fact a reading of the will is very unusual these days. Usually left to scenes in paintings and movies. Most of the time, I send a copy of the will to each beneficiary and that’s it. No drama. No tension.”
“So they don’t need to be present. And yet today …” I held my breath waiting to hear what the conditions were for today’s exceptional occasion.
“Today only the family was here, with one exception.”
“Donna Linton.”
He didn’t look happy that I noticed. From the sour look on his face he probably wished he’d kept his mouth shut and that I’d leave. Why? Was there something important he wasn’t telling me? If only he’d tell me who’d been left out of the will or who was slighted. Who was angry? Her son-in-law? Who was pleasantly surprised? The Pit Bull Society? Who was disappointed? Donna? If he didn’t tell me, I would find out one way or another. Because I was convinced someone who was in his office today killed Mary.
“If that’s all …” he said, getting up from his posh super-sized chair. “I don’t believe we can get any further until you’ve answered the questions about your beneficiaries.”
“I’ll get back to you with that,” I said, standing and walking slowly to the door. Wracking my brain to come up with more questions. Never mind. I had an excuse to come back with the answers to the assignment he’d given me, though it would cost me. I didn’t know how much lawyers like him charged by the hour, but if I could find out anything, it would be worth it.
Back at the shop, Kate was not alone. Sam was sitting at the little table drinking coffee, seeming as at home as if he did it every day. How had she lured him in when I had such a hard time doing that? Kate was standing in the middle of the shop, an apron around her waist and a smug smile on her face.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“I’m exhausted.”
“Hope it was worth it.”
“Time will tell. Anything happen here?”
Kate grinned. “Had a rush of customers after the will reading.”
I glanced at the empty refrigerated case and the bare shelves behind the counter. There was hardly anything left. Just a half four-berry pie and a wedge of key lime. “I can’t believe this. They served cupcakes at the lawyer’s office and they still came here for pie. I’m speechless.”
“That will be the day,” Sam muttered.
“And where was I? Meeting with the lawyer so I can make out my will. When I should have been here. What did they say? Who was here, exactly?”
“Pretty much the whole family, I think. Her granddaughter, Melissa, was wearing the diamond necklace Mary had left her.”
“How did they seem? What was the atmosphere?”
Sam said nothing. He just watched me and Kate going back and forth. Probably taking notes in his head. Or tuning out completely from this inane, useless chatter.
“It was far from funereal,” Kate said. “No tears, I can tell you that. If Mary left anyone out of her will, I couldn’t tell. If you and Sam are trying to figure out who had reason to kill Mary for their inheritance, it seems they all qualify. They were here to celebrate. And since there’s no place like a pie shop for a celebration, they piled in. I found some folding chairs in your closet upstairs.”
“The biggest sales day of the year so far and I missed it,” I said, shaking my head. Not to mention all the gossip I didn’t hear.
“Sit down,” I told Kate. “And tell me everything.”
“Can’t do it,” she said. “Gotta run. By the way, I invited Sam to dinner tonight.”
“Sam?” I said, as surprised as if she’d invited Jack the Ripper. Hadn’t she said she was inviting Blake? Had he turned her down?
“Is that a problem?” he asked.
“Of course not,” I said.
“Dinner’s at seven. Hope you can come too. But no murder mystery talk allowed. From either of you. Understand?”
“Wait,” I said, but she’d tossed her apron on the chair and she was out the door.
I glanced at Sam. “What did she mean, no murder mystery talk?”
“Why don’t you ask her? She’s your friend.”
“What are you doing here chatting up my friend then? I know you didn’t come for the pie. Did you learn anything from the Brandt heirs, or did they clam up when they saw you?” I knew he wouldn’t tell me anything important, but I was getting desperate. The clock was ticking. I had to pin this murder on someone and I wanted it to hold up.
“I don’t think they noticed me. That’s the way I like it. They were high on sugar and caffeine a
nd on their inheritance.”
Not notice Sam? Sure, he didn’t wear a uniform, but with his height, his cool demeanor, and his casual Brooks Brothers shirt and blazer he hardly blended into the local landscape.
“Did you zero in on anyone special in the crowd? Which I assume is why you’re here.” I said. “Or are they all under suspicion?”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, and my heart sank. I was afraid he was going to tell me it was none of my business or that none of them were under suspicion, not when he had me and my grandmother to focus on.
“If you don’t want to share your information, I understand. Though if I were you I’d be glad to get help from myself. Especially since you’ve given me a deadline.”
“What kind of help would that be?” he asked, standing and bracing his hands on the wrought-iron chair he’d been sitting on.
“Snooping where even the long arm of the law can’t reach.”
“I can’t condone snooping,” he said. “Or breaking privacy laws.”
“But you can’t forbid it either.” I ran my hand through my hair. “I’ve got to get busy. My shelves are empty.”
He got the message and went to the door. “Want a ride to the Blaines’ tonight?”
“Sure. I’ll be here.”
To keep my mind off the scene at the lawyer’s office in which I learned practically nothing, and the scene at my own pie shop that I’d missed out on, and the dinner at Kate’s I was committed to, I headed to the kitchen.
How was I supposed to act tonight when my best friend was engaging in an act of blatant and devious behavior, trying to throw me and Sam together? Did he notice? Did he care? Obviously not, or he would have turned her down. If we couldn’t talk about the murder, then what would we talk about? Old times? I couldn’t afford a strictly social evening when the clock was ticking and I still didn’t have my proof.
To calm my overactive mind, I changed into my baking clothes —stretch pants, a blue and white University of California T-shirt, and my clogs—and started a frenzy of activity in the kitchen. I trusted my repaired oven would hold up for another forty years and decided to go with something savory. Not just because Sam didn’t eat sugar, or so he said. There are others who might also enjoy an Asparagus Tart with Vacherin Cheese. I hadn’t asked Kate what she was serving tonight or what I should bring, so I’d make whatever I felt like.
I would use this downtime to stop thinking about murder victims or suspects or inheritances and just focus on pie before I burned out. I made my tart and it looked and smelled wonderful, but I didn’t stop there. I was filled with a restless kind of energy.
I pressed onward, flipping through my files looking for something challenging, something I’d never made before. I was anxious to keep my mind from dwelling on Mary’s greedy family, or the vision of dapper old Edward looking far from death’s door when I saw him. Death. Always around the corner, whether you’re expecting it or not. Whether you’re twenty, fifty, or ninety-five. Despite the heat that billowed from the old oven, I felt a cold shiver run up my spine. Was that death sending me a message? Don’t waste a moment. Live every day as if it is your last. Grab happiness and hold on to it.
When I forced myself to stop thinking about death, I glanced out into the shop. There was Blake, looking totally different but just as gorgeous as ever, this time in an East Coast uniform of suit and tie. I was so involved in my recipe search, I hadn’t heard the door.
I closed the big black loose-leaf notebook and went out into the shop.
“More pie?” I asked.
“The only thing that’s more tempting than your pie is you,” he said, a devilish glint in his blue eyes. “I’m leaving tonight. I came to say goodbye. I wish I didn’t have to go so soon. If I’d known you were back in town, I would have taken some vacation days.” He looked out the window. “I forgot how the town can get into your blood, grab you, and won’t let you go. Know what I mean?”
I wasn’t sure I did but I nodded anyway. “Maybe you’ll come back more often.”
“Now that I know you’re here, I definitely will do that. And you’re coming to New York, remember? And don’t say you can’t come because of your shop. Everybody needs a vacation. The town will just have to get along without pie for a week or two.”
“You’re right.” I would need a vacation after this murder was solved.
“How did it go this morning?” I asked. I wasn’t ready to promise to close up and go visit Blake in New York.
“No surprises in Gram’s will. She left a token to each one of us. My sister got a necklace, I got her father’s watch.” He rolled up his sleeve to show off an antique Swiss timepiece set in platinum.
“Wow,” I said.
“Kind of a drag having to wind it manually,” he said, “but I remember now she told me I could have it one day. I guess it’s worth a lot. Mom says Gram definitely wanted me to have it, but just in case another will is found I’m taking off today with my watch. Just kidding,” he added with a grin that showed off his perfect white teeth.
“You don’t really think there’s another will, do you?” I asked.
“Rumor has it Gram wasn’t happy with her lawyer, old Seymour. Can’t understand why, he seemed okay to me. But you know her. Or maybe you didn’t know her.”
“Not really.”
“So she threatened to update her will herself, but no one’s found it if she did.”
“I guess they’ve searched her apartment at Heavenly Acres.”
“For now the police have it cordoned off until the complete autopsy report comes back from the coroner. Nobody goes in or out.”
“Really?” Why hadn’t anyone told me that? Anyone like my friend the Chief of Police or one of the other residents like Grannie. Maybe that’s what Sam meant by forbidding me to snoop. I tried not to act too excited. But I was. If I was going to snoop, that was the place to do it.
Was one of Sam’s officers posted outside the door with a gun in his holster? If not, since when did just a cordon keep me from going where I wanted to go? Never. I was so excited about the possibility of discovering something, I was hardly listening as Blake was talking about his trip back to New York and the weekend he had planned on Long Island. Finally, he shook my hand, kissed me on the cheek, and walked out.
“Safe trip,” I called as he loped toward a black BMW. He turned and waved, blew me a kiss and drove away.
Before I closed the shop, I turned off the oven and changed into khaki slacks and a tank top, hoping I wouldn’t run into Grannie at Heavenly Acres, who would doubtless criticize my appearance as not being smart enough for a visit to her upscale digs. A truck was parked at the retirement home’s front entrance with the words Petrelli’s Flowers painted in the side. So someone was having fresh flowers delivered to their door. What a life these old folks lived.
Once inside, I saw some residents in tennis whites, some in visor caps, shorts, and Lacoste shirts, but not my grandmother. They all looked like they had stepped out of an ad for an over-fifty-five luxury retirement community. I couldn’t help thinking of Edward. Where were the ninety-somethings? Holed up in their apartments waiting for something to happen?
I walked down the hall, smiling brightly and saying hello to everyone I met until I came to Mary Brandt’s apartment. No possibility of missing it with that yellow tape across the door. Once I realized there was no overweight or even normal-sized officer on duty, I thought it would be easy to just lift the “Crime Scene Do Not Enter” tape from her doorway, but it wasn’t. For one thing, there were people in the hallway. No one I knew personally, thank heavens, but other residents on their way to high tea in the lounge or a favorite sport.
They walked past the door, some women like Grannie in capri pants and matching shirts and light-scented floral perfume, men in T-shirts and shorts on their way out to play miniature golf or shuffleboard, as if having a crime scene in the neighborhood was not a downer, just an everyday event.
When I got a chance, I c
asually leaned against Mary’s door and tried the knob. As I suspected, it was locked. So I stood staring at the door until someone walked by and said hello as if I was waiting for something or someone.
I was momentarily tempted to break the door down or go outside and climb a ladder to the second floor. But I remembered from when Grannie was choosing her place that these second-floor balconies were shared with the next-door neighbor, which was why Grannie chose the first floor unit with the private patio. All I had to do was get into the next apartment. I tried that door and it was unlocked. That’s why they liked it here. The residents felt safe and secure enough to leave their doors unlocked. At least some of them did.
I knocked on the door next door. A woman walked by and said, “Maxine is playing golf today.”
“Thanks,” I said. Then when the woman left I quickly entered Maxine’s apartment. I assumed she wouldn’t mind since it was all in the interest of solving a crime and making her home safe from more murders. Furthermore, if I was careful, she’d never know. I went straight through the apartment to the oversized balcony with the view of the spacious lawn below, closed the patio door behind me, and crossed quickly over to Mary’s place before someone spotted me and thought, “What’s she doing up there in that dead woman’s apartment?”
Amazingly, Mary’s sliding glass door was unlocked. But inside Mary’s living room with the pale gray walls and the neutral wall-to-wall carpet, it looked like someone had been there before me and swept the place clean. Not a personal item to be seen. It looked like it was for sale already. Maybe it was. Then why did the police bother to cordon off the entrance?
I went into her bedroom. The walls were pale peach with reproductions of two famous paintings hung over the king-sized bed. The bed was made up as if for a photo shoot or a real estate open house, with cream-colored sheets, a café au lait–colored blanket, and a raft of pillows. In the middle of the bed was a tray set up with a small plate, a glass, a bud vase with a rose in it, a cup and saucer, and a large cloth napkin. Just waiting for the occupant to wake up, smell the rose, and eat breakfast. Only the former occupant wasn’t going to wake up. I desperately wanted to believe she died a natural death like Grannie and Donna said she did. But even they were going to come around to the murder verdict, if they hadn’t already. Everyone else was sure she’d been killed.