She winced. “They wouldn’t do the show unless one of the owners invited them. So I couldn’t tell them I worked for you.”
“First a goddess circle and now this? How could you keep this from me?”
“It wasn’t first a goddess circle, then Pie Hard. It was because of Pie Hard I forgot the circle.” She clasped her gnarled hands together. “Nigel Prashad and Ilsa Fueder in Pie Town! Can you believe it? He’s so sexy.”
“He’s half your age.”
“I’m young enough to be his older sister.”
I shoved Charlene’s youthful delusions aside. “That’s not the point! Why did you tell them Pie Town was in trouble?”
She stepped away from me, pressing her lips together and giving me a knowing look.
“We’re not in trouble,” I said stoutly, but my insides quivered. I had the bad habit of biting off more than I could chew; hiring new staff before Pie Town was quite ready, buying a new van for deliveries . . . “We’re not,” I said with less conviction.
“Can you look me in the eyes and tell me we’ll be open next year?”
“Well, no, but only because nothing is certain. We could get hit by a meteor.”
She placed a hand on my shoulder. “Let me tell you a story, about a young woman who came to San Nicholas with nothing but pluck and a dream of glory.”
“I didn’t come here with dreams of glory.”
“I’m talking about me.”
“Oh,” I said, shifting my weight. “Sorry.”
“And do you know what my dream was?”
“Glorious?”
“I dreamed of doing more with my life. Of doing something exceptional.”
By my book, Charlene’s life had already been exceptional. She’d even been in the roller derby. But I knew all about unfulfilled dreams.
“This is an opportunity for national exposure.” She rubbed her hands together and cackled. “Marla will never be able to top this.”
“Seriously? This is about one-upping your arch nemesis?” I’d hoped Charlene and her frenemy, Marla, had buried their geriatric rivalry. Marla had spent a lifetime one-upping Charlene. They’d grown up in the same town. Competed over the same men. And my piecrust maker wasn’t the forgive-and-forget sort.
“Mostly this is about Pie Town,” she said.
“But Pie Town isn’t a turnaround situation. They’ll figure it out.”
She lifted a brow. “Are you really saying everything is hunky-dory?”
“Well, no, but—”
“You need help. Take it.”
I struggled with my injured ego. Pie Town wasn’t even a year old, and the first year of a bakery’s operations was always rocky. So what if I had expanded too quickly? So what if the budget was tight?
“Nigel and Ilsa are specialists,” she said. “The show will give you free advertising, and you might learn something. And Marla’s expanding her YouTube channel.”
I relented. Who was I kidding? I could use the help and Pie Town the exposure. “All right. We’ll do it. But are there any more surprises I should know about?”
Her blue eyes widened with innocence. “What else could there be?”
Famous last words. I blew out my breath and stepped from the flour-work room.
The cameraman edged backward, focusing on me.
I glanced up at the boom mic and smiled. “Welcome to Pie Town!”
“Cut!” With a gasp of relief, the silver-haired woman lowered the boom mic and set it on the work island. She rubbed her neck. “Now where the hell’s Armstrong?”
Nigel smoothed his thick, blue-black hair and grimaced. “No idea. The man’s a shambles.” He looped his arm over the woman’s shoulders. “Perhaps introductions are in order. This is Regina Katz, the apple of my pie.”
Regina shrugged him off, but she was smiling. “Save the punning for the show. That’s a good one by the way.” She turned to frown at the cameraman. “And playing sound tech isn’t normally my job.”
The cameraman shrugged. “It’s not my job either, honey.”
Her gaze flicked to the ceiling. “I told you not to call me that.”
Regina fumbled a wireless microphone, and then clipped it to the collar of my t-shirt. Roughly, she turned me around and clipped something to the back of my jeans, then tugged my tee over it. “Say something,” she said.
“Er,” I said, “I’m Val Harris, but I guess you already know that. What—?”
The producer touched her headset and nodded. “Coming in loud and clear. We’re good.”
“So, what do you want me to do?” I asked Nigel. “How long will this take?”
“Three days, tops, and do what you’d normally do,” he said, his brown eyes earnest. “You’ve got a fabulous story here. Pie Town didn’t collapse after your customer died from food poisoning earlier this summer. That speaks volumes for your resilience.”
My jaw tightened. “Joe didn’t die from food poisoning. It was murder.” Even though Joe’s murder had had nothing to do with Pie Town, I still felt awful about it. “You won’t mention that on the show, will you?”
“Absobloodylootely.” Nigel grinned.
“Please don’t dredge that up,” I said. “We had nothing to do with his poisoning.”
“But it hurt your business, right?”
“It did until the police cleared us.”
“Exactly why we need to talk about it,” he said. “It’s critical backstory. So, we’ll start today by observing. Carry on as you would normally. You won’t even notice us.”
Ilsa smiled unpleasantly and examined a speck of dust on her sleeve. “But we will notice you,” she said in a thick, French accent.
The producer cleared her throat. “First,” Regina said, “we’ll need you to sign the waiver allowing us to use your image. Actually, we’ll need everyone who works here to sign. Don’t worry, if any staff or customers object, we can blur their faces.”
“Good.” I didn’t like the idea of bugging guests to sign waivers, but some of them might like being on TV.
Regina dropped her messenger bag on the butcher-block work island. She dug inside it and handed me a computer pad and a stylus. “Sign here,” she pointed, “and here.”
I paused, stylus over the screen. “I’d really rather you not mention that man who was poisoned.”
“Sure,” Regina said. “Whatever.”
“Maybe I should read this first,” I said
“Go for it,” the producer said, her silver cat earrings bobbing. “But it’s boilerplate.”
“I’ve already read it,” Charlene said. “Don’t worry. You won’t be signing away your first born.” She two-stepped into the flour-work room.
At least I’d make someone happy.
“Fine.” Shaking my head, I signed. I started on the prep work—zesting lemons, cracking eggs, chopping fruit. One day, I’d have a separate prep team to do this for me. For now, I was bootstrapping and did most of the work myself. It was exhausting, but I loved baking, I loved pies, and I loved having my own place.
“Where’s the AC?” Regina barked.
I looked up from the metal counter, where I’d just set a bowl of lemon filling beneath a ginormous mixer. “The air conditioner?” I asked.
“Assistant cameraman,” Regina said, “and where is he?”
Ilsa raised an eyebrow. “Where do you think he is?” She made a drinking gesture.
The producer swore.
“I don’t know why you let him get away with it,” Ilsa drawled in her French accent. “It is not good for us and not good for him.”
“That’s none of your business.” Regina stabbed a finger toward the lounging French chef. “And I don’t pay you to lean on counters and look bored.”
Expression impassive, Ilsa straightened off the counter. She peered into my lemon mixture, and her nostrils flared. “Don’t like.”
My lips puckered. I turned on the mixer, and its roar filled the kitchen.
The producer blew out her breath
. “There are too many people in here. I’ve got to make some calls. Steve, keep filming.” She banged through the swinging kitchen door.
“You heard her,” Nigel shouted cheerfully. “Everyone get to work!” He walked into the dining area.
I switched on the huge, industrial oven with its rotating racks.
Yawning, Petronella, my assistant manager, clomped into the kitchen in her black motorcycle boots. Quickly, I explained.
She shrugged, impassive, and snapped a net over her spiky black hair. “Cool.”
Work stumbled onward.
The French chef went to stand beside my antique pie safe—a gorgeous, faded-blue cupboard. She stared down her delicate nose and muttered in French. My French was rusty, but I’m pretty sure she was repeating, over and over, “Don’t like.”
Forcing myself to ignore the pastry chef, I immersed myself in the rhythm of chopping, peeling, and mixing. The kitchen brightened, the sun rose and its beams streamed through the skylights and glittered off the metal counters.
My assistant manager, Petronella, and I filled piecrusts. She slid them into the oven on a long-handled, wooden paddle.
A deliveryman knocked on the door. He walked in without waiting for an answer, loading carts of fruit, meat, and veggies onto the counter.
I signed for them, and returned to Petronella. Beneath her Pie Town apron, she wore motorcycle boots and tight, black jeans. Her ebony hair stood up in angry spikes.
The cameraman moved around the work table.
“How are your classes going?” I asked, feeling awkward under the camera’s blank-eyed scrutiny. Petronella was studying to be an undertaker. A part of me hoped her classes would take a long time. I hated the thought of losing her.
“I need to interview a psychologist or psychiatrist about the mourning process. Know any?”
I wracked my brains and came up empty. “Sorry, no. I’ll ask around.”
The cameraman glided about the kitchen, dodging us. Ilsa did nothing more than lean against a metal counter and glower. Gradually, my neck muscles unknotted.
And then it was six a.m., opening time. I carried the coffee urn to the counter and set out the day-old hand pies, which we sold at a discount.
The producer and Nigel sat in a corner booth, their heads close, speaking softly. They glanced at me and continued their conversation.
Anxious, I tugged at my apron. I unlocked the glass front door, turned the sign to OPEN, and hurried through the Dutch door by the register.
The front bell jingled.
I glanced over my shoulder, expecting one of our elderly regulars—but it was a stranger—a man in his forties, with dark, pomaded hair, wearing a pressed tweed suit.
I realized I was staring and tore my gaze away. There was something familiar about the stranger. Was he connected to the show?
The producer spoke earnestly to her star consultant, but Nigel looked my way. His thick brows furrowed.
I busied myself by turning on the cash register, even though we wouldn’t use it for another hour or two.
The stranger ambled to the counter and sat on one of the pink Naugahyde stools.
“We’re self-serve until seven a.m.” I nodded to the coffee urn and the basket beside it. A sign was taped to the basket: COFFEE, ONE DOLLAR. DAY-OLD HAND PIES, ONE DOLLAR.
“How quaintly trusting.” He winked. “I’m Frank.”
Huh. My father’s name had been Frank.
I never trusted a Frank.
“Val.” I pointed to the tag on my apron.
“Val. I love that name.”
I clasped a stack of menus to my chest. “Thanks. What brings you to Pie Town?”
“I’m an early riser,” he said.
Studying him, I set a tray of white mugs on the counter. “For the coffee.” Something about this guy set my alarm bells clanging. But what? And did it matter? Even if this guy did plan on skipping out on the bill, my regulars would be here soon. They’d enforce the honor system on my behalf.
The front bell jangled.
Instead of one of my regulars, another stranger—a young Eurasian man—slouched into Pie Town. Black slacks. Black boots. Black turtleneck. A shock of raven-colored hair fell over one blue eye. I rubbed my thumb across the edges of the paper menus stacked by the register. The guy was either a ninja or a beat poet.
“She’s self-serve,” Frank said. “Put your money in the basket.”
The youth wandered to the counter and poured himself a cup of coffee. He dropped two bills into the straw basket.
“Okay,” I said, backing towards the kitchen door. “Well. Bye.”
This had to be a set up. Tourists rarely came to Pie Town before eleven a.m. At this hour, tourists were either in bed—or they assumed Pie Town was not a breakfast joint. Had Pie Hard brought in fake customers to trip us up?
Someone grabbed my arm.
I gasped, whirling.
Charlene snapped a picture with her phone, and I rubbed my eyes. “Charlene!”
She looked at the photo she’d taken and cackled. “That’s a good one. I’m going to Tweet the entire show. Take that, Marla!”
I rubbed my arm where she’d pinched me. “You startled me.”
“Why were you in the dining area so long?” Her snowy brows lowered. “You’re not trying to talk Regina into letting you out of Pie Hard, are you?” she whispered.
“No. I’m committed.” Or I should be committed . . . to an asylum. “I signed the form and everything.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said. “It’s only . . . there are two strangers here.”
“At this hour?” She extended her phone around the corner and watched the men on her screen. “That is weird.”
My stomach churned. “You don’t think Pie Hard brought them in to review us or do something underhanded, do you? Because they seem kind of familiar, though I’d swear I’ve never seen them before.”
The bell over the door rang, and we peered into the dining area. Tally Wally and Graham, two of our elderly regulars, ambled to the counter.
I relaxed fractionally, and we retreated into the hallway.
“The show’s never brought in ringers before.” Charlene brightened. “Maybe those two weirdos have been following you?”
“They’re not weirdos. And why would they follow me? I’m a baker.”
“They could be assassins. Maybe the older guy is the ninja’s handler.”
“He’s not—”
“Ooh! Or maybe they’re competing assassins. I mean, I know they’re not really. But they could be,” she said wistfully. “And they’re definitely strange.”
The best thing about Charlene’s cray-cray? It made me face up to my own bouts of insanity. I was freaking out over nada. “Okay. Well. I’m going to get back to work in the kitchen.”
Absently, she patted my arm. “Sure, you go ahead. I’m going to have a word with Graham and Wally. They’re ex-military.” She wandered behind the counter and bent her head toward them.
What did those two being vets have to do with anything? I shook myself. The workings of Charlene’s mind were best left unexamined.
The older men leaned across the counter, and Charlene surreptitiously snapped a photo of Regina and Nigel.
I hurried through the kitchen door and bounced off the cameraman’s rounded gut.
“Whoops,” he said, his camera jerking upward.
Ilsa’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you were a baker. Why are you dallying in the dining area?”
“I got caught up . . .” Why was I making excuses? “Sure. You all right, Steve?”
Behind the giant camera, Steve grinned. “No worries. We got some good shots of your kitchen team.”
“Great. Thanks.” I got to work filling piecrusts.
Charlene strolled into the kitchen. Giving me a significant look, she walked into the flour-work room.
I followed, closed the door behind me, and shivered. This room got a little too cold for comfo
rt. Charlene’s tennis shoes left tracks in the flour sprinkled around the long, butcher-block table.
“It’s all taken care of,” she said. “Wally and Graham will keep an eye on the assassins.”
“They’re not—” Ugh, why bother? “Okay, fine.” Graham and Tally Wally wouldn’t do anything crazy. With Charlene in the flour-work room, neither would she.
I returned to the kitchen and put Charlene and the strangers out of my mind. The morning whizzed on. Pies into the oven. Pies out of the oven. Pies into the customers. Pies out the door.
At eleven, I migrated to the register. Our regular group of gamers slouched into the dining area and assembled in their favorite corner booth.
Ilsa emerged from the kitchen.
Red-headed Ray MacTaggart’s brown eyes bulged. The gamers’ ringleader, he sent his eight-sided dice spinning onto the checkerboard floor.
Ilsa walked around the front of the counter and examined the pies behind their glass cases. The corners of her mouth turned down. Shaking her head, she returned inside the kitchen.
My chest tightened. What was wrong with our displays?
“Psst!”
I looked down the counter.
On their pink barstools, Graham and Tally Wally stared straight ahead. They sipped coffee in synchronized movements.
I walked to them. “Hi, guys. Can I get you anything?”
“Charlene was right,” Graham said without moving his lips. He was a rotund, balding man, with a penchant for cabbie’s hats. “Something’s up.”
“Well, there is a TV crew in Pie Town.”
Tally Wally rubbed his drink roughened nose. “Not the crew, the ninja and Professor Patches.”
“Professor . . .” I glanced to the other end of the counter, where the man from the morning sat. So he was back. Or had he ever left? “It’s a good nickname.” He did look like a college professor, right down to the patches on the elbows of his tweed blazer.
“The only times they’ve moved have been to go to the restroom,” Graham muttered. “It ain’t right.”
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