“This is worse than getting hit by a car,” Ray said, weaving slightly.
I winced. The car accident had sort of been my fault. “Have you given your statement to the police?” I asked, changing the subject.
“No,” a familiar voice growled behind me. “He hasn’t.”
I flinched and turned, excitement and anxiety jangling my stomach.
San Nicholas’s lead detective, Gordon Carmichael, a.k.a. Grumpy Cop, stared down at me.
CHAPTER 4
“Hi, Gordon.” Even though I was twenty feet from a crime scene, I couldn’t help smiling. Then I thought of Ray and Regina and sobered.
Gordon Carmichael was San Nicholas’s lead detective. Actually, he was our only detective. Since we weren’t a high-crime area, he was stuck sorting out surfer disputes and parking violations more often than murders. That’s not a criticism. He came from the big city and had plenty of experience with tough investigations. He was also sexy as all get out—a rangy six-foot-two-inches of muscled goodness with blazing green eyes.
The tall, metal lamp near the body went out, and a gasp rose from the crowd.
I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness. The moon hadn’t yet risen, and stars glittered over the ocean.
“I didn’t know you were back from your training workshop,” I said. We’d almost had an entire first date a month ago, but it had been interrupted by his police work. After that, he went to Homeland Security training in Wyoming. He sent me a few postcards, so I wasn’t taking his disappearance personally (much). I wasn’t sure where we stood now.
“I got back today,” he said. “What are you two doing here? Got your P.I. licenses yet?” he asked pointedly.
“Er, no,” I said. Gordon was supportive of our investigative efforts, but only if we went legit and got P.I. licenses, which would take years. What pie shop owner has time for that?
“Then what are you doing here?” he asked.
“Moral support.” Charlene stroked the cat around her neck. Frederick’s right ear twitched. “Poor Ray’s never seen someone murdered before.”
He lifted a single dark brow. “Who said it was murder?”
“Shouting on the cliff followed by a woman falling to her death?” Charlene asked. “We spent the day with Regina Katz, and she wasn’t the sort to yell about nothing.”
Regina had been quick to shout at Ilsa, and to shout about the missing assistant cameraman.
Gordon’s green eyes pierced into me. “You spent the day with Ms. Katz?”
“She’s a producer for a reality show called Pie Hard,” I explained. “They’re doing a segment on Pie Town.” A breeze ruffled the tall sea grasses, and I shivered.
“The show with that British pretty boy and the French chef?” He sucked in his breath. “You mean you’re going to be on Pie Hard?”
“Not anymore,” I said, “not with the producer dead.” Hold the mustard, Gordon knew the show? “And I wouldn’t exactly call Nigel a pretty boy.” He was handsome, in a British swashbuckling sort of way.
“Steve!” Nigel hurried down the trail. Ignoring us, the Brit beelined for Ilsa and the distraught cameraman.
“Those are the two stars,” I said, motioning toward them. “Nigel Prashad and—”
“Ilsa Fueder.” The detective nodded. “Amazing what she can do with fondant.”
I blinked. He’d had occasion to cook for me, and he was a great chef. But fondant?
“I know,” Ray said. “Can you believe they’re here, in San Nicholas?”
Gordon smoothed out his smile. “All right. Ray, come with me. No more talking to these two or anyone else until we’re done. Hear me?”
Ray nodded. “Yeah. Right. Sure.”
“And you two cowboys—girls—women . . .” Gordon shook his head. “You two loose cannons stay out of this case. I’ll be interviewing you tomorrow.”
I yelped. “Interviewing? Why interviewing?”
“You spent the day with Ms. Katz, and everyone knows that show.” He grimaced. “They’re not easy on bakeries.”
I jammed my hands into the pockets of my black Pie Town hoodie. “I don’t think there’s much they can complain about at Pie Town.”
“It’s reality TV,” he said. “They don’t go into businesses where there aren’t problems.”
“We’re not perfect, but I wouldn’t say we have . . .” I trailed off, considering something else he’d said. “Hold on, you don’t think we’re suspects? We weren’t anywhere near the hotel when she fell. And we had no reason to push Regina off a cliff—”
“There’s no evidence she was pushed,” he said. “It’s only an interview.”
“But you implied—”
“We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“But—”
“Tomorrow.” He steered Ray away.
“You know what this means,” Charlene said darkly.
The white cat, Frederick, raised his head from her shoulder and stared at me—his blue eyes unblinking.
“Gordon thinks the death is suspicious.”
“You’re in trouble,” she sing-songed. “You just walked into his new crime scene.”
“Me? Me alone? All by myself?” Two other people had been by my side. Ugh! Once again, life was not going as planned. Seriously, he couldn’t consider me a suspect. The show had just begun, and there were no conflicts . . . I frowned. Regina had shouted about a missing AC. Whoever the missing AC was, he’d never turned up. Regina had been sharp with her French chef Ilsa as well.
“Well, this is unexpected,” a man said from behind me.
I started.
My mystery customer from this morning, natty in his tweed blazer, ambled up beside us.
“As unexpected as seeing you twice in one day,” I said, warily. The man’s voice sent a quiver of recognition through me. “Frank, isn’t it?” Where had I seen this guy before he’d walked into my pie shop?
He bowed. “Correct, Valentine.”
Huh. Most people thought Val stood for Valerie.
“What are you doing here?” Charlene asked.
“I’m staying at the hotel.” He smoothed a lock of his brown hair. “I’d booked a spot at a little inn down the road, but they had some room problems and kindly offered to put me up here.”
“How do you know Regina Katz?” Charlene demanded.
A ridge of fur rose along Frederick’s back. The cat growled.
His blue eyes widened. “I didn’t.”
“Then what are you doing here?” she asked.
“I came to see what all the commotion was about.” He winked at me, the lines around his eyes deepening. “It’s good to keep a weather eye when cops are around. I saw you talking to one of them. Are you two friends?”
“No.” My cheeks burned. “I mean, yes. Sort of.”
“I smell a romance.” He smiled.
Charlene’s eyes narrowed. “All I smell is rotting seaweed.”
The dark-haired young man appeared on the trail, mid-way up the cliff. He stopped short, turned and vanished around the bend.
I licked my lips. Had he been watching us, or observing the action around poor Regina Katz’s body? Was I going crazy, or had there been something familiar about the younger man too?
Frank cleared his throat. “The better question is: why are you two lovely ladies at this fine establishment? I know you’re not staying at this hotel. It may be the luxury you deserve, but you’re not travelers, like me.”
“Do you travel for business?” I asked.
“It’s my curse,” he said.
“What sort of business?” Charlene asked.
“Life coach.” He turned to me. “I don’t suppose you need much coaching with Pie Hard making a show about your shop. It’s quite impressive, by the way.” His eyes glittered. “Your parents must be proud.”
My throat closed. My mother was dead, and my father had abandoned us when I was little. I didn’t—couldn’t—re-spond. The loss of my mother still stung. I’d stopped cari
ng about my father, since he didn’t care about me, obviously. He hadn’t even come to my mother’s funeral. In fairness, I hadn’t informed him of her death. I hadn’t known where to find him.
When I didn’t say anything more, Frank tipped an imaginary hat to us and ambled up the cliff trail.
“Should we wait for Ray?” I asked Charlene.
“He’s a big boy. We’ve seen what he wanted us to, and now your detective’s got him. Let’s go.” She leaned around and snapped a photo of the crime scene.
“Tell me that isn’t for Twitter.”
“It’s for our investigation,” she said loftily. “And Twitter.”
We returned to my van, and I started toward home. I had a bad feeling more trouble was on the way. “Charlene, what Gordon said about Pie Hard being rough on bakeries?”
“It’s only for ratings.”
My headlights illuminated a scrubby hillside.
“But it’s true,” I said. “Our budget is a little tight. We can’t give them any other reasons for criticism.” My hands tightened on the wheel.
“It doesn’t matter now,” she said bitterly. “Regina’s dead. The show’s done. Or at least our segment is.”
She was right. I was worrying over nothing. So why was my stomach twisting like dough in a mixer?
We drove up the narrow dirt road to my tiny house, and I slowed to a stop beside my converted trailer.
Drumming filled the night air. The goddess gals (fully clothed, thankfully) danced around a fire in front of the yurt. The picnic table had already been cleared, and my stomach rumbled its disappointment.
Charlene departed, and I retreated inside. I drew the blinds and changed into my comfort PJs. If someone killed Regina, it must have been someone on her crew. Not that I was investigating or anything, but since she was a stranger in town, it was the only thing that made sense. I stared into my refrigerator and pondered its contents. They did not send a thrill up my spine.
Someone knocked on the door.
Straightening from my miniature refrigerator, I took three steps and opened the door.
The redheaded goddess peered inside and held up a paper plate in offering. “I saved some dinner for you.”
“Thanks! You didn’t have to do that.” I was grateful she had. I took the plate, filled with stuffed grape leaves, hummus, pita bread, and salads. My mouth watered.
“I did have to bring you something, after I discovered how you were awakened this morning.”
“The yurt delivery wasn’t your fault. Sorry if I was a little grumpy.”
“You weren’t.” Her broad face creased, and she tilted her head. “Are you all right? Your auras are off. I’m seeing some stress.”
I motioned her inside, and we sat at the fold-down table. “A woman I knew slightly was killed tonight. She fell over a cliff by the ocean.”
She clapped a beringed hand to her mouth. “How awful!”
“Please tell everyone in your group not to get too close to the cliff.” I nodded toward the windows and the cliff beyond. “The ground is crumbly near the edge.”
“I will.” She hesitated. “I hope I’m not prying, but . . . I get the feeling there’s something from this morning that’s still bothering you.”
I smothered my annoyance. She was only trying to be nice. It wasn’t her fault I was worrying over nothing. “It’s been a crazy day. The yurt surprise, then the Pie Hard surprise, and now this death.”
“Are you sure that’s all?”
“I’m a small business owner. We learn to roll with the punches.”
She smiled. “Yes, we do. Well, I’d better return to the group. Enjoy the food.”
I walked her to the front door and closed it behind her.
Exhaustion hammered me, but I devoured the food. I dropped the paper plate in the garbage and walked into the cramped bathroom.
Looking in the mirror, I felt a sense of disconnect. I swayed and stepped back too quickly, bumping into the folding door.
I blinked, and it was just me—face a little pale, hair a little rumpled. However, for a moment, the mirror reflected a stranger’s eyes.
CHAPTER 5
No camera crew lay in wait in the alley behind Pie Town the next morning. I unlocked the rear door, relief and disappointment tangled in my stomach. When I flipped on the kitchen lights and focused on prep work, my Zen returned. Baking was my meditation.
Charlene arrived, then my young assistant pie maker and aspiring poet, Abril. Abril and I fell into our usual work rhythm, broken only by pie shop gossip.
Gray morning light drifted through the skylights and glinted off the metal counters.
At intervals, Charlene stuck her head from the flour-work room and looked around the kitchen. Disappointment etched across her worn face, she retreated.
My chin dipped guiltily. Why should I feel guilty? It wasn’t my fault Pie Hard was finished.
I stood at the butcher-block work island and crimped crusts, passing them to Abril.
Heat from the industrial oven warmed the kitchen, and a trickle of sweat slithered beneath my Pie Town t-shirt. The scent of sweet and savory pies thickened the air.
Abril filled the crusts with the fruit mixtures we’d prepared. Her long, black hair lay coiled beneath a net and paper hat. “I was wondering . . .”
“What?” I prompted.
“Could my friends and I use Pie Town for a poetry slam? After closing, I mean. We’ll clean up afterward. You won’t even know we were here.”
“Sure. When do you want to use it?”
“Not until this fall. We were thinking September. I could even sell pies. Or we could leave out the day-olds and coffee and let people pay on the honor system, like we do in the mornings.”
“Sounds like fun,” I said, warming. Charlene might be disappointed, but at least I could help Abril, even if her poetry did tend to stray into the erotic.
She glanced toward the closed door of the flour-work room. Beside it, a giant sliding metal cupboard door stood half-open, exposing kitchen utensils. “Charlene seemed down.”
My shoe squeaked on the rubber fatigue mat. “She thought we’d be on TV, and now we’re not.” I was relieved. Last night, as I wrestled with insomnia, I reviewed some past episodes of the show. They were brutal on the bakery owners. Ilsa was haughty and overzealous, and Nigel had a way of making the hapless bakers think everything would be okay . . . right before he slipped the knife between their ribs.
Abril’s brown eyes widened. “TV?”
“Sorry.” I latticed a strawberry-rhubarb pie. “You weren’t here yesterday, so you wouldn’t know. A reality TV show—Pie Hard—turned up yesterday, but it looks like the whole thing is off.”
She pressed a hand to the chest of her apron, leaving a floury print. “I can’t be on television.” Her voice trembled.
I was afraid Abril’s shyness might be a problem. She didn’t even like working the counter. She preferred to stay behind the scenes in the kitchen. “If you don’t sign the release,” I said, “they’ll blur your face out. Or they would have. I guess it doesn’t matter now. The producer’s dead, and—”
“Dead?!”
I explained.
“Poor Ray.” Her face creased. “What a terrible thing to witness.” Using a long, wooden paddle, she slid pies onto a rotating oven rack.
I glanced at the clock over the window to the dining area and wiped my hands in my apron. “Time to open.”
“I’ll do it.” The coffee urn was half her size, but she grabbed it and staggered through the swinging door.
Charlene emerged from the flour-work room. Whipping off her apron, she sank onto a chair near the door. Her shoulders caved inward, and she crossed her arms over her green, knit tunic. “Man plans, and God laughs. I really thought the Pie Hard team would show today. Marla will never let me live this down.”
“You didn’t tell her you’d be on the show, did you?” I asked.
“She might have seen some of my Tweets,” she admitte
d.
The swinging door crashed open, and Ray charged into the kitchen. His steampunk t-shirt cradled the swell of his belly. “We’ve got to do something.” His rust-colored hair stuck up in odd places.
Charlene rose from her chair. “You can’t come in here! The kitchen is staff only!”
He adjusted the backpack over his shoulder. “I tried to tell them about the angle of her descent and the trajectory of her fall, but they didn’t listen. They were too busy asking me weird questions about whether I was up on the cliff. It’s like they think I did it or something. The chief acted like this wasn’t even a murder.”
“But you heard shouting,” Charlene said.
“I didn’t hear what she was shouting,” he said. “And I didn’t hear anyone shouting back.”
“In fairness,” I said, “we don’t know for sure it was murder.”
Charlene glared at me. “She was shouting!”
“The three of us need to investigate,” Ray said.
I blinked. “The three of us?”
“You and Charlene have solved murders before,” he said. And I’m a witness. I can help.”
Charlene laid a gnarled hand on his shoulder. “No can do, son. Val and I are called the Baker Street Bakers. You’re no baker.”
“I’ve got skills. I’m an engineer.” He dug into his backpack and extracted a notepad and pen. “Well, I will be soon. I pay attention to details.” He flipped open the pad, and sketched a quick diagram: a cliff, a stick figure falling, an arrow. “See? The trajectory was totally wrong for an accidental fall. Plus, I’m organized.”
He had us there. Organization was definitely not my strong suit. If it had been, I might not have been so quick to hire a dishwasher before I actually had the funds to pay him. “We can’t investigate,” I said, “because it’s a police matter. When it comes to the Baker Street Bakers, our strength is that we’re local. We know the people in San Nicholas.”
“Well, I do,” Charlene said. “You haven’t even been living here a year, Missy.”
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