He steepled his fingers on his flat stomach. “Charlene, I know about your little deception.”
She sputtered. “What deception?”
“You’re not really a business partner,” he asked, “are you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.
“Don’t try to scam a scammer.” He grinned. “I checked Pie Town’s business records, and you’re not listed on them.”
“It’s a new thing,” she said.
“It’s all right, Charlene,” I said. “No, she’s not a partner. Does this mean you’ll have to shut down the show?” In spite of my debt to Ray, right now that didn’t seem like such a bad thing.
He heaved a sigh, and my chair squeaked beneath him. “Of course not. I don’t think we’ll need to expose Charlene’s little fib to the world. Nigel and Ilsa don’t need to know.”
“That’s surprisingly generous,” I said, suspicious.
“Not at all,” he said. “As I’ve already told you, we’ll play fair. I know you were surprised by the show turning up on your doorstep yesterday, Valentine—”
I jerked the hem of my apron into place. “I prefer Val.”
“Of course, Val. You’re trying to make the best of a challenging situation, and so am I.” He lowered his chin, his gaze boring into mine.
I shifted, uneasy. “Well. Thanks. But if things start to go south, I’m pulling the plug.”
He winced. “I’m afraid you can’t do that. You signed a contract. If it were up to me, I’d let you off the hook. But the production company is bigger than I am, and their lawyers can be unyielding.”
I muttered a curse.
“It won’t be so bad,” he said. “Trust me. Now, Valen . . . Val. We really do need to speak alone.”
“Why?” Charlene asked.
“It’s a private matter.”
“On a reality TV show?” She snatched the fallen calendar off the floor and tossed it on the desk. “He’s got no good reason to get you alone, Val. I’m staying put.”
“I assure you,” he said, “I have no ill designs on your friend.”
“I’m not leaving.” She leaned against the door, and her jaw jutted forward.
“Is this about Regina’s death?” I asked.
His brows shot skyward. “Her death? What would I know about that?”
“You did get her job,” I said. “You must have some knowledge of the crew.”
He grinned. “Yes, and they’re thoroughly untrustworthy. But you don’t have to worry about them. Like I said, we’ll play fair. And no, that wasn’t why I wanted to chat with you.” He glanced at my piecrust maker. “This really is a private matter.”
“It’s okay,” I said, impatient. “Charlene and I are friends. I can’t imagine anything that couldn’t be said in front of her.”
“Really? You can’t imagine . . . anything?” he asked, his expression plaintive.
An overhead fluorescent flickered.
“About Pie Town or the show?” Charlene asked. “No.” Her nostrils flared. “But this isn’t about Pie Town, is it?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I really didn’t want to tell you this way.”
My stomach knotted. “Tell me what?”
“Are you certain you don’t recognize me?” he asked me.
“You do seem familiar.” Studying his features, I frowned, last night’s sense of disconnect returning. I wasn’t looking into a stranger’s eyes. Who was he? The atmosphere in the office thickened.
He stood. “I suppose you were too young to remember.”
My sense of dread deepened. “Remember what?”
“And if I told you my last name was Harris?”
I swayed, bracing one hand on the cool, metal desk to steady myself. My last name. The sense I’d seen him before. It wasn’t possible.
“Frank Harris?” Charlene asked. “You’re not . . .” Her gaze ping-ponged between the two of us. “Oh my God. You are.”
No. No, no, no. “What exactly are you telling me?” I croaked.
He walked around the desk. “What I’m telling you is that I’m your father.”
My father. I stared at the man who’d abandoned me when I was too little to remember him. The man who’d left my mother to fend for herself. And it was him. The truth branded me, bone deep.
I turned on my heel and yanked open the door.
Charlene leapt aside.
Breathing hard, I strode down the short hallway and through the swinging door into the kitchen.
Beside the dishwasher, Ray and Abril looked up from their huddle with Gordon Carmichael.
I didn’t even wonder why the detective was in my kitchen. But what was Ray still doing there? It didn’t matter. I just walked into the alley, slammed the metal door behind me, and slumped against the building’s cool brick wall.
The door opened, and Gordon walked out. He shut it gently behind him. “Val? What’s going on?”
“I just met . . .” Shaken, I drew a shuddering breath. “That man says he’s my father.” My father. To hide my confusion, I stared at the oily pavement.
“Your father?”
“He’s the new producer.” Straightening off the wall, I paced the narrow alley.
“But I thought you didn’t know your father.”
“I didn’t!” I stopped and tried to calm myself.
“Tell me what happened.”
I drew a deep breath. “He showed up in Pie Town yesterday, and now he’s taken Regina’s job. I guess that makes him a murder suspect.” Given my bad luck, he probably was the killer. “I can’t believe this.”
“Are you sure he’s your father?”
“He says he is.”
I exhaled slowly. I didn’t know how to explain the strange feeling of familiarity I’d had from the very beginning. “I don’t know why he’d lie.”
“And you just found out?”
I nodded.
Gently, he placed a broad hand on the small of my back, and warmth flowed from his touch. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”
I did. Though I hadn’t seen him much in the past month, it was easy to talk to him. I told him the whole sorry story, starting with Frank’s sudden, inexplicable disappearance.
Except that it wasn’t inexplicable. My mother had never called the cops. She knew he was alive, and that her marriage was over. Had they ever gotten a divorce?
I should have known these things, but my mother never wanted to talk about Frank. The pain that scrawled across her face always stopped me from asking questions.
Now he was in my pie shop.
“And you believe him,” Gordon said.
I paced between the dumpsters. “He’s strangely convincing. And there’s something familiar about him. The first time I saw him, I felt a connection, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. What I can’t believe is that he’d show up like this. It’s been over twenty years! What does he want?”
There was a hesitation in his emerald gaze. “Did you ask him?”
“I had to leave before I punched him. Could he be lying?” I asked, but I didn’t believe it. Frank was my father. I just knew.
“Do you have any photos of him?”
“My mom threw them away when I was little.” She even cut him out of my baby pictures, which in hindsight seemed a little extreme. “That’s weird, isn’t it?”
A seagull landed on the Pie Town dumpster and cocked its head.
“Maybe not. Do you want me to do some checking on him?”
“Is that legal?”
“If he’s taken Regina’s job, that makes him a person of interest in a suspicious death. I’d be investigating him anyway.”
I couldn’t talk about Frank anymore. Otherwise, I might start bawling. I changed the subject. “Suspicious death? I thought Regina’s fall had been ruled an accident.”
His jaw tightened. “It’s too soon to rule anything out.
“Is that why you were talking to Ray?”
“He’s a witness,” Gordon said blandly.
“The chief wants to close the case though, doesn’t he?”
“Forget Chief Shaw.”
“Okay, then let’s talk about something else, because I can’t talk about Frank Harris anymore.” I pulled back my shoulders. “Are you here to take my statement?”
“I’d planned on following up with the Pie Hard crew first. Do you want me to take your statement?”
“There isn’t much to say. Ray called us. Charlene and I came to the hotel. The police were there by the time we arrived.”
“Why did Ray call you?” he asked, his tone flat.
I hedged. “We’ve become friends since he got hit by that car.”
“So it’s nothing to do with the Baker Street Bakers.”
“Ray thought someone had pushed Regina, and he was pretty shaken up.”
“And that’s all?”
“What else could there be?”
He gave me a hard look.
Liar! “Anyway,” I said, as my mouth went dry, “the crew showed up in Pie Town yesterday. This has been kind of a whirlwind.”
“I’m sure the temptation to stick your nose into this is overwhelming. But you’re not a PI, so stay out of it.”
“But Frank—”
“Nuh-uh. You’re not using him as an excuse to investigate.”
“Right.” Wrong. The man who sired me was entangled in Regina’s murder, somehow. It had to be a murder. Gordon wouldn’t be bucking Shaw if he didn’t think there was something suspicious about her death. Even if I wasn’t going to investigate the murder, I’d for sure be investigating Frank Harris.
“Tell me about the crew,” he said.
“There’s a cameraman, Steve Katz. He’s Regina’s husband. His assistant, Luther, didn’t show up for work yesterday. Ilsa implied he was off on a binge and that it was a regular thing. Regina got annoyed when Ilsa questioned why she didn’t fire him.”
“Is he here today?” he asked.
“He was, but he left to find Ilsa. He doubles as the sound man, but Frank said he’d take over for today. I guess you know about Nigel.”
“How did you get yourself into this?” Gordon rolled his eyes. “Wait, let me guess. Charlene?”
I nodded. “It wasn’t a bad idea. We’ll get exposure and free consulting.”
“Are you going to be able to work today?” he asked.
Pull it together, Val. I drew back my shoulders. “I’m self-employed. I don’t take days off, especially when there’s a TV crew in my pie shop.” Not even when my long-lost maybe-father was the crew’s producer. I smiled, queasy. “Thanks for listening, but I can do this.”
He squeezed my shoulder, and warmth flooded my veins. “I know you can.”
I didn’t know. Not at all.
CHAPTER 7
Frank left me alone while I finished the baking and shifted to the counter area to deal with the lunchtime rush. I still didn’t know what to say to my possible father. A lot of bitterness tangled into my feelings for the man.
Steve filmed me and the crew. Expression dull, he randomly wandered between my office, where Nigel reviewed my accounts, to the kitchen and into the dining area.
“Order up,” Abril shouted from the kitchen and shoved a plastic tray through the window.
I checked the number on the ticket and glanced around the pie shop. When people ordered, they got a numbered, tented table card so we could find them. Finding anyone was tough at lunchtime, when people packed the booths. Ray’s crew of gamers were in their usual corner spot. Charlene’s rival, Marla, sat wedged between two truckers at the counter. The elderly woman sipped coffee, the diamonds on her fingers twinkling.
Forty-two, number, forty-two.
I sucked in my breath, my eyes narrowed. The “ninja” from yesterday sat at a square, pink table near the center of the room and had forty-two. His number was up.
Grabbing the tray, I pushed open the Dutch door with my hip and strode toward my ebony-clad quarry. At his table, I smiled and deposited the chicken curry pot pie and salad. “Twice in two days. It’s nice to have you back.” Nice and suspicious, since he’d been watching the death scene from the cliffs yesterday. San Nicholas might be a small town, but this was bending coincidence too far.
He grunted. “Sure.”
“By the way, I’m the owner, Val.”
A single blue eye gazed at me through a shock of black hair. “Doran.” He was older than I’d first thought. At a distance, his black leather jacket, teen-angst hairstyle, and too-cool-for-school attitude had fooled me. Close-up, the fine lines around his eyes put him in his mid-to-late twenties.
“Nice to meet you, Doran. Is there anything else I can get you?” It was an offer I rarely made. People ordered at the counter, and we had a soda machine and coffee urn so they could fill their own drinks.
“No.” He bent to his food and started eating.
And Namaste to you too. Thwarted, I returned behind the counter. I forced myself to walk to Frank, who was sipping coffee on one of the pink barstools.
Smile hopeful, he braced one tweed-clad elbow on the counter. “Hi, Val. I wasn’t sure you were speaking to me.”
I ignored the cameraman who’d swiveled to focus on us. “Hey,” I said, all business. “Did the guy at the center table sign one of those waiver forms?”
Marla, at the end of the counter, waved to us. “Waiver? I haven’t signed one, and I don’t mind being filmed.” The older woman fluffed her sleek, platinum-blond hair. “I don’t mind at all.” She stroked the front of her gold blouse.
Charlene’s head popped through the kitchen window, and she glared. “No waiver, no filming.”
“It’s all right,” Frank said. “I’ll get her a waiver.” He beamed at Marla. “How could we not film someone with such obvious star power?”
Charlene made a disgusted noise and jerked from the window, banging her head. A stream of curses floated from the kitchen.
“About that guy in black,” I said.
Frank glanced over his shoulder. “The kid who needs a haircut? No, he said he’d rather be a blur. Don’t worry—we won’t include any customers who don’t want to be included.”
“Thanks,” I said, foiled again. Those waiver forms had all sorts of interesting information, like full names and addresses.
He glanced at the cameraman. “Val, we really should talk.”
“Later.” Or never. I bustled to the register, where a line was forming.
Charlene, her shift finished, banged from the kitchen.
Marla rose and moved toward the empty barstool beside Frank.
My piecrust maker beat her to it, turning to Frank and putting her back to Marla.
Head lowered, I watched them. Charlene’s face was drawn with suspicion. Frank’s was pleasantly bland. The odds were low the man would lie about being my father. I wasn’t a wealthy heiress. It wasn’t coincidental—he and the TV crew arriving on my doorstep at the same time, was it?
The day passed, customers ebbing and flowing like the tide. Neither Charlene nor Frank budged from their spots at the counter. Marla eventually got up and left, slamming the glass door.
I should have worried about the Marla/Charlene situation. But it was summer in a beach town, and customers kept me too busy. Even when the crowds dwindled, I had tables to clean and orders to take.
Finally, around six, I approached Frank. “Your camera crew is gone, so I’m going to assume they won’t be filming me closing the shop. Maybe we should talk.”
He broke into a smile. “Wonderful.”
“Do you want me to stay?” Charlene asked.
“Thanks,” I said, grateful. With all of her quirks, Charlene was a good friend. “But I should probably do this on my own.”
Frank rose and laid out some bills on the counter. “Why don’t you come to my hotel when you’re finished here? Say, eight p.m. in the bar?”
“I’ll be there.”
He sauntered out.
&n
bsp; I turned to Charlene. “What do you think?”
“I’m not sure.” She bit her bottom lip. “I haven’t been sitting here for my health, you know. Frederick is going to be furious when I get home. I never leave him alone this long.”
“I thought you were sitting there to keep Marla from the limelight.”
She harrumphed. “If she talks to Frank, next thing you know, she’ll be the producer. But I’ve been feeling our new producer out, and he knows a lot about you.”
“What did you learn?” I asked, anxious.
“He said he’d been following your life from afar. He knows you graduated with an English degree. He knows when you opened Pie Town. He even knows your engagement busted up with that realtor.”
I untied my apron. “Great. My very own stalker.”
“I think it’s sad. Him, I mean.”
I whipped off the apron, tugging it over my head. “Oh, boo hoo. He’s sad? He walked out on his wife and child.”
Charlene gazed into her coffee cup. “I’m only saying, I’d imagine it’s sad for a parent to be on the outside, looking in.” She twisted her gold watch, an anniversary gift from her husband.
Regretting my words, I scrubbed my hand over my face. Charlene was estranged from her only daughter. I didn’t know the details—she made it clear she didn’t want to talk about them. I knew things had gotten bad after her husband’s death. I imagined her now, searching the Internet for news of her faraway daughter. “He could have gotten that information recently and online,” I said evenly. “It’s not proof he’s who he says he is.”
“Maybe. He does look like you though.”
I nodded. “The eyes.”
She blew out her breath. “You realize he’s a suspect?”
“Yes,” I said unhappily. “He benefited by taking Regina’s job. Was it a coincidence that he knew Pie Hard’s executive producer? And that they’d turned up here on the same day? I really do need to talk to him.” The thought terrified me. My emotions were at a rolling boil, anger, raw vulnerability, and confusion bubbling together. I couldn’t think about that now. “There’s something off about this whole show. Nigel’s reviewing my accounts, and the cameraman was shooting I don’t know what. But they didn’t really do anything today.”
“That’s because Ilsa never showed and the assistant camera guy, Luther, never returned. A big part of the show is the baking, and Ilsa is always on the scene for that.”
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