“What did you expect when you were humble-bragging all over the Internet?” Marla fluffed her hair, exposing the diamonds winking on her earlobes. “We both know who’s more photogenic. I have so much experience on camera.”
“On your own stupid web show. That doesn’t count! Now, scat!”
She sipped her coffee. “But that cameraman might come back.”
I glanced at Frank, who was sipping coffee at the counter. “I don’t think there’ll be any more filming today,” I said.
“Good,” Marla said. “I have my own show to shoot. So many interesting news items today. Ta!” She strolled from the restaurant.
“She’s going to blog or vlog or whatever about Ray being taken to the station,” I fretted.
“It’s only a webcast,” Charlene said.
“And the Internet is forever. This is not good.”
“It’s Marla. I’m outta here. Frederick is peeved I’ve been spending so much time away.”
Charlene’s cat, Frederick, spent most of his life comatose. I doubted he noticed her absence, but I nodded.
Charlene left. Customers swept in. Customers swept out, and the end of the day found me sweeping up beneath Frank’s watchful gaze.
“Maybe I should see you home.” Frank straightened the lapels of his tweed jacket. “I don’t like that someone locked you in that burning room.”
I pushed a mop around the checkerboard floor. “I didn’t like it either, but it was most likely a case of wrong time, wrong place.”
He cocked his sleek, dark head. Bits of gray flecked his sideburns. “How do you figure that?”
“Because I don’t know anyone on the crew. No one has any reason to hurt me.”
“Your business must be worth something. Have you got a will?”
“No.” I plunged the mop into a bucket filled with sudsy water and wrung it out.
“I guess that makes me your sole heir—once your estate makes its way through the courts. I’ve heard that’s a long and arduous process. You should get a trust.”
I resumed mopping, squatting to get beneath the tables in the booths. Was that why he’d come? To check my net worth? “Are you saying you’re a suspect in my attempted murder?” I asked tightly.
He grinned. “No. As amazing as your pie shop is, I don’t want it. I’ve seen the hours you work. Those five a.m. mornings! Ugh. Don’t you have someone to do the cleaning for you?”
“Did Nigel tell you about my finances?”
He winced. “Broad outlines.”
“Then you have your answer.” Someday, I hoped I’d be able to afford more staff. Today was not that day.
He brightened. “He did say your numbers were normal for a business this age, though you might have expanded a mite too quickly. Why did you buy the pie van when you only had one wholesaling client?”
“My car died, and I needed new transport.” I grunted and scrubbed at a difficult stain. A chunk of hair fell into my eyes, and I didn’t bother brushing it away. “Since I had to spend the money anyway, I figured I may as well think forward and get a van. I got it on the cheap.”
“I should hope so. It’s ancient.”
A flush of heat rolled through me. “But if Nigel’s implying I need more wholesaling clients, he’s right. I’m just not sure how to get them.”
Frank thumped his chest with one hand. “That’s why we’re here. We’ll have Pie Town shipshape in no time.”
I leaned on the mop. “But why are you here, Frank? Really.”
“I’ve told you, I stayed to make sure you get home safely.”
My question had been a bit more existential, but I let it go. “I’m not going home right away.” My cell phone rang in my apron pocket. I dug it out. “Hello?”
“Val? It’s Ray.”
My shoulders slumped with relief. “They let you go. What happened?”
“The same questions over and over again. I’m kind of wiped. Can we do the Baker Street Baker thing tomorrow?”
For a moment I blanked. Did we have something planned? Then I figured he was speaking generally. “No problem. I’ll see you then.” We said our goodbyes and hung up.
Frank raised an elegant brow. “Have you got a date? That young detective, perhaps?”
I grimaced. I was so not going to talk about my lame love life with him. “No, I’m planning on tracking down your sound guy, Luther.”
“He’s not mine. I’m temporary help, remember? Why do you want to talk to him?”
“He said something interesting to me today, and I want to follow up on it.”
“Interesting how?”
“Interesting regarding Regina’s death,” I hedged.
“Ah.” He studied his empty coffee mug. “I wondered if you’d poke your nose into that.”
My face tightened. “Meaning?”
“I read the newspaper articles, Val. I know about the murder earlier this year in your shop—everyone does. It’s natural for you to take an interest, especially since your friend was arrested—”
“Taken in for questioning.”
He raised his hands in a warding gesture. “Of course. But the point is, someone tried to hurt you last night. If that isn’t a warning to back off, I don’t know what is.”
“Warning noted and ignored.”
He snorted. “And where do you expect to find our assistant cameraman?”
“The cheapest bar in town.”
Frank laughed. “You’ve pegged the man to a t. Why don’t I come with you? I could use a drink, and I can be persuasive.”
“Sure.” I planned to invite Charlene, but I didn’t think Frank was telling me the whole truth about his presence in San Nicholas. Maybe a drink would loosen his tongue. In vino veritas, and all that jazz. Besides, if things went sideways, Charlene could always follow up with Luther.
I finished cleaning and grabbed my purse from the office.
Frank lounged by the front door and swung his key ring around his index finger. “I’ll drive.”
“Why don’t you follow me?” I didn’t want to be dependent on Frank for a ride.
“As long as I don’t have to get in your van—”
“What’s wrong with my van?”
He shot me a pained look.
“The pink matches our pie boxes,” I said, defensive.
“It’s not the color that’s off-putting, it’s the age. That van’s older than I am.”
I doubted that. “Fine. We’re headed to the British pub. It’s on Highway One, on the way to your hotel. Do you know it?”
“How could anyone miss it? It’s got a double-decker bus parked outside.”
I watched him step into a silver Tesla, and for a moment I regretted my urge for independence. Coaching addicts must pay well. Then I walked around the corner and into the alley. The sun was low on the horizon, and the alley deep with chill shade. Suppressing a shiver, I stepped into my van.
I pulled onto Main Street, and Frank slid from his spot.
Traffic on the highway was thick, but mostly in the other direction—beachgoers returned home from their Saturday in the sun, windows down, surfboards strapped to the tops of their cars.
Five minutes later, I pulled into the pub’s gravel driveway. A red callbox stood outside the pub—a two-story, yellow building with a peaked roof. A crimson double-decker bus parked to one side of the pub.
Frank joined me outside the open front door. Music, laughter, and warmth streamed from inside.
Frank bowed with a flourish. “After you, my lady.”
I walked inside. Round, metal platters dotted the ceiling. Framed photos and soccer jerseys and maps of Great Britain filled the dark wooden walls.
I scanned the long bar but didn’t see Luther slouched over one of the stools.
Frank and I wandered through the restaurant. We finally found Luther on the rear, outdoor patio. He sat alone in a green plastic chair in the farthest corner from the fire pit.
Zipping my Pie Town hoodie to my collarbone, I walke
d to the matching plastic table.
Luther sat with his back to a makeshift fence of empty, metal beer barrels.
“Hi, Luther,” I said. “May we join you?”
“Yes, you may,” he said in the slow, distinct speech of someone who’s had too much to drink.
We pulled up plastic chairs and sat.
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” I asked hopefully. I wanted the truth from Luther but not to become his enabler.
“Beer,” he said, and I sighed. “The waitress knows what I’ve got.”
Frank rubbed his hands together. “What’s good here, Val?” He flagged down a young, blond waitress in shorts and a tight, white t-shirt.
“I recommend the fish and chips. Or the burgers.” It was hard to go wrong with burgers, and the pub packed them between pretzel buns loaded with cheese and other toppings.
We placed our orders, and the waitress disappeared into the throng.
“I hear you had a good day with Ilsa,” Frank said.
Luther meditated on that. “Steve got some decent shots,” he finally said.
“Did she find what she needed?” Frank asked.
Luther shrugged. “Dunno. Ask her.”
“Has the insurance come through on the equipment you lost?” I asked, knowing it hadn’t. No insurance company worked that quickly, especially when arson was involved. I didn’t know how else to ease into the subject. Steve hinted that Luther had been involved in a fire before, but how do you accuse someone of arson without really accusing them, especially when you didn’t really know what you were accusing them of?
“Nah,” Luther drawled. “They’ll take their time. What do they care who suffers? They’re the man.” He pointed at Frank. “And now you’re the man.”
Frank’s brows lifted.
“Was Regina the man?” I asked.
His broad face crumpled. “Regina . . . Regina. Regina was all heart.”
“She could be tough though,” I said. “I saw it in Pie Town.”
Luther stared at the beer barrel wall. “Yeah, well. Some people don’t respond to carrots. They need sticks.”
“People like Ilsa?” I asked.
The waitress returned with our drinks, and we fell silent. I fiddled with my beer mat, impatient for her to leave.
She centered Frank’s Bloody Mary on the mat. Set my beer on the mat. Edged my water away from my elbow. Clunked Luther’s beer on the table, frowned, and flounced away.
“Ilsa?” I prompted.
“Ilsa’s Ilsa.” The sound man pointed his wavering finger at me. “And don’t you forget it.”
“Who else did Regina need to get tough with?” I took a sip of the beer and put it down, centering it carefully on the paper mat.
“Regina sure didn’t take any guff from Nigel. She had his number. Oh, yeah.”
“His number?” I asked.
“Not the poster boy everyone thinks,” Luther whispered.
“Who is? We all have moments we’re not proud of.” Frank met my gaze.
I looked away and sipped my water.
“I’m sure even you’ve had a few, Luther,” he continued.
“A few?” He snorted into his beer. “Try a lifetime. Never should have married that . . .” He belched and swore colorfully. “Never trust a woman. They’ll ruin you.”
“Even Regina?” I asked.
His eyes glazed. “Regina was different. Good woman. Classy.”
“I can’t imagine how difficult her death must be for Steve,” I said. “Is he okay working?”
“Says he is,” Luther said. “Hard to tell.”
I turned the mug on the beer mat. “Steve told me he and Ilsa were long over,” I said casually.
Frank raised his brows.
“I guess,” Luther said.
“Steve also told me you’ve had some experience with fires,” I said.
Luther’s mug crashed to the brick, and I started in my chair. Clearly, I’d hit a nerve.
A seagull squawked and flapped into the air. It resettled on the wall of barrels.
The assistant cameraman cupped his hands in front of his mouth. “Man down.”
“I’ll get you another.” I turned in my seat, looking for a waitress.
Ilsa stood behind me in her pastry chef whites, a determined expression on her face.
“Ilsa!” Frank rose and drew a plastic chair from a nearby table. “Join us.”
She adjusted it and sat. “I will,” she said in her French accent. The baker folded her arms over her chest. “Why are you interrogating Luther? I don’t like.”
“Interrogating?” I asked. “The last few days have been—”
“You are snooping,” she said. “Leave Luther alone. It is not fair, when he is in this condition.”
I flushed. I had offered him coffee.
“If you want to know something,” she said, “ask me.”
“Ask you?” I said.
“Me.”
“Okay.” I straightened in the plastic chair. “You’ve missed a filming day. Where were you?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t think we were filming, so I went to the beach.”
“Steve said you and he ended things a year ago,” I said, hoping to catch her off guard.
She nodded. “Yes. And?”
I blinked. She seemed unfazed I knew about the affair. “Did Regina know?” I asked.
“He told her about us and begged for forgiveness for his . . .” Ilsa’s mouth compressed. “How do you say . . . ? Slip? She asked him to break it off, and he did.”
I stared. “And everyone was able to continue working together?”
One corner of her mouth slipped upward. “You Americans are so puritanical. But Regina was a woman of the world. She understood her role in our affair and took responsibility.”
“That was big of her,” I muttered.
Doran, in all black, wandered into the patio. He scanned it as if looking for a seat.
My breath caught. Both he and Frank had turned up in Pie Town the day of Regina’s murder. And now Doran was here. True, this was a small town, and dining options limited. But even in a place like San Nicholas, running into him over and over seemed weird. What was he doing here?
His gaze met mine and shifted away. Doran tossed his head, a raven’s wing of hair falling across his eyes. He turned and strode inside the pub.
“What’s wrong?” Frank touched my arm.
“What?” I asked. “Nothing. I was just thinking about what Ilsa said. What role did Regina play in her husband’s cheating?”
Ilsa looked away. “I misspoke. English is not my first language.”
She seemed to speak it pretty well when she wanted to. “It sounds like Regina had a generous heart.” The producer seemed to have forgiven both Ilsa and her husband, and she hadn’t seemed like a pushover. I gnawed my bottom lip. Did I really think forgiveness was weak? Was that why I was holding a grudge against my father?
“Yes,” Ilsa said.
I glanced up, startled. Ilsa hadn’t read my mind, she was responding to the last thing I’d said.
She looked at her hands atop the plastic table. They were covered with purple and reddish burn marks.
I glanced at my own scars—testimony to working in a kitchen.
“Her heart was big,” Ilsa said. “Bigger than anyone imagined. Steve was right to do as she wished. Our affair was short and stupid and meaningless. His relationship with Regina was real.”
Maybe Ilsa was a more generous person than I’d first thought too. Then again, it was easy to be magnanimous when your rival was dead.
CHAPTER 13
Frank insisted on following me to my tiny house on the bluff. Even though I still felt awkward with him, I was glad to have him behind me on the lonely drive home. He parked his Tesla beside my van, stepped out and surveyed the milling women, the yurt, and the tiki torches.
“It’s a long story,” I said.
He barked a laugh. “It would have to be.”
A waning moon rode low above the obsidian ocean. The night air raised gooseflesh on my skin, and I rubbed my arms.
“I’ll let you get inside and warm up,” he said. “We’ll be doing a solid day of filming tomorrow, so be ready.”
“Great!” Great, great, great. I felt the same about the show as I did about Frank—torn. I’d committed to Pie Hard. I wasn’t quite ready to do that for Frank.
He watched me climb the two steps into my tiny house, and then he got into the sports car and drove down the narrow road.
Hurriedly, I shut the door, opened my laptop in the dining nook, and searched for info on the Pie Hard crew. Being TV personalities, they weren’t hard to find. There were almost too many articles—gossip about on-set and off-set frictions. Ilsa vs. Nigel. The crew vs. Ilsa. But there were no big reveals—it was all petty stuff about who had the bigger trailer or was the more demanding diva.
I frowned. The “diva” label didn’t seem fair to either Nigel or Ilsa, though the pastry chef could be razor-tongued.
Something small and clawed scampered across my roof, and I glanced up. “Squirrels,” I muttered. At least I hoped it was a squirrel and not a rat.
Giving up on the cast, I focused my search on Regina and her husband, Steve. The two had worked together for decades, but their careers had taken off with the advent of reality TV. One of their early shows, Movie Myths, analyzed movie stunts and determined whether they were realistic or not. The only scandal from that show was when shrapnel hit a stuntman after a boat explosion. The injury wasn’t serious.
I cocked my head. They filmed Movie Myths not far from here—up the coast. I was surprised they’d gotten the permits. California was nothing if not ecologically correct, and blowing up a boat would have made a major mess.
Thirty minutes later, I learned Luther had joined the Steve and Regina team on their next reality project—one of those home improvement shows that achieved impossible home makeovers over the course of a weekend.
Yawning, I walked into my tiny kitchen and fetched a mug from the cupboard.
Someone banged on my door.
The mug slipped from my hand and bounced off my fingertips. I caught it just inches from the laminate floor and exhaled slowly.
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