“Are you talking about a pie of the month club?” I asked, fascinated. “Like the wineries have?”
Charlene sneered. “For pie? Ridiculous. Who orders pie in advance?”
“You can call it what you like,” he said. “But describing it like one of the California wine clubs is something people will understand.” He removed the placard, revealing another beneath: THREE-MONTH SUBSCRIPTION -2 SAVORY, 1 SWEET. He whipped that away, unveiling a second: SIX-MONTH SUBSCRIPTION-3 SAVORY, 3 SWEET. “Customers sign up for subscriptions. They choose whether they’d like the pies delivered on the first Tuesday or Friday of the month. Then they select whether they want vegetarian or meat-filled savory pies.”
“Giving us a more steady income.” Ooh, I liked this idea. A lot. Especially since the only start-up cost for the program would be the time it took for me to announce it on my website.
“Of course,” he said, “you could also offer an annual subscription.”
I nodded, enthusiastic. This was really cool.
“This is really cracked,” Charlene said.
I shot her a warning look.
“Finally,” he said, “you need to do a better job getting the word out about Pie Town. Review your budget. I saw you don’t do much advertising. I worked the numbers, and unfortunately, I don’t think you’ll be able to change that in the near future. But I have a solution.” With a flourish, he removed the subscription placard. The poster board beneath read: PIE MAKING CLASSES.
“Classes sound like a lot of work,” I said, cautious.
“Exactly!” Charlene folded her arms and leaned back in her chair.
“It’s about providing an experience. You’ll need a minimum of six participants, and a maximum of twelve. That’s all you can really fit into your kitchen. Promote the classes on your website and at your counter to corporations and private parties. Invite a local reporter to attend to get some press.” He lifted two yellow folders off my desk and handed them to Charlene and me. “Here are some sample promotional materials. Charge a hundred dollars per person.”
I flipped through the pages of sample ads, complete with pie graphics and Pie Town’s smiley face logo.
Charlene sputtered. “A hundred dollars? To learn to make pie?”
I gave her the side-eye. Inviting Pie Hard here had been her idea. Why was she bucking Nigel’s suggestions?
“To learn to make a pie,” he corrected. “The student makes one pie, takes it home with them, and they’re done. But what they’re paying for is the group experience, the entertainment, not the pie itself. All you’ll need to do is provide the ingredients, drinks, and snacks. You make money off the class, and the corporation promotes Pie Town to all its employees.”
“We could try it.” I could run classes in the evenings.
“You’re already nearing burn-out,” Charlene said. “How are you going to take on this extra work?”
“I can’t imagine we’d have many students to start with,” I said, my excitement growing. This could work. “So it would just be an extra evening or two a month. And it doesn’t have to be me leading the class. Petronella or Abril might be interested. I’d need to add the class info to the website, but that’s not hard.”
“So? Will you two commit to these changes?” Nigel handed us two new blue folders with the Pie Hard logo. “Since you’re partners, it’s critical you’re on the same page.”
I thumbed through it. It contained a simple, three-page plan of action and new, projected financial statements. I sucked in my breath. The numbers at the bottom gradually shifted from red to black, showing a profit. I glanced up at him. “These numbers. How—?”
He sat against the desk and clasped his hands. “Things are going to work out for Pie Town, Val, and Charlene. You’ve got good instincts, even if you do tend to leap before you look. You should both be chuffed.”
“Eh?” Charlene asked.
“Proud,” he translated.
“Thanks.” Embarrassing as it was, tears pricked my eyes. I’d put everything I had into this business. I left my home in Southern California. I invested my mother’s life insurance policy. I even slept in my office the first few months of operations because I couldn’t afford my own place. Pie Town had become more than a business. It was home. Nigel’s validation both relieved and touched me.
“You’ve got an advantage over traditional bakeries, because people can sit and eat,” he continued. “You’ve created an experience with your fifties-style diner. And an experience is exactly what people want these days. Now, I’m asking you to expand that experience, to give your customers more options. Will you commit?”
“I’ll commit,” I said, forgetting that Charlene and I were supposed to be partners. “I love these ideas. They’re inexpensive, creative, and doable.”
Charlene snorted.
“Charlene?” he asked. “This won’t work unless the two of you are on board.”
She glared at me.
I gave her a look. Apparently, she’d forgotten she wasn’t my business partner.
She exhaled heavily. “Fine. Whatever. We’ll try.”
“Don’t try,” he and Ilsa said in unison. They smiled at each other. “Do.”
He turned to the cameraman. “What do you think? Did we get it?”
Steve lowered the camera from his shoulder. “We got it, and we are done with this beast.” He stepped backward and bumped into the closed door. The veteran’s calendar fluttered to the dingy linoleum.
“Wait.” I stood and retrieved the calendar. “Done? You mean done for good?”
“Yep,” Nigel said. “Steve and Luther will return in six weeks to video how the implementation is working out. However, may I say—it has been a pleasure working with an actual pie shop. Most of our shows are about generic bakeries, donut shops, or cupcake places. You’ve got a nice little business here. Best of luck to you both.”
“Thanks!” That was it? We’d survived the show, and it hadn’t been awful. Then, insecurity reared its gnarly head. “But, are you sure my finances—”
“Are typical of a start-up,” he said. “You two have been operating less than a year, Val. Keep the faith. Just . . . no more sudden expansions. All right?”
“Right.” I grinned with relief.
“We’re not quite done,” Ilsa said. “We need some shots of you taking the black-bottom pecan pies from the oven and then customers tasting them.”
“Right,” I said. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen. And I have something for both of you as well.”
The crew bundled up their things and left Charlene and me in my office.
I hugged her. “Charlene, this was awesome with a side of awesomesauce. They gave us great advice, and we’ll get publicity out of the show. Thank you for forcing me to do this.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Pie in a jar? Pie in a shot glass? Pie Town is about nostalgia, the classics.”
“But we should provide samples,” I said. “So why not put them in shot glasses? And if we use an old-fashioned Ball jar, it’s still got nostalgia value.”
“I can’t believe you’re going along with these nutty ideas.”
“You were the one who brought Pie Hard here.”
Her lips pinched. “I only wanted to be on TV. I didn’t want everything to change!”
“You still make the best piecrust in northern California,” I said.
“Humph. Do you really expect me to make chocolate crust? It’s just wrong.”
“Chocolate is never wrong,” I said solemnly and nudged her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s see how that bourbon pecan pie tastes with the black crust.”
We migrated to the kitchen.
Abril stood in front of the open oven. Swiftly, she slid a wooden paddle in and lifted out a black-as-sin bourbon-pecan pie. It smelled heavenly, but we had to wait for the molten filling to cool before we could taste it. Finally, I cut the pie, lifting a wedge free. I slid a fork into the tip and took a bite.
The breathy-sweet bourbon-pecan was e
ven better with the touch of chocolate. I closed my eyes. And the pecans tasted out-of-this-galaxy good. Ilsa’s half-and-half trick worked. “Wow.”
“And now,” Ilsa said, “let’s see what your customers think.”
We cut super-thin slices of the pie and together we trooped into the restaurant. It was nearing lunchtime, and the pink booths and tables were nearly full.
While Steve filmed, we distributed samples of the bourbon-pecan pie.
Nigel and Ilsa chatted with customers and signed autographs.
I presented the entire crew with black Pie Town hoodies. Steve filmed the gift giving, only taking a break to accept his own hoodie.
I found Ray and his sandy-haired girlfriend, Henrietta, in their usual corner booth with three other gamers. Half-eaten sample plates of bourbon-pecan sat on the paper mats in front of them.
Henrietta wore her usual, shapeless cargo pants and an over-sized, Pie Town, Pies Before Guys t-shirt. I hoped that meant she’d forgiven me for letting Ray on the Baker Street Bakers team.
“Ilsa’s talking to people,” Ray said breathlessly. “Oh, God. She’s coming over here!” He shrank in the booth, his black t-shirt rumpling.
Henrietta took a bite of the pie and paused, the fork hovering beside her mouth. “This is good, Val. Really good.” She smiled, and I knew we were friends again.
Beaming, Ilsa stopped beside their booth. “What do you think?”
“I think I’ve just been converted to pecan pie,” Henrietta said.
Ray took another bite and moaned. “I’m in love.”
Henrietta’s eyes narrowed.
I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the pie or Ilsa. I remembered he wanted an autograph.
“Would you mind signing some menus for this group?” I asked the pastry chef and pulled a fistful of narrow, paper menus from my apron pocket.
“Who shall I sign them to?”
“Ray,” he croaked.
Bending over the table, she signed a menu and passed it to him.
Starry-eyed, he stared at the autograph.
“And my name is Henrietta,” his girlfriend said.
Ilsa signed a menu for Henrietta and the other gamers and migrated to another table.
“I can’t believe I met her,” Ray said. “And I have proof!”
“That isn’t why we came,” Henrietta said.
I glanced at the other gamers. “You mean you’re not here for your regular gaming?”
Henrietta shook her head, her loose hair floating about her ears. Glancing around the packed restaurant, she leaned closer. “Ray found something. We’ve got motive.”
CHAPTER 17
“Motive?” I glanced anxiously around the packed restaurant. The cameraman focused on Nigel, who chatted with Marla at her central two-top. Smiling benignly, Frank sat at the counter. He watched Ilsa sign autographs for a sunburnt family of five. Drying beach towels hung over the backs of their chairs. I didn’t think the crew members could hear Ray and Henrietta, but I didn’t want to take any chances.
“Let’s talk in my office,” I said and motioned to Charlene, who sidled into Marla’s shot.
The four of us trooped into my office, still decorated with the easel and Nigel’s drawings, and I shut the door.
“This had better be good.” Charlene leaned against my metal desk and crossed her arms over her green knit tunic. “You’re ruining my TV moment.”
“Ray and Henrietta say they’ve found something. And half the show’s been about you.”
“And yet Marla’s managed to shove in.” She growled.
Ray dug a computer tablet from his backpack and opened it to reveal a complicated-looking diagram. “Okay, so I did online searches for everyone on the crew and created dossiers from what I found.”
Charlene snatched the tablet from him and frowned. “Where are they?”
He came to her side and touched the screen. “There’s Ilsa’s.”
Charlene whistled. “Her last kitchen burned down?” She shot me a significant look.
“In Vegas,” he said. “But that’s not the most interesting part of the story. Before the fire, Ilsa had filed a sexual harassment complaint against the owner. Then after the place burned, she left.”
“What if she set the fire?” Henrietta gestured in a wide motion and knocked a box of straws from the metal bookcase. Paper-wrapped straws rolled across the linoleum, and I sighed. I’d just put those back.
“Whoops.” She knelt to retrieve them. “Maybe she set the fire at the hotel too.”
I helped her stuff straws into the box. “Was there anything to suggest arson?” Did Ilsa lock me in the burning room? I swayed, suddenly dizzy, and braced one hand on the floor. I’d come to like Ilsa, or at least respect her. It just proved how poor my judgment was.
“No,” Ray admitted. “All the newspaper articles said it was an accident. But they could have been wrong. The fire burned down half the restaurant.”
I shuddered. We didn’t do much frying, so a kitchen fire wasn’t quite as likely in Pie Town. Along with alien abduction, fire was one of my worst nightmares—even more so after the hotel incident.
“And there’s more,” he said. “There’s something weird about that new producer, Frank Harris.”
“Oh?” I said, dread puddling in my stomach.
“The weird thing is,” he continued, “I can’t find him on the Internet anywhere.”
“Not everybody lives their life online,” Charlene said. “Some of us still put photos in albums and use the phone to call people.”
Charlene wasn’t one of those people. Straightening, I smiled wryly and set the box of straws the metal shelf.
“I know,” he said, “but there should be something. He’s a ghost. It’s like he doesn’t exist.”
“TV producer isn’t his normal job,” I said, defensive for no good reason. “He’s really a coach, working with people with addiction. He only took this position because Regina died.”
“How does someone go from coach to producer?” Henrietta asked.
“He knew someone.” I sat against the ancient, gray steel desk.
“That might explain why he’s here,” Ray said, “but it doesn’t explain why he’s not online.”
“What do you mean?” Charlene asked.
“That’s the other thing I discovered,” he said.
Something crashed in the kitchen outside the door. My shoulders hunched. I pressed my palms into the cool metal desk, forcing myself not to rush from the office. Whatever happened, Abril and Petronella could handle it.
“It’s only a rumor,” Henrietta said.
“Nigel’s rumored to have a gambling problem,” he said.
“Nigel? British Nigel?” I asked. The consultant seemed so . . . together.
“It’s a rumor,” Henrietta said, “that’s all.”
“But if your producer works with addicts,” Ray said, “maybe he’s really here to wrangle Nigel.”
“That would explain how Frank knew the show’s executive producer,” I said, remembering Nigel’s odd reaction when he’d first spotted Frank in Pie Town.
“But why doesn’t this Frank dude have a website?” Ray asked.
“He’s from a different generation,” I said. “And maybe he wants to keep his work private.”
“So private clients can’t find him?” Ray’s broad face tightened with disbelief.
“The engi-nerd has got a point,” Charlene said. “What coach doesn’t have a website? Even you-know-who has a website.” You-know-who was her arch-nemesis, Marla Van Helsing.
I gnawed my bottom lip. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Charlene said. “He’s your father. Ask him.” She winced.
I buried my face in my hand and repressed a curse. Charlene!
Henrietta’s eyes widened. “The new producer’s your father?”
Ray looked away guiltily. So he hadn’t told her.
I blew ou
t my breath. “It looks that way. I haven’t seen him since I was a little kid.”
Henrietta touched my arm. “I’m sorry. That’s got to be rough.”
I smiled, grateful. “Did you find anything else?” I asked briskly.
“Not really,” he mumbled and retrieved his computer tablet from Charlene. “I’ll email everything to you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Ray, this is good intel.”
“Sure.”
“We’d better get back out there.” I strode from the office and held the door for everyone.
At the kitchen door, Charlene touched my arm, halting my progress. She waited until Ray and Henrietta brushed past us in the dimly lit hall before speaking. “I’m sorry, Val,” she said in a low voice. “I didn’t mean to spill the beans about your father. It just came out.”
“It’s okay.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “I shouldn’t be so sensitive.”
“I know I razz you about being jilted at the altar—”
“I wasn’t.”
“—and your weird UFO phobia—”
I folded my arms. “Oh, come on.”
“—and about not being able to seal the deal with Carmichael. . .”
My eyes narrowed.
“But I wouldn’t tease you about family. You’re a good person,” she said in a low voice. “And you were an innocent child. It wasn’t your fault your father left.”
My shoulders dropped. “I don’t know why I’ve been keeping it secret. I don’t have anything to be ashamed about.”
“No,” she said, “you don’t.”
So why did I feel so awful?
“At least him being my father gives us an in on questioning suspects,” I said. “Like you said, all I have to do is ask him why he doesn’t show up online.”
But when I walked into the dining area, my father was gone.
* * *
I stood nervously at the entrance to the hotel’s wine bar and scanned for Frank. He didn’t sit in one of the high, leather chairs at the bar. He didn’t stand in front of the wall of wine bottles, perusing the selection. A couple of women in high heels and short, sparkly dresses sat giggling together at one corner of the u-shaped wooden bar. A waiter in a red vest removed a bottle from the wall rack behind the bar.
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